The chamber lay in frozen silence. Ice encrusted every surface, shimmering dimly in the pale light that filtered through the high windows. Sharp, fragile icicles hung from the ceiling like daggers of glass, a web of cold crystals that cast faint, fractured shadows across the stone floor. Cullen sat on the ground, his back pressed against the icy wall, barely able to feel his limbs beneath the numbing chill that seeped into his bones. His breath came in shallow, white puffs, each exhalation vanishing into the stillness, and his eyes, half-lidded with weariness, wandered over the strange beauty of his surroundings.

The quietness—it had a quality of peace, of solitude. Even in the deep cold, there was something comforting in the absence of noise. The only sound was the faint crackle of ice shifting, expanding imperceptibly. It was almost as if the ice itself was alive, growing and breathing with him. He welcomed it, this silence. It gave him a strange sort of solace, a reprieve from the relentless noise in his own mind. Here, at least he could forget.

Then he heard it—a whisper of movement, so light it might have been imagined. Footsteps, almost imperceptible, muffled by the snow that dusted the floor. His heart stirred faintly, the rhythm disturbed by a presence that had not yet fully entered. And then, she appeared.

The eleven maiden moved like a dream, her slender form clad in robes of the softest blue, the fabric flowing about her as if stirred by a breeze that did not exist. Her long white hair was tucked behind her pointed ears, framing her delicate face. Cerulean eyes, so vivid they seemed otherworldly, met his gaze. Eyes that held within them an unnatural depth, a sadness that was too vast for one so young.

The elf’s pale lips curled into a soft, almost melancholic smile as she came to sit opposite him. She leaned back against the wall, her head resting gently as her eyes held his in quiet understanding. For a moment, time seemed to suspend itself, the cold withdrawing to a distant corner of his mind, leaving only the sight of her, the vision of beauty that took his breath away just as it had the first time he'd seen her.

Cullen tried to move, to reach out to her, but he could not even lift a finger. And yet, despite his paralysis, he remained calm, for this predicament was not a new one. Whether in Kinloch or here, she had always been near enough to touch, yet impossibly distant, like a star one can see but never hold. He had known this, lived this, yet the knowing did nothing to lessen its sting.

A quiet sort of sadness settled over him, a desire to weep for all that he had lost, for all that he could never have. But the tears would not come, frozen within him like his very blood, refusing release. And so, with every other avenue closed, he reached out in the only way left to him: his voice. Her name, a single word, slipped from his lips—a soft, fragile breath, barely more than a ghost in the stillness. “Neria…”

She tilted her head, her expression softening, and without a word, she extended her hand towards him, slender fingers opening gracefully as if to offer something unseen. And there, in her palm, snowflakes began to gather, swirling and dancing, tiny crystalline patterns spinning in a slow, mesmerizing circle. They sparkled in the faint light, catching glints of silver and blue, and as they moved, the chill in the room deepened.

Each delicate flake moved as if it had a will of its own, weaving together in intricate spirals, pulling his gaze, his mind, into their hypnotic dance.

The cold tightened its grip, seeping into his every nerve, every muscle. His breath grew faint, the visible puffs shrinking until he could scarcely feel the air in his lungs. The ache in his heart dulled, the sorrow in his chest growing distant, numbed beneath layers of frost. He felt his longing diminish, softened by the cold, until it faded completely, leaving only a void - a vast emptiness that he welcomed.

The snowflakes from her hand drifted towards him, settling on his skin, and he closed his eyes, feeling himself begin to dissolve into the swirling white that filled the room.

A warm, wet sensation pressed against his cheek, pulling him back from the depths of the freezing void. At first, the cold clung to him, tendrils of dream refusing to release their grip. He struggled, caught somewhere between the numbness and the drowsy warmth creeping over his skin. Then, again, the sensation returned—a velvety dampness brushing his forehead, then his closed eyes, as if demanding his return.

Cullen blinked, his vision murky, the faint, acrid tang of saliva filling his nose before his thoughts could cohere. He swiped a trembling hand across his face, the sticky dampness confirming the unmistakable familiarity of his hound's devoted ministrations. Slowly, the fog lifted from his sight, and there she was—Faith, her sleek black muzzle poised above him, her yellow eyes brimming with enthusiasm as she persisted in her unrelenting task.

“Ugh,” he groaned, his voice hoarse. Raising a hand, he pushed her gently, his motion more plea than a command. “Enough, girl, enough... I’m awake.”

Faith jumped out of his bed and turned to sit on the floor, looking up at him expectantly, her head tilted back, and letting out a soft whimper.

Cullen swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his toes brushing against the cold stone floor. The icy shock sent a jolt through him, as it did every morning—a small ritual, a defiance against the sluggishness of dawn. He rose, muscles still stiff from sleep, and crossed the modest room to the basin. Splashing water onto his face, he scrubbed away the sticky remnants of Faith’s enthusiastic wake-up call, the cool liquid invigorating him further.

As he straightened, the rumble of thunder and the patter of rain reached his ears. "Looks like it's going to be a stormy day," he muttered, glancing back at the hound, now reclining on the rug with an expression of canine satisfaction. Faith wagged her short tail lazily, a soft huff escaping her as if to agree.

The thought took him back—back to that rain-drenched night when he'd found her. He had been wandering aimlessly, the oppressive silence of his quarters unbearable, the walls of the Greenfell Circle suffocating. The rain had soaked him through, chilling him to the bone yet offering no solace. His thoughts had been a storm of their own, spiraling around the loss of Neria, the mage he had loved and failed to save. He had been lost, not just in the night but within himself.

Then he'd heard it—a faint, pitiful whine rising from the heap of refuse in the middle of nowhere. At first, he thought he’d imagined it—some cruel echo conjured by his mind. But there it was again, fragile and desperate. Digging through the sodden mess, he found her: a tiny, trembling mabari pup, her dark fur matted and slick with filth, her eyes wide and pleading. She’d barely had the strength to lift her head, yet she’d wagged her tail at him, as though sensing the lifeline he would become.

The Knight-Commander's indulgence had been a rare gift. “If you can keep her alive,” the stern man had grunted, “she’s yours.” And so began the daily toil of feeding the pup, nursing her back to health, cleaning up after her inevitable mischief. Faith had been a whirlwind of chaos, gnawing on his boots, yipping at shadows, and wreaking havoc on his already fragile patience. Yet somehow, it had steadied him.

Her needs forced him to confront each day with a kind of practicality that dulled the edges of his grief. Her boundless affection demanded his presence, drawing him back from the precipice of his anger and despair. The tasks of raising her—training her to obey commands, ensuring her meals, and walking her despite the weariness in his limbs—had been simple yet profound acts of healing. Over time, his uncontrolled outbursts of fury diminished, and the tight coil of fear and hatred of magic within him loosened as her steady gaze and wagging tail reminded him there was still goodness to be found in this world.

By the time Faith had grown into a sleek, powerful mabari, he was no longer the shattered man who had stumbled through that rainy night. The walls of his mind, once closing in with paranoia, had widened, letting in slivers of clarity. He was ready to face his duties in full again, to take up the mantle of a Templar in the bustling city of Kirkwall, where his discipline and strength would be tested anew.

Now, as he toweled his face dry, he glanced to the corner of the room where his armor gleamed faintly in the dim light and uttered, “Tested relentlessly, indeed.”

He made his way to the armor rack and donned his set, the ritual as familiar as breathing. The weight of it settled on his shoulders, a reassuring burden that grounded him for the day ahead. Adjusting the straps with practiced efficiency, he flexed his arms, testing the fit. Satisfied, he reached for his sword, resting it against his hip before turning toward the door.

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the chamber with a frown. Despite its modest size and sparse furnishings—a cot, a small table, an armor rack, a basin, and a single chest for his belongings—it was an undeniable disaster.

Scraps of parchment with half-sketched reports and hastily jotted notes littered the desk, interspersed with empty mugs and the occasional stray piece of bread crust—leftovers from long hours spent pouring over documents.

Muddied paw prints streaked the floor, while tufts of Faith’s black fur clung stubbornly to every surface, an unmistakable badge of her dominion. A damp spot near the door marked where the hound had spilled her water bowl the day before, leaving Cullen to mutter a half-hearted curse when he’d nearly slipped on it.

He exhaled heavily. No matter how small and utilitarian, even this chamber demanded upkeep—a responsibility that should have fallen to the Tranquils or the eager hands of recruits. Yet Faith, for all her loyalty and intelligence, had one undeniable flaw—her territorial instincts. She would tolerate no intrusions into his room, a space that she clearly viewed as their shared domain. She wouldn’t growl or bark; no, the mabari had a far more mortifying method of expressing her displeasure. The memory of one poor Tranquil standing stoically as the hound peed on his boots still made Cullen grimace.

After the same incident with Recruit Darnell, he’d stopped asking anyone to help, his conscience refusing to subject anyone else to such humiliation. As a result, the room remained as it was—a Knight’s cluttered sanctuary, unkempt but functional. He had grown used to it, though the mess gnawed at his sense of order.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his options. Cleaning it himself was usually his solution, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the time or energy to do so. Rising tensions in the city—the whispers of apostates organizing in the shadows, the blood mages haunting the depths of Darktown—had consumed every moment of his waking hours.

He needed help, and only one name came to mind: Alrik Otto. Cullen could already imagine the gruff Templar’s expression—a blend of disdain and begrudging amusement. Still, as the one overseeing the recruits, Alrik was Cullen's best chance to find volunteers, even though he doubted anyone would step forward. Who would willingly face the hound’s ‘wrath’?

With a final glance at the room, he sighed deeply and pushed the door open. Faith was at his heels instantly, tail wagging as if to reassure him. Together, they stepped into the hall, leaving the chaos of the chamber behind for the growing chaos of the Gallows.

Cullen was taken aback when Alrik’s response arrived late the following evening. Seated at his desk, his armor already exchanged for a simple shirt and pants, he looked at the note from the Knight-Lieutenant in his hand, his brow creased in thought. The missive bore the news that Knight-Recruit Anne of Lowtown had volunteered to take on the unenviable task of cleaning his chambers. She was to begin her duties tomorrow, right after morning bells. The name nagged at him for a heartbeat, familiar but elusive, like a tune heard in passing. But he didn't dwell on it, relieved that for the time being he wouldn't have to waste precious time on the task himself, though he was sure it was only a matter of time before the recruit would inevitably regret her decision and beg him to find someone else.

His thoughts then shifted back to Otto. While the message written by the Knight-Lieutenant was polite, the choice of words betrayed the man’s vexation, a hallmark of his correspondence when forced to engage in matters he deemed beneath him. Cullen almost chuckled at the thought of Otto’s sour expression as he’d penned it, his annoyance practically seeping through the ink. Alrik’s dislike for him was no mystery—he was one of many who begrudged Cullen for the fact that he was allowed to keep Faith within the Gallows.

Most of them dismissed the hound as a luxury, an indulgence granted by Meredith’s favoritism. They scoffed at the idea of a Templar having a pet as if Cullen were spending his days idly playing fetch instead of drowning himself in the paperwork of keeping the Circle up and running and hunting down maleficars.

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His hand dropped absently to scratch behind the hound's ears as she came to rest her head on his lap. These Marchers underestimated just how invaluable she was to their shared mission.

Phylacteries served well enough for tracking Circle mages who went astray, but for those who had never been bound by the Circle—apostates born and raised beyond its reach or blood mages lurking in the shadows of Darktown—there were no such tools. That was where Faith’s sharp nose proved an asset. With a single scent, she could pick up trails that led Cullen straight to the heart of their dens, rooting out the hidden threats that would otherwise fester and grow. His efficiency in dealing with these dangers was owed as much to Faith’s instincts as to his sword arm. Meredith understood this, which is why she tolerated the arrangement despite the grumbles of others—it had nothing to do with playing favorites.

He folded the note neatly and slipped it into the stack of papers at the corner of his desk. The debate about Faith’s presence was irrelevant; results spoke louder than words. Blood mages were being caught, apostates subdued, and innocent lives spared. Let Alrik and his ilk complain—it changed nothing.

A sharp knock echoed from the door, interrupting Cullen’s thoughts. The mabari, ever alert, was already darting toward the entrance, her nose pressing against the gap at the bottom of the door. She sniffed loudly, then let out a low, grumbling growl of disapproval.

Cullen pushed back his chair, rising with a weary sigh. He strode to the door, his hand brushing against the hound’s flank as he motioned for her to step aside. “Who is it?”

The reply came quickly—a voice light with nervous energy. “Knight-Recruit Anne, Ser.”

The Templar blinked, frowning. Alrik’s note had been clear—the recruit was scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning. He opened the door cautiously, and as soon as his eyes met hers, the familiarity clicked into place. That was why her name had nagged at him.

She was one of the recruits he and Hawke had saved from the blood mage's terrible ritual—the one that had attempted to force demons into the souls of the Order's youngest and most vulnerable. Cullen’s mind raced as the memory surged forward. It had been one of the boldest attacks he’d dealt with this year, and the recruits’ survival had hung by a thread.

Anne and the young Templar had been lucky—no, blessed—to have escaped the ordeal with their lives. Standard protocol dictated a three-month observation period in the cells, during which the survivors were monitored and rigorously tested for any lingering traces of demonic influence or blood magic. Could it have been three months already? He’d been so inundated with his duties that the passage of time had almost blurred.

Anne stared up at him, her bright green eyes practically glowing with a mixture of awe and excitement, her posture stiff but trembling with eagerness. “Ser, it’s an honor to finally meet you properly,” she began, her words tumbling out as though she’d been holding them in for days. “I-I know I was supposed to start tomorrow, but I just couldn’t wait! So, I asked the Knight-Lieutenant if I could come today, and he said yes.”

Cullen stiffened. “Is that so?” he said flatly. Alrik. Of course, he hadn’t bothered to consult him about the change. It was typical of the man, undermining Cullen’s authority in the pettiest ways possible. He cursed inwardly, knowing Otto would justify his actions with some convenient excuse. Cullen would have preferred the recruit to arrive in the morning as scheduled; he found comfort in things unfolding as planned. It gave him a sense of control and order. He opened his mouth to send her back, but Anne’s sudden rush of words cut him off.

“Yes, Ser. I also want to thank you. Truly,” she continued, her voice growing more impassioned with each syllable. “I owe you my life—Tamlin and I both do. If it weren’t for you, for your strength, your bravery... I’ve been waiting for a chance to repay you, and when I heard you needed help, I—well, I volunteered immediately.”

Cullen cleared his throat, taken aback by her fervor. “It was simply my duty,” he replied, his tone measured. “The Maker’s will guided our efforts that day.”

Yet, her earnestness didn’t waver. "Still, Ser, it means the world to me. While I was stuck in that cell, probed and tested every day, all I could think of was how I wanted to thank you, and now that I can, I..." She glanced over his shoulder at the messy state of the room, her expression hardening with determination. "I'm here to help, if you'll let me."

The Templar hesitated, glancing back at Faith, who was eyeing Anne with an unmistakable glint of suspicion. Still, the recruit’s enthusiasm, however ill-timed, was genuine. Sending her away now would seem rather callous, and Maker knew he didn't want to discourage the only volunteer he had.

“Very well,” he said, sighing as he stepped aside. “If you want to begin today, you may do so.”

“Thank you, Ser!” She stepped into the room and surveyed the mess with the focus of someone excited for the task.

Faith huffed, still uncertain, but Cullen gave her a reassuring pat on the head as if to say, Let’s try to get through this without any accidents.

As the recruit set down her cleaning supplies, the Templar returned to his desk to try and finish some of the pending reports. At least for today, he thought, stealing a glance at the young woman as she rolled up her sleeves.

The young woman set to work with the fervor of someone on a mission, the tip of her tongue peeking out and a determined glint in her eye as she tackled the chaos of Knight-Captain’s chamber. She began with the chest, brushing dust off the wood with a damp cloth she’d brought along. Faith shadowed her every step with a wary gaze, her nose twitching inquisitively at each item Anne handled.

When the recruit moved to swipe up the fur that clung to the corners of the room, the hound decided to make her displeasure known. With a sudden, deliberate squat, the mabari started to mark her protest right on Anne’s boots.

“Faith!” Cullen groaned, leaping up from his chair in a futile attempt to stop the hound. “Why must you always—?”

Before he could intervene, Anne sidestepped the offending stream of pee, raising a hand as she chuckled lightly. “It’s fine, Ser! Really.”

The mabari, thoroughly pleased with herself, finished her deed and trotted back to her rug, settling down with a contented expression.

The recruit crouched to inspect her soiled boots, her expression entirely unbothered. “I’m used to it. Trust me, I’ve been peed on, shat on, vomited on—you name it.”

Cullen stared at her, utterly perplexed. “...What?”

Anne shrugged, her hands already moving to wipe her boots and the puddle nearby with the same rag she was using to scrub the floor. “I grew up in an orphanage, Ser. Spent a good deal of time helping care for the little ones. Babies, toddlers—they’re messy. After a while, you stop minding.”

“Oh,” Cullen said, his voice trailing off awkwardly. “I see.”

He shot a glare at the hound as he returned to his desk, but Faith, as always, remained unrepentant. She sat with a smug expression as if to declare she’d made her point. Hopefully, that meant no further marking attempts for the evening.

Anne pressed on with her cleaning, scrubbing and dusting with unrelenting diligence until she finally reached the bed. As she changed the linens, she crouched down, pulling out various odds and ends that had accumulated beneath it—a stray sock, an empty cracked vial of a healing potion, and an old, chewed bovine bone—she paused, her fingers brushing the edge of something heavy. With a grunt, she dragged out the chamber pot, its metal lid rattling atop the brim. Straightening up with the pot in her arms, she uttered, "I'll just clean this, and then I'm fini—"

“That’s unnecessary.” Cullen cut her off, rising once again to step forward and hold up his hands. Even as a Knight-Captain, he’d never grown accustomed to letting others handle such tasks for him. There was something of a pompous noble’s privilege in the act of allowing someone else to deal with your waste. “Leave it be.”

Anne tilted her head at him, her brow furrowing. “But I’m here to clean, Ser. That includes everything.”

“That doesn’t include that,” the Templar replied, his tone brooking no argument.

Anne stood her ground, clearly uncertain but unwilling to yield. “But, Ser, all the Knights above the rank of Knight-Lieutenant don’t clean their chamber pots. It’s standard—”

“I said, leave it be,” Cullen snapped, his voice tinged with discomfort. He reached for the pot, intent on taking it from her.

Anne instinctively pulled back, clutching the pot as though she were defending a sacred duty. “This is below your station,” she insisted, her tone imploring. “Please, let me—”

“Knight-Recruit,” Cullen began firmly. His hand brushed the pot’s rim, but she yanked it back with surprising tenacity.

As they wrestled for control, Anne’s boot slipped on the damp floor. With a startled yelp, she fell backward, dragging the chamber pot with her. The lid, dislodged by the sudden motion, clattered down, striking her squarely on the head before toppling into her lap. The pot itself tipped, its contents—lukewarm and malodorous—spilling all over her and pooling onto the floor.

Cullen froze, his face drained of color as the full scope of the disaster before him registered. The stench was unbearable, and the sheer indignity of the situation made him want to disappear into the Fade itself.

“Oh… Maker’s breath,” he muttered, shutting his eyes, as though blocking out the sight might erase it from reality. “I—how—” He struggled for words, his mortification quickly bubbling into vexation. “Why didn’t you listen when I told you to leave it alone?”

Anne flinched at his tone, her already fragile composure wavering. “I—I’m sorry, Ser,” she stammered, her voice trembling as she let go of the now-empty pot and started hastily scrubbing at the mess on the floor. “I’ll clean it up! I’ll make it right, I swear!”

The Templar stared at her, his frustration mounting. “Stop,” he said sharply, waving a hand toward her. “Just stop.”

Anne froze mid-scrub, looking up at him with wide, glistening eyes. Her lips were trembling, and her hands were clenching the dirty rag so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came, and Cullen realized that she was on the verge of tears.

He sighed, his anger diminishing. “Recruit,” he said, trying to soften his tone, “leave it. It’s fine.”

She shook her head, her voice cracking. “No, Ser, I can’t—I have to fix this. I—”

“Enough,” Cullen cut in, his voice steady and commanding as he crouched slightly to meet her eyes. “It was an accident. You’ll move past it. I’ll move past it. No need to make this bigger than it is.”

Anne nodded, her breathing shaky, as she finally let go of the rag. Cullen straightened and walked to the chest by his bed, rummaging through his belongings until he found a spare shirt and trousers. He turned back to her, holding them out.

“Take these,” he said. “They’ll be a bit large, but they’ll do. Get changed, and then go back to your quarters.”

She hesitated, her hands trembling slightly as she accepted the clothes. “Thank you, Ser,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I… I’m so sorry—”

The Templar raised a hand to stop her. “No apologies. We’ll speak no more of this.”

Anne nodded again, and Cullen gave her a brief nod of his own before turning to the door. He motioned for Faith to follow him. “We’ll step out to give you some privacy,” he said, opening the door. “Take your time.”

With that, he slipped out into the hallway, closing the door softly behind him. Leaning back against the wall, he let out a long, slow breath and rubbed his temples. Faith sat beside him, tilting her head as if to ask why she didn’t stay behind to supervise the intruder.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Cullen muttered, throwing the hound a sidelong glance, his brow furrowed in mild exasperation. “I doubt she’s planning to rifle through sensitive documents on my desk in her current state. Besides,” he added, his tone turning wry, “it’s not as if I can trust you to keep from making things worse.”

Faith huffed indignantly, her tail giving a single, sharp wag as if to argue his statement. Cullen shook his head. “Andraste preserve me,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with weary resignation. “This day couldn’t possibly get any worse.”

The hound let out a low, amused-sounding chuff. Cullen shot her a pointed look, but any reprimand he might have had died on his tongue as a group of Templars approached from down the corridor, their heavy boots echoing against the stone floors.

Leading them was Ser Damien, a sharp-eyed, wiry man who was notorious for his love of gossip.

"Knight-Captain," Damien greeted, his tone light but probing. "We were just discussing the state of affairs at the Gallows. I don't know if you've heard, but there's a rumor going around that the Knight-Commander wants to shorten the additional leave for married Knights."

Cullen nodded, straightening as the group approached. "It is true," he replied tersely. "But so far, nothing concrete has been decided."

A younger Templar, not much older than Anne, let out a nervous laugh. "We only get two additional weeks a year as it is—what’s left to cut?"

Before Cullen could respond, the door to his chambers creaked open. He turned just in time to see Anne step into the hallway, clutching her cleaning supplies. She was wearing his spare shirt and trousers, which, despite her tall, broad frame, still hung loosely on her and were markedly different from the recruits’ standard uniform.

As soon as she noticed the group of Templars, she froze. Her face turned a deep shade of crimson, and the color only deepened as the silence stretched.

The Knights were equally motionless, their eyes darting between Anne and the Knight-Captain.

After what felt like an eternity, the recruit managed a shaky salute, her voice barely audible. "S-Ser Cullen. Sers," she stammered before bolting down the hall, her cleaning supplies clattering in her arms as she fled.

Damien raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he turned back to Cullen. The younger Templar was less subtle, letting out a chuckle, which earned him a sharp nudge from one of his peers.

Cullen groaned inwardly. He didn’t owe them an explanation, but it was better to address the situation to prevent any misunderstandings. Holding up a hand, he fixed them with a firm expression. "The recruit was here to clean," he stated flatly. "There was an accident. She wet her clothes, and I provided a spare. That’s all."

Damien’s smirk widened, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. "Of course, Knight-Captain," he said, drawing out the words with an infuriatingly knowing air. "Accidents happen."

The younger Templars exchanged glances among themselves, their barely-contained amusement stoking Cullen’s rising irritation. A wave of heat crept up his neck, but he forced himself to maintain a composed expression. A part of him wanted to snap, to break a nose or two, but as their Captain, restraint was expected of him. Still, he couldn’t let this blatant disrespect slide.

"That’s enough!” he ordered. “You will remember your station and the respect it demands—both for myself and for the recruit."

The Knights straightened under his pointed gaze. Cullen’s eyes flicked to the younger Templar, who had chuckled. "If you find the situation amusing, perhaps you would like to volunteer for extra drills? Or for solitary night patrols to the Darktown?"

The Templar’s face paled, his earlier bravado gone in an instant. "N-no, Ser," he stammered.

"Good," Cullen said, his tone icy. "Then I trust we’ll avoid any further misunderstandings." He swept his gaze over the group. Damien’s smirk had faded, though there was now a glint of defiance in his eyes. He decided to let it slide for now, hoping that the man was clever enough to know when not to push things too far. For the rest of them, the point had been made. "Dismissed."

The Templars saluted stiffly, murmuring, "Yes, Knight-Captain," before hastily retreating down the hall.

As the Knight’s footsteps faded away, Cullen’s hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose. Despite his threats, he could already imagine the whispers that would spread through the barracks, growing more elaborate with each retelling.

With a resigned sigh, he turned back to his door. "Maker, help me," he muttered under his breath as he stepped back into his quarters, Faith immediately following him in with an eager bark.