Miriam walked with purpose, her boots echoing on the stone floors as her fingers ghosted over the Inquisiton’s banisters. Her robes—pure white trimmed with gold—swirled around her in the cold, whipping in the drafts like holy banners. Her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing as she approached the chamber guarded by the two armored Templars, their faces hidden behind visors but their presence unmistakable: grim, disciplined, and bound to a purpose they did not question. Miriam’s sharp gaze caught the flicker of their eyes, but they did not falter as they saluted her entrance.

Inside the chamber torches cast flickering shadows on the worn stone, their pale light dancing off the silverite suits of the Knights standing at rigid attention. The smell of iron, sweat, and lyrium lingered heavy in the air, like the aftermath of a battlefield. Each Knight was a monument to sacrifice, their faces etched with battle scars, their eyes cold with the weight of duty. By their sides stood the mages who decided to remain with the Inquisition— the broken, the remade, the ones who had survived the trial by hot iron. They wore their burns and brands with grim pride, their faces hardened by the knowledge that they had been judged and found worthy.

As Miriam entered the room, silence descended like a shroud. She stopped at the center, her gaze sweeping over the gathered. "The Sword of The Faithful salutes those who have endured!" she began, her tone fervent. "Each of you has passed through fire and steel, through agony and sacrifice to emerge as something more. Something greater!" She paused, letting the words settle over them, watching as their postures shifted, rigid backs now slightly straighter, heads held higher. " You stand before me as chosen. Chosen to serve the Maker, chosen to aid in His return to this broken world." The Inquisitor’s voice swelled with purpose. She stepped forward, pacing before the gathered like a general inspecting her troops. "You will bleed. You may die. But know this—every scar, every drop of blood, every sacrifice will bring you closer to Him. This is the price of the honor you have earned. The honor of serving in His name." Her eyes blazed, burning with the fervor of a true believer turned to the enchanters. "Now kneel!"

One by one, they obeyed, each pair stepping forward with military precision. The mages, their eyes fixed on the ground, knelt before her. The Templars, like their armored sentinels, remained standing, their faces unreadable.

Miriam stepped forward with deliberate grace. As she passed before the gathered, she paused briefly before each mage, her eyes steady, filled with a quiet intensity. One by one, their hands, trembling with reverence, reached for the hem of her robes. They touched it as though it held a spark of divinity, their fingers quivering as they brought the cloth to their lips. Their voices, raspy with awe yet strong with conviction, rose together in a unified declaration. "Maker, your light burns within us. Your will be done. We stand as your sword, your flame. May we serve until the end of all days."

After that, the Templars began to recite the Chant of Light, but it wasn’t a prayer—not really. It was something more primal, more raw. Less a hymn to the Maker and more a battle cry, filled with the sharp edge of determination. A pledge. A vow to fight, to bleed, to die—all in His name.

The words, ancient and solemn, reverberated off the cold stone walls of the chamber, growing louder, fiercer. Miriam closed her eyes, letting the weight of their devotion crash over her like a tidal wave. Each syllable resonated deep within her, not just words but a promise, forged in fire, sharpened by suffering.

Soon, she thought, soon the Chant of Light will echo from every corner of the world. From the darkest slums to the grandest palaces, it will be heard. The Maker will rise, His presence felt in every breath, every stone, every soul. And He will walk the land once more—with Andraste at His right hand and her with Cullen at His left.

The Templar’s voices swelled, a rising crescendo like the howl of a coming storm. Miriam opened her eyes and looked down at them, then at the mages still kneeling beside them. Their faces now glowed with a fierce, unwavering zeal. Their eyes met hers—burning, resolute.

They were ready.

Once the ceremony concluded, Miriam stepped out into the cool embrace of the evening air. The soft orange hues of dusk draped over Skyhold, casting long shadows along the battlements. She spotted the Commander immediately, standing with his arms crossed, a steadfast presence never straying too far away from her. He was bathed in that same amber light, a figure of both strength and beauty. "Are you satisfied with the new pairs?" he asked falling into step beside her.

“I am.”

Cullen nodded, the faintest sign of relief in his posture. “Good.” He glanced at her, his expression softening as he added, “You’ll lead them to glory, my heart.”

She offered him a small smile, but it quickly faded as they neared the tavern. From inside the Herald’s Rest came the sounds of raucous laughter, slurred songs, and the clatter of mugs against wood. It grated against the solemnity of what she had just experienced—a jarring reminder of a world divided between sacred duty and debauchery.

For too long, she had chosen to look away, pretending the rot hadn't seeped into every corner of this place. But no more. This tavern would no longer be a den of indulgence, no longer a pit of obscene songs, where distractions flowed as freely as the drink. It would be a place of solemnity and purpose.

No ale, no wine. That time was done. What lay ahead demanded more than mere strength of arms. Steel and shields could break, but conviction? Discipline? Unity? These were the true weapons of the Inquisition. The men and women sworn to their cause didn’t need the haze of alcohol clouding their minds. They needed focus. They needed prayer. And by the Maker, they would have it.

Her thoughts were interrupted when her eyes caught on a figure stumbling toward them— Cullen’s brother. The man was swaying as he walked, clearly drunk, his clothes disheveled and stained with a spilled drink. The mage’s brow furrowed slightly, sensing trouble even before Branson drew near.

"Well, look at this," the man slurred, his voice thick with intoxication. His bleary eyes flicked from Miriam to Cullen, and his lips curled into a sneer. "Ahh, the mighty Commander, eh? And his... his holy wife, thinkin' they’re so high ‘n mighty, too good for the likes o’ us! Didn’t even bother with an invite to their fancy weddin'! Like we ain’t important enough to stand in their blessed presence!"

Cullen tensed beside her, his body stiffening at the insult. He shot Branson a glare, his expression darkening. There was no recognition in the Commander’s eyes—the memories of his family had been wiped clean by the Maker, along with the painful past that had once haunted him.

Branson stumbled forward, a bitter grin on his face. “What’s this? You ignorin’ me now?” He jabbed a finger toward Cullen’s chest, his voice growing louder, more belligerent. “Actin’ like you don’t even recognize your own flesh and blood? Or has that blasted lyrium finally turned your brain to mush?”

Cullen’s jaw clenched, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening with restrained fury. His eyes blazed a cold fire behind them. “You’re no kin of mine, you blighted bastard,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “I don’t know you. Get out of my sight before I forget why I haven’t drawn steel.”

Branson's laugh rang out, sharp and grating like the turning of rusty hinges. "Maybe your wife can help me out then?" he mumbled, his gaze shifting, landing squarely on the mage with a gleam in his eye. "I bet she’s got some gold on her, nice and holy, eh? The Inquisition’s gotta spare a few coins for a poor soul down on his luck, don’t they?”

Before she could move, Branson stepped closer, his hands already pawing at her robes, fingers greedily searching for a purse.

Cullen sprang into action immediately, pushing his brother away with a forceful shove. In a blur, his sword came free in a flash of steel, piercing through the man’s gut with brutal precision. The blade slid in effortlessly, a sickening squelch accompanying the motion as blood poured forth, soaking the ground beneath them. Branson’s eyes widened in shock, the drunken haze lifting as he looked down at the blade now buried deep in his stomach.

Cullen twisted the sword viciously, and his brother gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground, the blade sliding free with a wet, slick sound. His body convulsed as it hit the dirt, blood pooling rapidly around him, staining the cobblestones crimson.

"Don't you dare touch my wife." The Commander growled as he raised his sword for a finishing blow.

"Cu--" Miriam started, instinctively reaching out to stop him. But she hesitated, her hand hovering in midair as she watched Branson writhe on the ground, choking on his own blood. This was for the best, wasn’t it? This foul man… this drunkard… he was nothing but a shadow of a painful past, a tether to a life her husband no longer needed. Her hand fell back to her side, her gaze hardening.

The blade cleaved through Branson’s neck with a crunch, severing the head clean from the body. Blood sprayed across the ground, his form twitching once before going still.

Gasps echoed through the courtyard as soldiers and onlookers began to gather, drawn by the chaos that had broken out. Miriam, feeling the weight of their stares, decided to bring some clarity to the situation. "This wretched creature dared to lay hands on me. Such insolence cannot go unpunished. He has paid for his arrogance with his life," she declared, her voice calm and fierce, her eyes scanning the faces before her, daring any to challenge her judgment.

No one did.

Miriam felt the hunger through their bond, a gnawing emptiness that wasn’t her own. It pulled at her thoughts, strong and insistent. She glanced at her husband and caught the gleam in his black eyes as he stared at the corpse, a predatory hunger flickering there. He took a step forward, reaching out for the body, and her heart quickened. No. That would be a step too far.

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Before Cullen could lay a hand on the flesh, she acted. With a swift, deliberate motion, the mage raised her hands, her fingers crackling with the energy that surged through her mark. Power surged like a wave breaking free. Cullen instinctively recoiled, his eyes narrowing as he stepped back, the bond between them vibrating with his unspoken question. Black flames erupted from her palms, twisting and curling in the air like living shadows, licking at the remnants of Branson’s body.

The courtyard was filled with the sharp hiss of flesh searing, the acrid stench of burning meat thick in the air. Smoke rose as the body crumbled, the blood that had stained the ground evaporating in seconds, turning to steam. Within moments, there was nothing left—no trace of Branson but a patch of scorched earth, blackened and smoldering.

Miriam lowered her hands, her breath steady. “You couldn’t be the only one punishing him, my love.” She surveyed the faces in the crowd around her, once again, “Return to your duties. We have much to prepare for, and the Maker’s work is not done.”

At her words, the soldiers turned away, their expressions a mix of respect and trepidation as they hurried to resume their tasks. A few of the braver onlookers lingered for a moment, eyes still wide as they processed the spectacle. But as she locked eyes with them, her gaze unyielding, they lowered their heads and hurried off, eager to put distance between themselves and the grim scene.

Once the crowd had thinned, Cullen finally sheathed his sword with a deliberate motion, the metal sliding into its scabbard with a satisfying click. He stepped toward her, his demeanor shifting from tension to a softer intensity. As he approached, his hands moved to brush over her frame, tracing the spots where Branson had dared to touch her.

“Damn him,” he cursed under his breath, his fingers lingering as if trying to erase the stain of that moment, to purge her of the foul man’s essence. His touch was both protective and possessive, the warmth of his hands sending a shiver down her spine.

The mage smiled content, feeling the heat of his presence envelop her. “You can go ahead to my quarters,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper. “I’ll let you remove the lingering touch of that man—not with your hands, but with your lips.”

Cullen's eyes darkened, a flicker of desire igniting within them. “You’re not going with me?”

She leaned in close, her hand brushing against his chest. “Just one more task to take care of. I’ll be with you before you know it.”

The Commander stepped back, his brow furrowing as concern flickered across his face. For a moment, it seemed like he might protest, but he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Alright…Just don’t take too long. I’ll be waiting.”

“I know you will,” she uttered, though he was already walking toward the main entrance of the Great Hall, his figure framed against the fading light.

As the Commander disappeared into the fortress, Miriam’s expression hardened. With Branson gone, the last thing she wanted was the rest of Cullen’s siblings causing more trouble, pestering him with their presence. They were a distraction he didn’t need.

She turned on her heel and headed toward the Rookery where she knew she’d find Leliana. The Spymaster rarely rested, and this evening would be no exception.

It didn’t take long to find her, Leliana stood cloaked in her usual calm, a map of their operations spread before her. She barely looked up as Miriam approached, though her sharp eyes flickered with curiosity.

“There’s something I need you to handle. Quietly,” the mage said, her tone direct, wasting no time with pleasantries.

The Spymaster raised an eyebrow, but her hands stilled, folding in front of her. “Of course Inquisitor. What is it?”

“Branson is dead,” she stated bluntly, watching as Leliana’s cool demeanor faltered ever so slightly. “Cullen ended him for daring to lay his filthy hands upon me.” She stepped closer. “And I want nothing to do with his remaining family. Their presence will only invite tension, questions, and drama we simply can’t afford.”

“His own brother?” Leliana murmured, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “How… tragic.”

Miriam’s expression darkened, and her voice became a razor's edge. “He was nothing more than a drunk and a fool. Cullen had every right to put an end to his arrogance. Now, I need you to ensure that his family is gone—do whatever it takes. I want them out by tomorrow.”

Leliana’s eyes narrowed as she absorbed the request. She nodded slowly, though her voice was careful. “I understand your wishes. I’ll ensure it’s done. Tomorrow morning, they will leave Skyhold—no questions asked, no incidents to disturb the peace. They will never trouble you or the Commander again.”

The mage watched her closely for a moment. “Good,” she said finally, her voice low.

Their conversation was interrupted by one of the Leliana’s agents slipping into the Rookery, his expression tight, as though bearing urgent news.

“Nightingale,” he uttered, dipping his head respectfully as he handed Leliana a folded missive.

Without a word, she opened it, her eyes darting across the page in quick, efficient movements. “Inquisitor, we’ve just received the location of the Elder One’s stronghold. It’s an ancient fortress in the heart of the Arbor Wilds.”

Miriam paused, a slow smile spreading across her lips, a flicker of satisfaction lighting her eyes. “Finally,” she whispered, her tone infused with a sense of triumph. She straightened, her demeanor shifting back to one of authority. “We’ll discuss the details at tomorrow’s meeting. Make sure everyone is prepared.”

Leliana nodded. “As you wish.”

Without another word, the Inquisitor strode from the Rookery. The battle she had been anticipating loomed ever closer. Soon, it would crash down upon her, and she would face it with sword and flame. But not yet.

Something else tugged at her thoughts, pushing aside the weight of war and duty. Her mind drifted toward the closed door of her quarters, where a different kind of conflict awaited. There, within those walls, the air would thicken with heat, and she would face the storm of passion—raw, consuming, inevitable. The clash of bodies, the surge of desire, and the descent into that intoxicating abyss where pain and pleasure intertwined, each fueling the other, pulling her deeper until the world outside no longer existed.

A battle of its own, and one she was eager to surrender to.

Over the next few weeks, the halls of Skyhold buzzed with purpose as preparations for the final assault began in earnest. Blacksmiths worked through the night, hammering steel into shape. Scouts mapped out treacherous paths, and soldiers readied their weapons, sharpening swords with a nervous anticipation. War councils were held daily, where strategies were drawn on worn-out parchments, each ink stroke a step closer to the endgame.

Everything was going perfectly according to plan until one day Josephine walked into the War Room with a paled face. "The King of Ferelden refuses to donate their gold to the Golden City," the Ambassador said softly, her voice straining to remain calm. "He believes that the Inquisition’s reach… stretches too far. He will not fund the return of the Maker."

For a moment, the room seemed to freeze, as if the very air had thickened. Miriam’s gaze darkened, her body tense as fury rolled through her black veins like wildfire. "Fool," she spat, her voice low but trembling with barely contained rage. "He refuses the Maker’s will? He dare deny Him?" Her hands clenched at her sides, her mind racing. She knew King Alistair was a weakling, a coward—but this?

She felt a presence at her side. The Emperor of Orlais, poised and refined in his ornate robes, stepped forward with an air of quiet confidence. He inclined his head toward her, his tone rich and smooth as he spoke. "Do not trouble yourself, Inquisitor," Gaspard said, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Those who will not offer their gold are nothing more than heretics. And heretics…" His voice dipped. "...should have no say in the fate of this world. If they will not give us what we need, then we shall take it."

Miriam’s rage stilled, tempered by the Orlesian’s words. Yes. He was right. His will would not be stopped by heretical kings and their greed. This was a holy mission. Whether the gold was paid willingly or forcibly extracted was irrelevant. "We will take what is needed," she said, her voice resolute. "Ferelden will bow, whether they wish it or not."

Her gaze swept the room, and there was no immediate challenge, but the Commander stood silent in the corner, his face tight with obvious discomfort. His posture was rigid, his hand flexing unconsciously near the pommel of his sword.

His eyes flicked between her and Gaspard, the muscles in his jaw working. "I don’t like it," he finally muttered, his voice low, rough. "But… the Emperor has a point. We need those resources. The Maker’s cause must come first." He didn’t meet the Orleisian’s gaze as he said it, and Miriam could feel the reluctant bitterness radiating from him.

Now she was expecting to hear complaints from others on the council, but as she looked around, there was only silence. No resistance, no objection—just the quiet acceptance of what must be done.

They were disturbingly obedient. Too obedient, perhaps. Miriam noted the oddness of it, a whisper of unease curling at the edges of her thoughts. But she pushed it aside. It didn’t matter. Not now. Not when they stood on the precipice of destiny. "The Elder One waits in the Arbor Wilds," she said, her voice resolute. "And once he is defeated, Ferelden will learn what happens to those who stand in the way of His return."

The council bowed their heads in perfect synchronization. The decision had been made, and now there was only the task ahead.

Preparations resumed in earnest, the wheels of fate turning, and soon the disciplined, lethal force came together, ready to strike.

Miriam stood on the balcony above the Great Hall, looking down as the duos of mages and Templars formed ranks below at the courtyard. The enchanters in their ragged, worn robes holding tight to their staffs, and the Knights in tarnished but still gleaming armor, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords, their fingers occasionally brushing against the lyrium vials strapped to their belts. Each pair moved in unison, the lingering distrust of old grudges now overshadowed by the greater cause. They would fight together. And they would die together if the Maker willed it.

Behind them, the Orlesian army, and the Emperor’s personal retinue of the Chevaliers, arrayed in perfect order, carried the banners bearing the golden lion of the Empire.

Miriam turned as Gaspard approached her, his steps measured and regal. His ornate armor inlaid with gold and crimson, was a stark contrast to the simple, battle-worn gear of the Inquisition's troops. He carried himself with an effortless air of superiority, a monarch prepared for conquest.

"Your forces look… impressive," he remarked, his voice smooth, his eyes scanning the gathered army below. "Mages and Templars fighting together at last. The Maker’s hand is truly upon you, Inquisitor."

Miriam cast a quick glance his way. A single, precise nod followed—just enough to acknowledge him.

The Emperor's smile curled at the edges. His hand swept toward the assembled Orlesian forces, their armor catching the light like a rippling sea of molten silver and gold. "Together, we will carve through the heart of this darkness. And once it's done, Ferelden—and all who dare stand against us—will bend."

Before she could reply Cullen strode up to her, his face as grim as ever, though his gaze flicked warily toward the Orleisan before turning back to her. “The troops are ready,” he said, his voice firm. "The scouts report no significant resistance along the roads. The Elder One’s forces and his dragon will be waiting for us in the Wilds. We will have to be swift and decisive."

“Good,” Miriam uttered, turning back to the Emperor. "I trust you’re also ready?"

Gaspard smiled again, that cold, confident smile. "As ready as ever, Inquisitor. The Maker’s will shall be done."

With a final glance over the gathered forces, the Inquisitor raised her hand and a war horn sounded in the distance, a long, mournful note that reverberated through the fortress. The men below began to stir, the rows of soldier, mages, Templars, and Chevaliers tightening into formation.

Miriam’s black eyes narrowed toward the distant horizon. Whatever stood in their way—be it enemies or kings—would burn. "Let the Maker judge us all," she whispered.

And with that, the armies of the Inquisition and Orlais began to march.