Late at night, Cullen sat behind his cluttered desk in the subdued ambiance of his dimly lit office. The mountain air, chilly and crisp, wafted through the room, causing the flickering candle flames to dance and cast long shadows across the maps and scattered papers that covered every inch of his workspace. His fingers tapped nervously on the worn wood, a rhythmic cadence reflecting the unrest in his mind.

The same day Miriam recounted the results of her disastrous conversation with Solas to the council, Leliana discreetly approached him. Her expression was grave as she unfolded unsettling news: the maids responsible for maintaining the Inquisitor's chambers had reported discovering a large puddle of blood on the floor. Miriam's deteriorating condition and her stubbornness indicated that the council needed to broach the matter of her fate with Solas without her knowledge. Though it didn't sit well with Cullen, the situation left little room for hesitation.

After they clandestinely convened to deliberate on a course of action, it was decided that Josephine's diplomatic prowess would be the most effective means to request aid from the elf, assuring him that the threats made by the Inquisitor were spoken in the heat of the moment and did not represent the intentions of the rest of the council.

Solas, surprisingly cooperative, offered his help, yet its efficacy proved limited. Without a proper examination, he conceded that he could offer little insight beyond the stark advice to refrain from using the mark until it was absolutely necessary. Delving into its potential, he warned, would only worsen the adverse effects it had on Miriam.

Yet how could they do that when the need to close the rifts was present and the Maker himself called for the Herald's powers to be used against their enemies? Weariness etched lines on Cullen's face as he sighed, his fingers rubbing tired eyes. The complexity of the situation weighed heavily on him, exacerbated by the inconvenient truth that he had found himself entangled in romantic sentiments for the woman.

He tried to rationalize, reminding himself that such desires were improper; they were in the midst of a war, and she, the Inquisitor, held the revered title of the Herald of Andraste. He tried to focus on the harsh reality that the tapestry of their futures bore the ominous hue of bleakness —she bared the mark that threatened her existence, and he was on the precipice of losing his mind to lyrium withdrawal. He even tried to convince himself that his feelings were surely unreciprocated; Miriam regarded him as a dear friend, a hero from her childhood, her love for him boundless but strictly platonic. And yet, against the rationality of his own arguments, the currents of emotion continued to pull him in her direction.

To his frustration, he wasn’t the only one drawn to her. The Emperor, with an unmistakable and keen interest, went to great lengths to secure favor with the Inquisitor. Following the official gift, there came an unofficial one—a small statue of Andraste masterfully carved from sandalwood, blessed by Her Grace Callista, a Grand Cleric of Orlais. The intention was to provide the Herald with an undisturbed sanctuary for prayer within the tranquility of her quarters. Gaspard then began an ongoing correspondence with Miriam. Each letter served as a detailed report of his efforts to root out heresy and corruption from the vast expanse of the Empire. The mage, her eyes gleaming with fervor, eagerly told all present how His Majesty had uncovered yet another noble family involved in a conspiracy with the Elder One, or in the secret worship of the Old Gods, or even in espionage on behalf of the Qunari. Conspicuously, all of these families had once been supporters of the former Empress. Swift and decisive action followed, with their properties and gold stripped away. The confiscated riches were then divided into three parts: one-third directed to the Empire's treasury, another to further the Inquisition's cause, and, surprisingly, the final third allocated to rebuilding the alienages scorched during Celene's rule.

Despite the grim spectacle of Briala's execution, Gaspard demonstrated an ability to rapidly amass goodwill among the leaders of elven communities. His approach involved financial backing and promises of favorable legislative changes, contingent upon their conversion to Andrastianism. Ambitious plans were set in motion, aiming not only for the construction of Chantry buildings but also schools and infirmaries in every alienage. These facilities pledged services to all faithful elves.

The few dissenting nobles who dared to protest against the Emperor's policies quickly found themselves accused of treason and dispatched to the gallows. The broader Orlesian populace, however, sang praises for Gaspard. After years of chaos and war, the strict dogmas he enforced did not seem like oppressive bars but steadfast pillars, giving the people of the Empire a sense of stability in uncertain times.

Cullen sighed wearily and rose from his seat. The hour was late, and tomorrow held final preparations for a journey to the Southron Hills. It was time to call it a day. Ascending the ladder to his bedroom, he shed his armor, the weight of his responsibilities lifted momentarily. Slipping under the covers, hoping there would be no nightmares, he succumbed to the comfort of sleep.

In the hushed tranquility of Miriam's quarters, Cullen found himself before her, beholding the delicate embroidery of her new attire, aglow with the moonlight filtering through the balcony. As he observed her with a frown, she met his gaze with an air of serene composure. "Why do you not favor the robes?" she inquired, her words carrying a subtle, inviting cadence.

Cullen hesitated, his eyes momentarily evading hers. "Because they bring to mind Gaspard each time I see them," he reluctantly confessed.

A small smile adorned the mage's lips, her eyes holding a discerning glint. "In that case, you may remove them."

Cullen's breath hastened at her proposition, a warm flush painting his cheeks. "Are you... certain?"

"Absolutely," she whispered, the atmosphere thick with the promise of an imminent, intimate revelation.

Encouraged, he embarked on the task with slow, deliberate movements, each motion laced with a palpable sense of anticipation. The gentle glide of the soft fabric unveiled the contours of the mage's form, casting a delicate interplay of shadows on the ethereal fabric of her chemise. His hands moved with a blend of hesitancy and eagerness, his fingers tracing the graceful curves of her shoulders and descending along the inviting path of her arms.

In response, she took a step closer, bridging the gap between them. Cullen, now standing so close to Miriam, felt the warmth of her presence wrapping around him like a soft embrace. Leaning in, his lips hovered so close to hers that their breaths mingled in a shared rhythm of desire.

The abrupt knock on the door tore Cullen from the tendrils of his dream. He opened his eyes with a groan, vexed by the fact that the moment of passion had been denied to him once again. "First a bump in the road, and now knocking," he grumbled under his breath. Then, in a louder tone, laced with a touch of exasperation, he added, "Who is it?"

"A messenger, Ser," came the swift reply. "Documents from Lady Josephine require your immediate attention."

Cullen sighed, resigned to the reality of his duties. "Wait a moment," he instructed the messenger before reluctantly pulling himself out of bed. Quickly donning his armor, he descended from his quarters to face the pressing matters of the waking world. "Bring the documents," he called to the man, a tone of resignation in his voice as he prepared to face the demands of the day.

In the muted gloom of dawn, the Inquisition forces, entwined with the Templars, embarked on a journey from the towering fortress of Skyhold to the expanse of the Southron Hills. Miriam, her countenance bright with enthusiasm, took the lead in the procession, with Lysette following closely behind. The Imperial Highway, worn and weathered by the footsteps of countless travelers, stretched out endlessly before them, disappearing into the horizon in an indistinct blur. As the procession advanced, the Highway guided them past quaint villages and homesteads in the Hinterlands, where curious onlookers peered at the Herald from behind weathered shutters. In due course, the path that had guided them through the serene landscapes of Ferelden transitioned into rugged terrain, and they finally reached the designated meeting point with the Champion and her companions.

After several days of fervent anticipation, the long-awaited moment unfolded. Silhouettes materialized on the horizon, piercing through the morning mist. However, to Cullen's utter astonishment, the figures that emerged were not Hawke, Sebastian, and Fenris as expected. Instead, it was the Emperor of Orlais, adorned in battle armor, flanked by a formidable contingent of Chevaliers. Cullen and Cassandra exchanged incredulous glances, and just as bewilderment settled in, Miriam rushed forward. "Your Majesty! What a surprise!"

"What in the Void is he doing here?" Cullen muttered under his breath as he and the Seeker followed the mage.

"Inquisitor, the Maker has deemed it fitting to reunite us once more," Gaspard declared with a gracious smile and a respectful nod. He then turned to meet Cullen's querying gaze with a measured calmness. "Commander Cullen," he began, "we have come to join forces against the encroaching threat of the Elder One. Our common enemy warrants unity, does it not?"

Cullen's frustration simmered beneath a stoic facade, "Your Majesty, if I may respectfully suggest, decisions of this magnitude warrant a thorough prior discussion."

Gaspard's countenance remained unwavering. "Had the Inquisition seen fit to share details of this mission with me, I would have willingly engaged in such discussions. Unfortunately, such insight was not provided, leaving me no choice but to act swiftly upon its revelation."

Cassandra, although wary, inquired, "Your Majesty, have you, perchance, disclosed your sojourn in Ferelden to King Alistair?"

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A subtle tension pervaded the air as Gaspard responded, "Alas, time was of the essence, so I had no chance to do so. But the King, in his wisdom, shall understand that the Maker's chosen ruler of Orlais must take decisive action when needed."

"Surely you must be aware of the potential repercussions that arise from crossing Ferelden's borders with an armored force without the consent of its King," Cullen interjected in disbelief.

Gaspard, upholding his regal composure, did not yield. "In matters of such gravity, one must set aside concerns for consequences in pursuit of the greater good for Thedas. Let us unite our forces and unleash our righteous fury upon the minions of the Elder One. Once this impending threat is vanquished, we can delve into discussions on the matter further."

"But, Your Majesty, how did you learn of this mission and discover the exact location of our designated meeting place?" Miriam asked with unflinching bluntness.

Cullen tensed. It was painfully clear that Gaspard had been spying on them, so one didn't require expertise in diplomacy to discern that posing such a direct question would inevitably lead to a confrontation. However, it seemed that the Emperor had been anticipating this very inquiry. For he announced his response in a resounding voice, clearly ensuring that his words reached the ears of the Inquisition's troops. "I did receive the vision from Him, Lady Inquisitor. The place, the time, and the purpose of this endeavor, it all came to me. An extraordinary revelation, indeed!"

As murmurs of awe ran through the ranks of their forces, Cullen went to great lengths to keep his face from betraying his skepticism. His initial notion that the information had leaked through the Emperor's spies seemed far more plausible. Yet, that begged the question: how had Leliana allowed this breach? Gaspard must have enlisted formidable experts to circumvent the Spymaster's defenses.

While Miriam immersed herself in a spirited discussion with the Emperor regarding divine revelations, Cassandra urgently pulled Cullen aside. "I have my doubts about his claim," she whispered. "Besides, the King will not entertain even a fleeting belief in our ignorance regarding Gaspard's unannounced arrival on his land. Not when we've essentially declared our unity with the Empire with these accursed robes. Alistair will accuse us of orchestrating a military operation on Ferelden's soil with none other than Orlais. He will perceive it as a brazen affront to his reign and authority."

"I am aware," Cullen replied in a subdued tone, his voice carrying the weight of frustration. "Yet, what recourse do we have at this moment? We have no evidence to refute his declaration, and we have no authority to order him to withdraw. Also, have a look at our soldiers and the Templars," he gestured towards the radiant countenances of the assembled multitude, fervently discussing the divine revelation that had seemingly touched the Emperor, their spirits soaring in collective conviction. "We may not embrace this narrative, Alistair may remain unconvinced, but they, they have become believers."

The Seeker gritted her teeth. "He understands the game he plays, I'll grant him that."

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of three figures silhouetted against the crest of the hill. This time, it was the very individuals they were meant to meet. Hawke and her companions descended the slope with a graceful stride, casting a momentary hush over the assembled gathering. As the introductions unfolded, a palpable mix of curiosity and cautious respect permeated the air. Sebastian, genuinely intrigued by Gaspard's designation as 'the chosen ruler of His design,' engaged in polite conversation. Meanwhile, Fenris maintained his stoic demeanor, his unwavering gaze revealing little. Hawke, with a dry wit that thinly veiled her indifference, barely navigated the intricacies of the social exchange.

With the formalities over, attention turned decisively to the mission at hand. The Champion, her tone commanding, revealed that the rift was close and that if they hurried, they could reach it before sundown. A collective understanding propelled the assembled forces forward, venturing into the uneven terrain until they reached the passage at the end of which the tear in the Veil shimmered in the last rays of the sunset. As the group stopped their advances, Cullen addressed his allies, “The rift does not appear to be substantial. The Templars can efficiently deal with any demons that appear, allowing us to secure the area before Miriam goes in to seal it.”

Gaspard, however, intercepted with an air of assertiveness. "If the rift poses a minimal threat, it's a prime opportunity for the Inquisitor to demonstrate her capabilities. Nothing inspires troops like witnessing the might of their leader," he declared, his voice carrying the resonance of one accustomed to command.

Cullen's jaw clenched. Gaspard's inclination to assert authority mirrored the power dynamics of the Orlesian court. He was poised to protest when, unexpectedly, Miriam stepped forward in support of the Emperor's idea. “His Majesty speaks the truth. The Maker has honed my spirit for this very task," she proclaimed, her voice resonating with fervent zeal. "It is a chance to reveal the strength bestowed by Andraste, to let people witness firsthand the power that propels our cause." He saw Lysette clasped the mage’s wrist, her eyes imploring, but Miriam delicately withdrew from the Templar's touch and shook her head with a solemn resolve. Then, her gaze burning with an impassioned fire, she turned towards the assembled troops and bellowed. "Behold, faithful warriors! Witness the power of the one true God bestowed upon me by His Bride." She raised her hand, the mark coming to life with a radiant emerald light that bathed the surroundings in its luminance. "Sing the Chant of Light, my brethren, and let the melody of faith accompany my battle. But heed my words, stay back. The cleansing fires will burn hot!"

The troops, their faces illuminated by the light, looked upon Miriam with a mixture of awe and anticipation. The Chant of Light began, and even the Chevaliers inspired by Miriam's fervor, joined in the chorus. Cullen tightened his grip on the sword, praying to the Maker that the unfolding idea wouldn't culminate in disaster. His eyes were fixed on the mage's swift approach to the rift. As Miriam came close, the tear widened, and from its depths emerged five shades, their luminous red eyes fixated upon her. As the creatures lunged at the mage, she responded with ferocity, hurling a wave of green flames at her adversaries, the fire twisting and transforming into five arrows that found their mark with the precision of a masterful archer. As the green projectiles hit the shades, they exploded, engulfing the demons in flames that consumed them to a crisp, their bodies dissipating into ash in an instant.

The rift contorted, and the air suddenly cracked with electricity as the Pride demon emerged from it. Cullen unsheathed his sword, poised to command the attack and join the battle himself. However, a firm hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned sharply to face Gaspard, who regarded him with an intense expression. "Stay back," he ordered.

Cullen liberated himself from the grasp, retorting, "It's a Pride demon, she can't deal with it on her own."

"Yes, she can. Just look!" The Emperor pointed his gloved hand at the unfolding battle.

Miriam, undeterred by the potent lashes of the demon, stood ensconced within a barrier of her own making. The flames enveloped her like a shroud, their verdant tongues engaged in a mesmerizing dance within the barrier's azure hue.

Her emerald veins began to shimmer, the light flowing through them like radiant rivers, illuminating her features with an otherworldly brilliance. The glow accentuated the contours of her resolute face, her eyes now pools of luminescence. She started singing the Chant, her voice resonating with a distorted quality, akin to ripples on water, weaving into the chorus of the soldiers.

Cullen, entranced by the unfolding spectacle, observed as the flames surrounding the mage began to intensify and fill the barrier from within until the entire interior became a tight ball of flames. The Pride demon seemed to sense the impending danger, but it was already too late. The sphere erupted in a potent explosion, and though the fires did not reach the Inquisition’s forces, the fine dust and searing wind enveloped everyone gathered in a relentless wave.

Cullen shielded his face with his hand, protecting his eyes from the onslaught. As the wave passed and the settling dust revealed the aftermath, he beheld Miriam standing proudly in the middle of the scorched black terrain, with no demon or rift in sight.

The soldiers' chant transformed into fervent cheers as they threw their hands into the air. Gaspard turned to address them, his resonant voice managing to be heard despite the commotion, "That is the might of the Herald of Andraste, the Blade of the Faithful!"

"The Blade of the Faithful!" the crowd caught on, repeating it again and again as Cullen watched with concern at the mage. The intensity in her blazing eyes and the pulsating glow of veins beneath her skin gave her an almost ethereal quality. For a moment, he thought that she looked more like a spirit than a woman, and the very notion sent a chill down his spine. To his relief, Miriam's radiance gradually receded, and the intense glow in her eyes faded. The alien features that had taken hold of her during the battle returned to the familiar face that Cullen knew so well. Once in her usual state, the mage strode confidently toward the soldiers, a triumphant smile adorning her lips.

The camp buzzed with activity at night, the air alive with discussions about the Herald's extraordinary might and the vision that had spurred the Emperor to align with the Inquisition’s mission. The morale of the troops was at an all-time high, and the flickering campfires illuminated faces filled with hope and exhilaration.

Although the rift was sealed, the mighty demon burned to a crisp, and Miriam emerged unscathed, Cullen couldn't share their excitement. Despite it all, unease lingered within him. Solas had counseled against heedless use of the mark, a caution that proved prescient today. Determined to resolve the issue, he navigated through the bustling camp to have a conversation with the Emperor, recognizing that his schemes to provoke the mage into using her powers needed to be stopped.

Gaspard stood near his tent, surrounded by the exuberant Chevaliers, lost in revelry. The air hung heavy with the heady aroma of wine. The Emperor acknowledged his presence with a nod, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "Commander, the new title I bestowed upon the Inquisitor, 'The Blade of the Faithful,' seems to be taking root among the people. It is, after all, rather fitting, wouldn't you agree?"

Cullen locked eyes with Gaspard, masking the smoldering frustration beneath his composed demeanor. The Emperor's satisfaction grated on him; it seemed every move the man made was steeped in political calculation. "Your Majesty," he replied, his tone measured but carrying a subtle edge, "might I request a moment of your time to discuss certain matters in private?"

Gaspard lifted his palm, signaling for the Chevaliers to disperse, and gestured for Cullen to accompany him into the privacy of his tent. Within the confines of the canvas walls, Cullen spoke once again, "I am compelled to make you aware of the toll the mark on the Inquisitor's palm is taking on her. Unleashing its power only adds to the burden. I implore you, Your Majesty, to refrain from urging her to use these abilities unless it becomes an absolute necessity.”

The Emperor regarded him with a leveled gaze, his expression inscrutable. "Even the finest sword dulls its edge as it cuts through enemies, yet is that reason enough to cease using it?"

Cullen's voice took on a stern tone. "Are you suggesting that the Inquisitor is to be treated as a mere weapon, with no consideration for her well-being?"

Gaspard sighed. "We are all but instruments in the hands of the Maker, shaped for His design."

Cullen's gaze bore into the Emperor, the intensity of his scrutiny unwavering. "Is it truly His design, or is it the design of His Majesty?"

Gaspard's face remained calm, but there was a clear warning in his tone. “Such questions might lead one down treacherous paths, Commander."

Cullen, jaw set with tension, retorted tersely, "Your Majesty, I must take my leave, if you'll pardon me."

Gaspard smirked. "Certainly, Commander. Your departure is granted."

Cullen left the Emperor's presence feeling like a taut string on the verge of snapping. As he strode through the camp, he found himself unable to dispel the haunting notion that allowing Celene's demise might have been a grave mistake.