While watching Miriam's eyes scan the words on the page, Cullen couldn't help but feel a knot tighten in his stomach.

"Surely, there's an error," the mage whispered, the tremor in her words matching the tremble in her hands as she carefully set down the copy of the announcement on the table.

He took a hesitant step forward, wanting to offer comfort but unsure of what words could ease the pain etched across her face.

"I confirmed it with my agents, and unfortunately, the news holds true. Few things manage to surprise me anymore, yet Carta's actions have achieved just that," Leliana stated, frustration threading through her words revealing a crack in her usual stoicism.

Miriam shook her head, her anxious eyes studying each member of the council. "I'm certain they survived the fires. Andraste wouldn't forsake her loyal Knights."

"Do you still believe that the Maker is a merciful God?” Leliana inquired, her words filled with both challenge and lament. “After hundreds of the faithful perished at the Conclave? After Justinia, the most devout woman in all of Thedas, died in the explosion?" She fixed her gaze on Miriam's desperate expression and continued, "Do you not know these words? Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow…"

"Please, stop!" Miriam whimpered as her hands sought to shield her ears.

Yet the Spymaster paid her no heed. "In their blood, the Maker's wi…"

"Enough, Leliana!" Cullen interjected, his expression etched with a deep frown.

"I just wish the Herald would see reality for what it is, not what she wants it to be,” replied the red-haired woman, unmoved by his remark. She seemed very determined to cut through any veils of denial or hopeful illusions Miriam tried to shield herself from the truth.

The color drained from the mage's face at Leliana's words, but she didn't respond to her. Instead, she hurried to Cullen and clutched the cloth of his tabard. "Commander, please, you have to check. Dispatch your men, ensure the truth of it. I cannot... I cannot accept this," she implored, her voice cracking with a rawness that pierced through his heart.

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "I promise you, I will send one of our soldiers stationed nearby to verify the information. But for now, it would be prudent if you returned to the Infirmary and tended to your patients. I'll handle this."

Miriam's eyes sought his for a fleeting moment before she reluctantly nodded. Releasing her grip on his tabard, she allowed him to guide her towards the exit of the War Room.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Cullen fixed Leliana with a stern gaze. "Why this harshness? Can't you see that she is devastated?”

"She is the Herald of Andraste, soon to be the Inquisitor. We can’t coddle her, she needs to be stronger,” the Spymaster replied, her hands folded with a stoic resolve.

Cullen sighed deeply. “Of course, she must harden herself to become a worthy Inquisitor, but there could have been more compassionate ways to guide her toward accepting the truth." He wished to continue, to say that it was easy for her to pass judgment because she did not know what it was like to work for years towards a goal, giving everything you've got to achieve it, only to witness it end in tragedy. Yet, he refrained; the atmosphere was already tense enough.

Josephine tactfully cleared her throat, “I propose we all compose ourselves. Each of us is undoubtedly distressed by the tragic outcome of the mission to punish Mother Lucia. Yet we cannot dwell on this matter, particularly when the Herald's investiture is scheduled for the upcoming week. This presents our chance to establish connections with noble families. If everything aligns with our plans, it will provide us with sufficient influence to secure an invitation to the peace talks in Val Royeaux."

"Shouldn’t Miriam be present for this?" Cassandra observed with a stern countenance.

"Lady Trevelyan's presence is not necessary for this particular discussion. I will send her a copy of the report from this meeting later," Josephine responded with a composed demeanor.

"Why would you suddenly refer to her as Trevelyan? I thought she was disowned long ago," Cullen inquired, his tone bearing a hint of bewilderment.

"She has been welcomed back into the family recently," the Ambassador explained. "Bann Trevelyan will hopefully arrive in time for the ceremony. I am confident that I will be able to persuade him to become our most generous benefactor."

"I see," he replied, suspicious of the motive. It was odd to hear her referred to as such, as he simply could not envision Miriam as a member of high society. She was too kind and too sincere for their ranks.

Josephine continued to steer the conversation, and after approximately an hour of deliberation and planning the event, the meeting reached its conclusion. With a polite nod, he took his leave intending to dispatch a raven to his men stationed near Ostwick. He knew that Leliana's agents had diligently fulfilled their duties, confirming the demise of the retired Templars. Still, if his affirmation proved essential for Miriam to come to terms with the truth, he would provide it.

In the following days, Cullen found himself immersed in the task of putting security measures in place for the upcoming event, leaving little time for anything else. Meanwhile, Miriam spent her waking hours immersed in prayer in the Chapel. Despite this withdrawal, she continued to visit him, diligently providing potions and magical healing. But her once-vibrant presence had faded; she moved mechanically, bereft of smiles and conversation. He was eager to offer comfort, but their brief interactions limited his ability to do so.

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On the eve of the investiture, a raven bearing the reply from his men reached him. The news confirmed what he had expected—none of the retired Templars had survived. Given the importance of Miriam’s composed demeanor during the upcoming ceremony, he reluctantly opted to withhold the tidings until after the investiture. Although the decision weighed heavily on him, he deemed it the most pragmatic course of action under the circumstances.

Finally, the day had come. The Grand Hall, adorned with opulent decorations, buzzed with anticipation as nobles gathered for the event. Miriam, draped in luxurious robes intricately embroidered with gold, sat on the throne, her expression unreadable. Her elaborate hairstyle added an extra touch of sophistication, projecting an image of grandeur befitting her newfound role. Yet, despite the opulence of the Inquisitor’s attire, the focal point for the assembled nobles was unmistakably the mark on her hand and the vivid emerald veins that webbed her skin. As Cullen stood among the lords and ladies, listening to their hushed gossip, it became increasingly clear to him that they were regarding Miriam more as an exotic curiosity than as a human being worthy of respect and dignity. His jaw clenched, and he found himself wishing that all these upper-class gabbers were out of Skyhold as soon as possible.

The ceremony progressed as Cassandra presented Miriam with a symbolic item of power, a golden longsword, representing her authority as an Inquisitor. The significance of the moment resonated through the assembled nobility, punctuated by a round of applause. Then, one by one, the nobles started to approach the throne to greet the new Inquisitor. Bann Trevelyan, who had managed to arrive in time for the ceremony, stood tall and proud at the head of the line as Miriam addressed him with a smile. Bann's distinguished features exuded nothing but paternal pride as he acknowledged Miriam, clasping his hands around her unmarked palm, and to the outside observer, the reunion between father and daughter would appear heartwarming. But after spending considerable time with the mage, he could see right through this façade of happiness. A subtle stiffness underscored her movements, and while her smile outwardly conveyed warmth, it was undeniably forced.

Cullen's observation of the proceedings was interrupted by Josephine's chatter. His attention shifted to the Ambassador as she skillfully maneuvered her way through the crowd, weaving laughter and smiles into her interactions. How could she possibly enjoy these false pleasantries? His exasperation eased as he remembered that this was why the whole pompous affair had been staged in the first place: to secure the support of the gentry.

Once the formal greetings concluded, Miriam, her gleaming sword in hand, strode purposefully toward the Grand Hall's entrance. The doors swung open, revealing a crowd assembled outside, eagerly anticipating her address. The transition from the ornate, controlled environment within the Hall to the expectant throng in the courtyard marked a palpable change in the mage's demeanor. He saw the mask of composure slip from her face as she stepped forward to take her place at the top of the stairs. Facing the common folk, soldiers, merchants, laborers, and pilgrims alike, her eyes burned with an intensity that made her finally seem alive, and to his surprise, he realized he had missed her fervor.

Anticipating an inspiring speech from the newly anointed Inquisitor, the assembly waited with bated breath. Unexpectedly, Miriam dropped to her knees, head bowed, and presented the golden sword resting on her palms to the assembled crowd. A collective gasp echoed through the air. "What is she doing?" Cassandra's bewildered whisper reached Cullen's ears. In response, he shook his head, his confusion mirroring hers.

Meanwhile, Miriam started to speak, her voice loud and clear, resonating through the courtyard. "As the Inquisitor, I do not seek your blind obedience, nor do I yearn for your allegiance. All I ask is that you allow me to serve you, faithful children of the Maker. To become your sword and your shield as we face our enemies.”

Silence fell over the scene, casting uncertainty upon the assembly. No one was quite sure how to respond to this unexpected request. Fortunately, it was Mother Giselle who emerged as the harbinger of clarity. Ascending the stairs to join the Inquisitor, she placed a hand on her head and proclaimed, "Rise, the Herald of Andraste. We accept you as our leader, our protector, our Inquisitor!"

Miriam lifted her head, locking eyes with the Mother. With unwavering determination in her gaze, she stood up, grasped the sword by the hilt, and raised it towards the heavens. A brilliant blue barrier materialized in the sky above the courtyard, creating a protective canopy that extended over the gathered crowd. The ethereal shield shimmered with a celestial glow, casting a calming light over the onlookers below. A resolute voice escaped her lips as she began reciting the lines from the Canticle of Victoria, "Now her hand is raised, a sword to pierce the sun. With an iron shield, she defends the faithful." Pausing briefly, she then erupted with a mighty shout at the top of her lungs, "Let the chaos be undone!"

The crowd erupted into a thunderous roar of approval. It was a primal and electrifying response, and even the nobility, once reserved and composed, were now swept up in the tide of the Herald's conviction. Cullen smiled. Of all the members of the Inquisition council, none could match Miriam's ability to capture the hearts of the people simply by being herself.

The next morning Cullen stood at the door of the Inquisitor's quarters, his knuckles tapping lightly on the solid wood. As he announced his presence, Miriam's urging voice permitted his entry, and he took a deep breath before stepping into her chamber. Part of him wished he didn't have to be the one to confirm the fate of the retired Templars, but he couldn't fathom delegating the task to someone else.

The mage, in her usual robes and with loose hair framing her face, greeted him. He couldn't help but note that this simple look suited her far better than the regal attire she had worn during the ceremony. She appeared nervous, as though expecting that his visit bore more than casual conversation. Locking eyes with her, Cullen cut straight to the matter.

"I came to deliver the news from my men," he said solemnly.

Miriam stilled, anticipation etched across her features. “Please, please tell me that the Templars have endured," she implored, her lips quivering.

"I am truly sorry," he replied with a heavy heart.

The mage's complexion paled, and for a moment, there was a flicker of disbelief. Her breath caught, and a whisper of "no" escaped her lips, so soft it was almost lost in the stillness. "No!" she repeated, her tone becoming more frantic and anguished. With a faltering step, she recoiled, and the room echoed with the agonizing wail, "I am to blame for this!" Her hands grasped at her hair, fingers entwining with strands in a desperate grip.

To see her in such a state tore at the fabric of his soul. Overcome by a surge of emotion, Cullen rushed to her side, enfolding her in his arms. His voice, filled with sincerity, uttered the words of absolution he wished someone had told him in his darkest hours. "It's not your fault. You did what you thought was right."

Caught in his embrace, Miriam began to cry, her trembling form pressing against him. He tightened his grip. Her fragile presence evoked neither disgust nor haunting memories. There was no dire need to withdraw. Instead, all he felt was a fervent desire to shoulder her pain and bear it away.