Dragon Age Inquisition: Faith

The Temple of Sacred Ashes

Cecily was not, by nature, a warrior.

She knew herself to be a talented mage, but her studies at Ostwick had been more academic than military. She and Lydia were famously the only two people in their Circle to have finished Dagna’s Treatise on the Relation between Lyrium Vapor and the Supply of Magic in Mages (although Cecily was not ashamed to admit she had skimmed some parts). She had read a few books on the theory of using magic as a weapon, but had never had any intention of practicing that art herself.

That had changed the moment the Ostwick Circle’s Templars invoked the Rite of Annulment. Cecily killed her first man—then her second, and third—helping to evacuate the Circle’s children from their tower. Even now, even after hundreds of battles and far too many deaths on her hands, she did not relish combat the way Cassandra or The Iron Bull or even Dorian seemed to.

And the last time she had faced Corypheus, he had lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing, flung her into the trebuchet as if she were a rag doll, shrugged off her spells with barely a flinch. Only his arrogance and his fury at the fact that she’d stolen his anchor had saved her life. It had kept him talking, kept him from realizing her plan until it was too late.

Now, with Samson defeated, with Corypheus’s armies on the run and Morrigan confident that she could match his dragon, Cecily had no choice but to face a truth that she had tried very hard to ignore. It would be up to her to defeat Corypheus—and he would not underestimate her again. She was stronger than she’d been at Haven; she had mastered a way to use the anchor as a weapon, learned from Solas and Dorian and Vivienne, honed her skills against red Templars and Venatori and even dragons. But she could not say for certain that it would be enough.

That night, it was Cecily’s bad dreams that startled her and Cullen awake.

“What was it?” her Commander asked gently, pressing a hand to her back as she pushed her hair from her face.

Cecily thought about lying, thought about saying it was just a funny dream about being late for her Harrowing, but she would not have wanted that from Cullen. “Him,” she said simply. “I felt him—felt him near but could not see him. Could not stop him.”

Cullen’s arm slid around her shoulders and he kissed her temple. Cecily closed her eyes and leaned into him, waiting for her heartbeat to slow.

And then, far in the distance, Cecily felt a resonance with the mark. She opened her eyes but already knew what she would see when she lifted her left hand—the anchor, crackling and pulsing, splitting her palm painfully as its power surged.

Outside her windows, the sky tore and turned green.

Ah, Cecily thought, with that strange, intense calm that was really panic at its root. Not a dream, then.

* 

“I’ll bring what forces I can down to the Temple,” Cullen said, running alongside Cecily as she gathered her gear. “But Cecily—we can’t be ready as quickly as you will be. The bulk of our army is still returning from the Arbor Wilds, and much of it remains deployed elsewhere. The task of stopping Corypheus …”

“Is mine,” Cecily finished. “It was always going to be mine, Cullen. It’s all right.” Her face was pale but determined, and Cullen’s heart felt as if it might shatter right then.

You will come back.

Cecily seemed to sense the thought; she paused in the midst of her whirlwind, turned to face him, put her hand at his cheek. Cullen pulled her into his arms and gave her one fierce kiss. “For luck,” he said when he released her, trying to force a smile he didn’t feel.