The mage stood alone on the balcony of her chamber, her mind a canvas adorned with the vivid brushstrokes of the recent mission's events. The crisp mountain air, pure and invigorating, carried whispers of divine approval. The Maker's will had been executed with precision, the promised blood delivered to Him, a testament to her unwavering loyalty. The new Emperor had secured power under His guiding hand and the purge of heretics from the court unfolded flawlessly; each tainted soul thrust into the Void in a tribute to His glory.

Miriam allowed herself a moment to bask in the perceived satisfaction of the Maker and His Bride. The throbbing and inflamed flesh around her mark was not a concern, but a mere proof of her devotion. In the silence of her contemplation, she felt a profound connection to the divine, a sense that the heavens themselves were finally acknowledging her efforts. As the grandeur of success unfolded before her mind's eye, she couldn't help but anticipate the reward she believed awaited her and, more importantly, Cullen. The withdrawal symptoms that tormented his weary mind, she hoped, would now wane. The Maker, in His boundless gratitude, would surely extend mercy to her beloved friend, absolving him of the afflictions that threatened to unravel the tapestry of his sanity. Miriam's thoughts turned to Cullen, who, returning from the Winter Palace, had seemed more thoughtful and quiet than usual. His assurance that fatigue from dealings with the insufferable nobles was the sole cause brought her some relief, though a nagging worry lingered. As her mind dwelled on her friend's peculiar behavior, the memory of Duke Germain's repulsive advances resurfaced. A surge of anger rippled through her, causing her fists to clench. However, reason quickly prevailed, and she reminded herself that the Maker's justice had been swift and decisive. The Duke had met a grisly end at the hands of the Harlequins. Miriam allowed a fleeting smile to play on her lips as she savored the image of his lifeless body, retribution served with a dagger to the heart, and the hand that had dared to assault Cullen severed.

Setting aside those contemplations, she redirected her focus to the looming meeting, the Herald's mantle settling once again on her shoulders. With purpose, she made her way to the War Room, where the Inquisition council awaited her presence.

She entered the chamber as the final participant, her comrades already gathered around the expansive map that sprawled across the table. After exchanging brief greetings, she joined them for the ensuing discussion on their next course of action. It appeared that the Champion had finally located the red lyrium mine, a crucial hub in the Elder One's malevolent designs. But the path to it, wide enough to accommodate the Inquisition forces capable of dealing with the Red Templars and the Venatori guarding the location, was obstructed by the rift. Upon hearing this, Miriam's spirits soared, her mark tingling with anticipation as a fiery essence within it clamored for release upon the corrupt and the wicked.

"In light of the rift's presence on our path, the Inquisitor's direct involvement becomes imperative," Cullen declared, his brow furrowing. "I, too, would prefer to be present. There's a potential opportunity to glean more about Samson's whereabouts, and I feel a personal responsibility to attend to this matter."

"I propose that we seek the assistance of the Templar Order in this endeavor, given the nature of our enemies," Cassandra suggested as her gaze focused on the map.

Cullen nodded in agreement. "I believe they would be eager to contribute. The goodwill shown by the Herald of Andraste has elevated the Order's standing, resulting in increased recruitment. This mission could serve as a formidable trial by fire for the new Knights."

After a few more moments of discussion, when every detail found its resolution, Josephine interjected with a composed yet commanding tone, "Now that this matter is settled, it is time to confront another delicate question." She gestured for everyone to follow her, evoking inquisitive glances exchanged among the group as they complied. Within the confines of her office, the Ambassador carefully retrieved a package from one of the shelves, its already breached seal carrying the unmistakable mark of the Emperor of Orlais. “This arrived this morning from Val Royeaux," she explained, a hint of unease in her voice, "an official gift from His Majesty Gaspard to the Inquisitor." With measured care, she placed the package on her table and proceeded to open it.

Curiosity gripping her senses, Miriam peered inside to discover the most magnificent robes she had ever seen. The deep blue silk created a striking contrast with delicate golden embroidery, portraying the head of a roaring three-eyed lion, flames adorning its majestic mane. The third eye on the lion's forehead was fashioned in the likeness of the Inquisition’s insignia. As an accompanying accessory, a ribbon of the same hue bore embroidered Canticles from the Chant of Light. The mage's breath caught in her chest as she slowly reached out, running her fingers gingerly over the garment. The smooth, cool fabric proved pleasant to the touch. "They are beautiful," she whispered in awe.

"And indeed, quite audacious," Leliana added with an amused tone.

Miriam, perplexed by the Spymaster's remark, furrowed her brow. "Audacious? I don't understand."

Leliana's countenance remained impassive as she responded, "Is it not self-evident?"

The mage's bewilderment morphed into a subtle vexation. "Not to me, I am afraid."

Josephine, always diplomatic, stepped forward to provide clarity. "The lion, Herald, has been a symbol of Orlais since the end of the Exalted Age. To position the Inquisition's emblem not merely adjacent but seamlessly woven into the majestic beast conveys a message beyond mere alliance, it implies union."

Cullen crossed his arms, his face weighted with concern, as he interjected, "If I understand your words correctly, this means that if the Inquisitor were to wear these robes in public, it would be tantamount to proclaiming that the Inquisition and the Orlesian Empire stand as an indivisible entity.”

The Ambassador nodded. "Indeed, it would be a statement, subtle yet of consequence. In the Game, every little thing has political significance, even seemingly innocuous details carry weight."

"His Majesty despises the Game, he explicitly conveyed that sentiment to me," Miriam replied with an earnest tone.

Leliana chuckled. "He could loathe it and yet engage, even excel in it."

"I believe he is testing us, gauging the extent of what we will tolerate in order to keep his support," the Ambassador contemplated, pinching her chin in thought. "The King of Ferelden would certainly not appreciate it. The Inquisitor's statements about the new Emperor have already strained our relations with the monarch. As whispers of the image adorning her newly acquired robes spread, it will only add to the burgeoning tension.”

"We could take the gift and just let it languish, forgotten," Cullen suggested, his obvious contempt for the whole affair coloring his words.

Josephine shook her head. "If we accept the robes and the Herald does not wear them soon, especially at the official events, it would be considered a grave insult."

"I believe we should allow Gaspard to have his way for the time being. The cost of worsening relations with Ferelden is not excessively steep," Leliana stated, pausing for a moment before continuing. “The country's political and military might has been on the decline since King Alistair ascended the throne. He is a kind and honest man, but sadly, such qualities do not necessarily make for a proficient ruler."

"If we yield once, he won't cease,” Cullen grumbled. “He'll keep pressing for more and more concessions."

"Indeed, he will. However, we will confront those challenges as they arise. For the present, we stand to gain from Orlais' military strength and the unwavering support of the Emperor. Let us, for now, play our part," Leliana replied with a composed demeanor.

Cassandra emitted an exasperated sigh. "I detest the Game, but nonetheless, this is a symbolic gesture, we aren't truly obligated to anything by accepting it. Thus, I vote in favor."

"If His Majesty needs reassurance, I do not see why we cannot offer it. The Emperor is the ruler of His design, surely no harm will come to us in professing our unity," the mage interjected with her perspective.

"I am aware that I must yield to the majority, yet I find this unfolding of events deeply unsettling. We formalized our agreement in the Winter Palace just a few weeks ago, yet he has already begun with these schemes. Gaspard might be a man of war, yet in essence, he is no different from any other noble," Cullen muttered, the final words escaping his lips with a sense of disappointment.

"That is an unjust claim, Commander. His Majesty distinguishes himself. He is more devout and pious than any of his peers. It's unfair to lump him in with the others," Miriam countered with a fervent glow in her eyes.

Cullen seemed poised to reply, his mouth parting, but then Josephine attuned to the brewing tension, gracefully intervened, "Let us adjourn this meeting for now. Herald, here are the robes. I will craft the official response from the Inquisition, extending gratitude to the Emperor for this gift."

Taking the package, Miriam bid everyone farewell and made her way to her quarters, eager to try on the new attire.

As evening descended, Miriam approached Cullen's office with purpose. A gentle rap echoed as she knocked on the door, seeking entry for a healing magic session. Cullen, in response, tersely permitted her access. She found him standing near a table laden with an array of maps and reports, his gaze carrying a furrowed brow as it assessed the new robes enveloping her form and her hair intricately braided with the ribbon that accompanied the attire. "I see you've chosen to embrace Orlesian fashion as promptly as you could," he remarked, his tone cold.

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Miriam's heart tightened, the trivial matter casting a shadow over their interactions pained her. "I don't want discord between us. If it truly bothers you, let's convene another meeting. I'll alter my vote, and we can decline the gift."

Cullen's frown persisted, yet a noticeable softening touched his expression as he observed her. "No, it wouldn't be proper if your sentiments toward me influenced your decisions as Inquisitor," he paused for a moment, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Forgive me, I shouldn't have made that comment. Let us begin anew. Good evening, Miriam."

Relieved, she returned his sentiment with a warm smile. "Good evening. Are you prepared for our session?"

He nodded. "Of course. Let's commence."

As he settled into a seat, the mage approached, extending her hands to start the healing session. However, before she could channel her magic, Cullen's gaze fixated on the amulet gracing her neck. "With all that embroidery glistening, I didn't notice at first, but now I see you're still wearing the amulet I gave you," he remarked in a soft voice. Confused, Miriam furrowed her brow. Why would she have taken it off? It was her most prized possession, a symbol of their shared history and the support she found in him. Meanwhile, Cullen continued to speak, his tone slightly tinged with wistfulness, "It's such a worn and simple trinket. Against the backdrop of these regal garments, its humble wear becomes more pronounced."

Miriam's hand instinctively went to the amulet, fingers tracing the edges. She hadn't realized how weathered it had become over time. Memories flooded back—the battles they faced together, the challenges they overcame. It had indeed suffered, but its significance to her remained unwavering. "I never thought of it that way," she admitted, her gaze shifting between the amulet and the elaborate attire. "To me, it's a symbol of strength and resilience. It might be worn, but it has endured, just like us. I wouldn't part with it for anything."

In the depths of his gaze, a fleeting but intense emotion emerged in response to her words, yet it was a brief unveiling of a sentiment that vanished as swiftly as it appeared. "I see, it is… gratifying to hear," he uttered, a smile forming on his lips as he adjusted himself in the seat. "You can start at your earliest convenience."

Miriam began the healing spell, threading her enchantments with practiced finesse. As the ethereal energy enveloped Cullen, she observed the gradual change in his demeanor. Though far from complete relaxation, it was a marked improvement on previous sessions. His countenance no longer paled, his breath remained steady, and he withstood the entire span of the spell, she dared say, with noteworthy ease.

With a gleam of pride in her eyes, she finished the session and withdrew her hands to meet Cullen's gaze. "Judging by your improved reaction, I wouldn't be surprised if, in time, you found it not entirely unpleasant, perhaps even soothing."

A contemplative expression settled upon his features. "I doubt I will ever appreciate the touch of magic, but if such a change were to occur, I am confident it would be through one of your spells." A comforting warmth washed over Miriam, yet before she could formulate a response, he clasped both her hands, and posed a question with a sudden gravity in his tone, "May I implore you for a favor?"

Her brows furrowed in response, a mixture of concern and curiosity at his question. "Of course. What do you need?"

"I've been observing the worsening state of your mark, and I fear that seeking Solas’ counsel might be our best course of action,” he started, his tone earnest and troubled. “He has knowledge of magic that surpasses most, and his insights could be invaluable."

Miriam recoiled subtly at the mention of the elf. "Solas is an apostate, an infidel. His knowledge may be vast, but he has nothing to do with the mark bestowed by Andraste."

Cullen's grip on her hands tightened. "I understand your reservations, but desperate times call for desperate measures. We need every resource available to us. Solas may hold the key to understanding and perhaps mitigating the toll of your new powers. Remember, he did extend his assistance to you many times before."

She shook her head. "Please, do not compel me to revisit my interactions with the apostate. It is a matter that festers in remorse. I should never have sought counsel from one who does not hold reverence for the Maker and His Bride. The complexities of Andraste's gift should be understood and addressed within the sacred teachings."

Cullen's expression softened, and a hint of vulnerability crept into his voice. "Miriam, I care for you, and it pains me to witness you suffer. The Maker, I believe, would know that seeking the advice of an apostate is not for lack of faith but rather for my well-being."

The utterance of his feelings resonated deep within her as he, at last, spoke the very words she had longed to hear, yet the moment was soured by the fact that it was accompanied by this particular request. A sigh escaped her lips, caught in the tumultuous struggle between her convictions and the undeniable yearning to bring him solace. After a few long moments of deliberation, she reluctantly conceded, "I shall speak with Solas, but I cannot give you any assurances beyond that."

He exhaled in relief, gratitude evident in his eyes. "Thank you," he uttered, holding onto her hands for a moment longer before releasing them.

Miriam descended into the dimly lit rotunda beneath the library, the air thick with the scent of old tomes and the fresh paint. There, she discovered Solas finishing the creation of an elven fresco, the strokes of his brush depicting tales of the Inquisition’s history. A conflict resurged within her as the notion of beseeching aid from the apostate loomed, quickening her heartbeat and leaving her throat parched. She stood at the threshold of uncertainty, grappling with the silent struggle, and as she finally gathered the strength to speak, her internal turmoil manifested in the quivering hesitation of her lips. The notion flitted across her mind – if only Solas had converted to true faith, she could accept his help without the bitter taste of betrayal clinging to her. Miriam drew a deep breath, her chest tightening. "Solas," she began as he turned to face her, "will you be willing to accept the salvation that awaits you in the arms of the one true God? To surrender yourself to the Maker and His Bride, and in so doing, save your soul from eternal damnation in the Void?"

Solas raised an eyebrow, studying the mage with an air of amusement, his intense gaze fixed on her. "Inquisitor," he replied, his voice quiet and deliberate. "Having ignored me since our arrival in Skyhold, you suddenly grace me with your presence and greet me with an attempt at conversion, no less. To what do I owe this honor?"

Miriam's countenance stiffened, her jaw tightening. "I urge you to take this seriously. I extend to you a path of salvation," she retorted, her voice resolute, "an opportunity to embrace the light and escape the impending darkness that awaits those who deny the Maker."

Solas inclined his head, a wry smile curling upon his lips. "Salvation, Inquisitor, is a concept subject to personal interpretation. I opt to seek it on my own terms, free from the whims of gods and their devoted heralds."

A surge of ire welled within Miriam, the mark on her hand pulsating with an intensified burn. "So, you spurn my offer?"

"Decidedly so," Solas replied with nonchalance, strolling toward a nearby table to place his brush.

Inhaling deeply, Miriam tightened her grip, her palm now a clenched fist. "May the Maker extend His mercy upon you, for once the Elder One is vanquished and your services rendered obsolete, mercy shall not be my chosen course."

He turned towards her, and for the briefest of moments, a trace of disdain painted his face. "Oh, and pray tell, what would be your chosen course then? Would you throw me to the mercy of the Templar Order you restored, or perhaps send me to the gallows as you did with Briala?”

Miriam took a step closer, her voice a vehement declaration. “It is not for me to decide, the Inquisition is governed by its council. But rest assured, I would do everything in my power to ensure that an infidel like you would come to understand the depths of despair."

"Despair," the elf scoffed, his tone sharpening, "is a luxury I can ill afford. By your leave, Inquisitor." With that, he departed, leaving Miriam alone within the rotunda.

The mage took a moment to collect herself, the echoes of the conversation lingering in her mind. The nerve of this blighted infidel was astounding, but what more could one expect from someone of his ilk? She unclenched her fists and took several long breaths. Now somewhat calmed, she could acknowledge that, at the very least, she had fulfilled her promise to Cullen. She had engaged in conversation with the elf, even if it didn't unfold as planned.

Miriam took a contemplative glance around the space, her gaze falling on the frescoes the elf was painting. The last one depicted her standing before a crowd, her eyes ablaze with an emerald glow, with several bodies hanging from the gallows behind her. Despite her disdain for the man, she looked at his work with begrudging approval; he was depicting the events truthfully. However, she resolved to keep a closer watch on him. Who knew what this apostate was up to? Making a mental note to arrange for more Templars to be stationed in this area of Skyhold, she turned to leave for her chambers.

The flickering candlelight cast a soft glow across her quarters as she entered, fatigue weighing on her from both the emotional strain and the lateness of the hour. A single letter, adorned with the broken seal of the Ostwick Circle, lay on her table, catching her eye. With a mix of curiosity and trepidation, Miriam opened it, her eyes absorbing the inked passages with growing disbelief.

"Esteemed Inquisitor,

It is with a heavy heart that I convey to you the lamentable news of the passing of the First Enchanter Lydia. Her crossing through the Veil was serene, a testament to the Maker's grace, and we find solace in knowing that she now dwells in His eternal light.

As the Inquisitor, and the Herald of Andraste you bear the weight of great responsibility, and in this trying time, I implore you to find strength in the divine purpose that guides your path.

With deepest sympathies,

Knight-Commander Tobias

Ostwick Circle of Magi."

As Miriam absorbed the news of Lydia's passing, a profound sense of grief enveloped her. Tears welled in her eyes, and she sank to the floor, grappling with the unexpected blow to her spirit. The one who had guided her, the one who had taught her everything she knew, the one who had truly cared and loved her, was no more.

A sudden surge of anger, a tempestuous emotion, seized her. The ire was directed towards the Maker Himself. She, His devoted servant, had diligently carried out His bidding, adhering faithfully to His will. Yet, what reward did she reap? Was this the divine boon bestowed upon her for her unwavering faith? "WHY!?" she bellowed, the exclamation echoing through the confines of her chamber. "What more do You want? You cruel, merciless—" Her outcry was abruptly stifled, cut short by a formidable wave of pain coursing through her palm. An intense, piercing sensation left her incapacitated, doubled over in an involuntary submission to the tormenting force as blood poured from the mark. The note slipped from her grasp, descending to the floor, its pristine parchment now tainted by the deep hue of crimson, every word submerged except for the phrase, 'Her crossing through the Veil was serene'.

A chilling realization settled upon her, penetrating the fog of anger that had enveloped her moments earlier. First Enchanter Lydia, her cherished mentor, had been an elderly soul, and the inevitability of her passing was an undeniable decree of mortal existence. The Maker, in His divine grace, had granted her the solace of a serene departure, sparing her from the clutches of prolonged suffering and the anguish of lingering illness. This was the unspoken boon, the reward veiled in the shadows of her grief. "Forgive me," she whispered, her voice a fragile echo in the quiet room. "Have mercy on your unworthy, foolish servant." Yet, as if in denial of her plea, the relentless waves of pain surged through her once more. Blood flowed freely, her body convulsing with each pulse of agony. Summoning her healing magic, Miriam began the incantation, the arcane energy tingling in her fingertips. Fear emerged within her—what if the Maker deemed her resistance to the punishment an act of defiance? A silent prayer formed on her lips as she withdrew her spell and embraced the torment, allowing the pain to wash over her like a cleansing fire. The room seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light, casting shadows that danced in rhythm with the pulsating waves of suffering. Miriam's body trembled, her breaths shallow, yet an inexplicable peace settled within her. This was not a punishment, but a crucible through which her spirit would be refined.