Under the Torn Sky

by istreia

The Breach in the sky threatens all Thedas and Graciella Trevelyan finds herself in the middle of the trouble. The walls she built around her broken soul are meant to keep everyone at a safe distance. Little does she know that she's not the only one to struggle and to her surprise, she finds comfort in a former templar of all people. M for future chapters and violence.

15. Chapter 15: Finders Keepers

The sun was beginning to dip low as the battered forces of the Inquisition crested the final rise toward Gryphon Wing Keep.

The battered fortress loomed like a sentinel in the desert haze, half-claimed by sand and wind but still holding strong. Tents spilled around the base, campfires flickering as soldiers and scouts stirred at the sight of returning banners. A cheer went up—but it was subdued, respectful. The victors from Adamant had returned, but the price had been seen in too many faces.

Grace rode at the front, as ever.

But not really.

Her posture was straight, shoulders squared, but her gaze stayed fixed ahead, distant and unreadable. She didn't acknowledge the greetings, didn't slow as she passed the gates. Her mount's hooves echoed sharply off stone as she entered the courtyard, dismounted, and passed the reins to a waiting soldier without a word.

---

The sun was merciless overhead, casting sharp-edged shadows across the sand-choked ridges and crumbled ruins that sprawled around Gryphon Wing Keep. The Inquisition had returned only hours ago, but Grace hadn't paused. She'd barely looked at the keep, barely acknowledged the soldiers setting up camp along its outer walls.

She moved like a shadow cast at the wrong hour—present, but wrong somehow. Out of time. Out of place.

Grace passed through the courtyard with a silent intensity that made even the veterans lower their voices. Dust clung to her boots, streaked across her shoulders, the remnants of battle and a deeper sorrow that hadn't been scrubbed away. Her armor still bore the faint, unnatural dust residue of the Fade. But she didn't limp. Didn't stagger.

She just walked. Eyes forward. Expression unreadable.

From the base of the stairs, Varric watched her go. "You ever seen her like that?"

"No," Cassandra said flatly, arms crossed over her chest. "Not even after Haven."

"She brushed past me like I was furniture," Bull muttered, frowning. "Didn't even grunt a hello."

Sera huffed beside him, clearly uneasy. "She's like… all locked up in her skull. Like you knock and no one's home."

"She looked right through me," Dorian added, quieter. "Just—gone."

The group fell into silence as Grace vanished into the keep without so much as a glance behind her. Her footsteps echoed up the stone stairway, sharp and sure, until even that faded.

"Maybe she just needs time," Sera offered.

Varric shook his head. "Time's not the problem."

Inside, Grace moved through the familiar halls like they belonged to someone else. She ignored the soldiers unloading crates, the scouts trying to offer updates, the healer who called after her with mild concern. The world buzzed around her like static. Distant. Meaningless.

She reached the top of the western tower, where the sun spilled low across the mountains, dyeing the sand in gold and blood. The view stretched wide—open and hollow.

She stood there, hands braced on the stone, jaw tight, eyes focused on nothing.

She didn't cry.

She didn't speak.

The wind tugged at her braid, caught the edge of her cloak, but she didn't move.

---

The war room at Gryphon Wing Keep had been repurposed from what once might have been a chapel. The arched windows had no glass, only open air and the faint sound of wind stirring sand. A large wooden table dominated the center, its surface marked with maps, scattered reports, and the residue of too many sleepless nights.

Grace stood at the head of the table, hands braced on its edge, eyes scanning the map without truly seeing it. Her presence held the room steady, but only just—like a stretched bowstring seconds from snapping.

Cullen stood at her left, stiff in his posture but composed. Cassandra flanked her right, arms folded, brow furrowed in thought. Captain Rylen stood further down, leaning on the edge of a broken pillar with dust still clinging to his armor. One of Leliana's agents—a wiry woman that went by Painter—hovered near the wall, silent and watchful. The quartermaster, a grizzled woman named Marga, leafed through a list of supplies, looking increasingly annoyed.

"We need to talk about the wounded," Marga began flatly. "We've stabilized most, but we're low on burn salve, dried elfroot, and potable water. I can stretch what we've got, but not if we're expecting to march again by midweek."

"We're not," Cullen said. "Not yet."

Grace didn't look up.

Cassandra stepped in, voice brisk. "We need time to recover. Adamant cost us. The mages need to reattune, the soldiers need rest, and morale is…" She hesitated. "Strained."

Captain Rylen cleared his throat. "On that note, we've had scattered reports from scouts about a dragon sighted in the southern ridges. Large—possibly a high dragon. We haven't confirmed the nesting site yet, but we've marked the movement. It's keeping to the deeper desert, for now."

That got a few looks around the room.

Cullen's mouth tightened. "That explains the tremors we've been feeling near the lower ridge. Maker help us if it decides to take an interest in the keep."

"We can't afford to engage it," Cassandra said. "Not with the men in their current state."

"We won't," Grace said, her voice quiet, but final. "The army rests. Until the end of the week."

That was all she gave.

The room stilled. Even Painter looked toward her, as if trying to read something that wasn't written.

Cullen nodded slowly. "Three days, then. We replenish, rotate patrols, reinforce the south pass. I'll have the mages assist in setting wards near the dragon's last sighting."

Rylen gave a curt nod. "Understood. I'll get my men set traps around the keep. Just in case it gets curious."

No one questioned Grace's call—not because of authority, but because of the silence that followed. Something about her presence left little room for pushback. The kind of silence that said: I'm still standing. Don't ask how.

"We'll reconvene tomorrow," she said, already turning away. "Report back if the dragon moves."

The meeting adjourned with the quiet scraping of boots and papers, voices hushed as they filtered out into the dusty hall beyond.

Cullen lingered behind, just for a second.

Grace didn't acknowledge him.

But his eyes followed her long after she left.

---

The sun had traveled over the far ridges when the gates of Gryphon Wing creaked open again—this time not for an army, but for a single rider cloaked in the blue and gold of Orlais. The guards didn't stop him. They remembered him.

He dismounted in the courtyard, dusting sand from his sleeves with delicate precision. A stack of weather-worn notes protruded from his satchel, already half coming loose. The same spectacles sat crooked on his nose, and the same wide-eyed excitement lit his features as he turned, scanning the keep like a child at a fair.

"Ah—yes, there she is."

Grace was crossing the courtyard in quiet conversation with Captain Rylen when she caught sight of him. She stopped. Blinked.

"You," she said.

He beamed. "Inquisitor! Marvelous to see you again. You're looking… remarkably well, considering, ah—well..."

Grace raised a brow, arms folding. "You're the scholar we met in the desert."

"Professor Frederic, yes, yes," he said quickly. "And I know this is unorthodox, but I've come back because—well, the dragon. The one we discussed. I have new observations, and I believe I may have stumbled onto something significant."

Rylen's expression shifted to wary interest. "Significant how?"

Frederic opened his satchel and pulled out a stack of parchment—half maps, half scrawled notes. "The dragon hasn't migrated as expected. Instead, it's circling—territorial, defensive, perhaps even… manipulated. There are red lyrium growths near its roost, and signs of magical disturbance. I suspect Venatori influence. Possibly an attempt to bind or control it."

Grace's mouth thinned. "You found the roost… And if they succeed?"

"You'll have a high dragon weaponized by those cultist forces," Frederic said simply. "A disaster."

The silence stretched.

Then Grace said, "We need to see it for ourselves."

Rylen straightened. "We'll send scouts—"

"No," Grace said. "I'll go."

That earned a flicker of shock from both men—and then a third voice cut in from behind her.

"You'll what?"

Cullen's tone was low, steady—but laced with tightly held restraint. He'd arrived halfway through the exchange, silent as ever until he couldn't be. Grace turned to face him.

"I said I'll go. A small team. Quiet recon. I want eyes on those ruins myself."

Cullen stepped closer. "You've barely rested. We have people for this. Scouts. Agents."

Her jaw tightened. "I'm not made of glass, Cullen."

"That's not what I said."

"But it's what you meant." Her eyes flashed, tired but sharp. "I'm not sitting behind a desk while the next disaster builds itself. Not again."

His expression flickered—pain, frustration, a thousand words he didn't say. "Then let me go with you."

She didn't answer right away.

Then: "You're needed here."

It was almost gentle. Almost.

Cullen looked at her for a long moment. His voice dropped. "Grace—"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "This is not up for debate."

Frederic cleared his throat, sensing the tension but choosing the worst possible moment to interject. "I, ah… I'll just prepare the maps. Somewhere inside, perhaps?"

He scurried off.

Grace turned away, already striding toward the tower steps, her shawl snapping in the breeze behind her. Cullen stood rooted where she'd left him, watching her go.

She hadn't yelled. Hadn't snapped.

But she hadn't let him in either.

Rylen shifted beside him. "She's really going, isn't she."

Cullen didn't look away.

"Yes," he said quietly. "She is."

---

The soft clink of buckles echoed in the chamber above Gryphon Wing's central hall. Grace stood near the narrow window, finishing the last strap of her armor with slow, methodical movements. The late sunlight sliced across her face, catching the tired hollows beneath her eyes, the pale streaks in her braid. Her expression was unreadable—an unfinished mask.

The door opened behind her with a quiet creak.

Cullen stepped inside without knocking, but not with anger—just urgency. He closed the door gently behind him. The silence lingered a second too long before he spoke.

"You're really going."

Grace didn't look up. "Yes."

"Now?"

She adjusted the strap across her shoulder. "The sooner we leave, the better."

"You didn't even confirm that with Cassandra."

"I didn't need to."

His voice softened. "Grace… this doesn't have to be you. Not right now."

She finally glanced at him, just a flick of her eyes. "Who else, Cullen?"

"Again. You have soldiers. Captains. You don't need to be the one chasing dragons through the sand."

She returned to buckling her satchel. "Bull, Solas, and Sera are with me. I won't be alone."

"That's not what I meant."

Her hands stilled for a beat.

"I know," she said quietly.

He took a step closer. Cautious. Like someone approaching a wounded animal.

"You've barely slept since Adamant," he said, voice low. "You haven't really spoken to anyone. You're burning out, Grace. And now you're throwing yourself at whatever's next before the ash has even settled."

She gripped the staff leaning against the wall, fingers tight around the haft. "I'm doing my job."

"No," Cullen said gently, "you're trying not to feel whatever happened back there."

She flinched, but didn't deny it.

"I know what it looks like when someone's trying to outrun something inside them," he said. "I've done it. I still do."

Her throat worked as she looked away.

"I don't have the luxury of falling apart," she murmured.

"Grace—"

"If I stop moving," she said, sharper now, "it's all going to catch up to me. And I won't come back from it."

Her voice shook, just slightly.

Cullen didn't argue. He stepped closer, searching her face. "You don't have to carry it alone. Just-please. Let me help."

"I can't let you in right now," she whispered, eyes rimmed with a quiet kind of panic. "Because if I do, I'll stop. I'll feel it. And, again, I'm afraid I won't be able to put myself back together."

Cullen's voice was quiet, wounded. "You don't need to be whole for me to stay."

Grace looked at him for a long moment. Something flickered behind her eyes—hope, maybe, or grief. Maybe both.

"I don't deserve this…," she said, softer than before. "And I still need to go."

He didn't try to stop her.

When she reached for the door, he caught her wrist—not to hold her back, just to touch. Just to stay connected for one more second.

"I'll be here," he said. "But don't expect me not to worry. Don't expect me not to care."

She gritted her teeth and inhaled sharply, and it broke something in him.

Then she slipped out the door—silent, swift, already halfway gone.

He stayed behind, the fading sun catching on the empty space where she'd stood.

---

She needed to move. She needed space.

The stone steps cooled under her boots as Grace descended, one hand trailing lightly along the wall to steady herself. She didn't need the support—not physically. But the act of touching something solid, something that wouldn't shift under the weight of her thoughts, kept her upright.

The echo of Cullen's voice followed her like dust in her lungs.

You don't need to be whole for me to stay.

Maker.

She breathed sharply through her nose and kept walking.

The air outside hit her like a wall—dry, sun-warmed, scented faintly with iron and old stone. Gryphon Wing's keep loomed behind her, its towers etched in sharp relief against the sky. In the distance, the campfires had caught her eyes—flickers of gold and orange mirroring through the pillars of smoke. Signs of life. Normalcy.

But she didn't feel normal.

She felt like a jagged piece of something once whole, now repurposed into a weapon.

Every step toward the stables felt harder than the last. Not because her body was failing her—but because her heart was. Because she'd just looked into the eyes of the one person who saw through her armor, and still wanted to stay—and she'd turned her back on him anyway.

Not because she didn't want him near.

Because she did.

Too much.

And it terrified her.

What would he see if she let him all the way in? Not the Inquisitor, not the mage with a plan, but the broken, bleeding center of her—the part that still heard Nightmare's voice when everything else went quiet. The part that screamed during her silences. That kept reaching back toward the Fade even when she knew it would destroy her.

She had clawed her way back from that place.

But she didn't know who she was outside of survival. She didn't know what to do with affection that wasn't leverage or regret.

So she pushed.

And he had let her go.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he trusted her.

That was worse.

Grace stopped near the gates, staring out over the horizon.

The wind tugged at her cloak, but it couldn't move the ache sitting in her chest.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, to no one. To him. To herself.

Sera, Bull, and Solas joined her. An odd assembly by all accounts—one loud, one philosophical, one perpetually unimpressed—but none of them had been in the Fade. None of them had seen what she'd seen. They didn't wear that look. The one that said: I know what you went through. I'm worried. I pity you.

She couldn't stand that look.

The group moved through the harsh desert heat in tense silence. Grace was out in front, ignoring the way the wind cut at her face and the sand bit at her boots. She struck down venomous desert creatures with sharp, unnecessary bursts of arcane force. She moved fast. Too fast.

Bull exchanged a glance with Solas at one point. Sera muttered something under her breath about "chasing death with fancy light shows."

Near the cliffs, they found what they were looking for. Not the dragon—but evidence. Massive gouges carved into the rocks. Burnt stretches of sand. A shattered skeleton that might once have been a phoenix, now little more than ash and memory.

And a scholar who left the keep before them.

The Orlesian was pale with excitement and sunburn, squinting over a slate covered in notes and sketches. "She's real," he muttered as they approached. "She roosts near the salt flats, I swear it—a high dragon of incredible age and aggression…"

Grace listened with a distant hum of interest, nodding at the scholar's request to stay near the keep under Inquisition protection while he continued his research. She granted permission without blinking.

Then she turned, magic coiling at her fingertips as her eyes swept the ridgelines.

The sun dipped lower above the horizon, bleeding gold across the rocky dunes and turning the sky to fire. The wind picked up, dragging sand across their armor and hair like a restless spirit.

They were making their way back toward the ridge, having confirmed the scholar's findings and marked the dragon's signs for later scouting. The creature hadn't shown itself yet, but the tension in the air felt like a drawn breath.

Grace hadn't said a word since giving the scholar his leave.

Bull lumbered along beside her, squinting into the wind. "You know, Boss," he said, voice carefully casual, "you don't need to pick a fight with a dragon to prove anything."

Grace didn't respond. Her stride didn't slow.

"Unless the dragon owes you money," Sera chimed in from behind. "In which case—fair. Still dumb, but fair."

No reply.

She was like glass under sunlight—brilliant, focused, but dangerously close to shattering.

Solas watched her in profile for a long time, silent. When he spoke, it was quiet. Almost too quiet to catch over the wind.

"This is not how healing is found," he said. "There is power in destruction, yes. Even clarity. But it does not mend the soul."

Grace's mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I can hear you all, you know? And I'm not trying to mend anything."

That chilled even Sera, who frowned and nudged Bull with her elbow. "She's not right," she muttered. "Something's wrong in her head, yeah? Not Fade-stuff wrong, but real-life bloody wrong."

Bull gave a faint frown and a nod. "I've seen people charge into fights like this before. Big grins. Big swings. Like if they punch hard enough, they won't feel anything after."

He paused, looking forward at Grace's rigid back. "None of them walked away happy. Most didn't walk away at all."

Solas kept his gaze on Grace. His expression was distant, unreadable—but his voice held a weight that didn't often slip through.

"Some wounds are not meant to close quickly. And some truths… when remembered, leave deeper scars than ignorance ever did."

"Still can hear you." Grace didn't turn however. But her hand tightened around her staff.

A dragon's scream echoed faintly from the far peaks—distant, but unmistakable.

She looked toward it like someone welcoming a storm.

Sera broke the silence first. "Alright, but if she tries to fight that thing alone, I'm tripping her and sitting on her 'til she listens."

Bull cracked half a grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Fair. Just… let me punch it first, yeah?"

They walked on. Shadows lengthened. And the desert stretched endlessly before them—hot, bitter, and silent.

So was Grace.

The wind shifted again, dry and warm, curling through the crags like breath from something sleeping beneath the sand. The cry of the dragon faded into the distance, but no one moved.

Grace stood at the edge of a dune, her silhouette sharp against the sky. Still. Unyielding.

"I'm not planning to fight it," she said, finally breaking the silence.

Sera blinked. "You're… not?"

Grace shook her head. "The scholar tracked the dragon's movements, but he's more concerned with what he found in the ruins farther south. Old Tevinter stone. A Venatori camp."

She turned, the weight in her voice quiet but firm. "That's the real threat. He said they've set traps—wards, sigils, arcane glyphs carved deep into the ruins. And he's seen their scouts hauling crates, guarding the inner chambers. Whatever they're doing… it matters."

Bull's expression darkened. "You think they're hiding plans?"

"I think they're hiding something," Grace replied. "And Corypheus just lost his Nightmare. He won't retreat. He'll escalate."

Solas studied her. "You suspect these ruins hold his next move."

Her voice didn't waver. "We need answers."

"And you plan to go in first?" Sera asked. "Just like that?"

"Me and Solas are the ones who can disarm the wards," Grace answered. "It's not a discussion."

There was a pause.

Bull crossed his arms, jaw tight. "Still sounds like you're walking into it like you don't care what happens."

"I care," Grace said, but it came too fast. Too flat. "I care about the Inquisition. That's why I'm doing this."

Solas stepped forward, his gaze unflinching. "It is not the cause we question. Only how far you are willing to bleed for it."

She didn't respond. Not to that.

"I'm going," she said instead, already turning away, cloak catching on the wind.

"You could wait for a scout team," Bull called after her.

She didn't stop walking.

"She ain't waiting for anything," Sera muttered. "She ain't had since the bloody siege."

"She's unraveling," Solas said softly, his voice more shadow than sound. "But she hides it behind purpose. It is easier to be useful than vulnerable."

Bull let out a breath, shaking his head. "It's easier to die when you don't believe you're needed."

They watched her stride toward the rise ahead, the faint silhouette of ancient stone breaking the line of the dunes.

And still, they followed her.

Because they always did.

---

The sun clung low in the sky by the time they reached the broken archway of the ruins. What had once been a proud Tevinter outpost was now little more than bone-white stone and buried vaults, jagged like teeth in the earth. Sand covered half the main corridor, windswept and clinging. The smell of old magic lingered—burnt lyrium, dried blood, something fouler beneath.

Grace crouched just past the threshold, fingers brushing over a twisted glyph carved into the stone. A faint pulse of cold traveled up her arm. Venatori warding. Deep. Deliberate. And desperate.

"They're trying to keep something in," she muttered.

Bull leaned over her shoulder. "Or keep us out."

Grace didn't look up. "Either way, I'm not asking permission."

Solas moved beside her, one hand raised as if feeling the resonance in the air. "This is old magic. Not Corypheus's. Something borrowed. Stolen."

"They're always borrowing things," Sera muttered from the rear, bow already notched. "Symbols, slaves, gods—bloody amateur thieves."

"Trap ahead," Grace called, already moving. "Dispel in three, brace."

The glyphs flared. Sera cursed. Bull tightened his grip on his axe. Grace raised her hand—and the Anchor shimmered.

The magic unraveled in a hiss of violet smoke and pale green sparks.

"Clear."

They moved fast after that. Down into the undercrofts, where the air grew cooler and heavier. Venatori banners hung limp from rusted sconces. The echoes of voices filtered through narrow corridors—murmuring orders, distant spells, the shuffle of patrols.

And Grace kept walking like a ghost who knew the path.

They took out the first pair of guards silently—Bull's axe and Sera's arrows working in tandem, swift and efficient.

The first Venatori soldier through the doorway didn't even finish his warning shout.

Grace's staff was already moving, lightning crackling from her fingertips as she surged forward, a controlled tempest wrapped in flesh. The bolt struck the ground near the threshold and erupted upward, blasting the stone arch apart and hurling the front line backward in a flash of blinding light.

Sera took the opening, loosing arrows in rapid succession, each thud of impact followed by a grunt or a scream. Bull roared as he charged, axe raised high, cutting down a magister mid-incantation. Solas remained back, one hand raised, a shimmering barrier pulsing between them and the worst of the crossfire.

Grace moved like she wasn't touching the ground, the Anchor burning bright beneath her sleeve, her eyes fierce and unblinking.

Solas noticed it first—how she didn't hesitate, how she didn't speak. Just struck and advanced, relentless, precise. Something behind her spells wasn't calculation anymore. It was release.

A Venatori mage cried out a curse, flames rising from his staff—until Grace snapped her fingers, and ice erupted from the floor, encasing him mid-chant. The statue shattered seconds later from Bull's axe.

"Should we worry she's enjoying this?" Sera called, ducking behind a column to loose another shot.

"Yes," Solas said, grim.

They cleared the room fast—too fast. When the last Venatori fell, their bodies scorched and broken in a loose circle around the pedestal, the silence was thunderous.

Bull exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip on the haft of his weapon. "That was brutal, even for you."

Grace didn't answer.

She stood at the center of the chaos, her back to them, eyes on the still-glowing construct.

Solas approached her slowly. "It's dangerous to let them pull you this far in."

"I'm fine," she said flatly.

"No, you're not," he replied—gentle, but unrelenting. "We are not blind."

Grace's lips parted, a quiet breath escaping like steam through cracks. But she didn't argue.

Sera moved closer too, wiping blood off her blade with a cloth she didn't bother to keep. "Whatever they were trying to do, we stopped it."

"For now," Grace murmured. "But they'll try again. This wasn't desperation. This was a blueprint."

Bull stepped forward. "Then we destroy it."

He raised his axe, but Grace raised her hand.

"No," she said. "Not yet. We bring the scholars. We study it. If they're trying to copy the Anchor—if they're trying to breach the Fade again—we need to understand how. And fast."

Her voice had weight again. Authority.

But it was hollow around the edges.

Her companions exchanged glances. Quiet worry. No one said anything.

As they turned to begin the sweep of the ruins—clearing out lingering traps, securing documents, marking sigils for dismantling—Solas lingered near the pedestal, one hand brushing the strange runes.

He looked up at Grace. She hadn't moved.

"You held the line," he said, quietly. "But at what cost to yourself?"

"I've had worse." She murmured bitterly.

She just turned then and walked into the sun-streaked hall beyond, her shadow long behind her, the air crackling faintly in her wake.

They had just cleared the last of the Venatori who somehow escaped outside when the ground began to tremble.

The southern ruins were scattered with corpses and the stench of burning. Grace stood in the center courtyard, magic still crackling along her fingers, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. She'd barely stopped casting. Her veins still sang with lightning.

Then came the sound. Low. Bone-deep. A growl that didn't belong to anything human.

Bull's head snapped up. "That's not thunder."

The earth shook again.

A massive shadow passed overhead.

The dragon landed in a shockwave of wings and fire, claws biting into cracked stone. The heat of its breath scorched the courtyard before it even roared. Bronze scales shimmered in the sun, streaked with black soot and blood from some earlier kill. Its eyes burned gold.

Sera cursed. "Oh, shite."

"No time to run," Solas warned. "We stand."

Bull's face broke into something wild and reverent. "Look at her," he whispered, almost awestruck. "Maker's ass, what a beauty."

"She's not here for a handshake!" Sera snapped.

Bronze wings tore the sky open, and its roar cracked stone. Another fire breath rolled over them like a wave of molten air. Grace barely had time to raise a barrier before fire licked past her heels.

They didn't have time to regroup. The beast was already charging.

Bull surged forward with a shout, eyes alight. "Maker's tits, she's magnificent!"

"Pick your side, Bull!" Sera shouted, loosing an arrow that pinged off thick scale.

"I am! I just want to earn this kill!"

Grace launched herself toward a half-fallen column, lightning crackling in her grip. The dragon snapped its jaws at Solas, but he vanished in a shimmer of Fade-step, reappearing further up the ridge. He immediately began hurling icy lances at the dragon's wings, slowing its mobility.

Then the traps started going off.

Venatori glyphs—dormant, buried—activated beneath the dragon's weight. A surge of corrupted green light burst upward, throwing the beast off-balance. It staggered, shrieking as one of its wings clipped a ruined tower.

"Keep luring it over them!" Grace shouted.

Another step. Another trap. The dragon's back leg seared open, and Bull lunged, cleaving his axe deep into the exposed tendon.

The creature bucked.

Grace climbed higher. Her staff glowed white-hot. She gathered a spell—lightning threaded with arcane force, unstable from the start—and hurled it straight into the dragon's throat. It reeled.

But not before it turned and breathed.

She saw the fire too late.

The column behind her exploded.

Grace was airborne for a split second. Her barrier faltered. She hit the ground in a tumble of stone and sparks, breath ripped from her lungs. Then the tail came around.

She tried to Fade-step away—too late.

The dragon's spiked tail slammed into her side, and she flew.

She struck the wall of the ruins with a sickening crack, then dropped hard to the ground. Her staff clattered beside her.

"GRACE!" Bull's bellow echoed through the ruins.

She didn't rise.

Solas cursed and disappeared in a blink, reappearing beside her. His hands flared with healing magic—then faltered.

"No," he hissed.

Sera crouched beside them, blood on her cheek, breathing hard. "Tell me she's breathin'."

"She is," Solas said grimly. "But the damage is deep. Ribs shattered. Organ rupture. Internal bleeding. Magic won't set it. The tail spike is stuck, it will slow the bleeding if we are lucky. I can't pull it out or stitch it in either."

"I can carry her," Bull growled, voice rough. "You keep the damn thing distracted."

"No—kill it, Graces bolt seared its lungs," Solas snapped. "Kill it before it finishes the job on all of us."

Above them, the dragon shrieked again—but it was weakening. Its flight was clumsy. One eye hung torn and bloodied from Grace's earlier blast. And it was landing into another glyph.

The ground split.

Sera's next arrow struck a vulnerable gap in its neck.

Bull landed the final blow—an upward swing so powerful it buried his axe halfway to the haft. The dragon screamed, wings spasming—

Then fell.

The courtyard shook in its death throes.

And then silence.

Bull turned, panting. "She alive?"

"Barely," Solas said.

They gathered around her. Her face was pale, eyes closed, blood soaking through her tunic around the broken protruding tail spike and pooling beneath her.

"She's not waking up. Do something Solas." Sera whispered.

"I did what I could right now. And she won't unless we move now," Solas said tightly.

Bull didn't wait. He lifted her as gently as he could, cradling her like something precious. "We're heading back. Now. Tell the scouts to clear the damn road."

The ruins faded behind them, dragon corpse still steaming.

And in Bull's arms, Grace didn't stir.

---

The sun was low when they reached the edge of Gryphon Wing Keep.

Bull didn't slow. His massive frame was streaked with ash, sweat and dragon blood, but he held Grace carefully, as if she might break further under his grip. Her head rested limply against his shoulder, blood drying dark at her side. Her staff was strapped across Solas's back. No one else had dared to carry it.

The gates opened fast when the scouts shouted ahead.

And suddenly the courtyard was filled with voices.

"She's hurt—!"

"Get the healers—now!"

Cassandra reached them first, storming from the keep's interior, her armor half-fastened, a report still clutched in one hand. The paper slipped from her grasp the moment she saw Grace in Bull's arms.

"What happened?" Her voice was sharp, trembling beneath the command.

"The dragon showed up," Sera said, winded and pale. "Big one. She went down hard."

Bull's jaw worked. "She's alive. But it's bad."

Dorian arrived next—his steps slowing when he saw her. "Oh, Gracie…"

He didn't say anything more. Just followed them as they moved toward the infirmary.

Cullen came last.

He appeared at the far end of the courtyard, halfway through speaking with a soldier—until the tone of the crowd changed, until he turned—

And froze.

He crossed the courtyard in seconds.

His breath caught the moment he saw her and it seemed like all colour left his features. "Maker."

His voice cracked.

"Is she—?"

"She'll live," Solas said. "But she needs time. And rest. And luck."

Cullen's hand hovered, not quite touching her. "What did she do?"

Bull answered for them all. "She basically saved our asses. That's what she did. It all happened too quickly…"

They passed into the infirmary and the doors shut behind them. The quiet that fell outside was too still.

And in the dim stone hall beyond the keep's heart, Grace lay unconscious on a narrow cot, her breath shallow, her skin fevered, her blood still drying in the folds of her coat. Healers moved around her quickly—unwrapping, stitching, stabilizing—but they spoke in hushed tones. Nothing Solas already did would hasten the recovery. This healing had to come slow.

Outside, the courtyard remained eerily subdued.

Cullen hadn't moved from the threshold.

He stood at the edge of the infirmary, back pressed lightly against the stone wall, arms folded across his chest more for the weight than warmth. His face went from ashen to shade of green when as he watched the surgeons remove the tail spike logged into her side. The thought of how close she came to… it was almost unbearable.

He had no idea how much time he spent standing there, barely holding himself together. Grace lay on the narrow cot just ten paces away, wrapped in bandages and a layer of sheets that looked too thin to matter. Her hair was still damp from whatever mixture the healers had used to clean the blood. A faint flush clung to her cheeks—fever or sun, he couldn't tell.

She hadn't stirred since they brought her in.

Cullen hadn't left with them before.

He told himself it was to oversee security near the keep's entrance. That he'd needed to follow protocol, to get eyes on the group returning from the desert. But when Bull had come through the gates, cradling her like something broken, everything else fell away.

She promised she hadn't gone after the dragon.

He kept repeating that to himself, like it might dull the edge. She hadn't gone looking for danger, not this time. And yet danger had found her anyway. But still, there was a tiny sliver of doubt, creeping in just a little…

He looked down at her hands, one resting atop the blanket, still bruised where her staff usually left its mark. The tips of her fingers twitched, once, then went still again.

Cullen dragged a hand through his hair, fingertips brushing the scar at his upper lip.

He hated this. The helplessness. The waiting. The uncertainty.

But more than that, he hated that he hadn't seen it coming. She had returned from the Fade shaken, silent, crumbling under the weight of something no report could name. And he'd let her walk away—let her bury it, let her push him aside.

Because she had asked.

And now she lay here, hurt and hollow, and he still didn't know how to reach her.

"She's strong," a voice murmured.

Cullen turned to find Cassandra at his side. He hadn't heard her approach.

"She always is," he said quietly.

Cassandra's gaze didn't leave Grace. "Sometimes, strength looks like this."

He didn't reply.

After a moment, Cassandra stepped away, leaving him in the stillness again.

Cullen stayed, eyes on Grace. Watching. Waiting.

He wasn't sure when it happened—when his concern had shifted into something sharper, something deeper. But it had, and now it sat in his chest like a weight that wouldn't move.

He kept telling himself he didn't know what she was to him yet.

But he knew he wasn't leaving. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.

Not until she opened her eyes.

And so he just sat there, next to her cot, face in his palms, regret clawing at him like a caged animal.

---

The room smelled faintly of herbs and old stone—too clean, too still. Cullen sat at Grace's bedside, the wooden chair beneath him worn smooth by time and tension. His elbows rested on his knees, hands folded together, unmoving. The only sign of life from him was the flicker of his gaze every time her breath caught.

She hadn't stirred.

He didn't know if that made things better or worse.

The door creaked softly behind him.

"I see the post is already filled," Dorian said, voice subdued.

Cullen didn't look away from Grace. "You didn't have to come."

"Of course I did," Dorian replied, not offended—just tired. He stepped into the room, lingering near the small table by the window where someone had left a pitcher of water and untouched bread. "I care about her too, you know."

Cullen gave a faint nod.

Dorian glanced over at her, and the breath he drew was measured, careful. "She looks worse than she did after Haven," he said after a pause.

"She nearly didn't make it. The damned spike was almost foot long. The surgeons said that it's a miracle that it missed something vital…"

"And she wasn't even hunting the dragon," Dorian murmured. "She was investigating Venatori movements with dragon roost few paces away. Honestly, I expected this idiocy from Bull, not her."

"She's not reckless," Cullen said—too quickly, too sharply.

"No," Dorian agreed. "Just bleeding at the seams and pretending she's invincible."

Cullen's silence said enough.

Dorian studied him for a moment. "You haven't moved, have you?"

"Well, she hasn't either," Cullen replied, quiet.

"Maker." Dorian ran a hand through his hair. "She'd be furious if she saw you like this. You know that."

"I'm aware."

There was a beat of silence. Then, softer:

"She trusts you," Dorian said. "Even if she's too damn tired to say it."

Cullen didn't answer. He couldn't.

Dorian hesitated near the door, then glanced back. "If she wakes up, and you're still sitting like the world's ending—I'll tell her you've been dramatically brooding and she'll laugh at you."

Cullen finally looked up, faint lines bracketing his mouth. "She's not going to laugh."

"She will," Dorian said. "Eventually. Do you need me to bring you something?"

Cullen shook his head and gave him a tight smile.

And with that, Dorian left.

Cullen sat there a while longer, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, counting each breath like it might be her last.

When he finally leaned forward, it was just enough to rest his hand lightly against the edge of the blanket, near hers—but not touching.

"You didn't have to prove anything," he whispered. "Not to anyone. Not to me."

---

The first thing she registered was the ache.

A deep, grinding pull beneath her ribs, raw and hot and unforgiving. Her body felt heavy, weighted by more than just the pain. The air clung to her skin—dry and warm, tinged with the scent of herbs, stitched bandages, and old stone.

Gryphon Wing.

Not the ruins.

Not the desert.

Not the Fade…

She didn't open her eyes right away. She could feel someone nearby. Stillness, not sleep. The kind of quiet that waited.

Grace let her fingers twitch beneath the blanket. Stiff. Slow. Alive.

Her lips were cracked when she finally spoke—barely a whisper.

"…How long?"

Cullen's voice came back low, just above her. There was a barely noticeable shake in it, but she heard. "A day. You've been unconscious since they brought you in yesterday."

She opened her eyes then, just enough to catch the hazy outline of him sitting beside the cot. His elbows rested on his knees, hands loosely clasped—like he'd been there a while. Maybe all night. His eyes were shadowed, but alert. Too alert.

"You're here," she said.

It wasn't gratitude. Just observation.

"As if I'd be anywhere else."

Grace blinked slowly, letting the weight of the light and the world settle around her. "You didn't have to."

Cullen's jaw flexed. "I know."

She shifted slightly and winced—more from what stirred in her chest than the wound at her side. "I didn't go looking for it."

"I know that too."

Her eyes flicked toward the far wall, away from him. "I made it worse."

He hesitated. Then shook his head. "You stopped it from getting worse."

A long silence stretched between them. She didn't fill it. Couldn't.

Finally, he leaned forward just a little. "You scared me."

Grace didn't respond to that—not directly. She swallowed hard and said instead, "You're wasting your time."

"I don't care," he said quietly. "You're worth it."

That made her glance at him again, briefly. Wary. As if she couldn't quite believe he meant it—or couldn't afford to.

She looked away first.

"…Don't wait on me," she muttered.

"I'm not," he said. "I'm just here."

And he was. Still. Steady.

She turned her face toward the window, the warm afternoon light sliding across her features.

She didn't tell him to leave.

But she didn't let him in, either.

---

The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the infirmary windows, catching dust motes in its beams and warming the stone floor beneath Grace's cot. Outside, the sounds of a working fortress carried in—soldiers drilling, voices rising and falling with purpose. Life went on.

Inside, Grace lay still.

Her bandages had been changed. Her wounds—deep and jagged from the dragon's tail—throbbed less today, though her body still ached like something broken and reassembled in the wrong order. But worse than the pain was the weight pressing against her chest.

She was still here.

And she didn't know what to do with that. Because a fraction of a moment back there, right before the dragon's tail slammed into her side, she felt… relief? As if it all was finally coming to an end. But there was something else too - a weight of grief underneath all that she felt. For all the things she didn't get to do… Grace let out a long careful exhale.

The door opened softly. She didn't turn her head. She didn't have to.

Cullen's boots made no unnecessary sound as he crossed the room, the rhythm of his steps, the rustle of his armor too familiar now. For a moment, she thought he'd speak. But he didn't. Just sat down in the chair that hadn't moved since they carried her in.

He didn't say anything.

That was almost worse.

Grace shifted slightly, grimacing at the tug in her side. Her breath caught.

Cullen stirred. "Do you need—"

"I'm fine."

His lips pressed into a line, but he nodded. He stayed quiet.

Another voice interrupted, brighter—slightly smug. "Maker's breath, did someone finally slip past the Iron Wall of Brooding?"

Grace's eyes slid toward the door. Dorian stood with a basket in his arms and his eyebrow raised. "I brought tea. Not because I care—obviously—but because I feared Cullen might wither from dehydration."

"Dorian," Cullen said, sounding tired.

Dorian swept in with theatrical grace and set the basket beside her bed. "You look like hell, Gracie."

"Thanks," she muttered, voice rough.

"And sound worse. Which is frankly impressive."

She turned her head, eyelids half-lowered. "Why are you here?"

"Because I care, which I will deny if you quote me," he said, tone light—but his gaze searched hers with too much softness. "Also, Cassandra said if I didn't check in on you, she'd personally revoke my wine ration."

Grace's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

Dorian reached into the basket and pulled out a small tin. "Also, I brought those sour Orlesian fruity things you pretend to hate but eat anyway when you think no one's watching."

She didn't answer.

He placed the tin on the edge of her blanket. Then he looked at Cullen—something unspoken passed between them.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Dorian said, already turning. "Assuming you haven't murdered each other or descended into a mutually silent spiral of romantic idiocy."

"Dorian," Cullen growled under his breath.

Grace let out a sigh—but not quite a scowl.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

For a long time, neither she nor Cullen spoke. But this time, the silence felt… different. Not warm. But not frozen.

"I can tell them to stop," Cullen said quietly.

Grace blinked.

"The visits. If you want."

She stared at the ceiling. "They'll come anyway."

His jaw shifted. "They're worried."

"I know."

Another pause.

"…I am too."

She didn't answer. Cullen said nothing more.

But he didn't move from the chair. Not for hours.

And when Grace finally drifted back into sleep, her hand had drifted just slightly—close enough to touch the edge of his sleeve.

He didn't pull away.

---

She ran through the halls of Ostwick again.

The stone glistened with fresh blood. Her boots slipped as she turned a corner—too late. The door to the library burst open in front of her, and Wrenn stood there, smiling with that same unbearable calm.

He held Tristan by the throat.

"Too slow, Ella," he said.

Grace tried to scream, to move, to cast—but her arms wouldn't lift, her voice was gone. Magic sparked at her fingertips and died.

"Was it fear?" Wrenn whispered. "Or was it choice?"

Behind him, Ada's laughter rang down the corridor. It echoed strangely, warping into something else—Corypheus's voice, then the Divine's scream, then silence.

The Fade shifted.

She stood in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The orb hovered just out of reach, glowing green, pulsing in time with her heart. Justinia was screaming again—bound, burning.

She reached forward.

And saw her brother's face reflected in the orb's surface.

"You killed me twice," the reflection whispered. "Once when you didn't stop them. Again when you chose power over penance."

"No," she said. "I tried—"

But her mouth filled with blood.

She dropped to her knees.

All around her, voices murmured—her own voice among them.

Liar. Coward. Pretender.

The Anchor seared across her hand like fire.

She woke gasping.

The infirmary was dim. The lanterns had burned low. Her breath rasped hard in her throat, and cold sweat clung to her skin. Her side ached like hell, sharp and burning, but the worst pain was in her chest.

Not a word. Not a scream. But she curled in on herself, knuckles pressed against her ribs like she could shove the memory back where it belonged.

She didn't sleep again.

And when Cullen stepped in that morning, she was already sitting upright, braced and brittle.

Grace was awake. Half-sitting against the pillows, her expression unreadable, staring toward the far window like the hills beyond it might open and swallow her whole. She didn't acknowledge him when the door opened.

He crossed the room slowly, a cloth-wrapped bundle tucked in one hand. "You're awake."

She didn't answer.

"I brought something," he added, placing the bundle on the table beside her. "Not the usual mess keep fare. Real food."

Still no reply. Her fingers twitched against the blanket, but she didn't move.

"I spoke to Rylen," he tried again. "The troops are nearly ready. Two days, maybe less, and we move."

"That's good," Grace said, flat and dry as dust.

"You'll ride in the healer's cart."

"I don't need a cart."

"You can't ride such a distance, Grace. Not yet…"

"I'll manage."

He studied her profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the haunted set to her mouth. Her hands trembled slightly, but she hid them beneath the blanket. She was pale. Fragile in a way that frightened him more than the wound ever had.

"I'm not here to coddle you," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "But… please… I need you to stop shutting me out."

She turned then, finally—slow and deliberate. Her eyes locked onto his, distant and dark.

"Why?" she asked, and her voice was softer than he expected. "So you can feel better about yourself?"

His brow furrowed. "That's not what this is."

"Then stop pretending you understand."

"I'm not pretending. I'm trying."

Her mouth twisted, bitter. "You weren't there. You didn't hear the whispers. You didn't see what I did. What I remembered."

"I've seen what it's doing to you," he said, stepping closer. "That's enough."

"You think it's noble?" she snapped. "That I held on? That I survived? Stroud is dead. My brother is dead. I killed them both in different ways, Cullen. And I get to sit here in a warm bed while you—"

"You almost died!" His voice broke, the sudden intensity freezing her in place. "You bled out in Bull's arms. They thought you were gone. I am absolutely not trying to make you feel guilty, but Maker. Do you even care what that did to them? To me?"

Her jaw clenched. She looked away. "Don't do this."

"No," he said, voice low now, trembling. "I won't let you twist this into something small and cruel. I won't let you keep pushing me away because you think you're protecting me."

A hollow silence stretched for a few beats.

Grace turned her head slowly, her gaze locking with his again. "And what if I am?" she whispered. "What if I ruin everything I touch? What if that's all I've ever done?"

Cullen stared at her.

"You haven't ruined me," he said softly.

She blinked, and for a moment, something in her cracked—just a hairline fracture.

"I need something to do," she muttered, half-turning into the pillows.

"No, you don't. You're not ready. And Maker help me, Grace, neither of us are."

She flinched like he'd struck her. "Then why are you still here?"

He took one more step, reaching for her hand—but didn't take it. Just hovered there. Waiting.

"Because I care. I care for you."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Grace looked at him—really looked, like she hadn't since Adamant.

And then she said, hollow and cruel, "You shouldn't."

That, at last, was what made him draw back.

Not all the way. Not a retreat.

But enough.

"I'll return later," he said quietly. "Whether you want me to or not."

And he left, the door closing behind him with a quiet finality that rang too loud in the room she had hollowed out with silence.

---

Hours after he left, Grace turned in the infirmary cot, one arm draped across her eyes, feigning sleep—not because she needed rest, but because she didn't want to face another conversation that might pull her apart further.

But the door opened anyway.

And Cassandra didn't wait for an invitation.

Her armor echoed softly on stone as she entered, pausing just inside the threshold. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then:

"I can tell you're not sleeping, you know..."

Grace didn't move. "You're early for another intervention."

"I am not here to intervene," Cassandra said. "I am here because I care."

"More of this then. Brilliant."

Cassandra exhaled. "Yes. More of this."

Grace slowly lowered her arm. Her eyes were sharp despite the fatigue ringing them, jaw tight. "Is this a rotation now? One companion an hour until I stop being a liability?"

"That is not fair."

Grace shifted in the cot, wincing as the pain flared. "Neither is surviving things you shouldn't."

Cassandra's brow furrowed. She crossed the room slowly, stopping beside the bed but not sitting. "Cullen is worried about you."

Grace barked a dry laugh. "Of course he is. But he keeps showing up like I haven't made it clear he shouldn't."

"And that bothers you because…?"

"Because I don't deserve it!" Grace snapped, voice sharper than she meant. "Because every time he looks at me, I want to believe I'm still worth something—and I know I'm not."

Cassandra's gaze narrowed, the lines around her mouth deepening. "Do not say that."

"Why not?" Grace hissed. "It's true. I killed my brother. I killed other good people. You want to know who I really am?! Don't you already have reports?!"

The words dropped like a blade between them. Silence bloomed.

Cassandra didn't flinch when she silently spoke. "Dorian and Varric shared just the necessary. Nothing about you. Nothing you probably mean by this anyway."

Grace stared ahead, eyes wide, the rest of the words tumbling out like a dam cracked open. "You wanna know what happened?! I was trapped. Blood magic. I couldn't move. He was right there, and they used me—used my hands, my magic. He begged me. And I—Maker, I just watched. I watched it happen through my own body and did nothing."

Her voice broke. "I thought I could live with it. That I could bury it deep enough no one would ever see. But then the Fade tore it all back open, and Cullen… he doesn't know. He pines for something that doesn't exist."

Cassandra stood silent for a long time. Then she sat.

"My brother's name was Anthony."

Grace blinked. Her throat worked around the question, but Cassandra answered it before she could ask.

"He was better than me in every way. Kind, noble. He should have inherited everything. I only wanted to follow. When blood mages took him, I thought I could save him. I fought. I screamed. I failed."

She looked at Grace, eyes steady but brimming with something raw. "I watched them kill him. And I have never forgiven myself."

Grace's lip trembled. She looked away.

"I became a Seeker," Cassandra said softly, "because I thought fury and emptiness was strength. That duty could erase what I could not fix. But grief does not listen to rules… It lives beneath them."

Grace was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse.

"Every time Cullen sits beside me, I remember what he doesn't know. And I want to tell him. But if I do, I'll break. And I don't know I can come back from it."

Cassandra's voice was quiet. "Then don't tell him yet. Tell me."

Grace turned her head slowly. Their eyes met.

"If there's more you need to say, then say it," Cassandra said quietly. "But know this first—your past doesn't define you. It never has. Defiance is a choice, and one of the first things I learned about Graciella Trevelyan is that she doesn't yield. She fights. Fiercely. Stubbornly. Always."

And Grace—for just a moment—let herself open. Silent shivers, barely a breath in the room, still no tears, but she felt. Felt softer. Cassandra didn't reach for her. Didn't try to fix it. She simply stayed.

And Grace let her.

Grace hid her face into her palms, breath still catching in her throat. She hadn't meant to cry. She certainly hadn't meant for Cassandra or anyone to be sitting here when it happened. She had no idea if she even knew how anymore. But the silence between them wasn't heavy. It held space. It made room.

After a long moment, Grace broke it again—quieter this time, but steadier.

"I always thought you were… untouchable," she said, voice raw. "Like nothing ever rattled you."

Cassandra gave a dry snort. "That is because I have spent years practicing the illusion."

Grace offered the faintest huff of a laugh. "Well, it worked."

Another quiet settled over them before Grace spoke again, more hesitant now.

"I never told anyone the full story. But in the Fade… they saw. Dorian, Varric, Hawke… and Stroud."

Cassandra looked at her then. Waiting. Open.

And Grace started talking.

She told her about Ostwick. About the panic and the fire and the blood that soaked the marble floors of the Circle she once loved. About the apprentices screaming.

She told her about Ada. And Wrenn.

About the betrayal, the manipulation, the horror of her own magic turning against her. Her voice caught when she spoke of Tristan—what they did to him. What they made her do.

She didn't embellish. She didn't dramatize. She just told it straight, letting the words bleed out one by one until the story lay bare between them.

Cassandra listened the entire time without interruption. No pity in her eyes, only a quiet, fierce grief that mirrored Grace's own.

When Grace finally fell silent, her voice threadbare and her shoulders sagging, Cassandra reached out—slow, firm—and placed a hand over Grace's wrist.

"You were a healer," Cassandra said softly. "And they made you into a weapon."

Grace's throat closed around the answer.

Cassandra's fingers tightened slightly. "But you survived. That is not weakness, Grace. That is defiance. And I think your brother—wherever he watches from—knows it."

For a moment, Grace didn't speak.

Then she looked up, eyes rimmed in red but no longer hollow. "I'm sorry about Anthony."

Cassandra nodded, something soft breaking in her stern expression. "Thank you."

They sat like that for a long while. No more confessions. No more explanations. Just two women who had been broken differently—and were still trying to walk forward anyway.

When Cassandra eventually rose to leave, Grace surprised herself by speaking first.

"…Thanks for the not-intervention."

Cassandra paused at the door. "Don't thank me yet," she said, voice low. "I -we all- will keep dragging you back until you believe you deserve to be here."

And then she was gone.

Grace sat in the quiet, heart aching—but not splintering. Not this time.

There was still weight in her chest.

---

In the days that followed, Grace remained in the infirmary, but she was never truly alone.

Her companions filtered in, one by one. Sera dropped off a basket of fruit—half of it already eaten—and made a point of teasing her about the dragon until she cracked the smallest smirk. Solas offered a quiet observation about the resilience of spirit. Even Bull showed up, awkwardly holding a half-wilted bouquet and muttering something about not being good at "all this… soft-stuff."

But it was Cassandra's and Varric's visits that lingered longest in her mind. And of all of them, Varric didn't ask questions. He just talked—light stories, bits of gossip, the occasional gentle jab. And when she mentioned Cassandra's fondness for Swords and Shields, Varric had grinned like a cat caught with cream.

"You mean to tell me the Seeker of Truth is a sucker for romance and scandal?" he said, mock-offended. "I'll finish the damned series just for that. And I'll name the final chapter after you, if you promise to stop scowling every time someone tries to help."

She hadn't promised. But she hadn't scowled, either.

By the fifth day, Grace stood unsteadily, stubborn fingers working the buckles of her armor with slow determination. The healers protested. Dorian grumbled. Cassandra gave her a glare that could've split stone. But she insisted. She needed to move. To breathe.

To feel something other than this hollow.

The march to Skyhold would begin in a day or two, and she wanted to be ready. She told herself it was duty. But the truth was—she needed the distraction.

She kept her head down. Worked through the motions. Gave orders. Reviewed maps. Stayed late in the war room when no one was watching.

And she avoided Cullen. She sent him away twice since that argument.

Their last conversation had been a storm she didn't want to look at. She told herself it was for the best. That the space was safer. Cleaner. Easier.

He came to her on the night before—late, after the war room had emptied and the torches burned low.

Grace was bent over a map, red ink staining her fingertips, her focus narrowed to the routes through the canyon pass. She didn't hear him at first.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Cullen's voice was quiet. Unarmored.

She stiffened, just slightly, but didn't look up.

"You should be resting," she said.

"I could say the same to you."

Silence fell between them, thick and laced with everything unsaid. She made no move to turn, and he didn't come closer.

After a long pause, he added, "You've been avoiding me."

"Don't flatter yourself," she murmured, still tracing supply lines across parchment.

Another silence. Longer this time.

"I didn't come to argue," he said finally. "I just… wanted to see how you were. To say that I know you don't want me to be here… but I will be waiting anyways."

Her hand paused, ink bleeding slightly into the corner of the map.

She didn't look at him. Couldn't.

And so, after a moment, he stepped back. The soft scrape of boots on stone.

But just before he turned to leave, he placed something on the edge of the table beside her—something small. Folded.

A note.

"You don't have to read it," he said. "But I hope you do."

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet thud that somehow sounded heavier than it should've.

Grace didn't open the letter. Not right away.

She kept her eyes on the map. Kept her fingers moving.

But her other hand curled around the parchment before she even realized it.

Like she was already holding something she wasn't ready to let go of.

---

The desert wind swept across the keep's ramparts, hot and dry, tugging at the edges of banners and armor straps alike. She stood at the front gate in full gear, staff in one hand, gaze fixed on the horizon as if daring it to blink first. Eluvia stood ready, saddled and calm beneath the weight of her silence.

There was no ceremony. No farewell. She'd given her orders the night before, signed off on the logistics, and passed command of the keep to Captain Rylen. Everything else could wait. She needed the motion, the miles, the noise of boots on sand and the sting of heat in her lungs.

She needed anything but the stillness that unraveled.

Behind her, the courtyard stirred to life. Soldiers checked their packs. Scouts mounted up. Wheels creaked and voices called out over the clatter. Grace didn't turn when she heard Cullen's voice cut through the noise, sharp and clear as steel drawn across stone.

She felt it, though. Like a pressure behind her ribs.

He didn't approach. And she didn't look back.

She mounted with practiced grace and rode to the front of the column. Dust kicked up in her wake as the vanguard began to move, the Inquisition banners snapping in the dry wind behind her. Somewhere in the ranks, she knew he was watching.

And in time, he followed—his silhouette trailing in the haze behind her, steady and silent and just out of reach.

The march to Skyhold had begun.

---

The desert gave way slowly, like something reluctant to let go.

Hour by hour, the sand softened beneath the hooves of a hundred horses. The harsh gold of the dunes dulled into dry grass and brittle brush. Sun-bleached stone turned to red earth, and the wind carried the scent of green things—distant fields, far-off rain. Orlais stretched before them now, vast and rolling and deceptively calm.

They rode most of the day, the Inquisition's banners a long ribbon trailing across the hills. No one rushed. No one lingered. The march moved like a living thing—slow, measured, burdened.

Grace kept to the front. Not out of pride, but necessity. Eyes forward, posture rigid, she let the rhythm of the ride lull her into silence. Her thoughts wandered—never far, never safe—and always, just behind her, she felt his presence.

Cullen didn't ride close. But he was there. She caught glimpses of him in the shifting column—talking with captains, offering a word to a tired soldier, his face unreadable in the sun. Every so often, she felt his gaze at her back. But when she turned, he was already looking away.

They made camp in the late afternoon, settling in a shallow valley shaded by twisted trees and scrub. The air was still warm, but softer now, with a hint of dusk clinging to the horizon.

Tents rose. Fires sparked. Horses were watered. The army slowed into its familiar routines—quiet, efficient, weary.

Grace dismounted slowly, her legs and body stiff from hours in the saddle. She handed off her reins to a soldier and began removing her gloves, fingers aching beneath the leather. Across the camp, she saw Cullen speaking with a group of officers, his expression focused, unreadable.

She turned away before he could catch her watching.

Dinner was being prepared. The scent of herbs and roasted meat drifted through the air, but her appetite had long since left her and did not try to come back. Instead, she walked the perimeter of the camp, half out of habit, half out of avoidance. Soldiers saluted. She nodded. Said little.

Later, she found a quiet place just beyond the campfires, beneath a crooked tree, and sat alone—watching the sky bleed into night.

Somewhere behind her, Cullen stood with a plate in hand, unmoving, as if debating something.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked the other way.

Evening settled like a sigh.

The camp lay quiet beneath a navy sky, fires burned low and steady, casting soft amber light across bedrolls and weathered faces. The air had cooled, brushing through the ravine in slow, whispered currents. A few soldiers shared muted laughter near the supply wagons. Somewhere, a lute strummed a gentle tune.

Grace sat alone on a low rise just beyond the outer ring of torches, cloak draped around her shoulders, eyes fixed on the dark horizon. She was trying not to feel.

Footsteps crunched through the grass behind her. She didn't turn.

Cassandra sat without a word, settling beside her in the hush. She removed her gauntlets one at a time and placed them neatly beside her knees.

For a while, they said nothing. The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, not quite.

Then Cassandra spoke.

"You're punishing him."

Grace's jaw tightened. "No. I'm giving him space."

"Then why do you look like it's killing you?"

Grace looked down, flexed her fingers against the leather of her gloves. The firelight from below flickered along her knuckles.

"Because I don't know how to do this," she said softly.

Cassandra turned toward her, brow drawn but patient. "Do what?"

"Carry it. All of it. The Conclave. The Title. The things I did…" Her voice faltered, barely audible now. "Him."

Cassandra didn't speak right away. The silence between them was heavy, but not judgmental.

"You think I'm being unfair," Grace said.

"I think you're hurting," Cassandra replied, her voice low and steady. "And so is he. And that neither of you knows what to do with it."

Grace said nothing.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, cloak shifting with her movement. Her braid brushed the curve of her shoulder, white strands catching the moonlight.

"I keep thinking if I just keep moving, keep doing, maybe it'll stop catching up to me."

"It doesn't," Cassandra said quietly. "But you don't have to outrun it alone."

They sat that way for a while, wrapped in silence and night and everything that still went unsaid.

When Cassandra rose, she paused—placed a firm, gloved hand on Grace's shoulder.

"Let him in," she said. "Before you both forget how."

Then she walked back toward the glow of camp, her silhouette fading into firelight and shadow.

Grace didn't move.

But she stayed until the last fire burned low.

She returned to her tent in the dark.

The camp had quieted to murmurs and shifting fabric, the occasional snort from a restless mount. Lanterns flickered low along the central path, casting long, swaying shadows over the canvas walls.

Inside, her tent was cool and still. Her armor waited on its stand. A waterskin sat near the foot of her cot. She began to unfasten her cloak, movements slow and deliberate—heavy with exhaustion that went deeper than bone.

That was when she saw it.

Tucked just inside her bedroll, folded with careful precision: a single scrap of parchment. No seal. No signature.

She slid it free, fingers brushing the worn edge. Her eyes moved quickly over the lines—only a few words, inked in a familiar, steady hand.

I still see you.

Even when you're trying to disappear.

—C

She read it twice, then folded it smaller, tighter, pressing the paper into her palm like it might vanish if she let go.

Her throat tightened. No tears came. Just that ache—that sharp, silent pressure behind her ribs.

She set the note on the small table beside her cot and sat in the dim lantern glow, hands still and open in her lap.

She didn't sleep for a long time.

But when she finally lay down, the note was still within reach.

She found the second note tucked into her saddlebag just after dawn.

The camp was still rousing, cookfires just beginning to smoke and scouts returning with reports of clear skies ahead. Grace was tacking up Eluvia, fingers moving automatically over worn leather straps when her hand brushed against paper—carefully hidden beneath the spare flint pouch.

She pulled it free, heart already pounding.

You never left.

Not really.

Not from me.

—C

She stood frozen for a breath. Then another.

Her grip on the reins loosened. Eluvia nudged her shoulder gently, as if sensing something shifted.

She didn't look around. Didn't speak to Cullen.

But something in her posture softened. The steel edge dulled. The hollowness wasn't gone—but it thinned, like mist under morning light.

Dorian noticed first.

They rode together later that morning, winding through golden meadows and narrow mountain passes as Orlais unfolded beneath the hooves of the army. He gave her a look—not mocking, not curious. Just… knowing.

"You're lighter," he murmured, after a while.

Grace didn't respond. But she didn't deny it, either.

And when her gaze drifted across the column and met Cullen's, she didn't look away.

Neither did he.

The third note came near midday—hidden beneath her map case, discovered as she sorted new supply routes with Captain Rylen.

You're not alone.

Even when you try to be.

—C

The fourth was slipped into her ration pack hours later. She found it while seated beneath a crooked tree during a short halt, the sun slipping low in the sky.

I'm still here.

Even when you don't ask me to be.

—C

By the time they stopped to make camp for the night—one final rest before the last push to Skyhold—Grace could feel it under her skin. All of it. Her exhaustion. Her longing. Her fury.

She waited until the tents were pitched, until the fires were lit, until the stars began to crawl their way into the sky.

And then she found the fifth note.

Folded neatly, resting just inside her tent flap like a challenge.

I'll wait.

Even if it is forever.

—C

Her hand shook when she crushed the paper in her fist.

She stormed out of her tent barefoot, in nothing but her undershirt and leather pants, hair loose, breath shallow. She didn't care who saw. She didn't care what they thought.

The camp stirred around her—soldiers glanced up, companions blinked in confusion—but no one dared stop her.

She didn't find him immediately.

She stalked through the perimeter, down the rows of supply tents, past the firepit and the watchposts. The camp was too wide. Too many faces. Too many shadows. She spun on her heel more than once, cursing under her breath.

And then—near the far edge of the camp, just beyond the last torch's glow—she saw him.

Standing alone, head bowed over some report in his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. The firelight caught the edges of his armor, turned silver to amber, shadow to shape.

Her steps slowed.

But only for a moment.

Then she marched toward him like a storm and whatever he was reading slipped slightly in his hand. He straightened instinctively, posture crisp—but the surprise in his eyes faltered when he saw her face.

And the way she looked—disheveled, flushed, barefoot in the grass, shirt wrinkled and half-untucked, hair wild and windblown—she wasn't the Inquisitor here.

She was just Grace. And she was furious.

"Stop," she said, voice low and sharp.

He blinked. "Grace—"

"Stop sending me notes. Stop pretending I haven't been—" Her voice cracked. She took a breath, steadied it, then stepped closer. "I've pushed you away. I've ignored you. I've done everything I can to make you stay gone, and you keep… doing this."

Cullen didn't speak. He watched her carefully, like a man trying to decide if a wild animal would bolt or bite.

"I haven't been kind to you," she snapped. "Not once. Not since Adamant. And I don't know how to fix that, and I don't know if I even can."

Still, he didn't interrupt. He let her burn.

She stepped in again—closer now, voice trembling with heat.

"You don't get to be patient and steady and kind, Cullen, not when I've been… like this." Her fingers curled into fists. "You're not supposed to keep reaching for me when I've done nothing but run."

At last, he spoke—quiet, but sure.

"Maybe."

That made her falter. Just for a moment. "Then why—?"

"Because you did not let me crumble either. And I can't seem to make myself stop." There was no hesitation. "Even when you run. Even when you push. Even when you're hurting and angry and trying so hard not to be seen."

Silence hung between them—open, raw, unbearable.

She looked away first.

"I don't deserve that," she said.

He shook his head. "You don't get to decide that for me."

Her breath hitched. Her throat burned.

"I hate that you're still trying," she whispered. "I hate that it makes me want to stop running."

And that—that—was the truth she'd been holding back.

Cullen stepped forward, not touching her, but close enough to feel it. His voice gentled.

"Then stop."

She stood there, trembling in the quiet, caught between the ruins of her fear and the pull of something real.

Instead of answering, she reached out and grabbed his hand.

Her grip was tight, urgent, fingers wrapping around his like she was anchoring herself—and then she pulled him, hard and without a word, toward the edge of the camp.

He stumbled a half-step, surprised, but followed without protest.

They slipped past the last row of tents, boots crunching over dry grass and gravel. Lantern light thinned behind them, replaced by shadows and the hush of wind threading through low trees. The sounds of the camp faded—distant voices, the low murmur of watchmen—and all that remained was the thunder of her heartbeat and the steady fall of his steps behind her.

She didn't stop until they were swallowed by shadow, tucked behind a rocky outcrop where the stars barely touched the earth.

Only then did she turn to face him.

Cullen looked at her, brow furrowed in confusion and concern, still catching up to what had just happened. His hand remained in hers—warm, solid, real.

"Grace—"

She cut him off with a look. Not sharp this time, but raw. Open. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, her hair a mess, eyes too bright.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she said, voice low and strained. "I don't know how to stop being angry. Or scared. Or… this."

His hand tightened around hers.

"I don't need you to be anything but here," he said gently.

She shook her head, teeth clenched.

"But you keep being kind. You keep reaching for me, and I don't know what to do with that." Her voice cracked. "And I hate how much I want it."

His other hand lifted slowly, carefully, like she might flinch—but when she didn't pull away, he let his fingers graze her cheek, just once.

"You don't have to know. You just have to let yourself feel it."

She stared at him. The space between them buzzed with everything unsaid—grief, longing, the ache of something breaking open.

And still, she didn't let go of his hand.

She didn't mean to fall apart.

But the moment his arms wrapped around her, she did.

It started with a breath that never made it out—caught sharp in her throat, trembling on the edge of silence. Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides before finally clutching the front of his armor, fingers fisting into the leather and steel as if she could hold herself together through force alone.

Then came the sound.

A choked sob, sudden and raw, torn from somewhere deep. Then another. And another.

And suddenly she was crying, really crying, in a way she hadn't since the Fade—since before the Conclave, before the Breach, before she put on the mantle of Inquisitor and buried Grace so far down she didn't know where she ended anymore.

She collapsed into him, shaking, and he held her like the world would split if he let go.

"I killed him," she sobbed. "I killed my brother. I killed Tristan."

Cullen didn't flinch.

Her voice cracked open like splintered glass. "He was screaming, and I—I couldn't even think. I was so scared. He looked at me like he already forgave me, and then he was gone, and I just—" She broke again. "I just stood there. I only broke free of the control when it was too late."

His arms tightened.

Grace pressed her face to his chest, breath hitching in uneven gasps. "And I left Stroud," she whispered. "Maker, I left him. He offered, and I let him. Because I was too afraid. Too broken. I couldn't choose. I couldn't choose, and he died for it."

Her knees gave out.

Cullen followed her down without a word, guiding her gently to the ground, letting her bury herself in the warmth of his body, in the strength of someone who refused to abandon her even as she drowned in guilt.

"I ruin everything I touch," she whispered.

"You don't," he murmured into her hair.

"I do. I do."

His hand slid along her back in slow, steady circles.

"You survived," he said. "You made choices no one should have to make. That doesn't ruin you, Grace. That makes you human. Isn't that what you told me?"

But she just sobbed harder.

And he stayed.

Through the shaking and the gasping and the heartbreak she'd carried for too long.

Grace didn't stop crying.

If anything, the flood only deepened—grief untangled from guilt, and guilt from something older, darker, and harder to name. The more she let go, the more surfaced, rising from the pit she'd kept sealed tight for years.

She gasped between sobs, voice hoarse and breaking.

"I never had a choice. Not once. Everything was decided for me—how I would walk, speak, what I would study, who I would marry, who I was. And when I fought back—when I failed at being perfect—they punished me. Quietly. Constantly. Like I was something they had to fix."

Her fingers clutched at Cullen's chest as if she were still trying to climb out of something unseen. Her breath came in short, frantic bursts.

"They told me I was ungrateful. Selfish. That I embarrassed them. They made me believe it. That it was my fault. Every time I cried, every time I broke under it, they looked at me like I was weak. And when my damned magic manifested? Like I was a shame they had to hide."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling.

"I always tried so hard. So hard. I was never enough. Not for them. Not for anyone. I was only found worthy when they could finally use me. I was a Maker-damned tool for everyone who ever mattered. And I killed the only person who really cared. How could you still care? How could anyone…?"

Her whole body began to shake—violent, unstoppable tremors racking her shoulders and arms, like the act of speaking had finally cracked the last of her strength. Her nails bit into the folds of his armor, and her forehead pressed tight to his collarbone, breath hot and ragged.

And still, Cullen didn't move.

He adjusted with quiet purpose, shifting just enough to reach for the heavy mantle slung around his back—the same one lined with soft fur, worn from weather and war.

Without a word, he unfastened the clasp and drew it around her, wrapping her gently in it, his arms following after. The fabric was warm, smelling faintly of leather, smoke and something that was unmistakably him.

The moment it settled around her, she cracked a little more.

Her sobs came quieter now, but deeper. Her breath stuttered against his chest.

He said nothing. No empty comforts. No platitudes.

Just steady hands on her back, the weight of the mantle around her shoulders, and the silent, unshakable truth of his presence.

He didn't look away.

He didn't recoil from the mess of her, from the hurt or the shaking or the things she'd never said aloud.

He held her like she wasn't broken.

Like she was something worth carrying.

And Grace, in her rawest, weakest moment, clung to him as if he were the only thing still real in the world.

They stayed like that for a long time.

The firelight from the camp didn't reach them here, not really. Only the silver hush of starlight touched the edges of their world. The shadows softened around them, cool and quiet and still.

Cullen didn't speak. He just held her.

One arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other resting at her back, fingers stroking slowly up and down in a rhythm meant not to soothe, but to remind her: I'm here. I'm not leaving.

Her breath had steadied at some point. The sobs were gone, but the aftermath remained—puffy eyes, a raw throat, the kind of exhaustion that went all the way down to the soul.

She hadn't let go of his tunic. She was still wrapped in his mantle, drowning in it. And he didn't mind.

At some point he dared to bury his face in her hair, inhaling her scent as it it was vital. "Thank you for trusting me."

Grace sniffled silently, snuggling impossibly closer, his warmth drawing her in. "Thank you for believing."

"Always."

The silence following after that embraced them for a long while. They just were. Raw, there. Existing.

He glanced down at her, shifting slightly to check if she'd fallen asleep—and that's when he noticed.

"No boots?" he murmured.

Grace blinked, sluggish and bleary-eyed. She followed his gaze down to her bare feet in the grass, dirty and cold.

She sniffed once. "Didn't exactly plan to storm across camp like a lunatic."

His lips twitched. "Could've fooled me."

That earned him a faint huff. Not quite a laugh, but something near it.

She leaned into him again, head resting against his shoulder this time, and the quiet wrapped around them like the mantle did—heavy but warm.

"I'm keeping this, by the way," she mumbled, tugging the thick fabric closer around her.

Cullen tilted his head, amused. "Is that so?"

She nodded, cheek brushing his collar. "You still have my scarf."

That surprised a real chuckle out of him. "You left it in my loft on purpose."

"And now I'm glad it mocked you," she said dryly.

He smiled. A slow, warm thing that reached his eyes.

The silence settled again, but softer this time—no longer strained or heavy, just full. Her breathing evened out against him, and he could feel it in her: she was still hurting, still fragile.

But she was no longer breaking.

And in that quiet space between one heartbeat and the next, he realized something had changed.

Not fixed. Not healed.

But beginning.

Grace shifted a little closer, her fingers brushing his beneath the mantle.

"I don't know how to be okay," she whispered.

His voice was low when he answered.

"Then we'll figure it out together."

And she let him hold her just a little tighter.

Not because she was falling apart—

—but because maybe, finally, she was beginning to come back together.

---

They didn't part after the tears had run dry.

The thought of walking back alone, back into the dark with nothing but silence and memory waiting—Grace couldn't do it. Not now. Not after opening every wound she'd buried and finding someone still willing to stay.

So she asked, voice low and rough from crying.

"Can I stay? With you. Just… I don't want to be alone."

Cullen didn't hesitate. Just took her hand and led her through the quiet dark, his steps slow, his presence solid and warm.

He didn't let go.

---

Morning came slow and golden.

She woke to warmth.

Not the kind that came from a blanket or the mantle still draped over her shoulders—but from him. Cullen's body was a steady furnace against her own, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, one leg tangled between hers. The slow, even rise and fall of his chest pressed against her back, and his breath—soft and shallow—stirred the loose strands of her hair where it fell across her cheek.

For a moment, she didn't move.

She simply existed there, in the stillness, letting her mind catch up to her body. Her muscles ached with the kind of fatigue that didn't come from battle but from surrender. The storm she'd let go of the night before had left her raw and emptied.

But now… now there was only this: warmth, closeness, and a silence that didn't demand anything from her.

And he was still holding her.

She became aware of every point of contact—the weight of his hand curled beneath her ribs, the curve of his palm spanning her side. The way his hips rested close against hers, the gentle press of his thigh against the backs of her legs. He was impossibly close, his body curled protectively around her like instinct, like need.

And then she felt it.

He was hard.

Not pressing into her in some overt, insistent way—just there, unmistakable, and so very human. The realization sent a slow warmth coiling through her belly, not immediate arousal, but something deeper. Something old and half-forgotten: want.

She breathed out carefully, eyes fluttering closed again.

Cullen shifted in his sleep. Just slightly. His nose brushed the back of her neck, and the arm around her tightened almost imperceptibly, as though his body feared she might vanish.

Her throat closed up, emotion rising fast and unbidden.

Even asleep… he's still trying to hold me.

She let her fingers drift—first to the edge of the fur mantle, still pooled over them, then slowly, cautiously, down to where his hand lay against her waist. She traced the edge of his knuckles with the lightest touch, memorizing the roughness of his skin, the way his fingers twitched in response.

He murmured something—indistinct and low—but didn't wake.

Emboldened, Grace shifted slightly within the circle of his arms, turning just enough to face him. Her legs tangled with his beneath the woollen blanket, and her hand slid up his chest, slow and tentative, resting lightly over his heart.

He was beautiful like this. Unarmored in every way. Hair tousled from sleep, mouth slightly parted, lashes casting soft shadows over high cheekbones. He looked younger. Vulnerable. And somehow even stronger for it.

Her fingers moved again, brushing against the hollow of his throat, then up to trace the line of his jaw. His skin was warm, the faint rasp of stubble familiar and grounding.

And then—slowly, carefully—she leaned in and kissed him.

It was barely a kiss at first. Just the softest brush of her lips against his, like the question they hadn't dared ask. But the response was immediate. His hand flexed against her waist. His breath caught. And then he kissed her back.

Sleep fell away from him in a heartbeat.

He deepened the kiss, slow and aching, his hand sliding to her back beneath her shirt, not urgent, just there, grounding her in the press of palm to skin. His other hand came up to cradle her face, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek, reverent and sure.

Her fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, drinking in the warmth of his mouth and the heat beneath his skin. It wasn't frantic. There was no rush.

Just slow, quiet hunger. Shared breath. The intimate hum of two people discovering the shape of each other.

When they parted, she was still close enough to feel the words when she spoke.

"Good morning," she whispered, voice husky and uneven.

He opened his eyes fully now—sleepy, golden, dark with something that had nothing to do with rest. His lips quirked into the faintest, breathless smile.

"Morning," he murmured. "That was… a very good way to wake up."

She huffed a quiet laugh, her hand still resting against his chest. Her thumb traced the line of his collarbone, soft and slow.

"I haven't touched anyone since before the Conclave," she said. The confession came out quieter than she meant it to, but he didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

He just looked at her. Steady. Present.

"I didn't want to," she added, her voice almost breaking. "Not until now. Not… like this."

His hand came up again, stroking the hair from her face, and tucked a white-streaked lock behind her ear.

"I'm honored it's me," he said softly. "But I don't want you to feel like you have to—"

"I don't," she cut in, shaking her head. "I just… wanted to feel something that wasn't pain. I wanted you. I never stopped wanting."

Cullen exhaled slowly, as though he'd been holding that breath for a long, long time. Then he kissed her again—longer this time, with more purpose. His hand slid to her lower back, beneath her shirt, fingers drawing small, idle circles as their bodies pressed closer.

Their hands wandered—curious, slow explorations of hips and ribs and shoulders, a slide of fingers under fabric and over skin. Her shirt rode up slightly beneath his palm. His breath caught when her thigh slipped between his.

It wasn't about lust.

It was about being.

Grace buried her face in his neck, kissing the space just below his ear, whispering into his skin, "We have to get up."

"I know," he murmured, kissing her temple. "But not just yet."

Cullen's hand moved slowly up her back, fingers trailing the length of her spine beneath her shirt, as if learning her shape through touch alone. He didn't push for more—just held her, kissed her again, slower this time, less about heat now and more about connection.

Grace let herself sink into it.

His warmth. His scent. The texture of his shirt under her palm. The coarse brush of his stubble when their noses bumped and mouths met again. Everything about him was solid, grounding, real.

And Maker, how long had it been since someone touched her like this?

Not with hunger.

Not with expectation.

But with care.

His thumb stroked a slow arc along the small of her back, and she felt it—that feeling again—rising up like a tide. Not lust, not exactly. Something heavier. Something deeper. Something like want twined with the terrifying weight of hope.

He sighed into her hair. "If I had known you'd wake me up like this, I would've never let you leave that night in my tower."

She huffed, nuzzling against his neck, but her smile was crooked. "And if I'd known you felt like embracing a furnace, I might have reconsidered."

His chest rumbled under her hand with a soft laugh. "A furnace? I thought I was very dignified and composed."

"You drool," she whispered conspiratorially, teasing. "Just a little."

"I do not."

She lifted her head and gave him a look. "You do."

He grinned. "I will deny it with my dying breath."

"You can try."

Another kiss. Longer now. Lazy. A brush of tongue. The slide of her fingers along his ribs. The kind of kiss that made her toes curl beneath the furs, that made her feel alive.

Cullen pulled her tighter, shifting so she was half on top of him, their legs tangled, his hand cradling the back of her thigh beneath the blanket. His arousal still pressed against her, undeniable and growing with every slow rock of their bodies, but neither of them rushed it.

They couldn't—not here, not now.

Outside the tent, the sounds of the camp were growing louder. The soft murmur of soldiers waking. Hooves in the dirt. A blacksmith's hammer ringing faintly in the distance.

But inside, there was only the warmth of shared breath and the feeling of him beneath her.

She tucked her head beneath his chin again, breathing him in.

"I wish we had more time."

He stroked her back again, slow and sure. "We will. Once we're back at Skyhold."

She closed her eyes. "Promise?"

"I do." He kissed the crown of her head. "I won't let you go."

That made her heart twist—not with fear this time, but with something like longing so deep it felt like grief.

And still, she whispered, "I'm still keeping the mantle."

He chuckled, deep and quiet. "Only if I get to keep the scarf."

She smiled into his throat. "Deal."

For a few minutes more, they lay there in silence—arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled, breath syncing up like a rhythm they already knew.

Outside, the day waited.

But here, they had this.

The first morning she didn't wake up afraid.

Grace stretched like a cat beneath the blanket, the fur mantle slipping from one shoulder. Her bare legs tangled with the furs, her shirt riding high on one hip, and Cullen, already struggling to convince his brain to focus, found himself watching her with open reverence.

Then she sat up.

He blinked, still groggy from warmth and the scent of her, until something clicked in his mind.

She was barefoot.

In his tent.

And the sun was up.

Cullen bolted upright like he'd been struck by lightning.

"Shit."

Grace looked over her shoulder at him, hands lazily brushing her hair, amused. "Charming."

"No, no—Grace, your tent. It's halfway across camp."

"I know."

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to piece together a tactical retreat like a man cornered on a battlefield. "There are patrols. And scouts. And people—awake, watching. If anyone sees you—like this—" He gestured to her bare legs, her hair she just finished braiding, his mantle still draped around her shoulders like a trophy. "They'll—Maker, they'll talk."

She blinked at him. "And?"

"And I don't care what they say about me, but you—" He stopped, hands braced on his knees, voice lowering, more serious. "You're… you. You shouldn't have to fight off whispers and jokes when you've already got the weight of the world on your shoulders."

That sobered her—just for a beat.

Then her lips curved, slow and dangerous as she slipped back in her leather pants.

"Oh, Cullen."

He squinted at her warily. "What?"

"They already talk."

He stared.

Grace tilted her head, sunlight catching the white streak in her braid. "There's a betting pool."

He blinked. "A what."

"A betting pool. Among the inner circle. On when you and I would finally stop pretending."

He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"Varric organized it," she added helpfully, stretching her arms overhead. "Sera had three very inappropriate theories and a side wager with Dorian. Maker's breath, even Cassandra put in her coin on us."

Cullen opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I—how long has this been going on?"

"I found out before the royal ball."

"The Winter palace?!"

Grace smirked. "It's not like we were exactly subtle about… each other."

He buried his face in his hands, muttering something that sounded like a prayer and a curse wrapped together.

She crawled toward him on her knees, still wrapped in his mantle, and placed her hands gently on his shoulders. He looked up—flushed, frazzled, completely undone.

And she kissed him. Soft. Brief.

"I don't care if they know," she whispered. "They've known longer than we have."

He softened under her touch, his hands sliding to her waist. "Maker's breath, if it makes you smile like this at me more often, they are already forgiven… I just wanted to protect you from… all of it."

"You are still protecting me - you did exactly that," she said. "By being here."

They stayed like that for a breath—foreheads resting together, smiles tucked behind shared warmth.

Outside, the camp bustled. The world hadn't stopped.

But for just one more moment, it could wait.

And then, as she pulled back, bare feet hitting the ground with a sigh, she shot him a look over her shoulder.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, small smirk laying on her lips, "Dorian's going to be insufferable."

Cullen groaned. "Maker help us both."

And with that, she slipped out of the tent, barefoot and radiant, his mantle still wrapped around her shoulders like it belonged there.

Because maybe it did.