Grace's eyes traced the breathtaking expanse of the valley as she stood at the edge of the high stone platform. A frozen lake gleamed beneath the bright noon sun, its ice shimmering like glass, reflecting the vastness of the sky above. Small groves dotted the plains, their branches heavy with snow, and towering trees framed the landscape like silent sentinels. But it was the castle that stole her breath away.
Skyhold. Not a fort. A castle.
It rose majestically from the mountainside, its battlements and towers piercing the sky. The sight of it made Grace feel as though she were standing in a dream, or a painting—something so grand and beautiful that it could only exist in some distant, forgotten corner of the world. The stone walls seemed to mock the very mountains around it, having stood for countless years untouched, resilient to time itself. The Veil was thin there and it felt like an ancient place, untouched by history yet filled with echoes of a forgotten past.
Solas had said little about how he'd found this place, only that it had come to him in his explorations of the Fade. The explanation had always felt half-true to her, though she couldn't quite place why. She had a feeling there was more to the story than he was letting on, but as with many things, Solas remained a mystery she couldn't quite solve.
The Inquisition had arrived at Skyhold days ago, and already the troops—under Cullen's direction—had made impressive progress in securing the castle. Its state was much better than it should have been, considering how long it had stood empty, but Grace supposed that was one of the reasons it felt so special. The castle had endured, surviving its own desolation until they arrived to breathe life back into it. The soldiers worked tirelessly, making camp around the frozen lake, while repairs on the castle began in earnest.
Grace couldn't help but marvel at the way everything had fallen into place so quickly.
Josephine, ever the diplomat, had managed to wrangle traders into the courtyard in a matter of days—an almost impossible feat in such uncertain times. And not only that, but she had also brought envoys from Fereldan and Orlesian nobles, securing the Inquisition's foothold in more than just battle. The work she did behind the scenes was as crucial as any soldier's effort on the frontlines.
But even with the swift progress, the work never seemed to end. For every task completed, there were ten more that followed in its wake. Everyone who could contribute did so, working from sunrise to well after nightfall, as if the very existence of Skyhold depended on their labor. Grace had thrown herself into that effort with as much determination as anyone, using her magic to clear rubble and help rebuild, spending hours in the makeshift infirmary to learn from the healers and field surgeons. She coordinated with the newly appointed leader of the mages, ensuring that their efforts aligned with the broader goals of the Inquisition.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary.
And so, every night, after the day's work was done, Grace would collapse into her bedroll in the corner of the courtyard. She would lie there, exhausted but unable to sleep for a few moments as the sounds of the camp and the hum of activity drifted in the distance. Her muscles ached, but the satisfaction of contributing to something bigger than herself was worth it. It felt like they were building something, not just a castle, but a future.
As much as she ached from the physical labor, there was a strange comfort in the exhaustion. In these moments, when she was too tired to think, she could almost forget the weight of everything—the loss of Haven, the battle, the loom of the enemy on their track... Here, at Skyhold, in the middle of their chaotic rebuilding, there was a sense of hope that felt almost tangible.
A hope that this place, this castle, could be the beginning of something better.
And then everything changed forever.
--
One week after their arrival at Skyhold, an unusually large crowd formed in the courtyard early in the morning. Grace was finishing her breakfast when she noticed the growing number of people gathered in hushed anticipation. Curiosity piqued, she stepped outside her tent to investigate.
Before she could even approach the crowd, Cassandra intercepted her. The former Hand of the Divine moved with urgency, her eyes set on the stone stairs leading up to the central platform where the crowd had gathered.
"Come, Grace," Cassandra said quietly, her tone firm yet not unkind. "It's time." Then she proceeded to explain something about Grace being a true rival to Corypheus and that she had proven herself over and over… she was barely listening however, looking around frantically, still unable to grasp what was that motivational speech about.
Grace, still unsure of what was happening, followed her toward the crowd. The air was thick with murmurs, and as they walked, she could feel the weight of eyes upon her. The crowd parted slightly as they ascended the stairs, leading to the platform where Leliana stood proud, her small all-knowing smirk curling her lips ever so slightly, large sword in her hands.
Before Grace could say a word or even ask what was going on, Cassandra's voice rang out, loud and clear, for all to hear.
"People of the Inquisition," she began, her voice unwavering, "by the will of the council and the strength of her actions, we name Lady Graciella Trevelyan—the Herald of Andraste—our Inquisitor."
The declaration seemed to freeze time for a moment. Grace blinked, stunned. Her? A mage, standing at the head of this? But Cassandra's words had left no room for argument, and before she could protest, Leliana stepped forward, her voice calm but resolute. "Grace, we have watched you lead us even though you did not realize it. We have seen your strength, your compassion, and your determination. There is no one else who is better suited for the role."
Cassandra looked at Grace, her expression softer now. "You have already shown the people you are capable. You are not just a mage, Grace. You are the one who has kept hope alive when all seemed lost."
A stunned silence hung in the air. Grace could feel the weight of their words, but at the same time, a gnawing sense of fear rooted her to the spot. How could she? How could she lead? A mage? She was no commander, no warrior—just a person who was thrust into this world of chaos.
But wasnt this what she's already had done since the cursed Conclave? And something deep inside her stirred—a resolve she had never fully acknowledged. The people needed someone to believe in. And whether she was ready or not, this was her moment.
"I… I don't know what to say," Grace whispered, her voice hoarse.
Cassandra took a step forward, placing a hand on her shoulder, her touch strong yet kind. "You don't have to say anything. Just know that this title has been earned by your actions. The Inquisition needs a leader, and we have chosen you."
Grace met Cassandra's eyes, and then Leliana's. She turned her gaze to the crowd, the faces before her expectant, hopeful. She could see the trust in their eyes, the belief that she could give them something they so desperately needed—direction, hope, something to hold onto in the darkness.
Her heart was still racing, but as she looked back to Cassandra and Leliana, a quiet resolve began to settle in her chest. She had never asked for this, but maybe that was the point. The Inquisition had already chosen her in their hearts; now, it was time for her to believe in herself.
"Then… I accept." The words came out softly, but with more certainty than she had felt in days. "I'll do my best."
The sword was an intimidating thing—gleaming, with a hilt covered in elaborate gold and silver designs. The blade was nearly as long as Grace's body. She could feel its weight even before her fingers made contact. She hesitated for a brief moment, her heart racing, but she took it from Leliana's grasp.
Leliana gave a slight nod, and then with a voice that would leave no room for doubt, Grace addressed the crowd.
"The fight before us is not one of ideals, nor one of faith alone," Grace said, her voice rising with each word. "We have one enemy—Corypheus. We will stop him. We must. He will be our greatest trial. And only when he is defeated will our world be safe."
The crowd was silent, the weight of her words sinking in. The council, standing behind her, shared looks of quiet approval.
Cassandra turned toward the rest of the council. "Have our people been told?"
Josephine, standing below, answered confidently, her voice carrying across the courtyard. "They have, and soon, the world will know. Word will spread faster than we can imagine."
Cassandra nodded sharply. "Commander," she said, her gaze shifting toward Cullen, who was standing at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. "Will they follow?"
The tension in the air was palpable as Cullen's eyes locked with Grace's. For a split second, the world seemed to still between them. There was something, a question unspoken, but neither could find the right words. Grace's throat tightened, and Cullen's jaw tightened as if holding back a deeper truth.
But the moment passed. Cullen cleared his throat, stepping forward, his voice powerful. "Inquisition!" His words rang out, demanding the crowd's attention. "Will you follow?"
The crowd's response was immediate—a great murmur of agreement began to grow louder and louder, a unified roar beginning to take shape.
"Will we fight?" Cullen's voice rose again, louder now, his gaze sweeping over the faces before him, each of them hanging on his every word.
The cheers intensified, echoing off the stone walls.
"Will we triumph?" Cullen's roar now split the air like a war cry.
The crowd exploded, their voices melding into one enormous roar that shook the ground beneath their feet. The air was thick with their conviction.
Cullen lifted his sword high, unsheathing it in a single fluid motion, the steel gleaming in the sunlight. His chest heaved with the force of his emotion as he finished with a booming command: "Your Herald, your Leader, your Inquisitor!"
The roar from the crowd was deafening, a sound that filled Grace's chest with the sharp sting of something bittersweet—joy, fear, and an unshakable weight.
But even as the crowd cheered, the moment between her and Cullen felt… different. Tension still lingered in the air between them. Their eyes locked for just a moment too long before Cullen turned to face the crowd again, masking his emotions beneath his stoic expression. Grace, still gripping the ornate sword, felt something deep within her stir, an uneasy realization that things would never be the same between them.
It was not just the weight of the title she carried now—it was everything that came with it, the choices, the sacrifices, and the responsibilities. And for the first time, she wondered if the world was too big for her to carry alone.
Her hand tightened around the hilt of the sword, the cold metal biting into her skin. The world was watching, waiting for her next move.
But for the moment, all Grace could do was raise her head high and take a step forward, surrounded by a sea of voices chanting her name. The Inquisitor.
Her usual occupation had changed. Instead of spending her days learning in the infirmary, surrounded by healers and surgeons, Grace now found herself more often in the spacious war room, where her presence was required to navigate the growing complexities of the Inquisition's operations.
The war room had become her new domain, filled with endless maps, reports, and discussions on tactics and missions. No longer was she simply a mage or a religious symbol among soldiers and diplomats. Now, she was at the center of it all, making decisions, giving orders, and listening to her "advisors"—a term they used more often than not. Advisors. They had once been allies and colleagues, but now they were the ones at her side, guiding her through the whirlwind of the Inquisition's agenda.
She had to stop herself from scoffing every time the reality of it sank in. Her advisors. Sometimes, it still felt surreal. How had she, a mage once scorned by so many, ended up at the forefront of a movement that would alter the fate of Thedas?
And then there were her parents.
Her mother had been the first to reach out, even before Grace had fully understood what it meant to be "The Inquisitor." There was no congratulations, no comforting words, just the cold, precise recognition of what Grace's new position meant for their family. A high-ranking position in the Inquisition, the most powerful force in the land—it was a perfect fit for the daughter they'd always dreamed of.
Grace had read the letter several times, each time cringing at her mother's precise, clipped writing. "We are pleased, my dear. You have finally placed yourself where you belong. The strategic position you now hold fulfills the plans your father and I laid long ago."
Plans. Her entire life had been a chess piece on a board she'd never fully understood. A series of calculated moves, her mother's sharp eyes always on the prize. Grace's magic had always been seen as a tool and a tiny misfortune, a means to an end. It was never hers to wield for her own purposes—not until now.
The thought of her mother's cold excitement over Grace's new title made her stomach turn. Her parents had never cared about her happiness—just the success of their lineage, their influence. "And while the remaining Chantry still calls you a heretic, we can fix this with the help of a friend or two," the letter continued. It was as though the rift with the Church was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "No matter, we'll find a way."
At least she didn't have to worry about a politically-motivated marriage—her mother had made that clear, too. Her title, for once, came without the weight of being auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Grace could almost laugh at the irony. This position, this "gift" from the Maker or whatever force had led her here, was both a blessing and a curse. It was a chance to reshape Thedas and make a difference—but it came with the price of everything she had known before. No more sitting quietly in the stable. No more tending to the wounded and sick and trying to master newly acquired skills. Now, she had to make choices that affected hundreds, thousands even, and those choices could lead to war, death, or the salvation of all.
Her life, once so simple in comparison, felt like a distant memory. Her relationships with her parents felt even farther away.
And then there was Cullen.
The tension between them had only grown since the ceremony, since her sudden elevation. His stoic gaze, the lingering moments when their eyes met, and the words left unsaid—everything about him seemed tad different now. Grace wasn't sure how to navigate the space between them. As much as she respected him, he was still the Commander of the Inquisition, and she was still the Inquisitor. They both had duties. Responsibilities. And those responsibilities made anything personal seem… complicated.
But for now, all she could do was push forward, pushing past the doubt, the weight of her parents' expectations, and the pressure of her new role.
She couldn't afford to think about it for too long. Not while the world needed her to act.
Grace stepped back from the huge oaken table, the heavy weight of the ornate sword resting in the corner catching her eye. The symbol of her position. The Inquisitor.
Her heart ached with the weight of it, but it was a burden she would bear. For her people. For Thedas. And, in some small way, perhaps to prove to herself that she wasn't just the puppet her parents had always hoped she would be.
With a deep breath, she left the war room and stepped back into the courtyard, determined to face whatever came next with her head held high.
This morning, however, Grace took a moment to breathe before the morning debrief. She stood at the base of the keep's stairs in the upper courtyard, her gaze drifting over the view that stretched across the second courtyard below. The air was crisp, carrying the quiet hum of busy life in Skyhold. The constant movement at the gates, the hurry in the soldiers' steps—something about it unsettled her. Haven, with its temporary shelters and unstable walls, had been chaotic, but this place was different. Skyhold felt… heavier. Its walls seemed to hold a deep history, and it wasn't just the walls that felt weighed down—so did the people.
Sighing softly, she leaned against the nearby wall, sliding down to sit, her eyes fixed on the infirmary below. For a moment, she allowed herself to observe. At the foot of the second stairwell, a makeshift table had been set up where Commander Cullen stood, receiving one messenger after another, his presence a solid pillar among the waves of movement and confusion.
Her golden lion. Grace couldn't help but admire him, even as her chest tightened with a strange mixture of emotions. He looked… worn out. The lines under his eyes were darker than usual, and he seemed paler, almost gaunt. Yet, despite his exhaustion, Cullen was steadfast—an unyielding force, as always. The messengers came and went, and he did not flinch, did not break. He gave his orders with a precision that could not be mistaken for anything less than his duty, his unshakeable professionalism masking the toll it took on him.
Grace's heart ached.
She needed to speak with him. In the days since their arrival at Skyhold, their paths had barely crossed. Most of their exchanges had been brief, work-related, and polite—nothing beyond the surface. There was so much she wanted to say, but there never seemed to be the right moment.
The only meaningful exchange they had shared was when she returned his mantle, and the look he gave her—just before he reverted back to that familiar, stoic mask—had lingered in her mind longer than she wanted to admit. The sadness in his eyes, so fleeting yet so raw, had left a mark on her heart. It was as though he was struggling with something, something he couldn't bring himself to voice.
And then there were the dreams.
The aftermath of the battle at Haven had been chaotic and surreal, leaving behind its scars both physical and emotional. The dreams—well, they had become a split between nightmares and something else entirely. The nightmares left her drenched in cold sweat, the haunting memories of the chaos and terror. But the other dreams, the ones that did not feel like nightmares at all. They felt warm. Full of desire. And in them, Cullen was always close, his presence a comfort amidst the madness.
It must have meant something to him. That thought flashed across her mind, only to be followed by the familiar voice of doubt.
He might have just been patrolling around, it was just a mere coincidence, and you are a hussy for thinking there might be more. Anyone would save you, you are foolish to think more of it.
She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts. But there was no denying that the weight of their connection, or whatever it was, was growing heavier by the day, and it was something she didn't know how to handle.
"Not that it matters," she whispered to herself.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a soft, almost melodic voice murmured nearby.
"The golden touch and amber warmth. The smell of him, surrounding me while I sleep…" Cole's voice drifted over her, barely above a whisper.
Grace flinched, startled, as she hadn't heard him approach. She turned to find the boy standing there, his pale eyes distant, unfocused, as though seeing something only he could.
"Cole?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. The boy was always a mystery—Solas was fascinated by him, calling him a spirit in a physical form. No book in her Circle described such a thing, even ones in the forbidden section of the library.
But considering all the things that happened in the last months, she found herself unbothered by the unexplainable question of his being.
He wanted to help. He really and truly helped them in Haven - who cares if he was a mind reading spirit, demon or just a very oddly talented mage. For Andraste's bare ass… these days, Grace would probably not bat an eyelash if a battalion of singing nugs marched into the courtyard and pledged their allegiance to the Inquisition. So the taciturn boy remained in their company, despite the heated conversations with Vivienne, Sera and even despite a few of Dorian's loudly voiced concerns.
"There's sorrow and sadness," Cole continued, his voice barely audible. "Cold, so cold… dread clenching my gut. Never again. I will do everything I can."
Grace watched him closely, her brow furrowing. "What are you talking about, Cole?"
He blinked, as if returning from a far-off place. "I hear. Only the loud ones… Sometimes the soul and mind scream loud enough for me to hear. I am glad. It means I can help."
Grace scoffed softly, her lips curving into a small, weary smile. "Seems like I sound really pathetic in my head, don't I?"
"I do not understand," Cole replied with a slight tilt of his head. "Your soul longs to be with the Commander. He is down there. Why can't you just go there? And when you are talking to him… why does the sorrow still linger?"
Grace felt her chest tighten again, the weight of his words digging into her. She wanted to protest, but the truth was too raw. It was complicated. So much had changed, and Grace was only beginning to understand the depths of those changes within herself. Her emotions, her place in all of this—it was all tangled up, and the thought of unraveling it was… overwhelming.
"Cole," she began, forcing herself to smile despite the rising tension inside her. "It's… complicated. Please, just… don't say these things when anyone else is around, okay? I don't need them to hear what's going on in my head."
Cole's eyes seemed to soften, and for a moment, he looked almost sorry. He gave a short nod, then turned and disappeared, vanishing as quickly as he had come.
Grace exhaled a shaky breath, the weight of his words settling over her like a storm cloud. He's right. Why can't I just go to him? The answer was as clear as it was painful: because it wasn't that simple. Not anymore.
Shaking her head, Grace pushed herself off the wall and started down the stairs, the familiar ache in her chest pulling her toward the table where Cullen was still standing, deep in conversation with messengers. She hesitated, waiting for the group to disperse before stepping forward, her mind swirling with too many questions and emotions she didn't know how to process. The space between them seemed to grow with every passing day.
"Do you ever sleep?" Grace's voice, laced with quiet concern, reached Cullen as he handed another messenger off.
Cullen blinked, momentarily caught off guard, his gaze snapping to the Inquisitor. He hadn't expected the question, nor the subtle worry tucked into her soft smile. For a heartbeat, everything around them seemed to still, his world shrinking down to the space between them, and he realized how much his exhaustion had been slipping past unnoticed—except by her.
His body was a battleground, each day a struggle against the fever and the relentless ache that had settled into his bones since Haven. It wasn't the first time he'd pushed through, but this… this felt different. He could keep hiding it from his soldiers, from the world, but there was something about her… Grace deserved the truth. It felt like he had to tell her, like she was the one who could see past the mask. But how could he say it? The words stuck in his throat.
"The repairs are in progress, guard rotations are established, soldiers have temporary quarters… By the end of the week, most of the vital arrangements should be finished," he began, grasping for something solid to focus on. "The great hall is already free of rubble. The mages have been invaluable with the roof repairs. We could still use more Templars, though…"
She didn't let him off the hook, her voice soft but direct. "And the answer to my question is no. You haven't slept in the last three days, have you?"
His shoulders stiffened as he avoided her gaze, focusing on the table in front of him. Of course she would notice. Of course, she would see through the facade. He couldn't hide it from her, not when she knew the weight of it all so well herself.
"Sorry, Inquisitor…" His voice was rough, and he immediately regretted the admission.
Grace let out a soft chuckle, her fingers lightly tracing the ribbon of her choker. "Yeah, that… Inquisitor Trevelyan. It sounds kind of odd, doesn't it?"
Cullen finally allowed a slight smile to tug at his lips, the first in a while, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Not at all. In fact, the morale has improved greatly since you accepted the title, my lady."
The way he said "my lady" made Grace's chest tighten, the words tasting strange in her ears. She'd told him before to call her by her name, but he never did. And with every refusal, it was as if a wall was quietly being built between them, brick by brick. Inquisitor. Herald. The weight of these titles she never asked for, never wanted, was crushing her more than she'd care to admit.
"I should stop caring about this," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him, but the words hung in the air between them like a confession she wasn't sure she was ready to make.
Her mind was reeling, and she decided to test him, try to find some sliver of connection. "Was that the official answer, Commander?"
He exhaled sharply, the tension leaving his posture for a moment before he stiffened again. "Yes, it might have been… though I need to ensure we are ready for Corypheus's next move. We can't afford to make the same mistake we made at Haven." He glanced at her, his expression darkening, and for a second, it was as though the walls of the courtyard closed in on them.
Her pulse quickened at the mention of Haven, and her hand instinctively brushed her lips. "Yes… about that… I read the lists of our deceased. Leliana gave them to me. I'm… relieved that you… That so many made it out." Her heart was still too raw with the memory. The truth of how close they had come to losing it all.
"As am I," Cullen responded quietly, his gaze slipping away from hers.
A tense silence hung between them, neither of them knowing how to fill the empty space that had opened up. Cullen's eyes were distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, and Grace's stomach clenched with a mixture of frustration and longing. She had so much to say, but the words caught in her throat.
Is that all you're going to say? she thought, her frustration mounting. You're going to let this silence swallow us again?
Without thinking, she turned to walk away, but then, unexpectedly, she felt his hand on her arm—his grip firm yet gentle, pulling her back to face him. The touch sent a jolt through her, the heat of it spreading from her arm straight to her core. She looked up at him, startled, and found herself caught in the intensity of his gaze.
He didn't speak at first, his brow furrowed as if he was struggling to find the right words. When he did finally speak, his voice was low, thick with emotion. "You stayed behind. You could have…" His words trailed off, and he closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing her forearm as if trying to ground himself. "I will not allow what happened at Haven to happen again. You have my word."
Her breath hitched at the sincerity in his tone, at the rawness of his promise. She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, but her heart was beating too fast. His hand slid down to her wrist, his fingers brushing against hers in a brief, yet electrifying caress before he pulled back, retreating into himself.
She blinked, her thoughts spinning. Did that mean something? Did he—
Before she could gather her thoughts, the sharp voice of a scout broke through the tension. "Commander!" The scout shoved a stack of papers toward Cullen, not quite understanding the delicate moment he was interrupting. Cullen frowned, irritation flickering over his features as the scout waved the papers in front of him.
"The report on the infirmary supply!" the scout announced loudly.
Grace, clearly flustered, chuckled nervously and ran a hand through her hair. "Actually, let me take that… I was already on my way there." She took the papers, offering a quick smile to Cullen, her gaze lingering just a moment longer than she intended.
"See you at the war table, Commander," she said, turning away before the quiet anticipation could stretch any longer.
His voice trailed after her, distant, almost a whisper. "Inquisitor."
After spending a moment in the infirmary to calm her mind and regain her composure, Grace made her way to the war room for the daily briefing. To get there, she had to cross the main hall, and as she did, she couldn't help but marvel at the transformation the place had undergone in just a few short days. The hall, once scarred and cluttered, now felt almost sacred—grand and serene. The massive stained glass window at the far end of the room stretched up to the high ceiling, casting colorful beams of light onto the polished stone floor below. The effect was striking, as if the hall had become a cathedral, peaceful in its quiet dignity. The sunlight refracted through the glass, splashing hues of red, blue, and gold across the floor, creating a quiet harmony that she hadn't expected to find in the aftermath of recent events.
Small groups of nobles, dressed in their finery, were scattered across the hall, admiring the architecture and exchanging conversations in hushed tones. Josephine was working her magic, as always. Grace smiled faintly to herself, appreciating the diplomatic finesse her friend brought to the table.
Her moment of calm was interrupted by a familiar, raspy voice from behind her.
"Hey, Specter. You got a minute?"
Grace turned around to find Varric standing by the grand fireplace, the embers glowing warmly in the hearth behind him. She tilted her head slightly in silent inquiry, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Over the past few months, Varric had become something of an older brother to her—his sharp wit, humor, and effortless charm making even the most difficult moments seem manageable.
"Well, hello there," she greeted him warmly.
"You know… all this inspirational talk going around got me thinking," Varric began, his usual easy grin giving way to a more thoughtful expression. "I remembered a few things. Important things, actually. I've invited a friend. I want you to meet her."
Grace arched an eyebrow. "Now, that's oddly vague. Who's your friend, Varric?"
He grinned, but there was a hint of nervousness in his eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Well… I think it'd be better if you met her in person first. She might have information about Corypheus."
Grace frowned, a pulse of curiosity sparking inside her. "Can't you just tell me?"
Varric's grin widened, though there was something decidedly mischievous about it. "Trust me, Specter. You're better off meeting her away from all these noble eyes."
Grace crossed her arms and smirked, sensing the familiar playfulness in his tone. "Ha… I've got a feeling you've got another dragon up your sleeve, don't you?"
Varric's grin grew even wider as he shook his head. "You and that dragon have more in common than you think…"
"Fine, I'll find you when we're done, Master of Secrets," Grace replied, her amusement evident as she gave him a teasing wink.
She turned away, calling back, "Try not to cause too much chaos, Varric."
With that, she hurried to the side hallway that led through Josephine's office and toward the war room. Her mind buzzed with questions, but she had learned by now that when Varric was involved, it was best to wait and see.
The heavy door to the war room was ajar, and Grace could already hear the animated debate from the hallway.
"You need to understand that not only do we need to warn Empress Celene about the planned assassination, but we also must establish connections there—connections that will be vital to our cause," Josephine's voice was tight with urgency.
Cullen's calm, authoritative tone followed. "The nobles can hover as much as they like, but we should focus on more pressing matters. We still don't know what Corypheus's demon army means or how he plans to wield it."
"The Commander is right," Cassandra added, her voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights. "Balls and banquets seem like distractions. We're at war."
Josephine's response was sharp, "And so is Orlais! The civil war over the throne threatens everything. We cannot miss the opportunity to present ourselves as the voice of reason at the peace talks."
Leliana's voice was low, but no less intense. "Turn your nose up at the Grand Game as much as you want you two, but we are playing at the highest stakes… and to the death."
Grace cleared her throat as she stepped into the doorway, smiling playfully. "I don't mean to interrupt, but if you were hoping to keep your ball argument private, you really should've closed the door. Half the nobles in the great hall are already ruffling their feathers over it. And just so you know, I've got absolutely nothing to wear. Oh, and I've completely forgotten all the dancing my mother forced me to learn. Just in case you were wondering."
The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to her. Josephine's face lit up with a triumphant smile. "Inquisitor! We've thought of everything, of course. Madame de Fer has already notified her seamstress, and she'll be arriving by the end of the week. We have her team in Val Royeaux working on the official uniforms for your envoy."
Grace pinched the bridge of her nose, doing her best not to look at Cullen as she crossed the room toward the massive oaken table. Despite the war room's battered state, the table had survived and stood as a sturdy anchor in the room. Only small repairs were needed, ones graciously provided by Warden Blackwall, whose surprising skill with woodwork had been a welcome surprise. He seemed to enjoy it, too.
"Envoy?" Grace raised an eyebrow. "And why exactly do I need a personal seamstress? Wouldn't I be wearing the uniform too?"
"It's essential to make an impression on the court, Inquisitor," Leliana explained, her eyes sparkling with the enthusiasm Grace had rarely seen. "We need something bold, but not too much. It has to tell your story, show them exactly who they are dealing with."
Grace's lips twitched in amusement. "You're talking about a uniform, not an art piece."
"Oh definitely no uniform for you. You are a beautiful woman, Grace," Leliana continued with a grin. "It's time to use everything you've got to our advantage."
Grace snorted incredulously, an amused giggle escaping her. She reached the table and glanced toward Cullen, who—quite unexpectedly—looked flushed, and to her surprise, somewhat scandalized.
The tension in Cullen's voice was impossible to ignore as he immediately retorted, "Leliana, the Inquisitor is not a prized mare to be paraded around for the Orlesians…"
His words, though clipped and defensive, slipped out with an eagerness that only made the moment more awkward. He immediately regretted it, his expression darkening with a quiet self-rebuke. Grace's eyes flicked to him, her surprise quickly morphing into a sly smirk. She couldn't help but notice the subtle jealousy in his voice, though it was tinged with an unease that made her pulse quicken.
Her breath caught as the memory of his touch from that morning rushed forward, but she quickly quelled the surge of heat that flooded her stomach and pooled even lower. Cullen's ears were bright red now, and he seemed intent on avoiding her gaze, his posture stiff as he shifted his weight awkwardly.
"Well, I'm not sure how to respond to that, Leliana," Grace said with a chuckle. "Though, as much as I am conflicted anout the idea of being compared to a 'prized mare,' I believe the Commander is right. Please tell me there would be no parading me around or a need of performing miracles." She shot Cullen a look, her eyes glinting with a playful edge.
Cullen's ears darkened further, and his fingers clenched tightly around the pommel of his sword. The leather of his gloves creaked, and his gaze fixed on the nearby wall, studying the embroidery on the tapestry as if it held all the answers to the world.
Leliana, unfazed by the tension, shrugged with a smirk. "Oh, don't worry, Inquisitor. You won't need any miracles after we're done with you, trust me."
Grace shook her head, her lips curling into a wry smile. "I'm starting to get the feeling that this was never really up for a debate."
Before anyone could respond, Cassandra cleared her throat, her tone gentle but firm. "Can we finally proceed with the meeting?"
Cullen let out a quiet exhale, his shoulders sagging in relief. The awkward tension that had hung in the air lifted slightly, though the subtle blush on his face remained a reminder of how easily things could spiral when it came to Grace. He had to be more careful. He couldn't afford to let these unprofessional slips continue. It was already the second one today, and it wasn't even noon.
Varric led Grace toward the battlements furthest from the courtyard, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor. When they reached a small platform beneath the vacant tower, Grace's gaze was immediately drawn to a figure standing at the edge, overlooking the keep below. The woman was clad in worn, weathered leather armor, the edges of which were trimmed with fur, making her look both formidable and at ease in the chill wind. A long, bladed staff rested against the stone battlements beside her, its sharp edges glinting in the afternoon sun. Her raven-black hair, tied in a half-bun, fluttered slightly in the breeze, and a wide grin stretched across her face as she turned to greet them.
"Specter, meet Tessa Hawke," Varric said with a grin, his voice light with amusement.
The woman's eyes sparkled with mirth. "You got yourself a nice place here, Inquisitor," she said cheerfully, her voice carrying an easy confidence.
Grace blinked in surprise, taking a step forward to shake Tessa's hand. "The Champion of Kirkwall?" she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and intrigue. She quickly turned to Varric. "By Andraste's overflowing tits, Cassandra is going to gut you alive when she hears about this, you realise that, right?"
Tessa laughed out loud at Grace's phrasing, clearly delighted by it. "Oh, now that's a profanity I haven't heard! I think I'm going to like her, Varric."
"So you finally found the time to read my book?" Varric smirked impishly and rubbed his forehead. "I guess the secret is out and yes, the Seeker is probably going to kill me when she finds out… I wouldn't lie if I told you I was hoping that you could somewhat help to prevent that…"
Tessa shook her head. "Tsk, tsk… always finding new trouble to get yourself into… I would've thought you and Cassandra were already best friends by now, after she kidnapped and interrogated you."
The dwarf shrugged. "Oh, she definitely loves me. You know me, Magpie. If I strive to spin a good story, I need to be at the center of it all."
Grace smirked at their banter. "Well, Varric said you have information about Corypheus?"
Tessa turned to her again and sighed. "I wish it was easily explained... I'm afraid the Warden's disappearance might be his doing. The bastard can somehow get into their heads and most likely not only them. We witnessed him manipulate a whole Carta clan, force them to do some nasty stuff which included drinking darkspawn blood and making them lure me and my companions to Corypheus's prison… The Wardens put him there ages ago, and to free him, they needed my blood…"
Grace blinked, her mind struggling to process the severity of Tessa's words. The idea of Corypheus manipulating not just minds but entire factions was unsettling. Blood magic, she thought bitterly, of course. She let out a short, humorless laugh. "And here I thought I was the only one who kept getting caught in the middle of events that make absolutely no sense…" She sighed, shaking her head. "You know, Hawke, I'm not about to question any of this. It sounds too crazy to be made up."
Tessa rubbed her forehead in sympathy. "Oh, welcome to the club, Inquisitor. This is just the beginning. You should hear about the time I killed that blighted creature… You can only imagine my surprise when I read Varric's letter about the fucker being alive and kicking..." Her voice trailed off with a knowing, unexpectedly serious expression.
Varric snorted, shaking his head. "Oh, don't even get her started. We'll be here all night if you ask about any of her adventures."
Tessa shot him a look, unbothered. "Hey, at least my stories are worth telling." She grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Grace smiled back, sensing the easy camaraderie between the three of them. Despite the dark and dangerous topics at hand, Tessa's presence seemed to lighten the mood in the air. If there was anyone who could help navigate the madness they were about to face, it might just be her.
Hawke had pointed them to her Warden friend stationed near Ferelden's Crestwood. They'd arranged a meeting point near the cave where he was supposedly hiding, and the plan was set. The week leading up to Grace's departure was marked by her growing stress, especially at the hands of Josephine and Vivienne.
There were so many things Grace needed to go over before Halamshiral, and Josephine, ever the perfectionist, was doing everything in her power to shove as much information into Grace's mind as possible. The Inquisitor's head spun from it all. Meanwhile, Vivienne insisted on endless dance rehearsals, which, in the midst of all this, felt utterly absurd.
"They must be flawless, Inquisitor," Vivienne had told her at one point, while Grace tried not to roll her eyes at the irony of it all. With everything else going on, learning the intricate steps of Orlesian dance was the least of her concerns.
Josephine, ever the social strategist, worked tirelessly through portraits of each noble. "This one holds sway in the courts of Val Royeaux. He has a fondness for gilded gifts," she'd said, flipping through pages of notes compiled by Leliana's spies. "And this one, you can sway with promises of power and favors."
Leliana, beside her, had nodded with a glint in her eye. "And let us not forget the leverage. I have enough dirt on half of them to make them sing before we even reach the ballroom."
Despite their incessant focus on Orlesian high society, none of it could distract Grace from the looming war. Corypheus, the Red Templars, the mounting tension—it was all building to something worse.
But none of that seemed to matter when Vivienne's seamstress arrived. The woman brought an overwhelming amount of fabrics and accessories that quickly filled Grace's newly finished quarters, trapping her there for nearly two whole days. The seamstress, Vivienne, Josephine, and Leliana forced Grace to try on dozens of outfits while they chirped away, debating which colors complimented her and which ones made her "too pale" or "too fierce."
By the end of the second day, Grace was exhausted, her patience threadbare. All she wanted was to escape their relentless fashion crusade. When the final servant exited her quarters, Grace let out a weary sigh of relief. The thought of Crestwood, and the journey there, felt like a long-overdue reprieve.
She climbed the stairs to the main room, passed her table, taking a pile of parchments along and walked out of the huge double-winged door leading to the smaller side balcony.
The view always took her breath away… Skyhold laid bare in front of her, flooded by the light of a golden hour. She gave herself a moment to admire the keep and proceeded to check the reports, which piled on her desk during the day. Most of it was ordinary day-to-day matters, however, one particular note caught her attention, and she immediately recognized the handwriting.
.
.
Inquisitor,
Our troops found out where the Red Templars came from. If you could spare the time, I'd like to discuss some related details with you.
Cullen
.
.
Grace stared at the note for a moment before her gaze moved to the tower that housed Cullen's office. She considered going to see him. He was always working late into the night. She had come to expect that from him.
With no more hesitation, she set the reports back down and grabbed her coat and scarf before heading down the stairwell to the main hall.
Varric was still gone from his usual sport by one of the fireplaces, probably hiding somewhere from Cassandra's wrath. She had to stop her from beating the dwarf senseless two days ago. As expected, Cassanda didn't take Hawke's sudden appearance well and the screaming coming from the upper level of the smithy was heard throughout the whole courtyard when the dwarf stopped by to reconcile with the Seeker.
Crossing through the rotunda while humming absently, Grace gave a brief nod to Solas, who was working on the fresco in the hall. His attention was fixed entirely on his work, and he barely looked up, acknowledging her only with a soft gesture of his hand.
As she approached Cullen's office, she noticed the door was slightly ajar, the soft sound of footsteps from a few scouts echoing as they entered seconds before her. She smiled to herself, knowing the office would be familiar—quiet, comforting. The scent of parchment and well-worn books filled the air, and it felt as though Cullen had infused his presence into every corner of the room. The massive bookcases that lined the left side of the room, with their dusty tomes and records, were always a comforting sight.
Grace was quickly becoming fond of the feeling of peace it always seemed to offer. She found herself drawn to it often, sometimes without realizing why. Maybe it was the calm that filled the room, or perhaps it was simply the man who worked tirelessly within it.
She stepped inside with a soft breath, closing the door behind her.
Cullen stood behind his desk, his armor glinting in the soft candlelight that flickered across the dim room. The exhaustion etched on his face had become all too familiar since they arrived at Skyhold, but today, it seemed even more pronounced—more worn. Grace waited for him to meet her gaze, offering him a bright smile as she did.
"Inquisitor." His voice was a quiet acknowledgment, and he returned her smile briefly. Without hesitation, he stepped from behind the desk, his movements deliberate. "I assume you've read my note?" he said as he dismissed the last scout and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Grace gave him a moment, the sound of the door's creaking echoing in the silence before she nodded. "So, what's the news?"
Cullen shifted his weight, letting out a troubled breath before speaking.
"I found out where the Red Templars came from. Therinfall redoubt." He walked towards the bookcases and began pacing like a caged lion, his expression hardening. "The truth is far more grim than we imagined… The knights were force fed red lyrium there until they turned into those monsters and Samson took over, when the transformation was complete."
Grace's brow furrowed with worry, her concern deepening. "And how exactly do you know this Samson?"
Cullen's jaw tightened as he walked toward the corner where the shelves stood again. He rested his hands on the pommel of his sheathed sword, his gaze flicking back toward her, his voice quiet but tinged with the weight of memory. "We shared quarters in Kirkwall. But he was a lost cause. Lyrium consumed him—became his only reason for living. He traded everything for it, including his place in the Order. I knew he was an addict, but never did I suspect he would fall so far… That was before I saw what red lyrium can do." He paused, exhaling slowly as the weight of the past seemed to linger in the room with them. "It's unlike the lyrium given by the Chantry. Its power… it comes with madness."
Grace ran a hand through her hair. "Yeah…The Red Templars swarming Haven were proof enough. We need to do something to stop them."
He nodded, his expression hardening. "They need their source of lyrium. If we can track their supply lines, we can weaken Samson by cutting them off. My contacts point to Emprise du Lion and the Emerald Graves."
Grace took a deep breath, grounding herself as she thought of the task ahead. "Of course. Once I deal with Hawke's contact, we can plan to head there."
Her thoughts lingered for a moment, and Cullen seemed to hover just a few steps away, his expression one of quiet concern, but something more unspoken in his gaze. She slowly raised her eyes to meet his, wondering if he was about to speak but unsure what it was he was holding back.
"Was there something else, Commander?"
Cullen hesitated for a moment, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he glanced down at his desk. He took a step around her, brushing her side ever so slightly as he moved. Grace's gaze followed him, landing on the small wooden box sitting on the desk—a box she had not noticed before.
The wooden box sat on Cullen's desk, worn and well-oiled, but showing the signs of frequent use. Grace watched as he traced the edges with his fingers, the soft sound of his touch against the wood almost like a whisper. The motion was so familiar, so calm—and yet it stirred something in her, something she couldn't quite place. And then, with a sharp breath, it hit her. Ada had a box just like this. Templars used these to store their lyrium.
Cullen's fingers found the clasp and opened the box, the silvery hum filling the air. His philter was full, so why did he need…
Grace felt her heart rate quicken, the unsettling hum of the lyrium singing through the space between them. Something shifted in the air, and she took a step closer, her mind racing. Her thoughts slammed into place as she saw the philter, remembered the absence of the usual hum around him, his persistent headaches—everything clicking together like a puzzle. Her stomach sank as an icy wave of realization flooded her.
No.
Her hand flew to her mouth to suppress the gasp that threatened to escape. She watched him closely, her mind churning with the implications.
"Cullen, what did you do?" The words felt like they came from someone else, the panic in her voice barely contained as she watched him. He didn't meet her eyes immediately, dropping his head, his hands clenched at his sides, before he finally spoke.
"As you know… Lyrium grants Templars their power. But it also binds us to the Order." His voice was measured, but there was a strain to it that Grace could hear beneath his calm exterior. "Without it, some suffer excruciating pain. Others… go mad."
The silence between them grew thick, pressing in on her, and Grace stepped forward. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her stomach churning. "How long, Cullen?"
His gaze dropped to the bookshelves, his fingers absently tracing the spines of the leather-bound tomes. "Months now. Since I left Kirkwall."
A pang of dread shot through Grace, and her breath hitched. "Months… Cullen, if this could kill you—"
He didn't immediately answer. His eyes lingered on the worn pages, as though seeking solace in the distance. His jaw tightened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. "It hasn't yet."
Grace's world seemed to pause. Hasn't yet. The weight of his sacrifice settled over her like a stone. He was suffering. Willingly. She could understand his reasons, the desperation to cut ties with the Order, but that didn't stop the sense of impending loss from tightening her chest. She could feel her hands trembling slightly as she stepped closer to him. She didn't know whether to feel anger or concern—anger for him willingly choosing this pain, and concern for what it meant for him.
"Look at me, Cullen…" Her voice was low, soft but insistent, as she placed her hand gently on his pauldron. "Please. Are you in pain?"
Cullen hesitated, as though the question itself was a weight he didn't want to carry. But eventually, his eyes met hers, and he took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. His voice dropped, hushed but sincere. "Whatever the pain is, I can endure it." His thumb brushed over her hand, the simple gesture sending a jolt through her. "The Inquisition's army is my priority. I've asked Cassandra to monitor me. And if… if she finds me unable to perform my duties…" He trailed off, his throat tight as he exhaled slowly, his eyes falling again to the books, unwilling to meet her gaze. "I will defer to her judgment."
Grace's breath caught in her throat, and she felt the ache in her chest deepen. She nodded, but her mind was a whirlwind of emotions. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? And then there was the undercurrent that made her stomach churn—how could she not be afraid of losing him?
She dared to move closer, her hand still resting on his pauldron, but the proximity sent her heart racing in a way she couldn't ignore. The air between them thickened, and for a moment, everything else faded away. She didn't want to acknowledge it, but the pull she felt toward him was undeniable—this aching tension that had been building between them for months, stretching just out of reach.
"Cullen," she murmured, her voice unsteady, "I… Thank you for telling me. I respect your decision, but—" She bit her lip, trying to steady her breath. "We can't lose you. I can't lose my General. If there's anything I can do…"
Cullen smirked at that remark. Her general. She called him hers… It was selfish of him to think of her that way, to hope he may call her 'his' as well… But since the night they escaped Haven, she has been on his mind constantly. The press of her cold and shivering body against his chest… The faint smell of roses which was ever-present, when it came to Grace… The relief he felt as he watched her sleep soundly after Solas tended to her wounds and Dorian warmed her up… He held vigil by her cot and Leliana had to drive him out by force for him to get some sleep. Nothing felt more important back then but the reality, that this woman was breathing and safe again.
His gaze flickered to her for a brief moment, before he looked away, the guilt written all over his face. It was as if he was carrying an unspoken burden, a fear that he wasn't worthy of her care, her concern. And yet, despite everything, he reached for her hand again, gently pulling her closer.
"You already do more than you realize…" he whispered, his voice rough. His gaze dropped to their joined hands, and then, seemingly against his better judgment, he allowed his eyes to trace the curve of her lips, the way she was standing so close, so warm. His breath caught.
Grace smirked, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Am I now?" The words hung between them, playful but laced with something deeper, something they both refused to acknowledge.
A wave of desire hit Cullen unexpectedly, sharp and undeniable. He drew her in gently, the space between them shrinking as his other hand reached up to brush her cheek. His other hand reached up to stroke her cheek lightly, cursing his leather gloves to the Black City and beyond. If it weren't for them, he would be able to feel her velvety skin under his fingers. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, but it didn't stop him from savoring the proximity, the fact that she wasn't pulling away.
And Maker knows when or if he would be ever able to have this opportunity again… But she has not turned away. She was standing there, inches away, watching him keenly, her expression a bit foggy, which gave him confidence. Here he was, unable to even breathe without wanting her in ways that terrified him.
"Every day… every minute with every breath and every sacrifice," his voice was a whisper now, barely audible. "I should be the one offering help here, not burdening you with yet another problem."
Grace leaned in just slightly, the warmth of his touch sending a wave of heat through her body. His recent reservations towards her made her snap our of the longing however. She had to stop herself before she did something they would regret.
Clearing her throat, she stepped back just enough to put some space between them, forcing herself to breathe through the ache in her chest.
"I once told you I'm stronger than I seem, and you're one of my closest people, Cullen," she said softly, almost as though to herself. "We're leaving tomorrow, but… Write to me, if you can spare the time? So I don't have to worry… You know…"
He smiled at her, but it didn't reach his eyes fully. Still, he couldn't deny the ache he felt when she stepped away, when the distance between them returned. "I can do that…"
Grace gave him a small, quiet smile before turning toward the door. But before she could leave, she turned back. There was something in his eyes—a hesitation, and a hint something that he hadn't allowed himself to voice.
Her voice softened as she looked at him, her heart fluttering in her chest. "Cullen… If the pain gets worse, you will tell me, right?"
He stood there, silent for a moment, the weight of his emotions clear in his tense jaw and stiff posture. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he nodded, though there was a tension in his features. "Of course."
As the door clicked shut behind her, Cullen exhaled sharply, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His hand lifted to his chest, pressing over the spot where their fingers had been entwined just moments ago. The warmth of her touch still lingered, an ache that settled deep in his bones, far more potent than any pain lyrium withdrawal had ever caused.
Foolish.
The word rang through his mind like a reprimand, but it did nothing to quell the quiet, relentless longing that had taken root inside him. He had been so careful, so disciplined—keeping her at a distance, reminding himself of his duty, his failures, the line he could not cross. But then she looked at him, really looked at him, and he had felt something crack.
His fingers hovered over the old wooden box. The lyrium inside called to him, a siren's song promising relief, escape. The pain clawed at the edges of his resolve, whispering that it would be so easy—just a small dose, just enough to take the edge off, to make him strong again.
But then he saw her in his mind's eye—her quiet worry, the way she had stepped closer instead of turning away, the way she had reached for him.
Cullen clenched his fist and turned from the box. No. He had made his choice. He would endure.
The next morning, as dawn's light kissed Skyhold's towers, Grace was already mounted and ready to leave. The crisp morning air bit at her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere—still lingering in a dimly lit office, still feeling the weight of a hand over hers, still hearing the quiet, aching sincerity in his voice.
Hawke's contact awaited her in Crestwood, and there was much to be done before Halamshiral. There was no room for hesitation, no time for distraction.
And yet, as she stole one last glance toward the tower, a familiar silhouette stood at the window. He hadn't come to see her off, but she knew he was there. Watching.