The freezing air of Haven's morning crept under Grace's collar, biting at her skin despite the heavy cloak wrapped around her. She huffed against the relentless snowstorm, trudging toward the Chantry through drifts that grew deeper by the hour. The Frostbacks were at their worst this morning, and she was beginning to suspect they had no intention of letting up.
Ahead, a lone figure moved in the same direction, her pace steady despite the storm. Recognizing the familiar silhouette, Grace quickened her steps. Cassandra was wrapped in a thick woolen cloak, her expression as displeased as Grace felt.
"Grace." The Seeker greeted her with a small nod, her breath misting in the frigid air.
"Morning," Grace grumbled. "I hate the cold. Now I'm sure." She pulled her cloak tighter, relieved they were nearly at the Chantry's doors.
Cassandra smirked. "The Frostbacks do not surrender to spring so easily." She glanced at Grace, her tone shifting. "Did you finish the book on tactics I gave you?"
"I did," Grace said as they reached the steps. "Though I have some questions."
Cassandra held the door open, shaking off the fresh layer of snow clinging to her cloak. "We can discuss them… later."
Grace smiled knowingly. "Yes… if I am successful."
The warmth inside the Chantry was immediate, the great braziers casting flickering light across the stone walls.
The more Grace learned about Cassandra, the more she saw past the rigid discipline and sharp words. That armor wasn't just steel—it was a shield against the world. A familiar one. Grace smirked to herself. She had her own defenses, though hers took the form of sarcasm and banter. Cassandra had pointed it out not long ago, after Grace had confronted her about her brooding. Since then, an unspoken understanding had formed between them, a mutual respect that was steadily growing into something like friendship.
But today was not a day for reflection.
Today was the day they had been preparing for.
The troops were ready to march on the Breach. The mages were supplied with lyrium. Every delay only prolonged the inevitable, and the sooner the rift was sealed, the sooner they could turn their focus to the Venatori and their so-called Elder One.
In the war room, Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine were already gathered. Grace greeted them all, but her gaze lingered when it met Cullen's.
Things had been… warm between them since their evening talk. She welcomed every moment spent in his company—the conversations at breakfast, the discussions on battle tactics at the training grounds. He was well-read, experienced in the field, and he listened when she spoke, offering insights of his own in return. It had become their routine, as natural as breathing.
She still teased him when the mood struck, but he always deflected—awkward but determined, hiding behind polite evasions and quick changes of subject.
The meeting itself was brief. There was little to discuss beyond the one thing none of them could control.
"The blizzard is slowing everything," Leliana sighed, arms crossed.
Cullen, staring into the fireplace, nodded. "We can't risk marching in these conditions. The mages would tire too quickly, and their support is critical to closing the Breach."
He kept his voice steady, but Grace didn't miss the tension in his jaw.
———
Cullen felt a tight pull in his chest as he considered what lay ahead. He would do whatever it took to ensure Grace endured whatever the Breach might bring. It was only logical, he told himself. She was irreplaceable to their cause, and it was his duty to see her through it.
And yet, duty did little to quiet the gnawing tension in his gut.
The lingering headache and waves of dizziness that had plagued him since the storm began only made matters worse. He pressed his fingertips against the edge of the war table, grounding himself as his gaze drifted across to Grace. She was tracing the flags on the map with absentminded precision, her face illuminated by the firelight, features steady with quiet resolve.
Was she truly that calm inside?
Cassandra's voice cut through his thoughts. "We have no choice but to wait. When the weather clears, we march."
Grace exhaled, rolling a shoulder. "I'll find Solas, then. There are a few things we wanted to go over before—"
She faltered.
Her breath hitched as her eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
There was something in his expression—something unreadable, something she couldn't name.
Grace broke away first, glancing back at the map as she let out a quiet sigh.
It took another day before the weather finally calmed.
At first light, the Inquisition departed for the mountaintop. The sky had cleared just enough to make the journey possible. As they rode, Grace found herself quietly marveling at the sheer number of people who had come—so many, all willing to risk their lives. None of them had been forced. They had come because they believed.
That belief weighed heavily on her shoulders, a responsibility that pressed down like a boulder.
Eluvia trotted alongside Cassandra's and Leliana's horses, their conversation light and easy. Grace tried to join in where she could, but her nerves frayed with every passing moment. Her gaze drifted forward, drawn again and again to Cullen's figure at the head of the column. He rode ahead with the cavalry, carving a path through the fresh snow for those behind him.
"Grace, you will succeed," Cassandra said, her voice steady and sure, breaking through the fog of Grace's thoughts.
Grace glanced over and offered a small smile. "There's no other option."
When they finally reached the Breach crater, a wave of revulsion rolled through her. It felt like no time had passed at all since they first stepped foot here. The landscape was unchanged—bleak and broken, as grim as ever.
The red lyrium pulsed with a twisted hum, louder than she remembered. Its crystals had grown, swelling grotesquely in the snow.
Varric appeared at her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Once we deal with the Breach, I need to talk to you about this red stuff."
Grace gave a soft chuckle, trying to ease the knot in her chest. "Whatever you need, Varric. Just don't tell me you want to plant it next to your tent and sculpt statues out of it."
"Nah, I was thinking hedges…" he muttered, shaking his head. "Actually, no. Not even I can joke about this. Shrubbery's the last thing I'd want to make with this crap."
She smiled at him, warm and reassuring. "As I said—whatever you need."
They waited together in silence for Solas, Vivienne, and Dorian to arrive.
The air around the crater was thick with more than just the oppressive energy of the Breach—it was the red lyrium. Its song was more than sound: it was sensation, a crawling itch just beneath the skin, a pressure behind the eyes, a whisper in the back of the mind.
Grace clenched her jaw and forced herself to ignore it.
They didn't have to wait long before the rest of the party arrived. Solas approached with his usual quiet grace, though his sharp gaze swept the corrupted terrain with thinly veiled distaste. Vivienne, ever composed, barely spared the lyrium a glance; her attention was fixed on the massive tear in the sky above. And Dorian—despite his typical flair—was uncharacteristically quiet, his mouth drawn in a tight line as he took in the damage.
"Well," Dorian finally said, adjusting his gloves with a flick of his fingers. "This is even more dreadful than I imagined. If I start sprouting red crystal growths, do be a dear and set me on fire before it gets too unsightly."
Grace let out a breath of amusement—brief, but welcome. "Let's hope it won't come to that."
Solas stepped forward, his eyes narrowed on the Breach. "The Veil is thinner here than before. Disturbed."
Vivienne hummed, thoughtful. "We should be cautious. Any instability could complicate the casting."
Varric crossed his arms. "Great. As if it wasn't bad enough the first time."
Grace turned her focus to the task ahead, shoving aside the gnawing unease. The Breach was the priority. Whatever the lyrium was doing here—whatever it meant—could wait.
Still, she had a feeling that when Varric finally told her what was on his mind, she wouldn't like it.
She descended into the crater slowly, her eyes sweeping the cracked remnants of the temple galleries where mages and soldiers were now taking position. Cullen's voice echoed across the ruin, issuing commands from the far side, though she couldn't see him yet.
Lately, she'd started referring to him as the golden general in her thoughts—something between a tease and a prayer.
The weather had held so far, but the sky looked heavy with snow again. Another storm brewed behind the peaks of the Frostbacks. Grace shivered and hugged herself, trying to slow her breathing.
The Mark had begun reacting the moment they stepped into the ruins—stinging and pulsing with proximity to the Breach. It felt like trying to grasp nettles with bare hands.
A quiet throat-clearing broke her focus. Solas stood beside her.
"Herald? Are you well?"
Grace offered a strained smile. "Fine. Just thinking. And the Mark… well, it's definitely awake."
Solas touched her arm lightly. "We've reviewed every detail I could uncover. You're ready, Grace. Don't doubt yourself. It's time."
"Thank you, Solas." She gave a small nod, then glanced up toward the gallery above. Cullen and Leliana were watching. Solas followed her gaze and received their nod of confirmation. Everything was in place.
Her eyes lingered on Cullen. He looked pale beneath the shadows of the gallery, but steady. Their eyes locked across the distance, and the world seemed to still. Then, just before he looked away, he gave her the smallest smile—and a nod.
Her chest tightened.
"Mages," Solas called out, voice ringing across the crater. "Focus your power on the Herald. Let her draw from you."
They responded in unison, raising their staves. Grace exhaled slowly and stepped toward the place where the first rift had once opened. She knew she had to open it again—to reopen the wound before it could be sealed.
A sacred silence fell over the broken temple. Every pair of eyes turned to her.
She tried to quiet the storm of thoughts in her head. It didn't work.
Hey… Whoever gave me this cursed flashy patch, if you're listening—don't let me mess this up. And if I do… just keep them safe. Please.
She pulled off her glove and tucked it behind her belt. The Mark flared to life, pulsing with heat and energy, sending sharp tingles down her arm.
She raised her hand toward the Breach.
"Now!" Solas shouted.
The air changed—filled with a rising hum, a discordant chorus of magic twisting through the Breach. Energy surged from the mages and poured through her like a river of fire, wild and relentless.
Grace gritted her teeth, focused everything she had, and pushed the power into the rift.
"Everyone, stay alert!" Cullen's voice rang out over the howling wind. "We don't know what might come through this time."
A cold sweat gathered on Grace's brow. She clenched her jaw, forcing more energy into the rift, now a blinding column of sickly green light reaching toward the roaring Breach. Pain lanced through her skull, and she felt a trickle of blood slide from her nose.
Still not enough. The Breach drank the power greedily, the air vibrating with a chorus of weeping and shrieking echoes that didn't belong to their world.
Grace gritted her teeth and reached deeper, drawing more from the mages around her, just as Solas had taught her. Somewhere in the haze, she heard herself scream—raw and desperate.
The pain crescendoed. It felt like her arm might rip from its socket.
Then—a thunderclap. Deafening.
A shockwave slammed into her and sent her flying backward.
Silence followed.
Disoriented, she blinked against the ringing in her ears. The cheering of soldiers reached her through the fog as she forced herself upright on trembling hands.
She looked up.
It was gone.
The Breach had vanished, leaving only a faint shimmer in the sky, like a scar beneath the clouds.
It worked.
She lifted her head, just barely.
The sky above was still. No jagged tear bleeding green light, no unnatural roar splitting the air—only a faint shimmer where the Breach had been, flickering like the last breath of a dying star.
It was gone.
Had it worked?
Cheers rang out, distant and muffled, like echoes through water. Her vision swam, the world tilting sideways as snow and ash blurred together. She tried to breathe—but her chest felt tight, her limbs too heavy.
The cold crept in fast.
A smile, faint and trembling, flickered across her lips—then faded as her arms buckled.
She collapsed, motionless. The noise around her dimmed. Someone shouted her name, but it was already too far away.
And then—silence.
Cullen watched the chaos in the crater below with his heart in his throat, worry gnawing at him with vicious persistence. What if the Templars had been the better choice? Would that have changed anything? Would she have stood a better chance?
Grace's small form was caught in a pillar of blinding light, the Mark on her hand glowing like a brand of divinity as she funneled raw magic into the torn sky. For the second time, she looked like something not of this world—a bloody celestial.
Then came the sonic boom. The shockwave hit like a hammer, and Cullen stumbled, nearly losing his footing. But he didn't care. His eyes never left her.
She was on her knees.
Then she collapsed.
Cullen bolted, pushing past soldiers and stunned onlookers. He forced himself not to run, not to betray how his stomach had turned to ice and how each step felt like wading through a nightmare. The cheers around him grew distant, swallowed by a ringing silence that pressed hard against his ears.
He barely registered anything else—only the sight of her, still and unmoving.
Solas and Dorian reached her first, and Cullen stopped short when he heard Dorian's voice rise above the silence, shaky but certain: "She's alive!"
The knot in Cullen's chest twisted even tighter before it finally began to unravel. He drew in a sharp breath, then another, grounding himself before the relief made his knees give way. He didn't join the renewed cheering. He couldn't. Not yet.
She was alive. That was all that mattered.
The Breach hadn't taken her from him.
He rubbed at his forehead, trying to force himself to think clearly, to not feel so deeply. How could she ever be mine in the first place?
He'd battled this sentiment for weeks. His mind had laid out every reason it was impossible—her station, the implications, the history between them. Maker, he'd been cruel after Redcliffe. She had every reason to turn her back on him. And yet she didn't. Somehow, she never did.
Despite every reason not to, he felt himself drawn to her again and again—like a man who knew the fire would burn but reached for it anyway.
And who wouldn't? She was brilliant, sharp-tongued and clever, her gaze always a step ahead. She had just sealed the Breach, held the line between their world and chaos itself. She was a miracle. But that wasn't why the thought of losing her terrified him.
Not anymore.
He remembered her on the cliffside before the siege on Redcliffe—her hand in his, the quiet steadiness of her voice, the way moonlight had softened the streaks of white in her hair and reflected in her stormy eyes. He hadn't let himself feel it then, not truly. But now?
Now, the truth settled into him with a dull ache.
She wasn't just the Herald or the Marcher mage. Not to him.
From the crater's edge, he watched her sit up slowly, Dorian brushing the tangled hair from her face before pulling her into an embrace and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Grace leaned against him, weak but steady, and the two began the slow walk back toward Haven.
Somewhere nearby, Sera whooped and hollered about drinking for three days straight, but Cullen barely heard her. His gaze stayed locked on Grace and the mage at her side.
It was hard not to envy Dorian in that moment. Too hard.
He and Grace had shared a bond ever since that harrowing journey into the future. Sometimes he wondered if things might have unfolded differently between them without that strange twist of fate. But even now, he doubted it.
Around Dorian, she was lighter—freer. She laughed more easily, her wit sharper, her smiles effortless. Cullen sighed quietly. He'd caught himself wondering more than once what it would be like if those smiles, those teasing comments, were meant for him alone.
But of course, they weren't.
Dorian wasn't a Templar. He didn't carry Cullen's past like an open wound. He hadn't seen magic wielded as a weapon of cruelty and desperation. He hadn't drowned in it. And Grace—Grace was a mage. It made sense that she'd find comfort in someone who could understand her world without flinching.
What could Cullen offer her in return?
Pain. Distrust. A past soaked in blood and regret.
And yet, her magic didn't unsettle him the way it once would have. Hers felt different. He could still feel its gentle buzz under his skin, resonating faintly with the remnants of lyrium in his blood—not intrusive, but soothing. Familiar. Like a whisper that promised something he'd long since taught himself not to want.
As she passed with Dorian at her side, Cullen managed a faint smile. Grace returned it, her expression weary but triumphant, her eyes warm with relief. It pierced something in him—soft and dangerous.
He opened his mouth, meaning to say something—anything. But the words tangled in his throat and never made it out. Instead, he gave her another small smile, watching as she disappeared into the sea of cheering soldiers and grateful mages.
She deserved this moment.
She deserved all of it—the praise, the admiration, the joy.
She just didn't deserve him.
Cullen lingered at the edge of the crowd, hands clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to go to her. He wanted to tell her that she'd done the impossible. That she'd terrified him, lying there motionless in the crater. That seeing her rise again had lifted a weight from his chest he hadn't realized he was carrying.
But he said nothing.
He only watched as Dorian guided her through the celebration. Vivienne offered a rare, approving nod. Solas, ever composed, regarded her with something that almost looked like reverence.
And Cullen turned away.
This wasn't his place. He was the Commander of the Inquisition. It was his duty to ensure the army stood ready, that their forces remained strong and prepared for what lay ahead. He wasn't her confidant. He wasn't her friend.
And he certainly wasn't whatever it was his foolish, aching heart longed to be.
Still, long after they set on to march back towards Haven, the thoughts refused to fade. He saw her in every sparkle in the freshly fallen snow, heard her laughter in the wind, the echo of her voice lingering in the spaces between silence.
She haunted him.
Not like a ghost—but like a wish. A dangerous, impossible wish.
Cullen exhaled and scrubbed a hand through his hair, jaw tight.
It didn't matter how she made him feel.
Because love… was not something men like him were meant to have.
Back at Haven, bonfires were lit around the village and for the first time since the Conclave, which felt like one eternity ago, people were celebrating.
There was music and dancing around the tavern, Flissa brought out casks of her best mead and wine. Grace stood at the top of the stairs in front of the chantry, tucked in her cloak, and watched the cheerful mood below.
"Done with the festivities already, dear?" A familiar voice spoke behind her.
"I managed to slip away… Sera would make me dance my feet off otherwise… and I'm by no means enthusiastic about these kinds of activities." Grace smirked and nodded towards the makeshift dance floor next to the inn, where thoroughly drunk Sera was trying to pull Blackwall of all people to join the frolicking.
"Oh…" the tall elegant mage scrunched her nose a little, sipping wine from a silver goblet. Maker knows where Vivienne got it, Grace thought. Then she tried to imagine Madame de Fer with a flagon or a bottle and suddenly had a hard time not grinning. Of course, Vivienne would bring a silver goblet along...
"You know, dear, this was a great success. Even though I never approved of recruiting the rebellion, I have to say that it fulfilled its purpose sufficiently." Grace glanced at the Enchantress. Now, this was very rare. She nodded slowly and pulled her cloak closer.
"Thank you, Vivienne." She replied politely, just as her etiquette teacher would want her to.
"But this is just the beginning. Now that you managed to close the gaping hole in the skies, even more people would come to The Inquisition. There needs to be a plan for the future, you need to be prepared. The influence we have over the whole south will just rise. And with that, more enemies - you surely know that. The people will want to see you rule. Really rule and lead. There are enormous things ahead of us." Vivienne's voice reminded her of a heavy velvet curtain, she realized. Get too tangled in it and you get choked soon. Grace narrowed her eyes at that realization and took a deep breath as if to prove to herself she was not tangled yet. She also reminded her of her mother sometimes…
Grace exhaled slowly, watching her breath curl into the cold night air. She had barely closed the Breach, and already the weight of expectation pressed down on her.
Vivienne was right, of course. The Inquisition had only grown in power, and now that their greatest feat had been accomplished, more eyes—both friendly and hostile—would turn toward them. But she wasn't sure she was ready to think about politics, about courtly masks and hidden daggers. And why would she have to lead anyway?
Not tonight.
"I know," Grace admitted, tilting her head slightly to glance at the Enchantress. "But can't we have one evening before we start thinking about schemes and enemies?"
Vivienne hummed, a small, knowing smile curving her lips. "A well-earned respite, dear, I understand. But don't let yourself be lulled into complacency. Tonight, you're their hero. Tomorrow, you must be their leader."
Grace let out a soft chuckle. "You remind me of my mother, you know. Always two steps ahead, always making sure I never forget duty."
Vivienne took another delicate sip of her wine, considering this. "A compliment, I assume?"
"That depends," Grace mused, smirking. "On whether or not I listen."
The Enchantress gave her a pointed look, but Grace just laughed, shaking her head as she turned back toward the celebration below. The laughter, the flickering firelight, the sound of boots stomping in rhythm with the music—it was a rare moment of warmth in the cold uncertainty that had followed her since the Conclave.
And yet, even as she watched, her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Her gaze flickered across the crowd, searching before she even realized what she was looking for.
Probably the only person, apart from Solas, who was already wandering the Fade somewhere anyway, who would feel the same as her about the crowd and exaggerated celebrations.
She was actually very surprised to find Cullen next to the tavern, a flagon in his hand, and in a lively discussion with Varric.
The firelight cast golden hues against his armor, the shadows softening the sharp lines of his face. He wasn't drinking, nor did he seem eager to join in the dancing or revelry.
Vivienne made a soft, knowing sound beside her. "Ah."
Grace blinked, turning back swiftly. "What?"
Vivienne's smile was infuriatingly subtle. "Nothing, dear. Nothing at all."
Grace huffed, but the warmth in her chest remained.
Tomorrow, she would be the Herald again. Tonight…
Tonight, she was still just Grace. And for now, that was enough.
Grace said a quick goodbye to Vivienne and made her way by Leliana's tent and Threnn's requisition table walking towards the main gate, bypassing the happy villagers, nodding from time to time, and politely refusing tankards of alcohol shoved in her direction.
Varric noticed her from afar of course. His mouth widened in an all-knowing kind of grin.
"Specter!" Varric's deep raspy voice rang above the music and the buzz of voices. "Thought you'd be hiding from the praise somewhere!"
Cullen noticeably lurched, his gaze snapping toward Grace as if someone had just struck him with a cold wind. He swore his ears were turning red. Grace, fighting to stifle a laugh, adjusted her side braid and smirked at Varric's comment.
"I was, until Vivienne and her relentless drive for productivity found me." She raised an eyebrow, giving Varric an amused look. "You already know me too well, Varric…"
"Ah, yes." Varric clicked his tongue, feigning deep understanding. "I caught her earlier, bombarding Ruffles with an avalanche of 'shoulds' and 'shouldn'ts.' You know, she looked like she was about to reinvent the wheel." He took a long swig from his mug, then raised it again in a mock toast. "Cheers to that! To your general ass-saving tendencies. You really oughta start charging for that service."
Grace snickered, eyes glinting with amusement. "You know, I think I could get a good deal out of that idea. A 'Save The Thedas' package. Just add a few mages and a couple of weeks of strategic planning."
"Ah, but it's not the mages that people come for." Varric gave her a knowing look. "It's the inimitable charm. I mean, who else could shut down a rift in reality and look that good doing it?" He shot a playful glance at Cullen, who was still awkwardly shifting his weight.
"Right, Curly? Stop staring at her like she's the Andraste incarnate and say something."
"Ah, yes. That charm," Cullen muttered, his voice cracking slightly. He coughed, the blush creeping into his face, matching the color of his cloak. He turned quickly to Varric, trying to salvage some semblance of composure. "I—I'm definitely not staring at her like she's some divine figure, dwarf! Maker's breath, I— you should slow down on the mead."
Varric laughed loudly, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Oh, I'm sure that's not what you were doing, Curly. Totally normal to just stand there and get yourself all flustered, yeah?" He slapped Cullen's arm affectionately, grinning like a cat who'd just found a particularly juicy mouse. "You two should see yourselves right now. Absolutely adorable."
Cullen's gaze shifted uneasily to Grace, who was regarding him with a wide-eyed, amused expression. She raised an eyebrow, studying him as though he were some fascinating puzzle. The scrutiny made his face turn even more crimson. He quickly glanced away, struggling to keep his voice steady.
"I— I swear, I'm fine," he stammered, trying to brush off the teasing. "It's just… Varric is right. You do have a tendency to—" He paused, not knowing exactly how to finish the thought. He glanced at Grace again and immediately regretted it as his stomach twisted uncomfortably.
Grace's lips twitched, clearly holding back laughter. "It's alright, Commander," she teased, her voice laced with mock sympathy. "I don't bite."
"Not for lack of trying," Varric called over his shoulder as he wandered off toward the table with more mead, giving Cullen one last knowing wink. "Don't forget what I told you, Curly! I expect updates."
Cullen groaned, rubbing his temples in exasperation as Varric disappeared into the crowd. Grace chuckled softly to herself, a satisfied glint in her eyes. She turned her attention back to the bonfire, the atmosphere around them still buzzing with energy. "Well, that was… illuminating."
"Maker help me," Cullen muttered, glancing at her with an exasperated, yet affectionate, look. "I think I'm going to need more than mead to survive this night."
Grace raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she leaned slightly closer to Cullen. "What did Varric mean by that, Commander? What's this advice he gave you? I'm intrigued."
Cullen, still flushed, fumbled for words. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the ground as if the floor might suddenly offer him a way out. "It's nothing, really… Varric just has a way of making everything sound more dramatic than it is."
"Oh, I see." Grace's voice was light but teasing. "You're not a fan of dramatic, then? I'd have thought a man of your stature would appreciate a little flair." She let the words hang in the air, the unspoken challenge in her tone more obvious now.
Cullen chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck again, a habit he could never seem to shake. "I don't mind some flair, I suppose. But I've never been one for Varric's particular brand of theatrics."
Grace leaned back slightly, folding her arms with an air of mock seriousness. "Hmm, perhaps I should ask him myself. You know, to get the full story. He seems quite keen on giving you advice, after all."
His eyes widened for a moment, and he quickly shook his head. "No, please, don't. He—" He paused, collecting his thoughts. "He has a way of embellishing things."
Grace laughed softly, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Embellishing, you say? I can't imagine what he'd embellish about you. I'd never guess you were the kind of man who needed a pep talk." She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a more teasing tone. "I mean, I'm sure it was something completely harmless, right?"
Cullen stared at her for a moment, caught between the urge to deflect and the desire to explain himself. Finally, he sighed, giving in just a little. "It's not exactly harmless. Varric's advice was more about how to… handle things. How to, uh, express oneself more openly. And not in the way I'm accustomed to."
Grace's curiosity peaked. "Express oneself openly? Now I'm really curious. What, like… feelings? Or something more… complicated?"
Cullen's gaze flickered to hers, his voice lowering slightly as he spoke, a hint of vulnerability creeping in despite his efforts to remain composed. "Something more complicated." He paused, not sure if he should say more, but Grace's persistent, inquisitive stare seemed to pull the words from him. "Varric thinks I'm too closed off. That I'm too restrained."
"And you don't think he's right?" Grace asked gently, her tone softer now. "You've got this fortress around you, Cullen. You've seem like you have always been a man of duty and responsibility. But sometimes… you've got to let people in, right?"
Cullen shifted uneasily, his expression softening slightly as he took in her words. "It's not that simple," he replied quietly. "I've built this… wall, for a reason. To protect myself, and to protect others."
She nodded, a soft understanding in her eyes. "I get that. But walls can also keep you from connecting. From living, really."
Grace decided to overlook his bashfulness, though it never ceased to perplex her. How did such a confident, stoic man who commanded the entire army of the Inquisition turn into a nervous wreck when talking to her? It made no sense. He'd always been a force to be reckoned with on the training fields, yet now, here he was, struggling to hold a simple conversation.
She'd hoped the tensions between mage and templar had finally been put aside—he'd even managed to talk to her normally for most of the time—but now, here they were, with a tiny painful tug in her chest. Of course, it seemed that some things would always get in the way.
She cleared her throat. "Also - Wow, for a writer, that's quite unoriginal. I recall him giving me the same advice a few weeks ago by the way." She chuckled, nervously shifting her weight. "But I guess anyone except for Sera and Bull would be considered a stick-in-the-mud by Varric's definition of 'exciting.'"
Cullen's lips quirked into a smile at that, but there was an awkward silence that followed. He looked at the horizon as if searching for something, anything, to distract him. Grace couldn't help but think that her attempt at conversation had fallen flat.
Not that she had anything particularly profound to say, she mused. But still, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, she had expected something more.
She caught his gaze returning to her, a little more focused this time, as she absently played with her braid. It was a small comfort that he seemed to be paying attention again.
"Seems... like we have a moment to breathe, doesn't it?" Cullen's voice was low, almost velvety, and it instantly calmed the racing thoughts in her mind.
Grace smiled at him, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Yes… It's almost too hard to believe."
"Are you feeling alright, Herald?" His voice softened.
She hesitated for a moment, taking in a slow breath. "Grace…" She whispered it first, then repeated it louder. "I prefer to be called by my name. The title means little to me."
Cullen blinked, clearly taken aback. "It means a lot to everyone here, though. They wish to pay you respect. They look up to you, now more than ever. You did an astounding job up there." He watched her, his eyes searching her face.
She sighed softly, staring at the ground. "Yes… sent by the Maker, closing the big sodding giant rift and all that… But it makes me feel like I'm losing myself. The real me. I never wanted any of this." She raised her left hand, the mark on her palm catching the light as she gestured. "I just wish that the people close to me would understand… and let the title go."
Cullen's chest tightened. Close to her? Did she really consider them close? He couldn't deny that they'd spent a lot of time together—working through the struggles, big and small. Yet, calling her by her name… Wouldn't it be disrespectful? After all, he was the Commander of the Inquisition's forces. Wouldn't that undermine the respect the soldiers had for her? For the Inquisition?
His thoughts stuttered to a halt as he imagined how it would feel to call her by her name. His pulse quickened at the thought, and for a moment, he couldn't speak.
Grace let out a tense chuckle, breaking the silence. "Oh, look at me complaining again… What a classic mage thing to do, huh?"
Before he could respond, Cullen's attention was drawn to something in the distance. His eyes narrowed, and he stiffened, instinctively scanning the horizon.
"Cullen?" Grace's voice broke through his focus, her brow furrowing as she noticed his shift in demeanor.
"Wait a moment," he murmured, eyes fixed on the lights flickering on the horizon. "Something's off."
Grace instinctively looked up, her heart racing as she followed his gaze to the silhouette of the mountains. "What is it?" she asked, her voice tight with concern.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his eyes remained locked on the growing number of lights in the distance, and a heavy silence settled between them.
A sense of unease settled over her, and before she could speak, the bells from the lookout posts began to ring out, the sound shrill and urgent.
Her voice caught in her throat as the chaos erupted around them—soldiers shouting, mages scrambling, and the frantic energy of the camp descending into panic.
Grace's eyes widened as her gaze locked with Cullen's. He caught the pallor on her face, the sheen of cold sweat forming along her brow. They didn't need to exchange words—both moved in silent agreement, feet pounding against the snow-covered ground as they raced toward the main gate.
By the time they arrived, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine were already descending upon the scene. A scout, breathless and red-faced from exertion, staggered through the gate, barely managing to stay upright.
Cullen's stomach coiled with tension, his heartbeat a pounding drum in his ears. Adrenaline surged, sharpening his focus. He stepped forward, his voice a firm command.
"Report!"
The scout clutched at his side, wheezing. "It's—it's a massive force, ser. Attacking from the west."
Cullen's grip tightened around the pommel of his sword. "Under what banner?"
"None, ser!"
Grace exchanged a sharp glance with Cassandra and Josephine, who gasped in unison.
"None?"
Grace ran a hand through her hair, her eyes darting from left to right as if searching for answers. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"Cullen, give us a plan. Anything." The words left her lips, brittle with urgency. Her fingers curled into her palms, damp with sweat.
"Haven isn't a fortress," he said, already moving. "We need to control the battlefield. The trebuchets outside—we use them."
His voice was steady, a grounding force amidst the chaos. Cullen had apparently been quick in a crisis, issuing orders to his lieutenants even before the panic fully settled in. The clamor of commands rang out as soldiers snapped into motion.
Grace barely waited before darting toward her cottage—she needed her staff. But something stopped her cold. The doors were shut, a strange, flickering glow creeping beneath the wooden planks.
A voice. Muffled. Desperate.
She rushed forward, pressing a hand against the heavy wood. "I can't come in unless you open!"
Bracing herself, she shoved one of the doors open, only to find herself face-to-face with a towering figure clad in armor streaked with grotesque, red-glowing veins.
A Templar?
No—something worse.
Her breath caught, fingers already twitching to summon magic—but before she could react, a hand clamped firmly around her arm, yanking her back.
Cullen.
He was beside her in an instant, his sword unsheathed, his stance rigid as he placed himself between her and the advancing figure. She barely had time to register his protective presence before the massive warrior lurched, then collapsed face-first onto the frozen ground with a sickening thud.
Behind him stood a frail boy, twin daggers dripping crimson, his oversized hat casting shadows over his sharp features.
"I'm Cole," he said softly, as if reciting an old memory. "I came to help. You need help. He's coming to kill you."
Grace blinked. "What—who?"
"The Elder One." Cole tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "You took his mages. He's angry. I don't like him."
"The Elder One…" she whispered, the words hollowing out her chest.
Her stomach twisted. A cold, creeping dread curled along her spine.
"So much for taking a moment to breathe," she muttered dryly.
Cassandra exhaled sharply, tightening her grip on her shield. "Maker protect us all."
Everything was a blur. An adrenaline rush gone wild.
Grace had no idea how she got to her staff or her armor, or how they managed to hold the trebuchets against endless waves of red lyrium-addled Templars and monstrous beasts. Each new wave nearly sent her to her knees—not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. The air was thick with the acrid stench of red lyrium and blood, clogging her throat, making her stomach churn.
"We need to aim the trebuchet more south! Aim for the mountain!" she shouted, her voice hoarse.
Cassandra hesitated mid-motion, her expression torn between confusion and realization. "But that would—" Then, her eyes widened. "Yes! All that fresh snow… that's brilliant!"
Grace didn't have time to watch. She forced another surge of magic through trembling fingers, casting a static cage to trap yet another wave of enemies. Her body ached. Her hands shook. She didn't even register Bull and Cassandra's combined strength as they loaded and fired the trebuchet.
Then—the roar of the avalanche. A thunderous, earth-shaking crash swallowed the valley whole.
The lights below flickered out, one by one, devoured by the cascade of ice and rock.
Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred with tears. The cheers around her barely registered over the ringing in her ears.
"We did it…" she whispered, swallowing down the sob threatening to rise.
Then came the screech.
A deafening, unnatural roar.
A massive shadow blotted out the firelight as wings, leathery and vast, flapped above them.
Grace's stomach plummeted.
"Run! To the gates! Now!"
She sprinted, vaulting over corpses—Red Templars, their own soldiers, it didn't matter. The bitter taste of fleeting victory turned to ash in her mouth.
What in the fucking—?
Is this what I get for turning down the Maker's little job offer? I survive the Fade, I close the Breach, and now he throws a dragon at me?
Is this just what he does?
Cullen was already at the gate, bellowing orders, his armor slick with gore. Bloodshot eyes locked onto hers, relief flashing across his face as she and the others barreled toward him.
"To the Chantry! Everyone, move!" His voice was unshaken, even as chaos reigned around them.
Grace skidded to a stop beside him, hands bracing against the heavy gate as they shoved it shut behind the last retreating soldiers.
For a split second, she held his gaze.
They were both panting, their chests rising and falling in tandem. The firelight made the gold in his eyes flicker.
"Cullen, I—" Her voice cracked. Another wave of tears burned behind her eyes.
He didn't hesitate. He spoke low, firm. "At this point… just make them fight for it."
That was all he needed to say.
Grace inhaled sharply, then squared her shoulders, her expression hardening. "Blackwall, Bull, Vivienne—on me. We need to search the village. Everyone else, help the Commander, Dorian, and Solas with the injured!"
Without waiting, she yanked a lyrium potion from her pouch, downing it in one gulp. The bitter, metallic taste made her gag, but she barely felt it as magic surged back into her veins.
The battle wasn't over.
Not yet.
She turned and ran into the burning Haven.
The heavy Chantry doors slammed shut behind them with a hollow finality. The building was eerily silent, the kind of silence that felt unnatural after the chaos outside. Scattered groups of soldiers and villagers huddled together, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear. Grace swept the room, searching for someone—anyone—who could tell her what was happening.
"Leliana?" Her gaze locked onto the spymaster's icy blue eyes. "This… this can't be everyone."
Leliana's expression remained unreadable. "That boy you let in… It seems Chancellor Roderick has a fondness for someone after all."
Grace exhaled sharply. "A little more detail would be helpful."
A ghost of a smile flickered across Leliana's lips, so fleeting Grace almost missed it. Even now, amid all this madness, the former bard remained composed—almost unnervingly so.
"There is an old pilgrimage road," Leliana explained. "Wide enough for a cart. The catacombs lead to the plains and a valley above Haven. The Chancellor knows the way through them. He told the boy."
Grace stared, momentarily stunned. "Are you saying…?" She shook her head. "But the Red Templars are still out there. The avalanche didn't take them all, and the dragon—"
A low, guttural roar echoed from outside, making the Chantry tremble. Villagers gasped, clutching each other as dust drifted from the rafters.
"He did not come for them," a soft voice murmured behind her.
Grace jumped, spinning to see the pale boy from before—Cole. His watery blue eyes peered up at her from beneath his oversized hat.
"He believes you stole something from him," Cole continued. "He wants you. But he will kill everyone nevertheless." He shuddered. "I don't like him."
A cold weight settled in Grace's stomach.
She scanned the half-empty Chantry, searching for stability, for something—someone—to ground her. Her eyes landed on Cullen, and her heart clenched.
She took a steadying breath, but he spoke first.
"There is one last trebuchet," he said, his voice low and measured. "If we aim it at the mountainside behind the Chantry…"
Grace swallowed hard, finishing the thought for him. "…then the avalanche would bury Haven. Along with the remaining Templars. And anyone still outside."
The words tasted like ash.
"He wants me," she said, straightening. "Let's give him what he wants. You need more time to evacuate." She turned to Leliana, her lips quirking into a bitter smile. "Didn't you say something earlier about loving a good bargain?"
"What?" Cullen's voice snapped back into sharp authority. "You cannot possibly be thinking of going alone. You need to operate the trebuchet. And defend it."
"I am going with you."
Grace faced him fully, still wearing that faint, resigned smile. It had to be him. He was the one people would look to. The one they would follow.
She stepped closer, pressing a palm against the cold metal of his breastplate. Stormy purple-gray eyes met amber, locking him in place.
"No," she said softly. "You need to lead them."
His throat worked, and she could feel the tension beneath her hand, the way his breath hitched as realization dawned.
"I come back only to hear you being complicated again, Commander? And you—don't you dare think about running off on another suicidal plan without me, Gracie."
Dorian's voice cut through the tension like a knife.
Cullen's jaw tightened as Grace let her hand fall, stepping away as Dorian emerged from the shadows.
"Most of the people are inside, Nightingale," he said, flicking a glance at Leliana. "The Seeker and the Dwarf are waiting at the entrance."
Leliana nodded.
Then—
"Lady Trevelyan." Blackwall stepped forward. "Let me accompany you. Please."
"And don't think I'm letting you go alone with the Vint, boss," Bull added, his deep voice carrying across the room. "The Commander should be with the others. I'd be a pretty shitty bodyguard if I let you do this alone."
Cullen's expression had gone utterly blank. But Grace knew better. She saw the war raging behind his eyes. The sheer desperation masked beneath that controlled veneer.
She exhaled, shaking her head. "Fine, you oafs." Her lips twitched. "But under one condition. You help me set the trebuchet, then you retreat when I say so."
She let the lie settle. Let them believe she had a way out. That there was enough time.
People believed what they wanted to.
Leliana's fingers brushed her arm in silent farewell before she turned, disappearing into the shadows with the rest of the survivors.
Grace rocked on her heels, nerves thrumming. Then she forced out a strained chuckle. "Alright. If you're done staring, we have a crazed cultist and his dragon to meet."
Dorian rolled his eyes, but followed, Blackwall and Bull close behind.
Only Cullen remained.
She met his gaze again.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
She dropped her chin, studying the floor. Of course, he wasn't moving. She'd just ordered him to leave her behind. He had to be furious.
But when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost fragile.
"We'll signal you… when the majority of people are above the treeline." His fingers curled at his sides. "Maybe you'll surprise it."
She inhaled sharply, her chest tightening. There were no right words.
Not this time.
How ironic. She'd expected him to scold her. To argue. But instead, she was leaving him behind. Again.
Her gaze softened as she memorized every flicker of warmth in his eyes.
Look at that, she thought wryly. Maybe my being a mage was never our biggest problem after all.
She forced out a brittle chuckle. "I hear fruit baskets are a traditional parting gift in Tevinter. Too bad the inn is already on fire."
Cullen's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.
She took a step toward him—then froze as another monstrous screech ripped through the Chantry walls.
The moment shattered.
Grace turned, casting him one last glance—one last smile—before running after Dorian, Blackwall, and Bull.
She didn't dare let him see the tears welling in her eyes.
Cullen stood there, watching the door swing shut behind her.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then, jaw clenched, he forced himself to turn away.
There were still people who needed him.
But as he walked toward the tunnels, he couldn't shake the hollow feeling in his chest.
He had led many into battle.
He had lost many.
But as he watched her go, he couldn't help but feel—
This time, he had lost something more.
Drip… Drip…
Drip…
Drip….
Inhale, exhale.
Oh, come on… this is getting old…
Ouch. Inhale, exhale.
Okay, that arm is not gonna work. The other one? Good. It moves, and fingers work. The mark stings.
Inhale, exhale.
I'm alive.
I'm cold.
I hate the cold.
Inhale, exhale. Ouch! Breathing hurts… Why does it…? Oh… that's why… my chest… hurts... That sodding magister's claw dug right through my armor there. And then… I fell...and the avalanche…
Drip… drip… Inhale, exhale.
It's cold.
I hate the cold…
I need to get up.
Get up.
Move dammit.
Open your eyes, Ella. Why is everything blue…?
Right. The ice is blue… I fell… but where to?
Grace finally managed to force her eyes open. Her body shivered violently, every nerve raw and screaming. Darkness pressed in around her—cold, blue-tinted, and endless. She blinked up at the jagged ceiling of ice-crusted stone, the faintest light filtering in from somewhere behind.
She was still alive.
Barely.
She groaned as she rolled to her side. Her right arm hung uselessly, pain blooming sharp and deep. Broken. No doubt. Her side was wet and sticky—blood, seeping slowly from the deep gouges the darkspawn had left behind. The cold helped, slowing the bleeding, but she was losing too much.
Still, she was breathing. And that had to count for something.
She grit her teeth and pulled herself onto her knees, gasping at the pain lancing through her body. Her staff was gone—probably lost when she fired the trebuchet. That last, desperate act had triggered the avalanche. She'd done what she had to. Bought them time.
But at what cost?
Right. The Templars. The battle.
Panic twisted in her chest. She froze, straining to listen. Nothing—no voices, no footsteps, no clash of steel. Just the faint hum of the Veil and a distant, ominous rumble carried on the icy wind. Something was… wrong. Off. The Veil felt twisted here. Thin.
Distorted.
Grace tore a strip from the lining of her linen armor and used her teeth to fashion a crude sling, forcing her arm into it with a grunt of pain. Every movement was torture. But staying put would mean death. She had to move.
One step at a time, Ella…
The tunnel sloped downward, winding deeper into the old catacombs beneath the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The air grew colder still, and older. The walls around her were etched with ancient sigils and frostbitten decay. She limped forward, every footstep an act of will. The Veil shuddered here—not just weak. It felt wrong.
Another tug. Stronger now. Nearby.
She stepped into a larger cavern, breath catching in her throat. Shapes moved in the shadows—shades. At least three of them. She froze, heart hammering.
Too late.
The demons sensed her. They shrieked and surged forward, eager for blood.
Grace raised her hand, desperate to summon something—anything—but the Fade felt distant, her connection frayed. Her magic sputtered uselessly. She could feel the weight of her injuries, the pull of blood loss. She was too weak.
But the Anchor responded.
The mark on her hand flared, glowing violently green. Her breath caught as a pulse of energy surged from her palm—not lightning, not any spell she knew. A beam of light split the air, ripping a hole in the Veil. The shades shrieked in alarm as the rift yawned open, sucking them in with a deafening howl.
Gone.
Silence fell again.
Grace stood frozen, wide-eyed, staring at her hand. The mark pulsed faintly, no longer burning. No pain. Only that eerie, glowing energy.
The darkspawn magister—the Elder One—he had done something to the Anchor when he tried to take it.
She swallowed hard, heart thundering in her ears.
Okay. Creepy just got a whole new meaning.
A gust of cold wind swept into the chamber, dragging in fine snow and carrying with it a thin, pale light. A small opening beyond the far wall beckoned. She stumbled toward it, drawn by the promise of air, of escape. Her limbs shook. Her vision swam. But she moved.
She stepped outside and nearly collapsed as the wind hit her full-force.
Another blizzard.
Of fucking course.
She braced herself against the wall of ice, teeth chattering violently, and muttered under her breath:
"I fucking hate cold."
The snow made fleeing even harder. The surviving people of Haven were safely out of the corridors, the passage leading them to a wide opening blanketed in freshly fallen snow.
Cullen stood, staring breathlessly at the valley below. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on him, his chest tight with anxiety. Haven, once alive with the sounds of people and purpose, now looked like a fading ember in the distance, its houses barely discernible beneath the thick haze of snow and smoke.
They fired the signal. For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. Then, a rumble—deep and terrifying—filled the air, followed by a roar as the avalanche swallowed the village. It came in waves, first the snow, then the rock, consuming the town in a crushing silence that fell over them like a suffocating blanket.
Cullen's breath hitched as he watched, unable to tear his eyes away. Haven was gone. The lights, the voices, the faces—they were all gone. Only the wind remained, roaring, carrying the endless snow with it.
They had no time left.
The question still burned in his mind—where were they? The group that stayed behind with The Herald?
His heart tightened, the familiar pain searing through him. He hadn't said goodbye. He hadn't even had the chance. His mind screamed at him, justifying the choice, the necessity of the decision, but it hurt all the same. A pang of guilt twisted inside him. If she was alive, if she had somehow made it out of there, she should be here by now, with them.
The hope lingered. She was strong. Maybe… maybe they could still make it back together.
Then, distant voices rang through the air, a brief moment of hope. Cullen turned, but as the group emerged from the shadows, his heart plummeted into his stomach.
She wasn't with them.
Dorian's voice broke through the haze of his thoughts, explaining something about void fire and a talking darkspawn, but Cullen wasn't listening. His gaze was locked on Blackwall, whose face was pale, full of regret. Bull was silent, his expression grim, unreadable.
"She ordered us to retreat," Dorian explained, his voice steady, but there was a palpable regret in it. "There was no way we could reach her. She—"
Cullen's stomach twisted. The air around him thickened, suffocating.
She had ordered them away. She'd stayed behind.
The realization hit him like a fist to the gut. She stayed behind. She'd launched the trebuchet by herself, and now…
Now, she was gone.
A fire sparked inside him—rage, frustration, helplessness. His fist clenched. He couldn't breathe. His heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to shout, to rage against them, against Dorian—against everyone. How could they have left her behind?
He wanted to strike out at Dorian, at the mage who had been closest to her, the one who'd acted like he cared and then let her stay. The anger bled through, raw and bitter, but beneath it, there was the overwhelming ache of loss. The pain of knowing that no matter what he told himself, he hadn't been there. He hadn't stopped her from leaving. He hadn't—
Without thinking, he marched toward Dorian. Before he could even stop himself, his hand shot out, gripping the mage's scarf, jerking him up on his tiptoes.
"Did you see her fall?" Cullen's voice was low, gravelly—raw with anger. The words came out like a growl, thick with the weight of his emotions.
Dorian's eyes widened in surprise, but Cullen wasn't backing down. The air between them crackled with tension, heavy with Cullen's desperation.
Before Dorian could answer, Cullen felt a familiar firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to meet Cassandra's eyes—her gaze full of sorrow, but also a quiet, unspoken resolve. He released Dorian, though his hands shook with the need to do more.
"If you wanted closer contact, Commander, you could've just asked," Dorian hissed, adjusting his scarf with annoyance, though his voice trembled slightly.
"And no," he continued, his tone a little softer, but still firm. "We didn't see her fall. She ordered us to retreat. We followed her orders. Just as we promised."
Cullen stood there, his chest tight, his fists clenching again at his sides. He could feel the burn of the anger inside him, but it didn't erase the deep ache of guilt. Yes. Grace had ordered them away. But he had followed her orders too, hadn't he? He had stayed behind, just as she'd asked. And now, she was out there. Alone.
He exhaled slowly, his breath ragged. "She ordered you away. She ordered me away. Damn it, I… I just wanted to help her. I should have been there."
He turned away, fists clenched at his sides, eyes distant. The weight of what he'd lost, of what he couldn't change, felt like a stone pressing against his chest.
Dorian stood silently for a long moment, his sharp eyes assessing Cullen, and for once, there was no sarcasm in his expression. "She's strong, Cullen. We all know that. She did what needed to be done."
Cullen's jaw tightened. "We are going to find her. I don't care what it takes. I'll—"
"You'll lead the troops, Commander," Cassandra interrupted, her voice firm, yet gentle. "You've led them this far. You will protect them. And when the camp is secure, then… then we will search for her. We will not give up on her. But for now, we cannot lose sight of the others."
Cullen nodded stiffly, though every fiber of his being screamed to break free, to run into the storm and find Grace, to make sure she was alive, to make sure… But he knew she wouldn't want him to do that.
Not now. Not when there was still work to be done.
But the pain—the unbearable weight—remained. And it would not let him go.
The trek to the valley felt endless. A jagged crag shielded them from the worst of the snowstorm, but the cold still gnawed at them with merciless teeth. They had to stop countless times, building fires along the way, filling skins with hot water to press against the injured, praying it would be enough to keep them alive. The mages were drained, their soldiers barely standing. But Cullen hardly noticed.
His hands were busy—helping with tents, seeing to his men—but his mind was elsewhere. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to turn back, to scour the snow-covered wasteland for her. But the storm had made it impossible. Searching for The Herald in that blinding, frozen abyss would have been suicide.
Still, the waiting was worse.
Cullen paced outside one of the larger tents, where the worst of the wounded had been taken. Inside, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine murmured amongst themselves, strategizing, planning. It was necessary. He knew that. But he couldn't bear it. They were talking about supplies, survival. He wanted to scream at them—did they not realize she was still out there? Freezing? Bleeding? Dying?
He clenched his fists and forced himself to move. A perimeter check. It was something, at least. If he kept walking, if he kept his muscles from locking up in exhaustion, he could hold on a little longer. The storm had begun to ease by the time he made his final loop, ending where he always did—at the valley's entrance, staring at the path that led back to Haven.
He had done this several times now.
The night stretched before him, black and boundless. The snowfields lay in eerie silence, stretching endlessly into the dark. His body ached from exhaustion, his breath coming in ragged bursts, but he refused to leave. It had to be past midnight. With every passing moment, the hope of finding her alive grew thinner.
Then—
His heart lurched. A flicker of movement.
He froze, muscles coiling. Had he imagined it? Was it just the wind playing tricks on him? But no—there. Between the trees. Too small for a Red Templar.
Cullen's hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword as he took a slow step forward.
Another shift in the darkness.
His heart slammed against his ribs. His breath caught.
And then—a sickly green light.
The world blurred as he surged forward, tearing through the snow, half-running, half-stumbling, lungs burning with frantic urgency.
It was her.
Cullen crashed to his knees beside the crumpled form, his breath coming in a harsh, broken gasp.
"Grace." The name left his lips like a prayer, a desperate, breathless whisper.
She lay motionless, all covered in snow, her lips dark with cold. Hoarfrost clung to her lashes, her hair, turning her into something ghostly, something fragile. Her breaths were shallow, barely there.
Panic roared through him.
Cullen tore off his cloak and wrapped it around her, his fingers moving with a soldier's efficiency even as his heart threatened to crack beneath his ribs. She was so small, swallowed by the heavy fur, her arm twisted uselessly in a makeshift sling. Blood had seeped into her tunic, dark and frozen, but the wound had stopped bleeding. That was either a mercy—or a sign that it had gone too far.
"You're going to be fine." His voice was hoarse, fierce with determination. He pulled her close, shielding her from the cold, as if he could will warmth back into her frozen limbs. "I've got you. I'm not letting go."
Still, she did not respond.
Cullen gritted his teeth against the rising panic and lifted her into his arms. She felt impossibly heavy, and yet he moved with purpose, his boots pounding through the snow as he carried her back to camp. He whispered to her, nonsense words, quiet reassurances, anything to fill the silence that pressed in around them.
Then—a shift. A soft breath against his neck.
"And they say… chivalry is dead…"
Cullen nearly stumbled.
A shuddering exhale left him, half a laugh, half a sob. He clutched her tighter, his grip firm, protective, as if holding her was the only thing keeping the world from falling apart. "Shh… don't strain yourself."
"Mm… ow."
His hold loosened immediately, realization striking like a blade to the chest. She was injured—badly. He had to be careful.
"Sorry," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
A weak chuckle ghosted against his skin as she burrowed her face deeper against his neck. The small movement sent a ripple of warmth down his spine.
She was alive.
Still with him.
"Mmm… you smell nice…" she mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.
Cullen swallowed hard. "I'll get you to the healers soon. Just stay with me, Grace. Please."
Her breathing was faint, but steady. And for the first time since Haven had burned, Cullen allowed himself to hope.
——————-
She wanted to open her eyes. She tried. But her body felt as though it had been trampled by a stampede of warhorses, every muscle weighed down, every limb aching.
Somewhere nearby, voices pierced through the haze. Familiar voices.
"I'm a fire mage," Dorian declared, his tone exasperated yet undeniably smug. "Now tell me, dear Commander, who's better suited for the task of warming her up?"
"There is no way I am letting you climb naked into bed with her, Tevinter. Now put your clothes back on."
Cullen's voice was tight, strained, edged with something dangerous beneath the exhaustion.
"Would you rather she die of hypothermia?"
"Find another way. I'm not leaving this tent."
"Who said you have to leave?"
"You're disgusting."
"Oh, I am marvelous, and you know it. And you need to stop being so prude—"
Grace smirked internally, the corners of her mind curling with amusement before she was pulled back under. Of course, they were arguing. Those two always did.
The next time she surfaced, she managed to pry her eyes open.
The dim glow of lantern light flickered along the canvas walls of a small tent. It was quiet. Dark.
Her body still ached, but the pain was dull now, numbed by healing magic. Her broken arm had been mended, wrapped carefully in clean bandages. She was no longer in her own clothes—someone had dressed her in a loose shirt, far too large for her frame, the fabric soft and worn with use. Her chest was bound, but there was no sharp pain when she breathed.
Beside her bed, her armor rested on a stool, scrubbed clean of blood and soot, the worst of its damage hastily patched. Someone had taken care of it. Of her.
Grace inhaled deeply, her fingers ghosting over the bandages at her side. The air around her carried a familiar scent—bergamot, sharp and crisp, mingled with leather, steel, and something purely him.
Her hand drifted across the blankets and met soft fur—thick, warm. A mantle. A black bear fur mantle.
Cullen's.
The realization sent warmth curling through her, a quiet, secret comfort. He had left it here.
He had found her.
Memories came in fragments—the cold biting into her skin, the weightlessness of being lifted, the steady thud of his heartbeat against her ear as he carried her through the snow. He had spoken to her, whispered something, but the words were lost to the fog of exhaustion.
It didn't matter.
He had been there.
And that was enough.
The sound of raised voices outside pulled Grace from the haze of exhaustion. She recognized them—Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, Cullen. The council was at each other's throats, arguing over their next move.
She exhaled, running a hand through her tangled hair. The argument was growing more heated, the tension fraying at the edges. She rolled her stiff shoulders, ignoring the lingering ache in her limbs as she reached for her armor. Piece by piece, she buckled it back on, the familiar weight grounding her. Last, her fingers brushed against the heavy bear fur mantle still draped over the cot. Cullen's.
Something in her chest tightened. She hesitated a little before pulling the mantle around her shoulders and stepped outside, tiny smile tugging on her lip, while his essence embraced her like an armor.
The council was still locked in debate.
"We have no home," Josephine was saying, her voice unusually sharp. "No resources, no shelter beyond this valley—"
"And yet, we cannot stay here," Cassandra interrupted, frustration leaking into her tone. "We need to move before the enemy regroups."
Leliana, her voice cold and certain, added, "The Elder One will not grant us time to wallow."
Cullen stood slightly apart from them, arms crossed, his expression grim. His eyes were shadowed, lined with exhaustion. He was listening, but he looked as if he had already fought this battle in his mind a hundred times over.
"You should be resting."
Grace turned at the soft voice beside her. Mother Giselle regarded her with calm, knowing eyes.
Grace huffed. "They've been at it for hours, haven't they?"
"They have that luxury because of you," Giselle murmured, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Another heated voice will not help though, Herald."
"And what will?" Grace's voice cracked, the weight of everything threatening to crush her. "For the love of the Maker, we lost everything."
"Not hope."
Grace exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
Giselle's hand remained steady. "Doubt comes in the quiet after battle, when the mind is left to wonder. We have seen our hero rise and fall—then rise again. Is it so hard to understand why our leaders are struggling? What is expected of them now?"
Grace reached for her choker, fingers tightening around the cool metal. She let out a bitter laugh. "Ordained? Is that what this is? Everything that's happened—Haven burning, my hand marked with a power I don't understand—all of it was meant to happen?" Her voice dropped, filled with quiet anger. "This wasn't fate. This wasn't some divine trial. This happened because of fanatics mad with power, obsessed with the next world while this one burns. It's time we started healing this one."
She turned on her heel, leaving Mother Giselle standing in the snow as she strode toward the council.
She had every intention of stepping into the argument, of finding a way to lead—but a single voice stopped her.
Low, strong, steady. Mother Giselle sang with her whole heart bare.
Shadows fall
And hope has fled
Steel your heart
The dawn will come
The night is long
And the path is dark
Look to the sky
For one day soon
The dawn will come
Grace froze.
The old hymn. One she hadn't heard in years.
Another voice joined—softer, higher, yet unwavering. Leliana. A bard's voice, clear and bright in the cold night air.
The Shepherd's lost
And his home is far
Keep to the stars
The dawn will come
One by one, others joined in. Their voices wove together, a fragile thing at first—then rising, growing stronger, filling the frozen air with something unshakable.
Grace turned slowly, watching as the survivors gathered. The weary, the wounded, the lost. They moved toward her, eyes shining with something she could barely name.
And then—one voice stood out above the rest.
The night is long
And the path is dark
Look to the sky
For one day soon
The dawn will come
Velvety. Steady. A voice she knew.
Cullen.
Her breath caught as his gaze locked onto hers, unflinching, unwavering.
Goosebumps prickled across her skin, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Bare your blade
And raise it high
Stand your ground
The dawn will come
The night is long
And the path is dark
Look to the sky
For one day soon
The dawn will come
Maker.
She had stood against Corypheus himself, had fought against his monstrous dragon, had faced death with fire in her veins—yet nothing had prepared her for this.
For people kneeling.
For salutes aimed at her.
A mage.
Holy Maker's balls.
She felt safer staring down the magister and his beast than she did standing here, in the face of their belief.
But the song continued, and she couldn't look away.
Not from them.
Not from him.
As the last echoes of the hymn faded into the night, the camp gradually stirred back into motion. Some returned to their duties, while others—exhausted beyond words—sought whatever rest they could find. The firelight flickered over solemn faces, their burdens momentarily eased, if only by the promise of dawn.
Grace exhaled, the cold air burning in her lungs. The weight of the moment still pressed on her, heavy as the bear fur mantle around her shoulders.
"You are troubled."
She turned at the quiet voice. Solas stood a few steps away, his expression unreadable, the flickering light of a nearby brazier casting sharp shadows across his face.
"The taciturn elf of all people," she murmured. "Come to share some wisdom, Solas?"
His lips twitched in the barest hint of amusement. "Perhaps." He gestured for her to follow him, leading her away from the dying embers of the gathering.
They stopped beside a low-burning Fade fire, its flames casting a soft glow against the white snow. Solas folded his arms, his gaze distant. "You do not believe in miracles."
Grace scoffed, rubbing a hand over her tired face. "I believe in cause and effect, in choices and consequences. Not in divine intervention." She glanced sideways at him. "I take it I'm not alone in that?"
"No," he admitted, tilting his head. "You are not."
Something in his voice made her frown.
"You wanted to talk about the orb," she prompted.
Solas nodded. "The artifact Corypheus wielded—it is of elven origin." His eyes gleamed in the firelight, sharp with certainty. "I am sure of it."
Grace straightened slightly, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her gauntlet. "How?"
"They were called Foci. I have seen them in the Fade," he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "Ancient relics, designed to channel immense power. The question is—how did a darkspawn magister come to possess one?"
Grace inhaled sharply. "Well, whatever he intended to do with it, I stopped him." She lifted her left hand, the green glow of the Anchor barely visible in the dim light. "This wasn't meant for me. He was trying to open something. To get into the Fade. He kept raving about the Black City, an empty throne—"
Solas' expression darkened. "That is concerning."
Grace studied him. "You don't seem surprised."
His hesitation was brief, but she caught it.
"No," he admitted. "Corypheus is unlike any foe you have faced before. And this will not be the last time we hear of him." He met her gaze, his voice lowering. "You need to be prepared."
Grace raised an eyebrow. "Prepared for what?"
Solas stepped closer, his presence a quiet force against the cold. "I happen to know a place where you can achieve that."
Not long after, Grace hesitated at the edge of the makeshift war table, where Cullen stood, his brow furrowed as he sifted through scattered reports and maps. She wondered, absently, how the council had managed to hoard so many documents given their circumstances. The remnants of their world were smudged with soot and damp from the cold, yet still, duty carried on.
She stepped closer, settling at his side.
"How many were lost?" Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the heavy silence like a blade.
Cullen startled slightly, lifting his head to meet her gaze. There was something raw in his eyes, something he quickly smothered beneath duty's weight.
"…We are still completing the lists," he admitted. "But, miraculously, most of Haven's residents made it out safely."
Grace exhaled slowly, nodding, but the knot in her chest didn't loosen. "I haveno idea what to… I mean, how to react to all this. What to say. I am so terribly sorry..." her voiced cracked.
"You don't need to say anything." Cullen's voice softened. "Your bravery bought us enough time to get most of them out. And you should be resting—Solas mentioned your arm and ribs were broken. He mended them, but you still need time to heal."
A quiet chuckle slipped from her lips. "…Am I supposed to salute now and take my leave, Commander?"
Cullen huffed a faint laugh, shaking his head, but his eyes darkened with something unreadable. She was still able to find her wits, even after everything. The sheer resilience of her… Maker help him, he should be mourning the lives lost, strategizing their next move. Instead, all he could focus on was the fact that she was here. Alive. Beside him.
She reached for the mantle draped around her shoulders. "I brought this back."
Before she could shrug it off, Cullen caught her wrist, his gloved fingers warm against her skin. He didn't grip tightly, just enough to still her movement. Slowly, his other hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. But he lingered. Just for a moment.
A muscle in his jaw ticked, like he was fighting some internal war. Grace held still, watching him, her breath shallow as she tilted her chin up. She hadn't realized how tall he was until now, how broad his shoulders seemed in the flickering firelight. His arms—strong, capable—had carried her through the snow, and her body remembered the phantom warmth of them even now.
His voice, when it came, was low and rough. "Keep it for now. You need it more than I do." His lips quirked faintly. "I am rarely cold."
She sucked in a breath, unexpected warmth coiling low in her stomach. There was a sincerity in his words, but something else, too—an unspoken need, an unguarded moment between them.
His expression darkened. "We should have been looking for you sooner."
She stopped him with a smile, tilting her head as she met his worried gaze through her lashes. "What really matters is that you found me. I don't know how you knew, but… thank you."
Something flickered in his eyes, but before he could respond, the sound of approaching boots cut through the moment. They both stiffened as the night patrol passed, their armor clanking softly. The soldiers nodded in acknowledgment, and Cullen inclined his head in return.
As the guards disappeared into the dark, he released a slow breath, forcing himself to step back, his fingers ghosting over her arm before he withdrew completely. It took effort. Too much effort.
"You know," his voice was quieter now, but with a teasing edge, "you really need to be more careful, Herald. Even though I'd like to, I might not always be able to be there every time you need carrying. It's been multiple times alredy - it seems like you're making a habit out of that."
She blinked up at him, caught between amusement and something dangerously close to affection. He was teasing, but there was truth beneath the words. He had been there. And she had needed him.
Grace exhaled, turning away as a knowing smile tugged at her lips. She pulled the fur mantle tighter around herself, burying her face in the soft velvet lining, inhaling the lingering scent of bergamot and armor polish and him.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm afraid I'll have to take your word on that, Commander."