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Cullen’s heart pounded in his chest as he blocked a demon’s razor-sharp claws with his shield. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d repeated the same motion within the last few hours—far too many, as far as he was concerned. But then, with a massive hole ripped in the sky he shouldn’t have expected anything less.
He lashed out with his sword and cut clear through the terror’s middle, the demon screaming in agony before dissolving in a puddle of black ichor. He took the brief moment of calm to catch his breath before a shade moved in to attack.
Over the sound of the Breach—thunder and wild winds that tugged at his hair and sent ash and snow flying—he heard the almost musical lilt of crackling ice. All around him he felt magic pull at the Veil, braiding the power there into whatever form the mage behind it willed.
Cullen had spent the better part of his life surrounded by mages, and taking lyrium when he’d been a Templar had made him sensitive to the subtle ebb and flow of magic. He had seen it in all its forms: from the simplest of fire spells cast by uncertain apprentices to complex rituals by the most experienced enchanters to the smothering dark of blood magic.
But this mage’s power was different from anything he’d ever encountered. Most mages pulled on the Fade and took whatever power they could collect there depending on their skill, but this mage’s power worked in concert with the natural energies to strengthen their casting without mindlessly taking.
The shade who’d moved to attack him let out a shriek as frost crept along its form, quickly encasing it in thick sheets of ice. Cullen took the opportunity so generously given and slashed his blade diagonally across the shade’s torso, shattering the ice as he did. The shade shrieked and recoiled, wounded and bleeding but otherwise still very much a threat.
Again there came the crackling of ice. A burst of cold brushed past him as the same mage Fade stepped until they were beside him. The mage lashed out with their… her staff with a cry, the blunt end colliding with the shade, who again recoiled from the blow.
Cullen thrust his sword through the shade’s chest and it gave one last, haunting shriek before it dissolved much like the terror before it.
It was the last of the demons, but the Rift from whence they came wasn’t done yet.
“Make ready!” Cullen shouted at the soldiers who remained.
“Here they come!” Varric shouted as the Rift shot out rays of sickly green light, more demons rising from where they landed.
Cullen and the mage shot into action. He felt a burst of energy that spread across his body as the mage cast a ward over him and those in their immediate vicinity. He didn’t have time to give a word of thanks before a wraith raised its arms, a ball of energy appearing at its ethereal fingertips.
Without thinking twice, Cullen grabbed the mage around her waist and yanked her behind him. She gasped—whether out of surprise or indigence, he couldn’t say. He raised his shield as the wraith lashed out, the ball of energy hitting his shield with all the force of a blade. He held fast to the woman as the energy dissipated, her breath close to his neck and dark hair flying into his face from the wind.
He released her and she moved forward as Cassandra rushed to their aid. “Distract it! I’ve got the Rift!” the mage called out in a strained voice.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Cullen and the Seeker moved in on the wraith, shields raised enough to protect them from any further energy bolts. As they drew closer he could feel the energy radiating off the demon in powerful waves—enough that his stomach lurched in protest as he recalled the similar feeling of the desire demon who’d been his tormenter in Kinloch Hold.
They kept the wraith’s attention on them, ducking and slashing like a strange dance no one could hear the music to.
There came a crackle of energy—not from the Rift or the Breach. Cullen felt a strange tug at the Veil and he turned in time to see the woman reaching out to the Rift with her left hand, which glowed a sickly green similar to the Breach overhead. He felt her pour her own energy into the mark and the energy there connected with the Rift’s, a beam of light connecting the two. Her face—one he recognized with a start as the same woman who’d fallen out of the Rift in the Temple earlier that day—was a mask of agony.
She cried out and withdrew her hand at the same moment the Rift burst, the demons who’d come from the tear writhing with pain as it did. The soldiers, Varric, Solas, Cassandra, and Cullen stuttered their movements from surprise, but quickly moved into action when the demons didn’t immediately recover.
Cassandra finished off the wraith before she and Cullen moved in on a terror near the woman. The three fell into an easy rhythm—block, slash, duck as the woman launched a new spell—until the demon screamed and fell. The other demons were quickly dispatched by the others.
The woman again moved toward the Rift and the world seemed to fall still around them as she again reached out with her marked hand. The mark again flared to life as the energies between the two connected in a beam of light, the woman’s own energy pulling at the edges of the Rift as though to force it closed as someone would a door.
A few moments later she snapped her hand away, the Rift exploding in a burst of demonic ichor and bits of Fade rock.
Her hands clenched and unclenched slowly as she leaned down to pick up her staff. Cullen sheathed his blade now that the immediate danger had passed. Maker willing, the Rift won’t reopen.
The apostate named Solas moved to her side. “Well done,” he congratulated her in his even voice. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”
The woman muttered something under her breath, a scowl contorting her surprisingly pretty face.
Cassandra moved to her and Cullen followed. “Good to see you made it here alive,” he said, though he knew she wouldn’t have any idea that he’d been among those present when she’d… fallen into their current situation. He turned to Cassandra and nodded in greeting. “Thanks for your help.”
The woman turned to look at him, pale green eyes studying him with a critical gaze that was so intense it made him stop in his tracks. He probably looked like hell, all things considered.
“Do not thank me, Commander,” Cassandra said with a brief look. She gestured to the other woman. “This is the prisoner’s doing.”
You still think her guilty? he thought with a slight frown. But he shrugged it off and returned his gaze to the woman. He held out his hand and greeted her with a brief, “Commander Cullen.”
She cocked a delicate brow before taking his hand—her own was much smaller than his, making her seem far more delicate than her rough skill in combat had. “Zara,” she replied, her accent almost adding a musical lilt to her words. “Pleased to meet you.”
She was very, very beautiful: all dark olive skin, long raven curls, and full lips. She was a full head shorter than he but with how she held herself—back ramrod straight and shoulders squared—she certainly made her presence known.
“Likewise.” He dropped her hand and gripped the hilt of his sword to keep his hands from shaking—the cold wasn’t doing anything to help with his feelings of unease due to the Rift and the withdrawal symptoms that came and went by the hour. “I hope this is worth it. We’ve lost a lot of good men getting you up here.”
Zara’s scowl was enough to send a chill through his body. “I’m doing everything I can. I promise I’ll make this worth it.”
Before he could reply, Cassandra interrupted, ever the pragmatist. “Cullen, cover our advance. We’re going to seal the Breach.”
He bowed in the Seeker’s direction. “Of course,” he said before looking to Zara. “After you.”
Cullen woke to the feeling of a small hand shaking his shoulder. “Papa,” a voice whispered. “Papa wake up!”
He opened his eyes slightly and turned, arm still securely around Zara’s waist as she continued to doze. “What is it, Lyam?” he murmured in reply.
“It’s snowing!” the almost-four-year-old replied, chubby hand patting his arm in excitement as he bounced with glee beside the bed. “Can I go outside? Please, please, please!”
He sat up, smiling at the toddler. “Alright. Go get dressed and give me a minute.”
Lyam gave a quiet hoot of delight, running out the door with Albion—the mabari Cullen had found at Halamshiral—close on his heels.
Zara stirred beside him. “Wha’ time is it?” she mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.
“Early. Go back to sleep, love,” he murmured in reply, smoothing a hand through her hair.
The former Inquisitor shook her head and sat up slowly, yawning. “No, no. I’m already up.”
Cullen smiled and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. Stubborn as ever.
He stood and moved to the dresser, pulling out clean clothes and getting dressed as Zara stretched to work the kinks out of her back—more now that she was four-and-a-half months along and already starting to show.
Seven years, he thought it wonder as he pulled his shirt over his head.
Seven years since that snowy day up in the mountains, the battle at the edge of the ruined shell of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She hardly remembered it on account that she’d, well, been dying of the Anchor’s power at the time but Cullen remembered it as though it were yesterday.
Pleased to meet you, she’d said.
Never had four words and a brief conversation held so much promise for him. Once a lyrium-addicted Templar with only room for anger in his heart, now he was Zara’s husband and the father of her child—who was a mage to boot, although he was barely able to produce a minor spell on a good day.
There were still days when he worried it all a fever dream, that he’d wake up in the Gallows—or, worse, Kinloch Hold—alone. But those moments were getting fewer and farther between as time passed.
Zara came to stand before him, already dressed in a simple tunic and trousers and cloak clasped around her neck. “Long thoughts, Commander?” she teased with that brilliant smile he loved so much.
He pulled her close as she wrapped her arm around his neck, pressing a gentle kiss to her full lips. She hummed in contentment. “I… I’m just grateful for you. All three of you. When we met I-I couldn’t have imagined any of this.”
“I can’t blame you,” she replied. “I never thought I’d have this either.”
Maker, did he know. The Circle had never let mages dream of domesticity, much less domesticity with a former Templar.
Zara tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him deeply. A rumble of pleasure rose in his chest and he smiled against her lips.
“Ewww,” Lyam said from the doorway. “Why are you so gross?!”
They parted and Cullen looked to the boy in amusement. His nose—one Zara kept insisting was his—was scrunched in disgust. He’d obviously dressed in a hurry, since his mittens were on the wrong hands, one leg of his trousers wasn’t stuffed into his boot, and his cloak askew.
Both parents smiled at the boy. Zara moved to him and scooped him up in her arm. “’Gross?!’” she repeated in mock hurt. “And just how are we being ‘gross,’ little cub?” She pressed a kiss to his dark curls.
“Because you are,” he huffed. “And Uncle Dorian says so, too.”
Cullen and Zara exchanged amused glances.
Lyam began to squirm in excitement. “Can we go outside now, please? It’s started snowing again!”
Zara laughed and set him down, taking one small hand in her own. “Alright, alright!” As he pulled her in the direction of the door she shot Cullen a look that said, We’ll talk about it more later.
He smiled and followed.