Chapter Text
The sky tore open above her with a sound like metal screaming, spilling green fire across the heavens. Ophelia threw up her hand instinctively—and froze.
It wasn’t her arm.
Flesh cracked and blistered, the veins pulsing with sickly light. Emerald ichor seeped from glowing wounds, sizzling as it dripped, burning her skin and soaking her sleeve. The stench was sharp, metallic, like copper and smoke. Her lungs seized with every breath, the pain radiating through her bones as though her arm were melting alive.
Before her, an eluvian shone like a wound in the world. Its mirrored surface rippled, then burst, a torrent of white-green light crashing down on her like a waterfall of knives. It swallowed her, crushing, suffocating. Her chest convulsed as her lungs clawed for air. Darkness surged in, heavy, pressing against her eyes, choking her.
Then—silence.
When she blinked again, the world had changed. The air was thick, damp, smelling of moss and rot. Shadows hung in the greenish haze, stretching too long, curling like smoke. Her ruined arm throbbed in rhythm with her heart, each beat sharp as a hammer blow. She staggered, dizzy, the taste of blood iron on her tongue.
A shape pulled itself from the gloom. Hooded. Broad. Too still. The sound of her own heartbeat roared in her ears as it drew closer, the Fade itself bending around it.
“Inquisitor…” The word cracked, warped as if spoken underwater, yet familiar enough to lance through her.
Her eyes darted under the hood. The suggestion of a beard. A jaw she knew. Then her gaze fell lower—where an arm should have been, there were claws, wicked and dark. Her chest tightened.
“Hawke?” she whispered, the name ripped from her throat like a prayer.
The hooded figure inclined its head. And then the claw shot forward.
It clamped onto her ruined arm, sinking into flesh and bone with a wet crunch. White-hot pain blazed through her body. She screamed, falling to her knees, but refused to let go of his gaze.
“You have to end it,” It rasped, voice fractured, echoing against itself.
She shook her head violently, tears streaking hot down her cheeks. “End what? No—I’ll find a way! I’ll bring you back, I swear it—”
The claws tightened. Pain detonated in her body, each nerve screaming. Her vision blurred; her breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps.
And then—another shift.
Everything around her melted, and she was back before the mirror. The eluvian flared like a dying star, light spilling across her face, blinding.
“Kill it…” The voice deepened, twisted, becoming something older, heavier. A voice that curled in her bones with terrible familiarity. “Or it will kill you.”
The claws bore down harder, crushing her arm. Pain surged, unbearable. She screamed, the sound swallowed by green light.
Somewhere distant—someone called her name. “Ophelia!”
She couldn’t lift her head, couldn’t breathe. Her body writhed, desperate.
“Ophelia!” Again, closer. Urgent.
Her lips trembled. Her vow was broken, splintered, but still she clung to it like a lifeline. “I promise…” The words tore out between sobs, her chest hitching. “I’ll finish this. I promise.”
And then the light devoured her whole.
Ophelia jolted awake, her eyes snapping open as she shot upright in bed. Her chest heaved, each breath ragged and shallow, her body trembling beneath a sheen of cold sweat. She pressed both hands to her face, trying to steady herself, but the terror still clung to her skin, sharp and suffocating.
“Ophelia?”
Cullen’s voice came softly from beside her. He shifted closer, concern tightening his features as he reached for her shoulders. “Starling…” he whispered, the word tender, grounding.
At first, her body flinched at his touch, afraid of contact—but the moment she registered the warmth of his hands, her fear cracked. She turned to him, eyes wide and wet, and then collapsed into his arms and chest, clinging to him with a sob that broke her voice.
He gathered her close without hesitation, his embrace steady and strong. One hand cupped the back of her head, fingers gently threading through her damp hair, while the other pressed against her back, anchoring her trembling form. “It’s all right,” he murmured against her temple. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
For a long moment, she let herself sink into him. His warmth bled into her skin, his steady heartbeat and slow, even breaths pulling her back from the edge. Slowly, her shaking eased, though her chest still hitched as she tried to form words.
“I… I don’t…” She faltered, frustration breaking through her confusion. “I was—”
The rest tangled in her throat. She exhaled hard, pulling back just enough to wipe at her damp cheeks with trembling fingers. Her head shook, as if she could scatter the remnants of the nightmare away.
Cullen’s hand followed her, brushing tenderly across her cheek, urging her to meet his eyes. His touch was warm and gentle. “You’re safe,” he repeated with quiet conviction. “It was only a nightmare.”
She looked at him then—truly looked—and though her breath still came quick and her heart pounded against her ribs, something in his gaze loosened the terror’s hold. With him beside her, the world wasn’t quite so dark. In his arms, she felt she could shatter, and he would still be there, holding the pieces together.
“Did I… wake you?” she whispered, cheeks warming with embarrassment.
Cullen’s smile was gentle. He reached for her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Don’t worry about me, Starling,” he murmured, eyes steady and sure. He drew her close, guiding her head to his chest as his arms wrapped securely around her. “I’m the one who worries, remember?” His voice carried a teasing softness, meant only for her.
A small smile tugged at her lips. Only then did she realize how tense her body had been. She exhaled slowly, letting her hand rest against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“I have bad dreams too,” he admitted quietly. “Sometimes… it’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t once you wake.” His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, soothing, grounding.
She tilted her face up, moonlight tracing the edges of his features. She wondered what ghosts haunted his nights—what memories clawed at him when he closed his eyes. Most of his life had been nothing but survival, just like hers. And yet here they were, finding solace in one another.
Her lips curved as the thought warmed her, easing away the shadows of her dream. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before brushing a soft kiss to his jaw. “It feels good,” she whispered, “to wake from something dark and find you here. It makes everything… less lonely.”
She hesitated, voice quiet but steady. “I only hope I give you the same peace. Because this won’t be the only night we share a bed.” A faint laugh slipped from her, almost shy, the memory of her nightmare fading further.
Cullen’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle. “Peace?” he repeated, tilting his head with a wry smile. “I’m not sure I’ll ever truly feel it while you’re out there risking your life nearly every day.” His hand slid over hers, steady and warm, his thumb brushing gently along her knuckles. His voice softened. “But… you do give me comfort, Starling. More than I ever thought I’d find again.”
His gaze lingered on hers, earnest and unguarded. Then, with a quiet breath, he leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss. It was tender at first, deliberate, as though he was trying to pour reassurance into her through the touch. When he drew back just enough to murmur against her mouth, his voice was low and certain. “And-” he sigh looking at her lips and then at her eyes “sweet Maker… I promise you, this won’t be the only night we share a bed.”
She smiled, her reply swallowed by the next kiss as she melted into him. His arms tightened, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepened—slowly igniting the fire that never seemed to fade when they were together.
In that moment, with the world narrowed to his touch and his breath against her skin, she knew the night would not end in fear, but in love.
“Is that a lute?”
“Yes, Dorian,” Ophelia replied, trying to stifle her smile as he fell into step beside her. She only wanted to slip away to her room and start her busy day, but hiding from her dear friend was nearly impossible.
“Oh, my dear—why do you have a lute? You’re beautiful, yes, and you sing wonderfully, but haven’t you got enough on your plate already? Has the Inquisition decided you must become our bard as well? We already have one, do we not?” Dorian teased, grinning as he matched her stride.
Ophelia frowned at the barrage of questions. “How do you even know I sing? Wait—Why are you even up this early?” She shook her head, quickening her pace toward her room. Why did it feel as though the barracks had doubled in length?
“I could ask you the same,” he countered smoothly, clearing his throat.
She laughed. “You’ve already asked me enough questions for the both of us.” Then she stopped short, turning to look him over. His hair was slightly mussed, his clothes the same as yesterday’s—unusual for him, considering he usually changed at least some part of his ensemble. And unless she was mistaken… he hadn’t slept in his room.
A slow grin spread across her face. “Sneaky little bastard.”
“Ouch,” he said, feigning confusion as he continued to follow her.
“Dorian, I love that you and Bull are a thing. Really. But you don’t have to hide it from me. I already know! So if you’re walking out of his room and happen to run into me, don’t pretend. Just say, ‘Hey, love, I’ve just had the best sex of my life!’ And I’ll say, ‘Hey, me too!’ Then we laugh and go get breakfast. What do you think?”
Ophelia beamed at him, clearly entertained by her own suggestion.
Dorian froze, eyes wide, his mouth falling open. Then, after a heartbeat, he laughed—rich and genuine. His shoulders eased as he shot her a sly look. “You did?” he asked, still chuckling.
“I did.” she laughed as her cheeks turned pink “ and you?” she teased back.
“Ah, yes, I did.” he said proudly then looked again at the instrument “ He gave you a lute?” he said, effortlessly circling back to the mystery of the instrument.
She sighed, exasperated but smiling as she kept walking. “Oh, Creators, yes. It was a gift!” Her laugh echoed softly as they slipped past Solas’s study. Thankfully, it was empty—because Mythal helped them if he’d caught the two of them parading through so early in the morning, chatting about sex and lutes.
“I think it’s a lovely present,” Dorian mused, still at her side. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”
“He’s very… sweet.” The word lingered on her lips, and she couldn’t stop the soft smile that bloomed across her face.
Dorian gasped dramatically. “Oh, Oph, look at you! Absolutely smitten by our sweet Commander.”
“Dorian, shh!” she whispered hurriedly, glancing around as they stepped out into Skyhold’s main hall, already dotted with a few early risers. “We’re trying to keep it… private.”
He chuckled, clearly delighted by her fluster. “Alright, dear. But promise me you’ll take that lute on our next voyage? If I have to suffer through one more of Blackwall’s and Sola´s insufferable, made-up stories I may fling myself into the nearest river. I’d far prefer to hear you sing.”
She shook her head, laughing at his comment as they reached her door. “I’m not taking this. And I am definitely not singing in front of any of you.”
With that, she slipped into her room and closed the door, leaving Dorian standing in the corridor—grinning to himself, thoroughly amused.
Ophelia climbed the stairs to her room, the cold morning breeze slipping through the large window to meet her. She smiled at the touch of it. That morning, she felt impossibly light—almost as though all her pain and sorrow had been washed clean away. Her body felt whole, her heart full.
Was this what it meant to feel alive again?
No… if she was honest with herself, perhaps she had never truly felt like this before in her life.
She set the lute carefully beside her desk before gathering the reports piled high upon it. One by one she scanned through them, the weight of responsibility settling in with the dawn. Her heart skipped when her eyes caught a particular line: they had found Samson’s lair. Relief and triumph surged together in her chest—that was good news. Cullen would be glad to hear it.
But the next report soured the taste of victory. Judgment day. Two prisoners awaited her verdict, and both names made her blood burn: Danev and the Venatori magister. She already knew what their ends would be.
With a long breath, she set the reports down and braced her palms against the cold wood of the desk, leaning her weight into it. Duty still pressed down on her shoulders, but for the first time she realized her mind was quiet.
No doubt. No hesitation. No fear.
It startled her enough that she chuckled softly under her breath. Secure in her choices, in her destiny—it was a new feeling. And for once, it felt… right.
After washing up and changing into fresh clothes, Ophelia braided her long hair and stepped out of her chambers. She could already see soldiers posted near the Inquisition’s throne, waiting for her. She exhaled, steadying herself, and turned toward Josephine’s office.
“Good morning, Josie,” she greeted as she walked in.
“Good morning, Inquisitor.”
Josephine was already seated at her desk, elegant as ever in a golden gown. On the corner of her desk rested a bouquet of fresh flowers, their colors bright against the parchment and ink.
“Oh—this is new?” Ophelia leaned in to breathe in their fragrance. “Josie, they’re beautiful,” she said, smiling in genuine awe.
Josephine laughed lightly, her cheeks coloring. “Yes, they are.”
Ophelia’s smile softened, but she chose not to pry. Instead, she placed a stack of reports on the desk, her tone shifting. “We have two prisoners to judge today.”
Josephine nodded, scanning the reports with quick precision before glancing up at her. She had already been briefed on Danev and his history with the Inquisitor. Leliana’s thorough investigations had uncovered enough darkness around the man to chill anyone—and more painfully, they had revealed parts of Ophelia’s past that Josephine wished she could erase for her. It wasn’t pity she felt, but anger at the cruelty inflicted upon someone she deeply respected. Still, her instinct was to offer relief.
“If you prefer,” she said carefully, “I could preside over the elf’s judgment. You don’t—”
“What?” Ophelia cut her off sharply, shaking her head. “No. I will judge the prisoners. Do not pity me simply because I had a connection with him.” Her voice was steady, though irritation laced her words.
Josephine lowered her eyes, her tone gentle. “Forgive me, Inquisitor. I meant no intrusion.”
The edge in Ophelia’s stance softened. She brought a hand to her face with a sigh, recognizing her own overreaction. “I know… I’m sorry, Josie.” Her voice dropped to something more vulnerable. “Judging him will finally put an end to that story. And I need that closure.”
Josephine’s expression softened, quiet understanding shining in her eyes. “I understand. Shall I have the prisoners prepared for this morning, or would you prefer to hold judgment later in the day?” she asked, quill poised above parchment.
“This morning,” Ophelia said, her voice steady despite the heaviness coiling in her chest. “Let’s get it over with.”
Josephine inclined her head. “Of course.” A small, reassuring smile touched her lips as she made a neat note on the page. “I’ll call the soldiers to prepare the prisoners.” With a graceful nod, she gathered the reports and swept out of her office.
Left alone, Ophelia exhaled slowly, pressing her palms against the edge of Josephine’s desk. Only then did she notice the tremor in her hands. For a moment, the weight of what awaited her pressed down with startling clarity. At last, the ghosts she had carried for so long—the venom of Danev, the shadow of his cruelty—would be confronted. This wasn’t just another judgment as Inquisitor. It was the end of a torment that had shaped her life for too long.
After a few moments, the office door creaked open. Ophelia turned, expecting Josephine—but it was Cullen.
“Are you going to judge him?” The words tumbled out of him in a rush. His chest rose and fell quickly, as if he’d run to get here.
“I am,” she replied, her voice firm, though confusion tugged at her brow.
Cullen exhaled hard, one hand dragging across the back of his neck as if to steady himself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said bluntly.
Ophelia crossed her arms, irritation sparking. “That is not your decision to make.”
“No,” he admitted, stepping closer, his tone edged with frustration. “But as one of your advisors, I think you should let Josephine handle it—or better yet, not judge him at all. Let him rot in the cell. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Her eyes narrowed, her confusion deepening. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, her annoyance rising with her words. “He deserves to be judged, Commander.”
“He doesn’t deserve anything,” Cullen snapped, his voice colder than she’d heard in a long time.
She stared at him, taken aback. It had been a long time since she’d seen him like this—tense, rigid, anger simmering so close to the surface. But it wasn’t aimed at her. No, he looked furious at the very situation itself, as if the thought of that man’s presence alone was enough to set him ablaze.
Suddenly, the door opened. Josephine stepped inside, papers in hand. “The prisoners are ready, Inquisitor… Commander? I thought you were—”
“Put the elf back in his cell,” Cullen cut in sharply.
Ophelia turned on him, eyes wide. “No!” she snapped, stepping forward, anger rising to meet his. “What is your problem? He’s a prisoner of the Inquisition, and he will be judged like all the others, Commander. Like it or not.”
Josephine froze, glancing between them, confusion flickering across her face.
Cullen raked a hand through his hair, his breath leaving him in a growl. “Maker’s breath, why are we even arguing about this?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Ophelia shot back, her voice sharp. “Why are you opposing his judgment?”
“Because I don’t want him to hurt you!” The words ripped from him before he could stop them. He exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling as though the admission itself had cost him. His voice softened, but the urgency remained. “He’s manipulative. He has nothing to lose, and I know men like him. If there’s even the smallest chance to strike, he’ll take it. He’ll do anything he can to wound you, especially in front of your people.” His jaw tightened. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, then said, quieter, “It’s my job to protect you. And all I see in him is danger.”
Ophelia studied him, her pulse quickening as realization dawned. He wasn’t trying to deny her authority. He was afraid. But beneath that, a bitter edge twisted in her chest—because part of her couldn’t shake the thought that he saw her as fragile. As if she might break again under Danev’s shadow.
Her voice dropped, cold and sharp. “You think I’m weak?”
Josephine shifted uncomfortably, gathering her papers with careful silence before excusing herself. This was not a quarrel she wished to witness.
Cullen blinked at Ophelia, startled. “What? No—of course not—”
Her anger flared, sharp and unrelenting. “Do you think he could manipulate me again?”
“No!” His answer came fast, almost desperate.
Her breaths came uneven, chest rising and falling as frustration burned through her. Not only at him, but at herself. Creators, he wasn’t entirely wrong—Danev was a master of manipulation, and Cullen had seen it firsthand. But this time was different. He didn’t know what she knew. He hadn’t seen how she had looked Danev in the eyes and finally understood the truth: that he had never cared.
Cullen didn’t know that.
She exhaled slowly, forcing the breath past her lips, trying to pull the fire back under control.
“You think I’m doing this for him” she said, her voice sharp but steady. “Cullen, I’m doing this for me. I need this. I want to be the one to decide his fate. I want that power.”
Her tone softened as she stepped closer, trying to temper the fire in her words.
He exhaled and looked away, jaw tight. The anger hadn’t vanished, but something in her words struck him. He understood now. This wasn’t about pitying Danev with judgment—it was about reclaiming what had been taken from her. And Maker help him, he thought of himself. What would he have done, if he’d ever been given the chance to stand over Uldred and pass judgment? To decide the fate of the man who had nearly destroyed him?
Cool hands slipped into his, pulling him back to the present. He turned, meeting her gaze. The storm of anger was gone from her eyes, replaced by something steady and resolute.
“I will judge him, vhenan,” she whispered, her voice gentler now. “No one will take that from me. Not even you.”
Cullen’s breath caught, his grip tightening on her hands as though he could anchor her to safety. “Alright…” he murmured. Then, after a pause, softer still. “But please—let me stand by your side?” His eyes were shadowed with worry, fear laid bare without pretense.
Her expression softened. She reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “Always,” she promised.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They simply held each other’s gaze, silent but certain, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down—and yet, somehow, lighter with the other beside them.
At last, Cullen drew in a steadying breath. “Then let’s go. Josephine must be waiting outside.”
Ophelia nodded, straightening with him. “Yes.” Together, they turned toward the door, bracing themselves for what was to come.