16 | The Silence

The letter is sealed with a plain wax imprint—no sigil, no identifying mark. The parchment is of decent quality but unremarkable, the kind any minor noble or merchant might use. The handwriting is precise, almost clinical, with no flourish or personal touch.

Progress unfolds as the seasons turn. The garden I have tended now bears fruit, and the thorns that once threatened its growth will soon be crushed beneath my heel.

It is time for you to remove the weed beyond my reach—the last, lingering blight that stains the pure soil of my garden. Let no trace of it remain when the moon is made new.

You know well the price of failure—and the rewards of success. Do not disappoint.

Burn this once read.

***

Dragon 9:28

EVELYN

Even in full plate armor with a helmet obscuring his face, Cullen was never hard to find. After spending so much time thwarting his attempts at apology, Evelyn had become attuned to his subtle tells—the way he stood, the tilt of his head—even as he blended in among his fellow Knights. She hated that she could pick him out so easily. Hated that she still cared enough to notice such small, invasive details about him after everything.

Pretending to read in the library, she watched the Templars on duty from the corner of her eye. She knew he was here. She'd memorized his posting schedule for this cycle. She hated that too.

Having been there for just ten minutes, already she narrowed the field down to three Knights. The easiest tell was the way Cullen liked to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword, with his left on the knob and his right hand on top. He also didn't move his head, only watching his charges with his sharp amber eyes. But the surest way was how she could hear Cullen tense when she walked past. It was as if his pristine armor aged a century; so that's exactly what she did.

Pretending to look for an elusive tome, the first Knight she passed didn't flinch, but the second…

Evelyn heard the telltale squeak of metal and muscle clenching. Pausing at the shelf behind his back, she kept her voice low, but no less clipped. "I know that's you, Cullen. I don't need anything from you but to listen." He let out a deep sigh, but she ignored it. Her frustration was making her nearly bite through her lip. "Maker, this whole situation is so fucked up!" Her voice was a harsh whisper, hiding her face partially in a book.

"I think what you're looking for is down here." Swiftly, Cullen rounded the shelf and the two of them tore off down the aisle.

Alone, but not inconspicuous, between the shelves, he turned on her, almost causing them to crash into each other. "Talk. But this is going to be a conversation." She could see his scowl through the silts in his stupid bucket helmet.

Evelyn set her jaw at his commanding tone, raising her chin to rain fire down upon him – figuratively. "Good, then you can fully appreciate how utterly bullheaded you are!" She tapped her chin with a finger as if thinking for effect. "Let's see, where to begin. How about with what you said to Miriam in the Mess Hall? Thanks to you, she believes I've betrayed her and refuses to speak with me!" She was struggling to keep her rage and, in turn, her mana in check. "She's been pining after Miquella, and thanks to you," she jabbed her finger at his chest but didn't touch him, "she thinks I was trying to steal him from her!"

"Then what in the bloody Void were you really doing with him?" His amber eyes seemed to glow in the dim light like a lion's at night.

"I was trying to explain that I wasn't interested in him, and you interrupted! It's hard enough as it is to get privacy, let alone Miriam away from the man, so I could do it without her getting her heart broken. But no, you had to stick your nose where it didn't belong! I had it handled."

"Handled? The only thing being handled was you!"

"As if you care! You've been different ever since your Vigil…" She let her words hang in the air, wondering if he'd grace her with an explanation. Silence. Her rage flickered, smothered beneath heartache. "That's fine then. I suppose there's nothing more to say to each other."

She hurled the books back onto the shelf—the ones she'd only been pretending to read—their spines cracking against the wood. Cullen still said nothing, but his gaze burned into her relentlessly.

"You're really not going to say anything, Cullen?" Her voice splintered on his name. Lately, even speaking it felt like swallowing glass. Just moments ago, she'd wanted to scream, to burn his precious Templar pants to cinders—or worse. But now, as his eyes finally broke from hers, the fight drained out of her like a snuffed flame. His silence struck harder than any blow she'd endured in her seventeen years.

She had been thrown from horses, humiliated by Gavril Croft, and forced to wrestle her own wildfire of magic into submission. Yet none of it had shattered her like this—like Cullen's quiet annihilation of their friendship.

Because you wanted more. The truth twisted inside her.

"Some conversation," she muttered, the words brittle with hurt. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. Swallowing the ache in her throat, she turned and walked away.

***

The next day's deluge matched her mood. Her cheeks felt tired from the weight of frowning, and her eyes burned from crying all night into her pillow. With the training yard a muddy swamp, Croft had his two students cleaning a caring for all their training equipment. The trio was held up in one of the storage closets in the yard, sitting amongst the staffs, armor, and other gear with the door wide open. The smell and sound of the spring rain was soothing, yet Evelyn's nerves were frayed raw, her emotions swinging wildly between fury and grief, between the need to scream and the urge to collapse.

"Trev, since we're alone, you wanna tell us what's going on with you?"

She stopped conditioning a set of leather armor to roll her eyes. "As if you don't know. I'm sure Reid has told you everything."

Dane's heavy frame shifted on the create holding him, groaning under his weight. But his reply was interrupted by Croft, who stepped inside, pushing back his wet hair over the scar on the side of his head.

"I've just received some news that couldn't wait." Wiping more water off him, his dark eyes came to rest on Evelyn. He nodded his head at her gravely, pressing his lips into a fine line. "You're to have your Harrowing in three days."

"Three?!" She shot up to her feet. "That's all the warning I get?"

"Aye, and it's all you need."

Her mentor sounded so sure, but the certainty in his voice didn't steady her. If anything, it made the walls feel closer, the air thicker. Three days…

Evelyn swallowed hard, fists clenching at her sides. Without the reassurance of shared confidence from her friends, the weight of Croft's expectations settled heavily on her shoulders. "Then I suppose I'd better make them count."

Croft gripped her shoulder hard, jostling her about, even though he was trying to reassure her. "Accept the news. Process the shock. Then focus on succeeding. All of us will help you prepare. You'll be more than ready, Trevelyan." Releasing her and looking at their cleaning progress, his signature frown appeared. "Maker, this is as far as you lot got? This I expect from a prissy noble like her, but not you, Brax. When I come back, I better see this equipment fit for King Cailan's guard!"

Cursing as he stepped back out into the torrential downpour, they resumed their work, this time with Dane pitching in after the mages ganged up on him for just sitting there.

While the banter flowed around her, Evelyn let Croft's words settle. She should be steeling herself, preparing mentally, yet one persistent thought undermined her focus: she desperately wanted to tell Miriam and Cullen. Yet, she couldn´t. The realization struck like a physical blow- her foundation was crumbling, her two pillars of strength absent when she needed them most.

A single tear splashed against the polished steel, its perfect roundness distorting her reflection. Evelyn stared at it with something between horror and fury, as if this betrayal of her own body was unconscionable. The droplet quivered, then streaked downward like a retreating soldier.

She scrubbed at the spot with violent precision, the rag biting into her palm. Pressure had been coiling around her ribs for weeks, tightening every time she crossed paths with Miriam's glacial rage in the corridors, Miquella's artfully vacant smiles, and Cullen's silence that was so dense it warped the air between them. Now, her armor shone mirror-bright in the torchlight, but the fractures were spreading inward…

"Trev, you alright?" Brax's ice-chip eyes scanned her like a malfunctioning rune. The longer his gaze held, the more her composure cracked.

"No…" She finally squeaked out and broke down.

Cold arms circled her, and Brax's scent of mint and leather engulfed her, and she hugged him. "Listen to me. These emotions you're feeling can bury you. We're Knight-Enchanters. No one gets under our skin." He pushed her shoulders back to look into her eyes, and she noticed his cold, hardened state. "No one fucks with us. We are tools to the Templars, no different than siege equipment. We have a purpose, they use us, and then they store us away until we are needed again. Even so, we are freer than any normal Circle mage. There is no room for feelings in our world."

She sniffled, wiping her nose on her arm. "Easier said than done."

"Listen, my mana turns me into an emotional iceblock—there's only a handful of people in Thedas who don't make me want to freeze their balls off." Brax lifted her chin with a knuckle, forcing her frown to ease. "You, being one of them, have a fiery mana. Makes you passionate. Fierce. Gives you the temper of damned gaatlok. So here's the deal—turn that pity party into rage. Swap the snot bubbles for fireballs. Use it. Control it before it controls you."

"How?"

"Like this. Ready?" He leaned in. "Miriam thinks you're a backstabbing bitch. How does that make you feel?"

"Hurt. Frustrated..."

"Wrong! She betrayed you. She took Cullen's word over yours. You're fucking outraged that after all these years, she threw you away for some Orlesian cockmonger she's known for five minutes—who, by the way, had the nerve to come onto you first!"

Evelyn's head bobbed as the heat of his words began simmering inside her.

"That's the spark before immolation," Brax murmured.

Flames burst to life in her palms. The ice mage nodded at the fire licking her fingers. "There's your real language. Now, translate the rest: Cullen screwed you over, then spurned your weird excuse for a 'friendship.'"

"Heartbroken. Numb—"

Brax shook his head, his stare drilling into her. "No. Disposable. Outraged. Rejected!" The last word came molten, her core rising with each emotion he forced her to name.

"There it is." Brax's smile was all teeth. "That's not heartbreak. That's your magic singing in your veins." He jerked his chin toward the torches on the walls. "So sing louder."

"Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck their—"

"PISSWEAK!" Brax roared, surging to his feet and yanking her up with him. "I SAID SCREAM IT!"

"I'LL BURN IT ALL TO ASHES!"

Every torch in the armory exploded. Shards of hot iron embedded in the rafters. The group flinched, save for Dane, whose sword was halfway drawn before Brax flicked a wrist, freezing the scabbard shut. He winked at the Templar, and the Knight relaxed.

The pyromancer stood panting in the darkness, embers swirling around her like vengeful spirits. Only then did Brax smile—a thin, satisfied slit across his face. With a snap of his fingers, the tears still tracking down her cheek crystallized into dagger-sharp icicles. He caught them before they hit the ground.

"Congratulations, Trev." He twirled the frozen shards between his fingers before driving them point-first into the nearest post. "You just converted self-pity into artillery."

***

With two days before her Harrowing, Croft decided to focus the day's lessons on combat. He told her and Abraxas to ready themselves to duel each other, and the two broke out their recently cleaned equipment. The cathartic releases of her emotions yesterday, paired with her fellow apprentice's advice, staved off her dreams being plagued by Despair.

The sunny, pleasant Ferelden spring day awoke the hive of alchemy mages who had been swarming the large, flourishing garden all morning. Among them was her only female confidant.

While she and Rhetta found themselves in different political groups within the Circle, the two had solidified their friendship before choosing a school. While they agreed to disagree on that subject, when the two got riled up, sometimes you couldn't tell which one was the pyromancer. And there was nothing that got the redhead going like Templars messing with mages.

"Oi, Evie!" Rhetta barked, scrubbing dirt off her hands as the battle-mage yanked her armor straps tight. Around them, mages bent over herb patches, plucking elfroot and spindleweed. The redhead's green eyes darted sideways before she leaned in, voice dropping to a rasp. "Caught our Miri wit' that Orlesian shitehawk by the infirmary this mornin'—all whisper-sweet an' pink as a spring maiden. Maker's saggy left ball, Evie, I'd swear they're makin' sheep-eyes at each other!" She punctuated this with a derisive snort, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Someone oughta put a boot up his arse 'fore this ends in tears—or worse, babes."

Evelyn wanted to feel happy for the healer—truly, she did. But as she jerked the laces of her vambrace tight, leather biting into the scar Miriam's magic had seared across her forearm, her smile hardened. "You don't have to worry about a—" Baby. The word clung to her teeth like spoiled honey. Rhetta's puzzled squint stopped her cold. Damn it all. No matter how deep their rift ran, she wouldn't out Miriam's condition. She forced a shrug, fingers tracing the twisted flesh beneath her sleeve. "I mean, she's the healer, isn't she? Doubt she'd be careless." The pyromancer released a brittle laugh. "She got what she wanted, so good for her, you know. Really."

"Alright, fine, but ain't it fuckin' weird that Ser Shite was all over you first and now he's makin' calf-eyes at Miri?" Rhetta jabbed a dirt-stained finger at Evelyn's chest, her nose scrunched like she'd smelled a rotten egg. "That don't sit right in my gut. And let's be real—Miq's still a handsome bastard, even if his personality's mouldier than a month-old loaf. But Miri?" The elf scoffed, shaking her head. "Sweet as sugar water, aye, but pretty as a rain-soaked nug. Either the man's gone blind, or he's up to somethin'."

"I don't want to think about it," Evelyn snapped. "Why should I? Miriam made it clear she doesn't need me watching her back anymore."

Rhetta's face twisted into an angry pout, her cheeks flushing red. "Oh, piss on this," she growled, kicking a clod of dirt so hard it shattered against the garden wall. "I could bear it if this was over a mage—if you two were scrappin' over Brax or somethin'—but the fuckin' Templar?!" Her voice cracked like a whip. "We're really lettin' those Chantry-fed pricks tear us apart? Really?!"

Evelyn's jaw clenched, the mana in her veins flaring. "If those 'Chantry-fed pricks' were able to tear us apart," she hissed, "then maybe we were never worth holding together in the first place."

Rhetta's face went slack for half a breath—then she exploded. "Eat a bag of rotten dicks!" She snarled, grabbing Evelyn's tunic and yanking her so close their noses nearly cracked together. The smell of wet earth and freshly cut herbs rolled off her in waves. "Ye don't believe that horseshit for a second."

Evelyn didn't pull away. Let the elf seethe. Let the world crack. "Let. Go." She gritted out, glowering down at the shorter mage.

Rhetta's calloused fingers dug in harder, her knuckles white. "Make me, ya flamin' bitch."

The Marcher's eyes and veins sparked.

"Enough!" A sharp, localized force blast cracked into both their skulls, snapping their heads back with a brutal thwack. The two women yelped in pain, staggering apart as they whipped around to face the source of the interruption. "Trevelyan, get your damn arse over here—NOW! And you, girl, get to where you need to be and stop distracting my apprentice!"

The elf and human shared a loaded look before parting, but Evelyn did as commanded. Reaching Croft, Lieutenant Arlo was already there speaking with him. "If you're lettin' these two go at it, I'd like the new Knights to get a feel for their offensive magic. A bit of sensitivity training, if you will."

The veteran mage twisted his lips in thought, staring at her, considering something. "Fine then. We'll begin once you join us." With that, the mages watched the bulky man stomp away towards his Knights.

Evelyn's shoulders sank. If the pressure of her Harrowing wasn't enough, Croft had just invited the Knights to feel her mana. There was something invasive about the ordeal, as if she'd be standing bare before them all. They'd feel her fire—her true essence— but she supposed she'd have to get used to it. If she passed her Harrowing, she'd get a Sentinel like Dane to keep her safe. There was a time she dreamed Cullen would be that Knight, but now it was a passing daydream.

Separating her and Brax on opposite sides of the sparring ring, the Marcher tried to focus on Croft's words while their audience assembled to the left. "This is a test of raw magical strength, so you won't need your staves. Your task is to overpower the other's mana. In doing so, you'll push the limits of your willpower. This is the measure of your perseverance." His head snapped to hers, wanting this lesson to resonate with her upcoming trial. "This is the moment where you decide if you live or die in battle. Brax has practiced this a number of times, but you've yet to."

Walking towards her, he instructed her on its mechanics. There was a very fine line that defined 'control' for Evelyn, and she was scared of what would happen if she pushed herself too far. She definitely didn't feel like getting knocked out by the old mage again, like what happened with the Ghoul's Beard incident.

He dug his thick fingers into her shoulder with a squeeze. "This could save your life in the Fade, so concentrate. It will also burn you out, so you may only get a few tries at it. Make it count." Nodding, she touched her mana, priming it for release.

Going through her mental pre-battle list, Arlo's voice invaded her preparations. "Knights! Here we have two mages that will test your sensitivity to the elements. I want you to split in half and stand by a mage for as long as you can. You will feel the uncomfortable effects of their magic, but try and withstand it to understand its nature."

Unable to resist, Evelyn's eyes followed the back of Cullen's head as he went to stand by Brax. She huffed to herself, then another blonde caught her eye. Ser Vale came to stand near her, crossing her arms with disgust. Her voice was low, but no less venomous, "I got the best view to watch your arse kicking."

If she was honest, Vale and her pettiness were low on her gives-a-fuck list. Evelyn did look forward to sending the Templar running with her mana, however.

"Mages, ready?" Croft then looked at Dane, always seemingly unfazed by every challenge of his austere abilities. "You ready, Ser? If they get too out of hand, you can show off your Andraste-given powers." Dane readied himself, and the grizzled battle mage gave them the go-ahead.

Ice and fire exploded from their hands through the training yard. The opposing forces are battling for dominance. Evelyn could just see Abraxas over the stream of ice flying at her,

When a shard of ice sliced her cheek, Evelyn forced herself to focus harder on her foe. The other apprentice had two more years of experience than her and advanced spells. And what did Evelyn have?

Just then, a shine off a slightly curled blonde head of hair caught her eye. A flood of feeling overwhelmed her, and she knew then what she had was rage; an inner inferno hot enough to melt iron.

Yet, even as she started to fight back against Abraxas, he had already pressed his advantage. Evelyn struggled as the thick black smoke of her fire was pushed back at her. With one last surge of his mana, Abraxas' frost hit her like an avalanche and sent her flying back a few feet.

"Stop!" Croft's command was immediately heeded.

Panting and supporting herself up on her elbows, she shook off the lingering effects of the wintery magic. Fine cuts, as if sliced by glass, littered her body and marked her leather armor. Looking up, her eyes naturally met Cullen's hardly-concealed concerned face before sweeping over to her sparring partner.

Abraxas just looked down his perfectly sculpted nose at her, waiting patiently for her to get up. "You alright, Trev?"

She held a hand up, waving off his speck of concern while pulling herself up out of the dirt. "Yeah, yeah, fine."

"Trevelyan!" The gravel in the Knight-Enchanter's voice echoed about the yard. She groaned, knowing she was about to get another beating of a different kind. "That was pathetic, and I don't even think Brax was trying! Again! And this time, don't embarrass yourself in front of the Knights! Bring the heat!"

As if Croft knew it'd light a literal fire under her arse, she couldn't help her mind from revisiting the past week of tortuous exile from her friends. Cullen was now standing a few yards away with his arms crossed, staring at her with a scowl, as the Knights had switched mages.

Raising her hands at the ready, she squared off again with Abraxas. Frost drifted about his hands, reminding her of its bite. The ice that dwelled in his core whited out his irises, and the angular features of his face sharpened as if his bones were made of solid ice. Even if his face was an emotionless mask, his cockiness was visable in his stance.

Miriam's words drifted into her thoughts, You always have to be the best. Was that truly such a bad thing? Evelyn couldn't help the compulsion to want to humble him. To use his own lesson from yesterday against him.

If Croft wanted her to bring the heat, she wouldn't disappoint him this time.

Feeding her inner inferno with all of her frustrations, she met his white eyes with her blazing orange irises. Forgetting Croft's lessons about controlling emotion, she let the rage take her. Lava ignited in her veins while a slight snarl perked up her lip and nose. The air waved around her, and the Templars closest to her hissed like they had been burned, except for one tall blonde Knight too stubborn to yield.

Her opponent turned his head to the older mage, who narrowed his gaze on her but said nothing, content to see where this was going. Yet, Abraxas wasn't frightened; instead, that wicked knowing grin spread on his lips.

Throwing her aching hands towards her opponent, thick, suffocating flames engulfed the yard. Billowing black smoke, not unlike that of a dragon, skirted the ground. She could see and feel the mana ebbing out of her veins to her palms. Gasps and curses were directed at her, but it only fed the inferno. She'd take their hate and turn it into a weapon.

Power—pure and raw—threatened to consume her. Evelyn was walking the line between greatness and death, pushing the bounds of her abilities.

The reach of the numbing frost receded as she ground her teeth. Everyone around the ring was beginning to slowly take more steps back, but she couldn't see through the onslaught of her fire as to why.

"Trevelyan!" Croft's voice pierced through her focus. He was the only one who dared approach. "Are you still with us?" Her orange glowing eyes flickered over in question. "Is Ser Dane needed?"

"No! I'm in control!" Her voice cracked under the effort, but she held firm—each ounce of her teacher's doubt poured fuel on her rage. The flames roared like a living beast, swallowing Abraxas whole. Frost shattered before him, his defenses crumbling under the sheer, unrelenting heat. Evelyn's breath tore from her lungs in ragged gasps, her muscles trembling, her vision swimming at the edges. But she clenched her jaw and forced her magic onward. Not yet. Not until he broke.

A sharp crack echoed through the yard as Abraxas's ice shield splintered, and with a final, desperate surge of power, she sent him sprawling onto the scorched earth. His chest heaved, his garments now singed and smoking. The smirk was gone, replaced by wide, disbelieving eyes.

Silence.

Then, the murmurs began. Whispers of awe, of fear. The Templars watched her like she was something volatile, something dangerous. Even Croft's expression was unreadable—approval warring with caution.

Evelyn's knees threatened to buckle. Her hands shook, her mana utterly spent, her body a raw, trembling thing, but no one stepped forward to steady her. No one offered a hand. They just stared. Good.

The Marcher locked her legs, forced her spine straight, and lifted her chin. She didn't need their help. The fire in her veins had been enough. It had always been enough.

Miriam's words echoed again, but this time, Evelyn didn't question them. You always have to be the best. And why shouldn't she be when she had this much power? Enough to take out a mage two years her senior, and she was only scratching the surface.

She turned away from the stunned crowd, her jaw set, her steps slow but deliberate. Every movement was agony, but she wouldn't falter. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction. She was a weapon. And weapons didn't need anyone to care for them.

They only needed to strike.