It's her. Maker, it's her. Cullen wants to sob - in relief, perhaps, or despair - he can't quite be sure which. Relief that she's alive, and that he somehow managed to find her in the arena. Despair that she's here, after hoping and praying that she wouldn't be brought.

There's ash and soot in her hair, streaking her face, but the chilly air is a welcome respite from the heat of the raging inferno that is still going on the other side of the river. His arm is around her middle, to help her navigate the terrain, and possibly also to reassure himself of her presence, when Dorian's voice calls out.

"She is no straggler," Cullen says around a cough. Though he knows not to expect anyone else to recognize her, it's still strange. "This is Lady Trevelyan."