Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“No.”

Cullen frowned and crossed his arms. Josephine chewed on her lower lip and joined her hands in a pleading motion.

“Cullen, for the Maker’s sake, please, I need everyone to come and attend.”

“No,” Cullen repeated a bit harsher. “Lady Ambassador, I won’t come with you for a two-weeks travel to Orlais to visit some nobles. I have bigger matters to attend here, and, once again, I hate this.”

It had been about a week since Josephine had come up with the plan, and he still had not agreed with it. Since Lady Inquisitor Uriell Trevelyan had been working hard to secure the Inquisition’s influence all over Orlais and Ferelden, she finally had time to focus on the diplomatic relationships of the Inquisition with the nobility; and Josephine had prepared the busiest agenda for it. They had about three weeks before the great ball at Halamshiral, and while the Inquisition’s military prowess was unquestionable, they still needed to confirm the allegiances of a few noble families to secure their position and relevance in the Empress’ eye. To do so, Josephine had carefully planned a two-weeks travel across Orlais to visit a few important families, with a grand finale of a few days in Val Royeaux. Everything’s was ready, but she needed him to confirm his attendance, and he definitely did not want to be part of it.

“Commander, this is enough!” the small Antivan lady put her hands on her hips and puffed her chest. He had rarely seen her this upset. “I’m not asking you if you want to be there, you have to be there. We’ll get to Halamshiral from Val Royeaux all four of us together with Lady Trevelyan, for a unified and strong statement.”

“This is ridiculous,” Cullen growled. He gestured to the war table as both advisors were standing on each side of the laid-out maps. “Look at this, it doesn’t make any sense! Halamshiral is about a day away from here on horseback, a day and a half at most! You don’t need me for your political shenanigans, and I can stay here to secure our forces in case Corypehus strikes again.”

“Enough, you two,” Leliana hissed. Both their eyes turned to the Spymaster who was standing on the edge of the wooden table. She was looming over the maps, clearly unpleased with their bickering that had been going on for an hour already. “You can’t fight over this every single day. Cullen, you don’t want to come with us, fine. But you’ll at least have to meet us in Val Royeaux so we can leave together for the ball.”

“But—this is!” Cullen gawked and showed the Walking Sea standing between Val Royeaux and Halamshiral. “Crossing the sea, twice, just for show, I—”

“Cullen, this is the best I can offer you,” Leliana straightened and glared at him with a hard, scolding expression. “We do need you; you are a face of the Inquisition and we shouldn’t show any potential sign of discord. We will not have it.”

Whereas Cullen was about to express once more his visceral disapproval and frustration, the loud blast of the horn announcing the return of the Inquisitor echoed through Skyhold up to the War Room and called the meeting off. The advisors exchanged looks and Josephine immediately picked up her papers.

“She’s back! We have to prepare everything now! Leliana, let’s go.”

Cullen stood silent as they gathered their belongings and cleaned the room in a hurry to go and meet the Inquisitor at the gates. Before Josephine headed out, she turned to Cullen again with an unusual stern look on her face.

“I understand how you feel, Cullen, I really do. But if you don’t do it for us, do it for her. We will need all the protection we can have.”

The Spymaster and the Ambassador ran off the room, leaving him alone in front of the crumbled maps. Cullen’s lips parted in a deep long sigh he had been repressing for longer than he could remember. His heart had squeezed in his chest once when he had first heard the horn, twice when Josephine had mentioned the Inquisitor, and was now painfully beating in his chest. He swallowed roughly, staring at the absurd journey route laid out on the table.

Truth be told, she would be the only reason why he would even slightly consider doing the trip. Since Haven, Cullen had noticed that their strong leader was, in fact, a woman; despite being a force of nature with enough strength to kick the ass of most of his men, she was still human after all, and at times, fragile. Since that fateful day, he often remembered her trembling form as he was picking her up from the snow, her shuddering cold breath against his neck as she was freezing to death, how easy it would have been for her to die. And yet she had survived.

Since that day, Cullen had slowly grown overprotective of her. He had increased patrols and watch duties everywhere she went, worked harder with Leliana to secure the areas she would go to, and personally kept an eye on her when he could; doing his best so she would never miss anything for her own comfort. She had deeply moved and inspired him that night, and this was the least he could do to repay her for her courage and sacrifice.

Sometimes, when she was away for long periods of times, he found himself thinking of her and worrying about her, wondering if she was safe and when she would come back. When present at Skyhold, he would always wait eagerly for her and feel blessed when she’d come for a chat in his office. He often secretly wished she would stay longer, but Cullen never knew what to tell her once they had talked through their reports. Her influence and hard work always encouraged him to do better, and he always felt energized just by her presence; however, if she had not come to meet and greet him, his motivation would respectively take a great blow and Cullen would have a hard time eating his dinner the same day. Cullen felt like he somehow needed her approval and her guidance to be the best Commander he could be, and she was one of the reasons that had kept him off lyrium these few past months.

Cullen closed his eyes firmly and sighed. “If you don’t do it for us, do it for her.” Of course, the Inquisitor would be at risk during this trip. A very public travel across Orlais, her arrival expected by many great noble Houses, bards already singing about her in the streets; of course, it meant she had a target on her back. At the very least, Cullen had ensured her security to the best of his ability when he had picked a few of his best men to guard her and accompany the expedition. Loranil would go with her, ser Delrin Barris as well; better safe than sorry. However, this did not ease the anxiety gnawing at his insides. If he was entirely honest with himself, he secretly wished he was part of it, just to personally keep an eye on her. After all, she had been away in the Dales for about two weeks now, and the departure was planned for the next morning.

Cullen shook his head and realized that if he wanted to even share the smallest amount of time in her company, he had to leave the War Room for his office now. The thought of her getting away from Skyhold again under such a short notice, knowing he wouldn’t see her again for another three weeks, made him incredibly uncomfortable. He needed to see her, hear her voice again, see her serious face as she would break through her pile of work and take decisions that will make the Inquisition history.

He walked his way back to his office faster than usual, his mind focused on the Inquisitor. Cullen caught himself thinking more about her smile when she used to say “Well done, Commander!” rather than the potential content of her reports back from the Dales, and did not notice the blush creeping underneath his armor up to his cheeks. He barely acknowledged the greetings from the expedition soldiers’ who were getting ready for a hard-earned meal in the Great Hall, and vaguely nodded in Solas' direction as he crossed the rotunda. When he finally reached his office and opened the door, Cullen gasped in surprise as the Inquisitor Uriell Trevelyan and Ser Barris were already there, both standing in front of his desk in a great discussion. She was wearing her full heavy armor, helmet hanging from her belt, covered in dirt and dried herbs. She was disheveled and had apparently come to his office first thing after her arrival. As Cullen was staring, their eyes landed on him at the same time, and Uriell greeted him with a smile and a nod of her head.

Cullen caught the breath that he realized he had been holding, then entered his office. He might have been looking quite startled when Delrin Barris initiated the conversation.

“Commander! We were waiting for you.”

“Ser Barris,” Cullen bowed his head in their direction and rounded his desk to stand in front of them. The pounding in his chest betrayed how febrile he was, and he hoped his voice wouldn’t betray him. To regain composure, he first inspected his desk and noticed Uriell was still holding on her usual reports from the field. “Welcome back, Inquisitor,” was he shaking? He shouldn’t be shaking. “I… Is there anything I should know?”

He finally held up her gaze, unable to avoid it for longer. The way her eyes crinkled and her lips tightened made his heart sink in a second.

“Hello Commander. I am fine, thank you. Nice to see again, and healthy too.” Her nagging was dry but her impatience died in her throat as she stated the reason of her early visit. “Is it true?” she asked softly and then glanced at Ser Barris. “I’ve been told you wouldn’t come with us on tomorrow’s trip. Delrin was telling me about this.”

Cullen clenched his fists when she shared a look with the young templar. While Ser Barris had proven to be an invaluable asset to the training of recruits, the leadership of the troops, and maintaining the Inquisition’s templars under control; Cullen had still not come to terms with the fact that the man used to be a childhood friend of the Inquisitor. Every single sign of affection or familiarity felt like an outrage to him. He barely heard when the man conceded:

“Yes, I apologize, Commander, I thought you had told Ur—the Inquisitor about it before.”

Uriell’s attention was back on him again and Cullen had to swallow roughly to ease his tight throat. Her eyes were round with incredulity as she was waiting for some kind of explanation. He had not directly informed her and assumed Josephine would have shared the information in the missives the young ladies were exchanging. Shame creeped under his skin, she clearly was not expecting this.

“Well, yes, I…” Her face crumbled with his confirmation. “I mean, no offense Inquisitor, but we can’t leave Skyhold without surveillance, someone needs to stay up here…”

“Don’t you trust your officers, Commander?”

The knot in Uriell’s brows betrayed her disappointment and yet her voice was still soft and kind, finding a way to crush Cullen’s resolve from the last week.

“I—Of course, I do,” he stammered, taken aback by her question. Her green eyes were piercing through him, he had nowhere left to hide and he could not remember the reason why he had taken this decision in the first place. “That’s the reason why I asked Ser Barris to accompany you, he is strong enough for…”

“If you think he can protect me then he can protect Skyhold,” she gently pointed out before glancing back at the templar by her side. “I was just checking with Delrin. Ser Commander Rylen is available, and if your second-in-command isn’t enough, Delrin knows the troops quite well; I’m sure they can handle the fort together when we are away.”

Her eyes locked again in his and Cullen shivered. This was not a question, but leading to a direct order. She read through him and Cullen felt a drop of sweat run between his shoulder blades.

“Commander, Skyhold is in danger mostly when I’m in here.” She leaned over the desk on her hands and Cullen held his breath. “Ser Rylen can perfectly protect the place. As I’m sure Josephine has told you already, we need you for this trip. I need you.”

Cullen noticed how Ser Barris’ eyes bounced from her to him, and the quiet nod he made in his direction. Uriell looked at him intently under a strand of wild hair, in a firm and yet pleading expression.

“I know how much you hate… nobility,” her mouth twitched at the mention, and she averted her eyes for a second before staring into him again. “And trust me, I hate to impose anything on you. Please, Commander. I need you with me.”

The way she breathed her request made his heart both sink and jolt in his chest. There was no way in the world he would refuse her anything, even less when she asked it like that. The look in her eyes was pained and desperate when he finally surrendered:

“I—You’re right, Inquisitor. If that’s what you want, I’ll be there.”

A shy smile flashed on her lips despite her worried expression.

“Thank you, Commander. I promise, we’ll do our best so you won’t have to deal with the dignitaries.” Uriell got back up, fixed her wild blond hair then turned to ser Barris.  “Delrin, Commander, I’ll let you work on the formalities. Leliana and Josephine are waiting for me.” She put the papers she was carrying on the edge of the desk and added: “The Dales’ reports. We can go through them tomorrow together. See you, Commander.”

She nodded and left the office, leaving the two men hanging in front of each other in silence. Cullen’s heartbeat rang in his ear, what did he just agree to? He really couldn’t refuse a direct from her, could he? His gaze dropped to where she stood seconds ago and he heaved a long deep sigh before he noticed ser Barris had turned around to face him. The templar’s smirk threw Cullen off first, but he knew better than to react to his provocation.

“So, she needs you, doesn’t she?”

“Shut up, Barris. She’s the Inquisitor,” he curtly replied.

Cullen stared at the pile of work on his desk. He had to find a way to bring that with him now, hadn’t he? He pretended to be deep in thoughts shuffling through his papers to avoid the insisting gaze of his subordinate. After all, he suspected he was blushing, and the tip of his ears felt incredibly hot. She needed him, indeed, those were her words. And they rang quite sweet to him.

“I don’t know if you realize, Ser, but this is not just decorum.”

Cullen looked up at his man and Ser Barris straightened in a respectful military stance. The Commander cocked an eyebrow urging him to clarify his statement.

“According to our orders from Lady Montilyet,” the templar continued, “our presence is to ensure the safety of the delegation at all times. We have assignments. Loranil and I were supposed to keep watch over the Inquisitor’s tent in turns. With your rank, unless you prefer staying idle, you could be personally guarding her.”

That… thought did not occur to him. Cullen was about to entertain the idea when he noticed the poorly concealed smile Ser Barris bore on his lips. He immediately stiffened in response and frowned upon his man.

“Barris, I appreciate you and your hard work, but don’t push your luck,” he threatened under his breath. “The Inquisitor doesn’t need a personal guard; she is strong enough to protect herself.” Cullen bit his tongue and looked away. He was lying. He still wanted her protected, she just didn’t need him to protect her.

“And yet, I was assigned to her,” ser Barris’ attitude relaxed, and his tone softened as they used to talk to each other when they were off duty. “Unless you want to change it, I’ll keep my post and answer my orders. Should I stay or come with you, Commander?”

Cullen had no idea what to answer and considered his options. Uriell was right; he was trusting Rylen to hold the fort without any second thoughts. Would he need Ser Barris to assist him? Different scenarios came to his mind, but none of them were dire enough to need two of his best men to defend the castle. The troops were trained, they already had a protocol to apply in case of an attack while the Inquisitor was away. The only haunting thought at the back of Cullen’s mind was the looks Uriell and Ser Barris had exchanged earlier, and his blood started warming up again. He had no legitimate reason to change his current assignments though, and Cullen sighed in frustration.

“You’ll come with us, Barris. Stick to your orders. Keep an eye on her.”

Cullen hid his frown as he gathered piles of work from his desk in an attempt to start packing. Maybe his man will take his cue and leave him to his thoughts. But the templar stood silent in his office and Cullen looked back at him. He was about to order him out, exasperation building in his chest, when he noticed the genuine worry in Ser Barris’ eyes.

“As you wish, Commander. But since you’re going, I suppose I should warn you.”

Cullen pinched his nose as the flare of a headache flashed before his eyes. “Speak your mind, Barris,” he growled. He considered the man as a friend, despite the hints of jealousy and his teasing attitude, but he did not appreciate when their friendship would slip in forms of insubordination when they were still working.

“Lady Trevelyan…” Delrin uttered. His eyes darted to the side as he was looking for words, and he bit his lip when he reconsidered pursuing his sentence. “She’s used to this. Those noble things, I mean. She was trained for it.”

“So what?” Cullen was losing his patience and glared at his man. Being reminded of her status tended to make him uncomfortable. He was already actively trying to forget about her other titles than the one of Inquisitor, heavy and unreachable enough to make him feel unworthy of just standing near her.

“So…” Delrin continued carefully, “She knows how to play them. She seduces them. And they love it. I… Just don’t think bad of it when you’ll see it.”

Cullen stiffened and pinched his lips. What kind of unsolicited advice was that? His eyes narrowed into slits and Ser Barris uncomfortably straightened under his gaze. Cullen’s pulse was quickening painfully in his throat when he curtly asked:

“Is that all?”

“It is all, Commander, I apologize,” Delrin bowed his head and bid his goodbyes. “I’ll go pack now. I will see you in the morning.”

Cullen feigned not to notice the last worried look the young man gave him before he turned back on his heels to exit the office through the same door the Inquisitor had opened moments ago. When he was alone, finally alone, Cullen pressed his palms against his eyes and grunted breathlessly in frustration. His whole body ached and his mind was a mess. What had he agreed to now? Did this mean he would have to deal with the sight of the Inquisitor Trevelyan serving fake smiles and undeserved giggles to random pompous nobles for three weeks?

But then he pictured her, in the light of a campfire, away from the courtesies of the day, sore and sleepy. He saw the possibility to be the steady rock she could rely on after her diplomatic duties and the fantasy made it all worthwhile. Three weeks. At least he could see her for three weeks, in different conditions than hours of meeting around the War Table or a few minutes in his office. “You could be personally guarding her.” Maker, he would like that. He saw her in his arms again, but this time warm and alive, protected, reassured, stronger. Cullen did not notice the smile blooming on his lips. For the first time, he almost was eager for the morning to come again.

Chapter Text

It had been a bit more than a day since the Inquisition’s diplomatic delegation had left Skyhold and they were already getting close to their first destination. Cullen rode ahead, by Josephine’s left side, Leliana flanking her on her right. The three advisors were leading the group that day, in a simple formal attire to meet with their very first host, the Duchess Caralina of Lydes.

In the end, the expedition was quite small, all things considered. The group was made of the Inquisitor, her advisors and companions, a healer, a cook, a few requisition officers, Loranil and Ser Barris, as well as half a dozen of Cullen’s men, and two of Leliana’s. Uriell had her own carriage, even though she voiced many times her discomfort on the matter. For now, she had allowed her companions to share it as she preferred riding behind on her own horse, Diavolo, a fierce black Free Marches Charger stallion with an explosive temper. Cullen rarely had the occasion to see her on horseback and was still surprised at how good she was at it; that was how he discovered the Trevelyans were known for their ranches and horses. He occasionally remembered shamefully the times he had offered her riding lessons, to which she always had replied with a wicked smile. Diavolo was the horse she rode to attend the Council in the name of her House and she probably was the only one living creature the animal tolerated near him.

The journey had been uneventful so far. Cullen had overseen the first evening’s camp, making sure that all tents were set up fast and clean, though his troops were already used to the field and had proved to be more efficient than he had expected. Uriell now had a private tent, slightly bigger than the others, but still not as big as the official one used for the meetings. Most of the Inquisition members had smaller individual tents, and soldiers had to share a few medium ones.

Cullen had almost felt useless that night when he had realized his men did not need any of his directions. He began to understand what Ser Barris had meant two days earlier by “staying idle” and he didn’t like it in the slightest. He who usually was working all day did enjoy the fresh air and scenery of the journey, but he was fidgeting, uncomfortable, and couldn’t help but think of all the work he still had to do. It did not help that Josephine had already planned everything meticulously and nothing was left for him to organize and keep himself busy with. He noticed the Inquisitor was feeling a similar way when they were both openly relieved and excited to go through her reports from the Dales during a break. She had joked a few times about reading her paperwork while riding, and they both had considered the idea very seriously.

The Commander had then experienced for the very first time a night at camp with the Inquisitor and her companions, to his secret satisfaction. Not that he had not shared camp with her before, but this happened after they had fled Haven, and Cullen had other matters to attend rather than observe her back then.

She had insisted on taking a shift during the night watch, despite Josephine’s unconcealed displeasure. Cullen had seen her sneak away to help the cook, and learnt she enjoyed cooking. She had spent quite some time near the fire reading through her paperwork with a hot cup of chocolate, back-to-back with Varric who had been working on the next chapter of his last novel. But more than anything, Cullen had been surprised to realize how human she looked like. Each second spent watching her from afar divided her from her Inquisitor’s entity, and Cullen felt incredibly lucky to witness her transformation. She smiled, she laughed, she joked; she swore, she played cards, she grunted every time she could finally dismount, stretching eagerly to relieve her back from the ache of riding for long hours.

Loranil and Ser Barris had kept to their posts very seriously and guarded her tent through the night. Delrin couldn’t help but wink at him the one time their eyes locked across the camp, when Cullen thought he was subtly looking at her. Aside from that, the templar had been very professional, and Cullen had not seen him exchange more than a few words with Lady Trevelyan, which somehow eased him a little more from his anxiety.

Cullen sighed. Having nothing left to do but ride for hours had emptied his head, only to fill it with pictures of her, memories playing on repeat, to his own greatest surprise. When he would usually think of new maneuvers, training for his recruits, how to handle supplies in this or that area the Inquisitor had claimed; he was now just… thinking of her. He remembered the way she had served him his meal at dinner the night before. He could hear her crystalline laugh when Sera had made a joke around the camp fire. He thought of how she had been entertaining the requisition officers during her night shift, trying to mess with them and convince them to use different materials than the ones they actually needed. She now occupied his mind every single moment, and it was only one day since they had left. Cullen started to grow uncomfortable; none of these thoughts were work-related and admiration could not excuse half of them. Thankfully— or not, he was not sure yet; the expedition was getting near the city of Lydes and especially, the Duchess’ Estate.

The Inquisition had helped secure Lady Caralina’s position as the Duchess of Lydes about a month ago, and Jospehine thought now was the perfect time to physically meet with her and discuss the details of their alliance. From what Cullen knew about her, Lady Caralina of Lydes was quite the typical Orlesian noble. Married to the Duke Stefan de Firmin, she was used to her obligations and had handled the overseeing of the Duchy quite easily after the death of her cousin, Duke Remarche. Under the orders of Inquisitor Trevelyan, Cullen had recruited the dead Duke’s brother and chevalier, Jean-Gaspard, who had proven to be an invaluable asset to his troops. While Jean-Gaspard was known for his taste for power and military prowess, the Duchess was keener to play the Game, and rumors were that she was not the most faithful of wives; but the Inquisition had decided not to exploit this information. For now. Cullen couldn’t help but feel anxious as their destination grew near; after all he had himself received a few personal letters from the Duchess to thank him for saving her from mercenaries during the succession events. She had been… quite graphic in the choice of words, and Cullen had felt compelled not to share the letters contents with the other advisors, afraid they might tease him again with how easily he seemed to charm Orlesian nobles. He quite hoped the Duchess had found another person to toy with when they would arrive.

After hours riding on the road, they finally reached the gates of the Duchess’ Estate, and the Inquisitor rode to the front in between Cullen and Josephine. She had taken off her armor during the journey to match their formal attire, and was wearing her family rapier on her hip. Cullen shivered when her knee grazed his as they stood side by side and the sway of their horses brought them closer. Her thigh pressed slightly against his and her warmth spread to him through the layers of leather pants. He was not used to her contact and fumbled concealing his surprise; but she did not seem to notice. Diavolo impatiently trot on the spot, and the contact of their bodies broke with a move of her horse. Cullen could finally breath again, though the tingling sensation where their legs had met took quite some time to subdue. He only stopped focusing on it when a maid and a butler came to greet them at the gates, and invited the delegation to follow them. Horses were led to the stables, Diavolo with more efforts than the others, which drew a childish laugh from the Inquisitor as she watched her stallion give a hard time to the groom.

A few moments later, the Inquisitor, her advisors, Cassandra, Vivienne and Varric met Lady Caralina in a large cabinet around a cup of tea and pastries. They were sat in a half-circle of comfortable padded chairs, with the Duchess in the middle, flanked by Cullen and the Inquisitor on both sides.

Lady Caralina was a delicate woman of very pale complexion and elegant figure. Her hair was red like fire and curly, pinned on top of her head and barely peeking under an oversized hat she never took off. She wore a mask in the shape of a fox head which covered the top of her face, exposing a playful smirk. Her cleavage was daring and quite low for an official meeting; but everyone else seemed to ignore it. However, the way she tended to bend over in Cullen’s direction had started to make him uneasy, so he finally opted to avoid looking at her. The attention was unnerving and he immediately regretted accepting to sit directly next to her. She had plenty to discuss with the Inquisitor and Josephine so it shouldn’t be much of an issue if he looked away, should it? It was when she landed a hand on his knee and squeezed it that Cullen realized he might as well have been trapped.

“… But I insist, Commander, I don’t know how to repay you. I will be eternally grateful to your men who saved me from these miserable bandits. I wrote to you on the matter, but never received a reply from your end. Have you thought of a way I could express my thanks?”

Cullen reluctantly glanced back at the Lady whose coy smile did not leave much to imagination. A cold sweat of disgust ran down his back. The touch of her hand was the total opposite from the fleeting and accidental brush of the Inquisitor’s knee earlier, and he wished he could disappear from the room right now. A quick movement in front of him, and the alien stroke on his leg disappeared; when Cullen looked back, he was surprised to see the Inquisitor was kneeling before Lady Caralina, the Duchess’ hand in hers, and Uriell Trevelyan was looking at the Lady as if she was the most precious person in the world.

“Your Grace, I deeply apologize,” the Inquisitor brought the noble’s hand to her plush lips and laid a light kiss on the top of her knuckles. Cullen stared and held his breath, blushing just as if she had kissed his hand instead. “There might have been a misunderstanding. I was the one in charge of the troops who saved you that day. I hope you will excuse such a low subterfuge and the lack of warning from my end, but I wished to experience first-hand the sight of your beauty that day. I’m afraid that my duties had kept me away from giving you a heartful message, but let me tell you, none of the tales about you can reflect how exquisite you are, my Lady.”

The Duchess’ cheeks turned crimson underneath her mask before she gleefully giggled and fanned herself with her free hand. Cullen noticed the quick glance Leliana and Josephine shared, none of them seemed to understand what was happening. Vivienne, who was sitting across him, casually brought her teacup to her lips only to arch an eyebrow in Cullen’s direction, inviting him to play along.

“Oh, my, Inquisitor!” the Duchess hid her broad excited smile with the back of her hand. “I had no idea! Apologize my boldness!”

“Oh no, your Grace, please forgive me,” Uriell winked. “I’m the one at fault here. And truly, I don’t need any more thanks from you than this audience today and the possibility to admire you from this close. I doubt Lord Stefan would have allowed me to otherwise.”

Cullen stiffened in his chair. He did not know what made him more uncomfortable, the blatant predatory flirting from the Duchess earlier, or how easily the Inquisitor was lying. Despite knowing none of this was true, the purr of her voice and the glistening in her eye, all focused on Lady Caralina, made his heart sink.

“But I insist! Not only you saved my life but helped me bring control over the Duchy of Lydes! There must be something I could do to thank you, my Lady.”

“Well, if you insist, your Grace, then what about a dinner? My Ambassador and I would love to discuss it with you in a more private setting, if you’d have us.”

Cullen stared as the scene unfolded before his eyes. In seconds, armed with a smoldering smile and words sweeter than honey, the Inquisitor had the Duchess wrapped around her finger, quite literally as the Lady now held her hand. Cullen had never seen the Inquisitor throw herself in the Game, and he was startled to realize she was quite the Player. Before she could rise up to her feet, Cullen felt her elbow press against his thigh, and she gave him a quick reassuring glance. It was as if she was checking on him, and while he was relieved the attention of the noble had shifted from him to her, he couldn’t help but be worried about her in turn. Uriell and Lady Caralina left the room with intertwined arms as the Duchess excitedly offered to show her the gardens, followed closely by Leliana and Josephine. Cullen was about to get up as well when Vivienne cleared her throat.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, Commander.” Madame de Fer emptied her cup and laid it back on a side table gracefully, without a sound. “She has saved you from that temptress’ claws, maybe you should not remind our host how attractive she thinks you are and let our Inquisitor do her magic for now. Unless you enjoy the attention.”

Varric whipped out a notebook from his satchel under the inquisitive eyes of Cassandra sitting by his side.

“You have to admit,” the dwarf commented with an admirative tone, “she knows a thing or two about getting their attention. That was real smooth. I have to note that down for my book.”

Cassandra looked like she was about to retort something but Cullen noticed the glance she gave at Varric’s notes before she averted her eyes.

“I did not expect an ally of the Inquisition to be this frivolous,” she instead added when she looked back at Cullen. “Sure, this is an Orlesian thing; but did we have to help such a person rule over Lydes? I insist Jean-Gaspard would have been a better leader.”

“Cassandra, dearest,” Vivienne smiled politely and rose to her feet. “Jean-Gaspard would barely be manipulable; and Monette, poor thing, the girl would have been crushed in the Game. Lady Caralina might be a tease and a flirt, but with the Inquisitor turning her own little game against her, she is nothing but a lamb in the claws of a lion. Let her do her work and let’s get to our chambers, shall we?”

Cullen clenched his fists to his side. He had been absolutely useless during this audience; worse than that, he had been powerless. The Inquisitor herself had to rescue him from their very first host. For that he was grateful, but she now had to deal with the Duchess and entertain her, away from him. And what a way to entertain her. Uriell Trevelyan apparently had more than one mask, the one of the Inquisitor, but also the one of a noble. Hers was not made of gold or silver, it was not adorned of feathers or rich laces; it was all but precious smiles and sparkling green eyes and whispering compliments. Cullen’s guts felt heavy and tight, was it guilt?

Varric had to rush his notes and followed Cassandra out the room. Lady Vivienne patiently waited for Cullen at the door and gestured towards him. He felt compelled to get up as well and was about to exit the cabinet when Madame de Fer spoke softly for only him to hear.

“She will be fine, Commander. She learnt from the best. I’ve seen her mother in Ostwick; nobles here are mere game for such beasts of prey.”

Vivienne walked away to join the group, leaving Cullen standing at the door, dumbfounded. It was not guilt; it was a mix of complex emotions he could not clearly flesh out. Surprised, he was surprised by how little he knew about the Inquisitor, how he had not even heard about this part of her personality. He had suspected she had a way with words when he had seen her and her half-brother play around in Haven’s tavern, but not to that extent. Anxiety, apprehension for what was next to come. And then, he remembered how comforting and warm her touch was, soft and light brushes, reassuring and careful; so different from the aggressive squeeze of Lady Caralina. The memory of the Duchess’ hand in hers, covered with her lips, flashed back before his eyes and for a split-second Cullen confusedly wished it was his hand Uriell had taken instead.

Eventually, the Duchess had stolen the Inquisitor for the rest of the day away from him and the rest of her party. They did not see them at all, and Leliana only reunited with the group for supper. She bore a mischievous smile, which was a sign that things went even more smoothly than she had expected. The Inquisition’s delegation enjoyed their evening meal in the dining room, while Ladies Trevelyan and Montilyet were invited in a boudoir, as the Inquisitor had requested. When Leliana sat at the table on Cullen’s side and avoided Sera’s peas turned into projectiles, she was welcomed with expecting eyes and silent questions.

“Everything’s going well,” she simply said as she raised her glass and a maid reached to fill it with wine. “No need to worry. Except maybe for our Ladies Inquisitor and Ambassador’s cavities since they seem to share the same sweet tooth as our Grace.”

A wave of relief rippled through the table as each guest sighed and dived in their food eagerly. Vivienne and Dorian toasted and tasted the estate’s wine, while Varric, Blackwall and the Iron Bull entered a long conversation about how to describe their last fight in the Dales for the dwarf’s book. Everyone was light-hearted and unbothered, everyone but him. Despite the reassuring words of the Spymaster, Cullen still couldn’t find his appetite. The knot in his stomach did not loosen and he barely managed to chew on his souris d’agneau. He kept looking over his shoulder in direction of the doors, waiting for the moment Uriell and Josephine would come back, but the moment never seemed to come. At some point, Leliana had to lean against him and she whispered in a low tone “Relax, Commander, she’s not going to eat them.”

“I—I can’t help but be anxious,” he put down his fork and brought his cup to his lips. “I’m in charge of the group’s security. They’re alone. They should not be alone.”

Leliana chuckled softly. “And what do you think she’s going to do, stab them with a fork?”

“We still should have men at their door. What if—” Cullen’s throat tightened and he had to swallow and lower his voice before he could continue. “What if she’d try to take things further with the Inquisitor? What if she saw… an invitation?”

The Spymaster couldn’t help but snort in her drink. Her eyebrow raised and her smirked peered behind the rim of her glass.

“So that’s what you’re afraid of? The Inquisitor, being defiled by one of our allies?”

Cullen frowned and glared at Leliana, offended by her reaction. She caught her breath gracefully and quietly before putting down her glass. No one else around the table seemed to have noticed.

“Cullen, have you forgotten who you are talking about? And that Josephine is with her?” Leliana sighed through a grin. “She has faced Corypheus alone and survived, and yet you’re afraid she’d be subdued by a Duchess who’s never hold anything pointier in her life than a quill? Trust me, if anyone tries to take things further with our Lady, they’ll get stabbed. And not by my men.”

“What do you m—"

The doors behind them finally opened and Josephine entered in the dining room. The doors closed behind her; she was alone. Cullen’s guts sank in his belly. A content smile on her face, she skipped gleefully to join them before sitting on Cullen’s other side. The attention of the Inquisition’s companions had shifted to her once again and she politely answered with a smile.

“Thanks to our Lady Inquisitor, Duchess Caralina has agreed on helping the Inquisition more than was already negotiated. She was very pleased with our visit and will join us in a moment. Please carry on.”

The merry group slowly came back to their conversations and nobody seemed to have noticed Sera had disappeared, while Leliana raised her glass in Josephine’s direction.

“Would you care for some wine Josie? You should celebrate.”

“Ah, I probably shouldn’t… But yes, please.”

She smiled as she was poured a drink by the maid and shared a toast with the Spymaster, right in front of Cullen’s untouched plate.

“Commander, aren’t you eating?” Josephine looked at him with open eyes and her brows crumbled in worry. “You should eat something; this is going to be a very tiring journey!”

“Where is she?” Cullen stiffened. His heart pounded in his chest. He had expected the Inquisitor would come back with Josephine, where was she? He stared at the doors, hoping she would enter any moment. Now she was really alone, and the idea froze him in place.

“Who…?”

Josephine really seemed to be pondering who he was referring to. Cullen stared dumbfounded at the Ambassador and shook his head in disbelief, eyes wide and parted lips, unable to speak the obvious. The idea she would even consider he could be thinking of anybody else than the Inquisitor seemed inconceivable to him.

“Ah!” Josephine blushed and hid her embarrassment with her hand. “I apologize, for a while, I thought you were talking about our Grace! Er… Our Lady Inquisitor said she had eaten enough and went for a stroll in the gardens. She should be… Cullen—?”

Before he could think, Cullen was up on his feet and leaving the table. The startled eyes of the expedition’s members burned on his back as he exited the room but he did not care in the slightest. So that was it? She had requested him to be part of this journey so he could protect them, protect her, and she decided to go on a night stroll all by herself, to none the wiser? His heart beat frantically in his chest, and Cullen assumed it was due to the anger and exasperation; but he couldn’t explain the tightness of his throat or the shortness of his breath. He probably had drunk too much on an empty stomach, and dismissed it.

Cullen stormed through the corridors of the calm and silent mansion, retracing his way back to the entrance until he pushed open the front doors without ceremony. He welcomed the fresh air of the early spring night on his face and inhaled deeply before running down the stairs. To his surprise, he found Ser Barris at the bottom about to climb them and they both stopped in their tracks.

“Ah, Commander!” Delrin seemed as surprised as Cullen to find him here. “I was about to go look for you… I just saw the Inquisitor alone and I—”

“And you did not follow her?” Cullen snapped. “Aren’t you supposed to keep an eye on her?”

Ser Barris, offended, brought a hand to his chest and pointed to the opposite direction of the gardens with the other, towards the orangery and the stables.

“First of all, I’m not on duty tonight, Rutherford.” The look he gave him was firm and Cullen immediately regretted barking at him. He felt ashamed he had almost accused his man of his own incompetence, but he had no time to dwell on it as Barris continued: “She went that way. This is your chance, go for her.”

“Thank you, Barris.”

Cullen took long-legged strides in the direction the templar gave him before the words hit him and turned back, confused. Go for her?

“Wait, Barris, what did you—”

“Oh, come on, Rutherford, get a grip!” Delrin’s irritation transpired through rolled-back eyes, pinched lips and the way he shrugged. “Go… protect her, whatever you need to do. She’s there. Just… Go.”

The Commander stood even more baffled than before, but under the urge of his man, he started running back to his initial goal. His chance? He was mostly looking for her to remind her how careless she was, it had nothing else to do with… chance? Before he could unravel the mystery of what ser Barris had wanted to express, Cullen was standing breathless in front of the stables with a hand on his side where a stinging sensation stabbed between his ribs. Then, he saw her.

Uriell arms encircled the neck of Diavolo, laying her face against its coat. She wore her hair down and leaned on her horse’s form, probably exhausted after such a day. She had her back turned to him, but the stallion noticed Cullen’s presence and his neigh alerted the Inquisitor.

“Diavolo, what… oh.”

Cullen gasped when she turned around to face him. He had not noticed how the place was almost plunged in darkness, only lit by the shy and dim light of the two moons high in the sky; and yet he could perfectly see her. Her long hair swaying in the wind, her tired eyes trying to focus on him, the way she stood alert and unsure. This was not the confident Inquisitor dropping to one knee in the cabinet, not the cocky Lady Trevelyan exchanging pleasantries and discussing the latest fashions; she was an exhausted, burned-out and yet incredibly gorgeous woman, talking to her horse.

“Who’s there?” she asked warily while she reached for her rapier.

Cullen walked forward, hands in the air to show his intentions. The croak in his voice startled him as well and he had to clear his throat: “It’s—Erm. It’s me. Commander Cullen, Inquisitor.”

 “Oh.” Uriell relaxed when he stepped into the light. “I didn’t recognize you. You know, without the armor and… the fur. All that.”

She let go of her rapier’s handle and straightened as Cullen approached her. Being closer now, he could read the embarrassment on her face and she shyly averted her gaze, in total opposite attitude than what she had displayed earlier today. She was… stunning. Cullen had always found she was quite lovely, but he only noticed now how beautiful she was. He almost forgot what he was here for, and crossed his arms when he finally reached her and stood in front of her. His heart was still jumping in his chest and his resolve to scold her seemed to have vanished the moment she started twisting her hands in an anxious motion.

“You’re angry,” she breathed softly.

“I am,” Cullen confirmed. She looked up at him under her lashes with a way too sad light in her eyes for someone simply caught red handed. Cullen did not think the effort to maintain his Commander’s attitude could be this hard. “You’re alone,” he whispered in a breath, “without your guard, in an unknown place. You said you were going to the gardens, and you did not. That’s called lying, Inquisitor. Lying, and potentially putting you in danger.”

“I can—” Uriell tried to reply, but her chest fell with a sigh. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Speechless, Cullen did not expect her to admit she was wrong this fast. She fell silent and stared at her feet while both of them stood in front of the other in growing unease. Eventually Cullen managed to speak again, in a desperate attempt to dissipate the tension.

“Well, as long as you’re aware of it… You’re not getting rid of me until we get back to the mansion.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Commander.”

Uriell forced a smirk; but the words hit Cullen stronger than expected. What did she mean by that? The rush of blood to his cheeks colored them red before he could know it, but Uriell had turned her back to pet her horse again and did not seem to notice.

“I came here to see if he was okay,” she explained quietly. “I was afraid the stableboy would have a hard time with him. Looks like I was not entirely wrong, they did not manage to get him in a stall after all.”

Cullen’s eyes crossed with the stallion’s and they both stared at each other in silence. For way too long. Diavolo usually did not take kindly to other people than her, and would grow restless and fierce in the presence of someone else. Yet, somehow, the horse had acknowledged him and did not seem to mind. Wondering to which extent he would bear his proximity, Cullen distracted himself from the Inquisitor and the erratic pounding in his chest by carefully raising a gloved hand in the horse’s direction. Diavolo did not flinch when Cullen offered to smell it and he managed to stroke his nuzzle. Uriell felt him move by her side and turned around in panic.

“What are you doing, what—”

Her eyes widened as Cullen walked closer and started petting Diavolo with both hands. Fade take them, the untamable beast almost looked like he was enjoying this. Uriell’s mouth gaped in disbelief, her gaze flying from Diavolo to Cullen, to Diavolo again; before she nervously laughed.

“What… in the Maker’s name…” the smile she gave Cullen was genuine this time, full and toothy, beaming like a beacon in the middle of the night. “If I had known... I knew you had a talent with horses, but it seemed I was the one underestimating you all along, Commander. I owe you excuses.”

“It seems like we were wrong on both sides,” Cullen scratched behind Diavolo’s ears and the horse bumped his head against his chest in an affectionate gesture, and she chuckled. He couldn’t help but smile back. “Let’s call it quits, then.”

Uriell’s eyes locked on him. She stared, round-eyed and frozen as he continued stroking the black horse’s mane. After a few seconds, Cullen grew more and more self-conscious under her gaze and he tried to repress another blush. “Wh—What’s wrong, my Lady?” he baffled anxiously. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she whispered under her breath. “You smiled… You smiled to me.”

His pulse quickened in his throat and his heart grew two sizes bigger while the sweat started beading on his skin. A rush of dread took over him and Diavolo shook his head in disapproval before Cullen managed to stammer: “What...? No—! No, I didn’t! I—"

“Oh, I saw that, it was a smile, I’m sure of it,” she insisted as her grin grew bigger and bigger.

“Maker’s breath…” Cullen sighed and pinched his lips. What did happen to him so he grew so bold? Truth was, everything about this was so… comforting. He only realized now, how smoothing it was to be alone with her, how simple it was. For a moment, he had seen her again as Uriell, a young warrior lady who liked to ride and spend some time alone at night in the gardens; he had almost forgotten she was the Inquisitor, and him, the Commander of her armies.

“I apologize, Inquisitor,” he mumbled while looking away. “I’m sorry if I lacked of respect for a moment.”

The smile on her lips faded away and her bubbling energy dissipated. Instead, she gently swatted his hands away from her horse to grab Diavolo’s reins.

“It’s okay Commander. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” She led Diavolo inside the stables to an empty stall. The tone in her voice was low, and Cullen’s guts clenched in response.

Well played, Rutherford. Now the Inquisitor is sad because of you. Think of something, anything…

“Inquisitor—” Cullen took a step in her direction, and she turned her gaze back to him. “Earlier, I—I wanted to thank you. During the meeting. I… I don’t really know how to handle them. These. Er…”

Uriell scoffed gently and closed the door of the stall before heading back to him.

“Yes, I could see you were not comfortable. And don’t thank me, I promised you wouldn’t have to deal with that in the first place.” Uriell stopped when she stood right in front of him, closer than she usually would in the War Room or his office, and Cullen had to refrain from stepping away. Her eyes now shone with determination, the frown of her brow all serious and tight as it usually was when she had to take important decisions. “I have an offer, Commander. Let me deal with the nobles. I promise I’ll let none of them harass or bother you. That’s the least I could do for you to agree and come with me.”

Cullen stared at her, unsure of what to answer. He had never felt like he needed protecting, and yet her offer somehow enticed him. Would that mean she would have to stay close to him for most of their journey?

“Deal?”

Uriell offered her hand. Cullen’s gaze darted between it and her face, parted lips and furrowed brow, waiting for his answer. There was no risk for him to agree to this, so he finally took her hand in his. Despite his glove, he could feel it warmth and the slight squeeze she gave when she shook on it.

“Deal,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

One would think that sleeping in a luxurious and voluptuous bed would help finding sleep, but that was not the case for Cullen that night. He had trouble sleeping anywhere anyway, for his nightmares were waiting for him to succumb to the fatigue and take over, and the pain from lyrium withdrawal throbbing in his veins. He usually worked himself to exhaustion; passing out from burn-out sometimes granted him a few dreamless nights. However, that was almost impossible during that trip through Orlais. He barely had paperwork with him as he had read through his backlog the very first day, so he couldn’t keep to his routine. Then, there were the exceptional factors that deprived him of sleep.

First of all, he was uncomfortable. He would have rather slept in his tent in the garden of the Duchess’ estate than in this guest room, for multiple reasons. He usually was not the kind of man who had trouble sleeping in new places; but this was the Duchess’ estate. He recalled vividly the way she had grabbed his knee during the day and the letters she had written him, thus he worried she would try to join him during the night.

Because of that, he first tried to sleep with the door of his room locked; but then, once he had turned the key in the door, anxiety and claustrophobia kicked in. Haunting memories of Kinloch Hold would rush back and crush him, so Cullen opened the windows wide. It helped him staying grounded, to feel the cold air on his skin; but his room was on the third floor and the height brought back other memories. He kept telling himself this was no tower, no circle, no magic trap; he couldn’t help it. He was shaking, sweating, panic slowly building up in his chest. The door didn’t stay locked for long, and Cullen breathed again.

He then opted for sleeping with his sword under the covers, just in case, though he would probably not need it to protect himself from their host if she ever came to visit him. While he buried himself in the heavy blanket and way too many pillows, he thought he was about to finally rest when he remembered the handshake by the stables.

He could picture her again, the Inquisitor, tired but smiling, bathed in moonlight. Her eyes shone like stars in the night, her hand was warm and strong. She was steady, holding him together through her fingers, and her promise soothed his nerves like a hot sweet drink. “Deal.” The Inquisitor was a woman of her word, and if she had told him she would not let any Orlesian noble bother him again, then he could rest easy. But that was the catch; once he had started thinking about her, he couldn’t sleep at all. He kept re-playing their short exchange on repeat, every time adding a new detail that slowly turned the memory into a fleeting fever dream.

When he realized what he was doing, Cullen opened his eyes wide and stared at the ceiling. That was so improper. She was his superior, the Inquisitor. He had to know his place. And right now, his place was in the corridor, to watch over the room next to his, where she was currently sleeping. Cullen ignored the flustered beating in his chest when he got up and dragged a chair next to his door, which he opened ajar just enough for him to monitor what was happening in the couloir from his seat without leaving his room. He held himself straight by leaning on his sword he kept in its scabbard and began his watch.

A mix of excitement and apprehension rushed over him and kept him awake; what if the Duchess came, indeed, but not for him? Nobody was guarding the guest rooms, and Cullen suddenly felt invested with the mission to keep his party safe. His party, and especially the Inquisitor, truth be told. She had looked particularly exhausted earlier that night, and she ought to be already sleeping. If he was not to sleep, he might as well be here for her. Now reassured and self-entrusted with a clear goal, Cullen felt more comfortable. He even indulged a bit more in the reverie, finding resolve in the picture of her smile and the sound of her laugh. Soon, the memory of her horse’s black mane turned blonde, and he was stroking her hair instead of petting Diavolo. She leaned against his chest, resting against him. Heartbeats attuned and Cullen embraced her closer. She smelled… What did the Inquisitor smell like? If he remembered correctly, she would smell like something sweet, like blooming flowers, vanilla or berries. He definitely had smelled something similar around her once. And she was soft, so soft. Years of training and hard muscles yet would not take away the softness of her silky skin. Soft and light like a cloud, like feathers, like…

Cullen opened his eyes. His back hurt and the first rays of sunlight pierced through the open window right into his face. How long had he been asleep? The sun was lazily rising in the horizon, casting long cold shadows in the room and covering him in an aethereal pink and orange aurora. Cullen sat straight and grunted from the pain of his sore muscles. A light thud on the ground caught his attention and he realized he had been holding on a pillow. He had no memory of getting up to fetch one, and Cullen stared drowsily at the white form on the ground. After a few thoughtless seconds, he reached out to grab it and brought it back on his knees.

A quick glance around him, and he noticed his sword propped up against the wall by his side, and the door was closed. He blinked a few times then jumped to his feet at the sudden realization. Somebody had been here. He had fallen asleep on duty, and somebody had entered the room. That was probably how the pillow ended up between his hands in the first place. He stared at the evidence with a rush of fear, blood drumming in his ears. Who had come in his sleep? Who had seen him like that? Cullen was about to burst out of the room when he caught the scent of a faint smell. He froze in his steps and turned around to look at the pillow. Slowly, carefully, as if afraid it was poisonous, Cullen brought it to his nose. A floral, sweet scent, which reminded him of orchids and raspberry tarts. It smelled like Inquisitor Trevelyan.

***

Breakfast was awkward this morning. Uriell had sit by Duchess Catalina’s side to her request, and both giggled and exchanged pleasantries together. Josephine and Leliana had sat right beside them and sometimes took part in the conversation; but overall, all the other members of the expedition stayed quite silent around the table. Most of them were casting glances in Uriell’s direction, wondering if some demon had not possessed and replaced the Inquisitor during the night; the others were actually staring at him.

Cullen shivered and frowned multiple times at Varric, the Iron Bull and Dorian when their eyes crossed over orange juice and croissants. Their gazes were insistent and wondering, eyebrows crooked, worried looks; what had come through Cullen’s head last night when he left supper without a word nor touching his food? Varric however, was grinning. Discreet darting looks between Cullen and the Inquisitor, and the dwarf made his point. Cullen’s eyes narrowed to slits in an attempt to intimidate him and force him to stop, but it only made Varric’s smile broader, confirming whatever theory he had in his mind and making Cullen even more uncomfortable.

 Despite sleeping on an empty stomach, he barely managed to eat anything this morning as well. It was the first time in a few months he had a dream; not nightmares, not a restless dreamless night, but an actual night of sleep, filled with fantasy, smiles and sweet smells. He was not any better rested for falling asleep while sitting on an uncomfortable chair, but the change was still welcomed. At least, as long as he did not recall what was the actual dream content.

Cullen couldn’t look Inquisitor in the eye this morning. What in the Maker’s name was wrong with him? He had no right to let her fill his very thoughts when he was awake, even less dream of her when he was unconscious. What was bothering the most was the pillow; did the Inquisitor see him while he was sleeping last night? How did her scent cling to the pillowcase? How did she find him, slouching over his sword with his door’s room half-opened so he could keep an eye on hers? Was she the one who put him in a better suited position to ease his rest? So many questions to which he would never have answers. He stayed silent and kept to himself, especially avoiding Varric and the Inquisitor as they bid their farewell to the Duchess and left the estate. He rode in the back this time, in full armor, finally.

Uriell mounted Diavolo ahead, flanked between Cassandra and Sera, and the three women seemed to be deep in conversation. Cullen caught himself casting a few glances her way, throat tight and sweaty palms as he expected her to catch him staring at her. She looked refreshed, back to her usual self, even when she was struggling to explain to Sera why she had to play pretend with a noble all day. The throbbing in his chest had been erratic and chaotic the whole morning; at first Cullen thought he had caught a cold and suspected some kind of fever, but after an hour riding, he noticed his heartbeat got even more agitated every time he laid his eyes on her back. He almost regretted running after her the night before; if he had known it would make him feel this bad, as he suspected it was some sort of guilt, he would have probably just stayed in the dining hall.

Cullen wished it had stopped there, and he clearly did not need anyone to check on him, even less Varric or Ser Barris. Both men apparently had the same idea at the same time, and Cullen’s plan to stay discreet was soon forgotten when the three of them formed the most unlikely trio of the expedition. As if the situation didn’t draw attention enough, the size difference between Cullen and Ser Barris’s horses and Varric’s pony emphasized its ridicule. The dwarf and the templar stared at each other with surprise on each side of Cullen, and Varric initiated the most infuriating conversation Cullen had to endure.

“So, er… Am I interrupting something?”

“I… don’t think so,” replied Delrin with uncertainty, eyeing Cullen to assess his reaction. “I was going to ask our Commander how was… yesterday evening.”

“What a coincidence, this is more or less what I wanted to know as well.”

Cullen sighed in exasperation and clenched his fists around the reins of his horse. There probably was no way out of this.

“Would you please keep your damned voices low,” he gritted through his teeth. “I have the worst headache and patience isn’t my forte right now.”

Varric and Ser Barris exchanged an eloquent look. “So… bad night then?” Varric asked softly.

Cullen’s head sank in his shoulders, the fur of his mantle blocking most of his sight to his sides, and he kept his look ahead. It did not seem to discourage the men following him and Cullen took the opportunity to speak before they could harass him with more pressing questions.

“So, Varric, quick story short. ‘First left dinner because I was not hungry. Josephine told me the Inquisitor left the Duchess without her guard. I went to check on her.”

Before Varric had the time to ask anything, Cullen addressed to Ser Barris in the same monotonous and irritated manner.

“Barris, thanks to you, I found her. She was tired, as expected. I reminded her of how foolish she was to stay alone in a stranger’s gardens unarmed and unarmored. Hopefully she won’t do it again; but if you ever, ever, see her do so again, being on duty or not, I want you to accompany her, am I clear?”

 “Yes, Commander.”

Ser Barris sat straight on his horse and nodded in Cullen’s direction. The tight knot between Cullen’s shoulders loosened a little, at least, this was one source of worry he could cross from his list. However, Ser Barris and Varric stayed by his side in awkward silent. They would probably not leave him alone despite his explanations.

“So… nothing else…?”

Delrin sealed his lips tight when Cullen’s sharp glare landed upon him. Through a frown and wide eyes, the Commander urged his man to shut up. Teasing him with the attention he gave the Inquisitor was already crossing the line when they were just the two of them; but doing so while Varric was within earshot was the worst scenario he could think of.

“I… wait,” Ser Barris babbled as he panicked, “I meant… No offense Commander, but you don’t look so great this morning, I—I just wanted to check on you about that… Are you alright?”

“Yeah, that kinda was my question as well,” added Varric in a worried tone. “You barely ate during dinner and today’s breakfast. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I thought you’d have stories to tell about that.”

Cullen felt the hot rush of blood running to his ears, and sank a bit deeper in his armor to hide the creeping blush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. He stiffened on his horse; eyes still lost on the horizon to avoid looking at them. He had assumed… Why did he assume this was about the Inquisitor? To think of it, nothing unprofessional happened last night. They just shared a moment alone. Maybe a bit friendlier moment than during a meeting, but nothing too friendly. It was the nature of his dreams afterwards that could be source of teasing, and there was no way Cullen would ever share that information with anyone.

“Ah…” Cullen uttered. “You mean that. I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

Varric scoffed and Cullen caught a gesture of his hand in the corner of his eye. “Duck feathers duvet and a fluffy bed, how could you not sleep well, Curly?”

Cullen sighed and closed his eyes. There was no point in hiding certain things, wasn’t it? He relaxed and straightened on his horse, relieved from the pressure the edge of his breastplate was putting on his furrowed neck, and he gave a quick look at the two men.

“I don’t sleep well in closed spaces, especially ones I do not know. I’d rather sleep on the ground or in a tent. It took me a while.”

Ser Barris and Varric nodded with a soft smile. Delrin was the first one to reply.

“Well, in that case Commander, feel free to swap with me next time. I would have loved to give you my tent and sleep in the fluffy bed.” They both laughed and Cullen felt the tension slightly washing away.

“Alright, I understand. No ghost stories for me then!” Varric jested while patting on the bag at his hips where he kept his notebook. He leaned a bit forward on his pony while he picked up the pace. “I’ll leave you then Commander… Ser… Barris is that it? You seem to be a very perceptive man. I’d love to talk a bit with you if you don’t mind. I’m sure you have stories to tell.”

Delrin and Cullen exchanged a surprised look, and the templar simply nodded to Cullen as he rode past him.

“Well, yes, of course. I’d be happy to.”

Cullen watched them ride to join the front of the expedition, leaving him alone, with his thoughts as only companion. A hint of dread lingered at the back of his mind. What would Varric want to talk about with Barris? Had he noticed something in the way Cullen had talked to him? Maker, he hoped Varric would not try to dig in his personal affairs and Barris would not answer if asked…

Lost in thoughts as he stared at them passing by the Inquisitor, Cullen noticed she was looking at him. He gasped when she held his gaze above her shoulder, eyebrow arched in a curious and yet worried look. She pointed at him furtively which made his heart drop in his chest. Nobody else seemed to be watching, Cassandra and Sera were gone; when did they leave her side anyway? A few quick motions of her hand, then Cullen realized she was silently asking how he was feeling. He sighed with relief; a fuzzy warm feeling settled in his belly. Was she worried about him too? He clumsily answered by tapping on his armor with the tip of his fingers and waving with a nod. “I’m okay, thank you,” he breathed, though she could not hear. She squinted and waited, bit on her lips as she was trying to decipher his message, and Cullen, amused, did it again, though it was probably not a suitable way to sign this. A happy smile lit up her face the second time then she shook her head in acknowledgment before focusing again in front of her. His hand dropped by his side. He waited, but she did not turn back; yet, he was feeling way better than earlier.

After that, the journey was short and uneventful. Sera had insisted they’d stop by Verchiel which was about half a day away from Lydes. After the incident with Lord Pel Harmond, Verchiel went quiet, and Lady Chelle Moreau had stopped trying to invade the south, afraid of a similar fate as the one of her opponent’s. This seemed to enchant the people in the small town. As soon as the Inquisition passed the gates, people flocked in the streets to welcome them. Necks stretched and people tiptoed to have a good look at the Inquisitor. Sera had disappeared and mingled with the crowd, while the rest of Uriell’s companions stayed by her side. She waved shyly and awkwardly to the cheering folk and beaming faces. Lord Hamond and Lady Moreau truly might have traumatized the good people of Verchiel with their inner fighting for them to be this happy to see them.

Josephine and Leliana had let the Inquisitor lead the march, falling back by Cullen’s sides. Both of them stayed unreadable, though Cullen recognized Josephine’s nervousness just by a slight twitch of her mouth.

“What’s wrong, Ambassador?” he whispered while keeping his eyes ahead.

“This is all Sera’s doing,” she answered politely, smiling to the crowd. “She insisted that we’d stay at an inn ran by her friends. It is a lovely establishment, but… all these people… I’m starting to feel unsure.”

The group soon reached their destination. The inn of the Golden Lion awaited their arrival and every member of the expedition was quickly catered for. Josephine’s words stuck with Cullen; if being alone in a secluded estate could be risky, bathing in a crowd and being the center of attention of an entire city was even more dangerous. They met with their host, an old innkeeper with good manners and smiling eyes. According to him, Lord Hamond had recently recruited his son in his troops to fight for Verchiel’s south, but thanks to the Inquisition, he was able to come back home safely when the conflict ended. He had gladly accepted to help the Red Jennies, and giving a place to rest to the Inquisition seemed like the least he could have done.

“He’s a good man,” Leliana told Cullen and Josephine when their soldiers invested the place. “I had someone look into him. He tells the truth. We should be fine.”

Josephine was deeply relieved, but Cullen stayed on his guard. He kept an eye on Uriell and her friends as she shook hands with a few people in front of the inn. Hopefully, the crowd slowly thinned out, and the buzzing excitement in town calmed down. Few curious glances were cast on the Golden Lion that day, but nobody dared enter and bother the Inquisition.

That night, the innkeeper held what could qualify for a royal banquet and organized tables in a way that most of the Inquisition forces could sit together. Uriell had not stopped thanking them for their hospitality, visibly uncomfortable by all the efforts the old man was putting in receiving them, and she was greeted with laughs, warm smiles and joyful pats in her back. Cullen had to admit, the night was the liveliest he ever had in a long time, and the food was excellent. After three days of travel, he finally started to appreciate this journey.

He stayed up late. Being more comfortable in the inn rather than in the Duchess’ mansion did not mean he would sleep any better that night, so he joined the troops on the first night shifts. He stood outside the Inn with Loranil and Ser Barris, enjoying the night air and keeping an eye on the streets while the rest of the expedition had gone to their chambers. Loranil had first been quite excited; he had never been in a city before, but was soon surprised how much his Vallaslin and elven ears drew attention to him. The young elf was quite grateful for the Inquisition’s protection but expressed his concern of taking his shifts alone, so Cullen agreed that he took the first one in his company. It was around midnight when Delrin came for the next shift, and Loranil rushed back inside to find a bed of his own.

“Ser Barris,” Cullen nodded.

“Commander. Will you stay with me for the watch, Ser?”

“I might as well,” Cullen replied while he rubbed his hands together to warm them. “At least for an hour. I am not tired yet. And this keeps me busy.”

Delrin stood by his side, in a perfect military stance. He looked left and right on both sides of the street, barely lit by the clear moonlight and a few torches. “I suppose everything’s clear?”

“You’ve supposed right. All clear, very calm.”

The soldiers fell silent. Both looked in opposite direction, listening closely every time somebody laughed in the distance, turning around when someone’s steps grew closer to the inn. After what might have been ten long quiet minutes, Delrin cleared his throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

Cullen turned his head towards him. He looked confused and the way he was slightly rocking back and forth on his heels betrayed his nervousness.

“What is it, Barris?” Cullen asked, sharply, to bring him back to his mission. He couldn’t have him unfocused on duty.

“I want to ask as your friend, not one of your men,” the templar added. Delrin stiffened, dead-pan serious and held Cullen’s gaze up, unwavering. “Can I?”

Cullen glanced around them. There was no one else within earshot, and everything seemed calm; he had no reason to refuse. He sighed then nodded, inviting Delrin to go on.

“What did really happen last night?” he asked.

Cullen gaped and frowned. What was this again? He was about to shut him down, but Delrin was faster.

“Don’t look at me like that, Rutherford. You finally had some time alone with her. When you two came back, she was… blank. What did you say to her?”

“Finally? Blank…? How dare you say that of the Inquisitor?” Cullen crossed his arms in a warning motion and his eyes narrowed to slits. His blood was running warm, and Cullen barely noticed he had started to ball his fists.

“Listen,” Delrin looked at him intently and lowered his voice. “I know her, okay? My family, they are friends of the Trevelyans. I’ve been to their banquets since I was a boy. I served the Templars in Ostwick for a short while, with her brothers. Yesterday, she looked… blank. Same as when she got scolded by her mother. It was your chance to get closer, not push her away.”

Cullen stared at him in shock. Neither Uriell nor Delrin had shared about their common past before. He only knew they were childhood friends, and he had never assumed they would have been close. He listened, and understood Delrin was saying that only because he cared, but he was still taken aback by the audacity.

“Barris, I don’t need a chance to get closer. I don’t want one. One more time, she is our leader. I need her to stay grounded.”

Delrin scoffed and looked at him with wide round eyes. Cullen felt his nails digging through the leather of his gloves in his palms. His man shrugged and exhaled loudly. “Oh. So… you’re still there? In denial?” He mocked and taunted, under the disguise of a light laugh. “You’re going to say she’s the Inquisitor, blah, blah, blah, again? Ah— You are so blind; this is killing me.”

Cullen did not expect the conversation to take such a turn, and he stood bewildered, as Delrin continued.

“Listen, your admiration can’t cover you so far. Everyone here admires her. But when you look at her, it feels like you’d die if you blinked. You’re overprotecting her. And don’t get me started on the blushing.”

Delrin walked closer to face him. Cullen stayed put and he could see the exasperation in the templar’s clear green eyes.

“Why won’t you admit it?” Delrin asked under his breath in a pleading tone. “This is not even a bad thing! You don’t have to act on it if you don’t want to. Just… admit it. You have a crush on her.”

Cullen’s nostrils flared and his eyebrows twitched. What nonsense was that? His pulse quickened, the blush came back, and a fleeting image of her smile appeared before his eyes. He dismissed the vision as soon as it came, the flutter in his heart turned to anger, and Cullen did his best not to throw a punch.

“What did you say, Barris?” Cullen growled, threatening him to go further. “Tell that again?”

“Fine, if you won’t admit it, nothing will hold me back, I guess. I’ll get her myself.”

Cullen puffed his chest and took a step closer. “Don’t you—”

“MAKE WAY!”

Cullen stumbled a few steps back as he was shoved aside. Ser Barris had been pushed away as well and almost fell backwards on a pile of crates behind him. Between them stood the panicked form of Sera, who turned to Cullen with a hysteric expression. Cullen’s blood turned to ice when she ran to him and showed him a piece of paper she had in hand.

“Andraste’s tits, you’re there! Help me! She’s gone!”

“What, Sera, what are you talking about…”

The blonde elf shoved the paper in his hand, drew her bow from her back and started stringing it with trembling hands. “Read that! The frigging bastards! They lied to her!”

Cullen’s eyes jumped to the paper, livid and alert. It was a letter, poorly written, and short.

“Friends got your back!  Accept our thanks, two left and one right by the baker. Praise Andrast.”

“They copied me!” Sera cried out as she managed to tie her string. “Our Friends already gave us gifts! They shot the message with an arrow same as mine, though her window! ‘t’ was not me! Window was open! She’s gone!”

A feeling of dread washed over him before his blood came back pumping stronger than ever. Cullen unsheathed his sword, and put a hand on Sera’s shoulder to reassure her.

“I’ll come with you,” he said before he turned to Ser Barris who was reaching for his weapon as well. “Barris! Stay here and protect the entrance. Warn the others. Join when the perimeter is okay.”

Sera nodded, her face teared between rage and fear and drew an arrow from her quiver. She started running and Cullen followed, leaving Ser Barris flabbergasted behind them. Cullen barely heard him shout as they took the first turn at the end of the street. Sera was fast and agile, so he had to push through to sprint and keep up with her. Maker, this armor was not designed for this. The adrenaline helped though, and Cullen did not mind the strain on his muscles under the heavy armor as he ran faster than he usually would. The drum of blood in his ears was so loud he did not hear the clinking metal sounds with every step he made, however he clearly noticed the hissing and blasting bang of a fireball nearby.

Sera screeched and stopped in her tracks in panic. He saw her eyes go wide when she looked up and smoke rose from an adjacent street. Flames flared above the roofs and stretched as if to lick the sky before they fanned out. Sera was frozen in place, and Cullen had to shake her up.

“Quick!” he snapped. “Stay behind me.”

Cullen took the lead, heading to where the explosion had happened. The closer he got, the better he could hear the familiar crash of blades clattering against each other. One last turn, and Cullen finally found them. Uriell stood alone, surrounded by about ten armed hooded men in an empty narrow street. On the ground, Cullen could count three men laying in similar clothing, unconscious. There was no blood, neither on the ground nor on the Inquisitor, but a round darkened circle had marked the cobblestones not so far away from her and was still fuming.

Uriell looked around her and quickly stepped away to avoid two men running at her at the same time. She parried a strike with her longsword she held with both hands. She was not in full armor and missing her shield, only wearing her thick gambeson with charred marks on her left arm and studded leather pants. When she finally turned around, she caught the sight of Cullen at the end of the street. Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but she had to focus on the fight again when they attacked again.

Cullen looked back to Sera behind him, but she had already started climbing the closest house for a better shooting position. She was still under panic and almost missed a stone to propel herself up, but she managed to stay quiet; the enemies had not noticed them yet, though it didn’t last.

“Reinforcements! Get the Inquisitor!”

The assailants turned around and saw Cullen as he drew his shield up in response. The group swooped on Uriell at once, but he was faster. He charged through the enemies, shoving them aside as he closed the distance with Uriell. The impact with his shield sent one of them a few feet away, and Cullen was about to slash through another when Uriell cried out:

“Don’t kill them!”

Cullen froze in mid movement to look at her in confusion. This gave enough time for one of the hooded figures to jump in his direction, but Uriell rushed to throw them away with a bash of her shoulder. She stumbled forward and straightened, pushing her back against Cullen and he rose his shield up to protect them from another wave of attacks.

“What do you mean?” Cullen shouted as he parried the blow of a nearby attacker. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re trying to kill you!”

“They’re not soldiers!” Uriell retorted. “Just knock them off!”

As to illustrate, Uriell waited for two men to attack her at the same time to swiftly dodge their blades and close the distance so she could bash their heads together. She then took a few steps back and Cullen felt her lean against him again. Cullen grunted in frustration and banged his shield hard enough on another opponent to send them flying against a pile of crates.

The hissing of an arrow, and another one fell backward in a cry, holding on to their shoulder. Sera screamed at the top of her lungs and nocked another munition. “Frigging arse-bricuits pieces of shit!”

“Sera?” Uriell looked up to the roof and Cullen pushed her aside to avoid another blow.

“Focus, Inquisitor!”

“Sera, don’t kill them!” Uriell danced on her feet and slammed the pommel of her sword against the nape of an unbalanced assailant who fell to the ground. She turned to Cullen and lowered her voice, eyes darting around her as if she was looking for something. “They have a mage! I think they’re their leader.”

Another one fell to the ground when Sera shot them in the thigh, clutching on their injury. Only four left. Cullen noticed two men coming at them on opposite sides, and Uriell slid along his back to switch places. The sudden change of opponent surprised the attackers in their momentum and Uriell landed a kick in the crook of the neck of the one she was facing while Cullen pushed the other back with a slam of his shield. An arrow pierced the ankle of another one, and Uriell ran to the last one standing to unexpectedly headbutt him unconscious. She was about to turn to face Cullen when he noticed the hooded shape behind and far away from her in the shadows of the alley. He heard the cackling before he could see the sparks; he dropped his sword to grab Uriell’s wrist, and in a swirl of red fabric pulled her closer against him before he raised his shield in front of them.

The roaring fire enveloped the shield but Cullen stood his ground. Uriell gasped and clutched around his arm; he could feel the burning sensation licking his armor and the tip of his hair so he angled his shield more and the torrent of flames deflected upwards, towards the sky.

“Piss-atori!” Sera shouted in a trembling voice.

Uriell muffled a cry and dug her fingers in Cullen’s arm. She was shaking against him, and he strengthened his stance, making his best to protect her from the hurls of magic that never seemed to end. Cullen pressed his eyes closed and swallowed hard. They had no way out. He would have to remember, wouldn’t he? He focused. Years of training, years of practice. He knew he did not need the lyrium, the lyrium could only help; he needed to make the world real, even just for a second. Not a templar anymore, but he could do that, at least, couldn’t he?

The flames subdued and another flow of magic hit the shield, stronger, hotter. The flames turned blue and Cullen had to cling harder to the shield’s straps. He could feel the metal heating up. Despite the pain, at this moment, nothing was more real to him than her, so he focused on that. He held on the feeling of her hands around his arm, her body grounding him, and he instinctively brushed his jaw against her head. The sweet smell of raspberries tarts and the softness of her hair. A kind smile and a handshake. When Cullen opened his eyes, the hairs on his arms stood on their end then the air turned thin. A wave of energy unleashed around him in a whirlwind of purging power. The mage cried out and the flames doused, falling to their knees as Cullen had severed momentarily the link they had to the Fade and siphoned them from their energy. An arrow hissed. A gargle. Then the quiet.

When Cullen gasped for air, the straining sensation holding him together dissipated and pain flared in every inch of his body. His blood was aflame, asking for more, asking for the soothing sensation of lyrium, begging for power and numbness. Cullen did not notice his legs had buckled under him. He was shaking, choking, unable to breathe. His eyes shut, on the edge of consciousness, and he heard his shield hit the ground in a loud metallic noise. When he thought he was about to pass out, her voice rang in his ears.

“Cullen!”

She held onto him, both of them on their knees. She had closed her arms around him, pressing his bust against hers in the tightest embrace his breastplate would allow. Her face was burrowed in the crook of his neck, deep in the fur of his mantle. He barely managed to open his eyes, and saw the lifeless form of the Venatori mage on the ground feet away, Sera already inspecting the body. His eyes fell on Uriell. His senses slowly came back to him. She was shaking and sobbing, yet she fully supported him with the sheer strength of her arms. He was so relieved. She was alive, she was there. Before he could think, Cullen pulled her closer and hugged her back, drawing a gasp out of her. His fingers drew slow reassuring circles around her shoulders as Cullen breathed through her hair. Sweet and calming. Who needed lyrium when she was here anyway?

“Thank the Maker, you’re safe.”

Uriell muffled a cry. Her voice broke when she replied under her breath “Thank you.”

It did not take long for Ser Barris to arrive with reinforcements. When he heard the sounds of steps coming closer, Cullen finally passed out; only to wake up later laying in a bed. When he came back to consciousness, he could hear Cassandra, Leliana, and Sera talking in the same room. Too tired and in pain to open his eyes, he listened and feigned to sleep, trying to make sense of their conversation was hard enough in his state. From what he could understand, after Lord Hamond’s disappearance, Lady Moreau had allied herself with the Venatori, and sent a team to kill the Inquisitor. The men under the mage’s orders had been recently enslaved under the indirect order of Lady Moreau, and quickly surrendered themselves to the Inquisition when Ser Barris had approached them. With their testimony, they had more than enough information to arrest the noble lady, a couple of her allies and had new leads on Venatori’s presence in Orlais. Sera was still deeply shocked and kept repeating her Friends wouldn’t have done that, that it was her fault if the Inquisitor was in danger and if Cullen got hurt. “I’m not hurt,” he wanted to say, but he lacked the energy. He tried to move, but then he noticed he was weighted against the bed.

He opened an eye lightly, almost blinded by the candlelight in the room, when he saw her. Disheveled blond hair pooling around her, her face covered with streaks of ashes and dirt, the Inquisitor had fallen asleep by his side. Her head rested on her arms, crossed under her cheek and on top of his chest, then Cullen felt a hand tightly closed around his. His heart smiled fondly and Cullen allowed the warm feeling in his chest to overcome him. She seemed so peaceful in her sleep; despite the worried expression she still bore on her face. She truly was a beautiful sight. Maybe Delrin was not so wrong about it after all; maybe he did find her pretty. Maybe he did have a crush on her. He squeezed slightly her hand back then closed his eyes, hoping he would join her in the Fade as he answered its call.

Chapter Text

The way she laid her hands on his stomach stole a gasp from him. The first lights of the day engulfed through the holes in the ceiling and lit Cullen’s bedroom in an eerie atmosphere. Skyhold was still covered in snow at this time of the year, and yet Cullen’s blood was running so hot didn’t feel the cold on his naked skin. All he could focus on was the tip of her fingers against his abdomen, and the rub of her warm palms on his skin as they slid upwards. The hands stopped and fingers spread on top of his chest, feeling him strong and sturdy. Her soft and supple thighs encompassed him like a delicate white frame on both sides of his lap. Cullen was sitting on his bed, propped up on his hands as he was taking the sight of her straddling him, touching him.

He moaned as she dragged her fingers on his chest, a gentle scratch under her claws, and she giggled. When had they taken their clothes off? The sight of them became clearer, still slightly blurry from sleepy drowsiness, glistening in the morning light. She was beautiful, as usual. Her long blond hair caressed the skin of his thighs behind her back, a light tickle he did not mind in the slightest. She bore her usual shy smile, the one she showed only for him. Pinkish red hue on her lips, so tantalizing, so close. Her eyes were as soft as velvet, plunged into his, shimmery green with sparks of amber. She was as soothing as the warm water of the sea during summer, as light as satin on skin, as comforting as hot chocolate in winter. She tasted like chocolate as well, Cullen thought when she pulled him in for a kiss.

Hands slid up the column of his throat, along his jaw, scratching his stubble to cup his cheeks before she gently nipped his lip. The smell of fresh orchids added to the intoxication when Cullen let go. It was his turn to feel her, so he started by her calves. He drew the outlines of her legs with his fingers, dragging them slowly to her knees then up the side of her thigh in a sinuous journey. She shivered in a happy moan and a tongue darted between his lips, looking for his. He answered her call while his hands continued venturing forward. He mimicked the path she had taken on his own body, laying them flat against her abs and running upward until he cupped her breasts. She melted under his touch, and closed the distance between their bodies as held him tight against her chest. Her nails gently dug in his back, and Cullen sighed in bliss. It was his place, here in her arms, where he felt the strongest. He returned the hug, and drew comforting circles on the skin of her shoulders.

“Thank the Maker, you’re safe.”

The words spilled out of his lips like a prayer while she sought another kiss, ending the sentence in an enamored groan. Her hips rocked on his lap and Cullen grunted when the friction sent an electric shot through his spine. He had not noticed how hard he was until now. He focused on her flushed face when she rose up, only to get seated, but even better. She took him in, and Cullen closed his eyes as she stole his breath away in a groan of pleasure. She was delicious and felt like home. His hands fell from shoulders to hips, the perfect shape to hold her close, and fingers gripped on her to keep her steady. She rolled and rocked her hips slow until Cullen couldn’t help but gasp and moan. She held his face as she rode him so she could study his reactions. Throat dry, he stared at her lips desperately; she was the only water he needed to ease his thirst. She noticed how he crooked his neck to reach her, so she leaned to grant him the kiss he was looking for. The wet sounds of their lips devouring each other and flesh rocking against flesh turned into an obscene melody. Rolls and back-and-forth picked up, until Cullen was puffing and panting. He laid back, his shoulders landing on the bedhead, to watch as she brought him closer to the edge. She looked at him with heated eyes, all smiles and giggles, her hands everywhere, then he couldn’t hold it anymore. He growled and dug his nails in the soft flesh of her sides.

“Ah—Uriell!”

A white flash came with the release. The cold was back. No weight on his lap. No bedhead under his back. Cullen’s eyes flicked open and the sight of an unknown, unbroken roof appeared before him. It was not Skyhold. It was not his bed. He grunted in pain as he remembered the night before; having tapped so deep in his templar abilities, the need for lyrium was screaming in every fiber of his body. That, and his morning wood was particularly hard, pulsing under the covers and pressing furiously against the rough and uncomfortable seam of his pants. He groaned and tried to reach for his cock, but he couldn’t move. He froze in place, only to notice the Inquisitor was still there. She was sleeping, holding on one of his hands, her head laying on his torso with a peaceful expression. Her chest heaved and fell in slow breaths through slightly parted lips.

He gasped in terror and his heart raced at full speed; shame from the fading dream still vivid in his mind, fear that she would wake up and notice his erection, and the uncontrolled excitement of seeing her so lavishly sleeping on top of him. Of all times, he who barely ever dreamt of anything else than nightmares, why should this happen now? He barely had acknowledged to himself that, yes, he found the Inquisitor quite to his taste, that his subconscious unleashed fantasies to live on their own in his head; and of course, it was right when she was nearby, the closest she had ever been to him.

His restless and agitated state might have woken her up somehow, and he stilled, bewildered, as she softly groaned and squeezed on his hand. Eyelashes fluttered softly, groggy eyes tried to focus and she inhaled deeply. She pushed onto him to straighten on the chair by his side, and Cullen gasped as her hand pressed on his stomach, low, dangerously low. He held his breath while she grunted in half-sleep; she rubbed her neck with her free hand and rolled her head to ease her sore muscles. She moaned and Cullen gulped, ignoring the twitch in his pants. His heart beat way too fast for his liking, yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She woke up lazily, like a cat under the sun, until her gaze met his. A small smile curled on her lips.

“Cullen,” she purred.

A flash of realization. Her eyes opened wide and round, she gasped and looked around them abruptly. They were alone in the room.

“Fuck, Commander! Are you alright?”

She lunged on him before he could reply, checking his pulse with two fingers against his neck then his temperature by pressing her palm on his forehead. Cullen was trying to catch his breath, overwhelmed by her focused attention and how she still had not let go of his hand. Her touch was real, strong and hot, not a dream anymore.

“Your heartbeat is a bit fast, but you’re cold. I guess you’re good but… for real, how are you?”

“I… I am fine, Inquisitor,” he mumbled. His voiced trembled slightly and he hoped she did not notice. “What about you? Were you hurt?”

“I’m alright, thanks to you,” she sighed with relief. Her panic subdued, sharp edges softening and melting to kind and caring eyes. The hand on his forehead relaxed, and she gently brushed aside a curl of hair. “You… used your templar powers back then. I thought you stopped taking lyrium.”

Cullen pushed on his elbows to sit on the bed and quickly fold his knees so he could conceal the tent of his pants under the covers. Uriell eventually let go of his hand, leaving a tingling sensation on his skin when her warmth disappeared. He groaned and stretched, leading to a loud crack of his spine. Anxiety and expectation still lingered in the air, and Cullen swallowed thoroughly then answered with a low rasping voice: “I’m… okay, I guess. I still haven’t taken it. The… withdrawal effects are… quite hard right now, I won’t lie. But if it means that you’re safe… well, that was worth it.”

Their eyes locked together, and suddenly; time seemed to stop between them. She opened her mouth as to answer something, but she stood as speechless as he was. She was frozen with brows slightly furrowed in a sweet worried expression, leaning over him, close, so close; hands on the bed to keep her up. Cullen took in the divine sight, bathed in the morning light peeking through the window, little blond hair around her face shining like a halo. Both of them were waiting for the other one to talk, hung up on each other lips; quite literally. Cullen had been staring at her mouth, the peeking white of her teeth between her parted lips; then he noticed she had been doing the same and her ears turned red.

“I, er… Thank you, Commander,” Uriell looked away and straightened back in her chair abruptly. Cullen’s heart skipped a beat, was she blushing? Even her usual steady voice turned into stammering. “Well, er… Let us know if we can help—you know, somehow. Can a potion help against the addiction?”

She was intentionally staring at the wall while she talked to him. Cullen grew greedy, he wanted to beg her to look at him again, so he could look in her eyes and see if she was as flustered as he was; but his hopes died at the hands of his conscience. “She is the Inquisitor,” it kept repeating in his head, and he resigned to push his luck. He cleared his throat instead.

“Just a headache medicine will be fine for now. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“A headache medicine, sure, sounds good. I—I’m going to find the healer.”

Uriell got up and avoided looking at him as she walked away, ready to storm out of the room. Before she could open the door, Cullen instinctively called her back.

“Inquisitor!”

Please look at me. Uriell stopped to slowly turn around. Her cheeks bore a delicate pink hue and her lips pressed shut together when her eyes landed on him. Her eyebrows arched to silently and nervously invite him to express what he had to say. He hesitated, but nothing in his feelings seemed unprofessional enough to censor him, just the earnest truth.

“I’m happy I could protect you. I don’t mind the side effects if it’s for you.”

Uriell stiffened while her blush turned redder. She nodded with an awkward silent smile before she ran off the room, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts. He sighed, then pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The lurking memory of his dream slithered back into his mind, and the sight of her naked body on top of him reappeared, calling to him like a siren’s song. His cock bobbed against his fingers when they slid in his pants, the sweet promise of release drawing close. He was all but raw nerves and pulsing desire when the hand she had been holding all night closed tightly around his shaft, and he could picture her milky white hips rolling as he gave the first strokes. It did not take him long to ease the throbbing ache in his groin.

“Maker…” he uttered under his breath. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”

***

The lingering cold of winter had not entirely left Thedas and the Inquisition delegation was met with light snow as they resumed their journey. Cullen welcomed the chilling air on his face as he rode; it helped silence his thoughts, a messy mix of fantasies and pictures from the fight of the night before. Sera had told everyone what had happened and Cullen’s men had been whispering behind his back with admiration, though no one dared to come closer or ask him questions. However, this might have been because he was riding Diavolo that day.

Uriell had been requested in the carriage with Vivienne and Dorian, “important matters” as they had said. Uriell was first embarrassed, not knowing what to do with her stallion, as she suspected the wild beast wouldn’t let anyone lead him. Then she remembered how Cullen seemed to share a connection with the black horse and she sheepishly asked if he would care for him while she was busy. Cullen accepted awkwardly, and Diavolo snored on top of his hair in what sounded like an exasperated puff when Uriell left them alone. It felt as if the horse could read right through him and Cullen immediately bonded with him. He rode Diavolo right beside the carriage, the horse neighing vehemently every time someone else moved closer, keeping unwanted discussions at bay. Cullen did not understand what the others had against Diavolo; he was a perfectly well-trained horse, strong and full of life, with a pleasant and spicy character, just as himself.

They rode the whole day, until their destination appeared on the horizon, the Montsimmard Circle Tower. Cullen’s gnawing feeling of dread grew bigger and bigger as they closed the distance; he understood the importance of this stop, and yet he was not ready. When he had left Kirkwall months ago, the city had not fully recovered from the Chantry’s explosion and the mages’ rebellion. Being this close to a Circle again, even if it had been abandoned by its templars, reminded him of the tragic events of Kinloch Hold and all the wrongs he had done in his life. He was ashamed. Nothing he could do now for the Inquisition would ever redeem for his bad deeds, when he was still blinded by hatred and fear of mages. Sometimes, he wondered how the rest of the Inquisition could keep on trusting him; they should question him for what he had done. He still did.

Vivienne was the one who requested they’d stop by the Circle; after all, she was the First Enchanter of Montsimmar, and she had kept a few friends here who were more than happy to welcome the Inquisition. Since the war between mages and templars began, a few remaining mages stayed in the Circle to avoid confrontation, hiding from the fights and protecting themselves against the local mobs. Once the Inquisition had ended the fighting, the sheltered mages had invited Uriell to meet with them, as a token of thanks.

The Inquisition arrived when snow had stopped falling and the skies had turned to purple. They received a warm welcome, and even the wariest of Cullen’s men were soon reassured by the peaceful and attentive attitude of their hosts. Uriell spent quite some time with them and Vivienne, discussing their condition and how the Inquisition could help them in the near future; Cullen did not see her again from all evening.

The almost empty tower had plenty of available beds, and most of the Inquisition was offered to sleep inside. The crushing shame and unease prevented Cullen from accepting, so he gave his bed to another recruit who preferred the comfort of the Circle instead of the Inquisition’s tents. He would sleep outside, by the foot of the tower, and keep watch.

The night was calm. Cullen enjoyed the silence, and spent most of his evening by the fire, the closer he could to the horses’ enclosure. Diavolo had taken him in affection, and almost seemed sad when Cullen had to lead him where the other mounts were kept and tended for the night. Leliana’s ravens had brought a few missives from his men so Cullen took advantage of his moments alone to read through them. Everything was going smoothly back in Skyhold and Captain Rylen had nothing to declare. The training was under control, and soon the troops will be ready for the Winter Palace’s operations; he just needed to improve their stealth, which still was not their forte. Cullen read through a few reports and requisitions requests when Ser Barris joined him by the fire.

He sat by his side silently, and stared at the flames for a moment. Cullen felt the eyes of his man on him from time to time, and he waited to finish the paper he was reading to turn to him.

“Yes, Barris?”

Delrin twisted his hands together and paused. “I would like to apologize for yesterday,” he first said. “Even outside of work, this was improper. I regret getting carried away.”

Delrin poked at the fire with a wooden stick beside him. He seemed deeply absorbed by the embers.

“You did good back there. Did you know she’s afraid of fire?”

Cullen frowned. Who wasn’t afraid of fire? He kept silent and Delrin continued.

“It was before the Conclave, I’ve heard. Her brother told me. She was attacked back in Ostwick, by who though, this is unclear. She was found beaten-up and unconscious in a burning warehouse one night. There were dead bodies around her. People managed to get her out in time. She used to love the fire, now she’s scared of it.”

Delrin’s face turned towards Cullen. Haunted shadows danced in his man’s eyes, then Cullen knew he was telling the truth; and it was gruesome.

“What happened?” Cullen inquired warily. He had no idea. Leliana had never mentioned anything about it and he barely talked to Uriell outside of work to know about her past life before the Inquisition.

“No one knows, that’s the catch,” Delrin grimaced and threw the stick into the flames. “She doesn’t answer when I ask, her brother doesn’t know either. She was locked up for recovery for a month, and when she finally got out, her mother sent her away as a representative for the Conclave.” He paused, deep in thoughts. “So… thank you. For protecting her.”

“No need for thanks,” Cullen replied in a simple monotonous voice. “I did what I had to do.”

“Still, without the lyrium, I can’t imagine how you managed to drain that much mana,” Delrin couldn’t hide his admiration. “No wonders you went out after that.”

Cullen stared silently at the fire before he replied under his breath. “I find the strength in my beliefs. It was my duty to protect her.”

Delrin’s brows furrowed and Cullen sensed him growing tense by his side.

“Rutherford, I do apologize for yesterday,” he said cautiously. “But I meant every word of it. If you keep… doing this, I will go after her.”

He looked back at Ser Barris. The man was dead-pan serious, his frown accentuated by the sharp dark shadows the fire projected on his profile.

“She and I,” he continued while holding his gaze, “we have history. Nothing serious, since she was to stay in Ostwick and I to serve the Templars in Ferelden. But now that I can see her more often, the only thing that could hold me back is you.”

Cullen’s heart sank in his chest. He had suspected so, but did not expect Ser Barris to admit it so openly. So, they did have history together; a sharp and cruel reminder that she was a woman after all, before the Inquisitor. Cullen sighed then glanced around them to make sure nobody else was paying attention.

“Fine, you win,” he curtly replied and put aside his reports, unable to focus anymore. A vein on his forehead was pulsing and his throat was awfully tight. “I admit it now; I do appreciate her, I do have a crush on the Inquisitor. I actually think she’s the most delightful creature I’ve ever met. Are you happy now?”

The neigh of a horse broke through the thick tension and the men turned around to see Diavolo shake his head vigorously on the edge of the enclosure. His eyes shone angry in the dark, and Cullen was not sure at first if the stallion was disapproving of him, or defending him against Ser Barris.

“What in the Maker’s name is wrong with this horse…” Delrin mumbled, but Cullen could see the shaking of his lip; he was afraid. “He was already crazy back then in Ostwick, I see it did not get any better.”

Cullen scoffed and Diavolo snorted in unison, and he exchanged a look with the horse. At least, her stallion seemed to have chosen him over his man.

“Anyway,” Delrin shook away the surprise to catch up with the conversation. He stared at Cullen with round eyes and pursed lips, genuinely impressed and visibly repressing a smile. “I… Glad to see you’re back to your senses.”

Silence fell between the two men and Cullen looked away. He did not want to show the red splashing across his face; at least, if he stared long enough at the fire, he could pretend it was because of the heat. After minutes that felt like long awkward hours, Delrin spoke again.

“So… The Inquisitor did not come back to her chambers last night.”

Cullen stiffened. His heartbeat picked up as he remembered her disheveled face when she woke up, the blushing when she ran away from his room, her warmth lingering on his hand as he thought of her when relieving him after his dream.

“Did anything nice happen or you were too out of it?” Delrin pushed.

“Crossing the line, Barris.”

Cullen got up to his feet, a bit too suddenly to hide his embarrassment, and he nervously put away his missives and reports in a satchel nearby.

Delrin leaned backward on his elbows against the ground with an insolent grin.

“So something did happen then.”

“Enough with you,” Cullen snarled. “I’m going for a walk. Keep watch.”

“Ay, Commander.”

Cullen let his steps carry him away from the camp; away, far away from Ser Barris before he could lose his temper again. What was wrong with him? Cullen gritted his teeth. He had played him like a fool. He had already said too much now.

As he walked in long strides, he tried his hardest to ignore pictures of a younger Uriell Trevelyan, a pampered lady fawning in the arms of the strong young templar, in a similar fashion as the poorly illustrated covers of Varric’s smutty books. Yet every time he tried to chase the thought away, it came back, haunting and cruel despite its exaggerated gaudiness. The sting in his heart was real, piercing, savage. He remembered her parted lips from the morning; had she kissed Ser Barris the way he had dreamt to do? Cullen cursed under his breath and shot in a pebble in front of him. The splashing sound of water and a surprised cry drew him out of his maddened reverie.

Cullen looked up and around, he had wandered quite far from the camp and was now standing in front of a river. What surprised him most however, was the naked figure standing in the middle of the water. Her long hair was dripping wet and clinging to her body, her eyes round in dismay as she stared back. It took him a few startled seconds to recognize her, the Inquisitor, bathing like a water nymph alone, far away from the camp.

His eyes embraced her sight in her full glory before he could think twice. The blanks his imagination had left in his fantasies filled with details he never dared imagined. The size and shape of her breasts, how defined were her abs, the soft curves of her thighs, and surprisingly, the intricate scars on her stomach pointing down to a small nest of blond hair. Cullen turned around instantly; the image deeply burned in his memory as he yelped out loud.

“Inquisitor! I—Pardon me!”

 Another splash of water and she replied. “C—Cullen…?! how did you…?”

“I didn’t mean to find you, Inquisitor!” Cullen pressed his eyes shut despite facing the other way. “I—I didn’t even know you left the tower! I swear, this is purely an accident!”

His heart was pounding so hard in his chest, Cullen feared it’d stop. He stood still, hands raised as to help prove his innocence by surrendering immediately, and he relied on his hearing to know what she was doing. The searing image of her body was tattooed under his eyelids; eyes open, eyes closed, he could only see her, how her hair molded her shape, how tight her waist was, how the tip of her breasts peaked under the chilly air. She was erotism, strength and beauty incarnate. No matter how hard he tried to shake the picture off his mind, it kept coming back until he focused on the memory of her intriguing scars, slashing and stabbing wounds which adorned her belly in an unexpected pattern.

 “Wait,” she said shyly from behind him and Cullen stiffened. “Let me finish.”

He heard a sharp inhale and the sound of water as she immersed herself. The surface broke again then she walked closer in his direction. The sucking sounds of wet feet in the mud and the swish of clothes being unfolded. He was not seeing her, and yet the noises were so real he could picture her as in broad daylight. He heard the water fall to the ground as she squeezed it out of her hair, the rasping sound of a towel on her skin, soft curses as she fumbled to get dressed in the dark.

“It’s… okay, I’m good, you can turn around.”

Cullen obeyed, though he kept his eyes closed as he did so. He slightly opened one to assess the situation then dared open them both and stared at her in disbelief. She was still wet for not taking the time to thoroughly dry herself, and she was focusing on braiding her long hair. Her shirt was half opened, displaying a large part of her cleavage. She was shivering under the cold; after all it did snow in the morning. He personally didn’t mind as he was cooking in his armor, a boiling hot mix of sweat and arousal. Despite her clothes, he now guessed her every single curve in mastered accuracy. The pain in his smalls started growing uncomfortable, and Cullen looked around to snatch his eyes away from her breasts, though he did not find additional layers on the ground.

“Inquisitor, where is your coat?” he asked hoarsely. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Oh, that? I was fine when I left.” Uriell flung her braid above her shoulder as she finished, and the hair cracked like a whip in her back. She took a deep breath and looked at him. Her face was flushed, probably from the frisky air Cullen thought to himself. He could not contain his excitement and dread; the Maker sure liked to play cruel tricks to him today. There was no way he could forget that sight, wasn’t there?

“So, what were you doing here, then?” she asked cautiously. She tried her best to sound commanding, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her nervousness.

“I swear, Inquisitor, I was taking a walk. Away from the camp. No ulterior motives.” Cullen gulped as she stared back at him. He had kept his hands up this whole time, standing still under her scrutiny, waiting for her order to relax. Her piercing gaze read into him and she sighed heavily. She then walked the few steps between them to gently pull down on one of his arms.

“Stop that. I believe you.” The moonlight reflected on her glistening hair as if she was covered in frost. She forced a smile and Cullen’s heart tightened in his chest. “I know our Commander is no peep. I trust you.”

Cullen gaped in response, a warm feeling of pride building up in his belly. The throb in his chest had resumed, faster than usual and he swallowed to ease the itch in his throat. She was still shivering, discreetly rubbing her hands together under the cover of her towel.

“You’re freezing, Inquisitor,” he pointed out.

“Well… yes. I guess I am.” She grimaced then pulled out her left hand from the bundled fabric and showed the Anchor. “It usually keeps me warm. I thought I would not mind.” She put the towel around her neck and enveloped her hair inside as she started to rub it dry.

Cullen peeked at her fondly when she was not looking. He wanted to scold her, but somehow, he did not have the heart for it. If fate had put them multiple times on the path of the other, who was he to complain about the reasons why? The needy urge to hold her grew in his stomach, hold her close to warm her up, share with her how hot he felt, rub her thorough under his fingers until she caught fire; but he knew better. Instead, he took off his mantle under her dismayed eyes.

“What are you doing?” she baffled as he handed her the fabric.

“You’re really going to catch a cold and I won’t have it. Wear this.”

Uriell looked into his eyes. She was as surprised as he was of himself offering it, but she accepted it with trembling hands. He helped adjust the oversized sleeveless clothing on her shoulders, and she sank in the fur with a content purr. The smile on her face as she nuzzled in it was worth it tenfold, and Cullen appreciated the chilly wind on his nape, hoping it would cool him down.

“Thank you, Commander… But… no reprimands about being alone away from the camp? I’m surprised.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Cullen retorted as he flattened the fur around her. “Speaking of which…” he lowered his voice in what he hoped was at the very least slightly threatening. “Care to explain why you were alone away from the camp, and may I add, in quite a vulnerable position?”

He felt a throb in his chest when she chewed on her lip and looked sheepishly away. The tip of her ears was turning redder, but given how burrowed she was in the fur, it wasn’t of the cold. She rocked on her toes as she replied:

“I should have shut up, shouldn’t I?” She smirked. “I… I’m like that, Commander. I like my times alone, I need them. With this expedition, I barely have time for myself, so… I sneaked away. I’m a bad Inquisitor, I know. But that’s how it is.”

Cullen chuckled while he wished he had sighed instead. He should be infuriated and exasperated, but she made it so difficult, with her big doe eyes when she looked back in confusion.

“What is the point in me being here and assigning you a personal guard if you manage to sneak past them every time?” he wondered out loud. He laughed softly to himself. “I should switch with Leliana’s agents, I bet they’re better at keeping an eye on you.”

Uriell frowned and faked a pout, which drew a sassy smile on Cullen’s lips. Once he had admitted he cared for her, he was past beyond gone, down a slippery slope. Now everything she did was another reason for him to melt and yield; she could ask anything from him he wouldn’t even think twice.

“Yeah, about that,” Uriell’s voice lowered to a breathy whisper. She hid a bit deeper in the mantle, paused and pressed on her question. “Since we keep running into each other, it got me wondering. Are you… busy, Commander?”

Cullen’s heart skipped a beat. Busy, when, now? Usually? During the journey? Why was she looking at him like that?

“I… er—well, not right now…” Cullen arched an eyebrow as he hesitated. “I don’t… well, there is not much for me to do around here.”

“What if,” Uriell took a step closer, gazing up at him, “you were my personal guard? You know more about me than your men now, after all.” She chuckled shyly as she looked away and Cullen’s face turned crimson when his heart jumped to his throat. “You’d stay nearby, and when I feel like sneaking away, I’ll ask you to come with me. So you can… protect me. That’s what you want, right?”

Cullen had to swallow the lump in his throat and kept his eyes up to the horizon, way too self-conscious to look at her right now. He hoped he was not too easy to read so she wouldn’t see it was not exactly all he wanted right now. “I… as long as you are not alone, my Lady,” he stuttered. “But… what does assure me that you won’t sneak away from me as well?”

“I’m comfortable with you,” she replied softly. Cullen jumped on the spot when she let her forehead lean against his breastplate. “You’re my Commander and I trust you. Even Diavolo does. What do you say?”

Cullen stared up at the sky to hide his conflicted expression. A broad wide smile twisted under deeply furrowed brows as he held off the need to hug her, kiss her, remind her that she should not show herself this vulnerable, even with him. His heart was dancing the Remigold in his chest, and he hoped it did not reverberate in his armor, so dangerously close to her ears. This was the most perfect occasion; he had never dared assigning himself to her guard officially, and she was the one offering it. Better, this would mean he could assign Ser Barris to something else and keep him at bay from her.

“Cullen?”

Maker, how sweet his name sounded on her lips. He took a deep breath to regain his composure and looked back at her. She was waiting for his answer, a hint of worry creeping at the corner of her eyes.

“As you wish of me, Inquisitor,” he promised in a whisper. “I’ll stay with you until you can’t bear me anymore.”

“Good luck with that,” she beamed. “I’m a very patient woman.”

Chapter Text

“Ah, Inquisitor, finally! We were wondering where you had been… What happened to your hair?”

Cullen glanced at Uriell to his side. Her braid was still wet from her midnight bath despite her repeated attempts at drying it, so she did not even try to hide it. Dorian, Vivienne, Josephine and Leliana were waiting for her at camp with a fifth person; an elegant woman in a tight silver outfit and a pair of small binoculars perched on her nose. The Iron Bull was standing beside them, arms full of bags and soft boxes, and he did not seem quite pleased about it.

Cullen felt the inquisitive and curious eyes of Leliana and Dorian falling upon him. His fingers clenched a bit tightly around his mantle he carried under his arm, hoping they would not notice the wet fur of its collar. He did not return their looks, afraid of what he might give away, and kept staring at Uriell instead. Something had changed in his stance, straight and solid by her side, waiting to be dismissed or called for. While the Spymaster seemed to have noticed the shift in his attitude, Vivienne and Josephine chose to ignore it and were now circling around the Inquisitor like birds of prey.

“Inquisitor! What’s what this attire? Did you fall into the lake?” Vivienne asked, and Cullen swore he saw her eyes dart to his side. “Did you forget our meeting?”

“We brought your designs in,” said Josephine as she showed the tower’s entrance with a gesture of her hand. “Lady Sylvie de Pélineau is here to correct the finishes and work on your Opera outfit.”

“And the shoes!” Leliana pointed out with a hint of excitement.

“We have much to do. No time to waste, Inquisitor,” Josephine locked an arm with Uriell’s while Vivienne did the same on her other side. The Ambassador turned to Cullen with an interrogative look, as if she had only noticed his presence, and simply nodded as they took the Inquisitor away. “Commander.”

The two women dragged Uriell with them in direction for the tower and she surrendered without a fight. She simply looked at him over her shoulder with a flickering and apologetic smile. He could read the silent words “I’m sorry!” and the fake distress in her eyes before she broke into a laugh, pestering against her fashion friends; only to get scolded by Dorian about “what kind of other matters she had to attend rather than spending the night trying out silks and jacquards”.

Cullen stood still, mantle in hand, until the doors of the Circle closed behind them and the calm fell on the camp again. He had to chew on his lip to break from the stupidly affectionate smile he had been bearing without knowing. He scoffed to himself; for sure the Inquisitor was the one having it the hardest. However, Cullen had work to do on his own as well, so he returned to his tent without further ado. No doubt Delrin was still around keeping watch and had probably caught a glimpse of the noisy scene; and Cullen was not ready to explain why he had come back to camp with a dripping wet Inquisitor.

He entered the quiet of his tent and lit the candle on the make-do small desk. He then gently laid his mantle on top of the fur covers of his sleeping mat before he took off his armor consciously. His gambeson was sticking to his damp neck from the sweating and Cullen felt much better once he could slip into his sleeping shirt. He went back to his desk; time to get back to work. It did not take him long to reevaluate his men’s assignments for the next week and organize a new shift schedule. Nothing changed really, aside from Loranil and Ser Barris’s roles. He assigned Loranil to the scouting missions, which he was good at, and Delrin to more mundane activities: leading the front of the expedition, protecting the healer, late night watch shifts when Cullen was sure to be asleep… It might have been a bit spiteful from his end; but the man had it coming. Somehow.

Once everything was ready and planned out, Cullen finally moved to his bed, determined to sleep before his first day as the Inquisitor’s personal guard. He turned and turned, but sleep was hard to find; as he had expected. He stared at the roof of his tent for what felt like hours. Fatigue was still there though, but whenever Cullen drifted away, hypnotizing memories of her bare chest in the moonlight came to his mind. Shimmery eyes, clinging strands of hair, shy blushing cheeks. He flicked his eyes open every time as to preserve her intimacy, cursing under his breath a little louder as time passed by. At some point, Cullen punched the air in a desperate attempt to chase the alluring clutches of his dreams, and let his arm fall by his side in a puddle of fabric. He recognized the touch of his mantle, almost dry and cold.

Cullen sighed, knowing perfectly well it wouldn’t help him doing so, but he brought the fabric up on his chest. He brushed through the fur where she had hidden her face. It looked good on her, despite the way too large shoulders and how it was too long for her, despite the ridiculous amount of fur which almost covered her whole head. Did it look good on her, or did she look good in it? Cullen burrowed his face in the collar, hoping to catch the lingering smell of her skin against it. When he thought he found hints of floral scent, the visions resumed again.

The column of her throat peeking through the fur, hands holding the fabric close at the front shyly, hems grazing the top of her naked thighs. Cullen sighed, unable to ignore the throbbing under the covers anymore. The night was getting shorter every hour he stayed awake thinking of her and there were limits to how uncomfortable he would sleep, unless he helped himself. Cullen clung to his mantle with one hand while the other slid back down under the blankets until it closed around his shaft, acknowledging the arousal that had been tormenting him since he had walked in on her bath.

“Fuck,” he hissed through the fur.

He yielded in a breath, tearing down the walls he had built in his head around her to keep her away from his desires, and let them creep back to him with every stroke. Carefully, they manipulated the vivid images of her body to arrange them in different positions, different scenarios, changing the meaning of every glance, ever word, every move she had towards him until his breath grew shorter. He pretended it was her hand touching him when her voice rang at the back of his head “What do you say?”

“Yes,” he whispered to himself.

He could picture her naked in the mantle, working him up with her hand while she would hold him down with the other. Gentle twists and pulls from her battle-trained wrist, a strong grip with just the right pressure in the circle of her fingers when she would stroke him down. The moves would be faster, as was the beating of his heart in his chest. She would look at him with her usual mysterious gaze until he’d lose control of himself. Cullen groaned when he felt he was getting closer, and he clung to his fantasy, not ready to let go of her sight this soon.

“Ah—no, and you…?” he hissed, chasing both the sweet release of the pleasure he had been denying himself for hours and the hope to make it last.

“I’m a very patient woman.”

***

Cullen adjusted his belt and the fit of his scabbard by his side, patiently waiting by the entrance of the Montsimmard’s Circle. He had woken up at the first grey lights of day from a short night of few hours of sleep, as he was used to. Yet, he had never felt this rested in a very long time. It had been the third night in a row without a single nightmare, and his migraines seemed to slowly disappear. He had never suspected finding solace and peace in a last moan of her name, like a prayer before going to sleep, and hoped that would not become a habit; though he did enjoy the benefits from it. He had awoken content and refreshed, with an unexpected renewed energy and the excitement of the unknown the day entailed.

The skies were dark and grey, threatening, so Cullen pushed his men to prepare fast this morning. They had a full day of riding planned and a dark omen of heavy snow hung above their heads. They had to make haste if they wanted to reach Val Firmin before a storm, and the Inquisitor still had to meet the de Morrac House and a few other noble families in the city. The camp was pulled down quickly enough so Cullen had the time to summon his men for a meeting. Each member of his team received their new assignment for the coming week; most of them did not flinch but for Ser Barris. He did not say anything though the look the men exchanged spoke for itself; the sly smile Delrin gave him meant he knew something was fishy.

Finally, the doors of the Circle opened. Josephine and Leliana headed out first, followed by the Inquisitor in full formal attire and her companions. When she set foot out of the tower, she scanned the camp until her eyes locked with his and she greeted him with a nod and her usual polite smile. Cullen’s heart jumped in his throat, a feeling he was slowly getting used to, and he returned the sign as a silent “Good morning” across the crowd. Josephine had started her usual morning speech, during which she reminded everyone of what was to expect for the day, then addressed Uriell directly, audible enough for Cullen to hear.

“Inquisitor, we still have a lot to do. Today you’ll ride with Vivienne and I in the carriage, if you don’t mind.”

Uriell turned to Cullen with an eyebrow arched in a question he had already anticipated. He answered confidently by raising his fist tightly closed on the reins of Diavolo. As if he felt the attention turning to him, the horse pushed Cullen on the back with his head, which almost made him stumble upwards. Cullen caught his balance at the last second and glared back at the proud stallion, before he awkwardly looked back at the Inquisitor. Uriell hid a laughing smile with her hand and shook her head, but Josephine urged her to follow her to the carriage. Cullen watched her slipping away while the rest of the group started getting ready for departure, and was called back to reality by Diavolo when he started sniffing his hair.

“You really are possessive, aren’t you?” Cullen asked the black stallion as he brushed the saddle clean.

Diavolo replied with an agitated huff, even though he stood still until Cullen climbed on his back. They rode until they stopped by the carriage’s window where Uriell was sitting. Cullen was still not used to the attention of him riding the worst-tempered horse of the Inquisition was getting him, and he felt a few gazes follow him as he went, which made him vaguely uneasy. Then he looked to the side and caught a glimpse of the Inquisitor in deep discussion with Josephine, which made it all worthwhile.

***

The journey was uneventful, but the weather got worse over the day. The skies turned darker and darker, snow began falling around midday, and wind was picking up. Cullen could not help but have a bad feeling about it. He had overheard some of his men trying to spook Loranil over lunch with stories about the de Morrac house, and even if Cullen did not believe in half of it, he couldn’t help but feel anxious.

The de Morrac house had been ruling over Val Firmin for ages, plagued by mysterious deaths and unfortunate accidents, which had stopped during the Exalted Age after Lady Louise de Morrac had publicly burned the supposedly cursed family mask. Even though the family was now redeemed from their dark reputation, people were still wary when treating with them, afraid the curse might awake again. Rumors of strange events around Val Firmin were numerous and got more and more whimsical over the years; and it almost turned into a contest amongst Cullen’s men to find the weirdest of them all. Even the Inquisitor’s companions chimed in with their own versions of the rumors. Stories of unexplained murders and gruesome accidents, demonic possession and ghosts, witches and undead; Cullen heard them all. He scoffed at how gullible some of their men were, but kept an anxious eye on the real threat ahead, which was the darkened sky; they would probably have to find shelter for the night. The only thing that eased his mind was the furtive looks he accidentally shared with the Inquisitor every now and then through the coach’s window. She checked on him regularly with worried eyes when the snow had started falling outside, and her attention warmed his heart in the midst of the cold.  

They reached Val Firmin at dusk, before the snow could turn into hail, and Josephine had to surrender; the only place they could visit was the de Morrac’s estate. The expedition headed to the mansion as fast as their horses could, and were welcomed in catastrophe by the noble family. Mounts were tended in closed stables and ever member of the delegation was warmly welcomed within the walls of the manor moments before the storm started raging outside. The wind hissed through the windows and chimneys and the snow fell continuously in heavy drops, making it impossible to see more than ten feet away into the night. Murmurs spread around the recruits, which seemed to inspire Varric who was taking notes with great attention.

As the Inquisition’s members waited for their hosts, Cullen made sure his men gathered in a proper manner before he quietly slipped away to stand by Uriell’s side. She was waiting ahead with Josephine and Leliana when Cullen appeared behind her, hand on the hilt of his sword. He noticed the little shiver going through her spine when she felt his presence, and the shy peek over her shoulder. He took a step closer, making his intent clear; he did not plan on leaving her side, even through long boring-to-death diplomatic meetings. For a second, Cullen almost swore he had seen the tip of her ear blush but then, the de Morrac family made their entrance.

Lady Aurélianne and Lord Laurent de Morrac seemed as pleasant and humble as Orlesian nobles could ever be, which still put Cullen more at ease than during their last meeting with the Duchess of Lydes. They invited the Inquisition in and offered them to stay in the east aisle in the guests’ apartments, with a special room for the Inquisitor as their guest of honor; invitation Josephine gladly accepted. While Uriell’s personality changed again to flatteries, polite singing conversation and broad political smiles, she did not have to throw herself at the couple this time and Cullen followed her discreetly around as the House heads gave her and her advisors a tour of the Manor, letting the rest of the expedition time to invest their new quarters. At some point though, Lady and Lord de Morrac’s attention landed on Cullen in an unspoken inquiry, to which Uriell answered without skipping a beat.

“Oh, I apologize my Lady, my Lord. You do know our Ambassador and Sister Nightingale, let me introduce you Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford, the Commander of my armies. He is in charge of my security.”

The couple nodded and didn’t ask any further question, the Lady simply hiding a coy smile with a gloved hand when she glanced at him up and down. However, the look Leliana and Josephine exchanged before staring at Cullen with round eyes betrayed their surprise. While Uriell stroke a conversation about the family’s current commercial affairs, the other two advisors flanked Cullen, casually, but he knew they were coming after him. He had not done anything wrong, and all of this was the official request of the Inquisitor, but still, he couldn’t help but feel the first signs of embarrassment kicking in.

“In charge of the Inquisitor’s security, mh?” asked Leliana under her breath. “Since when did you get demoted, Commander? Or is it promoted?”

“I knew something was suspicious last night,” Josephine added with a wicked smile. She could barely hide her excitement and Cullen felt the warmth building in his chest and spreading over his cheeks.

“You’re reading too much into this,” he replied but a slight lump in his throat almost had him stutter. He kept staring at the Inquisitor’s back, to avoid their teasing looks and taunts. “She’s the one who asked. I’m but following my orders.”

“Sure, sure,” Leliana sneered and bumped her shoulder against Cullen’s arm. “Of course, after Verchiel, it only makes sense.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Josephine confided. “Personally, I find it reassuring.”

“Did she ask before, or after her bath?”

Cullen glared at Leliana from the corner of his eye. He kept his lips tightly shut, which only fueled the Spymaster’s mischievous smirk, but she did not press any further as the Lady and Lord de Morrac invited them to join them.

“Lady Montyliet, I believe you’ve met our son, Jean-Marc?”

Lady Aurélianne de Morrac gestured towards a young man who had appeared by Uriell’s side. Surprisingly, he did not wear a mask. Jean-Marc looked like a fine man in his twenties, with short brown hair, deep blue eyes and the shy shadow of a stubble barely growing. He wore a matching attire to his father, with his house’s crest embroidered on his tailcoat. He politely nodded when the advisors got closer.

“Ah, Jean-Marc, but of course, I remember!” Josephine beamed, just as usual and she greeted the young noble with a bow. “It was so long ago though, I’m happy to see you healthy and grown up.”

“Glad to see you again, Lady Montilyet,” he replied with a flat voice. The young lord barely tried to hide his boredom and Cullen couldn’t help but frown. Orlesians could be rude at time, and they were, most of the time really; but he had never heard anyone use such a condescending tone with their Ambassador before. “I’m also glad to finally meet this Inquisition everyone has been talking about lately. Hopefully you can entertain me with some of your stories at dinner tonight?”

Cullen froze when the young man took Uriell’s hand to bring it to his lips. He watched as the bold scoundrel laid a kiss on top of her knuckles and Cullen’s grip around his sword’s hilt tightened. He was about to take a step forward when he felt Leliana pinching though the fabric of his gambeson. She was warning him, and Cullen stood still. Uriell immediately slipped away from Lord Jean-Marc’s grasp, a bit harsher than she would normally do, but her smile was still as bright as usual.

“My young Lord, but of course. I’m sure you’ll find our field adventures to your taste. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He stiffened and nodded along before taking his leave. Cullen’s eyes followed the back of the young heir until he finally disappeared at the end of the corridor. That was when he noticed he had been gritting his teeth the whole time, and his fist around the sword’s shaft was slightly shaking. What was wrong with him? He glanced back at the Inquisitor, smiling all the same and engaging into small talk with the parents; but he could see she had balled the hand he had kissed into a fist and was wiping her knuckles against her back. His blood turned boiling hot; how dared the man make her feel uncomfortable?

Josephine came to the rescue to entertain the noble couple, and they finally resumed their tour again; which allowed Cullen to walk right behind the Inquisitor. She felt his presence and did not even turn around to ask him in a whisper: “Yes, Commander?”

“Are you alright?” he simply asked, making sure their hosts wouldn’t hear him.

She stayed silent for a while. They had finally finished walking around the manor and were led to the eastern aisle to rest before dinner. Cullen couldn’t help but grow anxious as she did not answer. He was about to ask again, in case she had not heard him the first time, when she stopped in her track at a turn of the corridor. Cullen almost bumped into her as she turned around and laid her palm on his breastplate to steady him. His heart was about to jump out of his throat when she reached out on the tip of her toes. Hidden from the rest of the group, Uriell leaned in to whisper in his ear:

“I’m fine, don’t worry. But don’t leave me alone tonight.”

***

Cullen stared at his plate for quite some time. Dinner was going well, as far as he knew of, but his heart had not calmed since the moment shared in the shadows of the hallway and he was barely able to hold the gaze of anyone, afraid to show the signs of how flustered he had been feeling. He felt especially naked, outside of his armor back in formal attire, with only his sword by the hip. The Inquisitor, the advisors and her companions sat at the same table as their host, a long table with Lady and Lord de Morrac presiding on each extremity. Uriell, who was seated near Lady de Morrac, had gently insisted on Cullen to stay beside her instead of Jean-Marc, so the young man ended up sitting across her.

Cullen had barely listened, but the lord had turned out to be as patronizing and annoying as he had presented earlier. To his request, Uriell kept on telling stories about closing rifts and the Breach and the attack on Haven; yet the young lord’s reaction sounded indifferent at best, disdainful at worst. Despite everything, Uriell had not dropped her polite manners and her passionate storytelling, which at least, seemed to entertain Lady de Morrac greatly.

Cullen absent-mindedly chewed on his vol-au-vent. His mind kept drifting away to Uriell by his side, so close and lively while playing the Game, so different from when her expression turned all serious at the corner of the corridor. He held his breath unconsciously when he pictured her for the hundredth time leaning to his ear; “don’t leave me alone tonight.” What was that supposed to mean? Did she expect him to come in her chambers tonight?

Uriell suddenly drew him away from his reverie when she jumped on her chair by his side. Lady de Morrac and Cullen turned to her at once, and Cullen instinctively reached out to hold her shoulder but stopped himself in time, afraid of being inappropriate.

“Inquisitor, is everything alright?” Lady de Morrac asked with great concern.

“I—I, yes, I’m just fine my Lady, thank you,” she uttered before gaining her usual composure back. “I think it’s the storm. I might have felt a draft.”

The blizzard was indeed raging outside and heavy snow fell in a white never-ending curtain. Cullen turned around to look through the window behind them; however, he did not feel air coming from this direction. Lady de Morrac seemed relieved though and pushed on the conversation:

“Ah, I’m very sorry Inquisitor, I’ll have your room double-checked right now to make sure your windows are sealed. Even if we are used to it, we have to verify the isolation every year, this is infuriating. You might not be too used to the cold since you come from the North.”

“I… yes,” Uriell replied and her smile was back in place again. “Indeed, we don’t get much snow in Ostwick.”

Cullen’s heart skipped a beat when he felt the brush of a hand against his hip. He did his best to keep his cool when he lowered his eyes furtively and saw Uriell’s fist holding on the hem of his jacket right between them. While the upper part of her body was leaning in direction of Lady de Morrac as she talked about the beaches and creeks of Ostwick with great excitement, her legs and fist hidden underneath the table were tense, clenched, and her hand was shaking.

Cullen averted his gaze not to give Uriell away. It did not feel like flirting, even though the touch was unexpected and quite the distraction, and Cullen was taken aback on what to do. After long seconds of hesitation, he pretexted to adjust the napkin on his lap to casually close his own hand around hers.

Her shaking stopped immediately, transferring the flutter directly to his heart. If Uriell was indeed feeling a draft of cold air, Cullen was in desperate need of it as he grew hotter and hotter in the chest by the second. He hid his embarrassment by taking long deep sips from his cup with his free hand, eyes closed, head empty. Nobody seemed to pay him attention, as everybody was listening to the foreign description of the Free Marches’ southern coasts. He boldly brushed the edges of her knuckles with his thumb in what he hoped was a reassuring motion, and her hand shifted under his to intertwine her fingers in his.

“Well, Rutherford, what do you do now?” Cullen thought to himself as he choked and put down his emptied cup in front of him. He swallowed roughly and tried to keep his breathing steady before he stared back at his plate. He only had his right hand available and could not continue eating that way without looking awkward; he had enough struggle right now hiding how bashful he was feeling. He instead opted on propping himself on his elbow and feigned to have been deeply engaged in Uriell’s conversation from the start, when she squeezed on his hand. He could feel her warmth radiating against his sweaty palm, burning his flesh and numbing all the other nerves of his body but the ones where their fingers were locked. Then, she let go.

Uriell casually straightened in her chair and resumed eating again while Cullen stood still for a while longer. He waited until all of his senses came back, and instinctively closed and opened his fingers a few times before focusing on dinner again. The pulse in his throat had still not calmed down yet when he accidentally looked up and fell upon the piercing gaze of Leliana sitting across him by Josephine’s side. A dark smile curled at the corner of her lips and Cullen’s heart dropped in his chest. Slowly, every so slowly, she turned her head back to Lady Morrac, as if her eyes were secretly telling him “I’ve seen that.” A cold sweat ran down his spine. He was doomed.

***

After dinner, Cullen had run away straight to his room and was pacing around to calm his nerves. What had he done? He was supposed to be her Commander, her personal guard, nothing more. Here to protect her, nothing more. Never, he was never supposed to be holding hands with her.

But she was the one who held his hand, right? Well, she did so because he tried to reassure her. But she did initiate it, didn’t she? Should he have left her clinging to his jacket in a distress motion? But why was she distressed in the first place?

Cullen anxiously ruffled his hands through his hair. He was frantic, scared, excited; all at once. Her hand had felt so fragile and yet so strong in his. He could still feel how incredibly slender were her fingers for a fighter like her, and he wondered, had he ever had a good look at her hands before? No; no, he had not because it would be improper. Cullen grunted in exasperation. What was he supposed to do now? Leliana had clearly seen through him, there would be no end of it. Should he stop whatever he was doing now and come back to his usual austere attitude around her? He knew that was not what he wanted; despite the embarrassment, he had never felt this alive, happy and proud in years. She trusted him more than anyone, and shared with him her fears and frustration while she concealed them from the others; this was more than he could have ever expected from their relationship and Cullen truly felt blessed.

He stopped by the window and sighed heavily when he leaned his forehead against the freezing cold glass. He had to cool down and fast. Her order was still hanging in the air, like a mysterious promise he did not know how to keep. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.” Would it be overstepping the boundaries of their work relationship if he came to her chambers that night? Would it be inappropriate? Or would disobeying her be worse? Why in the Maker’s name did she need him by her side that night?

After almost an hour pondering whether he should go or not, Cullen’s moral compass led him outside of his bedroom, with a chess board packed under his arm. After all, she was the Inquisitor, and if the Inquisitor directly ordered him not to leave her alone, then his place was by her side. It was not his place to question her. Maybe she was afraid of the storm. This would explain why she was skittish during dinner. Maybe she needed a presence near her while the blizzard was still raging. It was probably nothing. A game of chess would probably distract her. Yes, this was the most perfect solution.

Cullen closed the door of his room silently, checking around the corridor if someone else was there before heading towards the stairs. Uriell’s room was on the second floor, the closer to the fire hearth of the eastern aisle, hence the warmest room. When he was about to take the first flight of steps, a loud crack came from below. A high-pitched scream. The sound of shattering glass.

His heart dropped in his chest and an icy cold shiver went down his spine. The Inquisitor. Cullen did not even hear the chess board crashing against the floor as he ran down the stairs and unsheathed his sword. He tried to open Uriell’s bedroom, and his blood froze in his veins when he noticed the door was locked.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen shouted as he knocked vigorously. No answer. He called again, louder, and slammed his shoulder against the door. Still nothing.

“Uriell!”

Cullen took a few steps back and rammed against the door a second time. The door shook against him, but the lock held it together. He brought his leg up, and with a violent kick on the lock, he finally managed to break it. He then burst inside the room, only to take in the scene with terror. She was not there. Her bedroom’s window was broken open outwards, the curtains billowing under the violent gust of wind and snow slowly covering the ground. On the bed, Jean-Marc de Morrac laid on his back, groaning in pain and holding on his head with both hands. The bedstand was broken to splinters by his side and Cullen noticed the young man was slightly bleeding.

Cullen ran by the window and looked outside. The blizzard was strong, so strong he could barely see the ground at the foot of the mansion; and yet he managed to notice a break in the pristine bed of snow. Had she jumped out of the window? The door was locked.

Cullen turned around slowly, realization dawning on him as the puzzle pieces fell back together. His eyes fell upon the young noble who was coming back to his senses. He squealed when Cullen grabbed him by the collar and raised him to his feet. Lord Jean-Marc was barely scratched and yet was acting like he had been gravely injured.

“What the fuck is wrong with you and your Inquisition?” he cursed painfully when he squinted and recognized Cullen. He held onto Cullen’s arm and tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but Cullen lifted him off the ground in a raging burst of adrenaline.

“What have you done, you, miserable little shit…” Cullen hissed and growled, his voice rumbling louder and louder with every word. “Where. Is. The Inquisitor?!”

The ruckus Cullen had caused had attracted the other members of the Inquisition, and Ser Barris burst in the room first, followed by Leliana, the Iron Bull and Josephine who gasped in horror at the scene.

“Commander, what are you…”

“Ask him!” Cullen roared and threw the pitiful man back to the bed. “Whatever you did, you had it coming,” he snarled to the lord before he ran back to the window. “Barris, restrain the man, and get him to fucking talk!”

Delrin stepped in, dismayed, and looked back at Cullen in incomprehension. “Wait, what happened, what are you doing?”

Cullen climbed to the window’s frame and looked back to scared and incredulous eyes. “Getting the Inquisitor back,” he growled, then jumped after her.

Chapter Text

The bed of snow was thick enough to cushion Cullen’s fall. The rage burning in his guts and the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him so hot, he barely noticed the freezing cold at first. He had to struggle to get back to his feet as he was half buried in the snow. He sheathed his sword to free his hand then shielded his eyes against the blizzard just in time before a gust of wind almost blinded him. The elements were overwhelming, numbing his very senses; touch, smell, sight, hearing. The wind was so strong, hissing in his ears like the howls of a banshee, it swallowed Leliana’s shouts from the window above him. He did not even look back towards the mansion, as he was scanning the ground, desperately looking for footsteps that could hint on where the Inquisitor had run away.

Hail hurt his shoulders through the woolen jacket, and his clothes were already soaked in freezing water when Cullen finally found marks of footsteps on the white ground. The lack of light did not help as the dark and ominous clouds had swallowed the moons and stars for the night; but Cullen’s attention was now solely focused on the small cracks in the snow the storm was threatening to wipe off the ground. He stumbled as he first tried to run, fighting against the blizzard, and had to steady himself before he could find the fastest pace to push through the storm.

“Inquisitor!!!”

After a few steps, the mansion disappeared behind him and Cullen started calling for her. The tracks weren’t deep, and Cullen was terrified he would lose them soon if he did not make haste. She was probably lost and scared amidst the snow, just like when she had saved them from Haven. Maker, what if she had been terrified of the storm ever since? The wind was so strong, he could barely hear his own voice as he kept on calling her. Despite the icy rocks raining on him like a doomful stoning, Cullen kept going. The tracks did not seem to waver but from a straight line, so Cullen hoped she had kept this trajectory in her escape so if the tracks would disappear, he could still follow her. A foot. In front. The other.

“Inquisitor?!!”

The cold was creeping in under his skin. His voice faltered in the tempest. He had been struggling against the blizzard for at least ten minutes now. He was not dressed for this. Cullen’s resolve was unfaltering and he was determined to find her, no matter what; but the fury that had kept him hot-blooded was slowly melting under the snow to make room for fear. What if she was hurt? There was no sign of blood on the white ground, though he had to trust his reduced vision on that. What if he was going in the wrong direction? He had found no other tracks, so he had to trust those for now. He had to believe he was getting closer, he had to be strong for her, damn he was supposed to be with her that night.

Cullen stopped when his heart froze in his chest. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.” She had said that after meeting the young Lord de Morrac. What if she had asked him by her side because she was afraid of him? What if she suspected he would come visit her and hoped for Cullen to be there just in case? If he had not spent all this time daydreaming and wondering if it was really appropriate for him to visit her chambers, maybe this would have never happened.

He had to kick himself in the leg to snap out of the guilt building up in his stomach and get it moving again. Yes, maybe he had been wrong all this time and he should have stayed by her side as her personal guard, just like he had promised her; but now was not the time to dwell on it. Now was the time to be here for her and find her before they would both freeze to death in the blizzard. It was time to keep her alive and safe. And Cullen took another step.

He had walked for another ten minutes. His very muscles were aflame with exhaustion and the cold had turned to burning. He could barely feel his feet and hands anymore, and his eyes were almost glued shut as tears had turned to ice. Snow, snow everywhere; all he could see was snow, dark snow, his breath, hail, and now trees. Had he reached the forest outside the estate? He pushed through, and called her name again.

He had given up calling for the “Inquisitor”; he was looking for her. He did not care about the Inquisition anymore; he was worried to death about her. “Uriell! Please, where are you?!” but only the elements replied. It hurt. The snow hurt, he feared frostbites; and she had been in the blizzard for longer than he had. But what he was the most terrified of, was to never be able to see her again. This couldn’t be. She had fought Corypheus, she had saved them, for what? To disappear in a storm because of some… lowly rude piece of shit of a noble? Cullen pushed through. Again.

The footprints had disappeared now; or he couldn’t see them anymore. His pace was drastically slower. His shouts were barely more audible than whispers in the midst of the howling tempest and the crunch of his heels on the icy ground. He was cold. His head hurt. Was it the exhaustion giving him hallucinations, or did he see a light flicker in the distance? Cullen barely managed to fold his fingers and rubbed his crusted and tired eyes, afraid of opening them to realize it was but a vision; but the light was still there. He squinted through the snow; if there was light there might be a fire. He had lost her track, and this was the only beacon in the storm he could find. Cullen headed towards the light.

As his numbed feet carried him closer, the outline of a cabin appeared through the mist against the blizzard. The light was small, shining through a window, and hope’s fragile bubble formed in Cullen’s chest again. He almost crawled to the shack, until his body gave up in a shudder at the door. He barely held himself up as he knocked.

“Ur— Uriell…? It’s me!”

Cullen whimpered as he could not scream anymore. His lungs were burning from the freezing air, turning his breath into wheeze and he felt dizzy again. He barely heard the sound of footsteps behind the door as the storm was deafening the world around him. Then the door opened.

A squeal. The mild warmth of a body as Cullen fell forward against the host.

“Maker…! Cullen?!!”

His consciousness was slipping away and yet he held onto it, afraid of passing out. His eyes were closed; he was so drained and hurt he could barely open them anymore. Two strong arms slid under his to keep him up, then his wet feet dragged through the snow until they scraped against wood. He was carried inside and laid down on his back, then the presence by his side disappeared and the creak of the door muffled the hissing winds when it closed. Rapid thuds on the grounds, and hands were on him again. The palms were cold, but still warmer than he was, and he welcomed the touch on his forehead, his cheeks, his chest.

“Oh no, no, no, Cullen!” He knew that voice. “Oh Maker, what are you doing here? Oh no…”

The wood under him creaked when the person scrambled behind him on their knees. They hooked their hands underneath his armpits and lift him up against them, until they could lock their arms on his chest and hug him from behind, then they dragged them both to the side, and the warmth of a fire tickled Cullen’s arm.

He groaned in relief and pain; he could still feel the cold in his bones, and the heat on his burning skin split him open from the inside. His nerves, numb from the cold, turned raw with the warmth and every fiber of his body started screaming in agony as if he had caught fire.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know…” the feminine voice sobbed by his side. “Please wait, the fire, it’s… Oh fuck…”

She laid him on the ground again, and the crack of a log echoed in the cabin as she was stirring the fire and trying to build up the flames in the hearth beside them. Cullen was in pain, hot and cold at the same time, and it took all of his energy to open an eye. In the blur of fatigue, there she was, The Inquisitor, red and orange against the fire. His heart was about to burst in his chest when a torrent of emotions broke the dam holding him up. Relief. It was mostly relief.

Uriell stood there on her knees; she was panicked and frantic, hair tied at the top of her head, working up the fire that had almost gone out when she had opened the door. When she turned to look at him, Cullen caught the glimpse of a tear running down her face.

“Don’t… cry…”

“Thank the Maker, you’re conscious,” she whimpered and crawled by his side. “Stay with me Cullen, you hear me? Don’t even dare close your eyes.”

She brushed through his crispy frosty hair to get rid of the snow; then gently wiped his face with the cuff of her shirt. Cullen did not move, overwhelmed by the exhaustion and focused on her presence; if only he was not in such pain, he was craving for her gentle touch and yet could barely feel it. He was shivering in spams and the fever was kicking in. She laid her hands on his chest and paused before she sighed with a trembling voice.

“I’m so sorry, Commander. I have to.”

Cullen stared as she steeled herself and started unbuttoning his jacket in haste. “What… do you…?” he wheezed quietly when she parted the jacket open and slid her hands up to the collar. Her fingers brushed against his neck and his pulse picked up in his throat.

“You can’t stay like this,” she replied firmly. “I have to get you dry first.”

After seconds of evaluating how to proceed, Cullen caught the glimpse of her naked thighs when she stepped over him and kneeled with her legs parted on each side of his hips. Until then, he had not noticed her matching jacket, pants and shoes drying on a chair by the fireplace. His heart fluttered when she embraced his shoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position. Embarrassed and confused, he did not resist her strength. Cullen grunted in pain as he tried to help her slid the jacket along his arms. Once free, he brought his trembling fingers to his front to undo the shirt’s buttons, but she was faster and swatted his hands away.

“Let me,” she ordered.

The shirt fell down his shoulders, set aside, and she lowered him down again to the ground to work on his breeches. He shuddered when he felt tickles against his shoulders and realized he was laying on top of a bear pelt; but the distraction couldn’t take his eyes away from her as she pulled on his laces. Of all the times he had imagined what it would be to be undressed under her nifty fingers, he had never considered that kind of scenario; far from sensual, it had a sense of urgency and danger to which he surrendered. He bashfully crossed his arms on top of his chest, both to cover himself up and try to warm him up. There was no point in feeling shy or self-conscious; he knew it was all about survival. At least, that’s what he told himself when his boots went flying and she pulled on his trousers, the wet leather clinging to his skin, until she left him in his smalls on the bear hide by the fire. Every little hair on his legs stood on its end and Cullen shivered. His throat was on fire.

She got to her feet and ran around in the cabin. Suddenly, the flutter of a fabric peered in the corner of his eyes and she was back, drying him with a blanket.

“There, wait. Try to stay warm.”

She then went to bring his clothes close to the fire to let them dry. Cullen ignored the pain and the splitting headache to sit back up, wrapping himself in the woolen cover. Cold, he was still cold in his bones and shuddering, but it was getting better. The tingling sensation on his feet and hands was slowly fading and a feeling of relief washed over him when he managed to move them again. She turned around. Their eyes locked across the room, and only then Cullen realized that she did not seem so cold herself, and her left hand was glowing.

“You look… blue,” she mumbled. The look of worry on her face grew as she frowned, and a crackle of light flickered from the Anchor. “Well, fuck.”

Cullen gaped as she caught the hem of her shirt to pull it over her head before she tossed it aside and she closed the distance between them. She dropped to her knees before him in nothing but simple white panties, then grabbed open the blanket he was holding against him.

“Wait, what are you…?” he blurted as she exposed his chest and straddled his lap.

“Just… Shut up and let me do it,” she instructed, but Cullen saw her return his blushing and she avoided his gaze. Her brows were furrowed in a conflicted expression with the way she pinched her lips in bashfulness. “There isn’t much else here to help me.”

He stared as she hugged him again, close, so close there was no gap between them anymore. Her belly pressed against his, her breasts molded onto his chest, and she buried his face in the crook of her neck. She was warm, exceptionally warm given the circumstances. She wrapped the blanket around them both then started rubbing his back vigorously with the palms oh her hands. He heard the Anchor burst with energy again, then she felt even warmer.

“I know, there’s… nothing proving body heat can prevent hypothermia,” she baffled in his ear while her hands ran up and down his shoulders in quick, energic moves applying pressure and friction along his spine. “But I have the Mark, and you don’t, so bear with me.”

She was all over him, her scent intoxicating, her hair tickling his nose, and Cullen barely remembered how to breath. He took a few seconds to gather his senses and sat still in her tight embrace. What was he supposed to do now? His bare feet were peeking out of the blanket, and Maker, what was he supposed to do of his hands? He quietly folded his knees and curled his toes on the edges of the wool then asked anxiously:

“In—Inquisitor… Can… Ah— What…” Words. he cleared his throat and she stiffened as she listened to him. “I… My hands…?”

“Ah!”

Uriell slightly backed away from him and took his hands in hers to join them in between them. Cullen had to avert his eyes not to stare at her chest when she rubbed his fingers one after the other.

“You’re right, they’re frigid cold!” she pointed out in worry. “Shit, how…?”

Cullen gasped when she put his hands flat against her belly and rubbed their backs with her palms as she leaned onto him again, locking him against her by hooking his shoulder in the crook of her neck. He could feel her abs and the fold of skin where her breasts began under his sprawled fingers, and it took all Cullen’s self-control not to move. Maker, she was warm, but mostly she was soft. Her thighs brushing against his, her belly, her chest, her neck, her hair, her hands; everything about her was soft. Her touch chased the cold away, a fuzzy feeling growing in his guts and heating him up from the inside. Cullen pressed his eyes closed and waited. Their hearts both beat fast against each other’s, communicating to one another’s feeling of embarrassment and trust. She held him close for a long but delicious time, rubbing his skin until she poured her energy and heat into him. After what might have been the fluffiest and most silent thirty minutes of his life, she sighed with relief against his neck.

“Are your feet okay?” she asked with concern in a low, breathy voice.

He wiggled his toes slightly under the cover; he could feel them again. He nodded quietly and Uriell let go of a sharp exhale.

“Thank the Maker.”

Cullen did not dare to move. His breathing had calmed, and only the headache and the sore throat remained; but overall, the cold had left him. If anything, he was feeling hotter and hotter to the point he had started sweating. His hands were still trapped between their stomachs, hot and clammy. His thighs had started to bead with sweat where the fur met his skin. His armpits and neckline were damp, and Maker, did he was conscious of how warm and wet he was where their bodies met. He had suspected a fever at first, but it was not just that. No, now that his senses had come back, he felt her. It was as if he was absorbing her through his skin, sinking in her touch, drowning in her scent, melting against her. She was a fire and he was burning against her; yet he did not want this to end. And she still did not move.

His heart was beating way too fast now that fear had passed. There was no way she couldn’t feel it, because her cheek was pressing right against his neck, and he could feel her heartbeat too. It was fast as well, strong and loud, reverberating through his own ribcage. He couldn’t hear the storm howling outside the cabin as he was too absorbed listening to her pulse. And Maker, he was glad to learn every part of his body had come back to life, but he wished his blood hadn’t left his head towards his midsection. Hopefully, she would not notice. Her hands had stopped rubbing his back, slowly, until they laid flat and rested on his shoulders in a tight, intimate embrace. They kept still, locked in place, as if they were afraid of moving and holding their breath. Cullen shuddered when her lips grazed along his neck when she finally spoke again.

“I… I think you’re good now. Can… Can you close your eyes please?”

Cullen silently nodded and obeyed, then he groaned when her body gently parted away from his. She wrapped the blanket on his shoulders, and her thighs brushed along his when she crawled backward. Cullen snuggled in the wool when he heard the sounds of her feet against the floor. The rustling of fabric, a sigh, and her voice still a bit shaky filled the room.

“It’s okay, you can open them now.”

She stood by the fire, looking away from him bashfully. She was so beautiful, face flushed red and bashful, tugging on the hem of her long shirt barely covering her. She started talking again, carefully avoiding his eyes.

“I’m sorry about that… maybe it was stupid, I don’t know… I didn’t have any other idea…”

Cullen swallowed the lump in his throat as he replied in shared embarrassment: “Oh, no, please, don’t be sorry… It was, er—good…? Oh! Well, not good like that, but… Maker’s breath, what am I saying…” Cullen hid his face in the blanket, aware the twitch on her face as he was making a fool of himself. “I mean… Thank you. I’m fine now. Thanks to you.”

They stood silent, the cracks of the fire filling the void over the hissing of the wind and the shaking glass of the windows. After what felt an eternity, Uriell walked a bit further away from him to check on his clothes.

“They’re not dry yet,” she breathed. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to stay like this for a little longer.”

“It’s fine,” he replied as he closed the blanket tighter around him. “It’s warm enough.”

He watched Uriell walk quietly to the window, still not glancing in his direction. Cullen caught a glimpse of her ass as she tiptoed to look outside, and he bit his lip, unable to avert his gaze. They were past the limit of a normal work relationship now, and damned he would be but she did look good.

“This isn’t getting better, if not even worse,” she said. “I’m afraid you’re stuck here with me, Commander.”

“There is no other place I would be.”

Uriell stiffened by the window, and Cullen felt a cold sweat running down his spine. He had replied without thinking. Was it the mood, the bonding over body touch that made him this bold?

“I—I mean…!” the stammering, again. “I… said I would be your guard, that I wouldn’t leave your side. If I’m here, it’s… because I was looking for you. I’m… sorry.”

That was right, he had failed. Cullen looked down where his feet were buried in the bear pelt. What a personal guard he was.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked softly. “Cullen?”

He did not raise his gaze as she walked back to him, not even when she kneeled by his side. Her presence was comforting, but it made him even more shameful.

“I’m sorry I was late. You… told me not to leave you alone; and I didn’t come to your side immediately after dinner, I… didn’t know if it was appropriate.”

Uriell sighed softly, then Cullen felt her hands laying on his shoulders.

“It’s okay, I should have said why. It’s my fault. What matters is that you’ve found me, and we’re both well.”

Her thumbs rubbed through the blanket in reassuring circles; and Cullen mustered the courage to look up at her, sheepishly.

“Are you sure you are okay?” his voice broke. “What… what happened back there? Did… did he hurt you?”

Uriell froze and stared at him intently. He could see in her eyes she was carefully thinking of her answer and picking her words; but she did not seem scared. She looked determined.

“Fear not, he did not have the time for that.” She squeezed his arm through the wool and her expression turned darker. “Maybe I should tell you. How I got these.” A hand flattened her shirt against her belly and held up his gaze. “You saw these last night, didn’t you?”

Cullen nodded silently and bashfully as he remembered her naked body coming out of the water, and the numerous wounds on her abdomen.

“I used to be betrothed.” Cullen’s eyes widened at the revelation, and she pushed on with a grimace. Betrothed? “A fine young noble man from Orlais, chosen by my mother. It turned out he was not as fine as he seemed.”

She pinched her lips, and Cullen pulled a hand out of the blanket to lay it on top of hers. Uriell did not seem comfortable with the story and he did not like where it was going. She smiled shyly, and continued.

“I found him in town harassing my half-sister, with his men. Thank the Maker, I found them before anything bad happened; but I dueled him. He didn’t like that. They attacked me all at once. I… killed them. Most of them.” Her voice faltered and she paused. “He stabbed me. Repeatedly. He was mad. My sister, she… she was a mage, Cullen, and she did not know it.” Uriell’s eyes locked with his, and he knew way too well what she meant. “She burned him. She burned the place down. I was rescued just in time; then locked away by my mother so she could deal with my betrothed’s disappearance. Now, I can’t trust most men anymore.”

Her nails dug in his arm, and Cullen listened, bewildered. He had no idea. Leliana had never shared the Inquisitor’s past with them aside from her noble origins, but she surely knew. Uriell had so many scars her skin didn’t bear and he had not suspected half of it.

“When we met Lord Jean-Marc, I knew he made me uncomfortable. At first, I didn’t know why, I just assumed he was flirty and I didn’t like that. Well, this is still true I guess… but something felt off.” Cullen’s heart jumped in his chest when she intertwined her fingers with his and looked back at her with round startled eyes. She was studying his hand with great attention. “At dinner… I did not feel a draft of air. He was touching me; with his foot. Across the table. Touching my leg.”

“What—What do you say? The little weasel, I—” Cullen blurted out in an access of anger. He knew something was wrong with the man, and yet he had not noticed anything. Cullen was furious, but if he was honest, it was partly against him for not realizing it sooner.

“Cullen,” she squeezed on his hand and he stopped. Her eyes were soft and kind, inviting him to calm down. “It’s okay. Thank you for… you know.” She looked at their hands linked together. “It made me feel safe. It was enough. And then, when I was in my room, he came. I noticed he had locked the door behind him, and I threatened him with the nightstand. What I wanted to say by all this is… I don’t trust half the men I meet, but I’m not afraid of making a scene anymore, and I would have knocked out the lad in one blow, but… that’s when I saw it again. The ghost.”

Cullen blinked and stared at her. Her expression was dead-pan serious. He was not sure he had heard correctly.

“The… what now?”

“The ghost, the spirit, the… whatever was attached to him,” Uriell insisted.

“You saw… a ghost?” Cullen repeated, incredulous. A cold sweat ran down his spine. He remembered the legends and rumors his men were talking about during their journey, and he had not believed any of it. Was she telling there was something after all?

“I think this is the Mark,” she mumbled, deep in thoughts. “I saw him, an old man with similar traits as one of the portraits we saw in the corridor today. He was hovering over him; I think he was possessing him and that I could see him because of my link to the Fade. Lord de Morrac tried to touch me and I… well I hit him, he deserved it anyway. Then I tried to use the Mark… and it exploded.”

“It… exploded?” Cullen was getting more and more confused. The possession, he could believe in, after all he had seen way too many possessions in his life. But why had not he seen the demon?

“Yes, I don’t know why, but I was pushed back through the window. When I got up, the Mark was sparkling, and somehow, it led me here. Look.”

Uriell let go of Cullen’s hand and rose to her feet. She showed him her palm, the Anchor shining green and bright. Then, she extended her hand behind Cullen, and the Mark burst with energy again.

“I pushed through the storm only because the Mark took me here, just like it does when there’s a rift nearby. I was warming myself up and about to find out why it led me here when you arrived. This. It’s because of this.”

Cullen shivered as she pointed out something behind him. Quickly, he scooped the blanket around him and rose to his feet. He had been so focused on her since the moment he had entered the shack, he had not looked around him to take in his surroundings. In front of the door, there was the hearth and the bear pelt, where he had laid so far. There was a small table and two chairs, covered with their clothes. Then he turned around. Behind him, he could see there was a single bed that had seen better days, an open and empty chest at its foot, a desk with another chair and a small crate on top of it.

Uriell walked towards the desk and the Anchor shone even brighter. “This cabin, it’s Lord Jean-Marc’s. I’ve found his journal on the desk. He used to come here a lot when he was younger.” He saw her reach for something in the crate and he stared with wide eyes as she took off its content and showed it to Cullen. It was a mask. An old male Orlesian mask, made of blue porcelain and painted with gold streaks. It was covered in dirt, but mostly, it was splattered in dried blood.

“Maker’s breath, what is this?” Cullen took a step back and she continued to inspect it. He suddenly felt cold and had a hard time breathing, as if the air was sucked out of the cabin. Locked. They were locked in. A prison in the woods. Cullen started to wheeze. “Why… Why are you touching it? What if it’s…”

“Cursed? Most likely,” Uriell stated. “Commander, step aside, please.”

Cullen stumbled backwards. He was shaking, panicking, his heart beating loudly within his chest, and he instinctively backed down to a corner of the room as Uriell walked slowly towards the hearth, holding the mask before her between her thumbs and indexes. She stopped as she stood before the fire, and looked at Cullen above her shoulder.

“Do you remember the story? Lady Louise de Morrac ended the curse of her House when she burned her family’s mask. What if it was not the only one? What if Jean-Marc was the one who found it?” Uriell turned her attention back to the fire. “But it ends now.” She tossed the mask in the flames.

It instantly shattered in the flames, then a shriek resonated in the cabin. The explosion doused the fire and the shack fell cold again. The atmosphere was entirely different, as if the storm had found a way inside and was picking up around them. Then he saw it. An old man stood in the middle of the room, shimmery green with Fade energy, creeping upon Uriell silently. Cullen wanted to warn her, but his voice died in his throat and she was faster. She turned back at once to face the spirit.

“Well tried.”

Uriell raised her glowing hand between them and the ghost was about to jump on her when she snapped her fingers. The Anchor flashed green and the ghostly shape burst into sparks with one last bloodcurdling scream. Cullen’s lungs filled again and he took a long sharp inhale.

“Cullen, are you okay?” Uriell ran to his side to support him as he was still shaken. He held on to her, looking where the spirit had disappeared.

“What was that?” he wheezed anxiously.

“Hopefully, the end of the de Morrac’s bloody history and the beginning of our leverage,” she shrugged. She was unphased, as if ghosts and spirits were not scarier than her usual opponents. “Can you stand?”

Cullen got back up on his feet and wrapped himself tighter in the blanket. Since the fire was out, the cold was slowly taking over the cabin again, and he noticed Uriell was shivering as well. She kneeled by the fire and cursed under her breath.

“Fuck. It was all the dry wood I could find. I can’t start a fire with this.” She looked around to check one last time and sighed heavily. Only the storm outside broke the silence when she got up and turned to face Cullen. In the dark room, he could barely see her and he heard her grunt as she picked up something heavy.

“Uriell…?”

She paused. Her voice betrayed a flutter when she replied: “Wait… Cullen? Are you… using my name now?”

Maker’s breath. He was thankful for the darkness now as he felt his cheeks burn red hot upon the realization.

“I… Sorry, I didn’t mean, I--!” he stammered. Oh no, what had he done? Had he crossed the line, finally?

“It’s okay, Cullen, I don’t mind. Actually, it kinda helps …”

“It… helps?” he repeated, unsure of what she meant. He started to see her a bit more clearly and could notice the fuzzy ends of the bear pelt in her arms.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Get on the bed.”

 Silence again. Had he heard correctly? “I’m sorry, Inquisitor… what?” he baffled, unsure on what to do anymore.

“Ah, titles again,” she scoffed and he saw her drawing near him. “We can’t light another fire, hopefully the curse is gone, but we still are locked in a cabin in the middle of a storm at night, and I guess you are as exhausted as I am; am I wrong?”

“I… yes, but…” Cullen stiffened when she stood in front of him. He could barely see her face, but her tone was serious, as usual. “I… I can sleep on the ground.”

“Don’t be silly now,” she replied curtly. “There is but one blanket, and this hide which had served as a rug for potentially decades. There is no more fire and we have to wait until the storm is over. No, Commander, this is an order; you’ll have to sleep with me tonight. So now, get on the bed.”

Cullen gulped to ease his throat. Her tone was unwavering and severe, and he knew she was not wrong. He quietly walked to where he had last seen the bed and felt her behind him as she followed closely. With every step he took, he could feel his heart beat faster. Stay calm, Rutherford. This is not what you think it is. It sure was cold now, and his feet were freezing on the wooden planks of the cabin. When he finally sat on the edge of the mattress, he cleared his throat and mustered to ask:

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am,” her voice was still a bit low and breathy. “Listen, I’m as embarrassed as you are… just bear with me until it’s safe. Now… please lie down so I can put this over.”

Cullen obeyed and sat deeper in the middle of the bed. Covered in darkness, he undid the cover on his shoulders to flattened it on top of him, then she put down the pelt on top. It was heavy and rough, but still a welcomed additional layer above the wool. He saw her shape round the bed on the other side, and she patted the edges of the mattress until she found a way to slid beneath the covers.

Her cold foot touched his leg, which lighted a spark in him. He made room for her and laid on his side as she snuggled on the bed.

“You’re going to fall over,” she whispered.

She was not wrong, Cullen laid on the edge of the mattress; but she was close, too close, and he tried to preserve her privacy with a gap between them.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” he replied quietly. It was not a lie after all.

“I am comfortable. I told you I trust you. Come closer.”

Cullen startled when she reached out and her chill fingers closed around his arm to tug him towards her. He swallowed roughly as he slid back to the middle of the mattress and gasped when he bumped into her. He could feel the brush of her hair under his chin, her hot breath on his neck, and how she did not let go of his arm.

“Let’… stay like this for a while,” she murmured.

He nodded to himself. Her body was warm despite her cold extremities, and his own shuddering stopped just by staying near her. They both fell quiet in the deafened screams of the storm, aware of the awkwardness of the situation, a silent agreement to share their body heat and keep each other away from the cold until the morning came. Cullen was stiff and way too self-conscious to relax though. He was focused on the rhythm of her breath against his skin, and had counted over two hundred when the grip on his arm loosened.

“Uriell?”

She did not reply. Maybe she had fallen asleep? The bed creaked slightly as Cullen turned to lie on his back. He took one deep long breath. Never, he had never imagined he would end up in bed almost naked by the Inquisitor’s side. She was so close, so sweet, so vulnerable; he had to fight the desire to hold her and touch her. She was trusting him, she had said it again, and given her experiences it looked like it was rare enough to be mentioned. He remembered the softness of her belly when she had warmed his hands between them and craved to graze her skin again. Cullen felt her breath upon him; her parted lips were so close, within reach, he couldn’t help but wonder what they tasted like. Tired, he was so tired, and yet he was afraid of falling asleep; he wanted to absorb as much of her as possible when he was still conscious, because it was likely this would never happen again. Maker, he wanted her, but the Fade’s grasp upon him was getting stronger. Please, not be nightmares.

“You should sleep.”

Her drowsy voice reached him in his half-conscious state. He did not answer nor move when a leg spread and curled on top of his thighs, covering him with another layer of warmth. She cuddled beside him, molding his body on his side and swallowing his arm against her when she closed the embrace and a hand hold on tightly to his opposite shoulder.

“Sleep well, Commander.”

And he did.

***

The storm vanished with the first rays of daylight. Leliana’s men found them the next morning when they were getting ready in their crispy cold but dry clothes. Probably to the Spymaster’s discretion, nobody teased them about the circumstances of their night, and the whole expedition was too busy being relieved to find them both and well. Solas, Vivienne and Dorian assisted the healer to ease their pain; aside from a lingering headache, Cullen and the Inquisitor were finally safe and out of grasp of a potential pneumonia.

Ser Barris had done as Cullen had ordered before his run after the Inquisitor; and after an extensive interrogation, the Inquisition had obtained from Jean-Marc de Morrac the confession of his inappropriate behavior. This, and the Inquisitor’s tale of finding the last mask of the de Morrac’s house gave Josephine and Leliana enough leverage to gain the forever gratitude and allegiance of the Orlesian house, as well as a few Antivan silks Vivienne had laid her eyes on in the mansion the day before. As they were about to leave for the next length of their journey, the rumors about Val Firmin had already started to change, probably under Leliana’s influence. They might not have had the time to meet the other noble families of the region, however the tale of how the Inquisitor single-handled fought the ghost of Count Evram de Morrac spread wide and cross the area, and the Spymaster’s smile grew as the Inquisition’s influence extended.

Chapter Text

The only sounds disturbing Uriell that day were the neighing of the horses and the pounding of their hooves against the ground. she had been granted a day of respite in the calm of her carriage—no advisors, no companions, just herself and her thoughts. And Maker knew how many of those she had.

She doodled on her sheet of paper, then scribbled furiously over it, dissatisfied with the result. Though she lacked focus, inspiration was certainly not in short supply. Glancing shyly out of the window, she turned her gaze toward the Commander, riding beside her door as he had become accustomed to. Her heart skipped a beat, and she allowed herself to sigh, alone in the privacy of the carriage, far from prying ears.

She couldn’t help but admire the sharp lines of his profile, the determination in his eyes, the softness of his hair… and quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing.

She had always found him to her taste. From the moment they first met on the battlefield at Haven, she had known. Though she didn't have specific preferences when it came to partners, something about that burly blond warrior had caught her attention. Their eyes had locked over the war table, and from that moment, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something special about him. Well, that was all it had been—until recent events.

Uriell stared down at her piece of paper. She was sitting in a sea of abandoned sketches—men's outfits, most of them crossed out or furiously scribbled upon. She simply couldn’t draw what she had in mind. The idea had come to her the other day while she tried on dresses, corsets, and costumes for Val Royeaux and Halamshiral. The Commander was the only one who had a basic uniform to wear for the ball—nothing more than the same outfit he wore for every meeting on the road. And somehow, Uriell couldn’t accept that.

Not that he didn’t look handsome in it— Maker, he did. But she knew it could be better. She knew there was a way to emphasize his silhouette, to bring out those broad shoulders, to highlight his toned, thick thighs. And she would be the one to design it.

She picked up her pencil and started drawing again. As she doodled the outlines of his silhouette, flashes of the last night came back to her. She pictured his naked body in her mind, every single muscle which had flinched under her fingers the night before. Oh no. Uriell muffled a squeal as the memory surfaced. She had spent the whole morning trying to push it from her mind, but now it was impossible. All she could think of was that fateful encounter with her personal guard in the woods. He wasn’t supposed to follow her like that; she hadn’t expected it at all. She had been deeply flustered from the moment he had fallen upon her after she had opened the door to the cabin. Would he really risk everything just to be true to his word? And then the night. Maker’s breath, what a night.

Her insides squirmed with shame when she remembered how she had straddled him and undressed him without any ceremony. She had been acting under adrenaline and fear, afraid to lose him to frostbite and hypothermia and had not thought twice before she had ripped his clothes open under his bewildered eyes. He had been quite compliant to it, and Uriell blushed again at the thought. He might have been stunned from the cold; yet he still had submitted to her fiddling hands without a fight to her great surprise. The sight of his parted lips and surprised eyes while she had exposed his skin more and more to the fire still haunted her mind. This was probably the most striking sign of trust he could have given her; and Uriell couldn’t help but feel guilty for the thoughts she had been bearing afterwards.

Maker , she had imagined quite a few times what he would look like under the armor, but it was not even remotely near any of what she had in mind; it was far better. She had held back a gasp at the sight of his tensed, shivering torso, the outline of every muscle of his arms, the definition of his legs. So perfectly defined. Adorned with scars here and then, from training and fights, the true body of a warrior. The image was seared into her mind; she could never forget it now. The feeling too. Like his cold hands warming up against her stomach. Oh, Maker, what had she done? She was utterly embarrassed. She had thrown herself naked at him in a desperate attempt to keep him warm, surely there must have been another way . Yet she did not regret it in the slightest. She treasured the memory of this moment dearly, a fantasy turned true that she would bring to her grave and fondly picture at nights when too cold and lonely.

While he had not made any inappropriate move that night, she vividly remembered his body’s reaction to hers. She had feigned to ignore it, but her ego bubbled to twice its size in her chest when she had felt him harden between her thighs. In the end, the Commander was still a man. Maybe, after that, he would be able to acknowledge her charms as a person and a potential partner, and not just some kind of a Chantry idol; this would be the best compliment he could ever give her. As well as one of the hottest fuels to her imagination. Oh, she would never forget, not after the moment they had shared in bed.

She had woken up first that morning, laying on top of him; how did she ever climb there ? She had come back to consciousness to the beating of his heart, to the warmth of his body, to one of his hands laid flat in the crook of her back. She had no memory of how it had happened, and she was relieved that he was still asleep, so the erratic pounding of her chest wouldn’t give her away. She had reluctantly slipped away from his embrace in embarrassment, only to take the opportunity to dress up before he could wake up. He already had plenty of reasons not to be able to look her in the eye today, and she didn’t want to add another to the list. And yet, he hadn’t seemed as bothered as she’d expected.

Uriell glanced out the window again. What was he thinking? Was she the only one blushing and looking away every time their eyes met now? Did he not remember the night, or was he putting on a façade to spare her from embarrassment in front of the Inquisition? Uriell was both grateful and frustrated, somehow wishing it would make him at least as flustered as she was. She shook her head and refocused on the paper lying on her knees. No feelings, no thinking. She had work to do.

***

After almost a full day of travel, the Inquisition decided to stop at Lake Celestine for the night. Cullen sighed in relief, the soreness in his back easing as he dismounted. He had pushed through the ride, using the journey to keep his mind focused on the road ahead instead of the recent… events. He did his best to stay busy, helping set up tents and organizing the camp with the rest of his recruits, all the while keeping an eye out for Uriell’s silhouette. He hoped no one would notice the redness in his face every time his gaze fell upon her. Memories of her skin flashed before his eyes at every turn, all day long. Each time, he had to take a deep breath and push the vision away. Could he ever stop thinking about it?

It was hard enough to focus with her around, let alone add such thoughts to his torment. He had found himself thinking about her constantly, and while the memories were lovely and pleasant to dwell on, there was a creeping, insidious thought at the back of his mind: What was he doing? Admitting to himself that he had a crush on the Inquisitor was one thing, but being unable to get her out of his mind was another. And it was somehow painful.

The flutter in his chest had been sweet at first, but it slowly turned into tight tugs and squeezes on his heart every time he saw her smile. He, who was never the best with words, couldn’t speak a single one that day—not even the mundane ones. Entire sentences died in his throat, swallowed roughly like too large a gulp of water. He had never been so silent. His men, sensing something was off, kept their distance, unsure of what it meant for them. In addition, Diavolo’s threatening glare kept anyone from approaching. The Commander was lost in thought and not to be disturbed.

Something was not quite right. Despite the healer’s work, could Cullen have caught a fever? His head felt light, his heart would race unpredictably, his skin was slick with sweat, and inside, he felt unbearably hot. But mostly, he felt… heavy. Some dark presence seemed to have settled across his chest, growing within him and making each breath painful. It slipped through the cracks of his mind, poisoning his blood, keeping him unnaturally warm. At least, that was how he pictured it. Despite his pleas and the detailed description of his symptoms, the healer found no illness, no demonic possession—and instead, gave Cullen something else to worry about.

Cullen wandered aimlessly through the camp, pretending to inspect it and ensure everything was ready for their rest, when he heard her voice.

“Commander.”

He froze, a slight shiver running down his spine. He wasn’t ready to face her, not truly. Reluctantly, he turned around, slowly, carefully avoiding her gaze.

“Lady Inquisitor,” he replied, his voice flat. He focused on the sword hanging from her belt, its scabbard gleaming, before his attention shifted to the way her arms were crossed tightly over her chest.He fought against his mind, reminiscing what was underneath.

“I need your insight on some matters,” she ordered, a hint of exasperation in her tone. “Would you please follow me?”

“Right away.”

Cullen waited until she walked away to lift his head. Was she upset with him? He couldn’t help but jump to the worst possible conclusions as he followed her in silence across the camp. He could have sworn he saw Ser Barris staring at him, but he wasn’t about to endure that inquisitive gaze right now, so he straight-up ignored him. Whatever the Inquisitor wanted to discuss, it must have been something serious, because she led him straight to her tent. Uriell stopped in front of the flap and turned to check if he was still following. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and his heart skipped a beat. Her expression was unreadable.

“Come with me,” she instructed him before disappearing into her tent.

Cullen glanced quickly to the left and right, unsure of what to do. Was anyone watching him? He wouldn’t disobey a direct order, though. He stepped into the Inquisitor’s temporary quarters and stood there awkwardly. The usual bedroll and furs were there, along with a stool and a small, makeshift desk—the same setup he and the other advisors had in their own tents. They were alone.

When Uriell motioned for him to come closer, he managed to gather his thoughts and speak.

“What can I do for you, Inquisitor?”

“No, nothing,” she replied, heading straight for a satchel by her camp bed. She pulled out a vial of red liquid and handed it to him. “It’s more about what I can do for you, for once. Take it. You look awful.”

He gently took the vial from her hand before she returned to her desk. He stared at the potion, his heart pounding in his chest. Cullen wasn’t even sure he could manage to swallow it, as his throat tightened, but he uncorked it and immediately recognized the familiar scent of embrium and elfroot—a healing draught. He pressed the vial to his lips and sipped it slowly, glancing up when Uriell turned to make sure he was drinking it. The taste was as sweet and stinging as usual, though a little spicier and hotter than he remembered. But maybe that wasn’t the potion. The tent was magically warmed, and he could feel her gaze on him—blazing hot without a single touch.

“Ah, er—Thank you,” he stammered, corking the vial again. “How did you know?”

“You spent most of your day with the healer,” she replied promptly, as though she had been expecting the question. “You already suffer from migraines, and… well, I was afraid you’d caught a cold.”

Uriell looked away. Was she blushing? Cullen felt incredibly self-conscious in that moment, not knowing what to do, what to say—damn, he didn’t even know how to stand anymore. He blushed in response. The way she seemed to avoid his gaze felt too familiar. Was she, too, thinking of the night before? She, who had seemed so confident back then, now looked just as uncomfortable as he was—which, unexpectedly, filled him with a vibrant, new, and titillating emotion. Some kind of delight. Something sweet and emboldening. Hope.

“But I’m glad to see you’re doing okay,” she said abruptly, as if to break the thick silence hanging in the air. “I… wanted to see you about something else, actually.”

She locked eyes with him. Maker’s breath—she was beautiful. Her brows furrowed, her lips pressed together, and she placed a hand on the desk to lean against it. The dim light from the few candles inside the tent wrapped around her silhouette, casting a breathtaking outline. Cullen caught himself staring and had to shake himself free from the spell before finally stammering:

“Well, er, yes, I am here, I… What was it?”

She glanced over her shoulder at something on her desk, inviting him to come closer. He did so carefully, as if not to startle a cat. Then he saw it: papers scattered across the wooden surface, a rough pencil, and—well—a lot of sketches. What was the meaning of this? He must have looked quite surprised, because the Inquisitor spoke before he could ask.

“So, don’t get mad. I know you hate that kind of thing,” she waffled, shuffling through the sketches. “But… I’ve been working on your outfit for the ball. At Halamshiral. Halamshiral’s ball.”

Cullen’s eyes widened as he tried to gather his thoughts. Now that she’d said it, he noticed all the sketches were of a male figure wearing different kinds of uniforms, with notes scribbled in the margins.

“What do you mean…?” he breathed, still unsure of the direction of the conversation. These sketches were actually quite good; he had no idea she had that kind of talent. “Did you make all of these?”

“Yes, well…” She twisted her hands in embarrassment. “That’s kind of my hobby. I’ve been designing my own outfits for the ball and our stay in Val Royeaux. Then Josephine showed me what you were supposed to wear, and… well, I thought I could make something better. If you don’t mind.”

“What, all of this?” He hurried, taken aback by the sheer number of sketches. It must have taken her quite some time to come up with that many designs. When had she even found the time to do this?

“No, silly,” Uriell laughed, her sly smile betraying how much she was enjoying his confusion. “Of course not. I’d be happy if you agreed to wear one. I just want you to pick one.”

“But… why?”

Uriell shifted on her feet, adjusting her balance as she glanced back at him.

“Because I actually want to. I think you’d look even more handsome. It wouldn’t hurt, you know, at a ball. And… well, I’d see how I could match…”

The last part she murmured softly, her gaze deliberately drifting away from him. It didn’t matter, though, as Cullen’s pulse roared in his ears, drowning out her voice. “Handsome”? Did she just call him “ handsome ”? His cheeks and ears ignited, and the edge of his gorget suddenly felt far too tight around his neck.

“Does it bother you…?” Uriell asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. By the way she fidgeted, Cullen could tell she was hoping for some sort of response—anything, really. Yet, he was so taken aback that words completely escaped him. What was she referring to, exactly? Ah, yes, the entire situation.

“I, er—hm, I…” He struggled to find the right words. Words, Rutherford. Sentences. You’ve used them before. “I am… actually flattered that you’d think about me, and I… Well, I didn’t expect any of this,” he gestured toward the desk. “I didn’t know you could do this and I—Well, these are all really impressive…”

“Do I have your approval to make one of them?” she asked, covering her mouth with her hand as if lost in thought but also trying to hide her reaction, depending on his answer.

“I…” He did not know what to say. Truth be told, he couldn’t care less about what he wore to the damn ball, as long as it was comfortable. He had brushed off all of Josephine’s attempts to make him look more fashionable—he had no interest in getting involved with all that. But this was different. Was she thinking of him when she sketched all of this? “I… yes, you have my approval. Thank you for all your hard work, Inquisitor.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards despite her efforts to hide her smile. 

“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with delight. “Okay, then, which one do you prefer? These are my personal favorites.”

She handed him several papers, her excitement barely contained. Cullen glanced at the sketches, still trying to process everything, unsure of where to direct his attention. They were all undeniably elegant, though he had no idea what any of this meant or what it entailed. His eyes flicked over them until he noticed a red pattern among the designs. At least this one seemed close enough to his usual formalwear, not too far removed from what he was accustomed to.

“Ah, I really like that one,” she said when he pointed to the sketch. “I think the colors will suit you perfectly. Thank you, Commander! I’ll make sure you outshine everyone in the room.”

Cullen stared at her in silence as she gathered the papers and began tidying up the desk. The entire situation felt surreal. Today, he had discovered a new side of the Inquisitor—one he had never imagined. The gift of her time. She seemed genuinely invested in the task, her guard lowered as she excitedly explained the kinds of fabrics she envisioned for the designs. Passionate. She was passionate. Not the usual stoic Inquisitor. Not the Game-playing noble. But a creative, passionate person who cared enough about him to offer such an unexpected act of service. And she thought he was handsome .

“Now I have to ask you something…”

Her voice pulled him back to reality. She had neatly put away her drawing materials and was now staring at him with intense focus. Her eyes drifted down to his feet, carefully, analytically, scanning him slowly, all the way up to his head. Cullen swallowed, the dryness in his throat only growing as he felt the weight of her piercing gaze.

“I know this is a lot but… I need to take your measurements.”

“My… My what?”

His heart raced in his chest as Uriell drew closer.

“Your measurements, Commander. I need them. For the pattern. And the fabric.” There was an undeniable poise in her voice, but her face was still flushed, a subtle tinge of red coloring her cheeks. “I… We were quite… close yesterday, but that’s not enough to actually sew anything, you know.”

“What… What exactly do you need?” Cullen croaked. He remained rooted in place, her proximity stole his breath away. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts scattered, leaving him speechless, disoriented, utterly dumbfounded, and unsure of what might come next.

“Well, if that’s alright with you,” she continued, her tone gentle yet steady, “I’ll need to join you after dinner, once you’ve taken off your armor. Then, I’ll just need to take a few quick measurements. Height, a few for your bust, arms, legs… Nothing too complicated. It’ll be fast. Your tent?”

“… Very well,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and rough.

***

Cullen could barely eat that night. He sat by the fire with Ser Barris, who had tried to press him with questions, but the Commander remained silent. He pretended to still be suffering from a migraine, and soon enough, the templar gave up on his probing. What was all this about? Things were unfolding too quickly, far too quickly for him to process. Had he really agreed to meet the Inquisitor after dark? In his tent? In his… sleeping clothes?

It was a good thing he had actually brought some, he thought, since he was more accustomed to sleeping in the nude in the privacy of his own chambers. Cullen quickly shook the thought away. This was purely professional . Well, not exactly, but it wasn’t due to any misplaced intentions. It was a reasonable request. Probably. Somehow. Nothing shady. Only for the ball.

Cullen kept glancing at the Inquisitor from across the camp, waiting for a sign that she was finished with her meal so he could leave. When she finally stood, Cullen hurriedly took his leave under the dismayed looks of Ser Barris and a few of his recruits. He strode back to his ten, then rushed inside and closed the flaps behind him. A groan escaped him—surprising even himself. He was… restless. Maybe he did have a fever after all.

“Calm down, Rutherford. This is something weird, yes, but nothing too daunting.”

He pulled his hand over his eyes, trying to block the light from the flickering enchanted candles, and massaged his temples with his thumb and index finger. Pressing his palm against his face, he dragged it down roughly, the leather scraping against his stubble, until he finally exhaled. It was nothing.

He carefully removed his mantle, pausing for a moment to hold it before him in quiet recollection. He could picture her again, a few nights earlier, barely dressed and freezing cold from her bath in the river, nestled within the fur of his coat. A fresh blush crept onto his face. That wouldn’t do . With swift hands, he folded the mantle and placed it on his bed. Then, slowly but mechanically, he undid the clasps and buckles of his armor, his practiced hands trembling just slightly. Gloves and gambeson were removed last, leaving him in nothing but his shirt, pants, and boots. Would that suffice? It probably would.

Cullen stood motionless in the center of the tent. He was ready—at least, he thought he was. And now… what? His awareness expanded beyond his own thoughts, suddenly attuned to the noises outside his tent: soldiers walking around, preparing for the night. He could hear the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation, while he stood, vulnerable, in what might as well have been his underwear. Waiting. Painfully self-conscious. Waiting.

After a few minutes, Cullen admitted to himself that this was ridiculous. He sat at his desk, ears flushed red, his head in his hands. What in the Maker’s name was he doing? Was he really going to wait for her like this? Work. He always had work to do.

With an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, Cullen pulled out a handful of reports he hadn't had the chance to go through yet and began reading. His mind, however, was all over the place. He cursed under his breath when he realized he’d been reading the same line five times. He was a mess. Focus , he told himself with a gentle slap to the cheek.

It didn’t help as much as he had hoped.

He probably spent another ten minutes trying to make sense of the paper, blocking out any distracting thoughts, when she finally called to him.

“May I come in?”

He scrambled to his feet, barely managing to keep the pile of reports from spilling onto the ground as he welcomed her in. She stepped into the tent carefully, a warm cloak wrapped around her. They had long since left the coldest regions of their journey, though the night was still crisp. Her face was still a little flushed, and her blonde hair was a barely-tied, happy mess. She looked lovely—not that she didn’t look lovely usually, but there was something about her tonight. She looked only-here-for-you lovely.

She greeted him with a nod, which Cullen returned. Then she glanced around the tent, curiosity flickering across her face as she took in her surroundings. Cullen, too entranced, could only stare at her. She pulled her design and a quill from underneath her coat. It was she who broke the silence first.

"Thank you again, Commander. I promise, this will be quick."

Cullen responded with a light grunt, unable to trust himself to speak. She moved past him quietly and laid her materials on the desk. Her cloak slipped to the ground, revealing the very same shirt and pants she had worn the other night in Montsimmard. He stared at the cloak, desperately trying not to remember her wet figure glistening under the moonlight.

As she closed the distance between them, Cullen caught a glimpse of a measuring tape she held in her hand.

"Could you... please?" she asked, appearing in his field of view with an inquisitive expression.

His heart was already racing, and Cullen dreaded what was to come.

"Yes, sorry. Let's get this over with," he cleared his throat, straightening and opening his arms slightly, unsure of what was expected of him. "What should I do?"

"There, let me."

Cullen startled at her touch when she cupped his shoulders with both hands. The warmth of her palms radiated through his tunic as she gently turned him to catch more light from the enchanted candles.

“Stretch out your arm,” she instructed.

He obeyed almost mechanically, in a military manner. She circled his shoulder with the tape and jotted down a number on the edge of her drawing. Then, she measured the circumference of his bicep, his wrist, and the length of his arm and forearm. Each movement was quick, precise, and focused. Her delicate fingers slid along his arm to adjust the tape, and he shivered at the unexpected touch. It was much more tactile than he’d imagined. Wherever she grazed him, a sweet tingle lingered.

“Now the neck,” she warned.

The tape wrapped around his throat and tightened slightly, a single finger sliding between his skin and the tape to ensure he wouldn’t choke. Cullen’s heart leaped in his chest at the sudden pressure around his neck, momentarily leashed to her expert hands. She didn’t yank it, thankfully—he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted to that . Cullen only wished she wouldn’t feel the pounding of his pulse beneath her touch. The feeling of vulnerability crept in once more. He was practically at her mercy, letting her maneuver him so easily—and yet he didn’t mind. There was something captivating in watching her focus on him, study him, touch him. If only his skin wasn’t threatening to burst into flames every time she so much as grazed him...

She noted down the distance between his neck and shoulder, then grasped both of his wrists at once. Baffled, Cullen allowed her to pull his arms and hands up. He wouldn’t dare fight against her light but firm grip. His breath quickened, limp and obedient in her hold, as her eyes met his.

“Ah, sorry, I should have told you... don’t move.”

A crack of the tape and she had it wrapped around his torso. She made sure it lay flat against his body, as parallel to the ground as she could, ensuring the tape ran over what she called “the biggest point of his chest.” He shivered in confusion when the edge of the measuring band slid across his nipples. It seemed intentional, as Uriell brushed through the tape to ensure its positioning, and a hot sensation spread across his face in response. Now his throat felt even tighter, and Cullen held his breath. What if someone walked in at this moment? Worse—what if it was Ser Barris?

But Uriell was quick and efficient, noting down the number just as swiftly as she had with the other measurements. Cullen sighed in relief. She didn’t seem to have noticed his reaction. However, after another crack of the tape, she was now holding him firmly by the waist.

“Sorry, Commander. I just need to find where your belly button is.”

Holding the tape with one hand and tracing his abs with the other, she brushed against his skin through his shirt until one of her nails found the navel. Her head was dangerously close to his chest. Cullen held still, praying to the Maker that she wouldn’t hear the loud thumps of his heartbeat.

The tape tightened around his waist, just as it had around his chest, and another number was jotted down on the paper. Uriell pinched her lips and hesitated.

“Don’t move, this will be a bit awkward...” she whispered under her breath.

The tape whipped through the air once more, and this time, she made it slide across his buttocks. Cullen couldn’t help but gasp in surprise. She winced and hastily apologized.

“Sorry, I’ll be quick.”

Delicate yet precise, she made sure to note the measurements of his hips as quickly as she could. Air. He needed air! He only caught his breath when her hands flew away from his midsection.

“Same for the arm, but now the leg,” Uriell inquired.

Cullen spread his stance slightly and dared not move as she circled one of his thighs with the ribbon. She did the same with one of his calves, then measured the length of his leg and thigh. She rose to meet his gaze, her face just as flushed as his. She had been so serious during the entire ritual; he hadn’t noticed she had probably felt just as awkward as he had.

“And finally,” she sighed, "the height.”

She adjusted his position again, then laid the tip of the tape at the junction between his neck and shoulder.

“Can you hold that for me, please?”

Cullen followed her lead as she proceeded to unroll the band down to his feet. Her hands slid along his body as she kneeled before him, ensuring the measuring tape was perfectly taut. He couldn’t help but jump when she steadied herself by grabbing his thigh, causing him to accidentally let go of the end he had been holding.

“Ah,” she laughed when the ribbon landed on her face. “Let’s try again!”

Cullen gawked at her as she started over and noted down the last numbers she needed. How could she be so calm? After all this… touching and grabbing and… closeness. She walked a few steps away, going through all the measurements to ensure she hadn’t missed one. This gave Cullen a moment to break away from his silent agitation. He turned away from her, making sure she wouldn’t see his face as he gasped and balled a fist against his chest. He could taste his heart in his throat, still unsure whether he should be relishing this moment of intimacy or simply mortified. These memories would likely haunt him just as the last ones had— when would this ever end?

“Hm, Commander? I… Thank you.”

Her voice, lower and shyer than usual, brought him back to the moment. He looked over his shoulder and there she was, composed and gathered, holding her supplies to her chest and her cloak in one hand. She held his gaze with intent, though the twitching in her posture betrayed her nervousness.

“I’m sorry, this is awkward,” she added precipitously. “I’m actually used to this, but you’re, er—intimidating.”

“… Intimidating ?” Cullen gaped.  

Uriell frowned, evaluating whether he was making fun of her.

“I… I mean…” Cullen held back a nervous laugh. “You’re the Inquisitor . If anyone here was intimidated, I assure you it was me.”

“That’s—” Uriell lunged forward to retort something before her gaze darkened and dropped to the floor. “I… I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. And… you’re still our Commander.” She looked back at him, carefully choosing her words. “Leader of the Inquisition’s armies. You could probably tear me in two if you wanted to. Plus, if looks could kill, surely Leliana would have murdered half of Thedas. But I’d probably be dead because of you. It’s like… you’re judging me most of the time.”

Cullen’s eyes widened, taken aback by her confession. Had she been afraid of him all this time? He had put so much effort into keeping her at a distance until this trip, but he never imagined it had left such an impression on her.

“I know I’m the Inquisitor,” she said quietly. “We both have to live with our titles. But… can we pretend to be normal people? Just for once?”

The weight that had burdened her chest now seemed to settle on his own. He saw her clearly for the first time—not the Inquisitor—but just her. Vulnerable. Real.

“How do we do that?” he asked, his voice a little softer than usual.

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Care to walk and talk?”

***

“So yeah, I guess I kind of miss the water.”

Uriell gazed thoughtfully at the moon’s reflection over Lake Celestine. It was late, the camp a distant memory now. After the awkwardness in Cullen’s tent, she had invited him to slip away for a while, hoping to reconnect as equals. Truth be told, she often felt uncomfortable with the way he treated her—harsh, curt replies, constantly reminding her of her position. After the events of the last few days, she had hoped that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see her as more than the Inquisitor. But now, she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t entirely blame him; she had been guilty of doing the same, picturing him only as the Commander.

That was when it hit her—maybe the problem wasn’t that they were pushing each other away, but that they simply hadn’t spent enough time together. They needed to know each other better, to learn tolerance through shared experience.

At first, Cullen had hesitated, but when she’d asked him to accompany her—as her personal guard might—he couldn’t object. They had made their way through the camp, carefully avoiding the others, until they finally reached the shore of Lake Celestine, settling beneath a weeping willow to watch the tranquil scene. They had exchanged stories of their families. What better way to humanize oneself than by sharing tales of childhood?

Uriell spoke of her many brothers, most of them Templars or priests for Ostwick’s Chantry, and her half-siblings, who were the closest to her heart. Cullen had met her half-brother Kariell, who was now working for the Inquisition alongside his mother, Lavaliel. She had shared stories of her parents: how Lady Trevelyan was the harshest woman she had ever known, and her father, the kindest, most loving man. She had told him of the Grand Tourney, and how she once masqueraded as a knight—only to accidentally compete in the event. There were stories of riding lessons and her cherished memories with her horse, Diavolo.

In exchange, Cullen had done the same. It turned out the Commander of the Inquisition had brothers and sisters too, though he was always late in sending news and letters to them—something he vowed to remedy soon. He spoke of how he had dreamed of becoming a Templar, and how he had joined them at the age of thirteen. He shared some details about his training as a Templar, but Uriell could sense his discomfort when the conversation turned to the Order, so they shifted topics. Maybe, when he trusted her more, she could ask him about that.

She already knew the broad strokes of his past, especially the events in Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall, as Leliana had felt it necessary to brief her on the main points of each of her advisors’ histories. But now wasn’t the time to pry further. Instead, Uriell had steered the conversation toward likes and dislikes, eventually landing on her love for swimming. She was happy to share that Ostwick had the best beaches, and she spoke of them fondly.

“You know, I don’t think I ever actually swam in the sea. Or the ocean, for that matter,” Cullen mused aloud. “Back in Kirkwall, all I did was work, and I never really had the time to rest or do anything else.”

“Then you should definitely try it sometime, when all of this is over,” Uriell said with a hearty laugh. “Or maybe in Val Royeaux!”

Her eyes lit up at the thought. After all, the city was built right on the shores of the Walking Sea.

“Because you honestly think our Ambassador won’t have our entire schedule mapped out for our stay there?” Cullen chuckled in return. “Both of us will be on high alert. Not to say on high watch.”

“I don’t know…” she said with a playful smile. “We could always sneak out. We’ve been quite good at that so far.”

“ We?”

Uriell shivered at Cullen’s softened tone. She glanced at him and caught a glimpse of a smirk, which twisted his lip scar in the most surprising, yet oddly exquisite way. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly regained her composure, careful not to trip over her words.

“Well, yes, of course! Did you think I’d miss that opportunity, Commander ?” She winked at him, trying to recover her confidence.

“I didn’t think you’d be so interested in the experience, my Lady .”

Oh . That was definitely different. Uriell quickly looked away, the rush of blood coloring her cheeks. It wasn’t quite the familiarity she’d hoped for, but it was better than being called Inquisitor. Or was it just a tease? When had he become so… smooth ?

“Well!” Uriell cleared her throat. “Of course, I am. For all I know, you might not even know how to swim. I’d have to watch over you.”

“Hey,” Cullen laughed, feigning indignation, “I might have underestimated your riding skills, but please don’t underestimate my swimming! I may not have swum in the sea , but my siblings and I spent plenty of time at the lake, thank you very much . Have you never heard of Lake Calenhad?”

Uriell grinned at his jests and lightly punched him on the arm before pointing at the water in front of them.

“Oh yeah?” she teased. “Well, I’ve never seen you swim. Care to demonstrate?”

Cullen followed her gaze, his toothy smile still hanging on his face, as though he were thinking of a clever comeback. The weather had improved significantly, and they had finally reached an altitude where the snow could not hold any longer. He seemed to be genuinely considering the challenge. Uriell bit her lip without realizing it. Damn, he was handsome . The moonlight danced off his hair, highlighting the shape of his nose and brows. Now that he had relaxed and seemed more comfortable, she noticed the fine lines around his eyes, the playful curve of his lips, and the way his collarbone peeked out from under his shirt…

His eyes met hers. That smug look of his took her breath away as he leaned in and whispered.

“Is that a suggestion, or an order, Inquisitor?”

Uriell gaped, trying to focus on anything but his mouth, but his gaze was just as dangerous to meet. Her thoughts raced. Oh, so now he was playing that game?

“All I’m seeing is someone avoiding the question,” she pushed him back with a hand to his chest. “I think I might actually go for it myself.”

She rose to her feet abruptly, turning and walking toward the edge of the lake. Her face felt like it was on fire, and the thought of a bath suddenly didn’t seem so bad. Maybe it would knock some sense into her. The cold water would be a welcome relief.

“Inquisitor, what…?”

Without looking back, Uriell slipped beneath the cascading canopy of the weeping willow. The shadows there were thick, and she carefully tiptoed toward the trunk, doing her best to keep her balance on the slick, muddy ground. Her hand found the rough bark, and she swiftly stripped off her boots, pants, and shirt, laying them neatly on a protruding root. The dense foliage shielded her from view, but still, she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest as she made her way toward the water.

“Inquisitor, please, what should I—”

“Wait a second!”

Uriell entered the water and quickly immersed herself, the coolness enveloping her like a welcome embrace. The lake was refreshing, far less biting than the river in Montsimmard, and the steady pulse of the Anchor on her hand still radiated warmth. In a few moments, she felt a sense of ease wash over her. She dove beneath the surface, relishing the rush of coolness, before resurfacing just outside the canopy of the weeping willow, meeting Cullen’s astonished gaze.

“This was not a challenge!” he exclaimed, his voice betraying a slight tremor. His stance was awkward as he fidgeted, unsure how to act, his eyes shifting between her and the water. Uriell grinned, feeling a surge of victory.

“I know, but you took too long.” She submerged herself once more, diving under the surface, her body moving fluidly through the water. She broke the surface again, taking a deep breath and turning back to him. “You should come in, though. It’s very refreshing. A chance to wash off the journey’s dirt.”

“Maker’s breath…” Cullen let out a long sigh.

For a moment, she wondered if he would actually take the plunge, but then she heard the soft rustle of leaves as he moved under the tree’s shelter. Uriell’s heart skipped a beat. Was he really going to join her? She hadn’t thought it through—her teasing had only been meant to keep the upper hand, not to provoke this response. Had she pushed too far?

Her breath caught as the water splashed, and she held it as he emerged from beneath the canopy. His hair clung to his face, damp and disheveled, his expression a mixture of amusement and resolve as he wiped the water from his eyes.

“Oof—Happy now?” he asked, drawing nearer, his voice tinged with mock frustration. “See? Surely, you didn’t think I couldn’t swim?”

Uriell tried to swim away, but Cullen was faster than she’d anticipated. In the blink of an eye, he was by her side, his grin wide with pride.

“I get it, I get it!” she conceded, her voice flustered as she did her best not to look at him. “Alright, yes, you can swim. I can see that!”

He chuckled once more, a final note of playful triumph before he took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he let out a sigh of satisfaction.

“Well, that’s… invigorating,”

“Isn’t it?” Uriell agreed with a laugh, her tone light, though her mind was still buzzing. “The sea is much warmer. Hopefully, Val Royeaux’s will be too.”

“I don’t really mind,” Cullen replied between ragged breaths, his voice more casual now. “Cold usually helps calm my migraines, you know. It’s not that bad.”

As much as she thought it was improper, Uriell couldn’t help but glance furtively in his direction. He had, after all, removed his shirt, and the sight of his bare neck and shoulders emerging from the water made her heart skip a beat. His strong arms flexed, keeping him steady in the water, while his damp hair clung to his face, adding to the rugged appeal that always seemed to radiate from him. The moonlight danced on the water’s surface, casting fleeting reflections across his skin.

It was… a lot to take in.

Had it really been that long since her last relationship that she was now stealing glances at her Commander, of all people? She had met countless new people in her position of Inquisitor, but there was something different about him. Her pulse quickened. Was she really ogling him like some infatuated teenager? Surely not. She was not so easily swayed. But then again, everything about him—the way he moved, the way he spoke—seemed to draw her in, completely disarming her.

He might have noticed her staring or realized that she was also bare-chested, because suddenly Cullen swam away with an awkward, stammered apology.

“Oh, I, uh… Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t want to—”

Silence descended over them, the only sounds now the steady thumps of Uriell’s heart and the distant chirps of crickets and the croak of frogs. The tension hung in the air like a heavy fog.

“So, hm, do you feel better now?” Cullen asked, his voice rougher than usual.

Uriell cleared her throat, unsure of how to respond. The weight of the moment settled on her shoulders. “What are you referring to?”

“You know… earlier,” he explained. “You said you missed the water.”

Uriell nodded, still trying to shake the awkwardness. “Ah, yes. I really do like it. Swimming, I mean. The water.”

“I get why you would,” Cullen continued, though his voice was a bit strained. “I’m probably not as into it as you, but I get how it could be relaxing. Given your upbringing.”

Another stretch of silence passed between them, thick and heavy.

“But since you asked,” Cullen finally said, his expression shifting to something more serious, “how are you feeling now? After talking? You seemed… distressed. Back in the camp.”

Uriell’s throat tightened at his words. She hadn't expected the conversation to turn in this direction. “Oh,” she said softly, unsure how to navigate the weight of his question. “I think I’m feeling better, thanks. I… I’m glad to know you better.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, his gaze attentive and concerned, silently urging her to continue.

“I mean, I’m glad I can finally see you for who you really are,” Uriell continued. “Not just as the Commander. I hope you can see me the same way. As… as Uriell. Not as the Inquisitor. Not as some intimidating figure. Just as… a woman.”

Her breath caught on the last word, and she quickly dipped her head, pretending to swallow a mouthful of water to cover her sudden vulnerability. She hadn’t expected Cullen to react so seriously, and it took her off guard. But then, his voice came, low and steady, cutting through the stillness.

“I’ve always seen you, Uriell.”

His words struck her like a bolt of lightning. The world around them seemed to blur, and she could only focus on the sincerity in his gaze. She felt exposed, suddenly painfully aware of her nakedness. Did he just say her name? Each syllable of her name, spoken in his rough, ragged tone, felt like a whispered caress from a desire demon in her ear. Every hair on her body stood on end, her skin tingling with an electric current. Had her Anchor just sparked? But then she caught the alarmed look on Cullen’s face. The blood pounding in her ears drowned out all other sounds, and only then did she realize a group of voices was approaching the lake.

“ Fuck -- Come,” Cullen hushed before he grabbed her wrist as he pulled her closer. She collided against his chest, and he quickly wrapped an arm around her, guiding them both beneath the tree's canopy. Instinctively, Uriell clung to him, surrendering to the shelter of his embrace as he shielded them from view with the thick foliage. The pressure of his hold caused her to wince, her attention immediately drawn to the feel of her body pressed tightly against his. Her heartbeat, once the only rhythm she could feel, now matched the steady, rapid beat of his own.

She opened her eyes, which she had instinctively squeezed shut, and realized she was nestled in the crook of his neck. Her lips brushed against his skin, so close she could almost taste the erratic pulse of his heart beneath it. His fingers tangled in her hair, one hand firmly cupping the back of her neck while the other kept her anchored against him. His ragged, hoarse breaths were so close to her ear that each one seemed to ignite a spark deep within her. Her hands, without thought, gripped his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath the surface as she dug her nails into his skin.

Then, suddenly, she heard them.

“How long until Val Royeaux now?”

“It shouldn’t be more than two days, don’t worry.”

Uriell froze. Those voices—Varric and Iron Bull.

“I don’t think Iron Bull is worried about the journey,” Dorian remarked dryly. “Quite the opposite, actually. I believe he’s more concerned about the fact that he’ll soon have to wear a shirt when we reach Val Royeaux.”

Iron Bull merely grunted in response, while Varric’s cheerful laugh rang out.

“Well, I don’t think Tiny ever had any intention of wearing one,” Varric teased.

“Don’t worry, Dorian,” Iron Bull chimed in. “You’ll still get a nice view for a little while. The Boss said the shirt’s only for the ball.”

Dorian sighed, his exasperation evident.

“I think they’re going for a swim themselves,” Cullen murmured in her ear, his voice low.

Uriell didn’t expect his lip’s skim against her skin which drew an unexpected moan out of her. Both she and Cullen held their breaths, surprised at the lewd sound. Cullen’s grip on her neck loosened, allowing her to pull back slightly. But neither of them moved far, both frozen, staring at each other with wide, bewildered eyes. A deep blush spread across his cheeks and up to his ears, his lips parted in a slight tremble, and his entire body seemed to stiffen under her touch.

Oh .

The moment stretched on for just a heartbeat. His gaze was full of awe, his scent intoxicating, the heat between them palpable. It was as if everything around them disappeared, leaving only the dizzying pull of their proximity. The realization hit her like a jolt— Fuck , was she actually in love with him?

His eyes widened with every second, taking in the sight before him. A tight swallow caught in his throat, followed by a sharp, dry breath. Then, a burst of hearty laughter rang out from the other side of the tree's shelter.

Uriell snapped back to reality. Oh, it was bad . The last thing they needed right now was for anyone to see them like this. She caught the growing dread and confusion in Cullen’s expression, his realization matching her own. Without thinking, she pushed him away, breaking their embrace.

“I’ve got this,” she pressed, turning to face the source of the voices.

“But… what if… you’re—” Cullen stammered, hesitation thick in his voice.

“Just go,” she urged him, her tone firm. “Take your things and go. I’ll keep them distracted.”

Without waiting for him to move or respond, she swiftly swam to the other side of the leafy barrier.

“What are you all doing here?” she asked out loud.

The sight she walked into was nothing short of a spectacle. Varric stood in his smalls, a towel draped over his shoulders, while Iron Bull, oblivious to the situation, was in the process of pulling his pants down—right under Dorian's perfectly composed gaze, dressed in his immaculately tailored swimming attire. All three men froze, staring at her like they’d just seen a ghost. Bull made a startled sound—a strangled, muffled shriek that barely escaped his lips.

“What the hell are you doing here, Sunbeam?” Varric was the first to recover, his voice full of disbelief.

“Same as you, it looks like,” Uriell forced a smile, leaning forward slightly. “The water’s great; you should join me.”

She kept glancing to the side, waiting for any sign that Cullen had made his escape.

“Does your bodyguard know you snuck out again ?” Dorian asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

Uriell couldn’t help herself—she let out a chortle, maybe a little too loud. “Should I warn him whenever I’m off to do my business? Come on, Dorian.” She swam back and forth, keeping their attention on her. “Nah, I came alone. Well, until you found me.”

She kept the playful banter going, trying to convince her friends to join her in the lake, when she finally caught a glimpse of a silhouette slipping away from the tree line. Her heart skipped a beat. None of her companions seemed to notice, distracted by their own musings on the water’s temperature. Uriell watched the figure disappear into the shadows, heading toward the camp. She released a quiet sigh of relief.

That could’ve been disastrous—caught red-handed (and probably red-faced) in the arms of the Commander of the Inquisition. In his big, strong, burly arms… Oh, Maker. What had she done?

Chapter Text

At last, sunlight pierced through the tent’s fabric, chasing away the flickering glow of the ever-burning candles. Cullen stared at the ceiling above him, his thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. He couldn’t say how many hours of sleep he’d managed to scrape together that night—if any at all. His restless tossing and turning had kept him from slipping into the Fade. The events of the past few days had set his mind ablaze with images and emotions more vividly than the entirety of the last year combined.

Not only had he recently struggled to do his job as the Commander of the Inquisition—a struggle that would likely leave him scrambling to catch up once he regained his focus—but he had also lost what little control he still held over his feelings. All he could do now was think of her. Recall the moments they had shared and fantasize about what had been said and done —or what still could be. Most of all, he found himself waiting, torn between terror and exquisite anticipation, for whatever came next.

He and the Inquisitor had grown closer—far closer than he had ever imagined possible. Their last encounter, interrupted by Varric, Dorian and the Iron Bull, left him uncertain about where this would lead. If this journey had taught him anything, it was to actually expect the unexpected.

Cullen sighed, a long and wistful exhale. His headache, worsened by the lack of sleep, pulsed dully at his temples. This was going to be a long day. His entire body ached—not from illness or exhaustion, but from the lingering sensation of Uriell’s touch, seared into his memory. Her nails had left faint scratches along his back, marks of surprise as he had pulled her to safety beneath the sheltering canopy of the weeping willow. And then... oh, how soft, how warm she had felt against him. The press of her skin, the way their legs had entwined as they struggled to stay afloat, the brush of her damp hair against his arms—all of it had branded itself into his senses. His body had spent the long, restless night reliving it, yearning to hold onto every fleeting detail.

And above all else, there was an ache he couldn’t bring himself to soothe—a desperate, insistent pulse that flared in his groin every time he thought of her. That moment, when his lips had nearly brushed her ear, had triggered something in her. She had let out a moan—soft, spontaneous, and exquisite beyond anything he had ever imagined. The sound had undone him. It had awakened something raw and untamed, a hunger he had to summon every ounce of his will to restrain. He had wanted, with an intensity that frightened him, to close the distance and kiss her. Only the gnawing doubt—that he might have misread the moment, that she might not feel the same—had kept him from yielding to the pull of his instincts. But now, with her safely beyond his reach and the memory burning in his mind, he was left to face the aftermath alone. His thoughts spiraled around that moment, fixated on the kiss that hadn’t happened—and everything that might have followed.

Cullen heard the footsteps of the camp’s early risers echoing faintly outside his tent. He grunted in exasperation, sinking deeper into his bedroll. There was no way he could get up and dress—not in this state. He had naively hoped the issue would resolve itself if he simply ignored it, but the insistent tension beneath his smalls showed no sign of subsiding. If anything, it had grown more uncomfortable, even painful. He hated that it had come to this, despising the thought of defiling the sanctity of the Inquisitor in his mind once again . But no matter how much he fought it, she was all he could think about. And he desperately needed relief, if only to find rest.

“Maker, have mercy…” he murmured under his breath, as his hand slid beneath the covers.

***

The day turned out… uneventful. Cullen found himself almost surprised, though he couldn’t decide if he was glad to finally catch a break or slightly disappointed. After the tension of the past few days, he had secretly hoped for another moment with the Inquisitor—at least to gauge her reaction, to learn what she had thought of their last encounter. He was terrified of broaching the subject, yet he couldn’t stop yearning to know if their thoughts had aligned. But Uriell, it seemed, was quite busy that day. She hardly appeared at breakfast and spent the entire journey locked away in the carriage, accompanied only by Dorian and Vivienne. The curtains were drawn, and Cullen had caught no glimpse of her.

Which, unfortunately, meant he was no longer needed as the Inquisitor’s personal guard that day. Without her presence, there was nothing to hold back the company of certain individuals. After an hour of riding in silence beside the carriage, Cullen found himself trapped in conversation with Ser Barris, who seemed particularly interested in his recent activities.

“Commander,” he announced, his voice carrying a hint of mockery.

“Ser Barris,” Cullen replied in a clipped tone.

“You’ve been quite busy lately,” Delrin observed. “You changed the guard patterns. How curious.”

Cullen shot a sharp glare at his subordinate. Barris wore the faintest of grins, which only served to infuriate him further. Diavolo seemed to sense Cullen’s frustration and neighed loudly, tossing his head. The horse and Cullen had developed a certain camaraderie over the past few days.

"I overheard the Inquisitor’s companions talking about you becoming her bodyguard. Have you finally taken my advice, then?" Ser Barris’s smirk shifted into a more genuine smile.

As much as the Templar enjoyed teasing him, Cullen knew it mostly came from a place of care, despite Ser Barris’ recent admission he still harbored some kind of interest himself for the Inquisitor.

“It was her request. After Verchiel, it was only natural.” Cullen kept his gaze straight ahead, his expression unreadable, determined to give Barris as little reason as possible to press further.

"You never told me what happened," Ser Barris continued, his tone persistent. "You know, the other night, at the de Morrac estate."

“What of it?” Cullen replied tersely, already aware of where this conversation was headed. He fought to keep any trace of emotion from his face, determined to remain composed.

"So... you two shared a cabin. Alone. In the middle of the storm," Delrin said, carefully choosing his words. "Right after you chased after her, concerned for her well-being, in the middle of the blizzard."

"Get to the point," Cullen snapped.

"What happened in that cabin, Rutherford ?"

Cullen clicked his tongue in exasperation. The image of their naked bodies warming by the fire was seared into his mind, and he did his best to push it aside before replying, his throat drier than usual.

"Nothing happened. She broke the de Morrac curse. Then we tried to survive and not freeze to death."

"So... nothing happened?" The Templar’s voice carried a hint of disappointment. "You... you spent a whole night alone with her, her body shivering from the cold, and nothing happened? You didn’t even offer to keep her warm?"

"She didn’t need my help for that," Cullen sighed, frustration creeping into his voice.

"Does that mean she was the one who offered?"

Cullen shot a glare that could have pierced steel, yet his heart still skipped a beat. Was he really that obvious in his choice of words, or had Delrin spoken from experience? Cullen quickly shook off the thought, unsure if he wanted to know more about their mutual past. Instead, his frown deepened, and he straightened in the saddle.

“Know your place, Barris.”

"Okay, right, I get it," Barris yielded, releasing his mount's reins and raising both hands in a gesture of truce. "I won’t ask about it. But seriously, Cullen..." He turned to face him with a concerned smile. "I’m not speaking as a soldier here. I’m speaking as your friend. I just hope you’re doing okay. And if you are... Well, I’m happy for you."

The Commander grunted, the sound betraying his irritation. This conversation wasn’t helping his splitting headache. So far, his friend’s intentions seemed sympathetic to his plight, but it was too soon—too early—to tell anyone. He had only just begun to admit his feelings for the Inquisitor to himself, and everything had gone downhill from there. Every moment spent in her company had only strengthened his emotions.

He wasn’t sure it wasn’t even a simple infatuation anymore. The truth of what it could be was both confusing and terrifying, enough to keep him silent. His usually impeccable focus had been scattered to the winds and he was so deep in his feelings he was terrified he had lost himself along the way. She had turned into an obsession and that was an additional threat to his ability to fulfill his duties as Commander, on top of the lyrium withdrawal. Adding the incessant nagging and questioning of his friend—worse, his subordinate—would only make things worse.

Ser Barris had switched to more mundane subjects, updating Cullen about the troops at Skyhold and the next night shifts for their camp. That was when Cullen heard the faint sound of a scratch against paper. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he spotted Varric and Cassandra riding side by side behind them. Had they been there the entire time?

Varric glanced up from his scribbling, his ever-present notebook in hand, and offered a knowing grin. That, Cullen could chalk up to Varric being his usual self. It was Cassandra, however, whose flushed cheeks and sudden avoidance of his gaze betrayed the fact they had been listening.

Fantastic. Just what he needed.

Cullen turned his glare back to the path ahead, his grip tightening on the reins. That was exactly what he wanted to avoid. With any luck, they hadn’t overheard much—or at least nothing they didn’t already suspect. Still, a knot of unease twisted in his chest. Had Uriell spoken to them about their encounters? After all, she considered her companions her closest friends, and Cassandra and Varric were especially dear to her.

Then again, she had helped him slip away unnoticed the previous night when they’d nearly been discovered. Perhaps she was trying to keep things secret, too.

Cullen’s heart sank. What if there were rumors about her? Orlesians thrived on gossip. What if someone had seen him? Worse, what if his carelessness had tarnished her reputation? As much as he despised being the subject of teasing and speculation, the thought of Uriell being their target was unbearable. Maker, what had he done? Could his feelings for her—his behavior toward her—become a threat to her name?

Uriell didn’t seem to care so much, though. She had asked him to be her personal guard. She had invited him into her tent. She had insisted on clothing him herself, suggested they sneak away to the lake, and even dared him to join her in the water. Every step of the way, he had only responded to her invitations. But that didn’t absolve him of the responsibility for accepting them.

Why did she act that way, though? Could it be… she was interested in him?

The memory of her soft, breathy moan echoed in his mind, and Cullen shook his head sharply, willing the creeping blush at his neck to fade.

No. That couldn’t be. Could it?

***

Due to the recent bad weather and the uneven, muddy terrain, the expedition had been slightly delayed. Nothing too concerning, according to Josephine, but it was clear they wouldn’t reach Val Foret that day. Eventually, the crew settled down for another evening of rest along the roadside.

Cullen hadn’t seen Uriell all day. The moment the decision was made to set up camp, she retreated straight to her tent and hadn’t emerged since. Ever the dutiful personal guard, he stayed nearby in case she needed him, though she never called.

He briefly acknowledged Madame de Fer when she returned with one of his men as a valet in tow, the man struggling under the weight of several heavy boxes they carried into the Inquisitor’s tent. Vivienne, too, remained inside.

Left idle against his will, Cullen fidgeted restlessly outside, debating whether he should seize the rare opportunity to get some sleep. That was when he noticed Josephine waving at him. A glass of wine in one hand, she gestured toward Leliana’s tent with a welcoming smile and an inviting motion.

With no better options or pressing matters to attend to, Cullen sighed and followed Josephine into the Spymaster’s temporary quarters. Inside, he found himself face-to-face with his two colleagues—the other esteemed advisors.

Leliana was already pouring another glass of wine, which she extended toward him with a greeting.
“Thank you for joining us, Commander,” she said in a melodic tone. “Josephine and I realized it’s been quite some time since our last meeting. We should take this opportunity to discuss our next course of action.”

Two additional stools had been set out in the tent, and Josephine sat gracefully on one, swirling the deep red liquid in her glass. She seemed to be in unusually high spirits, her demeanor more relaxed than usual. Leliana, too, radiated a warmth that could signal either very good news or something dire—one could never quite tell with her.

Cullen accepted the glass from Leliana’s outstretched hand, murmuring his thanks, and took the seat beside Josephine.

Leliana led the impromptu meeting. She began by updating them on the schedule for their journey: they would arrive in Val Foret the next day around lunchtime. Several members of the expedition had requested free time in the city, so the afternoon had been cleared for most of the group. Meanwhile, Leliana and Josephine would join the Inquisitor for a luncheon with the local nobles and dignitaries. After that, the Inquisitor had private plans she had not shared in detail, though her companions would probably accompany her. Leliana appeared unconcerned; Val Foret was a relatively quiet city and had pledged its support to the Inquisition early on. Besides, she already had operatives and informants stationed within the city— as always, one could never be too cautious.

The discussion shifted to the topic of Venatori activity in Orlais. Leliana shared the intelligence she had gathered during their journey: the Venatori had been unusually quiet lately, which only confirmed the Advisors’ suspicions they were preparing for the upcoming ball. At Skyhold, the recruits under Ser Rylen’s training were performing well and getting ready to leave for Halamshiral, but Leliana suggested they should incorporate stealth techniques into their regimen, just in case. Everyone agreed, and Leliana promptly sent a raven to Skyhold with the new orders.

When it was Josephine’s turn to speak, her enthusiasm was unmistakable. She proudly announced that she had secured invitations to the most anticipated opera of the year in Val Royeaux to coincide with their arrival. Having also finally secured meetings and activities with the local nobles, her excitement was evident in the sparkle of her eyes. Leliana let out a wistful sigh, reminiscing about her own time in Val Royeaux and expressing a hope to squeeze in some shopping. Meanwhile, Cullen found his attention wandering. The wine Leliana had poured was stronger than he expected, and its warmth was beginning to lull him into a haze.

Time had passed more quickly than Cullen had anticipated. They were now less than three days away from Val Royeaux, which was likely to be the busiest part of their trip. In the blink of an eye, the ball would arrive, and before long, they would return to Skyhold. His days would soon revert to their old routine: a packed schedule and endless piles of work. Unless the Venatori succeeded in their plot to assassinate the Empress—a possibility he hoped never came to pass—Uriell would also return to the field, expanding the Inquisition’s influence and sealing rifts across Thedas as they continued their search for Corypheus’ weaknesses.

This journey, with all its vivid moments, would eventually fade into a memory, and they would slip back into their respective roles. At one point, Cullen would have welcomed that familiarity, but now he wasn’t so sure. He had grown closer to the Inquisitor—to Uriell—over the past week. As uncertain as he was about his own feelings, and as fearful as he was of her response, he wasn’t ready to let this connection go. It had only been a single day without speaking to her while she remained nearby, and yet his heart already ached. He missed her. Was it possible that, in so short a time, he had grown so accustomed to the privileges of her attention and good graces that he now longed for more?

Leliana must have noticed Cullen's distant, preoccupied expression as he swirled his glass of wine because she eventually drew him back into the conversation.

“Commander,” she said with a teasing lilt, her sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “Forgive me if these matters seem dull to you. Still, I suggest you listen carefully—your opinion might be of value here.” She smirked slightly. “As I was saying, we still need to decide who will accompany the Inquisitor in her loge at the opera.”

Cullen blinked, startled by her sudden attention. His frown deepened as he straightened in his seat. “What do you mean?”

Josephine set her glass down, her voice warm as she explained, “I managed to secure a few seats for the opera—two guest lodges and several in the audience. Each lodge accommodates only two people.” She smiled faintly, the shimmer of excitement in her tone tempered by her natural poise.

Leliana added, “We’ve been debating who should attend with the Inquisitor.” Her piercing gaze seemed to scrutinize Cullen’s face, searching for any flicker of reaction. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

“Why does it matter?”

“Josephine could accompany her,” Leliana continued, her tone casual yet pointed. “However, she’s hoping to entertain dignitaries—an ideal opportunity for negotiations on deals and contracts.”

Josephine sighed softly, a faint note of regret in her voice. “Yes, they do seem to prefer conducting business at events like this. It’s unlikely I’ll be able to watch the entire performance uninterrupted.”

“And,” Leliana went on smoothly, “there are other nobles eager to meet the Inquisitor. We don’t have much time for them during this trip, and frankly, they would be content simply sitting in silence beside her.” She exchanged a knowing, teasing smile with Josephine, her amusement thinly veiled.

Cullen’s voice dropped, his unease evident as he repeated, “What do you mean?”

“We could use this to make her even more appealing,” Leliana stated, her tone calm and pragmatic, as if the suggestion were the most natural thing in the world. “The court will adore her even more if she’s seen on the arm of one of the most eligible suitors of the season—or, better yet, a chevalier. Some of them hold considerable influence. A well-placed bit of gossip could sway either Gaspard or Celene to our cause. We’ll have to play the Game the moment we step into Val Royeaux.”

Cullen froze, her words striking him like a blow. His eyes widened as he turned to stare at the Spymaster, the disbelief etched deeply into his features. The Game. Maker, he had almost forgotten about it—forgotten the relentless manipulation, the web of lies and half-truths that defined Orlesian politics.

His mind raced, unbidden memories rising to the surface. Uriell’s delicate yet calculated charm on the Duchess Lady Caralina of Lydes on the very first day of their journey; the way the de Morrac family had gotten a bit too close to her during their brief stay. And now, she was about to walk into the lion’s den once more, where every smile, every glance, every word would be dissected and repurposed as a weapon or a tool.

Cullen’s grip tightened on the glass in his hand, his knuckles blanching. The idea of her having to play that role again, to flirt and flatter the nobility, to feign interest and charm her way into their favor—it gnawed at him in a way he hadn’t expected. He clenched his jaw as a sharp, unfamiliar sensation twisted in his chest.

Was it anger? Protectiveness? Or something else?

The image of Uriell fluttering her lashes at another noble—perhaps one with a title or prestige—sent a wave of revulsion through him. The thought was unbearable. It wasn’t just the notion of her playing a part; it was the idea of her affections, even if feigned, being directed elsewhere.

He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He wouldn’t. But despite his best efforts, the realization settled uneasily within him: this wasn’t just about strategy or politics anymore. It was personal.

“Do as you must,” Cullen replied, his tone clipped and dry, though it did little to mask the weight constricting his chest. He drained the rest of his wine in one swift motion and set the glass down. “You are the masterminds when it comes to politics. My opinion here does not matter. But perhaps you should ask her first.”

“Oh, we will,” Leliana simply said, back to her usual unreadable self. “I was just curious if you had someone in mind. Someone dashing, someone close… perhaps someone she could rely on?”

Cullen’s jaw tightened, the line between his brows deepened. “I am not the one to know such a thing,” he managed through gritted teeth.

He rose from his seat with a deliberate slowness, bowing slightly to avoid meeting their eyes. “I apologize, but I must retire for the night. My headache has not yet passed. Good night, Lady Ambassador. Sister Nightingale.”

Josephine and Leliana exchanged a quick, knowing glance, their concern subtle but genuine.

“Good night, Commander,” Josephine said in a gentle voice, almost maternal. “Please, get some rest.”

***

The morning crept softly over the camp, painting it in hues of blue and pink as the first birds began their gentle song. Cullen stood by the edge of the makeshift stables, watching the sun’s slow ascent above the treetops. He’d risen early, restless and in need of staying busy, so he’d decided to tend to the horses.

Diavolo nudged his chest with an almost playful insistence, drawing his attention.

“Whoa, hey,” Cullen muttered, steadying the reins with a firmer grip. “Easy there.”

He resumed brushing the Charger’s dark, lustrous mane. The proud stallion, once wary of anyone but Uriell, now stood comfortably under Cullen’s care, almost as though he had appointed the Commander his personal attendant. Cullen suppressed a small laugh at the thought.

“Funny how both you and your mistress have me wrapped around your hoof,” he murmured, shaking his head.

Diavolo, as if understanding the remark, fixed him with what could only be described as a scornful side-eye. Cullen chuckled again, giving the horse a light pat.

“Yes, you,” he said, amused. “You know I like you. You should be grateful. Half the camp’s terrified of you, so stop acting like you own me.”

The Charger nudged him again, more insistently this time, nearly knocking him off balance.

“You—” Cullen started, then sighed with a smile. “Fine. I suppose we’re not so different, you and I.”

The quiet companionship settled over them once more as Cullen returned to his task, the rhythmic motion of brushing soothing his ever-busy mind. Bonding with the fierce Free Marches Charger had felt like an unexpected victory, one he wore as a private badge of honor. Few had managed to earn the horse’s trust, and for Cullen, it felt like a small way to get closer to Uriell. Though he would never admit it outright, part of him had hoped his care for Diavolo might bring her around more often.

But he hadn’t expected that hope to bear fruit so quickly.

“There you are.”

The voice, low and sweet, carried across the still-slumbering camp like a gentle breeze. Cullen froze for a moment as a shiver ran down his spine, his heart skipping a beat. Slowly, he turned, brush forgotten in his hand.

Uriell stood there, her silhouette soft against the morning light.

“I see you’re in good hands, pretty boy,” she said warmly to Diavolo. The proud stallion dipped his head in acknowledgment as she reached out to caress his forehead.

Cullen scoffed softly in disbelief. Truly, this creature only had eyes for her. Worse, Diavolo seemed to delight in rubbing it in.

When Uriell extended her hand toward Cullen with a smile, a silent request to take over the brushing, his chest tightened. Wordlessly, he passed her the brush. The steady thrum of his heartbeat drowned out the rest of the world as he watched her, every detail of her presence magnified. Her hair, freshly washed and tightly braided, shimmered in the soft light, with a few strands framing her face delicately. She wore a simple yet elegant blouse tucked into dark leather pants and sturdy boots, ready for the next leg of their journey.

It was then that his eyes caught the small cuts on her hands—tiny but fresh, ones he had never noticed before. A flicker of worry passed through him, but he bit back the urge to ask. He was too glad to have this moment with her, and no words seemed worthy enough to fill the silence of this rare, precious time they shared.

“You’ve taken good care of him, Commander,” Uriell remarked, her tone a blend of gratitude and admiration. “I honestly never thought he’d warm up to anyone else. Looks like even he can’t resist your charms.”

She winked playfully, and Cullen’s face burned as if the morning’s crisp air had turned to fire.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat as he scratched gently behind Diavolo’s ears, “I think he can sense people’s intentions. He knows who’ll treat him right—with respect.” He emphasized the last word, earning a sidelong glance from the horse, as if it were sizing him up. Cullen smirked faintly. “It’s all about respecting his boundaries, understanding his… needs, and meeting them.”

“What a lucky boy,” she murmured, her voice wistful, though her gaze lingered on Diavolo with a distant fondness.

Cullen noticed the shift in her expression—a trace of melancholy beneath her warmth. His heart skipped. He wanted to say something bold, to tell her how radiant she looked this morning. He was about to blurt it out in an excess of courage, but before he could speak, Uriell broke the silence first.

“I’m actually glad I found you here, Commander,” she said, her voice softer now, tinged with something unspoken. “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

She turned to him, hesitation flickering in her eyes. Her teeth caught her lower lip for a brief moment, drawing his attention to the soft curve of her dark pink mouth. She drew in a steadying breath, her chest rising just slightly, and for Cullen, it felt like the longest, most unbearable tantalizing pause before she finally spoke.

“I would like you to ride with me in the carriage today. I need some time alone with you, before we reach Val Foret.”

Her cheeks took on a rosy hue, and Cullen could only imagine how flushed his own face must be.

“In- In the carriage, Inquisitor?” he croaked, the word “alone” nearly slipping out but catching in his throat instead.

“Yes, Commander,” she said, her voice calm but her gaze betraying a hint of nervousness.

Diavolo let out a loud neigh, cutting through the tension like a well-timed joke. Uriell chuckled, turning back to stroke the horse’s mane.

“Oh, really?” she teased the proud stallion with a grin. “I’m sorry we’re leaving you on your own today, but surely you can understand. You can’t keep the Commander all to yourself forever, can you? He’s a little bit mine too, you know?”

Hers . She had no idea how much. Oh, he was hers. Completely and undeniably hers. Cullen suddenly knew it with a certainty that shook him to his core. If it meant seeing that radiant smile on her face every single day, he would give her anything, do anything she asked without hesitation. He had felt this devotion before, a deep reverence for her strength and leadership, forged when she led them from the ashes of Haven. But this was something more now—a fire that consumed him entirely. She didn’t just command his loyalty; she had claimed his soul, his body, his very essence. Any lingering doubt vanished the moment her eyes met his, luminous and unwavering, cutting straight through him.

He was hers. She wasn’t merely "to his taste." She was his every dream, every unspoken wish, embodied in a single, breathtaking presence.

“Anything you want of me, Inquisitor,” he murmured, his voice thick and husky.

***

It was the first time Cullen had stepped into the carriage since the start of their journey. Until now, he’d only caught fleeting glimpses inside when stealing glances at Uriell as he was riding Diavolo. The interior was cozier than he’d imagined, snug and comfortable for two people sitting face to face. While it could technically fit four, the space would feel a little bit cramped. Even now, the confined area made his chest tighten, a familiar pang of claustrophobia threatening to rise. But Uriell had already cracked open a small window, letting in a refreshing breeze that chased away his unease almost instantly.

When they climbed in, Cullen couldn’t help but feel the weight of several pairs of eyes fixed on him—her advisors, Ser Barris, her companions. He avoided meeting anyone’s gaze, knowing full well the teasing that awaited him later. Still, she was the one who had invited him, after all. Everyone else on her team had shared the carriage with her at some point during the journey—why not him? Yet, deep down, he knew it wasn’t the invitation itself that was unsettling, but the fact that he had accepted it.

A few weeks ago, he would have refused outright, brushing it off as an unnecessary distraction. But now? Now he was painfully aware that he’d let his guard slip, leaving him vulnerable. If Ser Barris had noticed his growing interest in Uriell, then surely Leliana and Varric had long since placed bets on when he would finally give himself away. And here he was, helplessly proving them right. Each passing moment spent in her presence only drew him further under her spell, his resolve unravelling piece by piece, until he couldn’t go back to how things once were.

“Commander?”

Uriell’s soft voice pulled him back to the present. He blinked and looked up, only to find her leaning forward, her face close, way too close for comfort. So close, he caught her sweet scent of orchids and raspberries. Her concerned eyes searched his, her hand hovering just inches from his forehead, as though about to check for a fever.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I…” He straightened abruptly, retreating from her touch with a flustered shake of his head. “I was just lost in thought.”

“Right,” she cleared her throat. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. It was only then that Cullen noticed the large box propped beside her, its edges jutting slightly from the seat. His curious glance didn’t go unnoticed, and she followed his gaze.

“Ah, yes,” she began, brushing her hair back almost shyly. “This… this is the reason I needed you here today. And, well, why I was so busy yesterday.”

“What is it?” Cullen asked as she carefully opened the box.

She lifted out an odd arrangement of beige cotton fabric, its pieces loosely folded together. For a moment, Cullen couldn’t quite decipher what it was supposed to be. As she laid the fabric across her lap, smoothing out wrinkles with deliberate strokes of her hand, her excitement became palpable.

“This,” she said with a soft but eager smile, “is the mock-up for your jacket. You know, the design you picked?”

Cullen’s eyes darted between the unfinished garment and the spark of pride in her expression. He must have looked entirely bewildered, because she quickly continued, her tone growing slightly more defensive, though no less animated.

“Before I start sewing with the expensive fabrics, I make a trial version with cheaper material. That way, you can try it on first, and if I made any mistakes, I can fix them before working on the final piece.” She stretched the mock-up in front of her, aligning its edges to his mantle as if demonstrating her point.

Her explanation was perfectly logical, yet Cullen found himself stuck on one particular detail. The reason he had not been able to see her at all the day before was because she had been so absorbed in her project—sewing, by hand, a test version of the clothes she wanted him to wear?

She glanced up at him, catching his still-gaping expression, and flushed deeper. “It might seem a bit silly,” she admitted softly. “But I promise, it’s a really useful process. It saves so much trouble later.”

“No, I…” Cullen stammered, his words caught in his throat. “It makes sense, I understand. I just… I thought you weren’t feeling well. I didn’t know you were working on this— for me .”

“Oh,” she replied with a hint of surprise. “No, don’t worry. I actually had quite a few fittings for my own opera gown with Vivienne for Val Royeaux, and then, when I had time, I worked on this.”

Despite the rocking motion of the carriage, she still held the rough cotton jacket between them.

“I need to check the fit before we reach Val Foret,” she continued, steady and practical—her usual tone when she was focused. “I plan on buying the real fabric there.”

Cullen’s hand instinctively reached out, closing around hers. He could feel her warmth seeping through his gloves, and her eyes widened in surprise.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice almost breathless. “You didn’t have to do this for me. It’s a lot of work; I can see that. I… I don’t think I can ever repay you.”

His words were sincere, and they carried more weight than he expected. He wasn’t accustomed to such gestures—kindness and affection outside of his family. His family’s love had always been more playful, more teasing, just like with Leliana, Josephine and Ser Barris. But this… the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, taking precious time from her own life to create something for him , with her own hands? That was a blessing he never thought he’d receive. If anything, it only made his feelings for her stronger, deeper—he found himself falling just a little bit more in love with her.

“You don’t have to,” she said softly, her voice warm yet firm. She gently pulled her hands from his grasp, her gaze unwavering. “This is my way of repaying you—for everything you’ve done for me, and how you’ve always looked after me. It’s something I genuinely enjoy doing actually; it reminds me of home.” She smiled. “Besides, finding a good gift for you is a nightmare! I had gifts sorted for Leliana and Josephine ages ago, but for our Commander? Nothing ever seemed good enough.”

Cullen chuckled despite himself. A small wave of guilt lingered—knowing she’d taken on this extra work before Halamshiral just for him—but there was also a quiet satisfaction in the thought that she would be thinking of him every day while she worked. Still, her confession caught him off guard. She pouted in mock offense at his reaction, but her playful expression only spurred him on.

“What do you mean, Inquisitor?” he teased, his voice laden with faux indignation. “Do you think I’m that hard to please? I’m Fereldan; you really can’t go wrong there.”

“Oh, really?” she replied, her grin wide and infectious. “Like what?”

Cullen leaned in slightly, his tone conspiratorial. “First off, I might not look like it, but I love cookies. Shortbread, especially. Even better if they’re handmade.”

Uriell met his gaze steadily, her eyes alight with curiosity. “… Go on.”

“I enjoy games—chess, for instance. I wanted to play with you the other night at the de Morrac estate,” he admitted, a flicker of a smile on his lips.

She leaned closer, hanging on his every word, her delight evident. Cullen hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much; part of him liked the idea of keeping her guessing, giving her reasons to continue these conversations. And though he was tempted to add her name to the list of things he liked, he kept that thought to himself for now.

“… But I suppose what I enjoy most is spending quality time,” he said at last, his voice softening. “Sharing moments with someone.”

“And that,” she said with a knowing look, “is exactly why we should’ve taken the time to know each other better. I think I understand now.”

“You know,” Cullen began, a note of mischief creeping into his tone, “sparring is good too.” Many times, he had actually seen her in the courtyard, training with his men, her companions, and worse of all, Ser Barris. He, who was so often buried in paperwork, actually missed training himself, but what he would have given to have the opportunity to cross swords with her too. He understood now, that the feeling gnawing at him back then had not been just envy, it was a hint of jealousy.

Uriell’s laugh bubbled up, warm and bright. “Do you actually want to fight me, Commander? What terrible crime have I committed that warrants such punishment?”

“Oh, far from punishment,” he countered, shaking his head. “I think training with you would be… enlightening.”

She raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical but amused. “Enlightening for who, exactly?”

Cullen smiled, leaning back slightly in a playful response. “We won’t know until we try.”

Uriell studied him for a moment, her lips curving into a smirk as if attempting to read his thoughts. When she failed, she straightened in her seat and gave him a gracious nod.

“Very well, then. I’ll expect fair play, Commander.”

“And I expect none from you, Inquisitor.”

Her gasp was exaggerated, her expression one of feigned outrage. “Unbelievable!” She bit her lip, holding back her response, but her eyes glimmered with unspoken amusement.

Cullen’s chest swelled with warmth. This was comfortable, pure and unguarded. For someone so accustomed to discipline and restraint, he never imagined sharing such light-hearted moments with her. He had once hesitated to speak so openly or challenge her in jest, but now? This change felt as freeing as it was welcome.

He glanced out the window absently as she regained her composure on her seat, and that’s when he noticed Cassandra riding alongside the carriage. Her attempt at subtlety was laughable, her gaze fixed on them with barely concealed curiosity. Their eyes met, and both froze—Cassandra flushed, while Cullen turned as pale as a ghost. Yet neither dared to be the first to look away.

Cassandra frowned, her expression stern despite the obvious embarrassment. Even without words, her gaze spoke volumes: “Don’t you dare do anything improper.” Cullen’s widened eyes and quick, frantic shake of his head were his silent reply, an emphatic “I’m not!” His heart raced, the tension climbing as the blood rushed back to his face in a fiery wave.

The intimacy of the carriage had lulled him into forgetting their surroundings. Out here, under the watchful eyes of the Inquisition’s key members, their private moment could be interrupted at any second. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and turned his attention back to Uriell. She remained blissfully unaware, her thoughts seemingly wrapped around the fabric on her lap.

When she finally looked up at him, her expression mirrored the shy awkwardness she’d worn the other night in his tent. Cullen’s breath caught as her eyes travelled over his neck and shoulders, lingering as if trying to remember something.

“I’m afraid I have another request,” she murmured, her voice soft and deliberate. She glanced down at the mock-up and smoothed the fabric on her knees. “I need you to try this on.” Her words hung in the air for a moment before she added, “Could you… take off your armor?”

Her gaze met his again, steady and expectant, but the intensity of her piercing eyes left him feeling as if his skin were on fire. Here? Now? Instinctively, his gaze darted back to the window and found Cassandra still riding nearby, as vigilant as ever. Uriell’s eyes followed his, and understanding dawned.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, don’t worry. We can close the curtains if you’re uncomfortable.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Would this cross a line? The idea of undressing in front of her, even with the curtains drawn, made him acutely self-conscious. His heart thundered in his chest, lodged somewhere between his throat and his ribs, but Uriell didn’t wait for an answer.

With a casual wave at Cassandra, paired with a smile that only heightened Cullen’s bewilderment, she reached out and pulled the curtain shut. He blinked, stunned, as she turned to close the opposite window, effectively cocooning them in the carriage. The curtains, though opaque, didn’t cast the space into darkness—but they seemed to trap the tension between them, amplifying it until it became almost suffocating.

When she turned back, her demeanor was calm, her polite smile steady as she was waiting for him to proceed. Cullen swallowed hard, his palms damp within his gloves. There was no escape now—though a part of him admitted he didn’t want to leave.

“You know they will gossip,” he said, his voice hoarse as he fought to control his breathing.

“I don’t mind.” Her reply was immediate, her tone light. Then, with a mischievous smirk, she added, “Let them talk.”

Cullen huffed a quiet scoff, lowering his gaze as heat rose to his face. With a resigned breath, he nodded. “Very well, Inquisitor.”

His hands moved to the furry edges of his mantle, hesitating only briefly as his eyes sought hers. She didn’t look away, her expression composed yet intent, as though she were studying him just as carefully as he was her. He decided to test her resolve, sliding the mantle from his shoulders in a slow, deliberate motion. The fabric whispered against his armor before pooling around him in a soft heap.

Uriell’s gaze stayed locked on his, her breath hitching as though caught off guard by the intimacy of the moment. She held her ground at first, refusing to look away, but the slight tremble of her lips betrayed her inner turmoil. When her eyes finally flicked down to his hands, Cullen felt a wash of triumph mixed with his embarrassment. He couldn’t help but wonder: what had he glimpsed beneath her carefully composed exterior?

He folded one arm across his chest, unconsciously guarding himself from her gaze while drawing her attention back to his movements. With precise, measured gestures, he began unfastening the belts and laces holding his bracers and couter pieces in place. Uriell’s expression shifted subtly, her focus unwavering as she followed his every motion.

“ Like a cat ,” he thought with a faint smirk, captivated by her intensity. She watched him with the same kind of quiet fascination, her curiosity woven into every glance. For a fleeting moment, he forgot the world outside, consumed entirely by the charged silence between them.

A pause, then started by removing his gloves. Once his large, calloused hands were free from the leather, he rubbed them together—not just to warm them, but to discreetly rid himself of the dampness caused by the raw tension of the ride. He suspected that, as a warrior herself, she would recognize the scars of another soldier. The thought bolstered him slightly; after all, he had been complimented on his hands a few times in the past. Surely that had to count for something, right?

Pride stirred in his chest when her reaction matched his secret hopes. She was enthralled. Though she kept her composure with impeccable dignity, he couldn’t miss the way her gaze lingered, studying every scar and line with an almost reverent curiosity.

Encouraged, Cullen resumed his task, moving on to unfasten his pauldrons with deliberate care. The belts securing his gorget against his breastplate followed, undone with the same steady precision. A few clasps came loose beneath his fingers, the metal laid neatly beside him on the seat. He then shrugged out of his leather gambeson, the fabric resisting slightly against the cotton shirt beneath. A faint tug revealed a flash of his abdomen, muscles briefly tensing as he struggled free of the final layer.

By the time he was down to his simple blouse, Cullen shut his eyes, his face flushed with embarrassment. He could feel her gaze on him, unwavering and intense. Taking a steadying breath, he ran a hand through his hair out of habit, ensuring his curls hadn’t been mussed by his undressing. It gave him a moment to collect himself before he dared glance her way.

When he did, his breath hitched. Uriell’s eyes were tracing the line of his shoulders, lingering at his collarbone where the loose laces of his shirt dipped just enough to reveal skin. Her focus travelled higher, settling briefly on his Adam’s apple before skimming back to his mouth. The moment stretched unbearably, until she seemed to realize she’d been staring in silence.

Shaking her head as though to clear it, she quickly thrust the jacket into his hands. “There, I… I hope this fits,” she said abruptly, her voice carrying an edge of nervousness.

Cullen chuckled softly, resisting the urge to tease her further. This rare, subtle moment of vulnerability felt too precious to disrupt. He slipped on the jacket with careful hands, treating it as though it were the most delicate treasure. To his surprise, the fit was remarkably comfortable; the seams aligned perfectly with the contours of his body. Stretching his arms forward to test the sleeves, he let out an impressed “hmm.” It was fine craftsmanship, indeed.

“How are you feeling?” Uriell asked, her tone shifting back to seriousness as she watched him move.

“Rather good, actually,” he replied, rolling his shoulders. The jacket offered a surprising freedom of movement, far superior to the Inquisition’s formal wear. “I’m impressed.”

A satisfied smile spread across her lips. “There are still a few things you don’t know about me,” she said with quiet pride, reaching for a small box of pins. “I have other talents.”

Cullen held still as she scooted closer, balancing on the edge of her seat with a pin in hand, her eyes narrowing in focus on a fold at his shoulder.

“Oh?” he asked, curiosity and playfulness mingling in his voice. “What kind of talents?”

Uriell remained silent, her lips pressed together in concentration as she adjusted the fabric. When she finally spoke, her words were a near whisper, accompanied by a sly smile. “Many. Maybe I’ll share them with you one day,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Her face was close. So close. Cullen cleared his throat, feeling his pulse quicken as the space between them seemed to shrink further.

“Could you please extend your arms? I need to check the seams,” she instructed softly.

He complied without hesitation, raising his arms and holding steady under her scrutiny. Uriell began her meticulous inspection, her hands gliding along the sleeves, tracing the seams with a precision that sent shivers down his spine. She worked with calm efficiency, her touch light yet deliberate as she moved to his shoulders. Her hands brushed against his neck as she smoothed the fabric, fingers pressing firmly enough to flatten the folds before sliding down his upper arms.

Next, she tugged the jacket’s front flaps together, holding them snug as she examined the placement for buttons. Her hands ran across his chest, smoothing the fabric over his pecs with careful attention to detail, then skimmed down his sides, pausing at his waist to assess the cut.

Her touch was everywhere. Each deliberate movement of her fingers sent heat racing through him, and Cullen prayed she couldn’t feel the wild thrum of his pulse beneath her hands.

And then, a jolt. The carriage lurched abruptly, likely striking a rock in the road. Uriell gasped, losing her balance as she stumbled forward. Her hands landed on either side of his hips, and one knee slid between his, grazing against him in the chaos. Her face collided with his chest, and for a moment, everything stilled.

Cullen froze, his breath caught in his throat. She was warm—so warm—pressed against him like this. There was no way she couldn’t hear the thunder of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Time stretched, each second an eternity, before she slowly pulled back, a nervous smile curving her lips. Her hands rested on his thighs as she steadied herself.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Commander,” she said with a breathy laugh, her cheeks faintly pink.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, his voice tinged with concern as his hands instinctively moved to help her stabilize. The impact had been sudden, and he couldn’t help but worry.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him quickly, holding up her hands as if to show she was unscathed. “I’m not hurt.” Straightening herself, she added with a teasing laugh, “You’re… quite comfortable.”

The words struck him like a bolt. If anything, they only heightened the tension that hung between them. His breath caught, and his thighs pressed instinctively against hers, reluctant to fully relinquish the fleeting contact. She was still so close—too close. The faint warmth of her breath on the bare skin exposed by his open collar set him ablaze.

Uriell’s playful smile faltered, her lips parting slightly as her expression shifted to one of quiet inquiry and unspoken anticipation.

“Cullen?” she whispered.

She was beautiful—breathtaking. The ache in Cullen's chest spread through his entire body as he stared at her, lost in pained disbelief. He was undone, utterly consumed by the sight of her. His gaze fell and lingered on the delicate curve of her mouth. Hunger, raw and desperate, gripped him. He yearned to close the maddening distance between them; to claim the sweetness he imagined lingering on her tongue.

It felt as though he was starving, and only she could sate him. He needed air, but only the air she breathed. His thoughts spiralled, pulling him back to the memory of her nails digging into his back at the lake, the reverent way her hands had clung to him. The blood pounded in his ears and surged through his veins, urging him to give in, to let the tenuous strings of his restraint snap.

The images in his mind teased him mercilessly—a heated kiss, her breathy moans, the softness of her body yielding to his as he would push her deeper onto her seat. The desire coursing through him was unbearable, threatening to strip him of reason. He wanted her; he needed her. But a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes mercifully—or cruelly—brought him back to himself. His migraine flared, a vicious tether pulling him away from his unbridled longing.

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply, forcing himself to let go of the tantalizing thoughts that had consumed him. He leaned back against the carriage wall, one hand pressing firmly against his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping the gesture would mask the turmoil within him.

“Forgive me,” he rasped, his voice dry and strained. “I… The headache.”

“Oh, of course,” Uriell replied quickly, pulling back.

The carriage fell into silence, heavy and charged. Cullen dared not look at her, afraid that even a glance would unravel what remained of his fragile resolve. The beast of his desire clawed at its cage, but he held firm. Time stretched, each moment thick with unspoken tension, until her voice broke through the quiet.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said softly. “You can take off the jacket now.”

Cullen nodded, his movements slow and deliberate. He kept his eyes closed as he slipped out of the jacket. Finally, he handed it to her, his hand lingering just a second too long before letting go. He searched for words, an apology, anything to fill the air and explain away his unease—but she spoke first.

“Would you mind coming with me to the market in Val Foret this afternoon?”

Her question surprised him. His eyes fluttered open, meeting hers reluctantly.

“What for, my Lady?”

Uriell’s smile was warm, softening the edges of the moment. As she carefully folded the jacket and tucked it into her box, she replied, “To pick fabrics with me. You know, quality time.”

Chapter Text

“That would be all. Thank you.”

Cullen leaned back in his chair, and sighed deeply with satisfaction. The final task had been ticked off his list, and for once, a sense of accomplishment lingered without the usual undercurrent of stress. He reached up to rub the back of his neck, attempting to knead out the tension that had settled there after a long hour of managing the expedition’s agents.

The Inquisition had arrived in Val Foret just before lunchtime, and while Uriell had immediately gone off with Leliana and Josephine to meet with the local nobles, Cullen had stayed behind to oversee the logistics. Now, with the recruits under his command properly dispatched and his responsibilities fulfilled, he found himself sitting alone at a sturdy wooden table in the inn’s common room.

The Chat Fringuant was lively with the hum of midday patrons, but Cullen had carved out a quiet corner for himself. Uriell’s friends had long since left to explore the city and enjoy some well-deserved relaxation, leaving him to finalize the assignments in peace. Ensuring that everyone had accommodations for the night, coordinating their schedules, and arranging staggered guards rotations of one person to keep watch over the inn—all of it had gone smoothly under his watchful eye.

He signalled to the innkeeper, who returned with a hearty sandwich and a mug of ale. Cullen dug in the meal with an appetite he hadn’t realized he’d been suppressing. The flavors were simple but satisfying, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed himself to savor both the food and the rare moment of solitude since the beginning of this trip.

His good mood was undeniable, even to himself. Though he tried to suppress his smile, there was no one around to notice the faint curl of his lips. The memory of their last ride surfaced unbidden, and a soft sense of excitement bloomed in his chest.

Uriell had been working for him, thinking of him, and—most bewilderingly of all—caring about him. The morning had felt surreal, a fragile dream he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t help treasuring. She had invited him into her carriage, shared moments of unexpected intimacy, and then extended yet another invitation for the afternoon.

The thought made his chest tighten, though not unpleasantly. Cullen lifted the mug to his lips, the cool ale a refreshing contrast to the warmth radiating within him. For now, he allowed himself this brief indulgence, a respite before the hours ahead. The rest of the day awaited, but at this moment, all was well.

“Commander.”

Cullen glanced over his shoulder, his stance immediately tense and defensive. Was it Jim again, forgetting his assignment? His shoulders eased slightly when he recognized Leliana’s agent standing beside him but he frowned as he registered who it was—one of the spies assigned to assist Leliana, Josephine, and Uriell. The agent met his questioning gaze with a prompt response.

“A message from Lady Herald.” He handed Cullen a note, folded over several times with meticulous care. “She instructed that only you read it.”

Cullen picked up the paper with a nod. Before he could even utter a reply, the man had disappeared, melting into the shadows beyond the doorway—likely back to his post.

His fingers worked swiftly to unfold the note, his stomach knotting with apprehension. Was she in danger? Did she need his help immediately?

His pulse quickened as his eyes scanned the paper, but what greeted him wasn’t a plea for aid. Instead, written in her elegant yet hurried script, were words that made his heart skip for an entirely different reason:
“Meet me in my room in an hour. Keep the window open.”

Cullen read the brief note twice with growing curiosity. It seemed like she wanted to meet in secret before their promenade in the city. An hour. He had nothing left to do, and with his guard keeping watch over the inn from the outside, it was better to sneak into her room now. Carefully, he slipped the note into his glove, already resolving to treasure it—the first personal note she had ever addressed to him.

Rising from his chair, Cullen felt a rush of adrenaline mix with anticipation as he made his way upstairs, where Uriell’s room was located. Ensuring no one was watching, he slipped inside, locking the door behind him.

He turned around and scanned the room, ensuring everything was in order. She had left her belongings in haste before leaving with her Advisors. The usual boxes and coffers containing clothes and armory had been delivered and piled up in a corner. Her bag lay on the floor beside the bed, the box containing his mock-up jacket rested atop the desk, and a small bag sat on the bed, slightly out of place. His curiosity stirred, but he knew better than to rifle through a lady’s belongings.

He approached the window, hesitating briefly before unlatching it. The cool air rushed in, a refreshing contrast to the impatience building inside him. He looked out to figure out the surroundings; her window was facing an alley at the back of the inn, deserted at this time of the day.

Minutes passed by in silence, each one feeling impossibly long. Cullen began pacing the room restlessly, like a caged lion. Eventually, he settled on the edge of the bed and retrieved the note to read her graceful handwriting once more.

Left alone with his thoughts, his mind drifted back to the morning. He could still feel her touch—the way her fingers had trailed along his arms, his torso, and his waist, adjusting the seams of his future jacket. More vivid still was the moment when the carriage jolted, and she had stumbled against his chest. He remembered the way her eyes had locked with his, so close, her lips parting slightly.

A fiery heat had built in his chest then, an overwhelming urge to lean in, to kiss her, to claim her in both soul and body. Yet he hadn’t. He had resisted, unsure if his feelings were shared, unsure if he even had the right to want such a thing.

But if situations like this kept occurring—these stolen, intimate moments— how much longer could he restrain himself? He should find the courage to ask her, to confess his feelings, yet the idea terrified him.

He was her Commander, and she was the Inquisitor. What if she didn’t feel the same way? The embarrassment alone would be devastating, but worse still would be losing the trust and camaraderie they shared. How could they work together afterward? It would be a disaster for the Inquisition.

No, this was more important than his feelings. He had promised Cassandra he would give everything to save Thedas, to redeem himself for his past. That mission outweighed any personal desires.

And yet, this was no fleeting infatuation. He knew that much. He was deeply, hopelessly, in love with her.

Now he faced a choice: love her from afar and cherish the small moments they shared while continuing to serve her, or risk everything—his role, his reputation, and her trust—for the chance that she might feel the same. He couldn’t dare hope. The risks were too great. No, he told himself firmly. This… this was not possible.

Cullen’s thoughts ran wild, bouncing between the blissful recollection of recent moments and the unrelenting anxiety over what he should—or shouldn’t—do. Time slipped away unnoticed until the creak of the window and the cool draft of air brought him back from his inner debate.

It took him a moment to realize she had arrived, climbing through the window with a mix of grace and urgency. He shot to his feet, his breath catching and his palms suddenly clammy. Maker , he was slouching on her bed—how improper!

Uriell slipped through the window frame with ease. She wore her simple but yet formal ensemble, and her presence filled the room with light and a spark of life. As she shut the window behind her, she cast a quick glance outside, her expression briefly one of caution, ensuring she hadn’t been followed. Then, with a playful smile, she turned toward him.

“Commander,” she greeted softly, inviting him to speak in hushed whispers.

Cullen clasped his hands firmly behind his back. “Inquisitor,” he replied, his tone stiff, though inwardly he scrambled to understand the situation. Why had she snuck in through the window?

“I sent Leliana’s men away,” she explained as she stepped closer.

“Why the secrecy?” he asked in a mix of genuine curiosity and concern.

“So we can leave unnoticed,” she replied, tilting her head as if the answer were obvious. “Surely you realize the Inquisitor shopping in town with the Commander of the Inquisition would draw attention?”

She crossed the room and sat casually on the edge of her bed. Cullen’s brow furrowed, his concern still visible, but Uriell pressed on.

“Besides,” she added, “you were the one worried about the team gossiping. Imagine what Orlesians would say if they saw us. Or worse, if we ran into the others while strolling through the streets together.”

Cullen’s heart sank slightly as her words hit home, and she didn’t miss the shadow of realization spreading across his face.

“Let’s sneak away for the day. I quite enjoy doing so with you. Would you be so kind as to indulge me?”

Cullen sighed, a mix of frustration and affection bubbling within him. How could she be so reckless and yet so utterly charming?

“Inquisitor, that’s… incredibly irresponsible.”

“But you’re my personal guard,” she countered with a disarming smile. “You’d have to come with me now that you know my plan.”

“You’ve been slipping away from the team at every opportunity since the first day of this trip…” he began, but she cut him off with a light-hearted retort.

“And you would too if you never had a moment to yourself and had to manage all of this ,” she said, gesturing vaguely.

Maker, she wasn’t entirely wrong, but still!

“Were you ever…” he paused, exhaling as though conceding defeat. “…this mischievous before? What have you done with the Inquisitor ? Where is our stern yet just leader, the Herald of Andraste? The Champion of the Inquisition, clad in gleaming armor and raising the banner high?”

Uriell wrinkled her nose with a playful grimace midway through his jest. The exaggerated contrast made her grin, a childish delight brightening her features as she fought to keep the upper hand.

“Only as a child,” she admitted with a small laugh. “Mostly in Orlais, and always when Kariell was around. He wouldn’t have hesitated for a second to sneak off.”

He caught the faintest hitch in her breath before she continued, more softly now.

“Come on, Cullen. You hate nobles. Do you really want them flocking around you again? Or would you rather avoid them?”

The Commander’s last resistance crumbled as he let out a deep sigh. He could only hope he wouldn’t come to regret this later. Sneaking out with the Inquisitor was bound to stir trouble in more ways than one, but the prospect of spending more time alone with her outweighed his reservations. After all, once they returned to Skyhold, the demands of their duties might pull them apart, reducing them to little more than distant acquaintances. Why not make the most of this fleeting opportunity when he still had the chance?

“You are… a very bad influence on me, you know that?” he conceded, a tender smile softening his expression and a flicker of affection lighting his eyes.

Her lips curled into a silent chuckle as she reached to her side, grabbing the bag that rested on her bed. Cullen followed her movements carefully, uncertain of what she had planned next.

“Alright then, we need to blend in,” she said, opening the bag. Cullen’s brows lifted as she revealed two Orlesian masks, a dress, and what appeared to be cosmetics. “For you,” she added, handing him the larger, less adorned mask while keeping the more delicate one on her lap.

He hesitated, glancing between her and the accessory.
“… Why?”

“Like I said, to blend in,” she replied naturally. “We’ll need to change as well.”

Her eyes scanned him once more, and she gestured to his mantle. “I must say, I love your style, Commander. It really suits you, but in full armor, you’re far too recognizable.”

Cullen swallowed hard, his pulse quickening under her scrutiny. He wasn’t sure he’d ever grow used to her attention, but Maker , he hoped she’d never stop. Handsome —she had called him that once, and the word still lingered, a melody replaying in his mind.

“And what do you suggest?” he asked, his voice low and husky, almost unconsciously inviting her to linger on him a little longer. Shifting his stance, he planted his hands on his hips, presenting himself for full appraisal. Her gaze lingered a moment longer than he anticipated, and he caught the subtle pause in her thoughts as she took him in.

“Well,” she began, lifting the silky pool of light green fabric she had pulled out from the bag, “I’ll wear this dress. And you… well, you can leave the armor here. A normal outfit will suffice.”

He had already resigned himself to his fate, knowing there was nothing he could say to change her mind. She was determined, as always. A muffled sigh escaped him as he struggled to conceal his endearment. He should be scolding her—after all, it was one of his many responsibilities. He should feel indignant, frustrated, perhaps even outraged. Instead, he was utterly bewitched, body and soul, pliant to her will.

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice laced with a reluctant affection. “But I’m keeping my sword.”

“Of course.” She acquiesced with a playful nod.

Cullen had just started removing his mantle when he heard a faint gasp. He startled, and looked back at her. She was staring at him, her wide eyes betraying an unguarded moment of surprise. Her cheeks flushed a light shade of crimson as she realized what she’d done.

“I mean—” she stammered, her composure slipping as she averted her gaze. “I’m going to change too. Could you… please at least turn around?”

Cullen obeyed, turning away to conceal his expression. He drew a sharp breath, willing himself to steady his nerves as a flush crept up his neck. Maker , he felt like a Chantry boy again. A nervous smile tugged at his lips despite his efforts to suppress it.

He resumed his undressing for the second time today, the motion slow and deliberate. It wasn’t just the weight of the metal he was shedding; it felt like part of his identity was being stripped away. Vulnerability settled over him. He knew the chances of any real danger arising during their outing were slim, yet the absence of his armor made him feel exposed in many different ways. It had been his shield—not just in battle but from the world. And now, with it removed, she had grazed him with those nimble, confident fingers. He’d craved that touch, but it terrified him all the same. It was as though every wall he’d built to protect himself had crumbled beneath her effortless gaze and touch.

He froze at the faint sound of fabric brushing against skin. She was behind him, changing. His pulse quickened; each beat a thunderous drum in his ears. Memories flooded his mind unbidden: the slender curve of her waist, the strength of her arms and legs he’d seen at the river in Montsimmard, the warmth of her body atop his in the cabin, the soft pressure of her embrace at Lake Celestine. He didn’t need to turn around to imagine her slipping out of her formal attire and into the dress she’d chosen.

Cullen swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. But as his hands hovered over his breastplate, he realized he’d been standing there, unmoving, focusing on the sounds behind him. Panic surged—had she noticed? He hastily resumed his work, fingers fumbling with the straps as he tried to banish the images from his mind.

When Cullen turned back, she was already finished and waiting for him. The sight of her stole his breath away. She looked radiant in the long green dress—simple by Orlesian standards, yet practical enough for sneaking around. A pair of white gloves covered her hands, likely to conceal the Anchor, and a slim belt cinched her waist, drawing his eyes. He lingered too long, and she caught him staring while she was gathering her long signature curls into a tight bun at the crown of her head.

“I have some hair dye, if you’re interested,” she said, motioning to the bag on the bed with a tilt of her chin.

Cullen seized the distraction and followed her direction. His frown deepened; it seemed like an unnecessary precaution.

“I’m not sure…” he murmured. “I’d prefer not to do anything to my hair if I can help it.”

“I understand,” she replied softly. “It’s already beautiful as it is.”

A warm, bashful pride bloomed in Cullen’s chest. He had taken better care of his hair over the years, and it pleased him to know it hadn’t gone unnoticed—though he would never admit it aloud. Her compliment, however, carried a weight that made his pulse quicken. Beautiful. Handsome. Could it be possible that the Inquisitor… fancied him?

“Let’s see what it looks like with the masks on,” she suggested, snapping him out of his thoughts.

She slipped on her mask, a stunning half-face piece of gold and white adorned with a mesh veil that covered her bun. Cullen stepped back, taking in her disguise. She was transformed. Gone was the leader in comfortable trousers or heavy armor; now she resembled a refined lady of the Orlesian court.

“Well?” she asked, giving her dress a graceful twirl.

Cullen hesitated, steadying his voice before speaking. “I think you’ll blend in perfectly.”

She smiled, the curve of her lips the only part of her face left visible.

“Your turn,” she prompted.

Cullen donned his mask, a simple black and gold design with feather-like patterns etched around the eye slits. He tied it securely and grumbled at how much it narrowed his vision. At least it wasn’t suffocating.

Uriell remained silent, her gaze lingering. Cullen shifted under her inspection, self-consciousness rising. Why wasn’t she saying anything?

“I knew it—it looks ridiculous,” he blurted as he raised his hands to remove the offending accessory.

“What? No!” Uriell stepped closer, halting his movements. “You look very dashing. Not ridiculous. At all.”

His heart swelled and left him breathless at the compliment, again delivered so sincerely.

“It’s just…” She paused, stepping even closer until she stood mere inches from him. “I can see your scar. It gives you away.”

Cullen’s fingers instinctively brushed his lip. Of course, the scar—a permanent mark of his past—was unmistakable.

“Wait here.” She hurried to the bed and returned with a small container.

“Could you sit?” She gestured toward a stool by her desk.

Cullen complied, watching as she dabbed her fingers into some kind of cream. She motioned for him to tilt his head.

“Hold still; I’ll cover it up.”

He obeyed, lifting his chin as she leaned closer. Her touch was careful, her fingers cool against his lip as she blended the cream with delicate taps. His heart pounded with every brush of her fingertips; his breath hitched when the warmth of hers caressed his skin. Though her eyes were hidden beneath her mask, he felt the weight of her focus, and it left him electrified. The things that woman made to him.

“All done,” she declared when she stepped back to admire her work. “Perfect.”

“And… what now?” Cullen croaked, his voice betraying the tension coursing through him.

“Now,” she said with a playful smile while she secured a pouch to her belt, “we sneak out.”

***

Cullen was almost offended by how effortlessly they had slipped away from the inn unnoticed. Then again, he had deliberately arranged for minimal surveillance. And despite it all, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that one of Leliana’s agents was watching from the shadows. Still, he pushed the thought aside, too absorbed in accompanying the gorgeous woman at his side.

Uriell led them through the winding streets with the confidence of someone who knew the city by heart. Before long, they reached a bustling plaza where the market thrived. Stalls overflowed with goods: glittering trinkets, vibrant fabrics, sumptuous foods, and an array of wines. The surrounding shops around the place stood with their doors open, beckoning visitors inside to escape the lively crowd.

Their disguises worked perfectly; no one regarded them as out of place. However, the mask was not enough to hide away Uriell’s charms. If anything, it had given her a mysterious allure, shrouding her in an air of mystery that drew even more attention. Cullen noticed people stealing glances—ladies and gentlemen alike—some behind fluttering fans, others less discreet. He felt his jaw tighten. Normally, a single glare would be enough to deter unwanted gazes, but the mask robbed him of that weapon. Instead, he straightened to his full height, and he subtly positioned himself to block her admirers’ view.

Why did she have to draw attention so easily? he thought, though he knew the answer all too well. He didn’t usually mind, as he had been the first to fall for her radiance, but at that moment, he wished the others couldn’t see it. Get a grip, Rutherford. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.

Eager to expedite their errand and retreat to the privacy of her chambers—far from prying eyes—Cullen threw himself into the task of finding the silk and velvet merchants Uriell sought. His efficiency seemed to amuse her.

“Why so serious, Commander? Are you trying to get rid of me already?” she teased as he guided her through the crowd with his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Should you really be calling me ‘Commander’ in public, my lady?” he countered, deftly steering the conversation away.

“Oh,” she tilted her head in realization. She didn’t resist his lead as he guided her toward a promising stall. “What should I call you, then?”

“As you wish, my lady.” Cullen shot a warning glare at a nobleman who turned around to watch them pass with an exaggerated motion.

“I’ll think of something,” she whispered pensively.

Their search took longer than Cullen had wished for, as Uriell insisted on examining every stall and shop until she found one that met her standards. Once satisfied, she sought his advice—advice he felt utterly unqualified to give. She held up samples of fabric and asked for his opinion on colors and textures. He hesitated, unsure how to answer, but she was relentless; she wanted her gift to be perfect.

Cullen relented. After all, she was doing all of this for him. Her attention was solely dedicated to him, while he had just been nervous and alert, paying more mind to their surroundings than her. He focused as best he could while Uriell described the nuances of the fabrics, how they’d feel against his skin, and which might suit him best. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and as she spoke, he could picture the look she usually had at the war table whenever she buckled down when she had to make a decision. The memory brought an involuntary smile to his lips.

For a brief moment, Cullen let his guard down, lost in her excitement. But as they reached an agreement and Uriell called for the merchant, something caught his eye. Across the stall, a nobleman watched them with an intent that set Cullen on edge.

Before Cullen could react, the man grew bold, stepping closer with a confident stride. Cullen’s heart skipped a beat. Did he recognize the Inquisitor? His hand instinctively twitched toward his sword, but the nobleman was faster, already striking up a conversation with Uriell.

"Pardon me, my lady,” the man spoke with honeyed tongue. “I couldn't help but notice your exceptional eye for fabrics. Such refined taste is rare, even among Orlais' finest. Are you designing something for yourself, or perhaps for someone… deserving of your talents?"

Though Cullen felt Uriell tense ever so slightly by his side, she concealed it flawlessly and she turned to the man with a polite but guarded smile.

"I am merely exploring the market’s offerings.” She replied, her voice measured and calm. “Orlais is renowned for its craftsmanship, after all."

"Indeed, it is,” the nobleman said, his smile deepening, “though I dare say your presence elevates even the finest silks here. Would I be so bold as to assume, from your accent, that you are not from these parts?"

"You are quite bold in your assumptions, Monsieur.” Uriell replied with amusement. “Though you are correct. I’m flattered, though I must ask—do you always lavish strangers with such extravagant compliments, or am I simply fortunate today?"

"Ah, you see through me, my lady.” He chuckled with delight. “But I assure you, my words are sincere. Your striking presence outshines even the most radiant treasures here. There is something undeniably intriguing about you, and I would be honored to discuss it further… perhaps over a glass of wine?”

Cullen’s fists clenched at his sides, his teeth gritting as a wave of possessive anger surged within him. He fought the instinct to interject, to lay claim to what was not the nobleman’s to admire. The urge to defend her, to remind the man of his place, burned hot and primal.

Then, to his surprise, Uriell’s arm slipped around his, and she leaned into him with a soft, graceful ease.

“I am flattered, my lord,” she said with a sweet, lilting voice that carried the perfect tune of an enamored bride-to-be, “but I fear my fiancé might not share your appreciation for this encounter. You see, these silks are for our wedding.”

Cullen’s cheeks burned hot beneath his mask. Wedding? Fiancé? He stared at her, dumbfounded, as she leaned closer and pressed her breast against his arm with a natural ease that made his mind reel. His fiery anger gave way to heated confusion, his thoughts a chaotic swirl. But no matter how stunned he was, there was no denying that she had worked her spell perfectly.

The nobleman, now visibly chastened, offered a delighted apology to the "happy couple." “How could I have overlooked the dashing gentleman at your side?” he exclaimed, before wishing them all the best and retreating gracefully.

Cullen barely registered the words or the rest of the exchange between Uriell and the merchant. The blood pounding in his ears drowned everything out, his focus narrowed entirely on the warmth of her body radiating against his arm. She didn’t let go for even a moment, and the steady pressure of her presence sent his mind spiralling further.

“Honey?” she purred softly, pulling him back to reality with a gentle tug. “We can go now.”

Cullen blinked cluelessly. Was this even real?

“I asked for the fabrics to be delivered to the inn,” she continued, her voice as calm and composed as ever. “Then we can walk a bit more like this.”

“I—” His words faltered, caught in a throat that felt far too tight. “Of course.”

As they moved away from the stall, her arm remained securely linked around his. Her other hand rested lightly on his forearm, and she started tracing small, soothing circles with her fingers that sent sparks racing through his skin. He melted beneath her touch; certain he might combust if she continued.

Once they had put enough distance between themselves and the merchant, she leaned closer and whispered “Looks like I’ve found what to call you, then.” She giggled, a soft, musical sound that set his heart racing.

“That was—” Cullen stammered. “Well, unexpected.”

She tilted her face up to him, her expression unreadable beneath her mask.

“I apologize for that,” she said. Her tone returned to its usual, though she made no move to let go of his arm. “I thought it would be the best way out. Plus…”

She trailed off, biting her lip thoughtfully. Her gaze darted around the plaza, and Cullen noticed a pair of nobles nearby suddenly avert their eyes, pretending to admire the goods on a distant stall.

“… I’ve been looking for a way to shoo off your admirers,” Uriell confessed with a faint hint of bitterness. “People have been gawking at you, you know?”

Cullen blinked, startled by the remark. Him? Surely, she must have been mistaken—they had been staring at her, not him. He straightened instinctively and scanned across the crowd in search of evidence to counter her claim. But as his eyes moved, he realized the truth. Both of them were drawing attention. Some gazes lingered on Uriell’s elegance, her mystery heightened by the mask, while others seemed focused on him with equal curiosity. He frowned at the murmurs and subtle gestures he now noticed, a protective instinct flaring within him.

“… Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed,” Uriell teased as she watched his realization dawn.

“I only saw them looking at you, my Lady,” he whispered hastily, still bewildered. “Should we leave?”

“Please, dearest,” she said in a soft but deliberate voice, “call me by my name.”

She faced him, sliding her hands up his shoulders in a gesture that sent a jolt through him. His heart thundered as her touch lingered, every nerve alight. Her lips curved into a devilish smile, and she murmured “Might as well give them a convincing show.”

Cullen’s breath caught as he stared down at her, helpless as she worked her magic – and she wasn’t even a mage. She was clearly enjoying this far too much, while he was already on the verge of unravelling.

“You are… incorrigible,” he whispered, his voice unsteady about to betray the feverish pulse that raced within him. “Uriell. Love .”

Beneath her mask, a blush spread along her cheeks and down to the enticed curve of her exposed cleavage. Her lips trembled ever so slightly before she quickly composed herself. Cullen cursed inwardly at the mask that concealed most of her expression—it was pure, unrelenting torture to be denied the full effect of her reaction.

Uriell glanced away, and Cullen wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or deep thought. Slowly, she released her hold on him, her fingers brushing lightly against his arms as she pulled back. A pause hung between them, filled with a delicious tension, before she finally spoke again.

“I… am rather famished,” she said, her tone quieter and softer now. “Let me take you to dinner, and we’ll go back.”

She avoided his gaze, her focus elsewhere.

“Anything you wish of me, Uriell.”

It was indeed late, and the hour called for a meal, but he hungered for something else entirely.

***

After wandering arm-in-arm through the streets for a while, Uriell finally chose a place just as the sun dipped toward the horizon. It was a modest yet charming restaurant, with tables set on an open-air balcony overlooking a magnificent garden by the riverside. The golden light of the setting sun reflected off the water, and casted a warm, inviting glow over the scene.

Cullen felt a flicker of embarrassment each time the waitress referred to them as a couple, but every instance drew a light chuckle from Uriell, her laughter soft and melodic. Somehow, her amusement made the moment worth the flush in his cheeks.

The restaurant was beautiful, far exceeding his expectations, and the food even more so. Over their plates of œufs à la Val Foret , Uriell confessed that she’d visited the place before as a teenager, accompanied by her aunt. She admitted she hadn’t been entirely sure she could find it again.

Her ease in navigating the city suddenly made sense, and she shared anecdotes from her time in Orlais as a young woman. Between bites, she recounted her mischievous adventures—how she had skirted the edges of trouble and how much worse it might have been had she known her half-brother Kariell back then.

The conversation soon turned to her brother, who had remained behind in Skyhold. Uriell confided in him with a sly grin that she’d noticed Kariell seemed infatuated with one of their Dalish agents but was far too shy to act on it. Her teasing was gentle, brimming with the fondness of an older sibling.

When she shifted the topic to his own family, Cullen felt an initial wave of hesitation, but Uriell’s curiosity eased him into the conversation. They spoke of his older sister, Mia, and Uriell listened intently, her interest genuine. She even voiced a desire to meet Mia someday, an attention that struck Cullen deeply.

Maybe someday , he mused with the faintest of smiles.

Uriell had chosen a bottle of wine to pair with their meal, its sweetness lingering pleasantly on the tongue and carrying a potent strength beneath its smooth finish. Cullen made a mental note of its name, envisioning himself bringing her a bottle once they returned to Skyhold—a token to remind her of this moment, of him. The thought, buoyed by the wine’s fire coursing through him, made him almost embarrassingly sentimental. Under the safety of his mask, he allowed himself to gaze at her unabashedly.

He cherished her animated tone as their conversation flowed, and equally relished the quiet intervals where she paused to enjoy the scenery. Under the soft glow of the candlelight placed at their table as night fell, she was radiant, her every feature made even more captivating by the flickering light.

By his third glass, he felt a pleasant buzz settling in, though it left him unconsciously leaning toward her, elbows braced on the table, utterly transfixed. She was talking about dessert— yes, dessert . She had ordered chocolate truffles to share, claiming they were her favourites. Another mental note filed away for later, though his wine-hazed reverie was beginning to blur the edges.

Was she slightly drunk too? Her cheeks looked rather red beneath the edge of her mask. Cullen found himself longing to remove that barrier, to see her eyes again—the vivid green that always drew him in, almost painfully so. His chest tightened with the unspoken desire to say her name, to let it fall from his lips as he’d look straight into her soul. Would she shiver? Would something unspoken pass between them?

His thoughts scattered as his gaze drifted to her hands when she removed her gloves with practiced ease. She reached for a truffle with excitement. The sight of her holding the small treat, her fingers delicate and sure, felt inexplicably intimate.

She brought the truffle to her lips. His mouth went dry as he watched her take a careful bite, the soft pink of her tongue brushing against the edge of the confection. She hummed, a quiet sound of pleasure that resonated in his ears like a melody meant only for him. When her tongue darted out to catch a speck of sugar lingering on her bottom lip, Cullen’s entire world narrowed to that single, fleeting motion. He was utterly enthralled, the rest of the restaurant and its patrons forgotten.

“Want to try some, Commander?” she asked, her voice laced with teasing warmth.

She extended her hand toward him, the remaining half of the truffle mere inches from his face, between her fingers. Cullen’s heart hammered in his chest. For one fleeting, absurd moment, he wished he could trade places with that chocolate. But, failing that, he would settle for sharing it.

His hand moved seemingly of its own accord to gently close around her wrist, steadying her as if to prevent her from withdrawing. The brush of his leather glove against her bare skin made her startle, her soft gasp barely audible amidst the quiet hum of the restaurant. Cullen leaned forward and opened his mouth with deliberate slowness.

When he finally closed his lips around the truffle, he let them graze her fingers—just a little. She froze, her breath catching as he lingered for the briefest of moments, claiming the treat from her hand with teeth and tongue and a faint sucking sound.

The chocolate melted in his mouth, its bittersweet richness filling his senses. Was this what she tasted like? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He mirrored her earlier gesture, running his tongue lightly over his lips, lingering a fraction longer on the side where his scar was concealed.

Only then did he release her wrist.

She drew her hand back slowly. It might have been the wine, but the electricity in the air, the unspoken tension between them—this moment was nothing short of ecstatic.

“Delicious,” Cullen murmured, his voice low and rough, the single word carrying far more meaning than he intended.

Uriell exhaled a soft breath and her composure visibly wavered. “I… I know, right? They’re the best,” she managed, though she sounded a touch unsteady.

The remainder of their dinner passed uneventfully, yet for Cullen, the moments felt charged with an intensity that left him captivated. When at last they finished, Cullen rose from the table, his legs betraying a slight unsteadiness. The wine, it seemed, had been stronger than he realized. Dizziness washed over him, though he hid it well with a composed expression.

Uriell stumbled into him and locked her arm against his again. “Shall we?” He nodded. It was late. Soon, the other Advisors would return to the inn, no doubt wondering about their wayward Inquisitor’s absence. It was his duty to escort her back safely and discreetly, and to ensure their little adventure went unnoticed.

As they stepped out into the cool Orlesian night, Cullen found himself hoping the walk back would clear their heads. For all his planning and discipline, he feared that sneaking her in with both of them slightly intoxicated might prove a challenge. One he didn’t entirely mind, as long as it meant staying by her side a little longer.

The night had fallen, and the streets of Val Foret were bathed in a soft, cold glow from the ornate lanterns lining the way. The bustling crowds of the day had long since dissipated, leaving only a few scattered passersby. The relative quiet made their walk feel more intimate.

Uriell’s cheerful tone broke the comfortable silence after several minutes.

“Thank you for coming with me. It was… nice,” she said, her voice light with contentment.

“It was,” Cullen agreed in shy tenderness.

“The meal was so good,” she raved. “And those truffles! They tasted just like I remembered!”

“The company wasn’t bad either,” he admitted, emboldened under the wine’s influence.

Her pace slowed, which brought Cullen to a halt. His heart skipped a beat in his chest, panic creeping in. Had he gone too far? He turned to her, his thoughts racing to form an apology.

“It’s too heavy,” she muttered; then her hands moved to the ties of her mask, her fingers deftly unfastening it

Cullen watched in stunned silence as she removed the mask, her golden hair spilling free in shimmering curls, catching the lamplight like threads of sunlight. Her eyes, vibrant and alive, shone with a fire he had never seen before. She stood before him as herself, unmasked and utterly radiant, but oh so… visible .

He barely had time to register the breathtaking sight before instinct overtook him. His hand shot out, gripping her arm to gently but urgently guide her into the shadowed alleyway nearby. Uriell opened her mouth, likely to protest, but he silenced her with a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” he whispered in a low but firm tone.

A passerby strolled past the alleyway entrance, their steps leisurely and oblivious. Cullen’s sharp eyes followed the figure until they disappeared around a corner, the faint echo of footsteps fading into the night. Only when he was certain the coast was clear did he let his guard lower.

His attention returned to Uriell, whose expression had shifted from annoyance to captivation. For a moment, neither spoke. Only then did Cullen realize he had pushed her against the wall to shield her from view, his arms braced on either side of her. She stood motionless, her cheeks flushed from the wine, her parted lips betraying a quiet anticipation.

She was absolutely stunning.

He dared not move further nor closer, yet resisting the magnetic pull between them felt nearly impossible.

“How come you’re so handsome, even with your mask on?” she murmured almost to herself.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, his voice a low, husky rasp.

Uriell reached for his face in a tender, deliberate motion. Cullen stood still, bewildered as her fingers found the ties of his own mask. Slowly, she loosened them in an impossibly gentle touch. When she slipped the mask free, a strand of his hair fell across his forehead, damp with the first hints of sweat brought on by the unexpected thrill coursing through him.

The mask fell to the ground with a soft thud.

Uriell’s eyes wandered over his face with an intense, gracious focus, taking in every line and trait as if memorizing them. Was this the wine clouding his mind? Some fevered dream he didn’t want to wake from? Or had she drunk enough to lose herself in this strange, exhilarating moment?

Her hands returned to his face, cool against the heat of his flushed skin. Her thumb brushed over the makeup covering his scar, wiping it away until the jagged mark lay exposed. The simple act sent a jolt of electricity through him.

“Even more handsome…” she whispered, her tone reverent in devotion and barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

Her gaze lowered, lingering on his mouth, just as his own drifted to hers. Every fiber of his being urged him forward, his resolve unravelling, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. He leaned closer, his head tilted, the distance between them shrinking until he could feel the warmth of her feverish gasp. It carried the faint sweetness of chocolate and wine, layered atop her familiar floral scent. Her hands slid into his hair, her touch light but firm, drawing him in. His world narrowed to her, and her alone.

She tilted her head as well, their lips nearly brushing—

“Maker’s breath, you two.”

They both froze a mere breath apart, their widened eyes locked in shared panic. A cold sweat ran down Cullen’s back. In an instant, they jerked away from each other, heads snapping toward the source of the voice.

Deep and steady, though carrying a barely veiled frustration, the sentence had cut through the charged air like a blade. Gleaming in his polished armor, Ser Delrin Barris stood at the entrance to the alleyway, arms crossed and scowl heavy with judgment.

“By Andraste’s knickers, what the fuck were you thinking? ” he scolded, his tone both incredulous and sharp.

Cullen opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, Barris had already shifted his focus.

“You,” Barris pointed a firm, accusatory finger at Uriell with the familiarity of a friend exasperated beyond belief. “Everyone’s been looking for you. What am I supposed to tell Leliana and Josephine? That you eloped? Absolutely not.”

“Delrin, I—” Uriell stammered, her usual composure nowhere to be found. Flustered and unsteady, she struggled to form a response, but Barris was unrelenting.

“And you ,” he sneered, turning his piercing glare at Cullen. “Commander. I expected better from you. Taking advantage of a drunk lady? Really?” His words cut deep, the disappointment in his voice sharper than any blade. “You stay here.”

Barris motioned for Uriell to follow him. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “I’ll help you sneak back into your chambers before anyone else notices.”

Uriell hesitated, glancing back at Cullen, but Barris didn’t wait for her reply. Pushing her at the back, he guided her down the alleyway, their footsteps fading into the darkness.

Cullen exhaled shakily, leaning his forehead against the cold, damp stone wall. The texture bit into his skin, grounding him as his mind churned. What had he done? He had nearly kissed her— the Inquisitor . His duty was to guard her, to ensure her safety, not to lose himself in raw desires. The lingering thrill and warmth of their almost-kiss evaporated, replaced by a heavy weight of guilt.

He stood there, unmoving, haunted by his own recklessness and the cutting reprimand of Barris’ words. When the templar would return, Cullen knew there would be no teasing. No camaraderie. And Maker help him , he deserved it.

Ser Barris reappeared a few minutes later, his boots clinking softly against the cobblestones. Cullen turned at the sound, only to let out a loud exhale as he pushed his back against the wall. Delrin’s frown hadn’t eased. If anything, it had deepened, though his frustration now mingled with a trace of worry.

“For fuck’s sake, Rutherford ,” he hissed, using Cullen’s last name as both a rebuke and a greeting. “Are you out of your mind? When did you grow so bold? A few feet from the inn, no less! What if I hadn’t been the one to find you, uh? The Herald of Andraste, drunk in the streets, about to make out with no less than the Commander of the Inquisition? Did that even cross your mind?”

Cullen pressed his eyes closed, willing the dizziness to fade as he caught his breath. The alcohol’s fog seemed to lift under the weight of Barris’ words, every one hitting like a hammer. They weren’t wrong—none of them. He had already been berating himself with the same thoughts, but hearing them aloud made it worse.

As the reprimand subsided, Barris’s voice softened slightly, though the edge of exasperation remained. “Come on, what the hell were you thinking ?”

Cullen let the silence stretch between them, his heart still racing in a chaotic rhythm. Finally, with a pained exhale, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Delrin stared at him, his disbelief palpable. The hard lines of his stance softened as concern overtook frustration. “What happened, Cullen? What was all that about?” The words sat heavy on Cullen’s chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

“I’m damned, Delrin,” he confessed in a fevered hush, the admission piercing through the night like an arrow. “You were right. From the beginning. I’m in love... with the Inquisitor.”

Barris stood there, his expression unreadable, as Cullen let himself slide further down the wall. He sank to the ground, defeated, and fell back into silence.

Chapter Text

The deep, pained sigh Cullen exhaled did little to ease the crushing weight on his chest. Anxiety had taken root there, unyielding and relentless. Though Ser Barris rode beside him, a quiet pillar of moral support, Cullen’s thoughts felt profoundly isolated, trapped in a labyrinth of doubt and longing.

The night before, Barris had proven to be a steadfast confidant and a trusted friend. Cullen had finally broken, surrendering to the combined force of his emotions and the loosening grip of intoxication. He had confessed everything—his blind denial of his growing attraction to the Inquisitor, the unexpected but fragile intimacy they had shared in recent days, and the unbearable pull between his yearning heart and the unyielding demands of duty. He had poured out his fears and insecurities, his belief that he was undeserving of love, and his dread that she could never see him as anything more than her Commander. The moment of closeness he had shared with her that night not only now haunted him, but also left him convinced he had jeopardized everything.

Delrin Barris had absorbed it all in silence, his presence grounding Cullen as he unravelled. He had placed a firm, reassuring hand on Cullen’s shoulder with an expression of quiet understanding. When Cullen’s confessions finally waned, the templar had hesitated, then attempted to lift his spirits with a jest. Apparently, only fools—and the Inquisitor herself—had failed to notice the way Cullen had been looking at her. Barris had called it “painfully obvious,” comparing Cullen’s gaze to that of a “lovesick mabari puppy”.

Cullen frowned ever further in an attempt to chase the shame from crawling back under his skin. Did everyone truly know? He had spent so long guarding his heart, distancing himself from her smile, only for his defenses to crumble in the span of a single week. The possibility that others in the Inquisition might have seen his vulnerability left him raw and exposed.

Needless to say, he had slept poorly, haunted by the events of the previous night. Morning brought no solace. He had been too distraught since the last night, and too suspicious of everyone, which left him unable to face anyone but his templar friend and most trusted ally in the storm of his emotions.

Cullen felt a small measure of relief when he overheard Solas, Varric, and Blackwall ahead of him. Everyone had been looking for the Inquisitor last night, worried of not hearing from her in a while, only to discover she had come to bed early and kept her room locked. She claimed to have spent the early evening and night in uninterrupted sleep, so she would be rested before the most tedious days ahead. This morning, she had reemerged refreshed, though there was an undeniable distance in her demeanor, as if her mind lingered elsewhere. The trio shared their concern about her in a fond yet respectful way, as they suspected the pressure of the approaching ball to start weighing heavily on her shoulders. By this time tomorrow, they would arrive in Val Royeaux, where every gesture and word would be scrutinized under the prying gaze of the nobility.

While he was glad no one seemed aware of their secret escape, Cullen couldn’t silence the gnawing guilt that crept through him. He had been too preoccupied with his own emotions to even consider how Uriell felt about the next leg of their journey. She was likely carrying a far heavier burden than he had realized, and now, his actions—their near kiss—had likely only added to her worries.

The memory of the night before surged back, vivid and inescapable. He could still see the way she had removed their masks, her pleading eyes searching his. Her voice, trembling yet resolute, had called him handsome, and the tender touch of her fingers tracing the scar on his face had left him breathless. When her hand slipped into his hair, pulling him closer as he leaned in, he had felt the world narrow to just the two of them. But now, shackled by guilt and fear, he could not allow himself to savor the memory. If not for his torment, he might have surrendered to his desire, cherishing the moments etched into his body and soul, waiting feverishly for the day he could finally close the distance between them and feel her lips on his.

Oh, for despite all his self-reproach, he longed for her. And yet, a question loomed, more terrifying than all the rest: how much of her behavior had been influenced by the wine? Had the intoxicating thrill of anonymity—of being someone else for a day—pushed her to act on feelings that weren’t real? Had it been nothing more than a passing whim, swept away by the liberation of the day?

As much as he needed the answer—as desperately as air to breathe—Cullen remained paralyzed, unable to decide whether he should ask her or keep his silence. Ser Barris had not been of great help when Cullen sought his advice. Though Delrin agreed it wasn’t the right time to confront the matter, he had voiced a cautious suspicion: Uriell might, in fact, return Cullen’s feelings. That tiny spark of hope had flared briefly in Cullen’s chest, only to be extinguished when Barris mentioned how rarely he had seen her so drunk.

But worse than his doubts, worse than the unanswered questions, was the growing chasm between them. Uriell had spent the morning riding at the front, flanked by Cassandra and Josephine. Every attempt Cullen made to catch her eye—if only to muster the courage to ask how she was feeling—was deftly thwarted. She avoided his gaze with such precision that it no longer felt accidental. It was deliberate, a silent barrier that crushed any remaining shreds of his confidence.

Cullen cursed under his breath. He was a soldier, the Commander of the Inquisition. He had won many battles, he had faced demons, Venatori mages, even darkspawn sometimes, without flinching. He had been leading an army into battle against an ancient, corrupted Magister, his resolve unwavering in the face of overwhelming odds. Yet the chance of a single glance from her—a look she now denied him— would leave him unarmored, laid bare, and aching. He hated it. He craved it. And it never came.

The day finally dragged to a close, leaving Cullen sore and weary as he dismounted and threw himself into the camp preparations. There was still much to do. Leliana and Josephine needed the largest tent for a final meeting before they reached the capital, while the rest of the team planned to gather around the fire for one last night of laughter before the troubles of Val Royeaux set in. Cullen oversaw the organization and the last-minute requests of his men, then helped handle Loranil’s nervousness about his first days in such a big city. Being busy was a relief—it kept him from thinking too much about whether he should talk to Uriell.

He only caught one fleeting sight of her during the chaos. Peering over the heads of the bustling camp, he saw her slipping away with Vivienne and Dorian into the main tent. She was gone before he could even consider approaching her.

When the camp finally quieted and the cooks began preparing dinner, Cullen allowed himself a rare moment to rest. At Delrin’s invitation, he sat by the fire. His friend had insisted he not spend the evening alone, and though they didn’t speak, Barris’ steady presence was a comfort in itself.

But Cullen’s rumination wouldn’t stay silent. His hand moved almost on its own, pulling the small note from his glove. He unfolded it carefully, the worn edges betraying how many times he’d already read it. “Meet me in my room in an hour. Keep the window open.”

He shouldn’t have gone. She didn’t need a personal guard; she didn’t need him that day—she never really did. She was more than capable of protecting herself. He had barely been keeping her company. Now, that memory felt like a wound he couldn’t heal. He glanced at the fire, the note dangling from his fingers. Maybe it would be better to let it go. If he burned it, he might finally forget; but the thought only made his chest ache. With a sharp sigh, full of frustration and regret, Cullen folded the note again and tucked it back into his glove.

A short while after finishing his dinner, as he debated heading to bed while the recruits began cracking open a cask of ale, Cullen found himself joined by Blackwall, the Iron Bull, and Varric. The dwarf approached first, giving Cullen a light pat on the shoulder.

“Hey, Curly,” Varric greeted him with an unusually soft smile. “I hope you’re holding up; you look awful today.”

“…Thanks?” Cullen replied in a wary tone as he glanced toward Ser Barris, wondering where this conversation was headed.

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” Varric clarified, his expression surprisingly earnest. “You just seem… off. Hopefully, you’ll get a chance to take a break. Unfortunately…”

Cullen raised an eyebrow and exchanged another quick look with Delrin, who seemed equally curious about what Varric was going to say next.

“You’ve been summoned,” Varric said, gesturing toward the largest tent. “It’s about the opera thing tomorrow. You’re expected.”

Cullen gave a small nod in acknowledgment, though the possibility of what awaited him inside the tent filled him with unease. He wasn’t sure he could face Uriell yet, but he had no choice. As he stepped away, Varric threw Cullen one last sympathetic glance. “Heads up, Commander. This whole show will be over in a week.”

Cullen couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing.

He wished the walk to the tent had lasted longer, but all too soon, he found himself standing in front of its closed entrance. The hum of lively conversation filtered through the canvas, and shadows danced across the walls—a small crowd gathered inside. He could make out the voices of Leliana, Josephine, Vivienne, Dorian, and, of course, Uriell. Bracing himself, he drew a deep breath. It did little to steady him, and he felt more resigned than prepared for his internal battle as he stepped inside.

The tent had been transformed for the evening’s purpose. A folding screen stood in one corner beside a standing mirror. Nearby, a trunk overflowed with lush fabrics and accessories. To his left, Dorian clicked his tongue sharply, signaling Cullen’s arrival with a dramatic “Ah!” The mage was clad in a bold black velvet outfit accented with golden inlay, and Cullen quickly realized that everyone was dressed in similar colors. Leliana gave him a pointed look, tilting her head to beckon him further inside.

And there, at the center of it all, was Uriell.

She stood on a small stool, perfectly framed by the flickering candlelight behind her. Josephine knelt by the hem of her gown, making meticulous adjustments, while Vivienne held her hand with care. The dress was striking—a flowing creation of black velvet, its plunging neckline daring yet elegant. A high slit along the side offered a glimpse of her leg, and the golden embroidery shimmered like stars scattered across a midnight sky. A gold and emerald necklace draped over her shoulders and chest, intricate and regal, almost like armor. Her long, golden curls fell in soft waves, reaching mid-thigh, gleaming like spun sunlight. White gloves extended past her elbows, completing the look with an air of refinement.

Then, their eyes met.

Cullen held his breath, and for a single moment, the world fell away. There was only her. She wasn’t just beautiful— divine was the only word that came close. In that instant, the title Herald of Andraste carried an entirely new meaning. If not for the sheer force of his awe rooting him to the spot, he might have dropped to his knees in reverence, hands joined in prayers of adoration. Instead, he stood frozen, staring, utterly captivated.

Her eyes, sparkling like the gemstones around her neck, stayed locked on his. Her lips, painted a deep, alluring red, parted slightly as if she meant to speak but couldn’t. Those lips—gentle, tempting—called to him like a siren’s song.

He might have stayed lost in that moment forever if not for Dorian and Leliana pulling him back.

“Cullen, there you are,” came Dorian’s voice in a teasing, yet somehow grounding. Cullen blinked as the Tevinter mage and the Spymaster each steadied him with a hand on his shoulders. “I thought you’d never come. You wouldn’t miss the preparations for tomorrow, would you?”

Cullen blinked again, the fog in his mind clearing just enough to take in his surroundings. Josephine and Vivienne were now looking at him, their expressions expectant. Even so, he couldn’t look away from Uriell. She shifted slightly, her posture stiffening under the heat of his stare.

“Well?” Dorian pressed with a knowing smirk. “What do you think?”

Cullen exhaled, the words slipping out before he could catch them. “You… you look beautiful.”

“My, my, Commander, stop it, you’ll make me blush! Save some for the Inquisitor,” Dorian teased, stepping into Cullen’s line of sight and breaking the spell between him and Uriell.

“You did not think you wouldn’t get yours too?” Josephine chimed in and reached behind Uriell for a neatly folded set of clothes. “Here, Commander, I’ll need you to try this on.”

She approached, holding out a pristine uniform. Her expression, usually warm, was firm—a rare sight that signaled there would be no arguing the matter. Cullen barely noticed when she pressed the suit into his arms. His focus lingered on Uriell, despite Dorian expertly blocking his view.

“Oh, er, yes… sure…” he muttered distractedly, though he did not move.

Josephine exchanged a questioning look with Dorian before planting her hands on her hips, her attitude leaving no room for argument. “ Now , Cullen,” she commanded and pointed toward the folding screen for emphasis.

Dorian smirked and, in his usual playful tone, offered, “I can help you with that, if you’d like.” Without waiting for a response, the mage gave Cullen a gentle nudge toward the changing area. Cullen didn’t resist, still stunned from the last vision.

Only after being pushed behind the screen and left alone did he come back to his senses. He glanced at the black velvet and golden embroideries in his hands, placing the outfit on the stool waiting nearby.

“What is this for, anyway?” he called out to whoever was closest.

“The opera , Cullen,” Josephine’s exasperated voice came from the other side of the screen. “We tried to tell you the other day. The Lady Inquisitor, Dorian, and Madame de Fer will attend. Us as well.”

“We need to make an impression,” Leliana added in her calm, usually measured demeanor.

Cullen grunted as he began unfastening his bracers. “Must I, really?”

“Yes, you must,” Josephine snapped. “I won’t have this discussion again.”

He muttered in defeat, knowing there was no way out. The conversation outside the screen drifted back to Uriell and the opera, leaving him alone to change. When he was done, he took a moment to evaluate the sensation. The fabric felt softer than he expected, though the fit was a bit too tight for his comfort.

“Ah, the Commander is ready!” Dorian declared, peeking around the screen which startled him. “Come now, let us see the results.”

Cullen groaned inwardly, wishing he could be anywhere else. He stepped into the light reluctantly, the attention immediately turning to him. “Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled.

“How dashing!” Dorian beamed. “Have you been working out lately, Commander?”

Cullen sighed but didn’t reply. Josephine was already fussing over him, smoothing out folds and inspecting every detail with a critical eye.

“Well, it fits,” she announced as she adjusted the fabric. “I wasn’t sure the tailor would have time, but… it’s a bit snug, though acceptable. The embroidery is where it should be…”

Cullen’s eyes drifted to the others’ outfits while Josephine worked. Leliana wore tailored pants with a fitted tailcoat and a sheer cape draped over one shoulder. Vivienne’s sleek corseted gown, reminiscent of her signature robes, had long sleeves and elegant gold detailing. Josephine’s ensemble featured a slim bustier paired with flowing skirts, her matching shawl cascading from her arms. Dorian, as always, stood out. His asymmetrical black and gold robes, fitting for a Magister, revealed one bare arm adorned with way too many golden bracelets.

Cullen glanced down at his own outfit. By comparison, it was the least extravagant—a formal design resembling his usual attire, though rendered in black velvet and gold. And less warm.

Dorian and Josephine hovered around Cullen, tugging on his jacket, flattening seams, and debating adjustments. This was nothing like the tender moment he’d shared with Uriell in the intimacy of the carriage. Their voices faded into the background as his thoughts wandered back to that moment. He remembered the gentle drag of her nails along the fabric, her hands resting lightly on his torso before sliding to his sides to trace the seams. That touch lingered in his memory, and he found himself wishing for it now, far more than he should.

He risked a glance above Josephine’s head, searching for Uriell.

Their eyes met again. She had been watching quietly from her perch on the stool. Shadows of melancholy softened her face. For a moment, the world faded away, and the tension from the night before surged between them like a flickering flame. His throat tightened. She offered him a faint, encouraging smile, but the brightness she usually carried, the spark from the day before, was gone.

Cullen swallowed hard as anxiety and worry started to build up, but Josephine’s bustling movement brought him back to reality.

“Very well,” Josephine said at last, her tone brisk. “This will do for the fitting, though we’re far from finished.”

She turned on her heel and walked back to Uriell, already focused on the next steps. Dorian followed, leaving Cullen standing awkwardly in place. Only Leliana’s attention lingered, her sharp stare fixed on him. Her look, unreadable but piercing, made him shift uncomfortably.

Unsure of what else to do, he stepped forward, moving closer to the small crowd gathered around Uriell.

“So, now, Inquisitor, have you read through the list?” Josephine asked while Vivienne helped Uriell step down from the stool.

“I… did, Josephine,” Uriell replied, her voice tinged with discomfort. “You certainly put a lot of effort into it. I wasn’t expecting so many names.”

“You’ve made quite the impression, dear,” Vivienne remarked, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I assure you, each of them was carefully chosen with the Inquisition’s best interests in mind,” Josephine continued. “All of them are highly respectful and influential.”

Cullen frowned. He seemed to be the only one left out of the conversation and didn’t understand what they were referring to. “…What are we talking about?” he asked cautiously, though his instincts told him he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Our lady’s most devoted admirers,” Leliana chimed in with a smile.

“Only the ones befitting your status, my dear,” Vivienne added matter-of-factly, as she dangled two earrings near Uriell’s face, carefully assessing which pair complemented the dress better.

Uriell glanced away shyly, her fingers brushing nervously over the hem of her gloves. Cullen’s chest tightened, a faint pang of panic sweeping over him. Had Leliana and Josephine really gone through with their plan?

“I don’t know, Josie…” Uriell hesitated, her cheeks and ears flushed under their attention. “I don’t mind meeting them, but picking one for the opera feels... like a lot. I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of display.”

Josephine’s voice lowered, in a more personal tone. “My lady, you don’t have to choose anyone if you’re uncomfortable. Just mingling with them during our time in Val Royeaux would suffice. Being seen with them could benefit the Inquisition, but this is your decision. You can also just enjoy the show.”

Uriell glanced up at her. She was about to reply, but Leliana interjected smoothly.

“This is about you and what you want, my lady Inquisitor,” she said gently yet purposefully. “As long as we’re seen with some of them, the Court will know we’re aligned with influential families. It’s an opportunity to secure a few more alliances. However…” Leliana’s sly smile curled knowingly. “You might be interested to know that Ser Louis-Marie de Serault was recently anointed as a Chevalier. A useful contact for gathering information on Gaspard, wouldn’t you agree? And, if I may add, he’s quite easy on the eyes.”

Cullen’s fists clenched instinctively, his body responding before his mind could intervene. His stomach churned with irritation, and his jaw tightened further when Josephine chuckled softly at Leliana’s last comment.

“This is entirely your decision, Inquisitor,” Josephine reiterated as Uriell nodded faintly with a small smile. “If you’d prefer not to choose anyone, I’ll arrange for a larger venue to host a garden party instead and invite them all there. But if you do decide on someone, we’ll be nearby, and it will only last for the time of the performance.”

“Thank you, Josephine. I’ll… think about it,” Uriell replied, her voice quiet but politely sincere.

Cullen gritted his teeth, the weight of her words sinking in. Would she actually go through with this? The mere idea of Uriell sitting, enchanting and radiant, next to one of the most sought-after bachelors—a Chevalier, no less—for a few hours was unbearable. Her gaze flitted to everyone in the room but him. Was she avoiding him? His chest tightened, and his heart screamed at her to look at him—just once. To silently plead with her, to beg her not to indulge in the politics that would place her with someone else. Even better , he thought desperately, just pick me.

He was so lost in his growing distress that he didn’t notice Leliana until the sharp edge of a folded paper brushed against his side. Across the room, Josephine was speaking softly, listing the names and their merits to help Uriell decide by morning. Cullen barely registered her words, his focus instead on Leliana’s whisper, low and deliberate beside him.

“I know what you did yesterday.”

Cullen tensed, a cold shiver running down his spine. He took the paper Leliana discreetly handed him, trembling slightly as he glanced at her. Dread coiled in his guts, squeezing tighter with each heartbeat. What exactly did she know? Was this about last night? Had someone else found out? His assumptions spiralled, each one more damning and wilder than the last. Was this entire display an attempt to quash rumors of the Inquisitor being seen drunk in the streets with a man? Was it all his fault?

His breathing quickened, and though Leliana had yet to speak again, her knowing look told him she was already ahead of his wild imagination.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her tone calm but laced with meaning. “No one else knows. But you might want to be more cautious about where you leave her notes next time.”

Her words struck him like a thunderbolt, though he kept a stern face. They both stepped aside as Josephine, Vivienne, and Dorian led Uriell further into the tent, ushering her toward a fitting for her shoes. Cullen unfolded the note in his hand and immediately recognized it. The small missive he’d kept tucked inside his glove since the day before. His eyes darted between the note and the folding screen where his belongings lay, panic and queasiness washing over him. How had Leliana found it?

He looked back at her in shock. She met his gaze with a faintly amused, knowing expression, one of her rare smiles that carried a warmth he couldn’t decipher. For all her subtlety, Leliana always bore the many faces of the Spymaster.

“So,” she added in a low voice, tilting her head slightly. “Can you truly not think of someone to accompany her?”

Her question struck deeper than he cared to admit. The question hanged softly between then, less of a threat and more of a genuine wonder, but Cullen remained unsure of its meaning. Was she testing him, her mask concealing her true intent? Before he could respond, Leliana turned on her heel and glided toward the others with effortless grace. Clearly, she wouldn’t miss a conversation about shoes for the world, so she left Cullen with his raging anxiety and the damning note clutched tightly in his fist.

Cullen stayed silent for the remainder of the meeting, not that anyone required his input. Once every accessory was decided upon and the team had changed out of their opera attire, they each returned to their respective tasks. Cullen lingered, hoping to catch a moment with Uriell. Yet, she remained distant, barely responding to anyone, her gaze avoiding theirs entirely. When “good night”s were exchanged, and people left for their respective tents, Cullen made one last attempt to catch her attention, but she slipped into the night before he could even call her name.

Left alone with his feeling and unresolved torment, Cullen stood motionless for a moment, the night air biting at his skin. From somewhere near the center of camp, the lively clamor of laughter and songs rose from a fire pit where his men were drinking and reveling. Though the idea of joining them felt hollow, returning to his empty tent seemed worse. Deciding distraction was better than brooding in solitude, he stopped by his tent to leave his armor carefully folded atop his bed before heading toward the firelight.

When he arrived, the atmosphere was jovial. Barris was engaged in a lively conversation with Varric, both men chuckling over some tale the dwarf was spinning. As Cullen approached, Barris noticed him and raised a hand, gesturing for the Commander to sit.

“Commander! Over here,” Barris called, pointing at the empty space on the other side of Blackwall who was sitting next to him.

Cullen nodded silently and took the offered seat.

“Commander! We didn’t think you’d join us tonight!” Loranil exclaimed from across the fire. He raised his tankard in a cheer, prompting the rest of the group to do the same, their laughter already loosened by several rounds of ale.

“That’s right,” Blackwall added, taking a long sip of his drink. “I figured you’d be tied up in one of those endless meetings. How are you holding up?”

A tankard filled to the brim was passed along until it reached Blackwall, who handed it to Cullen with a sympathetic nod. Though he had no real appetite for the drink, Cullen accepted it. The bitter, frothy liquid was cold, the sharp tang cutting through the haze of his tortured yearning. He took a second sip before replying hoarsely.

“I’m managing,” he muttered, staring at the swirling ale in his cup. “Just… preparations for tomorrow.”

Blackwall raised a brow but didn’t press further.

“Ah, the opera,” Iron Bull said, joining the conversation as he settled heavily onto the bench beside Cullen. The massive Qunari carried an unopened cask under one arm, ready to refill anyone’s tankard when the time came. “Are you attending the opera, Cullen?” he asked in genuine curiosity.

Cullen let out a dry laugh. “Yes, apparently I am,” he replied, his tone flat as he swirled the ale again before taking another swig. The drink’s potency was undeniable; warmth spread through his chest, dulling the sharp edges of his worry.

“You poor guy,” Bull chuckled, tapping the side of his cask as though toasting Cullen’s misfortune. “I don’t envy you, Commander. Still, shame to miss out on those little frilly cakes they serve at these things. Damn, those are good.”

The group erupted in laughter, and for a fleeting moment, Cullen felt the heavy tension in his body ease. He drained the rest of his drink in one long pull, hoping this would quiet the lingering weight of his pensive ruminations.

“So, Blackwall,” Bull said, turning his attention to the brooding Grey Warden beside him. “How’s it going? With the lady, I mean?”

Cullen raised an eyebrow in surprise to Blackwall, who suddenly seemed far more interested in the depths of his tankard. The man took a slow, deliberate sip, clearly stalling.

“It’s… going,” Blackwall finally replied, his tone as evasive as Cullen’s had been earlier. “Can’t say I had much luck to talk to her, with her busy schedule.”

“Lady?” Cullen asked, eager to blend with the group that had so readily welcomed him and offered him the perfect distraction for the time being. “What lady?”

Blackwall grumbled, refusing to lift his eyes from his cup. It was the Iron Bull who answered first, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he nudged Cullen’s ribs with a massive elbow.

“The Lady Ambassador,” Bull declared, his voice rich with amusement. “Turns out our friend here has a soft spot for Antivan sweets.”

“Josephine?” Cullen repeated, his brow lifting in genuine surprise. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I had no idea.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” Blackwall muttered, finally looking up with a resigned sigh. “Bull, I appreciate your… concern, but how exactly am I supposed to make any progress if she learns it from you first?”

Varric’s sharp ears had caught wind of the conversation and he was already leaning forward across Barris, inserting himself in the exchange with practised ease. “Oh, come on, Chuckles. Cheer up. I’m sure you’ll find your moment to sweep Ruffles off her feet. Hell, if you’d agreed to the opera invitation, you could’ve been the one sitting with her in the lodge tomorrow.”

Blackwall’s expression soured further. “I’d rather leave for the Deep Roads,” he declared before lifting his tankard and draining its contents in one long, defiant gulp.

 “That’s the spirit!” Iron Bull bellowed, reaching for the cask to refill Blackwall’s drink.

Cullen extended his tankard along with the others, the hearty sound of pouring ale and laughter filling the air. Though the revelation about Blackwall’s infatuation with Josephine caught him off guard, Cullen couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the Grey Warden. His own struggles with matters of the heart were not so different.

“Speaking of which,” Iron Bull leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “And you? How’s it going with the Boss, Cullen?”

Cullen almost choked on his sip of ale. He coughed sharply, his composure momentarily shattered, before he managed to rasp out, “What—What do you mean?”

“For the opera tomorrow.” The Qunari’s grin widened as he clarified. “Did they finally decide who’s going with her?”

“Yeah, Commander,” Blackwall chimed in, his earlier brooding replaced by a sly grin, happy to be offered a chance at pay-back. “Who’s the lucky escort?”

“I…” Cullen felt the heat rushing to his face and quickly took another long drink from his tankard, as if it could shield him from their probing stares. The ale’s warmth was both a comfort and a curse, emboldening him yet betraying his discomfort. He exhaled, a faint tinge of redness still creeping across his cheeks. “I don’t know. It’s up to her now. They’ve asked her to decide.”

“Really?” Blackwall arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “And she hasn’t made up her mind yet?”

Cullen glanced aside at Ser Barris, who immediately froze under the scrutiny. Barris’ eyes widened and his lips formed a silent but fervent I didn’t say anything! before Cullen could even consider glaring at him. Varric caught the exchange and chuckled under his breath, though he mercifully refrained from commenting. Blackwall and Bull, however, remained fixated on Cullen, waiting for his response.

“She’s still thinking about it,” Cullen admitted in a heave, attempting a casual shrug that fell just short of convincing. “Politics, right?”

His nervous laugh did little to mask the tension in his voice. It wasn’t the politics bothering him—it was the possibility of her choosing someone else. Someone whose name he didn’t even want to know. The notion gnawed at him, threatening to choke him and leaving a bitter taste even stronger than the ale. But Cullen had no time to dwell, not with the Iron Bull and Blackwall staring at him like circling predators.

Varric finally broke the silence with a groan. “For fuck’s sake, Curly, have you never thought of asking her?”

“Asking her what?” Cullen emptied his cup. His head was buzzing already.

“Just ask her!” Bull said as he poured him another drink before he could refuse. “Be her plus one. It’s not that complicated. You’re already going.”

“To be fair,” Blackwall added with a grin, clapping Cullen on the back, “that’s what we all thought after the ‘personal guard’ bit.”

Cullen’s flush intensified, though he was unsure if it was from embarrassment, the ale, or the truth in their words. His knuckles tightened around the cup, but the camaraderie in their attitudes—the strange blend of teasing and earnest encouragement—kept him from shutting down entirely and fleeing the scene. Still, the idea of asking her outright felt monumental.

Varric, ever the storyteller, leaned forward with a knowing smirk. “You’re overthinking it, Commander. You’re supposed to be the brave one, right? Charging into danger and all that? Well, consider this your next mission.”

“Exactly!” the Iron Bull’s booming laugh echoed around the fire. “And this one doesn’t even have dragons—just a lady who clearly likes you.”

Cullen quivered at Iron Bull’s words, though he didn’t dare let the hopeful thought linger too long. Instead, he emptied his cup in a single, determined gulp. The ale burned pleasantly on the way down, the weight of the day beginning to lift—if only for a moment.

Cullen could barely register the cheering from his comrades around the fire. The sound blurred into the crackle of flames, both outside and within him. The ale ignited something in his veins, rousing him, stoking a courage he’d kept buried beneath layers of duty and restraint. A singular question, wild and reckless, took hold: Why shouldn’t I ask her?

She had invited him into her shenanigans, pulled him along on her recent escapades—why couldn’t he do the same? If he was already bound to endure the opera, why not do so at her side? Maybe she’d like that? Wouldn’t she prefer her “personal guard" to stand at her lodge’s door, rebuking any suitor daring to try and sneak in? And perhaps—just perhaps—she’d want more than just his protection. What if she wanted to finish what had almost begun the other night?

The mere consideration sent a rush of heat through him, one that had nothing to do with the ale. The image of her, her lips so close, the weight of her gaze—it was enough to spur him to his feet, the motion sudden and resolute.

He raised his tankard and downed its contents bottoms-up— when had anyone refilled it? The bitter bite of the ale clawed at his throat, mingling with the roar of approval from the gathered soldiers. All that mattered was the fire now blazing in his blood and hammering heart—a reckless, undeniable purpose.

 “You’re right, gentlemen,” he declared, the words punctuated by the crackle of the fire. “I should go and ask her!”

Iron Bull and Blackwall erupted in cheers, their camaraderie feeding his resolve. He took a deep breath, the cold night air bracing against the heat in his skin, and turned toward the direction of her tent. His mind raced ahead, daring to imagine how she might react. Would she smile? Would she laugh at his sudden bravery? Or perhaps, just perhaps, she’d let him close enough to finally—

But there he was, standing at the entrance of her tent. The crackling of the campfire and the raucous cheers faded behind him, leaving only the quiet rustle of the canvas and the distant hum of the night. The courage that had burned so brightly moments ago flickered against the chill of doubt creeping under his skin and the haziness of alcohol. What was he doing? Was this madness?

Cullen clenched his fists at his sides, shaking the hesitancy away. No. He had come this far, and he would not falter now. His breath hitched as he squared his shoulders and forced the words out before he could lose his nerve.

“Inquisitor, may I speak with you for a moment?”

The words hung in the air, and for a heartbeat, silence pressed down on him. Then, from within the tent, her voice broke through—a soft, hesitant note that sent an unexpected thrill down his spine.

“…Cullen?” she called. “I… yes, of course. Come in.”

A rush of exhilaration coursed through him. She said yes. The canvas door swayed slightly in the breeze as he stepped forward, anticipation and nerves mingling in his stomach.

There she was. Sitting on her bedroll, Uriell had been reading and was now setting the book aside, her attention placed on him. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, partially covering her body, and Cullen noticed the soft, silky shimmer of a nightdress. He immediately looked away, his heart—already pounding too quickly—seemed to lodge itself in his throat.

“Cullen?” she asked again in a soft manner yet laced with concern. “Is something the matter? You don’t seem alright.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but his tongue felt thick, too heavy for words. He had planned this moment in his head—well, as much as his ale-soaked brain could plan—but now, standing before her, all he could think about was how regal she looked, even in simple nightclothes. Then, the thought he had repressed momentarily hit him—she wasn’t just Uriell; she was the Inquisitor, leader of the Inquisition. Suddenly, his resolve wavered.

“I…” He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus. “I wanted to, ah… discuss something with you.”

Uriell tilted her head slightly, her brows furrowing in curiosity. “Of course. What is it?”

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as heat crept up his collar. His body swayed ever so slightly, and he focused on keeping his voice steady. “Well, regarding the opera tomorrow,” he began, his tone unintentionally formal. “I understand there’s some expectation that you… select a guest to accompany you. A suitor, even?”

Uriell blinked, then offered a small, amused smile. “Josephine does enjoy her matchmaking efforts,” she said lightly.

“Yes, matchmaking,” Cullen repeated, his words sharper than intended. He winced but pressed on. “It’s just—these suitors, with their titles and their courtly airs… You hardly know them.”

Uriell raised an eyebrow and leaned back on her hands. “That’s the point of meeting them, isn’t it? To make connections and secure alliances?”

“Yes, but…” Cullen faltered. “I don’t think you should have to entertain strangers in such an intimate setting. It’s—” He gestured vaguely, struggling to find the right word. “Improper.”

“Improper?” she echoed, folding her arms. Her expression shifted, curiosity mingling with something else that Cullen couldn’t quite place. “Cullen, have you been drinking?”

“I mean,” Cullen stammered, feeling his face flush deeper. “Not improper for you, of course. You’re perfectly capable. I just… I think there are others—someone—who could…”

He trailed off, her stare pinning him in place. His mind raced. The world was spinning, fast, a little too fast. His sight was slightly blurry. Maker, I’m a fool. Just say it. Say it now.

“Uriell,” he finally blurted, his voice softer but laced with urgency. “Let me go with you. I can’t imagine waiting outside or pacing the camp while you’re…” His jaw tightened. “... entertaining Gaspard’s men or nobility to gain us favors.”

Uriell blinked, startled by his sudden outburst. Silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint rustle of the tent fabric. Cullen’s head spun now, the alcohol working its way through him, but the liberating feeling of actually asking her made him press on.

“I mean as your… escort,” he added in a husky voice, more awkward now. “If you’ll have me.”

“Cullen,” she said gently and quietly. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

His vision blurred at the edges, but he refused to acknowledge it. He could barely stand, his knees buckling slightly, so he closed the distance and dropped to his knees by her side. Maker, she was even more beautiful up close. She stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips, her arms reaching out in surprise to steady him.

“Please, let me come with you,” he pleaded, his voice raw. “I swear I mean it. They’re not deserving of you, and I—I could protect you, be the personal guard you wanted me to be. So you can spend your evening in peace.”

Uriell’s eyes were locked with his, a shadow of sadness flickering there. She didn’t say a word. The world continued spinning faster, and exhaustion crept in, pulling at his mind.

“Cullen, you don’t know what you’re saying,” she whispered, her expression pained. “You’re too drunk to have this conversation.”

“No, I—” His words slurred. “This… this is sincere. You said… You were wary of men. Since the accident.” Cullen vaguely pointed at her waist, remembering their discussion in the cabin. “Please, I can…”

The world spun a little too fast. His stomach churned. He wasn’t feeling well.

“I want… to come with you…” he murmured weakly.

His words died on his lips as he collapsed, his face buried in the soft furs of her blankets. The world around him disappeared and he passed out, surrendering to the overwhelming fatigue.

Chapter Text

Before Uriell could catch him, Cullen collapsed face-first onto her knees, unconscious. How much had he drunk in the last few hours to pass out like this?

“Cullen? Cullen, are you okay?”

She patted his cheeks with urgency, hoping to rouse him, but he didn’t budge. He was completely knocked out, his chest rising and falling slowly with deep, steady breaths.

Uriell exhaled sharply and shuddered as she tried to process the situation. She turned her gaze up to the canvas ceiling of her tent in a futile attempt to regain her composure. The Commander of the Inquisition was asleep on her lap, in her tent, after… What kind of insane moment had this been?

Her jagged breathing betrayed the hammering of her heart as she fought to calm herself. Maker, it was a good thing Cullen—or anyone else—couldn’t see her right now. The burning sensation in her cheeks told her that her face was crimson red. A nervous smile tugged at her lips, half disbelief, half… something else. Exhilaration.

Though she felt conflicted about his drunken confession, one fact stood out: Cullen had wanted to go with her to the opera. Uriell closed her eyes, letting the realization sink in, her chest fluttering with an undeniable, quivering delight.

After the events of the previous day, Uriell couldn’t help but wonder if Cullen was, in fact, actually interested in her. There was so much a mask could hide and his acting ability to pretend to be a couple. She had seen how he had looked at her in that unguarded moment when she had taken the disguise off. Could it really be more than a hazy dream? The idea thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.

But still, she hesitated. Leliana and Josephine had been relentless in pushing her to meet suitors—an obligation she already loathed as the youngest daughter of the Trevelyan family. She had hoped to leave such formalities behind when she joined the Inquisition, but here she was, facing the same expectations yet again.

Secretly, Uriell had wished Cullen might accompany her to her lodge, but he had shown little interest, and her advisors had been all too eager to champion their chosen favorites. In the end, she had resigned herself to accepting the company of Ser Louis-Marie de Serault, whose reputation had preceded him even during her time in Ostwick. But now…

Uriell glanced down at Cullen, her thoughts swirling. His face was peaceful, his lips brushing lightly against the fur-lined blanket she’d thrown over her bedding. She was suddenly overwhelmed with a subtle sting of sadness.

Why did he have to be drunk the only time he tried to tell her how he felt?

If Uriell had learned anything from her interactions with male suitors—and most painfully, her betrothed in his last moments—it was that actions spoke louder than words, and truth should come from an earnest place, never when someone wasn’t in their right mind to make their own choice. A pity, then, that she had failed to confess her own feelings while still sober, only to let herself fall into Cullen’s arms after a bottle of wine.

All she could do now was acknowledge what he had said to her tonight: "Let me go with you. As your escort." Would he even remember asking in the morning? It didn’t matter. She had already made up her mind. She would challenge Leliana and Josephine and insist on being left alone in her lodge—with Cullen watching over her, both of them safely out of reach of the grabby hands of the local nobility.

She chuckled with affection as she pictured the scene. She knew how much he hated the nobility’s endless scheming and the insufferable Game, despite the way his natural charisma seemed to charm everyone around him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll protect each other,” she whispered.

Her gaze softened, and for a moment, she allowed herself to drop her guard. In the intimacy of her tent, she could finally smile with all the love brimming inside her—love she had fought so hard to suppress.

Reaching out, her fingers hovered over his face before finding a wild curl of his hair. She twirled it absently, marveling at how soft it felt. After a moment of hesitation, she let her hand slide into his hair fully, stroking it once, twice, three times with gentle affection. The touch was so captivating, so tender. If only he were awake to feel it.

This was Bull’s doing. It had to be. Only once before had she drunk that fast, and it had been after Bull had shared one of his infamous “special drinks.” She sighed, the edges of her mouth quirking in amusement. She could only hope the rest of the Inquisition wasn’t in the same state as their Commander. If they were, tomorrow’s ride to Val Royeaux would be a treacherous journey through raw nerves and scrambled brains.

Cullen shifted in his drunken sleep, and Uriell gasped when his arm extended and curled around her as though she were no more than a pillow by his side. He pulled her closer, his grip firm, and her heart skipped a beat. His low, sleepy groan, had something primal which awoke every part of her. For a second, she foolishly considered the situation. Would it be alright to sleep like this, with the Commander wrapped around her? Or was this a mistake—one he’d regret in the morning when he had to leave her tent with tousled hair and an awkward explanation?

Despite the flicker of desire spreading like wildfire under her skin, the growing urge to snuggle into his warmth and spend the night in his arms, she knew she couldn’t let it happen. It wasn’t just inappropriate—it was impractical. Moreover, this was no position for him to sleep in; he would surely wake sore and stiff if she left him like this.

Reluctantly, Uriell began the careful task of wriggling out of his embrace. It wasn’t easy; his grip tightened instinctively as soon as she shifted, drawing her even closer until his head nestled against her stomach. It was like wrestling with a huge mabari; and Uriell couldn’t help but wonder if he was always such a cuddly sleeper. She bit her lip, actively chasing away the mental image of sharing his bed as another wave of warmth and arousal stirred inside her. Now is not the time, she scolded herself.

With painstaking effort, she managed to slip free, though her absence left his arm slackened and resting across her bedroll. Standing by his side now, Uriell let out a quiet breath, her eyes lingering on his peaceful, unconscious face.

She felt helpless. Strong as she was, carrying him back to his tent was out of the question—at least, not without alerting half the camp in the process. She needed help. She sighed reluctantly, then she draped herself in a coat and slipped into her shoes. It was not too late to go and check if Cassandra was still awake at this hour.

***

“So… Cullen slept well last night.”

Cassandra rode a little closer to Uriell, their knees grazing as they both led the expedition at the front. Leliana and Josephine followed a few paces behind, far enough for Uriell and Cassandra to avoid being heard as long as they kept their voices low. The rest of the Inquisition’s delegation trailed behind, with Cullen riding at the rear alongside Loranil and Ser Barris. Val Royeaux was about an hour away, and restless anticipation buzzed through the ranks, though Cassandra and Uriell’s attention was fixed entirely elsewhere.

“Will you finally tell me what happened?” Cassandra pressed.

Uriell glanced back at her and tried to suppress a nervous giggle. Cassandra could be an open book at times, especially when romance was involved. Her furrowed brows seemed to condemn whatever had transpired, but the bright pink on her cheeks and ears betrayed her raging curiosity. She had refrained from asking questions the previous night, even when Uriell had appeared at an ungodly hour asking for help carrying the unconscious Commander from her tent to his. Cassandra had earned an explanation now.

“Did he do anything inappropriate?” Cassandra continued with both nervousness and a hint of excitement. “Cullen is my friend, Inquisitor, and you are too. If he overstepped, it is my duty to put him right back in his place.”

“He was drunk as a skunk, I admit,” Uriell replied with a low chuckle, ensuring Leliana and Josephine couldn’t hear them. “But no, he didn’t do anything inappropriate. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“So… what did he do?” Cassandra asked again, her curiosity unabated.

The eagerness in Cassandra’s expression made Uriell want to delay her confession, if only to tease her. But she knew playing such a game with the Seeker could be dangerous.

“He asked to be my companion tonight,” Uriell whispered, her eyes fixed on Cassandra’s reaction. “In the lodge.”

“He did not!” Cassandra gasped, delight and incredulity warring in her voice.

“He said something about how improper it would be to entertain Orlais’ nobility and that he should be the one to accompany me instead. To protect me,” Uriell continued with emphasis, which only deepened the shock on Cassandra’s face.

“He did not?!” Cassandra repeated. “I mean… While I admit I detest partaking in such displays myself, I never thought Cullen would be so unreasonable as to outright oppose them…”

She looked at Uriell with eager anticipation, waiting for more, but Uriell only smiled, which seemed to fuel both Cassandra’s excitement and exasperation.

“Well?” Cassandra pressed. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Uriell admitted, sighing as her gaze turned to the horizon, where Val Royeaux grew larger by the minute. “He was too drunk to have the conversation. Before I could respond, he just… dropped.”

“What a fool ,” Cassandra muttered under her breath.

“I think he only found the courage to ask because of the ale,” Uriell added and her grip tightened on Diavolo’s reins. Her horse let out a soft whinny, as if offering comfort.

“If that’s the case,” Cassandra said flatly, “then perhaps we chose the wrong person for Commander. You deserve better than a coward.”

Uriell scoffed softly, touched by the blunt affection beneath Cassandra’s words. She glanced at the Seeker, her heart warming with gratitude. Their friendship had become an anchor, and Cassandra had been a steady source of support, grounding her through the chaos of leadership of the expanse of the Inquisition. It was only recently that they had begun discussing her matters of the heart, and Cassandra’s unexpectedly protective attitude was something Uriell hadn’t anticipated. She made a mental note to repay her friend for being a confidante in such an awkward and personal situation.

“And now, Inq-- Uriell,” Cassandra continued, her tone shifting to one of curiosity, “what are you going to do? About tonight?”

“I’ve already settled it,” Uriell replied quietly. She gave a discreet nod toward Leliana and Josephine, who rode behind them. “I had to give them an answer this morning.”

Cassandra’s eyes sharpened with expectation, though her expression remained unreadable.

“I…” Uriell hesitated for the briefest moment before her lips curved into a light, determined smile. “I asked for Cullen to come with me.”

The Seeker let out a soft gasp but quickly regained her composure. “What did he say?” she rushed to ask.

“He doesn’t actually know yet…” Uriell winced. “I only told Leliana and Josephine. They were… shocked, but surprisingly complacent.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra began, her tone carrying the familiar weight of her stoic candor and judgment. “Uriell. My friend. You have been honest with me about your interest in our Commander, but you’ve already alluded to it plenty of times while out in the field. I mean this kindly, but I suspect Leliana and Josephine have known for a while as well.”

“I know,” Uriell whined, sinking slightly over her saddle. “It feels like he’s the only one who hasn’t noticed!”

“You were quite obvious in your flirting,” Cassandra said with a knowing nod. The flush in her cheeks betrayed the memory of the countless ridiculous lines she’d overheard Uriell direct at Cullen over the past months.

“It’s just…” Uriell murmured, trailing off as she stared ahead. “I gave Leliana and Josephine the simplest reasons for bringing Cullen with me, but…” She exhaled earnestly, her frustration evident.

“What’s on your mind?” Cassandra asked with concern.

“I thought he wasn’t interested,” Uriell replied, her voice pensive, almost distant. “But now, it seems like he might be? And I don’t know what to do about it. He never responded to my attempts before, and then he was drunk —and now I’m just… confused.” She sighed again, louder this time. “And then there’s the Inquisition’s reputation. What if this becomes an issue, right before the ball?”

“If I may,” Cassandra interjected bluntly, “this is only about what you want. Who cares what others think? I trust you to keep things professional.” Her sharp gaze pinned Uriell in place, her tone warning enough to make Uriell shudder.

“Then again,” Cassandra continued softly as her blush deepened, “if anything, the nobles might like you even more for the gossip. You’d be like one of those couples from the books.”

Uriell’s face flushed a matching pink as she imagined where Cassandra’s fantasies were leading. The mental image was mortifying. She quickly interrupted her friend’s daydreaming.

“Oh, I wouldn’t paint it that way,” Uriell stuttered hurriedly, “but I take your point. I’ll… let you know how tonight goes, then. Thank you.”

***

The remainder of the day passed in a haze. The Inquisition’s party navigated the bustling streets of Val Royeaux under prying eyes and excited whispers. The Game had indeed begun.

As always, the capital lived up to its reputation as the jewel of Orlais. The city streets were adorned with magnificent flowers in bloom, their vibrant colors a herald of the coming spring, and the air carried a sweet, intoxicating fragrance. Lively shops and charming taverns bustled with activity, each exuding its own unique allure. The people in the streets were a sight to behold, dressed in the most extravagant—and occasionally outlandish—fashions Orlais had to offer.

The Inquisition’s destination was the secondary residence of Duchess Caralina de Lydes’ family, nestled in the heart of the city. Though the Duchess herself was absent, her staff welcomed them with an almost overwhelming display of warmth and devotion. The entryway overflowed with vibrant arrangements of flowers, tokens from nobles eager to manifest their support—or at least their acknowledgment—of the Inquisition.

Josephine spent the afternoon receiving some of these nobles in the petit salon, her every word and gesture a masterclass in diplomacy. Despite the crowded entryway, she confided to Uriell that only the lower ranks of nobility had shown up so far. “The higher circles,” she had said, her voice laced with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, “are waiting for the opera tonight to make their entrance. Fashionably late , of course. They prefer to observe from afar before making their moves.”

Still, Josephine’s satisfaction was evident. Everything was going according to her plan.

Uriell had spent most of the day by her ambassador’s side, playing her part with a practiced smile and charm she hadn’t missed since leaving the Trevelyan estate. Maker, these endless parades of receptions and pleasantries were as exhausting as she remembered. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon and the final noble departed, Uriell fled the salon, escaping to her room where Vivienne and Dorian awaited her.

It seemed there would be no respite.

She slipped into the opera gown, a marvel of Orlesian craftsmanship, as Vivienne and Dorian set to work arranging her hair and makeup. Their chatter was focused and entertaining, but Uriell’s mind wandered, a feverish anticipation building in her stomach. Tonight, she would step into the lion’s den again for one of the most anticipated events of the season—second only to Halamshiral’s Grand Ball next week.

Most of the high nobility would attend, eager to witness two spectacles: the famed Antivan opera Cecilia, featuring Chiara de Albiate, and the elegance of the Inquisition’s finest representatives. Uriell reminded herself of tonight’s purpose: to prove to Orlesians that the Inquisition was not a ragtag group of warriors and heretics but a sophisticated and cultured force, worthy of their respect and support.

Leliana and Josephine had drilled the importance of this evening into her for days. Every word, every gesture, every glance tonight would help pave the way for the alliances they so desperately needed—alliances to thwart Corypheus’ schemes and counter the Venatori plans for the Empress’ assassination.

Uriell’s focus sharpened as she mentally rehearsed Josephine’s lessons, trying to recall names, titles, and potential allies she was expected to meet that night; she was determined to make a good impression. So deep in thought was she that she barely noticed the door creaking open behind her, and her three advisors coming in.

When Dorian finally stepped back, admiring his handiwork, he proclaimed, “Finished! Now, my dear Inquisitor, would you marvell upon this masterpiece.”

Uriell lifted her face to the mirror before her. She meant to praise Vivienne and Dorian’s work, but her breath caught instead as her eyes locked with the reflection of Cullen standing silently behind her.

There he was, clad in snug formal attire of black velvet, his waist cinched with a gleaming golden sash that accentuated his strong, wild-shouldered frame. Cullen’s ardent brown eyes were fixed on her, his mouth slightly open as if caught mid-thought. His intensity sent a shiver through her, but the moment he realized she had noticed him, he startled. Straightening instinctively into a military posture, he quickly averted his gaze.

Uriell’s heart hammered in her chest. She caught her reflection, checking for any telltale blush creeping down her neck and across her cleavage, exposed by the daring neckline of her gown.

“So…?” Dorian prompted, a smirk tugging at his lips as he waited for her verdict.

“Oh, yes,” she replied hastily, clinging to the distraction. “You both truly did wonders, Dorian, Vivienne.”

“It’s our pleasure, darling,” Vivienne purred, setting down the oil she’d been using to tame Uriell’s curls.

Her hair was pinned delicately at the back, the blonde curls artfully cascading down her shoulders. Strands of golden beads and pearls wove through the locks, catching the light with every subtle movement. Uriell could already imagine the chore of removing them later, but she couldn’t deny the incredible work her friends had put into it. She appeared regal, commanding yet approachable—a vision of elegance fit for tonight’s intrigue. Rising from her chair, she turned to face her advisors, all fully dressed and ready for the evening.

“Inquisitor, you look…” Leliana began, radiant with approval.

“Just perfect ,” Josephine finished, practically beaming. “Oh, I hope everything goes smoothly tonight. The carriage is waiting for us; we’ll leave in a minute.”

Dorian and Vivienne flanked Uriell on either side with a reassuring presence. Leliana’s expression was lighter than usual, almost carefree. She truly was at ease. Josephine, in contrast, buzzed with a nervous energy as she recited the night’s plans. And Cullen... Cullen stood apart, distant and somber. He hadn’t said a word, his gaze lingering in the shadows of the room, as though the vibrant scene before him were too much to bear.

“So, we arrive, greet everyone,” Josephine began, her voice steady despite her pacing. “We don’t linger. Now is not the time—it will only leave them wanting more. We go straight to our lodges.”

She turned her attention to Vivienne. “Lady Vivienne, I gather you managed to exchange your place and Dorian’s with your friends for a lodge on the other side of the ring?”

Vivienne inclined her head with characteristic poise. “Indeed. We’ll be directly across from the Inquisitor’s, and can keep a watchful eye on her at all times.”

“Good, that’s one less concern to have,” Josephine said, her relief palpable. “Leliana and I will share the first lodge, where we’ll receive dignitaries during the performance. And you, my lady, will share yours with our Commander.”

At the mention of his title, Cullen’s head shot up in alarm. His sudden movement drew all attention to him, and the awkward agitation in his posture was impossible to miss. His glance darted between the advisors and Uriell, an unmistakable mixture of confusion and unease betraying that he hadn’t been informed of the arrangement.

“I’m sorry, what?” he croaked.

Uriell froze as a wave of panic surged through her. She had been so consumed with the day’s endless demands that she hadn’t found a moment to inform him properly. Somehow, she’d assumed that Josephine or Leliana would have passed along the information, but it was clear now that she’d been mistaken. She opened her mouth to stammer an apology, but Leliana beat her to it.

“Oh yes, my apologies, Commander,” the Spymaster interjected smoothly. “In the end, we thought it best to leave the Inquisitor to be desired. Besides,” she continued in a playful tone, “this provides an excellent opportunity to entertain all her suitors with a little party of our own—without the risk of offending anyone by making a choice. And who better to ensure our lady’s safety in her lodge than the Commander of the Inquisition himself?”

Uriell held her breath, her throat tightening. Leliana’s piercing gaze flitted to her for a brief, knowing second before shifting back to Cullen. The silence that followed was deafening. Cullen’s jaw tensed, and he exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with resignation—and something else. Frustration? Irritation? Uriell couldn’t tell.

“Very well,” he said at last. His brows furrowed intensely, and he kept his eyes averted, refusing to meet hers.

The knot in Uriell’s stomach twisted painfully. He looked so utterly miserable, and the sight cut deeper than she expected. Why? Why did he look like that? Had he misunderstood Leliana’s teasing tone? Or perhaps... Was it something else?

“Well, then, it’s settled,” Josephine interjected briskly as if slicing through the tension lingering in the room. “Everyone is ready. I’ve had men keeping an eye on Sera, just in case she decides to cause mischief while we’re away. Everything is under control.”

“Relax, Josie,” Leliana chuckled softly with affection. “As you said, everything’s under control. It’s going to be fine; I promise.”

Josephine’s lips pressed into a tight line. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d been the one to catch her about to send a box of bees to the Marquis de…” She stopped mid-sentence, closed her eyes, and took a long, steadying inspiration. “No, you’re right. Everything’s going to be fine. Now, let’s go—we mustn’t be late.”

Without another word, Josephine and Leliana spun on their heels and swept out of the room.

Uriell instinctively turned to Cullen. She opened her mouth, a hundred things to say tumbling in her mind—an apology, an explanation, anything—but he was already gone. His shoulders stiffened as he immediately followed the other two advisors out, not sparing her even a glance.

She stood frozen, her heart sinking as she watched him leave. But before she could dwell on the ache building in her guts, Dorian and Vivienne stepped in, linking their arms with hers.

“Come now, Inquisitor,” Dorian said brightly. “It’s your time to shine.”

Vivienne offered a small, knowing smile. “Indeed, darling. The night awaits, and so does our audience. Let’s make sure they remember you for the right reasons.”

Uriell let herself be guided, taking one final breath to steady herself before stepping into the whirlwind and crushing weight of expectations awaiting her.

***

The Inquisition made quite an entrance that night. Their small team, dressed in impeccably matching attire, drew every eye as they arrived. Especially the Inquisitor. With faces bare of any masks, they stood out in the crowd, exuding confidence and charm. Once the initial shock of their arrival faded, the boldest nobles began to stir, courage gathering as they prepared to make their moves. But before they could approach, Josephine signalled their party now was the time to withdraw.

A candid apology from the ambassador, paired with a subtle invitation for the lords and ladies to visit her lodge or meet with them during the entr’acte, left their audience both entranced and intrigued. The group retreated and disappeared into the upper tiers of the opera house with an air of quiet authority.

Uriell scanned the throng for Cullen, searching until she caught sight of him slipping ahead of her, already ascending the stairs to the private wings. He didn’t pause or look back. She was left to navigate the sea of watchful eyes alone. Her heart was pounding loudly—not from the hundreds of stares that clung to her every movement, but from the way Cullen seemed determined to keep his distance.

By the time she reached the stairs, her mind was in chaos. His cold demeanor throughout the evening since they had left the estate had gnawed at her composure, and the weight of his silence hung heavier on her shoulders than the finery she wore.

And there he was, standing rigid beside the closed door of their shared lodge, his posture tense and eyes fixed on the floor. Uriell inhaled deeply, steeling herself as she approached. She still hadn’t found the right words, but one thing was clear—they needed to talk.

“My lady,” Cullen greeted her flatly, bowing stiffly as she joined him.

Without ever looking up, he reached for the door, then held it open for her in a gesture that felt more dutiful than welcoming.

“Commander,” she replied with an edge of bitterness. She swept past him into the room, her chest tightening as she caught his expressionless face out of the corner of her eye.

The lodge was beautiful, with a balcony that overlooked the Grand Opera’s stage. Positioned to the left of the performers, the room afforded a perfect view of the singers and the orchestra below. Uriell’s gaze roamed the opulent setting, her eyes drawn to the familiar curve of the looming balconies. A wave of nostalgia surged through her as she remembered attending as a young girl with her aunt. It was surreal for her to be back here, though under such vastly different circumstances.

At the center of the private room were two velvet chairs placed near the balcony. A small table stood nearby, offering refreshments: water, wine, stronger spirits, and two glasses. The walls were draped in thick curtains, some of which were designed to enclose the balcony for privacy. Uriell blushed at the thought, remembering how outrageous Orlesian nobles could be sometimes, with or without the use of the closed curtains.

Not that it mattered. Judging by Cullen’s icy attitude, there was little chance of the evening veering into anything remotely scandalous.

She sighed quietly as she stepped closer to her seat. The low hum of voices from the theater floor drifted up to them, the promise of the performance lingering in the air. Still, all she could focus on was the tension between herself and the Commander—the weight of his silence and the wall he was determined to maintain between them. It was going to be a long night.

Uriell settled into her seat, though the velvet cushion did little to ease her growing discomfort. She glanced over her shoulder to check on him. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the door, standing stiffly in the shadows as though rooted there.

“Cullen,” she called softly, her voice wavering as she took in his rigid posture, “are you coming…?”

He didn’t meet her gaze, his head bowed slightly. “Pardon me, my lady,” he replied in a low and formal, almost distant manner. “I will keep watch from here, to ensure no one disturbs you.”

“Oh.”

Uriell swallowed hard, the word catching in her throat. So that was it. He was playing the ‘personal guard’ card, putting up walls as thick and high as Skyhold’s battlements. Her jaw clenched as she turned back to face the balcony, her hands balling on top of her thighs.

Across the way, she spotted Dorian and Vivienne in their lodge. Dorian caught her eye, his nod a subtle reassurance that they were watching out for her. It should have comforted her, but it didn’t. Not when the orchestra’s tuning, harmonizing notes—normally soothing—were drowned out by the relentless thrum of her pulse in her ears.

Her emotions churned in a storm of conflicting sensations: anticipation for the performance, the maddening awareness of Cullen’s presence so near yet so removed, and the sharp sting of frustration at his behavior. He was the one who had stumbled drunkenly into her tent the night before, practically baring his soul— and now? Now he was acting as though being in her company was some kind of penance. It was infuriating.

“Commander,” she said sharply and steadily, though her fists clenched in her lap. “Are you going to be brooding all night?”

The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching longer than it had any right to. Her breath stuck in her throat, and just as she was about to speak again, his voice broke through the stillness.

“My apologies, Inquisitor,” he said at last, though there was no warmth in his tone. “My headache is… particularly bad tonight. I may have overindulged with the rest of my men last night.” He exhaled heavily. “Forgive me. I’ll be fine staying here.”

Uriell’s pulse quickened, a spark of anger igniting in her veins. Was he seriously using a hangover as an excuse to avoid her? Though now might be her chance to try and brooch the subject.

“Of course. I understand. Should we… talk about this?” She softened, the words hesitant, as she cast a sideways glance toward the door without moving.

“I am afraid there is nothing to talk about.” His response was swift, clipped, and final—a verbal barricade meant to end the conversation before it began.

Uriell’s blood boiled, her shoulders stiffening as she joined her hands in a tight grip. How could he be this stubborn? Her patience, already thin, was fraying with every word he refused to say.

“Why do you think you’re here with me tonight, Commander?” Uriell’s words were deliberate, edged with sharpness, though she fought to keep herself from snapping outright.

Cullen hesitated, and another silence fell heavily between them. Uriell’s frustration simmered beneath her carefully maintained composure as she focused on Dorian. He was watching her from across the opera house, his brows raised in an inquisitive arch. She forced a strained smile in his direction, to reassure him, knowing full well he could see through it.

“To ward off intruders,” Cullen finally said, his tone sharper than she expected. “To play my part in this absurd scheme of making you the most desired woman in Thedas so we can repeat the performance at whatever party our Spymaster and Ambassador seem intent on organizing. And, of course, to ensure your security in the meantime.”

Uriell froze, his words hitting her like a dagger to the back. Across the way, Dorian tilted his head, his expression shifting in concern as he caught the sudden change in her attitude. She forced another polite, brittle smile, the effort almost draining.

“Well,” she muttered painfully, “you couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Her words seemed to cut through the tense air between them, and Cullen faltered, his voice trembling faintly as he asked, “What do you mean, my lady?”

Uriell stared forward, gripping the armrests of her chair as if to ground herself. “You’re here, and only you, because I actually enjoy your company, and I only wanted you to be with me,” she admitted in a heated yet quiet whisper, as though afraid to give the moment too much weight. “But it sounds like the pleasure isn’t exactly mutual.”

Cullen didn’t have time to reply before the opera house was plunged into darkness and the orchestra struck the opening notes. The curtains parted, revealing the actors and singers in their elaborate costumes. The performance had begun.

Neither Cullen nor Uriell spoke. She sat stiffly, barely listening to the melodious notes of Lady de Albiate’s famed soprano, her attention fixed on any sign of movement or sound from Cullen behind her. Every now and then, she scanned the crowd, catching the gaze of a noble on the opposing balconies or ground floor. A polite smile here, a slight nod there, but her mind was elsewhere, tangled in the pressure of his silence.

Nearly an hour passed when a strange sound pulled her from her rumination. A faint rustling of fabric and low giggles came from the other lodge to their left. Uriell’s brow furrowed slightly as she strained to hear and identify what was happening nearby. That was when she heard the muffled whispers.

“Oh, Jean-Marc, grand fou, ici? Maintenant?”

A cold sweat ran down Uriell’s spine. She hadn’t spoken Orlesian in some time, but her fluency hadn’t faltered. The meaning of the words, and what it implied, struck her like lightning. She once again remembered Val Royeaux nobility’s affinity for scandalous behavior, but she hadn’t anticipated such audacity would happen so close to her.

The whispers turned into faint rhythmic thuds, followed by the unmistakable scrape of furniture moving. Uriell’s blood ran hot with a mortifying mix of embarrassment, slight arousal and reluctant amusement. Her shoulders tensed when the next words drifted through the wall.

“Oh, Lucille, tu aimes quand je te prends par derrière, hein?”

Her blush flared from her chest to her cheeks, and she held still, refusing to glance toward Cullen. A rush of heat spread through her, her pulse quickening in ways she desperately tried to ignore. She jumped when a warm breath brushed over her bare shoulder, a familiar deep voice murmuring close to her ear.

“Did you hear what’s happening in the other lodge?” Cullen asked, his tone steady but tinged with concern; he apparently had not picked up on what was actually going on. “Should I intervene? Do you know what they’re saying?”

Uriell swallowed hard, trying to ignore how close he was. She was now painfully aware of his presence by her side, warmth radiating through her like she caught fire, adding to the tingling that had started to build between her legs. She could smell him from this close, the usual elderflower and oakmoss from his pain medicine, but also a hint of something rich, and sandalwood- it smelled incredibly good. Her inflection wavered as she forced herself to respond. “They… um, well, he—the man said, ‘Oh, Lucille, you like it when I take you from behind, don’t you?’ ”

Her gaze flicked up to him, and she regretted it instantly. He was leaning over her shoulder, his face mere inches from hers, his amber eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and dawning horror. A matching crimson blush crept up his neck, spreading to his cheeks and ears. She swore she could almost feel a matching heat rising from him washing over her.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the charged air between them felt as though it might snap. Both glanced at each other’s lips instinctively, the memory of their almost-kiss from nights before flashing like a spark. Close, so close. Uriell’s jagged breath mixed with his, and she could taste her own pulse, forgetting her irritation from before instantly.

But the illusion shattered with an unmistakable, drawn-out moan from the neighboring lodge.

Uriell clamped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she tried and failed to suppress her stifled laughter. Cullen’s expression flickered between mortification and helpless amusement before he let out a short, exasperated laugh.

“What is happening?” Uriell chuckled in incredulity.

“Excuse me,” Cullen muttered and he stepped back with a mix of indignation and nervous energy. He strode to the door of their lodge, clearly determined to put an end to the situation.

Uriell twisted in her chair, watching as he disappeared into the corridor. His voice, firm but polite, carried clearly to her ears as he knocked on the neighbors’ door.

“Would you please stay quiet or leave, so the Inquisitor can enjoy the opera in peace?”

Uriell hid her uncontrolled grin with a hand, laughter spilling out despite herself. Only Cullen could manage such righteous indignation under these circumstances.

A few muffled sounds followed, then Cullen’s voice again. “What—No, I won’t be joining you! I’m asking you to keep it down! Maker’s breath…”

Moments later, Cullen returned to their room, his brisk steps betraying more fluster than he likely intended. Uriell glanced up to see him closing the door firmly behind him, leaning against it as if to collect himself. His face was a dark red, the blush far from retreating. She hadn’t seen him this embarrassed before, and it was both endearing and unexpectedly enticing.

Uriell mercifully turned her attention back to the stage, granting him a moment of reprieve. The risqué noises and moans from the other lodge had stopped entirely.

“Well, that was… interesting,” she hushed with amusement.

“That was horrifying,” Cullen muttered, unmistakably appalled.

Her lips stretched into a sly smile. “Why, Commander, are you against a bit of public display of affection?” she teased, leaning slightly over the balcony rail.

“… Not if I’m the one receiving it,” he replied.

Uriell’s breath hitched, her pulse quickening all over again as his words settled between them like a stone dropped into still water. Her shoulders tensed, the sudden charge in the air wrapping around her like a shroud. Though she didn’t turn, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her bare shoulders, warm and heavy, as if it were a touch.

The tension lingered, thick and unyielding, until the opera reached a crescendo, then the lights brightened to signal the entr’acte. Uriell exhaled, steadying herself before rising to her feet with deliberate composure. Time to focus.

Her mission awaited: mingling with the Orlesian elite, collecting favors, and maintaining the Inquisition’s image. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a fleeting comment, no matter how hard it made her heart beat or how weak in the knee it had turned her. And she certainly wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on Cullen’s earlier words, the bitterness of them still somehow sharp in her chest.

Uriell rounded her seat to leave, her chin lifted with quiet determination. Cullen had returned to his unreadable expression, his posture rigid and his golden eyes distant. It was as if he, too, was retreating into his armor of stoicism, keeping whatever thoughts stirred beneath hidden from sight.

Her narrowed stare lingered on him for the briefest moment, and she repressed the urge to scoff when she strode past him. Cullen opened the door for her in a practiced, gentlemanly manner, his face a mask of control. Without a word, Uriell stepped through, her gown trailing behind her like a ripple in the air, leaving him behind in the quiet of their lodge.

Uriell soon met Josephine and Leliana near the bar, enveloped in a sea of frills, flowing gowns, and ornate masks. Cullen lingered a few feet away, keeping her under his sharp scrutiny, his protective presence both a comfort and a silent burden.

The nobles of Val Royeaux’s high society flocked around her. Their whispers mingled with the faint clink of glasses and soft music. Uriell endured an endless stream of baise-mains on top of her one ungloved hand and effusive compliments about her impeccable couture, murmuring hundreds polite thanks until the words lost all meaning. Josephine deftly managed the more persistent admirers, while Leliana’s sharp eyes roved the crowd, noting every subtle move and murmured intrigue.

The entr’acte was too brief for meaningful exchanges, but the urgency to make an impression gave the gathering a palpable energy. Uriell’s practiced grace carried her through the crowd, though her occasional glances toward Cullen betrayed her inner unrest.

He stood against the wall, his arms crossed, his attention fixed on her like an anchor. A small group of lords and ladies surrounded him, their attempts at conversation met with monosyllabic grunts or curt nods. His discomfort was plain—his sunken eyes shadowed with growing frustration, his shoulders tense beneath his formal attire. Every time their eyes met, his expression darkened further, and a pang of guilt twisted Uriell’s guts for his unease.

It was just minutes before they could retreat back to the privacy of their lodge when he arrived.

The crowd parted like silk being drawn aside, whispers rippling through the assembly as Ser Louis-Marie de Serault approached. Uriell didn’t need an introduction—the murmurs of his name filled the air as his commanding presence drew everyone’s attention.

His appearance was as striking as the reputation that preceded him. His dark hair was immaculately styled, framing a face of fine, symmetrical and exquisite features. But mostly, what made him stand out was the absence of a mask. His piercing blue eyes locked onto hers with a quiet intensity, his lips curving into a reserved but deliberate smile. A rough and jagged scar on his cheek hinted at past battles, adding an edge of intrigue to his polished manners. His midnight-blue attire, adorned with silver embroidery, exuded refinement without excess, complemented by the rich velvet of his cape.

Uriell hated to admit it, but he was undeniably captivating.

Ser de Serault stood taller than Cullen, his broad shoulders and strong frame balanced by an air of elegance as he closed the distance between them. He bowed with a surprisingly fluid grace, extending a hand from beneath his cape.

“My lady,” he said, his voice low and smooth, a deliberate cadence that hushed the room.

Even his timbre stood out. It was deep, deeper than she had expected from the delicatesse of his traits and his youthful aura. Uriell offered her hand, her movements as calculated as his. “My lord,” she replied in a melody of practiced charm.

He took her fingers gently to press the faintest kiss upon them, his lips brushing her skin with such reverence that the gesture bordered on theatrical. When his eyes lifted to meet hers, a flicker of adoration gleamed in his gaze, arresting in its sincerity.

“Forgive me,” he murmured in a soft but rich tone, meant for her ears alone, though definitely heard by the whole gathering. “I have longed for this moment longer than I dare admit.”

Uriell gave a shy nod of her head as she played along, though the intensity he exuded unnerved her. “There is no need for forgiveness, my lord. I am glad to finally meet you in person.”

The crowd held its collective breath, enchanted by the exchange.

From her periphery, Uriell caught a flicker of movement. She glanced toward Cullen, who stood rigid, his jaw tight, his glare unwavering and dark as he watched Ser Louis-Marie’s every move. The tension between them was nearly palpable, and Uriell felt its pull like the sharp tug of a thread.

“Are you enjoying the opera, Lady Trevelyan?”

Oh? For the first time since the beginning of the entr’acte, Uriell’s smile—closer to a smirk—seemed genuine. It was refreshing to hear someone address her by her family name instead of her title as Inquisitor. The change was subtle yet disarming, a testament to the Chevalier’s finesse in navigating the Game.

“Absolutely, Ser,” she replied, her voice smooth yet teasing. “Lady de Albiate certainly lives up to her reputation. Though, I must say, Val Royeaux itself has proven equally enchanting since our arrival this afternoon. Such a warm welcome has made my experience nothing short of delightful.”

The Chevalier still hadn’t released her hand, his touch deliberate and lingering. Uriell kept her light but calculated gaze locked on his. She moved as though dancing to entertain the court, though inwardly, she was acutely aware of Cullen’s presence behind her and resisted the urge to look his way again.

Louis-Marie chuckled softly, a sound polished by charm and subtle flattery. “It must be a heavy burden, bearing the hopes of Thedas upon your shoulders,” he said, his fingers brushing under hers as he let her hand go with a deliberate grace. “…Yet you carry it as effortlessly as you wear that striking gown.”

“You overestimate my grace, my lord,” Uriell replied with a laugh. Around them, gasps rippled through the crowd, a musical accompaniment to the exchange.

“I suspect it is you who underestimates it.” Straightening to his full height, the Chevalier towered elegantly over the gathered nobles. His piercing blue eyes held hers with a reverence that turned the moment into a tableau. “Do you often disarm those you meet so effortlessly, Inquisitor?”

“Only when they approach me unarmed, as you seem to be,” Uriell quipped, her words laced with both mischief and poise. From the corner of her eye, she caught Josephine’s wide-eyed expression, which only amused her even more.

“Then,” he breathed softly like he would share a secret, “I shall count myself fortunate to be at your mercy.”

Fans fluttered, whispers swirled, and necks craned to witness the unfolding display of flirtation. Uriell had come to captivate the court, and she was determined not to disappoint. She offered the most alluring smile she could muster, one designed to leave an impression.

“I must confess, my lady,” Louis-Marie continued, adopting a slightly pained expression that sent nearby ladies into audible swoons, “I felt the throe of envy when I learnt I would not be joining your lodge tonight.”

“Envy, my lord?” Uriell feigned surprise, arching a delicate brow. “Surely not over something as trivial as seating arrangements.”

“Trivial?” His laugh was a ringing velvet sound that lingered in the air. “Perhaps to some. But for me, the chance to be near you—well, let us say it would make any performance shine brighter. Thankfully, I’ve heard whispers of a private party your Inquisition is hosting tomorrow. It comforts me to think I might have a second chance to earn your favor.”

Uriell’s eyes flickered briefly toward Leliana, who took a calculated sip of her wine, her smirk disappearing behind the rim of her glass. The Spymaster had been quick to seed the rumor mill, and even quicker to organize the whole thing.

“You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity, Ser, as well as my attention,” Uriell said, each word dripping with a purr of intrigue. “I hope to see you there.”

“I shall campaign tirelessly to prove worthy of your invitation,” he vowed with a bow as the bells tolled, signaling the end of the entr’acte. “The competition will no doubt be fierce, but winning a place by your side would be the most exhilarating fight—and the greatest honor—I could imagine. Until then, my lady.”

With an elegance befitting his station, Louis-Marie retreated, leaving behind a wake of sighs and excited murmurs. Uriell glanced around. The nobles had been thoroughly entertained, and judging by Josephine’s glowing expression, their mission had been a success.

Uriell nodded toward Leliana, silently thanking her before she turned to make her way back to her lodge.

And then her eyes locked with Cullen’s.

He stood a few feet away, his posture taut with barely restrained tension. His usually composed features betrayed a storm of emotions he struggled to contain. His jaw tightened as if he were grinding down on a bitter truth, and his eyes, dark and piercing, burned with an intensity she couldn’t ignore. The subtle clench of his fists, arms crossed against his chest, told her more than words ever could—a white-knuckled grip of someone teetering on the edge of control. The flush that spread across his cheeks and ears wasn’t one of embarrassment this time, but unmistakable jealousy. The realization struck her like a lightning bolt, quickening her pulse under the weight of his gaze—raw, consuming, and painfully revealing.

His brows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin, stern line before he looked away, as if unable to bear the sight of her any longer. Yet, in that fleeting glance, she caught the flicker of something deeper—a sadness veiled by his simmering anger, a quiet storm brewing in the depths of his darkened eyes narrowed to slits.

She choked on her tight throat. The realization of his jealousy did not bring satisfaction, as part of her might have hoped. Instead, it left her aching. She was glad to see he wasn’t unaffected, but the guilt gnawed at her, and every fiber of her being screamed for her to close the distance, to offer him comfort, to mend the cracks she could see forming in his defenses. There he stood, a man who felt, who cared, who ached—and now she could no longer pretend not to notice.

The crowd around them moved on their way back toward their seats. Uriell regained her composure, forcing her racing thoughts to the back of her mind as she approached him. The unsteady thumps of blood in her ears to drown out her whispered words as she passed by his side:

“Let’s go back to our room. I have something to tell you.”

Cullen didn’t respond. He stared at the floor for a moment, his expression unreadable, before trailing after her. Uriell kept her chin up, her steps measured and dignified, though the pounding in her chest betrayed her calm facade. She entered the lodge first, feeling the heavy presence of the Commander behind her as he followed at a sluggish pace. When he finally stepped inside and closed the door, he lingered, facing away from her.

It took him far too long to turn around. When he did, his face was a mask of rigid neutrality, but she could see the effort it cost him to maintain it. The sight of his self-imposed restraint was like a knife to her heart.

Uriell opened her mouth, ready to speak, but Cullen broke the silence first. His voice was distant, almost hollow.

“Well, it seems Josephine and Leliana’s plan worked. Even if the show is far from finished.”

His lips pursed into a fake polite smile, which only left her gaping again in pain. It was too forced, too empty, and it shattered what resolve she had left.

“Cullen, please,” she urged, her tone low and careful, every word laced with unspoken emotion. “Tell me what’s on your mind. Don’t shut me out.”

He hesitated, his shoulders stiffening further as if bracing himself for a blow. When he finally spoke, his words were like ice against her skin.

“You wouldn’t want to know, Inquisitor.”

The title cut through her like a blade. Cold. Distant. She could almost feel him retreating behind his walls, putting his armor back on again. The warmth they had shared, the connection she had felt, now seemed like a fragile thread slipping through her fingers.

Uriell’s insides burned with frustration, and all she wanted to do was scream—to shatter the silence, to pull him back, to make him see her.

“… And yet, I’m still here,” Uriell whispered in one last, pleading attempt. But Cullen simply looked away.

A surge of anger and sadness crashed over her, a tidal wave of emotions she could no longer suppress. The warrior within her refused to retreat, even if this felt less like battling against an enemy and more like chasing a retreating ally. The orchestra began to play again, the haunting melody underscoring her resolve as she closed the distance between them in a single determined stride.

Uriell planted herself firmly in front of Cullen, pinning him against the wall with the same fiery determination he had once used to corner her in that alleyway. Arms braced on either side of him, she tilted her face upward, her eyes burning with a defiant fire that she knew mirrored the tension simmering beneath his stoic facade.

“For fuck’s sake, Cullen,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Look at me.”

Dumbfounded, he obeyed, his golden-brown eyes locking with hers. His body was taut, every muscle on edge at her sudden aggression, but as she peered into his mind, all she found was despair—a cold, heart-wrenching wave that hit her harder than she had anticipated.

“Cullen, please…” Her tone softened, the rawness in her voice cutting through the tension. “Talk to me. Not when you’re drunk, not when you can brush it off. Talk to me now. You’re smiling, but I can see how sad you are. You keep blowing hot and cold—what am I supposed to understand?”

Her words hung in the air, unanswered. Cullen remained silent, his expression unreadable, his walls unyielding.

“One day, you ask me to be my escort,” she continued, wavering with frustration and her own distress. “The next, you won’t even look at me. One day, you’re angry at me because I leave without a guard to protect me, the next, it looks like watching over me is a chore. You glare at me when I play the part you all want me to play, but then you don’t speak against Josephine or Leliana when they plan it.”

Her shoulders sagged, the fire dimming as her own words seemed to weigh her down. Her arms fell to her sides, and a single tear welled in the corner of her eye. She fought it back fiercely, refusing to let it fall, refusing to let Orlesian nobility—or Cullen—see the cracks in her carefully constructed armor either.

“I’m trying so hard,” she confessed, the words heavy with vulnerability. “To be the Inquisitor you all expect me to be. Your opinion of me—it matters. More than Josephine’s. More than Leliana’s. More than Thedas’. You matter, Cullen. Not just as my Commander, but as… as you .”

Her voice faltered as she searched his face, hoping for any sign that her words were reaching him, but his gaze remained distant, like he was a thousand miles away. She stepped closer, her breath catching as she dared to bridge the distance between them.

“I… I thought we…” Uriell’s sentence broke under her trembling lips as she leaned in, desperate for a reaction, for something, anything to bring him back to her. But the void between them felt insurmountable. She held her breath, waiting— praying —for him to respond.

Nothing.

Defeat weighed down on her like a crushing force, and she stepped back, her chest heaving as she fought to contain the jagged sobs threatening to break free. The silence of rejection was unbearable, broken only by her uneven respiration.

She turned away, retreating slowly to her seat with the practiced grace of the Inquisitor, her mask slipping back into place even as her heart fractured beneath it.

“What do you want, Cullen?” she whispered with the pain of unspoken longing.

The pause that followed was agonizing. And then, in a voice barely loud enough to hear over the music, he answered:

“I want something I can’t have.”

Chapter Text

The remainder of the evening unfolded in a maddening fog. Cullen’s thoughts churned with confusion and desperation as he replayed the day's events on repeat, trying to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong. No matter how many times he dissected the memories, it always ended the same: the Inquisitor hadn’t spoken a word to him since their return to her lodge. Yet, he wasn’t entirely blind to the truth—he knew exactly when the shift had occurred.

As much as he wished to banish the memory, it all traced back to that fateful encounter with Ser Louis-Marie de Serault. Cullen had stood powerless, a witness to the man’s artful mastery of the Game and his effortless charm. Ser de Serault’s flirtations were as bold as they were polished, and Uriell... she had returned them. The sting of jealousy had hit harder than ever when she had invited the nobleman to some gathering Leliana and Josephine had orchestrated without Cullen's input. She might have avoided her other suitors because of him that evening, but tomorrow, Ser de Serault—and likely countless others—would be by her side.

The whispers from the Orlesian crowd still echoed in Cullen’s mind: “What a magnificent couple they make. Truly, a picture of grace and allure.” The admiration, the envy—it had wounded him badly. “They look as though they were made for each other.” In that moment, Cullen had realized he was merely a pawn in a game of appearances. Leliana and Josephine had succeeded in presenting Uriell as the ultimate object of desire—not just for him but for everyone. And he hated that it worked.

Back at the lodge, Uriell had tried to draw him out, to make him talk about his feelings—feelings he scarcely understood himself. There were too many of them, all tangled and overwhelming. But in the end, she was nobility; he was not. Ser de Serault was. Uriell’s Advisors seemed determined to elevate her to the most desirable noble lady in Orlais, and Cullen could never belong to their world. The gap between them felt like an unbridgeable chasm, and yet she had asked what he wanted.

Something he could never have.

When he had finally managed to speak, the words had slipped out in a whisper, a desperate plea that he was certain she hadn’t heard. She hadn’t reacted—hadn’t flinched or answered. Instead, she had watched the rest of the opera in strained silence. When the performance ended, she had left the room without so much as a glance in his direction.

Cullen had only caught a fleeting glimpse of her as she passed him near the door. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her polite smile wavered, and her shoulders were rigid with strain. She was barely holding up the Inquisitor’s mask. She seemed miserable.

She had confided in him earlier that he’d been invited to her lodge simply because she wanted him there, because he’d asked her. He had then learnt that this was not a drunken dream from the previous night; he had actually asked her, and yet he couldn’t remember doing it. And finally, her words lingered: she couldn’t understand what he wanted of her.

The truth was, he didn’t know anymore.

He wanted her—desperately, achingly— but did she truly want him back? Or would he only weigh her down, as a noblewoman, as the best match the nobility was ready to fight for?

These questions haunted Cullen from the moment Uriell’s silence settled between them until he returned to his quarters in the city. And there he was, alone.

He stood in the middle of the room, a room far too spacious for one man. The plush bed loomed before him while a modest desk sat to one side. A standing mirror by the dresser reflected his weary, desperate expression. Cullen walked past the open windows which let in a welcome cold breeze, until he stopped in front of his reflection.

His sunken eyes shone with a tear he stubbornly fought against; a tear born of heartache he hadn’t dared to voice. The tight knot in his brow and the tension in his jaw spoke volumes of the turmoil he carried. For the first time, he truly saw himself—haggard, broken—and the sight only deepened the ache within him.

What did she see in that man, he wondered bitterly, picturing his dark-haired rival. What did he have that he didn’t? His reflection stared back, offering no answers. What must he do to be worthy of her?

The sudden knock on his door jolted him, his heart skipping a beat.

“Excuse me, Commander. I’m coming in.”

Cullen barely had time to react before Ser Barris pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him. Dressed in casual attire, Barris exuded an air of urgency that sent a wave of panic through Cullen. For a fleeting moment, dread clawed at his chest. Was Uriell in danger?

“Rutherford, what the hell happened?”

The sharp accusation hit Cullen like a blow. Barris closed the distance between them, his frown dark with judgment, though worry flickered across his face as he took in Cullen’s state.

“I—what?” Cullen stammered in confusion when Barris stopped in front of him.

The templar sighed heavily, his initial rigidity easing as he shifted into a more casual stance, deliberately informal and softening the moment.

“I was on my way to check on you,” Barris began, placing a firm yet reassuring hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “I learned today—through Cassandra, by the way—that you were the Inquisitor’s escort. Thank you for letting me know, of course,” he added dryly. “I wanted to hear how it went, but then…”

Barris trailed off and released Cullen to rub his temples in visible frustration.

“I just passed the Inquisitor’s room on my way here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, tinged with concern. “I overheard her talking to Cassandra and Dorian. She was crying.”

The words hit Cullen like a blow, and he stiffened under Barris’s glare, which now carried a disconcerting mix of empathy and reproach.

“What happened?” Barris repeated, his tone firm yet probing. “Leliana’s agents gave glowing reports, nothing but praise. I wasn’t expecting... this . Not her in tears. Not you looking like… this.”

Cullen’s throat tightened and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. Barris’s words struck harder than he had expected, the weight of the accusation digging into his chest. Was it truly all his fault? What of Ser de Serault’s behavior? A thousand rebuttals surged to the forefront of his mind, but voicing them proved more difficult than he had imagined.

Eventually, Cullen moved to his bed and sank onto the edge as he gestured for Barris to take the chair by the desk. Barris obliged without a word, his silence somehow louder than anything he could have said.

The Commander drew a long breath, willing his intrusive doubts to quiet as he prepared to explain. Slowly, haltingly, he recounted the events of the day. How he had no memory of asking Uriell to be her escort. How he had realized, too late, that Leliana and Josephine had cast him as both decoy and guard in their intricate scheme. How Uriell had confided in him at the lodge, and how, for a brief moment, he thought he was beginning to find his footing—only for Ser de Serault to appear and effortlessly sweep her off her feet during the entr’acte.

Finally, he admitted the hardest part: how Uriell had tried to confront him, to pull the truth from him, but he had failed to answer. Failed to bridge the rift between them because he couldn’t shake the belief that any relationship beyond duty was impossible, that she belonged in this world and he could never reach her through it.

Barris listened without interruption, his posture unwavering. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, with a serious but unreadable expression. There was no judgment in his demeanor, only a focused intensity that spoke of his investment in Cullen’s every word.

When Cullen finished, silence fell between them. Barris remained still, the weight of the confession settling in the air around them. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity as the templar contemplated everything he had heard. Then, he finally spoke, in a low enough voice to be a whisper:

“Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you are a fool.”

Cullen’s eyes widened as Delrin sighed again and shook his head in disbelief. Embarrassment and irritation flared hot on Cullen’s cheeks. He opened his mouth to protest, but Barris swatted the air, cutting him off.

“Did you even listen to me two weeks ago?” Barris asked with brisk irritation. “Did you? I remember warning you about this, and you brushed me off. She’s used to this . Trained for it. All this noble nonsense. And yes, she’s good at it, but Maker’s breath, she despises it. I told you not to take it personally when you saw her in action—flirting, playing the Game, all of it. Didn’t I?”

Barris exhaled sharply and buried his head in his hands, which gave Cullen a moment to reflect. A cold sweat trickled down Cullen’s back as the memory surfaced. Barris had indeed warned him, right before they set off for Orlais. A warning he’d dismissed.

“Listen carefully,” Barris continued in a slow and measured tone. “I know how infuriating it is to see her like that. Trust me, I’ve seen it plenty. But if you asked her, really asked, she’d tell you how much she hates it. She probably didn’t even notice the knight you’re so worked up about. She’s just doing what’s expected of her. Playing along because it’s what she has to do. It doesn’t mean anything to her, as long as it doesn’t have consequences.”

He paused, his gaze cutting as he leaned closer.

“She told you she wanted you with her, Cullen. You. She tried to talk to you, to make you understand, and what did you do? You shut her out.”

Barris grunted in frustration. He rubbed his temples and steadied his breath before he continued, though his tone remained bitter.

“She wants you, Cullen,” he said, the words striking like a hammer. “Do you know how infuriating it is for me? Watching her try to reach out to you while you’re running the other way, only to sulk and complain ? You think you’re the only one who gets jealous? Say it again, I dare you.”

Barris’s eyes gleamed with restrained anger, a hint of something deeper—hurt and resignation. The sight left Cullen frozen, uncertain of how to respond. He knew Barris still harbored feelings for Uriell. The templar had even jokingly threatened to seduce her himself if Cullen didn’t act. But he hadn’t fully grasped how much those feelings still lingered.

“I’m sorry, Barris, I—”

“Don’t,” Barris interrupted, swatting the air dismissively. “I’m fine with it. I’ve made my peace because I know you two are meant to be together. But do you have any idea how maddening it is to watch you sabotage yourself every time you get a chance?”

The room fell into silence once more, thick with realization and the faint charge of lingering tension and sparks in the air. Guilt stirred in Cullen’s chest as he glanced at Barris, who had turned his gaze to the floor, but alongside it, something else began to rise—a flicker of that fire that he thought had been extinguished.

She… wanted him. She had said that.

The words replayed in his mind, their weight heavier now than when he first heard them. She valued his opinion above all others. Could she truly feel the same for him as he did for her? Barris seemed to think so.

The spark grew into a flame, tentative yet undeniable, as if his heart dared to hope despite his doubts. But how? After tonight, with the mess he’d made, how could he begin to mend what felt so fractured?

“I…” Cullen’s throat thickened, but he forced himself to speak. “I hear you, Barris. I… should have listened. For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t mention it, you dimwit,” Barris replied, a sour smile pulling at his lips. Despite his frustration, his concern for Cullen shone through, tempered by relief that his friend was finally coming to his senses.

“Do you…” Cullen hesitated, his words lodging thick in his throat. He swallowed hard. “Do you think it could actually work?”

“For fuck’s sake, Cullen,” the templar hissed, exasperation lacing his tone as he shook his head. “You’re the only one who can’t see it. She wants you so bad, it’s painful to watch. At some point I even wondered how she had not jumped on you before. Though, I’m honestly even more surprised she hasn’t given up on you yet—with the barricades you’ve built around yourself, it’s a miracle she’s still trying.”

Cullen’s breath caught as Barris’s words struck like a hammer to his chest. The fire within him swelled, almost too fierce to contain. The walls he’d constructed to protect himself seemed to tremble, cracks forming under the sheer force of hope.

“But I… I’m not a noble. I’m not—”

“Maker’s breath, must I remind you that you’re the Commander of the Inquisition ?” Barris interrupted, punching Cullen’s shoulder lightly with a balled fist. “You’re not a Duke or a Count, but you’ve got a title. You’re a leader, Cullen. You’re strong, powerful, good-looking—and trust me, she’s into it. We’ve seen her peeking at you when you were training the troops. She doesn’t give a damn about nobility. She’s actually relieved that being the Inquisitor means her mother can’t sell her off in some political marriage. She’s always been the kind of woman who does what she wants. If you’d just show her that titles don’t matter to you, she would be doing you .”

A wave of electricity coursed through Cullen, igniting every nerve as memories flashed before him: Uriell pulling him close in the street for a kiss that never came; her pinning him against the lodge wall, her eyes searching his with raw, unspoken longing.

Could it be true? Could those moments have been her way of breaking through his walls, trying to reach him when he was too blind to see?

The mere idea sent his heart hammering against his ribs, a mix of hope and confusion battling within him. But then the weight of their last encounter pressed down. Didn’t Ser Barris say she had been crying? His hope wavered.

“I…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “What do I do now? Should I… should I go to her?”

Cullen hadn’t noticed he’d risen to his feet, his body tense and ready to act, as if every fiber of his being was urging him forward. His pulse galloped, driving him to do something—anything—to make things right.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves this time, shall we?”

Cullen and Ser Barris abruptly followed the unexpected voice that rose inside the room. Dorian, still dressed in his opera attire, stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him with great care. His sharp gaze flicked between the two warriors as he planted his hands on his hips, in a stance both defiant and poised.

“I apologize for not knocking, Commander,” he began with a wry smile, “though I did come to knock some sense into you. However, it appears someone has beat me to it.” He nodded toward Barris, as to acknowledge the templar’s presence with a satisfied glance. “Good.”

Cullen’s stomach sank as if filled with lead. He stood frozen, his mind racing. How much had Dorian overheard? His eyes darted between the mage and Barris, the latter wearing an expression of equal bewilderment.

“Dorian, what…” Cullen stuttered while he struggled to pull his thoughts together. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, my dear Cullen,” Dorian replied, dripping with confidence and his signature sardonic edge. “I happened to witness tonight’s little scene unfold—from the balcony at the opera and again at the bar. As one of the Inquisitor’s closest friends—don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—I refuse to stand idly by while someone as precious as she is gets hurt.”

He took a step closer with a threatening and piercing intensity.

“She told me what happened,” Dorian continued. “I just left her with Cassandra to ensure she wasn’t alone. She doesn’t know I’m here. Now, Commander, would you kindly explain why, by the Black Divine’s name, you chose to turn your back on—”

Dorian’s words were honed enough to cut, but Cullen braced himself in a gesture that was part plea, part defense. The guilt was enough to douse the fervor of his passion this time.

“I know,” Cullen interrupted, his voice breaking slightly, louder than intended but enough to halt Dorian’s tirade. He took a steadying breath as his shoulders dipped under the weight of his emotions. “I know, Dorian. I got it all wrong.”

Dorian’s stern expression softened, and Cullen sank back onto the edge of the bed, his hands clasping together as if to tether himself.

“I see it now,” he admitted and stared at his feet. “I shut her out. I thought she was rejecting me, so I… I pushed her away. Maker, I was blind.” He looked up at Dorian, as resolute as ever, even if the wavering in his tone betrayed his agitation. “I need to fix this, if this is not too late. I have to apologize. I have to—”

“Calm down, Commander,” Dorian interjected, more gently now, though his words remained firm. “We both remember how things ended the last time you rushed to talk to her, under the fall of unchecked emotion. And if I recall correctly, you couldn’t even remember the conversation the next day.”

The blush of shame that colored Cullen’s cheeks was as fierce as his guilt, but he didn’t look away this time. Dorian turned to Barris, his smirk returning.

“I must commend you, Ser Barris,” Dorian quipped. “You’ve clearly taken on the role of the Commander’s conscience. It’s good to see someone holding him accountable for his… impulsive decisions. But let’s ensure we’re not sending him back into the field without a proper plan.”

His sharp and assessing eyes shifted back to Cullen. Cullen squirmed slightly under the scrutiny, but Dorian’s smug expression only deepened.

“Now then, Cullen,” he said with an air of finality, “you appear to be in luck. You have the perfect opportunity to prove your worth—not just to her, but to yourself—and win her back.”

“How…?” Ser Barris wondered, his brow furrowed as he tried to follow the conversation and piece together the unfolding scheme. He sat straight and regained a semblance of composure. “Shouldn’t he go and apologize as soon as possible?”

“Given her current emotional state, I wouldn’t recommend it,” Dorian interjected, the flicker in his glare adding yet another sting to Cullen’s already wounded pride. “No, we have a far better opportunity, right under our noses. Tell me, Commander—how much would you enjoy taking your revenge on the season’s most eligible suitor?”

Cullen’s eyes widened in confusion as Dorian pulled a familiar bag from beneath his flowing cape, one he’d been concealing since entering the room. It was unmistakable: the same bag of cosmetics Cullen had last seen on Uriell’s bed the day they’d gone incognito in Val Foret.

“What… What are you suggesting, Dorian?” Cullen asked in a cautious tone as his gaze shifted from the bag to the mage, trying to make sense of the situation.

“When in Orlais,” Dorian began with theatrical flair, “do as the Orlesians do.” He placed the bag on Cullen’s desk with a flourish. “You wish to prove yourself worthy? To show her—and everyone else—your intentions? Earn her favors? Perhaps even embarrass Ser de Serault while you’re at it? Then do it. Tomorrow. At the reception host by our Spymaster and Ambassador.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Cullen and Barris exchanged incredulous looks as the weight of Dorian’s proposal began to sink in. The Commander turned back to the mage, his heart racing.

“Come now,” Dorian pressed with a smug grin. He seemed to enjoy their panicked and dumbfounded expressions. “Don’t tell me you haven’t even considered it?”

“Dorian,” Cullen stammered, the words thick in his throat. A cold sweat prickled down his back. “You can’t be serious. I can’t just attend and… challenge her suitors. It’s—”

“Not with that attitude, you can’t,” Dorian interrupted as he raised an eyebrow, the arch of it practically daring Cullen to reconsider. “You want to fight for her? Do it. For real.”

“He actually has a point,” Barris mused, rubbing his chin deliberatively.

Cullen snapped his head toward his friend, aghast. “You too, Barris?” he exclaimed in a voice tinged with disbelief. “Surely you’re not considering this madness?”

“Now, hear me out,” Barris replied, holding up a hand to forestall Cullen’s objections. “I’ve never seen anyone as skilled as you with a blade. Nobody’s ever bested you in sparring back at Skyhold.”

“I’m not going to challenge Chevalier de Serault to a sparring contest!” Cullen blurted, equal parts indignant and incredulous. “How would it look for the Commander of the Inquisition to challenge one of our guests?”

“You don’t have to be the Commander that day,” Dorian countered smoothly, tapping the bag of cosmetics with a knowing smirk. “Why not be just another suitor? One more name on the Inquisitor’s long list of admirers. Who would notice?”

***

The crisp morning air was a balm against Uriell’s skin, a fleeting reprieve after such a clash of emotions. Eyes closed, she leaned over her balcony and let the first rays of dawn caress her face. The night had been... restless. She exhaled heavily, the breath doing little to ease the heartbreak. She turned around and her gaze fell upon the tangle of fabrics strewn across the couch—Cullen’s outfit for Halamshiral. Unable to sleep, she had thrown herself into the work, her nifty fingers stitching through the haze of sobs and flashes of anger, until exhaustion had claimed her. But now, after what had happened last night, she wasn’t sure he’d ever wear it.

Dragging her feet toward the couch, Uriell collapsed into its cushions and curled herself tightly around one as though it might shield her from the pain. She buried her face into its soft embrace, muffling a frustrated groan. She had never expected to be rejected before even having the chance to confess her feelings.

She’d been so close—on the verge of telling him everything: how deeply she cared for him since their first meeting on the battlefield, how she’d yearned to catch his attention, how her heart had soared as they grew closer in recent days. How much she had always wanted him. She had grown to believe, with such certainty, that he actually liked her back. And yet, when she had extended her hand—both literally and figuratively—he had pulled away.

Was it really because of her role? Because she’d played the Game, as expected of her, assuming the mantle of the Inquisitor? Did he truly resent her for what duty demanded?

Uriell let out a muffled scream into the cushion before flinging it across the room. Sitting up with a sharp movement, she glared at the nauseating sea of flowers that had taken over her bedchamber.

The morning knock had come earlier than she’d wanted. Servants had paraded in, arms laden with bouquets sent by her numerous admirers. Her room now brimmed with roses, orchids, and lilies, all too vibrant, too cloying. If she’d been a mage, she might have incinerated them with her glare alone.

She grunted to herself, the weight of her advisors' plans pressing on her shoulders. On their ride back to the estate after the opera, Leliana and Josephine had finally detailed their next move. The Nightingale had pulled strings with Josephine’s aid, securing an exalted favor from Duchess Caralina of Lydes to host a "modest gathering" in their quarters that afternoon. The event, of course, was a calculated move—a stage for nobles to vie for Uriell's attention, each hoping to curry favor or secure an alliance.

Josephine had already spun Uriell’s brief interaction with Ser de Serault into a windfall, solidifying more trade agreements in a single night than in months of negotiations. This afternoon’s display would definitely further grow the Inquisition’s influence right before the Empress’s ball.

But Uriell knew her advisors weren’t entirely driven by practicality. Leliana and Josephine clearly seemed to enjoy the spectacle of it all. Well, except Cullen. He despised the Game, and last night, it seemed he’d despised her for playing it.

The memory sent a new biting surge of pain to her heart. Stupid, stubborn Commander. And now, she’d have to endure another afternoon of this charade; while also knowing how much it would infuriate him further.

“I don’t want to do it…” she whispered hoarsely, the words trembling as though rehearsing an apology. “Cullen, please…”

She drew her knees to her chest, then wrapped her arms around them in a desperate attempt at self-comfort. If only he would talk to her.

But no. She had left explicit instructions with the morning staff: no visitors. Leliana and Josephine had been informed she was unwell and would not emerge until the party began. She hadn’t slept, and though she longed for even a brief respite, she doubted her restless rumination would allow it.

As for Cullen, she was certain he would respect her order to the letter. He wouldn’t come.

The bitterness of the thought stung as she bit her lip, curling tighter into herself. She did not expect the sudden knock at her door, which startled her upright.

“Ah, er—what, who’s there?” she stammered in surprise.

She stared at the door, tense, until a familiar voice called from the other side.

“Good morning, Uriell. May I see you for a moment?”

It took her a moment to register the speaker. Recognizing Dorian, she glanced down at her nightgown and darted to grab a shawl from her bed, hastily draping it around her shoulders.

“Ah, yes, Dorian. Good morning! Come in!”

Dorian entered with his usual air of elegance and effortless sophistication. Uriell, by contrast, was acutely aware of her unkempt state: hair tangled, shadows under her eyes, and the faint crumple of her nightclothes. His expression—a brief flicker of horror—confirmed her fears. He crinkled his nose as he usually did when he’d stumbled upon some horrendous fashion.

“My dear friend, should I summon the maids?” he asked, his voice dripping with faux concern.

“That won’t be necessary,” Uriell replied as she suppressed a laugh. His familiar theatrics eased the awkwardness between them. “I didn’t sleep well, as you can see.”

“Indeed, I can,” he approached with measured steps. “And soon, all of Val Royeaux’s nobility will see as well if you don’t get ready. Oh my—are we hosting the Empress’ funeral already?”

Dorian nearly tripped over a massive bouquet of lilies Uriell had thrown carelessly near the foot of her bed. She reached out instinctively, catching his arm before he lost his balance.

“Careful,” she muttered with a dry laugh while he straightened and took in the floral nightmare surrounding them in shock.

“Well,” Dorian recovered his composure with a flourish, “I hate to add another drop to your overflowing vase, but…”

He held out a single stem of red rose, its delicate petals not yet in full bloom, to which was attached a small note at the end of a delicate golden string. Uriell’s eyes widened as she took it from him, her fingers brushing the soft petals.

“What is this?” she wondered out loud, her gaze flickering between the flower and Dorian.

“Don’t ask me!” he protested with a playfully offended tone. “I only came to check on you—I heard from the staff you weren’t feeling well. Then I found this rose outside your door. I expected you to receive gifts, of course. You stole half of Val Royeaux’s hearts last night! But this...” He gestured toward the overwhelming sea of flowers with a theatrical shrug. “Ah, Orlesians!”

Uriell’s attention returned to the rose, its simplicity standing in stark contrast to the gaudy excess that filled her room. As she studied it, she noticed a faint dark smudge at the base of the bud, as though it had been handled by someone with unwashed hands. Her fingers trembled slightly as she untied the golden string and turned over the note.

“For Uriell,” it read in a strong, simple handwriting.

Her heart skipped a beat. The informal address, devoid of titles or pretense, defied all etiquette. Who would be bold enough to call her by her first name, ignoring the weight of “Inquisitor”, or at least, her last name? The question lingered as she glanced at Dorian, who had wandered over to relocate the bouquet of lilies, his movements uncharacteristically quiet as he inspected their pristine petals.

Something about the rose unsettled her. It felt... singular . She hesitated to probe deeper, wary of what she might uncover. Carefully, she set it atop her bed and turned to Dorian. In the end, she was quite grateful for his company.

“Thank you, Dorian,” she said softly, a sparkle of warmth breaking through her exhaustion. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Always, my dear,” he replied with a sincere smile before he turned to scan her wardrobe. “Now, let’s ensure you dazzle Val Royeaux once again. You’ll need more than a shawl to win the Game today.”

Uriell chuckled lightly, the sound tinged with melancholy but genuine nonetheless. Perhaps, with Dorian’s help, she could face the day ahead. Uriell carefully avoided mentioning Cullen, choosing instead to bask in Dorian’s lively company and leave her sorrows behind her. As he skilfully tamed her hair, they exchanged lighthearted banter about the absurdities awaiting them that afternoon. Though she made no effort to hide her annoyance at the prospect of mingling with Val Royeaux’s finest, she admitted her curiosity about what lengths the nobles might go to in order to impress her.

Back in Ostwick, suitors had been scarce—not unusual for the youngest of a sprawling family, though as the only daughter, she hadn’t been entirely ignored. Still, her past experiences with admirers were quaint compared to the grand theatrics she now expected. Would they quarrel over her favor? Attempt some mortifying serenade of their own writing?

When Dorian began taking care of her skincare and makeup, he bet that at least one noble would likely start a duel or strip off their shirt before the evening’s end. Uriell’s genuine laugh rang out, which actually helped her relieve a bit of her tension. Dorian had a way of making even the most daunting social obligations seem entertaining—or at least bearable. Perhaps, as he suggested, she could find some amusement in the day’s pomp and distraction. It might even dull the biting bitterness lingering from her thoughts of Cullen.

“If nothing else,” Dorian teased, “being showered in praise by the devastatingly handsome Ser Louis-Marie de Serault should at least flatter your ego. Bathe in the compliments, for you deserve them.”

Uriell shot him a playful glare but conceded silently. Perhaps her friend was right. A little ego-stroking wouldn’t mend her heart, but it might soften the sting.

As Dorian searched for her lip balm, Uriell instinctively reached toward her desk, where her bag usually rested. She froze when she realized it wasn’t there. Odd . She distinctly remembered placing it there when they first arrived. Vivienne had even pulled out oils and brushes from it the previous night. Where could it have gone?

Before she could inquire about it, Dorian found the balm and turned her face gently toward him. His practiced hands painted her lips with precision, snapping her out of her reverie.

“You know,” Dorian mused with a mischievous glint in his eye, “if you’re not particularly fond of the Chevalier, you could at least pass a kind word along to one of your closest friends. It’s only fair.”

“I’m not sure Bull would appreciate that,” Uriell replied while biting back a grin to avoid smudging his work.

Dorian paused, narrowing his eyes as though debating whether to feign offense or to confess his intentions outright. Uriell raised an expectant eyebrow, her playful challenge hanging in the air.

“Don’t start with me, Inquisitor,” he warned, his smirk matching hers.

“Fine, fine,” she suppressed a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Another round of giggles filled the room, and the weight on her mind lifted, if only slightly. Dorian’s presence was a reminder that no matter the trials she faced—be they the horrors of battle or the exhausting dramas of the Orlesian court—she would never face them alone. With friends like him by her side, she could brave even the most treacherous of social games.

***

When the time came, Uriell left her chamber and descended to the estate’s ground floor. The reception was set in the grand salon, with access to the garden and inner courtyard, all decorated for the occasion. Banners bearing the Inquisition’s sigil hung on the walls—a subtle yet powerful nod to their alliance with the Duchy of Lydes.

Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne were already waiting for her and Dorian to arrive. Inside, a small crowd had gathered, their lively conversations filling the space. Uriell’s eyes scanned the room quickly. Among her companions, only Varric had ventured to mingle, though it seemed more out of obligation than choice. He was surrounded by an eager group who animatedly discussed his latest book. The other members of her team, likely wary of the nobles’ arrival, had made themselves scarce— and so probably did Cullen who was nowhere to be found. She noticed Ser de Serault was not there yet either.

Uriell let out a small sigh and quickly regained her composure. Leliana complimented her outfit with a knowing smile, which helped her refocus.

This time, Uriell had chosen to wear her house colors and traditional Free Marches fashion. Her dress flowed in soft white and beige, with delicate drapes gathered at her waist under a fitted golden belt. She wore her family’s gold jewelry—a bold necklace, serpentine bracers, and a thin crown of metal olive leaves resting on top of her hair. It had been years since she had dressed this way. Though the attire looked foreign and stiff, it had the desired effect. As she entered, all eyes turned to her. She was the image of purity and grace—a vision carefully curated to align with the Chantry’s expectations.

Uriell took a steadying breath, straightened her posture, and donned her polite smile like armor. As Leliana offered her arm, she followed her into the lion’s den. Her destination was a plush couch set at the center of the room, where she was expected to sit and receive callers.

Then it began. The relentless parade of suitors unfolded without pause. Leliana and Josephine stayed close, introducing each newcomer when needed, while Dorian, Vivienne, and Varric observed from a distance. Dorian’s reactions were especially hard to ignore. Each exaggerated expression he made—wide eyes, raised brows, or mock swoons—threatened to unravel her composure. Uriell often glanced his way by mistake, and every time, it took all her strength to stifle her laughter.

If Uriell thought some of the nobility’ displays might be excessive, she had underestimated their determination. It began with a series of song performances, each nobleman and noblewoman vying to outdo the other with ballads they claimed to have written just for her. This was followed by poetry recitals, which she had expected, but the florid metaphors about her beauty and valor were even more mortifying than she had imagined.

A Chevalier arrived dressed in full armor, adorned with massive peacock feathers, strutting about in an effort to dazzle her. Many presented gifts that far exceeded anything she could ever use: intricate jewelry, bolts of fine silk, rare liquors, and more. One artist brought a statue of her, boldly declaring that inspiration had struck the moment they saw her portrait—which, they added, failed to capture her true radiance.

Still, Uriell handled it all with grace, taking the time to meet briefly with each suitor. During the short five- to ten-minute calls, she listened, asked polite questions, and did her best to conceal her growing exhaustion.

After two hours of this relentless parade, something caught her interest. Amid the sea of nobles scrambling to earn her favor, a single figure stood apart, watching from the back of the crowd.

The man was tall, his attire remarkably understated by Orlesian standards. His black curls framed the edges of a lion-shaped half-mask, revealing a hint of stubble along his square jaw. His awareness remained fixed on her, though he made no move to approach. Occasionally, another guest tried to strike up a conversation with him, but he dismissed them with quiet confidence. His calm, commanding presence seemed to attract a small measure of attention despite his distance.

Uriell met his gaze and gave a subtle nod. He returned the gesture just as quietly. Was he smiling? From her seat, she couldn’t tell.

When the lady she had been speaking to excused herself, giving Uriell a brief moment of respite, she leaned toward Josephine. Keeping her voice low and a fan strategically raised to hide her lips, she whispered, “Who is that man standing near the entrance, against the wall? The one with the dark hair? I don’t think I know him.”

Josephine followed Uriell’s direction toward the man she had described. Uriell noticed the subtle shift in her posture, an apprehension she couldn’t quite mask, and the small twitch of her brow as she struggled to place the visitor.

“I… I actually don’t know,” Josephine whispered with unease and confusion. “I don’t recognize him. He’s not on the list. What should we do? How did he—”

“If I may,” Leliana interjected in a low voice, leaning slightly toward them. “There’s no need to worry. I have our men watching over the estate. Besides, I believe I know who he is. I’m curious to see how this goes.”

Uriell relaxed in her seat, reassured by Leliana’s calm confidence. She trusted Leliana’s network and unparalleled knowledge of Orlesian society, so she didn’t press further. Josephine, however, remained visibly uneasy, faltering to greet the next suitor at their side with her usual eagerness.

Despite the endless stream of admirers, Uriell’s thoughts kept drifting back to the stranger. Her gaze wandered to him more frequently, and each time, she sensed the weight of his eyes on her. His stare was warm yet unwavering, insisting yet strangely familiar. It should have unsettled her, but instead, it felt almost comforting. Perhaps the sheer exhaustion of constant attention had dulled her nerves, leaving her less guarded.

The theatrical displays continued unabated. A young noble attempted a sleight-of-hand trick, insisting it was “absolutely not magic,” though Vivienne’s pursed lips betrayed her recognition of a fellow mage. A lady feigned fainting dramatically into Uriell’s lap after a string of overly effusive compliments about her leadership and wisdom.

Then, a suitor arrived bearing a lion cub as a gift. Josephine, visibly struggling to maintain composure, seized the opportunity to redirect the gathering. “Shall we move to the gardens?” she suggested with forced cheer, herding the increasingly dense crowd outside.

“I’ll handle the cub,” Leliana murmured, as calm as ever. She excused herself briefly, leaving Josephine and Uriell to manage the eager guests.

The garden buzzed with renewed energy. A quartet began to play, and those who hadn’t yet spoken with the Inquisitor clamored for a chance to dance with her. Josephine, ever watchful, carefully selected her partners.

By the second dance, just as the sun started to dip behind the walls of the estate, Uriell felt the strain. The dizzying movements and the unrelenting smiles were wearing her down. Just as she considered asking for a break, a ripple of excited whispers and stifled giggles swept through the throng.

She turned toward the source of the commotion. Standing at the garden’s entrance was Ser Louis-Marie de Serault, every inch the picture of elegance. His impeccably tailored attire and disarming charisma commanded the attention of all. A collective sigh of admiration escaped the gathering and the intensity from the previous evening returned, crackling like a live current in the air.

He approached Uriell slowly, his every step deliberate. When he reached her, he bowed deeply, his piercing blue eyes never leaving hers. Extending his hand, he greeted her with a reverence that bordered with adoration.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he whispered in a low and rich voice.

“My lord,” Uriell replied with a smile and she offered him her hand in return.

The Inquisitor briefly glanced around the crowd as he placed another kiss on her knuckles, carefully gauging the reactions of the onlookers. Her heart raced—not from the young knight's bold charm, but from the quiet fear that Cullen might witness the scene. She frowned, only to realize that, amidst her worry, there was a twist of a wish. It was not just concern that drove her to search the crowd for Cullen’s presence—it was the faint hope of seeing his jealousy once more.

Then she noticed him again. The dark-haired gentleman, standing patiently on the edge of the garden. Though his eyes were hidden underneath his mask, she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her, a burn that made her spine tingle. His shoulders stiffened ever so slightly from afar. The sensation made her shiver, and the Chevalier, seeing her reaction, assumed it was caused by his baisemain, his chest swelling with pride.

He straightened, and the audience held its collective breath when he spoke in a smooth velvety tone:

“My lady, the folds of your dress move like the tides of Ostwick’s shores—graceful, powerful, and impossible to look away from. Here I thought Orlais had mastered the art of elegance, but seeing you in your homeland’s finery, I must concede—we’ve been thoroughly outclassed.”

A ripple of whispers spread through the garden, some laced with indignation, others with approval. Uriell feigned a shy glance away from him as she replied humbly.

“Flattery will get you only so far, Ser. I’ve received many compliments today, and I still don’t know how to accept them.”

“Modest in temper, bold in deed, I see,” Ser de Serault said with a widening smile. “Well, I shall bow to respect your House’s motto. Would I be so daring as to ask for the honor of this dance?”

Still holding her hand, he squeezed her fingers ever so gently. Uriell turned to Josephine, who stared at them, overtly awestruck. The Ambassador blushed then regained her composure before giving a subtle nod. The Chevalier then led Uriell to the center of the dance floor, the crowd parting as they made their way.

As the music began, they were the only two dancing under the sea of prying eyes and the murmurs of excited giggles and exaggerated sighs. Soon, others joined, eager to bask in the light the “power couple” exuded. All the while, Ser de Serault’s gaze never left Uriell’s face, which flushed ever so slightly beneath his consuming attention.

“I must say,” he playfully sang with a light voice when they linked arms in the intricate choreography of a well-known Orlesian dance, “I’m delighted to see that your beauty and charm are only matched by the grace of your dancing.”

“Come now,” she replied, glancing away as she spun. “This is merely the bare minimum required by our families. Do you always charm your way into a lady’s good graces?”

“Not really,” he laughed without reserve. “As you may know, my House carries only a bit of a good name now—thanks to my parents’ work and my recent anointment. I’m but new to all this.”

“Really?” Uriell asked, cautious but intrigued. “And yet, such eloquence you wield, my lord. One could almost think you quite practiced at this.”

“Eloquence is a tool,” he pointed out smoothly as they rounded each other. “Truth, my lady, is what gives it power. And the truth is, I may have been warned about you, Inquisitor. And yet, I find myself utterly captivated.”

Uriell gently scoffed at the blatant flirtation, though her amused smile tugged genuinely at her lips.

“Ah—there it is,” Ser de Serault clicked his tongue, satisfaction blooming in his gaze. “A smile that could win wars. Surely, it’s unfair for one person to wield so much power, I’ll have you know.”

“If I’m so powerful,” Uriell jested as they both took a step back, her eyes challenging as they locked. “Should I warn you to tread carefully?”

“Oh, but I’m counting on it,” he replied in a tone thick with promise, before he pulled her in for a few steps. “A knight’s life would be dreadfully dull without a bit of danger.”

The dance shifted into a short waltz, and Ser de Serault spun her slightly closer than etiquette typically allowed. Uriell felt the lingering pressure of his hand on her waist, though it remained brief—just long enough to send an almost electric jolt through her. Then, as he pulled her into a tight embrace, he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear:

“I confess, I’ve been hoping for this dance all day, my lady.”

Uriell’s heart skipped a beat. As little interest as she had in him, the Chevalier certainly knew how to make his point and wield his devastating charisma. The thrill of the dance, their witty exchange, and the intoxicating scent of his perfume overwhelmed her. She didn’t even protest when he dipped her elegantly, never breaking eye-contact.

“Ah, now this feels like a moment worth remembering,” he murmured with his honeyed tongue.

Uriell barely heard the excited buzz of her guests as he smoothly brought her back to her feet, his strong arms bringing her close again. She sensed the tension in his muscles, his raw strength supporting her as he effortlessly led her through the next steps of the dance.

“That was… daring,” Uriell gasped.

“I find life is far more thrilling when one is bold, don’t you?” he whispered feverishly while his lips brushed her ear. “Though for you, my lady, I would tread any line.”

Uriell bit her tongue, carefully avoiding further engagement with the conversation. Instead, she followed him through the last notes of the music, her mind swirling. As the final chord rang out, they both bowed gracefully, and a torrent of applause erupted across the courtyard.

“Thank you for this dance, Lady Trevelyan,” Ser de Serault said, his voice barely audible over the commotion of the crowd. “It’s a memory I shall treasure, though I fear I may never recover from it. Tell me, how does one return to ordinary life after sharing such a moment with you?”

Uriell’s polite smile concealed the scoff she was tempted to offer in response. Her nervousness simmered, but she hid it well. “My lord, that’s the thing. They simply don’t.”

The knight chuckled loudly, clearly taken aback by her answer. She seized the brief moment to steady her breath and assess her surroundings, which had become a blur during their dance. Leliana had returned and stood near a flushed Josephine, whose romantic excitement was palpable. Varric was scribbling furiously in his notebook, and Uriell couldn’t help but wonder if this would lead to another scandalous scene in his next book. Dorian gave her a long, appraising look, one that seemed to comment on both her and her knight’s current state. Vivienne, however, simply gave her an approving half smile—an even greater testament to how well she had fared.

But the dark-haired stranger, the one who had been lingering in the background, was nowhere to be found. Uriell’s heart fluttered before the feeling of emptiness tugged at her chest.

That was when Ser de Serault gently pulled her out of her reverie and offered her his arm, his beguiling smile and bright blue eyes unwavering.

“May I offer you my protection from the hoard of your admirers for a while longer? And perhaps accompany you for a glass of wine?”

Uriell’s thoughts were still racing, the absence of the stranger, and then Cullen’s suddenly weighing heavily on her. She pushed the emotion aside, at least for now, and accepted his proposal, linking her arm with his. After all, why not enjoy the evening? Though she found the Chevalier as over-the-top as the other suitors, he was at least the only one who had successfully distracted her for an entire dance.

Ser de Serault’s spell worked just as he had predicted. His presence seemed to create a natural barrier, which kept the curious lords and ladies at bay as he led her to the table where refreshments awaited. Josephine and Leliana did their best to divert the attention of the guests, allowing Uriell a moment of respite. After thanking her partner for the glass of wine he poured her, they both cheered and shared a blissed, yet relieved smile.

“I must say,” he remarked after taking a sip, his eyes twinkling with a roguish gleam. “You’ve gathered quite the finest of Orlais here today… Or should I say, tonight?” He glanced at the first streaks of dusk stretching across the sky and laughed lightly, as to brush off his own comment.

There was something undeniably youthful about him; after all, he was still a freshly anointed Chevalier and a young lord. Uriell couldn’t help but think that perhaps his boldness and naiveté could be useful in gaining insight into Gaspard’s plans for the next ball. But before she could steer the conversation in that direction, Ser de Serault leaned closer and continued.

“What I truly wanted to say is this,” he said in a softened tone. “The music and the attendance are delightful, but they pale in comparison to this quiet moment with you.” He raised his glass in a toast to her, his gaze locking onto hers with an unspoken ardor. “Perhaps… we should make it last—at least until someone dares to pull you away again.”

Uriell snorted, then feigned to look away from him, into the distance, while secretly scanning the crowd for any sign of her advisors— any of them—just in case.

“Oh, I wouldn’t get used to this, if I were you,” she teased, though she hoped her words carried a trace of truth. “See, duty awaits me at any moment, and I’ve been pulled away from quiet moments like this many times—to handle the Breach or fight off the Venatori.”

“I can only imagine, my lady,” he replied with a nod and took another sip from his glass. “Which makes me realize—I have yet to see Ser Rutherford here. Is he off tending to your armies as we speak?”

Uriell’s heart lurched at the mention of his name, and she tightened her grip on her drink to keep it steady. She could at least blame the flush creeping across her cheeks and down her neck on the warmth of the dance and the wine—but she couldn’t afford to let her expression falter. Carefully, she averted her gaze, taking a deliberate sip of wine to buy herself a moment.

“Most likely,” she answered flatly. “We unfortunately have no shortage of reports to read or troops to train, especially as Corypheus’ influence spreads across Thedas, as you may know.”

“Mmh,” Ser de Serault murmured, his stare still locked on her.

A heavy silence descended between them, and Uriell wouldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She felt the turmoil of her thoughts bubbling up, pulling her back to Cullen with an intensity she had struggled to avoid all evening. Her throat thickened, and the erratic pulse in her veins threatened to betray her. Ser de Serault, who sensed her drifting away, leaned even closer, his breath brushing her ear as he murmured with a hint of jealousy:

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say your Commander avoids this soirée only because he fears being outshone.”

Uriell blinked as disbelief flickered across her face. Outshone? Outshone by what—or, more precisely, by whom? A surge of anger flared within her, swift and hot. The sheer audacity of the remark struck a chord, stirring her instinct to defend her Commander’s honor. Did Ser de Serault truly believe his flair for theatrics and polished swordplay could rival Cullen’s unfaltering strength and steadfast leadership?

Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass as she inhaled, ready to retort something witty. But before she could speak, a voice—steady, quiet, and resolute—cut through the mounting tension.

“Would you please step back from the Inquisitor? The lady doesn’t appear entirely comfortable with your behavior.”

The words carried no anger, but the calm authority behind them stilled the conversation like a blade slicing through silk. Both Uriell and Ser de Serault turned toward the source of the disruption.

Uriell froze. Standing mere steps away was the Stranger—the name she had given her mysterious suitor. He had not left the party as she had assumed. Instead, he had lingered and fended through the throng to reach her side, until he was now standing beside them, his stance peaceful yet commanding.

Ser de Serault tensed at the interruption. His charming smile faltered, though he did not move away from Uriell, his face still so close she could feel his cheek brushing against her hair.

“I beg your pardon,” the chevalier said, his tone light but edged with irritation. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you. Would you mind repeating that?”

“Step back Chevalier,” the man replied while keeping his voice low but firm. “You’re too close for bienséance.”

Uriell’s eyes darted between her masked savior and Ser de Serault, whose lips curled into a mocking smirk, thinly veiling his displeasure. The chevalier raised an eyebrow but stayed still, his posture almost daring the Stranger to push the matter further.

“And who, exactly, might you be?” He drawled with amusement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. Another silent admirer of hers, I presume? Though, you’re dreadfully late to the affair. The Inquisitor and I were merely sharing a moment of respite after our dance. Surely, you must have noticed.”

The Chevalier gestured grandly, as if his proximity to Uriell was nothing short of an honor bestowed. “If anything, it seems you should trust in her judgment and leave us be.”

The Stranger did not flinch. “I merely wish to ensure the lady Inquisitor’s comfort. And again—you're standing too close. My lady,” he said, turning to Uriell with a gentler edge to his voice, “please tell me if I’m wrong, and I’ll trouble you no further.”

Uriell’s words caught in her throat. There was something oddly familiar about his accent, as if he were intentionally masking his timbre and the cadence of his sentences. Despite the mystery surrounding him, there was an air of reliability in his stance, a sense of sincerity in his every word that drew her in, as if she could trust this Stranger who still had not introduced himself.

Before she could nod or respond, signaling her discomfort, Ser de Serault moved between them with a sweep of his arm, brushing her aside as though she were incidental to the matter.

The chevalier’s eyes narrowed into slits and the earlier amusement had faded into something nastier. His chuckle was low and cutting. “What do you think you’re doing? Protecting her? From what, pray tell? A harmless conversation?”

“From people like you,” the Stranger retorted without hesitation, steady as a drawn blade.

The air seemed to hum with tension as a murmur rippled through the gathering. Eyes turned toward them, the growing audience feeding the electricity between the two men.

Uriell’s pulse quickened in alarm, yet she found herself unable to look away from the Stranger. His poise, his controlled calm, stood in stark contrast to Ser de Serault’s theatrics, and it both unsettled and intrigued her.

“Ah!” Ser de Serault scoffed. “What a peculiar way of showing your ‘protection.’ Lurking in shadows and speaking only when it’s convenient for you? I see no honor in that.” He stepped closer and leaned in slightly, his voice sharpening. “I will not stand for this cowardice. If you intend to challenge me, at least show your face. Only a coward hides his identity on the verge of a duel—afraid, perhaps, of the humiliation that might follow.”

The Stranger’s lips twitched but there was no smile. Around them, the witnesses had fallen into a stunned silence. Even the music had stopped entirely, the musicians frozen as the unease crackled like a taut wire. Uriell’s gaze darted toward her advisors. Josephine clung to Leliana’s shoulders, her mouth agape in disbelief and horror. Dorian stood nearby, his brow furrowed, a hand slightly extended, as though ready to conjure fire if things went out of control.

The Stranger, however, remained composed. His tone was deliberately neutral as he finally replied, “I don’t need a name to best you, Chevalier. Nor do I need the world to know who I am. My only concern is the honor and well-being of the Inquisitor.”

A flicker of rage and arrogance lit Ser de Serault’s eyes. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, the faint scrape of leather and steel drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.

“Ah, I see now. A faceless mystery, then,” the chevalier sneered. “But I cannot dismiss such an affront. Coward you may be, but I’ll indulge your desire for a challenge—if only to teach you a lesson.”

Without hesitation, Ser de Serault drew his blade. The polished steel gleamed in the flickering light of the freshly lit candles in the courtyard. The Stranger exhaled deeply, his expression calm but weary as he gestured toward his empty hip.

“It seems you’ve mistaken my intentions,” he said. “I came unarmed and merely sought to deliver a warning.”

“Give this man a sword!” Ser de Serault hissed, his wounded pride fueling every syllable. “I came prepared to fight for the Inquisitor’s favors, as you should have, Mystery Admirer. Now will you run away from the duel you brought to yourself?”

The Stranger remained silent as if weighing his options. Before he could respond, another voice cut through the charged air.

“Of course he won’t.”

Uriell followed the voice, her breath hitching as she saw Blackwall step through the dumbfounded crowd. His expression was unreadable as he unfastened the sword at his belt and tossed it toward the Stranger. The weapon arced through the air, and the Stranger caught it with ease.

“For our lady’s honor,” Blackwall added simply when he locked eyes with the Stranger. It was impossible for Uriell to discern which side the Grey Warden favored. She looked back to the Stranger, who studied the sword for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet Ser de Serault’s.

The Stranger stood silently, weighing the sheathed sword in his hands. His expression remained unreadable, calm. Ser de Serault’s arrogance had taken hold, his posture widening, and he raised his blade slightly, gesturing for the Stranger to prepare himself.

“At least the world will know the name of the man who defeated you,” he said with a challenging smirk. “Though I find it quite laughable that a man of such... mystery would dare face me.”

The Stranger remained motionless. “Not all battles are won with names, Chevalier. Only honor, and, well, mastery.”

The spectators around them parted and formed a wide circle in the dimly lit courtyard. The soft rustling of fabric and murmurs of anticipation filled the air as noble onlookers leaned in, their focus fixed on the two men about to clash.

The Stranger finally drew the sword from its scabbard. With a fluid flick of his wrist, he tested its balance, the motion quick and practiced. The sharp metallic whisper of steel sent a shiver through the gathered crowd.

Uriell shook herself free of her stunned daze and took a cautious step back, her heart pounding with a mix of dread and fascination.

Ser de Serault raised his sword with arrogant confidence. He swung the blade in a wide arc before him, testing the air as if daring the Stranger to make his move.

"You’ll regret this," Ser de Serault sneered. "This will be a lesson you’ll never forget."

The Stranger didn’t reply. He simply moved into position, his feet shifting in a fluid, practiced stance that made it clear he wasn’t here for show. He displayed the poise of a man who had seen countless battles.

Ser de Serault was the first to attack. He lunged forward, his strikes fast and aggressive. He aimed a series of precise slashes toward the Stranger’s torso and shoulders. Each strike was met with calculated parries or deft sidesteps, the Stranger moving with an economy of motion that betrayed his skill.

“Is that all?” the chevalier sneered, though his breathing was already quickening.

The Stranger didn’t answer, but his blade responded with a sudden riposte, which forced Ser de Serault to retreat a step. He used the opening to pivot, and delivered a faint slash toward the Chevalier’s arm, stopping just short of contact.

"Not bad," Ser de Serault grunted with a hint of surprise.

He swung again, and this time, he aimed for the Stranger’s head. But the lion-masked Stranger was faster. He dropped low, ducking under the attack gracefully, and then spun with a fluid motion, his foot swept beneath Ser de Serault’s legs. The Chevalier stumbled; his balance momentarily lost. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Uriell’s breath caught. Something felt familiar with the Stranger’s movement. Something she couldn’t exactly put her finger on.

The Stranger pressed the advantage and moved with controlled precision, his sword held loosely at his side. He struck with a series of quick jabs, each narrowly avoiding Ser de Serault’s defenses, pushing him back step by step. The audience murmured in surprise as Ser de Serault struggled to keep up, his sword growing heavier with each failed parry.

"You talk too much," the Stranger remarked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried across the courtyard. “Shouldn’t you be blocking this?”

Ser de Serault gritted his teeth, his pride stung. He snapped back, spinning and slashing viciously, trying to land a blow—any blow—that might turn the tide. But the Stranger was always a step ahead, his movements too swift, too deliberate. He countered each attack effortlessly, with no sign of exertion. Frustration etched itself onto Ser de Serault’s face. His strikes grew wilder, less controlled.

Then, in one fluid motion, the Stranger sidestepped a particularly vicious slash, and with a quick, practiced flick of his wrist, he disarmed Ser de Serault. The sword flew from the chevalier’s grip and landed several feet away.

The knight’s eyes widened in disbelief, his chest heaving with ragged pants. The Stranger stood poised, his own sword at the ready, but he didn’t strike. Instead, he simply looked down at the defeated chevalier, his expression unreadable behind his mask.

The knight stumbled backward with a hand raised in a defensive gesture, but his pride was already shattered. "You—" he stammered, sweat beading on his brow.

"Just go," the Stranger replied coldly. "The lesson is over. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough as it is. You should just have stepped back."

The dark-haired Chevalier’s face turned crimson with rage. His fists clenched in frustration, but the weight of his defeat was too much to ignore. His humiliation was palpable, confirmed by the excited murmurs turning against him in the crowd. Uriell stared at him nervously, with one wrong word, the man could turn all his family’s effort to rebuild the de Serault’s name into nothing.

With a final glare at the Stranger, he finally turned on his heel, retrieved his sword and stormed off, pushing through the sea of onlookers. His steps were heavy, his pride shattered beyond repair.

Uriell watched him retreat, and she could hear the sharpness of his anger in his footsteps. The duel had ended—not in a display of brute strength, but in quiet dignity from the Stranger, who had offered Ser de Serault no more than he deserved and, somehow, competed in her name.

The crowd began to murmur, the unease slowly lifting from the courtyard. Yet, it was clear the duel had left its mark on everyone present. The Stranger stood alone, his posture relaxed yet vigilant, his masked gaze scanning the gathering as though prepared for whatever might come next.

Uriell, still reeling from the events, felt a rush of relief wash over her, mingled with something deeper—an ache of gratitude and fascination. She took a step forward, enthralled by the man who had just defended her honor in such a striking yet familiar way.

“I… thank you,” she uttered softly, her voice trembling but resolute. In that moment, the rest of the world seemed to fall away. “For watching over me, for noticing something was wrong. I—” she stuttered and flushed, under all of the nobility’s scrutiny and yet she couldn’t care less. “I don’t think I can thank you enough.”

The Stranger turned his golden lion mask toward her, silent, unreadable. Uriell’s chest heaved under the weight of his burning gaze and her breath hitched when he walked to her. Then, the mysterious man bowed lowly with a precision that spoke of military discipline.

Her heart raced when, without a word, he reached into his jacket and produced a single long-stemmed red rose. The gesture was as striking as it was unexpected, the bloom vivid against the muted tones of his attire. She picked the flower slowly and her fingers brushed against his gloved hand. The fleeting contact sent a shiver through her. She looked up, and he smiled .

Realization suddenly struck her as he straightened; and with one last glance toward her, he walked away. His departure was as swift and silent as his arrival, his figure melting into the shadows beyond the estate, leaving the assembled guests too stunned to follow.

Uriell stood frozen, the rose clasped tightly in her hand. The world around her seemed distant, muffled, spinning. She barely registered the rising buzz of excited gossip, the reassuring murmur of Dorian as he rushed to her side, or the steady clasp of Leliana’s hand falling on her shoulder. Even Blackwall and Varric’s protective presence, shielding her from the encroaching nobility, barely pierced her thoughts.

All she could focus on was the rose, so similar to the one in her chamber, and the Stranger.

She had caught the intimate scent of elderflower and oakmoss, with a hint of sandalwood, as he had leaned over and offered her the flower. She had felt this wave of familiarity once more when she bathed in his presence, his stoic attitude, the strength in his poise. She had noticed the way his hair curled. She remembered how her bag containing her black hair dye had gone missing. She had seen the way his upper lip twitched when he smiled, and the poorly-spread paste of makeup concealing a scar she knew too well.

Maker help her, she had recognized him.

The Stranger was Cullen.

***

Cullen closed the door of his bedchamber behind him and exhaled sharply as he leaned with all his weight against the sturdy wood. The tension that had coiled in his guts all evening began to ease while the silence enveloped him. He had managed to slip away from the gathering without being followed—though he had little doubt Leliana’s men and Ser Barris had discreetly facilitated his escape. Alone at last, he allowed the nervous tremor in his chest to manifest, his shoulders sagging under its weight.

The faint strains of music in the courtyard drifted into his room through the open windows, carried on a cool night breeze. He pressed his eyes shut and let the melody wash over him, its gentle rhythm gradually soothing his frayed nerves. For a moment, he stood still and savored the privacy, the reprieve, and the sense of safety his chambers provided.

When his breathing slowed, Cullen pushed himself off the door and stepped further into the room. He undid the clasps of the snug jacket Dorian had loaned him, the borrowed fabric now feeling like a second skin he couldn’t wait to shed. He loosened the laces of his shirt, taking in a deep lungful of air as his chest finally felt unrestrained.

Approaching the standing mirror, Cullen hesitated, his hands gripping its wooden frame as his gaze remained fixed downward. He knew what he would see, yet he forced himself to look. His reflection stared back—familiar, yet altered. The golden lion mask, perched jauntily on his brow, seemed to mock him, aggravating the dull throb of his persistent headache. With a swift motion, he untied the straps and let the accessory drop to the carpeted floor with a muted thud.

There he stood, bathed in pale moonlight. His dark curls, stiff and sticky with creamy hair dye, fell untidily over his forehead. He groaned quietly at the task ahead—washing out the stubborn concoction would take time and patience. Yet, despite the chore, a small smile tugged at his lips, reluctant but undeniable. It was giddy, exhilarated, and tinged with pride. He smudged at the thick makeup concealing his scar, revealing the faint line beneath.

Catching himself before his thoughts could retrace the day’s events, Cullen shrugged off the jacket and took off his shirt in a fluid motion, then turned to the basin waiting for him on top of the dresser. He plunged his face into the cold water, the welcome chill biting at his skin and invigorating his senses. The ache in his temples subsided as he massaged his scalp, his fingers working through the dye with a rough rub and squeeze. When he rose, water dripping from his hair and face down to his shoulders, the once-clear basin had turned an inky black.

It took several rounds of rinsing and scrubbing before hints of his natural blonde began to emerge. He continued until the dye was gone, his efforts culminating in a rough towel rub that left his hair damp and messy but clean. Exhausted but relieved, Cullen stared at his reflection once more. This time, the man looking back was unmistakably himself.

Thank the Maker his disguise had been convincing enough to fool the nobility, allowing him to go mostly unnoticed. In the end, Dorian’s plan had unfolded perfectly. Cullen stretched in the moonlight, his muscles slighty sore from the unexpected duel with the Chevalier. He had worried that his lack of training in the recent weeks might put him at a disadvantage, but Ser de Serault’s fiery temper had proven to be his undoing. Cullen remained undefeated, and he suspected that only Ser Barris’s pride in having been right about him could rival his own satisfaction at that moment.

It had been a rare delight to put the arrogant knight in his place, exposing him for what Cullen suspected he truly was: a vain young man who relied on charm to obscure his glaring flaws, bearing his fake smile as his own mask. Cullen felt a twinge of guilt at just how much pleasure he took in Ser de Serault’s humiliation. Still, he couldn’t deny the sweetness of victory. The most eligible bachelor of the season—and his most dangerous rival for Uriell’s attention—had been unseated.

The revelation dawned on him suddenly. His victory had done more than tarnish Ser de Serault’s reputation. In the eyes of Orlais nobility, he had stepped into the role of Uriell’s mysterious suitor. The one who had defended her, the one who had proven himself most worthy of her favor. His heart fluttered at the realization, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift as excitement surged through him.

Unconsciously, Cullen began pacing the room, his thoughts in a race. The anonymity of his disguise had done more than shield his identity; it had freed him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he had been able to shed the Commander’s mantle—a role he had donned and never removed since accepting Cassandra’s offer. It was a role he had embraced in a desperate bid to atone for his past, to atone for sins he could never truly forgive himself for—Kirkwall, the Broken Circle, so many others.

But tonight, pretending to be someone else had allowed him to feel like himself again. In the shadows of the lion mask, he had followed his heart, unburdened by the crushing weight of guilt and duty. He had stood strong, not as a soldier, not as a leader, but as a man. And for the first time in ages, Cullen knew that he had made Uriell notice him—not just as the Commander, but as someone who cared for her ardently.

Oh, he remembered how she had spotted him across the room, and how her gaze had sought his over and over as she failed to focus on the guests vying for her attention. He remembered the intrigued expression on her face when she greeted him with a nod, her eyes filled with curiosity, wondering who he was. And yet, the way she kept glancing back at him revealed something more—curiosity, yes, but perhaps familiarity too. Then there was their last exchange. When he had carefully presented the second rose he had been clinging to at Dorian’s advice, Cullen was sure he’d seen a flash of recognition in Uriell’s green eyes. In that fleeting moment, when the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, he felt something shift.

He had thought he’d be mortified if anyone saw through his disguise. But instead, an exhilarating thrill coursed through him, setting his nerves alight. She had recognized him—he was certain of it. Maker, he hoped so. If she had, it meant he’d succeeded in conveying a piece of his heart, proving himself not to the assembled nobility but to her. Maybe now he could apologize for his past coldness, tell her what she truly meant to him, and finally show her the depth of his affection. Free of the shackles of his role as her Commander, could he dare to be the man who loved her openly?

But what should he do next? A feverish excitement surged through him as he considered the possibilities. Two days remained in Val Royeaux before their departure for Halamshiral. Tomorrow, Uriell was supposed to spend most of the day with Josephine, meeting nobles in town. Should he disguise himself once more and follow her discreetly, just in case Ser de Serault had another scheme in mind? Or should he meet her after her luncheon, still masked, in a guise that only she—and likely Leliana, who missed nothing—would see through?

Would she expect him to continue the charade, to make another move to secure his place by her side? His mind raced with wild scenarios, each more daring than the last, as his breaths grew shallow and his heart pounded. If she had truly recognized him, could she be waiting for him to act? No, that didn’t sound like her. Uriell was far from impulsive, but he knew the fire that burned within her. Was it possible she’d come straight to him instead?

The final notes of music faded into the night, signaling the end of the party. The Inquisition would be ushering out visitors by now. Cullen’s attention turned to his door, anticipation building with every second. What if she came tonight? If she had recognized him, would she confront him now?

His pulse quickened at the possibility. If she did, it would be his chance—his moment to summon the courage that had been simmering in his chest all evening. He could confess his feelings, his passion, and claim her in the heated kiss he had longed for with every fiber of his being.

Cullen swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry. Maker, he needed that kiss—needed her . The thrill of the duel, the taste of victory, and the fire of his desire coalesced into a blazing inferno inside him. His skin burned, his heart thundered like a storm breaking over the horizon, shaking him to his very core. He pictured her again—her arms around his neck, drawing him closer in the dark alley of Val Foret, her lips pleading for his.

The memory, so vivid in his mind, made him shiver while his slight panting betrayed the peak of his arousal. His blood had been pumping fiercely in his veins from head to toe, though it was now rushing in a very specific region that called for his attention.

What if she came tonight? The idea of her rushing to his room rose in his mind, vivid and undeniable. He could almost see it—the door swinging open without ceremony, her presence filling the space like a storm. In his imagination, she would stride toward him, her gaze fixed on his, fierce and unwavering. Without a word, her hands would find his face, fingers threading through his hair with a touch that sent shivers down his spine.

Her kiss— oh, how he longed for it —would be fervent and unrestrained, an extension of the fire in her eyes whenever she had leaned close. He wondered how that passion would manifest when their lips finally met. Would she be the one to close the distance, to taste him first? Would she deepen the kiss with a subtle tilt of her head, leaving him breathless? Would she be the one to taste his tongue first?

His mind raced with tantalizing possibilities. Who would pull the other closer first, their bodies flush with unequivocal need? Who would bite the other’s lip and send a jolt of electricity between them? Who would be the first to let a soft moan escape, unbidden but utterly welcome?

And then, he thought of her taste. Would it still carry the sweetness of chocolate, as it had that other night? The memory of her glistening mouth, their lingering closeness, was enough to set his pulse racing. The ache in his chest and in his trousers grew sharper, almost unbearable, as his imagination painted the scene with vivid strokes.

Cullen fumbled untying the laces of his pants under the growing, urging pressure in his smalls. The ache in his groin was almost unbearable while he kept dreaming of her, his sweet Uriell, clinging to his neck and shoulders with a feral hunger. When he was finally freed from his clothes, Cullen stumbled backwards until he lied on top of his bed, in the dark of his chambers. His hand slithered down his abdomen until it closed around his thick, longing shaft, and a breathless groan escaped through his mouth at the first stroke.

“Oh… Uriell, I—" his gasp caught in his throat as his whole body responded.

The image of their kiss turned into him pinning her against the wall, in the way he would have done if not for Ser Barris interrupting them that fateful night. He would have devoured her lips and held her wrists up until they’d been both out of air. He longed to hear her pant and mewl, plying under him until she was just as much of a mess as he was. If he had her like that tonight, he would then unclasp her belt and the elegant buckles keeping her dress snug until it’d pool at her feet. He would have her naked and pick her up in his arms while she would tie her legs around his waist for balance. Oh, for he yearned for the supple touch of her skin on his. He would gently push her on top of his bed, where he could admire her breathtaking beauty before he’d lunge for another heated, passionate kiss.

Cullen’s eyes were pressed shut tightly and yet he could see her perfectly. He wished he could run his mouth along the column of her white throat, lick her tantalizing skin, dig his teeth in her neck and suck until he’d left his mark on her and steal the wind out of her lungs.

“I’m starving,” he growled to himself and his fantasy. “Please… Let me taste you…”

He longed for the moment she would give him her consent, setting him free of any restraint he might still have and allowing him to skim her shivering body with his lips, trailing every shape of her as he would descend on her, slowly, until he’d kneel by the bed and bury his face in between her legs. If only she knew how badly he wanted to eat her out right now, to slide his tongue between her folds and hear her cry out in pleasure. He would feast upon her like she was the only meal that could satiate him, until she’d grind against his mouth, until she’d scream his name and come undone. Only then, he would rise up to her and look at her, all flushed and quivering under him, the painting of perfection. And only then, he would bring her hips close to his and plunge into her. He knew she’d be heavenly delicious around him, and he couldn’t wait to match his thrusts to her whimpers and moans.

His cock in his grip was throbbing even harder as he picked up the pace, his breath erratic and shorter with every pump. Would she blush as she’d reach her orgasm? Across her breast and her cheeks, like she did when he had teased her? Would she call his name when he’d bring her over the edge again and again? Would she arch her back, would she clench around him as the sweet release of climax would find him too?

“Uriell, ah—” he groaned lustfully when the pleasure washed over him in brutal waves, leaving him panting in his bed with his spilled seed across his stomach. He took a series of deep inhales, trying to recover from the erratic thumping in his chest and the blood rushing back to his ears in a buzz. His hands fell to his sides and he opened his eyes, only to stare at the dark ceiling of his empty, silent, bedchambers only filled by the sound of his jagged breathing.

Uriell might not join him tonight, but Maker help him , he was ready to make it worthwhile when she would.

Chapter Text

“Aaaand, done. Finally. Whew.”

Uriell dropped her needlework onto her lap and leaned back until her head rested against the soft cushion. She had been sitting on the floor by the foot of her couch for hours, painstakingly finishing the delicate hems, and now, at last, it was done. Her fingers throbbed from the relentless sewing, the tiny pricks of fresh cuts standing as proof of her efforts. Josephine would no doubt reprimand her over the state of her hands, but at the moment, Uriell couldn’t care less.

For a brief moment, she allowed herself to rest. Her tired eyes, strained from hours of meticulous work in the dimly lit room, closed tightly as if to soothe the itch. Her back was stiff from being hunched over for so long. Surrounding her was a sea of dark red, black, and gold fabrics, the intricate patterns and fine threads a testament to her labor. Resting atop her knees was the most demanding piece of the ensemble—the jacket. Cullen’s Halamshiral outfit was finally complete.

Uriell hesitated to open her eyes, as she dreaded the confirmation of just how late it was. Unable to sleep, she had thrown herself into her work, in the hope to keep her restless mind busy. But now, with the task finished, she could no longer delay the inevitable. She would have to face the stillness of the night and the memories that clawed at the edges of her thoughts, and maybe, hopefully—unlikely—try to get some sleep.

An uncontrollable smirk played across Uriell’s lips, which trembled as she held back a delighted squeal. Her heart raced anew, fueled by a rush of excitement and adrenaline she thought she’d already quelled. Was any of this real? The tingling in her fingertips and the dull stings of her needle confirmed she was wide awake.

Her eyes flashed open, fixed upon the ceiling. She turned her head to the side and spotted the rose the Stranger had given her lying on the couch beside her. Its petals were as vividly red as before, its scent just as intoxicating. No, this was no dream.

Reluctantly, she turned her gaze toward the window and the candles lighting the room. Though dawn had yet to break, the candles had nearly burned themselves out, their flames flickering weakly. Only a few hours remained before her official waking time. With a groan, she pushed herself to her feet and stretched to shake off her weariness. She might as well make the most of what little time was left and try to rest.

Uriell carefully gathered each piece of Cullen’s costume, and folded them with precise, tender movements. She stored them in her dresser, fondly brushing a stray fleece from the collar of the jacket before closing the drawer. She smiled as she imagined Cullen’s reaction to seeing it. Suppressing a gleeful chuckle, she spun around and dashed to the couch, where the rose waited for her.

She plucked the bloom up eagerly and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply, as if trying to etch its sweet fragrance into her memory. She clutched it tightly against her chest, over her hammering heart, then walked backward to her bed until she let herself fall onto the thick, fluffy duvet with an audible sigh.

The scene replayed in her mind with perfect clarity, as if time itself had slowed for that singular moment. She remembered the dark-haired Stranger approaching her at the centre of the crowd, the way he drew the rose’s long stem from within his jacket and offered it to her. She recalled the graze of his glove against her fingers, the faint, familiar scent of him, and the soft curve of a smile beneath the half-mask of a lion.

Though she hadn’t seen his eyes, she knew they were amber. The black of his hair hadn’t fooled her; she’d confirmed her suspicions when she found her black dye and makeup was definitely missing. And that small patch of poorly applied foundation covering the scar on his lip? It was unmistakable. It was Cullen.

Uriell’s left hand brushed absently across the duvet until her fingers found the stem of a second rose, the twin of the one pressed to her chest. She brought the two blooms together and gazed at them with tenderness. She kicked her feet excitedly, like a giddy child savoring a secret.

It was Cullen. What a fool—but at least, he was her fool.

There she was, ignoring the unhealthy number of bouquets and extravagant gifts the Orlesian nobility had sent to her room today. Instead, her focus remained entirely on the two single roses, treating them like the most precious treasures in the world. It was Cullen. No matter how many times she told herself, the realization still sent her heart into a flutter.

Cullen. The Commander of the Inquisition. The man who always seemed to deflect her attempts at flirting, back in Skyhold. The man who would avert his gaze when she tried to engage him in conversation. The man so stern and serious that she could count the times he had been warm to her. Cullen Stanton Rutherford. The man who had rejected her before she could even confess her feelings, unable to bear watching her navigate the treacherous waters of the Game. The man she loved. And now, the man who had finally taken a bold step forward, voluntarily throwing himself into the very Game he despised.

Was this his way of showing her what he was willing to do for her? It certainly felt that way.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined Cullen mingling with the nobility of his own accord. She could scarcely believe that the same man who had scolded her countless times for sneaking out had donned a disguise of his own and slipped away from the Inquisition. And yet, he had. He hadn’t approached her recklessly but waited until the moment truly mattered. When the young Ser Louis-Marie de Serault had grown too brash and insistent, Cullen had stepped in without hesitation.

She never would have imagined him accepting the challenge of a duel—especially in her name. And yet, he had. He had utterly crushed the Chevalier, his mastery of discipline and swordsmanship leaving no doubt of his superiority. What a superiority indeed; as a notorious enthusiast of anything related to combat and fencing, Uriell had been in awe—and slightly aroused—by such a display of skill and expertise. Finesse and bravery with which he’d reduced the knight’s ego and reputation to little more than rubble.

Uriell fought the overwhelming urge to rush to his quarters this very moment. No. It wasn’t the time for that. He was likely fast asleep, and she needed rest too. There was much to do in the morrow—today, technically. And they still needed to talk. Apologies were owed, and a long-overdue conversation awaited to untangle the events and outbursts of recent days.

She sighed deeply, relinquishing the wild, tempting idea of running to him. Rising to her feet, she carefully placed the two roses on her bedside table, their delicate blooms catching the faint glow of the dying candles. She slipped out of her nightgown, and blew out the flickering flames almost about to extinguish themselves. She crawled beneath the heavy, soft covers, that she pulled close and sank into the comforting warmth of her bed.

But sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned; her thoughts fixated on that smile. It played in her mind on an endless loop, as if her heart refused to let her forget. Somehow, with a flick of his wrist and a single rose, he had shrugged off the strain and exhaustion of an impossibly long day. But it wasn’t just her honor as the Inquisitor he had defended—was it?

If it had only been about duty, he would have attended the event officially, as the Commander of the Inquisition. Such a move would have surprised no one. But instead, he had taken the guise of one of her suitors. Out of every possible option, why that? Was it to compete for her attention? To claim a place no one else could?

The questions pressed on her mind, searching for cracks in the fragile hope burning fiercely within her chest. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to douse the flame, it refused to be extinguished. She was certain now—he liked her back. He truly did.

A wave of excitement and impatience surged through her. How long could she possibly wait before straddling the man and kissing him senseless? The picture sent a thrill racing through her, but the wait—oh, the wait—was torturous. Every moment felt like an exquisite agony, a maddening blend of anticipation and nervous energy. What would she even say to him?

She didn’t know. She had no idea what words would come when they finally faced each other. But one thing was clear—she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

Uriell squirmed under the covers, her restless thoughts refusing to quiet. She glanced around the room, now dark. Sleep was impossible—not in this state. Her imagination betrayed her, conjuring vivid images of their mouths meeting, their breaths mingling, and the electric pull of lips seeking one another.

She couldn’t wait to kiss him. She wanted to feel the warmth of his breath against hers, to bury her fingers in his hair and lose herself in its softness. She imagined the thrill of his tongue brushing hers, the intoxicating taste of him as she savored every second.

But she wouldn’t give in too quickly. No, she would tease him, brushing her lips against his only to pull away, watching his breath hitch and his golden eyes plead in anticipation. She’d let her kisses flutter on his cheeks, trail over his closed eyelids, and graze the sensitive skin of his neck. She would tame his growl, his snarl, until he’d yield under her terms. She would make him gasp, make him moan, and ensure he felt every ounce of her desire.

For all the time it had taken to coax even the smallest reactions from him these past months, she intended to savor the moment. She’d make him wait—make him hunger for her as much as she ached for him. Her longing was a fire consuming her from within, but it wouldn’t do to give in so easily. No, she would have him starving for her kiss in return, and for everything else she had to offer.

Uriell sighed shakily. Well, now, she was caught at her own game. The throb at her midst wasn’t helping her sleep in the slightest, if not keeping her desperately awake. She pressed her eyes close as her hand ran down from her breast to between her legs, hoping the relief she would give herself would actually help her drift off into the Fade.

***

“Trust me, Sunbeam, you’ll feel better after this.”

Varric gestured to the tray on her desk, piled high with tartines—Orlesian toasts, croissants, an assortment of fruits, and cups of Antivan coffee alongside a pitcher of orange juice. Near the window, Cole seemed utterly captivated by a bee drawn to the floral perfume that lingered in the room.

Uriell shifted against her mountain of pillows and offered Varric a soft, grateful smile.
“Thank you, Varric. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Oh, I know,” he replied, reaching for two fig jam tartines. “But it’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to catch up. I figured you might like the company.”

He handed her one toast before he climbed onto the bed, then took a bite of the other. He nodded at Cole, who was still watching the bee’s flight with childlike fascination.

“Even the kid missed you. Hope you don’t mind him tagging along.”

Uriell chuckled and shook her head. “Nah, I’m glad to see you both.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as Uriell nibbled on her toast. The rich, sweet jam whetted her appetite, and she licked her lips and fingers, determined not to leave a single crumb linger on her bed.

“So,” she began after swallowing the last bite, “how’s Val Royeaux going for you? I haven’t seen much of anyone apart from Vivienne and Dorian since we arrived.”

“Oh, you know,” Varric said with his signature roguish grin, “as well as one can manage in Val Royeaux. Don’t take it personally, but I think everyone’s a little on edge. The capital does that to people, and your gaggle of nobles isn’t helping. Two more days, right?”

“Two more days,” she confirmed with a small sigh.

Her gaze drifted to the tray, and after a brief hesitation, she climbed out of the covers, grabbed the petit-déjeuner, and brought it back to the bed. She quickly slipped back under the covers and placed the tray between them. Varric raised an amused eyebrow as she did so, but didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening.

“And then, the ball,” he continued while tearing a croissant in half and offering her one piece. “Can’t say we’re counting the days with glee, but at least it’ll all be over soon. Sera’s gone off somewhere—I’m not sure I want to know where—but the rest of us are keeping busy. As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been swamped with fans. I thought my books weren’t selling here! Clearly, I need to have a word with my editor.”

“Looks like you’ve been taking a lot of notes,” Uriell teased, biting into her share of the croissant. “How’s the next book coming along?”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said this trip wasn’t inspiring,” his eyes gleamed with mischief. “You have this uncanny ability to bring chaos and scandal wherever we go. I don’t know how you do it, but it’s downright magical.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Uriell replied with exaggerated innocence, feigning ignorance.

“Right... I’m not complaining, you know?” Varric chuckled as he poured two glasses of orange juice. “Anyway… are we going to talk about yesterday?”

Uriell squinted at him, her suspicion clear as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. She still wasn’t sure what her friend had pieced together, and it seemed safer to let him steer the conversation.

She hadn’t checked her reflection before he and Cole had barged in with the breakfast tray, but she could guess that she didn’t look particularly well rested. Last night’s events replayed in her mind—the duel, the Stranger, the lingering nobles eager to leave and spread gossip across Val Royeaux. She’d fled the party as soon as etiquette allowed, and only a handful of people had managed to catch her after the duel. It was only natural that he was worried about her, with all her silence and the bags under her eyes.

Varric fixed her with an exaggeratedly wide-eyed expression that all but screamed, What the fuck happened yesterday?

“I know…” Uriell groaned, dragging a palm across her forehead. “I honestly didn’t expect any of this.”

“Tell me about it,” Varric said as his teeth sank into his second tartine. “Orlesians and their sense of restraint—everything was just… too much.”

“Are you referring to Ser de Serault?” Uriell smirked and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m referring to all of it,” Varric shook his head. “The gift, the poetry—by the way, that was... something—the lion cub. Who gifts someone a lion? Seriously?”

“Wait,” Uriell interjected, worried. “Is it safe?”

“Yes, yes,” Varric said, waving her away her concern. “Our Spymaster stepped in immediately. She knows someone who cares for wild animals. The cub will be in good hands.”

Uriell sighed in relief, but her respite was short-lived. Varric’s sharp gaze returned to her, probing her thoughts with unnerving accuracy.

“…But yes, of course, I was talking about Ser de Serault,” Varric added with a guttural laugh, handing her a glass of juice. “Seriously, I’ve never seen anyone court someone that boldly—even in Orlais.”

“What can I say,” Uriell replied playfully as she took the glass. “Apparently, I have that effect on people. No, well… He’s just young and… eager.”

“What do you mean by ‘young’?” Varric asked, peering at her over the rim of his own glass.

“I mean…” Uriell paused, thinking back. “I don’t know. He must be, what, twenty, at most?” She shrugged, realizing she couldn’t recall his exact age. All she knew was that, compared to her twenty-nine years, the lord’s fiery temper had struck her as… immature.

“Ah, I see.” Varric smirked knowingly. “And you prefer them a bit older and completely incapable of making a move, right?”

Uriell nearly choked on her drink, coughing as she shot him an indignant but amused look.

“That was low,” she said once she’d recovered, her tone laced with mock offense.

“You brought it on yourself, Inquisitor,” Varric retorted with a wink before snatching an apple from the tray. He took a hearty bite and leaned back as his tone softened. “But seriously, let’s get back to our brave little knight. Did he bother you last night? How are you holding up?”

She exhaled sharply. She carefully picked up the Antivan coffee from the tray and took a moment to savor its rich aroma. The warmth of the cup seeped into her cold fingers as she gently swirled it, grounding herself in its comfort. She took her time to really assess how she felt about the whole situation.

“I mean… he was persistent, I’ll give him that,” she finally said, her voice measured as she stared at her reflection in the dark liquid. “I played along because he was the one most likely to draw attention—first to himself, then to us. But I wouldn’t have flirted back otherwise. He was far too sure of himself. His arrogance wasn’t the problem, though.”

“Did he do anything untoward?” Varric pressed, his tone losing its usual teasing edge as genuine concern crept in.

“Not really,” Uriell mused. “He did cross the usual etiquette lines a few times, but nothing scandalous. He got a bit too close for comfort, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. He just…”

Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip, hesitating as the memory of the evening’s turning point flashed through her mind. The tension, the sharp words, the surge of irritation. She knew Varric too well to expect him to let it slide without comment.

Varric’s brow furrowed slightly as he watched her wrestle with her words. When she finally spoke, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes remained fixed on her coffee.

“Well, he trash-talked our Commander,” she admitted in a rushed mumble, “and… well…”

“Ooooh…” Varric drew the sound out with an exaggerated whistle, his face lighting up with a knowing grin. “I see now. That explains why you looked pissed off—pissed off enough for someone to come charging to the rescue.”

“Exactly,” she nodded sheepishly before taking her first sip of coffee.

“Well then,” Varric continued, “he was put back in his place. We should be grateful that our mysterious admirer defended our Commander’s honor like that.”

Uriell chuckled at the mischievous wiggle of Varric’s eyebrows. “Well, it is a good thing he did, or I might have been the one to duel him. The Inquisition certainly didn’t need that.”

“Maker forbids,” Varric laughed, his voice deep and teasing. “He might’ve enjoyed that, you know?” He took a moment to sit back, looking pleased with the chaos of the previous evening. “Still… what a fight, am I right?”

“I know,” Uriell sighed dreamily as she reminisced. “Their technique was perfect. I was truly impressed to see the Chevalier bested like that, and so quickly.”

Her admiration for the duelist came through clearly, her tone softening with genuine respect. She only hoped Varric would not read through her and leave it at that.

“Do you want to know what happened to our knight afterward?” The dwarf’s voice pulled her back, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he reached for the rest of his apple. Uriell looked back at him, intrigued but cautious.

“What, already? Do you know something?” She leaned forward slightly, torn between curiosity and concern for the possible repercussions for the Inquisition.

“As you can imagine,” Varric began, “Ruffles and our Spymaster were quick to take care of it.” He paused, clearly enjoying the build-up. “But with so many witnesses—and even more eager to spread the gossip—it required a bit of finesse. Turns out, if he doesn’t want his family name to go down in flames again… he’ll have to atone and make amends to you. Specifically.” Varric grinned and winked at her. “Looks like you got yourself a new agent, even if that wasn’t anyone’s original plan.”

Uriell exhaled in relief as she felt the weight lift from her shoulders. At least his family would now be bound to the Inquisition, and her own reputation remained unscathed in the process.

“But now,” Varric digressed with a sly grin, “one question remains on everyone’s lips. Who is this mysterious admirer?”

Uriell took another slow and long sip of her coffee, buying herself time while Varric let the question hang in the air. His tone was casual, but his mischievous side-eye made it clear he was testing her, watching for any telltale reaction. Uriell knew his tricks too well to fall for them outright, so she met his gaze with a calm, puzzled expression. Still, she couldn’t be sure if he had caught the faint twitch at the corner of her lips or the subtle heave of her chest in response to her quickened pulse.

“Seriously, it’s all they’re talking about,” Varric continued with a vague gesture toward the door. “Downstairs, on the streets—it’s everywhere. The rumor has already spread like wildfire. Gazetteers are crowding the gates, asking to speak to Josephine. Whoever this mysterious man is, he’s attracted more attention to himself than ever. I’ve heard the wildest guesses, and you can bet everyone in Val Royeaux will be looking for him now.”

He was enjoying the intrigue far too much. Uriell let out a shy laugh and stared pensively into her cup. Her thoughts had already drifted back to Cullen. He would hate this. She imagined him bristling under the weight of unwanted attention and cursing himself for getting involved. Her heart squeezed slightly. Was he alright? Was he safe from the prying eyes of gossips and opportunists?

“A smile of gold befitting a lion, opposed to the ink of his hair; a shadow that grew brighter than the sun. Where did he go?”

Uriell jumped at the unexpected voice, snapping her head in the direction of Cole who was now standing by the bed, gently petting the bee perched on his hand.

“Cole!” she protested, setting down her coffee with a clink. Her cheeks burned and she dared not meet Varric’s gaze.

The dwarf, however, needed no encouragement. He threw his head back with a triumphant laugh. “Ah-ha! I see now. So, we do fancy our secret admirer, don’t we?”

Uriell groaned and retreated into the plush pillows like a turtle into its shell. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow to hide away her embarrassment. “Cole… what did we say about reading people’s minds out loud?” she mumbled, her voice muffled.

Her thoughts were racing, louder than she wished. Please, Cole, don’t dig any deeper. While she could concede her attraction to the figure of the Stranger, she wasn’t ready—not yet—to admit his identity.

“But Varric knew too,” Cole said softly, climbing onto the bed and sitting cross-legged with the serene patience of someone who existed outside the normal rules of conversation. He placed a tartine in front of his insect friend and watched it nibble at the jam with quiet fascination.

Uriell peeked at Varric from beneath her arm. The dwarf met her gaze with a look of exaggerated innocence, though his grin gave him away. “Ah, he’s right, Sunbeam. But don’t worry—I’m a vault. Unless it’s too juicy not to write about, of course.”

“Varric,” she groaned, half laughing, half-pleading.

“Relax, I’m joking,” he added and waved a hand dismissively. He leaned forward, his voice lower. “Sunbeam, it’s okay. You can have a crush on a dashing gentleman who fights for you, you know.”

Uriell sighed and closed her eyes briefly. “He’s not—” She stopped herself, shaking her head with a resigned smile. “You’re impossible, Varric.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he replied, settling back with his usual smug air.

She tittered and her expression softened to one of fond embarrassment. She avoided looking directly at her friends and basked in the comfort of their presence. Her thoughts, however, wandered back to Cullen and his secret identity. She couldn’t keep avoiding the inevitable—she shouldn’t wait any longer to confess. If she didn’t, someone else might discover the truth about the man under the lion mask. Cullen, skilled as he was with a sword, was not nearly as adept at hiding his emotions or staying incognito. It was better to act before the Orlesian nobility—and their flair for meddling—got wind of their unspoken bond or tried to provoke a scandal that would derail their budding relationship.

Her heart leapt. Yes, she would do it today. Maybe this morning, if she could find the time after Varric and Cole left but before her meeting with Josephine and Marquis Etienne. Or tonight, if all else failed. Yes, she would do it today.

“Already so keen to forget our Commander, Inquisitor?” Varric teased, cutting into her reverie.

Uriell’s eyes widened in surprise and her breath hitched. “What?” she managed, her voice a little too sharp.

“You were daydreaming,” Varric pointed out with a knowing grin. “Thinking about our mysterious lion-masked fellow, I presume? Speaking of Cullen, though, do you have any idea where your brooding bodyguard has wandered off to?”

“Varric! I’m not—” Uriell stammered, suddenly upright amidst the pillows, on the defensive. “He’s not— Why are you asking me about him?”

“It’s all right, Ur’,” he said with a chuckle as he put down his coffee. “I know you haven’t given up on him.” He winked before continuing, “I’m just surprised he wasn’t there last night. From what I’ve heard, he wasn’t exactly a fan of the Chevalier. I bet he would have loved kicking that guy’s ass himself.”

He glanced at her over the rim of his cup, his piercing gaze making Uriell’s throat tighten.

“Well, let’s be glad he wasn’t there then,” she responded, trying to keep her tone light. “At least he didn’t ruin the Inquisition’s reputation, or worse, spend the entire night sulking in a corner.”

“You’ve got a point,” Varric admitted once he finished his drink. “Yesterday was probably everything he hates rolled into one night. He would have been unbearable.” He smirked and leaned forward. “But, I insist, if anyone would’ve been more determined to defend the Inquisitor’s honor than our mysterious admirer, it’d have been him.”

Uriell opened her mouth to retort but turned crimson instead, her words evaporating before she could form them. Pressing her hands to her face, she muffled a small, flustered squeal.

“Varric! Stop teasing me!” she pleaded, though she knew it was a futile request.

The mattress shifted beside her, and she peered through her fingers to see Cole moving closer. He rested his head gently on her shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said softly. “You’re happy. You’re bright when you’re happy.”

Uriell smiled warmly at the boy, her embarrassment melting as affection replaced it. Varric, too, gave Cole a fond glance.

“The kid’s right, you know,” he acquiesced.

Rising to his feet, Varric grabbed the tray and carried it back to the desk. Meanwhile, Cole showed Uriell his bee friend, and at his request, she reached out to stroke the tiny creature. The room settled into a calm quiet until Varric spoke again, breaking the stillness.

“Though, I was genuinely asking earlier,” he began more seriously, “about Cullen. No one has seen him since yesterday. His chambers were empty this morning when Cole and I came here.”

Uriell’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” Did he not return after the duel?

“Apparently,” the dwarf continued, “he left his usual orders for his men this morning—assignments, shifts, the usual stuff—but he wasn’t there. Didn’t say where he was going, either. Left his armor behind, though, so… maybe he’s taking the day off.”

Uriell’s frown deepened. Cullen, taking a day off? It didn’t seem likely; at least, it was unusual, for sure. Surely, he wouldn’t go after Ser de Serault, would he? That didn’t make sense either. Her silence must have revealed her unease, for Varric gave her a reassuring grin.

“Don’t worry, Sunbeam. I’m sure he’s fine. The Commander can defend himself, right?”

He stressed out his last few words a bit too much for her liking, but Varric quickly turned his back to clean the desk and the place where he’d been sitting on the bed. His tone lightened.

“Anyway, the Inquisitorialness has a meeting to get ready for, and Ruffles is upset enough without you adding to her stress by being late. Come on, Kid, we should get going.”

Varric and Cole quickly excused themselves. Uriell barely managed to wish them a good day before the door closed, leaving her alone in her spacious, flower-scented room. She lingered in the silence before finally dragging herself to her dresser.

After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the drawer where Cullen’s outfit lay neatly folded. She gazed at it, her expression softening with tenderness and anticipation. Soon enough, she thought with a sigh.

But her heart wasn’t in the day ahead. The premise of another round of formalities and endless meetings with Josephine filled her with dread. No, what she truly wanted was freedom. She envied Cullen, who had apparently granted himself a rare break.

She imagined him wandering the streets of Val Royeaux, and a soft giggle escaped her lips. She wished she could see that for herself. Better yet, she wished for a day of her own to explore the city—free of responsibilities, free to roam the busy streets, to browse the bustling shops.

Her mind wandered. She pictured herself buying small gifts for her friends, picking up trinkets and souvenirs from the market stalls. Then, a wild idea struck her, the kind that would have Cullen shaking his head in exasperation. But he wasn’t here to stop her today.

Closing the drawer containing Cullen’s ensemble, she turned to another one. Instead of her formal wear, she pulled out the Orlesian dress and mask she had worn in Val Foret. A grin spread across her face as she held up the green garment, trouble gleaming in her eyes.

***

Uriell knew Josephine would lecture her later for her absence, but she didn’t care in the slightest. Disguised as a low-ranking lady, the Inquisitor wandered through the streets of Val Royeaux, blending into the crowd behind the anonymity of her white mask. No one spared her a second glance, and the freedom was intoxicating.

The day was hotter than it had been in weeks, the lazy sunlight casting a golden glow over the city. Uriell spent the morning exploring parts of Val Royeaux just for her own enjoyment. Her steps took her to the Grand Cathedral, where she marveled at the intricate stonework, before meandering into unfamiliar neighborhoods. Along the way, she casually eavesdropped on the chatter of nobles, merchants, and commoners alike, pretending to gather information for the Inquisition as an excuse to indulge in her curiosity and to justify her disappearance today.

Leliana’s reports and Josephine’s claims had been accurate: the Inquisition was the talk of the town. Merchants debated whether to send delegations to Skyhold, at least to follow the example of their peers who had already struck deals. Commoners debated the legitimacy of the organization, and some spoke of joining its ranks. The nobility, as always, were in a league of their own—thrilled and scandalized in equal measure.

Uriell flushed under her mask as she overheard both suggestive and gushing compliments about her. Nobles speculated on how many hearts she had stolen and how she had captivated high society during her stay. Josephine and Leliana’s efforts to elevate the Inquisition’s prestige were clearly bearing fruit. Fashion aficionados raved about the elegance and finesse her team had displayed since their arrival, while other nobles clamored for meetings to discuss alliances with her Ambassador, whom they held in high graces.

But it wasn’t just her or Josephine who dominated the gossip. Uriell’s heart raced as she heard the whispers about Cullen. Lords and ladies alike discussed the Commander’s striking presence at the opera. The lewd remarks and steamy innuendos left little to the imagination, and Uriell struggled to contain her blush as pride mixed with a hint of jealousy in her chest. While she enjoyed the admiration and thirst her Commander had inspired in the nobles, she was quite eager to quench her own. Oh, she would love to hear their shocked gasps when she wrapped herself around his arm again, like the time they had pretended to be a couple. Only maybe this time, it would be for real.

The most animated conversations revolved around the duel from the night before. Just as Varric had said, Val Royeaux was abuzz with speculation about the masked man who had bested Ser de Serault. The tables turning and the Chevalier’s humiliation had delighted many in their surprise, and had dealt a blow to Duke Gaspard’s reputation—a strategic boon for the Inquisition ahead of the Grand Ball. Still, the curiosity surrounding the mysterious duelist made Uriell uneasy. Everyone seemed determined to expose him, a prospect that set her nerves on edge.

If the Commander had stirred admiration, the masked fighter had become the object of countless fantasies. Uriell overheard nobles envying the stranger’s mysterious allure, wishing he would defend their honor—and more. The whispered confessions grew bolder, and Uriell eventually forced herself to stop listening, lest her imagination run away with her.

By midday, she found herself in the bustling heart of Val Royeaux, the Summer Bazaar. Overflowing stalls lined the streets, their colorful wares spilling onto the cobblestone square. She decided to limit herself to a single gift: one for her Commander. With a specific idea in mind, she headed to a tucked-away shop at the back of the market, where one of Orlais’ finest craftsmen worked.

Uriell charmed her way past the smith’s usual stock with carefully chosen words, a hint of her identity, and glowing recommendations from her older brothers who had shopped there before. In the end, she chose an intricate silverite longsword, its balance perfect and its workmanship impeccable. She had the pommel replaced with a golden lion’s head, a regal touch that reminded her of Cullen’s mask and steadfast leadership.

She thought of the sword she had been presented with as Inquisitor upon their arrival at Skyhold. Cullen, for all his loyalty and sacrifices, had never received a blade truly worthy of his status. This would be her way of returning the gesture.

As a final touch, Uriell requested an engraving: The heart of a true leader. She wasn’t confident in her words, but she hoped they conveyed her gratitude and admiration—not just for his role as Commander, but for the man that he was.

By the time she left the shop, the sword was securely wrapped in white linen, its weight reassuring against her arm. Uriell’s heart fluttered as she imagined Cullen’s reaction. For now, she was content with the knowledge that her gift could speak the words she had found so difficult to say.

Then, Uriell ventured into a very different kind of shop, hidden from prying eyes in a shadowy alleyway just beyond the thriving center of the market. Her steps slowed as she approached the unassuming door, marked only by a discreet gold plaque. This was Val Royeaux’ Fineries—renowned across Orlais for its luxurious wares and infamous for its daring offerings.

A nervous smile tugged at her lips as she pushed open the door, the faint chime of a bell announcing her arrival. This time, she wasn’t shopping for anyone else. This was for her.

***

Cullen stepped out of the shop with a purposeful stride, the weight of the bag slung over his shoulder strangely comforting. He exhaled sharply as relief washed over him. At last, he had everything he needed. Tilting his face upward, he let the afternoon light warm his skin, a rare moment of peace amid the chaos of the day.

The streets of Val Royeaux bustled around him as he made his way to the main place. A glimpse of his reflection in a nearby window stopped him in his tracks. For a fleeting moment, he didn’t recognize the man staring back. His usual wheat-blonde hair was now dyed an inky black, and the makeup softened the sharp lines of his face, hiding his most distinctive feature—the scar carved across his lip.

He adjusted the satchel on his shoulder and glanced down at the outline of the golden mask tucked safely within. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it was tinged with relief. At first, he had thought leaving the mask off would make him feel incomplete, but now he was thankful for the decision. As he had wandered through the city that morning, snippets of conversation had alerted him: people were actively searching for the mysterious man in the golden mask who had fought and defeated Ser de Serault. The rumors were rampant, every street corner and shop buzzed with speculation.

Had he worn the mask, his attempt at wandering the streets unnoticed would have definitely failed. Instead, he blended in easily, his inconspicuous, simple clothing helping him pass as just another commoner, just as he had in Val Foret. The memory of that day brought a warm flicker to his chest, so vivid it felt like a soft touch against his skin. Walking beside her, disguised and unencumbered by titles or duties, had been a rare, blissful reprieve.

Today, he had sought that same freedom. For this one day, Cullen had decided to step away from the Inquisition and all its demands. His focus, his purpose, his quest, was singular. Tonight, he would confess everything.

The morning had been a whirlwind of secret errands, each stop serving a singular purpose: to create the most perfect moment. His first task—tracking down the exact wine he and Uriell had shared during their escapade—had proven challenging. After visiting several cellars, he finally found the coveted bottle, and holding it in his hands had filled him with a quiet sense of triumph. While they might not count that fateful night as an official evening as a couple, it was a most precious and important memory for him—a turning point, and he hoped she would share the feeling.

The second task was even more arduous. Crossing the city to locate Val Royeaux’s most renowned chocolatier had eaten up most of the afternoon, but picturing Uriell’s delight made every step worthwhile. Now, with the bottle and the beautifully wrapped box of chocolates safely in hand, he felt an almost boyish anticipation. These simple tokens might not seem like much, but they were deeply personal—a reflection of the feelings he could no longer keep hidden. Hopefully, they would help create a romantic atmosphere and give him the final push he needed. He scoffed softly; after all, Val Royeaux did end up inspiring him as the city of lights and love.

He took a steadying breath. Tonight, he would tell her. He would finally admit that he was the man behind the mask, her secret admirer. And if she would have him, he would be hers, utterly and completely.

When Cullen finally reached the Summer Bazaar, he paused in the shade of a tall tree at the corner of a narrow street. The soft rustling of the leaves above offered a momentary respite from the city’s hustle. He set down his bag and rummaged through its contents, carefully inspecting the chocolate box to ensure it hadn’t been crushed between the wine bottle and the sturdy golden mask.

Should he buy anything else? Was this enough? The question lingered, tugging at the edges of his mind. He considered the roses he had offered her. Would bringing more seem thoughtful or excessive? Maker, why was this so complicated? It had been years—long years married to his work—since he had actually wanted someone in his life. He was quite new to this kind of flirting and had no idea what he was doing.

He picked up his satchel and then a question dawned on him. Yes, tonight was the night. He would make it perfect. But how?

Cullen’s mind raced as he considered every possible scenario, each one more implausible than the last. Should he wait until after dinner and ask her to meet him privately in his room? No, too conspicuous. Besides, his patience was already wearing thin; he needed her and soon. Could he meet her as soon as she returned from her meeting, perhaps under the pretext of delivering an urgent report? That might work—except Leliana and Josephine would undoubtedly question why he had gone missing all day just to deliver something meant solely for the Inquisitor.

What if he waited for her in her chambers instead? That option had potential, though it would still require him to endure several agonizing hours of waiting. Then again, perhaps he could linger in disguise in front of the Marquis Etienne’s estate. She had recognized him the night before, even behind his mask. Surely, if she saw him again, she’d understand and follow him.

His pulse quickened with every increasingly outrageous idea. What if he stormed her meeting, swept her off her feet, and whisked her away? It wasn’t as though anyone could stop him—they’d probably assign the Commander of the Inquisition to track her down anyway.

The thought lingered for a moment longer than it should have, and blossomed into a small grin. No, he wouldn’t do something that reckless... but, Maker, he wanted to. The day couldn’t end soon enough.

As his daydreaming dragged on, a faint, sharp sound pulled Cullen’s attention. It came from the narrow streets branching off the Bazaar behind him. He froze, his instincts honed from years of battle sharpening his senses. It wasn’t the usual hum of market chatter or the clatter of passing carts—it was something else.

Low, slurred male voices drifted from the alley, punctuated by a nervous laugh. Cullen’s eyebrows furrowed and his grip on the strap of his bag tightened. That tone rarely meant anything good.

He turned toward the sound, his boots brushing softly against the cobblestones as he approached. Partially obscured by a stack of crates, a darkened alley came into view. His pulse quickened as the scene unfolded: three noblemen, dressed in fine yet slightly disheveled attire, had cornered a young blonde woman. She stood stiffly, clutching a package and a bag tightly against her chest, her white mask concealing most of her face. Even so, her discomfort was evident in the way she leaned back, edging away from the men when they took a step toward her.

“Come now, dear,” one of them drawled. “A lady like yourself should not be wandering these streets alone without her maid. It’s most improper. Allow us to escort you somewhere… safer.”

“Why, my lords?” she replied in a cold but firm tone. “Do you not think it even more improper to force a lady to follow you—three against one?”

A second man let out a chuckle laced with condescension. “Oh, she’s feisty,” he sneered, glancing at his companions.

The third stepped closer, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten how to properly thank gentlemen who offer their assistance? A kind word, or perhaps a drink, would do, you know.”

“I have no interest in offering either, my lords,” she snapped, though her intonation wavered slightly. Still, there was an unmistakable steel beneath her defiance. “Now, step aside—or you’ll regret it.”

Cullen’s blood boiled in his veins. How dare they? Fury ignited his every step as he moved without a second thought, emboldened still by the fire from his confrontation with Ser de Serault the night before. Someone needed to teach these insolent nobles some manners! He strode instinctively toward the alley, words already forming on his tongue, ready to call them out.

But just as he opened his mouth to intervene, the woman shifted slightly—and the sight stopped him in his tracks.

That disguise. The golden hair. The white mask. That green dress. Recognition struck him like a lightning bolt. Memories of their clandestine escapade in Val Foret surged to the forefront of his mind: her laughter, the twirl of her dress as she sought his opinion, the gleam of mischief in her eyes. The realization was swift and absolute. It wasn’t just any lady—it was Uriell.

She saw him, too. Her green eyes, framed by the mask, locked onto his, widening with unmistakable surprise. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she acted before she could say anything. In one swift, fluid motion, she threw the bundle she was clutching straight at him.

“Oh well,” she called out in a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “I guess you got your present in advance!”

Cullen caught the package instinctively, the weight of the linen-wrapped sword solid and heavy in his grasp. He blinked down at it, his mind briefly tangled in confusion. What was she doing here? And what in the Maker’s name was this sword about? But there was no time to dwell on questions. The three noblemen had finally noticed his presence and their laughter faded as they turned to him.

Cullen carefully set down his own bag, his movements deliberate, then straightened to his full height, his glare sharpening like a blade. The tension in the air shifted palpably, and the noblemen took a nervous step back, their confidence eroding under the weight of his silent authority.

“Gentlemen,” Cullen ‘s growl bristled with restrained menace. “Leave. Now.”

One of the lords scoffed, though his bravado wavered under Cullen’s piercing gaze. “And who might you be, good sir, to—”

Before he could finish, Cullen took a single step forward, unwrapping the sword just enough to reveal the gleaming silverite edge. He didn’t even need to unsheathe it fully. The golden lion’s head on the hilt caught the light and glinted ominously when Cullen gripped it with practiced ease.

The effect was instantaneous. None of them were properly armed—simple decorative blades at their sides, meant more for show than for combat. They faltered, their confidence evaporating in the face of Cullen’s silent warning. One of them mumbled something unintelligible as they stumbled back, the others muttering half-hearted apologies as they retreated into the bustling crowd at edge of the Bazaar.

Uriell hadn’t moved an inch when they passed her. She simply shifted her weight slightly and crossed her arms in a defiant stance. Her eyes returned to Cullen. Her attitude was a mixture of unimpressed calm and subtle amusement. She let out a small huff, clearly unbothered by the tension that had just dissipated.

“Funny,” she remarked in a casual tone, as if they were continuing a long-standing conversation, “how they always take it more seriously when it comes from a man. Thank you for the assist; I think I’d have blown my cover if I’d actually fought them. Although,” she added with a wry smile, “I would’ve loved it.”

The tension in Cullen’s shoulders loosened as he took in her familiar presence. A wave of emotions surged through him all at once: relief, joy, and exhilaration at seeing her now, when he’d so desperately wanted to meet her later. Worry and frustration followed close behind, the infuriating urge to reprimand her for sneaking out again—this time alone—when she was supposed to be meeting a high-ranking noble with Josephine—one of the reasons they had to make this journey in the first place.

But as quickly as those feelings came, they were overwhelmed by the brimming joy of simply being near her. His lips curved into a smile that was both fond and reluctantly defeated.

“What are you doing here?” he asked with equal parts exasperation and admiration.

“I could ask you the same thing, you know,” she remarked as she scanned him from head to toe. “I see you’re not exactly out on official business.”

“You’re wearing the same dress,” he jested in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

“And you snuck out without me,” she countered with a feigned indignation.

“Fair enough,” he yielded softly.

Neither of them moved, caught in the moment, their eyes locked as the reality of their fateful encounter settled in. Cullen’s fantasies from earlier came rushing back, flooding his mind with a tumble of anticipation and urgency. He had waited all day for the right moment to see her, to steal her away from her endless duties, and now, the opportunity stood right in front of him.

His heart thudded louder with each passing second, the weight of his unspoken confession pressing down on him. This was his chance. His mouth opened, the beginnings of sentences flowing to his tongue—but before he could speak, she broke the silence.

“Well now,” she extended a hand toward him, her expression unreadable behind the white mask. “Would you mind escorting me out of here before someone else decides to pick another fight?”

For a moment, Cullen couldn’t respond. His throat was dry, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. But then he surrendered. His shoulders eased, his jaw relaxed, and the walls he had carefully built around his heart melted away. Wordlessly, he stooped to retrieve his bag and slung it over his shoulder before closing the distance between them with determined steps. He offered her his arm, his eyes alight with an unspoken promise.

“Lead the way, my lady.”

***

Uriell silently guided Cullen through the streets with the assured confidence of a local. He followed, blissfully lost in the moment, struggling to suppress the enamored grin that tugged at his lips. Her steps were resolute, as though she had a destination in mind, and she didn’t look back at him once during their walk. Yet, he noticed the tips of her ears glowing red beneath her mask, and that subtle sign sent a surge of warmth through him. Her silence, he realized, was not displeasure—but something else.

She held on to his arm with hers firmly locked around it, while her other hand rested lightly on his forearm, and the touch sent sparks racing through his veins. Maker, how he had craved this. Years of solitude lay beneath his skin like old scars, and these moments of closeness—these fleeting touches of the last couple of weeks—had stirred something deep within him. Only two days had passed since they had ever so grazed each other, and it felt like an eternity.

The path Uriell led him down was winding and long, but it offered no respite for his restless thoughts. He’d hoped for time to rehearse the words he so desperately wanted to say, but his mind refused to settle. Every step brought a mix of anticipation and apprehension, until, at last, he understood where they were headed.

They had long since left the bustling streets of Val Royeaux and its port behind, moving past the docks and into quieter lands. The hum of the city faded, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves. Before them stretched a pebble beach, kissed by the vast expanse of the Waking Sea. The late afternoon sun hovered just above the horizon, tinting the water with shades of gold and crimson, while the skies blushed with pink and orange. Merchant ships drifted lazily toward the harbor, their sails glowing in the evening light, a picture of serenity.

Ahead, a natural promontory jutted into the water, its edges lined with gnarled pine trees shaped by years of sea winds. Weathered stones dipped into the waves all around it, forming a rugged sanctuary where the sea's melody echoed, raw and unrestrained. Uriell led Cullen to the ledge, climbing its uneven slope with practiced ease. She found a natural hollow in the rock—a sheltered nook sloping gently down to the water, where the waves kissed the pebbles, and the salty breeze carried an air of untamed intimacy.

Only then, as she turned to sit, did she lift her gaze to meet his.

“So… there, the sea!” she said at last, gesturing toward the openness.

“I can see that,” Cullen acknowledged in amusement. “You really wanted to come here, didn’t you?”

Uriell grinned and let out a triumphant huff. “I mean, it would have been a shame not to seize the opportunity. Besides…”

Her fingers moved to her mask. The straps loosened with a gentle tug, and the disguise slipped away, freeing her hair to tumble in loose curls around her face. The wind caught a few strands and brushed them away from her eyes. They shimmered in the golden hues of the setting sun, and the sight took Cullen completely by surprise.

“At least no one can see us here,” she finished quietly with a shy smile.

She was radiant, a balance of confidence and vulnerability, and it stole his breath away. Heat rose to his cheeks, his chest tightened, and his composure wavered under the weight of the intimacy between them. Hastily, Cullen turned his attention elsewhere, clearing his throat and fumbling with the bag slung over his shoulder.

Uriell noticed and chuckled at his flustered state. She smoothed the fabric of her dress as she crouched to sit on a smooth stone, removed gloves then patted the ground beside her.

“Come on,” she said, her voice light and inviting. “Sit with me. Let’s enjoy this time together.”

Grateful for the distraction, Cullen stepped forward and sat beside her, careful to leave just enough space to maintain his fragile self-control. Placing his bag in a hollow in the rocky walls, he finally noticed the sword still clutched in his hand—the one she had tossed to him earlier.

Resting the sword on his lap, he glanced down at it, noting the linen wrap was slightly loose where he had revealed the hilt.

“By the way,” he inquired, “what is this? You said it was a gift? Did you… buy this for me?”

Uriell’s expression brightened with playful mischief as her eyes fell on the pommel.

“Well, yes,” she admitted with a shy blush. “I wanted to thank you. For… everything.”

Her focus drifted toward the horizon, where the sun melted into the waves. “I figured you deserved something more impressive than the same standard blade as our troops,” she smiled faintly at the sea. “And I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for the Inquisition… and for me. Back in Haven, at Skyhold… these past few days...”

Cullen looked away as well, her words tinged with unspoken meaning. Carefully, he loosened the ties of the linen wrap and unsheathed the sword. The sharp silverite blade gleamed as sunlight danced across its surface, casting bright reflections on his face. He was astonished. It was exquisite, finer than anything he had ever wielded, a masterpiece of its kind. He turned the weapon over between his fingers, marveling at its craftsmanship. His breath caught as his eyes landed on the delicate engraving near the hilt: The heart of a true leader.

For a long moment, Cullen remained silent, his thumb brushing reverently over the blade. Emotions swelled in his chest—gratitude, admiration. But all he could manage to say was a quiet, “Thank you”.

“You’re welcome,” Uriell whispered, resting her head on her knees, which she had drawn close to her chest. She smiled kindly, watching him with an expression that felt like the warmth of the setting sun itself.

“I—uh…” Cullen cleared his throat, his heartbeat loud in his ears as he struggled to recover. “And this… what’s this?” He gestured to the bag sitting next to her.

Uriell blinked, following his gaze, before hurriedly nudging her bag behind her as if to conceal it.
“Oh, that?” she stammered, a little too quickly. “That’s… that’s for later. I mean—for me. It’s for me.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, half curious, half teasing. “Is that the reason you skipped today’s meeting?” he asked in an attempt at being stern. But the faint smile on his lips betrayed him. After all, he’d abandoned his own duties today—and he was far too grateful for this stolen moment to truly lecture her.

Uriell pouted, her cheeks puffing out slightly in a playful display of guilt.

“No… well, maybe a little,” she confessed before pointing to the sword. “I mostly wanted to get this. And you?” She motioned to his own satchel he’d set aside. “What’s in that bag?”

His heart leapt into his throat. This was it—his chance, the perfect moment. He could do this.

“Well, actually…” Cullen reached behind him with careful hands, the soft clink of glass against stone ringing as he grabbed the satchel. “I got something for you, too.”

Slowly, he turned back and offered the bag to her, his eyes locked with hers. Her mouth opened in surprise; her eyebrows arched in disbelief. A blush rose to her cheeks as words rushed to her lips.

“What…?” she gasped, her voice filled with wonder. “You have something for me?”

Cullen chuckled softly as she hesitated before accepting the gift.

“That’s why I went out today,” he admitted as she opened the satchel with cautious reverence.

His heart pounded louder with each item she unearthed. His focus was fixed on her face, drawn to every flicker of expression. First, she discovered the bottle of wine, and her eyes lit up the moment she read the name of the vineyard on the label.

“This…!” she exclaimed, turning the bottle over to inspect it.

“You… you seemed to really like it,” Cullen explained. She glanced back at him, excited. “I thought about saving it until we returned to Skyhold—to give it to you as a proper souvenir—but…” He hesitated for a heartbeat, his chest tightening. “I want you to have it now. A gift, to thank you for… well, for making this journey more pleasant.”

“Cullen, that is so sweet!” she beamed radiantly. “Oh, we’ll definitely have to drink this together! But wait—there’s more…?”

Cullen nodded, inviting her to continue exploring the contents of the bag. Her delight was … even more adorable. After carefully setting the bottle aside against the rock, she turned her attention back to the pouch. Her fingers brushed over the next item, and a faint blush rose to her cheeks—a color that rivaled the hues of the evening sky or the deep red of the box she now held.

“What…” she repeated with a breath of surprise.

Cullen’s anticipation mirrored her own as she untied the ribbon with care and lifted the lid. The assortment of chocolates inside took her completely by surprise, and her expression bloomed into a mix of disbelief and joy.

“Cullen…” she began, her voice soft and overwhelmed.

“They may not be as good as Val Foret’s,” he said quickly, trying to fill the silence before it became awkward—though he already felt like he was floundering. “But I heard these are pretty good, and… well… you like sweets, so…”

But then, there was the third item—the one Cullen had completely forgotten about.

Uriell had closed the chocolate box and reached into the satchel once more. It wasn’t until she picked up the forgotten object that Cullen’s stomach sank. His eyes widened in realization, but it was too late.

Under the glow of the sunset, Uriell pulled out the golden half-mask of a lion. The intricate molding of its mane and muzzle caught the light and reflected the sun around them.

He stood frozen, unable to breathe. Her fingertips traced the polished surface with a delicate fascination, her silence a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind boiling inside him. Everything he had so meticulously planned to confess later was now laid bare, betrayed by one moment of inattention. A large part of his truth now rested in her hands, shining in the dying light.

Uriell finally turned to him, her green eyes searching for his. Emotion played across her face, raw and vivid, as if the mask had unearthed something deeply personal within her. Cullen’s throat tightened as he held her gaze, time stretching endlessly between them. Her lips parted, and for a fleeting second, he braced himself for her response.

But then, she smiled—a kind, gentle smile that disarmed him completely.

“You knew… didn’t you?” he asked hoarsely at last, his courage shaking with every word.

“I knew… yes,” she admitted, her tone just as quiet, just as tender.

Words pressed on Cullen’s lips, but he couldn’t speak them. He was drowning in feelings too heavy to articulate. Uriell cleared her throat first, breaking the charged silence, and carefully tucked the mask back into the bag as though sealing away the moment.

“I won’t tell the others, don’t worry,” she reassured him. Then, in an effort to lighten the mood, she held out the chocolate box again, the lid propped open. “I—er… do you want one?”

Cullen blinked, pulled out of his spiral of thoughts. Wordlessly, he reached for a piece, his movements slow and automatic. His mind was elsewhere, still focused on the thunder rumbling in his blood, on the confession hovering just out of reach. Uriell took one as well, biting eagerly into the sweet, her gaze drifting toward the horizon which granted him a moment of reprieve.

“Your… your outfit is ready, by the way,” she stammered, betraying a slight tremor in her tone. “For the ball. I… finished it yesterday.”

“Oh,” Cullen replied, his voice pitched higher than usual. His mind was blank, barely registering what she just said. “Oh, good. I—thank you.”

“Well, it’s not technically entirely done,” she added quickly, her nervous energy spilling over into her speech. She swallowed roughly before continuing, “Not until you try it on, of course… I—well, I’ll need you to come to my room. Tomorrow. To… to try it on. Please.”

“I—er, yes, of course,” Cullen stuttered, his face heating even more as the implication of her request settled in. Hope flickered, tentative but persistent. “I’ll be there. But… do you… do you really want me there?”

Uriell’s eyes snapped to his, startling him with their intensity.

“Of course I want you there,” she replied, the last of her composure giving way to vulnerability. She set the box aside and shifted to face him fully, her knees edging closer to him. “Cullen… there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Cullen could taste his own pulse as she leaned forward. Her lips trembled and captivated his focus entirely.

“I wanted to thank you, yes,” she began quietly. “But mostly to thank you for last night.” She took a deep breath, and her gaze peered deeper into his mind, dismantling what little control he had left piece by piece, word by word. “Thank you for stepping in and putting him back in his place. I—thank you for the roses, for… everything, really.”

“It’s alright, I—” Cullen’s voice trailed off. She was so close. The scent of her perfume mingled with the lingering sweetness of the chocolate. It overwhelmed his senses; his head was spinning. “I did what I thought was right.”

“Why were you there?” Uriell whispered, her question piercing what remained of the fragile air between them. “I thought you hated the Game.”

Cullen swallowed hard as his last barriers began to cumble.

“I… I am sorry,” he rasped as a stream of words spilled from his mouth, from his overflowing heart. “For my behavior, for the things I’ve said. At the opera, before—I… I do hate the Game. But I couldn’t stand to see them ogling you. I couldn’t—I can’t, I won’t stand it anymore. I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed stretched unbearably, seconds dragging on like hours. Uriell’s eyes flitted between his furrowed brow and the subtle tension in his jaw. When she finally spoke, her chest rose and fell intensely with each ragged breath.

“I’ve been thinking about it, Cullen. All the time. About this. About what you said, about… about you, really. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Deep within Cullen, the last fragile thread of his self-restraint snapped.

His fingers threaded through her hair with a hurried reverence, driven by the overwhelming passion that had ignited within him. Uriell barely managed to gasp, her sharp inhale the only sound before his lips claimed hers—fierce and unyielding, a culmination of every unspoken sentence and stolen glance from the past days, weeks, months. He kissed her as though she were the only air he needed, his other hand rising to cradle her face and pulling her closer still.

For a heartbeat, she froze, caught in surprise, but the hesitation melted away as if it had never existed. Uriell responded with equal fervor, clutching at his shirt as if to anchor herself to this moment. She moaned loudly into his mouth when he tilted his head, and tongue met tongue hungrily. The world around them dissolved—no whispers of the sea, no wind biting at their skin—only the heat between them existed, unrelenting and all-consuming.

When they finally parted for air, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding in unison. Cullen’s gaze sought hers, as if to confirm this was real and not a dream he might wake from. His voice, hoarse with ardency, broke the quiet. “I’m sorry… I—I should have asked.”

“It’s perfect,” she breathed and her lips brushed his once more. “You have my permission to go on.”

The second kiss started softer, but no less intense. Cullen let himself drown in her sweet scent, the faint taste of chocolate making his heart soar. A groan escaped him when she caught his tongue between her teeth, her playful boldness pulling him deeper into her embrace. When had he closed his arms around her? She was voracious, intent on tasting his heart through his mouth, until she moved on to his lower lip, nibbling at it with a teasing smile, her usual spark of mischief shining even in this tender moment.

Gradually, the fervent kissing slowed until they were gasping for air. Uriell chuckled, her laughter light and unguarded, and Cullen’s smile followed—a reflection of pure contentment. His heart thundered, his body burned, yet he had never felt this light.

“I’ve wanted this… for so long,” he confessed in a whisper.

“As have I,” she admitted softly then melted into his arms.

Her hands, once gripping his shirt tightly, relaxed and rested against his chest. Her fluttering lashes tickled his skin, her breath blowing hot on his collarbone. The feeling was divine—a connection more profound than he’d ever dared to hope for.

Uriell pulled back gently to look at him. The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon, leaving the beach cloaked in the dark hues of dusk. But Cullen didn’t care; she was as radiant as the sun itself. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen from their shared passion, and she beamed with quiet joy. His heart ached with adoration and disbelief that this moment, so long dreamed of, was now his reality.

“Thank you,” she said, her murmur a gentle caress. “For being honest with me.” She hesitated, her brow furrowed with faint regret. “I’m sorry… I never meant to hurt you the other day, Cullen. I never meant for you to suffer because of the Game. It… wasn’t fair to you.”

Cullen’s chest squeezed at the sight of her guilt-ridden expression. But before he could respond, she pressed on with sincerity, “I’ve wanted this… wanted to be with you… for longer than I should admit. And having you here with us, on this journey through Orlais—it’s meant more to me than you know. I’m so glad you came.”

Cullen reached for her hand, still resting on his chest, his calloused fingers closing around hers in a gesture both firm and tender. “Uriell,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion, “I’m yours. If you will have me, I—”

Her sweet chuckle interrupted him, the sound so full of joy it made his heart swell. “Oh, I definitely will, believe me,” she replied with a glint of mirth in her eyes. “But first… I want to kiss the real you. Not a man hiding under black hair dye and makeup.” Her hand rose to his face, her fingertips brushing gently along his jaw up to where the foundation concealed his scar with a light and knowing touch.

Heat rushed to Cullen’s cheeks, but the teasing curve of her smile softened the moment. “I…” He glanced at the water lapping at the rocks below, the idea taking root even before she spoke again.

“Come on,” she urged, standing up and tugging on his hand. “Let’s take a dip and wash it all off. After all, we did say we’d go swimming.”

He watched her descend the slope toward the water’s edge with a light step, and he couldn’t help but laugh. The horizon glowed with the last embers of sunset, and the evening stretched over them like a promise. She turned back briefly, her cheerful expression lighting up the dimming world.

“I don’t recall actually agreeing to the swimming part,” he called after her, but stood to follow nonetheless.

“Two birds with one stone, I’m just saying,” she replied with a matching grin while she kicked oof her shoes.

Cullen bent to remove his boots as well, but froze in mid-movement as the buckle of her belt came undone and she began to untie the laces at the back of her dress. Was she… undressing?

“Inquisitor, what—”

She turned, pouting slightly. “Not ‘Inquisitor’ right now, please…”

Cullen swallowed hard, his gaze flitting to her fingers still working on the laces. “I—sorry… Uriell. What… er, what are you doing?”

“Going for a swim,” she replied simply, pulling on the laces until the neckline of her dress loosened and slipped off her shoulders, revealing smooth skin and a teasing hint of cleavage.

“Ah—your…” Cullen stammered, his words fading as her dress pooled around her feet.

Uriell stood in the dim glow of the moonlight, her curves barely obscured by her smalls and her cascading thick curls. She turned away with a laugh and stepped toward the waves with the same easy confidence.

“Don’t gape—you’ve seen me like this before,” she called over her shoulder.

Cullen blinked, memories of her bath in Montsimmard and their swim in Lake Celestine flashing through his mind. But this felt different—a quiet vulnerability mingled with a promise of something new. Cullen shook his head, trying to dispel the thought that was creeping under his skin, pulsing in his blood and making his pants quite uncomfortable. He returned to removing his boots when the sound of splashing water drew his attention. Uriell had disappeared below the surface, only to reemerge further out, her hair glinting faintly in the moonlight.

“Hurry up, Commander,” she teased, wiping water from her face. “The sea’s lovely, and I’m waiting for you.”

He scoffed, tossing aside his second boot. “As you wish, my lady.”

Well, there was no need to overthink it now. She wanted him here. Maker, she actually wanted him. Her laughter echoed as Cullen pulled his shirt over his head, her gasp drowned by the crash of the waves. His belt was unfastened and his trousers shed with efficient ease, leaving him in his underwear as he strode toward the water.

The cool breeze bit at his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that still coursed through him, but the sensation was strangely welcome. The ever-present pressure of his headache eased under the night’s chill, even as his pulse thrummed in anticipation.

Uriell turned as he entered the water, her expression softening as the waves lapped at her shoulders. Cullen dove under the surface, letting the invigorating chill wash over him and calm down his excitement, and he emerged by her side moments later.

The gentle rocking of the waves felt unlike anything Cullen had experienced at Lake Calenhad. The water seemed alive, each wave nudging him like an old friend encouraging him to let go. He tilted his head back, allowing the moonlight to dance across his face as he floated for a moment. The salt stung slightly where the black dye had begun to dissolve, leaving him slowly exposed—but strangely free.

He rubbed at his chin and mouth, trying to remove the makeup he'd painstakingly applied that morning. Uriell watched him before swimming closer, her movements graceful against the rhythm of the sea.

“May I help?” she asked, her voice carrying like a whisper over the water.

“Please,” Cullen replied.

He didn’t anticipate the closeness that followed. Skin against skin, she slid a hand gently down his back to steady herself, their legs brushing and intertwining beneath the surface. He held his breath as her other hand reached up, her thumb brushing tenderly across his face. Jolts of electricity ran through him at every point of contact. She worked reverently, each stroke of her thumb revealing the scar beneath the fading disguise.

“Perfect,” she murmured, her attention unwavering as her touch lingered over the jagged mark. “Now, your hair?”

As Cullen leaned back, the cool seawater rushed over his face. Uriell remained close, her fingers combing through his hair, working the dark dye free in soft, deliberate strokes. The salty waves mingled with her touch, cleansing not just his appearance but something deeper within him. He held still, eyes closed, surrendering completely to her care.

When he finally straightened, the weight of the disguise washed away, he met her gaze. Moonlight reflected in her eyes, and her smile held a blend of admiration and something far more profound. “There.” He could barely hear her over the lapping waves. “Now I see you.”

Cullen moved closer, the pull to her irresistible. Her pale skin shimmered faintly under the water, brighter than the twin moons above, and he could make out the distorted shape of her breasts. He remembered her wish, and his focus fell on her lips, drawing him in, craving another taste of the connection they had just shared. But when he leaned in, she swam back with a playful laugh.

“Enjoying yourself, Commander?” she teased mischievously as he groaned in frustration.

She let the waves carry her to the edge of their secret beach, where larger rocks emerged from the water like small islands. Clinging to one, she glanced over at him with an enticing grin.

“So, how do you like the sea?” she asked with curiosity as he swam back to her.

A boyish smirk tugged at his lips. “It’s not so different from Lake Calenhad—except for the salt, of course.”

“Except for—” Uriell’s laugh rang out mid-sentence as she feigned outrage. “This is Orlais’ finest water, you know!”

“Well, it’s not so bad,” Cullen teased back as he reached her side.

Uriell leaned back against the rock, the gentle swell of the sea lifting her weightlessly. Cullen braced himself on either side of her, his arms cradling her between the stone and his warmth, encompassing her with all the strength and breadth of his body. She could not escape him now. She looked up at him, her playful smirk still lingering, daring him to draw closer.

“You seem quite relaxed for a man with the weight of Thedas on his shoulders,” she teased, though she didn’t shy away as he leaned in for the kiss she had denied him.

Cullen’s tone matched her jest, deep and laced with mirth. “See, now, I might have learned from the best—or the worst, depending on who you ask—about leaving my duties behind to savor a moment of sweet… reprieve.”

Uriell’s hands slid up to clasp at the back of his neck, her fingers tangling lightly in his damp hair. “Oh, and pray tell, from whom did you learn this?” she purred as she caught his gaze flickering to her lips.

A wave swayed him closer, his leg sliding between hers, his hardness pressing against her. The motion pulled him near enough to notice the rise and fall of her chest as she floated, her curves half-concealed by the light, clinging waves of her curls.

“Some might say it was the Inquisitor herself; can you imagine?” he murmured huskily, leaning closer until the tip of his nose brushed her cheek. With his focus fixed on her, he studied her very reaction. His breath was heavy and hot against her skin as he nuzzled into her hair, and his voice dropped to a rasp.

“I might get used to this, you know,” he admitted, his lips so close to her ear that his words seemed to caress it. “Running away from work with you like this. Can’t say I’ve never thought about it before.”

“Oh?” she croaked.

She urged him closer, her legs entwining with his under the water. The smirk she’d worn had dissolved into parted lips, her breathing coming faster now. Anticipation radiated from her, her eyes locked with his as if hanging on his every word. Now, she was the one begging to be kissed, which only increased Cullen’s desire.

“And what did you have in mind?” she asked, trembling slightly with expectation.

Cullen smiled, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. Maker, she was perfect. Her every movement, her every pant, seemed to draw him further into her spell. His mouth dropped lower, reaching for her tantalizing neck.

“Mmh… let’s save that for later,” he deflected smoothly and skimmed her sensitive skin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’d rather focus on you now.”

Uriell gasped as he kissed her neck. She tasted of sea salt and yet a sweet tingle from the perfume she had worn that day remained on his tongue. Another kiss, and her hands unclasped to hold onto his shoulders, their embrace tightening. Her nails dug into his back; something feral and fierce overwhelmed her, something he could sense pulsing under his lips. Something that ran through him in response, like a bolt of lightning. Emboldened by her reaction, he sank his teeth hungrily into the soft skin of her neck. Her tension instantly dissolved into bliss and the gentle bite drew a languorous moan from her.

A nudge of her head pushed him away, only for her own mouth to find his earlobe. A light tug between her teeth and a tickling sensation of arousal set him ablaze. His breath hitched in a cry, and her tongue trailed along the edge of his ear.

“Do you like it?”

Uriell’s soft, playful whisper, rang in his ear; it turned into a wave of pleasure that rippled through him from head to toe. He groaned in response, one hand hastily letting go of the rock. He reached desperately for her, crushing her against the rough surface to keep them in place despite the surf, but mostly to touch her, hold her, feel her against him as much as he could.

“I take that as a yes,” she teased again, blowing lightly on his sensitive ear.

Cullen shuddered as her air fed the flames in his veins, now a roaring fire. His cock stiffened even more, a delightful ache he needed to appease.

“Yes,” he growled deeply.

The tickle was delicious and intoxicating. He noticed that her breasts were firmly pressed against his chest, soft against hard. Uriell rolled her hips ever so discreetly, in a motion that could be mistaken for the drifting of the waves, but it pulled Cullen a little closer to the edge. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, and he wanted her now.

He reached for her leg, grabber her to drive her along his thigh. He was hard, so hard already, feverish with desire and determined to give her all the pleasure she deserved. The rumble of his breath betrayed his agitation and Uriell’s panting grew more and more erratic as he began to lick the column of her throat.

“Cullen, kiss me,” she urged, her voice full of need.

He answered her call without hesitation, claiming her lips hungrily. Her hands were on his face now, fingers running through his hair and pulling him closer, deepening their kiss. Her moans were music to his ears, rising higher in pitch with each crash of the waves around them. The sound of her mewling as he sucked on her tongue sent a thrilling rush through him, and he burned with the desire to explore every inch of her.

But then her eyes fluttered open, wide with realization. She broke the kiss, her palms pressing lightly against his chest. “Oh Maker, Cullen, the time—”

“What...?” he murmured, dazed and focused on her mouth, already aching for more.

“Cullen, we—” she gasped as he stole another kiss, fervent and all-consuming. “We have to go; they’ll be looking for us!”

“They can… wait a little… longer,” he replied in a low rumble, his lips following the curve of her neck.

“Ah—Cullen, please,” Uriell pressed against his shoulders, her strength just enough to separate them. “You know we have to go…”

His eyebrows knitted in frustration, his stomach sinking as her warmth slipped away. “I don’t want to go,” he confessed, his tone tinged with longing.

“Commander, we have to,” she said quietly, though her expression mirrored his pain. “I need to apologize to Josephine and set things in order. I…”

Her hesitation made his heart clench. “Do you not want this?” he asked, fear creeping into his voice. “Am I—”

Uriell silenced him with a kiss, just as heated and eager as the last. He could taste the extent of her desire and his doubts vanished. It was so good. When she pulled away, her lips were flushed, and her breath shuddered as she steadied herself.

“Cullen, I love this. I want this. I want you,” she whispered fervently. “Maker, you don’t know how much I want you right now. But we should…”

Cullen groaned in pain and buried his face in the crook of her neck, trying to stave off the ache of reality settling in. She was right. Most of the Inquisition was likely already scouring the streets of Val Royeaux for them. By the time they returned to the estate, it would be past dinner, and Uriell would face the brunt of the consequences.

“I know,” he grumbled reluctantly while she began to stroke his hair in an attempt to soothe him. “You’re right. Do you think… do you think I’ll see you tonight? I need you.”

“Probably not,” she admitted quietly, her regret palpable, and his chest tightened. “However, …”

Cullen lifted his eyes to hers, searching her face for a glimmer of hope. She pressed a tender kiss to his cheek.

“Would you like to spend the night with me tomorrow? I need you too, Cullen.”

Her question hung in the air, her breath matching the quickening pulse of their hearts. Cullen studied her face—hopeful, flushed, and utterly beautiful. The promise of seeing her again was enough to calm the storm inside him.

“I would like that very much, my lady.”

Chapter Text

Uriell had a hard time to focus that night. After their unexpected but fortunate encounter in the streets of Val Royeaux, she and Cullen had finally stolen a brief moment together—a moment in which gifts and truths had been exchanged, along with the most passionate kisses she had experienced in years. Freed from the weight of their titles, the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition had at long last surrendered to the affection that had secretly grown between them. It had taken Uriell hours to recover from the intensity of Cullen’s passion, which had surpassed all her expectations and fantasies. Returning to the Lydes estate as quickly as possible and forcing herself to resist the growing heat of their touch had been one of the most challenging tasks she had ever faced as Inquisitor.

Duty could no longer be ignored—not without a proper explanation. As soon as she entered the mansion, a wave of concern swept over her. Josephine, Leliana, Ser Barris, Loranil, and her companions had been on the verge of sending out rescue teams across Val Royeaux, fearing that she had been kidnapped. A wise decision, then, for her and Cullen to take separate routes back. But the relief of her safe return was short-lived, as concern quickly gave way to stern lectures. Josephine’s clipped tone left no room for excuses, while Ser Barris—emboldened by his role as Cullen’s second-in-command and trusted friend— went so far as to scold her outright.

Uriell defused the situation with a sincere promise not to disappear again, her apology laden with genuine regret for causing them such anxiety. As their fears subsided, the tension over the estate eased and the focus shifted back to the Inquisition’s preparations for the next day.

Her advisors escorted her to her chambers, under the piercing and suspicious eyes of Varric and Cassandra. They had clearly sensed that there was more to the story, but neither pressed the issue outright, letting her go under the supervision of the Spymaster and Ambassador. Cullen arrived half an hour later, slipping in unnoticed after the commotion had died down.

Meanwhile, Uriell endured a detailed debriefing from Josephine and Leliana. They filled her in on the day’s events, including the postponement of their critical meeting with Marquis Etienne to the following day. Josephine stressed the importance of the meeting, especially in light of the upcoming ball and the increased scrutiny of Orlais’ nobility. The rest of the day’s audiences had been deftly managed by Josephine, who, despite her poise, was visibly tired.

The excuse for Uriell’s absence—crafted with Leliana’s cunning—was that she had needed solitude to recover from the evening’s dramatic events involving Ser Louis-Marie de Serault. This explanation only added fuel to the fire of noble gossip, igniting wild speculation about the possibility that the masked Stranger had captured the Inquisitor’s heart. The romantic conjecture seemed to further enchant Val Royeaux’s elite.

Uriell had smiled at the excuse, amused at how close it came to the truth. Yet her thoughts were elsewhere, drifting back to Cullen and the memory of their heated embrace. She scarcely listened to the rest of the briefing. Mentions of fittings, shopping, and the postponed meeting with Marquis Etienne blurred together, leaving her overwhelmed and with little time to catch a break—let alone steal another moment with Cullen.

By the time she was finally left alone, it was too late to consider sneaking into Cullen’s room. Ser Barris and Loranil kept watch, making sure she stayed in her quarters for the night. So close and yet so far, she thought wistfully. They would both have to wait to pick up where they had left off under the moonlight by the sea.

If Uriell had managed to summon enough reason to end their moment of passion and return to the Inquisition that night, it did not mean that its magic had ceased to work on her. She could picture that kiss, vivid and consuming, as if seared behind her eyelids. It haunted her as she tossed and turned in bed, unable to quiet the longing it stirred. She wanted more—craved more—of Cullen’s tender touch. The memory of his body responding to hers was intoxicating, and now, the ache to see him, to fulfill the promise of pleasure they had denied themselves, was almost unbearable.

When the morning finally came, Uriell awoke groggy and wearied; her restless night had offered little respite. Leliana and Cassandra were quick to drag her out of bed and into the demanding day ahead. The abrupt transition from the indulgent pause of the previous day to the Inquisition’s rigorous schedule hit her like a shock wave.

She barely had time to collect herself before Lady Sylvie de Pélineau arrived, sweeping into her chambers with Vivienne close behind and Cole trailing in their shadow. Moments later, a cascade of boxes and rolls of fabric followed, and Uriell knew it was going to be an exhausting ordeal.

Lady de Pélineau, the epitome of grace and precision, worked diligently on the final alterations to Uriell’s ball gowns. As she watched the seamstress at work, the Inquisitor cursed her past self for her overly ambitious plans—her idle musings during calmer days when she’d whimsically envisioned wearing not one, not two, but at least three custom-designed dresses at the Winter Palace Ball. At the time, it had seemed like a brilliant idea—a bold display to dazzle the Orlesian Court and elevate the Inquisition’s standing through sheer spectacle. After all, what did Orlais value more than the art of fashion?

Cassandra, Leliana, and Vivienne had their own outfits to refine, and they stayed with Uriell throughout the morning to keep her company. Even Cole lingered, his peculiar presence both unsettling and oddly comforting. As if sensing their discomfort, he moved about the room with quiet purpose—bringing refreshments as if conjured from thin air, retrieving misplaced pins, and occasionally perching on the balcony to gaze pensively over the estate. While Cassandra and Vivienne kept a wary eye on him, Uriell welcomed his peculiar kindness. His silent attentiveness provided a small but welcome distraction from the pressing demands of the day.

Leliana took the opportunity during the fitting session to go over their next goals and the plan for the upcoming ball, now only four days away. Uriell forced her thoughts away from Cullen and reluctantly focused on the Spymaster’s words. The anticipation of meeting Empress Celene that had been simmering in her mind for days now twisted into a tight knot of unease. It felt like an unspoken warning, a reminder of the stakes at play.

Still, Uriell steeled herself. This was just another battle to navigate—another to be fought with diplomacy instead of blades. She remembered the meticulous preparations she had made, ensuring that every detail was in place to turn the evening into a seamless success. The only uncertainty lay in potential threats from Venatori agents, but even that didn’t rattle her. She could rely on her sword, Cullen’s forces, and, of course, her Commander.

Yes, she was as ready as she could be. Taking a deep breath, Uriell calmed her nerves and stood straighter, letting determination replace hesitation.

“I know it’s a lot to remember, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, her voice calm yet encouraging. She smoothed the seams of her jacket as she spoke, glancing at her reflection in the standing mirror. “But don’t worry—Josie and I will be close by at all times. You’ve done a wonderful job so far. All that’s left is to keep playing the Game during the ball and to stay in touch as our investigation unfolds. We’re prepared for every scenario.”

Uriell turned slightly and nodded to Leliana in agreement. Behind her, Lady de Pélineau squinted through her narrow spectacles, meticulously inspecting the bias of Uriell’s corset with a needle in hand. The seamstress’s precise movements forced Uriell to hold herself still on the stool, her every move carefully measured to avoid disturbing the adjustments.

“Won’t Cullen be there as well?” Cassandra’s sudden question cut through the air like a blade.

Uriell froze, a sharp shiver racing down her spine. The involuntary flinch earned a pointed “tsk” from Lady de Pélineau, who clicked her tongue in disapproval.

The question lingered, hanging heavily in the room. Uriell’s pulse quickened as she struggled to regain her composure. Cullen’s attendance at the ball was, of course, entirely logical given his role. Cassandra knew that—as did everyone present—and they had spent the last two hours rehearsing strategies that included him. But the Seeker’s tone hinted at something beyond protocol.

Uriell’s eyes darted over her shoulder, searching for Leliana’s. The Spymaster met her gaze with a raised eyebrow, the picture of polite curiosity. Yet there was a glimmer of mischief behind it, a spark that suggested Leliana knew full well what the Seeker meant.

“Commander Cullen will be there, yes,” Uriell replied, as measured as she could muster. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” she began with an unreadable expression, “Leliana mentioned that our Ambassador and she would be nearby all evening. I suddenly wondered if I’d missed something—perhaps Cullen would be sent elsewhere?”

“Oh.” Uriell exhaled softly, her shoulders relaxing as the tension eased. She shifted timidly on the stool which earned another cluck of disapproval from Lady de Pélineau. “No, he’ll be there. Our Commander is responsible for overseeing the security arrangements with Ser Barris.”

“He simply won’t be of much use in navigating the Game,” Leliana added, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she stepped closer to the gathering. “Nor, I suspect, in reminding our Lady Inquisitor who’s who behind their masks. I didn’t mean to cast him aside, Cassandra.”

“Good,” Cassandra said after a pause, adjusting the vambraces on her forearms, likely added as a compromise to her usual attire. Dressed in a sharp, high-collared ensemble of deep crimson and gold that accentuated her commanding presence, she looked every bit the warrior reimagined for Orlesian elegance. Despite the regal air the outfit lent her, it was clear Cassandra felt somewhat out of place in such finery. “It is comforting to know we’ll have someone so capable to ensure the safety of the Inquisition—and yourself, of course.”

Uriell scanned Cassandra’s face, searching for any hint of her true intentions. Was there more to her words, or was this merely Cassandra’s way of offering reassurance?

Her stomach tightened as the Seeker pressed on. “It is… odd, though. I didn’t see much of him yesterday. Ser Barris seemed to be handling most of his duties. Was Cullen unwell?”

“Commander Cullen is always thorough in his preparations,” Vivienne interjected smoothly, her tone light but pointed. She tugged at the cuff of her glove, the rich red fabric of her gown shimmering as she moved. “If he delegated to Ser Barris, it would likely be to ensure no detail was overlooked.”

Uriell silently thanked the enchanter for her intervention, but she knew it wouldn’t stop Cassandra. Soon enough, the Seeker’s eyes returned to hers, narrowing slightly.

“Perhaps,” Cassandra allowed, though her expression remained unconvinced. “Still, it seemed unusual. He disappeared after the… incident with Ser de Serault. I thought he might have sought you out to discuss it, Inquisitor.”

Ah, yes, that was it. She had probably heard about the duel from Varric. No doubt her ever-romantic friend was feeling left out, eager to piece the tale together—and perhaps even link the whole affair to Uriell’s actual love interest.

“We spoke briefly,” Uriell replied, careful to keep her voice even and inconspicuous. “He had concerns about the situation, as we all did. But he didn’t seem as troubled by the incident as you seem to think.”

“Briefly?” Cassandra sounded neutral, but the edge of her curiosity was unmistakable.

Uriell hesitated, her lips parting as she searched for an explanation. Before she could respond, Leliana’s soft chuckle filled the room.

“Seeker, you sound like a bard sniffing out a juicy secret,” Leliana teased, and her sly smile made Cassandra’s frown deepen. “You’ll have the poor Inquisitor thinking she’s on trial.”

A faint blush crept across Cassandra’s cheeks, but she crossed her arms, undeterred. “I only ask because Cullen is… not prone to sudden absences. It’s unlike him.”

“Perhaps he needed a moment to himself,” Vivienne suggested, her voice silken. Fixing the angle of her hat, she stepped to the mirror and cast a practiced glance at her reflection. “Even the most disciplined among us are entitled to a reprieve now and then, are they not?”

“I believe our Inquisitor knows a thing or two about allowing herself a moment of reprieve, doesn’t she?” Leliana winked at Uriell with a grin.

“…Indeed,” Uriell replied slowly as a vivid blush crept over her face. While Leliana’s teasing was clearly aimed at her recent disappearance, Uriell seized the opportunity. “I trust Cullen to handle his responsibilities as he sees fit. He has more than proven his dedication.”

“Of course,” Cassandra replied, though her tone remained skeptical. She hesitated, visibly debating whether to press further, but Leliana’s knowing smirk seemed to dissuade her. With a resigned sigh, she dropped the subject—at least for now.

“Inquisitor, please,” Lady de Pélineau interrupted with a hint of exasperation as she tapped Uriell’s arm. “Stand still, or this bodice will never fit properly.”

Uriell straightened obediently, grateful for the distraction. As the seamstress resumed her alterations, she felt Cassandra’s staring, still searching for cracks in her carefully maintained composure.

It was only natural for Cassandra to be curious. She had yet to hear a full account of the events surrounding Ser de Serault’s ill-fated duel, and she knew only bits and pieces—Cullen’s odd behavior at the opera, Uriell’s suspicion of jealousy, and Ser de Serault’s bold attempt to court her during the Inquisition party. All had culminated in the dramatic intervention of a mysterious stranger and Cullen’s daylong disappearance.

If Cassandra’s secret penchant for romantic intrigue was anything like Uriell imagined, her friend must be dying to hear the full story. Uriell made a mental note to find time for the conversation soon, as soon as they could be alone together—or she’d never hear the end of it.

The intensity in the room grew as the silence fell, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of pins in Lady de Pélineau’s hands. It was then that Cole’s soft voice floated through the stillness, unbidden and ethereal.

“Dark hair disappearing in the dusk light; calloused yet tender hands under a glove, hands stories are made for and made with, effortlessly spinning in—”

“Cole,” Uriell interjected quickly, gentle but firm. Her heart raced as the others’ heads swiveled in his direction, Cassandra’s brows raised in alarm. Uriell met Cole’s pale blue eyes with a small, reassuring smile. “Thank you for your help today. Could you please check on the refreshments again?”

Cole blinked; untroubled despite the sudden interruption. “I’ll make sure everything is just right,” he murmured, then slipped quietly out of the room.

Uriell exhaled silently, hoping that the momentary crisis had passed. Looking back, Vivienne’s expression was one of mild amusement, while Leliana’s eyes pierced right through Uriell. Cassandra, however, appeared utterly bewildered, her cheeks flushing as crimson as her outfit as she struggled to make sense of the exchange.

Uriell braced herself, replaying Cole’s words in her mind. Nothing in his poetic musings had explicitly referred to Cullen. For all they knew, he could have been describing her enigmatic admirer, Ser de Serault, or...

“Uh, oh, well—” Cassandra stammered at last, averting her gaze in an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty.

The Seeker cleared her throat as she shifted her stance. “Cole… speaks in riddles,” she muttered, fiddling unnecessarily with the vambraces of her gown. “Sometimes, it’s best not to dwell on his words.” She avoided eye-contact and her tone was uncharacteristically uneven.

Uriell squinted, momentarily taken aback by Cassandra’s sudden awkwardness, but decided not to press the matter. Whatever had unsettled Cassandra would probably reveal itself in time—or not. Either way, Uriell was grateful her friend had stopped prying.

Lady de Pélineau stepped back with a satisfied sigh and brushed off her hands. “There. The adjustments are complete, Inquisitor. Your gowns will be ready and delivered before the ball in four days, as promised.” Her claim carried a note of triumph, as though she, too, had battled for the Inquisition and emerged victorious.

“Thank you, my lady,” Uriell replied with genuine gratitude as she stepped down from the stool with care.

“Now then,” Leliana interjected smoothly, her sharp gaze sweeping over the room. “Let’s get everyone out of these fine clothes and back into something more practical. Inquisitor, you’ll accompany Josephine and me for on a little shopping before your meeting with Marquis Etienne. The market awaits!”

Uriell chuckled softly, unable to suppress a smile at the glint of determination in Leliana’s eyes. Shopping with her Spymaster was rarely an easy task. Practical or not, she doubted this excursion would be anything less than utterly exhausting.

***

Whisked away in a flurry of fabric and the quiet determination of her Spymaster, Uriell found herself strolling through the streets of Val Royeaux arm-in-arm with Leliana and Josephine within the hour. A few steps behind, Ser Barris and two of his men trailed discreetly, their presence enough to deter any overly curious onlookers.

Uriell was not fooled. She knew full well that the pretext of finding “last minute accessories” was merely an excuse for her advisors to indulge in the charms of Val Royeaux’s shops. Leliana had eagerly taken them to more than a few shoemakers’ workshops, marveling at their latest creations—and occasionally succumbing to temptation. The three women wandered from boutique to boutique, their lively chatter and clear laughter blending with the tunes of street musicians and the clinking of café glasses. Uriell cherished these rare moments of levity. It was easy to forget how soft Leliana could be beneath the Spymaster’s cloak, or how endearingly excitable Josephine became when freed from the polished composure of the Ambassador.

In those precious hours before their final meeting with the Marquis Etienne, they weren’t leaders of the Inquisition navigating political intrigue. They were simply three women enjoying the splendor of Orlais, debating the merits of bejeweled slippers and sampling delicate pastries from a charming patisserie.

Eventually, they found themselves in a quaint café nestled on a bustling terrace. The scent of fresh baguettes and blooming flowers mingled with the warm afternoon air. Ser Barris and his men stationed themselves at a respectful distance, which granted the women an unspoken sanctuary of privacy.

Uriell knew the moment was coming. She suspected that Leliana already knew everything—her Spymaster always did—about Cullen and her. Besides, her own reckless behavior over the past week had left little room for subtlety. So Uriell waited, allowing her advisors to make the first move.

While she excelled at Wicked Grace, at the game of withholding curiosity, Josephine was hopeless; so it was her who caved first, naturally.

The Ambassador set her teacup down with a delicate clink, her friendly smile giving away her intent before she even spoke. “See, my Lady Inquisitor,” she began, her Antivan accent adding a musical lilt to her playful tone, “you didn’t need to vanish for an entire day just to unwind. If you ever feel the need for a reprieve in the future, do let me know. I’d be delighted to make the arrangements.”

Uriell glanced down, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips as she cradled her teacup. “I know, Josie, and I’m sorry. I should have handled it better—I see that now.” She hesitated, then lift her gaze with a knowing smirk. “But… would you have let me go without an escort?”

Josephine chuckled lightly; her dark eyes were lit with amusement. “Believe it or not, my lady, I know how capable you are of defending yourself. I would have allowed it.”

Leliana’s polite air, however, let Uriell suspect that she would have definitely had her followed; but if Uriell knew one thing, it was that whatever information she would have found out, she would not share it unless she had a reason to. That was probably why she had not told Josephine yet.

Uriell’s eyes went back to Josephine, who mused out loud: “However… I can’t say the same about Cullen. Oh no—he would have insisted on assigning you an escort.”

Uriell stifled a laugh and leaned back in her chair. The attention of her advisors was focused on her. Leliana’s hands rested loosely in her lap; her expression serene. Too serene, probably. “Perhaps, but maybe I would’ve convinced him of my ability to manage without one,” Uriell replied.

“You think so? Now that I think about it, my lady,” Josephine began in a gentle voice, reminiscing of the last weeks, “why is it that you and the Commander have been vanishing at the same times lately?”

Uriell froze, her teacup hovering halfway to her lips. “Vanishing? I don’t know what you mean, Josie,” she replied with a breezy shrug, though her gaze briefly dropped to the amber liquid in her cup.

“Really?” Josephine pressed, her delicate brows arching as she leaned forward slightly. “Every time you’re in danger, or away, Cullen is either the first one to find you or conspicuously absent himself.”

Uriell opened her mouth to reply, but Josephine had already raised a hand, digits ticking off events as she spoke.

“First in Verchiel, when he ran to your aid and saved you from the Venatori… Then it was he who brought you back to the Tower in Montsimmard… And then—then!” Josephine’s excitement grew with each recollection. “In Val Firmin, after the incident with Jean-Marc de Morrac, he ran after you through a storm and spent the night with you in a cabin! And in Val Foret, when you supposedly slept all day—well, I was told that no one knew where Cullen was either.”

Uriell’s breath hitched, but Josephine pressed on, lighting up with realization.

“And now,” Josephine continued, leaning forward, “no one saw him during the calling hours, or at the duel. And yesterday—just like you—he vanished without a word.”

Uriell remained silent, twirling her teacup nervously between her fingers. Across from her, Leliana raised an elegant eyebrow, her face a peaceful mask. She sipped her tea slowly, her silence as damning as any accusation.

“Did…” Josephine began, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she wavered. Her cup clanked against the saucer as she set it down, clearly overwhelmed by her own growing suspicions. “Did the Commander approve of your little adventures? Did you recruit him as your co-conspirator in these mysterious disappearances?”

“Josie,” Uriell began, her voice faltering slightly as she forced a weak laugh. “Please, you’re reading far too much into this.”

“I think Josephine has a point, my Lady Inquisitor,” Leliana interjected smoothly, her words cutting through Uriell’s protest like a blade. The hint of amusement in her tone betrayed her enjoyment of the situation. “The Commander’s behavior of late has been… peculiar, to say the least. Would you care to explain?”

Uriell stared back to the Spymaster, a pang of resignation settling in her chest. There was no point in hiding it anymore, was there? For a fleeting moment, she felt like a cornered hare, her escape routes blocked by Josephine’s insistent curiosity and Leliana’s unyielding scrutiny.

She took measured sips of her tea and let the warm liquid steady her nerves as she gathered her thoughts. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, but a hint of vulnerability lingered beneath the surface.

“…Do you really need me to tell you something you already know, Leliana?” Uriell asked, meeting the Spymaster’s gaze with quiet resolve.

Leliana tilted her head, and a small, enigmatic smile played on her lips. “I’d rather hear it from you. As a friend,” she said, taking another sip of her tea.

Josephine leaned eagerly on her elbows, her hands clasped under her chin, her eyes darting between Leliana and Uriell with barely contained glee. The air was thick with anticipation; tea was about to be spilled, and it wasn’t the kind from their cups. Uriell knew she couldn’t keep her secret much longer—not from her advisors, and certainly not from her friends. Still, she wished she’d had the chance to talk with Cullen first.

“Very well,” Uriell sighed and leaned back in her chair with a resigned breath.

Her pulse quickened as the last of the dams withholding the truth within her reluctantly let go of the stream of thoughts and revelations they had held back; and the Ambassador’s eagerness didn’t help in the process. She decided to close her eyes, as she hoped it would help her deliver it more quickly.

“I… may have feelings for our Commander,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. The heat rising to her face was unbearable.

“That was rather obvious,” Leliana agreed softly, though it sounded more reassuring than teasing.

Uriell ignored the comment and forced herself to continue. “And I… may have used this trip as a way to get closer to him,” she admitted, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Though, most of the time, I didn’t ask him to join me in my escapades. He just… happened to find me. Like yesterday.”

When she finally looked back, Josephine was staring at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed while covering her mouth. The Ambassador’s shock quickly turned to gleeful anticipation, her expression practically begging for more details. Leliana, by contrast, remained composed, even though her hard edges had softened for the moment.

“I suspect you already knew who the mysterious admirer was, the other day?” Uriell asked the redhead in a murmur. She cast a wary glance around the café to ensure no one else was listening.

“Of course,” Leliana replied, a knowing grin spreading across her lips.

“Oh!” Josephine gasped before dropping to a low voice. “That was Cullen? Leliana, that’s why you told us you wanted to see where it was going?!”

Her excitement bubbled over, and she nearly bounced in her seat. “Wait—then the duel! What does that mean? Did he…? Was he…? What happened next, my lady?”

Uriell chuckled nervously. She couldn’t help but find Josephine’s enthusiasm outrageously adorable. The Ambassador’s enthusiasm at connecting the dots—and her obvious delight at the outcome—was a relief. It was a far cry from the disapproving judgment Uriell had feared. More at ease, she resumed her story.

“Well,” Uriell began, “I recognized him, too. And… it made me realize that maybe, something was possible between us.” She paused, her fingers fidgeting with the delicate handle of her teacup. “I snuck out yesterday—alone, I promise. I know it was inconsiderate, Josie. I’m really sorry.”

Josephine nodded along wordlessly; her earlier scolding seemingly forgotten in her growing interest to hear the rest.

“I just needed time to clear my head,” Uriell admitted. There was a trace of guilt in her words, but Josephine’s encouraging smile prompted her to press on. “And… well, I ran into him. So, we went for a walk, and…” Uriell hesitated as a blush crept up her neck. “I ended up telling him.”

A sudden sound drew Uriell’s gaze over to Ser Barris, standing a few feet away. He had coughed a little too loudly, as if he had choked on air. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Had he overheard her? She quickly dismissed the thought as Josephine leaned closer, practically glowing with excitement.

“And then, what happened?” Josephine asked, her hands darting out to clasp Uriell’s. The Ambassador’s touch was warm and encouraging.

“It seems…” Uriell’s voice trailed off for a moment before she smiled shyly. “It seems it was mutual.”

Josephine’s hands squeezed hers, and her delighted gasp drew a few curious glances from nearby patrons. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “I’m so happy for you—both of you!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Uriell muttered sheepishly. She forced herself to look at her advisors, her tone growing more serious. “We came right back. I didn’t have the time to discuss with him what we’re going to do about… us.”

“Still, that is exciting news!” Josephine beamed, her joy undimmed.

Leliana, who had been quietly listening, chose this moment to speak. “What is holding you back?”

“Well… since you two seemed so keen for me to meet my suitors, I thought…” Uriell’s throat thickened. “I thought you might not approve.”

“My lady,” Leliana was the first to respond as Josephine’s eyes widened in surprise. “We would never pressure you to choose any of them. We are happy for you, truly.”

Josephine’s grip tightened slightly. “I’m so sorry if this has been hard for you, knowing all this.”

“Besides,” Leliana continued while she scanned the café with a knowing glint, “the whole idea was to make you desirable. If you ask me, it worked perfectly.”

Josephine’s expression brightened, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ve become the talk of Orlais, my lady. The nobility adores you—and the rumors that you are in love with your mysterious admirer have only made them love you more.”

“She’s right,” Leliana confirmed, lifting her teacup with graceful ease. A small smirk played on her lips. “And considering the number of letters we’ve received from the Commander’s admirers, I suspect the court would be even more enchanted if they ever discovered the identity of this masked stranger.”

“Wait, what—?” Uriell stammered, her mind racing.

Josephine quickly regained her attention. “You don’t have to worry about anything, my lady,” she assured her, the polished poise of the Ambassador melting into genuine friendship. “Don’t hold yourself back from happiness. You deserve it. And as for the Inquisition’s reputation? Leave that to us.”

***

“So… are you going to tell us what happened, or…?”

Cullen sat frozen on the edge of his bed, his mind struggling to keep up with the unexpected scene unfolding before him. The unlikely trio of Ser Barris, Dorian, and Varric stood before him, their patience wearing thin as they awaited his explanation.

It was mid-afternoon—the hours were dragging painfully slowly until Uriell would return from her meeting with Marquis Etienne—when the three had unceremoniously barged into his quarters. Now, they stood in a semicircle of expectation and their expressions ranged from smug amusement to thinly veiled curiosity.

“Er… hello to you too?” Cullen ventured; his brow furrowed. “What exactly is this about?”

“Cut the crap, Rutherford,” Ser Barris said bluntly, dragging the chair from Cullen’s desk and straddling it backward. “You know my job was to escort the Inquisitor to the Marquis’ estate today. Well, I may have overheard a rather interesting conversation between her and the other two advisors.”

At the mention of Uriell, Cullen felt his neck flush with heat. His eyes darted to Barris, then to Dorian, who stood with his arms crossed, a smirk on his lips. The mage looked thoroughly entertained. His accomplices from the other night were waiting for his report.

Then there was Varric. Cullen frowned slightly, unsure of the dwarf’s role in this intervention. The confusion must have shown on his face, for Varric grinned and spread his arms wide in mock exasperation.

“Come on, Curly,” Varric urged. “You’re terrible at hiding your feelings. All I want is for her to be happy, so spill it.”

A long, resigned sigh escaped Cullen. His hand went instinctively to the back of his neck, to rub at the tension that seemed to build with each passing second. It was a familiar gesture, one that betrayed his discomfort all too easily.

He knew arguing was pointless. By now, it seemed everyone had caught wind of the situation—or at least suspected enough to corner him like this.

“I suppose you’re referring to yesterday,” he said cautiously.

“Damn right, I’m talking about yesterday,” Barris shot back and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “And let’s not forget the other night. You didn’t say a word about what happened after you got back from the party.”

“Aah, so you are the Lion Mask, then,” Varric said with a satisfied click of his tongue. He leaned back and crossed his arms as he glanced between Cullen and Barris.

A jolt of embarrassment surged through Cullen, the heat creeping steadily up his neck. Yet beneath the blush of discomfort, there was a glimmer of something sweeter—a quiet pride he couldn’t quite suppress.

He didn’t deny Varric’s claim.

“Well,” Cullen began, deliberately avoiding Varric’s amused gaze, “as Dorian—and apparently Varric—have already told you, I ended up in a duel with the Chevalier…”

“It was magnificent,” Dorian interjected, his tone brimming with pride, as if recounting the achievements of his own protégé.

“… which I won,” Cullen ignored the interruption.

“Brilliantly,” Varric added with a wink.

“Maker’s Breath, are you telling the story, or am I?” Cullen snapped; his frustration evident as he glared at the pair. Dorian and Varric simply chuckled, raising hands to their grinning faces as if to mask their amusement.

Ser Barris, seated opposite, seemed unaffected by the humor. His expression remained intent, his focus unwavering as he waited for the rest of Cullen’s tale.

“What I mean is,” Cullen resumed with a sharp exhale, “Dorian was right. The Chevalier was being far too bold, and… well, I won’t deny it felt good to put him back in his place.”

“I can imagine,” Barris commented. “I wish I’d been there to see it myself.”

“Anyway,” Cullen continued and tilted his head in Dorian’s direction, “after that, I gave her the rose, as you suggested. That’s when she recognized me.”

“Wait, what?” Ser Barris’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “She did?”

“She did,” Cullen confirmed, his tone steady even as his ears reddened slightly. “But she was too startled to react, so I left before anyone could question me. That’s when you saw me leave. I managed to sneak back in after a short while and stayed in my room. Everyone was still so focused on the party in the garden that it wasn’t too difficult.”

Barris relaxed in his chair and nodded slowly. Cullen could see the gears turning in his fellow Templar’s mind, piecing together the sequence of events. Dorian, meanwhile, leaned casually against the desk, while Varric sat on the edge of the canopy bed.

“You gave us quite a show, Commander,” Dorian remarked, his grin as self-satisfied as ever. “Let me tell you, you made quite an impression—on both the nobility and our Inquisitor.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumors,” Cullen admitted, his voice lowering as the flush on his face deepened.

“I spoke to our dear Inquisitor the next morning,” Varric chimed in, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I can confirm that she was impressed. Of course, I suspected the man behind the mask was you, but she didn’t admit it.”

“And then, you took a day off, and Uriell ran away,” Barris muttered. His nostrils flared as he crossed his arms. “Care to explain that?”

“I swear, Barris, I had nothing to do with it,” Cullen rushed to say, though the corners of his mouth twitched when he suppressed a satisfied smile. The memories of the previous day—of her presence, her laughter, her kiss—threatened to break his facade.

“What happened, then?” Dorian pressed on inquisitively.

“I…” Cullen hesitated, glancing between the expectant faces of the trio. Their expressions ranged from amused to sharply curious, and the weight of their scrutiny pressed heavily on him. He knew there was no point in withholding the truth now. He took a deep breath and decided to trust them.

“I took a day off, yes…” The words tumbled out reluctantly, his heart pounding faster with each syllable. “I wanted to buy her presents. To confess to her.”

“There you go!” Barris boomed and clapped Cullen on the shoulder with enough force to make him wince. “See? Your lessons have paid off, Dorian.”

“I am but a humble teacher,” Dorian replied with an exaggerated flourish of his hand, his grin full of mock modesty.

“So, Sunbeam didn’t go with you?” Varric’s eyes narrowed slightly as he fished for more details.

“She did not,” Cullen affirmed, his tone resolute even as his pulse quickened. “At least… that wasn’t the plan.”

“What do you mean?” Barris pressed, his brows furrowed.

“I actually ran into her yesterday,” Cullen confessed, staring at the Templar’s to avoid the knowing looks Dorian and Varric exchanged beside him. “She was disguised. She had snuck out.”

“Without her personal guard?” Varric teased, his laughter rolling out in a guttural chuckle. “How dare she!”

Cullen sighed in frustration. “You don’t say… She was being harassed by some men near the marketplace. I chased them off before she could draw any more attention to herself.”

“Our Commander, always there to save the day!” Dorian chimed in, his voice laced with exaggerated admiration as he joined Varric’s laughter.

Cullen ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply as if to steady himself. “After that… we found a quiet place to talk.”

His voice softened, and his gaze dropped to the floor. The red flush creeping up his neck betrayed his emotions, and he fidgeted with his fingers, the memory clearly vivid in his mind. Despite his best efforts to remain composed, a small, absent-minded smile graced his lips, ignited by the recollection of her silhouette framed by the setting sun.

“We talked about the duel,” Cullen began, his words slower now, weighed down by both nostalgia and nervousness. “She told me she knew it was me…”

“And?” Varric’s eyebrows rose, his grin widening as he leaned forward. Ser Barris mirrored the dwarf’s impatience, crossing his arms with an expectant tilt of his head.

Cullen hesitated, his heart thudding against his ribs. “One thing led to another, and…”

“And?” Varric and Barris nudged in unison, their eagerness almost palpable.

“Well…” Cullen murmured. “She said she felt the same.”

He glanced up briefly to gauge their reactions. The three men erupted in celebration, their cheers filling the room.

“There she is!” Varric threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “I knew she had it in her!”

“That’s the spirit,” Dorian declared with a long, satisfied sigh. “Although I must admit, not a moment too soon.”

“Isn’t it?” Barris turned to Dorian with a quick grin. “I’m surprised it took her so long. You might be the first person to actually intimidate her, Commander.”

“Is that all that happened?” The mage teased. “Don’t tell me that’s all that happened!”

Cullen scoffed, though the warmth in his cheeks likely betrayed him. “I’m not going to tell you, Dorian. It went… well. Very well. But I suppose I can show you this.”

Cullen reached to the side and retrieved the sword propelled up against the bedside table. He carefully laid it across his lap and unwrapped it to reveal the gleaming silverite blade and the intricate golden lion that adorned the pommel.

Varric let out a low whistle. “Nice blade. A gift from the Inquisitor herself?”

“It is,” Cullen replied softly as his fingers brushed over the engraving as if drawn there by instinct. “She gave it to me yesterday.”

“May I?” Ser Barris asked, his excitement barely concealed.

Cullen handed him the sword, watching as Barris chuckled quietly while he inspected the weapon. The Templar’s admiration for the craftsmanship was plain as day as he slowly turned the blade between his fingers, reading the engraved words with a faint smile.

“Beautiful work,” Barris murmured, glancing up. “A fine gift from a fine lady.”

Cullen, encouraged by their enthusiasm, found the courage to add:

“And… well… I’m supposed to meet her in her chambers tonight.”

Dorian’s brows shot up, a delighted smirk spreading across his face. “Well, well, well! Commander—meeting the Inquisitor in her chambers? This just gets better and better! Do go on.”

Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his seat as all eyes fell back on him. “She’s been working on something for the ball. A… sewing project, she called it. For me.”

“Oh, so that’s what she’s been working on,” Varric remarked with a knowing grin as realization dawned. “I see how that is.”

“Wait…” Barris interjected as Cullen retrieved the blade from his outstretched hands. “Wait, that’s why you’re the only one assigned to guard her doors tonight! I knew something felt off when I read today’s roster. Oh, oh, Rutherford, you sly little—”

“It’s not like that!” Cullen groaned, fumbling with the linen as he tried to rewrap the sword. “No! I mean—yes, but… no, it—it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“So, what is it like, then?” Dorian asked, feigning innocence as he leaned casually against the desk. “What do you plan to do, Commander? Sweep her off her feet? Serenade her with a lute, perhaps?”

Cullen shook his head, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. The sound nearly drowned out his own voice, which grew lower as he spoke. “I just want to make her happy. That’s all. To have a moment for just the two of us. We haven’t had much time to talk since… everything happened yesterday.”

He paused, his gaze drifting to the blade resting in his lap before continuing, his tone soft and introspective. “And… to be honest, I still haven’t quite grasped how lucky I am. This all feels so… unreal to me.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the sincerity of Cullen's words cutting through the teasing. Then Barris cleared his throat, and his grin returned. "So, you’re finally sure about it? Word travels fast, especially in Orlais. It’s going to get everyone talking."

"He’s right," Varric agreed. "As soon as someone gets wind of this, it’ll be everywhere. The Inquisitor and her Commander? That’s a tale for the ages."

Cullen’s lips curved into a shy smile, his knuckles tightening slightly around the hilt of his sword. "I’d prefer to keep it just between us—it’s… personal. But," he added and looked up to meet their eyes, "if there were nothing for them to talk about, or worse, if they started spinning stories about Ser de Serault, I think I’d regret it far more."

“Would you look at that smug expression, Commander?” Dorian smirked, though his eyes shone with approval. “Already so keen for everyone to know you’re the one who stole the Inquisitor’s heart, I see.”

“Well,” Cullen held Dorian’s gaze with a quiet determination that belied the lingering heat on his cheeks, “I won’t deny it. If people are going to talk, I’d rather it be because they see what I’m seeing: that she’s extraordinary.”

“And that you two are the most powerful couple in Thedas,” Barris chimed in, his teasing grin firmly in place. “But hey, don’t get too cocky. You might still fumble the etiquette tonight. Need a refresher, Rutherford? A few pick-up lines? Directions so you don’t stand there looking awkward? Or maybe… some more practical advice?”

“Shut up, Barris,” Cullen muttered, though the red deepening across his face betrayed him.

The group burst into laughter, their cheers filling the room with warmth. Cullen’s shoulders relaxed, the tension melting away, replaced by a quiet contentment. For tonight, at least, the future felt bright.

***

The sound of Cullen’s pacing echoed through his chambers, a rhythmic testament to his frayed nerves. The trio had finally left some time ago, departing with last-minute cheers and encouraging winks. The hours since then had passed in a strange paradox, both dragging on agonizingly and slipping away far too quickly. By now, Uriell would have returned from her meeting—he’d heard the commotion in the corridor earlier. The minutes ticked by with unnerving precision, each one bringing him closer to his shift of "keeping watch" outside her bedroom doors. To her.

Cullen paused in front of the standing mirror to meet his reflection for what felt like the hundredth time today. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it into place once again, though it needed no fixing. His shirt hung open a little more than usual, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal a hint of his collarbone and the faintest trace of chest hair. A belt secured his brand-new sword to his hip, its scabbard brushing against his well-worn leather trousers. There was no need to overdress; he was going to a fitting session after all.

Still, his heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. His palms grew damp, and he absently wiped them on his trousers. Anxiety warred with anticipation, each one rising and falling like waves. What if I ruin this? the question gnawed at the edge of his confidence. He had no reason to worry—or so he told himself. This was their moment, a rare opportunity to simply be together, their mutual feelings finally out in the open. Only good could come of it. Surely.

But the doubts remained, persistent and insidious. Don’t get carried away, he reminded himself, resuming his pace as his thoughts spiraled. This was just a fitting session, just a lovely moment shared between two people discovering something fragile and new. Yet his mind kept racing. Should he kiss her when he got there? Should he pick up where they’d left off the day before? Was it too soon for considering this, or was he holding back too much? Everything felt so uncertain, the ground beneath him shifting with every step.

A sudden cloud of smoke billowed behind him with a faint puff and a glimmer of magic. Cullen jolted at the movement in the mirror, instinctively reaching for his sword before he recognized the silhouette of Cole.

“Cole!” Cullen hissed through clenched teeth, his breath unsteady as he turned to face the spirit. “Don’t ever do that again! What are you—”

Cole raised his arms in a calming gesture, a bottle in one hand, the other open in a motion of peace.

“It’s alright! I’m here. I can help.”

Cullen exhaled sharply and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose as he tried to calm the tension that was now coursing through him. He knew Cole meant no harm—at least not to him—but the spirit’s sudden appearances—and disappearances—always set him on edge. Cullen couldn’t fathom how the Inquisitor managed to tolerate, let alone embrace, his peculiarities.

“What do you want, Cole? I’m busy,” Cullen growled.

“She asked me to take care of refreshments,” Cole said simply, as if the answer were self-evident. “It took me a while to understand. I think this is the right thing.”

Cole moved toward Cullen a little too abruptly, and Cullen tensed in response. The young man held out the bottle, which Cullen accepted hesitantly. His palms were damp once more, and the bottle nearly slipped from his grasp as he gripped its neck. With a furrowed brow, he lifted it to eye level and inspected the label. Champagne Monfort.

“What is this?” Cullen asked cautiously, incredulous at the sight of the rare and costly vintage. “How did you—”

“She’s ready,” Cole interrupted, his tone soft and otherworldly. His gaze wandered aimlessly around the room, never quite settling on Cullen. “She’s waiting for you. There, I helped.”

A faint smile played beneath the shadow of Cole’s hat before he vanished in another sudden poof of smoke and sparkle.

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen swore, instinctively stepping back as his heart leapt. He stood still for several moments, straining to hear anything unusual beyond the pounding of his pulse.

Once he was certain he was alone, Cullen let out another long exhale and shut his eyes briefly in an effort to calm himself. When he finally looked down at the bottle again, his brows knitted slightly. It was an excellent choice, no doubt, though Uriell likely wouldn’t expect him to arrive with yet another gift. Still, it wouldn’t go unappreciated.

Making a mental note to thank Cole later—preferably under more conventional circumstances—Cullen adjusted his grip on the bottle and began to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

His eyes sought his reflection once more. There was no reason to delay any longer, was there? An uncontrollable smile tugged at his lips. She was waiting for him—her spirit friend had said so. With a lighter step than he expected, Cullen braced himself and moved toward the door. It was time.

He navigated the corridors carefully, pausing at every corner to make sure his path was clear. The idea of being caught outside his quarters in casual attire, especially before he could reach Uriell’s room, made him feel uneasy. Fortunately, he had arranged the patrols with care, giving himself a clear path to her chambers. Even so, the possibility of running into one of her companions gnawed at his nerves, but luck seemed to be on his side tonight. The hallways were empty, granting him an unimpeded journey.

In what seemed like no time, he found himself standing in front of her door. His head swam slightly, his steps unsteady, his breath caught. The bottle felt heavier than it should in his grasp. Slowly, he raised his free hand to the door. Cullen swallowed hard to clear his dry throat, and inhaled deeply to calm the flurry of thoughts that threatened to have him waver. Then, with a resolute exhale, he knocked.

“Come in.”

Cullen obeyed the invitation and pushed the door open. He stepped inside, momentarily blinded by the flickering candlelight that bathed the room in a warm, almost otherworldly glow. As his vision accommodated, he saw her standing near the bed, partially hidden behind the couch. The click of the door closing behind him went unnoticed as all his senses were consumed by her presence.

There she was, commanding the room effortlessly, her silhouette perfectly framed by the dim light. She was dressed in her usual attire: a loose linen shirt tucked into high-waisted leather pants. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, cascading down her back to her knees in a way that caught the candlelight. There was a kindness in her eyes that seemed to soften the air around them, creating a gravity he couldn’t resist.

She was utterly breathtaking—not just in the grace of her form or the gentle tilt of her chin but in the unspoken power she exuded, as if the room itself had come alive simply because she was in it.

“Hi,” she greeted him, a shy smile touching her lips.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice low and hesitant, barely above a whisper. “I—I brought you something.”

Her eyes widened in surprise as he stepped closer and offered the bottle of champagne.

“Courtesy of Cole, though,” he added quickly as she took it and examined the label. “I have no idea where he found this.”

She chuckled, a soft, melodious sound that made his heart dance in his chest. “Oh, so that’s where he went. Thank you—to both of you.”

She walked away briefly and placed the bottle on her desk, before facing him again. Maker’s breath, she was stunning. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, transfixed by her every move, as if afraid that blinking would make her disappear.

They stared at each other for a moment, the quiet between them rich and unspoken, a silence neither dared to break too quickly. It was a silence filled with possibility—delicious, magnetic, and charged.

“So… how was your day?” she finally asked in a light voice as she shifted her weight with a playful bop of her hip.

“It was… rather uneventful,” Cullen replied slowly. The memory of the long day, spent mostly waiting, flashed through his mind. Unable to resist the pull she seemed to exert, he began closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. “You’d be surprised how little there is for me to do when the Inquisitor actually sticks to her schedule.”

He stopped just in front of her, his heart hammering faster with every inch of distance he’d just bridged. She grinned, her lips curling at one corner in amusement, but her gaze faltered as a blush bloomed across her cheeks.

“I’m surprised a man of action like yourself would prefer to remain idle,” she teased with playful challenge. “Do you want me to behave more, Commander?”

“See, that’s the strangest part,” he murmured as he reached for her. His arms wrapped around her shoulders to draw her close with gentle certainty. The warmth of her against him sent shivers down his spine, every nerve alive to her presence. “I do enjoy the predictability of my workdays, but… I missed your shenanigans. I missed you.”

Her eyes met his, and the coy glimmer gave way to a softer, more vulnerable expression. She leaned into his embrace, her arms slipping around his back and resting her head on his chest. Her voice dropped to a near whisper as she replied, “I missed you too.”

For a moment, he couldn’t move. Her scent, faintly floral, filled his senses. The weight of her against him, the tickle of her hair brushing his neck, and the firm yet tender grip of her hands on his back—it was almost too much. The moment felt fragile and infinite at the same time.

After a beat, she gave him a light squeeze, a silent reassurance before loosening her embrace and tilting her head back to look at him.

“I—er… Do you want to see your outfit?” she asked in a mixture of lingering emotion and lighthearted deflection.

He smiled back at her. “I do,” Cullen replied. “I’m curious to see how it turned out. Besides, well, my mission tonight is to try it on, right?”

She nodded, a small laugh escaping her lips as she slipped out of his arms. Her steps were light and fluid as she made her way to her dresser. She opened the top drawer and carefully pulled out a neatly folded bundle of clothes. With measured grace, she placed the fabrics on the bed, each gesture deliberate and delicate; then she turned her attention back to him.

“So, there it is…” she said softly. “There are pants, a jacket, and a sash. I’d suggest you wear your formal boots with it, and a shirt… perhaps one a bit tighter than what you’re wearing now.”

Her eyes lingered on the loose laces of his shirt. Cullen caught the slight pause in her words, and he grinned in response.

“What’s wrong with my shirt?” he teased, stepping closer to the bed and the folded clothes. It felt like a dance, this rhythm between them—approaching her, watching her retreat, and then drawing near once more.

“Nothing,” she chuckled and her eyes flicked back to his. “Just that a tighter one might be more comfortable under the jacket. Oh.”

Her focus shifted suddenly, drawn to the glint of candlelight on the scabbard at his hip.

“You’re already wearing it,” she remarked in a warm, low tone and her expression softened.

“It’s now my most prized possession, my lady,” Cullen replied with a bow of his head. Though his words carried a teasing lilt, they were laced in truth. The sword was more than a weapon—it was a symbol of her trust and affection, a gift he would carry with pride.

Uriell exhaled sharply, a sound of quiet satisfaction, and raised her face to his. She was beaming.

“Well, you can wear it too,” she said with a cheerful smile. “Go on, I’ll let you change. Let me know when you’re done.”

With that, she turned away, her steps unhurried as she walked to the balcony. Her gaze shifted to the estate’s gardens, the moonlight framing her figure in a silver glow.

Cullen chuckled to himself. She didn’t need to give him privacy; he wouldn’t have minded her staying. But the gesture was thoughtful and endearing, easing him in ways he hadn’t expected.

With careful, deliberate movements, Cullen removed his boots, belt, and pants, ensuring the rustle of fabric was loud enough for her to hear him undress. Yet she remained motionless, her posture unwavering. Her composure made him smile—how serious she could be sometimes.

Then, he unfolded the outfit.

It was magnificent. Cullen’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the deep red velvet jacket adorned with intricate gold embroidery, the shimmering decorated sash, and the impeccably tailored leather pants. Although he was no expert in sewing, he could see the painstaking attention to detail, the tiny flourishes that spoke of exceptional craftsmanship. It was hard to believe she had created such a masterpiece in such a short time.

He glanced at her silhouette, bathed in the moonlight streaming through the balcony doors. Gratitude filled his chest, but it mingled with a familiar ache—the nagging feeling that he didn’t deserve her care, her devotion. He shook the thought away and focused on the task at hand. She was waiting for him.

Slowly, with a mix of awe and caution, Cullen slipped into the pants. The leather was thinner than what he was used to, molding comfortably to his frame. It stretched enough to allow movement without feeling restrictive, and he gave a small, approving click of his tongue. Cullen hesitated to put his boots back on but couldn’t be bothered.

Next came the jacket, snug but perfectly fitted. As he put it on, he recalled how her fingers had slipped between the measuring tape and his neck to ensure the collar wouldn’t feel too tight. He smiled to himself, appreciating her precision even more now. She had been right about the shirt—a tighter one would have minimized the bulk beneath the tailored jacket, especially around the shoulders where the seams hugged him. Still, everything felt just right.

He carefully buttoned the front flap of the jacket, its design reminiscent of the Orlesian military uniforms he had seen before. Finally, he wrapped the golden sash around his waist and secured it with his belt. When he turned to the standing mirror by the bed, his reflection caught him off guard.

The ensemble was stunning, transforming him in ways he hadn’t expected. The cut and design struck a balance—Orlesian in its elegance, yet practical and understated enough to suit his sensibilities. It gave him a noble, regal air without the flamboyance of true Orlesian fashion. For a moment, he didn’t quite recognize himself.

“I… You can turn around,” he cleared his throat to steady his voice.

His heart thundered with anticipation as he watched her shift toward him and her gaze instantly meet his. She studied him intently, her eyes tracing every seam and detail, taking in his sight. Uriell’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came.

“You look…” she began in a whisper, only to falter as her thoughts seemed to scatter.

This time, it was she who closed the distance. Hesitant and slow, she stepped into the candlelight. Her focus was entirely on him, her scrutiny both thrilling and unnerving. Cullen felt a shiver run down his spine under her gaze, but he stood firm. When Uriell finally stopped in front of him, her eyes lingered on the ensemble one last time before lifting to meet his. A smile broke across her trembling lips, soft and genuine.

“You look handsome,” she said at last. “Striking, even. It suits you.”

“All thanks to you,” Cullen whispered back.

Her compliment burned in his chest, igniting a fire that spread through him. Without thinking, he reached for her hand. She let him take it, and he bowed just slightly to press a baisemain to her knuckles in a gesture of reverence. Her fingers curled around his in response, and a tender chuckle escaped her.

“Rehearsing the etiquette, Commander?”

“I am merely paying my lady what she’s due,” he teased, his lips still brushing against her skin.

She slipped from his grasp, her index rising to his chin to gently tilt his face upward. Cullen straightened under her light and yet commanding touch. Her head shifted subtly to the side with a look of amusement.

“All right, let me check the fit. Arms up,” she instructed.

He obeyed without hesitation, raising his arms in a motion similar to the moment she had taken his measurements at Lake Celestine. Her deft hands moved with practiced precision, her eyes sharp and relentless as she inspected every detail. Fingers smoothed along seams, checked buttons, and tugged at fabric to ensure the fit was perfect.

Her touch was everywhere—grazing his arms, skimming his back, brushing across his shoulders and torso. She worked methodically, hunting for wrinkles, ensuring the jacket allowed free movement, and perfecting every fold and line. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each passing second thick with a familiar unspoken intimacy. Cullen suspected she was being more meticulous than necessary, but he didn’t mind.

At last, her palms came to rest on his torso and the final rustle of fabric faded into a charged silence.

“Would you look at that,” she mused, a smile lighting her face. “Perfect.”

Before she could pull away and break the moment, Cullen’s hands reached for hers and pressed them firmly against his chest. His breath hitched when she looked up again, her expression a mix of surprise and smoldering passion. Her aura washed over him, as radiant and warm as the sun.

He drank in every detail of her face—the pink blush of her cheeks, the delicate parting of her lips, the brief glimpse of her tongue as she exhaled. Her trembling mouth was so close and yet so achingly far away. The memory of their moment together the night before surged within him like a siren’s call, urging him closer, imploring him to relive the taste of her.

Then he saw it—her staring, equally captivated, fixed on his mouth and the faint scar across his lip with unguarded devotion. Her eyes burned with the same yearning that consumed him. In that shared silence, they both hesitated, caught in a game of quiet anticipation.

Cullen didn’t care who moved first. He had waited long enough. His throat tightened as he swallowed hard, his voice rough and low when he finally spoke.

“Uriell… may I kiss you?”

Her gaze flickered up to his, tender and pleading as she nodded. The world seemed to hold its breath and he leaned toward her, surrendering to the invisible force that pulled them together.

The first contact of their lips was light, tentative—a soft brush that sent a shockwave through him. He closed his eyes and felt his heart hammer against his ribs in a wild and erratic rhythm. Her lips moved under his and she answered his hesitant touch with her own. They melted together, the kiss growing warmer, bolder. His arms slid around her, drawing her close, while her hands reached up to cradle the back of his neck.

Fingers tangled in his hair, and she leaned into him with increasing fervor. Her lips parted slightly, inviting him in, and he claimed her mouth without hesitation. Her shy flicker of a tongue was met with his, and the kiss deepened further. She tilted her head and a soft moan escaped her, reverberating through the air like a melody meant for him alone.

Cullen’s hands slid down her back, tracing the curve of her waist as he held her close. She wrapped a leg around his, her movements instinctive and seeking, and he responded by pulling her closer, their embrace both tender and desperate.

When the kiss finally broke, it was with a gasp—her breath mingling with his, both of them struggling to steady themselves.

“Ah—the outfit,” she panted as she pushed him back gently. Her grip loosened as she tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to smooth the fabric beneath her palms.

“Want me to take it off?” Cullen asked, his smile heated and his voice low and raspy. His teeth caught her lower lip in a playful tug which made her shiver.

The glint of desire in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. With a small chuckle, he stole another kiss and claimed her once more. She softened into him, pliant and eager as he guided her with resolute but gentle movements.

Her gasp mixed with his deep breaths as he maneuvered her backward, step by step, never letting go of her mouth. When her legs hit the edge of the bed, he paused only briefly, his grip firm on her waist as he eased her down.

Uriell sat and looked up at him with both in surprise and expectation. The flickering candlelight danced across her features, highlighting the flush in her cheeks and her swollen lips. Cullen straightened to his full height, towering over her for a moment, reveling in the way her gaze swept over him.

Before she could speak, his hands rose to his belt.

Her breath caught as his fingers worked the buckle with slow, deliberate precision. The sound of the metal unfastening seemed impossibly loud in the exhilarating silence of the room. He carefully placed the belt and scabbard on the floor, the gesture unhurried, his gaze never leaving hers.

Then, just as deliberately, he reached for the golden sash. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes following every movement. With languid ease, he pulled the fabric free and let it slide from his waist with a soft rustle before finally letting it fall at his feet.

Uriell’s cleavage heaved with each accessory removed. Maker, he loved this—the way she unraveled before him, completely absorbed, as though undressing him layer by layer in her mind before he even began. The memory of her watching him shed his armor in the cramped privacy of the carriage came to his mind. Back then, she had kept a veneer of restraint; but now, it was all gone.

Every part of her—her erratic breathing, the heat on her face, the faint quiver of her lips—betrayed her craving. He had never felt more wanted, more desired in his life.

Cullen’s calloused fingers moved to the buttons of his jacket, working slowly, one by one, from the high collar to the hem. There was no need to rush; they had all the time in the world tonight. His heart thrummed harder with every button undone, anticipation coiling tight in his core as the jacket loosened. Uriell’s lips parted, and he didn’t miss the moment her tongue darted out to wet them as he pushed the flaps open.

Carefully, reverently, he slid the jacket off his shoulders and folded it neatly over the nearby couch, showing the same respect for her hard work as he had when he had put it on.

His shirt was a different matter. The laces were already hanging loose; the neckline open just enough to tease. Uriell’s stare intensified as Cullen pulled the fabric free from where it was tucked into his pants. With deliberate slowness, he grabbed the hem and pulled the shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

Her sharp inhale was audible, and it sent a thrill coursing through him. The candlelight played across his chest, accentuating every line of muscle, every scar—a map of battles fought and survived. Her gaze roamed over him, unashamed, taking him in as if committing every detail to memory.

Curious, Cullen shifted, his muscles tensing and flexing under her scrutiny. The flicker in her eyes was impossible to miss, a spark that made his grin widen.

He chuckled softly, and her attention snapped back to his face. A darker blush bloomed across her cheeks. She feigned a pout, her lips pressing into a playful line that vanished the moment he leaned in and laid a gentle kiss on her mouth.

When they parted, her voice was a delicate murmur.

“Can I touch you?”

Cullen’s pulse surged, his throat going dry as he answered with a simple nod. Rising to his full height, he stretched his arms out slightly to guide her toward him. When her fingers met his skin, cold—colder than he anticipated, an unexpected and exhilarating shiver rippled down his spine.

She began her journey cautiously, her fingertips grazing his abdomen with featherlight precision. They moved upward, tracing the lines of his muscles to his chest, pausing just above his nipples. Only then did the weight of her worshipping gaze settle over him, and he became acutely aware of how exposed he was.

Her fingers danced lower, delicately following the paths of his scars. It was as if she was silently piecing together the stories etched across his body. Then, her hands pressed fully against his chest, her palms gliding with tender care. She discovered him thoroughly, her touch firm yet unhurried, encompassing his pecs, sliding down his abs, wrapping around his waist, and trailing back up to his collarbone.

Her exploration didn’t stop there. Her palms flattened around his shoulders before sliding down his arms, her touch following every contour until her nails grazed his hands. Then, in a slow reversal of her path, her hands ascended once more, retracing their steps with the same deliberate care.

Cullen was a match struck under her touch, the fire under his skin burning hotter with each caress. His heart raced, and he gasped when her nails dragged along his abdomen, down—dangerously down, until they reached the hem of his pants.

“You know,” she began, her voice low and teasing, drawing his attention back to her face. Her lips curled into a sly smile as her eyes met his. “I spent a lot of time sewing those pants. It would be a shame if we damaged them.”

She hooked her index playfully around the hem. “Perhaps I should take them off for you?”

Cullen held his breath as he silently acquiesced. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his anticipation as Uriell's fingers toyed with the ties of his pants. When the laces came undone, she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his stomach in soft, featherlight kisses that sent shockwaves through his body. He gasped, the sound unbidden, as her mouth drew nearer to the raging of his arousal.

His hands hovered close to her face, unsure on what to do with them, waiting for her next move. He waited, helpless, as her nimble fingers tugged at the leather. With a quiet rustle, his pants slipped free and crumpled around his ankles. Uriell leaned back just enough for him to step out of them, her eyes never leaving his form. Cullen bent to retrieve the garment, placing it with careful precision atop the jacket, a futile attempt to distract himself from the intensity of her gaze.

He stood before her now; the cotton of his smalls stretched taut against his arousal, the fabric doing little to shield him from her ravenous attention. Heat climbed his neck and spread across his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. The air between them grew thick, weighted with the tension neither dared to break.

Uriell made her move, closing the gap between them with an effortless grace. Their fingers intertwined as she kissed his stomach again, her lips soft and warm against his skin.

A guttural sound tore from his throat—part gasp, part plea—when her tongue flicked across his flesh, following a deliberate path, lower and lower, little by little. Each kiss, each touch, left a searing imprint on his pickled skin, and his pulse roared in his ears as her mouth reached the edge of his smalls. She paused there, her breath hot against the sensitive fabric, and her eyes lifted to meet his.

“May I…?”

The two words unraveled him. He shuddered, unable to utter the “yes” caught in his throat. Instead, Cullen nodded and brought back Uriell’s hands to his hips with trembling fingers.

Her mischievous smile faded as her focus sharpened, and she resumed her exploration. Her thumbs hooked into the hem of his underwear, and with a simple, unhurried tug, his shaft bobbed free from its confines. The world seemed to narrow for Cullen, his senses consumed by the pounding of his heartbeat and the intimate sound of Uriell’s inhale as she took in his musky scent.

Despite his anticipation, he jerked when the wet warmth of her lips pressed a kiss to its head. He gasped as her hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, steadying him before she brought him closer. Her mouth opened to welcome him with a low, throaty purr, the vibrations making his breath hitch.

His moans began hesitantly, like something unfamiliar to him, but grew louder with each slow, deliberate bob of her head. Fuck, it was exquisite. Her tongue teased him with confident precision, circling the head, running along its length, and pressing against his silken skin in a way that made him weak in the knees. She worked him masterfully, her rhythm adjusting to every groan, every gasp, as she pushed him further into her mouth.

At times, her teeth grazed against his shaft, a fleeting sensation that left him breathless before she took him deeper, which drew a throaty response from something feral lurking in his chest. His hands, guided to her head, ran reflexively through her hair though he barely dared to exert pressure. The tension in his body coiled tighter as her pace quickened, the pleasure increasing with every slick stroke of her tongue and each intentional motion of her lips. His cock throbbed in her mouth, straining against the intensity of her attentions. Everything felt good—so good, and the limits of his self-restraint were about to break.

“Ah—Uriell, please,” he managed between ragged breaths, his tone thick and broken with need. She slowed at his plea, her eyes flicking up. “Please, wait—”

She released his cock with a wet sound, leaving him shivering, and placed another soft, lingering kiss on the sensitive crown. Cullen quivered when she looked up at him. The sight was obscene yet utterly enthralling—the Inquisitor licking her lips, savoring the taste of him with an unabashed hunger.

“Should I stop?” she asked gently.

“Please,” he murmured and nodded. “Let me catch my breath… I want to taste you first.”

Her head tilted slightly, curiosity and excitement shining in her eyes. Reluctantly, she loosened her grip on him and leaned back on the bed. Her cheeky smile only intensified the magnetic pull between them. Despite her bold demeanor, the smoldering desire in her gaze betrayed her eagerness for what came next.

“Alright, Commander,” she purred in a sultry voice. Her gaze roved over his exposed body with deliberate intent. “What should I do?”

“Get up,” Cullen ordered, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk.

Uriell obeyed and rose gracefully to her feet. As she stood, her face hovered close to his, her breath mingling with his as their noses brushed. She was tantalizingly near, her lips a whisper away, but just as he moved to close the gap, she pulled back, and her eyes gleamed with playful defiance.

“What next?” she teased in a provocative challenge that made Cullen growl deep in his throat.

“Off with these,” he replied, his voice hoarse with desire as his hands moved to the hem of her shirt.

Carefully, he tugged at the fabric, pulling it upward in one smooth motion. Uriell offered no resistance, her arms lifting to aid him as the shirt slipped free, leaving her bare-chested before him. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in waves, framing her flushed skin.

For a moment, he just stood there, drinking her in. He had stolen glimpses of her before—in Montsimmard and Morrac, during their clandestine midnight baths, in the moonlit haze of those fleeting, unguarded moments. But now, there was no inhibition, no stolen glances. Now, he was allowed to look, to touch, to memorize every curve and contour of her.

She smiled, and Cullen lunged at her, his urgency barely restrained. His mouth found the crook of her neck, which drew a yelp of surprise from her. He kissed along the column of her throat and nipped at her sensitive skin with unbridled hunger, his breath warm and teasing against her ear. Cullen’s hands moved with reverence, cupping her perfect breasts as he squeezed gently, which earned a sigh of pleasure from Uriell. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, her body arching into his touch in complete surrender.

His indexes and thumbs sought her hardened nipples, rolling them with careful precision as he watched her responses with rapt attention, each gasp and shiver fueling his desire. He mapped her curves with his palms, committing every soft line to memory, but his control was wearing thin. She was everything he had ever wanted, and he craved her with a need that burned in his chest. The thought of tasting her, of claiming every inch of her, made his mouth water eagerly.

With hasty hands, he reached for the laces of her pants, the last barrier between him and her bare skin. In moments, her clothes were on the floor. Her silky-smooth legs brushed against his and set every nerve in his body on fire. Cullen tugged at her ear with his teeth, eliciting a loud, unrestrained moan that sent his heart pounding even harder.

“Ah—Cullen, please,” she whimpered as he sucked on her earlobe. The sound was intoxicating, and he filed it away, determined to revisit that spot again.

His large hands had traced the length of her back, dragging down to her buttocks before he lifted her effortlessly, and she gasped in surprise as he laid her down on the mattress. Looming over her, he braced himself with his arms on either side of her head, his shadow casting a protective veil over her flushed form.

His gaze trailed downward. Cullen’s breath caught as he stood between her folded, pale legs. Her toes curled at the edge of the bed, as if clinging to balance while her thighs quivered. His eyes lingered on the inviting little nest of blonde hair where her legs parted, and the sight left his throat parched and his desire roar. Uriell squirmed beneath his scrutiny, her blush spreading to her chest, but her steady eyes and the gentle tilt of her head beckoned him onward.

His lips crashed onto hers in a starving kiss, his passion almost feral as he shifted his weight to one arm. His free hand wandered downward, sliding over her breast and stomach before grazing the curve of her waist and traveling to her thigh. His fingers danced there, teasingly light, building her frustration as he intentionally avoided the aching heat at her center. She whimpered, her breath catching, and he smirked knowingly, relishing her anticipation. Finally, his fingertips trailed upward along the inside of her thigh, igniting her nerves like fire.

She was so wet already, and Cullen groaned with fierce satisfaction, his arousal throbbing in response. One, then two digits slid between her slick folds, moving in slow strokes that earned him a sharp, heated inhale. Her body responded instinctively, her hips shifting toward his touch as he massaged her with expert precision. When his fingers were thoroughly coated in her wetness, he pressed them gently inside her, her body yielding to his intrusion with a gasp. Her thighs opened wider in invitation; her eyes fluttering shut as she surrendered to the sensation he stirred inside her.

Cullen moved with care, curling his fingers and pressing deeper in slow, deliberate motions, memorizing every sound and shudder that told him he’d found her sweetest spots. As his hand worked its magic, his lips left hers, trailing kisses along her cheek, her ear, and down the curve of her neck. He tasted the elegant line of her collarbone, his reverent path leading lower with every lingering kiss. His descent was unhurried, his knees meeting the floor as he worshiped her body with lips and tongue.

His mouth found her breasts, teasing her stiff nipples with calculated laps of his tongue. Her chest already rose and fell in quickening rhythms, her breath coming faster under his fingering. He moved lower, his teeth grazing her abdomen, worshipping the soft dip of her stomach as he edged closer to the heat that called to him. Finally, he reached his destination, and the intoxicating scent of her arousal made his head spin with desire.

He slowed his pace, drawing a faint groan of frustration from her lips, but he settled between her parted thighs, his broad shoulders propping her legs. Her eyes met his, her gaze dark with longing, and he held it as his mouth descended. His tongue slid through her wet folds, eliciting a loud moan from her as he began to explore her with reverent hunger.

Her taste was heavenly, and Cullen devoured her like a man starved, his tongue swirling and flicking over her clit with precision and passion. Her cries only fueled his fervor, his cock aching painfully as her toes curled against his shoulders. There was something sacred in his submission, kneeling before her as he poured every ounce of devotion into her pleasure, worshipping her with his mouth and the unbridled intensity of his love.

When Cullen’s digits curled inside her again, Uriell’s pants became erratic, each breath trembling with raw desire. Her hands instinctively tangled in his hair, tugging lightly as if to ground herself amidst the rising waves of pleasure. He followed her lead, the uncontrolled roll of her hips guiding his movements as his tongue and fingers worked in perfect rhythm. Her breath soon turned into a chant of his name, each syllable a melody that sent shivers down his spine. Maker, he loved the sound of it. A few times, he murmured a muffled “yes?” against her, the vibrations only intensifying her cries, and he pressed on with greater fervor.

When her legs began to tremble, Cullen redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her over the edge. He focused every movement on her release, chasing the climax he so desperately wanted to give her.

“Cullen—!”

Her cry broke through the room as her release hit her like a storm. Her walls clenched around his fingers, and a powerful wave of pleasure rippled through her body, leaving him breathless and electrified by her reaction. Uriell shivered violently, panting feverishly until the wave subsided. Cullen held her firmly, his hands steady as he waited for her shaking to calm and her breathing to even out. When she finally stilled, he slowly withdrew from her and pressed a final reverent kiss to her sensitive clit, savoring her taste one last time.

Her hands now loosened in his hair and slid down to cradle his face as she urged him upward. Cullen obeyed, kissing his way back up her body with tenderness, leaving a trail of lingering warmth. When he reached her lips, Uriell pulled him into a ravenous kiss with a satisfied roar. Her nails dug into his shoulders as though to anchor herself to him. His arousal pressed against her slickness, and the contact made him shudder, a low, guttural and lustful grunt escaping his throat.

He couldn’t wait any longer. One arm slipped around her waist, pulling her with ease as he shifted them further into the bed’s center. Crawling atop her, his weight pressed deliciously against her as their kiss deepened into something primal—tongues entwined, breaths mingled, and shared eagerness burned between them. Her toes brushed along his calves and thighs, her legs wrapped securely around his hips, drawing him closer.

“Ah, Uriell—” he moaned as his shaft slid against her clit once more, sending a jolt of pleasure through them both. Grinding against her, his voice cracked with longing. “Please... Can I...?”

In answer, her hand darted between them and closed firmly around his throbbing cock. Cullen bucked instinctively into her grasp, a low growl rumbling in his throat, his body overcome by aching pleasure. Uriell guided him to her entrance, and he followed without hesitation. She stifled a cry as he pushed through, her body tensing around him, tight and yielding all at once. The sensation was overwhelming—for both of them.

The first slow thrust stole his breath, and she gasped as he sank deeper into her. She was gloriously wet and impossibly snug, her warmth wrapping around him in a way that sent a shudder through his frame. It took a few tentative movements to find a rhythm, each slow, deliberate motion pulling rasping groans from him and melodic moans from her.

“That’s—you’re—” Cullen’s words broke apart with every thrust, each more blissful than the last. “You have no idea… what you’re doing to me…”

His growls deepened, raw and feral, as his senses dimmed to everything but her. The sound of her voice—her whimpers, the way she called his name—was all he could hear, all he could think about. It drove him to push harder, deeper. Uriell’s face was a portrait of ecstasy, her head tilted back, lips parted, and cheeks flushed as her hips rolled in rhythm with his. The way she met his movements, seeking more friction and closeness, made him shudder. He felt the flutter of her walls tightening around him, a silent cue that she was close.

“Maker’s breath,” he gasped in a strained and husky voice. “Uriell—you feel so damn good…”

Her body reacted to his words as though they were caresses, the heat of her skin deepening as she clung to him. His chest swelled with satisfaction, knowing he was the cause of her unraveling. The blush painting her cheeks traveled down her neck to her breasts, each rise and fall of her chest quicker, more erratic. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she lost herself to the rising tide of pleasure.

Cullen’s own control teetered on the edge, his groans growing sharper, his thrusts more desperate. He was close too—so close.

“Fuck—” he grunted. “Uriell, love—please… I’m going to—I need you to come for me. Please… I need to feel you…”

Her voice climbed into a falsetto as his motions became frantic. Her cries turned to eager “yes!” until she shattered beneath him with another powerful thrust. Time seemed to pause as her body tensed and quivered, clutching him tightly while she panted for air. Her release pulled him with her, and with one final uncontrolled roll of her hips, Cullen roared as his own climax surged through him.

A shudder tore through his frame, a wave of pleasure that left him breathless and his senses blissfully numb. He bucked instinctively, his spasms relentless as he spilled inside her, his body surrendering entirely to the overwhelming euphoria. He barely had the presence of mind to hold himself upright, his arms trembling with effort.

He flinched slightly, startled when her hands cupped his face and brushed his flushed cheeks. She appeared in his blurry vision. Uriell’s features were undone, her skin radiant with heat and pleasure, her gaze soft and full of affection. She drew him into a kiss, and he collapsed into her, their bodies melting together.

Their mouths moved languidly, tongues tangling as they stole what little breath remained in each other’s lungs. The kiss was tender, unhurried, and grounding. Grips loosened, and their breathing steadied, the intensity of the moment ebbing into quiet stillness.

Neither moved, content to linger in the gentle rhythm of each other’s heartbeat. Uriell’s fingers traced lazy circles along his back, her touch soothing the lingering tension in his muscles. He nearly drifted off beneath her delicate ministrations, his mind slipping into a peaceful haze—until her voice pulled him back.

“So… you called me ‘love.’ I like that.”

Cullen lifted his head to meet her gaze, blinking in realization as his heart skipped a beat. Before he could form a reply, her fingers brushed his cheek, a soft gesture of reassurance. Her smile was radiant, warm, and disarming.

“The feeling’s mutual, Commander. Cullen. Love.”

Her lips found his in a delicate kiss, a gesture of quiet certainty and promise. Fire reignited in his chest, spreading through him with renewed vigor. She gasped softly as he reached for her ear.

***

Uriell stirred awake to the faint rustle of movement beside her. The morning light filtered softly into the room through the open windows and gently drew her from her sleep. As her senses gradually returned, she became aware of the comforting warmth of a strong arm draped protectively around her waist.

Blinking her eyes open lazily, she found herself face-to-face with Cullen. His golden hair was endearingly tousled, and a tender smile softened his rugged features.

“Good morning, love,” he murmured. His voice low and sweet, carried a warmth that wrapped around her like the sunlight streaming through the curtains.

His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, lingering for a moment to caress her skin. Uriell’s heart swelled at the sight of his affectionate gaze. His amber eyes held a quiet adoration, as if she was the only thing in the world worth looking at. Neither of them moved for a moment, content to savor the quiet intimacy. Her hand instinctively rose to cover his where it rested on her cheek.

“Good morning, handsome,” she replied in a matching whisper.

He chuckled, the sound deep and comforting, and his eyes roamed her face as if memorizing every detail. She realized he had likely been awake for a while, watching her rise from the fog of dreams.

“You know,” he began as he drew her closer with a gentle press of his arm, “I wanted to kiss you all night. But I figured you needed the rest...”

“Well,” she purred through her drowsiness, lips curling into a playful smile, “I’m awake now.”

Her hand slid up his back, steadying herself as she leaned in to claim his lips. The kiss was soft like honey, tender and precious. She heard Cullen’s breath hitch, as if he feared she might vanish if he exhaled. His heart thudded against her chest, and her own pulse quickened when he nibbled lightly on her lower lip.

He had quickly learned the little things that made her shiver, and his touch was a deliberate dance, coaxing every part of her awake.

“Mh—are you trying to get my attention, Commander?” she giggled after a flick of his tongue.

“What if I am, my lady?” Cullen murmured, his voice thick with desire.

His kisses trailed from her lips to her cheek, then along the curve of her jaw and down to her neck. Uriell’s toes curled as his hot breath teased her sensitive skin, and she barely stifled a moan, her body betraying her resolve.

“You are restless,” she laughed softly, though there was no real admonishment in her tone.

“Every second with you counts,” he replied between kisses pressed against the hollow of her throat. “We’re leaving for Val Royeaux today, and… I don’t know when I’ll get to be alone with you again.”

Uriell sighed as he nibbled her skin, sending a spark of pleasure through her. She forced her eyes open, catching the timid rays of morning light peeking through the windows.

“Speaking of which—ah,” she started, only to gasp when Cullen’s teeth grazed her neck again, this time with slightly more pressure. “Shouldn’t we get up, then?” she managed, though her words lacked conviction.

“Don’t worry,” Cullen groaned, his voice rough with need as his arms tightened possessively around her. “We’re not due for hours. We have… plenty of time.”

Uriell exhaled shakily, her body melting against him as she tilted her head to the side, offering her throat in silent invitation. Her sense of duty whispered faint protests, but the thought of being late held no real weight in her mind. Instead, relief—and a thrill—rushed through her when Cullen didn’t stop. If anything, it seemed to encourage him.

She quivered when his lips found her earlobe, his teeth nipping just enough to send a delicious shiver coursing down her spine. Heat pooled in her core, her toes curling again as an electric wave rippled through her. Her reaction earned a low chuckle from Cullen, rich with satisfaction.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his husky voice brushing against her ear, the words as intimate as the caress of his hands.

Her stifled moan was all the answer Cullen needed. Uriell squirmed under his touch and her breath caught as a tremor of longing rippled through her. Yes, she wanted to answer, but words stopped at the edge of her tongue, the overwhelming anticipation kept them at bay. When he tugged at her ear again, she shuddered and the ache deep within her grew more insistent.

She instinctively pressed her thighs together as to quell the tingling warmth building inside her. But Cullen felt it—the subtle shift—and tightened his embrace in response. She gasped as she became acutely aware of the already hard cock pressing against her, and the realization sent a low, wanting sigh spilling from her lips.

Cullen’s air was hot as he whispered, his voice dipping dangerously low. “You know… ever since you saved my life in that cabin, I—I wake up with the same picture in my mind.”

Uriell stirred in his grasp just enough to pull back and meet his gaze. Her heart fluttered at the intensity she found there–his amber eyes burned with passion, smoldering with unspoken desire that made her cheeks flush.

“… What is it?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling with curiosity.

He grinned, slow and wicked. “The sight of you on top of me—it’s seared into my memory.” His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned in. “Would you care to show it to me again?”

“Oh?”

Uriell’s breath caught at his words, her face growing even hotter. She tried to mask her sudden fluster by kissing him again, but the moment her lips crashed into his, the move only seemed to stoke the fire already burning between them.

Cullen responded with fervor, his lips claiming hers with a mix of teasing bites and heated thirst that sent her reeling. She barely noticed his hand drifting down, tracing her waist and hip before firmly gripping her buttock. With one fluid motion, he hooked his arm under her thigh, sliding her leg over his.

When they finally broke apart for air, both of them panting, he pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, his voice jagged and pleading, “Please?”

The blanket rustled and Uriell sat on top of him, smiling down at his boldness. She paused, her gaze sweeping over him—the sight of him laid bare beneath her. Enclosed between her pale thighs, Cullen was a masterpiece of strength and grace, every tightly packed muscle and the broad plane of his chest sculpted to perfection. She smirked, and he returned it, his amber eyes gleaming with unrestrained eagerness and unwavering devotion.

She shifted onto her knees and reached between them, longing to feel him within her and push him inside; but then, he stopped her. His large and calloused hands wrapped securely around her waist, halting her with surprising tenderness. A soft click of his tongue drew her attention to his face again.

“Higher,” he instructed in a low rasp.

Uriell’s eyes widened in surprise at first, before his meaning dawned on her. Her smile turned into an uncontrollable grin, amusement mingling with delight as the heat between her legs burned hotter in response.

“Really?” she scoffed playfully, her cheeks flushing. But Cullen remained unyielding.

“Please,” he murmured, his fingers digging in her skin as to urge her. His eyes burned with raw need. “I want to taste you.”

A shiver ran down her spine. She bit her lip as her body answered his call. Surrendering to his request, she crawled up his body, until her knees pressed into the bed on either side of his head. Positioned above him, mere inches from his face, she couldn’t help but marvel at the sight—Cullen’s golden hair tousled against the pillow, his eager eyes locked with hers, his expression reverent and sinful all at once.

“Thank you, my lady,” he whispered as he lowered her down to his waiting mouth, never breaking eye-contact.

Uriell gasped at the first stroke of his tongue, her head falling back as pleasure sparked through her. Her hands flew to the headboard, fingers gripping tight as his hold on her thighs firmed, keeping her where he wanted. He explored her with a fervor that bordered on worship, his tongue moving with both hunger and precision.

Maker, he was good at this. It had caught her off guard the night before, and yet she was no less stunned by his skill now. He devoured her greedily at first, raw desire fueling every stroke, but soon his focus sharpened. His tongue circled and flicked over her clit, alternating with calculated sucks that sent shivers rippling through her. When he scraped his teeth over the sensitive nub, she cried out, her hips instinctively rocking against his mouth.

Uriell had started to shake. She glanced down from time to time only to meet Cullen’s steadfast gaze. His eyes were unwavering, full of purpose as he studied her reactions, adjusting his rhythm and the intricate dance of his tongue to pull more sounds of pleasure from her lips.

As she surrendered to the pleasure and abandoned the last vestiges of restraint, the heat coiling inside her surged higher. Her breath grew ragged, her moans louder with each passing moment. The muffled, satisfied sounds he made between her thighs sent shocks through her every time, intensifying her shudders. Her thoughts scattered in the overwhelming tide of sensation, but even as she edged closer to release, she couldn’t help but think of returning the favor.

Instinctively, she leaned back, her trembling fingers reaching down to seek for his cock in her palm. But before she could make contact, a startled yelp escaped her when his hand shot up, strong and swift, to seize her wrist. She blinked down at him, pleasure-drunk and dazed, only for him to guide her hand instead to his hair, threading her fingers into his tousled locks.

The world around her faded, her senses narrowed to the man beneath her, his mouth working with tireless devotion against her. She clung to him, her panting broke with helpless whimpers, her grip tightening in his hair as he worked her closer and closer to the edge.

When she dared to look down at him one last time, his pleading yet smoldering eyes met hers. It was as if she could feel the unspoken command radiating from him: “Come for me.”

The wave broke, crashing over her in a torrent of white-hot pleasure.

“Ah—yes, Cullen—!”

His name tore from her throat louder than she intended, her cries ringing through the room as every muscle in her body seized and convulsed. Her head fell back, spine arching as the orgasm wracked her, leaving her trembling and undone. He didn’t stop, his mouth guiding her through every pulse and aftershock, until she was spent and shaking in his unyielding grasp.

Her legs wobbled beneath her as she tried to steady herself, her fingers clutching the headboard while she struggled to catch her breath. Only when her mind began to clear did she sense him slow, his tongue tracing a final, languid path across her sensitive flesh. He pressed soft, reverent kisses to her swollen clit—an unspoken prayer of adoration.

Boneless, she crawled back down, her body too weak to hold itself upright. Cullen caught her easily, guiding her into his arms until she collapsed on top of him. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, still panting and quivering.

Cullen’s chest rumbled with a low, satisfied chuckle.

“Thank you, my lady,” he murmured huskily into her ear, his breath warm against her flushed skin.

It was an unfair move—the victorious Commander savoring his triumph as the Inquisitor lay defeated and dizzy in his arms, her strength drained, and her composure thoroughly undone.

“No,” she murmured. “Thank you… That was… incredible.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Cullen replied, his laughter warm and rich, though his tone carried a raspy hint to his own desire.

With a tenderness that made her heart flutter, he brushed away the damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead. His fingers trailed delicately along her back, their soft, languid movements grounding her as the ringing in her ears subsided and her senses returned.

“Well,” she purred in a mischievous tone, “not yet…”

Uriell leaned in and traced soft, teasing kisses along his jaw, mimicking the way he had tormented her earlier. When her lips found his neck, she sucked lightly, just enough to feel the way a gulp down his throat.

The long, raspy moan that escaped him betrayed just how aroused he still was, the sound stirring something deep within her. A delighted giggle bubbled up as she nipped at his earlobe and dragged her nails across his chest in playful retaliation.

“Uriell—” he groaned, his voice catching as her ministrations continued. His breaths came unevenly now, punctuated by sharp exhalations and low, throaty noises.

His reactions emboldened her. She kissed him deeply, pouring heat and intention into the press of her lips until they were both gasping. Then, with renewed energy coiling inside her, she straddled him fully once more. Her fingertips trailed once more from his broad shoulders, across his sculpted pecs, and down to where his taut abdomen met her thighs. She scratched him with the tip of her nails just enough to elicit another desperate sound from him, watching as he came apart beneath her.

His lips parted, his throat worked with a tight swallow, and his brow furrowed slightly—a silent, pleading expression she couldn’t resist.

Uriell’s smile widened, though it barely masked her own growing hunger. She wanted him inside her just as much, the ache in her core becoming nearly unbearable. Under his captivated gaze, she deliberately rolled her hips against him, a wicked tease of friction that sent sparks of pleasure through them both.

Cullen tensed beneath her, his hands gripping her waist so hard he was sure to mark her. Each slow grind of her hips pulled another moan, his control fraying with every passing moment.

Finally, his implored: “Please, Uriell, I—”

She locked eyes with him as she engulfed him in with a wet, tantalizing slurp. His groan broke into a shudder, his head tipping back as she settled fully onto him with a delighted moan of her own. He urgently held on to her hips, his touch rough with need, as she began to move.

Heat bloomed deep inside her, a consuming fire stoked by his desperate gaze and the subtle twitches of his cock as it grew even harder within her. He filled her entirely, stretching her in ways that left her trembling with every rocking movement.

“Oh, Maker, yes—” he hissed between clenched teeth and his fingers clawed into her sides.

Their rhythm built naturally, her movements fluid and driven, while his body responded with a growing urgency. As she rode him, each motion drew untamed “yes”, ragged breaths and unrestrained groans from him, fueling her own pleasure anew despite her recent orgasm. He began meeting her thrusts, driving deeper each time, his body straining toward hers with unrelenting fervor.

The pace quickened. The obscene sounds of their bodies colliding filled the room, mingling with their gasps and cries. Uriell’s head tilted back, her senses ablaze, every stroke threatening to undo her. She hadn’t realized she had stilled, surrendering entirely to his control as he gripped her waist and rammed into her with wild, desperate need.

She looked down at the tableau—the way his features twisted in pleasure, his lips parted with guttural groans, his focus locked on her as though she were his entire world. The sight shattered her. Her body pulsed, trembling uncontrollably as the wave of her second climax crashed over her.

“Yes, Cullen—oh, yes!” she cried out, her voice raw with ecstasy.

Her spasms close tight around him, drawing a feral growl from his throat. His thrusts turned erratic, each one stronger and more frantic, until his body tensed beneath her. With a rough, broken gasp of her name, he shuddered violently and followed her over the edge.

They collapsed into each other, shaking and glistening with sweat, their breaths coming in uneven pants. Uriell slumped forward, her strength waning, but Cullen caught her effortlessly. Sitting up between her legs, he pulled her into a tight, protective embrace. His face buried in the crook of her neck, his hot air brushing against her skin as he exhaled sharply, releasing a low, contented sound that made her shiver once more.

Uriell wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. She felt both exhausted and deeply satisfied, her body still humming from the aftershocks of their passion.

Absentmindedly, she pressed a kiss to his damp hairline, her lips lingering there as he ran a hand down her back in slow, soothing strokes.

“Maker’s Breath…” he murmured. “You are… absolutely incredible.”

Uriell chuckled quietly and rubbed her cheek against his in a tender display of affection. She opened her mouth to respond, but a loud and sudden knock echoed through the room, startling them both.

She froze. Panic shot through her as her eyes darted toward the door, her heart hammering in her chest. Cullen was still inside her. Reality crashed in like a cold wind.

“Excuse me, Ur—Inquisitor,” Ser Barris’s voice boomed from the other side of the door, calm yet commanding. “Are you awake?”

Her mind scrambled for an appropriate response. Cullen groaned softly, nuzzling further into her neck, seemingly unbothered by the interruption. Maker’s Breath, the man had no shame. She barely had time to process the absurdity of the situation before Cullen straightened slightly and pressed a gentle finger to her lips.

Their eyes met—hers wide with shock, his gleaming with quiet mischief. Then, he cleared his throat, his voice steady as he called out: “Yes, Barris, the Lady Inquisitor is awake.”

A long, uncomfortable pause. Then, “…Oh.” A beat of hesitation. “Hum. Well, please inform the Inquisitor that we’ll depart in about two hours.”

“I will,” Cullen replied smoothly, his tone maddeningly calm. His smirk, however, was anything but innocent. He turned to Uriell, daring her to protest.

“Oh, and… Barris?”

“Yes, Commander?” The Templar’s voice shifted, more formal now, and Uriell pictured him standing stiffly at attention on the other side of the door.

“Ensure no one disturbs her this morning. She’ll be on time—don’t worry.” Cullen’s smirk deepened as he added, “I’ll see to it personally.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Uriell could practically hear Ser Barris piecing together the implications of Cullen’s words.

“… Understood, Commander,” came the eventual, carefully neutral reply. A moment later, footsteps retreated down the hall.

Uriell bit her lip to stifle the laugh bubbling up as her scandalized gaze locked with Cullen’s. Her shock still lingered, but the humor of the situation began to sink in.

“Cullen!” she whispered, half-mortified, half-amused. “You know they’ll talk now, don’t you?”

“Let them talk,” he murmured, his voice husky with satisfaction. Before she could protest, he captured her lips in another kiss, stealing her breath along with it. “I want them to know.”

And talk, they did.

By the time the Inquisition reached Halamshiral—three days at sea later—the rumors had already spread like wildfire. The Inquisitor, it was said, had finally succumbed to the charms of her mysterious masked admirer. And as the whispers grew bolder, more tantalizing, one detail set tongues wagging:

Her enigmatic lover might have been far closer to the Inquisition than anyone had dared imagine.