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Chapter Text

It was raining—but then again, when was it not raining in Minrathous? 

The heavy drops struck the cobblestones with a rhythmic tapping. Varric Tethras and Lace Harding huddled beneath one of the many colorful awnings that adorned the city. Water dripped from the edge, forming a growing puddle near their feet as they waited for Rook.

Varric’s contact, Detective Neve Gallus, was nowhere to be found. An hour had passed since their agreed-upon meeting time, and her absence felt ominous. Cultists in Minrathous always played for keeps, as Neve liked to say, and Varric knew trouble was brewing.

A loud crash interrupted the downpour’s rhythm. The tavern door across the street banged open, spilling out three men. Their eyes were wide with panic as they tripped over each other to get away. 

The figure following the cultists moved with a calm, determined grace. Rook emerged, twin blades glinting as she sheathed them. 

“Your friend Neve Gallus is at Dumat Plaza,” she announced in a cheerful voice.

Varric chuckled. “And that’s why you’re my second-in-command.”

“Dumat Plaza?” Harding raised a perfectly arched brow. “That place was crawling with Venetori earlier.”

“Better get to it, then.”

They moved through the city’s winding streets, keeping close to the shadows. The Archon’s palace loomed above, ever-present. Bright lights scoured the roads as the guards searched for signs of unrest.

Then, the world cracked open.

Above them, green light erupted from wounds that tore the veil asunder. The sound was deafening, like glass shattering across the sky, as demons poured through the veil and into the city. Rook had never seen so many; her look was one of horror as the deformed entities cloaked in flames or crackling with electricity tore past them, their screams drowning out the rain.

“Shit,” Varric growled as a blur of claws tore past. “I haven’t seen this many demons since Corypheus!”

“Solas must have started his ritual,” Rook furrowed her brows.  “We need to find Neve before it’s too late.”

“Neve Gallus makes her coin solving trouble,” Varric remarked grimly. “Looks like today, trouble’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Tremors ripped through the ground as magical fireballs thundered from the palace, raining explosions upon the streets. Bodies lay as silent witnesses to the horror, the smell of sulfur mixed with the scent of burning flesh. A magically amplified voice rang out over the carnage, warning citizens to stay safely inside.

They pressed onward, dodging demons erupting from battered buildings. Rook’s knives flashed, Harding’s arrows flew true, and Varric’s bolts found their marks. But there seemed to be an endless supply of targets.

When they finally reached Dumat Plaza, the entire neighborhood had turned into an inferno. They made their way through the smoke to find an ice barrier in their way—a frozen, solid dome at the heart of the chaos. 

Just as Rook noticed movement out of the corner of her eye, a Venatori cultist emerged from the smoke, lashing out at her with his hooked blades. She managed to keep her balance as she evaded the attack, dropping low and making a sweeping move with her leg. The cultist landed on his back, and within seconds, Rook was on him, going straight for the heart. As more Venatori appeared, Rook moved like a storm incarnate, her dual blades a blur of lethal precision. 

As the last cultists fell, the ice barrier dissolved with a crackling hiss, revealing Neve Gallus and two cultists frozen solid. As she stepped forward, her prosthetic leg struck the stones with a metallic clang. 

“Varric. Harding. Not the worst timing,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the carnage with detached familiarity.

“Glad to see you, too,” Varric shot back. “Neve, meet Rook. She’s the expert on trouble. Rook, meet Neve. Our local expert. She was tracking Solas’ movements in the city.”

“Pleasure,” Rook said with a quizzical eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips. “Nice work with the Venatori. Looks like you have excellent taste in enemies.”

Neve snorted softly, a crooked smile tugging at her lips before turning her focus back to Varric. “I haven’t seen Solas in person, but I did find hints of old magic. Similar to what you get in old elven ruins.” She said, her voice low. “I traced it to a building beneath Our Lady of Victory. That’s where your man is hiding.” She gestured toward a towering statue in the distance, a woman carved from stone with a sword planted into the earth and a hand raised to the heavens. Rain streaked down her upturned face like tears.

“Let’s move before this ritual gets any worse,” Varric said.

Neve’s eyes snapped to him. “Worse? It’s already drawing power stronger than a dozen mages. You told me he was working alone.”

Varric cocked an eyebrow. “I also told you he’s an ancient elven god.”

She sighed through clenched teeth. “God or not, he’s wrecking my city. Let’s go.” Her fingers tightened on her scepter, knuckles blanching as if holding onto purpose itself.

They slipped into the maze of tunnels beneath Minrathous, finally reaching the hidden elven chambers. Blue light pulsed ahead, casting ripples over a partially flooded floor. As they reached the last chamber, they saw a towering gilded mirror stretched to the vaulted ceiling. Its surface was constantly shifting, like a lake disturbed by unseen winds.

Rook drew closer, her reflection fractured and uncertain against a backdrop that was unfamiliar to her. “An eluvian,” Harding whispered in awe. “A doorway Solas uses to move around quickly. He must have gone through it!”

Beyond the mirror, the world transformed. They stepped into a small clearing surrounded by ancient trees stretching toward the sky. Ivy-draped ruins peeked through the undergrowth, the bones of a forgotten empire breaking the earth’s surface.

Harding’s eyes widened as she looked around. “I know these trees… Arlathan Forest.”

Rook squinted into the darkness to get her bearings. Dark clouds smothered the sky, releasing a relentless downpour that hammered the forest canopy. Lightning illuminated the trees in stark bursts before thunder crashed all around them. It felt as though nature itself roared in defiance of the ritual.

Ahead, an ancient temple stood defiant against the encroaching greenery. Statues of the Evanuris watched from high above, their faces worn smooth by the elements. A searing light bled from the cracks and enveloped the ritual site.

“There.” Neve pointed. “He’s inside.”

This close to the ritual, the veil was almost completely torn asunder. Demons prowled freely while Solas stood at the storm’s eye. His lyrium dagger seemed to carve sigils into the very fabric of existence, unraveling spells that held the world together.

At the temple threshold, Varric stopped.  His expression was almost unreadable. “I’ll handle him.”

Neve frowned. “You sure about that?”

“Positive. Keep the demons off me.” He half-smiled.

Harding hesitated, her concern etched in the lines around her eyes.“Varric, Solas isn’t going to stop just because an old friend asks nicely.”

“Solas needs someone to sell him another option, to help him justify changing his mind.” He patted Bianca’s worn frame. “And if he doesn’t listen to me, he’ll hear from Bianca.”

Inside, Solas moved like a conductor of chaos. Light poured from his eyes as unbridled magic swirled.

“Take care of the team for me, Rook,” Varric said pointedly, placing the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.

He strode forward and spoke up as he carefully went up the stairs. “Hey, Chuckles,” he called, trying to sound lighthearted. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Solas turned, his focus now fractured. The glance he gave Varric was annoyance tempered with weariness, like a man pulling weeds in an endless field.

It didn’t take long after their greeting for the conversation to become heated. Their words clashed like waves against rocks—idealism against pragmatism, dreams against harsh reality. Varric argued for those suffering now, while Solas spoke of a future free from the mistakes he made.

“The Veil is a wound,” Solas said, voice low. “One I have tried to mend.”

“You call this mending?” Varric barked. “You’re ripping it open. There are people dying in the streets.”

“I know.” For just a second, Solas looked… tired. “But what I’m building will outlast their pain.”

“Spoken like a man who doesn’t bleed anymore,” Varric growled.

“I bleed more than you know,” Solas snapped, then caught himself. “I offered peace. You rejected it.”

“You offered a grave and called it mercy.”

Solas’s eyes flared. His hand flicked—and Bianca shattered.

A combination of disbelief and pain spread across Varric’s face as he looked at the splintered remains of his beloved crossbow.

Nearby, Rook watched the exchange as she tried to hold the demons off Varric. Her patience thinned with every passing moment—people were suffering while they debated philosophy. Her gaze darted across the temple before locking on the scaffolding bracing a weakened arch. 

“This isn’t working,” she yelled to Neve and Harding. “We need another way.” She gestured toward the fragile structure.

“Stepping into that raw magic is suicide,” Neve warned.

“Anyone got a better plan?”

Silence. Just the shriek of demons and the blinding pulse of Solas’s magic.

Rook didn’t wait. She ran.

Her boots barely touched the stone as she vaulted broken columns and ducked low beams. The raw magic in the air singed her skin and made her vision swim—but she’d moved through fire before. She wouldn’t forget the bigger picture. Not again. Not while Varric was in danger, not while Solas was playing god.

She reached the base, her fingers gripping the warped frame. One deep breath. Then she climbed.

Rook’s blades tore through the last support beam, and the scaffolding gave way with a thunderous crack. Stone splintered, statues toppled, and the ceiling collapsed in a storm of dust and magic.

Solas whirled toward the noise, eyes wide. For the first time, he looked rattled.

The ritual stuttered. Magic fractured mid-sigil, arcs of power seizing in the air like severed nerves.

Varric moved in the chaos, jumping onto Solas as he lunged for the dagger. They grappled. Rook couldn’t see clearly, only sparks of lyrium—then blood.

So much blood.

Varric staggered, the dagger jutting from his ribs. He looked down like he couldn’t quite believe it before he collapsed on the ground.

“Varric!” Harding’s scream pierced the silence that followed.

Rook moved before she could think. The ground cracked beneath her. Her chest was a tight, knotted thing. Not Varric. Not like this.

The Veil buckled around her, writhing with chaotic energy. Glancing frantically over her shoulder, she caught sight of Harding and Neve struggling against an invisible force, their boots skidding across the stone as it hurled them away from the ritual’s center. 

Looking back toward Solas, Rook’s breath hitched. Behind him, a Veil tear opened up, jagged and feral. Two figures emerged, twisting free from the breach like nightmares made flesh. The first towered above her, a grotesque fusion of torsos, arms, and writhing tentacles. The second bristled with horns that seemed to come from its head and shoulders.

Then, a deafening explosion shattered the air. 

A pulse of force hit her like a wall. She flew backward, slammed into a column—and the world vanished.

Chapter Text

“You have no idea what you have done.”

A familiar voice cut through the dark enveloping Rook. She stirred, her limbs heavy, as darkness gave way to indistinct contours.

”Solas? " The name echoed in her mind.

The world around her had been drained of color, a lifeless scene consisting of ash and fog. Crumbling ruins hung suspended over an empty abyss. The wind seemed to howl, a breathless lament that echoed across the barren expanse.

Across a rocky chasm, Solas stood proud. His eyes narrow and glaring locked onto her with weary contempt. His hands were clasped behind his back. The picture of contained fury.

“I know exactly what I did,” Rook’s voice sounded sharp. “I stopped you from tearing the world apart.”

“I was not destroying the world.” Solas’ words came slow and deliberate, steeped in cold emphasis. “When you disrupted my ritual, the magical energies pulled me into the Fade.”

Rook folded her arms, her eyes never leaving his. “Fine. That’s why you’re here. But why am I?”

“Your physical body lies unconscious, but you shed a few drops of blood at the ritual site—enough to forge a tenuous connection.”

“Blood magic?” she asked in disgust.

“Firstly,” Solas could barely restrain his irritation, “I abhor the use of blood magic. Secondly, if I had the power to control you, I would already have used it.”

“Get out of my head!” Rook uttered through gritted teeth, her jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Her hands trembled as she pressed her fingers to her temples, as if, through will alone, she could dislodge his presence from her mind.

“As I said,”  Solas interrupted her futile attempt to end their conversation early. “I do not want to be here any more than you. But your actions have set in motion consequences, and I would not have your ignorance on my conscience.”

He let the words hang a moment before continuing, his tone not as cool but no less sharp.

“The Evanuris, or as you would call them, the elven gods. The creatures that escaped.” He sneered at her. “ In ancient times, they ruled the elves, but that wasn’t enough. They craved not only obedience but worship. When I rebelled, they drew upon the horrific magic of the Blight, corrupting everything they touched until I imprisoned them. And now—thanks to you —they are free, and I am trapped.”

Rook’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “We’re getting to the part where I’m the villain.” She scoffed at him. “Are you not forgetting that it was your ritual that freed them?”

“I was not freeing them,” Solas said angrily

“You were tearing open the veil!” Rook shouted back. Her hand slashed the air between them as if to cut through his excuses.

“I had a plan.”

“Varric always said you’d have a big explanation for why none of this is your fault.” Rook challenged him.

Solas flinched. A flicker darkened his expression, and the ghost of regret crossed his face.

“Varric...” His voice cracked, the word heavy.

“Never quite lies, clever half-truths that let you convince yourself you’re doing the right thing. He tried to talk to you anyway, and now he is hurt.” She pushed on.

“Varric is... quite practiced at shading the truth himself,” Solas said as his face became a mask again, guarded and unreadable.

Rook sighed as she clenched her fists. “So, these things that got out... they’re gods?”

“ They said they were gods,” Solas said darkly. “Blighted, tyrannical, sadistic gods. It took all my power to imprison them millennia ago. But I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

“That’s really helpful from the elven god of sarcasm,” Rook snapped. “This is your fault. Don’t even think about sitting back and looking smug!”

“What else can I do?” Solas sounded exasperated, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. “I have nothing.” He emphasized each word. “I don’t have my ritual dagger. I can’t access my network of mirrors to travel from the Lighthouse across the world.” He let out a sharp, measured breath. “All I can offer is what I know.”

“You’ll stay here forever, Solas. You’re not walking away from this.” Rook threatened him.

“No,” he agreed softly. “But neither are you.” His eyes seemed to burn a hole in hers. “Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nan are your problems to solve.” His tone was deadly serious.“You will soon see what they’re capable of.”

Rook bolted upright with a ragged gasp.

A sharp throb pounded in her skull, a reminder of the blow she’d taken. Solas' warning echoed in her mind—low, ominous words writhing their way into her consciousness. 

She blinked against the infirmary’s dim light. The air reeked of salves, blood, and the bitter tang of potions. 

Nothing looked familiar.

Then, a voice cut through her confusion.

"Well, look who’s still with us."

Rook‘s gaze snapped to the speaker, and her chest tightened.

“Easy,” He said, “You’ve been out for a while.”

" Varric," her voice was raw and cracked with emotion. “You’re alright? “

He grinned, though it barely masked his weariness. “Trust me, I’ve had worse. It’ll take more than a little flesh wound to put me down—though I won’t be winning any races anytime soon.”

Rook’s eyes scanned his battered body—a bandaged torso, blood staining the wrappings. His leg rested in a makeshift splint. Her stomach twisted. “But I saw him stab you,” her voice was thick with emotion. “You fell—”

“I did.” He winced as he adjusted himself with a grunt. “But Neve got us out by the skin of her teeth. And before you start worrying about Harding—”

Rook’s lips parted to protest, but he cut her off with a smirk and a commanding hand gesture.

“She’s fine. Tougher than you and certainly tougher than me.”

She exhaled. For a moment, she just stared at him, relief warring with exhaustion.

“What happened, Varric?” Her voice wavered. “I mean… all of it. What went wrong?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, the fatigue in his expression deepening. “I tried to talk sense into Solas. I thought perhaps—” He shook his head, the words trailing off in a sigh. “I should’ve known better.”

She looked away, shame gnawing at her as images of their last moments in the temple replayed behind her eyes—Solas' magic, the flash of lyrium, and Varric’s collapse.

He kept his gaze on her and shrugged. “You did what you had to do. Hell, you did what I couldn’t . The world isn’t drowning in demons, is it?”

“No,” she said softly. “But it’s worse.”

His brows drew together. “Worse how?”

“When we stopped the ritual, Solas got trapped in the Fade. But something else… something even he is scared of—escaped.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” he muttered. “So. What’s next?”

“I—” She faltered.

“The team needs you,” Varric said, calm but sure. “There’s a reason I dragged you into this mess, Rook. Remember when we first met? I knew then and there that you were the one. Solas won’t see you coming. You’re clever, you’re stubborn, and you don’t know when to quit.”

Rook scoffed. “I seem to remember my exile from the Crows a little differently.”

Her mind pulled her back to that night—Viago’s wrath, the shouting, her conviction crumbling beneath his glare. She’d thought she’d done the right thing, but she still wasn’t sure.

Nelle crouched atop a slate-tiled roof, her eyes fixed on the Antaam slavers shepherding their latest prisoners into the streets. Below her, the conquered city of Salle strained under the occupation. Heavy-footed patrols moved through market lanes, pushing past merchants and customers who kept their eyes down. The Antaam controlled Antiva’s vital arteries—its ports, supply chains, and major trade routes. Strategic chokepoints had been established at key crossings, and Antivan ships found themselves under strict Qunari oversight. Crows who once operated in the open were forced deeper into the shadows.

The Talons had debated long into many nights how to answer this affront. Antiva had no standing army like Tevinter or Orlais, but its claws were sharp. To maintain their hold on public favor, the Crows would need to make a statement soon. A strike. A reckoning.

They only needed to choose the right targets.

Don’t act, Viago had warned her, observe and report.

She ground her teeth and fiddled with the small golden pendant around her neck as the convoy below moved through the darkened streets. She had every intention of following orders—until she saw them.

The little ones.

Three of them huddled together, their arms wrapped tight around each other protectively. Rook guessed they were no older than nine years old as they stared into the dark with petrified eyes.

Their eyes were her eyes—years ago, starving in the gutter before Viago found her.

A chill ran through Nelle’s spine, and she was moving before she even realized it.

Sliding down the side of the building, she kept to the shadows as the slavers passed. Her steps were as silent as a whisper in the wind.  Nelle crouched low as she unsheathed her blades, catching only the faintest hint of light.

When the last guard lumbered past her, she struck fast and hard.

She swept behind him like a bird of prey, her daggers severing the tendons behind his knees. When he toppled, Nelle cut his shout short as she slit his throat. Two more Qunari closed in on her, shouting insults she couldn’t understand. Their heavy two-handed swords swung as they ran toward her.

They were predictable. Always relied on brute strength.

Nelle flipped backward, evading their first swings, then vaulted forward in a blur of movement. She twisted midair, her blades finding the gaps between armor plates, cutting deep into flesh. A spray of dark red splashed on the stone.

The guards at the front had heard the commotion. Barking orders, they turned around, dragging their prisoners with them. Nelle darted into the nearest shadow, pulling her hood over her head. She melted into the night as the Antaam guards rushed past her.

As soon as they turned their backs, she struck again.

The blades became extensions of her arms as she moved—sharp, quick, and decisive. Steel elegantly cut through muscle and bone without hesitation. Within moments, the slavers were motionless on the ground.

Nelle wiped her daggers clean and moved to free the prisoners. Their eyes, wide with confusion and fear, followed her every movement. Some seemed too stunned to react, panic frozen on their faces. The coarse ropes slipped from their wrists, and as soon as they were free, they scattered into the night.

She watched them go, her heart still racing from the fight. Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of three small figures slipping into the shadows, darting into an alley behind some wooden crates. One paused briefly to look back—a flash of wide eyes meeting hers—before vanishing into the dark.

A small smile crept on her lips, but her victory was short-lived. 

As soon as she returned to House De Riva, Viago summoned her.

“You fucking idiot!” 

His voice roared at her as soon as she stepped into the room.

“What were you thinking?” His fists slammed into the table, and his eyes burned with fury. “Do you know what you’ve cost us?”

“I—”

“The Antaam were already after us. Thanks to your vigilante heroics, they’ve cracked down even harder. We’ve lost people. Good people.” He jabbed a finger toward her. “Do you wish to know how many? Do you even care?” 

Nelle clenched her jaw, refusing to look away. She would do it all again. Every step, every cut. She tried to remember the eyes that had cast her one last glance. Brown. With a hint of green and gold.

“If I hadn’t acted, those people—those children—would have been sold into chains.”

“You never see the bigger picture!” Viago’s voice filled the room. “Because of you, we’ve lost more than lives—we’ve lost leverage. We had a contract—an operation that would have hurt the occupation more than your little stunt ever could.”

At that revelation, her defiance finally cracked. Her eyes dropped to the floor before she closed them.

"Shit," she muttered, a sigh escaping her.

Brown. With a hint of green and gold.

“What now?” she asked wearily, resignation seeping into her voice.

As if summoned by her question, a single knock sounded at the door before it swung open and revealed the man behind it.

“Nelle, meet Varric Tethras,” Viago said, his tone deceptively calm, though fury still smoldered. “Your new contract.”

Varric offered a playful nod, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“He’s looking for someone. And you’re going to help him.” Viago’s words were cold and final, leaving no room for negotiation. “Varric will fill you in on the details on your way out.” 

Nelle bit her tongue and sucked in her lip, swallowing her pride. Varric cocked his head toward the door in an invitation to follow. She turned on her heels and strode stubbornly past Viago without so much as a backward glance.

“Don’t hurry back to the nest, Rook,” he sneered, his voice thick with disdain.

The insult still lingered in her mind as she stepped into the lantern-lit alleys of Salle.

“So, Rook, huh?” Varric broke the silence with his curiosity as they walked side by side. “Like the chess piece?”

“No,” she answered curtly and without patience for pleasantries.

“Well,” he continued, undeterred, “it should be like the chess piece. You tend to think in straight lines.”

She shot him a look, a sarcastic edge hardening her voice. “And that’s based on… what? Your extensive knowledge of me?”

Varric smirked. “Let’s just say, judging by your actions tonight, we’re going to get along just fine.”

He glanced sideways at her, eyes blazing with amusement.

“It suits you, you know.”

“What does?”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Rook.”

Nelle didn’t answer. But she didn’t argue either.

Before she could continue her conversation, footsteps drifted into the room.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Harding said as she entered the infirmary.

Rook winced when she saw Harding’s freckled face covered with fresh bruises. My fault. The thought slipped past before she could grab hold of it.

“Don’t mind me,” the redhead murmured, walking slowly to an open cabinet lined with colorful glass vials and neatly labeled containers. “I’m just hunting down an elfroot potion.” Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the shelves. 

“You should go find Neve,” she said as her hand finally closed around a green-glassed vial. “See what’s going on.”

She paused, her shoulders slumping a little under the weight of recent events.

“On top of everything else, the eluvian didn’t bring us back to Minrathous. It brought us to the Fade.”

She sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

“One wrong step, and you’ll fall forever.”

Chapter Text

Harding hadn’t been wrong.

The infirmary was just one of many rooms of the dilapidated, tower-like structure Solas had called the Lighthouse. On the upper level, only the infirmary was accessible, though she could see other passages leading to more rooms beyond the rubble obstructing her way. Faded murals adorned the space between, telling a story she could not decipher. 

She headed down the stone stairs into what must have been a common area. Broken bookcases leaned against the circular walls, their shelves spilling the remnants of knowledge onto the floor.  

Looking up toward the only light source, she saw a crystal suspended in the center, glowing with warm white light, inviting guests to sit in the seating area below. Pieces of a broken metal and stone construct floated around the crystal. Surprisingly, she also saw more broken bookcases spiraling in the air. 

Rook pushed open the wooden double door leading outside. It creaked and groaned but gave way, revealing a courtyard that had her gasp out loud.

Steps curved along either side, rising toward a stone tribute to the Dread Wolf standing proud at the center.  Around it, smaller buildings clung desperately to the courtyard’s edges, their paths frayed by time and ruin. 

Beyond the statue, a larger building rose. When Rook explored it, she discovered a dining hall. It was a large space, once warmed by the glow of a grand open fire. A wooden table stood in the center—massive enough to host a royal banquet, though it was set for just one here. Two statues of Fen’Harel flanked either side of the cold fire, their hollow eyes watching over the lonely scene. In the corner, a modest kitchen and a half-stocked pantry whispered of usefulness, but everything else spoke of abandonment.

She returned to the courtyard and, to her amazement, saw a blazing beam of energy erupting from the main building. She walked up to the courtyard's verge and peered past the crumbling edges of this fractured world.

The sky stretched into infinity, blending impossible colors onto an endless canvas. Clouds that weren’t quite clouds floated in the distance. Islands of dead trees and jagged ruins floated on the horizon, dangling in a slow, dreamlike dance.

This place felt as though it were waiting.

For what, Rook couldn’t say.

When she returned to the central room, she found Harding and Neve sitting on the worn sofas across from one another, their expressions grim but thoughtful.

“So, we stopped the ritual,” Neve began, her voice weary.

“And Varric paid the price,” Harding added.

“Hey,” Rook cut through the tension. “Varric made his choice. He knew the risks. We all did.”

“And now Solas is gone, and we’re here. Wherever here is—besides ‘in the Fade,’” Harding muttered as she looked around the strange space.

“Solas called it ‘the Lighthouse,’” Rook informed them.

Neve raised a skeptical brow. “He told you that? When?”

“In my dreams,” Rook replied flatly. “When I was unconscious, he invaded them.”

“Really?” Harding’s concern was obvious as she gave Rook a once-over as though searching for hidden wounds. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“From what I saw,” Rook explained, pressing her fingers gently to the sore bump on her head, “he’s trapped in the Fade now—some kind of prison. I was bleeding from the blow at the ritual site, and he used it to forge a connection.”

“Blood magic.” Neve’s voice dripped with disdain. “Of course. Like any ordinary mage playing with your mind.” She folded her arms, shaking her head in disgust.

“I told you,” Harding snapped, her fist pounding against her knee, “he’s not just a mage! He’s an ancient elven god.”

Neve snorted. “Tying together a fancy ritual doesn’t make someone a god.”

“None of that matters right now,” Rook interjected before the conversation spiraled. 

Neve gave a curt nod. “He can control your mind?”

“No,” Rook said with certainty. “The chasm between us when we spoke, he can’t cross it. But we’re in far more trouble than that.”

She relayed what Solas had revealed: the Evanuris—ancient beings remembered as gods—had drawn upon the power of the Blight, corrupting themselves into tyrants of unspeakable cruelty. Now, two of them walked free.

Neve’s eyes narrowed. Her tone had an edge to it. “So instead of one supposed god, we’ve now got two out there. And they’re blighted.”

“And Solas is afraid of them,” Rook reminded, her brows furrowed with focus.

“We have to stop them!” Harding said fiercely.

“Just like that?” Neve’s voice sounded incredulous. “Without Varric? And with you still getting back on your feet?” She gestured toward Harding.

When the two of them began to bicker, the throbbing in Rook’s head had progressed to a full-on headache. She massaged her temples as she listened to the detective and the scout arguing.

“Enough!” Rook raised her hand, and silence followed almost immediately. “All we have is Solas’ word. We need to find out for ourselves what Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are capable of—and what they want.”

Neve grudgingly nodded, and Harding settled back into her seat.

“The eluvian brought us here,” Neve suggested after a beat of silence. “Surely it can take us back to the ritual site.”

“We have no idea what we’re walking into,” Harding argued, her voice tight with unease. “For all we know, the gods could still be at the ritual site!”

“Or it could be overrun by demons,” Neve added, as a matter of fact.

Rook pushed back her chair and stood. “Then we prepare.”

Arlathan Forest was beautiful when reality wasn’t tearing itself apart.

The trees seemed alive, with trunks twisting into shapes resembling people. Others grew vast and ancient, their sprawling canopies stained in hues of green and amber as if trapped in an eternal autumn. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the foliage, and the air shimmered with iridescent hues, swirling around leaves like an ethereal fog. 

Birdsong drifted down from above, and nugs chirped softly in the nearby underbrush.

Like nothing ever happened, Rook thought bitterly.

The illusion of peace was shattered with a thunderous crash from a nearby ledge.

Three elves tumbled into the clearing, scrambling to regain their footing. A large metal construct followed behind them with thudding steps. A massive axe whistled through the air as it swung at them.

A young man leaped forward, his blade meeting the construct’s weapon with a sharp clang. Sparks flew as he held his ground.

A woman crouched low a couple of paces behind him. She was working frantically at a glowing orb levitating between her hands. “Nearly there,” she muttered as her brows betrayed her concentration. “Hold it steady!”

The third figure moved with precision. He was an older elf, his face lined with wisdom, and valaslin, who stepped in without hesitation. With a powerful swing, his blade cleaved through the orb just as the construct raised its axe for a lethal strike.

The metal giant shuddered violently and fell to the ground with a loud clang.

Then, silence fell once again.

The younger elves gasped for breath while the older elf calmly sheathed his sword.

Rook, Neve, and Harding stepped forward as the chaos wound down.

“Strife? Irelin?” Harding’s voice rose in surprise as she recognized the distressed little group. “What are you doing here?”

The older elf—Strife—straightened as he put down his sword. “Harding?” His eyes widened with surprise. “We could ask you the same thing.”

Chapter Text

Bellara put out the campfire with practiced efficiency; the aroma of her meal still lingered in the air. Lunch had been simple, enough to keep her going, but her mind wasn’t on food.

The artifact, wrapped carefully in a bedroll and stuffed in her pack, consumed her every thought. She hadn’t thought it to be anywhere near this location.

It shouldn’t have been there.

She muttered the words under her breath, not realizing she was speaking out loud. A hundred different scenarios raced through her mind, each leading to more questions than answers. She needed to figure this out. Soon. She moved quickly, stuffing her gear into her pack with nervous hands.

Bellara glanced around. The ancient city of Arlathan was reduced to crumbling ruins, and the forest that had reclaimed it was no ordinary place. Strange anomalies were a regular occurrence, warping space and twisting reality. She was used to the forest's inherent strangeness and danger, but it had changed lately.

Artifacts stirred with unexpected power or appeared out of thin air. The guardians had come alive, sentinels of metal that hadn’t moved in centuries. And the veil itself had thinned to a whisper, spirits and demons pressing closer with greater intensity.

Bellara adjusted the straps on her pack and rose. She had to reach the Veiljumpers' camp. This discovery was—

The metal clang of a guardian's heavy footstep silenced the singing birds nesting overhead.

She dropped into a crouch, gliding forward with silent steps. She scanned the track ahead. There it was—a relic of Arlathan’s old defenses. It's back faced her, the crystal core exposed and pulsing faintly with arcane light.

Perfect.

Drawing on the Fade, Bellara shaped her spell. The enchantment resonated, and with a forceful flick of her hand, she seized control of the construct’s power. The guardian tensed, shuddered, and collapsed in a heap of metal on the ground.

“Gotcha!” she said triumphantly, a smile on her face.

Only then did she notice them—three figures watching her, swords, bow, and staff at the ready.

Bellara blinked.

“Oh! People!” she exclaimed with genuine delight. She slung her pack over one shoulder and bounded off the ledge toward them.

“Where’d you come from?” She said, chipper as she looked each of them over.

“Bellara? Bellara Lutare?” one of the two humans asked, her blades still drawn from their encounter with the guardian. She kept a cautious stance, still on guard. “Strife and Irelin sent us to find you.”

Bellara tilted her head, furrowing her brow. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Call me Rook,” the human responded.

“Lace Harding,” added the redheaded archer, giving a quick wave.

“Neve Gallus,” the second human introduced herself.

Bellara’s eyes went wide with recognition and excitement. “Wait, I know that name!” she exclaimed, pointing at Neve. Her mind raced with the realization, but before she could fully process it, another question interrupted her thoughts. “Hold on. The protocol says to wait a full week before sending anyone out to look for me. I’ve only been gone three days.”

“Well,” Rook said, finally sheathing her blades.“The situation has changed—for the worse, unfortunately.”

Bellara watched her warily. “How much worse?”

Rook didn’t hesitate. “Two of the ancient elven gods—Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain—have escaped. And by all accounts, they want to destroy the world.”

“Oh.” Bellara blinked. “Oh, yes. That is very much for the worst.”

She started pacing, her fingers twitching as she fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. “Fantastic. Great. I need a second.”

“Yeah,” Rook said dryly, her lips curling into a humorless smile. “Tried that. It doesn’t help.”

Bellara kept pacing, her steps quick and restless. “It does sort of explain a few things, though.”

Neve narrowed her eyes. “Like what exactly?”

Bellara stopped in her tracks as she gathered her jumbled thoughts. “The surge of raw magic in the area. These artifacts started waking up a while ago— but in fits and starts. One here, a couple there.” Her hand gestured to the fallen guardian. “Then, a couple of days ago, the sky split open. And now? Raw magic, thick as fog.”

She exhaled sharply, her eyes meeting Rook’s. “Only a god—or gods—could’ve done that.”

“Wonderful,” Rook muttered sarcastically.

Bellara’s eyes sparkled. “There’s something kind of exciting about it. And dangerous. Really dangerous,” she mused, half to herself. “Dangerous enough that I was going to head back to the Veiljumpers' camp.”

When she turned back to the group, an excited smile formed on her heart-shaped face. “And then I ran into you guys!”

They made their way together back to the Veiljumper camp, moving cautiously through the forest, scanning their surroundings arduously for any more threats. As they traveled, Rook recounted what had transpired with Solas and the ritual that had set the gods free. Bellara listened intently, her mind absorbing every word.

Then, a sound—low and unnatural—pricked Rook’s ears. She raised a clenched fist, signaling the group to halt. They froze. The only noise was the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze, but a deeper, more sinister sound hid beneath it. 

“Do you hear that?” Neve whispered.

“Yes,” Rook replied. “Stay sharp.”

They slowly crept forward, weapons at the ready. The trees thinned, revealing a small clearing bathed in sunlight. In its center lay a dead halla, its white fur stained with blood. A twisted figure crouched over the carcass, ripping at its flesh. The creature’s bark-like skin stretched taut over a skeletal frame, spikes protruding from its arms as it clawed into the poor animal. Red light flickered in its hollow eyes, casting a disturbing glow over its grotesque features.

Bellara recoiled, her face twisting in disgust. “Darkspawn… they never come this far into Arlathan.”

Rook’s expression darkened. “I have a feeling the gods may have something to do with this.”

Without trepidation, Bellara nocked an arrow and drew her bow. Magic hummed as she channeled her energy. She exhaled and released, and the arrow shot forward, embedding itself in the base of the creature’s skull. Lightning crackled along its body as it spasmed violently before collapsing into stillness.

The air was heavy with unanswered questions as they moved past the fallen beast.

When they reached the Veil Jumper encampment, the scene before them was one of chaos and sorrow. Elves hurried about, tending to wounded kin from nearby Dalish settlements overrun with darkspawn. The heavy scent of herbs and blood hung in the air as makeshift medics shouted for supplies. Others barked orders, their faces grim with exhaustion, as they directed people and goods. 

At the edge of the fray, Strife and Irelin stood hunched over a table strewn with maps, their expressions tense as they debated their next move. When Strife caught sight of Bellara, he let out a breath of relief and waved them over. 

Bellara wasted no time recounting her findings; her words were meticulous and abundant as she went into great detail about what she had encountered and discovered. When she finished, Irelin’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You found it? the Nadas Dirthalen?” When Bellara nodded solemnly,  Irelin whispered under her breath. “Mythal’anaste.”

It wasn’t entirely working. Bellara finally admitted when the two elves, their voices tense, started discussing the meaning of her discovery for their people. Hope had brightened their expressions at first, only to be overshadowed by something heavier—doubt, frustration, fear of what they had already lost.

Bellara exhaled, feeling the weight of their predicament settle in her chest. She had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that her latest findings would offer a breakthrough, something to push back against the slow but relentless decay of the Dalish. Instead, the crisis deepened.

Strife rubbed a hand across his weary face, already calculating the next step. “Our patrols have been stretched too thin,” he said. “The Blight-tainted creatures are moving deeper into the forest than we’ve ever seen. We’ve lost contact with two scouting parties.”

“We need reinforcements,” Strife continued, his voice low but firm. “Or better wards. Or both. But the way things are going, we won’t last the season if we don’t act now.”

Bellara clenched her fists. She wasn’t ready to admit defeat—not yet. If the ancient technology she had uncovered meant anything, it had to mean hope. But how to use it before the Blight consumed everything? Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft, familiar voice speaking up.

“And D’Meta’s Crossing,” Irelin added grimly, “is completely cut off.”

Bellara made up her mind. “Then we go there.”

Rook exchanged a glance with Neve and Harding. “We’ll go with Bellara,” she said firmly. “If the village is in danger because of the gods, we need to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Bellara led them along a shaded path toward a small dock on the edge of a vast lake. The water stretched so far into the horizon that on most days, the other side was lost to the mist. 

She untied the ropes, and with a flick of her fingers, the boat glided forward, guided by her magic. The only sound was the gentle lapping of water against the hull as they sailed toward the quiet town at the forest’s edge.

But something was wrong.

Bellara felt it before she saw it—an intangible shift in the air, like a breath held too long. It gnawed at the edges of her awareness, making her skin prickle.

Then, as they reached the dock, her suspicions were confirmed.

“There should be people here.” Her voice cracked.

The trading post was always bustling—especially on market day. Children should have been playing and laughing, the scent of warm bread filling the air. Instead, there was only silence.

The group moved cautiously past abandoned stalls, carts still laden with goods. The wooden doors and windows of nearby homes were hastily hammered shut—not broken or looted but sealed.

Something had driven these people to lock themselves in. Or lock something else out.

A blockade loomed ahead, crudely constructed from overturned wagons, barrels, and furniture. Beyond it, the air grew thick, putrid. The scent hit them first, rancid and wrong.

They climbed over the blockade and landed on the other side, only to freeze.

The Blight had taken root here.

Enormous cysts pulsed like diseased hearts, their slick surfaces throbbing as if alive. Blackened tentacles, glistening with mucus, snaked through the square, wrapping around buildings and splitting stone. The Blight had swallowed the town whole, warping it into something unnatural.

Bellara’s breath hitched as she took in the carnage. Corpses lay in heaps, their flesh sloughing from their bones, feeding the insatiable growth around them. These weren’t just strangers. These were people she knew. People she had laughed with, bartered with.

Tears blurred her vision, but she forced herself to look. This couldn’t be all of them. Some had to have survived.

They found them deeper in town.

A warehouse—one of the few remaining structures not yet overtaken by Blight—was barricaded. But its guards were wrong. Their eyes were black pits, their lips dripped with dark, oily ichor. They stood in eerie unison, their voices rasping the same words over and over.

“No one can leave.”

The warehouse door was ajar, and inside—

A pile of bodies, decomposing and bloated, spilled out like the building itself had been gutted and its entrails left to rot in the sun.

Bellara clapped a hand over her mouth, but it did little to keep out the stench. Her companions stood frozen, faces pale, eyes wide. None of them had ever seen the Blight do this before.

They pressed forward, reaching the outskirts of the town—where they found the Veil Jumpers.

One was already gone. The other was barely clinging to life, entangled in a thick, Blight-ridden tendril. The corrupted flesh had fused with his skin, oozing where the twisted vine tore into him. Every movement sent fresh agony through his body.

Bellara ran to him, trying desperately to free him, but he only screamed.

“Leave me,” he rasped, his voice raw with pain. “It’s too late.”

Tears streamed down Bellara’s face as she clutched his hand. “Who did this to you?”

He shuddered, blood bubbling at his lips. His next breath came in a gurgling hiss.

“The gods…”

Bellara’s heart pounded.

“Our gods… they are back…”

His grip tightened, then slackened. His chest shuddered with the effort of speaking, but he forced out his final words.

“Wanted… a… sacrifice.”

Then he went still.

Bellara stood before the eluvian as the Veiljumpers continued building their camp around it. Lookouts, aravels, and guards encircled the clearing, ensuring the passageway remained safe for travel. Their report back to Irelin and Strife was grim. The loss of D’Meta’s Crossing to the mayor's greed and the gods’ blight, combined with the resurgence of darkspawn in the area, made Bellara’s decision easy. She wanted to help as many people as she could. And that meant going with Rook.

There was an unexpected advantage no one saw coming. Veiljumper scouts had searched the area after Solas’ ritual and retrieved his lyrium dagger. Strife handed it to Rook, sensing the power the artifact held but not fully grasping its importance or the emotional weight of seeing it again, still stained with her friend's blood. Rook’s fingers hovered over the hilt before she took it, the cold metal biting against her palm. A heartbeat of hesitation. A flicker of memory—Varric’s voice, steady even as the world crumbled. And then she tucked it away, expression unreadable.

Bellara followed the group through the eluvian, her skin tingling as the magic enveloped her. It was an odd sensation—like walking through a cold mist, yet feeling a pull deep in her chest. When she emerged on the other side, she stepped into a dimly lit chamber where raw magic swirled beneath a suspended walkway, casting shifting patterns on the walls like ocean waves. The air thrummed with power, an undercurrent of something ancient and waiting.

As she made her way across the bridge and into the main chamber of the Lighthouse, she heard Harding gasp.

“Is it me, or did this place change?” She asked of Neve and Rook, her voice hushed with unease as she scanned their surroundings.

“You’re right.” The detective’s eyes narrowed, already searching for the answer to this new riddle. “It’s cleaner—less rubble in the way.”

To Bellara, the place still looked plenty worn down, with crumbling stones, broken crates, and dead vines littering the areas she could see. But beneath the ruin, she could sense the energy coursing. The way the walls almost hummed as if the very stones remembered something long lost.

She explored a little more before deciding that a newly opened structure clinging to the courtyard would make an ideal workspace. Setting her pack down, she cleared space for her notebooks and tools, exhaling slowly as she let herself settle in. There was work to do—and this place held more secrets than they realized.

Rook watched as Bellara wiped sweat from her brow, muttering arcane phrases under her breath while adjusting the last of the runes. The elf was meticulous, her fingers quick and precise despite the tension coiling through the room. Behind her, Neve stood with arms folded, Harding with bow in hand—everyone waiting for the moment the magic settled.

The final rune flared to life.

The eluvian shimmered, its surface shifting. Rook felt it before she saw it—the pressure of something ancient stirring in the air. Her instincts screamed caution, but she held her ground. The Veil rippled. Not just one path but many. She wasn’t seeing it directly—only the edge of it, like a dream half-remembered.

Magic crackled around them, sharp and metallic, filling her mouth with the taste of copper. The portal fully awakened, and with it, something else came through.

A figure stepped into view.

The Caretaker.

It looked half-formed, woven from mist and light, but this wasn’t like the demons she knew. He didn’t posture or threaten; he simply existed like a mountain that had always been there, unmoved and unmoving.

“Travelers,” the spirit said, its voice low and resonant, too vast for the chamber. “You have awakened the path. The Crossroads remain intact.”

Rook exchanged a glance with Neve, who gave the smallest shrug. Bellara was the first to speak, her voice tight. “You… guard this place?”

“I am its keeper,” the Caretaker said, inclining its head. “As I have been since the great sundering. The gods covet this place, but they cannot yet reach it. You are safe.”

Rook crossed her arms. “And when they do?”

The air thickened. The spirit didn’t react, not physically, but something shifted around them—subtle, suffocating.

“They will seek to corrupt it. To twist it to their will, as they have done before.”

The warning settled heavily in Rook’s chest. Safety, then. For now.

Later, after the spirit had guided them through the newly awakened Crossroads—showing flickers of passageways and old secrets—Rook sat with the others in the Lighthouse, the flickering firelight casting their shadows on the stone walls.

Neve leaned against the table, arms crossed. “I could return to Minrathous. See how the Shadow Dragons are holding up after the demon attack; perhaps they can offer aid.”

Bellara nodded quickly. “Harding and I can keep working on mapping the Crossroads. If we can find more passageways, it might give us an advantage.”

Rook stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the fire. The weight of the lyrium dagger rested at her hip like a promise—or a warning. If they were going to take down corrupted, overpowered mages, they’d need someone more ruthless than any of them. Someone who killed blood mages like breathing.

The Demon of Vyrantium.

Her stomach knotted. That meant going back to Viago, tail between her legs, admitting she'd failed. Again.

Neve didn’t miss a beat. “I’m surprised you haven’t suggested the Demon yet.”

Rook’s jaw tensed. Of course, Neve would know about him. Everyone had heard the stories. The Demon was legendary—efficient, lethal, unrelenting, even among the Crows.

After a long moment, Rook exhaled. “I’ll go to Treviso.”

Chapter Text

Viago paced the room, fingertips drumming lightly against his leather vest. A restless rhythm that mirrored his thoughts. The chiming of the chantry bell drifted on the breeze from outside, mingling with the distant lapping of water against stone and the murmurs of the crowds below in the casino. 

He didn’t let his nerves escape into the open often, but tonight was different. Teia would return soon, bringing Nelle and her new associates with her. Or “Rook,” as Viago had heard her referred to nowadays. Leave it to her to turn an insult into a badge of honor, he thought bitterly.

It had been a year since he’d last seen her, and saying they hadn’t parted on the best of terms would be an understatement. The tensions had never entirely subsided. Caterina hadn't allowed the incident to fade into the past and staying in their leader’s favor had been a constant, grueling act of contrition. Now, the thought of this meeting filled him with dread. 

Rook had written to him about Solas and the ancient blighted elven gods, but Viago couldn’t predict how Caterina would react, nor how his protegé would present her findings.

The sound of wood tapping against stone broke through his inner distractions. Caterina’s deliberate gait echoed through the hallways, her cane's tap announcing her arrival like a herald. 

Caterina moved with the quiet authority of someone who expected the world to part for her, as if the First Talon wore Antiva’s crown jewels rather than her signature ebony cloak. Despite her silver hair, her presence remained as sharp as ever. Her dark eyes could instantly size up a person, and her thin, pursed lips spoke little but conveyed everything.

“Viago,” she greeted, extending a hand adorned with a glinting opal ring.

Viago gently lifted her hand, brushing his lips across the cold stone set in its thick gold band. A gesture of respectful reverence. "Caterina," he replied, straightening and gesturing toward a nearby chair. “I’ve prepared a cup of coffee for you if you’d like.”

A curt nod from Caterina was all he needed as he sprang into action. A smooth, familiar voice interrupted the formalities as he placed the steaming mug before her.

“Anything for me?” 

Illario stepped from the shadows, his tall form leaning casually against one of the pillars that held up the domed roof. Moonlight filtered through the open sections of the structure, casting dancing shadows on his features, though his signature smirk still shone in the dim light.

“Illario,” Viago’s tone was cold, though a polite smile tugged at his lips.

“I do wonder,” Illario mused, eyes glinting with amusement, “what your former student has planned for us. She’s always had a flair for drama, hasn’t she?” He let the words hang in the air, smooth but edged with subtle barbs. “Tell me, Viago,” he added, something almost sincere beneath the teasing. “Looking back… was she really worth it?”

Viago faltered, caught off guard by the unexpected question. Nelle’s image flashed in his mind for a fleeting moment as she had been years ago: fierce, determined, and unyielding. She had so much fight in her.

It had been years since that day on the streets of Salle, yet the memory remained vivid.

Her wrist had been so thin he could have broken it with one hand. Instead, Viago tightened his grip just enough to prevent her from escaping. She fought him like a cornered animal; her face twisted in angry defiance.

He had planned everything meticulously. The alley was tucked away near the end of Main Street, quiet with plenty of exits for a quick retreat. His mark—a visiting Orlesian noble—had proven predictably arrogant and inattentive. Precisely the type to fall prey to a clever distraction. And this little street rat would be the perfect accomplice.

He had been watching her for days. She first caught his attention in the bustling marketplace, her patchwork clothes and flawless Orlesian accent enough to swindle a few coins from passersby. When charm failed, though, she had no problem resorting to more direct methods to secure her next meal.

She was fast. But not faster than him.

Just as he felt the tiniest tug of a knife at his pouch, Viago spun, catching her wrist with ease. The pocketknife clattered to the ground. Her eyes, the color of the ocean during a summer storm, flashed with defiance. She glared at him like a wyvern, all fury and no fear.

“Let me go!” she hissed, fumbling for something else in her coat pocket.

Viago barely noticed the familiar glass vial before it shattered at his feet and erupted into a choking cloud of smoke.

“Mierda,” he coughed, dragging her further into the alley, his grip unrelenting. The smoke cleared, and there she was, crouched low against a damp wall, her gaze locked on him with unwavering rage.

“You’ve got two choices,” he said, his voice calm yet deadly. “Point out the idiot Crow you stole that vial from and make some quick coin for five minutes of work… or go about your day. But you’ll never get this opportunity again.”

The present snapped back into focus as Teia and Rook arrived. Viago straightened, forcing his usual mask of indifference back into place, though his lips twitched at the sight of Teia.

“Idiot,” he spoke as a greeting, his voice rough. He couldn’t help the snarl that laced his tone as he regarded Rook.

“Don’t let Viago’s cool exterior fool you, Nelle.“  Teia’s voice rang out, smooth and seductive. She leaned closer, adding with a teasing lilt, “He’s as glad as anyone to have you back.”

Viago scoffed, the sound barely audible. His eyes narrowed at Teia, and his nose curled up in disgust, but something stirred inside him at her words. He hated that she might be right.

Teia shot him an amused look as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Trust me, he complains more when you’re not around.”

“Enough of this,” Viago cut her off. “Did you finish the contract on the Dread Wolf? Did you stop the ritual?” his voice hardened, shifting into the cold authority that was second nature to him. He crossed his arms, tilting his head with a subtle challenge. His gaze locked onto Rook, foregoing the pleasantries all at once. 

“Hello, Viago.” She glanced uneasily in his direction. “ It’s... not as straightforward as we’d hoped.”

“How many times…” His irritation flared, though he clenched his jaw to keep the words in check. “Crows always finish the job!”

“Right, we just can’t take the initiative, can we? My run-in with the Antaam taught me that.” Rook’s voice dripped with sarcasm, the bitterness barely concealed beneath her words.

Viago’s mouth tightened, swallowing the unspoken curse that rose in his throat. He sighed in frustration.

Teia intervened with a knowing glance. “Don’t let him scold you too much. Vi was worried about you,” she said, her hand finding his side and giving it a gentle squeeze—a reminder, perhaps, to behave.

“Rook,” Viago said, deliberately keeping his tone calm, “you remember Caterina Dellamorte.”

Rook’s voice dropped slightly. “The First Talon…” 

Caterina’s gaze flicked over Rook with a faint, calculating smile—a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

“I’m honored,” Rook added, glancing at Illario. “And that makes you…?”

“Illario Dellamorte,” Illario bowed slightly, a playful smile tugging at his lips as his eyes sized Rook up with a mix of scrutiny and desire. Viago noticed but chose to ignore it, keeping his focus solely on Rook.

As she explained why the contract had shifted, Viago couldn’t help but think back to the last time Caterina and Rook had been in a room together. His mind wandered back to that dimly lit chamber where Caterina had questioned her.

Nelle stood before the First Talon, small and wiry, her shoulders tense but squared. Her clothes hung loose on her frame. She shifted her weight like a cat, unsure whether to pounce or flee. It starkly contrasted with Caterina, whose imposing presence seemed to fill the room. Dark hair streaked with silver framed a face that could stop a man dead in his tracks.

Caterina’s voice cut through the quiet. “Name.”

“Nelle,” she said, her voice steady but guarded.

“Your parents?”

“Dead,” Nelle replied after a pause.

“How?”

“Robbers,” she answered, her dark eyes flickering to the shadows on the floor. Her hands clenched at her sides. “They came for my mother’s brooch.”

“A brooch?” Caterina tilted her head slightly, her curiosity edged with disdain.

Nelle hesitated, then spoke. Each word was carefully chosen. “It was Orlesian. A family heirloom. They thought we had more.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

The question had caught Nelle off guard. Viago had seen it in the way her brows furrowed and her hand had tugged nervously at the hem of her tunic. She wasn’t sure how to respond. He saw her mind working, her eyes flicking between Caterina’s face and the shadows. Her gaze darted up, reading the room—gauging what was expected from her. Desired from her.

For a long moment, Nelle had stayed silent. Finally, she shook her head. “No” Viago believed her. She hadn’t killed.

“I’ll grant you your exception, Viago” the First Talon said as she put her focus back on him. “Let us see if you can turn this Rook into a Crow.”

A name drew Viago back into the present conversation in an instant.

“I need the best, the man who brought Venatori and blood mages to their knees,” Rook explained in a serious tone.

“Lucanis,” Caterina uttered the name softly, her voice carrying both reverence and restraint. “My grandson. They called him the Demon of Vyrantium. He was the one who did those jobs.”

Rook’s eyes lit up with hope—a flicker of optimism Viago knew he had to extinguish. “Lucanis Dellamorte is dead,” he said in a low voice. “He was killed a year ago.”

Caterina’s fingers drummed against the silver crow perched atop her cane.

“What I say doesn’t leave this room,” she finally said, her voice low and commanding. Her iron gaze swept over each person in the room, emphasizing the seriousness of her words.“The body my people brought back was not my grandson. It was dressed in his clothes, and its face had been altered by blood magic to resemble him, but it was not him. Of this, I am certain.”

Illario’s expression twisted with disbelief, his voice rising in anger and betrayal. “What? My cousin is alive, and you didn’t tell me?”

Viago stepped in, cutting through Illario’s outburst. “We knew someone sold him out. How else did they get to him on that boat?” His gaze returned to Caterina. “So you kept your suspicions to yourself...”

Caterina’s piercing gaze shifted to Rook, her voice firm. “I’ve had eyes on the Venatori faction that I believe is responsible. The ritual you disrupted plunged their organization into chaos. They made mistakes, and now I have a location. The Ossuary. Where the Demon of Vyrantium is kept.”

Her voice hardened as she delivered her final command. “Free him. You’ll have your God-killer, and I’ll have my grandson.”

Chapter Text

Rook adjusted the hooded cape against the night chill as she followed Illario down the narrow cobbled path leading to the docks. Illario walked ahead, his polished boots tapping a confident but hurried rhythm against the stones. His posture was as composed as he could muster, given the revelation he had learned only a few moments earlier.

“You’d think she’d trust me,” Illario muttered, the faintest edge in his voice breaking through his smooth veneer. “But no—Caterina keeps her secrets locked away, even from family. My cousin, alive, and I’m the last to know?”

Rook didn’t respond; she didn’t think he wanted her to. The flirtatious charm he’d wielded so easily at the Cantori Diamond was replaced by something sharper. He was angry, sure, but it wasn’t anger that caught her attention—there was something more vulnerable beneath it, the kind of thing Caterina probably wouldn’t tolerate. 

“Did she think I would do something rash?” he continued, trying to understand what had been behind Caterina's motivations.

Illario turned his head then, fixing her with a look that might have been calculating if not for the faint flicker of something else—hurt? He quickly masked it with a sardonic grin. “And you? Do you think me rash?”

“I think you’re about as rash as Caterina allows you to be.” Rook kept her tone deliberately light, but the words felt heavy nonetheless. Illario cocked his head, his smirk faltering as if he considered her response and what it revealed about her.   

The docks came into view, the faint scent of brine mixing with the musk of damp wood. A small boat rocked gently at the pier, barely visible on the dark water.  A tall, stoic figure, wrapped in a mage’s heavy cloak, stood there, waiting for them. Rook couldn’t make out their features as the mage’s hood partially obscured their face. She suspected she wouldn’t have to worry about engaging in chitchat on the way to the Ossuary.

“Your ride,” Illario said as his hand directed her gaze to the vessel. 

Rook glanced at the mage, who offered her a curt nod before stepping aside to adjust the lines securing the boat. No introduction, no pleasantries. One of Caterina’s handpicked staff. She couldn’t help but wonder if stoicism was a requirement for employees at House Dellamorte. 

Illario lingered as Rook approached the vessel. “You’ll be on your own out there. Caterina insisted it was Crow business—no outsiders allowed.”

Rook stepped onto the boat and turned to face Illario, studying him for a moment longer. His expression was calm, but his eyes hinted at the hurt weighing him down. Caterina’s authority didn’t leave room for questions, but it clearly left room for resentment.

"Good luck, Rook." His voice was softer now, almost sincere. "And… bring him back.”

Rook gave him a slight nod before settling into her seat. The mage untied the boat and swung onto it. Without a word, they raised a hand, and a faint shimmer of magic enveloped the otherwise dark vessel, propelling it smoothly away from the dock.

As the city of Treviso receded into the distance, its famous purple and golden hues from the lanterns fading into the horizon, Rook wrapped herself tight in her cloak. Still, it offered no relief from the growing wind gusts and the occasional spray of ocean water.

Caterina couldn’t get the one with the roof on it? Rook thought bitterly as she tried to stop herself from shivering.

The stars overhead dotted the sky, pointing the way to an unknown fate. Rook glanced up at them; her gaze tracing their cold, flickering light, but it did nothing to settle the unease in her gut. 

The boat glided across the water, swallowed by the night. Without a lantern, they were shadows in a sea of obsidian, adrift in a vast, unknowable void. Her thoughts then shifted to the man she was meant to find—and the reason for her current discomfort. Lucanis Dellamorte—the Demon of Vyrantium. Among both Crows and citizens alike, they spoke his name with equal parts awe and fear. Stories of his contracts were the stuff of legend. Unlike most Crows, his missions often took him far from Antiva, into the heart of Minrathous or the hidden enclaves of the Venatori. If the tales were true, he wasn’t just an assassin but a fury of death unleashed upon his contracts.

Rook had never met Lucanis, but if Illario was any indication, his ego might make the lighthouse feel cramped. Being the First Talon’s grandson probably gets to your head. Rook thought, her lips twitching in a faint, wry smile. Power like that had a way of isolating people, even from themselves.

Still, how does someone like him get caught? The thought gnawed at her, looping tighter the longer she sat with it. He was too careful, too fast, too damn good. A legend. If someone took him down, they’d have to know him. Know his habits, his tells. His blind spots.

A Crow, then. One of their own.

Someone close.

The idea tasted like blood in her mouth. A betrayal made sense—but not the motive. What could they gain from sidelining him? Power? Protection? Or had it been personal? That was the problem with the Crows: everything became personal, eventually.

Her gaze drifted to the horizon, though the Ossuary was still far off. What would she find in that place? After a year locked away—what would be left of him? Would he still be sharp? Still dangerous? Still… him?

If he was alive at all.

It took another hour before the mage murmured a new spell, anchoring the boat above the submerged entrance. She raised her hands to perform a series of intricate gestures. Rook watched, unsure of what to expect, when a portal suddenly burst into existence.

The transition was disorienting but brief. When Rook emerged on the other side, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim, submerged elven ruin that now served as a prison.

An invisible dome encased the crumbling structure, its magic wards softly shimmering like rippling waves in the surrounding water. The prison sat so deep that she could see lava flows glowing below, their faint orange hue contrasting with the marine life that drifted past the barrier, oblivious to the ruin’s grim purpose.

Almost no light penetrated this depth, leaving the structure illuminated with lanterns that cast an otherworldly blue and green glow on its surroundings. 

Her eyes scanned the fragmented path ahead, looking for anything that might hint at her destination. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint sound of water dripping. Rook unsheathed her swords as she cautiously advanced deeper into the prison.

The guards who should have been patrolling the halls were conspicuously absent, and the suffocating silence only sharpened her unease. Magical shields slowed her down, but destroying the crystals that charged the spell did the trick. Rook wondered if the wards were meant to keep unwanted guests out… or something else in.

It didn’t take long for trouble to rear its ugly head. Bodies of fallen Venatori lay strewn across the floor like broken dolls, discarded without ceremony. Rook’s mind raced—had the prisoners revolted, or had something far worse wrought this carnage?

She passed rows of cells. Some bore walls smeared with old, dried blood. Others held prisoners—ghouls and undead—who snarled and clawed at the barriers. The sight made her stomach churn, but she pressed on, her focus sharp.

Further in, she entered chambers that clearly had dark purposes. Shackles still clung to human remains, the grey flesh of dead prisoners chained to stone tables blackened with blood. Rook grimaced as she rifled through scattered notes, careful to take any documents that might be useful.

She found notebook after notebook—detailed logs, containing the sort of demon or spirit, incubation periods, and the methods of torture applied. Her search had revealed the horrendous truth of this place—Zara Renata, a high-ranking Venatori mage, and the prison warden, Calavan, had been conducting horrifying experiments, attempting to fuse demons with living hosts. The grotesque implications swirled in Rook's mind, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. She was here on a mission, after all. 

Just as she turned to leave, a half-covered note caught her eye. It was scrawled hastily, almost illegible, but one phrase leaped out: “The guards won’t go near the Crow anymore.”
Rook’s breath caught in her throat. “Lucanis,” she murmured, her grip tightening on the paper. 

Rook pressed forward through the trembling ruin, her grip firm on her swords as she reached another section sealed off by a crystal-powered barrier. With a steady breath, she slashed through the crystals and reached for the handle. She pushed open the door—and found the first living souls she’d seen in these depths. Five Venatori guards snapped to attention, their surprise evident as she sauntered towards them.

“Hello, boys,” she greeted them, twirling her blades casually, a smile on her lips. Their eyes darted between her swirling knives and smirking face as they scrambled for their weapons.

“We don’t have to fight,” Rook grinned at them. “I’m just here for Lucanis Dellamorte.”

The scrape of swords leaving scabbards was cut short as a violet-winged shadow descended from a nearby pillar with a grace that defied the brutal purpose of its arrival. Like a dancer moving to a rhythm only he could hear, the figure flowed into the nearest guard. He enfolded him in a silent embrace before spinning him into the path of the next Venatori’s blade. The first man sagged without a sound as the shadow continued its fluid arc, delivering a kick that sent the second guard into a pillar with a sickening thud before crumpling to the floor.

He moved with the effortless precision of a master performer. Each shift a seamless transition, each strike a deliberate beat. In a blur, twin blades appeared in his hands as he made his way towards two more Venatori. He crossed them in a swift, low sweep that ended with them kneeling on the floor, holding their stomachs as entrails slipped out. Then came a sharp pirouette as his hands snapped the last guard’s neck in a single, fluid twist.

It was almost more art than violence to Rook, a showing of lethal elegance where no motion was wasted.  Every movement seemed to pulse with a quiet, devastating power, amplified by the swirling purple aura that coiled and unfurled around him like ethereal armor. Then she saw it—the same glow burned not just around him but within, an inner fire blazing in his eyes.

Rook’s breath hitched as the spectacle ended with a silence more deafening than any applause.

The man with long, dark hair glanced over his shoulder, the spectral wings folding into his body until they vanished entirely. When he turned fully, she could see his features more clearly: a tanned face lined with fatigue, dark eyes shadowed by suspicion, and a nose that bore a slight hook where it had been broken before. A beard obscured the hollowness of his cheeks, but the fullness of his lips was unmistakable as he spoke in a deep, rich voice.

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

Chapter Text

He approached them from behind, moving slowly and carefully as he slipped behind a broken pillar. The guards were still arguing, their words hurried and their movements restless. He pressed a hand against the rubble, testing its strength—if it crumbled, it would alert them to his presence. The stone held firm. Satisfied, he climbed swiftly.

From his perch, he surveyed the scene below. The positions of his targets, potential chokepoints, advantages, weaknesses—his mind mapped it all out in seconds. But beneath that cold calculation, a rough voice scraped against his thoughts, goading him into action.

Strike now. Rip them. Apart. Bathe in their fear.

Lucanis exhaled sharply, whispering back, “ We’re almost out of this pit. Don’t ruin it now.”

He played out the assault in his mind, rehearsing each motion. He just needed the right moment.

The door ahead swung open.

Smells like. Salt. And. Jasmin.

Like Treviso. The thought struck him with unexpected force. Like home. The word carried such weight that it almost hurt to think it.

Then she walked into the room.

Not walked— strutted. A controlled prowl, her fingers spinning blades with effortless dexterity. His eyes traced the motion before flicking to her lips when she spoke his name. They were stained the color of his favorite Antivan red.

She shouldn’t have caught his eye—not here, not now. But the way she spun her daggers like an afterthought… it stirred something inconvenient.

The guards moved toward her, and Lucanis seized his chance. He struck swiftly, cutting through them with ruthless efficiency. For a fleeting moment, the battle moved as if choreographed—fighters in perfect rhythm, intention and determination in seamless harmony.

When the last body fell, he straightened, turning slowly to face her as he felt his companion retreating beneath the surface, satisfied with the violence.

“Who are you?” he asked, studying her.

Her complexion was lighter than the average Antivan, but the sun had still kissed her skin plenty, scattering freckles lightly across her nose. Her features were delicate—noble-born, if he had to guess. But her stance? That was unmistakable. Crow.

She lowered her weapons, though not her guard. “You can call me Rook. House De Riva,” she said. A beat passed before she added, “Caterina sent me.”

“Caterina.” As the name left his lips, Spite recoiled at the tangle of emotions it stirred.

Rook studied him, curiosity tempered with caution. “I was supposed to break you out of a cell,” she spoke, “but it looks like you beat me to it.”

Lucanis didn’t respond immediately. He knelt beside the bodies, sifting through the bloody aftermath of his own making, salvaging anything useful—armor, weapons, whatever could be repurposed. A third stiletto joined the collection, strapped to his body, this one secured just above his knee.

“So…” Rook’s voice cut through the quiet. “You’re possessed?”

Lucanis didn’t look up. “It’s complicated.”

She huffed a soft laugh. “If you know the route out of here, you can tell me all about it on the way.” That smile of hers came easily, he noted.

His own expression darkened as he moved toward a door behind her. “I can’t leave yet.”

Rook frowned, but before she could ask, he clarified. “They have a vial of my blood. It’s how they control me—and the demon. I need to destroy it first.”

Understanding flickered across her face before her brows settled into a look of determination. She fell into step behind him without hesitation.

“And my contract is here. The prison warden, Calivan.”

Lucanis didn’t have to finish the thought.

“And a Crow never abandons a contract,” Rook sighed. “Lead the way.”

Lucanis was quiet. 

He couldn't shake the feeling that this was all some elaborate trick, that he would wake to find himself still trapped in the Ossuary, bound by blood magic that burned through his veins like acid, powerless and in someone else's hands. But the cold wind that stung his cheeks and the sea spray that misted against his face were undeniably real. The rhythmic rocking of the boat beneath them, wooden planks creaking with each swell, was real. The sharp scent of salt and damp wood filled his lungs, burning slightly after months of breathing nothing but his prison's stale, copper-tinged air.

And then—Spite.

The demon's voice coiled through his mind, laughing now, shrieking in glee. 

Free. FREE AT LAST! Let them weep. Let them. SUFFER.  Carve a path through their. Wretched flesh!

Lucanis clenched his fists. Uncertainty pressed down on him like a lead chain threatening to pull him beneath the dark waters they crossed. What would it be like to go home now? Would they see the man who had left or the monster that had returned?

He had seen the changes in the mocking reflection of his own face—Spite's spectral form, wearing his features like a cruel parody. The shaggy hair, the unkempt beard, and the shadowed eyes—far removed from the meticulously groomed man he once was.

He had to stay composed. In control. The iron discipline that had kept him alive couldn't falter now.

The lantern glow of his city drew closer. Treviso's landscape—tall spires and sprawling bridges, gilded rooftops catching the first sunrays—loomed before them. It was beautiful and familiar, a painting he had carried in his mind during the darkest hours of his imprisonment. It made his chest tighten with an emotion he refused to name.

He exhaled slowly, the warm cloud of his breath dissipating in the chill air as he forced himself to focus. He glanced at Rook.

She had sat comfortably in his brooding silence for the last hour, unbothered by the absence of conversation—that was rare among the perpetually chattering assassins of his guild. His gaze traced the reflection of Treviso in the dark pools of her eyes, and for a moment, he marveled at the depth there, hidden currents beneath a deceptively still surface.

Then, without warning, her eyes darted to his. He had expected scrutiny, suspicion, perhaps even the edge of fear in her expression. The cautious look reserved for wild animals and madmen, but there was none of that. Only a steady assessment.

Rook was the one to break the silence.

"You should know," she began, seemingly choosing her words carefully, "Caterina accepted a contract on your behalf in exchange for getting you out of the Ossuary."

"Of course," Lucanis said before slowly curling his lips into a half smile that didn't reach his eyes. Caterina was nothing if not calculating. Each move on her personal chessboard was planned ten steps ahead, and she never let sentiment cloud her judgment. Not even for family.

"Who?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Rook hesitated. That told him enough; it wouldn’t be easy.

"You should talk to her first," her tone final as the shoreline drew closer.

The boat rocked gently as it slid up to the dock. Lucanis moved with ease, stepping onto solid ground, but the moment his boots met the familiar stones, something inside him locked tight. He felt his throat close up.

He wasn't ready for this.

The isolation of the Ossuary had left him raw, like a nerve exposed to open air. He had spent a year reducing himself to nothing but purpose and survival, whittling away everything soft and human. But here, in Treviso, he wasn't a prisoner or an abomination clawing his way free. He was Lucanis Dellamorte, Master assassin, and heir to the First Talon, a man of reputation and carefully cultivated fear. He had to wear that skin again, pull it over the creature he had become, and pray the seams didn't show.

Play your part. Pretend. You're still human. We both. Know better.

As they made their way through Treviso's winding streets, bells chimed the early hour in the distance, the sound both welcome and jarring to ears accustomed to silence broken only by screams. 

The Cantori Diamond loomed ahead. Usually, this was where the pulse of the Crows beat strongest. Laughter, quiet dealings, whispered promises of death—it all lived here. But today, something was very wrong.

The halls were still, and the rooms, typically buzzing with quiet conversations and dangerous flirtations, stood dark and abandoned.

He caught movement at the far end of the main room, where the moonlight streamed through a shattered stained-glass window. Three figures stood together, their heads bowed and their postures stiff.

Lucanis slowed, something in his gut twisting hard.

When Teia and Viago finally looked up, their eyes widened in unison, their sharp breaths breaking the silence.

Like they had seen a ghost.

"Maker…" Teia was the first to speak. 

Viago took a step towards him. "Lucanis?"

"What happened here?" Lucanis’s gaze swept over the ransacked room. The usual elegance of the Cantori Diamond was nowhere to be found—this wasn't just chaos. This was a warning.

The third figure slammed a hand against the table with a sharp crack. "A message," Illario said bitterly, his voice edged with rage barely contained, before turning to face him. "From Zara Renata."

Lucanis narrowed his eyes as the name drove Spite into a frenzy. The demon's presence clawed at the inside of his skull, demanding release and vengeance in equal measure to the pain inflicted.

Rook turned to him. "Isn't that the bitch who captured you?" she asked bluntly.

He simply nodded.

Illario stepped toward Lucanis, his expression caught between disbelief and caution. He placed a firm hand on Lucanis's shoulder, grounding them both in the reality of the moment. "I can't believe it. You're home."

Lucanis met his cousin's gaze and clasped his forearm in silent greeting, a gesture between blood that spoke what words couldn't—that despite everything, some bonds remained unbroken.

But his mind had already moved forward.

"Zara?" Lucanis went past Illario, surveying the wreckage with a careful eye. "Her people got this close?" The question carried the weight of professional assessment and personal affront—the territory of the Crows had always been inviolable, and Zara had already taken too much from him.

"Revenge for the breakout, perhaps?" Rook offered.

Sudden realization hit Lucanis hard. “Where’s Caterina?” he tried his best to keep the rising panic out of his tone, but it crept in at the edges, betraying him.

Teia bowed her head, tears emerging from her almond-shaped eyes. “She’s… she… ” the words strangle in her throat as Viago places a protective arm around her shoulder, his face grim. 

“The Venatori got her in the confusion,” Viago finally confessed.

Illario’s features twisted in grief. “I get one of you back,”  his voice sounded hollow with despair, “only to lose the other.”

Lucanis bowed his head, shoulders tensing as the devastating news settled in his chest. From his peripheral vision, he caught Rook's hesitant movement—her hand reaching toward him in an instinctive gesture of comfort before uncertainty made her withdraw it. "Lucanis, I'm so sorry," she spoke softly, her voice carrying such genuine compassion that it momentarily stole the breath from his lungs.

The room erupted into chaos as Viago, Teia, and Illario launched into a heated debate about their response to this grievous affront. Viago—typically the hot-headed one—surprisingly advocated for measured restraint. Teia, by contrast, demanded with a rising voice that House enemies should pay in blood. Meanwhile, Illario assumed his familiar role of the critic, methodically dismantling each suggestion with a warm smile and sardonic commentary.

Throughout their argument, Lucanis remained silent, yet he was keenly aware of another's attention. Turning slightly, he caught Rook hastily averting her gaze, though not before he glimpsed the sneaking resignation darkening her features—the silent acknowledgment that her contract would surely be forfeit.

Drawing himself to his full height, Lucanis crossed his arms firmly across his chest. "No." The single word commanded immediate silence. "Caterina gave me a contract."

"You only just got here," Illario protested, indignation seeping from him. "And already you want to leave again?"

"I'm not breaking the last deal my Talon made." Lucanis's voice cracked with raw emotion as he locked eyes with his cousin. "Would you?"

The question hung between them as Illario's resolve visibly crumbled under Lucanis's unwavering stare.

"When the contract is done," Lucanis continued, his voice regaining its firmness, "I'll come home."

They forged an uneasy compromise in the tense negotiations that followed: Teia and Viago would orchestrate the Crow's response against the Antaam and Venatori forces. Lucanis would fulfill his contract and start his pursuit of Zara Renata. Illario contributed little beyond his insistence to be present when Lucanis finally confronted her. Vindictive satisfaction surged through Lucanis in the form of Spite when Teia proposed the ultimate retribution: cutting out Zara's heart.

Lucanis found Rook waiting by the Eluvian, her hands fidgeting with a small blade. He had taken the first opportunity to rid himself of the scavenged rags, replacing them with proper clothes and armor. 

Rook led him through the Crossroads, her pace unhurried but steady. He tried to focus on its impossible beauty—the endless paths stretching into the unknown, the way the Fade itself seemed to hum beneath his feet. But the moment he stepped fully into this place-between-places, a dull, pulsing ache bloomed behind his eyes.

Magic. Always magic.

Still, he listened as Rook spoke, her voice an easy anchor in this strange space. She talked about the workings of the Lighthouse, the mirror portals, and the people working with her.

"And then there’s the Caretaker," she added, glancing around as though expecting it to materialize at the mention of its name. "We’re still not entirely sure if it was here the whole time or…" She waved a hand vaguely through the air. "If it just kind of appeared?"

Lucanis surprised himself with a rough chuckle that scraped against his throat. “That’s comforting.”

They walked in silence for a time, a duet of boots clicking softly against the stone of the fade, until Rook finally asked, “Why did you decide to honor the contract?”

Lucanis didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the paths ahead, the roads not taken, the ones still waiting.

“I already told you.” His voice was quiet, steady. “For Caterina.”

A pause. And then, more honestly—

“And I owe you.”

He glanced sideways at her, his lips moving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t far from it. The expression settled naturally on his features as though returning to its rightful place after a long absence.

Chapter Text

After returning to the Lighthouse, exhaustion crashed over Rook, settling into her bones with a relentless ache. She climbed the stone steps to the room where she’d stashed her belongings, pausing for a moment in the doorway. Her gaze lingered on the large couch, a temptation too powerful to ignore. 

There was no denying now that the Lighthouse possessed some consciousness of its own. Responding to its new inhabitants with an almost childlike eagerness, it read their needs and manifested solutions in ways both startling and occasionally comical, like the ornate bathtub that had materialized in her quarters as if conjured from nothing but air.

After spending the past twenty-four hours submerged in an underwater ruin, the mere thought of surrounding herself with water again made her skin crawl. Yet the grime of battle clung to her, forming a second skin. With reluctance born of necessity, she surrendered to the ritual of cleansing.

Fresh clothes—a simple shirt and trousers—helped renew her energy. She rolled her shoulders, exhaling slowly. It was time to move forward.

Neve.

She needed to hear how matters had unfolded in Minrathous and if she had managed to gather any leads. If there was anyone who knew how to weave through the dangers of Tevinter’s underbelly, it was the detective.

Rook found her in one of the smaller buildings clinging to the courtyard. Its tall windows, once grand, were now smothered in dead vines. Inside, Neve stood leaning against a wooden desk, arms crossed, her gaze following the wisps hovering through the air. Their soft glow illuminated the dim space in a slow, pulsing rhythm.

One wisp fluttered too close, knocking over an unlit lantern. Neve sighed, rubbing her temple as the tiny entity darted away in startled panic.

Rook smirked as she stepped through the doorway. “Hi, Neve.” Her voice carried just enough amusement to earn her a glance. Then, glancing at the wisps swirling in erratic patterns above them, she added, “Hello, wisps.” Rook chuckled. “Didn’t take you for someone who attracts spirits, Neve.”

Neve’s deadpan stare could have cut through stone. “I don’t. They’re just nosy little pests.”

“Well, who wouldn’t want to learn more about Minrathous’ infamous detective?” Rook teased before shifting to a more serious tone. “So… how bad is it?”

Neve exhaled sharply, fingers drumming against the desk behind her.

“Minrathous is getting worse.”

Rook leaned against one of the wooden crates, arms crossed. “Define ‘worse.’”

“The Venatori have been more active than we anticipated. Ceremonies and rituals have increased, and it’s not just hidden gatherings anymore—there are public displays, open calls for ‘loyal’ Tevinter citizens to attend.” Neve shook her head. “People are disappearing. And red lyrium relics are flooding the black market. None of it is good news.”

Rook tensed, biting her lip. The growing influence of the Venatori, the corruption of red lyrium—all painted a grim picture. But before she could dwell too much on it, Neve’s sharp gaze flicked to her.

"I saw someone with you earlier," Neve said, one eyebrow arched in perfect skepticism. "Was that the Demon?"

Rook sighed. “About that—”

The door creaked open, and Bellara strode in smiling, absently tucking rebellious strands of hair behind her ear. She carried a notebook under one arm, fingers tapping an absentminded rhythm against its cover. Rook noticed the dirt under her nails, remnants of the artifact she’d been examining.

Bellara nodded toward the stack of Minrathous newspapers Neve had been sifting through. “Mind if I take those?”

As Bellara searched the newspapers for her beloved serials, Rook took a moment to explain Lucanis' situation to the two mages. 

Rook’s hand hovered over the edge of the table. “They... experimented on him,” she said at last. “Used blood magic to bind him to a demon called Spite.”

Bellara looked up sharply. Neve’s face didn’t change, but her fingers stilled on the parchment she was holding.

“He didn’t choose it,” Rook added, feeling the strange need to defend this fractured man.

Rook left them to their research about possession, retreating to her quarters to rest. By the time she awoke, what passed for the night had settled over the Lighthouse. Rook made her way through the courtyard to the dining hall. As she pushed open the heavy wooden door, she took in the scene before her—three figures illuminated by dancing firelight.

Bellara and Neve sat with their backs to her at the dining table, half-empty cups abandoned before them. Across from them, Lucanis stood by the hearth—one hand resting casually on the weathered stone mantel, the other perched at his hip with the nonchalance of a man accustomed to appearing at ease while remaining coiled for violence. The flames painted his sharp features in amber and shadow, rendering his expression unreadable.

"It's the same thing! Mostly. Kind of," Bellara exclaimed, her hands animating her frustration.

"Except one will manipulate you. Or kill you. Or both," Neve interjected, her voice carrying the edge of someone who'd witnessed such horrors firsthand.

Lucanis' gaze remained fixed on the flickering flames. "But how do you get rid of them?" The question hung in the air.

Bellara and Neve exchanged loaded glances, their expertise suddenly insufficient against such an inquiry.

"What's everyone talking about?" Rook asked as she approached.

"Spite," Lucanis answered flatly, his back still turned.

“The demon in Lucanis,” Bellara added.

"When a person gets possessed, the demon usually takes control," Neve explained, her head turning towards Rook while still keeping one eye on the other assassin. 

"And they turn into a monster. The spirit just... molds them. However they want," Bellara added as her eyes darted to Lucanis's rigid silhouette.

"I've heard of abominations being cured by killing the demon in the Fade," Neve offered, though her tone betrayed the fragility of this hope. "That's not a sure bet, though."

"Well, there is one sure way," Bellara hesitated, her voice faltering. "But it's, well... we'd have to... um—"

"You'd have to kill me," Lucanis finished for her, his voice detached as if he were talking about going to the market.

Finally, he turned to face them. He stood meticulously dressed—his shirt pressed to precision beneath a fitted vest that emphasized his toned strength, dark trousers tailored to accommodate both elegance and the swift movements their profession demanded. Two small Crow pins glinted at his collar in the firelight, connected by a delicate silver chain—a silent declaration of the allegiance that defined him.

"Well..." Rook tilted her head, breaking the tension. "How about we keep that as a last resort?"

She caught the subtle but sudden jerk of his head, his gaze snapping to something—someone—beside her that only he could perceive. His features contorted briefly before he wrenched his attention away, jaw muscles tensing as he clenched his teeth like a man ignoring a feral dog circling too close, refusing to acknowledge the threat lest it pounce.

Neve and Bellara continued their discussion, but their voices became background noise as Lucanis suddenly reeled sideways, as if struck by an invisible force. His head snapped violently, and blood sprayed from his nose before he could raise his hand to contain the flow.

The room plunged into horrified silence, broken only by the scraping of wood on stone as both Bellara and Neve shot to their feet. Rook instinctively surged forward—only for Lucanis to raise a bloodied palm.

"No. It's fine. I'm fine," he insisted, the blood seeping between his fingers contradicting his words.

Rook stared at him in utter disbelief. "What did he do that for?" 

"Throwing a tantrum when he doesn't get his way," Lucanis muttered darkly as he checked to see if the bleeding had stopped.

Neve shifted uncomfortably. "But... he can just take you over? Make you do what he wants?"

"He'd do this in the Ossuary," Lucanis explained with exhausted resignation. "The Fade does whatever a spirit wants. Real walls and chains, not so much."

He turned back toward the flames, his shoulders rigid with weariness. "Just... give me a minute. He'll get bored once everyone leaves."

Rook lingered for a heartbeat longer, studying the tension carved into every line of his body. The last thing she wanted to do right now was to leave him alone after he had already endured so much solitude. He seemed adamant, though, and so she exhaled softly. "Welcome to the team."

Rook and the others withdrew, leaving the assassin alone with his demon—a man and his shadow, locked in battle for a single soul.

Chapter Text

Dock Town, Minrathous. Her city. Her home. Flawed and fractured, but still hers. The kind of place that left scars—but also taught you how to fight back.

"Trust no one, expect the worst, and you might just get by," Neve told her new companions as she led them beneath another crumbling archway. Her voice remained low, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. "The moment you think you understand this city is the moment it swallows you whole."

The salt-laden breeze carried the familiar scents of spice, smoke, and low tide—the perfume of Dock Town. Here, away from the gleaming spires and marble facades of the magisterium, real Minrathous throbbed with life. Her neighborhood. Her people. The ones who would suffer first when the powerful played their games.

Neve watched Lucanis from the corner of her eye. The assassin moved with a quiet purpose, constantly scanning their surroundings for anything out of the ordinary. Smart. He'd need those instincts here. Everyone was a potential informant, and every dark corner was a trap waiting to be sprung. His reputation as the Demon of Vyrantium had traveled far, reaching the Shadow Dragons' whisper network. She'd connected him to several Venatori deaths over the years—bodies found with precise wounds that spoke of practiced skill and cold efficiency.

Rook followed with curious eyes, taking in everything. Too interested, perhaps. In Minrathous, curiosity was often rewarded with a knife in the dark. But there was something about her—a self-assuredness that suggested competence beneath that wondering gaze. She might actually be worth the trouble Varric claimed she was. Still, Neve wouldn't bet her life on it. Not yet. 

"Neve!"

She turned toward the familiar voice, unable to suppress the smile that crossed her lips at the sight of Tarquin. His dark overcoat contrasted sharply with his bright Tevene clothing—a statement in itself about straddling different worlds. Tarquin's face bore the scars of someone who'd survived Minrathous's harsher lessons, his neatly trimmed beard framing a perpetual half-smile. He was one of the few people in this city she would even consider turning her back to.

"Tarquin," she greeted him warmly. "You look well."

"And you remain as elusive as ever. I heard rumours you'd left the city."

Before Neve could respond, she sensed rather than saw another arrival—the subtle shift in the air before a figure descended from above with characteristic flair. Always one for dramatics, despite her repeated suggestions that someday it would get him killed.

When the newcomer rose to his full height, he struck an imposing figure. He towered over most men, broad shoulders hinting at the corded muscle beneath his cape. The lower half of his face remained obscured by a mask, his features cast in shadow by his hood, revealing only calculating eyes that seemed to take in everything at once.

"Rook, Lucanis," she said, casually gesturing to him, "meet the Viper."

Rook's reaction was immediate and unexpected as pure delight spread across her face. "The name, the entrance..." She grinned broadly, almost bouncing on her toes. "I have so many questions!"

Neve caught the slight twitch at Lucanis's mouth, an almost-smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Interesting. There was more to the Demon of Vyrantium than his reputation suggested. 

She had spent the last few days observing Lucanis. He had claimed the pantry as his own sleeping quarters, an odd choice, but fitting in a way she couldn’t quite articulate. He moved through the Lighthouse like someone born in the spaces between—never fully belonging, never out of place like he’d spent his life learning to vanish before the world could see him.

She couldn’t tell where the Demon ended and the man began—but either way, he moved like someone who’d made peace with every awful thing he had to do. And maybe that was what made him dangerous. Or perhaps it made him honest.

Neve’s focus snapped back to the two Shadow Dragons beside her when they got to business. 

"So why did you request a meeting? Has this something to do with your work with Varric?" 

"Two ancient elven gods have escaped their prison," Rook said bluntly. "They're gathering strength, and we need to stop them."

Even now, as Rook recounted the events Neve herself had witnessed, they sounded like a fabrication—an elaborate tale spun to swindle the gullible out of their hard-earned coin. But Neve had seen enough in her years as an investigator to know that the most outlandish tales often held the darkest truths.

"They blighted a village called D'meta's Crossing," Neve informed the two Shadow Dragons. “Every soul—gone. The ground itself corrupted."  The memory chilled her to the bone. What happened there couldn't happen here. Not to her people, not to her city—no matter how corrupted parts of it might be.

The Viper's eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

"There were Venatori whispers about this place," he finally said, his voice low and somber. "Now we know why."

Their conversation shifted to other matters—whispers from the streets, movements within the city, pieces of a larger game unfolding in shadows—but one matter loomed larger than the rest.

"A Red Lyrium relic," Tarquin said, placing a detailed sketch on a nearby barrel. "We've been tracking it for weeks."

Neve's blood ran cold at the mention of Red Lyrium. She'd seen what the corrupted substance could do—how it twisted bodies and minds, how it sang with malevolent power. Kirkwall had nearly fallen to its influence. 

"Blood magic is bad enough," Tarquin continued, "but this? Red Lyrium amplifies it and strengthens demon-summoning.”

Neve stiffened. “Who has it?”

Tarquin shook his head. “We heard the smuggler might be one of the Threads. The buyer is still unknown. The last trace was in Dock Town, but if we don’t move fast—”

“I’ll track it down,” Neve cut in. “Dock Town is my home. I’ll find the smuggler, identify the buyer.”

To her surprise, Rook stepped forward. “We’ll help.”

“That’s not necessary.” Neve frowned.

“I didn’t say it was,” Rook replied. “But we’re here asking for help against elven gods. It’s only fair we give some in return.”

Neve hesitated. She didn’t like relying on anyone. Didn’t need to. But there was something in Rook’s stance—solid, unyielding. There was no hesitation in the offer; the decision had already been made. It was the kind of resolve you couldn’t fake.

And they were Crow-trained. That might prove helpful if things turned ugly. They usually did in Minrathous.

"The Threads used to have a code," Neve explained as she led Rook and Lucanis through the narrow, winding streets of Dock Town. "They smuggle luxuries, run protection rackets, occasionally sell counterfeit charms—but never weapons, never Red Lyrium. Never anything that would poison their own neighborhood."

She nodded to a few locals as they passed—a fish vendor who'd once hidden her from Venatori agents, an elderly woman who mended sails and gathered information with equal skill, a former slave now running a small but thriving spice shop. Her people. The ones who counted on her when schemes of the powerful spilled over into their lives.

"So what changed?" Lucanis asked.

"Good question." Neve paused at a corner, watching a group of laborers load crates onto a cart. "Money, most likely. Or threats. The Venatori aren't known for taking no for an answer."

As they walked, Neve fell into step beside Lucanis, her curiosity getting the better of her reserve. They shared a common enemy in the Venatori, and that made him... not quite a friend, but perhaps an ally worth understanding.

"So, the Demon of Vyrantium, huh?" she asked teasingly, gauging the man behind the legend. 

Lucanis let out a raspy laugh that was so unexpected it made Rook glance back at them. The sound was warm, genuine—and it caught Neve off guard. She hadn’t expected warmth from the notorious assassin. And yet, it lingered in that laugh—unguarded, real. Dangerous, in its own way.

"The name wasn't literal when I got it," he answered, that easy charm rolling off him.

"No, but the reputation that went with it," Neve countered, testing the waters to see how he reacted to his notoriety.

"I suppose I earned it." His voice carried no pride, only a quiet acknowledgment of what necessity had made him become.

"And then some," she said playfully. "Assuming my sources are accurate."

"Your sources?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You know, you're practically a legend among the Shadow Dragons. At least, the Demon is," she said, watching for his reaction as much as teasing him. 

"Famous? Or infamous?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

"What can I say—we're all big supporters of your work. The Shadow Dragons always appreciated a professional, especially one who kept Venatori nervous.”

She noticed Rook glancing back at them, a slight furrow between her brows. Interesting. There was something there—a dynamic Neve hadn't quite worked out yet. She'd keep watching. In her experience, understanding the relationships between allies was just as crucial as understanding enemies.

Her network of contacts in Dock Town had always been her greatest asset as an investigator. If she used the right pressure points, greased the right palms, and whispered into the right ear, she might get the buyer's name—or at least the smuggler's.

Three contacts, two bribes, and one thinly veiled threat later, Neve's fingers traced the worn leather of her notebook as she pieced together the fragments of intelligence. The final piece had come from Rana, the former templar and partner of Brom, whose presence was ever by Neve's side in the form of his chantry amulet.

The name emerged from the assembled evidence loud and clear: Albin Bataris. Not just any magister's son, but one whose family had been overseeing construction at the Spillway—the perfect place for clandestine meetings.

“If the exchange is happening today as our information suggests, we can intercept them before the relic changes hands," Neve said with conviction.

"And if we're too late?" Lucanis asked.

Neve's expression hardened. "Then we hunt Bataris down and take it from him before he can use it. One way or another, that relic isn't leaving Dock Town."

The salty air of the harbor whipped at Neve's face as they crouched behind a stack of shipping crates at the Spillway's edge, the wood damp and swollen beneath her fingertips. Rook knelt beside her, while Lucanis positioned himself in the shadows nearby. 

"Remember," Neve spoke softly, "the priority is the relic. We need to destroy it before—"

She tensed as footsteps echoed against the stone. A figure appeared, hood pulled low despite the warm day—the Thread Smuggler, right on time. Moments later, someone else approached from the opposite direction.

She watched Albin's aristocratic profile appear in the courtyard through a narrow gap between crates. The Bataris signet ring gleamed on his finger as he gestured to the hooded Thread smuggler. 

"You have it?" Albin's voice carried across the courtyard, imperious even in conspiracy.

The smuggler nodded, producing a small wooden box. As he opened it, a sickly red glow spilled out. Neve felt the Veil thinning around them as Albin couldn't resist a taste of the power the relic promised. Another disruption, another tear in the fabric separating their world from the Fade.

"For the gods, and Tevinter reborn," Albin announced, his Tevene accent precise and cultured, making the blasphemy sound almost reasonable. "Your service ensures their return to power, and with it, Tevinter's true glory."

As the first wisps of demonic essence began to curl through the air, Neve caught Lucanis's and Rook’s eyes and nodded once—time to move.

She surged forward, cold magic gathering at her fingertips as she slipped from cover. Ice crystallized in the air around her, forming jagged shards that she sent hurtling toward the smuggler's feet, pinning him in place.

Bataris jerked in surprise, raising a hand crackling with arcane energy. But before the spell left his lips, Lucanis was on him. The Crow’s blades flickered, one aimed directly at the magister’s throat.

Albin twisted away at the last second, narrowly avoiding the killing blow. He retaliated with a burst of magic, enough to send Lucanis skidding back.

"Protect the relic!" Albin shouted to the smuggler, who was struggling against his icy bonds. "They mustn't destroy it!"

Neve didn't hesitate. She channeled a barrage of ice through her scepter that slammed into a cluster of shrieking demons now tearing through the weakened Veil. They scattered briefly, then veered toward Lucanis.

But before they could reach him, Rook was there. She dove beneath the arc of a wayward ice crystal, rolling to her feet just in time to drive her blade upward through a demon's maw. Another lunged, and she sidestepped, gracefully spinning as her second dagger found its target. In moments, the Fade-spawn dissolved into nothingness, their cries echoing into the void.

Now the two Crows moved as one as they circled Albin like predators. Their strikes danced in tandem—Lucanis feinting high while Rook swept low, reading each other's intentions without a word. Where one fell back, the other surged forward, pressing Albin with a relentless, merciless rhythm.

Meanwhile, Neve advanced on the smuggler, who had broken free of her ice. "The relic," she demanded, extending her hand. "Give it to me now, and you might walk away from this."

The smuggler clutched the box tighter, his eyes darting frantically between Neve and the exits. With sudden desperation, he hurled the relic at Neve's face and lunged for his concealed dagger. "Venatori take you all!" he snarled, slashing wildly as he tried to create space for escape.

Neve sidestepped the flying relic with ease, catching it one-handed while simultaneously blasting ice across the ground that instantly solidified around the smuggler's ankles, trapping him mid-stride as his momentum sent him crashing face-first onto the stone floor.

"You can't win this, Bataris," Neve called out, her focus now on the last remaining threat. She gathered her power again, feeling the temperature around her drop. "Your demons are gone."

Albin sneered, spinning his staff in a flourish that left a trail of purple light in its wake. "I don't need demons to deal with the likes of—"

His taunt died as Neve's ice spike caught him just as he twisted away from Rook’s blade. Pain and shock registered on his face, and in that crucial moment of distraction, Lucanis struck.

He angled his dagger with chilling precision, dancing into his path and finding flesh. Albin's scream echoed off the stone walls surrounding the secluded forum as he skidded across the floor, his staff clattering away. His face twisted in pain and fury as blood seeped through his fingers.

"It's over," Neve said, approaching the fallen mage.

The smuggler, now bound in the corner, watched with wide eyes as Neve knelt beside Albin, her expression hardening with the promise of what would come if he refused to cooperate.

“I want answers,” she hissed.

But she would get none.

The clanking sound of boots marching towards them silenced them all. They watched as templars in their gleaming armor advanced into the courtyard. A man with the stiff spine of authority and none of its honor strode at their head, followed closely by Magister Bataris himself, his expensive robes swirling dramatically around him.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Magister demanded, his voice loud with outrage. "You dare assault my son?"

Neve’s jaw clenched. “He’s working with the Venatori, he was smuggling Red Lyrium—”

“A misunderstanding,” The magister interrupted smoothly, already turning to the Knight-commander at his side. “Surely you can see this is all a grave mistake.”

The commander didn’t even flinch. “We’ll take it from here.”

Neve glowered at him, her fury barely held in check. She knew how this would go; she’d seen it too many times.

The smuggler, battered and wide-eyed, was dragged to his feet and cuffed.

Albin, bleeding but still smug, was helped up more gently. He didn’t look at his father—he looked at Neve. And smiled.

"How familiar," Neve said, loud enough for everyone to hear, unable to contain her bitterness. "I tie something up only for you to undo it."

“Careful, Gallus,” the commander warned her, as if she were the criminal here.

Neve didn’t answer. She couldn’t trust her voice.

The walk back to the Shadow Dragon hideout was filled with tense silence. The narrow streets of Dock Town, usually a comfort to Neve, felt oppressive under the weight of their defeat.

The city was quieter now, colder. Lucanis walked a pace behind her, his blades sheathed, but the tension in his frame hadn’t faded. Rook stared straight ahead, lips pressed thin.

“We’ll try again,” Rook said quietly beside her. “And next time, we won’t be so polite.”

Neve glanced at her sharply. There was something in Rook's voice—a personal understanding that went beyond simple observation—another piece of the puzzle that was Varric's agent.

Back in the safety of the Shadow Dragons' hideout, Neve faced Tarquin and the Viper, her voice clipped as she relayed what had happened.

“The idol is gone,” she said. “Destroyed. But Bataris walked. The Venatori are more deeply entrenched than we thought.”

"So the Venatori serve these gods," Tarquin said, troubled.

"Why?" The Viper asked. "They’ve always wanted Tevinter’s old glory and power, not gods."

Neve felt a chill. "Unless they think the gods are the old pantheon. If an ancient power promised them control of Tevinter,” she trailed off.

“The venatori would sign the deal in blood.” Tarquin finished her sentence.

The silence that followed was heavy with dread.

"False gods or real ones," Rook said firmly, "they destroyed D'meta's Crossing. They'll destroy more if we don't stop them."

“The Dragons will monitor every Venatori move,” the Viper promised. “Anything we uncover—we’ll pass it on.”

He turned to Rook and Lucanis, “Your actions with the idol have proven your worth. The Dragons stand with you in this.”

As they prepared to leave, the Viper approached Neve. "Don't let tonight's setback cloud your judgment, detective," he said quietly. "Albin walks free today, but men like him always make mistakes. When he does, we'll be watching."

For the first time in days, Neve allowed herself to breathe.

It wasn’t justice. Not yet. But it was a beginning.

The relic was destroyed. The Dragons were allies. Dock Town—her city, her home—was safe for now.

She looked at Rook and Lucanis as they prepared to return to the Lighthouse. She had built her life around solitude, carved it into a shield, and called it safety. It kept others out, kept her sane. But as she stepped through the eluvian into the winding strangeness of the Crossroads, something stirred behind the usual cynicism.

Cautious. Small. But there.

Hope.

Chapter Text

Rook slammed the door to her quarters behind her, the sound echoing through the stone corridor like thunder. Her hands trembled—not with fear, but with frustration, annoyance, and something worse: doubt.

Damn that elf and his riddles.

The conversation with Solas had left her raw—another futile attempt to pry truth from riddles. He’d haunted her thoughts, offering only smoke when she needed fire. She'd entered his realm with something resembling hope. Instead, he'd regarded her with those ancient eyes, speaking in circles while revealing nothing.

Nothing except the one terrible certainty that made her stomach clench: the gods sought to tear the veil asunder and unleash even more blight into the world. The irony tasted bitter on her tongue. She'd barely stopped Solas from his catastrophic attempt to open the veil, and had witnessed firsthand the devastating consequences when reality itself had begun to unravel. Now she would have to do it all over again—only this time, her opponents were stronger, more ancient, and infinitely more ruthless than one guilt-ridden apostate

"Useless," she muttered, pressing her fingertips against her temples where a headache had started to bloom. She'd lost her temper—again—when she'd meant to hold steady, to extract actual answers for once. Every conversation with the Dread Wolf felt like losing a battle she'd never agreed to fight.

The corridor walls pressed in, suffocating in their stillness. She needed air. She needed answers. Most of all, she needed a win.

Sighing sharply through her nose, she headed toward the greenhouse, her stride more determined with each step. The greenhouse—that's where she'd find Harding. If anyone could salvage this day, it would be her tireless scout.

The scent hit her first as the heavy door groaned open—loamy, damp, alive. After the chill of the corridor, the greenhouse was a slap of warmth and color, and Rook felt her shoulders begin to unknot.

The place was half-garden, half-chaos: ferns crowded against newly sprouted herbs and colourful flowers stretching toward the sunlight that streamed through the cracked glass dome overhead, transforming ordinary light into pools of liquid gold on the stone floor. 

Harding stood in the center of the controlled mess—sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a messy bun, her small hands buried wrist-deep in dark soil. A smudge of dirt marked one freckled cheek, and her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked.

The greenhouse had become Harding’s sanctuary, a vibrant patch of the Fereldan countryside brought to life by her careful hands.

At the sound of the door, Harding's head snapped up, trading in her frown for a vibrant grin. She leapt to her feet, her eyes bright with excitement.

"Took a few dozen letters," Harding continued, practically vibrating with triumph, as she fetched a weather-stained letter from her workbench.

“But the First Warden finally decided we're worth the ink,” she said.

Rook took the parchment, her fingers grazing the raised griffon seal. The texture grounded her, pulled her back from spiraling thoughts.

“Finally,” she muttered. “I thought I’d have to march up to Weisshaupt and start knocking on doors.”

"You'd think saving the world once would get you faster mail service," Harding quipped.

The rough texture scraped her fingertips—official Grey Warden stationery, real enough. Her heart quickened despite herself. After weeks of ignored correspondence, this could be the breakthrough they needed.
She unfolded it, bracing for the familiar punch of disappointment.

Rook's eyes darted across the page, taking in the formal script, the dried blue wax seal with the griffon insignia.

"The First Warden agreed to a meeting," she said slowly, hardly believing it herself. "In Minrathous."

"Andraste's ass," she added under her breath, eyes widening. "It's about time."

Harding only grinned wider. The scout had been relentless, using every connection she'd cultivated during a decade with the Inquisition, calling in favors from contacts scattered across Thedas while tracking Solas and his agents.

Thirteen letters she'd sent after the horror at D'Meta's Crossing. Thirteen detailed accounts of a village destroyed in a blood ritual that had unleashed the blight—blight wielded with terrifying precision, shaped by intelligence and purpose rather than mindless hunger. Evidence that whatever had escaped the ancient prisons—gods, monsters, or something in between—could control the blight itself, turning corruption into calculated devastation.

But Harding had persisted. She always did. Now, they finally had a foothold.

Rook met her scout's expectant gaze, allowing herself a genuine smile for the first time that day. "Come on, Lace. We're going to Tevinter."

A door had opened. Now they just had to kick it off its hinges.

Minrathous loomed like a thunderhead, stone spires clawing at the sky. The air crackled with static and rain, thick with the scent of ozone and something older. Shadows clung to corners too stubbornly for daylight, and if you stared too long, they stared back.

Rook had preferred Dock Town’s colorful chaos—its patchwork stalls and shouting vendors, the scent of fish and spice. It had life. Children darted between wagons, old men argued over cards, and every worn board beneath her boots reminded her what she was trying to protect.

But no, the First Warden would never deign to meet them in a place that smelled of fish oil and fried bread.

So they’d crossed into the marbled quarter of Minrathous, where the fountains spat mana-infused water in hypnotic patterns of blue and silver, and buildings hung heavy overhead. Tevinter architecture, Rook thought grimly. All about intimidation. Like their politics.

The tavern they entered—if you could call it that—was less a place of rest and more a velvet fortress with wine. Voices here were whispers; laughter didn’t belong.

"The First Warden awaits you at the far table, my lady," a patron said, gesturing toward the shadows at the back of the room. "He mentioned you would be... distinctive."

The pause before the word was precise and devastating.

Rook gave a thin smile. “He sounds charming.”

Rook’s boots made soft thuds against the dark marble floor as she crossed the room. She felt the weight of every eye on her—some curious, most wary.

At the far end sat the First Warden, encased in armor that looked more ceremonial than practical. The rusted edges and battle scars suggested he wore it more out of habit than vanity. His face was carved in permanent disapproval, a neat iron mustache framing a mouth drawn tight with judgment. Other Wardens flanked him, standing at rigid attention.

Rook stopped before him. 

"First Warden," she said, slightly inclining her head. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."

He didn’t rise. Didn’t even offer Rook a seat. Just picked up the evidence scroll she had provided—reports, sketches, and testimonies—and gave it a perfunctory glance, his expression never changing. He unrolled it just enough to glimpse the contents before letting it snap shut again.
Then he tossed it back across the table with a scoff.

"Blighted gods?" His lip curled with undisguised disdain. “What next—dragons knitting socks?”

Rook’s jaw clenched.

“If you’d seen what I have,” she said quietly, “you wouldn’t be laughing.”

The Warden didn’t answer. His gaze drifted past her like she wasn’t even worth arguing with.

"What exactly did you witness at this... D’Meta’s Crossing?" he asked, voice slick with mock interest.

Rook’s voice dropped, steadied. “An entire village destroyed by blight that was summoned. Shaped.”

“Shaped,” he echoed dryly. “By whom, exactly?”

“Something ancient. Something loose. We think—”

“Elven gods,” he finished for her, his tone turning sharp. “Based on myths and liars?”

“Based on evidence,” Rook snapped, stabbing a finger toward the discarded scroll. “And we don’t have the luxury of waiting for your approval.”

The First Warden's eyes narrowed even further.

“The Grey Wardens appreciate your... enthusiasm.” The condescension in his voice was surgical. “But we’ve safeguarded Thedas for centuries without the help of freelance adventurers and political remnants. If there’s a genuine threat, we’ll handle it. In the meantime, you’d be wise to stay out of Warden business unless you want to see the inside of our dungeon.”

There it was—the dismissal. Final. Cold. He'd already made his decision before they'd walked through the door.

One of the wardens by the wall smirked, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. A gesture meant to be noticed.

Rook stood still. Her hands were at her sides, but her fingers had curled into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. 

She should’ve shouted. Demanded he listen. Shown him what was at stake. Instead, a colder resolve slid into place. One she’d learned from watching Solas—speak softly, plan deeper.

“The Blight’s changing,” she said, voice low and steady. “You’ll realize it too—eventually. Just hope it’s not too late.”

The First Warden didn't respond. He'd already turned to pour himself another drink, his back a wall of dismissal.

The corridors of the Lighthouse were quiet at this hour. Stone walls lined with warm sconces gave off a soft, flickering light, but it didn’t reach the restlessness pacing behind Rook’s ribs.

She should’ve been asleep hours ago. Everyone else was. She could feel it in the hush of the place with just the occasional creak of old floorboards and the whisper of her own footsteps.

Her thoughts circled back to this afternoon—back to the First Warden’s scorn, the sneer in his voice, the finality of his dismissal. She’d kept her face steady, her voice calm. But now, alone, the fury simmered under her skin.

You should’ve said more. You should’ve done more.

She turned a corner and stopped before a familiar door. Polished wood. Brass handle. A faint trace of elfroot lingering in the air.

Varric.

She didn’t want to knock. Maker, she hated the idea of knocking. It felt like admitting something she didn’t want to say aloud—that she couldn’t handle this on her own. That the Warden’s words had gotten under her skin, and worse, that she wasn’t sure what to do next.

Her hand hovered near the handle.

Just go. Walk away. You don’t need him.

She exhaled through her nose, muttered, “Dammit,” and pushed the door open.

The room was low-lit and comfortably cluttered—books stacked on the sidetable next to cod, bandages and salves next to it, and Varric himself propped up against pillows, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, quill in hand, ink-stained fingers resting against his temple. He didn’t look surprised to see her.

“Well,” he said, setting the quill down. “Either someone’s finally paid to kill me, or you had a worse night than I did.”

Rook closed the door behind her. “Not sure yet.”

Rook lingered just inside the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest like she could hold the ache consuming her.

Varric raised an eyebrow and gestured to the chair across from him, its cushions slightly askew from whoever had last slumped into it in defeat. “Well, don’t just hover there like a tragic statue. Sit. I’m too old to crane my neck for dramatic conversations.”

She dropped into the chair with a sigh.

For a few long moments, neither of them spoke.

Then, finally, she said, “He called me a reckless outsider. Said we should stay out of Warden business.”

Varric gave a low whistle, tilting the wine bottle toward her in a silent offer. She shook her head.

“I take it this was our esteemed First Warden?” he asked.

Rook gave a humorless laugh. “He didn’t even read the evidence. Just skimmed it and threw it back at me like I’d handed him a soiled handkerchief.”

Varric leaned back, resting one ankle across his knee. “That tracks. Most First Wardens wouldn’t know initiative if it bit them on the ass. Andraste forbid someone try to help without a secret handshake and a two-century-old title.”

“I thought we’d made progress,” Rook muttered. “After D’Meta’s Crossing, after—everything. I thought they’d listen.”

“He didn’t,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean the others won’t.”

She rubbed a hand over her face, fingers digging into her brow. “I hate this part. The waiting. The stonewalling. I should be out there doing something. Not chasing people who’ve already made up their minds.”

“You’re not wrong,” Varric said, watching her closely. “But you’re also not alone. That’s the part you keep forgetting.”

Rook didn’t answer. 

“I didn’t want to come here,” she said after a beat. “To you, I mean.”

He grinned. “Your bedside manner is as charming as ever.”

“I mean it. I should be able to handle this. I wanted to handle it.”

“You are handling it,” he said, voice quiet now, the sarcasm ebbing beneath something sturdier. “Rook, you walked into the den of the most self-important bastard in Thedas and told him he was wrong. That’s not failure. That’s grit.”

She looked at him. “It didn’t feel like grit.”

“Yeah, well. Half the time it doesn’t.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But let me tell you something: the Order doesn’t begin or end with the First Warden. It’s bigger than him. Bigger than Weisshaupt. Hell, bigger than any one of us.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of that truth settling beside the doubt.

“You think the Wardens who came before him cared about politics?” Varric went on. “They bled in tunnels and died in shadows for a cause. That cause still matters. And you’re fighting for it. With or without his damn blessing.”

Rook looked down at her hands, still faintly marked with grime from travel and stress.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, leading this team.”

"The good leaders don’t feel ready. The ones who do are usually the first ones you have to stab." Varric groaned as he shifted his leg.

"You’re doing fine, kid. The trick is to survive long enough to get better at it."

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, leaning back against the chair. “Maker’s breath. You’re a good liar.”

“I prefer the term storyteller.”

Silence fell between them again, easier now. Softer.

“Thanks, Varric.”

“Anytime, Rook. And next time you need to be reminded you’re doing a good job, don’t wait so long?”

She stood, her movements steadier now. “No promises.”

He smiled into his glass. “Didn’t think so.”

Rook moved quietly through the darkened hallway, her boots barely making any sound on the stone floor. After her talk with Varric, she hadn't wanted to go straight to bed. Her thoughts were calmer, but the storm wasn't quelled.

A walk, she'd told herself. Maybe a bite to eat.

The heavy door to the dining hall creaked faintly as she pushed it open.

Lucanis was already there. Or still there.

He sat alone at the long table, his back to the fireplace where the last embers of the fire glowed faintly. Before him, seven daggers lay in perfect alignment, catching the firelight as he passed a whetstone along the blade in his hand. The rhythmic sound of stone against steel filled the otherwise silent room.

Rook paused in the doorway, observing him. She wasn't surprised, not really. She'd noticed the way Lucanis lingered in shadows long after others had turned in, how he seemed most at ease when everyone else was asleep. 

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” she asked, stepping into the room.

Lucanis didn't look up. He turned the next blade in his hand, its edge catching the ember light as he tested its sharpness with his thumb.

“I don’t sleep well,” he said simply. “Spite’s harder to control when I’m not awake.”

Rook crossed to the counter toward a pitcher of water, her fingers brushing an empty cup. She didn't fill it, suddenly more interested in conversation than quenching her thirst.

“That’s why you’re always up sharpening things?” she asked, forcing a small smile. “Keeping the demon at bay with polished steel?”

“Something like that,” he said. He set the blade down and finally looked up at her. “Routine helps.”

She nodded, then came to sit across from him at the table. Not close enough to crowd him, but not distant either.

“I was going to knock earlier,” she said after a moment. “At your door. See how you're settling in.”

Lucanis arched a brow, his hands pausing mid-motion. "Changed your mind?"

She exhaled a tired sigh. “The First Warden did.”

A beat of silence stretched between them—not awkward, just full. Rook glanced at the weapons laid out before him, admiring their craftsmanship and the way each seemed perfectly balanced.

Then, quietly, he said, “Go ahead. I know you want to ask about Spite. And the Ossuary. Everybody does.”

Rook considered him for a moment, her head tilting slightly. "How do your wings work—when you and Spite fight together?" Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t stop the smile that came with her question.

He blinked in surprise. 

And then — he laughed.  A low, warm sound that slid under her skin like sunlight after rain.

"Most people ask about the monster first," he said, setting down the whetstone. "Or the blood magic." A short pause before he continued, his voice dropping lower. "The torture."

“I figured you’d tell me if and when you wanted to,” she leaned forward slightly. “I’m more interested in how you move together.”

"You think I fight fair?"

"You have a flair for the dramatic," she retorted, half-grinning.

"You should see Spite when he’s showing off," Lucanis said jokingly. "I’m the restrained one."

The hard lines of his face were softened by the firelight playing across his features. His hands, deadly instruments in their own right, moved with surprising gentleness as he carefully arranged his blades.

And it hit her then—the quiet intensity of him, so unlike Illario, whose presence shouted for attention. Lucanis didn't demand attention; he held it. Like gravity—silent, invisible, undeniable—and once you noticed him, you couldn't look away.

"It's like holding lightning by the leash," he continued, his voice thoughtful. "Spite pushes forward—I pull back. If I lose focus, even for a second..."

"You don't strike. He does," Rook finished for him, leaning in even closer.

"Exactly." Lucanis nodded, something like appreciation flickering in his eyes.

"So the wings..." she prompted.

"Like breathing underwater. You forget you shouldn’t be able to."

She watched as he turned the last dagger in his hand. The firelight kissed the blade’s curve. A soft glow on a deadly edge.

Rook listened, observing the man in front of her as he let her peek under his carefully maintained facade.

"You're not afraid?" his eyes narrowed for a second as he looked at her.

She shook her head without hesitation. "I trust my instincts."

The words hung between them.

Rook stood, knowing she should try to get some rest before dawn arrived. But as she turned to go, Lucanis said, "If you ever want to ask about the monster... or the man..."

"I'll know where to find you," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips as she slipped back through the door, leaving him to his blades and his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Rook and Harding had been trekking the desolate landscape of the High Anderfels for days. 

The wind here howled like it remembered better things, the mountains jagged and cold. But they had made contact—a couple of Wardens Harding knew, ones not intimidated by their leadership. If they couldn’t get the old bastard to listen, maybe the rank and file would. They couldn’t all be stubborn mules, Rook hoped. 

She absently touched the recovered lyrium dagger at her hip. Strange how something so dangerous could become a talisman of sorts.

They crested another ridge, and Rook squinted ahead through the haze. “Are we even going the right—?”

Harding cut her off with a raised hand. "There." She pointed down, her archer's eyes catching what Rook had missed. A flicker of canvas. Smoke's ghost. "Camp."

They descended cautiously, loose shale skittering beneath their boots. The site was small, half-hidden behind an outcrop of stone that offered shelter from the eastern winds. But something was wrong. Rook smelled it before she saw it—the cloying stench of sweet decay.

Black tendrils stretched out from beneath rocks and crept over the old fire pit. They pulsed, ever so slightly, as if breathing.

Harding moved in a slow circle, bow half-drawn as her eyes tracked something on the ground. "No bodies," she said. "No blood either."

"Doesn't mean we're alone," Rook answered. She rose slowly, the fine hairs on her neck rising. Something was watching them. She could feel it—a pressure on her awareness, like breath ghosting the back of her neck.

She turned, drawing her twin knives in one fluid motion as her eyes scanned the ledges above. The rocks here formed natural alcoves, perfect for an ambush.

Her skin prickled.

A pebble clicked down beside her boot.

Rook froze, but nothing moved in the stillness. Just the wind mourning through the crags.

Then—

A screech split the air. A feathered blur launched from the ledge above, grey wings catching the sunlight as it slammed into her. Air was punched from her lungs as her knives flew wide into the gravel.

The creature backed off a few feet, feathers bristling. Its golden eyes, intelligent and predatory, were locked on her.

Harding's bowstring creaked as she drew.

"I wouldn't," came a voice.

The creature—the griffon —tilted its head, then padded toward the figure that had materialized behind them, silent as a Crow.

"Assan," the elf said. "That's enough."

The griffon lowered its head and brushed against the man’s legs, a gentle gesture for such a creature. He gave a low chuff, awaiting praise.

For a heartbeat, Rook forgot about blighted gods and alliances. She simply stared — and remembered what it was like to believe in legends.

“I’ll be damned… a griffon.”

They weren’t supposed to exist, but neither were the gods walking free. Rook wondered if the world was rewriting itself—creature by creature, myth by myth.

The elf stepped forward, no longer a silhouette. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and scarred like someone who didn’t flinch easily. His hair was black, cropped close at the sides, tight curls tousled by the wind. Definitely the monster-hunter type.

Harding lowered her bow but didn’t relax. “We didn’t mean to trespass.”

A tense silence stretched. Rook collected her knives but didn't sheathe them.

 "No one's supposed to know about this outpost," the elf said, crossing his arms. "Let alone the griffons."

Everything about him spoke of years of experience—the weathered leather, the careful positioning that gave him multiple escape routes, the way his eyes never stopped scanning. A man accustomed to being both hunter and hunted.

“We’re not here because of the griffons,” Rook said finally. “We’re here because we don’t have anywhere else to go.” She nodded to Harding, who stepped forward.

“Antoine and Evka sent us,” Harding began. “The Blight’s changing. Something’s happening with it—and the First Warden won’t listen.”

They took turns explaining what they knew: the elven gods, the growing corruption, how the Blight was no longer mindless, and how the First Warden had dismissed them.

The Warden—Davrin, as he eventually introduced himself—listened, one hand resting on Assan’s neck. The griffon leaned into his touch, purring low in his throat.

When they finished, Davrin said nothing at first, his expression unreadable.

“You’re not wrong,” he finally said. “We noticed it too. The griffons—hell, they felt it before we did. They’ve been restless. The Blight is closing in on our outposts, like it is trying to chase us down.”

Rook frowned. "Chasing what, exactly? You? The griffons?"

Davrin's fingers fiddled with a small knife, "That," he said, "is the question that keeps me awake at night."

"We need allies," Harding stepped closer, her bow now completely relaxed, "People who've seen what we've seen. People the other Wardens might listen to, even if they won't listen to us."

"You're recruiting for what, exactly?"

"A contract. To stop the gods, protect the people." Rook touched the dagger at her hip again. "And maybe find a way to seal away what never should have returned. We're rogue," she added. "Acting without permission. You should know that."

Davrin laughed then. "Risking the First Warden’s displeasure?" He gestured to the wild landscape around them, to the griffon at his side. "Look where we live. Look at what we protect." His smile was sharp-edged. "I've never been much for rules anyway.”

He looked down at Assan. “What do you say, boy?”

The griffon screeched once, feathers flaring in a proud display.

Davrin’s grin widened. “Thought so.”

It had been a week since Davrin—and Assan—joined the contract, and Lucanis had really tried to like the Warden.

He had greeted Davrin with civility. Asked about favorite meals so he and Bellara could adjust the pantry inventory. He’d even offered to let Assan sniff him, so the griffon might decide whether he was threat or kin.

None of it had mattered. The moment Davrin heard his Antivan accent, and worse, his profession, the air had gone cold. Something in the elf's posture had changed. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Lucanis had seen it before—that flat-eyed reassessment, the subtle recoil. To Davrin, he was just another killer in a finer coat, no better than a street-level butcher. When the elf learned about Spite, it only confirmed whatever quiet judgment had already been passed.

At dinner that evening, Lucanis felt Davrin's gaze on him again. It was not direct, the Warden was too skilled for that, but on the periphery, tracking each movement of Lucanis's hands, noting how he angled his body toward exits, and watching the shadows he cast against the wall.

For what the Warden was looking, Lucanis wasn't certain. A slip, perhaps. A revealing moment when Spite might show through the cracks of his control.

He’d never say it aloud, but in some twisted way, Lucanis appreciated the vigilance. If Spite’s hunger overrode Lucanis’s will, if the creature beneath his skin took control, Davrin would end him. Fast, clean, efficient.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—make Rook bear that burden. It would forever taint her reputation with the other Houses. Better it comes from Davrin. From someone experienced with monsters.

Strange, to feel safer because someone was ready to end you.

Assan, at least, didn’t share his guardian’s prejudice. The griffon had been wary at first, circling him with deliberate caution, those golden eyes locked onto something just beneath the surface of his skin. But after a few days, Assan had nuzzled his shoulder and was happy for any treats left from the kitchen. Now the beast often purred when passing, accepting dried apple slices from his palm with surprising gentleness.

Spite, for his part, was fascinated by the griffon. Sometimes Lucanis could feel the spirit watching, head cocked like a curious bird, trying to decipher what Assan was—this creature of flesh and feather that seemed to see straight through to him. The griffon often stared back, tilting his head in mirror response, as if they were speaking in some silent, uncanny language.

He had thought that maybe winning Assan’s trust would ease Davrin’s suspicion.

No such luck.

The Warden had integrated into the group with little trouble otherwise. He was blunt, competent, and practical to the core. Trusted what he could touch, measure, or bleed. Magic? The Fade? Spirits? All of it made his mouth tighten like he’d bitten into something sour.

Across the room, Davrin and Bellara spoke quietly about clans and gods. With Harding, it was travel and scouting routes, fingers tracing invisible maps on the tabletop. He exchanged pleasantries with Neve over coffee, guarded but civil.

With Lucanis, they sniped—small jabs passed over food and fire, too dry to be jokes and too sharp to be forgotten.

They had another go at it only yesterday at dinner.

Davrin had sliced a chunk of smoked fish and eyed Lucanis across the fire. The tension had been building all evening.

“You always that quiet,” Davrin said at last, “or just when you’re planning something?”

Lucanis didn’t look up from his plate. “If I were planning something, you wouldn’t have time to ask.”

Harding let out a low whistle. Bellara coughed into her tea.

Davrin leaned forward. “You joke like a man who forgets I hunt monsters.”

“And you posture like someone who forgets I don’t care,” Lucanis replied, finally raising his eyes. “If Spite wanted out, you wouldn’t be talking. You’d be a stain on the wall.”

Spite slithered up the back of his mind, coiling tight around his thoughts. 

Let me. Speak. Put him. In his place!

Lucanis clenched his jaw. Not now. Not here. Not where she could see.

For just a breath, the room tensed. Even the fire seemed to hush.

“Don’t worry, Davrin. Spite and I have taste.” 

Neve snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

Rook had shot him a glance, her smile hidden behind her hand—amused, maybe even a little impressed.

Davrin grunted, but let it go. Barely.

But with Rook, the Warden laughed. And he made her laugh, a warm chuckle that crinkled her nose just the littlest bit. They traded stories and dry jokes at the far end of the table. Always just far enough from Lucanis to remind him how easily some people connected.

He observed them, his posture relaxed but always alert, fingers absently tracing the worn leather grip of his dagger. Rook pushed a strand of hair behind her ear as she spoke, animated in a way she rarely was during strategy sessions. Davrin leaned forward, fully engaged, as if her words were the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Something about their exchange drew his attention. Not the conversation itself—Lucanis could charm information from targets with ease when required. He'd extracted secrets from nobles and servants alike, infiltrated Tevinter soirées, and navigated the politics of Nevarran court. He could play any role needed for a contract. 

But this was different. This wasn't the calculated performance of a job. This was... genuine. Unguarded.

His cousin had often remarked on the distinction.

He remembered it all too well, three summers ago, when Illario dragged him on an elaborate shopping trip across half of Treviso. The city's finest district was crowded with silk merchants, perfumers, artisans, and jewelers. Illario had moved through it all with natural pleasure, spending coin as freely as his laughter.

“Cousin, don’t look so surly,” Illario had said, plucking a silk scarf off the rack and inspecting it. “Don’t you realize you catch more flies with honey?” He'd spun the scarf between his fingers, the azure fabric catching the light like water. "Though why anyone would want to catch flies is beyond me. Butterflies, now—that's what you should be hunting."

He'd given Lucanis a smirk and carried on sorting through trinkets meant to dazzle yet another of his flirtations.

"Some of us," Lucanis had replied, "prefer to focus on the job rather than ruining good silks with blood."

His methods were direct. Efficient. Why charm your way past five guards when you could silently eliminate the one that mattered?

But perhaps his cousin held some wisdom after all.

Watching Davrin and Rook share another quiet laugh across the firelight, he found himself curiously drawn to their camaraderie. Spite stirred beneath his skin, with unexpected interest.

Jealous? Spite whispered, almost curious. Or lonely?

Lucanis didn’t answer. Couldn’t. 

He wants her. What you protect. Destroy him. Before he touches. Her.

He pushed the thought away. Professional. He was being professional. Watching for weaknesses was instinct, nothing more. One did not survive as long as he had in the Crows without prioritizing vigilance over... whatever this was.

He rose silently from his seat, acknowledging Bellara with a slight nod as he passed. Assan also noticed his departure, its golden eyes tracking his retreat, a soft chuff escaping its beak. Rook glanced up at the sound, her gaze meeting Lucanis's for just a moment. Assan padded after him and gently nudged his side. Lucanis reached into his coat and produced the last of the apple slices. 

“You, at least, don’t ask questions.”

The griffon chuffed again, then lay down beside him. Watching. Always watching.

The Antivan courier stumbled into the lighthouse with blood on his sleeve and panic in his eyes three days later. Rook caught him before he could collapse, bracing his weight as he gasped out a warning.

“Treviso. Under attack. Blighted dragon. The sky—Maker help us—the sky was on fire.”

Not a minute later, a messenger from the Shadow Dragons arrived equally disheveled as he relayed the attack on Minrathous.

Everything after that turned to chaos.

Rook asked for water, Harding helped the men sit, and Bellara scanned for injuries. Neve and Lucanis were already moving, demanding details—what had been hit first and who was leading the assault.

Venatori. Antaam.

The gods.

Rook stood frozen, her heart a lead weight in her chest.

Her home. 

The corruption would seep into the water and the soil if the Antaam succeeded. The casualties would number in the hundreds of thousands if the blight were allowed to take hold in the canals. And Minrathous, barely held together by fragile alliances, now facing a possible Venatori coup? They couldn't afford this. Not now. 

“We have to go,” Neve’s hands trembled as she clenched her fist around her staff. “Minrathous falling means the end of our network. Of Venatori resistance.”

“We can’t let Treviso fall,” Lucanis countered. “The civilians there—if we wait, there won’t be anything left to save.”

All eyes turned to Rook. She didn’t speak. Not at first. A dozen futures flickered behind her eyes, each one ending in fire.

Finally, she exhaled. “Harding, Bellara, Davrin—you go to Minrathous. Help them hold the center. If the Venatori win there, everything else falls apart.”

They nodded without question.

She looked at Neve.  “The capital has more defenses. They could buy more time and, with luck, derail the attack altogether."

Neve turned without a word, her look one of panic mixed with rage.

Rook turned to Lucanis. “We’re going to Treviso.”

By the time they made their way through the eluvian, smoke already clawed at the sky as buildings collapsed in waves. Blight threatened to blacken the canals with its rotting tentacles, and the air stank of iron and char. Antaam soldiers cut through the defenders without mercy, their formations unwavering despite the chaos.

Rook’s blade sang through the air, as the fire burning inside of her fueled her stamina, letting her carve a path toward Teia down in the square.

“Viago?” Rook called out, the name catching in her throat.

Teia’s voice cut through the chaos. “Alive. He’s down at the aqueduct, keeping them from poisoning the clean water.”

Relief flickered through Rook's chest when—

A deafening screech split the sky.

The dragon swept low over the screaming city. The wind from its wings carried the stench of rot and decay. Blight dripped from its maw, making stones dissolve into bubbling puddles wherever the corruption touched. Its wings were torn membrane and bone, and its eyes glowed with a sickly green light.  Veins of lyrium pulsed beneath its scales, forming intricate patterns that reminded Rook of elven vallaslin. 

The corruption that should have weakened the dragon seemed to fuel it. The beast had been enhanced, altered.

She struck low, drove her blade into the gut of an Antaam soldier, and turned just in time to catch the downswing of another’s axe with her other blade. The impact sent a thrum of pain down her arm. She gritted her teeth and pivoted to counter, but it was no use. The flaming husk of a collapsed building had sealed off the alley behind her, forcing her toward the bottleneck.

Another soldier closed in.

She moved to block—too slow. The blow clipped her ribs, shallow, but sharp. Rook staggered back, her armor scorched, and her breath caught between a curse and a gasp.

Then steel flashed beside her.

Lucanis drove his dagger up under the attacker’s chin and wrenched him aside. He didn’t pause—just fell into rhythm with her like they'd fought together for years instead of weeks.

"You're off your line," he said, voice taut but calm. 

“Couldn’t adjust. Building collapsed.”

She braced and pushed forward with him. Together, they cleared the immediate space—seven clean kills, fast and silent.

Rook exhaled hard and looked around for any landmarks she might recognize. “Didn’t expect to get boxed in like that.”

Lucanis glanced at her. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.” Her hand instinctively went to her side and came away red.

His mouth pressed into a grim line, but he didn’t argue. 

She took a second to look at him now that they weren’t surrounded. He was scraped and ash-covered, one side of his leather was scorched through, and a shallow gash on his temple was still seeping. But he stood steady. She suspected she saw the same steel that had made him survive the Ossuary, when every breath had been an act of defiance.

It struck her then how close he’d been to not making it out of that place. How close he still was, in this one.

“We need to pull the dragon somewhere open,” she said, shaking the thought off. “There’s a walled garden near the old castle. Big enough to keep it from flying off?”

Lucanis nodded once. “Funnel it in. Restrict the wingspan.” His voice was steady, but his eyes stayed on her a beat too long.

“Trap it between the stone walls. Limit its movement.” Rook said.

His blades turned slightly in his hands. “And kill it before it kills us.”

She allowed herself the beginning of a smile. “Glad we’re in agreement.”

He tilted his head toward the burning plaza. “Then let’s make it follow us.” His eyes held a question—was she well enough to run?

She answered by pushing past him, straight toward the danger. But the brief brush of their shoulders as she passed wasn't accidental. The weight of the dagger against her hip felt suddenly heavier, destabilizing her as if it were responding to the chaos around them.

The streets narrowed as they ran, and smoke settled in their lungs as they rushed through a city on fire. The sound of collapsing timber roared behind them—another construction giving in. But ahead, the silhouette of the old castle loomed, its gates still holding.

They pushed through the final stretch together—Rook, Lucanis, Teia, and a handful of fledglings who had managed to keep pace. The walled park sprawled before them, blackened trees and shattered stone fountains offering little cover, but enough space to maneuver. Enough space to fight.

Lucanis reached the edge of the courtyard first and paused just long enough to glance upward. “There.”

The dragon circled overhead, wings slicing through the rising smoke, its massive frame momentarily blotting out the moon.

“We need to ground it,” Rook said

Lucanis was already moving. “I’ll pull its attention. Rook, you draw it low. Force it into the trap zone.”

He didn't wait for an answer but vanished into the smoke with the surety of one who'd done this a hundred times before.

Rook watched him go, then turned back to the others, eyes locking with Teia’s.

“Positions,” Teia said. “This ends here.”

The beast came down like a landslide of bone and blight, crashing in the courtyard with enough force to splinter the flagstones. Rook raised her blade, frost already coating its edge. The air shimmered with cold and rot as the creature bellowed, then lunged.

She sidestepped its first swipe, the force of it knocking her off balance even without a hit. Her steel struck true, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

Lucanis appeared at its flank, and his twin blades found the soft tissue between armored joints. The dragon shrieked and turned, Ice so cold it would freeze anything in a second, gathering in its throat.

“ Now! ” Rook shouted.

Lucanis threw a knife into its eye with eerie precision. It howled. Rook moved in, striking low at its exposed leg. Teia and the fledglings fired bolt after bolt from the shadows, their aim deadly and fast.

But the dragon wouldn't fall. Each wound they inflicted healed with unnatural speed. It was toying with them, learning their patterns. Its tail lashed out, catching Rook across the chest and sending her flying into a crumbling wall. She gasped for air as pain exploded through her ribs.

Through blurred vision, she saw Lucanis dive beneath the creature's belly, blades working furiously. The dragon roared and slammed its body down, nearly crushing him. He rolled away at the last second, but the impact sent him sprawling.

"It's not working!" Teia shouted from somewhere to her left. "It's too strong!"

The shimmer in the air intensified, crystallized, then formed into a tall, willowy figure. The elven goddess stepped onto the battlefield with the casual grace of someone entering their own house. Her eyes were fixed on Rook, or rather, on the dagger at Rook's hip.

"Ghilan'nain," Rook breathed.

"I've come for what is ours." The goddess’s voice resonated with power. "What you kept out of our reach."

The dragon turned its massive head toward its mistress, awaiting command, and Ghilan'nain stroked its corrupted scales with affection.

"My creation," she said, pride evident in her tone. "Enhanced by my own hand. You cannot hope to defeat it."

Rook struggled to her feet, one hand pressed to her side. "We can try."

Her hand dropped to the dagger and felt it pulsing warmly against her palm. She'd felt it before, in quiet moments when she thought about the scope of what they faced. 

"Give me the dagger," Ghilan'nain said, extending one elegant hand. "And I will spare this pitiful city."

"And if I don't?" Rook challenged.

The goddess's smile sharpened. "Then my pet will reduce it to cinders, along with everyone you've tried so hard to save."

Rook exchanged a look with Lucanis. A thousand words passed between them without sound, and a plan formed in the space of a heartbeat.

In one fluid motion, she drew the dagger from its sheath. It hummed in her hand, elven runes flaring to life along its blade.  The dragon shifted uneasily, as if it could sense the power radiating from it.

"I think not," Rook said, and lunged.

The dagger blazed in her hand, searing through the smoke. She struck—not at Ghilan'nain, who stepped back into the shimmer of her spell—but at the dragon.

Pure lyrium met scale with a crack like thunder. Where the blade touched, the lyrium veins stuttered, flared, then dimmed. The beast screamed, reeling back as Lucanis darted in, his blades finding the softened flesh beneath its jaw.

Ghilan'nain’s calm broke. Her expression twisted with fury as she raised both hands, red energy crackling to life. The dragon reared, its maw igniting with blighted breath, but the flames faltered this time. Rook slashed again, and the pulsing runes along the dagger’s edge sank deep into its corrupted hide.

"Enough games," Ghilan’nain snarled.

From the sides, Teia’s voice rose: “Now! All weapons!”

A volley of bolts sang through the air, embedding themselves in wounded joints and softened scale. The dragon shrieked, its wings flailing as it tried to take flight. But it couldn’t rise.

Then a cry came from the eastern gate, and a shadow surged forward—blades flashing, masks glinting.

The Crows.

Reinforcements poured in; they had broken through the Antaam formations. The tide had finally turned.

Ghilan'nain’s gaze snapped to Rook, to the dagger still glowing in her hand. Her expression shifted—fury cooling into recognition .

“This is not over,” she said, her voice low and sharp as glass. “That blade belongs to us. And I will have it.”

Then, with a single gesture, she vanished. The dragon flew after her, wounded and roaring furiously, its massive body disappearing into the roiling sky.

The silence that followed was almost worse than the battle. It pressed against Rook's ears, punctuated only by the ragged sound of her own breathing.

Rook dropped to one knee, dagger still in hand, blood on her face. She didn't look away from the sky until she was certain Ghilan'nain would not return.

“Nelle!”

Viago’s voice, rough and disbelieving, cut through the haze. She turned, and there he was, bloodied but alive, pushing people out of his way to get to her. She had never felt as much relief as she did in that moment. He crossed the space between them and pulled her into a firm, wordless embrace. She let him.

“We should go to Minrathous. Stop the Venatori.” She said when they finally parted.

Lucanis stepped to her side then. His arm was bloodied, and his face was streaked with soot. He didn’t speak at first—only reached out, steadying her with unexpected gentleness.

"She'll be back for the dagger," he murmured.

Rook nodded once, eyes still on the smoke-veiled sky. “Let her try.”

When their eyes met, something unspoken held fast between them—wary, hard-earned trust. Around them, Treviso smoldered. But it stood.

Chapter Text

The quiet in the Lighthouse wasn’t peace—it was exhaustion.

Maps lay splayed across tables, notes scattered like fallen leaves. Half-drunk mugs of tea and wine cluttered every surface. The central hall had become a war room in everything but name. Even the Fade’s hush felt stretched thin, like it too was waiting for the next blow.

Harding leaned over the map, her voice low as she traced supply routes with Bellara. A fresh scab cut across her cheek, her hand still bandaged—an angry reminder of Minrathous.

They’d barely survived. Another dragon, another town scorched. The gods had whispered promises to power-hungry cultists and deserters and forged them into a blighted vanguard of destruction.

Rook rolled tension from her shoulders and tried not to crumple. They needed allies. Power. Strategy. Resources. But right now, she just needed to stay upright.

Her gaze swept the room: Harding gesturing despite her wounds; Bellara tapping Nevarran territories with ink-stained fingers; Varric leaning against the wall, favoring his uninjured leg. And Lucanis, silent and always watching from the edge.

He caught her eye.

He'd changed since Treviso. The guardedness in his eyes had softened, just slightly. Not warm, but... warmer.

A pause stretched between them—too brief, too long—before Rook broke away. Her heart stuttered in her chest, off-rhythm since the dragon fled.

She hadn’t slept in days. Her blades trembled if she held them too long, and the dark circles under her eyes felt stamped into her skin. She hated being seen off-balance, but from him, the scrutiny didn’t sting the way it usually did.

Bellara’s voice cut in. “We won’t survive another fight like that.”

Varric didn’t sugarcoat it. “We can’t do this on our own. Not as we are.”

“Neve and Minrathous are barely holding,” Harding added.

The mention of Neve twisted like a blade between Rook's ribs. She hadn’t shared the latest letter with the others—not all of it. Neve wrote often enough, but it wasn’t the words that lingered. It was the tone.

Minrathous still burns. The Viper is alive, for now. Blighted. We held the Venatori back, but just barely. You were right about their plans, but that won’t help us next time. Don’t let there be a next time.

Cool, precise, barely checked anger.

Not shouting anger—worse. The quiet resentment that whispered: I trusted you. You failed me.

Maybe I did.

A hush fell. Every eye turned to her, waiting.

“We need help,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. “People who know how to bring dragons down. And someone who understands the Fade better than any of us. If the gods mean to tear through the Veil, then we need someone with knowledge on how to stop that from happening.”

Lucanis shifted in the doorway. The faintest ghost of a smile touched his lips.

She went on. “We need to help the allies we already have. Minrathous is bleeding. The Shadow Dragons and Veiljumpers are scattered, and the Crows are stretched thin between the Antaam and the dragon. They need to be strong enough to keep fighting if we want to win this.”

There was a pause, then Harding nodded. “So. Fade expert. Dragon killer. Support”

Rook's gaze flicked back to Lucanis and found his attention hadn’t wavered. His opinion shouldn't matter this much; she didn't need approval. But she didn't want him to see weakness either.

“I’ve been corresponding with a scholar from the Grand Necropolis,” Bellara said. “Emmrich Volkarin. A Mourn Watcher. He mentioned an upcoming excursion, but I can reach out to his colleagues.”

Harding turned to the group. “And Rivain. The Lords of Fortune have tangled with dragons before—heard they’ve taken down High Dragons and walked off with the hoard. If anyone knows how to kill one, it’s them.”

Rook exhaled slowly. “Alright. We’ll split up. Two missions. One to Nevarra. One to Rivain. We bring in the expertise we need.”

Rivain was too bright.

Sunlight poured over the jagged coastal cliffs as if it were trying to drown the land in gold, and the sea below shone like hammered glass. Even the shadows were sharp here, sliced clean by stone and heat. 

Lucanis kept to them anyway—old habits didn’t die just because the view was pretty.

His leathers clung to him in the heat. After the Ossuary, he’d kept his hair longer and hadn’t shaved his beard off. Prison rags had been traded for the clothes of his former life, but he’d needed something—anything-to—to mark the line between what he’d been and what he’d become.

He didn’t regret the choice. Not until now, with sweat slicking his collar and the sun clawing at his skin, boiling him in his leathers.

Harding walked beside him, favoring her right leg. She hadn’t complained since they arrived, but he’d seen the way she grimaced after long climbs or stiff terrain—when she thought he wasn’t looking.

They hadn’t spoken much. She kept her eyes forward and her jaw tight. But Lucanis noticed how her fingers drifted—unconsciously—to the strap across her chest. Always near her bow. Always ready.

She flinched sometimes when he used his abilities. Not much, just a flicker, but enough.

So he said, “You keep looking at me like you expect me to sprout horns.”

Harding blinked, caught off guard. Then gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Not horns. Maybe fangs. A tail. Grow a few extra inches.”

He arched a brow. “Subtle.”

“I’ve seen people turn. People who thought they could control it—until they couldn’t.” She didn’t break stride.

Lucanis shrugged. “I haven’t gone full demon yet.”

Her gaze flicked toward him. “Doesn’t mean you won’t.”

No accusation, just a fact. That was worse.

Silence fell again, but it had room in it, space to shift.

The leader of the Lords of Fortune hadn’t been thrilled about parting with their dragon expert—especially not when they’d just discovered a fresh hoard. But once Isabella learned they were taking the fight to the Antaam, her stance shifted. Lucanis had played his cards well, leveraging his knowledge of the Antaam’s recent incursions—how they’d been carving out territory, strong-arming locals, and bleeding Rivaini merchants dry. It was the old rule: the enemy of my enemy is a damn good reason to cooperate.

After a while, Harding raised her hand and pointed down the sloping path ahead. A crumbling watchtower stood against the sky like a broken tooth, half-swallowed by time and sea air.

“That’s where Isabella said we’d find Taash,” she said.

Lucanis followed Harding’s gaze to the crumbling structure. “Looks welcoming.”

“Depends on your definition.” Harding raised a brow.

From afar, the watchtower looked abandoned. But as they crested the path, the signs grew obvious: fresh boot prints in the sand, a smoldering fire pit beneath a weathered canopy, a picked-clean meal on driftwood planks.

Someone was here.

They found Taash on the edge of the cliff, still as a statue, half-silhouetted against the sea. Below, a dragon prowled the narrow strip of beach—massive, silver-blue, and scarred. Its wings flexed as it sniffed at a pile of deepstalkers arranged neatly on the sand.

Taash didn’t turn when they approached. They crouched low behind a broken wall, watching the dragon with steady focus. Long white hair was braided down their back, swaying as they shifted their weight. Two axes were strapped across their shoulders, untouched.

This wasn’t a hunt.

Lucanis stayed in the shade, while Harding stepped forward with caution. “Taash?”

“You’re late,” came the reply.

Harding blinked. “We didn’t set a time.”

“You’re still late,” Taash said. “The dragon doesn’t stay grounded long. I gave it deepstalkers. It likes those. Crunchy.”

Lucanis tilted his head. “You’re feeding it?”

“I’m building trust,” they said. “Dragons aren’t pets. They don’t obey. But they’re clever. Smarter than most people.” A pause then. “Definitely smarter than the last mercenary who tried to tame one. He lost a leg. And the rest, eventually.”

Harding crouched beside them, eyes flicking toward the feeding dragon. “It’s not blighted?”

Taash turned abruptly. “Blighted? No. That’s not possible. Dragons don’t get blighted.”

“They do now,” Lucanis said grimly. “We’ve seen two so far when they attacked Minrathous and Treviso.”

Taash’s eyes narrowed. “That isn’t right. Dragons aren’t tools; they don’t just go and attack cities. If someone’s twisting them—corrupting them—that means something worse is happening.”

Harding nodded. “We believe it’s tied to the Elven gods.”

Taash didn’t answer. Their jaw was tight. The dragon below let out a low, almost curious rumble.

Then—a horn split the air.

Lucanis cursed and looked toward the ridge. A dozen Antaam soldiers were cresting the cliff, armored, armed, and advancing fast.

“They’ll try to take it,” Harding said. “Or kill it.”

“No,” Taash said flatly.

Before Lucanis could stop them, they vaulted the wall and sprinted down the slope, shouting in rough but commanding Qunlat. A warning—or a challenge.

The soldiers turned toward the sound.

Lucanis sighed. “So much for subtlety.”

He sprang forward. Harding followed.

The fight was a blur—sand and steel and shouting. The Antaam were brutal and efficient, but not prepared.

As one raised a polearm toward Taash, they inhaled sharply—then exhaled, unleashing a blast of fire that swallowed two soldiers in searing flame, their skin blackened and cracked from the heat.

Harding ducked behind a boulder, wide-eyed. “Did they just—?”

“It would appear so,” Lucanis grunted, driving his blade into another deserter.

When the last soldier fell, the dragon took flight—wings beating the sand into a whirlwind. It circled once overhead before vanishing into the sky.

Taash stood where they’d been, breathing slowly, shoulders rising and falling.

“I’ll come with you,” they said.

Lucanis arched a brow. “That easy?”

“No,” they said. “But blighting dragons is just not right. Someone has to stop them.”

Lucanis looked at the scorched corpses on the beach. Then he smiled. “This is going to be fun.”

Nevarra was quieter than Rook remembered.

Not the city itself, its upper districts still buzzed with orchestras and politics and parties thrown for the dead, but the Grand Necropolis had its own kind of hush. A respectful murmuring. The sort of hush you’d find in a library, if the library were also a crypt and most of the regulars didn’t breathe anymore.

They had been warned that the Necropolis was subject to change. Its stone corridors twisted on themselves with maddening logic, routes rearranging as if in conversation with some unseen will.

Bellara craned her neck as they walked beneath vaulted archways carved with funerary script. “You know, for a building full of corpses, this is surprisingly well-lit.”

“High praise,” Rook said dryly.

The Mourn Watch sentinels they passed were more statue than human—obsidian armor absorbing light, positioned with a precision that suggested someone had studied stillness as an art form.

They passed a tableau arranged in a scene—skeletal figures mid-toast, forever suspended in a moment of spectral revelry. Further on, another group labored in silence, skeletal workers methodically digging out new alcoves in the stone, preparing space for the future dead.

The necropolis wasn’t eerie so much as aggressively formal. Everything was polished, perfumed, and curated. Like death had a dress code.

“Are we sure he didn’t get eaten by his own crypt?” Rook muttered.

Bellara adjusted her gauntlet. “If we get devoured by a demon, I just want it noted that I objected to this plan.”

“Noted,” Rook answered.

A moment later, they passed through a door that revealed a high-ceilinged chamber lit by luminous sconces and warded braziers. In its center stood a man with the calm air of someone wholly unsurprised to have guests.

Tall, thin, dressed in ink-dark robes, Emmrich Volkarin looked up from the corpse, sitting upright in its coffin. He offered a smile. 

“Ah,” he said. “You’ve arrived. Most gratifying.”

Rook stepped forward, her boots echoing faintly. “I assume this place wasn’t meant to be easy to find?”

“Nothing of worth is ever straightforward,” Emmrich replied, completing his ritual with a flick of his fingers. “The Necropolis saw fit to reconfigure itself again last week. A regrettable inconvenience—several apprentices were marooned in the Catacombs of the Hushed. Delightful acoustics. Appalling escape routes.”

Rook’s gaze drifted across the room—stone coffins, ritual circles, books propped open on angled lecterns. “You do your fieldwork in an active crypt?”

“It is, in my experience, prudent to conduct one’s research where the phenomenon is most immediate,” he said calmly. “The dead tend to murmur when something’s amiss. And the Veil here is thin in places.” 

He gestured idly toward a nearby lectern stacked with worn scrolls and silver-inlaid tomes. “Of course, the danger has increased of late. I presume you've encountered whispers of Venatori activity?”

Rook's eyes narrowed. “Some. We saw mostly what was left of them.”

Emmrich let out a sigh that spoke of frustration. “They’ve been probing the outer sanctums, disguised as scholars, mourners, even postulants. Rather clever, in their fashion. They're attempting to extract power from the relics buried here. Old things. Quiet things. Best left undisturbed.”

Bellara frowned. “What kind of relics?”

“Sealed bindings, amulets, even the occasional grimoire. You’d be astonished at what people try to take with them into death.”

“Have the Venatori been successful?” Rook asked.

“A number of them have found themselves on the unfortunate side of a binding circle. I offered my services to question them post-mortem.”

As if summoned by the mention of spirits, a clothed skeletal figure stepped into view from an adjoining passage, its ivory fingers clacking against the stone wall as it walked. A faint, inquisitive hiss escaped it, followed by a groan that sounded almost... pleased.

Rook stared. “Of course. Of course, he has a walking skeleton.”

The skeleton paused and offered a wave of his hand in greeting. Its eye sockets glowed with pale blue light, but when Rook looked closer, she saw they were enchanted minerals.

“Ah. That’s Manfred,” Emmrich said, without missing a beat. “He was once a particularly inquisitive wisp—incorrigible, really—so I constructed a more enduring form for him. He’s proven rather attached.” He clasped his hands and smiled at the skeleton.

Manfred let out a papery exhale and patted one of his own ribs with pride.

Bellara blinked. “You adopted a spirit.”

“I find tenured assistant a more accurate descriptor, thank you.”.

Rook grinned as she waved back. “I like him.”

Pleased with the introduction, Emmrich motioned them toward a carved bench set against a wall framed with epitaphs. “Now, I gather you’ve come regarding the recent irregularities in the Veil.”

“How did you—” Bellara started.

“The dead stir with undue ease,” Emmrich said in a professorial tone. “And spirits—spirits are dreadful gossips. Your arrival was never a matter of if, only when. ”

He studied them for a beat, expression shifting from bemused to sharply focused.

“You’re letter mentioned it’s tied to the Blight?”

Rook nodded.

“Then I shall assist you. Naturally.”

Manfred gave an enthusiastic rattle and pointed emphatically to a satchel that was stuffed in his ribcage.

“I believe that’s his attempt at volunteering,” Emmrich translated. “Though ideally, he might avoid direct entanglement with fire this time.”

Bellara exchanged a look with Rook. “This might actually be the least chaotic ally we’ve made.”

“Don’t say that,” Rook muttered, rising to her feet.

From somewhere deeper in the Necropolis, a low wail echoed—long and spectral, followed by a brief crash as Manfred answered the wail in kind.

“…There it is.”

The bottle of Antivan red was nearly empty.

Its deep, spiced aroma lingered in the air between them, clinging to the cracked ceramic cups they’d found buried in one of the Lighthouse’s storage alcoves. Rook leaned back on the bench, one leg tucked beneath her, the other perched on a rickety stool beside her chair.

Lucanis poured the wine into her cup before topping off his own. “I still can’t decide what was more unbelievable,” he said, swirling the wine. “The dragon, the fire-breathing, or Taash’s questions about the Crows.”

Rook snorted into her drink. “What was the one with the arm ropes again?”

“Darsaam,” he said, chuckling. “Apparently, we strangle them with their Darsaam.”

He caught himself watching her again. Maker, how easily she laughed. Spite hadn’t moved—still crouched in the back of his mind like a wolf at the edge of a fire—but for now, Lucanis could pretend. Pretend he was only a man enjoying wine with someone who made the world feel lighter. Pretend he wouldn’t ruin this.

She was in the loose shirt she favored during downtime, the one that slipped a little off her shoulder. The linen breeches she wore caught the firelight just enough to hint at the shape beneath. Her hair, usually braided for practicality, fell freely tonight—dark waves spilling down her back.

She wasn’t wearing any cosmetics, but the wine had stained her lips the exact shade they’d been when he first saw her in the Ossuary.

They joked about Manfred—how Assan hadn’t tried to gnaw on him yet like he did with other bones. “Maybe he respects the craft,” Rook said with mock solemnity, and Lucanis had to laugh.

Still, the necromancer’s assistant unnerved him a little. Not just Manfred, with his glowing sockets and excited manners—but the whole idea of it. Necromancy had a certain... arrogance to it. Raising the dead when assassins spent years perfecting the art of making them that way—it was bad form. Disrespectful, almost.

And yet, Manfred had bowed. Had patted his ribs like he was proud of them. Had seemed, Maker help him, charmed to meet them.

“Waste of a good death,” he muttered into his wine, earning a snort from Rook.

“Emmrich would argue it’s recycling.”

Lucanis raised a brow. “If someone ever recycles me , I expect you to set the corpse on fire. Twice.”

She grinned. “Only if you promise the same.”

He tilted his cup toward her in mock salute. “Deal.”

“Emmrich showed me the gardens while we were there. Eerie. Macabre. But beautiful. There’s this peace to them. A certain quietness. Like the dead are still listening.”

“Show me, next time we’re hunting wisps in Nevarra?” Lucanis asked, his voice softer than he meant it to be.

A brief but full silence followed.

“And Neve?” he asked gently.

Rook’s gaze dropped to her cup on the table. “She’s furious. I don’t blame her.”

Lucanis didn’t speak at first. Then he carefully shifted forward and reached across to take her hands. His touch was hesitant, but she didn’t pull away.

“Rook, you helped me save our home when you didn’t have to. You had every reason to go to Minrathous instead—and you didn’t.” His voice had dropped lower, no humor in it now. Just sincerity. “I know what that cost you. I won’t forget it.”

She looked up, startled by the raw honesty on his face. Her hands were warm in his, her pulse fluttering just beneath his thumb. He hadn’t meant to notice it. He did anyway.

The air between them shifted—tense and charged. Almost unbearably close to something else. Lucanis suddenly rose to his feet, pulling his hands back as if the moment had burned him. He turned away toward a cluttered shelf, pretending to inspect a chipped plate. “We should—uh. Buy decent wine glasses. When we’re at the Treviso market.”

He didn’t turn back. Couldn’t. Not with Spite whispering at the edge of his thoughts again, curling cold fingers around the fragile illusion he’d let himself believe in tonight. It was too easy, sitting here with her, laughing like he wasn’t haunted. She didn’t deserve to be a part of that, not like this. Not when he wasn’t sure which part of him was reaching for her—the man, or the demon.

Rook didn’t answer right away, but he could feel her eyes on him. Then, she stood from the chair she’d been lounging in, her voice quiet. “It’s fine, I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’m never alone anymore,” he muttered under his breath.

But the door had already creaked shut behind her.

Chapter Text

The letter arrived early in the morning, adorned with the blood-red seal of the Crows. Rook had turned it over in her hands twice before confirming it was addressed to Lucanis. 

She'd managed three days without crossing his path since that night in the dining hall—a careful dance of avoidance that left her more exhausted than any contract. But some messages couldn't be ignored.

Rook had checked the usual places: the courtyard, the kitchen, the pantry. Nothing.

She found him in the music room.

The door was ajar, and she paused in the corridor, letter clenched in her fingers. Soft notes filtered through the opening, not quite a melody, just a wandering line of sound, hesitant and searching. The old, slightly out-of-tune piano transformed the air into something vulnerable.

Lucanis wasn’t someone she’d imagined playing an instrument. But here he was, seated on the bench in the dimly lit room, coaxing the music out of hiding. There was no technique to it, no performance. Just a man extracting something from within himself, note by solitary note.

It was fragile—a soft, faltering confession of sound.

She'd seen Lucanis wield blades with deadly precision, but this—this unpracticed vulnerability—was something she'd never been meant to witness.

The memory of his hands closing over hers in the dining hall flooded her mind: the unexpected weight of them, the calluses that spoke of both violence and care. I won't forget what you did. Words that hadn’t let her sleep in three nights.

And now here he was again, bare in a different way.

She stepped forward, deliberately letting her boot scuff against the threshold. He didn’t look at her right away, but silence fell over the keys.

“I have something for you,” she said, holding out the letter.

He accepted it without rising from the bench, his thumb moving with the same precision he used on a blade. His eyes moved across the page—once, twice—revealing nothing, though something in the corners of his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

"My cousin Illario," he said finally, refolding the letter with meticulousness. "He's found new information on Zara Renata."

His eyes met hers then, and with a casualness that felt anything but casual, he added, "You should come with me."

Rook blinked. “You sure?”

"Of course." His smile appeared, precisely measured—a carefully constructed thing that reached his eyes but revealed nothing behind them. Whatever had slipped free between them that night had been carefully locked away again.

"Alright," she agreed.

He rose, the piano bench creaking softly beneath the shifting weight. "Tonight. Cafe Pietra."

She lingered, gaze drifting to the abandoned piano. "Didn't know you played."

Something flickered across his features. "I don't. Not really." His fingers brushed absently against his waistcoat pocket, where the letter now resided. "It calms Spite."

Rook studied Lucanis as they moved through the crowded market, watching how he navigated his childhood city with the precision of someone who knew every stone, every sound. He moved like the city belonged to him, even if the weight of it sat invisible on his shoulders.

She wondered what it felt like to walk these streets again after everything. After Spite had claimed part of him, after a year under Calivan's so-called "rehabilitation.".

Now he was inspecting turnips with an intense focus, and the dissonance made her dizzy.

Outwardly, nothing betrayed him. No hesitation in his step. No signs of recognition when they passed places that must’ve held memories. But she’d learned to spot the smaller tells—how his posture tightened by degrees, how his breathing shifted when something struck too close to whatever he kept locked behind that immovable calm.

The vulnerability she'd glimpsed in the music room had vanished. Folded away like the Crow letter, tucked somewhere she couldn’t reach. What remained was the Lucanis she’d first met: composed, calculating, utterly self-contained. Not unpleasant, just distant.

The marketplace thrived despite everything. The Antaam had taken much, but not this. Merchants shouted prices in a singsong cadence, colors clashed across canopies, and smoke curled from roasted meat. Lucanis cut through it all, like a blade through water.

He didn’t shop for himself. That was what struck her most.

He bartered for a curved monster bone for Assan and a wax-wrapped bundle of salted fish for Bellara after a lengthy conversation about curing methods. A bag of sun-ripened fruit for when Neve returned, each piece inspected as carefully as he might check a blade.

She shouldn't have been surprised—Lucanis noticed everything. Still, it unsettled her in ways she couldn't name. How much he'd remembered. How closely he'd paid attention. 

There was no room in him for indulgence. Not even the harmless kind. It seemed as if he was waiting to be punished for wanting anything. 

She found herself wondering what he'd noticed about her. Did he see how her eyes lingered on him too long? The way her laugh was always a little louder when he was near? How she'd been avoiding him since that moment in the dining hall, when something had shifted between them?

She almost asked. Almost.

They passed a small weapons stall with a purple awning, where silver and steel glinted in the sun. His pace slowed—not enough for most to notice, but she did. A wyvern-tooth dagger caught the light. His eyes glanced at it, and something flickered across his face. A memory, maybe. 

Then it was gone. He looked away, straightening his spine.

As if even wanting something was a luxury he didn’t allow.

He caught her watching, and met her gaze for a moment too long before nodding toward a spice merchant.

"Taash asked for extra heat in their stew," he said, voice carefully neutral. 

"Of course they did," Rook replied with a forced lightness that did nothing to ease the sudden weight in her chest.

Later, while he bartered in fluid Rivaini with a stubborn fish vendor, Rook slipped back to the weapons stall. It was expensive, but that wasn't why she hesitated. Buying it felt strangely intimate. Too intimate.

But she'd seen his face. The way he'd looked at it and then denied himself, like a child who'd learned not to ask for things he'd never receive.

She handed over the coin before she could reconsider.

She tucked it deep into her pack, beneath food stores where curious hands wouldn't find it until she was ready.

A small rebellion, just for him. A gift he would never choose for himself. She'd give it to him when he couldn't refuse. 

The sun was beginning to slant toward early evening when they left the market's boisterous energy behind them, moving toward the quieter elegance of the café district. By the time they reached their destination, the din had softened to a civilized hum.

Across the courtyard, Illario waited beneath a slanted canopy, one leg crossed, coffee already served.

Lucanis didn’t break stride.

But Rook let herself linger one last moment in the sun, letting it warm her cheeks. She looked out over the city—the one that had made him, and welcomed him back without ever saying a word.

Then she followed him in.

“Why are we meeting here instead of the casino?” Rook raised her brow as she eyed the ivy-covered courtyard. The scent of roasted coffee beans hung in the air, mingling with the perfume of climbing flowers that framed the entrance. A fountain trickled nearby, its gentle splashing providing just enough sound to obscure conversations from neighboring tables.

“House Cantori has many talents,” Lucanis said smoothly. “Making coffee is not one of them.”

Illario stood and opened his arms in mock affront. “I’ve been waiting, cousin. I was starting to think you’d fallen into the canal.”

Lucanis gave a short nod in greeting. "Still dramatic." His fingers brushed against the hidden dagger at his hip—a reflex more than conscious thought. After a year under Calivan’s ‘care’, crowded spaces set his nerves on edge.

“Besides, I’d never miss a chance to drink the specialty roast they serve here,” Lucanis replied, pulling out a chair for Rook before he settled in the chair across from his cousin.

“You see, Rook?” Illario turned toward her with a grin. “My cousin is all stomach and no heart.”

“You sure about that?” 

Rook's tone was light, but Lucanis felt her eyes settle on him—steady, unreadable. He looked away before he gave something away.

“Well,” Illario added with a lazy smile, “if I’d known you liked heart, I’d have brought roses instead of information.”

Lucanis forced a dry smile. “Don’t mind him. Illario can’t appreciate anything but his own reflection.”

He hated how easily he fell into this juvenile rhythm with Illario: smile, parry, deflect. He'd lived behind those reflexes for so long that he wasn't sure what was beneath them anymore. His memories took him back to summer days in the villa, the taste of blood in his mouth after another "lesson" in the training yard, and Caterina watching them both with calculating eyes.

A server approached, weaving between the tables. “What can I get you all?”

Lucanis glanced at Rook. "You should try the Andoral's Breath," he said, voice casual. "Bitter and sweet. Like a kiss goodbye." The words hung between them.

"Bitter and sweet," she repeated softly, followed by a smile. "Sounds perfect." 

Her fingers moved to the pendant at her throat in a self-soothing manner. How many times had she done that? He narrowed his eyes. Mierda. How had he missed it until now?

"I'll take the usual," Illario said to the server, offering his empty cup. His eyes never left the pair across from him.

Lucanis barely registered the small talk that passed between them. The air was thick with Antivan heat, the vines above them trembling in a breeze that didn’t reach him. He couldn’t stop watching the gate. Or the shadows beyond it.“So,” Rook finally asked, “What information do you have?”

Illario leaned back, gesturing with his cup. “The Crows I sent after Zara picked up her trail. They say she’s gone to Vyrantium.”

“That makes no sense.” Rook frowned. “The Venatori and the Antaam are both working for the gods— she’s better protected here.

“She’s not in Vyrantium,” Lucanis said. “She can’t be.”

Illario frowned. "You're questioning my intelligence reports?" His gaze hardened, the familiar arrogance sliding into place.

"We're compromised," Lucanis said flatly. "It's the only way Zara reached me on the ship and Caterina here in the city. You need to watch your back, cousin." 

The memory of waking to the agonizing, acidic rush of blood magic running through his veins made him clench his teeth as his fingers curled around the coffee cup. “She’s not in Vyrantium,” he repeated, quieter this time but no less confident.

“You think I’d be so easily fooled?” Illario scoffed.

A pulse beat behind Lucanis’s eyes. “I think someone was.” He set the cup down. “You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

“Zara would never be foolish enough to stay. Not with you out for blood.”

“Of course she would,” Lucanis shot back. “If the Crows protecting her are here.”

Illario gave Rook a helpless look. “Rook, be reasonable. He’s being paranoid.” He gestured to the peaceful courtyard around them, as if the very normalcy of their surroundings disproved Lucanis's concerns.

“I’m not being paranoid!” Lucanis snapped louder than he meant. He noticed heads turn and felt Rook shift slightly beside him, but the heat was already rising in his throat. Spite surged before he forced it back with a hard breath.

“She came after me. She came after Caterina. She’ll come for you, too, cousin. You think you’re immune because you’re charming?”

A woman seated nearby glanced over, her gaze lingering on his eyes before she quickly looked away. He caught the movement beside him—Rook shifting her chair, edging just enough to block the curious gazes aimed his way. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Illario opened his mouth for another quip, but stopped. Something in Lucanis’s face made the words die.

“I’ll clean house,” he said at last through gritted teeth, the humor gone from his voice. He turned and disappeared through the courtyard gate.

Lucanis watched him go, doubt swirling in his gut. Would his cousin actually follow through, or was this just another moment of appeasement before returning to business as usual? With Illario, he could never tell.

Lucanis and Rook remained at the table, letting the silence stretch between them.

“You alright?” Rook asked, her voice gentler now. She leaned forward in her chair, her fingers stopping just short of his.

He wasn’t, but Lucanis nodded anyway. “He’s still playing games. Still trying to prove Caterina wrong for favoring me.”

They lingered, their drinks cooling between them. The hum of the market had faded, leaving only the rustle of vines and the faint clink of porcelain—gentle noises that felt almost too peaceful. The light had softened, casting longer shadows across the courtyard stones. A street musician had taken up position near the entrance, the melancholy notes of a lute drifting through the garden.

He caught himself tracing the rim of his cup. When he looked up at her, it was with the strange, sudden thought that he might actually be happy.

"They say taste and smell awaken our strongest memories," he murmured. "For a while, memories were all I had. I felt like... if I stopped remembering, I’d disappear.”

He paused, thumb pressing against the warm porcelain of his cup. 

"And then the attack on House Cantori, the dragon, everything after—we were moving so fast. I didn’t have time to feel it. Any of it. But this..." His voice softened. "This is starting to feel real. That I'm out. That I get to have moments like this."

In this moment, he wasn’t a Crow. Not a monster, not a liability. Just a man with coffee, sunlight, and her.

Back at the Lighthouse, the silence inside felt different after the café and the market, tense and expectant, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. 

It was late enough for quiet to have settled across the halls, but not so late that the others were asleep. Rook slowed her pace as they approached her quarters, fingers playing nervously with the edge of her shirt. For all her years as a Crow, for all the lives she'd ended without hesitation, this moment required a different kind of courage.

She unhooked her pack and reached inside to find the dagger tucked safely at the bottom. She held it out, hilt first.

“This is for you.”

Lucanis blinked. “You—?”

“I saw your face when you noticed it earlier.” Her shrug was casual, but her fingers fidgeted at her side, almost apologetic for paying too much attention. For seeing too much.

He took it slowly, reverently, as though it meant more than he expected—silver hilt, perfect balance. He turned it in his hand, tracing the mark near the guard.

“It’s beautiful,” his voice was almost hushed. “I’ve always wanted one like this. When I was little, I used to pretend I hunted wyverns through the villa gardens.”

She tilted her head. “Really? Wyverns?”

His laugh was soft. “I was obsessed. I had books, sketches, and even a little wooden one that I carried around.” His mouth tensed, “Caterina said it was unbecoming. I was supposed to be above childish fantasies.”

Unbecoming, Rook echoed silently. As if wanting something harmless made him weak. She pictured him as a boy—dark-eyed, probably a bit too serious, lost in wild daydreams about scaled beasts and glory. 

“You never stopped liking them, did you?”

He met her eyes, and there was something disarmingly open in his expression. “No,” he said simply. “I didn’t.”

She nearly laughed at that. He looked so pleased, so quietly delighted. She hadn’t seen him like this—ever. It caught her off guard. And then her heart did the rest.

He outranked her. Maker, he outclassed her. The most infamous mage-killer in Crow history, Caterina’s heir. He carried the weight of his house like it was stitched into his bones. 

And she—she’s what? The crow that screwed up a contract. The one who had endangered her pears, endangering Viago’s standing. She was still clawing her way back.

And yet… here he was. Taking the blade from her hands like it meant something.

She’d had flings before. Almost everyone did. Crows didn’t do love—they formed strategic alliances or burned fast and clean. A distracted heart made you weak. A bleeding heart got someone else killed.

But this—this was different. It didn’t burn. 

It settled.

A thing with roots.

He stepped closer, blade sheathed now at his side.

She didn’t move.

His breath stirred the space between them. Her pulse pounded, and for a moment, all her doubts dissolved.

He’s going to kiss me.

And she wanted him to. Desperately. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” came a voice from the threshold. “Neve’s returned.”

He slowly stepped back, like he didn’t want to. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to believe.

Chapter Text

By the time they reached Weisshaupt, the sky above the Anderfels had already turned the color of charcoal. Thunder rolled across the jagged peaks, but no rain came. Only smoke—black and thick—rose from the once-impenetrable Grey Warden fortress.

Rook crouched behind a shattered pillar, her knuckles white as she gripped the hilts of her swords. The earth trembled beneath her boots, sending pebbles skittering across stone.  Below, a massive horde of darkspawn surged.

The numbers were staggering. Thousands upon thousands. More darkspawn than she'd ever seen in one place, stretching like a black sea from the broken gates to the horizon. Her stomach dropped. 

"Maker's breath," The words were torn from her throat. Behind her, she heard Bellara's sharp intake of breath, the soft curse from Taash. Even Emmrich, who had seen death in all its forms, went perfectly still.

Peering down the slope, she saw that the main fortress wall had collapsed inward. Fires crackled along the parapets. Through the breach poured a murderous tide—ogres, hurlocks, genlocks—twisted and howling with rage.

The god of monsters hadn’t been idle.

Davrin crouched beside her, sword ready. “There’s a tunnel half-buried in rubble—there.” He pointed toward a dark slash in the hillside. “Leads to the old Warden archives, one of the emergency exits. That’s how we get in.”

“No guards?” Lucanis asked.

Davrin grimaced. “Not on this side. That’s why it’ll work.”

Rook nodded once. “Then let’s move.”

They descended silently, dread weighing down more and more with every steep Rook took.

Neve had been right. The First Warden had recalled all wardens to Weisshaupt, and the siege had come with a god’s fury. Their order, the only force capable of killing an archdemon, faced annihilation. They had wasted no time, going through the eluvian into the crossroads, desperate to find a route to the old fortress.

They slipped through the narrow tunnel entrance, the stones damp and cold as they made their way through.

The fortress grounds were in chaos, the battle already devouring half the courtyard. Warden banners hung in tatters, blue and silver stained black with blood and ash. A knot of defenders fought beneath the broken tower: a mage casting with one hand while shielding a wounded comrade with the other, a woman wielding a greatsword caked with gore, her Warden crest barely visible beneath the grime. 

But it was the bodies that made Rook's breath catch in her throat. So many bodies. Entire families, it seemed. Blacksmiths, farmers, merchants, their wives and children. A small hand protruded from beneath a collapsed wall, fingers still clutching a wooden toy. An elderly woman lay crumpled near the well, her gray hair matted with blood, her eyes staring sightlessly at the smoke-filled sky. The darkspawn had killed them all without hesitation, without mercy.

Neve pressed a hand to her mouth, her face pale. Lucanis's jaw clenched so tight Rook thought she could hear his teeth grinding. "Animals," Taash growled, their voice thick with rage. Even Davrin, who had seen countless battles, looked stricken at the loss of his brothers and sisters in arms. These weren't just casualties of war—this was slaughter.

They quickly moved through the ruined outer courtyard. Torn bodies lay crumpled near gates, armor melted to flesh by arcane heat. Bellara knelt beside a twisted helm, lips pressed tight.

The scale of devastation was suffocating. Rook had to step over the body of a young Warden recruit—barely older than twenty, his sword still clutched in his death grip. The stench was overwhelming: blood, smoke, and the sickly-sweet smell of death. Emmrich moved with unusual solemnity, his scholarly detachment cracked by the sheer brutality before them.

Above them, the sky moved. Not clouds—no, clouds didn’t shift like that. A vast swirling ethereal presence in the form of Ghilan'nain’s mask, thick and pulsing, hovered over Weisshaupt like a halo of rot. Lightning sparked inside it, enhancing the horror. 

Bellara's breath hitched, her eyes wide with terror. "That's... that's her face in the sky." 

The mask of Ghilan’nain loomed above them all, indifferent and vast—a god staring through glass, watching its insects burn.

Over the commotion, she heard Lucanis, his voice incredulous. “How am I supposed to stab that ?”

"The command center is through that gate," Davrin said, his voice barely carrying over the distant screams. "Evka will be there."

“And the First Warden?” Rook asked.

“Either there—or already dead.”

They pressed forward. Lucanis vanished into shadow, cutting down a shrieking hurlock before it could alert the rest. Taash charged headfirst into a brute of a darkspawn, ducking its first swing and burying their axe deep into its spine with a sickening crunch.

Rook fought her way across the rubble, sword flashing, blood flying. She didn't think—only moved, deflected, struck. Her body remembered what her mind couldn't process. She was breathing hard by the time they reached the gate, her arms burning with exertion.

They breached the interior halls next, guided by Davrin's sharp memory of the fortress layout. It had once been beautiful, she could tell—clean stone, vaulted ceilings, great stained-glass panels dedicated to victories long forgotten. Now those same windows ran with blood, and the floor beneath their boots cracked with every step, the foundation itself failing.

They’d fought more darkspawn than Rook could count—shriek packs, genlock archers, even a grotesque ogre wearing Warden armor like a trophy.

The command center was deeper in, past collapsed staircases and burning halls. By the time they reached it, Rook's lungs were aching from smoke and exertion. The chamber looked more like a tomb than a war room.

Rook's breath hitched. Half the strategy maps were soaked in blood. Another Warden lay slumped in the corner, dead with eyes wide open, hand still curled around a broken spear.

“We’re too late,” Bellara murmured.

“No,” Davrin said. “We’re barely in time.”

The First Warden stood at the strategy table, eyes wild, veins bulging. Blood leaked from his ears in thin rivulets. Still, he barked orders like a man possessed.

“They’re inside the walls,” Antoine pleaded. “We need to reinforce—”

“No,” the First Warden snapped. “We hold the inner keep. Everyone else defends the courtyard. This is where we end it.”

Evka slammed a fist down. “You’ll get us all killed!”

“You!” The First Warden shouted when he saw Rook, spittle flying. "What are you doing here? I told you, stay out of Warden business!"

“Helping,” Rook shot back, storming forward. “Just because you’re a pain in my ass doesn’t mean I’ll happily sit back and watch the gods wipe out your entire order.”

“You don’t understand! We’ve handled Blights for generations—”

“This isn’t a Blight,” Rook snapped, gesturing outside.

He refused to look.

“You don’t understand!” he shouted. “If we falter—”

"If you don't see what this is," she interrupted, "we're all going to die here for nothing."

He hesitated, just for a second, and then, "Lies. We need to make our stand. Order every man to the battlements."

Outside, a massive shadow blotted out the sky. The archdemon—twisted beyond recognition, with horns like spears and wings tattered but massive—screeched across the battlefield, sending soldiers scattering like leaves before a gale.

Taash stepped protectively in front of the group, their massive frame tensed for battle. "That thing's not natural," they growled. 

Even Davrin, who had faced darkspawn for most of his life, stared in shocked silence.

“Seize her!” The First Warden pointed toward Rook, ignoring the real threat.

The words had barely left his mouth before Rook's companions moved as one to shield her.

“Well, I tried,” she muttered. And with one smooth movement, she pushed through her team and struck the First Warden with the hilt of her sword. He slumped to the ground.

Davrin caught him before he hit the stone, lowering him with undeserved gentleness. “He’s lucky. Others will envy that mercy.”

Meanwhile, other wardens started to close in on Rook, hands hovering over weapons, unsure how to handle their leader, until Evka stepped forward in a purposeful stride.

Evka looked at Rook, then at the rest of the group, her expression grim but resolute. "Stop, that’s an order." If the dwarf was surprised that the others followed her command without hesitation, she didn’t show it. Together with Antoine, they gathered their pears around the table to talk strategy.

The plan was simple—and suicidal. Lure the archdemon to a trap. Kill it. Sever Ghilan'nain's bond to it—and in doing so, make her vulnerable. Solas had been clear: the archdemons were what made them immortal.

Evka simply nodded once and gave orders to the remaining Wardens, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"Form up! Mages with me! Shields to the front! We're holding the line until the archdemon comes to us!"

They moved fast, desperation fueling speed. Taash and Bellara discovered the trap site, which was half-buried and covered by a collapsed tower. A rusted mechanism slumbered beneath—enormous hooks anchored to ancient chain-coiled counterweights that had waited centuries for this moment.

Lucanis knelt beside the pressure plate, fingers ghosting across the cracks in the stone. “It’ll hold if it’s heavy enough.”

"It will be," Rook said. Her voice felt hollow in her own throat.

"We need to bait it," Taash added, casting an anxious glance toward the dark horizon where lightning fractured the sky.

Rook reached beneath her cloak and withdrew the lyrium dagger. Its glow pulsed faintly, a dull rhythm like a heartbeat, casting her face in spectral blue.

"She wants this," Rook said. "We show her we have it, and she'll come."

Davrin's hand rested on his blade. "You're using yourself as bait again."

"It'll be fine," 

“Lovely,” Bellara muttered.

Taash cracked their neck. “We should spread out. If the trap fails, she’ll lash out.”

Rook's gaze flicked to each of them. Emmrich, grim and composed despite the stink of rot, Bellara trembling but steady, Davrin wounded but determined,  Taash silent and coiled like a drawn bow. Harding, steady as a rock by her side. And Lucanis, watching her—not the battlefield, not the sky. Her.

"Positions," Rook commanded, watching her team scatter.

From above, the archdemon descended—massive wings stirring up ash and debris in choking clouds. It blotted out what little light remained, its shadow a promise of extinction.

Rook stepped forward, raised the blade high, and shouted, "Come and take it!"

“She sees it,” Bellara’s voice was barely audible over the wind.

The dragon screamed, then dove.

Everything became noise—screaming, wind, motion. Rook barely managed to roll out of the way as the archdemon slammed into the ground, talons tearing deep gouges in the stone. The impact rattled her teeth. She could smell the rot on its breath, making her eyes water.

The dragon's hind leg pressed the trigger plate—and with a hiss and a deep, mechanical groan, the ancient Warden trap activated.

Iron hooks shot from hidden recesses in the walls, chains uncoiling with a snap that echoed across the courtyard. The dragon bellowed as a dozen hooks sank deep into its flanks and wings. It reared back, screaming, trying to wrench free, but the chains held.

Now it could die.

Now Ghilan'nain could bleed.

Davrin approached the fallen beast, its panicked glowing eyes tracking the warden's movements, knowing its death was now inevitable. As the elf reached the maw of the dragon, he turned towards Rook. "Take care of Assan for me," he said quietly, before raising his blade to strike.

Her breath caught. Davrin wasn’t expecting to survive.

A voice cut through the chaos, stopping Davrin cold.

“Stand down!” The First Warden appeared, his face streaked with dried blood. "That's an order. I am your commander, your senior. The killing blow falls to me." The elder man pushed Davrin aside and took his position instead.

His blade drove down, but before the tip reached the blighted scales, Ghilan'nain rose up and plucked him from her pet. With a single movement of her hand, blood came through every pore of the First Warden’s seizing body, fueling a spell to strengthen and revive her dragon.

The beast melted in on itself, then rose anew, freed of the shackles that held it in place. What appeared now before them was no longer a dragon but the form of the true Archdemon—a snake-like creature with too many heads and giant fangs, meant to scoop and devour.

Horror crashed over them. Bellara staggered backward, Davrin's face twisted with disgust and rage. "Corrupting even death itself," he spat. Rook felt something cold and final settle in her chest. Their advantage was gone; they had lost the upper hand.

The dragon wielded its body as a weapon, slamming into the courtyard with such force that it sent Rook flying. She crashed against the stone and tasted blood. Rook struggled to rise. Her arm was slick with blood—hers or someone else’s, she didn’t know. She turned—

A hurlock charged her from behind, its roar a twisted parody of a battle cry.

She barely lifted her blades in time to parry, but the blow knocked her down again, dazed and half-blind. Her limbs felt too heavy, as if the very air had thickened around her. She blinked, vision swimming.

Through the blur, she saw Neve.

The other woman stood just ten feet away. She saw Rook fall, their eyes meeting across the chaos for a heartbeat.

But Neve's gaze snapped away, and a second later, she started sprinting. Not toward Rook, but toward Bellara, who was in the sights of another darkspawn, bowstring drawn but unaware of the danger at her back. Neve threw a spell at him, shattering the creature before it could do harm.

Rook tried to move, but her legs wouldn’t respond.

The metal of a rapier flashed next to her in the ash-covered gloom. The hurlock dropped before it could finish Rook, black blood pooling beneath its twisted form. She never saw the creature approach her. Lucanis knelt beside her, breath ragged, eyes fierce and violet.

"I've got you," he said, his voice rough with exertion.

Davrin appeared next, helping him lift her. "We need to kill that Archdemon. Now!"

What followed was a desperate battle choreographed in blood and steel. Taash and Davrin shouted orders, their voices guiding them through the chaos like lifelines. The others followed without question. 

The multi-headed serpent struck like lightning, its massive coils crushing stone to powder. Rook rolled desperately as fangs the size of swords crashed down where she'd been standing. The creature's breath was poison itself, acrid and burning, causing her eyes to stream and her lungs to seize.

Taash roared and drove their axe deep into one of the creature's heads, black ichor spraying in an arc around them. The beast retaliated instantly, another head snapping toward them with terrifying speed. Only Davrin's quick thinking saved the Qunari—his blade intercepted the strike, though the impact sent him skidding across the courtyard.

Bellara lashed out with her magick, desperately trying to blind the creature, while Neve's ice magick formed barriers that shattered like glass against the beast's fury. Lucanis danced between the coils, daggers finding gaps in the blighted scales, but for every wound they inflicted, the creature seemed to grow more enraged.

Rook found herself separated from the others, backed against a collapsed wall, when two heads focused their malevolent attention on her. She could see the trap in their eyes—they were herding her, driving her toward the creature's maw. Her daggers felt pathetically small against such overwhelming force.

But then Davrin was there, his blade singing through the air, cutting deep into one of the necks. The creature's scream of pain and rage nearly shattered their eardrums. That gave Rook the opening she needed—she sprinted forward, using Davrin's shoulders as a springboard to launch herself toward the other head.

Her blade found its mark, sinking deep into the creature's eye. The archdemon convulsed, sending shockwaves through the fortress foundations. Davrin held up his blade to deliver the final blow before screaming, bringing his arm down. Finally, mercifully, it collapsed, the light fading from all its terrible eyes.

Davrin stood, blinking. Alive.

“I was supposed to die,” he murmured.

He had been ready to sacrifice himself again. There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions, but the fortress shook around them, reminding her that they were still in the heart of danger. "Later," she managed. “We'll talk about this later."

Rook passed the lyrium dagger to Lucanis. The moment's significance pressed down on them. This was it—their one chance, perhaps their only chance. If Lucanis failed, if the dagger didn't find its mark, they would all die here, and Ghilan'nain's corruption would spread unchecked across Thedas. Rook met his eyes, and in that instant, she saw her own desperate hope reflected back at her. 

One heartbeat, he was still—the next he was in motion.

He shot forward like a blade ripped from its sheath, his world seemingly narrowed to instinct and intent. Veins lit with violet fire, his movements flowed with unnatural speed, the grace of a predetor sharpened by something inhuman. The ground barely registered beneath his boots as he surged ahead, low and silent, weaving through debris and bodies with impossible agility.

Then—up.

He leapt onto the jagged remains of a collapsed tower wall, boots skimming the stone as he ran vertically, momentum carrying him higher. At the peak, he twisted his body and launched into the air. 

Lucanis descended like judgment made flesh, dagger poised, every sinew burning with Spite’s will and his own. But the god twisted at the final instant, a snarl curving her lips.

The dagger tore across her cheek instead.

Ghilan'nain reeled back, crimson dripping from her face. Her fingers touched the wound in disbelief. Then she screamed, pure rage flowing from her injured body. Her voice split the sky. Blight poured from her hands like unraveling roots, tendrils exploding outward as the fortress trembled beneath their feet, clashing against Rook’s already battered ribs.

The mortal god screamed again, the blighted tendrils tore through the air, engulfing the old fortress, turning stone to blackened, pulsing flesh. The trap site collapsed into rot, as a wave of darkspawn broke through. 

Davrin carried her through the chaos. She tried to protest, to move, but her body refused to obey, betraying her when she needed it most.

The last thing she saw was Lucanis, standing there in the ruin, staring at Ghilan'nain like he might go back and try again—like death was preferable to retreat.

And then blackness closed in.

Rook's ears rang as the tendrils of blight twisted through the air, choking the light and breath from the ruined halls of Weisshaupt. The acrid stench of rot and decay clung to her lungs like smoke. Her vision swam as she lay crumpled on the shattered stone floor, pain blooming in her ribs where the blow had landed.

"Rook!" Davrin's voice was sharp, urgent. His rough hands lifted her, careful but swift.

"I'm—" she tried to steady herself, but the world tipped sideways. Her heartbeat hammered against the cage of her ribs, threatening to burst free.

Behind them was only chaos. Emmrich's voice cut through the noise, chanting low and commanding. Shadows warped into spectral chains that snared darkspawn in place, their snarls muffled as they struggled against bonds they couldn't see.

"Keep moving!" Taash's voice rang from the stairwell, sharp as the bloodied axes in their hands. The Qunari was a whirlwind of motion, cleaving through hulking hurlocks with brute force. They shouted over their shoulder, "We hold the line here. No one breaks through!"

Lucanis was already ahead, his lithe form darting through the gloom, a shadow withing a shadow. He caught the echo of Ghilan'nain's enraged roar, an earth-shaking sound, and shouted back, "Rook, you need to get clear! This place is going to collapse any second."

Rook forced a nod, though her breath came in ragged gasps. She hated leaving the fight with every fiber of her being, but the sharp crackle of collapsing stone and the thickening tendrils of blight wrapping around the walls left no choice.

"Neve?" Rook's voice was hoarse, searching for the familiar figure in the chaos. She spotted the mage through the swirling dust. Neve's eyes flicked past her, cool and distant, as she unleashed a spell that sent ice spears into the throat of a charging, hulking darkspawn.

Rook's heart twisted. She had seen Neve hesitate earlier, turning away when she had fallen, choosing instead to shield Bellara from a feral darkspawn. The coldness in Neve's gaze was unmistakable now, leaving no room for doubt that the mage hand’t seen her.

"Rook, move!" Emmrich called out, now at her side, his staff with a glowing skull lightend the murky air as he muttered wards of protection.

Davrin steadied her as they began to retreat, Lucanis falling in behind them, rapier ready and eyes burning with unspent fury.

The corridors trembled with the force of the battle around them, the clash of steel echoing like thunder. Every breath, every heartbeat hurt her all over again, but Rook pushed the pain aside, forcing her body to obey.

Thick tendrils of blight surged like serpents, curling and twisting through shattered stone and bloodied corpses, seeking to choke every last breath from those who remained.

"Fall back! Now!" Lucanis spun on his heel, eyes blazing.

Davrin caught Rook's arm, dragging her into a hard sprint toward the eluvian. Her legs protested, every step a scream of pain, but adrenaline drowned out the worst of the agony.

"Rook, stay with me!" Davrin's voice ordered her.

Behind them, Emmrich wove a shield of crackling Fade energy, his staff glowing bright enough to burn through the darkspawn's maddened charge. "Hold the line!" he bellowed, voice rough with strain.

Taash fought like a storm, cleaving through hurlocks that lunged at the retreating group. Rook caught a glimpse of her eyes, fierce and unyielding, unafraid of death or whatever came after.

They crossed the threshold of the eluvian, Davrin helping her forward, steadying her as they stepped through the shimmering portal. The Fade greeted them with cold, silence. Behind them, the eluvian shimmered once, then its surface cracked, dimming the light emanating from it.

Chapter Text

The Lighthouse was felt more sullen now than it had ever been. Even more so than after the attacks on Treviso and Minrathous. The stone walls that once witnessed talk of strategy and laughter now saw only defeat. There were no leads to follow up on, no map to mark, no battle looming over their heads—just silence. Heavy and strange, filled with unspoken accusations.

Rook moved barefoot through the halls, the stone cool and rough underfoot. The midnight chill seeped through her thin nightshirt, but she barely noticed. She hadn't bothered changing, hadn't bothered with sleep either. She told herself it was the dreams, the dread of knowing she couldn’t escape them. 

She had dreamed of Weisshaupt almost every night since the fortress had fallen. 

In her nightmares, the walls bled an oily ichor that burned her flesh, the sky had cracked open, and when Rook looked up, Ghilan’nain loomed above her like a constellation of rot, her face sneering with amusement.

A voice called out from the eluvian—Varric’s voice, choking and dying.

She ran toward him, but the ground shifted, turning slick beneath her feet. No matter how fast she moved, the mirror receded like a mirage. Next, she turned to see Neve, her face was ash-pale, and her hands cradled the body of a child scorched by blight. “Minrathous burned while you chased ghosts.”

Davrin stood at the edge of a collapsed stone bridge, arms crossed. “We followed you,” he said simply. “And look where it got us.” Rook tried to speak, but her voice failed.

Above her, Ghilan’nain reached down for the lyrium dagger, now fused to her chest like an open wound. “You were never the leader,” the god cruelly stated. “You were just the bait.”

The dagger ignited, scorching Rook’s skin as flames engulfed her.

She shuddered at the memory of her dream, as she tried to shake the sensation off of being on fire.

Her fingers trailed along the stone as she passed the sofas—ghosts of conversations echoed, the most prominent being Neve outlining the situation in Minrathous.

The city Neve had left behind to warn them about the Wardens.

The coup might have failed, but whole neighborhoods were gone or under Venatori control. Shadow Dragon agents had disappeared or been found dead, their bodies displayed as warnings. Parts of the resistance network had gone completely dark, leaving families wondering if their loved ones would ever return. 

Neve hadn't flinched once when relaying the devastating information to the stunned group. She had made it sound clinical. Tactical. 

But they had rallied around Neve nonetheless, offering sympathies, resources, help of any kind. It was all they could do to offer any comfort. The detective had accepted gratefully, the smallest crack in her composure appearing when Lucanis had offered Crow assistance. 

Rook felt as if Neve placed the blame for her losses solely on her. After all, she had decided to go to Treviso, not Minrathous. The weight of that choice pressed down on her shoulders with every step she took, until she felt as if she were walking folded in two.

But she hadn't known what to say. What comfort could she offer when her own hands were stained with the same failure? Words seemed hollow, inadequate against the enormity of what had been lost.

Evka had taken the surviving Wardens to a little village at the Anderfels border. She and Antoine kept in touch, mostly with brief notes. They were helping refugees now, tending to the rot that had spread from Ghilan'nain's attack. Whole villages turned to sludge, people went missing daily, and healers were overwhelmed and quickly running out of supplies with no way to refill their stock. The notes never asked for help directly, but the desperation bled through the hurriedly penned words.

Davrin always wrote back. He wasn't coping well; none of them were. But Davrin had blamed Lucanis, accusing him of missing on purpose, and had called him an abomination. He shouted at him over nothing. Over everything. Even now, the echo of his last outburst seemed to linger.

Bellara was distracted and had locked herself in her workspace. She threw herself into fixing the artifact she had brought with her from Arlathan Forest, pausing only to chat when someone brought her food because she forgot to eat. 

Taash was training as if their life depended on it, and Emmrich had thrown himself into his books or communed with spirits, trying to find a clue that could help them fight the gods. The smell of incense and old parchment trailed him wherever he went now.

And Lucanis, already prone to brooding, had turned withdrawal into an art form. He locked himself in the pantry unless it was his turn to make dinner. The meals he prepared were perfect and meticulous, as if he could atone for his failure through the precise arrangement of herbs and spices.

They were still a team, but only just. Cracks had formed, and they only seemed to grow larger. 

The night stretched on. Rook paused at the outer door to the courtyard when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She continued to the courtyard, couldn't face another conversation that danced around what they'd lost.

Rook rubbed her temple, fingers brushing the scar near her hairline. She hadn't looked in a mirror since Weisshaupt. Didn’t want to. Didn't need to see what failure looked like when she could feel it. Her hand then drifted down to the small gold pendant hanging from her neck. She thumbed the edges—a habit she had formed long ago. The metal was warm from constant contact with her skin, smooth where her fingers had worn away at the design over the years. It was the one thing she couldn't bring herself to take off.

Her mind continued its wandering, landing on the fight she had had with Neve the day prior. Neve had been cold. Polite, but cutting. They stood on the balcony. The sky of the Fade was bleeding into dawn, creating a pink but bruised hue. The air between them crystallized with frost despite the false warmth of the sun.

"You blame me," Rook had said, quietly. A statement of fact that had been building for weeks. Her fingers had found the pendant again, turning it over and over.

Neve didn’t look at her. “I blame a great many things.”

“You think I abandoned your city.”

“I think you had an impossible choice to make.” Her voice had gone quiet then. Measured. “But you made it, and now my home is in ruins.”

Something had cracked inside Rook. “I can’t believe you would put a Venatori coup at my feet.” Her voice had risen. “The Venatori were your mess long before they were mine. Tevinter’s rot, not only ignored but exported. You could’ve stamped them out after Corypheus. But no. You passed the poison down like a fucking heirloom.”

Neve didn't even blink. "Say what you need to say." The invitation was cold, almost merciful in its detachment.

"I did," Rook said, low and final. "And I'm done trying to earn your forgiveness. If you want to fight the gods, fine. But I'm not going to keep bleeding for someone who treats me like a traitor."

Neve's reply had been simple before turning away. "Then stop bleeding."

The detective had looked back, and for half a second, she looked like she might say more—something cruel, or maybe something unforgivably true. But her mouth pressed shut.

“Forget it,” she muttered as she walked away.

Rook hadn't meant to snap at Neve like that. She had just come out of her room after a talk with Solas, bringing him up to date on the latest developments. He had blamed her, too, and the weight of dual condemnations had broken something inside her.

She had gone into his prison, dreading the confrontation. Solas had stood on the far edge of the chasm between them, arms folded, eyes heavy with disappointment that somehow cut deeper than Neve's cold anger.

“ You didn’t finish the job,” he said.

Rook stared at him. “We tried.” The words tasted like ash.

“You failed.”

The words weren’t meant as an accusation, simply a truth, spoken aloud by the last person she wanted to hear it from.

“Ghilan'nain was vulnerable—a mortal thing, and yet you still didn’t succeed. Do you not understand what’s at stake?”

Rook’s fists clenched. “You talk about stakes while you rot in your cage. Easy to judge from behind a veil.”

“And yet, you came to me.” A simple observation that laid bare her desperation.

“I didn’t come for wisdom,” she snapped, the lie blatant to both.

“Good. I have none left to give.” He paused, letting his eyes land on her in condemnation. “But I will give you this: next time, don’t miss.”

Then he was gone, leaving Rook alone with the weight of every choice she had made, and every consequence that had followed.

When Rook snapped out of her reveries, she found herself in the dining hall, fingers still wrapped tight around the pendant. She released her grip slowly, letting the small piece of gold fall back against her chest. Whatever comfort it had once offered seemed as distant as the real stars beyond the fade’s false sky.

A candle still burned beneath the pantry door, and she could see movement inside, a shadow dancing on the floor.

Lucanis.

She stood in the doorway, her hand hovering in the air for a beat.

Then she knocked.

Lucanis hadn't moved from his cot in hours. The battle at Weisshaupt replayed in his mind like a blade grinding against stone—harsh, grating, and relentless. His failed attempt on Ghilan’nain was a shadow that lengthened with each passing hour, darkening every corner of his thoughts.

When the door creaked open after a soft knock, his hand moved of its own accord, fingers seeking the familiar comfort of steel beneath his pillow. But the silhouette in the doorway stopped him cold.

Rook lingered at the threshold in a moment of hesitation, one hand still on the door handle as if she might change her mind and step back into the darkness. When she entered, the flickering candlelight caught the angles of her face, highlighting the shadows beneath her eyes. She leaned against a wooden crate, her arms crossed.

He glanced at her before exhaling softly and sinking back onto his cot, the thin mattress barely yielding beneath his weight.

"So," she started, her voice low in the quiet room. "You're brooding too, huh?"

He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. "After everything," he sighed, failure pressing down on his chest. "I thought, at the very least, I'd still be a professional, that I could still do my job."

“Lucanis,” Her tone carried a hint of gentleness. “I asked you to stab a cloud.”

"And I missed the damn cloud." He replied, unintentionally raising his voice.

Their eyes locked, and something shifted in Rook's expression—the realization of how absurd their words sounded in the aftermath of such a profound battle. Then a sound broke free from her, a small, breathy laugh that seemed to surprise even her. Lucanis blinked, momentarily stunned. The sound traveled through the air between them and settled somewhere beneath his ribs. His lips twitched of their own accord, and a chuckle escaped.

"How do you do it?" he asked, studying the minute changes in her posture. "Chase away these perfectly gathered dark clouds over my head?"

She huffed in a self-deprecating manner. “I can’t even banish mine.” But there was a hollow note in her words that caught his attention like a misplaced footstep in the dark. Her fingers drifting to the small gold pendant at her neck, turning it absently, only confirmed his suspicion.

"What do you mean?"

He saw the instant she retreated behind her walls again, backtracking quickly as she realized her mistake. Rook hesitated, then pushed off from the crate with a subtle roll of her shoulders. "Forget it." She turned toward the door, but before conscious thought could intervene, Lucanis was on his feet and closed his fingers around her wrist. The touch sent an unexpected jolt through him.

They both froze, gazes drawn to the point where they physically connected. Lucanis felt the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his fingertips, matching the sudden quickening of his own heartbeat. He released her slowly, the warmth of her skin lingering on his palm even as his hand fell away. 

"Rook," he said, after he had found his voice. "Talk to me."

He watched her internal struggle play out across her features—the tightening of her jaw, the way she ground her teeth, the slight inward pull of her lower lip as frustration coursed through her. She wouldn't meet his eyes, and he couldn't tell if her refusal stemmed from his questioning or from being caught in a moment of vulnerability.

Finally, she exhaled, the sigh carrying everything she'd been holding back.

"What about?" she shrugged, the gesture too sharp to be casual. "All the mistakes I'm making? All the people I've failed?" Rook stared at the floor between them. Her fingers clenched, like she was bracing for a blow. “Treviso barely stands,” she said, voice breaking. “But Minrathous, and Weisshaupt? Neve—” she trailed off as her eyes glistened with held-back tears, the reflection of candlelight making them shine like dark sapphires.

Lucanis stared at her, momentarily stunned by the confession. He had been so thoroughly consumed by his own misery that he had failed to notice the weight pressing down on her shoulders. Now, seeing her like this—the exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes, the slump of shoulders that usually stood proud, the weariness that seemed to seep from her very core—was obviously crushing her. She seemed smaller somehow, as if the last few days had chipped away pieces of her. 

"Mierda," he muttered, the familiar curse bitter on his tongue. "I'm a fucking idiot."

She rubbed a hand down her face, the gesture somehow both weary and frustrated. "Sometimes, I just want to turn it off.  Stop being the one everyone goes to for answers and just be—"

"Nelle."

The name slipped from his lips unbidden. It was the first time he had spoken it aloud after hearing Viago calling out her name. He savored the way it felt—sweet and lingering on his tongue like the last bite of his favorite dessert.

Surprise flickered across her face, her hand stilling on the pendant. "How,—" She faltered, searching his face with newfound intensity.  He summoned every ounce of boldness he possessed to hold her gaze, though his heart hammered against his ribs.

"I didn't realize anyone knew my name here; it's always been just Rook to them. Only Varric knows, and he lives or dies by his nicknames."

He shrugged nonchalantly as he raised an eyebrow for a beat, enjoying the mix of annoyance and curiosity that played across her features at his evasion. She narrowed her eyes before looking away, but not before he caught the ghost of amusement there. Her fingers resumed their restless movement on the pendant.

"I understand," he said, his tone gentler now, drawing her gaze back to his. "About just wanting to forget everything for a while. Stop... thinking." He took a half-step closer, close enough to catch the flowery scent that clung to her, underlaid with something earthy that was uniquely hers.

Their eyes met, and he saw something there that unsettled him to his core. Vulnerability, yes, but also a silent plea for respite, for help—for connection. She glanced at his lips. It was quick, so quick he might have imagined it, but when her eyes returned to his, they held unspoken desire. He found himself drowning in those eyes as he leaned closer, one hand resting against the wall beside her—a challenge or an offer of escape.

She leaned in, tilting her head slightly, eyes heavy-lidded with intent. Her hand settled at his waist, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric of his shirt. The touch sent warmth through his body, pooling low in his stomach. He leaned in the rest of the way.

Their lips met with an urgency born of desperation and need that surprised him as the world narrowed to points of contact. Her mouth was warm and inviting, the taste of her intoxicating—a hint of wine and something sweeter. Curious tongues explored, teeth nipped at sensitive flesh, drawing forth sounds that reverberated through his core. His fingers gripped her waist as he guided her back against the wall, his other hand rising to cup the side of her face, his fingers threading through the dark strands of her hair, which felt like silk against his calloused skin. Her breath stuttered as his hand slipped beneath her shirt. She arched into him, murmuring his name against his jaw, her breath ghosting his skin, nearly his undoing.

Her hands roamed his back, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer with a desperation that mirrored his own. The heat was building rapidly, threatening to consume them both.

Then, reality reasserted itself like cold water down his spine.

Lucanis pulled away, his chest heaving with each breath. His hand lingered on her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, memorizing the softness of her skin. When her eyes met his, they held a silent question laced with unmistakable desire.

Slowly, deliberately, she began to unlace her shirt, allowing one sleeve to slip down her shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast. He kept his gaze locked with hers, resisting the urge to look, to touch, to taste. She moved to kiss him again, but he hesitated. If he surrendered to her lips once more, this would become something else—something that carried meaning beyond the momentary escape they both sought. 

Instead, he placed his hands on her hips and turned her around. The soft gasp that escaped her as she braced herself against the stone wall sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

He decided that, if he couldn't have her lips, he would worship at other altars.

Brushing away her long tresses, his mouth found the junction where neck met shoulder. One hand held her firmly against him while the other explored, slipping beneath her shirt to trace his fingers across warm skin. He lost himself in the scent of her hair as it brushed his face, in the quiet sounds that escaped her lips.

Each new territory discovered elicited responses that fueled his desire—the arch of her back when his thumb brushed along her ribs, the way her breath hitched when his teeth grazed that spot below her ear. His callused hand climbed higher beneath her shirt until it found the soft weight of her pebbled breast. His other hand made quick work of the ties at her waist, slipping inside to cup her with a gentleness that belied the urgency coursing through his veins.

He continued the assault on her neck with his lips, teeth, and tongue, as his other hand ventured lower. He let a finger slide between her slick folds, and he revelled in the gasp she let escape at the feel of him exploring her. 

As she whimpered and moaned, something primal awakened within Lucanis. Whatever restraint he may have maintained evaporated like morning dew under a scorching sun. He released her breast to tangle his fingers in her hair, wrapping the dark strands around his wrist and pulling down, exposing more of her neck to his hungry mouth.

His lips brushed her ear as he growled low words meant only for her. Soon, his fingers found a relentless rhythm that had her trembling against him, her legs threatening to give way. The sounds she made, the way she ground against him—it was almost more than he could bear.

Finally, he abandoned her to free himself from the confines of his trousers, his arousal demanding to be let out. Still holding her hair in one hand, he guided himself to her entrance. She rocked her hips in invitation, allowing him to slide against the slickness he had created.

As she rolled her hips back, he thrust forward and entered her completely. The gasp that tore from her throat mirrored his own sharp intake of breath. She fit him perfectly, made for him alone. He placed both hands on her waist as he rested his forehead against her bare shoulder, savoring the sensation of being enveloped by her warmth.

This could be trouble.  

The realization was distant but insistent beneath the haze of desire.

When he began to move, she matched him perfectly—their bodies finding a harmony. She arched against him as he adjusted his angle until he found the one that made her clench around him.

As the rhythm intensified, his hand returned to where they were joined, fingers circling in time with his movements. His other arm wrapped around her, cupping her breast, pulling her back against his chest until there was no space between them. 

He felt the change in her breathing, heard the pitch of her moans rise as she approached the edge. He gritted his teeth, fighting his own release, determined to watch her fall apart first. When she finally shattered, her head fell back against his shoulder in surrender. He accepted the invitation, lips finding her pulse point as he worked her through the waves of pleasure, his own control finally giving way to release.

The aftershocks rippled through them both as he rested his head on her shoulder, their breathing heavy. She shivered when his beard brushed against the sensitive skin of her neck, the small reaction oddly intimate. For a moment, everything else disappeared until only she was left—only them.

Afterward, a fragile silence stretched between them. Lucanis pulled away first, adjusting his clothes, suddenly aware of every sound, every scent—sweat and desire hanging thick in the air, the soft rustle of fabric as Nelle laced up her shirt, her fingers steady even as she avoided his gaze.

Her cheeks were flushed with color, her hair a wild tangle cascading down her shoulders in disarray. The pendant at her neck gleamed in the candlelight, drawing his eye like a beacon.

Maker, she is beautiful.

The realization terrified him. He should be focused on the contract, on the fight still ahead. Not on how her hair shone like moonlight on water, or how her lips felt against his. This—whatever this was—shouldn't have happened. It couldn’t happen again. It complicated things that were already complex enough. 

Shame washed over him—for his loss of control, for taking advantage of a moment of vulnerability, for the utter lack of professionalism, and words failed him in the silence that stretched between them, neither knowing quite what to say or do next. Finally, Rook broke the impasse, her voice unfamiliar in its uncertainty.

"I should go back to my room. Before the others wake up."

He could only nod in response, watching her walk away, leaving him standing alone in a room that still carried the scent of their passion.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

"Mierda" 

Chapter Text

Rook jolted awake on the large canapé she’d crashed on in her quarters. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off, and from the way her stomach growled, she had the distinct sense she’d overslept.

Flashes of her dream still clung to her skin—warm, calloused hands skimming her waist, sliding up her ribs, cupping her breasts, the press of his mouth against her neck, the rasp of his voice when he called her by her name. Her skin still tingled where he’d touched her, as if her body hadn’t caught up to the morning yet.

No. Not a dream.

She brought her fingers to her lips—like she could still taste him there.

Lucanis .

A muffled groan escaped her as she fell back into the cushions and flung an arm over her eyes. Maker, what had she done?

She’d let her mind wander before—about what might happen if he ever surrendered that tightly wound control. But fantasies didn’t come with consequences.

And the timing—spectacularly ill-chosen. Her body already ached for more, but her mind screamed for discipline. She didn’t have the luxury of distraction. Not now.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t be an idiot.

Rook swung her legs over the edge and dressed in her black leathers. Her hands moved by instinct: buckles, belt, daggers. Every piece of gear added another inch of armor between her and the part of her that felt exposed.

If she looked the part, maybe she’d start to feel like herself again.

She stepped into the hallway. The Lighthouse was quiet, wrapped in that odd stillness she’d come to recognize. A low thrum stirred the air—subtle as a heartbeat—as if the place itself was alive, awake, and watching.

At the stairs, she paused, then turned toward the infirmary.

Varric had been keeping to himself there. She hadn’t exactly avoided him, just postponed her visit. He’d trusted her to hold the team together, and all she’d done was fracture what he’d built. The thought tied a knot in her stomach.

She knocked gently and pushed open the door.

Varric was reclined at a small desk, his injured leg propped on another chair cushioned with pillows. He looked up with a grin that was pure mischief as he lazily twirled a quill with his fingers.

“Did I imagine it,” he said, “or did you get in rather late last night?”

His voice was light, but his eyes were sharp. He missed nothing, and she knew it.

Rook blinked, then gave a huff of a laugh that sounded a little too close to panic.

“Just… couldn’t sleep.”

Varric set the quill down. “Solas tends to have that effect on people.”

“You heard about our conversation?” Her brows knitted together in confusion.

Varric shrugged. “Hard not to in here. Solas’s disapproval has a way of… reverberating.”

Rook leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “He wants me to keep going. Even if it means sending people to their deaths, like it’s nothing.”

Varric’s grin faded. He studied her for a moment, his expression softening. “That’s not why you couldn’t sleep.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, then flicked back up to his face. “I keep making mistakes,” she said quietly.

"Well," he said, leaning further back in his chair, "we've all got a collection of those by now."

Rook huffed again, but the sound lacked humor. “This one could cost more than just me or the team. The Wardens—”

“Have their Commander to thank for losing Weisshaupt,” Varric said. He let the words sit for a beat, heavy but not cruel. 

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t take the out he was offering her.

"I was supposed to be leading," she said. "But everything's fracturing. Neve's barely talking to me, the Wardens are in pieces, Ghilan'ain and Elgar'nan are still out there, and I'm—"

She hesitated, the words catching. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

The admission sat heavily between them. A truth too big to take back.

Varric leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on the desk. “None of us know what we’re doing, Rook. That’s the secret. You think I had a plan when I started the search for Solas? I didn’t even have a map.”

He tapped the wood lightly with his finger. "But I believed in the people around me. Still do." He gave her a pointed look. "And so should you. You don't have to figure out everything by yourself."

Her jaw tightened. "I'm used to dealing with problems that can be solved with a knife. This is bigger than that." She looked up at him, vulnerability flickering across her face. "What if this is the best I can do?"

"Then it's enough," Varric said simply. "Look, I've seen a lot of leaders in my time. You know what separates the good ones from the disasters? It's not having all the answers. It's caring enough to keep trying when the answers don't come easy."

He gestured vaguely toward the door. "You think Hawke knew what they were doing when they walked into that mess in Kirkwall? Or the Inquisitor, for that matter—thrust into leading a whole organization overnight?" He shook his head. "Hell no. Half the time they were making it up as they went along. But they cared about the people around them. That's what mattered."

Rook was quiet for a long moment, absorbing his words.

"The team's not fractured because of you," Varric continued. "It's fractured because we're all scared, all grieving, trying to hold onto something when everything feels like it's slipping away. But that doesn't mean it's broken beyond repair."

She met his eyes, and for a moment, the weight on her shoulders felt a little lighter—whether it was hope or just the relief of being seen, she couldn’t tell.

"So what do I do?"

"What you've been doing," he said. "Keep showing up. Keep caring. And trust your people to meet you halfway."

Rook nodded slowly, pushing off from the doorframe. "Thanks, Varric."

"Anytime, kid." His grin returned. "Now go get some breakfast. Can't save the world on an empty stomach."

She left the infirmary with Varric’s words echoing in her head. You don’t have to figure out everything by yourself.

But that didn’t change the fact that they were waiting on her. For one selfish moment, she wanted to turn around, crawl back into her quarters, and pretend the world could wait.

Instead, she crossed the courtyard and made her way to the dining hall. Rook squared her shoulders, then she opened the door.

Quiet conversation continued as she entered.

She moved toward the long wooden table, where someone had laid out a plate for her—eggs, bread, a thick wedge of cheese, and a cup of steaming coffee. The gesture nearly undid her. After everything that had happened, after all the doubts, someone had still thought to care for her.

She sat down, scooted her chair in, and picked up the fork. Around the table, voices trailed off, awareness of her presence rippling outward.

She felt his gaze before she saw him.

Lucanis.

She looked up and caught him watching her, eyes steady but unreadable.

When everyone had finished eating, no one moved. They lingered at the table—hesitant, uncertain. The scrape of utensils had ceased, and cups cooled in hands that had forgotten to drink.

Waiting for her.

Rook set down her fork and took a breath. Keep showing up. Keep caring.

So she spoke.

“I know the last couple of days…” She exhaled. “Hell, weeks… have been hard. Weisshaupt has always stood as a beacon of strength, duty, and perseverance.” Her gaze swept across their faces—each one marked by exhaustion, loss, and the stubborn will that had carried them this far. “But those things don’t live in stone and mortar.”

Davrin’s harsh voice cut through the silence. “It doesn’t matter now; it was all for nothing. We failed.”

“Ghilan’nain still lives. But we made her bleed.” Emmrich said, trying to quell the burgeoning storm.

“She should be dead,” Davrin said, flatly, staring across the table at Lucanis.

“No,” Rook cut in. “None of that. Not anymore. We can’t afford to be at each other’s throats.”

The words settled heavily over the table. A few glanced between Davrin and Lucanis, but no one spoke.

Then Taash let out a shaky breath. They scrubbed a hand through their hair, eyes flicking toward Rook and then away again.

“Yeah,” they said, voice unsteady, “Are we going to talk about that dragon or whatever the fuck that was?” Their tone sharpened with each word, rising from unease to disgust. “It was wrong and unnatural. If that’s what she can do to dragons, how are we supposed to fight that?”

The question hit the table like a stone in still water. Rook saw the ripple of doubt spread outward—shoulders tensing, eyes dropping to cups or hands or anything but each other.

“You already did,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence. “We all did. We killed her archdemon, we made her mortal again. You don’t think she’s scared?”

Her voice dropped, quieter but firmer. “That victory was real, and you were all part of it. Be proud.”

Taash hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

Neve leaned forward, eyes sharp. “And now we take the fight to them. No more scrambling after their disasters. No more cleaning up their messes. We've only been reacting, and I, for one, am tired of it." The words landed hard—strategy, yes, but also the raw edge of frustration, of anger left to simmer too long. "It's time we take the initiative. We know the Venatori and the Antaam are working for them, so we start there—disrupting their operations and burning their alliances to the ground. Make them come after us. That’s when they’ll make mistakes.”

Neve’s gaze swept the room, sharp and expectant, daring someone to argue—hoping someone would agree.

Davrin’s chair creaked as he leaned back, arms crossed. “We still have the Blight to deal with. We can’t ignore it. Not with the Wardens scattered and Weisshaupt gone. If we don’t stop the spread, there won't be a world left to save."

“Agreed,” Rook said with a nod. “We can’t lose sight of the Blight. It’s spreading in Arlathan and the Hossberg Wetlands—we can’t let it go unchecked. We can contact Evka and Strife, see what support they need.”

Emmrich raised his chin. His fingers were steepled before him, rings catching the light as he spoke with careful precision. “We’ve employed the lyrium dagger as bait on two occasions now, Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan seek to wield it as a key—one capable of sundering the Veil and unleashing the Blight in its most unrestrained form.” He said, folding his hands with academic poise. “And while the results were not without merit, I suspect our adversaries will not be deceived so easily a third time. 

“Speaking of Elgar’nan…” Harding leaned forward, frowning. “We’ve only seen Ghilan’nain so far, which makes sense—she’s shaping the Blight, making darkspawn. But… where’s Elgar’nan? What’s he doing? What’s he waiting for?”

That question left a cold stillness in its wake.

Bellara was the one to break it. “Elgar’nan is the most powerful of them. The Dalish call him the god of vengeance. And the sun.”

“They’re just stories, Bellara. Myths.” Davrin snorted. 

“We can’t afford to be so dismissive,” Emmrich interjected smoothly. “Even the most embellished legends tend to grow from a kernel of truth. And in our current predicament, we would be fools to ignore any of it.”

Bellara went on, voice quieter now. “They say he pulled the sun from the sky. That the dwarves still fear the light because of him. And don’t forget his archdemon—Lusacan. The most monstrous of them all.” Her voice dropped. “If he's waiting, it's because he's planning something worse than anything we've seen."

Lucanis shifted, the lamplight catching the glint of steel at his hip. “If we’re talking next moves,” he said evenly, “the Antaam are strongest in Rivain and Antiva. That’s where their logistics run—shipments, soldiers, supplies. Cut the connection and we don't just hit them—we starve whatever they’re building.”

She felt a sense of awe as she heard Lucanis explain his proposed strategy. He didn’t just see the immediate—he saw what happened five moves down the line, predicting enemy movement.

His eyes flicked around the table, then returned to Rook. “The Crows can help coordinate resistance in Rivain. Quietly. And the Lords of Fortune can’t ignore a war on their shores forever.”

Rook held his gaze a moment longer. She saw no regret. No shame.

Just fire.

“Alright,” she said, her voice steadier now.

“This is your moment. If anyone has more to share, now is the time. If not, we start moving.”

Chapter Text

The air in the Arlathan Forest was thin, allowing magic to bleed through and pool in the roots and cling to bark. Lucanis felt it in his temples first, a dull pulse behind the eyes, growing louder with every step.

Blood still stained the edges of Lucanis’s gloves, crusted and dark. They'd spent the morning clearing blighted pockets left to fester, the darkspawn collapsing beneath their blades and arrows. The air had reeked of taint, but now only moss and smoke lingered.

When they returned to camp, the others scattered.

Bellara crouched with a circle of scouts at the Veil Jumper camp, parchment spread across a flat stone as she marked paths and scribbled instructions for calming artefacts. Harding’s voice echoed from within one of the canvas shelters, sharp and efficient as she rerouted supply chains with the ease of someone who never stopped working.

Davrin had whistled once, and Assan launched into the trees with a beat of wings. Then he turned to Rook and asked if she’d join them. She had gone without hesitation, smiling at his side. 

That left Lucanis.

He wandered alone until he heard the sound of rushing water. A waterfall, tumbling over moss-covered stone. He settled near the base, where the Veil felt thicker—where the world felt more solid . The headache dulled to a tolerable level.

For the first time in days, he let his shoulders drop and his breathing slow. The water's steady rhythm drowned out the forest's whispers, the distant calls of birds, and even his own racing thoughts. This was what peace might feel like if he could trust it.

His eyelids grew heavy. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd slept more than an hour at a stretch. Spite didn't need rest, which meant Lucanis couldn’t afford to.

The waterfall's song was hypnotic. His breathing deepened.

Just for a moment. Just—

His breath caught. 

No.

Spite pushed at the edge of his awareness, more present than usual. The forest’s old magic made him giddy. The spirit flitted like a shadow, chasing butterflies and nugs, and kicking at pebbles. It was almost childlike. Almost innocent, if Lucanis didn't know better.

He watched, unmoving. For a moment, he could pretend this was just another day, but the guilt crept in slowly, like water seeping through stone.

Nelle.

“Want her. Want. Her. Want to touch—”

Spite's voice was different from his own thoughts—hungrier, more insistent. It purred through his mind like fog, curling around memories of her smile, her scent, the way she'd looked at him that night when they had crashed into one another.

Sex could be an efficient release valve—occasional, detached, clean. He didn’t indulge often, and he never repeated partners, didn’t need to. If someone caught his eye, it was a passing impulse, rarely worth the effort. But Nelle… Nelle wasn’t a pursuit. She was gravity, and he was being pulled in her orbit.

Lucanis pressed his palms against his temples, trying to build walls in his mind. He'd applied these techniques in the Ossuary—meditation exercises to keep his thoughts contained, to maintain some sense of self when everything else was being stripped away. But Spite had been with him too long. The spirit knew all his tricks.

Lucanis clenched his jaw. Spite had changed since Nelle and Lucanis had been together—had become fixated. Spite no longer merely hovered in his mind—it prowled whenever she entered a room, sniffed at the air through Lucanis's senses, curled behind his eyes when she laughed.

He'd felt Spite try to take over before, usually during combat when violence called to the spirit. But this was different. It felt like a violation. Not Spite’s—his. He had brought this thing into her orbit. It watched through his eyes. Wanted through his skin.

He hadn't touched her since Weisshaupt. How could he, with Spite watching? How could he kiss her, knowing something else was tasting her through his lips? His fingers twitched against his knee—wanting, hesitating, curling tight again. He didn’t know how to explain that the thing living inside him hungered for her in ways that made his skin crawl. 

She'd run if she knew, he told himself. But another part of him whispered: What if she wouldn't?

He couldn’t afford to think about her. Not with unfinished business.

Zara Renata's name rose sharply in his mind. The hatred that followed was white-hot and immediate. Spite's attention snapped toward it like a hunting hound catching scent.

“Yes. Kill her. Make her. Scream.”

Good. Let the spirit feast on his rage instead. Let it gorge itself on thoughts of blood and vengeance until it forgot about jasmine and soft skin and the way Nelle's breath hitched when he—

No. Don't think about that either.

The waterfall continued its endless song. Lucanis forced himself to breathe.

Spite suddenly stilled, head cocked like a curious cat.

Lucanis didn't ask how the spirit knew. He’d already felt the change in the air—cooler, fragrant, familiar. A breeze stirred, brushing past his neck like a memory, carrying the scent of jasmine. Not the sharp perfume of Treviso's gardens, but the subtle trace that lingered in Nelle's hair after she washed it. No one else smelled like that.

He opened his eyes and looked up.

There she was, just beyond the treeline. She moved carefully through the undergrowth, scanning the glade with sharp eyes. She hadn't spotted him yet; he was still hidden in the shadow of the rocks.

Lucanis stayed still, as if movement might shatter the moment.

He let himself look. Really look. The way sunlight caught in her chestnut hair like strands of firelight. The alert tilt of her head as she searched. The graceful efficiency of her movements, even when tired.

“Beautiful,” Spite said. Then something cruder.

Lucanis shut him out and rose from the rock, slow and controlled. No sudden movements. No thoughts he didn't choose.

Time to return to the others.

"Looking for someone?" he called out, keeping his voice light.

Her head snapped toward him, and for just a moment, her expression softened with what might have been relief. "There you are. I was starting to worry."

“How sweet.”  Spite snarled in his ear.

He nodded and fell into step beside her as they made their way through the trees. Close enough to catch her scent. Far enough that their hands wouldn't accidentally brush.

“Closer,” Spite urged. “ Touch her .”

Lucanis forced himself to focus on the path ahead.

They rejoined the team at the Veil Jumper camp just as Harding handed off a supply list to a passing courier. Bellara was arguing gently with another elf about the crystal alignment of a recently discovered artefact. Davrin sat near the fire, cleaning his blade while Assan preened his feathers in a patch of sun.

"Everything settled?" Rook asked, settling onto a log near the fire.

Lucanis took a seat across from her—not beside her, never beside her anymore—and nodded. "Just needed some air."

She studied his face for a moment, those sharp eyes searching for something he couldn't give her. Not with Spite coiled behind his thoughts, watching her through his gaze.

"Good," she said finally, but he caught the flicker of hurt before she looked away.

Just like that, the moment was gone. But the ache in his chest lingered, a familiar weight he was learning to carry.

The village of Lavendel sat like a scar on the edge of the Anderfels, its grey stone buildings huddled together against the snowy mountain range. Smoke rose from the chimneys with the sluggishness of mourning. Survivors from Weisshaupt and scattered villages consumed by corruption had gathered here, drawn by the last patch of earth not yet soured.

The survivors moved through the streets with the slow motions of people who had seen too much and were still trying to convince themselves they were alive.

Rook pulled her cloak tighter as she and Davrin made their way through the market square. What little remained of it, anyway. Half the stalls stood empty, their wooden frames weathered and splintered. The ones that remained open sold mostly practical things—stale bread, rusty daggers, half-dried firewood. No luxuries here. No room for anything that didn't serve survival.

They found the makeshift Warden outpost in what had once been the village's chantry. The central room buzzed with activity; maps were spread across the tables, and conversations were held in hushed tones. Evka stood at the center of it all, her dark hair pulled back in an intricate braid as she gestured at a map covered in red marks.

"The blight spread has slowed here," she was saying to a cluster of scouts, "but we can't assume it's stopped. I want patrols doubled along the eastern ridge."

Rook had always admired how Evka commanded a room. There was no hesitation in her voice, no uncertainty in her movements. Just quiet competence and a determination that made others want to follow her. Leadership born from necessity.

Davrin and her approached the table, making Evka look up with relief. "Please tell me you have good news."

"The Veil Jumpers came through," Rook said, hefting her pack. "Enough elfroot potions to last your people two weeks, maybe more if you ration carefully."

"Bellara's work," Davrin added. She said she learned the improved recipe from her father, who was apparently an herbalist."

Evka's shoulders sagged slightly with relief. "The Stone bless that girl. We've had twelve more cases of the cough since you left. Without these..." She trailed off, but they all knew how that sentence ended.

As they distributed the potions, Rook caught sight of Antoine in the corner, hunched over a collection of vials and specimens. He looked thinner than she remembered. More concerning were the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hands trembled slightly as he worked.

"How is he?" Rook asked quietly.

Evka followed her gaze, her expression tightening. "The same. Maybe worse. He says he's making progress, learning how the blight has changed, but..." She shook her head. "He's listening to the Song more than he's listening to me these days."

The Song. The call that every Warden heard—the whisper of the Old Gods that grew stronger the longer they carried the taint. Eventually, it would drive them into the Deep Roads to find their deaths fighting darkspawn. But that was supposed to take decades, not months.

"The blight is changing faster than we can understand it," Evka continued. "The taint in our blood is responding differently. Some of us are hearing the Song earlier. Louder." She looked at Antoine again, worry etched into every line of her face. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose him before we find any answers."

Rook wanted to offer comfort, but what could she say? They were all struggling against forces they barely understood, trying to fight a war with incomplete information and dwindling resources.

"Come on," Davrin said softly, touching her elbow. "Let's get some air."

They left the outpost and found a small tavern still serving food. The owner, a weathered woman with kind eyes, brought them bowls of something that might charitably be called stew and bread that was only slightly stale. It was the best meal Lavendel had to offer, and Rook was grateful for it.

"You know," Davrin said, tearing his bread into smaller pieces, "I have to admit, this is nice."

"The stew? I think it's mostly turnips and hope."

He laughed, and the sound was warm in the tavern's dim interior. "No, this. Just... talking. No demons, no ancient elven gods, no world-ending catastrophes. Just two people sharing a meal."

Davrin didn’t blame her for Weisshaupt. He hadn’t even asked about it—just nodded when she offered help and made room beside the remaining Wardens.
He kept things light, and she didn’t mind—except when Lucanis was nearby. Then it grated. Then it felt like a game she didn’t want to play.

Still, Davrin was good company. Charming without being pushy. Attentive without being overwhelming. He didn’t wield silence like a blade, nor did he flinch when her hand brushed against his. There were no unspoken things between them, no careful silences.

He made her laugh, and right now, that was a small miracle. But it came with a twist in her chest—part pleasure, part guilt.

Rook hadn’t gone to Lucanis since that night. And maybe that was the point.
But part of her still burned—the part she refused to feed.

It’s not fair to him, she thought. And it’s not fair to—

"Rook?" Davrin was watching her with concern. "You disappeared for a moment there."

"Sorry, just thinking." She took a sip of the thin ale the tavern served. "About Weisshaupt. About the archdemon."

Davrin's expression sobered. "Ah. That."

"I keep thinking about what you said before, about expecting to die." She studied his face. "Is that really what you thought would happen?"

He was quiet for a long moment, staring into his bowl. "It's what's supposed to happen," he said finally. "It's what every Warden knows going in. When an archdemon dies, so does the Warden who delivered the killing blow. That's the deal."

"Explain it to me. The real mechanics, not the children's tales."

Davrin met her eyes. "When an archdemon is killed, its soul needs somewhere to go. If there's no Warden present, it just finds the nearest blighted creature and transforms it into a new archdemon. The cycle continues. But if a Warden is there..." He made a pulling gesture toward his stomach. "The soul gets absorbed into the Warden instead, and the Warden dies—their soul torn apart and their body destroyed. But the archdemon stays dead."

Rook felt cold. "Every Warden knows this?"

"Every Warden accepts this. It's why we exist." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "We carry the taint so we can sense darkspawn and draw in the soul of an Archdemon. We study their movements, their strategies. And when the time comes, we give our lives to end the Blight."

"But that's not what happened at Weisshaupt."

"No." Davrin's expression darkened. "At least, that was the deal before Ghilan'ain and Elgar'nan changed the rules. Now the part of the soul that was stored in the dragon returns to the gods. Makes them mortal again, but doesn't require a Warden's death. We don't know what that means for future archdemons, or if the old rules will apply again once the gods are gone."

The weight of that uncertainty hung between them. Rook reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Well, we killed one already. And we'll be ready for the next one. We know what to expect now, unlike before."

Davrin turned his hand over, briefly clasping her fingers. The contact sent a small thrill through her that she tried to ignore. "Always the optimist."

"Someone has to be." Rook shrugged.

They finished their meal and stepped back into the grey afternoon. Assan immediately took flight, circling overhead before diving toward something in the distance. Rook watched him go, marveling at his grace and speed.

"Look at that," she said, pointing.

Assan had found a small blight tendril emerging from between the cobblestones—a twisted black growth that pulsed with malevolent energy. The griffon attacked it without hesitation, his talons tearing through the corrupted flesh. Within moments, the tendril was destroyed, its remains already beginning to wither.

"Perfect killing machine," Davrin said with unmistakable pride. "Honed by centuries of evolution to fight the blight with a ferocity no other animal has shown."

"I thought griffons were extinct," Rook said, watching Assan preen his feathers after his victory.

"They were, since the 4th Blight." Davrin whistled, and Assan returned. "But someone found a clutch of eggs, protected by some ancient warding spell. Thirteen eggs, perfectly preserved. They hatched, bringing thirteen griffons back into the world."

"They entrusted Assan’s safety to me. They are the last of their kind. It's a sacred duty."

"That's a lot of pressure."

"It is. But look at him." Assan chittered softly, nuzzling against Davrin's hand. "He's magnificent. They all are. And they're our best weapon against the blight."

"Better than Wardens?"

"Different from Wardens. We sense darkspawn, but griffons can smell blight from miles away. We're strategic, but they're instinctive. They know threats we can't even see yet." Davrin hesitated, then said, “Still surprised he hasn’t tried to rip out the abomination’s throat yet.”

The words hit Rook like a slap. "Excuse me?"

"Lucanis. The demon inside him. Assan should be going mad trying to get at it, but instead he just... watches, even seeks him out. It's unnatural."

"Why do you do that?" Rook's voice was sharper than she intended. "Why do you keep pushing at Lucanis? We need him, Davrin. He's the only one who could hope to attempt to kill the gods. The rest of us wouldn’t even get close."

"Because he's dangerous," Davrin said, his easy charm dropping away. "I'm a monster hunter, Rook. I've spent my life learning to recognize threats, to understand what makes creatures tick. And everything about Lucanis screams danger."

"He's not a monster—"

"Isn't he?" Davrin's voice was quiet but intense.

"That's not fair. He didn't choose this."

"No, but he's living with it. And that makes him unpredictable." Davrin's eyes were hard. "Don’t forget he's Crow royalty, born into a family of murderers, and raised to kill without conscience. Even without the demon, he'd be dangerous."

"We're not murderers," Rook snapped. "We're assassins.”

"You're different." Davrin's expression softened slightly as he sighed. "You're not like them. You're not—"

"Not what? Not good enough? Not important enough?"

"Not poisoned by it," he said firmly. ”And you don't have a demon whispering in your ear."

Rook stared at him, anger and hurt warring in her chest. "We all have demons inside us, Davrin. Lucanis's is just more literal than ours. He didn't choose it—it was done to him. And it's not fair to put that on him."

“You’re awfully quick to defend him,” Davrin said lightly, though something sharper moved behind the words.

She didn’t answer. Her mouth moved like she might say something, but no words came. 

"We should head back," she finally said instead. "The others will be wondering where we are."

Davrin nodded, but she caught the look of concern he gave her as they began walking back toward the village center.

Assan wandered closer, silent as a shadow on padded talons. The griffon stopped beside her, nudging her with his beak—a gentle prod, as if sensing the tension. Rook reached out instinctively and stroked the feathers along his jawline.

She leaned into him slightly, closing her eyes. “You don’t ask questions,” she said quietly. “You just stay.”

Assan gave a quiet chuff and lowered his head into her touch, no judgment, no expectations.

Chapter Text

The study in the Lighthouse had become Neve's own personal war room, though the enemy she fought was made of shadows and unanswered questions rather than flesh and blood. Her desk groaned under the weight of correspondence—desperate letters, templar reports, and her own increasingly illegible scribbles.

Curious wisps danced around her, drawn to the relentless churning of her mind. Behind her, a detailed map of Dock Town dominated the wall, bristling with colored pins and red thread that connected locations like a spider's web.

Neve rubbed her eyes and surveyed the mess before her, picking up papers at random:

Who has seen my daughter Mira? She never came home from the Cobbled Swan last Tuesday. Please, if anyone knows anything…

MISSING: Hanna Volkstock, last seen at Glandivalis Square with a friend, Petric Caldor, also missing. Reward offered for information.

Miss Gallus, I don't have any coin to offer, but I'm in desperate need of help. Our son, Jonah, answered an advertisement for a job at the docks and never returned. He's only sixteen, Miss. Please.

Dock Town had always had its share of trouble, but nothing like this. The influx of missing people, most of them poor and desperate, couldn't be a coincidence. There was a pattern here, a connection she wasn't seeing, and it gnawed at her.

The city guard would only file a report, and the Templars didn’t care. If she failed, no one else would ever bother to look.

Neve sighed and lifted her coffee cup, only to find it empty save for a thin layer of cold, bitter sludge at the bottom. She grimaced and pushed back from her desk, her chair scraping against the stone floor as she made her way outside. The wisps scattered like startled birds before reforming in lazy spirals around the room.

A familiar scent drifted from the dining hall—coffee, real coffee. Her steps quickened.

The lighthouse's small kitchen area was bathed in warm lamplight, and the rich aroma of properly brewed coffee filled the air like a prayer answered. Lucanis stood at the counter, tending to a copper pot that gleamed like burnished gold.

"You really are Maker sent," Neve sighed, inhaling deeply.

Lucanis glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "I saw the sludge you brewed earlier," he said, his tone mixing disgust with genuine concern. "I couldn't, in good conscience, let you continue poisoning yourself."

He poured the dark liquid into a clean cup and handed it to her. The ceramic was warm against her palms, and the first sip sent a wave of relief through her tired body. Real coffee, rich and complex, with notes of chocolate and spice that spoke of expensive beans and careful preparation.

"This is incredible," she murmured, sinking into a nearby chair. "Where did you even find beans like this?"

"I have my sources." Lucanis poured himself a cup and leaned against the counter, studying her face. "Venatori acting up again?" The word came out like a curse, his voice tight with disgust.

Neve's brows drew together as she considered this. "Nothing I can connect to them. The pattern doesn't match their usual methods, but..." She looked up at him, hope flickering in her chest. "I could use the help of an experienced Venatori hunter."

Lucanis set down his cup, his expression sharpening with interest. "What do you need?"

The Siren's Call had seen better days. Probably even decades. The tavern squatted on the corner of Rope Street like a diseased tooth, its wooden walls stained black with years of smoke and salt air. Inside, the remains of what had been a lively evening lay scattered across the room—overturned chairs, broken pottery, and a dark stain on the floorboards that could have been wine or blood.

"This is where the last one was taken," Neve said, stepping carefully around the debris. "Makal Damas. He was here watching a performance of Cida Ciconia when he disappeared."

Lucanis crouched beside the dark stain, his fingers hovering just above the wood. "No witnesses?"

"None willing to talk, anyway." Neve pulled out her notebook and flipped through the pages. "The barkeep claims he was cleaning glasses and didn't see anything. The serving girl swears she was in the back room fetching ale. I haven’t been able to locate Cida.”

"Strange." Lucanis stood and moved to examine the tavern's back door, which hung slightly ajar. "This lock's been picked. Recently, I’d say, from the look of the scratches around the keyhole."

Neve joined him, peering at the damaged metal. "Professional work?"

"Good enough." He pushed the door open and stepped into the narrow alley beyond. "Look here.

In the mud beside the door, barely visible in the dim light, were the impressions of boot prints. But more interesting were the parallel grooves that ran alongside them, as if something heavy had been dragged.

"Someone was carried out this way," Neve observed, her magic creating a small light to illuminate the scene better. "Unconscious, most likely."

"Or dead." Lucanis followed the trail deeper into the alley, where it disappeared onto the cobblestoned street. "The drag marks stop here. They had a cart waiting."

Neve jotted notes as they worked, her pulse quickening with each new detail. Having a partner made all the difference—someone who knew what to look for, who understood the mind of a predator.

They spent another hour combing through the tavern and questioning the few patrons who remained. Most claimed ignorance, but Neve caught the nervous glances, the way conversations died when they approached. Fear hung in the air.

Finally, an old sailor with rheumy eyes and hands that shook with drink pulled Neve aside.

"You didn't hear this from me," he said, voice low and his breath reeking of cheap gin. "But word is Cida has sought shelter at the Lamplighter.”

Neve’s pulse kicked up. The Lamplighter was neutral ground—on paper. In practice, it meant Threads involvement. That changed things. 

The streets of Dock Town twisted like a drunk man's path, following the contours of the harbor with no regard for logic or convenience. Gas lamps flickered weakly in the evening mist, casting pools of yellow light that only seemed to make the shadows between them deeper.

Neve led the way through the maze of narrow passages and cramped squares, her footsteps sure despite the poor lighting. Beside her, Lucanis moved with the fluid grace of someone equally at home in urban terrain, though she noticed him studying their surroundings with particular interest.

"The city's almost exactly as I remember it," he said, his voice carrying a note of nostalgia. “Still could use fewer Venatori, though.”

"You spent a lot of time in Minrathous?" Neve asked, stepping around a puddle.

"I used to. Before..." He trailed off, his expression darkening briefly before smoothing back into its usual composed mask. "But never in Dock Town."

Neve felt a smile tug at her lips. "Ah, so you stuck to the fancier parts of town? The Upper district, perhaps? The Golden Quarter?"

"I'm expensive," Lucanis replied dryly, but there was humor in his voice.

"Of course you are. Can't have the famous Demon of Vyrantium skulking around with the common folk." She glanced at him sideways. "What was it like? Before?"

He was quiet for a moment, considering his words. "Different. Simpler, in some ways. There was a clarity to it—receive a contract, complete the job, collect payment. Clean."

"And now?"

"Now everything is complicated."

They continued walking, the conversation lulling into comfortable silence. Neve found herself stealing glances at her companion, noting details she'd missed before. The careful way he checked doorways and alleys, habits so ingrained they were probably unconscious. The faint lines around his eyes that spoke of too little sleep and too much worry.

There was something magnetic about him—tired, yes, but sharp. Controlled. Dangerous in the right ways. She understood the appeal, even if she pretended not to.

But that wasn't her problem to solve. Tonight, she had people to find and possibly save.

"There," she said, pointing ahead to where the street opened onto a wider avenue. ”Elek should be inside, hopefully with Cida Ciconia.”

The Lamplighter had a reputation. A safe haven for some, but a last stop for others. If Cida was there, someone was protecting her—or hiding her.

"How much do they know about the disappearances?"

"Officially? Nothing. Unofficially... we'll find out." Neve’s hand blanched around her staff, ensuring her magic was ready if things went poorly. "Just follow my lead. The Threads respect strength, but they also value subtlety. Too much or too little of either and we'll have more problems than answers."

Lucanis nodded, his hand resting casually near his blades. "Understood."

As they approached the tavern where her contact waited, Neve felt the familiar mixture of anticipation and dread that came with getting closer to the truth. In her experience, answers were rarely comfortable things. But the missing deserved justice, even if it came at the cost of her peace of mind.

The tavern was quieter than Neve had expected. Its worn sign creaked in the mist, and the faint sound of conversation drifted through the cracks in the warped wooden door. Inside, the scent of roasted roots and cheap spirits clung to the air, and the flickering hearth painted long shadows against the stone walls.

Elek sat at a corner table near the back, his hood low, a steaming mug clasped between scarred hands. Beside him, a woman leaned back in her chair, arms folded. Cida Ciconia, performer turned fugitive—or something more. Her sharp eyes found Neve immediately.

"Took you long enough," Elek said as they approached, his voice dry.

Neve slid into the seat across from them, Lucanis standing just behind her, silent but watchful.

"You've been hiding," Neve said to Cida. 

"Surviving," The singer corrected.

 "Your missing man, Makal Damas,” Elek jumped right to the matter at hand. “He's not just another Dock Town ghost. He's the leader of the Threads."

Neve stiffened. "I had a shortlist of possible leaders. He wasn’t on it."

"He wouldn't be," Elek spoke. "We kept it quiet. Safer that way."

Lucanis stepped closer. "Then who took him?"

"Venatori,” Cida's expression tightened. “They've been watching the Threads. When they found out who he really was, they struck. We think he's being held in the old Thread Market tunnels. They're using it as a base."

Neve's fingers curled around her staff. "Then that’s where we’re going."

The descent into Minrathous's underground market was like diving into the city's buried secrets. Masterful stonework gave way to makeshift passages, the air thick with the smell of old magic and desperation. Neve led the way, her staff's light casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"There," Lucanis pointed to a cluster of figures ahead. "Venatori guards."

The ambush was swift and silent. Lucanis moved like a shadow made flesh, while Neve's magic crackled through the air, ice binding their enemies before they could cry out.

Elek and Cida followed close behind, helping to free the captives—frightened merchants, and a few Thread operatives,

"Damas?" Cida asked one of the freed Threads.

The woman shook her head. "Inner courtyard, by the old dock. But something's wrong with him. He's... different."

Lucanis signaled, and they moved as one. The fight was quick and brutal. Neve froze one mage mid-incantation; Lucanis dropped another with a thrown dagger before he could shout a warning. Elek and Cida freed more prisoners as the last enemy fell.

But as they moved to the far end of the market, toward the sound of water lapping at stone, the air grew colder and carried the smell of old magic—something rotten beneath the surface. An archway led to a courtyard that opened onto a hidden dock.

There, standing in the center, was Makal Damas.

His eyes glowed faintly red, and his movements were stilted, like a puppet suspended with strings. 

"Careful," Neve warned. "That's not him."

A voice echoed.

"Oh, Neve,still playing the hero, I see."

The sound coming from Damas was warped. His voice mingled with someone else’s. Someone Neve recognized. Her blood ran cold. “Aelia.”

A laugh, rich and mocking. "Oh, I'm flattered you remember."

"I stopped you once before," Neve said, her staff crackling with building power. “Ill do it again.”

"Did you?" Aelia laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Because here I am, and here you are, and nothing has changed. Except now I have better toys to play with."

Lucanis's eyes swept the perimeter. "Where is she?"

"Close enough. But don't worry—I'm not here to fight. Just to show you how deep the roots go." The invisible enemy taunted. Damas took a step forward, hands twitching at his sides. Neve raised her staff, ice gathering around her fingers.

"Let him go."

"In time," Aelia purred. "I just wanted to say hello. You let me slip away once. That won't happen again, will it?"

Neve launched a bolt of frost, shattering a crate—empty. 

"Actually," she said, the voice soft and deadly, "this has been quite illuminating. Keep him, Neve. Consider it a gift."

Lucanis moved in, catching the man before he fell.

Damas gasped, blinking rapidly as the red glow left his gaze, his hands were trembling as if he'd been holding ice. "Neve?"

"We've got you," she said, steadying him. "You're safe."

Aelia was gone. The shadows held no more answers.

The journey back through the tunnels felt longer, and by the time they reached the Lamplighter, exhaustion had settled over the group like a heavy cloak.

The rescued captives were given hot food and blankets inside the tavern's warmth. Damas, now lucid, was still shaking.

"Thank you," he said to Neve, his voice hoarse. "All of you. I thought... I thought I was lost."

"She'll be back," she said, more to herself than anyone else.

"The Venatori mage?" Lucanis appeared beside her, silent as always.

"Aelia. She won't let this go. She never does." Neve's jaw tightened. "But this time will be different. This time, I'll be ready for her. She won't slip away again."

He watched her for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. There was no grand speech, just quiet resolve. "I'll help you,"

Neve turned to look at him, surprised. "I can't afford your services, Lucanis."

“This one’s on the house. But only if you tell me… why blame her and not me?”

The question hung in the air between them. Neve was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the dark streets of her city.

"I don't really know," she finally admitted. "Who else is there to blame? A face in the sky? Some distant god?" She shook her head. "It's easier to blame someone of flesh and blood, even when it's not entirely fair."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths.

"But that doesn't make it right," she added quietly.

Lucanis nodded. "No. It doesn't."

Chapter Text

The afternoon light of the Fade shone overhead, casting long shadows across the stone courtyard as Rook made her way back from the workshop. Oily substances still stained her hands from helping Bellara with the defective artefact she had been working on since they had arrived at the Lighthouse, refusing to admit defeat.

Taash fell into step beside her as they approached the main building. The qunari had been unusually subdued since their conversation about the whereabouts of the blighted dragons, and Rook had learned to give them space to process. But something shifted in Taash's posture as they crossed the threshold.

They stopped abruptly, nostrils flaring. "I smell blood."

Before Rook could respond, Lucanis and Neve emerged from the mirror room. Her breath caught at the sight of them.

Battle. The signs were unmistakable—blood spattering Lucanis's fine black leather, a fresh tear running down Neve's coat from shoulder to elbow, dirt and something darker smudged across their faces. Lucanis moved with that careful precision he always adopted when injured, but was trying to hide it. Neve's staff hummed with residual magic, ice crystals clinging to it even now.

"What happened?" Rook stopped dead in her tracks, leader and friend warring in her voice.

"Venatori," Neve replied curtly. Her eyes met Rook's for a brief moment—no warmth there, but no outright hostility either. Just weary acknowledgment. She gave a short nod before continuing toward the courtyard, wanting to be undisturbed after a tiring day.

Rook watched her go, surprise swirling through her chest. This was the most polite conversation she'd had with Neve since Minrathous, though it remained distant and cold as winter morning frost.

Lucanis lingered, and Rook found herself automatically scanning him for injuries. A small cut on his cheek, a slight favoring of his left leg, but nothing else jumped out at her. His breathing seemed steady. The blood on his leathers appeared to belong to someone else entirely.

He caught her cataloging his condition, and something softened in his dark eyes, before assuring her of his wellbeing. He too walked away.

As they climbed the stairs toward their rooms, Taash wrinkled their nose again. "There's something else besides the blood. Magic, but it smells wrong. Like rotted meat."

Blood magic. Her stomach clenched as she glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see Lucanis pause at the heavy wooden doors. For a moment, he looked back too—their eyes meeting across the distance—before he disappeared into shadows.

Concern followed Rook to her room, where she tried and failed to lose herself in a book she borrowed from Harding. The words blurred together on the page.  All of it felt insignificant compared to the lingering look Lucanis had given her. She wondered if she was reading too much into the moment. Even though they couldn’t do that again, the night she and Lucanis spent together, meant something to her and she wanted it to mean something for him too.

Eventually, she gave up on reading, settled onto the settee, and poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle she had stashed in her room. She meant to review Bellara's latest research on the workings of the Lighthouse, but after a while, the words on the page blurred for another reason, and exhaustion finally claimed her.

Warm hands on her skin, calloused fingertips tracing the curve of her collarbone with reverent care. Too soft and too hard all at once—gentle enough to worship, firm enough to claim. Her name whispered in her ear in that slow, warm cadence that never failed to set her skin on fire. Hot breath on her neck. His hands in her hair, tilting her head back to expose the vulnerable line of her throat. The scrape of his beard against her skin. The weight of him pressed against her, solid and hard and—

The whispered endearments dissolved as real voices cut through her sleep. Distant at first, then louder as doors were pushed open and slammed against stone walls before falling back into their frames with heavy thuds. Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor outside her room, multiple sets moving with purpose and barely controlled panic.

She rolled off the canapé, bare feet hitting cold stone as she padded to the door. The sounds were coming from the eluvian room—voices she recognized, and one she didn’t.

Without thinking, she slipped out into the corridor wearing nothing but her nightshirt, the fabric settling above her knees as urgency drove her forward.

The voices became clearer as she approached—Taash's commanding growl and Harding's higher pitch. Rook's pulse quickened as she rounded the corner and found them stationed like sentries on the walkway to the eluvian. They were blocking something—someone.

The moment she stepped into view, everything changed.

Lucanis's head snapped toward her with inhuman speed, and Rook's breath caught in her throat. His eyes blazed with violet fire, pupils lost in an otherworldly glow. His face was contorted in a snarl she had never seen on him before—lips pulled back to reveal teeth, jaw clenched with barely restrained violence.

No. Not Lucanis. 

The demon had taken his body. Spite, raw and feral, where Lucanis was careful and composed.

"Rook, thank the Maker!" Harding's voice cracked with relief, though she never took her eyes off the possessed assassin.

"Spite was trying to leave," Taash explained, their massive frame planted firmly in the middle. Every line of their body screamed readiness for violence. "Caught him trying to get through the eluvian."

The demon wearing Lucanis's face took a step forward, and Taash immediately shifted their stance. "Get back, demon!" they barked. "You're not going anywhere."

"I could, if you'd move." The voice that emerged was a twisted harmony—Lucanis's warm, deep tones corrupted by something hoarser and colder. Spite bared his teeth in what might have been a smile on anyone else. On him, it looked like a threat.

Rook felt her training kick in, the same calm that served her in battle settling over her shoulders like a familiar cloak. The key was not to show fear, not to escalate.

"You know this is pointless, Spite," she said, keeping her voice soft and level. "Lucanis will wake up eventually and just come back here."

Those blazing violet eyes fixed on her, and she felt the intensity of the demon's attention. There was intelligence there, ancient and alien, but also something... lost.

"He promised!" The words burst out of him. "We had a deal—get out, and live!"

Understanding washed over her. The Ossuary. The bargain that had saved Lucanis's life. Spite had kept his end—he'd helped Lucanis escape that nightmare prison. But now—

"You did," Rook said gently, taking a small step forward. Taash tensed behind her, but she ignored the warning. "The Ossuary is long gone and behind you."

"He promised!" Spite repeated, and this time she heard the desperation seeping through his anger. The demon sounded betrayed, trying to understand why his deal wasn’t being honored. "Free! He said we would be free!"

"Come on." Rook extended her hand toward him, the gesture deliberate and slow. No sudden movements, nothing that could be interpreted as a threat. "You know there's nowhere else to go."

Spite stared at her hand like it was a trap, or dangerous, or both. Confusion settled across his features—Lucanis's features—warring with the ever-present anger. For a moment, he looked almost human.

She flexed her fingers, emphasizing the invitation. "Let's go back."

The silence stretched between them, tension thick enough to cut. Behind her, she could feel Taash, ready to intervene if this went badly. Harding's breathing was too quick, too shallow. But Rook kept her focus on those violet flames, on the conflict she could see raging behind them.

With a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, Spite reached out and took her hand.

The touch sent a shock through her system—not because it was different, but because it wasn't. This was still Lucanis's hand, soft except where his knives had left calluses along his palm and fingers. Still strong and warm, she closed her fingers around his. Still the same hand that had traced her skin with such reverence in dreams and waking moments alike.

The dichotomy was unsettling in a way she hadn't expected: a monster wearing the face of someone she... cared about, someone whose touch she knew as well as her own.

Together, they walked back through the corridors of the Lighthouse, leaving Harding and Taash to exchange relieved but confused glances in their wake. Rook stayed a half step ahead, leading but not pulling. When she glanced back, she found him staring at their interlaced fingers with something approaching wonder. He squeezed her palm softly—an almost unconscious gesture—and she squeezed back without thinking, offering him the same gentle smile she might give a spooked animal or a child.

"Smells like..." Spite murmured, his voice softer now, less of that harsh overlay. "Jasmine and grapes."

The observation was so unexpected, so quietly intimate, that it momentarily took her breath away. She'd worn jasmine oil in her hair since her mother showed her how—a small luxury that reminded her of ghosts. But she'd never known anyone noticed, least of all him.

Rook pushed open the heavy doors when they reached the dining hall. The moment they crossed the threshold, she felt the hand in hers jerk as if struck by lightning. She looked back to find the violet flames extinguished, replaced by eyes she knew far better—warm, deep brown where she could barely make out his iris against the dark pupils in the firelight. 

Lucanis was back, and the transition was jarring in its completeness. One moment she'd been holding hands with a demon; the next, it was just... him.

Surprise creased his brow, his mouth slightly ajar as if he'd awakened from a particularly vivid dream. His gaze moved from her face to their still-joined hands, and she watched awareness dawn in his expression. Neither of them made any move to let go.

"What—" he started, his voice hoarse with confusion and something else—embarrassment, maybe. 

Keeping her voice gentle, Rook explained,"Spite tried to get out, through the eluvian. Taash and Harding stopped him."

Defeat flickered in his dark eyes, followed immediately by self-recrimination. Lucanis sighed deeply, finally releasing her hand to rub his face with both palms. "I fell asleep," he admitted. "I need more coffee."

The simple statement broke her heart. Here was a man pushing himself past all reasonable limits, trying to stay awake through sheer force of will and caffeine, terrified of what might happen if he let his guard down for even a moment.

"That's not going to solve this," Rook said, unable to keep concern from bleeding through.

"I don't think anything will ever solve this." Lucanis simply said.

He turned away from her, moving toward the small kitchen area where he kept his stash of antivan coffee. His posture slumped slightly, like he was carrying an invisible boulder on his shoulders, as he poured grounds into the coffee press before grabbing the biggest cup he could find.

Rook’s eyes followed his every movement. This man, who had survived torture and demonic possession, was being slowly worn down by his own sense of responsibility. By the belief that he had to carry every burden alone.

"You know," She said softly, choosing her words carefully, "I admire you."

Lucanis paused in his coffee preparation and turned back to look at her, one dark brow raised in genuine confusion, as if the idea that anyone could find something admirable about his situation was utterly foreign to him.

"What you went through," she continued, holding his gaze. "Most people wouldn't have survived that, let alone kept their sanity."

A bitter laugh escaped him, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Did I? Keep my sanity?" His voice dropped to something rawer, more vulnrable. "There's a voice in my head every waking moment, Rook. Sometimes I can't tell which thoughts are mine anymore. I wake up and don't know what I did or how I got there."

The admission hung between them like a confession. She could see how much it cost him to voice those fears, to admit that the control he prized so highly was more illusion than reality.

"I think you're brave," she said earnestly, stepping closer. Her eyes locked on his, trying to convey everything she couldn't quite put into words. "Braver than you know."

"I don't know about brave," he replied, his voice soft. "Maybe just stubborn. Too stubborn to die."

"Either way," she said, taking another small step toward him. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you survived."

Something unspoken brewed in the space between them as their eyes locked. He observed her with an intensity she didn’t know how to interpret, and when she stared back, she thought of what he saw.

She imagined he noticed the way her hair, still tousled from sleep, fell loose over her shoulders. How her nightshirt had slipped slightly. How, under his scrutiny, a flush was slowly spreading across her cheeks.

Rook became suddenly, acutely aware of how little fabric separated them, and how even that felt like too much. She could see the exact moment he noticed her state of undress, watched his pupils dilate as his breathing became slightly uneven.

His gaze traveled from her eyes to her lips and back again, making her pulse flutter. For a heartbeat, she thought he might step closer, that he might finally bridge the akwardnes that had been building between them.

Instead, after what felt like an eternity of shared breath and racing hearts, Lucanis stepped back. 

"Thank you," he said, his voice rougher than it had been moments before. Then he walked toward his makeshift room in the pantry, leaving Rook breathless and aching in the half-lit hall.

Chapter Text

The night air carried the scent of rain and revolution through the open windows of the Cantori Diamond. Below, the casino's lights painted the gaming floors in gold. Above, the Crow base perched like a predator's nest among the rafters. 

Seven weeks of guerrilla warfare had transformed the resistance in Treviso. What began as unorganized strikes by individual Crow Houses against the Antaam occupation had evolved into something more surgical. Hit fast and deadly, vanishing before the encumbered soldiers could mount a response. 

There was no pattern to their attacks, nor any mercy given.

The strategy table dominated the north corner of the room, its surface buried beneath maps, coded messages, and supply manifests—threads binding Treviso to Rivain, Minrathous, and beyond.

Lucanis stood shoulder to shoulder with Nelle, Viago, and Teia, their voices low as they coordinated support for allies across the continent.

"The situation in Minrathous is dire," Nelle reported, her finger tracing damaged districts on the map. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—she had been pushing herself too hard, taking responsibility for every fallen building, every displaced family. "The dragon attack left entire neighborhoods in ruins, and the Venatori are using the chaos to enslave more citizens."

Viago's jaw tightened. Beside him, Teia placed a comforting hand on his arm, and Lucanis noticed how Viago's shoulders eased slightly at her touch and his breathing steadied.

"Treviso escaped that fate by mere luck," Teia said, remembering the near-catastrophe. "We owe the Shadow Dragons our support. More than that—we owe you, Rook."

They had already sent some of their best operatives west, and gold had followed. Funding reconstruction in strategic neighborhoods ensured the Shadow Dragons had the resources to rebuild stronger than before.

"The Crows' gratitude means more than you know," Rook told them, a slight tremor in her voice. "But we need sustainable solutions. The Venatori won't release their upper hand so easily."

Viago leaned over the map, marking new positions. "Intelligence suggests they're consolidating in the warehouse district. If we can coordinate a three-pronged assault—"

Lucanis half-listened, watching the interplay: Viago's protectiveness whenever Rook spoke, Teia's sharp honesty, Rook’s relentless focus. And Illario, lounging at the periphery like a cat too lazy to kill the mouse it toyed with.

His cousin cleared his throat. "Fascinating as always," he drawled, though his attention seemed focused on something beyond the windows rather than their conversation. "I'm sure you'll sort it all out."

The dismissive tone grated on Lucanis. They were planning operations that could save or damn entire neighborhoods, and his cousin acted as if they were discussing something as banal as the weather. After everything that had happened—Caterina's death, the Antaam's iron grip on their city—how could Illario remain so detached?

House Dellamorte teetered on the brink of extinction. Only their combined strength deterred rival houses from moving against them, keeping their contracts and territories intact. Yet Illario treated these discussions like a mere social obligation, contributing nothing of importance while their grandmother's legacy and their home crumbled around them.

"The supply routes through Rivain need better coordination," Rook continued, pointing to shipping lanes marked in blue ink. "Isabella mentioned establishing secure waypoints here and here. We can move resources without—"

"You do so love your logistics, Rook," Illario said, voice smooth as wine. "Perhaps we could discuss them somewhere more… stimulating?"

Lucanis stiffened. 

NO , Spite snarled. She is OURS .

The possessive fury bled into Lucanis's thoughts, violent images flashing behind his eyes—Illario's blood on his hands, his cousin's charming smile replaced by fear. Lucanis ground his palm against the table's edge until the pain cut through the noise. "We're not here to be stimulated."

Rook didn't even blink. "Since there is more work to do, and I suspect your meaning of the word doesn’t match mine, I’m afraid I must decline.”  

Illario's smile faltered, just slightly. Viago's expression didn't change, but Teia's fingers twitched on his arm. Even now, Lucanis couldn't tell if Illario flirted out of habit or calculation—and that uncertainty was the problem.

Most women soon fell under Illario's spell after meeting him. His effortless charm, his practiced compliments, his ability to make each target feel like the only person in the room—it was a weapon as deadly as any blade. Lucanis had watched his cousin collect conquests across dozens of cities, celebrating successful contracts with new lovers enamored by his charisma, only to be discarded for the next pretty face.

Rook’s immunity seemed to frustrate Illario in ways Lucanis found deeply satisfying. Each failed attempt made his cousin try harder, and his approaches became more obvious and desperate.

"Your dedication is admirable," Illario persisted, moving closer than necessary to examine the map. "But surely a more… intimate environment would be more to your liking, no?  I could show you parts of Treviso that tourists never see—hidden gardens, private rooftops where the stars..."

"Illario." Viago's voice sharply cut through the romantic overtures. "Perhaps your efforts would be better directed toward a more conducive purpose." The rebuke was polite, but coming from Viago, it had the edge of a formal warning. 

Illario straightened, his smile never wavering, even as his eyes flashed with something darker. "Of course. Forgive my enthusiasm."

When Rook caught Lucanis's eye across the table, her apologetic look spoke volumes. She was sorry that his cousin was making a fool of himself, as if Illario’s flirtatious way were her fault somehow. The gesture was small but meaningful—recognition that she saw the intentions underneath, that she understood more than she let on.

Viago noticed too, his gaze flicking between Illario and his protégé, cataloging every interaction, every presumption. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly when Illario leaned too close or used her name with too much familiarity. Nothing escaped Viago's attention, especially when it concerned people under his protection. 

And Rook was under his protection, Lucanis realized not just as an ally or strategic asset, but as someone who mattered to him personally. He had seen how Viago embraced her, how his voice softened when he spoke with her, and how he stopped himself from hovering when she sported an injury.

As the night deepened around them, they returned to their planning: supply lines, storage, and safe houses, coded messages and coordinated strikes—the mundane details that kept their resistance alive. Teia's quick wit and tactical brilliance complemented Viago's calculated precision, while Rook’s innovative thinking inspired.

"The Temple Quarter needs additional security," Teia noted, marking positions with red ink. "Refugees from the occupied districts are gathering there, and the Antaam have noticed."

"I can spare three teams," Viago replied immediately. "Veterans who know the district's hidden passages."

"And food to distribute," Nelle added. "Hungry people make desperate choices. The last thing we need is civilians turning informants for Antaam rations."

From the corner of his eye, Lucanis saw Illario yawn, and he could not understand why he didn’t seem to care at all. A year ago, before the Ossuary, Lucanis could have read his cousin like a book. Every expression, every gesture, every fleeting thought had been as clear as printed words on a page. They had grown up together, trained together, bled together in the service of House Dellamorte.

Now, Illario was nothing but a stranger wearing a familiar face. His motivations remained opaque, his priorities unclear. The cousin who had once shared every secret now guarded his thoughts behind practiced smiles and empty charm.

What had changed during that lost year? What had happened while Lucanis rotted in a Venatori prison, while Spite carved pieces from his soul? Had Illario always been this distant, this disconnected from their shared purpose? Or had captivity stripped away Lucanis's ability to see past the surface?

The questions multiplied without answers, breeding suspicion in the dark corners of his mind.

"We should discuss memorial arrangements," Teia said gently as their strategic session wound down. "For Caterina. She deserves proper honors, and we’ve already delayed for too long."

Gratitude and grief warred in Lucanis's chest. They hadn't added her ashes to the family crypt, nor had they held the formal ceremonies that would give her spirit proper rest. Between the Antaam occupation, their desperate resistance efforts, and their search for the gods, there had been no time for mourning, no space for the rituals that bound families together.

"You're very kind to offer," Lucanis began, but Illario interrupted.

"Are you certain this is appropriate timing?" His cousin's voice carried an odd hesitation, as if the prospect of honoring Caterina troubled him in some way. "With everything happening so quickly, perhaps we should wait until the city is more stable—"

The suggestion stopped Lucanis cold. Why would Illario want to delay their grandmother's memorial? She had raised them both after their parents' deaths, taught them the old traditions that kept House Dellamorte strong through centuries of blood and betrayal. She deserved better than indefinite postponement, better than being forgotten in favor of political or practical convenience.

"Caterina wouldn't want us to wait," Lucanis said carefully, watching his cousin's face for tells. "She'd want the family to honor its obligations, even in difficult times."

Illario's smile never wavered, but something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance? Fear? Guilt? "Of course, you're right. I only meant to suggest we give her the celebration she deserves. When we can do it properly."

The explanation sounded reasonable, but it didn't sit right in Lucanis's stomach. Another crack in the foundation of trust that had once seemed unshakeable. How many more doubts could their relationship survive before it collapsed entirely?

A treacherous thought crept through his mind: What if Illario knew about the ambush that sent me to the Ossuary?

Illario had been one of the few who knew about the contract and his travel arrangements. But the idea was blasphemy against everything they had shared, every bond that had sustained him through the darkest moments of captivity.

No. He forced the suspicion down before it could take root. They might be cousins by blood, but they had been brothers by choice. Illario and Caterina were all that was left after rival houses decimated their family in a grab for the position of First Talon.  Caterina would never forgive him for turning against the last of their bloodline. Her ghost would haunt him through eternity if he destroyed what remained of their family on mere suspicion.

But trust didn't mean blindness. He would watch Illario more carefully now, catalog every strange reaction and unexplained absence. If his cousin were hiding something, Lucanis would uncover it before it could destroy what remained of House Dellamorte.

The meeting concluded with final assignments and coded messages for various operatives. As they prepared to leave, Viago approached Rook with the careful deliberation of a man weighing important words. Their conversation was too quiet for Lucanis to overhear, but he saw the gentle way Viago placed his hands on her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze, the protective tenderness in his expression.

When Viago embraced her, the gesture spoke of deep affection that transcended mere alliance. He pressed a kiss to her forehead with a familiarity usually reserved for family, for people whose loss would break something fundamental inside. Rook accepted the affection with equal warmth, her arms tightening around him in a way that spoke of absolute trust.

Watching them, Lucanis thought of her name—Nelle, not Rook. The others on their team knew her only by her nickname, the casual designation that reduced her to a chess piece in someone else's game. But her true name had become precious to him, an intimacy earned.

It grated when Illario used it, drawing out the syllables with false affection. "Until next time, dear Nelle," he said, bowing with a theatrical flourish as he kissed her hand. "I do hope you will reconsider my invitation."

The forced familiarity left a bitter taste in his mouth. It felt like claiming ownership of something that had never been available. Viago's mouth tightened into a thin line, and Lucanis realized he wasn't the only one who noticed his cousin’s presumption.

"Safe travels," Rook replied diplomatically, neither accepting nor rejecting the invitation. Her tone suggested the matter was closed, but Illario seemed determined to interpret neutral responses as encouragement.

Teia clasped Rook's hands warmly before they parted. "Take care of yourself," she said with genuine concern. "I have a feeling it will get worse before it gets better."

As the others filed out into the night, Viago approached Lucanis.

"Keep her safe, Dellamorte," he said quietly, their hands clasping in the traditional Crow farewell. His eyes flicked toward Illario, who was taking his time gathering nonexistent belongings, clearly hoping for a moment alone with Nelle. The meaning in Viago's glance was unmistakable. 

No one touches her.

Guilt flared in his chest as his eyes locked on Nelle. He had let himself grow too close to her, drawing Spite's dangerous attention like a moth to a flame. The demon's possessive fury grew stronger each day, fed by proximity and unspoken feelings that had no place in their desperate circumstances. Every moment they spent together risked her safety, invited the monster in his soul to see her as property to be claimed.

He even suspected that Illario's obvious flirtations were calculated to provoke him rather than genuinely court her. His cousin had always enjoyed getting under his skin, finding the pressure points that made Lucanis lose his composure. What better target than someone who mattered to him? 

He nodded, not sure what he could say to assuage the Talon’s concerns. Viago studied his face with the intensity of someone reading a contract's fine print, seemingly satisfied with what he found there. Trust given and received, obligations acknowledged without need for elaborate promises.

Then Viago pulled him closer, voice dropping to ensure complete privacy. His breath was warm against Lucanis's ear as he delivered words that sent Spite into a frenzy of anticipation.

"We've had reports of unusual Venatori activity. A hideout in Treviso's old district, heavily guarded and more secretive than their usual operations. My sources said that it's different from the cells we've been eliminating—larger, better organized, and incredibly well-funded. Whoever runs it seems to hold a lot of power within the cult."

Lucanis' pulse quickened as understanding dawned. Spite writhed in his mind, bloodthirsty joy bleeding into his thoughts.

Yes , the demon hissed. Blood for blood.

Zara Renata. The mage who had tortured him in the Ossuary's depths, who had bound Spite to his soul. After three months of following cold trails and chasing shadows, they finally had a lead.

"How certain are your sources?" Lucanis asked, fighting to keep his voice level despite the violent anticipation building in his chest.

"Certain enough to risk good Crows investigating," Viago replied grimly. "But be careful. If it's really her, she won't go down easily. Venatori mages of her caliber don't survive this long by being careless."

As if Lucanis needed the warning. He had been planning Zara's death since they put him in his cell, crafting elaborate scenarios of revenge during the long watches of sleepless nights. The woman who had stolen a year of his life, who had violated his mind and body, who had created the monster that now shared his thoughts—she would pay for every moment of suffering she had inflicted.

But beneath the anticipation ran a current of fear he couldn't acknowledge aloud. Facing Zara meant risking Spite's complete emergence, letting the demon taste enough blood to break free of their uneasy partnership.

"Thank you," he told Viago, meaning more than just the information. "We'll handle it."

Viago nodded once, releasing his wrist. "See that you do. Treviso has enough problems without Venatori mages roaming around."

As they finally parted ways, Lucanis caught Illario watching him with unreadable eyes, his expression revealing nothing. Did he suspect what Viago had shared? Had he been eavesdropping on conversations he shouldn't have heard?

Another question without an answer.

Chapter Text

Lucanis jerked awake in his narrow bunk, sheets twisted around his legs like shackles. Cold air hit the sweat coating his chest as he sat up and undid the bindings that tied his wrist to his bed. The nightmare still clawed at him. His breathing came in sharp bursts, each inhale carrying the phantom stench of that accursed place.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed his palms against his temples, trying to push back the memories flooding his mind. But they came anyway, as they always did in the quiet hours before dawn.

The Ossuary lingered in him. Always.

He’d never been a man easily frightened. Caterina had carved fear out of him long ago, replacing it with cold calculation and deadly precision. Even waking on a Venatori ship, bound and bruised, his first thought had been practical: Good, they've spared me the trouble of breaking in myself.

They had expected fear, hungered for it. He’d seen it in their eyes, tasted it on their breath. 

Even Zara's cruel gloating that his family believed him dead hadn't fazed him. She'd circled him like a predator, her silk robes whispering against the stone floor. Her perfume was orange blossom over blood.

But Lucanis had stared through her, revealing nothing. This was a setback, nothing more.

The screams that echoed through the cell block—high, animalistic sounds—created a symphony of suffering that never ceased. Calivan's workshop occupied the deepest level, where the smell of blood and alchemical reagents had soaked so deeply into the stone that it seemed to seep from the walls themselves.

For weeks, they'd worked on him with methodical precision. Calivan was an artist with his knives, each cut calculated for maximum pain without permanent damage. He'd trace patterns across Lucanis's skin precisely, then pour salt into the wounds and ask questions in that soft, cultured voice.

But he had stayed silent. Always silent.

The beatings came next—systematic, brutal affairs that left him retching blood for hours afterward. Calivan would crack ribs, stretch tendons, and lashes fell across his back in measured intervals, tearing away strips of flesh until the stone beneath him grew slick.

Lucanis had been trained for this. Caterina's lessons echoed in his mind: Pain is temporary. Information is forever. A true Crow dies before they break. She had taught him how to transcend pain. Cold, clinical, brutal.

So he retreated inward, where he had built a cathedral of memory within his mind. There, he walked the lantern-lit streets of Treviso and smelled the phantom aromas—fresh-baked bread, pungent cheese, exotic spices from vessels newly arrived at port. He surveyed market vendors' wares, his fingertips ghosting over velvet-skinned peaches and blood-red tomatoes, selecting perfect ingredients for imaginary meals in a kitchen he might never see again.

When they threw him into the lightless pit for days at a time, he'd perform his exercises in the dark—push-ups until his arms trembled, stretches to keep his muscles loose, meditation techniques to maintain his focus. Each movement was deliberate and purposeful. He was not breaking down—he was waiting.

The other prisoners weren't so fortunate. He'd learned their routines through sound alone: the sobbing that echoed from the cells at night, the screams from the torture chambers, the terrible silence that followed when someone was taken and never returned.

Through it all, Lucanis observed. He memorized the guards' shift changes by counting heartbeats, noting which ones were lazy, cruel, and might be bribed or threatened. He mapped every sound—the creak of hinges that needed oil, the echo patterns that revealed the shape of corridors he'd never seen, the rhythm of daily routines that governed this place like clockwork. Every motion catalogued like a Crow preparing the perfect kill.

He was patient. Professional. This was simply another contract, albeit one with unusually challenging parameters.

But then came the day they dragged him to a different chamber entirely, and everything changed. 

Terror had finally found him.

They had taken him to a strange room and strapped him to a table in the center, leather restraints biting into his wrists and ankles that were still raw from his usual heavy iron shackles.  Around the room's edges, other tables waited empty, their surfaces stained dark with the evidence of previous occupants.

Felicity stepped into view. Her hair was pulled tight, her skin was corpse-pale, and her expression was detached. She worked at a desk cluttered with alchemical apparatus—glass vials in twisted shapes, some empty, others swirling with luminescent substances that hurt to look at directly. Crystallized lyrium dust caught the light like ground diamonds, while bundles of deathroot and other, less recognizable ingredients lay arranged in neat rows. She moved with the casual efficiency of someone who'd performed this ritual countless times before.

The other prisoner was brought in struggling. The guards forced him to his knees beside Lucanis's table, shackles weighing down his hands. His eyes were wide with the terror that came from knowing exactly what was about to happen.

She positioned herself behind the shackled prisoner and began an incantation, low and guttural. The sound seemed to bypass his ears entirely, resonating in his bones, making his teeth ache. She drew her dagger and sliced the kneeling man's throat in one decisive movement.

The blood rose unnaturally, suspended midair, coalescing into a breach. From it, something slipped through—something that screamed without sound.

Felicity's wards snapped into place around it, trapping it in a cage of pure will before forcing it into a vial.

She then approached his table, wiping blood from her hands with a clean cloth. Her eyes held the flat emptiness that came from performing terrible acts until they no longer registered as such.

"Zara Renata has made a special request," she told him. "Since you're already called the Demon of Vyrantium," she said, bringing her face close to his, "she wanted to make it official—to give substance to the legend." Her smile was the worst part—genuine pleasure, as though she were offering him a gift. "Consider this a promotion."

He thrashed as two guards pried open his mouth.

"Congratulations, Crow," she said, and poured the contents down his throat.

He felt it go down as it burned like molten glass and froze like deepest Fade. It writhed like it lived. It sought him.

When they unstrapped him and threw him back into his cell, Lucanis barely made it to the corner before his body revolted. He retched, violent and useless, the taste of the potion clinging to his throat like spoiled metal.

It wouldn’t come up. It had already taken root inside him—coiling through muscle and marrow. He felt it then: something shifting beneath his skin, heat crawling through his veins, too precise to be fever.

He crawled to his usual corner and propped himself against the cold stone wall, trying to outbreath the nausea.

He knew what came next; he’d heard it. Others had gone through this. None stayed human.

And in that moment—knees drawn to chest, body shivering uncontrollably, the taste of corruption clinging to his throat—Lucanis allowed himself one emotion:

Rage.

He refused to be their triumph.

If he was going to become a monster, then let him be one of his own making. Let him kill Calivan first—with claw, with fang, with whatever this thing inside him wanted to use. Let Zara choke on the taste of her own brilliance.

He would not die as their experiment. He would kill them as their consequence.

Even now, instinct clung to him like a second skin—the teachings drilled into him from youth, the ruthless pragmatism of the Crows. And at the center of it all, always, was Caterina.

The thought of her reaction almost made him laugh. Dying with a contract unfulfilled? She’d drag him to hell herself for such unprofessional behavior. If he were going to become an abomination, he'd make it count. 

The days that followed blurred together in a haze of growing wrongness. The foreign presence stirred within him like a sleeping predator. His skin felt too tight, as though something pressed against it from within, testing its limits.

But worse than the physical changes was the voice that began whispering in the quiet moments—not words, exactly, but intent, urges, a growing bloodthirst he'd never felt before.

On the fifth day after the ritual, as he sat in his corner planning Calivan's death in exacting detail, the whispers finally resolved into something coherent.

A voice, sharp and ragged, spoke directly into his mind with a hunger that wasn’t his.

Smells like... blood. And vengeance.

And Lucanis was no longer alone in his skin.

Lucanis’s hand had gone numb from grabbing his dagger too tightly,  but he barely noticed. His attention was fixed on the figure moving through the crowds below—a man whose face was burned into his memory. The jagged line that carved its way from left temple to the right corner of his mouth was unmistakable, a grotesque souvenir from whatever violence had marked him as one of Zara's chosen.

Viago's intel had been correct. The Venatori guard had led him on a winding path through Treviso's heart—from the bustling Grande Markets through the Financial District, and finally to the Chantry. The man had shed his usual Venatori garb for common clothes, but no disguise could hide that scar.

A shadow detached itself beside him, and Rook appeared. Her eyes searched his face with quiet intensity. Lucanis was grateful for her presence. This was personal business, his vendetta to settle. But he knew with bone-deep certainty that Rook wouldn't have stayed behind even if he'd asked. She was too stubborn, too loyal, too invested in seeing this through.

"You sure?" she asked. 

"I'm sure." He kept his voice level, though Spite stirred restlessly in the depths of his mind, eager for what was to come. "Zara owes me a debt of pain and misery. Tonight, it will be paid in full."

He outlined their approach with efficient gestures—across the roofline, using Treviso's old stonework to reach the chantry's upper balcony. They checked their gear. Nothing could go wrong tonight.

The familiar rhythm of rooftop movement—reach, grip, vault, and land—calmed the restless energy that had been building in his chest since the moment he'd spotted his quarry.

When they landed on the final roof before the chantry, a voice broke the night's silence, freezing Lucanis's blood in his veins.

"There you are. What took you so long?"

The words drifted from the shadows with casual familiarity. He knew that voice better than his own.

"Illario?" The name escaped him as his cousin stepped into view with effortless grace and smug confidence. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm coming with you, cousin. No argument." Illario's attention shifted to Rook with a smile on his face. "Nelle, so nice to see you again. After this nasty business is concluded, you must allow me to show you the sights."

"This is my job," Lucanis snapped.

"This is Crow business," Illario countered. "Family business."

"How did you even know we'd be here?"

"Cousin," Illario said with a practiced smile meant to disarm. "Let me help."

"Lucanis told you no," Rook said flatly. Her arms crossed. She positioned herself slightly between the two men, and Lucanis felt a surge of warmth at her loyalty.

"This isn't your kind of job, cousin." Lucanis kept his voice firm. "There's no one to charm into dropping their guard, only fanatics. You'll only get yourself killed."

Irritation flickered across Illario's face. "You don't think I'm good enough?" The words carried the edge of old wounds, competitions, and resentments that had festered in the spaces between them.

"Are you?"

Illario's expression tightened, the smile faltering. "Fine. Have it your way. Good luck with your retribution."

Lucanis watched him go, confusion and unease warring in his chest. But he couldn't afford to dwell on his cousin's strange behavior, not when Zara was so close. He felt Rook's questioning gaze—the furrow of her brow and the tightness around her lips—as she held back questions.

They slipped into the Chantry. The sacred halls were lifeless and still, moonlight casting long shadows through stained glass. But Lucanis spotted subtle signs: shifted dust, faint tracks.

"Look," Rook pointed to a bookcase. Scuff marks on the stone floor told a story of repeated movement, and when Lucanis examined the shelves more closely, he could see the subtle wear patterns where hands had gripped the wood.

Behind the bookcase lay a narrow hallway that plunged into darkness. Steep stone steps descended into the building's bowels, lit by a handful of flickering torches that cast more shadow than light. The air that wafted up from below made Lucanis's stomach clench—old blood, incense, and sweet decay.

They exchanged a look and went down.

The hallway opened into a vaulted cellar that branched in multiple directions. The torchlight revealed corridors that twisted away into darkness, and as they explored deeper, the faint smell of sweet rot began to overpower even the metallic tang of old blood.

Lucanis knew they were close when he caught the telltale signs of blood magic. He motioned to Rook, and she nodded, her hand dropping instinctively to her blade's hilt.

The cells they passed would have broken lesser minds—bodies drained dry, their skin paper-thin and clinging to bone.

At the corridor’s end, two guards waited. Lucanis recognized them both. The scarred man he'd followed through Treviso's streets, and the second of Zara's personal guards—both had watched with evident enjoyment as their mistress worked her bloody craft on his flesh.

No time for plans. He nodded to Rook, then approached.

He stepped forward while she melted back into the shadows of a small alcove. The guards moved toward him without warning or hesitation—professional killers who recognized a threat when they saw one.

The first guard struck immediately, his blade whistling through the air where Lucanis's head had been a heartbeat before. Lucanis parried with one blade while ducking under the second guard's reaching arm, forcing the first man to turn his back to Rook's hiding place. 

She struck without hesitation, advancing with perfect silence to draw her blade across the exposed throat. 

The tight corridor favored brute strength, and the man pressed him hard, each blow forcing Lucanis back toward the stone wall. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he sought an opening, any gap in the man's defense. 

When it came, Rook provided it—a perfectly timed kick to the kidneys that sent the guard stumbling forward. Lucanis drove his blade into the exposed throat, feeling the familiar resistance of flesh and cartilage. Blood filled the man's mouth, cutting off his final gasps in a wet, choking silence.

They entered the chamber beyond, and Lucanis felt his breath catch in his throat.

Pillars lined the vaulted room, its ceiling lost to shadows. A large, sunken bath, filled to the brim with blood so fresh it still steamed in the cool air, dominated the space.

In it, Zara Renata bathed.

Upon their intrusion, she rose slowly from her crimson bath, her naked form coated with the thick red substance that filled the air with a metallic stench so powerful it dragged Lucanis back to his imprisonment.

Her pitch-black hair clung against pale skin, eyes rimmed in kohl, fixed on him with mocking glee. She was beautiful in the same way that poisoned flowers were—lovely to look upon but deadly to touch.

"Lucanis," she purred. "It's terribly uncivilized to drop in on a lady unannounced. Now the evening is quite ruined." She pouted with mock disappointment, but her eyes gleamed with violent anticipation.

Lucanis kept his gaze trained on her as she prowled closer, every move calculated to display her naked form to its best advantage. Spite roared in his skull, screaming for blood as the demon's rage made his vision blur at the edges. He jerked his head slightly, trying to drown out the voice that grew louder with each passing second.

Slowly, deliberately, he moved to one side of the pool. Rook instinctively circled to the other side, flanking the blood mage. Zara smiled lazily at each of them, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as if she were savoring a fine wine.

"Two against one?" she asked, feigning hurt. "How unsporting of you."

Then she lunged at Rook.

The fight that followed was brutal and seemingly endless. Whenever Lucanis's blade found flesh or Rook's daggers drew blood, the sorceress would draw on the warm, crimson liquid that surrounded them, using it to fuel magic that sealed cuts and renewed her strength.

But Lucanis knew she couldn't maintain this forever. Magic always had a price, and even blood magic had its limits. Using this much power without pause would eventually drain her, regardless of how much blood she had to fuel her spells. They just had to outlast her, had to endure whatever she threw at them until her reserves ran dry.

When Zara threw Rook into a pillar with a casual flick of her hand, the sound of bone meeting stone cracked through the chamber. Rook crumpled at the base of the pillar, gasping for air as she struggled to push herself upright, blood trickling from her temple.

Something snapped inside Lucanis, then. Spite erupted with fury, and he loosened his control of the demon, giving him room.

His vision took on a violet tinge as he resumed attacking with renewed ferocity that claimed Zara's complete attention. Rook had regained her breath and joined the attack, though her movements were slower after the collision.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. Zara's black hair seemed to dull with each spell she cast. Fine lines appeared around her eyes, and her skin seemed to sag whenever she deflected his attacks. But he wasn't wrong—her dwindling magic reserves meant she could no longer maintain the spell that preserved her youthful appearance.

By the time Lucanis had finally worked Zara to the ground, she looked ancient.

He approached Zara with measured steps, as Spite demanded revenge. The demon wanted blood, wanted to feel her heart stop beating in their hands, wanted to watch the light fade from her eyes as payment for every moment of torment she had inflicted.

"Lucanis," she wheezed, hoisting herself against the pillar with shaking arms. "Why so serious? We could discuss terms, you and I."

"I could tell you much about the Venatori," she offered desperately. "Don't you want to know who betrayed you? Who sent you to the Ossuary?"

No , Spite roared in his mind, the demon's voice almost drowning out every other thought. I want her heart. Quivering. On our knife.

Lucanis fought to stay in control. He needed answers. "Talk."

"I knew you were—"

Suddenly, a shape dropped from the ceiling, landing in a crouch before rising with a theatrical flourish.

Illario.

Lucanis saw something flicker in Zara’s eyes—recognition. Relief. Hope.

"Amatu—"

The word was cut short as Illario grabbed her head with both hands and twisted her neck with a sickening crack that echoed through the chamber. Her lifeless body crumpled to the ground with an undignified thud.

Lucanis didn’t move. Couldn’t. Everything he’d endured, everything he’d survived—and it ended like this?

Spite surged forward with overwhelming force, fed by rage, frustration, and the thwarted need for blood.

No! Mine!  

The demon's fury crashed through Lucanis like a dam bursting. He found himself lunging forward before he could even process what was happening. Illario's eyes widened as Lucanis was on top of him instantly, blade raised high above his head.

Illario blocked the strike, barely. Lucanis gripped the knife with one hand—and his own wrist with the other. He could feel his muscles straining with effort, feel sweat beading on his forehead as he fought against himself. The blade trembled between them, its point mere inches from Illario's throat.

"Nelle!" he choked. "Get him out!"

He saw her eyes widen with shock as she froze for a moment. He called out again, desperation lending strength to his voice, and this time she lunged forward.

But she was too late. Spite seized control, and Lucanis's vision went black.

When awareness returned, he was thrown onto his back several feet away, the knife scattered beyond his reach. Rook knelt beside him, arguing with Illario in confused and angry voices. He couldn't make out the exact words; his hearing felt muffled, as if he were underwater.

When Rook helped him sit up, he saw Illario storming out of the chamber, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

"Keep him away from Treviso, from the Crows. He is a danger to the family."

The chamber fell into blood-soaked silence, broken only by the sound of Lucanis's ragged breathing.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched between them as they traveled back to the Lighthouse, their footsteps echoing off the cobblestone paths. Nelle glanced sideways at Lucanis, noting the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his jaw worked, as if he were grinding his teeth. When she'd suggested going to Viago and Teia—telling them what had happened, asking for their counsel—he'd turned away without a word.

"Lucanis—"

"No." The word came out sharp. He stopped walking, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I can't... not yet."

She watched shame creep across his features like a shadow. He wouldn't meet her eyes, and when she reached out to touch his arm, he pulled away as if her fingers burned.

The rejection stung, but she understood it. Illario might be manipulative or a threat, but blood was blood. If tonight had ended differently, she knew it would have destroyed something in Lucanis that he would never be able to rebuild.

When they reached the Lighthouse, Lucanis headed straight for the door without so much as a backward glance. Nelle stood next to the stairs leading to the upper level, watching his retreating figure disappear behind the heavy wooden doors. Her chest felt tight, full of words she didn't know how to say.

What she'd witnessed tonight—Spite's violent takeover, the raw fury that had transformed Lucanis's face into something barely recognizable—hadn't frightened her the way he clearly thought it had. Where he saw a monster unleashed, she'd seen a man pushed beyond his breaking point, fighting battles on multiple fronts.

The assumption that she'd be afraid of him, disgusted by what he'd become, made her want to shake him. But she knew that feeling came from his own self-loathing, not anything she'd said or done.

A soft grinding sound drew her attention. One of the Lighthouse's mysterious doors appeared in the main building's wall, with stones giving way to reveal a circular opening. Beyond the threshold, a narrow corridor led to a shimmering portal. The Caretaker appeared then, ushering her inside with its gentle voice, "Inside, Dweller."

Nelle stepped through without hesitation. The world shifted around her, colors bleeding and reforming, until she stood in an unfamiliar room. Sparse didn't begin to describe it—a simple bed with a thin mattress, a plain wooden wardrobe, a mirror that reflected the pale light filtering through an open doorway. Crates and empty chests were scattered about like abandoned thoughts.

Everything about the space felt lonely, forgotten. She couldn't shake the feeling that it had once belonged to Solas, though she couldn't say why. Perhaps it was the deliberate emptiness, the way it seemed designed to hold nothing that might tie its occupant to the world.

The doorway led to a small balcony carved into the building's stone face. She'd noticed this outcropping before during her explorations of the Lighthouse's exterior, but the walls were too smooth to climb and the perch too high to reach any other way. Standing there, she could see the entire courtyard spread below her, the dining hall doors clearly visible.

Sounds rose from below, but the height dampened everything, as if the balcony existed in its own pocket of stillness.

She could see lights flickering in Bellara's workspace; no doubt the elf was lost in her project and hadn't noticed the lateness of the hour or even remembered to eat. A little further, Neve's shadow moved in her office, moving from her desk to the map behind it, putting pieces of a puzzle together like always. The movements seemed small and distant from this vantage point, like watching actors on a stage.

Nelle stepped back through the portal to the main floor, counting her footsteps, timing the journey. Twelve seconds door to door. If Spite decided to drag Lucanis out for another confrontation with Illario, twelve seconds would be enough to intercept them.

The thought solidified her resolve. She made her way to her own quarters, gathering supplies. Clean shirts, her warmest blankets, two books she'd been meaning to read, and the half-empty bottle of wine she'd once saved for a victory that never came.

Back in the abandoned room, she dragged the thin mattress onto the balcony and arranged her blankets into a comfortable nest. The books and wine went in the corner by the door, her shirts folded neatly on the bare bed frame. It wasn't much, but it would do.

She would stay here tonight or any other night. However long it took. A sentinel watching over someone who wouldn't accept support any other way.

Hours passed as Nelle lay on her makeshift bed, studying the impossible sky above. The Fade's version of stars made no sense—constellations she'd known since childhood appeared upside down or mirrored. Some were compressed into tight clusters while others sprawled across vast expanses of nothing.

She remembered their first nights at the Lighthouse, when the sky had been empty and dark. Crows were people of the night, working under the cover of darkness and navigating by the familiar patterns of the moon and stars. The celestial void had left her feeling unmoored, cut off from the rhythms that had governed her life.

The Fade stars had appeared gradually, as if the Lighthouse were learning what its inhabitants needed. If they had manifested just for her, she was grateful, even if they defied every map she'd ever memorized.

The wine was gone now. Her book lay abandoned beside her, the same paragraph read and reread until the words blurred. Her attention kept drifting to the dining hall doors, as if she could divine Lucanis's state of mind from the wood sheltering him.

Eventually, she gave up. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she padded barefoot to the portal and to the courtyard. The stone floor was cold, each step requiring conscious effort not to break into a run.

The dining hall was quiet. She moved past scattered notebooks and long-forgotten meals to the back corner where Lucanis had made his makeshift quarters.

She knocked—three soft taps.

She didn't wait for permission before pushing the door open and slipping inside.

Lucanis sat hunched over on his bed, elbows braced on his knees—a single candle burned on the makeshift table beside him. The warm light cast deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the hollows beneath his eyes.

He didn't look up when she entered, didn't acknowledge her presence at all. She'd seen him angry before, had watched him channel that fury into deadly precision in battle. She'd seen him focused, calculating, utterly controlled. But this—this quiet devastation—was something else entirely.

Nelle approached silently and knelt in front of him, her hands resting gently on his knees. From this angle, she could see the defeat written in every line of his face.

His meticulous appearance had crumbled along with everything else. His shirt hung open at the collar. The sleeves were rolled up carelessly, exposing forearms corded with muscle and marked with old scars. The silver crow buttons and delicate chain he typically wore were nowhere to be seen.

"Lucanis," she said softly.

He blinked slowly but didn't raise his head.

She moved one hand from his knee to his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her palm. "Look at me."

For a moment, he didn't respond. Then, with what looked like tremendous effort, he lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes. She could see the reluctance in the movement, as if even this small gesture drained what little strength he had left.

What she saw in his eyes made her chest tighten—an emptiness so profound it seemed to echo.

"I didn't want you to see me like that," he said hoarsely. "The way I lost control. The way Spite... I almost—"

"Stop." She shifted her position, instinctively moving her hands to cup his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

He leaned into her touch, eyes closing as if the contact brought both relief and pain. "You saw what I became."

"I saw a man protecting his family," she said firmly. "I saw someone pushed past his limits, fighting to stay himself."

His eyes opened, and he searched her face as if looking for signs of deception, of the fear she was sure he expected to find. "How can you say that? How can you look at me and not see—"

She silenced him with a kiss, gentle but insistent. He didn't respond at first, his lips still beneath hers as if he wasn't sure how to accept such tenderness. Then something in him seemed to crack, and he tentatively kissed her back.

When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his. His hands found her waist as her fingers threaded into his hair.

"You deserve better than this. Better than me." Lucanis insisted, seemingly resolved to deter her from him.

Instead of arguing, she kissed him again. This time, there was no hesitation—his mouth moved against hers, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck. The kiss deepened. No urgency or conquest, just comfort and connection.

They stayed like that for long moments, trading gentle kisses and soft touches. Nelle's fingers combed through his dark hair while his hands mapped the curve of her spine through the fabric covering her. The world outside the pantry seemed to fade away, leaving only this small space and the quiet intimacy building between them.

Eventually, she pulled back just enough to look at him and felt relieved when some of the hollow desperation had left his eyes. She stood slowly, letting the blanket slide from her shoulders to pool at their feet.

Without breaking eye contact, she straddled his lap, her hands settling on his shoulders. His own hands found her hips, spanning her waist with gentle reverence. She leaned in to kiss him again, slow and deep.

Her fingers found the remaining buttons of his shirt, working them free with patient care. She pushed the fabric off his shoulders, letting her hands explore the geography of his chest. His skin was warm beneath her palms, marked with scars that told stories of a life lived in shadows and violence—a thin line across his ribs, a knot of tissue near his collarbone, jagged lines on his back.

She took her time, memorizing the texture of dark hair beneath her fingertips and the way his breathing changed when she traced her fingertips across his ribs. Her touch was deliberate but gentle as she learned the map of him.

His hands remained on her waist, their touch light and wondering, as if he couldn't quite believe she was real. But as she continued her exploration, his grip grew more confident, thumbs stroking along the curve of her hip bones through the thin fabric.

When she pulled her own shirt over her head, letting it fall forgotten to the floor, his eyes widened with something approaching awe. He simply looked at her for a moment, taking in the sight of her bare skin in the candlelight. Then his hands moved, skimming her sides with reverent touches that made her breath catch. His palms were calloused from years of blade work, rough against the smooth skin of her back, but his touch was infinitely gentle.

"Beautiful," he whispered, the word barely audible in the small space. A small blush spread on her cheeks at the reverence in his voice, leaving her flushed.

Her hands moved to the laces of his pants, fingers working them loose with the same patient care she'd shown his shirt. He lifted his hips to help her, and she felt the evidence of his desire as she freed him from the constraints of fabric. 

When they were both bare, she settled back on his lap, feeling the heat of him against her.  Their lips danced in a languid rhythm as his hands mapped her body—trailing from her shoulders down to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing across sensitive peaks that made her gasp softly into his mouth.

She could feel him hard and ready beneath her, but she took her time, rocking against him slowly until his breathing grew ragged. His hands gripped her thighs as she moved, and she could see him struggling to let her set the pace, the tension in his jaw betraying how much control it cost him.

"Nelle," he breathed against her lips, her name a plea.

She lifted herself, positioning him at her entrance, then sank slowly, taking him inch by inch. Nelle moaned softly, her eyes fluttering closed as she adjusted to the exquisite feel of him inside her. For a moment, neither of them moved. She could feel him trembling beneath her, as his forehead dropped to rest against her chest, ghosting her skin with warm breath.

"I've wanted this," she admitted, threading her fingers through his hair. "Wanted you. Since—"

He silenced her with a kiss, desperate and grateful, and she began to move. The rhythm she set was slow and deliberate—rising until he almost slipped free, then sinking back down to take him fully. Each movement sent waves of pleasure through her, building steadily like a gathering storm, their lips finding each other over and over again.

His hands guided her movements, sometimes lifting her, sometimes pulling her down harder when she teased him with shallow strokes. They found their cadence together, a dance as old as time but somehow entirely their own. When he lifted his hips to meet her, the angle changed, hitting that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids.

"Yes," she gasped, picking up the pace slightly. "Like that."

He responded by wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, deeper. His mouth found her throat, pressing kisses and gentle bites to the sensitive skin there. The scrape of his beard against her neck sent shivers through her, adding another layer to the building sensations of pleasure.

The small room filled with the sounds of their joining—quiet gasps, the rustle of skin against skin, the soft creak of the cot beneath them. The candle flame danced with their movements, casting shifting shadows on the walls.

She could feel the tension coiling tighter in her core, each roll of her hips bringing her closer to the edge.

"I'm close," she moaned against his lips, and felt him nod, his own breathing ragged.

His thumb found the sensitive bundle of nerves where they were joined, circling gently until he sent her spiraling over the edge. Her release crashed over her in waves, her body clenching around him as his mouth swallowed her cries of pleasure.

Feeling her climax around him seemed to trigger his own, and she felt him follow her with a low groan, his arms tightening around her as if he could hold onto this moment forever. She felt him pulse inside her, filling her with warmth as they clung to each other, riding out the aftershocks together.

Afterward, they remained entwined, her head resting on his shoulder, his hands stroking her hair. The candle had burned lower, wax pooling on the table beside them. Neither spoke, afraid that words might break the fragile peace they'd built.

Chapter Text

His eyes didn't flutter open—they snapped open, immediately sharp and alert, the way they always had since the Ossuary. Sleep wasn’t rest anymore; it was risk, a lowered guard. A door left ajar for Spite.

But this morning brought something different. He registered the warm weight pressed against his side. Nelle's arm draped across his chest, her breath feathering against his skin, her legs tangled with his beneath the blanket.

She had burrowed into him during the night, seeking his warmth. The sight of her like this, so unguarded and trusting, did something to his chest he couldn't name—a tightness that wasn't fear or pain but something softer, more dangerous.

The memory of how she'd come to him the night before washed over him—how she hadn't flinched from the things he feared most about himself. She'd seen the demon lurking beneath his skin, the blood on his hands, the fractures in his mind, and stayed anyway.

His free hand moved on instinct, brushing her hair back with the same care he once gave to poison or blades—precision, but gentler, touching something precious, not fragile. 

He let his fingertips trace the line of her jaw that his mouth had claimed in the dark, before resting his palm against the curve of her waist. He'd memorized a hundred different ways to kill with these hands, but now, all he wanted was to learn how to worship instead.

Even unconscious, she was devastating to him—long lashes that cast shadows on her cheekbones, full lips that had melded with his, the graceful curve of her neck where he could still feel her pulse. The intimacy of watching her like this was almost overwhelming.

Sex had never been a pursuit for Lucanis like it was for his cousin. When it occasionally happened, it was detached, anonymous, easily forgotten, and never repeated. But with her? He wanted to linger, to stay even. It was a danger he didn’t know how to navigate.

She chose us, Spite murmured, quieter than usual. He wasn’t hunting, wasn’t pressing—just watching, strangely still. Lucanis didn’t know for sure what the demon felt. Maybe awe. Maybe hunger. 

"Yes," Lucanis whispered to the quiet room. "She did."

Time felt suspended in those precious moments. Her breathing remained deep and even, occasionally punctuated by the softest sigh or whimper that made heat curl low in his belly. He reveled in the way her weight anchored him, the way her hair tickled his chest, the trust implicit in how completely she had surrendered to sleep in his arms.

When he finally stirred, easing out from under her with the silent movements of his trade, she murmured something unintelligible, reaching blindly for his warmth. But when her seeking hand found only empty space, she pulled his pillow to her chest, burying her face in the fabric.

Smells like us , Spite observed with unmistakable pride, his shadowy form materializing beside the bed to study her with fascination. Marked.

The possessiveness in the demon's voice should have alarmed him. Instead, Lucanis found himself agreeing completely.

"Let her rest," he ordered, though he found himself equally captivated by the sight of her nestled in his bedding, surrounded by their mingled scent.

Spite dismissed him with an imperious wave. Don't. Wake. Her.

His eyes never left her form—possessive, curious, territorial in a way that made Lucanis's pulse quicken.

He pulled on his discarded pants, padding silently from the room on bare feet. The Lighthouse's dining hall was still shrouded in pre-dawn quiet, giving him the solitude he needed for his morning ritual.

In the small alcove that held the kitchen, muscle memory guided his movements. This was his meditation—fresh water into the kettle, the coffee beans measured with the precision of his grandmother's recipe. The familiar motions centered him, the precise grinding that released that rich, earthy aroma.

It had always been a solitary act, this brewing—a moment of peace in a life filled with death.

This morning, however, his hand reached for a second mug without conscious thought. The aromatic steam rising from both cups chased away the last shadows of old nightmares. For once, he looked forward to sharing something beautiful instead of dealing death.

When he returned, Nelle was sitting up in bed, the sheet clutched to her chest, hair tousled from sleep. Her eyes held that glazed confusion of someone caught between sleeping and waking, and for a heartbeat, uncertainty flickered across her features.

His chest tightened. Had she regretted staying the night? Had the morning light changed what they'd shared in darkness?

Then her gaze found his, and her expression transformed. Relief smoothed the worried lines around her eyes, followed by a smile so radiant it was almost blinding. Her smile called forth his own, an answering warmth that started in his chest and spread through his entire being.

She wanted to be here. With him. Still.

"Good morning," he said, crossing to the bed, careful not to spill the coffee.

She accepted the offered mug with both hands, cradling it like the treasure it was. "You made me coffee?" Wonder colored her voice, as if his grandmother's secret blend was a love letter written in steam and caffeine.

"Of course," he replied, settling onto the mattress beside her. The sheet slipped as she moved, revealing the elegant column of her throat where he could see the faint marks his mouth had left. The sight sent pure satisfaction thrumming through him—his kiss, visible on her skin.

She lifted the cup higher, closing her eyes as she inhaled the vapors. The expression of pure bliss that crossed her features made pride swell in his chest, as if her pleasure was like the highest praise he'd ever received. She took her first sip, and the soft sound of appreciation she made—that little hum of contentment—sent heat coursing straight through him.

"This is incredible," she murmured, settling back against the wall, legs drawn to her chest beneath the bedsheet.

He smiled and sat next to her, their shoulders touching skin to skin. The casual intimacy of it stole his breath—how natural it felt, how desperately he'd needed this without even knowing it.

They sat in comfortable silence, but the coffee's warmth was nothing compared to the contentment of having her beside him as if she had meant to be there all along. He found himself noticing details to be catalogued—the way she held the cup, how she tucked her hair behind her ears before she took a sip, how she closed her eyes in bliss after, the crinkle of her nose when she yawned.

"I thought you might have left," she admitted quietly, her head finding its place against his shoulder like it belonged there. "When I woke alone."

The vulnerability in her voice stirred something fierce in his chest. He set down his coffee and turned to frame her face, his hands still warm from holding the cup.

"Where would I go when everything I want is right here?" 

The kiss began softly, but quickly deepened as she responded with eager fervor. He eased her back onto the rumpled sheets, marveling at how perfectly she fit against him. The sight of her—trust and desire written across every line of her body—made his hands shake slightly. After so much death, so much destruction, how had he been allowed this? How had she chosen him ?

Her hands followed the contours of his shoulders, mapped the planes of his chest, and followed his spine up and down. Every caress, every sweep of her tongue, stoked the fire from last night that had never fully died.

He nipped and licked the sensitive spot below her ear, making her shiver as she arched into him. His lips charted a deliberate course along her throat—he'd always been methodical, thorough—pausing to suck gently at her pulse point until she pressed her nails into his back.

Her hands became more demanding, one threading through his hair to guide his mouth where she craved it, the other trailing down his ribs with touches that burned. When her fingers worked at his pants, he helped her push them away, groaning as her palm brushed against his hardening length.

"I want to taste you," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with want.

She let out a breathless moan and bit her lip as his mouth began a slow journey down her body. At the swell of her breasts, he lingered, tongue circling each nipple until she was writhing beneath him, soft whimpers escaping her lips that went straight to his groin.

Lower still, he pressed kisses to her ribs, her stomach, the sharp points of her hipbones, taking his time despite her increasingly desperate pleas. When he slid his hand between her thighs, she was already ready for him—warm and wanting, every soft sound urging him closer.

The first touch of his fingers drew a cry from her that made his own desire spike almost painfully, but he forced himself to go slow, exploring her with his tongue and fingers until she was trembling, his name falling from her lips in broken syllables.

Only when she was on the very edge, when her hands were fisted in the sheets and her hips were lifting desperately against him, did he rise to claim her lips again.

"I need you inside me." She groaned against his mouth, and the need in her voice nearly shattered his control. That she needed him , wanted him despite everything he was, everything he carried—it was absolution and damnation rolled into one.

He grabbed her thighs, and, bracing on one knee, he sank into her in one smooth motion. Nelle moaned as he buried himself inside of her again and again. Slow and deep. His hand roamed over her, cupping the weight of her breasts in his palm, when he felt her arch beneath him, pressing herself closer. 

She matched him movement for movement, pulling him closer. He felt her hands roaming his back, her nails marking him as surely as he had marked her. Lucanis drove even deeper into her as Nelle wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him exactly where she needed him.

"Right there," she gasped, her voice broken with pleasure. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

She's perfect, he thought, losing himself in the feel of her around him. How is she perfect?

Spite watched from the edge of his consciousness, but for once, Lucanis didn't care about the demon's presence. Not when she was everything—her pleasure, her trust, the way she gave herself to him completely.

Time became meaningless as they built toward their peak together, skin slick with sweat, breathing ragged. Her movements grew more urgent, and he could feel her tightening around him, so close to falling apart.

When she broke apart in his arms, he followed her. Buried deep in her pulsing warmth as she shuddered from her release, leaving them gasping and clinging to each other.

Afterward, they lay entwined, hearts gradually slowing, as he pressed lazy kisses to her temple.

“I could stay here forever,” He murmured, meaning every word.

Her laugh was soft, musical. "As tempting as that sounds, there would be a revolt if the rest of the team didn't have breakfast on time."

The thought of facing the others made him groan. "Taash might actually set me on fire."

"We wouldn't want that," she said, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat that made him shiver. 

Reality intruded with reluctant persistence, dissolving the little bubble they were in. He rolled away to retrieve their scattered clothing, trying not to stare too obviously at the elegant lines of her body as she moved—though his eyes, trained to notice every detail, missed nothing.

When she stood and turned to dress, his breath caught. Angry purple bruising coloured her shoulder blades—stark evidence of the violence that had preceded their union. The sight of her marred skin made something murderous rise in his chest.

Spite howled at the sight, fury pouring through their shared bones. The witch was dead, but that didn’t matter. Pain written on her skin still felt like failure.

For once, demon and man were in perfect agreement.

She wrapped herself in his blanket, unaware of his scrutiny, giving him a smile that could have powered the entirety of the Lighthouse’s defenses, as she announced her plans to go get washed up and dressed.

He caught her wrist as she moved toward the door, pulling her against him for one more kiss—deep and thorough and full of promises for tonight, for every night she'd have him.

When he finally released her, they were both breathing harder.

As the door closed behind her, he sank back onto the bed that still held her warmth, her scent.  Spite didn’t speak, but Lucanis could feel him—quiet, watchful. And, maybe, for once, content.

Nelle's legs felt unsteady as she climbed the stairs to her chamber, each step a reminder of what had just transpired in the pantry. Her skin still hummed with the memory of Lucanis' touch, and when she pressed her fingers to her lips, she could taste him there, making her stomach flutter. She couldn’t suppress the smile that crept across her face.

She pushed open the door to her room and leaned against it for a moment, releasing a shaky breath. Everything looked the same—the books scattered across her desk, the armor stand in the corner, her blades on the table next to the oil—but nothing felt the same.

She slowly began to undress, trying to focus on the tasks at hand. But her tunic still held his scent—leather, and something warm and masculine that had settled deep into the fibers. She pressed the fabric to her face and inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut as the night replayed in her mind. The way he’d looked at her, touched her—like she was entirely his.

The water in her tub was cool against her heated skin as she began to wash. Part of her didn’t want to wash it away—not the scent nor the phantom imprint of his hands and mouth on her body. 

But Taash’s supernatural nose and total lack of filter made the decision easier. The last thing she needed was them loudly announcing to the breakfast table that she smelled like sex and desperation. The memory of Taash's confused sniffing when that vendor had flirted with Bellara made her reach for the soap.

She lingered longer than necessary, her fingers unconsciously tracing the paths Lucanis had mapped across her skin earlier. Even now, part of her wondered if she'd dreamed the whole thing—the way he'd pressed her into the mattress, the hunger in his kiss, the fire in his eyes.

The water had grown tepid when she finally emerged, and she wrapped herself in a soft towel. As she moved toward her wardrobe, something on the credenza caught her eye—several letters bearing familiar seals, no doubt delivered while she'd been occupied in the pantry.

Still wrapped in her towel, she settled into a chair and reached for her hairbrush. The jasmine oil she worked through her damp tresses reminded her of her mother, a home she had lost and a new one she had found.

She turned her attention to the letters. The Veil Jumpers needed aid; several scouts hadn’t returned from a routine mission. Viago's neat script conveyed good news about the shipping routes to Rivain. The Lords of Fortune offered both gratitude and opportunity—treasure from a shipwreck, if they could deal with the undead crew still guarding it. More concerning were the reports from the Mournwatchers about increased Venatori activity, and the Grey Wardens' warning about darkspawn movements near Lavendel.

She set the letters aside with a sigh. Their brief moment of peace was over; duty called once again. But before she addressed any of these new issues, there was something else she needed to do.

Moving to her desk, she pulled out parchment and ink. Her letter to Viago was carefully worded—thanking him for the updates while casually flagging concerns about Illario. She couldn't betray Lucanis' trust by revealing what had transpired between the cousins, but every instinct she possessed screamed that Illario was dangerous. There was something in his eyes when he looked at Lucanis, something that spoke of resentment and barely contained ambition. 

Viago would understand. He always did.

After sealing the letter, she finally moved to dress herself, donning her black leather armor. She braided her hair, and when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she looked composed and professional—no trace of the woman who'd come apart in Lucanis' arms this morning.

Gathering the remaining letters, she made her way to the dining hall. Voices and laughter filtered through the door as she approached, and she took a moment to steel herself. 

Nothing had changed, yet everything was different.

The sight that greeted her made her steps falter—Lucanis had outdone himself. The table was overflowing with pastries, artfully arranged fruit, eggs done three ways, and sizzling bacon. A true banquet. 

"Maker's breath, Lucanis," Harding said around a mouthful of honey-glazed roll, "what’s gotten into you this morning?"

Nelle felt heat creep up her neck as she took her usual seat. She could feel Lucanis' gaze on her, and when she finally looked up to meet his eyes, the smoldering heat she found there nearly made her forget how to breathe. He was remembering too—she could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the almost imperceptible way his fingers flexed against his coffee cup.

Taash’s nose wrinkled as they sniffed the air. “You smell... off. The same flower, but also something else. Not in a bad way. Just... weird."

Nelle's heart stopped, but she forced a breezy laugh out. "New soap from the market, I thought it smelled nice."

From the corner of her eye, she caught Lucanis' mouth quirking up in the barest hint of a smile. The bastard was enjoying this.

"Smells different," Taash grumbled, apparently accepting the explanation as they reached for another helping of eggs and bacon. 

The conversation continued, and Nelle forced herself to eat, though that was no easy feat when she was so acutely aware of the man sitting across from her. Every casual gesture—the way he lifted his cup, the graceful movement of his hands as he cut his food—reminded her of how those same hands had felt on her skin.

When Emmrich finally pushed back his plate, he nodded to Lucanis with a contented sigh. "Exceptional, my friend. What inspired such abundance?"

Lucanis didn’t miss a beat. "I just felt inspired."

She turned to business because she had to. Letters were distributed, updates shared, and missions assigned: Taash, Harding, and Emmrich to Rivain. Neve and Lucanis to the Necropolis. She and Davrin to Lavendel. Logic dictated the pairings.

But logic did little to dull the ache. She'd only just found this thing with Lucanis, and already, duty and necessity separated them.

As the others stood, gathering weapons and gear, Nelle lingered, pretending to sort papers. In truth, she was stealing moments. Lucanis hadn't spoken, but he hadn’t needed to. His gaze was steady and charged, making her knees weak.

His eyes held the same heat as when he'd moved inside her—possessive, tender, wrecked. 

They couldn't speak, not with the others still within earshot—but the look that passed between them was a promise. This wasn't over.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

The sound of boots on stone echoed through the Lighthouse's main hall as Taash dropped a heavy sack of recovered artifacts with a satisfying thunk. Rook looked up from the correspondence scattered across the coffee table—dispatches, intelligence reports, one of Bellara’s slightly unhinged diagrams involving a canon as a defense for the Lighthouse—and arched a brow.

Rook watched Taash head straight for the weapons rack without slowing—that restless energy meant the mission hadn't been challenging enough for their liking. Movement from the Eluvian room caught her eye as Emmrich emerged, and she had to bite back a smile watching him fuss over the dust on his robes while scolding Manfred for tearing his livery.

"Undead put up much of a fight?" Rook asked, leaning back in her chair and working a kink out of her shoulder.

“Terribly misbehaved, I’m afraid,” Emmrich replied like a professor bemoaning the conduct of unruly pupils. "Though such things happen when the dead cling too fiercely to earthly possessions."

Harding came up the stairs, her unstrung bow slung over her back. 'The gold was cursed,' she muttered, like she’d stopped being surprised by anything weeks ago.

"Nothing a few well-placed dispelling rituals couldn't handle, but it did make the corpses rather more... enthusiastic in their defense," Emmrich confirmed.

Taash wrinkled their nose. "They smelled all wrong. Living corpses always do." They shot a glance at Emmrich. "No offense, Death Mage."

Rook watched Emmrich pause and his shoulders go rigid. His smile never wavered, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I prefer Mortalitasi, or Mourn Watcher" he said quietly. "It's a distinguished academic discipline with centuries of honorable tradition."

She’d have a quiet word with Taash later, Rook decided, as she watched the Qunari roll their eyes at the rebuke. It wasn’t just about titles—Emmrich had earned more than their unease, crude nicknames, and barely veiled hostility.

"Well, what matters is you all made it back in one piece," Rook said, gathering the scattered letters into a neater pile. "Davrin and I weren't quite so lucky with our gear."

She held up what was left of her cuirass—burn holes, blight-stains, and the reek of darkspawn clinging to every fiber. "This was my favorite, and now it looks like something a street cat coughed up.” She dropped it with a grimace. “I fucking hate those exploding darkspawn.”

From across the room, Rook heard Davrin's rumbling laugh. She glanced over to see him kneeling beside his weapons, cleaning darkspawn blood from his sword's edge. "Look at it this way—you're practically an honorary Grey Warden now. Most recruits don't get their first real darkspawn christening until months after the Joining."

"Wonderful. Just what I always wanted," Rook muttered, but she was fighting back a smile. There was something oddly comforting about Davrin's easy acceptance of her into his world, even if that world involved significantly more explosive bodily fluids than she'd signed up for.

"At least you didn't get any in your hair this time," Harding offered helpfully. "Remember when you got a face full of darkspawn guts in Arlathan Forrest? Took you three washes to get the smell out."

"Don't remind me," Rook groaned. "I was finding bits of darkspawn for days."

As the afternoon wore on, Rook tried to focus on strategy and resources while the others fell into their familiar post-mission routines. But no matter how hard she concentrated on the reports, her eyes kept drifting toward the stairs that led to the Eluvian. She strained her ears, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t discern his deep voice with that Antivan lilt or the cynical little laugh she associated with Neve.

"They're still not back?" she asked Emmrich hours later when she returned from a chat with Bellara.

Emmrich looked up from the tome he'd been consulting, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. "I'm afraid not," he replied, settling back in his chair. "Though I'm hardly surprised. The Grand Necropolis is vast, easily the size of a large city if one counts all the levels and catacombs. And if one wishes to be thorough in rooting out Venatori strongholds—"

He gestured vaguely with his free hand, encompassing volumes of unspoken complexity. "Well, such work takes time. They're methodical sorts, Venatori. Like insects, they burrow deep and create networks. Finding one cell often leads to discovering three more."

Rook nodded, worry knotting beneath her breastbone. Lucanis and Neve could handle themselves; they were always on alert, clever and ruthless when needed. But that didn’t stop her imagination from crafting increasingly terrible outcomes like cave-ins or blood magic traps.

She gave up pretending to read when twilight settled in and the team began to disperse. Rook watched Taash head toward the training grounds—probably planning to work off residual mission energy on some unfortunate practice dummies. She noted Harding settling in with her fletching kit while Davrin focused on armor maintenance.

Eventually, Rook slipped out to the balcony, telling herself she’d hear them return from there. The night air cooled her flushed skin as she curled into the nest of pillows and blankets she'd claimed as a lookout post.

Knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, she settled in—not worried, not really. Just… waiting.

Sleep overwhelmed her as the day's tensions finally caught up with her.

Her dreams were fragments—wings rustling, footsteps on stone, a touch on her cheek.

When she blinked awake, her neck ached from the angle she'd slept in, and she groaned softly, stretching her arms over her head.

"Good morning."

Rook nearly jumped out of her skin. When she whipped around, Lucanis was perched on the stone railing like it was the most natural thing in the world, one leg drawn up, the other dangling casually over the side as he sipped from a steaming cup.

"Maker's breath," she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Not long," he said, though something in his expression suggested he'd been watching her sleep for more than just a few minutes. "You looked peaceful. I didn't want to wake you."

He nodded slightly toward the small table beside her makeshift bed, where a second cup waited. The ceramic was warm against her palms as she reached for it.

"Is this going to be a thing now?" she asked, fighting back a grin and savoring the warmth spreading through her chest. It might’ve been the coffee. Or him. Probably him. "Because I could get used to a personal coffee delivery service."

The look he gave her over the rim of his cup was positively sinful—dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter and heat pool low in her belly. He took another deliberate sip, his gaze never wavering, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitch with suppressed amusement.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, voice pitched low enough to send goosebumps racing down her arms.

She took a long sip to mask her reaction, but his gaze unraveled her thoughts with alarming ease. With coffee in hand and Lucanis beside her, the chaos downstairs felt far, far away.

"How did you even get up here?" she asked. "No one else even knows where this room is."

In answer, Lucanis let his wings unfurl for just a moment. They were magnificent—transparent bone laced with glowing Fadelight, feathers made from shadows trailing like mist. The wings folded back against his shoulders as smoothly as they'd appeared.

"Cheat," she accused, "So unfair you can just fly anywhere."

"Flying would be generous," he said with a self-deprecating shrug. "More like... controlled falling. With style, of course."

"Still counts as cheating," she said playfully before turning to more serious matters.

"How did the Necropolis mission go?" she asked. His expression shifted, the playful lightness giving way to a more focused and professional one. "It went well. Five Venatori nests destroyed." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were more entrenched than we expected—had been using the lower levels as a base of operations for weeks, maybe months.” His expression shifted. “Neve suspects inside help.”

"Did you shut it down?"

“Thoroughly,” he said, and something sharp and dark flickered in his tone.

“And Neve?”

“Fine. Exhausted. She stayed behind to brief Vorgoth and Myrna, but she’ll be back before midday.”

Rook exhaled slowly, letting the residual tension from her worrying unravel.

"What about your mission?" he asked.

"Successful, but messy," she said, gesturing ruefully at her stained clothes somewhere behind her. “We confirmed the movement toward Lavendel. They're moving faster than we anticipated. The horde hits the outskirts by tomorrow night.”

Lucanis's posture shifted, and the relaxed morning mood gave way to the focused intensity she'd associated with mission planning. "How many?"

"Hard to say exactly, we estimated two hundred. Maybe more." She rubbed her forehead, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settling back onto her shoulders. "Lavendel's militia is maybe thirty strong on a good day, and half are farmers with hunting bows. The Wardens are trying, but not enough of them are left. They'll be slaughtered if we don't get there first."

"When do we leave?"

"As soon as Neve returns. We can help reinforce their defenses and position our people strategically for the battle." She stood from her makeshift bed, mentally tracking what needed to be done. "It's going to be a hard fight, but we've faced worse."

Before she could take more than a step toward the room, Lucanis was there, moving with that fluid grace that never failed to catch her off guard. One moment, he was on the railing, the next his hands were cupping her face, and his lips were on hers, kissing her with an intensity that made her knees weak.

She melted into him, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt as she kissed him back with equal fervor. She could become addicted to his taste, she thought. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she opened for him gladly, losing herself in the heat and closeness and the way he held her.

When they broke apart, she found herself staring into his eyes, marveling at the way he looked at her. Even now, hair tangled, still drowsy and undoubtedly rumpled, he looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. 

The thought should have been overwhelming. She'd never expected anyone to look at her like that, certainly not Lucanis Dellamorte. Crow royalty, the most notorious assassin in Antiva, looking at her like she hung the very stars.

“Is that your official report?” she asked, her voice a little rough.

Lucanis smiled, “Part one,” he said.

He released her with apparent reluctance, stepping back toward the railing. "I'll gather the others."

"Good," she managed. "Tell them to pack full gear, supplies for three days. And someone should check the stores—if we're holding a perimeter against those numbers, we'll need every advantage we can get."

Instead of walking to the door like a normal person, Lucanis vaulted over the railing. Rook rushed to the edge just in time to see him land gracefully in the courtyard below, wings providing enough lift to make the descent look effortless. He glanced up and caught her watching, that same devastating smile on his lips.

"Show off!" she called down to him.

His laughter drifted up to her as he headed toward the main hall. Rook smiled as she finally turned to get dressed for the day ahead.

The barrel was heavier than it looked. Rook grunted as she and a grizzled Warden named Marcus maneuvered it into position at the village's eastern chokepoint. The acrid smell of lamp oil made her eyes water. Her shoulders burned from hauling supplies all afternoon, but she pushed through the discomfort. There would be time to rest when the darkspawn were dead—or when she was.

"That's the last of them," Marcus wheezed, wiping his hands on his torn tunic. His left arm hung at an odd angle—a souvenir from Weisshaupt's fall that hadn’t properly healed. "Should be enough to turn this whole approach into a bonfire."

"Let's hope we don't have to find out," Rook replied, though they both knew they would.

The sound of hammering echoed from every corner of Lavendel as the afternoon sun slanted lower through the mountain peaks. To her left, a group of villagers worked to reinforce wooden barriers with scavenged metal—strips torn from wagon wheels, bent horseshoes, anything with an edge. 

There was no shouting. No weeping. Just the low murmur of movement, of fear swallowed down and turned into action.

"Not there!" Rook called to a cluster of refugees wrestling with a pile of sharp stones near the hillside fence. A boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen was struggling with a boulder twice his size. "Behind the fence line, where the rope's anchored. When we pull it, those rocks must come down like an avalanche."

The group adjusted its positioning without complaint. These weren't farmers or merchants anymore—the darkspawn had burned those parts away along with their homes. Now they were survivors, and survivors followed orders that kept them breathing.

Rook wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, surveying their progress. The village's natural defenses were decent—nestled in a valley with steep approaches on two sides—but decent wouldn't be enough. Not when darkspawn were involved.

"Is the overlook position secure?" Evka's low-pitched voice came from behind her.

Rook turned to find the new Warden Commander and her husband approaching. 

“They’ll come from the west,” Evka said without preamble. “Down the old trade road. If they veer off into the trees, Harding and Bellara will pick them off from the platforms. Assuming we have enough arrows.”

“We don’t,” Rook said. “But we’ll make do. We’ve got traps set along the lower ridge. If the bastards go that way, we’ll hear them screaming.”

Evka grunted. “Our people?”

“Lucanis and Taash have the south gate. Emmrich and Neve hold the square with the second line. Davrin’s got the bottleneck. Harding and Bellara, higher up, are calling out movements. I’ll move between positions as needed.”

Antoine spoke. “I’ve posted five villagers with flint and torches near the oil. They know to wait for the signal before lighting anything.”

Evka nodded. “Good. No panicking. No rushing forward.”

The hurried sound of approaching footsteps made them turn. A young scout jogged toward them, his boots caked with mud and his chest heaving. He couldn't have been more than seventeen.

"Commander Evka," he gasped, stopping just short of a salute. "The horde—it's moving faster than we thought. And it's... It's grown."

Rook felt ice settle in her stomach. "How much bigger?"

"Stragglers from the corrupted farmlands joined up with the main force. Maybe fifty more, maybe a hundred. Hard to count when they're all—" He swallowed hard, clearly remembering something he'd rather forget. "They'll reach the outer perimeter within the hour."

Evka took a breath. The sky was already bleeding into twilight, soft and purple at the edges. The stench on the wind was growing stronger, clinging to the trees like mist.

Rook exhaled slowly. “We should speak to them. Before it begins.”

"Gather everyone," Evka commanded. "Time to make sure they all understand what we're facing."

The town's small square filled quickly as word spread. Torches flickered to life in the gathering dusk, casting dancing shadows across faces that ranged from weathered Warden veterans to young recruits, and farmers who'd never held weapons before this week. Children, too young to fight but old enough to understand the stakes, pressed close to their parents. Even the elderly who couldn't hold a sword stood ready to help however they could.

"Look at me," Evka began, her voice carrying clearly in the still evening air. "All of you. I want you to see who's standing with you tonight."

“You know what’s coming,” she said. “Most of you have seen it. The rot. The monsters that tunnel up from the earth and devour everything in their path. If you fled from it, you know what they leave behind.” But here's what you might not know—you're not facing this alone."

“We’re not retreating,” Evka went on. “Lavendel is the line and we’ll hold it. We’ve built what we could, set the traps, and stacked the stones. But wood and oil won’t stop them alone. We need each other for that. And we’ll need every one of you.”

She paused, letting her words settle in.

“Stay behind the barricades. If you’re not fighting, tend the wounded. Keep the torches burning. Listen for orders—and when they come, make every one of them count.”

A young mother near the front adjusted her grip on a kitchen knife she'd sharpened as best as she could. "What if it's not enough?" she asked quietly. "What if we're not strong enough?"

"Then we make ourselves strong enough," Antoine interjected in his heavy Orleasian accent. “Strength isn't about the size of your sword—it's about what you're fighting for." He gestured toward the village around them. "This is your home. Your families, your memories, your future. The darkspawn want to take all of that and corrupt it into something obscene. Are you going to let them?"

"No," the baker—a sturdy woman organizing medical supplies all day—said firmly. "We're not."

The crowd straightened almost imperceptibly. Rook saw the change—not just in posture, but in their eyes. The fear was still there, but it was being forged into something harder, more useful.

"Our outer defenses will slow them down," Evka explained, switching to practical matters. "The oil barrels will create chokepoints they'll have to push through. The rock slides will break up their formation. But they will get through—they always do. When that happens, remember your positions. Trust your training, even if it's only a day old. Don't waste arrows on shots you can't make. Watch your flanks. And whatever you do, don't let them separate you from the group."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Rook felt something ease in her chest—not confidence, exactly, but something close to hope. They might actually have a chance.

"One more thing," Evka added as people began to disperse toward their positions. "Some of you are going to want to run when you see them coming. That's natural—they're designed to inspire terror. But look around you one more time. Look at the person next to you. They're counting on you to stand firm, just like you're counting on them. Don't let each other down."

Night fell in full. Torches lit the ramparts,  and shadows stretched long and strange across the village square. The scent of pitch drifted on the wind, and somewhere in the trees, something howled—a low, inhuman roar that seemed to vibrate in Rook's bones.

She gripped her dagger tighter. If this was where it ended, then so be it. But it wouldn’t end easily.

Chapter Text

The mist clung to Lavendel like a burial shroud, and Rook tried her best not to take it as a sign of their coming demise. She stood at the northern barricade, checking the oil barrels for the third time in ten minutes, her hands trembling just enough to make her clench them into fists. The silence that had settled over the town felt wrong—too thick, too expectant.

"You're going to wear a hole in those barrels if you keep fussing with them," Bellara called down from the roof, her voice carrying that forced lightness she used when she was trying to keep everyone's spirits up. But Rook could hear the tension underneath, tight as a bowstring.

Rook forced a smile she didn't feel. "Better to check twice than die once."

"Cheerful," Lucanis murmured from where he was testing the rope mechanisms for their rock traps. His usually immaculate leathers were already dusty from crawling around the defenses, but his movements remained precise. "Though I suppose if we're all going to die horribly, at least we'll have properly maintained equipment."

"Nobody's dying horribly," Rook said, more to convince herself than him. "We've planned for this. We're ready."

Davrin snorted from behind his shield, where he'd been running through sword forms to stay loose. "Famous last words, those." But his tone lacked real mockery. They were all feeling it—the weight of what was coming, pressing down like the fog itself.

The first drops of rain began to fall, soft and scattered. Rook tilted her face up, the moisture cold on her skin. Maybe the weather would slow their enemies down.

The wind shifted.

And then the smell hit her.

Rot and corruption, thick enough to taste. It had worsened since moonrise, clinging to the back of her throat like grease. Her stomach turned.

"They're close," Emmrich said quietly, appearing at her shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the treeline beyond their defenses, and something in his expression made her skin crawl. "The spirits grow more restless. Can you sense it?"

She could. Like standing too close to a cliff's edge—vertigo and inevitability. The hair on her arms stood up, and every instinct she had was screaming at her to run.

"Positions," she called, louder than she meant to. 

Taash and Lucanis took the southern barricade. Harding slipped into her archer’s nest beside Bellara, arrows ready. Emmrich and Neve retreated to the town square with the second line. Davrin stood a little behind Rook, at the bottlenecked front.

"Been in worse spots," he said casually.

"When?"

"I'll think of one later."

Despite everything, Rook almost smiled. 

The first shapes emerged from the mist. Tall, twisted figures, their weapons black with corruption. Hurlocks, shrieks, and alphas, moving in a way so feral that it made her skin crawl.

"I count fifty," Bellara reported, her voice steady now that there was something concrete to focus on. "Standard formation. No sign of anything bigger."

Rook's heart hammered against her ribs, but she'd faced worse odds. "Light them up!"

The fuse sparked. She tracked its progress to the barrels—

—then fire.

An eruption of light and heat tore through the fog. Darkspawn shrieked as flames turned them into silhouettes of agony.

The stench of burning meat layered over the rot. Rook gagged but didn’t look away.

Bellara breathed, and her first arrow took down a hurlock that tried to dodge around the flames. Each hit struck like a spell—one lightning-charged arrow turned four darkspawn to twitching corpses. Her precision was a thing of beauty.

For a moment—just a moment—Rook thought they might actually make this look easy. Maybe all their planning would pay off. Maybe they were better than she'd given them credit for.

Then the ground began to tremble.

It was subtle at first, just a vibration through her boots that she almost dismissed as her own nerves. But it grew stronger, rhythmic, like the footsteps of giants marching in time. The rain began to fall harder, as if the sky itself sensed what was coming.

"Oh," she watched the fog part like a curtain being drawn back. "Oh, shit."

They poured out of the mist like a black tide. Not dozens—hundreds. Hurlocks and genlocks, their crude weapons glinting in the firelight. Behind them, shapes too large to be anything but ogres moved with surprising grace, and their roars shook the very air.

"Harding," Rook called, her voice oddly calm considering her heart had just stopped beating. "How many?"

A pause as she counted, and Rook could practically hear her hopes dying. "I... I can't count them all. Too many. Far too many."

The tide of darkspawn didn't break against their defenses—it swallowed them whole.

Rook grabbed the rope for their first rock trap, muscles burning as she hauled on the pulley system. The mechanism groaned, then released with a thunderous sound. Boulders crashed down behind the first wave of attackers, cutting off their retreat and crushing the unlucky ones caught beneath. 

But they kept coming. They just kept coming.

The barricade to her left exploded in a shower of splinters and screams.

An ogre emerged from the wreckage, easily twice her height, its massive fists still dripping with the blood of whoever had tried to stop it. Their organized defense crumbled in seconds as darkspawn poured through the breach like water through a broken dam.

She saw the breach at Minrathous again—the sky tearing. Weisshaupt crumbling beneath a scream. She’d lost too many already. Not Lavendel. Not again.

Steel rang against steel. Someone screamed behind her—she couldn't tell if it was one of theirs or the enemy's, and that terrified her more than anything else. She heard shouting as reinforcements rushed over from the southern barricade, where the line still held.

The world narrowed to heartbeats and blade-work.

A hurlock lunged at her, all yellowed teeth and reaching claws. She sidestepped, feeling its claws whistle past her cheek, and drove her blade deep between its ribs. The steel met resistance, then slid home with a wet sound that told her she hit her mark.

Another one came from her right, moving faster than the corrupted should move. She ducked under its wild swing, slashed upward, and felt steel scrape against bone. It dropped, but there was already another behind it.

And another behind that.

"This is madness," she panted, parrying a blow that numbed her entire arm. "Absolute madness."

The rain intensified from scattered drops to a torrent, turning their carefully prepared battlefield into a slippery hellscape of mud and blood. Her boots slid with each step, threatening to dump her face-first into the carnage.

Through the melee, Rook caught glimpses of her team as she desperately fought for her own life. The air around Emmrich tasted of grave dirt and old bones—she could feel his magic crawling across her skin even from here. Spectral limbs erupted from the ground where the darkspawn were thickest, grasping, tearing, and choking. 

A flash of shield and steel to her left—Davrin, she realized, catching a genlock's axe and opening its throat in one fluid motion.

Taash's roar echoed over the battlefield as their axes carved through darkspawn. The sound made Rook's heart leap—rage or terror, she couldn't tell.

And Lucanis—she almost missed him entirely, just caught the glint of steel as he appeared behind a hurlock that had been stalking Davrin. Even in the middle of a battle for their lives, he gave a little bow when Davrin glanced back.

A horn blast cut through the noise of combat.

Rook's blood turned to ice in her veins.

The sound came again, more desperate this time, joined by the piercing wail of a Warden signal flare that split the sky like a bleeding wound. Red light bathed the battlefield, turning everything the color of fresh blood.

"That's the eastern gate," Lucanis said, appearing at her shoulder like a wraith. His usually pristine leathers were torn and bloodied, and there was a cut across his cheek that made him look more human somehow. "They're being overrun."

The words drove the air from her lungs. If they lost both fronts, Lavendel would fall. They would all die.

She grabbed Taash and Davrin mid-swing, yanking them back from their opponents despite the risk. "You two! Get your asses over there! Set something on fire!"

Davrin's eyes widened as he processed what she was asking—split their forces, weaken their line, gambling everything on a desperate play. "Rook—"

"Go!" The desperation in her voice surprised even her. "Now!"

They didn't argue further.

She watched them disappear into the rain and chaos, and suddenly their line felt dangerously thin. A genlock broke through where Davrin had been standing, its crude sword seeking her heart. She barely got her blade up in time, the impact jarring through her bones.

The rain pounded harder, turning the battlefield into a sludge that sucked on her boots. Every movement cost her something now.

She smashed into a genlock's skull with her elbow and felt her flesh tear as its claws found purchase in her armor. The pain was sharp and immediate, but there was no time to acknowledge it. Pain meant she was still alive, and alive meant she could still fight.

"South wall's breaking!" Bellara's voice from above, tight with controlled panic. Her arrows never stopped their deadly rain, but Rook could hear the strain in her voice.

"Cut them off at the well!" Harding ordered, her shots finding their marks even as exhaustion began to tell on all of them.

Hurlocks broke through their line entirely, heading straight for the town center where the civilians were huddled. The sight filled Rook with a rage that burned away any fear, exhaustion, and pain.

She threw herself forward, tackling one of the creatures to the muddy ground. They rolled through the muck like animals, fighting with nothing but desperation. Its claws raked across her cheek, but she managed to get her knife between its ribs. She lay there for a moment, panting in the dead creature's face, rain washing the blood and dirt from her wounds.

Around her, her team was bleeding, exhausted, pushed beyond anything they'd ever faced before. Emmrich staggered, his spectral guardians flickering as his strength failed. Lucanis moved more slowly now, favoring his left leg where something had gotten past his guard. Even the rain seemed to be against them, making every movement harder, heavier, more desperate.

"We're running low on arrows!" Bellara called down, and those words might as well have been a death sentence.

If we fall here, it has all been for nothing.

The thought burned through her like lightning, illuminating truths she didn't want to face. It wasn’t just the town that depended on them; it was everyone who'd believed they could protect them. Everyone who'd trusted a group of strangers to stand between them and the dark. They were all counting on her, and she was failing. She lost Minrathous and Weisshaupt, and she’d be damned if she lost Lavendel as well. 

Rook hauled herself to her feet, tasted blood and rain and something that might have been hope or madness. Her ribs screamed in protest, her face felt like raw meat, and she could barely see through the mixture of blood and rainwater streaming down her forehead.

But she was still standing. They were all still standing.

"We fall back to the eastern gate!" she shouted over the chaos, her voice cracking but carrying. "Fighting retreat! Reform the line!"

Something shifted in their faces when she voiced the order—exhaustion transformed into fury and determination.

Emmrich straightened, power flowing back into his spectral allies. Lucanis melted back into the shadows, slashing arteries with renewed purpose. Bellara and Harding's arrows found their rhythm again, each shot buying them precious seconds.

Neve appeared from the smoke, her scepter black with ichor. “We’re losing ground.”

“No,” Rook said. “We’re buying time.”

They moved toward the eastern gate as one unit, step by bloody step.

The Grey Wardens at the eastern gate looked ready to collapse when she arrived. She could see it in their stance—the way they swayed on their feet, the tremor in their weapon grips. Blood covered most of them, and their eyes had that glassy look she'd seen before in people pushed too far.

But when they spotted her team stumbling through the rain—mud-caked, bleeding, but still armed and angry—she watched something resembling hope flicker across their faces. 

"Reinforcements!" one of them gasped, pointing in their direction.

Fresh energy coursed through Rook as they slammed into the darkspawn's flank like the fist of an angry god. The creatures weren't expecting them, and for a crucial moment, they had the advantage of surprise, pushing the enemy back.

Above her, she could hear Assan screech as the beast dove into the corrupted mass that had followed them from the northern gate, forcing the creatures to scatter to be picked off.

Taash breathed a firestorm down the chokepoint where the darkspawn were thickest, the heat so intense she could feel her eyebrows singe from twenty feet away. The smell of burning corruption filled the air as half the enemy flank simply ceased to exist, reduced to ash and screaming in the space of a heartbeat.

Bellara's shot took out a support rope with perfect precision, and their second rock trap came crashing down on the elite spawn that were moments away from breaking through the Wardens' last line. The sound was like thunder, like the world ending and beginning again all at once.

Emmrich raised something that made her skin crawl and her soul recoil—fallen darkspawn, their broken bodies jerking upright like marionettes controlled by a mad puppeteer. The newly animated corpses turned on their former allies with mindless hunger, ripping and tearing into corrupted flesh.

A scream—Bellara’s.

Rook turned in time to see the elf fall from the rooftop, landing hard in the mud. A shriek leapt at her form—but Lucanis was faster. He tackled it mid-air, drove both knives into its throat, and didn’t rise for a long second.

Rook fought her way to them.

“Bellara?” she gasped.

“I’m fine,” Bellara wheezed. “I fell with style.”

Lucanis helped her up. “As a Crow should. Now move!”

Rook felt the tide turn before she saw it—a shift in the sounds of battle, fewer screams, more steel ringing against steel instead of tearing through flesh. She risked a glance around and caught sight of Davrin and Lucanis fighting side-by-side. Davrin's shield intercepted a blow that would have taken Lucanis in the spine.

"Couldn't owe one to a demon," she heard Davrin say through gritted teeth.

A bellow shook the cobblestones. Another ogre had entered the fray, plowing through the broken gate, scattering defenders.

“Emmrich!” Rook yelled.

The necromancer raised both hands, lips moving in a sharp chant. Shadows surged from the earth—spectral chains of bone and blackness. They wrapped around the ogre’s limbs and yanked it sideways, but the beast roared and tore through them with brute force. Emmrich staggered backward, nose bleeding.

Then, Lucanis spread his wings and dove for the ogre like death itself, wearing a familiar face. His blade found the creature's heart with surgical precision, and the massive beast toppled like a felled tree.

"Showing off, Lucanis?" Davrin shouted over the dying sounds of battle.

"Always," came the reply, though she could hear the exhaustion underneath the bravado.

The last darkspawn fell with a wet thud that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the rumbling of rain, and the distant crackle of collapsing wood. The ground beneath her feet was slick with blood and ash, littered with bodies that would populate her nightmares for years to come.

The rot smell lifted slightly as the wind carried it away, leaving the metallic taste of victory paid for in pain and terror. But underneath it all, she could sense something else—the clean scent of approaching dawn, the promise that the world would continue despite everything they'd been through.

Her team slumped against ruined walls and broken barricades, breathing hard, bleeding but alive—all of them. Still alive. The miracle of that simple fact threatened to overtake her.

Rook looked over them all—her people, who'd trusted her enough to follow her into hell and somehow managed to fight their way back out—and felt the full weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders. They'd followed her orders. They'd risked everything because she'd asked them to. And somehow, against all odds, it had worked. They'd won. 

In the distance, she could hear voices—survivors calling out to each other, families reuniting, the sounds of a town slowly remembering that it's alive. 

Chapter Text

The acrid smell of smoke and blood still hung heavy in the air as the last of the darkspawn corpses were dragged beyond Lavendel's walls to be burned. The battle was won, but watching Rook in its aftermath, Lucanis wondered if she understood what victory meant. She moved through the wreckage as if she were still fighting—checking pulse points on fallen Wardens with Evka, distributing supplies. Her own blood still trickled, bright and slow, down her ribs with every breath, painting the edge of her leathers a deeper red.

Lucanis lingered nearby, close enough to listen as she crouched beside Davrin. “That’s going to scar if you don’t treat it properly,” she murmured, pressing one of her elfroot potions into the Warden’s palm as she examined the gash splitting his eyebrow.

“I’ve had worse,” Davrin protested, his voice low and rasping, but Lucanis saw the grateful look in his eyes as he accepted the potion anyway.

She was already moving, wordlessly handing bandages to Neve, who was tending to wounded villagers by the well. Lucanis noted the careful way the mage favored her left shoulder, the tight lines around her eyes that spoke of exhaustion deeper than physical fatigue.

Then Rook went on to Taash, kneeling to repair a torn armor strap with the same focused attention she'd given their battle plans. The Qunari looked like they wanted to protest—surely a torn strap was hardly urgent—but something in Rook's manner made them simply nod and hold still while she worked.

Lucanis watched her from the shadow of a collapsed doorway, his arms crossed loosely, but his gaze intent. She kept her weight off her left side, and her elbow curled inward when she thought no one noticed, cradling bruised ribs.

Never show weakness. Never let them know you’re hurt.

Old habits. He understood. How many rooftops in Treviso had he bled on alone? How many times had he refused help, stitched flesh with numb fingers in the dark because pride demanded it?

The irony wasn’t lost on him—that he was contemplating all this while preparing to offer her the very thing he’d always denied himself.

A child tugged at her sleeve—barely ten years old, his face smeared with soot and dried tears. Rook immediately dropped to one knee, meeting the boy’s eyes as though he were the most important soul in the village.

Lucanis couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but he saw her expression shift—soften. She reached into her pack and drew out a piece of hard candy, pressing it into the boy’s palm with a conspiratorial wink.

There's the woman beneath the Crow.

It was easy to forget. Easy to see only the blade, the authority, the calculation. But she carried a gentleness inside her like a secret flame—something fiercely protected, revealed only in flashes.

The boy scampered off. Rook rose, slower now, one hand moving instinctively to her side. A wince flickered across her face—gone in an instant, replaced by the same determined calm. She thought no one saw. But Lucanis had been trained to see everything.

Every Crow knew: pain is information, and weakness an opportunity.

Except when it came to her.

When it came to her, weakness was something to shield.

Spite stirred in the back of his mind. Restless. Curious. Whispering.

Blood. Exhaustion. She’s—loveliest like this.

The demon’s voice poured through him like oil on fire—silken and burning.

Beautiful. When she. Kills. Beautiful. When she. Bleeds. Beautiful. When she—

Lucanis had grown skilled at ignoring Spite's commentary, but sometimes the demon's observations cut uncomfortably close to his own thoughts.

"Not now," Lucanis murmured under his breath, pushing the demon's voice back into the corners of his mind where it belonged.

Only when the last villager was tended to and the last of her team accounted for did Rook pause. He saw the exact moment it hit her—her shoulders drooping, a slight sway as she stood. She reached for her ribs, prodding the wound as if surprised it was still there, as if her body had dared betray her by reminding her it existed.

She moved to her pack and pulled out her suture kit—black leather, well-used. Every Crow had one. Lucanis knew the weight of it, the smell of the needles soaked in disinfectant, the cold snap of thread through skin. Seeing it in her hands was like looking backward through time—Caterina’s voice echoing in his mind. “Pain is temporary, boy. Scars are permanent. Make yours count.”

She lowered herself to the floor of the desecrated chantry, back braced against a scorched pillar. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her shirt.

"Let me," he said, approaching her slowly.

She looked up at him, and he caught the brief flicker of surprise.

"I can do it," she said automatically. He recognized the response—so ingrained it was practically reflex. 

"I know you can." He kept his voice gentle. "But you don't have to."

The words hung between them, carrying weight beyond their simple meaning—both recognition of her strength and an invitation to set it aside, if only for a moment.

She studied his face for a long moment, and he wondered what she was looking for. Permission to be tired? 

He helped her to her feet, noting the wince she couldn't quite hide as the movement pulled at her wounds. Standing face to face, he felt her gaze shift to examine the cut on his cheek—a parting gift from a particularly persistent shriek. It had stopped bleeding hours ago and barely qualified as a scratch, but he saw concern form in her expression anyway.

"This needs cleaning," she said, her fingers hovering near the wound without quite touching.

Even now, even exhausted and injured, her first instinct was to tend to others. It was admirable and frustrating in equal measure—this complete inability to prioritize her own needs.

"It's nothing."

"I know what nothing looks like. This isn't it."

When her hand settled against his cheek, thumb tracing carefully around the edges of the cut, the tenderness of it caught him off guard. Her touch was impossibly gentle—a stark contrast to the deadly precision he'd watched those same hands display mere hours ago. He found himself studying her face—the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the softness that entered her expression when she thought someone needed care.

He caught her hand, pressed a quick kiss to her palm, before the moment could overwhelm him entirely. "Come," he said, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "I found somewhere more private than a chantry floor."

The half-collapsed woodshed sat behind the blacksmith's forge. Just four walls, really—three upright and one slanted into the dirt, letting the dying firelight from the town’s center spill in. Half the roof had caved in, but it was dry. And most importantly, it was away from the others. 

Lucanis had discovered it earlier while scouting their defensive positions, looking for potential fallback points and escape routes. Old habits—always know where the exits are, always have a plan for when things go wrong. What he'd found inside had been... unexpected.

The blacksmith, or so it seemed, was something of a romantic.

He pushed open the door and gestured her inside, trying to keep his expression perfectly innocent.

Lucanis watched Nelle step through the doorway and stop short. He followed her gaze as it took in the scene: a thick bearskin rug spread across the wooden floor, flanked by carefully arranged blankets, two lanterns, and a bottle of wine.

The setup was almost comically elaborate for a village like Lavendel. Someone had clearly put considerable effort into creating the perfect romantic hideaway, complete with what appeared to be hand-carved wooden goblets and a small collection of wildflowers in a ceramic vase. The flowers had wilted, their petals scattered across the bearskin like colorful confetti, but somehow that only added to the charm.

A painful laugh escaped her. "Really, Lucanis?"

"Found it exactly like this," he said solemnly, lighting one of the lanterns. The warm glow immediately softened the rough edges of their makeshift sanctuary. "Though I have to admit, whoever arranged this has excellent taste in ambiance.  For medical procedures only, of course."

"Medical procedures," she repeated, slowly settling onto the bearskin rug, her face contorted in pain. Her fingers combed idly through the fur, slow and absent, like muscle memory catching up to comfort. Lucanis noted the way her shoulders finally began to relax for the first time since the battle ended. "Is that what we're calling it?"

“Would you prefer ‘wound management’? ‘Heroic maintenance’?”

The wine, he noted, was surprisingly good—Free Marches vintage, maybe Starkhaven. Someone had been planning a proposal, perhaps. He made a mental note to ask around—some stories were worth preserving.

He caught her smile as she began working at her braid, fingers patient despite her exhaustion as she loosened the matted strands. When she shook her hair free and ran her fingers through the dark waves, Lucanis found himself momentarily distracted by the way candlelight caught the movement like silk.

He forced himself to focus on organizing his medical supplies. His own black leather kit, twin to hers—needle, thread, clean cloth, water, elfroot salve. The ritual of preparation felt familiar, comforting in its predictability.

Nelle hissed in pain when she pulled her shirt over her head. Something warm swelled in his chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with trust, seeing how unselfconscious she was around him. How safe she must feel to be vulnerable in front of him.

Lucanis kept his touch gentle yet thorough as he began cleaning the deep wound, noting every small detail that might affect the healing process. The surrounding skin was warm but not hot—no sign of infection yet, though they'd need to watch it carefully. The bleeding had slowed—her body already beginning to knit itself back together.

He noted her stillness beneath his hands—no tension, no flinching away from him. She had the same pain tolerance he did, the same training that made suffering in silence second nature.

"We did well today," she said quietly as he began the first stitch.

"We did." He kept his focus on creating neat, even stitches. However, he was acutely aware of every small shift in her breathing, every minute change in her posture.

“I saw you,” he murmured at last. “Out there.”

She stayed still, letting him work.

“In the haze. You were covered in mud. Breath ragged. Bleeding. Still moving like nothing could touch you.”

It had been beautiful and terrible in equal measure—watching her fight with the desperate grace of someone who refused to fall while others depended on her. She'd carved through darkspawn like they were practice dummies, her blade finding vital points even as exhaustion threatened to bring her to her knees.

She let out a slow breath. “Something did.”

"That hurlock never saw it coming. One moment it was screaming, the next your blade was in its neck. You—" He paused, the needle halting as he searched for words that could capture what he'd witnessed. "You kill beautifully."

Spite had stirred at the sight of it, too, whispering that beauty could be carved from carnage—that she was never more herself than when her blade was wet and her eyes clear. He hated how much he understood Spite's fascination, hated how the demon's whispers sometimes echoed his own thoughts.

The words hung between them—a compliment that only another Crow would understand, an acknowledgment of deadly grace that outsiders would find disturbing. Lucanis watched her storm-blue eyes study his face, and he wondered what she read in his expression.

"I saw you too," she said quietly. "That move with the ogre—I've never seen anything like it."

"Years of practice."

"Years of artistry." Her voice carried the same professional appreciation he'd offered her, and Lucanis felt something warm settle in his chest at the recognition.

She understood. In a world that often painted them as simple killers, she recognized the craft involved, the dedication required to transform violence into something approaching art.

He resumed his stitching, counting each suture carefully. Fifteen would be enough—the wound was clean and the edges came together well. His hands moved with practiced precision, creating neat, even stitches that would hold securely while minimizing scarring. Not that either of them was particularly concerned about adding to their collection of marks. Their bodies were maps of old wounds, evidence of survival rather than beauty.

But he found himself taking extra care anyway, as if the precision of his work could make up for everything she'd endured. Each stitch was placed with deliberate attention to both function and form, creating a line of repair that would fade to a thin silver mark in time.

"There," he said, applying elfroot salve with gentle fingers. "That should hold."

"Your work's getting sloppy," she teased drowsily. "Those stitches are almost pretty."

"Don't let word get back to Treviso. I have a reputation to maintain."

When she turned onto her back so he could examine the scratch on her face, Lucanis found himself closer than he'd intended. Close enough to see the storm-blue depths of her eyes, close enough to count the freckles across her nose. Close enough to notice the way her breathing had grown deeper, more relaxed.

There were other small marks he hadn't really noticed before—a thin scar along her jawline, probably old, and a small crescent-shaped mark near her temple that looked like it might have come from fingernails.

"This really is nothing," he murmured, cleaning away the dried blood with careful touches.

"Mmm." Her eyes were starting to drift closed despite her efforts to stay alert.

"When's the last time you slept? Really slept, not just collapsed from exhaustion?"

"Define sleep."

"More than two hours without interruptions, bad dreams, or people trying to kill you."

"You first," she chuckled knowingly, and he found himself smiling despite everything. She knew him too well.

He finished cleaning the cut and set aside his supplies, but found himself reluctant to move away. She looked younger like this, he thought, with her guard down and exhaustion finally claiming her. Softer somehow, though he knew she was no less dangerous for it.

They both sat in comfortable quiet for a moment. Outside, Lucanis could hear voices continuing to call back and forth as Lavendel slowly pieced itself back together.

"Sleep," he said softly. "I'll keep watch."

"Don't need watching. Not from you."

The words could have been an insult—dismissal of his skills, questioning his loyalty. But the way she said them, the trust implicit in the statement, made them something else entirely.

"I know you don't need it," he replied, pulling one of the scattered blankets over her. "But you have it anyway."

"Definitely going soft, Dellamorte."

"Definitely," he agreed, settling back against the wall to keep his promise.

She was already drifting off, but he caught her small smile before sleep claimed her entirely. 

Outside, he could hear the sounds of Lavendel slowly returning to life. Inside their ridiculous romantic hideaway, Lucanis watched Rook sleep the deep sleep of the truly exhausted, trusting him to watch over her dreams.

Spite stirred restlessly in the depths of his mind, drawn by the vulnerability of the moment, but Lucanis pushed the demon back with ease. This moment belonged to them.

He would keep watch, as promised. Not because she needed protection, but because she deserved the gift of unguarded sleep.

Chapter Text

The lighthouse stairs had never felt longer. Rook pressed her palm against her ribs, feeling the familiar pull of healing stitches beneath Lucanis's careful bandaging. Lavendel had bought them time, but her ribs still pulled with every breath.

She paused at the first landing, catching her breath and listening to the sounds from the courtyard. Real laughter—Bellara's bright giggle mixing with Taash's rumbling chuckle, and Harding’s snigger. The lighthouse felt alive again, filled with purpose instead of desperate planning. They'd needed this win, and Lavendel had delivered.

She hadn't expected how much the quiet moments mattered to her. Not the battle or restoration itself, but the nights after—slipping away to that cramped shed where Lucanis waited with clean bandages and gentle hands. Too exhausted for anything more than whispered conversations and the simple comfort of his presence, but somehow that had been enough. More than enough.

The memory of his fingers carefully checking her stitches, muttering in Antivan about her recklessness while his touch remained impossibly tender, sent warmth spreading through her chest. A dangerous kind of warmth for someone trained never to let anyone get too close.

"You're supposed to be resting, not climbing mountains."

Rook turned to find Emmrich descending from the upper level, his scholarly robes somehow still immaculate despite their recent return. 

"It's just stairs, Emmrich."

“Stairs—to your quarters. Where you should have been an hour ago.”
He nodded toward the common area, where Davrin’s voice now carried, explaining something about supply routes to an attentive audience. “The others can handle settling in. That’s rather the point of having a team.”

Rook’s mouth twitched into a smile as she resumed walking. “You’re right, Emmrich.”

“Take care of yourself, my dear. The world will wait a few more hours.”

She chuckled softly and disappeared down the hall toward her chambers.

Rook unpacked on instinct from years of safehouse rotations—weapons cleaned and stored, armor set aside for proper maintenance, clothes relegated to the laundry pile. The motions were methodical, comforting in their familiarity.

But this space—clean and private—felt almost too polished after the dusty storage shed they’d claimed in Lavendel. That had been cramped, half-collapsed, and cold at night. But it had been theirs. And somehow, she'd felt safer there.

Because of him.

The quiet companionship, the warmth of his hands as he checked her stitches, the softly murmured Antivan scoldings under his breath when she had torn the wound open—none of that existed here, in her silent quarters. And she missed it more than she should have. 

Rook sighed as she meandered to her desk.

A letter, on cream-colored paper with the Crows' seal pressed deep into wax, was waiting there. Her hands trembled slightly as she broke it open.

Nelle,

I trust your recent travels have been educational. The weather here has been unusually turbulent, with sudden storms appearing without warning and unusual bird migrations. 

Young Illario has been taking considerable personal initiative lately, expanding his networking beyond his usual circles. Some of the newer family members have been asking interesting questions about recent contract assignments and resource allocations. I find their curiosity… illuminating and possibly contagious.

I've enclosed a small family matter that requires your particular expertise. Our Rivaini contacts have reported some supply chain disruptions—missing shipments, communication gaps,... They suspect our mutual friends from across the sea have been getting creative with their expansion efforts.

I trust you'll handle this with your characteristic discretion. Timeline is flexible, but sooner rather than later would be appreciated.

Give my regards to our friend.

V

Rook read the letter twice, parsing Viago's careful language. Illario was making moves, the younger Crows were asking dangerous questions, and he needed her visible but not too visible. The Rivain job was perfect.

She set the letter aside and reached for the attached contract details, scanning the specifics. Three missing supply convoys, two dead Crows, and reports of Antaam forces moving through areas they had no business being in. 

"Working already?"

She looked up to find Lucanis in her doorway, two steaming cups balanced in his hands and that slight, crooked smile that did increasingly complicated things to her pulse. He'd changed out of his leathers into a simple black shirt and pants.

"Viago doesn't believe in rest." She gestured to the papers scattered across her desk. "New job."

"Of course he doesn't." Lucanis stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with his foot—a casual intimacy that made her acutely aware of how small the space suddenly felt. "Coffee?"

The cup he handed her was perfect. "So," he said, settling into the chair across from her desk. "What's Viago got us doing now?"

"Rivain. Missing supplies, missing Crows, probably Antaam involvement." She passed him the contract details, watching his expression shift from casual interest to focused intensity. The transformation was fascinating—the way his shoulders straightened, how his eyes sharpened as he processed the information. She'd seen him make this shift dozens of times, but it never stopped being impressive.

"Smart choice," he said after a moment. "Keeps us active, keeps us funded, keeps us visible to the right people."

"And away from the wrong ones."

His dark eyes met hers over the rim of his cup, and she saw the flicker of something that reminded her he was still very much a Crow, even when he was being impossibly gentle with her. "Especially away from the wrong ones."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, an unspoken understanding settling between them. But this felt different somehow—more personal, more intimate. 

"When do we leave?" he asked.

"Two days. Give everyone time to settle, figure out who's going where." She gestured toward the common area, where voices were rising in what sounded like a heated debate. "Bellara and Harding want to help secure the Crossroads—the Caretaker says there have been more incursions."

"What kind of incursions?"

"Everything. Antaam, Venatori, and even some Darkspawn are finding ways through." She took a sip of coffee, savoring the warmth and the familiarity of sharing intelligence with someone who understood the implications. "Taash volunteered to help clear them out."

"Good. They have been restless since Lavendel." His lips quirked upward. "I think they are disappointed we didn't get to fight a dragon."

"Give it time. At the rate we're going, I'm sure one will turn up eventually." Rook found herself smiling despite everything—the gods trying to end the world, the political games swirling around them, the constant weight of responsibility pressing down. "Davrin wants to coordinate supply runs between here and Lavendel, help the Wardens get back on their feet."

"And Emmrich?"

"Research. He has heard spirits mentioning something about the gods' next move, and found more research on Fade rifts he wants to read up on." She paused, watching Lucanis's face carefully. "Neve's following up on leads in Docktown. Missing people, possible Venatori connections."

"So it's just us in Rivain," he said, and there was something in his voice that made the air between them feel charged with possibility.

"Just us," she confirmed, surprised by how much she liked the sound of that. "Think you can handle being stuck with me for a few days?"

"I think I can manage." He leaned back in his chair, studying her with the same intensity he'd applied to the contract details. "The real question is whether you can handle being stuck with me."

It should have been a throwaway comment, the kind of light banter that had always come easily between them. But something in his tone, in the way his eyes lingered on her face, made it feel like a much more serious question.

Could she handle it? Days of working closely together, sharing sleeping space and meals, and the kind of casual intimacy that had been developing between them since Lavendel? The gentle care he'd shown with her injuries, the way he waited for her every night in that cramped storage shed, the growing awareness that she was falling for him in a way that went far beyond physical attraction?

The smart answer—the Crow answer—was no. Getting attached was dangerous. Caring too much made you vulnerable, created weaknesses that enemies could exploit. Viago had taught her that lesson over and over, through bitter experience and careful observation of Crows who'd let their hearts override their training.

She shouldn’t want this. Not with him. Not with anyone. But Lucanis had a way of slipping past her defenses until she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear his voice at the end of the day. And Maker help her, she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop him.

But she couldn’t say all that, so she said instead, "I guess we’ll find out.”

His smile was slow and devastating, the kind that made her forget why keeping people at arm's length had ever seemed important. "Good," he said, "I was hoping you'd say that."

The moment stretched between them, full of possibility and unspoken questions, until a tremendous crash from the common area, followed by Taash's creative swearing, broke the spell.

"Probably nothing—" Rook started.

"Probably," Lucanis agreed, but neither of them moved.

Another crash, more shouting, and what sounded like Bellara trying to mediate some kind of dispute about proper cooking techniques.

"They can handle it," Rook said.

"Absolutely," Lucanis said. "Very capable team."

"Practically self-sufficient."

A third crash, this one accompanied by what might have been Harding's surprised yelp.

"Right," Rook said, pushing back from her desk. "Duty calls."

Chapter Text

Rook had seen paintings of Rivain in noble houses across Antiva, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. 

She stood at the cliff's edge for a full fifteen minutes, grinning like a fool at the view spread below—quiet bays carved into golden stone, turquoise water so clear she could see the sandy bottom twenty feet down, and a horizon dotted with small islands that looked like scattered emeralds. Palm trees swayed in the warm breeze, their fronds casting dancing shadows, while seagulls wheeled overhead in lazy spirals.

"First time?" Lucanis asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Is it that obvious?" She couldn't keep the wonder out of her voice. "I've never seen water this color."

"The paintings don't do it justice." He moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could smell the salt air mixing with his familiar scent of leather and coffee. "I had a contract not far from here once—tracking a merchant who'd been skimming from the wrong people. Spent three days in Llomerryn."

"Just the three days?"

"The target was efficient. So was I." His mouth quirked upward. "Though I remember thinking it was a shame to leave so quickly."

Rook turned to study his profile, noting the way his shoulders had relaxed since they'd arrived. 

"What about you?” He asked, “Did your contracts take you from Antiva often?"

She gestured toward the path winding down toward the coast, and they started walking toward it. "My mother was Orlesian—I spoke the language fluently before I ever trained with blades. Made me useful for certain types of work."

"Useful," Lucanis repeated, and something in his tone made her look at him more carefully. "Is that how Viago saw you? As useful?"

The question caught her off guard. "I... yes? We're all useful to our Talons. That's how the Crows work."

He was quiet for a moment, dark eyes studying her face with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. "You're more than useful, Nelle."

The statement was simple enough, but she felt heat rise in her cheeks, her breath catching on words she couldn't quite form. Before she could ask what he meant by that—before she could examine the way her heart had started racing—he was already moving down the path, leaving her to follow with a dozen questions on her tongue.

The trail the missing Crows had taken was easy enough to follow—scratches on rocks, disturbed vegetation, the occasional boot print in softer soil. Rook fell into the familiar rhythm of tracking, her mind cataloging details while her body moved on autopilot. 

"There," he said quietly, pointing to a cluster of rocks that looked unremarkable to Rook's eye. "Do you see it?"

She squinted, then caught the faint scratches carved into the stone—a Crow marker, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. "Cache?"

"Has to be." He was already moving toward the rocks, fingers finding hidden handholds with ease. "Watch the path."

Rook positioned herself so she could see both directions while Lucanis worked. The sound of shifting stone was barely audible over the crash of waves below, but she heard the soft exhale of satisfaction when he found what he was looking for.

"What is it?" she asked when he returned, a small wrapped bundle in his hands.

"Notes. And not good ones." He passed her the oiled leather packet, his expression grim. "Read it."

The handwriting was cramped, hurried, but still recognizable:

Day 3 - We're being followed. Martino spotted the same ship twice. Did someone leak our route? No other way they could have found us this quickly.

Day 4 - Confirmed. Three ships now, closing distance. Antaam colors, but moving wrong for raiders. This is coordinated.

Day 5 - If anyone finds this, we were betrayed. Information this specific had to come from inside. High up. We're making for the secondary cache at—

The note ended abruptly, the ink smeared as if the writer had been interrupted.

"Shit," Rook breathed, "This is—"

"Proof," Lucanis finished, his voice flat. "What we suspected after Caterina, but couldn't prove."

She looked up from the note to find his face had gone carefully blank, the relaxed openness from earlier replaced by something harder, more guarded. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white with tension.

He knows, she realized with a sick feeling in her stomach. He's thinking the same thing I am.

"Lucanis—"

"Someone high up," he repeated, as if he hadn't heard her. "High enough to know about trade routes, about which Crows were assigned to which contracts. High enough to know exactly where I'd be when Zara's people came for me. Where Caterina would be vulnerable."

"We don't know for certain—"

"Don't we?" His laugh was bitter. "How many people knew about this supply run? How many knew exactly when and where to find me?"

She wanted to argue, to find some other explanation that wouldn't tear his family apart, but the evidence was damning. Worse, she could see the moment he made the connection, the way his expression shifted from anger to something that looked suspiciously like grief.

Illario. The name hung between them, unspoken but understood. 

"I need..." He turned away from her, staring out at the water with unseeing eyes. "I need to think."

They walked in silence toward the next marker, but Rook's mind was racing. She could feel him pulling away, sense the walls going up with each step. The easy companionship from earlier had vanished, replaced by a tension that made her want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

Or distract him.

He walked ahead, shoulders tight, each breath shallow and forced like he was choking on his own thoughts. She knew this silence—the kind that built walls no one could scale. Not unless you shattered them.

The thought came suddenly, accompanied by a glance at the secluded bay spread out below them. The water was impossibly inviting, a brilliant blue-green that shimmered in the afternoon heat. They'd been walking for hours, her shirt and leathers stuck to her back from sweat, and the idea of cool water against her skin was almost irresistible.

More importantly, Lucanis needed to get out of his head before he spiraled completely.

"I have an idea," she said, stopping abruptly.

He turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in question.

"It’s hot, I’m tired, and you're brooding." She gestured toward the beach below. "That bay looks completely deserted, and the water is gorgeous. What do you say we take a break?"

"A break?" He looked at her like she'd suggested they set up camp in the middle of a battlefield. "Rook, we have a job to do."

"The job will still be here in an hour. The supplies will still be missing. She started down the path toward the water, not giving him time to argue. "But right now, we're alone on a beautiful beach in Rivain, and I'm not wasting that."

She heard his footsteps behind her, reluctant but following, and smiled to herself. He could protest all he wanted, but she knew him well enough to recognize when he was curious despite himself.

The beach was even more perfect up close—fine white sand that was as smooth as silk beneath her boots, water so clear she could see small fish darting between the rocks. Rook kicked off her boots, then reached for the buckles on her armor.

"Rook." Lucanis's voice held a warning she chose to ignore. "What are you doing?"

"Going for a swim." She pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it onto the sand beside her armor. "You should join me."

"I don't... we shouldn't..." He stood very still, arms crossed over his chest, but she could see how his eyes tracked her movements. 

"I’m going to swim. You can join me, or you can keep brooding." She shrugged as she took off the last of her clothing. “Your choice, Dellamorte.”

She didn’t look back, but her pulse quickened at the thought of his eyes on her.

The first touch of waves against her ankles was heaven—cool and refreshing after hours in the heat. She waded deeper, sighing with pleasure as the water rose to her waist, her chest, her shoulders.

The water slipped around her skin like silk, cool at first, then warm as her body adjusted. Waves lapped gently, the scent of salt and wet stone sharpening as she dove.

"This is incredible," she called over her shoulder, finally turning to look at him.

He was still standing on the beach, but his armor was gone, shirt in his hands as he watched her with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and something warmer. "You're impossible."

"I'm practical." She dove under the surface, letting the water wash away the sweat, dust, and lingering tension from their discovery. When she surfaced, shaking water from her hair, she found him wading toward her.

"Better?" she asked.

"Perhaps." But he was smiling now, the tight lines around his eyes beginning to soften. "Though I reserve the right to claim temporary insanity if anyone asks."

"Noted." She floated on her back, letting the gentle waves carry her. "So what's the verdict? Worth the risk to your reputation?"

"Ask me in an hour." He dove under the surface, emerging several feet away with his hair slicked back and water streaming down his chest. "Though I have to admit, the water is..."

"Perfect?"

"Tolerable."

She laughed, the sound carrying across the water. "High praise."

"We still need to—"

"Shh." She interrupted him as she moved closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Stop thinking so much."

"I can't just—"

She silenced him with a splash, cupping water in her hands and letting it cascade over his head. He sputtered, blinking water from his eyes, and for a moment, he looked so indignant that she couldn't help but laugh.

"Did you just—"

Another splash, this one aimed at his chest. He tried to dodge, failed, and came up looking torn between annoyance and amusement.

"That's it." He moved faster than she'd expected, cutting through the water with predatory grace. She tried to move away, but his arms closed around her waist, pulling her against him as his hands found her wrists.

"Surrender," he said, his voice low and rough with something that had nothing to do with their playful chase.

"Never." But she was laughing, breathless—not from the game, but from the feel of his body pressed against hers, solid and warm in the cooling water.

"So stubborn." His grip loosened, fingers trailing along her forearms, but he didn't release her entirely.

She let her head fall back against his shoulder, still smiling even as she felt the shift in the air between them—the way playfulness had given way to something else entirely.

His hands moved from her wrists to her waist, holding her steady against the gentle push and pull of the waves. The water lapped around them, warm and caressing, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against her back, the way it had quickened despite their stillness.

"Nelle," the wind carried her name out to the open ocean.

"What?" she asked, though the tremor in her voice betrayed that she already knew.

Instead of answering, he lowered his head and kissed her shoulder, his lips soft against her sun-heated skin. She shivered despite the tropical warmth, the gesture so tender it made her quiver.

"Lucanis..."

She turned in his arms, the waves pressing her closer to him, eliminating the last breath of space between them. When she looked, his eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and she could see her reflection swimming in their depths, flushed and wanting.

She didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess, just cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.

He responded immediately, one hand tangling in her wet hair while the other pulled her closer. She could taste salt on his lips, could feel the way his hands mapped the curve of her waist, the line of her spine. His touch ignited something fierce within her—a hunger that the water only seemed to intensify.

The ocean made everything more passionate—the way they had to hold each other for balance, the way every touch sent ripples across the surface around them, the way the waves seemed to move them together and apart in a rhythm that matched the racing of their hearts.

When the kiss ended, both were breathing hard. She could feel him pressed against her, hard and wanting, and it made heat pool low in her belly despite the cooling water. Her hand moved between them, finding him, and she watched his eyes flutter closed as she touched him.

"Better?" she asked, echoing her earlier question but with entirely different meaning, her voice husky with desire.

"Much." His smile was soft, genuine, the haunted look finally gone from his eyes. "Though I think we may have scandalized the fish."

She laughed, pressing another quick kiss to his lips. "I think they'll survive."

They moved together toward the shore, hands intertwined, water streaming from their bodies as they walked to where their clothes lay scattered beneath a small palm tree. She watched him as they walked—the way his tanned, wet skin glistened in the warm light, water tracing rivulets down the defined planes of his chest and abdomen. She simply couldn't look away.

When they reached the tree, she turned to face him fully, heat burning in her eyes as she pulled him in for another kiss. She couldn't get enough of him, couldn't satisfy the craving that had been building between them. She felt his hands grip her waist, desperate, as if he couldn't get enough of her either.

She sank to her knees in the warm sand, looking up to find his eyes dark and heavy with desire. She could see the way his breathing had changed, could feel the tension coiled in his body as she touched him, her initial light caresses growing bolder as she watched the effect she had on him.

She took her time, savoring the taste of him, lavishing attention on him with lips and tongue. The sounds he made—low groans and whispered endearments—only fueled her desire. When she looked up, their eyes locked, and she could see how she had unraveled him completely.

His hands found her hair, one tangling in the dark strands while the other rested at the nape of her neck. She could feel his fingers tighten when she took him deeper, could hear his sharp intake of breath.

He pulled her up then, kissing her deeply before turning them so she was pressed back against the smooth bark of the palm tree. His hands roamed freely—her waist, her hips, the curve of her breast, the swell of her backside—everywhere and nowhere all at once. Then he lifted her leg, hooking it around his hip, creating space for his fingers to find her already slick with want.

He worked her with steady, purposeful strokes, his mouth trailing kisses along her neck and collarbone. She arched against him, soft moans escaping her lips as the pressure built.

"Come apart for me, Nelle," he murmured against her ear, his voice rough with need. The sound of it alone nearly sent her over the edge. He increased the pressure, slipping two fingers inside her and curling them in a way that made her whimper against his lips.

"That's it," he encouraged, his breath hot against her skin. "I love watching you come undone."

She surrendered completely, crying out as waves of pleasure crashed over her, her body trembling against his as he worked her through every aftershock.

While she was still shuddering from her release, he positioned himself and pushed inside in one smooth stroke. She gasped at the sensation—the way he filled her completely, perfectly. Her leg trembled as she wrapped it more tightly around him, urging him deeper. When he obliged, she nearly shattered all over again.

He set a demanding pace, taking her with an intensity that had her clinging to him desperately. She was still so sensitive that every thrust sent sparks through her entire body.

"Maker, you're perfect," he whispered against her ear, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "So warm, so ready for me."

She couldn't form coherent words, could only surrender to the building pressure. "You feel so good," she managed to gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders.

When her second climax hit, it dragged him with her, her body clenching around him as he groaned and buried his face in her neck, spilling himself inside her with a shudder that shook them both. Their climaxes seemed to go on forever, leaving her gasping and shaking in his arms.

Afterward, they collapsed together onto the soft sand, limbs intertwined, breathing slowly returning to normal. The silence between them was comfortable now, peaceful—a stark contrast to the tension that had followed them down from the cliffs. The last rays of sunlight painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, and she could hear the gentle rhythm of waves against the shore.

Lucanis pressed a kiss to her temple, his chest rising slowly beneath her fingers. “Thank you,” he murmured, barely audible. She didn’t ask what for. She already knew.

Chapter Text

The watchtower was ancient, its stone walls weathered by decades of ocean winds and storms, but the structure remained sound. More importantly, it was defensible—there was only one way up, good sight lines in all directions, and thick walls that would muffle sound. 

His assassin's mind automatically mapped escape routes and potential weaknesses, even as another part of him simply wanted to climb toward privacy with her.

A temporary sanctuary. A pause before the world pulled them back in.

"It'll do," Lucanis said, testing the stability of the wooden ladder that led to the upper levels.

Nelle followed him up, her boots careful on the timeworn rungs. The view grew more breathtaking with every step. By the time they reached the top floor—just a platform surrounded by crumbling parapets—the coastline stretched below them: golden cliffs, turquoise sea, and sky blushing with the colors of a dying sun.

"Worth the climb," she said, setting down her pack and stretching muscles that had grown stiff from the day's walking in a way that made his mouth dry.

"Definitely." But Lucanis wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at her—openly, without having to glance away or pretend indifference. Three days of this freedom, and he still wasn't used to it.

They set up camp efficiently, the routine now familiar after the last couple of nights on the road together. 

"Hungry?" Lucanis asked, pulling provisions from his pack, already looking to build a campfire.

"Starving," she admitted, though he wasn't entirely sure they were talking about food anymore.

The conversation came easily, as it always did between them. She mentioned that she thought Taash might like Harding and what led her to suspect this. He found himself talking about Treviso before everything went wrong, surprised by how much he wanted to share these small pieces of himself.

Something was building between them—had been building—that went beyond the physical connection that had drawn them together. Something that made his chest tight when she said his name, made him want to commit the way she moved in the firelight to memory.

As darkness settled around them, Lucanis leaned back against the stone wall and gazed upward. "I'd forgotten," He said quietly.

"Forgotten what?"

“How many stars there are. After the Ossuary… Sometimes I look up and still expect to see a mass of dark water waiting to collapse on me.” 

Later,  they lay on the blanket, naked and glistening with perspiration, coming down from their climax. He had worshipped her with his hands, with his mouth, until she cried out for him—ragged, breathless, insistent. He gave her everything she asked for. And when he took her, it was slow and deep, like he was etching the memory of her into his bones.

Her head rested on his chest, dark tresses spread across his skin. With one hand, he caressed her jaw with his thumb. The other ran through her silken hair—simple touches that felt different now, more necessary.

They pointed out falling stars and laughed softly when one of them made an amusing observation, basking in the afterglow. But underneath the contentment was something else—a weight he couldn't identify.

He realized with a pang that he didn't want this to end. Not just the physical pleasure, though that was incredible, but this. Her head on his chest, how she hummed contentedly when he played with her hair, how she unconsciously let her fingertips trail paths on his skin.

The last three days had been bliss. Tracking during the day, wearing increasingly less armor as the temperature rose. Naked swims in the ocean, stolen kisses, and hushed moans in hidden alcoves, her sleeping in his arms under the stars. She'd wrapped herself around him like the sea: enveloping, untameable, infinite.

He grew still, knowing it was coming to an end. They had eliminated the Antaam responsible for the dead Crows and missing supplies. But he knew they were in a fragile bubble that would shatter when they left Rivain. Nelle would disappear behind her mask of leadership, and Rook would have to return to managing the biggest contract the Crows had ever undertaken. And he… he would go back to figuring out ways to kill a couple of gods. 

Tomorrow morning, they would return to the Lighthouse—back to their separate rooms.

As if sensing his mood shift, she turned in his arms, wavy hair curtaining half her face. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere good." He admitted. 

She studied his face in the moonlight. "Then come back to me."

When she kissed him, it was with an urgency that spoke of shared understanding—they both knew this was borrowed time. He pulled her against him, tasting desperation beneath the desire.

"Nelle," he savored the freedom to use her real name.

He should slow down. He should pull back before this got too serious if he had any sense left. But he didn't. He couldn’t. He was already hers, whether she wanted him or not.

She pulled away the blanket and sat up to straddle him, then leaned back down to capture his mouth in a searing kiss. The feeling of her soft curves pressed against him was pure ecstasy. Her hands caressed his face and stroked his hair as he fisted hers gently, turning her head to deepen the kiss.

She moaned into his mouth, and her hips bucked against his when she felt his desire for her rise. He gripped her firmly against him, maintaining the pressure as she ground against him, making him slick with her arousal.

Her hand reached between them, and with her next movement, he was inside her. They both moaned when he slid in, still warm and wet from their earlier joining.

He leaned on one elbow, rising slightly. His other hand traveled over her—her breasts, her nipples, ghosting along her ribs, gripping her thighs. He looked up at her, trying to memorize this moment. The moonlight illuminated her curls, caught the shine of the trail his mouth left on her collarbone, and highlighted every curve and hollow. Her hands rested on his chest, and he could feel her grip tighten when she moved just right, taking him deeper.

Sitting up, he gathered her by the waist with both hands. He guided her rhythm, helping her drive onto him with each swing of her hips. They moved together with a hungry intensity. He could feel her clenching around him as she urged him deeper still, begging for his all. Her hands wound around his neck, and their mouths crashed together. One of his arms circled her hips, the other her back, drawing her closer until there was no space between them.

He gently fisted her hair and tugged so he could kiss her neck, traveling down to her breasts as they continued moving against each other, lost in time. As they built toward their peak, the need for friction became uncontrollable, and he heard her moans grow louder. He sucked on her nipple before letting his thumb find her sensitive center.

She was so responsive to his touch that the smallest pressure made her body shiver, a loud moan escaping that went straight to his core. His movements became more urgent, thrusting into her with greater force until she threw her head back and came so hard her cry was almost soundless. He thrust into her a few more times before he too came undone in her arms.

They lay facing each other in the darkness, her hand resting on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her shoulder. She dozed while he watched her, fighting the urge to wake her with his hands and mouth. She made him forget himself. With her, there was no strategy—just instinct and need. The intensity of how completely she'd gotten under his skin was new and terrifying. 

Lucanis couldn’t help himself. His mind kept drifting to darker places—to Illario, to the possibility that his own cousin had betrayed him. If family could turn on family,  what did that say about trust itself? About letting anyone close enough to matter? He'd been trained to identify threats, never to let his guard down completely. Yet here he was, walls crumbling before someone who could destroy him more thoroughly than any blade. 

And if Illario was the last thread tying him to the life he'd fought to return to—what would be left of it without him? Just a blade with no loyalty. A Crow who didn’t believe in the nest anymore.

If he was going to entertain this possibility, if he allowed himself to suspect Illario had betrayed him, he needed irrefutable evidence. He would not kill the last member of his family on suspicion alone. He wouldn't have that on his conscience. He had already lost too much; he couldn't afford to lose that, too.

The familiar walls began to rise in his chest, the instinct to protect himself. Even with her pressed to him, pleasure still thrumming through every nerve, the cold thoughts returned. He couldn't hold them off, not even now. Not even with her.

He pondered this until he noticed the stars giving way to dawn. 

She murmured in her sleep and shifted, curling backward into him. He let her guide his arm beneath her head, wrapping his other arm around her waist. She sighed when he brushed his fingers along her ribcage and the swell of her breast, her breathing deepening. Her skin was still hot from their last time, and as his hand drifted to her stomach, she arched back into him as she awakened to pleasure rising within her.

For a long moment, he just held her, forehead resting against the curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin. She was warm and soft and real—nothing like the cold truths gnawing at the back of his mind. 

Her hand found his, pressing it firmer to her breast. His other hand moved lower, slipping between her legs. Her hips rocked back into him, and when she said that she needed him, with sleep still in her voice, all his doubts dissolved. He buried his face in her neck, not just to kiss her, but to hide. To lose himself in skin and scent and warmth. He didn't have the words for what this was, what she meant to him. But he could show her. Again. And again.

He took her slowly, savoring every sensation—the way she arched into him, the soft sounds she made, the feel of her coming apart in his arms. When it was over, they lay entwined, neither willing to be the first to break the spell.

But the growing light made ignoring reality impossible.

They packed in silence, both aware that every secured item brought them closer to the end of their reprieve. The easy intimacy of the past three days felt precious under the rising sun.  

He only knew he couldn't stop wanting her, even if he should want to.

He watched the transformation happen in real time. Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring in a way he recognized from countless briefings. The soft curve of her mouth firmed into the determined line that had rallied them all against impossible odds. Even her breathing changed—slower, more controlled. Nelle faded behind the mask of leadership he knew so well, leaving Rook in her place.

"Ready to move out?" Rook asked.

"Yes," he replied, his own voice automatically shifting to match her tone. But the single word felt like swallowing glass.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the careful distance between them suddenly feeling like a chasm. Then her composure cracked, just slightly—a tightening around her eyes that spoke of the same pain he felt.

Neither moved to close the distance. They couldn't afford to. Not with the Lighthouse waiting and duties calling.

But in the space between one step and the next, she reached back and squeezed his hand—just once, quickly, a secret shared in plain sight.

Chapter Text

The return to the Lighthouse had been relatively smooth, though the Rivaini warmth hadn’t followed them back.

Lavendel had felt like breathing for the first time in months. Fighting side by side, saving something that mattered—it had given her team hope. Rivain had given her and Lucanis… something more. Nights wrapped in each other, skin and sweat and silence. Not just lust. Not just comfort. A thread of something real.

They hadn't spoken about Rivain—not directly—but they hadn't needed to.

Missions often kept them apart, sometimes for days at a time, but they managed to find stolen moments.

Rook still found Lucanis in the kitchen in the early mornings, already pouring her a cup before she entered. She stayed while he chopped vegetables for dinner, lips brushing hers as they moved around each other. He'd play piano in the music room, a slow melody she didn't recognize. When she sat beside him on the bench, he never stopped playing, just shifted to make room and pulled her closer. Sometimes his free hand would trace her thigh, absent and tender.

Some evenings, she went to his room. He always opened the door before she could knock. Just pulled her inside, arms warm around her waist, lips already on hers. They rarely talked those nights, but it didn't matter. Touch filled the silence. Sleep came easier in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

They had a rhythm.

But then the moments began to shrink. It happened so gradually that she wasn't even sure when it had started. Three weeks after Rivain? Four? Maybe there had been a handful of perfect days before the shift began, before something behind his eyes went distant.

The changes were subtle at first. 

There had been moments. Times when she caught him staring past her shoulder instead of at her. When his kiss lingered, but his thoughts didn't.

During the philosophical or moral debates between Emmrich and Lucanis, his answers became less spirited, more distracted. Instead of engaging, he'd stare at his hands, offering only halfhearted rebuttals. His banter with Davrin grew duller, losing the sharp wit that once made the whole table laugh, so Davrin started directing his jokes toward Harding instead. The meals grew quieter without Lucanis's dry commentary to fill the gaps. He stopped lingering after meals, excusing himself. Even Neve, usually absorbed in her thoughts, had started watching him with that calculating expression she wore when puzzling out a case.

He was still present in meetings, sharp as ever when it came to strategy, but withdrawn from the group's easy flow. Some nights—too many now—she made her way to his room, and found it empty. The door unlocked, his bed undisturbed, no sign of where he'd gone.

Those nights, she started sleeping on the balcony again, her stomach twisting with uncertainty and worry. Her fingers drifted more and more to her throat, seeking solace from the small pendant there.

The clasp had started to fray. One morning in the yard, she felt it break—a sharp tug as she dodged Taash's staff, the soft clink when it hit the stones. She only muttered a curse, pocketed the pendant, and moved on. Just another thing she’d fix later.

"You good?" Taash asked, pausing mid-swing.

"Fine," Rook said. "Just a broken clasp."

But as she tucked the broken chain beneath her collar, she wondered if Lucanis would have noticed. Seven weeks ago, he would have. He'd have stopped whatever he was doing, taken the chain from her hands, and spent the afternoon in his room fixing it with the same careful precision he brought to maintaining his blades.

Now she wasn't sure he'd notice if she stopped wearing it altogether.

She told herself she'd fix it the next time they hit a market. But standing there in the training yard, watching Taash reset their stance, she realized she’d been telling herself a lot of “next times” lately—ask him what was wrong, stop pretending his sudden silences didn't sting, talk about how he'd stopped sharing his thoughts.

It was a promise she wasn't sure she could keep.

She thought about knocking on his door again that night. Standing there, her knuckles hovering just shy of wood. The familiar ache of wanting to be near him burned in her chest—but something stopped her. She turned and went back to the balcony instead.

He was failing her. He knew it. Spite wouldn’t let him forget it.

He hadn’t meant to drift from her. Not at first. They'd come back from Rivain with sun on their skin and salt in their hair, and something fragile and hopeful between them. He'd woken with her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her against him, warm and real. Proof that he could still be more than just a weapon, more than just Spite's reluctant host.

He still remembered the way she looked in the watchtower firelight, golden and delicate. Still remembered the soft sounds she made under him, the way she had smiled with her eyes when he caught her gaze, the taste of sea air on her lips.

But Treviso’s letters brought ghosts.

Every message from Viago drew him closer to the edge. The reports came weekly, sometimes more often, each one a carefully worded blade between his ribs. Illario was missing from Talon meetings. Assignments were rerouted without explanation. Resources were moved under strange names. The Antaam repelling the Crow's pushback and sabotage. A Venatori presence emerging—coordinated, insidious.

The whispers grew louder. And Viago's phrasing—always so precise—turned razor-edged: personal initiative , family divergence , concerning patterns of independence, questionable suggestions .

Lucanis read those words and heard betrayal.

He didn't want to believe it. Couldn't. Illario had been more than blood—he’d been home. The boy who used to sneak candied almonds when Caterina wasn't looking, who once threw himself between Lucanis and a Tevinter blade and laughed while bleeding, saying it was worth it to see the shock on their enemy's face.

But if it was true—if the person who knew him best, who knew every weakness and vulnerability, had handed him over to the Venatori like a piece on a chess board...

The thought made him sick.

Spite stirred more powerfully whenever the doubt crept in. Not with comfort. Never with comfort.

"Family. Always betrays ," the spirit hissed. " He fed you. To the dark. And still. You defend. Him!"

Lucanis tried to push him down, to lock Spite in a far corner of his mind like before. He had to do this more and more lately, the spirit growing stronger with his turmoil. But suppression only made Spite angrier, louder, and more volatile.

The demon’s disturbing influence constantly seeped through the cracks. In the training yard, the demon would whisper suggestions during sparring sessions— how easy it would be to take out an eye , how to make a training accident look convincing . When working on his gear, Spite would guide his hands to check the sharpness of the blades more than necessary, running his fingertips along the edges until they bled.

Then, the sleepwalking had started again.

Sometimes Lucanis woke up outside her door, his hand already reaching for the handle, Spite's hunger thrumming through his veins. The spirit wanted her—wanted to touch, to feel, to taste her.

He didn’t trust himself anymore.

Emmrich had sensed the growing turmoil and offered to help, his eyes full of concern and academic curiosity. Lucanis had accepted the mage's offer to put wards on his door—protective barriers that would keep Spite from wandering the halls at night.

That should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

He picked up new routines—training until his hands bled, memorizing every Venatori name on Viago’s lists, sharpening blades that didn’t need sharpening. He had isolated himself by habit now, as if it might keep her safe.

But it wasn’t enough.

One night, she found him in his room with a knife in his hand.

He didn't remember retrieving it, only that it was there when he woke up—balanced weight in his palm, fingers tight around the hilt. The pressure in his head had become a roar. Spite paced beneath his skin, vying for control as his vision took on a purple tinge. The room tilted. Her voice reached him like he was under water, Spite pushing him down.

"Lucanis? What are you doing?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't. His breath came fast. He couldn't feel the ground under his feet.

She crossed to him, eyes focused on the blade. "Give it to me," she had said.

"No," the spirit hissed. His voice wasn't his anymore.

She reached for his hand. He pulled away—too fast, too hard.

The blade caught her arm.

His body froze as red welled beneath her torn sleeve, bright and accusatory in the lamplight. A shallow cut, but it felt catastrophic.

Spite recoiled. Vanished in an instant, leaving only Lucanis to hold the knife.

"Nelle," Lucanis choked. "I didn't—"

She pressed the cloth from her shirt to her arm, shaking her head. "It’s fine."

He dropped the knife. Backed away from her like she was fire and he was already burning.

That was the moment he decided: no more .

If Spite could make him hurt her once, it could happen again.

He stopped eating his meals with the others. He made himself scarce during training. He avoided her eyes in meetings, dodged her footsteps in the halls. Every bit of distance was a punishment—and a precaution. Better she hate him for his absence than for his presence.

This only enraged the spirit more.

"Want her," Spite would snarl during long, sleepless nights. "Smell her. Skin. Hair. Salt and. Jasmin. Why do you. Keep us. From what is. Ours?"

"She's not ours," Lucanis would say into his pillow, hands clenched into fists. "She's not a possession."

"Everything. Is possession. Everything. Can be. Taken."

When he suspected she would come to his room—and he always knew, could feel her approach like a shift in the air—he made sure he was gone. Training somewhere in the Crossroads, hunting Antaam stragglers and cultists who tried to breach the barriers around their sanctuary. When he returned, he could smell her scent lingering near his door: Jasmin and disappointment.

The pangs of guilt had taken up permanent residence in his chest.

He knew she was waiting for him, worrying about him. All he needed to do was go to her. Kiss her temple like he used to. Hold her against his chest and let her steady breathing calm the storm in his mind. Never let go.

But he couldn't do that. Not when he couldn't protect her from himself.

The conversation had been inevitable.

She'd found him in his room, surrounded by Viago's latest reports. He'd been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, the words blurring together as Spite whispered poison in his ear. When she entered, closing the door behind her, he'd felt his heart rate spike.

"Finally," Spite had purred. "Alone. With her. Now we can—"

"Lucanis." Her voice cut through the demon's whisper. "Can we talk?"

He'd tried to deflect, to send her away with excuses about Crow business. But she'd pressed forward, and he could see the hurt building in her eyes with each deflection. When she mentioned Rivain, the word hit him like a blow to the chest.

"Tell her," Spite had hissed as she reached for him. "Tell her. About the. Dreams. About how. We want to. Taste her. Show her."

Instead, he'd pulled away, using the only weapon he had left—cruelty.

"Rivain was a mistake."

The words had tasted like ash in his mouth, but he'd forced them out anyway. Watched her face crumple before she composed herself. She'd fought for him, tried to reach him even as he built walls between them. But in the end, he'd done what he had to do.

"Don't come to my room anymore."

The hurt that flashed across her face nearly broke his resolve. But it was better this way. Safer.

"I see," she'd said quietly. Then, after a moment, "If that's what you want."

After she left, he'd sat among the scattered reports for a long time

He told himself it was for her safety. That he was protecting her. From Spite. From Illario. From himself.

If she stays close, I will destroy her. Better she learns now.

But the truth cut deeper.

He missed her.

Maker, he missed her.

He looked hollowed out. 

The shadows beneath his eyes deepened by the day, his shoulders hunched like something was grinding him down from the inside out. His jaw trembled slightly as he ground his teeth, lost in thoughts she no longer had access to.

Rook had to ignore every instinct that told her to go to him. Care for him and hold him. The part of her that was called Nelle—who had been held by him, needed by him, seen by him.

Lucanis had been clear. 

He wanted space. Space to let him drown. Space so he could fold in on himself again and again until there was nothing left but ghosts and guilt.

Maker. That man was as stubborn as an Antivan mule. She used to admire him for that; now she wanted to punch him in the face. Maybe twice. Once for pushing her away. The other one for thinking she couldn’t see right through him.

For assuming she’d buy the excuses—that it had been lust in a moment of weakness. A mistake.

As if she hadn’t seen his hand tremble when she bandaged her arm. As if she hadn’t watched the horror crawl across his face like he was the one bleeding. As if she hadn’t read the same reports. As if she didn’t know his silence wasn’t just distance, but fear.

Just thinking about his empty chair at the dinner table or his eyes skating over hers made her seethe. Her fists clenched before she realized it, and the sudden tug at the raw skin beneath the bandage made her wince.

The worst part was that he’d left her no way through but confrontation. 

He had backed her into a corner. There was no gentle way to do this anymore. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and Spite’s presence was clawing closer to the surface day by day. She couldn’t let this keep going.

She waited for him.

Rook stood on the balcony, willing herself to stay awake despite the exhaustion still clinging to her limbs after the day’s mission with Emmrich. Tracking a rogue necromancer through crypts and cursed tunnels wasn’t how she’d wanted to spend her day, and it certainly hadn’t improved her mood.

Just when her eyes began to drift closed, she heard the door below fall shut with a heavy thud.

She leaned over the railing and saw his silhouette moving across the courtyard. Alone, shoulders hunched.

By the time she reached the dining hall, he had already started brewing coffee. The scent was familiar, and it stabbed at her unexpectedly. That same roast. The one he'd made her the morning after their first real night together.

She hesitated in the doorway, then stepped in.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

His shoulders tensed. “Rook.” He didn’t turn around until he had a steaming cup in hand.

That’s when she saw the bruise forming across the cut in his eyebrow. Angry and swollen, the skin already darkening.

She moved before she could think better of it.

She tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her shirt and doused it with fresh water, folding it into a makeshift compress. But when she stepped forward to press it to his wound, he backed away.

H er breath caught as her hands froze mid-air, just for a second. The slap of rejection came harder than she'd braced for. The anger still boiled under her skin, but it was sorrow that threatened to spill first.

She lowered her hands slowly, offering the cloth from a distance instead.

She blinked once. Twice. Told herself not to let him see.

After a beat, he took it. “Thank you.”

“How bad is it?”

“Not too bad.” He shrugged. “Compared to how the offender ended up.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Her voice was flatter than she’d intended. Detached.

He let out a long sigh. “It’s under control.”

Her temper snapped at his deflection. “The fuck it is.”

He turned to her sharply, brows lifting in disbelief. At her tone, the curse, or the fact that she finally called him on his bullshit—she didn’t know.

She met his gaze, unflinching. Daring him to lie to her again.

He looked away first. Raked a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. “Emmrich placed wards. If I sleep, the door is locked. I hide my blades. I… I tie myself to the bed, just in case.”

He looked up again, voice quieter. “What more do you want me to do?”

It hit her harder than she expected—how much he was hurting, the effort he was putting in. But it wasn’t enough.

“I want you to talk to me,” she said.

She stepped closer. “We both know what’s causing this, Lucanis. Andraste’s tits, we read the same reports.”

His jaw clenched. The name hung there, unspoken between them.

She said it anyway.

“Illario.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Illario,” he repeated.

The argument had replayed in her head for hours afterward.

She had lashed out, pushed him to talk. Tried to keep him from folding in on himself like Illario had already taken everything. She’d all but begged him not to let this crack between them fester. Asked him for the chance to prove she wasn’t going to let him down, too.

He’d remained a wall. Stubborn and silent. His eyes fixed on the far wall as if he thought that if he didn’t look at her, the pain wouldn’t count.

She told herself not to try again, that it was now his move. But as the night crept deeper, the ache in her chest only grew.

So she went to him.

She pushed open the pantry door and knew instantly he wasn’t there. The air was colder without him. She stood in the doorway a long moment, breathing through the hollow space he’d left behind.

She hadn’t been able to sleep.

Later that night, as she lay curled under the blanket on her sofa, she saw shadows shift outside her door. Quiet steps, hesitant. The silhouette paused.

For a breathless second, she let herself believe it was him, that they would be alright.

Then—

A sharp inhale.

A sigh.

Footsteps retreating.

Chapter Text

The sigil was still warm.

Neve crouched beside the cold ashes of the bakery hearth, her gloved fingers hovering over the jagged circle carved into soot-stained brick. Runes for fear, isolation, and guilt. A tether for a despair demon—placed with strategic importance, not summoned by some desperate blood mage's impromptu ritual.

This was the third anchor she'd found in two blocks.

She pulled out her notebook, sketching the configuration she observed. Three weeks she'd been chasing leads for this investigation—three weeks of watching Dock Town's survivors turn on each other in fits of inexplicable grief and rage. The pattern had only clicked yesterday, but the damage had been unfolding far longer than anyone realized.

The fog outside never lifted here. Not since the dragon attack, turning half the district into a wasteland of broken stone and broken families. A perfect cover for something as insidious as this.

Someone was using the devastation as camouflage.

She stood, brushing ash from her knee and prosthetic, already calculating her next move. The evidence pointed to a network—too organized for a lone cultist, too sophisticated for opportunistic scavengers. This was Venatori work, but not their usual approach. No grand ritual, no dramatic summoning. Just slow, methodical corrosion of hope itself.

And she knew she couldn’t stop it alone.

Even now, she could feel another presence lurking beyond the collapsed wall, something hungry.

She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t pursue, either.

Instead, she turned toward the exit of the ruined bakery, already speculating who might be foolish or capable enough to follow her into the deep. There weren’t many options, not ones she trusted, at least.

Except one.

Lucanis.

The thought made her jaw tighten. Not an ideal choice—too haunted by his own demons, too distant lately—but the only one she trusted completely with this investigation. She'd seen him fight. More importantly, she'd seen him choose restraint when violence would have been easier.

If she was going to walk into a trap, she wanted him watching her back.

Neve paused in the shadow of the Lighthouse's training yard archway, watching Lucanis work through what looked like the same sequence for the dozenth time. Shirtless, sweat-slicked, driving a short blade through the air. No target or opponent, just ghosts he seemed determined to carve apart.

He hadn’t noticed her yet.

His form was flawless—every step measured, every strike calculated. But there was something frantic underneath the control. The way his blade trembled after each combination. The rigid set of his shoulders.

A man holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“Lucanis.” 

The blade stopped mid-motion. He turned. Only then did she see the shadows beneath his eyes, the bruise blooming above his eye, his jaw locked so tight she wondered if it hurt. 

But his voice was steady. "Neve."

"I need your help with something."

He sheathed the blade without breaking eye contact. "What kind of something?"

"The kind that involves killing demons." She stepped into the yard proper. "Someone's been planting despair anchors in Dock Town. I've traced the pattern, but the final site..." She gestured vaguely. "Let's just say I'd prefer not to face it alone."

His posture shifted slightly—not quite tension, but a sharpening of attention. "Venatori?"

"Has to be. Although I didn’t suspect them to be this organised or sophisticated." She crossed her arms. "I know you've got your own troubles, but—"

"When?"

The interruption was quiet but decisive. She studied his face, looking for signs of whatever had put those shadows under his eyes. The tension between him and Rook had been building for weeks—not the sharp clash of an argument that can easily be resolved, but something worse. The slow, careful distance of two people who'd hurt each other and didn't know how to fix it.

Maybe this would help, or maybe it would make things worse. Either way, it was his choice.

"Now," she said. "The trail's fresh, but not for long."

He nodded once, already reaching for his shirt. "Give me five minutes."

The smell of despair hit them before they'd gone three blocks into the ruins.

A stagnant and infected hopelessness that had nowhere to go, curdling into rage and self-destruction. It clung to the broken stone like mold, seeping from the cracks where the Veil had torn.

Neve adjusted her grip on her staff as they picked their way through the rubble. The further they moved from the main road, the quieter it got. Even the gulls had abandoned this part of the docks.

"Why here specifically?" Lucanis moved beside her with that unnerving assassin's quiet, barely disturbing the debris underfoot.

She answered with disdain. “Demographics. Dock Town’s always been poor—and they suffered the worst when the dragon hit.”

Lucanis had always unsettled her a little. Not because of the reputation—though “Mage-Killer” didn’t exactly ease introductions—but because of the restraint. The terrifying calm of a man shaped by violence who chooses, every second, not to snap.

Today, though, his quiet didn’t feel like control; it felt like distance.

“Third ward ahead,” she murmured, gesturing to a scorched sigil on the wall.

Lucanis nodded. “Residual? Or active?”

"Both." Neve crouched beside the marks, tracing their edges with her finger. The magic hummed against her skin—sour, wrong. "This one's older than the others. Maybe a week?"

"Test pattern?"

"Maybe. Or they're getting bolder." She pulled out her notebook, sketching the configuration. "The placement is deliberate. Corner building, maximum foot traffic before the collapse. They wanted as many people as possible to be affected."

Lucanis examined the surrounding rubble while she worked. "Exit routes?"

"Three. But look—" She pointed to scorch marks on the adjacent buildings. "They blocked two of them. Funneled people toward the main street."

"So the panic would spread faster."

"Exactly." Neve closed her notebook and stood. "This isn't random terrorism, it's social engineering."

They worked in a comfortable rhythm after that. She identified the magical signatures; he mapped the tactical implications. He had a good eye—seeing patterns she'd missed, understanding how each sigil connected to create a web of influence that could turn an entire neighborhood against itself.

"There," Lucanis said, pointing to a partially collapsed watchtower. "Center of the grid."

Neve nodded grimly. "If we disrupt that one, the others destabilize. But you realize what this means?"

"That we're not dealing with some desperate cultist." His voice carried an edge of controlled anger. "This is organized. Well-funded."

"And if they're testing the technique here..."

"They're planning something bigger." The words hung between them. 

They didn't speak again as they approached the fourth anchor sigil. They didn't need to. Just two professionals who trusted each other. She marked the circle for dispersal; he stood with his back to hers, watching the shadows.

Then the shadows moved.

The demon burst from the wall like smoke given shape—horned, slick with malice, trailing a spiral of suffocating dread. Another followed. Then a third.

Neve’s shield surged up a second before claws would have found her chest.

Lucanis was moving, sliding under the first demon's swing with fluid grace. His daggers found flesh, but the thing barely flinched—these weren't the mindless horrors they'd faced before. These had been fed, strengthened by weeks of accumulated despair.

"They're anchored!" Neve shouted, throwing chains of ice around the second demon's legs. "You have to sever the connection!"

She saw him nod before he pivoted toward the central sigill—and then the third demon was on her, breaking through her defenses with raw force. She stumbled back, staff raised, but it was too close, too fast—

Lucanis appeared between them like a shadow made solid.

The demon's claws met his crossed daggers with a sound like breaking glass. For a heartbeat, they were locked together, and Neve saw something flicker in his eyes—a violet flash that didn't belong to him. 

It was like being stared at by something hollow and endless. Something too large to fit inside skin and bone. Neve staggered back, feeling her heart hammer against her ribs.

Then he twisted, letting the demon's momentum carry it past him, and drove both blades into its spine with brutal force.

It collapsed, but the other two were still coming.

"The sigil!" Neve called, weaving another barrier around them. "I can hold them, but not for long!"

He was already there, daggers flashing as he carved through the binding runes with swift, precise strokes. The demons screamed in fury as their anchor to this plane began to unravel.

"Now!" he shouted.

Neve dropped her barrier and poured everything she had into a single, focused blast of dispelling magic. The sigil cracked, then shattered, and the demons simply dissolved like smoke in a strong wind.

They stood in the sudden silence, breathing hard.

"I owe you one," she said quietly, not sure if she was talking to Lucanis or the thing inside him.

He bent to clean his blade and muttered, "You'd have done the same."

Maybe. But she didn’t know if she’d have done it so fast. Or so instinctively.

Neve straightened her robe and moved to the remnants of the sigil. “This one’s different,” she murmured.

Lucanis knelt beside her, frowning. "Blood magic."

"And it's old. Weeks, maybe more. Look here—" She gestured to the edge, where a series of runes overlapped with Venatori glyphs. "That binding signature… that’s Aelia's work."

Neve traced the interconnected symbols with growing dread. “With enough anchor points, she could affect the entire region." Neve sat back on her heels. "We have to stop her."

" We can't do this alone," Lucanis said firmly.

Neve's jaw tightened. She knew what he meant, who he meant. And she didn't want to say it.

"You need her," he continued.

The truth lodged heavily behind her teeth. She couldn't argue with it. Much as she wanted to handle this herself, much as she hated admitting she needed help—especially from her —the math was simple. Aelia had weeks of preparation and a network of magical amplifiers. Neve was good, but she wasn't that good.

"She'll say yes," Lucanis said finally. "She always does."

There was something in his voice—even now, even with whatever was broken between them—a kind of weary affection that made Neve's chest tighten. 

"I know," she said finally.

"Then ask her."

The eluvian shimmered as they stepped through, rippling like a silver curtain torn by memory.

Neve emerged first, boot and metal landing softly on the stone floor of the Lighthouse. The silence hit her almost immediately—no distant sounds of conversation, no laughter in the common room.

Lucanis stepped through a breath later, and the mirror went still behind him.

They didn’t speak right away. Dock Town still clung to them like soot—she could feel it in the way her fingers flexed against her staff. In the way his jaw stayed clenched.

But there was something else, too. Something that had been building all day, simmering beneath the surface of their easy partnership. The way he'd moved to protect her without thinking. The way she'd found herself watching him when she should have been focusing on the investigation.

She'd been doing that for a while now, actually, ever since things had gone cold between him and Rook.

Lucanis rolled his neck once and started walking. Neve followed.

Their steps echoed softly down the corridor, and Neve became acutely aware of the distance between their footsteps—and how easily she could close it.

They passed the common room. Empty.

They entered the courtyard. Silent.

And still they didn’t speak.

Not until they reached the fork that would take her toward her study, and him to his room.

Lucanis slowed, “Good work today.”

"You too." The words felt inadequate, but she wasn't sure what else to say.

He shrugged. "You did the hard part; I just pointed out the obvious."

"Nothing about this was obvious." She took a step forward. "And when that demon came at me... thank you. For stepping in." She thought about the moment he'd stepped between her and that monster. The absolute certainty in his movement, the way he'd positioned himself without hesitation. Not just protecting her—shielding her with his own body.

The thought stirred something warm and complicated in her chest. Something she'd been trying not to examine too closely.

"Neve..." His voice was quiet, careful.

She wasn't sure what made her do it. Maybe it was just that he'd saved her, and she wanted to thank him in a way that words couldn't quite manage. Maybe she had wanted to do that since the beginning. She closed the distance, and before she could think better of it—before she could think at all—she leaned in and kissed him.

The echo of a thought that had existed too long was now given form.

She felt the tension roll through him, his shoulders under her hands taut and sharp. He didn’t kiss her back—but he didn’t shove her away either. Instead, he carefully broke the contact. 

Then he angled his head. Slightly. Subtly. Back toward the building behind them.

Neve blinked. The realization hit her like a slap of cold water. He was checking for her. For Rook.

Even here, with her, Rook was still his first thought. 

His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes flickered with discomfort. Guilt. Maybe even regret—though she wasn't sure if it was for the kiss or for not being able to return it.

“I shouldn’t have—” Neve began.

He didn't answer. Couldn't, probably. What was there to say? That she'd misread the situation? That his heart was still tangled up with someone else? 

She already knew that.

She cleared her throat. "I'll talk to her," she said quietly.

That, at least, earned a nod.

Chapter Text

The knock on her door was fast and sharp.

Rook heard it but didn’t answer right away. She sat at the edge of her sofa, half-laced thighboots paused mid-tug. She listened, trying to identify the visitor, too aware of those who never approached anymore. She opened the door, and to her surprise, found Neve standing in the hallway, her expression carefully neutral.

"Can we talk?"

Rook stepped aside wordlessly, letting the mage enter her quarters. Rook looked Neve over, remembering the view from the balcony last night—her hands around his neck, her lips capturing his.

She blinked the image away and directed her focus to the conversation at hand. Neve wouldn’t have come to her unless it was serious, not after the words they had exchanged. Rook studied her, noting the way Neve's fingers twisted together in her lap as she sat on the chair Rook had directed her to. 

“I’m listening,” Rook said evenly.

“Dock Town’s falling apart. Someone’s been planting despair anchors; it’s not random.” She took a breath, then continued. ”Lucanis and I found the pattern, and I recognized the magical signature—Aelia, a powerful, high-ranking Venatori mage.”

“You’ve encountered her before?”

Neve sighed, “I caught her once in the middle of a horrible blood sacrifice. She disappeared after she was arrested.” Neve closed her eyes, seemingly remembering the moment. “ I’ve been keeping my eyes open ever since for a trace of her.”

“We need your help, Rook.” Neve finally dared to ask.

“We?” Rook echoed, the word heavier than it should’ve been. She already knew who Neve meant; she just wanted to hear her say it.

“You, Lucanis, and I.”

Rook nodded. “Fine. When do we leave?”

Neve blinked, like she'd expected more resistance. Maybe part of her had hoped for it, something to make sense of the distance still straining between them.

“When you are ready.. I should let you prepare,” she hesitated. “Thank you. For agreeing.”

"It's the right thing to do."

Neve reached the door, her hand resting on the handle. She paused—just long enough for it to be noticeable. Her gaze flicked back toward Rook, and for a second, it looked like she might say more. But whatever it was, she swallowed it. Her posture straightened, and she walked away without another word.

After Neve left, the room felt too quiet, and despite herself, Rook found herself thinking about the day before, about what she'd seen from her balcony. The kiss had been brief but tender. She wasn’t able to hear what they said. Part of her was grateful, but another part couldn’t stop imagining the worst. It had left Rook feeling hollow, like something essential had been carved away. 

Was she so easily replaced? Had it meant so little that he could offer the same tenderness to someone else, barely weeks later?

But it was what came after that haunted her—the way he'd half-turned toward her balcony, his expression unreadable. He'd known she was there. He knew she had seen it. 

Shaking off the memory, she moved to her wardrobe to gather her gear. Her fingers drifted to her throat without conscious thought, seeking the familiar weight of her pendant, only to find bare skin. 

The absence stopped her cold. She checked the small dish on her nightstand, where she usually placed it—empty. 

The search started methodically. Dresser drawers, the pockets of discarded clothes, beneath the sofa. But as the minutes ticked by and the pendant remained missing, her movements grew more frantic. She tore through her wardrobe, shaking out every piece of clothing, checking every pocket twice. She checked under every piece of furniture and scoured the floor. Her room became a disaster of scattered belongings, and still, nothing.

No, no, no, no

The small pendant had been her mother’s—the last tangible piece of home she carried. The delicate golden chain had come from Viago the day he accepted her as a De Riva, marking her a Crow. That necklace had tied her past to her present. Her blood and her chosen family. Now both were gone.

It could be anywhere—dropped in some ruin, lost in the depths of Arlathan Forest, buried in the sand of some forgotten battlefield. The thought of it lying abandoned somewhere across Thedas, of never seeing it again, hurt her beyond belief. The tears came without warning, hot and fierce. She sank onto her disheveled bed and wept for the loss.

Her room looked like it had been ransacked. In the corner, the mirror caught her reflection—red-eyed and flushed. She hated seeing herself like this. So weak. Untethered.

A splash of cold water helped, but only marginally. She dressed quickly, hoping the others wouldn't notice. Lucanis was already waiting by the eluvian when she arrived, his posture casual, eyes anything but. They swept over her face and paused—not long, but long enough. She could feel it, like a touch she hadn’t asked for. 

"Ready?" Neve asked, approaching with her staff in hand.

Rook nodded, not trusting her voice. As they stepped through the eluvian, she caught Lucanis watching her again, his brow slightly furrowed. She waited for him to ask, dreading the question but somehow also needing it.

His silence could be mercy. It could also be abandonment, and she wasn’t sure which one cut deeper. Once, she would have gone to him without hesitation, seeking comfort in his steady presence. Now, both her anchors felt impossibly distant, and the loneliness of it was crushing her.

Her fingers brushed the hollow of her throat out of habit. Still no pendant. Just skin and ache.

A heavy stillness clung to the underground temple—Sancte Luscacan, Neve had called it. Once a place of worship, now repurposed as a Venatori compound.

Rook's boots echoed faintly as she stepped past shattered reliefs and cracked archways. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, letting her take in the half-collapsed side halls and stairways swallowed by rubble and void.

She hadn’t said a word since stepping through the eluvian. Neither had he.

The kiss still pulsed behind her ribs like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing, even when it hurt. The silence between them felt loud. Louder than the creak of distant chains or the faint, unnatural hum rising from deeper in the temple.

Something old still breathed in these halls, beneath the dust and blood.

They made it through two empty corridors before the first patrol rounded the corner. Three Venatori soldiers in crimson armor, moving with the confident swagger of those who thought their compound impregnable.

Lucanis was a shadow beside her, his daggers flashing through gaps in armor like water slipping through cracks. 

When a barrier rose to deflect Neve’s spell, Rook was already pivoting wide, driving steel through the spellcaster’s exposed side. Lucanis was gone by the time the mage hit the ground, already disabling the next opponent.

They moved like muscle and bone—distinct, but made to work together. He'd create an opening just as she needed it, trusting her to exploit it without looking back. She threw her dagger past his ear to drop an archer who'd been lining up a shot.

She hated how good it felt. Hated how her pulse quickened not just from exertion but from his proximity, from the thrill of their perfect synchronization. How easily her body remembered the shape of fighting beside him, like it was muscle memory, like it had missed this, too.

She didn’t want to miss him. She didn’t want any of this to feel right.

But it did.

They pressed deeper into the compound, following corridors lined with stolen artifacts and passing rooms with bloodstained altars. The Venatori grew more desperate as they advanced, their attacks more vicious. Magic crackled through the air as Neve blasted through their defenses, magick clearing their path while Rook and Lucanis moved like predators, leaving carnage in their wake.

The central courtyard opened before them—a circular space surrounded by pillars, with a raised dais at its center.

Rook scanned the space and froze. Dock Town’s missing, bound, and reanimated. Not all of them whole. Not all of them dead. The bile rose before she could stop it. 

Aelia stood beside a massive ritual circle carved into the stone, dark energy writhing within its boundaries. Her red-and-gold robes swept around her, a staff in her hands gleamed with embedded lyrium, and her eyes glowed with something darker than just power.

The fight was brutal from the first exchange. The ground surged beneath them as her magic twisted the battlefield, and walls of fire erupted, closing them in. Illusory copies of herself flickered through the smoke, and shattering blasts shattered the stone underfoot.

She's drawing power from the ritual circle!" Neve shouted over the chaos, deflecting a bolt of dark energy with her staff. "We need to disrupt it!"

Rook rolled behind a pillar as another spell shattered stone where she'd been standing. She came up running, knives ready, but Aelia gestured sharply, and an invisible force sent her weapons spinning across the courtyard, well out of reach.

She skidded to a stop, gritting her teeth. Her muscles moved on instinct, scanning the battlefield for her next move.

A wall of fire cut her off from Neve while another blast of energy sent her diving for cover. When she looked up, Lucanis was locked in combat with two Venatori soldiers who'd emerged from hidden alcoves, his daggers a blur of deadly motion as he fought to reach Aelia.

Without thinking, she sprinted toward him. Even now, her body trusted his without question. This close, this familiar, this unbearable. Her hand found the dagger on his thigh like it had always been hers. He could have stopped her, could have twisted away, or knocked her hand aside. Instead, their eyes met, just for a second, but long enough to figure out her intention.

She saw it reflected in him—the same electric charge she felt. The perfection of their rhythm. The relief of being understood without uttering a sound. The ache of what was still broken, and the pull of what could have been.

The realization was as painful as it was perfect.

Then the moment passed, and she was rolling away with his blade in her hand. Aelia raised her staff for a killing blow aimed at Neve, dark energy crackling along its length. Rook surged forward—felt every ounce of grief, distance, and everything unsaid condense into that single motion. She drove the blade between the mage’s ribs into her lung, the spell dying on her lips as she crumpled.

The ritual circle's energy collapsed with a sound like exploding glass, and the courtyard fell silent except for their ragged breathing.

Rook stood over the body, Lucanis’ dagger still clutched in her hand. Her pulse hadn’t slowed. She had expected relief. Or pain. Or something. But all she felt was the weight of the dagger and the heat of Lucanis' gaze still clinging to her skin. 

Neve moved toward them slowly, staff lowered. Her eyes flicked between the corpse and Rook, calculating.

No one spoke. The battle was over. But none of them felt like victors.

The infirmary always smelled faintly of elfroot and antiseptic. 

Rook sat on the edge of a narrow cot, bruises forming beneath her bandages, ribs aching with every breath.

Varric leaned back in the wooden chair beside her, his expression thoughtful.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, stroking his beard. “Solas shows up, full cryptic charm and ancient elf brooding, and instead of telling you how to stop the world from ending, he gives you… metaphors and tales about shaming a cruel warlord into defeat?”

“That sums it up,” Rook confirmed dryly.

“Charming.” Varric scratched his chin. “He’s really leaning into the whole god-of-rebellion image. Next time he shows up, maybe ask if the veiled riddles come with a glossary.”

Rook chuckled, and her hands stopped fidgeting with the bandage.

"You believe him?"

She was quiet for a moment, feeling the weight of that question. "I think he believes it. Whether that makes it true..." She shrugged, then winced as the motion pulled at her bruised ribs.

“He asked about the team again, about the relationship between me and—well, everyone.”

Varric’s brow ticked up. “Getting personal.”

“He always tries to,” she murmured, her gaze drifting toward the far wall. 

The knock came a moment later, light but unmistakably deliberate.

Rook glanced at Varric, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "Come in."

Neve opened the door and stood on the threshold, holding a small jar. Her tone was polite, guarded. “I brought something for the cuts. It won’t sting, I promise.” The mage attempted a small smile.

Rook hesitated a beat before nodding. “Thanks.”

Varric caught the tone and pushed off the chair. “I’ll let you two have a minute,” he said, looking meaningfully at Rook. He gave her shoulder a brief squeeze before heading to the door. “Don’t kill each other,” he muttered on his way out, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Once they were alone, the silence stretched between them like a taut string. Neve stepped inside, crossing the room to offer the ceramic jar. 

Rook unscrewed the lid, the sharp scent of herbs filling her nose. "How did you know I was here?"

Neve hesitated. “Lucanis.”

Of course. Of course, he would know—he always did. Always watching, always tracking. But now he shared nothing except silence and cold pragmatism. No comfort, no affection. 

She said nothing, just nodded once and started applying the salve. Despite Neve's promise, it burned—a sharp sting that made her jaw clench. Some wounds, it seemed, weren't ready to heal yet.

"I wanted to thank you," Neve said finally. "For today. For helping bring Aelia to justice. Those people... they deserved better than what she did to them."

Rook looked up, brow arched in quiet surprise. "Like I said, it was the right thing to do."

Still…” Neve shifted her weight, thumb rubbing along the seam of her glove. “After everything…” she sighed. “I owe you an apology... For what I said after the dragon attack. About the choice you made."

Rook's hand stilled on the jar. She'd been waiting for this conversation, dreading it, needing it.

"I knew it was wrong even as I was saying it," Neve continued, her voice quiet but steady. Her shoulders curved inward, like she wanted to fold herself out of the moment. "But I had so much anger, and it had to go somewhere. It felt easier to blame you than to accept that sometimes there are no good choices." She paused, her hands clasping tightly in front of her. "Once I started, I didn't know how to stop. I didn't know how to take it back."

The honesty in Neve's voice cut through Rook's defenses. She looked up, meeting the mage's eyes for the first time since she'd entered the room. 

“I blamed myself. For not being fast enough. Smart enough. Good enough to save them both.” She chewed the inside of her cheek while she figured out what to say next. “When you started saying the things I’d already thought a hundred times, I lashed out. I’m not proud of what I said to you on the balcony.” She struggled for the words. "Being angry with you hurt less than admitting I might have been wrong."

"You weren't wrong," Neve said softly. "You made an impossible choice with incomplete information. I should have supported you, not made it worse."

Rook felt something loosen in her chest—not forgiveness, not yet, but the possibility of it. "We both said things we didn't mean."

"Did we?" Neve's question was soft, almost hesitant. "Or did we mean them in the moment, and that's what makes it worse?"

The question hung between them, too honest and too complicated for easy answers. Rook screwed the lid back on the salve jar, buying herself time to think.

"Maybe both," she said eventually. "Maybe we meant them when we said them, but we don't have to keep meaning them now."

Neve nodded slowly. "A truce, then?"

"A truce." Rook extended her hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Neve shook it. Her grip was firm and warm, but there was still caution—a quiet recognition of the cracks that hadn't yet healed.

"This doesn't fix everything," Neve said, and there was relief in her voice at being able to say it plainly.

"No," Rook agreed. "But it's a start."

Neve lingered for a moment longer, as if there were more she wanted to say. But whatever it was, she kept it to herself. "The salve should help with the stiffness by morning. Try to get some rest."

After she left, Rook sat alone in the infirmary, turning the jar over in her hands. The conversation felt like progress, but a tentative kind. Trust, once broken, is rarely mended clean. 

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Lighthouse courtyard as Lucanis returned from Emmrich's quarters, his mind still churning from their conversation. The necromancer's affinity for spirits gave him an odd rapport with Spite, and his words—about spirits deserving the same respect as any other being, about coexistence rather than dominance- lingered in his consciousness. 

Respect, Spite had muttered afterward, his voice insidious inside Lucanis's skull. Bone man speaks. Truth. 

“He also said it goes both ways,” Lucanis reminded him aloud.

It was unsettling how readily Spite accepted Emmrich’s lessons while challenging everything Lucanis said. The spirit seemed convinced that Lucanis was constantly scheming to deceive him, to find some way to banish or control him as if Spite didn’t already have access to every thought in his head.

I want. Hands . Spite continued his rambling. Feet. Like Curiosity!

Lucanis sighed, rubbing at his temple. "We have enough feet."

Spite’s growing fascination with having a physical body was... concerning. Especially when Lucanis suspected the demon was powerful enough to reshape his flesh if he truly willed it.

He shook off the thought as he approached the dining hall, tying his dark hair back and rolling up his sleeves. It was Bellara's turn to cook tonight, but he often helped her. The routine calmed his mind and gave his hands something to do. Spite liked the smells and the knives. Everyone benefited.

But as he neared the entrance, he heard the telltale chaos of someone wrestling with cookware. The clanging of pots and pans sounded like Bellara's usual enthusiastic approach to cooking, but something was off. Her cheerful humming was absent, replaced by frustrated muttering and the occasional clatter of dropped utensils.

When he reached the kitchen alcove, he realized why.

"Don't."

The word sliced the air cleanly. She hadn’t turned but sensed him all the same—silent as he had been. Only she would have detected him. The thought sent an unwelcome warmth through his chest.

He watched her shoulders tense as she went utterly still, waiting to see if he would honor her request or push forward. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go to her, close the distance between them, and fix whatever was broken between them. His muscles remembered how they moved together in combat, how perfectly they read each other's intentions. He could still feel the ghost of her body sliding past his during their fight with Aelia, the brush of her hand against his thigh as she'd grabbed his dagger without even looking. As if it belonged to her.

But her posture was a barrier. And with knives within arm’s reach, he knew better than to ignore it.

He shifted direction, leaning on the edge of the dining table. Close enough to stay, far enough to respect the distance. He couldn’t walk away entirely. Even when he should have. Even when she deserved more than this half-presence of his.

There was so much he wanted to say to her, but no combination of words seemed adequate to express the tangle of regret and longing in his chest.

None of it would’ve mattered anyway.

After a long moment, she resumed her cooking, movements sharp and frustrated. He could tell she was improvising from the way she kept pausing to smell ingredients, adding spices seemingly at random. It occurred to him that he'd never actually seen her cook before—he and Bellara had taken over meal preparation early on after one too many of Harding's questionable "stews."

Watching her now, he was struck by how she approached cooking the same way she approached everything else—with determination and intuition rather than rigid adherence to rules. She tasted, adjusted, tasted again. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she lifted the ladle to her lips, steam curling around her face as she searched for the last note.

The sight transported him back to happier times, her in this same kitchen, laughing. He’d been cooking, and she’d passed him to set the table. He’d caught her waist without thinking. She gasped in surprise when he kissed her, then smiled like the world had narrowed to just them.

He blinked the memory away. 

Now, she stood with one hand on her hip, the other drumming against the counter. Her eyes flicked from the pot to the herb rack, back again. Searching. He could practically see her weighing her options.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. Rising from the table, he crossed to the shelf, grabbed a pinch of dried herbs, and silently held it out to her.

She looked at the leaves, the pot, then back at him. Suspicious. Like accepting his help might cost her something. 

He watched the conflict play out across her features—her pride warring with practicality. She didn't want to take anything from him, didn't want to acknowledge that he knew what she needed.

"I hate that you know," she said quietly, finally taking the herbs from his palm. Her fingers brushed his for just a moment, and the contact sent electricity shooting up his arm. From the way her breath hitched, he knew she felt it too.

"I know," he replied softly, because what else was there to say?

She stirred the herbs into the pot, and immediately, the aroma transformed, becoming richer, more complex. She tasted it again, and this time, her expression softened into something approaching satisfaction.

When she turned to face him fully, her eyes couldn’t quite meet his. The air between them seemed to thicken with everything they weren't saying.

"Nelle," he started—but the words died. What could he say? That I still think about you every waking moment? That I hear your name whispered back to me by the thing living in my head? That he'd rather have these stolen moments of pain than nothing at all?

"Don't," she said again, but this time it sounded less like a command and more like a plea. He could see the war raging in her eyes—anger, hurt, and want all tangled together.

He should walk away. He knew that. Every rational part of his mind screamed at him to leave her be, to stop causing her pain. But his feet wouldn't move, and when she angled her body slightly toward him, his resolve crumbled entirely.

Before he knew what he was doing, he closed the distance. His lips crashed into hers. She gasped—a delightful sound muffled by his mouth—and he braced for the rejection. He expected her to push him away, to slap him, to give voice to all the hurt he'd caused her.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, she made a soft, broken sound against his mouth and kissed him back with desperation, as if he were air and she were drowning. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as her lips parted under his. She tasted like the herbs she'd been cooking with.

Spite purred, delighted . Take her. She. Wants. You.

Lucanis pushed the demon's voice aside, focusing only on the woman in his arms. He backed her against the small prep table, his hands finding her waist, then her thighs as he lifted her onto the surface. She wrapped her legs around him instinctively, pulling him into the cradle of her hips with a soft gasp that made his blood sing.

His hand buried itself in her hair while the other gripped her thigh, holding her against him as they kissed with weeks of pent-up longing. Every slight sound she made went straight through him, every touch of her hands on his shoulders and arms lighting fires under his skin.

He kissed her like he couldn’t stop. She moaned into him, small, helpless sounds that undid him completely. Her hands roamed to his chest, mapping the planes of muscle through his shirt.

Then he felt it—the exact moment she remembered why they were apart. 

Her hands, which had been pulling him closer, suddenly pressed against his chest with a different intent. Her body went rigid beneath his touch, and she tore her mouth away from his with a gasp.

Rook's eyes were wide, her lips swollen from their kiss, her chest rising and falling rapidly. But there was something else in her expression now—the memory of every reason they couldn't do this, every word they'd spoken in hurt and fear, every choice that had led them to this impossible place.

There was a hollowness in her he recognized—he’d left it there.

He released her immediately and stepped back, his hands falling to his sides. She remained perched on the table where he'd placed her, looking small and wounded and so beautiful it made his chest ache.

Neither of them spoke. Their breath filled the space between.

He wanted to apologize, but no apology could fix it. She deserved more than he could give—she always had.

So he left the warmth of the kitchen behind, each step a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.

Nelle stood frozen in the kitchen long after his footsteps faded, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. The warmth of his hands still lingered on her skin—on her thigh and hair, pressed into the places where they'd fit together too easily. She hated how her body had betrayed her, how even now it ached for more of his touch despite everything that stood between them.

She pressed her fingertips against her swollen lips, trying to erase the heat he’d left behind. The kitchen still smelled like the herbs they'd chosen together, the perfect meal simmering forgotten on the stove.

When the dinner bell chimed an hour later, she wasn't surprised that Lucanis didn't appear. The others gathered around the table—Bellara chattering about the latest information she had retrieved from the artefact, Emmrich discussing some fascinating spirit he'd encountered, Neve making dry observations about the day's events. But the sight of the empty chair at the far end of the table festered.

After the meal, she prepared a plate for him without thinking and set the plate on the small table outside his door, not trusting herself to knock. It would be a shame if he didn't get to taste the final result of their collaboration, she told herself. It had nothing to do with caring for him, with wanting to make sure he ate, with the way her chest tightened at the thought of him going hungry because of her.

Nothing at all.

Back in her quarters, Nelle tried to settle into her evening routine, but sleep felt impossible. She lay on the sofa that served as her bed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about the way Lucanis had looked at her in those final moments.

Her hand went instinctively to her throat.

Nothing.

She turned onto her side and shut her eyes—but it didn’t help. She was back in that kitchen again. His mouth on hers. His body pressed into the space between her legs. That sound he’d made when she pulled him closer. The need in him, how it had matched her own.

Her body thrummed with unspent want, and her mind betrayed her—replaying the kiss, imagining what would’ve happened if she hadn’t pulled away. If she'd let herself fall.

In her mind, she saw herself storming down to his door, shoving it open, and dragging him into her arms without a word. She imagined straddling him on his cot, pinning him beneath her, both of them lost in the kind of hunger that burned everything else to ash.

She could almost feel it. His hands. His breath. The sound he’d make as she—

She shoved her face into the pillow with a groan. This was madness. Fantasies that led nowhere. Memories that only hollowed her out.

But her body didn't seem to care about logic or self-preservation. Despite her better judgment, her hand drifted lower, seeking relief from the ache he'd left behind. She imagined it was his touch instead of her own as she tried to quiet the storm he'd stirred up inside her.

Dawn came too soon and brought with it the sound of urgent knocking on her door. Rook dragged herself upright, feeling like she'd barely slept—which wasn't far from the truth. Her reflection in the small mirror showed dark circles under her eyes and hair that looked like she'd spent the night tossing and turning.

Which, of course, she had.

"Rook!" Davrin's voice called through the door. "We need to move. Now."

She opened the door to find the Grey Warden looking grim but energized, as he always did when there was a real fight ahead. "What's happened?"

"One of the blighted dragons. Scouts spotted her in the Wetlands, holed up in some old Grey Warden ruin. This is our chance to take her down while she's isolated!"

Finally. Something she could sink her teeth into, something that would require all her focus and leave no room for brooding over impossible men and their impossible situations.

"Give me five minutes to gear up," she said, reaching for her armor. "Who else are we taking?"

"Taash is already prepping. Figured we'd need their expertise for this one." 

An hour later, they stood at the edge of the Warden encampment, studying the collapsed tower where the dragon had made her lair. The ancient stones were blackened with corruption, and the air seemed to shimmer with toxic fumes. Even from a distance, Rook could feel the wrongness of the place, like a discordant note played too loud.

"She's big," Taash observed, lowering their spyglass. "And see how she's positioned herself? If we go in, she’ll slash us apart."

Rook studied the tactical layout, grateful to have something concrete to focus on. The dragon's position was smart; they would need to be very careful. 

"We need to draw her out," she said, pointing to the open ground beyond the tower. "Get her into that clearing. Ground her fast before she can take to the air and rain down fire on us."

"Agreed," said Evka. "My people can provide artillery support from the surrounding battlements. Ballistas and trebuchets to help herd her toward your position and keep her pinned once she's grounded."

"What about bait?" Davrin asked. "Something big enough to draw her out but not so tempting that she just torches it from a distance."

Taash grinned, their eyes lighting up with the prospect of a real challenge. "Leave that to me. I know exactly how to piss off a dragon."

They spent the next several minutes refining the plan—timing the artillery support, establishing fallback positions, and working out signals for coordination. It felt good to be planning something concrete, something with clear objectives and measurable outcomes. Rook felt herself slipping into command mode like it was second nature—and maybe it was.

"The key is speed," Rook concluded, looking around at the assembled faces. "We get one shot at this. If she retreats back into those ruins, we'll be fighting on her terms, and that's a losing proposition."

"Understood," Antoine nodded grimly. "When do we move?"

The calm came like a mask sliding into place—measured, practiced. She could lead. She had to. It was easier than feeling anything else.

"I'll organize the team," she said. "One hour, and then we take this thing down."

As the group began to disperse to make their preparations, Davrin caught her arm gently. "You alright?" he asked quietly. "You seem... I don't know. On edge."

For a moment, she considered deflecting, making some joke about pre-battle nerves. But Davrin had always been able to read her better than she’d like.

"Just ready for a fight," she said instead, which was true enough. "Sometimes you need to hit something, you know?"

He studied her face for a moment longer, then nodded. "I know the feeling. Just... don't let whatever's eating at you make you reckless out there. We need you sharp."

"Always am," she replied, but even as she said it, she wondered if that was still true. Because despite her best efforts to focus on the mission ahead, part of her mind was still back in that kitchen, still caught in the memory of desperate kisses and the hollow ache of what might have been.

Chapter Text

The blighted dragon emerged from the ruined tower with an ear-splitting shriek, her massive form slithering through the rubble like a serpent of shadow and scales. Wings unfurled like tattered sails as she pulled herself into the pale sunlight, sending a cascade of broken stone tumbling to the earth below.

From their position on the high ridge, the Grey Warden ballista crews had clear sight lines. The first volley screamed through the air—iron-tipped bolts as long as spears, trailing chains, but most missed their target. The dragon was faster than her size suggested, moving with the desperate fury of a cornered animal despite the jagged scars still marking her flanks—scars carved deep by Rook’s lyrium dagger back in Treviso.

But pain had only made her more vicious.

The few bolts that struck home chipped the scaly hide, but she barely flinched. Her molten eyes swept the field and locked on the small group gathered below.

"Remember," Taash said, gripping her axe, "first the wings, then the legs, and the neck. Don't let her claws or teeth anywhere near you.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Davrin commented.

The dragon launched herself skyward with a powerful thrust, gaining altitude despite her injuries. She circled once—studying them with disturbing intelligence—and dove.

Rook rolled left as talons raked the earth, gouging deep furrows into the ground. The dragon wheeled again, jaws agape, releasing a torrent of corruption-tinged ice. 

The team scattered.

Taash dove behind an outcropping of rock, their axes ready as they prepared for a counterattack, while Harding found cover behind the ruins of an old wall. 

The creature came around again; this time, a Warden ballista crew successfully hit their target. The bolt caught her wing, punching through membrane and bone with a wet, tearing sound that echoed across the battlefield. The dragon screamed, crashing to earth with a thunderous impact.

"Now!" Taash shouted. "While she's grounded!"

They surged forward as one. Harding's arrows found where the scales had weakened. Bellara's and Neve’s magic crackled across the dragon's hide. Davrin advanced with his shield raised, drawing the beast's attention while Rook and Lucanis moved to flank from the sides.

Emmrich's spectral bindings wrapped around the dragon's legs, holding her in place long enough for the others to press their advantage. 

For a breathless moment, it looked like they had it.

Then the sky split with a second roar.

From the cliffs, a second blighted beast descended, wings wide as thunderheads. It hit the ground with a shockwave that staggered the entire field.

"Two?!" Taash shouted. "You said one!"

"She must've called for help," Davrin grunted, pulling his shield up.

Rook's blood ran cold. One dragon had been a calculated risk;  two dragons meant they would die.

The ballista crews were already adjusting their aim, swiveling the massive weapons to track both targets now. But the siege engines were slow to reload, and the dragons weren't giving them time to coordinate their fire. The first dragon, already regaining her footing, snarled and lunged.

The second dragon was larger and healthier than the first, with wings that beat the air like thunder. When it opened its maw, the gout of flame was pure white heat that turned stone to molten slag.

Emmrich's spectral shields flared to life around their scattered forces, but Rook could see the strain on the necromancer's face, the way his hands trembled as he maintained multiple complex spells simultaneously.

They were losing ground fast.

The field was in chaos. Flames licked across the battlefield, and Rook's armor grew scorching hot. To her left, Evka stumbled past with blood streaming from a gash across her forehead as she tried to coordinate the scattered Warden forces.

Neve was weaving barriers of ice around the second dragon's flanks, but her mana reserves were running dangerously low.

Something had to change, or they would all burn.

Lucanis moved through the chaos like a liquid shadow, blight clinging to his dark leathers. His world had narrowed to the gap between a dragon's guard and the soft flesh beneath its armored scales.

His daggers found their marks with supernatural precision. Against creatures of this size, death would come from a thousand small cuts, not a single devastating blow.

Davrin was down, his body limp near a shattered wall where the dragon had tossed him. Harding’s arrows had grown ineffective. Bellara’s spells still struck true, but her pace was faltering.

Near the first dragon's massive head, Rook moved like a dancer—quick, precise, desperate. Her lyrium dagger opened shallow cuts along the creature's neck as she stayed just out of reach of snapping jaws. She was using the dragon's aggression against it, but she couldn't stay in one place long enough to deliver a damaging blow.

The second dragon's attacks forced her to constantly watch the sky while trying to maintain pressure on her primary target.

‘I can do it,’ Spite murmured.

Lucanis clenched his jaw. “No.”

‘She will die.’

The demon was right. Rook was slowing, her earlier fervor replaced by increasingly desperate dodges. A blast of dragonfire had caught her left shoulder, and she was favoring that side now, her guard dropping just a fraction with each evasive maneuver.

Let. Me. Help! Spite continued, its voice taking on an almost pleading quality.

Lucanis had spent months learning to suppress Spite, to maintain absolute control over his own actions and thoughts. But what good was that control if everyone he cared about died while he clung to it?

He closed his eyes. And let go.

The Fade erupted around him like purple lightning given solid form. Spite unfolded through him, letting this otherworldly strength flow through Lucanis’ body. But it was not the violent possession he'd always feared; it was something else entirely. 

Together, they moved.

They surged up the second dragon’s flank. Lucanis's knives—or perhaps they were Spite's now—trailed violet light as they found the precise spot at the base of the skull.

The blades punched deep, metal parting bone and severing the spinal cord with surgical precision, like a scythe through wheat.

The dragon's shriek cut off, replaced by the wet sound of a massive body hitting the earth. Its form began to dissolve into the black sludge that marked the defeat of truly blighted creatures.

Spite's presence receded, leaving Lucanis gasping and slightly disoriented but undeniably liberated. The demon's laughter echoed in his mind, but it held satisfaction rather than malice or mockery.

“See?”

For a breathless moment, Lucanis believed it: they could kill the gods. He and Spite—together—were something more than mortal. And it scared him how right it felt.

The battlefield had gone silent except for the crackling of flames and the labored breathing of the survivors. The first dragon, its earlier confidence shaken by its companion's sudden death, let out a furious roar that rattled her bones.

"We can end this," Rook breathed, raising her glowing blade toward the remaining beast. The lyrium dagger pulsed with eager light, as if it too sensed that victory was finally within reach.

The dragon backed away, no longer eager to press the attack; even its blighted intelligence could recognize the change in the tactical situation.

But then the air itself began to shimmer and warp.

Reality rippled outward from a point just above the ruined tower, and the temperature plummeted. Every blade of grass on the battlefield began to wither and blacken as if touched by invisible flame. Ghilan'nain descended through the fractured air, and where she walked, veins of dark energy spread outward.

The dragon corpse at Lucanis's feet began to twitch.

Then writhe.

Then rise.

Blighted flesh knitted itself back together with wet sounds. The creature's mortal wounds sealed over with cancerous growths that pulsed with their own heartbeat, fed by corruption that flowed through its body like blood through veins. 

When it roared, the sound was a chorus of stolen voices—the death-screams of a thousand different beings, all given voice through one throat. 

“You see the Blight only as death,” Ghilan’nan proclaimed, like a herald of their demise. “But it is life. Evolution without limit. Perfection without flaw.”

The surviving dragon’s wounds began sealing with the same cancerous growths.

"No, no, no," Rook muttered under her breath.

She spun around, her eyes frantically scanning their surroundings for any advantage. There, the massive ballista was positioned on the ridge behind their original formation. Its crew stared in horrified fascination at the transforming dragons, but the weapon was still trained on the ruined tower where Ghilan'nain stood.

The angle was perfect. The distance was manageable. If she could just get their attention...

Rook began waving her arms frantically, shouting over the shrieking reborn dragons and the slopping sounds of spreading corruption. "The ballista! Shoot it!" Her voice cracked with strain and desperation, but most of the surviving Wardens were too far away or too transfixed to notice her desperate gestures.

Then Evka's head turned.

She followed Rook's pointing finger from the ballista to Ghilan'nain and back again. Understanding dawned in her eyes, and she immediately began shouting orders.