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Chapter Text

The air in Minrathous always smelled faintly of stormlight and old magic, but after years in Nevarra’s drier climes, Emmrich found the scent almost nostalgic. His boots clicked along the polished marble of the university’s west wing, a sound too precise to be casual, but too soft to command attention. The halls were just as he remembered—arched ceilings strung with quiet enchantments, the glowlamps blooming awake as he passed under them. Nothing had changed, of course. Not the place. Only him.

The offices of the Arcane Forensics Wing always smelled faintly of old paper, scalded coffee, and ozone. Emmrich Volkarin stepped through the familiar threshold and inhaled once, deep and quiet. Time had not changed this place, nor had it changed him—though the weight of Nevarra’s tombs still clung to his coat like dust he hadn’t yet brushed off. Myrna barely looked up from her desk when he entered.

“You’re late,” she said, sliding a stack of folders toward the edge without preamble. “By which I mean on time—but that is late, by my standards.”

“I missed you too,” Emmrich replied, voice low and wry.

Myrna snorted softly, then finally looked up. “Welcome back, Professor Volkarin.”

“Guest lecturer,” he corrected mildly, setting his satchel down by the chair she’d clearly set out for him. “I’m only haunting your halls until the end of the school year.”

She arched a brow. “As if you ever truly leave.”

He turned to find Myrna pouring two steaming cups of something dark and restorative. Her sharp black hair was pinned up as always, her robes severe and lined with runes that whispered with every movement.

“I brought the good brew,” she said, setting one mug down on his desk. “You’re going to need it.”

"I take it the term's already begun without me?"

“With vengeance,” she deadpanned, then passed him a sheaf of notes. “The student board tried to alter your curriculum while you were gone. I held the line.”

Emmrich chuckled, low and warm. “I never doubted you.”

They slipped easily into the work. Syllabus drafts were laid out with surgical precision. The seminar on Magical Pathology was already full. Two visiting students had filed special requests to attend his Spirit-Bound Decay lecture despite being unqualified, and a third had sent a handwritten letter citing his thesis as “spiritually formative.” Myrna handed it to him with a mutter about overachievers and emotional instability.

“The joint case consult is still on schedule,” she said, flipping to the final page. “The university and the Shadow Dragons agreed to share jurisdiction if new evidence comes up. Your involvement remains advisory.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Emmrich murmured, reading over the curriculum notes. “I find policy far more dangerous than blood magic.”

“Try sitting through three committee meetings with Director Pavus,” Myrna muttered. “You’ll change your mind.” As if summoned by the very sound of his name, the office door flung open with unnecessary flourish.

“I knew I felt the ambient rise in intellectual quality,” came a smooth, theatrical voice. “And a faint whiff of old libraries and suppressed feelings. It must be you.” Emmrich looked up just in time to see Dorian Pavus enter with all the subtlety of a stage curtain being torn down. He was dressed impeccably—his robes a tailored fall of deep aubergine with silver embroidery that gleamed when he moved. His smile was wicked, but the warmth behind it was unmistakable.

“Dorian,” Emmrich greeted, rising with restrained fondness. “So good to see you again. I see that you have yet to enter a room with the courtesy of knocking.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dorian asked, embracing him with a brief but sincere pat on the back. “Minrathous has missed its favorite guest lecturer.”

“And how have you been?” Emmrich asked, settling back into his chair. “Still terrorizing first-years with metaphysical paradoxes?”

“Oh, my dear professor. Always. But I’ve saved my best mischief for Professor Hezenkoss, naturally. She’s been unbearable this week—accused the Board of ‘institutional cowardice’ and threatened to disembowel our new assistant dean with an ink quill.”

Emmrich sighed. “Yes, well. Johanna is a hurricane. Minrathous is the only coastline wide enough to survive her.”

“And yet,” Dorian drawled, draping himself into the armchair across from them, “you keep coming back. Not that I’m complaining, but one might think you like the chaos.”

“I enjoy the work that the University of Minrathous gives me,” Emmrich replied, smiling faintly. “And the company of my peers.”

At that, Myrna gave a gruff, wordless grunt of acknowledgment and stood. “I’ll leave you two to gossip. The syllabi are finalized. I’ll file the paperwork and let the registrar know you’ve returned.” With the sharp snap of a folder under her arm and the efficient swish of her robes, she was gone—leaving only the scent of ink and the echo of competence behind.

Dorian leaned forward once the door shut. “Now that the adult supervision has left, tell me—have there been any updates on your dull love life while abroad?”

“No,” Emmrich replied simply.

“Oh c’mon, not one tryst or short-lived relationship, then? Don’t be stingy, Emmrich. It's been forever since I'd last seen you.”

“I was working.”

“Which is exactly the problem.” Dorian sighed, waving a hand. “You deserve something a bit warmer than your thesis and assortment of decorative skulls. Honestly, I worry you’ll retire surrounded by bones and still manage to be celibate by choice.” Emmrich gave him a flat look. “I have my rituals. My routines. Manfred. That’s enough.”

Dorian’s brow rose. “Is it?” A pause. The kind that carried more weight than Emmrich meant to let slip.

He looked away, just briefly.

The good professor will admit that he hasn’t had a romantic relationship in a long time. Longer than he would care to confess to his colleague. It wasn’t for a lack on interest, nor some vow of solitude. He had simply found a certain comfort in the life he’d built—routine, purposeful, and quietly fulfilling. In his youth, he’d chased intensity and passion, lived through brief but vivid affairs. But now, in the seasoned stillness of his age, he no longer felt the need to seek something beyond what already steadied him. He was content. And for him, that had always been enough.

Dorian’s gaze softened. “Then perhaps a ritual with tea instead of embalming salts might be a nice change.” Emmrich glanced back, mildly curious. “There’s a tea shop,” Dorian said, tone lighter now. “Opened while you were off wooing your students with you passionate lectures. Just past the west university gate.”

“A tea shop?”

“The Veil & Vine,” Dorian said. “Ridiculously cozy. Botanical. Quiet as a crypt but smells better. And”—his grin returned—“it has a chalkboard sign warning customers to guard their pastries from a black cat named Spite. I nearly cried from joy.”

Emmrich blinked. “…Spite?”

“Oh yes. Resident menace. Hates everyone. Except, apparently, the shop owner. And one man who brings him smoked salmon and compliments.”

“I see.”

“You don’t. But you should.” Dorian rose, brushing imaginary lint from his robe. “Drop by. Order something unfamiliar. Let yourself be witness the furball of chaos.”

“I’ll think about it,” Emmrich said quietly. Dorian leaned forward, touched his shoulder once—soft, brief, like the end of a sentence.

“Do more than think, Emmrich. Go. Life’s short, even for those who live with the dead. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy the establishment.” And with a wink, he was gone.

With Dorian’s exit, silence returned to the necromancer’s office—familiar, measured, and oddly soothing. Though technically a guest lecturer, Emmrich had been summoned to Minrathous so frequently over the years that he’d never bothered to give up the townhouse the university had assigned him. It had become a second home of sorts—quiet, well-warded, and perfectly suited to his habits. Hopefully, Manfred hadn’t run into any trouble organizing their luggage. He had left the little wisp to manage it on his own, and while capable, Manfred’s definition of “order” tended to skew toward artistic chaos.

With his lectures organized and his presence at the university sufficiently reestablished, Emmrich gathered his satchel and stepped out into the waning afternoon light. The streets of Minrathous were steeped in their usual blend of arcane bustle and refined decay—mages weaving through alleys in charmed coats, spell-light flickering behind antique windows, the smell of incense and warmed cobblestone drifting on the air like memory.

He walked at a thoughtful pace, letting the rhythm of his heels on cobbled stones settle his thoughts. After a moment, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his phone to call his skeletal ward.

Once the line had connected, he spoke. “Manfred, I’m on my way back. Try not to unpack everything before I arrive.” There was a pause. Then, a high-pitched hiss crackled through the phone, followed by the clatter of something wooden and what sounded suspiciously like a muffled triumphant squeal.

Emmrich sighed, fondly. “I’ll take that as enthusiasm.”

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and continued on, letting the rhythm of the city ease into something slower, quieter. As he turned onto a cobbled street near the university’s west gate, the ambient hum of arcane traffic and scholar chatter fell away—replaced by birdsong, wind through wisteria, and the distant clink of glassware behind café doors.

That’s when he saw it.

Tucked at the end of the street, it caught the light like a greenhouse kissed by old magic.

The shop’s façade was almost entirely glass, framed in aged sage-green wood and arched brass fittings that gleamed gold where the sun touched them. The tall, paned windows stretched nearly from ground to awning, offering a full view of the interior: warm light, suspended greenery, terrariums glowing faintly in the afternoon haze. A black cat lounged across a sunlit windowsill like it owned the building—and perhaps it did.

Vines curled along the stone exterior—not conjured, but coaxed—spilling naturally across the frame. Clusters of wisteria in soft lavender and dusky violet draped over the upper panes like flowering curtains. The breeze stirred them gently, petals falling like slow, fragrant rain. The scent of mint and lavender mingled on the air, subtle but present—an invitation rather than an announcement.

At the center of it all hung a wooden sign, brass-framed and softly weathered, the lettering inlaid with gold leaf:

The Veil & Vine

A Place to Pause, A Cup to Carry You Through.

Emmrich paused mid-step, his gaze catching on a slate hanging just beside the door. Written in elegant, looping chalk script was today’s blend special—something floral and intriguing—but just beneath it, in a decidedly firmer hand:

Spite Warning: Beware of cat. Guard your desserts. No mug is safe.

Emmrich’s lips tugged into a rare, private smile.

Dorian hadn’t exaggerated.

He stepped a little closer, peering through the glass. Inside, the space looked warm and eclectic—plants everywhere, enchanted terrariums nestled between jars of tea leaves, and a counter lined with what looked like an impressive variety of baked goods. The kind of place, he realized, that had cultivated its atmosphere not with effort, but with intention. Quiet, personal, precise.

Something about it tugged at him.

But he did not go in.

Not yet.

Emmrich lingered for a moment longer, eyes tracing the arched windows and the soft movement of a black cat tail flicking lazily from atop a sun-drenched shelf. So, that was the infamous Spite. How charming. Then he turned and continued down the street, the echo of warm light and whimsy following in his wake.

He would return.

Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps not.

He just didn’t know when. But something in him already knew: he would

Chapter Text

The morning air carried the usual blend of conjured heat and autumn fog—Minrathous in full seasonal contradiction. Emmrich stepped out of the townhouse with his leather satchel slung neatly over one shoulder, dressed in a deep green waistcoat and polished shoes that clicked against cobblestone in precise cadence. His pale ash-grey coat, tailored for summer breathability, fluttered lightly with each step. The bangles at his wrists glinted in the morning light, gold and bronze, his grave-gold rings fitted with habitual care. At the hollow of his throat, his skull pin caught the light—a quiet nod to both profession and identity.

Today marked the first day of the term.

And for the first time in a while, he was looking forward to it. The lectures were prepared, his notes reviewed twice, and though he expected a few logistical snags—new buildings always came with unspoken enchantment issues—he felt ready. He liked the rhythm of a first day. The quiet before the intellectual storm.

Still, even with time to spare, he found himself taking a slight detour. The same path. The same corner. The same soft pull that had lingered in the back of his mind since yesterday.

The Veil & Vine.

The wisteria swayed gently in the breeze. Petals caught on the frame and drifted downward, like they had nowhere urgent to be.

Perhaps a brief venture inside would be the right way to begin the day.

He opened the door.

A soft chime announced his entrance—not overly cheerful, but warm, like the sound of a spoon stirring honey into tea. The interior greeted him with gentle heat and the layered scent of steeping herbs, citrus rind, and the grounding trace of mint, lavender, and warm bread.

The shop was alive with quiet details. Terrariums glowed on floating shelves, casting fractured light across the floor. Hanging plants filtered sunlight into lazy, golden shapes. Cushions and blankets were nestled into a reading nook near the window, and faint magical wards hummed low along the floorboards—steady, protective, almost meditative.

And then there was the cat.

A sleek black creature perched high on a shelf behind the counter, yellow eyes narrowed in regal disinterest. Its tail swayed with slow, deliberate judgment.

“Spite, I presume,” Emmrich murmured, bowing his head just slightly.

The cat blinked once. Then flicked his tail with theatrical disdain.

Behind the counter, a woman turned at the sound.

She was not what Emmrich expected.

Chestnut hair pulled into a loose twist, sleeves rolled to the elbow. A deep plum apron wrapped over enchanted cotton. Her eyes—dark, discerning, steady—met his with the unspoken certainty of someone who had already taken his measure. The slight taper of her ears marked her elven features, one of them adorned with a single gold cuff that caught the morning light—simple and elegant.

She didn’t speak at first. Only offered a subtle, knowing smile.

“You’re new.”

“Guilty,” Emmrich said, stepping forward. “Though the sign outside made it impossible to stay away.”

“Spite has that effect,” she replied, flicking a glance toward the black cat, who was now grooming himself with the indifference of royalty. “Or maybe it’s the tea.”

“I’m hoping it’s both,” he replied, and there was something softer in his voice than he expected.

“Are you planning to take your tea here or is it to-go?”

“To-go for today,” Emmrich said, though part of him regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

The shop owner took the disposable cup while Emmrich observes the menu seeing the witty descriptions of each tea.

She nodded and reached for a disposable cup, her movements fluid and quiet. As she prepped the sleeve and lid, Emmrich stepped closer to the counter and took a moment to study the menu on the wall behind her.

The handwritten names were charmingly irreverent—Crow’s Song, Memory Moss Brew, Spite’s Whisker—with little notes scrawled beneath each in the same tidy, looping script. Some blends promised focus, others tranquility. A few simply claimed to taste like “what today feels like.” He noticed a small section in the corner marked Coffee for the bold & bleary, with two options underlined: DockTown Roast and Crow’s Regards.

He smiled faintly. Even the menu had character.

The shop owner, patient but observant, broke the silence. “Anything catching your eye?” she asked. “I know it can be a little overwhelming the first time.”

Emmrich raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curving. “Contrary to your belief, I find it difficult choosing just one. The assortment is tempting, which is worse.”

She leaned her forearms onto the counter, resting easily. “Maybe I can help. What are we looking for today?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Pardon?”

“What do you want out of today?” she asked, voice unassuming. “Something to wake you up? Or something to steady the nerves?”

Curious.

Emmrich considered for a breath, then answered honestly. “Something steadying. Warm. I’d rather not begin it in a flurry.”

She hummed in response—not absentmindedly, but like someone considering a small puzzle.

“I think I’ve got just the thing,” she said, reaching for a jar behind her. “Andraste’s Breath. Bold. Slightly spiced. Clears the head while gently warming the soul.”

She glanced back at him with a flicker of mischief. “I’m going to assume you take your tea hot.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “What gave it away?”

“You look like someone who considers cold tea sacrilege.”

“A fine deduction.” Emmrich chuckled again, shaking his head. “Though I’ll have to apologize to my colleagues later for the implied betrayal.”

“I won’t tell.” Rook smirked and began pouring with elegant precision. The scent rose quickly—pepper, spearmint, and hibiscus layered into something sharper, but not unkind.

She handed him the cup with practiced ease, her fingers brushing the rim as though sealing a quiet ritual. Emmrich lifted the lid and inhaled. The fragrance unfolded with unexpected depth. He took a sip. The warmth settled into him—steady, earned, and deeply welcome.

“This is excellent,” he said, sincerely.

She let out a subtle sigh, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Glad it didn’t disappoint.”

As he took another sip, she added, “I’m Rook, by the way. Figured an introduction was in order.”

He nodded. “Professor Emmrich Volkarin.”

Her gaze flicked to the satchel, the grave-gold, the polished restraint of his posture. “That explains the look. Surprised I haven’t seen you around.”

“I’m a guest lecturer at the university. Forensic anthropology. Spirit resonance studies.”

“Well—welcome back to Minrathous. I hope the weather hasn’t scared you off.”

“Oh, I’m no stranger,” he said, checking his watch. “I’d stay for the banter, but duty calls.”

“Good luck,” she said, offering a crooked half-smile. “I hope your day unfolds the way you want it to.”

“And welcome to the Veil & Vine,” she added, her tone gentle but genuine. “First time’s always a little quiet. Second time, Spite might tolerate you.”

He inclined his head, fingers curling around the warmth of the cup. “Thank you. For the tea. And the clarity.”

“I hope to see you again, Professor.”

As he stepped out into the sunlight, the bell chimed gently behind him. The morning light no longer felt so harsh, softened by steam, scent, and a voice still lingering in his thoughts.

Spite, he decided, was absolutely a personality.

But Rook… Rook was something else entirely.

Chapter Text

The day was greeted with the morning fog that clung to the city windows with a light glow of it’s golden rays. Rook walked around her apartment, lacing her boots at the cushioned bench near her window. Spite was already circling her ankles with the occasional meow telling her to hurry up.

“I’m almost done,” she muttered, nudging him gently with the side of her boot. “When have we ever been late?”

The cat looked up at her with disapproving eyes, tail flicking to match his energy and she swore that he rolled his eyes before leaping onto the bench to sit inside her sage green satchel beside her.

“Okay we don’t need to be that dramatic.”

Rook slung the satchel strap over her shoulder, grabbed her plum-colored scarf, tying it loosely around her throat. She grabbed her keys and headed out the door.

Down the stairs and into the street, she breathed in the familiar blend of urban magic and distant steam: conjured warmth still lingering in the cobblestones, streetlamps dimming under daylight enchantments, the hum of a city never quite asleep.

The walk to the Veil & Vine was a short, but necessary. It was a routine that let her take in the silence and watch as the city around her came to life. She would greet the newsstand vendor as he unlocked their stall, the apothecary’s apprentice waved from the shop’s window, and the part-timer at the bakery was setting out their boards. It was a peaceful stroll and Rook liked it that way.

Spite rode in her satchel—content now that they were outside—his tail spilling out like punctuation. She would look over at him to see the cat close it’s eyes with a slight smile. He always enjoyed their commute to work, even more when Rook would get distracted in a conversation and the vendors would sneak him treats.

When they arrived at the shop the wisteria caught its first brush of sunlight.

The building exhaled at her touch—wards loosening, locks yielding. The scent that met her as the door swung open was the one she’d been cultivating for months: mint and lavender, steeped herbs and the faintest memory of lemon cakes. Warm wood, sunlit plants, a hint of cinnamon from the forgotten blend Spite had knocked over two days ago and Bellara was never able to fully clean up.

The cat hopped down from her bag and made a beeline for his high shelf perch, ignoring the counter entirely. He curled up and closed his eyes like a king reclaiming his throne. Rook rolled her eyes as she places the satchel in a cabinet under the register.

She gathers her hair to put it into a loose bun, grabbing her apron from the wall hook. With practiced ease, she set the kettle glyphs, turned on the light to her dessert display, taking note of some items she would need to restock, and began to steep a brew for herself.

The day called for a cup of Warden’s Wake, it was one of her custom blends. She didn’t need much—just a pinch of the dark blend, already rich with scent before it met water. As the hot water bloomed through the mesh strainer, steam curled from the mug in slow spirals, carrying the scent of winterroot and sage—sharp and grounding, like frost clinging to a blade. The licorice root threaded through it subtly, a soft note of sweetness beneath the weight of smoke and earth.

Rook removed the mesh strainer, discarding the leaves. She thoroughly cleans the tea strainer before patting it dry with the dish towel. She hovered over the cup for a moment, letting the aroma settle into her lungs before taking the first sip.

The bite came first—clean and cold, the winterroot cutting through her tongue like morning air through fog. It stirred her chest, as if waking something long asleep. Then came the licorice, softening the edges, hinting at warmth without ever surrendering to it. The black tea held it all together, tannic and steady, while the sage lingered long after—bitter, herbal, and solemn.

She sighed in satisfaction as the warmth settled in her soul, the door chimed—and Bellara arrived with a grin, mismatched gloves, and a rush of energy like a spell that hadn’t been countered yet.

“Morning, boss!”

 The enthusiastic elf looked around for Spite, her smile reaching her eyes to see him in his usual spot.

“Morning Spite,” she wiggles her fingers up to his little perch, her voice filled with sweetness. He doesn’t even lift his head.

“C’mon Spite, is that any way to treat your number one fan?” Rook replied, looking at the cat ignoring her half-hearted chide.

“I’ll wear you down, just wait.” She scrunches her nose at the cat, unzipping her coat and heading straight for the pastry case.

Rook smiled into her cup, then flicked her wrist toward the chalkboard. The enchanted chalk stirred and began to write out the day’s specials.

Today’s Special: Andraste’s Breath (steadying, warm, meant for new starts)
Weather: Fog lifting, slowly. Give it time.
Spite Warning: He’s plotting. Pastries beware.

Bellara puts on her apron and begins to tend to the plants scattered about the shop. Rook flipped through the playlists on the shop’s iPod. Her fingers paused on a playlist called Soft Alchemy—a slow mix of strings, piano, and occasional vocals that felt like breath on glass.

She glanced over her shoulder, where Bellara stood on a stepstool near the window, humming as she misted the lemon balm. Spite watched her from the shelf above with the disapproval of a cat who despised humidity.

“What’s the mood today?” Rook asked, thumb hovering over the playlist list.

Bellara leaned down just enough to peek around a hanging planter. “Mmm… dreamy optimism with a chance of spiraling?”

Rook snorted. “So, Tuesday.”

“Exactly.”

She scrolled one more time, then tapped a playlist called Steam & Stillness. Notes of lilting harp and low vocals began to hum through the shop—gentle, spell-soft, like the musical version of a sigh into warm hands.

Bellara nodded with approval, still spritzing her plants. “Perfect. Just sad enough that no one feels judged if they cry over a scone.”

Rook flipped the front sign over with two fingers and a flick of magic. The wooden plaque swung gently on its brass hook, revealing the familiar script to the waking street:

Open.

Behind her, Bellara washed her hands at the side sink, humming something vaguely Dalish and off-key. The spritz bottle clinked as she tucked it back onto the shelf beneath the herb rack, her curls bouncing with each step.

Spite, freshly stretched from his sun shelf, claimed the windowsill as the first golden rays filtered through the shop’s tall front panes. He landed like a shadow in slow motion—elegant, dramatic, deliberate. Tail curling high, he sprawled into a full stretch, pressed his cheek to the warm glass, and blinked with feigned boredom.

Bellara, never one to miss an opportunity, reached into her apron pocket and retrieved a tiny, crinkled pouch. “Bribery time,” she whispered.

Rook didn’t look up from her brewing station but still warned, “He won’t respect you.”

“Let me have this,” Bellara replied under her breath, offering the dried salmon cube like a peace treaty.

Spite sniffed, narrowed his eyes, then allowed the treat—followed by a brief, begrudging stroke along his sleek head. Bellara beamed like she’d just been knighted.

“He let me pet him!” she whispered triumphantly.

“For now,” Rook said, smirking into the steam curling from her kettle. “Bribery won’t win you his eternal love.”

Bellara, undeterred, gently scratched behind Spite’s ear anyway. “Maybe not love,” she said softly, as the cat began to purr, “but I’ll take tolerated indifference.”

They settled into their rhythm without needing to speak. Rook manned the brewing station, adjusting temperature glyphs and setting out today’s blends—most notably Andraste’s Breath, which had already proven itself a strong morning favorite. Bellara prepped the pastry case, ran the food warmer spells, and set the counter’s charm lights to their welcoming hue.

The soft rustle of footsteps against floorboards signaled the arrival of the first customers. The city’s pace was picking up—university assistants in need of a morning fix, teams grabbing office drink orders, and the usual regulars easing into their favorite seats with worn mugs and practiced sighs.

Bellara greeted them with her usual brightness, moving from the register to the pastry case like she was in a choreography only she knew. Meanwhile, Rook settled into the brewing station, pulling her sleeves up to the elbows, grave-gold glinting faintly in the warm overhead lights.

She brewed teas in precise, practiced rhythm—muscle memory and instinct in equal measure. Cups lined up neatly along the tile, steam rising in gentle coils. Her hands rarely faltered. Even when the orders switched suddenly to espresso or golden fogs, she adjusted without missing a beat.

The shop buzzed with the quiet warmth of becoming—smells, sounds, glances exchanged over brimming cups. This was the life Rook had built from the fragments of another. And in moments like this—hands steady, Spite curled in a sunbeam, Bellara grinning behind the counter—it almost felt like something whole.

Thankfully, the morning rush went with no Spite-related incidents, probably because of Bellara’s offering for temporary affection. The hum of the shop dimmed around midday, as it always did. The lull settled in with the comfort of a known pause—the regulars having taken their leave, the loungers lost in books or soft conversation, and the kettle glyphs no longer flaring in steady rhythm.

Rook turned the ward slightly on the front door to muffle the bell, just enough to let the space breathe.

“Break,” she said, nodding at Bellara, who had just finished wiping down the pastry case for the third time in ten minutes.

Bellara didn’t argue. She slid onto one of the stools at the bar with a grateful sigh, tucking her curls behind her ears. Rook set a plate down in front of her with a warm panini—goat cheese, roasted pepper, and herb aioli—and beside it, a steeping mug of Andraste’s Breath.

“Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite employer? Because you are.” Bellara grinned, already reaching for the sandwich.

Rook just shook her head, rolling up her sleeves again and heading to the sink. She slid her hands into the soapy basin, the familiar rhythm of dishwashing letting her thoughts loosen around the edges.

And, of course, they drifted.

To the guest from yesterday.

The one with his eloquent voice, the gold bangles that wrapped around his wrists like a memory and the rings that decorated his fingers like an extension of himself. Nevarran, clearly. She’d recognized the craftsmanship of the grave-gold on sight, not just for its rarity, but for the quiet reverence it carried. No one wore that much if they didn’t understand what it meant. And the skull pin at his throat—precise, symbolic, carried like a badge more than a flourish. People like him didn’t wear things lightly.

And he liked her tea.

That counted for something. It should have, anyway.

Unless she was making arrogant assumptions, which wasn’t unheard of. The shop got its share of passersby. Even the most spell-struck ones didn’t always return.

But he hadn’t felt like a passerby. He’d felt... deliberate.

She rinsed a teacup too slowly.

Bellara, halfway through her sandwich, glanced up and smirked. “You keep staring at the window like it’s going to cough up your handsome professor.”

“I’m washing dishes,” Rook replied flatly.

“You’re thinking about him.”

“I’m thinking about lunch rush prep.”

“Then you shouldn’t have told me that you met a devilishly handsome guest lecturer by the name, Emmrich Volkarin.” Rook hung her head immediately regretting the fact that she texted Bellara about her encounter with the professor. The part-timer giggled, “I couldn’t stop screaming at my phone.”

Rook paused, elbow deep in foam. “You know him?”

“Of course I do! He’s a legend at the university. The necromancy department practically tries to summon him into permanent residency every term.” Bellara took a dramatic sip of her tea. “You served tea to academic royalty and didn’t even know it.”

Rook shrugged. “Knowing academic royalty isn’t in my field of expertise.”

“Well, you did say that he looked impressed.”

“I dunno. I mean I’m not expecting him to be a regular,” Rook said, rinsing off a saucer and setting it to dry. “He just made a strong impression.”

She wasn’t in the habit of remembering all of her customers’ reactions to her blends, but his had lingered.

Bellara grinned. “A tall, impeccably dressed, handsome impression.”

Before Rook could retort her friend’s statement, Spite made his move.

With all the grace of a shadow with bad intentions, he leapt onto the counter, nosed toward Rook’s untouched sandwich beside the sink, and nearly got away with half of it before her hand shot out.

“No no no,” Rook snapped, snatching it from under his paw. “You eat your designated cat food like a good demon cat.”

Spite hissed in mild protest, tail flicking as he sulked away with his dignity dented.

Bellara laughed into her tea. “He thinks if you’re distracted enough, he’ll finally win.”

“Who knew that something so adorable could cause so much chaos.”

“I hope the good professor comes back,” Bellara said, still smiling.

Rook didn’t answer at first. She just stared at the plate Spite had tried to raid, fingers resting lightly on the edge.

“Yeah,” she said finally, quietly. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

The first week of the term had passed in a blur of syllabi, lecture hall warding mishaps, and faculty meetings that seemed longer than the course credits they approved. Still, Emmrich had found a rhythm by the end of it—structured, productive, and only mildly maddening.

By late afternoon, his office was finally quiet. The last assistant had scurried off with a stack of annotated readings, and the charm ward on his door pulsed gently as it sealed behind them. Emmrich glanced at his watch. Half past five. Still plenty of time to stop by the market before it closed and cook an actual meal for dinner. It will be a fun activity for Manfred. Perhaps something simple like pasta.

He gathered his laptop, a few marked-up papers he hadn’t quite finished reviewing, and slid them neatly into his leather satchel. His scarf was draped across the back of his chair, and his overcoat hung beside the door. He donned both with habitual grace, smoothing the lapels and adjusting the scarf with a practiced flick.

As he left the office, he nodded to a few lingering staff—one of the visiting adjuncts, a third-year assistant professor—exchanging brief goodbyes. The university halls were dimming, lanterns flickering into their evening glow, the foot traffic thinner now that most had retreated home or to taverns or to the library’s quieter corners.

Emmrich stepped into the street, the air crisp, the cobblestones damp from the recent fog that had finally burned off. He turned down the main thoroughfare, coat brushing past passerby with the measured pace of someone who had nowhere urgent to be.

And then, without planning to, he found himself turning a corner.

Drawn again to the quiet end of the street. The one with ivy-wrapped walls, wisteria still clinging to their last blooms, and the subtle, almost accidental magic in the air.

The Veil & Vine.

Its glass façade glowed warmly in the evening light, and through the wide windows, Emmrich spotted the figures inside—Rook, behind the counter in a wash of amber light, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her chestnut hair was pulled into its usual loose twist, a few strands escaping to frame her face as he watched her place a small ceramic dish down for the black cat with fluid ease, her other hand trailing over his back with the kind of absent affection only long familiarity could yield.

Spite, contrary to his name, accepted the offering and leaned into her touch like he was carved from shadow and entitlement.

There was something so strikingly soft about the scene.

The supposed demon cat looked utterly content, and Rook—her expression soft with amusement, warmth curling at the corners of her mouth—seemed like someone who had found her world and fit inside it without noise. And Spite for all of his furry arrogance looked like he believed it.

Emmrich’s lips tugged into a faint smile before he realized he’d lingered a moment too long.

Their eyes met through the glass.

For a second, he felt the embarrassment rise to his ears—heat blooming across his cheeks as if she’d caught him in something far more intimate than watching her feed a cat. It wasn’t like he meant to stare but the fact that he was seemed invasive.

Before he could make a prompt retreat, Rook smiled at him.

She moved from behind the counter, wiped her hands on a cloth, and made her way to the front door.

The bell chimed gently as she opened it.

“Professor Volkarin,” she said with that same wry warmth in her tone. “I was starting to think we scared you off.”

“I was… preoccupied,” Emmrich replied, clearing his throat lightly. “The term began with all the usual fire and brimstone. I’ve only just escaped the last of the late faculty meetings.”

“I hear that a lot,” she said, leaning one shoulder lightly against the doorframe. “Students and assistants pass through here like ghosts begging for espresso. Some study at the window seats. Most get bullied by Spite.”

“Bullied?”

“He sat on someone’s laptop this morning. Full weight. Refused to move until their friend offered him a croissant bribe.”

“A classic case of feline blackmail.”

“And emotional extortion,” she added, smiling.

Emmrich chuckled, easing the satchel off his shoulder as if the day were finally loosening its grip. “I hope the student was able to recover.”

“Barely,” she said, eyes glinting with humor. “He’s lucky that there’s a charm to his chaos.” She tipped her chin toward the cat, who was now watching the door like a gargoyle at rest.

Rook shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how long she’d been standing with the door open. “I should let you go,” she added. “You probably have somewhere to be.”

“Oh I was just heading the market,” he said, “Nothing to warrant any urgency.”

“I didn’t expect you to be open this late,” he said honestly, glancing at the fading light.

“I usually keep it open until seven,” she replied, “for the night owls. Students, professors, exhausted mages. Everyone loves a warm drink and a pastry after a long day.”

He nodded once. “A wise business decision.”

A dry laugh escaped her as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She hesitated, then offered, “You’re welcome to come in. For a cup. If you want.”

Then she added, gently, “I don’t want to make you feel obligated just because we engaged in a bit of conversation.”

Emmrich looked at her—really looked. The soft light catching the gold cuff on her ear, her plum apron snug at her waist. The warmth of her voice tucked into careful neutrality, as if it mattered that she not push. As if it mattered that he choose.

He held her gaze.

“A cup of tea,” he said, “sounds wonderful.”

Rook smiled and stepped aside, holding the door open as Emmrich crossed the threshold. The familiar scent greeted him immediately—mint, lavender, and steeped herbs lingering in the warm air like memory.

Spite remained perched on the counter, watching Emmrich with narrowed eyes and feline scrutiny, his gaze equal parts curiosity and judgment.

She closed the door behind him, letting the bell chime gently overhead. As she passed by to head behind the counter, she offered over her shoulder, “Feel free to sit wherever you’d like. Don’t mind Spite—he’s already been sated with dinner.”

Her hand reached instinctively for a ceramic mug, but she paused. Was she assuming too much? Maybe he preferred his tea to-go, like last time. A quiet question lingered in her thoughts as she glanced back.

Emmrich had already settled at the bar counter, carefully hanging his satchel on the back of the chair. He folded his scarf neatly over it, followed by his overcoat, before resting his hands on the counter with familiar, composed ease.

Knowing now that he was staying, Rook confidently reached for the ceramic mug and looked over at him. “What sort of tea are you in the mood for?”

Emmrich took his time, eyes scanning the handwritten menu chalked above the counter. His gaze lingered on one of the newer blends—elegant script nestled between Crow’s Song and Andraste’s Breath.

“Shadow Bloom,” he said, voice thoughtful. “That one sounds intriguing.”

Rook gave a nod, already moving. “Good choice. That tea is excellent when you wish to unwind.”

While she prepared the tea, Emmrich watched her work—how fluidly she moved behind the counter, the way she measured the blend with intuitive care, no motion wasted. Steam curled from the kettle in slow spirals, catching in the filtered light.

When she handed him the mug, their fingers brushed briefly—unintended, unremarked upon. She turned to prepare her own cup while he lifted the tea to his face and inhaled.

The scent was delicate but layered—dark fruit, dusky florals, the grounding heat of oolong. His first sip was smooth, faintly sweet with a lingering softness that reminded him of dusk.

As he drank, he let his gaze wander. The shop was quieter now, cast in the mellow amber of late afternoon. Botanical decor spilled across the walls in curated wildness—hanging vines, dried bundles of lavender and lemon balm, enchanted terrariums tucked between shelves. The reading nook, cozy and softly lit, was occupied by a student half-asleep over their notes. The dessert case glowed invitingly, stocked with honey cakes and lemon thyme scones.

And then—movement.

Emmrich glanced down to find Spite, still seated on the counter, staring at him with narrowed golden eyes. Their gazes held for a moment before the cat rose and strutted toward him with unnerving grace.

He stilled, lowering his mug.

He extended a hand, fingers relaxed, offering his scent.

Spite sniffed once. Then—deliberately, regally—rubbed his head along Emmrich’s knuckles, purring faintly as if bestowing a benediction.

The professor blinked.

“Holy shit,” Rook said, approaching the counter with her own cup in hand, brows raised. “You’ve been deemed acceptable.”

“I’m honored,” Emmrich said dryly, lifting his hand slightly as Spite moved to curl beside him.

Rook rested her elbows on the counter, eyeing the cat with mock suspicion. “You sure, you don’t have any cat treats hidden on you?”

“No treats, I’m afraid,” he replied, lifting a hand in mock surrender. “But if he’s decided I’m worth tolerating anyway, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Rook smiled at his reply, clearly humored, and brought her cup to her lips. She sipped slowly, eyes still lingering on him over the rim of the mug.

Emmrich took a drink from his own, then glanced around the shop with a scholar’s quiet curiosity. “Your plant selection is excellent. The way you’ve placed the wisteria near the filtered windows—it’s getting just the right amount of diffused light. And the lemon balm by the register—clever. Most people don’t think about scent layering in small spaces.”

Rook arched a brow, genuinely pleased. “Thank you. I didn’t always know what I was doing. When I first opened the shop, I could barely keep a windowsill basil alive.”

He looked over, surprised. “Hard to imagine.”

“Oh, believe me, I was practically a menace to plant life. It got better though,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Mostly thanks to my friend Lace—she’s the one who helped me sort out what could thrive indoors—and Bellara’s the reason half of these aren’t already scorched or overwatered. She talks to them.”

Emmrich took another slow sip of tea, then said, “There’s actually merit to it, you know—talking to them.”

Rook tilted her head, intrigued. “Is that your scholarly opinion?”

“It is,” he said, setting his mug down lightly. “There was a Nevarran study—early spirit-sympathetic theory—on vibrational empathy in plants. The idea was that plants respond not just to tone or warmth, but to the intent behind language. It’s not quite spellwork. Closer to resonance.”

“Resonance,” Rook repeated, tasting the word like a leaf on her tongue.

He nodded. “It’s subtle, but measurable. Even small phrases—reassurance, consistency—can help plants stabilize. Particularly if they’ve been moved, repotted, or grown from cuttings. They adapt better when they’re spoken to.”

“Well,” Rook said, smiling into her cup, “Looks like I’ll need to offer Bellara a raise.”

“Oh I’m sure that the plants’ condition is a group effort,” Emmrich replied, lips curving faintly. “The lemon balm by the pastry case has more vitality than half the botanics department’s greenhouse.”

“She’ll cry if she hears that.”

“Let’s keep it between us then.”

Rook looked at him over the rim of her cup, eyes gleaming just enough to be mischievous. “Our first secret, then.”

The words landed with the softness of a petal—and the precision of a blade.

Emmrich blinked, just once. Then cleared his throat, the faintest color rising in his cheeks. “So it seems.”

Rook sipped her tea, hiding a giggle from her cup. When was the last time she felt this comfortable with a customer? Especially one that wasn’t from her inner circle.

She didn’t press the silence that followed. She let it linger for a heartbeat longer, then gracefully moved on, giving the good professor time to reclaim his footing.

She leaned back a little, eyes flicking to Spite. “Of course, it took some training to get him to stop treating them like chew toys.”

The cat blinked slowly from his spot beside Emmrich, entirely unbothered.

“He got into the mint once,” Rook added, smirking into her cup. “Found him halfway into a pot of mint one morning—looked pleased with himself for about twenty minutes. Then he started heaving. Everywhere. Had to take him to the vet between pastry prep and supplier drop-offs.”

Emmrich winced sympathetically. “Poor thing.”

Rook shrugged, unconcerned. “That day he learned his lesson.”

Spite, as if on cue, stretched luxuriously and flicked his tail without a hint of shame.

He glanced at the cat, then back at her, lips curving again. “Some lessons are best learned that way.”

“Exactly.” Rook smirked. “And now he only terrorizes the furniture, and emotionally vulnerable students while plotting to steal every dessert and panini in the shop. Progress.”

Emmrich finished the last sip of his tea, holding the mug in his hands for a moment longer, letting the warmth linger. When he finally set it down with quiet elegance, the soft chime of his bangles brushing against one another filled the air. He glanced at the time and raised his brows slightly.

“Oh dear. I’d best be off if I want to prepare dinner. I wouldn’t want Manfred to worry.”

“Manfred?” Rook asked, a brow lifting.

“A wisp of curiosity that I look after,” he said lightly. “He gets terribly anxious if I’m out too long without notice.”

“Well, we best get you on your way, then.”

Rook gathered both their mugs and carried them to the sink while Emmrich retrieved his scarf and overcoat, slipping them on with his usual unhurried grace. As he approached the counter, his eyes flicked once more to the chalkboard menu overhead.

His brow lifted slightly. “Brewer’s Luck,” he read aloud. “The description just says ‘Try at your own risk.’ That’s not ominous at all.”

Rook looked up, lips curling. “It’s less sinister than it sounds.”

“Color me intrigued.”

“It’s a custom blend,” she said, tapping a few keys on the register. “Brewer’s choice, tailored to the customer’s mood. Never the same twice.”

He tilted his head. “So you improvise and hope for the best?”

“Not exactly,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “There’s a bit of a game to it. I ask a few questions, get a feel for the person, then make a tea I think fits them in that moment.”

Emmrich leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued. “And how often are you right?”

“More than you’d expect,” she said with a glint in her eye. “But that’s the fun of it. You have to trust the process.”

He considered that, smiling. “So it really is a Brewer’s luck.”

“And maybe a little magic,” she added as she punched in his total.

“Of course.” He passed her a few coins, their fingers brushing lightly in the exchange.

“I’ll have to try it next time,” he said.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she replied, tucking the receipt away. “It might surprise you.”

Emmrich offered her a warm smile. “I’m counting on it.”

“Have a good evening, Professor.”

“And you as well.”

She watched him as he crossed the shop, Spite trailing behind like a reluctant shadow. The bell over the door chimed softly as Emmrich stepped out into the fading light.

Turning back to the counter, Rook began rinsing the mugs. She couldn’t stop smiling. Even when she met Spite’s gaze—judgmental and knowing from his perch—she only scrunched her nose at him.

“Don’t you start.”

By the time Emmrich reached the edge of his district, the evening had deepened into soft gold and navy. The market bag hung at his side, the satchel still slung over one shoulder, though lighter now. The streets had thinned, lanterns flickering awake along the walkways, casting long reflections over wet stone.

He should have been thinking about dinner.

Instead, his thoughts lingered—caught somewhere between the shop’s quiet glow and the woman who ran it.

Brewer’s Luck.

The name had amused him at first. But the more he considered it, the more it struck him as something quietly remarkable. To craft a tea on instinct—tailored not to taste, but to people—it wasn’t just improvisation. It was intuition honed through skill, curiosity, and trust.

And Rook? She wasn’t just clever. She was intentional.

A craftsman in her own right, with a presence as carefully balanced as her blends.

He thought of the way her eyes had caught the light—dark, rich, the color of chocolate still warm from the sun. Her smile had a subtle kind of grace to it, but when it reached her eyes, it was unguarded. Real. And there had been a moment, just a brief brush of her fingers against his palm as he paid—small, fleeting—but the warmth of it had stayed with him.

She was striking, yes. That was hard to miss. But it wasn’t just the shape of her mouth or the line of her jaw. It was the wit. The precision. The quiet joy she found in creation. She didn’t offer charm for its own sake. She simply was—thoughtful, sharp, and entirely unpretentious.

It had been a long time since he’d spoken to someone with such ease. Longer still since someone had made him laugh without effort.

Emmrich exhaled, long and thoughtful.

The scent of mint and oolong still clung to the back of his mind.

He was glad he’d stayed for the cup. An impulsive decision, perhaps—but not one he regretted. His curiosity had been caught by the shop, yes, but more so by its owner.

Rook.

Lovely, sharp, quietly brilliant.

He planned to stop by the Veil & Vine again. And next time, he intended to put her skills to the test.

Chapter Text

The Veil & Vine thrummed with midday energy—the kind that steeped into the walls like steam and refused to settle. Cups clinked, kettle glyphs flared, and Bellara was practically dancing between the counter and the warming case, curls bouncing as she handed off another pastry plate with the flair of a conjurer.

Rook was at the brewing station, sleeves rolled, her gold pinky ring catching light as she worked. The air carried the mingling scents of mint, blackberry leaves, roasted cacao, and embrium—today’s featured blend was Spite’s Whisker, though several customers had already requested Shadow Bloom for the melancholy weather.

Spite was perched in the window, tail twitching like a metronome of disdain.

“Your ginger tart’s done warming!” Bellara called to a customer, sliding the dish across the bar with a flourish that nearly sent the whipped cream askew. “Careful—it’s emotionally unstable.”

Rook snorted softly and glanced toward the front door just as the bell chimed. Her eyes landed on him immediately— Emmrich Volkarin stood just inside the doorway, unwinding his scarf with deliberate care. The afternoon light caught on the threads of silver in his neatly coifed hair, and the collar of his deep charcoal coat framed his tall, lean figure like it had been tailored with reverence. His grave-gold rings adorned his fingers, each one worn with purpose—not for decoration, but for memory. The bracelets at his wrists gave the faintest chime as he moved, subtle as windchimes in a distant garden.

He looked like a man who carried his history with grace—and Rook, for all her practiced composure, was painfully aware of every detail.

The man made it look effortless—being so put together. From the smooth fall of his overcoat to the quiet gleam of grave-gold on his fingers, everything about him spoke of deliberate care worn like second skin. Nothing ostentatious, just... refined.

He glanced around the shop as he stepped inside, taking in the midday energy. The loungers tucked in the reading nook looked up just enough to check on Spite’s location—likely to ensure their tea and pastries remained untouched under his imperial glare. Others waited near the counter, clutching enchanted order slips and chatting softly, the hum of conversation folding neatly into the soft music drifting from the ceiling glyphs.

And then his gaze landed on her.

Rook stood behind the brewing station, right where she always was, but something about her in that moment made it feel like the whole space revolved around her. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing the lines of her forearms and the faint shimmer of warding ink along her wrist. Her usual plum apron was tied snug over her tight-fitting jeans, and her hair—usually down in soft waves—was twisted up into a loose bun that made the gold cuff on her left ear catch the light.

She looked confident. In control. Entirely in her element.

And utterly captivating.

Bellara didn’t even try to hide her excitement when she saw him enter the shop. Her ears twitched, her grin bloomed, and she whispered, “He’s here,” like it was a fated moment from a romance serial that she loved to read.

Rook didn’t dare look at Bellara. She knew the moment she did, she’d be met with that wide, knowing grin—and she wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. Instead, she kept her attention locked on the brewing orders, even as she felt the shift in the air, subtle but undeniable.

“Professor Volkarin, welcome to the Veil & Vine,” Bellara said, beaming. “I’m Bellara.”

“Ah—the part-timer responsible for keeping the plants in this establishment alive.”

Her grin widened. “Oh? You’ve heard of me?”

“Your employer speaks of you with great regard.”

“Well,” she said with a proud little tilt of her chin, “I’m a big fan of your work. I actually own a copy of Spirit Echoes and the Body Arcane. Brilliant fieldwork.”

Emmrich’s expression softened with quiet appreciation. “Thank you. That research was... incredibly rewarding. It took months just to organize the preliminary notes.”

“I believe it. I’m currently working on my master’s in Arcane History. Professor Strife is my advisor.”

“You’re in good hands, then,” he said with a nod. “Strife is highly respected—and rarely wrong, though I do wish he’d remember to eat more often. Then again, I understand how immersed one can be in their work.”

Bellara laughed. “That checks out.”

From behind the counter, Rook cleared her throat lightly. “Bellara.”

“Right,” Bellara said, blinking back to the present. “What can I get for you today, Professor?”

“As promised,” Emmrich said, voice even but tinged with amusement. “I’m here to test your luck.”

Bellara shot a quick glance toward Rook, catching the subtle stiffening in her shoulders and the slight tinge of red at the tips of her ears.

“I see,” she said, voice brightening. “Just the tea today, or might I tempt you with a pastry or panini? We make the paninis in-house, and the pastries are from a local bakery. Their apple pie’s absolutely delicious.”

Emmrich turned his attention to the menu, scanning it with interest before lighting up slightly. “You offer vegetarian options?”

“We do,” Bellara said. “We get a wide range of students and faculty through here—felt only right to make sure there’s something for everyone.”

It was a small detail, perhaps, but one Emmrich appreciated deeply—the kind of consideration that often went unnoticed. The fact that this establishment offered thoughtful dietary options alongside its carefully curated teas spoke volumes. It wasn’t just about serving drinks; it was about knowing your patrons and making space for them.

He scanned the menu once more, then gave a small, satisfied nod. “I’ll have the Zucchini & Herbed Ricotta... and the Brewer’s Luck. For here, please.”

Bellara beamed. “Excellent choices.”

As she rang up his order, she retrieved a small notepad from beneath the counter. “Now then, I’m sure Rook gave you the general idea behind Brewer’s Luck, but for the sake of tradition, I’ll walk you through the protocol.”

Emmrich inclined his head. “By all means.”

“I’ll ask you three questions,” she said, clicking her pen with ceremonial flair. “You must answer sincerely and honestly. Nothing invasive—this is for your pleasure, not our amusement. And if, by some tragic chance, the resulting blend doesn’t suit your taste, we’ll make you something else—on the house.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Rook didn’t say a word—but her ears twitched, just slightly, catching the shift in tone.

She kept her hands busy at the brewing station, wiping down the counter and organizing her tools with deliberate calm, but her focus had narrowed. Every answer mattered. She didn’t look directly at them, but from the corner of her eye, she watched—tracking the cadence of Emmrich’s voice, the pause before his responses.

To anyone else, she appeared absorbed in prep.

But Bellara knew better.

She grinned. “Let’s begin.” She glanced down at her notepad. “First question: Do you want to feel more awake, or more at ease?”

“More at ease.”

“Second—do you want something that lingers, or something that passes through?”

“A lingering taste seems appropriate.”

“Final question,” she said, pen poised, “Do you want your tea sweet, bitter, or strange?”

Emmrich considered, then met her gaze with a small, amused smile. “Is bittersweet an option?”

Bellara clicked her pen shut with satisfaction. “Always.”

The transaction was finalized with practiced ease. Bellara handed Rook the small slip of parchment with Emmrich’s answers—along with a tiny doodle of a skull surrounded by hearts. She was enjoying this a little too much.

Rook ignored the teasing flourish and scanned the note, her eyes flicking quickly over the responses. She glanced up to see Emmrich now seated at the bar counter near the chalkboard menu, hands folded neatly, posture relaxed.

His hazel eyes met hers with quiet confidence. He offered a small smile—just enough to say the gauntlet has been thrown—and followed it with a subtle wave.

Rook felt the familiar flicker of heat catch in her chest—her competitive fire sparking to life.

She returned the wave with a smirk and a nod, already thinking through the combinations. Her fingers grazing the edge of the paper as she made her way to the blend shelf. Bellara had drifted off to prep his panini, humming softly under her breath, but Rook’s focus tunneled in.

She read the answers once more, but more than that—she remembered.

Emmrich Volkarin. The epitome of a gentleman. Always composed, always courteous, but with a trace of mischief that softened the formality. There was a sweetness to him—quiet, never overstated—but it lingered under the surface like dried fruit steeped in aged wine.

He was a man of knowledge and consideration, someone who saw details and valued them. His appreciation for plants, for scent, for ritual—that gave her room to move. To play.

If he wanted something grounding, and if the weather called for something warm and weighty, then the base was clear: dark-roasted oolong—rich, steady, touched with earth and stonefruit. For the lingering edge, toasted barley and the lightest trace of clove—just enough to sit on the tongue after the sip passed. And for that elusive bittersweet note he asked for: dried plum and a hint of elderflower to lift it from melancholy into memory.

She began assembling the ingredients in measured pinches, and almost immediately—she felt it.

His gaze.

Rook didn’t look up, but she didn’t need to. Emmrich was watching her. Not out of impatience or idle curiosity—he was studying her, the way she selected each element with care, the way her fingers moved like the beginning of a spell. His attention wasn’t invasive. It was... focused. On her.

And that made her very aware of him.

More than she wanted to be.

Her hands paused, just for a beat, a flicker of uncertainty tugging at the edge of her confidence. Was she reading him right? Was this the blend he needed—not just in flavor, but in feeling?

She exhaled, low and slow.

No. She knew what she was doing.

He’d come in to test her luck—and Rook had never been one to back down from a challenge. She adjusted the kettle glyph and set the blend to steep, the scent beginning to rise in soft spirals.

Let him watch. Let him wonder.

She was going to get this exactly right.

From his seat at the bar counter, Emmrich watched her move through the brewing station with quiet, deliberate grace.

Rook moved with the assurance of someone who knew her tools intimately. There was nothing rushed or uncertain in the way she measured, sifted, or blended—every movement was purposeful, precise. Her hands weren’t showy; they were practiced, refined. She never glanced up to check if he was watching, but he suspected she knew.

He admired that.

There was a kind of elegance in her ritual. She brought the assembled tea to her nose, closed her eyes briefly, and nodded. Looks like she was satisfied with the result.

The kettle glyph glowed softly as she set the leaves to steep.

There was something arresting about her focus. Not just the skill itself—though that was evident—but the way she seemed to slip into stillness while in motion. It was like watching someone trace a pattern only they could see.

There was a kind of reverence in how she worked—not for show, but out of some deeper instinct. A quiet mastery born of care. The way it revealed itself not through flourish, but control.

Bellara returned just then, placing the panini before him. It smelled divine—savory, fresh, layered with herbs and heat—but his attention barely shifted before Rook approached.

She set the cup down in front of him without a word.

Her expression was composed, measured. A professional’s mask, worn with precision. But there was something beneath it—a flicker in her eyes, the subtle tension in her shoulders. A sliver of nervous anticipation she hadn’t quite hidden.

The steam curled upward from the cup. The scent rose with it—deep, floral, warm, laced with fruit and clove. Lovely. Especially considering it had been crafted minutes ago.

He lifted the cup and took a careful sip.

The flavor unfurled slowly.

Bittersweet, as requested. The warmth of the oolong grounded it, with spice resting in the back of the mouth—a taste he couldn’t quite place, but liked immensely. And there, weaving through the finish, was a quiet echo of fruit and flowers. Memory softened by heat.

It lingered.

And it was perfect.

“This...” he began, setting the cup down gently, “is extraordinary.”

Rook’s professional mask faltered just enough for her smile to break through—subtle, but triumphant. The kind of expression that spoke not of ego, but of deeply earned pride.

Bellara, hovering nearby, clapped her hands once. “I knew it. She’s never given a bad Brewer’s Luck cup. Not once.”

Rook rolled her eyes, though her smile didn’t fade. “Calm down. You know how stressed I get about these.”

“Yes,” Bellara said brightly. “And yet you always get it right. It’s almost annoying.”

Rook said nothing as she poured a tasting portion into two smaller cups—one for Bellara, one for herself. She took a sip and nodded slowly, her lips curled into a small smile as she hummed in thought.

Emmrich took another drink, savoring it this time. “Tell me—what’s in it?”

Rook straightened slightly, sliding into her element. “Dark-roasted oolong for the base. Toasted barley for the body and clove for the linger. Dried plum and elderflower for the bittersweet notes.”

He hummed, intrigued. “And what was the flavor I couldn’t place?”

“Sarsaparilla bark,” she said with a small smile. “Just a touch. It holds everything together.”

Before he could respond, Spite, who had until now pretended to be asleep on the windowsill, made his move. With silent confidence, he crept across the counter and launched himself toward the edge of a nearby table—where an unattended spinach pastry sat in vulnerable solitude.

There was a yelp from another customer as the plate clattered.

Bellara let out a groan, already grabbing a replacement from the display. “We have another victim.”

“I’ll cover it,” Rook called, already stepping out from behind the counter to grab the little menace.

Emmrich watched the flurry of recovery with mild amusement—Spite’s attempted pastry theft, the startled yelp, Bellara’s sigh of long-suffering betrayal. Through it all, he remained seated, sipping his tea and taking another slow bite of the panini before him.

The crisp sourdough gave way to a soft, herb-laced filling. The zucchini, sliced into delicate ribbons, held its shape beautifully—just tender enough to melt into the ricotta, which was cool and creamy, flecked with chives and brightened by the unmistakable note of dill. Each bite felt precise, balanced, quietly crafted.

Much like the tea.

And much like the woman who’d made it.

When the commotion died down and Bellara went to console the pastry-less victim with a fresh replacement, Rook returned to the bar and leaned lightly on her forearms.

Emmrich glanced at her, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “The food,” he said, “is as carefully curated as the blends.”

Rook offered a dry smile. “High praise.”  She straightened slightly, tilting her head just enough to meet his gaze. “So… have I passed your test, Professor?”

He looked at her over the rim of his cup, his voice low but warm. “Please—call me Emmrich. I’d say we’ve built up enough rapport for that.”

His gaze lingered, just long enough to soften the formality.

His tone was casual, but the offer sat between them like a drawn curtain being pulled aside. Rook blinked once, caught slightly off-guard—not by the permission itself, but by the ease with which he gave it. Emmrich. Not Professor. Not formality. Something more open. More... personal.

Her heart gave a quick, traitorous flutter.

“And as for the tea,” he continued, oblivious to the quiet storm he’d just started in her chest, “you are, without question, an exceptional tea craftsman.”

Rook gathered herself with a practiced breath, offering a modest shrug as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I try my best.”

“Well, your best is evident,” he said, setting the cup down gently. “Your blends are exquisite—balanced, thoughtful, and wholly your own.”

The compliment—like the name—landed deeper than she expected. Not performative. Not placating. Just truth, spoken plainly.

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it more than she knew how to show.

As Rook lifted her cup for another sip, the gold of her pinky ring caught the light. Emmrich’s eyes lingered there for a moment, then shifted to the matching glint at her ear.

“Forgive the observation,” he said, his tone as polite as ever, “but your ring—and your ear cuff. Are they grave-gold?”

Rook blinked, then instinctively reached up to touch the cuff, fingers brushing the edge with the kind of care reserved for something more than ornamental.

“They are,” she said, a little quieter than before. “My father was Nevarran. He passed down a few pieces.”

Emmrich nodded, understanding immediately. “You wear them well.”

“They’re modest,” she added with a half-smile, “especially compared to your collection.”

He gave a small, wry laugh. “Mine’s just an accumulation over the years—mostly ceremonial, with a few personal pieces mixed in. Yours holds more sentiment. So long as it is meaningful to you, its value is timeless.”

Her smile held, softer now.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said after a pause, “what’s your family name?”

“Ingellvar,” she replied, watching him closely.

The name stirred something faint in his memory. Recognition flickered behind his eyes. “Ingellvar... I’ve come across it before. In Nevarran records. Older holdings, I believe?”

“You would know more than me,” Rook said with a shrug. “Minrathous born and raised. We didn’t visit much. Just a few times when I was younger—never enough to remember the cities, only the way the sun hit the stone. My dad always meant to take me back properly, but life got in the way.”

He leaned in slightly, interest piqued. “But he spoke of it often?”

“All the time,” she said, the warmth of memory tugging at her words. “He made it sound mythic. Flatbread was a household staple, but he insisted we make it from scratch. No spells, no shortcuts. We’d coat the kitchen in flour—walls, floor, ceiling. My mother would practically faint every time.”

Emmrich chuckled, a low, genuine sound. “That sounds like a proper Nevarran tradition—chaotic, excessive, and sacred.”

Rook laughed softly. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I was quite the rascal.”

He took another slow sip of his tea, his voice turning nostalgic. “For us, Wintersend wasn’t complete without my mother’s hazelnut torte. She only made it once a year and guarded the recipe like it was national defense.”

“I take it no one’s been able to replicate it?”

“Not a chance,” he said with a small smile. “But one can never replicate the taste of such memories.”

Rook huffed a quiet laugh. “I get that. Some of my fondest memories revolve around food... though that might just be my gluttony talking.”

Emmrich’s eyes glinted, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Well then,” he said with a soft huff of amusement, “may your gluttony never be cured. It clearly leads to excellent things.”

Rook looked down at her cup, lips curving as the warmth from the tea settled in her hands. She only said it as a light joke, but maybe gluttony wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.

Chapter Text

Bellara, who had returned to the counter a while ago under the very convincing guise of cleaning, had clearly been eavesdropping the entire time—her ears practically tuned to their conversation like an enchanted antenna. She didn’t say a word while Emmrich finished his tea and tucked away his things, but Rook could feel the anticipation crackling off her like static.

When Emmrich finally stood, he offered them both a polite nod and a warm, lingering farewell.

“Thank you again,” he said, voice as smooth as ever. “Until next time.”

“Have a good evening, Professor,” Rook managed, even though her voice felt slightly off-kilter.

“Emmrich,” he reminded her, with that infuriatingly soft smile. “See you next time, Miss Ingellvar.”

And then he was gone—the door chimed gently behind him, and the quiet hum of the shop settled back into place.

Rook waited three full seconds before she turned and bolted for the back kitchen.

She made it as far as the prep table before the embarrassment hit her like a spell misfire. She pressed her hands against the countertop, willing her heartbeat to slow, but it was useless. All she could see was his face—the way his expression had shifted when he tasted the tea, that quiet surprise followed by something warmer. The way the rings on his fingers caught the light when he moved. His smile—real, hazel-eyed, and just for her.

He told her to call him Emmrich.

“Oh dear gods,” she muttered to herself, dragging a hand down her face. She didn’t know what to do with herself, but she was certain her cheeks were burning vivid crimson.

Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he spoke with such eloquence that left her entranced. And yes, the way he praised her tea-making skills made something in her chest go soft.

She had it bad.

And the universe, cruel and unforgiving, had delivered Bellara at her lowest. The overly excited elf sauntered into the kitchen like she’d kicked the door open—eyes glowing, grin wide, her whole being vibrating with smug delight.

Rook didn’t even look at her. “Don’t.”

Bellara’s voice was a dramatic gasp. “Don’t?! Rook, I just watched you slow-brew a man who challenged you and then you charmed him into letting you call him by his first name!”

Rook groaned and dropped into a squat, burying her face in her hands. “Maker please let me crawl into the flour bin and die.”

Bellara twirled an apron around her finger like a banner of victory. “Absolutely not. I am going to talk about it forever.” She practically sang. “You’ve got the slow-burn blush of a woman who just realized she has a crush on Emmrich Volkarin.”

Rook muttered something incomprehensible into her hands. Her palms were hot against her cheeks—too hot. Mortifyingly so.

Bellara grinned harder. “Face in hands. Cheeks flushed. Dignity destroyed. I live for this. This is the cutest academic-meets-tea-witch meet-cute I’ve ever witnessed.”

Rook peeked at her through her fingers. “He’s just a regular,” she said flatly. “A very polite, well-dressed regular who enjoys tea and quiet. That’s it.”

Bellara blinked. “You cannot possibly believe that.”

Rook sighed, the weight of her embarrassment folding in on something else—something smaller, quieter. She pulled herself up from the squat and leaned back against the counter, arms loosely crossed as she looked toward the back door, not meeting Bellara’s gaze.

“I’m not exactly the kind of person someone like him goes for,” she muttered.

Bellara’s grin faltered. “What are you talking about?”

Rook gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He’s... Emmrich Volkarin. A professor. A respected one. Elegant. Educated. He speaks like he’s walked out of a history book and probably has a footnote in one. And I’m just... me.”

The quiet that followed was heavier than the one before.

Rook gave a short, uncertain laugh. “It’s just a crush, Bell. Not a fairy tale.”

Bellara's smile softened, the giddiness fading into something gentler. “Even if it is just a crush, that's okay. You’re allowed to like someone who makes you feel seen. Especially someone who looks at you like you’re more than just your tea blends.”

Rook raised a brow, wary. “You’re really leaning into this narrative, huh?”

“I’ve got a good feeling about him,” Bellara said, nudging her arm. “And I think the professor likes more than just your oolong, if you catch my drift.”

Rook groaned, but this time it was gentler. “You’re insufferable.”

Bellara grinned. “And you’re glowing.”

The evening closed in quiet, the last thread of sunlight filtering through the tall front windows. The deposit was already locked away in the shop’s small safe, and the chairs had been flipped atop the tables with practiced efficiency. Only the soft hum of the cooling wards remained, low and steady like a sigh settling into silence.

Rook moved behind the counter, placing the last of the clean cups and plates back into the cabinet. Her motions were slow but sure—part muscle memory, part meditation. The scent of the day’s blends still lingered faintly in the air: mint, spice, elderflower.

Spite sat on the counter like a furry gargoyle, his eyes narrowed with the solemn weight of a shift supervisor overseeing final tasks. His tail flicked once. Judging.

“Calm down,” she murmured, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’m almost done.” She takes off her apron and heads to the back kitchen to hang it back on the wall hook.

The bell above the door chimed.

Rook called out. “Sorry, we’re closed for the—”

Spite hissed.

Not the irritated kind he gave to Bellara when she wore too much perfume. This was sharp, guttural—hostile.

Every nerve in Rook’s body snapped alert as the air shifted around her—charged with something unfamiliar and unwelcome. Her fingers twitched, and the soft scent of ozone bloomed from her palms, static crackling along her knuckles as her magic flared to the surface on instinct.

She pivoted, already bracing to strike, but the moment her eyes landed on the figure in the doorway,, her lightning dissipated from her fingertips.

Solas stood just inside the threshold, the hem of his coat damp from the evening mist. Taller than she remembered, or maybe just more severe, he carried himself with quiet precision—every movement deliberate, his posture coiled with restraint.

His skin was pale olive, faintly ashen under the soft glow of the shop. His sharp features—high cheekbones, defined jaw, and straight nose—made him look carved rather than born. The grey-blue of his eyes were as unsettling as ever, cool and watchful, like stormlight behind glass.

He’d shaved his head since she last saw him, the change only emphasizing the austere lines of his face and the pointed shape of his elven ears.

He didn’t speak yet. He rarely had to.

But Spite’s hiss had said it first: unwelcome.

Solas looked at her with those same unwavering eyes—the kind that always made Rook feel like she was on trial, even when he didn’t mean to. Or maybe he did. It was always awkward with him. It had been since they were old enough to form opinions.

He remained where he stood, framed in the doorway like a portrait someone forgot to hang. “Hello, Rook.”

She swallowed, a tightness curling in her throat. “…Solas.”

She stayed behind the counter, reassuring Spite with a few calming strokes along his back. The cat’s fur was still bristled, tail twitching with clear disdain. He didn’t like Solas. Maybe it was the way he made Rook’s shoulders tense, or maybe Spite could just smell the unrepentant asshole under the polished veneer.

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward one of the stools at the bar.

Solas approached with the same measured steps he always had and settled onto the offered seat. Rook passed him a clean towel from under the counter.

“What brings you here?”

“I meant to check in on you sooner,” he said, taking the towel and dabbing it across his face, then over his shaved scalp in slow, methodical passes. “The start of term was more hectic than anticipated.”

She gave a quiet hum in response.

“Selara sends her love.”

Rook glanced at him. “What part of the world is she in now?”

“Orlais. Near the capital. Working on a symposium with one of their magic academies.”

“Of course she is.”

Silence stretched between them. Solas scanned the shop—his eyes moved over the low-lit corners, the soft spill of herbs on the counter, the stillness that lingered in closing hours. Meanwhile, Rook idly twisted the grave-gold ring on her pinky, the motion small but persistent.

Finally, he spoke again. “I see that the shop is doing well.”

She shrugged. “Business is good. Reviews have been solid. The students like the coffee. The professors like the quiet.”

“And the cat?”

“Spite causes trouble now and then,” she said, glancing at the still-seething creature curled on the far end of the counter. “But he’s basically the shop’s mascot at this point.”

Solas nodded as if he didn’t find any of that remotely surprising. Which, of course, he didn’t.

“And you?” He said again, quieter this time. “How have you been?” Not a demand. Just... steady.

Rook shifted her weight slightly, fingers still toying with the edge of the counter. “I’ve been good,” she replied, a little too quickly. “I’ve got the shop. My routine. My friends. Spite.” She gave a small, half-hearted gesture toward the cat, who was still eyeing Solas like he wanted the elven man hexed.

“I’m good,” she repeated, as if saying it twice might make it feel more solid.

Solas didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes moved over her in that quiet, surgical way of his—head tilted ever so slightly, gaze sharpening as if he were trying to read past her skin and into the layers beneath. Rook felt her spine straighten involuntarily.

She hated it when he did that.

Being looked at like she was something to be analyzed instead of understood. Like she was a theory he hadn't quite proven or a spell he hadn’t untangled.

He may have been her brother, but the two of them had never been close.

Not since three years ago.

Solas eventually folded the towel and handed it back to her. She took it without a word and tossed it into the hamper behind the counter with a flick of her wrist.

“I can give you a ride home,” he offered, as casually as someone might offer an umbrella before a storm.

Rook shook her head and reached for her satchel. “I prefer the walk.”

She clipped the strap across her chest and looked toward the window, waiting for Spite to hop down from his perch and slink toward the back door. He gave Solas one last warning growl on his way out.

“It’s late,” Solas said, his voice quieter now. “I don’t like the idea of you walking alone at night.”

Rook turned back to him, one brow arching. “The shops are still open. The Templars’ patrol routes run parallel to mine. And—” she lifted her hand, letting a flicker of static crackle between her fingers “—I know how to take care of myself.”

Solas studied her for a long moment, eyes sharp and unreadable. She stood rigid beneath his gaze, her grip firm around her satchel strap, her posture just off-center—bracing, not relaxed. He noticed it all. The discomfort. The guarded distance. The way she angled herself slightly away from him like his presence alone was something she had to endure.

His jaw shifted, as if he might speak again. A subtle lean forward, the instinct to insist. To push. But he caught himself.

He exhaled slowly, a breath barely audible.

She didn’t need pressure. Not from him. So, he wasn’t conceding. Just... letting her go.

She stepped past him and unlocked the door, holding it open as Spite slipped outside into the cool night air. Solas followed after, waiting just outside as she secured the lock.

He looked at her once more. “Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”

Rook’s hand tightened around her satchel strap.

“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly.

Spite growled again, low and lingering, as if adding punctuation.

Solas sighed, the edge of his voice softening. “All right… get home safe.”

Rook gave a small nod, her voice quiet but steady. “Goodnight, Solas.” And with that, she turned and started down the cobbled street, her footsteps quiet, her back straight, and her silence louder than anything else she could’ve said.

By the time Rook reached her apartment, she was practically speed-walking—each step fueled less by fear and more by the pressing need to breathe in a space that was hers. She shut the door behind her with a quiet click, locking it with a flick of her fingers. The moment it latched, her shoulders sagged, and the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding unspooled all at once.

Her keys clattered into the ceramic dish by the door, her scarf followed, hung with barely a glance. She set her satchel down with practiced care, and Spite climbed out like a shadow stretching free, giving a single annoyed flick of his tail as he padded into the living room.

Rook kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her jacket, and let it fall unceremoniously to the floor. She didn’t have the energy to pretend she was more put-together than she felt. Crossing the room, she threw herself onto the couch, sprawling across the cushions until her legs hung off one end and her arm flopped over her eyes. The fabric of her sleeve dulled the ceiling’s glow, giving her a moment of dimness she didn’t realize she needed.

Only then did she let herself process it—really process it.

Solas. Of all people.

The visit had felt like a blade wrapped in civility—polite words, familiar tone, and yet nothing about it was comfortable. Not anymore.

Her relationship with Solas, for lack of a better word, was... complicated.

He was her older brother, with an age gap of eight years that had always made things a little strange. They’d never quite existed in the same chapter of life. Even as kids, he’d felt like a presence just slightly out of reach—more mentor than sibling, more observer than participant.

They didn’t even look much alike. His skin held the pale hue of old parchment, all cool undertones and moonlight stillness, while hers was sun-warmed and lightly freckled from afternoons spent in the garden. His eyes were a stormed-over grey-blue, calm and unreadable. Hers were dark brown—unapologetically direct. And their magic... gods, their magic couldn’t have been more different.

Solas wielded the arcane like a whisper—old, patient, and tethered deeply to the Fade. A rift mage, steeped in theory and ritual. Rook’s magic was lightning-born: fast, volatile, and emotional. Spellblade work had always been instinctual to her, a weapon as much as a language.

Sometimes, it felt like they came from different families entirely.

If it wasn’t for Selara, Rook wasn’t sure she’d bother at all. Her sister-in-law, with her warmth and quiet persistence, had always been the bridge between them. Without her, Rook doubted she’d even return Solas’s letters, let alone tolerate his sudden visits.

Their lives had grown in different directions, and they’d never learned how to meet in the middle.

But... Solas tried.

Always had, in his own awkward, aloof way. And maybe that was the hardest part—knowing he was trying, even when she couldn’t bring herself to let him all the way in.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been lying there until the couch shifted beneath her.

A soft thump. The faint rustle of fur.

Then a warm, familiar weight settled on her stomach.

Rook lifted her arm from her eyes just enough to peek, and there he was—Spite. Curled up like he owned the place, which, arguably, he did. His tail flicked once before draping lazily over her hip, and he began to purr. Not the dramatic, rumbling sound he used to intimidate strangers or demand treats. This was softer, quieter. Meant for her.

She blinked at him.

“Look at you,” she said gently, brushing a finger along his fur. “Being all soft when I need it most.”

Spite shifted again, this time climbing higher along her body until he was nearly nose to nose with her. He looked at her with an expression that, if she didn’t know better, bordered on tenderness—ears relaxed, eyes half-lidded with something that felt suspiciously like concern.

Then, slowly and deliberately, he brushed his head against her cheek.

Rook froze for half a second, caught completely off guard by the gesture. The little bastard. He was being sweet.

It touched something in her chest she hadn’t been ready for.

“Now you’re just showing off,” she whispered, her voice soft.

Spite rumbled another quiet purr and settled beside her neck, his warmth pressing against her collarbone. Agent of selfish chaos or worse, he had his moments. Rare, fleeting—but undeniably real.

She lifted a hand to stroke his sleek back, fingers moving slowly down his spine. He allowed it without complaint, which was a gift in itself.

After a few more breaths in that cocoon of shared stillness, Rook sighed and shifted beneath him.

“C’mon,” she murmured, nudging him gently. “Let’s see what dinner looks like.”

Spite leapt off the couch with a flick of his tail, landing with a quiet grace that betrayed how smug he probably felt. Rook sat up, rubbing her face before dragging herself toward the kitchen—emotional exhaustion trailing behind her like a second shadow.

But the weight in her chest felt just a little lighter.

Chapter Text

The morning air was cool against the storefront glass, streaked faintly from last night’s mist. Inside the Veil & Vine, the quiet hum of early preparation had begun—light glyphs aglow, the kettle steeping its first lazy ribbons of steam, and the clink of Rook’s footsteps as she moved through muscle memory.

Everything was in place. Her body moved as it always did—unlock, prep, warm, blend.

But her mind… not so much.

Solas still lingered in the back of her thoughts like a fog that refused to lift. His surprise visit had disrupted something internal, and while she had survived it—closed the shop, walked home, even talked herself down—it had left behind the familiar muddle he always did. Like he could rearrange the furniture of her peace just by being in the room.

Today called for coffee. The real kind.

She should probably wait until Lucanis arrived—her morning co-conspirator in caffeination and pastry sabotage. His arrival was a comfort she could count on, unlike the lingering ghost of her brother.

She pulled out her phone to check in with him.

Rook: Hey, I’m at the shop. How far are you?

Lucanis: I just parked. On my way now.

Rook: I left the door unlocked. Feel free to come in.

Lucanis: Is that a smart choice?

Rook: I’m a mage. Any intruder will be met with lightning.

Lucanis: Fair point. See you soon.

She’d barely finished rolling up her sleeves and prepping the kitchen when the bell chimed softly.

Right on time.

There he was—Lucanis. Raven-black hair slicked back, reaching his shoulders in deliberate waves. His beard was trimmed with that same ruthless precision he gave to his espresso shots. The black wool coat he wore hugged his frame in all the right places, his dark grey shirt fitted and rolled just to the elbows. Slacks sharp, boots polished, posture casual.

The only hint of softness came from the man himself, in the way his eyes briefly warmed at the sight of her.

“Morning,” Rook said, her voice still scratchy from disuse.

Lucanis’s expression didn’t shift much—he was always composed, always controlled—but the faint nod he gave her spoke volumes.

Spite, ever the judger of souls, had been perched nearby and slinked down at the Antivan’s arrival. The cat gave a soft prrmmph and brushed once against Lucanis’s leg.

“Well,” Lucanis murmured, crouching slightly to give the little menace a scratch behind the ears, “you’re in a good mood today.”

Spite tolerated the affection, which meant he was practically swooning.

Rook smirked. “He only does that when he’s mildly pleased.”

Lucanis stood again, brushing a bit of fur from his sleeve. “A high honor, then.”

She moved to the brewing station without needing to ask. “Coffee?”

“Always.”

She pulled the tin labeled Andoral’s Breath from the shelf—his favorite. A bold dark roast with just a touch of vanilla, rich and grounding without trying too hard to impress. Much like the man who swore by it. It had become one of her favorites too, but not just for its taste. Lucanis had introduced her to the blend when they first met, describing it with his usual poetic flair as “the personification of a kiss goodbye.”

At the time, she’d rolled her eyes—of course, he romanticized his coffee. But then he taught her how to brew it properly, how to coax the flavors out slowly, how coffee wasn’t just fuel but an art. And somewhere between that first lesson and a dozen shared cups later, it stuck.

He was the only reason the shop even had a coffee menu. His family’s roasts supplied her shelves, and his standards made sure she never served anything less than decent.

When she handed him the cup, he took it without ceremony, lifting it to inhale the aroma first like he always did.

Lucanis hummed in approval. “You’ve gotten better.”

Rook smiled, unable to stop the small flicker of pride that curled at the corners of her mouth. “Of course I have. I had an insufferable teacher.”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t insult the beans,” he said, sipping. “We Antivans know good coffee.”

She took her own mug from the counter and leaned against the back prep table, savoring the first mouthful. The bitterness hit just right, softened by the vanilla and made whole by the morning quiet.

Lucanis glanced toward the kitchen beyond. “So,” he said, setting his cup down, “what are we baking today?”

“Lemon cakes,” Rook replied without hesitation, her voice brighter now. “The kind with the zest in the batter and a syrup that drips just a little too far down the sides.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Ah, your favorite. So, we’re indulging the shop witch today.”

She smirked. “This shop witch needs comfort food.”

The kitchen settled into a familiar rhythm—the soft clink of utensils, the hum of the oven warming, the slow pour of syrup thickening on the stove. Neither of them spoke at first. They didn’t need to.

Rook moved through the motions, but her hands were slower than usual. Her eyes lingered too long on the mixing bowl, and more than once, she had to repeat a step she'd normally glide through without thought. She stirred counterclockwise, paused, then started again with a faint furrow in her brow.

Lucanis didn’t comment right away. He just watched. Quiet. Not prying—just aware.

He didn’t look up from his work. “You’re quiet.”

Rook shrugs, “I’m usually quiet.’

“Not like this. I should know since clouds of doom is my thing, but they seem to be perfectly gathered around you today.”

“…Am I that obvious?”

“Only to those close.” He placed the last of the batter into the mini molds, smoothing the tops with the back of a spoon before sliding the tray onto the oven rack. He set the timer with a tap. “So, what happened?”

Rook let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the counter as she rubbed at her temple. “Solas stopped by the shop last night.”

Lucanis’s brow ticked up slightly. “What did he want?”

“He was just checking in. It was completely harmless.” She exhaled. “He even offered me a ride home, but I shot that offer down.”

“You okay?”

“I’m better now than I was last night. It’s just—he makes everything feel heavier, you know? Like I can’t ever just be around him.”

Lucanis didn’t speak right away. He stirred the simmering lemon syrup in the saucepan, watching it thicken.

“Some family does that,” he said finally. “Makes you feel like a half-formed version of yourself.”

He glanced up, just for a second. “You don’t have to shrink for him. You never did.”

There was a quiet certainty in his voice—nothing performative, nothing said for comfort’s sake. Just truth. And weight. The kind that came from experience.

Rook gave a tired laugh. “Spite hissed the moment he saw him.”

Lucanis smirked. “Remind me to give him a treat.”

“You spoil him.”

“Please,” he scoffed. “He likes you more than me.”

The smell of lemon had started to settle into the walls—bright, comforting, and unmistakable. It drifted through the shop like a promise, curling around the newly lit glyphs and teasing the morning air with the scent of something still warm in the oven.

The front bell chimed as the door opened with a gust of cooler air, followed by the cheerful clatter of boots on tile.

“Maker’s breath, Bellara—did he propose or just say her name?” Lace’s familiar voice, muffled slightly by the stack of pastry boxes she carried in her arms. Bellara trailed behind her, already talking about something the moment she stepped inside.

“—and I swear he smiled at her. Like, with his eyes, Lace. His eyes.”

Rook emerged from the back kitchen just in time to catch the tail end of the drama. “Morning, Lace,” she said, her tone dry but fond. “Bellara.”

“Morning, Rook—we bear pastries,” Lace replied, shifting the boxes in her arms with theatrical flourish.

“Hi, Lucanis!” Bellara chirped, already halfway to the pastry case with one of the boxes.

Lucanis leaned casually against the kitchen doorframe, still holding the pot of lemon glaze in one hand. “Morning, Harding. Bellara,” he said with a nod, then glanced toward the counter. “Watch out for el diablo.”

Spite, from his perch on the counter, locked his gaze on the pastry boxes like a true predator. His pupils dilated, tail flicking once with theatrical menace.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lace warned, narrowing her eyes at him as she passed. “I have exactly one working nerve today, and you’re not the one who’s going to snap it.”

Spite blinked at her slowly—defiantly—and lowered his head like a stalking beast.

Rook rolled her eyes. “Lucanis, can you finish glazing the cakes?”

He gave her a lazy salute and pushed off the doorframe. “With pleasure.”

As he moved back toward the kitchen, Rook turned to the massive chalkboard hanging near the bar counter—with a flick of her fingers, the chalk lifted on its own and began scrawling out the day’s specials in neat, deliberate script.

Lace set the last pastry box down on the prep counter with a thud, just as Spite crept a little too close to the edge of the display case. She stepped in front of him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms, playing the role of pastry bouncer with all the gravity of a palace guard.

“Back away demon spawn,” she warned.

Spite stared up at her, tail twitching like a fuse. Lace stared right back. The standoff was immediate, intense, and profoundly petty.

Meanwhile, Bellara was already halfway through cleaning the inside of the display case. “Pastry security is in place,” she said cheerfully. “Lace, can you hand me the seasonal box next?”

“On it,” Lace said, sliding the box toward her without breaking eye contact from the furry menace. Spite’s tail swished faster, as if sensing he was being denied greatness. “What’s the dessert of the day, Rook?”

“Lemon cakes,” Rook replied as she returned from the chalkboard, setting the levitating chalk back into its little ceramic rest. “Mini ones, with a syrup glaze.”

Bellara’s gasp of delight was immediate. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”

Lace raised a brow as she continued to stare down Spite. “The kind with the syrup that drips down the sides like they were kissed by a sugar goddess?”

Rook smirked. “The very same.”

There was a synchronized noise of delight—Lace gave a dramatic gasp while Bellara clapped her hands under the display shelf.

“Please tell me there are enough for staff perks,” Bellara said.

“Maybe,” Rook teased, walking towards the tea blends. “Depends on your behavior.”

Lace narrowed her eyes. “I’m behaving right now, aren’t I?” She nudged Spite lightly with her boot. “Heroic restraint.”

Rook snorted. “Would you like something to drink with that heroism?”

“Surprise me,” the dwarf said, relaxing now that the last of the pastries were safely sealed in their display case. “It’s a pastry day. I deserve something indulgent.”

Rook moved to the brewing station, her motions fluid as she prepped the steamer.

And then—

“So,” Lace said, casually leaning on the counter. “Bellara mentioned there’s a blooming crush in the shop.”

Rook froze mid-reach toward the kettle, eyes closing briefly as the words sunk in.

“Venhedis,” she muttered. “Bellara!”

Bellara, from behind the glass, chirped sweetly, “I regret nothing.”

Lace’s grin turned sly the moment she caught the faint pink blooming at the tips of Rook’s ears. “Ah, there it is,” she said with delight. “Bellara wasn’t lying—our shopkeeper’s got herself a silver fox situation.”

Rook kept her focus on the kettle, willing the water to stay at precisely the right temperature. “I am begging you both to talk about literally anything else.”

But neither of them had any intention of letting her off the hook.

Bellara popped up from behind the case, practically glowing with glee. “Come on, Rook, you can’t expect us to ignore the fact that an actual professor—who looks like he walked out of a romance serial—has been frequenting your shop and giving you lingering glances.”

Rook let out a strained breath as she poured the hot water over the tea leaves, keeping her movements measured. “You’re going to make me oversteep this out of sheer spite.”

From the kitchen, footsteps approached—smooth and unhurried.

Lucanis entered with a plate balanced effortlessly in one hand, filled with the first golden batch of lemon cakes. He raised an eyebrow at the tension in the air like it was the start of a mystery novel.

“Am I interrupting a witch trial?” he asked, utterly deadpan.

“Perfect timing,” Lace beamed. “The accused was just about to plead guilty by way of blushing.”

Rook shot him a look, silently begging for rescue.

Instead, he set the plate down on the counter and said, “Ah…I’m also curious about this dashing professor, Bellara’s been talking about. She made a group chat.”

Rook’s entire body stilled. “There’s a group chat!?” She turned slowly to Bellara, who was very much pretending to be absorbed in pastry rotation. “Bell.”

Bellara glanced up, wide-eyed. “What? It’s important to keep the team informed.”

“Team? What team?!”

Lace, her elbows rested on the counter top with a mischievous smirk, “The Team of Rook needs a love life.”

Bellara straightened with a pout at Lace’s joke. “No, it’s called, ‘Steeped Intentions’.”

Lucanis slid one of the cakes toward her with diplomatic precision. “For the record, I abstained from voting. But I do read the updates.”

“I hate all of you,” Rook muttered, pouring tea into two waiting mugs.

Lace had already hopped onto a barstool and was watching the show unfold with giddy contentment. “I think it’s sweet. Age gap aside a professor with manners and good taste in tea? Rook, you have to let this happen.”

Lucanis began setting out lemon cakes for everyone. “Also, he’s clearly into you. You’re the only reason Bellara hasn’t scared him off.”

Rook handed over the tea with more force than necessary, but not enough to spill it. “I should’ve steeped valerian root and knocked you all out.”

Bellara accepted her cup without shame. “Worth it.”

Lucanis took his coffee from Rook with a quiet thanks just as Spite leapt back onto the counter, his eyes locked on the lemon cakes with laser focus. He let out a plaintive meow that was somehow both regal and demanding.

“Not for you,” Lucanis said calmly, reaching into his coat pocket.

He pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle and revealed a star-shaped cat treat—golden brown and faintly smelling of fish and oat. Spite narrowed his eyes, sniffed, then took the offering and strutted away like a prince who’d just received tribute.

Rook raised an eyebrow. “You made him cookies?”

Lucanis sipped his coffee. “If I’m going to bribe a demon, I prefer to do it on my terms.”

Peace settled over the tea shop again, broken only by the clink of mugs, the quiet hum of the kitchen, and the knowledge that the group chat would probably be worse by tonight.

Chapter Text

The lamps in Emmrich’s office cast a warm, amber glow across a desk scattered with annotated texts, half-filled grading rubrics, and a well-worn lecture notebook. Outside, the university courtyard was quiet, the distant murmur of students filtered by the thick stone and enchantments lining the old tower walls.

Emmrich sat at his desk, posture perfectly straight as he reviewed the outline for next week’s lecture. Across from him, Myrna worked through a stack of essays with the quiet brutality only a seasoned academic could wield. The two operated in easy rhythm—efficient, synchronized, no wasted motion or unnecessary words.

It should’ve made for the perfect environment to focus.

And yet, his thoughts drifted.

Not far. Just... down the cobbled lane. To a greenhouse-lit storefront wrapped in vines. To a woman whose smile flickered in the corners of his mind, warm and elusive. A woman who smelled of tea, fresh mint, and the kind of sweetness that lingered.

Rook.

She was a wonder, really. Not just for her teas—though that alone would’ve been enough to occupy his curiosity for weeks. Her blends were clever, her desserts decadent, and her ability to tailor a brew to a person’s mood with only a few questions? That was art. But there was more. Her wit. Her stillness. That sharp, quiet intelligence tucked behind every glance and smirk.

And then there was her heritage.

Nevarran, at least in part. She had mentioned her father with fond exasperation—a man who insisted they make flatbread from scratch as a family rite. Emmrich had found that detail charming. Eccentric, yes. But charming.

It had even prompted him to speak about his mother’s torte and the tradition behind it—something he rarely shared with strangers. But with Rook, the words had come easily. Naturally.

Still… Ingellvar.

The surname had nudged something in him the moment she said it. He hadn’t paid it much mind at the time, but now it sat heavy in his thoughts. He could swear he’d heard that name recently. Not in casual conversation. In academia.

He hesitated, then looked over to Myrna. She was still marking with mechanical precision, but if anyone knew something, it was her.

“Myrna,” he said, keeping his tone mild, “forgive the interruption, but have you ever come across the name Ingellvar? In university records, perhaps.”

The assistant professor looked up from her grading, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Of course. Professor Solas Ingellvar. Teaches in the Fade and Magical Anthropology department. Why?”

The name landed with the weight of recognition. His hunch had been right.

Emmrich nodded slowly. “Just curious. I thought I’d seen the name in recent publication citations.”

“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t,” Myrna said. “He’s quite prolific. Difficult to work with, by most accounts, but respected.”

Emmrich gave a soft, noncommittal sound and turned toward one of the nearby bookshelves. He drew out a leather-bound volume from a stack of past symposium proceedings and flipped through until he found what he was looking for—Fade Structures and Cross-Cultural Spirit Memory. Within, a full-page panel image from a conference four years ago.

There, standing at a podium mid-lecture, was Solas Ingellvar.

Emmrich studied the photo. High cheekbones. Pale complexion. Cool grey eyes that held a scholar’s scrutiny. The cut of his jaw, the angle of his shoulders—disciplined. Methodical. Reserved.

But more than that... familiar.

Not in an obvious way. Not in the way of siblings who looked like mirror images.

Rook’s skin bore the warmth of sunlit stone, scattered freckles across her cheekbones. Her eyes were a dark, rich brown—like the chocolate sold in Rivaini markets, spiced and bold. But there, in the shape of the mouth. The angle of the brow. The tension in the way both held themselves in unfamiliar company.

Of course.

Siblings.

He sat back in his chair, letting the pieces settle into place.

He remembered now— Solas Ingellvar. They’d crossed paths at symposiums and Fade colloquiums, shared brief but polite conversation over esoteric theory and posthumous spirit mapping. Emmrich had found him composed, exacting. Distant, but not unkind.

A scholar who measured words like scalpel strokes—deliberate, refined, rarely wasted.

He respected him, in that detached, professional way one does a colleague whose mind is sharp but whose warmth rarely crossed the table.

And then there was Dorian.

Emmrich recalled more than one occasion over drinks where Dorian had muttered about “Professor Icy-Eyes,” always followed by a theatrical sigh and a complaint about academic arrogance wrapped in nice shoes. Emmrich had mostly tuned it out at the time. Dorian had a flair for dramatic grievances.

But now… it clicked.

The surname. The resemblance, subtle but undeniable. The stillness Rook carried sometimes—the weight she didn’t speak of. All of it pointed to one thing.

Rook Ingellvar.

Sister to Professor Solas Ingellvar.

How very… interesting.

The university courtyard was still when Emmrich finally stepped out into the night. The chill had deepened, crisp enough to fog the breath, but not unpleasant. He adjusted his scarf, the edges of the day's thoughts still clinging to his coat. The walk home was a quiet one, just the way he liked it—until a flicker of movement caught his eye ahead.

The lights at the Veil & Vine had just gone dark.

Rook stood outside, locking the front door with a quiet click of magic. Her satchel was slung across one shoulder, her plum scarf snug around her throat. The breeze carried something bright and familiar on the air—citrus.

Emmrich hesitated, then lifted his hand slightly in greeting. “Miss Ingellvar.”

Rook turned, surprised at first, then smiled softly. “Professor.”

“Emmrich, please,” he corrected gently, as he approached. “Out late?”

She glanced back at the now-dark windows. “Closing up. It was a full day.”

He nodded once. “I could smell it from the street.”

“The end of a long shift?” she teased.

“The citrus,” he clarified, tilting his head slightly. “It’s you... and something else.”

“Oh.” She patted the small white pastry box tucked beneath her arm. “Lemon cakes. Today’s dessert special. I couldn’t let the last two go to waste.”

“Lemon,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “That explains the warmth.”

She chuckled. “Yeah I do a ‘Dessert of the Day’ and lemon cakes are my favorite. A little bright, a little sweet. All delicious.”

Spite’s ears peeked from the satchel flap, his eyes just barely visible, gleaming gold in the lampglow. He didn’t move, clearly content to be ferried home like royalty.

Emmrich realized, with a small note of surprise, that this was the first time he’d seen Rook outside of the tea shop. And somehow, that made the moment feel different—less framed by routine, more real.

She stood beneath the hush of night, streetlamps and city lights painting soft gold along the curve of her scarf and the edges of her hair. As if sensing the moment, she tucked a stray strand behind her ear—a small, almost self-conscious gesture that made the stillness feel fuller somehow.

So the professor gathered the courage to be bold.

“Well,” he began, adjusting the strap of his leather satchel, “since you’ve closed up for the day… and I’m on my way home...”

He met her eyes.

“Would you mind,” he asked, voice gentle but steady, “if I walked with you for a bit?”

Rook’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the invitation. Emmrich could feel the nerves creeping up the back of his neck, breath catching.

“You don’t need to feel obliged,” he added quickly. “If you have other plans, I completely under—”

“Sure,” she interrupted, her voice soft but certain. “I’d like the company.”

His breath stuttered, mouth parting just a little in surprise. There she was, standing in the glow of streetlight with a quiet smile blooming on her face and the faintest flush at the tips of her ears. Cold, he reasoned. Must be the night air. Even so, his own cheeks warmed as he took her in—glowing not from magic or light, but from something more human, more immediate.

He cleared his throat and gave a small, composed nod. “After you.”

They fell into step beside each other, boots tapping gently against stone, the city quieting around them. The space between them wasn’t awkward—just unhurried.

“How long have you had the shop?” he asked after a block or two.

“About a year now,” she replied. “But it was two years in the making before that. Tea wasn’t really my thing at first.”

He glanced at her, curious. “No?”

“Maker, no. I could barely steep a decent brew, let alone create a blend,” Rook said with a soft huff. “I was practically a disaster… but the shop originally belonged to my mother. I only took over later.”

Emmrich’s brow lifted slightly. “I see. Were you planning to take it on so your family could retire?”

She shook her head, her gaze drifting forward as they walked. “No… it was more like an inheritance.”

There was a pause. Not long, but enough to carry weight.

“My parents passed away when I was twelve,” she added, the words careful but not fragile. “After that, the shop was kept running by a family friend.”

She didn’t look at him right away, unsure she could bear the sight of pity or quiet grief in his eyes. It wasn’t that she’d meant to keep it a secret—just that talking about dead parents rarely made for casual conversation, let alone light banter. They walked a few more steps in silence, the weight of her words settling between them like a mist neither had asked for.

Then Emmrich stopped.

Rook paused as well, turning to face him, brow slightly furrowed in question.

He looked at her—really looked at her—and said, voice low and sincere, “Rook... I’m truly sorry. About your parents.”

The honesty in his tone was steady, but there was something gentle threaded beneath it. Not pity—just understanding.

She blinked, visibly touched, the edges of her composure briefly softening. “Thank you,” she said after a beat, her voice quiet. “But really—it’s okay. It happened a long time ago. I’ve had time to make peace with it.”

Still, she offered a small smile, and this time it reached her eyes. “Besides, I think they’d be happy to know I found my way back to the shop.”

Emmrich was quiet for a moment, gaze soft beneath the streetlight glow. Then, with a gentleness that matched the stillness between them, he asked, “May I ask... how they passed?”

Rook didn’t answer right away, her eyes tracing the path ahead rather than meeting his. But there was no edge in her voice when she spoke—just the even tone of someone who had long since turned pain into memory.

“It was a car crash,” she said. “… It was raining that day. Nothing unusual. Just one of those gray, wet Minrathous afternoons.”

She swallowed.

“A drunk driver ran a red light—high speed. Hit their car hard enough to crush the side and send it skidding into a barrier. My mom died on impact. My dad... he died on the way to the hospital.”

She kept her voice steady, leaving out the rest. There were still parts she couldn’t let herself say aloud. Not tonight.

Emmrich didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out and placed a steady hand on her shoulder. No words, no platitudes—just quiet, grounding presence.

Rook looked up at him, surprised by the gesture, and found the understanding already in his eyes. There was a softness there. A knowing. The kind that didn’t require explanation.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “Grief doesn’t follow the rules of time. And it doesn’t vanish with distance.”

Emmrich’s words confirmed what Rook had been sensing all along—the way he looked at her with quiet understanding, and the way his voice carried a depth of empathy she hadn’t realized she needed.

She hesitated, then asked, “How old were you?”

“Seven,” he answered, his voice low. “It was a building collapse. A natural disaster, but catastrophic. I was fortunate enough to survive. I’ve had time... more than enough time to make peace with it. But the shape of it never really leaves you.”

Her hand lifted and gently rested over his, still on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it.

They stood there like that for a long moment—hands touching, the night hushed around them. The world felt narrowed to just the two of them—held still by shared weight and quiet understanding.

Then Spite let out a pointed meow from inside the satchel, as if offended that they’d stopped walking at all.

Rook let out a breath of laughter, the heaviness easing just enough for her to speak again. “Guess we got a little carried away.”

Emmrich chuckled, withdrawing his hand with slow care. “He has excellent timing.”

They resumed their walk, slower this time, with the silence between them no longer heavy, but companionable.

“I think your parents would be proud,” Emmrich said after a while. “Of the shop. Of you. You’ve created something warm, intentional, and genuinely restorative. Your blends, the pastries, the way you’ve turned that space into a haven—even the mischievous cat guarding it.”

Rook felt her cheeks flush, caught off guard by the sincerity in his words. “That’s... very kind of you to say.”

They reached a quiet intersection where the path split—her street to the right, his straight ahead. Rook slowed her steps and nodded toward the turn.

“I’m heading down this way,” she said softly.

Emmrich gestured ahead. “And I continue on.”

They both lingered.

For a moment, neither moved. The city hummed gently around them, all streetlamps and distant echoes—but between them, there was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just… tentative. Like something wanted to be said, but neither quite knew how.

Rook opened the small pastry box, pulling out a small paper bag—the pastry already tucked inside, folded neatly at the top.

“Here,” she said, holding it out with a small smile. “Consider it a thank-you for the escort home and the conversation.”

Emmrich blinked, just once, before his expression softened further. “A gift?”

“A bribe,” she teased gently. “For your good company.”

He accepted the bag, his fingers brushing hers in the faintest moment of contact. “Then I shall happily accept.”

She smiled—shy, but certain. “Good night, Emmrich.”

He paused—just a beat—and looked at her with the kind of quiet surprise that wasn’t startled, just... delighted. A small smile touched his lips, warm and genuine.

“Goodnight, Rook,” he said, his voice low and sure with a soft parting nod.

With that, they finally parted. She turned down her street with a lighter step, the weight of the day loosened from her shoulders. He continued on, the soft crinkle of the pastry bag in his hand and the warmth of her voice still lingering in his chest.

Two people. Two lemon cakes. And something quietly blooming between them in the hush of a Minrathous night.

Chapter Text

Rook laid in bed on her back, wrapped in the hush of her apartment, one arm draped across her forehead as she stared at the ceiling. The hum of the city outside had dulled to background noise, but her thoughts were louder than ever.

That walk home with Emmrich… it hadn’t felt casual. It had been something else entirely.

Real.

Personal.

She’d spoken about her parents—normally the topic of dead parents was a guaranteed mood killer. But with him… it hadn’t been. In fact, he understood and even shared his loss. There had been no walls, no shop counter between them. Just two people in the dark, sharing something quiet and sacred. She felt the ache of it still—sweet and heavy, like the last sip of tea before it goes cold.

Spite was conspicuously absent, likely sulking somewhere after being denied cake—a petty little shadow haunting the corners of the apartment. He’d reappear when it suited him. He always did.

Rook sighed and turned to her nightstand, grabbing her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment. Then she made a decision—one she already knew she might mildly regret.

But she needed to talk about it.

And, Maker preserve her, Bellara and company were going to find out anyway.

Rook: Bell?

Bellara: Yeeeeeeees??

Maker help her. She can already feel the regret rise within her.

Rook: …Add me to the group chat?

Bellara: Which group chat??

Rook: Bell you know which one I’m talking about.

Bellara: Oh whatever could you mean?? We have so many in our group. I would need specifics.

Rook: I hate you.

Bellara: You love me. Now say the name and you shall enter.

Rook: …Add me to ‘Steeped Intentions.’

And just like that, the invite came through.

Rook opened the chat. The last few messages were pure chaos.

Group Chat Name: Steeped Intentions ☕💀🍰

Lace: Neve pls tell me that you did a background check on the professor?

Neve: Of course I did.

Lace: What’re the highlights?

Neve: Professor Emmrich Volkarin, teaches forensic anthropology among other credentials at Nevarra University, currently teaching at Minrathous University as a guest lecturer. Lives in a townhouse owned by the university with his skeletal ward, Manfred. Was a former mentor of Dorian Pavus and is a necromancer with the rare ability of corpse whispering.

Davrin: Damn so he really is a Bone Daddy?

Lucanis: Davrin no.

Taash: Lace just showed me a photo of him. He’s old. Are we sure Rook finds him attractive?

Neve: Idk. He definitely has a silver fox charm to him.

Taash: Gross.

Lace: Taash. Be nice.

Davrin: Okay, okay. How about Grave Daddy?

Neve: Davrin just… no.

Rook stared at the screen. The messages were already spiraling into unholy territory, and she'd only just joined.

She should’ve known this would happen.

No—she did know.

She just hadn’t expected the feral harpies to move this fast.

Still, as chaotic as it was, it was better to be inside the storm than on the outside watching Bellara light signal flares across every social channel.

At least this way I can contain the damage, she thought grimly.

She sighed, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a moment before typing.

Rook has been added to the group.

Bellara: She has arrived!! 😆 😆 😆

Lace: 😯

Rook: You are all insufferable.

Neve: Well this is a surprise. What prompted you joining us?

Rook: …

Bellara: Something happened?? Is that why you wanted me to add you???

Rook: …Yes something happened.

Bellara: 🎉 🎉 🎉 DETAILS!! I demand details!!

Lace: Omg did he ask you out on a date?

Davrin: Did he propose to be your sugar daddy?

Bellara: Omg did he ask you to brew a part of his soul again??

Neve: Guys calm down and let Rook speak.

Rook: The professor ran into me when I was closing the shop and we walked home together.

Lucanis: I can already tell that Bellara is screaming at her phone right now.

Neve: Oh she definitely is.

Rook: Look we just ran into each other and were going the same way… so we walked together. We talked and I gave him a leftover lemon cake. That was it.

Lace: You did WHAT?!

Rook: ??

Neve: Did you just say that you gave the professor a lemon cake?

Rook: Yes?

Neve: The same lemon cakes that you threatened to stab a bitch if they ever thought of taking from you.

Rook: Okay I wasn’t THAT dramatic about it.

Davrin: No you absolutely would.

Taash: Yeah you don’t play when it comes to your sweets.

Lucanis: Everyone I think we’re glossing over the fact on what Rook didn’t say.

Bellara: ???

Lucanis: She wouldn’t be telling us this if it was just a walk and a short conversation. Something happened during the talk.

Neve: Nice catch, Dellamorte.

Bellara: Rooooook??

Rook: …

Lace: She is guilty.

Davrin: You can’t run away from us, Miss Ingellvar.

Bellara: Pour the tea!!

Rook: If I tell you, will you please wait until I finish typing it out?

Lace: Scout’s honor.

Neve: We will be on our best behavior. Right Bellara?

Bellara: …

Neve: Bellara.

Bellara: Fine. I will be patient.

Lucanis: I give her two messages.

Davrin: We all know she’s just gonna scream at her phone again and spam emojis.

Bellara: I can do it!!

Taash: Hurry up and tell us.

Rook: Fine… So we were walking home together and we were talking. The usual banter of a tea shop owner and customer. Then I kinda fucked up.

I told him about my parents.

Bellara: 😯 😯 😯

Lace: Oh no.

Rook had expected those reactions—of course she had. Which only made the embarrassment worse. Still, she pressed on, fingers steady as she kept typing.

Rook: I know. I know. What in Andraste’s name is wrong for me to talk about my dead parents. To the handsome man walking me home!?

Neve: …How did he react?

She could feel the shift in Neve’s tone—cautious, serious. Whatever she typed next would shape their impression of Emmrich. Until now, the group had treated him like a fantasy: silver fox banter, potential sugar daddy jokes, and Bellara’s dramatic updates on every glance, every word. All noise. All fun.

But this was different.

Rook stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, unmoving.

Her thoughts drifted back—to the way he looked at her beneath the streetlamps, warm hazel eyes flecked with green, soft in a way that made her breath catch. His voice had been low, sincere, gently spoken like he’d carved out that moment just for her. His hand on her shoulder hadn’t been performative—it had steadied her when she’d wanted to retreat, bracing for judgment. But there had been none.

No pity. No hollow condolences.

Just quiet understanding.

He knew what grief felt like.

And Maker, that was what made her chest flutter.

Not the grave-gold or the sharp coat. Not even his smile.

It was the way he saw her—and the way his words afterward made every other compliment she'd ever received feel flimsy by comparison.

Rook: It’s hard to put it into words here…

It was different. Not in a bad way just… like he understood what I was going through. There was no pity. No awkward condolences because I ruined the mood. He just… knew.

Then he shared his own loss. It wasn’’t performative or forced. It was… comforting. In an empathetic sense.

And then Spite voiced his opinion that we had to return to reality and that was it.

Bellara: I’m crying and screaming at the same time 😭😭😭

Davrin: The kitty cock-block strikes again.

Lucanis: El diablo has zero romantic awareness.

Bellara: You two had a moment!! I can practically see it. The glow of the streetlights. A moment of tenderness and longing! I’m literally screaming.

Lace: Guys we’re focusing too much on the demon spawn. Rook, how do YOU feel about the whole thing?

Rook: Idk. I’m still processing the whole thing.

…but I think that it was nice.

Bellara: 😍😍😍

Davrin: Dude she’s locked in on Grave Daddy.

Neve: Davrin what did we say about the nickname?

Davrin: What about it? That it’s perfect and accurate?

Taash: I think it’s funny.

Lucanis: Taash, don’t encourage him.

Rook: You are all feral.

Rook stared at her phone, the group chat still buzzing with emoji storms, name debates, and Davrin doing his best to canonize “Grave Daddy.” She smirked despite herself, a quiet laugh bubbling up and slipping past her lips before she could suppress it.

Shaking her head, she set the phone down on the nightstand and let it rest. The moment her hand pulled back, a soft thump landed on the bed.

She didn’t need to look. “Look who decided to make an appearance,” she muttered, already feeling the smug little loaf settle onto her chest like a judgmental paperweight.

Spite blinked up at her, gold eyes half-lidded and unbothered. He gave a short purr, as if to say I finally have your attention. Now love me, then curled his paws under himself and tucked in like he’d owned the bed all along.

Rook sighed, threading her fingers gently through the fur at his cheeks. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

They stayed like that for a while—Spite purring quietly, her fingers moving in slow, affectionate strokes. The noise of the day slipped away into the dim light of her room, and the warmth of him grounded her in a way few things could.

She whispered, “Maker help me, I’ve got a crush.”

Spite flicked one ear and cracked open one eye. The look he gave her was flat, knowing, and unamused.

Rook exhaled slowly and smiled into the silence. “Yeah, yeah. You knew before I did.”

He blinked, then resumed purring.

She lay back against the pillows, fingers resting gently on the rise of his fur, the weight of the moment finally easing. Whatever tomorrow brought—teasing, awkward glances, maybe even another lemon cake—it could wait.

Tonight, she could admit it.

She had it bad.

The townhouse was quiet when Emmrich returned, the door clicking shut behind him with its usual soft finality. He loosened his scarf and set his satchel by the coat rack, but didn’t head to his study just yet. Instead, he moved with quiet purpose toward the kitchen. The air held its familiar notes of aged paper and orange peel—now laced faintly with lemon, the last trace of the cake nestled in the paper bag in his hand.

He set it gently on the dining table, the fold of the bag untouched, as if it were something sacred.

A soft scuffle echoed from the hallway—the click-click of skeletal feet on polished wood. Manfred emerged, crouched low in the doorway like a skulking librarian. His glowing emerald green lenses flickered with curiosity as they locked onto the bag.

He tilted his skull, bone-etched runes pulsing faintly.

Emmrich caught the subtle posture shift—small, reverent.

Interest.

“I know,” Emmrich murmured, amused. “It smells excellent.”

Manfred crept closer, satchel clinking with its familiar jumble of trinkets. His gloved fingers hovered near the bag’s edge, miming its outline like he was appraising a fragile artifact.

“You may inspect it,” Emmrich said dryly. “But no thieving.”

Manfred clicked his jaw in mock offense, crouched low, and tilted his head from one side to the other like a cat sizing up something potentially edible.

“It’s a lemon cake,” Emmrich added, lips curling into a smile. “A gift.”

Manfred stopped. The glow in his lenses blinked brighter, and he let out a questioning hiss—rising in pitch, inquisitive. A gift? But it’s food?

“I know,” Emmrich said, still amused. “You’re used to books, artifacts, relics… practical things. But sometimes, a gift is simple. Sweet. Meant to be shared.” He glanced at the bag. “She gave it to me as thanks.”

Manfred hissed again, contemplative, then extended a long bony finger toward the tea kettle in a slow, deliberate gesture.

Emmrich followed the motion, then nodded. “Yes. That’s an excellent idea.”

With a pleased hiss, Manfred spun and tottered off toward the stove. The runes along his spine pulsed in steady contentment as he got to work.

Emmrich remained at the counter, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment bag.

Rook’s voice echoed in his memory—soft, hesitant—as she spoke of her parents’ passing. He remembered how she looked then: guarded, bracing herself to retreat behind silence. But she hadn’t. She stayed. Let him in. And when her hand came to rest over his, something unspoken settled between them, quiet and profound.

And then… she’d said his name.

“Goodnight, Emmrich.”

There had been a softness to it—shy and warm. A blush she tried to hide behind her scarf before disappearing into the night.

He exhaled slowly, hand resting on the counter’s edge.

Then there was the way his hand had rested on her shoulder—and how she’d placed hers over it. She’d looked at him with those deep, dark brown eyes, fingers brushing his rings. Maker preserve him. He could’ve drowned in those eyes—velvet-dark, quietly consuming—especially when her lips parted, just slightly.

What would’ve happened if Spite hadn’t interrupted?

The thought slipped in—uninvited, persistent. His cheeks warmed, and he cleared his throat, shaking it off before it could veer toward something more... indulgent.

Just then, Manfred returned, a small tray balanced neatly in his hands—tea kettle, cup, and a delicate plate. He hissed with triumphant satisfaction.

Emmrich inclined his head. “Excellent work, as always.”

He took a seat at the small table by the window, poured the tea, and unwrapped the lemon cake. The syrup had soaked just enough into the sponge to gloss the edges. The first bite was slow. Intentional.

Tartness bloomed on his tongue—sharp, bright. Then the sponge softened it with warmth, the zest lingering like memory. It was balanced. Refined. Delightful.

He sipped his tea, letting it carry the citrus across his palate. Manfred had already slipped away, off to whatever quiet chore called him now that the professor had returned.

Emmrich let the quiet stretch around him like a shawl—lemon and warmth in his hands, and Rook’s voice, her eyes, her name for him, echoing through his chest like a softly spoken spell.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon light filtered through the Veil & Vine’s windows in golden ribbons. Most of the day’s bustle had faded, leaving behind a handful of stragglers sipping tea in quiet pockets of conversation. Emmrich stepped in with his usual composure, scanning the room until his eyes found Rook at the counter, chatting softly with two students.

He didn’t interrupt. Instead, he approached the counter to place his order—Memory Moss Brew. The day had been a descent into academic madness, and this blend, more than any other, was what he needed to untangle the knots left behind. A tea not meant to jolt him awake, but to steady the frayed edges—to quiet the echoes of a dozen frenzied student pleas and remind him that his own thoughts still held weight.

They exchanged a brief smile, just long enough for their gazes to meet without lingering.

Once his drink was set in motion, Emmrich retreated to a quiet corner, sliding into his usual spot with his worn leather journal in hand. Spite, ever the perceptive host, appeared as if conjured from shadow—settling at Emmrich’s feet with a judgmental blink before curling up like a small deity waiting for tribute. Emmrich murmured a polite greeting to the cat, who blinked once in solemn approval, then returned his attention to the pages before him.

When the tea arrived, he took a breath over the cup before sipping. The aroma was faintly mint-laced, softened by the green tea’s verdant base, but layered with something else—a distant sweetness, like moss after rain, and the ghostly floral trace of felandaris. Grounding. Elusive. The sort of scent that called memories from corners you hadn’t realized were dusty.

He took a sip.

The flavor unfolded slowly, like a memory surfacing from a dream. The green tea was clean and earthy, anchored by the memory moss’s gently astringent depth. A whisper of lemon balm brightened the blend just at the edges—not enough to be tart, just enough to keep the heaviness from pulling too far inward. And somewhere beneath it all, a subtle flicker of something that felt… not tasted. Like the Fade brushing against the walls of the waking world.

It didn’t jolt him. It steadied him. Each sip a breath, each swallow a tether—reminding him where he was, who he was, and that the storm of the day had, in fact, passed.

It was pure chaos at the university.

Group projects were in full effect, and his office had been flooded with students scrambling to swap teams, barter extensions, or plead their way out of accountability. Myrna, ever the shieldmaiden of his academic sanity, had shooed them away with a glare sharp enough to gut a man. As far as she was concerned, “they must reap what they sow.”

And Emmrich agreed.

Collaborative work, however cursed it might feel to the average student, was a necessary gauntlet in their field. They needed to understand how to engage with peers, weigh magical ethics in discourse, and build theories that could survive debate. Still—spirits above—the chaos had left him drained.

He took another slow sip, letting the brew rest on his tongue.

When he looked up again, he realized the sun had fully dipped below the skyline. A quiet dusk had draped itself across the city beyond the windows, and within the Veil & Vine, only a handful of low-light glyphs flickered overhead.

The shop was nearly empty now—just him, Rook, and Spite.

The demon cat was curled up in the window nook, tail flicking slowly in time with the soft jazz playing overhead. Rook, seated behind the counter, was scribbling something into a well-worn leather-bound journal, her brow furrowed in thought.

Emmrich studied the scene for a moment before his voice broke the comfortable silence as he approached, mug in hand. His tone was light, but the glint of curiosity in his eyes was genuine.

“Working on something secret?”

Rook looked up from her journal and instinctively straightened her posture. “Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid,” she replied, a hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Just jotting down ideas for potential blends.”

“Anything interesting?”

She tapped the end of her pencil thoughtfully against the page, her teeth catching her lower lip as she scanned her notes. “I was playing around with the idea for a new tea blend—something a friend said in passing sparked it—but now I’m wondering if it might actually work better as a coffee.”

She muttered, more to herself than him, “Maybe with a light roast…” and quickly jotted something down, her pen gliding over the page in a loose, familiar scrawl. Her gaze met his over the rim of his mug. He was smiling, the kind of quiet smile that came from listening, not just hearing.

Rook blinked, cheeks warming. “Sorry. Got a little carried away.”

“I’m all too familiar with getting caught up in one’s passions,” he said, voice rich with amusement.

She huffed softly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as if that might contain the smile building behind it. Composure regained, her eyes flicked down to the leather journal resting beneath his hand.

She reached out and tapped its worn cover with the tip of her finger. “What about you? Any scandalous secrets behind that binding?”

He chuckled, low and velvety. “I’m afraid mine is far more dull—lecture notes, spectral glyph drafts, a few messy field annotations. Hardly worth blackmail.”

“Color me curious. What’s the subject?”

Emmrich glanced down at the journal beneath his fingers, the corners of his mouth twitching with a faint, self-conscious smile.

“At the moment? Forensic anthropology,” he said, brushing his thumb lightly along the journal’s spine. “I’m reworking part of my lecture on spirit residue in crime scenes and how spectral interference can skew initial findings. Fascinating, I know.”

He said it with a dry edge, clearly expecting a polite nod or glazed expression.

But Rook leaned forward, resting her elbow on the counter as she turned toward him with genuine interest. “Wait—like actual spirit signatures left behind at scenes? You can read those?”

His brow lifted. “In certain cases, yes. With the right conditions and enough silence.” A pause. “But it tends to be a niche interest. Most people glaze over the moment I mention corpse proximity.”

She grinned. “You’re talking to a woman who makes emotional tea blends based on people’s whims and moods. I’m not exactly one to judge.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re indulging me.”

“I’m intrigued,” she corrected. “There’s something kind of beautiful about how you describe it. You see things most people miss.”

That caught him off guard. The smile he gave her then was slower, more honest. “You’re very kind.”

She shrugged lightly, a hand brushing the edge of her tea journal. “We all have our weird magic-adjacent hobbies. Yours just happens to involve spirits and the dead. It might be morbid to some —but without death, we’d forget how precious the breath between beginnings and endings really is.”

Emmrich was quiet for a moment, his gaze lingering on her as though he were seeing her in a new light. The glow from the overhead sconces cast soft amber around them, the quiet clink of porcelain and the distant sound of rain against glass giving the moment a hush.

“You have a way with words, Miss Ingellvar,” he said, his voice warm and low. “It’s easy to forget how true that is… until someone reminds you.”

She offered a faint, modest smile. “Tea-making has made me a bit of a poet.” A beat passed. Rook tilted her head slightly. “So, what led you to this work anyway?” she asked, gently shifting the conversation, though her tone remained open. “Was it always spirits and forensics for you?”

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh—more like something released that had been resting in his chest for a long time. “I was afraid of death,” he said. “That’s the truth of it. Ironic, I know. A necromancer afraid of death. But I didn’t begin this work because I found death fascinating—I did it because I found it terrifying.”

Rook tilted her head, her expression softening.

“When I was young, the fear would come in waves,” Emmrich continued. “No warning. No pattern. Just this... crushing dread. As if I were being suffocated from the inside out, strangled by something invisible and inevitable. Reason never soothed it.”

He traced a finger along the rim of his mug, gaze distant. “In time, the episodes lessened. I surrounded myself with study, with logic, with ritual. I faced what frightened me. And eventually, I found comfort in knowing that others shared that fear. In Nevarra, there are whole circles devoted to discussing it, to learning how to live with it instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.”

He looked at her again, and the sincerity in his eyes struck her harder than she expected.

“I’ve come to terms with my mortality,” he said quietly. “But the fear never really leaves you. It just... learns to sit quietly at your side.”

His words lingered in the air, unhurried and raw. Rook stared at him, her throat a little tight.

“I know that fear,” she murmured, after a long pause. She hadn’t planned to say it—not tonight, not like this—but the moment was too open, too honest to leave untouched. Her hands, resting atop her journal, curled slightly.

“Emmrich,” she said softly, eyes flicking down. “There’s something I didn’t tell you… about the car crash.”

Emmrich straightened, his expression attentive but gentle.

“I was there,” Rook said, voice quiet but steady. “I was in the car.”

She took a slow breath, grounding herself in the weight of her own voice.

“I remember sitting in the backseat when they drove that rainy day. I remember the sound of it hitting the car roof. The way it echoed before everything shattered.” Her fingers drifted to her hip, brushing instinctively against the scar hidden beneath fabric. “Glass. Screaming. Blood. I called for them, but no one answered.”

Her eyes remained on the table, her voice softer now. “I couldn’t get into a car for years after. Couldn’t sleep without reliving it. The panic would come out of nowhere, and it made no sense because I survived. But sometimes… surviving doesn’t feel like surviving.”

She finally looked up at him, and her voice grew more certain.

“I know that it’s not the same as what you went through. But… I think I understand that kind of fear. Even just a part of it.”

Emmrich didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached out and gently covered her hand with his—calm, steady, no grand gesture—just presence.

“Oh, my dear Rook,” he murmured, his thumb brushing softly over her knuckles.

Rook huffed, a small breath meant to mask the shimmer gathering in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to make things so heavy.”

Emmrich gave her hand a firmer squeeze.

“Never apologize for that,” he said. “What you shared took courage. And I’m honored you chose to trust me with it.”

The silence between them wasn’t hollow. It thrummed—charged and tender—where Emmrich’s hand still rested over hers, anchoring her in the soft gravity of the moment. They were closer now than they had been, the space between them narrowing to something intimate and fragile. Rook could see every detail in his face—the lines of thought and kindness etched at the corners of his eyes, the warmth of hazel touched with green that reminded her of emeralds left under morning light.

Her gaze dropped—unintentionally—to his lips.

She wondered, briefly, what it might feel like. The tickle of his mustache against her skin. The gentleness he might kiss with, the way his voice softened when he said her name. Just one lean forward, and she could find out.

But that wouldn’t be fair. Not now. Not when she had just offered him a piece of herself so raw. If he were to reject her for trying… she wasn’t sure she could survive the humiliation.

Across from her, Emmrich’s gaze had shifted too. His eyes flicked to her lips, just for a breath, just long enough to stir the ache in his chest. How would her kiss taste? Would it carry the faintest traces of tea, of mint or lemon? Would her breath catch beneath his palm if he dared to touch her cheek, to wipe away the tears she’d hidden behind a brave smile?

He didn’t move.

He wanted to.

But he wouldn’t—not when she’d laid herself bare, not when the air still trembled with something so easily broken. It would be too impulsive—Rook didn’t deserve that. She deserved intention, not the risk of mistaking her vulnerability for invitation.

Then—

Bzzz. Bzzz.

His phone vibrated sharply on the counter.

The spell broke.

They both blinked, the air between them cooling in an instant as reality slipped back into place. Emmrich exhaled a soft breath, pulling his hand back with careful grace. Rook’s fingers curled reflexively into her palm, and she quickly turned her face away, brushing her knuckles against her cheek as if that could hide the growing warmth beneath her skin.

Emmrich glanced at the caller ID and sighed before answering. “Yes, Manfred?”

A series of sharp hisses echoed through the receiver—impatient and inquisitive.

Emmrich raised a brow and glanced at his watch—it was far later than he'd intended. “Oh dear.” More hisses crackled through the line, sharp and chiding, like his skeletal ward was thoroughly scolding him. “Yes, yes, I’m on my way. It seems the day got away from me.”

He ended the call and looked up at Rook, his expression shifting to a mix of regret and sheepishness. “It appears I’ve stayed much later than intended.”

Rook offered a small smile, already walking toward the door. “It happens.”

He stood, collecting his satchel and mug with practiced care, though his movements were a bit rushed now. “I apologize for the abrupt exit. I—” He stopped, not quite finishing the thought. “Thank you. For the conversation. And the company.”

Rook held the door open, the cool night air brushing against her skin. “Get home safe, Professor.”

He turned at the threshold, a flicker of hesitation behind his eyes, then gave her a nod and a quieter, “Goodnight, Rook.”

And then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows beyond the lamplight.

Rook stood there for a moment longer, heart hammering like she’d run the entire block. Her fingers still tingled from the warmth of his hand—the gentle weight of it, the brush of his thumb over her knuckles, the feel of his rings and the steadiness beneath all that quiet polish.

She drew in a slow breath and let it out with a huff, fanning her face. “Get it together,” she muttered.

After locking the door and dimming the lights, she moved through the closing routine, her motions mechanical but calm. Dishes away. Lights low. Protective wards set.

Finally, she reached for her journal to tuck it into her satchel—only to pause when her fingers met a different texture. Her brows furrowed. The leather was darker. Older.

She opened it—and there it was: Emmrich’s handwriting, elegant and precise, lining the margins of a spectral diagram with neatly written notes beside it. Oh Maker, even his handwriting was beautiful.

But as much as she wanted to admire his penmanship, reality clicked into place.
If she had Emmrich’s journal... then he had taken—

“Kaffas.”

Chapter Text

Rook sat on her couch, still in her sleep shirt and flannel pants, staring at the journal on her coffee table with the kind of intensity that might make someone think she was trying to set it on fire with her mind.

That was not her intention.

This had been an accident. Pure and simple.

Their journals looked similar, and frankly, both of them had not been the most attentive by the end of last night—not after that level of emotional vulnerability. Not to mention her practically lusting for a kiss in that emotionally raw moment.

So yes. It was an honest mix-up.

But now what?

Emmrich had probably already realized the mistake, and was maybe trying to figure out how to return her journal without making it awkward. Not that it helped—she didn’t know his schedule, and she definitely didn’t have his number to coordinate a drop-off.

And it’s not like she could just stroll into the university on her own. That place was a magical labyrinth on a good day. Navigating it without help would be like trying to find a secret door with no map and no spell.

But… there was someone.

Someone who worked there. Someone who definitely knew where Emmrich’s office was. Someone who would help her—just as soon as they finished roasting her alive for this.

Rook stared at her phone for a long, painful moment.

Then, with the resigned sigh of someone accepting their fate, she pulled up Dorian Pavus’s contact and hit “call.”

"My, my, my—this is a surprise."

"Hi, Dorian."

“Why, hello, Rook. How’s my favorite tea brewer doing? Is Spite still terrorizing the innocent?”

“The shop’s doing well… but I actually need a favor.”

“A favor?” His tone shifted just enough to suggest curiosity with a hint of concern. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing dramatic,” she assured him. “I was just wondering… do you happen to know Professor Emmrich Volkarin? He’s one of the guest lecturers at the university.”

There was a pause—one heavy with anticipation on the other end of the line.

“Emmrich Volkarin, you say?” Dorian’s voice practically hummed with curiosity. “And why, pray tell, does my favorite tea witch need to speak with him?”

Rook already regretted everything. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He was at the shop last night.”

“I know, he’s been frequenting your shop,” Dorian interrupted, far too delighted. “I recommended it. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“My blossoming business thanks you,” Rook continued, ignoring the bait. “Anyways, he left something behind.”

“Oh?” The word curled like smoke. “Do tell. What did our enigmatic professor leave behind? A decorative skull? A glove? His virtue?”

“His journal.”

A beat of silence. Then a faint, disappointed sigh.

“Well that’s tragically anticlimactic.”

“It’s clearly important,” Rook pressed, already defensive. “It’s got his work notes, diagrams, research scribbles—all the things you academics treasure.”

Dorian was quiet for a breath too long. “So why the urgent need to return it?” he asked, his voice now dipped in velvet mischief. “Surely this isn’t just about academic integrity.”

Rook resisted the urge to groan. “I was going to see if you could give it to him. You know, pass it along. He can return my tea journal, next time he comes to the shop.”

“No.” The refusal came quickly. Too quickly.

“…No?”

“No,” Dorian repeated, smug as ever. “You’re going to come here. To the university. I’ll walk you to his office myself.”

“I don’t need to walk anywhere,” Rook argued. “Besides I need to open the shop.”

“You can stop by before opening the shop,” Dorian said, tone perfectly pleasant—and unmistakably scheming. “Besides, I’m far too busy to play courier,” he added, in a voice that suggested he had nothing of the sort going on. “And it would be a shame to delay the reunion of such vital academic artifacts. Mornings are ideal, anyway—Emmrich always arrives early to review casework or tinker with his research. If you come now, you’ll catch him with time to spare.”

Rook opened her mouth to argue. Then closed it. There was no way she was getting out of this. Not without Dorian making it worse later.

She sighed. “Fine.”

“Wonderful!” he beamed. She could hear the smug smile in his voice. “I’ll meet you at the university’s west entrance. Don’t be late!”

The line clicked before she could say another word.

Rook dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside her and groaned into her hands. Across the room, Spite emerged from wherever he’d been lurking, tail flicking as he approached. He stared up at her, unblinking, then headbutted her shin.

“Look who’s suddenly eager to leave,” she muttered.

Spite meowed once, pointedly, and nosed at the edge of the coffee table where Emmrich’s journal still sat.

“I know, I know.” She rose to her feet with a dramatic sigh. “Let’s go drop you off, so I can embarrass myself at a university I never even applied to.”

Spite flicked his tail and strutted toward the door.

As always, he led the way.

Rook had dropped Spite off at the shop with a bribery offering—half a roasted salmon treat and a ceramic dish of goat’s milk—and a quick note for Bellara that read:

Gone for a bit. If I’m not back in time to open, call Lace. Don’t let Spite eat the scones. —R

With her morning contingencies in place, Rook set off through the city. It was one of the rare Minrathous mornings where the warmth hadn’t yet turned into a choking haze. The breeze was soft, almost springlike, and the cobblestones were dry underfoot. She dressed light—comfortable trousers, a short-sleeve fitted top under her usual plum-toned jacket. Her satchel was slung across her shoulder, her hair gathered in a loose twist at the nape of her neck, and the familiar gleam of her ear cuff caught the light when she passed under street lamps still dimming.

She approached the west entrance of Minrathous University, weaving her way through enchanted hedgerows and past the humming, rune-etched gates. The campus spread out like a curated garden of intellect—sharp, gleaming spires and bridges connecting towers above and ivy-covered halls below.

And there he was—leaning against a carved stone pillar like a man posing for a fashion sketch he had absolutely commissioned. Dorian Pavus, effortlessly put together, the picture of elegance with just enough smugness to imply he’d been waiting for this moment all morning.

He straightened at the sight of her, a smile already blooming across his face, eyes alight with mischief. “Ah, there she is. The woman of the hour.”

Rook gave him a polite nod. “Dorian.”

As expected, he sauntered over and pulled her into a hug—one she returned with reluctant grace.

“It really is so good to see you,” he said.

“You do know you see me at the tea shop.”

“That is but a fleeting encounter,” he replied dramatically. “Brief, distracted, caffeine-fueled. Here, I get your undivided attention. Shall I give you the grand tour?”

“I have a shop to open, remember? Going straight to his office will do just fine.”

He huffed, clearly disappointed. “You’re no fun at all.”

She raised a brow, tone dry with sarcasm. “I thought you were too busy to give tours?”

Dorian waved that off with practiced flair. “Fine, fine. You’ve caught me. The ruse is over. I simply wanted an excuse to see my savior in action—and, of course, to inquire about our dear professor. He speaks quite highly of the Veil & Vine.”

“He’s a polite customer with a quiet mission to try every tea on my menu,” Rook replied with a smirk. “He’s interesting. Even Spite likes him.”

Dorian gasped. “That man won over your devil cat? Did he bribe him?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Emmrich was teetering on the edge of mild panic.

He had come into the office early, intent on finalizing next week’s lesson plans and reviewing notes for his research paper. It was supposed to be a productive morning. Quiet. Predictable.

Then he opened what he assumed was his journal.

And was met with handwriting that very much wasn’t his.

Loose, looping script. Doodles of tea leaves and flowers winding through the margins. Blend concepts with names like Winterwake and Lusacan’s Touch—some neatly written, others scratched out and rewritten in bursts of frustration and whimsy.

Oh no.

This wasn’t his journal. It was Miss Ingellvar’s.

He stared at the open page for a full ten seconds, as if willing the handwriting to change. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Somewhere between gathering his things last night and leaving the Veil & Vine, he must’ve taken hers by mistake.

Of course he did.

Now the question stood: how was he meant to return it?

The obvious answer was to visit the shop. Drop it off. Offer a sincere apology and hope she hadn’t already torn through his field notes.

But it was Friday. The shop would be busy. He’d be in the way.

He could take the rest of the day off, but that felt wasteful. He was already here, and his schedule was—

A knock at his office door pulled him from his thoughts.

The knock at the door came again—firmer this time—and Emmrich sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, the familiar dull throb of a forming headache lingering behind his eyes.

“Come in,” he called, expecting Myrna or perhaps another student in need of a deadline extension.

Instead, the door opened just enough for Dorian Pavus to stick his head through, his voice carrying its usual velvet mischief.

“Professor, how are we on this fine Friday morning?”

Emmrich glanced up, already dreading the answer. “Dorian, I do apologize, but I seem to be facing a bit of a dilemma.”

Dorian’s smirk widened. “How serendipitous,” he purred. “Because I, as it turns out, have brought someone who might be able to help solve that very dilemma.”

Before Emmrich could formulate a response—or politely decline the offer of whatever nonsense Dorian was about to spring on him—his colleague stepped fully into the room.

And standing beside him was Rook.

The air in the office shifted. She stood a touch awkwardly, her satchel resting against her hip, her fingers curling around its strap as she gave him a small wave. “Hi.”

For a long, excruciating moment, Emmrich just stared.

His expression didn’t quite register shock—it was something closer to a short-circuit. As though his brain had been neatly unplugged, then hastily rebooted with the new information that Miss Ingellvar was currently standing in his office.

Dorian, of course, was positively thriving in the silence.

“Oh dear,” he murmured with a grin, watching the wheels behind Emmrich’s eyes attempt to turn again. “It seems the journal swap was more fateful than I thought.”

Rook, already mortified, elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “You are enjoying this way too much,” she muttered under her breath.

Dorian clutched his side like she’d mortally wounded him, but the grin on his face didn’t falter. “I live for this.”

She sighed, straightened, and cleared her throat. She held up the leather-bound journal in her hand. “I, uh… believe we made a bit of a mix-up last night.”

Emmrich finally blinked. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It would seem… we did.”

He still hadn’t moved from behind his desk.

Dorian leaned in and whispered—not quietly—“Professor, this would be the part where you invite the lady to sit.”

That snapped Emmrich out of it. He rose too quickly, nearly bumping his chair in the process. “Yes, of course—please, Miss Ingellvar. Do come in.”

Rook stepped forward, handing him his journal. “Yours, I believe.”

He took it with care, and with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “And yours is safely tucked in my satchel.”

“And with that,” Dorian said, already turning toward the door, “my work here is done. I’ll leave you two to your very academic reunion.”

“Dorian—” Emmrich started, but the door was already shutting behind him with a flourish.

And just like that, the office was quiet again—except now it was filled with two people, one journal lighter each, and the lingering heat of something unspoken.

Rook stepped further into the office, her eyes slowly tracing over the space. The towering bookcases drew her first—lined with leather-bound tomes and journals, aged parchment tucked between titles like forgotten secrets. Decorative skulls, some carved with runes, others bearing faded etchings, sat nestled among the shelves like silent sentinels. His desk was impeccably organized, but lived-in: a set of fountain pens in a brass holder, an ink well half-full, a scattering of rune stones laid out like he’d been in mid-consultation.

It felt… professional, yes. But also warm. Personal. Like every object had been placed with quiet intention.

She drifted toward the bookcase, her fingers grazing the spines of old texts. “You’ve got quite the collection,” she murmured, half to herself.

Behind her, Emmrich stood still for a moment, watching. The sight of her in his space—her fingers gently moving across bindings he’d chosen, her gaze catching on details he thought only he noticed—sent a curious ripple of exhilaration through him. And nerves.

He cleared his throat softly and stepped forward, retrieving her tea journal from his satchel. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Rook turned to face him, eyes bright with something between gratitude and amusement. She accepted the journal with both hands, smoothing her fingers across the worn leather cover like it was an old friend. “Thank you,” she said warmly.

Her gaze swept across the room again. “So this is where the magic happens, huh?”

A smile tugged at Emmrich’s lips. “Among other things. Though I confess it’s less ‘magic’ and more meticulous research and ink-stained notes.”

She laughed under her breath, the sound quiet but sincere. “Still. It suits you.”

Her attention flicked briefly to the journal now resting against her hip. “Did you look inside?” she asked, tone light. “It’s okay if you did. I saw yours, after all.”

Emmrich’s expression softened. “Just a few pages,” he admitted. “Enough to appreciate your blend naming conventions. And your sketches.”

Rook smirked. “Thanks. You have beautiful penmanship, by the way.”

He inclined his head slightly, voice low and fond. “And you, Miss Ingellvar, have a remarkable imagination.”

Their eyes lingered on one another for a breath too long—curious, comfortable, something quiet and unspoken threading between them amid the ambient hum of the office.

Rook’s gaze shifted to a display shelf against the far wall, where over a dozen skulls rested in careful arrangement. Each one was different—some human, others distinctly Qunari, and one clearly belonging to a wyvern. All were meticulously preserved and labeled, a blend of clinical precision and reverent curiosity.

She tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “So… are the skulls a necromancer thing, or an anthropologist thing?”

Emmrich stepped beside her, following her gaze. “A bit of both, if I’m being honest.”

As she continued to admire the display, he added, “I must admit, I’m surprised you made the journey all the way here to return my journal. And that you know Dorian.”

Rook gave a casual shrug. “Dorian and I go back a bit. Plus, he was the only person I trusted to help me navigate this maze.” Her voice softened slightly. “And the journal seemed important to your work. It’s still a workday, so I figured…”

She trailed off, rocking slightly on her heels, unsure how to finish.

Emmrich gave a faint, appreciative smile. “Well… thank you for making the effort. I hope it didn’t delay your shop too much.”

“Oh, Bellara’s got it handled. I even left backup instructions just in case I didn’t make it before the morning rush.”

“Still, I shouldn’t keep you.”

“It’s fine, Emmrich,” she said, lingering near the shelf. “Honestly? I was curious to see your workspace.”

That gave him pause. “You were?”

“Of course. I finally learned your field of study last night—Forensic Anthropology. And necromancy,” she added, smirking. “Any other credentials I should know about?”

He returned her smirk with a modest tilt of his head. “Well… I’m what’s known as a corpse whisperer. Rare, even among necromancers. I also specialize in Fade Theory, Magical Pathology—”

She laughed, a warm sound that echoed off the polished stone and wood. “Maker’s breath. Is there anything you don’t study?”

He thought for a moment. “Elven magic. I’ve never delved into it—out of respect for its cultural boundaries. But I admit, I’m deeply curious.”

Rook looked over at him, her expression softening. “That’s… rare. Most people don’t stop to think about the cultural lines until they’re halfway across them.”

She leaned against the edge of a nearby bookcase, arms lightly crossed. “Elven magic’s a bit of a layered thing. History, language, blood, trauma—it’s not just spells. It’s… inheritance. Memory.”

Her eyes flicked to one of the spectral glyphs drawn on parchment at his desk, then back to him with a small, wry smile. “My brother would like you.”

“Your brother?” Emmrich asked, glancing at her curiously.

“Yeah... he’s a fellow academic, like you.” She waved the topic away with a flick of her fingers. “Anyway—what exactly is a corpse whisperer?”

“A corpse whisperer,” Emmrich said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile, “is a necromancer with the rare ability to extract residual memories from the dead. Not quite speaking to them, per se—more like coaxing echoes from their bones. Less dramatic than it sounds… though not by much.”

Rook’s brows rose, intrigued. “Interesting.”

“May I show you something from the greater Fade?” he asked, his voice low but inviting.

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

He guided her back toward his desk and picked up a human skull, cradling it with practiced reverence. “Close your eyes,” he said gently, stepping a little closer. “Take a breath.”

Rook smirked, cracking one eye open. “You’re not going to summon demon or anything, are you?”

He tutted, clearly amused. “Perish the thought.” Then, with utmost care, he took her wrist and rested her hand atop the smooth bone. “Slow... deep,” he murmured, placing his own hand over hers. His eyes slipped closed as his magic pulsed outward—warm and steady.

Rook felt the hum of his mana thread into the back of her hand, twining with her own like woven warmth. Then Emmrich whispered an incantation, his voice like a soft ripple:

“Be borne on the great currents. See now as they see.”

A soft glow blossomed from his hand—pale green, spectral—and as Rook opened her eyes, the world changed.

Wisps floated in the corners of the room, pulsing gently. Shapes drifted just beyond focus—spirits, flickering like wind-born flame. They weren’t ominous. They were serene, graceful, like fragments of thought moving with purpose.

Her breath caught. “What is this?”

“These are spirits and wisps that linger nearby,” Emmrich said quietly beside her. “The Veil is thinner here, so they pass through more often. They’re harmless. Curious.”

She watched the translucent forms drift like silk in water. “Is this what you see all the time?”

“Now and then,” he said. His gaze followed the shimmer of movement. “When I talk to the dead, their echoes abide with me. Thoughts and passions. Hopes and desires. The shades of death have more intricacy than even a young Watcher may know, Rook.”

Rook swallowed softly, her hand still under his. “It’s beautiful.”

Emmrich didn’t respond right away—but in the soft shimmer of light and memory between them, he didn’t need to. With a gentle wave of his hand, the spectral light dimmed. The wisps and spirits receded like fog dissolving in morning sun, until the room was quiet once more, grounded in the present.

Rook blinked as the space returned to normal, still half-expecting to see the echoes lingering in the corners. Emmrich carefully set the skull back on his desk with quiet reverence, as if laying a book to rest.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “for indulging my demonstration.”

“Emmrich, that was…” Rook’s voice trailed off, the words caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. She was a mage, but her connection to the Fade had never felt like that—never so gentle, so reverent. Her encounters with spirits were often sudden things: cold drafts across her skin, the whisper of demons eager to press in.

But this? This had felt like stepping into something sacred.

“It was incredible,” she said at last, her voice quiet with sincerity.

Emmrich could feel the air shift—just like the night before. Charged, weightless, a breath held between one moment and the next. The way Rook looked at him—eyes dark and bright all at once, filled with quiet wonder—it stole whatever reply he’d meant to give. There was sincerity there, interest too, and something else. Something unnamed but unmistakably there.

But before he could speak, Rook’s gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall. She blinked, startled by the time.

“Oh, shit—I really need to go,” she said, already reaching for her satchel.

Emmrich followed her line of sight and checked his own watch with a slight wince. “Yes, of course. I’ve kept you long enough.”

He walked her back through the winding corridor, their steps soft against the polished floor, until they reached the western gate. The city’s golden morning light spilled through the arched stone passage, casting her in soft, warm hues as she turned back to him.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice sincere. “For walking me out… and for the demonstration. That was—” She hesitated, smiling. “More than I expected.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine,” Emmrich replied, clasping his hands behind his back in his usual composed fashion. “And thank you again for returning the journal.”

Rook adjusted the strap of her satchel, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I hope to see you later. Stop by the shop—I'll make you something special. And I owe you a pastry for the magic show.”

His eyes glinted with quiet amusement. “You tempt me with bribes, Miss Ingellvar.”

“Works every time,” she quipped over her shoulder as she started down the steps.

He watched her go, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Then I shall look forward to it.”

Chapter Text

The morning had been surprisingly productive—more than anticipated, given the unexpected but welcome visit from Miss Ingellvar. It was a fortune to have her return his journal as he was stressed about its absence.

Emmrich Volkarin sat at his desk, posture straight but relaxed, wearing his reading glasses as the soft scratch of his fountain pen filled the quiet space of his office. The light filtering through the high-arched window bathed the room in gentle gold, warming the edges of his meticulously kept notes. The scent of ink and faint citrus still lingered in the air, though the latter, he suspected, was more memory than anything else.

He had returned to work easily enough—finalizing lecture slides, compiling case excerpts, drafting correspondence. Yet every so often, his thoughts drifted to the way her voice had softened when he described the Fade. To how her hand had settled under his as the spirits emerged—unafraid. The wonder in her eyes.

Perhaps she was more interested than he originally thought.

It wasn’t just her presence that unsettled his thoughts. It was the ease of it. She had been in his space, surrounded by his work, by his private methods and artifacts—and none of it had felt invasive. If anything, he had wanted her to see more.

He smiled faintly, tapping his pen once against the blotter.

That was when the door creaked open without ceremony.

“Well?” came Dorian’s voice, velvet-wrapped and brimming with scandalous delight. “How did it go?”

Emmrich didn’t look up. “Hello Dorian.”

“Oh please,” Dorian drawled, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. “Don’t stall. She was here. In this office. I saw the blush. I demand the full report.”

Emmrich exhaled slowly through his nose, setting the pen down. “If you're referring to Miss Ingellvar’s visit, she was here to return a journal. A mistake, easily corrected.”

Dorian perched himself on the edge of a chair with all the grace of a lounging cat. “Yes, yes. The journal. The grand excuse to see our resident necromancer. But she didn’t have to come all this way, now did she? Did you offer tea? A tour? Did you woo her with your poetic charm?”

Emmrich gave him a long look.

Dorian’s grin widened. “You did. You absolutely did.”

“I fail to see how any of this concerns you.”

“It always concerns me. You are tragically under-observed when it comes to your own romantic matters, and I—” He tapped his chest, mock-solemn. “—am simply trying to make sure this budding connection doesn’t die on the vine.”

“I would argue it’s a bit early to call it a ‘budding connection.’”

Dorian grinned wider. “Then why, dear professor, do you look like a man freshly dropped into chapter one of a slow-burn romance serial?”

Before Emmrich could reply—or deflect—there was a slam of a door down the hallway, followed by the sharp click of heels on stone.

“Oh no,” Dorian said, wincing in advance. “Incoming.”

A moment later, the door burst open with familiar, pointed energy. Johanna Hezenkoss stood in the threshold, her braid tight, her coat immaculate, her googles glowering with her usual superiority and her expression thunderous.

“Volkarin!” She strode in like a one-woman thunderstorm, eyes sharp and mouth already halfway to snarling.  “Why is your requisition form for corpse retrieval missing half the regional paperwork?”

Emmrich, unbothered, calmly turned toward her. “Because the regional office already approved it via email. The documents are attached to the back, as per standard procedure.”

Johanna stalked in and yanked the folder from his desk, flipping it open with aggressive precision. Her eyes narrowed as she found the signed slip tucked exactly where he said it would be.

“…Hmph.”

Dorian, still lounging, raised his eyebrows and said lightly, “Round one to Volkarin.”

“Shut up, Pavus,” Johanna said without even looking at him. “Have you heard back about my grant proposals yet, or are the review boards still dragging their feet?”

“Still under review,” Dorian said without missing a beat. “You’re not the only applicant with promising research this term.”

“Oh, please,” Johanna scoffed. “None of those clowns are doing anything remotely useful. I’m attempting to catalog residual blood magic trails and arcane contamination patterns. None of these department pets are tracking rogue blood sigils through six layers of magical residue. They’re practically imbeciles still trying to perfect levitating forks.”

“Ah yes, I forgot—delicacy has always been your strong suit… like a wyvern in a glasshouse.” Dorian muttered, inspecting his cuticles.

Johanna turned a sharp glare on him. “And what are you doing here? Harassing Emmrich again?”

“Harassing is such a harsh word. I prefer providing essential emotional support.”

“For what?” she sneered. “His hopeless infatuation with some tart who owns a tea shop?”

“Johanna.” Emmrich’s voice cut through the room with quiet authority. He looked up from his desk, his expression unreadable but firm. “We will not speak about people that way. If you’re in my office, you will maintain a civil tone.”

Johanna’s eyes narrowed towards Emmrich’s stern gaze. Then, she rolled her eyes, “Fine. Not like you’d have the spine to even ask her out, anyway.” she muttered, pushing to her feet, adjusting her coat with a dramatic tug. “Let me know when the review board remembers their brains aren't ornamental.”

“Delightful as always Professor Hezenkoss.”

She flipped him off and stormed out, the door thudding behind her like punctuation.

A long pause stretched between the two men.

Dorian finally sighed, placing a hand over his heart. “And people call me dramatic.”

Emmrich adjusted his reading glasses, then leaned back in his chair with a weariness. “At least she didn’t threaten to hex anyone or summon a darkspawn horde.”

“For someone like Hezenkoss,” Dorian continued, tone dry with exasperated amusement, “that is progress. I almost want to applaud.”

Emmrich pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at the dull throb beginning to pulse behind his eyes. “I think I shall call it a day and go home.”

Dorian said cheerfully. “I would invite to treat you to lunch after Professor Hezenkoss’s insufferable fury, but I suspect that you wish to unwind in a certain tea shop to see a certain tea brewer?”

A faint blush began to rise on Emmrich’s face—nothing dramatic, just a flush at the tops of his cheeks. He looked back toward his notes with renewed interest, as if the ink might save him from scrutiny.

Dorian gasped. “You do! Oh, that’s adorable. You’re considering it, aren’t you? A second encounter. Shall I expect good news come Monday? Perhaps—”

“Dorian.”

“Yes, Professor?”

“You are profoundly unhelpful.”

“And yet, deeply necessary.” Dorian beamed, already halfway to the door. “Rook is a remarkable woman—and she’s clearly interested in you. Be bold, Emmrich. Don’t lose her to hesitation and what-ifs.”

With a final wink, Dorian slipped out, leaving the door ajar and the air still humming with implication.

Emmrich remained at his desk for a moment, quiet.

There was no harm in going to the Veil & Vine for lunch. It was on the way home, after all. He’d been there countless times—enough that it shouldn’t feel unusual.

And yet… it did.

Despite his efforts to rationalize it, something had shifted between them. Subtle, but undeniable. The thought of seeing her now carried a weight it hadn’t before—a quiet anticipation that made it impossible to pretend things were the same.

Not that he wanted them to be.

His mind drifted, unbidden, to their recent conversations—their playful banter, the curious questions she posed without fear or pretense. The way her laughter lilted, bright and unguarded. The warm gleam in those dark brown eyes. And the faint blush that surfaced every so often, like a secret only he was meant to notice.

Was it too soon to go? Would she truly be pleased to see him again, or had her invitation been a polite gesture—something said in passing with no real weight behind it?

The last thing he wanted was to impose, to presume more than was there. He had spent years cultivating a life of control, of measured responses and professional detachment. Letting anyone in—especially someone who stirred such unguarded warmth in him—was not something he did lightly.

And yet… he could not ignore the way his thoughts lingered on her. The shape of her laugh, the glint of curiosity in her gaze, the subtle blush that touched her cheeks when their conversation drifted from friendly inquiry to personal. There was no denying the ease between them. No denying how much he’d hoped she would stay.

Emmrich shook his head, trying to clear the loop of doubts.

No. She had said she hoped to see him later. She had teased about a free pastry.

That wasn’t politeness—it was intention, however subtle.

And who was he to refuse a small indulgence, especially when every part of him knew it was never about the pastry?

He stood, quietly resolute, Dorian’s voice echoing in the back of his mind like a challenge issued with affection.

Be bold, Emmrich.

For once, he intended to be.

The bell above the Veil & Vine door let out a lazy chime as Rook pushed inside, slipping into the welcome hush that followed the morning rush. The shop still hummed with the scent of steeped mint and citrus pastries, but the noise had quieted—just the gentle clatter of teacups being sorted behind the counter and Spite sprawled like a demon deity across the pastry case.

Lace was at the sink, scrubbing out mugs with sleeves rolled up, standing atop the small stepping bench that Davrin had built just for her. She glanced over her shoulder as Rook entered, smirking.

“Well look who finally decided to show up.”

From behind the pastry display, Bellara popped up like a prairie dog. “Is everything okay? When I saw the note, I was worried if something had happened.” Her eyes scanned Rook for signs of something—anything.

Rook raised her hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry—I meant to be back before the rush. Thank you, both of you. Lace, I really appreciate you hopping in last minute.”

Lace waved off the gratitude with a flick of her dish towel. “Happy to help. You can just bribe me with food later.” She arched a brow, smirking. “But you still haven’t answered the real question—where exactly did you run off to?”

Rook headed toward the back to stash her satchel and tried to sound casual as she leaned against the counter, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “Everything is fine. I just had to drop something off at the university. Emmrich left his journal at the shop last night and I returned it.”

It was meant to be simple—harmless, even. But then her thoughts flickered back to the morning: the warmth of his magic twining with hers, the way his voice lowered when he spoke the incantation, the quiet wonder in his eyes as he showed her the spirits dancing in his office.

And just like that, her cheeks flushed.

Bellara gasped like she’d just found out Rook was engaged. “You went to the university to give him his journal?! What happened? Did you go to his office? Did he give you a tour? Did he offer you tea or were you the tea!?”

Lace, toweling off her hands, narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. And what exactly happened that has you turning the color of raspberry compote?”

“I returned his journal, we talked,” Rook mumbled as she headed toward the back counter, her hands suddenly very busy restocking tea tins. “That’s all.”

Bellara gasped as if she’d been personally betrayed by the lack of details. “Rook. Rook. Don’t hold out on us now!”

Lace leaned against the sink, arms crossed. “Was it the kind of talk that makes someone late to open their shop?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Rook muttered, already halfway into prepping the lunch setup. “He showed me some things in his office, some decorative skulls, his books, a magic demonstration of the Fade, but that was it.”

Bellara was practically vibrating. “He showed you Fade magic?! Was it spooky? Was it romantic? Was it both?!”

Lace giggled. “Oh this is practically academic foreplay.”

Rook groaned, tucking her tea journal into its proper cubby like it was the only sane thing in her life.

“You two are awful.”

The rest of the early afternoon passed in relative peace. Rook took a moment to collect herself by baking the belated Dessert of the Day. Lace left soon after to return to her family’s bakery, and Rook settled back into her rhythm. Spite knocked over exactly two mugs and attempted to steal a berry tart before being intercepted with a flick of Rook’s dish towel.

As Rook wiped down the bar, Bellara leaned in with a sly grin. “Wouldn’t it be cute if he stopped by for lunch?”

Rook rolled her eyes. “He’s not going to—”

Ding.

The bell above the door chimed.

Both women turned toward the sound. And there he was.

Emmrich Volkarin stepped into the Veil & Vine, adjusting his coat with that same composed grace, the faintest smile curving his lips. His eyes found Rook’s with an unmistakable warmth—and just like that, her heart leapt straight into her throat.

She froze, caught somewhere between awe and utter panic.

Bellara, ever the menace, didn’t miss a beat. She gave Rook a not-so-gentle nudge toward the register. “You’re up.”

Emmrich approached, eyes twinkling. “I was told there’d be tea… and a free pastry?”

Rook’s blush bloomed on cue. “Right. Of course. I did promise that.”

Bellara mouthed a silent oh my gods as she casually ducked behind the counter, her retreat more dramatic than necessary—and clearly temporary.

Rook tried to gather her thoughts, but all that surfaced was one, deeply unhelpful realization:

Venhedis, I’m screwed.

Rook guided him to the bar counter, grateful for something familiar to do with her hands. The warmth of the afternoon had softened the edges of the day, and Emmrich had shed his coat, revealing a fitted waistcoat over a crisp linen shirt—precise, but lighter than usual. Somehow, that made him more real, less like the unreachable professor surrounded by candlelight and skulls.

He took a seat at the counter, folding his hands neatly. “Shadow Bloom, if you have it.”

Rook nodded, already reaching for the tin. “You’re in luck. I just restocked it yesterday.”

The scent of the blend filled the air as she prepared it—dark florals with an earthy base, touched by a whisper of bergamot. She set the tea to steep before looking back at him, fingers brushing against the edge of the counter.

“And what about your free pastry?” she asked, forcing a note of ease into her voice. “You’re entitled to one, per our highly official verbal agreement.”

Emmrich’s lips twitched with quiet amusement. “I’ll defer to your expertise. Surprise me.”

She gave him a mock-salute and turned to the day’s dessert display. The black plum and violet tea cake stood proudly under the glass dome, the slices neatly arranged and catching the light on their glazed tops. The violet syrup shimmered faintly, the pale purple hue contrasting against the deep, golden crumb and scattered plum.

It was a bold flavor—floral and grounded—and somehow, it felt like exactly the right choice for him.

She plated a slice, careful not to smudge the glaze, and returned to place it before him just as the tea finished steeping.

Emmrich leaned in slightly, taking in the presentation with a pleased hum. “This smells exquisite. Plum and… cardamom?”

“Lightly spiced,” Rook confirmed, setting the teacup down beside it. “Folded in while the plums were still warm.”

He studied the cake a moment longer, then asked, “Is this from the bakery, or…?”

Rook glanced away, modest. “An original Rook confection. I made it as soon as I came back —just before Lace returned to her family’s shop.”

That seemed to catch his attention. “You made this?”

She nodded, feeling the tips of her ears warm. “Well… I cheated a little. I did the prep last night, so this morning it was just mix and bake. Most of the recipes are from my mother’s old journals—things she never got to try. I just tweak them a bit and test out new ideas. There’s been a lot of trial and error… with some very biased taste testers.”

Bellara, of course, couldn’t resist. “Oh! You should’ve seen the day she made that gingerwort tea.”

Rook groaned. “Please don’t remind me.”

“What? It was fun.”

“You ate all the shortbreads, Lace said she could hear Spite cursing her out, and I was so jittery I felt like I could power half the city. Meanwhile, Lucanis and Davrin were completely unaffected—and documented the entire thing like it was a science experiment.”

Emmrich chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “Are your taste-testing days always that… eventful?”

Rook sighed dramatically, leaning her elbow on the counter. “Not always. Sometimes things actually go according to plan. But every now and then, I brew something that probably violates at least three alchemical safety protocols.”

Bellara added brightly, “She once made a blend that made Davrin cry. Cry.”

“In my defense,” Rook said, pointing a spoon at her, “that was supposed to be a soothing floral blend. I didn’t realize his griffin was allergic to one of the dried petals and he panicked trying to hide it.”

Emmrich smiled, clearly enjoying the stories. “Sounds like your experiments are as much about discovery as they are about tea.”

Rook straightened, giving a small shrug. “Guess I like figuring out what works… and what doesn’t. There were plenty of disasters before I found anything worth keeping.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening behind his gaze. “Is that how you approach all your blends? Instinct over formula?”

She glanced up, meeting his gaze—and held it just a moment longer than she meant to. “Mostly. There’s a bit of ritual in it. A little memory, a little mood. It’s like… finding two puzzle pieces and learning how they fit. Or if they fit at all.”

Emmrich leaned forward slightly, one hand cradling his teacup. “I do envy you Rook. Your approach to tea-making is filled with and artistry that I find fascinating.”

Rook felt the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile. “Really? It’s a little chaotic behind the scenes.”

He raises his brow with a hint of mischief in his smile. “Aren’t all experiments?”

She chuckles at his question.

“You know… if you would like,” she hesitated, then pressed forward, “I was hoping to try out a new blend on tomorrow night, after closing. If you’re interested and have the time, you could be a taste tester.”

From the back sink, there was a loud clang as a utensil hit porcelain. Bellara froze, shoulders stiff, before quickly muttering, “Sorry! Slipped!” and proceeded to wash dishes with exaggerated innocence.

Emmrich glanced in Bellara’s direction with a flicker of amusement before turning back to Rook. “Would that be all right? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all,” Rook said quickly. “It’d be nice to have a fresh set of taste buds. My usual testers are either extremely opinionated or dangerously unhelpful.”

There was a brief pause, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but held just enough weight to stir doubt. Rook shifted slightly, a flicker of nerves rising—was that too forward? Maybe she should’ve—

“I’d love to,” Emmrich said gently. “Spending a weekend evening helping with your tea endeavors sounds… lovely.”

Relief bloomed across her chest in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She smiled, letting it settle warmly. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. After hours.”

She turned, ready to head back to the brewing station and shake off the flush in her cheeks, but his voice caught her again.

“Rook—would it be all right if we exchanged numbers?” he asked, adjusting his cuffs slightly. “We don’t exactly have a reliable way to reach each other, and it may be useful.”

She blinked, momentarily surprised. “Right—yes, that’s… smart. Of course.” She reached for her phone, unlocking it with slightly more haste than necessary. “Here.”

They exchanged numbers with a few taps and murmured confirmations, the exchange surprisingly domestic, startling in its ease.

Emmrich gave her a parting smile. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you—for the tea, and the dessert.”

With that, he gathered his coat and slipped out the door, the bell chiming softly in his wake.

The moment the door shut, Bellara pounced—grabbing Rook by the arms and giving her an excited shake. “Oh my gods, Rook! You did it! You actually asked him out!”

“I didn’t ask him out,” Rook muttered, though even she didn’t sound convinced.

Because, Maker help her, she had invited the professor to come by after hours. No customers. No distractions. Just the two of them… and possibly Spite, probably asleep on the counter like he owned the place.

She hadn’t even planned on it. The words had just slipped out—unrehearsed, bold in a way she didn’t expect from herself. And now that it was done, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hide behind the tea tins or float straight into the Fade.

Bellara, still grinning like she’d just won a bet with the Maker, released Rook only to snatch her phone from the counter.

“I need to update the group chat immediately.”

Rook’s head snapped up. “Don’t you dare.”

Bellara was already typing. “Too late. They deserve to know that progress has been made. Lace is going to die that she missed this.”

Rook lunged toward her. “Bellara, no! Give me that—”

They danced around the bar, Bellara quick on her feet and Rook swiping for the phone like a woman possessed.

“Spite!” Rook called toward the sun-drenched front counter where the tabby lay sprawled, tail flicking lazily. “Do something!”

Spite blinked slowly and rolled over onto his side, exposing his belly like a traitor.

“Typical,” Rook huffed, still chasing Bellara as she laughed and held the phone just out of reach.

“I’m just going to say that someone invited Emmrich Volkarin to a private after-hours tasting session,” Bellara sing-songed. “With cake. And candlelight. And palpable yearning.”

“There will be no candlelight. And there is no yearning!” Rook shouted, finally catching her friend around the waist.

Bellara cackled, half-surrendering, half-typing one-handed. “Don’t worry, I won’t say who. I’ll just leave a cryptic emoji trail.”

Rook groaned, burying her face in Bellara’s shoulder as she half-laughed, half-pleaded. “I hate you so much right now.”

Bellara patted her arm. “That’s just the fluster talking.”

There was no denying it now—Rook was thoroughly and irrevocably screwed.

Chapter Text

Group Chat Name: Steeped Intentions ☕💀🍰

Bellara: I HAVE NEWS!!

Davrin: ??

Lace: I just left that place. What happened?

Rook: Bell NO!

Neve: Progress?

Bellara: ROOK ASKED THE PROFESSOR OUT ON A DATE!! 😆😆😆

Lace: WHAT?!

Taash: Finally.

Davrin: Oooooo she’s locking in!

Bellara: You missed EVERYTHING Lace!! The flirtation was practically sinful!!   

Rook: There was no flirtation.

Bellara: LIES!! She gave the man a free dessert!!

Lucanis: Best way to a person’s heart is their stomach.

Lace: That’s unfair! I can’t believe I missed that.

Davrin: You were not blessed by the Maker to witness this event.

Taash: RIP

Lace: I have been ROBBED!

Rook: Guys it’s NOT A DATE! I just invited him to taste test a new blend.

Neve: Oh it’s definitely a date.

Rook: It is not. It is an innocent tea taste test.

Davrin: I think you are the only one in denial about your date with Grave Daddy.

Lucanis: Davrin that nickname was vetoed.

Davrin: You guys are no fun.

Neve: You need help picking an outfit for your date?

Rook: IT’S NOT A DATE!

Bellara: Yes it is. 😏 😏 😏

Rook: I hate all of you.

Rook tossed her phone to her nightstand, not able to handle anymore of her friend’s relentless mix of emojis, half-jokes, and affectionate chaos. With a strangled groan, she buried her face into her pillow as if that could hide the blush on her face. Spite leapt up beside her with practiced ease, curling into the crook of her knees like a smug little crescent of judgment.

“I don’t need your commentary either,” she muttered, voice muffled. “It’s not a date. It’s tea. With someone I respect. And… maybe like. A little.”

Spite’s tail flicked against her back.

“Okay, a lot. Shut up.”

Rook’s face was still buried in the pillow when her phone buzzed against the nightstand.

She let out a muffled groan and reached out blindly with one hand, patting across the cluttered surface until her fingers found the device. She pulled it close, flipping it over with the groggy expectation of a weather alert or some chaotic new message in the group chat.

Instead, the name on the screen made her entire body lock up.

Incoming Call: Emmrich Volkarin

For half a second, she just stared at it, brain blank. Then instinct kicked in. She sat bolt upright like she’d been hit with a resurrection spell, nearly knocking Spite off the bed in the process. The cat hissed, gave her a deeply offended glare, and vanished beneath the nightstand in a puff of feline judgment.

Clutching a pillow to her chest like a makeshift shield, Rook hesitated just long enough to consider letting the call go to voicemail. But no—no, she couldn’t do that. He was calling her. Calling. That had to mean something. Didn’t it?

With a shaky breath, she answered. “Hello?”

There was the faint sound of background rustling, then that calm, thoughtful voice that somehow made her nerves feel both soothed and on fire.

“Hello, Rook. It’s Emmrich.”

He said it like she might not recognize him, like his name wasn’t currently melting the gears in her brain. For a few painfully long seconds, her thoughts stuttered along in complete silence, scrambling for words.

“Hi—yes, hi! I mean. Hello.” She winced at herself and pressed her knuckles against her forehead. “What’s up?”

For Andraste’s sake, get it together, Ingellvar!

“Did I perhaps call you at a bad time?”

“No! No, you’re totally fine,” she rushed out, trying to inject some calm into her voice and failing spectacularly.

There was the briefest pause before he continued, his tone warm and genuinely apologetic. “Terribly sorry if I interrupted anything. I just had a question about tomorrow.”

His voice was so composed, so polite, so maddeningly steady—and somehow, that only made her more of a mess.

“No, not busy,” she managed, trying to sit up straighter and sound like a functioning adult. “What were you wondering?”

“I was thinking… would it be all right if I brought dinner to our meeting?”

Dinner?

She blinked, thrown by the simplicity of it. Of course it made sense—they’d be there after closing, it would get late, and she rarely remembered to eat dinner on blend nights. But the idea that he had thought about that, had considered her comfort and come up with a quiet, thoughtful way to support her—it sent something warm spiraling through her chest.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t really think that far,” she replied, hugging the pillow tighter. “But honestly, that would be a huge help.”

“I’m happy to be of use,” Emmrich said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I seem to be the frequent recipient of your culinary bribes. It only feels fair I return the favor.”

She laughed before she could stop herself. It felt good—real and light and a little too revealing. “You say that like I’m not constantly bribing half the city with food.”

“I’m not complaining,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s a highly effective strategy.”

That earned another grin from her, and this time she didn’t fight it. She relaxed back against the headboard, pulse still a little too fast, but the nervous edge was starting to settle.

“Do you have any preferences?” he asked.

“No, I’m not picky,” she said, gently biting her lower lip. “Maybe this time... you can be the one to surprise me.”

There was a pause, then a quiet laugh. “Then I accept the challenge.”

Something about the way he said it—confident but not cocky, warm but precise—made her stomach flip. It wasn’t even the words. It was the ease in his tone. The way he said her name. The way this didn’t feel like a formal check-in for a professional task, but something else. Something more personal. More intentional.

“Well,” he said at last, voice gentle again, “I’ll let you get back to your evening. Sleep well, Rook.”

“You too,” she said softly. “Goodnight, Emmrich.”

The call ended, and for a moment Rook just stared at the screen, heart hammering. Then, in a graceless flail, she dropped her phone onto the mattress and buried her face in the pillow with a muffled scream. Her whole body buzzed with secondhand adrenaline. Not only had she invited him over for a private blend session, but now he was bringing dinner.

Dinner. At night. After hours.

She turned onto her back, pillow still clutched to her chest like it might help contain her spiraling thoughts.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “This is turning into a date.”

After a minute of staring at the ceiling in stunned silence, she sat up and glanced at her closet. A beat later, she got up from her bed and began to dig through her closet. She should figure out what to wear tomorrow… not because she wanted to look nice.

She was simply being efficient. Planning ahead. Setting herself up for a smooth morning.

“Totally fine,” she repeated under her breath. “Not flustered at all.”

Rook: Hey.

Neve: What’s up?

Rook: … I need help picking an outfit.

Neve: Oh? I thought this wasn’t a date.

Rook: He’s bringing dinner.

Neve: Ah so it has now become a date?

Rook: For the love of Andraste, PLEASE don’t tell the group chat.

Neve: I shall protect you from Bellara and Lace’s chaos.

Rook: You’re a saint.

Neve: Only to you. Now show me what you’ve got.

After a flurry of mirror photos and Neve’s steady, knowledgeable guidance over text, Rook finally settled on an outfit—casual, but intentionally so. Comfortable enough to still feel like herself, presentable enough to look like she hadn’t overthought it. The perfect kind of armor for whatever tomorrow decided to be.

With a groan of relief, she collapsed onto the bed, limbs splayed and tension finally draining from her shoulders. From some secret corner of the room, Spite emerged like a summoned spirit, leaping onto the bed and claiming his place near the pillows with a low, expectant chirp.

Rook reached for her phone again, thumbs already moving.

Rook: Thank you!!

Neve: Happy to help. Btw I’m back in Minrathous. Figured I was due for a tea shop visit?

Rook: Is this visit for business or pleasure?

Neve: A bit of both. I just don’t want to get roped into helping around the shop.

Rook: After the last time, you are restricted to Spite Duty only.

Neve: You still serving coffee?

Rook: If I stopped, Lucanis would be brooding in a corner with his French press.

Neve: Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rook.

Rook: Can’t wait to hear about your latest adventure in Vyrantium.

Emmrich couldn’t sleep.

He lay on his side beneath the soft glow of the bedside lamp, eyes fixed on the ceiling, one arm folded beneath his pillow. His bed was comfortable—ordered, warm, familiar—but tonight it offered no rest.

The room was still, save for the faint ticking of the clock on his nightstand and the occasional whisper of wind against the old glass panes.

He had made a bold move—bold, for him—in calling her. The conversation hadn’t been long, but hearing Rook’s voice, soft and surprised and a little flustered, had filled his chest with something dangerously warm. It hadn’t mattered that he’d already seen her twice that day. Or that he now had her phone number saved in his contacts.

His thoughts refused to quiet.

Emmrich exhaled through his nose, turning over onto his back. The plan was simple: visit her shop Saturday night, taste-test a new tea blend, and bring dinner. That was it. Innocent. Professional, even. She had invited him, after all. There were no expectations, no implications.

And yet, no matter how he tried to frame it logically, something had shifted.

It felt like a date.

He sat up slowly, the sheets rustling around him as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The stone floor was cool underfoot as he crossed the room to his writing desk, lit by a single sconce on the wall. He settled into the chair, reached for his journal, and uncapped his pen.

The page welcomed him with its usual silence, the kind that asked nothing but listened to everything.

Today has been unexpected, full of unpredictability compared to my usual Fridays.

It began with the realization that I had mistakenly taken Rook’s tea journal instead of my own during last night’s hasty departure. I had resigned myself to the day being a complete wash—until Dorian arrived, followed shortly by Miss Ingellvar herself.

To say I was surprised to see her enter my office would be a gross understatement. For the first time in ages, I found myself at a loss for words, scrambling to recover my usual composure—something Dorian will no doubt relish in teasing me about later.

And yet, her visit was… wonderful. I had the chance to share a bit of my world with her. It was strange, seeing her outside the Veil & Vine, in a space that belonged to me. Stranger still was how naturally she fit there. She took interest in my skull collection, asked thoughtful questions about my research, and carried herself with that same steady curiosity I’ve come to admire.

In my enthusiasm, I may have indulged in a bit of theatricality. I performed a small demonstration—revealing a glimpse of the Fade. I’d like to say it was purely academic, but I knew that such an act was known to insight a certain mood. And when I saw the wonder in her eyes… it felt worth every flourish.

And tonight, sleep eludes me.

It’s ridiculous, really—how a man of my age can be reduced to restless nerves over something as simple as a tea tasting. But if I’m being honest with myself, it no longer feels like a simple meeting.

Following Dorian’s encouragement, I found a moment of boldness. I acquired Rook’s phone number when the opportunity arose and called her tonight—ostensibly to offer bringing dinner. A courteous gesture, I told myself. A contribution.

But the truth is, I simply wanted to speak to her again.

Even after having the privilege of seeing her twice today… I already miss her.

I have come to know Rook Ingellvar in small, unfolding ways—between cups of tea and glances exchanged over crowded counters. I’ve seen the woman behind the bar: intelligent, sharp, unafraid to speak her mind. And I’ve seen glimpses of the person beneath that—her curiosity, her warmth, the rare moments of vulnerability she’s let slip between laughter and silence.

She is radiant—not in the way poets describe, but like light through old stained glass: unexpected, colored by a thousand quiet truths. Her strength is quiet. Her beauty, undeniable. But it is the way she sees the world—and the way she looks at me—that unsettles me most.

I want to know more. I want to be close. And Maker help me, I think I’m already falling in love with her.

It is too soon. Too fast. But the feeling is not shallow. It has depth. Weight. Gravity. And I am afraid that I will misstep, that I will hope too much, too quickly, and see only what I want to see.

But I also know this—if I don’t take this chance, I will regret it.

He paused, pen hovering midair.

Then, with a small flourish, he signed only his initials and closed the journal, letting the ink dry in silence.

Writing always helped. The act of ordering thought into language, of untangling feeling from fact—it calmed him. Reined him back in. His journal had long been his quiet companion, the place where his composure returned when the world threatened to pull it apart.

And yet tonight, even with the ink still drying, he wasn’t entirely settled.

Tomorrow night could change everything. Or nothing at all.

Perhaps it would be just tea. Just a tasting. Just another quiet evening spent in shared curiosity.

Or perhaps—

He exhaled, slow and quiet, and closed the journal with practiced care.

Whatever the evening held—sweetness, awkwardness, clarity, or heartbreak—he would meet it as he was.

And if it became something more... then at least, in this moment, he had the courage to admit he hoped it would.

Chapter Text

Rook stood in front of her mirror, giving herself a final once-over.

The outfit was carefully chosen to look like it wasn’t carefully chosen: a soft lavender-grey knit top with short sleeves and a clean V-neckline that framed her collarbones and fit her form without clinging; high-waisted sage green palazzo pants that moved with every breath of air, structured enough to feel deliberate, comfortable enough to feel like her. On her feet, charcoal-grey low-top sneakers—practical, scuffed just enough to keep her grounded.

Her hair was twisted into a loose, intentional bun, held in place by her golden hair pin. The familiar glint of her ear cuff curled up the edge of her left ear, and the pinky ring she always wore—her mother’s—rested against her finger like a quiet anchor.

Casual. Clean. Not suspicious.

Totally normal tea shop owner attire. Definitely not chosen with one charming necromancer in mind.

Spite batted insistently at her foot with a paw, then reared up to thump both paws against her calf with the heavy urgency of a cat on a schedule.

“Okay, okay, I hear you,” Rook muttered, grabbing her satchel from the hook by the door. Spite leapt gracefully into it, immediately curling into a perfect loaf as if to say finally. She rolled her eyes fondly, slipped on her moss green duster jacket, and grabbed her keys.

The morning air was already warm as she stepped outside, with a light breeze threading between the awnings and hanging planters that lined the narrow lanes of the artisan district. The smell of baking bread and sharp citrus drifted from open windows. She waved to the older vendor outside the apothecary with a warm “morning,” offered a polite nod to a pair of florists already arranging displays, and caught the scent of someone roasting spiced nuts just up the block.

Rook’s pulse had just started to settle into a calm rhythm when she rounded the corner and saw her.

Neve stood in front of the Veil & Vine, effortlessly poised despite the casual slant of her outfit. She wore high-waisted black trousers, loose but tailored at the ankle, paired with a sleeveless mock-neck top in soft slate blue that made her dark skin glow in the morning light. A lightweight black drape coat fell just past her knees, unbuttoned, the collar slightly asymmetrical in that way that made it look both accidental and impossibly deliberate. Her short curls were pinned back on one side with a silver comb, and her only jewelry was a pair of small, angular earrings and a thin cuff around her wrist engraved with subtle sigils.

Phone in one hand, she tapped with a quiet efficiency, unreadable as ever—until she looked up and offered the faintest smile.

Rook smiled, lifting a hand. “Neve!”

Neve looked up, a subtle smile curving her lips as she slipped her phone away. “I have good taste.”

Rook huffed. “Technically, I owned the clothes first. Your assembly was appreciated.”

They met in the middle with a brief, familiar hug—Neve’s arms cool and steady, grounding in the way Rook had missed more than she realized.

“Come on in,” Rook said, unlocking the door and stepping inside. “I want to hear all about the latest adventure of Neve Gallus.”

The bell above the entrance gave a soft chime, and the familiar scent of tea leaves and sun-warmed wood greeted them like an old friend. Morning light streamed through the tall front windows, pooling across the worn floorboards and casting long, mellow shadows behind the counter.

Spite hopped out of the satchel the moment they were through the door, stretching long and slow before padding over to Neve. He brushed against her prosthetic in a lazy arc of feline approval before bounding up to his usual perch on the high shelf behind the bar.

Neve gave a soft snort. “Still dramatic, I see.”

“He likes you,” Rook said, moving behind the counter, hanging up her jacket and tucking her satchel beneath the bar counter. “He knows who his friends are.”

She puts on her apron and looks over her coffee beans. “What kind of coffee are you craving this morning?”

Neve shrugged, elbows resting on the counter. “Anything with caffeine.”

Rook gave an exaggerated sigh. “Lucanis would be wounded by that answer.”

“Good thing his judgement isn’t here to hear it,” Neve replied dryly. “Coffee is coffee.”

Rook gave her a once-over—subtle but practiced. There was a tiredness around Neve’s eyes, the kind that clung to the bones no matter how straight-backed or sharp her tone stayed. She didn’t ask about it. Instead, she reached for the tin marked with silver runes and a faint shimmer of frost. The label on the tin said, Winter Drift.

She smirked, “Perfect.”

The blend was rich and comforting: dark-roasted beans folded with cardamom and vanilla, then chilled with a soft enchantment that calmed the nerves without dulling the senses. A grounding brew for people who never got to rest, even when the case was closed.

She measured out the grounds—rich, spiced with cardamom and a hint of vanilla—and set the French drip cone over a handmade ceramic cup. The brewing was unhurried, deliberate. Water poured slow and steady over the grounds, blooming with warmth and the faint scent of magic as the enchantment activated—just enough chill woven into the brew to clear a foggy head without numbing the senses.

A detective’s blend, through and through.

As the coffee dripped and swirled below, Rook’s thoughts drifted. There had been weeks—months, even—when she could’ve used a cup like this. Back when her skin had been cloaked in shadow, her thoughts coiled and restless, too inhuman to breathe easy and too stubborn to break. Something like Winter Drift might’ve helped her remember who she was beneath it all.

Maybe that’s why she always kept it stocked.

The fact that it was a university favorite probably helped too.

Rook slid the finished cup across the counter. “Here. Winter Drift—house favorite for recovering detectives.”

Neve took it without ceremony, lifted it for a testing sip... then blinked once, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“I take it back. This coffee is amazing.”

A gratifying smile tugged at Rook’s lips. “Told you.”

She turned back to the counter and began prepping a second cup. As the grounds bloomed under the careful pour of hot water, she gave a lazy wave of her fingers. The glyphs beneath the kettle flared briefly—quiet blue sigils pulsing to life as they locked into their daily warming cycle. Around the room, the chairs flipped off the tables in a soft sequence of motion, one after the other, each settling into place without a sound.

Rook set her finished cup beside Neve’s, the warm scent of cardamom curling in the air as she took a long sip. Then, with another casual flick of her hand, the chalkboard behind the bar lit up—white script appearing in clean, looping strokes as today’s specials wrote themselves.

Neve watched the flurry of magical activity with a smirk. “You’re using a lot more magic than usual for a morning setup.”

Rook shrugged, leaning her elbows on the counter beside her coffee. “I wanted to give you my full attention. We haven’t seen each other in weeks.”

Neve’s expression softened just slightly, her cup still cradled in her hands. “And here I thought it was just because you missed me.”

“I plead the fifth,” Rook said with a grin, raising her mug in a silent toast. “Now tell me everything.”

Neve took another slow sip of her coffee before setting the cup down with a faint clink. “My last case was supposed to be easy. Find a missing singer. Standard disappearance, nothing dramatic.”

Rook leaned her hip against the counter, brow arched. “Let me guess—it wasn’t standard.”

Neve huffed a laugh. “It was a full unravel. Turns out the singer was caught in a turf war between the Venatori and some local street gangs. I tracked her to the edge of one of their hideouts, and before I could blink, spells were flying and half the city block was barricaded.”

Rook winced. “Let me guess… you didn’t exactly stay neutral.”

“I may have accidentally picked a side.”

“You sided with the gang, didn’t you?”

Neve lifted her mug like a toast. “The lesser evil. As always.”

Rook smirked. “It’s always the Venatori.”

“They make it too easy,” Neve muttered. “And the Shadow Dragons handled the clean-up. Gang scattered like roaches. Venatori left bleeding and humiliated. It could practically write itself in the serials.”

“Don’t give Varric any ideas.”

Then, the smile from Neve’s lips had faded, replaced by a more thoughtful frown as she cradled her cup again.

“I’m working a case now that’s got me... unsettled.” Her voice dropped slightly. “A string of missing persons. All magic-affiliated civilians. Not rare, but… no bodies. No evidence. Just… gone. Like they disappeared mid-step.”

Rook’s fingers tapped once against her cup. “You think it’s the Venatori.”

Neve nodded, her expression unreadable. “It fits their pattern—clean removals, no residue, no witnesses. But the motive’s foggy. The targets are too scattered, too vague. Not high-profile enough for retaliation, not political enough for leverage. And the timing’s inconsistent.”

“So it’s Venatori chaos,” Rook said, frowning. “But without the usual design.”

“Exactly. And I’m stuck,” Neve admitted. “So… I was hoping you might take a look.”

From inside her coat, she pulled a slim folder and slid it across the counter.

Rook stared at the file, tension creeping into her shoulders. She didn’t reach for it. Just looked from the manila cover to Neve.

“I’m not a Shadow Dragon anymore.”

“I know.” Neve’s voice was soft but steady. “And I’m not asking you to be. I just think you’ll see something I’ve missed. And honestly… I need help. Tarquin’s riding me hard on this.”

That made Rook grimace. “Still breathing down people’s necks, huh?”

“Relentlessly.”

The silence stretched, brittle but not broken. Finally, Rook exhaled and reached for the file, her fingers hovering just above it.

“…How’s Ashur?”

Neve’s gaze softened, her grip tightening slightly around her cup.

“He’s doing all right,” she said after a moment. “Keeps to the archives more these days, but he still takes the occasional field op when no one else will.”

Rook nodded, eyes still on the file but her thoughts drifting elsewhere.

Neve continued, her voice a little softer. “He asks about you. Doesn’t say it directly, but… he misses you.”

That made Rook pause. Her fingers began a quiet, rhythmic tap against the side of her mug—light, steady, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know what it meant.

Neve did.

Rook hummed thoughtfully, gaze drifting somewhere past the shelves and chalkboard, far beyond the morning light pouring in through the windows. The kind of hum that wasn’t agreement or dismissal—just the weight of memory settling back in.

“Do they know you came to me about this?”

Neve shrugged, “No. If they did, Ashur would’ve forbidden me from even taking the copies out of the building.”

Rook huffed softly. “That sounds like him.”

Neve met her gaze. “You know you’re always welcome to come back. If you ever wanted to.”

Rook shook her head, voice quiet. “I told you, Neve… that’s not who I am anymore.”

“I know.” Neve nudged the file forward with two fingers. “Just… see what you see. That’s all I’m asking.”

Rook stared at the file for a long moment, her fingers hovering just above the cover. She was better now—stronger, clearer, more herself than she had been in years. But the fear still lingered, coiled somewhere deep. Of what had happened three years ago. Of who she had been before.

Her eyes drifted to Neve, who remained silent, watching her with that calm, steady patience she always offered when Rook needed time. Not a push. Just presence. And Rook knew—Neve wouldn’t have brought this to her unless she was truly out of leads.

With a quiet sigh, Rook picked up the file and ran her thumb along the edge. “I can’t promise anything.”

Neve raised her hands in light surrender. “I’m not expecting anything.” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “Besides, you’ve got a date tonight.”

Rook let out a short huff, cheeks warming despite herself. “Not a date.”

Neve sipped her coffee, clearly unconvinced. The amusement in her eyes said more than words ever could.

Muttering under her breath, Rook slipped the file into her satchel—just as the front door chimed open.

Bellara swept into the shop, hands full of something sweet-smelling and wrapped in brown paper. She paused mid-step when she spotted Neve casually perched at the bar with her coffee in hand.

“Neve!” Bellara lit up instantly, crossing the room with a grin. “Look at you, all mysterious and composed—when did you get back?”

Neve raised her cup in greeting. “Morning.”

But Bellara’s gaze had already shifted, flicking toward Rook and landing on the faint flush still clinging to her face. Her smile turned into a smirk.

“Not a date, huh?”

Rook groaned, already regretting everything. “Venhedis.”

The day began as it always did—with the sound of Emmrich’s measured footsteps on stone and the steady cadence of breath in the early morning air. His run traced the usual path: past the silent university archways, under the shaded curve of the memorial grove, and into the garden trail where the Fade thinned just enough to hum against his skin.

It wasn’t a run for distance. It never was. It was rhythm. Presence. A quiet way of staying in his body before the rest of the day required him to leave it again in lecture halls and spirit-echoed bones.

It was also a good way to stay in shape. At his age, he made a point of being diligent about his health—exercise offered structure, balance, and the occasional justification for certain indulgences.

By the time he returned to the townhouse, the sun had climbed just high enough to cast warm gold against the kitchen tiles. The kettle steeped mint beside his cooling cloth, and the windows had been opened just wide enough to let in the morning breeze.

As he headed for the shower, the gentle clinking from the kitchen signaled that Manfred had already begun preparing tea. The skeleton assistant, ever punctual in his silent routines, moved with uncanny precision—measuring out the Wintermint blend and heating water with a flick of enchantment. Emmrich left him to it, disappearing into the steam of the bathroom.

Showered, shaved, and freshly groomed, Emmrich looked every bit the composed scholar he was known to be, though with a subtle ease that softened his usual sharpness. His dark hair with streaks of grey was slicked back into its neat coif, not a strand out of place, the clean lines framing his angular features with practiced precision. Around his wrists and fingers, the familiar gleam of grave-gold caught the light—cuffs, bracelets, and rings worn like talismans rather than ornamentation, each one deliberate.

He had dressed with quiet intention. A charcoal waistcoat layered over a soft, open-collared linen shirt in slate blue, paired with tailored black trousers. Polished leather boots grounded the ensemble, and though the look still whispered of refinement, it carried none of the stiff formality of his lecture attire. Tonight, he looked like a man prepared to linger in conversation—not command a room.

He returned to the kitchen where a simple breakfast awaited: a soft-boiled egg, lightly buttered toast, a few slices of fruit, and the tea Manfred had dutifully steeped to perfection. Everything arranged, as always, with quiet, academic order.

He ate while reviewing the morning’s notes—an upcoming lecture on post-spiritual collapse in necromantic constructs—then set his papers aside as another thought crept in.

Dinner.

He had, after all, accepted the challenge of surprising her. Rook had left it entirely in his hands. No preferences. No suggestions. Just that glimmer in her voice when she said “Maybe this time... you can be the one to surprise me..”

There had been a hesitation in her tone, soft but unmistakable, and it had sparked something in him. He wanted to rise to the occasion—not out of obligation, but because she had surprised him so many times. With her blends. Her insight. Her uncanny ability to pair flavors like memories. And, of course, her culinary creations—each one an unexpected delight.

Homemade was out of the question—too formal, too much pressure for a first intentional evening like this. Cooking in her space felt presumptuous, a bit of an invasion. That left the obvious option: takeout.

Takeout was perfect. Casual. Low-pressure.

Emmrich rose from the table and began collecting the stack of menus he’d been mailed over the last few months—most of them filed, some half-crumpled or marked with notes in the margins. He spread them across the kitchen table in a neat fan, flipping through pages of cuisine from across the city. With one hand, he scrolled through newer options on his phone.

Manfred appeared shortly after, his small skeletal form clicking softly across the floor. The little assistant climbed onto a stool with practiced ease and peered down at the chaos of takeout options, his glowing eyes blinking once behind smudged teal lenses.

“Ah Manfred, what do you think?” Emmrich asked, not looking up from his screen. “I’m attempting to select a dinner option that is thoughtful, understated, and unlikely to cause indigestion.”

Manfred tilted his head and let out a soft hiss that sounded somewhere between curiosity and mild judgment.

“Yes,” Emmrich replied dryly, “it is more complicated than it sounds.”

The little skeleton tilted his head, eye sockets glowing faintly as he pointed toward the menu, then to Emmrich’s cup, letting out a curious clatter of inquiry.

“No, not for me,” Emmrich replied, crossing his arms like the scattered menus on the table were an alchemical equation. “I’m going out tonight.”

Manfred chittered again—this time more inquisitive than skeptical.

“I was invited to a tea tasting,” Emmrich explained, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The owner of the Veil & Vine wants me to try something she’s working on. I offered to bring dinner.”

He watched as Manfred leaned in slightly, clearly intrigued. Emmrich had taught him the basics—how to identify a gathering, how to behave during meetings—but dates had never come up. Admittedly, he hadn’t had reason to explain the concept. Not since Manfred had come into his life.

“Would you like to help me, Manfred?” he asked, gesturing toward the spread of menus.

His skeletal ward nodded with enthusiasm and immediately set to work, sorting through the menus with eager clacks. He tapped each glossy pamphlet like a connoisseur appraising cover art, utterly unaware of the significance of the task he'd just been entrusted with. Predictably, he gravitated toward the ones with the most vibrant food photos—glazed noodles, colorful dipping sauces, baked goods shaped like animals, and a high-end curry place with typography so elaborate it was nearly unreadable.

“I see that we’re selecting based on aesthetic now.”

Manfred gave a pleased hiss in response.

Emmrich smirked, but paused when one of the menus Manfred had tapped caught his eye. A quiet, family-owned Tevinter fusion place, barely a year old. Simple offerings: saffron rice bowls, soft herbed flatbreads, vegetable tagines with cooling yogurt, dried fruit chutney.

Uncomplicated. Honest. Thoughtfully prepared.

“…That might be the one. Excellent work.”

Manfred, having decided his work was done, hopped down from the stool and scuttled off toward the far shelf to reorganize potion labels, clearly pleased with himself.

Emmrich gathered the chosen menu and leaned back in his chair, sipping the last of his tea. Even if it wasn’t a date, he still wanted it to feel like something worth remembering.

He exhaled, slow and measured, letting the warmth of the tea settle in his chest.

Whatever tonight became—just tea, just conversation, or something more—he intended to meet it with the same honesty she’d shown him from the beginning.

Chapter Text

Rook had officially closed the Veil & Vine for the evening.

It had taken some effort. Neve had practically dragged Bellara out by the elbow off the premises after the elf made it clear that she intended to lurk until Emmrich arrived. Rook made a mental note to reward Neve with a free coffee the next time she stopped by—perhaps two, depending on how tonight went.

The shop was quiet now, steeped in warm shadows and the comforting scent of dried herbs. Once the door had locked and the shop settled into its familiar hush, Rook finally let herself breathe. The clatter of mugs, the warmth of conversation, the background hum of magic—it was all gone now, leaving only quiet. And in that quiet, she could prepare.

She brought out her tea journal and loose-leaf notes, spreading them across the bar counter in their usual organized chaos. Each scrap of parchment was a thread of trial and error, ink-blotted diagrams, and half-written ingredient pairings. Tonight, she was focusing on one blend: Kiss of Morning.

She went to the back to double-check the ingredients. The lavender was fresh. The cream base had steeped just long enough to carry weight without heaviness. The local honey was sharp and bright, collected from a late summer harvest. Satisfied, she returned to the front, setting each component behind the bar in quiet sequence.

Only then did she head into the bathroom to check her reflection. It had been a long, busy Saturday, and the last thing she wanted was to greet Emmrich looking like she’d lost a battle with a kettle. She wiped down her face and neck with a cool cloth and retied her hair, taming the more chaotic wisps into a neater bun. Not perfect, but presentable.

By the time she emerged, the shop had cooled to a comforting stillness, the kind that made every step echo slightly across the floorboards. She sat at the bar, hands folded in her lap, trying not to look at the clock too often.

Then came the knock.

Rook looked up—and there he was.

Emmrich stood at the door, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, his other poised mid-knock, as if he hadn’t expected her to answer so quickly. The light from the lanterns outside pooled softly across his shoulders, casting the clean lines of his waistcoat and grave-gold jewelry in warm gleam. He smiled—small, warm, a little nervous.

A smile grew on her face as she hopped off of her high chair and walked over to let him into the shop. When she opened the door, a cold breeze brushed past her as Emmrich stood before her.

She breathed, “Hi.”

“Afternoon,” he replied, offering a small smile as he lifted the takeout bag. “Dinner, as promised. I do hope it’s well received.”

The aroma drifted between them—warm, spiced, comforting—and Rook’s smile widened.

“Judging by the smell, I think I’m in for a treat. Come on in.”

The familiar bell above the door gave a soft chime as Rook stepped aside to let him in. The warmth of the Veil & Vine greeted him like a second breath—herbal and honeyed, touched by citrus and something floral steeping in the background.

Emmrich stepped inside with measured ease, the paper takeout bag crinkling softly in his grasp. The shop was quiet now, steeped in late afternoon light, and the comfortable hum of magic lingered at the edge of perception like a heartbeat beneath the floorboards.

He moved to the bar counter, careful not to disturb the organized sprawl of parchment and scrawled notes, and set the food down on a clean stretch of space. Immediately, a blur of fur bounded up onto the counter.

Spite.

The black cat circled the bag like it was an unsolved puzzle, sniffing eagerly and nudging the edge with his nose. A paw batted experimentally at the fold.

Emmrich smiled faintly. “I see your assistant is as thorough as ever.”

“He’s terrible,” Rook called, already crossing behind the bar. “Which is why he’s getting an early dinner.”

With the practiced movements of someone who had done this a hundred times before, she knelt to open a small drawer tucked under the counter, fetched Spite’s dish, and measured out a scoop of his usual food. The cat, reluctantly abandoning his stakeout, dropped from the bar with an indignant flick of his tail and trotted after her.

Rook glanced back. “Would you like to eat first before we get started?”

“That would be wise,” Emmrich said, adjusting the cuff at his wrist. “Better to enjoy it while it’s warm.”

She nodded and turned toward the cabinets, already reaching for plates and utensils. As she busied herself, Emmrich wandered toward the reading nook tucked into the far corner of the shop.

Whenever he visited the Veil & Vine, Emmrich had always been quietly intrigued by the little reading nook tucked near the front window—a cozy alcove framed by trailing vines with an arched bookcase, softly enchanted lanterns, and a pair of overstuffed armchairs with tea-stained throws draped neatly across their backs.

He hadn’t had the chance to explore it before. The seats were usually occupied by students nursing oversized mugs and dense textbooks, or his own visits had been too brief to allow for lingering. But now, with the shop hushed and empty save for Rook and Spite, he could finally take it in.

The arched shelves held a thoughtfully eclectic collection: fiction with creased spines, historical accounts tucked beside guides on floral symbolism and herbology, and a few well-worn editions penned by none other than Varric Tethras, their spines soft from evident re-reading. The air here felt just slightly warmer, as if the nook itself remembered how many people had sat here to rest, think, or simply be still.

Emmrich ran a finger along the spine of a familiar volume, a small smile curving at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve cultivated quite the library,” he said over his shoulder.

Rook’s voice floated back from behind the counter. “I try to rotate through genres. Keep things interesting. If there’s something you’d like to see added, I’m open to suggestions.”

He turned slightly, one brow lifting. “That’s a dangerous offer, Miss Ingellvar.”

She grinned without looking up. “I trust your taste, Professor—but don’t get too bold. I take suggestions, not surrendering the shelves.”

He lets out a low chuckle as she moved her notes to the side in a neat pile to make room for the take out food that he had brought. Emmrich returned to the counter to see Rook’s carefully organized spread as they sit next to each other on the bar counter. She brought out water for them but asked if he wanted something else and he assures her that water is fine for the occasion since they will be drinking tea after this.

Emmrich let out a low chuckle as Rook moved her notes aside, gathering them into a neat pile to clear space at the bar. By the time he returned to the counter, she had already laid out two plates and was sliding the takeout bag toward the center of the counter, her eyes scanning the containers with visible curiosity.

He took his seat beside her, noting the way she’d arranged her materials—orderly, yes, but personal. There was care in her chaos.

Rook disappeared briefly and returned with two glasses of water. “I’ve got tea ingredients on standby for later,” she said, setting his glass down. “But do you want something else to drink with dinner?”

“Water is perfectly fine,” Emmrich replied, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up to his forearms. “Given what’s to come, it’s the most strategic choice.”

She gave a soft laugh and took her seat beside him. “Well, this all looks fantastic,” she said, opening the containers with reverence. Her eyes lit up as she uncovered the soft, herbed flatbread nestled beside a small container of creamy white tzatziki. “You even got flatbread… with tzatiki.”

There was a subtle shift in her voice, something quieter beneath the words.

“I only ever mentioned flatbread once,” she said, glancing sideways at him. “In passing.”

Emmrich offered a modest smile, though the warmth in his eyes gave him away. “You did. I did take some liberties in choosing the dip for it. I do think that you will enjoy it.”

Rook blinked, her expression softening just a touch before she turned her attention back to the food. In her quiet excitement, the flatbread was the first thing she reached for. She tore a piece, dipped it generously, and took a bite—eyes closing briefly as she savored the soft chew of the bread and the tang of the savory yogurt.

A soft hum escaped her. “Okay, this… this is really good.”

That hum settled somewhere warm in Emmrich’s chest. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted her to enjoy it until the relief washed over him. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing with the unspoken tension he hadn’t even fully acknowledged.

“I’m relieved,” he said, half-smiling. “I wasn’t sure if I was overthinking it.”

Rook turned toward him, a playful glint in her eye. “You passed, Professor. With flying colors.”

As they dug in, the spread Emmrich had brought proved even better than it looked.

The herbed flatbread and tzatziki dip were a comforting start, but the real surprise came with the saffron-spiced rice bowl—fluffy and fragrant, dotted with roasted vegetables and little bursts of pomegranate—and the lentil and sweet fennel tagine, warm and earthy with just the right balance of spice. The stuffed vine leaves were delicate, cool, and herbal, a perfect contrast to the richness of the tagine.

Rook chewed slowly, letting the flavors settle on her tongue, and for a moment, she was somewhere else entirely.

This… reminded her of a place. A hole-in-the-wall café tucked near the markets in the heart of Dock Town—hidden between a cobbler’s stall and a cloth merchant, its sign half-faded from sea air and sun. She used to slip away during her Shadow Dragon days, just for a moment of quiet and a plate of something that tasted like someone had cared.

It had been the closest thing to a home-cooked meal she could remember back then.

She swallowed, not saying anything at first, just letting the warmth of it sit in her chest like an old memory pulled from beneath the floorboards.

Then she looked over at Emmrich, who was quietly savoring his own plate.

“You… really picked well,” she said softly. “This reminds me of a place I used to go to, years ago.”

He looked up, curious. “A good memory, I hope.”

Emmrich watched as Rook finished a bite of her flatbread, a faint smudge of yogurt lingering at the corner of her mouth. For a fleeting moment, he had the absurd impulse to reach out and wipe it away himself—but she beat him to it, dabbing it away with a casual swipe of her napkin.

She smiled faintly, a little wistful. “One of the better ones.” She reached for the last piece of flatbread without hesitation. “So, am I to assume you’re a yogurt man when it comes to flatbread?”

Emmrich smirked. “I’m a traditional Nevarran. It’s practically law.”

She grinned. “Don’t get me wrong, this tzatziki is perfect—a beautiful fusion of Nevarran flatbread and Tevinter sauce. But my mom used to make this dip that was my all-time favorite. Olive oil, sun-dried tomatoes, garlic, herbs, chili flakes for a bit of a kick, and grated cheese. Absolute perfection.”

“Do you ever make it?”

“When I’m craving it,” she said with a small shrug, “or when I’m too lazy to make an actual meal. It’s indulgent, but it gets the job done.”

 “It sounds exquisite—and delightfully indulgent,” he said with a warm smile. “I find that there’s no harm in honoring comfort, especially when the world gives us so few excuses to.”

By the time their plates were clean, and their laughter had softened into a comfortable hush, the meal was behind them—and the tasting ahead. Rook moved behind the bar to begin clearing the space, but Emmrich gently rose to his feet and began gathering their dishes without a word.

“I can handle those,” she said, watching him with an arched brow.

“You will do no such thing,” he replied, stacking their utensils neatly, “You have played the role of a perfect host for this evening. Allow me the dignity of doing the dishes.” He paused, then gestured toward the corner. “May I take Spite’s dish as well?”

She smiled. “Permission granted.”

With quiet efficiency, Emmrich carried everything to the bar sink, rinsing with methodical precision. Rook took to her own routine, wiping down the counter in practiced circles, sweeping away the last remnants of dinner as the room slowly shifted back to its usual rhythm.

As he returned, drying his hands, he asked, “So… what sort of blend are we about to experience?”

Rook glanced over her shoulder, teasing glint in her eye. “All will be revealed—once it’s in your cup.” She goes to the back kitchen to bring out the tray of tea ingredients.

Emmrich chuckled. “Keeping it a mystery till the end, I see.”

“What can I say? I like to maintain the theatrics.”

He leaned lightly against the edge of the counter, watching her arrange ingredients with care. “When did you start creating your own blends?”

She hummed, setting out a small bowl of dried lavender. “About a year into tea making. Once I learned the basics, I realized it wasn’t that different from herbology. Just... more personal. Less clinical.”

She pulled her mother’s journal from the cubby behind the bar and placed it nearby, flipping to a marked page.

The journal was bound in dark red leather, its surface weathered and soft at the corners from years of handling. The edges of the pages were uneven, stained with old tea splashes and flecked with specks of dried ink. Several faded entries still carried the faint, earthy scent of chamomile and citrus. Slipped between the pages were colorful sticky notes—Rook’s additions—scribbled with adjustments, tastings, and occasional thoughts in quick, curling script. Some pages had delicate marks in the margins, little symbols or single-word impressions her mother must have written in a hurry, like soothing, too bitter, or needs warmth.

Rook gently smoothed her hand over the delicate pages. “This helped. A lot,” she said, her voice quieter now. “She didn’t get to finish it, but what she left behind gave me a foundation.”

Emmrich nodded, sensing the weight of those words.

“What was the hardest part?” he asked.

Rook laughed softly as she slid the journal back into the counter drawer.  “Honestly? The names. Naming tea blends is like naming spells. Too dramatic, and no one takes you seriously. Too subtle, and no one remembers it.”

Emmrich glanced down at the page she’d left open, careful not to touch. There was a reverence in the way she handled the journal—an intimacy steeped not only in memory, but in continuity. Even the way she looked at it carried weight, as if her affection for it lived in the margins. It warmed him to see how she had taken her family's memories and built something enduring from them, right here, between shelves of herbs and cups of comfort.

Rook glanced over the counter, then exhaled with quiet resolve. “All right. Let’s make some tea.”

He nodded and took his seat at the bar. As he settled in, Spite sauntered over and curled up beside him, tail flicking lazily as if giving his official approval of the event. Emmrich offered the cat a subtle nod of acknowledgment, amused by the silent ritual of it all.

With practiced ease, Rook scanned her notes, then began measuring precise scoops from the various small bowls arrayed in front of her, adding them into a larger mixing vessel that held the tea base. Her movements were fluid—confident, unhurried. She worked by instinct and memory, cross-referenced by handwritten scrawl.

Once the dry ingredients had been combined and gently tossed together, she reached for a mason jar labeled in her looping handwriting: Creamy Oat Blossom. The contents shimmered faintly in the light—soft, golden, and promising.

With a flick of her wrist, one of the kettles sprang to life, its glyphs glowing softly as it began to heat. Steam rose in slow spirals, catching the golden light that filtered through the front windows.

Rook took the freshly mixed ingredients and carefully portioned them into two mesh strainers. She retrieved a pair of her favorite mugs—stoneware with faint spiral etchings near the rim—and nestled the strainers inside. Once the water reached the perfect temperature, she poured it with practiced control, the scent of honeyed florals and warm oat cream already beginning to rise.

Setting the timer, she turned back to her notes, scanning her scribbles with narrowed focus. Just a few minutes to steep. Just enough time for anticipation to set in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement—and glanced over her shoulder.

Emmrich was seated comfortably at the bar, one hand resting on the counter, the other gently stroking Spite’s back. The cat had melted into a puddle of fur and purring satisfaction, head tilted slightly beneath the affection. Emmrich’s expression was soft, almost fond—unbothered by the waiting, content in the moment.

Rook smiled to herself, then turned back to the timer.

Almost ready.

As the timer chimed softly, Rook removed the strainers from the mugs and set them aside. She opened the lid of the mason jar, measuring out a single teaspoon for each cup, then followed with a small scoop of honey crystals that sparkled faintly in the light.

A quick stir, gentle and even, and the blend was complete.

She handed Emmrich his mug, the steam curling upward in soft ribbons between them. Her fingers brushed his briefly as she let go, and for a moment, all the noise in her head went still.

Then the nerves came flooding back.

This was one of her experimental brews. One of the blends that had lived in her notes and thoughts and instincts—but never left the safety of her inner circle. And now it sat in the hands of someone who didn’t have the obligation of friendship to cushion their opinion.

Maker, why did this suddenly feel like a confession?

She tried to keep her voice even. “I’d like your honest opinion. Truly. And if it’s no good, I promise I won’t be offended if you spit it out.”

Emmrich let out a dry huff. “I would never commit such an act of barbarism in your presence.”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth lifted.

“I mean it,” he added, his voice gentler now. “You’ve placed your trust in me and asked for honesty—I’m happy to give it. But know that I accepted this invitation fully aware of what I was getting into. Confounding variables and all.”

Something in his tone—warm, steady, and just lightly amused—helped ease the tightness in her chest. The tension in her shoulders loosened as she leaned back slightly, watching him with cautious hope.

Emmrich, ever meticulous, brought the cup to his lips but didn’t sip just yet. He inhaled first, as he always did—eyes closed, taking in the aroma with the kind of focus one might give a rare book or a quiet memory. Then, after a pause, he took a careful sip.

The silence that followed stretched unbearably long.

Rook sat perfectly still, heart thudding like war drums behind her ribs, doing everything in her power not to look like she was bracing for an execution.

Chapter Text

The aroma met him first—soft and floral with a warm undercurrent of cream and honey. There was a faint brightness at the edge, something citrusy tucked just beneath the surface. He took another slow breath, eyes half-lidded, letting the scent unfold before he finally took a sip.

The tea settled on his tongue with gentle intent. Creamy, yes—but not heavy. The lavender came through clearly, aromatic without being overpowering. The sweetness was layered: the mellow, comforting note of oat blossom, followed by the subtle crystallized honey that softened the floral sharpness. And then—just at the finish—a flicker of something bright. Lemon?

Zest, most likely. Subtle. Clever.

It was a thoughtful blend. Balanced. Delicate in its construction, like something made to ease someone out of a bad morning—or into a hopeful one.

There were, of course, a few adjustments he might have made. The sweetness was just a touch more forward than his personal preference; if it were his blend, he might have pulled back the honey crystals slightly to let the lavender linger longer on the finish.

But that was personal taste, not a flaw.

He lowered the cup slowly, savoring the lingering warmth that coated his tongue.

“This,” he said, glancing toward her, “is quite good.”

Her eyes were locked on him, wide and uncertain, like she hadn’t quite dared to breathe until now.

“It’s gentle,” he continued. “Sweet, but not cloying. The lavender is well-measured, and the oat blossom adds a softness that rounds everything out. And that final citrus note... lemon zest?”

Rook shook her head, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “Lemon verbena, actually.”

Emmrich’s brows lifted slightly in appreciation. “Ah. Even better. It lingers just enough to lift the blend without overwhelming it.”

He took another sip, thoughtful. “A bold addition—but it works. If I had to offer critique, I might suggest dialing back the sweetness just a touch—but that’s personal preference. Structurally, it’s a beautiful blend.”

He set the cup down gently, fingers still curled lightly around the ceramic, and glanced toward her.

And watching the way her posture softened—how the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly—felt like the most satisfying result of all.

She let out a breath of relief, half-laughing. “Oh, thank the gods.”

Finally reaching for her own mug, Rook mirrored his movements—bringing the cup close, inhaling the aroma with her eyes closed, and taking a slow, measured sip.

After a moment, she nodded. “Yeah, I can see what you mean about the sweetness. I think a teaspoon of honey crystals instead of a quarter tablespoon would balance it better.”

Setting the mug down, she grabbed her tea journal and flipped it open, jotting down the adjustment in quick, looping script.

Emmrich smiled faintly as he watched her jot notes into the tea journal, her expression focused, her handwriting flowing in confident loops. It was a quiet sort of dedication—something deeply personal that she gave shape to with ink and instinct.

After a pause, he nodded toward the mason jar still sitting on the counter. “Tell me more about the Creamy Oat Blossom mix. I’m curious.”

Rook looked up, then down at the jar with a small, almost proud smile. “It’s a personal concoction for this blend specifically. Oat milk steeped with vanilla bean, marshmallow root, cinnamon, and oat blossoms.” She picked it up, rolling it slightly between her hands. “Took a while to get the balance right. The base kept clashing, or going flat. Finding the right pairing was… a challenge.”

“May I try it?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Rook pulled a spoon from the drawer and dipped it into the mason jar, gathering a small sample before offering it to him. Emmrich accepted it with a quiet nod of thanks and tasted it carefully.

The mixture was luxuriously creamy—an indulgence in texture alone—with a mellow sweetness and a soft, warming note of spice. The presence of the oat blossom lent a subtle earthiness, grounding the sweetness in something gentler, more comforting.

“It’s lovely,” Emmrich said, and he meant it. “May I ask as to what inspired you to create such a tea?”

Rook nodded, setting the jar aside. “It started as a flavor experiment, but the idea behind it came from a conversation I had with a friend—Lucanis.”

That name. It pulled his attention a bit tighter.

“We were talking about coffee,” Rook went on, unaware of the subtle shift in his posture. “He insisted that Andoral’s Breath was the best blend—said it was bittersweet, like a kiss goodbye.”

Her tone held affection. Not giddy or wistful—fond.

“I asked him what a first kiss tasted like,” she continued, eyes glinting with amusement at the memory. “And without missing a beat, he said: ‘honey and lavender cream.’”

She laughed softly. “It stuck with me. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, so I tried making it into a tea. Though I might try developing it as a coffee blend too—eventually. In his honor.”

Emmrich sat still, mug in hand, the warmth from the tea no longer reaching his fingers.

The conversation—so casual for her, so light—hit him with the force of something much heavier. Lucanis. A close friend. One she clearly cared for. And this tea, this blend she’d poured so much thought into… it had started with him.

What if this wasn’t something more? What if tonight wasn’t a step forward, but simply a professional kindness? A tasting offered to a professor she respected?

The sweetness on his tongue began to shift. It no longer felt warm—it felt cloying. Heavy. Like hope curdling mid-thought.

His chest tightened, and the flicker of heat behind his eyes wasn’t from the tea. He felt foolish. How had he let himself imagine something so easily?

He was already folding inward, preparing to retreat into polite distance, when—

“Emmrich?”

Her voice cut through the spiral, gentle and clear. Just his name—but it pulled him back.

He blinked, realizing he'd been staring down into his cup, the rim blurred by rising steam.

Rook was watching him, concern pinched between her brows.

“Yes?” His voice came steadier than he felt.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “You just looked like your mind wandered somewhere far away.”

“Ah.” He offered a small, apologetic tilt of the head. “My apologies—I seem to have gotten a bit… distracted.”

She studied him a moment longer. Then, like the sun breaking through a low fog, she smiled—and tilted her head with mock curiosity.

“Well then, Professor,” she said, voice low and playful, “what did your first kiss taste like?”

Rook could see it immediately—the way her question short-circuited him.

Emmrich blinked once. Then again. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, as if he were mentally scanning through a library of possible answers and rejecting each one in rapid succession.

It was rare to catch him off guard. Rarer still to see him speechless.

She giggled, unable to stop herself. “I—was that too personal?” she asked, hiding her smile behind her mug. “I didn’t mean to scandalize you.”

Emmrich cleared his throat, straightened just slightly, and managed a faint, almost bewildered smile.

“Only mildly,” he said, recovering with admirable grace. “You must understand—it’s not a question I’m often asked... over tea.”

Rook let out a dry laugh, then met his gaze. There was something in the way she held it—bright and unguarded—that made his chest tighten again, but in a different way.

“That’s fair. I doubt most people have an answer ready for what their first kiss tasted like.” She tilted her head, smirking. “Still... I’d like to hear yours.”

“It’s strange,” he admitted, “but your question—it pulled me out of a rather unfortunate line of thinking.”

Rook’s brow lifted again. “Unfortunate?”

He met her eyes directly now, steady and sincere. “I had a brief moment of doubt. Nothing serious. Just… one of those spirals the mind likes to entertain when you’re not paying attention.”

Her expression shifted—something between sympathy and curiosity—but he offered a faint, reassuring smile.

“But your question,” he continued, voice warming, “was unexpected. Disarming, in a good way. And effective.”

Rook grinned, clearly satisfied. “Glad to know flustering you serves a higher purpose.”

Emmrich chuckled under his breath, then took another sip of tea, giving himself a moment before answering her original question.

“My first kiss,” he said at last, “tasted like clove and smoke. We’d just snuck away from a Wintersend celebration—there was incense burning, and someone had spilled mulled wine on their sleeves. It was… quick. A little sharp. The sort of kiss that happens too fast and leaves you wondering if it even counted.”

Rook’s eyes sparkled, amusement tugging at her lips.

He lifted a brow, his tone lightly self-deprecating. “Not quite as poetic as honey and lavender cream, I’m afraid.”

She laughed, warmth in her voice. “No—but I will say that I’m jealous of your experience. Yours sounds like a memory worth keeping.”

“Do you remember your first kiss?”

Rook swirled the tea in her mug, her smirk returning as she leaned an elbow on the counter.

“Well,” she said, “if we’re being honest… mine was probably the least romantic thing to ever happen in recorded history.”

Emmrich tilted his head, intrigued.

She shrugged, casual but not dismissive. “I don’t even know if it counted, really. It tasted like cheap beer and elfroot. We were sixteen, hiding behind some vendor stalls during the summer market. I think he just wanted to say he’d kissed someone.”

Emmrich winced sympathetically. “Unfortunate pairing.”

“Oh, deeply,” Rook replied, smirking. “I had to rinse my mouth with a lemon wedge afterward. Very classy.”

He laughed—genuinely, warmly—and she joined him, shaking her head as if even now she couldn't quite believe it had happened.

“That’s a shame,” he said softly. “First kisses ought to be a romantic affair.”

Rook gave a half-shrug with a grin. “I don’t know. They seem kind of overrated, if you ask me.”

He studied her for a beat, his smile subtle but sincere. “That sounds more like the fault of someone who didn’t know how to properly court a beautiful and charming woman such as yourself.”

Her eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. Her lips parted as if to reply, but no words came—only a small breath, flustered and unspoken. She cleared her throat and brought a hand to her face, trying—unsuccessfully—to hide the blush rising in her cheeks.

Emmrich, still smiling, raised his cup in quiet toast. “To better second kisses, then.”

Rook recovered enough to lift her mug and tap it gently against his. “And better memories.”

After finishing the last of her tea, Rook takes her mug and sets it aside in the sink, then circled around the counter with easy steps. She slipped into the seat beside him, their elbows nearly brushing, the quiet between them now something softer—something shared.

She looked over at him, eyes flicking with playful light. “So… are you up for another cup of the improved blend?”

Emmrich turned slightly to meet her gaze, lips curving in quiet amusement.

“Or,” she added, tilting her head, “would you rather try the coffee version of the experiment?”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, but he didn’t press. Instead, he gave a small nod, his voice returning to something lighter.

“I must confess,” he said, “I’ve always preferred tea over coffee. Not just in flavor—but in... temperament.”

Rook raised an eyebrow, amused. “Temperament?”

“If I were to drink coffee tonight,” he added, “I’d be awake until sunrise, reorganizing my lecture notes for the next decade.”

That earned a soft chuckle from her. “Spoken like a man with no intention of sleeping.”

She glanced out the shop windows, where the amber glow of the streetlamps had deepened into true evening.

“Oh it really is getting late,” she said, more gently now, “looks like this’ll be our last cup.”

Rook moved with practiced ease behind the counter, preparing the final version of the blend—adjusting the ratios, refining the details she’d jotted down earlier. The soft clink of spoons and the low hiss of the kettle filled the space as she worked, while Emmrich remained at the bar, watching her with quiet admiration.

As she poured the last of the steeped tea into their cups, he asked, “Have you thought of a name for it yet?”

She hesitated, her back still to him.

“Well,” she said slowly, “sort of.”

At his silence, she turned and offered him his mug—along with a pink-tinged smile that tugged at the edges of her composure.

“It’s a little embarrassing, actually.”

Emmrich took the cup, his expression warm, open. “I think I’d be hard-pressed to judge.”

Rook exhaled, almost laughing at herself. “I was thinking of calling it Kiss of Morning. It’s meant to taste like something tender—something that stays with you after it’s gone. Soft. Gentle. A little sweet, a little wistful.”

For a moment, Emmrich could only look at her.

The name, the intent behind it—it caught in his chest like a pulled thread. Kiss of Morning. It was more than a tea name. It was a feeling. A moment suspended in amber. And it was hers. She’d made this.

And now, she’d shared it with him.

His gaze drifted to her lips—soft, inviting, impossible to ignore. Earlier, when she’d wiped a bit of tzatziki from the corner of her mouth, he’d caught himself. His thoughts had turned shameless, wondering what it would’ve been like to lean in, to taste it from her skin before claiming her mouth. Would her kiss carry the warmth of honey and lavender… or something stronger? Something richer than any tea he’d ever known?

He swallowed lightly, voice quieter than before. “It’s a beautiful name.”

Her gaze flicked toward him. “Thank you.”

Emmrich took another sip, letting the flavor linger as he glanced toward the front windows. Night had fully settled beyond the glass, the streetlamps casting soft halos in the misted dark.

When he looked back at Rook, she was still sipping her tea, her expression one of quiet focus. There was a softness to it now—a calm smile tugging at her lips. She looked… content. Proud, in that subtle way she always was when something she crafted turned out just right.

“Rook.”

She glanced up at him over the rim of her mug, eyes warm and expectant.

For a flicker of a moment, doubt tried to creep in again.

Be bold, Volkarin.

He drew a slow breath, steadying himself. “When I went to pick up dinner… I drove. If you’d like, I’d be happy to give you a ride home.”

Rook didn’t answer right away. She looked down at her mug, the steam curling softly between them, and seemed to turn the offer over in her mind. Emmrich held still, as though even breathing too loudly might tip the moment in the wrong direction.

“Unless, of course, cars still make you uncomfortable—I could accompany you on foot. I don’t mind, truly,” he offered, a touch of hesitation threading through his voice. “Whatever feels best for you.”

Then, finally, she smiled—small, thoughtful.

“I’d appreciate the ride,” she said. “But I’d feel bad making you wait while I close up.”

For a second, Emmrich was sure his heart had stuttered. Then it surged forward, lighter than it had all evening.

“I’d be happy to help,” he said, setting his cup down with quiet purpose. “More hands make light work, after all.”

And so they set to it together—clearing dishes, wiping down surfaces, sweeping through the last spells that sealed the shop’s magic for the night. He followed her rhythm easily, matching her pace with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d watched the routine before and now moved within it.

With Emmrich’s help, they had everything done in under an hour.

Once the lights were dimmed and the wards set, he held the door open while Rook slipped on her duster and lifted her satchel. Spite gave a sleepy chirp from the counter before hopping down, stretching luxuriously, and trotting into the familiar vessel for him to rest.

At the car, Emmrich moved without hesitation, opening the passenger door and offering his hand—not because she needed it, but because he wanted to. Rook accepted it with a glance that said she noticed more than she let on and a tinge of red at the tips of her ears.

He made sure she and Spite were settled before closing the door gently behind her and circling to the driver’s side.

The hum of the engine was quiet, steady—like the rest of the evening. Emmrich drove with the same calm precision he carried in his posture, one hand resting lightly on the wheel as the city lights slipped past the windows.

Rook glanced around the interior, her hand brushing over the edge of the console with casual appreciation.

“This is… surprisingly nice,” she said with a grin. “Why don’t you drive more often?”

He glanced her way, amused. “I prefer to walk. It keeps me active, clears the mind… and university parking is a bureaucratic nightmare masquerading as infrastructure.”

Rook laughed, tipping her head back slightly against the seat. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” he said dryly. “I’ve considered writing a paper on it.”

She snorted. “See? It’s little struggles like that that make me glad I never went.”

He glanced at her again, more curious now. “Did you never consider attending?”

Rook gave a small shrug, her tone light but distant around the edges. “It just wasn’t in the cards. Back then, I had a lot going on.”

She watched the city pass beyond the window for a beat before continuing.

“When the dust finally settled, I ended up joining the Shadow Dragons. That took all my focus for a long time. Studying... academics... it just wasn’t where my head was at.”

Emmrich glanced over, his expression unreadable but attentive. “You were a Shadow Dragon.”

“Yeah,” she said with a faint smile. “For a minute. But I had to leave that life behind.”

He nodded, falling quiet—not from discomfort, but thoughtfulness. He heard the weight beneath her words, the way she brushed past it like something long-processed, filed away. There was no shame in it—just a steady kind of truth.

And in that quiet, he found a deeper admiration for her resilience.

With Rook’s directions, the drive to her apartment building was quick—too quick, if Emmrich was honest with himself.

The streets narrowed as they turned toward her neighborhood, lanternlight casting long streaks across the cobbled intersections. He found a spot just down the block and eased the car into place, shifting into park with a quiet click that felt a little too final.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Rook glanced toward him with a soft smile. “This is me.”

Emmrich nodded, fingers still resting lightly on the steering wheel. He hadn’t planned to say more. But something lingered—unfinished.

Before she reached for the door handle, he spoke.

“May I ask you something?”

She paused, brows lifting just slightly. “Of course.”

He glanced her way—not guarded, but careful.

“Lucanis,” he said. “You spoke of him earlier with... fondness. I hope I’m not overstepping, but I was wondering—what is your relationship with him?”

There was no accusation in his voice, only a quiet curiosity. A desire to understand, not assume.

Whatever her answer, he wanted it to come from her.

Rook blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question.

But then she saw it—the flicker of anxiety behind Emmrich’s otherwise composed gaze. The question hadn’t come from jealousy, but uncertainty. Hope, tinged with doubt.

Her voice was calm when she answered. “Lucanis and I are just friends. Honestly he’s more like a brother to me so our relationship is familial in a way… we’re not romantically involved not that we would want to.”

Emmrich let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. There was a pause, long enough for his embarrassment to catch up.

“I… apologize,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was an uncharacteristically personal question.”

Rook offered a faint smile. “Maybe. But not unwelcome.”

He didn’t trust himself to answer that with words, so he slipped out of the car and circled around to her side.

The air had cooled, the distant sounds of the city soft under the cover of night. They walked in easy silence toward her building, Spite tucked contentedly in Rook’s satchel, tail swaying with each step.

When they reached the front steps of her building, Rook slowed to a stop and turned toward him, her satchel slung over one shoulder, Spite now a drowsy weight inside.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice softer now, touched with something more personal. “For being my taste tester tonight and for the ride home. Really. It meant a lot.”

Emmrich met her gaze, a small smile forming. “I was happy to.”

They stood there for a moment, the city humming gently around them, the air between them warmer than the breeze.

Rook gave a quiet breath of a laugh, eyes glinting beneath the streetlamp. “Good night, Emmrich.”

He inclined his head. “Good night, Rook.”

She turned to go.

And he stood there, watching the soft fall of her hair, the relaxed ease in her shoulders, the quiet way she carried the evening with her. That’s when he felt it—something stirred within him.

He had been content with this—tea, laughter, the quiet comfort of her presence. But Emmrich wanted more. More time with her. More conversations. More glimpses of the person she was when her guard was down.

And as Rook reached the door, something in his chest pushed him forward.

“Rook,” he said, quickly but not urgently.

She glanced back.

He took a step forward, his voice calm again, steady this time. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

Rook tilted her head. “Mmm… I’ve got a few things in the first half of the day, but I’m free in the afternoon. Why?”

He stepped a little closer—not invading, just enough to close the distance of intent.

“If it wouldn’t interfere with your plans,” he said gently, “I’d like to have dinner with you again.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, a flicker of uncertainty stirred beneath his carefully composed exterior. His palms clenched at his sides, the fabric of his coat grounding him like an anchor. His mouth had gone dry. The only sound he could hear was the rush of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, laced with the sharp edge of anxiety as he held tightly—desperately—to the shred of courage he’d mustered.

Rook blinked once. Her posture stilled, her expression unreadable.

In the stretch of silence that followed, tension coiled in his chest. The whispers of self-doubt began to rise, clawing their way in, his mind already preparing for retreat—anything to escape the weight of that pause.

And then she tilted her head, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile that was equal parts teasing and intrigued.

“Professor Volkarin,” she said, “are you asking me out on a date?”

Emmrich drew a breath, steadying himself.

“Yes,” he said, voice firm despite the pulse behind it. “I believe I am.”

Her smile widened. “Then I’ll accept your invitation.”

Relief hit him like a quiet exhale. His shoulders loosened, and the tension in his hands softened as his fingers unfurled from the hem of his coat.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Shall I pick you up here? Say... 5:30?”

“Sounds good.” She gave him a final smile before turning toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow then.”

He waited until she disappeared inside the building before turning on his heel and walking back to the car at a pace just shy of hurried.

By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, his composure had given way to something far less contained. The astonishment. The quiet elation. The disbelief.

She said yes.

Emmrich sat there for a moment, motionless in the driver’s seat, the engine still off. He stared through the windshield, not at anything in particular—just letting the moment settle in.

A date.

He had asked her. Out loud. With intent. And she had smiled—truly smiled—and said yes.

A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him as he leaned back against the headrest, one hand briefly covering his face.

Maker, what had he just done?

And where, in Andraste’s name, had that courage come from?

The disbelief buzzed in his chest, layered over a quiet, swelling joy. He was too old to feel like a boy again—yet something in him hummed with possibility. Hope, bright and terrifying in its gentleness.

He pulled in a slow breath, centered himself, and finally—finally—started the car.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind her, and Rook leaned against it, heartbeat still fluttering in her chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the moment was over.

Then she sank to the floor.

Not gracefully. Not intentionally. Just a slow, stunned collapse until she was sitting with her back against the door, legs bent, coat still on, keys still dangling loosely from her fingers.

Spite scrambled out of the satchel a moment later and landed beside her with a soft thump. He gave a stretch, then turned to stare at her, his tail twitching once, twice—judgmental, concerned, and very much in her personal space.

She didn’t move.

Just sat there, wide-eyed, staring across the room like she’d forgotten what furniture was.

“What,” she finally whispered, voice thin and hollow with disbelief, “the fuck just happened.”

Spite chirped, unimpressed.

Rook let her head fall back against the door with a quiet thud, eyes closing as she replayed everything. The takeout dinner. The tea tasting. The toast. The Kiss of Morning. The ride home. That look he gave her.

Maker’s breath. He asked her out.

Not vaguely. Not in passing. He asked her out. For dinner. Like a real, actual adult.

And she’d said yes.

The flurry of emotions that she was feeling was impossible to describe because her brain was unable to keep up. Oh Maker, it was everything. The way the streetlight shined upon him as if he was an angel from above. The way his eyes looked so nervous and determined when popping the question.

Her heart refused to calm down as she replayed it.

“Spite,” she muttered, turning her head to meet his unblinking stare. “I think I just got asked out by a necromancer.”

Spite blinked once and gave her arm a slow, deliberate pat with his paw.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I need help.”

Group Chat Name: Hex & Flex 🔮💅⚔️

Rook: I need help.

Neve: What happened?

Bellara: Are you okay??

Lace: ???

Taash: Do I need to kick someone’s ass?

Rook: Okay everyone calm down. I’m fine.

Rook: Correction I am physically fine. Emotionally… that’s undetermined.

Bellara: I smell tea and not the brewing kind!!

Lace: Oh this is going to be good.

Taash: I’m muting this chat.

Taash: See you at the training yard tomorrow, Rook. Lace gimme the highlights later.

Lace: 👍

Rook: See you tomorrow Taash.

Neve: Rook, spill it.

Bellara: ☕ ☕ ☕

Lace: SPILL IT!!

Rook: All right. Fine.

Rook stared at the glowing screen, her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

The chat had exploded the moment she’d said, I need help.

In hindsight, maybe not the wisest phrase to send after midnight—because now the notifications were stacking like falling leaves, and four out of five of them were demanding blood, tea, or both.

She glanced over at Spite, perched on her dresser, blinking at her with flat, feline judgment.

“They’re going to riot when I tell them,” she muttered.

Spite blinked again, slowly. The look he gave her said: You know you want to brag about it. Then he yawned, curled tighter, and closed his eyes—smug and unbothered.

Rook scowled at his betrayal. She didn’t need his commentary. But… the people wanted chaos. And she had it.

She took a breath.

In. Out.

And then she typed, while bracing for impact.

Rook: The professor asked me out… on a date.

Lace: 😯 Holy crap.

Neve: Looks he had it in him after all. Lucanis owes me $20.

Lace: Dammit I forgot about the betting pool.

Rook: Wait what??

Lace: …shit.

Rook: Where’s Bell? She’s being too quiet.

Neve: I’m 90% sure that she’s still screaming rn.

Lace: Omg Bellara is losing it right now lol.

Neve: Yeah I think you broke her Rook.

Bellara: 🎉😆 🎉😆 🎉 OMG OMG I’M SO HAPPY!!

Lace: Give us the walkthrough!!

Rook: Guys for the love of Andraste, calm down.

Neve: I’m assuming that your earlier distress call was of the wardrobe variety?

Rook: You would be correct.

Bellara: Omg is The Girl Trust assembling??

Lace: It better be!

Rook: Yes the Girl Trust can assemble at my place. He plans to pick me up at 5:30.

Neve: Plenty of time.

Bellara: I will be demanding EVERY SINGLE DETAIL!!

Lace: SAME!!

Bellara: I’m going to tell everyone everything!!

Rook: You are all heathens.

Rook finally set her phone down, face-first on the comforter like it might explode if she looked at it again. She sighed—deep and full, her chest still fluttering with disbelief, joy, and that syrupy warmth that had been blooming ever since Emmrich asked her out.

Maker, he was adorable.

Adorable and brilliant. Reserved and sincere. And he had asked her out. Her.

She rolled to her side, limbs tangled in the blanket, and let out a half-strangled squeal as she kicked at the mattress. It was ridiculous—juvenile, even—but it didn’t stop the rush of elation from escaping her in waves. For a moment, she really thought she was going to go insane with how long their little dance had gone on. The teasing. The fleeting moments of flirtation. The measured glances like they were too scared to shatter the spell.

But then he’d shown her the Fade. That quiet, vulnerable moment—something personal, something profound. That was when it happened. When she started to fall.

He was handsome, intelligent, and so deeply thoughtful it made her want to scream. And he wanted her.

The thought alone made her bury her face into the pillow, cheeks hot, smile wide. This was happening.

Just as she started to calm, her phone buzzed beside her with a sharp little ping. She groaned and stretched one arm out, blindly dragging it across the covers until her fingers curled around the phone again.

The screen lit up.

Neve: Hey. You still up?

Rook: What’s up?

Neve: Next time lead with the fact that you got home safe and aren’t dying.

Rook: Yeah… sorry about that.

Neve: You almost made me worried about you.

Rook: Awwww you do care about me.

Neve: I’m just glad you’re safe.

Rook: I promise to lead with ‘not dying’ when asking for help in a non-emergency.

Neve: Are you excited about your date?

Rook: …More than I want to admit.

Neve: Good. I’m happy for you. See you tomorrow.

Rook: Thank you ☺️

Rook lay sprawled across her bed, face half-buried in her pillow, limbs still buzzing from the group chat chaos and Neve’s quiet sign-off. The apartment had settled into its usual evening hush, lit only by the warm amber glow of her bedside lamp. Spite had curled into a loaf at the foot of the bed, breathing steady, tail occasionally flicking as if to remind her he was unimpressed with her current level of self-control.

She stared at her phone resting beside her. It hadn’t buzzed again—not that she was expecting it to. Emmrich wasn’t exactly the late-night-texter type.

Still, her fingers twitched.

Rolling onto her side, she propped herself up on one elbow and hovered over the screen, thumb poised like it might move on its own. She bit her lower lip, the weight of indecision already creeping in as her internal debate began.

Was it weird to check in?

Maybe. Probably.

But she wanted to know. Not just because it felt polite—but because she meant it. She wanted to make sure he got home safe. That the quiet, warm feeling she’d left with still lingered on his end too.

Fuck it.

“Just one message,” she muttered, already unlocking her phone. “Then bed.”

She typed. Paused. Deleted. Re-typed.

Then, with a breath held for no reason at all—she sent it.

Rook: Hey. Just wanted to check in that you made it home safe… sorry if I’m sending this too late.

Emmrich: Yes, I just made it home. Thank you for checking in.

Rook: Thanks again for helping me tonight… and for giving me a ride home.

Emmrich: Think nothing of it. I was happy to be of service.

Rook: Well I should let you sleep. Good night Emmrich.

Emmrich: And to you as well, Rook.

Rook: I look forward to our date tomorrow ☺️

Rook stared at the screen for exactly one second too long after sending the message. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to hurl the phone across the room. She let out a strangled noise and promptly face-planted into her pillow, phone still in hand.

Venehdis. Why did I add an emoji at the end?! What am I twelve?

She rolled onto her back and held the phone against her chest like it might leap out of her hands and text something even worse if she wasn’t careful. Her entire body felt wired, flushed, caught somewhere between elation and the kind of anxiety that made her want to throw her phone into the freezer and pretend it didn’t exist.

Spite stirred at the foot of the bed, his tail flicking once in clear irritation. She was obviously disrupting his sleep with her ongoing emotional crisis, and he made no effort to hide his displeasure.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I’m going to bed.”

The phone remained quiet. No response. No three little dots. Just the damning silence of a message that had definitely been seen and not yet answered. The freezer was starting to feel like a viable option.

Instead, she shoved it under her pillow, as if that might erase what she’d done—and restore some semblance of plausible deniability.

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

“I’m fine,” she whispered to no one. “This is fine. I’m a functioning adult who knows how to flirt in a dignified manner.”

Spite made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

Emmrich stood by his desk, quietly unfastening the grave-gold cuffs from his wrists when his phone buzzed again. The soft light of the screen caught his eye, and he glanced over without much thought—until he saw her message.

I’m looking forward to our date tomorrow.

He stilled, cuffs forgotten in his hands.

The message wasn’t elaborate. It didn’t need to be. It was sincere—unguarded in a way that sent a quiet thrum through his chest.

She called it a date.

The word lingered, anchoring itself somewhere deep beneath his ribs.

A slow smile began to form, subtle but undeniably genuine. He let it settle there for a moment, feeling the warmth of it spread as he leaned back against the edge of his desk. The room around him was quiet, but inside, something stirred—gentle, hopeful, and just slightly unreal.

He took a slow breath, then finally placed the phone onto the charger. As he reached to switch off the bedside lamp, he paused in the darkness, eyes adjusting to the soft shadows of the room.

“Maker,” he murmured under his breath, voice almost amused, “don’t let me ruin this.”

Although Emmrich felt eager—almost buoyant—about his upcoming date with Rook, a familiar thread of worry still tugged at him. It had been a bold move to ask her out, one he didn’t take lightly. Her acceptance, paired with her visible excitement, had reassured him that her interest—and those soft flirtations—had never been purely platonic, as he once feared. She had wanted this, too. And now, with the gauntlet cast, there was no turning back.

Not that he wanted to. Not really. Especially not after fearing, for so long, that her heart might belong to someone else. That sinking ache—that hollow disappointment—was one he knew too well. It had followed him through the wreckage of failed romances, each one leaving behind a different scar. Times when he’d worn his heart openly, only to be rejected, turned away, or quietly forgotten. The reasons had varied: too much, too soon, too intense, too affectionate… or simply not enough.

But Rook—gods, Rook—had been the most unexpected of reprieves.

She was a gentle warmth in the grayscale of his days. Her tea blends and confections weren’t just delicious—they were thoughtful, comforting, alive with creativity. She welcomed his curiosity, matched it with her own playful defiance, and offered him a space where he didn’t feel strange for his passions. She listened. She shared. And in doing so, she invited him into something rare: understanding without judgment.

He didn’t see her as perfect—far from it. But it was the cracks in her armor, the sharp edges softened by kindness, that made her real… and made him care for her all the more.

In just two months, she had already begun to unravel the loneliness he’d quietly accepted. And Emmrich wanted more. He wanted to know all of her—her joys, her pains, her hidden corners—and to be part of her world.

Maker, he wanted this. He wanted her.

And tomorrow, he would show her just how much. With all he had, he would prove himself worthy of the chance.

With that thought, he finally allowed himself to rest—still smiling as the dark carried him into sleep.

Chapter Text

Rook grinned over her shoulder, fingers curled around the edge of the wooden climb-wall as she paused just long enough to taunt Davrin. Sunlight gleamed against the tight braid down her back, her grey tank already damp with sweat. Her sage-green combat pants were scuffed at the knees, boots laced snug. Every inch of her posture radiated focus—and challenge.

“C’mon, Warden,” she shouted, breath sharp with momentum. “I thought you could conquer this course in your sleep!”

Davrin’s response was a sharp laugh as he swung up beside her, all charm and reckless bravado. “I’m offended you even asked. I’ve carried you through worse.”

Rook shot him a flat look, breath still catching from the sprint. “Only when you cheated.”

He clutched his chest in mock agony. “You wound me.”

“You tripped me last time.”

“That was strategy,” he said, utterly unapologetic, his grin all teeth and trouble.

She narrowed her eyes. “It was petty.”

“And effective,” he quipped, nudging her shoulder with his own. “Don’t hate the player.”

“Oh I’m gonna making you eat dirt.”

A shrill squawk cut through the air as Assan, the griffon, soared overhead, banking low in a lazy spiral.

On the sidelines, Taash stood near the weight rack, one arm stretched high overhead. Their dark sleeveless crop top clung to their frame, a towel tucked into the waistband of loose combat pants. Their braid was looped and tied high—sleek, efficient, and unimpressed.

“Less talking, more running,” Taash called, voice dry. “If you two face-plant again trying to one-up each other, I’m not scraping your asses off the dirt.”

Rook launched forward, boots slamming into the wooden beam below with practiced ease. She vaulted over the next hurdle, ducked low beneath a hanging bar, then rebounded off a slanted wall with a fluid grace that came from pure muscle memory. Her breath pulsed in steady rhythm, each movement an echo of old instincts honed in another life.

Behind her, Davrin was catching up fast—his longer strides and aerial bursts closing the gap as he leapt from beam to platform with the reckless joy of someone who never learned the meaning of “hold back.”

Above them, Assan gave another shriek, wings tucking in as he began to circle lower. The griffon’s silhouette flickered in and out of the sun-glare, a blur of silver feathers and sharp intent. He was unpredictable, chaotic—a wild card neither of them could fully plan for.

Rook grinned. Perfect.

She twisted mid-sprint, caught a swing rope, and launched herself to the next ledge just as Assan dove with a whump of displaced air. The wind of his dive nearly knocked her off balance, but she adjusted, hit the landing in a low crouch, and rolled to absorb the impact.

This. She lived for this.

The adrenaline. The awareness. The sharpened clarity where every breath and heartbeat lined up in perfect synchronicity. It was the closest she came to what she used to feel as a Shadow Dragon—minus the blood, minus the ghosts.

And this time, it was hers. Clean. Controlled. Chosen.

Davrin landed beside her with a grunt and a smirk, shaking out his limbs. “You’re not going to let me win this one, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

They bolted together, shoulder to shoulder as they tore through the final stretch of the course—leaping over logs, ducking under low beams, swinging from hanging ropes like acrobats in sync. Assan shrieked again and barrel-rolled above them, dipping just close enough to stir the air and their blood.

Ahead, the flag waited. Staked into the dirt. One final stretch.

They both saw it. Both pushed harder.

Rook’s braid whipped behind her as her boots pounded the ground. Davrin’s laugh echoed beside her, feral and gleeful.

The finish line loomed.

And with one last surge of energy, they both lunged for the flag.

And then—just as they both lunged—

A flash of dark brown wings and feathers blurred past in a gust of wind.

The griffin dove with razor precision, claws outstretched—not to strike, but to snatch the flag from the dirt with triumphant ease. He soared upward with a victorious screech, flapping lazily as he circled above them, the flag dangling mockingly from his beak.

Rook skidded to a halt, panting and wide-eyed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Davrin doubled over with laughter, hands on his knees. “That’s my boy!”

Rook groaned and flopped back into the grass, arms sprawled. “I hate your bird.”

Overhead, Assan let out a smug squawk and tucked the flag beneath one talon, like a griffon-sized middle finger.

Taash barked a low, rumbling laugh from the sidelines, arms crossed as they leaned against the weight rack, watching the two elves lick their wounded pride. “That griffon’s got more attitude than the both of you combined.”

Davrin straightened, still grinning like a madman. “Someone’s been watching too many finish-line stunts.” He pulled a small satchel from where he’d stashed it earlier and dug out a dried meat strip—the good kind, the kind Assan would sell his soul for. “Bribery time.”

Above them, Assan swooped lower in slow, lazy circles, flaunting the flag like it was a royal banner.

Rook sat up, brushing grass from her arms, only to find herself face-to-beak with the smug bastard himself. Assan landed with a heavy thump beside her, dropped the flag delicately at her feet… and then promptly nudged his feathered head against her side with a low, satisfied chuff.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, half-scowling as she rubbed his neck.

Assan headbutted her thigh affectionately, then turned toward his elven keeper with an expectant air, ready to claim his spoils.

“You spoil him,” Rook called over, shaking her head but still grinning.

Davrin tossed the treat high. Assan caught it mid-air with a dramatic flap of wings and settled into a chew, radiating smug satisfaction.

“You try saying no to those eyes,” Davrin said. “I dare you.”

Rook groaned and flopped back again, eyes on the sky. “I’ve got a furry menace at home, and you’ve got a feathered one.”

Taash grinned wider. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

With the flag officially surrendered and Assan’s victory smugly declared, the group shifted into the next phase of their workout. Taash, ever the powerhouse, made a beeline for the weight rack with focused determination. Their muscles flexed beneath their sleeveless crop top as they prepped for deadlifts, their dark braid looped and tucked out of the way. Davrin stepped in to spot, still grinning from Assan’s antics but all business now—at least, mostly.

Rook, still flushed from the run, took a moment to cool down. She sat cross-legged in the grass with Assan curled beside her, his feathered flank rising and falling with steady breath. She rubbed the space just behind his jaw, listening to the gentle rumble of his contentment.

Eventually, she rose, rolling her shoulders with a satisfying crack before making her way to the punching bag hanging at the edge of the yard. She wrapped her hands, took her stance, and let the first few hits land light—more rhythm than power. But as her breath evened out, the strikes grew sharper, more deliberate. Focused.

She didn’t hear Davrin approach until he was leaning against the nearby support beam, arms crossed, brow arched with mischief.

“So,” he drawled, “what’s this I hear about a date?”

Taash, between sets, didn’t even look up. “You waited longer than I thought.”

Davrin shrugged. “I was giving her space. Letting her enjoy the afterglow of the Warden-griffon defeat.”

Rook didn’t stop punching. Her voice was clipped, but amused. “You can’t claim victory through griffon proxy.”

“Says you. His wins are my wins.”

Assan chirped in agreement, tail flicking smugly. Rook rolled her eyes—clearly outnumbered.

“She’s deflecting,” Taash said, smirking as they set the weights down with a heavy clink. “Now spill.”

Davrin stepped forward, snagging a towel from a nearby bench and tossing it toward her. “Exactly. We want to hear all about your date with the professor.”

Rook caught the towel mid-air and wiped her brow, trying not to grin. “Finally retiring the nickname?”

“The chat bullied him into retirement,” Taash said dryly. “Figured the professor deserved some dignity.”

Davrin gasped, clutching his chest in mock anguish. “They don’t appreciate my whimsy.”

Rook rolled her eyes and gave the punching bag one final, idle push before turning to face them. “Anyway—yes. I’m going on a date with him. All I know is that it’s dinner.”

Taash let out a low whistle. “Think it’s going to be fancy? The guy looked loaded in those pics Lace showed me.”

Davrin looked almost proud. “Our little Shadow Dragon is flying toward new heights. Think the professor’s gonna get lucky?”

“Don’t start,” Rook warned, though the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

The community garden wasn’t far from Rook’s apartment, tucked into a sunny wedge of land flanked by old brick buildings and wrought-iron fences blooming with ivy. The morning had been kind—blue sky softened with gauzy clouds, the chill of early fall fading under the warmth of the sun. Rook knelt at the edge of her garden plot, sleeves pushed to her elbows, a soft breeze tugging playfully at the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid.

Her plot wasn’t large, but it was her haven. A tidy square of ordered chaos—winterroot in one corner, nettle and thyme in another, embrium flourishing in the middle like a copper-flecked crown. A shaded box off to the side cradled her deep mushrooms, while a low trellis stretched above the more delicate fade-sensitive plants: ghost violets and felandaris, nestled under subtle wards she’d set by hand. Even now, their ethereal petals pulsed faintly with their quiet magic.

Rook knelt at the edge of her garden plot, gloved fingers working carefully through the dark, cool soil. The crisp bite of autumn clung to the morning air, though the sun had begun to soften it with its slow climb. Around her, the community garden stirred with quiet life—watering cans clinking, shoes scuffing gravel paths, the low murmur of neighbors chatting between rows of late harvest.

She pulled a few stubborn weeds from the base of her spindleweed, checking the leaves for signs of early frostbite. Satisfied, she shifted to the licorice root bed and began loosening the soil, the earthy scent rising to greet her like an old friend.

A few nearby garden-goers waved, some casting appreciative glances toward Rook’s thriving harvest. She returned the waves with small nods but kept her focus grounded—hands in the soil, heart steady.

There was something about tending this place that helped her think. Not the overthinking kind she was famous for—just... space. Focus. Clarity. She needed that now, especially with the evening ahead.

She was brushing the soil from her gloves when the creak of the garden gate drew Rook’s attention, and her expression brightened the moment she spotted the man stepping into view.

Boro.

A familiar and comforting presence in the community garden, Boro was a broad-shouldered human with a kind face and a quiet warmth that radiated from every calm, thoughtful step he took. His violet apron, perpetually dusted with soil and stray petals, hung comfortably over a pale shirt rolled at the sleeves. Gardening shears peeked from one pocket, dried blooms from another, and his ever-present wooden spoon was tucked neatly into the loop at his chest like a badge of office.

Though he towered over most, Boro’s energy was anything but imposing. He carried himself with the ease of someone who moved at the pace of growing things—deliberate, steady, and deeply rooted. A lifelong tea enthusiast and the elusive owner of a tea shop that most only seemed to find when they needed it most, Boro was a man of layered wisdom and quiet ritual.

He served as the unofficial caretaker of the community garden, tending to neglected plots with gentle persistence and always checking in on those still lovingly maintained. Rook had met him when she first claimed her own space here, back when the soil felt more like a question than an invitation. From the very beginning, Boro had taken her under his wing—offering patient guidance on soil balance, seasonal planting, and composting without a hint of condescension. Just quiet encouragement and shared wisdom.

Over time, their conversations bloomed alongside the herbs—expanding into tea-making techniques, the quirks of local weather patterns, the best times to harvest. Eventually, they’d wandered into deeper things. Grief. Healing. Resilience. And through it all, Boro had remained the same—gentle, present, and always ready with a warm drink or a spare trowel.

“Hello, Miss Rook,” came his familiar voice, deep and kind. “It’s good to see you.”

“Boro,” she smiled. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“It fills me with such joy,” he said with a glance toward her plot, “to see how diligently you’ve tended your garden.”

“I can’t take all the credit,” she replied, wiping her hands on a cloth. “You helped get me started.”

“It looks like you’ll be able to start harvesting soon,” he said, crouching to examine the sturdy stems and budding herbs.

“Yeah,” Rook nodded. “I should be able to start restocking the shelves at the shop.”

Boro helped her prune a few stubborn stalks, their conversation as easy and unhurried as the breeze shifting through the nearby rosemary. Once the baskets were half-filled, the two of them settled on a sun-warmed bench beneath a trellis of climbing beans.

“So, Miss Rook,” Boro said gently, folding his hands in his lap, “how are you? It’s been a little while since our paths last crossed.”

“I’ve been good,” she said, brushing a bit of soil from her knee. “The tea shop’s doing well, Spite’s still a spoiled menace… and I, uh, have a date tonight.”

Boro’s face lit up. “A date? Oh, how splendid. May I ask who the lucky person is?”

“He’s a guest lecturer at Minrathous University,” she said, trying to sound casual and not hopelessly flustered. “Started as a regular at the shop. We… just kind of clicked. He’s a bit older, but the age difference doesn’t bother me.”

Boro nodded slowly, a pleased hum in his throat. “It sounds like you care for him.”

“I do,” Rook admitted. “I mean, it’s only been a couple of months, but there’s this warmth to him that’s nice. Our conversations are never dull, and… I like his eyes. They’re kind.”

Boro smiled, as if he already knew.

“But enough about me,” she said, nudging him gently with her shoulder. “How are you doing? How’s Alta?”

“I’ve been well,” he replied. “And as for Miss Alta, she’s thriving. I received a letter from her not long ago.”

“Did she get back into fighting?” Rook asked, genuinely curious.

“She says she’s easing into it. No tournaments yet. But she’s been spending time with a fellow fighter named, Ren.”

Rook grinned. “Good for her.”

“Indeed,” Boro said fondly. “I’m very proud of her growth. Just as I’m proud of yours.”

Rook went quiet for a moment, her fingers brushing over a bit of loose soil on her thigh. “Yeah… we had a bit of a rough go, didn’t we?”

“There is no shame in having once been lost,” Boro said gently. “Everyone finds themselves in the shadows now and then. What matters is where you choose to grow from it.”

She nodded, eyes softening. “Thanks, Boro.”

“Always,” he replied, voice warm as sunlight through leaves.

By the time Rook made it back to her apartment, she felt the satisfying ache of a morning well spent. The post-workout high lingered just beneath her skin, dulled now by the steam of a long, hot shower. She stepped into her bedroom wrapped in a towel, hair still damp and curling at the ends, her limbs loose and clean and finally, blessedly still.

The apartment was quiet. Spite was curled in his usual spot by the reading nook, nestled against the windowsill, grooming a paw with languid indifference. The plum-hued cushion beneath him—sun-warmed and permanently furred—bore the well-worn indent of his reign. The calm wouldn’t last—Rook knew that. In a little while, the Girl Trust would descend in a flurry of clothes, critiques, and barely restrained chaos. But for now, she had a moment to breathe.

Rook sat on the edge of her bed, towel tucked securely, and exhaled slowly.

The excitement had settled into a strange, fluttering uncertainty. Because while she knew this was a date, she didn’t know what kind. Was it fancy? Casual? Was she going to need heels? Flats? A dress?

She rubbed at her temple. “Shit… I forgot to ask if there was a dress code.”

She glanced toward her closet, where possibilities waited like a judgmental jury. Normally, she had a pretty solid read on vibes—but Emmrich was a gentleman, not a mind reader. And he had said he’d pick her up…

With a resigned sigh, she reached for her phone. She could guess. Or—

She could ask.

After pulling on her favorite sweats, Rook settled onto the window bench of her reading nook, the afternoon light spilling across the pages of her untouched journal. Instead of writing, she pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over the contact—Emmrich Volkarin—and she stared at the name for a beat too long before finally tapping Call.

As it rang, she muttered to herself, “Okay. Don’t be weird. Just be casual.”

The phone clicked as the other end picked up. Rook straightened instinctively, heart leaping into her throat.

“Rook,” Emmrich’s voice came through warm, curious. “Good afternoon.”

She smiled, already feeling slightly ridiculous—and a bit relieved. “Hey.”

“To what do I owe this lovely call?”

“It’s nothing serious,” she said. “I just had a quick question about dinner tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… I realized I never asked if there’s a dress code or anything.”

There was a pause, then the softest, thoughtful hum from Emmrich. “Ah. A very fair question.”

Rook flopped back onto her couch, phone pressed against her ear as she braced for the answer. “Just trying to avoid showing up wildly overdressed… or embarrassingly underdressed.”

A quiet laugh echoed through the line—low and warm. “I can see how that would be quite the quandary. Allow me to assure you that where we will be going is welcoming of casual wear… although I would advise avoiding loungewear.”

“So casual enough to wear what I usually do but nice enough to avoid sweatpants.”

“Precisely,” he replied, tone smooth with affection. “I believe that would be perfectly suitable for this establishment.”

She tilted her head, letting her tone turn teasing. “Any chance I could get a hint of where we’re going?”

“That,” he said, with unmistakable pleasure, “I’m afraid shall remain a mystery. But I will say… I think you’ll adore it.”

Rook exhaled, tension easing as her smile curved genuine. “Then I’ll await your reveal. See you at 5:30.”

“I’m looking forward to it. And Rook?”

“Mm?”

“You’ll look wonderful. No matter what you wear.”

Her breath caught—just slightly—and she nearly melted into the pillows. “Careful, Professor. You’re going to make me swoon before the date even starts.”

“One can hope,” he said, and she could hear the quiet smile in his voice.

The midday sun poured softly through the gauzy curtains of Rook’s apartment, warming the hardwood floor and casting golden light across the chaos that had become her bedroom.

Every potential outfit she owned was laid out across the bed in a patchwork of textures and tones—draped jackets, blouses of every neutral shade, fitted trousers, skirts she hadn’t worn in years but couldn’t bring herself to get rid of. Neve stood by the open closet, thumbing through hangers with practiced precision and a faint frown of concentration.

“I’m aiming for casual,” Rook said, pacing near the bed with a cardigan balled in one hand. “But also like I put in effort. Not too much effort. Like, ‘oh this old thing’—but, you know, on purpose.”

Neve glanced at her over one shoulder, deadpan. “So… charmingly effortless with just enough chaos to look intentional.”

“Exactly. But is that even possible with my wardrobe?”

“You’ve got good bones to work with,” Neve said, flipping through a hanger. “Trust me—this is going to be a glow-up.”

Meanwhile, in the living room, the Girl Trust had fully assembled.

Bellara knelt on the couch, knees sunk into the cushions and fingers curled over the backrest as she peered toward the bedroom door like a meerkat on high alert. Her gaze was locked with theatrical intensity, as if awaiting a grand wardrobe reveal. Lace lounged on the armrest nearby, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and their second iced tea already halfway gone. On the rug, Taash sat cross-legged with a lunch container open in front of them, calmly feeding scraps of meat to Spite—who had declared himself god of the gathering and accepted each offering with regal indifference.

“This is so exciting!” Bellara whispered, bouncing slightly. “Do you think it’s going to be romantic?”

Lace, still mid-chew, shrugged. “Considering how he asked her? It was spontaneous, yeah—but I doubt he’d cut corners.”

“That’s what makes it so good!” Bellara practically squealed.

Taash popped a grape into their mouth. “Do you think he does weird corpse stuff in bed?”

“Taash, no,” Lace warned flatly, giving them a look. “That’s inappropriate.”

Taash raised a brow, unbothered. “Why? Rook told me about that one Venatori who used to fuck while bathing in blood.”

Rook’s voice came sharp from the bedroom. “Venatori are psychotic megalomaniac blood mages. That doesn’t mean necromancers defile corpses!”

Lace muttered under her breath, “I mean... the undead thrall thing exists.”

Neve, ever composed, chimed in, “Nevarran necromancers are very respectful of their dead. Now, if we’re talking about kinks, they can be just as freaky as Rivain, Antiva, and Orlais.”

There was a beat of silence.

Rook let out a loud, exasperated groan, her face flushed. “Nope. Not doing this. New topic, please.”

The living room had transformed into a soft sprawl of bodies, laughter, and half-eaten snacks. The late afternoon sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, bathing the room in a warm golden haze. The coffee table had become ground zero for chaos: open lunch containers, napkins, makeup palettes, and a scattered lineup of lip tints and highlighters.

Rook sat on the floor, legs tucked beneath her as she poked half-heartedly at a container of french fries. Her earlier anxiety had softened into a manageable hum beneath her skin, soothed by the steady rhythm of her friends’ voices. Her final outfit was draped over her bed—clean lines, soft fabric, easy confidence in clothing form. Getting there had been a journey, but the mission was halfway complete.

Neve perched on the armrest above her, sleek and precise, scrolling through her phone with one hand and sipping sparkling water with the other. Her foot tapped lightly in time with the instrumental music playing low in the background. Bellara had vanished into the kitchen, drawers opening and closing in bursts as she searched for “something fizzy, something fruity, or something that makes me feel sparkly inside.”

“Stop feeding him,” Neve said without looking up.

Taash, sitting cross-legged beside Rook, held up a half-bitten slice of sandwich in slow-motion guilt. Spite stared at it with the intensity of a dying star. The second the food was retracted, he let out a loud, wounded meow and flopped dramatically onto his side, tail twitching in betrayal.

“You’re cut off,” Rook said, nudging him gently. “You had three pieces of grilled chicken and a piece of Bellara’s cookie. You’re not starving.”

“He’s emotionally starving,” Taash said, deadpan. “Different metric.”

Neve didn’t look up from her phone. “If you feed him any more, he’s going to puke.”

Taash sighed, reluctantly setting the scrap down. “Fine. But only because I’m not cleaning it up.”

Lace reclined on the couch, a bottle of juice balanced on one knee. She watched the banter play out with mild amusement before finally setting the bottle aside and shifting upright.

“So,” Lace said, voice just loud enough to shift the room’s energy, “real talk?”

Rook blinked up from her container of fries, brows rising. “Uh-oh.”

Lace’s expression wasn’t teasing—just calm and measured. “You like him. That’s obvious. And we’re all excited for your date. But I have to ask—are you sure about this? Like… for the right reasons?”

Rook sat up a little straighter, caught off guard by the sincerity in their tone.

Lace hesitated, then set their drink down with a soft clink. “I’m not trying to kill the mood. I’m just… genuinely asking. I mean, he’s… older. And—”

Rook arched a brow, her voice steady and patient. “You’re wondering if this is a May/December situation?”

“I’m not saying he’s trying to reclaim lost youth, I just—”

Taash cut in before she could finish her stumbling sentence. “Lace wants to know if the feelings are real or if this is just some mid-life crisis thing.”

Across the room, Neve sipped her water quietly, watchful but giving space.

Rook exhaled and rested back on her heels. “I appreciate you asking. Really. And you’re not wrong—it’s good to check in.”

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze steady now. “Emmrich is sweet, and yes—he’s handsome and very well-spoken. But it’s not just about that. I like how safe he makes me feel. Like I could tell him anything, and he’d listen. Not just hear me—really listen.”

Lace gave a small, satisfied nod. “That’s all I needed.”

At that moment, Bellara reappeared from the kitchen, cradling a chilled bottle of something citrusy and vaguely magical. “That was beautiful,” she declared, wiping an imaginary tear from her cheek. “Now—on to more important matters. I demand a kiss on this date.”

Neve smirked over the rim of her glass. “Kissing should be the easy part. I’m more worried about Rook jumping his bones.”

Taash snorted, nearly choking on a grape.

Rook groaned and pulled a pillow into her lap, trying to hide her blushing face. “You are all incorrigible.”

After laughter, a makeshift fashion show, and a spirited exchange of theories about the night’s outcome, the girls finally left—leaving Rook alone with her nerves, standing before the bathroom mirror, fingertips resting lightly on the sink as she took herself in.

She fussed with her hair for a moment, running her fingers through the chestnut waves that was no longer tied in a loose twist. It had already been brushed twice—but that didn’t stop her from reaching for the hairbrush a third time, smoothing it again just to be sure.

Most of the credit belonged to Neve, who had helped pull the outfit together with her usual sharp eye, and to Bellara, who had insisted—gently, and with much arm-waving—on just the right touch of makeup. The others had mostly served as moral support... and kept Spite distracted long enough to prevent chaos.

Her forest green sweater hugged her frame with the easy elegance of well-worn knit—cozy, flattering, just dramatic enough. The charcoal skirt sat high at her waist, tailored to perfection, falling just to the knees with elegant pleats that moved when she did. The hidden pockets were a quiet triumph. Black thermal tights and low-heeled lace-up boots grounded the look—comfortable, confident, but not trying too hard.

She smoothed a hand down the side of her skirt, then reached up to adjust a stray curl. Her hair, for once, was down—soft waves tumbling past her shoulders in their natural chestnut brown, still slightly damp from the diffuser and smelling faintly of rosewater and pine.

Her makeup was simple: a clean, fine line of eyeliner that hugged her lashes and just enough wild berry lip stain to deepen the natural hue of her mouth. Subtle. Intentional. Her signature grave-gold ear cuff gleamed faintly in the warm light. On her shoulder, her dark chocolate leather crossbody bag—embellished with delicate botanical embroidery and fastened with a golden clasp—added just enough texture to the ensemble to make it hers.

She exhaled, slow and measured.

Rook had already sent Emmrich a message with her address, which meant he’d be at her door any minute now. As if to distract herself from the nerves steadily building in her chest, she busied herself by rummaging through the contents of her purse—checking for things she’d already checked twice: keys, lip stain, tea journal—all there. Everything was in place. Still, her fingers hovered like she might have forgotten something important.

Her fingers paused on the edge of her compact mirror before she closed it with a soft snap. Maker, she was jittery. Not in a bad way—just... wound tight. Like if she didn’t keep moving, she might combust from anticipation alone.

A soft thump drew her attention as Spite leapt gracefully onto the bathroom counter, landing beside her with the practiced elegance of a creature who believed everything belonged to him. He gave her a slow, measured blink, his golden eyes narrowing like he was already reading her pulse. Then, with deliberate gravity, he pressed his head against her arm.

The cat responded with a low, steady purr and a firm flick of his tail—comforting, but decisive. You’re fine, the gesture seemed to say.

She smiled faintly at her emotional support menace and gathered him into her arms, carrying him out of the bathroom and into the living room. He allowed it, with the patient dignity of a creature who knew his role in moments like these.

Settling into the window seat of her reading nook, Rook stared out toward the horizon where the sun was beginning its slow descent behind the rooftops. Her fingers drifted through Spite’s fur in soft, absentminded strokes.

“It’s just a date,” she murmured, though the words didn’t quite land with conviction. “I’ve been on dates before.”

Spite didn’t dignify that with a response. He gave her one more reassuring nudge before hopping down and curling into the couch cushions, tail flicking once as he settled into a loaf.

Rook stayed by the window, gaze scanning the quiet street below—waiting, watching, and wondering how the night would unfold.

Chapter Text

Emmrich stood at her door, bouquet in hand, the weight of anticipation pressing like a thumbprint against his ribs. He wore a deep wine-colored button-down, finely tailored with a subtle high collar that framed his throat, layered beneath a charcoal waistcoat and black slacks pressed to perfection. His long midnight blue coat, brushed free of lint and stray magic, caught the last gold threads of the setting sun.

His fingers flexed around the bouquet—an artful arrangement of purple lilacs, white camellias, nigella, and sweet alyssum—delicate, expressive, and chosen with great care. He used his horticulture knowledge to silently tell Rook how much space she has taken in his heart and his hopes for tonight.

He inhaled once, grounding himself in the familiar scent of polished leather, spiced myrrh, and faint grave lilies from his cologne. Then, with more composure than he felt, Emmrich knocked.

When the door opened, the world narrowed.

Rook stood before him, her chestnut hair loose and softly wavy, catching the warm interior light like flame through leaf-shadow. Her forest green sweater hugged her figure with understated elegance, the puffed sleeves balancing strength with grace. The high-waisted charcoal skirt and lace-up boots grounded her in something both fierce and timeless. The subtle sweep of eyeliner and berry-stained lips didn’t mask anything—they framed it.

Then there was her smile—the way it touched her eyes, unguarded and just a little surprised—that nearly undid him.

Maker’s breath, she was beautiful.

“Right on time,” she said with a smile that tilted into amusement.

Emmrich returned it, the edges of his mouth curling like the pages of a well-loved book. “I tend to pride myself in punctuality,” he said softly. Then, with a modest bow of his head, he extended the bouquet. “Though I fear I may be somewhat old-fashioned. I wasn’t sure if bringing flowers was still… a thing?”

Rook blinked, surprised, and took the bouquet with unexpected care—like something delicate and undeserved. She brushed her thumb over a lilac cluster, her expression shifting from pleased to genuinely touched.

“I’ve… never actually received flowers before,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “They’re beautiful.”

He inclined his head, something warm settling beneath his ribs. The way she admired the bouquet reassured him—it had been the right choice. Rook deserved flowers. She had given him so much already: her comforting blends, her thoughtful confections, meals that lingered in memory. This was something small he could offer in return.

A beat passed as she stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. “Please come inside, let me see if I have a vase… or something vase-adjacent.”

He crossed the threshold, his boots silent against the wooden floor. The moment he crossed the threshold, a trio of scents welcomed him—steeped tea leaves, lavender-sweet air, and the grounding trace of clove. It was unmistakably her.

He lingered near the door as she crossed to the kitchen, his gaze drifting across the space—not with judgment, but with quiet appreciation. Her apartment was a lived-in sanctuary. Books lined mismatched shelves along the walls, crystals nestled between them glowing with a faint, steady hum. A plum-colored cat bed rested beneath the reading nook window, still faintly warm from recent use. The rustic-toned couch in the living area bore an olive throw blanket, casually draped, and the weathered coffee table was dotted with wooden coasters—several, as if she'd had company earlier.

It was not a space designed to impress. It was a space designed to breathe.

And now, as she rummaged through her cabinets for a vessel to house the gift he brought, Emmrich found himself smiling—not just at her, but at the evening before them.

“Aha! Here we go.” Rook emerged with a large glass water pitcher held triumphantly in both hands. “This’ll do the trick until I get a worthy vessel.”

Emmrich let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head. “A resourceful choice.”

She filled the pitcher with water and, as she adjusted the stems inside, glanced over to find him watching her from the entryway. Their eyes met, and the warmth in his expression deepened.

“Your apartment is lovely, Rook,” he said gently, sincerity threading through every word.

Rook glanced over her shoulder as she adjusted the pitcher of flowers on the counter. “Thanks. I try to keep it cozy.”

Emmrich took a step further in, eyes drifting toward the nearest bookshelf. “Would you mind if I looked through your library?”

She smiled, already arranging the bouquet with practiced care. “Be my guest. Just be kind in your judgement.”

He chuckled softly, already drifting toward the shelves that lined one wall like an ever-growing forest. His fingertips hovered just above the spines, eyes scanning the titles. There was a healthy collection of mysteries, some clearly well-worn and reread, nestled beside an array of romance novels whose dog-eared corners and cracked spines suggested equal devotion. But interspersed between the fiction were more practical volumes—books on tea-making, herbology, horticulture, and botanical alchemy. A few handwritten journals sat tucked on one shelf, their spines plain but clearly loved.

The collection was eclectic and intentional. Not curated for anyone’s eyes but her own. Personal, layered. Much like her.

Emmrich smiled to himself, one finger gently tapping the edge of a worn herbalism tome. “A balanced library,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. “Equal parts mystery, romance, and cultivation.”

From the kitchen, Rook called back with dry amusement, “High praise from the man with towering bookcases.”

He let out a soft chuckle, fingers still brushing along the spines of her books. “Ah, but mine are organized by subject, then author, then date of publication. Yours have a more personal touch.”

Rook returned to the living room with her dark chocolate leather crossbody bag slung over her shoulder and her dark purple duster in hand. She slid into her coat, fingers adjusting the lapels with practiced ease.

Emmrich straightened from her bookshelf, his expression soft. “Shall we?”

She met his gaze with a small, confident smile. “We shall.”

He offered his arm, which she took without hesitation, and led her to the door with the quiet grace that seemed woven into every movement he made. At the curb, Emmrich moved ahead to open the car door for her—precisely, politely, like it wasn’t even a question. Rook raised a brow, amused but undeniably charmed.

“Chivalry at its finest,” she murmured as she slid into the passenger seat.

“One can hope,” he replied smoothly, closing the door with care before making his way around to the driver’s side.

As the engine purred to life and they pulled away from her building, the sun slipping low against the rooftops, Rook tilted her head his way.

“So,” she said lightly, “will the charming enigmatic necromancer now reveal our dinner destination?”

He gave a hum of amusement, eyes on the road but clearly savoring the moment. “All will be revealed in due time, my dear.”

The streets grew quieter as they approached the botanical district, where the hustle of Minrathous gave way to tree-lined cobblestone paths and softly glowing lanterns. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, leaving only the amber wash of dusk lingering along the rooftops.

Emmrich turned onto a narrow side road flanked by ivy-covered walls, the creeping green veined with tiny white blossoms that glowed faintly in the twilight. Rook glanced out the window, curious. They slowed before a wrought-iron gate barely marked by a hanging sign carved with the shape of a lantern cradled in blooming vines.

The Ivy Lantern.

He parked just outside the gate and turned off the engine. “We’re here.”

Rook stepped out of the car, smoothing her skirt as she took in the space. The gate led to a courtyard garden strung with hanging lights and framed by low stone walls thick with foliage. Behind it, nestled like a secret, sat the bistro—a modest building of dark wood and soft windows, lit from within by the golden hush of candlelight.

Her lips parted in quiet surprise.

Emmrich came to her side, offering his arm again. “I thought you might appreciate somewhere a little quieter,” he said. “When I saw the pictures of the restaurant, I thought that you would enjoy this type of scenery.”

“You were right,” Rook murmured, accepting his arm with a gentle smile. “This place is beautiful.”

They stepped through the garden gate together. The scent of rosemary and night jasmine rose up to greet them, mingling with the faintest trace of hearth smoke and something sweetly spiced wafting from the kitchen. Tiny enchantment-lanterns hovered just above the flowerbeds, flickering like fireflies in slow orbit.

A hostess greeted them at the entrance, recognizing Emmrich by name. “Your table is ready, Professor.”

The two were led through a narrow corridor framed by hanging lanterns and low blooms of trailing ivy until they reached a small table tucked beside a window aglow with the last threads of golden light. The space felt hushed, intimate—like a secret garden dressed in candlelight.

Rook reached for the buttons of her coat, but Emmrich stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against hers.

“Allow me,” he said, his voice low but warm.

She hesitated only a second before letting her arms slip free of the sleeves, his fingers grazing the edge of her shoulder as he helped her out of the garment. It was the briefest touch—light, careful, but enough to send a flicker of heat beneath her collar.

Emmrich draped the dark purple coat neatly over the back of her chair before pulling it out for her, a quiet elegance in every motion.

“Thank you,” she said as she sat, smoothing her skirt.

He took his own seat across from her, removing his midnight coat and folding it over the back of his chair with equal care. Then he glanced at her fully, candlelight catching in the soft waves of her hair and the faint sheen of her lip stain.

“You look beautiful, Rook,” he said sincerely, no embellishment—just quiet truth.

She met his gaze, surprised for a moment by the simplicity of it. Then her lips curved into a slow, genuine smile. “You clean up well yourself.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, his smile deepening. “One does what one can.”

Rook glanced around, eyes wide and gleaming. “For a spontaneous date, I have to say—I’m thoroughly dazzled.”

“I’d hoped the evening might impress,” Emmrich said, unfolding his napkin with graceful precision. “Their tea selection is modest, but they have a Wild Garden Paella that I’m particularly fond of.”

“And the ambiance?” she asked, arching a teasing brow.

“I was hoping to invoke a certain mood for this evening,” he said, his voice light but purposeful.

Rook laughed softly, her earlier nerves finally beginning to settle into something sweeter. She reached for the menu, but not before giving him a look that was equal parts amused and touched.

“I have to admit,” she murmured as her eyes scanned the offerings, “this might already be the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Emmrich’s smile deepened, quiet and sincere. “That was the intention.”

Their orders were taken with the smooth efficiency of practiced service. Rook, after a bit of deliberation, settled on the seafood paella—drawn in by the mix of saffron, prawns, scallops, mussels, and roasted citrus. Emmrich, with less hesitation, requested the wild mushroom risotto, his tone mild but decisive. When the waiter offered drink options, Rook’s eyes caught on the seasonal iced tea.

“Mint plum,” she murmured, then glanced up. “That sounds interesting. I’ll try it.”

Emmrich tilted his head, then turned to the waiter. “And may I see the wine list?”

Rook raised a brow. “Wine? We’re being fancy now?”

“I’m trying,” he said, lips curving slightly. “Unless you object?”

“Oh, no, by all means,” she replied, folding her menu. “Wine is outside of my knowledge. Whiskey however, you would be in luck. You pick.”

He chuckled, scanning the small curated list. “Ah—elderflower white. Crisp, floral. Not too forward.”

“Sold,” Rook said with mock ceremony.

Once the waiter collected their menus and retreated, a more comfortable hush settled between them—quiet but not awkward, like the first breath after casting a spell.

“So,” Rook said, leaning forward with her elbows resting lightly on the table. “What do people normally ask on first dates again? I’ll admit—I’m a little out of practice.”

Emmrich’s smile was wry, touched with amusement. “As am I. But we can start simple. There is something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Her brows lifted, intrigued. “Oh?”

“Your name—Rook. That’s a nickname, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “You’d be right.”

“May I ask how it came about?”

Rook gave a small laugh. “You’re not the first to ask. Everyone always wants to know—am I named after the bird or the chess piece?”

“Both are respectable origins,” he said lightly, eyes glinting.

She tilted her head, a playful curve tugging at her lips. “And what’s your theory, Professor?”

Emmrich considered her for a long moment, gaze flicking over her with that quiet, analytical calm she’d come to recognize—never invasive, only observant. He folded his hands loosely on the table, the candlelight glinting faintly off the gold rings at his fingers.

“The chess piece,” he said at last.

Rook’s brows rose, amused. “Confident. Care to elaborate on your findings?”

“There’s a certain strategy to you,” he replied. “A deliberate rhythm to the way you move through a space—always purposeful, always unexpected. Like the rook—direct, but never predictable.”

She huffed a soft laugh. “You have a very charming way of putting things.”

“Years at the lectern have to count for something.”

Rook smiled —slow and warm and undeniably charmed. “You’re right. That’s exactly where it came from.”

She leaned back, the fondness in her voice unmistakable. “It was my dad, actually. Chess was kind of our thing. He taught me young—said I had a rook’s way of thinking. Direct, deliberate. A little stubborn.”

Emmrich’s smile softened at the edges. “And was he right?”

She laughed, then shrugged. “Probably. Though I should warn you—I’m not actually that good. Played for most of my childhood and still lose more than I win.”

He tilted his head, pleased. “That makes it all the more endearing. Besides, losing is just a new opportunity to study the board.”

The conversation flowed with easy charm—favorite books, preferred teas, shared opinions wrapped in laughter—until it drifted, almost lazily, to the topic of age.

“I’m fifty-two,” Emmrich said with a small, self-deprecating smile, swirling the last of his tea.

Rook blinked. “You’re joking.”

He arched a brow. “I assure you, I am not.”

“I had you pegged for mid-forties at most,” she said, grinning as she rested her chin in her hand. “Guess distinguished looks really are timeless.”

Emmrich chuckled, clearly amused. “You flatter me.”

When she offered her own age—thirty-one—his brows lifted, just slightly.

“Truly? I would’ve guessed younger.”

Rook leaned in, her smile teasing. “Elven genes. They do most of the heavy lifting.”

The waiter returned with practiced grace, setting Rook’s iced tea gently on the table first. The glass caught the golden light of the lanterns, its contents glowing a warm amber-red. Large, glistening ice cubes bobbed lazily in the chilled liquid, and a generous sprig of mint leaned against the rim—fresh, dewy, and unmistakably fragrant.

Emmrich’s elderflower wine was poured next, delicate and pale, catching soft glints of green in the candlelight. He took a measured sip and gave a small nod of approval, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

Across from him, Rook was fully transfixed.

“Well,” she said, lifting the iced tea carefully by its base, “isn’t this just beautiful?”

The glass was cool against her fingertips. She took a long, thoughtful sip, her eyes fluttering shut for a beat before she set it back down and reached immediately for her bag.

Emmrich watched in quiet amusement as she retrieved a worn leather journal—one he now recognized as her tea journal—and flipped it open to a fresh page. Her fingers flew across the paper with swift, deliberate strokes.

“Mint plum,” she murmured to herself, jotting it down. “Cold steeped, maybe with a hint of rosehip or hibiscus for color? Mmm, a splash of clover syrup might soften the sharpness...”

He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Already planning to recreate it, I see.”

Rook looked up, eyes bright with inspiration. “It’s what I do,” she said simply. “My shop menu leans heavily floral, so I’m always on the hunt for new pairings. This one’s got balance—sweet, herbal, and just tart enough to keep things interesting.”

She took another sip, gaze flicking toward the candlelight. “I might need to expand into seasonal iced blends after this.”

“You might cause a frenzy,” Emmrich replied. “I suspect your patrons will riot if it’s a limited run.”

Rook grinned over the rim of her glass. “Let them suffer beneath the weight of my whims.”

Emmrich found Rook’s playful defiance utterly charming—her cheeky nature one of the many facets that fascinated him. That they were here together, sharing a dinner under the soft glow of lanternlight, still struck him with a quiet kind of awe. Asking her out had been a rare moment of impulse, but one he couldn’t bring himself to regret.

She looked radiant beneath the golden light, her hair down in soft waves that caught the glow like sunlit bark, eyes sparkling as she sipped her tea and sampled the wine. There was something almost reverent about the way she experienced things—how even a new drink became a moment worth documenting. Watching her tuck her journal and pen back into her purse felt oddly intimate, like witnessing the final line of a spell before it was sealed.

He took another sip of his wine, allowing the floral notes to linger on his tongue, and simply… watched her. Not possessively, not with expectation. Just with quiet, honest appreciation.

The clink of porcelain and the low murmur of distant conversation wrapped around them as the waiter returned, this time bearing their meals with careful hands and the reverence of someone delivering something sacred.

He placed Rook’s plate before her first—the seafood paella a vivid sprawl of color and aroma. Saffron-golden rice nestled against prawns with shell tips curled, mussels half-open like inky fans, scallops seared to a soft bronze. Slivers of roasted lemon glistened at the edge of the dish, their scent sharp and inviting.

Emmrich’s risotto followed—earthy and understated in appearance but rich in scent. Wild mushrooms, sliced thick, gleamed with butter and a hint of herb oil. The risotto itself shimmered with that elusive texture—neither stiff nor soupy, but somewhere in between, creamy and confident.

“Enjoy,” the waiter murmured before disappearing once more.

Rook let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “Alright. I can already tell this is going to ruin all future meals for me.”

Emmrich smiled over the rim of his wineglass. “A noble sacrifice for the evening.”

Before taking her first bite, Rook tugged gently at the cuffs of her sweater, folding the ribbed knit just above her wrists in a small, practiced motion. She lifted her fork, spearing a prawn and a bit of rice in one graceful move, her brows arching the moment the flavors settled on her tongue. “Oh—oh that’s good,” she murmured, eyes briefly closing. “That’s unfair.”

He chuckled softly, pleased, and took his first bite of risotto—eyes closing for a moment in quiet appreciation.

He raised a brow, amused. “Would you care to try it?”

Rook blinked, surprised. “You’d share?”

“I’m a generous man when the moment calls for it,” he said lightly, already lifting a forkful and holding it out to her across the table.

There was a beat of playful hesitation in her eyes—a flicker of something bold just beneath the surface—before she leaned forward and took the offered bite directly from his fork.

The risotto melted rich and savory on her tongue, the earthy mushrooms deepened by a whisper of white wine and thyme. She hummed softly in approval, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a smirk. “Alright, that’s just rude. Now I want yours.”

Emmrich laughed—a low, genuine sound that seemed to settle warmly between them. “Next time we’ll plan accordingly. Shared plates, equal spoils.”

She sipped her tea again, letting the cool mint contrast the warmth of the dish. “You make it sound like a battle strategy.”

“I prefer to think of it as diplomatic collaboration.”

Rook’s eyes gleamed. “Well, I can’t wait for the next time we do this.”

Emmrich’s smile deepened. Next time. The words settled over him like a blessing—quiet, unassuming, and impossibly precious.

A pause followed—not uncomfortable, but charged with a gentle awareness. Something in her expression flickered—guarded, yes, but looser than before. She set her fork down, fingertips resting lightly on the table’s edge.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, voice softer now.

“Of course.”

“Did you always know you wanted to be a professor?”

He gave a thoughtful shrug, the corners of his mouth tilting in a faint smile. “Teaching has always been a rewarding experience. Though I admit, I treasure the time I’m left to my own research. There's peace in inquiry.”

Rook leaned in slightly, curiosity flickering. “So, was forensic anthropology always the goal? Or did you just think that you should go for the full aesthetic?”

His laugh was low, genuine. “Because I’m a necromancer?”

She gave him an innocent blink. “Just saying, it’s a little on the nose.”

“There are certainly parallels,” he allowed. “But no, actually—I was drawn to horticulture, once. I considered it as a professional path. Still do, on some quiet days. But it eventually became more of a beloved hobby.”

He paused, his gaze turning distant for a moment before settling back on her. “Forensic anthropology, on the other hand… there’s an elegance to it. Mystery, yes—but also clarity. Reading memory traces, interpreting echoes in the Fade, uncovering truths long buried. There’s something beautiful in giving voice to the forgotten.”

Emmrich stopped himself with a faint smile. “Pardon my enthusiasm. I tend to ramble when it comes to my passions.”

Rook rested her chin in her hand, watching him with soft amusement. “Don’t apologize,” she said, as if sensing the instinct before he could voice it. “I like your enthusiasm. You’ve got this endless curiosity—it’s charming.”

His brow lifted, the smile at his lips turning knowingly amused. “I think you’re just indulging me.”

She returned the look. “Perish the thought.”

A beat passed between them, light but warm.

“And you?” Emmrich asked, voice softening. “If I remember right, you said you were a Shadow Dragon before you opened the tea shop.”

Rook let out a slow breath, thoughtful. “Yeah… I sort of stumbled into both professions. But if I go back to when I was a kid… I wanted something entirely different.”

His interest sharpened, kind and undemanding. “Do tell.”

“I wanted to be a baker,” she said with a small smile. “I used to dream of having a little shop where I’d make my dad’s flatbreads and my mom’s dips and desserts. It was simple, but… it made me happy.”

Emmrich's expression softened. “Is that why you do a dessert of the day?”

She blinked, then smiled—surprised at her own realization. “Yeah… I guess it is. I never really thought about it like that. It just felt like a natural touch for the shop. A little piece of me.”

In the quiet rhythm of shared glances and slow bites—conversation meandering from favorite authors to odd magical phenomena neither of them could quite explain. Their plates gradually cleared, punctuated by moments of silence that didn’t need filling, only savoring.

The wine bottle, once pristine and full of promise, now sat empty between them—its pale glass catching candlelight like spent starlight. Rook traced a fingertip around the rim of her glass, her posture relaxed, the edge of her mouth curved in the kind of smile that came easily now.

When the waiter returned, clearing their plates with a practiced hand, he paused just long enough to suggest the evening’s seasonal dessert.

“Cinnamon and fig crème brûlée,” he offered. “Subtle spice, warm finish, and—if I may say—an excellent closer for the Wild Garden experience.”

Rook arched a brow, skeptical but intrigued. “Do you say that to everyone?”

The waiter gave a knowing smile. “Only to those who look like they might regret missing it.”

Emmrich didn’t miss the spark of interest in Rook’s eyes, nor the way her fingers had stilled ever so slightly on the stem of her glass. His lips curved. “He’s not wrong.”

Rook let out a dramatic huff, chin tilting as if weighing some serious moral dilemma. “Fine. One. We’ll share.”

Emmrich hummed, humoring her with grace. “A noble concession.”

She shot him a look—mock-offended, undeniably amused. “I’ll have you know, I’m very persuasive when it comes to desserts.”

His smile widened. “I never doubted it.”

The crème brûlée arrived with an elegance that made Rook hum in approval before the plate even touched the table. A delicate ramekin sat nestled on a ceramic tray dusted with powdered sugar, the caramelized top catching the light like amber glass. A faint curl of steam still rose from the edge, fragrant with spice and fig.

As she leaned forward to examine the dessert, a soft wave of her hair slipped over her shoulder, brushing the collar of her sweater. She tucked it back absently, her fingers grazing the curve of her neck with a familiarity that made Emmrich’s breath pause.

Rook’s eyes gleamed at the dessert. “Now that’s beautiful.”

Emmrich folded his hands, his smile amused. “Should I be jealous?”

“Maybe,” she said, lifting the spoon with reverence. She tapped the top gently—crack—and the sugar shattered into perfect shards.

She dipped into the custard, gathering a modest bite, then held the spoon out across the table.

“For you,” she said, tone light but expression soft. “Since you shared your risotto.”

Emmrich didn’t reach for it right away. He just looked at her, something flickering quiet and warm in his eyes—grateful, maybe, or simply moved by the way she remembered.

He leaned forward, accepting the spoon with care. The crème brûlée was rich and silken on his tongue—just the right balance of warmth, spice, and sweetness.

“Delightful,” he murmured, sitting back. “You’ve chosen well.”

“I always do when dessert’s involved,” Rook replied, scooping another bite for herself.

That earned a laugh, low and genuine, and for a few moments they simply shared the dish between them—bite by bite, the space between their hands shrinking by degrees.

Eventually, Rook leaned back, tapping the spoon idly against the rim of the ramekin. Her expression shifted—still playful, but with a glint of mock seriousness.

“Alright,” she said, setting the spoon down with a faint click. “Time to move on to the tough questions. Are you ready, Professor?”

Emmrich tilted his head, smiling. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She narrowed her eyes dramatically. “What’s your favorite color?”

He blinked. Then chuckled. “Well, um… can I only choose one?”

“That’s why it’s the tough ones.” She leaned forward, studying him like a scholar preparing a theory. “Lemme guess… Green? No, yellow, but like a bone-yellow? Or is it charcoal?”

“Lilac,” he said, without hesitation.

She blinked. “The flower?”

He nodded, his voice gentling. “It’s such a pretty shade of purple. It brings thoughts of spring.”

Something in her smile curved—gentler now. “That’s unexpectedly sweet.”

He let the silence linger a breath longer, then asked, “And what’s your favorite shade of color?”

Rook tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the candlelight as she thought. The pause wasn’t dramatic—just thoughtful, like she was flipping through old pages in her mind before settling on one that felt like home.

“…Plum,” she said at last, the word soft but certain.

Emmrich’s smile deepened, subtle and genuine. “Of course it is.”

Her brow lifted with quiet amusement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It suits you,” he said. “Rich, grounded, just a little bold. It’s a lovely color.”

Her lips curved—not a smirk, not quite a grin. Just something warm and real. She picked up the spoon again, cracked into the last bite of crème brûlée, and ate it herself.

As the waiter returned with the check, he placed it neatly at the center of the table with a courteous nod. Before he could even retreat, Rook’s hand was already in motion, reaching into her bag with smooth efficiency.

Emmrich, anticipating her move, reached for the bill at the exact same moment.

“I’ve got this,” he said, tone calm and composed, as if it were already decided.

But Rook wasn’t so easily brushed aside. Her hand shot out and landed squarely on top of the check, halting his motion with surprising force for someone who had just demurely finished a crème brûlée.

“Emmrich, I can’t let you do that,” she said, her voice low but firm. “At least let me cover my half. You shouldn’t have to foot the whole thing.”

Emmrich didn’t flinch. His expression remained serene, but the corners of his mouth twitched in quiet amusement. “I’m afraid I must insist. I invited you. Let me see the gesture through.”

Before she could retort, Emmrich moved—subtle and assured. He placed his hand over hers, palm to back, fingers resting lightly across her knuckles. She felt the familiar weight of his rings, cool against her skin, the brush of etched metal and smooth bands—each one distinct, each one known from prior moments when he’d steadied her or offered quiet reassurance.

But this time, the gesture was different.

This wasn’t comfort in the face of worry. It was insistence, yes, but not aggressive. A silent kindness. A wish to treat her—not out of obligation, but out of care. It softened the line she’d drawn, blurred it with the warmth of something she wasn’t sure she wanted to resist.

Her breath caught—just barely—and for a moment, her thoughts drifted…

She wondered how those rings would feel if they touched other places. The edge of her jaw. The inside of her wrist. Her waist.

The sharp edge of protest dulled into something quieter. She blinked once, then withdrew her hand with a sigh—less defeated than disarmed, reaching for what remained of her wine. She lifted the glass with steady fingers and taking a slow sip, the floral notes grounding her even as the warmth lingered at the back of her throat.

Emmrich caught the faint shift in her posture—the way her fingers curled a touch too carefully around the stem, the slight delay before she took a sip. He wasn’t sure what he’d done, but whatever it was, flustering Rook felt sweeter than any flirtatious remark ever could.

“If this burdens you,” he said gently, voice smooth once more, “then consider it a trade. You can pay for our next meal.”

“Alright,” she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, her voice composed. “I’ll concede for now. But I’m holding you to that promise.”

“I would expect nothing less,” he said, and though his tone was as smooth as ever, there was a flicker in his eyes—something that said he’d noticed the shift too.

The waiter returned then, and Emmrich handed off the bill with quiet finality. No flourish, no smugness. Just a man content in the company across from him.

As the man stepped away, Emmrich turned back to Rook, who was watching him with an expression somewhere between begrudging admiration and exasperated fondness.

“The night is still young,” he said as he rose from his seat and reached for her coat. “Would you join me for a short stroll before I take you home?”

Rook tilted her head, letting him help her into her coat as she considered. The weight of the evening sat warmly around her—wine-soft, spice-sweet, and gently unraveling the knots she hadn't realized she'd been carrying. As she adjusted the collar and met his gaze, candlelight caught in her eyes like dusk woven through glass.

“For a man who doesn’t let me pay for dinner,” she murmured, “you do make a convincing case.”

Emmrich extended his arm with courtly precision. “Then I hope to continue impressing you. Shall we?”

A slow smile tugged at her lips as she took his arm. “Lead the way, Professor.”

And so he did—quietly certain now that he wanted far more than just this evening.

Chapter Text

The night air had cooled just enough to bite, though not enough to be unpleasant. Rook stayed close to Emmrich’s side as they left the warm lanternlight of The Ivy Lantern behind, the sound of the city fading into a softer hush with every step. The path he led her down curved away from the main street, trailing beneath an arch of overgrown ivy that shimmered faintly under their passing.

Where polished storefronts and trimmed hedges once dominated, the path now bloomed wild with carefully managed overgrowth. The trail was bordered by crumbling stone markers half-reclaimed by moss, and above them, flowering trees formed loose arches that diffused the moonlight into misted silver.

A thin magical hum vibrated just beneath their feet. Rook felt it first—like an exhale that brushed the edge of her consciousness. She slowed her steps, gaze sweeping over the softly glowing flora and the faint shimmer of the Fade along the edges of the trail. Her brows knit, equal parts wonder and disbelief.

“How have I never come across this place?” she murmured, casting a glance over her shoulder. “Then again… the only garden I really walk is the one by my apartment.”

Emmrich glanced over, his expression fond. “It’s easy to miss if you don’t know where to look. Morning runners pass right through without noticing. But at night…” He lifted his hand slightly, gesturing to the way the flowers caught the moonlight like embers held in bloom. “It reveals another face entirely.”

She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the earth aglow with soft pulses of violet, silver, and blue, the scent of dew and old magic, the way the air seemed to hum with unseen threads. They stepped into it together—into a space that felt suspended between breath and dream.

Rook slowed, eyes widening as she took in the scene. Low hedgerows shimmered with dew, their edges threaded with blue creepvine that pulsed like distant stars. Lanterns hung from iron shepherd hooks, flickering with soft magic. Along the stone path, veilroses unfolded in twilight hues, thornless and perfect, their petals unfurling to the sound of footfalls. Pale moon blossoms swayed faintly on their stems, though there was no wind.

“The Veil is thinner here,” Emmrich said, as if reading her thoughts. “Like the Necropolis.”

“This reminds me of the stories I’ve heard from mages who studied abroad,” she said, voice low. “They always talked about the Necropolis gardens like they were sacred. Fade-touched. Beautiful in a… haunting sort of way.”

“They are,” he said with quiet reverence. “Especially the Memorial Gardens. This place reminds me of it. Not quite as grand, of course—but similar in spirit. The quiet. The reverence. The way everything feels... watched, but not by eyes.”

Rook gave a slow exhale, clearly struck by the shift in atmosphere. “I’ve only ever walked the community garden near my flat. Thought I knew this part of the city.” She turned a slow circle, taking in the drifting Fade-lilies and faintly gleaming lotus blooms floating in a still pond near the center. “But this? This feels like stepping between pages of a memory.”

Emmrich looked pleased by her reaction, his voice lowering with fondness. “It’s always been a place of reflection for me. I bring Manfred here sometimes when he’s restless.”

She laughed softly, imagining the skeletal wisp marveling at glowing petals. “I bet he tries to touch everything.”

“He does,” Emmrich confirmed. “Last time, I caught him attempting to wade into a rose bush. I had to apologize to the caretaker on my wards mischief.”

As Emmrich explains the flora—calm, articulate, wrapped in poetic phrasing—Rook steals quick glances between his hands and his mouth. The way his voice softens when he speaks about each flower, or how his rings glint faintly when he gestures. Probably a habit from being a lecturer which Rook didn’t mind, in fact she found it alluring.

When she turns to ask a question and finds him already watching her.

Their eyes met, and something clutched behind her ribs. She cleared her throat and turned quickly back to the path—but her cheeks burned, and she hated how easily he saw through her.

They wandered deeper. A bed of wraithvine curled lazily over stone ruins, its tendrils twitching ever so slightly when Rook passed too close. The garden was alive—not in the way of beasts or people, but in the way stories were. Watching. Listening.

She paused beside a low patch of soft violet blooms, their edges glowing faintly in the moonlight. Delicate and silvery, they curled inward slightly, as though shy of the open air.

“These are beautiful,” she murmured.

Emmrich stepped beside her, his gaze thoughtful. “They’re veilroses—rare, but not unheard of in Fade-touched gardens. Their bloom cycle is tied to lunar phases. But they remind me of something else entirely.”

She glanced up at him. “Oh?”

“Moon lilies,” he said softly. “They only grow in the Grand Necropolis. Can’t survive sunlight. They’re fragile, reclusive… but at night, they glow with their own light. You’ll never forget the first time you see them. The petals look like they’re cut from frost.”

She looked back at the veilroses, imagining it. “Are they your favorite?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “It’s hard to choose just one. So many are fascinating in their own right. But yes… I think the moon lily would be it. There’s a kind of grace in their stillness. Like mourning, made beautiful.”

“Poetic as always,” Rook murmured, her voice laced with quiet wonder. Then, with a softer smile, “They sound breathtaking. Shame we can’t see them for ourselves.”

Emmrich’s gaze lingered on the nearby veilroses as he replied, “Who knows. Botanists have spent centuries cultivating hybrid flora—perhaps one day, someone will create a moon lily that can tolerate the sun. Still, there’s something fitting about it thriving only in the Necropolis. It makes the flower feel... sacred. Desired by those who’ve never seen it.”

He looked to her again, voice gentling. “May I ask—do you have a favorite flower?”

Rook tilted her head, considering. “Hmm… there are a few I’m partial to.” She let the silence stretch for a moment, her eyes trailing over the garden path. “But… I think I’ll go with crocus.”

Emmrich smiled, a soft glint in his eyes. “A lovely choice. Crocuses are symbols of rebirth and renewal, you know. They’re often the first sign of spring—small, but resilient. They push through frost to bloom.”

Rook gave a thoughtful hum, her gaze lingering on the flowers. “Hm… seems appropriate. I just liked the fact that even in a harsh winter, you’d see one. Little survivors.”

She turned to him, her voice thoughtful. “Is spring your favorite season, then? You mentioned lilac reminded you of it—and now the moon lily, the crocus… seems like a pattern.”

Emmrich’s lips curved in a quiet smile, eyes drifting briefly to the glowing veilroses swaying nearby. “Spring is a beautiful time. The world reawakens. What was dormant stirs back to life—buds bloom, the sun lingers longer, and the air feels softer somehow.” He paused, then glanced sideways at her. “There’s hope in spring. A quiet promise of something beginning.”

Rook hummed in agreement, then smiled faintly. “That’s lovely.”

He looked at her fully, curiosity sincere. “And you? Which season do you favor?”

“Autumn,” she said without hesitation. “I always liked it—when the leaves turn and everything is flushed gold and amber, like the world is exhaling. It feels like… a pause. Like everything is getting ready to rest, to dream. It’s quieter, but still vibrant.”

Emmrich’s expression softened at her words. “How fitting,” he said quietly, as if the answer suited her perfectly.

They walked in silence for a stretch—not from lack of words, but because it felt too loud to break. The brush of her sleeve against his, the sound of her breath in the chill. That was enough for now. Emmrich fell half a step behind—not from distraction, but just to watch her. The lanternlight caught in her hair, and the shimmer of veilroses mirrored the faint gloss of her lip stain.

He watched the way Rook moved—measured but curious, as though part of her was still holding back from the wonder this place invited. It made him ache a little, how effortlessly she belonged among the strange and beautiful.

When she crouches briefly to examine a bloom or brushed her fingers along a glowing vine.

He committed the image to memory: her, in profile, surrounded by silver-lit foliage, the Fade humming around her like a whisper. A vision suspended between earth and something more sacred.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the heart of the garden—a quiet clearing framed by low stone arches and encircled by shallow pools that mirrored the stars above. The path curved into a circular mosaic underfoot, veined with softly glowing inlays. A canopy of silken-leafed trees draped overhead, their branches scattered with hanging blooms and tiny orbs of Fade-light that pulsed like distant fireflies.

Rook slowed to a halt at the center of the clearing, her eyes wide with quiet awe as she turned in a slow circle.

“Maker,” she breathed. “This is…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Emmrich watched her with an expression caught between fondness and wonder. “It’s my favorite spot,” he said after a pause. “I thought… perhaps it would suit you too.”

Rook turned to him then, her expression shifting into something playful—softer, teasing. “You know, if all this was some elaborate attempt to impress me…” She let the moment hang, then added with a grin, “It’s working.”

That pulled a soft laugh from him, and he inclined his head as if conceding a point. “It’s fortunate to know that I haven’t lost my touch.”

Rook’s smile wavered—just slightly—giving way to something more uncertain. Her gaze flicked toward the edge of the clearing, then back to him. She shifted her weight, fingertips grazing the fabric of her skirt as if to anchor herself.

Then, she met his eyes.

“Emmrich,” she said softly. “What made you ask me out?”

The question came wrapped in the hush of night—gentle, curious, and more vulnerable than she meant it to be. But she didn’t pull it back. The garden stilled around them, as though holding its breath.

It was a strange thing, she admitted to herself—that a man like Emmrich would be interested in someone like her.

She wasn’t used to this: the patience, the quiet reverence. Her past had been painted in sharper strokes—nights blurred by the exchange of glances across bar counters, the transactional hush of motel rooms during her runaway days, or the fleeting comfort of strangers found between missions as a Shadow Dragon. Those moments, while shallow, were familiar. Predictable.

But this?

This slow, thoughtful rhythm she and Emmrich shared—laced with lingering glances, lingering questions—felt entirely foreign.

Not unwelcome.

Just… unfamiliar. And that, more than anything, was what made her feel uneasy.

Emmrich tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with a steady warmth. But instead of answering, he posed a question of his own.

"What made you say yes?"

Rook felt her heart stir, unprepared for the gravity behind his words—or the way his hazel eyes caught the ambient light. She let the silence stretch as she considered it.

"For one thing, you're devilishly handsome," she admitted, the tease in her voice softened by honesty. "And we can’t forget about that gentlemanly charm. But more than that... I feel like I can breathe around you. Like there’s no expectation to perform or guard myself. It’s comforting."

She turned slightly toward him, arms loose at her sides now. Her voice softened to something more honest. “You make space for people. It’s not something I’m used to... but I like it. I like you.”

Emmrich’s breath caught—not visibly, not dramatically, but she saw it in his eyes. The way they softened, warmed, as if she’d handed him something rare and irreplaceable. He stepped closer—not enough to overwhelm, but just enough that the garden lights blurred behind him, casting a gentle halo around the sincerity in his gaze.

“Rook,” he began, voice low and steady, “I asked you out because I find myself thinking about you almost every day. Since the moment we met, you’ve held my attention—completely. Your exquisite tea blends, your confections, even Spite’s devilish antics… I find myself looking forward to all of it. And I never want our conversations to end.”

He paused, not to collect himself, but as if the truth deserved space to breathe.

“You’re clever. Playful. Fiercely thoughtful. You notice what others miss. And your interest in me has been—truly—the greatest compliment I could ever receive.”

Rook held his gaze, steady despite the way her heart fluttered against her ribs like wings caught mid-beat. Something delicate and breathless settled between them, just shy of touch, but thick with invitation.

“I find myself wanting to know you,” Emmrich continued, his voice gentle. “Truly know you. And if you're willing… I’d like to be the man who learns the language of your silence. The shape of your joy.”

He paused, the quiet between them deepening as his words settled.

“My fondness for you… it’s already growing,” he said softly. “And I’d like to see where that leads, if you’re willing.”

Rook stood silent, struck breathless by the weight of his words. Something caught in her throat—too many feelings tangled too tightly to speak. The only thing she managed, soft as the hush between heartbeats, was his name.

“…Emmrich.”

Her voice cracked faintly around it. That was all it took.

He smiled, and with quiet certainty, reached for her hand. His fingers slipped around hers—warm, steady, reverent. He brought her knuckles to his lips with the kind of care that felt timeless.

“I would love nothing more than to spend my days courting you,” he said, the vow in his voice tender and sure. “In all the old-fashioned ways and new ones too—if you’ll let me.”

Rook’s breath hitched. The words. The touch. The kiss against her hand—it was too much and not enough all at once. Her heart pounded, wild and unrelenting, and for a moment she feared it might actually leap from her chest if he stepped any closer.

And Maker help her, he looked entirely composed—like he hadn’t just turned her into something breathless and pink-cheeked with a single sentence.

Emmrich, of course, noticed. He always did. She watched him register her flustered state with the faintest glint of amusement, his hazel eyes soft with affection and something wry. It delighted him—how the woman who flirted with whimsy and confidence could melt under such sincerity.

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, just barely grazing her skin, and the contact made her inhale sharply.

“We should start heading back,” he murmured, voice low and wickedly warm by her ear. “Otherwise, I fear that you will burst into flames from blushing.”

Rook choked on a laugh, caught between protest and laughter, eyes wide with mock outrage. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I assure you,” he said smoothly, stepping back with all the elegance of a man entirely pleased with himself, “I’m enjoying it just the right amount.”

As they began their quiet return from the heart of the garden, Emmrich reached out and laced his fingers with hers. The gesture was wordless but full of intention. Rook glanced down at their joined hands, her thumb brushing lightly across his knuckles. She could feel the cool press of his rings against her skin—distinct shapes, familiar weight. The warmth of him, the calm certainty in the way he held her, made the cool night feel somehow distant.

They walked like that for a stretch, side by side in companionable silence. Rook could still hear the thunder of her heart, but Emmrich looked perfectly content. Every so often, he’d glance down at her, catching the blush still lingering at the tips of her ears.

In his opinion, the date had been a rousing success.

He was already envisioning future outings—quiet strolls, gallery visits, tucked-away cafés. Possible gifts fluttered through his thoughts, things she might appreciate: rare teas, specialty blends, books she hadn’t yet read. But he stopped himself. It was still early. The last thing he wanted was to overwhelm her with his enthusiasm. Too many times before, he had loved too deeply, too soon. It had cost him. Not everyone knew what to do with a heart so readily given.

But for Rook, he would wait. She was worth the time.

His thoughts scattered when she slowed beside an ivy-draped archway, her gaze caught by a soft patch of luminous blooms growing wild beneath it. She slipped her hand from his and stepped closer, her boots quiet on the stone path.

“Shroud’s kiss,” she murmured, crouching slightly. “It’s rare to see these growing wild in Minrathous.”

Emmrich joined her, eyes drawn to the soft green glow of the petals.

“I’ve always loved the legend behind them,” he said, voice low. He knelt and gently plucked one, offering it to her between two fingers. “They say it grows on lovers’ graves, and that one moves closer to the Fade simply by inhaling its fragrance.”

Rook accepted the flower with reverence, her fingers brushing his. “How romantic,” she said, lifting it to her nose. “Is that true?”

“It is,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting, “when I will it, my dear.”

And with a slow, practiced motion, he waved a hand over the blossom. The petals shimmered, then broke apart into tiny green motes that hovered like stardust suspended in breath.

Rook’s breath caught.

“What else?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Emmrich smiled and gestured again, this time over the cluster blooming on the arch. More blossoms dissolved into green flecks of light, drifting upward like sparks caught in moonlight.

It was just like his demonstration in the Fade days ago—delicate, mesmerizing, impossibly intimate.

Before she could recover, he reached for her. His hand rose to her hair, fingers gently gathering a soft curl and brushing it behind her ear. The motion revealed the pointed curve of her elven ear—delicate, expressive, and impossibly sensitive. As his fingertips grazed the rim, the ear twitched instinctively, a shiver chasing down her spine and settling low in her belly.

Then, with unhurried grace, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the strands where they curled against his palm—just beneath the tip of her ear. The brush of his lips against that vulnerable spot made her breath hitch, the sensation as startling as it was electric.

When he looked at her again, his gaze was deep, steady—warm with something far more dangerous than magic.

Venhedis, she wanted him to kiss her. She needed him to kiss her.

Her heart stammered in her chest as her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back to the unwavering pull of his gaze. Her fingers curled around the edge of his coat, giving it the gentlest tug—an unspoken invitation.

He stepped closer, slow and sure, his hand finding hers once more as he closed the final space between them. Maker above, he was so close—closer than they’d ever allowed themselves to be when moments like this had hovered between them, full of breathless possibility. The air was thick with tension, heavy with the weight of what they’d always skirted around but never dared claim.

Until now.

This time, when he leaned in, there was no hesitation.

The kiss was everything she hadn’t known but was waiting for.

The hush of the garden folded around them, tingling with traces of the Fade. His lips were warm, reverent, unhurried—the faint brush of his mustache against her skin made her pulse skip. The tenderness in his mouth made her knees feel weak.

Her hands moved to his face instinctively, cupping his cheeks, her fingertips tracing along the line of his jaw as if to anchor herself in the moment. Emmrich’s arms slid around her waist, sure and slow, drawing her close—not with possession, but with longing finally given shape.

The kiss deepened—not with urgency, but with that aching sweetness born of recognition.

It was the culmination of everything they’d danced around—the playful banter, the glances that lingered too long, the quiet unfolding of trust. It was slow. It was tender. It was everything they’d imagined and somehow, impossibly, more.

The kiss broke—but only just. Their foreheads remained close, breath mingling in the charged space between them. Rook’s eyes fluttered open, her hands still cradling Emmrich’s face. The light of the Veil shimmered faintly in his eyes, turning the usual hazel into something deeper—like crackling green glass, bright as emeralds caught in moonlight.

Neither moved. Neither spoke. The moment lingered like a held breath.

Then Rook leaned in again, unable to resist the pull.

Their second kiss was softer. Familiar. A wordless answer to everything unspoken between them. Emmrich’s hand at her back held her close—not possessive, just present. Anchoring. Her fingers slid through the ends of his hair, and she felt him exhale gently against her cheek.

When they finally broke apart, Emmrich didn’t step away. His eyes—still touched with that emerald glint from the Fade—held hers a moment longer before his smile deepened.

“What a day of unexpected splendor,” he murmured, voice quiet and fond.

Then, as if remembering himself, he added with a trace of reluctant humor, “But I should take you home. We both have work in the morning, after all.”

The drive back to her apartment passed in companionable silence, the city humming quietly around them. Rook sat with her hands in her lap, fingers absently twisting a loose strand of hair. The soft glow of streetlamps played over her profile, casting shadows that flickered and faded with every turn.

Emmrich, ever composed, kept his focus on the road, one hand resting casually on the wheel. But every so often, his gaze flicked to her—quick, quiet glances, as if to reassure himself she was still there, still glowing from the kiss they'd shared.

When they pulled up to her building, he shifted the car into park and stepped out first. In true gentlemanly fashion, he rounded the car and opened her door without a word.

Rook slid out, her skirt catching slightly on the edge of the seat. He offered his hand—not because she needed it, but because he wanted to. She accepted.

They walked together up the short path to her apartment entry, the soft sound of her keys jangling in her purse breaking the quiet between them. When they reached her door, she turned to face him.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low, but full. “For a truly wonderful evening.”

Emmrich’s smile returned, touched with warmth. “The pleasure was entirely mine,” he said. “And if time allows… I’ll stop by the tea shop again soon.”

Rook’s gaze dipped, her fingers curling briefly into the hem of her sleeve before she met his eyes again. “I’d like that.”

“Then it’s a promise.”

He leaned in—not rushed, not questioning—and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. A gesture so simple, so tender, that Rook could feel the blush bloom across her cheeks before she even realized it.

“Good night, Rook,” he murmured.

She hesitated. Just for a beat. Then, as he began to turn away, her voice followed him—quiet, a little unsure.

“…Evara.”

Emmrich paused, his head turning back toward her.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, gaze dropping briefly before she met his eyes again. “My real name,” she said softly. “It’s Evara. I figured… since we’re going to be more acquainted, you should know.”

His expression shifted—gently astonished, as though she’d handed him something rare and deeply personal. Something he hadn’t expected, but would protect with reverence.

“Good night, Evara,” he said, her name shaped with quiet care.

She smiled—shy, still pink in the cheeks. “Good night, Emmrich.”

With that, she turned and slipped inside, the door closing behind her with a gentle click.

Emmrich lingered for a moment in the hallway, the echo of her presence still wrapped around him. A quiet exhale left him, almost a laugh, and he let himself stand there in a content daze before finally making his way back to the car—his heart still warm, his mind already playing the evening back like a cherished memory.

Rook stepped into her apartment in a daze, the door clicking shut softly behind her. The warmth of the evening still lingered on her skin, but it was the memory of him that pulsed beneath it—his voice, his smile, the way he looked at her like she was something sacred.

Her thoughts spun like petals caught in wind. The dinner. The garden. That kiss.
Oh sweet Andraste, the kiss. It was the kind they wrote about in those serialized love stories Bellara was always raving about—the ones Rook pretended not to care for, but had definitely read once or twice under a blanket with a cup of tea. It had been… perfect.

She barely registered the soft mrrrow of protest until a familiar weight landed on the kitchen counter with all the grace of a practiced little menace.

“Spite,” she said, blinking out of her reverie.

The cat looked up at her, tail twitching, clearly displeased by her prolonged absence. And, as if to underscore his displeasure, he made a slow, deliberate move toward the bouquet sitting in the glass pitcher.

“Oh no you don’t.” She crossed the room in three steps and gently nudged him away from the flowers, one hand bracing his wiggling form while the other shielded the stems. “You are not defiling this. Or knocking it over. Go be dramatic elsewhere.”

With a theatrical huff, Spite leapt down and trotted off with exaggerated offense.

Rook turned her attention to the bouquet. The arrangement stood untouched—elegant, thoughtfully composed. She leaned in, arms folded loosely as she stared down at it like it might whisper secrets if she waited long enough. The flowers were beautiful—elegant, thoughtfully arranged, clearly chosen with care. The lilacs curled in soft violet whorls beside the creamy perfection of the camellias, while delicate threads of nigella and clusters of sweet alyssum nestled in between, giving the whole thing a soft, almost dreamlike balance.

She’d never been given flowers for romantic reasons before.

She remembered the bouquet she’d received after her last hospital stay. The celebratory bundle from when she’d opened the Veil & Vine. Both had been thoughtful, kind gestures.

But this?

This was different. This was personal.

She found herself smiling.

Maker, he really was that sincere. Such a sweetheart.

Her eyes lingered on the bouquet. They were lovely, of course—but with Emmrich, there was always more beneath the surface. He had a scholar’s mind and a poet’s heart. And he’d mentioned his love of horticulture more than once.

Her brow arched slightly.

What if these flowers weren’t just chosen for their aesthetic?

What if…?

Her smile widened as a giddy flutter built in her chest. She turned on her heel and made a beeline for her bookshelf, fingers trailing across the spines until she found it—a slim, green volume with gold lettering: The Language of Flowers. One of her earliest purchases, back when she’d first started building Veil & Vine. Boro had called it a “whimsy book”—something fun, impractical, and entirely Rook.

Well. Apparently, it was finally going to prove useful.

She carried the book back to the coffee table and settled cross-legged on the floor, placing the bouquet carefully within view. Cracking open the worn pages, she began flipping through, her finger tracing the entries one by one, heart already fluttering with anticipation.

Lilac, purple — First love. The awakening of affection.

Her breath caught. She glanced back at the bouquet, lips parting slightly as the words sank in. First love? Was that what he meant? Or perhaps a beginning—something unspoken but felt. A quiet declaration. Her face was already beginning to warm.

She turned another page, pulse quickening.

Camellia, white — You are adorable. Perfect in my eyes.

“Oh,” she whispered, pressing a hand gently to her cheek. The heat bloomed across her skin, her chest tightening with a sweetness that made her dizzy. Her heart thudded against her ribs—eager, unsteady, utterly undone.

Trying not to read too much into it—though it was clearly far too late—she flipped again.

Nigella (Love-in-a-Mist) — Perplexity. Deep emotions veiled by uncertainty. A hidden love.

That one nearly floored her. She stilled, eyes scanning the text again as though it might change. Was that how he’d felt this whole time? Quiet, layered feelings wrapped in mystery and restraint? A growing affection nestled between their shared glances, their slow-blooming connection?

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she reached the last.

Sweet Alyssum — Worth beyond beauty. Peace of heart. Gentle spirit.

She bit her lower lip as if to hold back her smile. Gently, she closed the book and held it against her chest. The heat crept up her neck and settled in her ears, and her heart was thundering now—like it had finally decided to sprint toward something sacred.

Venhedis. If she had known all this earlier, she probably wouldn’t have let him leave her apartment. She would’ve pulled him back in and—

With a soft groan, she flopped onto her back, one hand draped over her eyes, the other still clutching the book. Her grin was helpless.

Emmrich was going to ruin her.

If this was how he courted? With quiet intention, hidden meanings, poetry in the form of petals, and kisses that made her knees weak?

She was in so much trouble. And honestly? That thrilled her more than she cared to admit.

Chapter Text

Rook woke to the shrill chime of her alarm, groaning softly as she rolled over to silence it. Her hand fumbled across the nightstand until her fingers found the rune-stamped clock. Blessed silence returned—but the damage was done. She blinked awake, limbs tangled in her blanket. The warmth of sleep unraveled, leaving her tangled in her blankets and the golden haze of memory.

For a moment, she lay still, blinking at the ceiling, wondering if she’d dreamt it all— dinner, the garden, the kiss.

She dragged herself out of bed with a groan that Spite, no doubt, would mock later. Padding barefoot into the living room, she blinked against the shift in light and then stopped short.

The bouquet still sat on her coffee table.

Not a dream.

She walked toward it as if approaching something sacred. The morning light slanted through her curtains and caught on the purple lilacs and pale camellias, the star-burst wisps of nigella and soft clusters of sweet alyssum still arranged just as Emmrich had given them. She brushed her fingers lightly over the petals—cool, soft, impossibly delicate.

A smile crept across her lips.

She’d already taken a picture of the bouquet last night, barely ten minutes after walking in the door. But now, in the morning stillness, the idea flickered again: maybe she’d press a few of the blooms. A keepsake from a night that already felt like a page from a cherished story.

A demanding meow interrupted her reverie.

She turned just in time to catch Spite trying (and failing) to jimmy open the lower cabinet with one determined paw.

“Caught in the act,” she said, scooping him up. “As mischievous as you are, you did spare the flowers for the night. So that does warrant a feast for my demonic feline.”

Spite blinked once, slowly—then gave a purring chirp of approval, pleased with the transaction.

Breakfast for them both was a little fancier than usual. Rook stirred in a drizzle of fish oil and a few slivers of roast chicken into Spite’s dish before making her own cup of tea. She moved through the motions of her morning slower than usual, still steeped in the soft haze of memory: Emmrich’s smile, his voice in the garden, the feel of his hands in hers. The rings that were adorned on his fingers… That kiss.

When her phone buzzed, she grabbed it immediately—already suspecting the sender.

Emmrich: Good morning, I found this on my walk to work and thought of you.

(image attached: a pale pink chrysanthemum kissed with frost, nestled between ivy)

Her heart gave a quiet little flutter.

She replied instantly, snapping a picture of Spite mid-bite with his nose buried in his bowl.

Rook: He’s been rewarded for not committing botanical sabotage. We’re both thriving this morning.

Emmrich: How benevolent of him.

She stared at the photo for a beat longer than necessary, then glanced at the bookshelf behind the counter. With an amused huff, she set down her tea and padded over to retrieve The Language of Flowers.

Flipping through the pages, she found the entry, lips parting slightly as she read the meaning:

Chrysanthemum, pink — Honest love. Tender affection.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the page.

The day had barely started and this man was already trying to make her heart do somersaults with his flirtatious flower messages.

She set the book down with exaggerated care, her cheeks warming as she looked back at the photo. Rook wasn’t sure if Emmrich meant to keep sending hidden floral messages, but if he did… she was dangerously close to falling for the professor.

And if he didn’t?

Well... she was already going to tease him about it anyway.

Besides, Rook had a strong feeling that she was going to see him again soon. And she couldn’t wait.

The rest of her prep moved quickly. She layered on a warm coat and scarf, packed her satchel, and her mood refused to sour even once as she stepped out into the chill of a Minrathous morning. Winter’s breath was creeping through the alleys, the sky pale and distant, but everything felt warmer somehow. Brighter.

By the time she reached Veil & Vine, Rook had that little hum under her breath again—a tune without words, the kind that only surfaced when she was at peace. She unlocked the front door, flicked the lights on, and stepped into the cozy stillness of the shop with Spite slipping in behind her like a practiced shadow.

They went through the routine: fire up the enchanted heater, activate the kettle glyphs, prep the morning blends, restock the pastry case, start working on her dessert of the day. Everything was quiet and comforting, the rhythm familiar.

Then—

The shop’s door flew open with the kind of force usually reserved for emergencies or overly dramatic declarations.

“ROOK.”

The voice was unmistakable.

Rook didn’t even need to peek out from the back kitchen to know who it was.

“Good morning, Bellara.”

The elven woman charged in like a woman possessed, half-wrapped in a patterned shawl, hair windswept and eyes ablaze. A pastry box dangled from one hand, as though it had barely survived the journey intact.

“I gave you twelve hours,” Bellara said, storming past the entry display like a force of nature. “Hours full of silence out of respect. But now I’m here and I want the full report.”

Rook blinked, wide-eyed behind the counter, a tea tin still in her hands.

Spite darted behind a basket of loose leaf as Bellara burst in, slapping a pastry box onto the counter like she was laying down a battle declaration.

“Well?” Bellara demanded, eyes bright. “How was it?”

Rook sighed, a slow grin curling at the corners of her mouth as she turned toward the kettle. “Can I at least get a cup of tea first?”

“Yes,” Bellara huffed, already peeling open the pastry box. “That gives us plenty of time to restock the display case. I got it from Harding’s ahead of time.”

“Didn’t want to wait for Lace to tag along?”

“She was busy with other deliveries. She’ll just have to survive with a group chat update.”

“Fine,” Rook sighed with exaggerated reluctance, pouring two mugs. “But you have to promise not to shriek when I tell you the good parts.”

“No promises.”

“Then I’m only giving you the highlights,” Rook warned, sliding a mug across the counter.

Bellara was already hopping onto a stool at the bar, practically vibrating. “That’s still more than the suspense you kept us in last night. Now talk. Spill. Immediately.”

Rook took a seat beside her, blowing gently on her tea. “Best first date of my life.”

Bellara made a tiny, strangled noise of excitement, kicking her feet under the stool. “What did he do?”

“He took me to this amazing little bistro with a botanical theme—quiet, warm, just fantastic. There were no awkward pauses when we talked, he took me to this serene garden for a night stroll that was breathtaking.”

Bellara squealed, both hands clapped over her mouth. “And then?!”

“We kissed. And it was so perfect.”

“Oh my gods, Rook! That’s amazing!” Bellara grabbed her arm and shook her like a fizzy drink. “Wait—was it just a little kiss or a KISS kiss?”

“He kissed my hair, then a real kiss… then another one that would make those serial writers you love blush with pride.”

Bellara’s jaw dropped. “This man is fictional.”

“There’s more.”

Bellara made a noise like a teakettle boiling over.

“He gave me a bouquet of flowers,” Rook said, barely holding back her grin. “He mentioned his interest in horticulture, so I was curious and looked up every flower in the arrangement… It was basically a floral love letter.”

Bellara smacked the counter. “No.”

“Yes. He told me he wanted to court me.” Rook’s voice dropped slightly, equal parts awe and disbelief. “I just didn’t expect it to be this romantic.”

“Oh my gods. You are living your Jane Austen fantasy,” Bellara breathed. “You’re the main character, Rook.”

Bellara was still beaming when she reached for a pastry, already plotting how to summarize Rook’s romantic saga for the group chat in all caps.

Rook stood, picking up her now-empty mug. “Alright, the scandalous gossip is done, tea’s gone and the shop’s about to open.”

Bellara cradled her own mug, eyes dancing. “You mean it’s time for me to casually loiter behind the counter and wait for your charming professor to stroll in so I can witness the flirtation unfold in real time?”

Rook groaned, half-laughing. “Out. Out of my bubble.”

“I live for this bubble. I practically knit it a cozy.”

With a fond roll of her eyes, Rook gave her a light shove with her hip and made her way to the back kitchen. “I’m working on the dessert of the day. Try not to combust while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Bellara called after her brightly. “But I’ll make sure the music’s romantic enough to set the mood when he walks in.”

“You’re insufferable!”

“And you’re smitten!”

Rook disappeared behind the curtain with a muttered “Andraste give me strength,” but her smile lingered long after the kitchen door swung shut.

The morning passed in a soft rhythm of clinking teacups, warm scones, and idle chatter drifting between customers. Bellara manned the front counter with practiced ease, occasionally sending Rook a knowing grin.

But Rook remained composed.

She was elbow-deep in lemon custard preparation when the bell above the front door chimed. Selara Lavellan stepped into the tea shop with the effortless grace of someone born to command attention, even without asking for it. Her shoulder-length hair—waves of stormy grey—framed a face as striking as it was serene, all sun-warmed tan and sapphire-blue eyes that missed nothing.

She wore a long, charcoal wool coat belted at the waist, its sharp lines softened by the drape of a sapphire cashmere pullover beneath. Fitted trousers tucked into polished boots gave her the look of a noblewoman dressing down with intention. Silver rings caught the morning light when she removed her gloves, her expression warm as her gaze swept the familiar space.

Bellara poked her head into the kitchen. “You’ve got company.”

Rook raised a brow. “If it’s another delivery, tell them to leave it by the door.”

“It’s not a delivery,” Bellara said, smirking. “It’s family.”

Rook’s eyes widened. She wiped her hands on a towel and stepped into the front just as those piercing eyes landed on Rook, they lit up with unmistakable affection, “Still letting Spite roam the counter like he owns the place, I see.”

“Seri!” Rook lit up, a grin breaking across her face as she crossed the shop floor. “What are you doing here?”

Selara embraced her with the warmth of someone who had been away too long. “I just got back into Minrathous and figured I should check in on my favorite sister-in-law before Solas gets the chance to monopolize me.”

Rook chuckled. “You’re always welcome, but wow—no phone call. No souvenirs.”

Selara shrugged with her usual grace. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Bellara had the decency to step aside, already grabbing a clean teacup for their guest. “I’ll go prep a pot.”

As Rook guided Selara to a cozy table by the window, Spite hopped up onto the sill beside them like the self-appointed supervisor he was.

“I see he’s still dramatic,” Selara noted with affection, giving the cat a slow blink of greeting.

“He’s been better lately,” Rook said, settling in. “But enough about him—how was Orlais?”

“The usual,” Selara replied, waving a hand. “Gilded nonsense, theatrics, and the classic dance of smiles and concealed daggers. But enough about my dull job—how are you?”

Before Rook could shrug and say not much had changed, Bellara—unable to contain her excitement—blurted out, “Rook went on a date last night!”

“Bellara!”

Bellara promptly retreated to the sink, pretending to focus on the dishes while avoiding the glare Rook shot her way.

Selara raised a brow, a smirk already forming. “A date?”

“Yes, I went on a date,” Rook admitted, dragging out the words, “but you don’t need to know about it… yet.”

Selara leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “My own sister-in-law goes on a date and won’t give me the scandalous details? I’m wounded.”

“You two are insufferable.”

“Oh please. You love us. Now spill.”

Rook hesitated. “If I tell you… could you not tell Solas?”

Selara tilted her head. “You don’t want him to know?”

“I just don’t want him to know yet,” Rook said, her voice quieter now. “It’s still new, and… I don’t want to screw it up by involving them in my mess. Not yet anyway.”

Selara’s teasing softened at the look on Rook’s face—uneasy, uncertain. If she was this nervous about Solas finding out, maybe it really did mean something.

“Rook, you are not a mess,” Selara said, her voice firm but warm. “You’ve come so far these last three years. Solas and I are both proud of you.”

Rook scoffed, the sound soft but sharp. “Sure. Proud enough to only visit when I’m not a flight risk.”

Selara gave her a look—equal parts sympathy and mild rebuke. “He just… worries.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” Rook muttered. “Just… please don’t tell him.”

Selara reached out and squeezed her hand, thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. “Alright,” she said, a small smile returning. “But I still want details about this mystery person.”

Even as the conversation shifted, Selara felt the pinch in her chest. It always stung, seeing the distance between Rook and Solas—a gap neither seemed able to bridge, no matter how much they clearly cared. She loved them both, and it wasn’t her place to force the healing, but she quietly held on to hope. Maybe, with time and patience, they’d find a way to close that space. She’d be there when they did.

Rook took a steadying breath. “They’re a regular at the shop. They asked me out, and I said yes. And… it was the most romantic date I’ve ever been on.”

Her cheeks flushed faintly. “They’re older, but it doesn’t bother me.”

Selara smiled. “Are they kind?”

“To the point that it’s almost unbearably sweet.”

“Then they sound wonderful. What do they do?”

“They’re a professor at Minrathous University,” Rook said, glancing down with a shy sort of pride.

Selara arched a brow. “Oh? Would I happen to know them?”

“I don’t know… maybe. Dorian does.”

Selara tucked away the mention of Dorian with quiet curiosity, filing it behind the glimmer of Rook’s flushed smile. She didn’t press—just let the conversation drift back into easy rhythms, teasing and laughter stitched between updates and memories.

As their visit wound down and Selara reached for her coat, Rook called out, “Wait—before you go.”

Selara paused, one brow arched.

Rook disappeared behind the counter for a moment, then returned with a small tea tin in hand. The metal gleamed softly under the shop’s amber lighting, and a simple label had been carefully scrawled across the front: Sunbrew.

Selara blinked in surprise. “You don’t have to keep making this for me, you know.”

“I want to,” Rook said, pressing the tin into her hands. “It’s your honorary blend. Besides—it's how I say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For melting my brother’s frosty exterior,” she replied, lips curving. “You’re the only one who’s ever managed it without setting something on fire.”

Selara laughed, then pulled her into a hug—tight, warm, and full of silent affection.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she murmured. Then, after a beat, her voice softened into something quieter, more sincere. “Truthfully? You’re the best part of being married to your brother.”

Rook blinked, her cheeks flushed. Her chest tightened—just a little—but the warmth of it settled deep.

“You don’t have to say that,” she said, voice just above a whisper.

“I know,” Selara replied, pulling back enough to meet her eyes. “But I mean it.”

Rook hugged her back, her smile softening. “I know.”

She’d always considered Selara more than just family by marriage. From the very beginning, Selara had treated her like a true sister—steady, kind, and grounding in all the ways Rook hadn’t realized she needed. There was a quiet, motherly charm to her too, a warmth that Rook had often taken comfort in during the lonelier seasons of her life.

Solas was lucky. For all his walls and quiet storms, he’d found someone like Selara—and Rook knew he knew it. The two of them were happy in their own way, even if Rook didn’t always understand it.

Her own relationship with Solas may have been strained, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be glad for him. And she was. Because Selara was his happiness—and that made her family, in the truest sense of the word.

When the door finally swung closed behind her sister-in-law, a breeze slipping in with the clink of bells, Rook lingered for a moment in the quiet.

Her smile faded, not into sadness, but into that pensive space where nerves liked to fester. The thought of Solas finding out about Emmrich still made her stomach twist. It wasn’t shame—it was fear. Fear that the fragile, glowing thing between her and Emmrich might shatter under scrutiny.

But she trusted Selara. And for now… that would be enough.

She shook off the worry with a practiced breath, squared her shoulders, and turned back toward the counter.

There was tea to blend, orders to fill, and a day still ahead of her.

And if her thoughts drifted now and then to a certain professor’s smile, well… she wasn’t about to apologize for that either.

The sun had dipped early, casting the streets in the quiet hush of evening. Most shops had shuttered for the night, and even the usual bustle of foot traffic had softened to a lull. Bellara had reluctantly gone home an hour ago, muttering something about overdue reading and assignments—such was the life of a graduate student.

Rook was in the final stretch of her closing routine, focused on finishing the prep for tomorrow’s dessert of the day. The scent of sugar and citrus hung in the air, and the faint hum of a late-night jazz playlist drifted from the corner speaker.

It wasn’t until she heard the soft chime of the front door that she paused. Poking her head out from the kitchen, she half-expected to find Spite teasing her by playing with the bell again.

Instead, her breath caught.

Standing just inside the doorway was her favorite professor.

Emmrich still wore his university attire—dark slacks and a crisp button-down, his coat folded neatly over one arm. His collar was slightly loosened, and his expression… lighter than usual. As if some of the setting sun had followed him in, tucked beneath his ribs and caught in the corners of his smile.

Rook grinned. “I’d come over to hug you, but I’m currently covered in sugar and orange zest.”

He returned the smile easily. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“Never. Just baking prep. Hold on—don’t go. I’m nearly done.”

“May I ask what confection is in the works tonight?”

“Blood orange madeleines. With cardamom,” she replied over her shoulder.

She poured the glaze into a small mason jar and slid the lidded bowl of batter into the fridge. After transferring her tools to the sink and giving her hands a thorough wash, she tugged off her apron and tossed it into the laundry hamper tucked beside the pantry.

When she emerged, Emmrich was seated at the bar counter, patiently waiting. His gaze found her instantly, and the quiet affection in it made her pause.

She sighed, a little breathless from the warmth of the moment. “Hi.”

“Hello there,” he said, voice low and fond.

Rook crossed the space between them and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. He caught her gently, circling his arms around her waist and guiding her into a kiss—slow and sure—his lips brushing hers with familiar reverence.

Then, with his mouth close to her ear, he murmured, “I missed you.”

She let out a small laugh, hands resting against his chest. “It’s only been a day since we last saw each other.”

“And it was already too long.”

“Sweet talker.”

Her fingers found the skull pin on his lapel, the gold catching in the amber light. She traced it absentmindedly before glancing up at him.

“So…” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “I deciphered your floral message after you dropped me off.”

“Oh?” he asked, feigning innocence with a slight tilt of his head.

She let her arms slide up and around his shoulders, drawing herself in until they were chest to chest. Her mouth hovered near his ear, her breath warm and sweet with citrus.

“Was it your intention to give me a bouquet that read like a love letter?” She whispered, coy and amused.

“I’ve been caught.” His smile was boyish, almost sheepish. “I hope it wasn’t too much.”

Rook drew back just enough to meet his eyes, her arms still resting lightly around his neck. “No,” she said, softer now. “I loved them. I’m just… not used to it.”

“You’ve never received flowers before?”

“I have, but only in get-well-soon bundles or congratulatory gifts. Never like that. Never in a romantic sense.” She hesitated, the words catching slightly in her throat. “This is kind of… my first real relationship.”

His brows lifted slightly, not in surprise or judgment, but quiet curiosity.

“It is?” he asked gently.

Rook gave a quick nod.

“Don’t get me wrong—I’m not exactly a virgin or anything. I’ve had… intimate moments. But they were never really defined. Never built to last. Mostly fleeting things that didn’t mean very much.”

Her voice trailed off, and something in her posture changed—just slightly. Her arms remained around his shoulders, but her gaze dipped toward the countertop, lashes low. The flush in her cheeks wasn’t from teasing anymore. It was uncertainty—hesitation, blooming quietly.

“I guess I’m not great at this part,” she said softly.

Embarrassment curled in her chest. The last thing Rook wanted was for Emmrich to think she was flippant or unserious about them. She was serious. She wanted this—him. But everything about a relationship like this felt new and unfamiliar, and though she knew communication mattered, a flicker of panic kept her from meeting his eyes.

She glanced at him, then quickly away. “And now I’m probably overexplaining like an idiot. I don’t want you to think I don’t take this seriously, or that I’ve been too—too—”

“Too what?” Emmrich asked gently, his voice cutting through the fog of her spiraling thoughts like sunlight through morning mist.

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “Too casual. Too late to the game. I didn’t want to be categorized as the non-committal type.”

There was a long, still pause.

Then Emmrich reached for her hand—not to pull or reassure with a flourish, but simply to hold it. His fingers closed around hers with calm intent. Warm, steady. No pressure. Just presence.

When she looked up, he was already watching her with an expression so full of understanding that it dissolved the panic in her chest.

Then he spoke with quiet conviction.

“You’re not too anything, Evara. And there’s nothing you need to prove.”

Her throat tightened, the sincerity in his voice striking deeper than she expected.

Emmrich gently lifted her hand, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I meant what I said last night—I want to know you, in whatever capacity you’re willing to share.”

Rook’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I just don’t want to screw this up.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Perish the thought, my dear.”

This man was the most precious thing Rook had ever encountered—his kindness, his sincerity, it made her heart ache in the gentlest way. She wanted to show him just how much his words meant, how deeply they settled into her. Because even if it felt too soon, she could feel herself falling for him.

Instead, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was slower this time, more deliberate. Less giddy, more reverent. The warmth of his hands around hers, the tenderness of his gaze—it all pushed past her lingering nerves and left only certainty. She deepened the kiss, letting it say everything her fumbling words had failed to.

Emmrich responded in kind. His hand released hers only to curl around her waist, pulling her flush against him. When she didn’t pull away, when her fingers slid into the back of his hair and tugged him closer, he stood and gently guided her onto the barstool behind her, stepping in between her legs.

The kiss grew hungrier—not rushed, but undeniably fervent. When she brushed her lips against his a second time, slower now, savoring the closeness, he tilted her chin with a feather-light touch. He coaxed her mouth open with a soft press of his thumb against her chin, the gesture smooth and assured. She let him in without hesitation.

Their tongues met—curious at first, then bolder, learning each other’s rhythm like a dance meant to be memorized in heartbeat and breath. It wasn’t desperate, but it burned low and steady, stoked by every sigh, every inch closed between them.

Rook’s breath caught in her throat. Her thighs tightened slightly around his hips, one hand gripping the lapel of his coat, the other still tangled in his hair. Emmrich's hands roamed her waist, lingering at the curve of her back, reverent in every motion like he was touching something fragile and beloved.

They parted only when the need for air made itself undeniable.

Foreheads pressed together, both of them breathless, their smiles curved and helpless.

Rook opened her mouth to say something—maybe tease him, maybe thank him—but was immediately interrupted by a sudden, jingle-jangle-chime!

The shop doorbell rang with a sharp, chaotic twang, followed by a suspicious thump.

They both froze.

A beat passed. Then another.

Emmrich slowly turned his head, just in time to see a flash of black fur darting past the threshold.

Spite.

The cat had leapt up and pawed at the decorative bell on the doorframe, successfully derailing their moment with all the grace of a trained saboteur. Now he sauntered across the floor with deliberate smugness, tail high.

Rook buried her face in Emmrich’s shoulder, groaning into the fabric of his coat.

“That little demon,” she muttered.

Emmrich chuckled softly, the sound warm against her ear. “He has impeccable timing.”

Still pressed to him, Rook exhaled a shaky breath. “One day, he’s going to do this while we’re alone and I won’t be held responsible for what I yell.”

Emmrich smiled against her hair. “I won’t hold it against you.”

They remained like that for a moment longer—his hands gently grounding her, her fingers still curled near his collar. Eventually, they both stepped back, flushed but smiling, affection radiating between them in quiet waves.

Rook took one look at Emmrich’s hair and bit back a smirk.

His carefully coifed locks were now charmingly disheveled—an undeniable testament to her hands being where they probably shouldn't have been for that long in public. She reached up instinctively, brushing through the strands with the tips of her fingers, trying to tame the waves into something closer to order.

“Sorry,” she murmured, not sounding sorry at all.

He let her fuss, eyes half-lidded and warm. “No need to apologize. I rather enjoyed the cause.”

That earned him a playful eye roll, but her cheeks remained pink as she stepped back.  Spite, now seated imperiously on the countertop, let out a sharp mrrrow of judgment.

Rook shot him a look. “I regret giving you a fancy breakfast.”

Emmrich straightened her blouse, brushing off a dusting of flour from her sleeve. She wrinkled her nose at the gesture, swatting at his hand with mock indignation, but he only laughed quietly and brushed one last curl from her face.

When both were satisfied with their restored appearances—more or less—they moved through the shop in unspoken tandem, finishing the closing routine with practiced ease. Rook dimmed the lanterns. Emmrich turned the front lock with a soft click. And Spite, ever the gremlin-turned-gremlin-prince, hopped into Rook’s open satchel without fuss, curling up atop her folded shawl like it was a throne.

Outside, the night air had cooled further, the late autumn breeze brushing gently against their cheeks. Streetlamps cast long shadows across cobbled alleys and rooftops dusted faintly with frost. The city was quieter now, wrapped in its evening hush.

Emmrich reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. Rook squeezed his hand in return, her thumb brushing against the edge of one of his rings. They walked like that—close, quiet, content.

The walk back to Rook’s apartment was quiet, not from lack of things to say, but from the kind of contentment that didn’t need to fill every silence. Emmrich’s hand was warm in hers, fingers laced securely, while Spite was curled up in her satchel like a loaf of satisfaction.

The city’s chill had softened under the street lamps’ amber glow, casting their joined shadows long and close. Rook glanced sideways at him, her smile curling slowly.

“So,” she began, voice light, “should I expect all your flower photos to be secret love letters from now on?”

Emmrich blinked, clearly caught—but delightfully so. A faint flush crept into his cheeks, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he glanced at her.

“You’ve discovered my scheme,” he murmured, mock-serious. “I suppose I’ll have to be more subtle next time.”

“Oh no,” she said, nudging his arm. “I quite like decoding them. It’s like a private game.”

“A dangerous one,” he said softly, his tone curling with affection. “You’ll start expecting poems next.”

Rook’s grin widened. “Is that next in your itinerary of courtship?”

“Is it too corny?”

“I dunno, I’ll have to hear one to know.”

Emmrich raised a brow in surprise to that answer and smiled at her openness to his advances. They fell into step again, the silence now threaded with shared warmth. After a beat, Rook’s tone shifted to something more casual—casual in that practiced way that still gave her away.

“So, I was thinking… for our next date—would you be interested in something a little quieter?”

He tilted his head, curious. “Quieter how?”

“There’s a space above the tea shop,” she explained. “A loft. It’s cozy, private… I thought maybe you could come by on Saturday when I close. I could make us dinner. We could watch a movie, or talk… maybe do other things.”

Emmrich’s expression softened into something profoundly fond.

“That sounds delightful,” he said, without hesitation.

Her heart fluttered. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “I’d be honored to enjoy your cooking. Even more so to spending the evening with you.”

Their pace slowed as they reached her door. Neither of them seemed eager to let go, and for a moment, they simply stood there—hands still intertwined, hearts quietly humming. Rook tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting in the lamplight.

“So… Saturday,” she said.

“Saturday,” he echoed, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

He leaned in first, pressing a soft kiss to her lips that lingered just enough to make her forget the cold air. When he drew back, she stayed close, brushing her nose against his with a breathless little smile. Then he kissed her again, slower, with the kind of reverence that made her toes curl in her boots.

When they finally parted, Rook gave his hand one last squeeze and stepped back. “Good night, Emmrich.”

He smiled as he retreated, voice low. “Good night, Evara.”

As she slipped inside and leaned against the door with a dreamy exhale, bouquet still perched on her coffee table like a memory brought to life, one thought repeated in her head like a quiet, giddy confession.

She was in so much trouble.

And she absolutely couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

The days that followed passed in a kind of golden haze.

There were no grand declarations, no dramatic upheavals. Just small, enchanting things: late-night text messages filled with floral photos and half-teasing, half-sincere captions; handwritten notes Rook scrawled on Emmrich’s to-go cups—To my favorite necromancer scribbled above the sleeve one morning, a tiny sketch of a skull beneath it.

Sometimes, he lingered at the shop long after the tea had gone cold, walking her home beneath the Minrathous twilight. She never minded when he took her hand. He never minded when she laced their fingers tighter.

It was unhurried. Private. Giddy in a quiet sort of way.

Which was why Emmrich, despite his best efforts, stood in the department lab this morning doing everything short of humming while ankle-deep in crate dust and misplaced bones.

“You’re humming,” Myrna said flatly, not looking up from her checklist. “And you don’t hum.”

“I’m not humming.”

“You’re thinking about humming,” she amended, flipping a tray lid. “Which is still suspicious.”

They were elbows-deep in pre-lecture prep: matching skeletal remains to enchanted labels, dusting off sigils, checking for signs of decay enchantment drift. Most of it was rote work, but today Emmrich was noticeably… lighter. Not quite floating. But close.

“Well, someone’s missing a fibula,” Myrna muttered, leaning half into the storage cabinet with a clipboard clutched in one hand and her ponytail in the other. “And if I find it in one of the display skulls again, I swear on Andraste’s brittle patience—”

“They can’t hear you,” Emmrich said mildly, scratching a note beside his own list. “And even if they could, I doubt they'd care.”

“They’d care if I used them as examples of incorrect anatomical filing,” she grumbled.

Emmrich spared a glance toward the cabinets, where the better part of three full cadaver sets were arranged for this afternoon’s advanced necromantic articulation lecture. Bones rested on velvet-lined trays, each tagged and enchanted with minor preservative glyphs. A few of the joints emitted faint rattles if you passed by too quickly, as if protesting being disturbed after decades in academic slumber.

“Femur pair 12B is mismatched,” Myrna said, flipping over a label. “One’s human, one’s qunari. That’s not subtle.”

“I believe that was deliberate,” Emmrich replied, tone drier than aged bone. “Last year’s students mixed them during a demonstration on proportional reconstruction. Someone thought it was funny.”

“They’re getting cocky,” she said with a sigh, scribbling an annotation. “Probably that loudmouth from Halamshiral.”

“Which one?”

“Exactly.”

Before Emmrich could reply, a familiar voice rang out just beyond the open door—carrying all the theatrical timing of someone who knew how to make an entrance.

“Ah, good,” Dorian Pavus declared, his voice like honey steeped in sarcasm. “I was afraid I’d have to check the crypts or the lecture halls before finding you I do hope you’re not busy—I come with a question.”

Myrna straightened where she stood, lips twitching. “If you’re here to borrow bones again, it’s Emmrich’s turn to say no.”

“Oh, not today,” Dorian replied breezily. “Today, I bring questions of a personal nature. You see, a friend of mine let slip something quite fascinating.”

Emmrich didn’t look up. “Dorian we are currently preparing for today’s lab.”

Dorian’s grin sharpened. “How cold. Especially considering the subject: a date. You went on one—and somehow, I wasn’t the first to know.”

That made Myrna pause, her brows climbing slowly as she turned toward Emmrich. “Wait. You went on a date?”

Finally, Emmrich lifted his gaze, his face a picture of stoicism—betrayed only by the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I wasn’t aware my personal life required a department-wide bulletin.”

Dorian gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “You wound me. After all we’ve shared—I thought I at least earned an exclusive.”

Myrna gave Emmrich a sidelong look, more curious now than amused. “You’ve been in higher spirits than usual, professor,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “Grinning at your takeaway cups. Paying special attention to your phone in-between lectures.”

“There is nothing wrong,” Emmrich said dryly, “with the occasional glance at one’s personal device.”

Undeterred, Dorian strolled to the lab table and leaned against it, ignoring the scattered femurs and glyph tags. “And to think I had to hear it from someone else—a little bird at the Veil & Vine told me you were making moon-eyes at the owner. She assumed I already knew. Imagine my horror, Emmrich. My shame.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Emmrich replied, tone clipped. “You’re still ahead of the faculty senate.”

“Not comforting.”

Myrna blinked. “You’re seeing Rook?”

Emmrich rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was fast becoming a more theatrical ordeal than he had anticipated.

It wasn’t as if he had been trying to keep his relationship with Rook a secret. Truthfully, until that day, he hadn’t been entirely sure if their single—albeit wonderful—date was enough to consider them truly in a relationship. Dating had changed since his earlier years. There were casual arrangements, open partnerships, situationships, even “sugar daddies.” The lines had blurred so much, it was hard to know where anyone stood.

That’s why he’d been quietly elated when Rook clarified that they were, in fact, exclusive.

It wasn’t that Emmrich wanted to keep Rook a secret—he just preferred to enjoy their time quietly, before the inevitable onslaught of gossip found them.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was fast becoming a more theatrical ordeal than he had anticipated.

Dorian, however, looked delighted. “Yes! Thank you, Myrna. Finally, someone reacts appropriately. Now, tell me everything. When did it start? I need to beat Selara to the details.”

Myrna actually snorted.

Emmrich turned away, his hands suddenly very invested in reorganizing a spinal column. “You’re both being terribly unprofessional.”

Myrna elbowed him lightly. “He’s not going to stop until you give him something.”

Casting a glance at his colleague—who was now grinning like a cat with cream—Emmrich let out a breath and said, quietly, still facing the specimen tray, “Yes. I’m seeing Rook. It’s early—we’ve only been on one date. But we’re planning to see each other again.”

Dorian practically beamed. “Oh my. A second date!”

“I would prefer,” Emmrich said, voice even, “that we be allowed to enjoy our privacy, rather than become the latest subject of faculty speculation.”

Dorian raised both hands in a gesture of peace. “Fair, fair.”

Myrna’s tone shifted, gentler now. “Is there someone in the faculty who… shouldn’t find out?”

Emmrich didn’t answer immediately, just gave Dorian a meaningful look.

Dorian’s expression softened, understanding passing between them. “…She hasn’t told you about him yet?”

“No, but I was able to make the connection. I’m waiting for her to tell me herself.”

Dorian gave a small, approving nod. “Good man.”

Then, with a final satisfied sigh, he pushed off the lab table and dusted off his coat. “Well then. I’ll leave you two to your cadavers and clandestine romances. I do not want to be the last to know again.”

The door shut with a cheerful clink as Dorian departed, his presence leaving behind the faint scent of expensive cologne and stirred air—like a well-dressed hurricane.

Emmrich exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “He truly knows how to turn a quiet afternoon into an opera.”

The lab fell into blessed silence. For a beat.

Then Myrna hummed thoughtfully, clipboard in hand. “So… a second date, hmm?”

He shot her a sideways look, the faintest flush beginning to creep up his neck. “Myrna.”

She grinned, utterly unrepentant. “I’m just saying, you have been in a better mood lately. It’s sweet. Alarming, but sweet.”

“I am still your superior,” he said, voice dry as bone dust.

“You have a love life,” she sing-songed under her breath, returning to her clipboard with barely contained mirth.

Emmrich cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and gestured toward the specimen tray. “Perhaps we could return to cataloging the vertebrae before you inspire another unauthorized gossip bulletin.”

Myrna offered a casual salute. “Yes, professor.”

But as she turned back to the task, that grin remained—just a little knowing, just a little smug—and Emmrich, despite himself, couldn't quite smother the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Rook unlocked the vine-draped door at the back of the shop and stepped into the stairwell, Spite already bounding ahead like a shadow with opinions. The faint ward behind her shimmered back into place, cloaking the entrance from any curious eyes. As she ascended, the sounds of the street faded beneath her, replaced by the hush of her own sanctuary.

The loft greeted her with the low warmth of pendant lights and the earthy scent of dried herbs that lingered in the walls—remnants of spellwork and countless tea blends. She set her keys on the hook beside the door and kicked off her boots, exhaling as she moved deeper into the space.

Where the shop below buzzed with enchantment and customers, the loft breathed in slow, grounding rhythms. Exposed brick and matte green walls wrapped around her like a familiar shawl. Books were still piled beside the couch, a folded blanket draped over one arm. Spite immediately leapt onto his throne, his tail flicking once as he claimed the highest perch of the cat tree with all the dignity of an emperor returning to court.

“I see you’ve missed it,” Rook murmured, pulling her hair into a messy twist. “Don’t knock anything over tonight.”

He chirped in reply—noncommittal, which didn’t bode well.

She set down her satchel and crossed into the kitchenette, where she flicked on the small kettle rune and pulled out one of the lavender mugs. Tonight wasn’t about tea prep or case files, though she did have those on her list. Tonight was about maintenance. Soft, ordinary things.

Laundry.

Inventory.

Maybe update the ledgers if she got ambitious.

She moved through the loft with ease, sliding open the tall cabinet near the hallway to reveal the washer-dryer unit. The basket beside it was already half-full with shop aprons and the usual scattering of socks and hand towels. With practiced efficiency, she sorted and loaded the washer, the low hum beginning behind her like a heartbeat. As the machine spun, she padded back toward her office and pulled open the supply drawer, already making mental notes of what needed restocking—detergent, spare toiletries, oat milk for the weekend, probably another bag of flour if she planned on baking again.

By the time the second laundry cycle started, Rook had kicked open every window in the loft to let the winter air roll through, brisk and cleansing. She didn’t mind the cold. It kept her focused—and besides, the warmth of the loft returned quickly enough with a flick of the enchantment runes.

Spite had made full use of the space in her wake, leaping from armrest to windowsill to cat tower like he was performing a one-man ballet. He paused only to dramatically survey the room from his throne before giving a slow blink of approval. Rook rolled her eyes, amused.

“Glad it meets your standards, your highness.”

With the sheets stripped and aired, the bathroom scrubbed, and the couch blankets freshened, Rook took a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of sage and brick-dust and chamomile that clung to the space. The loft felt clean again. Ready.

Which meant so was she—at least on the surface.

She moved into the kitchenette and threw together a quick dinner: toasted rye, soft cheese, pickled carrots, and a runny fried egg seasoned with cracked pepper and sumac. She ate perched at the counter with one leg drawn up on the stool, flicking through her phone between bites. A new photo from Emmrich waited—this one a blue anemone poking through a bed of frost, with a caption that simply read: Resilience.

Rook smiled, warmth prickling behind her sternum.

“A romantic through and through,” she muttered, cheeks warming as she stared at the photo a moment longer—her thumb hovering above the screen.

Rook tapped out a reply before she could overthink it.

Rook: That’s not fair. Now I wish I got to walk home with you tonight.

Emmrich: I’m sure that we can survive one night without seeing each other.

Rook: What’re you up to this evening?

Emmrich: At the present, dealing with poor organization of our skeletal cadavers.

(image attached: rows of mismatched bones and large plastic containers.)

Emmrich: I’ve had to enlist the help of the grad students in the name of extra credit.

Rook: Bribery? How shameful, professor.

Emmrich: It’s all for the greater good. It’s practically madness here.

Rook: So you have a skeleton crew tonight?

Emmrich: My dear, did you just make a pun?

Rook: Why? Did you find it humerus?

As soon as she sent that text message, Rook began to cringe at her joke and wished that she could unsend that message. Oh gods why did she send that message?!

She stared at her screen, face in her hands, mortified at her own attempt at humor. Why did she say that? It sounded so much better in her head. Now he probably thought she was a disaster with a pun problem.

She began to do damage control to save her little blunder.

Rook: …Okay that one was corny. I’m going to stop now.

Emmrich: Stop now? But you were doing so well.

Rook: Emmrich you don’t need to indulge my terrible humor.

Emmrich: On the contrary, I’d say you have a grave talent, truly. I’d say you’ve got a knack for funny bone manipulation.

She laughed aloud, cheeks warm, pressing her face into the crook of her arm. Spite blinked at her from his perch atop the cat tree, unimpressed by the mirth or the puns. He gave a disapproving mrrp from the cat tree.

Rook: Maker preserve me, I shouldn’t be laughing at this.

Emmrich: I should return to my work. The grad students and Myrna are starting to be suspicious.

Rook: Try not to stay up too late.

Emmrich: The same to you.

Rook just grinned and set her phone aside. She sat curled on the navy couch, her legs tucked beneath her and a half-drunk mug of lavender tea resting on the windowsill beside her. The loft had quieted to a soft hum—lights dimmed to a golden glow, the faint crackle of the fireplace filling the silence. Spite was fast asleep in his perch, tail flicking occasionally, blissfully unaware that his human’s night was far from over.

After rinsing her plate and leaving it to dry, she padded to the entryway, scooping up the satchel and setting it on the dining table. A flick of her fingers unraveled the ward seal. Neve hadn’t been urgent when she’d handed off the files, but the look in her eyes had said enough: this wasn’t routine. Whatever lingered in those manila folders, it was something that warranted attention—and discretion.

She hadn’t looked at it yet—not properly.  

Rook set out the folders in a neat row, fingers tapping briefly against the tabletop. The pages inside smelled faintly of arcane ink, copied glyph rubbings, and smoke. A field agent’s scrawl dominated the margins—Neve’s notes, marked with green ink and clean strokes.

She grabbed a pen and a fresh notepad, then sat down, spine straightening as she shed the softness of the evening. The tea shop owner gave way to the operative. She tucked her hair behind her ears and opened the first folder.

It began with a map. Central Minrathous, its veins of alleys and waterways etched with precision. Several points were circled in green, each marked with a set of glyphs and a shorthand date stamp. At first glance, the disappearances looked sporadic. But as Rook traced the arcs with her pen, a pattern began to whisper beneath the surface.

The frequency… it looked random. Only it wasn’t.

Each victim was last seen somewhere between dusk and early morning, often alone, often in transit. No pattern to age, gender, or race—just timing and location. That was what struck her. The circles weren’t random. They pulsed outward from a center point near the old Aqueduct Junction—a defunct zone mostly left alone after the flooding years back.

She flipped to the corresponding photo set, skimming past Neve’s margin notes: “No witnesses. Low-profile individuals. Not political targets. Pattern disruption possible.”

There were no recovered bodies in the disappearance set, but the second folder changed that.

Bodies had turned up—drained, carved, and ritualized. Rook braced herself as she slid the glossy prints into the light. The victims were laid out in deliberate poses, arms extended, glyphs scorched or slashed around them like failed spellwork or partially completed circles. Their skin bore long, shallow cuts—not designed to kill quickly, but to bleed. Completely.

She exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to keep looking. Her hand found her pen and began scribbling: Clean drain. Blood rites. Glyph suppression. No blood left behind. Minimal magical residue. Scorch marks—Venatori signature likely.

One photo chilled her more than the others. A faint spiral, etched in ash at the foot of one body. Not a circle. A spiral, fractured down the middle. She’d seen that before. During an Order inquiry into a cult offshoot tied to Venatori remnants after the war.

That symbol meant convergence.

If it was truly Venatori, then someone was trying to invoke something old. And dangerous.

She reached back for the map and traced the radius again. Neve hadn’t marked it out precisely, but Rook pulled a fresh page from her pad and began sketching. The incidents were evenly spread—ritualistically so. She marked each incident with a small black X and connected the dots, drawing a loose circle around the incidents. When viewed like this, it almost looked like someone was establishing a perimeter.

A blood circle.

Her jaw tightened. This warranted a call from Neve.

Rook grabbed her phone and hit Neve’s number without hesitation. It rang once, then again—before a click sounded and Neve’s voice came through, sharp and dry as ever.

“A late-night call? Let me guess—you finally opened the files.”

“I did,” Rook said, her tone low but tense. “And I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

A beat of silence followed, then the soft rustle of movement on Neve’s end.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s Venatori, for sure. Or someone copying their pattern. The blood drain is textbook, the slashes too. The bodies were staged to look like ritual prep, but the location pattern—it’s not just random snatches. There’s a radius.”

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be without catching them mid-act. And if the pattern holds, they’re circling something.”

Neve cursed under her breath. “How many locations?”

“Six confirmed. Maybe more if we dig deeper.”

“We?” Neve asked, dryly. “I thought you weren’t part of this.”

“Old habit,” Rook muttered. “Tell Ashur and Tarquin to look into the radius. My guess? There’s a base set up inside it. Worst case—they’re using the sewer system.”

“You got a map of the spread?”

“I’ll send you pictures. You’ll see the pattern once you know where to look.”

Neve’s voice softened, just a fraction. “This helps. Thanks, Rook.”

“Hey, Neve?” Rook said after a pause, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah?”

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the soft crackle of the call.

“Keep me in the loop on this one. This case looks like trouble.”

Neve didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice had dropped a register. Calmer. Slower.

“You sure?” she asked, not sharp, but steady—like someone trying not to spook a cornered animal. “You’re not with the Dragons anymore, Rook. You don’t owe this to anyone.”

“I know,” Rook murmured. Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the desk. “But something about this… it’s crawling under my skin. And if it is the Venatori—if they’re gearing up for something—then I’d rather be involved than regret sitting it out.”

Neve exhaled softly. “That doesn’t sound like confidence.”

“It’s not,” Rook admitted, her throat tight. “But I’ll be okay.”

Neve didn’t push, but Rook could hear the hesitation in the breath she held.

“Okay,” Neve said finally. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thanks,” Rook whispered.

“…Just don’t go solo on this, yeah?”

“I won’t.”

Another pause. Then Neve’s voice, lighter—but only slightly.

“And if you do, at least text me so I can yell at you in real time.”

That earned a faint smile from Rook. “Deal.”

The call ended, and Rook sat in the hush that followed, her phone still in hand. That familiar buzz of tension hummed beneath her skin—a low, restless current that always surfaced when something was wrong. Once upon a time, she used to chase that feeling. It meant she was onto something. It meant lives could be saved if she just moved fast enough. Thought sharp enough. Fought hard enough.

Now, it just made her feel… tired.

She reached for her mug, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. The scent of lavender rose to meet her, soft and herbal, curling around the edges of her thoughts. She took a slow sip and let the steam graze her cheek.

It helped. A little.

She wasn’t a Shadow Dragon anymore. The case was in Neve’s hands now—capable, relentless Neve, who would spearhead the investigation like a blade to the heart. That part of the world no longer belonged to Rook. She’d chosen something else. Something quieter.

Still, the feeling lingered, stitched into her shoulders and coiled in her spine.

But she breathed in the tea. Let the calm settle. Tomorrow would come with its own demands.

Tonight, she needed to rest.

She stood slowly, joints stiff from sitting too long, and crossed the loft with deliberate steps. The warmth from the enchantment runes had crept back into the space, brushing against her skin like a familiar shawl. It helped. A little.

Spite lifted his head as she passed the living room, his golden eyes blinking with lazy disapproval from the upper perch of his cat tree. He gave a quiet chirp, but didn’t bother moving. She paused just long enough to reach up and scratch between his ears, earning a slow blink and a rumbling purr before continuing down the hall.

The bedroom welcomed her with its usual quiet. She paused by the tall window, fingers brushing the chilled glass before pulling it closed. The city lights painted long shadows across the floor—Minrathous never quite slept, but up here, it felt like it tried. The curtains fell into place with a soft whisper.

She slipped out of her clothes and into comfort, tugging the blankets up to her shoulders as she settled into the mattress. The bed was warm from residual enchantments, the sheets smelling faintly of lavender detergent and well-worn comfort.

She curled into herself, eyes flicking once to the closed door—beyond it, the soft creaks and purring hush of the loft. The calm was there, waiting. Familiar. Earned.

And still, sleep didn’t come easily.

Her mind drifted—through flowers tucked into takeaway cups, into spiraled glyphs etched in ash. Through the way Emmrich’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. Through the faint chill of unease that hadn’t quite settled since opening Neve’s file.

She let out a soft sigh and stared up at the ceiling beams.

"Come on, Ingellvar," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the pillow. “That life’s behind you. Just breathe. Let it go. You’re safe now.”

The words floated into the stillness like a lullaby meant for someone else.

She didn’t quite believe them.

But she said them anyway.

And somewhere between the next inhale and the one after that, sleep finally came.

Chapter Text

The Loft smelled faintly of lemon balm, cinnamon polish, impending chaos, and the unmistakable beginnings of sugar and chocolate. Sunlight angled through the tall windows, pooling across the couch where Lace had dumped a basket of freshly folded blankets. The rune-sealed washer hummed in the background, nearly drowned out by the laughter drifting from the kitchen.

Rook stood barefoot on the cool stone floor, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a cleaning cloth in hand as she wiped down the last stretch of the counter. Her braid had long since unraveled into something softer—loose strands curling at her temples, the telltale sign of a morning spent scrubbing every reachable surface. From the glint in her eye, however, it was clear this wasn’t just any cleaning spree.

This was pre-date cleaning.

“Remind me again,” Lace called from across the loft, folding the last of the blankets with one foot nudging the closet door open, “why didn’t you do this last night?”

“Because I was mildly preoccupied with running a business and a side project,” Rook replied, ducking into the kitchenette.

Lace arched a brow. “Side project?”

Right on cue, Spite yowled from atop his cat tree, his tone suggesting grave neglect. Rook rolled her eyes.

“I’m making you a tart, you spoiled beast,” she muttered, reaching for the pastry tins.

Downstairs, the creak of the back door signaled company. Moments later, the muffled clatter of boots climbed the narrow staircase.

The door to the Loft opened with a soft click. Lucanis entered first, tall and composed, carrying two reusable bags like they were part of his silhouette. Davrin followed with markedly more flair, scarf tossed over one shoulder and a crooked grin already in place.

“Your dinner ingredients have arrived,” Davrin announced, his voice warm and amused. “And by the smell of it, Lace is putting in the real work.”

“Mm.” Lucanis set his bags down near the kitchenette, eyes sweeping the room in a quiet audit. “What’s left?”

“Dusting and food prep,” Rook replied, blowing a strand of hair from her face as she scrubbed the mantle.

Lace poked her head out of the hallway, feather duster in hand. “Tell me you brought snacks and not just groceries.”

“We did,” Davrin said. “Though if you wanted something already made, you’re out of luck. Rook’s baking them.”

Lace groaned. “Manual labor and delayed gratification. You wound me.”

“You’re being paid in chocolate,” Rook pointed out. “Your suffering is temporary.”

“And sweet,” Davrin added, grinning as he began unloading jars onto the counter. “Rather like you.”

Lucanis opened the fridge, inspecting its contents with an expression bordering on judgment. “Why didn’t you do this yesterday?”

“I was preoccupied,” Rook said, a little defensive.

Davrin raised an eyebrow. “Preparing for a romantic evening with a lucky professor, perhaps?”

Rook threw a kitchen towel at his head.

“Take your impure thoughts and go take out the trash. Your bribes are almost done.”

Lucanis passed her the bag of flour without comment, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “How much time do we have?”

“Two hours.”

“Plenty of time.”

The Loft had settled into a warm kind of quiet, the chaos of earlier replaced by the low lull of domestic contentment. Most of the cleaning was done—blankets tucked away, shelves dusted, surfaces gleaming under the late afternoon light.

Lace lounged across the navy couch, legs draped over Davrin’s lap as he sat beside her, both half-watching Spite chase the darting red gleam of a laser pointer with fierce, predatory delight. His paws batted at the floor with overdramatic flair, tail whipping as he pounced with the full gravity of a beast much larger than his actual size.

“You’d think we fed him sugar,” Lace muttered, lips twitching.

“Spite lives on pride and spite,” Davrin replied smoothly. “And today, apparently, light-based illusions.”

Rook barely heard them. She stood at the island, piping the last swirl of into the last row of dark chocolate tart shells. The smell alone—rich, nutty, and faintly sweet—hung warm and decadent in the air. The tart shells had cooled perfectly, the ganache had set smooth and glossy, and the cream was holding its peaks just as she’d hoped. She sprinkled the last touch of sugared chestnut crumbles, then stepped back to admire the tray.

At the stove, Lucanis moved with quiet precision, pouring hot water over fresh grounds. He wasn’t much for small talk, but the kettle’s gentle hiss filled the silence beside him. Two mugs were already lined up on the counter—black coffee for himself, oat latte for Rook and Davrin, tea steeping in a third for Lace. It wasn’t his job, exactly, but he moved through the Loft like someone who knew the rhythm already.

He set the press aside and glanced toward Rook. “You always bake this much when you’re nervous?”

She didn’t look up immediately. “I’m not nervous.”

Lucanis made a noncommittal noise.

Rook sighed, letting the piping bag fall lightly into the bowl. “Okay. Maybe a little. It’s just… been a while since I’ve done this kind of thing.”

He nodded once, no judgment in it. “You like him.”

“More than I care to admit,” she muttered, brushing a thumb along the edge of one tart shell.

Lucanis leaned his hip against the counter, folding his arms loosely. “From what Bellara disclosed in the chat and Neve looking up where he took you, I’d say that the man has good taste.”

She paused. “Yeah?”

“He asked you out didn’t he?”

“He did.”

A smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.

Lucanis took a slow sip of his coffee. “You’re ready. Even if you don’t think you are.”

Rook glanced at him, eyes softening. “Lucanis, you old softie.”

He shrugged, like it cost him nothing. “Just don’t burn the tarts.”

From the couch, Lace called, “They burn the tarts, we’re trashing the loft.”

Davrin chimed in, “Seconded.”

Rook rolled her eyes, but her shoulders eased as the laughter followed. The tension hadn’t vanished completely, but it was more manageable now—tucked beneath the scent of roasted coffee and chocolate, cushioned by the quiet presence of people who knew exactly how to hold space without making a fuss.

She picked up the tray, gave the tarts one last approving nod, and murmured, “Alright. I think we’re ready.”

Lucanis took the tray from her without a word and carried it to the small cooling rack. The moment the tray touched the cooling rack, the pack descended.

Lace swooped in first, already murmuring praises before her tart even reached her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled around her first bite, eyes fluttering shut. “Marry me.”

Davrin was right behind her. “Forget the professor, you can nab anyone with the treats alone.”

“You two are insufferable,” Rook replied, wiping her hands on a towel.

Spite, not to be forgotten, leapt from his perch and prowled over like a king demanding tribute. Rook bent down and presented his special tart—a modest one made of mashed pumpkin and sweet potato with a whisper of Ceylon cinnamon and catnip folded into the filling. The demon cat gave it a thorough sniff, then sat with regal approval before devouring it in dainty, purposeful bites.

Lucanis, slower than the others, took his tart without comment and leaned against the counter. He took a bite, chewed, and gave a faint nod of satisfaction.

“This one’s even better than the test batch,” he said simply. “Balanced. Cream’s lighter.”

Rook smiled, cheeks warm. “Thanks.”

“You sure you don’t want to be adopted?” Lace asked, holding her half-eaten tart aloft. “You could be our live-in pastry mage.”

“Tempting,” Rook said, already beginning to box the remaining tarts. “But I have a tea shop and a date to prepare for.”

Davrin took a second tart and leaned against the counter with a satisfied grin. “Make sure the professor knows he’s lucky man.”

“I’ll be sure to remind him,” Rook deadpanned as she slid two tarts into a separate container, setting it aside for Emmrich.

Lace polished off her tart and made a satisfied hum. “Alright, mission accomplished. Tarts delivered, cleaning finished, moral support executed.”

Davrin nodded. “We’re heroes.”

Lucanis merely stepped back toward the doorway, already pulling his coat over his shoulders. “We’ll get out of your way.”

Rook followed them toward the door, grateful but already eyeing the kitchen with the tight focus of a strategist plotting her next moves. “Thanks for the help, all of you. Seriously.”

“You’ll do fine,” Lucanis said over his shoulder.

“Kill him with charm,” Lace added, wiggling her fingers.

“Or tarts,” Davrin called as he descended the stairs. “Preferably both!”

The door shut behind them, and the Loft fell quiet. Rook leaned into the silence, her hands braced on the counter. It was warm now—sunlight pooling across spotless tile, the scent of roasted coffee still lingering. She let herself breathe. Just for a second. Then straightened. Dinner to make. Shower to take. Something casual to wear.

With one last glance around the room, she gave herself a single, curt nod.

The wine shop smelled of oak casks, spice, and old-world charm. Emmrich stood before the curated shelf of regional reds, one hand braced behind his back, the other lightly touching the neck of a bottle of Montepulciano. His eyes lingered on the label, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

Rook hadn’t told him what dinner would be—just that she had everything planned. He trusted her palate, of course, but it left him debating between a medium-bodied red or something lighter. Perhaps he should have brought both. Was that excessive?

His gaze drifted down the aisle toward the display of white wines, then returned to the modest Chianti with plum undertones and balanced acidity. Reliable. Friendly. A wine that wouldn’t overwhelm anything she might serve. But beside it sat a bottle of Montepulciano—deeper, smokier, something with a bit of boldness that reminded him, oddly, of the woman who had invited him.

He reached for both. Then paused. Holding two bottles suddenly felt excessive.

Was he overthinking it?

Probably.

He set one down, only to pick it back up, then shook his head at himself. If this kept up, he’d be late.

With a quiet sigh, he settled on the Chianti and tucked it under one arm, smoothing down the lapel of his coat. He glanced briefly at the wine shop’s floral corner—small arrangements meant for dinner tables or thoughtful tokens. A seasonal arrangement of dusky orange roses, amaranth, and sprigs of lavender spilled artfully from a black ceramic vase. Not bouquets. Not quite gifts. A soft punctuation to an invitation.

His thoughts flicked back to the first time he’d brought Rook flowers. She hadn’t scoffed or teased—just smiled that sharp, amused smile and told him which blossoms she could identify. He liked that. The way she humored his way of reading flowers like a language.

Would another arrangement be too much?

Emmrich hovered near the display, adjusting his grip on the bottle.

He didn’t want to feel like he was pressing too hard—or worse, trying to impress instead of simply being present. Besides, the wine would do. And if he remembered correctly, there were tarts waiting. That was already more than enough reason to be on his best behavior.

Still, his thoughts drifted—just for a moment—to the quiet weight of the evening. They weren’t working tomorrow. Neither of them had an early morning to rush off to. The time ahead felt open-ended, undefined. And if things were to… go well—

Oh, Maker.

He banished the thought with a subtle exhale, the tips of his ears warming despite the cool shop air. It wasn’t that he was expecting anything. Far from it. But the possibility lingered at the edge of his mind—tantalizing, unfamiliar, and not entirely unwelcome.

It was too soon for that. Surely.

He paid for the wine, tucking the bottle neatly into a soft canvas carrier. No flowers. No grand overtures. Just him. And the quiet hope that tonight might unfold into something worth remembering.

Emmrich stood in front of the Veil & Vine, his satchel slung over one shoulder and the wine cradled in his other hand. The shop windows glowed softly in the early evening light, reflections shimmering just enough to catch his own. He adjusted the lay of his coat, smoothed his sleeve, then paused—aware that fussing too much would only betray the quiet nerves he was trying to suppress.

He glanced down at his phone and reread the message Rook had sent him with directions to the Loft’s entrance.

Look for the ivy-covered arch at the back. There’s a ward, but it won’t mind you. Stairs are narrow, so mind your step.

He followed the path around the side of the building, spotting the telltale arch woven with flowering ivy and the shimmer of a faint ward that pulsed like heat over stone. It parted for him with a soft sigh. The staircase was as she said—narrow, old, but clean, lit by a small enchanted lantern at the landing.

When he reached the door, he paused.

The Loft.

He adjusted his grip on the wine bottle, drew in a breath, and rang the doorbell.

A few heartbeats later, he heard the shuffle of footsteps beyond the door. Then it swung open.

And there she was.

Rook stood in the threshold, framed by warm pendant light and the dusky green walls behind her. Her hair was in its usual loose twist, a few strands curling rebelliously at her temples. Her signature ear cuff caught the light—an arc of golden amber and subtle defiance.

She wore a fitted scoop-neck knit top in moss green, the neckline just low enough to hint at her collarbone and upper chest without crossing into evening wear. The sleeves were pushed to her elbows, exposing her forearms, and the high-waisted bark-brown trousers gave her a sharp, earthy elegance. Her feet were tucked into dark grey wool-lined house shoes—charmingly domestic.

She looked radiant.

“Good evening,” she said, smiling up at him—half-playful, half-genuine, as though she wasn’t entirely sure if this counted as a second date or something more.

He opened his mouth to return the greeting, but what escaped instead was, “You look… stunning.”

The compliment slipped out before he could measure it, and he watched the faint pink bloom across her cheeks. Her smile widened, and she ducked her head, brushing her fingers across the doorframe in a mock-casual gesture.

“Well, you clean up rather nicely yourself, professor.”

She stepped aside and gestured him in. “Come on. Shoes off, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a pair of house shoes if you want them. They’re Taash’s, so no promises on the fit, but it’s either that or socks on lacquered wood.”

He wiped his feet on the mat, stepped in, and gratefully took the offered slippers. “Thank you. And no complaints.”

Once inside, he paused just past the threshold. The Loft breathed warmth and character. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and polish, undercut by sage and whatever was currently baking or had just finished. The exposed beams overhead, the layered textiles, the spell of something sacred yet domestic—this was her space. It was familiar and private and wholly Rook.

He turned to her, lifting the wine. “I brought something for dinner. I wasn’t sure what was on the menu, but I hope this is suitable.”

Rook reached out, brushing her fingertips against the neck of the bottle as she took it from him. “Whatever you picked is more than suitable. Thank you.”

She glanced toward the kitchen, the scent of roasted vegetables and garlic beginning to drift in earnest. “I was just about to plate everything, so make yourself comfortable. Couch, chair, window nook—your pick.”

Emmrich nodded, still taking in the room. “I’ll try not to rearrange your bookshelf.”

“You’d be the first guest to resist,” she said with a laugh, already walking back toward the stove.

As she vanished into the kitchen, he found his feet moving almost on instinct—drawn not to the couch or the window nook, but to the nearest bookcase lining the living room wall.

He remembered her mentioning something about rotating the selections between the Loft and the shop’s reading nook, but the difference now was unmistakable. There were far more books than he’d seen before. More titles. More stories. More thought.

His fingers skimmed over spines bound in cracked leather and embossed linen, a few bearing languages he hadn’t read since university. The genres stretched far and wide—magical theory texts tucked beside travelogues, a treatise on Lyrium resonance wedged next to a signed copy of a serialized romance with a lurid painted cover. Someone—Rook—had shelved them not by genre or author but by vibe. A whimsical, chaotic sort of logic that shouldn’t have made sense, but somehow did.

He paused at a slim volume he hadn’t seen in years—a novella of necromantic philosophy penned by a Rivaini author who’d disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The margin notes were crisp, in a fine but unfamiliar script. Borrowed, perhaps? Or annotated by a former guest? The thought sparked an idle curiosity, followed by a deeper appreciation.

She curated these.

This wasn’t just a shelf of books—it was a map of her mind. Or at least the pieces of it she allowed to live out in the open.

He could get lost in here. Not just the stories, but the act of imagining her picking each one. Rotating them. Moving them with care. Swapping titles in and out depending on the season or her mood or the people visiting. It was intimate in the most unassuming way.

From the kitchen, he heard the quiet clink of plates and the rustle of oven mitts. A thread of roasted garlic and something herbaceous wound its way toward him.

Emmrich smiled to himself, hand still resting on the edge of a book he hadn’t quite committed to pulling. He could very easily spend the entire evening here—glass of wine in hand—forgetting that dinner was even on the schedule.

From the kitchen, Rook peeked around the archway and let out a quiet laugh. “Do you always inspect a person’s book collection?”

“Old habit,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder. “You can learn a lot about someone by the books they keep.”

“Oh? Well, this collection’s definitely bigger than the one I keep at my apartment. Feel free to borrow anything that catches your eye.”

“How’d you manage to gather such a variety?”

“You’d be surprised what turns up in secondhand bookstores and swap meets. Helps when you’ve got friends who know their literature, too.”

“Color me intrigued.”

She smirked. “Regrettably, I’ve been sworn to secrecy on my methods—but you’re welcome to tag along the next time I go hunting for new ones.”

“I plan to hold you to that.” He stepped back from the shelf, finally facing her.

Rook smiled at that, then tipped her head back toward the kitchen. “Follow me, professor. Dinner is served.”

The table was already set when Emmrich stepped in, and the scene looked as if it had been lifted from a quiet dream: two neatly plated servings of tagliatelle waited at either end of the table, steam curling from the glossy mushroom-rich pasta. A bowl of chicory and fennel salad sat in the center, orange segments catching the light like little jewels beside the shimmer of vinaigrette. A modest basket of sliced bread rested nearby, crusty and warm, likely fresh from the oven or a particularly discerning bakery.

Two wine glasses flanked the bottle he’d brought, and everything was in its place—except for one creature.

“I would offer to pour,” Rook said, brushing her hands on her trousers with a faint sigh, “but I have to go serve our royal guest.”

From across the room, Spite let out a single, imperious mrrp, already pacing along the windowsill like a warlord expecting tribute. His tail flicked with anticipation, eyes fixed on the kitchen with theatrical hunger.

Rook turned to Emmrich with a wry smile. “Would you do the honors with the wine? I’ll distract His Highness.”

“With pleasure,” Emmrich said, already stepping to the table. “And good luck.”

Rook disappeared momentarily with a small dish in hand—the contents a carefully prepared blend of shredded chicken, mashed pumpkin, sweet potato, and a sprinkle of catnip that might have sedated a lesser beast. Emmrich heard her coaxing voice from the corner of the loft, followed by the sound of Spite hopping down with a thud and a single, imperious chirp of approval.

As he uncorked the bottle, the scent of dark fruit and spice bloomed in the air. He poured slowly, allowing the wine to settle in each glass with a quiet swirl. By the time Rook returned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, the glasses were ready and the table complete.

“Spite is satisfied,” she announced. “We may proceed with our humble evening.”

As they settled at the table, Rook handed Emmrich his plate and scooped a portion of salad onto each of their side dishes. The warm scent of herbs and mushrooms hung between them, mingling with the faint citrus notes of the vinaigrette and the rich swirl of red wine in their glasses.

Emmrich twirled a strand of the tagliatelle around his fork with careful precision, then brought it to his lips. The first bite was a revelation—silken pasta, earthy mushrooms, a whisper of red wine and butter harmonizing with the sharper edge of thyme. It was warm, comforting, but elevated—refined without being fussy. The lemon zest hit just at the end, bright enough to lift the richness but subtle enough to feel deliberate.

He closed his eyes briefly, the flavors settling on his tongue, then let out a low, approving hum. When he opened them again, his gaze found Rook’s with quiet warmth.

“This is lovely,” he said, his voice a touch softer than usual. “Truly. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Rook grinned, cheeks tinting as she lifted her glass. “I’m glad the food impressed. It’s no five-star meal, but I try.”

She took a sip of wine, letting the velvety taste linger before giving a small, approving nod. “Also—this? Very nice.”

Emmrich inclined his head, a quiet smile playing on his lips. “I admit I was flying blind. You didn’t say what we were having, only that dinner was ‘handled.’ I debated bringing both a red and a white, but that felt… excessive.”

“Excessive,” Rook echoed with a smirk. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t have turned down extra wine. Not that I want to sound like an alcoholic.”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he replied, chuckling softly.

His gaze drifted around the Loft. “This space is… impressive. I expected something a bit more cozy or cluttered. But it’s calm. Thoughtful. Organized. Very different from your apartment.”

Rook reached for a slice of bread, shrugging. “The Loft’s more of an extension of the shop. My brother renovated it a few years ago when he bought the building. I think it was his way of making sure the tea shop would always be ours if I decided to come back.”

Emmrich glanced again at the shelves, the amber light, the warm finishes in the kitchen. “That was generous of him.”

“It was,” she said, then added with a sheepish smile, “As for how clean it looks… I might’ve done some last-minute scrubbing.”

“You didn’t have to go through the trouble on my account.”

“It was overdue anyway. And, well… I wanted to make a good impression.”

Emmrich lifted his glass in a small toast. “With dinner like this and you across the table? You’re succeeding.”

Rook’s grin widened. “And there’s the charm.”

He smiled over the rim of his glass, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest—and not just from the wine. Across the table, Rook mirrored him with a sip of her own, the amber light catching in her eyes as they met his. There was a glimmer there—part mischief, part certainty. The kind of gleam that said she knew exactly what he was thinking.

And she was right.

The night was off to a fantastic start.

They lingered at the table a little longer, the plates cleared, wine glasses lazily cradled in their hands. The soft remnants of dinner still perfumed the Loft—mushroom, citrus, warm bread—but now it mingled with the comforting scent of lavender and cinnamon that always seemed to cling to Rook’s space.

Emmrich took another sip of wine, then set the glass down with care. A subtle smile played on his lips as he reached for his satchel, drawing it up onto his lap.

“Would you humor me for a moment?” he asked, voice touched with that particular kind of politeness that always meant he was already halfway committed to the idea.

Rook arched a brow. “That depends. What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing untoward. I assure you,” he said, unfastening the flap and pulling out a slim, well-worn case. “I thought it might be… illuminating to test that strategic prowess you mentioned on our last date.”

He laid the case on the table and opened it with a soft click, revealing a travel-sized chess set. The polished pieces gleamed in the low light, each one finely carved and magnetically secured to its velvet-lined board.

Rook gave a soft, amused laugh. “You brought a chess set?”

“I find it reveals character,” he replied, eyes gleaming. “And it travels well.”

She leaned forward, inspecting the board. “I believe I told you I wasn’t that good.”

He didn’t flinch. “Then this’ll be a short game.”

Rook grinned and pulled her chair closer, fingers already reaching for the nearest pawn. “Alright, Volkarin. But fair warning—I’m better at bluffing than planning. And I don’t lose gracefully.”

“I wouldn’t dream of underestimating you,” Emmrich said smoothly, setting up the pieces with precise, methodical movements. “But I do reserve the right to be smug if I win.”

“Oh, you’re definitely going to regret saying that.”

Their laughter mingled with the soft clink of pieces as they set the board. Polished pieces gleamed beneath the amber glow of the pendant lights, each carved figure standing at attention like soldiers on a velvet field.

Rook sat cross-legged on one of the dining chairs, her elbows braced against her knees, chin resting loosely in her hand. Emmrich mirrored her posture across the table with composed ease, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, a half-filled wine glass resting near his side. Between them, the chessboard lay like a quiet battlefield—neat, deliberate, and full of possibility.

She had claimed the black pieces, leaving him with the white. Emmrich produced a silver sovereign, worn smooth around the edges, and flipped it into the air. The coin flashed briefly before landing in his palm.

“Heads,” Rook called.

He turned it over with a small, satisfied smile. “Tails.”

“Damn,” she muttered, feigning a dramatic sigh as she leaned back into her chair. “Your move, professor.”

Emmrich took a moment to adjust the white king at the center of the board, making sure every piece was perfectly aligned before settling in. “Before we begin,” he said, reaching calmly for his wine, “should there be… stakes?”

Rook arched a brow, her expression unreadable. “Stakes?”

He gave a faint shrug, sipping leisurely. “You strike me as someone who plays with purpose. And I admit… I enjoy our little games.”

Rook leaned in, folding her arms on the edge of the table, eyes glinting with mischief. “You enjoy the dance?”

“I appreciate the nuance to it,” he replied evenly, watching her over the rim of his glass.

Her smile curved slow and sly. “Well then,” she murmured, tapping a finger against the base of a pawn, “if we’re playing properly, why not raise the tension a little?”

He tilted his head, intrigued.

Rook tilted her head with a mock-serious expression and said, deadpan, “Strip chess.”

He inhaled mid-sip—and promptly choked.

Laughter burst out of her as she covered her mouth with one hand, watching him dab at his mouth with the other, eyes watering.

“Too scandalous?” she teased, offering him a napkin.

He dabbed his mouth with exaggerated composure, though the color creeping up his neck betrayed him. “It’s not the scandal—it’s the delivery. You’ve got a dangerous poker face.”

“I do my best,” she said with a wink. “Besides, if it were Wicked Grace, we’d have to follow through.”

“Maker forbid,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “With your mischievous nature, I’d rather not wager my dignity.”

Rook smirked, clearly pleased. “Fair enough.”

The warmth between them softened into something playful and effortless, the earlier tension dissolving into quiet laughter and gleaming eyes. Rook had always enjoyed seeing him flustered. There was something deeply satisfying about nudging the edges of his composed exterior and watching it crack, just a little. It made her curious—how far she could push, how much she could tease—but she was always mindful. Tempted though she was, she never wanted to cross a line he wasn’t ready for.

“Alright,” she said at last, tapping her fingers against the board. “Loser has to grant one wish for the winner.”

Emmrich studied her for a beat. “Any wish?”

“Within reason.”

He gave a crooked smile, mirroring her mischief. “I accept your terms.”

“Good,” she said, gesturing toward the board. “Let’s begin.”

“Let’s.” He moved his king’s pawn forward two spaces, simple and classic.

Rook raised a brow. “Just a reminder, I’m not that good—so go easy on me.”

“After the threat of strip chess?” He arched a brow. “Unlikely story.”

“I suppose we’ll see,” she replied, mirroring his move with a deft tap.

“I’m interested to see how you’ll fare,” he said, gaze fixed on her more than the board.

Their game unfolded with quiet confidence, each move marked by subtle glances, light commentary, and the kind of growing tension that had nothing to do with competition. Emmrich played with calculated precision, each piece moved like a well-considered thesis. Rook played like someone who’d memorized the rules and decided they were only suggestions—fluid, assertive, and impossible to anticipate.

He found himself watching her hands more than the game—slim fingers poised with casual certainty, brow furrowing only slightly when weighing her next move. She rarely hesitated. Her mind moved quickly, and she wore her focus beautifully—radiant in the warm loft light, her expression open and unguarded in a way he rarely saw.

“You always this intense when playing?” she asked, sliding her knight forward with practiced ease.

“Only when it counts,” he replied without looking up.

“So I should feel honored?”

“You should,” he said, chuckling as she claimed one of his pawns. “Or maybe I’m still recovering from your opening bid.”

“You poor thing.” Her foot nudged his under the table—light at first, then a slow, deliberate press along his ankle. Her grin turned wicked. “Maybe I’ll play nice.”

Emmrich stilled, a faint arch to one brow as his eyes flicked to hers, sharp with amusement and just a hint of heat. He didn’t move away—in fact, he angled his leg slightly, as if inviting the contact. “You’re trying to distract me,” he murmured, but there was no real protest in his voice.

“Is it working?”

“Yes,” he said simply—and her laughter spilled into the space between them, bright and unbothered.

When Rook claimed she wasn’t that good, Emmrich didn’t believe for a moment that she was a complete novice. Perhaps that was why he’d been so eager to test her. As much as she downplayed her intelligence, he could see there was far more beneath the surface. Her family must have known it too—she had the makings of a strategist. Since their little game began, she had surprised him more than once, and he found himself looking forward to the next time she would.

Their pieces danced across the board, the match evolving into a quiet skirmish of trades and traps. Emmrich captured a bishop and took a measured sip of wine. “You’re not half-bad.”

“Not half-bad?” She gave him a mock-offended look. “Guess those family game nights paid off.”

“I’d say you had excellent teachers.”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Does that mean I have a fighting chance?”

He watched her lean forward, a playfulness was in eyes and casting soft shadows over her smile. There was something magnetic in her—something untamed beneath the ease of her presence. Rook played like she lived: boldly, cleverly, always keeping a piece of herself tucked just out of sight.

And Maker help him, he liked that more than he meant to.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted more—to win, or to keep watching her while pretending he hadn’t noticed she was slowly, skillfully gaining the upper hand.

The board lay strewn with the aftermath of narrowed angles and sacrificed pride, each move carved down to the slimmest of advantages. Rook leaned forward, eyes flicking across the pieces as she assessed what little remained in her favor.

Emmrich, as ever, was calm—watchful, composed—but the faint glint in his eye betrayed that he saw the inevitable.

With a reluctant sigh, she tipped her king over. “Dammit.”

He allowed himself a modest, satisfied smile. “Checkmate.”

Rook sat back with a huff, folding her arms across her chest as she studied the board with narrowed eyes. “I almost had you.”

“And you wanted me to go easy on you,” he said with a low chuckle. “Were you planning to win under the guise of beginner’s luck?”

“Maybe just a little,” she admitted, smirking.

“I must say, dear Evara, your competitiveness is rather charming.”

She raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

“Touché.”

Emmrich leaned one elbow on the table, his other hand swirling wine in his glass with idle grace. “So. About that wish…”

Rook tilted her head, her smile edging toward wicked. “Already? That was quick.”

“I didn’t say I’d use it now,” he replied, voice smooth as velvet. “I was simply wondering if it came with an expiration date.”

She squinted at him with mock suspicion. “Are you planning something nefarious, Professor?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning scandal. “Me? Never.”

“How disappointing,” she said with a mock sigh. “I was hoping to catch a glimpse of your devious side.”

“I suppose I’ll have to keep you in suspense.”

“We’ll see,” she replied, rising from her seat with a teasing smile. “The night is still young.”

He watched her over the rim of his glass, his smile easy and warm. “So, no expiration?”

“None,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. “Use it whenever you like. But I won’t be reminding you if you forget.”

Emmrich nodded once, storing the detail away with quiet precision. “Duly noted.”

She paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Now then—can I tempt you with some dessert?”

“I would love nothing more.”

He set his glass aside and rose to follow her, the glow of pendant lights casting soft shadows as she moved ahead. Whatever the night held next—tea, tarts, or something far less predictable—he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Chapter Text

Rook returned from the kitchen with a tray in hand and a subtle air of triumph about her. “Chestnut cream and chocolate tarts,” she declared, setting them carefully on the coffee table. Each tart was a small masterpiece—perfectly baked shells filled with a rich layer of dark chocolate ganache, crowned with a delicate swirl of chestnut cream. A final scattering of sugared chestnut crumbles caught the low pendant light like edible jewels.

Emmrich leaned forward, studying the presentation with quiet reverence. “You will never cease to amaze with your bakes.”

Rook gave a modest shrug, but the grin tugging at her mouth betrayed her satisfaction. “Good to know. Like the saying goes, closest way to a person’s heart is through their stomach.”

They each selected a tart, savoring the first bite in near silence—the chocolate smooth and decadent, the cream subtle and nutty, everything lifted by the crunch of the candied chestnut topping. A shared hum of approval passed between them before they set their plates aside and moved to the couch.

The mood shifted easily into something softer.

Wine glasses were exchanged for mugs of steaming tea—Emmrich’s was a deep cup of Shadow Bloom, the dark, comforting blend laced with rich with elderflower, plum, and a hint of violet that suited his quiet intensity. Rook’s was Crow’s Song, a smoky blend with lemon, and a whisper of nettle—herbal, sharp, and haunting in the best way. The scent of their drinks mingled in the air between them, a strange but lovely harmony.

Rook curled against Emmrich, her legs draped over his lap, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. She undid her hair twist, letting the natural waves pool over. His arm settled along the back of the deep navy sectional couch, fingertips occasionally tracing idle shapes against her shoulder blade.

Spite, sensing the invitation, hopped up without hesitation and made himself at home in Rook’s lap. Emmrich welcomed the intrusion with a fond scratch behind the feline menace’s ear, eliciting a pleased trill.

“This is nice,” Rook murmured, the warmth of her tea seeping into her hands and her bones.

Emmrich took a slow sip, his voice low. “It is.”

“So… how did I do for a second date?”

“I’d say this is the most comforting one I’ve had in quite some time.”

Rook leaned her head more comfortably against his shoulder, her voice playful. “Oh? And how long is ‘quite some time’?”

Emmrich gave a quiet hum, his arm resting along the back of the couch, fingertips lightly grazing the loose strands of her chestnut hair. “In full transparency… I haven’t had a partner in a few years. But I prefer to leave the past where it belongs.”

“Hiding a scandalous trail of lovers, are we?” she teased, glancing up at him with a sly smile. “Any vengeful ones I should prepare to duel?”

“Heavens, no.” He laughed softly, turning his head so that his nose brushed into her hair. The scent of tea and something warm and sweet lingered in the strands. “I assure you, no dramatic exits or scandalous vendettas.”

“Good,” she said, fingers finding one of the rings on his hand—an antique gold band with worn etchings. She idly twisted it. “But if there were any, I can assure you I could take them. Any of them illicit a duel will be met with lightning and fury.”

He tilted his head, lips near her temple. “Would that make me your trophy, then?”

She hummed. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds like I’m objectifying you. But yes. And you’d be a very handsome one.” Her thumb brushed over the top of his knuckle, and she caught the quiet smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“How fortunate am I,” he murmured, “to have a beautiful knight fighting for my honor.”

Rook let out a soft hum as she settled deeper into the curve of Emmrich’s arm, her legs still comfortably draped across his lap. Spite, in all his smug contentment, was curled on her stomach with his eyes half-closed, purring like a machine that ran on ego.

Emmrich’s fingers absently stroked behind one of the cat’s ears as he glanced down at Rook. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

He smiled at that. “I was just wondering… how did you and Spite end up together? I get the sense there’s a story.”

Rook’s mouth tugged into a smile, though her eyes softened with the weight of memory. “You could say that.” She chuckled, taking a sip of her tea before resting the mug against her thigh. “Well, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight.”

“No?”

“Not unless you count the mutual urge to hiss at each other.”

Emmrich smiled. “I’d count that.”

Rook adjusted slightly, settling into his side. “It was a few years ago—back when I was still getting things in order to take over the shop. I’d just temporarily moved into the Loft, and I was staying up way too late every night trying to not make a disaster cup of tea.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It was. And that night in particular? I’d gone through four failed blends and spilled the fifth all over my notes. I was mad at the world, furious at myself, and decided to take out the trash just to keep from breaking something.”

Emmrich arched a brow. “That’s when you found him?”

Rook nodded. “He made some awful noise from the dumpster—real horror show stuff. I thought it was a shade or a rat. Had a whole lightning spell cocked and ready to go.”

“And it was him?”

“A soaking wet, freezing, terrified cat with a chip on his shoulder and murder in his eyes.” She looked down at Spite, who stretched and blinked at her slowly. “He clawed the hell out of my gloves. Took me a good fifteen minutes to coax him out—and that’s only because I tricked him with leftover roast chicken. Getting him inside was a war. Bathing him? I think I still have the scar.”

“I’m surprised he stayed.”

“Oh, he didn’t like me. Not at first. He hated my very existence. If he wasn’t hiding, he was hissing. Growled like a demon. Bit me twice.”

Emmrich looked down at the smug ball of fur now nestled in her lap. “That’s… quite a transformation.”

“Yeah.” Her voice softened. “He had a rough go. Life on the streets with no one to rely on makes it hard to trust safety. It took weeks. I gave him space, let him exist on his terms. And then one night, I completely crashed—frustration finally got to me. I tore up the living room, then collapsed on the floor. I didn’t even notice him until he padded over and made himself at home on my chest, purring like he owned the place.”

His gaze shifted to her. “That was the turning point?”

She nodded, brushing her fingers through Spite’s sleek fur. “I think he saw that we were similar. Both scrappy and trying to get used to our new environment. I was an acceptable companion, I guess. Let me pet him without drawing blood. Curled up beside me. We’ve been thick as thieves ever since.”

Emmrich was quiet for a beat, watching the two of them with something close to fondness. “And the name, Spite?”

“Well, it seemed fitting. He’d been rescued and still acted like I owed him something. He was determined to be a problem.”

“I can’t argue with that logic.”

She smirked and glanced up at him. “I liked that about him though. He was mean, stubborn, a pain in the ass—but he was resilient. And… he resembled me back then.”

Emmrich smiled gently. “So he reminded you of you?”

“A little bit. Or maybe I just didn’t want to be alone.” Her voice dropped slightly, but there was no sadness in it. “Either way, we figured it out.”

Emmrich reached down, brushing a bit of fur from her sleeve before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad you two found each other. Cat scratches and all.”

Spite let out a satisfied sigh, as if confirming his own superiority, then rose with the regal indifference of a creature who’d graced them long enough. Deciding he’d had his fill of affection, the black cat vacated Rook’s lap in search of a new perch more worthy of his ever-shifting whims.

Rook laughed quietly, nudging her tea toward Emmrich. “Alright, your turn.”

He turned to her, one brow lifting with quiet curiosity. “What would you like to know?”

She sipped, then nodded toward him. “Tell me about Manfred.”

That drew an immediate shift in Emmrich’s expression—an amused fondness, coupled with the kind of resigned affection one might have for a well-meaning, overly eager apprentice.

“Manfred,” he echoed, setting his tea down with a faint clink. “Where do I even begin…”

Rook leaned in, eyes glinting. “At the bone-rattling beginning, I’d hope.”

Emmrich chuckled. “It was during a field study in Nevarra. I was part of a research cohort mapping spirit affinities in old barrows—dry, dusty work. We were meant to be observing echoes and residuals, not… well, not forming relationships.”

Rook blinked. “You formed a relationship with a spirit?”

“Not a spirit. A wisp,” he corrected gently. “Curious little thing. It followed me around for three days—wouldn’t leave my side. Didn’t seem interested in anyone else. I suppose it found me… agreeable.”

“Of course it did.”

“Oh?”

“Emmrich, your mind is endless. Any spirit drawn to curiosity or wisdom would be smitten. It’s one of the things I really like about you.”

He tilted his head. “You find my mind attractive?”

“Intelligence is sexy.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” His hand settled lightly on her thigh.

It was effortless—an unconscious act of closeness, born out of comfort and trust. But to Rook, it registered with a quiet jolt. Not for its boldness, but for its tenderness. The warmth of his palm through the fabric of her trousers was grounding, deliberate in its stillness. Like he wanted her there—not just in proximity, but in presence.

Her breath hitched slightly, subtle enough to pass for a sigh. She didn’t move. Didn’t joke. Just… noted it. Mentally filed it away under the growing list of things about Emmrich that caught her off guard in the best possible way.

Emmrich could see her surprised and felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he continued, “Eventually, the wisp wanted to return with me, so I created a skeletal vessel to house it. Ethically sourced bones, of course.”

“Of course. So… what can he do?”

“He prepares reagents, makes tea for me and any guests, organizes my office library—though he takes... liberties. Once I caught him shelving by color.”

Rook choked on her tea, laughing. “Oh no.”

“Alphabetical I can fix. Color-coded chaos?” He gave a slow shake of his head. “Took me a week to find my binding lexicons.”

“Tragic.”

“Spirits always carry a bit of mischief,” he said, only half-joking. “Moral guidance is a must for them. But I am proud of Manfred’s progress. We’re currently working on his fine motor skills. I’ve been teaching him how to knit.”

She tilted her head, amused. “And how’s that going?”

“He understands the process. His color sense, however… still needs work.”

“Have you kept any of his creations?”

“I have a quilt in my bedroom. He was so proud when he finished it, I didn’t have the heart to refuse.”

“I’d love a Manfred original,” Rook said with a grin.

“You would?”

“With how you talk about him, how could I not be fond of your skeletal wisp? I’d love to meet him someday.”

Emmrich looked genuinely touched. “I’d like that very much.”

Rook shifted her mug to her other hand with a small wince—barely noticeable, but Emmrich caught it. His eyes flicked to her wrist, then back to her face.

“You’re stiff,” he noted quietly.

She waved it off. “It’s nothing. Just a bit sore from whisking chestnut cream too aggressively.”

He gave a soft tutt of disapproval. “You shouldn’t ignore that.”

“It’s really—”

“May I?”

His hand was already reaching out, and she hesitated only a beat before nodding. Rook started to shift, intending to pull her legs off his lap to give him space, but his hand came to rest gently on her calf—a quiet touch, light and certain. The fact that he wanted her close—that he asked her to stay close—was enough to make her pulse hum in her ears, subtle but persistent, like the beat of a song she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting to hear.

“No need to move,” he murmured. “You’re comfortable.”

The words were simple. Unassuming. But they hit somewhere unexpected.

She stayed, her legs remaining in their comfortable perch across his lap, heart ticking just a bit faster than before. There was something about the position—half-reclined against his side, curled into this small, shared space—that felt both comfortable and quietly bold.

She watched as he slid his arm from around her shoulders. He took her offered hand into both of his—warm, steady, and precise. Any lingering thought fled in the face of his focus.

At first, he didn’t apply pressure. He simply cradled her hand in both of his, his touch feather-light yet firm, like handling something delicate but not fragile. Rook watched as his entire demeanor shifted—his usual reserve replaced by quiet concentration.

He turned her wrist slightly, angling it toward the lamplight as if reading something beneath the skin. His thumbs brushed along the tendon, the heel of her palm, the subtle curve of bone beneath muscle. Noticing the minute changes. Calculating. His brows drew together, not in worry, but in that same focused way she’d seen him read ancient sigils or prepare complex reagents—like her body had become a puzzle he intended to solve gently.

“You’ve got slight inflammation here,” he murmured, pressing along the inner edge of her wrist, “and a subtle weakness just beneath the joint.”

“You can tell that just by touch?” she asked, unable to mask the curiosity in her voice.

He nodded, still studying her hand. “The way the tendons shift. How the pressure settles. There’s scar tissue—small, but old. It’s favoring your grip and resisting full rotation.”

“Has your wrist always been like this?” Emmrich shifted her wrist again, supporting her hand at just the right angle to ease discomfort, his fingers tracing across pressure points with knowing precision. “It feels like an old injury.”

Rook gave a small shrug. “Probably from my days with the Shadows. Training wasn’t exactly gentle.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I’m honestly impressed you even noticed.”

He glanced up at her, dry amusement flickering behind his lashes. “I’m quite familiar with the finer points of anatomy.”

She raised a brow, teasing. “Oh?”

“It is covered in my field of study.” He gave her a faint, crooked smile, then sighed. “You really should take better care of yourself.”

The concern in his voice was soft, but it struck a chord. Rook’s teasing eased, replaced by something quieter, warmer. “You worry about me.”

“I do,” he said simply, pressing his thumb gently into the base of her palm, coaxing tension from the muscle.

She watched him work, feeling the ache dissolve under his touch. His focus was so complete—his eyes tracing the motion of his fingers, his expression patient, his hands skilled. There was something undeniably intimate about it. Not just the act itself, but the way he touched her—like she was something he wanted to care for, not fix.

Her breath caught slightly as he shifted to her wrist, thumbs rotating in slow, even circles.

“You’re… good at this,” she murmured.

He gave a quiet hum. “I’ve had practice. Old war wounds and stubborn colleagues make for excellent teachers.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” she said, voice low.

Emmrich glanced at her then—eyes darker in the low light, a quiet warmth in his gaze that lingered just a little longer than necessary. “After the marvelous dinner you prepared, it’s the least I can do.”

That made her laugh softly, the sound easing some of the warmth blooming under her skin. But even as they teased, neither of them moved. His hands still held hers, slow and careful.

Rook let herself sink into the silence, into the rhythm of his hands—steady, sure, and so achingly gentle. Her muscles were pliant now, the ache in her wrist all but forgotten under the careful work of his thumbs and fingers.

She studied him as he worked. The lines of concentration around his eyes. The slight crease between his brows that deepened when he found a stubborn knot in her hand. His mouth, curved in faint thought.

Maker, she thought, this man is so handsome right now.

When he finally eased off the pressure, he didn’t let go. He simply held her hand in both of his, thumbs brushing lightly over the softened tendons. His gaze lifted, meeting hers.

And just like that, the world narrowed to a breath between them.

Neither of them spoke.

Emmrich moves his hand to move her hair out of the way to see Rook’s gold ear cuff gleam in the light. Her heart beat a little harder, but she didn’t pull back. She didn’t tease. Her gaze flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes.

He saw it.

And he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to stop him.

She didn’t.

Their lips met in a kiss that was soft at first—testing, wondering, asking. It lingered in the space between affection and longing. A kiss that tasted like tea and the barest trace of something sweet. Then it evolved into something more confident, humming certainty of something unfolding—slow, steady, and beautifully inevitable.

Rook’s hands slid up, fingertips brushing along Emmrich’s jaw before cradling his face between her palms. Her thumbs swept gently over the curve of his cheekbones, and in that closeness, she felt the way his breath caught—just a little.

He responded in kind, one hand rising to cup her face with reverence, the pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her face. The other found her waist, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her shirt, anchoring her to him.

What began as soft deepened. Slow turned searching.

Then she moved.

With a slow exhale, she shifted her weight and swung one leg over his lap, straddling him. Her hands moving to rest on his shoulders as she leaned in. She felt his breath catch—just a little—but his hands settled instinctively at her waist, grounding her with steady fingers.

The new position added a heady pressure between them—her knees tucked beside his hips, her body aligned with his, close enough to feel the way he exhaled against her mouth. What began as soft quickly deepened. Slow turned searching.

Their mouths parted and returned, lips rediscovering each other in a rhythm that felt both instinctive and utterly new. She tilted her head and deepened the kiss, and he responded with a quiet sound—approval, perhaps, or simply need. Their tongues met in a slow, deliberate glide, massaging against one another with languid precision. The mingling of chocolate, chestnut cream, and tea lingered sweetly between them, each taste shared like a secret passed mouth to mouth. It was indulgent. Intimate. A kiss not just of want, but of savoring.

Emmrich’s grip at her waist tightened ever so slightly, not to restrain but to feel. His other hand roamed—first to her back, then sliding up beneath the hem of her shirt to trace the warm line of her spine. Every movement was controlled, reverent. He touched her like something precious, and it made her ache.

She shifted in his lap, rolling her hips without meaning to, and he groaned softly against her mouth—his restraint faltering, just for a breath. Rook pulled back enough to see him. Their chests rose in time, lips tingling and swollen, hearts stumbling in synchrony.

She remained straddling him, legs snug around his hips, her body flush to his. Backlit by the soft amber glow of the lamplight, she looked like something from a dream. Her hair had fallen forward, framing their faces like a curtain of molten chestnut—glinting gold and copper where the light touched it. It cast shadows along her cheeks, but her eyes still shone through—half-lidded, dark with want, and impossibly tender.

Her lips were kiss-bitten and parted, breath coming in shallow waves.

Maker’s breath, she was a vision.

Not just because she was beautiful—though she was, unbearably so—but because she looked at him like he was all she wanted. Like being here, tangled in his arms, was exactly where she wanted to be.

Her eyes were half-lidded and dark—not just with desire, but with something softer, deeper. Something that made his chest tighten with aching affection. She was stunning—utterly stunning—and he had the unbearable urge to tell her so aloud.

“You’re resplendent,” he whispered.

A small smile curved her mouth. “You’re not looking too bad yourself, Professor.”
Her hands rose to cup his face, fingers gentle and slow, as if he were something rare and precious she’d just unearthed. “This is a view I could get used to.”

Emmrich leaned in and captured her mouth again—this time with fervor. Their lips met with shared heat, the kind that bloomed from both tenderness and want. They were smiling into the kiss, both of them a little breathless, drunk on each other.

Rook nipped at his bottom lip, and the sound that escaped him—a low, unguarded moan—sent sparks straight through her.

Maker, she loved when he reacted like that. Especially knowing she’d drawn it from him.

But she wasn’t the only one reveling. His hands drifted down to her hips, fingers playing along the hem of her shirt before brushing lightly against her bare skin beneath.

She stiffened—subtly, instinctively.

Emmrich caught it instantly. The change in tension. The flicker across her face.
He stopped at once.

The moment her body tensed, even just a breath of stillness beneath his hands, he pulled back like he’d touched fire. His brows knit, jaw tightening as his hands lifted away entirely, hovering as if unsure whether he had the right to comfort her now.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice already quieter, already pulling back. “I thought—I didn’t mean to assume. I’ve rushed you, haven’t I?”

It came out flatter than he intended. Not shameful, but sharp with self-reproach. He sat back slightly, no longer holding her waist, no longer touching at all.

Rook blinked. Her breath still came fast from their kissing, but now her heart squeezed for another reason entirely. “Emmrich—no, you didn’t—”

He looked down, eyes fixed on his own hands like they no longer belonged to him. One flexed unconsciously, like it had overstepped without permission. “I apologize,” he murmured, voice stiff with restraint. “It seems I let my enthusiasm get the better of me. I—”

Oh Maker, his thoughts spiraled. What have I done? Now she’ll think I’m no better than some lust-crazed brute. I should’ve known better—I should’ve stopped sooner.

The instinct to retreat curled inside him. To shut down. To flee from the imagined disappointment in her eyes.

“Emmrich.” Her voice cut through the storm.

She cupped his face in both hands, firm and grounding, forcing him to look at her. His wide, startled eyes met hers—panic flickering beneath the surface like a ripple of lightning.

“There you are,” she whispered, exhaling slowly, her thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth.

His breath caught—held there in that space where vulnerability and hope collided.

Rook sighed in relief, her fingers grazed down his chest, slow and deliberate. Her voice threaded between them, steady this time.

“Emmrich.”

He swallowed, “Yes?”

“My reaction wasn’t because of what you did. It’s… There’s something I should tell you.”

He straightened slightly, his full attention on her now—concern clear, but tempered with the steady calm that had become a balm to her. Emmrich met her gaze properly, reading the flicker of tension behind her lashes. He didn’t move away, didn’t retreat—just watched her with that same, steady patience that had come to feel like shelter.

“I don’t really talk much about my Shadow Dragon days,” she said. “But you probably know already… a job like that came with its share of battle scars.”

He nodded once, silently encouraging her to go on.

Her hand drifted toward her side, brushing low against her hip before falling back again.

“But not all of them came from that life. Some… are older. One in particular, from the car crash—it’s on my hip.”

She glanced away, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. The self-consciousness snuck in despite herself, curling like smoke through her ribs.

“It’s not that I think you’d be bothered—I know you’re not like that,” she added quickly. “But I’ve had… partners before. People who paused. Flinched. Like it startled them out of whatever moment we were in. So I guess I just… wanted to say something now. Before we went further.”

Silence stretched—brittle, uncomfortable. Rook’s stomach turned with it. The warmth between them had been so natural, so easy—and now she feared she'd shattered it. Because Emmrich wasn’t just a passing thrill.

He was different. And maybe that was what scared her most.

But then he moved.

Without a flicker of hesitation, Emmrich leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Slow. Certain. Loving.

“Evara,” he murmured, her name folding around the space between them like a blessing. “You do not owe me any explanations.”

Her breath stuttered on the exhale, the tight coil in her chest starting to loosen.

“We don’t have to escalate anything tonight,” he continued, drawing back just enough to meet her eyes again. His hand cupped her cheek with the kind of care that had nothing to do with lust. “If you’re not ready, I won’t rush you. Ever.”

Rook swallowed. He could see the faint shimmer of nerves still dancing at the edge of her expression. His gaze held hers, unwavering. His thumb brushed along the curve of her jaw, grounding her in that rare way only he seemed able to do.

“And anyone who sees your scars—your survival—and doesn’t understand the beauty in them?” His voice dropped to something deeper, steel laced with warmth. “They’re fools. The lot of them.”

A soft laugh slipped from her, half breath, half disbelief at how easily he unraveled her defenses.

“There are thousands of ways I can show you to express my affection,” he said gently. “And we’ve only just started exploring them.”

Her heart clenched at that, full and aching. Oh, Andraste. How had she gotten so lucky? His kindness was always unshaken, his gentleness a constant force. He soothed her worries without belittling them, quieted her fears with the kind of sincerity that made her chest burn.

Without a word, Rook reached up, fisting the collar of his shirt, and pulled him down into another kiss. One filled not with urgency, but with gratitude. With need. With longing.

When they broke apart, she whispered against his lips, “You’re too good to me.”

Emmrich brushed his nose lightly against hers, a smile curving his mouth. “My darling girl,” he said softly, “you are far more exquisite.”

Then his gaze dropped slightly, voice lowering with it. “But I would like to know how you want to proceed. Unless…”

His hand slid along the hem of her shirt, fingertips teasing just under the fabric where her skin was warm and waiting.

“Do you wish to defer the pace to my discretion?”

Her breath hitched.

The way he asked—so calm, so composed, with that unmistakable glint in his eyes—made her toes curl. The professor’s restraint only made the temptation that much more intoxicating.

“Surprise me,” she breathed, her voice tinged with challenge, with want. “Professor.”

His eyes darkened, his smile sharpening with promise.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Andraste help her—those words alone sent a shiver down her spine.

Whatever came next, Rook wanted it. Wanted him. Not just his touch, but his care, his steadiness, the way he saw her.

Chapter Text

Before their lips could meet again, Emmrich shifted.

With a motion so fluid it caught her breath, he wrapped one arm around her back and the other beneath her thighs. In one elegant, practiced movement, he turned and guided her down onto the couch, his body following to hover just above hers.

Rook let out a soft, startled laugh. Her hair spilled like molten silk over the cushions, waves of chestnut and copper framing her flushed face, chest rising beneath him. One of his knees settled between hers, coaxing her legs to part just slightly, just enough to let him hover above her.

“My my my,” she breathed, looking up at him with wide eyes and a grin. “Looks like you have moves after all.”

His smirk was faint but undeniably pleased. “I do try.”

He braced himself with an arm beside her head, the other settling at her waist again—familiar and grounding. The air between them buzzed with tension, both of them aware of the shift. The change in position had brought her beneath him, surrounded by his presence, and yet the look in his eyes never lost that careful, measured heat. He was close—but not crowding. Steady—but not overbearing.

“Comfortable?” he asked softly, voice low and even.

Rook nodded, her fingers already curling in the fabric of his shirt. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Her voice was lighter now, teasing, but her gaze stayed locked with his. “You plan that little maneuver often?”

His lips brushed hers in answer. “Only when the moment calls for it.”

And then he kissed her again, slower this time—but no less consuming. The kind of kiss that pulled at something deep in her spine, unraveling her from the inside out. At first, it was all heat and pressure, his mouth coaxing hers open with unhurried persistence. He didn’t devour—he guided. His tongue traced the seam of her lips like a promise, teasing until she parted for him with a soft sigh.

Rook melted into him, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging at the slick strands still faintly shaped by pomade. She’d always wondered what it would feel like—what he’d smell like this close. Citrus. Jasmine. A trace of old paper and the faintest whiff of smoke. He smelled like intellect and temptation wrapped in one devastating package.

The weight of him between her thighs made her breath shallow, especially as his hand began to wander. Emmrich didn’t rush—he explored. Every touch was deliberate, reverent. He traced the curve of her side, the dip of her waist, the length of her ribs with an open palm like he was mapping a sacred text with fingertips alone.

Then his mouth broke from hers, trailing down—first her jaw, where he lingered, then the soft, exposed curve of her throat where her pulse jumped beneath his lips, and finally, to the hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss left heat in its wake, his breath against her skin making her feel like her bones were buzzing. Her head tipped back, hands buried in his hair. The way her fingers carded through it, tugging him closer, sent a surge through her—it had been a fantasy, one of many, and Maker, it felt even better than she imagined.

Emmrich kissed his way back up, lips brushing the shell of her ear before his breath ghosted hot against it. “If you feel any discomfort,” he whispered, voice like velvet laced with iron, “tell me and I’ll stop.”

The words alone made her squirm beneath him, a low shiver rippling through her. Her thighs squeezed gently around his hips as her breath hitched in her throat. “Venhedis,” she whispered back, eyes half-lidded and dark. “I won’t.”

A quiet, dark chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest. The sound of it—warm, possessive—sent another pulse of heat down her spine. “You should be careful saying things like that,” he murmured, and then gently nipped the edge of her ear. She gasped softly, then moaned when he followed with a kiss—soft, open-mouthed—pressing reverence into the metal of her ear cuff like it was something sacred.

Then he deepened the kiss. His tongue swept against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm—coaxing rather than demanding, every movement calculated to draw out her reactions. He tasted her like she was a language he already knew but wanted to savor syllable by syllable. Velvet and heat, edged with hunger. He pressed in just enough to remind her of the control he wielded—gliding, curling, then retreating just long enough to let her chase him. It was dizzying, the way he shifted pace—slow and languid one moment, then sharper, a flick of his tongue against hers like a dare.

Rook arched into it, moans escaping her lips as her grip in his hair tightened with every stroke, every playful nip and subtle retreat that made her want to follow his mouth until there was no air left between them. He made the kiss feel intimate, not just heated. Like he was speaking through every flick, every slide of tongue against tongue that set her nerves aflame.

By the time he pulled back—just slightly—her lips were slick, her chest rising in shallow breaths, her thighs unconsciously drawing him in tighter. That was when his hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt. Her breath stuttered as his palms made contact with her bare skin, fingertips sweeping along her stomach and ribs. He moved with a kind of quiet intensity—no frantic groping, no impatience. He wanted to know her, and he took his time learning.

She leaned into his touch, refusing to have any space between them. Emmrich adjusted, lowering himself more fully against her without breaking the kiss. The heat of his body, the strength of his hands, the sheer control he exuded in every movement—it left her dizzy in the best way. And when his thumb brushed just beneath the curve of her breast, not yet bold enough to claim, but close enough to make her ache—

She breathed, "Emmrich."

He took that as a sign of approval. Gently, he pushed her shirt up with both hands, not just to reveal her skin, but to admire the woman before him—her body, her trust, her vulnerability.

Rook sank into the couch cushions, her chest rising in soft, uneven breaths as Emmrich hovered above her, gaze tracing every line and curve like it was something precious. The lamplight cast gold over everything—the curve of her throat, the tousled chestnut waves spread out like a halo against the cushions, the bare stretch of her stomach where her shirt had been lifted. Her lips were kiss-bruised, her skin flushed, and her eyes—half-lidded, dark with want and something tenderer beneath—held him in place as surely as any spell.

Emmrich stayed there a beat longer, just looking. Just breathing. Maker's breath, she was beautiful. And she was trusting him—with her body, her vulnerability, her past. He felt the weight of that more deeply than anything else.

He lowered himself again, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was slower this time, more anchored. His hand skimmed down her side, then to her thigh, guiding her trousers the rest of the way off. They slipped away easily, revealing the deep charcoal lace beneath—sheer in the right places, with scalloped edges and delicate floral embroidery that hinted at boldness beneath her otherwise practical wardrobe. His brows lifted slightly, amused.

"Eager, were we?"

Rook's breath hitched around a quiet laugh. "I had hopes."

He hummed, pleased, and kissed her again—a brief press of lips before trailing lower. Down her neck, across her collarbone, along the top swell of her breast where her shirt remained bunched. He paused only to murmur, "May I?"

She nodded.

"Use your words, darling," he murmured, pausing with his lips just shy of her skin. "Otherwise, I won't know."

Rook swallowed, then whispered, "Yes."

“I’m going to enjoy this.”

Satisfied, he shifted her shirt further up, revealing her fully. He pressed his lips to her—worshipful, patient, open-mouthed kisses that left heat blooming in their wake. Rook gasped softly, her fingers threading into his hair, reveling in the feel of his pomade-slick strands between her fingers. He smelled like jasmine and citrus and something darker, something grounded—something him.

As he kissed lower, his hands found the edge of her lace again. But just before he removed them, he caught sight of it: the pale scar that arced gently across the dip of her hip, half-hidden by shadow and fabric. Emmrich stilled.

He looked up, meeting her eyes.

"May I?"

Venhedis, if this was his way of edging her to madness he was succeeding.

Her voice trembled as she added, "Yes." It sounded needier than she intended—soft, hesitant, like she was trying not to beg—but the sincerity in it was unmistakable. Vulnerable.

As he eased her trousers down—high-waisted and concealing—Emmrich’s eyes caught the pale curve of a scar carved gently across her hip. The sight halted him. Not in hesitation, but in reverence. He leaned in and kissed her there—slowly, tenderly—pressing his lips along the curve as if sealing something sacred into her skin.

"You wear this beautifully," he murmured against her.

Rook shuddered, breath catching, fingers curling in the cushions. The kiss, the words, the way he said them—like truth, not flattery—unraveled something deep inside her.

He let his nose nuzzle gently beside the mark before drawing back just enough to hook his fingers into her waistband. The lace slid down, slow and careful. As he pulled them away, he followed with kisses—from the hollow of her hip to the soft inside of her thigh, pausing only when she gasped his name.

Then he looked up, eyes dark and steady. "Tell me if anything is too much."

Her voice was a breathless whisper. "Keep going."

His smile was quiet, crooked, and laced with heat. He chuckled low in his throat—a sound that made her pulse stutter—before kissing the inside of her thigh one more time, then letting his mouth travel lower.

His breath was warm against her, his lips parting as he kissed the tender skin just above her core.

Then, with practiced reverence, he began to taste her.

His tongue was deft, slow at first—a gentle, exploratory press that made her hips twitch. He didn’t rush. He savored. He moved with a rhythm that was unhurried and confident, teasing the edges before circling inward. Each motion was deliberate, calibrated to her breath, her sounds, her need.

Rook gasped, her head falling back as one hand flew to grip the armrest, the other still tangled in his hair. Pleasure coiled low in her belly, building with every flick, every slow lap, every subtle shift in pressure. His tongue traced patterns against her—sweeping, curling, then pausing just long enough to make her ache for the next.

When he wrapped his lips around the most sensitive part of her and sucked, her breath hitched sharply, a cry catching in her throat. His nose brushed the soft thatch of hair above her slit, the subtle friction a startling, intimate detail that sent another pulse of heat straight through her. Her legs trembled on either side of him, but he kept her steady—his hands firm on her thighs, anchoring her to the couch as he continued with devastating focus.

He adjusted his angle, tilting his head slightly, and the new pressure made stars burst behind her eyes. She arched into him, whispering his name like a prayer.

"Oh... Emmrich...yes."

Emmrich responded with a low sound of approval, his tongue working her with unerring precision, each stroke paired with the grounding pressure of his hands on her thighs—squeezing, soothing, guiding. He was thorough and intuitive, alternating between slow, languid laps and firmer, teasing flicks. His tongue curled and circled in an expert rhythm, tracing her with such focused care that she writhed beneath him, whispering his name like a plea.

She was already teetering on the edge, desperate not to let the fire he’d kindled inside her burn out. But some part of her—breathless and half-lost—knew he took a certain pleasure in drawing it out, in watching her squirm and unravel.

Just as the tension coiled tight enough to snap, he paused. Rook let out a soft, involuntary whimper—breathy, disappointed, aching with need. Her chest heaved, her brows knitting as she blinked up at him, dazed and wanting. That sound—so raw, so honest—seemed to please him. He didn’t rush. He just watched her for a beat longer, thumb brushing slow circles against her thigh. Then she saw him reaching for his hand—fingers moving toward the rings he wore.

"Don't," she gasped, voice low and needy. "Keep them on."

A smirk ghosted his lips. "Tempting. But another time."

He brushed a kiss to the inside of her thigh before adding, "Tonight is about exploration. Not indulgence."

Rook let out a half-laugh, half-groan. "Fuck."

He tutted at her softly, eyes glittering. "Language, darling."

Emmrich resumed the quiet task of removing his rings, one by one, his hazel eyes fixed on Rook like a predator savoring the moment before the pounce. The soft clink of metal against the wood of the coffee table echoed between them—a subtle, deliberate sound that somehow made her shiver.

There was something about seeing his hands bare that sent tingles straight to her core. As if something sacred—something devastatingly intimate—was about to unfold.

And Maker, the man was still fully clothed. His perfectly coifed hair was now a tousled mess, dark strands falling across his flushed face and shadowed eyes. It was, somehow, the sexiest thing she had ever seen. He looked composed and ruined all at once—temptation incarnate, smoldering beneath the last shreds of restraint.

His gaze swept down to take her in—practically bare beneath him. Her bra remained, but the rest of her was exposed to the low lamplight, glowing like something unwrapped and reverent.

He could have burned the image into his mind and been content forever. But he had other plans. Other opportunities.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Now,” he murmured, voice a low drawl of velvet and heat, “where were we?”

Emmrich’s mouth returned to her with renewed purpose, tongue drawing slow, reverent circles over the aching bundle of nerves at her center. He worked with measured precision, his rhythm maddening in its tenderness. Then—his fingers entered her.

Rook’s breath caught in her throat. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness—it was exquisite. Her moan came from somewhere deep, soul-bound and shaken loose, as her hands flew to his hair, clutching tightly as her hips began to move with him, desperate for more.

But he was already one step ahead.

His free hand slid to her waist, firm and unyielding, anchoring her in place. “No need to chase it,” he murmured, voice velvet-drenched and dark. “Your pleasure is inevitable. Indomitable. And mine to witness.”

She trembled, undone by his voice alone.

Emmrich listened to her with every sense—how her body twitched beneath him, how her walls fluttered around his fingers, how her moans caught and broke like waves. “You taste like the sweetest ambrosia,” he murmured against her, “and sound like symphony I intend to memorize.”

Then he added, quieter—lower—meant only for her: “Such a gift you are, my darling Rook. One I am honored to unravel.”

Venhedis, even the way he talked her through this felt like poetry—debauched and divine in equal measure.

“Emmrich I’m—,” she gasped, voice breaking on the edge of another moan.

He lifted his gaze, eyes dark with heat. “Let me see you,” he said. “Come undone for me.”

Rook’s world narrowed. Nothing existed beyond the point of contact, the heat in his mouth, the wet press of his devotion. She was undone—utterly—and the wave crested faster than she expected. Her thighs shook, her breath caught, and with a shuddering cry, she came undone beneath him.

Emmrich didn’t stop until her tremors began to ease, until her body stopped fluttering around his fingers, still pulsing in the wake of pleasure. He licked her through the aftershocks—long, languid strokes that tasted every drop of her release, savoring her like a man starved. Her slick coated his mouth, and he took his time, deliberate in the way he cleaned her, as if committing her taste to memory.

Only when her hips twitched from overstimulation did he slowly withdraw, easing his fingers from her with care. Her walls fluttered around the loss, clenching as though reluctant to let him go.

Then he rose.

Her hands were still tangled in his hair, loose but possessive. As Emmrich leaned back on his heels, the soft lamplight caught on his lips, his chin, the sheen of her slick glistening against his flushed mouth. Venhedis, the sight of him like that—lips swollen, dark eyes half-lidded, his expression both reverent and wrecked—made her ache all over again.

She couldn’t help it. She stared, dazed, breathless, and wholly undone.

Maker help her, this man was the definition of debauchery.

Before Rook could even catch her breath, still trembling from the high of her climax, Emmrich’s fingers slipped inside her again—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Give me another,” he murmured, voice dark velvet against her skin.

She gasped, the overstimulated nerves now raw and hypersensitive. The aftershocks of her first orgasm didn’t fade—they twisted, doubled, heightened into something sharper, hotter. Her back arched, hips instinctively trying to escape the intensity, but Emmrich’s free hand pinned her with measured strength. Not harsh—never that—but firm, a silent command to stay with him. To let him have this.

His mouth trailed up her body, pressing slow kisses from the hollow of her hip to the soft skin just beneath her bra, each one a mark of possession and praise. Her skin tingled, burned, as his breath stirred against her ribs.

She could feel him now—the hard line of him pressing against the inside of his trousers, barely restrained, and utterly unignorable. The warmth of him, the way he pulsed against her thigh—it made her dizzy.

“You are remarkable,” he whispered near her ear, voice low, rough with want. “The way you pulse—gods, Evara, I can feel how close you are. You clench like you’re begging to fall apart.”

He nibbled along the shell of her ear, lips catching the edge of her cuff with a reverence that made her moan his name again—breathless, wrecked.

“Emmrich…”

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Come, my darling. Let me see you unravel.”

She didn’t stand a chance.

Her second orgasm struck like a live wire, ripping through her with devastating intensity. Her hands clenched the couch cushions, nails digging into the fabric as her body bowed beneath the wave of pleasure. It surged through her veins, flooded her limbs, her lungs, her throat, until all she could do was cry out, voice breaking on his name.

Emmrich groaned against her shoulder, his own body trembling from restraint, from reverence, from the sheer power of watching her come apart for him a second time. His hand didn’t still, not until every pulse had faded, until she collapsed back into the cushions—boneless, glowing, and gloriously undone.

At last, his fingers slipped from her, and Rook whimpered—a sound torn between relief and lingering need. Her body was still twitching, hips shivering at the loss of contact. The overstimulation was raw, electric, leaving her open and breathless.

She caught the glint of her slick coating his hand, dripping in slow, glistening trails down his fingers. Emmrich held her gaze as he brought them to his mouth—deliberate, reverent—and licked them clean with unhurried grace.

It was pure sin.

Rook’s breath caught in her throat, a moan barely contained. The sight of it—his composure, his worship, the sheer indulgence—lit something low and feral in her chest.

Then he leaned over her again and kissed her.

Her hands flew to his face, threading into his hair as she kissed him back with unrestrained hunger. The taste of herself on his lips, the lingering heat of his mouth and tongue—it was dizzying. She arched into him, chasing more—deeper, hotter—wanting to drown in every brush of his mouth, every delicious taste.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Emmrich gave her a crooked, devastating smile. “So,” he murmured, voice thick with warmth and pride, “did I live up to expectations?”

Rook laughed—weakly, blissfully—her voice a hoarse whisper. “If this is your definition of foreplay,” she breathed, “I may not survive you.”

His smile widened, gaze soft and wicked all at once. “Then we’ll take our time.”

She sighed, low and breathless. “Well… I did ask to be surprised.”

The look she gave him was something soft, something full—like she couldn’t quite believe how thoroughly he had unraveled her and left her feeling cherished in the process.

Emmrich huffed a modest breath of amusement, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “And I do aim to please,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfied pride. But then he paused—hesitating just slightly.

Her brows lifted. “What is it?”

He looked down, then back at her with a faint, sheepish flush creeping up his neck. “Ah. It seems I’ve found myself in a bit of a predicament.”

Rook tilted her head, confused—until she pushed herself up on her elbows and followed his gaze.

Her eyes landed on the unmistakable stain darkening the front of Emmrich’s trousers—evidence stark against the otherwise pristine fabric. Her breath caught, half-shocked, half-awed. That… had been her doing. There was no hiding it, no artful angle to disguise the evidence of his release. The outline was obvious, the damp spot spreading low across his fly—undeniably, unmistakably caused by her.

Color rushed to his face, staining his cheeks a deeper pink than before.

She blinked, as she connected the dots. “Oh…”

Emmrich cleared his throat, very primly. “Yes. Quite.”

A grin bloomed across her face, and before she could stop herself, she giggled—light and startled and utterly delighted.

He gave a theatrical sigh and harumphed, though his own smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’m glad one of us finds amusement in my predicament.”

“I’m sorry!” she said between little laughs, pressing a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just—Oh Maker—this is so adorable.”

He gave her a long-suffering look, the kind that might’ve passed for stern if not for the color blooming high on his cheeks. Then, with a dry chuckle that betrayed his amusement, he muttered, “You’re enjoying my misfortune far too much.”

Rook leaned in and kissed his jaw fondly. “I’ve got a washer and dryer. We can get you sorted out. I’ll see if I can scavenge something for you to wear.”

He arched a brow. “Was this your plan all along? A cunning ploy to trap me into staying the night?”

She gave him a wicked little grin. “I see that you’ve caught on to my clever scheme. Though I might need a few minutes before I’m a functioning hostess again.”

Emmrich chuckled and kissed the side of her face, lingering near her temple. “If you direct me to your bathroom, we can take care of you first.”

Her heart fluttered again—how he could go from composed scholar to tender lover in the blink of an eye never ceased to undo her.

She nodded toward the hallway, still smiling. “First door on the left.”

He gave her a nod and rose, collecting his dignity like the gentleman he was—wrinkled trousers and all. But before Rook could scoot to stand beside him, she found herself swept off her feet—quite literally.

One arm curled beneath her knees, the other around her back, and in one effortless motion, Emmrich lifted her from the couch. Rook let out a surprised squeal, her arms looping instinctively around his shoulders as her legs dangled in the air.

The sound of her laughter softened into a breathless, delighted gasp, muffled as she buried her face against his neck.

He chuckled, low and pleased, the warmth of it vibrating through his chest. The professor, ever composed, now bore the look of a man deeply content—his eyes soft, his hold secure—despite the very obvious and very damp problem staining his trousers.

Without pause, he carried her toward the bathroom like she weighed nothing at all—his steps sure, his embrace steady. Rook, still flushed and glowing from the aftermath of pleasure and laughter, clung to him with quiet awe, the intimacy of the moment settling into her bones like warmth steeping into tea.

And for once, neither of them needed to say a word.

Chapter Text

Emmrich woke to warmth—real, tangible warmth—and the distinct weight of a sleeping woman nestled against him.

Rook lay curled with her back to him, her breathing slow and even, one hand tucked beneath the pillow. His arm rested around her waist, palm splayed against the soft fabric of her oversized sleep shirt—one of hers, he noted, not something borrowed. She had changed into it after their shared bath and offered him joggers and a towel, teasing that they made him look like a slightly disheveled professor on holiday.

He smiled faintly at the memory, gaze drifting down. Their bodies fit together like they'd done this a hundred times before. Natural. Unforced. Like waking beside her was something he’d always known how to do.

The room was cast in the quiet hush of early morning. Outside, pale light filtered through sheer curtains, soft and gold. It touched the waves of Rook’s hair where they spilled over her shoulder, catching hints of auburn and chestnut that made her glow. She was radiant even in sleep—lashes resting against flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted in a dreamless doze.

Emmrich pressed a kiss to the crown of her head—a whisper of affection—then carefully eased away from the bed. She murmured something unintelligible as he stood and stretched, muscles still relaxed from the night before.

Last night’s chaos had ended in something far gentler. Rook was kind enough to help him clean up and offering a spare pair of dark grey joggers—loose at the waist and several inches short on his legs. They weren’t ideal, but they did the job, especially with his usual trousers and waistcoat still drying in the bathroom.

Emmrich slipped out of bed as quietly as he could and padded to the bathroom. The fabric was cool to the touch—his trousers and waistcoat still damp. Fortunately, his shirt and underwear had dried overnight. He pulled them on with practiced ease and, with a faint smirk, stepped back into the joggers. The ensemble was far from dignified, but oddly endearing in its own way.

If his past self could see him now.

Returning to the bedroom, he glanced back toward the bed. Rook hadn’t stirred. She remained curled in the blankets, one knee drawn slightly toward her chest. Peaceful. Unburdened. So different from the woman who often carried herself with sharp wit and subtle tension.

He hated to wake her, but he was awake and wished to be of use.

He leaned down and gently brushed his knuckles against her shoulder. “Rook?”

She murmured something incoherent, a faint sound of protest muffled into the pillow.

“I was wondering if I might borrow your kitchen,” he said softly, voice dipped in fond amusement.

Another murmur. Then, more clearly: “M’fine… help yourself.”

And with that, she rolled to her other side, dragging the blanket higher and burying her face in it with a sigh of contentment.

Emmrich chuckled under his breath and padded out of the room.

The apartment beyond was still and faintly sunlit, the air carrying the familiar scent of dried herbs and parchment. The kitchen was compact but tidy, all brass fixtures and warm wood accents, with a touch of lived-in charm that suited her.

What he didn’t expect was Spite.

The cat sat on the counter like a gargoyle, tail curled around his paws, golden eyes watching Emmrich with blatant suspicion. His head tilted slightly, as if to ask, Why are you here, strange man in ridiculous pants?

Emmrich raised a brow. “Good morning to you as well.”

Spite blinked slowly, unimpressed.

Undeterred, Emmrich stepped into the kitchen. The feline jumped down, trotted beside him, and gave a single pointed meow—the universal language of Feed me, mortal.

“Ah. I see your priorities are in order.”

He gave the cat a few firm strokes along the back, which Spite tolerated with all the dignity of a creature who’d already decided he was only mildly acceptable. Then Emmrich set to work, exploring cabinets and drawers with quiet deliberation, trying to determine where Rook kept the necessities.

He took in the array of neatly labeled jars—glass canisters filled with tea leaves, crushed herbs, and aromatic spices. Handwritten labels in looping script read things like Blood Lotus Bloom, Winter Drift, Andraste’s Breath, and Warden’s Wake. There were tins tucked beside them filled with finely ground coffee blends, likely roasted by hand, if the care in labeling was any indication.

He felt a flicker of admiration. Each blend was a piece of Rook—her precision, her passion, her quiet artistry. And as the morning settled around him—barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, cat underfoot, and a house not his own—he found himself smiling.

Rook stirred with a groggy hum, eyes cracking open to a flood of soft morning light spilling across the loft. Her hair was a wild, copper halo across her pillow, and her limbs were tangled in the sheets. She blinked once. Then again.

Right. She’d stayed here. At the loft.

And she hadn’t been alone.

The previous night came rushing back with vivid clarity—every kiss, every breathless whisper, every reverent touch. Her skin flushed just remembering it. A quiet, dazed laugh slipped from her lips as she buried her face in the pillow for a moment. Maker, that had been… gods, it was incredible. Intimate. Indulgent.

And they hadn’t even had sex.

It didn’t matter. What they’d shared had been the most deeply satisfying experience she’d ever known. Emmrich had unraveled her with words alone—hands and mouth and a patience that bordered on worship.

Still slightly starstruck, Rook stretched beneath the covers, letting the memory fade gently into the background as she sat up. She was still in her sleepwear—an oversized shirt she barely remembered pulling on and a pair of soft, well-worn shorts. Her legs were a little wobbly as she rose, but she managed to shuffle toward the bathroom to freshen up.

Cool water kissed her cheeks as she splashed her face, grounding herself from the haze of last night. Rook exhaled slowly, willing herself to collect the scattered pieces of last night’s haze. She patted her face dry with a towel, catching her reflection in the mirror—lips slightly swollen, a glow lingering in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the morning light.

She looked… well, content. Rumpled, radiant, and slightly undone, but content.

Padding back into the loft, she followed the faint scent of tea wafting in from the kitchen. The warm, smoky-sweet aroma was unmistakable. She recognized it instantly. Spite’s Whisker. One of her more indulgent blends, laced with toasted cacao nibs, dried blackberry leaves, mint, and a whisper of embrium. Emmrich must’ve chosen it.

When she rounded the corner, the sight that greeted her made her heart flutter.

Emmrich stood at the counter, dressed in a loose button-up and her dark grey joggers—which, on him, looked just a touch too short. A tea towel draped over one shoulder, and one of her aprons was tied—slightly askew—around his waist. The picture of domestic serenity, if slightly ridiculous in her borrowed clothes.

Spite sat beside his dish on the floor, his tail flicking with sleepy approval as he munched through breakfast. Emmrich looked perfectly at home, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, his gaze skimming the labeled tea jars lined neatly on her shelf.

He turned when he sensed her behind him, a soft smile blooming as their eyes met.

“Good morning,” he said, voice still gravel-warm from sleep.

Rook leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed loosely over her chest, and returned the smile with one of her own. “It really is.”

Emmrich turned fully to face her, smile still soft and lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, lifting the mug in his hand slightly. “I helped myself to a cup of tea.”

Her brows rose with sleepy amusement, a warm hum of approval in her throat. “I see you found Spite’s Whisker.”

“And Spite,” he added with mock solemnity, glancing down at the now thoroughly content feline, “was quite insistent about being fed. I may have done a bit of exploring in your kitchen to find his dish.”

“Of course he was,” she murmured to the cat, but she was already moving.

Rook crossed the kitchen in a few unhurried steps, drawn to him like a current to its source. Her arms slid easily around his waist, hands finding the small of his back as she rose onto her toes to kiss him—slow and warm, lips brushing his like waking affection.

“Good morning,” she whispered against his mouth.

He dipped his head, brushing his nose gently against hers. “Would you like a cup?”

“I’d love one,” she replied, still close enough to feel the smile in his voice. Her hands shifted against the fabric of the apron tied at his waist. “And what, may I ask, prompted this addition to your wardrobe?”

Emmrich glanced down at himself with an exaggerated sigh. “I was entertaining the idea of making you breakfast,” he admitted, as if confessing a secret. “It seemed only right, given how gracious you were last night.”

Oh Maker, this man was making it really hard not to be more smitten than she was. After years of remaining careful and on guard, he was chipping away at her walls with no effort at all.

Rook’s grin turned fond, eyes softening as she looked up at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“My dear Evara, I assure you—it would be my pleasure.”

She leaned back slightly, teasing, “Shall I be your assistant?”

But he shook his head, smoothing his hands over her arms where they rested against him. “You’ve done quite enough. Allow me to show off my culinary prowess—undistracted, if possible.”

Rook laughed, brushing one last kiss to his cheek before stepping back with mock reluctance. “All right then. I await your culinary masterpiece.”

Emmrich turned back to the counter, methodical and graceful as he prepared her a cup of Spite’s Whisker. The kettle had already begun to steam, and he poured the water over the leaves with practiced ease, letting the aroma bloom in the air between them.

“This blend,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a small, appreciative smile, “is quite the morning tea. Smooth, with a cooling bite from the mint and a touch of earthiness from the cacao. There’s a brightness in it—blackberry leaf, I think? A very thoughtful blend.”

He passed her the mug, and the scent drifted up—comforting and curious, like something wild tamed into a cup. Rook took the cup, already soothed by the familiar aroma. “There’s embrium in it, too.”

That earned her a surprised look.

“Really?” he asked, brows arching. “I didn’t expect an alchemy ingredient to be used as a tea ingredient.”

She smirked, letting the steam curl against her face before taking a slow sip. The warmth bloomed across her tongue immediately—bold, rich roasted cacao mingling with the cool sharpness of mint, chased by the soft herbaceous note of blackberry leaf. But it was the embrium—subtle and grounding—that settled deep in her chest, like a calm breath pulled from the Fade itself.

It was familiar. Comforting. Mischievous, in a way that made her think of Spite pawing at her face at four in the morning.

She hummed softly, the sound low and pleased as the flavors settled. “It was definitely a bold experiment. But I think it suits Spite.”

He turned back to the stove, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. “May I ask what inspired it? I assume it takes more than mischief and claw marks to earn a tea blend in this household.”

Rook leaned an elbow on the kitchen island, resting her chin in her hand as she watched him move with quiet precision. “Well, it only seemed fitting,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I couldn’t have him be the shop’s little mascot without a tea named after him. It took a lot of trials to get it right. Spite can be rough, selfish, rude, and unapologetically bold… but he has his sweet moments.”

Emmrich looked down at the satisfied feline now lounging under a sunbeam by the cabinets. “I’m sure he is honored,” he mused, lips twitching.

She grinned. “He’s not the first to be a personified blend.”

That piqued his interest further, but she only sipped her tea with a conspiratorial smile.

Emmrich turned back to the pan, the sizzle of butter hitting the surface filling the loft with warm promise. “Well, I hope I’m someday deemed worthy of my own signature.”

Rook’s gaze swept over him—barefoot, hair still tousled from sleep, sleeves rolled up as he chopped mushrooms with focused care.

She sipped again, voice playful. “We’ll see. So far, you’re off to a delicious start.”

Emmrich moved with the ease of a man entirely in his element, folding the chopped mushrooms and fresh chives into the eggs before adding a generous grating of cheese. The scent was already divine—savory, rich, and layered with the same care he showed in everything he did. Rook, still leaning against the island with her tea cradled in her hands, watched him with open delight.

It wasn’t just the food. It was the image of him here, in her space, wearing her apron and joggers that barely met his ankles, calmly commanding her kitchen like he’d always belonged there. She didn’t think anyone had ever looked so good while slicing mushrooms.

When the omelets were done, Emmrich plated them with a practiced flourish, garnishing with a sprig of parsley from the small herb pot near the window. He set one plate gently in front of her and slid into the seat across the island, folding his hands in patient anticipation.

“I await your judgment,” he said, lips twitching with a hint of dramatics.

Rook raised a brow, lifted her fork, and took a bite. The warmth and richness bloomed across her tongue, the cheese melty and smooth, the chives bright against the earthiness of the mushrooms. She made a pleased sound in the back of her throat.

“Oh, this is good,” she said, eyes fluttering briefly closed. “Really good.”

Emmrich looked quietly pleased, but it was her next words that truly made him pause.

“I could get used to my boyfriend cooking for me.”

The word slipped out so easily, so naturally, that for a second neither of them spoke. The title hadn’t been defined, not really—they were only two weeks into whatever this was—but the truth of it settled between them like something warm and unshakable.

He blinked, then smiled slowly. That glow she loved so much crept into his eyes.

“Boyfriend,” he repeated, tasting it aloud like a new ingredient.

Rook met his gaze with casual certainty and another bite of omelet. “Too soon?”

“Maker, no,” he said, chuckling softly. “It’s just… I mean I had hoped that it was the case.”

She grinned. “It is.”

They ate in comfortable quiet after that, interrupted only by the occasional scrape of fork against plate and Spite’s contented yawns from his sun-drenched perch. And for the first time in a long time, Rook found herself thinking not of what came next, but simply how good this moment was—tea, breakfast, soft sunlight, and the man who looked at her like she was a treasure.

 “So…” Rook began, twirling her fork. “Our first sleepover. How was it?”

Emmrich didn’t miss a beat. “I would very much like to do it again.”

She smirked. “Shame we didn’t get to seal the deal.”

“I’m not disappointed,” he replied smoothly. “I found last night’s activities… very informative.”

She arched a brow. “Informative?”

“I did mention that the evening was meant to be explorative rather than indulgent,” he said, tone warm and teasing. “And I always conduct a thorough exploration before any grand expedition.”

Rook let out a quiet laugh. “How meticulous of you.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice a low promise. “For you, my darling, I will always ensure your experiences are… deeply pleasurable.”

She gave him a look that could have melted granite. “Have any plans for today, Professor?”

“None whatsoever. And you?”

“Well usually I would go workout with my friends, but I’m fairly certain they’ve guessed I’m otherwise occupied today,” she said with a shrug. “Then I’d stop by the community garden to look at my plot, but I asked Lace and Bellara to handle that.”

She leaned back, sipping her tea with a satisfied smile. “So, it looks like you get my undivided attention for the rest of the day.”

Emmrich’s responding smile was slow, deliberate, and entirely pleased. “How fortunate.”

The last of breakfast’s warmth lingered in the kitchen—the scent of eggs and browned butter still soft in the air. Plates sat scraped clean on the counter, mugs half-drained of tea. Between casual brush-bys and quiet, pleased smiles, Rook and Emmrich moved with unspoken rhythm as they cleaned up.

He washed, methodical but relaxed, sleeves rolled up and hands steady in the suds. She dried beside him, dishtowel in hand, humming quietly under her breath. Occasionally, their arms would bump or their fingers would brush, and each time Emmrich’s lips would twitch in silent amusement while Rook fought not to smile too wide.

It was easy. Comforting, even. The kind of moment she’d rarely allowed herself to want.

Once the dishes were stacked and the counter wiped down, Emmrich, ever attuned to her, reached for her waist with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

Without a word, he lifted her with ease, setting her gently on the edge of the kitchen island.

Rook let out a surprised laugh, her hands instinctively gripping his shoulders. “Emmrich—”

But whatever protest she had dissolved the moment his lips found hers. The kiss was warm and unhurried, his hands resting at her hips as he stepped between her knees. There was no urgency—just the quiet reverence of a man memorizing the shape of her, the taste of their morning tea, the sigh in her throat when she leaned into him.

When they parted, foreheads touching, his hand drifted downward, fingers brushing softly along the curve of her hip—right where the pale scar arced beneath the hem of her sleep shorts. His touch was reverent, not probing, his fingertips tracing the mark as though committing it to memory.

Rook’s breath hitched—not from fear, but from the way he treated her body. Not demanding. Not clinical. Just… gentle.

“Could I ask for the story?” Emmrich’s voice was low, steady—measured in that way he often was when treading carefully. “You don’t have to.”

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she covered his hand with her own where it rested against her hip, grounding herself. She pressed her forehead to his, eyes slipping shut as she exhaled slowly.

“I was in the backseat when the car hit us,” she began, her voice quiet. “When I came to, there was a piece of metal lodged in my side. I was pinned—couldn’t move. I didn’t even register the pain until help arrived and tried to get me out.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “Back then, the scar was worse. It stretched over most of my side and hip. Looked awful. Felt worse.”

Their hands remained clasped, fingers threading together as Emmrich leaned in and pressed soft, unhurried kisses along her cheek, her brow, her jaw—each one a silent reassurance. A dry laugh slipped from her as the weight of memory gave way to warmth.

When he pulled back, his gaze was nothing short of adoring. “You’re beautiful.”

Rook arched a brow, lips curling. “Pretty sure you made that point last night.”

“And I fully intend to keep telling you.” He murmured. “As often as I can.”

“I won’t complain,” she replied, her voice a little lighter now.

Emmrich’s hand remained at her side, thumb tracing the edge of the scar with the gentlest care.

“May I ask… about the others?” he asked softly.

Rook exhaled, letting her fingers remain laced with his as she nodded. “Yeah. I can tell you.”

She gently guided his hand to her right forearm, turning it to show the clean scar along the outer edge. “This one was from my Shadow Dragon days—a rogue blood mage with an enchanted blade. I disarmed him, but not before he caught me first.”

Emmrich’s thumb passed gently over the mark, reverent.

“The back of my left arm—” She tilted her arm, revealing the soft curve of her bicep. “Beast bite. Some twisted creature controlled by a Venatori mage. I got away with a puncture wound. I mean it was venomous but that was neutralized quickly.”

His gaze followed hers, listening with an attentiveness that felt like armor around her words.

Rook’s hand lifted to her ribs next. “This one—diagonal scar, left side. Fell onto the edge of a broken ruin while scouting out a trafficking den. Knocked the wind out of me.”

He made a low sound of sympathy, but didn’t interrupt.

She turned slightly, lifting the back hem of her shirt just enough to show the fading scar near her shoulder blade. “Crossbow bolt. Took it from behind while covering someone else.”

His hand settled gently there, warm and steady. But when she stilled—hesitating—he noticed.

“There’s one more,” she murmured. “But…” Her voice softened, uncertain now. “I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

But Emmrich stopped her gently, his hand rising to cup her cheek.

“You don’t have to tell me everything at once,” he said softly. “You’ve already shared so much with me.”

Rook exhaled, gratitude softening the tension in her shoulders—only to be caught off guard when he tilted his head, a thoughtful furrow in his brow.

“If you’d like,” he offered, “I could share some adventures of my own.”

That earned a wry smile. “What sort of adventures does a forensic anthropologist get up to?”

He smirked, brushing his thumb lightly along her cheekbone. “My darling Rook, you’d be surprised.”

Rook slipped away under the pretense of using the bathroom, but truthfully, she just needed a breath—to steady herself after the tenderness they’d just shared. The weight of memory still lingered behind her ribs, but it no longer pressed down. It was simply there. Present. Quiet.

When she returned to the living room, her steps slowed, her gaze drinking in the sight before her.

Emmrich was sprawled comfortably across the deep navy sectional, legs stretched along the cushions, a book balanced in one hand, his fingers loosely curled around the spine. Spite had claimed his lap—a small, smug loaf of feline contentment, purring in his sleep, tail flicking now and then.

The morning light filtering through the loft’s tall windows painted the whole scene in a warm, buttery glow. Emmrich’s sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing the strong line of his wrists and the veins along his hand as he turned a page with practiced ease.

He looked utterly at home. Composed. Domestic. And unintentionally breathtaking.

Rook couldn’t resist. She pulled out her phone, angled it just right, and snapped a quick photo—silently, reverently. A memory to keep. One she’d likely revisit on quiet nights when the loft felt too empty.

She must’ve lingered a second too long, though, because Emmrich glanced up from his page, catching her in the act.

His eyes twinkled.

He didn’t say a word—just gave her a slow, knowing wink.

Rook froze mid-sip, cheeks warming. Before she could look away, Emmrich gave a soft, amused chuckle—the kind that curled low in his throat and only made her blush deepen.

"Carry on," she said lightly, waving a hand at him as if dismissing a very charming daydream. "I was just admiring the décor."

That earned another quiet laugh as he returned to his book, the corners of his mouth still curved in smug delight.

Rook wandered closer, the warmth of the scene still settling in her chest. Without ceremony, she leaned down and plucked Spite from Emmrich’s lap. The cat gave a sleepy, disgruntled chirp but didn’t protest much, curling lazily in her arms like a limp sack of attitude.

Emmrich looked up, amused. “Usurping the king, are we?”

“I’m making a formal claim,” she replied breezily, setting Spite gently on a sunlit cushion before slipping into the vacated spot on Emmrich’s lap.

He adjusted without hesitation, sitting up straighter and setting the book aside on the end table. His arms circled around her waist as she settled against him, their legs tangling naturally. She leaned in for a soft, chaste kiss, her fingers brushing lightly against the nape of his neck.

“Your clothes are probably dry by now,” she murmured against his lips. “And I’d very much like to hear about your academic adventures… over lunch.”

Emmrich smiled into another kiss, savoring the invitation. “A splendid idea,” he replied, voice warm and sure.

“Shall we, Professor?”

“We shall.”

A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugging into a slow, plotting smirk. Before Rook could question it, he moved—swift and assured—scooping her up effortlessly into his arms.

“Emmrich!” she laughed, startled, her arms looping around his neck, her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he rose from the couch.

He only grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “I believe I’m owed the honor of escorting my lunch date to the dressing quarters.”

Their laughter echoed through the loft as he carried her toward the bedroom, Spite watching from his cushion throne with narrowed, unimpressed eyes. But Rook didn’t care. Wrapped in Emmrich’s arms, her heart still glowing from shared intimacy and quiet joy, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

It was domestic. It was ridiculous. And it was perfect.

Chapter Text

Rook tugged the last lace on her boot into place, the final knot cinching with a soft pull. She straightened, smoothing her hand along the front of her high-waisted jeans before reaching for her sweater—plum-colored and finely knit, its sleeves a little long but cozy in the way she liked best. The soft wool clung comfortably to her frame, the hem just brushing her hips. With practiced ease, she twisted her hair into its usual loose updo, a few copper strands escaping to frame her face. Her signature gold ear cuff gleamed as she adjusted it into place, catching the light just so.

Across the room, Emmrich was finishing the last of his ensemble.

He’d reclaimed his usual clothes, now clean and dry. His waistcoat was buttoned, sharp and tailored, with his rolled sleeves still casually pushed to the elbows. Grave gold adorned his fingers again—rings that glinted faintly against the deep gray of his vest. His trousers, now free of last night’s unfortunate incident, were properly pressed and crisp. But it was his hair that caught her attention.

Gone was the precise, neatly coifed style she’d grown used to. Instead, he had brushed it back loosely, letting it fall naturally with a slight wave. It softened him—made him look less like a scholar fresh from the archives and more like a man with the morning to himself.

Rook leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as she openly admired the view.

“I think I could get used to this look,” she said, her voice warm and teasing. “It suits you.”

Emmrich glanced up from adjusting his cuffs, a brow arching with amused curiosity. “Messy and mildly disheveled? Or are we perhaps enjoying the fact that there is evidence of last night’s activities.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said, reaching for her coat. “I just think that your imperfect appearance is quite the view.”

He chuckled, eyes warm as they lingered on her. “I believe I share the same sentiment.”

Rook smirked, brushing past him with a playful nudge. “Well then, Professor. Are we now presentable to face the world?”

He laced his fingers around hers, his lips brushing against her knuckles. “Absolutely.”

It took very little convincing from Rook to persuade Emmrich that a walk to their destination was better than driving. The weather was pleasant, the kind that invited lingering steps and soft conversation, and the streets of Minrathous’ artisan district pulsed with life and warmth. She’d always imagined walking a partner through her neighborhood—something simple she used to want without knowing why. Today, it made sense.”

Their hands remained intertwined as they strolled past weathered shopfronts and flower-draped balconies. Rook took the lead with quiet confidence, pointing out familiar spots along the way.

“That bookstore?” she said, nodding to a narrow building tucked between a ceramic gallery and a tailor. “They always put the best used books out front. Found a first edition of Herbs of Thedas there once. Covered in margin notes from a Circle apprentice—it was like reading two books at once.”

Emmrich’s brow lifted with interest. “Sounds like a treasure.”

“It is,” she said, then gestured ahead. “That apothecary’s where I source most of my tea ingredients—elfroot, embrium, dried verawood bark when they have it. The owner’s a stickler about quality, which I appreciate.”

He chuckled, charmed by her precision. “Of course you have a favorite apothecary.”

She grinned. “Don’t you?”

“Of course. Although mine is back in Nevarra. The quality of their herbs were always exceptional. It was convenient that it was near the local tea shop.”

“Oh and how do I square up to them?”

“My darling, I could never compare.”

Rook bumped his shoulder gently with hers. “Is that your diplomatic way of saying that you refuse to choose?”

“I haven’t the slightest inkling of what you could mean.”

They walked on, her voice weaving in and out of the passing sounds of midday bustle. She pointed out a produce market across the plaza. “The markets here are probably my favorite place to shop. The vibe is so lively and can be a war zone during harvest season. I once had to swim through the crowds because I slept in.”

“Sounds like quite the battlefield. I hope no blood was drawn over a fig.”

“No, but I’ve had to enlist the help of Lace and she was ready to swipe from people’s baskets. I was able to talk her out of it.”

Emmrich laughed, and she basked in the sound.

“And where, might I ask, are we indulging in lunch today?” he asked, glancing around as they neared a quieter side street.

Rook smiled, gesturing toward a tucked-away corner ahead. “Just there. The Fig & Laurel. It’s a small café I go to when I want something cozy. Great tea, better hand pies, and a shaded patio that’s perfect for people-watching.”

By the time they turned down the narrow, ivy-draped side street, the scent of warm bread, grilled herbs, and lemon oil had begun to fill the air. Emmrich drew a slow breath, clearly approving.

She gave him a sly glance. “You’re going to love this place.”

The Fig & Laurel came into view, nestled between an herb shop and a luthier’s stall. Its plum awning fluttered gently in the breeze, and the little fig tree beside the door was heavy with dark green leaves. As they stepped through the door, a small brass bell announced their arrival.

The inside was cozy, steeped in late morning sun and fragrant steam. Behind the counter, a barista looked up—and then lit up like a candle.

“Rook!” the woman called, already reaching for a pair of mismatched ceramic mugs. “We were wondering when you were going to come by.”

“Aw you missed me that much?” Rook replied, giving Emmrich’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I brought company this time.”

The barista’s gaze snapped to Emmrich with barely restrained curiosity, eyes glittering. “Company, eh?”

“My boyfriend.”

That did it.

The barista’s eyes widened as she shouted through the serving window, “Guys—it finally happened! Rook brought a boyfriend!”

Like moths to flame, the staff surged forward, all curiosity and barely-contained glee.

“A boyfriend?!”

“Where?!”

“Oh my, he’s handsome.”

“Hey, move—I want a look!”

The manager, already looking exasperated, stepped out from the back with a resigned sigh. “All right, back to work! We’re in the middle of a lunch rush, not a meet-the-boyfriend summit. You can all spectate while you work!”

Emmrich blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden attention—but to his credit, he offered a polite, if slightly flustered, smile. “I wasn’t aware I was infamous.”

“You are now,” the barista said with a wink. “Sit wherever you like, loves. We’ll serve you once the staff stops hyperventilating.”

Rook smirked as she guided him toward a sun-drenched table near the window. “I hope you’re ready for mild chaos.”

“I’m starting to suspect,” Emmrich murmured, pulling out her chair before taking his own, “that you brought me here just to show me off.”

“…I might be a little guilty of that,” she admitted, grinning. “But the food really is amazing.”

“Mhm,” he said, amused—and maybe a little enchanted.

While the staff gradually returned to their stations—though not without the occasional peek or whisper—Emmrich let his attention drift around the café. The Fig & Laurel lived up to its name: quaint and sun-warmed, with potted herbs lining the windowsills and the gentle hum of conversation layered beneath the clink of dishes and the hiss of the espresso machine.

He could see it—Rook slipping in here on a slow afternoon, perhaps with a book under her arm or herbs to drop off for the kitchen. The thought was oddly grounding. Comforting. This place suited her in the same way the scent of her tea blends did: familiar, layered, quietly personal.

The chalkboard menu above the counter was hand-lettered in chalk and whimsy, listing dishes that ranged from roasted root vegetable flatbread wraps to delicate hand pies and hearty grain bowls. Plenty of options, vegetarian and not, rustic yet elevated. It wasn’t a place trying to impress through pretense—just quality.

Emmrich found himself quietly impressed. It was these small considerations—her knowing he would enjoy the subtle complexity of the food, the atmosphere, the walk over—that spoke volumes. She’d brought him somewhere meaningful to her, without altering a single detail to accommodate him. And yet, somehow, it was still welcoming.

That, he thought, was Rook in a nutshell.

He turned back to her with a fond expression just as she took a sip from her water glass, her gaze still dancing with amusement from the earlier chaos. It was moments like this that left him in awe of her. Her calm. Her amusement. How she is ready to let him be part of it all. To think it took him so long to meet her.

A server approached their table with a grin that was far too knowing for someone who had only just met them. Rook, unfazed, leaned back in her chair with easy familiarity.

“I’ll have my usual, please,” she said. “Blood orange, clove, and cardamom tea—and the hand pies with leek, wild mushroom, and goat cheese.”

The server nodded, then turned to Emmrich with a flourish of their notepad. “And for the gentleman?”

Emmrich glanced up at the menu board once more, then handed over the little printed one in his hand. “I’ll have the roasted root vegetable barley bowl. Honey thyme dressing, if it’s available—and sparkling water, please.”

“Coming right up,” the server chirped before vanishing back into the bustling kitchen.

Once they were alone again, Rook turned her attention back to him, chin resting on her hand. “So,” she asked, a playful gleam in her eye, “how do you like this place?”

Emmrich chuckled, his gaze fond. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

Rook laughed softly. “And there’s the charm.”

Their banter faded into a companionable silence, the kind that only sharpened the sounds of the café around them—clinking cutlery, the soft hiss of the espresso machine, the low murmur of conversation. Rook’s gaze lingered on his face, something thoughtful settling into her expression.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Walk around town with my partner. Bring them to my favorite spots.” She nudged his foot gently beneath the table.

Emmrich raised a brow. “Is this a recurring fantasy of yours?”

“One of the tamer ones,” she replied with a sly grin. “Don’t act like you don’t have a few yourself.”

“Guilty as charged,” he said smoothly. “Though now I’m quite curious about the wilder ones.” His foot brushed hers again, the tip of his dress shoe tracing lightly up her calf.

That earned a faint blush and a huff from Rook as she looked away, which only made Emmrich smile in triumph.

“Fantasies aside,” she said, shaking her head with a smirk, “I believe you promised to tell me about your adventures.”

“Ah. So now it’s my turn to spin tales?”

“I think I’m owed at least one academic adventure.”

Emmrich folded his hands on the table, expression softening with thought. “Well,” he said after a beat, “how would you like to hear about the time my team and I excavated a forgotten war site in the Silent Plains? The remains dated back to the First Blight.”

Rook blinked, her interest visibly piqued. “Really?”

He nodded. “We were expecting Warden remnants, but we unearthed much more—fallen Grey Wardens, ancient darkspawn, signs of the old conflict that had all but been lost to time. The Grey Wardens were grateful. It gave them closure on a part of their legacy that had long remained in shadow. And for historians, it provided clarity on the early days of the Blight.”

“What was it like?” she asked, voice quieter now.

He exhaled, glancing toward the window. “Grueling. Meticulous. At times, dangerous. We had a few run-ins with wild wyverns and even a cluster of ghasts near the ravine. Thank the Maker we had a proper security team with us. Although there were moments when we had to take matters into our own hands.”

Rook’s brows lifted. “So the good professor has seen some action.”

He smirked. “Anyone in fieldwork learns to expect a few… adversaries. Though it’s been some time since I had to actively use combat magic.”

“I would’ve loved to have seen you in action,” she teased.

“Someday, perhaps,” he said with a hint of promise. “But for me, the most meaningful part wasn’t the danger or the discovery—it was giving the remains names again. Restoring their stories. Many of them were reunited with their descendants, or at the very least, given a proper return home. We still had a few unidentified souls, but they were still treated with care when we brought them back to Nevarra.”

Rook’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. “It’s rare—doing work that gives something back. I imagine the Wardens were grateful it was in your hands.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s a place in Minrathous, near the capital’s Chantry,” she added quietly. “It’s called the Wall of Light. Families light enchanted orbs for their fallen, especially those lost in war or tragedy. It’s a place for remembrance.”

“I’ve been,” Emmrich said. “On my first visit, actually. It’s lovely. A different take on memorial rites than what I’m used to—but poignant.”

“I volunteer sometimes, to help maintain the orbs,” Rook said, her voice almost a murmur. “Especially when I’m thinking about my parents.”

“I understand the sentiment,” Emmrich said gently. “I visit my parents’ graves when I had the chance and I would catch them up on what I’ve been up to.”

“I heard that Nevarrans prefer burial over cremation,” she mused.

He nodded. “We do. But there are also symbolic graves—empty, yet meaningful. Not unlike your Wall of Light. A place to grieve, to remember.”

She smiled faintly. “I think our cultures would get along just fine.”

He reached across the table, brushing his fingers over hers. “Much like us.”

Their meals arrived with perfect timing—steam curling from the hand pies on Rook’s plate, golden and flaking at the edges, while Emmrich’s barley bowl radiated warmth, the roasted vegetables glistening beneath a light drizzle of honey-thyme dressing.

Rook tucked in with easy delight, taking that first satisfying bite that always made her eyes flutter shut. “Mm,” she hummed, savoring the rich earthiness of wild mushroom, the tang of goat cheese wrapped in crisp pastry. “Flaky perfection. Their hand pies are by far the best. And their seasonal so they’re always different.”

Across from her, Emmrich took a more deliberate approach—scooping a modest forkful, giving the blend of textures and aroma its due before tasting it. His expression, though measured, softened into visible appreciation.

“You’re an annoyingly elegant eater,” she teased, watching the way he dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin after every other bite.

“And you,” he said with a faint smirk, “are delightfully expressive. I imagine you’d be a terrible liar about bad food.”

“I’ll have you know,” she replied, reaching for her tea with a grin. “That I am very polite to ones’ efforts… unless they’re really bad.”

He chuckled under his breath, gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary. There was something more in the way he looked at her now—not just warmth, but an intensity curling beneath the surface.

Rook set down her cup, tilting her head. “So,” she began, casual—too casual. “When do you think we’ll have our first ‘expedition’?”

The question was bold, but her tone softened the edges. She wasn’t trying to provoke—just… wondering. Curious. Wanting.

Emmrich stilled.

His fork hovered briefly above his bowl before he set it down with quiet precision. When he looked up, there was a shift—barely there, but undeniable. Something deeper igniting behind his eyes. The green in them darkened, a glow surfacing beneath his composed exterior like candlelight behind stained glass.

“When the time is right,” he said slowly, voice low and rich. “Ideally… I’d like to plan it.”

Rook’s brows rose slightly, her lips parting—but he leaned in, just enough to command her attention.

“I’d like to take you out on a romantic evening. I want a night built for you—an evening of silk and slow ruin. To appreciate and spoil you.” His words, though quiet, sank deep. “Where I can take my time unraveling you—inch by inch—until every sacred pleasure your body hides belongs only to me.”

Rook’s breath caught, her body tensing in the best way.

Emmrich’s eyes didn’t waver, the green now unmistakably aglow. “And when the sun rises,” he continued, “I intend to be the only one who knows you that way. The only one who holds the map of your desires. And I will use that knowledge, Rook…” A pause, as though tasting her name. “Shamelessly. Again and again. However you need me.”

A pulse beat hard behind her ribs. The flicker in her core surged into a full flame, heat curling low in her stomach. And Maker help her, she swore she could feel the weight of those promises before they were even fulfilled.

She tried to swallow, tried to speak—but all she managed was a breathless, “Oh.”

Emmrich smirked, pleased, but didn’t press. He merely picked up his fork again, calm and composed, like he hadn’t just spoken a quiet prayer of temptation across the table.

Rook blinked once, twice. If she weren’t trying to humor the fantasy of a leisurely afternoon date, she’d drag him back to the loft and devour him herself.

The thought alone made her legs cross beneath the table.

He glanced up from his bowl, the faintest glimmer of knowing in his eyes. “Patience, darling,” he murmured. “We have time.”

Maker preserve her, the man had a gift—every time she tried to fluster him, he found a way to turn it back on her tenfold.

In an attempt to regain her composure, Rook took a slow sip of her tea, letting the citrus and spice ground her senses. Across the table, Emmrich watched her with quiet amusement. He enjoyed how easily their conversations flowed—each one a thread that wove them closer. Her whimsy, her teasing, the way their flirtation had deepened since they first met—it all felt like something rare. Something earned. And Maker, it was entirely too endearing watching her try to recover when he managed to turn the tables.

When their check arrived, Rook snatched it up with swift defiance, her expression triumphant. Last time, he’d told her she could pay next—and she wasn’t about to give him the chance to be a gentleman again. Emmrich chuckled at her childish victory. He wasn’t one to duel over bills, though in his experience, he was typically the one footing them. This gesture—her insistence, her quiet pride—was refreshing. She might be the first who seemed eager to flaunt her independence.

As they stepped out of the Fig & Laurel, sunlight bathed the quiet street once more. The staff, ever watchful and far too entertained, sent Rook off with a chorus of teasing waves and knowing grins. She responded with a huffed laugh and a parting glare that lacked any real heat—though the faint red lingering at the tips of her ears told another story.

Emmrich, ever attuned, leaned in as they walked, his lips brushing just close enough to her ear to make her shiver. “Do you have anything else planned for us today?” he murmured, voice low and rich with mischief.

Rook cleared her throat, doing her best to compose herself, but the blush she’d fought to suppress came rushing back with a vengeance. “That depends,” she said, glancing sidelong at him. “Do you?”

The smirk that tugged at Emmrich’s mouth was nothing short of wicked. “Oh, I might have a few ideas.”

The drive to the university was calm and scenic, winding through Minrathous’ quieter districts until the spires of the university campus came into view. The campus spread like a tapestry of stone towers, manicured paths, and vine-covered courtyards. Despite its imposing structure, it was quiet this time of day—Sundays had a hush to them, the kind that invited wandering rather than rushing.

Emmrich parked near a staff entrance and guided Rook through a side path flanked by sculpted hedges and carefully cultivated blooms.

“The last time I was here,” she noted, “I was taken straight to your office to return your work journal.”

Emmrich smiled. “A dramatic entrance, to be sure. But today’s visit will be a touch more traditional. I admit, I’d rather give you a proper tour if it weren’t Sunday—but I suspect this version will be far more charming.”

Their first stop was the campus garden, a hidden alcove tucked between two research halls. Blooming with mage-grown flora, it thrived in quiet shade: serpentroot, fade-touched lilies, elfroot planters arranged with geometric precision. Rook took a slow breath in, visibly soothed.

“I used to imagine university gardens being all marble and hedges,” she murmured. “But this feels alive.”

“It’s one of my favorite corners,” Emmrich said. “Students come here to study... or to recover from exams. Occasionally, it’s also where security has chased off undergrads sneaking in to make out.”

Rook snorted. “Sounds like a hotspot.”

“Quite.”

The Arcane Forensics wing was quiet on Sundays, its high stone corridors filled with nothing but the low hum of magical preservation wards. He led her next to the forensics lab wing, all arched doorways and polished stone, with enchanted lanterns casting soft light across glass-paneled doors. One of the labs stood open, empty save for a few quietly humming instruments. Rook lingered at the threshold, peering in.

As they stepped into the lab space, Emmrich’s voice dropped instinctively into something softer—like reverence or ritual.

“This way,” he said, unlocking a heavy oak door with a sigil-marked key. “One of the smaller research labs. This one’s typically used for more sensitive specimens.”

“You actually teach in here?”

“Sometimes. It’s where we process arcane residue from spellwork in crime scenes, or preserve and examine remains that have... histories.”

“Spoken like a man who’s handled a few cursed skeletons.”

“Oh, several.”

Inside, the room was dimly lit, the overhead enchantments calibrated to avoid damaging the contents within. Crystal cases and reinforced glass domes dotted the room, each one housing something unique—bone fragments, enchanted fibers, faded tomes, bits of preserved claw or scale. But it was one particular table that drew Emmrich’s attention.

He gestured to the centerpiece: a full-scale of darkspawn skeletal remains, carefully laid out on velvet padding, its surface blackened and ridged with what looked like veins of corruption frozen in time.

“This one,” Emmrich began, his voice laced with quiet fascination, “was recovered from my expedition on the Silent Plains. Likely died during the First Blight. You can see here—” he pointed near the joint, “—fracture along the growth plate. Blunt force trauma, likely from a war hammer. I believe a Warden dealt the killing blow.”

Rook leaned in slightly, eyes sharp, curious. The bone pulsed faintly with residual energy—dark, oily, and ancient. It felt like standing too close to a lightning strike long after the storm had passed.

Emmrich caught her expression and, with the ghost of a smirk, offered, “Would you like to touch it?”

She blinked, eyes darting between him and the relic. “Tempting,” she admitted. “But I think I’ll pass. I have this fear I’ll sneeze and somehow snap it in half.”

That drew a warm chuckle from him. “I assure you, it’s more durable than it looks. But I appreciate the caution.”

She stepped back slightly, her hands clasped behind her. “It’s strange… I’ve seen darkspawn on the battlefield in textbooks, but seeing just a piece of one like this, studied and still… it feels more real.”

Emmrich nodded. “We often fear them for what they do, what they become. But here, stripped down to bone and record, they’re still part of a story. One we’re still learning to read.”

Their last stop was a lecture hall, tucked beneath one of the older towers. Emmrich unlocked the door with a gentle spell, and they stepped into the stillness of rows of darkwood benches and high arched windows.

Rook drifted down the center aisle, her gaze sweeping over the quiet expanse of the empty lecture hall. Her fingertips brushed along the edge of a desk—worn smooth by years of restless students.

“You ever imagine what it might’ve been like?” Emmrich asked behind her, his voice low, thoughtful.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Being a student?”

He nodded, stepping closer.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But I’m not even sure what I would’ve studied. I was a different person back then—more comfortable on my feet than sitting still with a book.”

“Do you regret not going?”

She shook her head, the answer easy. “No, even with the option, I doubt that I’d take it.”

“Did your brother support your decision?”

“We weren’t speaking much in those days,” she said softly. “So, he didn’t get a say in the matter.”

Emmrich’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he stepped forward and gently hoisted her up to sit on the lecturer’s desk. The move startled a quiet laugh from her.

He leaned in with a teasing smirk. “Well, if you had been a student here, I imagine I would’ve found it very hard to concentrate.”

“Oh really?”

“Without question,” he said, eyes glinting. “You would’ve made a terrifying academic.”

Rook tilted her head, lips curling into a slow, amused smile. “Is that your way of calling me a menace?”

“A charming one,” Emmrich murmured, his voice dipping low. “Irresistibly so.”

She reached for him, fingers sliding beneath his chin with practiced ease, guiding him closer. Their lips hovered a breath apart, the tension between them crackling like struck flint.

“In this hypothetical,” she whispered, gaze fixed on his, “if I were a student and our paths crossed... I think I’d drag you into all sorts of trouble, Professor.”

Emmrich’s smile curved, slow and dangerous. “I think I’d let you.”

It was a tantalizing thought—Rook as a student, drifting through these halls with sunlight catching her smile in the courtyard. He could almost see the way her eyes might glint with mischief under his heated gaze mid-lecture. Not that she’d ever officially enroll in one of his classes—Maker forbid—but he wouldn’t put it past her to sneak in, just to watch him. To tempt him. He could already imagine the two of them stealing kisses in the shadowed corridors, behind shelves in the library… maybe even right here in this very lecture hall.

Then his mouth was on hers—unhurried, reverent at first. His hands slid to her hips as he stepped forward, fitting neatly between her thighs where she perched on the desk. Rook’s legs wrapped around him instinctively, drawing him in closer as her fingers threaded into his hair, already mussed from the morning breeze.

The kiss deepened. His tongue coaxing her mouth to open for a proper taste. It wasn’t rushed, but it was consuming—months of tension unspooling in the quiet hush of an empty lecture hall. The scent of chalk dust and old tomes lingered faintly in the air, but all Rook could focus on was the heat of his hands on her thighs, the gentle scrape of his rings against the denim of her jeans, the way his mouth moved like he was trying to learn her by feel.

She broke the kiss only long enough to catch her breath, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed with heat. “You sure this is okay?”

Emmrich’s laugh rumbled low in his throat, dark and wicked. “My dear, we wouldn’t be the first to indulge in a rendezvous in an empty classroom.”

His hands slid higher, fingertips ghosting beneath the hem of her sweater to trace the bare skin of her waist—slow, reverent, claiming.

“And I must admit,” he added, voice like velvet, “I’m thoroughly enjoying this hypothetical.”

Rook’s breath hitched. Her fingers tightened in his hair as she pulled him back in for another kiss—hungrier this time, lips parting with a quiet sound that made his restraint fray.

It was dizzying, this alchemy between reverence and need. Her skin burned under his touch, every nerve alive. And him—gods, he kissed her like she was gravity itself, like the center of the universe had taken her shape.

Rook’s fingers curled around the hem of his waistcoat where it bunched at her waist, the kiss between them deepening with every second. Emmrich’s hands had slipped beneath the soft wool, exploring the bare skin at her sides, worshipful and sure. Her breath caught as his thumbs grazed upward, trailing fire along her ribs—but it wasn’t enough. Not for the desire burning in her now.

She broke the kiss with a gasp, flushed and breathless. Emmrich opened his mouth to ask—but she was already moving.

Rook slipped off the desk with a practiced roll of her hips, landing on her feet with feline grace. Her hands didn’t waste a second. She reached for him, turning their positions with gentle insistence until he was the one braced against the edge of the desk. She stepped between his legs, her hands running down his chest with a sultry smirk.

Emmrich arched a brow, intrigued—but made no move to stop her.

“Rook?”

“Sit tight, Professor,” she murmured, her voice velvet-smooth and wickedly amused. “I believe I have an oral exam.”

That earned a sharp inhale through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching upward with both warning and delight.

She made quick work of his belt, fingers deft and teasing as the buckle came undone. His zipper followed, then the soft slide of fabric giving way beneath her hands. When she freed him, her breath hitched—not from hesitation, but from appreciation. She took her time, fingers curling gently around the base, her touch reverent as they brushed through the soft, pepper-colored curls at his root. Her thumb slid along the underside with maddening tenderness, each stroke deliberate, each caress a promise.

Rook had to admit—he was well endowed, both in length and girth. And the thought that, one fortunate day, this would be inside her made her shiver with anticipation—knowing it would lead her to both ruin and ecstasy. As Emmrich watched her stroke him, her gaze dark with hunger, he felt the faintest flush of embarrassment, as though laid bare under her ravenous scrutiny.

“My oh my,” she murmured, lips barely an inch from him, “this is definitely worthy of my attention.”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a breath and a groan, his knuckles going white where they gripped the edge of the desk.

She leaned in, her mouth brushing the base of him with a slow lick, followed by a trail of kisses leading upward. Her breath was warm, her lips parting just enough to let the tip of her tongue swirl along the head before she kissed it—light, teasing.

Then she took him into her mouth.

The groan that escaped Emmrich was deep and unguarded, his hand flying down to tangle in her hair—not to guide her, but to anchor himself. He looked down at her, gaze ablaze with green fire, every muscle in his body taut with restraint. The sight of Rook kneeling before him, so deliberate and focused in her pleasure of him, was nearly enough to undo him right there.

And Rook—Maker, she reveled in the power of it. She let herself move with intention, tongue and lips working in rhythm, savoring every reaction he gave her. The tension in his thighs, the stutter of his breath, the way he murmured her name like a warning and a prayer.

“Rook…” he growled, low and desperate.

Emmrich watched her through half-lidded eyes, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body coiled with tension. Rook's mouth moved over him with slow, deliberate devotion, her moans vibrating around him in a way that nearly shattered his composure. The sounds—the slippery, sinful sounds—echoed in the quiet hall like a litany of temptation.

He was doing everything in his power not to lose himself. In his mind, he was reciting lines from a dissertation he’d recently reviewed on bio-sustainable burial rites—anything to anchor himself, to distract from the heat curling low in his spine.

But it was useless.

Because Maker’s breath, the way her tongue moved—slick and skilled, massaging every ridge and vein, the way she looked up at him through her lashes, flushed and utterly unashamed—he’d never known something so ruinously arousing. She was focused. Eager. Beautifully unrelenting.

It took every ounce of restraint to let her stay in control.

But the way his hips jerked forward, unbidden, thrusting deeper into the velvet heat of her mouth—that made his thoughts spiral.

Dangerous thoughts.

Wicked thoughts.

Thoughts that promised: the moment she lets up, he’s going to pin her down and return the favor—slowly. Thoroughly. Until all she can do is moan his name like a hymn.

But he had promised her romance—and a bed. And he would be damned if he allowed lust to outrun his gentleman’s vow.

Her pace remained steady, unhurried, as though she wanted to savor every sound he made, every twitch of muscle, every drawn-out breath he tried—and failed—to keep even. She was relentless in her affection, her lips soft but sure as they moved along the length of him, tongue tracing the underside with teasing precision.

Emmrich’s hand remained curled in her chestnut hair, giving them a light tug to adjust her angle—even as his hips betrayed him, bucking into the heat of her mouth with restrained urgency.

“Rook,” he breathed, voice hoarse, strained. “If you keep going…”

His warning was soft, but edged in heat.

She hummed around him, pleased with his unraveling, and that was the final fray in his composure. The vibrations from her throat gave his length an added sensation.

With a quiet growl of restraint snapping, Emmrich’s grip tightened just enough to still her. He eased himself free from her mouth, watching as a thin thread of saliva stretched between her lips and the flushed head of his cock.

But Rook only looked up at him with that same heady defiance—the kind that made his composure fracture at the seams. She wrapped a hand around his shaft, feeling the lubrication of her saliva as she stroked him up and down to continue his pleasure.

“I’m not done,” she whispered, breath warm against his skin, “Professor.”

Maker, this woman was going to be the death of him.

And what a glorious death it would be.

Before he could stop her, she took him back in—slow and steady, her lips sealing around him with devastating intent. One hand gripped his hip while the other curled around his thigh, coaxing him deeper, her pace unrelenting, patient in its hunger. Emmrich's breath hitched sharply, hand tightening in her hair again—not to restrain her, but to brace himself against the wave building in his spine. She moaned softly around him, and the vibration unraveled the last threads of his control.

His hips jerked, instinctively chasing the heat of her mouth, his grip in her hair tightening just enough to draw a soft tug. When she took him deeper, the tip of his sex brushing her throat, he came undone. His release hit with a shuddering exhale—low, guttural—his hips giving one final jolt before stilling, breathless and spent.

She didn’t falter. She took everything he gave her, her gaze locked with his as she swallowed—elegant, unflinching, utterly divine.

Rook pulled away and blinked up at him, breathless, her eyes blown wide and cheeks warm, lips slick and parted in surprise.

She looked at the man she had just undone—and like the night before, he was still very overdressed, but was the perfect portrait of surrender. His hair had slipped from its tidy styling, his face flushed with a gorgeous bloom of color, and the way he fought to catch his breath sent a ripple of satisfaction through her. To know she held that kind of power over him—equal to the effect he had on her—made her pulse hum with quiet pride.

“Maker,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across her kiss-bruised mouth. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Before she could quip back, he was pulling her up, his mouth already finding hers in a kiss that was no longer restrained—hot, deep, full of everything he’d held back. He tasted her, tasted himself on her tongue, and reveled in the wildness of it. His hands found the hem of her sweater again, but this time, he tugged it upward, breaking their kiss just long enough to pull it over her head.

His mouth descended to the curve of her neck, nipping, kissing, and worshipping the path down to her collarbone as he guided her back toward the desk. She gasped when he hoisted her onto it again, the cool wood beneath her thighs only adding to the delicious contrast of his heat.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, his voice like dark silk, “just how close you bring me to madness?”

Emmrich’s gaze never left hers as he slowly undid the buttons of her jeans, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her underwear to find her waiting heat. When her hips instinctively arched toward him, he pressed a firm hand to her thigh, keeping her in place.

“Ah, ah,” he murmured, voice rich with mischief. “You’re not to move an inch until I’ve thoroughly awarded your extra credit.”

Rook’s breath caught, holding his gaze, a flicker of challenge and anticipation dancing in her eyes. “Understood, Professor.”

Emmrich hummed his approval low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her skin like the purr of a well-fed predator.

“Very good,” he murmured, his voice dipped in decadent praise. “A model student.”

His hand remained steady at her waistband, fingers curling just beneath the fabric of her underwear to reveal her sex. The pad of one finger traced her folds with maddening slowness—barely touching, as though he were studying her like one of his rare specimens under glass. Rook’s breath hitched, her hips twitching instinctively, only for him to press his free hand firmly to her thigh.

“Careful,” he reminded, a teasing lilt in his tone. “We’ve only just begun the lesson. You’ll need to be patient if you want to pass.”

Her lips parted, a soft sound escaping her, half a moan, half a frustrated exhale. The attention he gave was light—so light it made her tremble with need. Every pass of his fingertip over her slick heat was a new test of endurance.

“Fuck…” she whispered, fingers curling into the edge of the desk behind her.

“Language, Miss Ingellvar,” he chided smoothly. “Unless you’d like to stay after class for penance.”

The glint in his eyes was unmistakable now—hazel with its glint of green and sharp with intent, burning with desire and command. Rook could see it plainly: the moment Emmrich surrendered fully to the game she’d started. And he, being who he was, would commit to it with scholarly thoroughness.

Oh Maker, what have I started?

Rook barely had time to catch her breath before Emmrich’s hand moved with maddening patience, fingers tracing the outer edges of her entrance. She gasped as the pads of his fingers grazed her slick heat, teasing—testing—and clearly reveling in how ready she already was for him. He hadn't even truly begun, and yet her body responded to him like a flame catching dry parchment.

He pressed the tip of one finger just barely inside her, watching her with a gaze equal parts devout and wicked. The look in his eyes wasn't simply lust—it was fascination, wonder, and something far more possessive. He was mapping her reactions, committing each soft gasp, each shiver, to memory like it was sacred text.

“So eager,” he murmured, his voice low as he leaned in to trail kisses along her jawline. His breath was warm against her skin, his words wrapping around her like silk. “Do you know what that tells me, Miss Ingellvar?”

Despite the haze building behind her eyes, Rook wasn’t ready to surrender her sense of mischief. Her lips curved into a smirk, biting her lower lip, though her voice trembled under the weight of sensation.

“That I—” Her sentence faltered as he pressed deeper with slow, firm precision. Her back arched slightly, breath catching. “—am very enthusiastic about your lesson?”

Emmrich chuckled softly, the sound vibrating where his mouth rested near her ear. “Oh, my dear,” he whispered, each syllable laced with a dark sort of indulgence, “this is why you’re my star student.”

Venhedis, she thought, barely holding back a shudder. This man is going to be my undoing… and I can’t wait for it.

She could feel every ridge of his rings as his fingers entered her, the stretch sending a new, delicious sensation through her walls. When he added another finger, a soft mewl escaped her lips. He kept his pace slow, patient, letting her adjust to the unfamiliar but intoxicating feel of his bejeweled touch. His bangles shifted higher on his forearm, pushed up by the waistband of her jeans, catching the light with each careful thrust.

He didn’t rush. That wasn’t his way. Every movement had purpose. A curl of his fingers, a pause, then the motion again. Slow. Intentional. Emmrich planned to coax sounds that she tried to suppress. He was a man who studied death, anatomy and its traces with painstaking care. Now, he applied the same patience and depth of study to the living woman trembling beneath his touch.

Rook’s body was an exquisite text, and he read her with reverence. Every quiver of her thighs, every flutter of breath, every involuntary tilt of her hips was another verse, another note in a symphony meant solely for him. He wanted her undone, but more than that—he wanted her to feel adored in every aching second of unraveling.

And judging by the way she clung to him, her moans muffled against his collar, he knew he was succeeding.

Emmrich took his time.

Every touch, every stroke of his fingers was maddeningly slow, precise in the way only a man like him could be—part scholar, part worshiper. The cool brush of his rings against her overheated skin made her shiver, a teasing contrast that elevated every motion into something exquisite. Where his fingertips traced, his grave-gold bands followed—sliding, dragging, pressing just enough to make her body jolt in response.

He charted every sound Rook made as if committing her unraveling to memory, learning the shape of her pleasure by heart. His murmured words were honeyed—low, devout, threading into the heat between them like silk through lace.

“So beautiful,” he breathed against her skin. “Every inch of you—mine to study, to adore…”

She had fantasized about those hands. About what it might feel like to be touched by him—those elegant fingers adorned with metal and meaning. And now that fantasy had a heartbeat, breath, and the exact kind of delicious pressure that made her thighs tremble. His bejeweled hands did not disappoint.

The way his fingers curled and thrust, the rings stretching her walls, exploring her core with deliberate intent, seeking out every sensitive point that made her lose control—Maker, it drove her wild. His open-mouthed kisses trailed along her ribs, collarbone, shoulder, and neck, each one leaving a molten brand in its wake. And his voice—his voice—murmuring sultry filth against her skin, was its own form of temptation. At this point, he was awakening a new kink in her, and frankly, she couldn’t find it in herself to fault him for it.

She rasped, “Oh, Maker—yes, I’m—”

“That’s it, darling,” he hissed, voice rough with hunger. “Fall apart for me.”

“Emmrich.”

Rook’s breath hitched as his hand moved with intention, and when the crest of sensation overtook her, she arched against him, her cry caught between reverence and release. Emmrich didn’t stop—not until the tremors had faded and her breathing began to slow, her body limp and flushed in his arms.

Only then did he ease back, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. One arm curled around her waist as he held her close, her forehead resting against his shoulder. For a long, quiet moment, they simply breathed together, chest to chest, pulse to pulse.

Eventually, Emmrich reached into his inner pocket and retrieved a neatly folded handkerchief—linen, embroidered, of course. He kissed her temple first, a silent ask for permission, before gently reaching between her thighs to clean her with slow, careful movements. It was a small gesture, imperfect perhaps, but tender. Considerate.

Rook let out a breathy laugh, her voice still husky from the aftermath. “Souvenir for the road?”

Emmrich paused mid-motion, a flush rising high on his cheeks. “That was not the intention.”

She grinned, her eyes glinting despite the afterglow haze. “Mm. Just accidental sentimentalism then?”

His lips twitched—caught between mortification and amusement—as he glanced down at the now-crumpled handkerchief in his hand. “I prefer to call it courtesy.”

Rook, still flushed and comfortably sprawled across the desk, lifted a brow, her grin slow and wicked. “Whatever you say, Professor.”

Emmrich ran a hand through his hair, ears-tinged pink despite his otherwise collected demeanor. “I don’t think I’ll ever hear that title again without thinking about what we just did.”

Her laughter was soft and smug as she stretched, toe nudging his shin with lazy affection. “Good.”

He gave a helpless, incredulous laugh, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder before resting his forehead against hers—utterly undone, thoroughly enchanted. Then he looked at her, hazel eyes softened, his usual composure cracked just enough to reveal something raw and unguarded beneath.

“You deserve care,” he said quietly. “Even in the smallest ways.”

Rook’s smirk melted into something warmer, fonder. She leaned in, nuzzling the corner of his jaw with an affectionate hum. “I think this might be my favorite part of your impromptu tour.”

His arms tightened around her in response, holding her close as he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“I’m delighted,” he murmured. “Now—let’s get you sorted.”

Chapter Text

They dressed in a quiet rhythm, the easy intimacy of shared space stretching unspoken between them. Rook pulled her sweater over her head, smoothing it down while sneaking a glance at Emmrich as he rebuttoned his waistcoat and trousers. His rings gleamed faintly as he adjusted his cuffs, the cool scholar once more—save for the faint pink still lingering on his cheekbones and the tousled softness in his hair that refused to be tamed.

Once fully dressed, and a quick stop to the restroom, they stepped out into the late afternoon light spilling through the university corridors. The world felt quieter now—slowed, like it was giving them a moment to hold onto before the spell unraveled.

“I suppose there’s no way to keep you for dinner?” Rook asked, her tone playfully wistful.

“As tempting as that is,” Emmrich replied with a small smile, “I believe we should bring our day to a close. Tomorrow is, regrettably, a work day.”

“Damn you and your practical logic,” she huffed. “I just wanted to bask in our little slice of domestic bliss a moment longer.”

He chuckled, the sound low and fond. “My darling, we have plenty of time for that. This isn’t the end of it.”

“You’re not wrong,” she admitted. “Spite and I should probably head back anyway.”

“I’d be happy to drive you both home.”

Rook’s smile turned soft. “That sounds like the perfect end to our very prolonged date.”

Emmrich drove them back to the Loft as the sun dipped lower, casting long golden streaks across the city skyline. The ride was companionable, quiet in the way that spoke of shared contentment rather than absence of words. When they arrived, Rook slipped inside with a parting promise—“Don’t go anywhere.”

He waited in the car, engine idling low, watching the light shift across the dashboard. He understood her reluctance to end the day. He shared it. Their time together—unhurried, intimate, and full of quiet joys—had left him with a warmth he wasn’t quite ready to part with.

Still, a quieter voice in the back of his mind reminded him to tread carefully.

As much as he longed to stay by her side, to continue weaving themselves into each other's lives, he didn’t want to cling too tightly too soon. He wasn’t sure what pace she preferred. Most people, he reasoned, needed time to themselves—space to reflect. And he, too, wanted to sit with the memory of their night and day together, to let it settle properly before he dared name it aloud.

A few minutes passed before the door opened again. Rook returned with her satchel slung over one shoulder, the subtle rustle inside betraying the presence of a very broody feline.

Spite’s tufted ears poked out of the bag like sentinels, his expression suggesting deep offense at having been excluded. Emmrich didn’t doubt the creature had strong opinions about the day’s events—and possibly several notes on where he'd rather be carried.

But it wasn’t just her feline companion she brought back.

“Here,” Rook said, sliding into the passenger seat and holding out a small gift bag, pale plum with braided twine handles. “For you.”

Emmrich blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What’s this?”

“I meant to give it to you earlier,” she said, offering it with a faintly sheepish smile. “Consider it a thank-you. For indulging me… and for the flowers.”

Intrigued, he took the bag and peered inside. Nestled within layers of tissue were several small tins—herbal, earthy, unmistakably hers. He pulled one free and turned it in his hands. The label was handwritten in her familiar slanted script: clean, intentional, a little rustic.

He smiled as he read through them:

• Memory Moss Bloom – for winding down after long lectures
• Andraste’s Breath – for clarity of mind
• Shadow Bloom – for late-night reading
• Warden’s Wake – for mornings that begin too early
• Dreamer’s Rest – for when sleep eludes you

At the bottom of the bundle was a final note, tucked beneath the ribbons:

For whenever you think of me. Preferably often.

His fingers lingered on the message. For a moment, he didn’t speak—just stared, lips slightly parted, eyes softened by something unspoken. When he looked up at her, his composure had gentled, his gaze unreadably tender.

“You made this for me?”

“I did,” Rook replied, a touch more bashful than she’d intended. “I figured… even if we’re too busy to see each other, maybe it’ll still feel like I’m nearby.”

Emmrich leaned in, brushing a slow, reverent kiss to her temple. “This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve received in a long time.”

Then, more quietly, almost playfully, “Though I will admit, it does make it harder to pretend I need to visit the shop just for tea.”

Rook smirked. “Emmrich, you have boyfriend privileges. You can see me whenever you like. Besides, I still offer pastries and paninis. A full incentive package.”

He chuckled, his smile returning. “How silly of me to forget.”

Emmrich dropped Rook off at her apartment just as the city was beginning to settle into twilight, the streets painted in muted gold and rose as the last light of day slipped beneath the skyline. He walked her to the door, exchanged one last kiss—gentle, lingering—and watched her disappear inside with Spite still tucked under her satchel and a quiet smile on her lips.

Then he returned to his car, the small plum gift bag resting beside him like a secret he wasn't quite ready to part with.

By the time he stepped through the threshold of his townhouse, the quiet of home met him like a sigh. Familiar. Still. He loosened the top button of his shirt collar and set his keys in the tray by the door, the gift bag still clutched in one hand.

Then came the soft shuffle of movement from down the hall—a rustle of cloth, the faint clink of beakers. A delicate hiss-whistle echoed lightly as Manfred peeked around the corner, goggles slightly askew and one skeletal hand braced against the wall for balance. His teal-green lenses caught the light, reflecting with a curious gleam.

“Evening, Manfred,” Emmrich murmured, voice softened by the glow of contentment.

His skeletal ward followed close behind as Emmrich made his way to the sitting room, the low light of the hearth casting soft gold against the walls. He lowered himself into the armchair beside the hearth, the gift bag balanced carefully on his knee. He opened it again—not because he needed to, but because he wanted to. The teas, still nestled inside, seemed to radiate a quiet kind of magic. Her handwriting, her intention… the labels that hinted at how well she understood him.

For whenever you think of me. Preferably often.

A breath escaped him—part laugh, part exhale of disbelief. He set the note gently back into the bag and leaned into the chair’s back, letting his head tip against the cushion.

The evening replayed in soft flickers behind his eyes. Her laugh at the café. The way she’d leaned into him during their walk, close and easy. Her nimble fingers during their impromptu chess match, eyes sharp with playful mischief. The way her mouth had pressed to his skin when she'd whispered praise and wicked promises in his ear.

And then there was the intimacy—gods. How she unraveled beneath his hands, and how she’d taken him apart first with nothing but confidence and a wicked smirk. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, the warmth of her pressed against him, her voice—breathless, laughing, and full of wonder.

And the morning after… her hair mussed, her smile soft, sweater slipping off one shoulder while she quietly teased him over tea. He’d never wanted to stay in a moment longer than he had then.

She was chaos and calm, wit and warmth. Her cooking was like her affection—rich, generous, filled with quiet comfort. Her spirit was fierce, independent, utterly singular.

And Maker help him… he was in love.

It wasn’t a question anymore. Somewhere between the dinner and the chess, between her fingers tangled in his hair and the laughter they shared over breakfast, Emmrich had fallen irrevocably, quietly, completely.

He loved her.

He loved all of her—every sharp line and soft edge, every quip and kindness. Her stubbornness, her cleverness, her instinct to protect and offer care. He didn’t know how long he’d have the privilege of standing beside her, but he knew he would honor every second of it.

Emmrich exhaled slowly, the weight of the day settling gently around him. He closed the gift bag, placed it reverently on the table, and glanced once toward the window where the city lights blinked to life in the distance.

“Maker,” he murmured, voice low and a little dazed, “what have I gotten myself into?”

But his smile lingered—tender and utterly unrepentant. He glanced over to see that Manfred was sifting through the gift bag taking out the individual tea tins and placing them on the coffee table. He tilted his head as he looked at the labels then turned his bejeweled gaze at Emmrich and hissed once more.

“They’re tea tins, Manfred. Rook gifted them to me for my own enjoyment.”

The skeleton chirps in a way that sounds like he’s saying ‘Ooooooo.’

Emmrich smiles and instructs Manfred to please store the tea tins with the rest of their tea collection. The skeleton nods and proceeds to put the tins back into the plum bag while Emmrich goes to his room with the handwritten note back in his grasp.

He heads straight to his writing desk, retrieving his reading glasses and journal. With his fountain pen in hand, he begins to transcript his thoughts about Rook and their blooming relationship.

In a moment of shared warmth and undeniable desire, she granted me permission to stay the night at her second home—what she calls the Loft. The space is as charming and multifaceted as she is: open, quiet, and welcoming, with refined touches woven throughout. Tea jars lined her kitchen countertops like silent sentries of comfort. Books meant for her shop’s reading nook waited patiently for readers. Her sectional couch, draped in layered throws, invited rest.

But it was her bed that will linger in my memory most.

The scent of her sheets, her skin—Maker help me, the faint sweetness of her still clinging to my fingertips—it is archived now in the very marrow of my being.

I can no longer pretend I am falling for Evara Ingellvar.

I am in love with her. Completely. Irrevocably.

She has captivated me with her mind, her kindness, her spark. And now that I have tasted her—now that I’ve seen her unravel beneath my hands—I find myself yearning for more with a hunger I’ve never known. I cannot help but imagine what might’ve happened if we hadn’t shown restraint in that lecture hall. Her bare skin against mine. Her voice echoing off stone as our bodies moved in concert atop the desk. The symphony she would make for me.

These thoughts… these debauched fantasies… they come unbidden, and I fear I am utterly incorrigible for having so many of them.

But I am a man of my word. I promised a night of romantic courtship and a bed for that fateful night — One that I should promptly plan.

Because I don’t want to ruin this.

Not like I have ruined things before.

I feel too much. I want too deeply. I am too much—and I fear the intensity of it might scare her. So, I will be patient. I will practice restraint. Not because I don’t ache for her, heavens above I doubt this amount of yearning will end, but because she deserves the best version of me I can offer.

I want to be worthy of her.

I want a life with her.

Maker preserve me… I see that life. Andraste save me, I want it.

But for now, I will let the fantasy live in quiet corners of my heart. I will hold fast to the memory of her warmth beside me and remind myself: this is just the beginning, and I plan to enjoy it.

Emmrich could feel the warmth rising in his cheeks as he set down his pen, the intimacy of his written confessions lingering in the air. Journaling had long been a quiet ritual—one rooted in the years he’d spent in therapy, first as a grieving boy struggling to process the loss of his parents and the guilt of surviving, and later as a man grappling with heartbreak, inadequacy, and the many quiet fears that accumulated with time.

Those sessions had taught him how to cope—to give shape to his feelings rather than be swallowed by them. Even now, though his fears had not vanished, the tools remained. He managed them as best he could, one written word at a time.

His gaze drifted to the note tucked inside the gift bag, the one Rook had slipped in with her tea blends. The words were simple, yet the sentiment behind them made something tender bloom in his chest.

He smiled, the ache in his heart sweet rather than heavy, and reached again for his pen—adding one more line, one more truth he wanted to remember.

She gave me a gift—small tins of her shop’s tea blends, each one familiar and beloved. The gesture was thoughtful, quietly profound. Every canister bore her handwriting, labeled with when I might drink them: after long lectures, during sleepless nights, to start difficult mornings. The care in those notes—the affection behind them—makes my heart ache in the best possible way.

I must be sure to savor this gift properly, and perhaps even train Manfred in their brewing instructions. They are, after all, custom Veil & Vine blends—worthy of respect and precision.

I had joked that such a gift robbed me of my excuse to visit her shop, and she—so effortlessly confident—told me I didn’t need one. That I had boyfriend privileges. That I could see her whenever I wanted.

Evara continues to astonish me. Her comfort in herself, her quiet boldness, the ease with which she offers warmth. There are still things she keeps to herself—wounds, perhaps, or truths she’s not yet ready to share—but when the time comes, I will be there. To listen. To hold. To be her calm, as she has so often been mine.

For her, I want to be comfort. I want to be sanctuary. I would pluck the stars from the sky if it meant earning her smile.

Perhaps... I’ll find a way to give her something in return.

Just as Emmrich set down his pen, the soft chime of his phone broke the quiet. He blinked, momentarily pulled from the warm haze of reflection, and reached for the device resting beside his journal.

Rook: Made it home okay?

A quiet chuckle escaped him as he reread the message. He could picture her curled up on that massive couch of hers, Spite probably nestled somewhere at her side, the city’s fading light casting soft shadows across her features. The thought made something inside him ache sweetly.

He thumbed a reply, each word considered, fondness slipping between every letter.

Emmrich: I’ve made it home safe and sound. Manfred is thoroughly enchanted by your gift. I believe he’s especially fond of your penmanship.

Rook: I’m glad that Manfred is impressed by my handwriting. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.

Emmrich: Rook darling, you have girlfriend privileges. You’re welcome to summon my attention whenever you like.

Rook: Careful Professor… I might abuse those rights.

Emmrich: If that’s the price of your affection, I’ll gladly be taken advantage of. Repeatedly, if necessary.

Rook: Okay. I’m leaving this chat before my enthusiasm gets the better of me.

Emmrich: I like your enthusiasm.

He was reluctant to lock it—as if doing so might sever the delicate thread still tying him to her presence. Then, with a quiet sigh, he set the phone aside, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. It was thoughtful of her to check in. Thoughtful, and telling.

From the hallway came a soft hiss-whistle, followed by the gentle tap of skeletal boots on hardwood. Emmrich glanced up just in time to see Manfred appear in the doorway, goggles slightly askew, spine tilted in that familiar posture of inquisitive concern.

“No, Manfred, I haven’t forgotten dinner,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “And no, you don’t need to cook—but I do appreciate the offer.”

The skeleton chirped—high-pitched and unmistakably pointed.

Emmrich sighed, the fond kind of exasperated. He set his pen aside and rose from his chair. “Very well. Something simple. But no dramatic flourishes tonight. I know you’ve been watching those cooking programs again, and you are not nearly coordinated enough for flambé.”

Manfred’s clicking bones suggested mischief. Emmrich braced himself.

By the time Rook kicked off her boots, she lingered by the windowsill of her apartment’s reading nook.  The scent of dried herbs, faint floral oils, and the grounding stillness of home wrapped around her. It wasn’t grand—but it was hers. And tonight, it held a different kind of warmth. The kind that lingered after a kiss. The kind that settled deep beneath the skin.

Her attention stayed on her phone. The last message from Emmrich still glowed on the screen—playful, affectionate, undeniably him. A small smile tugged at her lips as she read it one more time before locking the screen and tucking it away.

Spite leapt up beside her with dramatic offense, tail flicking and ears pinned in full protest.

“I know, I know,” Rook said with a laugh, shrugging out of her jacket. “Criminal behavior. How dare I have a whole-ass date without my chaperone.”

The cat trotted toward the kitchen, clearly expecting reparations.

She didn’t blame him. He’d been left alone for most of the day—something she rarely did. So tonight, she offered penance in the form of a warmed dish of imported river tuna, garnished with hand-cut sprigs of catmint. Spite regarded it with suspicion first—then accepted the offering with deliberate, savoring bites, visibly mollified.

Rook kept her own meal simple. She reheated a bowl of braised beef and roasted vegetable stew she’d made the night before—tender cuts, earthy carrots, parsnips, and golden potatoes steeped in a red wine broth laced with rosemary and thyme. The scent filled the kitchen like a familiar blanket, anchoring her.

Leaning against the counter, spoon in hand, her thoughts wandered back to Emmrich.

The way he looked at her when she called him her boyfriend—Maker, that reaction alone had been worth every ounce of teasing. His face had gone adorably pink, lips parted in stunned joy, like she’d offered him the moon and a lifetime to hold it. It made something ache in her chest—in the good way.

She smiled into her stew, nudging a cube of beef with her spoon. “Boyfriend,” she murmured aloud, just to hear it in the quiet. The word settled warm in her chest, anchoring something that felt perilously close to hope.

Her gaze drifted to the couch, to the memory of Emmrich standing there earlier in the morning—mismatched in her too-short joggers and a slightly wrinkled button-down. Somehow, even in ill-fitting clothes, he’d still managed to look dignified. Like a scholar caught mid-distraction, halfway through dressing, already lost in thought.

She grinned at the image, then paused.

Maybe she should get him a few things that actually fit—nothing excessive, just a spare shirt or two, a proper pair of joggers. For emergencies. Or, more truthfully, for future moments when things inevitably got steamy.

The thought sparked a slow heat in her gut. She’d like to undress him properly next time. Take her time. Piece by elegant piece—tie undone, shirt open, hair mussed from her fingers. And eventually, when they were ready, she wanted to see him completely undone beneath her hands. She’d wait, of course. She wasn’t in a rush. But if tonight was any indication… it was going to be one hell of a night when they finally let go.

Her smile faded slightly as her thoughts drifted deeper, quieter.

If this was going to be real—if Emmrich truly meant it when he said he wanted all of her—then eventually, she’d have to show him the parts she usually kept locked down. Not just the clever quips and easy charm. Not just the teasing smiles or her careful attentiveness. But the parts that didn’t glitter. The ones cracked at the edges.

There were things she didn’t talk about. History that wasn’t tidy. Choices she wasn’t proud of. Ghosts she didn’t name. He’d said he wanted the scars too, not just the surface. And she believed him. Or she wanted to.

But what if he saw the full picture and flinched?

What if she let herself believe in this—let herself hope—and he pulled away when it got real?

Her grip on the spoon tightened, shoulders drawn taut.

Still. That wasn’t fair. Emmrich hadn’t done anything to make her feel unsafe. Quite the opposite—he was the first person in years who made her feel like she didn’t have to hide. He looked at her and saw her. Not just what she performed, but what she was.

And that? That was terrifying.

A sharp sting pulled her back. Spite had jumped up onto the stool beside her, one paw grazing her cheek with a gentle, but pointed reminder.

“Hey,” she muttered, rubbing the spot. “Watch the claws.”

The cat chirped and flopped dramatically against her arm like he was trying to bat the thoughts away.

Rook huffed a laugh. “Okay, okay. You’re right.”

No spiraling. Not tonight.

Emmrich liked her. Wanted her. That had been written in the way he kissed her, held her, murmured her name like it was a vow. There was enough proof. Enough warmth. Enough gentleness.

It was okay.

She was okay.

And as she leaned back in couch cushions— Spite purring in her lap, the stew warm in her hands, the flicker of lanternlight catching on glass and brass and home—Rook allowed herself the smallest exhale of peace.

Just for now.

Just long enough to enjoy the little treasures.

Before she turned in for the night, Rook crossed to the bed and reached up to the top of her bedframe—fingers brushing against the wood until they found the hidden edge of a narrow box tucked along the frame’s lip. It took a small stretch, but the weight of it was familiar in her hands.

Old habits died hard.

Back in foster care, you learned quickly: if something mattered, you hid it. Not because theft was guaranteed—but because the chance of it was enough. It wasn’t paranoia. It was survival. And even now, even with locks on her doors and no one to steal from her but a particularly clever cat, she still kept her most important things out of sight.

Inside the box were layers of memory. A few trinkets from her travels. Polaroid photos of her friends. Spite’s first collar which made it clear that the demonic feline of darkness did not care for it. And tucked safely beneath them: the Emmrich journal. A new addition to her box of treasures.

She’d started it a few weeks ago, without meaning to. One too many flower pictures from the professor had left her smiling in the middle of her day, and somewhere between one bloom and the next, she’d felt the need to do something with it. The journal was bound in gray-blue linen, its corners braced with a bit of brass. Pressed petals lined the inner cover. Each entry held a sketched version of whatever flower he’d sent her, followed by a note of its meaning and a line or two about what it made her feel.

It was stupid. It was sappy. But it was hers.

With the box balanced on her lap, Rook settled cross-legged on the bed and opened the journal. A few petals from the first bouquet had dried just enough to press—she slipped them carefully between the parchment, their delicate shapes nestling into the page like quiet secrets.

Lilacs, pale and fragrant, pressed alongside a single white camellia—symbols of first love and unspoken devotion. A scatter of sweet alyssum, small and snow-kissed, whispered of calm. And nestled beside them, the curled blue edge of a nigella bloom—love-in-a-mist—delicate and fleeting.

She had already turned one of the camellias into a bookmark, sealed in handmade parchment. Its soft cream petals peeked from the fold like a pressed promise—intimate and enduring. She planned to do the same with the rest of the bouquet; she’d pressed a generous handful of each flower, and the idea of turning them into keepsake bookmarks felt fitting. A small ritual. A way to hold on to something delicate and fleeting—something that reminded her of that day.

She retrieved the receipt from the Fig & Laurel café, giving it a fond little tap before pasting it into the corner of the page. Then, with slow, steady strokes of her pen, she began to write.

Dinner turned into a sleepover.
Breakfast and lunch melted into comfort.
Emmrich may have won a wish, but I won something warmer.
He’s promised me a night of romance—
…but honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he just took me on his office desk.
(An opportunity for another time.)

She paused, the pen hovering.

Then, in smaller, more careful script:

I went from falling to something deeper that I don’t have the guts to say aloud.
Maker help me—I want to go grocery shopping with this man in domestic bliss.
Venhedis, I have it bad.

The pen lingered a moment longer, then she closed the cover, tucking the bookmark between its final pages. With a breath, she returned everything to its place and slid the box back into its hiding spot along the bedframe—not because it needed to be hidden, but because some pieces of her heart needed time and space to grow in the dark.

She climbed beneath the covers just as Spite leapt onto the bed, curling beside her with a soft chuff. Outside, the city murmured in its night hush. Inside, she felt the weight of contentment settle into her chest—quiet, steady, and warm.

Chapter Text

Winter was approaching and making its presence known in Minrathous. The ivy crawling along the outer walls of the Veil & Vine had begun to silver with frost, its deep green leaves edged in ice like lacework spun by winter’s breath. The shop’s carved wooden sign swayed slightly in the chill breeze, its gold leaf lettering catching what little morning light the overcast sky allowed. Soon, the streets would be blanketed in snow and quiet—but for now, the city lingered in that liminal hush between seasons.

Inside, the warmth was immediate and enveloping. The heating runes woven beneath the floorboards hummed softly, coaxing a gentle heat that spread through the brick and timber bones of the shop. The scent of tea leaves, lemon balm, lavender, and clove-laced pastries hung in the air like an invitation.

Rook moved with the fluid ease of routine, her apron tied neatly at her waist and her sleeves rolled above her elbows as she applied the final brush of cinnamon-maple glaze across the top of the tart cooling on the prep counter. It was a beauty—her spiced pear and chestnut tart, fresh from the oven. A flaky, golden crust cradled a soft bed of chestnut cream, the poached pear slices arranged in overlapping spirals and glistening with their glaze. A dusting of toasted chestnut crumble finished the piece, adding just the right note of texture and warmth.

She stepped back to admire it, pleased. “Perfect.”

In the greenhouse corner near the windows, Bellara was hunched over the potted lemon balm and cold-hardy geraniums, gently pruning back a few frostbitten leaves. The sunlamp she’d rigged overhead cast a mellow golden light across her raven black curls.

“You’d think the heating runes were enough,” Bellara muttered to the plants, “but nooo, one cold snap and half of you start sulking.”

From the floor came a meow of protest.

“Not you, Spite,” she added with a smirk, shaking a pouch of cat treats. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a cuddle if you’d come off your high perch.”

Spite, true to his name, perched like an obsidian gargoyle atop the bookshelf near the window, his tail flicking in slow, deliberate disinterest. He blinked once—slow and regal—before stretching long across the wood and hopping down with a dramatic thud, clearly negotiating a treat exchange on his terms.

The morning had just started, but it felt like it belonged to them—the stillness, the warmth, the lull before the day rushed in.

The chime above the door tinkled.

Rook glanced up, ready with her usual greeting, and paused.

A familiar figure stood in the doorway.

Cole.

He had been a curious man when she first met him—curious in nature, and curious in what he was. The first known case of a high-functioning abomination, Cole defied expectations. Most such cases involving mages were… severe. Tragic. But in Cole’s case, the man who once lived had died violently, and in the wake of that loss, a spirit of Compassion took root in his place.

He was also Solas’s assistant professor—an arrangement as unconventional as it was fitting. Cole had always existed at the threshold between human and spirit, a being caught in the in-between. Solas, ever the patient guide, had taken it upon himself to help Cole navigate the physical world, grounding him in the here and now rather than the Fade.

Rook liked Cole. And Cole, in his quiet, searching way, liked her.

Their first meeting had overwhelmed him—her pain, once so raw and untamed, had all but flooded him. It had taken time for her suffering to quiet, but the spirit within him had felt the change. He was pleased with her progress, even if he never said it aloud. They shared an unspoken understanding, both sensitive to the emotions of others in ways most couldn’t grasp. Rook always welcomed his visits, no matter how unexpected.

He looked much the same as always: pale, ethereal, and faintly out of step with time. Layers of worn wool clung to him like makeshift armor, his gloved fingers endlessly fidgeting at the frayed cuffs. Damp hair clung to his brow, and his boots left faint watermarks on the floor. And yet, despite it all, he radiated something quiet and otherworldly—gentle, observant, and always searching.

Behind him, Spite padded into the room from the back with a thump and chirp, then froze. The cat’s eyes widened. His tail bristled in what could only be described as spiritual startlement before he trotted forward and headbutted Cole’s shin.

“Someone’s happy,” Rook called, only mildly amused. “Nice to see you again, Cole.”

“Spite,” Cole murmured, voice like the hush of wind over parchment. “Guarded. Sharp. Mischievous.  But there’s warmth in his kindness when its earned.”

Rook’s mouth twitched. “That’s one way to describe him.”

Cole stepped forward carefully, blinking at the shelves, the glint of the golden terrariums, and the warm interior like it was something precious. “You told me that I could come when I wished for quiet. I remembered.”

“I’m glad you did,” Rook replied, her tone softening. “Are the echoes too loud again?”

He hesitated. “The students hurt. Too much. Their anxiety is like shouting in my ears. Deadlines. Dead dreams. Not enough time. Not enough praise. All of it piling up like—like wet leaves smothering roots. I thought maybe—” He broke off, visibly pained, “—maybe I could quiet it. With something warm.”

Understanding flickered in Rook’s chest. She nodded once and reached for the glass canisters behind her. “Brewer’s Luck, then. Take a seat, Cole. I’ll get it sorted.”

Her movements were deliberate, reverent in the way one handled something both sacred and strange. She selected each ingredient from her shelf—jars marked in her looping hand, lids clinking gently. A pinch of chamomile for peace. Linden flower for the heart. White sage for stillness. Anise for clarity. And honey crystals, pale-golden and glinting, to soften it all into something warm and kind.

But it was the last touch that required care. From the top shelf she retrieved a small, dark vial nestled within a warded wooden box. Felandaris—dried and dust-fine, the faint shimmer of Fade clinging to its brittle strands. She measured no more than a whisper of it into the blend. Just enough to carry the memory of where it had grown.

“A trace,” she murmured to herself, as though the herb could overhear. “No more.”

She brought the water to a gentle pour, steam rising as the leaves unfurled and the scent began to bloom—herbal, soft, otherworldly. The kind of tea that warmed the body and soothed the emotions that words hadn’t yet reached.

Rook glanced toward Cole, who was now seated in the corner with Spite draped across his lap like a velvet scabbard, purring loud enough to rattle the cushions.

She set the teacup down before him with quiet ceremony. “This one’s yours. Let it steep a little longer—it likes the time.”

Cole looked up at her, fingers brushing the rim of the cup without lifting it. “You made it gentle. But not too quiet. Still warm, even with the ache.”

“I tried,” Rook said, her smile small but real. “Let me know if it needs adjusting.”

His gaze dropped to the rising steam, voice quieter than before—almost reverent. “You remembered the Felandaris.”

She nodded. “Thought you could use the connection, just… smoothed out a little.”

The spirit-abomination closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the cup—something in his posture relaxing, as though the tension he carried on behalf of others had been momentarily lifted. Even Spite, temperamental as ever, made no complaint when Cole gently rested his hand along his sleek back.

Rook didn’t interrupt. She watched him closely, the way his shoulders eased, and his breath slowed. The Fade—it was more than a realm for him. It had been a cradle, a place of origin. A home. And though he lived now in the world of flesh and breath, something in him always yearned for that place where emotions shimmered as colors and thoughts drifted like currents in a sea of spirit.

“This blend,” he said, cupping the tea but not yet drinking it, “feels like remembering without hurting. Like the Fade is just behind a door, but I don’t have to open it. I know it’s there, and that’s enough.”

Rook’s heart ached quietly at that. “I’m glad,” she said, brushing a crumb off her apron. “Now let Spite provide comfort. He’s been bribed ahead of time.”

“He likes when you touch his head just above the brow,” he murmured, gently stroking Spite’s ears as the feline sprawled contentedly across his lap. “He thinks you don’t pet him there enough.”

Rook huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that so? Well, you can tell him that I’m correcting that immediately.”

She leaned over the counter to reach Spite, ruffling the top of his head with a fond scratch. The cat’s purr kicked up instantly—deep, satisfied, like the rev of a well-tuned engine.

Cole’s voice came again, softer now. “He worries for you. Sees you smile, sees the light in you—but also the shadow. Old wounds. Ones you don’t show. He remembers when you were both broken. Bruised. Fractured. Tired. But you’re not that anymore. You’re strong. Grounded. Still afraid.”

Rook’s hand stilled mid-pet, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.

“I didn’t realize you spoke cat,” she said after a pause, a forced lightness in her voice.

Cole gave a small smile. “I listen.”

She exhaled through her nose and turned to rinse her hands behind the counter. But something in her posture had shifted—tense now, wary.

“Cole…” she began, measured. “You’re not going to tell Solas, are you?”

The spirit blinked, guileless. “He likes to know. I tell him things.”

“I know,” Rook said, cutting in gently. “That’s the problem.”

He tilted his head, expression softening. “But if you’re hurting—”

“I’m not,” she replied quickly. “Not like that.”

Cole went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“You miss him. You love him. But you’re angry, too. Wounds that are too old. Hurt that never healed. Cries that were never heard.”

“Cole…”

“You reached for him, and he went away. Alone. Scared. Angry. Lost. He came back. He’s here, but you don’t know what to do. It hurts in ways you haven’t named—”

“Cole,” Rook said stepped out from behind the counter, her voice soft but insistent.

She reached out, brushing her fingers gently over his lips to quiet him. He blinked up at her—wide-eyed, glassy, too perceptive for comfort. Her touch lingered just long enough to ground them both.

“Please don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t tell him. Let this part be mine.”

For a long breath, he simply looked at her. There was no judgment in his eyes—only empathy, bottomless and tender. Then, slowly, he nodded, his hands closing around the teacup like he meant to cradle her secret within it.

“I won’t,” he said. “But… it aches.”

“I know,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Some things do.”

She moved back behind the counter, carefully gathering her composure. “Selara’s been filling him in when she visits. And that’s fine. She means well and… Solas and I will be fine.”

Cole tilted his head again, voice full of quiet wonder. “You’re afraid he’ll misunderstand.”

“I’m not ready,” Rook said plainly, eyes on the sink as she rinsed the tea strainer. “This is an old pain… and neither of us know how to heal it.”

“I’ve said too much again, haven’t I?”

“It’s okay, Cole,” she said, glancing back at him. “I know it’s hard. When you feel someone’s pain, it’s hard not to speak it.”

“The echoes rarely quiet,” he murmured, “but they’ve become easier to carry.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and meant it.

Cole stood with his teacup emptied and Spite still curled affectionately around his ankles. He gently dislodged the feline with a murmured apology, reaching for the wrapped bundle Rook had set aside—a pair of neatly tied parchment parcels still warm with the scent of poached pear and chestnut cream.

“I won’t say anything,” he promised again, his voice feather-light. “Not about the ache. Not about the fear.”

Rook nodded, quietly relieved.

“But I will tell him I visited,” Cole added, glancing at the pastries. “And that I had your tea. And that it helped.”

A faint smile pulled at Rook’s mouth. “That’s fine. You’re allowed to share that much. Let him wonder how you got such an exclusive dessert.”

Cole brightened a little. “He’ll know it’s yours by the crust. He says your pastries taste remind him of home.”

“Well,” Rook said, slipping two fingers under the ribbon to double-check the bundles were secure, “let’s hope that memory doesn’t get soggy in transit.”

Cole let out a sound—a breath of laughter more than a proper chuckle—and turned toward the door. The bell chimed softly as it opened, letting in a gust of cold air tinged with the scent of oncoming rain.

Rook watched him go. Only once the door closed did she let her shoulders fully drop.

Bellara emerged a moment later from the back, hands still damp, wiping them on her apron. “So… you okay?”

Rook blinked, then exhaled through her nose. “Define ‘okay.’”

Bellara gave her a knowing look. “You know what I mean.”

There was a moment’s pause, the faint sounds of the street beyond muffled by the heating wards.

“I’m fine,” Rook finally said, quieter now. “Cole has a gift for saying too much, but… it’s not like he’s wrong. And I thank the Maker no one else was here to overhear it.”

Bellara leaned her hip against the counter, concern still etched into her brow. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Rook said, her voice firmer this time. She exhaled slowly. “He means well. He just forgets not everyone needs their feelings named like ingredients in a tea blend.”

That got a soft chuckle out of Bellara. “Fair enough.”

Spite, now lounging across the counter with theatrical laziness, let out a throaty meow—somewhere between agreement and a demand for attention. He butted his head against Rook’s arm with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

She smiled faintly and scratched behind his ear. “I’m okay,” she murmured. “I promise.”

The lunch crowd had come and gone, leaving the Veil & Vine in a lull of welcome quiet. The heating wards hummed gently through the walls, warding off the encroaching chill that kissed the frost-dusted ivy outside. Inside, the air was perfumed with cinnamon, toasted chestnut, and faint traces of herbaceous tea steam. Customers lingered with half-empty cups, pages turned gently, and no one seemed in a rush to leave the cozy warmth.

Behind the counter, Bellara and Rook perched on the stools near the back bar, legs curled and shoulders relaxed. A half-eaten plate of carbonara sat between them—creamy, peppery, with ribbons of pancetta and just the right touch of nutmeg in the sauce. Rook had made it the night before and reheated it for their lunch, garnished with extra shaved cheese and a soft poached egg that was already starting to pool into the noodles.

Spite, already fed, sprawled along the windowsill with one eye half-open and the other fixed lazily on passersby.

Bellara let out a soft groan of satisfaction. “Maker’s mercy, Rook. Could you adopt me?”

Rook twirled her fork, amused. “I thought I did when I hired you?”

“We should make it official.”

Rook snorted and took another bite.

The bell above the door gave a quiet chime.

Both elven women looked up—and there stood Neve.

As if summoned, the feline in question appeared atop the counter with the grace of a seasoned prowler, sniffed once at the pasta, then turned up his nose as if to declare it beneath him.

The door opened just then, and a familiar voice called out, “Kaffas, fall isn’t over yet and winter barges in.”

Neve stepped in, bundled in her usual trench coat with a wool scarf half-slipped from her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, eyes bright despite the weather.

“Neve,” Rook said, rising to greet her. “This is a surprise visit.”

Neve practically sank into the warmth, pulling off her gloves with exaggerated relief. “Bless your wards. And my luck. Got anymore leftover for me?”

I will fight you for what’s left.”

Rook smirked. “Relax, Bell. I packed a separate container for you already.”

Bellara grinned. “She’s a goddess.”

Neve’s smile turned wolfish as she dropped into the seat across from them. “Thank the Maker that you feed me. Makes all the dangerous nonsense in my life feel marginally worth it.”

“It’s why I cook,” Rook replied, setting down a fresh mug of tea. “To lure you back alive.”

The three of them slipped into the kind of easy conversation only close friends could manage—light teasing, warmth layered beneath wit. Naturally, the topic shifted.

“So,” Bellara said, elbowing Rook lightly. “It’s nearly been a month, hasn’t it?”

Rook blinked. “Since what?”

“Oh, please,” Neve scoffed, twirling her fork. “Since you and your professor decided to make the rest of us gag with your disgustingly sweet affection. The gushing texts alone made me swear off sugar for a year.”

Rook made a show of groaning, but the faint flush across her cheeks gave her away.

Bellara leaned in, grinning. “So? Is it official-official? Has he started leaving books at your place?”

Neve added, “Or better—are you sharing grocery lists? That’s the real threshold of commitment.”

“Wouldn’t you two like to know,” Rook said, smug behind her tea cup.

“Obviously,” Bellara and Neve said in unison.

As much as Rook liked to play it cool, the truth was—she was thoroughly enjoying her time with Emmrich. They’d settled into a comfortable rhythm that suited them well. Thoughtful text messages. Walks home together when their schedules aligned. His visits to the tea shop still felt like small gifts. And, of course, there were the occasional make-out sessions that left her heart racing and her thoughts pleasantly scrambled.

They hadn’t gone on another proper date since their impromptu one—life had been too demanding. She’d been busy preparing for the rush of the winter season, and Emmrich was knee-deep in university responsibilities. Still, the time they carved out for each other—however brief—never failed to make her day a little brighter.

One thing was certain, though: she desperately wanted to jump the professor’s bones.

Rook knew he was waiting for the right moment, something romantic and meaningful. And Maker help her, that made him even more attractive. Every interaction left her wanting more, but their mismatched schedules were proving to be the most persistent obstacle of all.

Still… she wasn’t complaining. Not really. Because despite the ache of anticipation, she was enjoying every bit of the journey.

Neve arched a brow. “When are we going to meet him?”

“Yes, it has to be in an official capacity,” Bellara chimed in, beaming. “We need to properly vet this man.”

“Gods, you two are vultures,” Rook muttered, rolling her eyes. “Soon.”

Before Rook could wrangle the conversation into safer territory, Bellara stood, gathering plates. “I’ll wash up. Neve, try not to grill her too hard.”

“I make no promises,” Neve called after her, but her tone gentled as soon as they were alone.

Rook glanced up. The warmth in Neve’s smile hadn’t faded, but her eyes had taken on a sharper clarity—quiet, deliberate.

Rook set down her tea. “You didn’t just come here for pasta and gossip.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“Neve. I know that look.”

Neve exhaled, long and slow. “Can’t get anything past you. Shadow Dragon business.”

Rook’s posture shifted subtly, the corners of her smile softening into something more serious.

“Talk to me,” she said.

Neve’s voice dropped as she leaned forward, hands folded around her mug for warmth. “We’ve got an update. Another victim. The seventh.”

“And this one…?”

“Left a trace.” Neve nodded, lips drawn into a tight line. “Finally.”

Her playful smirk faded as she reached into her satchel and slid a manila folder onto the table. The warmth from their shared lunch dulled under the shadow that settled between them.

Neve leaned in, her tone turning grim. “This one put up a fight.”

Rook’s brow arched. “The victim?”

Neve nodded. “Blood at the scene. Scratches on the pavement. Broken ward traces. Whoever took them didn’t expect resistance—or got cocky.”

She slid another photo from the folder. The image captured a smear of blood, half-concealed along the edge of a storm drain. Beside it, a mana crystal, fractured and dulled, glinted faintly even in the printed picture.

“We found that too. A crystal—likely Venatori. Still humming with residual charge when I picked it up. They didn’t have time to scrub the site.”

Rook leaned closer, her expression tightening. “Is the blood the victim’s?”

“Confirmed,” Neve said, tapping the edge of the page. “But the crystal’s the real prize. We might be able to trace whoever infused it. Ashur’s already contacted an arcane expert to examine it.”

Rook frowned thoughtfully. “Was it part of a speaking stone? Or something for teleportation?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine. If it was for transport, we might have a magical signature to follow. If it was for communication… well, then someone out there might’ve heard more than they wanted to.”

She paused before adding, “Tarquin’s sweeping the radius you suggested—looking for any warehouses, abandoned buildings, Venatori-friendly hideouts. So far, nothing. Either they’re good at covering their tracks, or we’re still looking in the wrong places.”

Rook leaned back, staring down at the map Neve unfurled from inside her coat. The paper, creased and weathered, was dotted with wax pencil marks indicating searched sectors. Rook’s eyes scanned the lines, following the overlapping perimeters, until something clicked.

“They haven’t checked the sewer lines,” she murmured.

Neve blinked. “Seriously?”

“Look here,” Rook said, pointing. “The old drain network—runs beneath three of the abduction sites. It would be a pain in the ass to navigate, but it’s hidden. Shielded from most tracking spells unless you’re tuned specifically for subterranean structures.”

Neve let out a low groan, rubbing her temples. “Of course it’d be the sewers.”

“Perfect place to disappear if you didn’t want to be found.” Rook folded her arms. “And with winter closing in, that’s going to be a nightmare.”

Neve gave her a sideways look, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face. “Don’t suppose you’re volunteering to check it out with me?”

Rook’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

She hesitated, a long breath caught behind her ribs. The sewer system. A covert search. Shadow Dragon business.

It wasn’t the grime that gave her pause, nor the stench she knew would cling to her skin for days. It was what saying yes meant.

To go with Neve was to cross a line she’d drawn long ago—a line meant to keep her from slipping too far back into a world of cloak-and-dagger pursuits, surveillance shadows, and the kind of work that left scars deeper than any blade. She told herself she’d left those lines behind. That she’d built something softer now. Calmer. Something grounded.

But the other part of her—sharp-edged and restless—still wanted answers. Still burned to know the truth, to stop whatever threat was spiraling just beneath the surface. Seven people gone. Signs of a struggle. A Venatori crystal humming with residual magic. Something about it itched at her—too precise, too practiced.

And she’d never been good at ignoring an itch.

“Neve…” she started again, voice lower now, “…I really don’t want to. But I also really want answers.”

She wasn’t sure which version of herself said it—the woman who once thrived on danger or the one trying to outrun it.

The detective raised a brow. “So that’s a yes?”

Rook exhaled slowly. “It’s a heavily reluctant yes.”

Neve’s grin was triumphant. “Still a yes.”

Rook leveled her with a look. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You won’t,” Neve said, already pulling a folded pair of gloves from her coat. “You’ll just smell like regret.”

Rook snorted, but the sound didn’t quite reach her eyes. A shadow of unease lingered behind her smile, subtle but unmistakable.

“Rook.”

“Yeah?”

Neve’s voice dropped, steadier now—earnest. “If it gets to be too much, I’ll pull you out. No questions, no judgment. Just say the word.”

Rook met her gaze, quiet for a breath. “Promise?”

Neve didn’t hesitate. “I swear. It’s not going to happen again.”

That last word caught—again—and Rook felt it echo down into a memory she’d tucked far out of reach.

It was a distant memory now—one tethered to the moment Rook had left the Shadows and, against every instinct, accepted Solas’s offer to run their parents’ old tea shop. When she first stepped inside, it was like walking into a memory that hadn’t moved. The maroon walls were still there, trimmed with aged gold. Botanical murals hung in antique frames. Pressed herb panels lined the interior like forgotten spells. Dark wood shelves hugged the walls, their jars labeled with delicate handwriting and draped in dried flowers and herbs. It looked less like a tea shop and more like a wine bar for apothecaries.

Honestly, it was a miracle nothing had changed. Then again… it shouldn’t have surprised her. Solas had bought the entire building. She didn’t know that until he casually mentioned there was a place upstairs for her to stay.

The Loft had been a gift—practical, polished, and complete. Pale walls, well-stocked cupboards, soft lighting, sturdy furniture. A home carved from intention.

But when she stepped inside for the first time… it hadn’t felt like a home.

It had felt like an apology.

She hadn’t unpacked. Just dropped her bag by the door, collapsed onto the bare couch, and stayed there. For days. Exhausted, guilt-ridden, empty. The silence became a cocoon. Showers were optional. Meals were a distant memory. She looked like hell. Felt worse.

Until Neve and Lucanis broke through.

She hadn’t even heard the wards chime that day—just the sound of boots on floorboards, a sharp whistle, and Neve’s exasperated voice cutting through the stagnant air:

“Venhedis, Rook. When was the last time you breathed in here?”

Rook had blinked up at them, dazed and half-sunken into the couch cushions. Neve didn’t ask questions—just hauled her to the bathroom, shoved a towel into her hands, and ordered her to shower. Lucanis, inspected the area before making his way into the kitchen.

When she emerged from the shower, the whole Loft felt different. The windows were cracked open to let in fresh air. Neve was banishing the dust with flicks of her fingers, magic humming soft and steady. Shopping bags littered the counter—groceries, toiletries, maybe even things from Rook’s own apartment. And from the kitchen came the smell—Maker, the smell—of caramelized onions and butter.

Actual food.

Crow Feed, Lucanis called it. An Antivan comfort dish. Rice simmered in light chicken broth, folded with grated cheese and fresh herbs, all topped with golden onions and a pat of butter slowly melting in the center.

Neve found her still lingering in the hallway, towel clutched tight around her shoulders, expression suspended somewhere between blank and broken.

“Come on,” Neve said softly, and guided her toward the bedroom.

Rook followed without protest. The lights inside were dimmed, muted to something soft and noninvasive. Her duffel bag had already been unzipped and partially unpacked. A folded set of clothes waited on the bed—worn-in sweatpants, a loose cotton shirt, and a hoodie jacket.

She didn’t ask when Neve had done it. She didn’t need to.

By the time she emerged again, her hair was damp and skin pink from a shower that had been too hot for comfort. The clothes hung loose on her frame, her movements slow and unsure. Padding barefoot toward the dining table, the scent of butter and caramelized onions met her like an old memory. Lucanis and Neve sat on one side of the dining room table. Both of them silent, watchful—but not pressing.

She took the seat on the opposite side of them.

The plate in front of her steamed gently, butter melting into a center pool, rich and fragrant. She picked up her fork but didn’t lift it, staring down at the food as if it might vanish. Her stomach twisted, uncertain if it was from hunger or guilt.

She couldn’t bring herself to meet their eyes. So she didn’t. And neither of them forced her to.

There was no rush. No attempt to fill the silence with false comfort. Just presence. Just the quiet understanding of people who knew when to wait.

And when the silence thickened, pressing against her chest like a weight, she spoke—not because she was ready, but because the ache of holding it in had become too much to bear.

And when she finally broke the silence, her voice had cracked. “This is a mistake… isn’t it?”

Lucanis didn’t speak, but she saw the tension in his jaw. Neve looked up from the table, frowning.

“What the fuck was I thinking? Me. Running a tea shop. I’ve never made tea before. I can’t cook for shit. Fighting is the only thing I know. Tarquin was right—I’m a walking disaster. I don’t even know who I am without the Shadows—”

“Rook,” Neve’s voice cut through her spiral, sharp and certain. “Stop. You are not a disaster.”

And she said it like it was fact. Unshakable.

“You gave everything to the Shadows. You fought for the right reasons. You protected people. You saved people. Yes, you’re reckless and stubborn and a pain in the ass—but your heart was always in it. Always.”

Neve reached across the table and took her hand—steady, grounding. “You don’t have to change overnight. You don’t have to figure it all out today. Right now, you get to rest. And you’re not alone. Let us carry you for a bit.”

Rook had never told Neve how badly she needed to hear that. That she wasn’t alone. That she didn’t have to be anything more than tired and breathing for now. And when the ice mage wrapped her arms around her elven friend, Rook let go. She sobbed—shaking, gasping, red-eyed—and Neve just held her through it.

When she finally stopped crying, she remembered Lucanis smirking quietly from the table, unfazed by her tear-soaked face as he passed her a plate of food. The bastard hadn’t even teased her. Just pushed the plate closer and said, “Eat.”

And she had. Between hiccuping breaths and runny eyes, she had eaten. It was the first real meal she’d had in days—and it had tasted like forgiveness.

“I’m going to be absolute shit at this,” Rook muttered, voice low.

Neve let out a dry chuckle. “You will. At first.”

Rook arched a brow. “Comforting.”

“But,” Neve added, her tone softening, “you’re a quick learner.”

Rook glanced at her, hesitant. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

Now, in the tea shop’s warm quiet, with the memory of that day thick in her chest, Rook nodded slowly. “Okay,” she murmured, steadying herself. “If it gets to be too much… I’ll say the word.”

Neve’s smile was gentle but sure, solid as bedrock. “That’s all I need.”

Rook held her gaze, drawing in a slow breath. The truth was, the ghosts of old habits still clung to her—the instinct to push herself too far, to bury fear beneath duty, to let pride and purpose override her own well-being. And this—this step closer to her old Shadow Dragon life—felt like a doorway she wasn’t sure she wanted to open again. What if crossing it pulled her back into everything she’d fought to leave behind?

But Neve’s promise to pull her back when she needs to cut through the rising worry. It grounded her. Reminded her that she wasn’t the same as she’d been back then. She was different now. She could choose the path forward.

And for the first time in a long while, Rook felt relief.

Chapter Text

The tea shop had long since closed, its windows darkened, the scent of pastries and clove lingering like the last hum of a lullaby. Rook locked up with practiced hands, her breath fogging in the crisp air. The street outside was quiet, cast in silver under gaslights and the distant glimmer of frost-dusted rooftops. She didn’t linger.

Not tonight.

She made her way back to her apartment through the less-traveled alleys, a shortcut known only to those who lived in the bones of Minrathous. Once inside, the quiet pressed close—not unpleasant, but heavier than usual.

After letting Spite out of her bag, she headed straight to the bedroom and moved to the closet, pausing before crouching down. Her fingers hesitated at the edge of a low-lying trunk, the kind that hadn’t been touched in a long time.

Spite appeared beside her, silent and watchful. The feline’s tail curled around her ankle, his golden eyes fixed on her with unblinking curiosity. Rook looks down at her feline companion and pets him on the head which makes the cat smirk..

“I know, buddy,” she murmured to him, not yet convincing even to herself. “It’s just a quick outing. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She placed her hand atop the lid, exhaled through her nose, and lifted it open.

The scent hit her first—aged leather, old magic, and something faintly metallic. Inside, neatly packed and wrapped in dark cloth, was her Shadow Dragon gear. She reached for the familiar pieces with reverent fingers: black-dyed leathers worn soft by use, still bearing faint scuffs from older missions. The hooded shoulder mantle, stitched with reinforced runes, looked more ceremonial than protective—but it had deflected more than its share of enchanted projectiles.

Her gloves came next. Fingerless, etched with silver glyphs that shimmered faintly when her skin brushed the surface. A tactical choice, but also a reminder of how her spell work used to burn hot and fast in tight quarters.

And there it was—nestled in its padded sheath—her mageknife.

Rook lifted the blade slowly, the hilt catching the low light of her closet. The hilt was a deep violet, the base crowned with an amethyst stone that shimmered when it caught the light. The blade itself was stiletto-thin, elegant, and wickedly sharp. Her magic stirred the moment her fingers touched it, humming recognition through her veins. Like a breath inhaled after being underwater for too long.

Then, at the bottom of the trunk, her arcane orb.

Cold, obsidian-black in its inert state, its surface swallowed the light. It looked like a polished river stone, smooth and unremarkable. But in her palm, her mana stirred again, and the faintest flicker of ethereal blue shimmered within. It still knew her. Still waited to be called.

She closed the trunk slowly, sealing it again, and rose to her feet in silence. She dressed slowly, each piece settling into place with alarming ease. Muscle memory. Second skin. The comfort of it unsettled her more than the cold. The cloak clasped at her her collar. Her hair tied into a braid. The gloves flexed without resistance. She slid the stiletto into its sheath along her thigh.

Spite meowed up at her—not curious now, but resigned. As if he understood exactly what this gear meant, and the weight it carried.

She knelt to give him a quick scratch behind the ears before placing down his food dish. “I won’t be long,” she told him, then added, “I apologize for the smell in advance.”

At last, she cast a cloaking charm over herself, the shimmer barely visible before she vanished into the air like a whisper.

Rook stepped out onto her apartment’s balcony and scaled the access ladder to the roof with practiced ease. The wind greeted her with the bite of winter’s breath, stinging her cheeks and tugging at her cloak. From here, the city was endless. A canvas of rooftops, chimneys, and glowing windows—and above them, stars barely visible behind the veil of frost and fog.

It had been a while since she took this route.

Her breath misted as she crouched low, aligning her feet for the next rooftop. The tile had a slick sheen—ice. She'd need to be careful.

One deep breath.

Then she Fade-stepped.

A burst of magic shimmered at her heels as she blinked forward across the divide, landing with barely a sound. Again. Again. A rhythm, a dance across slate and shingle, vaulting over alleyways with precision. Her body remembered what her heart tried to bury. She was good at this. Dangerous, capable… shadow-slick.

She used to love this feeling—the rush of adrenaline, the laser-cut focus that made everything else fall away. It had once felt like freedom, like power, like home. But standing here now, cloaked in old habits and older shadows, it didn’t feel the same. She wasn’t the same. And even as her body moved with the ease of muscle memory, her mind whispered reminders of the cost. This path had once saved her. It could just as easily undo her.

Finally, Rook reached the rendezvous point—a flat-topped building overlooking a water control tower. Neve was already there, a steady silhouette against the night sky, clad in her investigator’s robes. The layers of fabric were finely tailored, detailed with ornate embroidery in her signature tones of rich teal and muted green. Light leather armor braced her forearms, strapped neatly over teal gloves worn from use.

At her hip hung a curved, green-hued wand catching the faint city glow. Scrolls and pouches were secured along her belt—silent testaments to her craft. Missing was her usual teal fascinator; instead, her hair was pulled back into a precise bun, her bangs swept to the side in practiced elegance.

She stood with her pipe in hand, exhaling a curl of smoke into the cold air. When Rook landed beside her in a shimmer of magic, Neve didn’t so much as flinch. She simply glanced up, eyes sharp with recognition, and offered a nod.

“That’s a nostalgic look,” Neve remarked, eyes scanning Rook’s Shadow Dragon gear.

The elven woman gave a shrug, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “I’m just glad it still fits.”

Neve arched a brow. “Thought you’d drag your feet more.”

“Didn’t want to give myself time to back out,” Rook replied, brushing a crust of frost from the edge of her hood.

At that, Neve reached into her coat and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment, handing it over. “Entrance is three blocks south. Old storm grate with a busted ward node. Shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

Rook unfolded the note, scanning the coordinates and committing them to memory.

“You good?” Neve asked, her voice quieter now, more measured.

Rook nodded, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Just not looking forward to what comes after.”

Neve let out a short breath. “You and me both.”

They turned together toward the edge of the rooftop. Below, the city stretched out like a slumbering beast—its lights flickering like distant whispers, and beneath it all, the sewers lay in wait, hidden and winding like a second spine.

With a measured breath, Rook looked at Neve giving her a nod and the two were off.

Finding the storm grate was the easy part, one push and it gave way with a groan, revealing a yawning tunnel of damp stone and shadow. Rook slipped in first, her cloak brushing the edges, Neve close behind.

Thank the Maker it didn’t smell as vile as it could have. No corpses. No raw sewage. Just the must of wet stone, mildew, and something faintly metallic—like blood dried too long on iron. Still, it was cold. The kind of cold that clung to your bones and sank through leathers and armor alike. Every step echoed softly, water lapping around their boots, the hiss of distant pipes the only sound that kept them company. It was the kind of cold that crawled under your skin and settled in your bones—like the Frostbacks had exhaled straight into these tunnels

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” Rook muttered, tugging her hood tighter.

“Because you’re impatient and hate waiting for answers,” Neve shot back under her breath. “And because I asked nicely.”

Despite herself, Rook smirked. Their voices were barely above whispers—no louder than the rustle of fabric or the click of boots on stone. Stealth was their best option. Neither of them wanted to be seen first in a place like this.

Neve took point, her gloved hand brushing along the carved edges of the tunnel wall, occasionally flicking her fingers to activate a subtle pulse of magic—a checking spell to confirm direction and ward strength. Rook followed close behind, her senses sharp, every footfall deliberate. Her body moved with the focus of training long embedded into muscle memory, even if her thoughts danced with unease.

“Left tunnel’s blocked,” Neve whispered, halting. “This way.”

They weaved through the network of old channels and runoff corridors, passing rusted utility doors and iron-wrought gates that hadn't opened in decades. The deeper they went, the more the air shifted—less stagnant now, touched by something that felt… wrong. Rook felt the hairs on her arms rise under her gloves.

It wasn’t long before they reached it—a natural clearing in the underground network. A broad, circular chamber where several tunnels converged like the spokes of a wheel. At the far end, dimly lit by guttering mage-lamps and flame crystals, was what could only be described as a makeshift base.

Tents—small, warded, and draped in crimson cloth—were tucked between the support beams. Spell circles had been etched in dried blood. Runes carved into the stone floor glowed faintly with unnatural precision. And at the center stood a ritual altar, stained dark with sacrifice, the manacles still bolted to the edges.

Venatori.

Rook’s jaw clenched as her fingers drifted toward the hilt of her mageknife. Her breath slowed. Her heartbeat did not.

They were here. Blood mages. The ones responsible.

She dropped low, pressing herself against the curve of the tunnel wall. Neve mirrored her silently, already pulling a viewing lens from her belt to scope the figures moving near the altar. Three mages in crimson robes—one adjusting a warding sigil, another tending to what looked like a bound spell focus. They weren’t preparing for battle.

They were preparing for a ritual.

Neve leaned in, her voice barely a breath. “We hit now, we take out at least one before the rest notice. Or… we observe, find out more.”

Rook narrowed her eyes. Her blood buzzed with adrenaline. Her fingers itched for movement. But the part of her that had learned from pain and consequences urged caution.

“They’ve already done something here,” she murmured. “Let’s see what they’re hiding before we burn it down.”

Neve nodded, slipping the lens back into her pouch. Together, they moved moved like shadows, weaving between the crooked beams and broken stones of the old sewer's main chamber. The distant murmur of voices and the faint flicker of torchlight guided them toward the Venatori’s makeshift encampment. The air, thick with damp and the underlying tang of dried blood, didn’t reek nearly as bad as it could have—but the wet cold gnawed at their joints, the kind that lingered like a curse. It felt less like they were in Minrathous and more like they'd been dropped straight into the belly of the Frostbacks.

As they crept closer, Rook crouched behind a collapsed pillar, taking in the layout. The Venatori had been busy.

Cages—empty now—lined the far wall, their bars bent and rust-stained. There was no mistaking what they’d been used for. In the center of the chamber, a ritual circle had been etched into the stone, fresh enough that the chalk hadn’t yet faded, and bloody enough to mark a recent attempt—or a rehearsal for something worse.

She exchanged a glance with Neve before the two slipped into a vacant canvas tent set just off the main camp, half-hidden behind a barricade of crates and discarded supplies. The interior was sparse, but among the mess lay several crumpled sheets of parchment.

Neve dropped to one knee, sifting through them quickly, her gloved fingers steady despite the chill. “Instructions,” she murmured. “Not field notes—these are orders.”

Rook kept her eyes on the flap of the tent, peeking out just enough to monitor the perimeter. “Orders for what?”

Neve’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They’re harvesting. Materials—people—for a ritual meant to create a key. Whatever that means.” Her brow furrowed. “They’re behind schedule. Whoever’s leading this is getting impatient. Told them to accelerate the timeline.”

Rook's jaw tightened. “So, more kidnappings.”

“Exactly.” Neve tucked the notes into her pouch, her movements sharp and efficient. “Tarquin and Ashur will want eyes on this.”

They barely had time to slip back behind cover before the commotion began.

Torchlight flared at the tunnel’s edge. Three mages entered, dragging half-conscious prisoners between them. The captives—four in total—were tossed unceremoniously into the cages. Chains clinked. One cried out. The sound echoed off the stone like a struck bell.

Rook and Neve tensed as the blood mages began to speak among themselves, unaware they were being watched. The words were low, half-laughed, half-grumbled—but the intent was clear. Another harvest. Tonight.

“They’ll be back out again soon,” Neve whispered, eyes narrowed. “If we wait, we might trace their path. Maybe even find who’s pulling the strings.”

Rook’s jaw clenched. “And leave those people in the cages? No. We hit them now. If we put pressure on them, they’ll start making mistakes.”

Neve gave her a long look. “If we go loud, we lose the trail.”

“And if we don’t, those victims become materials,” Rook replied. “You saw the notes. I’m not letting that happen.”

They both understood the stakes. Waiting had merit—but pressure made people sloppy, and nothing turned sloppiness into opportunity faster than panic.

Neve exhaled through her nose, resigned. “All right. How do you want to play it?”

Rook drew her dagger, its edge catching the faint glow of the camp. “Loud and fast. Just like Marnas Pell.”

Neve’s smirk was all steel. “Old tricks, then. I’ll rig the perimeter wards. You take the left; I’ll draw them right.”

A breath passed between them. A silent count. Then they moved.

Neve was the first to move, slipping out of the tent with a low flick of her wrist. Frost blossomed across the ground as she whispered a chant beneath her breath, sending a shiver through the magic-heavy air. Ice rooted into the stone like veins—just enough to destabilize the perimeter wards and slow any potential reinforcements. One of the Venatori’s charms blinked briefly before going dull, the first thread in a web she intended to unravel.

Rook moved next, veiled by shadows and a cloak spell still clinging to her figure. She slipped around the left flank, where the guards were leaner, less alert. Her mageknife glinted faintly in her grip, and the crackle of static pulsed at her fingertips—lightning hungry for contact.

A sharp, echoing whistle split the air.

The signal.

The cages exploded with sound as Neve unleashed her opening move. Shards of ice jutted from the ground in sudden bloom, slamming into the camp’s edge like crystalline jaws. Two Venatori staggered, caught mid-step, just as the cold mist that followed wrapped around their boots like shackles. One slipped. Another froze outright, eyes wide as frost crawled across his coat.

“We’re under attack!” one of the Venatori shouted, whirling toward the disturbance.

From the left, Rook surged.

She dropped her cloak mid-leap, lightning leaping from her gloves to her blade, turning it into a conductor of arcane voltage. She struck like a bolt—her stiletto slicing across the first mage’s ribs as a jolt of current surged into his body, sending him twitching to the floor. Her arcane orb floated beside her, releasing a concussive burst that threw a second cultist into the ritual circle.

“Make it messy!” she shouted over the crackling chaos.

“Oh, I intend to,” Neve called back.

The detective dove behind a broken cage and sent a column of ice erupting into the heart of the camp. It cracked upward in jagged fury, flinging supplies and Venatori alike. She followed with a stream of freezing mist that coated the terrain, turning footing into treachery. One enemy tried to cast a fire spell—only to find their gloves coated in frost, mana stuttering in their fingers.

Rook ducked under a blast of crimson spellfire, pivoted, and unleashed a chain lightning spell that jumped from one blood mage to another—three in total—lighting them up like oil lanterns in a thunderstorm. She followed the arc with a swift blade thrust, her stiletto burying deep into one mage’s collar before twisting out again.

Neve’s voice cut through the din. “Incoming from the east tunnel!”

“I’ll redirect!” Rook called back, channeling energy into a burst spell that created a shockwave along the stone floor, forcing the reinforcements to scatter.

The camp was in chaos now—blood mages scrambling, victims crying out in renewed hope, and the ritual stones cracking from the collateral magic. The element of surprise had been theirs… and they wielded it like sharpened blades.

Neve and Rook fought like old instincts reborn—cold precision and crackling power, ice and lightning braided in brutal rhythm.

And this time, they weren’t going to leave any of the Venatori standing.

The last of the blood mages fell with a crack of lightning and a grunt of pain, their body slumping against the stone floor with a dull thud. The air buzzed, still thick with the sharp tang of ozone and scorched cloth, magic lingering like smoke after a fire. Rook’s chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths as she turned in time to see the final cultist make a desperate break for the teleportation stone.

“Shit—” she muttered, bolting forward.

Her boots slammed against wet stone as she closed the gap, her blade a blur. With a hard crack, the pommel of her mageknife connected with the side of the cultist’s head. He dropped like a sack of bricks, motionless but breathing.

The cavernous clearing fell silent. No more footsteps. No more shouting. Just the faint hum of mana-stained air and the quiet sobs of those locked in the cages.

Neve stepped toward the cluster of bars, her steps squelching in the damp as she lowered her hand. The magic resonating from her fingertips dimmed, and with a slow gesture, the ice barrier surrounding the victims began to melt—dissolving in streams of frostbitten mist.

Several of the kidnapped civilians—tired, gaunt, and wide-eyed—pressed themselves forward once the barrier faded, their voices cracking with emotion as they stumbled toward freedom.

“Thank you,” one whispered.

Another murmured, “You saved us…”

Rook didn’t speak. She just gave them a curt nod, eyes briefly meeting theirs before drifting back to Neve. Her expression was unreadable, a veil pulled down to steady herself in the aftermath.

Neve was already fishing out her phone from beneath her coat. She stepped to the edge of the clearing and dialed in backup, her voice cool and efficient despite the chaos they’d just endured.

“Yeah. Site cleared. Victims alive. Multiple dead blood mages,” she said into the receiver. “Sending coordinates now. Bring containment.”

She hung up and turned to Rook. “They’ll be here soon.” A pause. “You want to stick around?”

Rook’s spine stiffened at the question, the weight of post-battle fatigue settling in her limbs. Her face pulled into something between a wince and a sigh. “No. I think I’m gonna dip before I get roped into cleanup detail.”

Neve’s look was understanding, even fond in its own dry way. She crossed the short distance between them and gave Rook a once-over. “You injured?”

“No,” Rook replied. “I’m good. Just got that… post-fight buzz.”

Neve smirked faintly. “Still got it, then.”

A quiet laugh escaped Rook’s throat. “Apparently.”

Satisfied, Neve gave her a nod. “Go. I’ll handle the rest.”

Rook didn’t need to be told twice. She pivoted toward the tunnel exit, following the sigils they’d etched earlier as a trail back through the sewers.

By the time she emerged from the underground, traversed the rooftops and made it back to her apartment, the streets were near silent. The faint glow of distant street lights spilled through the frost-misted windows as she unlocked her door.

Spite, curled up near the radiator, perked his head up the moment she stepped inside.

“I know,” Rook groaned, stripping off her coat. “I smell like a drowned corpse and ozone.”

The cat sniffed her boots, recoiled slightly, then padded off in judgmental silence.

“Well, we didn’t need to be that rude.”

After a long, scalding shower and a haphazard bite of leftovers, Rook collapsed onto her bed, hair damp, limbs heavy. She reached for her phone out of habit, unlocking the screen to see a few unread messages blinking in from Emmrich.

Emmrich: Good evening, Rook. I do apologize for not replying to your last message. My schedule has become a bit chaotic since exam season started.

My colleague, Professor Hezenkoss was formally warned for writing exam questions with the subtlety of a war hammer. The staff meeting turned into a diplomatic sparring match. Dorian and I had to play referee.

Thank the Maker that it’s almost over. The tea you have gifted me has been a lifesaver. I have made it a point to use them sparingly so that they last me till the end of this madness.

Once this is over, I would enjoy nothing more than to spend some time with you. If you are able, of course.

A tired smile crept over her face. Her thumb hovered for a moment before she tapped out a reply.

Rook: Sorry for the late reply. I was caught up in something with my friend, Neve. I’d love nothing more than to go on another date with you once you’re free.

And Emmrich, if you do run out of tea, I would be more than happy to deliver you a refill and an actual meal at the office. I look forward to reading your reply. Try not to work yourself to death.

She set the phone down and let her eyes close.

So much had happened in one night. She’d faced down blood mages. Watched victims freed. Let her hands remember the old rhythms—the shadows and strikes she once lived for. Cole had seen more than he should have. Neve had pulled her back into the field. And for a moment, she'd felt like Mercar again.

It ached—but in a good way. Nostalgic. Bittersweet.

And yet… it had only been for a night.

That made it safe.

Tomorrow could worry about itself.

Emmrich unlocked the door to his townhouse, the soft click of the deadbolt echoing into the quiet. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of a long day as he stepped inside, tugging off his charcoal overcoat and hanging it by the entryway.

The tailored lines of his two-piece suit—once crisp—were now rumpled from a dozen faculty meetings, impromptu lectures, and at least three separate interventions involving overambitious students and magically combusting exam scrolls. He loosened his tie and sighed, the exhaustion coiled in his spine slowly starting to unspool.

Exam season, as ever, was a trial by paper cut and pride.

The staff had nearly come to blows after the latest round of assessment reviews. Johanna had once again been reprimanded for the sheer brutality of her exam questions—questions that statistically guaranteed an 80% failure rate, even among her most prepared students. That would have been headache enough, but the grudge match it sparked between her and the rest of the department had transformed the faculty lounge into a low-grade war zone.

He and Dorian had spent the better part of the afternoon smoothing ruffled feathers and suggesting—gently—that perhaps a real-time demonstration of multi-planar sigil entrapment wasn’t strictly necessary on a final essay.

And then there were the students.

His office had become a revolving door of desperation: requests for extra credit, pleas for mercy, and one particularly bold student who tried bribing Myrna with coffee and imported chocolate. That hadn’t gone well.

He made a mental note to get Myrna something far better than sweets for her continued tolerance.

At least Johanna, terrifying as she was, confined her chaos to the graduate-level courses. Her rigor was the kind that whittled wood into steel. Her students either rose to the challenge or broke beneath it, and while her methods were unorthodox, they weeded out the unprepared. Still, the whispers of her apprentices’ post-exam weeping could be heard echoing through the hallways like a ghost story.

Emmrich shrugged out of his overcoat with a weary exhale, draping it over the back of a nearby chair before unfastening the top buttons of his shirt and dropped into his armchair with a muted groan. The townhouse was quiet, the kind of silence that welcomed exhaustion.

The faint clatter of porcelain tapped softly across the hardwood.

Manfred shuffled in from the hallway, his skeletal frame upright and precise, moving with the practiced grace of someone who had long since perfected the art of silent domesticity. He carried a tray in his gloved hands, the steam from the teacup curling into the air with a comforting sweetness.

Emmrich’s eyes flicked to the cup. Even before he picked it up, he could smell it—chamomile, blue mallow, lavender, and the faint bloom of Andraste’s Grace. Dreamer’s Rest. One of Rook’s blends.

He let out a low breath through his nose, the kind that hinted at both gratitude and aching.

Manfred responded with a soft hiss, the sound almost questioning—if bone and intention could be called that.

“Yes, this is perfect,” Emmrich replied, lifting the cup in a small toast. “Thank you, Manfred.”

He took a long sip.

The first taste was gentle—soft chamomile with its grassy sweetness, followed by the floral hush of blue mallow and lavender. Beneath it all, the faint kiss of Andraste’s Grace added a soothing, almost sacred warmth that unfurled like candlelight in his chest.

It was more than just flavor. The warmth sank into him slowly, spreading through the tension that clung to his shoulders and neck, melting it down to something manageable. The tight band of pressure behind his eyes loosened. The ache in his limbs softened, as though the tea itself whispered to his tired body.

He let the cup rest between his hands, savoring the comfort it offered. It was grounding. Reassuring. Like a hand at his back guiding him away from the noise.

Still… even with its comfort, his thoughts didn’t quiet.

They drifted to her.

Rook.

Maker, he missed her.

Emmrich wondered—not for the first time—if she’d known. If gifting him these blends had been her way of staying close while he was drowning in term schedules, faculty drama, and student chaos. If she’d thought this would help him miss her less.

Instead, it had the opposite effect.

Every sip reminded him of her. Her voice. Her presence. The way she looked at him when she was trying not to smile but couldn’t quite help it. Rook had a way of bantering that made every conversation feel like a game only the two of them knew how to play—sharp-witted, playful, and layered with affection just under the surface. He missed the cadence of her teasing. The way her nose scrunched ever so slightly when she delivered a particularly smug line.

And her scent. Tea leaves and lavender clung to her like a second skin—earthy, clean, and somehow comforting. It lingered in his memory more stubbornly than he cared to admit, woven into the fibers of the scarf she had once returned to him after borrowing it “just for a minute.”

Then there were her eyes—Maker, those eyes. Dark and warm like melted chocolate, with a depth that could disarm him even in the middle of a heated debate. She looked at him like she saw past every composed smile and academic phrase. Saw him, really saw him.

And her touch…

He exhaled, running a hand through his own hair as if it could echo hers. Her fingers had moved through his curls like she had all the time in the world—reverent, slow, anchoring. He missed the brush of her fingertips against his scalp, the way her lips had tasted of mint and laughter. If he had known they wouldn’t have time to see each other again so soon, he would’ve traced constellations into the sun-kissed expanse of her skin—along her collarbone, the curve of her neck, the small of her back. He would’ve made her remember his hands as much as he remembered hers.

“I’m hopeless,” he murmured to no one in particular. Manfred had already slunk back into the hallway, his skeletal boots tapping away in a soft retreat.

Andraste help him, he felt like a brute for letting his thoughts go there. But she haunted him—in the kindest, most maddening of ways.

He cradled the tea, eyes half-lidded with fatigue, and let the warmth press into the ache that missing her had become.

As he settled deeper into the armchair, tea in hand, Emmrich absently reached for his phone resting on the side table. The screen lit up with a soft glow, revealing a few unread messages. The most recent ones were from Rook.

The first was a picture—her, mid-stir at the stove, a pan of creamy carbonara glistening under warm light. A caption beneath read:

Rook: According to Bellara, if I keep feeding her like this, then I am legally obligated to adopt her. I had to tell her that it’s a competitive market.

He huffed a quiet laugh, imagining the exchange—Rook’s dry wit, Bellara’s mock dramatics. Even through a picture and text, her energy bled through. His chest gave a subtle ache, the kind that came from missing something gentle.

Rook: How’s your day going so far? I can see that exam season has gotten my student customers cramming for their lives.

The timestamp made him wince—hours ago.

“Oh dear,” he murmured, setting his cup aside and pulling up the keyboard. He promptly typed out an apology for the delayed reply, followed by a thoughtful answer to her question.

Then he paused, thumb hovering above the screen.

Part of him wanted to write I miss you—just that. No embellishment, no flourish. Honest. Sincere. Their exchanged messages and brief visits were a balm in his chaotic days, but they didn’t stop the ache. If anything, they only deepened it.

But then came the hesitation. Would it be too much? Too intense? He didn’t want her to feel pressured—not when she was trying so hard to carve out balance in her life. With a quiet sigh, he backspaced the words and instead wrote something else. Something softer. Hopeful.

A promise of time together.

One of the benefits of this hellish week is that it’ll be winter break which means that he gets two wonderful weeks of free time that he can spend with his lovely Rook.

Satisfied, he hit send.

The screen remained unchanged. No typing bubble. No read receipt. He assumed she’d gone to bed. It was late, after all. He set the phone aside and resumed sipping his tea, letting the calming herbs coax his thoughts into stillness.

Still, even as he performed the familiar motions of his nighttime routine—brushing his teeth, removing his tie, undoing the cuffs of his sleeves—his mind wandered. To Rook’s laugh. The way her nose scrunched when she teased him. And the way she looked at him like he was someone worth knowing deeply.

He missed her terribly.

Emmrich turned off the lights, the soft creak of the townhouse settling around him. Slipping beneath the covers, he let out a long breath and closed his eyes.

Rook’s tea had done its job in helping him fall asleep —his limbs were heavy, his thoughts quieting—but it was her memory that carried him into sleep.

Soon, he would see her again. And it would be wonderful.

Chapter Text

The sharp trill of her alarm cracked the silence, cruel and punctual.

Rook groaned into her pillow, face buried deep as if she could bargain with the universe for five more minutes. Her arm groped blindly for the offending device, silencing it with the practiced aggression of someone who did not sleep enough.

Last night clung to her like a weighted blanket soaked in memory—blood mages, old instincts, and the adrenaline crash that had followed. Her limbs were heavy, her thoughts clouded. Even her bones felt tired.

The one thing she definitely didn’t miss about being a Shadow Dragon was the irregular hours—though, to be fair, past her hadn’t minded. Back then, she didn’t have a day job to crash into the next morning.

Not that she was back, she reminded herself. This had just been a favor for Neve. Nothing more.

Still… the rush had been undeniable. That feeling—the precise rhythm of movement, the seamless coordination with Neve, the snap of spell and steel in perfect sync—had hit her like lightning. Old instincts surged to the surface, and for a fleeting moment, it felt good. Familiar. Like stepping into a version of herself she hadn’t realized she missed until it was breathing beside her again.

And when the cages opened—when the victims stumbled out, eyes wide and hollow from fear—something flickered in her chest. Not pride, exactly, but something close. A quiet, fierce sort of gratification that hummed low in her bones. It didn’t need thanks. Just seeing them alive was enough.

But even in that high, caution threaded through the edges. That world she’d left behind still pulled at her, and she knew how easy it was to let old instincts become a crutch. That path had once saved her—but it had nearly unmade her, too.

This wasn’t her world anymore.

It was just a hunch. A well-played instinct. And, Maker, it had paid off. Neve now had names, orders, and a clearer picture of what the Venatori were planning with those kidnappings. The kind of information that could save lives.

Her part was done. And for now, that was enough.

She was just about to sink back into the warm cocoon of her comforter when she felt it—fur, claws, and unapologetic attitude.

Spite meowed directly in her ear, followed by a sharp bat of his paw to her cheek.

“Mmph—cut it out,” she mumbled, swatting half-heartedly in his direction.

He meowed again, louder this time. The little bastard was relentless.

Another bat to the face.

“I swear to Andraste, Spite…”

If it had been any other creature, she might’ve launched it across the room. But unfortunately for her fleeting rage, she loved the demon cat too much. So instead of tossing him off the bed like her instincts demanded, she rolled over with a heavy groan, glaring at him through sleep-blurred eyes.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Spite, smug and unrepentant, hopped down from the bed with a flick of his tail—mission accomplished.

Rook sighed and sat up, rubbing her face with both hands. “I hate mornings,” she muttered to no one in particular.

But there was no use delaying. Work was work. And she had scones to make.

Cranberry, orange zest, and rosemary—the scent alone would make the regulars forgive her for looking like she fought a pack of wolves in her sleep. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth, metaphorically speaking.

With a sigh, Rook dragged herself upright. Her joints protested, her shoulders ached, and her braid had come undone in sleep. She shuffled to the bathroom, muttering vague curses at the mirror before splashing cold water on her face.

Minutes later, dressed in her dark skinny jeans, a navy blue thermal-knit long-sleeve top layered beneath her favorite oversized charcoal cardigan, and thick wool socks stuffed into her boots, Rook shuffled into the kitchen—not to bake, but to grab a quick bite and pack up what she needed for the day. She ran through her mental checklist between bites of toast: prep the scone dough, open the front register, steep the seasonal blends, and for the love of all that is holy, make a cup of Dock Town Roast before she fell face-first into the counter.

Thank the Maker that she did most of the baking prep the night before she left to help Neve out. Once she opened the shop, it would be an easy assembly and bake.

Still, the clock wasn’t slowing down for her aching joints or post-mission exhaustion.

With Spite winding between her ankles, clearly angling for his own breakfast, she sighed.

Rook tugged her thick cardigan tighter as she grabbed her rich purple scarf from the hook by the door and wound it snug around her neck. The color matched well with the knitted sweater-jacket she held in her other hand—Spite’s winter wear, freshly laundered and folded with reluctant affection.

The demon cat sat perched on the windowsill, glaring at her as though he already knew what was coming.

“I know,” she said, holding the sweater up like a peace offering. “But it’s freezing out there, and my satchel isn’t exactly a heated carriage.”

Spite let out a low, disgruntled growl.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she added, crouching to his level. “You’ll survive. It’s not like I’m making you wear booties.”

There was no real resistance as she slipped the sweater over him—just the feline version of disdain, expressed with a tail flick and the slow blink of betrayal. Still, he didn’t claw her, which she took as permission. Once the sweater was secured and his ears stopped twitching in protest, she pulled out her phone and snapped a quick picture.

Spite sat in all his purple-clad glory, ears back, eyes narrowed into a glower that could curdle milk.

“Gorgeous,” she said dryly, smirking at the result. “That’s going on the holiday card.”

Spite hissed once—low, petulant, but ultimately harmless—then leapt into her satchel when she opened it, curling into his usual perch with a grumpy sigh.

With her bag slung over her shoulder and her demon cat properly bundled, Rook locked the door to her apartment and made her way through the crisp morning air. Frost clung to the sidewalk edges and rooftops, and her breath fogged the air in soft puffs as she walked. Minrathous was already stirring—the faint hum of traffic, chiming ward chimes, and the distant scent of roasted chestnuts mixing with city frost.

The transition from fall to winter had crept in quietly, like frost threading its way through the seams of the city. What had once been crisp autumn air now carried a sharper bite, the kind that curled around Rook’s scarf and slipped beneath her coat no matter how tightly it was fastened. The amber leaves that had once paved the sidewalks were now few and brittle, crumbling underfoot like old parchment. Bare branches reached skyward in tangled silhouettes, stripped of their fiery foliage and rimmed with a delicate sheen of ice that caught the pale morning light.

The sky had dulled to a pewter gray, thick with low-hanging clouds that promised snow in the coming days. Each exhale left her lips in a visible puff, drifting like breath from a dragon’s maw, only to vanish in the cold. Even the usual city noise seemed muffled, softened by the chill—footsteps quieter on stone, wagon wheels creaking more slowly, as though everything had braced itself for the long stretch of winter ahead.

When they arrived at the Veil & Vine, Rook stepped inside and exhaled a small sigh of relief. She waved her hand to activate the heating runes along with the kettle glyphs. The air was warmer here, laced with the faint notes of dried herbs and baked sugar. She set her bag down and let Spite hop free, the cat stretching languidly before trotting to his usual cushion like a small, annoyed king returning to his throne.

Rook shrugged off her cardigan, rolled her sleeves up, put her hair up in its usual twist, and dove into the opening routine—writing the daily specials on the chalkboard, checking the wards, turning over the chairs, and prepping the counter. Once everything was in place, she made her way to the back and brewed herself a cup of Dock Town Roast— a bold dark roast with rich notes of roasted malt, black walnut, and a kiss of charred cedar. Just enough kick to make her bones wake up. The first sip made her hum.

The bell chimed over the front door, followed by the unmistakable voices of Bellara and Lace.

“Oh my goodness! Rook, please tell me that sweater is permanent!” Bellara called with glee.

Rook peeked around the corner just in time to see Lace and Bellara crouched beside Spite, both aiming their phones as he sulked in his corner, purple sweater still on and soul clearly leaving his body with each camera click.

“Oh shit,” Rook muttered, suppressing a laugh. “Forgot to take that off.”

Bellara grinned at her from behind her phone. “No, no—you did good. His fans will adore it.”

Lace laughed, “Lucanis is going to love this.”

Spite turned his slow, baleful glare toward Rook as if to say: I will remember this betrayal until the end of time.

The sight of her feline companion made up for his pushiness this morning look like sweet revenge. Rook cackled as she headed back into the kitchen to check on her scones. “Sorry, buddy,” she said under her breath. “But you look adorable.”

Today’s dessert of the day featured cranberry scones brightened with orange zest and a whisper of rosemary, each dusted with sugar just before serving. By the time Rook emerged from the kitchen with a fresh tray, the scent of citrus and herbs had filled every corner of the shop. The warmth of the oven clung to her clothes, and the tray’s contents were golden and fragrant—crowned with candied orange slices that shimmered under the soft lights.

Lace let out a low whistle. “Damn, Rook. Those look instagram good.”

Rook smirked as she moved behind the counter and began to stock the display case. “It’s the final bakes before I start my winter rotation.”

Bellara leaned over the counter, eyes locked on the tray like a predator sizing up its prey. “If I evoke employee privilege, do I get first pick?”

“Employee privilege doesn’t cover pastry theft,” Rook replied, arching a brow. “You want one early, you’re paying.”

Before Bellara could protest, a soft thump sounded behind them.

Rook turned in time to see Spite on the counter, tail lashing, ears pinned. His purple sweater—still very much on—had clearly pushed him past the brink of tolerance.

“Oh no,” Rook muttered, setting the tray down as Spite crept toward the edge of the display. His glare was fixed firmly on the scones, and judging by the twitch of his tail, a pastry massacre was imminent.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, already moving toward him.

Spite gave her one last look of feline betrayal before tapping a paw ominously near the edge of the tray.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Rook relented, reaching out to carefully peel the sweater from his wriggling body. “Sweater’s off. Please don’t kill the scones.”

The moment it was removed, Spite leapt down with a huff and strutted off toward his cushion like a prince liberated from velvet tyranny.

Bellara laughed, covering her mouth. “He was ready to end it all.”

“Honestly,” Lace added between snorts, “I think he’s still plotting.”

Rook rolled her eyes but was already pulling out her phone. She looked over the photo she snapped of Spite mid-glare while the other two were crouched with their phones, still cooing over his sweater look. She smirks as she sends a message to Emmrich.

Rook: Had to make Spite wear his winter attire. He was not amused.

I forgot to take off the sweater… I may or may not have risked pastry war this morning.

Emmrich: He does appear irate at his ensemble. Were negotiations successful?

She attached the photo to a second—Spite’s sweater folded neatly beside the now half-stacked tray of scones—and sent it to him with a caption:

Rook: The sweater is off. Peace has returned to the kingdom.

Emmrich: I’m glad that peace has been restored.

Rook leaned against the counter as the message thread updated, a tired but genuine smile tugging at her lips. Emmrich’s replies weren’t elaborate, but they always carried that steady, dry warmth she’d grown to crave—the kind that lingered like firelight in cold air.

The ache of missing him settled deeper than she'd like to admit.

They messaged regularly. She knew exam season was almost over. Just a little longer. But knowing didn’t dull the ache. His words helped, yes—but they weren’t the same as hearing his voice, seeing the way his smile crinkled at the edges, or feeling the quiet gravity of his presence beside her.

“Hey Rook,” Lace said, breaking the moment. “You look kind of wrecked.”

Rook blinked. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean—tired-wrecked. Not disaster-wrecked. Long night?”

Rook hesitated, setting the last of the scones into the case before leaning an elbow on the counter. “Yeah. Helped Neve with something last night. A case.”

Bellara glanced up from her phone. “Must’ve been serious. You’ve got that ‘I drank three coffees and none of them worked’ look.”

“First of all, I’ve only had one cup of coffee,” Rook said quickly, waving off their concern. “Second, it wasn’t too bad. Just… late. You know how Neve gets.”

Her smile came quick and practiced—enough to end the conversation, if not convince. Bellara exchanged a glance with Lace, but neither pressed.

Spite, now settled in his bed, yawned like a drama queen.

Rook prepped herself a second cup without meeting anyone’s eyes. “Definitely a two-coffee morning.”

The morning rush came in waves—first the usual early commuters, then the bundled-up student crowd, their voices bleary with sleep and caffeine deprivation. The scent of sugar and spice filled the air, mingling with steam from steeping teas and freshly brewed coffee. Bellara took the register, Lace danced between pouring drinks and slicing pastries, and Rook manned the final touches—dusting powdered sugar, plating scones, and keeping Spite off the counter.

Despite the fatigue dragging at her limbs, the rhythm of the Veil & Vine steadied her. This was her ritual: hands busy, heart quiet, magic low in the background like a steady hum beneath it all.

But once the mid-morning clamor tapered off and the shop settled into its lull, the weight returned.

Rook leaned against the counter, letting the silence linger as Bellara wiped down a table and Lace restocked the napkin dispensers. The bell on the door chimed only once or twice—just passersby grabbing takeaway.

“Lunch break!” Bellara called. “What sort of comforts has our benevolent boss made?”

“Stew’s in the back,” Rook said, already stepping into the kitchen.

They reconvened at a table in the back corner of the store. Rook had prepared steaming bowls of prepared a hearty cream stew for the staff lunch—thick with root vegetables, roasted parsnips, pearl barley, and a delicate balance of thyme and white pepper. The rolls were from Lace’s family bakery, still warm and faintly sweet, their golden crusts perfect for soaking up the broth.

Spite, now sweater-free and restored to his usual surliness, lounged nearby, flicking his tail each time someone didn’t offer him a bite.

“So,” Lace said between spoonfuls of stew, “how’s life as a grad student treating you?”

Bellara groaned, flopping back in her chair dramatically. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Rook raised a brow. “That bad?”

Bellara exhaled. “There’s this opportunity—students are being selected for an expedition to Arthalan. Elven ruins, historical mapping, artifact restoration—the whole dream package. And guess who’s leading it?”

“Who?” Lace asked, eyes wide.

“Professor Strife,” Bellara said, as if the name alone could explain the stakes. “But the application process is brutal. Like, chew-you-up-and-spit-you-out brutal.”

Lace nearly dropped her spoon. “Holy crap, Bellara. That’s amazing!”

Bellara gave a helpless little shrug. “I’m not in yet. I still have to pass my practical for the course, turn in my thesis subject, and if I survive that, there’s an interview process waiting on the other end.”

“You’re gonna get in,” Rook said simply, setting her teacup down with quiet certainty.

Bellara looked at her, unsure. “You think so?”

“Of course,” Rook said, meeting her gaze. “You’re dedicated, you’re passionate about what you’re studying, and your intelligence knows no bounds.”

“And you’ve got spunk,” Lace added with a grin. “Strife probably lives off that kind of energy.”

Bellara smiled, eyes softening as she pulled her bowl a little closer. “Awwww thanks guys.”

Rook smiled softly as she watched Bellara cradle her bowl, her earlier frustration already giving way to quiet determination. It was wild to think how far she’d come—from the bright-eyed part-timer Rook had hired on a whim, all giggles and curiosity, to the woman sitting across from her now, chasing down ancient ruins and academic dreams like they were hers to claim.

There was something deeply admirable about Bellara’s passion for knowledge—relentless, brave, and so unshakably hers. It reminded Rook of the fire she used to carry in her own chest during her Shadow Dragon years, when every mission had meant saving lives, and every decision had felt like it mattered.

She’d miss her when the time came—when Bellara inevitably earned her masters, left the Veil & Vine behind, and stepped into the career she was meant for. But some bonds didn’t fray with distance or time. Bellara would always be her little sister, no matter how far she flew.

Rook’s smile lingered, warm and full of quiet pride.

As lunch wound to a close and the last few crumbs of roll were swiped from their plates, Lace went to handle the dishes while Bellara went to take down the lunch break sign. Rook leaned back in her chair and glanced toward the softly glowing windows of the shop. The light had shifted slightly—more silver now, the promise of a deeper chill creeping in. She stirred the last of her tea absently, then looked to Bellara and Lace with a thoughtful hum.

“So,” she started, careful, casual, “would either of you mind if I asked Vorgoth to come in during winter break? Just a few days.”

Bellara and Lace paused mid-sip. Then, in perfect synchronization, they exchanged a knowing glance across the table.

Bellara grinned. “Planning on spending some time with a certain professor?”

Rook felt the heat rise instantly to her cheeks. “Maker’s breath,” she muttered, burying her face in one hand. “You two are worse than Neve.”

Lace nudged her bowl aside, smirking. “You didn’t exactly hide it well, you know. Every time you get a message from him, you look like you’re about to levitate.”

“I do not,” Rook argued, glaring half-heartedly at her tea.

Bellara tilted her head. “You kind of do.”

Rook groaned but didn’t deny it further. “It’s just… we haven’t been able to see each other lately and it’d be nice to spend time together since he’ll be free. But

I haven’t asked Vorgoth for anything in a long time. He already did so much for us—he helped rebuild the shop, kept it running before I was ready to take over. I don’t want to trouble him.”

“Trouble him?” Lace blinked. “Vorgoth doesn’t even walk like someone who can be troubled. What even is he?”

That made Bellara perk up too. “Yeah. I’ve only ever seen him in that cloak—and it’s like... shadows and smoke underneath. Like a spirit in a robe.”

Rook shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “That’s just... Vorgoth. He’s always been like that. Solas and I used to think he might be a high spirit—one of the more stable ones that can walk the mortal plane. At one point we suspected he was a very sophisticated shade, but he didn’t exactly confirm or deny it.”

Bellara leaned in. “How’d he come to Minrathous?”

“He was a family friend from Nevarra. After... everything, Solas reached out to him. Asked if he’d help watch over the tea shop. He did more than that. He kept the place alive until I decided to take over. He taught me everything I know.”

There was a quiet beat between them before Lace leaned back with a thoughtful nod.

“Well,” she said, “I think it’s good idea to let him help again. You’ve been doing this nonstop for two years, Rook. The shop’s your heart, yeah, but even hearts need rest.”

Bellara grinned. “Especially if rest involves more kissing your dreamy professor.”

Rook groaned again, louder this time, but her smile betrayed her. “I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” they replied in unison.

They were right. She didn’t.

Evening had settled over Minrathous like a woolen shawl—quiet, thick, and edged with frost. Bellara and Lace went home for the day leaving Rook in her solitude. The Veil & Vine was closed for the night, its golden windows now darkened, save for the soft glow of mage lights spilling from the kitchen.

She stood at the stove, the scent of warm buttermilk and lavender curling softly through the air. A saucepan simmered gently in front of her, the dried lavender steeping in the milk like a memory coaxed into bloom. Tomorrow’s dessert needed to be perfect—subtle, floral, comforting. Maybe tea cakes or shortbread. Something that soothed.

Spite had already retreated to his favorite high perch, tucked into a tight loaf and purring with contentment now that he had the place to himself.

The rhythm of her prep was meditative—until the front door bell chimed.

Rook froze mid-stir.

Few people had a key to this place, but only one of them owned the building and preferred to visit at night. She didn’t need to look up to confirm who it was.

Footsteps moved through the front of the shop, unhurried and quiet, but deliberate. Familiar.

Of course he let himself in.

Solas entered the kitchen with his usual grace, his silhouette sharp against the amber light. He wore a long, stormcloud-blue coat, a black turtleneck beneath, paired with dove-grey slacks and sleek gloves that still clung to his hands like second skin. The amber glow traced the smooth curve of his head, casting a faint sheen over his pale olive skin, lending his already sharp features an even starker edge.

His grey-blue eyes—ever still, ever calculating—swept across the shop with a scholar’s cool detachment. Then they landed on the perch near the window.

Spite sat there, perched like a gargoyle on the sill, narrowed eyes locked on the newcomer with silent judgment. He didn’t move. Just stared, tail curled tightly around his paws.

Solas tilted his head slightly. “Still guarding the realm, I see.”

Spite blinked once—slow, disinterested, imperial in his disapproval. His tail flicked with calculated menace, as if daring the elven man to move one step closer.

Rook didn’t turn around, her focus on covering the cooling bowl with a clean towel. “Spite’s not a fan of surprise guests. You could call, you know?”

Solas stepped further inside, ignoring the cat’s unrelenting glare. “I doubt that I’d get a straight answer out of you if I did.”

“Kaffas,” Rook muttered under her breath, reaching for a kitchen towel to dry her hands with sharp, efficient movements.

“Must we start with vulgarity?” he asked, his tone clipped but not cold. Just tired.

Rook exhaled through her nose. “What do you want, Solas?”

“It seems you’ve been keeping secrets.” His voice remained level, but the words edged closer to accusation. “With Selara, I understand. She’s always valued discretion. But when Cole is asked to withhold things from me, it becomes… concerning.”

“You’re worrying over nothing,” she said, finally turning to face him.

“Then why am I being left out of the loop?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

His gaze sharpened. “Evara.”

She tensed at the sound of her name, her hands freezing mid-motion as she strained the lavender buttermilk. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m fine, Solas.”

“I’ve heard that before.” His voice was measured, but the weight behind it was clear. “The Shadow Dragons contacted me this morning. They were asking for a consult on some notes recovered at a crime scene.”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the bowl, knuckles white.

“Let me guess,” she said, voice dry, “Ashur requested it?”

“Yes,” Solas answered, stepping further into the shop. His coat whispered as he moved, storm cloud blue fabric catching the low kitchen light. “But what they showed me raised concerns. Particularly because the investigating officer was Neve Gallus, who insisted she was working alone... even though there were traces of someone else aiding her. Someone who was very precise.”

Rook forced herself to keep her expression neutral. She wiped her hands on a towel, then folded it too neatly.

“I wasn’t there.”

His brow lifted. “Oh really?”

“I’m not a Shadow Dragon anymore. You know that.”

Solas’s eyes—cold grey-blue and sharp—didn’t blink. “How can I know what’s true when you don’t tell me anything?”

She exhaled, half-turning. “Isn’t that the purpose of your spontaneous visits? Prying until I break?”

“If I find out you were involved in anything dangerous—”

“Oh for the love of—it's not what you think!”

“Then enlighten me,” he said, voice like a scalpel. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re regressing.”

“I’m seeing someone, all right?!”

The room went still.

Solas stopped, blinking—clearly caught off guard. For once, his elegant restraint failed him. He looked less like the cold scholar and more like a halla caught mid-spell. Rook almost laughed at his reaction… maybe if she did it would lessen the tension between them, but she wasn’t pleased with the fact that she was telling him in this way.

“You’re... what?”

“I’ve been seeing someone,” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s been a month. I was waiting until more time passed before telling anyone.”

He looked like he had a dozen questions but not nearly enough time to process the news. It wasn’t as if his estranged little sister made a habit of publicizing her love life, and hearing it now clearly threw him off balance. The awkwardness clung to him, familiar and almost nostalgic. For a fleeting moment, it reminded her of the old days—when their age gap him uncertain on how to bond with her. He’d fumbled between being a playmate and a guardian, often defaulting to awkward silences or clumsy advice. These days, he tried to step back into the role of older brother, but more often than not, it felt like he was acting as her caretaker—or, if she were being dramatic, her parole officer.

He straightened slightly, attempting to gather his composure, and cleared his throat before speaking again.

“Is this a casual relationship?”

Rook hesitated—not because she doubted her answer, but because the weight of his question carried so much more than curiosity. Still, she met his gaze and replied, steady, “No. It’s serious.”

Solas folded his arms, a small crease forming between his brows. “How can you be sure?”

“Because we talked about it,” she said, softer this time. “We were honest with each other from the start.”

There was a brief pause. Not tense, but cautious. Solas tilted his head, searching her face. His tone gentled slightly.

“How did you meet?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “They’re a regular here.”

Solas blinked, clearly thrown off by the mundanity of it. “What do they do?”

“They work at the university,” she said, watching his reaction carefully.

His brow lifted. “Do I know them?”

“I don’t know…” Rook shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. “Maybe?”

There was a beat of quiet before Solas asked, “What’s their name?”

Her smile immediately faded.

There it was. The question she’d been dreading—not because she was ashamed, but because part of her still feared what would happen next. She didn’t want to see that familiar look in his eyes, the one that dissected and measured and judged. She didn’t want this fragile moment of openness to be shattered by whatever disapproval might follow.

So, she didn’t answer. Not yet. And in the space between his question and her silence, her shoulders stiffened just slightly—as if bracing for a blow that might not come, but one she expected all the same.

Rook’s gaze cooled, watchful now—measured and unreadable. “We are not doing this.”

“I should know who you’re romantically involved with.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I’m your brother,” he said evenly, “I have a right to know.”

That did it.

That was the final crack.

The lights flickered—not violently, but enough for the air to shift. Like static straining against restraint. A crackle of static shifted through the air like a drawn breath, like magic straining at the seams. The scent of lavender and citrus still hung in the kitchen, but it was overwhelmed now by the sharp, invisible edge of tension.

Rook’s hands flattened on the counter, fingers splayed, and for a moment she didn’t move. Her shoulders were rigid, her spine straightening as if every inch of her was bracing against the weight of his words.

He wielded that word like it still meant something—like he’d earned it. As if simply calling himself her brother gave him the right to pry into her life and demand answers. But where had he been when it mattered? When she needed a brother, he wasn’t there. It had taken everything in her to let him back in, to even try building something real between them. And now, this—this quiet interrogation, this veiled judgment—felt like an intrusion. Like a reminder that no matter how much she tried, there were still parts of him that didn’t know how to be family. And she hated it.

From his perch near the top shelf, Spite—who had been watching the conversation with twitching ears—suddenly stood. His sleek body tense, fur bristling slightly. A low growl vibrated from his chest.

“Get. Out.”

“Ev— “

“No.” Her voice cracked with restrained fury. “Get out, Solas. I told you the truth. You don’t get to demand anything from me. You don’t get to interrogate me like I’m not a mess. You don’t get to cross that line anymore.”

The tension between them held, electric and raw.

Then, slowly, Solas’s posture shifted. The sharp edge in his gaze softened, replaced by something more somber—regret, perhaps, or the first crack in his composure. He glanced once at Spite, still growling low like a coiled spring in fur and claws, then looked back to Rook.

“…Ir abelas, da’len,” he murmured, the words quiet and lacking their usual firmness.

Rook didn’t answer at first. She kept her eyes on the cooling buttermilk, as if it might somehow temper the frustration still roiling beneath her skin. But then she caught the way her brother’s stance seemed just a little deflated—like something inside him had folded.

“You’ll meet them when I’m ready,” she said at last, her voice steady but distant. “Not a moment before.”

A pause. Then he nodded.

“…All right.”

He didn’t linger. He turned and let himself out, the soft chime of the front door ringing faintly behind him.

Rook waited until the silence settled before letting out a long, slow breath. Her fingers curled against the counter, grounding herself as the adrenaline faded.

Spite jumped down from his perch and padded over, brushing against her leg in solidarity—his tail flicking like punctuation.

“Fucking Solas,” she muttered, voice tight but fading. She crouched beside Spite, burying her hand in his fur like a grounding wire. He flicked his tail in silent agreement.

The tension didn’t leave with Solas. It lingered like an aftertaste—bitter and clinging—humming in the corners of the tea shop as if his presence had soaked into the walls.

Rook stayed by the counter, one hand still braced against its edge, the other drifting to her temple. She hated this feeling—this sense of being dissected. Solas always had a way of peeling back her layers without permission. Always prying. Always watching.

He was cold, composed, clinical. She could never quite see softness in him, not when he looked at her like a case to be solved. Maybe once, long ago, when their world was smaller and filled with shared books, quiet laughter, and the warmth of a their family home. But those days were gone—burned out like candles snuffed too early.

She knew he was trying now. Knew he regretted the distance, the silences, the fractures between them. She saw it in the way he hovered, the way he tried to fold himself back into her life like he hadn’t vanished from it. But knowing wasn’t the same as trusting. And she couldn’t trust it—not fully.

Not when the cost of trusting him meant letting her guard down again. Not when part of her still feared that if things got hard—if her world unraveled—he’d disappear all over again.

A soft chuff pulled her back to the present. Spite had nudged his head into her shin, persistent as ever. She knelt, gathered him into her arms, and buried her face against his fur. The familiar smell of old herbs and faint smoke comforted her in a way few things could.

“Good boy,” she whispered, voice low.

After a few moments, she exhaled and stood, placing Spite back on his cushion. Her limbs moved on their own now, ritual and fatigue working hand-in-hand. She retrieved the bowl of strained lavender buttermilk from the counter, poured its contents into a separate container, and tucked it into the refrigerator alongside the lemon glaze.

She was exhausted. More than she wanted to admit.

It wasn’t just hiding the fact that she went on a mission with Neve, or the lack of sleep from the night before. It was Solas. His presence had a way of draining her like nothing else could—like he pulled threads she’d worked too hard to sew back together.

Rook rubbed at the back of her neck, trying to ease the tension coiled at the base of her skull.

“I wanna see him,” she whispered, not to Spite this time, but to someone far away. Her eyes drifted to the front of the shop, to the darkened windows, to the silence that echoed back.

The warmth of the tea shop was beginning to fade into silence, the last hum of wards settling as Rook moved through her closing routine. She packed the remaining scones into a worn but trusty Tupperware container—tomorrow’s breakfast—and set it gently into her satchel. Her cardigan followed, folded neatly beside her scarf. The rich purple wool still smelled faintly of citrus and rosemary from the day’s baking.

Spite, sensing the rhythm of her departure, hopped down from the bar counter without prompting. He didn’t fuss when she knelt to dress him in his little winter sweater—just flicked his tail once in annoyance, then climbed into her satchel like a prince tolerating his carriage.

“Yeah, yeah,” Rook murmured, adjusting the strap over her shoulder. “We’ll be home soon.”

She walked to the front of the shop, locked the door with a soft click. The cold air kissed her cheeks the moment she stepped outside, biting gently at her skin and tugging at the ends of her braid. She paused on the threshold, taking a slow breath to ground herself, the quiet night of Minrathous stretching before her in golden streetlamps and lingering frost.

Then she looked up.

And there he was.

Emmrich stood beneath the glow of the nearest streetlight, his scarf slightly askew, hands tucked into the pockets of his long coat. His hair was tousled by the wind, his leather satchel resting on his side. But none of that dulled the warmth in his expression when he saw her.

Rook didn’t say a word as she stepped into the halo of lamplight. Her footsteps were soft but certain, each one shedding the tension of the day like old skin. Emmrich’s smile deepened at the sight of her—boots scuffed, scarf slightly askew, satchel slung over one shoulder, and that familiar storm behind her eyes slowly easing.

She crossed the distance without pause, without preamble.

And then she was in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the scent of paper, wool, and the faintest trace of bergamot from his cologne.

The breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding left her all at once—quiet, shaking, necessary. The frost in her bones began to melt.

And for the first time that day, the ache inside her finally loosened its grip.

Chapter Text

The wind had sharpened by the time Emmrich stepped out of the university gates, his coat tugged close as the dry chill of Minrathous bit at his cheeks. The sky had dulled to slate, the streetlamps flickering like distant embers caught in the hush of dusk.

He had stayed late, sorting through the first round of graded tests. Most performed as expected—some better, a few tragically worse. Myrna, as always, had been an immense help. Her efficiency and steady presence had shaved hours off what could’ve easily bled into midnight. He made a mental note to find her a proper thank-you gift—perhaps one of those rare blends from the elven provinces she favored, or tickets to that historical exhibit she’d mentioned.

Pulling out his phone, he smiled softly at the photo message blinking at the top of his screen. It was from Rook.

Spite, clad in a deeply purple cat sweater, sat like a coiled storm of betrayal in the frame—ears flattened, glower perfected. The glare in his slitted eyes made Emmrich chuckle aloud, the sound a quiet thing in the open air. The caption made it better. He was not amused.

He shook his head, tucking the phone away as his smile lingered.

Despite Rook’s insistence that Spite held no loyalty to anyone—that the demon cat tolerated even her on a conditional basis—Emmrich had seen the truth. Spite adored her. Watched her. Protected her in his own sullen, growling way. If anything, the creature was a reflection of her hidden heart: fierce, stubborn, unwilling to show softness easily… but deeply, irrevocably attached.

Emmrich’s boots clicked against the cobbled street as he walked. He didn’t always take this route home, but sometimes… he did. On evenings like this, when the quiet settled in his bones and the world felt slower, he passed by the Veil & Vine with a quiet hope—an unspoken wish that maybe she’d be there. Maybe she’d be closing up. Maybe they’d catch each other by chance, hold hands as they walked, exchange warmth beneath the streetlights like something out of a dream too gentle to name.

And tonight… there she was.

She stood beneath the golden shopfront glow, key turning in the lock. Her figure wrapped in shadows and scarf and fatigue. Even from across the street, he could tell—her posture was tight, her shoulders drawn, her steps too deliberate. Something had shaken her.

He froze for half a second, hesitant. Should he approach? Would his presence help… or would it intrude?

But then she looked up.

Their eyes met across the quiet lane—her expression flickering from surprise to something almost pained. Like seeing him pulled her from wherever her thoughts had taken her. For a heartbeat, he saw her hesitate… and then she moved.

She didn’t run—but her steps were swift, purposeful, arms already rising before she reached him.

And then—she was there.

Rook collided into him, solid and shaking all at once, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Emmrich stumbled back half a step, caught off-guard, but then his arms came around her instinctively. His gloved hands settled on her back, holding her steady.

She didn’t speak.

She just held on.

Emmrich inhaled slowly. Her hair smelled like chestnut and wind, but beneath that was something gentler—lavender and lemon. She must’ve been working on tomorrow’s baking prep. The realization made his chest ache with something quiet and fond.

He closed his eyes as he rested his cheek atop her head, letting himself feel her there—real, solid, in his arms. He’d missed her. More than he realized. Her presence was grounding, a balm against the solitude of his office and the hours he’d spent grading under dim light.

But even as he savored the closeness, the professor in him noted the signs.

Her breathing was uneven, her arms wrapped around him with too much force for a casual embrace. It wasn’t just affection—it was need. Something had unraveled her, and now she was clinging to the first place she felt steady.

She needed this hug, and he was more than willing to give it. Glad to give it. Maker, he would’ve held her all night if she asked.

So he tightened his hold, arms curving around her like a shield. No questions. No pressure. Just quiet reassurance in the steady rhythm of his breathing, the soft brush of his hand against her back, and the warmth of his coat enveloping her in silence.

Whatever had happened, whatever weight she was carrying—he didn’t need to ask yet.

He just held her.

And in that moment, the cold didn’t matter. The streetlamps didn’t matter. There was only the quiet thud of her heart against his coat and the way she melted, just a little, into his embrace.

After another moment, he spoke, his voice low and warm.

“Rook?”

She didn’t pull away. Just tightened her arms slightly, burying her face against his coat like the world had been far too much and he was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I really missed you,” she murmured into the fabric of his chest—muffled, but still clear. There was no dramatic flourish to the words. Just quiet honesty.

His heart clenched.

He coaxed her gently to look up, one gloved hand cupping her cheek as he searched her face in the half-light. Her expression was raw. Eyes tired, rimmed with something unspoken. There was distress there, threaded in the tightness of her jaw, the faint quiver at the edges of her lips.

Something had happened. Something that had scraped her down to this quiet, vulnerable edge.

But the street was cold, and she was shivering—not just from weather. From everything else weighing on her.

Emmrich hesitated, tracing her cheekbone with the back of his knuckles, savoring the feel of her close. “As much as I’d love to stay wrapped up in your arms, we should find somewhere warm,” he said softly. “Would you like to come back to my home? We can talk there… or not. Whatever you need.”

Rook looked up at him, eyes wide and a little glassy—caught off guard by the gentleness of the offer. The choice was hers. That still surprised her.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” she murmured.

“Rook,” he said, his voice dipping into something warmer, more sure, “my darling… I haven’t seen you in two weeks. I’d treasure any moment I can have with you. In any form.”

Her lips parted, the faintest breath of hesitation before she gave a small nod. “…I’d like that.”

A smile curved his lips, quiet and full of affection. “Excellent.” He took a step back, just enough to gently take her hand and tuck it into the warmth of his coat pocket with his. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” she said, her voice steadier now.

The walk to Emmrich’s home was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of boots against pavement and the faint crinkle of the pizza box in his arms. He held it carefully, his other hand tucked into his coat pocket—where Rook’s hand rested securely in his.

She walked beside him with her satchel slung over one shoulder, Spite snugly nestled inside, only his eyes peeking out with sleepy disdain. In her free hand, she carried the Tupperware of scones from earlier, the container still faintly warm from the shop. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was calm, a shared rhythm of footfalls and breath.

They didn’t speak much. Rook’s mind was still fogged with leftover anger and fatigue, but something about the stillness between them was comforting. She didn’t need to fill it. Emmrich’s presence was enough.

When they reached his townhouse, she hesitated just a second longer than necessary at the threshold. The building stood tucked behind a hedgerow laced with frost, lantern sconces casting a soft amber light across the dark stone exterior. It looked quiet—scholarly, lived-in, like it had stories in its bones. A little like him.

Emmrich unlocked the door and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.

Inside, the air was warmer, dimly lit by layered lamps and scented faintly of old paper, wood polish, and dried rosemary.

Rook paused just inside the foyer, absorbing the quiet richness of the place.

It wasn’t grand, but it was… thoughtful. Everything about the space felt curated, lived-in, and quietly rich with detail. The high ceiling lent a sense of airiness, while the narrow entry table along the wall held a cobalt ceramic dish—no doubt where Emmrich kept his keys and gloves. Beside it stood an umbrella stand, its dark woodwork elegant but unpretentious. Across from it, a line of brass coat hooks gleamed against the wall, one of which now held Emmrich’s satchel.

She glanced to her left and caught sight of what could only be the living room. It wasn’t large, but it carried an unmistakable weight—like a space that remembered every silence, every hour passed in thought. The gothic fireplace stood sentinel along the far wall, its mantle adorned with a single candle, a slender vase of dried funerary blooms, and a rune-inscribed timepiece that ticked in soft harmony with the quiet.

Lined bookshelves flanked the room like well-worn armor, their shelves dense with books. A low bookcase supported a modest flat-screen TV—rarely used, she suspected. Framed maps and faded prints offered glimpses of other times, other places. An assortment of decorative skulls—familiar, even charming in their morbid way—occupied quiet corners with the same ease as the other relics. They didn’t feel out of place. They felt like him.

Her eyes lingered on the leather armchair near the hearth, the thick throw folded with care over one side. And then there was the velvet settee, deep-hued and elegant, its tone shifting from indigo to emerald in the lamplight. It faced both fire and bookshelf, perfectly placed for reading, for thinking, for not being alone.

“This is…” she started, voice quiet. “Wow.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Emmrich said, amused as he closed the door behind them. He helped Rook out of her coat, careful in the way he slid it from her shoulders before hanging it on one of the brass hooks. Then he crossed into the kitchen and set the pizza box down on the counter.

Rook bent to open her satchel and retrieve the Tupperware of scones, only for Spite to leap out first—tail flicking, ears swiveling as he surveyed the new territory with imperial suspicion.

He landed with a solid thud, then padded into the main room like he’d always lived there, casting a withering glance at Rook as if to say, You brought me somewhere strange. Fix it.

“Right, right,” she muttered, setting the scones aside before kneeling. “Hang on, little tyrant.”

She unfastened the sweater with practiced ease, slipping it over Spite’s head. He gave an indignant shake once freed, then circled her legs in what passed for thanks—still far too dignified to purr.

Rook chuckled. “Unreal. He adjusts faster than I do.”

Emmrich, now shrugging out of his long coat and hanging it on the hook beside hers, offered a faint smile. “That’s because he has no shame.”

She looked down at her boots, then up at him. “Do I need to take these off?”

“Oh, no—feel free to keep them on,” he assured her gently.

She gave a small nod and placed her satchel neatly on the hook beside the door before joining him in the kitchen.

“Manfred,” Emmrich called lightly, “we have guests.”

A low hiss answered from the left hallway.

Manfred emerged—his joints clicking softly with each step, the lenses of his goggles catching the light and glowing a vibrant teal, like twin gemstones or shards of stained glass. He was slightly taller than Lace, his skeletal frame bundled in neatly worn clothes and careful posture.

He tilted his head, letting out another curious hiss—this one higher, almost musical. Like a questioning Ooooo?

Rook smiled warmly. “Hi, I’m Rook. It’s nice to finally meet you, Manfred.”

She extended a hand. Manfred observed it for a beat, then excitedly clasped it between his own gloved hands with something close to delight.

“Manfred,” Emmrich said, a touch more formally now, “Rook and her companion, Spite, will be staying for dinner.”

At the mention of the cat, Manfred turned—only to discover Spite already perched on one of the armchairs in the study, watching him like a sentient curse.

Manfred leaned closer, fascinated.

Spite’s response was immediate: a low, menacing growl, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Spite,” Rook warned under her breath. “Be nice.”

The demon cat leapt down and began circling Manfred warily, sniffing at his boots. Manfred remained perfectly still—observing with tilted curiosity.

“Is this Manfred’s first interaction with a cat?” Rook asked, watching the slow spiral of feline and skeleton.

“He’s seen them,” Emmrich said, folding his arms. “But this is his first time up close.”

She grimaced. “I apologize in advance for any scratches. Spite’s not exactly a model ambassador for his kind.”

“That’s quite all right,” he said mildly. “He’s learning. I’ve taught him what I can, but sometimes… hands-off guidance works best.”

“You think they’ll get along?” She asked.

“I’m sure they will,” he replied with a dry lift of his brow. “Eventually.”

Rook stepped further in, setting the scones on the kitchen counter beside the pizza box. Her shoulders were still tense, but the longer she stood in Emmrich’s home, the more the edges of her unrest began to ease. It wasn’t just the warmth—it was the stillness. The care in the details. The way the space mirrored the man beside her.

And for the first time that day, she felt something close to safe.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Emmrich asked, already moving toward the electric kettle. “Tea? Wine?”

She set the scone container on the counter. “Any chance you have whiskey?”

He paused, thoughtful. “I believe there’s a bottle in the living room… or perhaps my study—”

“Emmrich.” She reached out and caught his hand before he could start rummaging through his cabinets.

“Food first,” she said, giving him a tired but earnest look. “Then I can drink my problems away.”

His mouth curved, soft and understanding. “A reasonable sequence.”

Emmrich moved to the kitchen with quiet efficiency, opening a cabinet above the counter to retrieve a pair of ceramic plates—simple in design, subtly rimmed in cobalt. The sound of porcelain clinking together was soft, familiar, grounding. He set them down beside the pizza box and took a moment to wash his hands before reaching for the silverware. Ever the host, his movements were smooth and precise, his attention to detail unspoken but obvious.

Meanwhile, Rook settled into the dining table tucked near the far wall, the wood polished to a low sheen and framed by kitchen cabinets and a modest stained-glass window that caught the streetlamp glow outside. She sat with a slow exhale, her shoulders unwinding as the warmth of the home began to seep into her bones. It felt... cozy here. Still.

The scent of roasted garlic and caramelized onions filled the air as he opened the pizza box, revealing the wood-fired thin crust creation they’d picked up on the way—wild mushrooms, tender and earthy, mingled with the sharp crumble of goat cheese and the milky melt of mozzarella and Taleggio. A generous heap of arugula dressed the top, its peppery bite bright against the richness. It was, in her opinion, the perfect kind of junk food. The kind that tricked you into thinking it was just sophisticated enough not to count as comfort eating.

Rook leaned forward and inhaled with an appreciative sigh.

“This might be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day,” she muttered.

Emmrich raised a brow as he passed her plate. “Truly?

“Okay, maybe it’s an exaggeration,” she said, managing a small smile as she accepted it. “They do have an unfair advantage. I’m drained and starving… Although the company helps.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” he replied lightly, taking a seat across from her with his own plate.

She reached in immediately, grabbed a slice with both hands, and took a hearty bite, chewing with a small sigh that betrayed just how hungry—and tired—she was.

Across from her, Emmrich, ever composed, neatly cut into his slice with a fork and knife. The methodical way he navigated the crust—like it was some dignified entrée at a formal dinner—made her snort softly into her napkin.

“What?” he asked without looking up, though the faint amusement in his voice gave him away.

Rook smirked, another bite halfway to her mouth. “You’re eating pizza like a high-end food critic.”

He arched a brow, entirely unfazed. “I simply prefer not to make a mess.”

“If this is how you eat junk food,” she said, licking a bit of sauce from her thumb, “I’d hate to see how you actually cook.”

“Is there a correlation between the two?” he asked, though the smile tugging at his mouth suggested he already knew the answer.

“There is,” she said, around another bite. “I bet you treat cooking like a chemistry experiment. Beakers and measurements. No salt without approval from the committee.”

He shook his head, but his gaze lingered—soft, watchful. Her appetite was strong, her posture less tight, and for the first time since she arrived, there was color in her cheeks again.

He returned to the dignified dissection of another slice, while she continued to devour hers with fingers, crumbs, and zero remorse.

Rook leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm as she studied him with a quiet smile. “Do you ever allow yourself to be messy?”

Emmrich glanced up, expression thoughtful. Then, with just the faintest tilt of his head, he replied, “I can think of a few scenarios where a little mess might be warranted.”

Rook blinked. Her brain, to her absolute betrayal, latched onto the word mess with immediate, unfiltered imagination. Specifically, the kind involving his hands tangled in her hair and her back pressed against something not structurally intended for intimacy.

Her slice paused mid-air. A slow, blooming flush crept up her neck to her cheeks as she stared at Emmrich, whose expression remained politely neutral—except for the slightest glint of mischief in his eyes.

Venhedis. He knew what he said.

Before she could decide between flinging a crust at him or letting her mind go deeper into the gutter, a sharp meow sliced through the moment.

Spite.

He had jumped onto a nearby chair, tail lashing, yellow eyes narrowed as he stared at them both with the intensity of a starving nobleman about to incite a riot. He gave another pointed meow, louder this time.

Rook groaned, slumping back in her chair. “Oh shit. I forgot about feeding Spite.”

Across the table, Emmrich raised a brow and dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I believe I have something we can scrounge together. Any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?”

“It’s Spite,” she said, glancing toward the pizza box. “He eats almost anything, but onions and garlic are toxic to cats. So no pizza for him.”

As if on cue, Spite let out a loud, impatient yowl from his perch, tail twitching with judgment.

“I know, I’m the worst cat parent,” Rook muttered, rising to her feet and eyeing the pantry doors like they held secrets or doom. “Do you have anything remotely suitable for demonic carnivores?”

“I believe there’s a can of tuna in the back of the pantry,” Emmrich offered, already standing. “Would that suffice?”

Rook sighed with a dry flourish. “It’s not roast chicken or grilled salmon, but for an impromptu visit, it’ll do.”

Her dramatic tone when discussing Spite’s absurdly spoiled habits always managed to lift the mood. Emmrich smiled despite himself, though a thread of guilt tugged at him—he had, after all, invited her over without any notice or preparation.

“I shall retrieve a small dish posthaste,” he said with mock solemnity.

Rook shot him a grateful look. “You might’ve just saved our lives.”

From his chair, Spite sneezed and let out a warbling growl, as if to say: Hurry up, peasants.

Spite, at long last appeased, feasted noisily on his humble dish of canned tuna—clearly making a show of his suffering. Rook and Emmrich, plates empty and stomachs comfortably full, had moved into the living room with the ease of those who had nowhere else to be for the night.

The space was warm with low lamplight and the faint crackle of the fireplace.

Rook drifted toward the bookshelves without prompt, drawn to them like a moth to flame. Her fingers trailed along the spines, brushing gently over cracked leather, aged cloth, and polished woodgrain. Every title was a window—arcane theory, historical treatises, Nevarran poetry, translated spirit lore. The collection was vast, but not ostentatious. Curated. Cared for.

She exhaled slowly. “You really are a bibliophile,” she murmured, half to herself. “A professor of knowledge through and through.”

Emmrich stood a few steps behind, a mug cradled in his hands. He watched her move through his space with the same quiet reverence he afforded his texts—like she belonged there. She touched nothing carelessly. Treated every volume like it had weight.

He could get used to a sight like this. Her, in the soft firelight, tracing Rook’s hair as she traced the spines of his book collection, one finger lightly brushing the titles like they were wards or memories.

But he knew better than to get too lost in the comfort of that image.

Because as much as he wanted to stay in this warmth, this quiet, she hadn’t come here just for scones and comfort. Something was still stirring beneath her silence—and it was time to gently unravel it.

He stepped closer and offered the mug with a subtle smile. “For you.”

She arched a brow, accepting it. “Got anything stronger?”

“Just try it.”

Rook brought the mug to her lips and took a sip—and immediately, the warmth bloomed across her tongue. Honeyed and smooth, the faint bite of whiskey tucked just beneath the lemon's brightness. The citrus hit sharp at first, enough to catch her breath and clear the fog from her mind, but it softened quickly, folded into the golden sweetness of honey. A note of cinnamon curled at the back of her throat—not overpowering, but steady and warm, like the scent of a hearth fire on a cold night.

She blinked, caught off-guard. “Is this a Hot Toddy?”

“My darling requested whiskey,” he said mildly, “so I made sure it suited the occasion.”

“There you go again,” she murmured, taking another sip, slower now. “Surprising me with your sweetness.”

It settled her in a way few things could. The drink was delicious—balanced with the kind of quiet precision that echoed everything else about him. Of course he’d know how to make this. With his calm elegance, his collection of obscure literature and forgotten rituals, it made perfect sense that he also knew the exact ratios for comfort in a cup. A drink laced with warmth, intention, and just a hint of mischief.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass. “I take it you’re familiar with this particular brew?”

“One of the first things I learned before opening the tea shop was the magical world of cocktails,” she replied, a smile tugging at her lips. “It made for a great after-party for my soft opening.”

“I’m sure it was an eventful evening.”

“Oh yes. Nothing but good times and hangovers the day after.”

“I’m familiar with those occasions. During a celebration for a successful expedition, Johanna had spiked the punch bowl with a cacophony of alcohol which left many people heavily drunk. The party was indeed enjoyable but the morning after was said to be brutal.”

“Were you one of those poor souls?”

“I had cursed the sun’s very existence.”

“I’d loved to had seen that.”

“I’m sure you would.”

Another sip, another slow inhale. The heat made its way to her chest, and still, the quiet of the room pressed in.

“Are you ready to tell me what’s troubling you?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

Rook tried to deflect, tried to shape her mouth around the word nothing, but she saw the truth in his eyes—the patience, the quiet knowing.

She couldn’t hide. Not from him.

Not if she wanted to be with him. Not if this was going to mean something real.

So, she exhaled, eyes drifting down to the cinnamon stick bobbing gently in her mug. “And here I was trying to maintain a good impression,” she murmured. “I didn’t want you to see this part of me yet.”

“What part?” Emmrich asked gently.

“The not-so-charming parts… the ones that reveal my dark and stormy side.”

Her smile was faint, fleeting—an echo of something self-protective. But the sting in her chest was real. There was still so much she didn’t know about him, and so much of herself she hadn’t let him see. And gods, she envied his composure. That quiet steadiness. The way he never seemed shaken by the world or by her.

He always felt like calm water.

She tried to be that—balanced, composed, controlled—but her temper and tangled emotions had a habit of rising like a tide. Her past didn’t stay quiet. And sometimes, neither did she.

When his fingers gently touched her chin, tilting her head just enough to meet his gaze, she didn’t pull away.

“Evara, there is nothing you could tell me that would make me shy away from you.”

There he was again—meeting her chaos with quiet, offering steadiness without condition. Clearing away the storm clouds like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Maker, sometimes that made it worse. It made her wonder if he was too good to let into her mess.

She clutched the mug a little tighter, quietly walked to the velvet settee near the fireplace. The fire cast a warm glow, flickering across the settee’s wine-red hue, and she sat slowly, still watching the steam curl from her drink.

Emmrich followed without a word, sitting beside her—a steady presence, patient and close, without pressing.

“I’m sure you’ve already deduced from past conversations that I hold a relation to the Professor Solas Ingellvar,” she began. “He’s… my brother.”

Even in the silence, she knew he understood. Solas wasn’t exactly an obscure figure in academic circles—it wouldn’t have taken much effort to connect the dots once she’d given her full name. Still, Emmrich had waited. He’d given her the space to share it herself, on her terms. That kind of patience was rare. And kind.

She focused on the warmth of her cup, grounding herself before continuing. “More than just the name, though… our relationship has always been complicated.”

She paused, weighing her words carefully. Telling Emmrich that she wasn’t close to Solas was one thing—it was simple, factual. But explaining why was harder. The truth behind their estrangement lived in a part of her she rarely exposed, a part she still struggled to face. It felt too raw to offer in full, not yet.

So instead, she chose to give him just enough—to explain, without unraveling.

“After our parents died, we stopped speaking. The grief didn’t bring us together—it pulled us apart. We were estranged for years. We only reconnected about three years ago, and things were… awkward. Not hostile. Just strange.”

“But something happened?” Emmrich prompted gently.

“Yeah…” she said, rubbing her thumb along the curve of her mug. “He pissed me off.”

A flicker of humor passed through her before it dimmed again.

“I told him I was seeing someone. And he started questioning everything—what kind of relationship it was, who you were, how long it’s been…”

She realizes how it must sound to Emmrich and finally turned to face him, her expression earnest. “I’m not trying to hide us. There’s nothing I’m ashamed of in being with you. I just didn’t want to put you in an awkward position. You work with him. And Solas has this way of… seeing right through you and making you feel small while doing it”

Emmrich was well aware that Rook had never been shy about their relationship. If anything, she was proudly unapologetic—always reaching for his hand when they were out, making no effort to hide the quiet affection between them. Her friends knew. The world knew. She hadn’t tried to play coy. At the Fig & Laurel, she wanted everyone to know he was hers.

So to see her now—anxious that he might misinterpret her words as doubt—struck him as a needless worry.

But still, he understood. Sharing something personal with friends was one thing. Telling family—especially one as complicated as Solas—was another entirely.

There were always going to be variables: the professional overlap, the age gap that neither of them spoke of often but quietly felt, and the lingering self-consciousness that came from being judged for something that made her happy.

But that was a concern for another night. Tonight was hers.

She could feel the emotions rising again, sharp and defensive, but Emmrich reached out and placed a calm hand on her thigh.

“Evara,” he said softly, “I understand.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded, her voice quieter now.

“He told me that he’s my brother—that he has a right to know these things. But it didn’t feel like concern. It felt like control. Like he was trying to insert himself into a part of my life he hasn’t earned.”

“And those words didn’t land well.”

She gave a half-shrug, her fingers tightening around the warm curve of her mug.

“… We spent so long in silence. Honestly it was both of our faults. I was angry and sad while he was prideful and guilty. He just threw those words around like he had earned them, but so much time had passed between us.”

Emmrich said gently. “Do you hate him?”

“No,” she said quickly. Then, more softly, “No. I don’t hate him. I just… don’t know what to do with him. I understand him. I do. And maybe we were just too late. Old wounds fade, but they don’t disappear. I know he wants to be part of my life again. I know he’s trying. I just… feel like a brat for pushing back.”

Rook fell quiet, her words trailing off like the last drift of steam from her mug. The fire crackled softly beside them, casting amber light across the dark velvet of the settee, the room warm but her thoughts still caught in the cold.

She didn’t know what response she expected from Emmrich—if any. Maybe a gentle nod, maybe silence. But instead, he moved with quiet purpose.

Without a word, he reached out and took her mug from her hands, fingers brushing hers with the faintest touch. He set it carefully on the coffee table before turning back to her, his expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, he took both of her hands in his.

His palms were warm, steady. His grip neither firm nor fragile—just present. And when he looked at her, it wasn’t with pity or distance. It was with something far deeper. Something that made her throat tighten.

“You are not a brat,” he said, his voice calm but certain.

She gave a short laugh—wry, tired. “Thanks for saying that,” she murmured, “but I don’t know if I believe it yet.”

Emmrich didn’t push back. Instead, he shifted slightly toward her, his fingers still loosely entwined with hers.

“Then let’s change the tone,” he said. “Tell me a good memory. Something from before everything grew complicated… between you and Solas.”

She blinked, caught off-guard by the request. “A good memory?”

He nodded. “Yes. One where you two felt close.”

Rook hesitated, her brow furrowing as she searched her mind. It took effort—wading through the mire of arguments, silences, sharp words that still echoed in her head. But then, like sunlight through fog, a flicker surfaced.

“…I was seven, maybe eight,” she said slowly. “It was around First Day, and I’d just started showing signs of magic. Not enough to do anything big—just little sparks when I got too excited. I remember being terrified of it. My hands would crackle and glow, and I thought it was an extreme case of static electricity.”

Emmrich stayed quiet, listening, his thumb gently brushing the side of her hand.

“Solas… he noticed. He always noticed. He sat me down one night and told me that magic wasn’t something to fear—that it was a gift, and I just needed to learn how to speak its language. And then he showed me how to make a mage light. The one he made looked like a butterfly, fluttering around the room.”

Her eyes softened at the memory, and a smile ghosted her lips.

“It took me a while to get it right, but when I finally did… he smiled like I’d accomplished something worthwhile. I felt like I’d pulled the moon down from the sky.” Her voice warmed slightly. “Once I learned how to shape them, we made it a tradition. Every First Day evening, we’d go out to the garden and put on a little show—just the two of us. Mage lights, dancing through the air in every shape and color we could imagine.”

She paused, the smile fading into something more fragile as her throat tightened. “Our parents loved it.”

Emmrich’s voice was quiet. “Could you show me?”

Rook blinked in surprise, then let out a small, breathy laugh. “Hold on… it’s been a while.”

She shifted upright, scooting forward slightly on the settee. With her palms facing upward, she closed her eyes and drew in a steady breath.

The silence held for a beat.

Then, slowly, light began to shimmer into being—soft, golden threads weaving from her fingertips like spun starlight. Tiny orbs sparked into existence, flitting through the air like fireflies. They hovered, flickered, and then—changed. The lights rippled outward, morphing into delicate shapes: butterflies with glowing wings, a spiral of stars, a blooming flower mid-turn.

Emmrich watched, wonder flickering in his eyes, as the lights danced across the room in quiet celebration. It wasn’t the usual display of simple mage-lights—this was art. Memory. Magic shaped by emotion, not just control.

Rook opened her eyes slowly and smiled, lifting one hand to guide a glowing butterfly through the air. With a graceful flick of her fingers, it floated toward him, landing softly on his shoulder.

It pulsed gently, as if breathing.

Emmrich tilted his head, eyes shining. “How wonderous,” he said softly.

Her voice came quieter now, full of something older than joy. “It really is.”

The soft glow of the mage lights bathed the room in warm, shifting hues—golden fireflies, butterfly wings, stardust in motion. The fireplace crackled low, its flame dim in comparison to the magic that hovered around them.

Emmrich didn’t take his eyes off her—not even as the butterfly on his shoulder flickered gently, dissolving like a sigh into the air. His gaze held something tender, quiet… and unshakably certain.

Rook turned slightly toward him, still half bathed in light, her expression open and searching. The sadness that had lingered in her earlier was now softened at the edges—melted by memory, warmth, and the steady way he looked at her. When her smile finally reached her eyes, it filled his heart to the brim.

When he leaned in, it was unhurried.

One hand found hers; the other lifted to cradle her cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing just beneath her ear.

Their lips met—soft at first. Not rushed, not urgent, but full of quiet certainty. Like the kind of kiss meant to anchor rather than consume. But as her fingers curled into his sleeve and he deepened it just slightly, the spark between them burned a little brighter.

The kiss deepened—slow and molten.

What began as a brush of warmth evolved into something more. Rook’s hands slid into his hair, her body pressing closer, breath shallow against his mouth. She inhaled the scent of his pomade—citrus and jasmine. Maker, she loved that smell.

Emmrich responded with a low sound—caught somewhere between restraint and surrender. His hand found her waist, fingers flexing as he pulled her in. Their chests met with a quiet thrum of urgency, and when he nudged her back into the couch cushions, she clutched at the collar of his shirt, unwilling to part.

As their tongues met, he tasted the lingering trace of hot toddy—honey, spice, and heat still fresh from her lips. It was intoxicating, like warmth shared between breaths. Familiar and new all at once.

She wanted him.

Andraste’s mercy, she needed him.

If she had to wait any longer, she might combust or tear through his clothes just to feel his skin. They were wearing far too many layers, and the fire building in her core made every seam feel like a barrier to bliss.

Her fingers tugged at his collar as she pressed forward, mouth parting more insistently against his. Emmrich’s composure wavered—just for a breath—but it was enough. He let out a low, rough sound against her mouth, then kissed her deeper. His hand slid into her hair, fingers tightening just enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips.

His hands began to roam, slow but reverent, sliding up the curve of her body as if mapping sacred ground. Her hips pressed flush against his, a quiet, heated grind that drew a low, involuntary sound from his throat. Rook moaned softly into his mouth—breathy, wanting—and he swallowed the sound like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

His grip tightened.

She was warmth, desperation and soft, molten edges beneath the steady glide of his fingers. When his hands slipped beneath the hem of her sweater, her skin met him like fire—velvet heat along her sides, the gentle give of her waist beneath his palms. She arched into him, and Maker help him, he could feel her—the shape of her, the need written into every movement. Each kiss deepened, spiraling into something near-dangerous.

Their hips moved again, the friction sharp and unbearably good.

Emmrich’s hands slid down, finding her hips, his fingers teasing along the waistband of her trousers as if testing the limits of her composure. He guided her against him, encouraging the grind of her body into his, each motion stoking the fire building low in her core. The pressure, the heat—it was intoxicating. Rook chased the sensation instinctively, seeking more, needing more, her breath hitching as she gasped his name, the sound thick with want. Emmrich rasped hers in return, voice rough with restraint. But just as the peak began to crest—just as her body trembled on the edge—he stilled her, stopping the delicious friction that was leading her to sweet release, leaving her burning for him.

He broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to hers, breath shuddering. He didn’t move away—not yet—but his hands stilled against her bare skin, torn between devotion and surrender.

He pulled back.

Not far. Just enough.

Their foreheads rested together, breath shallow and uneven. Emmrich’s hands remained beneath her sweater, holding her waist like she might slip away—or like he might lose control if he let go.

“Evara,” he rasped, his voice rough with restraint, “not here. Not like this.”

“Why not?” she whispered, lips brushing his jaw before trailing to his throat. “You have a bed, don’t you?”

Her mouth found the hollow of his neck, and his grip tightened. Sanity was a thread, and she was tugging hard.

“You know what I mean,” he said, barely managing the words through the tangle of sensation. “You’re an emotional jigsaw and I do not wish to take advantage of that.”

Rook lay back against the couch cushions, her chest still rising and falling in slow, uneven waves. Emmrich hovered over her, braced on one forearm, the other hand resting lightly at her waist beneath the hem of her sweater—still in contact, still warm. His face was just above hers, close enough to kiss again. Close enough to tempt.

She stared at him, dazed and simmering. Her lips were kiss-bitten, her cheeks flushed, and Maker help her, every part of her ached to keep going.

But instead, she took a deep breath. Then another. Steadying herself before she did something truly reckless—like dragging him down and grinding against him until he changed his mind.

“Venhedis, you’re going to kill me,” Rook muttered, pulling back just enough to glare at him with exasperated heat. “When are exams over?”

He exhaled, ragged. “Day after tomorrow.”

She groaned, dramatic and genuine. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I thank the Maker every single day,” he said, half-laughing, half-pleading for strength.

As much as Rook wanted to be frustrated by the denial of her carnal urges, she knew he was right—waiting made sense. They had just shared something raw and real, and jumping into bed now didn’t feel like the start their physical relationship deserved. Still, Maker’s balls, one would think she was the demon of desire the way this man made her ache.

But one thing was certain—once winter break began, she wasn’t letting him out of her grasp. Consider it her own brand of petty revenge.

She let out a small snort but didn’t argue. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the fireplace. The room had gone still again—warm, dim, and quiet, the kind of silence that made everything feel softer.

“I should probably head back to my apartment,” she murmured after a beat, her voice a little quieter now. “It’s late. And I’ve already imposed enough for one night.”

Emmrich arched a brow, his expression gentle but amused. “You haven’t imposed.”

Rook shifted slightly beneath him, though she made no move to sit up. “You found me out in the cold, late at night, looking like some sad stray.”

He studied her for a long moment, then reached up and gently brushed his thumb across her cheek. “To be fair, you do wield an effective puppy dog face.”

She rolled her eyes. “Emmrich.”

“Stay the night.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You want me to stay the night after you cock-blocked me?”

“I wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that,” he replied evenly. “I merely asked for your patience.”

“Which sounds exactly like cock-blocking to me.”

He smiled, unrepentant. “Do I need to invoke my chess match wish to convince you?”

Her eyes narrowed further. “The one you earned with that smug victory?”

“The very same.”

She hesitated, lips twitching despite herself. Then sighed. “…No. Save it for something worthwhile.”

He tilted his head. “So that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” she said, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Chapter Text

Spite had taken control of the stairs like a little gremlin prince, stretched long over two steps with his tail flicking in slow, ominous rhythm. At the top landing, Manfred peered down with a curious tilt of his head, skeletal fingers curled over the banister as if trying to calculate the feline’s range of attack.

Emmrich, standing beside Rook at the foot of the staircase, exhaled through a quiet smile. “They’ve reached a tentative stalemate.”

“I give it ten minutes before someone hisses and someone else gets scratched,” Rook murmured.

“Manfred,” Emmrich called up the stairs. The skeleton’s goggles clicked as they adjusted focus. “Miss Rook and Spite will be spending the night. She’ll be staying in my room.”

Manfred let out an excited hiss—sharp, high-pitched, and somehow celebratory. He turned on his heel and disappeared from view, the sound of his light footfalls clicking down the hallway above.

Rook blinked. “I take it that he’s excited about our stay?”

“More likely, he’s wondering if your clothes need laundering,” Emmrich said, leading her toward the main bathroom. “It’s his way of being hospitable.”

She glanced back at the stairwell, vaguely impressed. “I can’t decide if that’s unsettling or deeply efficient.”

“In Nevarra,” he replied with a faint smile, “undead retainers were considered ideal for domestic duties. No complaints, no sleep, and impeccable at folding linens.”

“Well. Color me intrigued.”

He stopped in front of a polished wooden door and opened it with a gentle motion. “Shower’s through here. Take your time. I’ll find something comfortable for you to wear.”

The bathroom was like everything else in Emmrich’s home: intentional.

Tiled in dark stone with veins of soft bronze, it held both a deep clawfoot tub and a sleek glass-panel shower, set side by side like choices in a luxury catalogue. Apothecary bottles lined a narrow wall shelf above the vanity—most neatly labeled in small, tidy handwriting, some with the unmistakable stamp of import. She recognized a few elven tinctures and a rare Tevene aftershave she’d only ever seen behind glass at a boutique in the Artisan District.

Near the mirror, a silver tray caught her eye. Upon it rested an unlit candle, a polished horn comb, and—most striking—a single dried funerary lily, delicately preserved. Rook couldn’t help but laugh at this man’s love for flowers. Perhaps she should gift him a bouquet like he did for her on their first date.

The space was masculine but not austere. Everything had a place. Nothing was too much.

She peeled away her layers and stepped into the glass shower. The water came warm immediately, cascading down in soft rivulets as she let the heat unwind the knot of emotion behind her ribs. She reached for one of the soaps—sandalwood and citrus, she guessed, as the scent bloomed around her. It smelled like him.

By the time she emerged, hair damp, limbs loose, and cheeks flushed with steam, she felt both lighter and heavier. The day’s weight had shifted, softened—but not disappeared.

And then she saw it: her clothes, gone.

In their place sat a folded set on the sink—his. A deep navy button-up and soft drawstring pants. The shirt practically drowned her; it slipped past her knees and hung long in the sleeves until she rolled them up enough to find her hands. She wiped the steam off of the mirror to catch her reflection and laughed softly under her breath. Somehow, she looked both ridiculous and… cozy.

Beside the tray near the mirror sat a familiar jar. His pomade. She popped the lid, inhaled—citrus, jasmine, something smoky beneath—and closed it again with a little smirk.

She made a mental note of the brand.

A soft knock tapped against the bathroom door.

“Evara?” Emmrich’s voice came, low and careful. “May I enter?”

Rook blinked, caught with the pomade jar still in her hands. She quickly set it down on the silver tray with the comb and candle, then turned to grab the towel draped near the sink.

“Just a second,” she called, voice a little rough from the steam. She leaned over and gave her damp hair a brisk rub with the towel, trying to tame it into something less unruly, less obviously showered and flustered in his shirt.

The knock came again, gentler this time. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she said, clearing her throat and trying not to sound too breathless. “You can come in.”

The door creaked open slowly, and a billow of steam slipped past Emmrich’s frame like breath from a dragon’s mouth. He stepped into the haze, pausing at the threshold as his eyes adjusted.

And then he saw her.

Lit by the warm sconces above the mirror, Rook stood barefoot in his oversized shirt, her damp hair curling around flushed cheeks. The shirt hung past her knees, sleeves half-rolled to her elbows, clinging just enough to hint at shape while still swallowing her in softness.

She looked, in a word, dangerous.

His thoughts short-circuited for half a breath—his gaze catching on the collar of her shirt where it slipped off one shoulder, only to spiral further as his mind wandered to what her thighs might look like beneath that curtain of fabric.

“You’re staring again,” she said, without looking at him, a knowing tilt in her voice.

“I…” he cleared his throat, caught between appreciation and the desperate will to behave, “...was simply admiring... the color suits you.”

“Mmhm.”

She finally turned to face him fully, that smirk tugging at the edge of her lips. Emmrich’s gaze flicked briefly to the collar of his shirt, to the long line of her legs beneath the hem—and then back to her eyes, where the mischief danced.

“I trust everything fits… adequately?” he asked.

“The pants were a lost cause,” she replied, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “But this? Surprisingly comfortable.”

Emmrich pressed his lips together—whether to restrain a smile or a comment, she couldn’t tell.

“Come,” he said, his voice lower than intended. Then, recovering with a faint cough, he stepped aside and gestured down the hall. “Allow me show you the room. I’ll shower after.”

She arched a brow, but followed, bare feet padding against the hall floor. “So, the color suits me, huh?”

He didn’t answer—but the tips of his ears had gone pink. Oh, she was going to enjoy making this man suffer tonight.

Emmrich led her down the hall with his usual composed gait, the air cooler here, hushed by the thick walls and the soft lighting that spilled from sconces along the corridor. At the end, he opened the final door—dark wood, carved faintly with warding sigils—and stepped aside to let her in first.

Rook hesitated for a moment, then crossed the threshold.

“I’ll be just a few minutes,” he said gently. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She nodded, still tucked in the dim firelight of the space, half-draped in his shirt and wrapped in the scent of his home.

His room was... stunning, in that understated, scholarly way that echoed everything about him.

The centerpiece was a four-poster bed, positioned along the left wall, its frame carved with subtle Nevarran motifs—wings, flame, and woven knotwork worn smooth by time and care. It was dressed in ash-grey linens, thick and plush, the kind of bed meant for weight and warmth. At the foot of it, however, was a jarring pop of color: a knitted quilt folded over the edge, its pattern a chaotic clash of mustard yellow, forest green, and rose pink.

Rook stared at it for a moment—blinking once, then again—before the realization struck. This had to be the quilt Emmrich had mentioned once back at the Loft, Manfred’s first knitting piece. The tension uneven, the pattern inconsistent, the colors chosen by someone who clearly had no regard for color theory.

She reached out and touched the edge of it, fingers brushing a bumpy seam.

Maker, this man was such a cinnamon roll it made her heart ache. And this quilt—this gloriously chaotic quilt—deserved to be defended with her life. Because Manfred had made it, and Emmrich had kept it. Which meant it was loved.

She turned slowly to take in the rest of the room.

A tall dresser stood along the opposite wall, dark wood polished to a quiet gleam. Atop it sat a jeweler’s case lined in velvet, filled with carefully arranged grave-gold: rings, cuffs, pins, bangles. Each piece clearly selected, each with a story she was certain he remembered. Nothing about it felt like vanity. It felt like history, preserved and honored.

To the right of the dresser stretched his closet—spacious, precisely arranged. Lecture coats and formalwear hung in a tidy row, the colors mostly dark and jewel-toned. A full section was devoted to ceremonial garments, preserved in garment bags and clearly older than they looked. She caught glimpses of Nevarran death-silk, ritual-woven epaulets, and the silver-threaded hem of something ancient and striking.

Near the far window sat a modest writing desk, compact but sturdy, its surface clear but for a dormant enchanted lamp, a journal bound in worn leather, and a fine-point fountain pen capped in silver. She could almost picture him sitting there late at night, glasses on, scribbling last-minute notes for a lecture, reflections on a case report he was given, letters of correspondence because he would still send letters.

Her gaze slid to the nightstand beside the bed. A tidy stack of books. A closed glasses case.

Of course, he read before bed.

She grinned faintly, leaning forward just enough to run her fingers along the book spines, then hesitated. Her curiosity was louder than her restraint. She opened the glasses case.

Inside, his reading glasses rested neatly on a folded cloth. Thin gold frames, subtly angular. She could already picture the look of him—soft-shirted, glasses slipping down his nose, lips moving silently as he read by lamplight. It made her stomach flutter in a way that felt both dangerous and annoyingly tender.

She closed the case again and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Her hand sank into the mattress and she blinked—Venhedis, it was luxurious. Softer than anything she owned or slept in. Probably more expensive than both her beds combined.

She looked around once more, soaking in the scent of the room: incense, old paper, something cool and clean like pressed linen. There was silence in the air, but not a lonely one. A silence built by someone who had loved many things and lost a few—and still managed to let someone else in.

“…I am in so much trouble.”

Steam still clung faintly to his skin as Emmrich toweled the last drops of water from his hair. The warm shower had done its job—calming his nerves, steadying his thoughts—but only just. He slipped into his sleepwear, soft cotton drawstring pants and a long-sleeved linen shirt, the fabric worn in all the right places. Comfortable. Familiar.

Necessary armor for what awaited him on the other side of the door.

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his damp hair before reaching for the door handle. The knob was cool beneath his palm, a quiet contrast to the warmth now coiling in his chest.

Because she was in there.

Rook. In his space. Wrapped in the stillness of his room. Wearing his shirt.

He opened the door with care, the hinges whispering their protest.

And then he saw her.

She was curled beneath the covers, propped lazily on one elbow, the ash-grey linens a soft frame around her legs. The shirt he’d given her—the last barrier between her naked form and his tempted gaze—draped off one shoulder, sleeves rolled to her forearms in a loose, half-hearted attempt at neatness. Her hair was no longer damp, the curls resting on his pillows, and her cheeks were kissed with a residual flush from the warmth.

She looked utterly at home.

And absolutely lethal.

Emmrich froze for half a breath. His hand still rested on the edge of the door, his eyes raking in the vision before him like a man caught in prayer.

She wasn’t doing anything overt. No sultry pose, no calculated smile. Just… lying there. In his bed. Looking every bit the temptation she was—and perhaps knowing it.

Maker preserve him… this night might’ve been a dangerous idea.

She turned her head then, slowly, and met his gaze. A small, knowing smile curved her lips.

“You’ve got that look again,” she said softly.

He cleared his throat, but it came out rough. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “You’re… hard not to look at.”

Rook arched a brow but didn’t argue. She watched him as he closed the door behind him, her gaze drifting down his figure briefly—taking in the soft shirt, the relaxed line of his jaw, the slightly tousled hair from towel-drying. Andraste, even he wasn’t immune to modesty under her scrutiny. He could feel it: the heat pooling low in his gut, the way her presence in his bed turned every step forward into a test of restraint.

It was deeply, profoundly satisfying to see her there.

To see her—Rook, sharp-edged and storm-tempered—tucked into his sheets like something he’d always imagined but never dared hope for. He knew how she affected him. Knew she could undo him with a glance, a smirk, a shift beneath the blankets. And Maker, she had to know it too.

Part of him wondered—just for a flicker—if she was doing it on purpose.

She shifted slightly beneath the covers, the hem of his oversized shirt slipping higher on her thighs as she stretched her legs out. The movement was innocent. Casual. And absolutely intentional.

Emmrich bit back a groan and reached for the bedside lamp.

“I trust you’re comfortable?” he asked dryly, trying—failing—not to smile.

“Very,” she replied, voice soft and satisfied. “I feel like I’m resting on pure luxury.”

“I’m glad.”

He flicked off the lamp, casting the room in the flickering light of the fireplace, and crossed to his side of the bed.

Maker help me, he thought, pulling back the covers with reverence and caution, this woman is going to be the end of me.

Rook wanted this man to suffer.

Not in any cruel way, of course—but in the specific, delicious way that came from resisting her. From watching his self-control tremble beneath the weight of temptation she’d deliberately placed in his path.

This was her petty revenge for being asked to wait—for his romantic vision that involved candlelight, slow music, and something probably involving silk sheets. And while she respected it, adored it even, she still wanted to see him unravel. Just a little.

So, she undid another button.

Just one. But it was the perfect one—the one that allowed a teasing curve of cleavage to peek through the shirt. The fabric slipped a bit lower off her shoulder, exposing smooth skin and collarbone to the flicker of firelight.

She was chaos dressed in comfort.

There were other surprises, too—little things she’d tucked away in her arsenal, ready to deploy if he pushed her too far. A shift of her hips here. A half-sigh there. Things that made him pause. Made him swallow hard and rethink everything.

It was devious. Unfair, even. Emmrich had been nothing but kind and loving to her—attentive, patient, a gentleman to the bitter end.

But the moment she’d seen his face in the bathroom—the parted lips, the widened hazel eyes, the way he just looked at her like she was something holy and devastating—well… how could she not play with fire?

Now he was beside her in bed, freshly showered and heartbreakingly soft in his linen shirt, and all she wanted to do was watch him.

Like a cat watching prey.

Emmrich laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other resting loosely between them. His gaze, half-lidded but far from sleepy, tracked every subtle movement she made. When she adjusted the blanket, when she shifted her weight, when she arched her back in that absolutely not innocent stretch that made the hem of the shirt flirt with scandal—he noticed.

And she noticed him noticing.

The room was still save for the fireplace filled with veilfire and the quiet thud of their hearts. His scent lingered in the air—soap, tea, and that soft spice she always associated with his skin. It was the kind of closeness that made her feel half-drunk on nothing but proximity.

Rook smirked faintly, biting the inside of her cheek to hide it. “Having trouble sleeping, Professor?”

“I have eyes,” he said, almost helplessly. “And you’re…” He trailed off, like even naming the problem would make it worse. “…unfair.”

“Me?” Her eyes gleamed. “I’m just lying here. Completely innocent.”

Emmrich dragged a hand down his face, half-laughing, half-mourning what remained of his composure. “Maker preserve me…”

“Oh, I think you’ll survive,” Rook murmured, scooting just a little—her bare leg brushing his beneath the covers, silk-soft and deliberate. “But if you aren’t tired… I can think of something to help you rest.”

He groaned softly. “You are incorrigible.”

“You like it.”

He looked at her then—really looked. A witty retort had been on his tongue melted beneath the heat that flickered behind his gaze. Those hazel eyes of his had darkened, shadowed with restraint—and the threat of losing it.

She swallowed, pulse skipping. That look—the one that turned her bones to ash and her thoughts to nothing.

He moved closer, their foreheads nearly touched. His voice was low and steady, but something taut trembled beneath it.

“Perhaps I was too lenient in my previous warning.”

Rook’s breath caught, just slightly.

The space between them crackled—so thick with tension it felt like it might snap with the smallest touch. And gods, she wanted to snap it. To tear through it with teeth and need and the sound of his restraint breaking.

So, she reached for him.

Fingers curling into the front of his shirt, she gave a gentle, insistent tug that brought him closer—close enough to feel the heat of his breath on her lips. Her voice dropped to a whisper, wicked and wanting.

“How will you warn me now?”

His gaze darkened, that sliver of control flickering at the edges. “Would you like to find out?” he rasped.

The question slipped down her spine like a promise.

“Yes,” she breathed.

That was all it took.

His lips crashed into hers—hot, commanding, possessive. There was no teasing now, no softness. Just pure, aching desire. He kissed her like he was claiming something long denied, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with hungry precision, devouring every sound she gave him.

Rook gasped, her back arching instinctively as he shifted his body over hers, pressing her into the bed like he belonged there. Like she belonged there—beneath him, beneath the weight of his hunger and heat.

His hands were everywhere.

Gliding over her sides, shaping themselves to her curves, memorizing every line as if mapping her body by touch alone. He moved with reverence, but there was a bite to it—fingers curling just a little tighter than necessary, movements bold, unrelenting. Her skin sang beneath him.

The shirt she wore—his shirt—was being unbuttoned with a maddening slowness that contrasted the ferocity of his kiss. One button. Then another. Then another, until the fabric parted and bared her to the emerald firelight and his gaze.

His mouth broke from hers only long enough to look down—and his breath shuddered at the sight of her.

Rook barely had time to register the heat in his eyes before he dipped his head, his mouth tracing the newly revealed skin. He kissed down the slope of her throat, over the swell of her breast, and his hands followed, teasing and caressing as he went—like she was something precious, something to be explored rather than conquered.

She moaned softly, arms winding around the back of his neck, clutching at his shirt as she held him close, needing more—needing him.

His hands slid lower, past her waist.

And then they stilled.

A beat of silence.

Emmrich froze—just for a second. Then he pulled back, eyes wide, pupils blown dark as they locked with hers.

“…You’re not wearing anything,” he said, voice rough and low with disbelief.

A devilish smirk curved Rook’s lip. “I think Manfred took them to be laundered.”

The look that crossed his face was equal parts wonder and absolute devastation.

“You will be the end of me,” he whispered, eyes tracing over her like he’d just unwrapped a gift he’d longed for—one meant only for him. Then he kissed her again, rougher this time, as if possession had overtaken restraint.

“You thought that you could tempt me into getting what you want?”

His teeth scraped gently at the pulse of her throat. Rook gasped, her nails pressing into his back.

“That you could fluster me with a little bare skin,” he continued, his tone soft and chiding, like a scholar marking up a beautifully incorrect essay. “A button undone here. A leg there. No underwear, my darling? That was bold.”

She made a sound—half laugh, half moan—but he didn’t let her respond.

“Shh,” he whispered. “No talking. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

Andraste have mercy, her body thrummed at the command in his voice.

Emmrich shifted lower, mouth trailing heat down her collarbone, over the swell of her breast, murmuring praise between kisses.

She could feel the press of his cock through his trousers, firm and insistent. When she rolled her hips against him, a low groan escaped him—muffled against her breast as his mouth remained full of her

“Such impatience,” he said into her skin. “Begging to be touched, adored.”

His tongue flicked over her nipple, slow, coaxing. He felt them hardening under his touch. Then his lips followed—gentle at first, then with a suction that made her hips lift beneath him. He gave her attention like a man savoring every flicker of reaction. Every twitch. Every breath.

“Now I must show you that I am not a man you wish to push,” he said, lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes. “Something I’m happy to remind you. Over and over.”

She whimpered, already arching into his hands, but he only smirked.

“Ah, but not so fast. You don’t get to win that easily, my darling.”

His fingers slid lower again, tracing lazy, circling patterns down her stomach, then lower still—hovering, never touching where she needed it. It was maddening.

Emmrich took his time—devoutly so—as he kissed every scar that mapped her skin. The small one at her shoulder, the thin slice along her ribs—each kiss was slow, intentional, as though he were committing them to memory with a reverence that made her ache. When he reached the scar on her hip, he lingered. His lips brushed over it, soft as breath, before he dragged his teeth along the old mark in a deliberate, grazing motion that made her gasp and buck her hips toward him in reflexive need.

“You wanted to test my patience,” he murmured, voice thick with heat as his mouth hovered just above her skin, “so now you’ll learn what it means to reap what you sow.”

Then he dipped lower, lips fastening to the edge of her hip bone with a firm, unrelenting pull. Rook moaned, her voice catching as the pleasure curled through her spine. Her hands, which had been resting lightly on his shoulders, moved without thought—gripping the sheets beneath her in a white-knuckled clutch, already trembling from the slow burn he was building beneath her skin.

She wanted to push him—and Maker, did she succeed.

He was on his knees now, his mouth worshiping a slow path across her hips and down her thighs. Each kiss dragged heat across her skin, each bite deliberate. Love marks bloomed like ink along the tender flesh of her inner thighs, a constellation of bruises that felt equal parts reverent and possessive. He was taking his time, and worse, he knew it. Every breath, every brush of his lips just skirted the place she really wanted him to kiss.

“Emmrich,” she gasped, his name torn from her lips like a prayer caught between frustration and craving.

He paused.

Then, as if summoned by some divine mischief, he looked up from between her legs and quirked a brow. “Yes, my darling?” he replied, voice infuriatingly innocent.

She could have throttled him—if she weren’t already shaking.

He rose slowly, gliding up her body until he reached her stomach, his gaze locked to hers the entire way. There was hunger in his eyes, yes, but also a challenge—one that made her chest tighten and her thighs press closer around nothing.

Rook whimpered.

“Words, darling,” he whispered, dragging his fingers down her abdomen. “Tell me what you want.”

His fingers reached the apex of her thighs, and with tormenting precision, he began to stroke her—slow, teasing glides along her slit, never entering, just enough to make her hips rise off the bed. His fingers brushed her clit in long, unhurried passes, his eyes never leaving her face as she gasped and moaned beneath him.

“Emmrich—fuck—please—” she hissed, writhing.

He clicked his tongue, scolding with maddening composure. “Language, my dear. We really must work on that mouth of yours.”

Rook opened her mouth to retort, but whatever retort she had died in her throat the moment he descended again.

This time, there was no more teasing.

He settled between her thighs with purpose, dragging his tongue along her with reverent pressure before closing his mouth around her clit and sucking in slow, measured rhythm. The faint brush of her curls against his nose only spurred him on, grounding him in the intimacy of the moment. His hands kept her steady, fingers digging into her hip and thigh as if anchoring her in place for his worship. He moaned into her, as though she tasted better than any metaphor he could conjure—and she unraveled, barely able to think, much less speak.

She was already trembling, the ache inside her drawn tight as a bowstring, and Emmrich showed no mercy.

His mouth worked her with unwavering focus—his tongue drawing circles over her clit in a rhythm that was both precise and devastating. Then he dipped lower, licking through her folds before thrusting his tongue inside her, slow at first, then deeper, firmer, as if coaxing her to open for him, to fall apart under the weight of his reverence.

The tension snapped with a cry.

Her orgasm hit like a wave crashing through her, shuddering from her core outward in pulsing, breathless bursts. She gasped his name, hands tangling in his hair as she arched off the bed. Emmrich groaned into her, the sound low and reverent, and the vibrations from his mouth sent aftershocks through her already overstimulated body.

Venhedis, this man and his silver tongue.

But he wasn’t done.

As if reading her mind—sensing the need that still burned beneath her skin—he rose from between her thighs. His lips and mustache glistened with her slick, and the sight of him like that, flushed and focused, nearly made her come again.

He hooked one of her legs over his forearm and spread her wide with clinical care, eyes dark with hunger. Without a word, he slid two fingers inside her—no preamble this time. Just a firm, relentless thrust, and then another, deeper still. Rook moaned, her hips canting to meet his pace, to chase the friction that made her gasp for breath.

She reached for him, fingers desperate to wrap around the hardness pressing against his trousers—but Emmrich caught her wrists in one fluid motion, pinning them gently above her head.

“Not yet,” he murmured, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Tonight is for you.”

The words hit her harder than any touch. Her breath shuddered out of her, her body arching as though summoned. She whimpered, caught between frustration and anticipation, but she surrendered—offering herself to his control, needing him to take the lead as he always did: with precision, with care, with the kind of intensity that made her feel worshipped.

His fingers thrust deep inside her, steady and knowing, and her hips met him greedily, over and over. Every drag and curl of his fingers sent sparks racing up her spine, the friction singing through her nerves like magic incarnate. And it was magic—her magic stirred, her body alight with it. The heat that bloomed in her belly wasn’t just want; it was a storm, raw and untamed, stoked by the way he touched her, the way he looked at her.

His hazel eyes—usually so thoughtful, so composed—were dark now, lit from within by a faint, eldritch glow of green. Watching her. Drinking her in. As though every sound she made, every tremble, every gasp, was something sacred. He looked like sin. Like every inch of him had been handcrafted to undo her.

And Maker, was he undoing her.

She felt her magic surge under her skin, electrical and wild, responding to him. Her fingers twitched in his grasp. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. She was at her wits end—and he knew it. His touch was relentless and tender all at once, fingers plunging and curling just right, over and over, coaxing her toward the edge with maddening patience.

Her body began to flutter, her walls clenching tighter, trying to trap him inside, unwilling to let go.

She was close.

She was so close.

Then he added a third finger.

Rook’s mouth fell open in a silent cry as he stretched her, filled her. His pace never faltered—ruthless, controlled, every movement measured to drive her higher. He curled his fingers just right—striking that tender, impossible place inside her that made her see stars.

Her body shook, lips parted in helpless pleasure. “Emmrich—!”

“That’s it,” he whispered, leaning close, voice thick with filth and devotion. “Such a good girl, Evara. Taking all of me. Falling apart so sweetly by my hand.”

“Venhedis—"

The second orgasm rolled through her like fire.

Her back arched, her thighs trembling against his grip as her body pulsed again, crying out beneath him with his name on her tongue. He didn’t let go—not of her hands, not of her body, not of a single trembling breath—as he held her through every wave of release, murmuring praise and filthy promises into her skin.

Rook’s chest heaved, still trembling from the aftershocks. She felt untethered, like her bones had gone weightless.

“You—” she managed between ragged breaths. “You’re the devil.”

Emmrich laughed softly, kissing her forehead with maddening gentleness. “My dear, wasn’t this what you desired?”

“My desire,” she said, voice still shaking, “was for you to feel good too. Not just me.”

He hummed, pleased. “That can easily be remedied.”

With one hand still braced beside her, the other slipped down to push his pants past his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, slicked from desire and straining with need.

Rook’s eyes widened. “…I thought you wanted to wait.”

“We are,” he said, voice low and even. “One only needs to be creative.”

His gaze held hers, a question unspoken.

“Will you be good for me, my darling?”

She swallowed hard. “What are you going to do?”

“Put your thighs together.”

Her breath caught, but she obeyed. As she pressed her legs tight, he gently released her wrists and leaned down to kiss her—slow, deliberate, filled with the same reverence that had unraveled her moments ago. Then he sat back, lifting her legs slightly in his arms, guiding them over his shoulder as he lined himself into place.

“Just like that,” he murmured.

He took hold of her hip and thigh for leverage, lifting her slightly as he aligned himself. His cock pressed between her slick thighs, dragging against her soaked entrance—close, so close, but never breaching. Her wetness coated him with ease, and he groaned—deep and guttural—at the sheer sensation of being cradled by her heat.

He’d spent a good part of the night thinking about those beautifully soft thighs. Now, with his hands on her, he felt the tension in her muscles—strong, toned, and wrapped in that intoxicating softness that undid him. His member throbbed between them, slick with his precum and her wetness, each thrust sliding hot and smooth as their bodies met. The mingled heat, the way she clenched around him, made it feel like the world narrowed to this—just the two of them, joined in rhythm and want.

“Maker above…” he murmured, his voice frayed at the edges. “You feel exquisite.”

The friction was maddening—hot, tight, intoxicating. And Rook could see it in his face, in the tension along his jaw, the slight tremble in his control. He was holding back, just barely.

Emmrich was on the brink of madness.

The way his length slid between her thighs—hot, slick, maddeningly close—nearly undid him. The soft, soaked press of her entrance kissed the underside of his shaft with each stroke, and when the head of his cock dragged over her clit, her thighs instinctively tightened around him. The friction was exquisite.

It would have been so easy to give in.

To breach that final barrier and bury himself inside her warmth—to feel all of her. Her wetness. Her tightness. The welcome that pulsed just a breath away. His grip on her thigh and hip tightened, sure to leave bruises. Andraste’s mercy, it took every ounce of control he had not to surrender to that craving.

But he was a man of his word.

Instead, he whispered his desire aloud, voice rough and reverent. “You’re soaked for me… keeping your thighs so tight—Maker, Rook, you feel incredible.”

“Emmrich—Maker, yes—Yes!”

“My Rook. My darling. You are so beautiful… and mine to savor.”

“Venhedis…”

She whimpered beneath him, her pleasure spiking again—not just from the way he moved against her, but from the rich, velvet filth of his voice. Every slow, deliberate glide against her overstimulated clit sent a tremor through her hips, made her breath catch, sharp and trembling. The edge was close again, cruel in how it teased her, glorious in how it built.

And he—Maker, he looked so undone.

Rook’s voice trembled against his ear, her breath hot and ragged. “Emmrich I’m—”

He groaned, the sound deep in his chest, forehead pressed to hers. “Show me.”

“Don’t stop. I want—I need—”

His hazel eyes met hers, darkened with need and glowing faintly green at the edges, his voice low and reverent. “Fall for me, Rook. Let go—I’ve got you.”

His restraint was fraying. His expression taut with need, brows drawn, lips parted just slightly as he moved faster, less precise now. His thrusts turned erratic, driven by the rising wave he could no longer hold back. She felt it—felt him trembling with the effort of control, felt herself climbing with him.

She squeezed her thighs tighter.

He gasped—a sharp, reverent intake—and that was all it took.

Emmrich spilled over with a low, broken groan, his release painting her stomach in warm pulses as she followed moments later, her moan trembling in his name. Their bodies moved in tandem—pressing together, shivering through the storm they'd built between them—until all that was left was the sound of their breathing and the lingering warmth of shared pleasure.

The air between them was thick with the hush of spent desire, the fireplace casting lazy shadows across the room. Both of them lay still for a few long breaths, hearts racing, lungs gradually remembering how to draw breath again.

Emmrich was the first to move.

He shifted back slightly to admire the sight before him—her flushed skin, the languid sprawl of her limbs, the bloom of love bites scattered from hip to thigh. His release glistened in soft rivulets across her stomach, while her own slick still clung to her thighs, testament to the night they’d carved into memory.

She was, in a word, a proper mess.

And Rook had never felt so loved.

His fingers gently parted her thighs, slipping free with deliberate care before lowering her legs back to the bed. He leaned over her with a fond, half-dazed expression and peppered kisses across her face—cheek, nose, brow, lips—before murmuring something soft she couldn’t catch and disappearing from the room.

Rook exhaled slowly, sinking boneless into the sheets, her limbs heavy, her body humming with afterglow. She thought briefly about reaching down to touch the mess he’d left, curious to see it, to feel the heat of it again—but her arms felt like wet cloth, and she knew if she disturbed it, it would smear across his very expensive sheets. Better not. Three orgasms was apparently her limit tonight, and even that might’ve been a generous stretch.

From beyond the door, she heard the quiet creak of hinges and the low murmur of Emmrich’s voice. Curious, she let her eyes drift closed, listening.

“Manfred, all is well,” Emmrich said softly, his tone reassuring but threaded with mild amusement. “No cause for concern. I apologize if we were… louder than intended. Please, don’t worry yourself over it.”

There was a soft hiss in reply—Manfred’s voice, worried, though she couldn’t catch the exact words.

Emmrich’s gentle chuckle carried through the crack in the door. “Truly, everything is fine. Thank you for checking.”

Rook’s cheeks warmed, the reality of Manfred overhearing them crashing down on her. Andraste’s mercy, she’d completely forgotten about the poor spirit in their haze of desire. She buried her face briefly against the pillow, groaning softly at the mix of embarrassment and residual pleasure.

The door creaked open again. Emmrich stepped back into the room—sleeves rolled, his sleep pants riding low on his hips. He carried a glass of cool water in one hand, a small bowl of steaming water in the other, and nestled in the crook of his elbow, a soft flannel.

She hummed in greeting, too blissed-out to lift her head, simply watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as he approached.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice all warmth and fond amusement as he knelt beside the bed. “Utterly ruined.”

He wished he had parchment and charcoal—anything to capture this, to immortalize the sight of her laid out before him. His. She was exquisite like this: bare, glowing, her skin slick with their shared release, the evidence of him marked across her body like a signature no one else could ever claim. Andraste, she was perfect. The only thing missing was gold—gold he would gladly drape over her, to adorn what was already his to treasure.

The woman was a vision in his eyes.

“And whose fault is that?” she rasped, her voice still lazy and hoarse.

“Yours, I believe,” he said with a smirk, handing her the glass of water before setting the bowl nightstand.

She reached for the water, sipping slowly. The coolness soothed her throat and her smile turned faint, grateful. “Thanks,” she murmured.

He gave a quiet hum in response, pleased, dipping the flannel into the bowl and wringing it out. He took the glass from her hands and began to clean her.

She sighed, eyes fluttering shut as the first touch of warm cloth met her skin. He started at her stomach, slow and gentle, wiping her clean with reverence that made her chest ache. She felt the drag of the cloth over her hip, the faint cool of air against freshly wiped skin, then lower still—over her inner thighs, where his love bites bloomed like bruised roses.

He hummed in satisfaction as he passed the cloth over them, a small, indulgent sound in the back of his throat.

“Maker, you’re beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Loved and marked and glowing.”

Rook didn’t have the energy to quip back. She just sighed and melted further into the mattress.

Once he was satisfied, he reached for the discarded shirt and carefully buttoned it back over her frame, fussing with the sleeves like she was something delicate. Then he climbed into bed beside her, lifting the covers and settling her against his chest.

Her head found its place over his heart, the steady rhythm beneath her cheek soothing something deep inside. Her eyelids grew heavy, lashes fluttering shut—yet she wasn’t ready to let the moment slip entirely.

“…Sorry, by the way,” she murmured, voice muffled slightly against him. “For being too loud… I forgot about poor Manfred out there.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers stroking idly through her hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for. We both got a little carried away.”

Rook huffed a sleepy laugh. “I promise to be quiet next time.”

His smile curved against the top of her head as he kissed it. “Something we will both remember… you’re actually the first lover to actually meet him. I never shared a bed with anyone since I brought Manfred home.”

That stirred her enough to glance up at him, warmth blooming in her chest. “Really?”

“Really,” he said quietly, his hazel eyes soft, the faintest pink at his cheeks. “You’re the first.”

Her heart ached in the best way at his words. To be the first romantic partner to meet Manfred—his first—filled her with quiet pride. To be the first in something, with a man who carried so much experience, felt rare. Precious. She let herself sink fully into him, safe in his embrace, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. Her eyelids grew heavy, lashes fluttering—but she wasn’t ready to let go of him just yet.

She nudged his jaw with the tip of her nose. “Goodnight kiss,” she whispered, voice slurred with sleep.

He smiled and obliged, tilting his face to hers and brushing a kiss across her lips—tender, slow, lingering. When he pulled back, she mumbled drowsily, “I still really wanna fuck you.”

Emmrich chuckled, the sound vibrating beneath her ear. “Another night, my darling.”

“Promise?”

“I guarantee it,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before settling beside her, pulling her close into his embrace.

She smiled, content with his reply. Her fingers curled against his ribs, and she nestled deeper into him, his warmth surrounding her like a balm.

And with that—wrapped in comfort, love, and quiet satisfaction—they drifted into sleep in each other’s arms.

Chapter Text

The alarm chimed just after dawn—an unwelcome herald that stirred both Emmrich and Rook from their tangled warmth beneath the covers. Neither moved at first, both reluctant to surrender the rare comfort of waking up wrapped in one another. But duty tugged, as it always did. It was a workday, after all—and Rook needed new clothes to change into, a cat to feed (properly this time—since he will not be subject to a shamefully improvised can of tuna for a second time), and a tea shop to open.

Between drowsy kisses and the lazy glide of fingertips, they dressed in companionable quiet, sharing the last of the cranberry, orange zest, and rosemary scones Rook had baked the day before. She insisted he keep the remaining two, calling it his “breakfast bribe” for enduring the tidal wave of exams he had to grade. He said she was spoiling him. She didn’t deny it.

Spite, nestled contentedly in her satchel with only the flick of his tail peeking out, seemed unusually cooperative as Rook adjusted the strap over her shoulder. Perhaps even he was feeling generous after a night of peace—and the promise of proper breakfast.

They left together, the city still wearing its early morning hush as they walked side by side. The air was crisp, but not cold—pleasantly cool against the warmth of their shared silence. At the front door of Veil & Vine, Emmrich paused, one hand slipping around Rook’s waist to draw her in.

“Will I see you later?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Rook leaned up, brushing her lips to his in a parting kiss—lingering, gentle, quietly fond. “I can bring you lunch to your office?”

His smile warmed her to the bone. “I would love nothing more. I shall wait with bated breath.”

 “You just like that I feed you,” she teased.

“And I get to enjoy more of your company,” he replied, without missing a beat.

With that, she rounded the building to go up the stairs to the Loft as Emmrich continued down the street, the tail of his coat catching the breeze.

Once inside, Rook waved a hand, coaxing the heating runes to life with a flick of practiced magic. Spite stretched inside the satchel and gave a small, complaining chirp, prompting her to lower the satchel for him to leap down with feline flair.

“Alright, alright,” she muttered. “Breakfast first, then clothes.”

She padded through the Loft, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it over a nearby chair. Spite twined between her legs as she headed toward the kitchenette, meowing pointedly until she opened his tin of preferred pâté and set it down with a sleepy grunt.

With her little void fed, she changed into a fresh set of clothes she kept in the bedroom closet. She slipped into a mustard yellow ochre turtleneck, its sleeves slightly puffed at the wrists, and layered it beneath her favorite black pinafore dress patterned with muted florals in burnt orange and rust tones. Paired with ribbed socks and worn-in lace-up boots, the outfit was comfortable, practical for prep work, and just the right blend of soft and seasonal. She ran her fingers once through her hair to tame the sleep-soft curls.

Her limbs still felt like pudding from the night before, her thighs mapped with faint love bites, her neck still tingling from his whispered endearments.

Rook yawned, glanced at the time, then eyed the couch.

“…Nap first.”

She set a quiet timer and curled beneath the throw blanket, Spite hopping up to nestle beside her. The tea shop could wait a little longer.

After a much-needed nap, Rook headed down to the shop with Spite, going through the motions of opening the shop. The morning still clung to a hush, with just enough light bleeding through the windows to soften the corners of the room. She moved through her routine with familiar ease—flipping the sign, checking the kettle glyphs, setting the heating runes, writing the specials for the day.

Spite had already claimed his perch on the windowsill, curled contentedly as his owner set about preparing the day’s dessert. Rook was baking lemon lavender tea loaves—a recipe she’d carefully prepped the night before.

The scent of lemon and lavender soon filled the air as she preheated the oven and slipped in the loaf she’d prepped last night—her dessert of the day. The batter had been made with lavender-steeped buttermilk, giving it a soft floral depth that paired beautifully with the bright tang of lemon zest folded throughout. Each loaf would be drizzled with a thin lemon glaze, kissed with sugar and sharpness, pooling just slightly at the corners for that perfect, sticky finish.

While she let her loaves cool, she poured hot water over the tea strainer, watching as crimson-orange tendrils bloomed into the cup—Magistra’s Ember, her preferred remedy for sluggish mornings. The blend of blood orange peel, clove, cinnamon, and embrium curled into the air like an incantation, warm and invigorating. She cupped it in her hands, letting the heat bleed into her palms before taking a cautious sip. Spiced, sharp, and just sweet enough to wake the senses.

As she leaned against the counter, she glanced out the storefront windows and noticed the street was still quiet, the sidewalks not nearly as busy as usual. Her brow quirked. The morning rush—typically a clamor of students and staff from the university—had been notably tame today. Either midterms had broken their spirits or the campus coffee stalls were luring them away with bulk deals and caffeine by the gallon.

Still, she wasn’t complaining. The quiet brought its own kind of comfort.

She decided that now was the perfect opportunity to call an old friend—Vorgoth.
Rook fished out her phone, thumbed through her contacts, and tapped his name.
The line picked up after only two rings.

“GREETINGS.”

That unmistakable voice echoed in her ear—deep, distant, like it belonged in a stone chamber rather than a phone speaker.

“Hello, Vorgoth.”

“ROOK.” He said her name like an invocation, each syllable rich with ancient weight.

She smiled faintly, tapping a finger against the counter in an idle rhythm. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“THE HOUR IS MINE TO SPARE. YOU MAY SPEAK FREELY.”

“Things have been good at the shop. I’m prepping to roll out the winter blends soon.”

There was a low hum, reverberating with thought.

“THE BUSY SEASON DRAWS NEAR. THE WORLD TURNS INWARD. MORTALS SEEK WARMTH AND COMFORT.”

“Yeah…” She rubbed the back of her neck, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Which is why I wanted to ask—any chance you’d be willing to help out again?”

A brief pause lingered, like wind curling through distant caverns.

“ROOK. SHOULD YOU CALL, I SHALL ALWAYS COME.”

Her heart softened at the words. “I know. I just didn’t want to impose on your break. I figured you’d want some peace after everything last season.”

“TO OFFER AID TO ONE I HOLD IN ESTEEM IS NO IMPOSITION. I DO NOT REST. I DO NOT TIRE. I ONLY WANDER… AND GROW BORED.”

There was a hollow, amused breath—his version of a chuckle, perhaps.

“YOUR TEA SHOP OFFERS EXCELLENT DISTRACTION.”

Rook laughed softly, the sound curling with relief. “We try to stay entertaining. I’ll send the schedule to you by tomorrow?”

“I SHALL AWAIT YOUR CORRESPONDENCE.”

“I’ll send you the schedule later tonight.”

“BE WELL, ROOK.”

“You too.” She paused. “Talk soon.”

The call ended with a soft click, her reflection caught in the dark screen. Rook exhaled, a slow release of tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. She tucked the phone in her dress pocket and glanced toward the door.

She took a slow sip from her mug—Magistra’s Ember, letting the warmth curl through her chest like a calming incantation while the flavors of citrus and spice wake her senses.

It wasn’t a lie—Vorgoth would be an immense help during the winter rush. But deep down, she knew her motives weren’t entirely rooted in responsibility. More time freed from the meant more time for sorting the shop’s paperwork, her own side projects… and maybe a little more time with a certain professor, if she played her cards right.

Still, Bellara and Lace had been right. Delegation wasn’t surrender—it was growth. She couldn’t do everything herself forever, no matter how much she tried. Letting go of a little control didn’t mean letting go of care. If anything, it made space for her to care more.

A small smile tugged at her lips—soft, private, a flicker of warmth reserved only for herself.

Oh, how far we’ve come, she mused.

There was a time when the idea of relinquishing control would have made her bristle. Back in her days with the Shadows, Rook never let anyone else take the reins. She saw things through to the bitter end—often to her own detriment. Ashur and Tarquin used to conspire behind her back just to trick her into taking lighter assignments, convinced she was running herself into the ground. Once, they caught her secretly living out of Headquarters for a week just to wrap up a case. Even Neve had to intervene, dragging her away from her files so she’d eat something other than vending machine scraps.

And then—the bell above the shop door chimed.

Selara stepped inside with her usual quiet elegance, the chill of the morning trailing in behind her. She wore a navy trench coat belted at the waist, wide-leg trousers that whispered across the floor with each step, and a charcoal grey turtleneck that made her look every bit the composed magistrate she was. Her dark grey waves were tucked neatly behind one ear, revealing a sharp gaze that immediately fixed on Rook.

Without preamble, she asked, “What happened last night?”

Rook exhaled, already knowing this conversation was inevitable. “Hey, Seri,” she greeted, her voice equal parts fond and weary.

Selara walked to the counter with her usual composed stride and slid onto one of the stools, her trench coat folding neatly beneath her. Rook watched her, wary now, the kind born not from fear but from familiarity. She set down her tea and narrowed one eye.

“What’s got you all bristled?” she asked, leaning slightly on the counter.

Selara folded her hands in front of her, sighing through her nose. “I came home last night to find your brother in his study,” she began, her tone clipped. “Drinking. Brooding. Muttering about how he’s upset you.”

She almost couldn’t believe the pitiful sight before her: her husband sprawled across the long chaise, one arm slung over the backrest, the other cradling a glass of gin. A half-empty bottle sat on the table beside a low bowl of dried meat, crumbling cheese, and a scatter of untouched nuts—while a second bottle lay forgotten on the floor. His boots were still on, and his gaze was fixed on the slow pulse of light and color within the tank, as if willing the Fade-touched fish to offer answers he couldn’t find in himself.

Rook blinked, “Solas? Moping? About me?”

“Yes you,” Selara replied, unamused. “I haven’t seen him like that in a long time.”

Rook tried for a smirk, but it faltered. “That’s hard to picture. The last time I’ve seen him show emotion was when I was in the hospital three years ago, but even then he went back to his stoic demeanor.”

Selara didn’t smile. She arched a brow instead. “Rook. What happened?”

A silence stretched between them. Rook tapped her fingers on the wood. “He came for a visit last night. He didn’t like that I had you and Cole keep secrets from him.”

“Mhm.”

“At first he thought that I was doing Shadow Dragon work again because of a consultation he did with them.”

“Were you?”

Rook hesitated. “…Maybe but I said that, he just freak out about it. So you can’t tell him either.”

“Was it a favor from Neve?”

“Yes, but I’ve been making sure to keep a healthy distance.”

Selara’s gaze softened, but her tone remained level. “You do know that it’s okay if you go back. Solas would cause a fit, sure, but he’d get over it. If it’s what you want.”

Rook shook her head. “No… it’s better if I stay away.”

Selara exhaled slowly, reading between the lines. She could tell Rook didn’t want to talk about it—not really—but this wasn’t something she could ignore. And at the moment she needed to mediate between these infuriating siblings.

“So,” Selara said, her tone softer now, “what did you say to him?”

“I told him I’m seeing someone,” Rook replied, her voice low. “And he immediately went into interrogation mode.”

Selara’s brows lifted slightly. “Ah.”

Rook gave a small shrug—technically, she hadn’t lied to him. But the distraction? That had been entirely the point.

“Long story short, he pissed me off… and I snapped at him.” She looked down, fingers curling against the edge of the counter.

A beat passed before Selara exhaled, her voice touched with weary understanding. “So that’s why I came home to a brooding husband.”

“Essentially, yes.” Rook hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron as she bit her lower lip. “Is he… really upset?”

Selara’s expression softened, her seriousness giving way to something gentler. She reached out, resting a hand over Rook’s.

“What am I going to do with you two?” she murmured. “Don’t worry about your brother—I can handle him.”

Rook often carried guilt over how much Selara had to mediate between her and Solas. She was always the one trying to keep the peace, caught between two people who never quite figured out how to handle each other. Selara was the glue that held their fraying bond together. Without her, Solas would drown in his guilt and pride, while Rook would be left with nothing but her anger and sorrow.

She gave a small nod. “I appreciate it.”

Selara gave her fingers a light squeeze. “So… now that it’s out in the open,” she continued, her voice calm and measured, “can you tell me about him?”

That earned a short laugh from Rook, dry but fond. “First, what has Dorian already told you?”

Selara arched a brow. “You knew I asked?”

“As soon as I told you Dorian knew him, I knew you’d go straight to him.”

“Guilty as charged,” Selara said without shame.

Rook tilted her head. “So? What do you already know?”

“I know his name is Emmrich Volkarin. He’s a guest lecturer from Nevarra. Forensic anthropology is his specialty, among… other impressive things. He’s well-regarded in academic circles—Dorian said he’s nearly on Solas’s level when it comes to reputation.”

Rook raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

“And,” Selara added with a small, knowing smile, “according to Dorian, the man is absolutely smitten with you.”

Rook flushed at Selara’s final remark, quickly ducking her gaze in an attempt to hide the pink creeping into her cheeks. Unfortunately, her sister-in-law caught it immediately and grinned like a cat who’d caught something far more interesting than a mouse.

“Oh, Rook,” she said with a teasing lilt. “Look at you. Blushing. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Shut up,” Rook muttered, reaching for her tea in a futile attempt to hide behind it.

Selara only laughed, folding her hands on the counter again. “So? When do we get to meet him?”

Rook considered that for a beat. “Soon,” she said, “but… I want him to meet my friends first. After that, you and Solas can be next.”

Selara arched a brow. “Am I at least allowed to approach the good professor in the meantime?”

Rook gave her a wary side glance. “Yes, but please don’t go full guard dog on him.”

Selara gave a dramatic sigh, placing a hand to her heart. “You wound me. I’m a model of restraint.”

“You’re also the woman who knows how to lace her words with daggers and poison.”

“That was one time. And they deserved it.”

Rook shook her head with a smirk just as her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and her smirk widened into a laugh. The image Emmrich had sent showed a comically tall stack of exam papers nearly toppling off his desk, with Myrna in the background giving the camera a deeply exhausted side-eye over her own pile.

“I’ll take that as my cue to deliver lunch,” Rook said, already tapping out a reply.

Selara leaned in, catching the edge of the message over her shoulder. “Is that the boyfriend?”

Rook didn’t deny it.

“Well,” Selara said as she stood and smoothed out her coat, “I got what I came for. I’m off tend to my sad, brooding husband now and reassure him that you’re still talking to me.”

Rook snorted. “It’s still hard to believe he mopes. All I’ve ever known is the cold, arrogant wall of Solas.”

Selara’s lips twitched with a smile. “Marriage softens even the frostiest of walls… Eventually.”

“How you conquered my brother, I will never know.”

As she turned to leave, Selara glanced back once more, her expression warm. “I’m happy for you, Rook. Truly.”

Rook gave a quiet nod, the weight of that sentiment settling in her chest in the most unexpected—but not unwelcome—way.

“Thanks, Seri.”

And with that, the bell above the door chimed once more as Selara slipped out, her presence leaving a quiet hush in her wake. Rook stood alone with her tea, her thoughts, and the lingering flutter of something she hadn’t dared name—but had come to truly cherish.

She exhaled, took one last sip, and straightened. There was still work to be done—and a lunch delivery to make.

The university campus was abuzz in the quiet way only academia could manage—murmurs of conversation echoing between stone buildings, the rustle of papers, the scratch of pens. Rook weaved through the familiar paths with ease, her steps steady despite the chill nipping at the air.

A paper bag cradled in one arm, the scent of roasted mushrooms and herbs trailing behind her like a promise. Nestled beside it in a sturdy drink holder were two steaming cups of tea—Sunset Mint, a gentle blend of mint, rose petals, and honey crystals. Comfort in liquid form.

By the time she reached Emmrich’s office, her cheeks were pink from the wind, and the bag was still warm against her fingers. She gave the door a polite knock, the wood cool beneath her knuckles.

It opened a heartbeat later.

Myrna stood in the doorway, eyes sharp and expectant, already inhaling to deliver the usual preamble about office hours being suspended—until recognition struck. Her expression shifted instantly, eyebrows rising in pleasant surprise.

“Rook?” Myrna blinked, then stepped aside with practiced grace. “Well, this is a much more welcome interruption.”

Rook offered a crooked smile, lifting the bag slightly. “Special delivery. Lunch for two. I thought the esteemed professor and his ever-efficient assistant might need a break.”

Myrna chuckled, visibly pleased. “You might’ve just saved our lives.”

The assistant professor stepped aside, allowing Rook into the cozy office that bore all the hallmarks of academic chaos—a tidy sort of mess that came from brilliance and too many deadlines.

Emmrich sat at his desk, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, his half-moon reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of his nose. He was hunched over a stack of exam papers, red pen in hand, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. The soft scratch of ink against paper was the only sound until Myrna called over her shoulder.

“Professor, you’ve got a visitor.”

He looked up—and Rook nearly forgot why she was there.

There was something deeply appealing about him like this. The quiet focus, the slight downward tilt of his head as he glanced over his glasses, the way his shirt clung just enough to his shoulders beneath the waistcoat. The glasses especially—Maker help her—suited him unfairly well. Scholarly, composed, and entirely too attractive. Her heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.

Emmrich’s face lit up the moment he saw her, his expression softening from academic sternness to something far warmer. “Ah—Rook. Please, come in.”

Rook grinned and crossed the room, setting the bag and drinks on the narrow stone table nestled in the corner of the office—the designated student seating area now doubling as an impromptu lunch spot.

“As promised, lunch.”

“Please tell me one of those is for me,” Myrna said, already hovering near the table.

“Of course,” Rook replied smoothly. “I couldn’t feed my favorite professor without also treating his wonderful assistant.”

“Professor, you better keep this one,” Myrna said with mock sternness. “Or I swear to the Maker, you will rue the day.”

That earned a soft, sheepish blush from Emmrich—and a low, delighted laugh from Rook, who raised an eyebrow at him in playful approval.

“The paninis are roasted mushroom with fontina and thyme on olive oil-brushed rye,” she explained. “And the tea is Sunset Mint. Good for the long hours —keeps the mind clear, and it’s easy on the nerves. Not magic, just... a little herbal aid.”

Emmrich took the offered cup with a grateful murmur, the ceramic still warm between his hands. He lifted it slightly, bringing it to his nose for a tentative inhale.

Bright mint first, crisp and invigorating, followed by the softer bloom of rose petals, delicate and floral. Beneath it all was the mellow sweetness of honey crystal, subtle but grounding. The blend was comforting in a quiet, unassuming way, like the breath before a well-chosen word.

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the aroma, then looked to her with open sincerity. “Thank you, Rook. Truly. This was incredibly thoughtful of you.”

“I was happy to,” she said, brushing invisible crumbs off her skirt. “The shop’s been slow today anyway. Figured it was a good excuse to see you both.”

She hesitated, then smiled as she added, “Though I should probably head back. Looks like you’ve both got a mountain to conquer.”

“Regretfully, yes,” Emmrich said, setting aside his glasses. He stepped closer, bending to press a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. “Thank you again, my dear.”

From behind them, Myrna let out a blissful sound as she took a bite of her panini. “I approve of this relationship. Especially if she continues to feed us.”

Rook laughed as she turned toward the door, but paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh—almost forgot. There are two slices of lemon lavender tea loaf in there as well. Thought you both could use something sweet after drowning in midterms.”

Myrna made a delighted sound, already rifling through the bag. “I knew I liked you.”

Emmrich’s expression shifted—softened further, somehow, as if the affection he already wore had spilled over at the edges. “You’re spoiling us.”

She shot him a teasing smile. “You said that this morning, too.”

“And I meant it.”

Rook gave a small shake of her head, warmth rising to her cheeks. With a final wave, she stepped out into the corridor.

Emmrich watched her go, soft-eyed and quiet, as the scent of roasted herbs, bright mint, and baked sugar lingered in her wake—a small, lovely moment carved into the chaos of a long workday.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, streaking the windows with amber light as the Veil & Vine. The tea shop had mellowed into its usual evening lull—soft music curling through the space, a handful of patrons lingering over their mugs, and the scent of lemon, lavender, and tea leaves still faint in the air.

She gave Spite his dinner first, setting his pâté into a ceramic bowl behind the counter while he chirped and circled her ankles in approval. The little void had earned his meal, and she ruffled the fur along his spine as he settled in to eat.

The quiet was welcome. The kind that offered a breath between moments. She rinsed out the last of the strainers, restocked the honey crystals, and made a mental note to prep the chai blend before closing. Another hour, maybe two, and she'd call it.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

Her head lifted automatically—but her smile didn’t come.

Neve stepped inside, wrapped in her long slate-grey coat, her raven hair swept to one shoulder. The scent of frost and steel seemed to follow her in, subtle but unmistakable.

Rook straightened, drying her hands on a towel. “Evening,” she said carefully, watching the woman close the door behind her. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

Neve offered a small nod, her eyes sharp even beneath the fatigue she wore well. “I figured I’d catch you before you locked up.”

“Tea?” Rook asked, gesturing toward the counter.

Neve paused, considering it. “Sure. Something dark.”

Rook turned to the tea station, reaching for the tin of Warden’s Wake—a robust blend of black tea, winterroot, licorice root, and sage. She moved with practiced ease, brewing two cups while the kettle hissed to life. As the leaves steeped, she plated a slice of lemon lavender tea loaf and slid it across the counter toward Neve.

“Thanks, by the way,” Rook said, leaning a hip against the counter. “For the heads-up—about Ashur asking my brother for a consult.”

“Sorry about that,” Neve said, tone even. “Didn’t get the chance to warn you.”

“No harm. I handled it… by using my relationship with Emmrich as a smokescreen.”

That earned the faintest smirk from Neve. “Oh? And how’d that go?”

“Took him a full minute to process it before he shifted into interrogation mode.”

Neve huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds like a doozy.”

“He didn’t get far. I bit his head off before he could really dig in.”

Rook turned back to the kettle, carefully pouring the steeped tea into two ceramic cups. She set one in front of Neve with a soft clink.

“So,” she said, lifting her own cup, “is this a social call, or is there a motive behind it?”

Neve took a sip before answering. “Thanks to your brother, we have a clearer picture of what the Venatori are up to. Unfortunately, it’s made the case more complicated.”

Rook raised a brow. “Should I wait until the last of the customers are gone? Sounds like this one’s best kept private.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Neve replied, settling into her seat a little more. “Gives me a chance to hear how things are going with the Professor. And Spite always appreciates my company.”

The bell above the door gave a final chime as the last customer stepped out into the settling evening. Rook exhaled, stretching the tightness from her shoulders before moving to flip the sign to CLOSED. The lull that followed was familiar—part fatigue, part peace.

Neve wordlessly rose from her seat and began helping with the usual routine. She moved like someone who’d done this a dozen times before, slipping between tasks with practiced ease. Chairs were flipped onto tables, the kettle glyphs deactivated with a precise brush of her fingers. Rook swept, wiped down counters, and gathered the day’s receipts into a neat stack.

Spite, ever the supervisor, leapt onto the bar counter with a dignified thud, tail curling as he watched them like a small, judgmental foreman.

Once everything was squared away, Rook slung her satchel over her shoulder and gave it a gentle pat. Spite hopped inside without complaint, settling into his spot with a deep, curling purr. Neve waited at the front door, glancing over her shoulder with the kind of absent caution that never truly left people like them.

As Rook locked up, Neve said, “Tarquin’s on his third migraine this week. Something about a hexed ledger and a cursed engagement ring—same case.”

Rook smirked. “Sounds like the romantic kind of headache. I held that position for years.”

Neve gave a quiet huff of laughter. “You were much louder about it.”

“I was scrappy.”

They walked in step beneath the streetlamps, their breath rising in soft plumes. The city had mellowed with nightfall, the buzz of traffic giving way to a quieter rhythm.

When they reached the familiar turn toward Rook’s apartment, Neve gave a small tap on her arm and leaned in close.

“I’ll circle back. Just in case,” she murmured, lips barely moving.

The words weren’t alarming—not yet—but they sparked something old in Rook’s bones. She gave a small nod, subtle and smooth, and continued up the steps without looking back.

Inside, her apartment welcomed her with its usual hush. She lowered the satchel to let Spite out, who made a beeline for his preferred perch atop her reading nook near a heating rune, soaking in the warmth like a tiny void king.

Rook rolled up her sleeves and got to work prepping dinner—enough for two. She pulled and prepped the ingredients with the kind of focus that came from years of needing structure to keep her thoughts from spiraling. The task calmed her nerves, but not enough to forget Neve’s quiet warning.

Tonight’s dinner was butter chicken. The jasmine rice already simmering, its floral scent weaving through the apartment in delicate threads. She stirred the spiced tomato base slowly, watching the swirl of cream bloom into it, mellowing the heat with richness.

There were leftover flatbreads in the warming drawer, still soft and pliant. She eyed the yogurt in the fridge, debating if she should throw together a quick dip—something with lemon and coriander maybe, just for brightness. It would take only a few minutes.

Then she heard the click of the door.

Neve stepped inside with the casual confidence she always carried—helped, of course, by the spare key she’d made for herself ages ago. She shut the door carefully behind her, movements precise, like someone weighed down by more than just cold air. With a quiet exhale, she shrugged off her coat and draped it over the couch.

“Smells divine,” she said, toeing off her boot with practiced grace. “I think I’m starting to like this new habit of yours—anxious cooking suits you.”

Rook didn’t look up from the stove. “We still have to eat.”

Neve wandered toward the couch, easing into it with the practiced ease of someone who belonged there. Meanwhile, Rook moved through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, plating two bowls of butter chicken over jasmine rice, the warm spice mingling with the floral sweetness in the air.

She handed one off with a raised brow. “If you were checking for a tail,” she said evenly, “this update’s going to suck.”

Neve took the bowl, her expression unreadable save for the faint crease between her brows. “Let’s just say… it’ll make for a hell of a headline.”

They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, the clink of utensils soft against ceramic, the scent of butter chicken and warm flatbread hanging in the air. It wasn’t until Neve set down her fork with a quiet tap that the conversation began.

“Solas went over the blueprints and notes we found at the scene,” she said, tone measured. “He thinks the Venatori are planning something… big. Bigger than anything we’ve seen them attempt before.”

Rook stilled, her spoon hovering over her bowl. “How big is big?”

Neve exhaled slowly. “One of the instructions had a sketch. A dagger—intricately made. Not ceremonial. Something older, almost reverent. Solas thinks it’s the key. If he’s right… it’s the linchpin to the entire ritual.”

She frowned and nudged her rice with her spoon, suddenly less hungry. “And what kind of ritual are we talking about?”

“The ancient kind,” Neve replied, watching her carefully. “Back in the old days, there were whispers of rites powerful enough to summon the Old Gods. The ones that were said to be archdemons during the blights.”

Rook’s eyes widened at that bit of news. “How’d they get the knowledge of something that dangerous?”

Neve’s lips twisted. “Probably raided a ruin in Arthalan or something.”

“Do we have any idea about the dagger?”

“It definitely looks like a custom job,” Neve continued. “They’re making this thing from scratch which means a lot of lyrium, time, or in the Venatori’s case? Blood.”

The shadows under her eyes deepened as she looked up with concern. “If they’re trying to bring down something worse than a demon horde… Minrathous isn’t ready for that.”

“Exactly,” Neve said. “Solas is still digging into the origins of the ritual. Ashur and Tarquin are already talking taskforce. They're trying to confirm if there’s been a spike in lyrium thefts, but so far, nothing’s definitive.”

Rook pushed her bowl aside slightly, appetite all but gone now. “What if the Venatori aren’t stealing lyrium?”

Neve tilted her head.

Rook’s voice dropped. “What if the kidnappings are how they’re getting around it? They’ve always substituted blood for power before.”

Neve didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze flicked toward the window, the city lights bleeding faintly through the curtain. The gears turned behind her eyes—sharp, calculating, grim.

If Rook was right, the implications were massive. That kind of ritual would require gallons of blood—enough to fill barrels. Enough to drown a neighborhood.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Neve said softly.

Rook leaned back, muttering under her breath. “Kaffas.”

Neve rose without a word and gathered their bowls, moving toward the sink with a quiet efficiency that mirrored how she handled everything else—direct, unflinching, steady. The water ran, soft and steady against ceramic. Rook remained on the couch, legs curled beneath her, her thoughts heavier than the meal sitting in her stomach.

Spite settled at the head of the couch, his little black form a warm, familiar weight. Rook reached up, absently scratching under his chin. He gave a slow blink, purring low in his throat—a grounding sound in the middle of all the unease curling in her chest.

She hesitated. Then:

“Do they know that I was there?”

The question left her in a near-whisper, like saying it too loud might summon something unwelcome. Her fingers stilled in Spite’s fur.

At the sink, Neve didn’t respond right away. The clink of ceramic echoed as she set the last bowl aside. Only then did she glance over her shoulder, her expression unreadable, eyes shadowed by the weight of what she wasn’t saying.

“No one’s said anything. And we were careful.”

Rook’s fingers stilled for just a moment. “…But?”

“But,” Neve said, shutting off the tap and drying her hands with a dish towel, “they found the Venatori body you took down. The one with the slashed throat. And Ashur mentioned the scent of ozone still clinging to the room.”

That made Rook's stomach sink.

Neve returned to the room, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Her expression was unreadable, but the tension in her posture spoke volumes.

“They’re not fools,” she said, her voice level. “They know someone was there. They haven’t said it outright, but… it’s a short list of people who leave marks like that. And you and I aren’t exactly unknown quantities.”

Rook ran her thumb gently along Spite’s fur, her gaze unfocused. “So they know.”

Neve offered a slight nod. “Maybe. Maybe not. They’re focused on the ritual right now. If they suspect, they haven’t made it a priority.”

“Doesn’t mean they won’t.” Rook’s tone turned low, bitter. “And when they do…”

“Neither of them have asked questions. Not to me, at least.”

Rook’s fingers stilled. “What should I do?”

Neve didn’t offer an immediate answer. Instead, she asked, “Do you want to keep going? Or do you want to stop?”

The silence that followed was thick.

That was the question Rook hadn’t let herself ask—let alone answer. She hadn’t expected to find herself standing this close to the threshold again. The boundary she’d drawn, the one that once felt so certain, now blurred at the edges. And in its place was an ache she thought had dulled with time.

What did she want?

If she kept going, she’d eventually have to face Ashur and Tarquin again—face the weight of everything she left behind. But if she walked away now… would she be able to live with the questions? With the wondering? With the knowledge that this could unravel into something worse—and that she might’ve been able to stop it?

Her grip tightened slightly around Spite, who nestled closer without complaint.

Neve watched her friend quietly, the flickering light from the stove casting soft shadows across Rook’s face. She didn’t need to hear the answer yet—she could see it written in the tension of Rook’s jaw, in the way her fingers absently scratched behind Spite’s ear as if grounding herself in the present.

She stayed still for a beat longer, then slowly moved to sit beside her, close but not imposing. She rested her hand on Rook’s shoulder—not to urge her forward, but simply to let her know she was still here. Still with her.

The silence hung between them, thick with the echo of old missions, of quiet exits and doors that were never meant to close.

Her voice came low, almost reluctant to disturb the hush.

“I want to tell you to walk away,” Neve said. “To keep your peace, the one you fought so hard for.”

She looked down at her hand on Rook’s shoulder. “But I’d be lying if I said that was all I wanted.”

A soft, bitter laugh escaped her nose.

“The selfish part of me wants you in this. Wants us back in the field—shoulder to shoulder, just like it used to be. Because no one watched my back the way you did. And no one got me like you did.”

Her fingers curled slightly before she let out a long breath.

“But the part that cares for you more than the mission… the part that stayed after everything crumbled? That part’s terrified this will eat you alive again.”

She didn’t look at Rook when she said it. Just stared ahead, eyes unfocused, like she could see the weight of the past stretching out before them.

“I guess I don’t know which part of me is louder right now,” she admitted.

“Neve…”

The detective let the silence settle for a moment longer before she moved. Gently, without ceremony, she pulled Rook into a hug—one arm wrapped firm around her shoulders, the other resting between her shoulder blades, anchoring her.

It wasn’t a tight grip, not desperate. Just steady. Familiar. The kind of hug that said, I’ve got you. No matter what.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Neve murmured against her temple. “Take your time, Rook. Figure out what you want—not what’s expected. Not what anyone else needs. Just you.”

Rook didn’t speak. She just closed her eyes and let herself breathe, chest rising and falling against her friend’s.

“I’ll back whatever choice you make,” Neve continued, her voice low, quiet like a promise. “And I’ll keep having your back. Always.”                                  

Rook considered herself incredibly lucky to have Neve as a friend—if she was being honest, Neve had been her first real one. They had trained side by side with the Shadow Dragons, partnered on countless missions, and weathered more storms than Rook could count. When everything fell apart—when Rook walked away from the Dragons in a crash of failure and regret—it was Neve who stood by her. Who helped her pick up the scattered pieces of a broken life and quietly, steadily, helped her rebuild.

Chapter Text

Rain had fallen earlier, and the city still wore its scent—wet stone, old iron, and the ghosts of storms. The streets glistened beneath scattered lamplight, puddles rippling faintly with the breath of wind.

And Rook ran.

against damp pavement, lungs burning with every breath. Her coat whipped around her legs, water and sweat clinging to her skin like a second layer of shame. Her body screamed for her to stop—but something inside of her refused.

Run.

Her mind screamed it louder than her body could obey.

Run.

Tarquin’s voice tore through her like shrapnel, looping again and again until it wasn't a memory anymore—it was a sentence. A curse. A brand.

“You’re a danger, Rook. A liability. A disaster waiting to happen.”

Another step. Another jagged breath. Her vision blurred at the edges. She didn’t know where she was going—only that she had to keep moving. Away from the wreckage. Away from herself.

Her ribs ached with every breath. Her muscles screamed for relief. Her insides felt scorched, like fire still danced beneath her skin.

But she ran.

She deserved to hurt.

How could you do that?
What were you thinking?
Oh Gods—what did you do?!

She choked back the sob rising in her throat, the sound swallowed by the night. Her feet carried her through the city’s underbelly, past sleeping storefronts and shuttered homes, until she found a stretch of fencing near a disused garden wall. Vines curled around the iron like dead hands, the space beyond forgotten.

She slipped through a break in the fence and stumbled into the darkness.

There—at the far end—she collapsed to her knees against a crumbling cobblestone wall. Her back hit the stone hard enough to jar her teeth. She didn't care. Her whole body trembled, sweat slick under her gloves. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She tried to make fists—tight, grounding fists—but her fingers wouldn’t obey. They quivered like brittle leaves in a storm.

Her chest heaved. Her heart raced. Her thoughts fragmented.

You didn’t mean to. You didn’t know. That wasn’t you.

But the damage was done.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to disappear. Anything to silence the voice in her head.

Her breath hitched. A dry sob broke loose.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t—

I’m awful. I’m a terrible person. All I had to do…

I ruined everything. I ruined it.

Her limbs felt heavy now. Her head lolled back against the wall, eyes fluttering half-shut. Exhaustion dragged at her bones, heavier than any wound. She was so, so tired.

The tears dried on her cheeks as the world began to tilt. The cold, wet stone rose up to meet her cheek.

And then—darkness took her.

Rook jolted upright, heart thundering in her chest like it was trying to break free. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, each inhale catching like gravel in her throat. Sweat clung to her skin, the sheets were twisted and damp around her legs, trapping her in the remnants of the nightmare.

For a moment, her eyes were wild—searching, unfocused, as if expecting to see blood on the walls or smoke in the air. But the shadows around her were still. Familiar. Her bedroom slowly anchored her: the soft, moss-green quilt bunched around her hips; the framed photograph of her parents smiling, slightly askew on the nightstand; the glass terrarium nestled beside it, its succulent catching the faintest glimmer of moonlight on its waxy leaves. Amethyst chips glittered within the soil like tiny embers—still, quiet, real.

She was home. Not in the rain. Not running. Not alone.

But her body didn’t know that yet.

One trembling hand came to rest over her sternum, her palm splayed as if to quiet the violent rhythm underneath. Her chest rose and fell too quickly—shallow, uneven. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to anchor herself to the steady warmth of her skin, to the echo of her own heartbeat.

Breathe, Evara.

Just breathe.

You’re not there anymore.

You’re here.

You’re safe

But the panic buzzed inside her like a swarm, tight in her ribs, scraping at her throat.

A soft chirp cut through it.

Spite stirred beside her, blinking up from his curled spot at the edge of the blanket. His small, dark form radiated warmth and steadiness, his eyes narrowing not in irritation—but in wordless concern. Rook’s fingers reached for him reflexively.

He didn’t resist. He never did.

She threaded her hand into the soft fur between his shoulders, grounding herself in the texture, the weight, the steady purr rumbling beneath her palm. She focused on that—on the here and now, not the dream, not the guilt curled in her spine like a second heart.

Her own heart still pounded.

But slowly…

Slowly.

Her mind began to find the quiet.

Kaffas. She thought she was over this.

Over the nightmares. Over the ghosts of her past clawing their way back to the surface. But tonight, they had found her. The memories of failure, of blood and screaming and the look in Tarquin’s eyes when he’d called her dangerous—it all came rushing back with brutal clarity.

Maybe that talk with Neve had shaken something loose. Stirred the part of her that had gone quiet over the years. Her mind, it seemed, wasn’t ready to let her walk back toward that life without a fight. Even if she hadn’t said yes—yet.

Rook sat upright in bed, the sweat clinging to her back cold against her nightshirt. She dragged a shaky hand through her hair, pushing it away from her damp forehead. Her curls caught at her fingers, snarled slightly from sleep and stress, but she didn’t care. Her hand trembled as it came to rest over her chest, pressed flat against the frantic beat of her heart. It pounded like it wanted out, echoing through her ribs, demanding that she do something.

Her eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched as she tried to steady her breathing—four in, hold, six out. Again. Then again. The panic was still there, buzzing like static beneath her skin, but at least now it had form. Something she could breathe through. Something she could name.

With her free hand, she reached toward the nightstand, fingers brushing over the edge of the small terrarium nestled beside her books. Inside, a mana crystal glinted faintly in the dark, inert and dormant. Rook pressed two fingers gently to its base, letting the smallest pulse of mana trickle from her skin into the crystal. It came to life with a soft, violet glow, casting long shadows against the terrarium’s moss-lined interior. The light painted the room in lavender hues, cool and steadying—enough to push back the worst of the dark.

She watched the glow for a moment, letting it calm her further. This place was hers. This space was safe.

For two years, she’d been rebuilding. Learning how to live without the fight. Without the chaos. She had roots now. A tea shop that smelled like lemon, mint and lavender, and a place to call her own. A family she found along the way from the one that she lost. A life made of more than missions and scars.

She had Spite.

She had friends.

She had Emmrich.

Maker, there was so much to weigh.

Neve had told her not to decide anything yet—and she wouldn’t. She didn’t have to. Not tonight.

Still breathing a little unevenly, Rook turned and shifted down, lowering her forehead to rest gently against Spite’s head. The little void gave a soft, annoyed grumble but didn’t pull away, just pressed in closer with a low, soothing purr.

“Sorry for interrupting your beauty sleep,” she murmured.

The little void chuffed in response, nuzzled under her chin with sleepy insistence, accepting the apology in full if it meant more cuddles.

Rook closed her eyes again, the soft violet light still glowing beside her, warding off the darkness just enough. Spite curled closer at her side, a steady presence. For now, it would have to be enough.

The university’s main faculty hall had been lightly dressed for the end-of-term celebration—enchanted snowflake lanterns drifted lazily near the high windows, while firefly lights buzzed near the rafters with absentminded cheer. A modest spread of wine, seasonal pastries, and spiced cider lined the side tables, half-pilfered already by relieved professors eager to let the weight of midterms melt off their shoulders.

Emmrich nursed a steaming cup of cider in one hand, his other tucked in the pocket of his waistcoat. Around him, conversations circled in familiar loops—grumbles about late submissions, bets on which student would drop their thesis next, and the usual skirmishes over departmental budgets. He nodded along, pleasant but reserved, grateful for the distraction but only half-invested.

“Oh no you don’t, Hezenkoss,” came a familiar, stern voice from behind him.

Emmrich turned just in time to see Professor Strife—tall, angular, with a brow like thunderclouds and a moral compass forged in granite—extract a hip flask from Johanna Hezenkoss’s coat.

“Come off it, Strife. We both know this occasion calls for actual alcohol,” Johanna protested, glaring like she'd just been personally robbed.

“It’s one in the afternoon, Professor Hezenkoss.”

“Oh, don’t be such a sanctimonious bore.”

“Step away from the punch bowls, you heathen.”

Muttering a colorful stream of profanity under her breath, Johanna turned and made a beeline for Emmrich. “There goes my charitable mood,” she grumbled. With practiced ease, she produced a second flask—previously hidden—and took a bracing swig. The sharp tang of absinthe and gin hit the air like a curse.

“None of these dusted motes know how to celebrate,” she said, snapping the cap back into place.

“Johanna, this is a staff party,” Emmrich replied mildly.

“Oh, please. The conferences in Nevarra had more life than this tomb.”

“You only remember the part where there was a heated debate about necromantic ethics between another professor and a high undead.” He sighed. “And then the wraiths.”

Johanna snorted. “Exactly. That was a conference.”

Emmrich smiled faintly into his glass as she took another defiant swig, clearly savoring the memory.

“So,” she said, voice turning sly. “How’s your charming, young mid-life crisis? Has she satisfied your carnal urges to fund her groceries?”

Ah yes. There it was. The sugar-daddy jab—again. A term he had only learned thanks to Myrna, and one Johanna wielded with habitual cruelty. He’d admit—some past entanglements had indeed used him for his reputation and coin. At the time, he welcomed it. So long as they stayed. They rarely did.

But Rook—she was different.

She didn’t care about his academic acclaim or his wealth. She saw him. He could still picture the triumphant gleam in her eye when she snatched the check at their lunch date, determined to pay. Her fierce independence was more than admirable—it was endearing.

“She has her own business, Johnanna.”

“Yes, yes, the tea shop,” she waved a hand dismissively. “Far too rustic for my tastes.”

“I find it charming.”

Johanna scoffed. “Of course you do. You’re a sodding romantic with a bleeding heart.”

He didn’t argue—because it was true. Instead, he allowed himself a quiet smile. “Rook and I are doing well. I’m planning something for us—now that midterms are finished.”

His colleague scowled, “Ugh, I’m leaving. I don’t want to hear these sugary-sweet declarations while sober.” She turned on her heel, already stalking off. “I’m going to see if those hippy art professors have any Antivan cigars tucked away in their lounge.”

Emmrich called after her mildly, “We still have work after this.”

She waved him off, retorting over her shoulder, “Trust me, Volkarin—students prefer me on something. I make them cry less that way.”

As Johanna stormed off, muttering about the "cowards in academia" and determined to find solace among the art faculty's contraband cigars, Emmrich exhaled deeply. He took a final, polite sip of his drink, already deciding he’d fulfilled his social obligations. A quiet return to his office was in order… perhaps followed by a message to Rook. Maybe she’d enjoy a walk home through the evening light.

But as he turned to leave, fate—predictably—intervened.

“Professor Volkarin!” came Dorian’s unmistakable voice, delighted and far too pleased. “Just the man I was hoping to ambush.”

Emmrich halted mid-step, adjusting his smile with the calm of a man bracing for impact. At Dorian’s side stood an elven woman he didn’t immediately recognize—tall, poised, and unmistakably someone of presence. Her complexion was sun-warmed tan, kissed by years of travel and sun, with sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Wavy dark grey hair, cropped just to her shoulders, framed a face both elegant and unapologetically shrewd. She wore her authority like tailored silk: effortless, precise, impossible to ignore. Every measured step and glance suggested she was a woman used to commanding attention—and getting it.

“May I introduce you,” Dorian said with theatrical flair, “to Magistrate Selara Lavellan—cultural liaison to magical societies, diplomatic genius, and, incidentally, someone with a very keen interest in ethical archaeology.”

Selara extended a hand, her gaze cool but curious. “Professor Volkarin. It’s a pleasure.”

Emmrich took her hand, bowing his head with the respectful grace that came so naturally to him. “The pleasure is mine, Magistrate. Your work with the restoration accords and cultural restitution laws has set invaluable precedents. Many in my field, myself included, owe you a great deal.”

Selara offered a small, knowing smile. “And yet, I’ve heard quite a few fascinating things about you, Professor—your Nevarran expeditions, your research into the Shrouded Halls, and a number of… compelling accomplishments.”

Her voice carried the careful cadence of someone who was used to both flattering and unsettling with the same breath.

Then, as if in passing, she added, “Of course, I also hold another title beyond my diplomatic work… I’m the wife of Solas Ingellvar.”

That gave Emmrich pause. His smile twitched, suspicion beginning to spark. He turned, eyes narrowing faintly. “Dorian.”

Dorian leaned in with the air of a man who lived for this kind of moment. “Remember that little bird who told me about you going on a date?”

Emmrich’s brows lifted. “She’s the bird?”

“The very same,” Dorian said, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Ah.”

Selara, still composed and unflinching, folded her hands behind her back. “I find myself particularly interested in your connection with a certain person of interest.”

Her tone was unreadable—neither hostile nor overly warm. Simply... protective.

Emmrich gave a slow exhale, his smile tilting wry. “I’m guessing this is the sort of conversation better held somewhere more private?”

Selara’s smile deepened, polite but unreadable. “That would be ideal, yes.”

Dorian raised his glass in mock toast. “I’ll leave you two to it. Try not to interrogate him too hard, Selara. He’s still technically on-the-clock.”

Selara didn’t look away from Emmrich. “I make no promises.”

Emmrich led Selara through the quieter corridors of the forensics wing, the hum of the party fading into a distant murmur behind them. The transition from polished stone halls to the slightly dimmer, cooler academic wing felt almost symbolic—less spectacle, more substance.

He unlocked his office with a practiced flick of the wrist and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.

Selara moved with the quiet assurance of someone used to inspecting foreign spaces. Her sharp eyes swept across the room—not with suspicion, but with a dignified curiosity. She took in the orderly shelves stacked with anatomical texts and field journals, the decorative skulls, the antique display case of forensic tools from different cultures and eras, and the central desk where a half-sorted tray of marked bone fragments rested beneath a magnifying crystal lamp.

The room bore the hallmarks of deep discipline—and of someone who found comfort in meticulous study.

Selara stepped further inside, her gloved fingertips brushing briefly along the edge of a polished shelf. “I do apologize for the sudden meeting. Curiosity got the better of me and Dorian enjoys creating a dramatic entrance.”

Emmrich closed the door behind them with a click, giving her a sidelong glance. “Yes, Dorian always had a flair for theatrics.”

“Relax, Professor,” she said gently. “I simply wished to meet the man who is dating my dear sister-in-law.” Her gaze lingered on his for a beat. “Rook gave me her blessing to probe.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Then I suppose I should be honored.”

“Indeed.”

“Emmrich is just fine,” he replied, voice quieter now. “I’m glad that Rook has a caring family member.”

Selara’s smirk returned, though it was less teasing this time. “Well, someone has to watch over these siblings. Now then, Professor, I must ask what is it that raised your interest in Rook?”

Not accusatory. Not even confrontational. Just honest—and a little protective. The diplomat was gone now; this was the sister. The guardian.

Emmrich didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned toward his desk, letting his hand rest on the edge—more to steady his thoughts than anything else. His gaze dropped briefly to the bone fragments still waiting to be catalogued, then lifted again, finding Selara’s eyes with quiet steadiness.

“Mrs. Lavellan,” he said at last. “I’m sure that you have worries about my intentions with Rook. Given our ages.”

He hesitated, then added with the smallest huff of dry amusement, “Believe me, this wasn’t in the plans when I came to Minrathous.”

His voice softened, losing some of its usual academic detachment. “Rook was someone who I’d gotten to know gradually as a regular at her shop. It wasn’t dramatic, or sudden. There was no grand moment of revelation. Just… curiosity. The conversations alone captivated me from her tea blends, confections, her playful nature. The quiet kindness she possessed was warm and Spite… he is a character.”

Selara’s mouth twitched at that, but she stayed silent.

He paused, voice thickening just slightly. “And the more I knew… the more I wanted to know. About all of it. About her.”

He straightened a little, not defensively—but with a quiet conviction that settled into his shoulders.

“I care for her deeply. I don’t take that lightly. Whatever this becomes, however long I have the privilege of her choosing me—I’m hers, for as long as she’ll have me.”

For a long beat, Selara simply regarded him.

Not with diplomatic detachment, but with the eyes of someone who knew what love looked like when it wasn’t loud or dramatic—but real. Earnest. Earned.

She took in the softened edge of Emmrich’s shoulders, the slight tension in his hand where it rested on the desk, the way his gaze hadn't wavered once when he spoke of Rook.

Dorian had been right. The professor was undeniably, thoroughly smitten.

She had known from the way Rook spoke about him—measured but unmistakably fond—that she was already half-captivated by the man. And now, seeing him in person, it was easy to understand why. The professor was handsome, yes, but it was more than that. There was a steadiness to him, a warmth beneath the reserve, the kind of presence that drew people in without demanding it —it was clear the feeling ran both ways. Whatever this was between them, it wasn’t fleeting.

And that truth brought a slow, fond smile to her lips.

“Well,” Selara said, tilting her head, “I can see why they all gushed about you when I asked.”

Her tone was teasing, but her eyes held nothing but approval.

“I’m glad,” she continued more gently, “that she’s found someone genuine. Sincere. She’s always had a way of finding the broken or complicated ones and mending them in her quiet way—but it’s good to see that someone is choosing her just as earnestly.”

Emmrich exhaled, a hint of tension easing from his frame. “Does that mean I’ve passed your inspection?”

The elven woman laughed—light, melodic, with the faintest hint of mischief. “Please, you had my approval the moment Dorian gave me his full report. And trust me, that man’s assessments are thorough.”

He blinked, a little sheepish. “Ah. I suppose I should’ve known I’d already been vetted.”

“One of the perks of being a diplomat.” She stepped toward the door, smoothing the edge of her coat. “But don’t celebrate just yet.”

He arched a brow. “There’s a catch?”

“My husband,” she said wryly. “You’ll still have to survive a conversation with Solas. And let me tell you, that will be an entirely different battlefield.”

Emmrich gave a small, dry laugh. “Wonderful.”

“But that’s a meeting Rook gets to decide,” Selara added, pausing at the threshold. “He won’t approach you. Not unless she opens that door.”

She turned, her hand resting lightly on the frame, and her expression softened again—this time with something older, sadder, more fiercely tender.

“Take care of her, Emmrich. That girl… she’s endured more than most know. And she deserves—truly deserves—something kind.”

Emmrich met her gaze, his own voice quiet but certain. “You have my word.”

Selara nodded once, satisfied.

Then with a faint smile and a quiet farewell, she slipped out, leaving the door to click softly shut behind her.

Emmrich stood in the quiet that followed, the warmth of Selara’s approval lingering in the room like the memory of sunlight. From what Rook had shared about her strained relationship with her brother, it was reassuring to know that she had family who cared deeply for her—someone who carried warmth instead of distance. He’d been nervous, unsure of what to expect, but now... he allowed himself a quiet breath of relief.

It had gone well. Better than he’d hoped.

The Veil & Vine had settled into its late afternoon hush, golden light pooling through the windows like honey. The soft shuffle of pages, the clink of mugs, the faint scent of cardamom and lemon peel—it was all comfortingly familiar. But Rook couldn’t shake the static humming in her chest.

She kept her spirits up for the lingering customers. Smiled, steeped, small talk.

But now that the shop was empty… the quiet closed in like a rising tide—slow, insistent, impossible to ignore.

She realized too late that she’d over-steeped her tea. The bitterness curled on her tongue as she poured it down the drain with a hiss. Maybe reading would help. Something familiar. Something light. She moved toward the reading nook, fingertips trailing the spines.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

She turned—and paused at the sight of Lucanis stepping in, dressed in his usual curated severity. Midnight-blue trench coat. Black turtleneck. Fitted slacks and suede boots that somehow didn’t track a single speck of dust.

One brow arched, she leaned against the shelf. “Did Neve send you?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug as he approached. “She may have mentioned you were brooding.”

Rook let her head drop back with a groan. “Of course she did.”

From his perch above the reading nook, Spite leapt gracefully down and circled through Lucanis’s legs with a chirp. The man chuckled, lowering a gloved hand to scratch behind one ear.

“Hello, el diablo.”

Rook drifted to the bar counter and perched on the high chair there, resting her elbow on the counter. “What’d she tell you?”

Lucanis unfastened his gloves with methodical ease, then shrugged off his coat and draped it over the stool beside her. “She said that you helped her on a case. That her superiors may or may not be circling the truth. And that you’re currently teetering between stepping back into the Shadows and remaining a third party.”

He glanced at the espresso machine and nodded toward it. “May I?”

“Have at it.”

He gave a rare smile—just the barest quirk of his mouth—and rolled up his sleeves, moving with the practiced ease of a man who knew his way around her barista setup. He began browsing through the tins of beans, reading each label in silence.

Rook watched him work. Watched the way his movements were precise but never hurried, as if the act of brewing coffee was the spell that held the rest of him still.

“You’re not going to give me advice, are you?” she asked.

Lucanis paused, then measured out a scoop of beans. “I’m just here to lend an ear.”

A beat passed. The sound of the grinder filled the silence.

“…Fair,” she said, quietly.

He tamped the grounds. “Besides,” he added, tone dry, “you wouldn’t listen anyway.”

That earned a faint smirk from her. “Also fair.”

He slid the espresso shot under the portafilter, started the machine, and leaned his hip against the counter as it began to brew. The hum filled the quiet between them.

“So,” Lucanis said, his tone low but even, “let’s hear it. What’s hiding behind that storm in your head?”

Rook hesitated, eyes fixed on the dark drip.

“…What if I mess it up again?” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “If I go back, I’ll have to see them. Face everything I left behind. My mistakes… the fallout.” Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles pale with tension. “There’s this fear—this gnawing pit in my chest—that if I get involved, I’ll just repeat the same damn mistakes all over again.”

“I know I’m better now. I know my limits. I’ve learned from it. I just…” Her voice cracked slightly, a bitter edge softening into something small. “I don’t want to lose myself again.”

Lucanis said nothing at first. The hiss of steam and soft clink of ceramic filled the space as he finished preparing two mugs. He set them down—one near her, the other kept in his hand—and leaned casually against the counter.

“Do you remember the first day we met?” he asked.

A flicker of confusion passed over her features, then softened into faint amusement. “Of course I do. It was probably my most eventful trip to Vyrantium. How could I forget a day like that?”

“It was definitely one for the books,” he said with a smirk.

“You’re telling me. That place ruined bath houses for me.”

“You were not the one covered in blood.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone was drenched in blood that day,” she muttered, shaking her head. “How did they even preserve so much of it?”

“Unsettling logistics,” he said, raising his mug. “The Venatori were always theatrical.”

Rook blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

He turned his gaze on her, steady and sharp—but not unkind. “Yes. There is.”

He let that sit a moment before continuing.

“You were undercover. Outnumbered. Trapped in a cell beside a stranger with nothing to gain by trusting you. And yet—” he lifted his mug slightly, almost like a toast, “—you got me out. You and Neve tore through that place and made sure those bastards never saw daylight again.”

“I mean, you helped a little bit.”

“I was just a lucky bystander.” He took a sip. “And after all that, you stayed. Helped me pick up the pieces. Came with me to Treviso. Punched at my idiot cousin. Threatened my grandmother.”

“Okay… maybe I shouldn’t have done that part. But she deserved it.”

“It was a sight to see,” he said with a grin tugging at his mouth. Then, gentler, “But that’s the point, Rook. Being a Shadow Dragon wasn’t a mistake. You gave your heart to the job—forgot your limits, yeah—but you still did good. Under that mountain of bad memories, there’s still light. Still moments worth remembering.”

He nodded toward her hands. “You’re not the same person you were. You’re asking the right questions. That fear you have? That means you’re aware enough not to let it consume you again.”

She stared down at her drink, shoulders tense. “…Doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her for a moment, shrugging his shoulders.

“No,” he agreed. “But it means if it does, you’ll know how to claw your way back. Because you’ve done it before. I’ve seen it.”

There was silence between them for a few heartbeats. Then he added, a bit more gently, “Besides, you’re not alone anymore. Not like you were back then.”

Rook’s grip on the mug eased slightly.

“You’ve got people now,” Lucanis said. “Neve. Me. Your professor—hopefully. The whole gang. Even el diablo’s got your back.”

Spite, ever dramatic in his timing, chirped from his perch as if to punctuate the thought.

Rook exhaled—a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. “I guess that’s true. As for Emmrich… he’s starting to get acquainted with my dark and stormy past. I want to talk to him about this. All of it.”

Lucanis smiled. “Good. And if you choose to go back… we’ll all be here to pull you back if it starts getting too dark.”

He nudged her mug with his knuckles. “Now drink your coffee. It’ll taste like ash if it gets cold, and I am not wasting good beans on your emotional turmoil.”

Rook smirked and brought the mug to her lips, the steam curling against her face like a quiet exhale. The first sip rolled over her tongue—bold and rich, the roast deep and smoky, with just enough cinnamon to warm her chest. Then came the faintest sting of black pepper at the end, sharp and grounding.

She closed her eyes briefly, letting the flavor settle.

Rook’s Dark.

One of her earliest blends. Crafted in the dead of night after one of Lucanis’s coffee-making lessons at the Loft with shaking hands and stubborn pride.

He’d hovered at her shoulder then—correcting her ratios, adjusting the grind, teasing her when she nearly scorched the beans—and when it finally came together, they’d both known she’d made something worth keeping.

And now here it was again. Strong, smoldering, unapologetically hers.

She took another sip, the warmth blooming in her chest.

“…Still bites,” she said softly.

Lucanis raised his mug in quiet toast. “As it should. You made it that way.”

She huffed a breath—not quite a laugh, but lighter than before. “A Veil & Vine exclusive.”

He grinned. “Feeling better?”

She cradled the cup, let the warmth seep into her fingers. “Yeah, I do.”

Lucanis gave a satisfied nod, as if that was the only answer she needed.

Then—chime.

The soft ping of her phone broke the quiet. She blinked, reluctantly setting her mug down to check the screen.

Emmrich: Hello darling, I’ve finished my work early. Would you like to have dinner together?

A breath slipped from her lips—small, almost a laugh. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed back.

Rook: I’d like that. Your place or mine?

Emmrich: Meet me at the townhouse?

Rook: It’s a date.

She set the phone down, smile lingering just behind her eyes.

Lucanis raised an eyebrow from over his mug. “The professor, I assume?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I have dinner plans.”

“Good.” He gave a satisfied nod and downed the rest of his coffee. “Go meet him. I’ll lock up for you.”

She looked at him, genuinely touched. “You sure?”

“Rook,” he said dryly, “I know where you keep the key. And the spare. And the other spare.”

She huffed, shaking her head as she rose. “Don’t touch the tip jar.”

“Have fun.”

As she grabbed her coat and stepped toward the door, Spite padded after her with a curious chirp. She knelt, giving the little void a gentle scratch behind the ears.

“Lucky you,” she murmured. “You get to spend time with your favorite Antivan.”

Lucanis stepped around the counter and scooped Spite easily into one arm. The cat blinked, surprised but not displeased.

“I’ll take him back to the apartment,” Lucanis said. “Keep him entertained. He’s due for a proper ego boost.”

Spite chirped smugly, already draping himself across Lucanis’s shoulder like a velvet monarch.

Rook grinned despite herself. “You spoil him.”

“He deserves it,” Lucanis replied, deadpan. “He’s clearly the brains of this operation.”

With one last amused glance at them both, Rook pulled the door open and stepped into the fading light, her phone warm in her pocket and something lighter stirring in her chest.

The drive from the university to home was quiet, the city lights of Minrathous gradually giving way to the hush of the countryside. Selara’s sleek car glided along the winding road, the occasional flicker of streetlamps casting golden streaks over her dashboard. One hand rested on the wheel, the other held her phone to her ear as Dorian’s voice crackled through the speaker with its usual theatrical lilt.

“Well? First impressions?” he prompted.

Selara smiled faintly, eyes focused on the dark road ahead. “You were right. Emmrich Volkarin is—composed. Earnest. And thoroughly smitten.”

A delighted sound echoed through the line. “I knew it! See, I do still have impeccable judgment. That poor man is going to need someone in his corner when he eventually runs headfirst into your darling husband.”

She huffed a laugh. “You make it sound like Solas is some fearsome archdemon.”

Dorian clicked his tongue. “He’s worse. At least archemons are predictable.”

Selara arched a brow. “You’re just sore that he challenges your point of view at every turn.”

“Please. At least one of us has a sense of fashion.”

“Which is exactly why you’re not allowed near his wardrobe anymore.”

Dorian sighed dramatically. “Honestly, Selara, I will never understand how you put up with that brooding scholar.”

“He has his charms,” she said, voice quieting as the familiar silhouette of their home crested the hill—a two-story retreat nestled among manicured trees and gently sloped gardens. Warm light glowed from a few of the arched windows, a welcome beacon against the night. “You just have to know where to look.”

“Ugh. There you go again. Hopelessly in love. Disgusting.”

She chuckled softly. “Thank you, Dorian. For the introduction. And for the warning.”

“Anytime, darling. Tell Solas I said hello—oh wait, no. Don’t. He’ll find a way to turn it into a lecture on entropy.”

With a fond roll of her eyes, she ended the call and pulled into the driveway.

The house stood like a quiet sentinel against the night. A marriage of stone and wood, steep gables, and dormer windows that gave it an old-world charm. It was set back from the city, nestled within a grove of trees that turned golden in autumn and rich green in summer. Selara stepped out of the car, heels clicking lightly on the stone path that curved toward the entrance. As she passed the flower beds beneath the front porch, she caught the faint scent of night jasmine and wet cedar.

Inside, the foyer greeted her with soft lamplight and polished hardwood floors. Her coat was off in a fluid motion, draped neatly over the antique stand near the staircase. The house was quiet—too quiet.

She passed through the living room, vaulted ceilings arching above like a cathedral, her steps whispering over the rug. Past the master study and the sitting room. Toward the music room, where she heard it at last—

A single piano note, low and deliberate, drifting into the hall.

She paused in the doorway.

Solas sat at the bench, his long fingers poised over the keys. The melody he played was minor and slow, like rain tapping on glass—hesitant, as though unsure whether to fall or hold back. His expression was unreadable, bathed in the low light of the music room, his brow drawn in quiet thought.

She didn’t announce herself. Just stepped inside, her presence enough.

He paused at her approach, fingers stilling over the keys—but he didn’t look at her right away.

“I thought I heard your car,” he said quietly.

“Your hearing remains inconveniently sharp,” Selara replied, settling into the armchair near the window. Her voice was gentle. Measured. “Dorian missed you at the faculty party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for crowds.” A pause. Then: “Did you speak with him?”

“I did.”

“And?”

She tilted her head. “And you’ll find out when Rook decides it’s time for you to meet.”

That earned her a sidelong glance, his lips pressing into something faintly wry. She knew that look well—the restrained frustration of a man who hated being kept at arm’s length, especially when it came to someone he cared about. He wouldn’t approach the man in question—not unless Rook allowed it—and that rankled him more than he’d admit.

For all his cold detachment and carefully measured poise, Solas was a tangle of nerves when it came to his sister.

Selara still remembered the day she’d learned Solas even had a little sister. She’d been stunned. But in hindsight, it explained far too much—the guilt that ran deeper than the Waking Sea, the pride that refused to see beyond a singular path, and the maddening stubbornness he carried like a second skin.

She let the silence linger before adding, “He’s a good man, Solas. Warm. Steady. Thoughtful. And he cares for her—deeply.”

The chords under his fingers resumed, softer now, the melody gentled by something unspoken. He didn’t argue.

She watched him, studying the way his brow furrowed ever so slightly—his tension less visible, but never gone.

“Whatever was said between you and Rook,” she said gently, “I know it’s still weighing on you.”

“I misspoke,” he murmured, barely above the hum of the piano. “I didn’t mean to use that word, but… when she heard it—” His voice broke off, the thought unfinished but understood.

Selara stood and moved toward him, her steps quiet against the floor. She settled beside him on the bench, laying a hand over his, her head resting gently on his shoulder.

Solas stilled. His fingers curled faintly over the edge of the keys, as if unsure whether to play or retreat into silence.

For all his composure—his sharp mind, his ancient knowledge, the stoic mask he wore like armor—it never failed to astound him how effortlessly Selara could still see through it. As if all the barriers he so carefully built were made of glass in her presence. Beneath the measured words and quiet brooding lived a man in constant battle with himself. A man who hated not having the answers. Who feared being helpless more than he feared any enemy.

And yet, when her hand found his, he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he tilted his head, letting his cheek rest gently against the crown of hers, quietly savoring her touch. She had always been his balm. Where he was sharp edges and storm-swallowed thoughts, she was calm waters and grounding warmth. Her insight cut through his spirals of guilt with gentleness instead of force, her presence a quiet tether when he felt himself unraveling.

Selara said nothing at first. She simply let him breathe. Let the silence stretch—not heavy, but steady.

“I feel like I’m failing her all over again,” he said, voice thick with guilt. “She hates me, vhenan.”

His eyes fixed on the ivory keys, but his thoughts were far away—replaying moments he couldn’t change.

There were many things Solas knew how to do. He could speak with spirits, navigate the Fade with ease, and wield magic with a power that felt older than stone. But when it came to Rook… he was lost. Once, it had been easier—when they were younger, when their parents were still there to guide him in how to be her brother. Back then, connection had come naturally.

But he’d broken that bond himself. Made a choice he thought was right—necessary. A choice he still regretted.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Selara said gently, but with quiet conviction. “And you’re not failing her. You’ve never known how to voice your fears—not in a way that doesn’t sound like judgment. But she knows you’re trying.”

A long pause. Then, quieter:

“Is he truly a good man?”

“Genuinely.”

Solas gave a slow nod, the smallest motion—but a step forward nonetheless. It wasn’t quite surrender, but it was as close as pride and regret would let him offer.

The music returned, hesitant at first—like a breath held too long. His fingers glided across the keys with restrained care, drawing out soft, melancholic notes that filled the space between them. A quiet rhythm, deliberate and reflective. Not quite sorrowful, but not entirely at peace.