She was radiant in green, and Cullen couldn't keep his eyes off her. He could only watch as she shot sparks out of her fingers to vaporize a wraith.

He had heard their prisoner was a mage. He had hoped they'd been wrong. She seemed proficient with a weapon, however, as she picked up a greatsword from a fallen soldier and charged its blade with lightning, hacking her way through a few shades. Cullen had never seen a mage do that before. It was . . . impressive, to say the least.

One of his soldiers cried out, and he tore his gaze away to see them get stabbed in the thigh with a demon's talons. He lunged back and dispatched the shade with a quick strike of his sword.

The demons stopped coming.

"Are you all right?" Cullen asked the soldier.

"Yes, ser," he said, though his face was pale, blood gushing from his leg. It must have hit a major artery.

"What's your name?" Cullen asked.

"Jim, ser," the soldier managed.

"Well, Jim, we'll soon get you back to Haven and have Apothecary Adan look at that leg."

The young man nodded, blinking back tears.

There was a crackle behind him, a sort of hissing, and when he turned around, the rift was gone, and Cassandra was standing there, spattered with blood, dirt, and demon.

"You managed to close the rift," Cullen said. "Well done."

"Do not congratulate me, Cullen," Cassandra said. "This is the prisoner's doing."

And she stood up from where she had placed the greatsword back with its original owner, folding the body's hands over it on her chest. Cullen could have sworn he heard her mutter a thank you to the dead woman.

"Is it? I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here." That may have come out more accusatory than he had meant, because he was staring at her again. Even covered in red grime, she was beautiful. She was shorter than Cassandra, with wide hips and a wide waist, her broad shoulders barely graced by short, light brown hair. She carried herself with a demeanor indicative of the rumors he'd heard of her nobility, although there was something beneath that, a sort of loose, informal good nature that radiated from her.

"I apologize for that," she said. "The Seeker sent someone to find the scouts in the pass. I hope they return safely." She glanced at the woman whose greatsword she'd borrowed. "I wish there were more I could have done."

"Thank you for that, Lady. . . ." He realized he didn't know her name.

"Freya. Freya Trevelyan." She smiled wearily, suddenly looking exhausted.

"Well, Lady Trevelyan—"

"Freya, please." She glanced around. "That goes for everyone."

"Freya," Cullen said, tasting her name on his tongue. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, Cullen."

He found he liked the way his name sounded in her lilting Marcher accent. He cleared his throat and tore his gaze to Cassandra. "The way to the temple should be clear. Sister Leliana will try to meet you there."

"Then we'd best move quickly," Cassandra said. "Give us time, Commander."

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Jim nearly collapsing. He began to turn, eyes still on Cassandra saying, "Maker watch over you, for all our sakes."

With one last glance at Freya Trevelyan, Cullen threw Jim's arm around his shoulders and supported him to their army's makeshift camp, where hopefully he wouldn't have to lose his leg, or his life. They'd lost far too many people already.

Selfishly, he hoped Freya wouldn't be one of them.