30 Solace 9:30 – 5 Harvestmere 9:33
The scent of salt and fish hung heavy in the air as Cullen stood on the crowded docks of Jader. The chatter of merchants, the cries of gulls, and the creak of ship rigging created a cacophony that barely registered in his mind. He stood still, a stark figure amidst the chaos, his belongings slung in a worn pack over his shoulder. The insignia of the Templar Order dangled from his gloved hand, the cool metal biting into his palm.
Behind him, the city bustled with life. Refugees from Ferelden huddled near makeshift shelters, their faces hollowed by hunger and fear. Jader had become a waypoint for those fleeing the Blight—a last chance at safety across the sea. Cullen might have admired the resilience of the people once, but now, he felt only the weight of their desperation.
His thoughts were not on the docks or the refugees, though. His mind remained anchored to the distant towers of Kinloch Hold, the place he had sworn to protect and had ultimately failed. The uprising had shattered everything he believed in: the trust between mages and Templars, the safety of the Circle, and his own sense of purpose.
Cullen’s grip on his pack tightened. He could still hear the screams echoing in his mind—the abominations tearing through the halls, the mages’ desperate cries, and the clang of steel as the Templars fought for their lives. It had been his duty to hold the line, to stand between chaos and order. And yet, the line had broken.
He glanced at the insignia in his hand, its polished surface catching the sunlight. Once, it had been a symbol of pride, a reminder of his role as a protector. Now, it felt like a hollow weight, a badge of failure.
A shout from the docks drew his attention, and Cullen turned to see a ship arriving at the pier. Its sails billowed in the wind, and the name The Dawnbringer was etched into its side. This was his passage to Kirkwall, a city that promised a fresh start—or so he had been told. In truth, he didn’t care where he was sent. As long as it wasn’t Kinloch Hold, it didn’t matter.
The ship docked with a heavy thud, and crew members scurried to secure it. Cullen adjusted his pack and approached the gangplank, his boots thudding against the weathered wood. He stepped onto the deck, nodding curtly to the captain before retreating to a quiet corner near the stern.
The ship rocked gently as it pulled away from the docks, but to Cullen, it felt like the world shifting beneath his feet in an unsettling rhythm. He gripped the railing tightly, his knuckles whitening as he stared out at the horizon. He had never traveled by sea before; the rivers and placid waters of Lake Calenhad were the extent of his experience. The open ocean, with its constant swells and vastness, was something else entirely.
He swallowed hard as the ship dipped again, the wood creaking beneath his boots. His stomach churned in protest. Maker, how do people live like this? he thought bitterly, his grip tightening as another wave hit the hull. The sea spray misted his face, cold and briny, and he turned his head sharply to avoid it.
Cullen hadn’t been prepared for the unrelenting motion of the ocean. It wasn’t just the physical discomfort—though that was bad enough—but the way it left him feeling vulnerable, like the ground beneath him was betraying him at every step. For a man who had built his life on discipline and control, the sea was a harsh and unforgiving adversary.
He forced himself to take a steadying breath, focusing on the horizon where the sky met the water. The endless expanse of blue-gray waves mirrored his thoughts: turbulent, churning, with no clear destination. Every creak of the ship, every splash of the waves against the hull, grated on his nerves.
Cullen withdrew from the railing and found a quiet corner near the stern, sitting heavily on a coil of rope. He pressed his palms against his thighs, willing the nausea to subside. His pack sat at his feet, the insignia of the Templar Order still clutched in his hand. He stared down at it, its polished surface catching the faint sunlight. It felt heavier than it had any right to, a weight that went beyond its physical form.
What am I doing here? The thought came unbidden, a whisper of doubt that had been growing louder since the day he left Kinloch Hold. He clenched the insignia tightly, his jaw tightening as memories surfaced once more.
Kinloch Hold. The faces of the mages who had trusted him, their eyes wide with fear as the abominations descended. The screams of Templars who had stood beside him, cut down one by one. And Uldred—Maker take him—his madness unleashed, his betrayal of everything Cullen had sworn to protect. The blood, the fire, the chaos—it was all still fresh in his mind, as if it had happened only yesterday.
He allowed himself to think of her—Ariana. Her name was a wound he couldn’t help but press, a name that had become synonymous with promises left unfulfilled. He remembered the last note she’d left him, her words etched in his mind as clearly as if he were reading them again: No matter what comes, I will find you, always.
She never had. And he had come to accept that she never would.
Cullen clenched his teeth, his hand tightening around the insignia until the edges bit into his palm. Crestwood. That cursed village. The stories of flooding and devastation had been vague, but they had been enough. She had to have been there, caught in the chaos. He told himself this again and again because the alternative—that she had survived and chosen not to find him—was too painful to consider.
The ship rocked again, a stronger wave this time, and Cullen cursed under his breath. He leaned back, closing his eyes and pressing his head against the cool wood of the ship’s hull. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the storm inside him, but it was an unwelcome distraction nonetheless.
The days dragged on, each one a blur of monotonous sea and sky. Cullen kept to himself, avoiding the crew and other passengers as much as possible. He spent his time poring over Templar protocols, though the words often blurred together. His mind kept returning to Kinloch Hold, to Crestwood, to Ariana. The guilt, the loss, the regret—it all churned within him, as restless as the waves beneath the ship.
By the time Kirkwall came into view, Cullen felt like he had aged years in the span of days. The city rose on the horizon, its black walls stark against the dull sky. The Gallows fortress loomed above the harbor, its towering statues and dark chains casting long shadows over the water.
~~~
The air in Kirkwall was different—heavier, colder, as though it carried the weight of the city’s history in every breath. Cullen stepped off the gangplank, the wooden boards creaking beneath his boots, and took his first look at the infamous Gallows. The fortress loomed above the harbor, its black statues towering like silent sentinels. Chains stretched across the cliffs, their iron links swaying slightly in the breeze, an unsettling reminder of the city’s past and its stranglehold on the present.
The Gallows wasn’t merely a prison for mages; it was a symbol, its oppressive architecture broadcasting power and control to all who entered Kirkwall. For Cullen, it was both intimidating and oddly fitting. The weight of the place mirrored the guilt he carried, the chains a visual echo of the regrets that bound him.
A Templar representative greeted him at the docks, the exchange brisk and impersonal. Cullen followed the man through the winding streets of Lowtown, the stench of the harbor giving way to the noise of the bustling city. He noted the wary glances of passersby, the way their eyes darted toward his armor before quickly looking away. In Ferelden, Templars were protectors; in Kirkwall, they were enforcers.
The Gallows courtyard was as stark and utilitarian as the rest of the fortress. Cullen was escorted to a waiting area where Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard stood with her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on him as he approached. Her presence was striking—not physically imposing, but commanding in a way that left no room for doubt about her authority.
“Knight-Templar Cullen,” she greeted, her voice sharp and precise. “Welcome to Kirkwall.”
Cullen saluted, standing stiffly at attention. “Knight-Commander.”
Meredith’s gaze lingered on him, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she were reading the contents of his soul. “I’ve read your record. The events at Kinloch Hold were… unfortunate. But you survived.”
Her tone was neutral, but Cullen felt the weight of her words. He nodded. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”
“Your experience will serve you well here,” she continued. “The Kirkwall Circle is… unique. The mages here are particularly resistant to the structure the Order provides. They must be reminded—firmly, if necessary—that the Templar Order exists for their protection as well as everyone else’s.”
Cullen swallowed, unsure how to respond. Meredith didn’t seem to expect one. She studied him for another moment before nodding slightly, her expression unreadable. “You’ll find your quarters prepared. I expect diligence and vigilance, Knight-Templar. Kirkwall does not tolerate weakness.”
“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Cullen replied, his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his chest.
As she turned and strode away, Cullen felt both relief and unease. Meredith was unlike any commander he had served under—her intensity was palpable, her words calculated to leave an impression. He had no doubt she would expect nothing less than absolute loyalty.
~~~
Cullen’s quarters were as cold and unwelcoming as the rest of the Gallows. The room was small, its walls bare stone and its furnishings minimal. A narrow cot, a writing desk, and a single chair comprised his new home. He placed his pack on the cot and began unpacking his belongings—what little he had.
As he worked, his thoughts drifted to the mages he had seen during his arrival. Many had been escorted by Templars, their heads bowed and their movements wary. Their fear was familiar, reminiscent of Kinloch Hold in its final days. Here, though, it seemed ingrained, as though the mages had never known anything else.
Cullen set his Templar insignia on the desk, staring at it for a long moment. It was a symbol of duty, of purpose. But here in Kirkwall, it felt more like a badge of control.
The days at the Gallows settled into a grim rhythm. Patrols, inspections, and vigilance defined Cullen’s life, filling his hours and leaving little room for anything else. At first, the structure was welcome—a reprieve from the chaos of Kinloch Hold. Here, every task was prescribed, every action purposeful. It was easy to focus on the rules, to enforce the order that had failed so catastrophically in Ferelden.
Meredith noticed his diligence almost immediately. She had a way of appearing at the edges of his rounds, her sharp gaze following him as he worked. At first, Cullen thought it a coincidence, but over time, he realized it was deliberate. Meredith was testing him, watching for cracks, for weakness.
“Knight-Templar,” she said one evening, her voice cutting through the dim light of the Gallows courtyard. “You handled that incident with the apprentices well today.”
Cullen nodded, his expression neutral. Earlier, he had defused a brewing altercation between two mages—a quiet rivalry that had threatened to escalate into something more dangerous. The solution had been straightforward: a reminder of the rules, enforced with a calm but unyielding presence.
“Thank you, Knight-Commander,” he replied.
Meredith stepped closer, her expression calculating. “You didn’t hesitate. You acted decisively but without unnecessary force. That is precisely what Kirkwall needs.”
Her approval was rare, and Cullen felt a flicker of satisfaction. But there was something else in her tone—something he couldn’t quite place. He dismissed the thought and returned to his patrols, unaware that her gaze lingered on him long after he had gone.
As the weeks turned into months, Cullen’s reputation among the Templars grew. He was efficient, disciplined, and thorough—traits that earned him both respect and wariness. Among his peers, he was seen as a model Templar, someone who followed orders without question and never faltered in his duties. Among the mages, he was regarded with a mix of fear and grudging acknowledgment. He was fair, but he was unyielding.
Cullen himself remained distant. He had little interest in forming friendships or alliances, preferring to keep his focus on the task at hand. His colleagues invited him to join them in the dining hall or to share a drink after patrols, but he always declined. The truth was, he didn’t know how to connect with them anymore. The weight of his experiences at Kinloch Hold and his unspoken grief for Ariana made it impossible to relate to their casual camaraderie.
Meredith seemed to approve of his isolation. She saw in Cullen someone who was not distracted by personal ties or divided loyalties. She began to involve him in more significant matters, pulling him into private meetings and consultations about the Circle’s operations.
“I need someone I can rely on,” she told him one evening as they reviewed the security reports. “Someone who understands that strength is not optional in Kirkwall. It is a necessity.”
Cullen nodded, his expression grim. “I understand.”
Meredith’s presence became a constant in Cullen’s life. She would call him to her office late in the evenings, poring over reports and discussing strategy. She spoke of the dangers of unchecked magic, of the need for unwavering resolve. Her words were sharp and unyielding, her conviction absolute.
“Magic is a tool, Knight-Captain,” she told him one night, her tone matter-of-fact. “And like any tool, it can be dangerous if wielded without control. That is why we are here. To ensure it is wielded properly—or not at all.”
Cullen nodded, though her words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t disagree, not entirely. But there was a severity to her views that unsettled him, a coldness that left no room for compassion.
Still, he respected her. She had taken a broken Circle and turned it into something functional, something strong. He wanted to believe that strength was the answer, that it could prevent another Kinloch Hold. And if he harbored doubts, he kept them to himself.
~~~
The morning sky was a wash of dull gray, the kind of overcast that muted everything beneath it. Cullen stood in the courtyard of the Gallows, his armor polished to a shine, though it did little to brighten the somber atmosphere. The air was cold, carrying the briny tang of the sea, and the steady creak of chains in the distance provided an unrelenting backdrop to the day.
A handful of senior Templars stood gathered, their postures formal and their expressions unreadable. The ceremony was brief—there was no fanfare, no celebration. In Kirkwall, even promotions were marked with the same grim efficiency that defined the city.
Knight-Commander Meredith stepped forward, her stride confident and purposeful. She held the insignia in her gloved hand, her sharp gaze meeting Cullen’s as she pinned it to his chest. The cold metal pressed against his armor, a weight that felt heavier than it should.
“You’ve earned this, Cullen,” Meredith said, her voice low but commanding. “But remember: this is not an honor. It is a responsibility.”
Cullen inclined his head. “I understand, Knight-Commander,” he replied, his tone steady despite the tension coiling in his chest.
Meredith’s expression softened slightly, though it carried none of the warmth such a gesture might have implied. “Walk with me,” she instructed.
They moved through the Gallows’ outer corridors, their boots echoing against the stone floor. The corridors were lined with high arches, their shadows stretching long in the dim light. The faint hum of the sea and the occasional cry of gulls filtered through the open spaces, but otherwise, the silence was oppressive.
As they walked, Meredith began to speak, her words as measured and deliberate as her stride. “Kirkwall is not Ferelden, Knight-Captain. The mages here are unlike those you’ve encountered before. They are bold, defiant, and clever in their defiance. They will push you to the edge, test every boundary you set.”
She paused, glancing at him. “You cannot falter. They need to see that you are unshakable.”
Cullen nodded, his mind already turning to the mages he had observed during his time in the Gallows. Their fear was palpable, but it was not the quiet, submissive fear he had known at Kinloch Hold. Here, it burned hotter, like a smoldering ember waiting for the right moment to ignite. He had seen it in their eyes during inspections, in the way they avoided meeting his gaze but bristled under the weight of the Templars’ authority.
“They are afraid,” Cullen said finally. “But fear doesn’t seem to temper their defiance. It only hardens it.”
Meredith gave a faint, humorless smile. “Precisely. That is why strength must always be met with strength. Leadership is as much about perception as it is about action. Show them strength, and they will think twice before challenging you.”
They continued walking, the cold stone beneath their boots a stark reminder of the fortress’s purpose. The chains swayed in the distance, their groaning creak punctuating the silence.
“And the other Templars?” Cullen asked after a moment.
“They will follow your example,” Meredith replied without hesitation. “You set the tone now, Knight-Captain. If they see doubt in you, they will question their own resolve. But if you lead with strength, they will stand behind you without hesitation.”
They emerged onto one of the Gallows’ high arches, the view opening up to the city beyond. Kirkwall stretched out before them, its stone walls and narrow streets winding toward the harbor. The city was alive with movement, but from this vantage point, it looked more like a labyrinth—claustrophobic and unyielding.
Meredith gestured to the expanse below. “Look at it,” she said, her tone sharper now. “Kirkwall thrives on control. Without it, this city would devour itself. Chaos is always waiting, just beneath the surface. We are its keepers, Knight-Captain. Never forget that.”
Cullen’s gaze lingered on the city, his eyes tracing the paths he had come to know during his time here. The weight of the new title pressed heavier on his chest as Meredith’s words settled in. Control. Order. Those were the ideals he had clung to since Kinloch Hold, but here, they felt more like chains.
“I won’t, Knight-Commander,” he said finally, his voice steady.
Meredith turned to leave but paused, placing a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was firm, almost a warning. “I have faith in you, Cullen,” she said, her tone softer but no less commanding. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Cullen remained by the arch as Meredith’s footsteps faded into the distance. He looked out over Kirkwall, his thoughts lingering on the mages below. The Gallows was a prison, but the city itself didn’t feel much freer. He thought of the mages he’d seen earlier, their eyes filled with defiance that the Templars were determined to crush.
He had once believed that the Templar Order existed to protect—to shield the innocent from harm and guide mages who needed their help. But here, the lines between protection and oppression blurred until they were indistinguishable. It was a darkness he wasn’t sure even he could navigate.
Meredith’s words lingered in his mind, a constant reminder of her expectations. She had called him strong, unyielding, necessary. But as he sat in the quiet of his quarters, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was all he had become—a tool for order, forged by tragedy and guilt.
His hand drifted to his neck, his fingers brushing against the Halla pendant that hung there …you spend so much of your life protecting others.. he remembered her words as if she had spoken them yesterday. He held the pendant between his fingers, the smooth surface grounding him as memories flooded back.
He remembered her smile, her laughter, the fire in her eyes when she spoke of helping others. She had stayed in Ferelden to face a Blight, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Her strength had been compassion, her resolve driven by the need to help others.
Would she have understood the choices he had made? The compromises? Or would she have questioned them?
Cullen sighed, his grip tightening on the pendant. “You would have hated this place, Ari,” he murmured, his voice low. “You’d have hated me for staying.”
He turned away from the city, his expression hardening as he stepped back into the cold corridors of the Gallows. There was no room for sentiment here. Kirkwall demanded strength, and strength was all he could offer.
~~~
One evening, after a particularly difficult day, Cullen found himself wandering the streets of Hightown. The Gallows had felt suffocating, its chains and cold stone walls closing in on him more than usual. His feet carried him toward the Chantry almost unconsciously, drawn to its towering facade and the promise of something—anything—that might ease the weight on his shoulders.
The interior of the Chantry was quiet, the warm glow of candles casting soft light over its ornate architecture. Cullen hesitated in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the empty pews. The silence was different here, less oppressive. It felt like a space where the noise in his mind might quiet, even if only for a moment.
Grand Cleric Elthina appeared at the far end of the hall, her movements unhurried and her expression serene. She noticed Cullen immediately, her gaze kind but inquisitive as she approached.
“Knight-Captain,” she greeted, her voice gentle but steady. “What brings you here?”
Cullen inclined his head, unsure how to explain. “Forgiveness,” he said finally, the word heavy on his tongue. “And… guidance.”
Elthina studied him for a moment, then gestured for him to sit. “The Maker listens, Knight-Captain, even when we do not have the words to ask for what we need.”
That first visit was brief, but it marked the beginning of a new routine. Cullen returned to the Chantry in the evenings when the halls were empty, seeking solace in the quiet and in the Grand Cleric’s patient counsel. He prayed for forgiveness—for Ariana, for the mages at Kinloch Hold, for the choices he made every day in Kirkwall. And he prayed for strength, to carry the weight of his duties without faltering.
As the weeks passed, Cullen’s visits to the Chantry became more structured. He found comfort in the ritual of it: the quiet walk through Hightown, the dim light of the sanctuary, the murmur of his own prayers. It was the one part of his week that felt untainted by the shadow of the Gallows.
He began to frequent Café d’Or after his visits, slipping into a quiet corner and ordering the same meal each time—potato and leek soup with a glass of wine. It wasn’t much, but the simple routine gave him something to hold onto, a thread of normalcy in an otherwise grim existence.
His schedule began to solidify, dictated by the demands of the Gallows and his own need for reprieve:
– Monday and Thursday evenings saw him at the Chantry, speaking with Elthina when she was available or praying in solitude.
– Wednesday and Saturday nights, he allowed himself a quiet meal at Café d’Or, away from the weight of the Gallows.
– Sundays, he ended his week with one final visit to the Chantry, seeking clarity for the days ahead.
~~~
The rhythmic clang of boots echoed faintly through the Gallows as Cullen finished his rounds. The corridors were quiet, the cold stone walls lit only by the flickering glow of torches. He’d walked these same paths countless times, his duties in Kirkwall now as familiar as breathing. The routines that had once felt oppressive now passed without thought, each day blending seamlessly into the next.
But tonight felt different.
As Cullen returned to his quarters, a strange heaviness settled over him. He lit the small candle on his desk, its warm light doing little to dispel the shadows creeping at the edges of his thoughts. He sat heavily in the chair, pulling off his gloves and running a hand through his hair. His eyes fell to the Halla pendant resting against his chest, its pale surface catching the light. His fingers brushed over it absently, the familiar motion both comforting and painful.
The date whispered in his mind, unbidden. 5 Harvestmere. He stilled, the realization hitting him with the force of a blow. Ariana’s birthday.
His chest tightened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. For a long moment, he let himself remember her—not the fading memories he often revisited, but something more vivid. He could almost hear her laugh, that bright, carefree sound that had always felt so at odds with the darkness they had faced together. She had always found light where he couldn’t, always believed there was something worth fighting for.
He let his mind wander, imagining what he might have planned for her if she were here. There were ruins along the coast, just beyond Kirkwall—a place he’d come across during a patrol some time ago. The stone structures were ancient, their carvings worn by time and sea. He’d thought of her when he’d seen them, the way her eyes had always lit up at the promise of discovery.
She would have loved those, he thought, a faint, wistful smile tugging at his lips. He pictured her standing there, her expression full of wonder as she traced her fingers over the weathered stone. He could almost hear her voice musing out loud as to the purpose of the ruins, the symbols, and trying to explain the history to him.
The smile faded as quickly as it had come. His chest tightened, and he drew in a shaky breath. The ruins weren’t for her. Not anymore. There would be no more birthdays, no more plans. She was gone, and the ache of that truth pressed down on him like the weight of the Gallows itself.
He closed his eyes, his hand tightening around the Halla pendant. “You’re not here,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “And you never will be again.”
The thought struck him harder than it should have after all this time. He had carried her memory like a flame in the dark, something to keep him going when nothing else could. But the flame was fading, smothered by the weight of duty and the passage of years.
Cullen exhaled slowly, forcing himself to straighten. He let the pendant fall against his chest, its weight familiar but no longer comforting. “I need to let you go,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly.
He stood, blowing out the candle and plunging the room into shadow. The Gallows felt colder tonight, its silence deeper, but Cullen welcomed it. He couldn’t hold onto her anymore—not when the life he lived now had no room for the ideals she had embodied. Not when she deserved to be remembered with something more than regret.
As he lay down on the narrow cot, his mind refused to quiet. The ruins lingered in his thoughts, the faint image of her smile haunting him as he drifted into a restless sleep.