12 Wintermarch 9:38 – 1 Solace 9:40
Cullen walked in silence, his boots scuffing against the cobblestones of Hightown as the city’s cool winter air nipped at his face. Nine months had passed since the night everything fell apart, yet the memories were as vivid as if they had happened yesterday. Kirkwall still bore the scars of that night—the crumbled stone, the hollowed homes, the lingering tension that gripped its people. Rebuilding was slow, but Cullen focused on it with a dogged determination, finding solace in the work. It kept his hands busy, his mind distracted.
But today, the distraction wasn’t enough.
It was his birthday. His first one in years without her.
He had tried to ignore it, brushing off the few well-meaning remarks from the Templars who remembered. It wasn’t a day worth celebrating. The thought of it only reminded him of the past few years, when Ariana had taken it upon herself to make the day special, despite his protests. She’d always insisted on something small—“simple,” she’d called it—but there was nothing simple about the warmth she brought to the occasion. She had a way of making him feel like he deserved happiness, something he hadn’t been able to reconcile with himself in years. And now? The day felt like a dull echo of what it used to be. Hollow. Meaningless.
He shoved his hands into the folds of his cloak, his grip tightening as he walked. The anger he’d tried to bury resurfaced, bubbling just beneath his composed exterior. She lied to me. The thought gnawed at him, a thorn lodged deep. She had stood across from him on that battlefield, her face hidden behind the infamous mask of the White Wolf. She had led an army he didn’t know she commanded, attacked Templar transports he had defended, and lied to him with every omission, every deflection. He had trusted her, loved her—and she had betrayed that trust.
And yet…
He slowed his steps, his breath misting in the cold night air. As much as he tried to stoke the flames of anger, guilt was the ember that refused to burn out. He’d failed her. Failed to see the truth she had been trying to show him for years. Every hesitant question about Meredith, every quiet challenge to his belief in the Order, every look she gave him that seemed to beg for understanding—it all came rushing back. Help me stop this. Help me save them. She had tried to tell him. He just hadn’t listened.
He tilted his head back, the stars above glimmering coldly in the winter sky. She had always turned to them, seeking answers or guidance. The stars won’t lie to you, she’d said once, tracing constellations with her fingers as he listened in quiet amusement. He’d never understood her fascination, but now, standing alone beneath their indifferent light, he wondered if she still sought their counsel. Did they guide her steps now, wherever she was? Or had they failed her, too?
The image of her staggered form haunted him—blood staining her cloak as she clutched her side, refusing to yield. He clenched his fist, the phantom weight of his sword pressing against his palm. He had struck her, not knowing, not believing it could be her. That wound wasn’t just a mark on her skin; it was a chasm between them, one he wasn’t sure could ever be bridged. Did she still bear the scar? Did it ache the way his memories did?
He clenched his jaw, frustration gnawing at him. He didn’t even know where she was. For nine months, she had disappeared into the shadows with the Champion and her companions, leaving no word, no trace. He hated her for leaving. He hated himself more for wanting to see her again.
Lost in thought, Cullen didn’t realize where his feet had taken him until he stopped in front of her estate. The sight of it, looming dark and silent in the night, sent a pang through his chest. He hadn’t been here since before the Gallows, before everything fell apart. He knew she wasn’t here—she couldn’t be. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to turn away.
Then he noticed the door, slightly ajar. His breath caught, his heart leaping before he could stop it. He stepped forward, every rational part of him screaming to leave, to turn back. What if she’s here? What if she’s not? He wasn’t sure which possibility frightened him more.
The door creaked as he pushed it open, the faint scent of lavender washing over him like a ghost of the past. He stepped inside, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. Most of the furniture was draped in white cloth, their shapes ghostlike in the dim light. His eyes fell on the sofa near the window, and for a moment, he could almost hear her laugh as she teased him about his stoic nature, her legs tucked beneath her as she leaned against the armrest. The warmth she’d brought to this place was gone, leaving only the cold, sterile silence. His chest tightened, the echo of her absence more tangible here than anywhere else in Kirkwall. But it was the courtyard that drew him, pulling him like a tether toward memories he wasn’t ready to confront.
He stopped at the spot where they used to lay beneath the stars, her head resting on his arm as they whispered questions to the sky. He had never understood the pull the stars had on her, but he had watched her face light up as she traced constellations with her fingers, telling him stories of the ones she followed.
Now, standing there alone, he realized he missed her most in moments like this—quiet, simple moments where the world seemed to stop.
“Knight-Commander?” A voice jolted him from his thoughts.
Cullen turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving toward his sword. Standing in the doorway was one of the estate’s servants. “Branar, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ser,” the man replied, his surprise evident. “Is there something I can do for you, Knight-Commander?”
Cullen hesitated, searching for an excuse. “I saw the door open during a patrol,” he said finally. “I came to see if everything was alright.”
“My apologies, ser,” Branar said, bowing slightly. “Lady Trevelyan has ordered the estate prepared for her long-term absence and for any remaining belongings to be stored.”
The words hit Cullen like a blow to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. She had moved on, left Kirkwall—and him—behind. His jaw tightened as the hollow ache in his chest expanded. She had always been so quick to move forward, and yet here he stood, stuck in the wreckage of what they’d left behind. He had hoped—foolishly, naively—that she might have returned. That perhaps she would be here, waiting for him to say the words he hadn’t been brave enough to say before.
“Thank you, Branar,” he said stiffly. “Carry on.”
As the servant disappeared into the shadows, Cullen turned and walked back toward the door, his steps heavy. She wasn’t here. She hadn’t come back. He stepped out into the night, the cold air biting against his skin as he looked up at the stars again.
Where did you go, Ariana?
The stars didn’t answer, but they seemed to shimmer faintly, as if mocking him. With a heavy sigh, Cullen pulled his cloak tighter around him and turned back toward the city, his thoughts a tangle of regret, anger, and longing.
~~~
The morning light filtered weakly through the heavy curtains of Cullen’s office, casting long shadows over the cluttered desk. Stacks of reports and correspondence lay in neat piles, the weight of Kirkwall’s rebuilding pressing down on him. He tried to focus, but his thoughts strayed, tugged relentlessly in a direction he had been avoiding for months.
A sharp knock on the door broke his reverie. “Enter,” he called, his voice steadier than he felt.
A young Templar stepped inside, a letter in hand. “A message for you, Knight-Commander,” he said, placing the sealed envelope on Cullen’s desk before retreating.
Cullen’s gaze landed on the seal, and his breath hitched. The crest of the White Spire stood out in crimson wax, the mark unmistakable. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, his chest tightening. It can’t be…
Slowly, he picked it up, his fingers brushing over the wax. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the precise, formal script. The words blurred for a moment before coming into focus, and then, they hit him like a hammer.
To Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford,
The request submitted by Bann Charles Trevelyan, on your behalf, has been reviewed and granted. You are hereby given permission to marry Lady Ariana Ryss Trevelyan, pending the completion of all required formalities.
Cullen sat back, the letter trembling slightly in his hand. His mind raced, a thousand thoughts competing for dominance. The request… Charles had done it. He had succeeded where Cullen had failed. He had bypassed Meredith and he had obtained the permission from the order.
But that had been before everything unraveled. Before Kirkwall burned. Before Ariana walked away.
Now, months later, the approval had come. Permission to marry her. The words felt hollow, a formality that mocked him in its finality. What use was the Templar Order’s blessing when she was gone? When the gulf between them seemed insurmountable?
His chest ached, the memories of her flooding back with relentless clarity. The way her laughter could light up the darkest moments, the fierce determination in her eyes when she believed in something. And the way she had looked at him—like he was more than just a Templar, more than his failures.
He leaned forward, pressing his elbows to the desk and cradling his head in his hands. Cullen’s thoughts drifted back to her birthday two years ago, sitting on the cliffs. He could still feel the rough stone beneath them, the wind carrying the salt of the sea as she rested her head in his lap, her smile soft and unguarded. Her voice had been wistful when she whispered, Are you sure we can’t just run away? He had promised her then—someday. It was a quiet vow, one that carried him even now.
He remembered the way her hazel-green eyes sparkled when he asked her to marry him. Her breath hitched, and her laughter, soft and disbelieving, had given way to tears. He could still see the way her hands trembled as he slipped the ring onto her finger—he had asked her to follow her star one more time. To him. She had traced it with her thumb, her expression one of quiet wonder, and whispered, “It’s beautiful.”
Now, that moment felt like a lifetime ago, a fragile memory threatened by the weight of everything they had lost. He had promised to fight for her, for them, and yet, when it mattered most, he had stood on the wrong side of the battle. The ring had been a promise of a future they had dared to imagine. And now, it was a reminder of everything he had failed to protect.
You’re the only person who’s ever truly seen me her words that night were all the reassurance he had needed.
But instead of wearing that ring during their wedding, it had become a weight she carried into battle. He had seen the faint glint of it beneath her glove that day in the Gallows as she pressed her hand to her side. As the blood seeped through her fingers. And it had torn something inside him. She still wore it, even then. Even after everything.
Does she still wear it now? The thought was a cruel torment, his mind conjuring images of her somewhere far from here, the ring forgotten or discarded.
A wave of guild washed over him, replacing the anger that had simmered in his chest for so long. He had failed her—failed to listen, failed to trust, failed to see the signs she had tried so desperately to show him. She had fought for what she believed in, even when it meant standing against him, and he had been too blind, too rigid to understand.
And now… she was gone. He didn’t even know where she was, or if she was safe. His mind replayed the moment he wounded her, the way she staggered but pressed on. He had told himself it was unavoidable, that it was the price of their choices, but the memory haunted him.
Cullen pushed back from the desk, the sharp scrape of the chair breaking the heavy silence of the room. His chest tightened, not from anger, but from the weight of his own failures. He had been too rigid, too consumed by duty to see her truth. But he wouldn’t let his mistakes define the rest of their story. Not this time. The letter in his hand was more than a cruel reminder—it was a call to action. If there was even a flicker of a chance to find her, he owed it to her. To them both.
Reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment, he dipped his quill and began to write. The first letter was addressed to Bann Charles Trevelyan.
Charles,
I have received the response from the White Spire. The request has been granted. I owe you a debt I may never be able to repay for advocating on my behalf.
He hesitated, his quill hovering over the page. How do I ask him? Taking a deep breath, he continued.
I must ask for your help once more. If you know where Ariana has gone, or if she has contacted you, please let me know. I only wish to ensure she is safe.
The second letter was addressed to Frederick. Cullen wasn’t certain if he would know anything, but he was willing to grasp at any thread.
Frederick,
I write to you with the hope that you may know of Ariana’s whereabouts. I have no right to ask, but I must. If you know anything, please share it. I only want to ensure she is well.
He signed both letters, sealing them with precision before handing them to a waiting messenger. As the door closed, Cullen sat back, his gaze drifting to the faint light of dawn breaking through the window.
The ache in his chest remained, but for the first time in months, it was tempered by something else. Not hope, not yet—but determination. I’ll find you, Ariana. One way or another.
~~~
The steady stream of reports never seemed to end. Ariana had been right. Meredith had lit the spark and everything was falling around them. Cullen sat at his desk, the evening light filtering through the tall windows of his office. The room was cluttered, strewn with reports detailing the escalating chaos across Thedas. Circles falling, rogue mages and Templars clashing in the streets, and whispers of more uprisings brewing. Yet his focus was fixed on two letters that lay neatly on his desk, their words etched into his mind.
The first was from Bann Charles Trevelyan.
Knight-Commander,
I regret that I cannot provide more clarity about Ariana’s whereabouts. All I know is that she is in Ferelden. My daughter has always been resourceful and strong, and I have no doubt she is well. She holds no anger toward you for what transpired. You meant, and I believe still mean, a great deal to her. I wish you both peace in the days ahead.
– Charles
The second was from Frederick. His tone, though less formal, carried the same message.
Cullen,
I wish I had better news. Ariana wrote to me once, shortly after Kirkwall. She didn’t say much about what happened between the two of you, but one thing was clear: she doesn’t blame you. If anything, she blames herself.
I don’t know exactly where she is, but she mentioned she had gone home. I know she owns a manor the Rangers use as a base of operations in Ferelden, though not its location. However, if you are truly committed to finding her, I would suggest starting with the King, she mentioned meeting him and working for him.
For what it’s worth Cullen, I hope you find her. I believe you are meant for each other.
– Fred
Cullen stared at the two letters, their words etched into his thoughts like a map to a place he wasn’t sure he could reach. She doesn’t blame me. The phrase lingered, circling his mind with cruel persistence. If she didn’t blame him, why couldn’t he let go of his own guilt? The memory of her—of the way she had fought with fierce determination even as he stood against her—haunted him. She had always carried too much, and now she bore their failure alone.
The letter from Frederick offered a sliver of hope, though it was as fragile as the parchment itself. Home. The manor, the Rangers, King Alistair—it all felt distant, like pieces of a puzzle he had yet to assemble. But it was something, and Cullen clung to that hope like a lifeline. He had no illusions about the difficulty of finding her, but he owed her that much. No, he owed her far more.
He pulled out fresh parchment and began drafting his letter to Alistair, his quill scratching against the page with determined strokes.
Your Majesty,
I write to you with a request of a personal nature. I have reason to believe that Lady Ariana Trevelyan, leader of the Silver Rangers, may be operating within Ferelden. If you are able to provide any information regarding her whereabouts or the activities of the Rangers, I would be in your debt. I seek only to ensure her well-being.
– Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford
The words felt inadequate, but they would have to do. Cullen sealed the letter, his hands steady despite the storm inside him.
As he set the letter aside, a knock broke the quiet.
“Enter,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of command.
The Templar’s face was pale as he stepped forward, clutching another report. “Knight-Commander, the Circle in Starkhaven has fallen. The mages have scattered, and Templars are pursuing them without orders.”
Cullen felt the weight of the words settle on his shoulders like stones. He took the report, skimming its contents as his jaw tightened. Another fire. Another step toward chaos.
He dismissed the Templar, turning back to his desk. His gaze fell on the sealed letter to Alistair, the parchment stark against the clutter of reports. Every instinct urged him to leave, to follow whatever faint trail Frederick had offered, but duty loomed over him like a shadow.
The conflict gnawed at him—his heart pulled toward Ferelden, toward Ariana, while his position chained him to Kirkwall. With a weary sigh, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing over the hilt of his sword. I’ll find you, Ari. One day, I’ll make this right. But first… I have to hold the line.
For now, the search would have to wait. But Cullen knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t wait forever.
~~~
Months passed, each one more chaotic than the last. The reports never stopped—Circles collapsing, rogue Templars abandoning their posts, entire towns caught in the crossfire of the growing mage-templar war. Cullen threw himself into the work, trying to maintain some semblance of order in Kirkwall, but the cracks were showing.
He found himself thinking of her in the quiet moments, when the city finally fell silent and the weight of his duties became unbearable. He wondered where she was, if she was safe. If she still wore the ring he had made for her.
He sat at his desk late one evening, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across the room. The letters from Charles and Frederick were still tucked into the corner of his desk, the edges worn from handling. He reached for them, reading them once more, as if hoping they might hold some new clue he had missed.
But they didn’t. All they told him was that she was in Ferelden, somewhere. And that she didn’t hate him. He clung to that last part, though it didn’t absolve him of the guilt that gnawed at him daily. He’d had no word from King Alistair. He wasn’t surprised, he knew that it had been unlikely that his letter would reach him.
The knock at the door came as no surprise.
“Enter,” Cullen called, his voice weary but steady.
A junior Templar stepped in, a scroll clutched tightly in his hands. The young man’s face was pale, his expression tense. “Knight-Commander, this just arrived from Val Royeaux.”
Cullen accepted the scroll and waved the Templar away. Unfurling the parchment, he scanned the contents quickly. His brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he read.
The report detailed a recent vote within College of Enchanters. Grand Enchanter Fiona had proposed that the Circle of Magi secede from the Chantry, declaring their independence from its oversight. The vote had been contentious but ultimately failed by a narrow margin. Yet, even with the motion defeated, the Templar Order had responded with swift and unforgiving action.
The College of Enchanters was to be disbanded. Effective immediately, all mage gatherings of this nature were deemed a threat to Chantry authority. Orders had been sent out to reassign the mages who had attended the College back to their respective Circles, under heavy watch.
Cullen set the scroll down, rubbing his temples. He could already see the fallout from such a harsh move. The vote had been a symptom of deeper discontent within the mage community. The Order’s retaliation would only inflame that discontent further. It was a short-sighted decision, one made out of fear rather than reason.
He sank into his chair, staring at the flickering candlelight. For years, he had upheld the Templar Order’s authority, believing in its mission to protect both mages and the public. But now, that belief felt increasingly hollow. The Order wasn’t protecting anyone—it was smothering them. Crushing dissent without addressing the causes behind it.
This isn’t the way, he thought bitterly. This will only lead to more rebellion, more bloodshed.
He thought back to Kirkwall, to the chaos that erupted in the Gallows. Meredith’s madness, the mages’ desperation, the White Wolf standing between two irreconcilable sides. For all her faults, Ariana had always seen what he hadn’t: that the Order’s rigidity was its greatest flaw. He hated that she had been right. Hated that he hadn’t listened when she’d tried to tell him.
His hand drifted to the corner of his desk, where two letters from Charles and Frederick lay tucked beneath a stack of papers. Their words echoed in his mind, a reminder that Ariana was out there somewhere, likely trying to do what he hadn’t—bridge the divide before it was too late.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had once believed himself her protector. Now, he felt like little more than a bystander as the world fractured around him.
He stared at the report again, the words blurring slightly in the dim light. Disbanding the College of Enchanters might buy the Order time, but it wouldn’t solve the deeper problems. It was a decision made by leaders clinging to power without understanding the storm they were unleashing.
This is just the beginning, he realized with a sinking heart. The vote might have failed, but the mages wouldn’t stop fighting for their independence. And when the inevitable backlash came, the Templar Order wouldn’t be ready.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly. The weight of his position pressed down on him like never before. Kirkwall was holding, but for how long? How long until his own city fell to the same chaos spreading across Thedas?
Cullen exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the arms of his chair. He had made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t let Kirkwall fall—not again. But as he sat there, the shadows of doubt crept in, whispering that he might not have a choice.
“I should have gone,” he muttered to himself, the words heavy with regret. But the truth was, he couldn’t. Not now. Not with the Order collapsing around him. He had a duty to the people of Kirkwall, to the mages and Templars who still looked to him for leadership. If he abandoned them now, the city would fall into ruin.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Ariana, where are you? The question echoed in his mind, unanswered. For now, all he could do was hope she was out there, fighting her own battles, as she always had. And maybe, one day, when the world was less broken, he would find her again.
~~~
Another birthday, another year without her. If Kirkwall hadn’t been torn apart, they would likely be married by now. Cullen stared down at the Gallows from his bedroom window. Somehow the world falling apart seemed like a mercy. He didn’t have time to focus on the fact that he hadn’t been able to find her. That there had been no response from King Alistair. Maybe she didn’t want to be found, not by him at least.
The days seemed longer than they had ever been. With every new report, every new rebellion there kept being more work. Kirkwall was still holding, but they had a steady stream of Templars lost, looking for a place still standing and mages who didn’t want to leave the Circle but whose Circles had rebelled.
A sudden knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts. So much for sleeping
“Enter,” Cullen called, his voice laced with exhaustion.
A young Templar entered, “Message for you, Ser” he said calmly as he handed him a letter and then retreated back out of the door.
His heart skipped. He recognized the seal—not that of King Alistair, but Bann Teagan Guerrin.
With measured movements, Cullen broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford,
I must apologize for the delay in responding to your inquiry. His Majesty, King Alistair, is currently unavailable, and your letter was only recently routed to me. I understand that your search pertains to Ariana and the Silver Rangers.
I will be candid. I do know how to find her and her Rangers. However, before I provide such information, I must understand the reason behind your search. Rumors have reached Ferelden—rumors of the White Wolf standing with the mages in Kirkwall. If these rumors hold any truth, I must have assurances that your intent is not to bring harm to Ariana or her Rangers.
Know this, Knight-Commander: His Majesty has made it clear that any attempt to capture Ariana or interfere with the Silver Rangers will be considered an act of war against Ferelden. I trust you will understand the gravity of this matter.
Should you wish to proceed, I will await your reply, whereupon I expect full transparency regarding your purpose in seeking her. Only then will I decide whether to assist you.
Bann Teagan Guerrin of Redcliffe
Cullen’s grip on the parchment tightened as he read and reread the letter. Teagan’s words were carefully chosen but left no room for doubt. If Cullen’s intentions were even slightly unclear, Ferelden would not hesitate to protect its own.
He set the letter down, his chest tightening. He hadn’t considered how his position might complicate his search for Ariana. To Teagan—and likely to anyone who heard of it—he was still the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, sworn to uphold the Templar Order. But his search wasn’t about the Order, it never was. It was about her. About making amends.
Leaning back in his chair, Cullen stared at the letter, the weight of its implications settling over him. If he wanted to find Ariana, he would have to make his intentions clear. But could he? Would Bann Teagan believe him if he said he sought her out of love, not duty?
He exhaled slowly, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. He had no choice but to reply—and to be as honest as he could. Bann Teagan’s response carried a weight far greater than the parchment it was written on. And he knew his reply would carry the same weight, and yet, for all the years of honing his composure and command, he felt uncertain. His pen hovered over the blank page for a moment before he began to write.
Bann Teagan Guerrin,
I thank you for your prompt response, and I will not waste your time with unnecessary pleasantries. You have asked for clarity regarding my search for Ariana Trevelyan, and I will give you the truth as plainly as I can.
I seek her not as the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, nor as a representative of the Templar Order. I seek her as a man searching for the woman he loves in a world that seems to be unraveling more with each passing day. I have no intention of bringing harm to her or the Rangers, nor would I ever consider such a course of action. My purpose is not to pursue justice or duty—it is to find her, to ensure she is safe, and, if she allows it, to mend what has been broken between us.
You have asked for proof of my intentions, and while I have little more than my words to offer, there is one thing I can provide. Enclosed with this letter is a document from the White Spire granting permission for my marriage to Ariana, requested on behalf of her father, Bann Charles Trevelyan of Ostwick. It is the only tangible proof of my commitment to her that I possess.
If you know how to find her, I ask only that you take my words and this letter to her. Let her decide whether or not she wishes to see me. If she chooses to ignore this, I will respect her wishes and will not press the matter further.
I am not naive, Bann Teagan. I know trust cannot be easily given, and perhaps I am undeserving of it. But I hope you will understand that this is not a matter of politics or duty. It is a matter of the heart.
With respect,
Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford
Cullen folded the letter carefully, placing it in an envelope along with the White Spire’s response. He sealed it with deliberate precision, as if the act alone could steady his resolve.
“Knight-Lieutenant” he called to the guard outside his door.
The door opened promptly, “Yes, Knight-Commander?”
He stood, handing the envelope to him. “This must reach Bann Teagan of Redcliffe,” he instructed firmly.
The soft click of the door behind him broke the silence. “It will be delivered immediately, ser,” the Knight-Lieutenant assured, his tone crisp.
Cullen turned, his expression unreadable, and gave a single nod. “Good,” he said quietly.
As the door closed again, the room fell silent once more, save for the faint crackle of the fire. Cullen turned back to the window, his golden eyes scanning the horizon. Somewhere beyond the crumbling stone of Kirkwall, beyond the rebellion and chaos, was Ariana.
And if she would have him, he would cross all of Thedas to find her.
~~~
The months had become a blur of duty and crisis. For Cullen, life had devolved into an endless cycle of rebuilding and managing the growing instability within the Order. Every time he allowed himself the faintest hope of searching for her—Ariana—some new disaster demanded his attention, tethering him firmly to Kirkwall. The weight of his responsibilities was suffocating, yet it paled in comparison to the ache that settled in his chest every time he thought of her.
And now, this.
He stared at the sealed parchment in his hands, the Divine’s crest glinting in the candlelight. The call for a Conclave. A desperate attempt to bring stability to Thedas, to investigate the Rite of Tranquility and the growing fractures in the Chantry. A momentous event that would draw leaders and representatives from every corner of the continent.
Cullen set the letter aside, his jaw tightening. Another distraction. Another duty. Another delay in his search for the only person who had ever truly seen him beyond the mantle of the Templar Order.
The sharp knock at his door jolted him from his thoughts.
“Enter,” he called, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him.
The door opened, and a woman stepped inside, her dark armor catching the firelight. Cullen recognized her immediately: Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. The Right Hand of the Divine. Her reputation preceded her—unyielding, relentless, and dangerously perceptive. Her piercing gaze locked onto his, and Cullen felt the weight of her scrutiny as keenly as a blade at his throat.
“Seeker Pentaghast,” Cullen said, rising from his chair, his tone guarded. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I am here on behalf of the Divine,” Cassandra said, her voice low and commanding. “I seek the Champion of Kirkwall.”
Cullen’s chest tightened, but he maintained his composure. Of course, it would come to this.
“I regret to inform you,” he began, carefully choosing his words, “that the Champion left Kirkwall on the day the Gallows fell. To my knowledge, she has not returned since.”
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, her suspicion evident. “You are certain of this?”
“Yes,” Cullen said firmly, though the truth tasted bitter. “The Champion departed with her companions. None of them have been seen in Kirkwall since that day.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “And what of Varric Tethras?” she asked, her tone sharp with purpose. “The author of The Tale of the Champion. If the Champion is beyond our reach, then I will need to speak with him.”
Cullen hesitated, though only for a fraction of a second. “I have not seen Varric since that day, either.”
Cassandra stepped closer, her presence imposing. “Do you know where he might have gone?”
“No,” Cullen replied, but his thoughts raced. Varric had left with Hawke and Ariana. If anyone knew where she was, it would be him.
“Then we will find him,” Cassandra said resolutely, her tone brooking no argument.
Cullen straightened, the decision forming in his mind before he could second-guess it. “I will assist you, Seeker.”
Her eyebrow arched in surprise, though her suspicion remained. “You would help me find him? Why?”
He met her gaze evenly. “Because Varric Tethras is one of the few people who truly understood what transpired in Kirkwall. If you are seeking the truth, then I want to ensure that truth is told accurately.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. He wouldn’t mention Ariana—not to her. Not yet. The Tale of the Champion had conveniently omitted the White Wolf’s involvement, and Cullen intended to keep it that way. Cassandra might be relentless, but Varric was loyal, and Cullen trusted him to protect Ariana’s secrets as fiercely as he had always done.
Cassandra studied him, her expression unreadable. “Very well,” she said finally. “If you have Templars to spare, we will begin our search here in Kirkwall and the surrounding areas.”
“Understood,” Cullen said, inclining his head.
As Cassandra turned to leave, Cullen sank back into his chair, his mind churning with possibilities. Varric was the key. He had always known more than he let on, and if Cullen could find him, perhaps he could finally uncover the answers that had eluded him for so long.
He rested his head in his hands, the weight of the years pressing heavily on his shoulders. The mage-templar war was tearing Thedas apart, and now the Divine’s Conclave sought to salvage what little remained. But for Cullen, the search for Ariana had never truly ended. It had simply been buried beneath the chaos.
For the first time in years, he felt a flicker of hope.
If anyone knows where she is, it’s him.