The wind whipped across Cullen’s face as he rode, his grip tight around the reins of his warhorse. The metallic creak of armor filled the air, mingling with the low hum of soldiers behind him. Not far ahead, Miriam led the troops with a firm hand; her lithe frame almost lost against the armored soldiers, but her presence was undeniable. Cullen’s thoughts were elsewhere though, swirling with anticipation and the weight of what was to come.

He heard the soft clink of the Emperor’s armor before he saw him approach. Gaspard guided his horse with easy confidence, his steely gaze fixed ahead before he turned it toward Cullen, eyes gleaming with an almost practiced warmth. The Orlesian emperor gave him an approving nod, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

"It is a relief to know that I do have your ear after all, Commander," Gaspard said smoothly. "The Seeker, the Chantry Brother, and his elf. They did not accompany us. Wise, indeed."

Cullen barely contained the anger that roiled just beneath his calm exterior, his jaw tightening as he turned to meet Gaspard’s gaze. "Their absence has nothing to do with you," he said, voice clipped, each syllable strained with suppressed rage.

"Of course, of course," the Emperor replied, his tone oily. His smile deepened into something conspiratorial, as if he were in on a joke Cullen wasn’t, and with a wave of his hand, Gaspard nudged his horse forward, cantering away with ease toward the Orlesian lines, leaving the Commander fuming in his wake.

Cullen’s hand tightened around the reins, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to keep his breathing steady. The Orlesian thought himself clever, whispering venom behind a smile, but he was wrong. Cassandra, Fenris, and Brother Sebastian hadn’t been left behind because of his council. Their absence had been arranged by Cullen; it was true, but for entirely different reasons.

Well, maybe not with Cassandra; the Seeker was indeed too suspicious of her compliance with the decision to invade Ferelden. After her relentless questioning of every decision, every moral thread of their mission, her sudden change of heart felt very...off. Truth be told, he would rather just seal the Seeker's fate, but killing her now would create unnecessary problems. Nevarra's politics were complicated enough without a grudge over the death of a member of the royal family. And with war brewing on Ferelden's borders, the Inquisition didn't need any more enemies. Leaving Cassandra behind was the easiest way to put some distance between them while he tried to figure out what she was up to.

As for Sebastian and Fenris, he just didn't want two more men circling his wife. Especially the handsome Brother. Sending the two of them out on a fool's errand to look for Hawke, along with a few soldiers, had been an easy fix. Sebastian had been overjoyed at the assignment, his eyes brimming with gratitude. He had even shed a tear. Fool. The search for the Champion would take them far away from the Inquisition and far away from Miriam. Exactly where Cullen wanted them.

The rest of the march passed in silence, much to the Commander’s relief. Gaspard, satisfied with whatever game he thought he was playing, kept his distance, retreating to the Orlesian vanguard. Cullen’s fingers slowly relaxed on the reins, though the tension never fully left his body. The Emperor’s games were like a festering wound—one that would have to be dealt with eventually—but for now, the march to the Arbor Wilds continued smoothly.

The Inquisition’s army moved through the foothills with disciplined ease, but as the sun dipped behind the thickening trees, the terrain began to shift. The outskirts of the Arbor Wilds were treacherous—a dense jungle, the air thick with moisture, and the smell of decay. The towering trees created a canopy that blocked out the sun, casting everything in a dim, green haze. Roots twisted beneath their feet, vines curled like grasping hands, and the deeper they went, the more difficult it became to maneuver the horses. Eventually, the jungle became so overgrown that they were forced to dismount from their horses and push forward on foot.

Cullen’s breath was steady, his eyes sharp as they entered deeper into the Arbor Wilds. The constant rustle of leaves, the sharp snaps of twigs in the distance—none of it was natural. He could feel it in the air. His enemies were here, somewhere, watching. Waiting. His sword was loose in its scabbard, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice.

And then, as expected, they struck.

The first ambush came suddenly—Venatori and the Red Templar monstrosities emerging from the trees like phantoms, striking from the cover of the thick foliage. The Red Knights were particularly relentless, their twisted, lyrium-riddled forms charging the Inquisition’s lines with reckless abandon. Cullen was ready, though. He had drilled his soldiers well.

"Shields up! Brace!" he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The soldiers obeyed instantly, raising their shields as the Venatori's spells crackled through the air, lightning and fire slamming into their defense. The clashing of swords followed, brutal and fast. Cullen's own blade moved with deadly precision, cutting down one heretic after another.

Through the smoke and chaos, he caught sight of Miriam. She was ahead, burning down the Venatori even before the Templars had the chance to Silence them.

As the battle raged on, he felt the pull, the gnawing need in his gut. The Red Knights around him fought and died, and with each body that hit the ground, Cullen felt it growing stronger, a craving he could no longer deny. The Red Templars were nothing but meat to him now—meat to be torn into, to be consumed.

In the next moment, he gave in.

A Red Templar charged him, sword raised high. Cullen parried the blow easily, slashing across the man’s chest. Blood sprayed, and with a growl, he grabbed the dying Knight by the throat. His fingers dug into the man’s skin, feeling the thrum of life and the power of red lyrium. With a feral snarl, Cullen’s teeth sank into the Templar’s flesh, tearing a chunk free.

Blood—hot, thick, and coppery—filled his mouth, and the hunger roared to life within him. He fed, vicious and unrelenting, feeling the surge of strength and power that followed. The red lyrium sang through the blood, and Cullen welcomed it, feeling it burn through his veins.

As the battle continued, he tore through the Red Templars like a beast, yet his soldiers fought on at his side, unperturbed, now used to the spectacle and too focused on their own survival.

By the time the ambushes had been repelled and the bodies of Venatori and Red Templars littered the jungle floor, Cullen stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. His garments were stained with blood, his hands slick with it. He wiped his mouth, feeling the last remnants of the Templar’s flesh between his teeth. He glanced toward Miriam. She was feeding, though not on the flesh. The red lyrium was her feast, and with each crystal she consumed, she grew stronger.

As the Inquisition regrouped, preparing for the next wave, Cullen allowed himself a small smile. The Elder One didn’t stand a chance.

Eventually, after several more ambushes, the jungle thinned out, and they approached the ancient fortress where the enemy had set up a base. Towering trees gave way to ancient stone columns, half-buried in the earth, and the path widened into a crumbling courtyard. At its center stood the ruins—a half-broken structure carved from obsidian, its surface crawling with dark veins of corruption.

There, on a rooftop, was Corypheus. Though Cullen had never encountered him before, the twisted monstrosity matched exactly how he had always envisioned the Magister responsible for the Blight.

His army stretched out before the ruins—a grotesque legion of Red Templars and Venatori, standing shoulder to shoulder, their eyes aflame with hatred. To their right, perched atop a nearby column, loomed his blighted dragon, growling low and menacing.

Miriam stepped forward. Cullen moved beside her, his sword in hand, while the Inquisition’s forces fanned out around them, readying for the final assault. To their left, the Orlesian army—led by Gaspard and his Chevaliers—stood in formation. The two armies faced each other for what felt like an eternity, the tension crackling in the air like a storm about to break.

Corypheus raised a clawed hand, and his voice, deep and otherworldly, echoed across the soon-be battlefield. "You come, Inquisition, to face your doom. You bring your armies, your soldiers, your pitiful hope. But hope has no place here. Only your death."

Miriam’s eyes locked onto the ancient magister, and Cullen felt the surge of fervor ripple through their bond. Her voice rang out, burning with zeal. “Finally, the Maker grants me the chance to burn one of those responsible for the Second Sin against Him!”

Corypheus sneered, his rotting lips curling into something resembling a twisted grin. "You, the one who feasts on red lyrium, who draws strength from the very corruption you claim to oppose. How fitting that you should lead His army—a pretender flying the banners of a nonexistent god."

Miriam’s face twisted with anger. “Blasphemer! Your heresy will be silenced, and you will pay for it in blood!” Her eyes darkened, and with a swift, commanding motion, she summoned her power. Black flames erupted from her hands, curling around her fingers, twisting in the air like living shadows. The dark fire spread, flowing over the weapons of the Inquisition and the Orlesians alike, setting their swords, arrows, and spears alight with a power that burned not with heat but with pure, destructive energy. The soldiers stared in awe as their weapons ignited, the dark flames dancing along the edges of their blades, a searing fury fueling their hearts.

With a wave of Corypheus’ hand, the battle erupted. His Red Templars charged in, their monstrous forms crashing into the ranks of the Orlesian’s soldiers. The Chevaliers, shouting battle cries, met the corrupted Knights with their lances lowered, thundering forward in perfect formation. The ground shook beneath them, and the clash of steel on steel filled the air.

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Above, the dragon let out a deafening roar and launched itself into the sky, its massive wings beating the air and sending gusts of wind rippling across the battlefield. As it swooped toward the Inquisition’s forces, the mages raised their staffs casting shimmering protective barriers. Burning arrows flew from the archers striking the dragon’s hide. The beast bellowed as black flames seared its wounds, but it soared overhead, unleashing torrents of fire in its wake.

“Inquisitor, we’ll handle the beast! Focus on the Elder One!” Cullen shouted, pointing his flaming sword toward the magister. “Mages, assist Her Worship! Templars, deal with the Venatori!”

Miriam moved swiftly to follow his orders, and around her enchanters joined the fray. Cullen struggled to keep track of what happened to them next as the dragon landed with a thunderous crash, its massive form shaking the earth beneath him. The last time he had faced this monster it had left him broken and powerless.

But now things were different. He was different.

The dragon roared again, a wall of sound that threatened to tear the sky apart, and lunged forward with terrifying speed. Its jaws snapped one of the soldiers in half and crushed two more under its claws.

"Hold the line!" Cullen roared, his voice booming over the battlefield. The men raised their shields just in time for the dragon's tail to sweep across the ground, smashing into their defenses and throwing them aside like rag dolls. The Commander himself sidestepped the blow, his sword flashing black as he slashed at the beast’s leg. The dark flames hissed against the dragon’s scales, burning through the outer layer, but it only served to enrage the creature further. With a shriek, it spun toward him, its maw wide as it spewed fire.

Cullen threw up his shield as the flames came at him. The heat barely affected him, so he held on and pushed back, getting closer and closer to the creature.

Eventually, he was close enough to swing his sword again, driving it deep into the dragon’s exposed underbelly, feeling the jolt of impact as black blood erupted from the wound. The beast howled in agony, thrashing violently as it tried to dislodge the blade.

The red lyrium pulsed inside the Commander, sending waves of power through him. Yanking the sword free, the flames spiraling around him and charged toward the dragon’s head.

The dragon shrieked and reared up, slamming Cullen into the ground with its tail. Pain flared through his body, but the lyrium kept him going. He pushed himself up, blood trickling down his face, and with a guttural roar, he threw his sword with all his strength. It struck true, burying itself deep into the dragon’s throat.

The creature staggered, its movements sluggish as the flames from his sword spread, consuming its neck and spilling down its body. With a final, echoing roar, the beast collapsed, its massive form hitting the ground with a resounding crash.

Cullen stood, chest heaving, staring down at the monster that had once made him feel so powerless.

As he yanked his sword from the dragon’s throat, the black flames still swirling around it, he glanced toward the battlefield. It was a scene of devastation. Bodies littered the ground, their armor torn and bloodied, and the air was thick with smoke.

Gaspard bloodied but unyielding, fought alongside the Chevaliers, their gleaming armor now smeared with dirt and blood as they carved their way through the last of the Red Templars. The Venatori were nearly finished as well, their lines broken and scattered by the Templars.

But it was Miriam who drew Cullen’s gaze. She stood atop the crumbling ruins, silhouetted against the dark sky, black flames dancing around her. At her feet lay the bodies of fallen mages, those who had sacrificed themselves to clear a path for her, to give her the chance to strike at the heart of the enemy. Their bravery and devotion had brought her within range of Corypheus.

Even from a distance, Cullen could see her straining. Her body trembled and blood dripped from her nose and ears, staining her robes. She was pushing herself to the very edge of her power, and it was taking its toll. But her focus remained locked on the figure before her—the twisted magister who had brought so much ruin.

The ancient creature stood surrounded by dark magic, eyes blazing with contempt as he hurled spells meant to crush the Inquisitor. But Miriam held firm, her black flames swirling with intensity, pushing back against his onslaught.

With a defiant cry, she unleashed a torrent of fire, the black flames roaring as they consumed the air between them. The flames met Corypheus’ magic in a violent clash, sparks flying as the two powers battled for dominance. For a moment, it seemed as though the magister’s power would overwhelm her, but Miriam gritted her teeth and pressed on, summoning every last drop of strength she had.

The flames intensified, spreading over Corypheus like a living shadow, engulfing him. He let out a guttural scream, his body writhing as the black flames tore through him, unraveling the power that had allowed him to defy death for centuries.

With one final burst, the flames consumed him entirely, leaving nothing but ash and a hollow echo on the wind.

Miriam stood still, her arms falling to her sides, her body trembling violently from the strain. Blood streaked her face, and her chest heaved with labored breaths. For a moment, it seemed as if she might collapse, but she remained standing, staring down at the spot where Corypheus had fallen.

The battlefield had gone silent.

The Elder One was dead. It felt surreal.

Cullen's gaze softened as he looked at his wife, admiration, and concern warring in his chest. For a brief moment, there was only the sound of the wind, carrying with it the weight of the battle and the lives lost. Then, a cheer rose from the surviving forces, weak at first but growing stronger with each voice that joined. They had fought and bled for this victory—and it was theirs.

Cullen wiped the blood from his brow, his hand trembling slightly as the adrenaline faded. The battlefield around him was a scar on the land—bodies scattered, weapons abandoned, and the smoke of dying fires rising into the darkening sky. He exchanged a grim look with Gaspard as they navigated through the carnage, making their way toward the crumbling ruins.

Miriam had already come down from the roof. Her robes bore the marks of battle, and she wore a weary smile when she spotted them. Cullen’s own lips twitched into a grin as they reached her. He opened his mouth to offer congratulations for their hard-won victory, but before he could speak, one of the Inquisition archers approached the mage from the shadows, her hood pulled low over her face.

“Your Worship, you need to know this! I saw the apostate spying on us during the fight,” the woman said urgently, her voice tight with fear.

Miriam’s brow furrowed, her sharp black eyes narrowing as she stepped forward. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her tone laced with suspicion.

"The heretic… Solas," the archer whispered, the name almost a curse on her lips. Cullen’s attention snapped to her, a chill running down his spine at the mention of the elf. “I saw him standing there,” she pointed toward the left, where the ruins bled into the wilds beyond. “Watching the battle with a smile on his face. As soon as it ended, he vanished—into the jungle. It was only moments ago."

"Solas?" Gaspard's voice was sharp, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "He’s supposed to be dead!"

Miriam’s face paled further. “And you’re certain it was him?” Her voice was tight, taut like a string about to snap.

The archer nodded, her gaze flicking nervously between them. "I know what I saw. I’ve been with the Inquisition from the start—I know what he looks like."

The mage’s expression hardened, her lips pressed into a thin line. “We need to go after him. Now.”

“Let’s send scouts first,” Cullen urged, stepping closer to her and placing a steady hand on her shoulder. “You need to rest. You’re barely standing, and you’ve already given everything to—”

“No!” Miriam snapped, jerking her shoulder free from his grasp, her voice trembling with anger and frustration. Her eyes blazed, filled with a fierce conviction that made Cullen step back. “After what he did, I have to find him. Myself. That foul thing somehow survived the fury of the Maker Himself, defying all that is holy. This... heretic mocks the Creator with every breath.”

She raised her hand toward the sky as if summoning a higher power. “It is my sacred duty—our duty—to finish what He started. The Maker’s judgment is not something that can be delayed or passed off to scouts. Solas will not escape again. Not this time.”

Before anyone could stop her, she dashed off in the direction the archer had pointed. Cullen and Gaspard exchanged glances, both knowing the risks, but also knowing that there was no stopping her now. Miriam's determination was a force unto itself, and there was no doubt she would march headlong into the wilds, alone if she had to. “Damn it,” the Commander muttered, turning to the remnants of their forces. “Gather anyone who’s still able to fight. We’re going after the Inquisitor.”

Gaspard followed suit, barking orders to the remaining Chevaliers and Orlesian soldiers. The battle had left them with few able-bodied warriors, but those who could still wield a sword fell in behind them. With haste, they followed Miriam into the dense jungle.

The trees towered overhead, their gnarled branches weaving into a thick, impenetrable canopy that swallowed the sky. Shadows clung to every crevice, twisting the forest into an ominous labyrinth. The path Solas had supposedly taken to retreat deeper into the Arbor Wilds lay before them, unnervingly clear. Too clear.

It wasn’t the subtle, near-invisible trail one might expect from a nimble elf. Instead, it looked as though a bronto had barreled through, heavy and clumsy. His unease prickled like the hairs on the back of his neck, instincts screaming that something was wrong. But Miriam marched ahead, determined, her gaze fixed forward, ignoring the growing tension in the air. She didn’t want to hear it. Her steps were relentless, the pace unforgiving, even as weariness etched itself in the slump of her shoulders.

Finally, they came upon a clearing deep within the jungle, and there, amidst the tangled branches, stood a massive mirror, its surface glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. It hummed with strange energy, casting eerie shadows on the surrounding trees.

The Emperor’s finger pointed at that thing, his voice laced with shock. "It's an ancient relic... elven in origin. The Orlesians had found them scattered throughout ruins across the Empire but always broken. I’ve never seen one intact. And certainly not... activated."

Before anyone could respond, the hooded archer from before seemed to materialize beside them. “Your Worship," she began, "I’ve heard legends—old stories of elves using these... devices to travel. Perhaps the heretic used it to escape.”

Cullen spun on his heel, his glare sharp enough to cut. “And how is it, exactly, that you know so much about this?”

The archer didn’t flinch under Cullen’s piercing gaze. Her expression was unreadable beneath the hood, her posture unnervingly calm. “I’m just sharing rumors, Commander. That’s all.”

The mage glared at the structure, her lips curling in disgust. "Heretical artifacts," she spat. "Of course, he would use something like this." She muttered a quick prayer to the Maker, her voice low and strained. "We need to follow him."

Cullen’s hand came up once again, this time more insistent. "Wait. We don’t know what that thing is, how it works, or where it leads. If the heretic is still alive, then we’re walking into something dangerous—something unpredictable. We underestimated him once already. We can’t afford to make that mistake again. We need to be careful."

Gaspard folded his arms, watching the mirror with skepticism. "I have to agree with the Commander. I’m not one to shy away from battle, but this… it reeks of danger. We should at least test it, send someone through first."

"The chosen of the Maker will not fear, will not falter. His fire is with me," Miriam shot back, her voice ringing with unwavering conviction as she glared at both of them. The intensity of her faith radiated through every word, her eyes burning with righteous fury. "Enough of this time wasting," she snapped, her gaze locking with Cullen’s, daring him to challenge her again. "If we wait any longer, we may never find him again." Her voice rose, "I command you to follow me!"

Before Cullen could say anything else, she turned, fade stepping toward the ancient elven artifact. "Miriam, wait!" he shouted, lunging forward, but she was already at the mirror. Her hand brushed the surface, and it rippled like liquid. In an instant, she vanished into its shimmering depths.

The Commander froze, dread coiling in his chest as the artifact stilled once more. He barely registered Gaspard’s shout from behind him. "The Sword of the Faithful had paved the way for us!" the Emperor bellowed to the men, charging forward with the rest of their small force close behind.

Cullen’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he raced toward the mirror, heart pounding in his ears. He steeled himself for whatever lay beyond the veil, and with a final breath, he plunged into the unknown.