Miriam stepped out of the shimmering surface of the heretical artifact, her boots landing softly on the strange, floating ground. The portal rippled behind her like water disturbed by a stone, casting brief reflections of the world she had just left. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. The air here was thick, unnaturally heavy, and the very atmosphere buzzed with palpable, unsettling energy. For a fleeting moment, she thought she had somehow returned to the Fade—this place had the same disorienting lack of reason, but no. This wasn’t the Fade. This felt worse.
"This reeks of Solas..." she murmured under her breath, her voice swallowed by the vast, echoing emptiness around her.
Cullen was the next to step through, his eyes already scanning their surroundings, vigilant and tense. His brow furrowed the moment he took in the sight before them. Chunks of stone and masonry floated in the air, suspended as though gravity had forgotten them. Platforms, disjointed and irregular, were connected by spiraling stairs, tangled in green vines. Strange statues stood sentinel at odd intervals, their gazes unreadable. Paths twisted and turned, defying any logic or reason, curling off into impossible directions. One spiraled up toward a sky that seemed too far away; another disappeared into a yawning black abyss, its end hidden by darkness.
And mirrors. Dozens of them, scattered throughout, just like the one they had stepped through. Reflections of the impossible landscape flickered in them, warped and strange.
Behind him, Gaspard stepped through the portal at the head of the rest of the men who were with them. His usual commanding stride, though his face betrayed the briefest flicker of confusion before settling into a hard, calculating mask. The Emperor was not a man easily shaken, but even he could not dismiss the eerie, unnatural nature of this place.
"By the Maker..." Cullen breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. "Where are we?"
"In the Fade," Gaspard growled, his tone low, simmering with unease.
"We’re not in the Fade," the mage uttered, her voice firm though she wasn’t entirely sure. "It’s different. The Fade... has a dreamlike quality. A fluidity. But this—this place feels... constructed." She could feel it in the air—the dark tendrils of Solas’ magic that seemed to coil and twist, almost alive. It clung to her skin like oil, thick and unnatural.
The Emperor took a step forward, his boots clicking on the path beneath him as if to test its stability. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. “We need to keep moving,” he said, his voice hard. “Standing around gawking like lost sheep won’t get us anywhere.”
Miriam gave the man a pointed look for his audacious remark. But he was right. There was no sense in lingering here. “Follow my lead,” she commanded.
They began to move forward, picking their way across the suspended platforms and narrow bridges in tense silence, their forces trailing behind, as disoriented as their leaders. The Inquisition soldiers and Chevaliers alike cast uneasy glances at their surroundings, whispering among themselves, but no one voiced their fears aloud.
After what felt like an eternity of wandering through the maze—turn after disorienting turn, each path twisting in ways that made no sense—Miriam stumbled around a sharp corner, and her breath caught in her throat. There, in the distance, standing atop a long set of stairs, was a figure framed by yet another mirror.
Solas.
He hadn’t changed since she last saw him—his robes still hung around him in the familiar drape of an apostate, his expression as unreadable as ever. Yet the weight of his presence pressed down on her like a deep ocean current, overwhelming from all sides, threatening to crush her beneath its sheer, unbearable force. Her legs trembled. Not from fear—at least not entirely—but from the raw, soul-crushing power that radiated from him, filling the space between them like a storm waiting to break.
But all her emotions were quickly drowned by rage. Fury, white-hot and consuming, erupted from the depths of her being, surging through her black veins like wildfire. "You blighted heretic!"
Black flames burst to life in her palms, crackling and snapping as they danced along her arms, turning her rage into something tangible. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. In an instant, she fade-stepped forward, disappearing in a blur of magic and fire, rushing toward him, her one desire—to burn him alive, to end him—driving her every movement. Behind her, Cullen and Gaspard shouted commands and their forces surged forward, weapons drawn, their armor clanging as they charged toward the elf.
Solas stood perfectly still, his expression calm as she closed the distance between them. Her flames blazed hotter, her heart pounding in her chest. Miriam could feel the magic thrumming in her veins, the promise of destruction at her fingertips. She was halfway up the stairs—close enough to see his eyes flash blue—when the sound reached her. Screams. Desperate, horrified screams from behind.
It was not the sound of soldiers in battle. It was the sound of men dying in terror, their voices twisted by something far worse than the edge of a sword. The bond she shared with Cullen resonated with fear, and Miriam’s blood ran cold, her instinct to fight overridden by the primal need to know what was happening. She halted her advance, her body still crackling with magic as she turned sharply.
What she saw turned her stomach to ice.
Gaspard, the once-proud Emperor, stood frozen in mid-step right before the stairs, his mouth open in a silent scream, his entire body turned to stone. His features were locked in an expression of utter shock, his hand still gripping his sword, frozen as if reaching for an enemy that no longer existed. But it wasn’t just him. Every single one of their soldiers—their forces, hardened warriors, and Chevaliers alike—had been transformed into statues.
Miriam’s heart lurched. Her breath came out in shallow gasps as she scanned the battlefield. To her immense relief, she spotted Cullen standing alone amid the sea of statues, his sword still raised. He, too, was shaken, his eyes wide with disbelief, but he was the only one still untouched by the spell. He locked eyes with her, and at that moment, Miriam heard a hissing sound, as if the air itself were being torn apart. Searing agony shot through her left arm, accompanied by a sickening, wet noise that echoed in her ears.
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She looked down.
Her hand had been severed clean above the elbow, the stump pouring blood. Her wide eyes tracked her detached limb lying on the ground, fingers still twitching as the dark flames dyed out in the dirt.
Time seemed to stretch as the mage stared at the gruesome sight, her mind struggling to catch up with the reality of it. The pain was excruciating yet distant as if her brain had numbed itself in an attempt to shield her from it. The shock froze her in place. The power, that overwhelming presence from Solas, pressed down harder now, suffocating and relentless, as if the world itself were collapsing in on her.
“Miriam!” Cullen’s voice cut through the haze of pain, sharp and desperate, but it sounded so far away. She could see him moving, rushing toward her, but every movement was sluggish, like the air had thickened, trapping them in this moment of horror.
She turned her gaze back to the elf. His eyes glowed, power swirling around him like an invisible storm as he slowly descended towards her, calm, unflinching.
Rage bubbled up in her chest once more as she tried to close the wound, but she was so weak—so utterly drained by the loss of blood, by the crushing weight of Solas’s power—that her magic barely surfaced. Staggering forward, she reached out with her one good hand, her breath ragged. “Maker...” she whispered as her legs gave way beneath her. She fell to her knees, her hand pressing into the cold, fractured steps. Her blood smeared across the stone as she gasped, “Please... help me to burn the heretic. Please...”
And then something stirred.
The black veins across her body pulsed, oozing inky slime from her stump. The mark on the severed hand also began to leak the same dark essence. The black liquid gathered on the stairs beside her. It moved with purpose, coiling and twisting as if it had a mind of its own. It was forming, growing into a vaguely humanoid shape, dark and trembling, like a creature waking from a slumber.
The familiar presence washed over her. The Maker. He had come to deliver her once again! Relief surged through her chest, her heart beating wildly as she looked up, her vision blurred by tears.
But something was wrong. The figure’s form was unstable, trembling as though it lacked the strength to fully manifest. It wavered, shifting, its edges dissolving into shadow.
Solas’ voice broke through the tension, cutting through the air like a blade. "Elgar’nan, she drained the mark’s power while battling Corypheus. And don’t you remember, old friend? In my realm, I reign supreme." He raised his hand, and the fragile figure struggling to take form erupted into flames. Unnatural and cold, blue fire enveloped the dark substance, its cerulean tongues eviscerating it with terrifying speed.
“Stop, Maker, NO!” Miriam’s scream tore from her throat, raw with panic, but there was no time for more as Solas’ flames surged toward her. They licked up her severed stump first, forcing their way into her black veins, twisting and writhing beneath her skin as they burned the slime that filled them. Her blood turned to ice—freezing and burning at once. The mage gasped, unable to cry out any longer, her body shaking under the assault.
Behind her, she heard Cullen’s voice, a desperate scream that cut through the chaos as the connection, a gift from the Maker that had bound them together through battles and love dissolved in the inferno of the elf’s magic.
“No…” she whimpered, the word barely escaping her lips, strangled by the agony. She forced herself to turn, her body screaming in protest, to witness the moment Cullen collapsed. His form tumbled down the stairs, each thud echoing in her mind, until he crumpled at the bottom, motionless beside the statue of the Emperor.
The sight felt like a dagger to her heart, but she had no time to grieve as the black scar across her chest—the one earned in battle with Samson—erupted with fresh agony. It felt as though it had been ripped open from within. Blue flames surged from the old wound, bursting from her skin like molten fire. With a gasp, the mage’s hand slipped on the blood, and she fell, her body rolling down the stairs, the world spinning around her until she came to a halt against Cullen’s still form.
Miriam’s heart pounded in her chest, frantic, desperate, but the fire in her veins was relentless. It had already crept up her face, crawling toward her eyes, searing her skin. There was a moment—just a heartbeat—where she could still see the world, see Solas standing above her, watching her suffering with a gaze that held neither malice nor mercy. “I will cleanse you of all corruption,” he said, his voice soft, steady. “And ensure that Elgar’nan can never reach you from the Fade again.”
Miriam let out a final, strangled scream as the blue flames erupted from her eyes, blinding her in an instant. Her world dissolved into the sea of darkness and pain, but then—just as she thought she had reached the peak of agony—something far worse unfurled. Her connection to the Fade began to fray. The threads that had once been so vibrant, so tightly woven into her soul, were coming undone. Magic, the source of her power, her identity, was slipping away, and with it, her emotions.
First to go was the anger. The rage she had worn like armor, the fury that had given her the strength to fight against His enemies, dissolved into nothing. She no longer cared to fight. No longer cared to win. What once burned so fiercely within her now lay cold.
Next went her faith. The belief in the Maker—the one truth she had clung to all her life—vanished as if it had never existed. The Maker, His Bride, the divine whispers she once cherished—they were no more. She was no longer chosen; there was no guiding hand, no sacred presence watching over her, no promises of glory and salvation. What had once been pillars of hope, certainty, and pride in her soul crumbled, falling silently into the abyss.
Just like that, one by one, all her emotions bled away, leaving behind nothing but a hollow void. And yet, as everything else fell away, one emotion remained—stubborn and resolute, refusing to be silenced.
Love.
The image of Cullen’s face lingered in her mind, a bright flame flickering against the gusts of a relentless wind. His presence—strong, unwavering—had been her anchor, the one truth in a world that spun out of control. He was the rock in her chaos, the light in her darkest hours. She had clung to him with the desperation of a drowning soul, reaching for the memory of his strength, the warmth of his touch, and the quiet comfort of his smile. It was all she had left, and she held onto it with trembling hands, terrified of losing that last thread of him.
But the harder she clutched at the memory, the faster it slipped through her fingers, like sand pouring through an open palm. Every detail blurred, every sensation dulled, until her feelings for her husband began to fade. Still, Miriam fought—oh, how she fought—straining against the inevitable, clawing at the remnants of what once had been. And yet, despite her struggle, the gut-wrenching moment came. She felt it like a punch to her core, that last ember of emotion sputtering, that final flicker of love growing dim.
When it was gone she felt a terrible hollowness settle in her chest, a silence so vast it seemed to echo. She was utterly, devastatingly empty, as if her very soul had been drained, leaving behind nothing but a shell.
As the Tranquil lay on the cold, unforgiving ground, her broken body ablaze, the agony that once roared through her veins faded to a distant, insignificant hum, a mere whisper as her vital systems began to fail. But just as her life threatened to slip away, the blue flames that had consumed her began to wane. In their absence, something new emerged—a subtle sensation, a gentle warmth brushing against her ravaged flesh. Healing magic.
The spell wove through her body, tender and persistent, seeping into her wounds, coaxing her back from the edge of oblivion. And so, instead of death, a dreamless sleep wrapped its arms around her, pulling her down into its dark, silent embrace.