Cullen sat behind his desk, eyes skimming the reports, but his focus was elsewhere. His hands were steady, yet his mind simmered with unspoken fury, a storm of thoughts he couldn't escape. He could see it so clearly—Gaspard, kneeling before him, powerless. Cullen's fingers would press into the man's skull, feeling the slight give of flesh under his grip. His thumbs would dig deeper, finding that perfect point of resistance just before everything gave way. There would be a moment—a brief, satisfying moment—where the Emperor's smug, scheming eyes would widen, right before his life would be extinguished forever.
Then he heard the blast. A deep, thunderous boom, muffled by the thick stone walls of the tower. A heartbeat later, he felt it—an unstoppable force rippling through the room. The shockwave hit like a physical blow, rattling the wooden beams above and sending a jolt through the floor beneath him. The reports scattered off his desk, tossed like leaves in a storm.
His hand gripped the edge of the desk, steadying himself as the tower groaned under the pressure. The door shuddered violently on its hinges, dust raining down from the ceiling in soft streams. His pulse quickened, the momentary haze of his thoughts vanishing in an instant, replaced by a sharp, calculated awareness. Outside, beyond the heavy door, he could already hear the muffled sounds of shouts and the clang of armor.
Cullen sprang from his chair, his hand closing around the familiar grip of his sword in one smooth motion. He burst from his office, the door slamming against the wall with a hollow crash. His breath came in sharp gasps as he stumbled to a stop, heart hammering. The courtyard lay before him, bathed in the flickering glow of torches, yet no sign of the enemy marred the night. No shadowy figures scaling the walls of Skyhold. No clash of steel. Just smoke. It curled like a living thing, thick and sinuous in the pale moonlight, drifting up from the west wing. His chest tightened. The Inquisitor's quarters!
A cold spike of fear gripped his chest, sharp as a blade. His thoughts froze, smothered in sudden panic. He couldn't think—couldn't breathe. But then, instinctively, he reached for the bond. His eyes fluttered shut, and he cast his senses inward, searching for that essential tether.
There. Faint, but still present. Miriam was alive.
Relief crashed through him, warm and overwhelming, but it was fleeting. The tension returned just as swiftly, coiling in his gut. What in the Void was happening?
Soldiers were already rushing toward the scene, while the panicked populace of the fortress scattered in every direction, screams filling the air. "Form ranks!" he barked at the nearest soldiers, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Fortify the defenses, and get the civilians inside!" The men and women of Skyhold's guard snapped into action, their training taking over as they moved with purpose.
The smoke thickened, turning the air dense and acrid as Cullen pushed through towards the main building, his gaze sharp, sweeping for any hint of an enemy. So far, nothing. Maybe they weren't under attack at all. But he couldn't afford to assume. He needed answers—and fast. Most of all, he needed to know Miriam was safe. "Sergeant, you're in charge here!" he shouted to a nearby officer, barely slowing his pace. "If anything changes, signal immediately!"
A hard-faced woman with steel in her eyes snapped a sharp salute. "Aye, Commander!"
He nodded, though his thoughts had already moved on.
As Cullen strode into the Great Hall, chaos greeted him. Nobles lay scattered across the floor, groaning in discomfort, their finely tailored robes in disarray. Furniture was overturned, chairs and tables thrown askew. A few of them muttered questions or called out for help as he passed, but their words didn't register. He didn't care. His focus was a razor-sharp edge cutting through the noise. He had to reach Miriam.
Cullen skidded to a stop outside the door to the Inquisitor's quarters, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. His fingers trembled as he flung the door open, stepping into the narrow passage that led to the ladder. No hesitation—he launched himself upward, boots clanging against the rungs as he climbed to the third floor, urgency driving him faster with each step.
When he reached the top, he froze. The door to the Inquisitor's room hung askew, torn from its hinges, and shattered across the stone floor. Smoke and dust swirled in the air, but there was something more. Magic.
The air pulsed with raw, seething power, thick enough to make every breath feel like a weight in his lungs. Cullen gritted his teeth as he stepped into what was left of the Inquisitor's chambers, his skin crawling beneath the oppressive energy that lingered like a living thing.
The right side of the room was simply gone—obliterated. Where the balcony had once stood, there was nothing but jagged remains of stone and splintered beams, the walls and floor ending abruptly in a yawning void. Moonlight spilled through the gap, mingling with the smoke that still curled lazily through the shattered space.
He forced himself to look past the destruction, eyes sweeping left. There—beneath the wreckage of an overturned bed, a dark shape caught his attention. His heart seized. A mass of slime. Thick, viscous darkness, swirling like living tar. Miriam.
Without thinking, Cullen lunged forward, his hands moving with frantic speed as he tore at the overturned furniture, flinging shattered wood and stone aside. Each piece he cleared made the dark shape beneath more visible, his heart pounding louder with every second. He worked feverishly, clearing the last of the debris that had fallen over the mass of black, until finally, it lay exposed before him. He hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as they brushed the surface.
At his touch, the substance rippled, then seemed to pause, as though it recognized him. The swirling slowed, and the oppressive weight in the air lifted. Then, almost gently, the dark mass began to peel away, falling to the sides in thick, slick folds.
Beneath it, Miriam lay unconscious, her chest rising and falling slowly. She was uninjured, untouched by the blast. Before he could react further, the remaining black slime began to retract, quickly slithering back, drawn into the mark on her hand like a snake returning to its den. In moments, the room was still again, save for the sound of Cullen's shaky exhale.
He knelt beside her, and his hand moved, almost instinctively, to brush against her cheek. Her skin felt deathly cold beneath his touch. Scrutinizing the mage with mounting concern, his initial relief faded into unease. Yes, she was unharmed on the surface, but her breathing was unnaturally slow and shallow. The black veins that once wove through her like dark rivers of magic now lay shriveled and lifeless, like roots left to wither in a sun-scorched desert. It was clear now—she had been drained, her power sapped to a dangerously depleted state.
His mind raced, thoughts scattering like shards of glass as he desperately sought a solution. Red lyrium. His betrothed needed red lyrium—immediately, and in vast quantities. But where could he—A sudden image cut through the chaos, vivid and sharp: carts brimming with red crystals, their glow faintly pulsating in the dim light. That blighted Emperor! The very gift he had condemned was exactly what Miriam needed at this moment. He had to get her to the Undercroft, and he had to do it quickly.
He slipped his arms beneath the mage, cradling her limp form against his chest. Hurriedly he navigated through the debris, his heart pounding as he carried her down the narrow wooden stairs.
As he reached the bottom, the Great Hall greeted him still in disarray from the chaos that had erupted earlier. Just as before he moved forward dodging debris and people alike, and in a moment the entrance to the Undercroft was almost within reach. Just a few more steps.
Then came the familiar foul voice. "Commander Cullen!"
He paused, jaw tightening, and turned his head slightly. Not far behind, approaching with long, hurried strides, was the Emperor himself, flanked by the rest of the Inquisition council. They looked as worried as the situation called for, but something in their eyes gave Cullen pause. Their expressions weren't just laced with concern—they were probing, suspicious. Especially the Spymaster's. Leliana's gaze locked onto him as if trying to see through him, measuring every detail of the situation. There was no warmth in her expression, only cold calculation.
"What is happening here?" Gaspard inquired, voice smooth but with an edge. His eyes flicked briefly to the mage's limp form in Cullen's arms. "Is Miriam all right?"
Cullen flinched at the sound of his woman's name on the Emperor's lips. How dare this snake address her so casually? It took every ounce of restraint to suppress the surge of fury that threatened to consume him. The words that followed tasted like ash, but he forced them out, sharp and cutting. "My betrothed and I need to get to the Undercroft," he growled, his voice low but trembling with barely restrained anger. "Now."
The Emperor's eyes widened just slightly at Cullen's tone, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he studied him carefully. But Cullen wasn't in the mood for games.
His eyes flicked to the council members behind Gaspard, then back to the man himself. Until he knew exactly what happened in the Inquisitor's quarters he couldn't trust any of them. "You're all going to stay here," he continued, his voice hard as iron. "If anyone follows us—" His gaze darkened, his eyes locking onto the Emperor with a deadly intensity. "I will kill them."
The threat hung in the air, as sharp and final as the blade at Cullen's side. There was no hesitation in his words, no room for doubt. He would do it, and they all knew it.
For a moment, Cassandra looked as though she might challenge him, but then a flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps—crossed her features. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing.
Behind her, Leliana face remained impassive, but Cullen could see the tension in her posture. Josephine, standing beside her, glanced at him with wide, frightened eyes but remained silent. They knew better than to push him right now.
Cullen turned without another word and carried Miriam toward the heavy wooden door. With his hands full, he shifted slightly and pushed it open with his shoulder. The door groaned under the force, its hinges creaking in protest before it finally gave way, swinging open to reveal the cold, dim stairwell beyond. He descended into the darkness, leaving the Emperor and the council members behind—along with whatever judgment they might pass.
At last, the stairwell opened into a cavernous chamber beneath the fortress, vast and echoing, lit only by the faint glow of the red crystals so proudly presented by Gaspard earlier this day. Cullen paused, standing at the threshold, feeling the raw energy thrumming in the air—like a heartbeat pulsing just beneath the surface. Miriam stirred slightly in his arms. It was as if she could feel it too, the energy reaching for her, pulling her closer. Cullen took it as a sign. He was on the right path.
He carried her to the center of the chamber, his boots echoing in the emptiness as he walked. Carefully, he lowered her onto the cold stone floor, her head resting gently in the crook of his arm until she was settled.
"Blessed Andraste, I hope this works," he whispered. Cullen wasn't sure if he was speaking to Miriam or himself. Maybe both. He wasn't a mage, nor was he the chosen of the Maker. The intricacies of magic were a language foreign to him, and he had never fully grasped how Miriam's mark functioned. He remembered how she had absorbed the power of red lyrium in the past—always through the black, viscous substance that came from it, each time a conscious choice on her part, a willing embrace of the power it offered. But now? Now, things were different. Miriam was unconscious. But he had to try something.
Cullen reached out and grabbed one of the crystals from the nearest cart, its surface smooth and hot under his fingers. A jolt of energy shot through him immediately, as if the crystal recognized him, resonating with blood in his veins. His vision blurred, the world shifting in and out of focus. But he held on, pulling the crystal free from the pile.
Kneeling beside the mage, he placed the shard on the floor right beneath her marked palm. The Commander watched, his brow creased in concentration, willing something—anything—to happen. But nothing did.
The shard continued to glow faintly, pulsating with its alluring red hue. Miriam's hand remained still, unmoved by the energy it had once drawn so easily. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing, searching for answers. Maybe it just needs more time. Yet, moments passed—agonizingly long—and still nothing. The red lyrium sat there, inert, and Miriam lay motionless. His chest tightened as the realization sank in—this wasn't working. Suddenly, a flicker of memory ignited within him. He recalled the battle with Samson, how the black slime had flowed not only from Miriam's mark but also from the scar on her chest. Hope surged within him. Maybe it wasn't just the mark that could draw the power; perhaps the scar held the key as well.
Taking the crystal under her arm he tore at the top buttons of her robe and pressed it against her chest. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the red light began to seep into her, the glow spreading beneath her skin like veins of molten fire. Her body jerked, the drained crystal falling to the floor as her back arched off the stone, the magic surged through her. "Miriam!" he called out, gripping her shoulders, trying to hold her steady as her body convulsed. The light grew brighter, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, until suddenly it vanished and her eyes flew open. Her frame stilled and her breathing, once erratic, steadied.
Slowly, she turned her black gaze to him, her expression weary but alive. "Cullen…" she whispered, her voice faint yet determined. "I need more."
Cullen shot to his feet, feeling the glimmer of control for the first time since the chaos had begun. He moved quickly, rushing to one of the nearby carts overflowing with red lyrium. He grabbed the side of the cart and tipped it over, spilling the glowing shards onto the stone floor beside the mage. The crystals tumbled in a cascade of red light, piling up within her reach.
Miriam, now in a seated position, leaned forward, her body weak but her resolve strong. Her left hand, trembling slightly, stretched toward the red pile. As her fingers neared the shards, a familiar, dark substance began to seep from her mark—thick, black slime, alive with purpose. It moved toward the lyrium to latch onto the crystals.
He watched in relief as her body began to draw in the power. Miriam's breathing grew deeper, steadier, and her posture straightened, strength returning to her frame. Cullen knelt by her side once more, his eyes locked on her. "Is it enough?"
The mage didn't look at him at first; her focus was entirely on consuming black slime as it continued to devour the pile of red. Finally, she shook her head, her voice stronger now. "More... a lot more."
The Inquisitor consumed cart after cart of red lyrium, the black slime weaving in and out of the pile of shards, devouring them. And it wasn't until she had taken in nearly all the lyrium the Emperor had gifted her that she raised a hand, signaling that it was enough.
As the black slime retracted into her mark, leaving the remaining piles untouched, the mage sat there for a moment, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Cullen let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his body sagging slightly with relief. "Now, can you tell me what in the Void happened?"
She opened her eyes, dark and steady now, and pushed herself to her feet. Cullen reached out to help her, but she waved him off, standing on her own, her posture firm. "It was Solas," she hissed, her voice seething with anger. "That blighted heretic must have poisoned my food. Laced it with something that made me fall into a deep slumber. I couldn't wake up, couldn't move. And then—" She swallowed, her voice thick with the memory. "He tried to destroy my mark, Cullen. He was trying to rip it away from me." She glanced down for a moment, her fingers gingerly tracing where the mark rested. "That's why my power was fading. Why I was so weak."
Cullen's heart dropped like a stone. His body went rigid, his jaw clenching hard. Solas? The man who had stood among the Inquisition's ranks from the very beginning? He'd nearly forgotten the elf's presence, writing him off as nothing more than an apostate—a heretic to devour once his aid was no longer needed. He considered him harmless. And now, this? The realization crashed over him, a bitter wave that mixed anger with self-reproach. He had underestimated the elf. That mistake made his blood boil stronger than the betrayal itself.
Miriam's eyes widened as she continued, wild with fury and something else—something reverent. She drew in a breath, her voice lowering to a trembling whisper. "But the Maker Himself came to my aid."
Cullen blinked, his mind spinning. "The Maker?"
"Yes," she replied, her tone filled with unshakable certainty. "I saw Him stand before me, my love. I felt His presence. I heard His voice. He came to me, in that dark moment. And He killed the heretic—burned him with a divine light that no mere mortal could stand against."
For a long moment, Cullen could only stare at her, trying to comprehend the weight of what she had just revealed. The Maker—He had acted. Not through visions, not through whispers in her head or blessings. No, this was direct, tangible. The raw immeasurable power he had felt, the destruction of her quarters—everything now clicked into place. "If only for a moment He came back to this world to protect you…" Cullen breathed, awe coloring his words. "My betrothed has been touched by the Maker's own hand, blessed beyond measure. Only Andraste herself stands higher in His favor!" With that, he pulled Miriam into a fierce embrace. "My only regret," he growled, his voice hardening, "is that I wasn't there to tear that foul heretic apart myself."
Miriam returned his embrace, her voice calm yet laced with grim satisfaction. "He would've deserved every strike, and more."
They stood together for a brief moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the gravity of what had just transpired settling over them like a shroud. Then, with a shared nod, they knew what had to come next. Without a word, Cullen and Miriam turned toward the door, their footsteps echoing as they made their way to the Great Hall.
As they entered, all eyes fell upon them. The Emperor stood at the head of the room, his gaze expectant, while the members of the Inquisition council turned to meet them, their postures stiff with anticipation.
Leliana, ever watchful, stood like a shadow at the edge of the gathering, her face a mask of cold precision. Josephine, her diplomatic poise slipping, blinked at Miriam in surprise and confusion. Cassandra paced in a small circle, her expression tight, as if she were trying to hold onto something—some certainty—but it was slipping through her fingers. Gaspard's eyes meanwhile were alight with enthusiasm, as if this all were some grand story unfolding just for him.
Miriam stepped forward, her presence commanding the Hall. "Gather in the War Room." It wasn't a request, and no one dared question her. They followed her without a word.
The War Room's heavy doors closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the Skyhold. The air within was thick with tension, and all gazes turned to the Inquisitor as she took her place at the head of the table.
Miriam drew a deep breath and spoke, recounting the same events she described to him in the Undercroft. Leliana's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her hands resting loosely at her sides. If she had any reaction, it was carefully concealed. Josephine's hand flew to her mouth, "I don't… How could this be?"
Cassandra had stopped pacing, now standing frozen, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. The Seeker's face betrayed a flicker of uncertainty as if she were trying to reconcile her faith with the sheer magnitude of what had happened. For a woman who had built her life on certainty, it was a blow. "You're saying Solas was behind this… and that the Maker intervened? Himself?" She shook her head slowly, her tone filled with something akin to disbelief, but beneath it, there was a tremor of fear—fear that her understanding of the world was fracturing.
Gaspard, on the other hand, was grinning. Grinning. Cullen could feel the heat rising in his chest at the sight of it. "A divine battle unfolding before us! What a tale this will be for the ages to come!" The Emperor practically vibrated with enthusiasm, his excitement barely contained. "An elven apostate, that treacherous dog, defeated by the Maker's own hand! Marvelous! This will only cement our cause!" The man's glee was insufferable. This was no Game, no opportunity for political gain.
Miriam, however, kept her focus, her voice sharp and unwavering. "Solas proved to be a far greater menace than we ever imagined," she said, cutting through the mounting reactions in the room. "This was our mistake. We made the grave error of thinking an apostate, a heretic, could ever be useful to us. A dangerous gamble, one that almost cost us dearly."
Her eyes hardened as she glanced around the table, her voice growing colder, more commanding. "No longer will we suffer such delusions. From this moment on, the Circles will be reinstalled, and every mage will return to their rightful place under the strict control of the Templar Order. Those who refuse, those who cling to their so-called freedom—will be branded as heretics. And heretics," she continued, a glint of fire igniting in her eyes, "will be dealt with by cleansing fire."
There was a stunned silence. It was Cassandra who broke it, her voice rising in an explosion of defiance. "This is not your decision to make, Inquisitor!" she spat, stepping forward, her fists clenched. "This is a decision for the Divine! The Inquisition cannot dictate such policies without the sanction of the Chantry!"
Miriam's head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. The fires in her eyes flared, literal flames flickering into life around her hands as the power she commanded surged. "The Divine?" she said, her voice low, dangerous. "What is a mere Divine compared to me? You think I'll bow to some distant cleric when I've been touched by the Maker Himself?"
Cassandra's face twisted in anger, but Miriam took a step closer, her presence like a storm looming over the Seeker. "You have a tendency to forget who you speak to," the mage hissed, her voice like molten steel. "I hold the favor of the Maker. The Divine is a child playing at piety. Question me again, and I'll see to it that you are reminded of your place. Perhaps the flames that purify heretics would be also fitting for those who question my will."
Cassandra stood rigid, torn between fury and disbelief, her muscles tensing as if preparing for a fight. But even she couldn't ignore the raw power radiating from Miriam, the sheer force of her presence. Her defiance flickered, but her jaw remained tight.
Before Cassandra could respond, Gaspard clapped his hands as he practically leaped into the conversation. "I'll arrange everything with the Orlesian Chantry." He gave a slight bow toward Miriam, clearly reveling in the political power shift. "Leave it to me. I'll make sure they fall in line. After all, the Chantry needs guidance, and you, Sword of the Faithful, are the perfect one to provide it."
The fire in Miriam's eyes softened, though it didn't fade entirely. She turned back to the rest of the council, her voice calm once again, though the underlying threat still lingered like smoke from a flame that had yet to be fully extinguished. "As for the mages already serving within the Inquisition, they will be presented with a choice. They may either return to the Circles, where they belong, or they may choose to stand with us—but only if they pass a trial by hot iron. They must prove their faith in the Maker beyond question. Only those who emerge from the trial with their spirits unbroken by pain, their loyalty to Him and His purpose unwavering, will remain in our ranks."
The silence in the War Room deepened as she continued, her words chilling in their finality. "Even then, each mage who is allowed to stay will be under constant watch. A Templar sentinel will be assigned to them—day and night. These sentinels will not falter. At the slightest hint of doubt, any sign of betrayal, they will do what must be done. The mage will be killed without hesitation." Miriam's eyes shifted toward Cullen. "Commander, I want you to arrange this. Speak with the representatives of the Order and choose sentinels from among the Knights most faithful. I want only those who know no pity, no doubt, and no weakness to the lust with which the flesh tempts. They must be beyond reproach, unyielding in their purpose."
Cullen met her gaze. "It will be done. I will make sure there would be no leniency for either mages or the Templars who guard them."
Miriam nodded and turned to lock her gaze on Josephine. "Ambassador, see to it that my quarters, damaged in Solas' cowardly attack, are repaired immediately. I expect everything to be in order for my wedding to the Commander. It will take place in three days."
Josephine blinked, her diplomatic instincts struggling to reassert themselves, but her shock was still evident. "Three days?" she asked, her voice hesitant. "Lady Inquisitor, I haven't seen the full extent of the destruction yet, but judging by the blast we all felt, it will be impossible to have everything rebuilt in time. The scale of—"
Miriam's eyes narrowed, a flicker of fire reigniting in their depths. "You will see it done," she uttered, her tone sharp and icy, "or you are opposing the union of me with the Commander, a union decreed by Him." She let the words linger, the threat hanging like a blade over the Ambassador's head. "Think very carefully before you speak again, Josephine."
The Antivan's face went pale, her fingers tightening around the edges of her parchment. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, nodding stiffly. "I… I will do my best, Lady Inquisitor," she managed, her voice strained but compliant.
Miriam didn't linger on her any longer. Her focus shifted to Leliana, who had remained silent, her expression inscrutable. "As for you," the mage said, her tone lighter but no less forceful, "your task is to devote your resources to finding the Elder One. Every spy, every contact, every whisper in the shadows—I want his location. Once the wedding is celebrated, we will begin preparations for battle."
Leliana inclined her head slightly. "Of course," she said, her voice calm and collected, but there was an edge to it. "I'll see to it immediately. We will have answers before the time comes."
Satisfied with her command, Miriam turned back toward Cullen. For just a brief moment, her gaze softened, her eyes finding his with tenderness. "And then," she said quietly, her voice carrying a reverent tone, "we can finally begin to build the Golden City." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with promise, but it was fleeting. Almost immediately, the edge returned to her voice, her authority sharp as ever as she addressed the room at large. "Everyone, return to your tasks. I will go with the Ambassador to inspect the state of my quarters. I need to see how much work is needed—and how many workers I should bless so they can labor tirelessly day and night."
The Inquisitor and Josephine were the first to step out of the War Room, the mage's movements sharp and decisive. One by one, the rest of the council followed, their expressions tense, seemingly eager to escape from the Sword of the Faithful's presence.
The Commander was about to leave too, when he felt a firm grip on his hand. Instinctively, he twisted sharply, his muscles coiling in preparation for a fight—only to find Gaspard standing behind him, his fingers wrapped firmly around Cullen's wrist.
"Commander," the Orlesian murmured, his tone suggesting more than just a casual interruption.
Cullen yanked his hand free. "What do you want?" he growled, his patience already fraying.
Instead of replying directly, Gaspard glanced down at his own hand, rubbing his palm with a curious smirk. "You're one hot man," he remarked, amusement lacing his voice.
Cullen's eyes narrowed, fury flaring. "What did you just say?" The words came out low, almost a snarl. He stepped toward the Emperor, hand instinctively reaching for Gaspard's collar, ready to put the man in his place.
The Orlesian chuckled, raising his palm casually as if showing Cullen a minor injury. "I mean it literally," he said, his grin widening. "You're burning hot to the touch even through the gloves."
Cullen froze mid-motion, his hand stopping just shy of Gaspard's throat. A flicker of confusion crossed his features, his anger momentarily replaced by bewilderment. His gaze dropped to his own hands. The warmth—the heat, really—that had radiated from his skin ever since he'd tasted blood from Miriam's scar had never been an issue for her. She seemed to welcome it, relishing his touch even more than before. But this - this was the first time anyone else had laid a hand on him, and the fact that it caused the Emperor a sting of pain was further proof that his bond with Miriam was unique, consecrated. No one else could touch him as she could.
"But I guess that's what happens when you're bound to a woman blessed by the Maker Himself," the Orlesian's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Cullen's jaw tightened, irritation resurging. "Is that what this is about? Miriam?"
"Ah, yes and no, Commander. I've simply noticed a bit of… tension between us. Perhaps a bit of animosity? I was hoping we might address it. Whatever the reason for your… disapproval, I think it would be wise to put it behind us."
Cullen folded his arms across his chest. "Is that so?"
Gaspard chuckled, shrugging as though it were a trivial matter. "Come now, we're on the same side, are we not? Both of us serve the Maker." His gaze flickered toward the door where Miriam had left. "I'm ready to acknowledge that I may have misjudged you."
The Commander raised an eyebrow but remained silent, watching Gaspard carefully.
"You see," the Orlesian continued, taking a few steps back and leaning against the war table, "when I first heard of you—Ferelden-born, Templar-trained—I assumed you were just another bumpkin." His words were casual, as if describing a minor inconvenience. "But I've seen now that you're far more… capable than I gave you credit for. You outplayed me. You secured yourself not only a position of influence but a woman unmatched in all of Thedas."
Cullen snapped. The words struck him like a hammer to the chest. Before he even registered what he was doing, he surged forward, grabbing Gaspard by the collar of his ornate coat. His grip was tight, knuckles white, as he hauled the Emperor closer, fury burning in his eyes. "I'm nothing like you!" he growled, his voice low and seething. "I'm not playing the Game. I don't care about political power or manipulation. My relationship with Miriam is sacred. It's blessed!"
The air between them crackled with tension, but Gaspard's expression remained disturbingly calm, almost amused, despite Cullen's outburst. "There's no need to keep up the pretense," he said evenly. "We both know how these things work. I am well aware how your Spymaster orchestrated the entire incident with the burning of the robes that I gifted to the Inquisitor."
Cullen's breath caught in his throat, anger coursing through him. "What are you talking about?"
Gaspard, still disturbingly composed, gave a small, knowing smile. "Why continue with this charade, Com—"
Cullen squeezed harder, cutting off his words. "I'm not playing your damn Game," he hissed through clenched teeth, his fury spilling over. His grip tightened the fabric of Gaspard's coat twisting in his fist. He could feel the pulse of blood in his ears, the heat rising in his chest—
Then a sharp pain blossomed against his side.
He stiffened, his rage interrupted by the sudden, unmistakable sensation of a blade pressed to his skin. Positioned perfectly, the point rested between his ribs, the edge just shy of piercing flesh. One small movement and it would sink into his heart.
Gaspard's smile didn't falter, his free hand holding the dagger as steady as if he were simply holding a quill. "Careful," he whispered, voice cool as ice. "One wrong move, and we end this conversation rather permanently."
Cullen's grip loosened instinctively, his hand slackening on the Emperor's collar. But he didn't let go. His breath came in shallow bursts, the adrenaline still flooding his system, his mind racing. He could feel the tip of the dagger pressing ever so lightly into his skin—a warning, not yet a wound.
"I'm not playing," Cullen growled, his voice still edged with fury but now tinged with a dark, simmering restraint. His eyes locked onto the Orlesian's, burning with defiance.
Gaspard raised an eyebrow, amused by Cullen's stubbornness. "Really?"
He could feel his pulse pounding against the blade, and yet, even with the threat of death hanging in the air, he refused to back down. "I am asking you one last time, what are you talking about?"
"Very well, Commander. Since you insist," the Emperor began, "You see, I know that it wasn't divine intervention from Him that burned the robes. The Maker did not ordain your union with the Inquisitor. I have proof, that your Spymaster and your now dead heretic worked together to stage the entire thing."
"Solas and Leliana?" Cullen questioned incredulously.
"The very same," Gaspard continued smoothly, his voice dripping with confidence. "The apostate crafted a potion—a carefully balanced mixture designed to make the mark on the Herald's hand unstable. Not immediately, of course. The potion was perfected so that Leliana knew precisely when the reaction would occur, down to the moment." His lips curled into a dark smile. "It was almost too easy to administer. Just a few drops in the Inquisitor's food, enough to be absorbed slowly into her system. And your Spymaster didn't stop there. She ensured that during the last laundering, the Inquisitor's robes were treated with a highly flammable compound. Invisible to the eye, harmless—until it met the right catalyst." He paused, his tone shifting, now tinged with a grudging respect. "A delicate plan, executed with precision."
"You're telling me they risked her life for this?" Cullen's voice broke through the room, sharp and bitter. "That's absurd!"
"Is it, though?" Gaspard replied, his smirk faint but unmistakable, like the shadow of a sword before it strikes. "Lysette was always there. Always beside her. Poised to silence the mark if things went too far. The Inquisitor was never truly in danger. And that's just the beginning," he added. "If what you say is true—that you weren't part of the Game—then it means your fainting that day was also planned. They gave you just a small push to bring you into the Inquisitor's care. To keep her close."
Cullen's world tilted as Gaspard's words began to sink in. His mind scrambled, desperately trying to piece together that moment—the sudden, inexplicable weakness while he was speaking with… someone. A woman, though he couldn't recall who. He had always chalked it up to exhaustion, assuming he'd simply overworked himself. But now, his breath quickened, betraying the rising panic he was trying to keep at bay. "You're lying!" he growled, though even as the words left his mouth, a cold dread curled in his chest. Knowing Leliana, a part of him already feared that Gaspard might be telling the truth.
Gaspard chuckled softly, a smug glint in his eyes. "Say what you will, Commander. But deep down, you know the truth. Despite the Inquisition's proclamations to the faithful of Thedas, the Maker has nothing to do with your marriage."
Cullen's hands trembled. Had everything truly been orchestrated so carefully? Had his and Miriam's relationship been manipulated? No, impossible. The Emperor was lying. He had to be. "You said you have proof, show it to me!" he demanded, barely containing the storm of emotion raging inside him.
"Very well, Commander. But understand, I'm not stupid enough to bring the original here." The Emperor slowly, deliberately sheathed the dagger, though he kept his eyes locked on Cullen's. With a calculated motion, he reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a slim, thread-bound journal. "Here's a copy, I took the liberty of duplicating the relevant parts. The original is well-hidden, somewhere safe, ready to be made public if… unfortunate circumstances were to befall me." His eyes gleamed with a thinly veiled threat. "You can keep this if it makes you feel any better."
Cullen snatched the copy from Gaspard's hand, the motion quick and sharp, like a reflex. As his fingers flipped through the pages, his stomach twisted tighter with each turn.
It wasn't Leliana's handwriting that filled the pages—no, the penmanship was different. But the phrasing, the code words... it was all unmistakably Spymaster's. Cold. Calculated. Perfectly methodical. Each sentence, a blueprint of deceit.
The potion.
The treated robe.
The timing of his fainting.
Every step, every small nudge toward her desired outcome, laid bare on the parchment before him. Cullen felt the blood drain from his face, his vision blurring at the edges as a memory surfaced—sharp, sudden, unavoidable. The incident with Gaspard's agent. The man, posing as Ser Michel de Chevin, had infiltrated Skyhold, slipping through their defenses like a shadow, and stealing sensitive documents. Cullen remembered the chaos that followed. Some of the stolen papers had been exposed "accidentally" to Miriam. And that, in turn, had led to Lysette's suicide. But there was something else stolen that day. Leliana had refused to share what it was and Cullen had never pressed her on it—trusted that whatever it was, the Spymaster had it under control...His eyes snapped back to the pages in his hand. Was this the missing piece? Had those stolen documents contained the foundation of this twisted manipulation? Should he question Leliana about it now? Yet what was the point, she would never assume her guilt. Maker, what if it all was true…No, no, no!
"You're lying," he repeated, though even as he said it, doubt gnawed at the edges of his certainty. "This... this is just a ploy. You're trying to ruin our wedding!"
Gaspard gave Cullen a calm, almost pitying smile. "Oh, Cullen," he said softly, as though speaking to a child, "I've no interest in the Inquisitor as a wife any longer. Believe me, I've come to realize that the power she shares with her husband will be bound to burdens far heavier than I'd ever choose to carry." He spoke with the kind of ease that made the whole conversation feel like a business deal. "No, I've no desire to wed into that... complication. Alliance. That's what we should be considering. We'd fare far better as allies, wouldn't you agree?" He gestured casually toward the damning notes in Cullen's hand. "Look at it, Cullen. Look. The people around you?" He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just above a whisper. "You can't trust anyone In the Inquisition council. They're treating you and Miriam like pawns. Each and every one of them."
Anger surged through Cullen like a wildfire, uncontrollable and consuming. His hands crumpled the journal in a death grip before throwing it to the floor. Gaspard's words echoed in his mind, twisting, mocking him as he grabbed the Emperor by the coat once again. The truth. Allies. Trust. Lies. Lies. All of it—lies. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring with the red haze of rage. He wanted to tear Gaspard apart, shred the smug bastard to bits. But then—Miriam. Without the Emperor, defeating the Elder One would take far longer. Building the Golden City could be delayed for years. She would never forgive him for ruining everything.
She'll turn away from you. The thought hit him like a blade to the chest. If she abandoned him... if she left him...But the fury needed release. It demanded it.
Cullen shoved Gaspard to the side with such force that the man stumbled backward, colliding into a bookshelf. Then he turned to the war table, where months of carefully laid-out maps and figures were arranged in a meticulous plan. His fists came down with a fury he couldn't hold back—once, twice, again—until the wood splintered beneath the force of his blows. The sharp crack of the table snapping echoed through the room, drowned only by the sound of his own labored breaths.
His knuckles split open, blood mixing with the fractured remains of the table, but still, he didn't stop. Blow after blow, he smashed the wood until the table was nothing but shards beneath his hands, a ruin of broken pieces scattered across the floor.
Chest heaving, hands bloodied, Cullen slowly straightened and turned to face the Orlesian. His hands hung at his sides, dripping crimson, but his voice—when he spoke—was cold, mocking. "Is it you I'm supposed to trust then?" The question dripped with venom, his eyes narrowing as if daring the man to answer.
Gaspard opened his mouth, but before he could speak a word, Cullen cut him off with a roar that shook the chamber. "Get out!"
For a moment, the Emperor hesitated, then—without another word—he turned and left, his footsteps fading into the tense, suffocating silence left in his wake.
Cullen stood there, staring at the ruined table, his breath ragged, blood dripping from his split knuckles and mingling with the broken splinters. The rage still burned in his chest, but now… now there was only the hollow echo of it. No. He would not let Gaspard poison his mind. Not with this. Cullen tightened his fists, feeling the sting of the open wounds on his hands. He and Miriam had been brought into this world for each other. The Maker Himself had bound their lives together. It was Cullen who had saved her as a child, brought her out of darkness, and they had found each other again after decades. How else could he explain the way she loved him now? Loved him not just as a friend, but as a man. She had chosen him, wanted him. And the bond they shared—the one that no mortals had experienced ever before? That was proof enough. Miriam was his, just as he was hers. Gaspard's words—his scheming—meant nothing. He could see it now, clear as day. The Emperor claimed to have no interest in Miriam, but Cullen saw how he looked at her. Just like all the other snakes, all the other men who lusted not only after her body but after her power. But they would get nothing. None of them.
She's mine. And if she ever left him—if, somehow, Gaspard's lies reached her and she believed them—if she chose to walk away from him…Cullen's thoughts darkened. If Miriam decided to leave him, if she betrayed everything they had built, everything the Maker had destined, then he would kill her. He would take her life, Gaspard's, and then… his own. There would be no world left for him without her.
But that was a worst-case scenario, of course. For now, he just needed to be patient. He had to endure, let Gaspard play the Game, and once the Golden City was built, and victory was theirs—then he would rip open his chest and savor his heart.
For now, he had to wait.
Cullen's breath began to slow, the intensity of the moment ebbing. His hands, still bloodied and raw, reached down for the crumpled journal on the floor. It felt heavier than it should have as he gripped it, a physical weight of lies and poison.
With purposeful steps, he turned and left the War Room. He barely registered the looks from soldiers and servants as he passed. His mind was focused on the only place where the lies could be purged, burned away in sacred flame.
He entered the quiet sanctuary, the flickering light of candles casting shadows on the stone walls, and neared the brazier standing before the statue of Andraste. Standing before it, Cullen looked down at the journal in his hands. It felt wrong even to hold it here, in this place of faith, where truth should reign. The lies within the pages, the manipulation, the deceit—it all had to be reduced to nothing. Only then could he cleanse himself of the doubts Gaspard had tried to seed.
With a steady hand, he held the journal over the flame. The edges of the parchment caught quickly, curling and blackening as the fire consumed it. The words—those insidious words—were swallowed by the flames, turned to ash.
Cullen watched, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath as the fire did its work. As the last remnants of the journal crumbled, a part of him felt lighter.
Let the lies burn, he thought, his eyes fixed on the flames.
The days leading up to the wedding passed in a haze of nervous anticipation, each moment stretched thin with tension, but nothing of note happened. The body of the heretic wasn't found, not even a single shard of bone. Though if the Maker himself unleashed his might upon him, it wasn't surprising.
The Inquisitor's quarters had been fully restored, their grandeur painstakingly rebuilt by a crew of laborers. But that victory had come at a cost—nearly a dozen workers had perished in their relentless drive to complete the restoration. Some had fallen from great heights in their haste, while others had worked themselves to death, collapsing from sheer exhaustion.
Meanwhile, Cullen attended to his duties with his usual sharp attention, though his focus was split. Every spare moment, his eyes lingered on the Emperor, watching for any sign of treachery, any whisper of the conversation they had shared. Yet the snake behaved as though it had never happened. He kept his distance from Miriam, never once approaching her with the lies that had once danced so easily on his tongue. Gaspard didn't even try to speak to Cullen again about that damning conversation as if the whole thing had been nothing more than a passing breeze.
He found himself both relieved and unnerved by the Orlesian's sudden silence. There was always the nagging sense that something would happen, something to set his fears into motion. He had become painfully eager for the days to pass. He wanted it over—wanted the ceremony, the vows, the wedding night. He wanted the official title of Miriam's husband, to be bound to her before the world. Once that happened, no vultures circling her power—would ever be able to take her from him.
Finally, the day had come. The moment Cullen had been waiting for, the one that felt like it had taken an eternity to arrive.
He stood in the Great Hall, his heart pounding beneath some stupid Orlesian jacket Josephine had prepared, the weight of the occasion pressing down on him like never before. The Hall was filled with rows of nobles, their silks and jewels gleaming in the flickering torchlight, and tables adorned with extravagant food and drink. Musicians played softly, their melodies a backdrop to the murmured conversations and hushed whispers.
And, of course, there were the Chevaliers—their golden armor gleaming, their presence a constant reminder of Gaspard's watchful eye. The Emperor himself sat among them, surrounded by his court, his expression unreadable, yet ever-present like a shadow Cullen couldn't shake.
But the Commander's gaze was not for them. Not now. His focus was entirely on Miriam, standing beside him, radiant in her white dress, her presence filling the Hall with power that made everything else fade into the background. She looked at him with eyes that held the weight of their shared past, the battles they'd fought side by side, and the bond the Maker had forged between them.
Mother Giselle stood before them, her voice calm and steady as she led the ceremony. The words of the Chant drifted through the Hall, sacred and eternal, weaving their way into Cullen's heart. Every vow spoken felt like a stone being lifted from his chest.
And then, at last, it came.
"With the blessing and decree of the Maker Himself, in the sight of all who witness this day, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The words hit Cullen like a wave, crashing over him, washing away the tension that had been coiling in his chest for days—no, for months. It was done. They were bound. Officially. Publicly. Forever.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to exhale, truly exhale. His hands reached for hers, and as they locked together, a calm spread through him. The storm inside him that had raged for so long finally stilled.
Miriam smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through a clouded sky. Cullen returned the smile, his heart pounding not with nerves, but with a deep, overwhelming sense of belonging.
As the ceremony concluded, the Great Hall erupted into a forcefully joyous celebration. Nobles mingled, laughter and clinking goblets filling the air as the musicians picked up their pace, the melodies weaving a tapestry of festivity around them. Cullen and Miriam were swept into the center of it all, hailed as the stars of the evening, the embodiment of hope and unity.
At first, Cullen found himself reveling in the celebration. He even danced with Miriam, their movements awkward and clumsy, yet her laughter ringing like a bell in his ears made it worthwhile. He accepted well-wishes and congratulations from every corner of the Hall, his heart swelling with pride, knowing they all had to acknowledge his status now.
But as the hours passed, the exuberance began to wear on him. The music pounded too loudly in his ears, the stench of perfumes clawed at his nose with an almost oppressive intensity. Candles and gold glittered too brightly, making it hard to see, while the sour tang of alcohol lingered in the air, thick enough to churn his stomach. And then there was the Emperor's presence that made everything worse. He could swear he saw those detestable eyes flick toward his wife. Flick, and then linger. Far too long for his liking.
The night dragged on, and though the hour approached the darkest part before dawn, the festivities showed no sign of slowing. Enough. He'd endured this long enough. His eyes shot back to Miriam standing now near the edge of the Hall, surely by this point she would feel his frustration. And yet, she still lingered there, vexing him with her distance, her aloofness.
Suddenly the mage shifted slightly, and as she did, the fabric of her gown slipped, just barely, off one shoulder, revealing more of her pale skin. His gaze followed the curve of her collarbone, down to the hollow of her throat where the black veins pulsed softly, teasing him, beckoning him. He could imagine his lips there, could almost taste the power that surged beneath her flesh. The thought of taking her, of their bodies entwining, their blood mingling as they became one—sent a shiver through him. He wanted her. Now.
Suddenly Miriam turned, her eyes locking onto his. For a single heartbeat, the noise, the lights, the entire world seemed to still. Her gaze, sharp and knowing, pierced through the haze of the celebration. A slight curve touched her lips, the barest hint of a smile—satisfied, deliberate.
Cullen felt it acutely through their bond, a subtle pulse of amusement, a challenge wrapped in warmth—she was teasing him. She had waited for him, patiently, honoring the promise they had made, abiding by his wishes not to lay together until the wedding. But now, it was time for her to set the rules. If he wanted to claim her, he would have to work for it. He could practically hear her voice in his mind, playful and daring: Catch me if you can.
He strode forward, his eyes locked on his wife, the rest of the Hall blurring into insignificance around him. He pushed past nobles, uncaring as he bumped into them, the clatter of spilled drinks echoing in his wake. Meanwhile, Miriam danced through the Great Hall with effortless grace, slipping in and out of the clusters of guests as if she were water, untouchable and fluid. Every time he thought he was gaining on her, she would twist, disappearing through the crowd as though she knew every beat of his pursuit.
Cullen quickened his steps, determination simmering beneath his calm exterior. He saw his chance, saw her drifting toward one of the Hall's corners, and for a moment, he thought he had her. But just as he was about to reach her, the mage pivoted, spinning smoothly around a pillar. The train of her dress brushed against his leg in a tantalizing caress, the fleeting contact sending a shiver up his spine. The faint scent of red lyrium and blood lingered in the air, intoxicating and dangerous, pulling him deeper into the chase.
Yet she was too quick, slipping away with a fluid grace that made his efforts feel almost clumsy. It took him a second to realize why—he could sense it now, the tingle of magic in the air. She was using a lesser form of Fade Step to stay just out of reach. This little rascal!
As if in response, she threw a glance over her bared shoulder, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. The wink she gave him felt like a dare, a challenge. Wait until I get to you, he thought, his determination burning hotter than ever.
He surged forward like a bronto, but in his single-minded chase, he failed to notice the edge of a grand table set with an array of delectable treats. His foot snagged on the edge of the tablecloth, sending a cascade of pastries tumbling to the floor. He stumbled, arms flailing as he struggled to regain his balance.
The room seemed to slow for a moment as Cullen teetered dangerously, almost falling face-first into the dessert display. He caught himself just in time, his hands bracing against the table as he steadied himself.
The sudden commotion drew the eyes of nearby guests, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion as they turned to witness the unfolding scene. Cullen, however, paid little mind to their stares. As he scrambled to regain his footing, a grin broke across his face, wide and unabashed. In that moment, the embarrassment of the stumble faded, replaced by a spark of exhilaration. He quickly picked up his pace, moving forward with renewed energy.
Finally, Miriam reached the door to her quarters, her fingers grazing the surface as she paused to glance back one last time. Her gaze was molten, alive with promise, and Cullen felt a rush of heat course through him. The desire to end the game, to claim what was rightfully his, surged within him.
She slipped through the doorway, but just before the door could shut, his hand slammed against it, stopping her retreat. She laughed softly, pushing against the door for a brief moment. But this time, she was outmatched.
Stumbling back from the door, Miriam let out a soft gasp. She was still playing, even now, backing her way up the stairs with her usual elegance. His leonine stare didn't waver matching her step-by-step up to her quarters. "I have to say, using magic to dodge me? Cheeky move, my heart."
Miriam's lips curved into a coy smile. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, she turned and raced up the remaining stairs. Her gown billowed around her like a cloud of shifting silk, its movement almost mesmerizing. This time, however, she used no magic to aid her flight.
A low growl of satisfaction rumbled from Cullen's throat. He surged forward, the sound of his boots pounding against the stairs echoing through the stairwell as he closed the distance with ease.
With effortless strength, he swept her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest like a proper bridegroom carrying his bride. She made no move to resist; instead, her arms wrapped around his neck, and her lips sought out the sensitive patch of skin just beneath his ear. She suckled on it hungrily, clearly intent on leaving a mark that would linger long after the moment.
Cullen's breath hitched, a mix of shock and pleasure coursing through him. The sensation of her warm mouth, combined with the scrape of her teeth, was electrifying. But Miriam didn't stop there. After the kiss, her tongue trailed up to his ear, moving in a slow, deliberate motion. Each wet, warm stroke sent a jolt of sensation straight to his core. Cullen's grip tightened around her, pulling her even closer, as he struggled to hold onto his composure.
He could feel her heartbeat fluttering rapidly against his chest, a rhythmic pulse that matched the rapid beat of his own heart. "If you keep this up," he managed to rasp, his voice coming out in a rough whisper, "we will not make it to your room."
"I might just see that as a challenge," she murmured, her velvety voice brushing his ear with a shiver-inducing warmth. With renewed intensity, she pressed her advantage.
Desire fueled his ascent up the remaining stairs, his urgency culminating in a swift kick that flung the door open with a resounding crash.
Once inside, Cullen set his wife down, only to pivot her against the nearest wall, pressing her face against the rough stone. She braced herself, her hands instinctively finding purchase, and a sly smirk danced on her lips even as he pinned her in place. He captured her wrists firmly, his front pressing against her back, eliciting a soft, unexpected sound from her—a mixture of surprise and delight.
Releasing one of her wrists, Cullen tugged down the shoulder of her gown, his lips trailing a heated path along her neck. He recalled the intensity of her earlier kiss, and with renewed fervor, he turned his attention to one of the prominent black veins pulsing at her throat. Pressing his mouth against it, he drew her skin into him with a fervent, eager suction, igniting a spark of desire that raced through them both.
A wave of sweet power surged through him, the taste rich and intoxicating, electrifying his senses. With each pull, he drew deeper from that elusive essence, amplifying his primal urge to claim her, to consume her wholly. He yearned to unravel her until all that remained was pure, unbridled surrender, a raw vulnerability that promised a connection beyond words.
Miriam's head fell back, resting against him, her earlier smugness and smirks vanishing like mist. "Do as you wish, my love," she uttered her voice a quiver of anticipation. "I feel everything—" Her breath was stolen away by the involuntary roll of his hips. "Ah, as I said, everything. Take me as you will. Tonight, I am yours to command, Commander. Consider it my wedding gift."
His heart skipped a beat, ignited even more by the thought of her—obedient, pliant, as she had once been before the weight of her titles before her power made men tremble and Gaspard hunger for her favor. But suddenly, a sobering realization struck him, halting him in his tracks. His lips stilled against her neck, the warmth between them interrupted. Back then, she had only seen him as a friend, uncertain if she could ever return the depth of his passion. She had entertained the Emperor's advances, allowed herself to be courted by that detestable bastard. No, her obedience will only serve to re-open his wounds and remind him of those foul times. When he claims her, it would be as the embodiment of His might, a vessel who can break him as easily as she does those who defy her.
"I don't want submission. I want the fire that burns within you—the flames that consume everything in their path. I'll take nothing less."
Miriam looked slightly baffled for a moment. "Your desires change as quickly as the tide." A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "Very well," she continued, her voice taking on a sultry edge, "I shall give you what you've asked for."
A surge of power exploded from his wife, and a barrier hit Cullen, sending him sprawling across the floor. He blinked, dazed, trying to make sense of what had just happened. As his mind struggled to catch up, he lifted his head to meet her eyes, shock, and confusion warring in his expression.
Miriam, her cheek marked with the imprint of the stone wall, took a step forward, the protective spell around her dissipating into the air. Her gaze was fierce, unwavering. She raised her hands, and dark flames erupted around him, coiling in a swirling mass. He felt the heat rising, saw his clothes begin to smolder, the fabric curling away and turning to ash. "Stop!" he demanded, scrambling to his knees as his pulse quickened. His hands darted to his body—his chest, his arms. No pain. No burns. The flames consumed his clothes, bit by bit, but left him unscathed.
Cullen looked up at the mage again, his confusion fading as her gaze bore into him. She was biting her lower lip, her black eyes trailing over his now almost exposed form, lingering with a slow, smoldering appreciation. The sight of her focused on him, combined with the crackling heat of the flames, sent fresh sparks of longing through him.
The Commander leaped to his feet, lunging at the mage as their bodies met with a satisfying thud. His lips crashed against hers, a fervent collision that was more bite than kiss, as he sought her mouth with an insatiable intensity. Miriam responded with equal fervor, her teeth sinking into his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, until she tasted the metallic tang of blood.
All the while, the flames that had licked at Cullen's clothes began to spread, their blackened tendrils creeping outward like serpents, coiling around them both. Heat surged, and the fabric surrendered to the blaze, disintegrating into soft, fragile ash. In seconds, they stood fully exposed, the cool air of the room stark against the searing heat that coursed between them.
Cullen felt every inch of her lithe form pressed into him, her skin against his like living fire. His hands roamed freely over the smooth expanse of her back, dragging along the contours of muscle and bone. His wife's hands wove into his hair, fingers curling tightly into the strands. She pulled, hard, the pain shooting through his scalp like lightning—a shivering current that raced through his veins, pooling hot and heavy in his lower abdomen.
Miriam, instantly aware of the firmness of him against her, let out a low, breathy moan, muffled by the fierceness of the kiss. Her hands began to move, tracing the ridges of his chest and abdomen as they descended with the deliberate intent to take him in her grasp.
The Commander's muscles knotted with tension. Though the allure of her hands working their magic was undeniable, right now he yearned for something else. He wanted his first climax as a married man to come from being inside his wife, not merely from the stimulation of her touch. Having never lain with anyone before, he felt this moment was a milestone that deserved nothing less than the deepest, most intimate bond anyone could share.
He broke the kiss with a ragged breath, his hands gripping her waist as he pulled her away from him with ease. "Not now," he uttered while, in one swift, effortless motion, he lifted her, the mage's swollen, bloodied lips emitting a surprised "Oh" as her feet left the ground.
For a moment Cullen held Miriam suspended in the heated space between them, before he hoisted her onto his right shoulder, her form draping over him like a prize claimed in battle. She hung there, her legs dangling down one side, her long hair tumbling down the other, the strands whispering against the bare skin of his back. Cullen felt the subtle tremor in her frame as she clung to him, shallow gasps escaping her lips. "Why not?"
His hand, cupped beneath her knees, keeping her steady, and with a few quick, determined strides, he reached the bed. "I know you can feel my desires. Won't you humor me?" He loosened his grip and dropped Miriam onto the soft covers, her body falling onto the plush surface with a light, breathless gasp. Her hair fanned out across the pillow, framing her flushed face as her chest rose and fell in rapid, excited breaths.
In a heartbeat, Cullen was on the bed, his knees sinking into the soft mattress with a faint squeak from the wooden frame. His movements were swift as he reached for Miriam's legs, parting them with ease. He dragged her closer, pulling her body toward him, a mix of hunger and determination in his every motion.
"I can change your mind," the mage murmured attempting to sit up. "I have a feeling I'll be naturally good with my hands." Her arms reached out in a bid to connect with him, but he pushed her back down. The contact was almost violent in its force, the linens compressing under her as she was forced to settle once more. She huffed, her breath escaping in puffs, her eyes alight with a fierce blend of defiance and passion. His wife tried to sit up a second time, only to be pushed down again as he moved over her, positioning his body between her legs as her thighs instinctively parted even further to welcome him.
Cullen shifted his hips, the sensitive tip of his arousal now touching the heated, welcoming entrance of her body. "We'll find that out after I've taken you."
Miriam stilled, her breath coming in heavy, her nerves finally betraying her despite everything. Truth be told, he would be no different if his own anxiety weren't overwhelmed by his urgent need to possess her—to claim her from the Emperor and all others who sought her sacred power. For a heartbeat, their black eyes locked in a connection so deep, in an understanding so profound, that only they, could truly comprehend it, and then, with a decisive thrust, he drove himself into his wife.
Miriam's bloodied lips parted in a sharp cry of pain, her body arching beneath him as her hands flew to his back. Her nails dug into his flesh, biting deep, a visceral reaction to the shock of the intrusion.
Despite the force of his initial thrust, he found himself unable to fully penetrate her. His wife's petite frame presented a challenge in claiming her, one that only sharpened his resolve. A fierce determination blazed in his eyes as his right hand gripped her hip tightly, fingers digging with possessive urgency. He thrust again and again, each movement met with her strained cries, mingling with his own guttural moans as her body slowly yielded to him. Finally, the exquisite tightness enveloped him fully, and for a moment, he paused, savoring the overwhelming sensation of being completely buried within her before resuming his rhythm.
Miriam's breath hissed through her clenched teeth, her brows knitting together as her eyes squeezed shut. Her fingers, pressing against his back, suddenly flared with searing heat, as if ten branding irons were scorching his skin, burning their way down his ribs. Pain burst through him, sharp and overwhelming, but Cullen didn't falter. He grit his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath the onslaught, but rather than slowing him, the pain fed something primal within, and with an almost feral determination, he began to slam into the mage with a punishing force.
Tears started to spill from beneath Miriam's eyelids, rolling down her cheeks, her form stiffening beneath him, her body instinctively pulling away with each forceful thrust, though there was nowhere for her to go. Yet, Cullen didn't care. The world outside his own faded away—his wife's pain, her fingers burning deep into his flesh, the scent of blood and scorched flesh—none of it mattered, for he was lost in the moment of chasing the intoxicating high. Time became a blur, the moments merging together, each thrust, each breath, blending into a singular, burning desire.
Then, in the haze of it all, there was a shift.
Miriam's black eyes snapped open, and her hands slid from his scorched back to his chest. Her fingers hovered for a moment, and then, from the mark on her left hand, black slime surged forth, snaking over her skin. The dark tendrils crawled up her left arm before splitting, mirroring the movement on her right hand, twisting and coiling around both palms as they solidified into sharp obsidian-like claws at the tips of her fingers. With a sudden, vicious movement, the mage drove her newfound talons deep into his pectorals, her fists clenching tightly.
Cullen's world shattered in a moment of blinding pain. His eyes widened, a guttural roar erupting from his throat as his body jerked violently. Blood splashed from the deep wounds she'd carved into him, spilling over her hands and splattering across her face, dripping onto her breasts, and pooling in the hollow of her throat. Yet, each drop of crimson that left his body only seemed to ignite a searing pressure in his groin, a relentless, throbbing force that coiled tighter with every heartbeat. It was as though the intensity of his pleasure was a living beast straining against the confines of his body.
As his blood continued to pour onto the mage, the black scar on her chest began to writhe, coming alive as it hungrily absorbed it, as though feeding off his very life force. Miriam's form convulsed, her back arching sharply as her head tilted back, exposing the curve of her neck. Her lips parted once more, but this time, the sound that tore from her throat was no cry of pain. It was a raw, primal scream of pure, unrestrained ecstasy.
Cullen's fingers plunged into his wife's mouth, trembling with desperation as he fought to stifle the rising clamor. The noise that escaped her cut through the air with enough force to carry beyond the walls—to where prying ears could hear. The Emperor could hear. His heart thundered at the thought. It was unbearable, intolerable. That voice, that cry, belonged to him and him alone. No one else had the right to hear those intimate, broken sounds.
Her teeth clamped down on his fingers, biting hard but he pushed deeper, forcing his hand to gag her screams. The sensation of her hot, damp mouth around his fingers added to the frenzy of the moment, his entire body becoming a taut string, every muscle wound tight as his rhythm became erratic.
When a breaking wave was just at the edge of his control, his bruised, bloodied fingers slipped from the mage's mouth, trailing down to grip her throat, slick and warm with his blood. Miriam's hands abandoned their desperate clutch on his chest, clawing at the arm now cutting off her air. "You're… mine. Only… mine. Say it," he rasped, voice barely more than a ragged mumbling.
A keening sound escaped his wife, her lips shaping a breathless 'yes'.
That single word sent Cullen over the edge. His hips pressed flush against hers, holding her there as his pleasure detonated within him, like a storm unleashed from the heavens. His vision blurred to white as a half-gasp, half-groan escaped him. He let go of the mage's throat, letting her suck in desperate breaths as her claws lost their grip on him. His body convulsed, overcome by the all-consuming fire of release. Every nerve blazed, a wildfire of sensation surging through him, leaving him utterly spent, hollowed out, and adrift in the fading echo of pure, unrestrained ecstasy.
When the storm finally began to ebb, his muscles relaxed, a deep, bone-weary satisfaction settling in its place. Bloodied and burned but utterly sated, Cullen slumped against the mage, his breath coming in slow, heavy pants as he tried to recover. Until now the pinnacle of his pleasure had been the indulgence in the flesh of the heretics, but today, he had tasted something greater. The exquisite rapture of spilling into a woman—no, not just any woman. His woman. His wife. His love.
The world slowly drifted back into focus, and he became aware of the said woman beneath him, her chest rising and falling in time with her own unsteady breath. Cullen winced as the sharp pain of his injuries flared, now unshielded by the haze of passion that had dulled it. A low groan escaped his lips as he shifted, the ache coursing through him.
Miriam turned her gaze to him, her black eyes soft, yet filled with a quiet intensity. "Cullen," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
No further words were needed.
With a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the ferocity of what they had shared, he leaned in, brushing his lips softly against hers. His fingers threaded through her long, dark hair, pulling her closer as he held her there, the bond between them heavy with promises of things to come.