Miriam stood in the dimly lit tent, the cold morning air barely permeating the heavy fabric. While she was tightening the laces of her robe, Lysette, who stood next to her, was busy fastening the straps of her armor, the metallic echoes resonating with the solemnity of their surroundings.
"My new title, bestowed by the Emperor…" the mage murmured, almost to herself, her voice laden with contemplation. “It seems to resonate well with the soldiers."
Lysette, immersed in adjusting the last piece of her armor, nodded knowingly. "Indeed, it does. The Sword of the Faithful ignites their hearts far more than the Herald of Andraste."
A furrow etched itself on Miriam's forehead as she contemplated the Templar's words. "But why?"
Lysette halted, lifting her eyes from her task with a sigh. “A title steeped in war speaks their language, it makes you more relatable to them.” A moment of silence passed before her friend spoke again, "But personally, I don’t favor it."
"Why not?” the mage questioned, taken aback by the statement.
Another pause draped the tent in silence before Lysette replied, her gaze piercing through the dimness, "It doesn't suit you, Inquisitor. Because you mend the rifts in the Veil, tend to injuries, and protect. You're the shield, and I take pride in being your guard and friend when you stand in that role."
Moved by the Templar's words, Miriam was momentarily lost for a response, but before the silence could stretch further, an announcement from outside the tent disrupted their exchange. "His Imperial Majesty Gaspard seeks an audience with the Inquisitor."
With a shared glance, the women hastily completed their preparations. The mage straightened her posture, adjusting the folds of her robes, and declared, "I am ready to receive the visitor."
The heavy canvas of the tent parted, and in strode the Emperor. His eyes met Miriam's, and he offered a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Inquisitor," he greeted, his voice resonating through the confined space.
Miriam dipped her head in deference, "Your Majesty."
Gaspard's gaze shifted to Lysette, who stood at attention. "Templar, relieve us of your presence if you would."
Lysette cast a questioning glance at Miriam, who responded with a subtle nod. With a crisp salute to both the mage and the Emperor, she swiftly exited the tent, leaving the two alone.
Gaspard's eyes lingered on Miriam, its intensity nearly tactile. "Now that I have the opportunity to thoroughly observe you, Inquisitor, the robes befit you perfectly. After all, I do know how to select attire suitable for one's standing," he remarked, a touch of self-assuredness in his tone.
The mage, uncertain of how to respond to such a statement, opted to mirror Josephine's diplomatic grace. Inclining her head respectfully, she replied, "I appreciate your discerning eye, Your Majesty. Your choice does indeed suggest that you harbor not only political acumen but also a refined taste."
At her response, Gaspard's lips curled into a subtle smile. "It is reassuring to learn that you can recognize and appreciate the extensive spectrum of my refined qualities, Inquisitor. And be aware, I am reciprocating the sentiment by acknowledging yours in kind."
Miriam locked eyes with him, her gaze mirroring curiosity. "Mine, Your Majesty?"
Gaspard nodded. "Indeed, Inquisitor, it is your piety and unwavering devotion to the teachings of Andraste, your willingness to submit to His divine design that I find most admirable. In the grandeur of court life, I have encountered countless people, yet none can hold a candle to the radiant virtues that emanate from you."
Miriam, unaccustomed to such direct and earnest praise, felt a flush of warmth spreading across her cheeks. She fidgeted slightly, grappling with the unexpected compliment. "Your words honor me, Your Majesty. I...I am grateful for your kind appreciation," she stammered, her gaze momentarily dropping as she struggled to maintain composure.
Gaspard's eyes, intense and discerning, lingered on her. "There is no need for gratitude, Inquisitor. I merely speak the truth as I see it. In a realm filled with artifice and pretense, your authenticity shines like a beacon. It is a rare and refreshing quality."
Miriam, still blushing, managed a tentative smile. "Your Grace is too generous with his words."
Gaspard closed the gap between them, a calculated step that brought him into close proximity with the mage. "Generosity is not a virtue I readily dispense," he pronounced solemnly. "When I express admiration, it is reserved for those truly deserving." A moment of silence lingered before he proceeded, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur, "There's another facet of your character that captivates me, Inquisitor." Miriam, held in suspense, awaited his revelation. "Watching you unleash your powers against the enemies of the Maker ignited a fire within me.” Gaspard's words took on an almost confessional tone, “The pleasure of seeing the demons succumb to the righteous blaze was incomparable." He fixed his gaze on her as if testing her reaction. "Have you, too, experienced a similar sentiment as you witnessed them reduced to mere ash?"
His question echoed in the recesses of the mage’s mind, and as she pondered them, she found a deep resonance, "Yes, Your Grace. The indescribable joy that ensnares me as I extinguish those who defy the Maker is akin to none other."
Gaspard's broad smile unfolded in response to her admission. "I'm pleased to hear that, Inquisitor," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of excitement. "My heart beats fast in anticipation, for I am eager to witness more of your powers as we confront the minions of the Elder One within the accursed confines of the red lyrium mine.”
A subtle shiver traversed her spine, and with zeal, she declared, "I shall endeavor to live up to the expectations placed upon me, Your Majesty."
With a graceful gesture, Gaspard delicately seized her hand and brought it to his lips, the kiss lingering for a heartbeat longer than social norms would typically establish. Then, releasing her palm with a flourish, he stepped back with a charming smile. "I harbor no doubts, Inquisitor. None at all."
With that, the Emperor departed, leaving Miriam in solitude within the tent, the warmth of his kiss lingering on her hand.
The windswept passage to the red lyrium mine reverberated with the rhythmic clank of armor and the subdued murmurs of the Inquisition forces. Miriam observed Cullen, his gaze piercing the terrain with a steely resolve. The air carried a thick, unspoken anticipation, a foreboding prelude to the impending confrontation with the forces of the Elder One. Scouts ventured forth and returned with tidings of a fortified entrance, guarded by both Venatori and the Red Templars.
After a brief deliberation, the decision was made - the Templars, led by Cassandra, would spearhead the attack. Their disciplined formations and anti-magic prowess made them the ideal vanguard against the Tevinter mages. Following in their wake would be the forces of the Inquisition and the Emperor's Chevaliers, who would focus on the corrupt Knights.
When the Templars pressed forward, Cullen unsheathed his sword and signaled for Miriam and Lysette to relocate to the rear of their forces. Amidst the forthcoming silencing techniques the Knights were poised to unleash, the Inquisitor’s presence at the frontlines would be unproductive, as her magical abilities risked being nullified alongside those of the Venatori. Miriam acquiesced reluctantly; unfortunately, in this battle, she served only as a morale booster, relegated to a spectator rather than a participant.
At last, the Knights and Cassandra charged, their blades singing through the air as they collided with the Venatori. The clash was thunderous, a symphony of steel meeting magic. Arcane bursts illuminated the scene as they collided with the Templars' steadfast shields, yet the advance remained unwavering. Even from a distance, Miriam could sense the holy energy invoked by the Knights—remains of divine light that intruded upon her, distorting the threads of her connection to the Fade. As the magic of the Tevinter mages waned in the face of this sacred force, Cullen, an astute observer of the unfolding skirmish, raised his hand with a somber gravity. In response to the signaled command, the Emperor and his man surged forward, their battle cry resounding. In unison, the remaining forces of the Inquisition joined the charge. It was there, at the heart of the mine's entrance, that the battlefield metamorphosed into a chaotic tableau.
Gaspard, leading the Chevaliers, gracefully maneuvered through the tumult with a skill honed over years of martial prowess. His blade, gliding through the ranks of the Red Templars, bore witness to an almost casual mastery. Amidst the melee, Miriam observed a streak of black hair as Hawke plunged into the fray, her massive weapon delivering powerful blows that sent shards of red lyrium protruding from the Red Templar’s armor soaring into the air. The deadly litany of arrows followed, courtesy of Brother Sebastian perched on a high vantage point, bowstring taut and lips murmuring prayers. Fenris, the brooding elf with lyrium-infused markings, moved like a ghost among the tumult. His gauntleted hand delved into the chests of one Venatori after another, ripping out their hearts with visceral brutality.
In the relentless advance of the Inquisition, the pendulum of battle swung decisively in their favor. As the pressure mounted, the final Venatori succumbed to Cassandra's blade, and the Red Templars, with dwindling ranks, hastily retreated into the profound depths of the mine. Victory, unequivocally, belonged to the Inquisition, if only in this initial skirmish.
With the cessation of the battle and the Knights no longer suppressing magic in the area, Miriam swiftly hastened to the injured soldiers strewn across the battlefield, her hands radiating with the gentle glow of a healing spell. A wounded man and woman, their faces etched with pain and weariness, cast pleading gazes upon their leader. Her healing touch bestowed profound relief, and an air of gratitude enveloped the scene, with murmurs of appreciation and whispered thanks trailing her every step.
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"Thank the Maker for you, Your Worship," one soldier rasped, a faint smile forming on her bloodied lips.
Miriam nodded, her expression a mixture of determination and compassion. "It is my duty. Your bravery deserves nothing less."
She moved tirelessly from one injured soldier to the next, tending to their wounds until the immediate threat to their lives subsided. Upon completing her task, she extracted a worn handkerchief, wiping away the sweat that adorned her brow, and then consumed a lyrium potion to restore her mana. Her gaze momentarily shifted to her robes, now bearing the stains of her healing endeavors.
Somehow, there was a peculiar satisfaction in this familiar role of the healer—saving lives rather than extinguishing them. Yet, as she reflected on her words to the Emperor, the truth lingered. The joy derived from vanquishing the enemies of faith was undeniable. A dichotomy tugged at her thoughts—was she a shield, safeguarding lives, or a sword, bringing about the demise of those who opposed the Maker?
Miriam’s contemplations were abruptly halted by Cullen's summons, urging her to join the ongoing discussion. She hurried to his side, discovering him with a countenance that bore signs of recent healing, the effects of a just-consumed potion evident in the freshly closed wounds.
The remaining members of the Inquisition forces assembled around him, the atmosphere charged with tension, and the scent of blood and sweat clinging to the air. In their midst stood Hawke, accompanied by her allies, Cassandra and the Emperor, all poised in anticipation of forthcoming decisions.
"We have gained the upper hand," Cullen announced. "But we must press on. We cannot afford to give the enemy any respite. We will split our forces—a part will stay here to secure our position and safeguard the wounded, while the rest will venture deeper into the mine to eliminate the remaining Red Templars." Everyone nodded, their expressions grim as he continued, "Hawke, you will command the contingent of our men remaining here. Ensure the area is secure, and be vigilant for any signs of reinforcements. We cannot afford to be caught off guard." The Champion acknowledged the order with a brief nod. She quickly organized the soldiers under her, strategically positioning them to fortify the perimeter and ensure the safety of the wounded, now guarded by Fenris and Brother Sebastian.
Meanwhile, the remaining united forces gathered and followed the Commander as he led them deeper into the mine. The descent into the tunnel felt like a descent into madness. The red lyrium, once small and innocuous, now manifested as jagged, outgrown crystals that hummed and pulsed with a life of their own. They loomed like grotesque growths, casting distorted shadows on the damp walls of the mine. The rhythmic glow emanated an uncanny resemblance to a beating heart, a perverse mockery of life within the heart of darkness. The atmosphere grew increasingly tainted, a palpable heaviness settling in. Each inhalation became a laborious task, as though she was drawing in the very essence of malaise. Miriam wiped the sweat from her face, the handkerchief was now so soaked that it offered little relief. The mage stole a glance at her companions, and the weariness etched on their faces mirrored her own fatigue. The once-vibrant Emperor and his stalwart Chevaliers now moved as if weighed down by an invisible burden. Cullen, in particular, appeared to be affected deeply. His pallid and taut countenance revealed the toll exacted by the proximity to the red lyrium—a burden she understood to be more weighty for him than for the rest. Miriam, concerned for her friend’s well-being, moved closer to him and pressed her shoulder against his for a moment. The touch was delicate, a fleeting connection in an attempt to show her support. Cullen glanced down at her, their eyes meeting briefly in a silent exchange. His nod, terse but filled with gratitude, acknowledged her efforts before he redirected his gaze to confront the path ahead.
As the Inquisition forces persevered, they reached a vast chamber where the pulsating red lyrium crystals converged, creating a focal point of otherworldly power. The oppressive atmosphere here reached an almost unbearable intensity, exacerbated by the nauseating stench of rotting meat that permeated the area.
In an instant, Miriam’s eyes discerned the remaining Red Templars, lost in their lyrium-induced trance, voraciously feasting on chunks of red lyrium. Bloodied mouths, mutilated by the sharp edges of the cursed substance, produced gruesome sounds—a discordant symphony of agony and madness. Cullen wasted no time. He raised his sword, the blade gleaming in the crimson light, and pointed it at the oblivious Red Knights. However, before the attack had a chance to start, a deafening roar, unlike any Miriam had heard before, reverberated through the area. It was a deserted, haunting sound, akin to the primal resonance of an enraged and wounded beast. The ground trembled beneath their feet as a colossal, monstrous figure—a grotesque fusion of corrupted flesh and pulsating red crystal—descended from the cavern's ceiling right before them, landing with an earth-shaking thud.
The Inquisition forces, momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of the Behemoth, swiftly regained their composure. Lysette stood right beside her, shield and sword at the ready, while Cullen barked orders to the troops. The corrupted beast unleashed another bone-chilling roar, prompting the Red Templars behind it to awaken from their trance and hastily charge toward the intruders.
The first wave of Inquisition soldiers rushed forward, yet the Behemoth moved with surprising agility, evading their attacks with unsettling grace. Its massive left hand, shaped like a claw, sliced through the air, striking down multiple soldiers with a single blow.
Meanwhile, Gaspard and his Chevaliers engaged the remaining Red Templars, now even more frenzied and powerful. Recognizing that unleashing her flames here wasn't a viable option, Miriam cast protective barriers on Cullen, the Emperor, and Cassandra, fortifying them against the impending onslaught.
The mage saw the Seeker swing her sword, striking hard against the Behemoth, but the corrupted flesh proved resilient. The beast, in its darkened fury, countered with a brutal kick, hurling the woman against a jagged outcrop. Miriam's protective barrier, though tested by the brutal force, held resolute. Emerging unharmed from the unforgiving ground, Cassandra's eyes shone with an unwavering flame, and without hesitation, she swiftly reentered the fray.
As the battle raged on, the Inquisition forces struggled against the overwhelming strength of their enemies. The insidious red lyrium, a malevolent force coursing through the chamber, fueled and fortified the corrupted while simultaneously sapping the vitality of the valiant warriors. The situation swiftly spiraled out of control as the once-disciplined formation of their troops disintegrated and the battlefield metamorphosed into a swirling vortex of crimson chaos.
The dwindling numbers of their forces fought valiantly, but their efforts seemed akin to a desperate struggle against the inexorable current of fate. Half of the Chevaliers and Templars had fallen, yet this sacrifice only succeeded in vanquishing a mere fraction of the Red Templars.
Cullen, Cassandra, and their steadfast soldiers confronted the monstrous Behemoth, pouring their strength into each strike. However, the creature absorbed the onslaught with an ominous resilience, as if feasting upon the despair of the battered warriors. With each blow, it seemed to swell in might, rendering their efforts null.
In the symphony of chaos, Miriam remained consumed by the arduous task of upholding her protective barriers until, in a sudden burst of swift action, Lysette pushed her aside. The mage stumbled, abruptly pulled from her focused reverie, just in time to witness Lysette confronting the Red Templar with unwavering resolve. The Templar clashed with the foe that had managed to creep up on them, and in an effort to shield her companion, Miriam cast another protective barrier on Lysette. However, with each draining moment, her already dwindling mana reserves diminished further, leaving the mage acutely aware that she wouldn't be able to sustain the shields for much longer. As soon as Miriam felt the weight of her waning power and the impending doom pressing upon her, a haunting whisper echoed in her consciousness, a word repeated with an unsettling familiarity, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" The voice grew louder and more insistent until it became an undeniable presence reverberating in her mind. A gnawing ache intensified within the mark on her hand, and a slow, agonizing bleed began.
Desperation painted across her face, Miriam's thoughts raced back to a memory at the Winter Palace, where she had managed to sway the minds of the Harlequins. Could this be what the Maker urged her to do again? With a deep breath, she drew upon the power of her mark, reaching out to the minds of the Red Templars. Yet, rather than the anticipated connection, she was met with the distorted song of red lyrium. A dissonant melody was swiftly followed by a powerful mind blow, as if a door had been abruptly slammed in her face. Blood burst from her nose, and a sharp pain shot through her head. Collapsing to the ground, Miriam's concentration shattered, and the protective spells she had so diligently maintained dissipated into the air.
Amidst the chaos, Lysette, still locked in combat with the Red Templar, cast a worried glance toward the mage's fallen form. "Inquisitor! Are you alright?" she shouted, parrying a fierce strike from her foe.
Gasping for breath, Miriam struggled to rise, feeling the blood from her nose passing over her lips. "Pay me no mind, keep fighting!" she cried, her voice strained as the metallic taste filled her mouth.
The mage, despite the throbbing pain in her head, managed to stagger to her feet. As her gaze shifted to her glowing palm, now profusely bleeding, a new idea emerged in the haze of desperation. What if the answer lay not in the minds of her enemies but in their very blood? She was a healer, accustomed to mending wounds by controlling the vital fluid, but maybe she could use her healing abilities not to cure but to inflict harm. With determination etched on her face, Miriam outstretched both hands—one glowing with the emerald hue of the mark, the other radiating the gentle light of a healing spell. Slowly, she brought her hands together, merging the two energies. With newfound insight, she reached out to the corrupted blood of her adversaries, connecting with it as if it were an extension of her own essence. The sensation was intense—hot, almost unbearably so; red lyrium-tainted blood seemed to scorch her senses. Amidst the searing pain, a crooked smile crossed Miriam's face. "Let the righteous fire burn the corrupted from the inside!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, unleashing the spell that commanded the blood of her enemies to burn.
The battlefield convulsed with the impact of her incantation. The Red Templars and the Behemoth, caught in the grip of the mage's spell, writhed in agony as their blood turned into a seething cauldron within them. Miriam, her body trembling from the strain, watched as her foes met their demise. Black smoke began to rise from their writhing bodies, and they wailed in torment, clawing at their chests as if attempting to rip their very hearts out. The Emperor's voice cut through the cacophony, shouting, "The Sword of the Faithful gave us a chance! It's time to strike, servants of the Maker!" With renewed fervor, the Inquisition forces rallied, seizing the opportune moment presented by Miriam's devastating spell. Swords struck with a newfound sense of purpose as they descended upon the dying enemies. The Behemoth proved to be the final one to succumb. Its eye sockets were void of life, the flames burning away everything within the confines of its crystal shell. The battlefield, once a symphony of chaos, now echoed with the muted aftermath of relentless strife.
As Miriam's eyes traversed the chamber, they collided with the earnest and troubled gaze of Cullen. Wondering why he would be frowning at the victory, she felt warm, and wet streaks fall from her cheeks. She passed her hand over her face, puzzled by the unexpected tears, only to find her fingers stained with more fresh blood.
Confusion enveloped her as she stumbled, weakened, and disoriented. A similar sensation manifested on her jaw, and as she pressed her hand to her ears, she discovered they, too, were wet and sticky. Her head spun, and the world seemed to tilt. She began to fall, but her descent was abruptly halted by Lysette.
Everything swirled and swam around her, voices and images blending into an undiscernible haze. Amidst the disarray, for some reason, the question resurfaced in her mind: Who am I after all—the sword or the shield?