I'm not entirely convinced many people are still reading this, but oh well - I'll just continue one with my ever-sporadic updates in any case! The next chapter (or two, depending on how I break it up) are going to be big... everything picks up and the shit really starts to hit the fan from here on out.


VII. WHAT PRIDE WROUGHT, pt 4

Drass had been right. The next day, his head sung with an exquisite sort of pain, and even his own usually rather light footfalls against the cool stone ground sounded thunderous in his ears as he snuck down from the templar quarters. There was a back way, mostly disused, that would be deserted this early in the morning—he had discovered it with Sibyl and Jowan years ago, and kept their knowledge of it a close secret, lest the Knight-Commander see fit to tighten it up. Once he had made it to the lower levels, he could resort to his usual "drink of water" excuse if anyone saw him.

Which, Drass had reminded him with an all-too-pleased smirk as he left, was apparently just about the only thing that could help to ease the pounding in his skull that didn't require explaining to an enchanter with the ability to brew a hangover cure just what he had been doing with a bottle of the First Enchanter's best wine. Perhaps next time, he would be smart enough to steal said hangover cure in addition to the alcohol. And he had thought himself so clever, yesterday evening!

Well, it wasn't like he'd had much of a chance to gain experience. The last time he had managed to knick a bottle of wine—from the regular stores, that time—it had wound up shared among half the boys in the dormitory, and no matter how much they had giggled or fooled around, he doubted a single one of them had actually been drunk, let alone gotten a hangover the next morning.

But this, oh Maker, this. It was Andraste's holy funeral pyre roaring inside of his head and screaming to get out.

He crawled into the safety and warmth of his bed just as the first of the more morning-inclined apprentices were beginning to stir. Curling into a ball, he pulled the covers clear over his head and tried not to whimper. Although he could still hear the rustling of the other apprentices and the tell-tale sound of the occasional templar on patrol in the halls, mercifully, he drifted back into sweet unconsciousness rather quickly.

It couldn't have been only moments later that he woke up to the sound of Jowan shouting in his ears, because as his eyes flew open the first thing he noticed—after he was done shouting back and flailing in surprise—was that most of the beds were empty and made. The entire dormitory was empty, save for the one or two scattered apprentices and Jowan, looming over him. Still, it seemed like it had only been moments ago that he'd fallen asleep, and he felt just about as well-rested.

"You might not have to come to lessons since you've got your Harrowing set, but you still need to wake up, you know," he said. "You're supposed to be studying. And you promised weeks ago you'd help me with my primal spells. And considering you botched my chance to practice during lessons, you owe me."

Dorian stared up at Jowan, a look of abject horror on his face, and he couldn't even manage to get out a quip about how Jowan was beginning to sound like Enchanter Deidre before groaning and ducking back under the covers. The bed shifted under him as Jowan climbed up, kneeling next to him and tugging the sheets back. Sans blanket, Dorian simply covered his eyes with his arm. With a grunt of frustration, Jowan delivered a light smack to his head, and Dorian hissed and shriveled away, rolling onto his side and pulling his knees up nearly to his chin.

"What's the matter with you?" Jowan asked, peering down at him.

"It hurts."

Jowan sighed in disbelief and sat back. "You have to get up. You've already slept through breakfast, it's almost midday now. Sibyl sent me for you, so if you don't get out of bed, she'll be mad at me."

"Better you than me," he grumbled. After lying still for a beat of silence, he added, "Aren't you still mad at both of us?"

"If I was going to stay angry with you and Sibyl every time you ignored me to fight with each other, I would have to find new friends," Jowan said reasonably. "I suppose I'm too used to you two to bother."

Dorian considered this for a moment, supposing that it really was a rather nice sentiment from Jowan, which only served to remind him of Sibyl's theory about Jowan's secret affections. His attempt to vocalize the sentiment ended up as more of a huff of displeasure, sounding something vaguely like, "Nnnnggf."

He felt Jowan's hand on his shoulder, gentle now, as he tried to ease him over onto his back. "Come on, Dorian. Are you okay? Do I need to get a healer? Are you sick?"

"No, no, I'm… I'll survive," he finally enunciated, slowly removing his arm from his face and squinting up at Jowan. "I'm just… a little bit hung over. Please, don't tell Sibyl."

Jowan patted his friend on the shoulder, nodding in understanding now, and gave him an encouraging smile. "Of course. Our little secret. Well, us, and anyone else who looks at you."

"We'll tell them I was just up all night having lots of wild sex," he said, swallowing the indignity of the fact that the reality was much closer to the exact opposite. There was a tense pause, as Jowan just gave him a slightly worried, unimpressed look that seemed to say, well, maybe you'll tell them that, and Dorian sighed. "And as much as I'd love to help you with primal spells today, do I have to remind you that I'm not to cast any major spells without an enchanter present to supervise me?"

"Don't you go citing rules at me, as if you care about them," Jowan said. "You don't have to actually cast anything yourself, anyway. Just set me straight when I've got something wrong."

"Jowan, if I go with you and have to watch you starting fires or shooting lightning or playing with bright, cold snow, my head might very well explode."

"But you promised," Jowan argued, and it was almost a whine. Combined with the faint ringing in his ears, it was enough to make him wince again. "And Sibyl said if you didn't, she would give you a piece of her mind. So which do you prefer—lightning, or the sound of Sibyl screeching at you?"

Well, that decided things quickly enough. He groaned again. It didn't make him happy. "All right. I'll be up in a minute."


There was still space left in the center practice area of the classrooms when Jowan lead Dorian in, not too long after the end of the midday meal. The templar on guard shifted meaningfully as they passed, however, and stopped them before they had even made it fully into the room.

"You," the templar said sternly, pointing a finger at Dorian. "What are you doing in here? You're not allowed to be doing magic without an enchanter present."

"I'm not doing magic," Dorian said easily, gesturing to Jowan. "He is. I'm just here to watch."

The templar glanced Jowan over skeptically, squinting at both apprentices through his visor, as if they were already up to something illicit. When he could discern no evidence of foul play, however, he nodded curtly. "Well… carry on, then. I'll be watching you."

"Really?" Dorian said, gasping theatrically, slapping a hand over his mouth. He turned and leaned dramatically towards Jowan, whispering loudly. "Did you hear that, Jowan? A templar is going to be watching us mages! Can you imagine?"

Jowan smiled despite himself. "I'm sure I've never heard of such a thing."

"Truly a revolutionary thinker, he," Dorian agreed airily, pushing past the templar with a raised eyebrow. Stepping into the cleared practice area, he pulled up a chair and sat himself down. The templar had turned, his gaze following Jowan as he joined his friend.

Jowan glanced back at the templar briefly, and swallowed, before looking to Dorian. "I thought we might start with lightning spells, since those are your best ones."

There was a tinny snort from behind him.

"I think not," the templar said. "I don't want to be carrying a couple of twitching apprentices out of here. I don't have the patience for you whelps that Drass does. If I see so much as a spark, you're both going straight to the Knight-Commander for punishment this time."

"You heard the honorable knight," Dorian said brightly, but his eyes were cold as steel. "Templar armor conducts lightning far too well, and he's frightened. How about we start with your rock armor, then? Nice and safe and simple."

Jowan nodded, taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders back, mentally preparing himself for the spell. Dorian watched, arms crossed, as his friend muttered the incantation under his breath and a weak burst of energy rolled over his body, forming a weak layer of the intended magical armor that flickered for a moment, before seeming to melt off of him, ineffective.

Jowan sighed, dejected.

Dorian leaned forward, his chin rested in his hands. "It's like you're scared you're actually going to do it right. Don't hold back, and you will."

"I'm not scared," Jowan said. "I'm just—being cautious."

"It's rock armor. You're not going to hurt anyone. Just—let the spell do what it wants to. Watch." Dorian closed his eyes and spoke the incantation as casually as if he was reciting a recipe to his favorite stew. His skin began to ripple and glow, becoming visibly harder, and he rapped his knuckles forcefully against the side of the nearest bookcase, smirking slightly. "You could punch me right now and I wouldn't even feel it."

"See, you scare me when you say things like 'let the spell do what it wants to.' That's how you end up falling of statues of ancient magi into a storm of lightning."

Dorian shrugged. "You can spend all your time being afraid of yourself, or you can learn to control the talents you were born with. Either way, they're not going to go away."

Jowan nodded, glancing once again to the templar, still sternly watching them from his post against the wall behind Dorian. His friend had a point—he wasn't going to stop being a mage. But it didn't seem fair that Dorian and Sibyl could embrace it so easily, as if magic really was their nature, while for Jowan it was this mysterious power that he felt was as likely to keep him at its whim as he was to master it.

Why couldn't he grasp onto that easy control that Dorian had, that complete comfort in his powers that let him to take the risks that both dismayed and impressed their teachers?

He pursed his lips, tried to speak the ancient words with as much force as he could muster, calling all the power within him into the mix. This had to work. He'd been struggling with this spell since the first lesson in which it had been introduced, and he had watched each of his classmates master it one by one—Dorian and Sibyl almost from day one.

As his skin glowed, the magical sheets of protective rock forming over his body, he thought for a moment he had gotten it—until they began to jut out, jagged and malformed, not smooth and durable as he had envisioned them. With a frown, he shook his arms out, releasing his power, and the slate shattered, falling to the ground at his feet and disappearing.

There were ways to learn this that were quicker. He was sure there were.

"I'm hopeless. That was as not-held-back as I know how to be."

"Anger only helps if you channel it the right way," Dorian answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Otherwise it just makes you lose focus, makes the spell as tumultuous as your emotions. You need to be confident—not scared, and not frustrated with yourself."

"Easy for you to say," Jowan muttered. "Maybe this was a bad idea. I need more help than you can give me."

Dorian stood up and strode over to him, dismissing Jowan's words with a wave of his hand. "If Sibyl commanded you practice, then you had better practice. Lest she find us slacking off and begin to shriek."

"You know, Sibyl also said that you had something to tell me."

Dorian stopped short. "Did she?"

"Yeah—something important. So what is it?"

He crossing his arms again, giving Jowan a rare look that almost qualified as serious. "Stop putting yourself down, and stop trying to change the subject. Come on. Deep breaths. You're a mage. You were born to do this, for better or for worse. And you know me, I always say for better when it comes to magic."

"For better." Jowan shrugged, sending another feeble burst of magical energy down his body that that glowed briefly and died at his fingertips. "I don't know."

"You're not even trying anymore."

"It's just—" Jowan shook his head. "I never asked to be a mage. I'm not like you. I don't enjoy it. It's never brought me anything but frustration."

"You just haven't found your niche yet." Dorian chewed on his bottom lip, thinking for a moment. "Here. Fire off a few arcane bolts at the practice target—that's always easy. Just to get your frustration out and remind yourself what you're capable of."

Jowan shook his head. "I don't think our templar friend would approve of that."

"For fuck's sake, Jowan." Dorian ran his hand through his hair, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if in some silent appeal to the Maker. "I don't know what to tell you. Do you want me to help you or not?"

"I do, but…" Jowan was staring at his feet now. "I thought we'd be doing fire or lightning. I think I'm better at those. I've had more practice."

"All the primal spells are related. If you can make fire do what you want it to, you can use earth spells, too. It's basic theory," Dorian said. "And I've seen you throw flames like nobody's business during lessons. What's the real problem here, Jowan?"

Jowan sighed again, looking up reluctantly from the ground to meet Dorian's gaze. He looked unsure for a moment, turning the words over in head head.

"Sibyl—Sibyl was really adamant that we have a talk this afternoon, while we practice," he said finally. "And then she told me not to get upset about it, then gave me this weird, pitying smile and said she'd always love me. Did somebody die? I don't get it."

Dorian groaned and rolled his eyes. Of course Sibyl didn't really care if he helped Jowan practice or not—he should have known, she always thought she was the better teacher, in any case—she just wanted to make sure he didn't ignore their little talk, her revelation about Jowan's feelings for him. As if he could possibly have forgotten.

If Jowan was in love with him, which was a ridiculous notion to say the least, why couldn't she just leave it for them to settle on their own? Now this was just going to be awkward, and it was her fault.

"She, uh… thought I should make something clear to you. About us."

"About us?" Jowan repeated. "Well, that sounds serious."

"It is," Dorian said, frowning. It was also a subject that probably called for delicacy. Jowan had feelings, as Sibyl had reminded him. Feelings that were not to be toyed with. He's not in love with you, he reminded himself. Just get it over with. "You… remember the other day, in the First Enchanter's office? What I said… uh. And did."

Jowan stiffened, turning to look directly at his friend. "How can I forget?"

He hoped, earnestly, that the confused look on Jowans's face was not one worn by people whose hearts were about to be broken.

"I was hoping you would," Dorian went on quickly, his words jumbling together. If by some miracle Sibyl was right, and Maker, if he started crying—all of the possibilities for disaster were playing out rapidly in his mind. "Sibyl said you might be getting the wrong idea and that I—I should apologize—"

"You?" Jowan actually started to snicker. "You're apologizing? Should I go get a scribe to come mark the date?"

"No, I'm not—um. Actually, I guess I am. If you'll promise me you're not… you know. Falling for me."

Jowan's snickering stopped abruptly and he stared at Dorian blankly, before bursting into full-on laughter. Dorian pursed his lips, nonplussed by the reaction. At least it was better than crying.

"Falling for you? Who do you think I am, one of your apprentice girls from two years below us?" he asked, but his grin faded as he thought the implications over further. "You know, I can't believe you'd really think that. Not everyone is dying to be with you. For one, I'm not even interested in other men. And even if I was, I'm not really that into… people who… "

"…Are whores?"

Jowan shrugged, wide-eyed. "You said it, not me."

Dorian shook his head, his smile genuine.

"Look, it doesn't matter. I cannot tell you how thankful I am to hear you say that," Dorian said. He felt really relaxed for the first time all morning. Sibyl was clearly insane—he shouldn't have doubted himself. "I promise to forget this conversation ever happened, as long as you do."

"What conversation?" Jowan asked, flashing a smile. "I thought we were here to practice earth spells."

"We are. And your rock armor isn't going to get any less dreadful if you don't practice," Dorian agreed, unspeakably grateful for the opportunity to move directly onto something less… complicated. "Try again. And throw some feeling into it, this time."

Jowan laughed brightly and raised his arms, speaking the incantations with an actual measure of confidence for once. With a grand burst of bright energy that made Dorian wince, translucent brown sheets of slate seemed to form over Jowan's skin. His grin was almost as bright as he held his hands out in front of him, studying the effect.

"Wow, I did it!" Jowan sounded surprised, but pleased, his grin wide. "Want to punch me?"

Dorian hid his smile behind his hand. "I'm not sure if our templar friend would approve."

Jowan laughed, breaking the spell with an easy shake of his shoulders, then immediately casting it again—for a second time, it worked seamlessly. "Well, it's almost time for the mid-afternoon shift to switch. When our friend is relieved of his duties, we can test it out for real."

"Are you asking me to hurt you?" Dorian snickered.

"Hey—I'm protected!" Jowan puffed out his chest and pounded his fist against it. It made a satisfyingly heavy, solid sound. "I've got built-in armor now. And it doesn't even conduct electricity! I'm not afraid of you."

Dorian grinned back at him, forming a small ball of glowing energy that crackled with the promise of lightning in front of him in his hands, where the ever-watchful templar would never be able to see it. "Don't be so sure, my friend. I don't know how you practice with Sibyl, but I don't play easy. Or fair."


Dorian found it to be just to his luck that when the mid-afternoon shift finally did switch, the templar who came to relieve their hawk-eyed overseer was none other than Cullen.

Jowan didn't seem to notice at first, too busy and pleased with himself as he focused on working out the weaknesses that remained in his spellcasting. Sometimes, he was too hasty, and the armor didn't fully set, or would remain weak or under-formed in some places. Other times, he got too over-enthusiastic: once so much so that he accidentally encased himself in magical stone, and Dorian had laughed for a good thirty seconds while he struggled to release himself from the spell.

"You could have helped me," Jowan said, brushing the last remnants of the stone from one of his shoulder blades.

Dorian was still doubled-over in his chair. "Sorry. You look too funny with bits of rock sticking out of your chest and your hair all stiff. I couldn't contain myself."

"Well, at least I'm actually finally getting the hang of it," Jowan said. He held his hands out in front of him, stretching his fingers out, as if they were still stiff from their rocky prison. "But I'm exhausted and getting hungry—are you ready for a break yet?"

"A break sounds great…" Dorian finally straightened, his laughter fading as he glanced over his shoulder to the exit where Cullen was still stationed, stoic and unmoving as always. "How about you go to the Great Hall and bring us something back from the kitchen?"

"You're not going to come with me?"

Dorian shrugged. "I'd rather not. Standing and walking… my head is still a little woozy from last night, you know?"

Jowan followed Dorian's gaze to where the templar was standing, his lips tight, but he nodded and made his way towards the door. Dorian waited no more than fifteen seconds, seated quietly with his hands on his thighs, before he stood and glided over to where Cullen stood guard.

He stopped at the templar's side, bracing one hand against the wall. Cullen looked down at him, something like either fear or distrust in his expression, and Dorian did his best not to look smug.

This was his moment, and he couldn't have asked for a better one. It was just himself and Cullen, alone in the practice area of the classrooms—nobody else in earshot to bear witness to what he was about to do. A little bit of his famous sweet-talking—nothing one solid, heartfelt conversation couldn't take care of—and soon enough, all of his problems with Cullen would be as good as solved.

Cullen wasn't nearly as pleased as Dorian was with the situation. "What do you want?"

"Just a moment alone. Nothing terrible."

"Go away," the templar said coldly. "You may be Sibyl's friend, but I know what you are and what everyone says you want from templars. I don't wish to speak with you."

"Oh—you think I'm here to seduce you?" Dorian asked with a soft chuckle, running his fingers lazily over the spine of a book. "Understandable. But let me tell you a little secret… I prefer blonds."

"Excuse me?" Cullen stammered.

"Blonds. I like them. You're not one."

"I—"

"…have no idea what to say, I know," Dorian finished, unable to keep a shadow of his predatory grin from his face. "You see, I'm not interested in you. Sorry to disappoint. I have my hands full already. But… I know someone who is."

"I said to go away, mage," Cullen said again through tightly clenched teeth. "I know all about your schemes, and I want no part of them."

"I bet she tells you a lot about me," Dorian started slowly, smirking. "Doesn't she?"

"That… is none of your concern."

"So she does!" he said, his voice breathy. "I'm delighted to hear it. So much, that I'd like to share with you a secret. Strictly confidential information—"

"I don't care," Cullen said sharply. "I don't want to know your secrets!"

Dorian drew back, his energy halved, as if sobered by Cullen's reaction. But he continued on in any case, his tone conversational.

"I don't like you much," the elf stated. Cullen could do little but purse his lips and glare. "That can't come as a surprise, though it's nothing personal. I'm not a fan of anyone who keeps me locked up. But we have something in common, you and I. And that's my secret."

Cullen looked as if he couldn't decide whether he should glare further, or roll his eyes. But Dorian was looking away from him now, his gaze cast off to a far corner. His palm rested absently against the books on the shelf, his attention gone. So Cullen settled on cold disagreement. "We're nothing alike, mage."

"Sibyl," he murmured, glancing only quickly up at Cullen before looking away again. "Sibyl, I do like. And I know you feel the same way."

"But you don't love her," Cullen said, with some indignation. "I…"

"Yes, yes, your love is pure, and I'm such a dirty slut and so morally reprehensible, it's just awful," Dorian went on, dismissively, almost bitter. He straightened, looking to the templar again, who didn't hesitate to meet his gaze. "How unfair is it that she spends more of her time with me than you? See, I'm not entirely awful. I know how frustrated she gets with me, and I—I don't like it. I want her to be happy. I know that… you make her happy."

The elf was impossible to read. He blinked slowly, keeping his eyes focused on Cullen expectantly.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that the girl I love loves you, and I want you to give her what I can't," Dorian said. The word 'love' felt like a foreign poison on his lips, but he kept his face sincere, and Cullen suspected nothing. "I'm trying to be selfless, here. I came here to tell you that Sibyl is yours."

"I'm a templar. I can't—I would never—"

"I'm not trying to tell you to rip her robes off in the Great Hall and fuck her senseless in front of the whole Tower—though I would never discourage it," he sighed, and held back a snicker at the blush that rose in Cullen's cheeks at the suggestion. He guessed it wouldn't be too much of an assumption to say this wasn't the first time the thought had ever crossed Cullen's mind. All the better, then. "But you can make her happy, give her the love and affection she deserves. And she deserves much better than me. Would the Maker really object to a love like that? Or is it just your Chantry? There are templars who take wives, or so I've heard."

"Not mages," Cullen said. The words came out in a breathy whisper, tinged with the sadness that came with an idea one has agonized over and longed for to no avail.

"The Chantry's rule, not the Maker's," Dorian insisted. "Mages are people, too, you know. We feel the same things you do. Well—Sibyl does. She deserves someone who can return those feelings."

Cullen hesitantly looked to Dorian, fully, his expression doe-eyed and hopeful.

"So you are certain she… loves me, too?"

"Positive," Dorian said with conviction, his gaze steadily locked with Cullen's. He found it almost disappointing how easy it was to lie to him. Drass, at least, would never accept a word he said without a healthy dose of skepticism. This was just… too easy. He could lay it on as thickly as he liked, and poor, dull Cullen would never suspect a thing. It almost took the fun out of it entirely. "You're all she talks about. She says she loves you even though she knows you would never betray the Chantry by being with a mage like her, even though it breaks her heart. She hates that she's causing you to falter in your beliefs and responsibilities as a templar. But I think it's bullshit, and I'm telling you, Cullen—you're hurting her. Destroying her."

Cullen's eyes widened slightly at the thought, and Dorian knew he was close to clinching this deal. He had found Cullen's weak point, not that it was all that well-hidden, and now all he had to do was thrust, stab, and twist—if he could be made to think it would end Sibyl's pain, Cullen could be convinced to do anything…

Including making a move on her. Confessing his love. Kissing her. Whatever action Cullen would take—it didn't really matter—Dorian was sure that Sibyl, wit her her great affection for rules, would not have any of it. And that would quickly spell the end of the ill-fated liaison between the star-pupil mage and the naïve little templar who loved her, once and for all. Perfection.

"I would never hurt her," Cullen murmured. Dorian's lips curled into a smile.

"But you are. For as long as you deny the connection between you, you are destroying a part of her," he said, his heartbeat rising in expectation. So close.

"Then I must…"

Dorian nodded, encouraging him. He could almost taste success.

"…I must leave her," Cullen finished, firmly, nodding to himself. Dorian's eyes fell closed to hide his exasperation. "She must find a way to get over me, if being with me causes her such pain… you can help her with that, can't you? If you love her?"

Dorian was about as taken aback as if Cullen had slapped him across the face. For a moment, he was actually unable to respond, and instead sighed in frustration as he tried to regain his bearings and figure out how to salvage the conversation. "No! Didn't you hear me? She's yours. Be a man and tell her! Take her in your arms. Sweep her away. Show her you love her. She deserves to know she is loved in return, don't you think?"

Was he daft? Who heard that the object of their desire was smitten and decided to leave her?

"I—yes," Cullen finally admitted, though it sounded more resigned than anything else. "But she also deserves someone who can love her openly, without shame. That's not something either of us can provide for her, is it?"

"No. No!" It was depressing how often that unfailing templar nobility was getting in the way of his plans, of late. It was a struggle just to keep the vexation from creeping into his expression. "That doesn't even make sense! You love her! You're just going to walk away?"

"It's the right thing to do," Cullen said gravely, and the stupid, self-flagellating expression of pain made Dorian want to summon his lightning just to shock it off of his face. "I'll make that sacrifice for her. I would do anything for her."

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was making his head hurt—the extensive possibility for stupidity in the name of self-sacrifice always seemed to blindside him. It just didn't make any damn sense. This called for some fast re-thinking of his plan of action: so he couldn't get Cullen to make a move on Sibyl. A shame, because the plan was more airtight that way. If he left it to Cullen to break up with her on his own, she might manage to wheedle out from him what (or who) was really behind his change in feelings. But maybe it wasn't entirely a lost cause. If he could just make sure Cullen would keep his mouth shut about this conversation, perhaps there was still hope.

Great, convincing Cullen to lie. That was sure to be as easy as a leisurely walk around the grounds, wasn't it? But he still had to try. Not trying meant condemning himself to spending the next Maker only knew how many years laying witness to the slow, excruciating progression of their 'friendship.'

Just the thought of it made his skin crawl.

"Then you must act quickly," he said finally. "Decisively. Don't let yourself get caught up in explanations or compromises. You'll only deepen her pain—I'll be there for her, once you're gone. But you must leave, cleanly. Don't allow her to question it, or you might be tempted to change your mind. And it must be soon."

"You're right." It was hard not to smile at the sound of those words—it must have brought Cullen great pain to admit them. His expression had grown tight with uneasy resolve. He had that look of great concentration, of a templar steeling himself for duty. Dorian had always mused that it made them look constipated, but hopefully today it was working in his favor. "I'll speak to her tonight. Our relationship has gone too far already. Andraste forgive me."

"Yes, may she deliver us all." Dorian's grin flashed triumphant, and Cullen shot him a withering glare.

"Don't you have a friend to be tutoring, mage?"

Cullen's anger was a thin veil for his misery. He had swallowed the story of Sibyl's heartsick love so cleanly, so completely, and his resolve was genuine. That Dorian couldn't fathom why Cullen would chose to interpret this information as a reason to leave her didn't matter. As long as it worked in his favor, he wouldn't bother to question it.

He felt unusually light on his feet, nearly prancing back to the practice area and falling into his chair. His head still throbbed, just slightly, from his hangover, although his anticipation largely overshadowed the pain. Jowan still had not returned from the kitchens.

None of it mattered. All he had to do was wait.