A worn diary excerpt

Blessed Maker, hear my trembling voice tonight. I write this by the faint glow of my chamber’s candle, its flame as unsteady as my heart. For so long, I have walked the path set before me untouched by the snares of longing or the whisper of wayward desire. My life was but Yours, my heart was but Yours, my soul bound in devotion. Yet now, Maker, my spirit wavers, for You have placed in my path a soul unlike any other.

Ser Miquella walks among us, clad in steel, yet his words bear no edge. Where other Knights see a curse upon my brow, he speaks to me as if I am more than my mutation, more than my magic. His voice is gentle, his manner kind, and in his presence, I feel something stir within me—a trembling, a warmth, a joy so foreign I scarce know what to name it.

I have never known the love of a man—not as a father’s protection, nor as a brother’s care, nor as anything more. So I wonder, Maker, is he Your blessing upon a lonely soul… or is he a test? Have You placed him in my path to see if I will stray? I declared to Evelyn with fervent conviction that I would never break the rules, never fraternize. And yet, my heart betrays me. It quickens when he speaks, trembles when he lingers. It is wrong to desire a Knight, and yet this does not feel wrong—it feels like longing, like a thirst I never knew I possessed.

O Maker, in Your infinite wisdom, guide me. If Ser Miquella is but a test, grant me the strength to overcome it. If he is a temptation, let me turn away before I am lost. And if—if by some mercy—he is a gift, then show me how to cherish him without betraying all I have sworn to be.

I am Yours, Maker, now and always. Do not let me falter.

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Cullen

The sun streamed brightly through their small silt window as if heralding the significance of the day—Cullen’s first as a full-fledged Knight. Having gained control of his body and mind after those initial weeks of lyrium consumption, he felt a newfound sense of empowerment.

This is what he had been training for since he was thirteen. Against the odds, he proved to everyone he was capable of the honor and today was the first day of the rest of his life. He had enough time to think things through and how he was going to handle his new responsibilities and relationship with a certain mage, and was resolved not to allow their feelings to interfere with either of their dreams.

Falling back into his usual routine, after the morning Chantry service he and Reid made their way to the Tower’s Mess Hall. The grounds were already active with lively conversations, but his eye immediately caught sight of the Marcher pyromancer. She was with Miriam and another Knight he had never seen before, apparently teaching her some fancy sword flourishes.

“Tristian, who is that Knight?”

His bunkmate didn’t even have to look to know who he was referring to. “Oh, Ser Miquella De Lafaille.” He grumbled. “The latest and greatest thing to come out of Orlais since they invented those tiny cakes, if you ask the ladies.”

“Why is he here?”

“He transferred to see more of the world, or so he says. He’s been attached to those two since he arrived.”

A frown pulled down on his face immediately. Cullen gazed back over at them laughing and chatting like they were old friends. Miriam was watching with a bright grin as Evelyn tried to mirror his movements. Her contagious energy always spread like fire, and the three of them were greatly enjoying each other’s company.

Cullen’s fist clenched, struggling with the waves of overwhelming emotions. They were supposed to aid Templars in battle by bolstering their conviction, not stoking petty jealousy.

The newly-minted Knight continued with his bunkmate towards the Tower doors until that foreign accent floated over carrying his name. More resplendent than the sun, Evelyn jogged over to him, making him grimace in pain and pleasure at her attention. “Ser Cullen, welcome back!”

The other two followed on her heels. Miriam was quick to introduce their new Orleasian friend, and for the sake of wrangling his pounding emotions, he forced himself to be civil.

“So you are the infallible Ser Cullen, these ladies talk of. Well met, Ser. The Maker smiled upon me when I ran into them upon my arrival. It’s good to know there are Knights here that do not see all the mages as dogs.”

“Well, to be fair I did force Cullen to be friends with me.” The memory danced in her eyes and rekindled it in his heart. Despite how hard he tried to fight her pull on him, with one move she had him figuratively on his knees. All the tension in his body fled with a long sigh as he gazed at her hopelessly.

Miquella chuckled, “I imagine that didn’t take too much convincing.” The man’s gaze was unsettling as if he saw straight through him and his secrets. It was worse on the mages, the Orlesian’s eyes roaming up and down invasively. How could Evelyn allow this Knight into their close confidence? Their friendship was no business of this Ser Miquella’s.

Cullen must’ve let go of a growl or something of the like because they all looked at him funny. “Um, it’s a lyrium headache,” he lied.

Reid scrutinized him with a hint of disappointment, “That better not keep you from going out to The Spoiled Princess tonight to celebrate?”

“Would it? If so, I have a perpetual headache,” he droned on. The Knights made it very clear that an outing to the local tavern was part of the initiation, but suddenly he didn’t feel like celebrating.

The outsider smiled annoyingly. “Ah, my first day as a Knight was a memorable one, as was the evening.” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively and Reid smirked along with him.

Evelyn and Miriam shared a questioning look, and Cullen took the first opportunity to escape that popped up in his mind. “Maker, do not speak of such things in front of Miriam!” He turned to Reid, glowering at him, “You know better than to be so inappropriate.” The healer smiled at him, even if there was a touch of confusion in her gaze. Gesturing with his arm, the group continued into the Tower.

Having been so distracted and focused on Miriam, he forgot about the other mage…

“I’m sorry if this seems bold, Evelyn, but your scent… it’s lovely. It reminds me of the bakery I grew up by.” The group paused on the steps to the Tower doors, looking back at Miquella like he had grown two heads. Evelyn blushed, but she wasn’t the only one, for it seemed Miriam’s cheeks worked to match her own.

“Oh, thank you.” She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Attempting to dispel the awkwardness of the situation, she added with a polite laugh, “You won’t be saying that later after combat training!”

As they stepped through the doors the charmer added, “I’d be glad to test that theory.”

Cullen stomped on, gazing up at the dark ceiling of the Tower wondering why the Maker was testing him right out of the gate.

Before long, it was pretty obvious the Maker was trying to prove something to Cullen—patience? Restraint? Faith? He couldn’t tell, but every day since becoming a Knight had felt like another challenge; another push to see how much he could take without faltering.

Miquella always seemed to have the perfect compliment for Evelyn, and she’d light up every time. She’d laugh at his Orlesian jokes—which, honestly, were about as exciting as stale bread—and get so wrapped up in their conversations, that it was like no one else was even in the room. Each moment felt like another little jab at Cullen’s resolve.

And then, one afternoon, things finally hit a breaking point.

He was making his rounds near the library, when the sight around the next corner made him freeze. There, in a secluded alcove, stood the Orlesian Knight and Evelyn. The man was leaning in close, his hand brushing up the pyromancer's arm as he spoke to her in low, intimate tones. Evelyn was smiling, her expression soft and unguarded, and for a moment, Cullen felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under him.

Before he had time to think, he heard himself shout, “Back away from each other!”

Evelyn’s head spun to the source of the command with her hands raised. “Cullen? Is that you?”

With a hand on his pommel, he strode over. “Did you not hear me?” His helm was on, but he swore the Olresian looked amused by his interference. “Mages and Templars do not touch in Ferelden, Ser Miquella.” To the side, Evelyn was crossing her arms, “And you know better.”

“Forgive me, Ser Cullen, but you Fereldens treat mages like your overgrown hounds. Evie—”

“Apprentice Trevelyan,” he corrected.

He turned to the woman in question. “I’m off duty, and she assured me I could call her such.” The warm familiarity in his gaze was infuriating, especially when Evelyn flashed a small smile back.

“Wrong, Ser Miquella, we are always on duty. Your actions could have serious consequences for her.”

“My apologies, I thought we were alone.” Any doubt of the man’s intentions was erased.

The last thread of Cullen’s resolved snapped, he stepped closer to the Knight, glowering down and using his shoulder to separate them. The only other betrayal of his rage was the creak of his leather gloves on the hilt of his sword. “Step back.” The man didn’t seem to care about what Cullen said or the fact that he was taller, Miqeulla stood unbothered.

“Ser Arse, can I have a word?” Evelyn leveled him a heated glare from behind. Telling Miquella she’d catch up with him later, he obliged her and slunk off down the hall. Turning to return to his rounds, not wanting one of Evelyn’s haughty sermons, she followed and matched his pace anyway. “What in the Void was that about?!”

Spinning in a fury, he guided her into an empty classroom and flipped his helmet off. Running a hand through his mussed hair, he tucked the hunk of metal under his arm. “The man is going to get you branded, is that what you want? What if I had been Vale? Miquella’s inability to keep his hands to himself is a disgrace to his uniform and disrespectful to you!”

“And how many times have you touched me?” The defiance glistened in her eyes calling him out on his own sin.

“I haven’t touched you like that. There is a difference.”

“Is there? You’re not the same person since you took lyrium?” She stepped closer, searching his eyes for something – maybe a glimpse of the naive boy who thought he could be friends with his charges. He lifted his chin and pulled away from her, swallowing hard when her lips parted. The bite of her fiery mana calmed to a warm crackle when she was close; a pattern he was noticing more and more. His heart beat faster, unable to deny her pull on him, but he was in control – he had to be.

With lyrium bolstering his stubbornness to yield, she backed away slightly. Cullen hated what he had to do, if only she could understand it was for her own good! He realized that if he tried to explain it to her, he’d end up admitting his feelings and serve only to fuel her hopes of being something more.

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Her voice reflected the hurt breaking through her tough facade. “Then I suggest you take your own advice, and back away before you get burned. I’ll leave you to your duty, Ser.” She turned, walking away like a wounded – but defiant – animal.

Days passed and the only view he had of Evelyn was her back. He knew she was doing it purposely, but if that helped her cope – to not see him – so be it. What he had done was to protect her— mostly. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

He was boring holes in her back during supper one night, when Tristian slid onto the bench beside him. “What the fuck did you do to Trevelyan? She’s apparently mad at me too now. Guilty by association or something like that. Sometimes I can’t keep up with all her haughty noble words.”

“She hasn’t even looked at me in Maker knows how long, let alone talked to me.” He grumbled. “I suppose she's still upset I got between her and Miquella in the Library. It was for her own good.”

“Was it? I mean if you’re dead-set on staying away from her then why hold her back from moving on?” After getting off of bed rest, he confided in his bunkmate of his feelings – even if Dane and Abraxas beat him to it. Reid’s nonchalant tone as he stuffed his mouth grated on Cullen – mostly because he was right.

“I’m only trying to look out for her.”

“Yes, by playing big brother and scaring off the competition.” His words struck a chord, thinking of Mia. “Clearly there is something still between you two. I mean look at her! She’s miserable and Miriam keeps looking at her like she’s one second from exploding again.”

“I did try to apologize, but she ignored me in typical Trevelyan-fashion.” He had tried to broach the subject a few times in passing and each time she slung some foul-mouthed insult at him. “She’s a bloody hot-head.” He muttered, stabbing at his meal with his fork.

“If you ask me, you’re going about it the wrong way. Who’s the only person she listens to religiously?” Reid raised his eyebrows, as if the answer was obvious. “Miriam. You want to get through to Trevelyan, you have to speak to her first.”

“Maybe you are right…”

The low hum of conversation in the Mess Hall barely registered as he absently pushed his food around his plate. But then, like a blade cutting through the noise, a familiar voice reached him—sharp, exasperated.

“Miri, for the love of Andraste, stop looking over my shoulder at Cullen.” His grip on the fork tightened at Evelyn’s words. “I know he’s staring at me.”

To her credit, he was staring rather intensely.

“B-but he looks angry today.” The healer murmured, her voice softer but no less clear.

Cullen exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to stay relaxed, even as irritation coiled in his chest. Was that truly how they saw him now? A man so consumed by his own temper that a mere glance in their direction sent them whispering?

“He’s always scowling these days. How can you even tell the difference?” Evelyn’s tone was flippant, but there was an edge beneath it. Then, with a scoff, she muttered, “The lyrium must be shrinking his brain.”

Cullen’s jaw tightened.

Miriam hesitated before pressing. “You still haven’t told me what happened—aside from him ‘abusing his authority.’ He didn’t… touch you?”

The fork in Cullen’s hand stilled.

“Maker, no! And he won’t now, either.”

Something about the certainty in her voice unsettled him more than the accusation itself.

The healer looked unconvinced, her fingers twisting anxiously around her amulet. Before she could ask more, Evelyn waved a dismissive hand. “The point is—”

Miriam suddenly sat up straighter, her eyes darting past Evelyn’s shoulder. “Oh! He’s coming over!”

Cullen didn’t even realize he was on his feet until he was already striding over to the mages. “Miriam, can I talk to you for a second? In private?” He asked as soon as he reached the two mages, gesturing toward the door without so much as a glance in Evelyn’s direction. The petite mage looked torn, her pale eyes darting nervously between him and the pyromancer. She hesitated, letting out a small, indecisive whimper. “It’s not going to take long.”

“Go on, Miri. He probably needs help taking the stick out of his arse.” Evelyn drawled with cold indifference. “Messy business.”

Cullen glared down at her, but she was too busy watching the bland pieces of stew plop into her bowl to care.

The healer’s hand was practically strangling her amulet. “I’ll be back. Please, just… don’t do anything.”

“Yes, mother,” Evelyn replied flatly, not even looking up.

Miriam followed Cullen in silence, her steps uncertain yet he didn’t slow his stride until they were well beyond earshot of Evelyn and the others. Only then did he turn to face her, his expression tense, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Miriam, I don’t know what Evelyn’s been telling you, but whatever you think of me, I want to make one thing absolutely clear—I have never done anything inappropriate toward her.” He stated firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Miriam’s brows knit together, startled by the intensity in his voice. “I… you overheard us?”

“I did,” Cullen replied, his tone edged with frustration. “Listen, Evelyn’s mad at me, but not for the reasons you might think. I stepped in between her and Ser Miquella in the library when he was behaving in a way that was… less than appropriate.”

Miriam’s expression shifted from confusion to something more guarded. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

Cullen exhaled sharply. “I mean he was touching her. He had his hands brushing against her arm, standing too close. I stepped in to stop him before it went any further.”

Miriam’s lips parted, but she said nothing at first, her breath hitching slightly. “And Evelyn is angry with you… for that?”

“Yes,” Cullen said, his voice tight. “Instead of being grateful, she’s furious that I interfered. As if I had no right to step in. As if protecting her was some sort of insult.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I need you to talk to her. She won’t listen to me, but she listens to you. Help her understand that I was not trying to exert control over her. I was only trying to—” He stopped, then sighed. “To do my duty and keep her safe.”

Miriam’s fingers twisted around her amulet, her knuckles turning white. Her voice came out almost strangled. “Do you think… Ser Miquella did this because… because he has feelings for Evelyn?”

Cullen gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Of course he does. It’s obvious. The way he looks at her, the way he’s always hovering around her—it’s not just casual interest. He’s infatuated with her.”

Miriam inhaled sharply. For a moment, she looked almost unsteady. Her lips parted, but she hesitated as though struggling with something. Then, finally, she gave a small, distracted nod. “I see.”

Cullen frowned, he expected her reaction to be that of concern for her friend, not distress, but he pressed on. “Please. Talk to her. Help her see reason. This whole mess has gone on long enough.”

The healer’s gaze was distant, her expression unreadable. But after a long, tense silence, she finally murmured, “I… I’ll speak with her. I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you.” Cullen let out a slow breath, relieved that someone might finally get through to Evelyn. But Miriam barely acknowledged him, her mind clearly elsewhere. She nodded once more, almost to herself, before turning on her heel and walking away, her movements stiff and mechanical.

As he watched her walk away, Cullen silently prayed to the Maker that Miriam would succeed where he had failed.

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Evelyn

Evelyn glanced up from her plate as Miriam returned to the Mess Hall and took her seat beside her. “So?” The pyromancer asked, keeping her voice even. “What did he want to talk about?”

The healer didn’t respond. She sat there, staring at a nondescript point on the wall, as if lost in thought.

Evelyn frowned. “Miri?”

“I’ll speak to you later.” The words were quiet, distant. And then, before the Marcher could say another word, Miriam stood and walked briskly away.

Evelyn stared after her, confusion coiling in her gut. What had Cullen said to her? The question burned, demanding an answer, but she forced herself to push it aside. There would be time later to ask.

Except ‘later’ never came.

For two days now, Miriam was like a ghost, slipping away the moment Evelyn drew near. The warmth of their friendship vanished—no more shared meals, no whispered conversations between duties. Every attempt she made to approach her friend was met with a polite but firm excuse: A patient to tend to; a task she had just remembered; an urgent prayer she couldn’t delay. At first, the Marcher told herself to be patient. Miriam would come to her when she was ready. But the longer it went on, the more her frustration tangled with concern.

Something had happened during that conversation with Cullen. Something that rattled Miriam enough to avoid Evelyn completely. But the thought of confronting him—of giving him the satisfaction of knowing he had stirred up trouble in her friendship—made her blood boil. She refused to let him think he had that kind of power over her.

Andraste’s burning tits, she thought bitterly. Like it wasn’t enough that he had the nerve to play chaperone, interrupting her conversation with Miquella at the exact moment she was trying—really trying—to decline his advances. Cullen’s interference had prolonged the awkward situation, and now Miriam was in danger of having her heart broken. It wasn’t as though the healer had ever confessed her feelings outright, but it was painfully obvious how smitten she was with the Orlesian. The last thing Evelyn wanted was to be caught between them.

And all the while Evelyn was on the receiving end of being ignored, Cullen lingered nearby, always present but never approaching—watching, as though waiting for something. Expectant. What the fuck was that all about!? It was enough to drive her mad.

And the distraction was costing her.

“Sweet Maker!” Evelyn hissed through gritted teeth, stumbling back as pain flared up her arm.

“Block with your staff, not your bloody arm, Trevelyan!” Croft barked, offering his usual level of sympathy for her mistakes.

Evelyn bit back a curse, flexing her fingers. The hit had been hard enough to leave her arm numb, aside from the burning sensation of a fresh cut.

“For fuck’s sake, go get that taken care of,” Croft muttered, exasperated.

She exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to the wound.

Turning on her heel, she made her way to the infirmary, jaw clenched as she hurried up the stairs. Ignoring the curious stares of those she passed, she pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The scent of herbs and clean linen filled the air. Enchanter Wynne barely spared her a glance before waving over one of her students. “Miriam, see to this.”

Evelyn’s breath caught. Finally.

The Marcher stood there, eyes pale and wary, shoulders stiff. But this time, she couldn’t walk away. Evelyn smiled, trying for casual despite the tension that coiled in her chest. “What luck that you’re here.”

“Mmhmm.” Miriam’s tone was as icy as the Frostbacks as she approached, a healing spell already flickering to life in her hands. Evelyn stiffened, the tension between them palpable. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Cullen had told Miriam something about her and Miquella—but what exactly had he said?

If Miriam found out that the Orlesian Knight was interested in breaking oaths with her, she’d never forgive her, despite being caught attempting to let him down easy. It had been impossible to get him alone, with Miriam trailing after him like a lovesick Mabari. And now, Ser Cullen the Arse had escalated the whole mess by dragging her friend into it, completely unaware of Miriam’s feelings for the man. Evelyn clenched her fists, frustration simmering beneath her skin. Cullen’s meddling was making things worse and worse, and she was left to deal with the fallout.

“I can’t heal you properly if your mana insists on fighting me,” the healer remarked, her tone sharp with frustration.

The pyromancer hadn’t even noticed that the veins on her arms had begun to glow orange. “Sorry,” she said hastily, forcing herself to calm her fiery essence. Normally, this was the moment Miriam would ask what was wrong, so attuned to her moods. But this time, she said nothing. She didn’t even look at her. The silence between them felt heavy, suffocating.

Evelyn took a deep breath, her voice softening. “Miri, something’s obviously been bothering you. Can you please stop avoiding me and just talk to me? Like we used to? Like friends do?”

A single, bloody tear streaked down Miriam’s pale cheek. “You are no friend.”

Evelyn blinked, stunned. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” Miriam’s anger wasn’t fiery or explosive—it was cold, like the sharp bite of the winter winds. “What friend sneaks around behind her friend’s back with the man she fancies? You know I like him!”

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. “What did Cullen say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter! How could you?!”

“Nothing happened,” Evelyn insisted, her voice low but strained, even as they stood behind the privacy of a screen.

“Yes, because Cullen caught you!” Miriam shot back, her voice rising. “You must think I’m naive! You’re only saying that because you were caught!”

“Lower. Your. Damn. Voice.” Evelyn’s words were sharp, edged with barely contained frustration. She tried to remind herself that Miriam was fragile, but right now, her friend was anything but. The healing magic flowing into her arm throbbed with a dull ache, and another tear fell from the healer’s eyes. “Miquella simply touched my arm,” she continued through gritted teeth. “I would not have let it go any further.”

Pain twisted Miriam’s features, and actual tears mingled with the crimson ones. “No! He was not for you! You have Cullen to string along—why did you need Miquella too? Why!?” Her voice cracked, raw with hurt and anger. “You’re not like me. You’re beautiful and bright. You could have anyone, but you chose the one man who showed me kindness. Why do you have to be the best at everything? Why do you have to take everything?” Miriam’s words seethed with a fury Evelyn had never seen in her before. It was unnerving, but years of training kept her rooted in place, forcing her to bear the brunt of her friend’s emotional storm. She stood still, her chest tight, as the healer’s voice rose once again. “I thought you were a blessing. I thought the Maker crossed our paths to ease my loneliness. But you’re no blessing—you’re a curse!”

The words struck like a blade, and Evelyn flinched, though she didn’t retreat. She swallowed hard, her own emotions a tangled mess of guilt, frustration, and hurt. “Take it back,” she began but Miriam was already storming off.

Throwing one last sharp glare over her shoulder, the healer declared coldly, “The only thing I’ll take back is Miquella,” before disappearing further into the infirmary.

Evelyn sank onto the cot, her legs suddenly unsteady, and let out a shaky breath. She glanced down at her arm. Miriam’s healing magic had left behind an ugly, jagged scar in place of the wound. It was too large, too bumpy to have been left by the clean cut of Croft’s blade. Her friend was far too skilled a healer for such sloppy work—no, this had been done on purpose. A deliberate mark, a reminder of the betrayal she felt.

Evelyn traced the edge of the scar with her fingertips. She wanted to be angry at Miriam, to let her fiery temper flare, but for once, the heat refused to rise. Instead, a heavy weight settled in her chest. Her friend had gotten hurt because of her inaction. She should’ve shut Miquella down sooner, made it clear that under no circumstances could she fraternize with Templars—no matter how much she daydreamed about a certain blonde Knight.

Modest in temper, bold in deed. The family motto echoed in her mind, and she let out a bitter laugh. No, her ancestors definitely had it backwards—though they probably hadn’t anticipated a descendant like her. When it came to fixing her relationship with Miriam, the motto was accurate. She needed to be patient, to approach the situation with care. But when it came to Cullen? Oh, she was going to do more than burn the pants off him the next time she saw him.