Commander Cullen, his boots caked in ash and debris, slowly made his way through the desolate ruins of the once magnificent Temple of Sacred Ashes. The grand structure, which had once stood tall and proud as a symbol of divine power, was now reduced to rubble and cinder. The very air around him was thick with the acrid scent of burned flesh and decay, a haunting reminder of the horrors that had taken place here. Behind him marched a weary procession of soldiers, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair. They had borne witness to an event beyond the bounds of the human imagination: the temple, brimming with the faithful, rent asunder by an explosion, and the sky torn apart by a gaping wound in the Veil.
Amidst the ruins of the once holy place, they found only one survivor: a strange woman who had fallen from the Fade itself. She was an enigma, a puzzle that none of them could solve. How had she survived the explosion that claimed so many lives, including that of the Divine Justinia herself? More importantly, how had she managed to enter the Fade, a realm reserved for spirits and demons? The mere contemplation of such a notion made Cullen shudder with trepidation. The only recollection of people physically venturing into the Fade occurred centuries ago and ultimately resulted in the cataclysmic First Blight that nearly decimated the entirety of Thedas.
The Commander’s ears were keenly attuned to the soldiers' whispers behind his back, and he found himself intrigued by their discussions of the mage, the sole survivor of the explosion. Like him, they all saw a golden female figure standing above her as she fell out of the rift. Yet the identity of this apparition remained shrouded in mystery. Some of the soldiers posited that the vision was nothing more than another illusion of the Fade or a manifestation conjured up by the powerful mage's own mind. Others, however, saw the glorious figure as an omen, a harbinger of an even greater upheaval to befall the land.
Despite their varying theories, all men seemed to agree on one thing: that the enchanter was the culprit. The fact that she had not been summarily executed on the spot was a source of bewilderment and discontent among the troops, and Cullen could hardly blame them.
If he were to scrutinize his conscience, he would not deny that an eagerness to hold her accountable had taken root within him as well. The allure of slipping back into the familiar grooves of anger and fear that had so long defined his life was all too tempting. The years spent in the abyss of these emotions had left an indelible mark on his psyche. To his own dismay, the familiarity of their smothering embrace had somehow become a refuge that beckoned to him like a siren's call. Yet, despite the pull of these dark feelings, he found himself fighting to keep his composure.
As he gazed upon the havoc that had once again engulfed him, he felt as if the Maker was testing him, daring him to give in to the demons of his past once again. However, what happened with Meredith taught him that succumbing to such instincts would only serve to further compound the chaos. Thus, with a resolute will, he compelled himself to surmount his first visceral reaction and tried to maintain a state of impartiality and reason in the presence of yet another brazen display of magical power.
"Ugh, this woman's shag is driving me to the brink of madness," the Right Hand of the Divine grumbled, her powerful form unyielding beneath the weight of the unconscious suspect's body draped over her shoulder like a sack of grain. The mage's head lolled listlessly behind her back, with the long locks wriggling between Cassandra's legs and getting caught in the debris as she strode forth. "Commander, do me a favor and cut this thing short," she said, her voice thick with irritation. "I am tired of struggling to keep it in place, and I would hate to stumble and fall because of some errant strands of hair."
Without hesitation, Cullen unsheathed his sword and strode over to the prisoner. He gathered her hair at the base of her neck, and with a swift motion, he sliced it off. The long locks fell away, tumbling to the ground like a cascade of dark silk.
His gaze fixated upon the enchanter's left hand, drawn once more to the strange wound that glowed dimly as if with an inner light. It was a most disconcerting and disturbing sight; the veins upon her palm were so visibly enlarged that it seemed as if they might burst forth from the confines of her flesh at any moment. A ghastly greenish hue tinged their surface, giving off an air of something decidedly unnatural. Though the rest of her hand was concealed beneath the folds of her robes, he sensed with growing unease that the affliction was spreading faster than he thought, as the strange and eerie green glow had started to spread to her neck as well.
There was much to be done, and yet it looked like they didn't have much time on their hands. The woman Cassandra carried was their only lead in this tangled web of mystery and chaos, and her premature demise would complicate things beyond measure. That’s why they found themselves with no other choice but to transport her to their camp at Haven with the utmost haste, not only to stabilize her condition but also for the purpose of interrogation.
Leliana, ever the efficient scout, had already advanced ahead to prepare the dungeon for their captive and to seek counsel from the enigmatic elf Solas, who had appeared in the village just hours after the Breach had torn the sky asunder.
The man had entered their camp voluntarily and, despite being met with suspicion and apprehension, surrendered his staff to the Chantry forces without a word of protest. He spoke calmly of his expertise in magic tied to the Fade, claiming to have studied it on his own, free from the constraints of the Circle. His story was convenient, almost too much so, but the witness reports of his presence in a nearby settlement during the Conclave blast gave him some measure of credibility, and he was not considered a suspect in the disaster.
To their surprise, the elf indeed proved knowledgeable about the Fade, describing its effects on the Breach in detail that convinced even the most skeptical of his competence. And so, with trepidation, they allowed Solas to study the smaller rifts that had appeared close to Haven. Though the risks of accepting an apostate's aid were great, the potential benefits outweighed the danger, at least for the time being.
Cullen hoped that with the help of their unlikely ally, they might finally unravel the connection between the woman from the Fade, the Breach, and the Conclave's explosion.
As they trudged further along the mountain path, an abrupt chill shot down his back, causing him to wince involuntarily. Despite a fortnight without lyrium, his Templar senses remained acute, primed to detect the slightest disturbances in the Veil. In a jolt of alarm, his head snapped upwards, his eyes widening in surprise as he witnessed the sky above him split apart by an eerie emerald light, birthing a small rift. He could hear the demons already starting to make their way through the opening, their otherworldly howls and screeches filling the air with dread.
"We can’t afford to abandon this gateway to the Fade, not this close to the settlement," Cullen said, his voice low and urgent. "Lady Cassandra, take the prisoner to the camp. My unit will establish a foothold here and secure the rift."
The Seeker nodded resolutely, her sharp features set in determination. "I'll dispatch additional troops to your location as soon as I can," she said before rushing off towards Haven with surprising speed, the unconscious prisoner slung over her shoulder.
His gaze lingered on her retreating form before turning to the soldiers, who looked pale and frightened; most of them had never faced the denizens of the Fade before. The Commander's voice was firm and commanding as he spoke to his men, "Our objective is to maintain this defensive perimeter. The demons must not be permitted to advance any further towards Haven." They all nodded in unison, their swords at the ready.
The air around them crackled with otherworldly energy, and the monsters began to pour through, their twisted forms illuminated by the viridescent light that was spilling forth from the rift. The smell of sulfur filled his nostrils, and he felt a surge of adrenaline course through his body.
At his command, they charged towards the looming swarm of ghastly wraiths that ominously accompanied a formidable rage demon. His heart raced with a mixture of apprehension and eagerness, and his eyes fixed on the enemy before him.
With a well-honed instinct, Cullen reached deep within himself and called upon the lyrium, only to be met with a sharp, agonizing pang of emptiness that pierced through his very being. It was a strange and surreal sensation as if he were trying to wield a phantom limb that no longer existed.
Despite his knowledge of the inevitable, actually experiencing the loss of his powers was a jarring and disorienting shock to his system. For so many years, his abilities had been an integral part of his identity—a tangible proof of who he was and what he could do. And yet, here he was, stripped of his powers and forced to rely solely on his own strength and cunning.
However, Cullen was no stranger to adversity or challenges. He recalled that he had willingly left behind his former life as a Templar, determined to start anew and forge a different path for himself. Powers or not, he was a seasoned and experienced soldier with a warrior's heart and soul. Thus, with a steely resolve, he cleaved his sword through the wraith, and the phantasm dissolved into fragments with a dazzling flare of emerald radiance.
Cullen’s face was caked with sweat, blood, and grime, the result of countless hours spent locked in a desperate battle with the demons. Every inch of his body was screaming with pain; fresh cuts and bruises stung with every movement, and his muscles ached with exhaustion. The fight seemed endless, with wave after wave of monsters crashing against their defensive perimeter.
The creatures were not individually powerful, but their sheer numbers were overwhelming, and slowly but surely they wore down his soldiers. The casualties were mounting by the hour. Several of his men lay dead, their lifeless bodies scattered across the battlefield, while others writhed in agony with injuries both severe and life-threatening. The rest were exhausted, their spirits crushed by the unending onslaught.
The Right Hand had promised to send reinforcements, but none had arrived so far. He couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of unease—what if something had gone wrong? What if Cassandra had been ambushed on her way to the village, or if the prisoner had somehow regained consciousness and attacked her? The scope of things that could go awry seemed boundless, and the anxiety that gripped his heart as he contemplated these prospects disturbed his concentration. The Rage demon, quick to capitalize on any weakness, saw the opening in his defenses and disappeared beneath the ground, only to emerge directly under his feet and drop him onto his back. Cullen gasped in pain as his body hit the cold, frozen terrain with a sickening thud. Above him, the demon lifted its fists, which glowed with molten lava, ready to crush him with their smoldering weight.
Just as he prepared himself for the inevitable strike, he was suddenly engulfed by a protective blue barrier that absorbed the full brunt of the monster's attack. A surge of healing energy traversed through his body, mending his wounds, bruises, and aching muscles. The sensation of magic coursing through his veins was terrifying, and panic rose within him as he struggled to catch his breath.
Through his blurred vision, he saw Holy Smite fly past him, its holy power piercing through the demon's chest and leaving a gaping hole in its wake. The force of the spell continued onward, striking a wraith that had been lurking behind the demon and reducing both monsters to ash.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
As the dust settled, Cullen frantically scanned the battlefield to find out who had joined in to fight. To his immense relief, he caught sight of Cassandra and Solas rapidly approaching, their bodies moving with a sense of urgency. Surprisingly, the survivor was with them as well, her lithe form trailing slightly behind the Seeker. The elf lifted his staff, and a burst of chain lightning sprung forth, staggering the demons in its path. The Seeker called upon the power of the Blessed Blades, not just for herself but for the soldiers fighting alongside her. With newfound hope and invigoration, they fought harder with their weapons now coated in a radiant holy light that dealt devastating blows to the creatures of the Fade.
Still, even with their combined strength, the battle continued to rage on. Cullen felt the barrier around him continue to glow, its power pulsing against his skin. He knew that he could not bear it much longer, and turned to face the woman who had been holding the spell.
"Free me from your enchantment, mage, at once!" he commanded, the indignation that she had dared to cast upon him stoked by the terror.
The enchanter recoiled from him; her hands shaking as she hurriedly broke her spell. As the magic faded, Cullen let out a deep sigh of relief and reengaged in the battle with renewed vigor, his sword swinging with deadly precision.
With the last of the demons vanquished, a fleeting moment of respite descended upon the battlefield. Solas wasted no time in seizing the opportunity to act. Urgently, he turned to the other mage, his grip firm as he took hold of her marked palm and pointed it toward the rift.
"Listen to me," he commanded, his voice calm and collected. "Connect with it, feel its essence as though it were your very own magic. Let it surge through you, and then exert your will over it as you would with your own spell." The prisoner looked at him with alarm and confusion etched into her features, but she complied with the instructions nonetheless. Her brows furrowed in concentration, and the mark on her hand began to glow with a bright intensity. A visible link of green light formed between her palm and the tear in the Veil, like a cord connecting two distant points.
He could see her body shaking with the immense exertion it took to maintain her grip, the sinew in her neck bulging as she fought to gain control over the rift. Her eyes, already wide with fear, widened even further as the pulsing green cord jittered as if possessed of a life of its own. Sweat started to flow down her face, which contorted with effort. "I cannot master it. It is too strong," she implored, her voice betraying her desperation.
"I am allowing my mana to course through you," the elf declared, his voice ringing with a resolute tone. "Take hold of it and draw upon its strength. You are capable of this, I know it to be true." His eyes locked on the woman's hand as he channeled his own energy into her body.
As Cullen stood there, transfixed by the unfolding scene before him, he felt the very air itself begin to thicken and warp with eerie, otherworldly magic. It was a force unlike any he had ever encountered, one that seemed to twist and distort reality itself, creating a maelstrom of energy that pulsated with raw, ancient power.
In wonderment, he watched as the woman's eyes glimmered with ethereal green light, mirroring the hue of the rift that lay before them. And then, with a sudden burst of determination, her fingers clenched into a death grip, and her body wracked with a piercing cry, she severed the connection between herself and the tear in the Veil.
As the edges of the rift shrank in on themselves, sealing the tear shut with a blinding flash of light, Cullen let out a long, slow breath and relaxed, realizing only now how tightly he had been holding the hilt of his sword. "Is it sealed for good?" he asked, turning to Solas.
The elven mage, with a sigh of relief, relinquished the prisoner's hand and turned to face the Commander, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. "Verily, we have triumphed," he intoned, his voice resounding with a sense of achievement. "Miriam has proven herself capable of sealing the rifts, albeit the lesser ones."
"The merit is not mine," the woman said, intervening with a voice that was feeble and exhausted but unwavering in its conviction. "I am but a humble servant of Andreste. It is thanks to her divine blessing and the aid of Master Solas that I was able to perform such a feat."
Watching the woman closely, Cullen noticed that she seemed even more pale and drained than when they had first encountered her. The suspect’s short, uneven strands of hair were plastered to her face with sweat, and the pattern of green veins that had previously crept up her neck had now reached her cheek.
Cassandra approached him, her eyes scanning the wounded soldiers with a mixture of concern and determination. "Solas," she called out, her voice carrying with it a sense of authority and confidence. "Please tend to the injured with your magic." The elf nodded obediently and proceeded to cast healing spells, his hands moving in intricate patterns as he channeled the power of the Fade.
It was then that the prisoner perked up and spoke with a quiet urgency in her voice. "I could help as well," she offered. "My healing spells are second to none."
Cassandra's expression soured at the suggestion. "I can't allow you to cast a spell upon our people while you are still a suspect," she retorted, her voice firm and unwavering.
The mage’s face fell at the rejection, and she clutched her hand tightly around an old, worn amulet that hung from her neck. As Cullen watched the exchange, his eyes fell on the burn scars that marred her hand. He found himself feeling a sense of amusement; after all, he had a similar flaw. In her case, however, he suspected that the scars were the result of a failed fire spell, a common mistake made by young apprentices still learning to harness their powers.
"But," Cassandra continued, her voice softening slightly, "you can give out the health potions that I brought."
Miriam's eyes shone with fervent eagerness as she gratefully accepted the pouch filled with flasks from the Right Hand.
As she approached the wounded, some men pushed her away, unwilling to receive her aid. Miriam seemed unfazed by their rejection, simply moving on to the ones who were too weak to protest. She tended to the wounded man with the careful gait of a seasoned healer, her fingers nimble and deft as she administered the health potions to them. Cullen observed the way she moved, her body fluid and graceful even with all the strain of her affliction. It was clear that she possessed a talent for healing, despite her current predicament as a prisoner and suspect.
When the two enchanters moved away from them, the Seeker turned to him in a hushed yet resolute voice and said, "Solas is the Maker's instrument. Not only did he stabilize the mage, allowing me to carry out my interrogation, but he also revealed a most surprising fact that her mark has the power to seal the rifts".
Cullen leaned forward, eager for further details. "What have you uncovered? Did she offer a confession?"
Cassandra's expression darkened. "No, the mage professes her innocence," she said, her voice laced with a hint of frustration. "Miriam maintains that the circumstances leading to her present plight elude her memory. According to her, she entered the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the next thing she knew, she was inexplicably transported to the Fade. Her injury materialized suddenly and without warning, and as she was assailed by demons, Andraste descended from the heavens to her aid."
Cullen's brow furrowed, and he frowned in confusion. "Andraste?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "Surely she cannot be serious."
The Seeker's lips twisted into a grimace. "I know, but we cannot discount her claims entirely, the mark on her hand is undeniable. It has the power to close the rifts. And for now, that is all that matters."
"If her power was bestowed by the Holy Andraste, why is it killing her? This doesn’t make sense." He went on in disbelief.
"I don’t have the answer for you, I am afraid," Cassandra said with a tinge of exasperation. "What’s important now is to close the Breach. The rest can be resolved in due time."
The Commander nodded slowly; his face darkened with doubt. "You speak the truth, but I find it hard to believe that closing the Breach, which is an infinitely greater task, can be accomplished by the woman who was so greatly taxed by a mere rift," he muttered, his voice low and uncertain, as if burdened by the weight of his apprehension.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. "Well, she either succeeds or she will die trying," she replied nonchalantly, though the words were laced with a grim determination that belied her casual tone. "Take the wounded soldiers with you to Haven," she continued with an air of authority. "We cannot abandon the village without proper leadership. The able-bodied men will accompany us to the Breach."
"What about Sister Nightingale?" he asked with concern.
"Leliana has ventured to the Hinterlands with the bulk of our troops," the Seeker replied, her gaze momentarily glancing at Miriam before returning back to Cullen. "The conflict between the renegade Templars and mages at the village of Crossroads was escalating. If we hadn't intervened at once, the fate of the refugees would have been sealed. Hence, I couldn't send reinforcements to you."
The Commander heaved a deep sigh, "I understand. I will do what I can to keep Haven safe until your return."
The woman's gaze fixed upon the Breach, her countenance fierce and unyielding. "We'll succeed," she declared with an unshakable determination. "For we have no other choice but to triumph."
Their troops came back from the Temple of Sacred Ashes bearing the limp form of a solitary survivor, yet the air surrounding her was thick with an altogether contrasting reverence. She was carried as if she were a fragile glass figurine, and whispers of awe and adoration trailed the procession. The same man and woman who had once referred to her as a cursed abomination or a wretched whore now spoke of her in tones of unmistakable veneration. As Cullen watched the march with a mix of disbelief and resentment, he couldn't help but voice his thoughts aloud. "It's amazing how quickly their tune has changed. They were spitting venom at her just hours ago, and now they're calling her the Herald of Andraste."
One of his soldiers, a gruff man with a thick beard, shrugged. "It's the power of belief, Commander. People need something to hold onto, especially in bloody times like these. And if they believe that the woman is their savior, then so be it."
Cullen shook his head, still unable to wrap his mind around the sudden transformation. "But how can they be so blind? She's just a person, like you and me."
The bearded man gave him a stern look. "Ser, that woman is the only one who can seal those damn rifts, and that means something."
He opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it. There was no point in arguing with a man who was set in his beliefs. Instead, he simply watched as the procession made its way past him, the whispers of admiration and worship growing louder with each passing moment. It was clear that the mage had become more than just a person - she was a symbol, a beacon of hope in a world that desperately needed it. Whether or not Cullen believed in her newfound holiness, he couldn't deny the power she gained over the hearts and minds of the people around her.
Solas, also unconscious, was carried with far less fanfare, his form relegated to a position of relative obscurity in the procession. Upon arrival, he and the Herald were taken to the infirmary to begin their convalescence.
The Right Hand of the Divine was the last one to reach Haven, scarcely managing to keep her feet moving, propped up by the arm of a man who sought to keep her from falling. Despite her exhaustion, Cassandra was electrified with newfound hope. Her voice trembled with fervor as she recounted the events that had taken place.
They traversed through the site of the explosion, where ghostly visions of the past flickered in the air and the voice of the Divine echoed through the area, calling out to Miriam for protection and aid. Everyone saw how the woman had hastened to the Most Holy's side, only to be thwarted by the true perpetrator of the crime. Although the apparition was cut short before it could reveal the identity of the culprit, it had proven Miriam's innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Once they arrived at the Breach, they found themselves face-to-face with the formidable Pride Demon, a battle that would have cost several of their men their lives had it not been for the Herald's ability to cast multiple spells at once, weaving them into a complex tapestry of magic that enveloped all those around her. She conjured shimmering shields of light and healed wounds with a single gesture.
To his surprise, Cullen detected a new note in Cassandra’s voice when she spoke about Miriam—a sense of respect that had not been there before.
After the demon had been vanquished, the Herald attempted to close the Breach, but it proved to be an impossible task. The sheer power of the rift was overwhelming, threatening to consume her entirely. Solas, recognizing the dire situation, offered his own strength to aid her once again, but even this was not enough. In a desperate bid to help, Cassandra used her own abilities to suppress the magic of the Breach. The strain was immense, and the effort left her drained and weakened. Miriam and Solas were also overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, falling unconscious from sheer exertion. Still, in the end, through their combined efforts, they had successfully managed to contain the Breach, preventing it from spreading any further and stopping the demonic incursions.
"It is a triumph," the Seeker declared, her voice trembling with emotion as she concluded her tale. "Perhaps not the victory that I had envisioned, but a triumph nonetheless."
Cullen's heart was torn between the hope and doubt that filled his soul as he listened to Cassandra's words. Granted, there was something miraculous about Miriam's ability to mend tears in the Veil, but he couldn't shake the lingering thought that it might all be a cruel twist of fate. Could it be possible that she was indeed the chosen one of Andraste, sent to save them all from the chaos and destruction that had befallen Thedas? Or was this yet another ploy by the mage, a cunning deception that would lead them all to their doom?
Only time would tell the answers to these questions, but for now, the ability to close the rifts lay in the palm of that one woman's hand, and he was determined to do everything in his power to aid her on her path to seal the Breach, whether it was ordained by the Maker or not.