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Knight-Captain Cullen tossed aside his quill and ran a hand down his face. Maker, but he was exhausted. Between keeping the remaining Templars under his command in line, attempting to keep the peace in the city, and efforts to clean the debris that still lined Kirkwall’s streets after three Maker-damned years, he had no shortage of work and little time to rest.
There came a knock at the door of his office and he gave a huff of annoyance. “Yes?” he growled.
The door opened, and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast walked in.
Cullen cocked an eyebrow in surprise. He’d met the Seeker several times before within the last month—he had agreed to let her and her companion, one Sister Leliana, stay at the Gallows while they were in Kirkwall. She hadn’t specified exactly what that business was, but it wasn’t his job to question Seekers when they came calling, especially when that Seeker happened to be the Right Hand of the Divine. She had watched him assist in recruit training multiple times and they’d only ever exchanged a few words at a time. It wasn’t that he was intimidated by her (though he had to admit that she was plenty intimidating already), it was just that neither of them seemed to be any good at small talk.
“Can I help you, Seeker?” he asked.
She nodded, crossing her arms over her breastplate. “I have a proposition for you.”
He leaned back in his chair. Let it be said the Seeker has never wasted breath. “And what is this proposition, exactly?”
Seeker Cassandra sat in the chair opposite him and met his gaze evenly. “Sister Leliana and I are bringing together a… group of like-minded individuals on behalf of Divine Justinia. We hope to bring lasting change without repeating past problems. We need someone who can lead our military branch.”
“And you think I’m qualified to do that?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, nodding and gesturing with her hands as he had seen her do multiple times. “Not many could do what you have accomplished in the last three years. You’ve kept your Templars under control and given no shortage of aid to the people misplaced following the Chantry explosion, asking for nothing in return like your predecessor was wont to do. You are exactly the kind of person we’re looking for.”
He was silent, quietly thinking over his options. She wanted him to lead a military organization dedicated to change? Him, with his old hatred and bitterness built up over ten years? He who hated all mages for the actions of the few? He who had yet to atone for the atrocities he’d wrought and failed to stop?
Maybe this is a chance to do better, he thought.
“I’ll think about it, Seeker,” Cullen replied.
When the messenger arrived at the camp, Zara felt dread weigh down her (empty) stomach.
“What do you think it’s about?” Karimah asked from beside her.
“Dunno,” Zara muttered. “Probably the war.”
“Have the Templars given in?” Gareth piped up from his spot next to the fire. “Or did the Grand Enchanter surrender?”
“It could be,” Karimah said. “Maybe we’re being recalled back to the Circle.”
“I should hope not,” Zara sighed. “After everything that’s happened there aren’t many who would return willingly.”
“Meaning you and a few other enchanters would make a fuss,” Gareth chuckled.
“Exactly.”
The messenger was quickly ushered into the First Enchanter’s tent. Many mages had stopped to wait for whatever news the messenger had come to relay—for good or ill, it would certainly change their situation.
Several minutes later, First Enchanter Armistead emerged. “Trevelyan, Cantrell, Reed, and Horne report to my tent. I must speak with you.”
“Yes, First Enchanter,” Zara replied in unison with the other three.
“You’ll tell us what it is when they let you go, right vhenan?” Gareth asked, running a hand through his long tawny hair.
Zara nodded, blushing, and hurried over to the tent with the three other senior mages. “What is it First Enchanter?” Kipp Reed asked.
“News from the Grand Cathedral,” the First Enchanter replied, eyes tired and mouth set in a grim line.
“Has the Grand Enchanter surrendered?” asked Tayte Horne. Her obsidian eyes were wide in fear. “Are we being called back to Ostwick?”
“No,” Armistead murmured reassuringly. When had he ever seemed so grim as he had then? Zara couldn’t remember. “The Divine has called a meeting between the mages and Templars to negotiate peace.”
“Surely this is just a trick!” Daisy Cantrell cried, ever suspicious of anything regarding Templars after her twin brother had been killed for failing his Harrowing. “The Templars would never agree to such a thing!”
“They have,” the messenger piped up from beside the First Enchanter. He handed the message to Daisy. “Here. Perhaps this will change your mind.”
The parchment was passed between the four mages. Zara’s eyes widened when it was passed to her. It bore the Chantry seal and the signature of the Divine herself. Part of her was relieved to know the Divine wouldn’t be calling an Exalted March, but another part of her dreaded what the most extreme of each party would attempt at the talks.
Maker’s breath! she thought, eyebrows raising in surprise. The talks are going to be held at the Temple of Sacred Ashes!
“I want the four of you to represent Ostwick at the talks,” the First Enchanter explained. “Each of you are well-respected among your peers, and that will speak well for mages.” He turned to Zara. “Trevelyan, you have ties to nobility and have a clear mind for compromise. I want you to be the senior representative.”
She froze. Oh dear.
But isn’t that what she wanted? To have peace between the two factions without having to be sent back to the Circles and face the same atrocities over again? Hadn’t she voted in favor of rebellion all those months ago because it was what she thought was right for mages? Wasn’t now her chance to finally enact change that would prevent future generations from committing the same violence as they had?
“I… I will consider the matter, First Enchanter,” she stammered. “I will give you an answer by morning.”
Nights in Kirkwall’s Lowtown had been bloody even before the Chantry explosion. Now, with mages in open rebellion across all of southern Thedas and rogue Templars only fanning the flames, Lowtown was a melting pot of fear and anxiety that exceeded any previous troubles. Guard Captain Aveline had since asked the Templars to assist in regular patrols to help appease the people, and Cullen had been quick to oblige.
He patrolled the empty streets, a hand on the hilt of his sword in the event anything should happen. (Which it certainly would, knowing his luck.) He’d left is helm back in his quarters as it obstructed his view and made it more difficult to spot danger when it struck.
As he turned a corner, he noticed a figure hunched along a wall slowly rocking back and forth, muttering incoherently. He cocked an eyebrow, wondering if he should ignore the person or see if he could help. Perhaps they were an ex-Templar in the throes of madness from extended lyrium consumption, or maybe one of the vagabonds who lined the streets by day begging for coin.
As he passed the figure, a hand reached out and latched onto his wrist.
He jerked and looked down. Underneath the hood of a cloak, a young woman looked up at him, eyes cloudy and lips cracked. “Templar,” she growled, and there was a strange gurgling noise that vibrated in her words.
Cullen instantly went on guard. He could feel bits of Fade clinging to her in a twisted, shadowy veil that pressed invasively against him on all sides like the mages of Kinloch Hold when Uldred and his ilk corrupted themselves into abominations.
Get out of here! a part of Cullen thought. Get reinforcements!
The woman stood and Cullen tried to pull away, but she held fast. “Templar!” she growled again.
Cullen attempted to draw his sword just as the woman shrieked and pulled a knife, but he wasn’t quick enough.
She slashed along his face and Cullen felt a burst of white-hot pain, the stench of iron filling the air as blood filled his mouth. He swore, drawing his blade and slashing downward while praying to Andraste that the blow collided.
The woman dodged, striking once more with her knife. The blow connected though it glanced off his gauntlet with a loud clang. She hastily stumbled away from him, sprinting down one of the dark back alleys and away from him.
Cullen swore and ran after her. Maker save anyone who gets in her path, he thought. He tore wildly through the streets for several minutes, taking blind guesses at every turn and praying that each was the correct one. He silently cursed the city’s architects for making the damn city impossible to navigate.
He finally came to a stop in the alienage square, looking left and right but finding no sign of the woman. Again he swore, but the sound was muffled by the blood in his mouth. He spat.
Soft footsteps approached from his left. He looked up and met the large, wide eyes of an elderly elven woman. She moved cautiously, as though uncertain of whether or not to approach him. In all honesty, Cullen couldn’t blame her. With the current state of the world not many—human, elven, or otherwise—would have the courage to just walk up to a stranger clad in armor of the order.
“You are wounded, da’len,” she murmured. “Please, allow me to help.”
He merely stared, whether of shock or uncertainty even he didn’t know. Finally he gave a stiff nod.
The woman led him to a bench beneath the vhenedahl tree in the center of the square. He sat and the woman removed the scarf around her neck, dabbing at the wound to clean the blood. He gave a slight wince when the fabric touched the torn flesh.
“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks,” she murmured. “Facial wounds always bleed profusely.”
Cullen grunted in response.
She cast a glance around the empty square before whispering, “Hold still.”
He barely had time to open his mouth when her hands began to glow, the rush of a healing spell flowing through him and providing an artificial boost to his strength. His skin suddenly felt too tight, the warp in the air brought on by the use of magic making him grind his teeth.
He must have started, because the woman drew away, hands still glowing with soft blue light. She met his disturbed gaze evenly, earthy brown eyes guarded behind the kindness of her expression.
“I know that you are a Templar,” she said quietly. “And I know that it is your duty to report or kill apostates. You may do either, but let me heal you first. You’ve lost a lot of blood and are too pale; I fear that if I don’t complete the process you might pass out.”
Cullen’s mind raced. He knew his duty as a Templar, as acting Knight-Commander. Her magic was as dangerous as the magic of the woman who’d torn apart his face. But then… not many mages—apostate or otherwise—would willingly submit to the uncertainty of a Templar’s authority with such ease.
He nodded, silently telling her to continue.
The woman drew close once again, and Cullen’s mind raced faster than lightning.
What if he’d been wrong all those times he’d insisted magic was vile and unnatural? What if everything he’d been taught in the years of his training, in watching Uldred torment and murder his brothers, in years Meredith had ruled the Gallows with an iron fist, in the year since the Circles rose up in rebellion had been wrong?
Cullen reached up and gently moved the woman’s hands away. She quirked an eyebrow in curiosity.
“Can you leave a scar?” he asked. “As a reminder.”
She narrowed her eyes, studying him carefully, before moving away and allowing the spell to gradually fade away. “Very well, da’len.”
He stood slowly, his legs shaking slightly from blood loss. It would be a long walk back to the docks. Meeting her eyes, Cullen murmured, “Thank you for your kindness.”
The woman squared her shoulders. “Are you going to escort me to the Gallows now?” There was no trace of fear in her voice and Cullen admired her for that.
“No,” he replied. “Though it might be best to avoid other Templars, for I cannot speak for how they might respond to a mage wandering the streets freely at night.”
She nodded, and he tried not to notice the hint of relief behind her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “May you walk in peace, da’len.”
Cullen gave a bow and walked toward the steps leading out of the alienage square.
Zara huffed a breath in annoyance, staring at worn cloth of the less-than-spacious makeshift tent she shared with Karimah, Gareth, and another mage. It seemed that sleep was not destined to whisk her away that night.
As quietly as she could, Zara crept out of the tent and into the autumn air. The frigid wind cut through her tattered robes and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. They were in for a long winter if they remained in the wilds that long.
She walked through camp, studiously avoiding the campfires and the few mages on watch; if the First Enchanter caught her sneaking away from camp again he’d have her hide. (Again. Not that that would do anything to stop her.)
Zara stopped in the clearing several yards from camp and pulled her knees tightly to her chest as she sat down, eyes turned towards the heavens. The stars were in rare form that night, glittering and blinking into existence the darker the night became.
A warm mass sat beside her, but she didn’t need to look to know who it was.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Gareth asked, his shoulder brushing hers.
“What’s there to talk about?” she murmured.
“I know you care about peace, Zara,” the elf muttered, Dalish brogue catching on her name, hand running through his tawny hair since grown out after a year on the run. His vallaslin scrunched as his brow drew together in thought. “But that can’t be the only reason you want to go to the Conclave.”
Zara sighed, finally looking away from the constellations she adored so much and cursing him for knowing her all too well. “I… I know how you feel about me,” she began, words slow as she thought them out. “But I don’t know if I feel the same.”
“I get it, vhenan,” he whispered.
“Do you?” She looked at him, eyes tracing the sharp, rust-colored lines on his face that she knew so well, the same ones he’d once told her honored Ghilan’nain.
“After everything that’s happened, I suppose so,” Gareth replied. “Sex is one thing, but love is another. For me the two aren’t mutually exclusive per se. But you… I guess that depends on what you think.”
Zara pursed her lips and let her mind turn his words over and over like a stone rolling down a mountain. “Time and a bit of space would be good for this,” she said after several minutes. “I’m going to the Conclave. If I come back, then we’ll continue… whatever this is. If not…” She paused, trying to find the right words. “Know that I’m sorry.”
Gareth nodded and silence fell between them. After several minutes he grinned at her, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, arm snaking around her shoulder to pull her closer. “What do you say we forget about all this for a little while and have a bit of fun?”
Zara laughed softly. “It couldn’t hurt,” she whispered before sealing their mouths in a blistering kiss.
He pulled her to him and laid back. Zara straddled his hips, robes rucking around her thighs as she ground her core against him. They sighed quietly in pleasure. You can take the mage out of the Circle, Zara thought with a slight smile.
Almost an hour later, as they righted their robes and made their way back to the camp, Zara still found herself reaching for Gareth’s hand. She might have been confused about her emotions, but that didn’t mean his friendship was lost to her.
I won’t lose another to the Templars. With luck, the Conclave would end that.
Cullen paced outside the door to Seeker Cassandra’s quarters. Dawn was moments away, the gloom easing as the eastern sky began to lighten. He’d made a beeline for the Seeker the moment the ship had docked at the Gallows to bring him and the Templars who’d been on patrol in the city. He wanted—no, needed—to tell the Seeker his decision after everything that had happened that night.
The left half of his face still stung with residual pain and he knew his armor was still spattered with blood, yet he couldn’t find it within himself to care despite the stares his fellow Templars had given him returning to the Gallows. Let them talk. He knew in his heart he’d done the right thing.
A few minutes after the sun rose over the mountains surrounding Kirkwall, the Seeker opened the door. She stopped dead when she saw him, eyebrow cocked in surprise.
“I’m in,” he said, meeting her gaze.
For the first time in nearly a week, the dawn was clear and free of mist when Zara rose. She smiled at the touches of rose and gold in the sky as the sun made its climb into the sky.
First Enchanter Armistead sat at the edge of one of the cook fires, chatting quietly with a few other mages.
He looked up as Zara approached and raised an eyebrow. “Do you have an answer, Senior Enchanter?” he asked.
Zara thought back to the night before, to her conversation with Gareth and all the emotions it brought, but she didn’t let it show on her face.
“I’ll do it,” she said, squaring her shoulders like her etiquette tutor had taught her all those years ago. “I will represent Ostwick at the talks.”