The corridors of the Shrine of Dumat sprawled before the united forces, wide and winding, their emptiness punctuated by the red lyrium crystals jutting from the walls like malignant growths. Occasionally, a dragon carved into the ceiling loomed overhead, watching with stone eyes. The maps Leliana had provided were of little help; the layout was only vaguely similar as if the shrine had been recently and hastily rearranged. Some walls bore the marks of new construction, while others stood ancient and worn, the juxtaposition adding to the disorienting atmosphere of the place.
Many brave men and women had perished to get them inside as quickly as they had, and Cullen dared hope that the initial emptiness of the shrine would herald less fierce fighting. But his optimism was quickly dashed as Red Templar Marksmen and corrupted mages flooded the corridor, charging at them with vengeance. The Commander gripped his sword tighter, his left arm barely able to hold his shield aloft, the old injury from his battle with the blighted dragon was a constant reminder of his limitations. "Form up!" he bellowed. The Templars and Chevaliers swiftly responded, their shields locking together to form a wall. Arrows whistled through the air, thudding into the shields as the Inquisition forces advanced steadily.
When the barrage of arrows ceased, it was instantly replaced by a torrent of lightning bolts, fireballs, and ice shards surging toward them. The shield wall, though less effective against offensive magic, still provided a degree of protection. Sensing this, the corrupted enchanters adopted a different approach. Runes began to appear beneath the soldiers, forming into Ice Mines and Searing Glyphs.
Screams echoed through the ranks as ice spikes and jets of flame erupted from the floor, impaling and burning his men before they could react. Yet, the Inquisition soldiers, seasoned in combating arcane threats, held their formation. They used the brief pauses between spells to fire their own arrows with deadly precision, taking down a dozen corrupted enchanters whose barriers were not strong enough to withstand the attack.
Having prevailed through their defenders, they finally closed in on the enemy. "Knights, silence the mages. Chevaliers, handle the Red Templars," Cullen commanded, his voice as unyielding as steel. The Emperor's warriors surged ahead, their swords and hammers ringing out as they clashed with the red-armored foes. The Templars focused on annulling the magic, their abilities a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. "Inquisition, now!" Cullen gestured with his sword toward the enchanters. The soldiers moved with grim determination, their training and discipline shining through. They cut down Samson's corrupted mages, now defenseless, as the Knights severed their connection to the Fade.
The fierce fighting continued, and Cullen aided where he could, finishing off wounded enemies with precise, efficient strikes. Each engagement was a challenge, especially after several heavy blows to his shield sent spasms of pain shooting through his left arm.
When this wave of attackers finally ceased, a moment of uneasy peace settled in the corridor. They stood ankle-deep in gore, the stone floor slick with blood and strewn with the remains of the fallen, the walls scorched and gouged by the destructive spells that had been hurled at them.
Cullen's breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation mingling with the acrid scent of blood and smoke. His muscles burned with exertion, and sweat poured down his face, mingling with the dirt and grime of battle. His thoughts flickered toward Miriam. She had used the power of the mark, a move they had agreed was only for the direst of situations. His heart clenched. His betrothed was fearless and determined, but also reckless when her fervor to fight heretics took hold. She might have ignored their agreement, driven by her unyielding resolve. Or worse, the rumors about Samson's indestructible armor could be true. Either way, it was a dire situation, which meant there was no time to rest, no time to falter. He straightened, rallying his remaining strength. "We push on," he announced, his voice hoarse but resolute. "The inner sanctum is near. Prepare yourselves." The soldiers, though weary and bloodied, responded with determined nods.
The Commander led his men through the vast, labyrinthine corridors of the shrine, their expansive breadth almost dizzying, guided not by the useless maps Leliana had provided but by his own instincts and the intensifying oppressive presence of red lyrium. Each step they took was met with increasing suffocation from the heat and the ever louder hum of the crimson crystals.
The corridor they were marching through ended abruptly, leading into a wide bend. As they approached, a sudden, guttural roar reverberated ahead, instantly seizing everyone's attention. From around the corner dashed a massive figure, both humanoid and monstrous—the Behemoth. Though smaller than the one encountered in the mines, its formidable presence threatened to further dwindle their already depleted ranks.
Before they could prepare, the monster was upon them, its colossal left fist crashing down on the Templars at the vanguard, sending Knights sprawling. The swords and hammers of the Chevaliers and the Inquisition's men struck the Behemoth's red lyrium armor, but their blows barely made a dent. With each swing, the creature retaliated with overwhelming force, shattering shields into splinters and rending armor into scrap metal. "Hold the line!" Cullen's voice thundered over the chaos. Nearby, a Chevalier swiftly raised his shield, deflecting a bloodied piece of breastplate hurtling toward them like a deadly projectile. His men, shaken but resolute, tightened their formation, their movements precise and calculated amidst the frenzied melee.
Cullen's eyes darted around the space, searching desperately for anything that could give them an edge. And then, by the grace of the Maker, he noticed it—the Ice Mine on the floor behind them, miraculously untouched thus far. Images of soldiers impaled on ice flashed through his mind, and a plan began to take shape. "Lead it this way!" he shouted, his voice carrying authority as he pointed toward the barely visible runes on the floor. The soldiers hesitated briefly, uncertainty flickering in their eyes, but understanding dawned swiftly. They turned and began a calculated retreat, their feigned withdrawal designed to draw the Behemoth into the trap.
The monstrous creature charged after them like a raging bronto, its fury blinding it to the impending danger. The soldiers maneuvered deftly, circling the Ice Mine while maintaining a distance. At the critical moment, as the Behemoth closed in, the men at the rear veered aside, leaving the creature no time to halt its momentum, and the Behemoth stepped squarely into the rune-marked area.
The runes on the floor ignited with a brilliant blue light, and spikes of pure ice erupted from the ground with lethal precision. The Behemoth bellowed in agony, its lyrium-infused body pierced and immobilized by the chilling magic. Its colossal form thrashed violently, but the trap held fast, gradually sapping its strength. "Now! Strike with all you have!" Cullen's voice boomed, commanding his troops to action. The soldiers rallied, attacking the monster with renewed vigor. With each strike, the Behemoth weakened, its red lyrium armor cracking under the combined assault of magic and steel. Cullen watched, his heart pounding, as, with a final, shuddering roar, the monster collapsed.
As the din of battle faded, the only sound being the moans of wounded soldiers echoing through the corridor. Cullen released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his shoulders sagging momentarily with relief. But there was no time for celebration, no luxury in victory. The mission was far from complete.
With healing potions hastily distributed among those who could continue, they pressed forward, their footsteps reverberating through the tense stillness of the corridor. Soon, the path opened into a medium-sized chamber, where every inch of wall and ceiling not ensnared by pulsating red lyrium was adorned with intricate carvings depicting dragons and inscriptions in an unfamiliar language.
At the chamber's far end stood a heavy iron door, its presence imposing and ominous. Cullen could feel the concentrated dark power emanating from beyond it—an ominous aura of crimson crystals that seemed to seep into his very soul, sending a shiver down his spine. Miriam—she had to be alive. They had to stop Samson and put an end to this nightmare. With a deep breath, he steeled himself for what lay ahead. "We're almost there," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.
Just as they reached the center of the chamber, the shadows around them seemed to writhe and twist, coalescing into dark, menacing forms. The air itself seemed to distort as figures emerged—Templar Shadows, clad in tattered remnants of their once-proud armor, their bodies elongated and limbs adorned with jagged red lyrium crystals. "Close ranks," Cullen shouted. "Defensive formation!" The chamber echoed with the shuffle of feet and the clink of armor as the soldiers prepared for the impending onslaught.
The monsters circled them for a tense moment, their movements sleek and predatory, before launching into an assault that seemed almost supernatural in its speed. Their sword-arms cut through the air with deadly precision, each strike aimed with the intent to maim or kill.
To Cullen's left, a Chevalier was skewered by a crimson blade, his cry abruptly silenced as he fell to the ground. The Inquisition soldier beside him reacted swiftly, her sword swinging in a powerful arc that cleaved through the Shadow's head with devastating force. The creature's form staggered, then joined the bodies that had already started to litter the floor.
"Defensive formation!" Cullen roared once again, trying to keep his forces from breaking. The Templar beside him was caught off guard, a crimson blade slicing across his neck with brutal efficiency. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering Cullen's face with warm, sticky droplets. The Knight clutched at his throat, eyes wide with shock and agony, before collapsing to his knees. Reacting swiftly, the Commander surged forward, his heart pounding in time with the chaotic symphony of battle. His shield, bearing the scars of previous skirmishes, rose to intercept the second, devastating blow aimed at the fallen Knight. The impact resonated like a thunderclap, the force behind it was staggering. Pain exploded through Cullen's arm, a fiery lance that sent tremors down to his very bones. His grip faltered, and the shield, battered and dented, slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. Undeterred, Cullen managed a swift counter-attack, driving his sword upwards to spear the approaching Shadow through its chin. Then, with a powerful kick of his leg, he sent the creature sprawling backward. "Get him a healing potion!" he commanded, his tone urgent as he gestured towards the fallen Knight. A nearby soldier nodded, reaching for his pouch, only to discover it empty.
"Maker's breath," the man murmured, his expression desperate, as he turned to his Commander. Cullen grimaced, attempting to move his left hand to reach for the potion pouch at his belt, but it remained lifelessly hanging at his side, unresponsive to his commands. Frustration welled up within him as he cursed under his breath, gesturing to the soldier to retrieve the potion himself.
The soldier nodded briskly and swiftly retrieved the flask from Cullen's belt and administered it to the injured Knight, his movements efficient and practiced.
Now only one healing potion remained in his pouch.
The Commander's mind was a tempest, swirling with the weight of their predicament. His men and their resources were dwindling, consumed voraciously by the relentless battle. His left arm remained useless at his side, the searing pain of moments before now supplanted by a cold, numbing tingling. He had no further time to dwell on it all, however, as the battle continued in a swirl of movement and blood. A Chevalier to his right, his armor stained with the blood of his fallen comrades, lunged at a Shadow, his sword piercing the creature's chest. The monster let out an inhuman shriek and crumpled to the floor. The Chevalier turned, only to be impaled by another monster from behind, his lifeblood pooling around him.
"Rotate positions!" Cullen shouted, his voice cutting through the cacophony of battle like a clarion call. "Pair off and defend each other's flanks!" The soldiers responded quickly, forming pairs and covering each other's weak points. The Shadows' attacks slowed, their surprise advantage diminished by the coordinated defense. The Commander watched as his forces adapted, their movements becoming more fluid, their strikes more precise. "Focus on their limbs! Sever their sword-arms!" One of the Shadows lunged at Cullen, its sword-arm aimed at his chest. With his shield gone and his left hand limp, he raised his sword to parry the blow. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed. The Templar beside him saw the opening and struck from the side, severing the monster's arm. The creature let out an inhuman shriek before Cullen silenced it, slicing its head from its shoulders in one swift motion.
As the battle raged on, the united forces held their ground, their strategic fighting technique turning the tide. One by one, the corrupted creatures fell, their crimson forms littering the floor until, at last, the final abomination collapsed.
Cullen looked around at the remnants of his forces. Many had fallen, their bodies strewn amidst the shattered remains of the Shadows. But those who still stood had eyes that reflected the same grim determination that burned within him. "Secure the area," he commanded, his voice strained and worn as he sheathed his sword and tucked his left arm into his coat like a sling. "We must regroup before we breach the do--"
His words were abruptly silenced by the creak and groan of the iron hinges turning. In an instant, his sword was back in his hand, ready. The doors swung open slowly before them. From within, a noxious wave of air assailed them, the scent of blood, decay, and charred flesh so potent that it made his eyes water. "Forward with steady resolve," he murmured to his men. "We've overcome greater challenges. This is no different."
As the soldiers regrouped, they made their way cautiously into the chamber. Passing the threshold revealed its contents in all their horror. At its far end, Red Templar Marksmen stood poised with bows drawn, their distorted faces illuminated by the flickering light of red lyrium crystals that covered the walls. They were surrounded by the aftermath of carnage: ash and blood smeared across the floor, bodies of their corrupted fallen comrades piled grotesquely in a corner—some charred beyond recognition, others with limbs gruesomely severed. His heart sank at the sight of Cassandra, Fenris, and Brother Sebastian lying unconscious near that gory pile. They were gravely wounded; their breaths shallow and labored.
Before the Marksmen, standing tall with a smug smile, was Samson, instantly recognizable to Cullen despite the time that had transpired since they last saw each other. In his chokehold, tightly pressed against his side, was Miriam, her face contorted in a visage of wild, animalistic rage. A deep gash marred her forehead, her right eye swollen shut. Her feet dangled barely above the ground, her hands clawing desperately at Samson's arm, which was clamped around her neck like a vise. Blood and a dark, viscous liquid mingled, trickling from the corners of her mouth and staining her torn robes. She seemed oblivious to their arrival, too engrossed in her desperate struggle for survival.
A surge of fury and determination engulfed Cullen as he took in the scene. Every instinct screamed for action, yet he knew any hasty move could seal both theirs and Miriam's fate. His jaw clenched, his mind racing with plans and prayers to the Maker for a way to turn this grim tableau in their favor.
Samson's pallid, bloodshot gaze swept over the united forces, a dismal panorama of dwindling numbers and wearied countenances. Then his eyes, heavy with a somber, almost morbid curiosity, fixed on Cullen, noting with satisfaction that the Commander's left hand was tucked into his coat, bereft of its customary shield. A crooked smile slithered across the General's face, widening as if in mockery of their shared history. "Cullen, it's been a long while," he murmured, his voice laced with a dry, mirthless chuckle. "The last time our paths crossed, you carried yourself with such insufferable arrogance. And now, look at you! Weak, pathetic. It defies belief that once I was compelled to grovel at your feet."
He was obviously relishing the opportunity to confront Cullen under these dire circumstances. The bitterness was palpable, and the Commander, with sudden, illuminating clarity, realized he could exploit it. Cunning and dirty tactics—the very methods of the Spymaster he so despised—would be his way out. Winning in a fair fight was a hopeless dream when Miriam and his comrades were held hostage, their lives hanging by the thread of the archers' arrows. Steeling himself, he met the General's gaze squarely. "Release the Inquisitor and her companions, and face me like a man, Samson. I will show you who is truly weak and pathetic here."
The General laughed, a cold, hollow sound that echoed through the chamber. "Broken, desperate, and outmatched, yet as high and mighty as ever. Very well, then. Let's make this interesting. A duel, just you and me. To the death."
Cullen felt a grim satisfaction welling up within him. He knew he stood no chance against the lyrium-infused man, especially in his current state. But victory was not his aim; he sought to manipulate the situation, to force Samson to release Miriam and create an opportunity for his soldiers to gain a more advantageous position on the battlefield. "I accept your challenge," he declared, his voice imbued with a calm that belied the storm within. Turning to face his comrades, he saw confusion and doubt in their eyes, yet he held their gaze with fierce determination; he needed to convey his plan without arousing Samson's suspicion. Drawing a deep breath, he began to speak, his voice carrying a resolute authority. "Soldiers, we stand on the precipice of a decisive moment. In this chamber, our fates will be sealed. But remember, we have faced greater odds before, and emerged victorious through our unity and strategy." He paused, ensuring his words sank in. The soldiers' eyes began to reflect a glimmer of understanding, though their expressions remained guarded. "Samson," he continued, addressing his enemy but still speaking to his men, "Let us fight not just with our arms, but with our wits and our spirit." Turning back to his troops, he locked eyes with the leaders of the Templars and Chevaliers, hoping they would grasp his hidden meaning. The men nodded subtly, their postures shifting almost imperceptibly as they readied themselves.
The General rolled his eyes. "Enough of the chatter. Let's get to it." With casual cruelty, he dropped Miriam to the ground. She hit the dirty floor hard, gasping for breath, her crimson eye, the one still visible, wide and wild. Her gaze fixed on Cullen, but it seemed as though she looked through him, her mind clouded with pain and anger.
Cullen pressed his lips, firming his grip on his sword, feeling the familiar weight in his hand as he made his way to Samson. Once he was close enough, the Red Templars and Marksmen moved with military precision, forming a tight circle around the two men, creating an impromptu arena. The tension was palpable, the anticipation crackling in the air.
The General stepped forward, his weapon reflecting the light of a red lyrium crystal pulsing on his chest. "Prepare to be humiliated. This will be over quickly."
The Commander raised his sword. "We'll see about that."
The duel commenced with a clash of steel that reverberated through the chamber, each strike a testament to the intensity of their conflict. Cullen moved with agility, his blade meeting Samson's with precision, born of years of training. Yet, despite his skill, he knew his true battle lay beyond the arena. As they circled each other, exchanging blows, his mind was sharp with calculation. His gaze flickered subtly, assessing the movements of his soldiers around the periphery of the chamber. The Red Templars, fixated on the duel unfolding before them, were oblivious to the strategic rearrangement happening under their noses.
Cullen feigned retreat, drawing Samson deeper into the dance of combat. He needed to prolong the fight, to give his soldiers the time they needed to gain a tactical advantage. Every extra second counted.
Samson pressed his advantage with relentless ferocity. His strikes came faster and harder, testing Cullen's defenses. In a momentary lapse of concentration, the Commander miscalculated, his guard faltering just enough. With a breathy chuckle, Samson seized the opportunity. His blade sliced through the air, catching Cullen off-guard. The sharpened edge met flesh, carving a deep, searing path across his left eye.
All went black for a moment, pain exploding like fire as Cullen staggered backward, fighting his instinct to press his functioning hand to the wound. Blood poured down his cheek, the world spinning in disorienting chaos as he fought to maintain his balance and stay on his feet amidst the agony that threatened to overwhelm him.
"You are no match for me, Chantry dog!" the General announced, his voice dripping with disdain.
Cullen gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to the pain. "You're right," he said, his voice strained yet unwavering. His vision was slowly returning through his one remaining eye. "I am no match for you."
Samson sneered, raising his weapon for another strike. "Finally, something we agree on."
"But there's one thing you forgot," the Commander continued, narrowly avoiding the hit. "I'm not alone."
At that moment, the united forces, who had been quietly positioning themselves around the chamber, attacked. The sudden assault caught the General's forces off guard, breaking their formation and creating chaos.
"You cheating bastards, do you think this will save you?" Samson spat, his voice ringing with venomous rage. "I'll kill you all!"
The Chevalier's hammer swung with brutal force, crashing against Samson's skull and sending him sprawling to the ground. Cullen didn't linger to see the outcome; his attention was solely on Miriam. Sprinting through the chaos, his heart pounded with urgency as he saw her struggling to rise amidst the battlefield's debris.
He reached her side in swift strides. Kneeling beside her, releasing his grip on his sword momentarily, he withdrew his last remaining healing potion. "Drink this," he urged, his voice edged with concern. The chaos of battle faded into the background, his focus entirely on the woman before him, her safety paramount above all else.
"Cullen?" Miriam's expression flickered with a glimmer of recognition as she finally focused her gaze. "No. You take it!"
"But you're badly injured too," he insisted, his worry for her eclipsing his own pain as he pressed the bottle to her split, bleeding lips.
"I am not injured," she growled as her eye darted above him. "I am enraged!"
With surprising strength, she pushed him to the side. Caught off guard by her reaction, he fell to the floor, barely noticing the sword slicing through the air just where his head had been mere seconds before. The sound of breaking glass and a clatter of metal followed. Samson stood above him with a grin, no injury in sight. "You should know better, Cullen," he chuckled, raising the sword high once again. "I'm not so easily defeated."
The Commander's mind raced, the world narrowing to the blade poised to strike. His own sword lay on the floor, and he could feel the pulse of his heartbeat in his temples, the throbbing pain where his left eye had been flaring. "Maker," he whispered, desperation coloring his voice, yet his eyes never left Samson's as he reached for his fallen weapon.
The General's grin widened. "He doesn't care about you," he taunted, kicking the sword away from Cullen's grasp. "He never did."
As Samson's sword descended towards the Commander's head, time seemed to slow. Cullen's right hand shot out instinctively, in a futile attempt to shield himself. But then, with a blur of movement, Miriam threw herself in front of him.
The mage's cry pierced the air, her body absorbing the blow meant for Cullen. The sickening crunch of the blade biting into her flesh reverberated in his ears, and she fell to the ground, her blood pooling around her.
His world shattered. Rage, sorrow, and guilt collided within him, igniting a fierce, desperate strength. With a guttural roar, he lunged for his sword, adrenaline surging through his veins. His fingers closed around the hilt, and he rose, the weapon now an extension of his wrath.
The General's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through his smug facade. He swung his sword towards Cullen, but this time, the Commander was ready. He parried the blow with a ferocity that drove Samson back, the clash of their blades ringing out like a death knell.
"I'll kill you!" Cullen bellowed. His strikes came faster, each one fueled by the burning need for vengeance.
Samson, caught off guard by his renewed vigor, struggled to regain his footing, his taunts falling silent as he focused on defending himself.
As Cullen fought, he felt an overwhelming surge of dark, primal magic flood the chamber. It was a heady mixture of Miriam's healing arts intertwined with an ancient, indescribable power. The magic's intensity swelled, its tendrils winding around his very soul, feeding his rage and amplifying it until it was all-consuming. Each breath he took, every beat of his heart, felt singularly focused on one purpose: to maim and kill the heretics.
The pain in his left eye vanished as the flesh knitted itself back together, the wound closing seamlessly. The numbness in his left arm dissipated, replaced by a burning heat that coursed through it. He flexed his fingers, marveling at the ease and strength that had returned to his limb as he yanked it free from his coat. Yet all of this felt inconsequential. His mind was a razor, honed and deadly, fixed solely on ending the life of his enemy.
Cullen wasn't the only one feeling the surge. Every Inquisition soldier, Templar, and Chevalier descended upon the Red Knights with a frenzy that defied reason. Through a strange detachment, he noticed that his men's eyes had turned void black, filled with primal, ravenous hunger. He then felt it too—the overwhelming need to tear the foul heretics and traitors to shreds, to taste their blood.
The tide of battle shifted in an instant. The united forces of the Inquisition fought with wild abandon, ignoring their injuries. The air was thick with the raw power coursing through them, binding them into a single, relentless force. They moved as one, driven by an insatiable, dark urge that knew no mercy, no fear—only the imperative to destroy.
"This blighted bitch!" the General hissed, his voice fraught with both indignation and fright as he gazed upon the battlefield. The Commander seized the moment of chaos to deliver a powerful blow against the man's red lyrium crystal protruding from his chest, causing him to stagger.
"Faithful of the Maker," Miriam's words resonated in his mind. "It's time to unleash the wrath of the righteous!" For a split second, he felt a flicker of concern about having someone else's voice in his head, but it was swiftly drowned out by another wave of blinding anger and an insatiable thirst for blood.
Throwing his sword aside, Cullen rushed toward the General, rage driving him to squeeze the life out of the man with his bare hands. He leaped, slamming Samson to the ground, and straddled him, raining down blows until the man no longer tried to defend himself. Then, with unnatural strength, Cullen began tearing away pieces of the General's armor. The fused metal and skin ripped apart, exposing raw, bloodied flesh beneath.
Others joined in. Inquisition soldiers bit into Samson, their teeth tearing away chunks of muscle and sinew. Blood sprayed from the wounds, and Cullen's senses were overwhelmed with elation. The sounds of tearing flesh and snapping bones echoed in his ears, and the vision in his eye blurred with tears of joy. Samson's screams turned into gurgles, then silence, as his body was ravaged by the relentless assault.
Amid the carnage, Cullen's eye was drawn to the still-beating heart within the ruin of his enemy's chest. It pulsed with a steady rhythm, a stubborn symbol of life clinging to the remnants of a destroyed body. With a swift, brutal motion, the Commander reached into the gore and ripped out Samson's heart. The organ quivered in his hand, slick with blood. He held it aloft like a trophy. A pang of hunger seized him, and his mouth watered. Something deep inside him screamed in protest, but he ignored it, distracted by the drum of his own heart beating in anticipation.
He brought the heart to his lips and took a savage bite, feeling blood trail down his chin. He felt as though he were drowning, suffocating under the weight of his own ecstasy. His eye closed for a moment, savoring the sensation. Nothing had ever compared to this—the sheer satisfaction of consuming the very essence of the heretical life.
As he finished his gory meal, Cullen licked his mailed glove clean, savoring the lingering taste of blood. The rage and elation that had consumed him began to subside, leaving behind a pleasant numbness. His left hand fell limp once again, and the pain where his eye had been returned with a dull throb. Detached, he surveyed the battlefield, now littered with the bodies of the Red Templars. What little remained of Samson had been picked clean by some of the Inquisition's soldiers, while others feasted on the remains of the Red Knights. This should have made his stomach churn, shouldn't it? And yet, it didn't.
His gaze found his betrothed, slowly pushing herself up from the ground, alive and defiant. His eyes traced the grievous wound inflicted by Samson, a deep gash running from her shoulder to her waist. The wound was covered by a layer of pulsing black slime, which seeped down to the floor, mingling with blood. From there, it crept toward the lifeless forms of the Red Templars, enveloping the crystals protruding from their bodies and drawing their corrupt energy into the mage.
The mark on Miriam's hand, once glowing with the ethereal green of the Fade, had turned abyssal black. Her veins were now dark as night, enlarged and draining the color from her skin to a deathly pallor. As she rose smoothly to her feet, Cullen saw her face. The swelling, bruising, and injury vanished, leaving her eyes voids of pure blackness.
At that moment, the transformation in the mage briefly stirred memories of Lea Amell's ominous, maleficar gaze. Yet, before the notion could root itself deep, calm washed over him once more. It was Miriam who stood before him, the embodiment of Andraste's teachings, steadfast and resolute—never one to dabble in forbidden blood magic.
The mage approached with measured steps, her countenance radiant. "My faithful betrothed! It was a triumph, the way we vanquished those vile creatures. The Maker smiles upon us. He rejoices!" Her voice rang out with conviction as she drew nearer to Cullen, still perched upon the remnants of the fallen General. Extending her hand, she gently assisted him to his feet, a warm smile gracing her features. "Allow me to deal with Samson once and for all. The Maker has revealed the way to me."
The Commander nodded in silent acknowledgment and stepped back, allowing Miriam to take charge. With a deft wave of her hand, she directed the Inquisition soldiers around the fallen General to disperse. As she approached, her gaze fixed on the torn breastplate lying next to the slowly regenerating body.
Extending her left hand over the bloodied armor, Miriam's palm revealed a darkened mark from which a viscous black slime began to ooze. It slithered down her fingers with deliberate purpose, enfolding the red lyrium crystal embedded within the breastplate. The slime formed a pulsing conduit between her and the shard, channeling its volatile energy. A slight tremor ran through the mage, a soft moan escaping her pale lips as she absorbed each pulse through her mark.
The crystal, initially resistant, shimmered defiantly with a bright light as if grappling against its fate. Yet the struggle was fleeting, the brilliance swiftly fading into oblivion. The slime retreated from its conquest, withdrawing back into Miriam's mark, leaving behind only a cracked, lifeless stone. The regeneration of Samson's remains ceased with it.
"It is finished. He is truly dead. Victory is ours!" Miriam proclaimed, her voice ringing through the chamber. In response, primal, triumphant roars erupted from their comrades.
Meanwhile, the mage withdrew her hand and turned towards Cullen, her presence humming with the distorted resonance of red lyrium. Her eyes were twin pools of ink, her form laced with black veins, pulsating with the same viscous slime that adorned her chest. Vile, dangerous, corrupted...his thoughts stumbled to a halt. How could he entertain such notions after she had nearly sacrificed herself to protect him, after she had secured their victory? As Miriam drew nearer, an inexplicable allure emanated from her, the distorted song of red lyrium now sounding strangely melodious, irresistibly drawing him in.
In a swift motion, he closed the distance between them, seizing her waist and pulling her closer. The metallic clang of his armor met her frail form, and in the obsidian depths of her eyes, he glimpsed his own reflection, finding his one remaining eye transformed to match hers. The mage cupped his face gently in her hands, drawing him nearer still. She leaned in, running her tongue over his chin, tasting the lingering essence of Samson's blood, and smirked at him provocatively.
Desire eclipsed any numbness or indifference he had felt. The world around them blurred into insignificance; the only reality was the burning need coursing through him, the desperate yearning to be closer, to be consumed by the dark flame that she was. Unperturbed by their surroundings, uncaring of who might witness their union, Cullen kissed her fiercely. Their lips met in a violent clash, a battle for dominance and surrender. He tasted the coppery tang of blood, the sickly sweet decay of death, and the intoxicating, almost electric essence of lyrium on her lips.
Miriam's hands roamed from his face to his breastplate, and he sensed a phantom caress against his skin, the armor no longer a barrier but a conduit for her touch. He felt her fingers trailing lower, a promise of more, a threat of everything.
Their kiss deepened, becoming something primal—a dance of tongues and teeth, a mingling of blood and breath. She bit his lip, sharp and sudden, a jolt of pain that only heightened his desire. The taste of his own blood mingled with hers, creating a heady mix that made him dizzy and eager for more. Yet much to his frustration, Miriam drew back slightly, her breath warm against his skin, and whispered, "Let me share the strength of the Maker with you, my love." Her voice was a soft caress, a promise of something wondrous, and his disappointment vanished.
She took his limp left hand, her fingers deftly removing the mailed glove. He barely registered the action, too lost in the sensation of her touch. She pressed his bare hand against the slime-covered wound on her chest. The slime was warm and gave way with a slight resistance, like a dense gel, wrapping around his fingers with a gentle, consistent pressure. The warmth of the substance spread through his hand, and just as during the battle, strength, and vitality surged through his veins, his limb coming alive with an almost painful intensity. He watched, fascinated, as the veins on his arm darkened to black, swelling, and his skin took on a bluish hue.
Before he had time to process this transformation, Miriam pressed her marked palm over his left eye. The sensation was even more intense, the heat spreading through the left side of his face. He felt something growing, an alien, yet marvelous sensation. When the mage finally removed her hand, he realized with shock that he could see. She had regrown his eye.
His reflection in her dark, knowing eyes was complete; both eyes now mirrored hers, and his left hand pulsed with an unnatural power. He felt whole and more himself than ever before.
Cullen met her gaze, a fierce gratitude and undying loyalty burning within him. "Miriam," he breathed, his voice rough with emotion. He didn't have the words to express what he felt, but he knew she understood.
The mage smiled, a smile that spoke of shared power, shared devotion to the Maker, and a future intertwined. "Together, my love," she murmured, her lips brushing against his. "We are unstoppable."
And in that moment, Cullen knew it to be true.