The parchment is crisp, the ink dark and unadorned—similar, utilitarian hand as the original letter, but with a single, deliberate flourish: a dagger-thin line scored beneath the final word.
The seasons heed your will. The weed you speak of has been marked—its roots shallow, its fate sealed. When the moon bleeds anew, no trace will linger in your garden.
Expect no further word until the deed is done.
Beside the letter, two items lie with deliberate placement:
A well-worn copy of "Herbs and Flora of Thedas: Their Virtues and Venoms," its margins scribbled with notes in a cramped, unfamiliar hand. One page lies deliberately dog-eared, the entry on Hemlock faintly underlined: "Swift, silent, and without taste when brewed properly."
A scrap of parchment listing the Knight-Commander's shifts at Kinloch Hold, the dates circled in faint red ink.
***
Evelyn
The moment had come.
Croft stopped her before she could enter the Mess Hall, and a good thing too, for she probably would've lost her dinner. "It is time." He firmly gripped her bicep and led her up the many floors of the Circle Tower until they reached the top. There was no getting out of it. This was the hour of victory or death.
Aside from the ringing in her ears, Evelyn felt like the world had gone silent. Knowing eyes followed her, but unlike the other mages, her sentencing carried a weight of expectation with it. Even Miriam spared a moment to notice her, strangling her necklace. Was she saying a prayer or a curse?
Entering the domed chamber, Evelyn gaped at its expansive glass windows, making her feel as if she had ascended into the heavens like Andraste herself. The strong hand of the Knight-Enchanter helped her along as she dragged her feet, wanting to look around more.
At the center of the room stood the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander with the prepared draught of lyrium. There was a heaviness that hung in the air as she watched the Templars move about, keeping their muscles warm and ready. The clanks of their armor echoed around the room as they rotated their positions. If it weren't for the lyrium, they would probably be dead and exhausted after hours of Harrowings.
She had heard that the lengths of Harrowings were based on the perceptiveness of the mage when confronting their demon. How fast could one see through the illusion of Desire? Find hope when Despair had taken it all. Find peace when Rage sowed nothing but utter chaos.
She wondered at the mage's trial before her, seeing as the Knights seemed restless. Some hung their heads, others knelt in prayer. Yet, she had not seen the mage emerge from the room on her way up…
Evelyn missed a step in her stride momentarily when she caught the smeared blood across the chamber floor. Following it, she spied the Knight who had wetted his blade and his armor. Greagoir had stepped away from Irving to speak with him. "Well done, Ser Reid. Your quick reflexes saved us from a blood bath."
Reid is here, Evelyn's mind wandered, and she remembered Cullen would be here too… somewhere. She hadn't seen him in days, and after seeing the aftermath of the last Harrowing, she could use some of his matter-of-fact reassurance despite her anger.
No. I don't need him or anyone. Not anymore. Disposable. Rejected…
"Apprentice Trevelyan," her head snapped to the voice of the Knight-Commander, "your instructors have all agreed the time of your Harrowing is now. While they have the utmost confidence in your ability to succeed, the choice is still yours: Begin the Harrowing or be made Tranquil?"
"I will take my Harrowing, ser."
"Are you sure? For if you fail, Andraste's Knights will strike you down before you wake." Greagoir's eyes narrowed. As if all were thinking the same thing, everyone's eyes flicked down to the red-streaked floor.
"Absolutely. I would like to take my Harrowing, Knight-Commander, and fulfill my vows as a Knight-Enchanter."
"Very well, may the Maker watch over you in the Fade." Stepping down to ready the Knights, it was the grizzled mage she had become so fond of who approached with the glowing goblet.
"Remember, don't hold back, bring the heat." His grin was more intense than it was comforting as he handed her the draught. She was relieved for his strength at this moment, for he had instructed her over the past few years to be a warrior, where soft and tender encouragement was a foreign idea.
Croft nodded to her, and she took a sip, slowly tipping the cup all the way up as if chugging a pint. The overwhelming high from the lyrium made her lightheaded, swaying before being steadied by her mentor and the Templar responsible for her safety while in the Fade.
Kneeling over her, the Knight leveled his sword above her neck like a butcher poised over a sacrificial goose. The cold edge gleamed in the dim light, but her gaze was fixed upward, past the shadow of his helm, into the flicker of his eyes. The lyrium in her veins burned bright, casting a glow that caught the gold flecks in his stare.
And in that moment, she knew him.
Cullen.
His eyes, always so expressive, betrayed what the steel-clad facade could not. They shifted like pages turning in a familiar tome: concern, resolve, aching affection. Hidden from the world, laid bare only for her.
Stop. Her thoughts hissed, brittle. It means nothing.
And yet—
The Fade's pull surged, relentless. Evelyn gasped as the waking world shattered, and she plunged into oblivion.
***
Cullen
When Cullen saw Evelyn enter the chamber and realize that the mage before her had failed their Harrowing, it took everything in him to remain silent. He wanted to reassure her that she was strong and would not be tempted by any demon, but the subtle widening of her eyes showed the doubt peeking through her tough exterior. Nothing was a guarantee during Harrowings; there was always a chance of something going wrong.
As they rotated, he caught Vale trying to weasel her way over to the First Templar position and knew he needed to do something.
In a Harrowing, there was a succession in their order of defense in the case a mage became possessed. The Knight-Commander oversaw everything, and the decision to kill a mage before they woke from the Fade came from him. The 'First Templar' was the one to carry out such an order, or if the mage showed signs of possession, to end them, no questions asked. The other vital position was 'Second Templar', who stood by in case the demon killed the First Templar.
He knew the woman had it out for her, but his rational mind told him it would be a bold move to end her this way. But if he was wrong, and he had been wrong before…
Quickly, he knelt on the spot before she reached it. He heard her huff from behind but gave her no chance to speak with him, instead moving his head away to watch his infatuation approach. Cullen would've sighed in relief, but didn't want to draw attention to himself or the fact that he had just potentially saved her life if indeed Vale was brazen enough to try and murder her—unfortunately, it would not be the first time something like that had happened in the Circle's history. No one questioned when a Knight ended a mage; there was no oversight, no repercussions, and no questions asked.
He would not let Evelyn become a victim of one woman's vendetta, all because of jealousy. Or for reasons he dared not dwell on.
With temporary relief flooding him that he was in charge of her welfare, he fixed his eyes on her, prepared to do what was necessary. Maker, could he bring himself to execute her if indeed she failed? No, she wouldn't fail; this was Evelyn. No one was more dedicated, skilled at pyromancy, or deadly. She was fire itself, the living embodiment in every way. Even now, her body was giving off a comforting warmth that soothed his aching muscles after nearly two days of continuous Harrowings.
After taking her draught, he helped the Knight-Enchanter lower her down. She probably didn't know it, but he slipped his lucky coin into her pocket. He couldn't be sure, but before she journeyed to the Fade, he thought he saw the faintest glimmer of recognition in her eyes. That relief flooded her, that her physical body was safe in his care.
About a half-hour into her trial, her mana ignited, pulsing glowing magma through her veins. The dark chamber glowed with her soft light, bouncing off the Knights' silverite armor. Though the picture of restful peace, he knew enough of his friend's magic to ascertain she was using it. Flexing his hand on his sword, he knew this was it; she was battling her demon. The world around him blurred, and he mumbled silent prayers of protection under his breath. Evelyn's face glowed like a wraith, and his breath hitched when a deep red stain began to spread beneath her pant leg.
Panic seized his chest, unable to do anything about it. Croft briskly crossed the dias to her and knelt across from him. His steely eyes moved back and forth in concern, then were pinned on Cullen, trying to ascertain the identity of who was watching over his apprentice. "Ser…?"
"Rutherford."
A flash of relief spread through the grizzled battle mage at the reveal. "Good. I'm not interfering, just checking to see what demon she's facing." Moving to cut a slit in the knee of her pants, he moved over to examine the wound. "Andraste's pyre," he cursed out in a growl. In the opening, Cullen could see her skin had been burned, but not by fire. A deep, thick cut coiled around her leg. "That's from a Pride demon."
Another red spot spread on her forearm now as her mana blazed furiously, and then something incredible happened. Evelyn splayed large avian wings of fire. From the floor, her arms jerked outwards, hitting both Cullen and Gavril. Her back arched up as random bursts of fire exploded throughout the Harrowing Chamber, scorching the walls and sending sparks raining down like fiery snowflakes.
"Cut her down!" Vale shouted, her voice cracking. "She's failed the Harrowing! She's possessed!"
Cullen felt his stomach drop. His grip tightened on his sword so much that it hurt. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched Evelyn, his mind racing. Maker, this ain't true! How could this happen!? She was strong. She was ready! But the evidence was undeniable, crushing—the glow, the wings, the fire. It all pointed to one thing: Pride had taken hold of her.
"The flames haven't hurt anyone! Hold position!" Knight-Commander Gregoir barked back. He had no patience for Vale after the expulsion of Witfield. "Ser Rutherford?!"
"Evelyn," Cullen whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames. He raised his sword. He could feel his heart breaking into a million pieces as he poised the sword for a strike, his blade trembling in his hand.
The Chamber fell silent for a split second as if the world itself was holding its breath. Then, with a sound like a thunderclap, Evelyn's eyes snapped open. They burned with a golden light, piercing and bright as if five suns were held within her gaze. She gasped, sucking in the air. The flames around her vanished, like dust in the wind. The Templars stumbled back, their fear palpable.
Cullen froze, his sword still raised. He stared at her, his breath caught in his throat. "Evelyn?!" he uttered, hoping against hope that she was still there.
She blinked as if trying to focus, her glowing eyes meeting his. Her lips parted, panting like her heart was running away from her. The Templars stared at her, their weapons still raised, unsure of what had just happened. Evelyn tilted her head, her glow fading until she looked like herself again—just a mage, just a woman. But the power she wielded moments ago lingered in the air, a silent reminder of what she was capable of.
Cullen lowered his sword, his shoulders sagging with relief. He wanted to say something, to ask her if she was truly okay, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he gave her a small nod, his expression a mixture of awe and lingering fear.
"I'm fine," she uttered, her voice calm and steady. "I passed."
Attempting to get up, Cullen shot up and held out a hand, but the stubborn mage pretended she didn't see it, hissing in pain as she got up. When she went to take a step, her knees gave out and she fell forward. Catching her, Evelyn's eyes fluttered shut in exhaustion, though she was barely conscious.
Cullen called out, "She needs a healer!"
"I've got her, Ser Rutherford!" Knight-Enchanter Croft swooped in, taking her from his arms. The rare show of concern for his apprentice stilled the Knights.
Gavril Croft had been ruthless and unrelenting when it came to her training, and here he was cradling her tall, bloodied form like she was his child. Perhaps in a way, she was now, as if getting too attached to his students before facing the Harrowing was a necessary shield against their failure.
"I'll take her right to Wynne. Those injuries will need to be cleansed." Evelyn made an attempt to say something, but was quickly hushed as he rushed her toward the door. "Well done, Trevelyan," he imparted gruffly, but there was a father's pride in it.
The pyromancer nodded against him wearily, but her gaze reached out once for Cullen before coldly focusing elsewhere. He wanted to congratulate her as she had upon completing his Vigil, but it was impossible now for more reasons than one.
Staring after her, a shove jostled him out of his brooding. Vale lowered her voice, "Keep defending her, and some of us may think there is more to your little friendship, Rutherford."
"You're lucky we're short on female Templars, Vale, otherwise you'd be disgraced along with Witfield. You've no friends to throw under the Bronto next time." He squared himself to her, glaring down into her helmet. "Trevelyan has more friends than just me to watch her back. Best bury whatever jealousy you have and focus on your Andraste-given duty."
"Right, just like you, eh? Do yourself a favor and move on to more acceptable pursuits." She leaned a shoulder in coyly. "Your own kind can satisfy without damning you to The Void."
Before he could retort, Gregoir hailed him, "Well done, Ser Rutherford. That was a tricky situation to read, but you saved a damn good apprentice with your patience." He shook his head in a bit of disbelief. "In all my years, I've yet to see a mutation like those wings. You did well not to panic… unlike some." He shot a sharp look around as if making mental performance notes.
Cullen remembered waiting to feel their bite, but it never came. "The flames weren't real, they didn't actually burn or feel like anything. Do they mean something?"
His superior's brow scrunched together in thought. Nodding to the First Enchanter, Gregoir imparted his question to him. "There have only been a handful of mages to ever have such a mutation. Those rare few have excelled, accomplishing great things. Many believe it bestows the ability to wield a higher form of magic."
"Sounds dangerous." The Knight-Commander narrowed his eyes. "She'll need a Sentinel as soon as possible, Irving. As soon as she's recovered, have her report to me." The grayed mage hummed a low raspy note.
Stepping away and taking up a new position, Irving's words rattled around in his skull. A higher form of magic? He couldn't fathom the possibilities. What he did know was that it would make things more difficult for her, especially with Templars like Vale out there. Her Sentinel would have to be told about all this and do what was right for her. Could he trust just anyone with this? What if they choose Vale on principle alone because she's a female? And what of another man guarding her?
Cullen's fists clenched as that burning ache rolled through his chest. She hates you, remember? It's better this way.
Yet, the more he told himself that, the less he believed it.