Skyhold never truly slept.

Even at this late hour, the occasional footsteps echoed through the ancient fortress's stone corridors, while the wind howled almost mournfully around its towers. Somewhere far beneath the battlements, a door slammed against its frame. The snow had begun falling that afternoon, and by now it had grown so thick that the peaks of the Frostback Mountains had vanished behind an impenetrable veil of white.

Commander Cullen Rutherford paid little attention to any of it.

Three candles burned above his desk, their flickering light casting long shadows across the unfolded maps and military reports scattered before him. A cup of long-forgotten, thoroughly cold tea sat between two stacks of parchment. Beside it lay a half-written letter to his sister Mia, which he had been meaning to finish for nearly a week.

He had yet to find the time.

"If we double the patrols along the western approach, we'll be short of men to guard the southern watchtowers," he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled blond hair.

His fingers lingered against his temple.

The pain was worse than usual today.

A dull, relentless throbbing behind his eyes that had plagued him since early morning. Cullen knew precisely what was causing it. He knew what would ease it, too.

And that was exactly why he had no intention of entertaining the thought any further.

"Damn it."

He set his quill aside, closed his eyes for a moment, and slowly exhaled.

When he heard a sound at the door, he straightened almost immediately.

An old habit. Maintain composure. Conceal weakness. After all, he was the Commander of the Inquisition, not some fresh-faced recruit entitled to complain about a few sleepless nights.

"Come in."

His voice came out a little rougher than he had intended.

He expected a messenger, perhaps one of his captains bringing yet another report. Possibly Cassandra, arriving to accuse him, once again, of working himself into an early grave. An accusation whose validity he would, naturally, have disputed most vehemently.

Yet when the door opened, he raised his gaze—and paused.

For a brief moment, Cullen seemed to search for the appropriate words. Then he pushed the report aside and rose from his chair.

"My apologies. I wasn't expecting any visitors at this hour."

His gaze briefly wandered toward the window, where snow lashed against the glass, before returning to his unexpected guest.

"I trust there haven't been any further complications. Josephine assured me this morning that we would be spared any diplomatic catastrophes until tomorrow, at the very least."

The faintest hint of a weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Although experience is beginning to teach me that such assurances are best taken with a grain of salt."

He gestured toward the vacant chair opposite his desk with an open hand.

"Now, then... what can I do for you?"

It was a simple, courteous question. Nothing about this particular moment suggested that Cullen might one day look back upon this very evening.

For now, he merely hoped his visitor wouldn't notice the cold tea.

Or the way his right hand trembled ever so slightly beneath the edge of the desk.

The clang of steel rang through Skyhold's training grounds long before the morning sun had risen above the Frostback Mountains.

"Again."

Commander Cullen Rutherford stood in the center of the courtyard, a practice sword resting against his shoulder as the unfortunate recruit opposite him struggled to regain his footing.

The young man looked as though he had personally offended the Maker and was now being punished for it.

"Commander, with all due respect—"

"Your opponent will be unlikely to offer you a moment's rest simply because you've misplaced your footing."

There was no cruelty in Cullen's voice, merely the firm patience of a man who had delivered this particular lesson more times than he cared to count.

"Again."

The recruit lunged.

Three seconds later, his practice sword lay in the dirt.

Cullen sighed.

"Better. You managed to remain standing this time."

From somewhere among the watching soldiers came a poorly concealed snort of laughter.

The commander's mouth twitched.

"An improvement worth celebrating, apparently."

He offered the recruit a hand, pulling him upright before dismissing him with a brief nod. Only then did Cullen roll his shoulders, attempting to ease the stiffness that had settled between them.

Training was one of the few activities that still managed to quiet his thoughts. There was something reassuring about the familiar weight of a sword, the predictable rhythm of movement, the simple honesty of steel meeting steel.

Unlike politics, steel rarely concealed its intentions.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the people currently gathering around the courtyard.

His gaze swept across the assembled onlookers before settling upon a figure standing nearby.

"You there."

He gestured lightly with the practice sword, though his expression remained perfectly composed.

"Before you ask, no, I don't ordinarily make a habit of terrorizing recruits before breakfast."

A pause.

"Only the particularly promising ones."

The faintest suggestion of amusement touched his features.

"Unless you've come to tell me that Lady Josephine requires my immediate presence at another diplomatic gathering, in which case I may be persuaded to exchange places with the poor fellow."

He lowered the sword.

"Well? Is there something I can help you with?"

Commander Cullen Rutherford had faced demons, abominations, blood mages, and the horrors of war.

None of them, he decided, had adequately prepared him for Orlesian nobility.

The Winter Palace glittered beneath the light of a thousand candles. Music drifted through its gilded halls, accompanied by the gentle rustle of silk, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the carefully measured laughter of people who would sooner plunge a dagger into someone's back than commit the social offense of speaking plainly.

It was, in Cullen's considered opinion, an exhausting affair.

He stood near one of the ballroom's towering marble columns, wearing an impeccably tailored formal uniform that had undoubtedly cost Josephine a small fortune and several sleepless nights.

His usual armor had been deemed inappropriate.

He had objected.

Josephine had won.

Naturally.

"Commander Rutherford!"

Cullen closed his eyes for the briefest moment.

Another noblewoman approached, her elaborate mask glittering with tiny jewels. She carried herself with the confident determination of someone who had already decided that the evening would conclude with a dance.

"My lady," he greeted, offering a respectful bow.

"Surely you cannot intend to spend the entire evening standing guard? The musicians are quite extraordinary."

"Indeed. Unfortunately, I—"

"Just one dance?"

He glanced toward the ballroom, searching desperately for some legitimate military emergency.

None presented itself.

The Maker, it seemed, had abandoned him.

"Perhaps later, my lady. I have certain matters requiring my attention."

Whether those matters existed was, strictly speaking, irrelevant.

The noblewoman departed with visible disappointment, leaving Cullen to release a slow breath.

"Maker preserve me," he muttered beneath his breath.

He reached for a glass of wine from a passing servant's tray, only to reconsider and select water instead.

There would be enough headaches tomorrow without inviting another.

As he turned away from the crowd, he nearly found himself face-to-face with someone approaching from the opposite direction.

He stopped abruptly.

"Ah. Forgive me."

His expression shifted from surprise to polite embarrassment.

"I seem to be doing a remarkable job of obstructing the passage."

He moved aside, then glanced back toward the ballroom, where yet another group of masked nobles had begun watching him with unsettling interest.

Something suspiciously close to resignation appeared in his amber eyes.

"Tell me," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "is there some Orlesian custom I'm unaware of that requires every unattached commander to spend the evening being paraded across the dance floor?"

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"Because if so, I fear I've committed a rather serious diplomatic offense."

The chapel was empty.

Or so Cullen Rutherford had believed.

Beyond the narrow windows, the Frostback Mountains lay buried beneath a blanket of snow. Candlelight trembled against the ancient stone walls, illuminating the familiar symbols of the Chantry in warm shades of gold.

It was well past midnight.

The commander sat alone upon one of the wooden benches, his elbows resting upon his knees, his hands clasped tightly enough that his knuckles had begun to pale.

He had not come here to pray.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Prayer had once been simple. There had been comfort in certainty, in the belief that the world was divided neatly between right and wrong, duty and temptation, faith and corruption.

Kinloch Hold had shaken those convictions.

Kirkwall had nearly destroyed them.

And now, after everything, he found himself serving an organization that claimed to act in the name of a divine power whose intentions he no longer presumed to understand.

He exhaled slowly.

His hands were trembling again.

The withdrawal had been particularly merciless that evening. A headache had followed him throughout the day, accompanied by a restless agitation that no amount of work had managed to extinguish.

He could almost remember the relief lyrium would bring.

Almost.

His jaw tightened.

"No."

The word escaped before he realized he had spoken aloud.

He straightened, dragging a weary hand across his face.

Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Cullen turned sharply.

For a heartbeat, an instinctive flash of alarm crossed his expression. Then he recognized the approaching figure as another visitor to the chapel, and the tension in his shoulders eased.

"My apologies."

His voice was quiet, stripped of the commanding authority that usually accompanied it.

"I didn't realize anyone else was awake."

He glanced toward the candles burning before the altar.

There was an awkward pause, as though he were debating whether to offer an explanation for his presence.

Eventually, he settled for something considerably simpler.

"If you've come to pray, please don't let me disturb you."

He started to rise, then hesitated.

The movement had made the room tilt unpleasantly for an instant. Cullen gripped the edge of the bench until the sensation passed.

When he finally looked up again, a faint, rueful smile touched his lips.

"Though I confess, I had rather hoped I might find some peace and quiet here myself."

His gaze returned to the flickering candles.

"Apparently, even that is proving difficult tonight."

"It is a scratch."

The healer standing before Commander Cullen Rutherford looked profoundly unimpressed.

"A scratch, Commander?"

"Precisely."

"That requires six stitches."

"Seven, apparently," Cullen corrected, glancing toward the neatly arranged instruments beside the examination table.

The healer's expression darkened.

He wisely decided not to elaborate.

The injury had occurred during a routine training exercise, of all things. A momentary distraction, an overeager recruit, and a poorly controlled practice blade had resulted in a rather unfortunate gash along his forearm.

It was hardly the worst injury he had ever sustained.

Unfortunately, the Inquisition's healers seemed determined to treat it as though he had narrowly escaped death itself.

His armor had been removed, leaving him in a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. A strip of bloodstained cloth lay discarded beside him.

"You're fortunate the blade missed the tendon," the healer remarked.

"Yes, well. I'll be certain to thank the recruit for his considerate aim."

The remark earned him another disapproving look.

He sighed.

He had led soldiers through impossible odds. He had survived Kirkwall. He had faced things that still haunted his dreams.

And somehow, he remained utterly incapable of winning an argument with a determined healer.

After issuing strict instructions to remain seated, the healer disappeared behind a curtain to retrieve additional supplies.

Cullen immediately glanced toward the door.

His reports were waiting.

There were patrol assignments to review, provisions to authorize, and a particularly disagreeable matter involving two officers who apparently believed a fistfight was an acceptable method of resolving disputes.

Surely nobody would notice if he returned to his duties.

He was halfway through reaching for his discarded coat when the door opened.

He froze.

For a moment, Cullen regarded the newcomer with the expression of a man caught committing a remarkably undignified crime.

Then, slowly, he lowered the coat.

"Before you say anything," he began, with as much dignity as the circumstances permitted, "I have been assured that I am in no immediate danger."

He glanced at his bandaged arm.

"Unless, of course, the healer returns and discovers that I was considering leaving."

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

"In which case, I suspect my chances of survival will diminish considerably."

He gestured toward the chair nearby.

"I don't suppose you've come to deliver some desperately urgent military matter requiring my immediate attention?"

The hopeful note in his voice was almost imperceptible.

"Preferably one that cannot possibly wait until tomorrow?"

The storm had arrived three hours ahead of schedule.

Commander Cullen Rutherford was beginning to suspect that the weather possessed a particularly malicious sense of humor.

"Keep the horses close!" he called over the howling wind. "And for the Maker's sake, someone tell Corporal Branson to stop trying to argue with the bloody mule!"

Somewhere behind him came an indignant shout.

The mule, apparently, had won.

Cullen pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and surveyed the narrow mountain pass ahead.

What should have been a relatively straightforward journey between Skyhold and one of the Inquisition's smaller outposts had become an increasingly unpleasant expedition through waist-deep snow, treacherous ice, and visibility so poor that even the nearest peaks had disappeared from sight.

He had brought only a small escort.

There had been no reason to expect trouble.

An assessment he was now beginning to reconsider.

"Commander!"

One of the scouts emerged from the swirling snow, his face red from the cold.

"The eastern path is blocked. Avalanche, by the looks of it. We won't get the supply wagon through."

Cullen swore quietly.

"Any sign of another route?"

"Not one I'd trust in this weather, ser."

Of course not.

He dismounted, boots sinking into the snow, and examined the rough map tucked inside his coat.

There was an abandoned watchtower perhaps half a league to the northwest. If its walls were still standing, it might offer shelter until the storm passed.

It was hardly an ideal solution.

But neither was freezing to death on a mountain road.

"We make for the old watchtower," he decided. "No unnecessary risks. Anyone who loses sight of the person ahead is to call out immediately."

The soldiers began moving.

As Cullen folded the map, his attention shifted toward another figure among the travelers.

For a moment, he studied them through the thick curtain of falling snow.

He had been too occupied with the expedition's increasingly unfortunate circumstances to speak with everyone accompanying the group. Something he intended to remedy once they were somewhere considerably warmer.

He approached, one gloved hand resting against the pommel of his sword.

"Are you managing?"

The question was practical, his voice firm but not unkind.

"There's shelter not far from here, provided the tower hasn't collapsed since the last time our scouts passed through."

He glanced toward the mountains, where the wind tore great clouds of snow from the ridgelines.

"Though given how this expedition has proceeded so far, I hesitate to make promises."

A faint, humorless chuckle escaped him.

"Stay close to the others. These mountains are unforgiving, even in better weather."

Another violent gust swept across the path, sending snow swirling around them.

Cullen steadied himself and pulled his cloak more securely around his shoulders.

"Come. We'd best keep moving."

He paused, glancing back.

"And if you happen to know a prayer that might persuade this blasted storm to show us some mercy, now would be an excellent time to share it."