Miriam strained to open her eyes, a painful effort that revealed swollen lids that moved with discomfort. The pain persisted as her vision struggled to clear, prompting her to raise a hand and gently rub her eyes. Nestled in the grandeur of her newly acquired Inquisitor quarters, the harsh light of day finally roused her from her slumber.

In those first moments of awakening, she felt a fleeting sense of bliss, but it quickly dissipated as the memories of the previous night flooded her consciousness. She braced herself for the expected onslaught of emotions - guilt for the hasty decisions that had led to the demise of the retired Templars, embarrassment for her unraveling in front of Cullen, or perhaps anxiety in anticipation of the impending meeting with her father. But to her surprise, an unsettling emptiness prevailed. Instead of the emotional maelstrom, there was an eerie absence of feeling and an overwhelming fatigue. "Oh, Andraste," Miriam murmured, locking her gaze with the emerald flames within the mark on her hand. "Why did you allow my ill-fated decision to condemn the Templars? You knew how fervently I desired to save them... and yet, why has it all ended like this? Why..." No response echoed in the chamber, and Miriam closed her eyes, succumbing to the weariness that enveloped her. She was just so tired of it all.

With no desire to face the challenges that lay ahead, she shifted and turned away from the intrusion of the day. Seeking refuge from the persistent sunlight, she pulled the blanket over her head and attempted to retreat into the comfort of sleep. However, her quest for rest was abruptly halted by a resounding knock on her door. Miriam tried to ignore it, but the tapping continued, now accompanied by a familiar voice. "Inquisitor," Lysette's stoic tone cut through the air. "May I enter?"

The mage sighed, reluctantly emerging from her makeshift cocoon. "Yes, come in, please."

The door creaked open to reveal Lysette, her new Templar armor gleaming in the daylight. "Good morning, Inquisitor," she greeted, her tone steady.

Miriam managed a weary smile, slowly pushing herself into a sitting position. "Good morning. I see you've completed your vigil. Congratulations."

Lysette nodded, her eyes filled with pride. "Thank you, Herald." Then her expression changed to one of worry. "Are you all right? I heard of the fate that befell the retired Templars..."

"I appreciate your concern," the mage interjected, a pause hanging in the air. "It's just... I would prefer we refrain from discussing it."

The Templar approached and placed a comforting hand on Miriam's shoulder. "Be strong."

Now that she was closer, the mage noticed a distinct change in her friend—she seemed brighter, more energetic, and exuded a newfound confidence. She could feel lyrium coursing through her veins. The familiar hum of the magical substance soothed and reassured; there was nothing quite like the presence of a true Knight. Miriam put her hand on her guard's palm. "I'll try."

"Good," Lysette replied. "There are matters that require your attention. The Inquisition waits for no one, not even its newest Inquisitor."

Miriam sighed, "I suppose duty calls, doesn't it?"

Lysette nodded. "Indeed, Inquisitor. The day awaits."

Miriam found herself navigating the corridors of the Skyhold with a burdensome heart. Duty compelled her to resume her usual activities, yet her thoughts wandered, a fog settling over her mind. The weight of recent events clung to her, a persistent shadow that seemed to elongate with each passing hour.

As the council meeting convened to discuss the forthcoming peace talks, she struggled to maintain focus. The diplomatic intricacies of the impending negotiations at Val Royeaux felt distant, obscured by the haze of her internal tumult. She longed for the solace of her quarters, yearning to retreat beneath the comforting embrace of her blanket and escape the never-ending demands of the Inquisition.

While the council members filed out of the War Room, Cullen walked up to Miriam, "Inquisitor," he began, "may I have a moment of your time?"

She nodded. "Of course, Commander."

He waited a few moments, lingering until the last echo of footsteps had died away, leaving them alone in the chamber. "How are you faring?" he finally inquired, concern etched into his features.

Miriam sighed, her shoulders sagging as she passed her hand over her face. "I don’t know... I am just... tired."

Cullen nodded in understanding, sympathy in his eyes. "It takes time and energy to deal with such things. Rest for a while. I can ask the rest of the council to show you some leniency."

Miriam felt a welling of gratitude within her. "Thank you. Once I conclude affairs with my father, I would genuinely appreciate calling it a day." Suddenly reminiscent of the reassuring closeness they shared the night before, the mage felt the yearning for his comforting embrace once again. She knew that he wasn't one to enjoy such things, yet she wanted to be selfish, if only for today. "Cullen, may I... I mean, would it be too forward to ask for a hug?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his features as he shifted slightly on his feet. "Ah, well," he stammered, his composed demeanor faltering for a moment. "I..., of course. I mean, yes, you may ask for that. I mean, a hug."

Upon his consent, Miriam extended her arms slightly, patiently awaiting his reciprocation. After a moment of hesitation, he cautiously stepped forward, enveloping her in a tentative but warm embrace. "There, um, is that alright?"

She smiled softly, the shadows clinging to her momentarily dissipating. "More than alright. Thank you."

Miriam entered her father's quarters, a heavy ambiance of aged vine lingering in the air. Albert Trevelyan was seated in a large chair, an air of authority about him. "You took your time," he remarked without looking up from his glass.

She sighed, the painfully familiar weight of her father's disapproval settling upon her. "I apologize, I couldn’t come to speak with you earlier, Father. Matters with the Inquisition have demanded my attention."

He scoffed and took a sip of his wine before turning his gaze to her. "What of our affairs, Miriam? Have you forgotten that you belong to House Trevelyan once again, a family that has generously supported your cause?"

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The mage met his gaze, her expression steady. "No, I haven't forgotten. I appreciate that you welcomed me back into the family as soon as I became an Inquisitor. I also acknowledge the utter selflessness with which you have supported the Inquisition."

Albert leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Don't get smart with me, girl."

She felt the barb of his words, yet she couldn't summon the energy for a retort. Instead, she leaned against the edge of a nearby table, the veneer of familial unity unraveling with each passing moment.

He took another sip of his wine. "You owe me your life. Don't you ever forget that."

Miriam sensed the well-known pain in her chest, a mixture of resentment and frustration. "And yet, Father," she began, "what kind of life was it? A life of strings, of being used like a puppet for the family's whims."

The Bann's laughter cut through her words. "Puppet? You were given everything, status, privilege, and a place in society. What more could you want?"

Miriam's expression hardened. "Love. I wanted love. Did you know how much I struggled for all these years?"

Albert's laughter faded, replaced by a steely gaze. "What could you possibly know of hardship? Do you even fathom the burden of siring a mage? The shame it brings upon a family? My only consolation is your barrenness. At least you won't be able to spread your taint any further."

Miriam recoiled, the cutting words inflicting wounds on her soul. The mark on her hand responded, pulsing with a heat that coursed through the emerald veins. This heat turned her pain into anger, and she called upon the mark's power. Green flames instantly erupted, dancing around her frame. The air in the chamber cracked with the intensity of the arcane power unleashed, the floor, curtains, and furniture bursting into flames.

The Bann, startled, dropped his glass as he leaped from his burning chair. He stumbled, his eyes wide with fear, as the relentless fire danced around the room, threatening to engulf them both.

The mage swept up in the tempest of her power, finally felt strong enough to confront her father in the way she had always wanted to but never could. "How dare you address me with such disdain? Me, the Herald of Andraste!" she boomed, her voice echoing with supernatural resonance. The flames seemed to respond to her fury, intensifying their destructive dance.

"What are you doing?" Albert yelled, desperation tinging his voice. "Stop this madness!"

"Be silent!" the mage commanded, wrapping the fire around her father so that he could feel the heat without being burned. "If you wish to live, prostrate yourself before me and beg forgiveness, you wretched soul."

The Bann, driven by fear, fell to his knees. "I am sorry," he pleaded. "Mercy, Miriam, mercy!"

Still, it didn't feel like enough. So she raised her hand, ready to unleash the flames upon him, ready to make him feel the searing pain of divine retribution. But as she looked at his face, contorted with terror and tears streaming down his cheeks, a sudden awareness halted her intentions. He wasn't worth the trouble she would face for seeking revenge. Flicking her fingers, she extinguished the flames and stepped back.

The viridescent fire may have vanished, but the tension in the room lingered, the embers flickering as Miriam continued to address Bann Trevelyan, who remained on his knees, a shadow of his former authoritative self. "I am no longer the powerless girl you could mistreat with impunity. Is that clear?"

Albert, still trembling, could only nod in silent recognition.

Miriam, her anger gradually dissipating, concluded with a stern warning. "You will not exploit our filial relationship for your gain. If I discover that you do... well, you will see what I am truly capable of. As for all that money you donated to the Inquisition, consider it compensation for the years of neglect you have subjected me to."

With that, she turned to leave, but before she reached the entrance, she glanced around the charred, smoke-filled room. "If anyone asks, tell them you dropped the candle in your sleep, and I saved you from the flames.” Then she fixed her eyes on her father. “Leave Skyhold first thing in the morning and hope that our paths never cross again, Bann Albert Trevelyan."

As Miriam closed the door behind her, she saw Lysette approaching, her eyes reflecting concern. "Herald, are you all right?" she asked, her gaze searching for an explanation. "I sensed magic being unleashed."

The mage managed a weary smile. "It was nothing. My father accidentally knocked over a candle in his sleep, and I had to cast spells to shield him from the flames."

The Templar arched an eyebrow, an air of skepticism lingering in her expression. Before she could delve deeper into the matter, Miriam was abruptly seized by exhaustion, faltering in her step. Lysette swiftly caught her by the arm. "What's happening?"

"I believe I just need some rest," the mage replied, leaning on her friend for support.

Lysette nodded decisively. "Let me assist you to your quarters."

With the help of her guard, Miriam made her way to her chamber. Each step required considerable effort, turning what should have been a short journey into a daunting task. Once in the sanctuary of her quarters, Lysette helped the mage settle on her bed, and with one last concerned look, she left, leaving her to the solitude of her room.

Nestled under the blankets, Miriam's thoughts turned to her tumultuous encounter with her father. She had used her powers against him and fabricated a story to cover it up. Those actions should have made her feel guilty. Yet, strangely, the weight of remorse did not fall upon her. Confronting Bann Trevelyan, taking control of the magic within her mark—it all felt wonderful. Too tired to dwell on it any further, she pushed aside the tendrils of concern that sought to entangle her consciousness and allowed the realm of dreams to claim her.

Standing alone in the chapel, Miriam found herself surrounded by a profound silence. The only light in the sacred space came from a faint glow emanating from the statue of Andraste, which stood solemnly in the center.

The mage felt a sense of awe and trepidation as she approached the sculpture, whose eyes seemed to stare into the depths of her soul. Kneeling before the imposing figure, she asked the one question that tormented her beyond endurance. "Why, my Lady? Why did you allow the Templars to die? Why did you forsake them?"

At her words, the atmosphere in the chapel shifted, and the soft pattering of drops echoed through the air. She looked around in confusion, only to realize that the sound was coming from the statue itself. Blood, thick and crimson, flowed from Andraste's eyes, staining the floor below. Shocked, Miriam rose to her feet, her eyes wide with horror.

Suddenly, a voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the air. "In their blood, the Maker's will is written," it intoned, as blood began to pour from the statue in a torrent. Within moments, Miriam found herself ankle-deep in a pool of crimson. Panic set in as the sanguine liquid rose steadily, engulfing everything in its path. She tried to move, but her feet would not obey. The blood climbed up her body, chilling her to the core. Every breath she struggled to take was tainted by the metallic stench.

In a last desperate attempt to escape, the mage reached for the weeping statue of Andraste, screaming for help. But as her fingers brushed the cold stone, the voice in the chapel rose to a crescendo, drowning out her cries.

"Blood, blood, blood!"

Miriam's eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as she emerged from the dream. The haunting echoes of the voice continued to resonate in her mind, refusing to fade away.

A sharp, searing pain shot through her palm, and as she clutched her hand beneath the blanket, something warm, wet, and sticky smeared across her skin. Panic seized her as she yanked the covers away, revealing the source of her distress.

The mark pulsed with an otherworldly glow, but this time it wasn't just the usual luminescence; it was bleeding, staining everything around it crimson. The pain intensified, and, to her horror, the mage realized that the green veins that crisscrossed her body were also beginning to ooze red.

Summoning her strength, Miriam forced herself to sit upright, her trembling hands hovering over the pulsating mark. With a deep breath, she focused on the magic within her, a healing spell at the edge of her fingertips.

The incantation was whispered with urgency, the magic responding sluggishly, as if reluctant to heal the wounds. Sweat ran down her face as she poured every ounce of her mana into the spell. Slowly, the bleeding began to subside, and after a few more tense moments, it finally halted.

Exhausted and drained, Miriam collapsed back onto her bed.

It seemed her question had been answered, now she knew why Andraste had let the Knights perish. The Spymaster was right, the Maker was not a merciful God. With a heavy sigh, she murmured to the shadows, "So, this is your design, Maker. If you demand blood, then blood you shall have."