Knight-Commander Greagoir,
I write to you with concerns regarding the recent mission to apprehend the blood mages responsible for the disappearances on the Imperial Highway. While the operation was ultimately successful, I must bring to your attention the erratic behavior displayed by Ser Eret Logan during the engagement.
Despite clear orders to hold position until the maleficarum were isolated and reinforcements were in place, Ser Logan once again allowed his fervor to overtake his judgment. He broke formation and charged the blood mages prematurely. His actions not only endangered himself but also forced the rest of the unit to engage before proper preparations could be made, resulting in unnecessary injuries among our ranks.
This is not the first time Ser Logan has acted impulsively when facing blood mages. While his bravery is beyond question, I fear his diminishing restraint may be a liability in such high-stakes situations. Given his many years of service and the toll that prolonged lyrium use takes on even the strongest of Knights, it may be prudent to reassess his current duties.
I submit this report with the utmost respect for Ser Logan's dedication to the Order, but also with the conviction that the safety of our brothers and sisters must come first.
Yours in duty,
Ser Miquella De Lafaille
***
Evelyn
Evelyn stared up at the vaulted ceiling of the mage's infirmary, wishing the answers to her problems would fall down and hit her like a brick. Instead, the potent brewing of tinctures and grinding of elfroot did, reminding her of her Harrowing and her meeting with Pride.
The demon's voice curled through her memory like smoke, smooth and intoxicating: "You hunger for greatness, Evelyn—I can taste it. That relentless fire, that need to prove yourself not just capable, but peerless. The Circle seeks to dull your edges, to make you just another obedient little mage, trembling behind Templar shields. But you? You were never meant to kneel.
I have watched you. While the others waste their hours on petty spells and hollow politics, you grasp for something more. You could be legendary. A name that shakes the foundations of Thedas. Not just a Knight-Enchanter—a force. But they will never let you rise. Not truly."
The infirmary's quiet hum faded beneath the remembered pulse of Pride's presence, darkly alluring. She clenched her fists, the phantom echo of the demon's whisper still coiled around her thoughts: "Yet with me? No limits. No fear. I would hone that pride of yours into a blade, sharpen your ambition until the world bleeds from its touch. No more hiding. No more holding back. All you need to do is reach out… and take it."
The temptation had been so great, greater than she would ever admit, even in the secret silence of her own mind. Pride had seen her too clearly, spoken truths that resonated deep in her bones. For one breathless moment, she had almost reached back.
But she had broken free. She passed the Harrowing after two familiar voices broke through to her subconscious, reminding her of what she was fighting for and who the first person she'd hurt if she let the demon win: Cullen. The thought was inconceivable, hardening her resolve even as Pride whipped her body with its dark magic.
She should have been elated, having proved herself stronger than the demon's honeyed promises. Instead, the victory felt hollow, crumbling like ash in her hands. There was no one to share it with—no one who would truly understand. With all the whispers swirling about the higher form of magic she could command, the other mages kept their distance, eyes wary, while the Knights watched her with even sharper suspicion.
Sitting in the dank, cool dark of the Ferelden Tower, she had written to Sorin and Henley before her Harrowing. Upon waking from her spent state, she had two responses from her dear friends.
Evelyn unfolded the letters with careful fingers, the parchment rough against her skin. The ink was familiar—Sorin's precise, angular script, Henley's looping scrawl, both achingly dear. Their words spilled warmth, pulling her back to sun-warmed stone and the briny tang of Ostwick's shores.
She traced a line where Henley had smudged the ink—probably laughing as he wrote—and could almost hear Sorin's dry remark about Ferelden's charming weather. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Maker, she missed them. Missed the way they'd shoulder against her in silence, understanding without words. Missed the certainty that, no matter how high she reached, they'd never look at her like something to fear.
Her throat tightened. She pressed the letters to her chest, as if she could imprint their comfort into her soul.
"Apprentice Trevelyan." The voice cut through her thoughts like a blade, sharp and unyielding.
Evelyn looked up to see an older Knight she'd only ever noted in passing—tall, broad-shouldered, with an eyepatch emblazoned with a Chantry symbol covering his left eye. His black hair, streaked with silver, fell shaggily beneath his helm, and his thick beard gave him the look of a wildman dragged straight from the Hinterlands.
He inclined his head slightly, the motion more a formality than warm. "Ser Eret Logan. Your assigned Sentinel."
Evelyn's fingers tightened around the letters from her friends, the parchment crumpling slightly as her disappointment settled like a stone in her chest.
Before her was a man she hardly knew—of, yes, but personally, no—yet was expected to trust with her life and her future as a Knight-Enchanter. Logan was a relic of the old guard—a Templar who preferred the hunt for maleficarum to the stifling confines of the Circle. Whispers followed him, tales of his brutal efficiency and the fits of rage that consumed him when blood magic was involved. Some said the blood mage, who took his eye, he had torn apart with his bare hands.
She could practically smell the lyrium on him—that metallic tang that clung to seasoned Templars. It made her magic itch beneath her skin in instinctive rebellion.
"Problem?" His voice was gravel wrapped in steel as he had probably felt her mana stirring.
Evelyn straightened. "No, Ser." Lie. Every instinct screamed that this partnership would be a battle in itself.
One corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "Good. Let's go."
When they joined Croft, Abraxas, and Dane in the training yard, the Knight-Enchanter held out an arm to Logan, who smiled and shook it heartily. "Ser Logan! Good to see you, my friend!"
Of course, they were friends. She caught her eyes before they rolled.
"Likewise, Croft! The Knight-Commander put me in charge of your Apprentice here." Croft's eyes shot to Evelyn, and she could've sworn there was a hint of unease in them. "I'll make sure to turn her into a disciplined fighter."
The silver-haired mage's smile didn't quite meet his eyes. "Aye, I'm sure you will, Eret. I'm surprised you'd take on the Sentinel mantle. Did you finally eradicate the kingdom of all its maleificar?"
Logan shook his head. "Greagoir and I agreed a rest from the field would do me good. But you know how I can't sit still, I have to do something. When he told me about your Spitfire here, I agreed to help train her."
"Ah, I understand." Croft's gaze landed on her, seemingly lost for a moment. "Well, I suggest you begin by familiarizing yourselves with Trevelyan's mana. I've no doubt you can handle it, Eret, but… she's strong and spirited."
Logan made a disgusted sound. "I know, I can feel it." He then looked to his new charge. "Don't worry, Spitfire, we'll find a way to make you useful."
Evelyn bristled at his remark, even if it was all she ever wanted since learning of her potent magic. This was still about survival, even if she had passed one of her biggest tests. Nothing could change that. Not Logan. Not the Maker. Not Cullen.
***
Cullen
"Ser Logan, how's your charge warming up to you?" The Knight who asked jeered.
Cullen side-eyed the conversation from his end of the mess table with cold indifference despite his innards roiling. Logan had been assigned to Evelyn without so much as a word to the rest of the Knights. Typically, the Knight-Commander called for volunteers first, as while the position was highly prestigious, it was also gruelingly long days.
The battle-hardened swordsman turned his head more to look at the Knight with his one good eye. "Spitfire is coming along well. She's a hothead, but I'll beat that out of her soon enough. Mages like her need to be reminded of their place in this world. Especially if she's to fight beside us."
Cullen put his cup down too hard. The thought of a man like Logan trying to break her all because she was a mage sickened him. Evelyn didn't need humbling—well, most of the time—Logan had it all wrong. She knew her place and her duty, and he knew she'd not take Logan's instruction well after everything that happened with Miriam.
The healer had a calming effect on the pyromancer, making her think more rationally. Evelyn had been stuck with Rhetta, the elf who spat at him whenever he passed them in the Tower. With Evelyn stuck between her and Logan, the situation was starting to become worrisome.
Sure enough, Evelyn's inherent fieriness pushed Logan too far one day.
Between shifts, he and Reid decided to work on their swordwork in the yard. He sensed Evelyn near—it being nearly impossible these days not to, as he secretly sought her mana with his Andraste-given abilities. A weakness on his part, but he told himself it was for her protection.
Ser Logan's voice boomed through the yard, "What the fuck was that?! You just let the Knights counting on you die with that pathetic display!" His towering figure over hers made Cullen's body tense, and his hands squeezed the hilt of his sword painfully.
"That's what happens when I don't tap into my emotions. My mana reacts to my anger and focus—"
"Magic doesn't work like that."
Cullen held his breath. Evelyn's jaw moved like she was biting back one of her smart remarks. "Mine does. With all due respect, Ser, how would you know? You're not a mage."
"Bullshit excuses! Now, do it again!" He watched as Evelyn tried it his way a few more times before her frustration got the better of her, and shot a fireball the size of a melon at her target. Veins on fire as much as her target, her raptor glare bore into Logan, trying to prove her point. "Back it down, little Spitfire," he growled, putting her in his shadow. Even Cullen sensed she was nowhere near her full power.
Not like at her Harrowing.
Evelyn stared back in defiance. "I'm in control, Ser—" She gasped and shuddered, hit with a light reprimand of Silence.
"No, I'm in control." Logan held up a finger. "I better not have to ask again."
Her flaming irises cooled to her normal woody brown before standing tall once more. Logan regarded her coolly before suddenly backhanding her harder than any Templar—or man—had the right to. Blood poured from her split lip as the momentum took her to one knee.
Cullen felt himself lurch forward, but Tristian's arm stopped him. A quiet warning not to interfere. They had no right to get between a Sentinel and their charge as much as he wanted to.
"You don't get to tell me, girl, how to train you. And you'll obey the first time I give you an order."
"Eret—" Croft tried to intervene.
"Stay out of this, Gavril. This is between me and Spitfire here." Croft didn't have much choice. He may be respected among Templars for his service, but he was still a mage. Powerless like the rest of them. "Get up!"
She obeyed, a stain of red dripping down her front, but no tears. Apparently, he was looking for a reaction from her, but got none, making him angrier. In one swift motion, Logan grabbed her by the front of her tunic and yanked her forward, then slammed his forehead into her face.
Crack.
It was a sickening sound, but it didn't come from her…
Logan staggered back with a hissed curse, blood welling from a split above his brow.
"Maker's balls, Eret…" Croft muttered, concerned.
The Sentinel wiped at the blood dripping into his one good eye, his glare molten. "She's got a fucking rock for a face."
"A reinforced barrier for a face, Ser," Evelyn's voice was steel.
A few of the Templars watching coughed into their hands, but whether it was to hide laughter or shock, Cullen couldn't tell.
Logan's lip curled. "First clever thing you've done all session, Spitfire."
The pyromancer bared her teeth in a bloody grin. "Comes naturally when you always expect to be hit."
Logan took a step forward as if he was about to attack her again, but then he swayed, his face going ashen, his balance faltering as if the ground had tilted beneath him. Before he could collapse, Croft blurred into motion, fade-stepping just in time to catch him by the shoulder. "Easy, friend," he muttered, steadying him.
The older Templar batted weakly at his grip. "M'fine. Just... need a moment." His words slurred slightly, his pupils uneven.
Croft snorted, but his voice was low, almost gentle. "You just headbutted a barrier. You're lucky you're not vomiting on your own boots right now." He tightened his hold. "Infirmary, Eret."
Surprisingly, Logan didn't argue. He let the Knight-Enchanter guide him away, though he managed a last glare at Evelyn. "Come, girl."
Evelyn wiped her bloody lip on her sleeve. "Right behind you, Ser."
Pretending to go back to his swordwork, Cullen watched as Brax approached her. The cryromancer pressed a cool finger to her lip, making her wince. When it passed, the tension in her shoulders relaxed, and she dabbed at the wound lightly with her sleeve. The two mages shared a resolute look before Logan's voice cracked off the high outer walls, reminding her that she had to follow.
Turning, she walked like she was on her way to the gallows. Evelyn must've felt his gaze because her eyes—bloodthirsty and spiteful—flickered over to him. Cullen knew her well enough to know the wheels were turning in her head, strategizing how to save herself.
She had only Rhetta, Brax, and Dane to rely on, and none of them were a particularly good influence in any case. Now was the time, he needed to speak with her—corner her so she couldn't escape and hear reason before her temper got the better of her.
He went to the Infirmary to find her waiting beside the closed doors for her Sentinel, with her arms crossed and back against the wall. Those drifting by kept their heads down, seeing her bloodied state and wanting no part of the trouble that always followed her. As soon as she saw Cullen, she rolled her eyes and stormed off as if knowing what was coming.
"Evelyn," he called to her, but she didn't stop, despite having heard him. "Evelyn!"
Maker's breath, there wasn't a more stubborn mage in all of Thedas…
Cullen reached for her hand, pulling her into one of the Tower's many enclaves. "Would you just…" Naturally, she was fighting him. "...bloody stop so we can talk!"
"Why should I?!"
"Because you need to hear reason from a friend—"
"Friend?" She scoffed. "A friend, Cullen, doesn't go behind my back and ruin friendships!"
"I didn't mean for that to happen! I had no idea Miriam would react like that. I was trying to get her help."
"Help with what?"
"Help in making you see reason—which has apparently abandoned you entirely!" She stilled, the fierce facade she put up fracturing. His eyes dropped to her split lip. "Whatever you're planning to do to Logan, don't."
"Then you propose I do nothing?" Her arms flew out to her sides. "He thinks I'm an abomination."
"I know."
"That I'm revolting."
"I know," his voice growing quieter.
"Worthless."
Cullen sighed. "I know."
She gazed up at him with tired and pleading eyes. "Then what in the Void am I supposed to do? Let him break me?" Her voice dropped low, in warning, "You know I can't let him do that." They shared a knowing look at her predicament. "I'm stuck with him. He's my Sentinel. Not even Croft can do anything about it."
"There has to be something."
She shook her head, her tone grave, "I'm not your concern, Cullen."
He felt his face scrunch up. "Don't do that. You can be mad at me all you want, but I'm not going to let you be branded over your hotheadedness."
"Why? It certainly would make your job easier."
"You were the one who decided we were going to be friends years ago when you first came here." Her expression finally relaxed a bit. "You're kind of stuck with me whether you hate me or not."
He could tell she wanted to be mad at him, but was having trouble holding her ground. It didn't matter that there was a rift between them, he knew there was something else there—something stronger—causing a constant pull, as much as he tried to deny it himself. But if it would save her from doing something he'd regret, he'd use it.
"You really haven't given up on me, even after everything I've called you?" Evelyn had made it a point to make up creative names for him, she'd mutter in passing. How she knew it was him in his full armor while on duty, he had yet to figure out.
He gave her a dry stare. "You mean like Nug-humper." Evelyn bit her bottom lip. "And Ser Curly-Arse-Hair."
"That one was pretty clever, I thought." Finally, she smiled, genuine and pure. It was a sight he'd been deprived of for some time. But as quickly as it bloomed, it faded. "I'm not ready to forgive you yet."
"I know, I—"
Pounding feet and the sound of alarm had them both running toward the Infirmary.
The doors burst open under Cullen's shoulder as Evelyn stumbled in behind him. The scene inside was madness given form.
Ser Logan stood in the center of the room, sword drawn and wild-eyed, his blade leveled at Miriam's chest as she stood trembling before him. Twin streaks of bloody tears carved paths down her cheeks, that quirk of hers that looked so much like...
"BLOOD MAGE!" The older Templar roared, spittle flying from his lips. His forehead wound had reopened, painting half his face crimson. "I'LL HANG YOUR ENTRAILS FROM THE CHANTRY BELLS!"
Croft lay motionless near them, the telltale shimmer of The Wrath of Haven pulsing around his unconscious form. Beside him on the ground were a few other young Knights, dead. Ser Miquella and three other Templars circled warily, their blades out but hesitation clear in their stances.
But Evelyn didn't hesitate. She pushed forward, hands raised. "Ser—"
"STAY BACK!" Logan swung the sword toward the pyromancer. His pupils were pinpricks, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I SMELL THE ROT IN HER VEINS! SEE IT BUBBLING FROM HER EYES!"
Cullen moved before he could think, placing himself between Evelyn and the blade. "Stand down, Ser Logan," he commanded. "It's a mutation. Enchanter Miriam's healing magic causes—"
"LIES!" Logan lunged at the healer.
"Maker!" she shrieked, her hands flying up in a desperate warding gesture. Evelyn's fire surged behind Cullen just as Silence detonated through the Infirmary. The magic died in midair; Miriam's barrier and the Marcher's flames winked out.
Logan's blade met no resistance as steel parted flesh with a wet crunch, carving diagonally from collarbone to opposite hip. A geyser of arterial blood arced upward, splattering across the ceiling in a grisly constellation. Miriam's mouth formed a perfect 'O' as her torso yawned open, a grotesque second smile glistening with shattered ribs and pulped organs.
For one heartbeat, the world stopped.
Then Evelyn screamed. Not in horror, nor grief, but in a pure, unadulterated rage, a sound so raw it scraped the air like a blade across bone.
Cullen barely had time to turn before the heat hit him. A furnace-blast of pure fury, rolling off the pyromancer in waves. The blood on the floor boiled. The Silence shattered like glass.
And then fiery wings erupted from her back just like at the Harrowing. They unfurled with a roar, igniting the very air. Tables and cots charred to ash in an instant. The stone walls blackened. Templars stumbled back, armor searing their skin.
Logan's laughter died in his throat.
Evelyn's eyes, once warm brown, now pits of orange, locked onto him.
"Burn," she whispered.
And he did.