Cullen felt the first signs of trouble as the faithful began to stir from their slumber, their movements sluggish and uncertain. He could see the confusion in their eyes, the way they blinked against the harsh light of morning, still groggy and disoriented from the withdrawal of the Maker’s blessing. As they slowly regained their senses, the memories of the battle with Samson and his minions came rushing back, overwhelming their fragile minds. The realization of what they had done—consuming heretical flesh—hit them like a hammer.
Fear and revulsion swept through the camp. Some of the soldiers began to scream, their voices breaking under the weight of their horror. Others retched violently, unable to stomach the memory of what they had ingested. A few clutched their heads as if trying to erase the images burned into their minds. Yet, it wasn’t just the battle that haunted them. As they looked around, searching for guidance, their gazes fell upon the Inquisitor and the Commander. When they saw the deep blackness of their eyes, a new wave of panic surged. It was the final blow to their already frayed nerves.
Cullen’s lip curled in contempt as he watched the reactions. His black eyes swept over the camp, his expression hardening with every whimper and panicked glance. He could see the cracks forming in their ranks, small now but with the potential to shatter them completely. How many would stand firm, he wondered, and how many would be lost to the fear of what they do not understand?
Miriam's eyes, dark as the abyss, flared with a fury that sent a palpable shockwave through their bond and Cullen’s jaw clenched, his own anger flaring. The panic that had spread among the faithful was an affront not just to her, but to the very will of the Maker. The time for indulgence was over.
"Everyone, assemble!" The Inquisitor’s voice cut through the clamor like a blade, sharp and unyielding.
Soldiers, Templars, Chevaliers—all scrambled to obey, the fear in their eyes now mingled with confusion and the weight of authority bearing down on them.
The camp fell silent as Miriam stood before them, her presence towering despite her small, slender frame. "You quake before the will of the Maker?" she began, her voice trembling with righteous fury. "You cower in the face of His divine plan, unable to see beyond the veil of your own fear? Shame upon you!" The words struck the assembly like a thunderclap, soldiers shrinking under her gaze. Yet, Miriam pressed on, her voice rising with each word. "Everything that happened at the Shrine of Dumat was by His design! Every drop of blood spilled, every battle fought, every morsel of flesh consumed—it was all the will of the Maker! And we, blessed as we are, have been chosen to carry out His will! Do you doubt it? Do you doubt me!?" Her eyes scanned the crowd, daring anyone to meet her gaze, to challenge the truth she laid before them. No one moved. No one dared. "The transformation you see," she continued, her tone turning almost reverent as she gestured to herself, "is not to be feared. It's a blessing—a sign that I have been touched by the Maker twice over. I am His chosen, marked by His hand to lead you to the glorious day of His return!" The soldiers and Templars shifted uneasily, some nodding in hesitant agreement, others still grappling with the enormity of what they were hearing. But Miriam would not let them falter. "Know this," she uttered, her voice now a dangerous whisper that carried over the assembly. "Those who doubt, who allow fear to taint their hearts, are not pure of faith. They are not worthy of the Maker's grace. And so their destiny is clear: they will perish in the flames, purified by His divine justice."
A hush fell over the crowd, the weight of her words sinking deep into their bones. The mage's gaze swept over them one last time, her eyes ablaze with the certainty of her conviction. "Choose now," she commanded, "faith or flames. There is no middle path. You stand with me, or you burn."
The united forces remained motionless, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. Miriam stood unwavering, her chest rising and falling with the intensity of her proclamation. "So, which will it be?"
For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, a single, tentative voice broke through. "Faith!" The cry was shaky, uncertain, but it spread like wildfire, igniting the others. Soon, the shouts multiplied, voices layering over one another until the word thundered from every corner of the gathering.
The Inquisitor nodded her expression a mix of stern approval and quiet contemplation. "Good. Let's see if time will prove the strength of your conviction."
The next conflict arose the very same day when Cullen accompanied the mage to the small infirmary tent, where their injured companions awaited her healing touch. The tent was steeped in silence, the air heavy with the mingled scents of herbs and salves. Cassandra, Sebastian, and Fenris occupied the bunk beds that lined the three sides of the square tent, their forms still and bandaged, lost in unconsciousness. Miriam's gaze swept over each of them, a contented smile gracing her lips. She took a steadying breath, murmuring, “This should be the last of the healing they need.”
After tending to the Seeker and the elf she moved to Brother Sebastian who was lying on the right side of the tent. As the mage channeled her magic into him, he stirred, emerging slowly from the depths of unconsciousness. His mind was still clouded, struggling to surface from the haze. When his eyes finally fluttered open, they locked onto Miriam. A fleeting moment of shock and fear crossed Sebastian’s face, but he swiftly tempered it, replacing his initial reaction with the calm reverence he had always reserved for the Herald of Andraste. He met her gaze with a steady if somewhat strained composure. “Your Worship,” he uttered slowly. His gaze drifted down to the black veins that traced her skin, matching the mark. “What has transpired since the battle? You… you look changed…” Suddenly, Sebastian’s voice wavered, his words trailing off as his eyes darted around the tent, panic flickering in their depths. Desperation took hold, and he struggled to sit up, his movements frantic as he searched the space. “What of Fenris, Your Worship? Is he alive?”
Miriam continued her spell, leaning in with practiced care, her hand pressing gently over Sebastian’s chest to help him relax against the bed. Her voice was a soothing murmur, rich with reassurance. “Do not fear, Brother. Your friend is out of danger and recovering well.” She took a step to the side and gestured toward the sleeping elf on the opposite side of the tent.
A deep sigh of relief escaped Sebastian as he sank back into the pillow, the weight of his anxiety lifting. Seeing his calm, Miriam seized the moment to share the events he had missed. Her voice took on a fervent edge as she recounted the battle with Samson, the Maker’s blessing bestowed upon her, and the vision of the Golden City yet to be built. Sebastian nodded slowly, choosing, albeit with cautious resolve, to place his faith in the belief that this was indeed the will of the Maker.
The moment of calm was abruptly shattered by a sharp gasp. Cassandra, groggy but alert, stirred from her unconsciousness. Her eyes snapped open, the fog of sleep quickly giving way to the sharp clarity of her Seeker’s instincts. She took in Miriam’s transformed appearance, hovering over Sebastian with crackling magic at her fingertips. “Stay back, abomination!” she screamed her voice a fierce growl as she thrust out her hand, unleashing Silence.
Cullen, standing nearby, reacted with reflexive urgency. He drew his blade, ready to confront Cassandra and strike her down if necessary. Yet, instead of quelling the magic that danced around Miriam’s hands, the Silence fell flat, its power ineffective against the vibrant force now surging through the Inquisitor. The magic remained, shimmering protectively around the Brother.
Miriam’s expression twisted into one of pure indignation. Her gaze blazed with an intensity that seemed capable of scorching worlds as she stepped away from Sebastian and advanced on the Seeker. The Right Hand, looked up in shock, her wide eyes reflecting the failure of her abilities.
The mage’s hand lifted, and her healing magic twisted into dark flames that swirled ominously around her palm. “You dare to call His chosen an abomination?” she hissed, her voice imbued with barely contained fury. “To attempt to strip me of my magic after all I have done for you?” The promise of retribution was clear in her tone. “For your insolence, you will—”
“Please!” Brother Sebastian’s voice cut through the charged silence. He extended his hand toward Miriam, gripping at the edge of her robes. “Your Worship, I beg you, show mercy. In the name of the Maker, be generous in your spirit and forgive this transgression.”
For a moment, the air hung heavy with the threat of violence. Miriam’s hand remained poised, the magic pulsing dangerously at her command. Cullen, his sword still drawn, stood ready to execute her order if she chose to give one.
But Sebastian’s plea seemed to reach something within his betrothed. The furious light in her eyes flickered, and her hand, still crackling with arcane energy, slowly lowered. She turned her gaze to Sebastian. “Mercy…” she echoed, the word hanging on her lips as if she was tasting it. The mage returned her gaze to Cassandra, who met her eyes with a tumultuous mix of emotions—defiance, confusion, and just beneath it all, a glint of fear she couldn’t quite hide. Miriam’s jaw tightened, and for a long, tense moment, it seemed she might burn the Seeker anyway. But then, with a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let the magic dissipate, the flames snuffed out before they could claim their victim. “Very well,” she said, her voice cold and clipped. "For the sake of a true faithful such as Sebastian, I will show mercy this time. But let it be known—this is not forgiveness. This is the last warning,” she continued, her tone dangerous, “Any who defy me will be cast into the flames, regardless of who they are.”
Cassandra, still lying on the bunk bed, gave a reluctant nod, though her eyes remained sharp, unyielding. “Despite how you look, you’re clearly not an abomination, yet,” she said, her voice strained. Her gaze snapped to Cullen, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Maker’s breath! You too!? Will someone tell me what in the Void is happening here?” she demanded, her eyes flicking between the three of them.
But her words went unanswered.
Cullen sheathed his sword, though his grip on the hilt lingered a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Miriam, making sure she wouldn’t change her mind.
Sebastian, who had held his breath throughout the confrontation, finally released the folds of the Inquisitor’s robes, murmuring a quiet "Thank you". Exhausted, he sagged over the edge of his bunk, his hand hanging limply as though all the strength had drained from his body.
Miriam took a final look at the weary man, her expression unreadable. "Brother," she said, her voice firm but without the earlier fire, "tell this brazen woman everything I’ve shared with you. Make sure she understands the will of the Maker. And when Fenris wakes, he must know it all as well."
The man nodded weakly, he didn’t need to be told twice.
As Miriam turned toward the exit, her steps deliberate and unhurried, Cassandra struggled to rise from the bunk bed. Weakened by her injuries, she stumbled and fell back. “Inquisitor, Commander, you can’t just ignore me!” she called out, her voice sharp with frustration.
Miriam didn’t break her stride. “We can, and we will,” she responded, her voice cold, not bothering to look back. Cullen moved quickly to catch up, his boots crunching softly on the ground as they stepped outside.
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He remained silent, matching her pace without a word. Though Miriam didn’t glance at him as they walked, he could feel the waves of approval emanating from her, acknowledging his readiness to strike down the woman who had dared to insult her.
In the days that followed, as their companions regained enough strength for the journey back, the time came to return to Skyhold. During this period, Cullen seldom crossed paths with Brother Sebastian or Fenris; both preferred their solitude. Cassandra, however, persisted in seeking him out during the rare moments he wasn’t at Miriam’s side. Her concern was palpable, her unease growing as she tried to broach the subject of what was unfolding. After several fruitless attempts, the Seeker finally gave up, retreating to spend most of her time in seclusion with the Brother and the elf. It was just as well, for Cullen was growing weary of her incessant prying. The order was to ignore her—nothing more. But if she continued pressing him, he was ready to end her meddling for good.
The route the Inquisitor chose to journey back to Skyhold was neither the shortest nor the most practical. Miriam had deliberately taken a path that wound through treacherous territories and corrupt lands, far from the beaten tracks that might have offered safer passage. It was a route that took them through as many clusters of corruption as possible—areas tainted by red lyrium, strongholds of corrupted Knights, and forgotten ruins where the Venatori had their encampments. This was not merely a return; it was their own Exalted March.
Each time they approached a suspicious stretch of land, scouts were dispatched to search for signs of corruption and locate any traces of His enemies. In too many places, the signs were unmistakable: veins of crimson crystal creeping through the earth, or red armored figures patrolling with a deadness in their eyes.
Whenever such foulness was found, Miriam made sure it was cleansed. She and Cullen would go together, a deadly pair. She would share her strength with him before each battle, her divine energy coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses, and filling him with a power that seemed to burn from within. It was more than enough. Together, they were unstoppable, cutting through the corruption with ruthless efficiency.
But it wasn’t always just the two of them. Occasionally, a contingent of Inquisition soldiers joined them in battle, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension as they witnessed the formidable power wielded by their leaders.
On one such occasion, they confronted a particularly entrenched cluster of corrupted Knights guarding a vast cave brimming with red lyrium crystals. The battle was fierce but swift; Miriam and Cullen surged through the ranks of Red Templars like a tempest, their combined might devastating everything in their path. The soldiers’ primary task was to ensure that no stray Knight escaped the fray, their focus intent on securing the area and preventing any retreat.
After the fight, as the dust settled and the last of the corrupted fell, Cullen moved toward one of the fallen heretics. With eager anticipation, he knelt beside the corpse of a Knight. A toothy grin spread instinctively across his face, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he prepared to feast. Without a moment's hesitation, his teeth and hands tore into the throat of the Red Templar.
The soldiers, their faces smudged with grime and sweat, watched in a mix of grim acceptance and unease. Most had grown accustomed to the gruesome spectacle, understanding it as a necessary part of their new reality. However, one soldier, his face pale and eyes wide with revulsion, could no longer contain his horror. He staggered back, his hand clutching at his stomach. “This… this is madness,” the man muttered, his voice shaking as he watched the Commander devour the tainted flesh. “How can this be right? How can this be what the Maker wa--”
He had no time to finish his words before Miriam’s eyes snapped toward him, burning with a wrath that seemed to darken the very air around her. With a flick of her wrist, black flames engulfed the soldier in a blazing inferno. His screams were brief as the fire consumed him, reducing him to ash in mere seconds.
The other soldiers froze, their faces pale as they stared at the smoldering remains of their comrade.
The mage looked around at the remaining soldiers, her voice cold and implacable. “Doubt is for the weak! And there is no room for weakness among His faithful. Those who falter will be consumed by the same fire that devours the heretics. I have warned you of this.” Her tone shifted to one of commanding finality. “Now, fall back into formation.”
The soldiers, trembling but obedient, did as they were told, their resolve steeled by fear. No one dared to look back at the pile of ash. No one dared to speak. No one dared to question.
Cullen, unfazed by the spectacle, continued his feast on the flesh of the fallen Red Knight. The scene barely registered in his mind, overshadowed by the satisfaction of his meal.
Meanwhile, Miriam moved with purpose toward the cave. The bright crimson light emanating from its entrance consumed her as she vanished inside. For a long while, she remained deep within, as the red brilliance slowly dimmed, until at last, the cave became nothing more than an ordinary shadow against the darkening sky.
When the Inquisitor emerged from it, her skin was aglow with a faint crimson light. Cullen’s jaw dropped, a piece of the Knight's windpipe falling from his bloodied mouth as he watched in awe. The red shimmer that enveloped her made her appear both deadly and divine, a living embodiment of the Maker’s will.
Her voice, slightly distorted by the power she wielded, rang out with an almost ethereal resonance. "Rejoice, true believers! The mark bestowed by Andraste has flourished beyond mortal comprehension," she declared, her tone carrying the weight of authority. "Behold, for I now can consume the red lyrium in quantities unmatched, its power flowing through me like never before!"
The soldiers responded with forced, lackluster cheers.
Miriam’s eyes flashed with irritation at their tepid enthusiasm. With a sharp gesture, she extended her blessing once more, waves of power surging through the area. In an instant, the soldiers’ eyes turned black, their demeanor shifting to one of unbridled joy. They erupted into fervent cheers, shouting “Glory to the Sword of the Faithful!” with such intensity that their voices eventually gave out, leaving them breathless and spent. Satisfied with the renewed celebration, the Inquisitor decided that it was time to regroup with the rest of their forces.
As they journeyed on, Cullen's focus was entirely consumed by the power radiating from the mage. The crimson light that clung to her skin like a divine aura ignited an intense craving within him. He yearned to absorb her essence, to feel her power searing through him, to be wholly enraptured by his betrothed, his Herald, his everything.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the encampment, the united forces hastily established their makeshift camp for the night. The air was thick with the scent of earth and sweat, the chill of dusk beginning to settle in. Cullen struggled to hold himself together, his thoughts dominated by a relentless, all-consuming need. No matter how much water he drank, his mouth remained dry, his throat parched. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t water that he craved. The voice in his mind, once a quiet murmur, had swelled into a roaring storm. Each insistent command to draw in the power felt like a thousand sharp pricks against his sanity, pushing him ever closer to the edge of madness.
Finally, as Miriam’s tent was erected amidst the sea of canvas and firelight, he could bear it no longer. He stormed through the camp, his eyes fixed on her like a predator stalking its prey. He spotted the Inquisitor near a group of the Chevaliers, engaged in conversation that held no importance to him—his world had narrowed to a single point of focus.
Without a word, he reached out and seized her arm, pulling her away from the conversation mid-sentence. The Chevaliers looked on in shock, but Cullen did not care; nothing else mattered. Miriam didn’t resist, her eyes meeting his with an understanding. She could feel the raw, unbridled desire radiating from him, and she knew the time for restraint had passed.
As they reached her tent, he yanked the flap open with his free hand, the rough fabric straining under his grip, and hurled Miriam inside. The mage laughed as she was propelled forward, stumbling over the uneven ground and nearly losing her balance. “Eager, are we?" she chuckled, a note of satisfaction in her voice as she turned to face him. He rushed in after her, the flap of the tent snapping shut behind him, sealing them off from the outside world.
His hands shook violently with barely restrained urgency as he clawed at his gauntlets, ripping them off and flinging them aside with disregard. The moment his fingers touched Miriam's face, they were rough, his grip unsteady but unyielding. In the dim light of the tent, the faint crimson glow of her skin was more pronounced, even more alluring. The black veins that ran across her countenance pulsed with heat and power under his thumbs, their energy almost burning against his skin.
He attacked her skin with his lips, kissing those dark veins that yielded under the force of his mouth, sparking with power as he pressed harder, more fiercely, as if trying to draw out every ounce of energy she held within her. Miriam stood still, a coy smile playing on her lips, her eyes half-lidded as she watched him unravel. But her stillness only drove him further into madness. Every touch, every taste of her power, only left him craving more. It was like trying to quench insatiable thirst with a single drop of water.
Frustration roared through Cullen, and with a guttural snarl, he tore at her robes, his fingers curling into the fabric with the single-minded purpose of exposing more of that glowing skin, more of the power that he craved. The fabric resisted only for a moment before it tore under his strength, the sharp rip echoing in the confined space of the tent. He continued to pull, tearing the cloth away until the front of her robe was destroyed, hanging in tatters as her bare chest was revealed, glowing faintly in the darkness.
His eyes barely glanced over her breasts or the web of thickened veins that marbled her body. No, his gaze was drawn to a wide scar that crossed her chest, a jagged line of twisted black flesh that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
Miriam caught the intensity in his gaze, her eyes softening with almost affectionate warmth. "I will share it all with you, my love," she whispered, her voice calm and certain. "You do deserve it."
As she spoke, the black scar began to weep, thick blood oozing from the wound. But this was no ordinary blood—it shimmered brightly in the dim light of the tent, and with it came the unmistakable, intoxicating melody of pure lyrium. The moment the sound reached Cullen's ears, his pupils dilated, his breath catching as the music wrapped around his mind, pulling him in, drawing him closer to the source of that irresistible power.
He pounced on her, and they both fell to the ground, Miriam’s gasps and the impact barely registering as he buried his face in the oozing scar, his mouth seeking the crimson liquid. It was unbearably hot and thick. It was power. It was life.
The mage moaned beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair, her fingers gripping tightly as she urged him on. Cullen bit down hard, his teeth sinking into the blackened tissue, and the blood sprayed into his mouth. The lyrium's call swelled within his mind, rising to a fever pitch that obliterated all thought, all reason. It became everything, a cacophony that drowned the world, suffocating even the whispers of his own conscience. As the moment of excruciating intensity reached its climax, the reality around him shifted, and he was cast into an abyss where all sense of time and place had dissolved into a murky haze.
Suspended in a black void he was stripped of everything, naked, and exposed to the cold emptiness around him. A sickening vulnerability gripped him, his skin crawling with the uncanny sensation of unseen eyes boring into him from all directions, though no one was there. He strained to move, to speak, to reach out, but his body remained inert as if it had been severed from his will.
With growing unease, Cullen observed that tattered chains started to appear across his body. They were not chains of iron but something far more elusive—wisps of blue, ethereal and ghostly, as if they barely clung to his form. He sensed, in the depths of his mind, that a single motion, a simple shake, would free him from their feeble grasp. Yet, despite his desperate will, he couldn’t do it.
A cold dread settled deep in his heart as the chains began to stir, their faint blue hue darkening, tainted by red that slithered along the links like a living serpent. The shattered restrain started to re-forge itself with a menacing determination, each segment snapping back into place with a sharp clink. As the now crimson chains tightened their grip around him, they grew searing hot. They twisted and coiled, spreading across his chest, up his arms, and down his legs, binding him in a web of unbearable heat.
He gasped, struggling against the iron grip, but the chains only tightened, drawing out his suffering as they burrowed deeper into his flesh. They reached his neck, then slithered upward, encircling his throat until every breath became a desperate, choking gasp. His heart pounded in his chest, faster and faster, as if trying to outrun the inevitable. Yet, the chains converged upon it too, their molten tips pressing into his chest until they found their target.
In one agonizing moment, they pierced through, enveloping his heart in a searing vice, their heat flaring up like a tempest until they burst in to flames. The inferno surged forth, an all-devouring beast, ravenous not merely for his flesh but for the very marrow of his being. The vibrant tapestry of memories—once so full of color and life, the faces and voices that had etched themselves into his soul—now dwindled to mere cinders, scattered into the abyss to be lost forever.
In the midst of this ceaseless torture of flames, the torment became unbearable and so, with a kind of agonized relief, he surrendered to oblivion as his consciousness sank into the unfathomable depths of darkness.