The sun blazed high over the horizon, its fierce rays casting a golden glow upon the scorched earth below. Miriam rode at the forefront of the united forces, her eyes aflame with fervor. Her warhorse, a towering beast of pure white, snorted and pawed at the ground, sensing the triumphant energy that radiated from its rider. The path behind them was littered with the corpses of heretics, their twisted forms a testament to the Maker's justice.
The Inquisitor could feel it—a deep, thrumming power coursing through her veins. The red lyrium she consumed had become like a sacred wine, its intoxicating strength amplifying her gifts. She no longer merely wielded power; she was power. The blessings she granted upon the faithful now lingered for days, a sign that the Maker's grace was flowing through her without end.
As she reveled in this sense of righteous fulfillment, a wave of heat washed over her, and she turned her head slightly to see Cullen riding close beside her. He was a striking figure, stripped down to the bare essentials—no armor, only simple trousers and a shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled arms that glistened with sweat. Since the moment he had come to his senses, having fainted from the overwhelming power of her blood, he had transformed—both body and mind honed by the divine fire that coursed through him now. The Cullen of old was gone, replaced by this sharpened tool of the Maker's will.
The mage smiled, a knowing, satisfied smile. He had taken her betrothed and re-forged him, like a master smith at the anvil, hammering away impurities until only the strongest, most resilient steel remained. Her beloved was faster now, sharper, even his memories had undergone the Maker's touch, scoured clean of the dross of his former life. The chains of his past—the family that he abandoned, the agonies of Kinloch and Kirkwall—were shattered, left behind like slag on the forge floor.
What remained were the memories the Maker had chosen to preserve: Cullen's fated encounter with her at Redcliffe as children, and his time with the Inquisition. Miriam knew there were gaps even there—subtle voids where He had deemed certain memories unworthy or frivolous. Like what his favorite foods were or what hobbies he once enjoyed. But Miriam was more than pleased. Such trivialities held no value in the grand design.
"Soon, we will return to Skyhold, my love," she said, her voice laced with quiet anticipation. "I received a raven from Josephine this morning. The Emperor awaits us at the fortress, overjoyed by the glorious news that the Golden City will be built within his realm. He's eager to offer all the gold Orlais can muster for this sacred endeavor and will assist the Ambassador in seeking contributions from other nations. Even Orlais lacks the wealth needed for such a grand task." The mage noticed the subtle flicker of disdain that crossed her betrothed's face at the mention of Gaspard. It was a small thing, a momentary tension in his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes. But she was too absorbed in her thoughts, too busy spinning out the possibilities of what lay ahead, to give it much attention. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. "I can scarcely imagine what it would be like to stand in His presence, to breathe the same air as the Creator of all, to hear the Chant of Light from the sacred lips of Andraste Herself." Opening her black eyes, she met Cullen's gaze, her resolve steely. "But first, we must find and kill the Elder One and his dragon. None of this can come to pass until that abomination is destroyed. I say we task Leliana with locating him, and once we have his whereabouts, we march—no hesitation, no delay. Without Samson to command the Red Templars, they are now in disarray. The Venatori numbers are also dwindling. The timing couldn't be better."
Cullen nodded, his expression firm. "As you wish, my Herald. I will ensure the army is ready to march the moment we have his location."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from behind. A soldier, clad in the Inquisition's colors, appeared before them, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. He stopped a respectful distance away, bowing his head low before speaking.
"Beg pardon, Your Worship," the soldier began, his voice careful. "Could I trouble you for a moment? There's something important I need to talk to you about, and it'd be best if we did so alone."
Miriam paused, studying him with a gaze as sharp as a drawn blade. She noted the subtle twitch at the corner of his eye, the nervous fumble of his fingers as he struggled to maintain composure. "Of course," she replied, her tone even, though an undercurrent of intrigue wove through her words. "We will be making camp soon. Find me in the Command Tent; you may speak then."
The soldier's relief was palpable as he bowed once more. "Thank you, Your Worship," he said, his voice steadying as he turned and hurried back toward the column of soldiers marching behind them. As he retreated, Miriam watched him go, her mind already returning to her previous musings.
As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the land in hues of gold and deepening shadow, the Inquisitor signaled for the column to halt. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, setting up camp with the ease of those who had done it countless times before. Miriam and Cullen made their way to the Command Tent, its canvas flaps billowing slightly in the evening breeze.
Inside, the tent was lit by the warm glow of a lantern. Maps and reports were spread out across the central table, meticulously arranged for their upcoming planning session. Miriam approached the table, her fingers instinctively tracing the edge of a map as her thoughts drifted to the logistics ahead. The routes the Inquisition would establish to transport gold from across Thedas to Orlais were already taking shape in her mind.
In a moment Cullen came to stand beside her. His expression was one of calm readiness, but as he looked at the maps, his eyes sharpened with focus. "These routes," he began, breaking the silence, "we'll need to account for possible ambushes. The more gold we move, the more tempting a target we become."
The mage nodded, her fingers pausing on a particularly risky stretch. "I was thinking the same. We'll need to secure additional patrols here—and here." She pointed to a few key locations on the map.
Cullen leaned in, considering her suggestions. "We could also use decoys. Send smaller, less valuable shipments ahead to draw out any would-be attackers. It might give our main convoy the time it needs to move safely."
A smile tugged at the corner of Miriam's lips. "A clever diversion, my love." She shifted a few of the markers on the map, adjusting their plans. "And for the high-priority shipments, perhaps we could enlist a few mages, accompanied by the Knights, of course, to create protective wards. It would add another layer of security."
Cullen nodded, clearly pleased with the idea.
As they continued their discussion, the sounds of the camp settling down for the night started to filter through the canvas walls. Suddenly, the low murmur of voices outside grew louder, and the flap of the tent rustled as one of the guards stepped in. "Your Worship, Commander," the woman announced, her voice steady. "The soldier who asked for an audience with you has just arrived."
"Send him in." the mage replied, her expression composed.
The guard stepped aside, and the soldier from earlier entered the tent, his demeanor cautious and anxious. He bowed deeply to Miriam and Cullen, his gaze flickering nervously as he straightened. "Your Worship, Commander," he began, his voice shaky. "Thank you for seeing me."
Miriam's eyes narrowed curious of what he was about to reveal. "You have our attention. Speak."
The soldier hesitated, glancing at Cullen as if seeking reassurance, then back at the mage. "It's the Templars, Your Worship. A few of them... they're planning to run off." He swallowed hard, his fear showing in the tremble of his voice. "I... I overheard them while I was... retching in the bushes, after trying to stomach what was left of the heretics." He cast his eyes downward, shame coloring his tone. "Begging your pardon, my body's too weak to keep their flesh down, but I'm praying to the Maker that one day I'll be strong enough." His voice wavered as he continued, "They don't want to be part of the Order no more, not with an Inquisitor who's..." He trailed off, his courage faltering as he struggled to find the right words.
Miriam's eyes flashed with impatience. "Who is what?" she demanded, her voice sharp.
The soldier's face paled, and his hesitation became unbearable. Cullen, his patience already thin, moved swiftly. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The soldier gasped in shock, his hands scrabbling at the Commander's unyielding grip.
"Speak!" Cullen commanded his voice a menacing growl.
The man's eyes bulged with terror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Ab-abomination," he managed to choke out, the word barely escaping his lips.
Miriam's reaction was instant, a surge of fury erupted from deep within her. "An abomination!?" she spat, her voice trembling with the force of her anger. First Samson, then Cassandra, and now the Knights dare to call her this?
The soldier, still suspended in Cullen's grasp, flinched at her words. Commander's grip relaxed slightly, and he allowed the man to drop to his knees, gasping for breath. But his gaze remained locked on Miriam, awaiting her next command.
The Inquisitor's chest heaved with the intensity of her emotions. The Templars, those sworn to uphold the laws of Andraste, now turning against her? It was unforgivable. "They will pay for their insolence, for their treachery!"
Cullen's face was a mask of cold resolve. "What are your orders, Inquisitor?"
"Find these traitors," she declared. "Make an example of them. Let them all see what happens to those who slander and betray the Maker's chosen."
The Commander's lips twisted into a smile as he seized the soldier by the collar, hoisting him to his feet with effortless strength. "Come, you will lead me to those who bear the weight of these crimes."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the soldier's face. "Will…will the Maker reward me for telling you this? When... when He comes back to us?"
"Yes," she assured him, her voice resolute. "The Maker sees all, and He rewards those who serve Him with a pure heart. By speaking the truth and acting righteously, you bring yourself closer to His grace. When He returns, you will be blessed beyond measure. Those who uphold His will and sacrifice in His name shall be granted a place of honor in the Golden City."
The soldier's face brightened as his shoulders squared with newfound resolve. After giving the mage a sharp salute, he followed Cullen out of the tent, his steps certain and light with a spring in his stride.
The mage took a few slow, measured breaths, drawing in the cool evening air to steady her racing mind. The betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow, but she knew better than to let it disrupt her plans. The Knights who had shown their true colors were but a handful among the thousands in the Templar Order—rotten apples in a bountiful orchard. She would not let their corruption taint her resolve. Cullen, she was confident, would exact a vengeance so thorough, so undeniable, that it would send ripples of fear through anyone who dared think of betraying their cause or dishonoring her. She didn't need to dwell on it further. Determined, she turned back to her maps and charts spread across the table.
Naturally, her betrothed did not disappoint. After a few hours, he returned, covered in crimson stains, and with news. The Knights had been interrogated thoroughly, and after a few broken bones to guide their tongues, had confessed to their intentions to desert and to have spreading venomous slander against the Inquisitor.
Confronted with such undeniable evidence, the representative of the Templar Order could do nothing but bow to the inevitable. The Commander of the Inquisition, now vested with the authority to execute justice, did so without hesitation.
The very next day, the allied forces moved towards Skyhold with their ranks shadowed by a cart bearing the spoils of Cullen's work: the dismembered bodies of the traitorous Knights. A big sign was crudely hammered to the cart, its stark letters proclaiming to all: "Would-be deserters and slanderers of the Maker's Chosen."
The rest of the journey back to Skyhold passed without incident, and as they crossed the gates into the Keep, they were met with a welcome worthy of the Maker's Chosen.
Trumpets blared, their triumphant notes echoing across the courtyard, as rows of soldiers snapped to attention, their armor gleaming in the midday sun. Flower petals rained down from the battlements, a cascade of color that swirled around them like a blessing from the heavens.
The Chevaliers, resplendent in their polished armor, lined the courtyard in a display of Orlesian grandeur. One of them, a tall and gallant figure, approached Miriam with a courteous bow, extending his hand to assist her from her horse. Yet, before she could even consider accepting, she felt the unmistakable heat of Cullen's anger radiating from beside her.
With a swift, fluid motion, the Commander dismounted and strode over, his expression darkening as he pushed the Orlesian aside with a forceful shove. "I'll take care of this," he growled, as he reached up to help Miriam down himself. The tension in the courtyard was palpable, the Chevaliers stiffening at the sight of their comrade's humiliation.
But before the situation could escalate, a group of Orlesian servants, dressed in their finest silks, swept in with exaggerated smiles and effusive greetings. They fawned over the Inquisitor and Cullen with such enthusiasm that the awkwardness of the moment was buried beneath layers of praise and over-the-top friendliness. The group, their voices dripping with honeyed tones, ushered the pair through the courtyard, up the stairs, and into the Grand Hall.
Inside, the grandeur only intensified. The Hall was a sea of Orlesian nobility, their golden masks and elaborate garments reflecting the light of the chandeliers. At the far end of the room, standing near the throne, was the Emperor himself. His arms were outstretched in a gesture of a friendly welcome, he had undoubtedly personally orchestrated this entire spectacle.
To Gaspard's left, Leliana stood stern and cold, her eyes like daggers as she observed the scene with quiet intensity. On his right, Josephine, pale and visibly nervous, clasped her hands together, her smile strained as she tried to maintain her composure.
Miriam moved through the throngs of nobles, her chin lifted high, she felt the palpable waves of terror radiating from their smiling faces. Beneath the layers of powder and rouge, the cold sweat of fear clung to their skin, betraying the anxiety that their carefully composed expressions sought to conceal. These were not the same nobles who once murmured their jests and whispered rumors behind her back. Now they looked upon her and dared not utter a single word of dissent.
Their bows were deep, almost exaggerated, as if lowering themselves further might shield them from the judgment they feared was imminent. Their eyes flickered with a mixture of reverence and dread, never lingering too long on Miriam's face, as if fearing that meeting her gaze might seal their fate.
Cullen, walking beside her, exuded a formidable presence as well, his steps were measured, deliberate, each one echoing with the weight of authority. The nobles parted before them like a sea, creating a path lined with forced smiles and trembling hands clutching the edges of gilded garments all the way to the throne.
As they neared the trio, Gaspard stepped forward with a wide smile, his face alight with joy as he greeted them. "Sword of the Faithful and Commander of the Inquisition," he declared, his voice carrying through the hall. Miriam inclined her head, accepting his words with the dignity of one who knew she was a living symbol of the Maker's favor, while Cullen limited himself to a brisk nod. "The Chevaliers, loyal servants of the Empire, have borne witness to your triumphs. They spoke of your righteous wrath, how you laid low the blasphemers and obliterated the vile Samson, a fiend unworthy of His light." His gaze then turned to the mage. "You have been blessed by His divine favor, your eyes unveiled to the sacred vision of the Golden City that must rise from the ashes of sin within my dominion. As the ruler anointed by His hand, it is my sacred duty and profound honor to marshal all the strength and resources within my grasp to aid you in fulfilling this holy mandate."
As he was speaking, a flicker of displeasure passed through the mage's thoughts. She remembered the Emperor's past transgressions, particularly the cruel rumors he had spread about her infertility. But she knew well that the Maker's work required patience and the ability to overlook old wounds when His will demanded it. So, with a calculated poise, she extended her hand for the Emperor to kiss "Your Majesty, I eagerly anticipate the great deeds we shall achieve in His name. For the return of the Maker rests in our hands."
But before Gaspard could even lean forward, Cullen's hand shot out, seizing hers in a vice-like grip. Instinctively she turned to face him and his black eyes bore into hers with a sharp, almost feral intensity. Without a word, he squeezed her hand painfully, forcing it down, before releasing it.
A sly smile curled on the mage's lips as she turned to the ruler of Orlais once again. "My apologies, Your Majesty. It seems I've momentarily forgotten that my betrothed prefers I reserve such gestures for him alone."
The Emperor's expression flickered with surprise, his lips pausing mid-smile. But years of the Game had honed his diplomatic skills, and he swiftly masked his emotions with a gracious bow. "No apology necessary," he replied, his gaze shifting briefly to Cullen before returning to her. "It is only natural that such affections remain within the bounds of your union. I appreciate the reminder that some loyalties are best kept close to the heart."
Suddenly, Leliana stepped forward, her voice slicing through the courtly chatter like a well-honed blade. "There is much to discuss," she said, her tone brisk and businesslike. "Please accompany me to the War Room, Inquisitor."
Miriam, still savoring the lingering warmth of Cullen's grip, turned her gaze toward the Spymaster. "It will wait. You will wait. We'll meet there at dawn tomorrow," she replied, her voice calm but unyielding, allowing no room for dissent. There was indeed much to discuss, she had so many orders to give, but she would no longer be rushed, commanded, or belittled—those days were over. The Inquisition was hers to lead, and the ever-irritating redhead who had been doing as she pleased for so long would either submit to her authority or be cast aside.
Leliana's eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, but her response was measured. "As you wish, Inquisitor. Josephine and I will go find Cassandra. I'm sure she will have much to share with us."
The mage nodded in response, her mind already shifting to the next matter at hand. "Before you go, Josephine, have the preparations for my wedding been finalized?"
"Yes, Inquisitor," the Ambassador began, her tone respectful, yet with the slightest edge of tension. "The wedding could be celebrated in a few days, as you wished. I took it upon myself to ensure everything would be perfect. The garments have already been ordered from the finest seamstress in Orlais. She has your measurements from when we had the uniforms made for the peace talks at the Winter Palace, so there will be no need for adjustments."
"Good," Miriam replied, her tone still firm but with a trace of warmth. "We'll proceed as planned."
The Antivan allowed herself a small, relieved smile, though the tension in her shoulders didn't fully ease. "Is there anything else you require, Inquisitor?"
Miriam shook her head slightly. "That will be all for now. Go, and we'll reconvene tomorrow."
The duo exchanged their farewells with the Emperor and Cullen before stepping out of the Great Hall. The mage's eyes lingered on their retreating figures, her brow creased in contemplation. The Spymaster's apparent acquiescence was one thing, but expecting her full obedience was naive. Perhaps bestowing the Maker's blessing upon her might be a prudent move for the future. Her reverie was interrupted as Gaspard cleared his throat, his sound carrying a hint of theatrical flair.
Miriam turned to face him. "Your Majesty?"
The Emperor's eyes glimmered with something that she couldn't quite place—anticipation, perhaps. "There is something I wish to present to you," he continued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "A token of my... appreciation."
The Commander chuckled sardonically. "Another set of robes for the Maker to set aflame perhaps?"
Gaspard, surprisingly, chose to disregard the biting remark with a studied indifference. His face a mask of smooth, inscrutable calm, he gestured for them to follow him. "Come. I am certain you will find it to your liking."
The Emperor guided them to the right side of the Great Hall, where a heavy door led down into the Undercroft—a place Miriam had heard of but had never before ventured into. As they descended, the stone walls, once smooth, grew rougher and more cavernous, a tangible shift from the grandiosity above. The air grew hotter, and the familiar, sweet melody began to resonate in her ears, stirring a thrill of recognition within the mage.
When they reached the heart of the chamber, Miriam's eyes widened in a mixture of awe and exhilaration. A broad smile spread across her face as she took in the sight before her: rows upon rows of carts, each brimming with gleaming red lyrium, casting shifting patterns of crimson across the walls. "Your Majesty," the mage uttered, her voice tinged with genuine admiration, "this is... incredibly thoughtful."
Cullen's eyes narrowed, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can buy her favor with this?"
Gaspard's demeanor remained unruffled, his tone calm and measured. "Commander, I assure you, this is not a matter of seeking favor. Orlais has always understood the intrinsic value of power, and I see no reason why the Sword of the Faithful should ever be lacking in it. Going forward, I will make certain she has the strength necessary to lead effectively. Surely, you can appreciate the benefit of that."
Cullen opened his mouth to respond, but Miriam quickly placed a firm hand on his arm, her touch grounding him. She enjoyed the way his jealousy revealed the depth of his feelings, but not when it threatened to interfere with her mission. Through their bond, she let her vexation ripple toward him, a silent reminder of their shared purpose.
Cullen's lips pressed into a thin line, the tension in his body palpable, but he conceded with a small, reluctant nod. The fire in his eyes dimmed, though it didn't vanish completely, and he took a step back, letting Miriam take the lead once more.
"Your Majesty," she began, her voice carrying the weight of conviction, "I understand the significance of this offering. It was you who told me back at Adamant that the Sword of the Faithful must be sharp, unyielding, and ever-ready to strike against His enemies. And for that lesson, I am grateful." The mage's gaze swept over the carts of red lyrium. "With this," she continued, her voice softening as if speaking to the very essence of the lyrium itself, "I can strike down all who would threaten His return. This is more than a gift, Your Majesty. It is a covenant between Orlais and the Inquisition."
Gaspard's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with approval. "I look forward to witnessing the dawn we will bring together, Inquisitor."
After the exchange in the Undercroft, they returned to the Great Hall. Gaspard, ever the consummate politician, seamlessly resumed mingling with the gathered aristocrats. Cullen exchanged a few terse words with Miriam before excusing himself to attend to his duties. Meanwhile, the mage, choosing to give her betrothed time to cool off and uninterested in socializing with the nobles, headed to her quarters.
It had been a long time since she last entered that room, but she no longer felt the dread that had once kept her away. The Maker had fortified her spirit, and the memories of what had happened to Lysette there no longer tormented her. His blessing had become her armor.
When she pushed open the door to her quarters, she found them immaculate, as though no time had passed since her last visit. The bed was neatly made, the tapestries undisturbed, and the scent of fresh herbs lingered in the air. It was as if the room had been waiting for her, a sanctuary prepared to receive its occupant once more.
Miriam took her time, cleansing herself of the dust and weariness from the road. The warm water soothed her muscles, and as she dressed in fresh robes, she felt renewed. She then sat at her desk, meticulously reading through reports, her mind sharp and focused.
As the evening settled, the door creaked open, and a servant entered, her movements delicate and precise. An elven girl, she hesitated, her hands trembling as she set the tray down on the table before Miriam. The girl's eyes barely lifted from the floor, as if the very act of being in the room was a burden too great to bear.
The mage glanced at the food. She wasn't particularly hungry, yet there was something undeniably inviting about the dish and the steaming cup of tea that accompanied it. After a moment's hesitation, she allowed herself to indulge, savoring the warmth that spread through her with each bite.
The servant, having completed her task, bowed deeply. Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she said, "I'll return for the dishes later, Your Worship." With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving Miriam alone with her thoughts and the quiet crackle of the flames.
Just as the mage finished her meal a strange weariness began to creep over her, starting as a slight heaviness in her limbs that soon grew into an overwhelming sense of fatigue. She frowned, her movements faltering as she tried to shake off the sudden exhaustion. But the more she fought it, the stronger it became. It was as though a great weight had settled over her, pressing down on her shoulders, her eyelids growing heavier with each passing second.
Miriam's thoughts became sluggish, her vision blurring as she struggled to stay awake. She managed to rise to her feet, but her legs felt like lead, barely carrying her the short distance to her bed. Her heart pounded with confusion and a faint sense of alarm, but her body was betraying her, pulling her irresistibly toward sleep. She collapsed onto the bed, the soft linens crumpling beneath her as she fell, barely conscious of her surroundings. Her eyelids fluttered, trying desperately to stay open, but it was no use. The last thing she registered was the sensation of the world tilting beneath her, and then she was sliding, sinking into darkness.
Miriam's mind floated in a serene void, adrift in an obsidian sea. The darkness was warm, enveloping her in a comforting embrace, as though she were cradled in the arms of Andraste herself. Her thoughts were quiet, peaceful, and she felt as though she could linger here forever, lost in the tranquility.
But then, something subtle and unsettling rippled through her—a faint tremor, like the first shiver of wind before a storm. It was distant, almost imperceptible, yet it disturbed the stillness, sending a pulse of unease through the calm.
In the midst of the void, a light flickered. At first, it was a mere pinprick, barely noticeable against the vast expanse of darkness. But it grew, its glow intensifying, spreading. She felt a force tugging at her, pulling her away from the comforting embrace of the darkness.
It was gentle but insistent, and reluctantly, Miriam let herself be drawn toward the light, her mind slipping from the peaceful void and back toward reality. The world around her shifted, and suddenly, she was hovering above her own body, her consciousness suspended in the air like a wisp of smoke.
Below her, the familiar sight of her quarters came into view. The dim light from the candles flickered, casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. Her body lay on the bed, motionless, her face serene. But something was wrong—terribly wrong. She wasn't alone.
Solas stood at her bedside, his expression calm but intensely focused. His hands hovered above her left palm. The sight of him, so close, filled her with a surge of anger and disgust, emotions so fierce that they roared through her like an inferno, threatening to consume her.
The flames of her rage flickered, begging to be unleashed upon the vile apostate who dared to invade her space, but she remained trapped in this strange, suspended state, unable to move, unable to speak. All she could do was watch, helpless, as Solas studied the mark, his eyes filled with an inscrutable intensity.
A wave of dread crashed over Miriam as the realization dawned on her. The elf wasn't just observing—he was doing something to the mark. His lips moved silently, forming words she couldn't hear, but their power resonated through the air, a dark, insidious force that sent shivers down her spine.
The mark on her hand pulsed faintly as if stirred by his foul incantation, and to her mounting horror, she watched as the sickly green light of his spell began to coil around her palm. Solas' expression remained calm, almost serene, but there was a tension in his posture—a subtle sign of the immense effort he was exerting. His hands, hovering just above the mark, began to glow with a soft emerald light. The glow intensified with each passing moment and the air around him started humming with power, thick with the weight of whatever spell he was weaving.
Within the mark, the dark tendrils of the slime began to writhe violently, twisting and coiling in an anguished struggle, desperately fighting against the light pouring from Solas's hands. She could feel it—every inch of that battle between the divine and the heretical, a war waged within her own flesh. Stop! Maker, no! The words clawed at her throat, but only a strangled gasp escaped, leaving her powerless as the searing light continued its relentless assault on His blessing.
As the spell reached its peak, the mark erupted in an explosion of black slime, splattering directly into Solas's face and blinding him. The elven mage was thrown off balance, stumbling back as his incantation fell apart. His expression twisted with frustration as he frantically tried to wipe away the thick, inky substance to regain his vision.
The slime continued to ooze from the mark, cascading onto the bed before spilling over the edge and spreading across the floor. There, it began to coalesce, its shapeless form slowly taking on structure.
The viscous substance writhed and twisted, as though guided by an unseen will. Gradually, it shaped itself into a tall figure that, while still amorphous, began to exhibit distinct features. From the darkness, two horn-like protrusions emerged, jutting out from what could be discerned as its head. Another set of horns unfurled from its back, curving menacingly.
Solas, who had finally cleared his eyes, looked up at the figure, and for the first time, Miriam saw him truly terrified. His face went deathly pale, and his breath caught in his throat as he whispered, "It can't be… Elgar'nan…"
The figure turned its gaze toward the apostate, and as it spoke, the voice that echoed through the room was a deep, resonant sound in a language foreign and ancient. Yet, despite the strangeness of the words, Miriam understood them with chilling clarity. "So, you recognize me, old friend," the figure intoned. "Did you think you could steal her from me? Did you believe you could sever the bond that ties her to her true purpose?"
It was the same voice that, since her first vision in the Chantry of the Ostwick Circle, had spoken to her so many times. This voice guided her through her journey, filling her with a sense of purpose and direction, shaping her path until this very moment.
It was the voice of the Maker!
Miriam's heart raced, a tempest of awe and vindication swirling within her. The Maker, the Creator of all, had come to her aid! Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden, as the immense weight of His presence enveloped her. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of grace that left her gasping. The vile heretic who had dared to try poisoning the sacred gift of Andraste would now confront the full, unyielding fury of His wrath.
Solas took an involuntary step back, his face contorted with disbelief. "You were banished, sealed away. This isn't possible!"
The figure took a deliberate step forward, its presence towering over the elven mage with an overwhelming sense of absolute authority. The very air seemed to crackle with its force. "You've meddled for too long, Fen'Harel," the voice rumbled, deep and resonant, filling the room with a commanding intensity. "But your interference ends here."
The dark figure raised its arms, and a blinding aura enveloped him. The air crackled with power, a force so immense that it seemed to stretch the very fabric of reality.
The elf fought to shield himself, conjuring a barrier against the impending onslaught, but it was a futile effort. With a deafening roar, a tremendous blast of energy erupted, shattering Solas' barrier as if it were made of glass. The force rushed towards the apostate with an unstoppable, ravenous fury, a wave of power that collided with the elf, throwing him backward towards the balcony with a ferocious thud. The blast was so potent, so overwhelmingly powerful, that its residual force spilled across the entire room, engulfing everything in its path. Miriam felt her ethereal form being torn apart, her mind fragmenting under the sheer weight of the energy. The chamber seemed to implode and expand simultaneously, her perception spiraling into chaos. And yet, as the boundaries of her consciousness collapsed, her last coherent thought was one of exalted triumph.