Miriam meticulously inscribed her thoughts onto the pristine parchment, the ebony ink trailing the quill's tip as she penned her missive to the Emperor. The past fortnight had unfolded in a cascade of unforeseen events; not only had she been shocked by the utterly unexpected wedding proposal from the Emperor, but during the latest meeting, Leliana shared distressing news. A missive from one of her contacts revealed that all Wardens in Orlais had been summoned to the formidable Adamant Fortress by Warden-Commander Clarel. The summons bore the weight of a final, desperate attempt to vanquish the Blight once and for all, as all the Orlesian Wardens have begun to hear what they believe to be the Calling. Considering the Inquisition's prior encounter with a blighted dragon, Miriam couldn't shake the disconcerting notion that beneath the surface of this call to arms, orchestrated by Warden-Commander, lurked the unmistakable fingerprints of the insidious Elder One. This notion weighed heavily on the mage's mind, even though the task of unraveling the mystery fell upon the shoulders of Leliana and Cullen, who were tirelessly engaged in the pursuit of truth. Meanwhile, Miriam found herself immersed in the task of determining not only her own future, but also the fate of the Orlesian Empire.
Receiving the Emperor’s letter all those days ago had left Miriam in a state of astonishment; she knew that Gaspard held her in high regard, but she never had imagined that his feelings ran so deep. The idea of marriage had long been relegated to the recesses of her past, an aspect of her life she had abandoned at the age of fifteen, yet the missive served to revive a longing she had thought had been buried and forgotten. While devoid of any passion for the Emperor, she held a sincere reverence for his character; he was an honorable sovereign and a devout servant of faith. The thought of the two of them united as emissaries of the Chant of Light didn’t cause her aversion. Although her connection to him would lack romantic love, it would be imbued with a sacred purpose, a fate she considered rather favorable. But these musings were futile, for there were insurmountable obstacles. She was ill-suited for the role of an Emperor's consort. Not only because such a destiny was denied to mages by the Chantry's decree, but more importantly because she lacked the ability to bestow a rightful heir upon the throne. In her response to Gaspard, she candidly acknowledged these barriers, believing that this would mark the conclusion of the matter.
Contrary to her expectations, the ensuing exchange with the Emperor proved to be anything but an end to their correspondence. With fervent conviction, he professed that the depth of his affection for her was rivaled only by his devotion to Orlais and the Maker. He vowed to beseech the Chantry to grant an exception, allowing their union to be sanctified in the eyes of the Maker. As for concerns regarding progeny, the Emperor's words carried the weight of unyielding faith. He invoked His boundless mercy, assuring her that those who believed in His benevolence would be blessed in due course. With optimism, he proclaimed that miracles, far greater than the miracle of new life, awaited them.
Miriam’s hesitations, confronted with his steadfast determination and unshakeable faith, began to ebb away. Yet she was well aware of the nature of the Maker - a deity not known for unbridled mercy. As much as she yearned for a miracle, the hope that she would conceive seemed like an imprudent ember in the face of reality.
On top of that, there were other concerns that gnawed at her. Despite the passage of time and the exhaustion of potions and incantations, the scarlet hue that had tinted the whites of her eyes not only failed to diminish but had, in fact, proliferated. It had spread to entirely obscure her once-pale irises. She found herself avoiding long glances at her reflection, for between the web of emerald veins and the piercing crimson that now defined her gaze, she was confronted with a visage that was both disturbing and unfamiliar.
Even more disquieting change unfolded within her sense of taste. She dared not to share it with anyone but everything except blood had lost its flavor. Amidst her meals, she navigated the culinary landscape solely by texture, the essence of taste stripped away, leaving a haunting void. The absence of flavor became so pronounced that, at times, she resorted to biting her own tongue in an attempt to savor anything other than the pervasive nothingness that permeated her every meal.
Was this part of His divine plan? What purpose could these frightening transformations possibly serve? Were they to endure indefinitely, or would they dissipate like mist upon the dawn once the Elder One had been vanquished and her ordained purpose fulfilled? Questions swirled in her mind, leaving her uncertain about the unfolding circumstances. Until she unearthed the answers, she couldn't, in good conscience, commit to a decision that held the potential to impact the entire empire. Thus, without disclosing the internal turmoil and reservations she grappled with, Miriam humbly requested Gaspard's patience. She asked for time to navigate the labyrinth of her thoughts and emotions so that she could arrive at a decision that honored not only their connection but also the weighty responsibilities that lay ahead.
The Emperor's last missive has brought his approval, granting her the desired respite, albeit with a subtle plea not to prolong her contemplation unduly. Miriam, touched by his understanding, found herself writing a letter of gratitude. Her endeavor, however, was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door, signaling Lysette's arrival. With the Templar, carefully cradled in her arms, came a package from Josephine. Several days ago, the Inquisition council engaged in discourse, contemplating the need to shield her crimson eyes from the probing gaze of the world. The Ambassador then promised to procure a mask, its eye openings covered by enchanted glass that would enable Miriam to see clearly, while presenting to onlookers nothing more than a play of iridescent crystals.
Miriam rose from her seat, acknowledging Lysette's presence with a nod of gratitude as she accepted the package. Placing it gently on the table, she carefully unfurled the wrappings to reveal the mask within. Its design was both regal and practical, fashioned to conceal half of the face. She studied the mask for a moment, appreciating the intricate filigree patterns meticulously etched into its golden surface. The mage took the mask and placed it on her visage, making sure it fit properly before turning to Lysette. "So, what do you think?"
"It has a distinctly Orlesian flair, far too extravagant for my personal taste," confessed the ever-candid Knight.
"True, it may be a tad too much, but I'd rather wear this than endure the scrutinizing glances that seem to paint me on the brink of becoming an abomination," Miriam remarked with a wry smile.
"Perhaps it's not too late to seek Solas's counsel,” the Knight began tentatively.
"No!" Her words sliced through the air with an unintended sharpness, and she immediately felt a pang of guilt. Clearing her throat, she softened her tone. "Forgive me, but I believe it's a suitable moment for me to conclude my letter to the Emperor. He has shown a generosity of spirit in giving me more time to think about his proposal, so I would like to send him my thanks as soon as I can."
Lysette sighed in resignation. "As you wish." She turned to leave, but at the threshold of the quarters, she hesitated and turned back. "I've been wanting to inquire about this for quite some time, Herald. Why do you hesitate to outright refuse His Majesty?"
"I understand your apprehension regarding a mage entering into marriage with the Emperor, but..." Miriam began.
"That is not my concern," the Templar interrupted firmly.
Perplexed, the mage furrowed her brow. "Then what is it?"
Lysette hesitated for a moment before responding, her words carrying a hint of awkwardness, "Well, I was under the impression that you harbored affections for Commander Cullen."
Miriam's confusion gradually gave way to understanding as Lysette's words sank in. She realized how easily her interactions with Cullen could be misconstrued. She lifted her hand to gently pass her fingers over the amulet resting against her chest. "I do hold deep regard for the Commander, but in the purest, most innocent sense. And I believe he reciprocates those sentiments in a similar manner. That’s why our feelings for each other have no bearing on the matter of marriage to His Majesty."
"I see. I am relieved to find that my judgment has faltered," the Knight acknowledged with genuine sincerity. "In that case, whatever path you choose, I truly hope it will lead you to happiness."
"Thank you," Miriam responded in a subdued tone, her heart touched by the unexpected warmth of Lysette's supportive words.
The Templar nodded solemnly. "I shall leave you to your task."
As her friend left the room, Miriam smiled, her gaze lingering on the door for a moment. Gathering herself, she returned to the table, where her letter to the Emperor awaited a finishing touch. Seating herself once more, she dipped her quill into the inkwell, her hand steady as she resumed her writing.
The morning sun cast a warm glow across the stone walls of Skyhold as Miriam hurried through the corridors. A hastily delivered message had summoned her to the War Room, where the council was about to convene to discuss the latest developments regarding the Wardens. It seemed that Leliana and Cullen had finally unraveled the mystery of what was happening at the Adamant Fortress.
As the mage entered the War Room, she found the familiar faces of her companions gathered around the large table, a map of Thedas spread out before them. Josephine stood with poise, her attention focused on the various reports scattered across the table. Leliana, with her calculating gaze, was studying a parchment covered in cryptic symbols, while Cullen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, discussing something with Cassandra. The only absence was Hawke, who, as expected, was fashionably late.
Good morning, Inquisitor," Josephine greeted with a warm smile, glancing up from her papers.
Miriam nodded in acknowledgment, taking a moment to exchange greetings with each member of the council with a few words.
Leliana's eyes flickered at the elaborate mask adorning the mage's face. "Lovely choice of the mask, Josephine," she commented. "You have an impeccable taste."
Cullen, however, did not seem to share the Spymaster’s opinion. "Between the robes and the mask, the Inquisitor looks like an Orlesian," he remarked, his voice gruff. "Perhaps a choice more reminiscent of the Ferelden style might have been wiser, considering our disastrous relationship with them."
Josephine raised an eyebrow at Cullen. "Finding craftsmen outside of Orlais proved impossible. Only the Empire’s artisans possess the skill necessary to craft the mask with the qualities we have requested. I can assure you, Commander, that I attempted to propose Ferelden themes, but Orlesian artisans firmly rejected the notion of producing a mask with anything other than Orlesian motifs. Our relationship with Ferelden is in such a dire state that what the Inquisitor wears is inconsequential at this point."
Before Cullen could respond, the door to the War Room creaked open, and Hawke strolled in with a nonchalant grin. “Me hearties! Sorry, I'm late to the party. Did I be missin' any crucial bits of the grand tale?"
To Miriam's relief, the Champion's arrival drew the council's attention away from the trivial discussion of her mask and back to the urgent matters at hand.
Leliana's countenance darkened as she addressed the assembled group. "Our agents bring dire news. Warden-Commander Clarel has implemented a drastic strategy, ordering the Warden mages to use blood magic to summon an army of demons. Their intention is to make a final stand in the Deep Roads, with the aim of putting an end to all Blights once and for all."
Josephine's hand flew to her mouth in shock. "Surely this cannot be true," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Leliana nodded solemnly. "The idea wasn't Clarel's own. It came from Lord Livius Erimond, a Venatori magister who approached the Wardens shortly after they began to hear the Calling. Given that all Venatori worship the Elder One, it is safe to assume that this is his doing."
Miriam's fists clenched at her sides, her heart quickening with a surge of anger. Of course, the tendrils of corruption had spread easily among the apostate mages within the Wardens' ranks. Known for their deviation from the tenets of Andrastian ideals, the Wardens have always had their arms outstretched to welcome heretics and infidels into their fold. What more could one expect from such a faction? The time has come for her fires to purge the rot of the maleficars and all those who stand with them.
Cassandra stepped forward. "We cannot allow this madness to continue. It is glaringly obvious that once this horde of demons is assembled, its purpose will not be the conquest of the Deep Roads but the subjugation of Thedas itself."
Cullen nodded in agreement, his jaw set with resolve. "We must act swiftly, but the task of seizing Adamant Fortress poses a formidable challenge. We will require the full backing of both the Templar Order and the Orlesian Empire to confront the Wardens."
Josephine's quill danced swiftly as she began to inscribe something on the parchment that lay on the tablet in her hand. "I will begin diplomatic negotiations immediately."
Cullen turned to Miriam, his expression serious. "Inquisitor, your presence is important for the morale of our troops. However, you will not be engaging in the battle. I must also stress that you must refrain from employing the powers of the mark unless absolutely necessary, a situation that, with the Maker's blessing, we hope to avoid."
Miriam's gaze hardened as she met Cullen's stern expression. "Commander, I appreciate your concerns, but as the Inquisitor, it is my duty to lead by example and demonstrate my commitment to our cause. What message would it send if the Sword of the Faithful were relegated to the sidelines?" She paused, briefly surprised at herself for using the title bestowed by the Emperor, but the urgency of the conversation demanded her focus.
"I understand your perspective, but your safety is paramount. Besides, you can't argue that using the powers of the mark is detrimental to you," he insisted.
Miriam shook her head. "The use of the mark is not solely my decision to make, for it is He who guides me. The Maker's will is intertwined with my purpose, and I must follow where it leads, even if it means facing the risks that come with it."
"In the mine, you were on the brink of death after the use of your powers." Cullen's voice was full of concern.
"Yet, I am still here,'" Miriam insisted, determined to assert herself. "And besides, if it wasn't for my spell, we would all be a meal for the Behemoth. The risks are great, Commander, but so are the benefits. We must consider the greater good and the victories we've achieved through the guidance of the Maker and His Bride."
"We will have time to discuss this later," Cassandra interjected. "There are more pressing issues, such as the task of contending with hundreds of Warden blood mages. We will need dozens of men armed with the Litany of Adralla to counter their attempts to dominate our forces."
"Me heartie will sort this out. He's got a bunch of fiery clergy who can whip up and bless plenty of copies for the battlefront," Hawke announced with a confident grin.
”Litany of Adralla against crazed maleficars…it brings back memories,” Leliana murmured with a somber undertone.
"It certainly does," Cullen whispered, his complexion paling slightly. Then, in a louder voice, he added, "Well, it is time we all get to work then, for the siege of the Adamant is upon us."
The next few weeks passed in a blur as the Inquisition prepared for the imminent mission. Miriam found herself dedicating most of her time in the infirmary, tirelessly brewing a myriad of healing potions for the soldiers who would soon face the brutal challenges ahead. The atmosphere in Skyhold was tense as people braced themselves for the impending battle.
Finally, the meticulous preparations were completed, and the unified forces of the Inquisition, led by Cullen, joined with the formidable army of the Empire under Gaspard and the Knights dispatched by the Templar Order. Together, they embarked on a determined march through the treacherous Western Approach.
Under the relentless gaze of the unforgiving sun, the armored men stoically trudged through the arid wilderness, the scorching heat rendering the burden of their armor even more grueling. Miriam, beneath her mask, felt the beads of sweat trickling down her face. She longed to remove it, but the situation did not allow for such a luxury, especially with so many people around.
As she heard the Emperor's booming voice barking orders to his subordinates somewhere to her right, her mind was once again consumed by the weight of his proposal. She feared he would demand her response during the mission, but to her relief, he hadn't sought her company outside of the council meetings, and even then, their interactions had been sparse. He had acknowledged her mask with a compliment, mentioning that it suited her, but beyond that, there had been a notable absence of any personal attention or display of his feelings. He was indeed a considerable man, and for that, she felt a deep sense of gratitude.
As they pressed on, the Adamant Fortress gradually materialized before them. Its ancient stones, bearing the scars of time and conflict, stood tall on the precipice of a great chasm. The construction seemed to defy nature itself, towering above the abyss that yawned as deep as the Void.
Under the watchful eye of the Commander, preparations began in earnest. Soldiers worked tirelessly to erect barricades, set up defensive structures, and dig trenches to impede any potential counterattacks. Tents were set in rows, forming a temporary camp within the protected area. Weapons were sharpened, armor polished, horses groomed, and archers practiced their aim, honing their skills for the precise shots required to pick off defenders along the fortress walls. Siege engines, including trebuchets and battering rams, were inspected and tested to ensure they would function flawlessly during the assault. Medical tents were set up to tend to wounded soldiers, and healers prepared their potions and remedies.
When night fell, the camp had quieted down, the silence of the night broken only by the crackling of campfires and the occasional clang of metal. Soldiers gathered around their fires, exchanged tales of battles past, and shared words of encouragement, steeling themselves for the trials that awaited them tomorrow.
Miriam, along with the Inquisition council, convened in the command tent for their final meeting, ensuring unity and clarity among all members regarding the impending morning attack.
The only point of contention in their plans revolved around her participation in the mission. Despite ongoing debates during their journey to the fortress, a unanimous decision satisfying everyone remained elusive. Cullen and Cassandra advocated for limiting her role to delivering inspiring speeches, while she herself and Gaspard insisted that the Inquisitor couldn’t merely be a spectator in the battle. Hawke, indifferent to the matter, expressed willingness for either option.
As tensions escalated, the debate was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger. A raven had arrived with a missive from Warden-Commander Clarel.
Miriam exchanged puzzled glances with the council members. Previous attempts to communicate with the Wardens had been met with silence, with all the ravens sent by the Inquisition never returning. Cullen accepted the scroll handed to him by the messenger and carefully unfurled it. Miriam observed as he scanned the text, a furrow forming on his brows. “Clarel offers a negotiation. She is prepared to discuss matters with the Inquisitor and the Emperor, to advocate for her cause. She will await them at dawn, permitting their entry into the fortress with a small contingent of Inquisition forces," he announced, his words carrying the weight of suspicion.
"Clarel must have seen our numbers and understood that the Wardens do not stand a chance. She may want to negotiate, but I am sure the Venatori Magister will use this meeting as an opportunity to eliminate the Herald and the Emperor in one fell swoop." Cassandra grumbled.
"It may indeed be so," Miriam began, unable to veil her excitement, "but it presents a unique opportunity to confront the maleficars and heretics with minimal casualties." Her voice quivered with fervor as she continued, "Once within proximity of the Warden-Commander and the Magister, I shall unleash my powers, searing them from within, much like I did with the Red Templars in the accursed mine. Ponder the multitude of lives among our soldiers that I could spare!"
"And in turn, you shall bleed to death," Cullen grumbled, his voice weighted with foreboding. "More likely still, both of you will fall under the dominion of the blood mages long before you draw near to them."
“I be ready to join yer crew, armed with the Litany of Adralla at me disposal,” Hawke interjected. “Thanks be owed to me husband, who's taught me its ways.”
"Perhaps we should entrust Brother Sebastian with the task, in his devout hands, the power would be far more potent. No offense, Champion," Gaspard added his voice to the discussion.
“No offense be found in me quarters,” Hawke chuckled, “But truth be told, me husband be more of an arrow-flingin' man than a cutlass-swinger. In the close quarters of the fortress, it be me specialty to dance with danger up close and personal."
“So you do perceive the peril?" Cullen directed his words at the Champion. “Why don’t you oppose this idea then?”
The woman smirked, "I am not one to cower from danger!”
Cullen sighed. "And what of the consequences for you, Herald?" He cast a worried gaze in the mage's direction.
Miriam offered him a reassuring smile. "If Lysette accompanies me, she can always mitigate the effects of the mark." She wasn't entirely comfortable with the notion, but her friend was a Knight and His devout servant, surely, seeking her aid wouldn’t be considered a sin in the eyes of the Maker.
"And you, Your Majesty? This is a perilous situation. Are you certain it would be wise to risk yourself so?" Cassandra inquired.
The Emperor's response came without hesitation as he fixed Miriam with an intense stare. "I have absolute confidence in the Sword of the Faithful," he declared. "She will vanquish the leaders of the Wardens, and we shall hold our ground until the rest of our forces breach the gates and deal with the remaining enemies. Furthermore, I shall take a dozen of the Chevaliers with me. Each of them is worth five Wardens in battle."
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"Perhaps it is not such a bad plan after all. We accept their bait and turn the tables on them. Losing their leadership would surely demoralize the Wardens greatly. With us fighting from within, the attack on the fortress will cost far fewer lives," Cassandra said, nodding in agreement.
“This could either go very well or terribly wrong,” Cullen muttered.
Miriam felt the familiar ache of her mark and interpreted it as a divine signal confirming the validity of her idea. "Please, Commander, have faith in us," she urged. "The Maker and His Bride are on our side. I can feel it!"
A heavy silence draped the tent as all eyes turned to Cullen, awaiting his verdict. He ran his hand wearily through his hair before finally speaking. "They say the Maker favors the bold... Very well, let us proceed. The Herald and the Emperor, escorted by Lysette, the Champion, the Chevaliers, and our man, will venture into the fortress under the guise of seeking a peaceful resolution with the maleficars. At the first sign of the Inquisitor’s spell resonating through the air, I shall initiate the attack." His gaze swept over the assembled company. "May His divine light guide and protect us all."
With the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon, Miriam, the Emperor, and Lysette, flanked by soldiers and Chevaliers, stood ready at the entrance. As the massive gates of Adamant creaked open, a gust of wind swept through, carrying with it a stench of blood and sulfur.
To her surprise, they were greeted by just one Warden. There lingered an unsettling aura about him, his motions mechanical as he imparted to them that they were expected at the top of one of the Adamant towers. They were led through the fortress's labyrinthine corridors, which for some unfathomable reason, seemed deserted, devoid of any other Wardens or demons. In utter silence, they ascended, climbing ever higher on the stairs until they reached the zenith—the rooftop of the fortress's loftiest tower.
There, bathed in the scarlet glow of the sun, they were greeted not by the anticipated Commander Clarel but by a man whose robes unmistakably marked him as the Tevinter Magister. Despite his solitary presence, he stood with confidence, a smile gracing his lips as he uttered, “Manaveris Dracona.”
Miriam couldn't help but clench her fists, a sense of unease settling in the pit of her stomach as she and her companions took their first steps toward the Magister. Before she could utter a response or unleash her spell, a deafening roar tore through the air. A colossal, blighted dragon, hauntingly familiar to the mage, emerged from beneath the tower. Its clawed limb seized the magister, hoisting him into the air, while the beast employed its massive tail to slam against the tower. With a thunderous crash, the structure began to collapse, sending stones, debris, and screaming people cascading down into the gaping chasm beneath the fortress. As Miriam descended into the darkness, instinct took control, and in a desperate act, she activated her mark to open a rift right in front of her.
She traversed the tear in the Veil, the world around her contorting into emerald hues and morphing shapes. To her relief, though her vision remained obscured, distorted voices echoed around her—an indistinct murmur of the Emperor invoking the Maker, the fervent prayer of Lysette, and the clamor of soldiers and Chevaliers. And then her fall was suddenly cut short as she slammed into the rock-hard surface.
Miriam slowly rose from the ground, her senses still reeling from the fall. She gingerly checked herself to see that there were no injuries, and, remarkably, even her mask remained securely in place. Surveying her surroundings, she beheld a landscape painted in hues of green and brown, a familiar surreal terrain that sent shivers down her spine. She recognized this place all too well—the very realm where she had awakened after the explosion at the Conclave, where demons had assailed her and Andraste herself had come to her rescue. She was unmistakably within the Fade. She should be trembling, for this was a realm unfit for mortals to inhabit in their physical forms. Yet, she could not resist the pure excitement that came with the possibility of reuniting with His Bride. The prospect of basking in her glorious presence once again was worth all the perils.
From high above, the mage could hear the Emperor's commanding orders and the hurried footsteps of soldiers. Raising her eyes, she discovered a colossal, flowing rock suspended overhead. "Your Majesty!" she called out.
In moments, he materialized from the side of the levitating mass, a mixture of relief and concern etched across his features. "Inquisitor, are you unharmed?" he inquired.
"Yes, surprisingly so," the mage replied.
Gaspard then turned his attention to their surroundings. "Where are we?" he asked, a note of trepidation underlying his tone.
"We're in the Fade," she explained, and a collective gasp swept through the air.
The Emperor, though visibly paling, retained his composure as he nodded gravely. "We should not linger in this place. Can you conjure another rift for our swift return?"
"I will make the attempt, Your Majesty. However, I suggest a reunion first. Allow me to weave a protective barrier, allowing each person to descend safely to my location," she proposed. Though a part of her yearned to linger a while longer, hopeful for the divine presence of Andraste, her immediate concern lay with Cullen's safety. For he likely faced the formidable threat of a dragon at this very moment.
Gaspard gave a solemn nod, and she heard him give a quick series of orders to the men before he positioned himself at the edge of a floating rock. Miriam held out her hands, and a shimmering barrier enveloped the Emperor. "Now, Your Majesty," she intoned. Without a breath's pause, he leapt, landing with a resonant thud, but the barrier held, leaving him unharmed.
Miriam then turned her attention to Lysette, the next in line. The process repeated, her friend enshrouded by a magical shield landing safely on the ground below. Hawke followed suit, trailed by a dozen soldiers and five Chevaliers. As the final soldier touched down, Miriam felt the last vestiges of her mana dissipate. Exhausted but resolute, she surveyed the people. The group was intact, but a pang of guilt gnawed at Miriam. She knew that those soldiers who hadn't traversed the rift were now lost, their fate sealed.
Suppressing the surge of emotions, she steeled herself for the task at hand. Drawing upon her mark, she raised her left hand and focused on tearing the Veil, their only path to return to the real world. A sharp pain shot through her arm like a lightning bolt, yet the expected rift failed to materialize. Undeterred, Miriam summoned the fragments of her resolve and tried once more. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as she poured every ounce of her energy into the mark, the pain spreading like tendrils of fire higher and higher up her arm. Yet, despite her unwavering focus and the escalating torment, nothing happened.
Panting heavily, Miriam stumbled, her strength waning, and she was caught by the steadying hands of Lysette. The concern etched on the Templar's face mirrored the tumultuous emotions swirling within Miriam. With a voice strained with frustration and desperation, Miriam mumbled her admission of defeat, her words barely audible amidst the agitated murmurs of the soldiers. "I... I don't know why... I can't do it."
Whispers of uncertainty and doubt began to snake through the ranks.
"Steady, men!" Gaspard's voice resonated with a weight of command. The soldiers, shaken by the unforeseen turn of events, tightened their ranks and squared their shoulders.
"You lack the power to cleave the Veil from the Fade," a voice, weathered and bearing an Orlesian accent, declared with an air of certainty. The group, startled, turned as one, swords drawn, to confront the source of this revelation.
Before them stood an old woman, draped in Chantry robes that distinguished her as the Divine. The dim light of the crystals protruding from the ground cast a mysterious aura around her, her eyes sparkling with wisdom that seemed to span ages. The soldiers, caught between awe and terror, pointed their weapons at the unexpected figure.
"By the Maker, it can’t be... Divine Justinia?" Asked Gaspard, his voice tinged with a mixture of disbelief and reverence.
The old woman smiled warmly. "Ah, my brave and ambitious boy. I never imagined that our paths would cross in such a place and under such circumstances."
Gaspard, still grappling visibly with the shock, lowered his sword and turned to Lysette. "Templar, do you sense any malevolent energies emanating from this woman?"
The Knight stepped closer to the old woman, studying her with a scrutinizing gaze and a furrowed brow. "I don't sense anything nefarious, Your Majesty. It is not a demon before us," she replied finally.
Miriam came closer to Lysette, “Tell us spirit, why have you taken the form of the Most Holy? The real Divine could not have survived the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”
The Orlesian woman tilted her head. "Could I not? You deem my survival improbable, yet here you stand, unharmed, in the realm of the Fade. In truth, you scarcely have the time for questioning."
"What, ye think we'll just be takin' yer word for it?" The Champion tightened her grip on her massive maul.
"I am here to aid you," the woman retorted calmly. Fixing her gaze on Miriam she continued, "I know you do not recall what transpired at the Temple, Inquisitor."
Miriam felt a knot tighten in her stomach, and the emerald flames on her palm came to life. "Is that your doing, spirit?"
"No, you forfeited them to the demon in service to Corypheus, or as you know him, the Elder One."
"Hush yer gibberish, Corypheus be feedin' the fishes now. I personally gave him a one-way ticket to the Void!” Hawke growled.
"You've encountered him? The Elder One?" Miriam asked the Champion, completely perplexed.
Hawke turned to her, her eyes blazing. "The scurvy dog tried to finish me off moons ago, and hired those Wardens to lure me into the snare. But mark me words, I bested him! Crushed his noggin into bits, I swear on me soul!"
The old woman shook her head. "He is not so easily vanquished, Champion, after all, he is one of the Seven."
Miriam suddenly felt weak in her knees. "You mean the ones who brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon the world?" A ripple of gasps traversed the group, and someone initiated a quiet prayer to the Maker.
"Precisely, and now he wishes to complete what he started thousands of years ago, to enter the Golden City and ascend to godhood." The Orlesian pointed her hand at the mage. "His only obstacle is you."
Miriam squared her shoulders. "I knew from the beginning that the mission entrusted to me by the Maker was crucial. That's why His Bride bestowed upon me the mark and saved me from the explosion. That’s why He speaks to me!" She turned to the soldiers. "Do not fear, for His chosen is with you. The Elder One may be one of the cursed Seven himself, but we will emerge victorious, just as we've done in all these times before!" Content, she observed the faces of the people brightening at her words.
“Blast me barnacles! Can't wrap me head around that scallywag risin' from the depths again. This time, mark me words, I'll make sure he's swimmin' with the sharks for good,” Hawke mumbled quietly to herself.
"To be counted among those who stood against the primal transgressor, the formidable Magister. My name shall be etched into the Chant of Light," Miriam heard the Emperor murmur, his voice quivering with excitement.
The mage redirected her attention to the elderly woman once again. "You mentioned that the demon responsible for stealing my memories serves Corypheus. Tell me more.”
The supposed Divine pressed her hand to her chest, “It is called Nightmare, the one who feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror.” She paused for a moment, "The false Calling that terrifies the Wardens and propels them into the clutches of the Venatori Magister. It is his machination. And all of you have found yourselves within his dominion in the Fade."
"We slay that demon, and the Wardens cease their heresy. Yet, how do we escape this place?" Gaspard inquired.
"You lack the power to vanquish the Nightmare, for he has grown too powerful under the influence of the Elder One. Your sole recourse to thwart his designs is to close the rift next to him. By doing so, his segment of the Fade will be sealed, rendering him incapable of influencing the Wardens. This very rift can also serve as your means of escape," the old woman explained.
“Aye, so we be on a quest to seek the rift, slip past the Nightmare without catchin' his eye, and seal it from t'other side. Simple as a stroll on the plank, ain't it?” Hawke chuckled.
“You won’t be able to pass unnoticed, for Nightmare is already aware of your presence here and he is waiting for you.” The Orlesian said solemnly. “But do not fret. I shall aid in diverting his attention, affording you a chance." She turned around and commenced walking. "Follow me."
Miriam glanced at Gaspard, who nodded after a moment of contemplation. "It appears this is our only option. Maker, help us all," he muttered.
The journey took them through a terrain that proved to be a test of endurance. For one, the group trudged along a path that defied any sense of earthly logic, with parts of ruined buildings jutting out of the ground at absurd angles or suspended in the air as if caught in flight. The very nature of the landscape seemed to warp and twist, and were it not for the old woman guiding them, they would be completely lost. For two, the path was infested with lesser demons and wraiths. Miriam wielded her magic with an adept hand, unleashing torrents of green flames that engulfed the creatures in searing infernos. Lysette, drawing upon her Templar abilities, countered the demons with a Wrath of Heaven. Meanwhile, Gaspard, Hawke, and the rest of the soldiers fought valiantly, their weapons cleaving through the ethereal forms with stoic resolve. Fight after fight they won without suffering any major injuries, but the relentless onslaught of the creatures took its toll on their collective stamina.
The only figure who was seemingly untouched by the toll of the fighting was the woman who claimed to be the Divine. She moved through the chaos with an ethereal grace, her steps unaffected by the rugged terrain. During the skirmishes, the demons recoiled from her presence, as if acknowledging a force beyond their ken.
Miriam glanced sideways at the old woman; she was clearly some sort of a powerful spirit, though why she refused to acknowledge it remained a mystery. Gaspard, too, watched their guide's resilience with a mixture of awe and unease.
After finishing yet another grueling fight, their bodies marked with dirt and weariness, Miriam found herself with barely any mana left. She watched as Lysette took her last lyrium potion, the radiant glow briefly illuminating the exhaustion etched on her face, and let out a small sigh. The group pressed on, determined to reach their destination.
Finally, they emerged into a vast clearing, a respite from the chaotic landscape of the Fade. Gone were the jagged rocks, crystalline structures, and twisted buildings. Instead, a brown mountain loomed on the horizon, dominating the serene scenery. A rift pulsated near it, casting an eerie glow on the surroundings.
The old woman, who had guided them through the Fade, gestured towards it with a sense of finality. Miriam, confused yet hopeful, dared to inquire about the Nightmare demon.
"Right next to the rift, can't you see?" the Divine replied with a chilling calmness.
Dread crept over Miriam as she scrutinized the colossal form more closely. It was not a mountain, as she had originally thought, but a monstrous brown spider. The revelation sent a shiver down her spine, realizing the true size of the creature they had come to confront.
In the uneasy silence that followed, Gaspard, his expression pale, broke the tension. "That... that thing is the Nightmare?"
The old woman nodded solemnly. "Yes, the demon born of fears and despair."
"It doesn’t appear to move, and its eyes remain closed as if it slumbers," murmured Miriam, her voice imbued with an undercurrent of unease that she earnestly tried to veil.
The old woman had no time to respond before a booming, chilling voice rang through the area, "I do not slumber, you pathetic mortal.” The creature opened its dozens of huge pitch-black, round eyes and fixed them on the mage. With astonishing speed, it unfurled its many legs and lunged towards them. Its sheer weight made the ground shake beneath their feet, sending them tumbling.
The Emperor, resilient in the face of the tremors, was the first to rise, his commanding voice cutting through the chaos. "Stand, soldiers! Formations, now!" He bellowed orders, a beacon of authority amid the disarray. Hawke and Lysette swiftly followed suit, clambering to their feet. The Templar extended a steady hand to Miriam, helping her rise from the quivering ground.
"Run toward the rift. I will distract the Nightmare for as long as I can!" proclaimed the old woman, her form aglow with a golden light. She ascended into the sky, transforming in to a radiant spirit that looked painfully familiar to the mage. Miriam's breath caught as recognition dawned – it was the same ethereal figure that had come to her rescue in Haven.
She stood stunned, her mind reeling in disbelief. All this time she had been so sure that it was His Bride who had intervened, who had saved her from the brink of death. And now it turns out that it was not Andraste, but a mere spirit? Miriam couldn't fathom it; she refused to believe it!
Suddenly, the Knight's firm grip on her arm jolted the mage back to reality. She was pulled forward, dragged along by the determined Templar as they charged toward the rift, the ground trembling beneath their feet.
As they raced, Miriam caught a glimpse of the golden figure swirling around the monstrous demon, repeatedly striking it from different sides, not doing much damage but drawing the creature's attention away from their group, buying them precious moments to reach their destination.
Thanks to the spirit's valiant efforts, they managed to run past the Nightmare and get closer to the rift, infuriating the demon in the process. The Nightmare’s monstrous form convulsed with rage, emitting a deafening roar that echoed through the air. The sheer force of the roar sent a powerful gust of wind that nearly knocked them off their feet, causing them to stumble. Instinctively, Miriam turned to witness the unfolding pandemonium. The demon, in an act of savage retribution, swung one of its spider legs with deadly precision. The claw pierced the golden figure, and in an instant the spirit exploded into a brilliant light, its essence dissipating into the ether with a silent lament.
The Nightmare then turned its myriad eyes toward Miriam with a malevolent glint. "Did you truly believe that a mere spirit could rival me?" It sneered. "How naive you are, a fake Herald, a mistake."
Miriam's voice quivered as she screamed, "Stop spitting lies!"
In response, the demon laughed with a guttural sound. "It's high time you reclaim your memories, and see who you truly are."
Miriam felt a foreign touch over her mind, and memories surged forth like a relentless river, carrying the weight of all the events that unfolded at the Conclave. The recollections, once stolen, now emerged with staggering clarity and she found herself immersed once more in the harrowing tableau: the Divine's anguished pleas for salvation, her voice echoing with desperation and fear; the mage Wardens, their eyes swallowed by shadows, anchoring the Most Holy in place; and the monstrous creature, a grotesque mix of man and darkspawn, clutching a mysterious orb in his clawed grasp. Her sudden appearance served as a momentary distraction, allowing the Divine to kick the orb out of the Elder One's hands, sending it soaring through the air. In an instinctive reaction, she caught the artifact as it hurtled in her direction. In that very moment, a searing pain tore through her left palm, and she felt herself being pulled into the gaping maw of the rift.
Miriam, overwhelmed, staggered under the weight of her newfound knowledge. The battlefield, the rift, the demon – all faded into the background as the very foundation of her being trembled in the wake of the unveiled past. Not only was she mistaken in her belief of being saved by Andraste, but she also erred about the mark on her hand. The apostate's words proved true— it was not a divine gift from the Lady but a part of a sinister elven artifact, a heretical tool now firmly embedded in her flesh. Miriam's heart raced, caught in a tempest of conflicting emotions. Anguish and confusion intertwined, each emotion amplifying the other in a dissonant symphony of despair. The once-clear path she thought she walked had evaporated, leaving her submerged in a sea of uncertainty.
Someone seemed to shout something, but entangled in the clutches of her internal turmoil, she couldn't decipher a single word. All sounds and sights merged into a disorienting haze her mind unable to cope with the devastating realization that she was no Herald of Andraste; her power did not come from the Maker or His Bride. She wasn't the chosen one, she was just a mistake in the Elder One's plans.
Her head spun uncontrollably, fingers clawing at her temples as she crumpled to her knees, utterly detached from the unfolding events. Suddenly someone's blood splashed onto her face and the air filled with the cacophony of screams, shouts, steel clashing, and the crunching of bone. Amidst the tumult, a strong hand seized her by the collar, lifting her from the ground. Another hand forcefully grabbed hers, pulling her forward. Blinded by the crimson stains that obscured the eye openings of her mask, she stumbled and fell repeatedly. Each time, an unseen guide pulled her up, dragging her through the chaos. Finally, a bright emerald light pierced through the marred glass of the mask. At that moment, she felt a shove, and with a disorienting lurch, she was thrust into the rift.
Miriam fell out of the tear in the Veil, her face meeting the coarse embrace of the sand. Two other thuds indicated that someone else had landed beside her. Amidst the clanking of armor, Lysette’s voice pierced through the disorientation, screaming at her. Once again, she felt a powerful thrust, propelling her upwards, but her legs could barely support her. She struggled to register the words being hurled at her.
A mailed glove gripped Miriam’s collar tightly, and a slap landed on her cheek, knocking off her mask. The pain and the harsh sunlight jolted the mage out of her trance, and her focus sharpened on the figure of the Templar before her. "Come to your senses, Inquisitor! Close the rift!" the Knight cried, her voice urgent and strained, punctuated by sharp pants.
Miriam's frantic gaze swept across the desolate expanse of the Western Approach. Despite the vastness of the landscape, the only other figure present was the Emperor. The mage's heart quickened with trepidation. "And what of Hawke and the others?" she questioned, her voice laden with a foreboding sense.
Lysette's grasp on her robes tightened, “They are holding back the Nightmare, hurry, we don’t have time!”
"No, we have to go back for them, I can't..." Miriam started to protest, only to be silenced by a firm shake from the Templar.
“Yes, you can! Do not let their sacrifice be in vain. Close. The. Rift,” the Knight demanded.
Miriam shifted her gaze to the Emperor, who met her eyes with a grim determination. "Do it," he uttered, the weight of the command evident in his voice.
A crushing sense of guilt settled over Miriam as she reached out her trembling hand and connected with the rift. The ethereal energy surged through her, and with each burst of power directed at closing the tear in the Veil, she felt as if she were nailing the coffin of the people who had placed their trust in her, a false Herald.
With one last push, Miriam sealed the rift and the collective sighs of relief from Lysette and the Emperor reached her ears. The Templar released her grip, allowing the mage to slump back to the ground. Overwhelmed, she succumbed to the weight of her emotions, and uncontrollable sobs wracked her body. Lysette, attempting to console her, spoke of honor and sacrifice, insisting that Hawke and the soldiers had given their lives nobly to protect the chosen of the Maker and the Emperor of Orlais. But these words, intended to provide solace, felt like a dagger piercing Miriam's already fractured heart. "No, no, no!" whimpered the mage, her hands tightly gripping her disheveled hair.
"Templar, scout the area. We must discern our exact location in the Western Approach," ordered the Emperor.
"Now? Your Majesty, I am uncertain if it would be wise to..." Lysette began perplexed.
"Have I not made myself clear?" Interrupted the man.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I do not serve you. I serve the Inquisition," the Knight asserted firmly.
"Given that the Inquisitor is in no state to issue orders at the moment, I hold authority over you. Go and scout the area, Templar," he pressed with a grave voice.
After a prolonged pause, Lysette finally accepted, "As you wish, Your Majesty. I will return shortly."
As soon as the Knight walked away to disappear behind the rocks, the Emperor knelt beside Miriam, grasping her shoulders. "In times of trial, one must not display vulnerability to those who follow," he said with reproach. In response, the mage merely hung her head. Gaspard's hold on her tightened, the metal of his gauntleted gloves digging into her flesh to the point of discomfort. Yet, paradoxically, the pain brought a strange sense of solace, grounding her in the midst of her descent into misery. "Release your hair and look into my eyes, Inquisitor. Behave according to your station." Gaspard's stern demeanor, though harsh, provided a semblance of structure amidst the chaos that rained within her so Miriam let go of her locks and met the Emperor's gaze. "Why do your eyes bear the hue of crimson? Is it the machination of the Nightmare?"
She drew in several deep breaths, striving to compose herself and quell the tears before responding, "No, it happened after I unleashed my powers within the depths of the red lyrium mine." She paused, raising her left hand momentarily, regarding it with a visceral disgust. "It's tied to this cursed mark."
"A cursed mark?" Gaspard echoed, clearly taken aback. Despite her best efforts to remain composed, Miriam succumbed to tears and lowered her eyes as she started to recount the memories the demon had stolen from her. As she finished her confession, she braced herself for the expected shock, disappointment, and perhaps even anger from Gaspard. However, when she looked up, she was met with a perplexed expression on his face. "Why would you even believe these lies?"
"Those memories were real," the mage replied, her voice wavering. "I just know they were once mine. I can't explain it, but there's a connection, an undeniable feeling that they belong to me."
Gaspard's confusion deepened as he insisted, "Even if they belonged to you, the Nightmare could have manipulated them. It had plenty of time to twist the truth within those stolen fragments. Why are you being so foolish?"
Miriam's eyes widened in shock as the Emperor presented a scenario she hadn't considered. A flicker of hope ignited within her, but fear tempered her enthusiasm. She hesitated, grappling with the newfound possibility, before recounting another piece of her past to him. “There's something else, Your Majesty. At the Conclave, I wasn't saved by Andraste, but by the spirit that aided us in our battle against the Nightmare.”
The man paused, contemplating her revelation. After a moment, he spoke with conviction, "Just because Andraste didn't intervene directly doesn't mean she didn't send help. The spirit you encountered, the one with the appearance of the Most Holy, it was sent by the Lady herself. I am sure of it."
Miriam, torn between the Emperor's persuasive words and the nagging doubts that clawed at her faith, mumbled something incoherent. The Emperor released his hold on her and removed his mask, the metallic facade joining Miriam's own discarded mask on the sand. It was the first time she had a clear view of his countenance. He then seized her head, his fingers gripping firmly onto her skin, pulling her closer with an undeniable force. Gaspard’s eyes bore into hers with intensity and fervor as he spoke, "This is a test of your faith! You could crumble and prove yourself a pathetic weakling, or you could rise as a true Sword of the Faithful, unwavering in your convictions." Roughly tracing the contours of her face, he left a trail of tingling sensations in his wake. "Tell me, Miriam, which will it be?"
At that moment, she saw this ultimatum as a lifeline, a straw she could grasp. Yes, this was just another test of her faith, another trial to endure. Didn't she receive the vision in the Circle's Chantry when she was young? Didn't she also get a sign from Andraste during her Harrowing? She shouldn't have doubted herself; she wasn't wrong, she wasn't delusional, and she certainly wasn't a fraud. She was the chosen of His making. Doubt had no place in her journey, for she carried the divine imprints of approval and purpose. Closing her eyes for a moment, she inhaled deeply, gathering the last remaining strength from the depths of her soul. With an exhale, she opened her eyes again and uttered, "I am the Sword of the Faithful.”
In a sudden motion, the Emperor tugged at her, and his lips met hers with an almost aggressive resolve. Miriam, though taken aback, found herself strangely detached. She accepted the kiss with a resignation born of weariness, passively yielding to his will, neither resisting nor reciprocating. Gaspard seemed unfazed by her lack of response as his relentless mouth pressed eagerly against hers, carrying with it the unmistakable taste of blood.