Cullen was surprised when a girl tugged at his arm. He allowed the child to pull him aside as the mages and the warriors who had come to guard the attempt on the Breach filed onward into Haven.

The girl offered him a note tightly clenched in her fist.

"Who is this from?" Cullen asked as he cautiously accepted it.

The girl shook her head before dashing off away from the village.

"Wait!"

She was already gone, disappearing into the expanse of trees that surrounded Haven. But a child certainly could not survive out there on her own. He did not recall seeing her before though, and was uncertain who he should or could inform. Looking around, he saw that only he remained outside Haven's walls — if anyone else had seen the child at all, they apparently had thought nothing of it.

Cullen unfolded the scrunched note and was surprised to see it was in a familiar hand.

A storm is coming. Find a safe haven.

It was unsigned, but Cullen recognized the author at once. He looked back into the darkness where the girl had vanished, his stomach twisting into knots.

He should follow her, then. Presumably, she was returning to wherever Samson was hiding. The note certainly implied that Haven itself was not safe — though Cullen had no idea why. They had closed the Breach successfully. Despite Cullen's doubts about the mages, they had done their duty and not one had turned. Whoever was behind the Breach, however…that enemy would probably be furious.

Did Raleigh know who was behind the Conclave explosion? Was that very enemy already in their camp?

As though to answer that very question, a smug voice called from the gates. "Commander, I know you Fereldans get off on the cold, but you cannot avoid the celebration forever."

Cullen crushed the note in his fist, shoving it into a pocket and taking a long, deep breath in an attempt to remain calm. Where every other mage in the Inquisition gave him a wide berth, this particular one seemed to exist solely to antagonize him.

"Oh come now, don't play coy, my dear Commander." It took great effort for Cullen to keep from turning around to respond to the affront. My dear Commander? "The Inquisition won and it deserves a proper party." He sounded closer now, and so far as Cullen knew they were the only two within sight.

Would the Tevinter dare to use that to his advantage?

Cullen pretended to ignore him, every sense on high alert. The man's footsteps were soft, but still detectable as snow crunched underfoot. He could smell the man's magic on the cold wind: he was coming to recognize that the Magister's magic had a very distinct scent. Under whatever strange spice he wore like perfume there was something darker, velvety and rich. Something about it made his heart race and his blood run hot, and he fucking hated it.

"Unless you have other plans this evening?" the Magister purred.

Cullen's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. Dorian was close behind him now, and it would be so easy to cleave him in two with a simple twist on his heel and slash of his blade.

But Maxwell was clearly fond of the man and would doubtlessly notice when he went missing. Until Cullen could be certain the other rifts had closed when they succeeded in closing the Breach, Maxwell's opinions had to be taken into consideration.

Cullen turned slowly to face Dorian, a hand still keeping a cautionary hold of his sword. The man stood before him with two mugs in hand; he was smiling at him, cool grey eyes glinting mischievously like Dorian knew just how much that handsome grin annoyed him. Cullen would rather like to cut that grin a little wider.

Of all the fucking mages that had joined the Inquisition, there was none he wished dead more than this one. But this was not a Circle, and the Commander's position required unsavory associations — even if that meant he had to stay his hand with this particular nuisance.

He might still get the chance to be rid of him. One misstep was all Cullen needed as a reason. Raleigh's warning would not be sufficient — learning the Commander had been in communication with the group in open war with their new allies would not do at all. He unfortunately should not to kill the man outright either way, but perhaps Silence his magic, knock him over the head and drag him to Leliana for interrogation? Maxwell would be angry, but if Cullen had any small thing to prove this man was a danger he would use it.

Dorian held out one of the mugs in his hands. "I doubt even that fur monstrosity is enough out here. It wouldn't do for you to die of this chill."

The mage's hand was trembling. It was very slight, and Cullen did not know what to make of it until he noticed how the man was struggling to breathe, how his ears and nose were off-color, and how the smile had grown a touch shaky as well, like he was trying to keep from letting his teeth chatter.

Dorian was freezing his ass off in order to…what? Bring him a drink? Only if it was poisoned, surely. Irritate him? He did seem to be the sort of man who would go to great lengths just to torment him. Just as Cullen knew he could not openly kill Dorian, the Magister would be fully aware of the reverse. Dorian probably would have better methods of hiding a body by using his magic, but the Commander of the Inquisition going missing the night after such a victory would not go unnoticed for long.

Cullen accepted the mug without a word, surprised to find that it was fairly warm. He sniffed it cautiously, expecting a hint of citrus or cloves, but it seemed to be simple wine, not mulled or spiced in any manner. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he felt a tug of magic. He had one hand already raised in preparation to cut off the man's connection to the Fade when he saw that Dorian's hands faintly glowed as he cradled his own mug. Dorian's eyes fixed on Cullen's raised hand, and the magic immediately vanished.

When the Magister took a long drink, followed with a satisfied sigh, Cullen realized that Dorian had warmed the drinks himself with his magic.

This was certainly an unusual ploy. What in the world did the Magister hope to gain from this?

Cullen eyed his own drink suspiciously, and apparently Dorian noticed as he chuckled softly and held out his own mug, offering to take back the other one. "While your caution might be justified at a dinner party back home, I assure you I'm not so trite."

Cullen had almost reached to accept it when his gaze drifted to the mage's mouth. It was still wet with wine, but what if this was part of the trick? Maybe he had taken an antidote, or even put poison on his own lips to transfer to the drink with the assumption Cullen would refuse an untested one. Dorian's tongue darted out over his lower lip, clearing away the remnant of wine.

Or maybe Cullen really was overthinking this. The Tevinter certainly went out of his way to poke and prod, but he had not yet shown any intention to strike. Cullen shook his head before lifting the mug and taking a small, cautious sip. It tasted perfectly normal, the warmth instantly easing the cold that he had not noticed was deeply settling in his bones. He nodded in lieu of saying thank you, since he could not quite stomach the idea of showing the mage such obvious gratitude.

The two stood in silence, slowly sipping warmed wine and staring out into the night. Well, Cullen was at least. Dorian was annoyingly keeping his attention fixed on the Commander. It was scrutiny Cullen had no idea how to handle. He had threatened this Magister more than once, made it perfectly plain that he did not want to be in his company at all; yet still the man insisted on forcing his unwelcome presence and Cullen could not comprehend why.

The man suddenly commented, "I wish I'd thought to bring cinnamon. That would make this vinegar almost acceptable."

Cullen still didn't speak, but arched an eyebrow with curiosity.

Dorian chuckled derisively. "You don't even know what that is, do you? You southern barbarians." He almost made the complaint sound like an endearment.

"I thought you adored our rustic charms," Cullen replied evenly.

Dorian exhaled sharply, his lips parted in apparent surprise. Cullen's mouth twitched into a smirk, unable to hide his pleasure at having so thrown the Tevinter. Then Dorian smiled, and it was a real one this time, setting his eyes alight with mirth.

"You've caught me," the Magister gasped theatrically, putting a hand over his heart. "My devious plan for worming my way into your organization is to force civilization upon you all, whether you like it or not."

"If you intend to change our cuisine or fashion, I fear you will face great resistance," Cullen said, playing along.

"I'd expect nothing less from such savages," Dorian responded assuredly before taking another long drink. His eyes surveyed Cullen head to foot with similar lecherous interest as when they had first met in the Chantry. Cullen was glad it was too cold for his body to even consider flushing this time. "I anticipate a furious struggle before you bow to my superiority." Despite the confidence oozing from his tone, the mage gave a violent shiver, sending a bit of his wine sloshing onto his hand. "Kaffas," Dorian cursed under his breath as he tried to find a kerchief without staining his white robes.

Cullen chuckled quietly, taking the chance to survey Dorian in turn without the mage catching the look. His armor was ludicrously complicated, all belts and fancy buckles that must be a nightmare to remove, and his robes appeared to be made from silk, which would doubtlessly prove ineffective at remotely protecting him from the elements. Although the fashion clearly suited the man's build and coloring, it was entirely unpractical.

Dorian caught his eye just as his hands began to glow again. The magic faded faster than he had called it as the Magister's gaze shifted nervously. "The Chantry suddenly seems rather cozy, doesn't it?" the mage said flippantly.

It had been a blink and miss it moment, but Cullen latched onto that weakness. That anxious reaction was closer to what he expected from the mages he had once overseen in the Circles. Even when Cullen had cut off Dorian's magic and pinned him to the Chantry's wall, Dorian had never seemed nervous.

Not when there were others in earshot. Not when there was a wall for support.

Oh.

Cullen hid his smirk under the pretext of taking another long drink as he realized what the man was thinking. The Tevinter had never felt the brunt of a templar's abilities before Cullen, and he was obviously against the idea of experiencing it again — especially if it led to him collapsing in the snow. Cullen let the moment linger, pretending he did not notice Dorian's increasing discomfort before finally deciding that he was not going to be as petty as the mage.

"You can warm yourself. I won't stop you."

Dorian continued watching him with just the smallest hint of wariness as he conjured a small ball of fire, holding it briefly in his hand before he moved it to hover over his shoulder. It looked a bit like the flame of a candle, but larger and entirely without any support. The flames glimmered, radiating beautifully as it shifted between orange and red and violet. It gave off a fair amount of heat, too, the warmth washing over Cullen as the snow beneath their feet began to melt. Dorian smiled as he adjusted his robes, looking rather pleased with himself.

Maybe he'd given the Magister too much room to breathe. The flame was surely more than necessary to keep the mage from freezing to death — it was like he was showing off. Look at how brilliantly I glow.

Cullen pretended to take a quick sip of wine to cover his uneasy gulp. The magic had not taken a thing out of the Magister, it seemed. Despite sustaining such a powerful flame, not bothering to try using it to light that nearby log or some other fuel source aflame, he did not appear at all weakened by the drain of magic. If anything, he seemed stronger for it. He was no longer shaking, his easy grin one of confidence, his face alight with satisfaction.

"Better?" Cullen said, almost managing a tone of complete indifference.

Dorian's eyes glimmered, his grin growing just a touch. "Always, Commander," the mage answered softly.

Cullen was just considering that perhaps it was the safer option to go join the celebration in Haven when a runner caught his eye on the road behind Dorian. Cullen quickly finished off the drink as the man approached, and Dorian waved away the hovering fire, his cheeks oddly flushed.

"C-Commander," the runner stuttered, doubling over to gasp for breath.

"Easy, soldier," Cullen cautioned. "When you're ready."

The runner shook his head. "No time. Army — over the mountain." He pointed, and when Cullen turned to look his heart dropped.

The ridge of the distant mountain appeared to be moving, a mass of shadows and torches creeping over the top.

"An army — whose?" he questioned sharply.

The runner retched, and Dorian quickly shifted his boots out of the way while awkwardly patting the man on the back.

"Sorry," the runner said, wiping his mouth. "No banner, but —." He hesitated. "Templars, sir."

Cullen's jaw dropped as he looked back toward the mountain. The mass only seemed to be getting larger. Panic rose in his throat, unable to look away from the growing threat. "Go the the Chantry, tell them to sound the alarm," he ordered. The runner limped slightly as he rushed to obey.

"Friends of yours?" Dorian asked with an anxious chuckle.

"Apparently not," Cullen scowled.

Cullen's hand closed around the note in his pocket as he cursed himself for being distracted by this ridiculous, maddening Magister.

A storm is coming.