Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Teresa de Riva took a sip of strong coffee from a delicate porcelain cup — brewed especially for her by her cousin Viago, who knew just how much she adored the drink.

She glanced at him. The face of the Fifth Talon was unreadable, but Teresa knew that was just a mask. Viago, known among the Antivan Crows for his impeccable knowledge of poisons, was clearly far from calm — even if he hid it well.

The young woman exhaled and tried to focus. She had to remain completely composed in front of the other Crows of House de Riva; today, they would decide her fate.

Teresa had wanted to be a Crow since she was a child — to follow in her parents’ footsteps. Her father, Mauricio de Riva, had been famous for his skill. Her mother, though retired from the craft after giving birth to their only daughter, had made sure to pass on the desire to carry on the legacy.

Their lives ended in tragedy. Assassins broke into their modest home near Rialto. The Maker spared Teresa by sheer coincidence — at that time, the eleven-year-old girl had been staying with her cousin in Treviso, happily indulging in sweets while her parents bled out on the floor.

Her uncle’s family took her in without hesitation, and Teresa and Viago became inseparable, despite the four-year age gap.

When Viago turned twenty, his father was killed as well. It made him paranoid, but Teresa had always tried to keep her cousin from losing his grip on reality. She didn’t always succeed, yet Viago blamed his distrustfulness on his craft — poison-making — and in that, he had no equal among the Crows.

With time, Teresa grew fond of Treviso. The city was breathtaking — built on water, with narrow canals winding between stone alleys, often navigated by gondolas. The marketplace offered goods from all over Thedas, and a tucked-away café revealed a stunning view of the city.

Naturally, Teresa couldn’t resist following her family’s path. The life of a Crow promised wealth, renown, influence. She mastered archery and dual-wielding, and the contracts she received brought her everything she had hoped for.

Years passed, and Teresa de Riva genuinely enjoyed her work. Killing wasn’t what she loved — but surveillance, intelligence gathering, even espionage? There, she was unmatched. She had a knack for complex negotiations and persuasion, so those types of contracts came her way far more often. And she preferred them to assassination.

Her one weakness was her sense of justice. Viago often reminded her — in that slow, lecturing tone of his — that such a trait had no place in a Crow. Teresa understood, but reason didn’t always quiet the heart. Not now, especially, when her beloved city had been taken by the antaam — the militant arm of the Qunari. The Antivan Crows had tried everything to resist the invasion, but so far with little success. The horned strangers, taller than any man, had become the rigid, looming new residents of once-graceful Treviso.

Viago had kept Teresa far away from the conflict and sabotage. He protected her as best he could. It often led to arguments, but it couldn’t go on like that forever. Despite having countless distant relatives, Teresa knew she had no one closer than Viago.

Well… not quite.

About half a year before this day, Teresa had foolishly allowed herself to get drunk with Marcus. He was a distant enough cousin to fall on the opposite side of the de Riva family tree — but still carried the name. Supposedly, their grandfathers had been cousins. That night, however, none of that stopped what happened. And those who found out about the affair hadn’t been pleased.

Viago had been livid. He scolded her like a merchant who dared serve him Markham wine instead of Minrathous. Silent Andarateia of House Cantori — the dusky-skinned elven woman with a glorious cascade of black hair, who had only recently entered a relationship with Viago — said nothing. She sat there studying her nails while the cousins shredded each other with words.

Teresa threw it all back at him — the way he obsessed over her personal life, the endless lectures, the patronizing tone, as if she were still too young to stand up to a thirty-three-year-old man. Luckily, hot tempers were a typical Antivan trait — as was the ability to cool down just as quickly. The storm didn’t last long. Teresa stood her ground, and Viago relented.

Viago cleared his throat, snapping Teresa out of her thoughts. She looked at him sharply.

“Have you worked out your defense?”

“Of course,” she replied coolly, flicking her hair. It wasn’t quite as breathtaking as Teia’s, but it still drew attention — thick, chestnut-brown, and pinned up in a carefully arranged knot.

“Tess, you can’t get expelled from the Crows!”

“Oh? You didn’t seem too outraged when I disobeyed orders and saved those people from being slaughtered.”

Viago sighed, visibly frustrated.

“Yes, but our dear rivals within the house — the ones who want my position — made sure that little detail reached Catarina herself!”

Teresa paled.

“Shit. Who told her?”

“Teia’s looking into it,” Viago said grimly. “Tess, if it were up to me… But you did break one of the Crows’ fundamental rules. And now that the First Talon knows, we don’t have the right—”

“If Catarina wants me gone, this vote is a farce. Even if House de Riva chooses to keep me, she—”

“—won’t go against the will of the house,” Viago interrupted gently. Teresa shot him a skeptical look, but he pressed on with quiet confidence: “Tee, I have influence. You know that. Catarina will stand down. But you have to convince the house not to vote you out.”

Teresa exhaled shakily and looked at the arriving family members. No one approached them — not a good sign.

“Maker help me, Vi. What if…”

“Get a grip,” Viago hissed, his ice-blue eyes flashing. “We are de Riva. What’s our motto?”

“‘Composure and resolve,’” Teresa replied tonelessly.

“Then hold yourself together. You could convince the dead if you wanted to. I’ve already spoken with several members. Most will vote against your expulsion. I hope you secured Marcus’s support?”

“I don’t think you ask for that kind of thing,” Teresa said, eyes narrowing. “I trust him. Just like I trust you.”

Viago raised a brow. “I hope that’s a figure of speech. You can’t trust anyone — how many times must I tell you? Don’t tell me you’re in love with him.”

“No, Viago. But you’re the last person who should be lecturing me,” Teresa snapped. Whispers and secrets weren’t their way — not for two passionate Antivans.

“Looks like everyone’s here,” came a voice from across the room. Felicio — one of the eldest members of House de Riva, if only in years — strolled over. He was some sort of distant uncle to both Viago and Teresa.

“I don’t see Marcus,” Viago replied immediately. Teresa was inwardly amazed — how did he always know everything?

“That’s irrelevant,” Felicio said lazily. “Seven don’t wait on one.”

Teresa glanced around. The idiom was apt — there really were seven of them in the family estate. Six would vote on her fate. She had to exclude herself — the accused.

“Steady now. You’ve got this,” Viago whispered and stood.

Teresa looked up at him — outwardly calm, inwardly studying every detail of his expression. He gave nothing away. His short chestnut hair was perfectly combed, his goatee trimmed to precision. His pale eyes held steady, radiating confidence.

“Good evening. Thank you all for coming,” he began smoothly. “We are gathered here because of a mistake made by a member of our house — Teresa.”

“A mistake?” Felicio drawled with theatrical shock. Viago ignored him and pressed on:

“She was aware of the planned operation against the antaam. She was ordered not to act. But since she was the one who had obtained the intelligence that helped us plan the sabotage, Teresa also knew the antaam were holding a large number of prisoners — our fellow citizens. And while the rest of us prepared the strike, she went to free them. Against my direct order.”

“And jeopardized the operation,” Felicio chimed in, his voice singsong. “Such mistakes are inexcusable for a Crow. I don’t understand why we’re even discussing this. In my opinion, Teresa de Riva should be expelled immediately. The Crows need those who follow orders.”

“You know as well as I do,” Viago replied evenly, “that by the rules of House de Riva, Teresa has the right to speak in her own defense — and we are obliged to listen.”

Felicio sighed dramatically. Teresa bit her lip. Viago may have been head of the house, but Felicio’s influence was still dangerous. If he could sway the others, both their futures were at risk.

You brought this on yourself, Teresa, whispered the voice in her mind.

She rose and looked out at the gathered faces.

“Thank you all for being here today,” Teresa said, managing a faint smile. A few of them returned it — just over half. It gave her strength.

At that moment, Marcus entered the hall. All eyes turned toward him. He nodded in greeting and took a seat without a word, his dark curls and warm brown eyes as unreadable as ever. He looked at Teresa and waited.

She found herself standing taller.

“I won’t deny that I disobeyed an order when I chose to rescue the prisoners. But I want to be clear: my actions weren’t born from defiance or pride. They came from a deep loyalty to this house and to the people of Antiva.”

“The prisoners were our citizens — on the brink not just of death, but of slavery under the Qun. They would’ve been taken to Seheron, condemned to a life of forced labor. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.”

“This house stood by me when I lost my parents. You never let me feel alone. You raised me with love for our craft, and I chose to devote myself to it when I joined the Crows over a decade ago.”

“Yes, what I did was risky. But it was calculated. I believed that freeing those prisoners wouldn’t endanger our main operation. If anything, I hoped it would help — to show the antaam that we don’t abandon our people. My goal wasn’t to sabotage the plan. It was to protect our own.”

“I’m not here to plead for forgiveness. I’m asking you to understand. My actions will always serve the good of our house. I know rules exist for a reason, and I promise to be more mindful of the wisdom of my elders. But if I took a risk, it was because I felt a responsibility to defend the very principles we stand for.”

“I’m proud to be de Riva — and I’ll do everything I can to remain one. Know this: I am one of you, and I always will be. I ask you to let me stay. So we can protect our city. Our family. Together.”

No one spoke. But she could see it in their eyes — her words had reached them.

“If there are no further questions or comments,” Viago said after a pause, “let’s proceed to the vote. All in favor of keeping Teresa de Riva in the ranks of the Antivan Crows?”

Three hands went up — including Viago’s.

“All in favor of expelling her?”

Three more.

A tie.

Teresa stared ahead, her face blank. Then her gaze shifted to Marcus — still watching her in silence. He hadn’t voted.

“Marcus?” Viago prompted. “For or against?”

Marcus smiled, eyes locked with Teresa’s.

“I vote that Teresa de Riva should no longer call herself an Antivan Crow.”

“White crows bring misfortune,” Felicio muttered with a smirk. “In any case, it’s no longer our concern.”

 

Teresa said nothing as the Crows began to leave, one by one. Soon, Teia descended from the upper floor. The elven woman looked questioningly at Viago, who shook his head in defeat.

“Bastards,” Teia hissed. Teresa stood and straightened her posture, ready to end the discussion before it started.

“Let it go. Both of you.”

“Let it go?!” Viago stared at her, horrified. His pale blue eyes burned with anger and desperation. “Tee, you’ve been expelled from the Crows! What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“First, we calm down,” Teia said gently. She stepped beside her lover and began to massage his tense arms. “And tomorrow, we figure it out. If you ask me — we go to Catarina. Viago, you’re too valuable to the Crows. She’ll listen.”

“She’s got enough on her plate without us,” Teresa said with a shake of her head. “I don’t want to put you in that position.”

“She’ll listen to me too,” Teia said firmly. “I’ll speak on your behalf.”

“Thank you, Andarateia,” Teresa began, but Teia cut her off.

“Don’t thank me. It should be clear by now that Viago isn’t just anyone to me.” Her eyes flashed. “We all make mistakes, but it’s no reason to exile someone from the Crows.”

“You don’t know me,” Teresa said quietly. Gratitude might have been the proper feeling — but all she felt was pure, seething rage. “You know Viago, but not me.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Enough.” Viago rose from his chair and rubbed his temple. “We’ll talk in the morning. Tee, we’ll figure this out.”

Teresa nodded. Viago headed upstairs. Teia followed.

Teresa stood by the window for a few minutes, gazing out over the bay. Then she turned and walked toward the door. She had no intention of remaining in the home of a family she had let down.

She reached her small flat in the heart of Treviso quickly. It had only two rooms, but she adored every inch of it. She paused to admire the little details she had spent so long curating. Then she sat at her vanity and glanced at the gilded scissors resting nearby. Their polished blades shimmered in the candlelight.

Her reflection stared back — high cheekbones, expressive gray eyes. People often called her beautiful, but she had never been easy on herself.

A thought struck her. She set the scissors down and went into the other room, where a single, spacious wardrobe stood. After a moment of searching, she bit her lip and pulled out a plain, practical set of armor — the kind no one would look twice at. She had worn it years ago on a job in Starkhaven, when she’d been sent to rob a minor noble’s estate. The armor was deliberately nondescript — something common folk in the Free Marches might wear.

She changed clothes, then reached up and loosened her hair. The thick chestnut waves tumbled down her back. She studied herself in the mirror again. Her hair gave her away — noble, if not a Crow.

Teresa exhaled, parted her hair into two even sections, picked up the scissors again, and roughly measured the length she needed. She almost closed her eyes — but instead, she cursed under her breath and decisively chopped off the right side.

To her surprise… she liked it.

She tilted her head, inspecting the result, then confidently cut the other side to match. Her fingers brushed over the shortened strands. The cut suited her.

She packed the cut hair and a few belongings into a small, travel-worn bag. For a moment, she hesitated over her mother’s ring — but after a long pause, she left it behind. She was no longer part of House de Riva. She had no claim to the jewelry of a name she’d been cast out from.

At the door, she paused again.

Should I leave Viago a note?

She stepped out without writing one.

Better that he didn’t know anything. It would make it easier for him to accept her disappearance.

Her horse moved at a steady pace along the road as Teresa drifted into thought. Most of her contracts had involved artifact negotiations or high-stakes theft — that had become her specialty. Every Crow had their niche. Viago was a poison expert. Marcus — an assassin.

Thinking of her former lover made Teresa sigh. It was hard to wrap her head around the fact that he had decided her fate. Why had he done it?

Viago had always been right — trust only brought pain. She would have to make sure she never made that mistake again.

Why had she ever gotten involved in such a mess? Maker knew, things used to be so much simpler.

She remembered one of her first real contracts — recovering a magical artifact from ancient Tevinter. A trace of it had surfaced in southern Orlais, nearly ten years ago.

Teresa had traveled to Val Royeaux, where she managed to locate the man in possession of the relic. A Tevinter mage, whom she’d cornered in a shadowy alleyway — and who had fought back fiercely. He was powerful. His mastery of magical combat made it clear she was in over her head.

So, the young Crow switched tactics. She didn’t remember exactly how it happened anymore, but by the end of it, they’d ended up in bed. And stayed there most of the next day.

What surprised her most was the moment he, with a mischievous glint in his gray eyes, handed her the very artifact she’d been sent to retrieve.

“Let the Inquisition do without it,” he’d said.

Teresa had laughed — what kind of Tevinter mage worked for the Inquisition? At the time, she had no idea how wrong she was.

When she returned to Treviso, Viago told her that the Inquisitor’s sister, who now led the southern mages, had grown up in Tevinter. He also mentioned their cousin — Dorian Pavus — had joined the Inquisition. Teresa was shocked at how deeply the Empire had entwined itself with what she thought was a southern institution.

Still, another contract soon followed — and with it, the memory of the mysterious mage faded.

The tavern near Rialto was dreadful. The wine they served barely qualified as such, so Teresa settled for a pint of Marchan ale instead. She wanted to forget.

She took a sip and let her eyes sweep across the dim interior. It was late. Only two dwarves occupied the opposite corner: an older one with a strange crossbow that caught her attention, and a younger woman with bright red braids, a freckled face, and a constant smile.

Teresa sighed and stared into her drink. She’d never liked ale, but she hadn’t come for the flavor.

She felt someone watching her. When she looked up, the older dwarf grinned at her from across the room. Teresa’s mood plummeted. Conversation was the last thing she wanted.

Apparently, he didn’t care.

A chair scraped beside her, and she turned with an irritated glare.

“Can I help you?” she snapped.

The dwarf smiled broadly. “Varric Tethras, at your service.”

Teresa laughed — loud and disbelieving.

There wasn’t a soul in Thedas unfamiliar with Varric Tethras and his books. Teresa adored them. But the odds of this being him? Impossible. Wasn’t he in Kirkwall?

“Oh, sure,” she said dryly. “And I’m Cassandra Pentaghast.”

“For one,” the dwarf said, holding up a finger, “Cassandra’s been a Trevelyan for years now. And two — she looks very different. I’d know. Our acquaintance began with a kidnapping. Hard to forget that. What’s your real name?”

“What does it matter?” Teresa leaned back in her chair, scowling.

“I gave you mine,” he shrugged, still smiling.

“And I’m supposed to just believe you’re the Varric Tethras?”

“Ask me anything about my books,” he offered. “If you’ve read them, that is.”

“That proves nothing,” Teresa said. “I could quote The Champion of Kirkwall from memory. So could you if you’ve read it enough times.”

“You can believe me or not,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But I thought you might be the one I’m looking for.”

“Oh? And how did you figure that out?” Her tone was sharp, but the day had drained her.

“The armor — you’ve clearly just started wearing it again after a long time. You’re used to finer gear. You keep touching your hair, like you’re used to tying it back — which means you just cut it. You’ve got a bow and twin swords. You don’t skimp on weapons. Since we’re in Antiva, I’m guessing you’re running from the Crows. Probably were one.”

“I’m not running,” Teresa said coldly. “But the rest is true. I was expelled. I walked away.”

“What for?” Varric’s brow furrowed. Teresa sighed and took another sip of the awful ale.

“Treviso — my home — was taken by the antaam. I ruined a Crow operation because I wanted to save innocent people. The Qunari planned to send them to Seheron as slaves.”

“And they kicked you out for that?” Varric shook his head. “You did the right thing.”

“I disobeyed orders,” she muttered. “To the Void with them.”

“So what now? What are you going to do?”

She shrugged and drank again, grimacing.

“You got suggestions for an ex-Crow?”

“I do,” Varric leaned forward. “Though it doesn’t pay much. Might save the world, though.”

“What grand words,” she said, rolling her eyes. “All right. Tell me.”

Varric talked. A lot. And with every new detail, Teresa’s eyes grew wider. When he mentioned the ancient elven god Fen’Harel — who turned out to be one of the Inquisitor’s old companions — her jaw dropped.

“You’re telling me this Solas is Fen’Harel? The Dread Wolf?”

“Afraid so,” Varric said with a wry smile. “I always called him Chuckles. He didn’t like that much.”

“And he wants to destroy the Veil? Merge our world with the Fade?”

“Exactly.” He sipped his drink. “So… what do you say?”

“I say… why me?”

Varric smirked. “If I had any doubts about your story, they’re gone now. Antivan Crows don’t miss details.”

“Well then,” Teresa looked at him, resolve hardening. “I’ll help you.”

Varric grinned.

“Welcome to the team, Rook.”

Chapter Text

Six months later

Teresa explored the Lighthouse — a structure built by ancient elven gods, deep in the Fade. Could she have ever imagined seeing such a place with her own eyes?

Then again, after everything they’d been through, what could possibly surprise her anymore? Their encounter with Solas had ended in total disaster, and Teresa hadn’t stopped blaming herself.

“Rook?” She turned and saw Neve Gallus, the renowned detective from Minrathous.

Her heart gave a familiar pang — Neve had been wounded during the ritual, and it was her fault. The mage always brushed off her apologies.

Neve was striking. A few years older, with dark skin, black hair, and light brown eyes. Sharp humor and fierce loyalty to her native Minrathous. That alone had made Teresa feel a kinship: she ached for Treviso — her Antivan city — missed Viago and her life as a Crow. But there was no going back.

“How are you feeling, Neve?”

“Fine,” the mage rolled her eyes. “Rook, stop blaming yourself. We have work to do. I figured out who might help us. You should know him. The Demon of Virantium.”

“Lucanis Dellamorte,” Teresa smiled. “I’ve heard the stories.”

“You don’t know him?” Neve looked disappointed. “How’s that possible? He’s a legend!”

“He’s friends with my cousin Viago, but we never met.”

“So your cousin’s friends with him, but you’re not...?”

“I don’t know why, Neve,” Teresa shrugged. “But Lucanis isn’t likely to work for us for free. We can’t afford him.”

Neve pressed her lips together.

“We have to try. You weren’t an assassin as a Crow, right?”

“I’m not as good as Lucanis. I mostly dealt with artifact recovery. There were kills, of course, but I avoided them when I could. Viago understood — he was head of our house.”

Neve snorted.

“You have a lot in common with my guy. He used to do that too.”

“And now?” Teresa smiled. She was beginning to like the mage.

“A Shadow Dragon, like me,” Neve’s eyes softened as she spoke of him. “He’s been through a lot. Knows better than anyone how easy it is to lose everything. He’s an idiot,” she smiled, “but he’s been making up for it ever since.”

“There’s a story behind that?”

“Oh yes,” Neve sighed. “He was lucky to get a second chance — and smart enough to take it. I’ll tell you sometime.”

“How long have you been together?”

Neve thought.

“Four? No, five years. We met during one of my investigations. The Venatori were quiet back then, but already starting to rebuild their nonsense about a glorious Tevinter. Our paths crossed.”

“And you? Anyone?”

Teresa shook her head. The pain from Marcus’s betrayal had long since faded, replaced by clarity: it had been for the best. He was talkative, rude, boastful — they should have ended it much earlier.

“So will you contact the Crows? Your ties could help us.”

“Neve, I don’t know if you heard, but I got kicked out. I doubt they’d be happy to see me. Especially since I disappeared right after.”

“Rook, if we can recruit Lucanis Dellamorte... This threat is too big! He’s a renowned Venatori hunter! If anyone can—”

“Fine,” Teresa nodded, conceding the point. “I’ll contact Viago. He won’t refuse. My past shouldn’t stand in the way.”

Neve nodded, smiling.

“Don’t worry, Rook. Your brother won’t be mad.”

Teresa laughed aloud.

“Treviso’s far though,” Neve frowned. “You guys don’t have an Eluvian lying around somewhere?”

Teresa raised an eyebrow, staring at her.

“Bloody hell, Neve! There’s one at the Diamond Casino. It just needs activating.”

“Damn it! And Crows aren’t exactly mage-friendly, right?”

“We’ve got a few,” Teresa grinned. “That’s a relief. I’ll try to find the one we need on the Crossroads. Coming with me?”

Neve hesitated.

“I was there today. Found an Eluvian owned by the Shadow Dragons. I planned to meet someone.”

Teresa guessed who and smiled.

“Want me to walk with you?”

“Don’t baby me,” Neve snorted. “So I got hurt — not the first time.”

Teresa avoided glancing at the mage’s elegant prosthetic.

“Still, maybe there’s a portal to Treviso nearby? How do we even figure that out?”

“Process of elimination,” Neve said. “But I can activate it myself!”

***

Treviso was cloaked in deep night. Teresa exhaled heavily as her eyes found her home city again. Far ahead lay the Rialto Bay, and the endless canals glittered between tall buildings as they flowed into it.

It had taken a while to find the Eluvian, but Neve had truly managed to activate it from the Crossroads.

Teresa stepped into the hall. The Antivan Crow headquarters sat beneath the roof of a casino owned by House Cantori. The one running it all was Andarateia — and Rook silently prayed Viago wasn’t nearby.

Light still filled the place despite the late hour. Teresa found herself wondering: did it ever turn off?

She turned right — and ran straight into Andarateia Cantori.

“Teresa!” the elven woman’s eyes widened in shock. “Mierda, de Riva, are you insane?”

Surprise gave way to anger.

“Andarateia…”

“Do you have any idea what your disappearance did to Viago?!” the elf exploded. Teresa thought she might leap at her. “He was beside himself! We found nothing! No trace! Anywhere!”

“Teia, shouting won’t fix it!”

“If you weren’t his sister, I’d kill you right here! Where have you been, Teresa?!”

“Viago’s not here, is he? This is going to take a while.”

Teia sighed.

“I’ll pour us something.”

“I’d rather have coffee,” Teresa gave her a pleading look.

“No. We’re drinking. Non-negotiable,” Teia growled. “Mierda! We thought you were dead! We’ve already lost nearly everyone!”

“Someone else?” Rook felt a twist of fear. A year ago, the Crows had lost nearly all of the Talons. “Who, Teia?”

“Lucanis Dellamorte is dead,” the elf exhaled shakily. “Viago asked him to find you, but Lucanis had a contract. He promised to return and start looking. The Venatori attacked his ship.”

Teresa cursed under her breath. Teia gave her a grim smile.

“Talk. I’ll try to help.”

 

***

“I still don’t understand why the Crows wanted to meet if Lucanis Dellamorte is dead,” Harding said, shaking her head. The red-haired dwarven scout of the Inquisition glanced at Teresa. “Something’s off.”

They walked across the Crossroads, heading toward the Eluvian. Teresa couldn’t help admiring the surreal landscapes around them, though her thoughts echoed Harding’s unease.

“I don’t know either,” Teresa admitted. “I’ve gone through every possibility, but it still doesn’t make sense. Unless Viago wants to kill me,” she added with a dry laugh. Harding shook her head.

“As if I’d let that happen, Rook!”

“It was a joke, Lace,” Teresa smiled. “It’ll be fine. I explained the threat to Andarateia, and she agreed — even though Treviso has its own problems.”

“You really love your hometown,” Harding said warmly. “Hard to believe you ran from it willingly.”

“Treviso’s one of the finest cities in Antiva,” Teresa said with a wistful smile. “And now it’s under occupation. Qunari patrol the streets, killing civilians... It’s unreal. What gets me most is how life still goes on despite the invasion.”

“Must be hard to see.”

They reached the Eluvian, and Harding sighed.

“The Inquisitor uses these too, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to them. Magic... Varric and I traveled differently. Normally.”

Teresa felt a pang. She wanted to ask if Varric was recovering, but held back. Vulnerability wasn’t something she liked to show.

She looked at the Eluvian. Its surface shimmered with magic, and fear stirred in her chest. What did the Crows want? Why summon her if Dellamorte was dead? They’d tossed her aside like a broken pawn. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her dagger. How was she supposed to look Viago in the eye? What would she say?

She swallowed and glanced at Harding, regaining control. The past didn’t matter — only what came next. She couldn’t afford to show weakness — not to the dwarf, not to herself, not to the Crows.

“Let’s go,” Teresa said gently and stepped forward.

 

***

Andarateia stood by the Eluvian in Treviso, her gaze fixed on the city. Teresa hesitated a moment, not wanting to break the quiet image, but the elf noticed her. A gentle smile touched Andaratheya’s lips.

“Hi,” Rook nodded and gestured toward her companion. “This is Scout Harding of the Inquisition. And this is Andaratheya Cantori—”

“I’ve heard of you!” Harding burst out with genuine excitement. “There are so many stories about you!”

Andarateia smiled, though a trace of skepticism flickered across her face. Then her eyes returned to Teresa, and something unreadable moved behind them.

“They’re waiting.”

Rook followed Teia, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Fear coiled around her like a web, making it hard to breathe. One question rang through her mind: What do they want?

Teia led them to a modest chamber bathed in golden light. Teresa paused at the threshold, barely maintaining a mask of indifference.

In a lavish violet chair sat the First Talon — Catarina Dellamorte. Despite her age, the head of the Antivan Crows looked at Teresa with piercing eyes, as though she saw every secret she held.

Standing beside her was a man Teresa instantly recognized as Illario Dellamorte, cousin of the late Lucanis. The rumors hadn’t lied — tall, with perfect features, dark skin, and striking blue eyes, he looked like a statue carved from polished stone. But beauty, she thought, could be a mask. His gaze held a familiar predator’s sharpness.

Then her eyes found Viago. Her cousin’s gray eyes were cold. His brow furrowed, lips pressed into a hard line.

“Teresa,” his voice was calm, but a storm churned beneath.

“Viago,” she replied, her voice catching despite her composure.

“Drink?” Teia interjected diplomatically. “I promise I won’t let Viago near your glass.”

The joke landed well — her cousin was a master of poisons. Teresa remembered his collection and, to her surprise, smiled. Viago’s gaze wavered for a heartbeat but quickly turned cold again.

“Stay after the meeting. We need to talk. This,” he gestured, “is First Talon Catarina Dellamorte. You haven’t met before, but—”

“But I’ve heard of you,” the leader of the Crows cut in. Her voice was sharp, commanding. “And you know it, Viago. Ah, Teresa! I had such plans for you. No one better at artifact retrieval. And so beautiful. Just like your mother.”

“Catarina…”

The old woman chuckled darkly.

“Viago cares for you so much, Teresa.”

“And this is Illario Dellamorte,” Viago added, though Catarina only gave a dismissive snort.

“So, what brings you home, Teresa?” Illario smiled, but something about him set her on edge despite his pleasant tone.

“About your expulsion from House de Riva,” Catarina interrupted. All eyes turned to the First Talon. “Viago and I spoke the very next day. I reversed the decision.”

“Why?” Rook murmured. She hadn’t expected that.

The old woman cast a mocking look at Viago.

“Consider yourself personally immune. Now — your purpose, Teresa?”

Catarina’s words fell like a sentence. Teresa raised her eyes, though they drifted just above Catarina’s head, tracing the carved lines in the ceiling. She fought to keep her thoughts hidden — her mind was spinning. Generosity like this never came free. What had she done to earn such immunity?

“I need to kill two elven gods,” Teresa said firmly, pushing aside Catarina’s words for now. “They’re essentially ancient, corrupted mages. They call themselves gods. My companion reminded me that no one matches someone who’s faced both the Venatori and blood mages.”

Catarina nodded.

“My grandson. They called him the ‘Demon of Virantium.’ He was the only one who took contracts like that.”

“But Lucanis is gone,” Viago said quietly. “The Venatori killed him a few days after you vanished.”

Catarina clenched the armrest of her chair. Her rasp echoed through the chamber.

“What I say stays in this room. The body my agents found wasn’t my grandson. It was his clothing, but they used blood magic to reconstruct his face.”

A tense silence fell. The Crows exchanged stunned looks. Teresa felt a flicker of hope.

“You’re saying my cousin is alive — and you didn’t tell me?” Illario asked at last. Shock etched clearly across his face.

“Given that his ship was attacked, someone clearly sold him out,” Viago muttered, and the First Talon nodded approvingly.

“I’ve tracked those Venatori ever since they took my grandson. They were after the Dread Wolf. Then you happened, Teresa, and it threw them into confusion. They exposed themselves — and now I know where they’re keeping him. In the Ossuary.”

Teresa swallowed at the name. The Ossuary — an underwater prison off the coast of Treviso, built long ago by ancient Tevinter magisters, if memory served. No one had dared look for it.

Catarina leaned forward, her voice hardening.

“Find the Ossuary. Free Lucanis. You’ll have your god-killer. And I’ll have my grandson.”

Teresa’s nerves tightened like bowstrings.

“Catarina—”

“Silence, Viago,” the First Talon’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Your sister’s already neck-deep in trouble. I’m offering help in exchange for what she needs. So what do you say, Teresa de Riva?”

Illario slowly scanned the room as if measuring it against some inner standard. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he adjusted his cuffs and smiled.

“We all want something, Teresa,” he said lazily, though his eyes gleamed with danger. “Catarina wants her grandson back. Viago wants to be sure you won’t do something reckless again. And me… I just want to see how you handle the impossible.”

His words hung in the air like poison. Teresa met his gaze, struggling to keep her expression unreadable.

“I’ll handle it,” she said coldly, turning to Catarina. “I accept.”

Catarina nodded in approval, while Illario smiled again, as though she had confirmed something he already knew.

“No, Teresa — not like that,” Catarina’s voice held something deeper now. “Swear you’ll bring Lucanis back to me. You know the vow of a Crow is binding.”

Teresa’s heart skipped a beat. There was no real choice. She knew — when she and Viago were young, the Crow houses had been at war. Catarina Dellamorte had lost every one of her children in that conflict. Lucanis and Illario were her only remaining family. Who, if not Teresa — who had lost her own parents to that same bloodshed — could understand the old woman’s plea?

“I swear to return your grandson, Catarina.”

The First Talon nodded, studying her from head to toe.

“I’ll arrange a boat. Viago, you have half an hour to speak with her.”

She rose, leaning on an elegant cane, and made her way toward the exit. At the door, she paused.

“Lucanis is nearly all I have left, Teresa,” her voice trembled, then regained its strength. “And I won’t lose him to those Venatori bastards. I believe in you.”

 

***

No one else stood by the Eluvian. Viago leaned against the parapet, his gaze fixed on the city. Teresa said nothing, words failing her. Guilt gnawed at her from within. She stepped closer and gently touched her brother’s arm.

“Viago…”

“Teia told me everything. I know how deep the mess is,” he sighed heavily. “Why did you run? Was it really because of that bastard Marcus?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I let you down. I couldn’t bear it, Viago.”

He turned to face her. There was open pain in his eyes.

“Teresa, we’re family. Everyone makes mistakes. You saved innocent people! Felicio… ah, to the Void with it. He’s dying. Age caught up with him.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I thought you were dead, Tee!” Viago exhaled with a shudder. “How could you think our bond wouldn’t survive political games?”

“Viago, I’m sorry. I failed you again.”

His gaze softened. After making sure no one was nearby, he pulled her into an embrace and rested his chin on her head.

“You didn’t fail me. You’re Antivan! You got emotional. Tee, we can’t afford that! We can’t let our feelings take over! We can only trust each other! And now this mission from Catarina… I can’t lose you again.”

“Vi…” Teresa pulled back and looked him in the eye. “Why do I have immunity from the First Talon? What does it mean? What did I do to earn that?”

He flinched. She didn’t miss it.

“You don’t want to know. Not now. I’ll tell you when it matters less.”

“I thought we had no secrets.”

“I’m protecting you,” Viago grimaced. His sharp features twisted. “Trust me.”

“As always,” Teresa sighed.

“What you’re about to do... Is there any chance of avoiding it?”

“You mean the Ossuary? Or the elven gods?”

“All of it,” Viago said, locking eyes with her. “It’s too dangerous.”

“You can’t protect me forever, Vi.”

He nodded, his composure faltering. Viago turned away, regaining control, and pulled a small box from his pocket — his potion kit.

“Take this.”

Teresa obeyed. The first vial was labeled in her brother’s handwriting: Burns through anything. She smiled.

“Skin?”

He nodded approvingly.

“Coat your blades. It’ll help against Venatori. Then there’s a painkiller, a salve for cuts, an antidote…”

As Viago explained each potion, Teresa chuckled.

“Some things never change.”

“Shame I can’t come with you.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said with a smile, tucking the kit into her pack. “I’ll manage.”

Viago shot her a frosty look.

“That doesn’t excuse you.”

She dropped her eyes, fists clenching.

“I know,” she said quietly.

“Do you?” He tilted his head, as if trying to read her thoughts. “If you do, prove it. Not to me. To yourself.”

His words hit harder than she expected, but she only nodded. For a second, his mask cracked, revealing his vulnerability. He touched her shoulder gently.

“Come back. If you can.”

Teresa looked away. Emotions churned inside her. Shame and tenderness for her brother wrestled for control. She looked up again and gave a faint smile. Silence said more than words ever could.

 

***

Pain. Lucanis couldn’t remember the last time there had been anything else. Pain, and the demon the Venatori had forced into him.

At first, he had wondered how long he could endure it.

The fact that the Venatori had chosen to experiment on him made his blood boil.

Lucanis knew a lot. Possession was something that happened to mages — and he wasn’t one. So why had he survived?

Of course, the demon wasn’t quiet. Astonishingly, even a creature like Spite had been bound into his body against its will. Maybe that was the reason.

Either way, coexistence was impossible. Lucanis racked his brain, trying to find a way to get rid of Spite, but the only real option was suicide. And the proud Crow couldn’t accept that.

The pounding in his head was endless. When he did manage to sleep, the demon seized control of his body. He would wake, fighting. He couldn’t let Spite win.

Sometimes, despair overwhelmed him. And in those moments, the demon thrived.

“You’re pathetic.”

“Not true.”

“It is. The scared little boy inside you is still there. Like when Catarina beat you with her cane for not trying hard enough. Can you imagine how delighted she’ll be to have an enslaved grandson?”

“Get out of my mind.”

“My mind?” Spite laughed in his ears. “It’s ours now. I know your every thought. Everything you hide from others — your fears, your hatred — I am those things. Your pride, your wounded ego, your thirst for revenge? All me. Your rage is mine. There’s no escaping that.”

Lucanis longed to silence the voice. For a moment, he closed his eyes, as if that might block it out. It didn’t.

“You’re tired,” the demon whispered, its tone unexpectedly soft, almost gentle. “Isn’t it easier this way? To just let go.”

Lucanis tensed, jaw tightening.

“I won’t let you,” he rasped.

Spite’s laughter exploded in his mind like thunder, throbbing in his temples.

“You already are, boy. Every second I’m inside you. Every moment you’re weak. This is only the beginning.”

The pain in his skull flared again, and Lucanis clenched his teeth, trying to gather what little strength he had left. But in the darkness of his thoughts, Spite’s voice remained triumphant, taunting:

“You really think you can resist me? Fight me? How long will that last?”

Each word struck like a whip — but Lucanis refused to answer. There was only one thing he knew for certain:

The demon was wrong.

 

***

Teresa followed Illario along one of Treviso’s canals. The sight of the water helped calm her nerves. Harding walked behind them.

“My contact is waiting at the boat. He’ll help us find the Ossuary.”

“Why would the Venatori need an underwater prison?”

“As if those bastards ever did anything normal,” Illario sighed.

“You’re not happy Catarina didn’t tell you,” Teresa said suddenly.

Illario glanced at her. Something flashed in his eyes — anger or pain? His sigh was theatrical.

“Lucanis is family. Maybe she thought I’d rush off to rescue him.”

“And would you have…?”

“Maker, are all de Rivas this infuriating? Of course I would! He’s my brother! Imagine Viago in Lucanis’s place!”

Teresa looked away for a moment, weighing his words. Illario sounded sincere — but her instincts told her something was off. She was about to ask a follow-up when he pointed to a boat. A woman seated inside met Teresa’s eyes.

“You’re playing the hero, de Riva. But if Lucanis matters that much to you… good luck.”

“Thanks, Illario.”

 

***

The Ossuary was the most dreadful place Rook had ever been. The air reeked of sea salt. Parts of the walls had collapsed. The floor was slick with damp, and in the corners, the glowing eyes of rats blinked in the shadows. Magical lights on the ceiling gave off a dim bluish glow, casting eerie shadows and making the space feel forsaken by even the gods. But the worst part was the creeping panic — the realization of how far below the surface they truly were.

“What happens if the magic holding the water out fails?” Harding asked, nervously glancing around. Teresa swallowed and replied in a calming tone:

“It’ll be fine. Nothing will happen.”

“A lot has happened to us already,” Harding muttered.

“Then this will just be another memory. Pity it won’t be a pleasant one.”

“Why are they even keeping Lucanis locked up? What’s so special about him? He’s just a mage hunter…”

Teresa stared at her in disbelief.

“Just a mage hunter?” she stopped. “Lace, he’s more than that! They call him the ‘Demon of Virantium’ because he killed a Venatori follower who made wigs out of slave hair. The bastard kept them alive with red lyrium.”

“He did that alone?”

“Illario was with him. He saved the slaves.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m a Crow,” Teresa shrugged. “And Viago’s my cousin. He’s friends with Lucanis.”

“You think Lucanis is like Illario?”

Teresa noticed the sparkle in the dwarf’s eyes.

“You liked Illario?”

“I’m not denying he’s handsome!”

“I agree — just not my type.”

“Then who is your type?”

Teresa smirked.

“If only I knew, Lace.”

“Maybe you just like the difficult ones?” Harding teased with a squint. Teresa didn’t answer.

They crept forward and spotted two Venatori mages standing by a heavy metal door engraved with runes. Teresa pressed against the wall and gestured for Harding to freeze.

“If we don’t take them out, we’re not getting through,” she whispered.

The dwarf nodded, already slipping her bow off her shoulder.

“You distract, I stab,” Teresa added, gripping her daggers.

Harding let her first arrow fly — it hit a mage in the neck, making him stagger and cough blood. But even wounded, he didn’t lose focus. He chanted a spell, red light blooming around his hands. The ground trembled, and razor-sharp crystal spikes shot up. Teresa rolled sideways, barely avoiding a slip on the wet stone.

“Aim for the one with the staff!” she shouted.

Harding was already drawing another arrow when the second mage noticed them. Sparks crackled around her body as she raised her hands. Teresa rushed forward, closing the distance.

“Rook, wait!” the dwarf cried, but Teresa was too close.

Flames burst from the mage’s hands, lighting the corridor. Teresa rolled, narrowly avoiding the fire, then rose to one knee and hurled a dagger. It lodged in the mage’s thigh, making her scream. Harding loosed her arrow — it pierced the mage’s chest.

The first mage, still alive, slammed a fist to the floor, sending another wave of red lyrium spikes down the hall. Teresa felt one graze her shoulder and hissed in pain. But instead of backing off, she surged forward, leapt over the spikes, and drove her other dagger into his neck.

He choked, arms falling, and collapsed. For a moment, the only sound was dripping water and their ragged breathing.

“Do you always take risks like that?” Harding offered a hand to help Rook up.

“Only when I know I can handle it,” Teresa exhaled, sheathing her blades.

The dwarf chuckled.

“All Crows this cocky?”

“You should be used to that by now, Lace,” Teresa quipped.

They continued forward, hugging the walls to avoid slipping on the damp stone. The air grew thicker, soaked in salt and mildew. The faint torchlight installed by the Venatori cast distorted shadows.

Teresa could feel the tension mount with each step. Harding, too, looked on edge, her hand never far from her bow. They paused several times, listening. Sometimes it was water lapping. Sometimes something skittered, sending chills down their backs.

“Are we even going the right way?” Harding whispered, glancing around.

“I hope so,” Teresa whispered back. She tried not to show doubt, but the fear of being lost was sinking in.

A few more minutes passed before they found another door — again massive, black metal, engraved with runes. No guards, no mages. Just ominous silence.

Teresa ran her hand along the carvings.

“I think we found it.”

Harding nodded, tightening her grip on her bow.

“Ready to see what’s behind door number three?”

Inside was a massive crystal. A figure was clearly trapped inside. Three Venatori stood guard. As the girls entered, the mages drew weapons.

“Easy,” Rook said, amused. “No need to fight. I’m here for Lucanis Dellamorte. I’m not leaving without him.”

“Antivan,” one Venatori muttered to the other. “Kill her?”

Suddenly the crystal shattered. A man flew out — and Teresa gasped. He had pale violet wings. Harding yelped behind her. With swift, precise movements, the stranger snapped the necks of all three Venatori. His wings lifted him once more before he landed in front of her.

He stared at her with piercing intensity. Teresa swallowed. She knew those eyes. Something flickered in his expression.

“You…” his voice held surprise before it hardened. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“Lucanis Dellamorte, I presume? I’m Rook. Catarina sent me to find you.”

She took him in — long dark hair, black eyes, a lean, honed body built for blades.

Mierda, still as handsome as ever.

“Catarina,” he echoed thoughtfully. “Rook? What kind of ridiculous nickname is that? What’s your name? You’re clearly a Crow.”

“Teresa de Riva.”

Lucanis’s eyes widened.

“De Riva?” She nodded. He wasn’t convinced. “Head of the house?”

“Viago de Riva.”

“You’re his cousin? The one he never introduced all these years?” Lucanis eyed her sharply. She fought to stay composed. “What’s Viago’s favorite poison?”

“Favorite?” Teresa smirked and mimicked her cousin’s voice. “‘Are you seriously asking? Tess, poisons are divided into eight classes…’”

“…and twelve subclasses,” Lucanis finished, grinning.

Chapter Text

Philipp Trevelyan startled awake, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.

Moonlight slipped through half-open shutters, drawing thin lines across the floor. The wind whispered at the cracks in the window, every sound louder than it should’ve been.

He tried to breathe, hoping it would calm the unease gnawing at him — but the sight of Cassandra sleeping in his arms brought no comfort.

He rose and made his way downstairs in the Trevelyan manor in Ostwick. Pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher, he drank it in a few deep gulps. The cold burned his throat, but it didn’t still the storm inside him. If anything, the dread was growing — like a tempest ready to crash upon the shore. His heart was still racing. It felt like peace had reached its end. Whatever was unfolding in northern Thedas… it would soon reach the south.

“Damn it,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Can’t sleep?” came a voice behind him.

He turned to see his sister. Margaret looked tired, shadows dark under her eyes. She wore a robe, her long black curls cascading over her shoulders and chest.

“I need a smoke,” she muttered. “Vehnedis. One day I’ll quit.”

“You need rest, not another endless cigarette,” Philipp said firmly.

“Don’t lecture me,” Margaret waved him off. “I’m worried about Dorian. The Maker only knows what’s going on in Minrathous. And Eva wouldn’t fall asleep until late.”

“Dorian can handle himself. He has the Bull and Servis. The Shadow Dragons, remember? If trouble starts here, you’ll go to him. With Evelina. And take Anthony with you.”

“You want me to play nursemaid while my brother, husband, and sister-in-law go off to war?” Her glare was searing.

“You’re not a battle mage, Margaret — you’re a scholar!”

She lit her cigarette and looked at him defiantly.

“Damn you, Philipp, I can fight.”

“Evelina needs her mother! It’s bad enough I’m taking her father away.”

“She needs her uncle too,” Margaret said softly, exhaling smoke. “And your son needs his father.”

“Margot, we have to.”

“I know!” she exploded, rising and pacing the room. “I don’t understand why you won’t even consider that I might help you.”

“You’ll protect what’s ahead. And help Dorian with your mind. Your counsel. Everything you can, without risking yourself.”

“Fine, Philipp,” she sighed. “I promise.”

“And you’ll care for Anthony. And your daughter.”

“You don’t have to ask me that,” her voice turned cold.

Philipp nodded. He wanted to embrace his sister — but just then, footsteps interrupted them. One of the scouts guarding the Trevelyan estate entered the kitchen.

“My Lord Inquisitor, a message from King Alistair.”

Philipp took the parchment, unrolled it, and swallowed hard after reading the first few lines.

“Margot, wake Cullen. You’ve got a couple of hours to be with him. Then you’ll pack. Take Evelina and Anthony. You’re heading to Minrathous.”

“And you?” Her voice cracked with pleading.

“We’re going to Denerim.”

 

***

The boat rocked gently, gliding from the strait toward the city. The waves whispered beneath them, steady and soothing. Get a grip, Lucanis told himself.

The mage assigned by House Dellamorte looked indifferent. Lace scowled. Lucanis sat beside her, feeling the unspoken hostility aimed his way. He found it amusing — but kept any reaction buried deep. Instead, he lifted his gaze to study Teresa de Riva more closely.

Gray eyes, nearly black in the dimness. Thick dark chestnut hair to her chin. High cheekbones and full lips. Beautiful. Only a fool wouldn’t notice.

He sifted through memories. Viago — an old friend, a poison expert, paranoid to the bone. Lucanis had long known about his feelings for Teia Cantori.

So why, after all these years, had Viago never introduced him to his sister?

Teresa hadn’t just helped him finish the contract, killing Venatori and standing at his side — she’d pulled him out of the Ossuary when he’d given up on miracles. She hadn’t flinched when she learned about Spite. Her eyes held challenge, not fear. Unlike Lace, whose body practically trembled.

Suddenly, their eyes met. Lucanis felt his heart skip a beat. Teresa looked straight at him, calm and resolute, no fear in sight — only curiosity and intent.

He caught fragments of the dwarf mumbling something about gods. By the Void, he’d do anything Teresa asked. Not after she’d saved his life.

“Rook, are you sure we need him?” Lace finally snapped. Teresa turned to her.

“I’m right here,” Lucanis said dryly. “Ask me, Lace.”

“Rook!” Lace’s tone turned pleading. “We can’t—”

“Lucanis Dellamorte is the one who can kill Ghilan’nain. End of discussion, Lace.” Teresa’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed cold. No fury, no pressure — just unwavering resolve. Lucanis couldn’t look away.

“You learned nothing from the South? What happened in Kirkwall…”

“Lace,” Teresa said gently, locking eyes with the dwarf. “I think the world needs saving. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not, Rook,” Lace muttered. “But I still don’t trust him.”

Teresa narrowed her eyes, and Lucanis had to stifle a laugh. She could make anyone do what she wanted. He didn’t care about the dwarf’s trust — but Teresa? She earned his respect.

“What gods are we talking about?” he asked, drawing her attention.

“Later,” she said, giving a small shake of her head. Lucanis smirked. A true de Riva, judging by Viago.

“How long have you been a Crow?”

“Since eighteen. Twelve years.”

“Why haven’t we met, Teresa?” he leaned forward, elbows on knees, studying her.

“You know every Antivan Crow?”

“Most,” he admitted. “An assassin?”

“A thief,” she replied with a slight smirk. “It’s… more elegant.”

“Of course,” Lucanis’s interest sharpened. Her tone teased, but her voice was warm, like the game was theirs alone.

“Never had a kill contract?”

“I’ve done a few. But artifact hunting? It’s thrilling,” she smiled — and again, his heart skipped. “Every one of them has a story.”

“That’s intriguing,” Lucanis nodded. “You’ll tell me one?”

“Later, definitely,” she glanced quickly at the silent mage. “What’s Catarina like these days?”

“Maker, I nearly forgot… I’ve been gone too long.”

“I get it. Crows vanish all the time. You’re not alone in that.”

Teresa gave a small smile and adjusted the dagger at her belt. The motion was subtle, but Lucanis noted the grace in it. She knew exactly what she was doing — every move deliberate.

“She’s watching us again,” Spite hissed in his mind.

“So you really can’t see or hear Spite?” he asked, unable to resist, desperate for silence.

“Why would I lie?” Teresa’s defiant answer made admiration stir in his chest.

“How dare she!” Spite howled inside.

Lucanis glanced at her. Her eyes were steady, but he saw it — she noticed the shift in his expression. She narrowed her gaze, a twitch at the corner of her lips as if she knew what stirred inside him.

Suddenly, she turned and looked past him. Lucanis finally saw the city ahead. Treviso. Tall stone buildings mirrored on the water. They were close.

His chest tightened. Then Teresa turned to him, a bright smile blooming on her lips:

“You’re home! Can you believe it?”

He had no words. Only a half-smile and a shake of the head.

 

***

The fire was calming. Lucanis couldn’t take his eyes off the flames. The day had been so overwhelming that no matter how he turned on the uncomfortable bed, he couldn’t sleep. But then again, was sleep even an option?

Could he have imagined that just this morning, when he opened his eyes, he’d finally be rescued from the Ossuary by nightfall?

He frowned. His thoughts were scattered; memories surfaced in broken fragments. The boat to Treviso, Teresa’s confident smile, the absence of fear. That woman was either incredibly brave or utterly insane.

He glanced around. The Lighthouse was the strangest place he’d ever been. The Fade.

Lucanis had always disliked magic and all its manifestations — an occupational hazard, perhaps, for a mage killer.

Yet this place didn’t feel hostile.

His thoughts drifted to the events in Treviso. He could admit it to himself: he had hoped to see Catarina again, to hear her sharp, gravelly voice. That desire had outweighed even his fear of rejection over the demon inside him.

Teresa had looked content as they walked the narrow streets of Treviso. Even though she seemed reserved, the faint smile on her lips betrayed how much she loved the city — just like he did. Her confidence, her stride, her gaze — it all drew him in more than Treviso itself.

Back at the Diamond Casino, Lucanis had felt his heart pounding in anticipation. He would never have shown it, but he’d been looking forward to seeing Catarina, Illario, Viago, and Teia.

Reality had been cruel. The Venatori attacked the casino, and Catarina — his grandmother — was now dead. Lucanis had stared in a daze as Teia slumped forward, Viago’s hand gently resting on her back, offering silent support.

Did they finally admit their feelings? Or had I just never noticed? the thought passed distantly.

“Lucanis, I’m so sorry,” Teresa’s voice pulled him back.

He looked at her and nodded in gratitude. Accepting Catarina’s death felt impossible — like some nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

For all her flaws, Catarina had taught him everything. He was her favorite, her heir — even if her methods had been harsh.

“Teia,” Teresa spoke again. Her gray eyes, just like Viago’s, were warm. “It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s not,” her cousin agreed, rubbing his lover’s back. “The Venatori took us by surprise.”

“In my house!” Teia exclaimed.

Lucanis winced, as if in pain, trying to escape the prison of his own thoughts. His eyes returned to the flickering flames. They danced before him, mocking him with the promise of peace he couldn’t reach.

Later, at the Lighthouse, two mages — Bellara and Neve — debated whether it was possible to separate him from Spite. There was no clear answer.

When Teresa entered the dining hall in the middle of the argument, Lucanis couldn’t help but look at her. De Riva was beautiful. That thought alone enraged Spite.

“I want to speak with Teresa!” the demon screamed in his head.

His thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the door. Lucanis turned. Rook stood in the doorway again.

Why do they even call an Antivan Crow 'Rook', he thought with irritation.

“I asked to be left alone. Spite had just calmed down.”

“Sorry,” Teresa stepped into the kitchen. “I came for my evening coffee. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Lucanis turned to face her fully.

“You said coffee?”

She smiled gently, as if savoring the moment. Something stirred in him — something unresolved. He chalked it up to exhaustion, but he knew it was her smile.

“I did. Want some?”

“How do you brew it?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.

“Oh, excellent question!” she grinned. “Black and strong. No sugar or milk.”

Her answer warmed him unexpectedly — like they weren’t talking about coffee, but something more.

“Perfect. I can’t imagine anyone drinking it with sugar or milk.”

“I’ll make you one,” Teresa nodded. “Milk drinkers are usually Orlesians. It’s their thing.”

“Perverse,” Lucanis shuddered mockingly. She laughed.

“You’ve spent time in Orlais?”

“More than anywhere else.”

“And?”

“Beautiful architecture,” she mused. “Rich history. Their masks are stunning. But coming home is better.”

“Agreed,” he said, though grief for Catarina still gnawed inside him. “What about Tevinter? Any contracts there?”

“Last one was three years ago,” she grimaced. “Artifact job.”

“Where?”

“Karastes. It was with First Enchanter Ammosin, but a Venatori working for Magister Cortius stole it.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Yes,” Teresa frowned, staring at the boiling water. “My toughest job.”

Lucanis watched her. He wanted to ask more but held back.

“How is it we never met before today?”

“You’re asking me?” she smiled, grateful for the shift in topic. “You and Viago were friends, but I lived apart for years.”

“Can I ask something? About you and Viago.”

She met his gaze and nodded.

“How can you be cousins? I know who Viago’s real father is.”

“The King of Antiva,” Teresa confirmed. “His mother married my uncle. Viago called him father. So we may not be cousins by blood, but by heart — absolutely. Like you and Illario. That’s how it was for us. Once.”

Lucanis raised a brow.

“What happened? I know you disappeared. Viago asked me to find you. I was supposed to kill Kalivan, then start looking.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Why did he ask you? You take different kinds of contracts.”

“They couldn’t find you. Viago’s my friend. He was desperate. So — where were you?”

“I met Varric Tethras. We started hunting Solas.”

Lucanis listened, intrigued. Teresa told the story as she poured the coffee. She handed him a cup — their fingers brushed. He cursed his reaction.

“Why did you run?” he asked, sipping. “Delicious, thanks,” he added quickly. “I hope you’re not as skilled in poisons as your cousin?”

The joke backfired. Teresa’s eyes flashed — she strode over, took his cup, and drank from it.

“Happy now?”

“I was kidding. Sorry. But you didn’t answer my question,” Lucanis said with a faint smile, trying to mask the nerves she stirred in him.

She handed the cup back and took her own.

“You heard about the mission against the Antaam?” she tilted her head. “I defied orders. Freed prisoners from a ship. Brave? Maybe. But my house voted. They exiled me.”

“Right,” Lucanis recalled. “Marcus voted against you. You were close, right?”

She looked away.

“It was casual.”

“But he betrayed you,” Lucanis said. “Do you know why?”

“No. Doesn’t matter,” she said coldly.

Lucanis sensed the venom and shifted the subject.

“You’re the best Crow mage hunter. How’d they catch you?” she asked.

“Someone betrayed me. I had a contract on Calivan in the Ossuary. Took a ship from Treviso to Minrathous. Venatori ambushed me. Don’t know how they fooled the Crows into thinking I was dead. I woke in the Ossuary with Zara Renata gloating over me.”

“She’ll pay,” Teresa growled. “After what she did to the First Talon. And... Catarina wanted you to help us with the gods. Are you okay with that?”

“When the First Talon gives you an order, you follow it. Especially when she’s your grandmother. But there are more reasons to work with you, Teresa de Riva.”

She raised a brow.

“Oh? And what are they?”

“I owe you. And after the Ossuary, I’m eager to kill a few gods.”

She frowned.

“I always admired the legends about Lucanis Dellamorte. You’re brave.”

“Brave?” he took a long sip to hide a blush. “Says the woman who came down to get me.”

“I mean it, Lucanis.”

He finished the coffee in one go.

“Thanks, de Riva. That coffee’s the best thing that’s happened to me in months.”

“Flatterer,” she smirked. “But thank you.”

“Have you tried the coffee at Pietra’s in Treviso?”

She rolled her eyes — but smiled.

“Of course.”

“Join me tomorrow? I need to see Illario.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. He sensed it struck something.

“You sure? Seems like you two have things to discuss.”

“Come on. I’d like your company.”

“All right,” she said, heading for the door. Her steps slowed slightly. “But can we stop by Fletcher’s first?”

Lucanis nodded, eyes following her. In her presence, everything made a bit more sense.

“And the market. I’m buying us a sack of coffee.”

She laughed — and in that laugh was something that made him forget all his doubts.

“I’ll hold you to that, Dellamorte. Good night.”

She opened the door but paused, her gaze lingering — not a question, not an invitation. Just understanding. It felt like a touch.

“Good night,” he whispered, so softly she wouldn’t hear.

 

***

“Mom, but why does Dad have to go to Ferelden?”

Margaret sighed for what felt like the hundredth time and looked over at Cullen. The former Commander of the long-disbanded Inquisition frowned, staring at their daughter. He was just over forty, but numbers didn’t matter. Every time Margaret looked at her husband, it still took her breath away. The silver in his curls, the deeper crease between his brows — none of it changed the way she felt. If anything, her love only grew stronger each day.

“I won’t let him!”

Eve was only five, and Margaret knew how strong the bond was between the three of them.

“Eve, please…” she knelt so their eyes were level. “It’s hard for us too.”

Cullen rose from the bed and knelt beside his wife.

“Eve, sweetheart…”

“Enough!” Eve stomped her foot, and Margaret struggled not to smile. The girl might have inherited her father’s light brown eyes, but the curls and wild spirit? All hers. “I won’t let him!” she screamed, furious. “No!”

Suddenly, the bedroom windows shattered, glass exploding into a thousand glittering fragments. Margaret swallowed.

“What…” Eve’s eyes widened in confusion. “What was that? Mom?”

Margaret felt Cullen’s gaze on her. A tear slid down her cheek.

“That was magic, darling,” she whispered. “Your abilities just awakened.”

Cullen exhaled heavily. Margaret saw the confusion in their daughter’s face as she looked between them.

“Did I do something bad?”

“No!” Margaret said urgently, pulling her into a hug. “Not at all, sweetheart. We’re just sad your father has to leave.”

“But you didn’t break the windows, Mama!” Eve mumbled, and the mage laughed.

“I’ve had more practice, my love. I’ll teach you.”

She gently stroked her daughter’s hair and glanced at Cullen. The silent question lingered in her eyes. He still frowned, but nodded — barely. He moved closer and wrapped both his wife and daughter in his arms.

“Sweetheart, you’re a mage. That’s wonderful! You’ll be just like Mama!”

Eve pulled back slightly, eyeing them both with wary eyes.

“You’re not mad? Really?”

“Come here, princess,” Cullen pulled her closer. “I love you and your mother more than anything in the world. That means there’s one more brilliant little mage in the family now.”

Margaret felt fresh tears on her cheek.

“Margot…” His light brown eyes were warm, affectionate — and just a little reproachful. “Come here.”

 

***

Sleep wouldn’t come. Teresa turned over for the hundredth time and cursed. Finally, she gave up, got dressed, grabbed her cigarette case from the table, and stepped outside.

The cool air greeted her. It was strange, almost amusing, how even in the Fade the time of day seemed to shift. Or perhaps the place simply adapted to their needs. She’d have to ask Bellara.

She approached the statue of a wolf and — in a way Solas would probably call disrespectful — perched on the edge of the pedestal. Her fingers trembled slightly in anticipation. Finally, the flame flared, and she exhaled smoke with a sigh of pleasure. Rare, but satisfying.

Her thoughts were the real danger. If at first, after the ritual, all she had wanted was to destroy the gods, returning to Treviso had changed something.

She remembered her promise to Catarina. It hurt that the First Talon hadn’t lived to see her grandson again.

It all burned inside her — the injustice of it all. What the Venatori had done to Lucanis haunted her. The words of Kalivan, whom they’d gladly finished off in the Ossuary, echoed in her mind.

“Zara said, ‘They already call him the Demon of Virantium — isn’t that hilarious?’”

She inhaled and coughed, thinking of Viago. She’d feared their reunion, but in the end, it had gone better than she’d hoped.

They had always been close without needing many words. Even now, she felt it: her brother still loved her, despite her mistakes.

Thinking of mistakes made her frown. Her mind drifted to the past — the one Lucanis had touched on the night before when he’d asked about her contracts in Tevinter. She took a drag, feeling phantom pain in her abdomen. How many years would it take before she forgot?

Lucanis Dellamorte. The name alone hit like a punch, and Teresa wanted to scream. Why did he affect her like this?

She had always seen herself as above such emotions. Sure, there had been the charming Tevinter battlemage-smuggler from ten years ago, and then Marcus — that mistake had been entirely her own fault. Alcohol had never brought comfort. Only consequences.

She and Viago had lived by the motto: trust no one. When her brother finally opened up to Teia, Teresa had been genuinely happy for him. She knew how deeply he felt for the beautiful, dangerous elf.

But she’d never wanted that for herself. Viago knew how vulnerable he made himself by loving Teia. Teresa understood — and feared it.

Worse than her confusing feelings for Lucanis was the jealousy. Watching him chat so easily with Neve had made her hands shake. Why? She barely knew the man.

Jealousy? Seriously? she reminded herself Neve was taken — and felt oddly relieved.

“Enough,” she muttered, crushing the cigarette into the base of the statue.

They had spent that evening in Treviso. Lucanis had gone to meet Illario — someone Teresa deeply distrusted — and had invited her along. She bit her lip remembering their conversation afterward.

“The coffee was magical,” she had smiled.

“Like a goodbye kiss.”

“And what’s a first kiss like?”

She groaned aloud. The exchange replayed over and over in her head. Flirting wasn’t foreign to her, but something about him got under her skin.

She lit another cigarette, wanting to kick something — anything — to shake these thoughts loose.

She closed her eyes and spoke aloud the words she’d lived by:

“Trust no one.”

Those who believed in the Maker had their prayers. Teresa — an Antivan Crow — had this.

She took one last drag, watching the smoke curl into the night. Lucanis’s voice still echoed in her mind — teasing, challenging. But it was only illusion. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down.

“Emotions are weakness,” she reminded herself. A weakness the enemy could exploit. No matter who he was, Lucanis Dellamorte would not be an exception. No one would.

She raised her gaze to the stars overhead and let the night chill her thoughts.

“Trust no one,” she said again, this time with conviction.

She stood, stubbed out her cigarette without a glance, and walked away. No more softness. No more choices made from feeling. Let the world push her toward old mistakes — she would resist.

With that, Teresa turned and disappeared into the night, leaving behind the wolf statue and her fleeting weaknesses.

Chapter Text

Teresa moved soundlessly across one of Treviso’s rooftops. From above, the city didn’t look half as dangerous as it truly was. She could spot every movement on the streets below, yet from this height, the city felt like a toy town, and the people — mere shadows gliding over stone tiles. The wind carried sounds to her ears, muted and distant, as if the world had become far away and out of reach.
Lucanis — her steadfast companion in her home city — and Harding followed behind, chatting quietly. The dwarf had long since dropped her hostility toward him — though not toward the demon inside. She was far friendlier now.
Teresa didn’t listen, lost in her own thoughts. The Antivan Crows had asked for help, and she hadn’t been able — or willing — to refuse. Neither Neve, nor Bellara, nor Harding seemed to mind her returning to help her city (not that she’d asked), but something about Neve’s gaze lingered. It felt… particular.
She could understand why, but she was doing her best to be everywhere at once. Neve had introduced her to the Shadow Dragons in Minrathous, and Teresa had helped with not one, but two assignments in the Tevinter capital. Yet guilt prickled her when she left that evening with Lucanis and Harding for Treviso. At least the latter seemed happy to help — likely due to the clear crush she had on Viago, blushing furiously whenever he was near. It worked in their favor.
Lucanis didn’t need asking. He followed her wherever he could, and in battle, he always shielded her. If his enemy was too far away, he’d dispatch them quickly just to move to her side. It was disarming. Teresa had grown used to relying only on herself. Feeling protected — could she admit this weakness to herself? — was strangely nice. It reminded her of how Varric used to cover her in fights, his Bianca striking down any who came close.
“Rook, you’re quiet. Everything okay?” Harding’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. Teresa glanced back and gave a faint smile.
“Just thinking.”
“This mission… You haven’t taken what happened with Jakob personally, have you?”
Teresa slowed, letting herself fall in step with them, and raised a curious brow at Harding.
“What do you mean, Lace?”
“Well…” The dwarf frowned, shrugging slightly. “Jakob and his cousin — the one killed right in front of him… I’ve gotten to know you pretty well, Rook. I’m sure it affected you.”
Teresa cursed inwardly. Despite herself, she’d grown close to Harding during their travels with Varric. That dwarf really did have a gift for bringing people together.
“I’m fine, Lace. Thanks.” She forced a smile, not wanting to go deeper. Harding turned her attention to Lucanis.
“You’ve known Viago long?”
“Fifteen years,” Lucanis said thoughtfully. “We met shortly before he became head of House de Riva. He was very young. I don’t know how he managed to keep the title and strengthen the family’s standing among the Crows. I was just a bit older myself — I doubt I could’ve handled it.”
“He probably had help from Rook,” Lace grinned, glancing at her. “Admit it — you helped make Viago who he is.”
Teresa shrugged.
“Viago’s a brilliant poisoner, with or without me. When he took over the house, I was only sixteen. Still learning the trade.”
“But you lived together?”
“In the same house, yes,” she said reluctantly, well aware of Harding’s curiosity.
“You said no one’s closer to you than Viago.”
“One day I’ll regret being so talkative, Lace,” Teresa sighed theatrically. “Yes. We’ve always been close. But my interference in the operation against the Antaam… it strained things.”
“As did running,” Lucanis added gently. He seemed to sense how hard it was for her to speak openly and offered quiet support. “But if you hadn’t, things would be very different now. You made the right call, Teresa. I can only imagine how hard it was. But without your decision, we’d all be in a worse place. Viago knows that, even if he won’t say it. You did what had to be done — and he respects that more than you think.”
His gaze was soft, as if he saw her not just as a Crow, but as a woman who’d carried a thousand hard choices. Teresa nodded gratefully, meeting his eyes. The corner of Lucanis’s mouth curled into the faintest smile.
“And he and Teia — have they been together long?” Harding asked, blushing. “Sorry. They’re just such a beautiful couple.”
“About a year,” Teresa replied with reluctance. “Though Viago’s been in love with her far longer than it’s polite to mention.”
“He waited years to tell her?” Harding gasped. “Seriously?”
They approached a tightrope strung between the rooftop and the casino — a favored route of the Antivan Crows. Teresa would never admit it, but heights terrified her. Even so, she swallowed her fear every time, avoided looking down, and focused on breathing steadily.
“It’s a long story, Lace,” Teresa said gently. “And I don’t feel like dissecting my brother tonight. He is who he is. I’m just glad they finally found each other.”
“I’m sure their bond strengthens them both,” Lucanis offered diplomatically, then gestured toward the rope. “After you, Teresa.”
She gave a confident nod, stepped up to the rope, drew a deep breath to quell the rising panic that never fully left her — even after all these years — raised her hands, and stepped forward into speed and silence.

 

***

Harding was smiling, and Teresa found it hard not to do the same. For the first time in a long while, they’d gotten lucky. After the crushing failure with the First Warden, someone had finally listened — thanks to Lace.
Teresa tried to push thoughts of the First Warden aside, but the memory of his stubbornness still burned. If not for Dorian Pavus — one of the founders of the Shadow Dragons, a magister of the Tevinter Imperium — and his delightfully charming blackmail, she would’ve sworn she’d be sitting in Weisshaupt’s prison right now.
What would Viago have done?
Her unfinished thought was cut off by the cry of the griffon, Assan. Grey Warden Davrin, who had promised to look after him, sighed as the beast bumped his beak against Teresa’s hand, seeking affection. His enormous eyes, bright with curiosity, fluttered closed the moment Teresa stroked his rough feathers.
“Enjoying the sights of the Crossroads, little one?”
Davrin laughed and shook his head.
“Rook, he’s a griffon! A serious and deadly opponent against the darkspawn!”
“Yes,” Teresa smirked. “And also incredibly cute — which you can’t do anything about.”
She extended her hand again, and Assan immediately leaned into it. Rook petted him, watching with fond amusement as his eyes slowly shut in bliss.
“Assan!” Davrin called sternly. “Don’t give in! Rook, can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” she nodded, still petting the griffon.
“Did it ever cross your mind that the Warden didn’t like you being an Antivan Crow? People say a lot of things about you lot.”
“Oh, he didn’t try to hide it,” she said with a dry laugh.
“Well, you are assassins.”
“Mercenaries. There’s a difference. And I’m more of an artifact thief, really.”
“But Lucanis Dellamorte is a mage killer,” Harding chimed in. “And he’s with us.”
“And the poison you used before the fight just happened to be lying around?”
“No, that’s my brother Viago’s creation,” Teresa replied with a shrug. “Honestly, I’m surprised you care, Davrin. As far as I know, the Wardens don’t exactly recruit based on morals. They take criminals. Murderers.”
“You’re not wrong,” Davrin admitted. “I guess I’m just surprised that an Antivan Crow is the one trying to make things right while the First Warden does nothing.”
They reached the boat that would carry them to the Crossroads’ center, and Davrin shivered.
“How do you people live in the Fade?”
“The Lighthouse is cozy,” Harding beamed. “You’ll see. You’ll love it.”
“And those gods can’t reach us there?”
“No.”
A spirit materialized in front of them — the Watcher — and Davrin tensed immediately, jaw tight.
“And that is…?”
“The Watcher,” Teresa said simply. “Spirit of the Crossroads and the Lighthouse.”
Davrin sighed.
“Not my kind of magic,” he muttered.
They boarded the boat, which hovered above the abyss. Davrin sat beside Teresa, and Assan immediately nestled against her again.
“Don’t push it,” Davrin scolded and peeked over the edge. “We’re not gonna fall, are we?”
“No,” Harding smiled. “It’s magic!”
“Exactly!”
Teresa snorted quietly, keeping her expression neutral. Her hand kept stroking Assan, who purred with delight.
At last, the boat docked on the other side, and they stepped off. Teresa gave the Watcher a polite nod, half-listening as Harding started telling Davrin about the Lighthouse. Then she noticed Lucanis, Neve, and Bellara rushing toward them.
“What’s going on?” she asked, stepping forward.
“Treviso and Minrathous were attacked at the same time,” Lucanis said quickly.
“Corrupted dragons,” Neve added. “One for each city.”
“Shit,” Teresa muttered, momentarily losing composure.
“Then we made it back just in time,” Harding said firmly.
“And the gods?” Teresa asked. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
“You said when you saw the dragon in D’Meta, the gods were nearby,” Lucanis reminded her grimly. “Same here. Treviso’s a trade city. It has no defense. The canals are everywhere. If we don’t stop that dragon, innocent people will die — our people, Teresa. Either instantly, or from tainted water.”
“I know, Lucanis,” she said quietly, turning to Neve.
The mage looked far calmer than Lucanis.
“The Shadow Dragons will fight to the end. But we’re the only ones keeping the Venatori from taking power. If we fail, they get what they want.”
“Is there anything—”
“Damn it, Rook!” Neve snapped. “No time! I’m going to Minrathous.”
“And I’m going to Treviso,” Lucanis said without hesitation. “Teresa, choose with your gut. We can’t wait.”
She watched them go, then turned back to the others. There was only one decision. For a moment, she wondered what the team would say — and then realized it didn’t matter.
“Bellara, Davrin — go with Neve to Minrathous. Harding, you’re with me. We’re going to Treviso.”
“Are you sure your home matters more than Minrathous?” Bellara asked gently. Teresa wanted to scream from the pain of it, but only said, with forced calm:
“I can’t do otherwise.”
“It’s okay, Rook,” Harding touched her hand. “Come on — we can still catch up to Lucanis.”

 

***

Treviso was on fire. Teresa swallowed hard, horror tightening around her chest. Flames devoured the streets she knew so well, distorting them into something unrecognizable. In the distance, screams echoed. Explosions rocked the air. And she could swear the scent of blood tainted the wind. The last time she had felt this kind of pain was when the Antaam, the militarized wing of the Qunari, took the city a year ago. And now — a dragon. Her Treviso didn’t deserve this.
She bolted forward. Her legs carried her on their own, straight into the Crows’ headquarters, now eerily deserted. She froze for a moment, scanning the space. This place was always full of life. Now, only silence remained, broken by the distant roar of a dragon.
“Are they all dead? Or did they flee?” The thought slammed into her. Her chest tightened. “Am I going to lose everyone again? Where is Viago?”
She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away, and ran. She climbed to the rooftop, not waiting for Harding, scrambling up a rope onto a building across the street. Teresa kept her eyes locked on the dragon circling the twilight sky, sprinting over flaming wreckage.
“Stop, Rook! You’re going to fall!” Harding’s shout rang out behind her. Teresa skidded to a halt, barely avoiding the edge.
The dwarf caught up, panting.
“We need to find Lucanis!”
“No, Harding — we need to kill that godsdamned dragon!” Teresa’s voice was fierce, eyes blazing with desperate resolve.
As if summoned by her rage, the dragon let out an earsplitting roar and belched a column of flame, engulfing a nearby building. The roof collapsed with a crash, and a plume of ash shot into the sky.
“No no no—” Teresa whispered and bolted forward again. The wooden plank connecting two rooftops groaned under her weight, but she kept going.
“Rook, wait!” Harding hurried after her, cautiously balancing across the plank. “I get how you feel, but you have to be smart about this!”
The words hit harder than any blade. Teresa stopped short and turned to face her.
“This is my city!” she shouted, her voice cracking with fury. “It wasn’t enough for strangers to walk it like they own it — now a dragon’s burning it down! I have to stop it!”
“Rook, I get it. Really.” Harding’s voice was steady but kind. “But in this state, you won’t help anyone. You can’t save Treviso if you die throwing yourself at a dragon barehanded.”
Teresa gritted her teeth. Her gaze flicked from the rampaging beast to the burning rooftops.
“I can’t lose Treviso again. I can’t. But what if she’s right? What if I ruin everything?”
She swallowed hard, eyes dropping.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Lace.”
“Just breathe, Rook.” Harding gently touched her shoulder. “I know what you’re feeling. I’m from the Hinterlands, remember? In 9:41 it was chaos. Mages. Templars. War. And regular people caught in the middle of a fight they never asked for. I know. That’s why I joined the Inquisition — to protect them. And I’m with you now. But you have to stay in control. If you can’t, you won’t be able to help. We’ll stop that dragon. I’ve got your back.”
Teresa inhaled slowly, her fingers finally steadying. She looked up, and this time her eyes shone with clear resolve.
“Let’s go,” she said quietly, fists clenched.
Harding nodded, and together they pushed forward, ready to face the fiery nightmare. When Qunari blocked their path, Teresa didn’t hesitate. She moved like ice — precise, efficient. Harding stayed close, picking off enemies with practiced shots.
At last, the square opened before them. Teresa spotted Lucanis in the distance — and he turned. She broke into a sprint. Only as she neared did she notice Teia standing beside him.
“Where’s Viago?” she blurted, breathless, her voice trembling with panic. She fixed her eyes on the elf. “Where’s my brother?”
“He’s safe,” Teia said quickly, though her voice wavered. Teresa caught her glancing nervously at the devastation around them. “He’s leading the remaining Crows. We… we thought it best if you didn’t see each other until the dragon is down.”
Relief crashed over her. Teresa swallowed.
“Then let’s kill the godsdamned dragon.”
“I’m with you, Teresa,” Lucanis said firmly.
“So am I,” Harding echoed.
“And me,” Teia added — but Teresa shook her head.
“You’re staying here.”
“Bullshit, de Riva — that’s not your call!”
“You really want to argue?” Teresa stepped toward her, eyes narrowing. “You think I’m letting Viago’s beloved charge into a dragon fight?”
“And yet you, his sister, are going instead!”
“She’s not going alone,” Lucanis said unexpectedly, his voice sharp. “I’ll keep her safe. Stay and cover us in case any Antaam move in.”
“Fine,” Teia scowled. “As you say, Lucanis. Be careful.”
Teresa felt a laugh bubble up, but forced it down. She drew her blades and met Lucanis’s gaze. He nodded, and without another word, they moved — straight toward the dragon.

 

***

The catacombs beneath Dorian Pavus’s manor in Minrathous were no better than those that ran under the city itself, but here, shielded by generations of ancestral wards, Margaret felt safer. She gently ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls — the child had fallen asleep in her lap — and glanced toward Anthony, Philipp’s son, huddled under a blanket nearby. Reaching out, she stroked his shoulder. He was eight now and with every year looked more and more like Cassandra.
Margaret sighed. No one had come for them, and that could mean only one thing: things were bad. Her eyes flicked to the worn map on the wall. Dorian had made it clear: if he or Crassius Servis didn’t return within a day, she was to lower the ancestral wards and take the children through the tunnels, fleeing Minrathous.
Her next breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen Cullen in three months. His last letter had been short, as if written in haste:
“I’m alive, Margo. Sorry to be brief. Chaos in the south is escalating. Kiss our daughter for me.”
Margaret recalled the lines and clenched the hem of her dress. She knew Cullen too well. Though he tried to protect her, Cassandra, ever her loyal friend, had sent far more honest updates. The south was changing — irrevocably.
Her stomach turned. When would she see him again? What if something happened? Her hand continued to stroke Evelyn’s black curls with firm tenderness. Panic scratched at her throat. She ached for a cigarette — a luxury she could no longer afford.
Suddenly, she felt a surge of magic above. The barrier vanished. Heavy boots echoed on the stairwell as Servis descended. Margaret stared at the man who had once shared her bed and, over the years, accepted her love for Cullen — a man who had become not only a trusted friend, but also a gentle presence in young Evelyn’s life.
Time had hardly changed Crassius. His hair was still black, though longer now. His narrow gray eyes remained just as piercing as they had been ten years before.
“You’re alive,” Margaret murmured in Tevene. Servis gave her a grim smile.
“I am. Minrathous… the Venatori have taken the Archon’s palace. Radonis is likely dead.”
“And Dorian? Maevaris? Are they safe?”
“Yes. Neve informed Rook, but a second dragon attacked Treviso.”
“And Rook’s Antivan,” Margaret said bitterly.
“From Treviso itself,” Servis confirmed. “No one blames her. She came rushing back through a barely-functioning Eluvian when it was already too late for Minrathous.”
“Was the dragon even slain?”
“If only,” Servis muttered, dragging a hand down his face. More than fatigue flickered in his eyes — possibly horror, carefully buried.
“Is Neve all right?” Margaret asked gently.
“She’s furious — like a thousand demons — but unharmed.”
“I’m glad you found each other,” the mage said warmly. “Neve is wonderful.”
Servis nodded and looked down at the stone tiles beneath his boots.
“Margot, returning is dangerous. The Shadow Dragons are nearly wiped out. You’re risking more than yourself.”
“And you?” she shot back, not looking at him. “Why are you still here, Crass? Neve needs you now more than ever.”
He paused, eyes narrowing as if weighing his words.
“She’s important,” he said softly. “But so are you. That doesn’t mean I regret how things turned out. You and Cullen… you belong together. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here for you.”
“And where do you expect me to go with two children?” she challenged, her gaze sharp. “The Pavus estate is my home too. I know its defenses better than anyone. It’s the safest place in Thedas for my family.”
Servis sighed.
“You’re as stubborn as a hundred nags, Margaret Rutherford. But you’re right. This war is consuming all of Thedas.”
“And I won’t abandon Dorian.”
“Just remember,” Crassius said, nodding toward the sleeping children, “you’re responsible for more than just yourself.”
“I know,” the mage whispered, almost hissing the words. “But I won’t leave Dorian. Or you. Or Neve.”
“She’s staying in Minrathous,” he added. “I convinced her to stay at the Pavus estate. I hope that’s—”
“Shut up, Servis! Neve is no stranger to me or to Dorian.”
He nodded.
“Wake the children. Let’s go home.”
Margaret let her eyes linger on the map, memorizing every curve and line, just in case she ever needed to run.
The children didn’t fully wake, merely rubbed at their eyes. Anthony mumbled something like “mama,” and Margaret clenched her teeth, keeping back tears. Evelyn had her, but her nephew — dearly beloved — had both parents fighting in the south. She pulled him close for a moment, and a tear finally slipped free when he hugged her tightly.
Moments later, he followed Servis, and Margaret followed behind, cradling her sleepy daughter and casting one last glance at the empty chamber of the catacombs.

 

***

Lucanis stood on the balcony of the Cantori estate’s Diamond casino, near the Eluvian, waiting for Teresa to return from Minrathous. Right after Ghilan’nain had recalled the dragon, Rook had run off, instructing him to stay in Treviso and help the Crows.
He had helped — for the first hour. But everything had long since been decided, and Teresa still hadn’t returned.
Lucanis stared at the night-cloaked city with a distant gaze. The way Teresa had fought the dragon — recklessly, bravely, without any concern for her own life — had shaken something deep within him. More than once, he’d had to throw himself between her and danger.
She had chosen Treviso. The corners of his mouth twitched in a rare smile. Deep down, he hadn’t doubted her, but still — who could truly know? Teresa rarely showed her true emotions. That confident smile of hers was suspect: she let no one too close. He understood it well.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Lucanis turned with casual ease as Viago de Riva stepped up beside him and leaned on the stone railing. Lucanis let himself study the long-time friend for a moment. If he hadn’t known Viago so well, he’d never guess what emotions churned beneath that composed facade.
“You all right?”
Viago frowned, and for a moment, his gray eyes reflected the truth.
“She’s been gone a long time.”
“She’s well trained,” Lucanis said quietly.
“But you’re worried too. Hypocrite,” growled Spite inside his head. He fought to keep the carefully maintained calm on his face.
Viago nodded.
“I know. Over the years, I’ve trained myself not to panic when Teresa goes on contracts. She’s been all over — Tevinter, Orlais, the Free Marches. But this is the second dragon in a single evening.”
“Over the years,” Lucanis echoed with a short laugh. “Mierda, Viago, how old are you — thirty-four?”
“Thirty-three,” Viago smirked. “Teresa always says I’m a grumpy old man, no matter what age I actually am.”
Lucanis chuckled softly.
“Fair. But to be honest, you’ve been carrying the de Riva house since you were twenty. That leaves a mark.”
“Maybe,” Viago replied. His voice turned bitter. “Soon enough, you’ll be heading House Dellamorte. Let’s see how you do. I’d bet a hundred gold you’ll even go gray.”
“Gray would suit me,” Lucanis said calmly. “Might add to the charm.”
Viago snorted and relaxed slightly — only to glance back at the Eluvian.
“And you? Why are you still here?”
“Teresa asked me to stay,” Lucanis answered simply.
“And you listened? That’s new,” Viago muttered, the edge of mockery in his voice.
“Sometimes I know how to listen.”
“Didn’t know you were capable.”
“But I’ll admit — Teresa is persuasive. I should know.”
Lucanis frowned, but said nothing.
“Sometimes I think I know her inside and out,” Viago said suddenly. “We’ve known each other since childhood. She lived in my home. My father trained us both.”
“But?”
“But then she does something that sets my hair on edge.”
Lucanis glanced at his friend’s neatly combed hair and smirked.
“Like what?”
Viago gave a quiet laugh — but without humor.
“Like when she ruined the operation against the Antaam to save slaves aboard a ship. And how she vanished after the house voted her out. Just… left everything. I don’t get it. I don’t think I ever will. I know how much she loves Treviso, her life here…”
“I think she couldn’t bear the thought that she’d disappointed you.”
Viago’s frown deepened.
“I always thought she knew how much she meant to me.”
Lucanis tilted his head slightly.
“You said she meant a lot. Did you ever think how hard it is to carry that? To know you’re so important to someone that it eclipses everything else?”
Viago barely moved an eyebrow.
“I tried to keep her from feeling that pressure.”
“She feels it,” Lucanis said firmly, voice low but certain. “You’re her family. And that means more to her than you can imagine.”
Viago turned back to the Eluvian.
“You talk like you understand her.”
“I do. I see it in her actions. Teresa rarely says things outright — but her choices speak for her.”
Viago crossed his arms.
“Still… some of her decisions make no sense.”
“They make no sense to you,” Lucanis replied, eyes narrowing slightly. “You see her as the head of a house, as someone you must protect. But she’s long since become the one who protects others.”
“You think she doesn’t need support?”
“She needs support. Just not in the way you think. You give her a home, stability, roots. But I…” He paused, searching for words. “I see her as she is. Not a child to guide. Not a perfect ideal. A person who sometimes makes the right choice in the wrongest way.”
“Such as?”
“Like charging a dragon with no concern for her own life. She chose this city. She chose you. She chose House de Riva. And she’ll do it again.”
Viago stayed silent, turning the words over in his mind. Finally, he nodded once.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Lucanis said with a smirk. “I am the best Crow assassin, after all.”
“Humility was always your strongest trait,” Viago quipped, though his voice sounded lighter.
Lucanis chuckled.
“Humility doesn’t get results.”
They both stood in silence, gazing over the nighttime city. Each lost in their own thoughts — but united in a single purpose: to wait for Teresa.

 

***

Teresa de Riva stood before the Eluvian to Treviso and drew a deep breath. The air felt heavy, as if saturated with grief and dread. Time had lost all meaning; the past hours had blended into a single, endless moment.
Minrathous had fallen.
By the time she and Harding reached the city, it was too late. The Venatori had seized the Archon’s palace, using the chaos caused by the corrupted dragon’s attack as cover. It was almost ironic: the Shadow Dragons had fought to prevent destruction, only to give the enemy a perfect opportunity to strike.
Neve had been furious. Teresa had never seen the usually composed mage unravel like that. Her voice had trembled with rage, her gestures sharp and restless, the air around her crackling with energy even a non-mage could feel.
“You chose Treviso,” Neve had hissed. “I hope it was worth it.”
Teresa hadn’t replied. She didn’t regret her decision, but the weight of its consequences pressed hard. Neve’s words had left a wound — one the rest of the Shadow Dragons hadn’t tried to inflict.
“I’m staying in the Dock Town,” Neve had added coolly. “Minrathous needs someone who won’t let it sink.”
Harding had reluctantly agreed to return to the Lighthouse, and Teresa had watched her go. The Crossroads, once a place of wonder and possibility, now felt empty. The silence rang too loud, crowding out her thoughts.
She turned to the Eluvian. Returning to Treviso felt right, but each step toward the portal was an effort. Her mind spun with images of Minrathous in ruins — the screams, the flames, Neve’s sharp words. How many friends had died in the fire?
Teresa exhaled and stepped through the Eluvian.
In an instant, she stood once more on the balcony of the Diamond casino in the Cantori estate. The silhouette of Lucanis filled her vision. He stood leaning on the balustrade, but when he saw her, he straightened and walked toward her. Even in the half-light, Teresa could read the tension in his dark eyes. But — to his credit — he didn’t speak first.
“Minrathous has fallen to the Venatori,” Teresa said quietly.
Lucanis’s brow furrowed, but his expression remained calm, free of judgment.
“You blame yourself.”
“Not exactly,” she murmured. “I would still have chosen my city. But Neve’s furious.”
“She doesn’t get to judge you,” Lucanis said firmly. His tone was clipped, but not cold. It was certain. “She loves Minrathous the way you love Treviso, Tess.”
The nickname struck like a dagger. A pang of old pain surged, pulling up memories long buried.
…Father enters the room as Mother finishes a bedtime story.
“And then they got married and lived happily ever after,” Mother smiles. “And they had a beautiful daughter. Do you know her name?”
“Tess!”
“Exactly, sweetheart.”
“Did you tell her yet?” Father whispers, and Mother smiles at him.
“I wanted to wait until you were back.”
Father bends down to kiss her inky hair.
“Tess, you’re going to be a big sister.”
…The de Riva estate always felt like a fairytale, even when Viago started training her with daggers.
“I don’t want to!” she pouted. “Let’s play pirates instead!”
“What’s a pirate without a weapon?” Viago laughed. He’d just turned fifteen, already looking like a rogue out of a storybook. “Come on, Tess!”
Their chatter stopped when his mother came rushing into the training yard.
“Teresa… Tess, sweet girl… I don’t know how to tell you—” Her aunt knelt before her. “Your parents… they were killed, Tess.”
“And the baby? He hasn’t even been born yet…”
“I’m sorry, Tess.” Her aunt wept, hugging her tight.
Little Teresa looked to Viago. His gray eyes were wide with horror. He ran to her and held her close…
“…You okay?”
Teresa blinked. The present returned. Lucanis stood before her, his hand on her shoulder.
“Yeah. Thanks. I know I made the right call.”
Lucanis nodded, his gaze steady and warm.
“You saved our people, Teresa. Don’t forget that.”
A faint smile touched her lips. Somehow, his words brought peace.
Lucanis smiled back, subtle but sincere. The silence between them no longer felt heavy. In Teresa’s chest, something stirred — a fragile warmth, steadying her heart after Neve’s cutting words.

Chapter Text

Lucanis rubbed his cheek wearily and looked at Viago.

The Fifth Talon was tense: brows furrowed, fingers clasped, elbows on the table as if he carried the weight of everything that had happened.

Teia, sitting beside him, also looked tired, but her gaze remained soft.

This day would not be forgotten by the Antivan Crows.

"Teresa's taking a while," Viago finally said, and Teia shook her head with a slight smile.

"Give her time. Let her catch her breath. She’s earned at least a moment of peace."

"Peace?" he snorted. "Knowing my sister, she’s probably already making new plans."

"Which is, of course, her worst flaw," Teia said wryly, touching his hand.

Lucanis gave a quiet chuckle.

He didn’t want to interfere in their back-and-forth; his whole body was tense with exhaustion he refused to show.

Spite had barely let him sleep for days, and the day's events had only made it worse.

But he was too stubborn to break.

He would endure.

Footsteps sounded.

He turned to see Teresa approaching confidently.

Her hair was neat, her face freshly made up.

De Riva took note that they were all seated and lowered herself into the empty seat beside Lucanis.

Her presence made his throat dry.

"Minrathous has fallen," she said to Viago and Teia without preamble.

Her voice was steady, but Lucanis noticed the slight twitch in her lips.

"The Venatori have taken the city, likely killing the Archon."

Silence fell.

Viago stared at her, as if trying to read something in her eyes.

Lucanis thought, for a moment, that the cousins were speaking without words.

It seemed impossible, but their looks conveyed more than any language.

"Is it true?" Teia finally asked, her voice quiet and strained.

Teresa nodded, never looking away from Viago.

"Then we need to prepare," the Fifth Talon muttered, folding his hands on the table.

"If the Venatori came for Minrathous, Treviso will be next.

There's a reason the dragons attacked both cities at once."

"We’ll deal with what’s already happened first," Teia cut in.

"Teresa saved our city.

If not for her, things could’ve ended far worse."

Lucanis saw Teresa tense slightly.

He had come to know she didn’t take praise well, and now her name was surely on every local’s lips.

"She didn’t kill the dragon though," Viago muttered, clearly trying to regain control of the conversation.

"Hush! Of course the great Viago de Riva would've done better," Teia teased, shooting him a look.

Lucanis nearly laughed at the sour expression on the Fifth Talon’s face but kept his own expression calm.

"It was a tough day," he said suddenly, addressing Teresa.

"And you still managed to recruit a Grey Warden.

I barely got a look at him.

More pleasant than the order's leader, I assume?"

"Oh, really?" Teia perked up before Teresa could respond.

Clearly, the news excited her.

"Who is he?"

Teresa briefly told them about Davrin and the griffon, just as food began to arrive at the table.

Conversation slowed, but the tension started to ease.

"A griffon," Lucanis mused, swirling wine in his glass.

"Sounds like the beginning of a great legend.

Are you sure it was safe to pet him?

What if he bit your fingers off?"

"Still have them all," Teresa said, holding up her hands.

"So I guess I passed the test.

Want to try next?"

Lucanis caught himself smiling.

He met Viago’s gaze, who only shook his head.

"We all need rest," the Fifth Talon said, taking a sip of wine.

"Teresa, if you say you’re heading back to the Lighthouse again, I swear…"

"You’ll what?" she narrowed her eyes, and for the first time that evening, there was a spark of amusement in her voice.

"I’ll tie you to the chair and make you eat."

Teia smiled and touched Teresa’s hand.

"You’ve earned at least one dinner with friends."

"I think that’s what we’re doing," Teresa replied, shaking her head.

"Just not for long.

Lucanis and I really do need to check on everyone at the Lighthouse."

Viago nodded, then asked:

"You haven’t gone home since you got back?"

"No," Teresa gave a soft smile.

"If I go, I’ll want to stay.

You didn’t mess with my apartment, did you?"

"Your trinkets are in a safe at the de Riva estate," Viago replied.

"It was reckless to leave them like that."

She nodded, and Teia added suddenly:

"You have a stunning wardrobe.

I guess being a thief for the Antivan Crows makes that inevitable."

Teresa grinned.

"You went through my closet?

Yes, disguise is crucial.

Did anything impress you, Teia?"

"The Chantry Mother’s robes," Teia laughed.

"Sorry—I borrowed them.

Too tempting."

"Keep them," Teresa muttered quickly.

Lucanis snorted, noting Viago’s displeased face.

"What kind of contract needed you to dress like a Chantry Mother?" Lucanis blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Oh, nothing special," Teresa waved a hand.

"I think it was in Ostwick.

A job to steal a sixth-century gold box belonging to the Trevelyans."

"You never told me your sister robbed the Inquisitor!" Teia stared at Viago in amazement.

"Not him," de Riva remained calm.

"His uncle.

There are lots of Trevelyans."

"And the robes?"

"Trevelyans are famously pious," she shrugged.

"Many of them are Templars or Chantry staff.

It wasn’t hard to pose as a visiting pilgrim from Wycome."

"But the accent…"

"Please, Teia.

A thief must master accents," Teresa replied in perfect Marcher.

Teia’s eyes widened.

"Mierda, I knew you were good, but that’s amazing!"

"Thank you," said Rook, her Antivan tones returning.

"Impressive," Lucanis said sincerely.

"You clearly have more talents than you let on, Teresa de Riva."

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the sound of cutlery.

Lucanis looked down at his plate, battling a strange unease.

Why did Teresa stir something in him again and again?

It felt alien, like…

"Like someone’s got a crush on Rook," Spite hissed in his head.

"So banal: she just saved your life in the Ossuary!"

Lucanis clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the demon.

"You haven’t asked about Marcus," Viago said into the silence, addressing his sister.

Lucanis felt an unexpected flare of irritation.

"I don’t care," Teresa said firmly.

"You know it wasn’t serious."

"Foolish and reckless," Viago snapped.

"Crows must not fall prey to temptation or become slaves to base desires."

Teia snorted, drawing attention.

"Sorry.

Vi, that’s ridiculous.

A little fun never hurt anyone."

Viago glared at his lover.

Lucanis recalled the rumors that Teia had dated other Crows in the past.

"Don’t start," Teresa interrupted, probably thinking the same thing.

"The past should stay there."

"Exactly," Teia said, eyeing Viago.

"If you’ve accepted mine, then let your sister be."

"I only asked about Marcus," he shook his head.

"Teresa, you really don’t care?"

"No.

But I understand why you kept him—he’s good at kill contracts.

The rest doesn’t matter."

"Some things are worse than death," Viago said darkly, and Lucanis raised an eyebrow.

"Like what?"

"Katarina insisted Marcus serve House Dellamorte for two years.

She wanted to reform him."

Lucanis whistled and let out a dry laugh.

"She was unmatched in that."

"Yes, but now he’s under Ilario’s command," Teia reminded them.

"For now," Lucanis said calmly, but his voice carried something dangerous.

"I hate traitors.

Marcus will learn that soon enough."

"But why would Katarina do that?" Teresa looked at him for a moment, then turned to Viago.

"Is this about the immunity again?"

"What?" Lucanis’s eyes widened.

"Viago?"

The Fifth Talon stayed silent.

Teresa frowned.

"Before I went after you in the Ossuary, Katarina told me I had her immunity.

That’s why she reversed the de Riva vote after I fled Treviso."

"Never heard of that," Lucanis said darkly.

"Why?"

"Doesn’t matter," Viago cut in.

"Katarina’s gone."

"But you still won’t tell me why I earned such trust!" Teresa glared at him.

"I said I’d tell you when it no longer mattered!

But you’re too stubborn to just listen, aren’t you?

Nothing new!"

"Enough," Lucanis said, looking between them.

"You won’t resolve this by fighting."

Teresa nodded and smiled faintly.

"You’re right."

Viago’s brows rose in surprise, but Teia gave him a look, and the stubborn Crow said nothing.

"As always," Lucanis added, unexpectedly confident.

Teresa was looking at him, and he found himself wanting to make her laugh.

"Want to hear how I killed a Venatori-linked magister?"

"I don’t believe you only had one such contract!"

"Of course not.

But that one stood out."

"I’m listening," Teresa leaned back, and Lucanis smirked, pleased to have her attention.

"You’re pathetic," hissed Spite, but Lucanis ignored him.

Not now, not when she was looking at him like that.

"I was hired to eliminate a magister in Minrathous.

With jobs like that, the key is stealth—wait till night, sneak in, strike fast and quiet," Lucanis went on, grinning at the memory.

"As it happens, something went wrong.

I got in, slipped into his study.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

I waited behind the curtains—and then he walked in.

I crept after him.

He turned around… and you know what he did?

He sighed, turned, and sat on the couch, staring right at me.

He knew I’d come."

Lucanis paused, gauging the group.

"And?" Teresa prompted.

Her impatience was delightful.

"The strangest part?

He offered me tea.

Like we were at a meeting."

"But you hate tea," Teresa smiled.

"Was he polite enough to offer coffee?"

"He did.

I didn’t risk it."

"Smart," Viago approved.

"The magister nodded.

He seemed ready to die.

I fulfilled the contract, of course, but that kind of civility is rare in our line of work, don’t you think?"

"Definitely," Teia agreed.

Teresa met Lucanis’s eyes, and he noticed the corners of her mouth lift in a smile.

Something changed in her gaze.

It wasn’t just friendliness—it was something more personal, something unspoken.

"Do you really think he was ready to die?" she asked, her tone light.

Lucanis considered it, enjoying her full attention.

He leaned back with a small smile.

No words were needed to convey the weight of that look.

"Don’t get used to it," Spite growled.

Lucanis grimaced inwardly but answered:

"Maybe.

Sometimes life offers stranger things than death."

Teresa nodded, looking at him a little longer than usual.

It was a silence filled with a quiet understanding.

No need for words, no need for anything more than simply being there.

He noticed she had finally begun to relax.

"Thanks for the story," she said at last, still smiling.

"Our trade’s definitely not for the faint of heart."

"Strange to hear that from you, the one who stole an artifact dressed as a Chantry Mother."

"That outfit again…" Teresa muttered, and they all laughed, even Viago.

 

***

A heavy silence hung in the Lighthouse’s dining hall, so thick it seemed ready to crush anyone who dared speak first.

Bellara was staring intently at a single spot, her usually cheerful face unusually serious.

Davrin was muttering something under his breath, though Teresa couldn’t make out the words.

Harding looked pensive, which for her was more of an exception than the rule.

Teresa cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

“How are you?” she asked, sitting down across from Harding.

Lucanis silently took the seat beside her.

Bellara shook her head, clearly not in the mood to respond.

“Shit,” Davrin grimaced, probably voicing the general sentiment.

“But we’ll be fine. Just need time to recover.”

“Any regrets about your choice, Rook?” Bellara asked quietly.

The Veil Jumper seemed unusually solemn.

Teresa pushed down her emotions and answered, “I could say I chose Treviso because the Blight would’ve seeped into the canals, cutting people off from water.

I could list a dozen more reasons, all perfectly valid.

Like how Minrathous has withstood sieges for centuries because it’s the oldest city in Thedas.

But you know, Bellara, that wouldn’t be the whole truth.

I chose my city. My people.

I’m sorry, but I’d choose Treviso again.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucanis’s hand clench into a fist.

“I understand. We all do,” Bellara gave a faint smile.

“But Neve…”

“Promised to return,” Teresa said firmly.

“Yes, she blames me—has every right to—but the rest of the Shadow Dragons understood and didn’t judge me.”

“What do we do next?” Davrin asked.

His brown eyes stayed fixed on her.

Clearly, he saw no point in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

“We need someone who can hunt dragons.”

One by one, they began to speak.

Eventually, they agreed: they needed a dragon specialist and a Veil expert.

Bellara immediately remembered Professor Emmeric Volkarin from Nevarra and promised to contact him.

By the end of the conversation, the tension had eased.

The team had direction now.

Davrin rose, wished them all goodnight, and left the hall.

Bellara bit her lip thoughtfully, already drafting a letter to Volkarin in her mind.

Only Harding remained grim, and Teresa furrowed her brow, watching her with concern.

“Lace? What is it?”

“It’s nothing, Rook, really,” she mumbled, then relented under Teresa’s stare.

“The Shadow Dragons... what do we really know about them?”

The question came unexpectedly and instantly turned every head.

“Explain, please,” Teresa said gently.

“I thought we knew enough. Don’t we?”

“While you were speaking with Neve and the other leaders, I saw a man in the distance…” Harding hesitated.

“You probably didn’t see him—you had your back turned.

He was wearing Shadow Dragon robes.

I knew him from the Inquisition, and... he’s not someone I expected to see.”

“That does sound interesting,” Teresa said, feeling Lucanis shift slightly closer beside her, his presence oddly unsettling.

She caught herself breathing faster and forced her focus back to the topic.

She looked to the Crow.

“What do you mean, Lace?” Lucanis asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Who was it?”

“Crassius Servis,” Harding replied tensely.

“Heard of him?”

Lucanis thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. What’s the deal with this Servis?”

“You know I was a scout for the Inquisition.

My team and I always went ahead before Lord Trevelyan arrived.

I first heard about Servis in the Western Approach—a desert in southwest Orlais.”

“Where Adamant Fortress is, right?” Teresa clarified, and Lace nodded.

“Servis led the Venatori in the Western Approach.

They were excavating for Corypheus in Coracavus, a long-forgotten Tevinter prison.”

“Venatori?” Teresa felt Lucanis tense beside her.

“Yeah,” Harding confirmed.

“Even with Lord Trevelyan’s skill, it took four of them to bring him down.

Dorian Pavus was there too.

The Inquisitor put him on trial.

Servis talked his way into joining the Inquisition.

He smuggled goods, but he was also a talented battle mage.”

“What?” Teresa was genuinely shocked.

“How is that possible, Lace?

You’ve told me many times how clever the Inquisitor was.”

Harding looked sheepish.

“If you don’t get into the weeds of it... Servis swore he had no loyalty to Corypheus.

He said the dig was just for coin.”

“Shit,” Lucanis muttered.

“That sounds bad.

You think he’d betray the Shadow Dragons?”

“Unlikely,” Harding shrugged.

“I’ve simplified things, but it’s more complicated than it sounds.”

“Then we need the full story, Lace,” Teresa said gently.

“Why are you hesitating?”

“I don’t like gossip,” the dwarf muttered.

“Is this... romantic?” Bellara asked, and Teresa stifled a laugh.

She’d already noticed how fond the elf was of drama.

Harding flushed.

“Oh yes. All of Skyhold was watching it unfold.”

“Then we definitely need to hear this!” Bellara grinned.

“Come on, Lace.”

The dwarf sighed.

She was clearly uncomfortable, but still asked:

“You’ve heard Lord Trevelyan’s sister led the mages in the Inquisition?

They called her the First Enchanter.”

“Of course!” Bellara replied for everyone.

“I’ve read her research!

Margaret Rutherford is a Tevinter scholar.

I believe she was Senior Enchanter of the Karastes Circle before transferring to Minrathous a few years ago.

She started work on demonic possession there and published a series of breakthrough papers.

Mostly, she lived in Ferelden but stayed active in academic circles.”

“You know a lot about her,” Teresa noted with surprise.

“Why the interest?”

“I love research too,” Bellara shrugged.

“Her work is brilliant—every respectable scholar knows it.”

“Wait,” Lucanis frowned.

“Wasn’t the Inquisition’s commander also named Rutherford?”

“She’s his wife,” Bellara giggled at Lucanis’s stunned look.

“He was a templar!”

“A former templar,” Harding corrected with a smile.

“Yes, all of Skyhold watched their story unfold, even though they tried to keep it quiet.

Servis showing up made things... complicated.”

Teresa rolled her eyes.

“Let me guess—he was her lover before the Inquisition?”

“Exactly,” Harding chuckled.

“Back in Tevinter.”

“And they say Antivans love drama,” Lucanis muttered.

“You definitely do,” Teresa nudged him with her elbow and caught his startled look.

“Bet you’re dying to hear the rest.”

He grimaced, but a smile tugged at his lips.

“No way. I couldn’t care less.”

“Then leave and let Harding finish the story,” Teresa grinned, throwing down the challenge.

Lucanis scowled.

“No chance.”

“Knew it,” Rook teased, turning back to Harding before Lucanis could respond.

“Let me guess: the Inquisition didn’t love the fact that the First Enchanter once loved a Venatori?”

“It never came out,” Harding said.

“I only found out when Varric and I were tracking Solas.

He let it slip.”

“Varric? Accidentally? Doubt it,” Teresa huffed.

“He probably saw you down and decided to cheer you up.”

“Exactly,” Lace chuckled softly.

“Anyway, when Margaret was with Servis, he wasn’t Venatori yet.”

“But his return to the Inquisition stirred up old feelings?” Bellara’s eyes were gleaming.

“She had to choose between the commander and Servis?”

“No,” Harding smiled.

“As far as I know, she was already with Cullen.

But Servis definitely got under his skin.

Varric said they almost fought once.”

“How does this connect to Servis being a Shadow Dragon now?” Lucanis asked grimly, glancing at Teresa.

His whole expression said he didn’t care for gossip, but de Riva let out a low laugh.

“I heard the Inquisitor eventually sent Servis to Minrathous.

Maybe that’s how he ended up with the Dragons,” Harding offered with a shrug.

“If he bothers you that much, we’ll ask Neve about him when she returns,” Teresa said gently to Lace.

“What if she gets mad?”

“Depends how you ask,” Teresa shook her head.

“Try ‘Neve, I saw someone in your ranks who worked for the Inquisition,’ instead of ‘What’s that ex-Venatori doing in your group?’”

Harding laughed.

“Alright, alright, I’ll ask her.

After all, if there’s any chance of betrayal, the Shadow Dragons need to know, right?”

“Of course.

You’re just being cautious.

Nothing wrong with that.”

“Thanks, Rook,” Harding exhaled.

“How do you always know what to say?”

 

***

The swamps of Hossberg filled Lucanis with a stifling sense of melancholy.

A small village was nestled here, and he had come with Teresa and Grey Warden Davrin so Rook could speak with those in the order willing to hear her out.

A dwarven woman, Evka—clearly from Orzammar judging by her tattoos—and her thin elven husband, Antoine, had asked them to collect samples of the Blight.

They hoped to study them, in an effort to convince the First Warden that the situation was far more dangerous than he believed.

Lucanis followed Teresa, doing his best not to curse aloud.

His boots were soaked through, and the bogs stretched endlessly.

Even the griffon seemed happier than he was.

"How do people even live out here?" he muttered through gritted teeth, slipping and nearly falling face-first into the muck.

Luckily, no one noticed.

"Oh, excuse me, Lucanis. I suppose Antivan Crows don’t know how the less fortunate in Thedas live?" Davrin smirked, and Lucanis felt a spike of irritation.

The elf annoyed him.

Clearly, he was a capable warrior—Lucanis had seen that firsthand a few days ago—but his smug demeanor and unshakable belief in his own righteousness, a trait not uncommon among some Wardens, grated on him.

"We know how the less fortunate live, Davrin," Teresa interjected, glancing back.

Her grey eyes glinted in the gloom.

"Right, Rook. Sorry. I guess some Crows—"

Davrin didn’t finish his sentence, and Lucanis noticed the elf smiling at Teresa.

Something twisted in his chest.

The griffon Assan, clearly sensing Davrin’s distraction, darted ahead to catch up with Rook and nudged her thigh with his beak.

"What is it, sweetheart?" she cooed, and Lucanis barely held back a smirk.

He’d seen the usually-stoic Teresa de Riva cuddling the griffon back at the Lighthouse more than once.

"Rook, he’s a warrior!" Davrin sighed.

"He doesn’t need your coddling!"

"I don’t think so," Teresa murmured, running her hand over Assan’s feathers.

The griffon purred in delight.

"I’m trying to raise him with discipline," Davrin reminded.

"He needs to hunt darkspawn!"

"I agree that Assan’s a warrior," Teresa said with a smile, still petting him.

"But even warriors need a little warmth sometimes."

Davrin sighed again, and Lucanis felt a satisfying sense of vindication.

He liked how Teresa could throw Davrin off balance.

Her undivided attention to the Warden, however, was far less welcome.

"Viago should see you now," Lucanis muttered with forced indifference.

She didn’t have time to answer—Davrin jumped in immediately.

"Who’s Viago? Your lover, Rook?"

"My brother," Teresa laughed.

"Talon of House de Riva."

"The poison master?" Davrin didn’t wait for confirmation.

"Do you have anyone besides your brother?"

"You mean family?" she turned, and Lucanis clenched his jaw—her gaze wasn’t for him.

"No, Rook. Not family," the elf’s tone left no room for misinterpretation.

"I have no one," she said casually, eyes forward.

Davrin snorted and glanced at Lucanis, and the Crow could feel the elf regretted not being alone with her.

"You’re tense," the warrior addressed him, his earlier levity gone.

"Is it Spite? If he takes over, I’ll have to kill you both. No offense."

Lucanis felt the flare of anger but kept his composure.

The Warden wasn’t just goading him—he was testing him.

Davrin wanted to see how dangerous the Crow really was… and maybe hoped the demon would rise to the surface.

"Everyone who tried to kill me is dead," Lucanis replied evenly, letting none of the fury seep into his voice.

Teresa turned around, arms folded, leveling a stern look at both of them.

"We’re in the middle of a swamp, surrounded by so much Blight I want to crawl back to the Lighthouse and take a hot bath.

We need to collect samples, and you both know it.

So maybe stop bickering? We’re a team."

The iron in her voice reminded Lucanis of Catarina.

She too had a gift for maintaining order.

The comparison unsettled him, and he muttered through clenched teeth:

"I’ll stop if he does."

"Of course. Placating Rook already," Davrin chuckled.

"By the way, are you equals in the Antivan Crows?"

"No," Teresa replied, confused.

"Lucanis is heir to the title of First Talon, head of the Antivan Crows."

Davrin snorted, and Lucanis caught his mocking glance.

"Must be hard taking orders from Rook."

"I’m comfortable working with Teresa.

And that’s none of your concern, Davrin."

The Warden looked at Rook, still petting the griffon.

Lucanis had the distinct impression the man wanted to challenge him.

"You know, Rook, if you like Assan so much, why not join us for some training?

I want to teach him to hunt truffles.

I know Arlathan well—we could head there."

Surprise flickered in Teresa’s eyes, but she masked it quickly.

"Arlathan? Let’s see how this swamp mission turns out first."

Lucanis felt a knot of rage tighten inside.

Davrin grinned wide and puffed up smugly as Teresa turned and walked ahead.

A distant ogre’s roar echoed across the marsh.

The Crow rolled his neck.

A fight was exactly what he needed.

 

***

Margaret couldn’t sleep. Her body ached with fatigue, and hunger gnawed at her unexpectedly.

She turned onto her side and glanced at Eva sleeping beside her. In sleep, her daughter reminded her achingly of Cullen.

At the thought of him, Margaret resolutely threw off the blanket and headed for the door.

As she descended the wide marble staircase to the first floor, she heard voices coming from the drawing room.

She froze for a moment, pressing herself against the wall so as not to be noticed.

"You need to return to Rook, Neve," came Servis’s low voice.

"I can’t, not until I’ve made sure everyone has been found, Crass!" Neve replied irritably.

"I’m sick of you making me spend nights here instead of home, in the Dock Town."

"Neve—"

"Oh yes, you’re needed by Dorian during this difficult time, and of course, you have to protect Margaret."

"It’s not just about her, and you know it."

"It’s always about her!"

Margaret frowned and hugged herself more tightly, feeling a sudden gust from an open window.

"Kaffas, Neve, enough!" Servis snapped. "We’ve been together too long for me to keep hearing this!"

Margaret sighed. Overall, she and the mage had an amicable relationship—there was nothing to divide them.

But clearly, Neve didn’t always think the same.

She hesitated at the door but pushed it open.

The hem of her robe rustled softly as she entered the room.

The smell of tobacco coming from Neve stung her nose and made her throat tighten.

"Don’t mind me," Margaret said confidently, breaking the silence.

"I’m not here to interrupt."

"Margot, wait," Servis said quietly, his gaze shifting from Neve to her.

"Maybe you can convince her to go back to Rook."

Margaret stopped and looked thoughtfully at the detective.

At that moment, Neve flicked ash from her cigarette and looked at her, irritation clear in her expression.

"Neve, what would you have chosen in her place—Minrathous or Treviso?" Margaret asked softly, folding her arms.

The mage rolled her eyes and exhaled smoke loudly.

"Minrathous. What kind of stupid question is that, Margot?"

"Why not Treviso?" Margaret tilted her head slightly, a subtle but cheeky smirk appearing on her lips.

"You know why," Neve growled, standing abruptly and smashing her cigarette into the ashtray.

"And you?"

"I would’ve chosen Minrathous too.

But if it was between that and Ostwick, I’d choose the city I was born and raised in," the mage replied, lifting her chin slightly.

Neve exhaled sharply, lit another cigarette, and turned away again.

"You know Rook made the right choice," Margaret added more gently.

She circled the couch and rested her hands on the back.

"She chose her home. Treviso isn’t as well-defended as Minrathous."

"Didn’t help though, did it?" Neve shot back, turning to her.

Her tone dripped with bitterness, and her fingers nervously clutched the cigarette.

"We still don’t know if Radonis is alive.

Public executions are sweeping through Minrathous.

The city was taken by the Venatori, Margot!"

"I know, Neve," Margaret stood across from her, arms hugging her own body as if trying to warm herself.

Her face showed genuine sadness.

"And we’ll do what we can. But you’ll be more useful if you return to Rook."

Servis, who had been silently observing, stepped closer and stood beside Neve.

He gave Margaret a brief look, then gently touched the mage’s shoulder.

"Think about it, Neve," he said quietly. "She’s right."

Neve exhaled loudly, stubbed out her cigarette, and wiped her face as if trying to erase the tension.

She slowly lifted her gaze to Margaret, then looked at Servis.

Her expression remained sharp, but it was no longer hostile.

"If I go back..." she began, her voice hollow with uncertainty, "it’s only because you want me to, Crass."

Servis smiled faintly and nodded but said nothing.

Neve let out a long sigh and turned to Margaret.

Her lips twitched as if she were about to say something biting, but she held it back.

Instead, she shrugged:

"Fine. I’ll go back. But if you think it’ll be easy, you’re dead wrong.

Crass, let’s go to bed. I’m heading back to the Spire in the morning."

She spun on her heel and headed for the door.

Her steps were firm, but there was something in her movement that hinted at hidden exhaustion.

Servis watched her go, then looked at Margaret.

"Thank you, Margot," he said quietly.

The mage only nodded, lowering her hands and feeling a quiet sense of relief.

Chapter Text

In the dining hall—a separate building of the Lighthouse filled with the scents of fresh bread, garlic, and Antivan herbs—nearly the entire team had gathered around the long table. Teresa hadn't arrived yet, and Lucanis was doing his best to suppress his irritation. After the Hossberg swamps and Davrin's not-so-subtle remarks in her direction, he'd decided to prove himself, but without words.

Upon returning from the mission, he took it upon himself to cook dinner for the team. Cooking always helped to clear his mind and distract him from intrusive thoughts. Even Spite fell silent during such moments, which was why Lucanis tried to cook more often than the others. He'd already noticed that everyone enjoyed his food. More importantly, Teresa liked it.

Lucanis placed the dish on the table—seafood pasta with a salad of fennel and oranges on the side. The team's gazes immediately fixed on the food.

"Lucanis, you've outdone yourself," Bellara said with genuine enthusiasm. "I wonder if Rook will be here soon?"

"I saw her talking to Harding on my way here," noted Professor Emmrich Volkarin, who had recently taken up residence at the Lighthouse after Teresa met him in the Necropolis.

Lucanis liked the mage. Despite his necromancy and obsession with the Necropolis—that mysterious final resting place of Nevarran dead—Emmrich was a fascinating conversationalist. Their discussions had become a breath of fresh air, and Lucanis had already spent more than a few coffee-fueled evenings talking with the professor.

"Trying to impress Rook?" Spite asked mockingly in his mind. "You really are vain for an assassin."

Suddenly, the door to the dining hall opened and in walked Teresa, followed by Lace.

"Apologies," de Riva said. "Lace and I had a few things to discuss."

Lucanis noted the furrow in her brow—she was clearly lost in thought. But then her gaze landed on the dinner spread, and a wide smile lit up her face.

"Pasta!"

"Antivan through and through!" Davrin called out with a laugh, and she punched his shoulder with a grin. Lucanis's fingers curled into a fist under the table for just a moment, but he quickly returned to his calm demeanor.

"To the fingertips," she declared dramatically in Antivan, then translated for the rest. Lucanis felt his heart skip a beat at the melodic sound of his native tongue.

A hush settled over the group, broken only by the clinking of silverware. He watched as Teresa picked up her fork, her fingers pausing on the edge of the plate. Small details like these always seemed to captivate Lucanis more than he liked to admit. He saw the thoughtful, slightly distant look in her eyes and turned to glance at Lace, who also looked distracted.

"Is everything all right?" he finally asked.

"A letter came from magister Dorian Pavus," Lace replied. "He’s expecting Rook tomorrow at a tavern in Dock Town for a meeting."

"The magister?" Davrin frowned. "What does he want? Sounds suspicious."

"You feel it too, don’t you, Lucanis?" hissed Spite within, and Delamorte scowled. "It’s not just a letter. It’s a trap. If Teresa goes there, she won’t return."

"We don't know that, Davrin," Lace shrugged. "There weren't many details in the letter."

"Then it could be a trap," Lucanis interjected, staring at Teresa across the table. "I'm going with you."

He noticed the glance Davrin threw his way but ignored it. The only thing that mattered now was Teresa’s safety. He didn’t break eye contact with her, as if silently saying: refusal is not an option.

"Lucanis..." she smiled, and again his heart skipped a beat. "I don’t think Dorian means harm. He saved me from the wrath of the First Warden, remember?"

"This girl is even dumber than you."

"I’m going with you," Lucanis said through clenched teeth, unwavering. He already knew just how stubborn Teresa could be—but he matched her, step for step.

"All right," she relented, and warmth spread through his chest. "Thank you, Lucanis. I really appreciate it. Almost as much as the pasta."

Delamorte felt the faintest smile tug at his lips. Her words touched something inside him he tried to hide, even from himself. De Riva always managed to get under his skin—even in the moments when he thought he held the upper hand.

 

***

Dock Town — a poor district of Minrathous — greeted them with pouring rain. Despite that, even the weather couldn’t wash away the familiar smell of fish and sea salt from the air.

Life bustled here as usual. Fishmongers called out to passersby, and as they moved past the market stalls, Lucanis noticed the bad weather hadn’t slowed the city down at all. It reminded him of Treviso just after the Qunari had taken control.

“Fresh fish!”

“Magic amulets from Orlais!”

“M’lady, a fine silver piece to match your dazzling eyes!”

Lucanis saw Teresa tense. Her gaze darted between the rows of vendors as if she were searching for something long gone. Memories of the first days of occupation had likely come back to her just as they had to him. She didn’t slow her pace, but her expression darkened.

She turned her head, and their eyes met. Lucanis saw in her gray eyes a familiar emotion he couldn’t name — but now he knew for certain: she remembered occupied Treviso too. Does she regret not helping Minrathous now?

“Can I ask you something, Teresa?” He had to raise his voice over the vendors’ calls. She nodded. “I know you disrupted the operation against the Qunari to free the prisoners. But what I want to know is — why? You know as well as I do: Antivan Crows aren’t allowed to make mistakes.”

They passed beyond the market stalls, and Lucanis exhaled in relief as the noise died down. His eyes stayed on Teresa. She gave a slight smile and asked:

“Then why did you save those people in Virantium, Lucanis?”

He gave a quiet huff, secretly pleased with her answer.

“You know that could’ve cost me my place in the Crows. Virantium isn’t Antiva — it’s Tevinter.”

De Riva stepped closer, lowering her voice to a near-whisper:

“And if it had cost you?”

His throat went dry. He wanted to laugh and curse all at once.

“I wouldn’t have cared,” Lucanis rasped. Teresa grinned, her gray eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“I thought so.”

It sounded like a challenge. Or a truth she’d known all along. He wanted to argue, to wipe that confidence and slight smugness from her face — but he knew she was right. And that infuriated him as much as it drew him to her.

“Mierda, de Riva, you’re impossible,” he muttered, not bothering to hide it. She stifled a smirk and stepped a few paces to the right. Harding quickly pulled her into conversation.

Soon, they neared the tavern, and Lucanis overheard two merchants muttering at the corner of the building. Likely both had come hoping for a drink.

“First time I’ve seen the ‘Cobblestone Swan’ shut tight!”

“Must be the Venatori’s doing,” said the older one with a dramatic eye-roll. “Trust me, I’ve got a nose for bastards.”

“Shh! Keep that down,” his companion hissed, glancing around nervously — and then catching sight of Lucanis and Teresa, both clad in Antivan Crow armor. “Let’s get outta here.”

Lucanis watched them go, then sighed.

“I don’t like this,” he said quietly to Teresa. “I’d bet anything we’re walking into a trap.”

“A wager, is it?” she said, surveying the small square in front of the tavern. No guards nearby — only a woman in armor standing at the door. “Not afraid to lose, Delamorte?”

Lucanis chuckled low in his throat.

“Are you, de Riva?”

“No. Deal’s a deal — a wish to the winner.”

“You’re on.” Lucanis shook his head as if amazed by her stubbornness, then extended his hand. Teresa clasped it, her gray eyes narrowing with challenge.

Harding studied the armored woman and suddenly giggled.

“Better start thinking about your wish, Rook,” the dwarf teased and made her way toward the warrior. Lucanis caught Teresa’s surprised look, and the two of them quickly followed Harding without a word.

When they stopped before the woman, Lace beamed and began:

“Glad to see you, my lady—”

“No names, Harding,” the stranger cut her off.

Lucanis studied her intently: high-quality armor, a heavy dwarven shield on her back, and a jeweled sword at her hip. Brown eyes wary, thin black brows furrowed, an old pale scar marked one cheek. Short black hair completed the image of a stern, stubborn soul.

The woman looked over Teresa, then him, and sighed deeply.

“Antivan Crows,” the warrior muttered. “Alright. Which of you is Rook?”

“That’s me,” Teresa replied firmly.

“Lovely,” the stranger said, though her voice said otherwise. “Harding and Rook, you may enter. You—” her dry gaze locked on Lucanis, “—stay here and wait.”

“No.”

He met her eyes with defiance, feeling more than just his own irritation rise — Spite stirred inside him.

“Lucanis,” Harding hissed, worry etched on her face. “It’s alright. We’re safe.”

He felt Teresa’s fingers squeeze his, easing the tightness in his chest. He looked into her eyes — calm, gray, fearless, but there was something deeper in them too.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, and Lucanis, still on guard, gave a slight nod. In response, she added, “Don’t worry.”

Teresa took a step toward the stairs, but Lucanis caught her hand, stopping her.

“If anything goes wrong, Teresa,” he said softly in Antivan, “call for me. I’ll be right outside. Do you understand?”

De Riva smiled wide and sincere.

“Yes,” she answered in their language. “Don’t worry.”

“Swear you’ll call for help!”

“I promise,” she exhaled, reassuring. “It’s alright, Lucanis.”

He let go and nodded. Teresa turned and headed for the door. His eyes stayed fixed on her until she disappeared inside. Lucanis climbed the steps behind her and stood beside the warrior.

“Who are you?” he asked coldly. “And what do you want?”

“My name is Cassandra Trevelyan, formely known as Pentaghast. I’m a Seeker of Truth.”

“Trevelyan,” Lucanis turned sharply to her. “The Inquisitor’s wife? He’s inside?”

“Yes,” Cassandra nodded, surveying the small square. “And who are you?”

“Lucanis Delamorte,” he replied, watching her every move. Cassandra fell silent, her eyes narrowing slightly, something like recognition flickering within them — as if recalling every rumor she’d ever heard.

“The Demon of Virantium,” she murmured. Her brows lifted just slightly, and respect crept into her voice. “Your reputation reaches even the south. But tell me, are you not afraid that name will one day become your curse?”

Lucanis frowned, tension returning. There were too many conflicting rumors about the Seekers of Truth. Some said they allowed spirits to possess them to enhance their powers. No one knew for sure.

He glanced sideways at Cassandra. If the rumors were true — did she also harbor something like Spite? But he knew he couldn’t ask.

“Don’t worry about Rook,” Cassandra said at last, breaking the silence. “Philipp only wants to talk.”

“And yet you’re out here, not in there,” he remarked. “Covering his back?”

Cassandra chuckled softly.

“Since the very first day. You should’ve seen him eleven years ago — heir to the Teyrn of Ostwick, who’d only ever held a sword in practice bouts. And though he hasn’t needed my protection in a long time, it’s still good to stand beside him.”

Lucanis nodded, feeling the tension lift from his shoulders. A comfortable silence settled between them — and then he remembered, with a suppressed urge to curse: it seemed he had just lost the bet with Teresa.

 

***

The tavern was empty, and Teresa forced herself to calm down—her heart was pounding like mad. The last time she’d visited the Cobbled Swan, she'd nearly ended up in the Weisshaupt dungeons at the whim of the First Warden. But something told her today would be different.

Lace’s reaction to the woman outside had piqued Teresa’s curiosity, and her inquisitive mind had already pieced together a logical guess. Most likely, it had been Seeker Cassandra, the Inquisitor’s wife—which could only mean one thing.

“Well, well!” Lace exclaimed, walking beside her with a wide grin.

Teresa looked up, and her practiced mask of indifference cracked slightly: the man standing ahead seemed capable of capturing the attention of anyone who met his gaze. He smiled warmly at Lace, but Teresa, ever observant, caught the firmness and resolve in his dark eyes.

“Good to see you, Lace.”

His voice was steady, calm—as if promising everything was under control. Each word resonated, instilling confidence. Teresa cursed herself for the overly poetic comparison, blaming Viago’s mother for instilling in her a love of Antivan literature and dramatic metaphors.

“Rook, you remember that Varric and I served in the Inquisition?” Lace said. “Well, this is the man who led us—Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

Teresa studied him more carefully. He looked younger than his years—she remembered he had to be in his early forties . A fit warrior’s build, barely a wrinkle on his face, a neatly trimmed beard, and thick, dark hair.

“Pleased to meet you, Inquisitor,” she said with polite formality, then straightened, trying to maintain her composure. But her heart tightened, as if she’d suddenly been thrust onto a stage before hundreds of spectators. Meeting his gaze, she felt a strange blend of awe and annoyance. This was the man who had closed the Breach, the one sung about by bards—and she… She had to prove her worth.

“And I’m pleased to meet you, Rook. Lord Philipp Trevelyan, at your service. Would you mind telling me your real name?” Philipp squinted slightly, as if guessing her thoughts. “It’s important to know who we’re working with.”

“My name is Teresa de Riva,” she replied calmly, hoping her nerves didn’t show.

“Antivan. Your accent gives you away completely,” the Inquisitor said with a friendly smile. “I spent a lot of time in Antiva as a child—my family has many relatives there.”

“In the capital?”

“Exactly. And you?”

“From Treviso, Inquisitor.”

“Ah, Treviso!” Philipp’s smile grew even wider. “I visited once with my mother—she never stopped longing for Antiva. She’s still in love with Treviso’s architecture. And I agree—what a city. You said de Riva? A noble and ancient house, if I recall. An honor to meet one of its descendants.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” Teresa allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Pride swelled inside her.

“Don’t let him charm you, Rook,” came a woman’s voice from behind Philipp, and a mage stepped into view, standing beside him. She moved with feline grace, her gaze penetrating, assessing every flaw. Brown eyes, long curly black hair—Teresa guessed she must be Philipp’s sister, Margaret Rutherford. “You wouldn’t be his first victim. His heart belongs to the Seeker.”

Philipp scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Courtesy doesn’t equal flirting, Margot.”

“Then you’ve been away from Tevinter too long,” she shot back. “Shall we get to the point?”

“Indeed,” the Inquisitor agreed. “May we use first names, Rook?”

Teresa exhaled as discreetly as she could.

“If that’s appropriate… Philipp.”

He smiled.

“So, Teresa, I’ve heard of all you’ve accomplished since you… stepped into Varric’s shoes.” Philipp looked down for a moment, as if steadying himself. She wanted to say Varric would pull through, but he continued, “You’ve gathered an exceptional team, and you may be our only real chance of stopping Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan.”

“I won’t let you down, Philipp,” Teresa said softly but firmly.

“Don’t worry about me. Worry about the people you’ve recruited and those who depend on you. I only closed the Breach because I had people like Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen beside me from the start. Without Dorian’s magic, Margaret’s knowledge, or Josephine’s diplomacy, we’d never have united to stop Corypheus. Two years later, I disbanded the Inquisition, but I never lost the friends who carried me through it all.”

“Of course, it helps when you marry half of them,” Margaret added dryly. Teresa barely stifled a grin—she liked the mage’s sharp tongue. “Only Leliana and Josephine escaped our family’s web.”

“Can I help it if we found love in the Inquisition, Margot?”

“Sometimes I think you’ve changed over the years,” she said, shaking her head. “Then you open your mouth and remind me—still the same hopeless romantic.”

Lace giggled, but immediately turned red under Margaret’s sharp look and fell silent.

“By the way, I’m Margaret Pavus Rutherford,” the mage introduced herself. “I’m here in Dorian’s place. My cousin had an urgent matter to handle, but I couldn’t leave my brother alone.”

“Pavus?” Teresa asked, unable to hide her curiosity. Margaret’s eyes glinted, but she replied without hostility:

“Yes. That’s what happens when your cousin refuses to carry on the family line. I became the heir, and now so is my daughter Evelina, who recently awakened to magic.”

“I can imagine Commander’s reaction,” Lace muttered.

Margaret looked at her in surprise.

“Lace, Cullen knew from the beginning this would happen. Trust me—he’s not against it.”

Lace looked embarrassed, glancing at Teresa, who gave her a warm smile of support. Lace exhaled slightly.

“How are things in the south?” she asked the Inquisitor, and Philipp’s expression darkened. As he spoke, Lace turned pale.

“My mother…”

“She’s safe,” he reassured her. “The Inquisition may be gone, but my name still carries weight. The south is my responsibility. You and Teresa have something more urgent to deal with.”

“So you chose Treviso over Minrathous, Teresa,” Margaret said suddenly, folding her arms. “I heard the Shadow Dragons were understanding. But not all.”

The clear reference to Neve sparked a pang of guilt, which Teresa quickly pushed aside. Her gray eyes shone with conviction.

“You would’ve chosen differently, and I don’t blame you, Margaret.”

The mage chuckled softly, clearly weighing Teresa’s words.

“Are all Antivan women so proud? Don’t answer. Yes, I would’ve chosen Minrathous. But as I told Neve—if the choice were between the capital and Ostwick, I’d pick my hometown without hesitation. She didn’t like my answer, but she promised to return.”

“You convinced her that easily?” Teresa frowned. “How?”

Margaret smirked and shrugged.

“I can only guess. But somehow, she listened to me—even when Crassius couldn’t convince her.”

“Crassius?” Lace echoed warily. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Neve never told you about her lover?” Margaret asked in surprise.

Teresa fought the urge to smile—Viago’s training had ingrained strict control over expression, but Lace’s reaction was far less reserved.

“Neve and Crassius?” Lace’s jaw dropped as she glanced between Margaret and Philipp. “No way! Crassius… he…”

“Is no longer the man we saw in the Western Approach,” Philipp said gently. “He’s changed.”

“Since the Inquisition, no less!” Margaret added. “Don’t you remember he was honored with an award?”

The Inquisitor snorted under his breath, drawing a disapproving look from his sister.

“Cute how you defend him.”

“By the Maker, it’s been years! He’s proven himself useful to both the Inquisition and Dorian! Crassius has been his right hand since the disbanding, helping him when you and I, Philipp, were off with Cassandra rebuilding the Seekers in Ferelden. Thanks to him, Dorian and Maevaris kept the Lucerni party afloat for so long!”

“Spare me the details of Tevinter politics,” Philipp grimaced, though clearly not serious. “Ostwick’s politics are enough. Anyway, Lace, there’s no need to worry. Crassius is one of the Shadow Dragons. He can be trusted.”

“Forgive me, Inquisitor,” Teresa interjected. She looked composed, but her thick brows furrowed slightly. “How can you be so sure? He was with the Venatori. How do you know he’s not playing both sides?”

“Must be hard living without trusting anyone,” Margaret shot back fiercely. “But we trust our people. And if we say Crassius can be trusted, that comes from years of experience.”

“Enough.”

Philipp’s voice was calm, yet so commanding that everyone fell silent.

“Crassius joined the Venatori out of foolishness,” he stated flatly. “For money, if we’re being honest. But he’s changed, Teresa. I give you my word. For ten years he’s worked faithfully for the greater good. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“Alright,” she nodded. “Suppose I accept that. It’s remarkable how many Tevinters were in the Inquisition.”

“Not so many,” Margaret replied. “But why are you surprised? From what I understand, Antiva and the southern kingdoms have a better view of the Imperium.”

“They do,” Teresa agreed. “Philipp, you didn’t come all this way just to talk about a former Inquisition agent. May I ask—how did you get into Minrathous?”

“You think the secret of the eluvians is yours alone, Teresa?” Margaret replied for him.

Teresa looked at Rutherford. Despite the obvious tension, she respected her. The irritation didn’t cancel out the admiration.

“Your task is the north, by the gods. I’ll make sure the south doesn’t fall to the Blight,” Philipp said seriously, and Teresa nodded. It felt like an understanding had formed between them.

“We’ve had trouble convincing the authorities to listen. If you could help, use your political leverage…”

“My political leverage?” Philipp sighed. “Tevinter hates me. The Venatori made sure of that. I’ve got a few allies among the Wardens, but their leadership hasn’t liked me since Adamant. I doubt my reputation in the south will help you—but Margaret and Dorian might.”

“Absolutely,” Margaret said, locking eyes with Teresa. “Whatever you need, we’re here. The Shadow Dragons may be weakened, but you can rely on my knowledge.”

“Thank you,” de Riva said, bowing respectfully. “I hope I won’t need it—but I’m grateful.”

“Let’s not waste time. We have everything we need to move forward,” Margaret said, glancing briefly at her brother. “Agreed?”

“Absolutely,” Philipp nodded. He turned to Teresa, his determined gaze meeting hers.

“I’m glad you’re with us, Teresa. I think you’ll surprise us all.”

“I’ll do my best to earn your trust,” she said quietly, warmth spreading in her chest.

“We’ve got this, Rook,” Lace added. “There’s no other choice.”

Teresa allowed herself a faint smile. That brief moment of kindness and camaraderie seemed to wash away the weight of the past weeks. For the first time in a while, she felt she wasn’t alone.

 

***

He stood by the window, watching the last drops of rain fall to the ground. The wind stirred the curtains, carrying the scent of wet earth and salt from the street. When the rain finally stopped, he felt a strange sense of relief. As if nature had given him a sign: it's time to go. He looked at his mother. She was frowning, sensing the coming separation. Her gray eyes scanned him, and he sighed.

"Don’t worry about me. I’m fine."

"How can I not worry about my son? All of Dock Town is whispering that the Shadow Dragons are destroyed. The Venatori finished off the survivors and are hunting the rest."

"Simple. No one knew I was one of them. Most of us never showed our faces. Just don’t draw attention in the city. Minrathous isn’t safe, and neither is Dock Town."

"All right, Crassius," a faint smile touched the elderly woman's lips. "Be careful."

"I’ll come back in a few days," Servis glanced around his mother’s small sitting room. "My sister will look after you. If you feel sick again, there's enough money for a healer. Take care of yourself, all right?"

"And you," she took a step toward him, and he felt her frail arms wrap around him. "What could happen to me? But you..."

"We’ve been over this," he said firmly, looking down at her from his height. "I always come out of trouble unharmed."

Kissing her goodbye, Servis slipped out into the street. Everything in the twilight felt painfully familiar. He pulled his hood up, quickening his pace along the narrow lane.

Crumbling buildings, the sharp scent of damp cobblestones, the raspy cough of a blind beggar — it all felt unchanging, as if time itself had stopped here. He tossed a few silver coins into the beggar’s bowl and was about to move on when his gaze snagged on a woman’s figure at the far end of the street. A narrow cloak concealed a mage’s robe, but he’d know her anywhere. Servis narrowed his eyes.

"Vishante kaffas," he muttered, clenching his fists. "Stubborn, impossible woman..."

Neve Gallus stood by a stall, seemingly unaware of him. She was casually chatting with a newspaper vendor. As Crassius approached, his irritation shifted into a mix of worry and relief.

"Neve?" Her name slipped from his lips before he could think.

The mage turned at the sound of his voice. Her steady, slightly amused gaze swept over him as if she already knew what he would say.

"Crassius?" Her tone was so calm, it was as if she weren’t standing in the middle of a Dock Town street.

"I thought you were supposed to be somewhere else," he nearly hissed, irritation rising. "We had an agreement!"

"I promised Bellara I’d bring her the detective story papers. She loves them," Neve handed the vendor a few coins and took the bundle. Her movements were graceful, as always, and her expression perfectly composed.

He opened his mouth to argue, but Neve, without even looking at him, walked on ahead. Servis cursed and hurried after her, frustration twisting in his chest.

"Neve, you promised!"

She suddenly stopped, silencing him. Her fingers, warm and slightly rough, touched his cheek. Crassius felt every muscle tense. Her touch was both tender and searing.

"You’re angry," she noted, smiling faintly. "But deep down, you’re glad to see me, aren’t you?"

He wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. How was she always right?

"Still..."

"Care for a walk?" she asked gently, stepping back, but her fingers brushed his hand.

"Depends where," Servis muttered, but his eyes betrayed that he wouldn’t resist.

"Just forward," she replied, glancing over her shoulder. "Sometimes you don’t need to know the way."

They walked in silence, but it wasn’t a heavy one. The stone streets gradually gave way to a sandy path. The air grew saltier, the wind stronger. Crassius adjusted his hood, but still felt the fine grit of sand getting under his clothes.

"Why are we here?" he asked when Neve stopped at the water’s edge, where waves lazily lapped the shore.

"This is our place. Remember?"

She bent to pick up a small stone from the wet sand and tossed it between her hands. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the sky merged with the sea.

"Of course," Crassius huffed, stuffing his hands into his cloak pockets. "Feels like all of Dock Town is our place."

"Five years ago you were different. Didn’t like this spot?"

"Not the fondest childhood memories, Neve. You know that."

She turned to him, the stone clenched in her hand.

"You keep everything inside, Crassius. Don’t think I don’t see it."

"I’m doing just fine."

"Of course you are. You always are," Neve tossed the stone into the water, and ripples spread across the surface. "But sometimes it feels like you forget why you’re alive."

"And you know everything, do you?" he stepped closer, anger and helplessness knotting in his chest. "Why do you live, Neve?"

She didn’t step back. She looked him straight in the eye.

"So that the people I love don’t die. You, above all," her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed exhaustion. "And you, Crassius?"

He said nothing. The sea breeze stung his face, but the real heat rose from within.

"So that the people I love stay alive. You, Neve. Always you," he finally said, locking eyes with her.

Her expression softened. She stepped closer.

"Then why are you afraid to show that you’re hurting?" Neve reached up and touched his chest, right over his heart. "You’re not made of stone, Crassius. Don’t pretend you don’t care."

The wind tugged his hood off, revealing short black hair.

"Maybe I’m afraid that if I show weakness, everything will fall apart," he said quietly. "Maybe it’s easier being the one who stays in control."

"You don’t have to be. Not with me. Don’t forget that," Neve pressed against him. Crassius rarely saw such vulnerability in her, but cherished every second of it.

"I know," he whispered, pulling the mage closer. "Every day I’m grateful I met you, Neve. I love you so much."

"And I love you," Neve looked up at him. "You know I’ll be fine. I’ll return to Rook and help her in every way I can."

"Of course," he kissed the top of her head. "And I’ll keep an eye on Dock Town."

"Why do I feel like you’re hiding something from me, Crassius?" she asked gently, hugging him.

Servis felt a flicker of annoyance.

"Sometimes it drives me mad how easily you read me, Gallus."

Neve chuckled quietly and looked at him.

"What are you hiding?"

"Remember Magister Cortius, the one the Antivan Crows killed about three years ago?"

The mage frowned in thought.

"Yes, the Venatori. Killed brutally, if I recall. Likely the work of Lucanis Dellamorte."

"No," Servis shook his head. "Cortius was poisoned. I believe it was Viago de Riva — Fifth Talon of the Antivan Crows. He’s famous for his expertise with poisons."

"Interesting," Neve stepped back, her black eyes staring blankly at his chest. "You know Rook is his cousin, right?"

Crassius frowned.

"Seriously? You never mentioned her name."

"Teresa de Riva. Everyone just calls her Rook. So what about Cortius, if he’s dead?"

"He mentored a man named Tenebris. I knew him from the Minrathous Circle. We studied together. He was always cruel. I recently got information that he led the Venatori attack on the Archon’s palace."

"And you’re tracking him?"

"Trying to," Servis looked at the waves behind her.

"Promise me you won’t go after him alone if it comes to that," Neve’s fingers gripped his hand tightly. "And I can ask Rook. She might know something about this Tenebris, especially if her house leader killed Cortius personally."

"All right," Crassius nodded grimly. "But you’ve got enough to deal with already."

Neve looked at him, her expression softening. A small smile tugged at her lips. She touched his face, leaving a gentle trace on his cheek.

"I love you," she whispered, rising on her toes.

The kiss was long and tender, filled with the strength of their bond. No words. No tension. Just understanding.

When they finally pulled apart, Servis felt something inside settle. He touched her cheek, unable to look away.

"You know I’m always with you," he said almost in a whisper.

Neve nodded, her posture even more resolute than usual. She lifted her chin, savoring the moment, but in her black eyes was the unwavering certainty that always kept them together.

"I know," she replied, her voice filled with tenderness that sometimes seemed impossible. "I’m sure we’ll make it. Together. Will you walk me to the eluvians?"

Servis took her hand, and they made their way back toward Dock Town. The wind was dying down, and the sea behind them felt warm and calm.

Chapter Text

Lucanis liked the Lighthouse library. A nearly always empty hall, the bookshelves, and a solitary piano by the window. Here he often felt like he was back home, in Treviso, his mind flooded with childhood memories.

In a spacious drawing room filled with the soft glow of candlelight, hesitant, slightly uncertain notes of the piano echoed. Little Lucanis, his feet barely reaching the pedals, sat on a carved wooden stool, his slender fingers trying to repeat a simple Antivan melody.

Katarina Dellamorte paced nearby. She was around forty-five, her face still untouched by the years she'd lived. An elegant dress emphasized her stately figure, and her jet-black hair was pulled into a high bun. Her dark eyes followed the movement of her grandson's hands intently.

"Too harsh, my dear," she said sternly, stopping behind him. "Music is not a weapon. It must flow like silk, not slash like a dagger."

Lucanis frowned. He knew piano lessons were important for a future Antivan Crow—finger flexibility was priceless in their line of work—but sometimes it came so hard.

"You said yourself that music should be as precise as a blade strike!"

Katarina smirked. She stepped in front of him, her usually strict gaze softening slightly.

"Yes, but precision is not brutality. Let your hands move naturally. Try again."

She slowly covered his hands with hers, guiding the movement of his fingers. The warm scent of sandalwood and jasmine touched his nose. Lucanis watched the keys closely, feeling how her hands made him move differently—softer, but no less confident.

He tried again. This time the melody sounded smooth, almost enchanting. Katarina smiled faintly.

"That's it, dear. Remember: even in the deadliest weapon, there is beauty."

Lucanis didn’t respond, focused on the keys, but he felt the corners of his lips rise into a satisfied smile. The room filled with the enchanting Antivan melody. Glancing quickly at Katarina, he noticed her eyes staring out the window and a smile touching her lips, as if the First Talon of the Antivan Crows was remembering something only she knew.

"What are you thinking about, Grandmother?" Lucanis asked cautiously.

She blinked, returning to the present, and simply shook her head.

"Katarina," she corrected him firmly. "Of distant days, dear. The past is always nearby, if we only listen."

Lucanis didn’t know what to say, but the feeling that he’d brushed against one of her secrets lingered.

"Lucanis?"

He blinked and turned around: Teresa stood in the library doorway. He let himself look at her for a few seconds: her dark hair had grown a little, reaching the nape of her neck, her grey eyes, like stormy skies, watched him carefully, slender fingers resting on the wooden frame. He wondered, was she taught to play the piano as a child too?

"Teresa."

His voice came out rough, almost harsh, and he could almost feel the crack in his composure.

"Meeting in the main hall. Now. Davrin has some news."

She turned without waiting for an answer and walked away. Lucanis followed her with his gaze, lingering on the curve of her shoulders, the soft motion of her hips, the way she moved with such ease and confidence. Something clenched inside him.

"Coming," he nodded, watching de Riva head toward the hall.

His eyes trailed down her figure and he swallowed. A mocking laugh echoed in his head.

"Shut up, Spite," Lucanis hissed through his teeth and followed after her.

***

In the meeting hall of the Lighthouse, where the team usually gathered, nearly everyone was present. Lucanis stood near Emmrich, who was seated in a chair, and cast a neutral gaze across the room. Harding was fiddling with her braids, humming something under her breath. The elf Bellara looked dreamy. Teresa had taken her seat, composed as ever.

Lucanis smirked to himself; de Riva’s restraint never ceased to impress him. Unexpectedly, he remembered her panic before the dragon fight in Treviso—the first time she had seemed rattled in his presence, deeply worried about Viago.

The thought of the Fifth Talon and how close the cousins were led his mind to Illario. They had spent much time together after their parents were killed in the war between the Crow houses about twenty years ago. But since returning from the Mortuary, their bond seemed severed. Lucanis frowned, realizing he hadn't seen his cousin since their meeting at Pietra's coffeehouse. He understood they were both on important missions, but Illario could have at least sent a few lines.

The door to the hall burst open and Davrin strode quickly to the table. Lucanis watched the broad-shouldered warrior, who looked unusually grim. Davrin remained standing, and all eyes turned to him.

"I just received a message from Antoine and Evka. The First Warden is summoning everyone to Weisshaupt."

Harding, who had been casually braiding her hair, snapped her head up. Her fingers froze, and concern flashed in her eyes. She seemed to be searching for Teresa’s gaze, looking for confirmation or strength.

"Everyone?" Lucanis noticed de Riva frown, a thin line forming between her brows. "Even from the south?"

Emmrich clenched his fist, then slowly released it, his elder necromancer's gaze cold and assessing. He seemed to be studying each of them, gauging their reaction to Davrin's news. When Teresa began calmly asking for clarification, a flicker of approval crossed Emmrich's eyes.

"There is no official explanation, but rumors say a darkspawn army is heading for Weisshaupt. There's talk of an archdemon."

"Mierda," Teresa muttered, shaking her head. Despite the severity of the situation, Lucanis felt something tighten in his chest. "This can't be a coincidence. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain must be involved."

"Most likely. If they have an archdemon... The Wardens say they only appear during a Blight. But nothing in the chronicles mentions the elven gods. That means the rules have changed, and we're flying blind," Davrin sighed heavily. "What intrigues me is that even now, the First Warden denies your claims."

Teresa didn’t have time to answer; the door opened again and Neve entered. Lucanis's eyes flicked toward her. The mage looked composed and confident, but he caught a faint tension in her black eyes. He noticed Teresa look at her, and the girl spoke in her usual calm tone, as if Gallus hadn’t been away at all:

"Neve, you're back. Good. We have newcomers, but introductions can wait. We're discussing something important."

"Then I’m right on time," the mage said as she sank into the seat beside Harding.

"If the gods have an archdemon, we're in trouble," Teresa continued where she'd left off. "How do we kill it?"

"Every Grey Warden knows," Davrin replied with a faint smile. "You don’t need to worry about that, Rook. Weisshaupt, as you can imagine... Yes, it's bad, but what worries me more is the darkspawn army."

"Then we need to check if we can reach Weisshaupt through the eluvians," Teresa's gaze landed on Bellara, and Davrin nodded.

"I definitely saw one in one of the fortress halls."

"I’ll find the right one at the Crossroads," Bellara accepted the task.

"Then we need to prepare. We can’t leave the Grey Wardens to their fate," Teresa pressed her lips together, her eyes clouding as though thinking of something she didn’t wish to say aloud.

"All right, we’ll go to Weisshaupt," Neve chimed in. "And then what?"

Lucanis felt irritation rise but knew the mage had a point. He turned to Teresa. De Riva was frowning.

"I’ll try reaching the First Warden again."

"That’s your brilliant plan?" Neve asked coolly. Harding looked at her, then at Teresa with concern.

"We’ll discuss it tomorrow," de Riva replied. Her tone was smooth, but her eyes flashed with a dangerous fire. Lucanis wanted to offer her some kind of support, but he said nothing. "That’s all. Any questions?"

There were none. Everyone began to disperse, but Lucanis lingered. His gaze stayed fixed on Teresa. De Riva was watching Neve, who had also risen.

"Are you all right?" Teresa asked softly.

"Yes," the mage answered curtly, a challenging tone in her voice, as if daring anyone to question her. "I heard you met the Inquisitor, Rook."

"From Servis," Teresa nodded calmly, and Neve’s lips curled into a mocking smile.

"So you found out my man’s name. And? Anything else you want to know about him?"

"Philipp trusts him," Teresa shrugged. "A former Venatori he caught in the Western Reach."

"Also the man who tried to arrange a matrilineal marriage with Margaret behind the Trevelyans’ backs," Neve said evenly. "An agent of the Inquisition. I know who he was, Rook. His list of sins is long—though certainly shorter than that of any Antivan Crow. What matters more to me is who he is now."

"A Shadow Dragon."

"And the right hand of Magister Dorian Pavus," Neve nodded. "People make mistakes. What counts is whether they recover."

"I don’t make a habit of prying into other people’s affairs, Neve," Teresa replied confidently. "And you’re right: we Crows are hardly models of virtue."

"Never seen the Inquisitor myself," the mage suddenly smiled. "Is he really as handsome as they say?"

Lucanis frowned, still listening. He was far more interested in Teresa’s answer than he wanted to admit.

"Yes, I suppose so," de Riva replied with a composed shrug. "But I’m not one to swoon over appearances."

"Naturally," Neve laughed. "I’m off. I promised Bellara some detective stories."

Dellemorte watched the mage leave, then looked to Rook.

"Lucanis? Something wrong?"

"Did Viago allow you to help plan missions?"

"Much to his dismay," Teresa’s lips twitched with a restrained smile. "Didn’t end well when I intervened and saved the Qunari prisoners, ruining the operation."

"Catarina always brought me into the planning," Lucanis said seriously. "I suppose we’re both used to working alone. I want to help, Teresa."

She unexpectedly smiled and lowered her gaze, almost shyly. Lucanis felt his mouth go dry.

"How about I brew us some coffee and we sit down together to consider the outcomes?"

Teresa looked at him, and for a brief moment something flickered in her eyes—fatigue, gratitude… trust?

She tilted her head slightly in agreement, and a faint smile touched the corners of her lips.

***

A few hours later, Lucanis set down his third empty cup of coffee and slowly turned his gaze toward Teresa. She looked exhausted: sheets of parchment covered in writing lay before her, and the fingers of her left hand held a cigarette. In the soft light, shadows flickered across her tired face, each line betraying the strain of the last few hours.

"But what if the darkspawn do make it inside Weisshaupt?" she asked. Her voice was quiet, but tense.

"Teresa, you can’t prepare for everything. Anyway, we’ve accounted for most of the variables. We’re Antivan Crows, not Grey Wardens," Lucanis said, trying to project the confidence he wanted her to feel, though everything still felt uncertain and unpredictable.

"We should’ve asked Davrin to help us. Then again, as always, something will go wrong," she muttered, closing her eyes for a few seconds as if trying to shake off the fatigue. "I don’t want to be as pessimistic as Viago, but I’d wager it’ll happen within the first minutes of the mission."

"You do like to wager, don’t you?" Lucanis frowned, remembering the bet he'd lost to her. He glanced down at the scribbled notes and added, with studied indifference, "Speaking of which, I still owe you."

"I remember," she smiled, despite her exhaustion. "Don’t worry, Dellamorte, I won’t forget. But I don’t want to waste my wish on something trivial, like your excellent coffee—which you brew unprompted anyway."

He let out a reluctant chuckle.

"So what will the great Teresa de Riva demand of me? I’ve already promised to kill Ghilan’nain."

"Always about business," she smiled. "Don’t worry. I’ll think of something."

Lucanis studied her. When had he started noticing how beautiful she was? When did he start admiring the sharp lines of her cheekbones, or seeing her grey eyes as the sea in the middle of a storm?

You’re pathetically pathetic, hissed Spite in the back of his mind.

"You should get some sleep, Teresa. Tomorrow won’t be easy."

"As if any day lately has been," de Riva rolled her eyes, but began gathering the papers. Then her gaze locked onto his, and Lucanis felt his heart quicken. "Thanks for the help. You were… actually useful."

He felt a laugh rising in his throat—clearly, she wasn’t used to praising anyone. Then again, neither was he.

"Your compliments sometimes remind me of Caterina’s approval. Like, it sounds good, but now I’m wondering when I wasn’t useful, de Riva."

Teresa smirked, her eyes lingering on his face for a second longer than necessary, as if she were trying to read his thoughts. In that moment, a warm flush rolled through his body. He noticed how the fine lines of her face, her sharp cheekbones, and her storm-grey eyes made his heart pound faster. It hit him, maybe for the first time, how beautiful de Riva was—even in exhaustion and strain.

"Sorry. But comparing me to the First Talon? Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment."

She cast him one last glance—one that held a flicker of gratitude and her usual stubborn independence—then turned without another word and climbed the stairs toward her room.

 

***

The legendary fortress of Weisshaupt — the home of the Grey Wardens — no longer seemed an impenetrable stronghold. The air was thick with the stench of darkspawn and the taint, of blood from the wounded and the fallen. The main forces had already broken through. Through the veil of smoke and fire, Grey Wardens could be seen fighting to their last breath, but their numbers dwindled with every passing moment.

Teresa saw the desperation on Davrin's face and the ferocity with which the stubborn warrior fought each enemy. Even the usually unshakable Lucanis seemed stunned by the sight. The Antivan Crows, while the kingdom's only semblance of an army, had always operated in the shadows, and Antiva itself had not known war for centuries — not until the Qunari invasion. De Riva struggled to suppress a bitter smile, remembering Viago years ago: their estate had stored a few ballistae, and she could still recall the enthusiasm on her cousin's face as he studied their construction inside and out.

Lucanis spun mid-air, blades flashing, and a hurlock collapsed to the ground, gurgling. Teresa saw the disgust on Dellamorte’s face; it was a look she knew well. Davrin turned to them, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Rook, I still can't believe you knocked out the First Warden with your fist!"

The warrior's voice was laced with reproach, but Teresa felt no guilt. The smirk on Lucanis’ face certainly did nothing to encourage it.

"Best thing I’ve seen in months," Dellamorte declared, his eyes gleaming with the mischief of the boy he once was. "I can't wait to tell Viago."

"Crows," Davrin muttered, shaking his head. "Rook, I thought you preferred using words!"

"When they don’t work, force is the next option," Teresa shrugged. "I’m not proud of it."

"You should be!" Lucanis grinned, though it faded quickly. "If not for Magister Pavus, the First Warden would have locked you up without hesitation."

"Doubt I’d be bored for long," Teresa smirked, glancing at him.

"Rook, I would’ve been the first one to sneak in after you," Davrin said seriously, drawing her attention. "But assaulting the head of the order was too far!"

"Enough," Lucanis cut in, glaring at the Grey Warden. "I would’ve done the same."

Davrin waved a hand and turned away.

"We need to keep moving," he grumbled. "Follow me. I know a shortcut to the library."

They made their way across the cracked stone of the outer courtyard, only to stop abruptly.

"Damn it!" Davrin groaned, staring at the collapsed wall ahead. "We’ll have to go around. It’ll take longer. Keep your weapons close."

Teresa caught Lucanis’ gaze. The Crow rolled his eyes, silently mocking Davrin's plan. De Riva shook her head but couldn’t help the small smile: Crows were always ready.

"Quiet," she hissed in Antivan, and Lucanis nodded with a smirk.

***

The central courtyard of Weisshaupt was drenched in dim moonlight, but even that was enough to reveal the chaos within. In the distance, beyond the sagging wooden walls, the stables loomed — eyes of surviving horses shone in the dark. Next to them stood the massive silhouette of the armory, its doors flung wide open. Inside, overturned racks of armor and weapons lay in disarray.

At the opposite end of the courtyard, the portcullis was raised high, leaving the entrance wide open. Its iron bars glinted in the moonlight, hanging uselessly above the ground — the lifting mechanism had failed. The way was open to defenders and darkspawn alike, who slithered in the shadows beyond the gate.

To the left, a jagged stone outcropping — the remnants of the fortress wall — rose toward the towers above. Its edges were uneven, partially collapsed, and at its base lay fractured rubble, broken by recent impacts.

Davrin listened closely, stepping cautiously.

"Darkspawn are closing in," he warned, rolling his neck. Teresa unsheathed her rapier and dagger, as did Lucanis.

It took only seconds, but the enemies already appeared through the passage. Davrin charged first, drawing their attention. Lucanis, as always with the wings of Spite, appeared beside the warrior in a blink, and Teresa gritted her teeth and lunged forward, striking at the darkspawn.

The battle began. She fought like someone possessed, not thinking of defense. Blood roared in her veins. Lucanis stayed close, parrying blows aimed her way more than once. His willingness to protect her still struck Teresa with awe, distracting her from the danger around them.

Davrin kept the enemies focused on him; his blade tore through the darkspawn, allowing Teresa and Lucanis to strike from the flanks. He fought with unrelenting fury, his aggression threatening to crush any who dared challenge ancient Weisshaupt.

At last, the final darkspawn fell, and Teresa, now at the passageway, laughed with grim satisfaction.

"Serves you right!"

A shadow fell over her, her hearing dulled by a deafening roar behind her. Her eyes widened, and a chill ran down her spine. Teresa rolled to the side, twisting to face a massive ogre charging at her, giving her no time to retreat. Panic surged—but before she could react, violet-black wings burst open before her eyes.

In a flash, strong arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her into the air. Just in time. The ogre’s blow crashed into the stone where she had stood, shattering it into shards and dust. But she and Lucanis were already on the stone ledge, far from danger.

He pinned her against the wall with such force she felt the full strength of his protective grasp. His hot breath scorched her neck, and she saw the presence of the demon.

"Foolish girl!" Spite hissed. "You’ll be our death!"

Lucanis’ eyes burned with violet light, but a second later he blinked, pushing the trance away.

"You saved me," Teresa whispered. It was almost too much to believe. "Again."

Lucanis didn’t respond at once. He looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line, a sharp flicker of inner conflict playing in his eyes, as if trying to grasp what he was feeling.

"Without the demon, I wouldn’t have made it in time," he said bitterly, then added almost scornfully, "At least Spite is useful for something."

Teresa’s heart pounded faster. She was overwhelmed with gratitude she didn’t know how to voice.

"Thank you, Lucanis," she whispered again.

At that moment, Davrin’s triumphant cry rang out behind them. Teresa felt Lucanis’ grip tighten at her waist protectively, but the ogre’s dying roar made it clear the Grey Warden had won. Teresa leaned slightly to the side and saw Davrin drive his blade into the creature’s eye. The beast collapsed, and the ground trembled beneath them.

***

Teresa ran her fingers along the spine of a centuries-old tome, sighing quietly. If she had the time, she would have stayed in the Weisshaupt library for days—studying the history of the Grey Wardens, searching for answers in ancient texts. But the moment she lowered her gaze, the charm of the place shattered.

The Blight had crept across the floor in grotesque blotches, spreading between tables and shelves as if devouring the parchment and wood. Teresa grimaced, drew her bow from behind her back, pulled the string taut, and loosed a silver-tipped arrow into the foul black mass. A hiss echoed, the taint began to smoke, evaporating into nothing but the smell of burning.

She caught a pensive look from Davrin. The warrior had been silent ever since the Wardens had accepted the new plan and explained how to activate the nine-hundred-year-old trap for the archdemon. She noticed Lucanis also glancing at the Grey Warden, a silent question in his dark eyes.

"I need to speak with you, Rook. Both of you, actually," Davrin finally broke the silence. "We'll trap the archdemon, and then, as you understand, I'll deal with it."

Teresa and Lucanis nodded at once.

"We need to reach the mechanism quickly," Teresa muttered. Davrin's grim resolve, so unlike his usual easy humor and encouraging remarks, was unsettling—though she didn’t let it show.

"When a Grey Warden kills an archdemon, they die too."

"Mierda," Lucanis breathed, staring at the warrior. "So that's your order's secret?"

"Each of us is prepared for it from the beginning," Davrin replied. His face revealed both tension and unwavering resolve. "It’s our fate. We all bear this burden. I'm ready to lay down my life to kill the archdemon and stop the Blight."

Teresa swallowed. It was hard to believe that Davrin—kind, cheerful, endlessly loyal—was ready to sacrifice himself.

"I don't want to take this moment from you, but this isn’t a normal Blight," she managed. "You said it yourself—the Wardens have never faced anything like this before. What if the sacrifice is in vain?"

"If the archdemon dies, then no, Rook," Davrin gave her a faint smile. "My mentor lives in Arlathan, far from the Veil Walkers. Please take Assan to him. He’ll care for him. And... find the rest of the griffons."

"Alright," Teresa said softly. "I'll do it all, Davrin."

Lucanis exhaled heavily, shaking his head as if still struggling to accept what he was hearing.

"Davrin, things haven’t always been smooth between us, but I have nothing but respect for what you're doing."

The warrior met his gaze and nodded seriously.

"Keep an eye on Rook, like you always do. Sometimes I think she lacks even a hint of self-preservation."

Lucanis smirked, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

"Don't worry about that."

"I'm right here, you know," Teresa hissed, glancing between the two men.

Davrin grinned wide, flashing his perfectly white teeth.

"That was the point, Rook. Follow me. We need to get to the trap as quickly as possible."

The Warden moved ahead. Teresa suddenly felt something warm brush her shoulder—a quick, barely noticeable gesture from Lucanis before he pulled his hand away. She looked at him, trying not to show her surprise, but he had already turned away, following Davrin.

"Come on, Tess," he tossed over his shoulder, and the Warden's heart skipped a treacherous beat.

***

The sky over Weisshaupt was darkening, heavy clouds pressing down and obscuring even the pale light of the moon. The wind carried the stench of smoke, blood, and burning corpses, making Teresa grimace. All around, the half-ruined walls of the ancient fortress loomed, and beyond them—shadows moved in the gloom.

The darkspawn were not retreating. Their eyes glowed with ravenous hatred, claws scraping against stone, their roars merging with the howl of the wind. Every blow shook the ground, turning the battle into an exhausting clash.

Her muscles ached from fatigue, but Teresa stubbornly kept fighting. Davrin swung hard and severed the head of a nearby genlock, only to stagger back as another raised an axe. Steel scraped across his breastplate, leaving a deep gash, and he retreated, breathing heavily. He held his sword in one hand, a heavy shield in the other, but Teresa noticed the slump in his shoulders.

"We can’t keep going!" he gasped, his voice hoarse, a flicker of despair crossing his dark eyes. "I… I can’t do this anymore!"

Lucanis gritted his teeth, parrying a blow from a genlock that lunged at him with a guttural snarl. He struck it sharply in the side, cracking ribs, but didn’t dodge the second attacker in time. The creature raked his shoulder, warping his armor. Lucanis rolled back, adjusted his grip on his dagger, and drove it into the monster’s throat before yanking it free. Black blood gushed.

"Me too," he exhaled, barely catching his breath. His voice was tense. "There’s no end to them!"

Teresa said nothing. Her gaze lingered on the dragon circling in the distance, and she still couldn’t figure out how to lure the archdemon down to the camouflaged trap. The words spoken by the two strong men struck her.

"Shit, as if I could either," she thought bitterly and hopelessly, but she forced her breathing into rhythm. If she gave in too, it was over for them.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. Teresa drew the lyrium dagger of Solas from her belt and ran to the edge of the stone platform.

"Ghilan’nain!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. Despite the sounds of battle, de Riva was certain the elven goddess—once the protector of the weak—would hear her. "You want this? Then come and take it!"

The air trembled.

Teresa felt space constrict around her, as if the sky itself held its breath. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and a high-pitched ringing filled her ears, like the moment before a lightning strike.

The world exploded with light.

Blinded for an instant, Teresa squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, she saw her.

The enormous face of Ghilan’nain emerged from the air, woven of pale mist. Her features were flawless, sculpted with divine precision—but her eyes… empty, soulless, bottomless. In their depths churned something ancient, something that knew neither mercy nor wrath—only an indifferent power, detached from mortal fates.

A gentle breeze, warm and deceptively tender, swept through the ruins of Weisshaupt, but behind it came a low rumble—deep, all-encompassing. It wasn’t a voice in the usual sense. It was a sound that vibrated in the bones, penetrating the soul.

Ghilan’nain saw her. She had heard.

"Take the dagger from the girl," came the command. The dragon let out a deafening roar.

De Riva dashed toward the enormous griffon statue, feeling a hot whirlwind rush past her back—the thunderous beat of wings, the crash of stone beneath the feet of the corrupted dragon. Her ears rang from the archdemon’s roar, from the hum still hanging in the air, as if darkness itself were calling her name.

Ghilan’nain was watching.

 

***

The events that followed tore through in a mad whirl. Teresa barely had time to react before everything spiraled out of control once again.

The archdemon finally fell into the ancient trap. Massive forged chains slammed down onto its monstrous body, restraining its rage. For a moment, it seemed as if evil had lost even a fraction of its power.

But then, as if from the depths of the void, out of the thick smoke, emerged the menacing figure of Ghilan’nain. Her presence blanketed the space in icy silence, and she began chanting ancient incantations, her creaking voice echoing like a relic from a forgotten age. With each word spoken, magic saturated the air, seeping into the very essence of the archdemon.

Under the influence of this arcane power, the beast's form began to tremble. Its massive body convulsed, and within that dark vortex of transformation—where the trap's chains strained to hold—it suddenly sprouted a new, extra head.

"Don’t relax," Davrin panted, snapping Teresa back to reality. "I have a feeling Ghilan’nain won’t let us off that easily."

From the edge of the chasm rose a three-headed dragon. Teresa stared at it in horror.

"Now there are three heads. What’s next?" she asked rhetorically. Davrin cursed under his breath, as if swearing could somehow help.

Darkspawn began to pour in from the flanks, and Teresa shouted, "You take the dragon. I’ll handle them."

The men nodded, advancing toward the archdemon's heads while Teresa launched herself into battle, her blade tearing through the tide of darkspawn. There were too many. They came from all directions, surrounding her, pressing closer, forcing her to move faster than her exhausted muscles allowed.

Suddenly, something changed.

The world paused. The sounds of battle faded into a distant hum. A strange chill ran down Teresa’s spine—an instinctual warning. She turned, her gaze darting upward.

A shadow.

Then came the blow.

One of the archdemon’s heads slammed into her side, knocking the breath from her lungs. Pain exploded like wildfire. Teresa was flung back like a grain of sand in a storm. Stone met her body with merciless inevitability, and everything blurred, became muted, as if she’d been plunged into suffocating silence.

She tried to breathe—her lungs refused. Her throat seized. Her mouth filled with the taste of salt.

Warm wetness trickled down her side—blood. Through the haze, she remembered the spikes on the archdemon’s heads. Her whole body felt too weak, unbearably heavy. She tried to rise, but her legs betrayed her.

"Teresa!" Lucanis’ desperate cry pierced the shroud of pain. His voice was raw with fear, teetering on the edge of panic.

Through dimming vision, she saw him launch into motion. With a sharp crack, Spite’s wings burst open behind the Crow. Strong arms caught her, lifting her from the ground. Air rushed past as they moved. Moments later, they landed a short distance away.

Lucanis gently cradled her, his eyes scanning her face, the wound, the streak of blood on her signature Antivan Crow armor. He reached for a flask at his belt.

"Drink," his voice was taut with alarm. "Now."

Her fingers wouldn’t obey, and he understood. He pressed the vial to her lips. The bitter liquid burned her throat, but relief followed quickly. She inhaled deeply, eyes rising to meet his.

Something in his gaze held her still. From afar, Davrin’s roar rang out. Teresa blinked—her vision sharpening.

"Thank you..." she whispered, not looking away.

Lucanis didn’t answer. His hands were still bracing her, his fingers tightening against her shoulders. A silence hung between them—tense, charged with a meaning neither dared to acknowledge.

The archdemon roared, and Davrin shouted something, calling them back to battle. Lucanis clenched his jaw, letting go, but before rising, he touched her cheek.

"Be careful."

The fight raged on. The potion had given her strength, and Teresa dove back into the fray. Time stretched thin, and the battle felt endless. Her muscles burned, but her movements were precise, forged through years of discipline.

At last, under their relentless assault, the archdemon shuddered, and its heads crashed to the stone floor. In the distance, the silhouette of Ghilan’nain appeared.

"No!" the goddess screamed, and Davrin surged forward, leapt onto the dragon’s head, and raised his sword.

Terror gripped Teresa: the strike would grant victory—but cost the Warden his life. She bit her lip hard, fighting the urge to cry out. But the blade already fell, plunging into the dragon’s skull. Tainted essence erupted skyward like a vile river, lashing out toward Ghilan’nain. The goddess shrieked. Davrin stared at Teresa in shock, his black eyes silently asking: why am I still alive?

Ghilan’nain wailed, and Teresa drew the lyrium dagger of Solas from its sheath. Lucanis dashed to the chasm’s edge, and she hurled the dagger toward him.

"Go, Lucanis. End her!"

Spite’s wings carried the Crow toward the corrupted goddess. He raised the dagger, but Ghilan’nain turned her head, and the strike glanced across her cheek, leaving a deep red gash. She shrieked, realizing her vulnerability, and a blast of taint sent Lucanis flying.

He landed beside Teresa, face twisted in fury. She saw he was ready to charge again. Ghilan’nain raised her arms, and the Blight surged forward under her control. Demon wings unfurled behind Lucanis.

"Lucanis is nearly all I have left, Teresa," Katerina’s voice whispered in her mind, and she grabbed the Crow’s hand.

"We’re leaving!"

"I have to try again!"

"It’s too late," she shouted louder, calling to Davrin too. "Run for the eluvians! Now!"

Lucanis’ eyes gleamed with helpless fury, but she didn’t release his hand, pulling the stubborn Crow along.

"I could’ve killed her!" he shouted.

"Or died trying!" Teresa snapped back.

She could feel the Blight pressing behind them. Her legs pushed onward with the last of her strength. She remembered Lucanis’ hiss just before plunging into the eluvian’s magic:

"We’re not done with this conversation, Teresa."

Chapter Text

9:49, Karastes, Tevinter Imperium

The ship docked early in the morning. Teresa de Riva would’ve slept right through it, had she not been woken by the shouting of dockworkers unloading goods from Antiva. The Crow sat up in bed, rose to her feet, and walked to the port window.

The familiar view of the cozy imperial city was bathed in morning sunlight. Teresa yawned, stretched, and began getting ready: she had become so engrossed in the new book by Philiam the Bard that she’d completely missed their arrival.

Before disembarking, Teresa discreetly slipped a pouch of gold into the hand of the friendly Antivan captain, nodded in appreciation, and then nimbly descended the narrow gangplank to the stone slabs of the Karastes port. De Riva shot a stern look at the dockworkers ogling her figure, and they immediately looked away. Satisfied, Teresa smirked and made her way toward the city’s tallest building—the tower of the Imperial Circle—following the coastal path.

"Domna bellaria!" called out one of the younger men, and she allowed herself a small smile at the compliment. The northern languages were distantly related, and her command of Antivan let her translate it easily — "beautiful lady."

The air smelled of sea salt and something spicy. Despite the early hour, the port was already alive. From the tavern near the docks came the muffled notes of a melody clearly of Tevinter origin — nothing like what was played in Antiva. Teresa had been to Karastes more than once, but for some reason, out of all the cities in Tevinter, this was the one she liked returning to. The town reminded her of Rialto, where she had spent a few years in childhood: narrow streets, pale houses, and warm people.

After the recent events in Virantium — where the infamous mage-slayer Lucanis Dellamorte eliminated one of the Venatori’s allies — too little time had passed, and the Antivan Crows couldn’t afford to wear traditional armor in Tevinter. Teresa dressed to blend in with the locals: a long-sleeved black dress with a high collar concealed a fine leather cuirass, and the wide slits at the sides allowed her to move freely if needed. A narrow belt, stylish in appearance, hid throwing knives in its pockets, and paired daggers were strapped beneath the folds of her skirt.

She tied her long dark hair in a strict bun to avoid drawing attention, and a light cloak with Tevinter embroidery completed the image of a traveling noblewoman—at least at first glance.

The Imperial Circle Tower loomed closer. De Riva tilted her head slightly to examine the centuries-old structure made of black stone—the stronghold of Tevinter’s magical scholarship. Despite the pomp and the elitist air of Minrathous, Karastes’ Circle was still considered the finest in the Imperium — and thus, in Thedas.

The templar standing guard at the tower entrance blocked her path—though without any hint of disrespect—and politely asked:

"Whom does the lady seek?"

"First Enchanter Ammosin is expecting me," Teresa said with a pleasant smile. The man’s expression softened immediately. He gave a slight shake of the head, as if snapping out of a daze, and answered courteously:

"Allow me to escort you."

Had she been in Antiva, such flirtation would’ve been improper. But her guise as a traveler washed away the strict court etiquette instilled by Viago’s mother, once a court lady. So Teresa gave the templar a mysterious smile of thanks, watching with amused satisfaction as a blush spread over his tanned cheeks.

First Enchanter Ammosin turned out to be an older man. Silver strands glinted in his dark hair, and deep lines crept into the corners of his sharp black eyes, but his gaze radiated intellect. Teresa recalled hearing about him—Ammosin was a renowned scholar and a well-respected mentor to many of Tevinter’s most talented mages.

"I see the Antivan Crows still honor their word," the man said, gesturing toward a chair across from his desk. He deftly crossed the office and settled into a seat of his own. Lacing his fingers together on the tabletop, he continued, "I believe my name is familiar to you, but for the sake of decorum… First Enchanter Ammosin. You’re with House de Riva of the Antivan Crows, yes?"

"That’s correct," Teresa nodded seriously, exuding composure. "Teresa de Riva, at your service."

"Thank you for coming so quickly."

"The Antivan Crows rarely turn down a job — if it’s worth our time, First Enchanter."

Ammosin smirked. Teresa noted that, unlike most Tevinters, the man didn’t come across as an arrogant snob. Still, House de Riva made no hasty judgments—one of Viago’s earliest lessons.

"Let’s hope this contract proves worthwhile," Ammosin said, his voice steady but touched with concern. After a short pause, as if carefully choosing his words, he continued, "I need an artefact retrieved — the Lacrian Stone. It was recently stolen from our Circle. An unfortunate incident I’ve chosen not to report to the Magisterium. My sources say it’s now in the hands of Tenebris, a servant of Magister Kortius. You’ve heard the name, I presume?"

"The name is familiar," Teresa replied evenly. "Though I must admit I’ve never heard of the artefact."

The First Enchanter smiled broadly and nodded, as though pleased.

"To admit ignorance is a sign of strength," he said approvingly. "I took the liberty of looking into your background, Lady de Riva. Or do you prefer a different title?"

Teresa shrugged, indicating it made no difference, and he went on:

"Unlike most Crows, you specialize in the theft of magical artefacts—as well as more mundane ones."

"Correct," she nodded, but Ammosin cut her off:

"Knowing Antivan pride, I’ll be frank: the Lacrian Stone is so rare that it’s barely mentioned in any modern texts. That makes it all the more valuable. The stone preserves the memories of those who touch it. Contained within are insights that Magister Kortius must not obtain. His Venatori ties are nearly impossible to disprove. If Tenebris delivers it to him, we’ll have a problem."

"And whose memories does it hold, First Enchanter?" Teresa rarely asked such questions on contract, but something in Ammosin’s demeanor made her think he would answer.

The man studied her, then slowly said:

"A powerful mage who lived during the time of Dumat. He may have known too much about the Fade… and how to control it."

Teresa frowned, weighing his words. The recent events in the south — the Breach — still echoed throughout Thedas.

"Such knowledge is undeniably dangerous," she said quietly.

"And the case of Corypheus proves just how dangerous," Ammosin agreed. "We mustn’t risk a repeat. I wish to examine the artefact myself—to understand it, and if needed, destroy it."

"Sounds intriguing. Any special conditions, First Enchanter?"

"Only that the matter must never be traced back to me. And of course… whether Tenebris survives is entirely your call. I won’t tell a Crow how to do their job."

Teresa gave a soft chuckle.

"Do you know where Tenebris is?"

"Surprisingly, still in Karastes," Ammosin frowned. "I’ve learned that Magister Kortius is not in Minrathous. Likely why Tenebris has remained here. They say the best place to hide is in plain sight, yes? He’s holed up in an abandoned mansion on the edge of town. I’ll mark it on your map. Are you willing to take the risk, Lady de Riva?"

Teresa nodded calmly.

"Risk is the business of the Crows. Everything else is just details."

"Indeed," the First Enchanter gave her a sidelong glance, then smiled. "Lucanis Dellamorte recently showed us all how Crows operate. They call him ‘the Demon of Virantium’ now."

Teresa smirked faintly.

"You’re well informed, First Enchanter."

"In our field, ignorance is the worst enemy," Ammosin replied calmly, handing her the map.

She glanced at the mark near the city’s edge, tucked the map into her gown, and stood.

"Then I’ll get to it. The sooner I’m done, the lower the chances of more problems."

"Be careful, Lady de Riva. Tenebris wouldn’t be Kortius’ man if he didn’t know how to handle those who walk in shadows."

She nodded and turned to leave, anticipation already burning in her chest.

 

***

Teresa pushed open the door to the main building of the Lighthouse and headed confidently toward the dining hall. She needed to talk to Lucanis. They had only seen each other briefly a few hours ago, and the expression on his face had stirred a familiar sense of failure—pride had always been a distinctive trait among Antivans. Teresa knew how he felt and couldn’t stand by while the best assassin of the Antivan Crows blamed himself for the failure of the mission in Weisshaupt.

He wasn’t in the great hall where the team usually gathered for meals, so she strode purposefully toward the closed door of the supply room. It held crates of supplies and potion ingredients. The room was narrow, as was typical for such a space; it had no windows, and it was there that Lucanis Dellamorte had chosen to live from the very beginning.

Teresa had heard more than once how members of the team tried to convince him otherwise: the Lighthouse could have conjured a more comfortable room for him — the magic of this unique place still baffled them all. But Lucanis had remained firm. He slept on a narrow and rather flimsy-looking bed.

As a native of Treviso, Teresa knew well where Lucanis had lived in their home city. The Dellamorte estate stood on a hill, hidden behind a thick veil of greenery, with a facade of pale stone. Majestic arches and tall stained-glass windows that barely let in sunlight gave the manor a castle-like appearance.

That image often returned to Teresa when she visited Lucanis in the storage room he now lived in at the Lighthouse. She knew Catarina had raised her grandsons strictly, and Lucanis certainly didn’t strike her as one of the spoiled heirs of Antivan noble houses she’d encountered during her contracts.

Lucanis was sitting on the bed. He looked darker than usual, polishing one of his daggers. His scowling gaze was fixed on the blade, and for a moment, Teresa wondered if he had even noticed her enter. She cleared her throat to draw his attention, but it didn’t work.

Frustration at his stubbornness rose instinctively in her, and she took a moment to calm herself, holding back the emotions threatening to rise. After all, she hadn’t come here to make things worse.

“Lucanis,” she said, the name slipping from her lips soft and melodious in Antivan, and at last, the Crow looked up at her. He said nothing, but something flickered in his dark eyes—something faintly resembling interest. “Still thinking about what happened?” she asked in their native tongue, and the stern expression on his proud face visibly softened.

“I’m fine,” Lucanis cut her off in Common, as if to make clear he had no intention of talking about Weisshaupt — or anything else.

Teresa folded her arms and leaned sideways against the stone wall. Dellamorte was stubborn as hell, but so was she.

“I almost had her!” he suddenly burst out, getting to his feet and pacing. “Ghilan’nain wasn’t supposed to escape! That was our contract, Teresa! I never fail contracts.”

Her gaze followed him. A brief pause hung between them before she finally said:

“Forget about Ghilan’nain.”

Lucanis froze, his thick dark brows shooting up.

“That’s exactly why I’m here!”

“I know. But if you’d tried again, you probably would’ve died.”

Teresa saw him struggling with the urge to retort. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his long hair.

“You know that mistakes get people killed,” he said bitterly.

“Exactly!” Teresa exclaimed. “And you’re an assassin. Success kills too.”

The corners of Lucanis’s lips lifted for a few moments before he regained control over his expression.

“I thought I hadn’t lost my edge after a year in the Ossuary. Whatever happened, I was still a professional. I was sure I could at least take out the target. I need to keep working.”

“You need to get some sleep,” Teresa countered unexpectedly sharply—she knew he had barely rested. And when he did, Spite would take control and wander the Lighthouse.

“I know you’re right,” Lucanis agreed, and Rook felt a flash of surprise. “But you know… Spite doesn’t rest.”

“I understand how you feel about what happened,” she said quietly, returning to the earlier topic. “Remember when I told you about my hardest contract?”

Lucanis stepped closer and leaned against the wall beside her.

“Karastes. The artifact stolen from the First Enchanter.”

The words stirred a wave of painful memories she’d tried to forget. Facing them again was hard.

“You have a good memory,” Teresa looked at him from beneath her lashes, keeping her emotions in check. “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

He smirked and crossed his arms. Teresa realized they were standing in the same pose and shook her head.

“So what happened with that contract? You completed it, didn’t you?”

“Yes. That was three years ago. The cost was too high. That’s why I didn’t let you try again.”

She stared at the wall in front of her. The memory still hurt, even after three years. Her stomach twisted with phantom pain, and she blinked, focusing on a crack in the stone tile to steady her breathing.

“Will you tell me?” Lucanis asked softly, and she shook her head.

“Sorry. I’m not ready to share that failure yet.”

“But you completed the contract,” he reminded her. “I haven’t.”

Teresa smiled and looked at him.

“You’re right — yet. I know you’ll succeed. That contract taught me that some things are more important than success. Who we are beyond the Crows.”

“And who are you?”

Teresa gave a soft snort.

“Viago’s cousin. A coffee and book lover. A decent dancer and not a terrible singer. A woman, in the end.”

“A woman,” Lucanis echoed, and she noticed him frown again, then glance at her. “A very beautiful one, I must say. And Antivan too.”

She felt her cheeks flush and quickly looked away. Lucanis cleared his throat, as if realizing he’d said too much.

“I mean, don’t forget that you’re not just the best assassin among us,” she said in a neutral tone.

“And what am I, then?” Teresa felt his gaze and forced herself to meet it before answering softly:

“An engaging conversationalist, you enjoy reading too. You have sharp strategic thinking, and your sarcasm is impressive. Oh, and you’re the best cook on the team.”

“Anything else?” Lucanis smiled slightly, as if testing boundaries, and Teresa swallowed but still answered quietly:

“A man. Handsome. And also Antivan.”

He turned away sharply, and Teresa felt a sting of disappointment. She thought she saw a rare uncertainty cross his face and quickly added in a casually calm tone:

“Anyway, sometimes you need to rest. Problems don’t solve themselves in a day. I know you’ll succeed. And I’ll help with Zara Renata, like I promised.”

Lucanis nodded, and Teresa turned to the door, as if afraid she might say too much if she lingered.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Lucanis. I know it.”

“Teresa, wait.”

She froze and frowned at him. Dellamorte still looked unsure, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor.

“You take care of the team,” he said slowly. “Try to solve everyone’s problems.”

“We’ve concluded that’s what will help us defeat the gods. When no one has anything distracting them from the mission,” Teresa replied quietly, unsure where this was going.

“And who takes care of you? Who supports you when you need help?”

The question caught her off guard, hitting where it hurt. Silence stretched. Finally, Rook exhaled:

“Viago. Before I ran from Treviso. Then Varric. He was always kind to me from the start. Called me ‘kid’ when I was down, can you believe that? Always knows what to say.”

“‘Knows’?” Lucanis asked. Something flickered in his black eyes. He swallowed and nodded. “Just remember — if something’s bothering you, you can talk to me. I know you don’t trust people easily. I understand that well. But I think two Antivan Crows…”

Teresa smiled.

“Thank you, Lucanis. That means a lot to me.”

 

***

Lucanis lay on his bed. Spite was silent, and the best decision would’ve been to get some sleep — but for some reason, it wouldn’t come.

His conversation with Teresa and her support kept echoing in his mind. The mention of Varric Tethras stirred a familiar ache. Lucanis could understand de Riva. Now he was doing his best to distract himself, but it wasn’t working. The difficult contract in Karastes seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember why.

Lucanis sat up and ran his hands over his face.

"I didn’t know her before the Ossuary," he muttered. His mind was racing, trying to grasp an invisible thread of memory. "Three years ago… Three years…"

Suddenly it hit him. Lucanis stood and began pacing the room.

 

***

9:49, Treviso, Antiva

It had long since grown dark outside. Lucanis could hear the rain drumming beyond the window — a herald of spring and the arrival of the third month of the year, Draconis.

The First Talon's office was cloaked in shadows, lit only by three candles on the desk. Catarina was explaining the details of an upcoming contract. Lucanis listened intently, already mentally calculating how to carry it out. Markham, in the Free Marches. A pleasant change after the events in Virantium.

Someone knocked on the door, and Catarina frowned. She had never liked being interrupted.

"Come in," she ordered, leaning back in her chair and lighting a cigarette.

"Forgive the intrusion," came the voice of one of the house servants. "Viago de Riva has arrived and requests a meeting at once. He insists the matter is urgent."

The displeasure on Catarina’s face turned to concern, and she nodded.

"Let him in."

The servant didn’t reply, clearly nodding instead, and Lucanis noticed the room grow slightly brighter—he had lit another wall sconce. A few minutes later, Viago stepped into the office. Lucanis turned and felt a pang of unease.

Usually composed, the Antivan Crow looked as though something terrible had happened. Judging by his appearance, he had rushed to their house despite the weather. Water dripped from his short dark hair, falling from his cloak to the floor, but Viago didn’t seem to notice. He was pale, and as Lucanis lowered his gaze, he saw that the Fifth Talon’s hands were trembling.

"Mierda," Catarina breathed, her voice hoarse with worry. "Viago, what happened?"

"May we speak in private?" de Riva gave a slight bow, and Lucanis noted how different his voice sounded — Viago seemed nearly broken. "No offence. It’s personal."

Dellamorte rose and nodded, not taking his eyes off his friend.

"Viago, if there’s anything I can do—"

"No," the Fifth Talon cut in sharply, then winced and ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "Sorry. Thank you."

"Stay here, Lucanis," Catarina said, rising from behind the desk. "Viago and I will talk on the balcony. I wanted a smoke anyway."

His grandmother returned ten minutes later—alone. Lucanis wasn’t prone to curiosity in matters of privacy, but the look on Viago’s face had deeply unsettled him. Still, he held his tongue.

Catarina sank into her chair and pressed a hand to her cheek, as if still lost in thought. She smelled of tobacco and rain.

"Something terrible happened in the de Riva household," she said quietly. "Viago will be away for some time. Felicio will stand in for him temporarily."

Lucanis frowned and nodded. He knew Catarina wouldn’t share more without reason.

"Why Felicio? Viago has a cousin. She’s a closer blood relative, isn’t she?"

Catarina sighed heavily.

"If de Riva needs help, we will give it," she said slowly, ignoring the question. "They are loyal allies. You know what Mauricio de Riva did for House Dellamorte. It cost not only his life but his family’s. Never forget that, dear."

"I remember," Lucanis swallowed. "If I can help, just say the word."

Catarina nodded, her gaze sharpening.

"Now, back to your contract."

 

***

Lucanis blinked, as if waking up, and realized he was standing in the middle of the room with his fists clenched. He ran a hand over his face and exhaled. His heart was pounding—dull and erratic.

Three years ago... Viago had been terrified. Catarina had been silent. Felicio took over the house, even though it clearly should have been her.

The thought flared like a spark, refusing to fade. Lucanis slowly sat on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Why not Teresa?

He closed his eyes. The memory was crystal clear: the rain, Catarina's frozen expression, Viago's silhouette in the doorway. Back then, he hadn’t asked questions. But now...

Now he knew Teresa had been in Karastes.

Something had gone wrong. Something bad had happened.

Lucanis ran his hand through his hair, trying to cling to the thread of the thought, but it slipped away, leaving only a heaviness in his chest.

If Viago had been in such a state because of a failed contract... he would have been angry. He wouldn’t have looked like someone whose entire world had just collapsed.

A chill ran down his spine. He wanted to ask Teresa, to find out what had happened to her then, but he already knew the answer: she wouldn’t tell him. Not yet.

 

***

One of the study rooms in the Pavus estate was shrouded in darkness. The day in Minrathous had turned out exceptionally gloomy, with rain falling since morning. Crassius Servis sat at a desk, his gray eyes scanning sheets of parchment covered in tight, bead-like handwriting.

Servis rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Over the past few days, he had managed to piece together information about Tenebris, but none of it offered even a hint of where the former apprentice of the late Magister Cortius might be hiding.

Crassius scanned the lines again and frowned. Much in Tenebris’s past struck a painful chord: a poor childhood, a mother in slavery, bitterness toward the world, training in the Minrathous Circle. Just as Crassius had once been noticed by Dorian’s father — the late Magister Galvard Pavus — so had Tenebris been taken in by Magister Paulus Cortius.

Servis had spoken to those who had known Tenebris in the Circle better than he did. All of them said the same thing: the young apprentice craved two things above all — money and influence.

Crassius frowned, stood up, and walked to the window that overlooked the Pavus estate’s exquisite garden. It pained him to admit the obvious: he and Tenebris had far too much in common.

His thoughts drifted back to eleven years ago, when he accepted an offer from Senior Enchanter Sevirius of the Carastes Circle — Margaret’s former mentor — to lead an excavation in ancient Tevinter ruins deep in southern Orlais, far beyond the current imperial borders. The new job promised good money and a chance to forget about stubborn Margaret, who had broken things off shortly before.

He sighed. His eyes stared blankly into the distance, and he remembered the heat of the Western Approach desert, the slow-witted subordinates who turned out to be Venatori. Back then, Crassius consoled himself with excuses: "I’m only here for the money. So what if they’re Venatori?" He was never one of the zealots screaming about Tevinter’s greatness.

Servis remembered the day the Inquisitor’s squad tracked him down—at the time, Crassius didn’t know he was fighting to the death with the older brother of the woman he had loved with all his heart. His pride, wounded even now, whispered: "If it had been one-on-one, you would’ve won."

Crassius sighed and ran a hand across his brow. Philipp Trevelyan had given him a chance to start over, recruiting him into the Inquisition even after Crassius, walking a razor’s edge, confessed that he had been Margaret’s lover in Tevinter and had planned a matrilineal marriage with her uncle behind her back.

A lot of time had passed since then, and despite Galvard Pavus’s fears, the ancient imperial bloodline had not ended. He smiled, thinking of Evelina Pavus Rutherford—Margaret and Cullen’s charming daughter, who always knew how to get “sweet Crassius” to carry her on his back or teach her a new magical trick Margaret refused to show her.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Crassius glanced at the clock: it was too early for stubborn Margaret to have let the children out of lessons. He stepped out and saw Anthony, Philipp’s son. The boy’s head poked out from behind a corner, mischief on his face and giggles slipping from his lips.

"What’s going on?" Crassius asked in Tevene, knowing how strict Margaret was about language. Anthony’s expression fell as he whispered:

"Sorry, Mister Servis. Eva and I were playing... how do you say it correctly?"

"Hide-and-seek," Crassius helped and asked, puzzled, "Are lessons with your aunt already over?"

"Yeah. She’s not feeling well, so she let us go early."

Servis frowned, nodded, and made his way quickly to Margaret’s bedroom. Reaching the opposite wing of the estate, he found the familiar door and knocked.

The enchanter opened after a minute. She looked unusually worn out, and something clenched in his chest. Shadows lay under her eyes, her cheeks were pale, and her curly black hair was tied up in a loose bun.

"Tony said you weren’t feeling well," Crassius said quietly, shifting his weight, but Margaret just waved it off.

"Nonsense. I’m fine. Just haven’t been sleeping well lately."

Crassius didn’t take his eyes off her. The forced confidence in her voice and the way she avoided looking at him immediately raised alarms.

"You’re not telling me everything, Margot. You’re hiding something."

She exhaled, but there was something uncertain in the sound.

"I need time to think, Crassius. I don’t want to worry him… not while he’s in the South," she said, shaking her head as if voicing her thoughts aloud.

Those words — casually tossed, yet full of hidden meaning — made his heartbeat quicken.

"You don’t want to worry him?" Servis repeated, confused.

"Yes, I don’t. Let him come back first, and then…"

The realization hit him like a blow, and he cursed under his breath. Margaret’s eyes flashed. She stepped closer and pressed her palm to his lips.

"Don’t. Be quiet, Crassius," she hissed.

"What? Why?" he mumbled, feeling utterly foolish.

"Because!" she snapped, pulling her hand away. "Cullen should hear it first!"

Servis laughed.

"Of course. Curly wouldn’t survive if I — of all people — knew first!"

"Shut up!" Margaret hissed. "I’m not joking, Crassius Servis!"

"Margot, this is ridiculous," he chuckled. "I already figured it out! That’s why you didn’t tell me or Dorian? And how long has it been?"

"Dorian has enough problems of his own. Four months," she replied reluctantly. "I have to see Cullen! I can’t write something like this in a letter!"

"But that’s impossible," Crassius shook his head, still stunned. "Even if we reach the eluvian in Skyhold via the Crossroads, we don’t know the army’s exact location."

"That’s nonsense, I know. They’re near Redcliffe," Margaret retorted.

"The South is chaos! We can’t take that risk! How could you… I mean… You’re always cautious, and Evelina surely —" He stopped, unable to voice the thought.

"You think I did this on purpose?" Margaret laughed bitterly. "We got carried away in Ostwick before they left for Denerim. Then Eva and Tony and I went to Minrathous, and I completely forgot the potion."

Crassius snorted and shook his head.

"You have to write to him, Margot. Honestly, knowing Curly, he’ll cut down all the darkspawn himself, end the Blight, and come rushing back to his darling wife."

"You’re impossible," Margaret groaned, rolling her eyes theatrically.

"Promise me you won’t do anything stupid and go South alone through the eluvian! You can’t take that risk!"

"Why alone?" she smiled. "I’ll go with you."

Servis swore loudly.

"No. Don’t even think about it. I’m not going on a suicide mission, especially not with you pregnant! Philipp said the Crossroads are dangerous! There are darkspawn, the dead, Venatori, qunari… Damn it, Margaret, the answer is no."

"Crassius —"

"No! Besides, I can’t even trace Tenebris yet! That’s important!"

"What do you mean?" Margaret perked up. "How did he become Venatori?"

"No," Servis shook his head grimly. "That I know. Cortius recruited him in 9:41. Many Venatori magisters built circles of loyal supporters. They expected Corypheus to conquer Thedas. I’ve reconstructed his recent years, but the trail goes cold after his failed attempt to steal an artefact in Karastes.»

"Right, the First Enchanter told me later," Margaret’s eyes lit up. "I think the artefact was recovered by Antivan Crows."

"What?" Servis stared at her, disbelieving. "Seriously? Kaffas! Come with me!"

He headed for the study, nearly breaking into a run. He heard Margaret’s footsteps behind him, but excitement pushed him forward. Servis burst into the study and started rifling through records. The mage followed and dropped into the chair beside him.

"Nothing about the Crows?" she asked innocently.

Crassius cursed. His eyes scanned the documents desperately, but nothing stood out. He turned sharply to Margaret.

"Where did you hear that?!" he blurted.

"Where?" she rolled her eyes. "You forget how long I lived in the Karastes Circle? And that I have a good relationship with Ammosin? He asked me to help study the Lacrius Stone, but Eva was still too young, so I declined. Why do you know Tenebris tried to steal the artefact?"

"Come on, that was discussed in the Magisterium," Servis muttered. "But Ammosin never mentioned Crows."

"Of course not. Do you think he’s an idiot? No one’s going to publicly admit they hired Antivan Crows. Officially, a templar recovered the artefact."

Crassius nodded. His mind was racing, and he grabbed a thick notebook from the shelf, scanning the ink-covered pages.

"Artefacts… always killers," he muttered.

"You’ve got information on Antivan Crows?" Margaret stood and snatched the notebook. "Seriously, Crassius? This much? Houses, names, specialties, even prior generations… Why? Judging by the ink, you’ve been compiling this for years!"

"Yes," Servis leaned back in his chair, watching her flip through the book.

"And that’s all you’ll say?" Margaret reached the last pages. "These were added recently. Info on Teresa de Riva and Lucanis Dellamorte. Clearly from Neve. Crassius, what’s your fascination with the Crows? It’s obviously been going on a long time!"

"It’s none of your business," he snapped. "And yes, it was a long time ago. Long before I met Neve."

"What?" Margaret smirked and returned to her seat. "Come on, spill it!"

"No!"

"Too many ‘no’s for one day, Servis," she retorted. "Choose: either you tell me what happened with the Crows, or you escort me to Redcliffe."

Crassius stood and swore loudly.

"You’re insufferable! Fine. Once, I had a very short fling with a Crow in Orlais when I worked as a smuggler for the Inquisition. I never knew her name, and for years I tried to find out who she was. I learned a lot about the Crows along the way."

"How short?"

"Three days," he admitted. "Just a bit of fun, but she…" He waved his hand. "It’s all in the past."

"Sounds like something out of bad written romance novel,» Margaret laughed loudly, tossing her head back. "He’s a former Venatori seeking redemption, and she… an Antivan Crow sent to kill him…"

"Shut up, Margot,» Servis growled, snatching the notebook from her hands. "It stopped mattering when I met Neve. But you don’t know who returned the artifact to the Circle?"

"Of course not," Margaret shook her head. "You need to talk to Ammosin if this could help you piece things together."

Servis frowned.

"That Crow may not have known what happened to Tenebris. Wait…" His face shifted, and he stared at Margaret. "When did Ammosin ask you to study the artifact?"

The mage rolled her eyes.

"Like I can remember! It was 9:49, for sure, but… wait. Spring."

"And in Bloomingtide, Magister Cortius was poisoned with an especially cruel kind of toxin. I’m inclined to believe the killer was Viago de Riva—the Fifth Talon of the Antivan Crows. Among them, no one matches his skill in poisons. The murder was theatrical, a clear message."

"De Riva. Like Rook," Margaret noted. "Maybe just ask her?"

Crassius gave her a condescending look.

"As if Crows are eager to share their secrets."

"But it’s for the greater good!" Margaret exclaimed. "Besides… I don’t blame her for what happened in Minrathous, but we could use that. Then she might tell us everything."

"Better if I talk to Ammosin first," Crassius said thoughtfully, looking out the window. "We’re missing pieces. I don’t understand why the Fifth Talon needed to make Cortius’s death so conspicuous."

"Maybe it was just a contract?"

Servis shook his head and looked at her.

"Viago de Riva always works in the shadows. Yes, he’s famous, and his skill is legendary, but I’ve never heard of anyone being killed by him in a way that left no doubt—because his poisons either leave no trace or mimic heart attacks or organ failure. This poison was chosen to ensure no one would miss the message: Cortius was gruesomely murdered. Which immediately points to the Fifth Talon. Margot, will you write to Ammosin? I’m heading to Carastes. This might really help."

"Of course," the mage said, walking to the door. "Just wait for his reply before dashing off across the Empire."

"Come on, it’s only a day by ship. You of all people should know," Servis smirked but nodded.

When the door closed behind Margaret, Crassius lit a cigarette, staring blankly at the raindrops on the glass. Viago, Tenebris, Cortius — everything was tangled in a web of mystery, still missing far too many threads.

Chapter Text

It had long since grown dark outside. Philipp Trevelyan rubbed his eyes wearily as a soldier entered the tent.

"Inquisitor, Commander, permission to report!"

Philipp looked at the young Fereldan boy and smiled warmly, then shifted his gaze to Cullen, as if yielding. After all, the former Commander of the Inquisition now led the united allied army against the darkspawn, and both Ferelden and Orlesian generals listened to him.

"Go ahead, Gustav," Cullen replied firmly, rising to his feet. His sharp gaze quickly scanned the youth, as if checking that everything was all right.

"All quiet, Commander. The camp is secure, no signs of darkspawn."

"Excellent. Thank you," Cullen nodded. "Keep me informed and stay vigilant. Danger could arise at any moment."

"Yes, sir!" the soldier pressed his fist to his chest in the old Inquisition salute and left the command tent.

Philipp ran a hand through his slightly grown-out hair and looked at Cassandra. The Seeker looked tired, her light brown eyes reddened, but he knew: should anyone else see her, they would only see the strong, unyielding woman he had once fallen in love with.

"Have we covered everything?" Cullen asked. He returned to his seat and stared intently at the map.

Philipp saw the tactical mind of the commander working through possible breaches in the plan. Even now, with the battle behind them, Cullen would not allow himself to relax. His fingers tapped the edge of the table—a barely perceptible motion betraying inner tension.

"I think so," Cassandra replied. "One of you will need to confirm this with King Alistair tomorrow."

"No need," Cullen replied confidently. "Teyrn Cousland has taken command of Ferelden’s forces after the last battle. I’ll coordinate with him."

"Perfect," Philipp exhaled with visible relief. "Care to join me for a drink? His Majesty King Alistair gifted us a bottle of Antivan whiskey."

Cullen shrugged noncommittally, and the Inquisitor retrieved cups from the desk, poured the whiskey, and raised his glass.

"To our family," he said quietly.

A smile spread across Cassandra’s lips, though her eyes clearly held sorrow for their son. Cullen, who could never quite hide his emotions, only nodded, sighing heavily. Their cups clinked, and Philipp took a sip before setting his glass on the table. Cullen glanced at the map again, as if hoping to find something he had missed earlier.

"I miss them too," Trevelyan confessed, hoping simple words would help.

Cassandra’s gaze faltered, but she quickly looked away, masking her emotions with the familiar veil of resilience. Only the way her fingers slowly slid along the rim of the cup betrayed that the thought of her son never left her for a moment.

"I don’t like that Margot, Eva, and Tony are in Minrathous," Cullen said grimly, still looking at the map. "The Venatori have taken power. I keep trying to think of where we could evacuate them, but..."

"You know Margot," Philipp replied gently. "She won’t leave Dorian. Besides, both of them assured me that the Pavus estate is well protected by ancestral magic. The catacombs beneath it will provide an escape if necessary."

"Remember when we were rebuilding the Seeker fortress?" Cassandra asked quietly. "I was so angry things weren’t going according to plan. Little Tony was always wandering off... and now I’d give anything to go back to those days."

"I wouldn’t," Cullen smiled, his amber eyes warming. "Back then, Margot and I didn’t have Eva yet."

"And what time would you return to?" Philipp asked with interest.

"Those months we lived in Minrathous," he replied. "The final months of Margot’s pregnancy and Eva’s birth."

"What nonsense," Cassandra rolled her eyes. "Dorian just had to have your daughter born in Tevinter!"

"You know it was necessary," Cullen shrugged. "Eva is the heir to House Pavus, especially now that her magic has manifested," he chuckled suddenly. "I still can’t get used to the idea that my little girl will one day be a Tevinter magister."

Philipp and Cassandra smiled.

"The Maker works in mysterious ways," the Seeker shook her head. "Cullen, remember when you were teaching Tony to fight with a wooden sword?"

"More like when you were protesting," the commander replied with a grin. "‘Cullen, he’s only four, what sword!’"

"We spent two days making that wooden sword!" Philipp interjected. "Cullen’s a far better teacher than I am."

"And me," Cassandra admitted. "I’m too hot-headed to teach anyone."

They all fell silent. Philipp took a sip from his glass and quickly glanced at his family. Their faces lightened, as if memories of loved ones had briefly lifted the gloom they had lived in for months.

"Many more moments like this await us," he said quietly. "Each day brings us closer to a long-awaited reunion, I know it."

Cullen smiled, and Cassandra rolled her eyes.

"You’re incorrigible, Philipp. Anything could go wrong."

"Maybe so," the Inquisitor shrugged. "But I won’t allow myself to lose hope. We will return to them."

Cullen turned his cup in his hands, thoughtful, then took a final sip.

"I hope you’re right," he said softly.

Cassandra nodded in agreement, but her eyes still held their familiar wariness.

Outside the tent, the night wind howled. It toyed with the fabric walls, making them flutter, but inside, the warmth remained—fueled by fire, whiskey, and their shared memories.

Philipp set his glass on the table and looked at the map.

"Tomorrow brings a new day. Rest while you can."

Cullen glanced once more at the fortification plans, then slowly nodded.

"You’re right. Good night."

After he left, Cassandra stood and approached. She leaned in and touched his cheek, and Philipp smiled broadly.

"How do you do that?" she asked softly. "You always know how to lift our spirits. Are you all right?"

Philipp took her hand and kissed it.

"If you’re at peace, then so am I."

Cassandra lingered for a moment, as if wanting to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, she squeezed his fingers in reply.

"We’ll get through this, Philipp," she said quietly. "Shall we go?"

He smiled and nodded, knowing that in their world, certainty was rare—but so long as they were together, hope would never abandon them.

 

***

Lucanis sat in an armchair in the corner of the dining hall, slowly flipping through the pages of a book. His usual cup of coffee rested on the armrest. He reached for it, took a sip, and allowed himself a faint smile. The bitterness was just how he liked it. A rare silence filled the room, one he relished while waiting for Teresa.

Of course, it couldn't last. Lucanis nearly jumped when the door burst open with a bang. Teresa, Neve, and Bellara entered, the mages heading straight for the kitchen area, clearly in search of something specific. And so it was: once Gallus and the elf had quenched their thirst and left the hall, he clearly heard Teresa's weary sigh. She stretched, working the stiffness from her muscles, and Lucanis realized she hadn't noticed him.

"Teresa?"

She reacted exactly as expected — swearing loudly in Antivan and spinning around, gray eyes flashing. Lucanis stifled a startled exclamation. She looked exhausted. Her leather armor was coated in travel dust, and her gaze was heavy with fatigue and wariness. A scratch on her cheek stood out—and for some reason, that small detail stung the most.

Lucanis frowned, set the book aside, and rose to his feet, taking a few quiet steps toward her. He studied her more closely and shook his head.

"You look like you got dragged out of the Treviso canal. The one near the market," he muttered.

Teresa pressed her lips together.

"You know, I've heard your cousin Illario is quite generous with compliments toward women. Apparently, you didn't inherit that talent, Lucanis."

His gaze darkened, and despite the sarcasm, a flicker of irritation laced his voice.

"Don't compare me to him," he said sharply, stepping closer, as though her words had struck deeper than he’d admit. "Illario and I are nothing alike. Unlike him, I prefer bitter truth over poetic flattery."

"And I really do appreciate that," she said, running a hand through her thick, unruly hair, now grown past her shoulders, ruffling it.

Lucanis felt his breath catch. Even exhausted, Teresa managed to look incredible. The irritation faded, giving way to that familiar pull in his gut—something he still refused to name.

"What happened to you?" he asked, looking away.

"I was helping Neve, and we ran into venatori."

"Why can't Servis help her?"

"He left for Karastes, according to Neve. He’s got his own investigation tied to the Shadow Dragons. Besides, it wasn't a problem for me."

Lucanis studied her. Despite her outward confidence, he sensed something else.

"You still feel guilty. You shouldn’t."

Teresa didn’t answer, but her brow furrowed. Lucanis watched her, unsettled by the way that scratch unsettled him.

"You were supposed to protect her," Spite hissed in his mind.

"I know I shouldn't," Teresa murmured, and Lucanis blinked, telling the demon to be silent.

"I got a note from Viago. He wants to meet us at your family estate. Apparently, there’s news about the venatori in Treviso."

"Hopefully, it’ll lead us to Zara Renata!" Teresa’s eyes lit up with anticipation, and she smiled. "When?"

"Any evening now. Viago clearly doesn’t want anyone at the Diamond Casino eavesdropping. It infuriates me that there are traitors among the Crows, but—"

"Viago and Teia will handle it," Teresa finished for him. "Still, precautions are always wise."

"Spoken like a true de Riva," Lucanis muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, and Teresa returned the smile — wide and genuine.

"Shall we go?"

Lucanis picked up his cup and downed the coffee in one gulp.

"Are you sure?" he asked, giving her a once-over and letting his eyes linger on her slumped shoulders. He leaned in slightly, as if about to take another step forward — but held back. "You’re about to collapse. Want me to make you some coffee? It might help."

"I’m fine."

It was a lie, but Lucanis simply nodded.

"Give me a minute."

 

***

Despite the late hour, the streets of Treviso were still full of random passersby and Antivan Crows keeping watch. However, the farther they moved from the center, the quieter the city became, and the more clearly their own footsteps echoed.

Teresa noticed Lucanis's gaze lingering on the Dellamorte estate visible in the distance. Something clenched in her chest, and she quietly asked:

"You haven’t visited home even once since coming back from the Ossuary?"

Lucanis held his breath, as if debating whether to respond, then finally exhaled:

"No. It's hard to imagine it without Catarina."

Teresa nodded slowly.

"I never managed to return to the estate in Rialto where I lived with my parents. When I turned eighteen, I sold it."

Lucanis glanced at her curiously.

"Why didn’t you live in Treviso?"

Teresa shrugged, as if the question held no weight.

"That’s when the war between the houses began, you must remember it. Father moved us to Rialto—away from both the capital and Treviso. I came back here only after they died."

"I’m sorry," Lucanis said softly.

She knew he meant it — he had also lost his parents in that war.

Teresa looked ahead, where the silhouettes of old mansions loomed in the dark, and suddenly realized: in all this time, she had never seen Lucanis at the de Riva estate.

"I never saw you at our place," she remarked, and Dellamorte nodded thoughtfully.

"True. I’ve known Viago for years, but it never happened."

Teresa smirked:

"I feel like I could find the way to our estate blindfolded from any point in Treviso. We're almost there."

She turned away, watching a gondola slowly gliding through the canal. From behind, a soft voice said:

"I don’t think I’ve ridden one since I was a kid."

Teresa turned her head, studying him closely. Lucanis rarely shared anything personal, and now this simple phrase seemed almost indecently intimate.

"Really?"

He was looking at the water, as if trying to catch a fleeting memory.

"My mother loved them," he said more quietly. "We often rode them when Father was away on contracts."

"She wasn’t a Crow?" Teresa asked gently.

Lucanis shook his head.

"She was. When I got older, she returned to the work. I remember how she and Father used to compete over who could finish a contract faster."

A faint smile flickered across his lips, then vanished.

"Though I rarely saw them. Catarina raised me and Illario, teaching us the family business."

"Was she a strict mentor?" Teresa asked carefully, trying not to overstep.

Lucanis unexpectedly smirked.

"I was mad at her for years. I got punished for the slightest misstep. I was older — only by a couple of years, but still — and always responsible for Illario," he paused, weighing his next words. "Now that she’s gone, all that resentment doesn’t matter."

Teresa lowered her gaze. She remembered her only meeting with Catarina Dellamorte. The First Talon had looked at her piercingly and said, "Free Lucanis. You’ll get a godslayer. I’ll get my grandson."

She swallowed.

"Catarina made me promise to bring you back to her," she admitted quietly.

Lucanis stopped, making her freeze as well.

"That was the whole point of your contract," his voice held a note of confusion. "You freed me from the Ossuary. I’m supposed to help you kill the ancient gods."

"Yes, but..." Teresa hesitated. "It’s foolish, but I feel like I let her down."

Dellamorte frowned.

"Why do you say that, Teresa?"

He looked at her intently, demandingly, and in that look was something that made her chest ache. She didn’t notice right away that he had stepped closer, breaking the invisible line between them. In the darkness, his eyes seemed even deeper, nearly black, and the shadow from a lantern traced a sharp line along his cheekbone.

"You saved me from the Ossuary," he continued. "You kept your word. Now it’s just me..." he gave a dark chuckle, "...who needs to keep mine."

Teresa smiled despite the gravity of the moment, and before she realized what she was doing, her fingers brushed his wrist. She wasn’t entirely sure why—maybe to reassure herself he was there, or maybe because the touch felt right. His skin was warm, pulse steady, but he gave a subtle flinch.

"I don’t doubt that, Lucanis."

He stepped forward but suddenly froze. His hand moved discreetly to the hilt of his rapier. Teresa frowned, sensing the shift.

"We’re being followed," he whispered. "How far to the estate?"

Teresa smiled slightly, pretending the surveillance had gone unnoticed. Her lips barely moved as she breathed out:

"Two minutes."

"Let’s go," he said, taking her hand before she could respond. His grip was warm, steady, even a little familiar.

Teresa blinked, realizing how natural their fingers felt laced together, as if they had walked like this many times before. Her palm seemed to melt into his—not from the pressure, but from the inexplicable sense of familiarity. She gently squeezed his hand, and for a moment felt him squeeze back, before he returned to focus. Teresa could feel the tension in him, like he was ready to spring at an unseen threat at any second.

 

***

The de Riva estate, belonging to one of the most influential families among the Antivan Crows, was located by the Rialto Bay, far from the center of Treviso. The building had been erected by Teresa and Viago’s ancestors several centuries ago. It was small — especially compared to the Dellamorte manor — but every inch of space inside and out was carefully designed.

Unlike many Antivan families, the de Rivas remained loyal to Antiva despite its strong ties with Orlais. There was no elaborate garden or whimsically shaped trees on the estate grounds. There were no lush roses in varying hues, tall as shoulders, nor bushes trimmed into lion heads like Teresa often saw in Orlais.

The house — a two-story square-shaped structure built of pale stone — was surrounded by forest, and just as Viago's parents once did, he now strove to preserve it in its natural state.

The alley leading to the estate stretched between two rows of tall trees. Long ago, the path had been paved with flat stone, and it still lay smooth and firm underfoot, only occasionally veiled by moss or fractured with age.

Teresa lifted her eyes to the pale building in the distance, and her heart skipped a beat. Returning to the place she considered home after fleeing Treviso filled her with a warmth beyond words. A smile curved her lips. She felt Lucanis’ gaze.

"Welcome to the de Riva estate," she said quietly.

Dellamorte nodded. Teresa suddenly realized their fingers were still entwined. The awareness sent her pulse racing, and she mentally scolded herself. Whatever was happening between them felt unfamiliar, strange, and hard to define — but the gesture felt right, as if it had always been meant to be.

"You lit up," Lucanis noted, and Teresa paused for a moment, choosing her words.

"This place holds both the best and worst moments of my life."

"Will you tell me about them?"

The question was casual, but Teresa caught a trace of hesitation in it, as if Lucanis wasn’t sure he had the right to ask.

"A lot of childhood memories with Viago. There’s a beach behind the estate, and we used to play pirates there. As we got older, he’d begun teaching me fencing — he was already learning the Crow trade by then. I learned about my parents' murder here. I spent thousands of hours training in the yard behind the house with my uncle before he was killed. Then Viago took over. I had just turned sixteen, and he was twenty. The whole estate was suddenly his — and I was, too, in a way," Teresa glanced aside. "But Viago always took care of me, even though he had to grow up far too fast."

"That explains why you’re so close," Lucanis said, watching her. "You're both stronger than most people I know. Everything you’ve been through… it makes sense now, why Viago always seemed older than his years."

"He’d add that it’s also why I make serious mistakes unbecoming of a Crow."

"He would," Lucanis agreed with a chuckle. "But I’d say having such an older brother gave you room to learn from those mistakes. He likely didn’t have that luxury himself, which is why he’s sometimes too hard on you. One day he’ll realize his little cousin grew up long ago."

Teresa smiled warmly, the weight in her chest momentarily lifted by his words. He saw what she rarely dared admit.

"Thank you, Lucanis."

They approached the estate, and Teresa knocked. At that moment, she felt Lucanis’ fingers slip from hers. She hadn’t noticed at first, but now her hand, stripped of his warmth, felt oddly cold. The door creaked open, and she recognized Mateo, one of Viago’s youngest but most loyal men.

"Teresa," the Crow nodded to her with his usual ease, then looked at her companion, his voice laced with reverent surprise. "Master Dellamorte…" he faltered, unsure whether formality was warranted, but then stepped aside. "Please, come into the parlor. I’ll inform Viago."

The head of House de Riva descended a few minutes later, and to Teresa’s pleasant surprise, her cousin was dressed in a simple white linen shirt instead of the typical Crow armor. It had been too long since she’d seen him in a domestic setting.

Beside him, as always, stood Andarateia Cantori. She, too, had traded her usual leather gear for an elegant emerald-green Antivan gown. The delicate fabric hugged her figure, accentuating her waist and graceful curves. Teia looked as though she could sit on a throne or issue a deadly command at any moment.

Teresa felt Viago’s gaze, and he frowned, clearly noticing the scratch on her cheek.

"Who did this?" he asked instead of a greeting, and she suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

"Venatori, in Minrathous. It was a full day," Teresa answered calmly, but Viago shook his head.

"Of course. If there’s a problem somewhere, you’ll find a way to dive right into it," his voice was level, but his eyes narrowed. "You’re part of House de Riva, Teresa. If you think you can behave as if you have nothing to lose, you’re wrong."

She stiffened but endured the heavy look from her cousin.

"I never thought otherwise."

"Really?" Viago scoffed, but his smirk held no amusement. "Then tell me why every time I hear about your deeds, they involve you risking your life unnecessarily?"

His voice was soft, but each word struck like a press on an old wound.

"I do what’s necessary," she replied.

"I don’t need empty justifications, Teresa. If you think of yourself as part of this family, start acting like someone with a home to come back to."

Silence hung in the air. Lucanis stood nearby, saying nothing, but Teresa could feel his presence. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she was sure he was paying close attention.

Viago sighed and finally waved a hand.

"I want to speak with Lucanis alone," he said firmly, his gray eyes landing on Teresa. "Wait in the study."

"Vi—" Teia looked at him in surprise, but he shook his head.

"It’s necessary. Teresa, you don’t mind?"

"Viago, I trust your cousin implicitly," Lucanis cut in. "There’s no need to send her away. Teresa saved me from the Ossuary. I think she has a right to hear the news, especially if she’s helping me with Zara Renata."

"No one is hiding anything," Viago replied, then looked at his cousin. "Teresa?"

"As you wish," she nodded.

Confusion stirred inside, but there was no anger. Viago never acted without reason. Teresa gave Teia and Lucanis a brief smile and headed up the stairs to the second floor. The marble steps led her to a familiar door. She entered and looked around.

The study hadn’t changed since she’d last been in the family estate. On a side table still stood vials of poisons, each labeled in her cousin’s handwriting. The desk by the window remained bare — Viago preferred to keep important documents locked away.

Teresa’s eyes drifted to the shelves, then paused on two portraits between them. On the right hung one of Viago’s parents — Marcelo de Riva, former head of the house, and his wife Felicia. Between them stood young Viago, serious-faced, hair neatly combed, gray eyes full of stubborn resolve.

She smiled, and her gaze shifted left. That portrait had been brought to the estate after her parents’ deaths — she knew her uncle had fetched it from Rialto himself. It depicted Mauricio and Adriana de Riva. Her father looked serious, and she drank in his familiar features.

High cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong jaw — Mauricio was a striking man, with that flawless elegance that always drew attention. His long black hair was swept back, and a carefully groomed beard added noble polish. He looked like someone used to power — firm, but not harsh. His gray eyes stared with a contemplative squint, as if judging an unseen viewer. Teresa knew behind that look was warmth and gentleness he’d only shown to his family.

Adriana shone beside him. Her soft but expressive features mirrored Teresa’s almost exactly — the same eye shape, the same curve of her lips, as if the daughter were a reflection from another time. Dark brown hair flowed in waves, framing her face. A gentle smile softened her appearance, filling the portrait with a sense of comfort and quiet joy. In her black eyes glimmered something warm, barely visible, like she was about to laugh. Her hand rested on a slightly rounded belly — a detail that always stole Teresa’s breath.

Between them stood Teresa — a little girl barely reaching her father’s chest. Her dark brown hair was tousled as if she’d just run off mid-mischief. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her wide, fearless grin seemed to challenge the world. Even serious Mauricio couldn’t quite hide the hint of a smile on his lips.

She touched the frame. The portrait held an entire era — a time that now felt like a dream, distant and unreachable. Her chest tightened with longing and pain. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Her fingers brushed the frame in a familiar motion, and suddenly she understood why Viago had insisted she come here.

A laugh burst from her lips. Of course, her cousin had planned it all.

Teresa pressed the frame gently, and it shifted slightly.

A soft click echoed, as if a mechanism had awakened after long slumber. The portrait creaked forward, and she slid it aside. Behind it lay a hidden compartment where she kept her savings.

She ran her fingers along the stone edges, her whole body trembling.

"You always know everything, Viago," she whispered. "Even when I can’t admit it."

When she’d fled Treviso, she’d only taken enough coin to last a while. Her journey with Varric left no room for securing funds, even though Tethras always covered their needs.

The last few months had been difficult financially, but even after reuniting with Viago, she couldn’t bring herself to admit the state she was in.

But of course, he knew.

He understood her too well. Viago knew she wouldn’t take his money, and her pride would never let her ask to come retrieve what was hers.

Shaking her head, Teresa reached for the nearest pouch of gold coins — Crows typically carried gold, not silver. Peeking inside, she guessed the money would’ve lasted her three months of her old pre-flight life. Now, even longer.

She tucked the pouch into her shoulder bag, closed the compartment, and looked lovingly at her parents' joyful faces. The portrait had been painted not long before they were killed, and that was how the eleven-year-old girl remembered them.

She sat in the armchair by the desk. Her fingers brushed across the polished surface. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The door swung open. Viago, Lucanis, and Teia entered.

Teresa met her cousin’s eyes. He said nothing, but his gaze asked a question. She smiled faintly and nodded with gratitude, letting him know she understood his silent care.

"Your parents?" Lucanis' voice drew her attention. She turned and found Dellamorte in front of the portrait. His dark eyes were focused, almost thoughtful.

"Yes," Teresa replied simply.

Lucanis nodded slowly.

"You look a lot like your mother," he said softly.

Teresa smirked.

"Yes, I’ve heard that since childhood."

Lucanis raised an eyebrow slightly, still studying Adriana.

"Not surprising. It seems beauty runs in the family."

Viago snorted and shook his head.

"I hate to be pedantic, but Adriana became a de Riva when she married my uncle."

"Then she certainly brought the beauty into your family," Lucanis said thoughtfully, glancing at Teresa as if comparing. "And passed it to her daughter."

Her heart skipped, but she quickly looked away, fingers gliding along the desk.

"Anything new about the Venatori?" she asked, pulling herself back to the matter at hand.

"Our people tracked them down," Viago said, crossing his arms. "The Venatori are holed up in Treviso’s main cathedral. It was closed for renovations last year, but apparently, that’s not how it’s being used."

Teia nodded grimly in confirmation.

"The question is, how did they get in? The cathedral is under Chantry protection. If it was closed, no outsiders should have access."

"Then someone let them in," Teresa said flatly.

"Or they had access all along," Lucanis added. His voice was calm, but his gaze darkened.

Teresa sensed his tension — subtle, but unmistakable.

"You think this is Zara’s doing?"

Lucanis looked at her, then at Viago.

"It’s too convenient. The Venatori in Treviso. A closed cathedral that’s easily fortified. They couldn’t pull that off without a leader."

"We’ve tracked them without alerting anyone, but I wouldn’t wait too long," Teia noted. She glanced at Viago, and he nodded.

"Then it’s time to drive the Venatori out of our city," Lucanis concluded, locking eyes with Teresa. "And if we’re lucky, we’ll find Zara Renata there."

Teresa nodded and stood.

"Looks like tomorrow’s going to be an eventful day."

 

***

From the roof of the Treviso Cathedral, the jewel of Antiva unfolded in all its living beauty. The midday sun reflected in the canal waters and gilded the rooftops. The city bustled with its usual rhythm: merchants shouted overhead, gondolas glided along the waterways, and a group of ragged boys giggled and darted into a nearby alley.

The towering bell tower added to the cathedral's majesty. Tall, ornate, with narrow pointed windows — it was the perfect vantage point for observation, casting a long shadow over the neighboring rooftops.

Teresa turned and met Lucanis's gaze. Nothing betrayed tension, but his back was too straight, as if he were controlling every muscle.

"Do you think Zara Renata is here?" Harding's voice broke the silence, and Dellamorte muttered:

"I certainly hope so."

"Still haven't found out who betrayed you?" Lace asked softly, and Lucanis exhaled sharply and shook his head.

"We'll find out," Teresa said firmly. "The bastards will pay for everything."

"I can't imagine hating someone enough to not only side with the Venatori but to lock them in the Ossuary," Harding shivered, her brows furrowed, as if mentally reliving that dreadful place.

"Let’s stay focused," de Riva said quietly.

Her gaze once again froze on Lucanis: at the mention of the underwater prison, it was clear he recalled how he had spent a year there. How Zara Renata had placed Spite inside him. Dellamorte’s black eyes narrowed, and she didn’t miss the way his hand moved toward his rapier.

At that moment, a faint scraping sound came from the top of the bell tower. It was almost imperceptible, but a Crow’s trained ear caught it instantly. Teresa looked up and saw only an intricately carved stone cornice casting a long shadow.

Lucanis had noticed it too. His hand tensed on the hilt, jaw clenched.

"What is it?" Harding whispered. Teresa shook her head and silently drew her daggers.

Lucanis drew his rapier and stepped forward as if to shield the women. Teresa saw he was ready to spring into action at any moment.

"I knew you'd be glad to see me, cousin, but a rapier? A bit dramatic, don’t you think?"

A figure leapt down from a stone ledge, landing softly. Illario Dellamorte straightened. Teresa felt a flicker of surprise, but her instincts flared.

Tall, lean, moving with the ease of a predator, Lucanis's cousin looked like a man who knew no obstacles. There was no overt threat in him, just the confidence of someone always exactly where he wanted to be.

His blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he turned his attention to Teresa. Illario wasn't just observing — he was studying, noting details.

His dark chestnut hair was tied back in a loose tail, every disordered strand seeming perfectly intentional. His finely tailored dark leather coat clung to him with casual elegance. Two axes were strapped to his back — an unusual choice for a Crow.

He looked amused by the whole situation: relaxed but clearly ready to shift tone at any moment.

"What took you so long? Stopped for coffee?" he grinned, tilting his head lazily.

Teresa narrowed her eyes, subtly stepping forward and slipping her weapons back into their sheaths.

Lucanis stared at his cousin.

"How did you know we were here?" he asked evenly.

Illario shrugged theatrically.

"I’m a Crow, cousin. I have to know."

Teresa remembered someone following them yesterday. Her eyes widened as realization struck: Marcus, her former lover, now worked for the Dellamorte family. He clearly still had ties to House de Riva and likely used them to curry favor with Illario.

Making a mental note to inform Viago that someone in the estate was leaking information, Teresa met Illario's gaze.

"How nice to see you again, Rook. Enjoying Treviso in my cousin’s company?" Illario smiled, then glanced at Lucanis before turning back to her. "Although you've probably noticed — he’s not the most talkative companion. I'd gladly walk with you through the city myself. I’ve got better ideas than the top of a cathedral."

"Do you want to see how quickly I can shut you down, Illario?" Teresa smiled sweetly, keeping the venom out of her voice.

"Oh, milady, don’t rush!" Illario pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. His blue eyes narrowed slightly. "But you didn’t turn down Marcus. Is he better looking than me?"

Teresa felt a surge of irritation. Illario knew what buttons to press, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She smiled, accepting the challenge.

"You're trying so hard, it’s almost endearing. What a bold strategy."

"Really?" Illario took a step closer, and out of the corner of her eye, Teresa saw Lucanis’s hands clench into fists.

"You manage to be persistent, arrogant, and completely hopeless all at once. But I admire your effort."

"Enough, Illario," Lucanis said through gritted teeth, arms folding across his chest.

Illario only smirked.

"What’s the problem, cousin? I’m just admiring a lady. Are you against that?"

Teresa shook her head, her gaze amused.

"You really are persistent — that’s admirable. But you know what I like about you, Illario?" She felt both their gazes on her: one heavy as a thundercloud, the other sharp and invasive. "You never seem to know when to give up."

"Don’t encourage him, Teresa," Lucanis said quietly but reproachfully.

But Illario had already shifted tone. His eyes still held amusement, but his stance changed — subtle tension underlying every move.

"So, cousin, you really think you can handle this alone?" He crossed his arms and looked at Lucanis with slight challenge. "Let’s be honest, Venatori business is messy. You might need an extra blade."

Lucanis didn’t flinch. His voice was sharp:

"This isn’t your concern, Illario. There’s no one here to charm. All you’ll do is die."

The smile slid from Illario’s face.

"You think I’m not good enough?"

There was no direct accusation in his voice, but beneath the levity lurked something deeper, something bitter. Teresa saw a flicker of hardness in his eyes.

"Do you?" Lucanis shot back.

Illario stared at him for a moment, then exhaled sharply and stepped back, as if retreating from an invisible force.

"As you wish, cousin. You’re always right, after all."

He stepped away, but his cold, assessing gaze lingered, as if he hadn’t truly let it go. Lucanis didn’t respond. He just nodded curtly and turned back toward the edge of the rooftop, ready to return to the task.

Harding and Teresa exchanged a glance.

"Antivans..." Lace muttered.

 

***

The stone slabs beneath their feet echoed with each step. Lucanis, Teresa, and Harding descended the narrow spiral staircase of the bell tower. The air was filled with the scent of dust and dampness, as if the cathedral hadn't been properly maintained for years.

Once in the main hall, Lucanis instinctively scanned the surroundings. High vaults disappeared into semi-darkness, and dim light filtered through stained-glass windows. Once, when the cathedral had been open to the public, candles would have lit the hall — but now, none remained.

"How long has it been closed?" Harding asked quietly, looking around. "Majestic place. Gives me goosebumps."

"A year ago, for restoration," Teresa replied almost in a whisper. Lucanis noticed she had clearly been here before, just like he had. She likely didn’t like seeing it closed either.

"It's not just me then — there’s been no work done at all," he muttered, and Teresa nodded fervently.

"Which only proves my hunch: someone in Treviso’s government is connected to the Venatori. Especially if the cathedral was deliberately handed over to them. What a sacrilege," Teresa said heatedly, shaking her head.

Lucanis looked at her with interest — she rarely spoke so emotionally.

"I thought you weren’t very religious, Rook," Lace remarked amicably, though her pale eyes held a question. Teresa inhaled deeply and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before answering reluctantly:

"My parents were married here. Regardless of how I feel about the Chantry, this cathedral matters to Treviso, and depriving the people of it for the Venatori’s sake is outrageous."

Lucanis felt something tighten in his chest. To anyone else, it might have been a trivial detail, but to him, it was a reminder of how closely intertwined their lives were with Treviso: similar family pasts, shared places, and a way of life. He looked again at the cathedral’s vaulted ceilings and said quietly:

"Mine were too. As were many generations of the Dellamortes."

"Then we’ll reclaim the cathedral and give it back to the people," Teresa replied softly but with determination. Her gray eyes glinted.

Lucanis nodded. It felt strange to be talking of weddings and remembering family in a place now defiled. As if the cathedral was still sacred, not a lair for the Venatori.

A grinding noise echoed near the altar. Teresa turned sharply, and he caught her gaze — resolute, furious, thirsting for vengeance. Lucanis felt warmth in his chest, realizing she mirrored his emotions. Harding silently drew her bow, and Teresa bared her teeth in a grin.

"It’s time," she exhaled.

She moved first. Her steps were quick and practiced. Teresa slipped between the columns, and Lucanis followed close behind, always slightly behind to keep watch. Harding positioned herself for a shot, already drawing the string.

Five figures stood at the altar. Dark cloaks, unmistakable Venatori insignias. One leaned against a column, another sat lazily on the altar steps, polishing a dagger. Seeing them, he looked up and laughed.

"Look, the Antivan Crows finally figured it out!" the man’s voice rasped with a Tevinter accent. "Well then—"

He never finished. Harding’s arrow lodged in his throat, and he gurgled, collapsing. Teresa lunged forward, her rapier flashing, and another Venatori dropped. The remaining three clustered together, clearly caught off guard. Lucanis heard one whisper to another:

"Warn Zara. I think that’s the Demon of Virantium. This is bad."

Lucanis felt wings form behind him. Spite, always lingering, always a burden, now felt like an ally — the perfect complement.

"They’re mine," he said in Antivan, his tone a warning. Teresa nodded, understanding. She gestured discreetly to Harding, who lowered her bow.

Lucanis soared upward, then dove down upon the enemies, giving them no chance to escape. Steel flashed.

A blade sliced a throat cleanly in one fluid motion. The victim gurgled and clutched his wound as blood sprayed. The body collapsed.

"One," hissed Spite.

The next attacker swung a sword. Lucanis sidestepped, gliding effortlessly.

A swift move forward — one blade to the chest, piercing between ribs. The second blade slashed the throat. The Venatori crumpled.

"Two," Spite muttered with grim satisfaction.

Only one remained. He froze, staring at the spreading blood.

"W-wait," he stammered, backing up with raised hands. "Please… I’ll tell you everything…"

"Did they show mercy in the Ossuary?" Spite whispered in his ear. "Not to you. Not to me."

Lucanis didn’t need Spite to know what had to be done. Steel flashed again. The last enemy collapsed, his face frozen in terror.

"Three," Spite concluded.

Lucanis stood upright, surveying the bodies. Blood pooled across the stones beneath the dim stained-glass light. The fight was over.

He felt their stares.

Teresa returned her weapons to their sheaths, though her fingers still clutched the hilt. Harding exhaled and slung her bow over her shoulder.

"Let’s find Zara," he said quietly.

Teresa nodded and pointed to an arch to the left of the altar. A corridor stretched beyond, hidden from sight.

"Looks like that’s our path."

Lucanis strode toward the arch, weapons still drawn. Teresa and Harding followed.

The corridor was lit only by stained glass, and the stench of death hit them instantly. As they stepped in, green flies buzzed loudly. Teresa swallowed hard.

"Shit, what did they do…" she whispered, horror-stricken.

"In the Maker’s house," Harding murmured. Lucanis turned and saw her wide-eyed. He looked to Rook and his heart sank.

Teresa de Riva, who had fought at his side through countless battles, had gone pale, as if she might collapse. Lucanis stepped in, pressing her gently against the wall to steady her.

"And I kept wondering when the dramatic Antivan woman would overtake the infamous Antivan Crow," he said with a small smile.

"Shut up," her pale lips forced out. "I’m not some damsel in distress, Lucanis. It’s just the smell—"

"I know," he answered softly, switching to Antivan. "Tess, you’re one of the strongest people I know. But your reaction is natural. Look at me and breathe deeply. It’ll pass."

Her gray eyes fixed on his, as if he were the only thing grounding her in the chaos. He saw her chest rise and fall, fighting for control.

"Rook, need water?" Harding asked gently. Lucanis could hear the sympathy in her voice.

"Just give me a minute," Teresa replied, but Lucanis didn’t move. His hands stayed on her shoulders, steady.

Realization struck. He’d seen her angry, smirking, compassionate — but not like this. Pale and shaken, even briefly, was not how he wanted to see her.

Lucanis furrowed his brow. He couldn’t lose her. She meant too much.

He leaned closer, unsure why, and said in Antivan:

"You know, even now, you’re very beautiful."

Teresa blinked, stunned.

"You serious?"

Then she laughed — short but vivid — and Lucanis felt a wave of relief.

"Always at your service, my lady," he grinned, watching the color return to her face.

She shook her head, but smiled sincerely.

"Let’s go. Time to find Zara Renata."

"Thank the Maker," Harding muttered.

 

***

The smell of decay filled their nostrils, but Lucanis stubbornly focused on the goal. In the distance, a door appeared — the logical end to the long corridor. He looked at the women.

"Ready?"

Teresa and Harding nodded in unison, but his gaze lingered on de Riva. She still looked a little pale, but her gray eyes burned with determination.

As they approached the door, Lucanis pushed it open and saw a horrifying sight. A large windowless hall, likely never a significant part of the cathedral's spiritual life, now held something far more profane.

Nearly the entire center was filled with what Lucanis could only describe as a pool. Once it may have served for ceremonial washing or as part of an ancient reservoir. Now it was filled with blood.

He swallowed hard. A desperate urge to check on Teresa rose in his chest, but his gaze stayed fixed on the woman lounging in the blood as if she were taking a bath. Zara Renata looked exactly as he remembered her from the Ossuary — pale skin, black shoulder-length hair, eyes the color of molten gold. He felt Spite shriek in his head:

"Kill, kill, kill!"

"Rather uncivilized, showing up without an invitation," Zara exclaimed. "Now you've ruined my evening. Lucanis Dellamorte, what a reunion!"

"You’ll pay for everything you’ve done," Teresa growled, drawing her blades. She stepped beside Lucanis, rage burning in her eyes. Zara remained cold, utterly unafraid.

"Such a peasant response," she scoffed. Lucanis felt Teresa move closer, ready to attack. "Aren’t you going to introduce your companions? Where are your manners, Demon of Virantium?"

"We know who you are," Teresa countered. Lucanis could feel her barely restraining her fury. "That’s enough, Zara Renata."

"Is it?" Zara’s assessing gaze swept over Teresa, a lazy smile playing on her lips. "I can see right through you even without a name. Predictable. Trying to prove your worth? Or hoping to be more than just another assassin to him?"

She tilted her head, studying Teresa like an unfortunate mistake. Lucanis felt his own anger flare, but the look on Teresa’s face burned with something deeper. Zara had struck a nerve.

"Ridiculous," Teresa spat.

Zara exhaled slowly, her eyes devoid of anger or mockery—just cold indifference.

"You're an Antivan Crow. Just like him. That means you’re nothing. Not good enough for the Demon of Virantium."

Silence fell.

"Pathetic," she added softly. "But your loyalty is almost touching."

Lucanis barely had time to react before Teresa lunged, blades flashing. Her rapier and dagger aimed straight for Zara’s throat, but the blood surged upward, forming a thick barrier.

"Is that all you’ve got?" Zara laughed, but Teresa didn’t stop.

Blades struck again, and again the blood sealed itself around them.

"Ah yes, that famous Antivan tenacity," Zara mocked, then swept her hand.

Magic flung Teresa back like a rag doll. She landed in a graceful crouch beside Lucanis, eyes still locked on her target.

Lucanis attacked before Zara could regroup. Twin blades slashed toward her as an arrow from Harding zipped past. One blade pierced the barrier, but Zara dodged just in time.

Teresa was at his side, scanning for a weakness.

Then Lucanis noticed it—streaks of gray in Zara’s hair. Her magic was draining her.

He pressed the assault. The barrier fell. Zara staggered, and Teresa’s blade struck.

Zara’s hair turned white, her skin lost its sheen, her face grew gaunt.

Teresa noticed too. She grinned.

"Oh dear, Zara Renata, you’re looking a little… worn."

"Not good enough," Teresa repeated mockingly. "But old age didn’t spare you. You’re in no place to judge."

Zara’s expression twisted.

"Wretch," she hissed. "Youth fades. But I won’t let you live to see yours."

"Don’t worry," Teresa smirked. "I plan to grow old — gracefully. Without blood magic."

The blood flared. Crimson tendrils lashed out, wild and frenzied. Lucanis surged forward, slamming Zara against the wall. She struggled to stand.

"Why don’t we talk?" she asked him, and he frowned. "I know so much about the Venatori."

Spite rose again. Lucanis felt himself slipping.

"I. Want. Her heart. On my blade," the demon snarled. He shook his head, trying to hold on.

Zara grinned.

"Surely you have enemies among the Venatori too? Maybe I can tell you something."

Teresa hesitated. Lucanis saw anger flash in her eyes, but she stood firm.

"No."

Zara shrugged.

Then she turned to him.

"But you, Lucanis—you want to know who betrayed you. Who sent you to the Ossuary?"

He straightened. The words struck harder than he expected.

"Speak," he ordered coldly.

Zara smiled—but before she could say more, Illario dropped from above.

Lucanis barely registered his arrival before his cousin turned to Zara.

"Amatu—"

She didn’t finish. Illario ended her life with a clean, decisive strike.

The demon took over.

"NO!" Spite screamed through Lucanis’s mouth as he lunged at his cousin.

 

***

He blinked. Something was wrong. His hand was gripping the hilt too tightly. The blade — hovering above his brother's throat.

Lucanis fought with everything he had. If he gave in, if he let Spite take over, Illario would die.

He couldn't stop.

His face twisted with effort, but the dagger inched lower.

"Teresa..." Her name fell from his lips like a prayer. "Get Illario out of here. Please."

"What? No, I'm not leaving you!" He felt her close. "You have to stop, Lucanis. I know you can!"

"Teresa..."

"You can!"

Illario seized the moment. In a heartbeat, Lucanis was slammed to the stone floor. Pain seared through his spine, clearing the fog. He pushed himself onto his elbows, realizing the demon had fallen silent. It was strange — but there was no time to think.

Teresa rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. He felt her trembling hand on his cheek, as if to confirm he was back in control.

"It's okay. You did it," she whispered, then turned her gaze on Illario. "Help me get him out of here."

The younger Dellamorte shook his head.

"I can't. That demon inside him tried to kill me. I can get you a boat, but I won’t stay near him, Rook. Keep him away from Treviso, from the Crows. He’s a danger to the family."

Lucanis didn’t have the strength to argue. The aftermath clung to him like a web. All he could do was listen.

"Are you serious, Illario?" Teresa’s voice was cold and clipped. "He’s your brother. Family. He fought!"

"He almost killed me," Illario countered. "Don’t defend him. Put yourself in my place! You’re the younger one too! If Viago did this to you—?"

"This isn’t about me. It’s about Lucanis," she snapped. "Illario, he needs our help! He fights the demon every day! How can you turn your back on him?"

"It doesn’t matter," Illario shook his head. "If you’re foolish enough not to fear him, that’s your call."

"And abandoning him, as his only family — how will that help?" Teresa stood. "Is that really better?"

Illario didn’t answer, and through the haze of pain Lucanis heard her say angrily:

"You’re just a coward, Illario."

"If that makes me a coward, so be it."

He straightened, masking his emotions.

"I’ll get you the boat. That’s all I can offer."

Teresa wanted to retort, but bit it back. She didn’t break eye contact until Illario turned and walked toward the exit.

Lucanis slowly got to his feet, pain thrumming through his body, Teresa steadying him with a gentle grip.

"Do you think he’ll come back?" he asked.

She sighed.

"I don’t know. But you won’t be alone. Lace? Can you help me?"

Lucanis managed to focus and saw the top of Harding’s red head. She took his other side, steadying him, and he felt a swell of gratitude. Not long ago, she might not have been able to help—but things had changed.

"Tess, Lace... thank you..."

"Shut up," Teresa muttered, but there was a hint of a smile in her voice. "We need to get to the Lighthouse. Everything else can wait."

Chapter Text

The sun had almost set, casting its last glimmers on the water, when Crassius Servis stepped off the ship in Karastes. He surveyed the familiar streets. How many times had he been here before? But the last time — it was more than eleven years ago.

Crassius turned left and strode confidently along the port’s waterfront, ignoring the passersby. Despite the evening hour, people bustled around: sailors, merchants, patrons of the nearby tavern. Servis paid them no mind, staring straight ahead, lost in thought.

Karastes awakened memories, whether he wanted it to or not. Crassius frowned, staring at the familiar tower of the Imperial Circle, then glanced out at the sea — which he invariably associated with Neve.

The detective from Minrathous had come into his life about six years ago, when he was still searching for that mysterious woman from Antiva, the one he could never forget. By that time, his feelings for Margaret had finally cooled, and Crassius thought: if only he could find her—the bright, wary and at the same time open woman — and… And what then? His whole life was tied to Minrathous, hers — to Antiva, and she had made that clear enough back then.

With Neve, everything happened completely differently. He had heard of her long before he first saw her — a detective from Minrathous, just like him, originally from the Dock town.

Six years ago, Crassius was conducting an investigation on Dorian’s behalf: one of the magisters, suspected of longstanding ties to the Venatori, was scheming against the Lucerni — the party founded by Dorian Pavus and Maevaris Tilani.

Their goal was to abolish slavery, reform Tevinter, and if not eradicate, then at least curb corruption. The party’s ideas resonated with Servis; he understood and supported them, even if he’d never considered himself an idealist.

Unlike Dorian, who grew up in an old and respected noble family, Crassius had seen both sides of life. And although he had no intention of returning to his impoverished, nearly starving past, Servis looked at the Empire soberly and without illusions.

To Dorian’s credit, he always listened to Crassius’ opinions and regularly brought him to the Magisterium. Servis still remembered the contemptuous sneers of the magisters at the sight of him—a laetan [A mage of non-noble birth](#). And it was Dorian who entrusted him with a quiet investigation — to find out who was sabotaging all the opposition party’s bills.

Crassius knew why. Mages like him could see what escaped the gaze accustomed to mirrored halls and political courtesies. He grew up not among marble, but among stones and damp. He knew whom to talk to, whom to trust, and whom not to — no matter how richly they dressed or how friendly they smiled.

The magisters would never have entrusted such an investigation to a “lowborn laetan.” But Dorian did. Because he knew: Servis owed nothing to anyone. He had no title to cling to. Only a cold mind, practicality — and personal loyalty.

He was perfect for this job. No one expected it would be him looking beneath the surface. No one noticed when he started asking questions.

Neve Gallus was conducting her own investigation into that same magister — Aurelius Veccar, but her employer was someone else, whose name she still hadn’t revealed to him. By now, though, it didn’t really matter.

Servis did what seemed reasonable: he offered the detective a business partnership, with no claim to her fee. The wary Neve refused, complicating matters.

Their paths crossed for several months. Time and again, one would get in the other’s way, leading to arguments: Crassius thought she was practically insane, she considered him an audacious upstart.

Crassius still blamed himself for what happened next, though Neve always denied it. If they’d worked together, Veccar’s people wouldn’t have noticed them, and Detective Gallus wouldn’t have fallen into a trap. Crassius realized this quickly enough — and that’s the only reason he managed to save her.

He already knew where to go; he just hadn’t thought Neve would go there alone. Servis reached the abandoned temple on Minrathous’s outskirts, where old relics were kept. The air smelled of blood and scorched fabric.

Five Venatori, gathered in a circle, held her by a barrier. Neve was on her knees, back straight, her face bloody but full of familiar stubbornness. Magister Veccar watched from above, standing on a stone ledge with his hands clasped behind his back.

Crassius raised his staff. The first blow shattered the left side of the protective circle — a blast of ice splintered the stone floor. The second — lightning — pierced the nearest mage, making the others recoil. He moved without fuss, precise and cold-blooded, as he was used to.

When one of the Venatori tried to counterattack, Crassius raised a barrier, never breaking his focus, and instantly deflected the spell. He pushed back and struck in response. The ground shook under his opponent, knocking him down. The others had no time. Veccar himself rushed into the fight.

They didn’t fight long. The old magister was strong, but Crassius was fiercer. When a flaming spear of pure energy pierced Veccar’s shield and struck his chest, the man didn’t even have time to scream.

Crassius stood over the body as the ashes settled on the stones. Then he went to Neve. She tried to get up, swaying, but couldn’t — the Venatori had badly wounded her. He lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the temple, without saying a word.

Later, when they amputated her leg below the knee, Neve wouldn’t let him near her. She said the investigation was over and he could go back to Dorian. That she had no reason to see him.

He kept carrying out Dorian’s assignments and still found time for her. Neve stayed silent. Sometimes she threw a curt “Go away.” Once — “You don’t owe me anything.” And never — “Stay.”

Several months after her injury, Crassius once again turned up where, in Neve’s view, he had no business being.

He insisted he was only checking a source and just happened to be nearby, not intending to interfere.

“Didn’t want to?” She stepped closer, squinting. “You think I don’t see you lurking around for three days straight?”

He tried to answer, but Neve didn’t let him.

“I’m not asking you to save me again. Didn’t ask last time either. That’s my business.”

She came closer, not looking away. Crassius stepped back, then again, until he bumped into the stone wall of a nondescript house in a quiet alley.

“Why are you doing this, Servis?” Neve’s voice grew quieter. “Why are you always around?”

He looked at her — tense, with her usual harshness in her voice and the same gaze that made something inside him tighten.

“I think I’ve fallen for you,” he confessed softly.

Neve blinked and, for the first time in the conversation, looked away. The noise of Minrathous suddenly became too loud in the background.

“I have feelings for you too,” she finally said, her voice a little hoarse. “But if we want this to work… You can’t interfere in my investigations. That’s rule number one.”

He smiled faintly.
“Only one?”

“For now,” she cut him off, turning as if to continue on her way. But he could still feel the intensity of her brown eyes. “But I can make a list.”

“All right,” Crassius nodded. “I accept your rules.”

She didn’t reply but turned back to him, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. But he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. That’s how it all began.

Crassius blinked and realized he’d nearly reached the Circle’s tower. It felt strange to come here on business, after so many years, but he hoped that a conversation with First Enchanter Ammosin would help him move forward in the search for Tenebrius. In his inner pocket lay letters from Margaret and Dorian — just in case the First Enchanter wouldn’t take his word for it. There was no time for persuasion.

 

***

Returning to the Lighthouse together with Lucanis and Harding, Teresa insisted that Dellamorte has some rest. She didn’t understand what had happened between him and Illario. A flash, a gesture, a sudden surge of strength—and Lucanis was thrown backwards. Illario was not a mage, but at that moment, something strange had happened. And it left its mark on Lucanis: he grew pale and gaunt, as if a significant part of his strength had vanished. She had never seen him like this before.

He fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Teresa didn’t leave right away, anxiously watching his chest rise and fall, the way he frowned even in his sleep. Her heart ached, and her mind was crowded with thoughts.

Why did Illario come after them when Lucanis told him to stay behind? And most of all — why did he instantly kill Zara Renata, not letting her say a word? Teresa sighed heavily, forcing her tired mind to make connections.

Illario appeared and killed the Venatori just as she was about to tell Lucanis who had sent him to the Ossuary. Teresa felt a chill of horror and hugged herself. Was it possible…?

Her head was spinning, and she realized she needed someone who could put all the pieces together — someone who had known the Dellamorte cousins far longer than she had. Despite her exhaustion, she cast one last look at sleeping Lucanis and headed for the eluvians.

The Crossroads greeted her with calm — no Venatori, no demons — and after a while Teresa found herself in Treviso, on the balcony of the Crows’ headquarters. She lingered for a moment to take in the view of her beloved city at night, then set off to find Viago.

The Talon of House de Riva was still there, even though Teia was nowhere nearby. He sat at a small table, reading some papers, but immediately looked up at the sound of footsteps. Having noticed Teresa, Viago stood at once, frowning as usual.

"You’re back? Is this about Lucanis?"

She paused and looked around.

"Can we talk alone, Viago?"

"I knew there was something off about those Venatori," the Fifth Talon muttered, frowning even more. "There’s hardly anyone left here now, but we can step out onto the balcony."

Teresa nodded and followed Viago. Once outside, her cousin took a deep breath of the cool night air but immediately turned his focused gaze on her.

"Tell me."

She told him everything that had happened at the cathedral, and when she finished, she fell silent for a moment. Viago never interrupted, just listened in silence, as he always did.

"I think…" she continued slowly, watching his profile. "I think it was Illario. He killed Zara before she could say who locked Lucanis in the Ossuary. He used magic he never had before. He… knew too much. And turned away from him too suddenly," she took a breath. "Viago, you’ve known them longer than I have. Tell me. What was between them?"

Viago was still silent and leaned on the stone railing, looking down at the dark rooftops of Treviso.

"They were close," he finally said. "Too close, probably. Almost like brothers," he glanced at her. "Like us. Lucanis always protected Illario, even when he lied, got himself in trouble, flirted with the wrong people. And Illario… He adored Lucanis. Followed him like a shadow. Admired him and clearly wanted to be like him. But also, to be better."

"Rivalry," Teresa said softly. She stepped up beside him, and Viago glanced at her and sighed.

"You never aimed for the Talon's position. Even though, theoretically, you could have," he said quietly. "After all, you, unlike me, are de Riva by blood."

"Vi, that’s…"

"I know," a shadow of a smile flickered across his face. "But there was never that kind of tension between us. Right?"

Teresa nodded.

"There’s nothing for us to divide. It’s stupid."

"But apparently, they have something to divide," Viago muttered. "Catarina always saw Lucanis as her heir, the future First Talon. The age difference between him and Illario is insignificant—it’s more about how they behaved. Catarina was smart, she watched."

"And she always saw only Lucanis as her heir?" Teresa asked quietly. "Never Illario?"

Viago frowned and nodded.

"Anyone who saw the two of them at work would have thought the same," he said with conviction.

Teresa fell silent, staring at the city spread out before her. After a few seconds, she finally dared to ask:

"Do you think Illario could have betrayed Lucanis?"

Viago didn’t answer right away. His gray eyes studied the rooftops of Treviso, the old buildings and alleyways beneath them.

"I think…" he began slowly. "If it really was him, then he planned it for a long time. And was very careful. So that neither Lucanis nor Catarina would notice. Illario isn’t a fool, Teresa. He knows how to be charming, even sincere."

"That’s a vague answer, Vi," she said gently, and Viago frowned.

"I’m more inclined to believe it than not."

Teresa nodded. She’d suspected Illario’s betrayal herself, but hearing her cousin’s opinion was priceless.

A comfortable silence hung between them, until she finally exhaled:

"I’m glad there’s nothing for us to fight over, Viago."

He gave a little huff and looked at her.

"No matter how much of a pain you can be, I know you’d never betray me."

Teresa smirked, holding his gaze.

"Neither would you."

Viago nodded. They stood in silence, side by side, looking out over nighttime Treviso — and that was enough.

 

***

The office of First Enchanter Ammosin was spacious, but not lavish. Tall bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, a heavy wooden desk dominated the room, and the air was filled with soft scents of dried herbs and old paper. The lighting was gentle: candles and enchanted glass globes created a cozy, almost homely atmosphere.

Ammosin looked up from a scroll, his gaze sharpening with recognition. During his relationship with Margaret, Crassius had often visited Karastes, but now he hesitated, pausing in the doorway.

"Crassius Servis," he introduced himself. "We may have met more than ten years ago. I’m now an assistant to Magister Dorian Pavus. And a friend of Margaret Rutherford."

The First Enchanter’s smile grew a little warmer.

"Margaret is a woman of rare intellect and honor. I hope she’s well?" Ammosin nodded, though his eyes remained slightly guarded.

"She’s fine. As stubborn as ever," Crassius replied, stepping closer.

"Glad to hear it." Ammosin gestured to a chair by the desk. "Please, sit down, Master Servis."

He sat, keeping his back straight, and nodded his thanks to the First Enchanter, trying to keep any anxiety from showing on his face.

"How is Minrathous?" Ammosin asked, his smile fading. "I’ve heard things are troubled there. Rumor has it the Shadow Dragons have been destroyed."

"If I were you, I wouldn’t be so sure," Crassius said with a half-smile. "They — or rather, we — are hard to kill."

Ammosin gave a short, respectful nod. His expression warmed a little.

"That gives hope. Many rely on you, myself included. Thank you for coming. How can I help you?"

Crassius returned a faint smile. "I’ve come to talk about the late Magister Cortius’s assistant — Tenebrius. I’ve learned that he was the one who led the attack on the Archon’s Palace during the dragon assault on Minrathous."

Ammosin tapped his fingers on the scroll before him, studying Servis’s face as if searching for something unsaid.

"Forgive me, I don’t mean to offend, but what does this have to do with me?" the First Enchanter finally asked.

"You see, I know Tenebrius stole a certain artifact from your Circle. I’ll say right away, the details don’t interest me — but who returned it to you does."

Ammosin leaned back in his chair, an uncertain look flickering in his eyes. He was silent, and Crassius decided to add:

"I know you enlisted the help of the Antivan Crows."

The First Enchanter chuckled softly and shrugged.

"I didn’t know that was a crime in the Imperium."

"I’m not accusing you of anything, First Enchanter," Servis said gently. "As I said, I’m simply looking for Tenebrius. After the events in Karastes, he vanished for three years, and I need to know what happened here."

"I’m sorry," Ammosin sighed, his brows furrowing. "I can’t tell you."

Crassius felt a flicker of frustration but suppressed it and asked:

"Was it someone from House de Riva among the Antivan Crows?"

"How did you…?" The First Enchanter’s mouth dropped open slightly.

Servis smiled genuinely.

"Magister Kortius was poisoned in Wavervale in 9:49 with a particularly cruel and excruciating toxin. It was brutal and theatrical. As far as I know, there’s only one person among the Antivan Crows with such flawless skill in poisons — the Fifth Talon, Viago de Riva. They say that if he fulfills a contract, there’s never a trace. In this case, the murder was meant to be a public act of vengeance. That means Viago was avenging someone from his own house," Crassius watched the First Enchanter’s reaction closely. "And since I haven’t heard of any deaths in House de Riva these last three years, it’s likely the Crow who carried out the contract was badly injured, but survived."

Ammosin frowned, as if weighing what he could say.

"I need your help, First Enchanter," Crassius finished quietly. "If this Crow can shed light on where Tenebrius went…"

"I’m sorry, Master Servis," Ammosin sighed. "I can’t reveal the name."

"Viago de Riva," Crassius exhaled. "I suppose he forbade you?"

The First Enchanter smiled.

"One hardly wants a master of poisons as an enemy, wouldn’t you agree?"

Crassius nodded, genuinely understanding Ammosin, but unwilling to give up.

"First Enchanter, you know that years ago, your Senior Enchanter Sevir joined the Venatori," he said slowly, noticing the flicker of displeasure in Ammosin’s eyes. "Before that, he tried to recruit me. Offered easy work in southern Orlais—overseeing excavations and searching for ancient Tevinter artifacts. I was blind and foolish after breaking up with Margaret and agreed. That’s how I became Venatori," Crassius paused, catching his breath, then went on with more heat. "If the Inquisitor and his people hadn’t stopped me, I’d have become just like Tenebrius. Fate gave me a chance. Maybe that’s why I have to find that bastard. If there’s anything you can do to help, please, do it."

Real respect showed in the First Enchanter’s eyes, and he nodded.

"I’m bound by oath and can’t give you the name, but I’d advise you to speak directly to Viago de Riva or look closely at his people."

"The Crows of House de Riva?" Crassius bit his lip and nodded. "But there are many of them. How will I know which one I need?"

"I can’t say," Ammosin repeated. "But I’d advise you to find the weak link among his people — there’s always one — and get them to talk. That will point you to the right Crow."

Servis nodded and got to his feet, offering his hand to the First Enchanter.

"Thank you, Magister Ammosin. You’ve been a great help."

"Good luck, Master Servis. Don’t let your goals cloud your vision. Sometimes it’s easier to let go of the past than to explain it."

Crassius smiled faintly.

"Sometimes. But not this time."

He turned and left the office, quietly closing the door behind him.

Outside, sunset had begun. The sea shimmered with steel and crimson, a light wind carrying a cool breath from the water. Crassius stopped on the stone steps, peering toward the horizon.

Ammosin knew something, but wouldn’t say. Couldn’t, or wouldn’t — it didn’t matter. If the truth hid among the Crows, that was where he needed to go.

Crassius adjusted his cloak and strode away from the tower with purpose.

It was time to return to Minrathous. To speak with Neve. And to find a way to reach Teresa de Riva. Rook. As Viago’s cousin, she must know something.

 

***

Almost a day had passed since de Riva returned from Treviso. The conversation with Viago wouldn’t let her go. The thought that her cousin, too, suspected Illario kept pulsing in her head, along with the anxiety Teresa couldn’t quiet.

In the morning, Lucanis drifted off, and Spite took control of his body. He didn’t have time to escape through the eluvians — the team noticed in time. The demon wouldn’t listen to Taash, or Neve, or Harding, but he listened to Teresa. She managed to persuade him, but now she wondered: what if, one day, she didn’t make it? What if she failed to talk him down?

That frightened her no less than what she was about to discuss with Lucanis — about what had happened, and about Illario.

The Dellamortes had always been famous in Antiva. Catarina — Lucanis and Illario’s grandmother — was the First Talon of the Antivan Crows, already elderly but still dangerous to the last. Illario was considered handsome by many, dazzling, with a reckless ease and charm. Lucanis was reserved, unapproachable, dangerously handsome. Unlike Illario, he never tried to use it.

And although Teresa had never met them before escaping from Treviso, everyone talked about the Dellamorte cousins. You couldn’t avoid hearing about Illario’s many love affairs or about Lucanis — the mage-killer, the “Demon of Virantium.”

Zara Renata addressed Illario before she died. The unfinished word in Tevene seemed familiar, personal. Teresa was sure she’d heard it before.

Ten years ago, Val Royeaux, the capital of Orlais. That very contract—to steal a magical amulet from a smuggler in the service of the Inquisition, on the order—hard to imagine—of the king of Antiva himself.

 

She never knew his name, and chose not to know. But even years later she remembered that morning: soft sunbeams slipping through thick curtains into a small room. Fingers weaving through her long, thick hair. A voice with a Tevinter accent. That mage.

“Good morning, little bird,” he whispered, pulling her closer, his breath hot against her neck. “What’s your name, amata? Tell me, finally, your name. I want to know.”

“Amata?” Teresa smiled.

The word sounded like it belonged to an old Antivan legend, but the meaning slipped away.

“Beloved,” he translated, leaving featherlight kisses on her neck, and she turned her head slightly, giving him more room. Thinking was impossible, but Teresa still murmured:

“In Antiva we’d say cara for a woman and caro for a man. Amata… Amatus is the male form, right? I saw it in some old legend…”

“Your language comes from Tevene,” the mage whispered in her ear, nipping her earlobe. “But for us, the old words remain. Since my little Crow doesn’t want to know my name, I prefer amatus. It sounds better than ‘mage,’ don’t you think?”

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” Teresa laughed. “I have to get back to Antiva.”

“Amata forgot she let slip that your ships leave Val Royeaux every three days? Stay a little longer. I promise, you won’t regret it.”

“Then you’ll have to ask me very nicely, caro.”

“Say it in Tevene…”

“Amatus.”

 

Her heart was beating faster than it should. She froze before the mirror, as if looking at herself — but not her real self, that distant Teresa de Riva who, for the first time, forgot the life of an Antivan Crow and let go of control.

The past suddenly felt too close. She’d never wanted to know who he was. Never wanted to find herself near him again. All these ten years Teresa tried not to remember the velvet voice, sensitive touches, kisses. She avoided contracts in Minrathous so as not to meet him. Even now, fighting the Venatori, she feared the mage would let his hood slip — and she’d find her enemy was him, for who knew what he’d been through in ten years?

She ran her hand through her hair, the physical sensation gently pulling her back to the present.

Could it be that Zara Renata hadn’t finished saying that very word? If so, then Illario and the Venatori were uncomfortably close. That meant Teresa was right in her suspicions.

She remained before the mirror, but her gaze no longer clung to her reflection. The realization slowly settled inside her, and something twisted in her chest.

For many years she’d let no one close, following Viago’s unspoken rule: trust no one. Then he allowed himself to love Andarateia, and Teresa wondered — could she, too?

Markus was a mistake, and she’d known it at first sight. After that, it was easier to build the walls again. Then Varric had come and said, “Trust is always given in advance.”

Teresa looked at the door. Lucanis was somewhere out there. She had to talk to him about what happened, but she didn’t move.

How many times had he covered her in battle? How many times had she caught his glance, as if Lucanis silently wanted to check if she was all right?

When Spite retreated, returning Dellamorte control over his body, his shame was painfully clear. He didn’t look at Neve, or Taash, or Harding — only at her. Black eyes seemed to seek support, acceptance, or perhaps, condemnation.

Lucanis had become hers. Not because they were both Crows. Not because they were born in the same city and grew up in Antivan culture.

But perhaps that’s exactly why Teresa understood him instantly. Behind the confident expression — a history of his own, so similar to hers. Behind every word — something only the two of them recognized, something instantly familiar and close.

And he was handsome. In Antiva, that was common, and she knew: to cling to appearance was like grabbing a dagger by the blade. But Teresa remembered well their first meeting in the Ossuary and the way her heart had paused for a beat.

She saw it: Lucanis knew what pain was, and that was why he never turned away from the pain of others. He’d learned to be there when Teresa needed it most. And Lucanis saw what others missed. He always believed she could handle anything, no matter what.

Her heart was pounding, and she realized that fighting it was useless: Lucanis had become too dear.

She didn’t remember leaving her room, crossing the dim corridor of the Lighthouse, or descending the stone stairs. Teresa came to herself only at his door, knocked briefly, and stepped inside.

Lucanis sat on the bed, brooding, lost in thought. At her entrance, he immediately stood up.

“How are you?” Teresa asked quietly, approaching him with caution.

“What Spite did…” Lucanis began, frowning.

“He didn’t go anywhere. Nothing happened,” she said firmly. It was hard to miss how much Dellamorte was bothered by what had happened.

“I didn’t want you to see that again,” Lucanis exhaled. In his black eyes, Teresa clearly saw uncertainty, as if he feared her opinion had changed.

“I see nothing to turn away from.”

Lucanis smiled genuinely. Her heart skipped a beat, and she involuntarily stepped back, almost as if startled. Realizing it, Teresa mentally cursed herself and smiled in return.

“How do you always do that?” Lucanis took a step closer, and again she reflexively retreated, bumping her back against the stone wall.

“What do I do?” Teresa whispered, watching him take another step.

“You scatter my perfectly gathered clouds of doom. You deserve better than dealing with my chaos.”

“You’re more than what you’ve been through, Lucanis,” de Riva parried confidently. “And you’re handling it all with dignity.”

He was too close now. His breath brushed her skin — warm, enveloping, and her heart raced, as if something inside her had slipped its leash. She felt his nearness: the light scent of Antivan coffee, black, bitter, unsweetened — the same as she drank. A familiar taste. A familiar smell.

Her fingers gripped the stone wall behind her, not from fear — but from desire. She wanted him, and she wasn’t holding back. There was no point anymore.

“This is a very bad idea, Tess,” he breathed.

“Sometimes a bad idea is exactly what you need,” she answered softly, meeting his gaze.

Lucanis smirked. His eyes lingered on her lips.

“You like walking little close to the edge,” he observed.

“So do you,” Teresa replied with a small smile.

Her eyes studied him up close — the curve of his lips, the line of his cheekbones, the squint in his eyes. Maker, he was so beautiful! It almost annoyed her.

“At least I know it,” Lucanis whispered, leaning in over her.

Teresa closed her eyes, anticipating the kiss.

“I…”

Lucanis abruptly pulled away. Uncertainty and something akin to frustration flashed across his face.

“I need to clear my head. Forgive me.”

He walked to the door and left. Teresa stayed where she was, still feeling his breath on her skin.

 

***

Teresa left the empty room. Emotions took control of her body. Her legs trembled as if after a battle. Her vision blurred. She noticed the silhouette of Bellara in the dining room, setting the table for dinner. The elf seemed to look at her questioningly, but de Riva walked past and stepped outside.

Teresa had never felt this way before. It was as if every cell in her body screamed with pain and frustration. She blinked, trying to regain control of her vision, but the tears, though running down her cheeks, never left her eyes.

The last thing she needed was to break down right here.

She resolutely headed toward the main building of the Lighthouse and ran straight into Harding by the door. The dwarf gasped in surprise, and Teresa felt a steady, slightly worried gaze on her.

"Rook?.." The scout gave her a quick look-over and quietly asked, "Aren’t you coming to dinner?"

"It’s fine," her lips moved almost involuntarily. "I… I’ll come later. I just need…"

"Of course," Harding babbled. "Of course, Rook, get some rest. I’ll cover for you. I’ll say you’re busy. No one will bother you, I promise."

"Thank you," Teresa breathed, feeling like her body was about to give out.

She firmly pulled the door open. Already at her own room, she paused, uncertain. Sitting alone, left with her thoughts, felt like death. Teresa narrowed her eyes and looked farther down the hall, to the door that led to the makeshift Lighthouse infirmary. Where Varric had settled in.

Varric. She’d only known him for about a year, but the dwarf always managed to offer support even when it seemed there was no way out.

Teresa wiped her cheeks, trying to get her emotions under control, but it hardly helped. Too many feelings raged in her chest at once.

She came to herself only as she peeked into the infirmary. Varric was lying on a cot, reading some book. Noticing her, the dwarf smiled.

"Rook? What’s wrong?"

Teresa approached and cautiously sat on the edge of the bed. Varric put the book aside and looked at her warmly.

"It’s not about the gods," she whispered. Tears blurred her vision.

"What are you feeling, kid? Remember, naming it makes it easier?"

"Oh, Varric," she couldn’t help but smile. "Some things never change, huh?"

"Come on, come on," he smiled infectiously. "Remember how mad you were when we lost Solas’s trail in southern Tevinter? It helped back then. You keep a lot inside, Rook, and when there are too many emotions, you never know what to do with them. Speak, don’t be afraid."

"Rage, hurt, frustration, annoyance…"

The words spilled from her lips like curses. Teresa could feel the emotions pouring out, but the anger and pain remained. When she finished, she pressed her hands to her face.

"Mierda."

She felt Varric hug her. His hand stroked her hair.

"I’m here, kid," he murmured. Teresa nodded, forcing herself to pull together, and gently drew back.

They sat a while longer, reminiscing, until de Riva decided it was time to be alone. Bidding Varric a warm farewell, she left the infirmary and hesitated in the hallway.

What if he decided to find her…?

Her legs carried her toward the library, and within minutes Teresa found herself in Solas’s study, which they’d discovered only recently. It was unlikely anyone would look for her here.

The study greeted her with silence and twilight. Teresa didn’t light a single candle. She didn’t need light — she didn’t want to see. Not the books, not the walls, not herself.

She threw the balcony doors wide open, grabbed Solas’s pillow from his chair, sat on it, and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled into the air, and inside, pain and frustration flared anew.

"Not good enough for the ‘Demon of Virantium’," Zara Renata’s poisonous voice echoed in her mind.

Teresa felt tears blur her eyes again, and this time she let the emotions flow, knowing that here, at least, she was safe.

 

***

It seemed the door had been left open. He walked quickly, not looking around, barely seeing where he was going. His legs carried him away on their own.

The castle. The walls. The stone slabs under his feet. He didn’t remember how he ended up on the balcony of the building.

Lucanis stood at the edge and clenched his fingers into fists.

“I shouldn’t have let her get so close,” he said quietly in Antivan.

“But you wanted it,” came a familiar voice.

He turned. A silhouette stood nearby — a violet shimmer, like a reflection of himself in a different light. Strange, and already painfully familiar. Spite.

“You just don’t know what to do with it,” the demon added.

Lucanis turned and walked away, refusing to answer. He knew there was no running from Spite.

He entered the training hall and picked up his daggers. Lucanis eyed the target at the far end of the room and threw one dagger. Then another. Both missed the mark.

He cursed under his breath and went after them. Pulling the daggers from the target, he silently examined the blades, checking the balance. His mind was far too empty. Fear gnawed at him.

It was a feeling he’d known for a long time, an inseparable companion. For an Antivan Crow, it seemed almost fitting. Not the fear of failing a contract, or not slitting a Venatori’s throat, or not saving the innocent. This was a different fear — the fear of not being accepted.

“You always run to steel when it hurts,” Spite said. He stood behind him, his voice coming from there. “But Teresa won’t hurt you. She’s different.”

“Shut up,” Lucanis snapped. “You’re a demon. You don’t know what it’s like!”

“I feel you, Lucanis. Always. I know how you look at her when she isn’t watching. I know how you memorize her voice. How you listen to her steps. How you search for her in battle. I know you’d give anything to kiss her. But you were afraid.”

He clenched his teeth. His hands were shaking. He sank onto a bench between the weapon racks.

“I... wanted to stay,” he exhaled. “But it felt like if I did, everything would fall apart. That I wouldn’t handle it. And she’d see.”

“You’re afraid Teresa will see the real you. Not the mage-killer hiding behind confidence and bravado. But the one I know. Only, you know what, Lucanis? She sees the real you. I can feel it.”

Lucanis didn’t reply. For several seconds he just sat there, staring at the floor, breathing, as if remembering how to do it.

He closed his eyes, recalling Teresa — Tess. The way her lips parted slightly, anticipating a kiss, the shine of her expressive gray eyes. How open and vulnerable she seemed in that moment. And the familiar scent of black coffee, which she was now forever linked to in his mind.

He sighed and stood up resolutely. Spite stood at his right, watching him expectantly.

“I have to find her,” Lucanis muttered.

The violet silhouette nodded and — for the first time in the Crow’s memory — smiled.

“About time.”

 

***

Solas’s study was saturated with the scent of strong Antivan tobacco. Teresa sat right in front of the balcony door. The fingers of her right hand gripped a cigarette, her left drummed against her forearm, as if tapping out an unfamiliar melody.

All her thoughts seemed to have evaporated in the time she’d spent crying. How many years had it been since she last cried?

Teresa took a drag, exhaling smoke. It drifted out the open door, and she wearily closed her eyes. She could stay here until morning.

The sensitive ear of an Antivan Crow caught footsteps in the distance. A flicker of annoyance flared within her, but indifference quickly replaced it. Whoever it was, she would stay here.

Another motion of the cigarette to her lips, and her throat burned in a familiar way. She really shouldn’t have smoked this much.

Maker save her, she was acting like a true Antivan — dramatic, on the edge of the ridiculous and the risqué. The kind who fainted at the sight of a handsome, inevitably charming man.

Teresa shook her head, rolling her eyes, and took another drag. Well, they say everyone goes through this at least once. Apparently, it was her turn.

The footsteps stopped, but not a single floorboard creaked. Teresa knew: if it had been Harding or anyone else, they would have given themselves away with the creak of the boards or simply called out to her. Only one person could move this quietly.

"Tess?"

Her heart skipped a beat. The footsteps drew closer, and then he settled beside her, right on the floor. Teresa felt his gaze but couldn’t bring herself to look back. Instead, she took another drag and stubbed out the cigarette in one of Solas’s little vases, which she’d borrowed. The elven god of lies would survive.

"Say something," Lucanis said quietly.

"How did you find me, Dellamorte?"

"I looked for you."

Teresa didn’t answer. She took a cigarette from her case but didn’t manage to light it — a warm hand settled on her wrist. Lucanis gently took the cigarette and put it back.

"Tess, talk to me."

She turned her head sharply and met his gaze. Something shifted in the Crow’s face, his brows furrowed.

"You… you were crying?"

"Hardly," she shot back.

His lips twitched, as if suppressing a laugh.

"Then why are you here?"

Teresa looked at him again, this time barely keeping the storm inside at bay. No words came, and she let out a shaky breath. Lucanis waited.

"Talk to me, please."

"Damn you, Dellamorte."

She felt the hesitant brush of his fingertips against her skin, and goosebumps rose in their wake.

"I didn’t leave because I didn’t want it," he said softly. His features tightened, as if unsure he could express what he felt. "On the contrary — I wanted it too much. I don’t know if I can handle it if you say no. Or yes. I guess I’m afraid of both," he looked at her, and Teresa didn’t look away. "I’m afraid of losing you, Tess, even before anything has started."

"Me too," she admitted. "I’ve never felt this before, Lucanis. And I’m afraid I’ll ruin everything. Or hurt you. And then I freeze up and…" Teresa sighed. "But most of all, I’m afraid that neither of us will ever dare."

He smiled, and everything inside her stilled. Lucanis reached out and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. The touch was feather-light, but it took her breath away.

He leaned in, stopping just a couple centimeters away, as if giving her a chance to change her mind. Teresa smiled slightly and nodded.

His lips touched hers, and despite the tenderness, Teresa was swept up in a wave of heat. Warm breath, closeness, soft but slightly rough lips. Goosebumps trailed down her back, and her control shattered. She leaned in to meet him. His hand touched her cheek — slow and gentle, but her skin seemed to ignite at the touch.

Her fingers slid over the fabric of his shirt. There was still fear inside, because both he and his kiss felt like too much. But she didn’t pull away. Teresa pressed closer. Her fingers stroked his hair. Lucanis drew her in, responding to every touch, exploring her in return.

The warmth of his body, the taste, the closeness — all of it felt almost impossible. She didn’t think, only felt.

His fingers slipped under her shirt at her back, barely touching her, and she let out a ragged breath. Lucanis smiled into the kiss, never breaking away, his hands slowly moving forward. Teresa flinched slightly, and her stomach twisted with pain that no longer existed. Her breath caught, and in a moment, desire gave way to something else — fear, shame, memory.

Lucanis froze. He didn’t pull his hand away but stopped kissing her, and she felt his gaze, full of compassion and understanding.

"Tess, what’s wrong?" he asked softly.

"I… I was badly hurt. There are no marks left, but in my head, the pain is still there," she sighed, searching for words. "It feels like I still feel it."

"Who did this?"

"The Venatori," Teresa whispered. "Three years ago in Karastes."

"Should I move my hand?"

Teresa shook her head.

"No. I’m sorry. No one has touched me there since then."

"The Venatori…" Lucanis muttered. "Is he dead?"

"He escaped," she answered with a heavy sigh. "I couldn’t… If First Enchanter Ammosin hadn’t suspected something and saved me, I would’ve been dead. Viago dropped everything and came to Karastes. He nursed me for a month. No one but him knew what happened."

Dellamorte swallowed.

"What’s the Venatori’s name, Tess?"

"Tenebrius. Viago tried to find him, but the bastard vanished without a trace. But the magister he served is dead. Viago took care of that."

Lucanis’s lips gently touched her cheek.

"He’s still looking for him, I suppose?"

Teresa managed a weak smile.

"You know Viago. I’m sure he is."

Lucanis ran his fingers over her stomach, asking nothing more.

"If Tenebrius shows up, I’ll be there," he said quietly.

Teresa nodded slightly.

"Okay. But don’t get in front of me," a smile touched her lips.

He smirked.

"Deal. And Tess…"

"What is it?" she looked at him, feeling her vulnerability twist inside.

"Don’t be ashamed of what you’ve been through. It’s a part of you, a sign of strength. You survived," Lucanis said quietly, gently stroking her stomach. The touch warmed her, and the pain faded. "I want to know all of you."

"All?"

"Yes," he drew her close, pressing his lips to her hair. His breath tickled her ear. "Gradually, with no rush, to learn you step by step."

Teresa caressed his cheek.

"I like that," she whispered, and smiled just a little.

Their lips met again, and she let herself dissolve completely in the feeling.

 

***

The Dock town smelled familiar — the sea, the scent of freshly caught fish. There was a time when Servis thought he’d never want to come back here. For many years — ever since his studies at the Imperial Circle in Minrathous — that was the case, until Neve made him see this unremarkable district of the capital, where they’d both grown up, in a completely new light.

The detective stood exactly where he expected to find her — on the pier, at their spot, tossing pebbles into the water. Hearing footsteps, she turned, and Crassius grinned broadly. Neve smirked and leaned in to kiss him. Servis glanced around.

"You’re alone?"

"Who else should I be with?"

"With Rook?"

"She’ll come later," Neve grimaced. "She promised to help me with something. I don’t want to involve her in your business."

Crassius chuckled and shook his head.

"I see your opinion of Rook hasn’t changed," he noted, and Gallus rolled her eyes.

"Let’s not. What did you find out?"

"Honestly, almost nothing," Crassius muttered. "First Enchanter Ammosin is bound by obligations and only hinted that it concerns Viago de Riva."

He told Neve the little he’d managed to learn, and the mage pressed her lips together.

"I decided it’s time to meet Rook and ask her questions. If she’s close to Viago, then—"

"Crassius, snap out of it," Neve interrupted, her brown eyes flashing with annoyance. "You can’t rely on her!"

"You’re biased…" he tried to protest, but the mage didn’t let him finish:

"It’s not about Minrathous, Crassius! Or, not only about that. She’s an Antivan Crow! Viago is her cousin! Teresa de Riva won’t tell you anything! She’ll probably just lie. She won’t reveal house secrets to a Tevinter mage — especially not to you!"

"And what does that mean?" Servis asked quietly, not expecting the turn. He folded his arms and frowned.

Neve fell silent for a few seconds, as if picking her words, but apparently decided to say it as it was.

"Remember Harding? She knows you, Crassius. As Venatori. As one of those who worked for Corypheus. And so does Rook."

He was silent. There was no reproach in Neve’s words, but that made it hurt more. She just reminded him — almost casually — that there are people who haven’t forgotten. And never will.

"Crassius," the mage stepped closer and touched his cheek. "We both know you aren’t who you were back then. You never shared the Venatori’s ideals. But that doesn’t matter to people like Harding. And Rook knows too. She won’t tell you anything."

He sighed heavily, steadying himself.

"Then I need time to figure out how to approach Viago de Riva."

Neve gave a soft snort and stepped away. Picking up a pebble, she tossed it into the water, then turned her head and asked:

"Do you have a death wish?"

"And what do you suggest?" Crassius felt irritation rise.

"Harding, as I once told you, is very kind and open."

"So?" He stood next to Neve, staring at her with impatience.

"And she let it slip that, before escaping Treviso, Rook had a romance with a Crow from her house. Marcus. For his betrayal, Catarina Dellamorte herself took him under her control, but as you know, she’s dead, and now Marcus works for Illario. Harding mentioned that it wasn’t anything serious between them, but that doesn’t matter. He could still be useful. Marcus worked for de Riva for many years. And if you find a way to get to him, it’s quite possible…"

"Let me get this straight — you’re suggesting I go to Treviso?" Servis laughed. "Neve, it would take a week just to get there!"

"There’s an eluvian in Dock town," Gallus rolled her eyes, as if stating the obvious.

"You said the eluvian in Treviso is in the headquarters of the Antivan Crows! I may be reckless, but not that much!" he parried, smiling.

Neve bit her lip and nodded.

"Lucanis said it’s three or four days by sea."

Crassius sighed, realizing he had no other choice. Doubts twisted at the edge of his mind.

"Our people are looking for Tenebrius’s traces in Minrathous. Maybe it makes sense to leave what happened in Karastes in the past?"

Neve pondered. Her dark eyes stared blankly at the surface of the Noken Sea.

"He’s clearly been hiding somewhere these years. He’s probably there now, if no one has found him yet. I think it’s worth finding out what Viago knows. Without him knowing, of course."

"I think if he knew, Tenebrius would already be dead," Servis sighed heavily.

"Even so, de Riva may have more information than you do now," Neve countered. "I think you should go to Treviso, Crassius."

"Easy for you to say," he smirked. "You can get there through the eluvian without raising suspicion, since you work with Rook."

The detective thought for a moment, then looked at him.

"You want to ask me to talk to Marcus?"

Servis shook his head.

"The Crows definitely know you. It’s easier for me to get lost in the crowd. Even if someone sees me with him, no one will know who I am."

Neve didn’t object. She just nodded — short, almost imperceptible.

"Then it’s settled," Crassius said, looking out at the sea. "Will you come by tonight?"

The mage smiled and arched her eyebrow.

"You’ll have to ask nicely, Servis."

He chuckled quietly and pulled her close, leaning in for a kiss.

"I’ll do my best not to disappoint, Gallus."

 

***

They walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Lucanis didn’t hold her hand. In front of others, they still didn’t let themselves show how important they’d become to one another, thinking only of the new feelings that had arisen between them. But their steps matched, their movements were surprisingly in sync, and they kept glancing at each other. Teresa felt a wide, genuine smile on her lips and caught his slightly ironic look.

She looked ahead, searching for Neve, but out of the corner of her eye caught sight of a figure at the pier: a tall man in a dark gray mage’s robe, standing with his back to her. He leaned down over Neve, touched her lips, and strode away without looking back.

Teresa lingered on him with her gaze. Something in his stride—confident, a little sweeping, calm—sparked a familiar feeling. For a moment, her memory trembled, but gave her no image. Just a strange, elusive sense: somewhere, sometime… It was as if she’d seen him before.

Teresa frowned slightly, but had no time to say anything: Neve was already walking toward them with a polite smile and a slight squint.

"Well, shall we go? There’s work to do."

Teresa nodded, glancing back over her shoulder for just a second before following the mage. The tall man had already disappeared from sight.

Chapter Text

Crassius Servis lit a cigarette and scanned over his long-standing notes on the Antivan Crows.

Nearby lay a procured map of Treviso, and he glanced over it again. He’d marked all the secret alleys and courtyards where he could hide if discovered. Then again, it was unlikely the Antivan Crows would care about a man arriving by ship from Minrathous. Still — who knew?

He shrugged and stood up, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray that once belonged to the late Galvard Pavus — Dorian’s father and his mentor. Setting off for Antiva in a mage’s robe would be too strange, so he’d had to change style, and now had to get used to the uncomfortable leather armor hugging his body. And though the Antivan merchant assured him that “the armor is the perfect size for you, sir,” Crassius did not agree.

He approached the cloudy mirror in an old frame and surveyed his reflection critically. The armor fit his height and shoulders as if it had been made for someone two sizes smaller. Black and leather, it pulled his shoulders back and cut into his hips as if sewn by an enemy. They say Crow uniforms are even worse. He turned, smirked.

“Excellent. A Tevinter mage pretending to be an Antivan. All I need are feathers and a dagger between my teeth,” he muttered to himself.

He ran a hand over the collar—uncomfortable. The belt was too tight. The boots pinched. Everything was too much!

“If only the hood would sit right,” he grumbled, pulling it over his head. The fabric immediately snagged on a strap at his shoulder, and he rolled his eyes. “Of course. Thanks, Antiva. I can hardly wait.”

A loud laugh came from the doorway. Servis flushed and turned. Neve Gallus was laughing, bracing her shoulder against the wall.

“Very funny,” Crassius gritted through his teeth.

Neve entered the office and gave him an appraising look.

“You know, it actually suits you. Fits just right. I doubt many Antivans can boast such shoulders.”

His irritation instantly vanished, though Servis tried not to show it. The mage dropped into an armchair, her brown eyes never leaving him.

“Dorian’s business is finished, I take it?” she asked.

“For now, yes,” Crassius nodded, shifting from foot to foot, tugging at the sleeves. “The ship to Treviso leaves in the morning.”

It was stupid, but he felt almost naked.

“It looks good on you,” Neve finally stopped staring, and their eyes met. “I’m sure the armor will keep you from standing out too much.”

He sighed heavily, and the sound was more a growl than a sigh.

“How do they wear this? Why? It’s so uncomfortable!” Crassius stared at himself in the mirror. “Maybe I shouldn’t go to Treviso? You wanted me to talk to Rook yourself before.”

He turned fully, and Neve rolled her eyes.

“Crassius, she’s too reserved, tells almost nothing about herself. Yes, she helps the team, always ready to listen and lend a hand, but I know little about her. Viago is involved here, and she’s unlikely to say anything.”

“But it’s for a good cause,” Servis retorted, frowning. “You said yourself she’s not indifferent.”

Neve pressed her lips together so hard they turned white, but nodded.

“She is. But too secretive.”

“She reminds me of someone,” Crassius grinned wide, stepping closer to the mage.

A kiss would have brightened his mood, but the armor creaked, the moment felt lost, and he cursed under his breath. Neve’s icy look made it clear that his remark hadn’t pleased her.

Footsteps sounded from the corridor, and Neve glanced that way at once. Her furrowed brow meant it could only be one person.

Crassius turned. Margaret stood quietly in the doorway, but her lips curved in a mocking smile at the sight of the armor. She wore a loose black dress, her wild curls falling over her shoulders. Servis caught himself thinking she looked perfect and quickly looked away.

“And who would have thought, Margot, that you’d have a life like this. And that I’d be glad for it,” flashed through his mind.

“I always admire your talent for turning up out of nowhere,” Neve remarked, greeting the mage with a casual nod. “Right when the conversation gets especially awkward.”

“Good to see you too, Neve,” Margaret shot back and looked at Crassius. “Leaving tomorrow?”

“As you see,” he grumbled, silently cursing his urge to break in the uncomfortable armor.

The mage nodded seriously, clearly lost in thought. At last, she said quietly,

“Are you still sure going to Treviso is a good idea? Dorian needs you, even if he’ll never admit it.”

“You promised to cover for me if needed.”

“And I will!” Margaret raised her hands, as if to show she wasn’t there to argue. “I just still think it would be much easier to talk to Rook directly.”

Crassius didn’t have time to reply. Neve stood, folding her arms across her chest, her face stubborn.

“Rook can’t be trusted,” she said acidly. “Viago de Riva is her cousin. She won’t give up anything that concerns the family.”

Margaret shrugged, and Servis noticed how Neve frowned even harder.

“You know, Rook made a good impression on me,” Margot answered simply. “And on Philipp too. And my brother is an excellent judge of people.”

“Thanks, but Crassius and I will handle it without your advice,” Neve muttered.

Servis froze. Margaret had always taken his lover calmly: there was nothing to fight over. But Neve… Despite years together and her reassurances that the past was in the past, the mage sometimes reacted to Margaret as if her very presence unsettled her.

“Is it because Rook is an Antivan Crow?” Rutherford asked calmly. “Or is it still because she chose Treviso, not Minrathous?”

“What do Antivan Crows have to do with it?” Neve rolled her eyes. “I have no problem with Lucanis Dellamorte.”

“Well, he’s a man,” Margaret shrugged, but never took her dark eyes off the mage. “Unlike that Crow from Crassius’s past.”

Servis went still. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt Neve’s heavy, questioning stare. The leather armor suddenly felt much too hot.

“Thanks, Margot, just thanks,” he thought.

Words failed him. Make excuses? That was stupid. Whatever he said, a storm was coming.

He looked at Margaret, and on her face was shock, regret, and understanding.

“What Crow?” Neve asked, her voice too quiet.

Crassius sighed.

“Ten years ago. In Orlais. I don’t know who she was — no name, no house. It’s long-forgotten history.”

He looked at Neve, and she nodded, accepting it.

“So that’s why you know so much about the Antivan Crows,” the mage murmured. “But why didn’t you say so? Especially now, when I’m dragged into this whole saga with the gods and Rook?”

“Because the past doesn’t matter, Neve.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Easy for you to say, Crassius! That’s true when the past isn’t constantly shoved in your face!” She jabbed a finger at Margaret, still glaring at him.

“If you have something to say to me, Neve, I’m listening,” the mage said calmly.

Neve took a few steps and stood in front of her.

“You know what infuriates me? That Crassius lives here now. We used to live together, we had our own place! Now I sleep here because you and your family are in danger, Rook chose Treviso, and you — his past, which never left!”

Crassius felt something tighten inside.

“Neve, that was over ten years ago,” Margaret said unexpectedly gently. “I’ve been with Cullen a long time. We’re happy. Crassius is my friend, whether you like it or not. Yes, we have a past, but we left it behind a long time ago. None of it matters. I don’t want him to get hurt. He’s going to Antiva, where Tevinters are viewed with suspicion. I don’t understand why, when he could just talk to Rook.”

Neve exhaled. It was as if she’d suddenly relaxed, exhausted by it all.

“I’m not your enemy,” Margaret finished, looking at Crassius. “Forgive me. And try not to get into trouble in Treviso, all right?”

He nodded, and the mage left, leaving them alone. Servis went over to Neve and pulled her close. She avoided his gaze, and he gently touched her chin, making her look at him.

“Listen to me,” he said softly. “I love you. You, Neve. For a very long time. Yes, I have a past, just like you, but does it matter? What have I always said about comparisons?”

“Comparison is equal to betrayal,” Neve muttered. He hadn’t seen her this vulnerable in a long time.

“Exactly,” Crassius smiled a little. “I love you, you hear?”

The mage nodded, and her usual confidence returned to her eyes.

“And I love you, Thorn,” she breathed. “And I hate to admit it, but Margaret’s right. Be careful in Treviso. Looks like Rook and Dellamorte dealt with the Venatori, but the Antaam…”

“I will,” he promised, leaning over Neve. Kissing her gently, he suggested, “Let’s go to bed?”

She nodded, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.

“Sounds like a great plan.”

 

***

Hossberg was, in Lucanis’s opinion, the dreariest place in all of Thedas — just as it was every time he ended up here, escorting Teresa. Not that he ever complained about it, of course.

Complaining in front of everyone had never been his habit, thanks to Catarina. Quite the opposite — grit your teeth harder, bury your feelings deeper, and do what needed to be done. And if, before, his mind was full of solid Antivan cursing, now it had been replaced by Spite — and how had the demon managed not just to learn, but to use such colorful language so aptly?

He suppressed a heavy sigh. Today, for the first time in their whole mission, the reason for being in Hossberg was even pleasant — the Grey Wardens had reported seeing a dragon on the edge of the marshes, a dragon that fit the description of the one that attacked Treviso. Lucanis fully shared Spite’s concise mood — kill, kill, kill.
He tried not to think of anything else — of his own crushing failure in Weisshaupt — but couldn’t help it. If the gods appeared and he messed up again, how could he ever look Teresa in the eye?

According to Grey Warden Evka’s plan, their job — Teresa, Davrin, and Lucanis — was to lure the corrupted dragon out of the ruined tower. They were lucky to have Taash in their team—she knew how to do it. The Wardens would support them in the fight.

Evka had had the courage to appeal to both the Shadow Dragons and the Antivan Crows for help, but neither group arrived. Whether they couldn’t or simply wouldn’t, Lucanis didn’t bother to guess. He knew one thing — always count only on yourself. Now, with one exception — Rook.

Evka and Teresa believed it would work. Lucanis, having gotten to know de Riva so well, could see her hands trembling with nerves, the little wrinkle between her brows — a constant reaction when Rook was tense. He wanted to reach for her, even secretly, but forced aside the selfish urge. Maybe later, if luck was with him.

The plan seemed clear: draw attention, lure the dragon into open ground, drive it into the strike zone of the Wardens’ trebuchet, and destroy it.

Experience, however, said: something always goes wrong. No exceptions.

Then everything blurred together. The sound. A powerful gust of wind. The beat of wings. Lucanis glanced around quickly — on both sides, they were surrounded by Grey Wardens. He focused on the enemy, a grim smirk flashing across his lips — it was the dragon from Treviso.

Teresa cursed softly in Antivan, her words capturing all the emotion of seeing the monster that had haunted her home city.

“Stick to the plan!” de Riva shouted, and Davrin dashed forward, aiming to draw the beast’s attention.

“Over here, monster!” the Warden bellowed. “I’m right here!”

The dragon turned and roared thunderously. The distraction worked, and Teresa darted to the dragon’s side, drawing her rapier and dagger. Lucanis raced after her, doing the same.

“Lucanis, I’ll go low, you go high,” she called.

Spite, hearing the order, lifted him on spectral wings, and Lucanis began striking at the dragon with precise, practiced blows.

The icy beast roared, trying to catch Davrin with blasts of frost. More than once, it nearly knocked Teresa aside with a swipe of its claws, but de Riva dodged in time.

“Mierda, be careful!” Lucanis shouted as the dragon’s claw almost skewered her.

“Don’t get distracted!”

They almost had it. The dragon was staggering. Its breathing was ragged, one paw buckled. The wound beneath its wing was bleeding.

“Now!” Teresa shouted. “Davrin, distract it! Lucanis — go high!”

“Got it!” called the Warden, rushing forward.

Spite’s wings swept Lucanis upward, and he struck with his rapier just under a plate of armor, making the dragon howl in agony. Teresa darted aside, dodging the sweep of its tail, and slashed at its neck.

Almost. Just another moment. And then everything froze. Out of the light and mist, a figure appeared. She stepped from the light — too tall, unreal, twisted. She looked like a woman, but only vaguely.

Her body seemed molded from metal and dust, wrapped in pulsating tentacles, writhing like serpentine vines. Where a crown should have been, horns and bones intertwined.

There was something ancient and painfully wrong about her.

Lucanis knew he should focus on her as the target. But it was hard to look. Inside, something recoiled, as if in the presence of something that had no right to exist — and yet did.

Lucanis stared at Ghilan’nain. His thoughts were sharp, but scattered.

Fear. Anger. At her? At himself?

Again before him — the one he was supposed to kill. But in Weisshaupt, he’d failed. Then. But now? If he got the chance — don’t fail. Crows always fulfill their contracts.

He took a step, then another. Now, while she was exposed. But Ghilan’nain stretched out her hand, and a blinding light struck the nearly defeated dragon. It roared and rose. Its scales healed, the blood vanished. Broken wings lifted again. Its eyes flared with blue fire.

“No!” Teresa cried. Lucanis shuddered — that voice was too alive, too dear. He turned. Rook’s gray eyes were full of furious tears, her fingers clutching her rapier and dagger so hard her knuckles were white. Her mouth twisted with rage.

She’s more important than the contract, Spite hissed — or whispered — in his mind.
Lucanis forced himself to turn away. Back to Ghilan’nain. But then the corrupted goddess’s voice thundered.

“Wardens! You challenged me at Weisshaupt. You stole my archdemon. For this, you’ll pay in blood!”

And in the next instant, another roar. Hoarse, like a volcano’s breath. The air ignited.

A second dragon crashed from the sky — molten scales, wings the color of fire, jaws blazing.

The first dragon lunged — its tail smashed Davrin aside. Lucanis moved, dodging an icy blast. His eyes found Teresa — she was alive. The second dragon swept low — fire burning everything in its path.

“There are too few of us!” Lucanis yelled.

“We don’t retreat!” Teresa snapped back.

And then a strike. A crash. The catapult.

A magical bolt pierced the ice dragon’s wing — it howled, losing balance.

“Viago?!”

From the hill, through smoke and steam, a silhouette emerged. Viago de Riva stood beside the catapult. Behind him — the Antivan Crows.

Lucanis heard Teresa’s hysterical laughter, and remembered her stories of ancient siege weapons in the de Riva manor’s backyard.

So, her cousin had come to help after all. Not with words — with action.

“We figured a little help wouldn’t hurt!” Viago shouted. “And we brought presents! Let’s kill them!”

Dragon wings blasted heat, icy roars split their ears, but Lucanis held on. Teresa was nearby. Alive. Fighting. That was enough to force his fear back down as usual.

He switched to instinct. Blows, dodges, roars, blood — all fused into a nonstop flash of movement.

When it was finally quiet, it took him a moment to realize it was over.

Before him lay the bodies of two dragons. Ghilan’nain was wounded. And beside her — Elgar’nan. Tall, as if carved from gold and stone, with veins of pulsing light on his armor. Rage radiated from him — cold, oppressive. But in the way he touched her shoulder, there was a strange, ancient sorrow.

They disappeared.

Lucanis stood motionless. Everything inside ached. His fingers didn’t want to unclench.

Up ahead, Teresa was talking to the Grey Wardens. Evka. Antoine. Beside her — Viago. Serious, focused, as always.

Lucanis couldn’t take his eyes off her. Before, he’d never realized how much he soaked in every gesture, every word.

Now everything was different. Lately, they’d come to know each other better than anyone else possibly could. They talked deep into the night, sharing stories from the past, exchanging secret smiles when others were nearby. Kissed a lot. At first gently, carefully, tenderly, then as if they’d done it all their lives.

The world felt different. Even Spite didn’t irritate him as before. It was as if her hands were always around his neck, her palms soothing his back, her lips whispering in Antivan words of tenderness, warmth, without any pretense.

Teresa didn’t see him as a “Demon of Virantium,” or a skilled killer, or a man who drew interested stares. She somehow saw through it all — to the uncertain, moody, guarded man underneath.

They loved the same books, and it turned out they could argue hoarsely over their interpretations. And when Lucanis got carried away, blinded by a fit of stubbornness, Teresa would just smile, and something inside him would let go.

Their shared home city brought them together. Gradually, she opened up, sharing her dreams — how she wanted to help people, visit Ferelden, breathe in the Frostback Mountains’ freshness. He kept silent for now, but began to think about things he’d always considered out of reach.

Now Lucanis watched her without fear of being caught. The way a strand of hair fell across her face and she pushed it back. The way she wrinkled her nose when she wanted to sneeze. How she laughed at his dark jokes so hard happiness filled his chest.

He remembered holding her from behind, breathing in the scent of her thick hair. She always smelled special: vanilla, with light notes of rosewood. Sometimes — mint. And that was the first time he couldn’t help himself, kissed her neck slow, gentle. Teresa drew a shaky breath, her hand reaching up to touch his hair…

He snapped out of the memory and quickly walked over to Viago and Teresa, catching both their eyes.

Antoine and Evka nodded their goodbyes and headed for their own, Davrin following after, clearly wanting to talk.

Suddenly, Viago moved. Abruptly, as always. He stepped forward, looked around, and without a word, hugged Teresa. Hard, tightly, as if afraid she’d vanish. Lucanis saw Viago’s lips touch her hair.

He knew it meant nothing. He knew Viago was her family, her anchor, her past. But something inside Lucanis flared and tightened.

Jealousy?

No, not of Viago. That would be silly. He pushed the feeling down immediately.

Did she tell him? Does Viago know…?

He looked away, but didn’t move. Still, he saw Teresa hesitantly hug her cousin, stroking his back.

“I’m fine,” she murmured in their native tongue. “Thank you for coming to help. If it weren’t for you…”

Viago said nothing, didn’t loosen his embrace. Lucanis knew him well enough to realize — Viago wouldn’t find the words. He couldn’t see Teresa’s face — Viago was taller — but then she said:

“You haven’t hugged me like that since Karastes.”

De Riva stepped back, nodded, and walked off to the Crows who had come with him. Lucanis watched him go, then finally found the strength to look at Teresa.

“How are you?” he breathed.

She beamed, as if she still couldn’t believe what had happened—two dragons, and Viago’s actions.

“Speechless. And you?”

Lucanis couldn’t help but smile in return, studying her tired gray eyes, the curve of her lips, her fair skin.

“I was thinking… How about a walk through Treviso? Tomorrow. Just you and me. I know a good place where we could have dinner.”

He didn’t know Teresa could smile so sincerely.

“A date, Dellamorte?”

“A date,” Lucanis confirmed.

“All right,” she stepped closer and touched his chest, hidden under leather armor.

Then Teresa turned and confidently followed Viago. Lucanis couldn’t help but watch her — her dancer’s stride, the curve of her hips, her dark hair falling below her shoulders.

He ran a hand over his face, trembling slowly settling inside his chest. The only thought left was: “Tomorrow. Just the two of us.”

About time, Spite murmured with lazy approval.

 

***

Teresa looked at herself in the mirror critically and sighed, then ran a hand through her smoothly brushed hair. Of course, when she left Treviso after being expelled from the Crows, she hadn’t taken many things with her. She’d grabbed one dress — just in case — and now she couldn’t decide: it felt like another life since she’d worn anything like this.

The fabric draped softly over her body, not restricting her movements. Black, matte, as soft as silk and just as expensive — as an Antivan woman ought to wear. The neckline was modest, just enough not to look flashy. The sleeves were three-quarters. Beneath the hem, a strap held a dagger just above her knee. There was a pocket on her hip — for poison. Without these little details, she would have felt vulnerable.

To avoid drawing too much attention, Teresa pulled on a short black jacket over it.

The mirror reflected a collected, silent young woman. She looked like part of the city, a shadow in Treviso’s twilight.

Looking at herself again, Teresa sighed. Her gray eyes looked sullen, almost reproachful.

Makeup seemed unnecessary — especially when you’re hunting ancient elven gods, not preparing for a gala. But tonight was special. And she allowed herself a little more than usual.

She kept her eyes calm: a thin line along the lashes, just a hint of shadow for emphasis.

All the focus was on her lips. The color was bold: a dark wine shade with a velvety sheen. The kind that caught the eye at once.

“Too much?” Teresa muttered at her reflection.

There was a soft knock at the door. She knew who it was, but still walked over unhurriedly and opened it. Her eyes involuntarily took in his figure.

Lucanis wore the same Antivan Crow jacket as she did. Under it, a perfect black shirt. His trousers, as always, fit impeccably.

Of course, he was armed. A rapier and dagger hung in their usual places, unconcealed.

Teresa looked up, and Lucanis’s eyebrows rose.

“You look wonderful,” he said quietly, studying her with his black eyes.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Come in. I need a minute.”

Lucanis frowned, not understanding, and looked her over again.

“If you ask me, you look incredible.”

Teresa smiled and moved deeper into the room, straightening her dress. In one motion, she slid the dagger into a hidden strap at her thigh. The fabric fell back into place, concealing the weapon.

She looked up, and he was already close.

Lucanis’s eyes met hers, and something inside her trembled. She didn’t remember who made the first move — only the touch of lips. At first tentative, almost a question. But in a second, it became something else — hungry, insistent. Lucanis’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulled her close, and she stepped back until her back touched the cold wall.

He kissed her as if for the first and last time. His hands explored her curves first over the dress, then underneath. Teresa felt like she was burning. When his kisses found her neck, a quiet moan escaped her lips.

Lucanis pulled away, as if it cost him effort. His chest rose and fell heavily. He looked at her as if nothing else existed.

“Let’s go,” he breathed. “Treviso is waiting.”

Teresa nodded, trying to catch her breath.

“I’m ready.”

 

***

They stepped out of the eluvian directly onto a balcony, hidden from prying eyes. Muted sounds from the “Diamond” drifted up from below, but here it was quiet. Teresa gently tugged his hand before they went inside — into the headquarters of the Antivan Crows.

“Lucanis,” she whispered, and her heart skipped a beat.

De Riva seemed hesitant, her gaze drifting aside to the view from the balcony. Lucanis stepped toward her and gently touched her cheek, soft and almost weightless.

“What is it, Tess?”

She pressed her lips together, and he smiled. She didn’t need to voice her thoughts — Lucanis seemed to know what was wrong.

“You’re not ready to tell Viago yet.”

Teresa huffed and looked at him.

“How do you know?”

“I understand. What’s happening between us is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And it scares me, how important you’ve become, Tess,” he said, giving a grim half-smile, but there was only sincerity in his voice. “I know it’s the same for you. And we don’t owe anyone an explanation until we want to give one.”

Teresa let out a breath of relief, leaned in, and kissed him.

“Thank you. Sometimes it feels like you guess my thoughts better than I can say them.”

Lucanis smirked.

“Shall we? I want this evening to be memorable.”

Teresa gave him a wide smile, nodded, and headed for the doors. He followed her.

There were almost no people in the Antivan Crows’ headquarters, but Lucanis immediately caught the gaze of Viago and Teia. The head of House de Riva’s expression was unreadable, but Teia, always at his side, was clearly surprised by their pairing.

“Teresa,” Viago called.

Lucanis could feel her tense beside him.

“Hopefully nothing urgent,” Teresa muttered, turning toward where the Talons stood.

“You’re just in time,” Viago observed, glancing from Lucanis to his cousin. “I just received word: our man at the port spotted a suspicious Tevinter who came ashore from a local merchant’s ship.”

“What merchant?” Lucanis asked, a bad feeling settling in.

He knew that after the victory over Zara Renata, Venatori influence in Treviso had waned, and Viago and Teia’s people had dealt with the rest who hadn’t been in the cathedral.

“Bruno Arzani,” Viago answered. “That’s the problem. You know, Lucanis, that Arzani is our long-time supplier of rare herbs who trades in Minrathous.”

“I know,” Dellamorte nodded, frowning. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Catarina always trusted him, which was rare for her.”

“Exactly,” the Fifth Talon confirmed. “But a suspicious man came off his ship and drew the attention of one of my people.”

“Arzani probably didn’t know who he was transporting,” Teia interjected. “I’ve known Bruno since childhood, and I’d never believe he’s capable of betrayal.”

Viago looked at her and remarked coldly:

“Everyone betrays, Teia. It’s only a matter of price.”

“Still, Bruno…” The elf hesitated, as if she didn’t want to believe it. “I just don’t think he has a motive.”

Footsteps sounded behind Lucanis, and he turned. Mateo, one of Viago’s protégés, stepped up beside him. The young man greeted him and Teresa, then addressed his house leader:

“I spoke to Lord Arzani,” Mateo reported, moving a little closer. “He’s still in shock. He said he really did take this man aboard at the request of one of his Minrathous acquaintances. But apparently, it wasn’t about the money. He introduced himself as Cassius Corvian, a Tevinter researcher. He said he was looking for a girl, used to live in Orlais, and deals in artifacts. Arzani believed him — he said he saw pain in the man’s eyes. And he paid well, too.”

“Cassius Corvian,” Viago repeated thoughtfully, as if testing the sound of the name. “Interesting choice. Do you know what that means in Tevene?”

Teyya raised her eyebrows. Lucanis tensed.

“‘Crow,’” Viago said, and glanced at Teresa. “And that, arriving in Treviso. Odd.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked calmly.

“It just reminds me of a contract,” he replied. “In Orlais. Year forty-two. You were supposed to steal an amulet from a Tevinter. It struck me as odd then — a Tevinter artifact dealer in Val Royeaux. Rare enough.”

Lucanis noticed Teresa smirk, but her fingers curled into fists, as if to keep her emotions in check.

“That was a long time ago,” she said flatly. “Just another job. Funny, I worked for the house since I was eighteen, but you remember a contract from ten years ago.”

“You were late that time,” Viago said, watching her. “By three whole days, Teresa. Not like you. What was his name?”

She paused a moment, then shrugged:

“We didn’t know his name when we got the contract, remember? And he never gave it.”

Silence hung in the air, and Lucanis felt Viago tense up.

“You talked to him?”

“I…” Teresa began, but Teia interrupted:

“Vi, seriously? How many Tevinters dealing in artifacts have any of the Crows met over the years? Even in Orlais. Your thoroughness doesn’t do you credit, especially when you’re interrogating Teresa about something ten years ago.”

He kept looking at his cousin, then slowly nodded.

“Fair enough. Coincidences happen. Keep an eye on him, Teresa. Don’t approach, don’t make contact, just find out who he’s meeting and where he’s staying. He came off Arzani’s ship, and that alone is suspicious. The last place anyone saw this Tevinter was in the western part of the port. Illario’s man is watching that area. Everything’s under control.”

“I’ll go with her,” Lucanis said curtly.

“Try not to draw attention,” Viago added, and with a touch of irony, “Especially dressed like that.” His gaze lingered on Teresa. “You’re already too noticeable tonight. What were you…”

“They’ll manage,” Teia cut in.

“No doubt,” he replied. “Good luck.”

They turned and headed for the exit. Only when they were far enough away did Lucanis start to ask how she was, when he heard:

“Looks like our date got interrupted.”

“Don’t worry, Tess. I have a backup plan,” Lucanis smiled, trying to lighten the mood after the unexpected assignment, and she laughed quietly.

“Why am I not surprised? Let’s go find this Corvian.”

 

***

Excitement stubbornly drove them forward, but Lucanis couldn’t help but feel Teresa’s hand gently resting on his elbow. The port was already visible in the distance, the silhouettes of ships looming through the night mist.

Suddenly, Teresa stopped and led him over to the canal, as if they were just an ordinary couple admiring the water’s surface.

“That’s him, I think,” she whispered. “Look, but don’t be obvious. Tall, hooded. Dressed Antivan-style, but not like a Crow. Unarmed.”

“So, a mage,” Lucanis observed, carefully glancing back.

The Tevinter’s figure did stand out by height, even in the deliberately chosen clothes.

Dellamorte looked at Teresa, and something squeezed in his chest. Her gray eyes sparkled with the thrill of the chase, as if she was in her element.

“You’re enjoying this,” he murmured, leaning in a little closer.

Teresa smiled.

“As if you’re not.”

A quiet laugh escaped his throat, and Lucanis nodded in agreement.

“Still, I’d trade this for the date I planned.”

“I would too,” Teresa replied honestly. “But admit it, there’s something exciting even in tailing an unknown Tevinter who mysteriously arrived in Treviso. It’s almost like life before I was kicked out of the Crows. Before chasing Solas and the gods.”

“Before the Ossuary,” Lucanis breathed. He knew what she meant. Teresa’s look flickered with genuine sympathy, but suddenly she noticed something.

“Mierda,” she cursed softly. “Now I’m going to take your hand and we’ll quietly hide around that corner, okay?”

“Who is it?” he frowned at once.

“Marcus,” Teresa said the name of her former lover as if debating whether to say it. “Interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Looks like he’s Illario’s man,” Lucanis nodded and smoothly moved toward a wall that Marcus wouldn’t be able to see. Teresa turned away to avoid being recognized.

Once hidden around the corner, she pressed herself against the wall, peering out. Lucanis pressed in close to her. The urge to touch her won out, and his arms slipped around her waist.

“Not the worst cover,” he whispered in her ear.

Teresa turned her head slightly. Their faces were suddenly too close.

“I shouldn’t have picked a dress,” she whispered. “It stands out.”

“But in it, you…” Lucanis saw the Crow Teresa had called Marcus approach the supposed Tevinter and gesture for him to follow. “Never mind. Later. Let’s go.”

They walked silently, neither falling behind nor getting too close. With each step, Treviso seemed to change: less festive, less well-kept. Tiled roofs gave way to fewer, and rags hung in place of curtains. The air grew heavier, thick as a shroud. Somewhere behind them, a door slammed, the sharp sound echoing dully in their ears.

“The Flooded Quarter,” Lucanis murmured.

Teresa nodded, her eyes never leaving the silhouettes ahead.

The stench of mud and canals seeped through the gaps in wooden walls. Frogs croaked, drowning out the city noise.

The houses stood close together. Teresa and Lucanis moved carefully, almost soundless. At last, Marcus led his companion into one of the abandoned houses.

“Wait here, I’ll check for a back door,” Dellamorte whispered. Sure enough, he found one in a few moments, peered out from behind a wall, and motioned her over. Teresa checked the street — like a true Antivan Crow — and slipped between the buildings.

The building was abandoned. It smelled of mold and filth inside. Once in, Lucanis listened. From the creaking of the wooden ceiling, the men were heading upstairs. Climbing the stairs, the Crows reached an open doorway to a dusty attic. Lucanis frowned, spotting the men at the window, and his eyes picked out crates in the corner of the room.

“We can hide to the left,” he said almost silently. “I’ll go first, you follow.”

“Think they won’t notice?”

Lucanis glanced again at the figures. The men were staring out the window for some reason. He thought there were much better views in Treviso, but it worked in their favor.

“Quick,” he breathed.

Lucanis took a step, then another. The floorboards creaked, but so softly the sound was swallowed by the attic’s damp air. He moved with barely a breath, recalling old tricks he’d mastered in youth.

The crates in the corner were half in shadow, clearly forgotten, half-covered in dust and rags, and he ducked behind them, nearly bumping his shoulder against the wall. Teresa followed him with movements honed by years of practice.

He could feel her beside him — her breath, the subtle warmth of her body.

Neither of the men at the window turned around.

The world seemed to freeze for a moment, but then a voice rang out. The Tevinter accent was unmistakable, the tone bored with a hint of laziness. The man calling himself Cassius Corvian was clearly no stranger to situations like this. Lucanis had seen many Tevinters, mostly magisters — the upper crust of the Imperium — and something, perhaps instinct, told him this man was no altus — no noble mage.

“I was once told Treviso is the jewel of Antiva. And yet, when I look at this landscape, I feel at home.”

Lucanis looked up and saw a hand gesturing toward the Flooded Quarter. He wanted to grit his teeth, but reason won out over wounded Antivan pride: whether he liked it or not, there was truth in the statement.

Marcus laughed. The sound struck Lucanis as insincere, like someone hitting the wrong note on a piano. Nevertheless, his eyes studied Teresa’s former lover carefully. He was shorter than the Tevinter, but his build was leaner, clearly shaped by the hard life of an Antivan Crow. His hair was black, curled, reaching his shoulders.

Lucanis glanced at Teresa: not a muscle in her face twitched, her gaze was steady and calm.

“She’s clearly unsettled, since the bastard betrayed her,” he thought, but then Marcus spoke.

“So, you’re Cassius Corvian?”

The Tevinter turned his head. There was something commanding, confident, and collected about him. That unexpectedly provoked a positive reaction, and Lucanis pushed the feeling aside. One of the main rules of the Antivan Crows — never be lulled.

“That’s right,” the Tevinter replied lazily. “And you’re Marcus de Riva.”

The Crow’s look said he knew who he was meeting. Still, he stood on guard, as if not ruling out an ambush. First meeting — but not the first interest. So they’d corresponded, or worked through intermediaries. Now — a face-to-face check.

“Let’s say I am,” his companion turned, folding his arms across his chest. “And you decided to meet in person.”

“Sometimes you need to make sure your contact isn’t just a phantom with someone else’s signature. As I mentioned in my note, I need information, and I’m willing to pay well for it.”

“What kind of information?” Marcus asked, and the Tevinter gave a soft laugh.

“Everything you know about a member of House de Riva.”

Lucanis heard Teresa draw in a sharp breath, clearly working to keep her anger in check.

“Viago threw me to the wolves — Katarina Dellamorte’s wolves — for setting up his precious cousin,” Markus said with feeling. “But I charge a lot for information. Who exactly are you interested in?”

He felt de Riva freeze next to him, as if she were greedily awaiting the answer.

“His precious cousin, of course. Teresa de Riva,” the Tevinter said evenly, and Lucanis felt Spite flare inside him.

“Kill him,” the demon hissed, and it took all his will to suppress the surge.

“Teresa de Riva,” Markus laughed. “Seriously? That’ll cost you a very large sum, Cassius.”

Lucanis saw the Tevinter pull something from his inner pocket and show it to Markus. The Crow whistled.

“Where did you get stones like these?” He squinted, holding one up to the light, and Lucanis recognized chrysopal, shimmering from green to crimson.

Cassius clearly knew what he was doing. Dellamorte was aware: one quality stone cost more than sapphires.

“You’d be surprised how much you can make when you stop working for fools,” the Tevinter tossed off, reclaiming the stone. He put the payment away, and there was an audible smirk in his voice. “Especially if the fools are wealthy magisters, whose only joy in life is chasing the lost glory of a dying Imperium. I know whom to serve. Answer my questions and you’ll get what you want.”

Markus narrowed his eyes and asked:

“Are you Venatori?”

“And if I am?”

Lucanis barely restrained a snort. Cassius seemed deliberately casual, and it resonated with him. For the second time, he felt an odd sympathy for the Tevinter, and clenched his jaw, focusing on the conversation.

“Venatori don’t scare me,” Markus declared confidently, but even from the far side of the room Lucanis could hear the bravado.

The Tevinter laughed.

“I used to be. Not for a long time now.”

“Then why do you want information about Teresa?”

“I believe I’m paying enough not to answer questions like that,” Cassius drawled, and though Markus didn’t like it, he nodded.

Lucanis felt Teresa twitch slightly. For some reason, he sensed she had some association, but he couldn’t confirm it — too dark.

“Look, I’ll be honest: I don’t know much. Teresa, like Viago, is very reserved. About three months before we both got kicked out of the house, we slept together. She never told me anything about herself. I never even went to her place.”

“That’s it? What about all your famous Antivan passion?”

“She’s a good Crow, no doubt about it. Good in bed, too. But it was just sex.”

“You said both of you got thrown out of House de Riva?”

Lucanis frowned. He could clearly hear dislike in the Tevinter’s voice.

“Yeah, I—” Marcus ran a hand through his thick curls. “Look, it’s… Do you know how hard it is for a common Crow, picked up from the streets as a boy, to make something of himself?”

“I know what it’s like for a lowborn mage from the slums of the imperial capital,” Cassius nodded. “And I made mistakes trying to secure a place for myself, too.”

“I asked Viago for Teresa’s hand,” Marcus said. “Right before she did something stupid with the Antaam that got her kicked out. Viago refused. Said he and Teresa had an old agreement — he had no right to decide for her.”

Lucanis felt her tension beside him.

“So you took revenge on both of them,” the Tevinter said quietly. “I get it. I, too, once tried to climb higher by holding on to a woman above my station.”

“Was it revenge, too?”

Cassius laughed and shook his head but didn’t answer.

“Did Teresa de Riva have a contract in Karastes about three years ago?”

Lucanis felt her flinch beside him, lifting her head to study the Tevinter.

“Not Tenebrius,” she breathed. “He’s small. But how did—”

“She did,” Markus said, more serious now. “Something happened to her. Viago didn’t tell anyone, and left to find her, leaving Felicio — one of the old Crows — in charge. They came back two months later, and Teresa didn’t take contracts for a while,” he paused. “I remember it well because Viago never disappeared like that before.”

“And what happened in Karastes?”

Lucanis was surprised to see Markus hesitate.

“I didn’t ask. Why? I doubt I can tell you much more about Teresa.”

“You’re lying. Isn’t the payment enough?”

“No, but…” Marcus frowned. “How do I know you won’t hurt her?”

“Doesn’t really fit with ‘just sex,’ does it, Marcus?” Cassius parried.

Lucanis clenched his jaw, but the Tevinter was logical — pressing the point. Marcus was silent, but after a few seconds gave a dry laugh.

“You wouldn’t want Viago de Riva as an enemy. And yet yes, Teresa told me once. Briefly, but maybe this is what you’re looking for. She was badly wounded by a Venatori on that job, and she only survived because the First Enchanter of the Karastes Circle was a powerful healer.”

“So it was her, after all,” Cassius mused. “Thank you, that’s exactly what I needed to know.”

He took a small, leather pouch from his cloak and handed it to Markus.

“For your honesty,” he said shortly.

Marcus caught the pouch, looked inside, and squinted, evaluating his interlocutor, then tossed out as a farewell:

“I hope you know whom you’re dealing with, Cassius. De Riva is more than just a name. Teresa is not some sidekick to Viago. She’s a skilled artefact thief, and trust me, she can take care of herself.”

Lucanis noticed the Tevinter froze — just barely, almost imperceptibly. But he did freeze.

“Artefact thief?” Cassius repeated quietly. There was something in his voice — uncertainty? surprise? — and then it was gone. “A rare specialization. For an Antivan Crow.”

He looked away, as if his thoughts had flown far off. Then, as if remembering himself, he nodded to Marcus and turned to leave, not forgetting to adjust his hood — a gesture of someone long out of practice at masking himself.

Teresa’s breath caught, and Lucanis could feel her struggling for composure. Marcus watched the Tevinter leave but said nothing.

 

***

They left the Flooded Quarter at a leisurely pace, only when Marcus, after waiting a while, exited the abandoned house. Fortunately, it never occurred to the Crow to glance into the corner where Lucanis and Teresa were hiding.

When the city center’s bustle wrapped around them again, Teresa felt she could breathe easier. Still, somewhere deep inside, there was a dull ache, as if she’d been hit hard enough to knock the wind out of her, but without leaving a bruise.

She walked beside Lucanis in silence, holding his arm as if she needed to ground herself.

“We should have followed him,” she finally said. Her voice was steady, but there was bitterness in it. “That mage… he was asking about Karastes. About me. If he’s connected to Tenebrius…”

“Maybe he is,” Lucanis said gently. “But even without seeing his face, we know the main thing — he’s looking for you. Which means we’re looking for him now. Viago will track him down; he’s got enough people.”

Teresa stopped by the canal, lit a cigarette, and exhaled the smoke. The wind ruffled her hair a little, but her gaze stayed fixed on the dark water.

“Viago’s reaction…” she murmured. “He’ll definitely want a report on why we let him go. But that’s not the point. The point is what he asked. And how Marcus answered.”

Lucanis stood silently beside her. He didn’t rush her or offer false comfort — he just waited.

“That voice…” Teresa shook her head. “It’s… I feel like I’ve heard it before. The intonation, the way he talks. But I can’t remember where or when.”

“Someone from past contracts?” Lucanis frowned slightly, but she could see the concern in his eyes.

“How many have there been in twelve years?” she sighed. “And never mind contracts — it could have been surveillance, a passerby’s voice on the street… anything. Maybe if I saw his face, I’d recognize him.”

“Do you think he’s looking for Tenebrius?”

“Maybe. Or he’s afraid of him. Or wants to get ahead of him. In any case, it’s tied to me. And I hate that.”

She turned to Lucanis. He watched her in silence, with that same unshakeable look — strength mixed with warmth.

“I’m with you,” he said. “And we learned the important part. Everything else… We’ll figure out tomorrow. Together. All right?”

“All right,” Teresa exhaled. “It’s just too late for dinner now.”

Lucanis grinned slyly, put his arm around her, and kissed her on the cheek.

“I have a plan. You’ll like it. And also, Tess…”

“What is it?”

“Do you want to talk about Marcus?” he asked quietly. “I’m here.”

Warmth spread inside Teresa. Lucanis never made empty promises — he just stayed close.

“Marcus is long in the past. Am I disgusted now? Yes, I won’t pretend otherwise. But I won’t let him ruin our first date.”

Lucanis broke into a wide smile. She froze, taking in the genuine joy on his face.

“Then let’s go.”

They walked in silence, in step with the city’s evening sounds. Somewhere in the distance, a musician played — a thin, elusive melody weaving among lanterns and canals.

Teresa noticed Lucanis leading her down a side alley — not directly to the market square, but off to the side a little.

“Where are we going?” she finally asked as they turned again.

“You’ll see.”

They emerged onto a small square with a semicircular cobbled pavement. Here, beneath a bright lamp, a light was still shining in the window of an old building with carved shutters. A bakery.

“Lucanis…” Teresa whispered, barely believing her eyes.

“Lorenzo’s” was already closed for the night. Dellamorte knocked three times.

“I didn’t think they still opened in the evenings,” Teresa murmured.

“For us, they will,” he replied with a slight smile.

Sure enough, the door swung open, and Teresa felt a pang in her chest. In the year she hadn’t seen the aging Lorenzo, more gray had appeared in the baker’s hair, but his black eyes still shone with warmth.

“Master Dellamorte! What an honor!” the man exclaimed.

Teresa smiled broadly; she’d known the baker since childhood. As a little girl, her mother would often bring her here, telling stories from her own youth.

Lucanis looked at her, silently asking what she’d like. Lorenzo studied her more closely and suddenly gasped, clutching a hand to his chest.

“The Maker is my witness… Mistress de Riva!” the baker winked at her good-naturedly. “So many years, but I still remember the little girl who blushed and hid behind her mother!”

Teresa froze. Her heart twisted. She managed a slightly flustered smile.

“That was a long time ago,” she breathed.

“Maybe so, but my memory hasn’t failed me. You look so much like her. Do you remember how your father once bought out the entire case of pies to cheer up beautiful Adriana? She blushed just as much as you, and he just laughed. Beautiful couple,” Lorenzo smiled sadly. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, Teresa. I’m glad you’re safe.”

Lucanis didn’t interrupt, but smiled warmly. Teresa felt him edge just a bit closer.

“Come in,” Lorenzo said, holding the door wider. “I just took out a loaf with rosemary. And I still have the cheese flatbread your mother loved so much. With some honey and oranges. I’ll wrap it up for you, if you’d like. For your walk.”

“We’d be very grateful,” Teresa said quietly.

“And two poppy seed buns,” added Lucanis. “I’m sure they’ll lift the mood.”

“Ah, you remember,” Lorenzo beamed. “Poppy and honey, a pinch of cinnamon, and a drop of rum. The best cure for a gray evening!”

He darted behind the counter with a swiftness unexpected for a man his age. While Lorenzo bustled, Teresa still gazed at the display, as if looking through it into that distant time that smelled of baking, her mother’s hands, and something forever lost. Lucanis gently touched her hand and smiled.

“I remember you, too, Master Dellamorte, since I was a child,” the baker said, his back turned as he wrapped up the pastries. “How you climbed up to rescue my ginger cat from a tree? He would have managed fine on his own — he had a lookout post up there.”

Teresa stifled a laugh in her fist. Lucanis scowled.

“The cat was meowing so pitifully!” he protested.

“There was a fish shop across the street!” Lorenzo laughed.

When he handed over the bundle, Lucanis quietly placed payment in the baker’s hand. The man didn’t object, only nodded with gratitude.

“Have a wonderful evening!”

“And you, Master Lorenzo, thank you,” Teresa replied.

 

***

From above, nighttime Treviso looked even more picturesque. Teresa hugged Lucanis, unable to take her eyes off either her hometown or the stars. He gently stroked her hair and quietly asked:

“Are you cold?”

“No,” Teresa lifted her head to look at him. “I love that you brought me here.”

Up here, on the bell tower of Treviso’s main cathedral, everything felt perfect: the smooth roof, the wide parapet, the stars overhead.

They hadn’t come up through the cathedral — there was too much blood and too many memories in those walls, the wounds too fresh. Instead, Lucanis led her a different way, across the rooftops, along an old route the Crows had known since youth.

“I used to come up here alone a lot,” he admitted quietly. “I’d look out at the city and never thought I’d ever be up here with anyone. With you.”

Teresa stroked his cheek. Lucanis leaned into her touch and left a featherlight kiss on her palm.

“I’m so glad we cleared the cathedral of the Venatori,” she said, frowning slightly. “It still feels unreal that Zara Renata dared to desecrate such an important place for Treviso.”

“When this is all over, I want to restore it,” Lucanis murmured. “You reminded me what the cathedral means to the people. And to me,” he gave a crooked smile, “to my family.”

Teresa smiled, nodding in understanding.

“I heard stories about my parents’ wedding since I was a child. They’d tell about the ceremony, interrupting each other, laughing like kids, and then my father would kiss my mother and she’d light up.”

Teresa fell silent, gazing into the distance, and suddenly felt Lucanis pull her closer, just a little more tightly. Her heart sped up.

“You miss them,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question — more a gentle statement. Understanding.

She looked at him, meeting his attentive gaze.

“Sometimes,” Teresa admitted. “But I learned to live on a long time ago. Our longing won’t change anything.”

Lucanis nodded thoughtfully.

“I agree,” he answered softly.

“And you?” Teresa asked gently.

“My parents? Catarina?” Lucanis sighed heavily, and she hugged him tighter, as if she could give comfort that way. “Of course,” he said quietly. “I still can’t believe Catarina’s gone. It’s just me and Illario now — all that’s left of the Dellamorte bloodline.”

“I understand,” Teresa said, pulling back a little to touch his cheek. “Catarina would definitely be proud of you.”

Lucanis chuckled softly.

“Proud I didn’t kill Ghilan’nain?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

His fingers tightened slightly around her waist. Teresa didn’t look away. Lucanis Dellamorte had become so familiar, so close. Hers.

“Lucanis?” Teresa whispered, not even sure what she wanted to say.

He leaned over her, their foreheads almost touching.

“What is it, Tess?”

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

He was so close it took her breath away. Their lips met. Teresa closed her eyes, feeling a wave of warmth and desire rising inside her. She pressed closer to him, and Lucanis smiled against her lips, slowly pulling away.

“Wait here for me? I have an idea.”

He disappeared through the archway, and Teresa stayed, looking down at the lights of Treviso. She wanted to laugh at the rush of feeling and tried, unsuccessfully, to pull herself together.

Lucanis returned a couple of minutes later. Hearing his footsteps, Teresa turned and, to her surprise, saw a folded cloth in his hands.

“Borrowed it from the bell,” he explained. “I’ll put it back when we leave. We never did get our dinner.”

He spread the cloth by the wall and hesitated for a moment.

“Not the best solution for a date,” he said, a little uncertain. “But you can see Treviso and the stars.”

“It’s the best because I’m with you,” Teresa blurted out, and immediately looked away, embarrassed by her own honesty. Reason was trying to win out over emotion, but Lucanis chuckled quietly, lowering himself onto the cloth, and she sat beside him.

Somewhere up in the dome, birds rustled lazily; the wind wandered across the roof, but it all felt far away, another world. Below — huge, noisy Treviso, where someone was playing a lute, and the music floated up to them as if through water. Up here, there was only her. Only him.

The place really was perfect: the wind didn’t reach, and the stars seemed somehow brighter. Teresa lifted her head and froze.

Once, she’d often looked at the stars — with her parents, with Viago as a child on the rooftop, alone during contracts. She remembered, on that first night ten years ago, smoking at the window beside her first lover. The stars had been the same — bright, cold.

But now, somehow, it was different. They didn’t just seem closer. They almost seemed to look back.

With Lucanis, everything felt different: safer, deeper, quieter. Even with Viago, she’d never felt so… protected. So close to someone.

Something inside her stirred. She frowned, as if trying to chase away the feeling. But it stayed.

The stars seem brighter because he’s here.

The thought was almost too poetic. Too foreign.

But in a strange way, it felt natural. As if it had always been inside her, just waiting for the right moment to come out.

Teresa looked away, almost afraid Lucanis would somehow guess what she was thinking.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

She looked at him, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. It wasn’t the first compliment she’d gotten from the usually reticent Crow, but here, in this place, it felt almost intimate. She dropped her gaze, unable to handle her unexpected shyness, and Lucanis grinned widely.

“I think I could watch Teresa de Riva blush forever,” he teased, leaning closer.

She brushed her lips over his, and when Lucanis wasn’t expecting it, gently nipped his lower lip. Dellamorte jolted and drew back a little, as if he couldn’t believe it. A second later he pulled her close and kissed her completely differently — fiercely, as if he’d been holding back for far too long.

Teresa responded to his kiss with the same passion. Her hands slipped over his shoulders, down his back, but when Lucanis bit her earlobe, a moan escaped her lips.

“Mierda, Tess,” he breathed, pulling her even tighter.

Without breaking the kiss, Teresa straddled him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He ran his hands slowly down her back — not hurried, as if afraid to startle her. His touch sent shivers over her skin, but she wasn’t cold. Far from it.

She felt his breath. His hands — careful, accepting, almost trembling. He seemed to ask without words: can I? And she answered with her whole body — yes.

The kisses grew deeper. She let herself close her eyes — and for a moment, everything else vanished: fears, the past, doubts. There was only him, and the closeness between them that made her want to cry.

Her fingers slid to his shirt collar, but Lucanis suddenly stilled. He touched her wrist, looking her straight in the eyes.

“Tess…” he whispered. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, not looking away.

“Yes. And you?”

He dropped his gaze for a second, as if not believing himself, then said softly:

“With you — yes.”

She smiled, cupping his cheek, brushing along his cheekbone. Her fingers returned to the buttons. Slowly. One. Two. He never looked away. When the fabric slipped from his shoulders, Teresa ran her palm over his chest, and he drew in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Lucanis sat up, ran his hands down her back — from shoulder blades to waist. His touch was careful, as if he was afraid to hurt her. He touched the clasp of her dress and hesitated.

“May I?” he asked softly, almost hoarsely.

Teresa nodded.

When the dress yielded and slid from her shoulders, he looked up, and his black eyes widened.

“You’re incredible,” he breathed.

Then he began kissing her — her shoulders, her neck, her collarbones. Teresa felt like she wasn’t breathing. Sensation overwhelmed her, a wave of heat crashing from her chest to her fingertips.

Everything narrowed to the touch of his lips. She arched up to meet him, hardly aware of how badly she wanted more. The fabric of her dress slid to her hips, but Teresa didn’t care. She already felt completely bare, even where he hadn’t kissed or touched; she was so raw, so alive to every second.

She didn’t remember who removed the last layer of clothing. Only the feeling of their bodies coming together. She held her breath, feeling him pause beneath her.

The sensations hit hard. She parted her lips, struggling to cope with the heat, the strangeness, the depth of the intimacy. It was almost unbearable — so many feelings, so much meaning in a single touch.

Teresa stroked his cheek, his shoulders. At some point, she felt the rhythm change. His breath grew louder, his movements more confident. Suddenly he sat up, held her tighter, and with a soft moan, rolled her beneath him, pressing her back to the cool cloth.

She didn’t resist. On the contrary — she reached for him with just as much heat, with a hunger she couldn’t hide anymore.

Now he led. His movements were slow at first, almost exploring, but with each second became more certain, as if he finally allowed himself not to hold back.

He kissed her — deeply, insistently, pressing himself to her, his mouth trailing over her neck, her collarbones, her breasts.

With every thrust, short, torn moans escaped her throat. She didn’t try to hold them back — she simply couldn’t.

The pace quickened, and with each collision, she moaned louder; her breath caught, her fingers dug into his shoulders.

Teresa arched, breathless with want, with the sounds spilling from her lips, with him.

“Lucanis…” she whispered, her voice trembling, almost breaking.

Pleasure crashed over her — explosive, hot, all-consuming. She cried out, loud and true. The sound tore from her, as if it had been trying to escape all this time, as if there was more to it than just pleasure — something old, deep, real.

The echo reverberated beneath the dome, and for a moment, Teresa felt like she was hearing herself from the outside — not a Crow, not Rook. Her true self. Someone who could scream, breathe, love.

Her whole body trembled. Her breath was ragged, her fingers gripped Lucanis’ shoulders, as if she was trying to stay in that moment as long as possible.

He kept moving, almost in agony. And when he groaned in return, low, nearly a growl, it hit her again — another wave, the deepest yet.

“You’re mine, Tess,” Lucanis breathed, and she smiled as he began kissing her again.

Chapter Text

Crassius Servis stepped out of the abandoned house and, after carefully scanning his surroundings, headed toward the tall buildings of central Treviso visible in the distance.

His steps squelched underfoot, and Crassius grimaced in disgust. Stepping onto a wooden walkway that protested under his weight, he looked around once more — was anyone following him?

Seeing nothing suspicious, he continued toward the stone walls up ahead. Thoughts swirled inside, mixed with a barely contained sense of anticipation.

At last, he had figured it out: it was Teresa de Riva who was hunting Tenebrius, all because of the artifact he had stolen from the Karastes Circle.

What to think of Marcus, Servis couldn’t decide. On one hand, the Crow had taken revenge on de Riva without a second thought, changing her fate, and now sold her out for a few precious stones. On the other...

“At least, in the end, he did wonder whether he’d hurt her,” Crassius muttered softly in Tevene.

The wooden walkway ended and he quickened his pace. Soon, he reached one of the canals and paused. Before him, Treviso opened up — beautiful, refined. He’d seen it from the ship upon arrival — the city was impossible to ignore.

Now, without having to fool the charming merchant Arzani or wait for Marcus, the view of Treviso felt entirely different. The towers, the lights, the stained glass — everything his Crow had once spoken of with such love.

He smiled, allowing himself the small indulgence of reminiscing.

…She’s sitting on the kitchen counter in his shirt, watching intently as Crassius brews coffee. The Antivan way. Just as she taught him.

“Why do you think that Fereldan deserves her more than you?”

Her accent gives the question real charm, but even years later, in memory, it still hurts.

“He’s noble, kind. Handsome. A real knight.”

“A templar?”

Crassius can’t look at her. He’s never said this aloud before.

“Come here, please.”

He obeys reluctantly, still avoiding her eyes. The Crow strokes his cheek.

“Do you know how many incredibly beautiful and yet completely empty Antivans I know? Listen: beauty fades. The person remains.”

“That’s a bold statement for someone as young as you.”

“Have you seen your eyes, amatus? In them I see your mind, your cunning, your resolve. You could have killed me, but you didn’t.”

“That’s…”

“Important,” she interrupts. “You look like a man who makes his own choices. I don’t have that luxury. I kill, even though I hate it. I steal. But…”

“You’re an Antivan Crow,” Crassius frowns. “You’re all killers.”

“You can’t imagine how much I hate that.”

He is silent, then pulls her close.

“Can’t you choose just one thing? Not kill? Seems to me you’re more interested in artifacts,” he purrs into her ear, and she smiles.

“You think so? There aren’t many artifact thieves in the world.”

“And you’ll be the best, amata,” he kisses her lips, inhaling the pure scent of her body. “Don’t kill if you don’t want to.”

“You’re right,” the Crow looks at him. Her gray eyes, like the cloudy sky above Minrathous, shine. “See? You’re much deeper than just a pretty face, my mage. And I’m sure your woman is waiting.”

“But not you?”

“Yours will be from Tevinter. Probably a mage too. And she’ll love the real you. And you are — wonderful.”

“There’s a saying in Tevinter—‘Comparison equals betrayal,’” he muttered.

“And it’s absolutely true,” the Crow smiled broadly. “Remind yourself of that more often.”

“And your man — who will he be?” Crassius smirks. “A Crow, like you? A killer?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, stepping back slightly. “But I see him as someone who doesn’t waste words. Not because he has nothing to say, but because he listens. He’ll be there when everything falls apart. Someone who can’t be bought for all the gold in Thedas.”

“Anything else?”

“The main thing is, I’ll look at him and know — he’s mine.”

“And me?”

“You’re mine too. For a little while. But I promise, I’ll never forget you.”

“And you’re a little bit mine, little Crow. Until I change my mind and come find you.”

He exhaled shakily. So foolish — to remember after all these years. Before her, there was Margaret. Before Margaret — many others. After — faces blurred by memory, and then Neve. And still, this city couldn’t help but remind him of that Crow.

Did she get what she wanted? Did she find love? Did she ever remember him?

He had searched for her, but never found her.

He stopped by the canal, taking in the beautiful Antivan architecture, the tall buildings so unlike those in Minrathous. If all Antivan cities were as magnificent, it was no wonder the Crow was so certain she’d never trade it for anything else.

Crassius turned his head and noticed two men in the distance — an elf and a human — approaching him. Servis looked the other way. From there, too, came a pair — a young elven woman and a man about his age.

Servis looked straight ahead, considering escape routes. Jumping in the water would be stupid, obviously. He tried to recall his map of Treviso, but his anxiety grew.

Maybe they’d just pass by?

The men he’d seen first drew closer, and the blond elf suddenly drew his sword.

Crassius reacted instinctively. Though he was without a staff, his enemy was struck by ice.

The second man drew his weapon with a sharp sound, and behind him came a similar noise. Servis cursed under his breath. The man slashed with his sword, and Crassius barely managed to dodge.

He raised his hand — ice flashed on his fingers, a blast hit the attacker in the chest. The man went flying, but got up at once, coughing.

From the side, the whistle of steel — someone’s blade sliced the air near his ear.

Crassius struck the ground with magic, raising steam and muck, obscuring the view. He turned — another was approaching from the other side, daggers in both hands.

He raised his hand; a wave of cold swept from his fingers, slashing at his enemy’s legs, freezing part of the pavement. One slipped, the other barely kept his balance.

Another instant — and he was shoved from the side. Crassius didn’t immediately realize he’d been wounded.

He staggered. His hand instinctively went to his skin: the blade had cut through his armor.

Everything blurred. Sound came as if through water. He could barely focus on his bloody fingers.

Something was wrong.

A burning sensation.

“The blade must have been poisoned,” Servis managed to think, before he collapsed onto the stone paving.

“The Crows send their regards,” he heard before losing consciousness.

 

***

Sunrise rays pierced his eyes — still not too bright, but enough to wake him. His back ached. Lucanis grimaced — his makeshift bed was never comfortable, but was it really this bad?

Something was off. He opened his eyes wide. The first thing he saw wasn’t the ceiling, but a pale sky. Lucanis turned his head to the right.

Teresa de Riva was sleeping, pressed up against him with her whole body. Lucanis felt his lips stretch into a wide, genuine smile. The memory of what had happened between them flickered through his mind.

Tess’s thick dark hair covered her face. Lucanis hesitated, but with a feather-light touch, brushed the hair from her cheek. The sight took his breath away.

Her sleeping features had softened. He watched her — peacefully asleep, so touchingly beautiful that he wanted to wake her up right away. Still, they really should get back to the Lighthouse before anyone noticed they were gone.

“Tess,” Lucanis all but purred, stroking her shoulders gently.

And then froze: his tone sounded so unfamiliar that Spite in his head let out a deafening laugh. Still, to the demon’s credit — he stayed silent. For now.

Teresa frowned, clinging to the last remnants of sleep, and turned away. For some reason, Lucanis wanted to laugh. He scooted closer and hugged her. Unable to resist, he placed a barely-there kiss on her neck.

“Tess,” he called again. De Riva sighed heavily, stirring. “Seems someone isn’t a morning person,” Lucanis added in Antivan, a hint of teasing in his voice.

Teresa groaned pitifully, but he left another kiss on her neck, and her breathing hitched.

“If you plan to always wake me up like this, there’s a chance I’ll actually learn to love mornings,” she mumbled sleepily.

As she dressed, Lucanis couldn’t take his eyes off her. She fastened her dress with practiced movements, as if she’d done it a thousand times, but somehow every gesture seemed so intimate, as if she were undressing instead. Teresa finally looked at him, a little shy, and asked:

“What is it?”

“Beautiful,” Lucanis smiled and stood up, then began to dress himself. Fastening the cuff on his shirt, he looked at her.

“Tess, did you…” he hesitated, “…like it?”

“Yes,” she smiled sincerely. “And you?”

His fingers froze on his sleeve. To say it or not?

“Yes, very much,” Lucanis breathed. “It was…”

“Shut up!” Spite’s voice hit like a thunderclap. “You’ll scare her off! Want her to look at you like you’re weak?”

“It was…?” Teresa stepped closer. Interest swam in her gray eyes.

“It was wonderful,” Lucanis replied, pulling her close.

“I agree,” she whispered and kissed his lips — gently, almost cautiously. “And thank you for not pretending.”

Lucanis looked at her. Everything inside him stilled. Even Spite, it seemed, held his breath — if he could.

“Not pretending?”

His voice sounded strange, maybe even a little rough.

Teresa tensed slightly, but still exhaled:

“I was afraid it would be different. That I’d have to adjust to meet expectations. But I was myself.”

Lucanis felt his muscles relax. He smiled.

“Be yourself, Tess. We — Antivan Crows — already wear too many masks.”

“And what if you don’t like something?” she asked quietly. “If I do something wrong?”

Lucanis felt warmth flood him. He wasn’t alone in that fear, and it meant everything.

“Nobody’s perfect. We can make mistakes. The main thing is — be yourself. With me.”

“I promise,” she smiled. “Even though it’s scary, I really want to.”

“Me too,” Lucanis stroked her cheek and kissed her.

The warmth of her lips awakened his desire, and with an effort of will, he pulled away and pressed his forehead to hers.

“We should get back,” he muttered, and Teresa nodded.

“I don’t want to either, but… it’s time.”

Before they left the bell tower, Lucanis didn’t forget to return the cloth to the bell. Teresa smirked, but said nothing.

Treviso was slowly waking up. Sunlight illuminated the streets and rooftops, gilding the city. Lucanis couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Teresa — she squinted in the light, just like a cat.

Scents filled his nose, and he remembered how hungry he was. Teresa made a face, too, as the smell of bread hit her.

“I’d give anything for a cup of coffee and something to eat right now,” she muttered.

Lucanis touched her hand.

“Want to have breakfast in Treviso? I know a wonderful place.”

“Me too,” Teresa sighed and smiled a little. “But I’m afraid they’ll notice we’re missing at the Lighthouse for sure.”

“Then I’ll make coffee and breakfast as soon as we get back, deal?” He squeezed her fingers a bit tighter, and de Riva nodded gratefully.

“That sounds perfect, Lucanis.”

Treviso’s rooftops still held a trace of the night’s coolness as they climbed up. The crossing between buildings had been there for ages — a thin steel cable stretched across the quarters, with barely noticeable supports and a pulley system. Teresa stood at the edge, and Lucanis smiled.

“You’re a very unusual Crow, Tess.”

“What? Why?” She laughed nervously, as if already guessing what he’d say.

“You’re afraid of heights,” Lucanis answered seriously. “I’ve noticed for a long time, and I still don’t get how you manage to overcome it.”

Teresa blushed and dropped her gaze, then shrugged.

“I just don’t look down,” she exhaled. “Besides, it’s not panic-level fear. Years of training did their job.”

“Does your fear have a reason?” he asked gently, unsure if he had the right.

Teresa smiled a little, but a shadow of frustration flickered in her eyes.

“Alas, no. Sometimes I think it’d be a lot easier if there was a reason.”

“It wouldn’t,” Lucanis took her hand and kissed the back of it. “It’s much harder to fight an unknown enemy. Want me to disregard etiquette and go first?”

“No need,” Teresa laughed. “Thank you, I appreciate it. But we can’t let the others know about my weakness. Or that the great Lucanis Dellamorte is willing to break manners for a lady’s sake.”

He laughed in reply, watching as she strode determinedly to the cable and glided across to the next building. Then he followed suit.

It was quiet in the “Diamond.” Out of the corner of his eye, Lucanis saw the merchant Fletcher arranging something in his shop.

“I don’t like him”, Spite hissed in his mind. “He’s always watching her.”

Lucanis didn’t show it, but for the first time, he agreed with the demon. Fletcher really was always showering Teresa with compliments…

“De Riva!”

Teia’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he turned. Andarateia Cantori sat in an armchair, holding a porcelain cup of coffee. Teresa headed toward her, and Lucanis followed.

“We caught the Tevinter man,” the elf woman set her cup aside and stood up. “Viago is waiting for you at the estate.”

“Great news,” Teresa smirked and looked at Lucanis. “You…?”

“I’m coming with you,” he replied succinctly.

“Teia?”

“Me too,” Andarateia nodded. “But…”

“But?” Teresa looked at her with curiosity.

“You know Viago,” the elf smiled. “And you obviously don’t want him to ask unnecessary questions, do you?”

She looked over Teresa’s dress, which she’d seen her in yesterday, and Teresa cursed quietly.

“Are you suggesting I go to the Lighthouse and change? That’ll take too long.”

“No need,” Teia smiled. “There’s some clothing on the armchair in my office. Black shirt and trousers. We’re about the same size — it should fit.”

Lucanis was surprised at the elf’s thoughtfulness and tact. He’d always respected her, but now Teia exceeded all expectations.

“Thank you,” Teresa breathed. “You know Viago…”

“I know,” Teia smirked. “Go ahead. We’ll wait.”

He watched after her a bit longer than he should have, and when he turned, he noticed Teia’s gaze — calm, but piercing. As if she’d understood everything a long time ago.

“You know how to surprise people,” she said quietly.

Lucanis raised an eyebrow, and Teia chuckled.

“Don’t pretend it means nothing. You’re not Illario. We both know she’s become important to you. I realized it back when you asked me not to flirt with your colleague,” she looked away and smiled softly. “You know, Viago used to pretend too.”

“Thank you, Teia,” Lucanis replied simply. His voice was calm, but behind it lay gratitude — for understanding, for silence, and for quiet support.

 

***

His head was splitting, as if he were suffering the worst hangover of his life. Crassius opened his eyes — it was dark, and a figure was leaning over him. The flame of nearby candles illuminated the man’s face, and Servis squinted, trying to regain control of his vision.

A man. Clearly a bit younger than Crassius. Dark skin, hair short, carefully combed, jet black. Goatee and moustache — nothing remarkable, but the moustache was so perfectly styled with slightly upturned ends that it sharply reminded Crassius of Dorian. The man was doing something around his abdomen, and Crassius realized his jacket was open, shirt pulled up. He jerked suddenly — only to feel pain in his wrists. Metal shackles — heavy, engraved. He couldn’t sense any magical wards, which meant they had a suppressing effect.

“Lie still,” the man hissed at once.

There was no mistaking the Antivan accent in his voice. Crassius swallowed and let his head fall back to the cold stone floor.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled.

“Stitching you up so you don’t die before your time. So it’s in your own best interest not to move, Tevinter.”

A chill ran down his spine. His sense of smell was coming back, and he caught the strong scent of medicinal herbs and damp, as if he were underground. His throat was parched — a clear sign of poisoning.

“Who are you?” Servis asked, not really expecting an answer.

The man gave him an icy look.

“I’ll be the one asking questions when you’re a bit stronger.”

“That’s why you’re treating me?” a hoarse sound, caused by thirst, forced its way from his throat, and the Crow frowned.

“Mateo, bring water for the Venatori,” he ordered curtly, his tone brooking no argument.

Crassius felt movement, and soon a young man leaned over him. The same scowling look, as if Mateo desperately wanted to appear brave and to be like a Crow, but the difference in status was obvious. Mateo held a leather flask to his lips, and Crassius drank greedily. Catching his breath, he finally managed:

“I’m not Venatori.”

“All the more interesting,” muttered the Crow, and for a moment Servis caught a note of either mockery or genuine curiosity in his voice. The gray eyes glinted, and Crassius suddenly felt a knot of anxiety inside. He could feel the man’s cool fingers working with a needle, and realized he felt no pain.

“You gave me a painkiller?”

“So you wouldn’t wake the whole house with your screams,” the man retorted irritably.

His brows furrowed, as if Servis had caught him in an act of unexpected kindness, and he didn’t like it.

“Besides, I need you alive. I have a lot of questions, Cassius Corvian. Are you going to tell me your real name, or should we wait for our conversation?”

“Depends on what you mean,” Crassius bared his teeth. “You know, I’m used to ‘conversations’ involving those — laced with sarcasm, irony, and verbal battles. Torture, sorry, not so much.”

The Crow looked at him. Not a muscle in his face twitched. The gray eyes remained cold.

“You’re not an altus, though you clearly want to seem like one.”

Crassius felt irritation, but held back, giving himself time to think. The Crow was provoking him — subtly and directly.

“I’m not used to pretending to be what I’m not,” Servis replied calmly, a bit lazily. “After all, I’m not a beardless boy like your protégé.”

The man nodded and stood up.

“I’ve stitched up the wound and neutralized the poison. You’ll live. For now. I’ll check on you in a few hours, then we’ll talk. Don’t try to escape — no one’s ever gotten away from me.”

The Crow spoke evenly, as if he had no need to threaten — he knew his worth. Servis looked at him carefully. An idea flashed in his mind, and now — even with the danger — he really wanted to check if he was right.

“You’re Viago de Riva.”

Crassius decided not to ask, but go straight for it — just as his counterpart had. The man looked at him grimly.

“There are a lot of legends about us Antivan Crows. But not all of them are worth testing out — especially on yourself.”

He vanished from sight, and Crassius propped himself up on his elbows. He was in a cage. The Crow snapped the lock, touched it for a moment, and runes flared on it. Servis squinted.

“That’s so you don’t run away before our conversation,” concluded the Crow, and, losing interest, turned to young Mateo, who was watching expectantly, leaning on a wooden crate. “Keep an eye on him,” the man ordered briefly and headed for the exit.

Soon Crassius heard footsteps on the stairs. That confirmed his guess about being underground. With effort, he sat up and glanced at the young Crow. The kid looked businesslike, as if he’d been given a very important contract.

Servis considered trying to get the kid talking — he was oddly sure he could do it — but decided instead not to draw attention to himself. He crawled over to the wall and leaned against it with relief. Mateo — if that was indeed his name — watched him closely. Crassius suppressed a smirk.

He examined the room. The basement seemed grim and probably lay beneath a house. His mind worked through the dilemma: try to escape or not? If Viago de Riva had captured him, he could try talking about Tenebrius directly and save time, of which he had little anyway.

On the other hand, the man hadn’t confirmed his identity directly. What were the odds, out of all the Antivan Crows — just their houses alone numbered over a hundred — that he’d “luckily” landed with Viago?

Crassius sighed quietly. Given his luck, the odds were slim. And even if he had — would Viago de Riva really open up? Servis had heard about his reputation for paranoia from various sources, and he’d noted it in his records.

There was only one thing left — escape. He didn’t know where he was or how much time he had. Most importantly, he didn’t know who had really captured him. One thing was clear: sitting and waiting was not an option.

After resting a bit, Servis managed to get to his feet. The cage clearly wasn’t built for someone his height, so he had to stoop.

The young Crow’s face was frozen with anxiety.

“Don’t move!”

“What, can’t I even move around the cage?” Crassius asked with a smirk, and Mateo snorted resentfully, pressing his lips together.

“Watch it,” he threatened.

Servis walked to the front of the cage and leaned on it with his shackled hands, looking idle. The iron bars didn’t even creak. Crassius glanced sideways: he couldn’t see the rune on the lock.

He’d need to activate it with magic. He looked down at his hands. Bloody Crows.

Servis closed his eyes. He remembered the late Galvard Pavus — his mentor in the Minrathous Circle.

“Magic can’t be suppressed,” he’d say. “People often forget that and give in to emotion. If you keep your cool, no barrier can stand against you.”

Crassius took a deep breath. Counted to ten. Magic leaked from him in a thin stream, activating the rune. He glanced at the young Crow — the boy was looking right, which played into his hands.

Servis studied the sigil and grinned broadly. The suppression rune was mostly used in the southern countries of the continent, as if it could protect against magic. For southern mages, maybe it would, but not for him.

Turning away from the Crow, he took a deep breath. “Clear your mind of unnecessary thoughts,” he remembered Magister Pavus’s instruction.

The shackles grew hot, and Crassius clenched his teeth. The metal was clearly trying to resist the magic. He tensed, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

There was a crackling sound, and Servis bit his lip hard not to scream — his wrists were turning red.

“Come on, just a little more.”

The telltale sound echoed through the basement as the shackles cracked. Mateo jerked his head up.

“What are you doing over there?”

“Testing how sturdy Antivan Crow cuffs are,” Crassius grunted, sweat streaming down his face.

Mateo laughed.

“Don’t bother. The master picks everything himself. The cuffs are definitely not toys.”

“I’ve noticed,” Crassius hoped his voice didn’t betray his sarcasm.

He turned and stared at Mateo — the boy was staring at the wall, looking bored — then looked at the lock. The rune wasn’t glowing, but he could feel the magic — thick and suppressing.

Crassius pressed his forehead to the cold bars and closed his eyes.

“If you can’t break it, make them doubt,” an old saying from Galvard Pavus came to mind.

He channeled magic not into the lock, but around it — enveloping, threading between the joints like a thin fog.

The magic resisted. The rune flickered. Sweat trickled down his temple. He clenched his teeth.

“Why are you just standing there?” Mateo’s voice came.

“Dizzy,” Crassius rasped and sank to his knees with effort.

The Crow snorted.

He waited, then continued. His muscles ached from the effort. Just a bit more.

Inside the lock, something clicked — quiet, barely audible. The rune didn’t disappear but dimmed. He felt it: the mechanism had yielded.

His mind told him the lock was almost defeated. His body told him one more push and he’d pass out.

Servis caught his breath and gathered his strength. No need to rush: Mateo would clearly fight back, and magic through the cuffs and rune had already drained him.

He took a deep breath and focused on the left wall — the one opposite where the man had disappeared up the stairs. Instinct told him there must be a sewer in Treviso, and it was likely the Crow estate would be connected to it by a secret passage.

Mateo yawned, and Crassius realized he didn’t know what time it was.

“Is it still night?” he asked.

The boy looked at him and reluctantly nodded.

“You recovered too fast. The poison on the blades wasn’t meant for a big guy like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Servis shot back, and the Crow smirked, but quickly composed himself.

“You’ve still got a lot to learn,” Crassius thought without malice.

He stood and rolled his shoulders, careful not to show Mateo that he was already free of the shackles. Then he glanced at the young Crow. Well, here goes nothing.

A wave of his hands, and the lock fell to the stone floor with a loud clang. Mateo jumped and drew his weapons — a rapier and a dagger.

“How did you…?” he breathed.

Crassius smirked crookedly.

“I wouldn’t advise fighting. I don’t want to hurt you, Mateo.”

The Crow clenched his teeth, his determined look saying he wouldn’t back down. Crassius sighed.

“Can we talk?”

“I don’t talk to Venatori!” Mateo hissed.

Servis rolled his eyes theatrically.

“I told you, I’m not Venatori!”

“Like I’d believe that!”

“As you wish,” Crassius nodded.

A few deft gestures, and the boy was encased in ice — from shoulders to feet.

Servis threw open the grate and walked over to him.

“Tell your master: I don’t want to kill anyone. There was a key to the Venatori I’m hunting in Treviso. I got what I needed and now I’m leaving.”

“Don’t move!” Mateo yelled, and Crassius paused for a second.

“I’m sorry, young Crow. The upper body will thaw in five minutes, it won’t harm you.”

He waved his hand, and Mateo’s head was covered in ice. Crassius sighed in regret, but there was no time to delay.

He quickly examined the basement, glancing at Mateo, and — oh, miracle! — his expectations were confirmed: behind a taut cloth was a grated passage to the sewers.

The lock was simple and easy to break. Crassius squeezed through the narrow grate, made sure the cloth hung as before, and magically restored the lock. That would throw the Crows off.

Soon he crawled out of the sewer, struggling through the narrow, stinking passage leading out of the basement. Echoing silence, heavy air, wet walls, and the splashing of water underfoot accompanied every step.

He emerged from the sewer after some time, as if surfacing from another world — vision blurred, blood pounding in his temples, and his last bit of strength spent. Everything was swimming before his eyes — both from weakness and the stench. Catching his breath, he struggled to recall the exits from the city.

When the dawn sun rose over the surroundings of Treviso, Servis, making sure he was at least some reasonable distance from the city, slipped into the thick of the forest. His side was bleeding.

“Don’t give up,” he muttered, then collapsed to the ground, losing consciousness.

 

***

The de Riva estate was filled with the familiar scent of morning from childhood — freshly baked bread, subtle notes of herbs, and books, which lined every room.

When the Tevinter mage’s escape was discovered, Viago was furious. Not only had the unknown mage managed to get rid of his shackles, but also to open a lock with a suppression rune and then disappear. Teresa watched as her cousin and Lucanis examined the basement, and she caught an anxious look from Teia.

Mateo came to his senses quickly, but freeing him from the ice that bound him below the chest turned out to be not so easy. Finally, they succeeded, and Teia poured a warming balm down the young man’s throat. Mateo coughed, and Viago immediately came over to him.

“What happened?” asked the Fifth Talon without preamble.

“I don’t know how it happened, Viago,” Mateo muttered, his voice hoarse. “Honestly, I didn’t think a mage could do something like that! He picked the lock and escaped. I tried to stop him,” he sighed. “He said he didn’t want to hurt anyone and that he came to Treviso to find an important key to track the Venatori.”

Viago said nothing, but Teresa knew her cousin well enough to see how enraged he was. Finally, he frowned.

“I’ll give orders to track him down,” said the Fifth Talon curtly, then looked at Teia. “Take everyone to the dining room, Beatrice will serve breakfast. I’ll join you soon. Mateo, go rest.”

The elf nodded, and Teresa smiled: it had long been obvious to her how much time Andarateia spent in the de Riva family estate.

Viago was the first to leave the basement, Mateo followed. Teia looked at Teresa and Lucanis.

“Shall we go? It seems we have a lot to discuss.”

The estate’s dining room was small but cozy. Teresa sat in her usual spot. Lucanis sat beside her and discreetly squeezed her hand. She smiled softly, and then Teia entered.

“Breakfast will be brought soon,” she said, sitting opposite Teresa.

She nodded, but her thoughts were still on the previous evening — in the attic of the abandoned house in the Flooded Quarter.

“Teresa de Riva had a contract in Karastes about three years ago?”

“...She was badly wounded by a Venatori on that job, and only survived because the First Enchanter of the Karastes Circle was a strong healer.”

“So, it was her after all. Thank you, that’s exactly what I needed to find out.”

The mage is looking for Tenebrius — there was no longer any doubt. But why dig into her past? What did he hope to find out?

Her musings were interrupted by Viago entering the dining room. He sat down next to Teia, and Teresa noticed how unwell her cousin looked. A pang of guilt stung her: while she’d been peacefully sleeping in Lucanis’s arms, Viago had been dealing with her problems.

“Now, I’ll ask as the Talon of your house, Teresa. The two of you…” he gave Teia and Lucanis a stern look, “...I ask you not to interfere.”

“Vi…” the elf began softly, but Viago shook his head firmly and abruptly asked:

“Tell me, Teresa, why did you at some point stop tailing the Tevinter mage?”

“I learned everything I needed to know,” she replied, feeling a chill inside.

“Did you have an order to end the surveillance?” Viago leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“That’s enough,” Lucanis intervened. He leaned his elbows on the table. “We found out what we needed. The mage posed no threat, he was just seeking information.”

“With all due respect, Lucanis, I asked you not to interfere,” Viago snapped. “Teresa went on this mission not as Rook, but as a Crow of House de Riva. And I want to know why she stopped the surveillance.”

Teresa looked at her cousin from under her brows, understanding perfectly well that he was drawing boundaries in a moment of vulnerability. Clenching her fists, she exhaled:

“He met with Marcus. Asked questions about Karastes.”

Her cousin’s features didn’t flinch, but his mouth opened — a split second was enough to notice.

“Karastes?” he repeated. “The one I’m thinking of?”

“My contract,” Teresa clarified.

Viago stood up so abruptly that the chair screeched and fell, the legs scraping his leg. The Fifth Talon placed his hands on the table and said through gritted teeth:

“You mean to say a Tevinter mage is questioning Marcus about a contract that’s deeply personal to our family, and you just let him go?”

Teresa said nothing, not knowing what to say. Inside, everything felt frozen — she understood her cousin’s point.

“What did Marcus even know about Karastes?” he asked sharply. “And don’t you dare lie to me.”

“Only that I was badly wounded,” she mumbled.

A loud bang: Viago slammed his fist on the table so hard it creaked in protest. Teresa flinched — her cousin never lost his temper. Except when it came to Karastes.

Viago swore passionately, then almost hissed:

“Have you forgotten everything my father taught you? Everything I taught you? You can’t trust anyone, Teresa! No one!”

“I didn’t—”

“You said enough!” Viago barked. “I can understand a lot, but how could you have the nerve to tell something so personal to a lover?!”

“That’s enough,” Lucanis said, his tone no longer calm but low and controlled. He stood, not raising his voice, but there was so much steel in it that silence fell in the dining room. “You’re going too far. And I won’t let you talk to Teresa like that. No one will.”

“She’s a Crow of my house!”

“I said: you’re going too far,” Lucanis repeated. Teresa noticed how hard his voice sounded.

Viago froze, peering at Dellamorte, and it became clear: though he didn’t yet carry the title of First Talon, it wasn’t far off. Her cousin turned his gaze to her.

“Who else might know, Teresa?”

“What?..”

“Who else could you have told?”

“No one,” she said honestly, surprised. “Lucanis. Before that, briefly Marcus. That’s it.”

Viago clenched his jaw, as if what he wanted to ask caused him real pain.

“Who was there besides Marcus, Teresa?”

She raised her brows, feeling a surge of anger in her chest.

“You know perfectly well, there was no one.”

“What, Marcus was the only one?” Viago asked, a little softer, and Teresa stood, feeling her emotions at the limit.

“Long before Karastes, there was a man. He certainly couldn’t have known anything. Any more questions about my personal life?”

She saw shame flicker across her cousin’s face, and for a split second — curiosity. Teresa felt exposed, angry: such a conversation, and in front of Lucanis, too?

Viago unexpectedly wilted, as if finally realizing he’d crossed a line.

“Teresa…”

“And let me remind you that while I may have stopped the surveillance, but the mage has escaped from your house!” she hissed.

“From ours,” Viago corrected for some reason. “But I shackled him and locked the cage with a suppression rune!”

“And I found out that he’s looking for me! Apparently, because of Tenebrius!”

“Enough,” Teia interjected, standing up as well. “Blaming each other for all mortal sins won’t help. The fact is — the mage is gone.”

“I’ve sent our people after him,” Viago muttered. Teresa could feel his gaze, but the anger inside her boiled no less fiercely than the demon by the same name.

“Great,” she retorted. “Let me know if there’s any news. I’m expected at the Lighthouse. Lucanis?”

She met his gaze and saw not a trace of reproach. Dellamorte gave her a barely noticeable smile and nodded confidently.

“Let’s go.”

She was already at the door when Viago called after her. Teresa turned and said coldly:

“Don’t. I’ve heard enough.”

 

***

Teresa lit a cigarette and sighed heavily. After returning to the Lighthouse, she went straight to her room. Viago’s words had sunk deep inside her, and she had no idea how to shake off that disgusting feeling.

She took a drag of the bitter smoke and smiled a little, remembering how tactfully Lucanis had behaved after they’d left the de Riva estate. Without saying a word, he took her hand and never let go until they were back at the Lighthouse.

That was close. Very much his style. Teresa smiled wider, recalling the night they’d spent together.

Everything had felt natural. No barriers, no pretense, not a drop of artifice. She remembered his admiring gaze and wasn’t afraid to look back at him the same way. To be herself — for the first time in many years.

Maybe that was what she’d been searching for all this time, but was afraid to admit? Even thinking about it was scary.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Teresa instantly knew it was him. Lucanis entered, holding a plate and a cup of coffee, and she was genuinely surprised. Apparently, it showed on her face, because he chuckled.

“I did promise you breakfast.”

“You didn’t have to,” Teresa took one last drag and stubbed out her cigarette. “But thank you.”

The smell was amazing. Lucanis set the plate on the table and sat beside her.

“I don’t always know what to say, but… I’m here for you, Tess.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, reaching out to kiss him. “Did you eat yourself?”

“While I was cooking,” Lucanis grinned.

Teresa moved closer, and her breath caught: on the plate was a warm flatbread, neatly wrapped. Melted goat cheese oozed from the edge, mixed with spiced meat — dried beef, grilled to a crisp. It smelled of fire, spices, and something deeply familiar.

Her breath hitched. This was the kind of quick breakfast her mother used to make early in the morning. Teresa smiled.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Don’t like it?” Lucanis frowned, but she shook her head.

“On the contrary. My mother used to make this when my father returned from contracts. Quick and delicious. Thank you,” she smiled and started eating.

Lucanis relaxed a little, leaning back on the sofa to give her space.

“Emmrich said we need to interrogate Zara Renata as soon as possible. I’ll go to him. If you want, join me.”

Teresa nodded.

“Of course, I’ll go with you, that’s not even a question.”

“But don’t rush,” Lucanis said firmly. “I don’t want you to feel unwell.”

“Thank you,” she smiled.

He took away the plate and sighed. Teresa frowned.

“Are you afraid she’ll confirm your fears?”

“I’m sure of it even without her,” Lucanis muttered. “And you know how I feel about necromancy. But it’s important to hear it.”

“And we’re lucky to have Emmrich on our team,” Teresa reached for his hand and squeezed it. “His tactfulness in all matters is something I’ve always appreciated. I’m sure he’ll handle it well.”

Lucanis nodded, and not knowing what else to say, she leaned against him.

“I’m with you.”

 

***

Teresa usually liked the part of the Lighthouse where Professor Emmrich Volkarin had set up. Despite his craft — necromancy — the place seemed to reflect him: it was cozy, showed a clear love of detail, and yet lacked the kind of luxury so familiar to the Antivan eye. Besides, the professor had a vast library — in addition to the one at the Lighthouse.

This time, however, a sharp balsamic smell hit her nose, always associated with funeral rites. Teresa felt nauseous and silently thanked Lucanis for suggesting they wait before coming.

On Emmrich’s stone table — she had wondered why a necromancer would need it — lay the body of Zara Renata. Lucanis walked up to the table with determination. Emmrich stood on the other side, looking absolutely serious.

Teresa felt a wave of sympathy: they really were lucky to have a necromancer on their team.

Lucanis sighed and looked at Emmrich.

“Zara spoke to Illario before she died. I need to know exactly what they talked about.”

“I wouldn’t have offered my services if I wasn’t confident it would work,” the professor answered calmly. “Let’s begin, if you’re ready.”

Lucanis nodded. Teresa stood by his side, flashing him a quick, supportive smile.

Emmrich raised his hands and intoned:

“Let flame restore your sight. Let breath and light rise again.”

Zara Renata — or was it still her corpse? — made a noise, like air filling her lungs. Teresa thought, “It sounds like someone surfacing from underwater.” And even though it was a simple association, her skin crawled with horror.

Teresa shared Lucanis’s view on necromancy, preferring the burial rites performed throughout Thedas except in Nevarra — cremation. But she didn’t judge Emmrich, especially given his passion for his life’s work.

Zara was breathing hoarsely. Teresa saw Lucanis grimace with undisguised disgust, and she herself took a deep breath. Not a good idea — the smell was already making her head spin, and nausea crept up her throat.

“Tell us about Illario Dellamorte,” Emmrich said confidently, addressing the corpse.

“Amatus,” Zara whispered, and Teresa sighed heavily, unable to hold back — she’d been right.

Lucanis immediately looked at her, as if asking.

“Beloved,” Teresa translated, looking at him with sympathy. Lucanis grimaced.

“He deceived us both,” Zara Renata managed to say.

“Explain,” Lucanis ordered coldly.

“You took from him what he wanted most,” Zara turned her head, her dead eyes staring at him. Teresa frowned. “More than money... pleasure... family...”

“The title of First Talon,” Lucanis said darkly, folding his arms across his chest.

Teresa desperately wanted to support him. Glancing quickly at Emmrich — who didn’t take his eyes off Zara Renata — she brushed Lucanis’s elbow in silent support.

“Envy,” Teresa breathed. “The worst poison you can imagine. Especially between loved ones.”

“The job was to kill you,” Zara Renata went on. “But I don’t like wasting potential.”

“That’s not any better,” Teresa shot back, clenching her fists.

“And Caterina?” asked Lucanis. “Did Illario hire you to kill her?”

“No,” the corpse forced out.

“Illario used blood magic to control Spite. How? He’s not a mage,” Teresa asked. She remembered — they didn’t have much time.

“Our awakened gods grant many gifts,” Zara replied.

Teresa felt the nausea rise again. Who — Elgar’nan or Ghilan’nain? She frowned, trying to remember.

Elgar’nan was considered the god of order, authority, and wrath, while Ghilan’nain was the patroness of hunters, beasts, nature, and healers.

“Did Illario contact Elgar’nan?” Teresa asked.

“Her spirit is strong. I would appreciate haste,” Emmrich interrupted. Teresa looked at him: the mage seemed a little pale.

“We’ve heard enough,” Lucanis said grimly.

The professor made a few intricate gestures with his hands. Zara Renata gave one last ragged breath and went limp, leaving this world forever.

“I’m sorry, Lucanis,” Teresa said, not knowing what else to add.

“Me too,” he muttered, looking up at her.

“What do we do now?” she asked softly.

Lucanis’s gaze was full of silent gratitude. The question was clearly new to him, but he answered in kind:

“We’ll take everything from him.”

The words sounded like a sentence, but nothing more was needed.

 

***

Lucanis was drinking coffee, leaning his back against the wall in the pantry behind the kitchen. Spite was raging in his mind — the demon’s fury at the news about Illario had truly unsettled him.

His eyes felt heavy, but that was nothing new. Taking a sip of the rich, slightly bitter liquid, Lucanis thought of Teresa.

Memories of the previous night muffled Spite’s furious screams. Warmth spread through his chest. He could almost see himself kissing her, the way she responded, touching — carefully exploring.

Afterwards — how they lay together in the darkness under the open sky. Her fingers stroked his chest and stomach, as if Tess wanted to make sure he was really there.

And he studied her in turn. Caressed her back, the curve of her waist. Inhaled the scent of her thick hair. When he touched her side, Teresa giggled — almost childishly mumbling,

“Ticklish.”

He remembered that he couldn't let her go. He just held her close, until he heard her breathing slow and become even.

Lucanis couldn’t remember anyone ever treating him so gently. And he wanted to treat her the same way.

He already knew how closed-off Teresa was, and how hard it was for her to open up. But she was coming toward him, sharing her past, contracts, memories, and he was doing the same.

The desire to find her had awakened inside him and was bubbling no less fiercely than Spite — only it responded differently: quietly, unfamiliar, but fighting it seemed impossible.

Lucanis finished his coffee in one gulp, set the cup down, and headed to find her.

Passing the library, he noticed a light. He turned and saw her.

Teresa was sitting on a bench in front of the piano; Lucanis squinted — she was reading a book.

He walked over. She seemed absorbed in the story, and for a split second Lucanis felt like a child longing for attention. He didn’t have to wait: her gray eyes lifted from the pages, and Teresa smiled.

“What are you reading?” he asked in Antivan — though Lucanis would never admit it, he loved speaking to her in their native tongue.

Teresa smiled warmly.

“I found a collection of stories about ordinary people during the time of the Inquisition. How the Breach affected their lives. The author’s some scholar from the University of Orlais,” she glanced at the cover for a second. Lucanis stood beside her and read the name; it meant nothing to him.

“Sounds interesting,” he nodded. “Did you ever see the Breach?”

“No. I was in Orlais after the Inquisitor closed it — in forty-two. But people remember. One shepherd in the book says he collapsed when he saw the Breach in the sky. Another — how his daughter made up a song about it that he still remembers. A woman from Ferelden — how her mabari gave its life protecting her family from a demon. It’s frightening, tragic, and stories like this don’t usually make it into books.”

“I like how you think about people,” Lucanis murmured.

“That’s one reason I never became an assassin.”

He grinned broadly and leaned over her a little.

“Really? I thought it was because the great Teresa de Riva is afraid of blood.”

“I am not afraid!” she protested, pretending to be offended, but then grew serious. “No. I was trained in everything, but my aunt always told my uncle: ‘The house needs a rare specialization.’ She spent a lot of time on my education, which helped when I had contracts to resolve disputes.”

“For example?” Lucanis’s voice showed genuine curiosity. “You mentioned artifacts, but…”

“Nothing special,” Teresa snorted. “Usually quarrels between merchant princes or — at the king’s request — to make peace between two feuding nobles, one of whom went after the other’s mistress. Dirt and boredom. Searching for artifacts on commission is much more interesting.”

“That sounds like what the ‘Lords of Fortune’ do,” Lucanis muttered. “Just without chasing glory.”

“Exactly,” she confirmed. “My motivation is to fulfill the contract. Enjoyment in the search is secondary, though it’s important to me. And usually, there are few caves full of spiders. But stealing an artifact from a magister from Carinus or a seventh-century brooch from an Orlesian noble is much more interesting, in my opinion. It’s like… touching history, but not keeping it for yourself.”

Lucanis froze, looking into her eyes. He understood, and it made his chest even warmer.

“And how did you become a mage killer?” she asked quietly. “I’ve always wanted to ask, but…”

Lucanis smiled. He liked how, little by little, they were opening up. It was even funny: they’d talked about so much — childhood memories, contract stories, family — but only now were they getting to the heart of their specializations. There was something special in that, as if from the beginning they’d seen not Antivan Crows in each other, but people.

“You know,” he said softly, gently squeezing her shoulders, “I love that you see me, not just as a mage killer.”

“A legendary mage killer,” Teresa countered, grinning. “But seriously: however important our trade is, it doesn’t define us as people.”

“You have no idea how much that means,” Lucanis gazed into her eyes, leaned down and kissed her — with heat, passion, paradoxically laced with tenderness.

She kissed him back just as eagerly, pressing closer, but when their breath mingled, she playfully bit his lip, as if testing boundaries. A muffled moan escaped Lucanis’s throat.

“Mierda, Tess…”

“You didn’t answer the question,” she whispered, and Lucanis felt both frustration and the urge to laugh.

“You’re good at getting answers,” he buried his nose in her hair and murmured, “I became a mage killer when the Venatori started to restore their cult. More than five years ago. I liked the idea that I was cleaning the world of filth.”

She snorted. Her fingers ran through his hair, and Lucanis almost groaned at the sensation.

“Thank you for sharing,” she whispered.

He gently pulled back and, tilting his head, smiled.

“Any other urgent questions for me, Tess?”

“Yes,” she nodded with mock seriousness, and Lucanis raised an expectant eyebrow. “Will you kiss me again?”

He didn’t answer with words — just leaned down and kissed her again. Deeper, more confidently. There was no need to hold back: his fingers ran along her cheek, then her neck, into Tess’s thick hair. His other hand pulled her closer by the waist — firm and sure.

She moaned softly when his lips touched her neck, but she leaned into him. He was vaguely aware there would be marks, but stopping now seemed impossible. When Teresa moaned especially loudly, everything inside him flipped, and he forced himself to slow down.

“Do you want…” she panted, her gray eyes wide, “…to come with me?”

Instead of answering, he simply lifted her into his arms. Teresa gasped in surprise, but confidently wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Lucanis, someone might see us!”

“Let them,” he shot back, heading for the library door. “I don’t want to hide that we’re together.”

He felt her freeze for a moment, but as if reconsidering, she exhaled:

“Perfect.”

They disappeared, leaving behind the untouched piano and the book.

Chapter Text

Teresa couldn't remember the last time she’d slept so little, but she didn’t regret a thing. She sat on the kitchen counter at the Lighthouse, watching Lucanis knead dough for croissants, despite the early morning. Taking a sip of coffee — black, strong, and bitter — she observed Dellamorte’s movements. Her body was suffused with a pleasant tiredness and relaxation. She wanted to sleep, but even more — she wanted to be near him.

“You’re staring so intently that I’m seriously starting to wonder if I messed up the ingredients,” Lucanis grumbled, though the corners of his lips lifted.

“Believe me, that’s not what I’m watching,” Teresa replied, giving him a wide smile and catching the Crow’s gaze. He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible, Tess.”

“How so?” She feigned a gasp, running her hands over herself and then over him.

Lucanis laughed louder, more sincerely, and then leaned in for a kiss. Teresa met him halfway.

After a few long moments, he pulled away with a groan.

“I need to finish with the dough. And you — you need to sleep. You’ve been living on coffee alone for days now.”

“I did sleep!” Teresa protested with a smirk.

“How long? An hour? Tess, I’m serious,” he looked at her, and she sighed, realizing he was right.

“Sorry. I just always want to be around you, but I know we both need our own time…”

Lucanis frowned and came to stand between her knees. He didn’t touch her, though; his hands were covered in dough.

“Tess, what’s going on?”

She gave a muffled laugh, lowering her eyes, then looked at him and quietly murmured,

“It’s all new to me. I’m afraid of doing something wrong. I’ve… never had anything like this before.”

Lucanis smiled gently, and she felt a weight lift from her heart.

“Me neither. We’re in this together. And believe me, I want to be around you all the time, too. But I barely sleep because of Spite, and you’re used to a full night’s sleep. And when I say this, it’s only because I care,” he finished, a little uncertain.

Teresa leaned toward him and kissed him.

“I appreciate that.”

“So, will you go to sleep?” The stubbornness in Lucanis’s eyes was unmistakable, and she laughed.

“All right.”

“That’s my Tess,” he grinned and kissed her before returning to the dough. “I’ll wake you in a few hours. Just promise you won’t throw a pillow at me — mornings seem to make you extra grumpy.”

Teresa hopped off the counter, smirking.

“I thought you already figured out the best way to wake me up?”

“I’ll be sure to use it,” Lucanis grinned widely. “But what if the great Teresa de Riva throws a dagger at me? I know all too well how accurate you are.”

She rolled her eyes and headed for the door, but suddenly the Watcher of the Lighthouse appeared before her — a spirit who kept their life in the Fade running.

“Resident, someone named Viago de Riva requests entry to the Lighthouse. Should he be let in?”

Teresa frowned but nodded.

“Yes. He’s my cousin. Family.”

“Acknowledged,” the Watcher replied apathetically. “Should all those bearing the name de Riva be granted entry? Other family members?”

She paused, shaking her head.

“I don’t have any other family, but you can add…” she hesitated, glancing at the spirit. “Add Mateo de Riva and Andarateia Cantori. Lucanis, anyone from your family?” she turned to him.

“Not yet,” Dellamorte answered calmly.

Teresa turned back to the Watcher.

“Ask each member of the team a bit later. They’ll give you approved names. I’d also add the Inquisitor — just in case. And his family.”

“Very well, Resident,” the spirit bowed his head and disappeared.

Teresa crossed her arms, hesitating. Talking to Viago alone — at least for now — wasn’t appealing.

“You don’t have to meet with him alone if you’re not ready,” Lucanis’s voice came from behind, and she turned, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t want to drag you into family drama,” she admitted quietly.

Lucanis smirked but didn’t answer, and she realized he wasn’t saying out loud what was already obvious — it was probably too late for that. Teresa smiled.

“You really don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he replied confidently, and she stepped closer.

“Thank you. I…”

“I know,” Lucanis gently interrupted. “And I’m here.”

Soon, the door swung open, and Viago de Riva entered the dining room. Teresa didn’t move, remaining standing with Lucanis. Her cousin approached; his gray eyes studied them both.

“Sorry for the early intrusion,” he said, holding back emotion. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

“Is something wrong?” Teresa asked, striving to keep her voice neutral.

“No, but…” Viago’s gaze darted to Lucanis. “Mierda, are you cooking?”

“So what?” Dellamorte looked up at him unflinchingly, with a slight smirk.

“Nothing,” Viago shook his head. “I just wanted to talk before you both go off on another assignment.”

“I’ll make some coffee,” Lucanis nodded, while Teresa watched her cousin closely.

“What about?”

“First, I contacted Illario and asked him to talk to Marcus. About the Tevinter mage,” Viago began, frowning. “Illario replied that I should stay out of it. That he’ll handle his own house members, and my involvement isn’t required.”

“His own house members? Seriously?” Teresa repeated indignantly, but the wording left no doubt: everything Zara Renata’s corpse had said was true.

Lucanis kept silent, wiping his hands, but she noticed how tightly his lips pressed together. Viago looked at him grimly.

“This looks like a grab for the First Talon title, Lucanis. I doubt Illario even knew about Marcus’s meeting with the Tevinter mage, but he wanted to show who’s the head of the house.”

Lucanis sighed heavily.

“That’s not news.”

“What are you saying?” Viago folded his arms, his gaze attentive, and Teresa felt warmth from his approach — he understood.

Dellamorte didn’t answer immediately. Only after making sure he’d measured out enough coffee beans did he quietly say,

“Emmrich helped us speak with Zara Renata’s corpse. Illario put me in the Ossuary.”

Viago swore under his breath, something he rarely allowed himself in front of others.

“So, Caterina’s murder was his doing?” he practically hissed.

Teresa knew how her cousin felt about the First Talon — after Viago’s parents were killed, Caterina took him in as head of the house despite his young age, and he’d always served her loyally.

Caterina was a woman whose name became legend even during her lifetime. Teresa always listened with interest to stories about her contracts, discussed among the Antivan Crows. She also knew that during the war for power among the houses, which claimed the lives of Teresa’s parents, Caterina Delamorte lost five children and six grandchildren. Only two survived — Lucanis and Illario.

Remembering the old woman with the sharp, piercing gaze, to whom Teresa had promised to bring her grandson back from the Ossuary, she hugged herself tighter. She had truly saved Lucanis, but failed to reunite them.

“Zara Renata said it wasn’t him,” Lucanis replied grimly, pulling Teresa from her thoughts as she listened to the conversation.

“But it was Zara Renata who led the Venatori in Treviso,” Viago grimaced. “Something doesn’t add up. I don’t like it. Or the fact that Illario is making a play for your title. Teia and I will keep our ears open, and if anything comes up, we’ll let you know immediately.”

“Thank you,” Lucanis nodded, pouring coffee into cups. He handed one to Viago, the other to Teresa.

De Riva took a sip and nodded in satisfaction.

“May I ask, what do you plan to do about Illario?”

“I’ll take everything from him,” Lucanis answered. His words were calm but resolute. “He may be my cousin, but I spent a year in the Ossuary. Because of him. That’s not something you forgive.”

Viago grimaced, and Teresa caught his gaze for a split second.

“I’m sorry, Lucanis,” he said quietly to Dellamorte. “Who would have thought…”

Teresa took a sip of coffee, staying out of the conversation. A rebellious strand of hair fell into her cup, and she tucked it behind her ear in irritation.

“Need to cut it again,” she thought, and suddenly Viago’s gaze froze as he watched her gesture.

“Teresa, what is that?” he almost whispered, frowning in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“On your neck,” Viago breathed. “A mark.”

Realization hit like lightning, and she felt her cheeks flush with heat. Slowly lowering her hand, she met her cousin’s eyes.

“Who?”

His voice was quiet, almost unconscious. Teresa heard no reproach or anger, just confusion. She sighed.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Who?” Viago repeated, more insistent.

Teresa hesitated, unsure if Lucanis was ready, but he suddenly spoke for himself:

“Me.”

Viago froze, and she noticed his eyes widen. He looked at Lucanis, as if not believing what he’d heard, and shook his head.

He said nothing, and Teresa, who had known Viago since childhood, saw him struggling with a flood of emotions. His nostrils flared, lips compressed until they nearly disappeared.

“I think we’d better talk alone,” Teresa said quietly, and to her surprise, Viago nodded.

“I wanted to… apologize for…” he said awkwardly, and placing his cup on the counter, headed for the door.

Teresa looked at Lucanis before following her cousin. Dellamorte appeared calm, but there was a flicker of caution in his eyes. He seemed to worry he’d said too much, and she quickly smiled at him before leaving.

Outside, the Fifth Talon took a deep breath. Teresa stood opposite, arms wrapped around herself. Anxiety welled up inside.

Viago was still silent, and she felt her own hesitation.

“Want me to show you a place where it’s easier for me to think?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Viago looked at her, and something flickered in his gray eyes.

“Lead the way,” he simply replied.

A few minutes later, they climbed up to Solas’s office and stepped out onto the balcony. Teresa lit a cigarette and looked at her cousin.

“Go on. Tell me I messed up again, yell if it makes you feel better. Just don’t stay silent, Vi. That’s not like you at all.”

“Is it… serious between you two?”

Teresa took a drag. The tobacco smoke burned pleasantly in her throat. Exhaling, she answered honestly:

“I think so, yes.”

Viago stood next to her, leaning on the railing with his hands. Teresa was afraid to look at him.

“What are you so afraid of?” an inner voice asked, and she turned to her cousin. He sighed heavily and muttered,

“Lucanis is a good man.”

“Doesn’t sound like it, judging by your tone,” Teresa retorted. “Vi, please, just say what you mean.”

There was a pause.

“Just don’t expect me to change my mind. Because I… I’m happy,” she added.

Viago smiled, restrained but sincere — worth a lot. Finally, collecting his thoughts, he said quietly,

“It’s not about Lucanis. It’s about you.”

“Me?” She raised an eyebrow, taking another drag of the bitter smoke.

“I’m used to protecting you,” Viago ground out, as if each word was a struggle. “You never asked for it. You’re my little cousin, and I don’t know how to do anything else. And then you suddenly grew up. You came back from that contract in 9:42, and I… I don’t know what happened there, Teresa, but…” He sighed. “You started saving up for your own apartment. You came to me and said: ‘If someone wants to make an alliance with de Riva, you won’t dare use me as a bargaining chip.’ I promised. And I kept my word. You have no idea how many houses asked to arrange a marriage alliance. And still — you didn’t trust me with even that. As if I’d ever do that to you!”

Teresa frowned.

“I don’t understand, Vi. What does that have to do with anything?”

“I…” Viago grimaced as if in pain. “I don’t blame you. But you started pulling away even then. And still, I kept hoping that if something was wrong, you’d come to me. But then I realized how much you didn’t say. And still don’t.”

Teresa touched his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I know you’d react dramatically. Because you don’t know how to do anything else. Sometimes you protect me so much it’s hard to breathe.”

“Ten years have passed! Just say it. I won’t get mad.”

Teresa clenched her jaw, looked at him, and exhaled:

“There was a man in Orlais. A mage from Tevinter.”

“The one with the amulet for the king?”

She smirked.

“Yes. And it was… wonderful, Vi. I felt what it was to be alive. He asked me to stay. To go with him to Minrathous. But I chose you. Our family. I was scared to do otherwise.”

Viago was silent for a few seconds, staring into the distance. Finally, he asked,

“Do you regret it?”

“Honestly?” Teresa smiled. “No. I knew at the time I was doing the right thing. I know it now. But he… meant a lot, Vi. And it’s silly — I don’t even know his name. He doesn’t know mine. How could I tell you? And now, ten years later, I felt the same way. I was afraid of your reaction to Lucanis.”

“To Lucanis,” Viago repeated, shaking his head. “But you didn’t think twice about telling me about Marcus!”

“Because it wasn’t important!” Teresa rolled her eyes, barely suppressing a smile. Taking another drag, she finished confidently, “With Lucanis, it’s completely different.”

“I’ll accept any choice you make,” Viago said with feeling. “And I’ll be honest: I’m even glad it’s him. Not empty-headed Marcus, not charming, two-faced Illario, but Lucanis! Because, by the Maker… he’s probably exactly what you need.”

Teresa hesitated for a moment but smiled.

“I doubt you’d have reacted the same way to the news about a Tevinter mage. By the way, what about you?” Teresa smirked darkly, changing the subject. “You say I don’t share things. And you? You still haven’t told me about your immunity from Caterina.”

He winced.

“Believe me, that’s the only thing I’ve ever kept from you. I remember my promise. I swear I’ll tell you. Just not now. And… sorry for crossing the line. It won’t happen again.”

“Of course it won’t,” Teresa couldn’t help herself. “Now you know everything.”

Viago laughed. She truly loved these moments — her cousin allowed himself to smile so rarely.

She didn’t feel like arguing — the conversation had already drained her. They returned to the kitchen and found Lucanis with a cup of coffee. The aroma of pastries hung in the air, and Viago sighed.

“I have to get back to Treviso,” his eyes lingered on Lucanis. “I won’t say anything else: you’ve known me for years. I just hope you understand: Teresa, aside from her own talents, has me at her back…”

“…a master of poisons,” Lucanis finished for him with a smirk, but nodded. “I know, Viago. You can rest assured — the last thing I want is to hurt Tess.”

“Tess,” the Fifth Talon repeated, glancing at his cousin. “Just like when we were kids,” his face softened, but Viago quickly pulled himself together. “Teia and I will keep an eye on Illario. If there’s news, we’ll let you know.”

After a brief farewell, Viago left. Teresa felt Lucanis’s gaze and smiled. She had no strength left at all.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I think so,” Teresa exhaled. “But now I really need to sleep.”

Lucanis grinned, stepped over, and kissed her on the temple.

“Then off to bed. And no trying to sneak away.”

“I’ll think about it,” she muttered, but she was already smiling. For the first time in days — at peace.

 

***

The spacious, light-filled room was bathed in soft magical rays reflecting off a stained-glass window that covered nearly the entire wall. In the corner stood a tall bookshelf — almost reaching the ceiling. To the left — a dollhouse in the shape of Skyhold: a creation by Cullen, a gift for Eva’s third birthday.

Margaret watched her daughter intently. The little girl was humming something to herself, slowly moving her hands through the air as she’d been taught. Magical sparks followed her fingers.

“Well done, Eva,” Margaret smiled and extended her palm. “Now slowly direct them to me.”

Eva focused, furrowing her brows and biting her lip with concentration. The mage had to suppress a laugh: her daughter looked simply too adorable at that moment.

“Come on,” she encouraged. “You can do it!”

A few seconds passed, and the magic touched Margaret’s fingers. The sparks shimmered, shifting through the colors of the rainbow, and Eveline laughed joyfully.

“It’s so beautiful, Mama! I want to do it just like you!”

“All in good time, princess. You’re already doing wonderfully,” Margaret smiled gently at her daughter, sending the sparks back. Eva caught them and bounced up and down in excitement. “Good job,” the mage praised. “Now make them disappear.”

“Mama, can I play a bit longer?”

“It’s time for bed,” Margaret countered calmly.

“And for the sparks?”

“That’s right.”

Eva waved her hands, almost losing her balance, and the sparks vanished.

A few minutes later, the girl was lying in bed, and Margaret saw her daughter watching her closely. Unobtrusively smoothing her dress — she still hadn’t told her — Margaret looked back at her.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“When will Papa come back?”

The mage tried to suppress the wave of emotion that rose instantly at the mention of Cullen. He wrote — rarely, briefly, but lovingly — and she would read Eva his letters aloud so the little girl wouldn’t forget her father.

“I don’t know,” Margaret said honestly. “I miss him a lot too.”

“Mama, why is your magic different now?”

“What? What do you mean?” the mage was caught off guard — the question took her by surprise.

“It’s warmer,” Evelina mumbled. The little girl’s eyes — so much like Cullen’s — were already drooping. “It feels like it’s protecting.”

Margaret’s breath caught, and she stared at her daughter in astonishment. She and Dorian had already noticed how quickly Eva was advancing in magic — despite being far too young.

“Pavus’s blood!” Dorian liked to repeat, and though Margaret would roll her eyes, she knew her cousin was right.

“You can feel it?” the mage asked softly. Evelina yawned sleepily, snuggling into her pillow.

“He doesn’t have magic, Mama. Yours is protecting him.”

“Who, Eva?”

“The boy,” her daughter murmured.

Inside, everything went cold. Logic and all her knowledge of magic screamed about rationality: this couldn’t be. Magical abilities usually manifested in children around five years old, as had happened with Eveline.

Taking a deep breath, the mage asked as calmly as she could:

“Who do you mean, sweetheart?”

The little girl sat up, frowning.

“Mama, don’t you know? There’s a boy in your tummy. I can feel him. He’s like Papa — he doesn’t have magic.”

Margaret was silent. Inside, she was trembling — as if after a blow. She didn’t remember kissing her daughter goodnight or blowing out the candle. She only knew one thing: she needed Dorian.

 

***

She found her cousin in his study. Leaning back in his chair, he was sipping from a glass filled with a dark liquid. Noticing Margaret, Dorian frowned.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Eva…” the mage exhaled, feeling her head spin from nerves.

She sank into a chair and, pulling herself together, told Dorian what her daughter had said. To Margaret’s annoyance, he was beaming like a newly minted gold coin.

“If you so much as mention Pavus’s blood right now, I’ll hit you with a lightning bolt,” the mage threatened.

Dorian laughed brightly.

“What can I do if it’s true?”

“How does she know?” Margaret muttered. “How can she sense whether there’s magic or not?”

Dorian bit his lip, staring out the window for a few moments.

“We both know well that many noble mages would give a fortune to be able to sense something like that. Magic truly can’t determine whether abilities will manifest. And the disappointment is even greater when they don’t.”

Margaret nodded anxiously — she knew that all too well. Her mother, Virinea, was born the youngest daughter of Magister Pavus. But — to the family’s disappointment — she never developed magical abilities. In early-century Tevinter, this was considered a disgrace, especially since the eldest son — Dorian’s father, Galvard — had been practicing magic for years.

Virinea had always stood out in the magocratic society of the Imperium, which was why she’d run away to Ostwick with the heir to the title of Teyrn — Lord Tristan Trevelyan. Margaret knew: the local nobility had never truly forgiven her father for marrying a Tevinter woman, but that hadn’t stopped her parents from loving each other all these years.

“Margot?”

The mage blinked, returning to the present.

“Sorry. I was thinking about Mother.”

“Ah, Aunt Virinea!” Dorian smiled warmly. “Good that you switched the topic from Eva. Maybe she just overheard us talking about the pregnancy?”

Margaret sighed. Her fingers twisted a particularly curly strand of black hair.

“Even if she did — how did she come up with the bit about a boy and ‘no magic’?”

“Child’s imagination?” Dorian suggested. He was frowning but clearly trying to reassure her. “Although…”

He stood and walked over to the fireplace, still holding his glass. Margaret noticed how tired he looked, and felt guilty — he was carrying so much on his shoulders already.

“You remember our family descends from dreamers?” he finally asked quietly.

Margaret barely stopped herself from scoffing.

“I remember, Dorian, but you’re not seriously trying to say Eva has those abilities?”

“No, but…” He stared into the distance, thoughtful. “…all we can do is watch. Time will tell. The last dreamer in the family was Palinor Pavus, who lived in the sixth century.”

“Would we know if it’s the case?”

“Maybe. Or maybe we shouldn’t.”

Margaret was silent, quietly studying Dorian. Her cousin had long looked exhausted, and the events of the last few years flashed through her mind.

Magister Pavus had put enormous effort into shaking up the ossified political system of Tevinter, founded the Lucerni party with Maevaris Tilani, and then worked tirelessly to push through the bill to abolish slavery in the Imperium. None of it had produced the desired results, and Dorian now looked much older than his thirty-seven years. But he hadn’t given up.

“Still no word from Servis.”

Her cousin’s voice pulled Margaret out of her thoughts, and her chest tightened with worry.

“Maybe it just hasn’t arrived yet?” she suggested hopefully, though optimism wasn’t her strong suit. It was frightening even to imagine that something could have happened to Crassius.

“He promised to write as soon as he boarded a ship to Minrathous,” Dorian said quietly. He returned to his chair and lit a cigarette, rubbing his cheek with his free hand. “It’s been over a week now that he should have been in Treviso. And I’m so worried about him, Margot. Really.”

“So am I,” Margaret breathed. “I know Servis has gotten into scrapes before, but he always checked in.”

Dorian nodded, inhaling the bitter smoke.

“I’m thinking…” he muttered, “…maybe we should talk to Rook? She’s an Antivan Crow and might have heard something.”

Margaret pressed her lips together, trying not to let her displeasure show.

“Neve was adamant. ‘Don’t involve Rook.’ And that’s exactly why Crassius went there! Alone.”

Dorian looked at her closely. He knew his cousin too well not to notice she was hiding something.

“You know the reason?”

Margaret felt anger bubbling up inside. Hiding her thoughts from Dorian seemed wrong.

“Because Neve has a grudge against Rook. She chose Treviso over Minrathous when the dragons attacked both at once.”

Her cousin was silent, but she saw him deep in thought.

“That decision cost me dearly. And you too, I’m sure of it. But Rook is from Treviso. Anyone would have done the same.”

“And I didn’t make things any easier,” Margaret groaned, slumping back in her chair: the fatigue in her muscles had been growing for weeks. “I let it slip to Neve that Crassius — ridiculous as it sounds — had a thing with a Crow ten years ago. She didn’t know. I think, if I’d kept my mouth shut, I could have convinced them that it was dangerous for him to go to Treviso alone.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Dorian shook his head. “I’ve known Neve Gallus for a long time, and I know that once she’s decided something, nothing can change her mind. Stubborn, just like you,” he chuckled. “Servis clearly has a type.”

Margaret rolled her eyes, but hope flickered inside her.

“You think I didn’t make things worse?”

“If Crassius decides something, arguing is pointless, you know that,” Dorian smiled a little. “The fact that Neve didn’t want to go to Rook probably didn’t make much difference. You’re overthinking it, Margot.”

“But it would have been easier to talk to Rook!” the mage protested hotly. “Crassius admitted it himself! As far as I know, Neve’s argument was that Rook wouldn’t say anything, since her cousin — Viago de Riva — is involved.”

Dorian rubbed his eyes, tired.

“You could both be right. You — like Philipp — see Rook as an ally. She’s carrying a lot. Neve sees an Antivan Crow. Either way, Servis is already in Treviso, so I don’t see the point in worrying about that anymore.”

“But if something happens to him because Neve didn’t go to Rook, I won’t forgive her.”

Margaret’s voice was calm, but there was a clear note of threat in it. Dorian shook his head.

“Crassius is tough, Margot. He’s survived things we couldn’t even imagine.”

“So what do you suggest?” the mage challenged. “Just sit and wait? What if we’re wrong, trusting Crassius and Neve’s decision? Maybe we should go to the Lighthouse and talk to Teresa directly?”

“I get it,” Dorian said in a soothing tone. “And I’d be a fool to lie and say I haven’t thought about the same. But Rook isn’t in Treviso, she’s at the Lighthouse. She has so much on her plate, she couldn’t possibly know about every move the Crows make — wouldn’t you agree?”

Margaret nodded reluctantly, accepting her cousin’s logic. A heavy silence fell. Dorian frowned, sighed, and then suddenly smiled.

“Crassius? A Crow? Ten years ago? What?”

Margaret laughed.

“Gossip, Dorian? Really?”

“You brought it up!” Dorian protested in mock offense. “I’m just… a little curious, that’s all! Ten years ago… That’s 9:42! We were in the Inquisition, just like him! When did he have time?”

“In Orlais,” Margaret smiled. “He never knew her name. Just three days. And I let it slip to Neve by accident.”

Dorian burst out laughing.

“Apparently, awkwardness is transmitted sexually. I’d expect that from Cullen, but you! Wait, but how did you even find out?”

“Blackmail,” Margaret said with a shrug. “Didn’t you ever notice how much he knows about the Crows? I got curious and threatened to drag him with me to Redcliffe if he didn’t spill.”

“Now that’s the cousin I know,” Dorian smirked with mock relief. “Is that why he has so much information?”

“No, he was looking for her,” Margaret smiled, but Pavus grew serious.

“Crassius? Andraste’s knickers, really? All this time I thought he could never get over you — until he met Neve. But it turns out there was a Crow… Wait, you said Redcliffe? Margot, you haven’t given up on that plan?”

The mage flinched, as if caught off guard.

“Dorian, I have to tell Cullen in person! What if he… with him…”

Her cousin abruptly got up, walked over, and hugged her. Margaret smelled the tobacco on him and leaned into the embrace.

“Cullen’s a fighter. He, Philipp, and Cassandra will be fine. I’m sure.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t know!..”

“Even so, I can’t let you go south. Only — this is my one condition, Margot — if you find a reliable company. I have to stay here.”

“I was thinking of asking Crassius, but…”

“That’s not enough. Even a powerful battle mage can’t stand up to an army of darkspawn if something goes wrong.”

Margaret pulled away and sighed, nodding.

“Let’s solve things as they come,” she said, standing up and heading for the door. “Let him just come back. Let’s go to the Lighthouse if he doesn’t return by the end of the week? Get Rook involved. I won’t sit here and wait any longer while my friend’s in danger in a strange land — on the Crows’ home turf, no less!”

Dorian nodded.

“All right. Sounds like a plan.”

“Just let our friend come back,” Margaret added bitterly. And she left.

 

***

Her eyelids were heavy. Teresa rubbed her eyes, trying yet again to focus on the book about the Evanuris she’d found in the library.

Her thoughts drifted. It had been an unusually eventful day. Then again, were there any other kind now?

Viago. The morning conversation seemed to have stayed right where it belonged — in the past. Warmth for her cousin lingered in her chest.

Suddenly, everything tightened inside.

…She opens her eyes. Viago’s attention is immediate. His face is gaunt, almost unrecognizable: not quite stubble, not quite a beard. Something in-between — and, unthinkably, unkempt.

His voice is clipped, speaking in Antivan.

"Do you remember your name?"

"T-Teresa de Riva," she exhales.

The name scratches her throat, her lips feel coated in dust. Her vision betrays her. Is that really a tear running down Viago’s cheek? Another one…?

"Alive," he whispers.

His palms cover his face. He’s clearly trying to keep his emotions in check. A deep fear wells up in Teresa.

"Vi, what happened?"

She feels her cousin’s hand gently stroking her cheek, like he’s soothing her to sleep.

"Easy, little cousin, it’s all right, I’ve taken care of everything. You just need to recover."

"What’s wrong with me?... Am I hurt?"

"Yes," Viago admits. "But you’ll live. Not even a scar will be left."

"Where am I?" she whispers.

He’d only ever touched her so tenderly as a child — and probably not even then.

"The Karastes Imperial Circle," he answers. "Don’t think about it. I’m here."

Teresa tries to get up. She can’t. Viago frowns.

"Don’t."

"I need to… to the washroom."

Her cousin rolls his eyes. In a moment, he scoops her up in his arms — carefully.

"I’ll carry you."

Teresa shuddered. Her chest tightened; panic pressed at her throat — wild and raw, just like on that day.

For a moment she saw Lucanis before her, and the realization hit — she hadn’t even heard him enter.

Dellamorte was frowning, his eyes never leaving her. He knelt in front of her and softly, almost asking permission, touched her knees. After a moment, he rubbed them, as if trying to ground her in reality.

Teresa closed her eyes, steadying her breath. She needed to explain, to find the words, but her throat was dry — just like back then.

Lucanis was silent, rubbing her legs — from the knees upward, short, grounding strokes. Teresa drew a shaky breath and managed a weak smile.

“I remembered Karastes. Waking up and seeing Viago beside me. He stayed with me for three weeks straight while I was unconscious,” she paused for a few moments, then quietly added, “I was sure I’d let go.”

“That doesn’t mean you forgot,” Lucanis said softly. “And that’s important: you survived. That speaks to your strength. And you weren’t alone, not then. Viago was with you. And so am I.”

Teresa smiled faintly. She placed her hand over Lucanis’s and noticed her fingers were trembling. De Riva grimaced, as if the very idea of weakness was unacceptable. Lucanis’s expression grew understanding.

“Can I hug you?”

Warmth filled her chest. She liked this gentleness: Lucanis never pushed or demanded. He just stayed close.

Teresa nodded, and in a second, he rose, sat down, and pulled her into his arms. She breathed in his familiar scent — Antivan spices, leather armor, and steel. Teresa felt the tension start to fade away.

“I’m here,” Dellamorte whispered.

She drew back a little and murmured, “If you only knew how much it hurt — to see Viago like that. Even if it’s only in memory…” She didn’t finish, but thought: “And for him — to see me like that.”

“Want me to distract you?” Lucanis asked, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair. Teresa smiled.

“Please.”

“You still haven’t told me what you want.”

She pulled back slightly and looked at him questioningly.

“What?”

“A wish. What I owe you, remember? Our bet in Minrathous,” Lucanis smiled the way only he could — just a slight lift of the corners of his lips. Warmth bloomed inside her, and Teresa gave a soft laugh.

“Oh, right. I didn’t forget, it’s just…”

“Just?” Lucanis looked up from under his brows, his smile widening a fraction.

Teresa felt a flush of embarrassment.

“I don’t like flowery words. Didn’t you get it? You were my wish.”

His eyes widened slightly, as if truly surprised by her answer, but his palm softly cupped her cheek, and the awkwardness melted away.

“Who would have thought the great Teresa de Riva could be so sweet?” he teased warmly. “But seriously, Tess, I still owe you a wish.”

“All right, I’ll think about it,” de Riva said, pressing close to him. “But you’ll regret it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lucanis replied, his tone equally serious.

 

***

Margaret woke up abruptly — to a sudden kick. Her hand went to her belly, stroking it. The baby moved again, as if sensing something. Or maybe it was just her nerves whispering — there was still no news from Crassius.

Margaret sat up in bed and looked out the window. Deep, cloudless night hung over Minrathous. The mage stood and peered outside. All was quiet.

She was about to turn away when her eyes caught a dark stain in front of the mansion doors. Her heart skipped a beat.

Margaret squinted into the darkness. It was hard to see, but it looked very much like… blood.

Alarm flared instantly. Before her mind could react, her body moved: the mage — in whatever she happened to be wearing — rushed into the corridor.

The candles weren’t lit, and Margaret, with a practiced gesture, summoned a small flame, which immediately sprang up in her palm.

The mansion seemed to be sleeping, but she knew: she wouldn’t return to her room until she’d checked on the children and Dorian.

Anthony’s room was closest. Margaret opened the door a crack. The flame softly illuminated her nephew’s face, and the boy stirred.

“Auntie?”

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” she approached his bed, stroked Tony’s hair, and kissed his forehead. “I was just passing by.”

The boy rolled over and quickly fell back asleep.

Evelina’s room was next. Her daughter slept with one arm dangling from the bed. Her little face — so painfully reminiscent of Cullen — was relaxed, peaceful.

Margaret exhaled with relief and moved to the next wing — to Dorian. Already near the wide marble staircase, she realized she was barefoot.

“Brilliant, Margot, just perfect,” the mage muttered to herself — and froze.

A sound came from the first floor. Faint and barely audible, but fear flared up.

Should she wake Dorian? What if they were after him?

Margaret glanced uncertainly down the hallway toward Magister Pavus’s chambers, then at the stairs.

Exhaling, she turned and headed downstairs. Sparks of lightning crackled at her fingertips, ready to strike an enemy.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Cullen’s reproachful look.

“Even from afar, you still watch over me,” Margaret muttered.

Bare feet had their advantages: there was no risk of being heard too soon. And although in recent weeks the mage had felt — putting it mildly — far from graceful, still…

She didn’t finish the thought before freezing in place. In the hall she found Dorian, supporting… Servis.

“Crassius!” Margaret cried out, running to the two men.

“Either help or get out of the way,” Dorian hissed. The mage looked more annoyed than anything, flushed with the effort of holding Crassius up.

Despite the situation, Margaret smirked.

“Seriously? Oh, if only the Magisterium could see you now! Are you a mage or what?”

She waved her hands, and magic lifted Servis. Dorian straightened with relief, giving her a mildly reproachful look.

“I heard a knock. Opened the door — he collapsed right on top of me and passed out. Look — he’s wounded,” Dorian pointed at the blood staining Crassius’s side.

Margaret swore through her teeth, not lowering her hands.

“Great timing! I’m terrified of blood! Who will you pick up if I faint like some Orlesian countess?”

Dorian sighed heavily and looked at Servis.

“Let’s levitate him to his room. We can see what kind of wound it is there.”

“Dorian, we’re not healers! We need help!”

“Who?” her cousin retorted glumly. “The Dragons of Shade are gone, and there’s no one else in Minrathous I’d trust. We’ll have to manage.”

“You’re risking Crassius’s life on your meager healing skills?” Margaret hissed, anger rising in her chest.

“We don’t have a choice,” Dorian replied quietly, and she fell silent: her cousin looked genuinely distressed. “For now, we need to assess the wound.”

Crassius’s room was on the second floor, in Dorian’s wing, and was small. Double bed, bookcase, and an immaculate desk.

When magic gently set Servis down on the bed, the man groaned. Margaret shot a worried glance at Dorian.

He took a sharp breath, clenched his jaw, and muttered, “You’d better turn away, Margot.”

She obeyed without a second thought. Dorian cursed under his breath, sparing no invectives.

“It’s bad,” he finally said. “The wound looks about a week old, but it’s inflamed. He’s feverish. I’ll try to stop the process, but…”

He fell silent, and Margaret heard Servis whispering. She didn’t turn, but the fact alone — a tall, sturdy battle mage whispering like a frightened child — cut to the bone. She listened — Crassius was muttering a spell.

“Are you sure that’ll work?” Dorian asked him. “Why didn’t you heal yourself, idiot?”

“Couldn’t,” Serbis rasped. “Prison… Mage cuffs… Suppression rune… Escaped.”

Margaret cursed under her breath.

“Quiet,” Dorian ordered. “Repeat the spell.”

Servis muttered.

“He’s passed out again,” Pavus said. “Margot, we need to do this together, just to be sure.”

The mage pulled herself together and turned around. Together with Dorian, they began the healing — two strong mages, but both out of practice with such spells.

She didn’t know how much time had passed. Crassius drifted in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently. Finally, the wound paled and began to close. Dorian exhaled in relief.

“We did it! He’ll live. Pity, though — Neve will kill him for sure, all our work wasted.”

“Let her just try,” Margaret muttered. A bead of sweat ran down her cheek. “It’s her stupidity that got him hurt.”

Crassius murmured something, and Dorian waved a hand, telling him to hush. The mage reluctantly complied.

“What is it, Crassius?” her cousin addressed Servis.

“Neve… Tell her… Teresa… Teresa de Riva.”

Dorian shook his head and waved his hands. In a second, Servis sank into a deep sleep.

“Of course,” he said indignantly. “Let him say it himself. Idiot!”

 

***

Lucanis saw Teresa’s eyes close. Her breathing slowed — she was falling asleep.

He ran his hand over her bare shoulder, then — unable to resist — down her back. Teresa smiled, nestling closer.

Lucanis inhaled the scent of her hair and kissed the top of her head. It felt as if Teresa had always been a part of his life — a shadow in his thoughts, a voice behind him, warmth in his chest.

There was no more awkwardness or embarrassment. There was only the two of them. Sometimes there was Rage, but to Lucanis’s surprise, the demon showed tact and kept silent whenever they were alone together. Later, of course, the questions would start — but thank the Maker, not when she was there.

“Lucanis?”

The way she said his name sounded intimate to the point of shivers. Was it her accent — or rather, their shared accent — or something else, he didn’t know.

“What is it, Tess?”

“What did your family call you when you were a child?”

The question caught him off guard, but he only smiled. Teresa loved to ask unexpected things.

“Always Lucanis.”

“Not Luca, or… I don’t know, Luke? No one shortened it?”

“No,” he shook his head, hugging her closer. “That wasn’t how things were done in my family.”

“Interesting,” Teresa murmured sleepily. “In ours, we loved nicknames. My parents called me — as you know — Tess. My mother called my father Rhys. He called her — Audrey.”

Lucanis could hear her smile.

“Audrey? From Adriana? Unusual for Antivans.”

“Like in the Fereldan legend,” Teresa noted. “My mother loved it.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“I’m sleeping.”

Lucanis laughed, kissing her hair again.

“Sleep, Tess. Sweet dreams.”

“And you. Maybe you’ll get lucky and actually fall asleep.”

She fell silent. Lucanis stroked her gently, listening as her breathing grew even.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. Teresa shifted a little, and Lucanis settled in more comfortably, propping himself up on his elbow. His eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and he could clearly see her features. He pressed his lips together.

“Afraid to admit it when she can hear?” muttered Spite in his head. The demon went silent, as if also listening to Teresa, and his tone carried a hint of mockery: “She’s asleep anyway.”

The demon was right. Lucanis frowned. Fear burned through him, but the words slipped out.

“I love you, Tess,” he whispered.

Silence. Lucanis couldn’t help but feel relieved — she was asleep.

“And I love you, Lucanis.”

Inside — an explosion. He pulled her close, holding her tight, and began kissing her. Teresa laughed.

He must have woken her up for sure. But that didn’t matter at all.

Chapter Text

At breakfast, Teresa felt as if she hadn’t fully woken up. She took a sip of coffee and met Lucanis’s gaze across the table. He smirked, saying nothing, but there was something new in that smile — a secret alliance sealed in silence. Thinking of last night’s confession, Teresa felt a thrill, blushed, and tried to tune in to the conversation around her.

Emmrich was telling Bellara about the spirits of the Necropolis, and Neve, sitting beside the elf, looked grim. Teresa averted her eyes, not wanting to appear too curious.

Things with Neve were still strained. Sure, they talked about the elven gods and their shared goals, but it never went further than that.

One thing Teresa couldn’t help noticing: Neve had been staying at the Lighthouse for the past couple of weeks, whereas she usually spent her nights in Minrathous — with Servis.

Prying was never Teresa’s habit. She always lived by the rule: if a person wanted to share, they would.

Davrin got up, muttering something about Assan, and Harding followed. Gradually, only four remained in the dining hall: Bellara, Neve, Lucanis, and Teresa. The elf was chattering excitedly, and Teresa did her best to concentrate on the conversation. She failed.

“You should get more sleep,” Lucanis teased in Antivan, and Teresa grinned. She’d just opened her mouth to reply when the door banged open.

Teresa turned, surprised to see the Inquisitor’s sister — Margaret Rutherford. The mage looked pale, worried. Her black magical robes were nearly perfect, but Teresa’s eyes caught on the tautness across her stomach.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Margaret said, a little out of breath. Her dark eyes went straight to Neve. “Crassius is back — seriously injured. He’s not in danger, but…”

The mage shot to her feet, and Teresa saw the horror and pain etched on Neve’s face. She asked Margaret something in Tevene, and the mage replied the same way. Neve exhaled heavily and looked at Teresa.

“Rook?”

“Go,” Teresa nodded. “He needs you. We’ll manage. If you need anything…”

“Thank you,” Neve said, her gratitude genuine, and turned to Margaret. “Are you coming?”

“Dorian asked me to discuss something with Teresa, since I’m here,” Margaret offered an apologetic smile. Neve looked relieved and left. Bellara trailed after, probably to support her.

“So, what does Magister Pavus want to discuss?” Teresa asked with a smile, signaling goodwill.

Margaret sighed, settled into the chair across from her, hesitated, then waved her hand.

“Nothing. I made it up. I didn’t want to leave with Neve — she’s not exactly fond of me. And right now, I feel much the same.”

Teresa felt a little awkward; she’d guessed at the reasons, thanks to Harding’s stories about Margaret and Servis’s past, but she didn’t show it. She smiled a little and nodded, still searching for the right words.

Margaret leaned back, glancing around.

“The Lighthouse is unique. I’d heard of it from Philip — he was here in 44, chasing Solas — and always dreamed of seeing it for myself. There’s so much magic here it makes my head spin.”

Lucanis stood up, clearly wanting to give the women some space, and Teresa belatedly remembered her manners.

“Where are my manners… Margaret Rutherford — Lucanis Dellamorte. Margaret’s a Tevinter scholar, former First Enchanter of the Inquisition. Lucanis is one of Antiva’s finest Crows.”

She decided to leave out “legendary mage-killer” — not the most tactful.

“I’ve heard of you,” Margaret smiled wide at him. “The ‘Demon of Virantium’. You know, Lucanis, Dorian and I have a running joke: if one of us annoys the other badly enough, we threaten to hire you.”

Lucanis snorted.

“So I’m a household joke for House Pavus?” His tone was languid, but something darker flickered in his black eyes. “Tevinter is fertile ground for contracts,” he paused, then added more gently, “But Dorian Pavus is, as far as I know, a rare exception. A killer like me learns to tell the difference.”

Margaret’s smile widened, showing off flawless teeth.

“I’d love to answer in the same spirit — ‘What about me?’ — but honestly, flirting at this hour is hard work. I haven’t even had my coffee yet!”

“That can be fixed,” Lucanis said, and headed for the kitchen. Teresa didn’t miss the interested glance Margaret cast after him.

“You’re lucky with your team, Teresa,” the mage noted.

“Thank you,” Teresa nodded, hesitated, then asked, “What happened to Servis?”

Margaret’s face darkened. She sighed.

“How do I explain without going into too much detail… Let’s say this: his life isn’t in danger. Dorian and I spent half the night healing him. I just thought Crassius would want his woman nearby.”

Teresa watched her, interested. She knew Margaret’s reputation: in Tevinter, she was generally disliked — for her ties to the Inquisitor, her research, her marriage to a former templar… In the Free Marches, especially Ostwick, where Teresa had been many times, Margaret was spoken of with respect, even despite the Tevinter connection.

“Still, that doesn’t quite answer my question, Margaret,” Teresa said, taking a sip of coffee.

Margaret didn’t flinch.

“True,” she nodded. “But it’s all I’m willing to say. I don’t want to discuss Crassius’s business behind his back — our past is complicated, but for many years now, he’s been a loyal friend.”

At that moment, Lucanis brought coffee, and Margaret accepted the cup gratefully.

“Strong and black? Perfect, thank you,” she smiled.

Lucanis nodded, leaned over, and kissed Teresa right on the lips.

“I’ll go practice. You know where to find me.”

He left, and Teresa froze for a moment, feeling herself blush.

“Get it together, you’re an Antivan Crow, not some stuffy Orlesian countess!” she scolded herself mentally.

Margaret smiled broadly, as if waiting for a comment. Teresa took another sip.

“I’m sure Neve appreciated your gesture,” she finally said, doing her best to steady her voice.

Margaret laughed — warm and genuine.

“I doubt it,” she answered honestly. “I don’t know if you’ve heard… Crassius and I were close. Too long ago for it to matter now. And we broke up badly, only getting close again thanks to the Inquisition.” She paused, remembering. “Neve’s jealous. It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been, or that I’m long married.”

“But that’s all in the past,” Teresa frowned. “It’s silly to judge by something so long ago.”

“Is it?” Margaret smiled. “Sometimes I judge quickly myself. Other times, I wonder — if one of Cullen’s exes hovered around, how would I react?”

Teresa smiled. Margaret’s openness was disarming and oddly appealing. It felt as if they’d known each other for years.

And there was truth in the mage’s words. Though Teresa wasn’t sure about Lucanis’s past — and wasn’t about to ask; what would be the point? — she could easily picture herself in Margaret’s or Neve’s shoes.

“I can understand Neve,” Teresa said with a nod.

“Yes, and I don’t blame her,” Margaret replied simply, taking a sip. “But you and she aren’t exactly close, either, as far as I know. Between her and me, it’s a man; between you and her, it’s Minrathous.”

“True,” Teresa smiled, though it came out a little sad.

Margaret lowered her head and muttered, “One cup a day is fine, don’t push.”

The words triggered a memory — her mother speaking to her unborn child. Something twisted painfully inside, and Teresa managed a smile.

“How far along?”

“Five months,” Margaret replied. Their eyes met, and Teresa saw pain in her brown gaze. “It’s already showing. And my husband still doesn’t know.”

“You… haven’t told him?”

“I haven’t seen him all this time,” Margaret smiled wearily. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I believe news like this should be shared in person. Yes, I know — he’s in the south. And maybe… he’ll never see the child.”

The mage fell silent, clearly fighting to control her emotions. Teresa felt a deep sympathy, even affection, for Margaret. She reached across the table and covered her hand.

“From everything I’ve heard about the Inquisition’s Commander, he’s not one to give up easily.”

“You’re right,” Margaret nodded gratefully. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pour out my soul — I’m not very good at it.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Teresa said firmly. “And he… couldn’t have guessed?”

“No,” the mage chuckled. “I’m always extremely careful. But there was a sudden trip from Ostwick to Minrathous, a hasty farewell, my daughter and nephew to mind… I just forgot about the potion. And then I thought, Cullen will be happy. I never expected things to drag on this long.”

“We’re doing all we can…”

“I know, Teresa,” Margaret smiled. “That’s true.”

“I hope you’ll get to tell him soon,” Teresa said softly.

Margaret nodded, and suddenly Teresa felt a steady gaze on her.

“And what about you? Philip tells me this kind of responsibility isn’t easy.”

The question caught Teresa off guard — again.

“What do you want to hear from me?” she asked quietly.

“The truth,” Margaret replied gently. “I know Antivan Crows are secretive. I’ve even heard about your cousin, who’s famous for his paranoia, but you don’t seem like that.”

Teresa hesitated. Usually, she’d deflect questions like that — Harding loved to ask them.

Even when she wanted to open up, inside she always heard Viago’s strict words: “You can’t trust anyone.”

Lucanis didn’t just understand — he was the same. He could see the pain behind her silence, the worry behind her sarcasm. He was there, even if neither of them wanted to speak.

Still, she had finally learned to trust Viago. And that was enough. How could she open up to someone barely more than a stranger?

A memory surfaced. Orlais, Val Royeaux. Him.

“What else can you offer?” the Tevinter mage asked coldly.

Teresa felt anger. Did he really expect…? Well, what choice did she have? Her whole body — except for her head — was encased in ice. Damn magic! All that mattered was getting free; she’d figure the rest out later. Mustering her resolve, she smiled with dignity, controlled her voice, and made her offer:

“A family recipe for poison — will that do? You probably have a lot of enemies.”

She saw his gray eyes glint. He wasn’t stupid; Teresa could see he was trying not to show his interest. With forced calm, he said:

“How can I be sure it works?”

“We can test it,” she smiled confidently. “On you.”

He snorted, clear interest in his eyes.

“Why should I trust you? Maybe I free you, and you’ll just run.”

Teresa pressed her lips together for a moment. If she could, she’d run without thinking.

“You can’t trust anyone,” Viago always said, and now his voice rang in her ears, louder than the chill of the ice.

She wasn’t about to trust this mage, or let him see a hint of her vulnerability. The main thing — convince him otherwise, play her role to the end.

“You have my word,” she said, looking him in the eyes. Her voice was steady, but beneath it was anger and exhaustion. “You can take my weapons. When we’ve made the poison, you’ll give me the amulet.”

“I’ve heard Antivan Crows can kill with a flick of the wrist.”

Teresa barely held back a laugh — she always found those rumors amusing, but they had their uses.

“We’ll see. Though, could I really catch a Tevinter battle mage off guard?”

She could see him weighing what to do with her. Suddenly she caught herself thinking: there was something about him. The gray eyes, maybe, or the refusal to kill her — he could have done it long ago. Teresa never paid much attention to Antivan rhetoric, and he was a pleasant contrast — he didn’t seem to try to impress.

“Hold still,” the mage relented, and waved his staff.*
Teresa blinked. The answer came by itself — damn Tevinter mage!

“You want the truth, Margaret?” She pressed her lips together, still a little hesitant. At last, she exhaled: “I’m scared. I’m afraid I’ll let everyone down, and honestly, I think I already have. So much is happening, and I…”

Margaret turned her hand over and squeezed Teresa’s fingers.

“You’re doing everything you can.”

“How would you know?” Teresa shook her head. “I’ve messed up so many times…”

“And you’ve succeeded, too!” the mage reminded her.

Teresa gave a wry smile but nodded.

“Thank you, Margaret.”

“Call me Margot,” she smiled.

Teresa glanced up at her, the whole conversation feeling unreal. A hesitant but genuine smile tugged at her lips.

“Then you can call me Tess. Want me to show you the Lighthouse? You said you’d dreamed of seeing it.”

The mage’s face lit up; she downed the rest of her coffee and jumped up.

“I’m ready.”

 

***

His head was spinning slightly. Servis winced: even through his eyelids, the sunlight seemed to pierce through, sending unpleasant waves of pain.

Pain. The word caught him, and Crassius snapped his eyes open. His room in Dorian’s mansion. So, he made it.

He threw off the blanket and, lifting his head, saw his side wrapped in bandages. The pain from the wound, which had become familiar over the past few days, was gone, and with relief, Crassius fell back onto the pillow.

Thinking about how he got from Antiva to Tevinter made Servis grimace. The journey to Treviso would definitely be remembered for the rest of his days; even when the Inquisitor had transported him, shackled, to Skyhold from the Western Approach, it hadn’t been like this.

“Well, look at that, you’re alive,” came Dorian’s voice. Crassius recognized from his tone that his friend was exhausted. “You seemed pretty set on dying. You kept muttering about Neve and Teresa de Riva.”

Crassius sat up abruptly, pain stabbing his side. He winced and focused his gaze on Dorian. The mage sat at the writing desk and looked so tired that Servis felt a pang of guilt.

“I don’t remember how I got here,” he muttered. “Was I much trouble?”

“Oh, please,” Dorian rolled his eyes, took out a cigarette case, and lit up. Crassius felt his throat tighten.

“Would you…?” he rasped out.

Pavus got up and came closer, holding out the cigarette case. Servis took one gratefully and inhaled the bitter smoke.

“You saved my life,” he croaked with gratitude.

“Seems to be becoming a habit,” Dorian said, but he sounded pleased. “I had to ask Margot for help; I wouldn’t have managed that wound alone. What happened?”

“Crows,” Crassius exhaled along with the smoke. “They caught me.”

Pavus shook his head but said nothing, though he didn’t look away.

“Teresa de Riva was the last one to face Tenebrius. In Karastes, three years ago,” Servis added.

Dorian drew in the smoke, exhaled, and was silent for a moment. Then he quietly asked:

“You found out. Was it worth it?”

Crassius grimaced; the question struck a nerve.

“She wouldn’t have told the truth.”

“Why not?” Dorian stood up. “You know, Crassius, I never pry. But would Teresa really have refused to tell the truth, knowing you’re after her enemy?”

The question throbbed painfully in his head.

“Neve said it was connected to Viago, Rook wouldn’t want to talk,” Crassius forced out through gritted teeth.

Dorian was silent. Servis could see him weighing whether to say something or not. Finally, Pavus remarked:

“You could have talked to her and only then gone to Antiva. If she really hadn’t wanted to share.”

“Neve…”

“…was wrong!” Dorian snapped. “And it almost cost you your life! And I get it, no one’s perfect, everyone makes mistakes! But could you not have thought for yourself? Listened to Margaret? Come to talk to me, instead of just presenting me with a fait accompli?”

Servis exhaled smoke. He felt completely drained. Pavus frowned, came over, and snatched the cigarette from his fingers.

“Rest. I’m only scolding you because you acted like an idiot, Crassius. You could have died. You should’ve just talked to Rook first.”

“Saying it another dozen times won’t change anything,” Servis snapped.

“Exactly!” Dorian nodded, equally tired. “Rest. I’ll check on you later. Neve will be here soon.”

“What? You got in touch with her?”

“Margaret went to the Lighthouse,” Pavus explained.

Crassius frowned.

“Who’s with Eva?”

“With Tony,” Dorian replied quietly. “I’m going back to them now. You just sleep. And sorry if I was harsh. But you really did act like an idiot, Servis.”

Crassius let out a heavy sigh and nodded, watching his friend leave the room. Leaning back on the pillow, Servis closed his eyes. He really was out of strength.

 

***

9:42. Val Royeaux, Orlais

Crassius rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. Cold drafts seeped from the window; he couldn’t sleep. The events of the past few weeks were still fresh in his memory: how he saved Cullen Rutherford, how the Inquisitor honored him with a reward.

If Servis had had any doubts when he went to help the Commander, they vanished afterward. For the first time in years, someone had seen not just a grim, sharp-tongued laetan in him, but a person capable of good deeds not out of self-interest.

The thought made Crassius nearly groan. Damn those moral principles! Where had they even come from? He used to care about one thing only — making something of himself, making a name. And of course, money.

Now, just for the approval of the Inquisitor, Dorian, and Margaret, Servis would probably give up — well, maybe not his life (not yet), but he’d fight to the last for it.

Unable to hold back a heavy sigh, Crassius reached for the nightstand. The untouched goblet of wine he’d poured earlier and then forgotten about chilled his fingers, but what he was really after was his cigarette case. Lighting up, he let his mind cycle through curses, as if they could help somehow.

Suddenly, a rustle broke the silence of the night. Crassius frowned: the sharp ear of a battle mage didn’t miss such things. Barely audible, barely perceptible, but there was definitely someone in the next room.

Servis, without thinking, flicked the cigarette out the wide-open window, already reaching for his staff — the very one gifted to him by the Inquisitor. The bed creaked as he moved, and Crass barely managed to keep from swearing.

He was staying in apartments owned by one of the Inquisition’s many sponsors. There were still matters to attend to in Val Royeaux — the kind the Inquisition preferred not to mention, but certainly didn’t turn its nose up at, at least in moderate amounts.

The place wasn’t big: a luxurious bedroom with a bed big enough for four, a modest kitchen, and another room that could be called either a hall or a sitting room — Crassius never really bothered with the subtleties of Orlesian houses.

He stepped onto the cold floor barefoot, clutching the staff in his left hand, and rolled his neck. Thankfully, it didn’t crack.

He crept up to the doorway and peeked out cautiously. Servis had never believed in the Maker, but right now he was ready to offer thanks — what luck he hadn’t shut the bedroom door!

A shadow flashed in the dark hall, and cold, clammy fear crept over his skin. For a second, the moonlight glinted off armor — leather, finely made. A subtle, almost undetectable fragrance drifted from afar, and Crassius’s eyebrows rose: definitely perfume. Not Orlesian; the empire preferred other scents. This one was fresh, citrusy, a bit sweet.

Another soft sound. Almost without realizing it, Crass gripped his staff tighter. A thief or an assassin? In Val Royeaux, either was too common. But who would have a grudge against him lately? Corypheus certainly wouldn’t send an assassin.

A sudden, absurd thought struck him, and Servis had to suppress a laugh, picturing the Inquisition’s serious Commander hiring a killer to settle a score. Absurd. As much as he hated to admit it, Crassius knew — the Commander wasn’t capable of that.

His heart pounded. The intruder clearly hadn’t noticed him, and he needed to take advantage of it.

He stepped out from his cover, staff swinging. A burst of magic lit the hall, and his opponent rolled swiftly aside, dodging the blow and drawing blades in the same motion.

The fight began. Crassius fought as he always did — hard and decisive. His opponent was well-trained, easily dodging attacks, striking back with a rapier, but the mage kept slipping away.

Servis frowned: few could boast such skill, and when he got a closer look in another flash of light, he realized — this wasn’t just a thief or assassin, this was an Antivan Crow.

He swore under his breath and decided to be clever: he cast a bolt of lightning. The Crow dodged, and he raised his right hand, clenching it into a fist. The opponent froze, encased in ice from shoulders to feet — head untouched.

Another wave of his hand, and the candles on the walls flared to life, illuminating the scene. Servis eyed his opponent — female, no doubt about it.

Black leather armor clung to a figure that was, frankly, quite appealing. A hood covered her head. Crass stepped closer and unceremoniously yanked it down, revealing a thick mane of dark chestnut hair tied up high.

The Crow’s eyes were gray, blazing with such fury that he couldn’t help but grin.

“Caught you, didn’t I?”

She cursed in Antivan. Servis had never heard the language before, and it sounded melodic — even the swearing.

“Tsk, tsk!” Crass shook his head, grinning wide, feeling thoroughly triumphant. “Don’t Antivan Crows speak the common tongue?”

“Go to the demons, mage!” the girl spat, her face twisted with anger. The accent was unmistakable.

Servis laughed quietly, genuinely savoring her helpless rage.

“You were supposed to be asleep,” the Crow almost growled.

“First time I’m glad for insomnia,” Crassius bared his teeth. “Otherwise, you’d have slit my throat.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, likely cursing his stupidity.

“I’m not here for you. I need an artefact.”

“Like I’ll believe that,” Servis drawled lazily.

Her gray eyes sized him up — she didn’t look scared, just absolutely livid. Yet his curiosity got the better of him.

“What artefact?”

“A silver amulet from Coracavus,” she said grudgingly.

“The one that’s not even magical?” Crassius burst out laughing, tossing his head back. “Seriously? Why do you need it?”

“Not for me,” the girl gritted out; he heard a tremor in her voice and felt a grim satisfaction — serves her right. “A contract’s a contract.”

“Is that so?” Servis smirked, stepping right up to the frozen girl. “And who’s the client, darling?”

“Don’t call me darling, Tevinter!” her gray eyes flashed with anger. “I’m an Antivan Crow, not some silly girl! I don’t know the name. The Talon gave the contract; who the client is doesn’t concern me.”

Crass snorted, feeling a grudging respect. Even trapped and at his mercy, she displayed impressive composure.

“But the amulet isn’t magical,” he mused aloud. “How’d you even know I had it?”

“You work for the Inquisition,” the Crow hissed. “That much I know.”

Servis frowned. Skyhold always had so many guests — Orlesian nobles, even a few from Ferelden, though fewer. He remembered the main diplomat — Lady Josephine Montiliet, who was herself from Antiva. That fact alone brought Antivan nobility to the Inquisition. He recalled overhearing Josephine and the Inquisitor discussing aid to Antivan merchant princes, and nodded to himself: it all made sense.

“So, one of your nobles heard about the amulet at Skyhold and wanted it for their collection?”

The Crow grimaced, showing the first hint of vulnerability — she was obviously suffering from the cold.

“Listen, could you unfreeze me, then interrogate me?”

“Interrogate?” Servis let out a mocking laugh, trying to unsettle her. “Believe me, darling, if I want you to talk, you will. Maybe the ice will make you more cooperative.”

A flicker of fear passed through the girl’s eyes, and Crassius found himself thinking: she’s so young. Barely twenty, if that. He almost felt sorry for her but shook it off — she’d have killed him without hesitation.

“How about a deal?” she offered, and Servis blinked, almost thinking he’d imagined it — the Crow flashed a wide, dazzling smile.

“Impressive,” Crassius thought, almost admiringly. “Too bad that won’t work on me.”

“And what kind of deal, darling?” Servis accepted the challenge, grinning as he stepped even closer. “What could a fearsome Antivan Crow possibly offer someone like me?”

“You give me the amulet, I’ll teach you the art of disguise.”

Crassius laughed again, this time genuinely.

“What do you even know about me?”

“Nothing,” she tilted her head a little. “You’re a smuggler for the Inquisition. From your accent, you’re Tevinter. They didn’t tell me your name.”

“What a pity,” Servis replied with mock disappointment. “If you had known, you’d have realized — battle mages don’t need disguises. And I’m one of the best the Minrathous Circle’s produced in the past decade.”

“Modest, too?” she raised an eyebrow, again impressing him with her composure, though he could clearly see her lips trembling and going pale with cold.

He frowned; he really did feel sorry for her. Not that he was going to show it.

“Disguise is always useful,” the Crow shot back before he could reply.

“What else can you offer?” Crassius asked with feigned indifference.

Her eyes flashed with anger, but she answered politely:

“How about a family recipe for poison? I bet you have a lot of enemies.”

The offer caught him off guard, and Crassius clenched his jaw, doing his best not to show interest.

“And how do I know it works?”

“We can test it,” the Crow smirked. Her lips shook from the cold, but she didn’t lose her nerve. “On you.”

Servis snorted. She was fascinating — no one had talked back to him like this since Margaret. Or maybe he’d just stopped noticing anyone else, lost in his feelings for Lady Trevelyan? Shaking his head, Crassius pulled himself back to the present.

“Why should I trust you? For all I know, I let you go, you run.”

“Word of honor,” she muttered. “You can take my weapons. Once we make the poison, you’ll give me the amulet.”

“I’ve heard Antivan Crows can stop a heart with a flick of the wrist.”

She laughed.

“We’ll see. Though, would I really catch a Tevinter battle mage off guard?”

Servis studied her thoughtfully. He wasn’t eager to surrender, but a girl frozen in ice was just pitiable.

“Hold still,” he relented, and waved his staff.

The ice shattered into tiny pieces, falling to the floor. Before the Crow could react, Crassius snatched the rapier and dagger from her chilled hands. She sighed heavily.

“And how do you plan to teach me the recipe?” he asked, a little grumpily.

“I promise you’ll enjoy it,” the girl mumbled, shivering from the cold.

Servis sighed.

“I’ll find you something to wear.”

The Crow approached the task with real seriousness and proved to be a very strict teacher. They settled in the kitchen, where there was a table. Crassius frowned as she drew complicated formulas — he hadn’t studied this kind of thing in years — but she explained it all clearly. He tried not to stare at her, but now, wearing his shirt that came down to her knees, she was even more attractive.

“Mage?” she called, snapping him from his thoughts. “Who do you think I’m explaining this for? It’s a family recipe, you know. Any other Crow family would strangle me for it!”

Servis nodded, suddenly feeling like a lazy student on his first day in the Minrathous Circle. Ridiculous! And the Crow hadn’t even noticed it was the middle of the night outside. Madness.

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly, trying to regain control of the situation.

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied calmly. “I can’t say.”

“Some kind of Crow code?” Servis smirked, stretching.

“House rule,” she shrugged.

“Don’t want to know mine?” Crassius asked, but she shook her head.

“What for? I give you the recipe, you give me the amulet. Deal done.”

“You make everything so simple,” he muttered, looking at her with genuine curiosity. “You hungry?”

“What?” she stared at him like he’d said something outlandish.

“It’ll be dawn soon,” Servis sighed, glancing at the window. “I’m hungry.”

“But we’re not done with the recipe!” she protested. “Business first, then—”

“Don’t start,” Crassius rolled his eyes, getting to his feet.

The Crow fell silent, sulking, but didn’t argue again. Crassius laid out some bread, a few slices of cheese, some dried meat, and a handful of nuts — whatever he could find in a hurry.

“Here,” he offered with a faint chuckle. “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned.”

Sitting down again, Servis watched the Crow. She inspected the food carefully, then got up, fished a vial from her small bag, and dripped a bit on the plate. Crassius couldn’t help but laugh.

“Are all Antivan Crows this suspicious?”

She ignored the question. Apparently the liquid told her what she needed to know, and she started eating with an appetite. Crassius, still smiling, joined her.

The Crow glanced at him now and then, but always looked away when he caught her eye.

“What’s wrong, little Crow? Never seen a mage up close before?”

“As if,” she scoffed. Her thick eyebrows drew together. “And why am I little?”

Servis grinned, openly enjoying himself. This night would definitely go down as one of the strangest in his thirty years.

“First, your height,” he explained solemnly, and the Crow rolled her eyes, but couldn’t deny it — she barely reached his collarbone. “Second… how old are you?”

“Didn’t they teach you in Tevinter that such questions are rude?”

“Darling, I’m no altus, just a laetan. How would I know about etiquette?” Crassius grinned wide, and she rolled her eyes again.

“Neither I nor my family are nobility, but I know good manners. If you must know, mage: I’m twenty.”

“So young,” Servis frowned, giving her another look. “If you’re curious, I’m thirty.”

“Sorry, mage, but I really don’t care,” the Crow shot back.

Crassius wasn’t sure what was happening, but he was drawn to this mysterious Antivan girl in a way he hadn’t felt for anyone in a long time. Except Margaret. Remembering the mage, Servis sighed, and the girl stared at him. Pulling himself together, he looked back and was surprised to see a blush on her cheeks. Crassius broke into a broad smile.

“I don’t know why you’re smiling like that,” the Crow remarked coolly, though her voice wavered for just a moment.

“Because I like what I see,” Servis breathed, leaning in slightly.

She blushed even deeper, and he realized — no one could fake a reaction like that. The Crow huffed indignantly and almost turned away, but he reached out and, moving slowly enough to let her stop him, touched her cheek with his fingertips.

“You’re not as fearless as you pretend to be, little Crow,” Crassius whispered. “And that doesn’t make you weak.”

He moved closer and saw her gray eyes widen.

“You’re too close, mage,” she whispered.

“You can kill me any moment, remember?” Servis teased gently and leaned in.

The Crow didn’t pull away. Her lips were soft and warm, and his head spun for a moment from the sensation.

He rose suddenly, scooping her up into his arms, and she exhaled shakily against his lips. Her fingers ran through his short hair, and the world around them seemed to disappear.

 

***

“Thorn, wake up.”

A hand stroked his cheek. Servis cracked his eyes open and saw Neve. She looked worried, but when their eyes met, she let out a breath.

“You scared the hell out of me, Crassius Servis!” she all but hissed, but the tears in her eyes gave away how much she’d been worrying.

He gave her a weak smile and pulled her close. Neve settled down beside him. Her breath tickled his neck, and her familiar scent filled his senses.

“I’m glad you’re here, Neve,” Crassius mumbled.

“I was so scared for you,” she whispered. “Margaret said you were hurt. Is it bad?”

“Dorian patched me up,” Servis replied in a breezy tone, like it was no big deal.

“Will you tell me what happened in Treviso?” She shifted back a little, and the warmth in her brown detective’s eyes made everything feel lighter.

Crassius started talking. He told her about meeting Marcus, then how he’d been wounded by Antivan Crows, and how he’d escaped from one of their dungeons.

“What did he look like?” Neve asked, frowning.

Crassius didn’t hesitate.

“Neatly combed black hair, gray eyes, and a curled mustache. Like Dorian’s.”

Neve swore vividly and shook her head.

“Viago de Riva.”

“That’s what I thought,” Servis chuckled. “But he wouldn’t say his name. I did find out it was Teresa de Riva who was after the artefact Tenebrius stole in Karastes. No wonder Viago was so worried about his cousin.”

Neve let out a long sigh and closed her eyes. Crassius could see how hard his girlfriend was trying to keep it together, but a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Neve, what’s wrong?” he murmured.

“It’s my fault,” Gallus answered, her voice low. “I should’ve introduced you to Rook. Now you’re hurt because of me. You—” her voice broke, “you could’ve died, Crassius.”

“Stop it, it’s not your fault,” he said firmly, but Neve shook her head.

“We both know it is. Vishante kaffas!”

“Hey,” Servis said softly, stroking her cheek and wiping away her tears. “I would’ve tried to figure things out on my own before meeting Rook anyway — just to have more cards up my sleeve. Don’t blame yourself. You know I’d have gone to Treviso either way.”

Neve snorted through her tears and pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

“Thorn, don’t you dare scare me like that again…”

“I’ll try,” he answered seriously, doing his best to keep the smile out of his voice. “But I’m not making any promises.”

Neve laughed.

“I’m staying with you,” she said quietly. “As long as you need me.”

“Good,” Crassius mumbled, kissing her forehead and pulling her in even tighter.

 

***

After training, Lucanis felt a pleasant warmth spreading through his muscles.

Spite had become calmer lately. Curiously, even the demon seemed to see Teresa as his own, and Lucanis still wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

His thoughts drifted to more pleasant things. He’d noticed long ago — Teresa was different when she was with him. She became softer, more tender. Whenever he managed to make her laugh, happiness filled his chest. He remembered the way her breath caught during intimacy, how she arched toward him. Her voice would change, dropping to a whisper or, sometimes, rising into those beautiful moans.

Lucanis cleared his throat and pushed open the door of the main building. The Lighthouse was flooded with sunlight — or whatever passed for sunlight in the Fade.

By the statue of the Dread Wolf, as usual, sat Assan. Teresa was standing nearby. The griffin was making happy noises, and Lucanis was surprised to see Margaret Rutherford petting him.

She was crouched down, and Lucanis couldn’t help but notice the curve of her belly under the fabric of her mage’s robe. He was genuinely surprised: a pregnant mage, calmly petting a griffin, showing real fearlessness.

Teresa noticed him and gave him a broad smile. Warmth bloomed in his chest. Spite muttered something, but Lucanis ignored it as he headed toward Teresa.

Margaret stood up with difficulty, and de Riva gently helped her.

“A real griffin, I can’t believe my eyes,” Margaret shook her head, ruffling Assan’s mane. “And so gentle — amazing! I always imagined them as fierce and dangerous.”

“Davrin always says I spoil Assan,” Teresa chuckled.

“How can you not?” Margaret asked sincerely, then sighed. “I need to get back to Minrathous. Thanks for showing me the Lighthouse, Tess. If you don’t mind, I’d like to bring Eva here sometime — as a mage, it would do her good.”

“Anytime,” de Riva replied warmly. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll walk you out.”

“We’ll walk you,” Lucanis chimed in. “The Crossroads can be dangerous, not to mention Minrathous itself.”

He caught the mage’s scrutinizing look. Then she glanced at Teresa and smirked.

“Well, if Lucanis Dellamorte himself insists, how can I refuse?”

Teresa headed toward the main building of the Lighthouse, and he watched her go. Turning his head, he locked eyes with Margaret. The mage studied him as if trying to figure something out, and Lucanis raised his eyebrows.

“May I ask an indiscreet question?” Margaret said quietly. “Purely out of scientific interest.”

Lucanis suppressed a grin, already guessing what was coming. Of all the mages at the Lighthouse, only Emmrich could sense Spite because of his specialization. Whether Margaret Rutherford had similar skills, Lucanis didn’t know. Something tickled his memory, but he couldn’t recall it.

“Go ahead.”

Margaret hesitated, as if fighting to keep her composure and not blurt it out.

“For the past few years, I’ve been studying possession. Of course, cases like Anders are extremely rare, but I still have to ask. Is there a demon inside you?”

“Yes,” Lucanis admitted reluctantly, glancing at her from under his brow. She drew in a breath, clearly interested.

“How did it happen? I doubt it was voluntary,” she hesitated, as if unsure if she had the right to ask. “Sorry… I’m just very curious. I’ve never actually seen a possessed person who didn’t lose their sense of self.”

Lucanis realized he’d expected distrust or fear — instead, he saw curiosity and respect in her eyes. It was strange and… pleasant. So he told her about the Ossuary, the torture, Spite, and Zara Renata. Margaret listened with interest, shaking her head. When she heard the Venatori’s name, she swore.

“Vehnedis, I met her several times in the Minrathous Circle! A disgusting woman. I assume you killed her?”

Lucanis nodded. He didn’t want to get into details — especially about the pool of blood — with a pregnant mage. Margaret shook her head again.

“I think you know better than I do that it’s impossible to separate you from Spite. But otherwise… Tell me, how does he behave?”

Lucanis felt like the subject of a scientific study, but for some reason, it didn’t irritate him. Emmrich always discussed Spite with tact, and Margaret was the same now. He reluctantly told her about the demon’s endless attempts to take over his body and about his decision to avoid sleep as much as possible. The mage frowned.

“You do realize you can’t go without sleep forever.”

“Believe me, I’ve heard that from everyone a thousand times,” Lucanis replied reluctantly. “I try, but sometimes I still fall asleep. Lately, Spite has gotten a bit quieter.”

“Really?” Margaret was genuinely surprised. “Did something change?”

Dellamorte clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to talk about personal things.

“ Go on, tell her how I shut up when you’re having fun with Teresa! ” the demon prodded in his mind.

“Teresa,” Lucanis breathed, and understanding flashed in the mage’s brown eyes.

“That’s fascinating,” Margaret tucked a curl of black hair behind her ear and bit her lip, her gaze turning distant as if deep in thought. “Do you know why that is?”

Lucanis shook his head.

“Are there moments when you and Spite act as one?”

“Why’s she asking all these questions? Annoying!” Spite snarled, and Dellamorte grimaced at the shout in his head.

“In battle,” he answered. “The demon lets me fly.”

Margaret’s eyes widened.

“Wow! I’ve never heard of that before!”

“There has to be some benefit to Spite.”

The demon in his head immediately responded.

“Hey!”

“I developed a theory that it might be possible for the possessed and their demon to exist… peacefully, let’s say. But it never got past the theoretical stage — it’s hard to find a possessed person like you. Still, you need a common goal. Like a pact.”

“We had a deal,” Lucanis said reluctantly. “To kill Zara Renata. To get revenge for what was done to us both in the Ossuary. Now the next target is whoever put us there.”

“He’ll pay”, Spite agreed.

“Excellent,” Margaret smiled. “But you’ll need to keep finding new goals. Preferably one that lasts a lifetime.”

Lucanis frowned.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” the mage shrugged. She put her hand on her lower back, as if it hurt. “I’d choose protecting my family. Everyone has something of their own.”

“Family,” Lucanis echoed, frowning. He couldn’t help but think: after Illario’s betrayal, he didn’t have one anymore. The thought hurt, and he quickly added, “I get it, Margaret. Thank you.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” the mage murmured. Her gaze shifted to something behind him. Lucanis turned — Teresa was approaching, dressed in armor.

“Ready?” de Riva asked, and Margaret nodded.

“I still don’t think this is necessary. I can take care of myself.”

“No doubt,” Teresa replied. “But I’ll feel better this way.”

 

***

Laughter echoed across the Crossroads — Teresa and Margaret were having an animated discussion. Lucanis hardly listened; his thoughts were far away. The mention of family, however accidental, reminded him he had no one left.

Caterina had always been his rock, and he still hadn’t fully processed her loss.

Illario, though a cousin by blood, had always been more like a brother. The younger sibling who needed looking after. Despite his talent in battle, Illario always managed to get himself into trouble.

Lucanis unconsciously nodded, letting the women go ahead through the eluvians. Only when Teresa glanced back at him with a smile did he realize he hadn’t heard a word of their conversation.

“All right?” she whispered in Antivan.

“Yeah,” he said shortly, forcing a semblance of a smile, and stepped after her, his hand gripping the hilt of his dagger.

The Shadow Dragons’ hideout was still in ruins. No one had dared repair it while the Venatori controlled the city.

Lucanis didn’t miss the way Margaret frowned and hugged herself — the mage had clearly been here before, more than once, before the dragon. Teresa’s expression tightened, as if in pain. Only for a moment, before she brought her emotions under control, but Lucanis already knew — she was still affected by it.

Darkness surrounded them. Margaret lit the way with her staff, and Dellamorte led the way confidently. He moved silently, just in case they were attacked. Everything seemed quiet, but his instincts told him something was wrong.

As soon as they stepped onto a narrow street in Dock Town, the sense of danger intensified. A split second later, they were surrounded. Lucanis scanned their opponents — Venatori.

His eyes analyzed faster than his mind. Six of them. Not too many for three people, but… Lucanis thought of pregnant Margaret and decided: he’d kill them all himself.

The Venatori didn’t rush to attack. Faces hidden under hoods, but it was clear — they were sizing them up.

“How lovely,” one of them finally said. “Not only Rook and the ‘Demon of Virantium’, but Senior Enchanter Margaret Rutherford, cousin of Magister Pavus herself! What a delightful meeting.” There was smugness in the Venatori’s voice.

The others jeered, almost mockingly. Lucanis felt a surge of rage. His muscles thrummed, ready to leap into action at any moment. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Protect her, I’ll handle them,” he said in Antivan, his tone brooking no argument. Teresa frowned but nodded, stepping in front of Margaret.

Lucanis knew de Riva could handle herself just as well as he could, but right now he wasn’t willing to risk her life, or Margaret’s, or her unborn child.

“Greetings from Tenebrius,” one of the Venatori sneered, and Lucanis leapt into battle.

His movements were honed by years of experience. A spin, and the first foe fell dead with his throat cut. The Venatori spread out. Some drew blades, others staffs. Lucanis didn’t care.

Blows landed one after another — like a storm. Out of the corner of his mind, Dellamorte registered Teresa firing her bow, arrows whistling past, taking out enemies. He felt the touch of protective magic — Margaret had cast a barrier. Then came fireballs — the mage had joined the fight.

It was over quickly. A few years ago, he might have timed himself — wondering if he’d set a new record. Since the Ossuary, such things had stopped mattering.

Six Venatori lay on the ground, and Lucanis felt a surge of satisfaction. Blood pumped hot through his veins. He rolled his neck and turned to the women.

Teresa was smiling. When their eyes met, she nodded gratefully.

Margaret looked like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She laughed nervously.

“Thank you. I’ve now seen the ‘Demon of Virantium’ in action. I’m impressed.”

Lucanis didn’t reply. The mage led them out of Dock Town.

Dellamorte had been to Minrathous so many times that he no longer paid attention to the empire’s eccentric architecture. Teresa, on the other hand, was looking around curiously, and Lucanis heard Margaret’s voice.

“You’ve never been to this part of Minrathous, Teresa?”

De Riva hesitated, then finally replied:

“To be honest, before I met Varric, I hadn’t been to Minrathous in years. Not since I was about twenty, if I’m being precise. I tried not to take contracts here.”

“Why?” Margaret asked, genuinely surprised, and Lucanis saw Teresa give a vague shrug.

“I don’t want to lie, Margaret, but I also don’t know how to answer.”

The mage nodded, clearly not wanting to push. Lucanis found himself curious too — he’d heard about it before, but Teresa had never said why. Still, he knew for sure he wouldn’t ask: if she wanted, she’d tell him herself.

Finally, in an old district of Minrathous, Margaret stopped in front of a luxurious marble mansion.

“We’re here,” she said softly, with a small smile. “Will you come in?”

“Thanks, but we have to go,” Teresa replied. “It was nice seeing you, Margaret.”

“And you,” the mage said sincerely. “Thank you for walking with me. Lucanis, special thanks for the Venatori.”

Teresa took a step back, but suddenly Dellamorte noticed Margaret hesitating.

“Teresa… Tess,” she called after de Riva. “Wait,” Rutherford seemed anxious. “Listen, I liked you from our very first meeting, but now — even more so. I… I think you need to meet with Servis. You two clearly have things to talk about.”

Teresa looked at her questioningly. Lucanis felt a strange sense of foreboding. It didn’t seem bad, but he still didn’t like it.

There’s something off about him, Rage muttered.

“What do you mean, Margot?”

The mage sighed and shook her head.

“It’s not my secret to tell. Just meet with him, once he recovers, okay?”

Lucanis watched as Rutherford disappeared behind the mansion’s walls. Teresa looked at him, and he could see how unsettled she was by the mage’s last words. He didn’t like it when Teresa was anxious, and he was ready to deal with anyone who hurt her. He could only hope Margaret wouldn’t become one of those people.

“Weird, don’t you think?” she asked softly.

Dellamorte nodded, gently taking Teresa’s hand, and she smiled, then stepped closer and rested her forehead against his shoulder. Lucanis pulled her into his arms, kissing her hair. Teresa lifted her head and kissed him — quick, but tender. He felt a wide smile blossom on his lips.

Chapter Text

The Crossroads — a part of the Fade and a place from which you could reach different parts of Thedas — still filled Lucanis with confusion and curiosity. Colored lights floated in the air, and the landscape shifted according to a logic only the Crossroads itself seemed to understand. Boats, piloted by the Keeper, glided from the eluvians toward the heart of the Fade and the Lighthouse. The catch was, these boats didn’t travel on water — they floated through the air.

Not that Lucanis minded; ever since their first kiss, Teresa always tried to sit as close to him as possible. If they happened to end up in a boat alone, everything got both simpler — and more intimate. Sure, the journey never lasted long enough to really savor each other's company, but offering Teresa his hand as she stepped out, her cheeks flushed, had become a particular pleasure.

De Riva’s eyes would shine with passion, and Lucanis loved watching her struggle to compose herself. Then again, Teresa wasn’t some innocent noblewoman. If he was being honest, it was usually the other way around — she managed to get the upper hand over him more often than not, but he never lost his own composure. He just waited until they reached the Lighthouse.

As they walked toward the dock, Lucanis kept stealing glances at Teresa. Seeing how she was with the Inquisitor’s sister genuinely surprised him.

He knew well how Teresa behaved with the team — polite, friendly. He found himself quietly admiring how she kept her cool, even when someone — like Neve — lost theirs.

Even though Teresa had learned her lesson from the disaster at Weisshaupt and now worked even harder to help each team member with their problems, she still revealed little about herself. Of course, Lucanis was the exception: she was different with him, but she also wasn’t the same with Margaret as she was with the team.

They approached the pier. The boat was already visible in the distance, and Lucanis, unable to hold back his curiosity, asked quietly:

“Tess? What were you like before all this? Before you escaped Treviso?”

Teresa raised her eyebrows — the question clearly caught her off guard.

Spite reacted instantly:

“Idiot! Why dig up the past?”

De Riva, though, began to answer almost at the same time as the demon, and Lucanis forced Spite to be quiet. The demon grudgingly obeyed.

“Different,” Teresa said, as if pondering.

Lucanis climbed into the boat and offered his hand with practiced gallantry. De Riva smiled and took it. Settling on the bench, she, as always, pressed close to him and continued:

“I was probably more like Viago. I was distrustful, closed off. Varric changed me for the better. And Harding. Even if my old habits are strong, I’m still becoming someone new. Maybe that’s a bad thing.”

Lucanis wrapped his arm around her. He understood — they were too similar. He felt himself changing too, when he was with her.

“You know,” Lucanis murmured into her hair, “with you I feel like I’m still who I was, but at the same time — someone else.”

Teresa turned her head, their eyes meeting. De Riva looked at him slyly, with narrowed eyes.

“Is that a good thing?”

Lucanis smirked and nodded, then leaned in and kissed her. The beauty and strangeness of the Crossroads didn’t matter in that moment — only her.

Soon, the boat docked. Lucanis helped Teresa out the same way, and she stifled a smile, nodding gratefully. He knew she appreciated his gallantry, but wouldn’t allow anyone else to treat her that way.

A figure appeared in the distance. Lucanis frowned: there were usually no enemies in this part of the Crossroads. Looking closer, he recognized Mateo — Viago’s protégé. The young Crow noticed them and strode over purposefully.

“Teresa, Master Dellamorte,” the young man bowed slightly, his gaze lingering on Lucanis. “Viago and Teia are waiting for you at the ‘Cobblestone Swan.’”

“What?” Teresa immediately frowned, her face focused. “In Minrathous? Why?”

“No one can eavesdrop there,” Mateo explained. “It’s urgent.”

“We could’ve just met at the manor…” Teresa started, then abruptly fell silent, as if something had occurred to her.

The young Crow shrugged.

“Viago probably wants to be cautious. He asked me to hurry.”

Lucanis caught Teresa’s anxious look. With a sigh, she turned and headed back toward the boat. He followed, Mateo trailing behind.

They made their way to the eluvians in silence. Teresa frowned, staring off into the distance. Even as Lucanis squeezed her hand, constantly catching Mateo’s awestruck glances, he couldn’t shake the feeling of worry.

What happened? The thought ran through his mind over and over.

 

***

Teresa could see how Mateo’s appearance unsettled Lucanis — a frown was frozen on the handsome man’s face. He was silent, clearly, like her, wondering what was behind Viago’s secrecy.

Had Illario made a move? Or was there news about the mage who escaped from the de Riva estate?

Teresa sighed quietly. She knew Viago’s people were searching for the fugitive, but — judging by the lack of news — without much success.

Trying to question Mateo proved fruitless — the young man didn’t know any details himself. That genuinely surprised her: did it really not bother the young Crow that Viago hadn’t told him either?

Without saying anything, Teresa glanced at Lucanis. Even though he was holding her hand, his black eyes were staring off into the distance.

What else could Illario have done, if this was about him? The younger Dellamorte had already taken over the house.

Suddenly, her chest tightened with a dark memory. Teresa remembered the words from Zara Renata’s corpse — Illario wanted to become First Talon, head of the Antivan Crows.

Her thoughts jumped to Caterina Dellamorte, and Teresa felt a pang of regret: the elderly woman, who had lost so many loved ones in her life, never got to know that de Riva kept her promise. A shiver ran down Teresa’s spine: what would Caterina have said, if she knew that Lucanis, her heir, was in a relationship with Teresa?

Suddenly she remembered how her father used to speak about the First Talon — always with unwavering respect, even though Rhys’s life as a Crow was almost never discussed in the family when his daughter was present.

At the eluvians, they parted ways: Mateo headed to Treviso, and Teresa and Lucanis went to Minrathous. Stepping out of the magical mirror, de Riva noticed the worry on Dellamorte’s face. No one else would have seen it, but she had come to know him like no one else.

Teresa gently touched his hand and smiled, offering reassurance. Lucanis managed a crooked smile in return.

Already on the streets of the Port City, as they approached the tavern, Dellamorte muttered in Antivan under his breath:

“I think Illario’s done something stupid again. Or maybe Viago really did track down that runaway mage,” Lucanis sighed darkly. “But I’m leaning toward the first option — otherwise, why would Viago insist on meeting in Minrathous where no one could eavesdrop?”

Teresa simply nodded, understanding he was right — Mateo had emphasized possible spies for a reason.

“Whatever it is, we’ll handle it,” she said, squeezing his hand tighter, and Lucanis gave her a genuine smile, agreeing with her words.

 

***

There wasn’t a single patron in the “Cobblestone Swan.” The lights were clearly dimmed, and in the silence, even their barely audible footsteps echoed. In the distance, by the bar, stood Viago and Teia, both dressed in the familiar Crow armor. Of course, there wasn’t a single glass in front of them, and Teresa had to suppress a smile: she could never imagine Viago drinking anything outside his own home.

As they approached, de Riva recalled that their meeting with the Inquisitor had also been at the Cobblestone Swan. She wondered who owned the tavern if her cousin didn’t hesitate to meet here.

“Did you find anything out? About Illario?” Lucanis asked, skipping any greeting.

Teresa had noticed more than once: when he was nervous, Lucanis’s flawless manners fell away, though he never seemed outright rude.

All eyes turned to Viago. Outwardly, her cousin seemed calm as ever, but Teresa knew him too well to be fooled. His gray eyes flicked from the bar, then down, then anxiously darted between Lucanis and Teresa and back again. Teia looked uneasy too; the elf’s black eyebrows were raised higher than usual — a clear sign she was on edge.

“Maybe,” Viago exhaled, nervous.

“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” Lucanis pressed, his voice tense. “Either you have something, or you don’t.”

“It’s Caterina,” Teia interjected. She shifted from foot to foot, as if holding back her nerves.

“We’re not sure,” Viago countered, looking at the elf.

Teresa saw both of them wavering, and it was more than strange — it was unsettling.

“Tell me,” Lucanis said, his voice a command, and Teresa noted to herself that it was hard to blame him. She liked how he carried himself — not just when they were alone.

“You know my people watch the Dellamorte villa,” Viago said, and Teresa clearly heard the nervousness in his familiar voice. “And one of them came back with Caterina’s ring.”

“They threw it out with the trash,” Teia added. “Illario would never do that. At the very least, he’d pawn it somewhere.”

Teresa felt a jolt of shock. The thought flickered through her mind before it could fully form. Was it possible…?

“You think Caterina threw the ring out as a message that she’s in the house,” she said slowly.

The idea seemed absurd. Impossible. But she immediately remembered: Lucanis had never set foot in the family estate after being freed from the Ossuary. He’d admitted to her it was too hard — since Caterina was gone.

And after what happened with Zara Renata and Illario’s order to stay away from Treviso, going back had never come up again. Teresa knew Lucanis wasn’t afraid of his cousin, but it seemed he had no stomach for a family showdown. At least, not yet.

“Her opal ring,” Teia stressed. “Lucanis, you know what that means.”

“She gave that ring to my mother,” Lucanis said slowly, his brows furrowed. “As a sign of favor. House Velardo killed my parents and sent it to Katarina, demanding she give up the First Talon title. And then a member of House de Riva — Mauricio — said he’d avenge my parents’ death. He kept his word, and was killed with his family for it. Caterina always taught us to honor his memory.”

Teresa felt as if she’d been doused with ice water. Why had no one told her? She’d always thought her father died in the war between the Crow houses because the de Rivas had sided with the First Talon — Caterina. Neither her uncle nor Viago had ever told her about these details.

“Teresa,” Viago said gently, noticing her reaction. He clearly wanted to say more, but she cut him off sharply:

“So that’s where my immunity from Caterina comes from.”

“I didn’t want it to become personal,” Viago muttered, and Lucanis broke in:

“What are you two talking about?”

Teresa shrank in on herself, feeling sick. It seemed like a simple fact, but why had it been kept from her?

“Mauricio de Riva is my father,” she replied, her voice flat.

Lucanis swore, shock and regret etched on his face.

“Rhys… Mauricio… Mierda. Caterina always said his whole family was killed. I never thought…”

“When Teresa’s parents were killed, my father spread that rumor,” Viago explained reluctantly. “Caterina approved it — to protect Mauricio’s daughter. I only found out myself when I became Talon — from Caterina,” he added, wincing, as if recalling a very unpleasant conversation.

“Tess, I—”

“Later,” Teresa interrupted. “Right now, Caterina is what matters — not the past.”

Lucanis frowned, but she saw he understood her point, and his face brightened:

“She’s alive,” he breathed. “Illario, you absolute idiot!”

“We need more eyes on the villa before we can be sure,” Viago said.

That was him all over — never making promises until he was certain.

“If Illario lost that ring, he’d have torn the city apart looking for it,” Lucanis countered with a sigh. “How could she be alive? What is he thinking?” He looked at Teresa as if searching for support. “And how am I supposed to deal with all of this?”

De Riva could see the news had shocked him. She understood him well, but forced herself to set the past aside. What mattered was the present: Lucanis and — unbelievably — Caterina.

“We need to plan a rescue,” Teia said firmly. “The sooner we get Caterina out, the better.”

“It could be a trap,” Viago cautioned. “We need to deal with Illario first.”

“He could still kill her if we move against him. Maker knows what’s going on in his head,” Lucanis muttered grimly.

“I completely agree,” Viago nodded. “First, we need to confirm, and then plan the rescue operation carefully. We can’t just take risks.”

“You’re both too pessimistic. Especially you, Vi,” Teia rolled her eyes. “Convince him, Lucanis.”

Teresa could hear in Lucanis’s voice that he was panicking. She knew Viago and Teia didn’t see it — they just thought he was grim, but she’d learned him too well.

“I was sure I’d thought of everything! What if I go after him and Caterina dies because of it?”

His black eyes suddenly flared violet — Spite took control of his body. He hadn’t done this in a very long time. The demon stared straight at Teresa.

“Help us,” Spite said in Lucanis’s voice.

“How? What do you need?” Teresa responded instantly.

“He’ll listen! He always listens to you! Let’s go!”

White light.

 

***

The light faded, and Teresa realized she was standing alone — no Lucanis, no Spite, no Viago or Teia.

Everything around her had lost its color, turned gray. Teresa looked closer: the place painfully reminded her of the Ossuary. And at the same time, the Fade.

“Spite?” she called the demon. It felt silly, but it was worth a try. “What did you do? Is this the Fade? Everything feels… different.”

The demon didn’t answer. Silence ruled, and Teresa moved forward, looking around.

“This place doesn’t look like those scraps of Solas’s memories from the Crossroads,” she added for no real reason and immediately grew annoyed at herself.

What had happened to her? Even after escaping Treviso, after her old life, Teresa still considered herself — if not an Antivan Crow (after all, she’d been cast out) — at least someone who lived by the old rules. Talking aloud in a strange place wasn’t one of them, and, scolding herself, Teresa listened.

Nothing. Her instincts, honed over years in the Crows, had never let her down, and she trusted them now.

Suddenly Spite’s voice rang out. It didn’t sound like Lucanis, rougher, with a trace of Tevene more than Antivan.

“Lucanis is here. Behind closed doors. I can’t break through.”

Teresa quickened her pace, even if she wasn’t sure she was going the right way. Still, the place really did resemble the Ossuary, and de Riva walked a bit more confidently: memory recalled the layout of the underwater prison, though she’d only been there once.

What had happened? Another trick of Spite? Why was Lucanis behind closed doors?

Anxiety took root inside her. Teresa frowned.

“How am I supposed to deal with all this now?” — Lucanis’s question resurfaced in her memory.

She remembered his fear — his uncertainty about what to do. Teresa sighed. From the very first day, she’d seen not just the legendary “Demon of Virantium” — the image that followed Lucanis everywhere.

Among the Crows, he was a legend — and deservedly so. He was an inspiration. Teresa herself probably never would have dared intervene in the operation against the Antaam if not for the stories of Lucanis’s contracts.

And yet, he was so much more than the legend. Not just a handsome man or a deadly mage-killer. Cultured and gallant, always ready to help, though he could be sharp-tongued.

She remembered how Lucanis’s relationship with Davrin changed after Weisshaupt. The jokes, of course, remained, but she remembered well how the men had spoken on a mission, how they supported each other with not a hint of mockery. Now — barely, but still — their relationship could be called friendly. They just spoke their own language, one only they understood.

She remembered how she’d gradually grown close to Lucanis. Two Antivan Crows, raised in a world of constant distrust. Glances, Antivan words only they understood. Teresa had fought with herself for a long time. As it turned out, so had he.

And before she realized it, she was telling him things about herself that no one — not even Viago — knew. The weeks had blurred together. Now, Teresa couldn’t understand how she’d lived before him.

She’d be lying if she said everything was perfect. But was anything ever perfect? Over her life, de Riva had seen only a handful of relationships and would have called her parents’ the best example. She never idealized them: they had arguments. Her mother could get moody and raise her voice, her father would grow gloomy and withdrawn. But they always made up quickly.

It was similar for her and Lucanis. Even if she never raised her voice, gloom sometimes hovered over both of them.

Still, despite their Antivan blood, they never screamed at each other. Each would go do their own thing, then they’d hug, and it would pass.

“TERESA!” Spite suddenly shouted, snapping the Crow from her thoughts.

“Let’s find him,” she answered, picking up the pace.

The farther she went, the stronger her realization: this place truly was a mirror of the Ossuary. The colors, though — her eyes barely registered them, as happened in the Fade.

“Definitely the Ossuary,” she muttered, crossing a stone bridge. “The prison we broke Lucanis out of,” she explained aloud for no real reason.

“‘Broke him out’?” the demon echoed, with clear skepticism. “No. We’re always here.”

“Of course it’s not the real Ossuary,” Teresa suppressed a heavy sigh. “But it doesn’t feel like a memory either.”

Somewhere, Zara Renata’s voice echoed. Chills shot down Teresa’s spine.

“She’s dead,” Teresa reminded herself. “It must just be a memory echo.”

Despite her attempt to force her emotions into logic, she couldn’t shake the gnawing fear in her gut. She forced herself to focus on her footsteps.

“I have to help Lucanis,” she firmly reminded herself.

“There’s no one here,” she announced a few moments later, entering another stone hall. Zara Renata’s voice still echoed, as if from everywhere at once.

In the distance, she saw a door and headed toward it. Rage was silent. Pulling the door open, Teresa felt a physical weight.

“What is this place?”

A flash of bright white light. De Riva found herself in a long hall and looked around. Her eyes caught on lyrium veins — just like in the Ossuary.

At the far end, there was mist, and she headed toward it decisively. Out of the fog, a figure emerged. Teresa froze.

The mist cleared, revealing Caterina Dellamorte — the legendary Antivan Crow, an elderly woman. She stood exactly as Teresa remembered: back straight, black eyes piercing, silver hair in a bun, left hand resting on an elegant cane.

Teresa wanted to swear in shock: Caterina was watching her sternly, as if testing her.

“You forgot our deal, Teresa de Riva?”

Her heart dropped; anxiety and fear battled in her chest.

Caterina jerked her shoulder and continued in the same icy tone:

“You were supposed to bring me back my grandson!”

Beside her, Teresa noticed Spite. The demon looked like Lucanis, except his eyes burned with violet fire. De Riva looked at Katarina. Gathering all her composure, she exhaled:

“I know.”

“And you brought me someone possessed!” the old woman exclaimed sharply. “Where is my grandson?”

“Tenderness and terror. Rage and relief. That old, ingrained fear of disappointment,” the demon listed the feelings, emphasizing each one.

“She’s… a spirit?” Teresa asked Spite quietly, glancing at Caterina with apprehension.

“No,” the demon snapped. “Lucanis is mine. Spirits wouldn’t dare. Here, there are only thoughts. Ideas. Feelings.”

De Riva nodded, looking again at the older woman.

“She’s his idea of Caterina,” Teresa stated, and, now without a trace of fear, turned to the woman. “Caterina? Lucanis is trapped. I think you’re one of the keys to helping him,” she sighed and, more quietly, added, “Maybe Lucanis has changed, but he’s still the little boy you loved and raised.”

“Changed?” Caterina gasped, stubbornly shaking her head. Her black eyes seemed to drill through her. “He’s possessed by a demon!”

“And yet you would never have turned away from him, no matter what,” Teresa countered. She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to believe it. “Or am I wrong?”

The old woman — just for a moment — vanished, dissolving into white mist that began to dissipate.

“My poor boy,” Teresa heard Caterina Dellamorte’s voice, full of pain.

In the distance, a new door appeared, and, barely stopping herself from running, de Riva rushed toward it. She wanted to free Lucanis and get out of this strange place as soon as possible. Suddenly Teresa grew cold: she wondered what had happened to Viago and Teia.

Beyond the door was still the Ossuary, and the girl sighed. If Spite had somehow brought her into Lucanis’s mind, it was sadly fitting that the underwater prison where Dellamorte spent a year, thanks to Illario, had become his internal landscape.

Zara Renata’s voice echoed here, too, discussing types of demons. Teresa furiously remembered how the late magister once said of Lucanis: “They already call him the ‘Demon of Virantium.’ Isn’t it funny that now there’s a real demon inside him?”

In the distance, another figure shrouded in mist appeared — tall, broad-shouldered. Teresa would have recognized him anywhere.

“Viago!” she called, hurrying toward him.

Her cousin turned, and beside him Spite appeared again.

Viago was silent, just staring at her, cold and stern.

“Vi, what happened? How did you get here?”

“Not real,” Spite hissed.

Teresa sighed, studying her cousin. He seemed even sterner than usual.

“Viago?”

“You’ve lost your mind, Teresa,” he burst out, taking a step toward her, and she instinctively stepped back. “Lucanis is possessed! What were you thinking? You two can’t be together! I’m against it!”

Teresa raised her eyebrows, giving Spite a questioning look. The demon, in Lucanis’s form, shook his head.

“Fear. He’ll be against it. You’ll listen.”

“You deserve so much better!” Viago raised his voice, trying to command her attention. De Riva sighed heavily.

“We’re definitely in Lucanis’s head, right?” she quipped, and Spite snorted loudly.

“Yes,” the demon confirmed. “He’s afraid he’s not good enough. I know.”

“Viago, that’s for me to decide,” Teresa said, addressing her cousin. “You’re used to making decisions behind my back, thinking you’re protecting me. I don’t need your protection anymore, Vi. I can take care of myself. Have been for a long time.”

“Don’t be a fool,” her cousin’s image snapped. “Maybe before the demon, I’d understand. But not now.”

“Viago, you’ve always seen Lucanis as a friend,” Teresa said firmly. “Even if you never introduced us, and I still don’t know why, I know for sure you see more in him than just a possessed man!”

Her cousin looked sad and vanished into white mist — just like Katarina. Teresa heard:

“When will we stop losing the people we love?”

The question hit a sore spot, and she couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh.

“Let’s go!” Spite’s voice snapped her out of it.

Teresa nodded, heading toward the next door.

Beyond it — still more Ossuary halls, and in the distance another figure. This one was facing her, and despite the mist, Teresa instantly recognized Illario Dellamorte. As she approached Lucanis’s cousin, she heard a voice echoing:

“If I were in charge, you wouldn’t have to do this anymore.”

A few steps closer, and the echo added:

“I can’t believe it. You’re home.”

Illario had said that in her presence — when they returned from the Ossuary and learned Caterina had been killed.

“Teresa de Riva herself!” Illario called out. His voice sounded so natural, with those familiar slow, almost lazy notes, that Teresa briefly doubted if this was just an image.

“Illario,” she greeted him coldly.

Rage hissed in displeasure.

“You’re too good to waste your time in a depressing place like this,” the younger Dellamorte said theatrically.

He was handsome — it would be silly not to admit it. Chiseled cheekbones, tall and fit, dark hair pulled back into a short ponytail. But his blue eyes — as in life — were cold.

“Forget my cousin, darling. You should be worrying about more important things, shouldn’t you? You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You need someone more worthy by your side.”

“Like you?” Teresa blurted out before she could stop herself.

Illario examined his fingers as if checking if he’d gotten them dirty.

“Why not?” he shrugged coolly. “I always appreciate what’s worthwhile and don’t beat around the bush.”

“Sharp, jagged edges,” Spite muttered. The demon in Lucanis’s form grimaced, shaking his head. “Pain with every breath. Grief and relief. Hope and anger. It’s all a mess.”

Teresa sighed. She didn’t know what to say to a traitor. Then something struck her.

“Lucanis,” she hoped he could hear her, “you don’t have to keep doubting Illario — or keep supporting him, just because you always have,” she finished firmly.

“He. Put. Us. Here,” Spite growled, glaring at Illario with undisguised hatred. The demon’s voice was full of rage.

“Best not to meddle, Teresa,” Illario’s tone carried a clear hint of threat. “If you free him, it’ll just hurt more.”

“Hurt who?” she asked, already guessing the answer.

“Did you know Caterina had five children?” Illario started speaking more quietly, as if the thought pained him. “Eight grandchildren. And all of them are dead — except Lucanis and me,” he shook his head and continued, “During the war between the Crow houses, the Dellamortes lost everything. Except the First Talon title. One of the de Rivas — Mauricio — avenged our dead, and House Velardo killed him and his family for it. Now it’s just us left, fighting on.”

The mention of her father hit her like a punch. With effort, Teresa forced herself to focus on Illario’s words. The Crow continued:

“You, like your relative, have a choice. A proper Dellamorte’s choice. If we’re gone, what will be left? Do you think you’ll survive the new war or follow Mauricio? Don’t be stupid, Teresa. Choose.”

“You say that like there’s any choice at all,” she replied confidently. “There will be a war, whether you like it or not, Illario. And it probably won’t end well.”

“He spent a year here,” Illario pointed at the Ossuary walls. “In this hole. In the dark. Dreamed of escaping. Just to come home and kill a family member for a title he never wanted. This prison will always be with him. Give him time, and he’ll fill it with corpses. Who knows, maybe yours will end up here, too.”

“Hurry up,” Spite urged nervously.

Teresa nodded and decided to try one more time.

“You’re an Antivan Crow, Lucanis,” she called out, not knowing if he could hear. “A professional. You were taught to avoid hurting the innocent and to go after the real enemy.”

“You have no idea what the consequences will be,” Illario sighed with regret and vanished into thin air.

Teresa kept moving, Spite at her side.

“We’re almost there,” the demon said.

Sure enough, in the distance appeared a massive door inscribed with runes. Exactly like the one in the real Ossuary. Mist stretched before it.

“He’s there!” Spite shouted impatiently. “Hurry!”

They were almost there when a figure rose from the white mist. Teresa felt dizzy.

Short, slender waist, wide hips, thick dark hair past the shoulders, and intense gray almond-shaped eyes. Herself.

Teresa cursed, staring at her own image. It was unnerving.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped.

The figure unexpectedly smiled, which made Teresa even more uneasy.

“I won’t be able to stay with him for long,” her double replied calmly. “Right now, it’s simple: my life is unstable. I have to destroy the elven gods. And if I survive, then what?”

Teresa frowned. She and Lucanis had never talked about the future, too afraid it might never come. Was there even a point, when life was always at risk? Neither of them knew if they’d make it through.

“Love. Tenderness. Fear. Strength,” Spite breathed, with an odd kind of awe.

“If we survive, it’ll be us,” Teresa retorted to her own image. “Lucanis, I love you. I’ve never felt anything like this before. I’ll be there for you, I promise.”

“You’re foolish,” her reflection shook its head. “He’s possessed. He’ll hurt you.”

“Shut up,” Teresa snapped. “Pain is inevitable in any relationship! But just because it’s there doesn’t mean it’s the end. Everything can be fixed, if you want it. And I do!”

The image burst into white light, and she heard her own voice:

“I just want there to be more happiness than pain. I’m so tired of the pain…”

And again, everything was swallowed by white light.

 

***

The light faded, and Teresa saw Lucanis. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Tess? What are you doing here?”

“I had to find you,” she breathed. Stepping forward, she hugged him tightly and felt his arms wrap around her in return. His lips, familiar and comforting, brushed her hair. “If anything happened to you… I don’t even want to think about it.”

“You need to go,” Lucanis murmured, holding her even tighter. “Better I stay here than risk losing you.”

Teresa gently pulled back, and Spite seized the moment.

“See? He’s breaking it. Our agreement,” the demon hissed. “His mind. Still here. He wants. To stay. That’s why he’s holding. Me, too.”

“Mierda,” Lucanis swore, casting a dark look at the demon. “Why would I want to stay? Even in my head, this place is a nightmare!”

“Yes, but…” Teresa began hesitantly, “it’s a nightmare you’ve already beaten. But now I understand — no matter how terrible the Ossuary is, it’s better than the alternative.”

“What do you mean?” Lucanis looked at her, frowning.

De Riva sighed and continued:

“The Ossuary, Zara… You could fix those problems with a blade. But healing? Living as someone possessed? There’s no simple answer. And if you fail, you could hurt the people you love.”

“No, that’s…” Lucanis trailed off, letting out a frustrated growl. “Damn it, Tess!”

“Make. Him. Leave,” Rage interrupted.

The demon in Lucanis’s form stomped his foot, and Teresa had to suppress an inappropriate laugh. Sometimes Spite acted like a spoiled, ill-mannered child.

“He’s trying,” de Riva said as gently as she could. “It’s… hard. Mortals can’t just change instantly. It takes us a long time.”

Spite growled in frustration, as if complaining about slow, stubborn humans. Suddenly Lucanis said quietly:

“Tess, you’re right. There must be a way to get through this,” he sighed and shifted from foot to foot. “It’s just… too much. I don’t know where to start.”

Teresa stepped closer and stroked his cheek. Lucanis didn’t pull away.

“I’ll help, okay? I’m here.”

He nodded, and Teresa saw him looking at Spite. An unexpected thought occurred to her.

“Start small, both of you — you and Spite. Pick a goal that works for both of you, and go for it.”

“A contract?” the demon perked up.

“Contracts are for clients,” Lucanis’s voice took on a lecturing note. “Let’s call it… an alliance. But on what terms?”

He thought for a moment. Teresa suggested softly:

“What about saving Caterina?”

“Exactly,” Lucanis muttered, shaking his head as if annoyed at himself for not thinking of it sooner.

“Are we going to fight the Crows?” Spite asked, clearly pleased.

“Anyone who stands in our way,” Dellamorte agreed firmly. “Well? Shall we save Katarina together?”

“Yes,” the demon nodded.

Lucanis stepped up to Spite and took his place. The demon disappeared, as if he’d become a part of Lucanis again, and everything was flooded with white light.

 

***

Teresa found herself exactly where she’d been before entering Lucanis’s mind — in the tavern. He was standing beside her, and in front of them were Viago and Teia. Both looked quite concerned.

“Are you all right?” Teia asked, unable to hide her anxiety.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Viago blurted out irritably. It was clear he was angry.

“We’re fine,” Teresa replied in a calming tone, glancing at Lucanis. He was smiling. “We just needed a minute, but now, I’d say we’re ready for anything.” She hesitated for a second. Curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, “How long were we standing like that?”

“Long enough for it to get awkward,” Teia replied dryly, though the corners of her mouth twitched as if she was suppressing a smile. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Teresa met Lucanis’s gaze and smiled back. Dellamorte said confidently:

“We’re fine, Teia, don’t worry. Can I ask you two to keep an eye on Illario? If he does anything, I want to know about it.”

“I would’ve done that anyway,” Viago replied coolly.

“You’ve made up your mind,” Teia noted, looking at Lucanis, and he nodded.

“We’re going to save Caterina. But Viago’s right — we need more information. Illario panicked the first time I came back from the Ossuary. If it happens again, he might actually kill her this time. That means we only have one shot to save her.”

Viago nodded seriously.

“The de Riva family is with you.”

“So is the Cantori,” Teia confirmed.

Lucanis looked at Teresa, and she smiled.

“You know I am too.”

 

***

Back at the Lighthouse, Lucanis felt exhaustion taking over his body. Teresa hadn’t said a word the entire way from Minrathous. He could see — the day hadn’t been easy for either of them. Especially for her.

Spite was silent. It was surprising, and Lucanis promised himself he’d think about it later.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he glanced at Teresa. She gave him a tired smile.

“You coming with me?”

Lucanis hesitated for a split second, but then nodded, following her — into her room.

He knew well how uncomfortable she felt in there. She’d told him more than once about her apartment near the market in Treviso — a place she still didn’t have the courage to return to. There, she’d said, was a beautiful view — of city streets and canals. In the evenings, Teresa liked to sit on the windowsill, reading something far removed from the life of an Antivan Crow, while watching the stars.

Her room in the Lighthouse, for some reason, was the opposite of that freedom she was used to. There were no windows, only aquariums. Teresa could never explain it.

“In the end, what does it matter?” she’d smile, but sometimes Lucanis noticed the sadness in her gray eyes when she looked at the aquariums. He’d also seen how she tried to make this place more her own: the Antivan Crow’s chest on the dresser, the mirror Varric had given her on another table. More recently, a few books in Antivan had appeared on a small table by the wall — Teresa had bought them at the market in Treviso.

They stepped inside. Lucanis closed the door, watching as Teresa undid the straps of her armor. He knew: they needed to talk about what had happened.

“That was such a mess,” she breathed out, turning her head to him. “But I never could have guessed our families were connected. Let alone like this.”

Lucanis walked over and hugged her. Teresa took a deep breath, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Absurd.”

“No kidding,” he kissed her forehead. “I had no idea Mauricio was your father.”

Teresa pulled away and shrugged.

“Does it really matter?”

“It does,” Lucanis answered instantly, sighing heavily. “Caterina drilled into us as children that Illario and I should remember the man who avenged our family against House Velardo. Caterina always stressed that it cost Mauricio’s family their lives. I… didn’t know you were his daughter. But it matters,” he looked down. “He died because of my house,” Lucanis finished quietly.

“No,” Teresa said firmly, lifting his chin. “My father died for what he believed in. The only shame is my uncle didn’t think to tell me any of this. I never knew those details.”

“Maybe he was afraid you’d want revenge,” Lucanis shrugged, “or that you’d blame me and Illario for it all.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Teresa protested. “You lost your parents the same way I did!”

Lucanis shook his head.

“I never thought our families’ past would matter so much. Dellamorte and de Riva have been allies for over a hundred years. But the fact that you’re Mauricio’s daughter… It’s strange. Caterina never once mentioned that you survived.”

“My head is spinning,” Teresa admitted. “Maybe it doesn’t matter so much anymore. What matters now is saving Caterina — and destroying the elven gods.”

“Agreed,” Lucanis smiled and kissed her.

She responded eagerly, pressing closer, and he realized how little he needed right now — just her.

His hands found the buttons of her shirt, and she let out a muffled gasp against his lips when his fingers touched her sensitive skin.

Teresa wasn’t shy. He felt her undoing the straps of his armor. It felt like a contest: as if each of them was racing to undress the other first.

At last, Lucanis couldn’t resist. Picking Teresa up, he laid her on the bed. She was almost naked, and a few decisive touches finished what they’d started.

He let himself simply admire her for a moment, memorizing every familiar curve, the faint blush on her cheeks. His palms glided slowly across her skin, barely touching, as if learning all over again how her breath changed at every caress.

The kisses deepened. Lucanis felt her fingers slip under his still-unbuttoned shirt. He smiled into her lips, moved down to her neck, and a soft moan escaped Teresa’s lips. He knew well by now how to make her let go of control. And she — him.

His lips moved lower, down to her rounded breasts. Teresa moaned louder.

“Lucanis…”

When he went lower still, he felt Teresa hold her breath. Her hand tightened unconsciously on his shoulder — a silent yes.

Words weren’t needed. Only breathless gasps, moans, and kisses. Lucanis felt her legs trembling, her back arching, and then she cried out, almost breathless with pleasure.

He gave her a moment to recover, watching her bitten lips. When her gray eyes fluttered open, Teresa reached for him.

And everything else ceased to matter. There was only the two of them — their kisses, their caresses, whispered Antivan, and a shared rhythm.

 

----

“I’m really not perfect,” Teresa mumbled sleepily, pressing her forehead to his shoulder.

“Mierda, Tess, one day you’ll drive me insane!” Lucanis chuckled, his voice low. “Believe me, I’ll love you even ten years from now. Even more than I do now.”

“Ten?” he heard a note of truly Antivan theatrical horror in her voice. “Maker have mercy, I’ll be forty!”

“Yes, and I know you’ll be even more beautiful,” Lucanis replied confidently. “Even sexier. Though I’m not sure it’s even possible.”

Teresa snorted and went quiet. He could almost feel her restless mind planning the next question.

“And what about sixty?”

“Trust me, nothing will change. I’ll still love you,” Lucanis promised, a goofy, happy smile on his lips.

He looked at her. Her gray eyes sparkled with mischief.

“You’ll be such a grumpy old man!”

Lucanis laughed. Before her, he’d never thought about growing old, but now, for some reason, he wanted to — to see how years together would bring peace and harmony to their lives.

“But yours,” he replied with a grin.

Teresa smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Really?”

“Of course, Tess,” Lucanis nodded with certainty. “I don’t think I could ever let you go.”

“And you don’t need to,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

The snowy part of the Crossroads always made Lucanis think of Ferelden. The Antivan Crows hadn’t taken contracts in that kingdom since 9:31 — ever since Zevran...

Lucanis grimaced and shifted his focus to the surroundings. Even though they kept clearing enemies from the Crossroads, to the ancient elven "gods" — Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain — he was, judging by the number of enemies sent after him, quite important.

It made sense: what could be worse for those who fancied themselves gods than being unable to invade such a sacred place?

Their team had long ago concluded that for some mysterious reason, the “gods” themselves couldn’t enter the Crossroads. That would work in their favor, except the “gods” kept sending everyone else they could: Venatori, Antaam, hostile spirits... The list went on. But was any of that enough to scare off Lucanis Dellamorte?

Today, they were once again exploring the Crossroads, searching for one of Solas’s memories. Lucanis regarded each new elven “god” with the same disgust as all the others. If he was honest, he hated this last one even more than Ghilan’nain, whom he’d so stupidly failed to kill at Weisshaupt.

And of course, it was all because of Teresa: before she rescued Lucanis from the Ossuary, Solas — unintentionally — had bound himself to her with blood magic, which allowed her to speak with him directly.

Naturally, Solas assured Teresa that their bond wasn’t the result of blood magic. But Lucanis had seen too many maleficarum in his life to believe an elven god of lies. He warned de Riva not to fall for flowery speeches. Fortunately, Tess wasn’t foolish.

Half-listening, he heard Harding, genuinely delighted by the snow — as a true Fereldan — telling Teresa a childhood story. Lucanis listened more closely and grinned: Lace was reminiscing about how kids would rejoice in the snow and play until their clothes were soaked through.

Just a few days ago, the three of them had returned from the Deep Roads, where Harding had led an expedition to learn more about magic that dwarves couldn’t control. After coming back to the Lighthouse, ever-cheerful Lace practically glowed. Lucanis didn’t know if it was just a successful expedition or if Taash had something to do with it, but he was sincerely happy for the dwarf.

When her story ended, Lucanis asked unexpectedly:

“Lace, are you all right?”

Harding looked surprised — hiding her emotions was never her strength. But she nodded confidently, her friendly smile never fading.

“Yes, Lucanis, thank you. For the first time in a long while, I feel... at peace.”

Dellamorte nodded, watching Teresa, who was playfully climbing a small wooden tower to get a better view.

“Mierda, Venatori over there!”

He distinctly felt Rage’s excitement. The demon loved fights as much as Lucanis did.

Teresa carefully jumped down, landing gracefully, and added:

“Five of them. They haven’t noticed us. One’s clearly telling tall tales to the others.”

“What do you think their stories are like, with the Venatori?” Harding mused aloud.

Lucanis snorted.

“You want to ask?” Teresa grinned. “I doubt they’d tell us.”

“Wouldn’t want to know anyway,” Lace replied. “Careful — the snow crunches underfoot. Move slowly.”

“In Antiva, it snows in the winter, but only in the mountains,” Lucanis couldn’t help remarking.

Teresa nodded.

“And as Antivan Crows, you two must have spent a lot of time up there, hunting enemies,” Lace teased.

Lucanis caught Teresa’s look and shook his head. Most of his contracts had, of course, been in Tevinter.

“Let’s go,” de Riva said impatiently, bouncing on her toes. “I don’t want to spend all day looking for one single memory of Solas’s.”

“Plans?” Harding asked innocently, and Lucanis, silently, found himself wondering the same thing.

“No,” Teresa smiled. “Just seems like too much honor for Solas, don’t you think?”

It was silly, but Lucanis felt relieved. Teresa would probably call it cute—that he feared losing her, even after everything they’d been through. Of course, he had no intention of letting her tease him about it.

He followed de Riva, stepping carefully and as silently as possible. His trained ear picked up Lace drawing her bow.

Teresa paused for a moment — then suddenly darted forward without warning. The first Venatori didn’t even have time to cry out before falling to her blade.

An arrow flew past — Harding had joined the fight.

“Mierda...”

Lucanis cursed with feeling and rushed after Teresa. Rage clenched his throat: her recklessness in battle had driven him to the edge more than once.

One of the mages hurled a spell at him. Lucanis dodged the flare, rolled in midair, and slashed the enemy’s throat.

He turned.

Teresa was surrounded by three, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Her gray eyes sparkled with excitement, lips curled in a bold, almost defiant smile.

Rage’s wings let Lucanis reach her in seconds. He drove his rapier into one opponent, finishing him off with a dagger. The second Venatori swore foully in Tevene, and right then Lucanis felt a sharp pain in his shoulder from an unexpected blow from the side. It was so intense that the world went dark for a second.

He came to quickly. It was over: Harding had finished one with her arrows, Teresa the other. She was breathing heavily but smiling.

“Good job,” she praised briefly.

“Mierda, Tess,” Lucanis growled, clutching his shoulder. Maybe it was dislocated, maybe just wrenched — he didn’t know. Pain didn’t scare him. Her recklessness did.

He couldn’t hold it in. He switched to Antivan and told her exactly what he thought about her impulsiveness. To her credit, Teresa listened in silence, but clenched her jaw in a way that reminded him strikingly of Viago. Silly — they weren’t blood relatives, but the resemblance in that moment was uncanny.

“Are you done?” Tess asked coldly, in their native tongue.

Lucanis felt a pang of shame. He shouldn’t have done it in front of Harding. But wounded pride wouldn’t let him back down.

“Let’s go find that damned memory,” he snapped, switching to Common.

Teresa’s eyes flashed dangerously, but she said nothing.

 

***

Crassius Servis hated nothing more than being idle. Recovering from his wound in Treviso was taking time, and sometimes he felt like howling from boredom.

Neve, as promised, was by his side. She spent a lot of time in Dorian’s vast library, trying to dig up any scrap of information about Ghilan’nain, Elgar’nan, or Solas — the ancient elven gods.

A couple of times she escaped from the manor into the Dock Town. Then Servis felt like a sulky little child — something he’d never been in childhood — so he’d leave his room and go bother Margaret.

The idea turned out to be a particularly poor one. The first time, Rutherford tolerated it; the second, she scolded him without mincing words. The third time — a magical bolt flew at Crassius.

“So that’s how you treat an injured friend?” he cried out, theatrically flinging his arms.

Margaret squinted her brown eyes and coolly retorted, “If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t have missed.”

Servis sighed and went to the garden, where he found Anthony, the Inquisitor’s son, attacking a straw dummy with a child’s sword. After giving a few tips to the future warrior (and Crassius never doubted for a second that’s what he’d be), he went back inside, suppressing a pang at seeing how delighted Tony was with male attention. “If only the Inquisitor and the Seeker would come pick him up already,” he thought.

Not being able to move forward in his investigation drove him mad. Servis was eager to meet with Ashur, who had promised to help: despite the fact that there were critically few Shadow Dragons left after the attack on Minrathous, Ashur had given his word to keep an eye out for Tenebrius in his absence.

Servis went to his window. Looking out over the wide avenue of Minrathous’s wealthiest district, he felt like howling. He was so used to being his own master that even a minor health limitation drove him to despair.

In the distance, he saw a figure he’d recognize anywhere. His heart gave an involuntary jump, and a smile touched his lips. Even from far away, Neve Gallus was frowning and looked as if she’d ended up in this part of Minrathous by mistake. Watching her, Servis decided it was time to spark her interest in the investigation and suggest they go together to the Shadow Dragons’ hideout. Knowing Neve, she wouldn’t pass up the chance to uncover something new.

When Gallus entered the manor, a few moments later he heard the familiar tap of a steel prosthetic in the hall and quickly sat in his chair, assuming the most miserable expression he could manage.

Neve entered without knocking and tossed him a fresh newspaper. Crassius caught it neatly, annoyed at himself for forgetting his “poor wounded man” act. So he leaned back in his chair and sighed dramatically.

“Thanks, Neve. A dose of newspaper news is all I have left...”

“Thorn,” Neve said in a warning tone, shaking her head. She stood across from him, studying him with a sharp gaze. “It’s so cute that you sometimes forget I know you inside out. I’d bet five gold you’re up to something and want to drag me into your latest scheme.”

Servis grinned, sincerely admiring the mage. Neve snorted and sighed, rolling her eyes for good measure.

“So what have you come up with, amatus?”

“Amatus?”

His smile took on a flirty hint. Crassius tilted his head, returning the detective’s searching look.

“Don’t start,” Neve laughed quietly. “So, what’s your plan?”

Servis bit his lip, still trying to figure out what was behind his lover’s motives. Was she just as bored at the Pavus estate as he was? Most likely, that was true.

“I need to see Ashur,” Crassius admitted, his voice uncommonly serious. “He promised to keep an eye out for signs of Tenebrius in Minrathous while I was in Antiva.”

Neve raised an eyebrow.

“I only have one question, Thorn.”

“I’m listening,” Servis suspected something was up; her poker face was impossible to read — she could control herself perfectly.

“Why are you only telling me this now? We’ve been stuck here for who knows how long!”

Crassius grinned widely, warmth blooming in his chest. He opened his mouth to say something, but Neve shook her head.

“No, save the sentimental stuff for later. Get dressed, let’s go!”

“What about my wound?” Servis couldn’t help but ask, but got up from the chair anyway.

Gallus shrugged. “If Dorian thinks something so minor could stop you once you’ve set your mind to something, he’s got another thing coming. I don’t have any such illusions.”

The Shadow Dragons’ hideout, where the survivors had fled after the corrupted dragon’s attack on Minrathous, was on the edge of the city, on the opposite side from the Port City, farther from the sea, in the grounds of an abandoned estate belonging to some long-dead relative of Maevaris Tilani.

Without a word, the pair slipped through the crumbling fence. As mages, they immediately sensed the protective barrier and knew the Shadow Dragons were already aware of their approach.

Naturally, the nearly destroyed organization had plenty of experience operating underground, so no one stayed in the main building. Crassius and Neve circled around it, heading for the family crypt, where the ashes of the dead had been kept for generations.

Inside, Neve wrinkled her nose in disgust at the musty smell. Servis grinned.

“Seems someone’s picked up Antivan squeamishness from Rook?”

The icy glare was all the reward he needed. Still grinning, Crassius walked over to the urn of a magister who’d died a century and a half ago and turned the handle to the right.

The stone wall shifted, and Neve gracefully stepped through the opening. Servis followed. As soon as he’d taken a few steps, the moving section of the wall slid back into place. Torches flared, lighting up a long corridor.

“Nothing better than a stroll through Minrathous catacombs with you,” Crassius hurried to catch up with Neve, who glanced at him sideways.

“Don’t suck up, Thorn.”

He almost blurted out something terrible, but caught himself just in time. Margaret might have missed, but Neve wouldn’t make such a mistake in a tight space like this.

The corridor gradually widened, and soon they entered a broad cavern. Underground water flowed nearby. Crassius turned left confidently, heading into the gloom. He conjured a flame of ice in his hand, illuminating the grotto. A door appeared in the distance, and the pair made their way toward it.

Crassius knocked three times, then waited. Soon, the door swung open to reveal Tarquin. The man nodded in greeting.

“Neve, Servis. Here to see Ashur?”

“That’s right,” Crassius confirmed. “He’s not busy?”

Tarquin sighed slightly. “No, but he may be resting. Come on in.”

The pair followed him. Servis tried to suppress a wave of sadness: during the battle for Minrathous, the Shadow Dragons’ leader had been tainted. There was no cure for that, and the question of how much longer Ashur had left hung in the air.

Finally, Tarquin stopped at another door.

“Wait here, I’ll ask,” he said, disappearing behind it.

Soon they were allowed in. Tarquin left, leaving them alone.

Ashur’s office was small: stone walls, magical lighting, an old battered desk, and a shabby couch. That’s where the once-powerful man was sitting.

Seeing him made Servis’s chest tighten, but he put on his friendliest smile. He didn’t want to upset Ashur, whom he’d known for years, but he looked noticeably worse than at their last meeting.

His skin was paler and looked almost as thin as parchment. Dark circles lay under his inflamed eyes. Ashur looked gaunt and had clearly lost weight, but, as expected, waved off any questions about his health.

“You know I hate long preambles,” he said briskly, though his voice was friendly enough. “You’re here about Tenebrius, I assume?”

Crassius nodded, watching Ashur expectantly. The older man began:

“No direct leads, though you understand our resources are pretty limited, especially now that Minrathous is crawling with Venatori.”

“I figure he’s still around here somewhere,” Servis said darkly, and he told them how Rook and Margaret had been attacked by Venatori “with greetings from Tenebrius.” “Who was the target — it’s unclear,” he finished. “It could’ve been Margaret — she’s the Inquisitor’s sister, after all. And it turns out Rook has a long and unpleasant history with Tenebrius.”

“You mean she’s that Crow from Carastes?” Ashur raised his brows in disbelief and laughed. “Damn, Crassius, your knack for getting into trouble is something else,” he nodded at Servis’s side. “Starting a conflict with the Antivan Crows was pretty foolish, don’t you think?”

“As if I started it,” Crassius grumbled, feeling irritated — he hadn’t been scolded like a child in ages!

“Still, don’t forget: right now, every ally counts,” Ashur said, struggling to stand. He was as tall and broad-shouldered as Servis. Folding his arms across his chest, he added, “While you were away, there were several murders in Minrathous.”

“What?” Neve frowned instantly. “How? Why didn’t I hear about this?”

“Not in the Dock Town,” Ashur replied grimly. “A few laetans and two altus—not magisters — were killed. With a ritual. Blood was used for summoning demons, as far as I can tell.”

“Do the victims have anything in common?” the detective pressed.

Ashur nodded.

“All of them are about the same age, around forty. Born in Minrathous. Trained in our Circle.”

“Forty?” Servis asked tensely. “Names?”

Ashur listed them. Crassius felt a surge of excitement, shaking his head.

“Vishante kaffas! I know them. Every one.”

“Seriously?”

He caught Neve’s astonished look. She clearly didn’t know the names — she was younger, after all.

“Yeah,” Crassius admitted reluctantly. “They were... bullies. Humiliated kids from poor families. Tried it on me too, until I took three of them down in a fight. Probably...” he trailed off, thinking, “Tenebrius definitely dealt with this too. I know he came from a really poor family, and the poor guy never had my natural charm,” he paused, letting Ashur and Neve enjoy his self-deprecating joke. After all, he and Tenebrius had a lot in common, and his companions knew it well. “You’ve got a file, I suppose?”

Ashur nodded and pointed to the desk.

“Folder’s on the desk. Everything we’ve found so far is in there. Hope it helps.”

They left the catacombs in silence; Crassius’s earlier mood was gone. So, Tenebrius really was in Minrathous, getting revenge on old bullies.

“Maker, you’re a forty-year-old man,” Servis thought with irritation. “Decided you had power among the Venatori, and now you think you can take revenge like this? We’ll see, Tenebrius, we’ll see who comes out on top.”

 

***

The air stank of fire, blood, and the taint — even in the camp of the army that had been trying to stop the darkspawn for months now.

Philipp Trevelyan, still called the Inquisitor by many, sat on a low stool outside the healers’ tent, his head resting on his crossed arms. He was still in armor, spattered with blood, a shield on his back, and a sword, still red after battle, sheathed at his side.

His lips whispered a prayer. Philipp had always honored the Maker and the Prophetess Andraste, hoping if not for their protection, then at least for wisdom. As everyone knew, the Maker had abandoned Thedas, unable to bear the corruption of the Golden City, and so now — his prayers likely fell on deaf ears.

“No, I can’t think that way,” Philipp decided, straightening up. His back cracked, and he grimaced. Even over the noise of the sleepless night camp, Cassandra — pacing nearby — heard it. She looked at him in silence, and Philipp saw the pain frozen in his wife’s green-brown eyes.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

Cassandra nodded tightly and resumed pacing before the healers’ tent. Philipp felt a surge of panic. Sensing it, the Seeker froze. Her confident gaze locked onto him — she always sensed the slightest change in his mood and immediately pulled herself together, offering support. He admired that, and did his best to do the same.

“It’s going to be all right,” she declared, as if trying to convince herself as well.

“I don’t like that phrase,” Trevelyan admitted with a heavy sigh.

“Neither do I.” Cassandra raked her fingers through her short black hair, staring at the ground. “And yet I can’t even bear to think…”

She was interrupted by the rustle of canvas as a healer stepped out of the tent. The Seeker instantly paled, and Philipp, pushing through the pain in his tired limbs, stood up.

“Well?” was all he managed to say.

The healer, a grim mage, nodded curtly.

“He’ll live. The commander was very lucky: the wound is deep, but it wasn’t poisoned by darkspawn blood. So, no real harm.”

“No real harm,” Philipp echoed automatically, a hesitant smile twitching at his lips. “Are you sure? Can we see Cullen?”

“Just for a short while,” the healer warned. “The commander is sleeping, he can’t be woken. He’s under the effects of healing draughts right now.”

Trevelyan looked at Cassandra. She stepped forward and squeezed his hand. Together, they entered the tent.

There were a lot of wounded. Philipp’s chest tightened.

“When will this end?” he thought, bitterly.

He spotted the commander’s familiar curly head and made his way over.

Cullen really was asleep. His eyelids twitched a bit, as if he was dreaming. Philipp exhaled in relief.

After all these years, Cullen had become more than just a friend — a brother. Losing him would mean not just losing someone close, but — Philipp was certain — being killed later by Margaret’s own hand.

Cassandra pressed her cheek to his shoulder, whispering thanks to the Maker. Philipp turned his head and pressed a light kiss to the damp forehead of the Seeker.

“He’s alive,” he said, out of nowhere.

Cassandra gave a weak smile.

“That means you will be too.”

Philipp snorted.

“You think you’d kill me?”

The Seeker laughed humorlessly and nodded.

“It’s good that everything turned out all right. Our friend survived, and that’s what matters.”

 

***

Crassius’s room was filled with the soft light of a couple of candles sitting on the nightstand, which had been thoughtfully pushed up against the wall. On it, Crassius and Neve had drawn up a diagram — something between a crime board and a map of Minrathous. The victims’ names were connected to information and locations.

Servis turned his head and looked at Neve. The detective looked utterly focused: her dark brows furrowed, eyes reflecting intense concentration.

The pair had spent the entire evening analyzing. They sorted through information, clues found by the Shadow Dragons, the victims’ backgrounds, and character traits Servis knew.

“Yes, I think you’re right: it’s definitely Tenebris’s doing,” Neve nodded and looked at him. “Revenge on those who bullied and tormented him for years. Maybe also for being a nonconformist,” she traced a line from one victim’s name to a detail about them. “But for now, we can’t know that for sure.”

Crassius’s mood darkened. Silly as it was, ever since he’d learned about Tenebris’s role in the siege of Minrathous, he’d felt guilty. An annoying thought buzzed in his head like a persistent gnat, and Servis couldn’t shake it: “That could have been me.”

“We make a great team,” he managed, trying to focus on something positive; after all, they really had learned a lot. “Want to open a detective agency together after we’re done with the elven gods?”

Neve laughed, but Crassius caught a flicker of interest in her brown eyes.

“You should’ve just started with that instead of all this ‘marry me’ stuff,” she teased, and his heart clenched uncomfortably.

Servis had proposed to Neve more than once, but she always refused — not because she didn’t love him, but because she thought it impossible to trade investigations for domestic life.

“What’s wrong, Thorn?” The mage realized she’d said too much and reached for him. Stroking his cheek, she murmured, “You know, if we survive this mess, ask me again. About both the detective agency and everything else. Deal?”

Crassius smiled: the knot in his chest vanished.

“All right,” he replied, pulling her close.

“Can I ask you something?” Neve said softly.

Servis was sure he wouldn’t like the question. But when had he ever refused her?

“Go ahead.”

“Look, I get it — we both have pasts. I knew about Margaret and a few others…” She grimaced for a second, and Crassius gave her an encouraging smile. Neve continued, “But why did you never mention the Antivan Crow? Did you… have feelings?”

Crassius sighed and nodded.

“I did. Silly, I know. And still, I don’t want to talk about it, Neve. Just like you don’t talk about Elec.”

The mage grimaced briefly.

“Fair enough. Let’s stick to our rule: ‘The past is in the past.’”

“Excellent idea,” Crassius leaned over and kissed her. “Besides, for more than five years, all my thoughts have been about you anyway.”

“Charmer,” Neve shot back, but her smile said she liked it.

Servis grinned and kissed her with heat. Gallus responded eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

The kiss deepened, and Crassius, never one to miss an opportunity, gently guided Neve toward the bed.

Suddenly, he froze.

“Vehnedis!” he swore, feeling Neve’s surprised — and at the same time questioning — gaze on him.

Moving to the diagram, Servis looked it over again and nodded to himself.

“I know who the next victim will be.”

 

***

Teresa sat on the floor in Solas’s study, right in front of the balcony doors thrown wide open. As usual, she was smoking, savoring the rare moments of quiet.

Of course, that was a lie: inside, everything twisted with anxiety and anger at Lucanis, but even more — at herself.

Teresa had never been good at handling criticism. Her parents never scolded her; if little Tess did something wrong, her father or mother would patiently explain. She hadn’t liked it then, but later she understood: her parents’ approach was the lesser of evils.

After their murder, Teresa stayed in the de Riva manor, where she’d been born eleven years before. Her uncle and aunt gave her a few weeks, surrounding her with care, but then life turned upside down for good — the training of an Antivan Crow began.

Uncle Marcelo oversaw her training personally. Thanks to her de Riva blood, Teresa was spared the excessive cruelty usually inflicted on children who ended up in the Antivan Crows’ claws practically from birth. Still, “easy” was not the word she’d use.

Training began at dawn. If the girl, used to a certain level of comfort, didn’t want to get up early, her uncle kept it simple: he’d yank off her blanket, dump a cup of water on her, or sometimes grab her by the leg and drag her out of bed. Marcelo never raised a hand to her, and that, perhaps, was why Teresa remembered her uncle with sincere gratitude.

First came physical exercises, like running no matter what the weather was. Very often, Viago was there — he’d been raised by her uncle for years already. Her cousin was older, faster, and stronger, and Teresa vividly remembered wishing she could outrun him just once, but it never happened—Viago was a head taller, his legs much longer.

Next came sparring. Marcelo taught her personally. At first, her opponent was a straw dummy, but after a couple months — it was her uncle himself. An adult man with years of experience behind him, he didn’t go easy on a growing girl. Teresa remembered the bruises and welts that became her constant companions.

After lunch, her aunt took over. Felicia was a well-educated woman, versed in many areas — art, literature, and most importantly, politics. She taught Teresa the ins and outs of Antivan royal life, made her memorize the names of every merchant prince’s family, and worked to rid her of the Rialto dialect, replacing it with the “official” city accent.

So a few years passed. Teresa grew up. The years of training weren’t for nothing. When she turned sixteen, her uncle — thanks in no small part to Felicia — decided that a well-read girl like her should seek out artifacts by contract and mediate trade and, eventually, political disputes. There were almost none like her among the Antivan Crows.

Teresa remembered how she’d breathed out then: she’d never wanted to kill. Her uncle deserved credit — he saw people’s potential. Viago, who had shown an interest in mixing potions since childhood, became a master of poisons by twenty.

Then life turned upside down again: her uncle and aunt were murdered brutally. Standing at their funeral pyre, Teresa couldn’t take her eyes off her cousin — his face frozen like a porcelain Orlesian mask. Anyone who didn’t know him might have said with scorn that Viago didn’t grieve. But she, knowing his strength and discipline, saw the truth and tried to follow his example as best she could.

Viago, as his father’s heir, had it rough. He’d just turned twenty, and many Crows in the house would have been glad to take his place. It seemed like a new war would break out any day.

Viago acted simply — he called a meeting of the house. Teresa remembered how his hands shook when he entered the sitting room where meetings were held.

On the surface, though, no one could say Viago de Riva looked weak. He gave a hard speech. The climax came when the three main troublemakers within the house dropped dead. Silence fell. Viago only raised an eyebrow and asked curtly, “Anyone else want my place?”

No one did. Teresa heard the whispers: after that, Viago had even earned the respect of Caterina Dellamorte herself — the First Talon of the Antivan Crows.

Viago ran the house with an iron grip and forgave no mistakes — not even Teresa’s. Back then, it had made her bitter, wanting to rebel. A few years later, that was replaced by understanding and gratitude.

Teresa stubbed out her cigarette and frowned. Her thoughts shifted to Lucanis.

He’d always spoken little of his upbringing. Teresa could only guess at most of it. Considering Caterina Dellamorte’s reputation, she doubted she’d been a loving grandmother, especially to her heir.

Just as Viago had never known how to show feelings, and his criticism was always harsh and demanding, Lucanis probably wasn’t used to being as understanding and gentle as he was with her when she made mistakes.

She sighed and got to her feet, picking up a pillow from the floor. All the anger she’d been stewing in for hours suddenly seemed pointless, as if she’d been walking in circles. Who was right no longer mattered. It was stupid to sit around and wallow in heavy memories when he had a dislocated shoulder!

Teresa found him in the storeroom, where he’d lived before they started spending every night together. Lucanis was sitting on the bed, shirtless, expertly wrapping his shoulder. When he saw her, he frowned, as if tormented not just by pain, but also by guilt.

Teresa came over and sat on the bed beside him.

“Let me set it.”

Lucanis gave a grim smirk but nodded. No need to ask if Teresa knew how — Antivan Crows learned this from the start.

The shoulder popped back into place with a sharp, unpleasant click. Lucanis hissed softly, but that was it. Teresa stroked his shoulder and murmured,

“Sorry. I know you’re right. I always rush in headfirst.”

Lucanis smiled wryly and nodded, pulling her into an embrace. Teresa let him, settling on his lap, and with a familiar gesture, ran her hand through his long hair.

“And I’m sorry,” Lucanis murmured, kissing her. “I should’ve gotten used to your recklessness by now, Tess. Sometimes I just feel like I won’t make it in time to save you.”

“I’ll be more careful,” Teresa promised, kissing his cheek.

Lucanis leaned back against the wall, drawing her with him.

“You? It’s more likely to snow in Treviso in winter.”

Teresa laughed, feigning offense. Lucanis tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and muttered,

“You’re just that rare kind of Antivan Crow who didn’t fight all that much.”

She thought about that.

“Maybe you’re right. But I really will be more careful. I promise.”

Lucanis smiled more genuinely this time. Instead of answering, he kissed her hard, hungrily, and Teresa gave in to the feeling. The world faded away, leaving just the two of them.

 

***

The center of Minrathous had already been swallowed by darkness. It was lit by whimsical lanterns, most of them powered by magic.

Crassius felt truly alive for the first time since his injury in Treviso. Neve walked calmly beside him, but her brown eyes were sharply scanning the surroundings.

“The roof of this building is always open,” she said quietly, pointing to a narrow wrought-iron staircase.

Crassius was surprised but said nothing, silently following her.

The building was three stories tall, but from the roof there was indeed a beautiful view — directly across stood the majestic tower of the Minrathous Imperial Circle. It had been built so long ago that the current age hadn’t even begun yet.

Crass gazed at the tower with a smile — even though his studies hadn’t always been easy, his best years had been spent in the Circle.

Neve stood beside him, just as unable to tear her gaze from the Circle.

“How did you find out about this place?” Servis asked, glancing at her.

The detective smirked.

“I used to come here a lot when I didn’t want to attend Magister Corsin’s lectures. He was dreadful,” she paused. “Why are you so sure he’s Tenebrius’s next target?”

Crassius stifled a laugh.

“And why did you skip his classes?”

Neve sighed. She looked as if the memories weren’t exactly pleasant.

“He hated laetans. Treated us worse than some magisters treat slaves,” she nodded at her own reasoning. “Yeah. You’re right. I doubt Corsin made exceptions for anyone.”

“Definitely not for Tenebris,” Crassius agreed. “Once he demonstrated a shield spell on the poor guy and slammed him into a wall.”

“And now the poor guy’s a grown man who can’t let go of the pain of his past,” Neve grimaced. “Well, you’re right. You don’t have to be a master detective to draw the parallel.”

Servis raised an eyebrow, holding back a laugh.

“So why didn’t you figure it out?”

“Oh, shut up, Thorn,” Gallus laughed, giving him a playful shove on the shoulder. “If you ask me, you were basically begging me to help with your investigation.”

“When was that?” Crassius smirked.

For this kind of banter, he’d do anything — teasing had long been an integral part of their relationship, and neither of them planned to give it up.

Neve rolled her eyes and turned away, watching the entrance to the tower. From it emerged a short, elderly man, leaning on a cane. His gray hair was tousled by the wind, and he wore a black mage’s robe.

“That’s him!” the mage exclaimed.

Crassius looked closer — Neve was right.

Magister Corsin carefully scanned his surroundings and headed toward a narrow alley. His gait betrayed his age, and for a moment Servis actually felt sorry for the unfortunate teacher, unable to see the person beneath someone’s origins.

“Don’t you think he’s suspicious?”

“Looks that way,” Neve agreed, her eyes fixed on the man. “Let’s go!”

Quickly descending from the roof — as quickly as Crassius’s injury allowed — the pair hurried after the elderly man.

 

***

Lucanis had never been in Viago’s laboratory before, located in the de Riva manor. There were rumors about it among the Antivan Crows, but hardly anyone could boast of actually seeing it with their own eyes.

Lucanis looked around. The laboratory, where the famous master of poisons labored over his creations, was set in the basement, not far from the familiar dungeon. Unlike the latter, though, this place had two windows, set high up just beneath the ceiling. They were painted a light color, giving no opportunity for curious eyes to peer inside.

Against one wall stood an impressive bookshelf. The number of books was astonishing. Many were old and battered, while some looked rather new.

Against another wall was a table spanning its entire length, covered with numerous vials and flasks arranged in perfect order. On the shelves above the table, ingredients were clearly stored — or so Lucanis could only guess, since the cabinet doors looked very securely locked.

Viago himself was intently stirring something over a small brazier set opposite the table.

Lucanis caught Teia’s eye. The elf rolled her eyes and called the head of House de Riva for the third time.

Viago frowned and finally paid them attention.

“Vi, it’s already morning and you still haven’t slept,” Teia remarked. “Lucanis and Teresa are here.”

Viago blinked and nodded, brushing a lock of black hair from his forehead.

“Wanted to finish this recipe,” he replied gloomily, not bothering with greetings. “There’s news about Illario.”

Lucanis felt a surge of anticipation; his heart sped up.

“Go on.”

“Your cousin is throwing a reception at the family manor. All the Talons are invited, along with most of the notable Crows.”

Lucanis frowned, meeting Teresa’s gaze. She looked thoughtful.

“A trap, maybe?” she wondered.

Viago shrugged.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied reluctantly, still working on his potion. “That’s why Teia and I are preparing some extra protections.”

The elf rolled her eyes again.

“You’ve spent the night without sleep. You’ll need protection from me, Vi, more than from anyone else.”

De Riva ignored the threat. Lucanis stifled a smile; he knew well enough you didn’t joke with Teia.

“When?”

“This coming Saturday,” Viago answered just as curtly.

“What a shame, did our invitations get lost in the mail?” Teresa’s voice held unmistakable sarcasm.

“I definitely don’t need one,” Lucanis grinned, winking at her. “And you’re coming with me.”

“What?” Teresa laughed. “No, Dellamorte, you’re supposed to ask a lady about things like that, not just—”

“That’s enough,” Viago cut in, visibly irritated. “Anyway, I’ll try to find out more, but—”

“We think Illario wants to declare himself First Talon,” Teia finished for him.

“But the other Talons won’t just accept it, will they?” Teresa folded her arms. “You can refuse to acknowledge his authority?”

“It won’t come to that, Tess,” Lucanis answered calmly, but there was a clear hint of menace in his voice. “This is our chance to save Caterina and finish things with Illario.”

“I suppose I don’t have to ask: you know how to sneak into the manor?” Teresa asked, and he nodded.

“Of course.”

“Excellent,” Teia perked up. “Let’s have some coffee. You can discuss the details there — there’s barely any air left in here.”

“I’m working on—”

“Viago, don’t make me threaten you,” the elf hissed, heading for the door. She paused and gave him a look only the two of them understood. “You know what happens when you don’t play by the rules.”

She disappeared through the door, and Teresa shook her head.

“I don’t even want to think about it.”

Lucanis laughed, feeling the Fifth Talon’s withering glare on him.

 

***

Lucanis rolled onto his side and listened: Tess was asleep. That fate clearly hadn’t touched him tonight. His head — along with Spite — buzzed with a thousand thoughts. All of them, as if mocking him, revolved around Illario.

Lucanis remembered how Caterina had brought him to the estate. He must have just turned six. The first year had been harsh. It was embarrassing to recall, but he remembered begging his mother in the garden:

“Take me home, please!”

She was beautiful. Rarely smiled, but when she did, it squeezed his heart. Even then, Lucia Dellamorte remained serious.

“Lucanis, you should appreciate that your grandmother has taken your education into her own hands.”

“She asks to be called Caterina,” he muttered. “Mama, I want to go home!”

Lucia knelt in front of him so their eyes were at the same level.

“We miss you too, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Papa said Caterina will let you spend a week with us when you turn eight.”

Little Lucanis remembered — his birthday was next month.

“I’ll wait, Mama.”

“That’s my boy,” Lucia straightened up. “Let’s go back inside, or you’ll freeze out here!”

His mother kept her word. Lucanis spent the whole week at home with his parents. And when he returned, there was a new resident in the big estate — his cousin Illario, a year younger than him.

Caterina lost her peace of mind, occasionally clutching her head in despair. Two boys who weren’t fazed by threats remained exactly what they were supposed to be — children. Who knows how many pranks they pulled together — it was impossible to count. Even the cane that Caterina would sometimes use for discipline couldn’t stop Lucanis and Illario.

As he grew older, of course, Lucanis became more serious. The First Talon made clever use of this — now Lucanis watched over Illario, who was always ready to get into trouble.

The death of their parents left deep scars on the boys. When Caterina’s heir, Lucanis’s father, was killed first — together with his wife — Illario hadn’t known how to react, how to give support.

Then Illario’s parents were killed too. Lucanis remembered clearly how they found out: during dinner, one of the house’s Crows brought Caterina the terrible news. The First Talon didn’t flinch outwardly; she dabbed her lips with a napkin, rose from the table, and said:

“Continue dinner without me.”

Then she left. Lucanis remembered looking at Illario, whose blue eyes were brimming with tears from shock and horror, but he seemed unable to make a sound.

And suddenly, there came an inhuman scream, full of pain and despair. For fourteen-year-old Lucanis, it answered all questions about how Caterina managed to hold herself together while her children and grandchildren were being murdered, one after another.

Years passed, contracts began. Quite often, Lucanis and Illario would end up on them together. Like that time in Virantium.

The cousins grew up to be completely different. Lucanis, silent and withdrawn. Illario, charming and able to sweet-talk anyone.

But despite their differences, they remained close. Or at least, Lucanis thought so.

He was wrong.

The thought of how his cousin could betray him, send him to the Ossuary, was still unbearable. Outwardly, Lucanis didn’t show his pain, though sometimes he noticed understanding in Tess’s eyes. She deserved credit — de Riva never pried, just hugged him, kissed him again. Every gesture was supportive, and words felt unnecessary. She understood.

Lucanis had never wanted the title of First Talon. To gain it meant one thing — the death of Caterina. However she’d been, she was still family. Blood — something that couldn’t be replaced by gold or contracts. That’s why he spoke of it reluctantly, never pursuing the topic. Illario, however, interpreted his unwillingness as weakness.

All this time, Lucanis had tried to understand, but couldn’t: did the title of head of the Antivan Crows really mean more to Illario than family? Shared past? Memories? How could he lock him away in the Ossuary…?

“You’re not asleep,” Tess murmured. She sat up in bed and stroked his shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Lucanis answered shortly, looking at her.

“Thinking about Illario?”

His heart skipped a beat. Sometimes he had no idea how Tess could read him so easily, as if he were the hero of some shallow romance novel. Finding no words, Lucanis nodded.

“I won’t bother you,” Tess kissed his cheek and lay back down. “But if you want to talk, I’m here.”

“All right, Tess,” Lucanis smiled, watching her pull the blanket over herself.

He felt warmth spread through him, as if those agonizing thoughts had never been there. Lucanis lay down beside her, slid under the blanket, and brushed his lips against her neck.

“I thought you weren’t planning on sleeping?”

He could hear the smile in Tess’s voice.

“Demons with Illario,” flashed through his mind. “With her beside me, I can survive even that.”

Chapter Text

Teresa woke abruptly, as if someone had shoved her. It was impossible to tell the time of day in her room — there were no windows. The thought pricked unpleasantly somewhere in her chest, and she turned over with a sigh: Lucanis was nowhere beside her. No guessing was needed — these past few days, Dellamorte had been spending all his time in the training hall, working on his strikes.

He was there now. Teresa tried to stifle a yawn as she watched the Crow’s complex movements, but failed.

“Been here long?” she asked, drawing his attention.

Black eyes froze on her. Without a word, Lucanis walked over to the weapons rack, pulled out a pair of training blades, and held them out in front of him. Words weren’t necessary — the hint was obvious.

“Damn you, Lucanis, I haven’t even had coffee yet!”

One eyebrow rose. His whole demeanor was a challenge. Teresa took the blades, and he attacked before giving her a second to think. She barely managed to block the strike.

“I’m used to starting the morning with breakfast,” she muttered in annoyance, circling sideways.

Lucanis smirked — not his usual one, but something darker. Then he struck again.

Teresa felt her blood start to race. If Dellamorte was serious, she wasn’t about to back down.

The fight flared. Teresa lunged — he deflected and countered. She barely dodged, rolled backward, and came up on her feet, blades tight in her hands.

His gaze seemed to pierce right through her, but at the same time… it was as if Lucanis wasn’t entirely there.

“You all right?” she asked, trying to steady her breathing.

In response — another smirk.

“So, they teach de Rivas to talk their opponents to death? Never noticed that about you before.”

The harmless remark still pricked her Antivan pride. Teresa pressed her lips together and rushed him. Lucanis took advantage, springing to the side and with a quick motion knocking both blades from her hands at once.

“I’ve told you — you rush in too recklessly, Tess!”

“I’m not in the habit of fighting Antivan Crows,” Teresa shot back, scooping the blades off the floor.

She was fuming. Of course, she knew full well she wasn’t Lucanis’s equal in combat, but still — they’d never actually fought each other before!

“You do realize we’ll probably have to fight them at Illario’s reception!” came his disgruntled voice from behind her.

Teresa turned. She couldn’t see herself, but she was sure her eyes were flashing with fury. Suddenly, the emotion faded, replaced by understanding.

“So that’s what this is about, huh?”

Lucanis didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Teresa frowned, trying to figure out how she could help him cope.

“You know you don’t have to kill, right?” she asked softly.

He exhaled heavily.

“And you know what Antivan Crows do to traitors.”

“To demons with their rules,” Teresa stepped closer and hugged him, tilting her head up. He grimaced, clearly fighting with himself. “You don’t have to, Lucanis!”

“He locked me in the Ossuary!” he barked, pulling away. “For a year, Tess! You can’t get a year of your life back!”

She watched him walk to the weapons rack and stab the blades into it.

“I won’t say I understand, Lucanis,” Teresa said. “But if you feel like you can’t…”

“That’s weakness, Tess!” he cut her off without turning around.

“No!” she shot back firmly. “Weakness is killing when every part of you is against it!”

A quiet laugh followed. Teresa loved that sound, but now it sent a shiver of dread down her spine. Lucanis turned; he looked tired. Even though Spite was letting him sleep, it was hard to break old habits, especially while Caterina was still not rescued.

“You’re a very strange Antivan Crow, Tess.”

“Just promise you’ll think about it,” she insisted. “You don’t owe anyone anything but yourself. Do what you think is right. The decision is yours, and I’ll accept whatever you choose.”

Lucanis nodded, put the blades back on the rack, and came closer. Teresa didn’t move; her gray-eyed gaze stayed steady. The Crow smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek lightly.

“I keep wondering — how do you always manage to…?”

Up close he was even more beautiful, and her breath caught. Teresa felt the heat rush to her cheeks. Lucanis’s smile widened, and then, suddenly, he scooped her up in his arms and headed for the hall’s exit.

“What…? Where are we going?”

“We need a bath,” Dellamorte replied matter-of-factly.

Teresa smirked, but… Lucanis’s company was always far too pleasant to even pretend she minded.

 

***

Twilight was settling in. Crassius kept glancing ahead, careful not to lose sight of Magister. The older man moved at an unhurried pace. Servis tried to remember how old he was, but soon abandoned the effort — it didn’t really matter. The alley they were following the magister down wasn’t lit, which was strange for central Minrathous, but there was no time to dwell on it.

“You’re walking too fast,” Neve whispered, tugging on his forearm. “Corsin might notice us.”

Crassius frowned. He knew Gallus was right, but the fear of being too late was stronger.

“We might not have time to react,” he whispered back. “We don’t know how Tenebrius kills his victims.”

“And why do you think it’ll happen tonight?” came the detective’s quiet question.

Crassius clenched his jaw.

“I don’t think anything!” he objected, irritated — arguing in hushed voices felt almost sacrilegious. “But we calculated that the murders happen at a certain interval. The time is right.”

“All right, Thorn, I get it”, he caught the slight nod from Neve in his peripheral vision, “but if it’s not tonight, what’s your plan? Follow him forever? What if we’re wrong and the next victim isn’t him at all?”

Servis sighed heavily. Her arguments hit home, but what could they change?

“Let’s at least walk him home,” Crassius whispered.

“If the Shadow Dragons had more people… It’s almost impossible to keep a tail with just two,” Gallus muttered. “Thanks to Rook—”

“Neve, I didn’t know you were that vindictive,” he couldn’t help saying, knowing full well it would bring a storm.

And it did. The mage froze. Her brows drew together, her mouth fell open in outrage, forming a perfect “O.”

“Crassius Servis!” she hissed. “How can you be so calm about this? You’re a Shadow Dragon yourself! Don’t you feel sorry for the dead? Things could have been different, and we both know it!”

“Quiet!” Servis hissed back. “We need to move, Neve!”

Gallus gave him a look that didn’t promise anything good and moved ahead, deliberately ignoring him. He wanted to howl at her stubbornness — and would have, if he didn’t know that this very stubborn streak was part of what he loved about her.

He hurried after her, which wasn’t hard given their height difference. Crassius brushed her hand, but Neve pulled it away.

“Not now!”

Suddenly there was a rustle, and Servis raised a hand, calling for silence. His eyes locked on Neve’s figure.

A shadow dropped from above, a red flash lit up, and the Magister collapsed to the ground. Servis cursed under his breath, lunging forward and pulling his staff from his back as he ran. The shadow landed beside the magister, and Crassius saw the figure clearly: black robe, hood over the head, face hidden. Not that he needed to see it — he knew exactly who it was.

His approach didn’t go unnoticed. Tenebrius raised a hand, conjuring a protective barrier. Crassius stopped just in time and studied it: almost invisible, but shimmering with rare violet sparks — electricity. Servis cursed again.

“Well, well, who do we have here?” Tenebrius asked, pushing back his hood.

Crassius felt a hot wave of loathing in his chest at the sight of the man. One glance at the Magister lying on the ground confirmed what he already knew — the old man was dead.

Tenebrius hadn’t changed much since their last meeting, which, if memory served, had been more than twenty years ago. Tall, thin under the robe, dark-skinned, with bloodshot black eyes under thick, scowling brows. His hair was combed back, probably tied in a tail at the nape. His facial features were unremarkable, but the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth betrayed his age. Like Servis, Tenebrius was clearly past forty, and, judging by his appearance, life hadn’t been kind to him.

Neve appeared at Crassius’s side, staff raised, trying to break through the barrier. The argument was forgotten, replaced by the drive to take down the enemy and survive. Crassius, however, realized he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Tenebrius.

“Servis?” The voice was unpleasant, grating — like nails on metal. “That you?”

“In the flesh,” Crassius replied, gripping his staff more firmly. The barrier was trembling, and he planned to strike the instant it fell.

“Well, well,” Tenebrius smirked. “The traitor of the Venatori himself!”

Blood rushed to Crassius’s head. He hissed:

“I’m not Venatori!”

“Save the story for your girlfriend,” Tenebrius shot back. “I heard about you back in the Inquisition days. Leader of the Venatori in southern Orlais, running digs for Corypheus himself! By the way, Servis, I only joined back then because of you. Thought — why not me? Same laetan, both skilled mages… How else are we supposed to make our way in the world?”

“There are other ways,” Crassius growled, eyes locked on the barrier as it thinned.

“Oh, right,” the enemy laughed. “Like kissing Magister Pavus’s ass! Doesn’t that disgust you? What happened to the ambitious mage, Servis? Where’s all that drive? Did you just want comfort and respect? Forget it — people like us will never get that!”

“Shut up, Tenebrius,” Crassius barked, bitterness and anger growing in his chest. “You chose the easy path!”

“So did you once,” Tenebrius shot back. “You just didn’t have the guts to stay loyal! Then again, you always did love gold! The Inquisition must have paid you well.”

“And what did the Venatori give you?” Servis spat. He wanted to rush the barrier, but reason held him in place. “At least I can be proud I don’t kill without cause, that my motives are clean!”

Tenebrius laughed again — loudly, the sound echoing in Crassius’s ears.

“You’re just a fool. You traded glory and power for money and…” his gaze landed on Neve. “Her?”

“I made my choice eleven years ago,” Crassius retorted. “And she reminds me every day that it was the right one. I don’t regret it! But you, Tenebrius? A grown man killing old enemies? That’s just pathetic!”

“The Imperium is rotten,” Tenebrius snarled. “And I’m cleansing it of something far worse than the Blight — of the delusion that being born into the right family makes you a god!”

The barrier collapsed, and Crassius struck at once. Tenebrius spun in the air and vanished, reappearing on a rooftop. Servis kept attacking, and Neve joined in.

Crassius wanted to rush into the fight and wipe the bastard off the face of the earth, but the next moment a wave of heat washed over him. A fireball was growing, flying straight at them, igniting rooftops as it came.

He knew instantly: Tenebrius wasn’t just hurling a spell — he was steering it, like a predator driving prey, adjusting the trajectory. If Crassius charged forward to reach him, Tenebrius would release the spell, and it would hit Neve.

There was no choice: either he attacked and lost her, or…

Something primal, beyond reason, took over. Crassius lunged for Neve, grabbed her shoulder, and yanked her hard to the side, out of the fire’s path.

“We’re leaving!”

“We can take him!”

“We’re leaving!”

It was pure animal fear for her. Crassius couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice the woman he loved for revenge. Seizing her hand, he pulled her away.

“Thorn, I can’t keep up!”

Without a word, Servis scooped her into his arms and sprinted, trying to outrun the roar of the flames. He’d get to Tenebrius — another time. But not at the cost of Neve’s life.

 

***

Dusk had settled over Treviso. Upon arriving at the Diamond Casino, Teresa, Lucanis, and Harding found the Antivan Crows’ headquarters almost deserted—only one merchant, Fletcher, stood off in the distance, and he instantly smiled at Teresa.

“Did Illario invite everyone?” Harding voiced the obvious question.

Teresa nodded to Fletcher and gave a dry chuckle.

“Looks like it. Except for me and Lucanis.”

“Can’t you just show up like everyone else?” Lace asked as they stepped outside. Even the young Crows who usually loitered in this part of the building were nowhere to be seen. “After all, Illario didn’t forbid you back in the Chantry…”

Lucanis muttered something under his breath, and Teresa decided to step in.

“Lace, if Illario learns we’re here, he’ll hide Caterina somewhere else. And we don’t want that.”

Without a word, Dellamorte walked up to the zipline. One second later, the Crow was flying across to the opposite roof. Harding sighed.

“Looks like this upcoming meeting with Illario isn’t sitting well with him.”

Teresa froze, unsure how best to answer. On the one hand, she trusted Lace and could easily confide something about herself. On the other, she didn’t think it was her place to speak for Lucanis. So she simply shrugged.

“Good thing he has you, Rook.” Harding gave her a gentle pat on the back — likely a gesture of support — then stepped up to the zipline, jumped, and vanished into the night.

Teresa smiled and followed.

They made their way across the rooftops to the Dellamorte villa. The whole time, Lucanis didn’t say a word. Only once they arrived did he walk up to the attic window and peer into the house where he’d grown up. Teresa exchanged a glance with Harding, then cautiously approached. The dwarf stayed behind.

“Are you all right?” de Riva asked quietly in Antivan.

Lucanis turned his head and stifled a heavy sigh.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Teresa replied gently, resting her hand on his forearm. “I’m with you, whatever you decide.”

“For now, we have another goal, remember?” Dellamorte forced a smile. “I really am fine, Tess. Don’t worry about it.”

“Then I assume you’ve thought of how we’re getting into the estate?” she asked, switching to Common. “Looks like Illario has a lot of guards posted.”

Lucanis snorted and nodded. His black eyes stayed fixed on his family’s grounds, clearly analyzing the situation. Teresa was right: even in the darkness, she could make out several Crow silhouettes in just the garden alone.

“There’s a secret underground passage,” Dellamorte said quietly. “Illario surely hasn’t forgotten it, but it’s still better than running into armed guards in the garden and drawing unwanted attention.”

“Why am I not surprised?” came a voice from behind. From Lace’s tone, Teresa could tell she’d rolled her eyes — though it sounded good-natured. That was just how the dwarf was.

“Couldn’t Illario have sealed off the passage?” de Riva asked, and Lucanis shook his head.

“It’s too useful in case of a quick escape. Besides, it was rarely used — not in my memory. Caterina only ever mentioned it.”

“Which means there’ll be traps,” Teresa guessed aloud, and Lucanis nodded.

“Hardly a problem for two Crows and a scout, right?”

Lucanis led them through the sewers until they reached a barely noticeable recess in the wall. He pressed several stones, and part of the wall slid aside to let them through. Now they were walking along a very narrow stone corridor whose entrance was hidden beneath a sewer hatch.

“I don’t understand how you fit a theater in the mansion,” Harding whispered. “I mean, I get that it’s a big place…”

“There’s another building behind it,” Lucanis cut in. He was walking ahead of the women, watching for hidden traps. “For guests.”

“You have so many guests that you need a whole separate house for them?” Teresa couldn’t help asking.

After all, it was truly odd — the Antivan Crows weren’t known for their hospitality, and she knew this better than anyone. Still, her childhood memories were different: back when Teresa and her parents lived in Treviso, Aunt Felicia would throw parties, and the house would fill with people. Little Tess, like the older Viago, had no interest in such gatherings. At those times, they would sneak into the garden to play pirates.

The war between the Crow houses had destroyed that way of life, and the new generation — de Riva and Dellamorte included — had grown up entirely different.

“Not in this lifetime,” Lucanis muttered, and Teresa felt a pang in her chest: his voice carried deep sorrow.

Guilt pricked at her — how had she not guessed? She knew Caterina had had many children and grandchildren. A terrible word — ‘had,’ she thought.

Rats kept darting between her legs, and she bit her lips each time to stop herself from screaming. Viago had always teased her about her disgust for the creatures, and it was something Teresa simply could not overcome.

Lucanis disarmed a couple of traps, noting that they were quite old. That was reassuring: Illario probably hadn’t added new ones.

Finally, they came to a simple wooden door that still looked sturdy. Dellamorte listened.

“Someone’s in there.”

Teresa stepped up beside him and pressed her ear to the rough surface—he was right. Judging by the sounds, a lone guard was on the other side.

“If possible, knock them out — don’t kill,” Lucanis whispered.

“Why?” Harding asked, surprised.

“We need to protect our people,” Dellamorte explained. Teresa felt a warmth bloom in her chest. “We don’t know what they know about Illario’s actions. I’ll deal with that later.”

It happened fast. Lucanis knocked the guard — who wasn’t wearing Crow armor — unconscious and gently laid him on the floor. Then he gave a nod, the signal that it was safe to move. Teresa and Harding slipped through, and the dwarf shut the door behind them.

“Which part of the estate are we in?” Teresa asked.

“Once we go up a narrow staircase, we’ll be in the dining room, which is the closest way to Caterina’s quarters,” Lucanis replied.

A few minutes later, they stepped into a spacious, well-lit room. Teresa couldn’t hide her astonishment as she looked around. The dining room was tastefully furnished, with elegant furniture. A carved, light-wood table stood near the wall, with chairs on either side. In the corner was a luxurious lilac couch. The de Rivas preferred a different style, but for some reason, she hadn’t expected this from Caterina.

Harding looked equally impressed —her light eyes widened, lips parting slightly in wonder.

“I think my parents’ house could fit inside this room,” the dwarf muttered.

“Welcome to the House of Dellamorte, Tess,” Lucanis said quietly in Antivan, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Pull yourself together”, she told herself, smiled at him, and followed him toward the marble staircase to the second floor.

“What if we run into someone?” she whispered.

Lucanis stopped. His shoulders sank for a moment, and he answered softly,
“Then we fight. No choice — last thing we need is for them to raise the alarm.”

Following behind him, Teresa couldn’t help thinking how strange it must be for him to sneak through his own home like some kind of criminal.

The second-floor corridor was shrouded in darkness, but even here she could make out traces of lilac — on the walls, in the carpet’s hue. Even the stands. Teresa bit her tongue — thank the Maker she knew how to think before speaking. Smirking at her own thoughts, she nearly bumped into Lucanis and peeked over his shoulder.

About twenty paces ahead stood a man. Tall and well-built, wearing a Crow’s armor, a cloak over his shoulders. In the darkness, it was impossible to guess his identity.

“Lucanis Dellamorte,” the man said, and Teresa instantly recognized the voice. “And with him, of course, Teresa.”

Memories flared one after another. His cocky jokes, the sense of long familiarity, then wine and sleepless nights. After that — betrayal and the relief of not having fallen in love. At least it hadn’t hurt for that reason.

Then the rooftop of an abandoned building in the Flooded Quarter, and how he’d sold information about her to some unknown Tevinter for gemstones. By then it hadn’t hurt — but it had felt vile.

She said nothing as Marcus, once a member of House de Riva, took several steps toward them. Now she could see his face: curly black hair, calm dark eyes. Would he try to stop them to curry favor with Illario?

Lucanis was silent, studying the Crow. Teresa knew — he’d kill Marcus without hesitation, but for now he waited.

“Caterina’s in her quarters,” the man said, stepping aside to let them pass.

Teresa’s breath caught in shock.

“You…” Her voice came out squeaky, and she cleared her throat, finishing more firmly, “You’re not going to turn us in?”

Marcus smirked and shook his head.

“My loyalty’s to Caterina Dellamorte, First Talon — not her pretentious grandson. No offense, Lucanis. This isn’t about you.”

“Didn’t expect that,” Teresa raised a brow. “What about the Tevinter?”

“What Tevinter?” Marcus asked. She could see he was lying.

“The one you told about Karastas,” she said flatly — there was no time for games. “In exchange for jewels.”

“Oh, please.” Marcus grimaced, shaking his head again. “That wasn’t anything important. But…” He made a theatrical pause, and Teresa wanted to strangle him — Antivan dramatic flair could be infuriating. “…I had a contract in Minrathous right after, and I did some digging. Did you ever find out his real name?”

“No,” Teresa exhaled. None of this was sinking in. “Will you tell me? I’m afraid I didn’t bring any gold.”

Marcus laughed.

“Oh, come on, Teresa. Believe me, Crassius Servis paid for that information too.”

The shock hit like a bucket of cold water. Teresa’s eyes went wide, and she turned to Lucanis. His expression mirrored her own.

“What nonsense is this?” Dellamorte managed. “He’s…”

“In a long-term relationship with Neve Gallus, yes,” Marcus smiled. “Shadow Dragon. Has worked for Magister Dorian Pavus for ten years.”

“And a former Venatori,” Harding added.

Marcus nodded with dignity.

“Correct. Leader of the Venatori in the Western Reach of Orlais, they called him — until the Inquisitor recruited him. Smuggled rare artifacts — unofficially, but for the Inquisition’s benefit.”

Teresa was silent, processing. She thought of Margaret Rutherford. “I think you should meet Servis. You two clearly have things to discuss”, she’d said on the doorstep of the Pavus family estate.

“Why would Crassius Servis want to know about me?”

Marcus smiled.

“And that I found out too, Teresa. Not a bad way to make up for my past poor behavior, wouldn’t you say?”

“Only if it’s true,” she countered, and the Crow raised his hands in mock surrender.

“What’s the point of lying?” He paused, then added quietly, “Believe me, Caterina cured me of that habit quickly enough.”

Lucanis chuckled beside her, clearly knowing his grandmother’s methods, and Teresa sighed.

“So why?”

“He’s looking for a Venatori named Tenebrius, the one behind the attack on the Archon’s Palace. Apparently he dug into his past, if…” Marcus hesitated, “…if he was the Venatori you… the one you ran into in Karastes.”

“Mierda,” Lucanis muttered. “So he doesn’t have bad intentions?”

“From what I gathered, no,” Marcus confirmed, giving Dellamorte a cautious look. “I couldn’t figure out why he took the long way around when he could’ve reached Teresa through Neve, but…”

“I chose Treviso over Minrathous,” Teresa explained grimly — it was obvious to her. “Neve… still hasn’t forgiven me.”

“Then that makes sense,” the Crow nodded. “I’d be happy to answer questions, but I think you don’t have much time to free Caterina. Illario’s little… theatrical scene will start soon.”

Teresa looked at Lucanis and saw mixed feelings on his face. Still, Marcus was right — she’d learned the important part. Turning to him, de Riva said sincerely:

“Thank you. I… didn’t expect this.”

“You have every right,” Marcus said with a dark smirk. “Hope to see you later. The evening promises to be entertaining.”

He turned and headed back toward the staircase they’d come up. They all watched him go. Harding broke the silence first:

“That’s for sure.”

 

***

They walked to Caterina’s chambers in silence, but before the door, Lucanis froze, as if uncertain. Teresa saw in his black eyes a mix of hesitation, anxiety, and glimmers of hope. Dellamorte exhaled and murmured, “I hope she’s in there.”

“I’ll stay here so no one interrupts,” Thread offered tactfully, pulling a bow from behind her back.

Lucanis and Teresa stepped into a hall where torches burned along the stone walls. Exchanging a glance, they moved forward; in the doorway ahead, a bedroom took shape — the bed clearly visible. Lucanis moved toward it soundlessly, Teresa following close behind.

Once inside, Lucanis suddenly raised his hand to intercept… Teresa’s eyes widened.

The First Talon of the Antivan Crows, Caterina Dellamorte, had nearly struck her grandson with a candlestick, having mistaken him for an intruder.

“Caterina?” His voice carried undisguised joy and relief.

“Lucanis! My poor boy!” the elderly woman exclaimed.

Over the last few days, Teresa had imagined this meeting more than once. Her mind had painted warm embraces, maybe joy… Perhaps it was her own presence that altered things: Lucanis and Caterina exchanged formal kisses on the cheeks in the Antivan tradition, though the First Talon did touch his shoulder. In her other hand, she leaned on a cane. Once the greeting was over, Caterina turned her gaze to Teresa.

“Teresa de Riva.” From her lips, the name cracked like a whip, but the stern lines of her face softened, and she added, “You kept your word and returned my grandson to me. I see I wasn’t wrong to grant you my protection.”

There had always been legends about Caterina Dellamorte, her name nearly a title in itself. Teresa felt as she had during their first meeting — like an unsure little girl. Clearing her throat, she replied, “I know why you granted me immunity, Caterina.”

The First Talon raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did Viago finally tell you?”

“No,” Lucanis cut in. “We just found out at some point that Teresa’s parents died after her father, Mauricio, avenged the fallen Dellamortes. You always taught us to honor his memory.”

Caterina grew solemn and nodded. It was plain to see the subject still pained her, even after so many years. Yet, after a moment, she regained her composure, donning a mask of restraint.

“Correct. And now I know for certain you’re truly your father’s daughter, Teresa. Thank you for keeping your word and bringing Lucanis back.”

The Crow forced a smile. A question pounded in her mind: what does Viago know that he won’t say? Doubts grew, and the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“But that’s not all, is it? You said Viago knows something else. He won’t talk about it.”

“And how does he explain that?” Caterina smirked.

Teresa noticed the older woman’s reaction surprised Lucanis. As for her, a chill crept down her spine.

“He promised to tell me when it no longer mattered.”

Caterina arched her fine brows, her black eyes flicking from Lucanis to Teresa and back again. She was clearly thinking something over. Several seconds passed before she said quietly:

“I’ll do it for Viago, even if he’s guarded you all these years. After all, you’re a grown woman, and I’m sure you’ll understand my position.”

Teresa froze. Anticipation, anxiety, and impatience welled up inside her, but she forced them down.

“Later. Right now, we need to get you to safety, Caterina.”

“Nothing of the sort,” the First Talon countered firmly. Her voice was calm, steady, and impossible to disobey. “There’s no time for heroic nonsense.”

“We don’t know what Illario is capable of.” Teresa folded her arms across her chest and stared stubbornly at the woman.

Caterina chuckled and looked at Lucanis. “Oh, believe me, Teresa, I know Illario like the back of my hand. I raised him, after all. The boy’s overstepped, and Lucanis will put him in his place. I trust you’ll help him.”

“That’s not even up for debate.” Teresa frowned, locking eyes with Caterina.

“Then go. I’ll see you at the opera.”

“But you…?”

“Tess, Caterina can take care of herself just fine,” Lucanis said with a faint smile, glancing at her.

The woman gave them another studying look.

“How curious”, she suddenly smiled. “The de Rivas always liked those nicknames. Mauricio used to call you that fondly, even when you and your mother were in Rialto. ‘My Audrey and Tess.’” Caterina sighed. “All right. No time for sentimentality. We’ll talk later. And…” She looked Teresa over once more. “Welcome to the House of Dellamorte, Tess.”

This time, Teresa’s heart skipped a beat as well. Caterina vanished into a side passage hidden in the wall, and Teresa could have sworn Lucanis’s grandmother had guessed what was going on between them. And, judging by her last remark… wasn’t opposed?

“I’ve never heard Caterina said to anyone that,” Lucanis muttered. He tore his gaze away from the now-closed passage and looked at Teresa. “Seems she likes you. But we need to hurry.”

They headed for the door, where Harding was waiting for them. Already out on the stone parapet outside the estate, Teresa suddenly thought of something.

“And if she didn’t?” she asked in Antivan.

Dellamorte froze, forcing her to stop as well, and Harding, walking right behind Teresa, nearly bumped into her.

“What is it?” the dwarf hissed.

Lucanis turned as much as the narrow space allowed and replied quietly in their native tongue:

“Do you really think Caterina’s opinion would have stopped me, Tess?”

 

***

Viago expected nothing good from Illario’s invitation. Then again, as Teia had reasonably remarked when he voiced this thought to her a few days ago:

“Does that ever happen, Vi?”

She had chosen the perfect moment for the question: lying naked in their bed, curls scattered over the pillow, long legs lifted and braced against the wall. Viago gave a low laugh and sat up, pushing back the lock of hair that always fell into his eyes.

“You’re the good thing I always expect,” the Talon of House de Riva replied, and Teia smiled charmingly, then stretched lazily, like a cat. Viago allowed himself another moment to admire her nakedness before leaning in…

“Vi!”

Viago de Riva blinked back into reality. In front of him stretched the opera hall of House Dellamorte. Teia stood beside him, armored now, her eyes flashing.

“What’s with you?” the elf hissed. “You’re not yourself.”

He didn’t answer, though he scanned the spacious hall with a practiced eye. The opera clearly hadn’t been used in many years. The walls were stone, and above the stage — where the Talons had been invited to stand — hung a massive stuffed crow, symbolizing the life’s work of everyone present. On the second-floor balcony, Antivan Crows from various houses had lined up. Some faces were familiar, but many were not — a troubling sign. Viago had always believed he knew everyone. Or at least almost everyone.

The doors were behind him. Too far to reach in time if things went wrong.

A few Crows on the balcony exchanged glances, and Viago caught the faintest flick of fingers, as if someone had given a signal.

In his memory, Talons had been killed one by one before — and not as long ago as he would have liked. The images were still fresh.

“Now I recognize you,” Teia chuckled, and Viago looked at her.

He knew her too well to miss the fact that the head of House Cantori was just as nervous as he was. She simply preferred jokes to a grim expression. Suppressing an ill-timed smile, Viago murmured:

“Illario’s still not here.”

“Give him time,” Teia whispered back. “Anyone who wants to be First Talon clearly needs to dress well before appearing.”

Viago felt the corners of his mouth twitch and deepened his frown to hide it. Teia, unconcerned, allowed herself a dazzling smile as she glanced at the balcony.

“Well, well — Andrea even came.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about trouble from him,” Viago muttered at the mention of Teia’s brother. Andrea was a couple of years younger and thus hadn’t become Talon after their father’s death. Still, he was considered a worthy Crow, and sometimes Viago indulged in dreams that could never come true in their world. “Imagine what happens when my dear cousin arrives.”

“Stop it, you’re too hard on her!” Teia exclaimed a bit louder than necessary, then caught herself. “Vi, you always talk about her like she’s some clueless child, but the more I get to know her, the more I realize — you just want to see her that way! Maker’s breath, she’s a grown woman!”

“Perfection has no limits,” Viago replied, not quite on point, and fell silent, unwilling to admit she was right.

Teia glanced around carefully, a faint crease forming between her brows.

“Mierda, Illario’s late. Could he really be so theatrical that he wants to make us wait?”

Viago didn’t answer but clenched his jaw, scanning the opera hall again.

“I’d like to agree with you, Teia, but after Emerald Isle…” He deliberately left the sentence unfinished.

The elf only shrugged.

“You were paranoid before that.”

“I’d like to see you if—”

“Vi…” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, cutting him off. “I know. I know. But sometimes you go too far, and we both know it, even if you’ll never admit it.”

Suddenly, from behind the curtain at the far end of the stage, Illario emerged and stepped to the center.

“At least he’s not wasting time,” Teia murmured so softly it was barely audible, and this time Viago didn’t hide a grim smile.

Oddly enough, unlike what usually happened when an actor appeared, no fitting hush fell over the opera. Illario stood in the center of the stage, looking up at the balcony.

Viago smirked openly. His strong voice rang through the opera house:

“Silence!”

Everyone fell quiet. De Riva felt Teia’s fingers tighten on his arm. The elf rose on tiptoe and whispered right into his ear:

“I sometimes forget what you’re like when you’re in command. Save that tone for tonight.”

Then she dropped back down, removed her hand, and assumed such an innocent expression that Viago was seized with the urge to grab her and spirit her away from the Antivan Crows and the impending clash between the two Dellamorte cousins. He lifted his gaze, seeking distraction from such unworthy thoughts, and locked eyes with Illario, who turned as soon as Viago dared to interrupt.

“Thank you,” Caterina’s younger grandson said dryly, before turning his attention back to the Crows on the balcony, as if Viago were invisible.

Pride stirred at the wrong moment, but the Fifth Talon was too smart to give in to it. He simply straightened his already-erect posture. It seemed the performance was about to begin: Illario spoke.

“Caterina’s death was a tragedy.” He made a theatrical pause, giving everyone a chance to remember exactly whom the Crows had lost.

“What a bastard,” Teia hissed without moving her lips, and Viago shot her a warning look. The elf lifted her chin higher but said nothing more, taking the hint.

“But to bring Lucanis back from the dead only to lose him to a demon… That is, for me, a deep, personal, and irreparable loss,” Illario declared, his voice trembling — Maker take him! — at just the right spot.

Viago allowed himself a moment to admire the acting talent of the self-absorbed younger Dellamorte. Let him play while he still can, he thought darkly.

“And so I take up the mantle of First Talon with a heavy heart. But the Crows can rise from the ashes. With our new allies — the Venatori — we can reclaim Antiva and free it from its occupiers.”

The door to the hall banged open, and Viago pressed his lips together until they might have vanished entirely. Lucanis, Teresa, and Harding entered. The elder Dellamorte cousin barked:

“Over my dead body!”

The hall gasped. Viago almost laughed at the pompous theatricality of the moment. Then again, in his not-quite-thirty-five years, he’d had plenty of chances to see that life could produce plot twists no Antivan play could dream up.

“That can be arranged,” Illario shot back, drawing the axes he always used in battle.

Steel clashed; furious shouts rang out. Viago paid no attention to the Dellamorte cousins; his eyes were locked on Teresa.

He hadn’t seen her fight in a long time — except for the dragons.

“Mierda!” he swore, seeing she was open to a strike. “Don’t shame House de Riva, Teresa!”

Viago caught his cousin’s furious glare, and Illario took advantage of it to knock her to the ground.

“I’ll kill you for that,” Lucanis growled, lunging at his cousin, but de Riva only half heard. His own hands were faster, already closing on his weapons.

“Snap out of it.” Teia clung to his shoulder. “Vi, you have to trust her! She can handle this!”

“Handle it?” Viago whipped around, torn between the urge to protect Teresa and grind Illario to dust, as if he were just another ingredient for poison. “I’m not going to watch her be killed!”

“Vi, stop — you have to believe in her!” the elf barked. “You can’t save someone against their will! She’d have asked if she needed help!”

Viago froze. Reason agreed with his lover, but his heart — already torn from losing so many — ached to the point of breaking.

When his gaze returned to the fight, Teresa was already on her feet, attacking Illario alongside Lucanis.

“See?” Teia gently patted his shoulder, then shouted, “Go, Rook!”

Viago frowned. His eyes never left Teresa. There — she smirked as she slashed the younger Dellamorte in the shoulder. There — she sprang back as he tried to strike her.

“No offense, Rook,” Illario’s voice carried to Viago, and rage blinded him for a few seconds.

Blinking it away, the Fifth Talon sheathed his weapon and clenched his fists until one of his knuckles cracked.

“And you call that a strike?!” he shouted in outrage when Teresa’s lunge wasn’t her best.

She ignored him, though he could see her lips tighten and her blows grow sharper.

Illario went for Lucanis, but he dodged — demon’s wings carrying him easily aside. Then the younger cousin turned to Teresa.

“You chose the wrong Dellamorte, Rook.”

“That’s for me to decide,” she retorted with a mocking edge, and Viago nearly jumped — she and Illario clashed head-on. And for the first time, he couldn’t find a flaw: her strikes were flawless.

Lucanis appeared at her side and attacked their cousin with precision. A heartbeat later, Illario Dellamorte fell to his knees.

The Fifth Talon unclenched his fists, feeling the dampness on his skin. She’d done it.

 

***

He wasn’t in the mood. Frustration gnawed at him from the inside. Letting Tenebrius slip away—there was nothing dumber than that.

“Thorn, you’ve got such a look on your face I can practically hear your thoughts,” came Neve’s voice, and Crassius glanced at her.

The mage was lying on the bed, flipping through a thick book on ancient Tevinter artifacts. She wore his shirt — which, on her, was long — her black hair loose, but there was a hint of wariness in her eyes. The firelight played over her dark skin, and normally Servis enjoyed watching the flicker of those warm reflections. But not tonight.

He turned back to the fire and lit a cigarette, as if the smoke could somehow pull his mind away from the thoughts hounding him.

Since their return, they’d hardly spoken. Neve had tried, but he’d kept silent.

Of course he would have saved her as many times as the unknown gods demanded, but somehow it felt like he could have done it all — kept her safe and punished Tenebrius for sins Servis himself had scrubbed away long ago and with great difficulty. And had he really scrubbed them away at all…?

A polite knock at the door cut through the dark thoughts, but Crassius didn’t so much as twitch. He only heard Neve sigh behind him, then tell the visitor:

“Come in.”

From the footsteps, Servis knew instantly — it was Margaret. He was aware that she and Dorian already knew, but to his relief, Neve had told them herself. He didn’t know what words she’d used, and he didn’t care.

“Crassius, I wanted to talk to you,” Rutherford said quietly.

From that tone — so uncharacteristic for the proud mage — Servis understood: he was done for. He’d known her too long not to realize that, even with feelings long buried, Margaret could twist him around her finger if she wanted to. Fortunately, she asked for things rarely. Almost never.

Crassius stifled a heavy sigh. He knew exactly what she was going to ask. Her stomach was already too rounded for her to keep delaying a request neither of them wanted to make.

“Go ahead.”

His own voice sounded foreign, but suddenly, he didn’t care anymore.

“You know what I’m going to ask,” Margaret murmured.

Servis didn’t bother turning around.

“Of course. Then ask.”

“Do I need to?” There was a trace of a smile in her voice. “You’re hardly going to refuse.”

Servis walked to the window, took a drag, and looked out at the nighttime streets of Minrathous before turning his head.

“I think, much as I’d like to deny it, we both know what my answer will be, Margaret. Kaffas.” He swore under his breath. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

“You’re both insane!” Neve suddenly sat up, tucking one leg beneath her. She looked genuinely angry. “Haven’t you had enough trouble?”

“Tenebrius will be in hiding for a while,” Crassius said evenly with a shrug. “And I need a good brawl to wash away this rotten taste of failure.”

“You could join us,” Margaret offered, more confident now, looking to Neve. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Shove your gratitude—” Gallus hissed, but stopped short when she caught Crassius’s cold look. “You’re all mad! And don’t think I’ll shed a tear when you both die! Or rather… all three of you.”

Servis glanced at Margaret. The mage had gone pale and clenched her jaw, staring at Neve with open dislike. But — to her credit — she said nothing. Crassius knew Margaret had made up her mind long ago, and that madness was entirely her. And he wasn’t the kind of friend to refuse her now.

Chapter Text

The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun: Illario collapsed to his knees. Teresa turned her head and saw Lucanis land on the wings of Spite in front of his cousin.

Once handsome, Illario Dellamorte looked pitiful. A purple bruise was swelling beneath his left eye. His fine, expensive armor was torn in places by the thrusts of rapiers and daggers. Worst of all — he was kneeling. Teresa grinned. There was no greater disgrace for an Antivan Crow — especially a Dellamorte.

During her time with Lucanis, she had heard him repeat a phrase that Caterina drilled into her restless grandchildren since childhood: “The House of Dellamorte never kneels.” Teresa stifled a smirk, remembering another meaning of the heavy phrase. Forcing away such thoughts, she stood beside Lucanis, feeling the weight of every gaze in the grand theater hall.

“What are you waiting for, cousin?” Illario asked softly, though in the silence of the opera house every Crow surely heard. “Finish what you started.”

Lucanis looked calm, though Teresa could swear she had never seen him so certain. His back was perfectly straight; power radiated from him — power that so sharply distinguished him from his cousin.

“I think I already have,” Lucanis said, his voice tinged with mockery. “What more could I do to you that would be worse than this? On your knees? In front of every House?”

The pause lasted only a second, and before Illario could so much as move a muscle, a commanding voice rang out.

“Stand, Illario!”

Caterina Dellamorte entered the hall, and gasps filled the air. Teresa had to fight the urge to roll her eyes at her countrymen’s theatricality — though she had to admit, the First Talon had chosen her moment well.

“Caterina!” Teia blurted out, her face showing clear relief. “Thank the Maker!”

The First Talon advanced slowly, each step measured, leaning on her cane. Stopping before her younger grandson, she hissed:

“The House of Dellamorte never kneels.”

Teresa saw Viago behind Illario, seizing his sleeve and yanking him to his feet. Her cousin’s face burned with such rage that the Crow felt a flicker of fear she hadn’t known in years of flawless service to her House.

Teresa turned her head. Between him and Lucanis stood Caterina, her back perfectly straight despite her advanced age.

“Shit, what am I supposed to do with this idiot?” Lucanis muttered. His eyes found Teresa, and she answered quietly:

“He tried to kill you. Because of him, you lost a year of your life in the Ossuary.” She caught her lover’s gaze and frowned. If he hadn’t asked her opinion, it might have been easier. “He also kidnapped the First Talon and struck a deal with the Venatori.” She stopped, though she couldn’t help but notice the shadow of approval flicker in Caterina’s eyes.

“That can’t be forgiven,” Lucanis said through clenched teeth. His voice was firm, almost disdainful, yet Teresa, who knew him, heard the note of hollow sorrow beneath. “And still…” He sighed. “He’s my family. Viago, lock him up.”

“You think you get to decide that?” Illario sneered, and Teresa saw his contempt for his cousin laid bare. Something twisted in her chest. The disgust was sharp, but so was the clarity: the younger Dellamorte felt no remorse. “That’s not up to you! Caterina is the First Talon — she decides!”

“Enough, Illario,” the head of the Antivan Crows said calmly, and her grandson fell silent at once. “Lucanis is the new First Talon. Only his decisions matter now.”

Teresa’s heart skipped a beat. Judging by the stunned silence, no one in the hall had expected that. She shot Lucanis a quick glance: he hadn’t hidden his shock. His thick brows arched high, his mouth slightly open as he stared at Caterina.

But the legendary killer’s discipline held. Lucanis turned to Illario.

“Viago, lock him up before he does something stupid,” he ordered. The Fifth Talon smirked darkly and nodded.

“You can count on me.”

With that, Viago dragged Illario away as if it required no effort at all. The younger Dellamorte tried to appeal to his elder cousin’s reason, but Lucanis only hissed:

“No, Illario. We’ll talk later.”

Caterina stepped forward, crossed the stage to the table, and picked up a glass of wine already poured. She turned as Lucanis approached.

“Welcome home, my boy,” Caterina said softly, offering him the glass.

He took it, and Teresa felt as if with it came the weight of responsibility he now bore as First Talon — years of burden ahead. She knew it would be hard, but she also knew she would be there beside him, to ease that burden as much as she could and to be the steadfast support he had always been for her.

The other Talons raised their glasses. Teresa followed suit. Catching Teia’s approving look, she felt something stir inside her: she was home too. And before they returned to Treviso for good, it was time to end the false gods once and for all.

“A toast!” Andarateia raised her glass high. “To the new First Talon!”

The hall echoed her words. Teresa caught Lucanis’s gaze. She saw how shaken he was by the sudden turn of fate. She gave him a faint smile and mouthed:

“I’m with you.”

Lucanis understood. He smiled back and raised the glass to his lips. The hall of Antivan Crows erupted in applause. Watching them, Teresa almost missed Caterina’s intent gaze. The older woman gave her a small, deliberate nod toward the wings.

 

***

9:38, Treviso, Antiva

The summer heat was suffocating, and it enraged her. She couldn’t recall weather like this since ’33, and now the stifling, reeking air carried with it the smell of death.

That summer, Caterina Dellamorte, First Talon of the Antivan Crows, consigned four of her five children to the funeral pyre. Seven grandchildren as well. Since then, heat had always smelled of death to her.

The woman pressed her lips together, banishing the memories that haunted her at night.

Her cane tapped against Treviso’s cobbled streets in time with her heels. People cast her fearful, respectful glances, avoiding her gaze. Caterina did not mind. Only the Maker knew how much she had done for her city.

To her left appeared a small grove hidden behind a tall wrought-iron fence. The First Talon entered through the gate as though she knew she was always expected there.

And in part, she was. Marcelo de Riva, the Fifth Talon, was a reliable ally. Dellamorte and de Riva had been tied since time immemorial, but the last few years had bound them even tighter. That was thanks to Marcelo’s younger brother — Mauricio.

Caterina walked slowly down the stone path. She thought she saw Rhys’s handsome face, sharp cheekbones and piercing gray eyes. And she saw him taking vengeance for each fallen member of House Dellamorte — a vengeance that led to his own death, along with that of his pregnant wife, Adriana.

A shadow flickered ahead, then another. Caterina froze, peering through the trees. She recognized Viago, Marcelo’s heir, instantly. The young man had just turned twenty-one.

Normally so serious, the budding master of poisons was now chasing a girl — and caught her.

“Let go, Vi!” she cried, struggling to break free.

In profile, the girl reminded Caterina of Adriana, and her chest tightened. She rolled her eyes — too old for this sort of foolishness — and called out sternly:

“Viago!”

The de Riva froze, giving the girl the chance to slip from his grasp. He hissed something, however, and she stopped at once. Straightening, the two young Crows approached her.

Caterina put on her sternest expression — she loved striking awe into the younger generation — and allowed them to bow in greeting.

When the girl straightened, the First Talon cast her a seemingly indifferent glance. Before her stood the daughter of the late Mauricio and Adriana — plain as day. Her mother’s image in every way, save for the gray eyes of her father.

“Viago, aren’t you going to introduce me to your cousin?” Caterina asked with a trace of amusement. Viago gave his customary curt nod.

“This is Teresa. And this is Caterina Dellamorte, the First Talon.”

“A pleasure,” the girl said, bowing respectfully. The head of the Crows wondered how old she was.

From her face, it was impossible to tell if young Teresa was nervous. Evidently, de Rivas were taught early to control their emotions on the path to becoming assassins.

Caterina forced a thin smile and waved them away. Without another word, she continued toward the manor.

Marcelo was in his study paneled with dark wood. He sat at his desk, reading — likely reports. Opposite him in an armchair lounged Leonardo, one of House de Riva’s Crows. Caterina knew well of the Talon’s connection with him, but she had always considered it none of her concern.

Both men rose at her entrance, bowing.

“Leo,” Marcelo said, and without a word, the man left the study.

Caterina allowed herself a moment to study the Fifth Talon, though she had seen him a thousand times. The resemblance to Mauricio was unmistakable — the same cheekbones, the same gray eyes — but Marcelo’s gaze was colder, his features sterner.

The head of the house never cared for preliminaries, which suited Caterina. She valued her time absolutely, always believing it to be the most important resource. Only when business was done did Mistress Dellamorte lean back in her chair, light a cigarette, and, studying Marcelo’s intent expression, remark:

“I saw your niece.”

“And?” Not a flicker crossed de Riva’s features.

“She’s remarkably like her mother,” Caterina said, drawing in the bitter smoke.

Marcelo shrugged impassively.

“Remarkable? She’s her daughter,” he countered. “Get to the point. You know you don’t have to circle around with me, Caterina. What about my Teresa caught your eye?”

The First Talon allowed herself the rarest of smiles at hearing him call the girl my Teresa.

“She struck me as having character.”

Marcelo choked on the smoke, then laughed. It was unlike him, and Caterina raised a brow.

“That’s true,” he rasped. “You won’t find a more stubborn girl with fire in her veins. Once she decides something, you’ll never persuade her otherwise.”

“The child lost her parents because of the Dellamortes,” Caterina said quietly.

Her companion scowled, shaking his head firmly.

“My brother knew what he was doing. She knows her father died in the Crows’ war. I never told her about the Dellamortes. Why should I?”

“And yet I thought…” The First Talon drew in smoke, holding Marcelo’s gaze. “What if, in a few years, we wed her to Lucanis?”

De Riva’s frown betrayed his composure at last. He inhaled deeply, looking away, and after several seconds said quietly:

“I thought arranged marriages were long behind us, Caterina.”

“Really?” she sneered. “Strange words — from the man who wed the pregnant mistress of the crown prince, Marcelo.”

“That was different,” he shot back sharply, rising to his feet. “She was my blood. Rhys’s daughter! Why this, Caterina? Don’t tell me your eldest grandson can’t find a wife on his own. Why this coercion?” His gray eyes bored into her. “Would you really force him?”

The Talon’s voice carried so much heat that the First Talon wondered if she had ever seen him so riled.

“Antivan blood runs strong,” she smirked. “Sit down, Marcelo. Let’s speak calmly. I’m not demanding anything — you’re free to refuse.”

Marcelo sank into his chair, stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another. Exhaling, he muttered:

“I don’t understand why you’d do this, Caterina.”

“I was wed for advantage,” she said with a shrug. “And I learned to love my husband. Bore him five children. I don’t regret a day of it.”

“Those were different times!” Marcelo said firmly.

“These are too!” Caterina snapped, catching herself and steadying her tone. Not well. “Wake up! How many have we lost in the war with the Velardos? Who will remain after us? I can’t let the Dellamortes die out with my boys! The house needs a worthy continuation!”

Marcelo rose and walked to the window. Silence stretched. The First Talon watched, unblinking. Finally, he turned.

“Teresa won’t agree to it. And as much as I know Lucanis, I’m sure he won’t either.”

“Of course,” Caterina smiled thinly. “He’s more stubborn than I am. But we can nudge them toward each other, don’t you think?”

Marcelo frowned and sighed heavily.

“Teresa is sixteen. There can be no talk of this now.”

“Who said now?” Caterina feigned offense. “We’ll wait four years and arrange a meeting so they won’t suspect. How does that sound, Marcelo?”

De Riva rolled his eyes and slumped into the chair. Weariness marked every line of him, though the sun outside had only just begun to set.

“When you’re gone, Viago will lead the house,” Caterina reminded him. “What will be left for Teresa then?”

Marcelo sighed.

“I don’t like it. Even at twenty she’ll be too young, and your grandson… I know he’s a worthy Crow, and even at his age few can match him. If… if it means Teresa will have protection…” He averted his eyes, rubbing his face with a hand. “I won’t oppose it. The last thing I want is for the young to repeat our mistakes.”

Caterina smiled and nodded approvingly.

“You won’t regret this, Marcelo.”

“But if Teresa is unhappy or unwilling, I won’t force her,” de Riva said coldly. “Do you understand, Caterina?”

“Perfectly. I expected nothing else,” the First Talon said, rising with the help of her cane. At the door she turned and added: “Above all, I hope our heirs will be happier than we ever were.”

 

***

9:42, Treviso, Antiva

Viago de Riva sat in the workshop he had outfitted only recently. Here he could hide not just to work on poisons, but also to put his thoughts in order.

He had barely settled in as the Fifth Talon when Teresa turned into an adult woman and began taking contracts for the house. She carried them out flawlessly. Like Viago himself, Teresa had been trained and raised by Marcelo. It fell to his heir only to finish what had been started after his father and mother were killed.

Two years had passed since Teresa entered Crow business. She had completed more than a dozen artifact-retrieval contracts and — even practically in passing — smoothed over several delicate assignments at the court of the King of Antiva. Viago hated nothing more than such errands, which Fulgieno II tossed him personally without the slightest shame.

Viago learned of his connection to the royal family when he turned sixteen. Marcelo called him in and, with a grim expression, informed him that Viago was a bastard of the King of Antiva.

Of course, it wasn’t a devastating blow: Viago had suspected something was off between his parents. His father spent too much time with his close friend Leonardo, also a Crow of House de Riva, while his mother openly took lovers. Even so, the spouses always seemed a single whole, spoke with impeccable courtesy, and it was clear they valued one another — if only as allies.

Viago remembered his first meeting with his true father well. Fulgieno II behaved as if nothing were amiss and didn’t try to offer explanations Viago didn’t need anyway: he knew the king had many bastards, and it concerned him little.

A few months ago, Fulgieno II invited Viago to see him, and Viago, grudgingly, went to the capital — it would have been foolish to ignore the summons. The king gave him a truly difficult contract.

A certain Antivan noble had recently returned from Skyhold — a fortress on the very border of Ferelden and Orlais. The Inquisition had taken up residence there to end the war between mages and templars and to shield Thedas from a new evil — Corypheus, an ancient magister.

Since the Inquisition’s ambassador was Lady Josephine Montilyet, an Antivan, the kingdom’s nobility considered a visit to distant Skyhold a matter of singular importance. And although Fulgieno II remained in the capital, many aristocrats had already visited the fortress. Apparently, one such noble had seen certain adornments the Inquisition had recovered during excavations of ancient Tevinter ruins in southern Orlais. The king wanted one of those artifacts — an amulet, devoid of magic — for his collection. He proposed that the Crows of House de Riva procure it, as Teresa’s reputation had already begun to spread.

His cousin completed the contract, but something went wrong. She returned three days late — artifact in hand, but late. She gave no reason, merely waved the question away. Viago sensed something amiss, but he couldn’t get anything out of her.

A couple of days later, Teresa burst into his workshop and declared:

“I heard Andrea Cantori is being married off by his father. It’s an absolute outrage.” She paused, then blurted, “Swear you’ll never do the same to me.”

Viago was taken aback. He was completely unprepared for such an abrupt topic. Arranged marriages were a thing of the distant past, and de Riva had never even considered such a thing for Teresa.

“You can be perfectly at ease,” the Crow said with a faint smirk. “I give you my word.”

The conversation ended, and Viago didn’t think much of it, though Teresa behaved differently than usual. He watched her, yet he couldn’t quite grasp what had changed.

Two weeks later he was notified that the First Talon had arrived and wished to see him. Viago scowled: a Crows’ assembly had been held just three days earlier. What could Caterina want?

When she entered his office — until recently Marcelo’s — Caterina lowered herself into the chair opposite the desk and said:

“I won’t beat around the bush: I know you value directness, Viago. Here it is: your father and I had an agreement that Teresa would wed Lucanis. The ages are just right: my grandson is twenty-five, your cousin a bit younger.”

She finished and studied him. Viago felt a wave of nausea: even in a nightmare he wouldn’t have imagined this. Showing weakness before the First Talon was out of the question, so de Riva snorted and put on an unreadable face.

“Seriously? I thought we lived in the ninth age, not the eighth. I can’t imagine how my father agreed to this.”

“Careful, Viago,” Caterina’s voice held a hint of venom. “Don’t rush to judge what you can’t understand by virtue of your age.”

“It’s just a number,” Viago shot back without hesitation. “With all due respect, Caterina, this agreement was between you and my father. I have nothing to do with it, and I will never give my consent as head of the house.”

Caterina frowned, leaning back. Her hand slipped into her dress pocket and produced a cigarette case. Though Viago couldn’t stand people smoking around him, he didn’t dare contradict the First Talon on that point as well. He hadn’t completely taken leave of his senses.

“I was under the impression the de Rivas keep their promises.”

“Exactly,” Viago said, still serious. “And I gave my cousin my word that I would never marry her off against her will. It’s a perversion in this day and age, Caterina! I doubt Lucanis even knows about this.”

The First Talon grimaced, a dangerous light flashing in her eyes.

“That’s not your concern. I look after the interests of House Dellamorte. And such a union would benefit your house as well, Viago. You’re not a fool.”

“Given word matters more, Caterina.” He shook his head, signaling the matter was closed.

The elderly woman rose, a thin smile touching her lips.

“We’ll see about that,” she promised, heading for the door.

 

***

9:52, Treviso, Antiva. The Dellamorte Estate

The dressing room behind the opera stage was overflowing with silence. Teresa swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from Catarina. The First Talon, unfazed, lit a cigarette and concluded:

“I asked Viago every year.”

“And I always gave the same answer,” he interjected. Her cousin stood to the left of Lucanis and looked far gloomier than usual.

Teresa looked at him. Her soul was torn apart by conflicting emotions: annoyance, anger… and gratitude toward Viago. Meeting his gaze, she saw regret and sorrow in his eyes.

“I tried to protect you and keep my word,” he muttered.

A heavy sigh was heard. Lucanis ran a hand through his hair and shook his head in disbelief, staring at Catarina.

“I’ve heard plenty about your desire to marry me off over the past ten years, but I didn’t think you had an actual candidate in mind!”

“I was thinking of the well-being of our family,” Catarina shot back, though the usual sternness had disappeared from her tone. Before them stood an old woman who knew she had made a mistake. “I thought uniting two Crow houses would be an excellent idea. It was always done this way. De Riva and Dellamorte have been closely tied, especially after Mauricio’s actions, and marriage would have only strengthened the bond.”

“But our opinion didn’t matter to you,” Teresa muttered.

Her head spun from emotions. The aftertaste of wine lingered bitterly on her tongue.

“When I nearly lost Lucanis, everything changed,” Catarina sighed. “And when you came asking for help with the gods, all I thought about was that you might free him from the Ossuary. I swear, I abandoned this idea the moment I learned Lucanis was alive.” She lowered her eyes, and the shoulders of the strong woman who had endured so much slumped. “All my life I forced him to be who he eventually became. But very often…” Catarina pressed her lips together and finally finished, “I didn’t think about what my grandson wanted.”

“And that’s exactly why you made me First Talon,” Lucanis said with a bitter smirk.

Teresa felt the shadow of a smile touch her lips. Even Viago’s mouth corners twitched upward slightly.

“Because you’re ready,” Catarina looked at him, her eyes showing both pride and sorrow. “Unlike Illario, you never craved it, my boy. And that’s exactly why you’ll succeed.”

Viago shifted from foot to foot. Teresa knew well how he hated sentimental moments. Seeing them from Catarina was especially unusual.

“And… I think I should ask forgiveness from both of you,” the old woman’s gaze moved from Lucanis to Teresa. “I wanted a union to bind our families. But seeing you stand shoulder to shoulder today, I’m certain now that the key to such a bond is far from arranged marriages.”

De Riva felt powerless. More than anything, she wanted to escape this place, sit in silence, and process everything that had happened that day. As always, Lucanis sensed her thoughts.

“It’s time for us to go,” he said. “Business won’t wait.”

“Lucanis?..” Catarina addressed him, but he shook his head.

“Not now. You’ll watch over everything while I fulfill the contract?”

“Of course,” the old woman’s voice regained its firmness.

Teresa felt Lucanis take her hand, and together they walked toward the door. Inside, she trembled — not from fatigue, but from the words that refused to settle in her mind.

“At least now I know where that bloody immunity came from,” she thought grimly.

 

***

Moonlight filled the room. His breathing was still unsteady. Crassius Servis groped for the cigarette case on the nightstand, lit two cigarettes at once, and handed one to Neve. The mage sat up, covering herself with the sheet, took the cigarette, and inhaled.

“So, what were we even fighting about, Thorn?”

“Does it matter?” Servis gave a quiet snort.

The light fell directly on the famed detective’s face, making her skin glow.

“All right, I remember,” Neve said with a tired smile. “And I’m still not thrilled that you’re going to help Margaret. No matter how hard you try to make me forget.”

Crassius laughed, then grew serious.

“You should understand her.”

“Because I’m a woman?” Neve’s brows shot up. After a pause, she added, “Yes, I do understand. But it doesn’t change the fact that she asked you.”

“Speaking of which,” Servis stroked his short beard. “She also wants to ask Rook for help.”

Neve rolled her eyes.

“Andraste’s breeches, they got along! So what? Do I have to pass the request along?”

“If you don’t mind,” Crassius looked at her as if entranced — she was so beautiful in that moment. “I want to meet her in person, talk about Tenebrius, and at the same time deliver Margaret’s request.”

Surprisingly, Neve nodded.

“All right. But you do realize Dellamorte will follow her?”

Crassius chuckled.

“I’m counting on it,” he winked at the mage. “If I can make contact with him, there’s a chance that if he gets a contract on my ass, he won’t kill me.”

Neve snorted and shook her head.

“You really do think of everything, Thorn. That’s why I love you.”

Servis froze, then smiled shyly. Every time he heard those cherished words from the proud mage, he reacted as if it were the first: something clenched in his chest, and his heart began to pound faster.

“And I love you, Neve,” he murmured, and she gave a dismissive little snort.

“That same flustered expression every time!”

“Whose fault is it that I got so lucky with you?” Servis countered, stubbed out his cigarette, set it in the ashtray, and leaned over the mage.

Neve laughed, and he fleetingly thought it was the most beautiful sound in all of Thedas. Then the night took them again, making them forget everything else.

 

***

9:42, Val Royeaux, Orlais

“Have you thought about my offer?” came a voice from behind.

Teresa felt a flicker of annoyance but stayed silent, continuing to brew the fragrant coffee. The mage stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her against him.

“Think about it, little Crow,” he whispered in her ear. “You, me, Minrathous. What could be better?”

She smiled; his breath tickled her neck, and goosebumps rose on her skin. Shivering slightly, she replied honestly, “I think I already said yesterday that I won’t leave Antiva.”

He sighed and, as if she weighed nothing, lifted her up and spun her to face him.

“My coffee!”

“Nothing will happen to it,” the mage countered. His gray eyes burned with fire, and Teresa bit her lip, looking up at him. There was something in his gaze that made her breath catch.

“Mierda, you really do look like a Tevinter mage!” she teased, masking her unease with a smirk.

“You say that as if it’s something bad.” He grinned, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.

“Mage, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t leave Antiva or the Crows. First, my cousin needs my help, and he’s counting on me. And second… betrayal isn’t forgiven in our ranks.”

“And what do you get in return?” The man frowned. He seemed to understand far more than he was saying. “He’s not just a cousin — you said he’s the head of the house. That means your fate is in his hands.”

“What are you talking about?” Teresa turned away, watching the coffee boil.

She hadn’t taken the conversation seriously, neither now nor the day before. It still didn’t sink in that the mage had suggested she come with him to Tevinter.

“He has the right to decide for you.” The mage embraced her again. Teresa grimaced; she never liked being touched, though from him the attention didn’t feel intrusive — rather pleasant. “Imagine one day he decides to marry you off or sell you into service to one of the merchant princes for a profitable deal.”

Teresa laughed. The idea was too absurd to resemble even a fragment of truth.

“What nonsense, mage!”

“Believe me, darling, I’ve spent plenty of time among nobles. I know exactly how bastards like them think.”

She sighed, still smiling, and took the coffee off the stove. Then she turned and declared with confidence, “We’re not nobility. We’re Antivan Crows.”

“What’s the difference?” he muttered, frowning. “Your cousin has the power to decide for you, and who knows what he has in mind.”

Teresa stroked his cheek and kissed him, steering him away from the uncomfortable conversation. But later, when she returned to Antiva, she still thought about his words. And for the first time, she let herself wonder: what if he was right?

 

***

9:52, Treviso, Antiva

The night streets were calm, as if unaware of the Antivan-style drama that had unfolded in the Dellamorte estate.

Teresa walked briskly, and Lucanis hurried after her. She was clearly upset, and he didn’t know how to reach her. She ignored his cautious questions, and with a frown he realized she needed time.

Naturally, the news of an arranged marriage had angered him too. But if he were honest, not as much. He’d heard Catarina hint at a potential bride for years, and though the thought had always made his blood boil, now he actually felt relieved that everything was finally out in the open.

“Tess, where are we going?” he asked at last when Teresa, reaching the line leading from the Brilliant Casino, prepared to launch herself across to the opposite rooftop. It was obvious she had no intention of returning to the Beacon.

She didn’t reply, only scowled harder, leapt, and disappeared into the night. Lucanis muttered something under his breath about hot-tempered women and dashed after her.

Twenty minutes later Teresa stopped in front of a three-story townhouse not far from the market. Casting him a slightly uneasy glance, she strode toward a carved green-painted door.

He followed her up to the third floor, climbing a stairwell old but still hinting at former grandeur, and stopped before a dark wooden door. He knew at once: she had brought him to her place.

Teresa had spoken of her home before, admitting how hard it was to return. Since fleeing Treviso she hadn’t set foot inside — the little flat was tied too tightly to her life before exile from the Antivan Crows and the hunt for Solas. “Once we’re done with the gods, I’ll come back,” she had said.

Something in her had shifted. Teresa unlocked the door and, without a word, stepped inside. Lucanis followed.

She lit candles along the walls, and he saw that this was the kitchen.

In the corner stood a small stove, typical for Treviso’s tenements. Beside it, a counter with neat dark-wood cabinets, opposite a table with two chairs. A water barrel in another corner.

Lucanis looked closer. No dust.

“It’s as if…”

“Viago said someone from the de Riva kept an eye on the flat,” she murmured, and he heard the weariness in her voice.

He stepped up beside her at the window. Though the floor wasn’t high, the view impressed: the moon hung over the city, its light glimmering across a distant canal. Gently taking the cigarette case from Teresa, Lucanis pulled one out, lit it, and immediately hacked in a rough cough. Teresa burst into laughter.

“Stop, you don’t even smoke!”

“Yeah. Disgusting.” He stubbed it out in the ashtray on the wide sill and looked around again. “It’s very cozy here, Tess.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to return here, you know,” she answered softly, taking another drag. “But today…”

“You’re that upset we could’ve been married for ten years already?” Lucanis teased.

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m just glad I warned Viago back then.”

“Some instinct,” he smirked, but she suddenly scowled again.

“Something like that,” she whispered.

It was clear she was remembering something she’d never shared, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. What difference did the past make anyway?

“Tess, I had no idea,” Lucanis said firmly, and she smiled sadly.

“I know. It’s not about you — it’s the idea itself!… I’m just grateful Viago protected me. I can’t even imagine if it had really happened. And you? I think I would’ve killed you!”

“Even now?” Lucanis couldn’t resist, plucking the cigarette from her fingers and stubbing it out. He pulled her close and kissed her temple. “Am I really that bad a match, Tess?”

She looked at him with a wide grin.

“Mierda, Dellamorte, you’re impossible! I’m talking about what might’ve been!”

“Listen to me,” Lucanis said, holding her gaze. “We chose each other. Neither of us knew a thing. Whatever Catarina wanted — that was hers. We are us. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Teresa smiled faintly. “You’re right. I love you regardless of what Catarina and my uncle once planned.”

“And I love you,” he replied firmly. “What we’ve learned doesn’t change a thing between us, does it?”

“Of course not!” she nodded. “It just… infuriates me!”

Her nerves and anger were plain. Lucanis understood instantly: she wouldn’t let this go easily. He brushed her cheek and whispered, “Then prove this is our choice, Tess.”

Her gray eyes flared, and she kissed him — hungry, determined, as if to bury the bitter talk with Catarina. He answered at once, pulling her close, then lifted her and set her on the sill.

She never let go of him, fingers already tugging at buckles, while he did the same, unable to stop kissing her. When their clothes fell away, he pressed his lips to her neck, drawing a soft moan.

He realized he was afraid to let go of her even for a heartbeat. His hands traced her waist, shoulders, breasts, thighs. When he brushed the sensitive spot at her side, she laughed into his mouth, and that laugh nearly undid him more than any moan.

Growling low, he pulled her against him, and suddenly she bit his lip lightly.

“Mierda, Tess…”

He leaned back to stare into her eyes, almost black in the dark. She arched a brow in challenge, still stroking his shoulders.

“What is it, Lucanis?” she whispered.

“How lucky I am,” he murmured, brushing her cheek.

“Flatterer.” She drew him in again, lips meeting his.

His hands slid down her back, gripping as he pulled her tight. Teresa wrapped her legs around his hips, pressing against the windowpane. Her breath came ragged, her gaze burning into him. Their bodies joined, and she let out a sound of approval.

Everything else vanished. Lucanis felt her heat, the cold of the glass beneath his hands, her nails digging into his shoulders — pain only stoking the fire. Every cry, every thrust, every movement was an answer to what they’d known for so long.

When release finally came, Teresa touched his cheek and stroked it softly.

“I’m with you,” she breathed. “No matter what, Lucanis.”

He kissed her — lips, temple.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “No matter what Catarina or your uncle once decided. We chose each other, against everything.”

She smiled, shivering as if from cold.

“Crazy day, huh?”

Lucanis chuckled and scooped her into his arms.

“Agreed, Tess. Which means we’d better rest before we head back to the Beacon.”

She said nothing, only laid her head on his shoulder. He thought how tired she must be. The kitchen smelled of tobacco and candle wax, Treviso slept outside the window — but for them, the world had shrunk to the size of her home.

 

***

9:52, Treviso, Antiva

The following day flew by in a dizzying rush. Only in the evening, back at the Lighthouse after her trip to the Necropolis with Emmrich, did Teresa finally sink onto the couch. She glanced at the book lying on the table. When had she last spent an evening the way she once loved?

The door slammed — Lucanis had returned. He dropped down beside her and smiled without saying a word. Teresa was grateful for that: he always knew when she didn’t want to talk. He just stayed near, demanding nothing. She smiled back, and Lucanis reached for the book, then handed it to her. Settling more comfortably, she rested her head on his shoulder, opened the book — and then came the knock at the door.

“Mierda.”

“You said it,” Lucanis snorted, rising. “I’ll get it.”

Moments later Teresa heard Neve’s voice. The mage hadn’t been to the Lighthouse since Margaret Rutherford had reported Crassius Servis’s injury.

Teresa swore inwardly, remembering that Neve’s lover had been spying in Treviso, digging up information about her. Fury drove her to her feet, and within seconds she was at the door.

“Neve? What is it?”

“And I’m glad to see you too, Rook,” the mage countered, but Teresa caught the tone: Neve actually sounded peaceful. “I’m back. Thank you for not objecting when I went to Crassius.”

Teresa drew a deep breath, forcing control. The mention of Servis hit a raw nerve. An inner voice hissed: Don’t you dare show you know the truth. So she forced a smile and murmured,

“How is he?”

“Thanks to Dorian, patched up,” Neve shivered, pain flickering in her dark eyes.

Clearly, the ordeal had left a mark. The fear of losing someone dear was natural and familiar, and Teresa nodded with sympathy.

“I’m glad it wasn’t worse,” she said, then after a heartbeat, couldn’t help herself: “Who did that to him?”

Neve bit her lip, as if weighing whether to say more. Her dark eyes softened, warm, as if she’d buried the hatchet. Finally, with steady resolve, she said,

“You can ask him yourself, if you want. Servis asks for a meeting.”

“What does he want?” Lucanis cut in. He didn’t seem inclined to mince words, and his gaze made that clear.

Neve looked away.

“He has two reasons. I won’t speak for him — better you hear it yourselves. If you’re willing, tomorrow at the Cobblestone Swan at sunset.”

Teresa studied her closely. To meet with Servis and demand to know why he’d gone to Treviso digging into her and Tenebrius, instead of coming through Neve? To put the stubborn detective on the spot? The thought was tempting, though she knew she didn’t want war. It would be easier to forget the dragons that had attacked Minrathous and Treviso — if Neve did the same. Now, however, the mage looked as if she truly had put the conflict behind her.

Teresa thought of Tenebrius. His bland features rose in her mind as vividly as if their “meeting” had been yesterday, not three years past. The Venatori had come closer than anyone to killing her, and she hungered for revenge. If she and this Servis shared an enemy, refusing the chance would be folly.

“Agreed,” she said with a smile, and relief crossed Neve’s face.

“Thank you, Rook. I’m sure Crassius can help us with the gods.”

Teresa watched her go, feeling Lucanis’s eyes on her. Doubt gnawed faintly at her soul, but it was too late to retreat. It was long past time to dot the i’s and end the evasions with Neve. After all, Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain would only benefit if her team fractured — and Weisshaupt had proven that all too clearly.

 

***

Crassius Servis expected nothing special from the upcoming meeting with Rook, but he still managed to pester Margaret with questions while she was teaching Eveline a magical technique. The mage rolled her eyes in irritation but answered anyway. At last, Rutherford snapped:

“Teresa’s fine! Stop listening to Neve so much!”

Servis logically concluded that pressing Margaret further wasn’t worth it and retreated, not forgetting to slip Eveline a candy. The mage’s daughter beamed, and Crassius felt a surge of tenderness.

That evening he met Neve by the eluvians a little earlier than planned. At the Cobblestone Swan, they found a table tucked away in a corner. Sitting beside Neve, Servis stole a glance at her. The detective seemed calm, and he was glad: it looked like she had finally managed to let go of her resentment toward Rook. Who knew — maybe she’d even want to help Margaret?

The tavern door slammed, and Neve muttered,

“They’re here.”

Then she rose, and Crassius followed suit. The first person he saw was the one Tevinter called the “Demon of Vyrantium” — the legendary Antivan Crow, Lucanis Dellamorte.

Servis was surprised to note that the man wasn’t particularly tall. Something inside him clenched. The Crow was handsome and surely had no trouble with women. Crassius, who had always fretted about his own unremarkable looks, shoved the thought aside as pointless.

Dellamorte stopped in front of him, and Servis felt the ice of his gaze. Still, he extended his hand and smiled peaceably. Lucanis shook it, though his grip was far stronger than etiquette required. Then the Crow stepped aside — and Crassius saw Rook.

Something inside him snapped. Everything else vanished.

…Val Royeaux. The Crow who had attacked in the night. Greedy kisses. Laughter in the streets of the Orlesian capital and the haughty stares they’d drawn. She had taught him how to brew Antivan coffee and how to cook traditional pasta. He had done everything he could to make her stay and never return to Antiva — but he couldn’t hold her. Her whisper, her accent, her shy smiles…

He would have recognized this woman among a thousand. A beautiful face with high cheekbones, gray eyes the color of the sky above Minrathous. When he had held her years ago, her thick dark hair had spilled almost to her waist; now it was tied back in a high tail at the nape of her neck. The same lips, the same squint — and the same shock in her eyes.

“You,” Crassius breathed before he could stop himself.

The woman who now bore the name Teresa de Riva whispered back,

“You. Mierda…”

The air in the tavern seemed to thicken, and Servis thought: this was going to be the hardest conversation of his life.

Chapter Text

Time seemed to slow. Crassius Servis couldn’t tear his eyes from the young woman he’d searched for over three years after their parting in Orlais. He’d heard her name more than once in recent months, but not even in a nightmare could he have imagined that Teresa de Riva was the very same Antivan woman from his past.

“I have to break the silence right now,” Servis thought. “Say something. Come on.”

He opened his mouth, and de Riva’s eyes widened. The fleeting movement said it better than words: she had no idea how to get out of this either. Crassius closed his mouth, feeling two pairs of eyes boring into him at once — Neve and Dellamorte.

“Do something!” his mind screamed.

Servis took a deep breath and extended his hand. Teresa’s brows twitched as if she were trying to guess what he meant to do, but she placed her hand in his, and, knowing he had nothing to lose, he bowed in respect and touched his lips to the back of it — an outrageous breach of etiquette, but he didn’t care. The silence shouted everything for them — so why should he pretend he didn’t know the woman standing opposite him?

Teresa flinched slightly but said nothing. Servis straightened and met the full, furious gaze of Lucanis Dellamorte.

“Congratulations. Your plan to make nice with the ‘Demon of Vyrantium’ has gone up in smoke,” the mage thought.

“Let’s sit and talk.”

The voice sounded foreign, and if Crassius hadn’t forced himself to speak, he might not have believed his ears.

They all sat in silence. A server approached immediately. Polite but visibly tense, he treated them like a party liable to slit one another’s throats right there at the table. Everyone ordered at random: Teresa and Lucanis asked for coffee, Neve for wine, and Servis blurted the first thing that came to mind — herbal tea. Only after the servant left did the tension return, stronger than before.

Crassius pulled out his cigarette case and, without asking anyone’s leave, lit up. Neve reached over and did the same. Teresa swallowed, as if tempted to follow suit, and Crassius couldn’t suppress a faint smirk: still a smoker.

He nudged the case toward her, and Teresa’s lips curved with a hint of a smile. Ignoring the silent offer, the Crow drew her own case from the leather shoulder bag and lit up.

You could have cut the tension with a knife, so Crassius decided: he should say something.

“I wanted to propose that we combine forces and—”

“Seriously?” Neve cut in. Her voice was icy. “We’re not discussing anything until we lay our cards on the table. I hate feeling like a fool. How do you and Rook know each other? Although…” The detective’s eyes froze on Teresa, who held her gaze steadily. “It’s obvious. Rook was that Antivan Crow, wasn’t she?”

Teresa frowned, as if she hadn’t expected Neve to know that piece of Crassius’s past. He shared the irritation and glanced at her with a silent question. Teresa arched a brow and, without looking away from Neve, gave a curt nod.

“We didn’t know each other’s names.”

The mage swore loudly in Tevene and flopped against the back of the settee, drawing on her cigarette. Servis could feel Dellamorte’s eyes drilling into him, and it made his skin crawl. So many stories circled about the man, and Crassius thought with annoyance: “He should be making a scene.” Antivans had a reputation for hot tempers, but the “Demon of Vyrantium,” it seemed, was exempt from the stereotype.

“See why I insisted on learning your name?” Servis tried a joke, and Teresa, though she smiled, rolled her eyes.

Neve swore again, this time in the common tongue, and fixed on Dellamorte.

“And you’ve got nothing to say?” The challenge in her voice was unmistakable.

Lucanis looked back at her. His dark eyes held complicated emotions, and for the first time in ages Servis felt truly out of his depth. He had no idea what to expect from a legendary mage-killer.

“We came to hear Servis out,” Lucanis said slowly. “You said he had something to discuss.”

“Seriously?” Neve asked, incredulous. “What about Antivan jealousy? Am I the only one who gives a damn that Rook and Servis were tumbling in the past?”

Dellamorte was silent for several seconds, and Crassius was sure a knife would come sailing for his throat, flung by the famed assassin. “At least I’ll die quickly,” he thought darkly.

“As… unpleasant as this situation is,” Lucanis grated, “you’re right: it’s in the past. Or would you prefer I slit your man’s throat, Neve? I certainly can, but I’m used to being paid. Unless… Tess?”

“Don’t,” Teresa said with a smirk.

“Would’ve been a dashing end,” Servis drawled. “I’m afraid an untimely death isn’t on my schedule. Much as we might wish ourselves a thousand miles from this damned table, we’re adults, and we came to talk business, not… relive a past escapade. Although…” He knew he’d regret it, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You haven’t changed at all, Teresa de Riva. Pity you didn’t give your name back then — we wouldn’t be in such an awkward spot now.”

“Honesty matters more than names,” she shot back. Warmth — and an echo of hurt — stirred in his chest; her sharp tongue hadn’t dulled with the years. “As I recall, you claimed you had nothing to do with the Venatori. Yet Crassius Servis, as we know, was tried by the Inquisitor — the leader of the Venatori in the Western Approach of Orlais.”

It landed like a poisoned dart. She likely hoped to throw him off balance, but he’d had his answer ready for years.

“Couldn’t agree more, Teresa,” Crassius said with mock gravity. “I’ve always prized honesty too. That’s why I was so disappointed when the poison recipe you traded for your freedom and that amulet turned out to be utterly mediocre — right there on page one of a beginner’s primer.”

Teresa laughed softly, and warmth spread in his chest.

“You checked. Well done, mage. You didn’t really expect a true family recipe, did you?”

“Considering your cousin — and Talon of your House — is Viago de Riva, that would’ve been foolish,” Servis sighed theatrically. “So I’d say we’re even. What do you say?”

She chuckled and nodded.

“Deal. Anything else?”

“No,” he said. Admitting vulnerability — the kind the Crow had become for him ten years ago — cost him dearly. “You?”

“I’ve got nothing either,” Teresa said with a shrug. “I suppose we really are even… Crassius.”

“Splendid,” he replied. “Then let’s wrap up the barbs and cherished memories and talk business.”

“That would be wonderful,” Dellamorte ground out. His tone suggested the opposite, but Crassius dismissed it — not his circus to manage. Still, the thought of Neve’s anger wrung a heavy sigh from him.

“All right, let’s talk about Tenebrius.” Servis drummed his fingers on the table and looked to Teresa. “I know you crossed paths with the bastard before.”

“So what?” she answered calmly.

Crassius felt a pang. He understood enough: that clash with the Venatori had cost her dearly. If she weren’t that same “little Crow” from his past, it might not have mattered. But now… the last thing he wanted was to hurt her.

“We ran into him the other day,” Neve said through her teeth. “Tenebrius is killing old enemies in Minrathous.”

“Enemies?” Servis interjected with a dry laugh. “Blast him — you can hardly call them that.” He glanced at Dellamorte, then at Teresa, and explained, “Tenebrius is killing his old tormentors. The ones who bullied him during his Circle years in Minrathous.”

Teresa’s lips twisted into a wry smile.

“In Antiva we say, ‘Old grudges are like wine. The longer you keep them, the harder they hit your head.’ It’d be almost funny — if people weren’t dying.”

“He also led the attack on the Archon’s Palace during the dragon assault,” Neve added. “Radonis’s death is likely on his conscience.”

“I thought it was still uncertain whether the Archon died,” Teresa said, frowning. Though she kept her face composed, Crassius noticed her fingers tightening until the knuckles whitened. The small gesture brought a flicker of relief: it did matter to her that she’d chosen Antiva over Minrathous.

“Then where is he?” Neve demanded, irritated.

Crassius laid a hand on her knee under the table and gave it a light squeeze.

“Thorn, I’m not in the mood for niceties,” the detective snapped at once, and Dellamorte let out an unexpected snort. Crassius caught the man’s mocking, challenging look. He clenched his jaw and reminded himself: picking a fight with the Crows was not part of the plan.

“In short, Tenebrius needs to be stopped,” Crassius said coolly, steering back to the point. “Neve and I crossed him the other day and… I must admit, it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. We couldn’t save the magister. So we need help, Teresa. As it happens, I know you’ve faced him before and will likely want revenge. If not, perhaps your cousin Viago has something we can use? Because after the scuffle in Karastes, Tenebrius vanished for three whole years, until…” Servis exhaled. “Until all this chaos.”

Teresa smiled, but her gray eyes stayed cold.

“Why didn’t you ask Viago when you were in the dungeons?”

“You know, he wasn’t in the mood for heart-to-hearts,” Crassius replied with a smirk. “Which is exactly why I need your help with him, Teresa.”

She sobered, took a sip of coffee, and nodded.

“You can count on me, Servis. I have my own score to settle with Tenebrius.”

The tight knot in his chest, wound there since seeing Teresa, began to loosen.

“And what about Margaret’s request?” Neve said with a grin. Servis met her eyes. The mage had tossed down a gauntlet he scarcely had the strength to pick up in his rattled state — but he’d given Rutherford his word.

“What is it?” Lucanis frowned. Crassius felt a spark of curiosity, but pushed it aside.

Casting a guilty look at Teresa, he muttered, “Margaret’s heading south through the Crossroads. There’s an eluvian in Skyhold.”

Teresa nodded, sympathy plain on her face.

“She said her husband doesn’t know she’s pregnant. I assume that’s why she’s going.”

“Exactly,” Crassius confirmed. “She asked for my help, and while I’m no slouch with magic, two people alone in the south — crawling with darkspawn — is a fool’s errand. Margaret meant to ask you herself for help, but since we’re all here…”

He watched Teresa’s mind working. Her gaze shifted to Lucanis, who smiled and said something to her in Antivan. Whatever it was, it pleased her, and she turned to Neve.

“We should discuss it with the team.”

Neve shook her head.

“Rook, you know perfectly well the gods are quiet. I think now’s the best time for a… desperate expedition.”

“You’ll go south too, Neve?” Lucanis asked, sipping the coffee and grimacing — clearly not to his taste.

“No,” the mage sighed. “And not only because Margaret and I aren’t exactly close — I’ve been away from the Lighthouse too long. The team could use my help. Bellara’s complained that Solas’s memory fragments aren’t easy to find on the Crossroads. I can work on that while you’re gone.”

“In that case…” Teresa looked at Crassius, and he felt the urge to swallow. “Margaret, Servis, Lucanis and me… Is that enough?”

Crassius shrugged vaguely.

“I hardly know Ferelden. As far as I know, neither do the Crows.”

“We could ask Harding to join us,” Lucanis suggested. “She’s from Ferelden’s Hinterlands and would be thrilled at the chance to see family.”

Teresa brightened.

“Exactly! Her parents should be with the army, under the Inquisitor’s protection.”

Lucanis said something quietly to Teresa in Antivan, and Crassius felt irritation rise. The word “Venatori,” tossed in by Dellamorte, sounded the same in every language in Thedas.

“If you have something to say, I’m listening closely,” Crassius said, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair and meeting the Crow’s gaze with ice.

“I was speaking to Tess, and I don’t intend to justify myself to you,” Lucanis snapped. “But fine. I’ll ask you as well: why should we trust a former Venatori at all? What makes you different from Tenebrius?”

The questions hit a nerve. Servis stared at the Crow, wanting nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face. Bare reason stopped him — just.

“I wasn’t Venatori out of some belief in Tevinter’s superiority,” Crassius said through his teeth, never breaking eye contact. “The reason was banal — money. When the Inquisitor gave me a second chance, I wasn’t stupid enough to refuse. I’ve never regretted it. What’s more, I’ve been a Shadow Dragon for years. You’ve dealt with them — with us — before. They trust me.”

“That doesn’t mean we should,” the man shot back.

“Don’t,” Teresa said softly, cutting in. “When we met, the Inquisitor said he trusted Servis without reservation. So does Neve,” she added, looking at Lucanis. “And Margaret.”

Crassius could see Dellamorte didn’t like the answer. The Crow pressed his lips together, shot Teresa a look Crassius couldn’t decipher, and gave a curt nod.

“Then I think we should meet with Margaret and go over everything in detail,” Lucanis said. “We don’t have much time. Neve’s right — the gods are quiet, and we should move quickly.”

Crassius lit another cigarette, and the smoke smothered the food smells from neighboring tables. His eyes found Teresa on their own. Something clenched inside him. No matter how many years had passed, no matter what he felt for Neve, he wanted to be alone with the Crow for just a few minutes. He needed to know one thing: had she missed him, even once, in all these years?

 

***

Lucanis didn’t come that night. Teresa tossed and turned in the unfamiliar emptiness of the bed. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Servis’s shocked expression.

de Riva sat up, got out of bed, changed, and — taking her cigarette case — headed for Solas’s study. For some reason, it was always easier to think there.

Lighting a cigarette, Teresa froze at the open window, staring into the illusory night sky. The Lighthouse was a truly unique place, its beauty mesmerizing.

Her thoughts drifted. For years Teresa had tried to leave those three days in Orlais where they belonged — in the past. She had just turned twenty then, and the only things she knew about intimacy were Viago’s warnings. “Trust no one” had become something like a motto or a prayer for the last generation of the de Riva family.

The mage — who now had a name — had broken through her defenses. Cutting remarks, a cocky smile, his laugh. The closeness that came to her for the first time.

He had asked her to stay. To come with him to Minrathous, to begin a new life. Remembering it, Teresa sighed. She didn’t regret choosing Treviso and Viago, but it was still odd: the mage had influenced her, taught her independence.

After Orlais, Teresa refused contracts on killings. Of course, she presented it in such a way that Viago had no doubts: it really would be better for the House if one of the Crows handled delicate matters — of which Antivan nobility had no shortage.

That was also when she started saving for her own place, and soon bought a small apartment in the center of Treviso, moving out of the family estate.

But she would be lying if she said refusing the mage’s offer had been easy. Of course not. She had been too young, swept away by sudden passion, and she remembered how painful their parting had been.

Ten years had passed. Teresa de Riva was no longer that young girl. Now she had Lucanis, and although trusting him hadn’t been easy, she was happy with him. She knew he was happy with her too.

Crassius Servis had been the first — and there was no erasing that. Lucanis Dellamorte, Teresa truly believed, had become the only one.

Finishing her cigarette, she crushed it out in the ashtray. She needed to talk to him — and, if possible, explain her thoughts gently.

 

***

Lucanis wasn’t in the Lighthouse dining hall, so Teresa, stepping carefully, headed toward the storeroom. Dellamorte sat on the bed, a cup of coffee in his hand. He frowned, his gaze distant.

de Riva moved toward him, and Lucanis lifted his eyes as if surfacing from his thoughts.

“Tess? Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I can’t,” she admitted, settling down beside him on the uncomfortable cot. Resting her chin on his shoulder, Teresa murmured:

“Can we talk?”

Lucanis let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t need to guess what he was thinking — it was obvious without words.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’re upset,” Teresa observed.

Dellamorte looked at her, and the corners of his lips curved into a faint smile.

“Tess, I understand — it’s the past. Servis just seemed rather… arrogant.”

She gave a short laugh, pulling back slightly.

“That’s what troubles you? Not the request to escort Margaret south, not—” She stopped mid-sentence, unable to finish.

Lucanis leaned his head back against the wall.

“Spite says it’s foolish to be jealous of something so long ago. But Servis didn’t sit well with him either.”

“I can’t change the past,” Teresa murmured.

“Would you, if you could?”

The question hit harder than she expected, but she answered honestly:

“No. I don’t regret it. What matters is us, not what happened ten years ago.” de Riva chuckled. “It feels like it was another lifetime, and I’m no longer the person I was. Neither is he, I’m sure of it.”

He nodded, and Teresa saw that he still had more questions. But he didn’t voice them — he simply covered her hand with his own.

“I’m with you. You know that, right?”

“I never doubted it,” Lucanis murmured. “I just don’t like feeling there are pieces of your life I wasn’t part of.”

Teresa laughed. That response was so very him.

“But I’ll do everything I can to make sure that never happens again,” Dellamorte added seriously.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt warmth rush to her cheeks.

“I’m counting on it, Lucanis,” Teresa replied sincerely, and leaned in to kiss him.

 

***

Crassius didn’t remember how he’d made it back from the tavern. The streets of Minrathous were drowned in darkness, broken only by the occasional magical lantern on a building.

Neve, as promised, had gone with Lucanis and Teresa to the Lighthouse, and he knew: that unpleasant conversation about Rook still lay ahead.

He wanted to do something foolish. Probably get drunk. Crassius had always treated alcohol with indifference; it never gave him the lightness other people seemed to find in it.

He turned onto the avenue leading to the Pavus estate, and in his head Neve’s voice rang out clearly. “As if going south with Margaret isn’t foolish enough,” she would have said. Crassius smiled broadly, realizing that was exactly how the detective would have put it if she were beside him.

In front of the mansion he stopped and lit a cigarette. One didn’t need to be a dreamer to guess Margaret was waiting for him inside. At the thought of how she would laugh if he slipped up about Rook, Crassius groaned aloud in frustration.

He had tried to find the girl in the first three years after their parting. He gathered every scrap of information he could about the Antivan Crows, compiling and cross-referencing it, trying to figure out: which “family” had she belonged to? Who was she? And although he filled an entire thick notebook, he never managed to identify even the House.

He only truly forgot the Antivan woman once he met Neve. For two years before that he had practically stopped searching, but she still lingered in his thoughts.

Of course he’d heard plenty about Rook — Teresa de Riva — from Neve, Dorian, and Margaret. But imagining that she was that little Crow from his past? Not even in his worst nightmares.

Finishing his cigarette, he realized there was no point putting off the inevitable. Margaret would ask questions no matter what.

Inside the estate, he barely stifled a sigh of relief — no sign of the mage nearby. But as soon as he climbed the marble staircase to the second floor, he knew he’d celebrated too early. Light spilled from Dorian’s study, and there was no way to slip past.

In the spacious room — once belonging to the late Galvard Pavus, Crassius’s old mentor — the heir sat at the desk. Reclining in his chair, Dorian held a glass of something alcoholic in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His cousin Margaret lounged on the sofa, legs thrown up, chattering animatedly. At the sight of Crassius, she straightened at once.

“Crassius? How did it go?”

He pressed his lips together, hoping to get off lightly, and caught Dorian’s sharp gaze.

“Fine. Rook and Dellamorte agreed,” Crassius replied curtly. “We need to meet and go over everything. They’ll bring Harding, an Inquisition scout. She’ll probably be able to get us from Skyhold to Redcliffe without the darkspawn eating us alive.”

Relief flickered in Margaret’s black eyes.

“Excellent news! Harding’s from the Hinterlands near Redcliffe. Her help will be invaluable.”

Crassius nodded and turned toward the hall, but Dorian’s voice stopped him.

“And that’s all? What about Tenebris?”

“She’ll help,” Crassius said shortly.

Now both pairs of eyes were studying him, and with irritation he fixed his gaze on the rows of bookshelves he had known since his youth.

Some shelves now bore bottles of fine wine; on another, closer to the desk, sat a framed drawing by Evelina, gifted to her beloved uncle. It depicted Magister Pavus himself. The legs were absurdly short, the eyes enormous, the mustache dangling down to the bottom edge of the picture — yet Dorian kept it, displayed prominently.

Warmth stirred in his chest. Crassius adored the little girl and often indulged her whims, helpless against her charm.

“He’s hiding something,” Margaret murmured to Dorian, and he nodded. Their faces bore matching sly smiles.

“Crassius, don’t tease us!” Dorian cried theatrically. “What happened?”

He exhaled in annoyance, crossing his arms. It infuriated him how well they knew him.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Quarreled with Neve?” Dorian suggested, but Margaret, her gaze never leaving Crassius, shook her head.

“Doesn’t look like it. Something else. Didn’t get along with Rook?” And before Crassius could reply, the mage gasped loudly, clapping a hand over her mouth. “No!” she cried. “Don’t tell me it’s what I think it is!”

Dorian’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open.

“It can’t be!”

“Enough!” Crassius barked, fury surging inside him. “You’re acting like the Magisterium gawking when someone shows up in the latest fashion of robes!”

“Exactly,” Dorian drawled in a high-pitched voice and burst out laughing. “Rook’s the Crow.”

Margaret didn’t laugh — perhaps sensing his anger. She frowned and asked quietly:

“Crassius, is it true?”

“Yes, damn you all!” he exploded. “You, Rook, Dorian, that Dellamorte bastard—!”

The mage fixed her cousin with a stern look.

“Pour him a drink,” she ordered. “Crassius, sit down, please.”

Not knowing why, he obeyed, sinking into the chair by Pavus’s desk, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his short black hair. Everything he’d bottled up tonight hammered inside him, desperate to break free, and he realized his hands were shaking.

“Kaffas,” he cursed.

“Completely and irreversibly,” Margaret agreed. Crassius lifted his head and met her gaze. “That must’ve been… awkward.”

“Awkward?” he gave a grim laugh. “I— Vehnedis, when I saw her, my whole life flashed before my eyes.”

“And how did she react?” Dorian cut in. There was still a trace of laughter in his voice, but he seemed to rein it in once he noticed his friend’s state.

“About the same,” Crassius admitted. “I think neither of us had any idea what to do.”

“Neve realized?” Margaret asked gently.

Crassius snorted and brushed a hand over his stubbled cheek.

“What do you think, Margot?”

Silence fell. He knew they were both searching for words but finding none.

“I just never thought I’d meet her again — now, when it’s all long in the past,” he added hoarsely.

Dorian poured something into a glass. Crassius took it and drank deeply. Antivan — damned — whiskey burned his throat, but his chest eased a little.

“And Rook is…?”

“With Dellamorte,” Crassius confirmed. “And what difference does it make? I’ve been with Neve for years, and we’re fine. It’s just — when I saw her, I couldn’t help wondering what things might have been like with her, you know?”

Dorian and Margaret both nodded. In the mage’s eyes Crassius caught a flicker of particular understanding, but he didn’t press the matter. After all, for her, he was the very same “what if.”

He raised the glass again. The whiskey scorched his throat. The pain and the shock hadn’t gone anywhere, but in the company of friends, they were at least bearable.

 

***

In the morning, as Lucanis and Teresa were drinking coffee, the Lighthouse’s Warden — its spirit — materialized before them. In a calm voice, he announced that Margaret Rutherford had arrived, accompanied by Crassius Servis.

Lucanis felt a dull irritation but tried to smother it. Jealousy over the past was foolish, but he knew he wouldn’t have liked Servis regardless. Too cocky, with a streak of arrogance and biting humor. The Tevinter mage had qualities Lucanis valued in himself. Funny how those same qualities irritated him in someone else.

The dining hall doors swung open. Margaret entered first, smiling warmly. Servis followed. Lucanis noticed the mage was nervous, and Anger inside him let out a nasty chuckle.

"He’s afraid."

“Rightly so,” Lucanis smirked, answering the demon silently.

After greetings were exchanged, Teresa called for Neve and Harding. The moment Harding saw Margaret, she beamed, rushed to her, and hugged the mage tightly. Catching the cold look Margaret shot Servis, Lucanis couldn’t suppress a grim smile. The former Venatori answered with an icy glare, and Dellamorte chuckled — so the hostility was mutual.

Everyone took their seats, and Margaret, her smile confident, said:

“Thank you for agreeing to help. I know my request must seem reckless, but—”

“Exactly,” Neve cut in. The mage looked serious, stubbornly ignoring Servis’s glances. “The South, as we all know, is engulfed in war with the darkspawn. Your request puts everyone who agreed into serious danger.”

“True,” Rutherford wasn’t fazed. Lucanis saw the fire flare in her black eyes. “But I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Nev.”

A silence fell. The detective raised her brows, clearly not expecting that response. Dellamorte noticed Servis shifting uneasily in his chair. "What’s going on between them?" Lucanis wondered.

“You can’t reach the war-torn South by normal means,” Margaret continued smoothly. “That leaves the eluvians. There’s one in Skyhold, left from the Inquisition’s days. With it, Philip managed to travel to Minrathous a few months ago and return. I know how to activate it — my brother explained how to find it.”

“The main obstacle is that the Crossroads aren’t safe,” Teresa said seriously. “We’ve spent a lot of time there, hunting for Solas’s memories, and we’ve run into both the Antaam and the Venatori.”

“And demons,” Lucanis added.

“Right,” de Riva gave him a warm smile. “Margaret, are you sure you know how to find the right eluvian?”

“I won’t lie,” the mage tossed her curls. “There’s a chance I might have forgotten some detail, but if my notes are correct, there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“The journey through the Crossroads won’t be quick, will it?” Harding asked cautiously from Lucanis’s right.

“Philip said about fourteen hours. Time feels different in the Crossroads, so it’s hard to be certain.”

“You don’t even allow for the possibility you might’ve forgotten a detail?” Neve pressed, eyes fixed on the mage. “Or that the Inquisitor might not have been entirely precise?”

Lucanis saw the way Margaret’s gaze cut into the detective. Without words, it was clear she was barely restraining herself from snapping back.

Servis seemed uneasy — anyone else might have missed it, but Crows were trained to spot such tells. The Tevinter mage frowned, his eyes darting between Neve and Margaret, and Lucanis suddenly recalled old gossip Harding had once shared. If it were true, then Rutherford and Servis had been lovers before the Inquisition.

“That’s possible, yes, Neve,” Margaret replied sharply. “But I don’t understand why you care so much. If I remember correctly, you’re not coming with us.”

“Crassius is!” the detective shot back. “Of course I care about him. I can understand your reckless desire to see your husband again,” Neve sighed. “That’s something anyone can relate to. Harding, for example, will be thrilled to see her parents. I just want to know you’re taking this risk with a real chance of coming back.”

“Neve, we’ve got the ‘Demon of Virantium,’ an Inquisition scout, and Teresa,” Servis smiled and took her hand. “We’ll be fine.”

From the mage’s expression, Lucanis could tell Neve wasn’t convinced, but she held her tongue.

“If we get lost in the Crossroads, we can ask the spirit for help,” Teresa said, smiling with confidence. “I’m sure he’ll assist.”

“And I know of a lesser-known route from Skyhold that, hopefully, hasn’t drawn the darkspawn’s attention,” Harding added.

“Then only one question remains: when do we leave?” Teresa asked, looking at Margaret and Servis. Lucanis noticed how the mage’s gaze lingered on her a beat too long, and jealousy surged through him.

“I suggest after lunch,” the former Venatori said.

Dellamorte couldn’t take his eyes off Servis. The man irritated him, and Lucanis reluctantly thought: this journey was going to be quite the test of endurance.

 

***

The Crossroads greeted them, as always, with silence. The air pulsed with unseen waves — magic. In the distance rose cliffs covered in greenery. Teresa looked ahead: no enemies in sight. Then again, they rarely wandered here, keeping to other parts of this strange place.

Docks stretched out on three sides. de Riva was already used to the boats and tried not to look down when they sliced through the air, sustained by magic. Each one led to a different section of the Crossroads, where eluvians stood — gateways to the farthest corners of Thedas.

At the fork, Teresa stopped and glanced questioningly at Margaret. The mage understood without words and nodded toward one of the boats.

“There. Where the snow is.”

When they reached the cliff, the Warden appeared before them. The spirit not only maintained order in the Lighthouse, seeing to the comfort of its residents, but also guided them if needed through the Crossroads itself.

“I can’t believe it,” Margaret breathed as Servis, beating Lucanis to it, helped the women into the boat. Only Harding ignored his hand. “I’ve been here more than once, and it still doesn’t make sense…”

There was genuine awe in her voice. Teresa thought Margaret adored any display of magic. Still, the Crossroads truly were unique: neither Fade nor reality, but more like a conduit between worlds, filled with magic rarely found in Thedas.

“How are you getting along with Spite?” Margaret asked Lucanis once the boat glided into the air. She clearly wanted to keep things friendly — and probably distract herself from the thought that they were floating above a cliff.

“We’ve found a common goal,” Dellamorte replied tersely, though his tone was peaceful. Teresa knew Rutherford had his sympathy. “Since then, everything’s under control.”

Servis, seated beside him, gave him a look as if something had just clicked.

“Right. You’re possessed. Nasty little detail.”

Lucanis grimaced, but Margaret spoke before anyone else could.

“That’s not correct,” she pointed out. “Possessed mages let a demon seize their mind and body — sometimes by choice, sometimes not. They can’t control it. This is different, Crassius. I’m glad my advice helped.” Rutherford gave Lucanis a gentle smile. “It’s obvious — you’re sleeping better.”

“Always that lecturing tone,” Servis muttered, rolling his eyes theatrically.

Teresa felt relief. The atmosphere between them didn’t seem tense after all — and that had been her greatest fear. Nev was right: the journey ahead was dangerous, and trust mattered more than anything.

“By the way, Tess, is it safe to start joking about you and Crassius now?” Margaret asked, turning to her. de Riva suddenly wished she were anywhere but in that boat.

“Who said it wasn’t?” Teresa parried, keeping her face composed.

Margaret grinned. She clearly had more to say, but Harding, sitting to her left, cut in.

“Sorry, what are we talking about?”

de Riva met Servis’s eyes. He looked just as uncomfortable, so he answered firmly, looking at Margaret instead:

“Let’s leave my past with Teresa where it belongs.”

“I only meant to make a joke about it…” Margaret began, addressing the Crow, but Servis cut her off.

“Margot! Yesterday’s teasing from you and Dorian was enough. Let’s not pile it on.”

Harding frowned, and Teresa regretted not telling the scout in private earlier. Now, in this small boat hanging over a chasm, the idea of such honesty felt unbearable.

She glanced at Servis, who, clearly misreading her look, said to Harding:

“We had a brief fling in Orlais in ’42. We never exchanged names and were just as surprised as anyone to meet again ten years later.”

Harding’s light brows shot up, but she held her tongue, sneaking a glance at Lucanis. Dellamorte looked grim but stayed silent.

Teresa always loved the snowy part of the Crossroads: snow was a rare sight in Antiva. The joy here was marred only by the Venatori, who, no matter how hard they tried, could never be completely rooted out. At least fighting in a group of five made the skirmishes quicker and easier.

“Philip said we need to cross the mountains,” Margaret muttered once the enemies were down. “Go through the snowy valley — there are eluvians to the South there. One of them connects to the one in Skyhold.”

“Neve would say she was right — you don’t know the exact path,” Servis smirked. Teresa noticed how calm he seemed, as if none of the challenges fazed him.

“We can ask the Warden,” the Crow interjected. “I’m sure he’ll guide us.”

The moment his name was spoken, the Warden materialized. Shrouded in magic, he always appeared in a long black robe, his hood hiding his face — though his eyes glowed with blue sparks.

“What do the dwellers require?” he asked in his usual calm voice.

Teresa saw Margaret gaze at him in wonder before saying confidently:

“We need the eluvian that leads to Skyhold.”

The spirit paused for several moments. de Riva felt unease — she’d never seen him behave this way before. Finally he spoke:

“You are on the right path, but it is dangerous — much Blight lies ahead.”

“We’ll handle it,” Servis cut in firmly. “Just tell us the way.”

The Warden turned toward him. The hood shifted slightly, as if he were shaking his invisible head.

“The mage is bold and brave, but underestimates the danger. I would not advise—”

“We have no choice,” Teresa interrupted gently. “Margaret must reach Skyhold, and we’re escorting her.”

“As you wish, dweller,” the Warden replied almost apathetically.

He described the route: first, they would pass a snowy mountain pass reached by boat. Then they would cross a valley corrupted by the Blight. Darkspawn roamed there, he said.

“I would appreciate it if you dealt with them,” he added.

“Is the valley large?” Lucanis asked, and the spirit nodded.

“Crossing takes about six hours. Since it is corrupted, it may take longer.”

“Hard to imagine the Inquisitor made it through alone,” Harding murmured.

Margaret smiled warmly.

“He wasn’t alone. He had Morrigan.”

“Not to sound like a coward, but why didn’t you ask her for help?” Servis asked. Teresa snorted, though there was some truth in his words.

“I don’t trust her the way Philip does,” the mage shrugged.

The Warden went on: at the end of the valley stood a mountain they would need to climb.

“It resembles the ascent to Skyhold,” he said calmly, and Margaret’s face lit up.

“Then we’ll know it for sure.”

“The southern eluvians lie at its summit,” the Warden concluded. “Do you know how to find the right one?”

“I believe I can manage,” Margaret smiled. “Thank you for your help, spirit.”

“Can we call you from there if we need to?” Teresa asked before he vanished. Double-checking was never a bad idea.

The spirit bowed, answering silently, and dissolved into the air.

 

***

The boat’s descent into the valley was too sharp. Not for Antivan Crows, of course, but Margaret, sitting across from Lucanis, had gone pale. He didn’t miss the way her hands trembled as she shut her eyes, as if fighting off nausea.

When the boat landed, Servis reacted instantly: he scooped her up and carried her aside. Harding frowned, then quickly followed, and Lucanis glanced at Teresa.

“Looks like this won’t be easy.”

de Riva nodded, frowning. She was clearly worried about Margaret.

“I admire her determination to see her husband.”

“And her recklessness?” Lucanis smirked, and Teresa gave a soft huff, shrugging. “Seems to me you share that trait.”

“I think it’s sweet. I just hope she’ll be all right.”

Climbing out of the boat, Dellamorte offered his hand to the young woman, and she took it. Then they looked around, and Lucanis let out a low whistle.

“The Warden was right. The Blight here…”

“Like in D’Meta village,” Teresa sighed heavily. “Good thing there are so many of us.”

“Davrin would come in handy,” the Crow murmured. “At least he can sense darkspawn.”

He suddenly noticed Servis, after seating Margaret on a fallen tree, striding toward them. Irritation pressed down on Lucanis at the sight of the former Venatori.

“Margot just needs a few minutes,” Servis said as he came closer. “She’s fine. I eased the nausea a little with magic.”

“You’re a healer too?” Dellamorte couldn’t help himself.

Servis crossed his arms and gave a noncommittal shrug.

“When you’re a battle mage, it’s necessary. I know the basics, and that’s enough for now.” His gray eyes scanned the large Taint-pods in the distance. “Kaffas! We need to destroy those.”

Lucanis bristled; the last thing he wanted was to agree with Servis.

“You a gambler, ‘Demon of Virantium’?” the mage asked. “Bet you I can burst more Blight-pods than you.”

Teresa gave a low laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Not interested,” Lucanis waved him off, irritation boiling close to the surface.

“As you wish,” Servis shrugged — and charged the Blight, staff already in hand.

“Mierda!” Dellamorte swore and dashed after him. Teresa’s laughter rang behind him, bright and contagious.

"Idiocy", flashed through his mind.

Servis towered above most, theatrically swinging his staff and blasting the Blight with fire.

Lucanis drew rapier and dagger. Each move was measured, precise. His blades sliced through crimson pods, the stench of corruption stinging his nose.

“Come on, ‘Demon of Virantium’!” Servis shouted over the roar of flames. “Can’t keep up?”

Lucanis felt Spite’s wings flare behind him. His rapier skimmed across a pod’s surface, the dagger finishing it off in the same instant — the Blight hissed and died.

One. Two. Three. The thrill rose in him, like when he and Illario used to compete as children in speed and accuracy.

Servis fought loud, explosive, his fire scorching swathes of ground. Lucanis fought sharp and silent, his blades a blur, faster than he’d thought himself capable.

“Nine!” he shouted.

“Eleven!” the mage called back, but Lucanis could tell from his voice — he was lying.

The rapier plunged into a particularly large pod. With a pop, the Blight burst apart. Spite’s wings lifted him, and Dellamorte realized, for the first time that day, he was smiling.

When the last pod burst, he paused, rolling his neck, then cast a quick glance at Servis. The mage exhaled heavily, then stepped closer and held out a hand. His grin looked genuine.

“All right, I’ll admit it. Today, you win.”

Lucanis tightened his grip on the rapier, reluctant to sheath it. His chest still simmered with irritation — but beneath it lay the taste of victory. He slowly extended his hand, and the mage smirked.

 

***

The trek through the valley felt endless. There were so many darkspawn that Teresa was genuinely shocked at their numbers. The fighting was grueling, and de Riva constantly kept watch to make sure none of them got close to the pregnant Margaret. The mage fought actively and refused to stand aside, but she stayed toward the back, casting protective barriers and striking with spells.

By the time the sun set, they finally reached the base of the mountain. No more enemies in sight. Lucanis, leading the way, suddenly turned and said in a tone that brooked no argument:

“Camp.”

“Thank the Maker,” Margaret answered with relief.

The group quickly set up tents, and Dellamorte declared firmly:

“I’ll take first watch.”

“I’ll join you,” Teresa offered, but he shook his head.

“Rest, Tess.”

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t sleep. After lying in silence for a while, de Riva slipped out of the tent and spotted Servis by the fire. The mage stood staring into the flames, smoking.

She also saw Lucanis. He clearly had no desire to be near the mage and paced a little farther off. When their eyes met, she gave him a nod — then caught Servis’s gaze.

“I think we should talk,” he said quietly.

Teresa bit her lip, weighing whether she should. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided and walked over.

“About what?” she asked cautiously. Servis grinned, and something stirred inside her.

“You really don’t know?” He sighed heavily. “I won’t take long. I just wanted to know… did you ever think about me? I know, it’s been ten years. You’re with Dellamorte, I’ve been with Neve for a long time, and we’re good. But before her…” Crassius swallowed and drew on his cigarette. “Teresa, I spent three years looking for you.”

“Want to know how it was for me?” She smiled and patted her pockets. Servis immediately offered her his case. Teresa lit up and continued: “I won’t lie — I missed you. I carved out independence from Viago. And only… eight years later did I look at another man.”

“Marcus?” he guessed, and de Riva nodded.

“There’s something unnatural about you knowing everyone who came after,” she joked, feeling a little awkward.

“I feel more sorry for Dellamorte,” Servis shot back, and Teresa laughed, the tension melting from her.

“So… it mattered to you too?” she asked softly, knowing she’d regret it if she didn’t.

“You kidding?” Crassius shook his head. “Because of you I was able to move on, to let go of Margaret. Back then I regretted not finding you, but now… I guess we’re both glad with how things turned out.”

“That’s for sure,” Teresa smiled. “Thank you. I’ve always remembered you warmly, Crassius.”

“And I you, little Crow,” Servis smirked.

She finished her cigarette, tossed it into the fire, and gave a small nod, signaling the conversation was over. Then she headed toward Lucanis. When he spotted her, he smiled, and warmth spread through her chest.

Chapter Text

Morning in the Crossroads was no different from any other time of day. The light of the sun that didn’t exist in this realm never faded, so Teresa woke suddenly, as if she had overslept something important.

Their small camp was already awake. Margaret sat by the fire, watching as Servis boiled water in a small pot. The mage yawned; her curls were a wild halo, and one hand rested absently on her rounded belly. Harding sat beside her, braiding her hair. Across the fire, Lucanis crouched, drinking coffee.

After a brief breakfast, they broke camp quickly. Ahead of them loomed the climb up the mountain, at the top of which lay the eluvians. One of them was supposed to take the group to Skyhold.

As expected, Margaret lagged behind, and Teresa slowed her pace to keep her company. Lucanis and Harding were joking ahead, while Servis snorted at their banter, occasionally tossing in comments of his own.

“Have you been to the South recently?” de Riva asked softly.

The mage smiled faintly, shrugging.

“That depends on what you call ‘the South.’ If the Free Marches count, then not long ago. A few months before…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Before the war began, we lived in Ostwick with my parents.”

Teresa recalled hearing about the Inquisitor and his sister. Everyone knew that Philip and Margaret’s father had been the Teyrn of Ostwick — the ruler of the city-state.

“And your parents?”

“They stayed in the city,” Rutherford replied with a weak smile. “My father would never abandon his people, and my mother would never abandon him. Fortunately, the darkspawn haven’t reached Ostwick yet. I hope they never do.”

Teresa saw the flicker of worry in the mage’s eyes and quickly changed the subject, silently scolding herself for her lack of tact.

“What’s it like, going back to Skyhold? I’ve heard so much about that legendary place!”

“It’s… emotional,” Margaret admitted. “Ten years ago the fortress buzzed with the energy of those who joined the Inquisition, hoping to stop the Blight. After it dissolved, everyone left. It’ll be hard to see majestic Skyhold in ruins.”

Teresa smiled.

“I heard the fortress has stood for centuries. Maybe a little silence suits it.”

Margaret nodded, but the unease in her eyes betrayed her concern.

“For now, what matters most is that the eluvian still works. Who knows if the darkspawn destroyed it since Philip last used it. Everything else is secondary.”

A question hovered on Teresa’s tongue. Normally she could curb her curiosity, but with the mage, for some reason, it was harder.

“What did you do after the Inquisition?” she asked, hoping Margaret wouldn’t be offended by the personal question. The mage only smiled.

“Cullen and I helped Cassandra and Philip rebuild the Seekers’ Order in Ferelden. There’s a small fortress there, and we lived in it for several years. Later we had to move to Minrathous when I got pregnant. Somehow ten years have passed, and we’ve never really settled down. A bit of Tevinter, a bit of Ferelden, some Ostwick.”

“And where do you feel most at home?”

“In Minrathous,” Margaret admitted. “Of course, it’s not easy for Cullen in Tevinter — but he’s… used to it.”

The last line carried a note of doubt. The mage looked ahead, making sure the others were far enough ahead, then gave a sly smile.

“So how did it happen that you were the Crow from Crassius’s past?”

Teresa flushed, but a smile tugged at her lips.

“Better ask how Crassius turned out to be the mysterious Tevinter mage from my past,” she countered. “I have no idea. The Maker’s twisted humor, no doubt. I never expected to see him again.”

Margaret laughed.

“Crassius always did have a knack for showing up unannounced. During the Inquisition, Philip traveled constantly — closing rifts, helping people. One day he returned to Skyhold and bragged to Dorian and me that he’d captured a Venatori leader in the Western Approach. My brother had this silly habit of asking us about every Tevinter he met — whether we knew them. Can you imagine?” She chuckled. “And you can imagine my shock when he said that the Venatori leader’s name was Crassius Servis.”

“Oh, Maker!” Teresa winced genuinely. “What did you do? Tell the Inquisitor the truth?”

Margaret shook her head, grinning broadly.

“No, I just snuck into Servis’s cell to see for myself. And there I ran into a furious Commander of the Inquisition — but that’s another story.” She paused for a few moments, lost in memory. “Anyway, Crassius is a loyal friend. I’m glad he met Neve, even if she doesn’t like me.”

When they reached the summit, Teresa immediately noticed the towering, gleaming mirrors — the eluvians. She counted seven and turned to Margaret.

The mage was staring at them as though sensing something invisible to everyone else. She circled each one, muttering under her breath in ancient Tevene. Sparks danced from her long fingers.

At last, Rutherford stopped before the one farthest to the right and lifted her hands in a magical gesture. The eluvian came to life. When she finished, Margaret turned to the others.

“This one.”

“Are you sure?” Servis asked quietly. Teresa caught a quick glance at him — the mage looked tense. “I’d rather not end up in some cave in Anderfels.”

The mage arched a brow.

“Do you doubt me, Crassius?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“I’ll go first — make sure it’s safe.”

He stepped into the eluvian, and everyone held their breath. Servis reappeared a minute later and nodded.

“All clear. You can come through.”

Teresa watched as the mage, then Margaret and Harding, disappeared into the eluvian. She caught Lucanis’s brooding look; seizing the brief moment alone, de Riva kissed him and stepped into the shimmering mirror.

 

***

Stepping out of the eluvian, they found themselves in a small chamber. In front of them stood a simple wooden door; stone walls surrounded them on all sides. The air was stale, as if no one had been here in years. Lucanis followed Teresa out, his breath brushing against her neck.

“So this is the famed Skyhold?” he quipped. “I imagined something a bit more… grand.”

Margaret snorted and started toward the door, but Servis blocked her path.

“Not so fast,” he said firmly. “Let me make sure the courtyard’s safe first.”

“I’m coming with you,” Lucanis volunteered.

Teresa knew Dellamorte couldn’t stand aside. Crassius gave a silent nod, and the two men disappeared through the door.

Margaret hugged her arms around herself.

“It’ll be unpleasant if Skyhold’s been taken by darkspawn.”

“If there’s an army out there, we’re not fighting through it,” Harding muttered. “We’ll have to retreat.”

The scout was unusually serious, and Teresa couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her like this.

The men returned a few minutes later, and Servis announced confidently, “It’s clear. The courtyard’s safe.”

The name courtyard seemed generous when Teresa finally stepped outside. In the distance stood a stone gazebo and a patch of overgrown grass. Margaret sighed.

“They used to grow elfroot here so the healers would never run short,” she said for no clear reason.

Servis turned to her with a teasing glint in his eye.

“Is that the weight of years speaking, Margot?”

Rutherford raised a thin brow and replied in Tevene — no translation needed. Teresa couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips. Crassius didn’t take offense; he only chuckled, clearly having expected that exact reaction.

“We should move,” Harding interjected, cutting off the harmless exchange.

She looked so focused that Teresa could easily picture her ten years younger, just as dutiful and sharp, carrying out the Inquisition’s orders.

“As our scout commands,” Servis said with a mock bow.

The icy glare Harding shot him served as answer enough.

“So much tension,” Lucanis murmured in Antivan, his black eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can you imagine the play this would make?”

“The royal court would love it,” Teresa replied.

Servis strode ahead, and Harding, clearly less than thrilled, hurried after him. Teresa bit her lip, suppressing a laugh; the tall mage and the small scout chasing him looked comical together.

“Focus,” the Crow muttered to herself in Antivan.

Dellamorte heard her. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it.

“We’ll be fine,” he said quietly but with conviction. “Don’t worry, Tess.”

Servis and Harding crossed the courtyard confidently and approached one of the many doors. There, Crassius slowed, gesturing for the scout to go first, and for a fleeting moment Teresa caught his troubled look. It piqued her curiosity, but she stayed silent.

Everything fell into place when, after passing through a corridor, Harding led them into a grand hall. The ceiling soared high above them. At the far end, an enormous stained-glass window depicted the Inquisition’s banner, and before it stood a majestic throne. On either side rose statues — symbols of the Free Marches.

Legends about this place had reached even Antiva, thanks to visiting nobles who couldn’t resist boasting of their pilgrimage to Skyhold. Here the Inquisitor had once delivered judgment upon his enemies, and Teresa glanced toward Servis. The mage’s gray eyes were fixed on the throne, his expression grim. Imagining Crassius chained before Philip made her chest tighten. For him, this hall was clearly a reminder of what he once had been.

Margaret looked around with a smile. Noticing Servis’s mood, she said casually, “It’s something, isn’t it? Coming back here years later — seeing how far we’ve come and who we’ve become.”

The tactful comment did its job: Crassius visibly relaxed, and Teresa felt a wave of warmth toward the mage. Margaret clapped her hands.

“Want me to show you the Inquisitor’s chambers?”

“Oh, come on, Margot, we don’t have time for that,” Servis grumbled, and Harding reluctantly nodded, as if agreeing with him was a special kind of pain.

Teresa saw Margaret’s face fall and felt a pang of sympathy. Besides, she was genuinely curious to explore Skyhold now that they were here.

“Surely we can spare an hour?” she asked sweetly, glancing at Crassius.

Servis let out an inarticulate sound — somewhere between annoyance, exasperation, and mild despair.

“She’s right,” Margaret added brightly, flashing him a winning smile.

Crassius rolled his eyes.

“I get it,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “This is your grand plan, Maker. I’ve angered you enough, and you’ve cursed me with not one but two infuriating women who can twist me around their fingers.”

“The third’s waiting back at the Lighthouse,” Margaret chimed in sweetly. “And does Evelina count?”

“Silence,” he replied with mock irritation. “Fine. Let’s make it quick — no nostalgia.”

Margaret beamed. Even Harding cracked a smile.

“It would be foolish to reach Skyhold and not take a look around,” the scout admitted.

Rutherford led them toward the throne, then pointed to a door on the left.

“That’s where Philip lived during the Inquisition.”

“Not exactly the most secure location,” Lucanis observed, scanning the hall. “You can’t enter or leave unnoticed. Did the Inquisitor have a secret passage?”

Margaret shook her head.

“No secret passages.”

“Reckless,” Dellamorte remarked.

The mage guided them inside, and after climbing a stone staircase, they entered what had once been the Inquisitor’s chambers. Teresa froze. The balcony doors were wide open, and the spacious room was blanketed in snow. Margaret frowned and shivered.

“It was cozier when Philip lived here,” Servis quipped.

They explored the fortress. Rutherford showed them the battlements and two towers — one that had belonged to the Inquisition’s commander and another that once housed the mages and the First Enchanter’s office. Ten years of neglect had left everything in disrepair, yet Margaret kept her expression steady. When they reached her old study, she ran her hand along the stone wall, smiling softly.

“Skyhold changed my whole life,” she said, her voice tinged with nostalgia.

At the fortress bridge, the group ran into darkspawn, but dealt with them almost playfully. Teresa noticed how Dellamorte and Servis moved in sync, covering each other’s backs. Perhaps it was simply because she herself provided support, while Harding and Margaret attacked from a distance.

The descent from the mountain took time. The road once laid by the Inquisition was buried under a thick layer of snow. Though Crassius burned it away with magic to clear their path, night had already fallen by the time they reached the foot of the mountain. From below, Skyhold looked even more imposing, but Harding frowned, paying the fortress no mind.

“We can’t keep moving blind through the dark.”

No one dared argue with the seasoned scout, so they set up camp among the trees, hoping the darkspawn wouldn’t catch their scent.

At dawn, Harding was the first awake and urged them to hurry. She clearly wanted to get out of the mountains quickly, where they could easily be trapped. Still, Teresa suspected impatience had more to do with the prospect of seeing her parents again. Either way, no one objected, and by nightfall the group finally emerged onto the plains of Ferelden.

 

***

The journey to the Hinterlands took a full day. When a dense forest came into view, Harding sniffed suspiciously, but everyone tactfully stayed silent.

The Blight was everywhere. It coated the ground, coiled thickly around the trees, and bubbled in clusters that oozed and pulsed. Harding shot the blisters from a distance with her bow, and now and then Servis tried to destroy them with magic before she could.

There were plenty of darkspawn, though thanks to Harding they managed to avoid the main horde. After an especially brutal fight, Margaret brushed a damp lock of curls from her forehead and said quietly,

“I can’t remember if I’ve said this before, but… thank you. For coming with me into all this danger.”

Lucanis felt a faint smile tug at his lips. His arms and legs ached from constant tension, his fragile rest had been interrupted again, but Dellamorte knew these were only temporary hardships. Helping a friend — and that was what he’d begun to consider Margaret — was worth it.

Teresa, standing beside him, waved a hand dismissively.

“No need, Margot.”

“Oh, there’s every need,” the mage countered, but Servis cut her off:

“You can thank us once we’re back in Minrathous — or at least at the Lighthouse.”

His timing was uncanny: darkspawn appeared in the distance. Lucanis felt a wave of exhaustion so deep it bordered on despair, but his fingers only tightened around his blades.

By evening of the third day, a military encampment rose on the horizon. Nearby loomed a stone fortress.

“Redcliffe,” Harding said simply.

A hush fell. There was no need for words, though Lucanis wondered if the others felt the same quiet relief that he did.

The camp sprawled across a massive field scarred by wagon tracks and hoofprints. Hundreds of tents of varying colors and crests peeked out behind wooden palisades. Even from afar came the murmur of countless voices and the clang of hammers on anvils. As they approached, Lucanis caught the smell of roasting meat and realized just how hungry he was. Then the wind shifted, replacing the savory aroma with the sharp tang of horse manure. Teresa sighed.

Two rings of wooden palisades surrounded the camp, with watchtowers and banners between them. Lucanis easily recognized the flags of Ferelden, Orlais — and even the disbanded Inquisition.

At the entrance stood five guards in heavy armor and helmets. They stiffened visibly when they saw the approaching group.

Lucanis glanced at Servis, who merely shrugged, and Margaret stepped forward resolutely. Her loose black cloak concealed her pregnancy well.

“My name is Margaret Pavus Rutherford,” she began. “I am the wife of Commander Cullen and sister to the Inquisitor. With me are battle mage Crassius Servis, Inquisition scout Lace Harding, and two Antivan Crows — Teresa de Riva, known as Rook, and Lucanis Dellamorte. I’ve come from Minrathous to speak with my husband.”

“Right, of course,” one of the soldiers scoffed. “And I’m the Empress of Orlais!”

“Shut it, Lloyd,” another barked. Lucanis noticed this one studying Margaret closely. “If you’re really the Commander’s wife, then tell me — what position does his brother hold in camp?”

The mage let out a dramatic sigh.

“Branson is captain of the guard. He oversees camp defenses in case of an ambush. His wife, along with Cullen’s sisters, handles supplies.”

The guard who’d asked the question bowed.

“My apologies, milady. You understand — times being what they are…”

“Think nothing of it,” Margaret said with a kind smile.

“And these?” Lloyd couldn’t resist asking again, earning another sharp rebuke from his companion.

“You think Lady Rutherford should travel in times like these without protection? Idiot!”

They were waved through. Inside, the camp was practically a city. Soldiers from different armies moved everywhere, distinguished by their armor. Lucanis spotted several mages practicing fire spells on a training field. He nearly bumped into a young man hauling a crate of potions. Someone was repairing a wagon with a missing wheel, others were pitching tents or feeding horses.

“Margot!” Servis’s booming voice cut through the noise of the camp. “Do you actually know where we’re going?”

Margaret froze; annoyance flickered across her lovely face, but she merely shrugged with deliberate nonchalance.

“We’ll figure it out, Crassius.”

They made their way through the maze of tents until Harding suddenly gasped. Ahead, near a tent, stood two older dwarves. The woman’s red hair, streaked with gray, made the resemblance unmistakable. Lucanis saw Harding glance questioningly at Teresa, who looked just as surprised.

“You kidding? Go!” Teresa said. “We’ll find you later.”

Harding’s face lit up, and she ran toward her parents. Warmth spread in Lucanis’s chest; he was genuinely happy for her. Whatever tension had once existed between him and the scout was long gone — replaced by mutual respect.

Even though the camp buzzed like an overfilled hive, Dellamorte still felt the weight of hostile, watchful eyes.

“They staring at you too?” Teresa asked quietly in Antivan. He nodded.

“Can’t blame them. We’re the first Antivan Crows to set foot in Ferelden in… well, ages.”

“What? In the center of the camp?” Margaret’s voice carried from ahead, and Lucanis turned his attention back to her.

“And how do we get there?” she asked.

“Straight that way,” a balding man hauling a chest said, jerking a thumb westward.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and torches flared to life, lighting their path. From somewhere came the strains of Fereldan songs. At last, a tent stood out among the rest.

Tall and made of dark blue canvas, it looked more like a makeshift citadel than a tent. Thick ropes held the walls taut. Three guards stood by the entrance, their helmetless faces warning that no one entered uninvited.

Margaret didn’t hesitate. She strode straight toward them.

“If they don’t let her in, I’ll pity the guards,” Servis muttered, now walking beside Teresa.

“The commander said no one gets through,” one of the guards declared flatly, sneaking a wary glance at the group behind her. “He’s in a war council.”

“Is that so?” Margaret asked sweetly.

She tilted her head, and Lucanis could almost see the struggle inside her — between restraint and sheer longing to see her husband. Finally, Rutherford’s voice rang out, steady and commanding:

“Five months. It’s been five months since I last saw my husband. And right now, I swear by the Maker himself, I’d love to see which one of you plans to stop me.”

The guards stared at her in disbelief, as if they’d never seen anyone so determined. Lucanis’s lips twitched into a smile.

“If that really is the Commander’s wife, it’s easier to let her through,” one guard muttered. “Let him deal with her himself.”

“Agreed,” said another. “Go ahead, Lady Rutherford. And these?”

“These?” Margaret’s voice dripped with frost and just a touch of superiority. “Oh, just the best mage-killer in Thedas, the First Talon of the Antivan Crows, Lucanis Dellamorte; Teresa de Riva, known as Rook; and Crassius Servis — an agent of the Inquisitor. They’re with me. Nonnegotiable.”

Lucanis heard Servis let out a strangled noise — half stifled laughter. Teresa bit her lip, shoulders trembling.

"This evening’s going to be interesting," Dellamorte thought as they followed the mage inside.

 

***

The first thing Teresa felt upon stepping into the spacious command tent was warmth. Her eyes quickly took in the massive wooden table at its center, covered with carved figurines — clearly, this was where battle plans were drawn.

Then she became aware of the stunned stares fixed on her and the others. The Inquisitor, Philip Trevelyan, stood at the head of the table, with his wife, Lady Cassandra, just behind him.

To the left stood a man who could only be the commander of the long-dissolved Inquisition — Cullen Rutherford. Even in Antiva, he had quite the fan following; to this day, one could buy rather indecent marketplace sketches depicting a broad-shouldered, curly-haired blond man who looked remarkably like him.

And on the other side… Teresa swallowed hard. The piercing light eyes, neatly combed reddish hair, and regal attire left no doubt — the man before her was none other than King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden himself.

Beside him stood a man of about fifty, dark chestnut hair, his face serious and stern — clearly a Fereldan general. But the figure just behind the king made Teresa’s stomach tighten. The tanned, fair-haired elf looked familiar, and if he was who she thought he was, things were about to get much more complicated.

Silence hung heavy over the war council. Every face in the tent reflected equal parts shock and confusion at their sudden appearance. Finally, Margaret spoke, calm but firm:

“Forgive the intrusion, but I need to speak with Commander Cullen.”

Teresa turned a curious glance toward Margaret’s husband. He looked completely dumbfounded. When she shifted her gaze to the Inquisitor, she saw genuine concern etched across his face.

Cullen opened his mouth as if to speak, but words failed him. Fortunately, the king came to his rescue.

“Well,” Alistair said, “I think a break would do everyone good.”

Philip blinked, then seized the moment.

“His Majesty is, as always, correct. Still, let’s not forget our manners.” He gestured elegantly toward his sister. “Allow me to introduce my younger sister, Margaret Pavus Rutherford, Senior Enchanter of the Imperial Circle of Minrathous. Accompanying her is Crassius Servis, battle mage of the organization Dragons of Shadow, advocates for reform in Tevinter. To his left stands Mistress Teresa de Riva — the very same Rook, currently fighting against Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain in the North.”

He presented them all with the smooth, formal grace of a man hosting a royal banquet. A polite smile curved the Inquisitor’s lips — the sort born of rigorous etiquette training.

“And I presume that beside Mistress de Riva is Lucanis Dellamorte, the famous Antivan Crow, recently appointed as First Talon.”

Teresa was faintly surprised the Inquisitor knew that much, but she pushed the thought aside, her eyes locking onto the elf she’d noticed earlier. The moment he heard Lucanis’s name, he paled and took a step back. Teresa didn’t miss the way his hand twitched toward his belt.

“May I present His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin, ruler of Ferelden,” Philip continued, his tone still perfectly courtly — Teresa had to suppress a laugh. “Beside him stands Commander of the Royal Army, Teyrn Fergus Cousland, and just behind… the king’s royal advisor…” Philip hesitated, realization dawning mid-sentence. He finished far more quietly, and with less confidence: “Zevran Arainai.”

Teresa looked at Lucanis. He was grinning, black eyes locked on the elf. Her suspicion was confirmed.

It was Zevran — the Antivan Crow who, more than twenty years ago, had been ordered to assassinate the Grey Warden in Ferelden. Arainai had failed his mission — and, worse, had joined the Hero of Ferelden.

Teresa knew all too well what that betrayal had cost House Arainai: their name had become infamous, their contracts vanished, and their reputation sank like a ship in a storm. Among the Crows, treason had only one answer — death. They had been hunting Zevran for over two decades. And yet… here he stood, alive, serving as royal advisor to the King of Ferelden.

The elf grinned broadly.

“Well, well. The first Antivan Crows to set foot in Ferelden in twenty years!”

A flick of movement — and a dagger flashed into Lucanis’s hand. Teresa reacted instantly, grabbing his sleeve.

“Not the best time, don’t you think?” she murmured in Antivan.

Dellamorte scowled but sheathed the blade. Around them, everyone visibly relaxed.

“Dinner, perhaps?” Philip offered pleasantly, as if nothing had happened.

“Not for me,” Margaret said, shaking her head.

Taking her husband’s hand, she led him out of the tent. Teresa swallowed, feeling the weight of the others’ gazes on her.

“Sounds like a good idea,” she said meekly.

 

***

Outside, the air was cold and the wind sharp. Margaret shivered, wrapping herself tighter in her cloak, and glanced down — her belly wasn’t showing. Then she looked at Cullen. He seemed exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in days, yet despite the weariness, his amber eyes still shone. The mage smiled back.

“Margot, please tell me Eva’s all right,” Cullen said softly.

She nodded.

“She’s fine. Misses you, of course,” Margaret managed a weak smile.

Leaving their daughter had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Dorian and Aquinea — Dorian’s mother, invited from the family estate in Carinus for the occasion — were looking after Evelina and Tony, Philip’s son.

“Then…” Cullen sighed, ruffling his hair. “Please understand me, Margot: I’m thrilled to see you, but… what are you doing here? I wrote to you how dangerous the South is—”

“We need to talk,” she cut him off before he could say anything else.

Cullen nodded.

“My tent’s nearby.”

Margaret followed him. On her husband’s familiar face she could see unmistakable worry. Knowing him as she did, she understood — he was already trying to calculate every possible reason for her sudden appearance, every scenario of what might have happened. With each step, his frown deepened.

At last they reached a small tent that looked more like a soldier’s quarters than the Commander’s. Hardly the sort of place one would imagine the leader of the southern forces against the darkspawn army living in. Still, Cullen ushered her inside. Clearing the old desk buried under papers, he lit a few candles. Then he turned to her, saying nothing, but the question in his eyes was plain.

Margaret exhaled. Her heart was pounding wildly. Her fingers reached for the ties of her cloak, and it fell open. Beneath it was a black mage’s robe stretched tight across her stomach. Cullen’s eyes widened; his face went slack with shock.

“You…”

The mage swallowed hard — nausea rising with the flood of nerves.

“I wanted to remind you,” she said quietly, “that you have a family waiting for you in Minrathous.”

Cullen smiled faintly and stepped closer. Gently, he touched her face, then laid his other hand on her belly.

“Maker’s breath, Margot…”

“Don’t talk,” she hissed, her eyes filling with tears.

The commander gave a soft laugh, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her fiercely. His fingers were already fumbling for the fastenings of her robe.

“You have no idea,” he whispered against her lips, “how much I’ve missed you…”

 

***

After Margaret and Cullen left, an awkward silence settled over the command tent. The king and his advisors suddenly remembered urgent business and followed suit. Servis, however, noticed how Dellamorte’s eyes lingered on the elf standing beside the king.

Curiosity wasn’t considered a sin in the Imperium, and Crassius felt it in every fiber of his being. What was the story between the Antivan Crows and the king’s advisor? Judging by the elf’s evasive remarks, the Crows clearly had a score to settle. Zevran had mentioned twenty years — so Servis made the obvious deduction: this must go back to the Blight. A pity he hadn’t heard the tale before; in 9:31, he’d been nineteen and thinking of only two things — how to make money and how to get as many women into his bed as possible.

Recalling those “glorious” days, Crassius chuckled — and instantly regretted it. Every pair of eyes turned toward him. But embarrassment had never been his habit, so he flashed a wide grin and shook his head theatrically.

“_Vishante kaffas,_ can’t a man have a thought anymore?”

He caught the Inquisitor’s stern gaze, and his smile vanished at once. Over the past ten years, Crassius had done the Trevelyan family many favors, but one sharp look from Philip was still enough to make him feel like he was back in Skyhold’s grand hall, shackled before the throne.

“What are you doing in the South?” the Inquisitor demanded.

Crassius grimaced inwardly — of course the question was for him. Keeping his tone composed, he replied,

“This was Margaret’s affair. She needed to speak with Cullen and asked us to accompany her.”

The evasive answer clearly didn’t please Philip. The man frowned.

“Has something happened?”

Crassius relaxed a little; there was no accusation in the Inquisitor’s tone — just concern for his sister.

“Philip, you know me — I don’t make a habit of revealing other people’s secrets. That’s a question for your sister.”

Philip snorted, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

“Reckless and dangerous, nonetheless…”

“As if you don’t know Margot,” Cassandra interjected firmly. The Inquisitor’s wife looked genuinely worried. “How’s Anthony?” she blurted.

Crassius’s chest tightened. The boy’s eyes always carried a quiet longing for his parents. Choosing his words carefully, he said simply,

“He misses you. But he trains every day — with the sword, too. We sparred recently, and I even showed Tony a few tricks.”

Cassandra listened intently, then gave a skeptical little snort.

“You?” she asked.

Servis clutched his chest dramatically.

“You wound me, Lady Trevelyan!” he exclaimed. “For your information, battle mages are expected to master multiple weapons!”

“I doubt that very much,” the Seeker retorted.

Crassius shot her a look from under his lashes, still smiling.

“Care to test me, my lady?” he said casually — knowing full well that the diplomatic Philip would intervene before the teasing went any further. And he did.

“How’s Evelina? And Dorian?” the Inquisitor asked in a conciliatory tone.

Servis winked at Cassandra before answering smoothly,

“Eva studies diligently with Margot and is making great progress. She misses her father and uses that masterfully to twist me around her finger,” he said with mock exasperation. “Dorian’s busy with Mae and what’s left of the Dragons of Shadow.”

Philip nodded. Cassandra, likely remembering the promised dinner for their guests, quietly left the tent — or so Crassius hoped. It had been a long day since their last meal.

“How goes the battle with the gods?” Philip turned to Teresa. Servis saw how the question unsettled her for a heartbeat, but the Antivan Crow recovered quickly.

“They’ve been quiet,” she said steadily. “We’re trying to learn what they’re planning and searching the Crossroads for Solas’s memories. We hope they’ll lead us to answers.”

“You’ll stay for a while, won’t you?” the Inquisitor asked. “Morale’s been low lately, and I believe your presence, Teresa, could lift people’s spirits.”

De Riva gave a noncommittal shrug and glanced at Lucanis. He smiled softly, and she answered with confidence,

“We’ll discuss it with Margaret.”

Servis’s instincts proved right: the Seeker returned, followed by two servants carrying trays. The tent filled with the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread, and Crassius’s mouth watered.

At first, everyone ate in silence, but Servis’s habit of observing others never left him. He saw Lucanis pour wine for Teresa, and her hand rest briefly on his in silent thanks. Cassandra was quietly transferring vegetables from her plate to Philip’s. A familiar ache rose in Crassius’s chest — a longing for Neve. He stifled a sigh, hoping they’d see each other soon.

“I remember our family dinners in Ostwick,” the Inquisitor said suddenly, his brown eyes glinting with warmth. “Only back then, there wasn’t a King of Ferelden sitting next door — or a Blight to contend with.”

Cassandra smiled gently, and Servis nearly stared. He’d seen her in casual settings before, but smiles were rare for her.

“I miss the tactical debates with Lord Trevelyan the Elder,” she admitted softly.

There was melancholy in her tone, and Crassius decided to lighten the mood.

“Lady Seeker, allow me to tell you the tale of how a certain handsome Tevinter found himself in the clutches of Antiva’s most famous poisoner — and escaped only thanks to his extraordinary skill…”

“And his endless chatter?” Cassandra asked dryly.

“Not entirely unrelated,” Crassius replied without missing a beat.

Teresa shifted in her chair, barely containing her impatience.

“Go on! I want to know how you escaped from the dungeons of a noble estate!”

Servis chuckled, pleased by the attention, and launched into his story, sparing no detail. He embellished a few moments for flair, but judging by the amused faces around him, everyone enjoyed it. When he finished, de Riva leaned back, shaking her head.

“And after that, you still want to meet Viago?”

“You wound me…” Crassius began, but footsteps interrupted him — Cullen and Margaret had returned.

Everyone turned. The mage was still wrapped in her black cloak, though her tousled curls spilling over her shoulders made it clear the conversation with her husband had gone well. Cullen was smiling faintly, and Crassius felt a flicker of happiness for him. He knew how much the man loved his daughter; another child would be pure joy for him.

Philip’s eyes filled with concern as he looked at his sister.

“Margot…”

“She’s pregnant,” Cullen announced, beaming, suddenly looking years younger.

Philip and Cassandra gasped, then rushed to embrace the mage.

“A toast!” Dellamorte declared, rising to his feet. “In Antiva we say: if you want love to live long, give it a name and a cradle. And I’ll add — may he or she live in the peace we fight for.”

He raised his goblet. Margaret’s face lit up, and Cassandra added softly,

“To life.”

The cups clinked together. Smiles spread around the table, and Crassius realized he hadn’t seen this group so relaxed in years. It was good — just for a few hours — to forget the hardship and horror that came with every war.

"It’s for moments like these we keep going," he thought, taking a slow sip of his wine.

Chapter Text

Stars shimmered above Treviso. Viago de Riva tore his gaze from the night sky and let out a weary sigh, rubbing the ache from his eyes after a long day. The exhaustion he’d been fighting for hours — sustained only by strong coffee — was finally winning. He tilted his head back, working the stiffness from his neck muscles, which had gone rigid by evening.

He’d been raised never to show weakness, so he straightened his back and surveyed the room, slipping — as always — into his signature posture of quiet authority.

The upper floor of the Cantori family’s Diamond casino — which served as the Antivan Crows’ headquarters — was nearly empty, though laughter and the clatter of dice rose from below. Viago grimaced with disdain. Even in times as grim as these, people found solace in their vices, squandering their nights in games of chance. The thought filled him with disgust, as if he’d been forced to wade through a sewer.

Still, few Crows were in sight tonight — at least, none within view.

Soft footsteps echoed behind him. Viago knew that sound too well — Teia. Sure enough, his lover slipped her arms around his shoulders, her thick black curls brushing his neck. Warmth bloomed in his chest.

“Done for the night?” the elf whispered into his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Waiting for Mateo,” Viago answered evenly. He knew that if he showed even the slightest sign of how she affected him, she’d drag him off without hesitation. “I sent him to check on the Lighthouse.”

“What’s wrong?” Teia pulled back, taking a seat in the chair beside him.

Viago allowed himself the brief indulgence of looking her over — beautiful as ever.

“No word from Teresa.”

“So what?” The elf snorted. “You’re at it again, aren’t you, Vi? She’s got her hands full! Probably chasing gods somewhere.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe. But I need to be sure.”

“If you’re that worried about your cousin, you could’ve gone to the Lighthouse yourself,” Teia teased with a smile.

Viago arched a brow.

“If I’ve learned anything lately, it’s that Teresa doesn’t need my supervision.”

Teia laughed, clearly unconvinced. She stretched, then reached out and pressed a warm palm to his forehead.

“Strange. No fever,” she said with a broad grin.

Viago sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes. She withdrew her hand and stretched again.

“Mateo left long ago?”

He tried to recall but found his tired mind sluggish. He wouldn’t admit it, but she was right — they both needed rest.

Suddenly, more footsteps echoed. The rhythmic tap of a cane on the wooden floor announced Caterina Dellamorte. Viago and Teia rose at once to greet the former leader of the Antivan Crows.

Caterina looked as composed and formidable as ever — her silver hair pulled into a tight knot, clad in dark leather armor. Without wasting words, the former First Talon sat across from Viago.

“My people received word from an anonymous source,” she began, skipping any formalities. “He claims he wants to speak with Rook — and that he knows where the ritual will take place.”

“The very thing Teresa’s been looking for!” Teia exclaimed.

Mistress Dellamorte nodded.

“I’ll try to learn who this informant is,” she said calmly — then her gaze shifted past Viago’s shoulder.

He turned to see Mateo approaching. The young man greeted them politely, though his smile was hesitant.

“You won’t like the news, master.”

Irritation prickled instantly.

“Speak,” Viago ordered curtly.

“At the Lighthouse, they told me Teresa went south — with Crassius Servis and Margaret Rutherford,” Mateo said, his tone uneasy. “Lucanis went with them, of course.”

“As if my grandson would do otherwise,” Caterina remarked dryly.

Viago shot her a questioning look. The former First Talon didn’t seem remotely as troubled as he felt. He, however, had his reasons.

A few days earlier, he’d had a conversation with Marcus — a former member of the house — who, seeking to make amends, had revealed the name of the mage who’d escaped the de Riva estate’s dungeon. Crassius Servis. Viago doubted he’d soon forget the man who had managed to make a fool of him.

Did Teresa know?

“Vi?”

He blinked and turned toward Teia. The elf was smiling playfully.

“Mateo, you left a note for Rook at the Lighthouse, didn’t you?” she asked in her sweetest voice.

“Of course,” the young man nodded.

“Good,” Teia said, standing and stretching like a cat. “Then, if no one objects, I’m stealing our Fifth Talon for the evening. He could use a little… unwinding.”

Catarina chuckled and rose with some effort. Viago couldn’t help the flicker of concern that passed through him — she was getting older, after all.

“When they return, let me know,” she said.

“You’re awfully calm, Caterina,” Viago remarked suddenly. “Doesn’t it worry you that Lucanis and Teresa are in the South?”

Mistress Dellamorte’s expression didn’t change.

“Why should it?” she said simply. “I know my grandson, Viago. He’ll return safe and sound. And if your charming cousin’s silver tongue helps, we might even see our Ferelden contracts restored.”

He could only stare helplessly as Caterina walked toward the exit. He came to himself only when Teia’s hand brushed his.

“Come on, Vi,” she said with a smile. “I don’t like it when my plans fall through.”

 

***

The evening passed with an easy warmth, as if Lucanis had known the Inquisitor and his family all his life. Stepping out of the tent, he glanced at Teresa. She looked openly exhausted; more than once over the last couple of hours he’d caught her stifling a yawn. Thankfully, their hosts had provided tents.

“I think the Inquisitor said left, right?” Teresa asked.

Lucanis nodded and slipped an arm around her shoulders. The hard days on the road had taken their toll: Crows were used to travel, but fighting darkspawn with danger at every step was another matter. *I told them we should bring Davrin,* he thought, but said nothing aloud.

His eyes caught motion; his rapier was in his hand in a fraction of a second. Teresa reacted just as fast, shaking off her fatigue. Zevran Arainai stepped out from the shadow of a nearby tent.
Lucanis felt his mouth twist with contempt. He’d never seen the traitor in person until today, but he’d known the members of House Arainai — most of them now dead. Zevran looked so much like the sister they’d lost that it stole his breath.

Lucanis didn’t bother to speak first; he saw no point. Twenty years ago, when he himself was just finishing his training, House Arainai had taken a contract from Loghain Mac Tir, the famed general who had freed Ferelden from Orlesian occupation. The kingdom had been ravaged by both the Blight — an invasion of darkspawn — and a civil war sparked by King Cailan’s death.

Zevran’s contract had been simple in theory: kill the Hero of Ferelden. He failed — and worse, he joined her party, severing his path as an Antivan Crow forever.

Such things were never forgiven. Betrayal — common enough — was punished harshly; death was almost a mercy.

Naturally, House Arainai could not let it stand. Word spread immediately; their reputation deteriorated year after year. Neither the family nor Catarina’s people — who had reluctantly sent killers in recent years — managed to take Zevran down.

“Shall we talk?”

The question came in Antivan. Lucanis surfaced from his thoughts and measured the elf with a cool stare. If he’d just been in council with the king, this was serious. Traitors were killed discreetly; this was not the moment, infuriating as it was.

“Is there anything to say?” Lucanis asked coldly.

“Will you simply kill me?” Zevran grinned. “Has my head become so valuable after twenty years that they sent the *Demon of Virantium* himself?”

Lucanis cut him a glacial look. His mind was already running the outcomes. Everything he’d been taught screamed one thing — kill.

“Enough,” Teresa said, stepping in. She sheathed her rapier, folded her arms, and snapped in Antivan, “What do you want, Zevran Arainai?”

“Wanted to know if it’s time to run,” he shot back with a smirk. Lucanis felt Spite stir, wings unfurling behind him. “Twenty years of being hunted has been an *interesting* adventure.” Zevran glanced at the wings as if doubting his own eyes. Tearing his gaze from Lucanis, he looked at Teresa. “It’s not safe outside the lines, you know. Thought I’d confirm the rules of the game.”

“We’re not here for you,” Teresa ground out.

“Oh, please, darling,” Zevran laughed, tipping his head back. “Since when do Antivan Crows play escort to important personages like the Inquisitor’s sister?”

“Call her that again…” Lucanis hissed.

The elf lifted his hands in surrender — message received.

“There’s a thing called friendship,” Teresa countered. “It outweighs any contract, Zevran.”

“How I missed Antivan high rhetoric,” Arainai said, shaking his head with a warm smile. “Fereldans are good folk, but very… restrained.”

No one answered. Lucanis forced himself calm, and felt the wings recede. Zevran bit his lip, thought for a few beats, then asked:

“How is Caterina?”

“Thanks to your prayers,” Teresa shot back. A wash of tenderness hit Lucanis at the sound of her voice. “Anything else, Zevran?”

“Is she still First Talon? Rumors said she was dead.”

“Alive,” Lucanis said flatly. “And *I’m* First Talon.”

Even in the gloom, Lucanis saw Zevran swallow.

“And now what?” the elf asked. “Do I drop to my knees and beg forgiveness? Confess? Or would you prefer to kill me outright?”

“As if that would erase the betrayal,” Lucanis snarled. “Do you even know what House Arainai went through? Are you aware your family was slaughtered not so long ago?”

Zevran’s face darkened; he looked away, then nodded.

“I was told,” he said, voice low. “But they weren’t killed because of me.”

“Correct,” Lucanis said. “The shame on House Arainai — that’s on your conscience, Zevran.”

What to do with him, Lucanis had no idea. Killing the king’s advisor under Alistair’s and the Inquisitor’s noses would be idiotic. Sending men south through darkspawn-infested lands was a waste; the Crows were needed in Antiva. There was no clean answer.

Teresa looked between the two men. Lucanis met her eyes for a moment. Then she stepped forward, placing herself between them.

“As I said, we didn’t come for you,” she told Zevran. “So what’s the point? As Antivan Crows, we’re bound to kill you. But… the First Talon can end this feud here and now.”

“Tess…” slipped out before Lucanis could stop himself, but her warning glance shut him up.

“My specialty is rare among Crows, Zevran,” she continued, her courtesy flawless but edged with danger. “I’m known as a thief of artifacts — and as the one who’s resolved more than a few court disputes and merchant-prince quarrels. I think we can find a way out of this long, pointless war.”

“What do you propose?” Zevran’s smile went lopsided. Lucanis saw the way the elf looked at Teresa and barely kept himself in check.

“I think a royal pardon from King Alistair for the Antivan Crows would be enough to smother the flames,” she said, as if suggesting a trivial favor.

Lucanis felt shock, a dull rage, and — damn it — exhilaration.

“Tess…”

She looked back and winked.

“Doing my job, First Talon. Please don’t interfere.”

It had been a long time since Lucanis felt this wrong-footed. Still, his eyes tracked Zevran. The elf, clearly weighing his options, gave a small nod.

“Fair enough. I’ll speak with the king.”

He turned to go. On reflex, Lucanis caught Teresa by the wrist and drew her close.

“What are you doing, Tess?” he asked, not unkindly, still dazed.

She smiled and shrugged.

“Ending a decades-long war? Opening a new market for the Antivan Crows?” she ventured. “Viago will be furious… and then thrilled.”

“Viago can go to the Fade itself,” Lucanis said, shaking his head. “When this is over, the only person you’ll work for is me. That is… if you want to.”

Teresa laughed, bright and clear, and slipped from his grasp.

“Not quite how I imagined that conversation,” she teased. “Think about it, Dellamorte, and ask me when we’ve beaten the gods.”

“Deal,” Lucanis said, accepting the challenge. “You’ll never forget an offer like this.”

“Surprise me,” she shot back.

He shook his head, slid an arm around her, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“You’re impossible, Tess,” he whispered.

 

***

The next day, Teresa met the Inquisitor near the command tent. He had promised to show her the camp. The word camp, she quickly realized, didn’t quite fit — it was more like a sprawling tent city, easily rivaling any settlement built of stone, marble, or wood. The army was immense, and no one seemed idle.

The Inquisitor looked good-natured, but his brown eyes were sharp and observant — and soon Teresa saw just how much. Everyone seemed to know Philip Trevelyan: humans, dwarves, and elves in all manner of armor greeted him by placing a fist over their heart.

Teresa watched him with growing interest. Philip didn’t just greet them in return or make introductions — he remembered details. He asked whether a soldier’s leg had healed after the last battle, if another’s children had stopped fighting, whether someone’s cough had gone away. The Inquisitor’s attention to such small things, to people, couldn’t help but move her.

Others, meanwhile, looked at her with curiosity. Teresa’s skin was darker than most southerners’, and it drew notice. Besides, Philip was introducing her as the Rook — the one fighting the ancient elven gods in the North. He always stopped there, but Teresa silently finished the thought: it was up to her to end the Blight once and for all, so that these people could return to rebuilding what the war had destroyed.

Near the field kitchen, a woman suddenly threw her arms around Philip. Teresa blinked in surprise as the Inquisitor laughed and hugged her back. The woman had light, curly hair and looked to be around forty-five. Seeing Teresa’s expression, Philip smiled and explained:

“This is Mia, Commander Cullen’s sister.”

Mia immediately insisted on feeding them both, and though Philip and Teresa tried to decline, she waved them off as if an Inquisitor’s word meant nothing and pressed a hefty slice of pie into each of their hands.

“I can never argue with her,” Philip said around a mouthful, and Teresa couldn’t help a chuckle. Commander Cullen’s sister, it seemed, was a force of nature. After swallowing a bite of cabbage pie, Teresa asked the question that had been nagging her all morning.

“Why did you want me to see the army?”

The Inquisitor smiled warmly, his expression making it clear he already knew she’d been wondering.

“Because motivation is something both war-weary soldiers and you need,” he said calmly. “From your last letter, I gathered that you and your team are searching for the site of Ghilannain and Elgar’nan’s ritual — and that you’ve been helping everyone who follows you.” He paused, then added more softly, “I know it can get lonely doing what you do. So I wanted to ask — do you have anyone helping you, Teresa?”

She smiled. The answer was obvious, and she nodded with quiet conviction.

“Lucanis. I don’t think I’d have made it this far without him.”

Philip chuckled under his breath and took another bite of pie.

“You know, every time I tell Cassandra something like that, she always counters that I’d manage perfectly well without her. And maybe I would. But the truth is — I don’t want to.”

Teresa smiled and nodded.

“That’s… very good, Philip.”

They finished their meal in companionable silence, waved a cheerful goodbye to Mia, and started back toward the command tent. A few minutes later, a Fereldan soldier caught up to them.

“Teresa de Riva?” he asked formally. “You and Lucanis Dellamorte are requested by His Majesty King Alistair’s royal advisor. I’m to escort you.”

“What’s this about?” Philip interjected, his tone suddenly losing all warmth. “I hope His Majesty remembers that Mistress de Riva and her companions are my guests.”

“Of course, my lord.” The soldier gave a brief bow. “I assure you, the royal advisor won’t detain Mistress de Riva and Master Dellamorte for long.”

Teresa glanced at Philip. Worry flickered in his eyes, and she forced a small, reassuring smile.

“Well then,” she said softly, “we’d better find Lucanis.”

 

***

Lucanis Dellamorte could always sense trouble from a mile away. So when he saw Teresa approaching in the distance, accompanied by the Inquisitor and a soldier in Fereldan colors, he immediately suspected something was wrong. One quick look at Trevelyan only confirmed it.

Teresa came closer and brushed his hand lightly — a gesture subtle enough that no one around would notice.

“The king’s royal advisor wants to see us,” she said quietly in Antivan, clearly hoping no one nearby would understand.

Lucanis’s eyes flicked around, scanning for any sign of danger. Finding none, he asked,

“Trouble?”

“Hopefully not,” Teresa replied with a small shrug.

Dellamorte’s gaze swept over the camp again — soldiers walking back and forth, some emerging from tents, others hurrying to rest after long hours on duty.

“Let’s go,” he muttered.

They followed the soldier, while the Inquisitor turned toward the command tent. The farther they walked, the clearer it became: they were being led into the Fereldan section of the camp. They didn’t bother asking questions — they both knew it would be useless.

“You think he actually managed to convince Alistair to accept our offer?” Teresa asked quietly in Antivan.

Lucanis gave a wry half-smile and shook his head.

“Honestly? I doubt it. Your proposal was… diplomatic, given our history with Zevran.”

“Oh, come on,” she countered. “No one’s managed to kill him in twenty years. You have to admit, becoming the royal advisor to the King of Ferelden is quite an achievement. The deal benefits him and us — more contracts for the Crows.”

“I’m not arguing,” Lucanis said with a nod. “But you’re forgetting the Crows who still remember Zevran’s betrayal. They won’t take this kindly. It could set a dangerous precedent.”

“Oh, please,” Teresa snorted. “There aren’t enough kings in Thedas for every traitor to find safe employment. I don’t buy it. Besides, the new First Talon will make it perfectly clear that he doesn’t tolerate betrayal.”

Lucanis rolled his eyes. “Tess, you’re right, but you seem to forget what contract Zevran broke. He was supposed to assassinate the Hero of Ferelden on Loghain Mac Tir’s orders — the very man the current king considers a usurper and a traitor. Even if the offer benefits Zevran personally, I still think royal approval is unlikely.”

“And if he refuses?” Teresa asked. They followed the soldier deeper into the Fereldan camp, and only a fool would miss the unfriendly glances thrown their way. Two Antivan Crows did not make for comforting company.

Lucanis frowned.

“That’s the ugly part. By Crow law, we’re bound to kill a traitor. But picking a fight with the King of Ferelden on his own land would be suicidal.” He paused. “If the king refuses, the hunt for Zevran will continue — after we deal with the gods. I’ll see to it myself.”

“I think he understands that perfectly,” Teresa said with a faint smile. “Which only improves our odds.”

The soldier stopped and gestured toward an unremarkable tent.

“This way.”

Inside, the tent of the king’s royal advisor looked exactly as Lucanis would have imagined his own: everything in its place, nothing excessive. Despite the bottle of wine near the small writing desk, the air didn’t smell of alcohol. Leather straps and sharpened blades hung neatly on the rack.

Zevran was seated at the desk, reading — reports, perhaps. When he saw them, he stood, set the papers aside, and nodded in greeting.

“I spoke with the king,” he said in Antivan without preamble. “His Majesty was… not pleased with your proposal.”

Lucanis felt a pang of annoyance, but Teresa didn’t so much as flinch.

“There’s clearly a ‘but’ coming,” she said dryly.

“Ah, I knew you were one of us,” Zevran replied with a teasing smile. “You can’t imagine how often I miss that kind of quick wit here in Ferelden. Still—” he sighed, “the king and I managed to find a compromise acceptable to both sides.”

“I’m listening,” Lucanis said evenly.

“We’ll sign a contract,” Zevran said, tilting his head. “Between King Alistair and the First Talon. Under its terms, the Antivan Crows agree to cease all pursuit of the former member of House Arainai — now the royal advisor of Ferelden. In return, the Crown will not interfere with Crow operations on Ferelden soil, provided their actions don’t conflict with His Majesty’s interests.”

Lucanis raised a brow.

“In other words, we stay away from the king and his people — and from you — and we’re free to operate in Ferelden again?”

“Ah, it’s such a pleasure to be understood so quickly,” Zevran said with a grin. “Oh yes — one more thing. The king instructed me to tell you the agreement takes effect only after the Blight is ended. He won’t publicly acknowledge the Crows’ presence in Ferelden. But he’ll turn a blind eye to your contracts, so long as they don’t cross his interests.”

Lucanis and Teresa exchanged a glance. She raised an eyebrow in silent question; he nodded once.

“Deal, Zevran,” Lucanis said. “But if this turns out to be a setup, the hunt for your head resumes — and I’ll make sure it’s personal.”

 

***

By evening, the group was ready to begin their journey back. Unlike the others, Servis felt he’d spent his time in the camp wisely — for the first time in ages, he’d actually slept well and now felt prepared for the road ahead through the Blight-stricken lands of Ferelden, the windy Frostback Mountains, and the Crossroads beyond.

Commander Cullen and the Inquisitor escorted them to the edge of the camp. Harding had said her goodbyes to her parents earlier — she told Teresa she didn’t want to make the farewell unbearable.

At the palisade, everyone came to a halt. Margaret pulled Cullen aside to say goodbye, and Crassius did his best not to look in their direction. When he turned away, his eyes met Philip’s, and the Inquisitor didn’t miss the chance.

“Keep them safe, Crassius,” he said seriously.

A pang of bitterness — and faint irritation — shot through Servis. It felt as if Philip couldn’t care less whether he survived. How ridiculous, Crassius thought. Even ten years after that damned encounter in the Western Approach, he still cared what he thought of him. He kept his expression neutral.

“And take care of yourself, especially,” Trevelyan added, clapping him on the shoulder. “You certainly made a name for yourself in Treviso, managing to slip away from Viago de Riva himself, but… don’t take risks like that again, my friend.”

Crassius couldn’t quite suppress the grin that spread across his face, but he managed to nod with a semblance of dignity.

“And you take care, Inquisitor. Tony still needs his father.”

Philip nodded. A flicker of shame hit Crassius — why twist the knife like that? Still, the Inquisitor forced a smile.

“I hope soon Cassandra, Cullen, and I can steal away to Minrathous for a while. More than anything, I want to see my son — but Dorian and Eva too.” He paused, then added, “If we win the coming battle against the darkspawn.”

“With a commander like yours?” Crass put on his most confident look. “I don’t doubt it for a second.” He glanced back at the camp sprawling behind them. “Besides, these people know exactly what’s at stake. They won’t fail — I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you,” the Inquisitor said with a nod, turning his gaze to the distance, perhaps scanning the soldiers beyond. “You’re right, Servis.”

“When am I ever not?” Crassius shot back with a grin.

 

***

Viago de Riva stormed out of the Delamorte estate in a foul mood. Not only had his own men — and those of House Cantori — failed to uncover anything useful, but even Caterina, with all the resources of the Antivan Crows’ leadership at her disposal…

Every instinct, sharpened by logic, screamed in unison: the invitation sent to Teresa for a meeting with the informant was a trap. How could anyone in Treviso possibly know about the gods’ plans unless they were working for the Antaam?

The conclusion was obvious and infuriating. Whoever this mysterious source was, they were clearly an enemy agent.

That didn’t make it any easier to swallow. No one had ever succeeded in infiltrating the Antaam and their rigid Qunari discipline. And truth be told, not a single Antivan Crow would ever agree to gain the occupiers’ trust — not even for Treviso’s sake.

Lost in these unpleasant thoughts, Viago reached his mansion. His spirits lifted somewhat when he found Teia in his bedroom.

The elf had already taken a bath and was half-naked, sitting up in bed and reading reports from House Cantori. She noticed him instantly; the papers were forgotten for the night — as were Viago’s dark thoughts.

 

***

The journey back to the Lighthouse proved far more difficult. The darkspawn had multiplied across Ferelden’s lands.

“The army is preparing for a major battle,” Margaret explained after their latest skirmish. “The darkspawn are advancing from the south, but scouts have also reported an increase in their numbers in the west. That’s why Cullen insisted we leave as soon as possible, before we risk being surrounded.”

“I’d be surprised if the road back were easier,” Lucanis muttered.

“It won’t be long,” Harding said brightly. “The scouts gave me a shorter route to Skyhold. We’ll have to go through one of the mountains, though — there used to be mines there. They said the darkspawn should be fewer at that altitude.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard those creatures were afraid of heights,” Crassius drawled, earning an approving glance from Dellamorte.

Servis suspected the Crow felt the same weight of responsibility he did — for Margaret and her unborn child, for Teresa and Harding. All three of them were more than capable of defending themselves, perhaps even better than he could, but the oppressive urge to protect them wouldn’t let go.

The climb up the narrow, rickety wooden stairs was grueling, especially for Margaret. The mage bore the strain with patience, refusing to slow the group down.

And yet, the southern scouts had been right: in the tight tunnels of the Frostback Mountains, there were almost no darkspawn. Crassius couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his chest — one he stubbornly refused to call fear — that they might be detected from below.

But nothing happened. When Skyhold finally appeared in the distance, the entire party let out a sigh of relief. Crassius knew it was foolish — the Crossroads still lay ahead — but he kept his thoughts to himself.

After a brief rest, they pressed on. The Crossroads greeted them with shimmering air and floating motes of magic. It didn’t calm him; they’d been on the road far too long, and he longed for this journey to finally reach its end.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed before they reached the boat leading to the section that contained the eluvian to the Lighthouse. Crassius glanced over his companions — all of them looked exhausted.

“I think you should rest at the Lighthouse before heading back to Minrathous,” Teresa said softly. “I doubt Margaret’s daughter would be thrilled to see you both dropping from exhaustion.”

Though the words were clearly meant for the mage, Serbis felt a surge of genuine relief. His longing for Neve had become almost unbearable, and he couldn’t deny how much he looked forward to seeing her again.

“Not a bad idea,” Margaret admitted, and Serbis couldn’t hold back a pleased smile.

When they finally stepped off the boat, the group trudged toward the eluvian, running on sheer willpower. Suddenly Teresa froze.

“Mateo?”

A young Antivan Crow was slumped asleep by the mirror, his head resting against the wall. At their approach, he jerked awake and leapt to his feet. Crass couldn’t help the smirk curling at his lips as the boy’s gaze fixed on him.

“You!” Mateo hissed. “The runaway mage!”

The Crow’s green eyes darted between him, Teresa, and Lucanis, as if trying to piece together how his master’s cousin and the First Talon had ended up traveling with their supposed enemy.

“At your service,” Crassius quipped with a mocking little bow. The young Crow’s righteous indignation amused him far too much, though he managed not to laugh outright — no need to wound the boy’s pride.

Mateo scowled, never taking his eyes off him.

“Why are you here?” Teresa asked. “Did something happen?”

“The master sent me to tell you and the First Talon to return to Treviso immediately.”

“That’s not an answer,” Lucanis said in a firm, commanding tone. “Explain.”

The boy sighed heavily, shooting Crass a distrustful look — clearly unwilling to speak in front of him.

“There’s a lead,” he said grimly. “About the gods.”

Crass didn’t miss the way Teresa rolled her eyes. Her muttered curse reached his ears clearly:

“Mierda.”