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Chapter Text

The cold of Haven’s mountains clung to the battlefield—a biting reminder of the destruction that had fallen upon the Conclave, and the gaping tear in the sky that still glowed sickly green.

Commander Cullen Rutherford stood near the cliff’s edge, cape snapping in the wind. Below, soldiers scrambled to contain chaos while demons spilled from a rift above. His gaze tracked one figure moving with eerie precision through the storm: an agile elf with black hair and twin daggers, slicing through the horrors like she belonged to the fight.

She raised her marked hand—glowing and unnatural—and closed the rift in a flash of searing green light.

A hush fell over the field. Cullen exhaled slowly, his jaw set.

Beside him, Cassandra crossed her arms. "She did it. Again."

He didn’t reply right away. His eyes remained fixed on the elf as she descended from the rise, her steps weary but sure.

She wasn’t a symbol. Not yet. Just a stranger who kept surviving.

Cassandra gave him a sidelong glance, then stepped forward. “Come with me.”

They approached the elf, who was catching her breath near a row of tents. She straightened as they neared, eyes alert, shoulders squared. Her gaze flicked between them, guarded but steady.

“This,” Cassandra said firmly, “is our leader in command—Cullen Rutherford.”

Cullen inclined his head, his voice cool but respectful. “Commander will do.”

The elf gave a short nod. “I’ve heard of you.” Her voice was quiet but sure. “Mostly yelling.”

Cassandra let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “And this,” she continued, turning to Cullen, “is Ophelia Lavellan. The only one capable of closing the rifts.”

Her name landed like a weight in the air.

Cullen studied her closely now. Her stance was defensive, but not weak. Blood streaked her armor, and her eyes held something older than fear. He’d fought mages. Fought beside them, too. But this—this was different.

"If that’s true," he said, nodding toward her still-glowing hand, "then you’ll be crucial to what comes next. But I need to know you understand the responsibility. That this isn’t something to be used on a whim.”

Ophelia let out a short laugh—tired, not cruel. She lifted her hand slightly. “You think I want this? If I could give it back, I would. But I’m the only one who can stop these things. So here I am.”

And that was the truth. She hadn’t asked for their fear or their faith. But if no one else could do it, then she would.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Cullen’s expression didn’t soften, but something in his posture shifted—just slightly.

“I hope you mean that,” he said. “Because everyone’s depending on you.”

Ophelia nodded once, and turned to look back at the Breach burning in the sky.

Days passed. Haven remained cold and harsh, but the Inquisition grew.

Refugees came in waves—scarred, silent, searching. Some called her Herald. Others just stared. Ophelia didn’t argue. She fought. She helped. She endured.

Cullen watched her from a distance. Still cautious. Still weighing her.

But he saw it: the way she returned from the Hinterlands limping but unbowed. The way she spoke gently to a boy whose sister hadn’t come back from the fields. The way her hands trembled when no one was looking, but still reached for her blades.

One night, he found her standing at the edge of camp, staring at the mountains. Her breath curled in the frigid air.

“You should rest,” he said quietly.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Can’t. Every time I close a rift, two more open.”

He followed her gaze to the horizon, where another faint shimmer pulsed in the distance.

“You can’t help anyone if you fall apart. Even the Inquisition needs its Herald to sleep.”

Ophelia gave him a tired smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was real.

“I’ll take that under advisement, Commander.”

For the first time, Cullen felt something shift in his chest. Not duty. Not suspicion.

Respect. And—Maker help him—hope.

Chapter Text

As rumors about the Herald of Andraste spread across Thedas, Ophelia Lavellan becomes both a symbol of hope and a target of suspicion.

Within Haven, she earns the trust of her companions through tireless efforts to close the rifts—gaining even Commander Cullen's support. Despite internal doubts and political tension, Ophelia chooses to negotiate with the rebel mages over the Templars. This leads her into a deadly trap orchestrated by the Tevinter magister Alexius, forcing her and her party into a shattered future. With the help of the defector mage Dorian Pavus, she sets time right and wins the allegiance of the rebel mages.

When she returned to Haven, snow clung to her cloak, and exhaustion lined her face.

Cullen met her near the gates, his brow furrowed.

"You sided with the mages," he said quietly.

Ophelia's expression didn't waver. "It was the right choice."

He was silent for a moment, then nodded. "I still would have chosen the Templars. But... I trust your judgment."

The tension in her shoulders softened. "That means more than you know."

He looked at her then—not as a symbol, not as a soldier, but as something more. Someone real. Someone he could believe in.

And for the first time in weeks, Ophelia felt the burden ease, if only a little.

—-------

With the alliance of the mages secured, Ophelia and the Inquisition faced the largest Rift yet. Thanks to the coordination of their forces and the power of magic, Ophelia managed to close it, sealing the breach with an explosion of green light that illuminated Haven's night sky. Mages and warriors celebrated, relieved that, at last, a major threat had been contained.

However, the celebration was brief. That same night, a shadow descended over the valley. From the watchtower, the scouts spotted a dark, massive figure soaring through the sky: a red lyrium dragon. As it passed, the air grew heavy, and the flames of the fires extinguished as if fearing the presence that now loomed over them.

A strange young man appeared near the gates—thin, pale, with a faraway look in his eyes and clothes too simple for the cold. He walked straight through the panicked crowd, seemingly untouched by the snow or the terror that gripped Haven.

"They're coming. Screaming inside. Fear that doesn't end. He brings it with him—red and wrong, twisted," he whispered to no one, to everyone. His voice was soft but urgent, cutting through the air like a blade. "The Elder One. He breaks and takes. You must run or be broken too."

Guards reached for weapons, unsure if he was a threat or a madman, but he only tilted his head, listening to things no one else could hear. And without anyone noticing he disappear again.

Alerted by the shouts and chaos, Ophelia gathered with her advisors in the chapel. Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana awaited her with tense expressions, aware of the gravity of the situation.

"The dragon—it's not natural," Leliana said grimly. "It's red lyrium. This Elder One is using it somehow."

"He's marching straight toward Haven," Cullen said, his eyes flicking to Ophelia.

She drew a slow breath, trying to steady herself as the rising clamor outside seeped through the chapel walls. Before she could respond, the door creaked open again.

The same strange young man stepped inside, unafraid. His eyes found hers immediately.

"I felt you," he murmured, voice low and steady.

Cullen moved without hesitation, drawing his sword and stepping protectively in front of her.

The gesture caught her off guard. "Cullen—let him speak," she said gently.

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod, though his blade remained raised.

"You shine in the dark," the young man continued, his gaze never wavering from Ophelia. "He hates that. He’ll try to destroy it. But I won’t let him."

Cullen spoke again, his voice tense. "We don’t have time. We need to hold the line long enough to evacuate Haven’s people to the monastery. If we can delay this Elder One, maybe they’ll make it out."

Ophelia nodded, her jaw tight. "We won't give up. We will defend this place and its people."

Leliana, ever vigilant, added, "But if he reaches the chapel, all will be lost. Ophelia, you must carry out the avalanche strategy. If we release the largest rocks onto the mountain, we might block part of the red templar army."

Cullen looked at Ophelia, worry reflected in his eyes. "It's a dangerous tactic, but it could give us the advantage we need. Are you sure you can do it?"

"I have no choice," she replied with unwavering determination. "You all hold the defense here. I'll handle the rocks."

Ophelia stepped onto the battlefield, with snow swirling around her and the sounds of war filling the air. Beside her, her team—Cassandra, Dorian, and Solas—fought with the same ferocity, knowing that each second they held out might mean the salvation of another life in Haven.

Waves of red templars charged at them, their faces disfigured by the red lyrium, blinded by corruption. Ophelia faced them with the agility of a shadow, slipping between them with her daggers, bringing down enemies before they could even react. But her gaze kept drifting toward the mountain, toward the rocks that had to be dislodged to trigger the avalanche.

"Dorian, cover the flank!" Ophelia shouted as Cassandra held off another group of soldiers with her heavy sword. "We need to reach the catapult."

Dorian nodded, his hands summoning powerful bursts of fire to slow the templars' advance. "I hope you know what you're doing, dear! This is chaos even by my standards."

Ophelia flashed a quick smile. "Chaos is what I do best!"

With each strike, each movement, Ophelia's determination shone like a flame that refused to be extinguished. Finally, they reached the catapult, and with the help of Solas and Cassandra, managed to launch it toward the mountain. The rocks began to fall, rumbling down with a thunderous crash that echoed through the valley. Snow and stones tumbled, creating an avalanche that buried part of the red templar army, halting their advance.

Ophelia and her team returned to the monastery, where survivors huddled for refuge. As she entered, she saw Cullen organizing the soldiers, his voice firm, though his gaze softened upon seeing that Ophelia had returned.

"You did it." His tone was a whisper, as if afraid the reality might be different.

Ophelia nodded, though her body showed signs of exhaustion.
"But not for long. The Elder One won't stop."

At that moment, the heavy door creaked open once again. Cole entered, his steps light despite the storm, his face solemn. In his arms, he carried an older man in armor—Sir Frederick, his once-proud bearing now broken by wounds and blood loss. Snow clung to both of them.

"He held the line," Cole said quietly. "Tried to protect the others. Too much pain. Ribs cracked, lungs filling. But still, he hopes. He needs you to hear."

Sir Frederick stirred, coughing, blood at the corner of his lips. His eyes found Ophelia, not with contempt this time, but clarity.

"There's… a way to escape," he said, gasping between breaths. "Old tunnels… carved by the faithful. Beneath the chantry. If… if you are truly Andraste's chosen… now is the time… to prove it."

Ophelia knelt beside him, placing a hand gently over his. He gave a faint nod—then went still, his chest rising no more. Cole bowed his head, murmuring words only the dying could understand.

She looked up at Cullen, the weight of the decision already settling deep in her bones.

"I have to go back," she said quietly. "Trigger the avalanche. It’s the only way to buy enough time for everyone to escape."

Cullen stepped forward, torn between duty and desperation.

"Ophelia, that could kill you. I—"

She reached out, touching his arm. Her smile was weary, but resolute.

"I can’t let him win, Cullen."

He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"I know you’ll do what you must. But… come back. Please."

Behind them, Cole tilted his head, watching in silence.

"He's afraid to lose what finally feels real," he whispered, only Cullen hearing. "You gave him peace, and now you walk toward death. But hope… hope holds on."

Ophelia turned to him and smiled softly—then gathered her team and ran out into the snow.

The wind howled through the broken stones of Haven as she stepped into the darkness once more—toward that monster , toward sacrifice, toward fate.

Her footsteps faded into silence.

Cullen stood motionless at the chapel doors, snow biting at his face, his gaze fixed on the darkness where Ophelia had disappeared. The wind howled through the ruins of Haven, carrying with it the scent of ash, blood, and something worse— finality.

She was gone. She had chosen to face death for all of them.

Behind him, the others moved quickly—Leliana coordinating the scouts, Josephine guiding terrified refugees toward the hidden passage beneath the chantry. Cole hovered in silence, his presence oddly calming even in the chaos.

But Cullen… couldn't move.

She walked away without hesitation.

He remembered her hand brushing his arm, her tired smile. Her words, calm and steady—"I can't let him win, Cullen."

He hadn't answered her the way he wanted to. The words had caught in his throat, heavy with everything he hadn't dared to feel.

Not yet. Not until now.

She had been a leader. A beacon. The only one who could calm the storm that followed The Elder One..

But she had also been Ophelia —sharp-minded, patient, brave in ways he could never name. He had watched her from the war table, during council meetings, on the training grounds. He knew the way her eyes narrowed when she made a hard decision. The way she walked just a little faster when a recruit needed help. The way she listened—truly listened—to everyone, even when they didn't deserve it.

And he had told himself it was admiration. Respect.

But It wasn't.

He was falling in love with her. And he might never see her again.

The thought hollowed him. It gutted him, swift and merciless.

"She makes you quiet," Cole said suddenly behind him. "You try to bury it, but it grows. She fills the spaces you forgot were empty."

Cullen turned slightly, startled. "I… What are you talking about?"

Cole blinked slowly, like a child trying to explain something obvious.

"You love her. You just didn't know yet. But now that she's gone, the knowing hurts."

Cullen looked away, his jaw tight. "She had no choice."

"She had choices," Cole whispered. "She didn’t walk away from you—she walked toward saving everyone. She trusted you'd carry the rest. ."

A low, thunderous rumble interrupted them.

The mountain groaned.

A sharp crack split the air—then the roar of collapsing snow and stone rolled through the valley like the voice of the Maker Himself.

The avalanche.

Snow fell steadily as Ophelia and her team made their way to the last catapult. Their feet sank into the frozen ground, and the cold air burned their lungs with every breath. Yet the fire in her chest—born not of magic, but of defiance—kept her moving. The weight of hundreds of lives rested on her shoulders. Haven's last hope burned in her pulse like a second heartbeat.

Beside her, Cassandra advanced with her shield raised, a living wall between Dorian and the relentless assault of red templars. Dorian's flames painted the battlefield in stark orange and crimson, pushing the enemy back inch by inch. Behind them, Solas moved like a shadow through the snow, his spells precise, his expression grim. No words were spoken. There was no time.

The catapult came into view through the fog and ash. Ophelia rushed toward it, blood pounding in her ears, but before she could reach the lever, the sky cracked open with a sound like shattering glass. A deafening roar echoed across the mountain.

She turned—and saw it.

The Elder One emerged from the darkness, mounted atop a monstrous dragon twisted with red lyrium, its wings trailing flame and corruption. The sight alone stole the breath from her lungs. He was no longer just a rumor or a dream twisted by fear—he was real, grotesque, wrong. His body was warped by lyrium veins that pulsed like a heartbeat under cracked skin. His voice tore through the storm like an omen.

"You…" he said, with a loathing that felt personal. "You are a mistake. A stain on the world. You should have died with the rest."

Ophelia's knees threatened to buckle, but she stood tall. The mark on her hand pulsed in reaction to his presence, searing with pain. Still, she refused to look away.

"What are you talking about?" she spat, though her voice trembled beneath the weight of his presence.

"The Orb. The power meant for me." he pointed a twisted claw at her. "You stole it. My ascension—thwarted by a wretched elf who wasn't supposed to survive!"

His fury hit her like a wave. Magic crackled around him as he raised his hand—and with terrifying speed, a force gripped Ophelia, lifting her into the air. Her breath left her lungs in a gasp. His clawed hand closed around her torso, crushing and burning with every word.

"You will die, and your pathetic Inquisition will crumble into dust."

Then he hurled her like a ragdoll against the catapult. Bone met metal with a sickening crack. Ophelia collapsed, snow instantly soaking her clothes, blood already seeping through her armor. The pain was blinding, white-hot, but she refused to scream. She wouldn't give him that.

She couldn't move her left arm. She tasted blood in her mouth. Her vision blurred—but through the haze, she saw a sword half-buried in the snow. Gritting her teeth, she dragged herself toward it, her fingers clawing at the ground. Every inch felt like a mile.

He descended slowly from his beast, his voice now a sermon twisted by madness.

"Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more. Words mortals often hurl at the darkness. Once they were mine. They are always lies. Know me, know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One! The will that is Corypheus! I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as 'touched,' what you flail at rifts—I crafted to assault the very Heavens. And you used the Anchor to undo my work! The gall!

I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own. To champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world.

Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the Throne of the Gods, and it was empty!"

Ophelia's fingers closed around the sword hilt. Her body screamed in protest as she pulled herself upright, blood trailing down her temple. She forced herself to stand tall, even as the ground seemed to sway beneath her.

"You're not a God," she rasped. "You're just another tyrant trying to burn the world to remake it in your image. But this is where it ends."

With a final, trembling push, she threw the catapult lever.

A thunderous crack shattered the air.

Above them, the mountain roared—and the avalanche came. A monstrous wave of snow and stone thundered down with primal fury, swallowing everything in its path. The red templars screamed as they were buried beneath it. The dragon reared up, wings flaring, and just as Corypheus reached for her again, it snatched him in its claws and soared skyward.

"This isn't over, elf !" he bellowed, his voice distorted by rage and distance.

And then—silence.

A shadow passed over Ophelia's face. The mountain gave no mercy. The avalanche reached her too fast. She had only a heartbeat to turn and run—just enough time to leap toward a ledge.

Pain exploded through her body as she landed, her shoulder dislocating on impact. The snow came down like a wall, crashing over her, suffocating, blinding. She was swallowed whole by the ice, by the silence, by the void.

Darkness claimed her.

Chapter Text

Ophelia's world turned to silence and darkness as the snow completely covered her, trapping her in a cold white tomb. For a moment, everything seemed to stop: the roar of the dragon, the cries of the wounded, the sense of hopelessness hanging in the air. Everything faded into a frozen void. But as the cold seeped into her bones, a spark of determination continued to burn in her chest. Despite the pain and fatigue, despite Corypheus's contemptuous words, Ophelia was unwilling to give up. Not while there was someone to save, not while there was a chance to fight.

With her last breath, she began to move her arms, struggling to push through the snow, feeling every muscle tense and break under the pressure. But she clung to the hope that somewhere beyond the darkness, her allies were still fighting, resisting so that Haven could survive.

Ophelia crawled out of the snow, gasping, her body aching. It felt as though the cold had pierced her to the bone, and every movement was a titanic effort. But she refused to stop. She could still feel the echo of Corypheus's power in the air, and the threat he represented remained alive in her mind. So she pressed on, stumbling, even though she didn't know where her steps were leading her.

Darkness surrounded her as she walked through the white wasteland, the icy wind striking her face until she could no longer feel it at all. Eventually, her feet brought her to a gloomy cave, a temporary refuge from the storm but not from danger. She had barely entered when spectral figures began to form around her. Sinuous shadows of demons and spirits, drawn by her vulnerability, surrounded her, and Ophelia felt her heart stop.
"No... not now..." she murmured, her voice weak, knowing she didn't have the strength to fight. She had given everything in battle, and her body no longer responded.

However, as the creatures lunged at her, she felt a deep vibration in the palm of her hand. The mark, which had remained silent since her confrontation with Corypheus, began to glow with a green light, enveloping the cave in a ghostly glow. Ophelia looked at her hand, surprised, and with an instinctive effort, she raised her arm. The light intensified, and the demons recoiled, trapped by the energy emanating from the mark.

With a scream that echoed through the cave, Ophelia released the energy, creating a flash that enveloped the spirits, dissolving them into nothingness. The power was immense, beyond her comprehension, but it also left her exhausted. She staggered, leaning against the rock wall, her legs trembling from the effort. But at least for now, she was safe.

Ophelia exited the cave and continued walking. The snow reached her knees, and the cold grew increasingly relentless. Her breath turned to steam with each exhalation, and her body began to numb, the pain giving way to a strange sense of lethargy. But she clung to the hope of finding shelter, of surviving a little longer.

In the distance, something caught her attention. A faint orange glow peeked through the blizzard. Campfires. Ophelia felt a spark of hope. If there was fire, there could be people. There could be allies. She began to walk toward the light, listening to the distant howls of wolves lurking in the darkness, another threat that followed closely behind.

The path was long and winding, her strength waning with every step, but finally, through the storm's haze, she spotted something more than a campfire. A flash of light that was not from flames but the comforting warmth of a camp. She no longer knew if she was dreaming or if death had finally come for her, but a clear voice broke through the fog in her mind.

"It's her!" Cullen's voice resonated above the wind, a mix of relief and desperation. "There she is!"
"Thank the Maker!" exclaimed Cassandra, and Ophelia saw the faces of her friends emerge from the blizzard, running toward her.

Ophelia collapsed to her knees in the snow, her strength finally spent. She felt her body give way, unable to support her any longer. But before she touched the icy ground, strong arms enveloped her, preventing her from falling. Cullen held her firmly, his face pale with fear and concern as he lifted her.
"I've got you, Herald..." Cullen murmured, his voice choked with emotion. "I've got you."
She surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, feeling the weight of the battle and fear fade away for a moment.

As Cullen carried her back to the camp, surrounded by her friends, Ophelia allowed herself to close her eyes, trusting that, at least for now, she would be safe among her own.

Cullen brought Ophelia to the heart of the camp, where the fire snapped and danced, casting flickering light across the snow-packed ground. The warmth barely touched him—his entire focus was on the fragile weight in his arms. He knelt, carefully laying her down on a thick blanket as if she might shatter from a single careless motion. Her skin was pale beneath the blood and dirt, lips blue from the cold, and her body shivered violently even in the firelight.

"Dorian," Cullen called, his voice hoarse and urgent. "Please."

Dorian was already beside them, dropping to his knees with none of his usual flair. His brows were furrowed, eyes sharp and uncharacteristically grave as he summoned healing magic to his hands. "This much blood—Maker's breath," he hissed under his breath, rolling up his sleeves, already glowing with arcane energy.

He placed his hands above Ophelia's shoulder, where the joint bulged grotesquely out of place, where torn fabric and dried blood spoke of the violence she had endured alone in the storm. A low, pained groan escaped her lips.

"This is going to hurt," Dorian said softly, more to himself than to her. "But you've been through worse, haven't you?"

Magic surged from his palms—a deep blue shimmer laced with gold veins, pressing into her wound like a balm and a flame all at once. Ophelia's back arched with a strangled gasp as the pain struck—cleansing, searing, alive. Her fingers dug into the blanket, trembling.

Cullen flinched as if he felt it too. "Is she—?"

"She's alive," Dorian snapped. "Barely. The shoulder is torn. Fractures. Hypothermia. Her body's been fighting for too long."

"Then save her," Cullen said, his voice cracking. He clutched her hand tightly in both of his, grounding himself in the small, flickering warmth of her skin. His eyes were locked on her face, desperate to see movement, breath—anything that meant she wasn't slipping away from him again.

Dorian poured more power into her, sweat beading on his brow. The wound began to knit together under his hands, bone sliding into place with an audible pop that made Cullen wince.

Suddenly, a soft voice cut through the storm.

"She was screaming, but not out loud," said Cole. He appeared silently beside them, crouched near Ophelia's feet, his pale eyes wide, watching her closely. "Falling and hurting and afraid. Not of death, but of being forgotten. Of leaving without saying goodbye."

Cullen looked at him, and his throat tightened.

"She didn't want to die alone," Cole added gently. "And she didn't."

"Cole..." Cullen whispered.

"She heard you," Cole murmured. "Even when the snow tried to bury your voice. That's why she came back."

A soft, rattling breath escaped Ophelia's lips. Her eyes fluttered open—barely, just enough to catch the firelight. She looked at Cullen first.

"Ophelia," he breathed, his hand flying to her face, brushing a lock of frozen hair from her cheek. "I'm here. I've got you."

Her lips moved. He leaned in closer.

"He got away…"

It was no more than a breath, but the words struck Cullen like a crashing tide. His eyes closed briefly as he fought to steady himself.

He said nothing—too stunned, too awed by her resolve. Even now, barely conscious, she was still fighting. Still thinking of the mission. Of him.

Dorian sighed, his hands still pulsing with magic as he worked. "Don't make a habit of this, Ophelia. I'm far too pretty to be buried in snow trying to find you."

Even Varric gave a small huff of relief behind them.

But Cullen didn't laugh. He couldn't. Not yet.

He just held her hand tighter. He didn't let go—not once—until the tremble in her body quieted and the color returned to her skin. He stayed there, kneeling beside her in the snow, unmoving, until Dorian finally leaned back with a sigh of relief and said, "She's going to be all right."

Only then did Cullen breathe again.

_______________________________________________

Ophelia fell into a deep, unyielding sleep, her body crushed beneath the weight of exhaustion, the aftershocks of the battle with Corypheus and the merciless storm gnawing at her. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, a silent testament to the toll she had paid for their survival. As she lay still, Solas and Dorian took turns with tender care, their hands glowing with the soft light of healing magic. They could not mend what had been broken, but their spells offered what little respite they could. Yet the storm outside—both in the world and in their hearts—continued unabated.

The camp outside was cloaked in the bitter embrace of fear and uncertainty. Haven, once a bastion of hope, now lay in ruin, its walls battered and its people shattered. The cold winds, which had seemed like allies in the battle against Corypheus, had taken their toll—lives lost in the struggle for survival, bodies left to the mercy of the relentless snow.

In a makeshift war council, Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra huddled together, their faces drawn with the weight of the moment. Cullen's fists were clenched, his jaw tight as his mind replayed the harrowing image of Ophelia falling before the demon's power, the look of desperation in her eyes as she fought to protect them all. Josephine's mind raced with thoughts of lost alliances, but her voice trembled with doubt, as though even the Inquisition's foundation had begun to crumble. Leliana, ever the strategist, had no answers now, her usual resolve consumed by the despair in her heart. Cassandra, who had borne the weight of responsibility for so long, now stood broken, her broad shoulders heavy with the realization that they had failed.

"We have been defeated," Cullen's voice was barely a whisper above the howling wind, a man broken by the sight of his comrades laid low. "Exposed. How can we rise from this?"

No one answered. None of them had an answer.

Hours later, beneath a sky dark as ash and heavy as sorrow, Ophelia's eyes fluttered open. Pain surged through her in a blinding wave—a raw, merciless reminder of the battle's toll. But it was the face hovering above her—Mother Giselle—that pulled her from the haze. The healer's features were drawn not only with concern but with profound sorrow, as if she, too, carried the weight of a world that had cracked apart.

Ophelia turned her head slowly. Her advisors stood nearby—angry, yes, but more than anything, they looked lost. Grief etched deep into their expressions. Sadness clung to them like a second skin.

"How long... how long have they been like this?" Ophelia rasped. The words scraped from her throat, each syllable sharper than the wounds littering her body.

Giselle sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of all that had been left unspoken. She tucked a stray strand of gray hair behind her ear, her gaze drifting to the solemn figures gathered around the campfire—silent, still, their eyes wide and hollow.

"They’ve been like this for hours, child," she said gently. "They are frightened. Seeing you fall... seeing that demon... it broke something in them. None of us expected this level of devastation."

Ophelia closed her eyes, the sharp sting of guilt seizing her heart. Her mind flashed through the choices she had made—had she done enough? Could she have done more to save them all? But the pain in her side was a cruel reminder that there was no time for such questions.

Giselle, sensing the storm within her, placed a gentle hand on Ophelia's shoulder, her touch a balm for the wounded soul beneath. "It's not your fault, my child. You did what you had to do. You gave everything to save them. Now you must rest, so you may continue your fight."

But Ophelia shook her head vehemently, the fragile thread of her will refusing to yield. She forced herself to sit up, ignoring the violent protest of her body as pain lanced through her ribs and shoulder, her vision blurring with each movement. "I can't... I can't rest, Mother Giselle... Not while the world outside burns," her voice broke on the last words, the weight of responsibility choking her.

"Have faith, child," Giselle's voice was soft, but Ophelia's frustration was a storm inside her, the words not reaching her.

With an almost violent resolve, Ophelia pushed herself from the cot, each step a battle as her body screamed in agony, but she ignored it. She stumbled through the camp, seeking solitude, desperate for a moment where she could hide from the eyes of her comrades. But what she found instead was a vision that stopped her in her tracks. 

The figures gathered around the fire, their heads bowed, their bodies frozen in silence. The entire camp seemed to have lost its will to fight. It was in that moment that Leliana saw her, their gazes locking across the distance. The Master Spy understood without a word, the unspoken plea in Ophelia's eyes. Leliana knew: if they did not find hope now, the Inquisition would die here, in the cold embrace of despair.

Leliana's lips parted, and the first, trembling notes of an ancient song—one of resilience, of hope—began to rise, carried on the wind like a fragile thread of defiance. Her voice was but a whisper at first, fragile and tentative. But slowly, others began to join in, hesitant at first, then with increasing strength, their voices building until they filled the air like a rising tide. The warriors, the mages, even the refugees—each of them lent their voices, a chorus of souls determined to stand together against the night.

Ophelia watched, her heart swelling with a mixture of awe and sorrow, as the song wrapped around her like a warm embrace. It was a reminder that she was not alone, that even in the darkest moments, there was still a flicker of hope.

And then, as the last note lingered in the air, a figure emerged from the shadows. Solas, his face a mask of solemn resolve, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though he could see the future unfolding before him. He walked toward Ophelia with purpose, his steps silent against the cold ground. He stopped beside her, his voice low, meant only for her ears.

"What we face today is not over," Solas's voice was grave, and the weight of his words settled over her like the first touch of an impending storm. "Corypheus is no mere foe. His power, his ambition—they are greater than anything we've faced before."

He paused, his eyes narrowing as if searching for something beyond the horizon. "But if we are to survive this, if we are to truly have a chance, we must leave this place. We must find a sanctuary—a place where we can regroup, recover, and prepare for the fight to come."

Ophelia turned to him, her breath catching at the certainty in his voice. "Where?" she asked, her heart both heavy and hopeful at once.

"Skyhold," Solas replied, the name hanging between them like a whispered promise of safety, of rebirth. "It is not without its dangers, but it is the only place where we can stand a chance. We must move quickly, before Corypheus can strike again. Skyhold... it is our last hope."

Ophelia nodded slowly, her heart heavy with the weight of the decisions that lay before her. For the first time since the attack, a sense of direction emerged, cutting through the suffocating fog of uncertainty that had surrounded them. The Inquisition had been brought to the edge of despair, but with this decision, a glimmer of resolve sparked within her. They would survive. They would rebuild. And from the refuge of Skyhold, they would wage war on Corypheus with every ounce of strength they had left.

Her steps were deliberate, each one slower than the last as she approached her advisors. Her face, still etched with the pain of the battle and the brutal storm, carried a quiet resolve that masked the turmoil within. The agony in her body was undeniable, but she refused to let it show—refused to let them see how much the weight of this moment threatened to break her. Before Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra, she spoke with a resolve that carried a quiet fury. They had no choice. Skyhold was their last hope.

"That will be our destination," Ophelia declared, her voice steady but laced with the weight of authority. Her eyes locked with each of theirs, silently asking them to trust her—trust in this desperate plan. "We need to regain our strength. Pack everything you can. We leave at dawn."

The words hung in the air, each one carrying the gravity of their future. There was a flicker of hesitation in their eyes, but also something else—something that Ophelia clung to in that moment: hope. The reality of their situation was still bleak, but in her voice, they found a path forward. Ophelia's inner pain remained hidden beneath her determination, but she knew the others were depending on her. If they saw her falter, if they saw the fragility beneath the surface, the Inquisition would crumble with her.

As the camp bustled with preparations for the long journey ahead, Cullen watched from a distance, his gaze fixed on Ophelia. His heart twisted in his chest as he observed her slow, deliberate movements, each step a struggle she tried to conceal. He could see the strain in her posture, the way her breath hitched with each motion, yet she refused to acknowledge the depths of her wounds. She was trying to carry the weight of this all on her own, and it tore him apart to watch.

Without thinking, Cullen moved toward her, his steps firm but laced with caution, as if he feared that simply being near her might make her pain worse. But when he reached her side, he could no longer stay silent. His voice broke the tension that hung between them, though it carried the quiet plea of someone desperate to help.

"Ophelia…" His voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough to halt her. He stood beside her, watching her as she struggled with the straps of her gear, her movements stiff with pain. "You don't have to do this alone. Let me help you."

Ophelia looked up, her eyes meeting his, and despite the storm in her gaze, there was a flicker of something—vulnerability perhaps—that she quickly masked with a faint, forced smile.

"I'm fine, Cullen. Really," she murmured, though the words were thin and hollow. "Everyone needs to see that I'm okay. We can't afford any more weakness."

Cullen's jaw tightened, and his gaze softened with something that was almost pain. He nodded, but the concern in his eyes didn't fade. Without saying another word, he stepped closer, shifting his focus to her gear, guiding her hands as he showed her a method to distribute the weight of her weapons more evenly, sparing her back from further strain.

"This way, your injuries won't worsen as much," he explained quietly, his hands brushing hers as he adjusted the straps. The brief, accidental contact sent a wave of warmth through Ophelia's chest, and for a fleeting moment, the cold world around them seemed to soften.

Ophelia sighed in relief, her body loosening with the newfound comfort, and she allowed herself a moment to look up at him. Her expression was one of quiet gratitude, but it was laced with a deeper sorrow, the weight of all she had borne. "Thank you, Cullen… for this... and for everything."

His gaze lingered on hers, unspoken words passing between them. The air between them felt heavier, as if it had become charged with something neither of them could name. It was a rare moment of quiet in the midst of the chaos, and though Ophelia had seen him as her steadfast ally, there was something more in his eyes now—something that made her heart ache with longing.

Cullen nodded, but there was no hiding the resolve in his voice as he spoke again, his tone firm, like an oath, like a promise to both of them.

"We'll get through this, you'll see," he said, his voice low but unyielding. "We'll be stronger than ever."

Ophelia's heart tightened at the words, a soft smile curving her lips despite herself. She wanted to believe him, to believe in the hope he offered, but the weight of Corypheus's threat hung heavily on her mind. Still, she drew strength from him—perhaps for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to lean on someone else.

Dawn came, a faint light breaking through the endless expanse of snow. The camp stirred to life as preparations for the journey began in earnest. The path to Skyhold, though fraught with danger, was their only hope. Solas, with quiet determination, led the way, his steady footsteps carving a path through the snow. The others followed, and as they marched, the bitter cold seemed to lose its hold on them, if only for a moment, as the sound of their voices—soldiers, mages, refugees—rose into the air. They sang a song of resilience, a song of survival, and though the storm still howled around them, it felt as if their spirits had found a crack in the ice.

Ophelia walked with them, her steps purposeful but her thoughts far from the present. Corypheus's words echoed in her mind, relentless, poisonous: "You are a mistake." They burned in her mind, gnawing at her sense of self, casting a shadow over everything. She knew that others saw her as a hero, but in her heart, she couldn't help but wonder if she was nothing more than a tool—an anomaly in a world that had no place for her.

Cullen walked a few steps behind, his eyes never leaving her, always watching, always worried. He noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze would drift as if lost in the fog of her thoughts. He saw her struggling, not just with the physical pain but with something deeper, something that seemed to take hold of her more with every passing step. He couldn't help but wish that he could do more, that he could pull her from the weight of the world she was carrying. But he knew that, for now, all he could do was be there.

As they pressed forward, the path to Skyhold grew more treacherous, but the Inquisition moved as one, a unit bound by a single purpose: survival. And Ophelia, though she still felt the shadows of doubt cling to her, began to understand something in that moment. Perhaps it wasn't the weight of her own strength that would see them through—but the strength of those around her. And with that realization, she allowed herself to believe, just for a moment, that they might actually have a chance.

Chapter Text

The Inquisition moved slowly but steadily toward Skyhold. After a grueling week of trudging through snowbound passes and enduring bitter winds that cut through wool and armor alike, Solas finally announced that this night would be their last before reaching the promised refuge. The words fell like snowflakes over a fire—soft but transformative. Around the camp, people exhaled in visible puffs, the collective relief as palpable as a blanket draped across their weary shoulders. Still, one final effort remained.

Ophelia, though not fully healed, had grown restless. Her body ached in familiar places—old bruises, phantom pains—but the worst of the injury had passed. She needed movement, needed to shake off the weight of tents and strategy meetings and sympathetic glances. So when Blackwall suggested a hunting trip, she agreed without hesitation. The camp needed provisions, and she needed the woods.

There was a simplicity to the hunt, a sacredness she hadn't realized she missed until the bow was in her hands again. The string against her fingers, the cold air in her lungs, the hush of snow underfoot—it all called something in her that hadn’t stirred in months. The forest welcomed her like an old friend.

She moved through the trees beside Blackwall, her steps light, practiced, nearly soundless. The world narrowed to texture and breath, to wind and scent and the faint disturbances of life moving just ahead. And then they saw it—a fanghorn, grazing quietly beneath a tall pine, its dappled coat blending into the snow and shadow. Blackwall didn’t speak. He merely tilted his head, a silent offering. The shot was hers.

Ophelia took a breath and drew. The arrow sang.

The beast fell, graceful even in death. A quick end. A clean one.

She exhaled slowly, lowering her bow. For a brief, crystalline moment, she felt free—untethered from title, from fate, from the terrible burden of being the one who survived. She was only a hunter again. Only herself.

Back at camp, she carried the fanghorn across her shoulders with surprising ease, its weight welcome against her spine. Blackwall trailed behind, chuckling. “Maker’s breath,” he said, grinning. “You make that look easy. Want a hand?”

Ophelia shook her head, a small smile curving her lips. “I’ve got it.”

Blood streaked her skin, drying in rivulets across her arms and cheek. Her eyes were clear, her expression calm but fierce, her gait confident. She looked like a creature from another age—untamed and unapologetic. A few soldiers paused, watching her pass, unsure whether to offer help or step aside. There was reverence in their silence.

At the edge of the makeshift kitchen, she caught Dorian watching her, arms crossed, brow raised, that ever-present grin tugging at his lips.

“Well,” he drawled, “now you truly look like a wild elf, Ophelia. Rather magnificent, honestly.”

She blinked, as if suddenly aware of her appearance—blood on her skin, hair tangled and wind-tossed, cheeks flushed with exertion. A flush of embarrassment threatened to rise, but before she could turn away, Dorian stepped closer.

He pulled a folded cloth from his pocket and, with surprising gentleness, reached up to clean a stubborn smear from her temple. His fingers brushed her skin—carefully, briefly—but the gesture carried warmth.

“Never be ashamed of who you are,” he said, voice low but certain. “You wear it beautifully.”

Ophelia chuckled, tension slipping from her shoulders. She leaned against the table and began to speak, softly at first—memories of her clan, tales of childhood hunts, the rituals passed down in song and silence. Dorian listened, the fire casting amber light across his face as he smiled and nodded, occasionally murmuring something that made her laugh again.

From a distance, Cullen watched.

He shouldn’t have. Maker, he hadn’t meant to. He told himself it was routine—just a sweep of the camp perimeter, a commander’s vigilance. But his eyes had found her the moment she returned, her silhouette stark against the snow, blood staining her tunic like warpaint.

She was mesmerizing.

She moved without hesitation, without artifice. She laughed with her whole body. She crouched beside the fanghorn to show a group of recruits how to dress the kill, her hands sure, her voice calm. Every gesture, every word, was honest.

There was no mask here. No burden of command. Just Ophelia.

And it undid him.

He watched the way her hair blew loose across her face, the way her fingers stained the snow red, the curve of her back as she worked. She didn’t just survive this world—she belonged to it. Fierce. Rooted. Real.

Cullen’s throat tightened. He wanted—gods, he wanted. Not out of admiration. Not out of duty. But something deeper. He wanted to know the quiet behind her strength, the story behind each scar. He wanted to press his palm to her cheek and feel if the heat in her skin matched the fire in her eyes. He wanted—

“Any special interest you'd like to confess, Commander?”

The voice struck like lightning.

Cullen jerked, startled so badly he nearly tripped over his own feet. Leliana stood beside him, arms folded, a wicked glint in her eye.

“N-No!” he sputtered. “I— I was just— I’m going to count the swords—”

He turned so quickly he nearly knocked into a tent pole, muttering curses as he disappeared into the dark.

Leliana tilted her head, amused. Then her gaze returned to Ophelia, who was now rolling up her sleeves, wiping her hands clean with a cloth, still explaining something patiently to the recruits.

“That wild elf,” she murmured to herself, “she’s going to change the world.”

Chapter Text

The cold wind lashed against the mountaintop as Ophelia followed Solas’s footsteps, climbing a narrow rocky path. Each exhalation turned into clouds of steam in the frigid air. Her body still felt the fatigue from the long journey, but her spirit remained strong, reminding herself they were close, that they would soon find refuge. Solas, a few steps ahead, finally stopped, turning to look at her with a proud expression.

"Skyhold," he said, gesturing toward the horizon.

Ophelia climbed the final stretch, and her heart stilled when she saw what Solas was pointing to: an imposing stone castle, nestled high in the mountains. It looked like something out of an ancient tale, a fortress standing with austere yet majestic elegance. Its walls rose into the clouds, bathed in sunlight.

"How beautiful..." she murmured, her voice full of emotion. It was a new beginning, a place they could call home, at least for a while. The weight of her worries lightened; a renewed hope flickered to life.

As the group dispersed to explore Skyhold, each began to find their place in that vast, ancient space. The artisans set up in what would become the workshops, the warriors headed to the training grounds, and Josephine, Cullen, Leliana, and Cassandra claimed the ideal room for the war table. It was as if every corridor and stone had been waiting for them, ready to be filled with life again.

Ophelia approached the war table, gently caressing the stone surface, as if she could feel the stories it had witnessed and the ones yet to come.

"It’s as if this place has been waiting for us all this time," she said, her voice tinged with wonder and gratitude.

As day turned to night, she explored a stone staircase that led to the highest room in Skyhold. Inside, a large bed and a balcony opened to the snowy mountains. She smiled and flung herself onto the bed, laughing softly as her body sank into the softness. For one fleeting moment, she was just a girl again—before titles, before bloodshed. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a rare breath. 

A knock on the door roused her. She sat up quickly, adjusting her tunic.

"Yes?" she called.

Cassandra appeared, her expression uncharacteristically gentle.

"Herald, we want to show you something. Can you come down?"

Ophelia nodded, the title still feeling foreign on her tongue. She didn’t believe in the divinity others saw in her; Corypheus’s words haunted her. Still, she followed Cassandra without comment.

The courtyard was filled with survivors from Haven. Dozens of familiar faces turned toward her, eyes filled with hope and gratitude. She hadn’t realized how many had survived. A lump formed in her throat.

Above, Leliana stood at the steps of the main entrance, holding a sword. Cassandra guided Ophelia forward.

"What is this?" Ophelia whispered.

Cassandra's pride was evident.

"The Inquisition requires a leader, a one that has already been leading…” 

Ophelia blinked, stunned. She turned around and saw people approaching all eyes looking up at her. It was the first time she noticed how many people were there… all of them alive because of her and many coming to Skyhold not to join the fight but also to help. And in the crowd she saw them smile at her, their looks of feeling proud at her, safe, even Commander Cullen and Josephine smiled.

“You” said Cassandra.

Ophelia turned to face her again, her brown eyes wide open in surprise. 

"You are offering this to an Elf… Are you quite sure you know what you are doing?”  she asked, confused by it. 

“I would be terrified handing this power to anybody, but I believe this is the only way. They will follow you…” she turned to Leliana holding the sword “to them, being an elf shows how far you have risen, how it must have been Andraste's hand” 

Ophelia walked slowly to them looking at the powerful sword that Leliana was holding. It looked heavy not only because of its metal and size but also and more importantly its meaning “What it means to you, how to lead us, that is for you alone to determine” Cassandra continued. 

Leliana stepped forward, offering the sword to Ophelia. She hesitated for a brief moment but then, her eyes found Cullen.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, silent and still. His eyes met hers—and for a moment, everything else faded. He nodded. Just a slight movement, but full of strength.

And inside Cullen, something shifted.

He had seen so many titles given out in his life. He had watched power ruin men and destroy what little hope people had. But watching Ophelia, standing at the top of the stairs, her face open and unsure but still strong—he saw something different. Not arrogance. Not ambition. Heart.

He wasn’t sure when it had started—this feeling that being here mattered. That maybe, just maybe, after all the commands barked in blind faith, after all the soldiers lost, after all the lyrium and the guilt and the long nights where he couldn’t sleep... maybe this was a second chance.

Her presence was like a balm on a soul he thought too fractured to mend. Not because she was perfect, but because she chose to lead with compassion. And for the first time in years, Cullen felt something unfamiliar but welcome bloom in his chest: hope.

The Inquisition wasn’t just duty—it could be redemption. For Thedas. For him.

Ophelia took a breath and raised the sword, her voice steady.

"Together, we will defeat the threat that looms over us. Together, we will bring peace to Thedas."

Cheers erupted across the courtyard. Cassandra turned to Cullen.

"Commander, will they follow?"

Cullen didn’t hesitate. He drew his sword and lifted it.

"What do you say?!" he roared.

A booming "Yes!" shook the very stones beneath their feet.

And in that thunderous moment, Cullen knew: whatever came next, he would not fail her.

That night, Cassandra climbed the stone steps to Ophelia’s room, the soft rustle of fine fabric brushing against the weight of her armor. In her arms, she carried two carefully folded garments—pieces salvaged from Haven, miraculously untouched by fire or snow.

The door to the Inquisitor’s chambers stood slightly ajar. Cassandra knocked gently before pushing it open a few inches.

Ophelia stood by the window, her silhouette bathed in moonlight. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the silver glow like threads of night. She turned at the sound, and when she saw Cassandra, she smiled—softly, curiously.

“I found these among the things we left behind,” Cassandra said, lifting the folded clothes. “I believe they’re elven. I thought… perhaps they’d suit you.”

Ophelia stepped forward, her fingers brushing over the embroidery—delicate vines curling around forest leaves, stitched with reverence. The fabric was rich but unpretentious, dyed in deep reds, warm golds, and earthy greens—colors of the Dalish.

She took a breath, as if the scent of moss and woodsmoke had returned with the thread. A wistful smile touched her lips.

“For tonight?” she asked, lifting her eyes to Cassandra’s.

The Seeker nodded once. “If you wish.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to celebrate a little, right?” Ophelia murmured, turning her amber gaze toward her.

Cassandra’s stern expression melted into something warmer. “Tonight is for celebrating,” she said, almost reverently. “Tomorrow, we return to duty. But tonight... is yours, Inquisitor.”

Ophelia gave her a grateful nod, reaching for the red-and-gold garment just as the door flung open behind them.

“Maker’s breath, Dorian!” Cassandra snapped, whirling around.

Dorian stood in the doorway, completely unrepentant, draped in velvet and wearing a grin that could melt ice. “Did someone say fashion emergency ?” he asked, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Because I bring judgment and flair.”

Ophelia laughed, a rich, unexpected sound—light and bubbling, catching even herself by surprise.

“I’m in the middle of changing!” she said, half-protesting, still clutching the outfit to her chest.

“Which is precisely why I must be here. Who else will rescue you from looking like a noble from Orlais in mourning?” Dorian retorted with a wink.

Cassandra groaned but couldn’t hide her smile as she sank onto the edge of the bed, arms crossed. “You two deserve each other.”

“Oh, if only,” Dorian quipped dramatically, then turned to Ophelia. “Darling, let’s see what we’re working with.”

Soon enough, the room was alive with laughter and teasing. Dorian circled her like a tailor at court, tugging gently at seams, tucking folds, adjusting her hair with precision. Cassandra helped fasten the clasps while muttering about how utterly ridiculous the whole thing was, all while stealing amused glances.

Finally, Ophelia stepped away from the mirror’s edge.

She wore the deep red outfit with golden Dalish patterns, the embroidery catching the candlelight like tiny threads of sunlight. The sleeves were wide and flowing, gathered at her wrists with gilded clasps, and the neckline rested gracefully on her collarbone. She had left her hair down, falling in loose, natural waves over one shoulder, framing the gentle curve of her face and highlighting her June´s vallaslin.

Dorian stepped back and pressed his hands to her shoulders, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “You look radiant,” he murmured. “Like a vision from one of the old tales. You’ll stop a lot of hearts tonight… even the Commander’s, with just one glance.”

Ophelia flushed. “Wait—Cullen?” she stammered, color rising to her cheeks. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come now,” Dorian said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “The way he looks at you? He’s practically a sonnet waiting to happen.”

Cassandra, still seated at the edge of the bed, gave a low hum of agreement. Her arms remained crossed, but there was the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth. “He might not survive it,” she added. “Poor man’s already on edge half the time. This may finish him off.”

Ophelia opened her mouth, then closed it again, utterly speechless. “I… I wasn’t expecting this conversation,” she admitted, trying to gather herself. “I didn’t think…”

“That he noticed you?” Dorian scoffed playfully. “Darling, he notices everything about you. He probably knows how many braids are in your hair at any given moment.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but her tone was surprisingly gentle. “Don’t act so surprised, Ophelia. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Ophelia let out a breathless laugh, burying her face in her hands for a moment. “You two are impossible.”

Dorian grinned, utterly pleased with himself. “Yes, and yet you still love us.” he offered his arm with a flourish. “Come, beautiful creature. The world awaits your entrance. And I fully expect at least one dance before midnight.”

“You know I don’t dance well.”

“Perfect. I love a challenge.” He grinned and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Tonight, you just need to be . That’s more than enough.”

The main hall of Skyhold had been transformed. Garlands of evergreens and soft cloth banners draped the walls, candlelight flickering like starlight. The scent of roasted meats, sweet wine, and spiced pastries lingered in the air. Music echoed joyfully through the vaulted ceilings—lutes, tambourines, and drums blending into a heartbeat of celebration.

Ophelia descended the steps flanked by Dorian and Cassandra. As she stepped into view, the room quieted.

Her figure glowed beneath the soft, golden light. Without armor or weapons, she appeared more real—and more powerful—than ever before. A symbol of quiet strength, of the will to endure. Gold thread glinted with every step she took, her vallaslin catching the flicker of candlelight like living ink, and in her eyes burned the unmistakable gleam of something unbreakable.

She noticed the hush as she entered—the way people turned to look at her, their conversations faltering. And something stirred within her. It was warm at first, then hot—like a flame rising in her chest. A strange, fierce kind of bravery she’d only glimpsed in herself before.

She remembered the winter she’d led a group of hunters through a treacherous forest—how every word she spoke had mattered. How clarity and calm could become shelter, just as surely as fire or furs.

Now, that same instinct bloomed in her, sharper and deeper. She saw them—all of them. The people who had followed her through loss, through fear, through ruin. And she knew: This was the moment to speak. To give them not just hope.

But a reason to believe.

Ophelia raised her goblet and her voice rang clear, steady as steel wrapped in velvet.

“We lost Haven. Corypheus believed he had defeated us. That fire, that avalanche… it broke us in ways we never expected.” She let the words hang in the air, raw and unflinching. “We lost friends. Homes. Pieces of ourselves.” A breath. Then, her voice rose—not louder, but fiercer.
“But we are still here. And that means something. It means we endure.”

Her gaze moved across the gathered crowd—warriors, mages, messengers, cooks, scouts. Everyone who had helped build Skyhold from ruin. Everyone who had survived.

“Tomorrow, we fight again. For Thedas. For peace. For a future that is still ours to shape. But tonight…”—a flicker of a smile, warm and defiant—“tonight belongs to us. To joy. To love. To life—beautiful, reckless, fleeting life.”

She raised her goblet high.
“Let the music play. Let the wine flow. Live. For this moment is ours—and no darkness will take that from us.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, like the world itself had leaned in to listen.

And then the roar—“To the Inquisitor!” “To life!” Laughter. Applause. Glasses clinking. Some wept openly. Others clutched the hands of those beside them.
People embraced. Smiled. Let themselves feel safe.

From the edge of the crowd, Cullen watched her.

He was still in his armor, still half in the shadows, as if unsure he belonged among so much light. But his eyes never left her.

He had seen her fight. He had seen her bleed. He had seen her stand between death and those she vowed to protect.

But this—this was something else.

The way she held them all with her words. The way her voice wrapped around their wounds and made them believe again. She was no longer just a protector. Or a fighter. She was a leader. The Inquisitor.

And Maker, he felt it.

Pride swelled in his chest—hot, sharp, and utterly unexpected. He felt like the world had stopped spinning for a moment, just to watch her.

He drank her in: the way she laughed with Dorian, the way her eyes sparkled when she spotted someone she knew, the way she moved, graceful even in her uncertainty. It pierced something in him.

She was radiant. Unreachable.

His chest tightened.

The feelings he’d buried, chained down with duty and fear, stirred like fire beneath snow. He didn’t know when admiration had turned into yearning. Maybe it was when she faced down a demon without blinking. Or when she defended the weak with quiet resolve. Or maybe, just now, as she smiled like someone who still believed in joy.

He loves her.

The thought struck him, raw and sharp. And he didn’t know what terrified him more—that it might never be returned… or that it already was , and he had no idea how to accept it.

He looked away.

“Drinking?” came a soft voice beside him.

Leliana—of course. She had a talent for appearing in moments like this, as if summoned by unspoken thoughts. She extended a goblet toward him, her expression unreadable, save for that faintly amused, knowing look she so often wore.

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

She didn’t press. Just took a slow sip, the silence between them companionable but heavy with things unsaid. Then her gaze followed his, to where Ophelia stood beneath the vaulted light.

“She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?”

The answer slipped from him before he could stop it. “Yes.”

The word settled in the space between them like something too fragile to touch. A truth he hadn’t meant to give voice to.

But Leliana didn’t tease. She only smiled, soft and almost sad. “So… why aren’t you out there with her?”

He hesitated, something tightening in his chest. “I… I don’t dance,” he said quickly, almost defensively. “Templars didn’t… we didn’t have celebrations like this.”

“But you’re not a templar anymore, aren't you?,” she reminded him softly.

She left him with that thought, disappearing into the music and merriment.
And Cullen stayed behind, watching as Ophelia spun slowly under the lanterns with Dorian. She stumbled, laughing, and he caught her hand again. Her smile—the warmth of it—lit a path right to Cullen’s chest.

He took a sharp breath, clenching his fists at his sides, but then it came. A dull ache deep in his bones, spreading through his muscles, crawling beneath his skin like a cold fire. He recognized it instantly.

Lyrum.

Not now.

He forced the thought down, trying to steady himself as his vision swam. He couldn’t lose himself here, not like this—not in front of her. He turned abruptly and stepped toward the door, desperate for fresh air, desperate for space.

The pain was worse outside the hall, hitting him in waves that made his stomach churn. His body ached, demanding what he no longer had. It felt like poison in his veins. The nausea swelled as his mind screamed for the relief he couldn’t find.

He hated it. Hated this part of his decision. Leaving the Order meant leaving behind the only thing that kept him from feeling like this. But he’d made his choice. He had to live with it.

The world began to spin, the edges blurring, his balance faltering. He stumbled, his hands reaching for the wall to keep himself upright. He had to focus—just a moment longer.

“Cullen?”

Her voice broke through the fog, soft and concerned. He turned slowly, and there she was, Ophelia, standing just a few paces away. The warmth in her eyes cut through the haze, and for a moment, he almost forgot the pain.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer.

Cullen’s heart clenched, guilt flooding him. He should have been stronger. He should have hidden this better, but instead, she was here, witnessing his weakness. He stood a little straighter, forcing a calm he didn’t feel, nodding with more conviction than he could muster.

“Yes… I… just needed some fresh air.”

She saw it, the subtle tension in his posture, the tightness in his jaw. Her eyes searched his, but she said nothing. She, too, carried secrets—things she would never speak of. Maybe this was just one of his.

“I… understand,” she said softly. She wanted to ask him to dance, but the words caught in her throat. It didn’t feel right. Not now.

Instead, she offered him a gentle smile. “See you inside.”

She turned to leave, but before she could take another step, Cullen’s voice stopped her.

“You look beautiful tonight”

The words came out quieter than he’d intended, but they were honest. Genuine. He saw the surprise flash in her eyes before a soft blush crept up her neck. She turned slightly, her smile shy and vulnerable.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

They stood there in silence, the distant hum of laughter and music a faint backdrop to the moment. There was something between them. Something unspoken, fragile but undeniable.

Ophelia took a breath, then spoke, her voice steady but full of meaning. “I’m glad you’re here, Cullen. I’m glad we’re all here.”

Cullen’s gaze softened as he met her eyes. His voice was low, almost a murmur. “I am too.”

And in that silence, the weight of their connection settled between them—something unspoken but so clearly felt. For a moment, there was no need for further words. No need for explanations or confessions. It was just them, standing together, an unbroken understanding in the quiet. Something new, something raw, something that would grow in time.

Chapter Text

The day after the celebration, Skyhold had returned to its usual rhythm—though now it beat faster. The laughter and music from the night before were replaced with the clang of swords, the scratch of quills on parchment, and the low murmur of urgency in every hallway. The Inquisition, reborn in fire, was preparing for war.

Josephine was already in her office, sleeves rolled up, pen flying over letters to the nobles of Val Royeaux. Leliana moved like a shadow between spies, piecing together any rumor that could lead to Corypheus. And on the training grounds, Cullen led drills with his men, his voice sharp, commanding, relentless.

Ophelia stood at her window for a long while, watching the movement below. Skyhold buzzed with renewed purpose—soldiers drilling in the courtyard, messengers darting between towers. The dawn was crisp, the wind tugging at the banners like breath held too long.

The fresh weight of her title—of survival—settled on her shoulders like armor. Familiar in shape. Unyielding in pressure.

She adjusted the leather straps across her chest, slid her daggers into place with steady fingers. Focus , she reminded herself, echoing the quiet command Cullen had given her back in Haven. That simple word had grounded her then. She clung to it now.

Before leaving, she paused at the mirror.

Her reflection stared back unchanged—same face, same steady gaze—but something felt irrevocably different. She was still Ophelia Lavellan, the Dalish elf who once roamed through forests beneath a sky full of stories. But now… now she bore the title of Inquisitor. A mantle the world had pressed onto her, shaped by fire and fear.

Her eyes dropped to her marked hand.

The green light pulsed faintly beneath her skin—alive, powerful, and utterly strange. She flexed her fingers, as if the motion might make it more familiar.

Was this destiny? Or a mistake ?

Her breath caught as the echo of Corypheus’s voice slithered through her memory—twisted, unnatural, as if spoken from beneath the earth. She shook her head sharply, trying to dislodge the weight of it.

Her heart thudded faster. A quiet, gnawing fear coiled in her chest.

And then—she noticed it.

A tiny leaf, tucked near her temple, caught in one of her braids.

Frowning softly, she reached up and plucked it free, turning it between her fingers. For a moment, confusion fluttered through her—until she remembered.

Last night.

The starlight. The silence. Cullen beside her, quiet and pale, his breath unsteady. She’d seen it—how the celebration had worn on him, how he stood slightly apart from it all, fighting something beneath the surface.

They hadn’t spoken much. But there was a moment, just between them, when everything else fell away. No Inquisition. No war. Just the two of them, and the hush of the world.

“You look beautiful,” he had said, voice low and raw. Not performative, not easy—it had taken effort, as if pulled from somewhere deep within. It hadn’t been about her dress or the way the lantern light hit her face. It had been something quieter. More vulnerable.

The wind had stirred suddenly then, curling through tugging them closer together. They’d laughed—not at the moment, but at the timing of it. Like the world itself had conspired to pull them close. 

For him, maybe it had been Andraste’s hand in the wind, nudging them.

But for Ophelia… it was her gods. The whisper of the mountains, the hush of the stars, the heartbeat of the world reminding her that fate still lived and breathed around them.

She looked down at the leaf again, now cupped in her palm.

“This is not a mistake,” she said softly, firmly. Not this power. Not what she’d become. 

She tucked the leaf carefully into the pouch at her hip, then turned back to the mirror. Her fingers moved through her braids with practiced care, smoothing and reweaving, anchoring herself in the ritual.

And when she walked out of her  room,  she did so with her strength—and her purpose—returned.

Just then, as she stepped into the hallway, heads turned.

“Inquisitor,” someone greeted with a respectful nod. Another bowed quickly before hurrying down the stairs, eyes averted.

The reverence landed like a stone in her stomach—more unsettling than flattering. It carved a quiet distance between her and everyone else, as if the title alone had made her into something other .

She offered a polite smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was going to take time—perhaps a long time—before “Inquisitor” felt like something she could wear comfortably.

Suddenly, Josephine appeared from around the corner, nearly colliding with her.

“Maker’s breath—I’m so sorry, Inquisitor!” she gasped, clutching a stack of documents in one arm and a quill in the other. Her expression was flustered, breath caught mid-sentence.

“No, I’m sorry, Josi,” Ophelia said quickly, steadying her. “I didn’t see you.”

Josephine smiled sheepishly. “I was just on my way to fetch Commander Cullen before the war room meeting. Though I must admit”—she glanced down at the papers in her hand—“I still don’t understand why it’s so hard to get him to stay in his office. He’s always out in the courtyard or down on the training grounds. It’s… frustrating.”

Ophelia couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at her lips. She noticed the subtle crease of stress forming between Josephine’s brows, the tight grip on her quill. The contrast between her and Cullen was clear as day—Josephine all precision and diplomacy, Cullen all motion and instinct. That difference, she imagined, led to more than a few quiet frictions.

“I can go,” Ophelia offered gently. “I was already heading outside—it wouldn’t be a bother.”

Josephine let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Truly? Thank you. I’d be grateful. I still have to prepare the rest of the briefing documents, and the nobles from Val Royeaux have been rather... eager since your speech last night.”

She gave a quick, grateful nod before retreating toward her office, her footsteps already quickening with renewed purpose.

Ophelia watched Josephine disappear down the corridor, then turned toward the stairs that led to the courtyard. A quiet breath slipped from her lips, the weight of the morning pressing against her ribs—but beneath it, a flicker of something lighter stirred. Not quite relief. Not quite dread. Something else.

Outside, the world was louder. She could hear the rhythm of preparation in full swing—the clatter of weapons, the murmur of voices, the barked orders as the Inquisition readied itself for whatever came next. Boots on stone, armor being fastened, carts rolling through the gates with supplies. Every sound echoed with urgency.

Then, rising above it all, she heard his voice.

Cullen.

Firm. Measured. Direct.

She followed the sound, weaving through soldiers and scribes until she spotted him across the training grounds.

He stood hunched over a table strewn with maps and sealed letters, speaking in low tones to two captains while drills continued behind him. His armor caught what little light the overcast morning offered, a dull shimmer of gold and steel. But his face was pale—worn thin by sleepless nights and relentless burdens. Still, he held himself with the rigid composure of a soldier. Voice clipped. Shoulders squared. From a distance, he looked unshakeable.

But Ophelia wasn’t just anyone. She saw the signs others missed: the subtle clench of his jaw, the flicker of strain around his eyes. The quiet war still raging inside him.

She hesitated, unsure why. Maybe because approaching him like this—unsummoned, unscripted—felt more personal than formal.

Then something in her shifted, and she moved forward.

He didn’t notice her at first—not until her shadow crossed the table. He flinched slightly, then looked up.

The change in his expression was small, but unmistakable. His brow eased. His eyes softened, the edges of his guard lowering—not gone, but less impenetrable. Like armor creaking under a weight too personal to deflect.

She looked at him, holding her breath without realizing it.
She searched his face for a moment. “How are you feeling?” she asked, voice low.

Cullen straightened, brushing his fingertips along the edge of the table, as if to steady himself—ground himself. “Better,” he said. “Tired—but nothing I can’t handle.”

She tilted her head and offered a soft smile. “I’m glad,” she murmured.

He returned it—barely, but genuinely. The quiet between them stretched, not awkward, but thick with tension. Not discomfort, but something suspended—delicate, unsaid.

Then, after a pause, he asked, “How did you sleep?”

The question caught her off guard—so simple, so ordinary—but it warmed her, too. He hadn’t meant it casually. It was raw, personal. And from the look in his eyes, she knew it wasn’t small talk. He wanted a reason for her to stay.

“I… slept well, thank you,” she said, then paused. Her gaze dropped to the table, to the familiar maps of unfamiliar territory. “But honestly… I’ve been thinking about Haven.”

The name alone was a bruise. Fire. Ice. Screams in the dark.

“It still haunts me,” she admitted. “Even knowing we made it out. I feel like we lost so much.”

“We set up as best we could at Haven, but could never prepare for an Archdemon – or whatever it was. With some warning, we might have…”

Ophelia blinked, surprised—not just by what he said, but by the way he said it. Calm. Measured. Like he had rehearsed this for her.
“We were all shaken by what happened,” she said softly.

“If Corypheus strikes again, we may not be able to withdraw,” he added, voice tightening. He placed both hands on the table, his posture tense, the weight of command bearing down. “And I wouldn't want to. We must be ready.”

Then he turned to her fully. “Work on Skyhold is underway, guard rotations established. We should have everything on course within the week.” His eyes found hers again, fierce and unwavering. “We will not run from here, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor.
It was the first time he had called her that. The word landed like a stone in still water, rippling through her chest.

“Inquisitor Lavellan… it sounds odd, don’t you think?” she asked with a soft laugh, nerves catching at the edges. The title still didn’t sit comfortably on her shoulders.

He turned toward her, gaze steady. “Not at all,” he said, confident.

It caught her off guard. “Is that the official response?”

He laughed, the sound quiet but real. “I suppose it is…” Then, more gently—closer now—he added, “But it’s the truth.”
He stood before her, both hands resting on the hilt of his sword like a lifeline.

“We needed a leader, and you have proven yourself.”

Her thoughts drifted—unbidden—to the first time they met. How she’d distrusted him. Distrusted them all. And now… something has changed. Between them. In her.

Did he feel it too?

“Thank you, Cullen,” she said, her voice soft but steady. She meant it.

He smiled at her, the scar on his lip tugging upward in that way she was beginning to know. Familiar. Gentle.

Ophelia looked down, a sudden rush blooming across her chest. Her heart felt too warm. Her cheeks too. She hadn’t expected to feel this way again… and it scared her. But gods, she wanted more.

“Our escape from Haven… It was close,” she said quietly. “I am relieved that you — that so many made it out.” Her voice wavered, the nerves audible.

“As am I…” he said, eyes tender as he looked at her. Then he looked away.

“You stayed behind… you could have—”

His voice shifted, firmer now. “I saw the snow coming down. And I thought…” He stopped. His jaw tensed. Words lodged in his throat like a blade caught on bone. When he finally spoke, it was careful. Measured. Fragile.

She opened her mouth, uncertain, but he wasn’t finished.

His voice dipped lower, roughened by something raw.

“I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.”

Her heart skipped—too loud in the hush that followed. The space between them had shrunk, electric now. Fragile. A moment held in glass.

He didn’t look away. His eyes stayed on hers—steady, searching. A question without sound.

For one suspended breath, the world around them—the drills, the cold air, the weight of Skyhold—faded into silence.

It was just him. Just her.

“You don’t have to protect me,” she whispered. But her voice faltered, like a door cracked open but not yet crossed.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

It was the first time he admitted it—not just the worry, but the need behind it. Not duty. Not command. Something more human. A fear of losing her. A truth he hadn’t let himself say out loud.

And she felt it too.

The thread between them, once subtle and buried beneath orders and politics, now stretched taut. Real. Undeniable.

Still, neither of them moved. Neither reached.

Ophelia looked away first, but not before he saw it—something flickering in her gaze, something unspoken, trembling on the edge. She stepped back, gently severing the moment like pulling a thread from a wound.

Then she blinked, remembering.

“Oh—Josephine.”

Cullen frowned, as if the name belonged to another world. “Josephine?”

She nodded, a half-laugh catching in her throat.“She asked me to find you. War room preparations. I was supposed to… Creators , I almost forgot . ”

“Right,” he said, but the word felt distant, meaningless. The name hung in the air like a bell toll, calling her back to reality.

She hesitated again, brushing her braid, clearly torn—but then, with a quiet smile that didn’t quite hide everything, she added  “I’ll see you in the war room.”

“Of course,” he said softly.

Then—just for a breath—her fingers touched his arm as she passed. A fleeting contact, light as a whisper, but it struck him like a lightning bolt. He nearly flinched.

And just like that, she was walking away. Leaving him there.

He watched her walked away, the sounds of Skyhold swelling back around him—shouted orders, boots on stone, steel against steel—but all of it felt muffled, like he was submerged in water. Distant. Faint.

All he could feel was the warmth where she had touched him. All he could hear was the echo of her voice. And the ache of everything he couldn’t say.

After weeks of regrouping at Skyhold—rebuilding, recruiting, and rallying behind a shared purpose—the Inquisition had begun to gather momentum. New soldiers arrived daily, drawn by stories of the Herald and the breach sealed above Haven. Chantry scholars and apostate mages alike offered their knowledge, while scouts brought word of Corypheus’s movements: strange rituals in the western reaches, disappearances near the Frostbacks, and whispers of a growing army amassing in the shadows. Slowly, the pieces of a larger, darker plan were coming into focus.

It was after one such strategy meeting that Ophelia and her team had finally departed on a new mission. That night, after a brutal skirmish with Venatori scouts, they made camp in a narrow clearing, hemmed in by trees stripped bare by the wind. Moonlight filtered through their skeletal branches, casting fractured shadows across the snow-dusted ground.

The cold settled in fast, the kind of biting chill that crept beneath armor and curled into bone. It made silence feel heavier—like it pressed on their chests. Only the crackle of firewood and the slow, deliberate scrape of metal against wood broke through the hush.

Blackwall sat cross-legged near the flames, hunched over a piece of elm, his dagger moving in smooth, practiced strokes. He was whittling again—something small and wordless, shaped with a kind of reverence. For all the fury he unleashed in battle, there was an unexpected gentleness in his hands now. Watching him, Ophelia felt a quiet kind of awe.

Even hands soaked in blood, she thought, could still remember how to be kind.

"My lady..." Blackwall murmured without looking up. "Hard to keep the edge steady when you're staring like that."

A few paces away, Dorian let out a low chuckle as he polished his staff. “You’re making him nervous, dear.”

“I don’t get nervous,” Blackwall muttered, but a grin tugged at the edge of his mouth.

Ophelia laughed softly and shifted her weight. “Sorry. It’s impressive. That’s all.”

For a moment, it was peaceful. A fragile breath in the heart of chaos.

Then Solas stood abruptly, eyes narrowing. He extinguished the fire with a single flick of his fingers. Darkness swallowed the camp like a closing fist.

“There’s someone nearby,” he whispered. His voice was sharp. Urgent.

They were on their feet in an instant. Weapons drawn. Heartbeats syncing to a sudden drum of tension. Ophelia strained her senses. Footsteps. Distant, quick. Surrounding them.

“Shit,” Dorian breathed. “They’re circling us.”

An arrow ripped through the night—Blackwall blocked it with his shield just in time. Chaos erupted.

Flames burst from the tree line as Venatori surged forward, black-robed mages and twisted warriors with glowing eyes and spells dripping from their hands like acid. Solas threw up a barrier. Dorian launched searing bolts of magic. Blackwall bellowed and charged into the fray like a storm on legs. Ophelia moved fast and fluid, her daggers gleaming, slicing through the dark like silver fire. She was a shadow in motion.

But then—she saw him.

A mage cloaked in crimson and shadow, lurking at the edge of the battle, hands raised in incantation. A commander, orchestrating the ambush from safety.

Her blood surged.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Inquisitor, wait—!” Dorian shouted as she reached into her pouch, vanished in a cloud of shimmering powder, and slipped into the darkness.

“Ophelia!” he yelled after her. “Damn it—!”

She sprinted through the trees, branches whipping at her face, adrenaline roaring in her ears. The Venatori mage wasn’t alone. Four others surrounded him like sentries.

She attacked anyway.

Daggers flashed, clashed with steel, danced through flesh. Spells exploded around her—one seared her arm, another clipped her thigh. But she didn’t stop. She was rage. Precision. Flame. Her blades drove deep, her movements fueled by fury and desperation.

Then—Solas’s voice, shouting somewhere behind her. “Ophelia, fall back!”

She turned. Just for a second.

A Venatori assassin lunged from the dark. A dagger, slick with black poison, plunged into her side.

The pain was immediate. Searing. Like liquid fire beneath her skin.

She gasped, staggered—but didn’t fall.

Instead, she turned, drove her blade into her attacker’s throat, and dragged him down with her. The mage behind him barely had time to scream before she slit his throat too.

And then—

The world lurched. Her breath caught in her lungs.

“Ophelia!” Dorian’s voice cut through the trees like lightning.

She swayed, one hand pressed to her side, slick with blood. Her daggers clattered to the forest floor. Dorian dropped to his knees beside her, hands already glowing with magic.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, trying to sit up. “It’s nothing.”

“You’ve been poisoned!” Dorian’s eyes were wide, frantic. “You’re bleeding everywhere—”

“We need… need to follow them,” she whispered, shaking her head, blinking hard. “The Venatori—see where they’re going. We can’t lose them…”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Dorian said, furious. “Maker’s breath, look at you—!”

“I can still—” she tried again, pushing against the ground. But her limbs trembled. Pain spiked in her ribs, white-hot and relentless.

Blackwall appeared at her side, face grim as he knelt beside them. “She won’t be able to walk.”

“She says she can,” Dorian snapped.

“She’s wrong,” Blackwall growled. “We’ll carry her.”

“No,” Ophelia whispered, her voice thinner now. “Just give me a minute…”

But the minute never came.

Her vision blurred—shadows doubling, spinning. The trees loomed and tilted. She gritted her teeth, trying to rise, but the pain surged like a tide, and her legs buckled.

Solas caught her before she hit the ground.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, something unreadable in his voice. “You’ve done enough.”

“She’s fading,” Dorian said, pressing his hands against her side, magic flickering wildly as he tried to slow the bleeding. His face had gone pale. “We need to get her back. Now.”

Blackwall hoisted her into his arms without hesitation, cradling her like she weighed nothing. His jaw was set tight, his eyes darker than steel. “Let’s move.”

They ran—through branches and broken undergrowth, the firelight of the dying battle casting eerie glows behind them. Dorian led the way, casting protective wards as they went. Solas followed close, whispering spells to mask their trail.

Back at the ruined camp, a scout spotted them and sprinted toward the cluster of tents. “Send a crow,” Dorian barked, not slowing. “To Skyhold.”

“What do I say?”

“Tell them the Inquisitor has been injured,” Solas said, voice low and heavy. “And to prepare for the worst.”

The scout vanished into the trees. Seconds later, the caw of a raven cracked through the cold air.

Blackwall lowered Ophelia gently onto a bedroll beside the fire. She stirred faintly, a whisper of breath escaping her lips, but her eyes didn’t open.

“She’ll live,” Dorian said, mostly to himself. “She has to.”

Around them, the world was quiet again. But not peaceful.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Commander Cullen paced the war room, fingers clenched around the parchment that had shattered his world in a single sentence. The wax seal still bore the faint imprint of the Crow who had delivered it; the ink smudged by the sweat of his grip.

The Inquisitor has been gravely injured. Returning to Skyhold. Prepare for the worst.

The words echoed in his mind like a drumbeat.

Ophelia—injured.

His chest tightened. It didn’t make sense. She was the storm they followed, the light they rallied behind. How could she fall, when she'd always stood tall?

Without realizing, he had left the war room, his boots striking stone as he crossed the courtyard in a blur. Soldiers stepped aside instinctively, their faces grim. The silence in Skyhold was heavy—like the hush before a funeral.

Before the gates had even opened, he had spoken with Leliana and Josephine, mobilizing the healers, clearing the infirmary. Whatever had happened out there, he would not let them return to chaos. Skyhold would be ready.

Dorian and Solas flanked Ophelia on either side, their magic pulsing around her like a second heartbeat—desperate, rhythmic, relentless. The poison burned through her veins with every step, and only their constant casting slowed its crawl.

At the front, Blackwall pushed the soldiers harder than ever, barking orders that cracked through the cold air like whips. The urgency was etched into his voice, carved deep into his furrowed brow.

Ophelia groaned, her hand gripping her side, the pain blossoming with every beat of her heart. Dorian’s lips tightened.

“This is bad,” he muttered, pressing harder against her wound.

“Very,” Solas replied. His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.

“How bad?” Ophelia asked, breath ragged.

Neither mage answered.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Still, she refused to close her eyes.

Blackwall leaned closer, gripping her hand—gently, reassuringly. “Hold on, my lady,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Her resolve was only a breath, but it was enough.

By the time they reached Skyhold’s gates, Ophelia was unconscious—her skin pale, her breath shallow. The courtyard, once filled with life, held a stunned silence. Eyes watched them pass, soldiers and servants alike frozen at the sight of their Inquisitor limp in Blackwall’s arms.

She was rushed to the infirmary.

Cullen arrived just moments later, breathless, prayers slipping through clenched teeth as he rounded the corner. The door was closed. Blackwall stood beside it, armor streaked with blood—her blood. His hands still shook, adrenaline not yet burned from his limbs.

Cullen stopped short. The sight stole the words from his throat.

“They’re tending to her now,” Blackwall said. His voice was hoarse, hollow with exhaustion. “The healers believe she’ll recover… but it’s too early to know.”

“How did this happen?” Cullen asked quietly.

Blackwall sighed but before he could answer, Solas appeared beside them.

“She was reckless,” he said flatly, frustration curling in his voice. “She acted before thinking.”

“We’ve all been there,” Blackwall replied, frowning, unwilling to let Solas cast blame.

“Yes,” Solas said sharply, “but we don’t carry the key to salvation in our left hand.”

Blackwall looked away, jaw tight. There was no point arguing now. Cullen stood silently, absorbing every word. He knew what it meant to chase certainty into danger. He’d done it himself more times than he could count. And he knew that sometimes, you made it back. Sometimes… you didn’t.

Cullen exhaled and rubbed a hand across his brow. “Go rest,” he said. “Both of you. I’ll stay.”

Solas gave a curt nod and left. Blackwall hesitated.

“Dorian’s with her,” he said. “He hasn’t left her side.”

He placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder.

“She’s strong, Cullen. She’ll fight through this.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small carved halla. “When she wakes up, give her this. She’ll understand.”

Cullen took it, his throat thick. “Thank you.”

Blackwall nodded and walked away, leaving Cullen alone in the corridor.

The silence pressed in.

Cullen stood motionless, fists clenched, heart pounding. He stared at the door, willing it to open. He’d faced armies. Demons. Red lyrium. He’d survived things that should have broken him.

But nothing had ever terrified him like the thought of losing her.

She wasn’t just the Inquisitor. She was Ophelia. He had come to know her laugh, her fire, the fierce will that lit her from within. And now, her silence felt like a blade pressed to his throat.

She had always come back.
And yet, this time…

What if—

No. He forced the thought away, steeled his spine, and waited.

Because if there was even the smallest chance she would open her eyes—
He would be there.

The hours passed slowly, but at last, Ophelia was stable. The healers had flushed the poison from her body, stitched her wounds, and eased the fever that threatened to consume her. Still, she had lost too much blood. Her body was exhausted—only rest could save her now.

Dorian hadn’t left her side once. He watched every shallow breath, each twitch of her fingers. His brilliant, fire-wielding friend—fierce and unyielding in battle—now lay pale and still, her skin tinged green, her form swathed in bandages. He could already hear her sarcastic scolding when she woke up, likely blaming him for the mess. That familiar spark was what kept him grounded as he sat beside her in silence, jaw clenched, unwilling to let the fear win.

A quiet knock at the door broke the stillness.

Dorian turned as Cullen stepped into the infirmary, the candlelight outlining the rigidity of his posture. He held something small in his hand—a wooden carving of a Halla , sanded smooth and shaped with care. Blackwall had handed it to him earlier with a few gruff words: “Blackwall told me to give it to her… Little wooden Halla” 

Dorian softly smiled recognizing the wooden figurine. Then he nodded toward the bed. “She’s stable.”

Cullen didn’t speak. His eyes fixed on Ophelia with an expression caught somewhere between guilt and quiet devastation.

“Could you stay with her?” Dorian asked softly. “I need a moment.”

Cullen hesitated, then gave a silent nod.

As Dorian passed him, he placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, firm and grounding. And then he was gone, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Cullen moved to the side of the bed and knelt. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He simply looked at her—at the bruises across her jaw, the cuts still stitched shut, the faint tremble in her hands even as she slept. So much fire, now flickering low.

He placed the Halla gently into her hand.

“From Blackwall,” he murmured. 

His voice cracked slightly. He exhaled, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed, and let himself simply exist in the quiet beside her.

Time passed—slow and weighty—but he never looked away. Her breath, slow and steady, was the only tether he had.

The infirmary glowed with flickering firelight. Outside, snow whispered against the windows, soft and relentless.

Then—movement. A furrowed brow. A breath, sharp and dry.

“Ophelia,” Cullen said at once, bolting upright.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. Everything hurt—her limbs, her chest, her skull. The ache ran deep, curling into her bones. Even breathing sent sharp pain radiating through her side. Her tongue felt thick, her mouth dry. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

The ceiling above her blurred. Shadows stretched across unfamiliar stone. Firelight danced too brightly across the walls.

She blinked, disoriented. Her body wouldn’t obey. Her arms felt distant, numb. Then—like glass shattering—came the memories. Fire. Screaming.

A spell igniting in her hand. A blade catching her side. The copper taste of blood.

Venatori. The four of them surrounding her.

She gasped, a sudden, instinctive lurch, but her body rebelled and she collapsed back with a choked cry.

“Don’t move,” Cullen said, gentler than she’d ever heard him. “You’re safe.”

Her eyes found his face at last—hovering beside her, worry etched deep into his brow, his features haloed in golden firelight. His voice reached her, soft and steady, wrapping around her like armor, like a tether to the world she’d almost let go of.

“I—” Her throat burned. The word scraped out like gravel. She coughed, wincing as pain shot through her ribs. “Fenedhis lasa Venatori…”

Cullen didn’t speak Elven, but somehow, he always understood her when she was swearing.

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips—half pain, half mischief. “Still got four of them before I went down, Commander.”

She tried to make it a joke, tried to sound like herself, but even to her ears, her voice was frayed—thinner than she remembered. Small. Still, she held his gaze, defiant even from the infirmary bed.

Cullen blinked. Then a short, incredulous laugh escaped him, quiet and warm.

“I read the report, Inquisitor.” The title held the shape of authority, but beneath it was something unguarded, almost tender.

Ophelia’s expression softened, voice rough but steady. “And what’s your official assessment, then?”

But beneath her teasing tone, something inside her twisted.

She remembered the moment she broke from the group—darting through the trees alone, tracking the sound of movement. It felt natural, instinctive. Like the hunts she used to lead back home, with her clan. When she had no one to answer to but herself.

But she wasn’t alone anymore.

She wasn’t just Ophelia Lavellan. She was the Inquisitor. And her mistake hadn’t just endangered her. It had shaken everyone.

She masked the guilt with another flicker of a smile. But inside, she ached with more than just pain.

“I think you already know my opinion,” Cullen said softly, sitting back a little. “You took a risk.”

She looked away. Her throat tightened.

She hadn’t understood what happened in that moment—how the fight spiraled out of control so quickly. She had trusted her instincts, but her instincts had been trained for a different life, a different world. And now...

With the weight of power and people and purpose on her shoulders, she couldn't afford that kind of mistake again.

Not ever.

“I won’t do it again,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if Cullen heard her.

But he saw the change in her eyes—the flicker of regret, the gravity. And something in him shifted, too.

She was still herself. Still fire and ferocity. But she had also grown. And maybe, in this pain, she had realized just how much.

A silence fell between them, not heavy but reverent. Cullen reached out, fingers trembling, and placed his hand over hers.

“We can’t lose you.” 

His voice trembled, uncharacteristically raw. She looked at him—at the shadows under his eyes, the lines of tension in his shoulders—and saw more than concern. She saw fear . Fear of losing her. Of what she meant to him, even if neither had dared name it yet. His hand tightened around hers. The moment stretched, delicate and fragile, suspended between what was spoken and what remained unsaid.

Then he let go, slowly.

“Rest.”

He rose to his feet, the chair scraping softly against the stone floor. For a moment, he stood still, caught between the instinct to remain and the discipline that told him to leave. His hands curled into fists at his sides—silent anchors against the pull in his chest.

Then he turned to go but at the doorway, he paused.

The firelight brushed the edge of his armor, catching in the gold of his hair. He glanced back—just once. His gaze lingered on her pale face against the pillow, her breath shallow but steady. Relief pressed against a tight coil of something darker—raw, reckless fear he hadn’t yet named.

He shouldn’t feel this. After all, she was The Inquisitor, his superior... But the crack had already formed—hairline and dangerous.

A breath. A beat.

He gave her a small nod. A smile tugged at his mouth—brief, fragile, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared.

“Inquisitor,” he said, the word shaped with soldier’s precision, but his voice was low, edged with something softer. Something not meant for command.

And then he was gone.

Behind closed doors and guarded silence, Cullen wrestled with a storm of his own—a fierce loyalty to his duty clashing against the growing love he dared not voice. His concern for her was no longer that of a soldier for his commander, but the aching, desperate care of a man for the woman he loved. The line between honor and desire blurred, leaving him caught in a fragile balance he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Chapter Text

The following days were a test of will—for Ophelia, and for all who loved her.

She remained confined to the infirmary, wrapped in bandages, her body still fragile and marked by pain. Yet day by day, strength returned to her limbs. Her skin, though pallid, had begun to regain the sun-warmed hue that once colored her cheeks in the field. The fire was coming back—slowly, but undeniably.

Dorian was a constant presence, filling the air with wit and wisdom, reading her ancient Tevinter plays in theatrical tones to distract from the ache in her ribs. Solas came now and then, impassive and silent, as though her very survival puzzled him. The Commander, meanwhile, poured his efforts into fortifying Skyhold’s defenses, his eyes always scanning the battlements—as if searching for something he’d nearly lost.

For Ophelia, every small victory was a rebellion against death. Sitting upright, despite the fire in her side, became a milestone. Holding a quill without shaking—another. She buried the exhaustion behind a composed face, but her companions saw through the mask. Still, she refused to falter. She was the Inquisitor. She had to rise.

One evening, as twilight bled across the stone walls and she sat propped in bed with a modest stack of reports, the infirmary door creaked open.

It was Cullen.

His armor caught the firelight in gleaming amber tones, but his face softened the moment he saw her—alive, alert, pen in hand. Relief passed over him like a tide he didn’t bother hiding.

“You really do have trouble resting, don’t you?” he said, voice gentler than she expected.

Ophelia looked up, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “If I stay in bed doing nothing, I’ll lose what’s left of my mind.”

She set the papers aside, watching him cross the room. He didn’t remove his armor. The way he carried himself—rigid, guarded—told her the war outside hadn’t yet left his bones.

“The healers said you should be taking it easy,” he murmured, arms crossed tightly over his chest. But the edge in his voice softened as he studied her face. “At least for a little while longer.”

Their eyes met. Her smile deepened, though her chest ached—not from the wound, but from the look in his eyes. Worry. Relief. Something deeper he wouldn’t name.

“I will,” she said softly, her tone tinged with teasing. “But I need to feel like myself again. I need to be useful.”

He exhaled a breath that had been trapped in his lungs too long. A small, rueful laugh escaped him, though his eyes remained serious.

“The Inquisition needs you,” he said, as if reciting something he'd told himself too often. Then, quieter: “But I…”

He faltered.

The sentence hung there, unfinished, trembling on the edge of something dangerous. His hands flexed at his sides. He was a man used to battlefields, not feelings—and this battlefield terrified him more.

“But I…”

Again, silence. A war waged behind his eyes.

“I’ll let you be,” he said at last, the words barely above a whisper. “I’m glad to see you recovering.”

Ophelia frowned, confusion flashing in her expression. She didn’t want him to go. Not yet. His presence steadied her more than she dared admit.

“Cullen,” she began, but the name caught in her throat.

He turned back as if drawn by her voice alone.

And in that moment, the world seemed to pause. The air between them thickened. Firelight cast shadows across the stone walls, the scent of herbs lingering like memory. Neither of them spoke.

Then, slowly, he reached for her.

He took her hand in his—gloved, hesitant, trembling—and gave it a gentle squeeze. The contact sent a current through her that stole her breath.

“Just promise me you’ll take it easy,” he said. “For now.”

His voice cracked, raw and low.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Ophelia’s heart stilled. The warmth of his hand anchored her, and she clung to the moment like a lifeline. So much unsaid passed between them in the silence—regret, fear, longing.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

—

The next day Ophelia was nearly whole again.

Her steps no longer wavered. Her breath, though not yet effortless, came easier with each passing day. Solas watched her from the shaded archway above the training grounds, arms folded, silent as stone. There was something unnatural about how swiftly she recovered—how the mark on her hand pulsed faintly when she moved, as if knitting her back together from the inside out.

He said nothing, but his gaze lingered longer than usual.

Inside her quarters, Ophelia stood before the mirror, fingers brushing lightly over the scar along her abdomen—the place where her body had nearly surrendered. It was a harsh, unlovely thing. Jagged. Permanent. Her breath hitched.

Another reminder of how close she'd come to vanishing.

But the scar was also proof. That she was still here. That she had endured.

She dressed quickly, tying her hair back and slipping her daggers into their sheaths. A familiar restlessness clawed at her chest. The stillness had lasted too long.

Outside, the clang of steel rang through the crisp morning air. On the training grounds, Cassandra danced between dummies with controlled fury, her greatsword cutting clean arcs through the air.

“Cas,” Ophelia called, stepping onto the worn stone.

The Seeker turned, sweat glistening on her brow. “Inquisitor,” she greeted with a nod. “You look... better.”

“I feel better,” Ophelia replied, her eyes flicking to the practice blades. “Still a little wobbly, but I think it’s time I tested what’s left of me.”

Cassandra arched her brow. “You nearly died a week ago.”

“Which is why I’d rather not be useless a week from now.”

A small smirk tugged at Cassandra’s lips. “Very well. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ophelia said, drawing her daggers with a satisfying ring of metal. The gleam in her eyes was back.

They began slowly.

Cassandra struck with her usual precision—powerful, calculated blows designed to overwhelm. Ophelia, still favoring her side, danced between them with quick sidesteps and misdirects, her movements fluid and sharp. The pain in her ribs flared when she twisted too hard, but she pressed on, stubbornness burning brighter than the ache.

A small crowd gathered, murmuring as the Inquisitor and the Seeker clashed. Cassandra’s strength was legendary, but Ophelia’s agility caught her off guard more than once. The Seeker’s sword whooshed past her shoulder as she rolled low and tapped Cassandra’s knee with the hilt of her dagger.

“Point for me,” Ophelia grinned, breathless.

Cassandra huffed. “That was luck.”

“I’ll take it.”

Laughter sparked around them, light and rare, lifting the mood. Sweat ran down Ophelia’s spine. Her heart pounded—but it wasn’t fear this time. It was life.

They spared until the sun shifted above them and her limbs gave way. Ophelia dropped onto the grass, collapsing with a dramatic groan.

“June’s mercy,” she gasped. “You’re relentless.”

“You asked for it,” Cassandra replied, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Still—you’re not bad. For someone who was at death’s door.”

“I was just resting there,” Ophelia muttered, eyes closed, smiling. “Didn’t plan on staying.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Well. You’ve clearly not forgotten how to fight dirty.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Ophelia asked, one eye opening.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Cassandra gave a curt nod, then turned and strode off with that ever-unshakable Seeker grace.

Ophelia remained lying there, letting the grass cool her back and the ache settled into her bones. Her body still bore the shadows of what it had endured. But for the first time in days, she felt alive. 

Evening turned the sky a warm, burnished red—the hue Ophelia had always loved. She sat quietly, reflecting. The day’s heat still clung to her armor, and the scent of ash and blood hadn’t yet faded from her gloves. She had been reckless enough to charge Venatori alone. That mistake had nearly cost her everything. The scar, still tender beneath her leathers, pulsed with memory—a reminder to be more careful. To lead, not to fall.

Nearby, two soldiers passed by, speaking in low voices.

“Commander says we move at dawn” One said 

“He’s not risking another ambush,” the other muttered.

Their voices faded, but the words lingered.

Cullen.

Her thoughts drifted, uninvited, to the infirmary—to his voice, quiet but trembling: I couldn’t bear to lose you.

A warmth bloomed in her chest. It wasn’t just his concern that haunted her—it was the way he looked at her. As if he saw more than a title, more than the scars or the weight she carried.

Could there be something more between us?

The idea felt foolish. Dangerous. He was her commander. A human. An ex-templar. And she—Dalish, Inquisitor, bound to a fate that left little room for softness. Her Keeper’s voice returned like a ghost: Never trust a human, Oph.

And yet…

Cullen was not like the others.

She stood slowly, hand brushing the hilts of her daggers. Her body still ached, but her heart beat faster—not from pain, but from something far more complicated.

Ophelia had almost reached her quarters when she heard Dorian’s unmistakable laugh echoing through the hall.

Curiosity tugged her off course.

She followed the sound to a side chamber, where Dorian and Cullen sat at a small chess table. The contrast between them was almost comical: Cullen hunched forward, serious and laser-focused, while Dorian lounged back, elegance incarnate, one leg draped over the other as if the world itself were his chaise longue.

“I’m telling you, this one’s mine,” Cullen said with uncharacteristic smugness.

“Are you sassing me, Commander?” Dorian drawled. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, just as he caught sight of her in the doorway.

He startled. Quickly rose to his feet. Straightened his uniform as if caught doing something improper.

“Inquisitor…”

Ophelia smiled, leaning against the nearest pillar, arms crossed. She enjoyed the disarmed look on his face—the way his stern composure cracked in her presence.

Dorian snorted. “Leaving already? Does that mean I’ve won?”

Cullen gave him a flat look but said nothing. He wasn’t used to being seen like this—unguarded, relaxed. Especially not by her.

“Are you two playing nice?” Ophelia asked, amused.

“I’m always nice,” Dorian replied, giving her a wink, then gesturing toward Cullen. “He simply refuses to accept the concept of my inevitable victory.”

Cullen, however, made a final move, his eyes never leaving the board. “Really? Because I just won. And I feel fine.”

Dorian leaned in, frowned, and groaned. “Oh, Maker . Don’t get smug. There’ll be no living with you now.” He rose with a dramatic sigh, casting a playful glance between them. “I’ll leave you to it. Commander. Inquisitor.”

With a sweep of his cloak, Dorian exited, leaving behind a trail of lingering mirth.

Ophelia’s gaze lingered on the empty chair.

Cullen noticed.

“I should get back to work,” he said quickly, then hesitated. “Unless… you’d like a game?”

His tone was casual, but the flicker of hope behind his words betrayed him. Maker, how he missed her. And now that she stood here, healed and glowing with quiet strength, it was like a knot in his chest finally loosened.

Ophelia stepped forward, chin tilted in playful challenge.
“Set the board, Commander.”

He smiled—a soft, rare thing—and began to reset the pieces with practiced ease. She joined him, hands steady, but her heart beat a little faster. She’d almost died. And somewhere in those quiet days between pain and recovery, she’d realized she didn’t want to dance around this any longer.
Not with him.

“I used to play with my sister,” Cullen said suddenly, voice low. “She’d give me that same smug grin whenever she won. Which was often.”

Ophelia glanced up, surprised by the confession.

“My brother and I practiced for weeks just to beat her. The look on her face the day I finally won…” A smile tugged at his lips, tinged with memory. “I haven’t seen them in years. Between the Templars and now the Inquisition... I wonder if she still plays.”

“You have siblings,” she said surprised.

He nodded. “Two sisters and one brother. They moved to South Reach during the Blight. I… I should write more often.”

The thought clearly pained him. There were so many distances that duty had carved.

But then he noticed she had finished setting her side of the board.
“Oh. My turn,” he muttered, flustered. “Didn’t expect you to be so quick.”

“You’re about to relive those childhood defeats,” she teased. “This game is mine.”

Cullen laughed, and something unspoken passed between them—something light and alive.

As they played, the world fell away. The war, the scars, the weight of responsibility—all of it faded as they exchanged stories and light banter. But for Cullen, it was almost unbearable to sit this close and not reach for her. Her hair was braided back, framing her face, her vallaslin vibrant again against her skin, no longer dulled by sickness. She looked whole.
She looked beautiful.

He caught himself staring more than once.

“Your turn,” she said, raising a brow and smiling.

“Right. Sorry.” He blinked and moved a piece, almost blindly.

“This might be the longest we’ve gone without talking about the Inquisition or related matters” he said, trying to shove the longing down, tamp it beneath duty, command, structure—anything.

Ophelia’s smile was soft, almost knowing. “I don’t mind the distraction.”

He hesitated. “I really appreciate it,” he added, voice quieter now, almost reverent. “Having you here. Like this.”

Her cheeks warmed.
“Maybe we should spend more time together…” she offered, voice low, deliberately careful. A subtle shift in tone—just enough to hint.

Cullen looked up sharply, caught off guard. His breath caught—but then he smiled, genuine and warm.
“I’d like that,” he said.

“Me too,” she murmured, her gaze falling to the board.

The game continued, the silence between moves no longer awkward but quietly charged. Then—

“Checkmate,” Ophelia said, her voice triumphant and breathless.

Cullen stared at the board, incredulous—then let out a startled laugh. “You’re serious. I lost.”

Her grin widened. “Told you. This game was mine.”

He shook his head, smiling helplessly. “You’re terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

For a moment, he simply watched her, her joy bright and real. And then, unbidden, a memory came to him—his sister’s laughter, the weight of a chess piece in his hand, firelight flickering across the wooden board back home. A rare, fleeting warmth touched his chest.

“How did you learn to play?” he asked, quieter now.

Ophelia leaned back, gaze distant but fond. “During the hunting season, years ago, I met a group of Dalish from the Ralafean clan. One of them taught me. We’d make camp and play under the stars. It helped us forget how hungry and cold we were.”

Cullen studied her. The quiet resilience in her voice. The sharp mind behind every move. The warmth that made even her silences feel like something alive.
His admiration deepened. So did his curiosity.

“You never stop surprising me,” he said.

She met his eyes. “Good.”

And though the war still loomed, though dawn would come far too soon, in this sliver of night, the distance between them narrowed.

Ophelia smiled, satisfied as the winner of the game. She rose from her seat, and Cullen—almost as if pulled by an invisible thread—did the same. For a moment, neither spoke. Their eyes met in a silence that didn’t need to be filled. Something warm passed between them. Unspoken. Steady.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” she said, her voice softer than before—gentler, with a note of sweetness that lingered in the air.

Cullen offered a small, hesitant smile in return. There was something different about him now. The rigid lines of command seemed to blur, his ever-present mask of duty slipping. For the first time, she didn’t just see the Commander of the Inquisition. She saw the man beneath—real, fallible, and achingly human.

They walked side by side, the corridor quiet around them. The silence between them was easy now, no longer laced with tension but with something tentative and new.

“May I ask you something?” Ophelia asked, casting him a sidelong glance.

Cullen turned, curiosity flashing in his eyes, though there was still that ever-present caution in his posture. “Of course.”

“I’d like to know more about the templars,” she said. “Not from the reports or from what my Keeper once told me…  but from you .”

He looked slightly surprised by the request but nodded. “I don’t have much insight into what the Order’s like now,” he admitted. “But if there’s something specific... I’ll do my best.”

“Why did you join the Order?”

He laughed softly. “I could not think of a better calling than to protect those in need. I used to beg the Templars at our chantry to teach me.”

He paused, a faint sigh escaping him as memories surfaced. “At first they merely humored me, but I must have shown some promise. Or at least a stubborn willingness to learn. The Knight-Captain spoke to my parents on my behalf. They agreed to send me for training. I was thirteen when I left home.”

Ophelia’s eyes widened. “Thirteen? That’s still so young,” she said gently.

He smiled, a touch of fondness in his voice. “I wasn’t the youngest there. Some children are promised to the Order at infancy. Still, I didn’t take on full responsibility until I was eighteen. The Order sees you trained and educated first.”

“What about your family? Did you miss them?” she asked, her tone soft, almost hesitant.

“Of course. But there were many my age who felt the same. We learned to look out for each other.”

She nodded slowly. His words stirred something in her—unexpected and difficult to name. It made her think of her own clan.

It was strange… she didn’t miss them. Not really. In truth, it was the first time in weeks she’d even thought of them at all. She knew they were safe—the Inquisition had reached out long ago, kept them informed—but still. A quiet, uncomfortable truth settled in her chest: a part of her had always wanted to leave.

Not out of resentment or rebellion, but out of longing. Longing for something more. For open skies that weren’t always guarded by watchful elders. For stories beyond the same songs sung around the fire. For a future that wasn’t already written.

She inhaled deeply, then let the thought go. There would be time to unpack that later.

Her gaze shifted back to Cullen, her mood lightening as curiosity bloomed in her chest. He had spent most of his life within the Order—how much of the world did he really know?

“I see…” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “So… Do Templars take vows? Like, ‘I swear to the Maker to watch all mages’ —something very solemn and dramatic?”

That earned her a laugh.

“There is a vigil first. You´re meant to be at peace during that time, but your life is about to change” he crossed his arms “When it's over. You give yourself to a life of service. That's when you're given a philter— your first draught of lyrium — and it´s power”  

His voice faltered on the word lyrium , and the light faded slightly from his eyes. The moment shifted, shaded by memory. “As Templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgment. Our lives belong to the maker and the path we have chosen”

Ophelia caught it instantly—the way the word seemed to weigh on him. She slowed her pace, sensing his discomfort. But her curiosity didn’t fade.

“A life of service and sacrifice…” she murmured. Then, with carefully measured boldness: “Are Templars also expected to give up… physical temptations?”

Cullen stopped mid-step.

He blinked. Looked at her. Blushed.

“Physical…? I—why… Why do you? — ” His voice shot up half a pitch before he forced it back down with a quick clearing of his throat. “That's not expected. Templars can marry — although there are rules around it, and the Order must grant permission…  Some may choose to give up more to prove their devotion, but it´s… um… not required”

Ophelia tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Have you ?”

That did it.

His blush deepened instantly, spreading across his cheeks like spilled wine.

“Me? I… um… no,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “I've taken no such vows” 

He looked away then, drawing in a breath, clearly struggling to reel his composure back into place. When he turned his gaze to her again, there was something raw in his expression—nervousness, vulnerability… desire, barely contained.

“Maker’s breath,” he exhaled. “Can we talk about something else?”

Ophelia laughed softly, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”

But her smile said otherwise. She wasn’t sorry at all. Not really. There was something beautiful in how flustered he became—how someone so disciplined, so guarded, could be disarmed by a few honest questions.

They continued walking. The corridor stretched ahead, quiet and sun-washed, but something between them had changed. There was a closeness now, a quiet thread spun between glances and silences and the courage to say almost too much.

Cullen still looked slightly embarrassed, his stride stiffer than before, but when he glanced at her again—and saw her smiling—some of the tension eased.

And for once, he didn’t want to pull away from the feeling.

They walked without purpose, without destination—just two souls suspended in a rare moment of peace. The frostbitten wind carried the distant hum of Skyhold’s battlements, but neither of them noticed. Not yet. They both knew that duty would call soon enough. Ophelia would leave Skyhold, fully healed now, to face the war once more.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Cullen said at last, his voice soft, almost reverent.

Ophelia turned to him—and there it was again. That smile. Subtle, warm, with that faint scar curling across his upper lip, a reminder of battles fought and survived. Something about it made her chest tighten.

“Me too,” she murmured.

Then, in an effort to lighten the weight pressing at her heart, she added with a laugh, “Solas is still mad at me, though. I’ve caught him muttering to himself about how Dalish are reckless beyond reason .” She chuckled. “That’s just his way of worrying, I suppose.”

Cullen’s smile widened slightly, as if the sound of her laugh eased something inside him.

Then Ophelia reached into her pocket and drew out a small wooden halla. Rough-hewn, delicate—an unmistakable token of Blackwall’s craftsmanship.

“Did you know Blackwall made this for me?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more fragile.

“I did,” Cullen said softly, his gaze lingering on the carving. “I… gave it to you when you were still unconscious.” There was a catch in his voice, something tender and raw beneath the words. “He said to me, ‘She will understand.’”

Ophelia looked at him, a small smile forming as the pieces fell into place. Now she knew how it had ended up in her hands—it was him. He had given it to her.

But then the memory returned. Unbidden.

“He was working on it before the attack…” Her voice faltered, and for a moment, the words wouldn’t come. Her breath caught.

The memory hit her like a blow—what almost happened, what she nearly caused through her own carelessness. The smile faded from her lips, her fingers tightening slightly around the wooden figure.

Cullen saw it instantly—the flicker of guilt in her eyes, the way her shoulders tensed, as if bracing for something unseen.

“There are people here who care,” he said, his voice steady, grounding. “Not because of your title… but because of who you are.”

She blinked, startled by the tenderness in his words.

“There’s no better army than one built on trust,” he continued. “And no sharper lesson than what we learn in battle. You’ve carried enough pain, Ophelia. Don’t let guilt carve another scar where it isn’t deserved.”

The words landed like a balm, unexpected and deep. She looked at him, really looked—past the armor and title and discipline—and saw a man shaped by his own scars, offering her something precious: understanding.

She felt her chest ache in the best way.

“I’m glad you’re one of my advisors,” she whispered, a smile forming again, softer now, full of meaning.

He held her gaze and nodded. “I’m honored to be,” he replied, and for the first time, his voice trembled just a little.

Chapter Text

Cullen sat at his desk, the weight of his armor pressing less heavily on his shoulders than the burden he carried within. The flickering candlelight threw shadows across the scattered documents—maps, reports, requisitions—all demanding decisions, leadership, control. Each parchment was a reminder of the oath he had made to the Inquisition… and to himself. An oath not just of service, but of redemption.

Leaving the Templar Order had cost him everything familiar. But it was giving up lyrium that had nearly broken him.

Tonight, the craving was loud. It pulsed behind his eyes and tore at his muscles, a phantom need that curled through his veins. There were days when the ache was dull, something he could manage. But tonight was not one of those days. The pain was sharp, like invisible blades digging into his core. His hands trembled. Memory flickered at the edges of his thoughts, uncertain and dim.

Would it always be like this?

He pressed his palm flat against the desk to steady himself. Just as he began to breathe through the wave, a knock came at the door.

He winced. Not now.

"Come in," he said, forcing his voice into steadiness.

The door opened to reveal Cassandra. A mix of relief and dread settled in his chest. She was the only one who knew. The only one he had trusted with the truth.

Cassandra closed the door behind her, her gaze assessing him instantly.

“Remember the promise you made me,” Cullen said before she could speak. His voice cracked slightly. “If I become unfit... if I lose control... you swore—”

“I remember,” Cassandra interrupted, walking toward him. Her voice was firm but not unkind. “But I haven’t seen that man yet.”

Cullen laughed bitterly, the sound more breath than mirth. “He’s not far from here.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she studied him with that unflinching resolve of hers—the same look she had worn when she first found him in Kirkwall. “You’re still standing. Still fighting. You know this was never going to be easy.”

He shook his head, staring down at his clenched fists. “There are moments, Seeker... moments where I truly think I can’t keep doing this. That it would be so simple to fall back into it.”

“You’re not alone in this,” she said quietly. “Templars who leave the Order—who try to live without lyrium—they’ll look to you one day. You are more than your pain, Cullen.”

He looked up at her, eyes haunted. “I don’t feel like it.”

“You don’t have to feel it. You just have to keep choosing it,” she said, and her voice softened. “I believe in your strength. You must learn to do the same.”

Cullen leaned back in his chair, exhaustion seeping into his bones. “I need some time,” he whispered.

Cassandra nodded, accepting. She moved toward the door.

Just as she was about to leave, he spoke again—quietly, as though afraid the words would unravel him.

“The Inquisitor doesn’t know. I’ve never told her.”

Cassandra paused, her hand on the doorknob. “No, Commander. She doesn’t. And she doesn’t need to—not yet.”

He gave a slight nod. That knowledge, that shield, gave him a small measure of peace. When she left, the room felt colder.

Cullen remained seated at his desk long after Cassandra had left, her words still lingering like a faint echo in the quiet. You must learn to do the same.

He ran a hand over his face. His skin was clammy, his pulse erratic beneath his fingertips. How was he supposed to lead when his own mind was at war with itself? How long before the others noticed the signs he fought so hard to conceal?

And what would Ophelia think, when she found out?

He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, staring blankly at a report on troop movements in the Storm Coast. His vision blurred around the edges, not from tears, but from the dull pressure building behind his eyes. He thought of the mission she was on now—leading scouts through Venatori-controlled territory, uncovering what had happened to the Wardens. He trusted her. Maker, he admired her. But he couldn’t stop the small, traitorous voice that wondered if she would still look at him the same way once she knew everything.

A chill crawled down his spine before he even heard the voice.

“You’re afraid.”

Cullen jerked in his seat, instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. He turned, breath caught in his throat.

Cole stood just behind him, motionless, half in shadow. His eyes were wide, unreadable.

“By the Maker—Cole,” Cullen snapped, hand pressed to his chest. “Don't do that.”

“You were thinking of telling her,” Cole said softly, tilting his head. “But it chokes you. It claws. She sees you strong. You don’t want her to see the rot.”

“Enough,” Cullen said sharply. He stood, forcing himself to straighten. “I don't need you picking through my thoughts.”

“I don’t pick. I hear. You’re loud,” Cole replied simply, stepping closer. “The pain screams, even when you don’t.”

Cullen’s jaw tightened. “I said stop.”

“I can help.”

“No,” Cullen said, firmer this time. “You may be... useful to the Inquisition, but I don’t need your kind of help.”

Cole blinked, not hurt, not angry—just silent for a long moment. Then:

“She would stay, even if you told her. Even if you shook and broke and bled. She will stay.”

Cullen froze. The words hit somewhere deep, where he didn’t want to admit they mattered.

Cole didn’t wait for a response. He simply tilted his head again, as if listening to something Cullen couldn’t hear, and faded into nothing—no footsteps, no whisper of air. Just gone.

The room felt colder.

Cullen stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. He hated how easily Cole saw through him. Hated even more that part of him believed what the spirit said.

At last, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he stripped off the rest of his armor. The pieces clattered to the floor, one after the other, and he made his way to the bed—a place he barely used, a place filled with memories and restless hours.

He lay down stiffly, his body sinking into the mattress with a sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Chapter Text

Ophelia returned from the mission caked in dust, blood, and exhaustion. Her legs ached, her armor felt heavier than usual, and the only thing she longed for was a warm bath and the comfort of her bed. Missions were becoming more demanding by the day, testing not only her strength but her will. Yet, with each battle, she felt herself growing. The mark—once a foreign, searing wound—was beginning to feel like part of her. A burden, yes… but one she carried with purpose.

Still, the weight of it all pressed down on her. There were no new signs of Corypheus—only whispers, scattered evidence, and the festering horror of what he was doing. Twisting ancient magic. Using the Grey Wardens like pawns in his grotesque game. A false Blight. Forced blood magic. Sacrifice turned abomination.

It made her sick.

She had tried to reason with them. She had looked them in the eye. But they didn’t hear her. Or worse—they couldn’t.

She sighed deeply, rubbing the back of her neck as she climbed the stairs to Skyhold. Not even the promise of warm water could come before duty. Her advisors were expecting her in the war room.

The heavy doors creaked open.

They were already there, gathered around the war table. The air held the quiet hum of strategy and expectation. She offered them a tired smile, nodding in greeting.

Her gaze landed on Cullen—and there it was, the involuntary pull at the corner of her lips.

“Inquisitor, we were…” Cullen started quickly, almost too quickly. He seemed surprised at himself.

“…Eagerly waiting for your return,” Leliana finished for him, her tone sly. She didn’t even try to hide the smirk playing on her lips.

“I was not—” Cullen began, then sighed, flustered. “Let’s get back to work.”

Ophelia couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her. It felt good. She had missed them all. Especially him.

She stepped closer to the table, her fingers tracing the worn surface of the map. “The Wardens are being manipulated,” she began. Her voice grew firm. “Corypheus has created the illusion of a Blight. He’s forcing them into blood magic rituals. Most of them… are already gone. Sacrificed. Possessed. Turned into abominations.”

A shadow passed over Cullen’s expression. His jaw tightened, his head angling slightly to the side. The mention of corrupted magic made his stomach twist. He had seen what it did—what it could do. The memory of red lyrium was never far.

The advisors spoke in turn, weighing strategy, analyzing outcomes. Fingers swept across the map as they discussed resources, allies, and routes.

Cullen watched Ophelia more than he should have. She was exhausted—he could see it in her shoulders, the faint tremble in her fingers—but she was here. Alive. And each time she returned from the battlefield, it was a blessing he never took for granted. Since the day she’d collapsed in Skyhold’s courtyard, barely clinging to life, he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the fear. That one day… she wouldn’t come back.

“Right, Commander?” Leliana’s voice broke through his thoughts.

He blinked, caught off guard. “Yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat, standing straighter. “Our army grows stronger by the day. But we still need more intelligence on the red lyrium. Corypheus is arming his templars with it—it’s warping them. Making them into monsters.”

He didn’t have to say it aloud: he had once worn the same armor. Stood beside men now unrecognizable. Red lyrium didn’t just destroy the body—it hollowed the soul.

Ophelia’s gaze found him, soft but steady. She saw it too—that flicker of pain behind his eyes. She knew what it cost him, imagining that some of those creatures had once been his brothers-in-arms.

It had to stop.

“This concludes the briefing,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute.

Her advisors nodded, offering bows or murmured farewells before filtering out. Only Cullen remained.

“Inquisitor… there’s something I need to tell you,” Cullen said, his voice low—almost uncertain. “Can we meet in my office?”

Ophelia turned toward him, eyebrows arching. There was a softness in his tone that tugged at her attention, a rare glimpse beneath the steel. Vulnerability. Whatever this was, it wasn’t official business.

“Of course…” She paused, looked down at herself—and immediately grimaced. Her armor was crusted with dried mud, her skin dusted with ash, and there was something on her sleeve she really didn’t want to identify.

She looked back up at him with a lopsided grin. “But let me change first. I feel like I’ve crawled out of a swamp. A very angry, very smelly swamp.” She chuckled, unable to help herself. “Have you ever fought a Giant?”

Cullen blinked, taken aback. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Oh, it’s horrible ,” she said dramatically, throwing her arms up with mock despair as they walked together. “Thank the mercies of Mythal, Bull and Blackwall were there. We almost became dinner. Giants are strong, loud, and so messy. Dorian and I were gagging by the end of it.”

She laughed as she spoke, animated and unguarded, the words tumbling out with a kind of freedom she hadn’t felt in ages—like they used to, back when “Inquisitor” was just a word and not a weight on her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot who she was supposed to be around him. She wasn’t a leader, or a symbol—just Ophelia, caked in gore, alive, breathless, and oddly giddy about it.

And he didn’t stop her. Didn’t correct her. Didn’t remind her of the line between them.

“I’m not convinced you hated it,” he said, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his voice softer now. “You actually sound like you enjoyed yourself.”

She grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “Okay… fine. Maybe I did enjoy it. A little.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “But I definitely need to freshen up. Giant blood is no joke. I’m covered in it and I reek.” She leaned in with mock seriousness. “Can’t you smell it?”

He chuckled, not just at her theatrics, but at the way she came alive when recounting the chaos. He knew that feeling—that rush of adrenaline, the thrill of a challenge faced head-on. And he could see it in her: she thrived out there, more than she let on. As serious as she could be, there was a part of her that clearly loved it.

“I can,” he said, entirely honest.

Her eyes went wide. “You can? Oh no. That’s—ugh, that’s so embarrassing…” She groaned, clapping a hand over her face as her cheeks bloomed red. “Next time I’ll bathe before storming into the war room like a blood-soaked barbarian. Vhenan’ara! ” she added under her breath, the Elvish curse slipping out with theatrical flair.

Cullen blinked, clearly amused. “Should I ask what that one means?”

“No,” she said quickly, trying—and utterly failing—not to laugh. “Absolutely not.”

His smile deepened, and for a moment, something in his expression shifted—gentler, more fond. Like he was savoring this version of her: unguarded, flushed with laughter, alive.

“It suits you, you know,” he said, voice low. “The laughter.”

“Oh—I thought you were going to say looking like a barbarian,” she teased, before realizing what he’d actually said. Her breath caught for just a second.

He cleared his throat, blushing faintly. “Well… you don’t look like a barbarian. Not even close.” His gaze flicked to hers, then away, like the truth of what he meant might show too easily if he held it too long. “You look…”

But the words drifted, lost in the space between them.

“Thanks,” she said softly, still laughing a little, her voice tinged now with something quieter—something that reached deeper than the joke.

They stopped in front of her quarters. The hallway stretched quiet around them, the torchlight soft and flickering. Cullen’s gaze lingered, warm and unreadable—like he didn’t quite want the moment to end. 

She looked at her door… and for a moment, a quiet ache stirred inside her—she wished he would follow. That he’d break the silence with some excuse to stay, to linger just a little longer. She wanted his presence near, the warmth of it, the way his gaze softened when he looked at her like she wasn’t just the Inquisitor.

It unsettled her, how much she craved it now. His attention, his nearness. She told herself it was just the thrill of surviving another battle, the comfort of returning to Skyhold. But it wasn’t just that. It was him.

And it scared her.

Freedom was something she had fought tooth and nail for— was still fighting for—but now that she had it, it only made her feel more exposed. Like the space she’d carved out for herself was suddenly wide enough for longing to slip in.

She wasn’t sure what he felt. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. And what would it mean if she let herself hope?

“All right… um, I’ll see you in a bit,” she said, voice softer now, uncertain. Her blush deepened as she tucked a loose braid behind her ear, her smile a flicker of something tender, almost shy. A silent offering she wasn’t sure he’d take.

He nodded. “It’s all right, Inquisitor,” he said softly, the title laced with something gentler. “Take your time. I’ll be in my office.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away—his footsteps fading down the hall.

Ophelia made her way toward Cullen’s office, her footsteps steady, the worn path through Skyhold offering a strange kind of comfort after the long, brutal days behind her. Now clean, her hair damp and braided back, she wore fresh clothes—soft, practical, and ready for whatever came next.

As she’d washed away the blood and grit, her thoughts kept circling back to him—to the way he’d looked in the war room. There had been a flicker in his eyes, distant and weighted, a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t eased even when the meeting ended. And his hands—she’d seen it. The subtle tremble in his fingers when he thought no one was watching.

Something was wrong. And whatever it was, it mattered enough that he’d asked to speak with her alone.

When she stepped inside, she found him standing by the desk, gaze lowered, hands clenched. He looked as though the words he carried had weight—and that speaking them might break him.

He didn’t look up at first. “As leader of the Inquisition, you...”

He paused, exhaled slowly. “There’s something I must tell you.”

Ophelia stepped closer, her voice calm but laced with concern. “Whatever it is... I’m willing to listen.”

He looked up then—surprised, and perhaps relieved. “Right. Thank you.”

There was a long pause before he began again, this time more measured, as if each word had to be fought for.

“Lyrium grants Templars our abilities... but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer. Some... go mad. Others die.” He turned away slightly, unable to meet her gaze. “We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here. But I... no longer take it.”

Ophelia's eyes widened, her breath catching. “You stopped?”

“When I joined the Inquisition.” He nodded slowly. “It’s been months now.”

Her heart ached, panic threading through her chest. “Cullen, if this can kill you...”

He shook his head sharply, cutting her off. “It hasn’t yet. After what happened in Kirkwall... I couldn’t. I would not be bound to the Order... or that life... any longer.” He stood straighter, voice firm with conviction. “Whatever the suffering... I accept it. But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to... watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved of my duties.”

She moved closer, searching his face, her voice soft. “Are you in pain?”

He held her gaze, eyes steady. “I can endure it.”

There was a long silence between them. Then she stepped closer, her hand brushing his lightly—just enough to let him know she was there.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said gently. “I respect what you’re doing.”

His features softened, the tension around his eyes easing. “Thank you, Inquisitor. The Inquisition’s army must always take priority. Should anything happen... I will defer to Cassandra’s judgment.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stayed, letting the quiet hold them both.

But her hand didn’t leave his.

And when he looked down at her, something unspoken passed between them—deep, enduring, and utterly real.

She offered him a soft, almost shy smile. Even now, she could still see the lingering pain in his eyes.

“You smell better,” he said lightly, a flicker of humor slipping through.

It caught her off guard—in the best way. She hadn’t expected a joke, not here, not in this quiet, vulnerable moment between them.

“Are you… joking, Commander?” she asked, tilting her head, her voice warm with teasing affection.

He exhaled, his shoulders loosening just a bit. “I try,” he said, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.

Her smile widened. “It suits you, you know,” she said gently, echoing his earlier words to her.

He looked at her for a long moment, something raw and open in his gaze—like he wanted to say more, but didn’t quite know how. Instead, he reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers, not quite holding on, but not letting go either.

“I worry… what you think,” he admitted softly, eyes dropping to their barely touching hands. “About all of this. About me.”

She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers curled around his quiet answer.

“I think you’re brave,” she said, her voice steady, tender.

He looked at her still smiling, soft but reached his eyes “thank you” he said softly.

That made him blink—just once—but when his eyes met hers again, the storm in them had gentled. He gave a small, almost disbelieving smile, like her words had stitched something torn inside him.

And for a moment, the weight of everything lifted—just enough for them both to breathe.

Chapter Text

Weeks slipped by like a tightening noose, and the tension inside the Inquisition grew unbearable. Then came the storm: Josephine summoned everyone to the war room with grave news. A plot had been uncovered—an assassination attempt on Empress Celene, to take place during an opulent event at the Winter Palace. The implications were chilling. If Corypheus had a hand in this, if he succeeded in tightening his grip on Orlais, everything the Inquisition had fought for could crumble like ash in the wind.

Ophelia accepted the mission without hesitation. Her resolve was unwavering—but even she knew this would be one of the most dangerous paths they had yet to walk.

The days before departure passed in a whirlwind of preparation. Skyhold—usually a steady heartbeat of purpose—now pulsed with urgency. Everyone could sense it: this mission was different.

Ophelia gathered her most trusted companions. Dorian, with his wit and arcane brilliance. Solas, quiet but sharp-eyed, always watching. Blackwall, steady as stone. They would accompany her into the lion’s den—the Winter Palace.

Vivienne, in her usual commanding elegance, took on the task of training Ophelia in the intricate, dangerous dance of Orlesian diplomacy. “We cannot have the Inquisitor mistaken for a wildling at a ball,” she said with a smirk.

Mornings began with curtsies, fans, and the subtle art of deflection. Phrases like “Ah, but I heard Lady Lalibly's third son is courting a chevalier—can you imagine?” rolled off Vivienne’s tongue like silk. Ophelia, to her own surprise, adored the lessons. There was power in that kind of poise—a different kind, yes, but powerful nonetheless.

Had she stayed with the Dalish, she never would have touched velvet this fine. Or danced beneath chandeliers. Or learned how to destroy someone’s reputation without ever raising her voice.

Sera made relentless fun of her. “Look at our wee Inquisitor! Gonna stab them with manners now?”

Blackwall chuckled along until Sera caught him smoothing his collar and adjusting his cuffs with an ease that didn’t quite match his gruff persona.

“Wait— you know this stuff?” she gawked, narrowing her eyes.

He shrugged, sheepish. “Turns out I’ve been to a few noble dinners. Long time ago.”

Dorian’s laughter was full and delighted. “Oh, we are going to thrive at this ball.”

Meanwhile, Leliana and Josephine poured themselves into the preparation of attire. The advisors would wear formal garments, discreet but dignified. The agents, something elegant yet flexible—ready to draw a blade should whispers turn into war cries.

But Ophelia’s ensemble required something more.

“It must be symbolic,” Leliana said, eyes glinting. “They need to see the Inquisitor and never forget her. ”

She designed a gown that shimmered with Orlesian refinement—elegant, stately—but beneath it, hidden armor gleamed, forged for both grace and battle. It was beauty and danger in equal measure. And Ophelia loved it.

A few nights before departure, Skyhold was blanketed in that strange quiet that only comes before a storm.

Ophelia padded through the empty corridors, the cool stone whispering under her boots. She made her way to the armory—her sanctuary before missions. Sharpening her daggers had become a ritual. Something to ground her. Steel and stone were always honest.

But before she could push open the heavy door, she stopped.

Voices. Low. Tense.

She recognized them immediately: Cassandra and Cullen.

She pressed herself silently to the wall, breath catching.

"You've asked for my opinion, and I've given it," Cassandra's voice was firm, laced with concern. "Why would you expect it to change?"

"I expect you to keep your word," Cullen replied, his tone strained. "It's relentless, I can't—"

"You give yourself too little credit," she interrupted gently.

"If I'm unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this," Cullen's voice cracked with frustration. "Would you rather save face than admit—"

Ophelia hesitated. This wasn't her moment. It wasn't meant for her. But her hand was already on the door and it opened accidentally. 

Cassandra turned sharply. Cullen froze, guilt flooding his face in an instant.

"Inquisitor," Cassandra said quickly, trying to mask the tension.

But Cullen... he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Forgive me," he murmured, voice barely audible.

Then he turned and walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers like a question he wasn't ready to ask.

She stood frozen, the chill of the corridor suddenly biting through her skin. The door swung shut behind him, but the echo of his voice lingered, frayed and breaking. She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until Cassandra spoke.

“And people say I'm stubborn, this is ridiculous” then she sight looking at Ophelia  "Cullen's told you he's no longer taking lyrium?" Cassandra asked, breaking the silence.

Ophelia nodded. "Yes, and I respect his decision”

“As do I” Cassandra sighed. "He's asked that I recommend a replacement for him. I refused. It's not necessary. Besides, it would destroy him. He's come so far."

"Why didn't he tell me?" Ophelia's voice was soft, hurt.

"We had an agreement long before you joined us," Cassandra explained. "As a Seeker, I could evaluate the dangers. And… He wouldn't want to risk you r disappointment."

Ophelia looked down, absorbing the weight of Cassandra's words.

“Is there anything we can do to change his mind?” Ophelia asked.

"If anyone could… it´s you. Mages have made their suffering known, but templars never have," Cassandra continued. "They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash. Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to himself—and anyone who would follow suit—that it's possible. He can do this. I knew that when we met in Kirkwall. Talk to him, decide if now is the time" And with that Cassandra left leaving Ophelia looking at the fireplace of the armory. She would do her best to talk to him… maybe he would listen. 

The night wind coiled through the high towers of Skyhold like a whisper from the mountains, cool against the stone, cooling the anxiety that had settled in Ophelia’s chest. The mission ahead loomed like a stormcloud, but what weighed heavier was not the danger—it was the silence that had grown between her and the Commander.

She moved with quiet purpose through the keep. The tower loomed above, alone against the sky, its highest window lit like a single watchful eye. Cullen was still awake. He was there.

But how to approach him in a moment like this?

As his friend? As the Inquisitor?

Or… as someone who cared for him more deeply than either of those roles allowed?

She sighed, trying to summon from memory a moment that might compare—but there was none. No moment had ever felt quite like this.

Just be yourself, she told herself. And just… listen.

As she neared the door to his office, she noticed it stood slightly ajar. From inside came the sounds of movement—frantic, uneven. Objects falling. The scrape of furniture. A muffled groan.

It wasn’t a fight against an enemy.

It was a fight against himself.

Without knocking, without a second thought, she pushed the door open—and a box flew past her face, smashing against the wall behind her. Shards of glass and blue-tinged lyrium scattered like snow across the stone.

"Makers' breath!" Cullen gasped, frozen in place, horror etching itself into every line of his face. "I didn’t hear you enter. I—I..."

He swallowed, words crumbling like ash in his throat.

“I almost—” His eyes dropped. “Forgive me,” he whispered, the shame in his voice sharp and raw.

Ophelia glanced at the wreckage: the broken box, the spilled lyrium, the glint of fading enchantment on the floor. Then she looked at him. Not with judgment—but with worry. With ache.

“Cullen… if you need to talk—”

“You don’t have to—” But he didn’t finish.

A wave of pain struck him, bending his spine like a bowstring. He groaned, his knees buckling, barely catching himself on the edge of the desk.

She moved toward him instinctively, heart in her throat, but he raised a trembling hand to stop her.

"I never meant for this to interfere," he forced out, every word edged in agony.

She halted, giving him space he clearly needed, though it went against every instinct she had.

“Are you going to be alright?” she asked gently, just trying to keep him grounded in something.

“Yes,” he said, too fast—too rehearsed.

But then the mask cracked. He flinched, as if the truth itself struck him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, eyes flickering like a man lost at sea.

“You asked what happened to Ferelden’s Circle,” he said suddenly, voice rising like a tide. “It was taken over by abominations. The Templars— my friends —were slaughtered.”

His breath caught. His gaze dropped.

“I was… tortured,” he said at last, the words like broken glass on his tongue. He stared out the small window behind his desk, unable to meet her eyes. “They tried to break my mind. And I—”

He stopped, swallowed hard, hands trembling on the edge of the desk. The weight of memory made his shoulders sag.

“How can you be the same person after that?” he asked the night outside, voice hollow and bitter.

A nervous laugh escaped him—sharp, self-mocking.

“Still, I wanted to serve,” he continued, giving her his back now. “They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what? Hmm? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.”

Then he turned, and the storm in his eyes met hers.

“Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

“Of course I can. I—”

“Don’t.” His voice cut like a blade.

“You should be questioning what I’ve done,” he said bitterly. “I thought this would be better. That I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me…”

He began to pace, a man unraveling at the seams.

“How many lives depend on our success?” His voice was rising, cracking. “I swore myself to this cause…”

“I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking it!”

He slammed his fist against the bookshelf with a resounding crack .

“I should be taking it,” he whispered again—tired, worn, unraveling.

Ophelia stepped forward slowly, her voice a soft tether to pull him back.

“This doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition. Is this what you want?”

That question stopped him cold.

His breathing slowed. The fury that had flared in him began to flicker and die. He looked at her, really looked—and the tension in his face began to ebb.

He exhaled shakily.

“…No.”

His voice was quiet. Real.

She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. Close enough to see how much this cost him.

“But… these memories have always haunted me—” he said, voice thinned by exhaustion. “If they become worse… if I cannot endure this…”

She reached up slowly and placed a hand on his face, fingers grazing the stubble along his jaw, her thumb resting gently on his cheek. His skin was warm. Too warm. Tense beneath her touch. But he didn’t pull away.

“you can,” she said—firm and tender, all at once.

He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled, as though her words gave him breath.

And then, the faintest trace of a smile.

“All right,” he whispered, steadier now.

She smiled back.

“I’ll let you be,” she said gently. “If you need anything… just ask.”

She turned, leaving him in the soft candlelight—still raw, still recovering. But no longer breaking.

Chapter Text

Skyhold’s halls were quieter than usual — the hush of snowfall beyond the windows softened the world, muffling boots and voices into a distant hum.
Ophelia liked the quiet. It made her feel less like a stranger in stone halls built by hands not her own.

She stepped into the ambassador’s office with her usual nod and a small smile. Josephine was standing by the hearth, cradling a cup of tea.

“Ah, Inquisitor! Just in time.” Her voice was warm, relieved. “A courier arrived from the Free Marches not an hour ago. One of the letters bore your clan’s markings.”

Ophelia froze for half a breath. Her heart fluttered, painfully light.
A letter from the clan. For a moment, the world narrowed to the parchment Josephine held out — a fragile roll of vellum bound in familiar green and gold thread. A weaving knot her keeper had used often. Her throat tightened.

She crossed the room silently and took the letter with careful hands. Her fingers brushed it open as if it might vanish, or crumble. The Elvish script, written in a practiced, looping hand, stirred something deep in her chest — something old, and still aching.

Da’len,

“May the winds carry these words gently to you.”

Andaran atish’an. The fire burns low tonight, and as we sit in its glow, your name rises in whispers — in songs, in children’s drawings, in the hush between heartbeats as we look to the stars and wonder if you see them too.

We’ve heard of the mark you bear, and the war now tied to your name. We are proud — of your strength, your spirit — even as we worry. We thank the Inquisition for their shield, though we mistrust a world that made it necessary.

But not all who walk this world carry peace.
A group of shemlen zealots passed near us weeks ago, cursing your name, calling you false. They struck at our elders, spat on our halla. None were killed, but the pain lingers.

The land shifts strangely. The hunt is poor. The Veil stirs. The wolves have grown quiet.

And now... Danev has returned.

He came without warmth, asking for you by name. We do not know his purpose, but the stones remember — and so do we. Be careful, da’len. Not all ghosts are gone.

Come home when you can. Not for duty — but to rest, to heal, to be among kin.

We walk under the same stars. And when we speak your name, it is with love.

Dareth shiral,

— Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Ophelia stared at the parchment as the final words bled into silence. For a heartbeat, her heart swelled — pride and longing, a sudden ache for campfires and laughter and the scent of crushed pine.  She didn’t realize she was smiling faintly until her eyes dropped to that name.

Danev. The smile died.

It sliced through her like a blade made of ice. Her stomach lurched. She felt it in her bones — in her blood.
Her hands trembled as the air left her lungs. No. No, not him. Not now. Not ever again.

Why is he looking for me?

Josephine’s voice pulled her back like a rope from deep water.
“Is everything alright? You look pale.”

Ophelia blinked, eyes wide and vacant before she forced her features back into place — calm, composed. The mask slid over her like armor, practiced and fragile.

“Yes,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Just... old memories.” Her voice came out hoarse, thin.

Josephine set down her tea, concern lining her brow. “I hope it brought good news?”

“Some,” Ophelia lied. She folded the letter with careful, trembling hands. “The clan is well, mostly. But there were some attacks. Fanatics. I want to speak to Leliana... see if we can send a few scouts. Just to watch over them.”

Josephine nodded, but her eyes didn’t leave Ophelia’s face. “That’s very kind of you. And wise.”

“Thank you, Josi.” Ophelia turned before her voice could break, stepping away with stiff grace. Her boots echoed softly on the stone. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

And the mask shattered.

She staggered to a stop in the hallway, pressing her back to the wall. Her breath came sharp and shallow. The warmth of the hearth was gone — only the cold remained, curling in her chest.

Danev.

The name echoed like a curse. The sweetness of the letter curdled in her mouth. The pride, the longing — all drowned beneath a flood of nausea and dread.
She could almost hear him again. Cold eyes. Cruel voice full of lies. Firelight on stone. Her hands clenched into fists.

With shaking hands, she shoved the letter into the drawer in her room, cramming it beneath books, ink, anything to bury it.
Then she crawled into bed, pulling the blankets over her head like a child hiding from the dark.

But the dark was already inside her. And it remembered Danev.

Ophelia woke up screaming. The sound tore out of her throat like a blade being pulled from flesh — ragged, wet, too real.

Her mouth burned. Her throat felt like it had been flayed raw with broken glass and smoke. She choked on the sound, half a sob, half a gasp.

The scream shattered the stillness of night. Then — silence. Heavy. Waiting.

Her sheets were soaked, plastered to her body like wet bandages. Sweat trickled down her spine, clinging in cold rivulets. Her limbs thrashed against the tangled bedding. Her breath came in quick, ragged gulps that refused to fill her lungs.

The air wasn’t moving.

No windows.
No light.
No sky .

The dark pressed in with suffocating weight — thick and absolute, like the bottom of the ocean.

Not again. No. No, not again—

A sudden nausea rolled through her stomach. She tried to sit up, but her muscles betrayed her — twitching, spasming. The phantom chill of iron dug into her wrists and ankles. She could still feel the shackles. Still hear the drip, drip, drip of water down stone, the faint scratching of rats in the dark.

Her hands clawed at her chest like she could tear the memories loose. The room spun. Her vision swam with afterimages: torchlight. A rusted grate. Blood in the grooves of a floor.

Her ribs strained against each breath. There was no air in her lungs, only the stench of mildew and rot, the acrid scent of old fear.

Her heart slammed against her sternum like a trapped bird.

Then—light.

Flickering, gentle. A flame no bigger than a coin danced on the candle by her desk, throwing gold shadows against the familiar curve of the window arch.

The scent of Skyhold’s old timbers. Ash. Parchment. A whisper of lavender oil.
Not blood.
Not rot.

She wasn’t in the dungeon. She was in her room. She was in Skyhold. She was safe.

But her body didn’t believe it.

She bolted upright, fingers digging into her damp braids, her skin humming with terror. Her heart pounded against her bones, relentless. Her whole frame trembled, as if her body were still in that cell — as if she’d never left it.

Her breath hitched. She pressed shaking hands to her face. Her palms were clammy, tinged with the salt of fear. Her ears rang. Her knees ached from curling so tightly against herself.

“ Stop it… ” she whispered, her voice cracked and splintered. “Oph, you’re safe… you’re safe now…”

But she wasn’t. Not really. Not when every nerve in her body was still screaming.

A knock at the door sent a bolt of panic down her spine. Her heart seized — she nearly fell off the bed.

“Inquisitor?” came a voice — a man, hesitant, young. “Is… everything alright?”

Her teeth clenched, jaw burning from the tension. Her breath soured with bile. Not at him , but at herself. This helplessness. This shame. Like a wound she couldn’t stop picking at.

“Yes!” she called, too loud, the word cutting through the air like a slap. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Silence.

But not for long.

“Ophelia?” A different voice. Softer. Closer. Familiar, and deeply unwelcome in this moment.

Dorian.

She closed her eyes, groaning low in her throat. “ Fenedhis lasa… ” she muttered under her breath.

“I’m fine, Dorian. Let me change. I’ll be out in a minute—”

“No, dear. I’m coming in,” he said, as if it were a social call and not a war zone.

The door opened slowly, wood creaking like a warning. He stepped into the room, regal even in disarray — robes loosened, curls tousled, face drawn with worry.

Behind him, a red-faced guard stammered. “I—I’m sorry, Inquisitor. He insisted. Said he heard—”

“Yes, I heard him,” she said through clenched teeth, dragging a tunic over her clammy skin. “Leave. Please.”

The guard vanished without protest. The door closed.

“You really must stop barging in like this,” she said sharply, but it lacked any real bite. Her voice trembled at the edges. She couldn’t hide it.

“You were screaming, Ophelia.” Dorian’s voice was quiet. Barely restrained. “What did you expect me to do? Ignore it?”

She turned her back to him, wiping sweat from her brow with a cloth that was already soaked. Her fingers trembled as they moved, clinging to routine. Something familiar. Something she could control.

“You’re not taking a bath?” he asked lightly, trying to coax her from the ledge. “No? Fine. Do your mysterious Dalish thing. But—are you alright?”

She stilled. Her fingers curled into the fabric. Her shoulders trembled.

That question.

That damn question.

She whispered something in Elven, sharp as a curse, and pulled her boots on with shaking hands. Her fingers kept slipping on the laces.

“It was a nightmare,” she said finally, her voice flat and brittle as frost.

Dorian arched a brow, his tone still light but touched with sadness. “Ah. Well. In Tevinter, we say that if you share a nightmare, it loses its teeth.”

She gave a hollow laugh — small, humorless. “This one already bit . But I´m fine.”

He stepped closer. Gently now. The air shifted between them, thick with something unspoken.

“Tell me?”

She turned, eyes blazing, a dagger half-raised — not as threat, but as armor. “I’m not going to talk about it, Dorian.”

He held her gaze. Unflinching. Then slowly lifted his hands in a gesture of peace.

“No questions,” he said softly. “But if you ever change your mind… you know where to find me.”

And then, with infinite care, he took her hand — still trembling — and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. It was a touch that anchored her. Not pity. Not intrusion. Just presence.

“I’ll see you soon, my dear. I hear the Winter Palace will be divine. ”

And just like that, he was gone — leaving only the scent of clove and cologne behind, like a hand lingering on her shoulder after the warmth had vanished.

Ophelia stood in the quiet that followed, staring at the closed door.
Her pulse hadn’t slowed.

The candle flickered once. Then again.

She was still shaking.

The silence returned, deeper now. Her hand lingered at her side, where he had kissed it. Her breath came a little easier.

She looked out the window. Dawn was still far off.

But she was still standing. And that… was enough.

Maybe that was why she felt so close to Cullen.

In a strange way, she recognized the same quiet ache in him—the weight of pain carried in silence. But the difference was… he had shared his. He’d stood before her and spoken his truths aloud. The torment of lyrium withdrawal. The haunting memories. The moments that nearly broke him. He didn’t hide them behind pride. He let them breathe in the open air, and maybe—just maybe—it made them lighter.

Ophelia wasn’t there yet. Not quite.

She stepped out of her room, fully dressed and focused. Today will be busy. The Inquisition was preparing for the next mission—stopping the assassination of Empress Celene at the Winter Palace. Leliana had practically glowed when the formalwear arrived, giggling as she clutched the garments and carried them all the way from the gates of Skyhold to Josephine’s office.

They will leave for Orlais tomorrow.

But first, Ophelia needed to stop by the war room. Word from the scouts had arrived: they’d found the source of the red lyrium. It was a critical lead. If they could shut down the supply line, they could weaken Corypheus’s forces where it hurt. Finally—a step forward.

“Hey, Greeny.”

Varric’s familiar drawl met her just outside the main hall. He’d been calling her that since the beginning, and despite herself, she still smiled when she heard it.

“Morning, Varric,” she said, finishing the last twist of her braid. 

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Whispers say you were screaming bloody murder last night…”

Ophelia exhaled sharply, disappointment flickering in her eyes. Of course. Gossip—the fastest-moving currency in Thedas.

“Oh, come on, Varric. I thought you were above Orlesian rumor-mongering,” she muttered, her tone edged with annoyance.

Varric chuckled. “I’m a writer, Greeny. Gossip is half the job.” Then, more gently: “Are you alright?”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “By Mythal’s mercy, why is everyone acting like they’ve never had a nightmare before?!”

“Okay, okay. Just asking,” Varric said, raising his hands in mock surrender. But he didn’t move. His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer—just long enough to see what she was really trying to hide.

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Please, make a gossip out of this—‘The Inquisitor is fine . She had a nightmare. The world isn’t ending!’” Her voice pitched higher, sharper than she intended. Almost a shout.

The moment hung between them, brittle and tense.

Then she caught herself. Her shoulders sank with the weight of shame. It wasn’t Varric’s fault. He was only worried. She exhaled and ran a hand through her braid.

“I’m sorry, Varric. I just…” she paused, struggling for the right words. “Didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

“It’s alright,” he said, his tone gentler now. “I get it. I really do.”

He shifted his weight, voice quieter—more honest.

“I still have nightmares about Kirkwall. More than I’d like to admit. That’s why I write. Helps keep the worst of it at bay.”

Ophelia looked at him then, truly looked. And behind the jokes, the swagger, the ever-present smirk… she saw a man still haunted by things long past. 

Maybe all of us are being haunted, she thought.

“I have to go. Meetings, Winter Palace prep—I'll see you later, alright?” she said quickly, stepping away. Varric nodded, lifting his mug—whatever was in it likely stronger than tea.

Finally, the fresh air hit her face.

The morning breeze curled around her like a balm, cool and grounding. This was her favorite time of day—when the sun hadn't yet burned away the quiet, and everything felt lighter, cleaner. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her, washing away the weight.

“I can help.”

Her eyes snapped open. That voice.

No... not him. Not now.

Cole stood there, half-shadowed beneath the arches. His presence was always soft, always strange—like something not entirely real. But his words? They never missed their mark.

“Cold. Pain. Loneliness,” he murmured. “Why did you leave me? You felt betrayed. Love... treason. Danev” 

Her pace didn’t slow,  even when he said that disgusting name.  She didn’t want to hear this. Not now.

“Pain. Whip. Screaming. You said stop, but they didn’t—”

“Stop it, Cole.” Her voice cracked like glass. She stopped in place, her back to him. Her hands trembled.

For the first time in months, tears welled in her eyes.

The memories surged forward like a rising tide—things she had buried, locked away, forced into silence. But Cole had opened the door.

“Please…” she whispered. A single word, but it carried the weight of everything she wasn’t ready to face.

Cole tilted his head, his voice tender. “It helps, when you remember. It hurts—but it heals. You can breathe again, once it’s out.”

She turned toward him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Not right now,” she said, wiping at her face quickly, glancing around to make sure no one else saw. “I... I don’t want to talk about it.”

Cole’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, stepping back into the shadows.

“But someday,” he said, his voice already fading like mist. “You’ll let it out. And it won’t hurt as much.”

Chapter Text

She found herself standing in front of Cullen’s office door before she even realized it.

How had she gotten here so quickly? Had she sprinted through Skyhold without thinking?

She cursed softly in Elvhen, her frustration bubbling just beneath her skin. This day… it could have started so much better. But the nightmare—no, the memory —had clawed its way out of the dark, dragging her back into a place she’d sworn to forget.

She needed to be focused. Present. Ready in both body and mind for the mission ahead.

She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

Still… maybe it was for the best she’d ended up here. She wanted to talk to Cullen. She always did.

She knocked—softly. No need to risk another flying object thrown in frustration.

“Come in,” came his voice from inside, curt but familiar.

She opened the door, stepping into the room.

“Inquisitor,” he said, blinking in surprise. He hadn’t expected her. Not this early. 

“Commander,” she greeted, trying to steady herself. “Is there any news about the red lyrium?”

She wanted to talk about the mission. Only the mission. Nothing else. If she could stay focused on the war, the rest of it—her memories, her fears—might stay quiet.

That caught him slightly off guard, but he recovered quickly, nodding and reaching for a stack of documents on his desk.

“Indeed,” he said, his voice firm. “We’ve discovered the origin of the red templars. Therinfal Redoubt.”

Ophelia leaned in, eyes scanning the reports he held out. For the first time that morning, a spark of purpose lit behind her eyes.

This. This was what mattered.

“The knights stationed there were fed red lyrium,” Cullen continued, the words bitter in his mouth. “They were transformed into monsters. And once their corruption was complete, Samson took command.”

Samson.

Of course. She remembered him from Haven—the red templar commander who had led the attack. The name settled into her mind like a splinter.

“How do you know him?” she asked.

“He was a templar in Kirkwall,” Cullen said. “Expelled from the Order. I knew he struggled with lyrium addiction, but this…” His voice faltered, then softened. “Red lyrium is nothing like what the Chantry gave us. Its power comes with a madness you can't escape.”

“The red templars swarming Haven were proof enough,” Ophelia said darkly.

Cullen’s jaw clenched. “We cannot allow them to gain more ground. They still need red lyrium to survive. If we can disrupt their supply, we can weaken their hold—and their leaders.”

She studied him for a moment, watching the way his voice tightened, the edge of anger that crept in.

“Are you angrier at Corypheus or at Samson?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated, and when he answered, his voice was subdued. “I don’t know. Samson, at least, should have known better.”

He stepped aside and pulled out a map, laying it across the table. Red marks bled across the roads.

“Caravans of red lyrium are being smuggled along these trade routes. If we can intercept them, it could lead us to the mining site.”

Ophelia’s eyes scanned the markings, her focus narrowing. She glanced up at him again. He looked… steadier today. More himself. She felt a quiet relief settle in her chest.

“If you choose to confront them,” he said, his voice low, “be careful. Anything tied to Samson will be heavily guarded.”

She nodded and returned the papers to his hand. He placed them on the desk, straightening the edges with the practiced calm of a soldier.

“I was going to bring this to the war table later today,” he added, glancing at her with a flicker of warmth. “But you came earlier.”

A small, tired smile tugged at Cullen’s lips.

Ophelia let out a quiet laugh, brushing a stray braid behind her ear. “I’m a little nervous about our next mission,” she admitted. “I just want everything to be in order before we leave.”

Her voice betrayed more than she meant it to—fatigue, tension, that undercurrent of anxious energy she rarely let slip.

Cullen’s expression shifted. He saw it. Heard it.

“Do you want to walk for a bit?” he asked gently. “The fresh air near the barracks usually helps me to clear my head.”

She hesitated, then sighed. He was right. A small distraction would help. No reports. No stares. No questions. Just quiet. And with Cullen… silence never felt uncomfortable. It felt safe.

She nodded. “I’d like that.”

They walked side by side through the barracks, their boots brushing softly against the worn stone, the wind curling between the arches with a ghost’s touch. The air was crisp with early light, and the chirping of birds echoed faintly through the stillness of the morning.

For a moment, Ophelia felt suspended in time—untethered from duty, from pain, from everything heavy. This wind, this quiet… It reminded her of the forest back home. Of climbing to the highest branches just to feel closer to the stars. Sometimes it had been for the hunt, but more often it was to escape. From expectations. From grief. From herself.

Now, walking beside Cullen, the silence between them was different. Not empty. Not cold. But warm, shared.

Cullen slowed, then stopped altogether. His eyes closed as he drew in a deep breath, the breeze stirring his hair, the mountains towering around them like silent sentinels. For a breathless second, everything was still.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft—vulnerable, like something precious and rarely offered. He turned to her, eyes earnest. “When you came to see me…”

But the words caught on. His voice wavered as uncertainty flickered across his face. He exhaled, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck—his tell. Always his tell.

“If there’s anything…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “This sounded much better in my head.”

He gave a dry, self-conscious laugh, turning away to look at the distant peaks.

Ophelia’s heart clenched, and not from pity. From recognition. She knew what it cost to lower your armor. To show your scars without knowing how they’d be received.

But he was trying. And she saw him.

“I trust you’re feeling better?” she asked gently, her voice warm, encouraging.

He turned toward her, and in the golden wash of light, his eyes looked clearer—less shadowed. “I… yes,” he said, and for once, it sounded true.

“Is it always that bad?” she asked, her voice quieter now, laced with worry.

“The pain comes and goes. Sometimes I feel as if I’m back there…” His eyes drifted to the mountains again, but they weren’t seeing the view. They were seeing something darker. “I shouldn’t have pushed myself so far that day.”

His voice cracked at the edges—bitter, apologetic.

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” Ophelia said. Her words were a whisper, but they carried weight. She meant every syllable.

“I am.” He looked out again, and she followed his gaze—watching the horizon with him. Standing closer than before.

“I’ve never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle…” Cullen’s voice dropped, hollow with memory. “I was not myself after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me.”

He paused, his shoulders tense with the effort of remembrance.

“I’m not proud of the man that made me. But now… I can put some distance between myself and everything that happened. It’s a start.”

His voice broke gently at the end. And in that moment, Ophelia felt like she was looking into a mirror.

The ache in his voice was her own. The past he tried to outpace—hers, too.

She inhaled, and in that breath came something unexpected. Not just understanding. Love.

“For what is worth… I like who you are now,” she said softly.

He turned to her, startled. “Even after…?”

“Cullen, I care about you.” She smiled, her cheeks warming. “You’ve done nothing to change that.”

The weight in his chest lifted just a little. Her words sank deep, grounding him. For so long, he had feared she would pull away—if she saw too much. If she saw him . But she didn’t turn away. She stayed .

And in that moment, he felt… safe.

His expression softened, the corners of his mouth curving into something rare—genuine, unguarded.

“What about you?” he asked quietly. “You have troubles of your own. How are you holding up?”

The question caught her off guard. Not because he asked, but because of how gently he asked. Like he knew . Like he’d seen the cracks no one else had dared name.

She hesitated, tempted to deflect. But his presence felt like a shelter—steady, grounding. Maybe… maybe she could share a little. Like he had.

“Honestly?” she whispered. “I’m terrified. So many people depend on us. On me. And Corypheus is still out there.”

Her voice trembled, just a little. It was more than she meant to admit.

But Cullen didn’t flinch.

“We’ve made great strides,” he said firmly. “Do not doubt yourself—or the Inquisition—just yet.”

There was warmth in his voice. Strength. It wrapped around her like a quiet shield.

“If there’s anything I can do,” he added, “you have only to ask.”

Ophelia looked at him, heart full and aching. “Thank you, Cullen.”

And for the first time in days, she smiled—not the forced, practiced smile of a leader, but something small and real.

“Actually…” she began, but her voice caught on the edge of her breath.

Her hands started to tremble.

A familiar weight pressed down on her chest, stealing the air she’d only just begun to breathe easily. Was she really going to speak of that place ? Of that dungeon ? Of him?

The calm she’d found during their walk shattered like glass. The memories surged back—vivid, brutal, unstoppable. Her pulse quickened. The moment twisted around her, pulling her under.

“I…” she tried again, but her throat closed.

Cullen said nothing. He didn’t rush her, didn’t prod. He simply waited , steady and quiet, the way she knew he would. But she saw it—how his brow tensed, how his eyes locked onto her with that gentle, intense focus. He saw it in her. The tremble. The recoil.

Maker’s breath, if he could have taken that pain into himself just to spare her, he would have done so without hesitation.

“If you don’t feel ready to share… then don’t,” he said softly, grounding her with those few quiet words. His hands reached out, wrapping gently around hers, anchoring her. “Ophelia… it’s okay.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy, her breath short.

“I… had a horrible nightmare,” she whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “But it wasn’t just a nightmare. It was a memory. A horrible one. And I think I screamed all night. Loud. Loud enough that the entire damn fortress probably heard it.”

She looked away quickly, jaw clenched. Her tone turned bitter—cut with anger, humiliation, shame . But she didn’t pull her hands from his. Even through his gloves, she felt the warmth of him—solid and real. A tether.

“Now everyone’s worried,” she continued, her voice sharper. “Asking questions. Whispering. You know how gossip works... I hate it. I hate that they’re talking about it, thinking about it, asking —‘What happened to the Inquisitor?’” Her voice cracked. “I hate that, Cullen.”

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could catch it. “Even Cole . He came to me—he knew —he always knows —and he started saying things from my memories. From that place. It was like he dragged them out of me. I felt so… exposed.”

Her shoulders had gone rigid, her voice rising with every word until she was nearly trembling from head to toe. She felt the nausea rising again—shame curling in her stomach like rot.

And then Cullen reached out.

He gently brushed the tear from her cheek. His hand, careful and reverent, lingered for a heartbeat longer.

Then—he pulled her in.

His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, a quiet, instinctive shield. His coat brushed her skin—soft fur over steel—and she sank into it. Into him . His embrace was both strong and fragile, like it was meant to hold the broken pieces of her without crushing them.

One hand rested against her back, the other cradled the crown of her head.

She pressed her face against his chest, eyes squeezed shut. Her arms slowly circled his waist, and then… she let go.

The tears came.

“I understand,” he whispered into her hair.

“I know,” she mumbled, muffled by the fur of his collar. “I thought I was past it. That I was over it. But it just… it came back. Thanks to that letter, it all came back… Him . That place .”

Her voice cracked.

“And I need my mind clear for The Winter Palace,” she continued, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Her face twisted with dread, with the fear she never showed anyone else. “I can’t go with my thoughts stuck in that dungeon. I can’t be weak.”

She looked down, her forehead touching his chest again, seeking comfort in the warmth and the softness. His presence.

“I…” he began quietly, his voice low. “When I shared with you what happened to me in the Ferelden Circle… I didn’t expect anything to change. But somehow, afterward, I felt… lighter.”

She listened, breathing slow and shallow.

“I’m not asking you to do the same,” he said gently. “But maybe… talking about it would help.”

She scoffed, a fragile sound. “Cole said the same thing,” she mumbled. There was frustration in her tone, but also reluctant agreement— because it was true .

Cullen let out the ghost of a chuckle. “He’s a strange… kid . But he’s right. Most of the time.”

She didn’t speak. But in the silence, she leaned into him again.

Her grip around his waist remained firm, but something shifted—her shoulders began to ease, the tremor in her breath slowly fading. Bit by bit, she allowed herself to soften in his arms, to rest in the quiet strength of him.

“I’m afraid to talk about it,” she whispered at last, the words barely audible. “I’m afraid that you… and everyone else… would look at me differently.”

There it was—the deepest wound. Not the memory of pain, but the fear of judgment that might follow.

Cullen’s voice was low, unwavering.

“Your actions speak louder than anything else, Ophelia. Nothing— nothing —could change how I see you. Or how the people who follow you do.”

She held his gaze for a moment, as if searching for cracks in his conviction. There were none.

Then—slowly—she drew in a breath. Long. Shaky. Grounding.

And as she exhaled, she eased back just enough to meet his eyes fully, her hands still clasped around his.

She sighed and lowered herself onto the edge of the old stone wall, her fingers digging into the worn surface as if to anchor herself. The mountains beyond stretched into the sky—silent, eternal, and cold. They were so beautiful, so still… and yet, the weight in her chest wouldn’t lift.

She exhaled slowly—once. Then again.

“I… was enslaved.”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Not here. Not now. But the words left her mouth before she could stop them, like a wound torn open by the truth.

Her eyes flicked to Cullen. And she braced herself—for pity, for horror, for discomfort.

But he didn’t look away. And he didn’t look at her with sympathy or revulsion. His eyes only held stillness—firm, grounding. He listened.

And that… made her chest tighten all the more.

“I trusted someone,” she continued, voice quiet but steady. “I was naïve. My Keeper warned me about him. She told me not to go, told me I didn’t know the world well enough.” She swallowed hard. “But I didn’t listen.”

A single tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, trying to keep her voice from cracking.

“I thought we’d travel together all over Thedas, just the two of us.  I thought we were in love.” Her lip trembled. “But he tricked me. He lied.   He sold me like a bag of fresh meat.”

She closed her eyes, as if it would block out the memory—but it didn’t.

“He handed me over to a pirate,” she said, her voice darkening. “A cruel, filthy man.”

Cullen’s breath caught, but he said nothing. His expression remained calm, but inside, he felt the quiet snap of something breaking.

He had heard stories like this before—horrors whispered out of Tevinter. Tales of elves bought and sold like cattle, used and discarded like broken tools. In Kirkwall, he’d seen the alienage firsthand—the poverty, the degradation, the guards who turned their backs. He remembered the look in the eyes of the elven children there: hunger, fear, resignation.

But to hear it from her —from Ophelia —felt like a blow to the ribs.

She kept speaking.

“I was kept in a dungeon for two years. Only brought out when he needed me to do his dirty work—or for pleasure” Her voice dropped to a tremor. 

She hugged herself, as if her arms were the only shield she had left.

Cullen stood frozen, jaw clenched, fists at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to say something, to do something—but there were no words big enough, no justice swift enough.

Then he saw it—the faintest twist at the corner of her lips. Her eyes, though shadowed by memory, were no longer lost in it. They were sharp. Clear. Steady.

“I killed that bastard.”

The fire in her voice ignited something cold and fierce in his spine.

“One night…” she began, her voice low but unshaking. “He called me to his room. And before he could put his filthy hands on me again…” Her fingers curled at her sides. “I slit his throat.”

She looked up at Cullen—fully now. Not as someone exposing a wound, but as someone who had survived it. Someone who wore her scar like armor.

He met her gaze without blinking.

There was no horror in his eyes.

Only awe and respect.

“I’m so sorry, Ophelia…” he said at last, voice low with reverence. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

She nodded—not in thanks, but in quiet recognition. She wasn’t done carrying it. But now, at least, someone else knew.

And yet, the worst part had only just begun. Danev was looking for her.

Maybe he knew she’d killed the pirate he sold her to. Maybe he wanted revenge. How could she lead like this—burdened by a past that refused to stay buried? What if he came for her clan?

“I… My clan sent me a letter. They mentioned him.” She bit her lip, fighting the wave of nausea rising just from speaking his name. “ Danev . I don’t know what he wants… but I’m afraid. For my people. For me. He knows I’m the Inquisitor now—I’m sure of it.”

Her breath came shallow and fast, her chest tightening with dread. She looked up, shame pooling in her eyes as the words finally escaped her.

His brow furrowed—not with anger, but something colder. Sharper. “I can handle that,” he said, his voice shifting into the tone of command—firm, unyielding. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

She blinked at him, surprised. For the first time, she saw not just her Commander—but someone she could lean on.

“What… are you going to kill him?” she asked, half a joke, brushing away her tears.

He didn’t answer right away. Was he actually considering it?

Then he took her hand—and this time, he didn’t let go. He squeezed gently, his voice steady as stone.

“I’ll make sure he never hurts you . Or anyone else. Ever again.”

She stared at him, heart pounding. She had never seen him like this. Never felt this safe. The weight she carried for so long seemed, at last, to ease.

She exhaled slowly, trusting him.

And in the silence that followed—stretched taut between two survivors—the air shifted.

He leaned in, just slightly. Not to cross a line, but to show her one thing, unmistakably clear.

She wasn’t alone anymore.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked, her voice small and uncertain. There was a tremble to it—fragile, raw. She didn’t meet his eyes.

Cullen’s expression shifted in an instant. His brows furrowed, his golden eyes wide with surprise.

“What? No— not at all,” he said, almost too quickly. He stepped closer, reaching out without hesitation. His grip was firm, grounding. “This makes me… admire you more.”

His voice had softened, but every word held weight. Truth.

“I hope you know how strong you are,” he continued, his gaze never leaving hers. “I’m even glad you killed that bastard—people like that should not exist.”

There was no hesitation. No judgment. Just fierce conviction.

“I feel only admiration for you, Inquisitor,” he said, his tone growing stronger, steadier with each word. “You’re a fighter. And the only one I would trust blindly to fight beside.”

Ophelia’s chest tightened, but this time… it wasn’t from pain. Her eyes brimmed with tears—relief, gratitude, something softer than she’d allowed herself to feel in years.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat as her shoulders finally eased. Her heart, once clutched by fear and shame, felt light—so light.

He smiled at her, and then, with the same care as everything else he did with her, he lifted her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

“I’ll fight beside you until you let me,” he said, voice low and sure. He looked her in the eyes as he spoke, and there was no armor in his gaze. Just honesty. Loyalty.

Ophelia returned his smile, radiant now with something blooming between them—trust, perhaps. Or something deeper.

“Me too,” she said quietly.

But just as the silence grew warmer between them, a voice shattered it like glass.

“Commander?”

A soldier’s voice, sharp and apologetic, echoed down the corridor.

The moment snapped—like a thread pulled too tight.

They had forgotten where they were. Forgotten the war. Forgotten everything but each other.

Cullen turned, clearing his throat, stepping back from her with visible reluctance. “I’m coming,” he answered, his tone returning to its usual command.

But before he left, he turned back to her one last time. He didn’t want to go—not without making sure she was okay.

Ophelia met his gaze, and the smile she gave him was small, but real. She felt calm now. Centered.

“Go,” she whispered. “Duty calls.”

He nodded. “Inquisitor” he said with a touch of reverence.

And just like that, he was gone.

Ophelia stayed behind, letting the silence settle once more. But it didn’t feel empty this time.

She sat there a while longer, staring out at the mountains, feeling the weight she’d carried for so long begin to lift.

She had spoken. She had been heard. And the pain didn’t cling to her ribs anymore. It didn’t choke her in the dark.

She thought of Cole, and a small laugh escaped her. He’d been right—of course he had.

Now… there was space in her chest to breathe again.

She would walk into the Winter Palace not just as the Inquisitor.

But as herself. Ready. Whole. Unbreakable.

Chapter Text

She lingered in the barracks, letting the silence settle after everything that had just unfolded. Her body was still, but inside, something trembled—raw, vulnerable, yet unshackled. She had never spoken those words aloud. Not even to her Keeper. When she’d escaped the pirate’s hold, she’d returned to her clan in pieces. Mercifully, they welcomed her without question. No one pressed for answers. Perhaps they saw the damage in her eyes. Or perhaps they understood that silence was its own kind of healing.

During those years in captivity, she’d learned more than how to survive. She had honed her bladework beyond anything her clanmates could imagine. It was easier, in the end, to hunt an animal than a man. But she had hunted both—and lived.
Hunting gave her purpose. Precision. Control.

It was almost cruel, she thought, how deeply she had once longed to travel Thedas. That dream had nearly destroyed her. And yet… now she did. Not as a wanderer. Not as the girl who had once followed a liar into the jaws of Arlathvhenan— the Void . But as the Inquisitor.

Powerful. Feared. Respected.

She exhaled slowly, feeling the tension bleed from her shoulders.
She was ready.

The sun stood high above, spilling its golden warmth over those she had sworn to protect—and those she held dear.

Before heading to the war room, Ophelia made her way to Vivienne’s chambers one last time. The enchanter was, as always, perfectly composed, standing before a full-length mirror in a gown of deep sapphire silk. She gestured for Ophelia to enter with a flick of her fingers, then turned sharply, eyeing her like a jeweler appraising a gemstone.

“Posture,” Vivienne said crisply. “Straighten your spine. Chin just slightly raised. Yes, like that—confident, not arrogant.”

Ophelia adjusted herself accordingly, shoulders squared, gaze steady.

“And your smile?” Vivienne asked.

Ophelia offered one: small, calculated, the kind that gave away nothing and everything at once.

“Much better,” Vivienne said with a nod. “The game at Orlais isn’t played with swords, my dear—it’s waged with silences, glances, and the careful weaponizing of words. Do not underestimate the power of a pause.”

She moved around Ophelia slowly, adjusting a fold of fabric at her shoulder and brushing a lock of hair behind her ear with surprising gentleness. “If someone insults you, smile as though they’ve paid you a compliment. If they flatter you, wonder what they want. And if they ask what you’re thinking…”

“...don’t let them know I was thinking anything at all,” Ophelia finished softly.

Vivienne gave her a smile of rare approval. “Exactly.”

They stood in silence for a beat, the lesson settling between them like perfume. Then, Vivienne turned away, walking toward her writing desk.

“I must admit,” she said, tone cool but edged with something more vulnerable than usual, “I was rather surprised not to be included in your retinue to the Winter Palace.”

Ophelia blinked, taken aback by the comment. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if it was a rebuke or something else entirely.

“I chose to bring…” she replied carefully. “My closest companions. It’s not because I doubt you. In fact, I wouldn’t even be able to step foot into Halamshiral without everything you’ve taught me. You’ve given me the tools I need to survive there. To win.”

Vivienne turned her head slightly, watching Ophelia with a calm, unreadable expression.

“You’ve learned well,” she said at last. “And while I may not be at your side, make no mistake—my influence will be. I’m proud of the work we’ve done, Ophelia. And proud of you . Just don’t forget to shine. I expect nothing less.”

Ophelia smiled then, genuinely. “I won’t forget.”

With renewed steadiness, she stepped out of Vivienne’s chambers, repeating each lesson like a prayer: how to walk without doubt, how to listen without reacting, how to smile without revealing anything, how to dance like a shadow wrapped in silk.

The war room awaited. There was still vital information to review—new whispers from Leliana, coded reports from Josephine. Ophelia already knew the threat of the Red Templars, but what lay ahead at the Winter Palace would require more than blades and banners. It would require everything she had learned. And everything she had become.

She paused in front of the large wooden doors, breathing in slowly. Inside, she could hear her advisors speaking. Josephine was saying that most preparations for the journey were nearly complete.

Another breath—steadying. She felt her strength return, piece by piece, as she slipped back into her Inquisitor role.
She opened the door.

The conversation stopped. All three turned to her.

Josephine greeted her with a warm smile. Leliana dipped her head slightly, her expression soft. Cullen… his eyes found her instantly. And held there. As if making sure she was still her—still standing after what she had shared with him that morning. A silent exchange passed between them. Intimate. Quiet. A thread stretched between them, invisible to everyone else in the room.

“You’re just in time,” Josephine said.

Ophelia smiled gently and stepped forward. “What do we have?”

She approached the war table, where maps, letters, and sealed reports waited.

Each of them shared their updates.

Josephine explained that many Orlesian nobles were eager to meet the Inquisition—especially its leader. It was a valuable opportunity to strengthen alliances and raise their standing.

Leliana, more cautious, warned them to keep their eyes open. Her spies had noticed strange activity within the Winter Palace—unusual guests, shifting guard rotations, conversations that stopped when someone entered the room. The attempt on the Empress’s life was more than a rumor now—it was only a matter of time. But the who and the why were still unknown.

Cullen expressed his unease about the event. Though he had already arranged for Inquisition soldiers to be stationed near the palace—just in case.

Throughout the meeting, Cullen and Ophelia’s eyes found each other again and again. It wasn’t intentional—but neither could stop. Something had changed between them. Trust had rooted itself deeper. So had something else. He cared. And it was getting harder not to let it show.

“Enchantress Vivienne has confirmed you’re more than ready for Orlesian etiquette,” Josephine said, clearly pleased. “Unlike our Commander…” she added playfully.

Cullen exhaled, slightly flustered. “I don’t have to—”

“Oh, yes you do,” Leliana interrupted. “You’re the Commander of the Inquisition. We all need to be ready for the court.”

Cullen frowned. “I don’t think we need to have this discussion in front of the Inquisitor…” He paused, glancing at Ophelia, as if hoping she might rescue him.

But she didn´t, she was actually enjoying seeing this interaction.

“At least skim the basics I sent you?” Josephine offered sweetly.

Ophelia bit back a smile.

“I don’t need to,” Cullen grumbled, clearly not enjoying the attention.

“All right,” Josephine said, arms crossed. “Then tell me, Commander—how will you answer the nobles' questions?”

“That depends on the question.”

Leliana sighed loudly. “Let him be, Josie,” she said,  then added, dry as salt, “Honestly.”

Cullen blinked. “What? I—”

“Hush. Just look pretty. Maybe it’ll distract the court long enough for the Inquisitor to do her job.”

“I’m not bait.” Cullen said offended.

Ophelia burst out laughing. The three turned to her surprised. 

“Cullen, please… just read the etiquette notes and give poor Josephine some peace of mind,” she said, still giggling.

Josephine smiled, triumphant. “You heard her. Are you going to say no to your Inquisitor?”

Cullen looked at her, then back at Ophelia. This time, his expression softened—less flustered, more teasing.

“It’s an order, Commander,” Ophelia said, arms crossed, still smiling.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “All right…”

“Thank you,” Josephine said warmly, exchanging a quick glance with Leliana.

“I believe that wraps things up,” Ophelia said, her tone light, but purposeful.

They all nodded in agreement.

“I’ll go check in with my companions,” she added. “Make sure they’re set before we leave.”

“Oh—before you do,” Leliana said, lifting a brow, “stop by my office. I’d like you to try on your dress—make sure it fits properly before we depart.”

Ophelia nodded. “Of course.”

With that, Leliana and Josephine both inclined their heads and made their exit. Ophelia watched them go, her mind already shifting to the next task.

But just as she turned to leave, a gentle hand caught her arm, halting her.

She turned, a little surprised by the sudden touch—but not startled. That familiar, electric tension pulsed beneath her skin at the contact.

“Inquisitor…” he said softly, immediately pulling his hand back, realizing how inappropriate the gesture might seem.

“Yes, Commander?” she asked, her voice gentle, a soft smile playing on her lips.

“I…umm wanted to ask how you're feeling,” he said, clearing his throat.

She nodded, her smile lingering. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and exhaled. “I’m feeling much better,” she said, meeting his gaze. His eyes were warm, golden. “It’s strange… I feel lighter.” Her brows pulled together, trying to make sense of it. 

 “I’m glad I could help,” he said quietly.

“You did,” she replied, still looking up at him.

They stood close—closer than was proper. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and again she caught his scent: something earthy and comforting, like herbs and clean leather. Sweet. Grounded. He smelled like home.

To him she looked different now—lighter, yes, but also radiant. The fire in her eyes had returned. And he—he loved that. He loved her . The realization hit him like a hammer to the chest.

He wanted to kiss her. To hold her. Maker’s breath, he wanted her. But the thoughts were dangerous—too dangerous. She was the Inquisitor. He was her Commander. That line couldn't be crossed.

He stepped back, turning toward the war table, trying to regain composure. “ I wanted to show you something,” he said, voice slightly strained.

She sighed quietly, then followed.

“If you don’t agree with this, I’ll stop,” he said, his voice low, careful.

Her eyes softened. “Tell me.”

Cullen drew in a slow breath. He straightened, slipping back into his role as Commander. “With your permission, I’d like to send a unit to capture Danev. My men know exactly where he is.” His eyes gleamed—not just with duty, but with restrained fury. He wanted that bastard found. He wanted him to pay for what he did to Ophelia—and likely to others.

She froze. The smile faded from her lips. The name alone twisted her stomach. Her breath caught. Her body stiffened. He noticed the shift immediately. He stepped forward—cautious, careful—not to crowd her, but to offer safety.

“We can have him Ophelia—” he began softly, a whisper.

But she stepped back. Her chest tightened, anger blooming in her throat—but not just anger. Something more complicated. Confusion. Sadness.

“Cullen,” she said, voice trembling despite her attempt at calm. “This feels… fast.”

His jaw clenched. She could see the storm in his eyes.

“He’s not with your clan,” Cullen said, his voice more urgent now. “But he’s close. Just say the word, and we—”

“Cullen, stop,” she said, her voice cracking slightly as she struggled to contain the storm rising inside her.

He froze. The weight of her trembling words sank in. She could see it in his eyes—he only wanted to help. But the terror of facing Danev, so soon and so suddenly, twisted something deep in her chest. She wasn’t ready.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I…”

“I know you want to help,” she murmured, taking a small step toward him, her voice softer now. 

“He could be stopped—” he began, but before he could finish, she reached up and gently placed a finger against his lips.

His breath caught.

Her eyes found his—warm, open. The flicker of anger she had felt moments ago softened into something else. Understanding. Gratitude. An unspoken connection.

“I know,” she whispered.

She smiled then, tender and full of unspoken emotion, lowering her hand slowly from his lips.

His eyes remained wide, stunned by her gentleness. He could still feel the cool press of her fingertips, her touch lingering like a ghost against his skin. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

“Keep a close eye on him,” she said, her voice returning to its confidence and command. “Make him feel watched. Let him know the Inquisition is breathing down his disgusting neck. Don’t let him escape—not yet.”

Cullen noticed the flame in her eyes.

“And after the Winter Palace…” she added, her smirk sharpening, “capture that bastard .”

He looked at her, pride flickering in his eyes like firelight. And then he smiled—softly, almost reverently.

“As you command, Inquisitor.”

Ophelia smiled back. Her fingers found his gloved hand, warm through the leather. She squeezed gently, grounding herself in that touch.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice trembling like a secret carried by the wind.

She meant it. Despite the dread curling in her stomach at the thought of seeing Danev’s face again—soon, maybe too soon—there was something else blooming within her: strength. Safety. Cullen had made a choice not for the Inquisition, but for her . And that… that was something sacred.

He hesitated, eyes flicking down to where her hand held his.

“If I could…” he murmured, thumb brushing over her knuckles. He didn’t want her to go. The words stuck in his throat, burned behind his ribs. “If I could—” he tried again, stepping closer. Their breath mingled. The tension wrapped around them like a storm held at bay by sheer will.

Her gaze locked on his pupils wide with something unspoken. She felt it too—that desperate, magnetic ache.

“You could what, Commander?” she asked, voice low, threaded with a teasing warmth. Her eyes dropped, lingered on his lips. That scar that curved over them like a secret. She moved closer. Close enough to taste him if she dared.

“I…”

“Commander!”

The voice shattered the moment.

Cullen snapped back from Ophelia like he’d been caught committing treason. He cleared his throat, expression stiff, disciplined. A soldier had entered the war room, distractedly flipping through a stack of papers.

“Lady Josephine asked me to deliver this,” the soldier said, before looking up—and freezing. His eyes bounced between the Inquisitor and the Commander, noting the red blooming across their cheeks. Oh, the soldier thought. This’ll be a good one for the mess hall.

“Inquisitor,” he added, with a polite nod.

Ophelia managed a nod, her heart still pounding in her chest like a war drum.

Cullen stepped forward, took the papers and scanned them with mounting frustration.

“Maker’s breath… a book of Orlesian etiquette?” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The soldier held something else out—a gleaming golden pin in the shape of a lion’s head.

“Lady Josephine said, "For your Winter Palace attire,” he explained.

Cullen stared at the pin in his hand, then rolled his eyes.

“Of course... Thank you. Is that all?”

“That’s all, Commander.”

With a glance between the two, the soldier bowed and slipped out. But not before committing everything to memory. He’d dine off this tale for weeks.

Cullen sighed and turned back to Ophelia, lifting the etiquette book.

“This is your doing.”

Ophelia grinned and stepped toward him again, the pin catching the light as she plucked it from his palm.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. Then, with gentle fingers, she fastened it to the crimson of his robe—right over his heart. “The Lion of Ferelden… That will have people talking.”

He laughed, helpless under her touch, under her . He was lost, and he knew it.

“Go study, Commander,” she teased, finally stepping back. She grabbed a few papers from the war table and gave him one last, smirking glance. “I’ll quiz you. My Commander has to be at his best for this ball.”

She turned, heading toward the door, but just before she crossed the threshold, she looked back.

Their eyes met one last time.

“Thank you, Ma vir harel din’an” she said.

And then she was gone.

He watched her disappear through the door, but her voice lingered—echoing in his mind like the last note of a song.

Ma vir harel din’an…

What did it mean? He asked himself, the word looping through his thoughts like a riddle, like a spell. His heartbeat quickened—but it wasn’t the familiar, gnawing urgency of lyrium withdrawal. No. This was something else.

Something deeper. Unfamiliar. Alive.

It pulsed through him not like pain, but like desire .

Chapter Text

After meeting Duke Gaspard and helping a lady find a very strange ring, Ophelia finally stepped through the open doors of the Winter Palace.

It was difficult to hide the awe on her face.

The grandeur of the palace was overwhelming. Golden candlelight shimmered across marble floors, chandeliers, and every piece of jewelry worn by the guests. She turned her head slowly, trying to take it all in—she had never seen anything like it. It was breathtaking... and a little unsettling.

The room buzzed with movement. Dozens of people drifted across the floor in colorful gowns and ornate suits, each of them wearing masks. For Ophelia, it was strange and disorienting—trying to decipher emotions without seeing anyone’s true face. And yet, even through the enchantment of the moment, she felt it: the weight of hidden eyes turning toward her. Watching her. Judging.

“A knife-ear,” she heard someone whisper.

“An elf?” another voice asked, laced with disgust.

She sighed, the realization sinking in like a stone—her presence would be talked about tonight. Not because of her title… but because of her ears.

“Don’t mind the whispers,” came Dorian’s voice behind her, steady and warm, lending her strength.

Ophelia smiled softly and turned to meet his eyes, her lips moving more than her voice. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

“Come,” Josephine said gently as she approached. “They’ll announce the Duke first—and then us.”

Ophelia turned and saw the rest of her  advisors approaching. Leliana walked with silent confidence, her sharp gaze veiled by an almost-hidden smile, scanning the room behind a mask of practiced grace. But it was Cullen who stole Ophelia’s breath for a moment.

She had grown used to seeing him encased in his armor—the polished symbol of command and duty he wore like a second skin. Even now, he seldom appeared in anything else. But tonight, for the first time, she saw him in formal wear.

The red Orlesian coat framed his tall figure with dignified boldness, tailored perfectly across his broad shoulders. Gold embroidery lined the seams, catching the candlelight like flickering firelight, and a deep blue sash added solemnity to the regal ensemble. But it was the lion-shaped pin over his chest that truly made her smile— Ma vir harel din’an,  my brave lion. The golden crest glowed softly, resting over his heart. 

Her heart ached with affection.

“Inquisitor, are we ready?” Josephine asked gently.

Ophelia turned to her and smiled the way Vivienne had taught her: poised, mysterious, unreadable. “Let’s play the game.”

She undid the clasp of the thick velvet cloak draped over her shoulders and handed it to the waiting servant beside her. The effect was instant—gasps fluttered through the air like moths drawn to flame.

Ophelia stood beneath the chandelier light in a gown that did not simply adorn her—it crowned her.

The dress was a deep, emerald green that shimmered like pine needles kissed by morning dew. It wrapped around her torso like a second skin, sculpting every curve with reverent precision, the fabric gliding over her waist and hips as if the gown itself admired her. Golden embroidery—delicate, Dalish in design—traced across the bodice like living vines, rising along her sides and neckline in a pattern reminiscent of the Vallaslin. The high collar framed her graceful neck, ruffled gently like petals opening at dusk.

From her shoulders, sheer gossamer drapes flowed down her arms and back—translucent and ethereal, embroidered with glowing thread that mimicked falling leaves and stars. They moved with her like whispers of wind through ancient trees, catching the light with every step.

The skirt—made of fine, dark silk—poured down to the floor in layered waves, light and fluid. It swayed with her movements like water obeying her body’s rhythm. The gown was a perfect marriage between Dalish wildness and Orlesian extravagance—a creation that spoke not of assimilation, but power. Identity.

And she wore it like a flame.

Jewels adorned her hair—softly pinned braids looped with golden chains, her long dark curls cascading behind pointed ears proudly on display. She was not hiding her bloodline tonight—she was wearing it like a crown.

Every eye in the ballroom was on her. Some with awe, others with envy. Many with longing. Whispers passed from behind painted masks, and though none dared speak openly, the message was clear: she had arrived .

But beneath all that splendor, Leliana’s careful touch remained. Underneath the silk, Ophelia wore a layer of light armor hidden from view, and beneath her skirt, two slender daggers were strapped—one to each thigh. The Inquisitor was still a blade, no matter how beautiful the sheath.

Her advisors walked first, descending the grand staircase with practiced ease, flanking the Duke like shadows in a chess game. Leliana with her calculated grace, Josephine with poised elegance, and Cullen… his back tall and straight, radiating quiet strength, though she caught the way his fingers fidgeted briefly at his side.

Ophelia remained behind—poised at the threshold of the marble steps, teetering between breath and movement. The ballroom buzzed below like a hive. The chandeliers glittered above her like stars she couldn’t touch.

She stood alone at the top, every whisper and every glance sharpening like needles against her skin.

They’re all looking at me. Her gaze swept across the crowd—and met his. Cullen.

His amber eyes found hers with such raw intensity that everything else blurred for half a second. But as soon as their eyes locked, he looked away—quickly, stiffly—turning his attention back toward the Duke. His cheeks, however, betrayed him, blooming a soft, unmistakable pink.

Her heart thudded once—just once—and then the moment was broken by a voice that echoed across the hall.

“And now presenting: Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalon, and accompanying him… Lady Inquisitor Lavellan.”

That was her cue.

She inhaled, steady and low.  No distractions. Just keep playing.

Her chin lifted. She descended.

Each step felt deliberate, rehearsed, yet impossibly exposed. The gown swayed like water with every movement, the golden embroidery catching candlelight and casting flickers of green-gold across the floor. Her heels tapped gently against the marble, yet the sound echoed louder in her head than it did in the room. The murmurs rose—sharp, curious, hungry.

“She’s so young…”
“Is that elvhen embroidery?”
“She’s beautiful—dangerous, that one…”

She smiled softly, just enough. The same smile Vivienne had made her practice until her cheeks ached—not too wide, not too cold. Mysterious. Elusive. Powerful.

Her eyes scanned the room as she passed in front of her advisors, her every movement fluid and intentional. There, in the distance, a subtle shift in the crowd: Empress Celene had emerged.

Perfect.

Ophelia had her attention.

She did not rush. Her shoulders remained relaxed, her posture regal, every inch the vision of a noble who belonged—no, commanded—the space.

As Vivienne had instructed, she stopped respectfully and bowed, not deeply, but with a sweeping grace that allowed her gossamer sleeves to ripple like wings around her. It was a dancer’s bow—artful, reverent, but never submissive.

And still the man´s voice continued behind her, extolling titles and tales, praising her valor in Haven, her rise from elvhen blood to the highest station in Thedas. But she barely heard it.

All that mattered was each step, each breath, each calculated moment until she reached the end of the marble corridor.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, trying—failing—to relax. He hated this sort of gathering. All the posturing and politics, the game behind the Game: smile, nod, respond with questions, store every idle comment like a blade for later use. The fake laughter, the feigned warmth, the whispered daggers behind every fan and goblet.

Andraste preserve me , he thought, jaw tightening as he forced his shoulders to remain squared, his eyes alert. Just in case.

Then he saw her.

It was impossible not to. Ophelia moved through the crowd like she belonged to the very bones of the palace. All poise and elegance, as if she’d been raised in its marbled halls. She listened intently to the people around her, head tilted just so, lips curving in a soft smile. She laughed once—light, unguarded—and it cut through the noise like music.

And Maker… she was glowing.

Golden ornaments shimmered in her dark hair, catching every flicker of chandelier light as she turned her head. The dress clung to her in just the right places, regal yet arresting. And they were noticing—everyone. Men, women, nobles, spies. All drifting closer. Hovering.

They all wanted something from her. That, Cullen knew with certainty. But if any of them thought they could get it without his eyes on them—

He stiffened.

A group approached, their masks tilted in his direction. At first, he thought they might be passing by. But no—they were watching him. Closing in. Like a pack of wolves circling a wary hound.

They stopped, forming a loose semicircle around him, their smiles too sharp.

By the Maker… not now , he thought, straightening as instinct prickled at the back of his neck.

The Game, it seemed, was turning its eyes on him now.

“Commander of the Inquisition, are you not?” a woman purred with an unmistakable Orlesian lilt.

Cullen gave a curt nod. “I am.”
No need to offer more. Speak plainly. Stay in control. Don’t let them circle too close.

“A beautiful pendant you wear, Commander,” a man added, stepping in far too close for comfort.

“Oh yes, a lion—brave and strong,” another woman chimed in, her eyes gleaming behind her mask. “Is it Orlesian?” she asked, reaching forward and brushing her fingers across the golden pin resting on his chest.

Cullen stepped back instinctively, but before he could reply, a different man placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Can you… rawr ?” he asked, mockingly deepening his voice.

Laughter erupted around him.

Maker’s breath… Cullen thought with a grimace, rolling his eyes so subtly it barely registered. He removed the man’s hand with a firm but restrained gesture and cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. No weakness. No reaction.

So he laughed—forced, hollow, the sound barely recognizable even to himself. But he tried.

“Do I look like I rawr ?” he asked, immediately regretting how the words tasted in his mouth.

“Oh, I bet you do,” the first woman replied, her voice dipping into something suggestive.

“In battle and in bed…” another added with a knowing chuckle. “Do you dance, Commander?”

Cullen’s cheeks flushed scarlet. He couldn’t help it. He had never been the center of this kind of attention—and frankly, he didn’t understand what they wanted from him. Or maybe he did, and that made it worse. Everything felt uncomfortably exposed, even under the weight of the masks. Perhaps because of them.

He cleared his throat again, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t.”

“You made him blush, dear,” the man teased.

“Commander?”

That voice—clear, confident, and unmistakably hers—cut through the tension like a divine intervention. It was Ophelia. Thank the Maker.

The crowd parted slightly as she approached, golden embroidery shimmering under the chandeliers, her presence commanding without force. But the others still lingered, still too close for comfort.

Ophelia’s brow furrowed slightly as she took in the group around Cullen—too many, too close. Something tightened in her chest. What did they want from him? Why hadn't they moved?

She let a practiced smile bloom across her face, sweet and false in all the right ways.

“Oh, Commander. There is something I need to show you,” she said, her voice deliberately airy, theatrical even.

Before any of them could respond, Ophelia gracefully slid her arm through Cullen’s and tugged him away.
“Excuse us,” she said sweetly, nodding with that perfectly practiced smile as she guided him out of the crowd.

They walked side by side through the ornate halls, her hand resting lightly on his arm, grounding him.

“You seem to have attracted a following,” she murmured, her voice soft and amused. “Who were those people?”

“I don’t know,” Cullen muttered, clearly irritated. “But they wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Ophelia chuckled. “Not enjoying the attention, then?”

She stopped walking and turned toward him. They’d reached a small balcony just off the grand hall—quiet, private. The music was still audible, but distant, softened by the thick velvet curtains behind them. The cool air kissed her bare shoulders.

Cullen let out a sigh, half-laughing. “Hardly.”

Then he looked at her. Really looked.

“But… yours,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “Yours is the only attention worth having.”

There was a softness in his expression, something unguarded and gentle that caught her breath. The way he said it—quiet, earnest, almost seductive—felt like a confession wrapped in silk.

Ophelia blinked, a slow smile rising on her lips as her cheeks flushed warm. It was the first time Cullen had openly expressed anything resembling… want. Yes, he’d told her she mattered, that he trusted her—but this was different. This wasn’t about duty or loyalty.

This was about her.

“I like that,” she said quietly, smiling at him, something tender blooming behind her dark, painted eyes.

Cullen couldn’t look away. He was completely taken—by her voice, her smile, the way her eyes seemed to glow under the moonlight and kohl. That look she wore tonight, all lined in shadow and gold—it suited her. She was mesmerizing. Powerful.

He noticed the soft blush on her cheeks and wondered, Did I do that?

“What, uh…” he stammered, suddenly self-conscious. “Did you… actually need to show me something?”

Ophelia laughed, the sound light and honest. “No,” she said, grinning. “I was saving your ass from that pack of Orlesian jackals.”

He laughed too, finally relaxing.

“Orlesians,” she added, shaking her head. “They’re… very intense.”

She had experienced it now—the real thing. The weight of it. People swarming to speak to her, to brush her sleeve, to share a word, a glance, a secret. It was strange… overwhelming.
But she knew it was all part of the game.

Wasn’t it?

She sighed softly. Maybe she needed a break too.

“Inquisitor? Is that… Inquisitor Lavellan?”

Creators, Ophelia thought with a wince. No time to breathe—not here. Not tonight.

She turned to Cullen with a regretful smile. “I have to get back,” she said gently, already shifting her posture to slip into the role once more. She glanced at the group watching her from across the room, their eyes sharp with interest.

She nodded to him, lowering her voice. “I’ll let you know if I find anything… important.”

Before she could take a step away, more people appeared—eyes trained on them like hawks circling a fresh secret. They didn’t even pretend to be subtle. Hungry for gossip. Desperate for advantage.

And then—

Cullen reached for her hand. His fingers brushed the silk of her glove as he lifted it to his lips. The kiss was long, deliberate, courtly… and devastating.

“A pleasure, Inquisitor,” he said, voice low and rich, his gaze never leaving hers.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe.

Oh.
Oh, he was playing.
Wasn’t he?

She held his gaze, the barest smirk at the edge of her lips, and then—graceful as ever—she turned and stepped into the crowd.

And just like that, she was gone.

Chapter Text

The music never truly stopped at the Winter Palace. It flowed from one melody to the next like water in a fountain—graceful, endless, ornate. Cullen wasn’t fond of dancing. He’d said it before, even joked about it. But as he stood at the edge of the ballroom, a goblet untouched in his hand, he had never felt more out of place.

Because all he could see was her.

Ophelia.

She moved through the crowd like moonlight skimming water—fluid, serene, glowing. Draped in twilight-green silk and stardust, she was nothing short of breathtaking. Nobles flocked to her like moths to a flame, offering compliments, conversation, opportunities. And though he knew it was part of the evening’s performance, part of the role she played… he hated it.

He caught her laughing—tilting her head slightly, a gloved hand at her chest. The sound rang like chimes. His chest tightened. It wasn’t his laugh she was sharing. Not this time.

A noble approached her, tall and confident, his outfit glittering obnoxiously with Orlesian excess. Cullen recognized the smirk, the gleam in his eyes—hunger, disguised as charm. He asked her for a dance.

Ophelia paused, hesitating for only a breath. Then, with poise, she nodded. Took the offered hand. Let herself be swept into the center of the room.

Cullen’s jaw clenched. They danced. Her gown shimmered beneath the chandeliers. The nobleman’s hand lingered too long at her waist. Their steps mirrored perfectly—too perfectly. And when the song ended, they bowed, and she walked away, disappearing from Cullen's view.

It shouldn’t matter to him, all this interaction she was having. After all, she was the Inquisitor. Ophelia was here to be seen, admired, heard. It was politics. He knew that. But still—

Why did it feel like every glance she spared for someone else chipped away at him?

“Commander.”

Cullen blinked. Josephine stood beside him, a soft smile on her lips and a goblet of wine in hand.

“You’re wearing the pin!” she said warmly, eyes lighting up as she noticed it. “Leliana and I thought the lion suited you perfectly.”

He returned a faint smile, gentle and restrained. “Thank Ophelia. She convinced me to wear it.” His fingers brushed the lion’s head. He remembered the words she had spoken in Dalish as she pinned it to his coat. He’d meant to ask her what they meant.

“She’s quite remarkable, isn’t she?” Josephine continued. “She’s playing the game so well,” her tone careful but sincere. “I’ve already heard whispers. Some noble families are talking—possible alliances. Marriages.”

The word hit him like cold steel. Marriages? Cullen blinked. “That’s… not our purpose here.”

“No, but the Inquisition’s strength lies in perception as much as power,” Josephine replied. “And tonight, she’s a vision. Everyone wants a piece of her. Figuratively, of course.”

He wasn’t so sure how figuratively.

Josephine offered a faint smile. “Leliana and I are making our rounds. Keeping attention off her while she investigates.” Then, softer: “You might want to do the same, Commander. You’re starting to look… tense.”

Before he could respond, she had already melted back into the crowd.

The next hour passed in a blur. People clustered around him—drawn by the cut of his uniform, the weight of his title, and the ever-seductive promise of power. Women in elaborate gowns leaned close, their perfume cloying and sweet. Fingers brushed his arms mid-conversation, men clapped his back, offering half-baked military insights with smug certainty.

He nodded, smiled, answered every question about the Inquisition’s might, its reach, its plans. But his mind was elsewhere. Wondering where she was. Hoping she was safe.

“Commander Cullen, is it?”

The voice was smooth, indulgent. A young nobleman approached, swirling a glass of wine with the careless ease of someone who had never heard the word "consequence." His grin was all polished charm, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

“I am,” Cullen replied, tone clipped but polite.

The man stepped closer, as if they were old friends sharing a secret.

“Pardon my candor, Commander, but your Inquisitor…” He whistled softly. “She’s something else. An elf, no less. There’s a certain wild, untamed beauty to her. And those markings…” He raised his brows suggestively. “Exotic. Makes a man wonder what other… artistry she might be hiding beneath those robes.”

Cullen stilled. His hand clenched around the goblet. Just once. A sharp, involuntary twitch of muscle. The crystal sang under the pressure—a soft ping, on the edge of shattering.

He set the glass down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then turned. The change was subtle but unmistakable—shoulders straightening, posture sharpening, a glacial stillness settling over him like drawn steel.

“The vallaslin,” he said, voice low, “is a Dalish symbol of faith and identity. Reducing it to ornament only reveals your ignorance.”

The noble blinked, startled.

But Cullen wasn’t finished “she led the Inquisition through Haven’s ashes. She commands soldiers, mages, and nobles alike. She doesn’t need your admiration.”

He stepped in—not touching, not threatening, but close enough that the air between them tightened. “But if you ever speak about her like that again…” Cullen’s voice dipped into something quieter, darker. “Be very sure you know who’s listening.”

A pause. A warning. Dead silence.

Then Cullen stepped back. “Excuse me.” And he was gone, leaving the nobleman stranded in a puddle of his own discomfort, wine glass trembling in his hand.

He stepped out onto the balcony, cold air biting at his cheeks, trying to cool the rage beneath his skin. Cullen exhaled, fog blooming in the night air. From here, the music felt like a distant echo, the sounds of laughter, silk and lies dulled by stone walls and the heavy ache in his chest.

His grip tightened on the balcony rail. He didn't like not knowing where she was. It made him feel disgusted that while nobles whispered behind fans and flirted behind masks, she walked the knife’s edge for their sake—for all of them. A voice cut through the silence, soft but deliberate.

“You’ll dent the marble if you keep clenching it like that.”

Cullen turned sharply. Leliana stood behind him, hands clasped behind her back, her posture poised and unshakable. A small, knowing smile curved her lips, the confidence in her words mirrored in her stance. Her eyes, sharp as daggers, fixed on him with quiet intensity.

“I thought Josephine was the one assigned to ease tensions,” he muttered.

“She’s inside, smiling politely and calming down a nobleman who was left… a little nervous by the Commander of the Inquisition,” she said, stepping closer, her voice dropping.

Cullen didn’t respond. He didn't feel guilty at all.

Leliana studied him for a moment, then folded her arms. “You’re worried.”

“She’s been gone too long.”

“She’s gathering information. Moving quietly.” Leliana tilted her head, voice almost fond. “It’s what we came for.” She smiled. “She's playing the game excellently, I must admit.”

Cullen exhaled, the sound almost a groan. “Too well,” he murmured.

Leliana let out a soft, knowing laugh. “Don’t worry, Commander. She’ll be fine. Dorian, Solas, and Blackwall are with her.”

He gave a bitter chuckle, short and humorless. “I know.”

His hand scrubbed over the back of his neck, fingers twitching, restless. “It sickens me—how they all circle her now. Like hounds scenting blood. Every noble suddenly enchanted, every eye following her. Maker, it’s like they’re—”

“Like they want something from her?” Leliana offered.

He glanced at her sharply. “Yes.”

“And you don’t?”

The question landed like a dagger—clean and cold. Straight to the jugular.

“Me?” He blinked, startled. “I don’t—what are you implying?”

He cleared his throat, standing straighter, as if that might still the storm inside him.

“I want our Inquisitor to be safe. I just… I don’t trust these people. This whole situation.”

Leliana swirled the wine in her glass, watching him. “Mm. Funny. Sounds more like you're worried about marriage proposals than state secrets.”

“I am not,” he snapped—sharper than he intended. “I know how important this is,” he added quickly, trying to steady himself. “For the Inquisition. For Thedas. I’m not some lovesick fool—”

“But,” Leliana interrupted, her voice sliding beneath his defenses like a knife under armor, “you can’t stop thinking about Ophelia. And her new admirers.”

He broke then, turning to her, exasperated. “What if I am?” The words came out raw, unfiltered, too loud in the quiet corridor.

“I can’t stand it,” he went on. “Another pompous lord approaching me like I’m her—what? Handler? Asking about her vallaslin, her bloodline, her beauty—one of them had the gall to ask if her markings continued beneath her dress.”

His fists clenched. “They talk about her like she’s a prize. A jewel to claim. A thing.”

His voice cracked—low, furious. “She’s not theirs to covet or parade or—”

He cut himself off, breath ragged, the weight of it all crashing down around him.

“They don’t know her,” he said, quieter now. “Not like I do…” He exhaled. “I thought I could keep my distance. But every time she walks away without looking back—” He shook his head, jaw clenched. “Maker, I can’t breathe until I see her again.”

He said it softly, almost like a murmur.

Leliana stepped closer. Her voice, when it came, was soft. Steady. Unrelenting.

“You’re in love with her.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t gentle. It was a truth, clean and undeniable.

Cullen froze. The world went still—the ballroom music, the wind, all of it—gone.

Something inside him cracked, deep and quiet. He looked away, as if scorched.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice frayed.

“It never is,” Leliana murmured, stepping into the space he left behind.

A figure emerged from the shadows—a scout. “Nightingale,” they said. “The Inquisitor is returning. She made contact with a servant loyal to Briala. She has important information.”

“Tell her to meet me in the servants’ gallery. We’ll keep it quiet. Keep the nobles dancing,” Leliana said.

The scout bowed and vanished.

Cullen turned to the glass doors, toward the faint golden light spilling from the ballroom. Laughter still flowed like honey. No one suspected a thing. She was back. Safe. For now. Still, he didn’t feel relieved. Not yet.

“Stop worrying, Cullen,” Leliana said, brushing past him. “I’ll keep your secret, I always have.”

She paused at the edge of the corridor. Looked back. “Oh, and try not to tell her how many nobles you nearly throttled tonight.”

A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “At least… not right away.” And then she was gone, her cloak drifting behind her like smoke on the wind.

Cullen stayed where he was, staring at the empty doorway—as if she might step through it again, tired but whole, steady as always.
He didn’t move until the cold had crept through the seams of his uniform and settled deep in his bones.

At last, he turned—and went back inside.

Ophelia slipped through one of the side doors, her steps silent despite the echoing marble halls. She was tired. Not from battle—no, she knew how to survive in forests, how to wield blades, how to fight for her life in the dark.

This was something else entirely.

It wasn’t the mission, though that alone had been enough: navigating foreign politics, intercepting whispers of assassination, protecting Empress Celene without alerting a room full of spies and traitors. No—it was everything wrapped around it. The ball, the dancing, the endless parade of noblemen and their probing eyes. The smiles that weren’t hers. The silken masks. The pressure of playing pretend in a palace built for secrets.

And the attention.

That had surprised her. Not just because of how many noticed her—but because of how she noticed them noticing. How her skin prickled under the weight of so many gazes, hungry and calculating. How the heat curled low in her stomach when she realized what it was: desire. Not theirs. Hers.

Something old had stirred inside her. Something that hadn’t been touched in so long it had nearly turned to ash. And there was only one person who’d ever made it burn again.

Her eyes scanned the crowd again, and there he was—in the far corner of the ballroom, half in shadow, half bathed in gold light. Cullen. Stiff in his posture, listening politely to a noble’s chatter, but his eyes kept drifting. Searching.

She felt something hot curl inside her chest. Jealousy. Guilt. Need. This wasn’t the time. But she wanted that time. She wanted him.

She didn’t wait.

“Commander,” she said, her voice cutting through the music like a taut thread snapping.

He turned at once—and when he saw her, his shoulders fell in that rare, unguarded way they only did for her.

“Oph—Inquisitor,” he breathed, like he hadn’t exhaled in hours.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she reached for him, her fingers brushing his gloved hand. A spark leapt between them—quiet, fierce, undeniable.

“Come with me,” she said, already pulling him from the crowd. He didn’t hesitate. Mid-conversation, mid-breath—none of it mattered. He followed.

She said nothing more as they slipped out of the ballroom, her grip steady around his. Cullen followed wordlessly, heart pounding harder with every step. It wasn’t like her to be this bold, this deliberate—but Maker, he liked it. No. He craved it. It was unraveling him.

They reached a quiet antechamber tucked behind velvet curtains, dimly lit by flickering sconces. A forgotten space for whispered conversations—or stolen moments.

The door shut softly behind them. She turned to face him, and for a second, all Cullen could do was look.

Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, her dress clinging to her with the faintest sheen of sweat from dancing, heat, and adrenaline. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips full and parted—like she’d just run, or just stopped running. But it was her eyes that shattered him. Desire, pure and unmistakable, burned there.

“Cullen,” she said, voice low, her accent like smoke curling around his name. “I’ve been pushed and pulled all night… hands on me, strangers pretending they know me, flirting like it means something.”

She stepped closer, and her hands found his chest, pressing against the hard lines beneath his formal coat. He didn’t breathe. Not when her fingers slid lower, tracing the shape of him. Not when her palms came up again, cool and hungry against his skin.

“But I don't want them,” she murmured, gaze locked with his. “I want you.”

He was frozen—stunned, lit from within. She’d touched him before: in battle, in comfort, in fleeting moments when the world was quiet. But this… this was something deeper. Her hands were claiming him now, slowly rising to his face, her fingers grazing his jaw, his mouth.

Cullen let out a shaky breath. The pull between them was unbearable.

Still unsure, his hands came to rest at her waist. She was warm beneath his touch, alive and trembling.

“Ophelia…” he whispered, but it barely made it out. She leaned in, her forehead brushing his, her lips hovering a breath away. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Say something. Or stop me.”

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He pulled her in instead—and her mouth met his with a suddenness that stole the air from both their lungs.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire, hunger and need.

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss with weeks—months—of aching poured into it. Cullen matched her with every ounce of longing he’d buried, kissing her like he might never get another chance, like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

His hands gripped her waist, then her back, dragging her flush against him. She fit against him like she had always belonged there, her body molding to his with maddening perfection.

He was burning. Shaking. Devouring. And she gave in to him just as hungrily. Her fingers moved to his jaw, then down his chest, pulling at his coat like she wanted him closer, more, now.

His lips broke from hers only to travel to her neck, kissing down until she gasped.

“Cullen—” she breathed, voice trembling.

Her breath caught against his mouth as he pressed her to the wall, needing to feel every part of her, to remember this. She clutched at him, desperate, her fingers fisting in the fabric at his shoulders. It had been so long since she had let herself want. So long since she’d allowed her desire to speak louder than duty.

And she wanted him. Only him.

Then—voices. Laughter. Footsteps.

They froze. Their eyes turned to the door, and back to each other.

Flushed lips. Wild eyes. Both of them breathing hard, lips parted, stunned by the intensity of what they had just done.

“Creators…” Ophelia whispered, the words trembling out of her like a prayer. Realization hit like a wave of cold seawater crashing against her chest. “Cullen… I…” But the rest withered on her tongue. She couldn’t find the words. She wasn’t sure they existed. She was shocked by herself—by how easily her control had unraveled. How much she had wanted to let it. Her hands were still on him, palms flat against his chest, feeling the heat of his body, the hard rhythm of his breath, the way his shoulders lifted and fell beneath her touch.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t pull away. Even as her mind whispered she should. She was still burning. Was this wrong? Was she crossing a line she couldn’t return from? Was this desire… dangerous?

Cullen searched her eyes, then looked at her mouth—kiss-bruised, trembling—and back to her again. Slowly, gently, he raised a gloved hand to her cheek, brushing it with reverent care.

“Are you… do you…” He faltered, unable to find the words. He wanted to ask if she was okay. If this was real. If she wanted him like he wanted her.

She nodded faintly, her lips trembling. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know what came over me.”

He shook his head. “No. Don’t apologize.” He stepped closer, voice rough. “I’ve been wanting this… for so long.” He exhaled, his restraint unraveling by a thread.

Her breath caught.

So long? Those words curled inside her like smoke, thick and intoxicating. She felt it in her ribs, her throat, her fingertips—how the dam of unspoken moments between them had finally cracked. Her skin buzzed with the echo of his voice, and for a heartbeat, everything else vanished. The war, the ballroom, the title of Inquisitor. It was just him. And her. And this moment, hanging between them like a held breath.

“Maker’s breath, Ophelia—you have no idea how difficult it’s been… watching everyone want you and knowing I couldn’t—shouldn’t….”

She nearly gasped. Those words hit her like a flame—too much, too honest, too real. All the quiet glances, the tension coiled in shared silences, the ache she’d buried beneath duty—it hadn’t been one-sided. He had wanted her too. Fiercely. Helplessly.

And then he kissed her again. Tender with passion. Like he needed to prove to himself that this wasn’t some lyrium-fueled dream.

Her knees almost gave out.

She melted into him instantly, arms winding around his neck, pulling him close. She kissed him back—fierce, wanting—until the heat between them surged like it could tear the world apart.

Then—knocking. Sharp and sudden. Muffled voices trying the door.

Cullen froze.

Ophelia’s heart slammed against her ribs. For one breathless moment, they stood frozen—flushed, panting, their bodies still drawn to each other like magnets. The kiss still burned on her lips, like wildfire crackling just beneath her skin.

Then—the door rattled again. Someone was trying to get in.

“Dirth’ena falon,” Ophelia hissed.

She scanned the room, recognizing the layout from her earlier investigations. “There’s a way out,” she whispered. “Follow me.”

Without a second thought, she grabbed his hand and led him to a hidden panel in the wall. With a firm push, it creaked open, revealing a narrow passage cloaked in shadows. They slipped inside just as the locked door behind them rattled again.

Inside, it was quiet. Dim. Their breath was the only sound. They moved fast, descending worn stone steps into an old servants’ corridor. Dust and candlelight clung to the air like forgotten secrets. Cullen kept close, his hand still in hers.

How she knew about this, he didn’t know—but it only deepened his awe. Maker, he thought, I love that woman.

At the bottom of the stairs, the passage opened to a discreet door leading to the palace courtyard. Cullen eased it open. Cool night air hit their skin, stealing the last of the heat from their flushed faces. In the distance, the music resumed—a waltz, soft and elegant—like nothing had happened.

They stood there for a moment, staring at each other like co-conspirators clutching the world’s most delicious secret—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hearts still racing in sync.

And then—they laughed. Quiet, breathless laughter, bubbling up from the sheer absurd joy of it all. Of the heat, the risk, the wildness of what they’d done. Of almost being caught. Of finally, finally giving in.

Ophelia leaned back against the stone wall, her hair slightly mussed, her lips still tingling. Cullen’s eyes softened as he looked at her, like he was trying to commit every detail to memory—because part of him still couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

She reached out, brushing a finger over the edge of his collar. “We’re going to have to pretend like none of this happened, aren’t we?” she said, a crooked grin pulling at her lips.

Cullen gave a huff of a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I can try. But I’m not sure I’ve ever been very good at pretending.”

There was a pause—soft, full of unspoken things.

“I should get back,” he said at last, his voice low, reluctant. “If I’m gone too long, someone’s bound to start asking questions.”

She nodded, the smile on her face dimming into something quieter, gentler. “Right. Of course.”

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he reached for her hand, lifting it with a reverence that made her heart ache.

“I don’t… I mean—what just happened…” he faltered, cleared his throat, tried again. “It wasn’t nothing. I hope you know that.”

Her cheeks went warm, lips curving in a soft, knowing smile. “I know,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. As if anything louder might break the fragile magic of the moment.

He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Not polished. Not perfect. But utterly sincere. “Ophelia,” he said at last—just her name, but the way he said it was like he was still holding it in his mouth, afraid to let it go.

Then he turned and slipped back into the palace, his absence pulling at her like a tide.

She lingered in the garden a little longer, heart still echoing with his voice, his touch. Smiling like she had a secret the world couldn’t take from her.

And then—she felt it. Eyes on her.

She turned.

Dorian stood a few paces away, one brow raised, arms crossed. His smile was pure wicked amusement.

Oh, Creators. He definitely saw them.

She sighed, rubbing her temple as she passed him. “Not a word.”

Dorian’s smirk deepened, lips twitching. “Darling… my silence is very expensive".

Chapter Text

“Dorian, stop it,” Ophelia hissed under her breath, glancing around like the shadows themselves might be listening.

“Oh, come now,” he said with a grin, sauntering up beside her. “You can’t expect me to ignore the way you just materialized out of shadows with Cullen in tow.”

“Dorian,” she warned, but her voice held no real fire.

He raised his brows, entirely unrepentant. “At least let me fix your hair before you face the crowd again. Unless, of course, you want to make a statement.”

Ophelia sighed, already surrendering. “Fine. But make it quick.”

“Quick?” He gasped, mock offended. “Do you want it done fast or fabulously ?”

“Dorian…” she groaned, rubbing her temple.

He hummed as he stepped behind her, fingers already working through the tangles with delicate precision. “Maker, it’s like someone ran their hands through this in a fit of wild—oh wait.”

“Dorian!”

He laughed, low and delighted. “I’m just saying, darling, if this is the aftermath, I’m surprised you’re still walking upright.”

Ophelia’s cheeks burned. “You are the worst. And you exaggerate—nothing happened.”

“Yes, and I don’t like men,” he quipped dryly. “I am the worst, and you do adore me.”

He paused for a moment, a wicked glint in his eye. “So? Was it everything you imagined? Or better?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mmm. That silence again,” he purred. “You know it only makes me more curious.”

Ophelia tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze. “After the mission,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Dorian’s eyes sparkled. “You promise? I want every scandalous detail. Preferably over wine. And with dramatic reenactments.”

She smirked. “Fine. But you’re buying the wine.”

“No darling, you are buying, I will be listening,” he said, with a flourish. He gave her hair one final, elegant twist and stepped back to inspect his handiwork. “There. You’re radiant again. Less ‘secret tryst,’ more ‘divine mystery.’”

They exchanged a grin and began walking side by side toward the ballroom.

“Back into the lion’s den,” Ophelia murmured.

“You were already there. Oh— you mean the ball. Yes, darling, yes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let’s concentrate on the mission, shall we?”

“Of course,” he said with mock solemnity, brushing one last strand of hair into place with surprising tenderness. “I’ll wait for your signal.” And then, softer, “Dazzle them into submission.” he said.

With that she walked back to the ball room. 

A laugh cut through the air—soft, refined, but with an edge that didn’t quite belong to the music.

“Inquisitor Lavellan.” The voice landed like velvet on stone. Ophelia turned.

Lady Florianne stood a few steps away, poised like a statue carved from alabaster and lace. Her gown shimmered in pale hues that caught the chandelier light like frost at dawn, her crystal mask glittering with every tilt of her head. She moved with a kind of theatrical elegance—as though the ballroom existed solely for her to glide across it.

“You’re far more elusive than I expected,” Florianne said, her tone playful “I was beginning to wonder if you were avoiding me.”

Ophelia offered a polite smile “of course not, my lady.”

Florianne’s lips curled. “Then you’ll forgive me for being bold.” She extended a hand, delicate and deliberate. “Dance with me?”

Not speak . Not meet . Not confer . Dance.

A seemingly harmless request. Courteous. Public. But even here, wrapped in gold and candlelight, Ophelia felt the weight of it. This was no idle invitation—it was a move. A calculated step in a game she had yet to fully see. She hesitated. Just enough for Florianne’s smile to sharpen at the edges.

“I would be honored,” Ophelia said carefully, every word measured. “But—before I accept—I must speak with my advisors. Only a moment.”

Florianne tilted her head, amusement flickering across her face like candlelight in a wine glass. “Of course. I understand. Even in Orlais, duty comes first.”

She bowed her head—graceful, unbothered, perfectly composed. “But don’t keep me waiting too long, dear Inquisitor,” she added, her voice lowering just enough to be intimate. “There’s so much I’d like to share.” Then she turned, her gown whispering behind her like a secret.

Ophelia stood still for a moment. The music resumed its glittering current around her, the court swaying and smiling, none of them suspecting the storm brewing beneath the floorboards. But she felt it in her bones. In the air. In the place just behind her ribs, where her instinct lived.

This wasn’t flirtation. This was a challenge.

She needed Josephine. Leliana. Cullen. Now.

She moved through the crowd with purpose, her steps quiet but charged. Florianne had made the first move.

Now it was her turn to respond.

Cullen returned to his post at the edge of the ballroom, clearing his throat as he reached for a goblet of wine. He stood straighter, adjusting his expression—composed, unreadable. As if nothing had happened.
He had to focus. The mission wasn’t over, and Thedas’s future still teetered on a blade’s edge. And here he was, spiraling over an emotional—no, physical —entanglement with the Inquisitor.

Maker’s breath... What was I thinking?
The guilt came swiftly, sharp and suffocating. Why had he let himself falter? Why hadn’t he stopped her—or himself? But he knew the answer. He wanted her. And if given the chance… he’d do it again.

He swallowed hard and adjusted the lion pin on his chest, fingers lingering over the metal like it might ground him.

“Finally, there you are,” came Josephine’s voice behind him, warm and measured.

He turned as she approached, poised as always despite the late hour. “The Empress’s cousin has arrived,” she said in a low voice. “Leliana and I overheard some rather troubling gossip surrounding her. We’ll need to watch her carefully.” Then her eyes narrowed just slightly. She tilted her head, a subtle smile playing at her lips.

“And… where were you, Commander?” she asked, teasing and suspicious.

He coughed gently and took a long sip of wine. “I—stepped outside. Needed a moment of fresh air.” He lied. Maker’s breath, he knew how bad he was at lying.

She arched a brow. “Mm. I see.”
Cullen forced a calm breath and looked away. “I just… I want this night to be over.”

Josephine studied him for a beat longer, then offered a small, knowing smile. She didn’t press—though her silence spoke volumes. Perhaps she assumed he'd finally allowed himself to mingle, perhaps even flirt. Not ideal for the image of the Inquisition… but it was a ball, after all.

“Have you seen the Inquisitor?” she asked.

“No,” he answered too quickly. Too sharp. Too rehearsed. Josephine blinked. “Oh… Alright.” She turned, then lit up. “Ah—there she is!”

Cullen’s heart leapt. His cheeks flushed hot, pulse pounding against his collar. Pretend nothing happened, he told himself. Pretend, pretend...

“Inquisitor,” Josephine greeted, ever composed—but her eyes, trained and sharp from years of political warfare, flicked over Ophelia’s hair freshly combed, the faint flush on her lips, the glow that wasn’t from the wine or the dancing. And then—just for a heartbeat—she caught the glance Ophelia gave Cullen.

Too soft. Too telling. Josephine’s lips twitched, barely suppressing a knowing smile. Oh, Leliana is going to love this.

She’d seen the signs before. The faint afterglow. The kind of dishevelment that no ballroom waltz could explain. Cullen, for his part, stood like a man trying very hard to impersonate a statue—except statues didn’t blush to the tips of their ears. They had kissed. Probably more. And judging by the look in Cullen’s eyes, it hadn’t left him.

Ophelia’s voice brought them back to the moment. “Lady Florianne has asked to dance with me,” she said cautiously. “I don’t know why, but something about her… unsettles me.”

“Finally, we’re all here,” Leliana said, appearing from the crowd with her usual eerie grace. “Please, Inquisitor. Continue.”

But even as she spoke, her gaze swept over the two of them. The Inquisitor, radiant and a touch too flushed. The Commander, hair slightly mussed and collar off-center. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. So. It finally happened.

Ophelia straightened, lowering her voice. “I spoke with Briala. And with Duke Gaspard. They both have their ambitions—but I’m not convinced either of them are behind the assassination attempt.”

“You’re right to be cautious,” Leliana said. “Speak with Florianne. Everyone at this ball is hiding something. Maybe hers is what we need.”

Ophelia nodded. “I will. Stay alert… something’s not right.”

And with that, she disappeared back into the crowd—walking straight toward Lady Florianne, poised and unreadable.

Cullen stayed frozen in place, he tried to say something do his advisor job but he felt out of words, he could still feel the echo of her hand lingering in his. Her kiss thrummed against his mouth like a memory too vivid to be real. Maker’s breath. What have I done?

He cleared his throat and adjusted the lion pin on his chest, again, anything to give his hands purpose. Focus. This is one of the most important missions for the Inquisition and Thedas. The Inquisition needs order, not distractions. Certainly not... whatever this is.

“So…” Leliana’s voice cut in, light and lethal. “Is that blush from the wine, Commander? Or… something else entirely?”

Cullen turned slowly. Too slowly. Stiff as ever.

Josephine gasped, scandalized. “Leliana!”

“What?” Leliana feigned innocence with expert precision. “He looks positively flushed. I thought perhaps he’d finally enjoyed himself.”

Cullen groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Oh, come now,” Josephine said with a sly smile, swirling her wine. “We all saw you leave with the Inquisitor—or rather, be whisked away by her—and now you’ve returned looking decidedly…” She paused, eyes glittering with mischief. “Well. Let’s just say you don’t look like a man who went out for fresh air .”

“She’s right,” Leliana added, circling him like a cat around a cornered bird. “Hair: rumpled. Collar: crooked. Eyes: dreamy. Honestly, Cullen, subtlety is important in espionage.”

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face trying to erase his now red face. “This is absurd.” Then he paused. He could lie. Deny it. Push it down. But the truth was— “I crossed a line,” he said quietly. “I know I did.”

Josephine’s smile softened. “Cullen,” she said gently, “you’re not the first to fall for someone they respect.”

“She’s not just someone,” he murmured, eyes still on the spot where Ophelia had vanished.

Leliana’s tone gentled too, though her smirk lingered. “Then maybe the line wasn’t as wrong as you think.”

He looked at them both—Josephine, elegant and kind; Leliana, sharp-eyed and strangely fond—and something in his chest began to loosen. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake? Maybe, for once, it was simply human. Josephine gave Cullen’s arm a final pat. “Just don’t give the court anything more to whisper about. We’re already juggling assassins and alliances—no need to add scandal to the pile.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what to say—or how to feel. For the first time in weeks, the guilt didn’t strangle him. The tightness in his chest had eased... but not completely. The mission was still unfolding, and now Ophelia was about to dance with someone who felt dangerous .

He cleared his throat, gaze drifting toward the ballroom.
“We should move closer. The Inquisitor is going to dance with Lady Florianne, and... well, if anything happens, we’ll be near.”

Leliana nodded, already scanning the room with a spy’s precision. “Agreed. I’ll inform Dorian, Solas, and Blackwall. They need to be on alert as well.”

Josephine adjusted her sash, her expression smoothing into diplomatic calm.
“Let’s not take any chances.”

Cullen gave one last glance toward the ballroom doors—then followed.
“Let’s go.”

They stood near the edge of the ballroom, Cullen’s eyes locked on her.

Ophelia. He should’ve been watching the room. Tracking movements, mapping exits, reading alliances with a soldier’s discipline. But all he could see— all he could feel—was her.

She moved across the floor like a flame wrapped in silk, every step in perfect harmony with Lady Florianne’s. The crowd had parted to watch them, nobles whispering behind fans, masks tilted in admiration. The applause wasn’t loud, but it echoed like thunder in his chest.

Ophelia wasn’t just dancing. She was performing. And she was magnificent. Graceful. Controlled. Dazzling in a way that made him ache. Her movements were deliberate, effortless—and beneath the elegance, Cullen saw it. The precision. The tension in her shoulders. The careful calculation behind every glance and turn.

He knew her too well. This wasn’t ease. It was armor. And Florianne was circling her like a predator cloaked in pearls. Each step was a test, each smile a blade sharpened on civility. Her words brushed against Ophelia’s ear like poison disguised as perfume.

Cullen’s jaw clenched. The desire to step in, to break protocol and pull her away—to shield her—burned through him like wildfire. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Because she didn’t need saving.

She was matching Florianne beat for beat, danger for danger, wearing diplomacy like a blade hidden in plain sight. Her voice was low and melodic as she answered Florianne’s murmurings, her expression unreadable to all but him. He saw the tightness in her smile. The flicker of warning in her eyes. She knew. She knew this wasn’t a dance. It was a threat wrapped in silk and waltz time.

The court gasped softly as they spun again—so close, their skirts brushing, their masks shining like twin moons. Cullen heard the whispers swirl behind him like smoke:

“What a statement…”

“Florianne always did enjoy dangerous company.”

“Does the Inquisitor know what she’s doing?”

She did. And it scared the hell out of him. Because every second she stayed in that woman’s arms, smiling like she wasn’t one step from a dagger, every second the court laughed and applauded, oblivious, every second she danced that line between grace and peril— it tore at him. He'd kissed her less than an hour ago. Held her in his arms like she was something holy. And now she stood before the wolves, unflinching, wearing that same flushed mouth and fierce glint in her eyes.

She was brilliance incarnate. But if something happened to her tonight… I’ll never forgive myself.

Lady Florianne leaned in again, her smile too wide, too pleased with herself. Ophelia didn’t move. She only laughed—a breathless, perfect sound—and spun them both back into view.

The court burst into applause again, enchanted by the show. Cullen didn’t clap. He didn’t move. Instead, he watched. Eyes fixed on her like a hawk over the battlefield.

Ophelia and Florianne came to a stop, the last notes of the waltz lingering in the air like perfume. With a graceful dip of her head, Florianne released her hand, and just like that, the performance was over.

It was their cue.

Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen moved in from the edge of the crowd, slipping through the throng with subtle urgency.

“You’ll be the talk of the court for months,” Josephine said, eyes still wide with surprise. “We should take you dancing more often.”

Ophelia let out a breath and managed a faint smirk. “I’d happily dance again—” her eyes flicked sideways, just for a second, meeting Cullen’s gaze “—just not with Corypheus.”

Josephine stifled a laugh. “I promise not to invite him to your next ball.”

Cullen cleared his throat, bringing the moment back to the reason they were all here. “What did the Grand Duchess say?”

The four of them moved discreetly toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, near the shadowed archway beside the wall.

“She tried to convince me Gaspard is behind the assassination plot,” Ophelia said, her voice low. “But I’m not sure I believe her.”

“Florianne and her brother are thick as thieves,” Leliana murmured, “but she’d sell him out in a heartbeat if it meant saving herself.”

“Then... the attack will happen tonight,” Cullen added grimly, voice tense.

“Warning Celene won’t change anything,” Josephine said with a shake of her head. “She needs these negotiations to succeed. To flee would be to admit defeat.”

“Then perhaps…” Leliana’s eyes narrowed, cold and calculating, “we let her die.”

Ophelia’s head snapped around. “What?” she hissed, her voice sharp. “We came here to protect her, not to stand by while she’s murdered.”

“What Corypheus wants is chaos,” Leliana replied, unfazed. “And even with Celene alive, chaos is still possible. If we want to stop him, the Empire must remain strong. That means someone must emerge from tonight victorious.”

Her gaze swept to Cullen and Josephine.

“And it doesn’t need to be Celene,” Cullen said quietly. "she's right".

Ophelia stared at him, stunned. “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?” The pressure in her chest mounted—anger, disbelief, dread. This wasn’t what she signed up for. This wasn’t what the Inquisition stood for.

Leliana’s voice was cool as steel. “Sometimes the best path is not the easiest one.”

“You’re asking me to decide what’s best for Orlais ?” Ophelia asked, her voice rough with emotion.

“More than that,” Cullen said. “Whoever controls the Imperial throne will affect all of Thedas.”

She crossed her arms, eyes darting between them. A knot tightened in her chest, heavy with doubt. This burden—this impossible decision—why did it have to fall on her?

“We can’t stop Corypheus without choosing a side,” Leliana added, voice sharpened. “You must support someone, or all will be lost.”

Ophelia’s jaw clenched. “Then we support Celene. She’s the rightful Empress. Isn’t that what matters?”

Josephine stepped in gently. “Thank you,” she said softly. “She’s led Orlais until now. That should count for something.”

“She's also led it to this,” Cullen said. “I’d rather support Gaspard—assuming Florianne’s wrong about him.”

“I say Briala,” Leliana said firmly. “She could bring real change. Peace for the elves, and perhaps, for the Empire.”

And just like that, the ground beneath Ophelia shifted again. Briala. Her kin. Her blood. The temptation clung to her like mist. But so did the weight of every consequence.

Josephine took a breath. “It’s your decision, Inquisitor. Not ours.”

Ophelia shook her head, the knot in her throat threatening to choke her. “I… I can’t decide this. Not yet.”

“You must,” Leliana said quickly. “Even inaction is a decision.” Their eyes locked. And for a moment, it was too much. 

Josephine, ever the diplomat, tried to ease the growing storm. “You could speak to Celene, but she won’t act without proof.”

“If Gaspard’s guilty, he’ll admit nothing,” Cullen added, stepping forward. “If he’s innocent, he’ll know nothing.” He hesitated. “We need evidence—something solid.”

“For gods’ sake,” Ophelia muttered in Elvhen under her breath. “Ir abelas…”

Leliana turned her attention to Ophelia. “What did the Duchess say, exactly?”

Ophelia exhaled slowly, grounding herself. “She told me Gaspard’s mercenary captain is in the royal wing. Claims he knows something about the assassination.”

Cullen’s expression darkened. “It could be a trap.”

“Or a lead,” Leliana countered. “Either way, we need to check it.”

“Then get me access,” Ophelia said, her voice suddenly hard, her control thin. “And in the meantime—” she turned to Cullen, eyes blazing “—get your soldiers into position.”

“At once,” he said immediately, nodding. Then, softer, “Be careful, Inquisitor.” His voice was different now. No longer that of a commander. It was Cullen, the man behind the armor. The one who knew what it meant to lose.

She looked at him for a long moment—still burning with frustration, but touched by his concern.

“I will,” she said finally. Yes, she was angry—but she understood his reasoning. She didn’t have to agree with it to recognize the weight behind it. Still, the final decision was hers. Just as it had been when she chose the mages over the Templars. This burden—this choice—was hers to bear.

She would stop the assassination. She had to. She wouldn’t let Celene die. There had to be another way. There was another way.

Cullen watched her go, her silhouette vanishing back into the golden blur of nobles and danger. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He felt it again—that gnawing twist in his gut. He had supported what needed to be said. But still… he hated the look she gave him. It reminded him of every time duty demanded too much.

Ophelia moved swiftly through the crowd, her expression unreadable. One by one, she approached each of her companions with quiet urgency. “Come with me,” she said, and though her voice was low, it carried the weight of command. Something was wrong. She could feel it.

They slipped through the gilded doors and into the quieter corridors of the palace. The noise of the ballroom faded behind them, replaced by the echo of their footsteps and the crackle of something unseen. Ophelia’s heart pounded, not from fear, but from that sharpened instinct she trusted more than anything else. Her skin prickled, her blood surged—and then—

A searing pain jolted through her arm.

She staggered slightly, her hand clenching as the mark on her palm ignited with pale green light.

“There’s a rift,” she hissed, gritting her teeth as the pain lanced up her arm. “Very close.”

She would never get used to the sting of it—the raw, burning sensation that came with the breach between worlds. But she pushed it down. She always did.

Without a word, she reached beneath the folds of her gown and unsheathed the twin blades strapped to her thighs. With a shimmer of arcane light, her armor began to form across her body, replacing silk with steel.

“This feels wrong,” Blackwall muttered, drawing his sword. “Stay close.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dorian shot back, eyes scanning the shadows. “But yes—absolutely staying close.”

“The Veil is thin here…” Solas murmured. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim corridor. “Too thin.”

They entered a small courtyard—a quiet, open space choked with an eerie stillness. And there, floating in the center like a wound in the world, was a rift. Closed, yes. But still pulsing, humming, brimming with something volatile and wrong.

A man was bound to a wooden post near its base, his head slumped, unmoving.

Ophelia slowed. Her voice was wary. “What is going on here?”

The air shifted.

She felt it then—too fast, too close.

“Trap!” she shouted, spinning just in time to raise her blades. Two daggers met hers mid-air, their impact sparking light against steel. One blade slid past her guard and slashed across her cheek—sharp and shallow, but enough to sting.

The blood hadn't even begun to fall before the courtyard erupted into chaos.

Chapter Text

Steel met steel with a scream that split the night.

The sharp clang of blades echoed through the courtyard, ricocheting off stone walls as shadows lunged and twisted in a blur of motion. Ophelia moved through it like a flame through dry grass—fast, flickering, impossible to catch. Every breath she drew was filled with smoke and sweat and copper.

A blade sliced through the air near her ear. She twisted, barely dodging the blow, the wind of it hot against her cheek. She retaliated in a blur, her dagger slipping between ribs with a sickening crack of bone and a stifled gasp. The body crumpled at her feet.

Around her, the battle had erupted into chaos. Dorian’s magic ignited the air with the scent of scorched silk and ozone. His fire roared across marble, leaving molten scars in its wake. Solas’s staff thudded against the stone as he murmured in Elvhen, his shields ringing with a glassy hum each time they blocked an incoming blow.

The air was thick with the stink of blood, the stench of demon flesh, the metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Then— A shift. The air turned heavier, pressed against her lungs.

Stillness. 

“Enough.”

Ophelia turned sharply, heart hammering against her ribs.

Lady Florianne stood at the far end of the courtyard, the firelight casting jagged shadows across her masked face. Her eyes gleamed like cut gems, empty of warmth. Her lips curled in a smile that sent a chill along Ophelia’s spine. Behind her, archers stepped into the torchlight—silent, pale, like phantoms with drawn bows pointing at them.

Ophelia’s instincts screamed at her to move. To strike. But she didn’t.

She shifted, just slightly, tucking her glowing hand beneath her cloak. The mark pulsed like a second heartbeat, hot and insistent, whispering of the rift behind her.

Florianne’s voice sliced through the air.
“Well. That was spectacular. The Inquisitor herself, dancing through blood and shadow. But I’m afraid your performance ends here.”

“You’re the one behind it,” Ophelia said. Her voice was low, but steady. 

Florianne gave a soft, derisive laugh. “Of course I am. Gaspard and Briala squabble over crumbs. I deal in absolutes. In death.” She stepped forward, each footfall deliberate, her gown rustling like silk over bone. “No one suspects the dutiful cousin. And while you’re here bleeding in the dark, I’ll slit the Empress’s throat like a hog.”

Her smile widened. “Corypheus sends his regards.”

The name dropped like a stone into Ophelia’s chest. Cold spread from the base of her spine, even as the heat of fury rose behind her eyes.

Florianne’s gaze glittered.

“Kill her,” she commanded, turning on her heel. “And bring me her marked hand. It will make a fine gift for the Master.”

The courtyard exploded. The whine of bow strings snapped the moment she vanished. Arrows hissed through the air.

Ophelia dove. The ground hit her hard—cold marble cracking against her elbow, breath punched from her lungs. She rolled, feeling the sting of an arrow slicing across her side, warm blood soaking into the ruined silk of her gown but she came up crouched, gasping, eyes glowing.

Raising her hand, the mark lit the world green and the rift burst open like a scream.

A shriek, bone-deep and otherworldly, echoed as the Fade tore wide. The air rippled, cracked, and demons spilled through like bile. Their howls were deafening. The smell of rot hit like a blow—wet earth, sulfur, decay.

Shades clawed across the ground, rage demons twisted with fire. One dropped from the sky, hitting the courtyard with the sound of splitting stone.

It was madness and exactly what she needed.

Ophelia launched herself into the fray. Her blades flashed silver under the rift’s green light. She ducked under a flaming claw and drove steel up into a hunger demon’s jaw. Blood—not blood—splattered her cheek, thick and hot like tar. Her dress tore with every movement, burned by magic, sliced by steel. Beneath it, her armor gleamed—scarred now, blackened, but holding.

Dorian’s fire roared past her shoulder, setting three assassins ablaze. Their screams became part of the music of battle. Solas’s magic cracked like lightning, throwing up barriers just in time to stop a demon from impaling her through the spine.

Blackwall’s sword rose and fell in brutal arcs, each strike precise, controlled—until it wasn’t. His roar shook the air as he slammed his shield into an archer, then gutted the man with one savage motion.

“Behind you!” he shouted.

Ophelia turned, barely raising her blade in time to deflect an incoming assassin. Their swords clashed, jolting through her bones. He was fast, trained. She was faster. She twisted, slashed upward— Too slow.

His blade raked across her face, splitting her lip wide open, slicing a line down her cheek. She cried out. The pain was white-hot, shocking but she didn’t stop. Ophelia slammed her pommel into his jaw, twisted, and drove her dagger deep into his gut. He dropped. She turned again—always turning, always moving—her vision blurred by blood and sweat. Her arms burned. Her lungs screamed. But she kept going.

They were still coming. Demons snarled and leapt. Assassins screamed as they were torn apart. Firelight danced over steel and bone and blood.

And then— Silence .

One final body crumpled at her feet.

Ophelia stood at the heart of the courtyard, swaying on her heels. The remnants of her gown hung in tatters, shredded silk clinging to steel. Her armor, once hidden beneath finery, now gleamed dully beneath streaks of blood and soot.

Her lip was split, blood trailing down her chin and staining the collar of her chest. Her breath came in harsh, uneven bursts. Her face glistened with sweat, streaked with ash and the crimson of battle. Every muscle in her body ached. Her arms trembled from exertion—but her hand still burned with light.

The mark pulsed against her palm, casting green glow over the ruined stone and shattered bodies around her. She lifted her gaze toward the rift. Throbbing. Bleeding green. She raised her hand and the mark screamed.

Magic surged through her, burning her bones from the inside. She gasped, teeth clenched, eyes wide, as the anchor reached into the Fade and— Tore the rift closed.

The explosion of light swallowed the world for a breathless moment. Wind howled, marble cracked, shadows fled. Then—nothing. Only dust, and the scent of burnt air.

Ophelia dropped to one knee, the weight of the battle finally pulling her down. Her arms trembled, every muscle in her body burning with exhaustion. Each breath scraped against her ribs like a blade, sharp and shallow. The scent of smoke and blood thickened the air. She turned her head, voice rough and frayed.

“Is everyone alright?”

They had fought many battles before—but this one had felt different. The chaos of the Fade colliding with mortal intent—the combination of summoned demons and trained assassins—had pushed them to the edge. And if she was this battered, this bloodied… her chest clenched with fear for the others.

Boots pounded toward her across the blood-slick stone. “Ophelia—your face…” Dorian’s voice was tight, his usual playfulness gone. He crouched beside her, eyes wide with alarm.

She blinked at him, dazed. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pressed a folded cloth gently to her mouth. Pain flared sharp and immediate, blooming behind her eyes.

“Your lip is—your cheek—” he started, then cut himself off, shaking his head.

Instinctively, her hand lifted. Her fingers met blood—wet, warm, and sticky. The split in her upper lip ran nearly to the base of her nose. Her cheek had a deep gash, raw and hot against the chill of the night air. She winced, breath catching in her throat. “I’m fine,” she rasped, though the words tasted of copper.

Still, she pressed the cloth to her face, holding it in place with a shaking hand. She looked at Dorian and offered the smallest nod. “Thank you,” she said quietly—grateful, despite the pain, for his presence and his care.

Behind her, Blackwall helped a pale, trembling man to his feet—still bound, wide-eyed.

 “He’s alive,” he muttered. The man’s voice came out cracked. “Andraste’s flaming tits… what the fuck was that?! Demons? Were those demons?! There aren't any more coming, right?!”

Ophelia stepped toward him slowly, “You’re safe now,” she said, barely above a whisper.

The man gaped at her. “I knew Gaspard was ruthless—but feeding me to fucking demons over a vote?”

“Gaspard sent you?” Blackwall asked sharply.

The man nodded. “His sister lured me out. But come on—he had to be in on it.”

Ophelia turned to her companions, bloody and bruised but still with fire in her eyes. Her voice was steel.

“We need to move quickly.” she snapped knowing exactly that time was running out. 

Cullen’s heart pounded so hard it was almost painful. The tension crackling in the air had grown unbearable—not just because the Empress was about to give her speech, but because Leliana’s scouts had returned with urgent whispers of a skirmish in the west wing. A trap, Cullen thought. Maker, please. Let her be alright. Let her come back.

And then, the far doors opened. His breath caught in his throat. Out of the shadows emerged Dorian, Solas, and Blackwall—all armed, all bloodied. And then—her.

Ophelia stepped into the ballroom light. She was still on her feet, but her armor was scuffed, her blade stained. Her gown was completely gone, now revealing her body battered metal armor, her hair loose revealing her dark curls. Even from this distance, Cullen could see the blood—smudged across her cheek, on her hands, staining her clothes.

He moved before he realized it—crossing the ballroom in long strides, nearly breaking into a run. He stepped forward, then stopped himself. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword—not out of readiness, but instinct. He clenched them into a fist before anyone could notice.

She was here. Breathing. But not unscathed. Two deep cuts marred her beautiful face—one slicing across her cheek, the other splitting her upper lip. The bleeding had stopped, likely thanks to Solas or Dorian’s magic, but the wounds remained, raw and angry. He knew, just by looking, that they would leave a scar.

His eyes drifted lower—small gashes along her arms, bruises blooming beneath torn fabric. She looked like she’d fought her way through hell. The sight of her made his lungs forget how to work.

“Thank the Maker you’re back. What happened?” Cullen asked, his voice tighter than he meant it to be—low, strained, barely steady.

Ophelia didn’t answer.

Her gaze slipped past him, sharp as a blade. He followed it—his eyes landing on Florianne, who stood near Gaspard at the dais, a picture of grace and poise. She laughed softly, her mask flawless, as if blood hadn’t just been spilled in her name.

Cullen’s stomach twisted. The tension inside him drew tighter, a knot pulled taut around his spine.

“I’ll talk to Florianne,” Ophelia said. Her voice was quiet, certain—like a blade sliding into place. Her eyes locked onto the Grand Duchess, and Cullen saw it: the focus of a predator who’d spotted her prey.

“Inquisitor,” he said again, stepping in close. His voice dropped to a murmur, thick with urgency. “Wait. Just—wait here. Let us reassess. We can still get ahead of this.”

Ophelia turned to him then. Her eyes were flint. “She’s going to strike during the speech,” she said. “I need to move, now .”

His throat went dry. He curled his hand tighter around the edge of his belt, grounding himself in something tangible. “We don’t know how many she has with her.” he said, forcing calm into every word. “If you go in without backup—”

“I have to,” she cut in, already pulling away.

He wanted to stop her. Maker, he wanted to reach out—just to steady her, just to anchor her for a breath longer. But he didn’t. His fingers flexed once, then fell limp at his side. She was the Inquisitor. She had made up her mind. “What happened?”  he asked again quietly, the question pulled from somewhere raw in his chest.

She didn’t answer. Her back was already to him, her silhouette moving toward the dais like a storm about to break.

Cullen stood frozen, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His breath came shallow, armor shifting with every controlled inhale. The scent of blood still hung in the air—hers.

He turned toward Dorian, tension coiled like a whip along his spine. “What’s going on?” he demanded. Dorian exhaled, running a blood-smeared hand through his hair. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “She’s fine, Cullen. Trust her.”

He glanced back at Ophelia as she moved, blade still in hand, eyes like a storm.

“This night is about to end,” Dorian said. “One way or another.”

Cullen nodded once, the movement sharp. He did trust her. But trust didn’t quiet the fear coiled under his ribs. It didn’t make the ballroom feel any less like a battlefield.

A collective gasp surged through the ballroom like a rising tide, crashing against velvet walls and polished marble floors.

Ophelia stepped into the light—bloodied, armored, a shadow of war in the shape of a woman.

Where once she’d moved like poetry in silk, she now looked forged in fire. Her armor caught the chandelier light in harsh, fractured reflections. Her boots rang heavy on the marble, echoing like the footsteps of judgment.  The crowd fell silent. Eyes widened behind jeweled masks. Fans faltered mid-wave. A noblewoman’s glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.

Let them look , Ophelia thought. Let them see what courtly masks and poisoned whispers had wrought. Let them see the cost of this game.

“We owe the crowd one more show, your Grace ,” she said, her voice sharp as a blade drawn under candlelight.

Florianne stood with her back turned—poised, radiant, unsuspecting. When she turned, her painted face flickered. Surprise cracked through her expression, too quick to hide. She hadn't expected to see Ophelia alive. The air pulsed with tension—like a wire drawn too tight.

“Inquisitor,” Florianne said, soft and slow, her voice a silken thread fraying at the edges.

“The eyes of every noble in the empire are upon us, Your Grace. Remember to smile.” Ophelia smiled, and pain lanced through her torn lip like fire. She welcomed it. Pain was clarity. 

Each step up the stairs reverberated through her bones. The blood on her greaves was beginning to dry, tightening across the metal. Beneath her breath, she could still smell smoke—burnt cloth, scorched demon flesh. Her fingers ached from the grip of her blades. “This is your party,” she continued, voice laced with venom. “You wouldn’t want them to think you’ve lost control.”

Gasps whispered around her like wind through dry leaves. Florianne’s voice regained its sweetness—too sugary, too strained. “Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?”

Ophelia’s stomach turned. The lies in her tone, the poison beneath every word—it reeked worse than blood.

She stepped even closer “I seem to recall you saying, ‘And while you’re here bleeding in the dark, I’ll slit the Empress’s throat like a hog.’” The words cracked across the ballroom like thunder. Nobles gasped audibly. Fans dropped. Voices rose in panicked murmurs. The air grew thick, cloying, as if even the chandeliers were leaning in to listen.

Florianne paled. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Ophelia smirked, now unbothered by the sting. “When your assassins failed to kill me in the garden, I feared you wouldn’t save me this last dance.” She circled Florianne slowly, every step deliberate. Her bootheels rang like war drums. Her presence pressed in like a storm cloud. She was done playing. And now, Florianne knew it. Now Ophelia was the hunter.

Celene appeared near the dais, her expression frozen in composed horror. Nobles pressed closer to hear, their masks doing little to hide their shock.

Ophelia didn’t pause. “It’s so easy to lose your good graces,” she said, pacing like a predator. “You even framed your brother for the murder of a Council emissary.”

Gaspard stepped forward, blinking, his mask of bravado slipping as realization dawned. The court was no longer watching a dance. They were witnessing an execution.

“It was an ambitious plan,” Ophelia continued, her voice quieter, more lethal. “Celene. Gaspard. The entire Council of Heralds—your enemies under one roof. All you had to do was wait. Strike. And burn it all down.”

Florianne’s breath caught, chest rising too fast. “This is very entertaining,” she tried, her voice cracking like brittle porcelain. “But you don’t imagine anyone believes your wild stories?”

Her words rang hollow.

“That will be a matter for a judge to decide,” Celene said, her voice glacial. “Cousin.”

Florianne turned sharply to Gaspard. “Gaspard? You cannot believe this. You know I would never—”

But Gaspard didn’t answer. He looked at her as if he were seeing a ghost—a betrayal made flesh. He stepped back, and Briala followed, silent and grim. Then came the soldiers. Their armor clanked like a final verdict as they approached, boots thudding against the floor with grim rhythm.

Florianne's composure shattered. She stumbled back, hands trembling in the air. “Gaspard!?”

No one moved.

“You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace,” Ophelia said, voice low and unwavering. “You’re just the last to find out.”

Florianne dropped to her knees, weeping, her pleas breaking into incoherent gasps. The crowd whispered louder, murmurs now turning to outrage, or disbelief, or fear.

The soldiers took her by the arms.

“No!” she cried. “No, no, no—” The word repeated over and over, losing meaning as it became desperation.

Ophelia stood still. The heat in her veins was beginning to fade, replaced by something cold, something hollow. Justice. Or perhaps just exhaustion. How sad… how can someone betray their own kin? She would never understand it. 

She turned to Celene, her voice rough with fatigue. “Your Imperial Majesty, I think we should speak in private. Elsewhere.”

Celene nodded stiffly, her lips drawn tight. Together, they left the chaos behind. The crowd roared and whispered in their wake.

And Ophelia didn’t look back.

Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana stood frozen, the weight of what had just unfolded settling over them like a hush. None of them had expected it—not like this. Ophelia had followed her instincts, stitched together the tangled threads of politics, betrayal, and ambition, and acted before anyone else could. She had seen through the chaos, made her choice, and prevented blood from staining the throne.

Pride stirred quietly in each of them.

She hadn’t come to them for approval. She hadn’t needed it. While they had braced themselves for the worst—resigned to the idea that someone would have to fall for peace to rise—Ophelia had carved another path. She had fought, bled, and risked everything to find the better outcome. And she had succeeded.

She was, in many ways, all three of them made whole: as fierce and decisive as Cullen, as perceptive and calculating as Leliana, as eloquent and discerning as Josephine. And now, she stood at the center of the court, speaking with Celene, Gaspard, and Briala—not as someone seeking permission, but as the one guiding the fate of an empire.

She didn’t need them by her side at that moment. And that, more than anything, told them she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Cullen was proud of her—so proud it ached. For the first time in years, he felt that where he stood, what he did, truly mattered. That his place within the Inquisition wasn’t just a title—it was part of something good. Something right.

He had always wanted to help, to be a force for change. But every time he thought he was on the right side, he found his hands stained red, his conscience torn. This time… this time was different. Ophelia was different. She was the leader he had always wished he could follow.

She made him believe again—that purpose still existed. That he wasn’t lost.

A knot rose in his throat, sharp and sudden, threatening tears he refused to let fall. He swallowed hard. Maker’s breath… he wanted to hold her. To thank her. To just—breathe near her. She wasn’t just the Inquisitor. To him, in that moment, she was proof that the Maker hadn’t turned his back on the world. Or to him.

The music in the ballroom fell silent.

Cullen turned sharply, breath catching as Celene, Gaspard, and Ophelia reentered the grand hall together. Briala stood a little apart from them, her expression unreadable—but her gaze never wavered from the trio.

They looked… changed. Powerful. United. And there—between rulers, amid silk and steel—stood Ophelia. She belonged there. The Inquisitor, beside the most powerful voices in Thedas.

She looked proud.

Celene stepped forward, her voice clear and regal. “Lords and ladies of the court, we are pleased to announce that an accord has been reached.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“Our cousin Gaspard,” she continued, “will hold a place of honor within our cabinet.”

Whispers bloomed like wildfire across the ballroom.

“Friends,” Gaspard said, his voice firm, echoing with resolve. “We, assembled here, are the leaders of the Empire. We must set the example for all of Thedas. We cannot be at war with one another while the Fade threatens our very borders.”

“We must stand united,” Celene added. “Or surely—we will fall alone.”

Ophelia stepped forward. Her voice carried not just through the room, but through the hearts of everyone listening. “There will be no second chance for us. We cannot afford to be divided.”

“We will bury our dead, tend our wounded, and ready ourselves for the next charge,” Gaspard finished. “As all true Orlesians must.”

“But tonight,” Celene said, raising her arms, “we celebrate the arrival of peace. Let the festivities commence!”

Applause erupted like thunder, echoing through the hall.

Cullen’s gaze stayed fixed on Ophelia. The ballroom sparkled with chandeliers and silks, but she was the brightest thing in it.

Finally, it was over.

He stood motionless as Ophelia stepped back from the stage. For a breathless moment, he watched her—bloody, brilliant, composed. Then, like mist dispersing into moonlight, she slipped into the crowd and was gone.

His chest ached. With relief. With pride. With something heavier that he didn’t yet have a name for.

“Cheers, Commander,” came Josephine’s voice, warm and precise.

He turned as she approached with quiet grace, two goblets of wine in her hands. She offered one to him, her smile soft but triumphant. Leliana joined her a moment later, raising her own glass, the rare gleam of contentment softening her usually sharp expression. “This is a true victory for us,” Leliana added.

Cullen took the offered glass. He gave them a small, honest smile. “Cheers,” he murmured, the word carrying more weight than he intended as their cups clinked together.

He took a sip, but it wasn’t enough to ground him. His thoughts were still with her. As a servant passed with another tray, he reached out and took an extra glass—his fingers lingering on the stem.

“For Oph—The Inquisitor,” he corrected, catching himself too late. Her name had almost fallen from his lips like a prayer.

Josephine noticed. She said nothing, but her eyes softened. Leliana raised an eyebrow and gave him that look—the one that saw too much, too clearly—but she said nothing either.

“I saw her heading toward the balconies,” Josephine said lightly, like it wasn’t a lifeline. “Everyone will want her attention now. More than ever.”

Leliana’s lips curved. “Go distract her, Commander,” she said, her voice laced with quiet amusement. “Before someone else does.”

Cullen exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. He rolled his eyes, but the flush on his cheeks betrayed him. There was no hiding it anymore—not from them.

And maybe… that was alright.

Because for the first time in years, he felt like he wasn’t just standing at the edge of history—he was part of it. And it was because of her.

His hand tightened slightly around the extra glass. He didn’t know what he’d say when he found her. But he had to try. Not as a Commander. Not even as her advisor. But as the man who had stood in awe of her from the very beginning.

Maker’s breath—how many balconies did this palace have?

Cullen moved swiftly through the corridors, tension pressing at his ribs like armor too tight. The ballroom buzzed behind him, the crowd abuzz with peace and spectacle. But all he could think about was her. He’d searched the halls, the corners, the moonlit alcoves—and still no sign.

Panic scratched at the edge of his chest. Was she hurt worse than she let on? Had the danger not yet passed?

He rounded another corner and found one last balcony. His breath hitched.

There. A noblewoman slipped past him without a word, leaving the doors swinging open behind her. But he barely noticed her face—because beyond the archway, in the silver hush of the night, stood Ophelia.

She was still.

Her silhouette bathed in moonlight, the fractured lines of her armor glinting like tarnished stars. Her hair spilled loose down her back, dark waves tousled by wind and battle. From behind, she looked composed—but he saw the faint tremble in her shoulders, the way she leaned on the stone railing with just a little too much weight. 

And Maker, she was beautiful. W ounded and shining, like something forged in fire.

He stepped toward her, quietly, the two goblets of wine still in his hands.

“There you are,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

She turned slightly. Her eyes met his, and a tired smile curved her lips. It didn’t reach all the way—something about her felt far away. Still lingering somewhere in that courtyard, in the blood and fury.

He offered the wine. “Here, to your victory.”

She took it gently, fingers brushing his. Her touch was light, but it anchored him all the same. Up close, her injuries were more brutal than he imagined. The cut across her cheek was deep and raw, the split in her upper lip still angry despite magic. Bruises peeked from beneath the collar of her armor. Scorch marks. Slashes. Blood. He forced himself to stay still. To not reach out. “Things have calmed down for the moment,” he said, watching her face. “Are you alright?”

Ophelia didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze returned to the sky, her profile etched in silver.

“I’m just worn out,” she said finally, voice low. “Tonight has been… very long.”

Her words came slowly, as if they weighed too much to lift all at once. She stared into her wine, watching it swirl—like blood, like time. It wasn’t just exhaustion in her voice. It was grief. Guilt. Relief. A strange, tangled cocktail of everything she’d held back since the moment the first arrow had flown.

She’d made the right choice. She knew that. But the path to peace had demanded too much. Too many scars. Too many moments where it could have gone wrong.

And yet—here he was. Cullen. Steady. Kind-eyed. Warm, despite all the steel. She looked at him again. And for the first time that night, something inside her eased.

“But… I’m better now that you’re here,” she murmured. Her voice cracked just a little at the end. She raised her goblet.

“Cheers, Commander.”

Cullen blinked, stunned by the softness in her tone. Then, slowly, he smiled. A real smile. One that made his eyes crease at the corners.

“Cheers,” he said, and their cups met with the quietest sound.

They both drank.

“I know it’s foolish,” Cullen said, voice low, “but I was worried for you tonight.”

His hand came to rest gently on her shoulder—warm, grounding, tentative. Not commanding. Not protective. Just... present. She smiled and lifted her hand to rest on his, fingers brushing softly over his knuckles. The contact lingered. After everything, it felt grounding. Real. Like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the world alone.

“You do worry a lot,” she murmured, teasing lightly.

“I know…” he exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. “That’s why I’m glad it’s over.”

But even as he said it, she tilted her head toward him—just enough for moonlight to catch her expression. One brow arched. Her lips curved. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t even playful. It was knowing . And Cullen—Maker’s breath—he realized what he’d just implied.

He cleared his throat. “I mean… not all of it.” A pause. “There were… a few interesting moments tonight.”

Ophelia turned to face him fully, a spark catching behind her lashes. “A few?” she echoed, her voice warm and lilting. “Only a few, Commander?”

Her head tilted slightly, lips curving in mock thoughtfulness as if genuinely trying to recall. “I could’ve sworn there was… one moment,” she mused, letting the silence stretch, her eyes never leaving his. “Something that happened in a dark corridor…”

Cullen’s breath caught. “Ophelia—”

She arched a brow, all innocent mischief. “Did I imagine it?” she asked, taking a step closer, her voice dipping like silk across skin. “Because I remember being pulled into a shadowed room... and kissed… passionately.”

His cheeks flushed, a quiet laugh breaking from him despite himself. “You were pulled?” he said, brow rising. “You pulled me .”

She grinned, utterly shameless. “Did I?” she murmured, pretending to ponder. “Well… I can be very convincing." Her gaze flicked briefly to his mouth—just a heartbeat of heat—before meeting his eyes again, soft and slow and certain. “Not that you minded.”

Cullen cleared his throat, visibly trying to steady himself, but the blush at the tips of his ears betrayed him. “I didn’t,” he admitted, voice low. Honest.

Ophelia’s smile deepened, playful and just shy of wicked. “So… that counts as one of the ‘interesting moments’ then?”

He let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “The best one,” he said, surprising even himself. “If I may say.”

She leaned in, just slightly, enough for him to feel the warmth of his body. He stared at her like she was a vision he wasn’t sure he deserved to see. One false move, and she might vanish.

“You’re…” he began, then stopped, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. “Impossible.”

Her smirk softened at the edges, just enough to reveal the warmth beneath it. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at her—relieved, quietly awed—said more than words ever could.

“It’s never a problem,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. And it settled between them like a promise. Cullen felt it then—a strange kind of courage. Quiet. Certain.

And then—music swelled behind them.

Strings rose in elegant harmony, distant and golden. The clink of glasses, the murmur of laughter, the subtle rustle of silk and polished boots—the celebration had resumed, blooming through the palace like spring after a storm. But out here, in the hush of the balcony, it was just them.

Cullen turned toward the sound, then back to her. The light spilling from the ballroom framed her in warm gold, casting soft fire over her armor, over the blood and ash on her cheeks, over the curve of her mouth—still faintly bruised, still split. Her eyes shimmered, dark and unreadable—reflecting the stars, the firelight… and something deeper he adored.

He stepped back just slightly—not away, never that—but enough to offer her space. His breath caught with the question already in his chest.

“I may never get another chance like this,” he said, voice low, reverent. “So I must ask…”

He extended his hand. Palm up. A quiet offering. No expectation. Just the truth.

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

Ophelia blinked, surprised—but only for a heartbeat. Then her features softened, the teasing fading into something quieter. Her armor caught the flicker of torchlight as she took a slow breath. The tension in her shoulders eased—not entirely, but enough.

She placed her hand in his. Steady, despite the tremble in her fingertips.

“Of course,” she said.

He drew her in gently, his hand finding her waist, mindful of bruises he couldn’t see. Her other hand settled lightly on his shoulder. The metal of her gauntlet brushed his collar, cool against his neck.

They began to move—not in perfect rhythm, but in quiet harmony. Awkward at first. A half-step here, a misstep there. But their bodies began to learn from each other. Their movements grew softer. Closer . The music from inside drifted through the open balcony doors, wrapping around them like silk.

Her armor creaked faintly with each motion, whispering of war. His coat brushed her chestplate, warm fabric against cool steel. But none of that mattered. He held her like she might break—and she let herself be held like it was the first time someone ever had.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she murmured, her voice husky, quiet. Her cheek brushed the side of his throat, her breath warm against his skin.

“For you…” he glanced down at her, and his voice came barely above a whisper, “I’ll try.”

The words settled between them like an oath. Her head rested against his chest, just for a moment. She could feel the steady thrum of his heart beneath the layers of cloth and armor. It was fast. Real. And it anchored her in a way she hadn’t expected.

He let his hand slide slightly lower on her back, tracing the edges of a dent in her armor—proof of the fight she’d survived. She didn’t flinch. She leaned into it. And at that moment, there was no throne room. No war. No decisions waiting for dawn.

Only the hush between them. The press of her fingers curling around the edge of his coat. The glide of his thumb brushing slow, reverent circles against her waist. The scent of wine and candle smoke in the air. Her breath at his throat. His heartbeat beneath her ear. She looked up, and he caught the flicker in her gaze—vulnerability, desire, something heavier than both.

He didn’t kiss her. But he wanted to.

And she didn’t ask him to. But she would’ve let him.

The space between them hummed—warm, quiet, aching. Neither of them moved to break it.

Instead, they kept dancing. Not to the court’s rhythm, not to the nobles’ applause—but to something fragile and blooming in silence.

Something that felt like falling. And neither of them pulled away.

Chapter Text

The storm had turned violent—so fierce that returning to Skyhold was no longer possible.

Rain lashed down in icy sheets, soaking through armor and silk with equal cruelty. The roads had transformed into rivers of mud, and the wind howled so loudly it swallowed every attempt at conversation. The bulk of the Inquisition’s soldiers had already departed shortly after the Empress’s speech, likely escaping the worst of the weather. But the core party had remained behind—now trapped beneath the storm’s wrath, with no choice but to seek shelter.

Fortunately, Josephine had connections.

They had been granted temporary refuge in an estate just outside Halamshiral. The family had abandoned it in the chaos, leaving the manor vacant and waiting.

“Maker, Josephine, please tell me we’re close,” Dorian groaned, voice full of theatrical misery. His soaked cloak clung to his frame, curls plastered to his forehead. He looked personally offended by the rain.

“We’re almost there,” Josephine replied—for the sixth time—her voice still composed, though a touch of strain crept in.

Solas, riding a few paces behind, cast a sidelong glance at Dorian. “Didn’t bring weather-appropriate robes, Magister?”

Dorian huffed. “I didn’t expect to be swimming to our lodgings.”

“Clearly,” Solas murmured, with maddening calm.

Dorian didn’t turn, but his voice carried. “Coming from the man who dresses like a traveling grave marker, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

A faint snort came from Leliana’s direction, quickly stifled.

Cullen listened in silence, hunched forward in his saddle, rain dripping off his hood and armor. His jaw clenched slightly as he scanned the treeline ahead. Cold water trickled down the back of his neck.

“I should’ve gone with the soldiers,” he muttered under his breath but  regretted the words immediately. If he’d left earlier with the others… he wouldn’t have danced with Ophelia. And Maker, he wouldn't have traded that for dry boots or warm blankets.

He turned to glance at her, hoping—dreading—that she might have heard his thoughtless remark. But she didn’t react. Her eyes were forward, her hood casting deep shadows across her face. She rode in silence, still and unreadable, her posture stiff in the saddle.

Had she heard him? Or was she simply that tired?  

“I can’t believe we don’t have carriages,” Dorian continued complaining. “Are we not the Inquisition? Surely someone could’ve conjured a bit of common decency.”

“Stop your bickering,” Blackwall snapped. “Unless you’re going to do your magic trick and time-travel us back to Skyhold.”

Dorian didn’t dignify the jab with a reply—just muttered something sharp and bitter in Tevene under his breath. Likely a curse, judging by the venom in his tone. The silence that followed was heavy but not unfamiliar. Cullen had seen the way those two danced around each other—equal parts disdain and reluctant respect. Or at least tolerance.

“There,” Leliana called, lifting a hand to point through the fog and rain.

A massive iron gate loomed ahead, the metal slick with rain and framed by ivy-choked stone pillars. Beyond it, shadowed in stormlight, stood the manor—tall, grim, and utterly untouched by the night’s chaos.

“Andraste’s tits,” Blackwall muttered. “That’s not a house. That’s a bloody castle.”

“Charming,” Dorian drawled, voice dry as ever. “Now please, Josephine—do be our savior and get the damn doors open before I drown in my boots.”

Josephine pushed the heavy gates open with a breath of relief, rainwater already dripping from her cloak. One by one, the riders passed through, their horses plodding wearily through the muddy courtyard. The manor ahead loomed dark and elegant, its tall stone façade streaked with rain, lanterns flickering weakly in the storm.

“Please, just try not to enter with your wet—” Josephine began, ever the diplomat even in exhaustion, but her words were cut short as Solas, Blackwall and Dorian pushed open the grand front doors and strode inside like soldiers returning from war—soaked to the skin, boots muddy, utterly unconcerned.

“Maker…” Josephine exhaled, exasperated.

Leliana, already halfway up the steps, cast her a knowing smile. “Let it go, Josie. No one’s breaking anything tonight. And if they do, we’ll fix it.”

Josephine groaned softly but followed her inside, the doors creaking shut behind them.

The storm howled, rain lashing sideways in the courtyard. Horses shifted and stamped as they were unbridled and led under a covered alcove near the stables. Cloaks were peeled off, weapons unbuckled. Everyone vanished into the warmth of the manor, seeking dry clothes, hot food, or simply a place to collapse.

Everyone—except her. Cullen was nearly at the doors when the silence hit him. He turned and saw Ophelia was still in the courtyard, alone.

She sat slumped in her saddle, the storm soaking through her ruined armor, her dark hair plastered to her face and neck. Her figure, normally so commanding, now looked smaller—diminished somehow—against the backdrop of the looming manor and the roaring storm. She hadn’t moved to dismount. She hadn’t even blinked.

His stomach dropped. “Inquisitor?” He asked loud enough to hear him.

No response. Only the relentless drum of rain against stone.

Cullen strode forward, dread blooming in his chest. Lightning split the sky above, illuminating her pale face. Her hand moved, weakly tugging at the reins. She tried to swing her leg down—but she miscalculated. Her weight shifted too far, and her body tipped.

He ran.

She slipped.

He caught her.

She crumpled against him, limbs limp, breath ragged.

“Ophelia,” he said sharply, holding her close.

Her eyes fluttered open—just barely. Her pupils were blown wide, lips pale and trembling. She tried to speak. “Sorry…” she whispered. But her voice was barely there. When she attempted to push him off, her fingers failed to find strength.

Without thinking, he gathered her into his arms and carried her inside.

The manor’s warmth hit him like a wave—dry air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and damp wool. Firelight flickered from the hearth, casting long shadows over velvet drapes and polished marble. But Cullen barely registered any of it.

The others were gone, already deeper in the manor, their laughter and footfalls distant echoes. No one had looked back. No one had noticed her missing. That stung—but it didn’t matter now. He could only focus on helping her.

He knelt by the hearth and gently laid her down on the nearest couch. Her armor clinked faintly as he adjusted her, his hands careful, reverent. Then he felt it—truly felt it. Her skin was burning. Fever rolled off her in waves, even through the soaked metal. Her breaths came shallow and fast. Her cheeks were too flushed, her lips pale. And her hands hadn’t stopped trembling.

This wasn’t fatigue. She was sick.

“Maker’s breath, Ophelia…” he whispered, his heart tightening painfully in his chest.

“I’m cold,” she murmured, voice thready, her teeth chattering so hard it was a wonder she could speak at all.

Cullen exhaled sharply, torn. He knew what needed to be done—she was soaked to the bone. But undressing her, even to help, even to save her, felt too close to a line he didn’t want to cross.

“I’ll be back,” he said softly, brushing a soaked strand of hair from her temple. “Please… just hold on.”

Before he stood, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead—a quiet, trembling promise. His lips met burning skin. It scorched him with fear.

“You’re going to be alright,” he whispered.

Then he rose and ran, boots echoing through the grand halls as he searched for Josephine or Leliana—someone, anyone, who could help.

“Leliana? Josephine?” he called, voice sharp, echoing off the stone. He found them near the parlor, speaking quietly—until his tone sliced through the quiet like steel.

They turned instantly.

“Cullen?” Josephine asked. “What’s—?”

“It’s Ophelia,” he said, breath tight. “She collapsed. High fever, freezing and burning all at once. I—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “We need to act quickly.”

Leliana’s expression shifted to steel. Josephine was already moving. Footsteps sounded behind him—Dorian, Solas, and Blackwall drawn by the tension in the air.

“What’s going on?” Dorian asked, eyes flicking from face to face.

“The Inquisitor is sick,” Cullen said—low, clipped, but unmistakably firm. Something inside him had locked into place. His back straightened, his voice steeled. The man who had carried her trembling body from the storm was still there—but now he wore the mantle of Commander. 

“She’s in the drawing room, by the hearth. We need to warm her. Now .” His tone left no room for hesitation.

“Solas,” Cullen turned sharply, eyes meeting the elf’s with unspoken urgency. “Find every blanket and fur you can. Tear apart the rooms if you have to.”

Solas gave a quiet nod. “It will be done,” he said, already moving.

“Blackwall—kitchen. Anything warm. Broth, tea, anything she can keep down.”

“On it,” Blackwall grunted, already heading in the direction of the pantry with swift, sure strides.

Cullen turned to Dorian, Leliana and Josephine, leading them swiftly to the drawing room. The storm still rattled the windows, thunder echoing faintly in the distance. Inside, Ophelia lay curled on the couch near the cold hearth, her body visibly trembling beneath sodden leather and metal, hair plastered to her face, skin pale save for the fever-flush creeping along her cheeks.

“Dorian,” Cullen said without turning. “The fire.”

Dorian gave a silent nod and stepped forward, lips already moving in practiced cadence. A flick of his wrist, a surge of magic—and flames roared to life in the hearth, casting dancing light across the polished floor and shadowed corners. Heat spilled into the room, chasing away the worst of the chill.

Cullen turned to Leliana and Josephine, hesitating for the briefest moment. His voice, when it came, was quieter. Rougher.

“She’s soaked,” he said, eyes flicking toward Ophelia. “She—” He stopped, jaw tight. “She needs to get out of that armor. It’s freezing, it’s heavy—she won’t warm up if she’s still in it.”

The words hung in the air. He didn’t look at them. “I… I couldn’t—” He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “It wouldn’t have been right.”This time he whispered ashamed of the words coming out of his mouth. There it was—the truth. Not just command, but concern. Guilt. The helpless ache of someone who had held her, felt her shaking in his arms, and couldn’t do more.

“We’ll take care of it,” Leliana said gently, sparing him the weight of having to say it again.

Josephine gave a quiet nod. “You did what you could, Cullen. Let us handle the rest.”

He met her gaze just briefly. Then gave a curt, grateful nod—relieved, but still tense. Josephine was already kneeling, her hands working deftly at the soaked leather straps.

Cullen hesitated just a heartbeat longer. Then he turned, stepping quietly into the hallway. The door shut softly behind him with a click that echoed far louder than it should have.

He stood there, just outside, muscles locked in tension. Then a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“Commander,” Solas said, appearing beside him with an armful of folded furs and blankets. A fire crackled behind him—he had started another in the hall. “Here. You should change as well. No need for both of you to fall ill.”

Cullen took the bundle with a quiet, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

Behind him, Dorian emerged, dusting soot from his fingers with exaggerated flair.

“And what about me?” he asked, affronted. “Am I not also soaked and tragically undercared for?”

Solas raised a brow. “I assumed you'd prefer not to be caught in anything I’d choose.”

Dorian clicked his tongue. “Touché.” Then, more softly, his tone turning sincere: “She’ll be alright, Cullen. She’s stronger than she looks.”

Cullen’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “I know.” His voice was quiet. Measured.

But he didn’t move. He stayed by the door, one hand resting lightly on the wall—like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“Let me know when she wakes,” Dorian gave a faint smile, then turned away. Solas handed the furs and blankets he’d gathered to Leliana and Josephine, then turned and followed Dorian without a word.

Cullen stood alone again, still holding the bundle of dry clothes. The corridor was warmer now, the fire crackling, footsteps fading. But inside him, the storm hadn’t passed.

The storm outside still raged—its howl a constant reminder that the night hadn’t truly ended. Rain battered the manor’s high windows, wind slipping through the old stone with a low, ghostlike moan.

Leliana and Josephine had come and gone from the room several times. Both had changed into dry clothes, their presence steady but quiet. Eventually, Leliana murmured that she would go write to Skyhold and inform them of the group’s delay. Josephine remained behind, seated quietly at Ophelia’s side.

Just beyond the doorway, Cullen leaned against the cold stone wall, arms crossed tight across his chest. The chill of the corridor clung to him, but he barely noticed. His body still trembled—not from the storm, but from something deeper he couldn’t name aloud.  It had been an hour since Ophelia collapsed, yet the image refused to leave him: her pale face, rain-slicked and still, the weight of her slumping into his arms. The helplessness. The fear. It was burned behind his eyes, sharper than any battlefield memory.

Was this their fault? His fault? Had they pushed her too hard? Asked too much?

She was doing everything right—more than right—as the Inquisitor. But even steel could be worn thin. Even fire, fed too long, could burn itself out.

He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat. So many questions, and none with answers that could soothe the guilt crawling beneath his skin.

Kinloch Hold.

Stone corridors slick with blood. Screams echoing down hallways. The stench of smoke and burnt flesh. He had been trapped with the apprentices—young mages, barely more than children—and one by one, they had died. Possessed. Torn apart. Lost to terror or despair.

He was supposed to protect them. Guide them. Instead, he had survived.

Alone.

And now—here he was again. The weight of someone else's life in his hands. The familiar fear twisting in his gut. Don’t fail her too.

“Have you eaten anything yet?”

The voice was quiet, grounding. Cullen blinked, dragged back to the present.

Blackwall stood beside him, a bowl in his hands, concerned, shadowing his expression.

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry,” he said, voice hoarse. And it was true. Since giving up lyrium, hunger was something he had to remind himself to feel. But tonight, even the thought of food made him feel heavier. “Smells good, though,” he added, trying to offer something close to polite.

Blackwall gave a short, quiet laugh. “You don’t have to be polite, Commander.” He set the bowl down on the table beside him. “But you do need to eat. We’re all wrung out—but we’ve got to keep our strength up if we’re going to keep up with our Inquisitor.”

Cullen looked at the bowl. Steam curled from it in gentle spirals, carrying the scent of herbs and roasted root vegetables. He sighed, guilt still thick in his chest, but the warmth beckoned.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, taking the bowl into his hands. The heat bled into his palms, and only then did he realize how cold he truly was.

“No trouble,” Blackwall replied. He leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, eyes on the same closed door. Waiting. Hoping, like Cullen, for Josephine to emerge with good news.

“I feel awful,” Blackwall said after a moment. “I left her behind without a second thought. I just wanted to get out of the storm. I didn’t realize how bad she was.”

Cullen glanced at him, then shook his head. “She’s… good at hiding pain,” he murmured, then brought the spoon to his lips. The soup was rich, earthy, and warming—almost painfully so after so long in the cold. He swallowed, and the heat settled deep, chasing back a sliver of the chill in his bones.

Suddenly, the door opened with a quiet click, and Josephine stepped out, gently closing it behind her. She looked up at them and smiled, her eyes soft with relief. 

“She’s feeling much better,” she said, holding up an empty bowl. “She even asked for more.”

Blackwall chuckled, shaking his head. “That little brat—can’t resist my soups,” he said with a tired grin.

Cullen felt something in his chest loosen. His shoulders finally dropped, tension melting from his muscles at the sound of those words. She was alright—more than alright. She had an appetite. 

Thank the Maker.

“I can bring her more,” he blurted, a little too quickly. He cleared his throat, awkward. “I mean—I can take it. You’ve all done enough, and you’re tired and I—”

“Go, Commander,” Blackwall interrupted with a knowing smile, already stretching and letting out a yawn. “Take care of her. I’m finally going to get some sleep.”

Cullen’s ears burned. He tried—and failed—to find a way to phrase his offer without sounding too eager.

Josephine’s smile was quiet and kind as she handed him the empty bowl. “She was actually asking for you,” she said gently. “Goodnight, Commander. And please… try to get some sleep too.”

She followed Blackwall down the corridor, leaving Cullen alone with the empty bowl, and a racing heart.

He sighed, then turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen. He ladled fresh soup into the bowl—still warm, fragrant. He stood there a moment, holding it in both hands, letting the heat seep into his fingers.

His pulse beat fast—relief, joy, nerves, all tangled together.

She was safe. 

Ophelia sat up slowly, the soft furs sliding across her bare skin like a sigh. She gathered them around her tighter, the sensation of their weight grounding her—thick and warm, plush against the soreness that still clung to her muscles. The fire crackled in the hearth, its glow painting the stone walls in hues of amber and gold. Shadows danced gently across the room, flickering with each pop of resin in the logs.

The air smelled of pine smoke and spice—faint notes of clove and thyme, likely carried in from the soup. She shifted, letting the warmth seep deeper into her bones, grateful for the way it wrapped around her, cradling her aching limbs. The fever had passed. No more shivering. Just that lingering hum of weariness, stitched with the comfort of heat and rest.

She barely remembered the ride to the manor—only the way her body had sagged in the saddle, how everything had blurred. But now… she felt clearer. Whole again.

Josephine had told her she’d only slept for an hour, but that, coupled with the soup—Blackwall’s soup—had done wonders. She could taste the memory of it still: hearty, rich, with a hint of something smoky. Just like he always made on long journeys. She smiled faintly. She’d never been able to stop at one bowl.

A knock pulled her back to the present. Her stomach rumbled again, as if remembering that second bowl she'd asked for.

“Come in,” she said softly, adjusting the furs across her chest, shielding herself from even the suggestion of a draft.

The door creaked open with a soft groan, and Cullen stepped into the golden light of the fire.

Her breath caught.

“Creators…” it escaped from her lips in a low whisper. 

He wasn’t in armor. Instead, a simple linen shirt clung to his frame, the collar slightly loose, sleeves rolled past his forearms. Dark brown trousers hugged his hips. His hair was loose, the firelight catching in the soft waves—curling naturally, unruly. Of course. So that’s why Varric called him Curly. He looked… impossibly human. Warm. Unguarded.

He approached with quiet purpose, a steaming bowl cradled in his hands, the scent of broth and herbs trailing behind him.

“Inquisitor,” he said gently, kneeling beside the couch. His voice was softer than usual, wrapped in the hush of the room.

She laughed under her breath—amused that even here, in a firelit room with no one else to hear, he still defaulted to formality.

“Commander,” she replied with a smirk, reaching for the bowl.

His fingers brushed hers as he handed it over—brief, but lingering—and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Whether from the fire, the warmth of the soup, or him, she couldn’t quite tell.

“You look better,” he said, his voice warm and relieved.

She nodded, sipping from the bowl, letting the rich broth melt down her throat. “I felt like shit,” she murmured, exhaling after a swallow. “I don’t even remember how I got here.”

She set the bowl on the table beside her and turned, raising a hand to his face—her fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw, her palm warm against his cheek.

He froze—just a breath—but didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with meaning.

Cullen blinked, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to rest over hers—bare to bare. No gloves. No distance. His palm was rough, lined with calluses. A soldier’s hands. But the way he held hers… it was careful. Gentle. Like he was afraid of breaking something already bruised.

“Josephine told me everything ,” Ophelia said softly. “Thank you.”

Her thumb brushed along his cheek, a quiet gesture—but layered with meaning. Because it wasn’t about the ride, the soup, the fire or even carrying her through the cold.

It was the choice. She remembered how she could feel her body failing her, how the shivering had taken over and how helpless she’d felt, trapped in her armor, unable to speak and move.

In any other situation, anyone else would’ve stripped her down without thinking. It would’ve been logical—necessary even—to prevent hypothermia or something worse.  But Cullen hadn’t done that. He’d called Josephine and Leliana. He had chosen not to be the one to undress her.

And that choice… wasn’t small. So when she said thank you, it wasn’t just gratitude.

Cullen didn’t say anything at first. But she saw the shift in his eyes—the quiet understanding, the weight of what her words meant. And the faint, stunned pride that followed. As if, for the first time, he realized how deeply the decision had mattered to her. 

And that was something she would carry with her, always as proof that someone had heard her. And honored it. 

He smiled and nodded. All around them, the firelight curled in gold along the walls. The pine logs hissed and popped. Snow whispered softly against the window panes, muffling the world beyond.

She smiled and tilted her head, her gaze drifting up to the mess of soft curls that framed his forehead. Without thinking, she reached up, fingers brushing gently through the unruly strands until she caught one perfect curl between her fingers and twirled it playfully.

“Nice curls,” she murmured, her voice low and warm breaking the silence. 

Cullen laughed, a breathy, slightly embarrassed sound. The rain had washed away whatever product he used to tame them, and now—dry—they had come back to life with a mind of their own.

“Thank you,” he said, the touch of her hand in his hair sending a quiet, unfamiliar thrill through his chest. Maker, it felt nice. The way she touched him—lightly, almost absentmindedly—like she wanted to know every texture of him. It wasn’t just comforting. It was sweet and familiar.

“Now I finally understand why Varric gave you that nickname,” she added with a small laugh.

Then, without a word, she shifted—rearranging the furs, pulling them close to her chest as she tucked herself into the corner of the sofa. The firelight flickered over the room, golden and soft.

She looked up at him and gave a little smile. “Would you like to sit with me, Curly ?”

Cullen smiled—genuinely, helplessly—and huffed a quiet laugh. “That nickname sounds much nicer coming from you than from Varric.”

He stood without hesitation and sat beside her. The warmth of the furs welcomed him instantly, cocooning his body in comfort. Across from them, the hearth crackled, casting ribbons of firelight across the wooden floor and the walls beyond. The scent of pine and smoke filled the air. But it was the silence between them that felt the most peaceful.

He turned to look at her. She’d picked up the bowl again, sipping the soup slowly. The light danced on her skin, soft and golden, catching in her dark curls—which had dried into their natural wave, clinging gently to her jaw and neck. Her big eyes were luminous, full of quiet. He saw the scar on her cheek and lip, fresh from the Winter Palace. It hadn't taken anything from her beauty. If anything, it added to it.

He shifted slightly, angling his body so he could look at her comfortably without crowding her.

“Better?” she asked, glancing at him from over the rim of the bowl.

He met her gaze and smiled. “With you… everything’s always better,” he said softly. As soon as the words left his mouth, he blinked—heat rising instantly to his cheeks. That had sounded… far more romantic than he’d meant. Or maybe not. Maker. He didn’t want her to think he was trying to charm her while she was still recovering. This wasn’t the time for that—not with her body still aching, still healing.

“I— I mean…”

But she cut him off with a laugh, her smile lazy and kind. “Same,” she said. “I adore sharing space with you. So please… stay.”

She moved closer, slow and deliberate, and then gently leaned against him, resting her head on his chest and letting her shoulder press lightly to his side. Cullen stilled—but only for a heartbeat. Then he softened.

He didn’t move to shift or speak. He just let her be there—warm, quiet, steady against him. One of his hands hovered briefly above the furs, then came to rest lightly over her forearm, his thumb brushing softly along the edge of her skin.

“As you command,” Cullen murmured, smiling softly. He didn’t think he could remember the last time he felt this… content. The weight of war, of fear, of all the what-ifs—it all seemed to melt in the warmth between them.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, glancing at the empty soup bowl in her lap. It was a good sign.

“I’m feeling much, much better,” Ophelia said, then turned her gaze to him with a playful glint. “We’re matching now,” she added, reaching up and lightly brushing her fingers over the scar on his upper lip.

Cullen chuckled, catching her hand in his. Without a word, he pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“Matching?” he teased.

She nodded, slipping her hand back beneath the furs, chasing the warmth again—even if his kiss had left a small, lovely heat blooming across her skin.

“Yes,” she whispered, “matching scars.”

The fire crackled gently in the hearth, wrapping them in golden hush. She shifted closer, the fur brushing against bare skin, the glow of the flames painting her in soft amber light. Sleep tugged at her edges, her body heavy with comfort. “Can I ask… how did you get it?” she asked.

He smiled faintly, then sighed. “Fighting a giant,” he said dryly, as if hoping she might let it pass.

Ophelia barked a laugh, eyes flashing. “Don’t lie. You told me you’d never fought a giant.” She said remembering when she arrived at Skyhold covered in giant guts. Cullen huffed and gave in. “Alright, alright,” he said, voice quieter now. “It was…in  Kirkwall. After Meredith’s fall.”

That name still carried weight, even in the softness of the moment.

“I’d just taken command. It was late, and I was finally sleeping through the night for once,” he said, voice turning almost absent, like he was speaking from another room, another time. “A group of templars who were still loyal to her forced their way into my room. Accusing me as a traitor for not following her to the bitter end.”

Ophelia’s breath caught, but she stayed silent.

“They didn’t want to talk,” Cullen continued. “So... I fought them off, but… one of them got me good across the face before it was over.”

There was a beat of quiet. Only the sound of the fire.

Ophelia looked down, her voice gentle. “I never thought about what that time must’ve been like for you. Fighting beside someone you trusted… and then realizing how wrong it all was.”

He didn’t answer at first. He didn’t have to.

“I hope I’m a good leader,” she whispered after a moment, barely audible over the crackle of the logs.

Cullen looked down at her, something aching and beautiful catching in his chest. “You are,” he said simply.

She smiled and shifted against him, settling again, her breath softening, slowing.

Then, he spoke—uncertain. “Can I ask you something?”

Her voice came back, sleepy but sincere. “Always.”

That word—it was his. He said it to her so often, and now hearing it returned made his chest tighten with something too tender for words.

“Before we left for the Winter Palace… you said something in Elven.” He furrowed his brow, trying to remember. “Mavir… hareldi… nan?”

Ophelia laughed, eyes still closed. Cullen speaking Elven wasn’t something she’d expected tonight or ever. The way he struggled to shape the words—it made something warm and bright stir in her chest.

“ Ma vir harel din’an ,” she corrected gently. Her lips curved upward. “Yes.”

“What does it mean?” he asked. He tried again, slower, more carefully: “ Ma vir harel din’an .”

She opened her eyes, surprised at how much better it sounded. Turning her head, she smiled at him, proud.

“I should teach you more Elven,” she said, voice touched with affection.

“I’d like that,” he replied, quieter now. 

She turned back, nestling into him once again, her body melting against his side. Her head rested on his chest, right over his heart.

“It means… my brave lion ,” she said softly.

Cullen froze. His cheeks went pink, his breath caught somewhere behind his ribs. My brave lion . The words struck like an arrow. He looked down at her, but her eyes were already closed again.

He had no words. Not right now. Just the thrum of his heart, the firelight, and the feeling that he was falling faster than he knew how to stop.

He thought to say something—but then he heard it. Her breath, slow and even. She had fallen asleep.

So he didn’t speak. He only stayed there—still, warm, stunned. And with a quiet smile that felt like rediscovering joy, Cullen closed his eyes and let the world slip away, holding her close in the soft glow of peace he never thought he'd find.

Chapter Text

They arrived at Skyhold just as the sun dipped behind the mountains, bathing the fortress in amber light. After all the chaos, the return had been—surprisingly—calm. The storm had passed, leaving behind crisp skies and silent, glistening roads. No more mud, snow and wind, only the steady rhythm of hooves and the hush of fading tension. The weight of the Winter Palace, with all its splendor and shadows, began to loosen—drifting away with every mile that brought them home.

Ophelia was herself again—strong, steady, the flush of fever long gone. Solas had confirmed that the mark on her hand had accelerated her healing more than he’d expected. Blackwall insisted it was his soup that had cured her. Dorian, ever the dramatist, claimed the real reason was more scandalous.

Still, the group rode in good spirits—tired, proud, and ready to return to reality. The mission had been a success. There was much left to do—investigating the Wardens, uncovering more about the red lyrium—but for now, they carried the rare satisfaction of having done something right.

Now Ophelia lay on her bed, unmoving, the quiet of her chambers pressing in like a second skin. Her muscles ached, her thoughts churned, and her heart—Creators, her heart felt too full. The ceiling above her was a blur, her gaze unfocused as memories washed over her in waves too strong to stop.

Two days. Only two.

And yet it felt like she'd lived an entire lifetime inside the Winter Palace.

The gold, the masks, the poison disguised as conversation, the dance of diplomacy—it had all been overwhelming, dazzling, and perilous in equal measure. And yet… there had been moments. If she peeled away the murder, the backstabbing and politics... it had almost been perfect.

A slow smile pulled at the corners of her lips, unbidden and bittersweet. She could still feel the hum of music in her veins, the rustle of her silk dress, the weight of Cullen’s eyes on her from across the ballroom. The memory settled into her chest like candlelight. Warm. Luminous. Fleeting.

But as quickly as it came, the smile faded.

It won’t happen again , she thought. Her fingers drifted to her mouth—tender, tentative—as if she could conjure the ghost of that kiss with a single touch. The one she shared with him. The one that had sent something fierce and terrifying fluttering in her chest.

The attraction between them… it wasn’t imagined. It lived, bold and real, in every glance, every unspoken word. It burned .

But was it right?

Tension coiled through her body, tight and suffocating, as guilt crept up her spine like ivy. How could she even think of love —of touch, of warmth, of him — when the world was falling apart?

When the sky was split, and darkness bled into the land? When lives were being lost every day in her name?

And even if they won —if the Inquisition somehow found a way to stop Corypheus—what then?

Would she go back to her clan? Return to the forests and the rhythm of the hunt?  

Would they accept a shemlen among them? Would Cullen want to leave Skyhold behind—to follow her into a world not his own?

Did she even want to go?

They had needed her once. She was one of their best—a skilled hunter.  A protector. But now… there was something restless inside her. Something uncertain. A hunger not for roots—but for choice . The freedom she had always yearned for. 

Her throat tightened, and she exhaled a sharp, shaky breath. Her fingers brushed the scar on her lip—the one she’d earned just nights ago. Still fresh.

How many more scars would she carry before this ended? And the worst thought of all, the one that twisted like a blade behind her ribs: What if she doesn't survive this?

She closed her eyes. The fear surged and broke like a wave. And when it receded, it left her quiet. Empty. “Stop it, Oph,” she whispered aloud, voice hoarse.

She sat up slowly, the mattress creaking beneath her, shadows clinging to her skin like a second cloak. “Stop overthinking,” she added under her breath, though the ache in her chest didn’t loosen. Too much freedom. That was the heart of it.

For so long, her path had been carved for her—by tradition, by duty, by pain. Now she was free to choose. Free to want. And that… terrified her.

Because with freedom came responsibility and the crushing weight of consequence.

But—just like in the Winter Palace—what she felt most, beneath the exhaustion and the fear… was gratitude. Gratitude for the power to decide. Even when the answers were uncertain. Even when the road ahead was dark.

She didn’t know if she would ever truly own her future. But tonight—right now—she owned her decisions. 

Ophelia rose to her feet, the cold stone floor meeting her bare soles like an old friend. Her fingers moved quickly, weaving her hair into a braid that steadied her breath. She strapped on her daggers with practiced grace, laced up her worn boots, and pulled her cloak from the wall.

She hesitated only once—one heartbeat of stillness, a breath caught between fear and resolve. The weight of her choices, her past, her uncertain future pressed in… and she let it all go.

Because if there was one thing she had now—truly, undeniably—it was the freedom to choose. And today, she chose not to spiral into existential dread.

Tonight, she chose ale. Enough of it to make her knees wobble and her problems look slightly more hilarious. She stepped into the hallway, determined. Let the philosophers have their scrolls—she had a bar to find.

Ophelia stepped into the Herald’s Rest, greeted at once by a wave of warmth, spice, and the sharp tang of ale. The air was thick with laughter and the rhythmic thud of boots on floorboards as soldiers and scouts drank away the tension of the last few days. Firelight flickered across the stone walls, casting golden glow over flushed cheeks and half-empty mugs.

“Greeny!” someone shouted—rough and familiar.

She didn’t even need to look. Only one voice ever called her that. Varric.

He sat alone at a table near the hearth, a tankard of ale in hand, looking comfortably smug as always. Strange, really—Varric alone was like a story with its ending torn out.

Ophelia smiled and made her way through the crowd. As she passed, people raised their mugs, called her Inquisitor , and offered tired but respectful bows. She returned each with a small nod, but her steps didn’t slow until she reached Varric’s table.

With a soft sigh, she sat down across from him. “Can I join you?”

Varric chuckled. “Of course, Greeny. You can always join me,” he said warmly, already signaling Clemence for another ale.

“I see new scars,” he added, looking her over with the keen eye of a storyteller taking notes. “So I assume that  things went well at the Winter Palace?”

Clemence arrived then, silent as ever, and placed the mug in front of her with a low rumble: “On the house, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Clemence,” she said with a soft smile, her fingers wrapping around the warm tankard then she drank a little of that weird tasty ale. 

“All went… well,” she said after a beat, lowering the mug. “The Winter Palace was… exciting, actually.” She sighed and leaned back in the chair. “But for the  next time, I’d like a normal ball. No assassins. Just dancing and good wine.”

“Oh? So there was dancing?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yes,” she groaned. “A lot of  obsessive nobles with sticky gloves, wine breath, and odd compliments.” She took another sip of the bitter ale. “It was strange. Like everyone wanted a piece of me”

“Orlesians love shiny things,” Varric said with a shrug. “And you do shine.”

She exhaled, quiet now. “Well… It’s something I’ll never forget.”

“What, darling?” came a third voice—gliding and smug as silk. “You´ll never forget the part where you snuck off with our noble Commander, or when you pretended to be sick so he’d carry you like a swooning heroine?”

Dorian appeared, grinning like he’d been waiting all night for that line. He was already mid-sip of ale, robes impeccable, and without hesitation, dropped into the empty chair beside them.

“Sparkler! What a surprise,” Varric said, chuckling.

Ophelia’s face went crimson.

“Dorian!” she hissed, burying her face in one hand. “ Fenedhis lasa! ” she cursed between gritted teeth. “Why— I didn’t fake being sick,” she mumbled, shrinking into her scarf.

Dorian’s smirk widened. “Oh, but you’re not denying the sex-escaped through the garden doors…”

Varric burst into laughter, nearly spilling his ale. Ophelia groaned and reached out to swat at Dorian’s arm, but he dodged with the ease of someone far too used to this kind of mischief.

“Curly!?” Varric wheezed. “That is very interesting—please, Sparkler, continue….”

“For Mythal’s sake…” Ophelia groaned, slumping back in her seat with a hand over her face. There would be no escaping this now. Not from them.

Cullen rested his hands on the desk, eyes sweeping over the stack of documents that had accumulated in his absence. So much to do… The weight of Skyhold always waited patiently, no matter how far you rode.

He picked up the first report—brief, but enough to send a pulse of cold fire through his chest.

Danev had been spotted again. One of the scouts had kept the bastard in sight without tipping him off. Still close. Still breathing. Still a threat.

Cullen’s jaw clenched. Ophelia had said that after the Winter Palace, they would deal with it. With him . Danev. And now the timing was perfect—there was no excuse to wait. All Cullen needed was her word, and the order would be given.

But even as he set the report aside, his fingers lingered at its edge.

There was a tight, bitter twist behind his ribs whenever he thought about that man. Danev wasn’t just a name in a report. He was the scar etched across Ophelia’s life—the betrayal that had cost her two years of pain no one should have endured. 

He had carried that story with him—tucked beside his rage, beside his vow to never let anything like that touch her again. And now… Danev would be here. In Skyhold.

And Ophelia would have to see him again.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. He wasn’t sure what scared him more—that she would break… or that she wouldn’t. That she’d keep everything locked behind those calm eyes of hers and never let him see the fracture. She was strong—stronger than most—but even strength had its limits. And Cullen didn’t know what shape this confrontation would take. All he knew was that when the time came, he would stand between her and anything that dared try to touch her again. Even if that meant standing between her and her own past.

His hand moved to the next document, but his heart was already heavy. It didn’t help that the next name carried its own weight.

Hawke was returning to Skyhold. And he wasn’t coming alone.

The Warden traveling with him had a familiar name—Alistair. The last time Cullen had seen him, the world had been on fire. 

He respected them both—Alistair and Hawke—but that didn’t ease the sting. They had known him in another life. A life shaped by fear, hate, and guilt. Even now, with the years between them, Cullen wasn’t sure he could look them in the eye without remembering the things he had done and the things done to him.

Just like Leliana. She saw him every day, and he still caught that flicker of recognition in her gaze now and then—the memory of what he’d been when she and the Hero of Ferelden found him. Starved. Shaking and broken.

He swallowed hard, the silence of the chamber pressing in around him. The past was returning to Skyhold.

Hers. And his.

Chapter Text

Ophelia hit the ground hard, the cold dampness of the grass soaking through the thin fabric of her tunic. It bit at her skin, a stark contrast to the flush of heat blooming across her back and shoulders. Her breath caught, sharp and wild—but she didn’t hesitate.

With a twist of her hips and a burst of motion, she rolled just in time to avoid the downward sweep of Cassandra’s blade. Steel sliced the air above her, missing by inches.

Her boots skidded across the dirt as she pushed to her feet. She pivoted, closing the distance between them in a blur, her twin daggers glinting in the light. Cassandra met her head-on—predictable in her precision, solid as a mountain—but Ophelia was faster.

The crowd that had gathered around the training yard had grown. Soldiers leaned forward, murmuring bets. Sera was somewhere on the ramparts, whistling. The clash of metal echoed across the stone walls, a rhythm of sharp movement and sharper intent.

Ophelia danced. Cassandra held her ground.

Again and again, their blades met—ringing out with weight and speed. Cassandra struck low. Ophelia flipped over her shoulder, landing with a grunt. She twisted, came in close, and with the hilt of her dagger, tapped Cassandra just beneath the ribs. It wasn’t a blow meant to wound. But it was enough.

The Seeker stepped back, breathing hard, then let out a laugh—low, grudging, and amused.

“You win this time, Inquisitor,” she said, dragging her hand across her brow before sheathing her sword.

Ophelia’s own chest rose and fell, heart thundering beneath her leathers. Her braid clung damply to her neck, stray wisps stuck to her flushed cheek.

“I always win,” she replied with a smirk, wiping sweat from her forehead.

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but the curve of her mouth betrayed her fondness. They shook hands—firm, steady, no pretense—and with a nod, the Seeker turned and strode off.

Cullen watched the last of the sparring circle begin to scatter, the clang of blades fading into murmurs of conversation and the soft jingle of armor being unbuckled. The crisp mountain air wrapped around him like cold steel, but his attention was fixed on the center of the training yard—on her.

Ophelia stood alone now, chest rising and falling with exertion. Her cheeks were flushed, strands of hair clinging to her temple. Sweat glistened along her neck, catching the light, trailing down the slope of her collarbone and disappearing beneath the edge of her tunic. She looked wild. Radiant. Alive.

He stopped a few paces away, resting a hand on the strap of his sword. “Good fight,” he said, voice even—neutral, almost—but his eyes gave him away. They lingered. Too long.

She turned to face him, a spark of amusement dancing behind her dark lashes. “Thank you, Commander,” she replied, still catching her breath.

Then her gaze shifted to the sword at his hip, her lips tugging into a knowing smile. “Would you like a match?”

Cullen blinked. “Now? Are you not tired?” The question came out a little too quickly, as if he needed an excuse not to say yes.

She laughed, light and easy, the sound curling into his chest. “Not really,” she said simply. “So… yes or no?”

The space between them tensed. Not just a challenge. Something more. Her smile turned slow, deliberate—a blade in velvet—as she brushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ear and tilted her head. “Or are you worried I’ll beat you like I did Cassandra?”

Cullen’s jaw shifted slightly. He’d seen her fight before—in the field, during drills—but never like this. Never up close. Never with her eyes on him like that.

“You’re not wearing armor,” he said finally, avoiding the bait.

She raised a brow, the smile still playing at her mouth. “Afraid to hurt me?” she asked, her tone featherlight—teasing, dangerous.

He let out a short breath through his nose. It could have been a laugh. Maybe. And then—wordlessly—he reached for the clasps of his coat. Ophelia stilled.

The leather fell away with practiced ease. He set the heavy coat aside, then removed the plated pauldrons strapped across his broad shoulders. Beneath it all, he wore only the simple dark tunic clinging to the sweat at his back and chest. The tension in his forearms flexed subtly as he moved, quiet and coiled.

“It’s only fair,” he said, finally meeting her gaze again. “Since you’re not wearing any either.”

She bit back a smile, eyes drifting briefly—sharply—over him. “How very chivalrous of you.”

He stepped forward then, just slightly, enough to draw her attention fully. His stance shifted—loose, grounded, calculating. His expression gave nothing away. But his eyes never left hers. His sleeves were rolled, the veins along his forearms visible, his hands rough and familiar with the weight of a blade.

Ophelia felt her stomach twist— oh Creators.

He looked at her and smiled. “Ready?”

Ophelia shook her head trying to stop staring at his body and concentrate on the fight. She rolled her shoulders, loose and limber. She drew her daggers, their weight familiar, comforting, like second skin. No words were exchanged. Just a brief nod. Agreement made.

Then they lunged.

Cullen struck first, a clean sweep of steel meant to test her footwork. Ophelia spun, the flat of his blade grazing her shoulder as she slid past him with a grin.

“Slow,” she taunted.

“Cautious,” he corrected, and this time his follow-through came harder—sharper.

She ducked beneath his next blow, came up behind him, and tapped his back with the hilt of her dagger before springing away, light on her feet. Her laughter trailed behind her like smoke.

Cullen turned, eyes narrow with concentration and excitement.

The next clash rang louder.

Metal screamed as their weapons met, the force of impact echoing off Skyhold’s walls. Her twin blades darted and danced, slashing in fast, unpredictable arcs. His strength met her speed, blocking each strike with precision. He pivoted into her space, their bodies nearly colliding, and for a breathless heartbeat they were chest to chest, breath mingling, heat blooming in the cold air.

Ophelia’s heart stuttered. So did his.

She stepped back before spinning low and trying to catch his legs. He jumped, barely dodging, and landed with a grunt, eyes gleaming.

“You’re holding back,” she said, panting, flushed.

His brow ticked and without saying anything he went for another round. Harder. Faster.

Their blades locked—her daggers crossed beneath his sword—and they pushed, strength against strength. His face was inches from hers now, his breath warm and ragged. Their eyes locked.

“You sure you want to keep going?” he asked, voice rough with effort.

Ophelia smirked. “I haven’t even started.” She twisted, kicked his leg, and broke the hold. He stumbled, but recovered quickly, his movements sharper now, more aggressive. 

He was done holding back.

Each strike was a question, and each dodge was an answer. Her blades flashed in a blur of silver; his parries were like punctuation—solid, grounded, decisive. They knew each other’s rhythm before this, in battle, in command—but now, in this private language of combat, something deeper revealed itself and it was intimate.

At one point, Cullen disarmed one of her daggers. It clattered across the yard, but Ophelia didn’t stop. She used the opening to slip under his guard and knock the breath from his lungs with a hard elbow to his ribs.

He gasped, then laughed. “You fight dirty.” 

“I fight smart.” She was relentless. 

The tension pulled taut between them—sharp, electric. She could see the sweat beading at his temples, the controlled rise and fall of his chest. Her own limbs ached with effort, but she wanted this. Wanted him to see what she could do. So she showed off.

She feinted left, spun right, rolled past him and rose behind his back. Her dagger kissed his shoulder, and she whispered—mock sweet—“Dead.”

He turned slowly, his lips parted slightly, chest heaving. She saw it again—desire, banked like a fire behind his eyes. Not spoken. Not shown. But there, all the same.

He stepped close. Close enough that her breath caught. Then, without warning, Cullen surged forward, slamming his shoulder into her—not with the edge of his blade, but the full weight of his body. It wasn’t elegant. It was brute force.

Ophelia staggered, caught off guard, breath hitching in her throat. She half-laughed, half-growled as her boots skidded over the grass.

“Dirty,” she muttered, breathless, a wicked grin curling at her lips. “I like it”-

Her dagger lay at her feet. She snatched it up in one fluid motion and lunged.

Cullen barely had time to brace before she leapt—truly leapt—off the ground and launched herself at him like a beast in the wild. Her body collided with his, one blade striking toward his shoulder as he raised his sword to block. But it wasn’t the blade that undid him—it was her legs, wrapping around his waist, her full momentum knocking the air from his lungs as she bore him to the ground.

He hit the grass with a grunt, the wind stolen from his chest. His sword slipped from his grip as her weight pinned him, hips pressed tight to his.

But he wasn’t out. His hands shot up, strong and sure, gripping her wrists before she could strike again. Their bodies twisted, breath against breath, until—suddenly—he rolled, using his strength and gravity to flip her beneath him.

The daggers slipped from her fingers as her back hit the earth.

Stillness.

Cullen hovered above her, one knee pressed between hers, chest heaving. Sweat beaded at his brow, hair damp, cheeks flushed pink from exertion—or something else. His hands still held her wrists, not tight now, but firm. Controlled.

Their eyes locked. Neither spoke.

She felt the heat of his body sinking into her, the way his gaze flicked down—first to her lips, then lower. Just a second. Just enough. And then back up again.

That look sent a shiver straight through her spine. The fight was over. But whatever this was? She didn´t want it to end.

Cullen's breathing slowed. Deliberate. Measured. But the hunger in his eyes was impossible to miss. He studied her, as if still waiting for her next move—waiting to see if she’d push, or pull, or kiss him.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

Until, slowly, he loosened his grip. His fingers uncurled from her wrists with something almost reverent.

His voice was low, hoarse. “I win,” he said, smiling—just enough to be teasing, just enough to show he was still catching his breath.

Ophelia let out a breathless laugh, her heart still thundering against her ribs. “Pure luck,” she muttered, grinning despite herself. Her eyes flicked to his lips—and suddenly, kissing him felt like the only thing in the world she wanted to do.

Cullen’s mouth twitched faintly in response. He didn’t reply. Instead, he pushed himself up with controlled ease, the heat of his body peeling away from hers. Without a word, he extended a hand. She took it—and their fingers lingered just a heartbeat too long.

“Inquisitor, Commander—the guests have arrived,” a soldier’s voice rang out from across the training yard, crisp and far too real.

The moment shattered.

Ophelia blinked, pulse still fluttering. Her hand slipped from Cullen’s as she stepped back, smoothing a few strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. “Please tell Josephine and Leliana to greet them,” she called to the soldier, her voice impressively steady. Her cheeks, however, burned with color.

Only then did she realize the small crowd gathered near the edge of the yard—scouts, soldiers, a few off-duty mages. Watching. Whispering. She hadn’t even noticed them arrive.

“Creators,” she mumbled under her breath. The gossip was going to write itself.

She sighed and turned toward Cullen, who was already fastening the buckles on his armor again. She caught herself watching the way his hands moved—sure, practiced. She loved how steady he was. The way he always looked like he was holding something back.

“Good fight,” she said, attempting to sound casual, though her breathing hadn’t quite returned to normal.

Cullen glanced at her, and a laugh escaped him—low, genuine. He pulled his coat, the heavy fur lining falling over his shoulders like a mantle of command. As he adjusted the collar, he stepped toward her and, without a word, helped her into her own cloak. His fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve as he settled it over her shoulders, lingering for a second too long.

“I should come with you,” he said quietly, stepping back, his voice returning to that soft, even cadence she knew so well. “To greet Hawke and Alistair.”

Ophelia nodded, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak. “Yes, please. I’m… excited to meet Alistair. And  between us...” she paused, cheeks already warming, “I can’t wait to ask him about the Hero of Ferelden. I’ve admired her for so long.”

There was something in her voice—earnest, childlike joy. Cullen felt it twist gently in his chest.

He offered a small smile, hiding the flood of thoughts that immediately rose in him. He’d never told Ophelia that he knew Surana. Not just as the Hero of Ferelden—but before. Before the Blight, before the legend, before the scars. And now, looking at Ophelia’s bright, open expression, he knew—if they ever met, the two of them would likely become fast friends.

“I’ll keep your secret,” he murmured with a smile, leaning in just enough for only her to hear.

Ophelia grinned, adjusting her cloak. “Thank you.”

“Let’s go,” he said, voice low. Controlled.

And as they walked side by side through the stone halls toward Skyhold’s gates, Cullen prayed to the Maker that Alistair wouldn’t say a word about his past. Not yet. Not before he had the courage to tell her himself.

“Welcome back, Hawke,” Ophelia said, smiling as she stepped forward to greet the tall man dismounting in front of her. His armor was worn, his dark hair wind-tossed, but his grin was unmistakably him—charming, tired, and sharp all at once.

“Glad to be back, Inquisitor,” he said warmly, then his gaze slid past her, landing on the man at her side. “Commander.”

“Champion,” Cullen replied with a short nod, his voice even. Polite. Controlled.

It was the first time they had seen each other properly since Kirkwall, and though neither said more, something unspoken passed between them.

Hawke turned back to Ophelia and gestured behind him. “This is the Warden I mentioned.”

A second man stepped forward—tall, broad-shouldered, his blonde hair tousled and his Warden armor dusted with travel. His smile was genuine, if tired.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Warden Alistair,” Ophelia said, doing her best to mask the flicker of excitement beneath her calm.

“The pleasure’s mine, Inquisitor,” Alistair replied, his voice kind. Familiar. Before another word could be spoken, Leliana appeared from behind them and wrapped him in a sudden embrace.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said softly, pulling back to study his face.

Alistair smiled with equal warmth. “It’s good to see you, too, Nightingale.”

Ophelia blinked at the display. “You know each other?”

Leliana turned toward her, nodding. “We fought together during the Blight—alongside Surana.”

“Oh,” Ophelia said, momentarily caught off guard. Her gaze flicked to Alistair again, then to Leliana. How had she not known that?

She cleared her throat and gestured with one hand. “Well… let me introduce you to the rest of the Inquisition Inner Circle. You already know Leliana—she’s our spymaster. This is Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador.”

Josephine stepped forward with practiced poise and a warm smile. “A pleasure to welcome you both to Skyhold.”

“And our military advisor, Commander Cullen Rutherford,” Ophelia added, her voice steady—but there was the faintest edge of pride in it, a warmth she didn’t quite mask in time.

Cullen gave a respectful nod, his expression composed. “I’m glad your travels were uneventful,” he said, his tone calm, professional. Polished, even.

But Alistair’s gaze lingered. His brow furrowed slowly, like a memory rising from somewhere half-buried. He stepped forward, narrowing his eyes—not with suspicion, but something closer to startled familiarity. His lips parted slightly, the weight of realization settling in his features.

“Wait…” he murmured, tilting his head. “I remember you...” There was a beat of silence. The courtyard seemed to hush. “You’re the Templar who—”

“Why don’t we head to the Herald’s Rest?” Leliana said quickly, stepping between them with practiced ease. “There’s food, ale, and I imagine both of you are starving.” Her gaze flicked to Alistair. “More you than Hawke, likely.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Alistair said, chuckling, whatever he’d meant to say was clearly forgotten. But Ophelia caught it—Leliana’s interruption had been too perfect. Too precise. And when she looked to Cullen, she saw it in his posture: the way he stood too still, his eyes fixed on the ground, jaw clenched tight. Whatever spark had lit his face moments ago was gone—snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

She didn’t need magic to recognize it. Something had hurt him. Deeply.

“Let’s go,” Leliana said again, voice light as she turned to lead the others inside. But before she did, her eyes flicked briefly back to Cullen. Just a glance.

He met her gaze. A small nod passed between them—quiet, almost imperceptible. Gratitude, wrapped in weariness.

“I’ll return to my duties now,” Cullen said, his voice low. Then he turned to Ophelia, and the way he said her title held a different weight this time—gentle, distant. “Inquisitor.”

She opened her mouth to say something, anything—but he’d already turned, his boots crunching softly against the courtyard stone as he walked back toward the keep.

Ophelia watched him go, her thoughts spiraling faster than her breath could keep up. He had told her what happened at the Ferelden Circle. In pieces. In shadows. Enough for her to understand his pain—but maybe not enough to know the shape of it. She understood keeping secrets. The weight of them. She had her own. But now… standing there, she realized how little of Cullen’s past she truly held. And yet, her heart—so full of him already—beat harder for it.

It scared her. Falling in love with someone whose story you only knew in fragments.

“Inquisitor?” Hawke’s voice cut through her thoughts, gentle but firm. “Are you joining us?”

She blinked, startled back to the present.

“Yes,” she said quickly, stepping forward to catch up. “Of course.”

But as she followed them toward the warmth of the tavern, her gaze lingered just a moment longer on the path Cullen had taken—wondering how many ghosts still walked beside him.

Ophelia sipped from her tankard, the bitter Ferelden ale burning warm down her throat. Around her, the tavern buzzed—laughter echoing, chairs scraping, tankards slamming. It was loud, raucous, comforting in theory. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Cullen. His absence clung to her thoughts like smoke. Every laugh from across the table, every clang of a mug, just barely cut through the sound of her pulse and the tension curled behind her ribs.

“What do you think Greeny?” Varric’s voice sliced through her haze, amused and pointed. 

She blinked, startled, and turned to him. His eyes narrowed just slightly—teasing, but expectant. She hadn’t heard a word of what they'd been talking about.

 “What do I think about… what?” Ophelia asked, blinking. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

Varric gave her a long-suffering look over the rim of his tankard. “Cole, Greeny. I was telling Hawke about the kid.”

“Cole?” she echoed, frowning. Her eyes swept the room—Leliana and Alistair were sharing a quiet laugh in the corner, Josephine was deep in conversation with Blackwall by the bar. Everyone looked so at ease, laughter echoing beneath the warm glow of hearthlight. So why did it feel like her skin didn’t quite fit?

“Inquisitor?” Varric prompted again, more gently this time.

Ophelia straightened. “Right. Cole… he’s complicated. Solas believes he’s a spirit—or was one. He’s strange, but kind. Just... don’t stand too close to him when you're feeling emotional. He has a habit of saying things you’re not ready to hear.” She tried for a smile. “But he helps. More than people realize.”

There was a pause.

Varric exchanged a glance with Hawke. “We were talking about his hat , actually...” His voice was dry, but not unkind. “You sure you’re alright?”

Ophelia blinked, then let out a breathy laugh, her cheeks flushing with heat. “His hat?  Of course.” She reached for her drink, trying to laugh it off. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just… distracted. Worried about what’s coming.”

“You’re doing great,” Hawke said, his voice steady, his gaze earnest. “You’ve already landed two solid blows against Corypheus—getting the mages on your side, and stopping the assassination at the Winter Palace? That’s no small feat. He’s the one who should be losing sleep.”

Ophelia leaned on her elbow, cradling her tankard between her hands. “That’s what worries me,” she murmured. “Desperate enemies are the most dangerous. They stop thinking. They start acting.”

Hawke nodded slowly, his expression sobering. “Yeah. That’s fair.” He took a long drink, then glanced at her over the rim of his mug. “Varric mentioned the red lyrium. And the Red Templars. That’s… not something you can ignore. Any leads?”

Ophelia let out a quiet sigh. “Cullen’s scouts found some mining trails. We’re preparing to move soon—shut them down, destroy whatever we can before it spreads further.” Her voice dropped slightly, the weight of it clear.

Hawke leaned in just a bit, his tone gentle. “If you need help, say the word.”

She smiled, a touch of warmth breaking through the tension. “Thank you, Hawke. But I need you focused on the Wardens. That’s just as urgent… maybe more.”

He took a long sip from his tankard. “Got it.” Then his tone shifted, more casual. “Can you remind me where Commander Cullen’s office is?”

Ophelia arched a brow. “It’s the tower by the barracks. If he’s not there, check the training yard.” She paused. “Is there anything I should know?”

“No,” Hawke said, standing with a stretch and a grin. “I just want to catch up with him. Haven’t seen him since Kirkwall.” He nodded toward her. “War room, first thing?”

“Yes,” Ophelia said, rising as well. “And please get some rest. I need you and Alistair sharp.”

Hawke gave her a lazy salute, then looked to Varric. “Watch the Warden, would you? Don’t let him drink the place dry.”

“No promises,” Varric said, smirking.

As Hawke disappeared toward the stairs, Ophelia leaned closer to Varric and whispered, “Should I be worried?”

“About Curly?” Varric tilted his head, considering. 

Ophelia nodded quickly, casting a worried glance at Varric.

“Nah,” he said, waving a hand, though his tone was just vague enough to keep her guessing. “They’re on decent terms...I think.”

“That doesn’t help,” she muttered, sinking back into her chair with a sigh. “I need another drink.”

Varric let out a short laugh. “Alistair! Leliana! Wicked Grace?”

“Yes!” Alistair replied without missing a beat, already dragging his chair over with a grin. “It’s been ages.”

Leliana stood, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. “Don’t count on me,” she said with a small, secretive smile. “Duty calls.” She dipped her head toward them, then gently tugged Josephine away from her conversation with Blackwall. The ambassador followed, still mid-sentence.

Ophelia smiled faintly as she began to shuffle the deck, her fingers moving over the cards with practiced ease. She looked up at Alistair and said with mock seriousness, “Careful—Varric cheats.”

“I do not!” Varric barked in feigned offense, hand over his heart like she’d wounded him.

Alistair chuckled, already inspecting his hand. “Don’t worry. My love cheats constantly. I’ve learned how to spot it from fifty paces.”

Ophelia blinked, her smile softening. “The Hero of Ferelden is a cheater? That’s… unexpected.”

“Please don’t tell her I said that,” Alistair said quickly, but his grin faltered. His voice lowered. “Oh I miss that woman.”

It was the kind of statement that silenced a room—not for its volume, but for its weight. Ophelia stilled, watching the way his gaze softened, the way his hand curled loosely around the cards like they’d suddenly become too heavy. His voice cracked with memory, and longing.

“I know we’ll see each other again,” he murmured, looking between them. “Soon.”

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing gently against his. “You will,” she said, her voice low, sure. “After all this is over… we’ll play Wicked Grace together. All of us.”

Alistair’s eyes shimmered. Just a little. He blinked, nodded, and smiled through it.

“She’d like that,” he said softly. Then, suddenly, he looked down at his cards and his eyes wide open. “Oh! Alright, wait a second—are we betting something? I definitely want to bet something.”

Ophelia laughed, heart warm. “You’re on.”

She tossed three coins onto the table. The sound of them hitting the wood was sharp and bright, and as Varric dealt the cards with his usual dramatic flair, the tension in her chest eased—if only for a moment. But as Alistair smiled again, as the tavern’s warmth curled around her shoulders like a soft cloak, Ophelia glanced down at the cards in her hand… and thought, fleetingly, of Cullen.

Of what it might feel like to miss someone the way Alistair missed Surana. And that thought lingered.

Even as the game began.

It stayed with her.