Cullen could feel magic surrounding him, and a small part of him felt nauseous. He hated magic, especially when it was cast on him, though he'd spent the last few years coming to accept that some could be used for good.

Wynne had been a good mage. She'd healed and helped, and even assisted him when he was at his worst, raving about the dangers of magic and insisting they keep her locked in the Circle. She'd just looked sad as she'd listened patiently to him, not bothering to argue. She'd had strong words for his knight-commander, though.

In Kirkwall, there had been a few mages who had seemed decent enough, but…Kirkwall was a bad example of damned near everything.

After all, it had been a renowned healer that more than a few templars had stayed quiet about and allowed to remain free who had caused so much devastation to the city.

It seemed no good deed went unpunished, when it came to magic.

Or perhaps it had been Meredith's oppressive reign that had pushed that healer to such insanity. Some of the other templars had thought that many of the blood mages in general wouldn't have been so desperate if they'd been afforded a few simple freedoms.

He didn't think that excused their actions, but…it was a mire.

And regardless of its good uses, magic still made him uneasy.

It was so easily twisted into something terrible. It so easily twisted good people into something terrible.

Now was hardly the time for reflection on such things.

The Herald was fleeing.

With a shield bash to the face of the terror demon attacking him that sent it sprawling backwards, Cullen turned and tried to follow after her. She wasn't actually taking this fight as a cover to escape, was she? She might be an apostate, but she was also a healer—who borderline obsessively tended to those in need—and he had a hard time believing she'd actually abandon him to demons.

More importantly, she wasn't a particularly strong mage, from what he could see, and they still needed her. He couldn't keep her safe if they were separated. Cassandra would kill him if anything happened to her. They'd already talked about how the Herald would need to head to Val Royeaux, and she couldn't very well do so if she was dead.

He'd barely made it a few steps when he had to dodge another of the demons. It slammed its hand into his shield hard enough that its claws went through the tempered metal. It wriggled its fingers just long enough that he was able to slip his arm out of the straps before it flung the shield off to the side.

That would have broken his damned arm.

Even as he parried a blow, the snow beneath him rippled. He barely managed to dart back before another demon lurched up from the ground. A fourth staggered jerkily next to the first one he had knocked back, closing in on him.

The first one lunged forward, and he caught its hands with his sword, slicing off fingers. The creature howled, and the others shot toward him.

An arrow caught one in the shoulder, stopping it in its advance and sending it stumbling back. Another flew a bit too close to Cullen's head for his liking and slammed into one of the other beast's throats.

As that one turned into that horrid light, Commander Rutherford ran his sword through the one with the arrow in its shoulder, and then finished off the one missing its fingers with another slash. As it fell, the last lunged at him, and he swung fast and hard, meeting it midair.

Its head spun off, though it disappeared before it hit the ground. Its body turned to light and drew back through the trees just as he felt its pressure crashing against him.

Cullen stood there, gulping down breath and replaying the fight in his head.

The arrows.

He whirled around to see the Herald had a bow hanging off her shoulder as she trotted away from him, toward a lump beneath one of the nearer trees that he was sure hadn't been there before. A satchel. A few broken branches lying in the snow around it and hanging in the old oak implied that it had been hidden in the tree rather than near it. His men would have had a poor time finding that.

Knots curled in his stomach as he considered what would have happened without her help. He was a good fighter, but no one liked four against one odds, especially when the creatures had claws almost as long as a sword.

He stormed across the frozen ground to where she'd knelt, shouldering her pack. However, even as he reached her, she jolted to her feet and whirled to face him. Those eerie eyes were on him, wide.

He took in a few breaths, realizing that he had no reason to be glaring at her as he was. He forced himself to relax, some of the tension leaving him. "You could have said something."

"About what?" She took her bow off her shoulder again, holding it as though ready for more demons to attack at any second. Or was she expecting him to?

"I don't know," he sheathed his sword and ran his fingers along the back of his neck, breathing out slowly. "That you were coming back?"

"I already said I'd help fix the sky," she retorted. Her grip tightened on her bow.

She had said that. And there was nothing she'd done thus far to indicate otherwise.

Could it be that he was simply being so hard on her because she was a mage? Because he feared what she would or wouldn't do? Without saying anything, he turned away, scanning the nearby area for his shield and then picking his way through the frigid bushes until he could gather it. Aside from the claw marks, it was still decent enough to keep with him until he got back to Haven.

Ser Harritt was going to have a fit. He'd just crafted the shield with the Inquisition's eye a few days ago.

Perhaps this would be enough to persuade the blacksmith to make something a little bit heavier, closer to a templar's shield.

As he dusted a bit of ice and broken brambles off it, he looked back to see that his charge had trailed after him. She was still keeping a bit of space between them, body tense, expression wary.

In addition to her pack and bow, she had two belts tied about her waist, crisscrossing. Dozens of little pouches and flasks lined each one, and he suddenly understood why she'd wanted to get them. She was more than just an assistant to Adan. She was an actual, trained alchemist.

Whatever her shortcomings might be with magic, she likely made up for them with the bow and potions. Suddenly her being from the Wilds wasn't so farfetched. He still had his doubts on Leliana's theory, of course. Inspecting her carefully, he motioned to her. "Hardly the tools of a witch."

"I never said I was one," she retorted, irate. She gave him a once over before shaking her head and muttering, "Honestly…"

They both stood there, catching their breath. He'd never seen a mage sprint that fast, though most of them were typically encumbered with robes. With his armor, she'd have been hard to keep up with, though he could have. As silence settled over them, he motioned to her bow. "Nice shooting."

She adjusted her grip. "I suppose I shouldn't tell you I only hit one of the ones I was aiming for."

"Well, regardless, it bought me the time I needed," Cullen offered, a half smile tugging at his lips and the scar that rested on the top one when she paused to give him a narrowed glare.

The action was short lived. As if on cue, a loud crack echoed through the woods, followed by more shrieks.

The herald responded instantly, drawing an arrow and notching it, though she kept it pointed toward the ground between them. Without a word, Cullen redrew his blade and rolled his shield arm, readying himself.

The two exchanged a single glance before heading toward the noise. It might have been easier, even more sensible, to try to make a run for Haven, but they were over an hour away. It would be better to try to seal the rift, rather than fighting off waves of demons that spawned behind them.

They could just barely see the light of the rift through the trees when another terror demon attacked, the ripples forming beneath their feet. This time, they were ready, both of them dodging out of the way before it could surface. Cullen lunged back as it came up and, before it could even rise from its crouch, cleaved his blade through its shoulder. She kept after the rift, pausing once to shoot another demon as it became visible through the trees.

A third demon shot out of the ground near her, tackling her and hissing in her face. As it snapped down at her, she reached into one of the pouches on her belts, grabbed a handful of something, brought it up, and blew whatever it was into the creature's eyes. The demon wailed, reeling backward as the powder blinded it. Even as it reached for its face in agony, Cullen managed to close the distance between them and with a swift swing, the monster's head was free of its shoulders.

Something crunched in the snow behind him, and he whirled around, catching yet another demon in the stomach with his sword.

As its body turned to light, the rift went dormant.

The Herald rolled onto her feet and shoved her hand toward it, palm out.

Light crackled, magic tingled all around them, the air cracked, and then all that was left of the rift was remnant splotches across Cullen's vision that made it hard to see in the evening light. As he blinked past them, he winced, feeling a pain shooting through his left thigh. He looked down and grimaced. His leather pants were splotched with blood that slowly oozed from three long claw marks—when had he even gotten them? They weren't terribly deep, and he doubted he'd bleed out.

That didn't make them sting any less, a sensation made worse by the miserable cold.

"You…should be more careful."

She was doubled over a little ways ahead of him, leaning against her knees to catch her breath. Her hair was somehow even messier than it had been before, a few twigs and streaks of snow littering her braid.

He sheathed his sword and shouldered his shield. "Says the woman who was tackled by a demon. Twice."

"I believe you were knocked over by one, too," She stood up, slowly, testing her limbs before trotting up to him, her gaze on his leg. "I guess that makes us both pretty terrible at this."

"I'd say we did well enough. We're alive, aren't we?" He tried not to look wobbly as she came to a stop in front of him and knelt. Abruptly, he wished she would go back to keeping her distance.

She reached out, letting her fingers drag down the lowest of the rips in his pants so that she could see the wound better. Before he could protest that she needn't waste her energy, she tapped her fingers against his exposed skin, murmuring something too soft for him to hear.

Instantly, the pain in his leg was replaced with a numb sensation. As it faded, only the cold nipping at his bare skin was left, a slight discoloration the only mark that he'd been injured at all.

She heaved herself back to her feet, inspecting his leg one more time before nodding, a satisfied look on her face. "Tis a good thing that wasn't too serious, hmm?" She glanced up at him. "You know, you don't have to look like I just demanded your first born." She had dropped her pack at the edge of the clearing during the fighting, and she hurried over to retrieve it, inspecting it to make sure she hadn't broken anything when she'd tossed it aside.

He walked after her, feeling oddly like he owed her for her healing, even if it had been unbidden. "Would you like me to carry that?"

"I appreciate the offer, commander," she said, hoisting it up, careful not to jostle her bow or quiver. "But I think I'll like my living shield to have his hands free, if he needs them."

"And here I thought you'd forgotten about that," he murmured, turning in time with her and beginning toward Haven, "what with you leading the charge."

"I am not used to having a shield, so you'll have to give me some time to grow accustomed." She paused, frowning. "Though, no offense to you, I'd rather not have to get too acquainted with such fighting." She peered up through the trees, toward the edges of the Breach. She let out a sigh as they reentered the trees, and the old pines obscured it from view.

She was rubbing her hands together.

"If you don't have any gloves in that pack of yours, just take mine."

"And leave you to get blisters, should you need to draw that sword?"

His hand was resting on the pommel again. He started to move it, but stopped himself, relaxing. "I'm sure I'll manage, somehow."

With an exaggerated sigh, she let her bag thud to the ground and opened it, digging through a few folded pieces of cloth and leathers that looked like extra clothes. Just as he saw the corner of an old book, tucked safely beneath all the rest of her things, she pulled out a pair of leather gloves and let the latched lid of her pack fall back down.

A grimoire, perhaps?

She buckled the top into place, shouldered her things, and then jerked her gloves into place. They fit her rather snuggly. She held her hands up, fingers splayed. "Happy?"

"You're not?"

Though she eyed him a moment, she shrugged her shoulders and picked up her pace, weaving her way through the trees as though she'd lived in the area her whole life.