A few hours had passed since Samson's defeat, and now Miriam stood before the shrine of Dumat, her figure trembling with exalted anticipation. The wound on her chest had healed, the remnants of the dark slime transforming into a patch of flesh that formed a scar as black as the void, a darkness so profound it seemed to drink in the light around it. To preserve her modesty, she had wrapped the exposed area in the tattered remains of a fallen soldier’s cloak, a grim yet fitting veil for the mark of her trials. Behind her, the remaining faithful warriors gathered. Cassandra, Fenris, and Brother Sebastian, tended to yet still unconscious, were carried by the Chevaliers, who formed a protective line at the rear of the formation.

The mage knew she was a vessel of His might, a conduit of His divine retribution. The red lyrium crystals she had absorbed within the shrine, each one's corruption purified by the grace of the Maker, would now serve a holy purpose: reducing the profane construction to rubble. She marveled once again at His infinite wisdom, which had bestowed upon her the ability to harness the power of red lyrium through the mark of Andraste. Thanks to it, she could not only turn the enemy's weapon against them but also share her fervor with the faithful, instilling in them a righteous wrath against His foes. With this new divine power, she had even regrown her betrothed’s eye and healed his tainted limb, mending what for any other healer was irreparably broken. With the Maker’s help, truly, nothing was impossible.

Her senses attuned to Cullen standing beside her and his heartbeat echoed within her, rapid and fervent, matching her own breathless anticipation. Since the moment she had bestowed upon him the divine grace that restored and empowered his body, a bond had formed between them. Through this link, his feelings, his sensations, everything was laid bare, ready for her to perceive if she wished.

With the remaining forces in position, Miriam took a deep breath, ready to unleash the might that would shatter the foul construction. "My dear faithful warriors, step back!" she commanded, her voice firm.

Her men obeyed, retreating slightly as the mage raised her left hand. From the obsidian mark on her palm, a viscous black slime began to ooze forth, weaving and coalescing into a longsword—an exact copy of the one she had wielded during her investiture as the Inquisitor. The blade formed swiftly, its surface shimmering with a dark sheen. As it solidified, Miriam wrapped her fingers around its hilt and closed her eyes, letting the Maker's hand guide her.

The world around her dissolved into a vision, vivid and overwhelming. She saw the entire area consumed by black flames, the dark fire sweeping across the land, purging and cleansing all it touched. Amid the inferno, from the ashes of the old, the Golden City began to rise, its gleaming spires piercing the sky with divine brilliance.

The Chant of Light resonated through the air, so powerful and intense that it felt like it would tear her apart. The sacred hymn reverberated in her very bones, its sound so loud that her ears began to bleed. Despite the pain, she felt a profound sense of awe and reverence.

From within the City, she sensed a presence of immense power, so mighty she knew it could create or destroy entire realms with a single breath. Yet, there was no fear in her heart, only a deep, abiding peace. She understood in that moment that the Maker had returned to His city, and His gaze fell upon her with a sense of satisfaction. He was pleased.

Miriam's dark eyes snapped open, the vivid vision still searing in her mind. Warm rivulets of blood traced a path down her jaw and neck, a visceral reminder of the absolute truth in the revelation that had engulfed her moments before. She knew what she had to do. The path was clear, and the Maker's blessing was upon her.

The mage's hand clenched around the sword, its weight a solemn burden as she held it aloft, her voice piercing the stillness like a bell tolling in a desolate square. "Behold," she cried out, her words resounding with fervent conviction as the sword ignited, black flames leaping along its length. "The Sword of the Faithful, bearer of death to the impure and heretical!"

In response, above them, the heavens twisted and churned, dark clouds swirling in a tumultuous dance. From the roiling darkness, black fireballs began to rain down, crashing into the earth with explosive force. The shrine, already weakened by battle and the passage of time, groaned and trembled under the onslaught, its stones crumbling and breaking apart.

Miriam felt the raw, electrifying power surge through her veins, His divine presence guiding her every move with an unyielding force. In one swift, decisive motion, she plunged the sword deep into the soil, the earth trembling beneath the strike. Instantly, the towering wall of black flames burst forth from the ground with an unstoppable ferocity. The inferno surged forward, a tidal wave of shadow and fire, its heat so intense that the air itself seemed to burn. The flames roared with a deafening crescendo, an elemental force of destruction that crashed against the half-destroyed shrine with an overwhelming impact.

The shrine of Dumat stood no chance.

The black flames consumed everything in their path; stone, wood, and the drained red crystals disintegrating into ash, the very essence of the place being wiped from existence, as if it had never been.

Miriam stood tall amidst the leveled area, feeling the power coursing through her black veins, an incredible rush of energy that made her feel invincible. She watched as the grey particles, remnants of what once was, slowly fell and swirled in the air, a silent testament to her might and the divine wrath she had unleashed. She couldn't help but bask in the glory of it all, the sense of purpose and accomplishment that filled her being.

Behind her, the gasps of awe from the soldiers formed a chorus of reverence.

The sword in Miriam's hand shimmered briefly, its black flames fading as it transformed back into the viscous black slime that seamlessly absorbed into the obsidian mark on her palm. She turned to face her followers, their fervent shouts of "The Sword of the Faithful" resonating like a hymn of adoration. Her gaze swept across their faces. Their loyalty was unwavering, their belief in her unshakeable. As her eyes traveled over the crowd, they finally settled on Cullen. His black eyes held not only admiration but also a flicker of something deeper, something more primal, as they lingered on her bloodied neck.

Miriam's lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile as she caught the hunger gleaming in her betrothed's dark eyes. She could feel the intensity of his longing, the familiar craving that surged within him. The blood of heretics held a powerful, tantalizing sweetness, yet it paled in comparison to the elixir that was the blood of the pure and righteous. This thought sent a shiver through her, conjuring vivid images in her mind. She pictured Cullen pressing his mouth against her neck, trailing his tongue along its length, savoring her sanguine fluid until he reached her ear and caught it between his lips, his tongue deftly at work.

A faint tremor passed through him and she wondered if, like her, he could sense the emotions she projected. The idea thrilled her beyond measure. If the Maker had entwined their souls so intricately, then nothing was stopping them from binding their bodies as well. She yearned to ask him right here and now, but no, she couldn’t. Not yet. That would have to wait. The faithful were gathered, expectant, awaiting her words. She had a duty to fulfill—a revelation to deliver.

She raised her hand in a gesture of command, silencing the chants. The men fell into a reverent hush, their eyes fixed on her intently. "My brave warriors," she began, "the Maker has bestowed upon me a revelation of unparalleled importance!" The crowd leaned in, their eyes wide with anticipation, hanging on her every word. "On this land that we have cleansed, a Golden City shall be built," she proclaimed, her voice ringing with conviction. "Its glory will shine so brightly that the Creator Himself will forgive the sins of His children and return to us. But know this: the City will not simply appear. It is you, the faithful, who must build it from the gold most pure. Your hands will shape its walls, your devotion will fuel its rise!"

For a moment, silence reigned. The warriors stared at her, their expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief. Then, as the full weight of her words settled upon them, a frenzied cheer erupted from the crowd. The air filled with their shouts of jubilation, a wave of fervent energy that surged through the assembly.

Miriam's gaze turned to the distant horizon, where the last rays of the setting sun bled across the heavens in shades of crimson and gold. No longer was her role confined to confronting the Elder One or dispatching His enemies; her destiny now resonated with a far grander design. She was chosen to be the harbinger of the Maker's return, she would usher in an era of renewal and redemption and nothing would stand in her way.

As night settled over their camp, it cloaked them in a cool embrace, the stars above twinkling like distant, silent sentinels bearing witness to the day's triumphs. Miriam, bubbling with the excitement of their recent victories, sat at her desk inside her tent. With a quill in hand, she set to work on her report for Leliana and Josephine. Her words flowed as she recounted the success of their mission, the awakening of her new powers, and the profound revelation about the Golden City.

When she finally set down her quill, the mage leaned back, her thoughts wandering through the echoes of the day's extraordinary events.

She recalled Cullen, standing resolute before her as she addressed the troops. Now, with her duties complete, it was the perfect moment to address her personal affairs.

Deciding she needed to be more presentable before seeking out her betrothed, Miriam removed the piece of cloak that was wrapped around her chest, letting it fall to the floor. Her battered robes followed, slipping off her shoulders and pooling at her feet, revealing the thin shift beneath. She peeled the shift away, its fabric torn and stained from the battle.

Walking to the basin, she picked up a rough rag, dipping it into the cool water. She began scrubbing at the dried blood and the rest of the slime that clung to her skin. The water in the basin turned black as she worked, the grime slowly giving way to reveal her pale skin underneath. She felt the slight sting of old wounds, but pressed on, determined to cleanse herself.

After washing away the last remnants of dirt, the mage dried herself with a fresh cloth, her skin emerging radiant and unburdened. She turned to her new set of clothes, neatly folded and waiting. The linen shift and her usual dark blue robes were laid out. Once, these robes had been the perfect blend of simplicity and utility, their color and cut suited to the demands of her duties. But now, they seemed out of place. Her new status, earned through trials and divine intervention, demanded something more fitting. Opulent robes of pure white and gold—symbols of her connection to the Maker's grace and her role as a vessel of His might. The thought filled her with a quiet resolve. She would request such a garment as soon as they reached Skyhold.

Once she was dressed, the final task remained: re-braiding her disheveled hair. Miriam untied the grimy ribbon and tossed it onto the growing pile of old clothes. With a thoughtful sigh, she began to comb through her locks with her fingers, untangling the knots and smoothing out the strands. As she worked, she couldn’t help but feel how the braid, was no longer fitting as well. With a decisive flick of her wrist, she let her hair fall loose, letting it cascade freely. It was remarkable how quickly it had grown; just under a year ago, Cullen had cut it short, and now it flowed down to her waist. A small smile played on her lips as she admired the length. Perhaps it was another of the Maker’s blessings. With a sense of completion, she knew she was at last ready to go.

As Miriam emerged from her tent, she was greeted by a scene of eerie stillness. The camp lay in an unnatural hush, its inhabitants sprawled in unconscious heaps upon the ground. Soldiers, who had only moments ago been engaged in their tasks and conversations, were now unmoving, their breaths rising and falling in a steady, rhythmic dance. Torches and campfires burned brightly throughout the camp, casting a warm, flickering light that made the scene almost surreal.

The mage’s heart raced as she rushed to the nearest one, a young woman in Inquisitor's armor, swiftly checking for her vitals. The woman’s breathing was steady, her pulse strong, but she was ensnared in an unusually deep slumber. A thin trail of black, tar-like substance oozed from beneath her closed eyelids.

With a quick, practiced motion, the mage extended her hand and swept the dark, viscous slime from the woman’s cheek. It was unmistakably the same matter that coursed through her own black veins, the very essence she wielded under the mark of Andraste.

Miriam let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders relaxing as the tension drained from them. The chaos before her was unsettling but ultimately benign. The divine wrath she had channeled through her warriors during the battle with Samson was ebbing from their bodies, the result manifesting as a deep, unnatural slumber. Despite the disarray, she reassured herself there was no cause for alarm. The scene, though disconcerting, was merely the aftermath of their power’s withdrawal.

She stood there for a moment, the glow of the campfires casting shadows across her thoughtful face. The question nagged at her mind: would sleeping on the ground cause her people to fall ill? But the night was warm, and the soldiers, clad in their armor, would not suffer from the cold.

Her concern eased, she moved quietly through the camp, her footsteps soft against the earth. Her faithful warriors deserved their rest, and she was determined to grant it to them, if danger appeared, she and Cullen would be more than enough to repel the attack until she could rouse them once again.

Finally, Miriam arrived at the Commander's tent. The canvas flaps fluttered gently as she pushed them aside and stepped in, her eyes gradually adjusting to the muted light within.

As she stepped into Cullen’s tent, she was met with an unforeseen, yet very captivating sight. There, in the corner, with his back turned to her, stood her betrothed, clad in naught but a pair of plain trousers. He was engaged in the simple act of cleansing himself at the basin. Water, tainted with the dust and toil of battle, cascaded down his back, etching the sinewy contours of his frame. Miriam observed, transfixed, as the droplets lingered momentarily upon his skin, their descent a languid dance before vanishing into the fabric of his pants. She found herself longing to trace the path of those water droplets with her own fingers, to feel the strength and warmth of his body beneath her touch. With a sudden rush of warmth, she imagined pressing herself against him, feeling the solidity of his form enveloping her, the heat of his skin mingling with hers.

Her reverie was abruptly interrupted when Cullen turned around, water glistening on bare chest. Miriam’s gaze was immediately drawn to his eyes— still dark, but no longer the abyssal black they had been. The power she had shared with her betrothed was waning, though its grip lingered, fading more slowly than it had with the others. This was likely due to the fact that she had also infused him directly, channeling even more of her strength into him as she healed his wounds. "Miriam," he uttered in surprise, "I did not hear you come in." He hesitated, a pensive shadow flickering across his features. "Yet... I felt you, somehow. Just like during your speech to the soldiers."

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Miriam’s heart leaped, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "That is a marvelous news, my love." She moved closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing. "It means our souls are bound together by the grace of the Maker!"

Cullen’s brow furrowed deeply in bewilderment as he regarded the mage, a storm of confusion and curiosity playing across his countenance. Before he could voice his perplexity, Miriam hastened to explain. She spoke with an earnest fervor about the inexplicable connection she had felt after healing his wounds—how she could sense the rhythm of his heartbeat, how she could, if she chose, attune herself to his innermost emotions.

Cullen’s gaze grew even more astonished as if he were encountering a revelation too profound for mere words. “A bond that connects people in such a way,” he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence and awe, “I have never heard of anything like it... It must be the Maker’s will.” His eyes, dark and searching, seemed to embrace the mystic truth she had unveiled, accepting it as an undeniable sign of divine intervention.

Miriam took the washcloth from his hand, her touch lingering just a breath longer than necessary before placing it on the edge of the basin. “It’s not merely His will,” she said softly, her voice imbued with a sense of certainty. “It is His gift to us, a testament to the blessing He bestows upon our union.”

Cullen’s gaze was earnest as he continued. "Though, it’s not that I can attune to your emotions at will, as you do to mine," he admitted. "For me, it’s more a matter of…” He trailed off, his voice fading as he searched for the right expression. "I sense ripples of what you feel…echoes, perhaps..."He paused again, frustration flickering across his face. “It’s hard to articulate. Words seem inadequate to capture the experience."

For the mage, the declaration was of little consequence, her blessing was destined to be greater—she was His chosen, after all. What mattered was that now they could pursue their desire for each other freely. Her fingers wandered languidly over his chest, their touch a whisper against his skin as she gazed up, eyes heavy with intent. “And just moments ago,” she murmured, “what did those echoes stir within you?”

Instead of responding with words, Cullen’s hand reached out, encircling hers on his chest. Their fingers intertwined in a tight embrace, and he bent down, his lips pressing softly against her forehead.

Miriam’s initial spark of passion gave way to a flicker of disappointment as the chaste kiss lingered, almost mocking in its restraint. A pang of longing gripped her heart with a cruel, relentless intensity. The mere brush of his lips could never quell the tempest roiling within her soul. “Is this truly all that I’ve managed to awaken within you?” Without waiting for his answer, she seized him with unrestrained fervor, her hands slipping beneath his arms and finding their place upon his back as she pressed her body firmly against his. The mage’s leg, moving with a calculated fluidity, slid between Cullen’s and pressed against his groin. His breath hitched and in that moment, she captured his lips with an ardor that was as boundless as her own inner torment. She sensed the Commander’s initial surprise at her boldness quickly melt into a passionate response, his desire, raw and fervent, washing over her in hot waves. His arms, strong and commanding, encircled her waist with a fierce, possessive embrace as if he sought to bind her very essence to his own.

Her fingers traced along Cullen's wet back, the slickness of his skin heightening the intimacy of the moment. Meanwhile, his right hand descended over her backside, gripping it so tightly it was painful. Miriam’s gasp was lost amidst the fervor of their kiss, and she embraced the sensation with deep, personal satisfaction, for it was an honest and unfiltered expression of his need.

Caught in the passion of their embrace, the mage’s movements became chaotic, driven by an urgent, reckless desire. Cullen, on the defensive, struggled to keep them together as she tried to steer them toward the bunk bed. But as she maneuvered backward, her foot caught on a supply bag carelessly abandoned on the floor. And what should have been a simple descent onto the bed spiraled into a disordered tumble. Their limbs tangled and breaths intermingling, they crashed onto the frame with all the force of their combined weight. The impact was jarring, the wooden slats splintering and collapsing beneath them with a sharp crack. In an instant, the adrenaline and shock pushed aside their earlier desire as they lay amidst the wreckage, hearts pounding.

Cullen lay atop her, his form instinctively shielding her head and back with his hands. A moment of uneasy mutual regard passed between them, each scrutinizing the other for signs of distress or harm. Finding none, the absurdity of the situation finally hit them.

With a resigned sigh, Cullen released Miriam and sank onto his back beside her. "Maker’s breath," he muttered, his voice heavy with frustration and a wisp of bitter amusement. "This is the consequence of two souls allowing themselves to be swept away, pursuing what they should not."

The mage turned her head to look at her betrothed. Although the farcical nature of their mishap had not dampened her spirit, the sense of remorse she detected in him certainly did. She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean by ‘trying to pursue what they should not’?”

Cullen pushed himself up from the ground and extended a hand to Miriam, helping her to her feet. “We shouldn’t lay together before the marriage.”

Miriam regarded him with disbelief. “Why should we wait for a piece of paper signed by some Chantry Mother when the Maker Himself has already sanctified our union by binding our souls? In His eyes, we already belong to each other. Whatever intimacy passes between us cannot be contrary to His will.”

Cullen’s expression grew more earnest, his voice carrying a tone of firm conviction. “I agree with you, my heart, but for me, the formality is important. It’s not merely about the document or the ceremony; it’s about honoring tradition and the weight of what it represents. My grandparents, my parents, they all adhered to these customs. It’s how they showed respect for the vows they took. I want to follow the same path that has shaped my family and my beliefs.”

Miriam sighed deeply, a heavy, almost sorrowful sound, as her frustration gave way to resignation. She couldn’t truly grasp it—these notions of family paths and traditions seemed so distant, so irrelevant to her. What were such things in the face of the Maker’s will? Yet, if these things mattered so greatly to the man she loved, she could do nothing but yield “If it means that much to you,” she said slowly, her voice softened by the weight of his declaration, “I can accept it.”

Cullen’s relief was palpable as he drew her into a tender embrace. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice rich with sincerity. “I promise you, this does not lessen my love for you, nor does it diminish the significance of the bond He bestowed upon us.”

Miriam nestled closer to him, her voice a soft whisper in the dim light. “I know.” After a brief pause, she continued, "I suppose instead of trusting that the Maker's blessing would suffice for you, as it did for me, I should have asked."

Cullen tightened his embrace. “Don’t fret, my heart. Such a situation is without precedent, and we didn’t have the opportunity to deliberate on it all. Besides your intentions were clear to me, yet I was too enraptured by the moment to act with discernment and halt it.” He cast a fleeting glance at the bag over which she had stumbled. “Despite everything, I am relieved that we managed to find clarity between us.”

Miriam pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. “I’ll write to Josephine and order her to arrange everything for our wedding,” she said, her voice resolute. “That way, we can celebrate as soon as we arrive at Skyhold.”

Cullen tilted his head. “I dare predict she’ll insist on a few months at least, just to ensure the grandeur of the ceremony matches your status.”

The mage scoffed, her expression firm. “I don’t care what she requires. I am the Sword of the Faithful, Herald of Andraste, and the Harbinger of His Return. She wouldn’t dare make me wait.”

He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “You truly are extraordinary,” he began, his voice laced with admiration. “Your determination, your passion, your power—it’s all so… captivating. I can’t help but feel incredibly fortunate that soon you will be mine.”

Miriam’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I am already yours, my love,” she replied softly, gently removing his hands from her face. She took a step back, putting some distance between them. “Now, stop uttering such sweet words and get dressed. My willingness to respect your decision does have its limits.”

Cullen chuckled, shaking his head as he moved back to the basin. With quick, practiced motions, he cleaned his back and arms, wiping off the dust from their fall. Grabbing a clean cloth, he dried himself before heading to the chest where his fresh shirt lay folded. As he reached for it, he hesitated, his expression shifting to one of concern. “Why didn’t the guards check on us when we fell and broke the bed?” he wondered aloud, more to himself than to Miriam. “Surely, they must have heard the noise…”

“It’s because everyone in the camp is in a deep slumber. It’s a withdrawal effect from the blessing I shared with them during the battle at the shrine,” the mage said, her tone casual.

Cullen’s eyes grew wide in disbelief. “They’re what!?” he exclaimed, his voice filled with alarm.

Miriam’s gaze remained steady, her confidence unwavering. “They’re simply resting after the exertion,” she said reassuringly. “But there’s no need to worry. I’m convinced that the two of us will be more than capable of standing watch tonight.”

Cullen hastily pulled on the clean shirt, his movements sharp and frantic. Without a word, he bolted out of the tent, his heart pounding in his chest. He paused at the entrance, staring in stunned silence as he took in the sight of the guards and soldiers sprawled out on the ground.

He turned back to Miriam, and she felt the sharp sting of his anger. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” he demanded, his voice tense. “We could have been attacked! With everyone in this state, we’re completely vulnerable.”

The mage regarded him with a questioning look, her brow slightly furrowed. She raised her left hand so he could see the pulsing darkness of the mark. “Did you forget the might I command?” she asked, her tone calm yet firm. “We are far from defenseless.”

Cullen opened his mouth to argue, but Miriam turned her palm toward him, making a clear stop gesture. “My decisions are not up for discussion,” she said with authority. “The faithful will sleep, and we will keep watch. This is how it must be.” Her tone brooked no further disagreement, leaving the Commander with no choice but to accept her directive.

The mage's gaze softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. “Don your armor and join me,” she instructed. “The power of the red lyrium I consumed will sustain us through the night. We will guard the camp together.” Cullen, acknowledging the finality in her words, turned from the entrance and made his way to the armor rack. With a resigned determination, he began to strap on his armor.

Miriam gave him a satisfied nod, then turned and exited the tent. It was time for her to return to her duties.

The night passed uneventfully as they patrolled the camp, the red crystals Miriam consumed at the shrine of Dumat, keeping her wide awake and alert. Cullen remained tense and silent, his displeasure evident in the set of his jaw. His lack of faith in her decisions vexed the mage, but she resolved to be generous, to overlook his doubt. After all, he was her betrothed, and she could forgive him this.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the Commander's exhaustion became undeniable, his steps growing unsteady. Miriam watched him with mounting concern, noticing the first droplets of dark slime forming in the corners of his eyes. This wouldn’t do—she needed him resolute, needed him strong. It was time to share the Maker’s grace with him once more, to fortify his spirit and bolster his strength.

She turned to Cullen, her voice commanding. "Remove your left gauntlet." He hesitated for a moment, but then his hand emerged, and she clasped it firmly in hers. The mark on her palm responded instantly, black slime oozing forth and seeping into his skin, merging with his own veins. The dark substance snaked up his arm, and he closed his eyes, relishing the sensation as the raw energy surged through him, hot and invigorating. The black slime slithered back beneath his eyelids, retreating to the depths from which it had come, and once the process had run its course, he opened his eyes anew. They revealed themselves as deep and unfathomable as the abyss, now suffused with a piercing, newfound certainty, sweeping away all vestiges of doubt with an almost divine clarity.

Cullen slipped the gauntlet back on. “I can’t wait to taste the power you’ve shared with me in battle,” he said, his voice a low, eager growl. “Now, I almost wish someone would dare attack us, just so I could rip those heretics limb from limb—feel their throats give way beneath my teeth.” His gaze burned with a fierce intensity, the thirst for violence radiating from him like the heat of a forge.

Miriam couldn't help but marvel at her betrothed, the way his temper flared so violently yet with such focus. The sheer ferocity of his wrath, the hunger in his eyes, it would be a waste to let all that simmer uselessly. "My love, the faithful will be awake soon. Go scout ahead, find those who would dare oppose us. Hunt to your heart's content."

Cullen grinned, a flash of teeth as he relished the thought. Without another word, he turned and rushed out of the camp, his movements swift and precise, like a predator unleashed. The mage watched him go, the shadows of dawn beginning to stretch across the landscape. She knew he would find them, those unfortunate enough to cross their path. And when he did, the wrath of the righteous would not be wasted.

A thrill coursed through her as she imagined him in action, the power she had given him driving him to new heights of savagery against His foes. The faithful would soon awaken to find their enemies vanquished, their camp secure. And she would await his return, eager to see the results of the gift she had bestowed upon him.

Miriam didn’t have to wait too long. After making several rounds around the camp, ensuring everything was in order and the faithful were beginning to stir, she sensed his presence before she saw him. The familiar, intoxicating aura of power reached her first, and when she turned, there he was—Cullen, striding back into camp.

He was drenched from head to toe in blood, the crimson liquid clinging to his armor and dripping from his disheveled curls. In each hand, he dragged severed limbs, trophies from the heretics he had hunted. The crystals of red lyrium jutted out from the torn flesh, glinting in the early morning light.

The mage’s breath hitched as he approached, her senses overwhelmed by the rich, coppery scent of heretical blood. Cullen came to a stop before her, his eyes still burning with the remnants of his fury, though now they held a gleam of satisfaction.

“Are you injured?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

He shook his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his bloodied lips. “I encountered a group of Red Templars not far from here,” he replied, his voice low and rough with the thrill of the hunt. “They are no more.”

With a grunt, he tossed the severed limbs at her feet, the red lyrium pulsing faintly within the dead flesh. “A gift for you, my heart.”

Miriam’s lips curled into a smile, pleased by his offering. “You spoil me,” she replied, her tone teasing, though the hunger in her eyes was real. She reached out, allowing the black slime from her mark to ooze forth, tendrils of darkness slipping from her hand to envelop the severed limbs. The red lyrium crystals pulsed brighter for a moment, and then the energy began to drain, absorbed by the slime, flowing into her.

She sighed in satisfaction as the power filled her, the crystals dimming as they were consumed. When the last of the black liquid retreated into Miriam's mark, leaving only the faintest trace of darkness on her skin, Cullen's hand moved with a sudden swiftness. He grabbed her neck, his fingers rough as he tilted her head upward, holding her just under the chin. He slid his bloodied, mailed thumb over her lips, the metal cold and slick with the blood of their enemies. “I wonder,” he murmured, "if you taste of lyrium now, as you did at the shrine."

Miriam’s eyes sparkled with amusement. Without breaking the eye contact, she parted her lips and slowly passed her tongue over the path his thumb had traced, tasting the metallic tang of blood. "Find out."

That was all the invitation he needed. With a growl rumbling deep in his chest, the Commander surged forward, his lips crashing against hers with a force that left no room for gentleness. His kiss was punishing, bruising, more an assertion of power than an expression of passion. His hand gripped her jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to make her bones ache, forcing her mouth to open wider. He thrust his tongue in, and she was taken aback by the complex symphony of flavors that unfurled. It wasn’t just the usual sharp, iron tang of blood that met her senses but also a rich , subtle sweetness of raw flesh, mingled with the vibrant, spicy essence of her own power resonating back to her. She marveled at the sensation of tasting something beyond blood for the first time in what felt like an eternity, but she wasn't about to give him the upper hand so easily.

With a swift, decisive motion, she bit down on his tongue, feeling the soft tissue tear beneath her teeth, a crimson ribbon unfurling into the kiss. Cullen responded with a shudder, his body arching slightly as if trying to escape the sting yet drawn inexorably closer. The duality of pleasure and pain wove through their connection, and Miriam sucked on his wounded tongue, drawing the blood into her mouth, savoring her dominance. She continued until she felt that the pleasure he once derived had been overshadowed by the discomfort she was imposing. Then, reluctantly, she released him.

Pushing him back, she created just enough distance to assert her control. Her fingers traced over his lips, pressing firmly as she focused her healing magic. A soft, golden glow enveloped her hand, mending the torn tissue in his mouth. She wanted her betrothed to remember this- this moment of pain and power. A clear reminder humming through their bond, that for all his physical strength, it was she who held dominion, she who commanded the course of their intertwined fates.

Cullen’s gaze bore into her, his black eyes aflame with a fierce, possessive light. He had no objections, no resistance, only a deep, consuming focus on his own sensations. “You taste even better than the last time,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

A satisfied smirk played on the mage’s swollen, blood-stained lips. "Oh, I have no doubt. Don’t worry, there will be more—much more—for us to savor." Her words dripped with glee, for the feast they had just indulged in was but a prelude to the things yet to come.