Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Though no bars surround them, the Fade presses in, caging Rook with a seething Dread Wolf. Only a dark chasm lies between them. Groping stone hands reach for them both, holding them above the abyss and trapping them here together. 

“Solas?” she steels her voice against fear. Until now, she had never fully believed her mother’s stories. Such cautionary tales told a lifetime ago—before Varric, before the slavers and the Crows, before the flood—had surely been exaggerated. Yet the shadow of a more monstrous form lurks beneath his handsome glamor. Ancient magic cloaks him and when she meets his gaze, sharper than her daggers, Rook cannot deny his godhood.

He raises his haughty chin to chastise her for the mess they now find themselves in when a furrow creases his high brow. “You are no elf. Not anymore.”

She pulls her hood further down over her pointed ears. “Surely, we have more pressing subjects to unpack. Like how I stopped you from destroying the world. Or why I am here, wherever we are, with you.” But Rook lacks the wit to parry the god of lies and she fails to sidetrack him.

“I knew an entity like you once,” his piercing eyes turn sorrowful. “He went by the name of Cole.”

Rook clenches her jaw and remains silent. That name means nothing to her. And she has guarded this secret too long to give it up for free.

“What were you before, da’len? Were you also a spirit of Compassion? Or maybe Mercy?”

From where it curls around her heart, her spirit leaps to defend her. “No longer! We are Ruthless. And we will not be your pawns, Pride. You will call us Rook.”  

It surprises her to hear its voice burst through her pressed lips. Ruthless hardly speaks even to me anymore. An entity of action rather than words, her soul has so long been entangled with it that she can almost fool herself into believing it little more than intuition and urge. 

Solas’s sad smile turns predatory. “I can work with that, Rook.”

Ruthless recedes at her beckoning, but it does not bury itself deeply. Rook will deal with that later. For now, she can’t allow Solas to know how terribly he’s already disarmed her. “Except I have not agreed to work with you, Dread Wolf.”

Immediately he launches into a rant on blood magic and this prison and how she doomed the world by unleashing two evil gods and their blight. Maker, the god of treachery loves the sound of his own voice. As his self-righteous lecture drags on, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain her impassive expression.

“Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are your problems to solve," he finally wraps up, uncaring or unwilling to hide his spite. "Blighted, tyrannical, and sadistic. It took all my power to imprison them. But they are your responsibility now."

“Varric always said you’d have some big explanation for why none of this was your fault.” She ignores his troubled expression and looks beyond it with the Veil Sight that Ruthless provides her. “But of course, Pride cannot acknowledge his folly. Or else he might still be Wisdom.”

His arrogant mask falters and debilitating regret consumes him. Before she can wound him further, the ground crumbles beneath them, expelling her and leaving the fallen god alone in his new cage.

Chapter Text

Strolling through the streets of Treviso centers her more than she expected. She’s haunted this marketplace for over twenty years now, maybe after twenty more she might call it home… Saffron and coffee spice the air. Crows preen and perch upon the strings of lights. Recognizing her, they swoop lower and Rook stops at a vendor for some nuts to feed them. After petting the local strays, she ascends to the rooftops, far away from judging eyes and the incessant lapping of the canals that will one day drag her city underwater.

The birds nuzzle her hand and cloak, searching for more food. 

“I have nothing left for you,” she tries to make them understand. But they linger. Rook knows she should check in with Viago soon. Her Talon surely has been informed of her arrival by now. But how can she face him? This is the second mission in a row she’s fucked up. She knows he's never forgiven her for killing those Antaam slavers outside of a contract--for ruining months of careful planning. And now, after a year of infiltrating the remnants of the Inquisition, she must report that Solas while disposed is not dead, but locked in her mind? If not for her remaining debts, Viago would surely kick her out for good this time. 

Rook strokes the head of the handsome bird in her lap. I’ve never botched up a contract so badly. 

It’s not over yet. We shall end the Dread Wolf still. Ruthless breaks into her thoughts. A Crow never abandons its contract. 

A disparaging grin splits her face. She feels as much a Crow as she is an elf. I’m just a poor imitation. 

And this new mask she wears--the one Varric named Rook, she never expected to wear it so long. Leading this fight against the evil gods has done nothing to quell her imposter syndrome. Neve and Harding follow her into every scrape without complaint. Sweet Bellara so eagerly seeks to befriend her. But she knows better to let anyone in too close. Especially when Rook can’t shake the dread that she’s leading them all astray.

They are right to follow us. Though no person might hear it, the crows stir nervously around her. 

“Hush,” she whispers. “You’re breaking our rule.” Perhaps the thinning Veil empowered it. Or maybe Solas’s acknowledgment emboldened it. They’d spent so long hiding, its silence another way it protected her, but now it seems to have an opinion about everything. 

We should have brought the others. Ruthlessness lowers it’s voice to a whisper in her mind. Strength in numbers. 

“This is Crow business,” she deflects as she stands, brushing the broken shell casings and crumbs off her leathers. And it is time to take care of it. The murder takes to the sky in a battering of dark wings. 

“Talking to the birds again?” a sultry voice whispers in her ear. Illario Dellamorte, presumably only surviving grandson of the first Talon and renown skirt-chaser, smiles down at her. “I heard you stopped that crazy elf’s ritual. Your contract must finally be complete. Or else, what brought you home so soon, de Riva, did you miss me?”

Rook shrugs. She knows better than to bring up his cousin. And honestly she only half believes Neve’s intel that Lucanis might still be alive. She won’t risk Illario’s ire, even to dissuade his curiosity. 

Quickly she draws her hood back up and her cowl closer. “I was glad to be rid of you, chismoso,” she deflects. But he laughs so warmly it spreads to her chest. 

We can’t trust him. Ruthless dispels the useless feeling.

She offers the slightest of nods. I won’t make that mistake again. His rakish smile had brought too many people to their knees and Rook refuses to be just another conquest. Unfortunately, she knows that this also maintains his interest in her. 

“You can help with my current job. Just like old times,” He tugs her hood back down so he can play with her hair. “My life would be so much easier if the Wisp opened a few locked doors for me.” 

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” she resigns herself to his company until she meets with the Talons. Illario can be more stubborn than a mabari, relentless in his pursuit once he’s locked onto a scent. 

“Don’t be so sure,” he teases, earning him an eye roll.

They leap across the rooftops in a familiar rhythm and reach the Cantori Diamond just as the sun begins to set. Hearty laughter rises from the casino below. Though tensions are high with the Antaam occupation, the wine and money flow freely beneath glittering chandeliers and the Antivan Crows perched in the rafters. 

Teia brightens when she catches sight of Rook, though she lifts an eyebrow when she finds Illario trailing after her. Few knew Rook as well as Teia. They had been fledglings together. And while that usually made more rivals than friends, Antivan elves had few enough allies to spare. Besides, Rook could never be a fitting rival to the youngest Talon in history. 

As they embrace, Rook leans in and whispers, “I must speak with Caterina.”

Her mind just as sharp as her tongue, Teia laughs and promises, “Once I get this pavo out of your hair I’ll arrange it for tonight. Speak to Viago. He misses you.”

“I highly doubt that,” Rook snorts.

Teia runs a hand through her thick curls and smiles softly, “He’s insufferable when you’re not around.” 

“Who’s insufferable?” Illario sweeps his gaze over her friend. Popping a hip, Teia sashays over and masterfully distracts him with his favorite subject—himself. 

Rook doesn’t have the luxury of watching her work her mark. She catches Viago’s stern expression, his eyes steel and posture stiff. 

Carajo. Somehow, he already knows Solas still lives. 

Move. Ruthless nudges her to the left as a dagger slices past her cheek and thuds hard into the shimmering silks draping the walls. By instinct, she parries the second one. It would have nailed her straight in the chest. 

Going on the offensive, she flicks her knife in his direction. 

He catches it effortlessly.

To her surprise, a smile twitches beneath his sharp moustache. “Glad to see you’ve been keeping your blades sharp, Sister.” He spins the knife between his fingers before handing it back. 

“I learned from the best.” 

He sneers at her flattery. “There have been no signs of Solas for over a week. But you did not report. Is your god dead?”

Her shoulders, just starting to relax, tense up again. “Not quite. The game has changed. That’s why I’m here. All the Talons must hear of it.”

Though he feigns disinterest, he tilts his head and she falls faithfully to his side. They stand in almost companionable silence as they wait. It’s nice to be in a Talon’s Nest, surrounded by other Crows. No one looks to her for leadership, especially when she’s next to Viago, who commands the rafters even in Teia’s House. While she never belonged anywhere, she’d come close beneath the Fifth Talon’s wing.

Teia sighs full of exasperation when she finds them. “I see you two had a good talk.” 

Rook shrugs and Viago smirks at the other Talon. 

“The Wisp does not waste words. That’s why she’s my favorite.”

Though she manages to keep her face impassive, her chest swells with pride. 

“I thought I was your favorite,” Teia croons and Rook mentally prepares herself for a night of endless flirting.

***

The Talons eat like kings, but Rook has no appetite. She alternates between staring at the empty seat at the head of the table and the hollow archway.

“She’ll be here,” Teia puts a rich heaping of paella on her plate. Steam rises from the open mussels. To humor her friend, she takes a bite. But mostly she stirs her food around until the next course is served, her eyes fixed on the door. 

Caterina doesn’t make an appearance until dessert. The old woman taps her cane upon the marble floor like a raptor taps its claws. To reach her age in their profession only testifies to her cunning and her lethality. Every other Talon rises when she enters and refrains from taking their seats until she gives them a severe nod.

Rook, however, remains standing. With all her will, she bears the matriarch’s withering gaze. Finally, Caterina acknowledges her, “Why is such a shameful Crow begging at my table.” 

“She’s with me,” Teia claims her and lays a letter upon the table, the eye of the Inquisition pressed upon the seal. “And she bears an important contract.”

Caterina dismisses the servants and then glances at Rook expectantly. Taking a deep breath, she finally brings up her case. “The situation is dire. Two Elven gods,” she shifts her language as the humans automatically scorn her Dalish beliefs, “Mages of great power, who command blight at their whim, must be stopped. I need backup. They request Lucanis.”

Shocked, skeptical murmurs rise around the table until Caterina brings down her cane. “Lucanis,” she whispers. For a moment, the old woman’s hard façade softens. “My sweet boy.”

“He’s dead!” Illario bursts into the room uninvited. “Did you really return to bother my grandmother with ghosts and fairytales?”

Rook’s nose wrinkles with a rare, unchecked anger. Though she expects nothing less than eavesdropping and public declamations from Illario, it hurts all the same. Worse, not even Teia or Viago vouch for her. But with the fate of the world at stake, she can set aside her pride, and try again. “I would not dare waste your time, First Talon, if I didn’t have good reason to believe—” The old woman stops her with a lifted hand.

“The body our people brought back did not belong to my grandson,” Caterina’s words chill the room. “It was dressed in his clothing, altered with blood magic to bear his face. Of this I am certain.”

She bows her head at the confirmation, grateful for it. But also to hide how much she relishes how the news blindsides Illario, sending him spiraling in angry disbelief, “My cousin’s still alive and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Viago sighs. “His ship was attacked. We knew someone sold him out, so Caterina kept her suspicions close.”

“I’ve long suspected the Venatori,” Caterina silences Illario with a single, withering look and then turns her cold gaze back to Rook. “Your disruption of their ritual made them careless and now, I have a location: the Ossuary. That is where you may collect your God-Killer—the Demon of Vyrantium.” The wrinkles in her face sag a little heavier. “Go now Rook, and bring my grandson back home.”

The revelation throws the room into chaos. Illario corners his grandmother. Beneath the din, thanks to Ruthless, Rook still catches a few stray words. “He’s my cousin…how could you leave this in the hands of…a knife-eared slave.” 

For all that he was, I thought he might still be my friend. Whatever feeble affection she held for him dries up. Beneath his charm, it’s so hard with Illario to know what he really thinks of you—until you take something he wants. But she has no time to linger on his latest betrayal. Viago and Teia sweep into action. There is no time to delay with a traitor in their midst--likely sitting across the table from them. With haste they exit the villa. 

“Are you sure, you don’t want to summon your team for this mission?” Teia asks her as they sprint and zipline across the gardened rooftops. Jasmine and Antivan Broom fill the night air with their heady blooms.

“This is a job for a Crow,” she shakes her head. “For the Wisp. Not Rook.” 

Viago grunts in agreement. “Caterina does not place her faith in you lightly. Nor do I.”

Such praise from him is rare and she will not sully it with her protests. Ducking her head, she focuses on keeping her steps light and swift. What little she ate at dinner, swirls uneasily in her stomach. I can’t screw this up.

So focused on the mission ahead, it takes her far too long to realize that they head toward the outer canals. They’re leading her to a boat. One that will go out to the ocean where the depths run so deep, she’d long drown before she reached the bottom. Fear strikes through her like lightning. Only Ruthless keeps her from tumbling off the ledge.

While Teia doubles back, ensuring no one followed them, Viago leads her to a small, discrete rowboat, a cloaked mage sitting at the stern. “The Ossuary is no normal prison, it lies beneath the sea.” He clasps her shoulder. But she cannot still her trembling, even with Ruthless’s help. 

“I can’t swim,” she mutters weakly. Though Viago already knows. “If the Traitor intercepts me too—if they attack the boat…” She cannot hear his reply. A flood of water fills her ears. 

He presses a dagger against her throat, one most certainly laced with his infamous poisons. Depending on the dose, she’ll be dead if the blade breaks skin. Death’s caress awakens her demon.

“Enough.” Ruthless twists Viago’s hand back with an inhuman strength. 

It threatens to turn the dagger back on her mentor. Only barely does she wrangle back control. “We’re fine,” her voice remains gravelly as she attempts to soothe her spirit. 

His eyes widen with surprise, but not fear. 

Viago doesn’t suspect us. The knowledge helps her further master herself. She pulls away, though Ruthless circles just beneath the surface. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers dropping her gaze. She’s made a scene and already delayed them too long. Rook forces herself into the boat, though she can’t help but cling to the sides.

“Do not let your fears define you, Rook.” He slices away the ropes tying her ship to the dock. “Sharpen them into a blade and turn them back upon your enemies.” Before she can ask him how, he has slipped into the shadows. 

I can’t stab the sea! And stopping these elven gods feels just as futile. Already the boat drifts beyond where she can leap back to the safety of land. 

Ruthless embraces her protectively, tightly, yet through their bond she knows that the water terrifies it just as much. But they cannot turn back now. She cannot give Solas another way to belittle and control her.

I will make the Demon of Vyrantium my blade. 

“I am the Wisp,” she repeats to herself as Ruthless blocks out the crash of the waves. 

Even the sea cannot keep him from me. 

Chapter Text

Blue sigils burn in the air and the ocean opens its mighty maw to swallow her whole. 

The Ossuary glitters beneath the dark waves. Another elven fortress, the ancient magic pulses brightest where its barrier has begun to crack beneath the pounding of the tides.

This is more than just a prison. It’s an underwater tomb. What if I too die here? 

Her fears rise, threatening to choke her, but she must take the leap. 

For the sake of the mission. To redeem herself with House de Riva. And because—someone please save me—she won’t abandon him to the waves. We’ve met only in passing. In fact, I spent my entire career avoiding his deadly attention… And yet she’s certain that he’d storm hell and back to save her or any other Crow—and they in turn have sent her to rescue him.

As she falls, she drains herself of all emotions and binds herself to Ruthlessness.

The Wisp—not Rook—slips between the cracks of another arrogant stronghold. The gray sands dampen her already near silent steps. Even if it were midday, very little light would filter down this deep, shrouding the entire prison in thick shadows. Only a few indifferent gray lights and the eerie red glow of corrupted lyrium pierces the dark, beckoning poor souls with its terrible promise. 

This place overflows with Suffering, Ruthless observes.

Since the gods returned, everywhere we go feels like that. She draws up her hood and unsheathes her daggers. 

She falls into the familiar rhythms of an infiltration, her mind quiet, her body silent. Slipping past those she can and dispatching those she can’t, she scouts for any clues on where they might be keeping the Demon of Vyrantium. 

Just as she drags her latest kill into the dark corner of an open cell, she hears two more sets of approaching footsteps.

“Can’t we make the prisoners do it?” two guards argue as they push a tray of food between each other. “He’s killed three of us just this past week. I swear, every day that Crow grows more spiteful.”

Crow? She edges closer, hoping to catch a name, a cell block, anything useful.

“I don’t know why Zara keeps him alive. What further experiments can she run on him?”

“Just taking the blood ward up and down every meal is such a pain in the ass.”

KILL THEM. Ruthlessness demands. Squeeze out what we need. Then, bleed them dry.

But the spirit knows that’s not how she likes to work. Even among an enemy like the Venatori, she strives for compassionate kills. A single strike yet dead twice—once by her blade and once more when de Riva poisons overwhelm their system. If she can take them out before they even know the battle’s begun, blissfully alive one moment and gone the next, the better. 

The two guards slip away. YOU LET THEM. 

Before they can argue whether or not to give chase, they hear it. A voice, so shrill it cannot be human, screams bloody murder as the spirit is dragged across the Fade.

Demons. SORROW. Remorse. LOSS.

A chill runs down her spine, followed by a deep melancholy that brings tears unbidden to her eyes. It shouldn’t surprise her. Not with the Venatori’s history of blood magic. But this many? She doesn’t sense enough mages to carry them all. 

We cannot save them. Ruthless dispels the thought before it can take hold. 

Yet she stalls before the foreboding hall, a slithering mass of negativity writhing beyond. Her heart aches for the innocent spirits and likely just as blameless human souls. “No one deserves such a fate.”

We must hurry. Her spirit urges. The others WILL betray us.

Too distracted by the flood of feelings, she doesn’t notice the patrol until it is too late. Ruthlessness does not wait for permission this time. A blinding yellow light encases her body, her eyes glowing brighter than the sun.

Where she is precise, Ruthless is brutal. Blood scatters through the air, evaporating before it can stain the ground. Heads rolls. Hands still clutching their weapons fall at their feet. By the time they are done, their Fade fire will burn it all away, only scorch marks left behind. 

Yet their terrorized, pained faces will live forever in her memory.

Ruthless is right. I cannot afford any distractions. Or many more will suffer so needlessly.

With even deadlier care, she worms her way deeper into the prison and hardens her heart against those kept beyond the bars. Right now, I’m not Varric’s Rook, the hero that thinks in straight lines, that guards the pawns and slays tyrannical queens. No piece on the chessboard matters to the Wisp—except the king.

“But where is he?” she growls aloud. There’s no hint of Lucanis or anyone of comparable infamy. Damn, she should have tailed those two guards. 

Follow the BLOOD.

It stretches through the air—binding a matrix of floating crimson crystals. The red lyrium hums just below her hearing, calling to Ruthless. As they draw closer the unsettling red light stains her skin. Ignoring the way it makes her own blood itch, it proves their best lead so far. There’s only one reason the Venatori would go so far to seal a single chamber from the outside.

He must be there.

Behind the massive doors, a dark chanting swells to a crescendo. There’s no time for stealth or subtlety. Urgently she flings her knives, picking apart the matrix. Her eyes blaze gold as she shatters the final crystal and kicks the giant doors open. 

A full platoon of Venatori spins around to face her. Wielding crimson scythes and razored scimitars, they close ranks around the Archmage and the towering blue crystal that dominates the chamber. Without the element of surprise—even with Ruthlessness aiding her—it will be troublesome to take on so many at once.

“We don’t have to fight,” she tries to deescalate them while she discreetly slips two more daggers into her palms. “We’re just here for Lucanis Dellamorte.”

The Archmage slams his staff to the ground, setting himself alight. “Razikale, Dragon of Mystery,” he howls as an unholy power begins to swell in the room. “Lusacan, Dragon of Night. Hear your faithful call—"

The crystal behind them erupts and a blur of violet feathers and violent speed descends upon the Venatori. With a dazzling brutality he turns their own blades against each other. His razored wings slash their throats as he rushes past the shell shocked soldiers and with an audible crack he snaps the last one’s neck. A master of his craft, Lucanis had delivered each man a maliciously painful death.

Ruthlessness rumbles with approval. 

She doesn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until he turns to face her. Beneath the purple glow of his wings, he is even more handsome than she remembers. Jutting above an unkempt beard, his cheekbones could cut glass. His pitch-black hair falls strikingly against his sun kissed skin. She’s so starstruck by him and his deadly dance, it takes her a further moment to register that the Demon of Vyrantium shouldn’t have wings. He shouldn’t have—

A raspy, yet compelling voice fills the chamber. BLOOD—YES. KILL MORE. ONE STILL STANDS.

“Who are you?” Lucanis’s gaze sweeps over her, sizing her up. “Who sent you?”

He’s like u— Immediately she pushes Ruthlessness as deep down as she can. If she can overhear his demon, surely he will catch onto hers. And we can’t afford—even if he is like us—I won’t risk it. Especially when we don't know who he carries.

He wipes the still gleaming blood off his cheeks and the bright phlox of his eyes slowly dims. “Wait. I’ve seen you before, shadowing Viago.”

NO. KILL HER. Lucanis winces as he attempts to shut off his demon’s insistent screaming. 

Patiently she waits for his spirit to quiet before explaining, “My name’s Rook of House De Riva. Caterina wants her grandson back and I need a mage killer.” She surveys the carnage and smirks, “I’d like to offer you a new contract.” 

“Things are, complicated at the moment,” he flexes his demon’s wings. “They have a vial of my blood. I can’t go anywhere without destroying it. And I still have a contract to fulfill—my target is the prison warden here, Calivan.”

“Enough said, a Crow never abandons his contract,” she nods.

A more sincere smile graces his lips. “I’ll owe you.”

“I’m sure we’ll owe each other before this is all over.” She hands him a pair of her best knives. His gloved fingers slide across her palms as he accepts them and she suppresses a shiver.

Before she can step away, he seizes her wrist and pins her arm behind her back, her own blade now pressed hard against her neck.

It takes all her willpower to keep Ruthlessness from blazing to the surface in her defense.

“Where is your back-up?,” he hisses in her ear. “We—I thought I heard another voice.”

She forces herself to relax in his grip. “It’s just me. I work best alone.” 

“There’s something off about you.” WRONG. WRONG. WRONG. “Are you another one of Zara’s tricks, tasked to fill me with hope, just so she can further inflate my Spite when she steals it away?”

“You’re wrong,” her throat bobs against the knife’s edge. “Is that what you want to hear? What a horror to find an abomination when I came looking for an assassin! Except that I don’t care what you are Lucanis.” She twists to face him, unconcerned as her blood darkens the crow feathers on her collar. “My gods want to blight the world. I’m desperate.”

Beneath the shadows that hood them, his bright eyes widen in surprise. 

“So whoever you need to kill, Calivan, Zara, the bloody Archon if need be—let them say their final prayers, for soon they will be dead—and then you will be my vengeful blade.”

Lucanis slowly pulls away. I LIKES HER. His demon growls. 

“Shut up, Spite,” he mutters. 

Rook hesitates to trust such a fickle spirit. But Spite paired with Ruthlessness? Maybe that’s exactly what they’ll need to win this war. Without any further words they slip back into the dark, he an unreckonable force, she simply clearing the way. As she fights alongside him, Lucanis brandishing his demon so freely, an unexpected envy fills her. 

But we are not the same, she realizes as Spite manifests over Calivan’s fallen body. What a pathetically easy mark.

Though practically a perfect doppelganger, Spite hunches and paces like a caged animal. SMELLS LIKE BLOOD. ASHES. NOT DONE. NOT YET. 

The demon turns to her and Rook does her best to look straight through him, to casually turn to Lucanis instead. He can’t know that she too can see it. Tentatively she asks, “So job’s finally done…ready to get out of here?”

OUT! OUT! YOU PROMISED!

His dark brows unknit. “You really cannot see him. I wondered.”

She shrugs, “See who?” Surely no one else will and he should operate on that assumption. 

Lucanis draws a hand through his unruly hair, matted with blood. “Right.” He returns her knives, having found his own weapons being used for paper weights on Calivan’s desk. “Rook…I mean it. I owe you for this.” His dark eyes flicker guiltily to the reopened cut on her throat. 

“Well, I soon plan to collect,” she says with more bravado than she feels. Her adrenaline fading, the morning light illuminating the waves, Rook just wants to get out of the Ossuary as soon as possible. “Maybe we can start with a cup of coffee after we check-in with Caterina.”

“Fuck yes,” Lucanis rumbles with more enthusiasm than she expected. “Maybe we can make a quick stop before?”

They share a smile and somehow her paralyzing dread of the ocean and their tumultuous future melts away, if only for a moment. 

Chapter Text

In the end, family calls stronger than coffee to the long-lost Crow. Yet the Cantori Diamond lies in complete disarray, the ironwork warped and the golden stained-glass shattered. They had just missed whatever battle took place here. Lucanis can still taste the copper stain of blood magic in the air. 

“Maker,” Teia exclaims as if Lucanis had risen from the dead.

Viago whispers his name full of disbelief.

“What happened here?” Lucanis cannot comprehend how a Talon’s House—Teia’s House could be so completely ransacked.

His cousin pushes past the two Talons to lay a welcoming hand on his shoulder, “I can’t believe it. You’re home.” After a year in that prison, Lucanis had forgotten that not every touch must be a torture. He squeezes Illario’s arm to prolong the contact, but too soon, his cousin slips away. 

Illario turns sorrowful. “I get one of you back, only to lose the other.”

Lucanis shakes his head. Illario cannot mean— “Where is Caterina?”

“She…” Teia chokes up, unable to voice such a terrible truth. 

Viago draws her closer and finishes for her, “The Venatori got her in the confusion. They acted on Zara Renata’s orders.”

Involuntarily, Lucanis flinches at her name. Of course, that foul witch is to blame. But how had she gotten so close? Other questions too unbearable to ask storm through his mind as his heart sinks beneath a sorrow that threatens to drown him. His emotions drag him down until Lucanis is again trapped—back in the Ossuary—a tomb with no escape.

NOT AGAIN! Spite spits. LET US OUT!

“Lucanis,” Rook calls his name firmly, though not unkindly. She draws him back into the present and when he meets her gaze, her eyes gleam with the same cold determination they had when she spoke of assassinating gods. She offers no platitudes. Just a promise, “We’ll make them sorry.”

YES. Spite hisses. SORRY AND DEAD. DEAD THEN SORRY. For once, Lucanis agrees with his demon. He can mourn later, after crushing Zara’s still beating heart in his hands.

“You just got here. And already you want to leave again?” Illario asks. 

But Lucanis cannot stay. Zara must have inside help and whoever it is, clearly has a grudge against the Dellamorte House. Illario will surely be next, unless he can get to the witch first.

Aloud Lucanis insists, “Caterina gave me a contract. I will not break the last deal she ever made.” He then turns to the strange Crow who had rescued him. “And I owe Rook. Once that’s done, I’ll come home.”

“You both will,” the Fifth Talon interjects, addressing Rook directly, startling her. “The slate’s been cleared, de Riva.”

It takes Rook a moment to collect herself, but eventually she says. “I’ll bring him back in one piece.”

“Knowing he’s safe with you, Wisp, I’ll sleep easier,” his cousin smiles.

Lucanis doesn’t miss how she winces at Illario’s attention. Every new thing he learns about Rook only deepens her mystery. But he files it all for later. There’s too much on his mind already and it’s been too long since he’s held such a long conversation.

Spite grows impatient within him and Rook too, appears just as anxious to leave. They wrap it up quickly. 

***

Night has long fallen upon the streets of Treviso. And with foreboding storm clouds rolling in fast, the shopkeepers close up early. Lucanis and Rook don’t speak, both quite tired of talking. So. he does not question why she leads him through the slums or her choice in coffee houses—truly a hole in the wall. 

Aligned with his luck today, it begins to rain hard. Instinctively, they huddle close beneath the tin roof, run-off soaking his right shoulder. 

Rook slides a gold coin across the table, surely too much for this cheap brew, and the old elf winks at him as she gives them their coffee. The paper cup is so thin, he nearly burns his fingers through his gloves. While he enjoys a dark roast, he suspects that this one might just be melted charcoal. 

SMELLS GOOD. LIKE BRIMSTONE. Spite circles him like a gutter dog. I WANTS SOME.

Lucanis sighs. Coffee is coffee. And he needs it. His expectations lower than the old woman’s sagging breasts, he takes a scalding sip and as expected, it’s quite bitter.

And yet—beneath that he tastes the sweet complexity of blood oranges. He takes a longer sip, allowing the flavor to coat his tongue. Delightfully tart. With a hint of citric blossom.

Rook quirks her brow knowingly at him, already on her second cup. “Well?”

“What is this blend? It’s smoky and deep like—” A forbidden embrace. The words catch in his throat.

Smirking widely, Rook leans in. She knows its quality. And she won’t let him get away without him acknowledging it.

“It’s good," he admits. 

“No, it’s excellent,” she corrects him, her harsh laughter swells in the night air, filling the little space between them. “And now you owe me two.”

Maker, thanks to Spite he can smell the coffee on her breath. He can practically taste it. The demon intensifies every one of his senses and Lucanis finds it endlessly distracting. “Make that three,” he finishes the rest of his drink quickly. “I need another cup, now.”

“At this rate, if you’re not careful Dellamorte, you’ll soon owe me your life.” 

“I already do,” he quips.

Because by the Lady, just this morning he could only imagine the chill of the rain or the glittering skyline of his city or sharing a coffee with a warm body beside him. And while it was nothing like the homecoming he had so often dreamed of, this stolen moment is…good. 

Chapter Text

“Maybe we can reason with Spite,” Rook carefully tries to derail Bellara and Neve from openly considering the murder of their new companion. “Persuade it to leave?” she adds, to reaffirm how ignorant she must be in the subject. 

“Talk doesn’t work on Spite,” Lucanis leans over the fireplace, glaring into the flames as he attempts to ignore his demon’s incessant chattering. 

SHE WON’T HURT YOU. HOW SWEET. Spite taunts them both. In the Fade, his voice pierces louder. As Spite draws closer, the static in the air buzzes between them until she can practically feel him standing over her. Though as Rook suspected, only she and Lucanis can see him.

Rook keeps her eyes forward. Woodenly she works through her dinner, though she hardly tastes Neve’s soggy attempt at boiled potatoes and fried fish, which perhaps is for the best. With everything that the Lighthouse provides, it cannot compensate for her companions’ bad cooking skills. Rook sighs at her empty glass. There’s no way she can get through the rest of this tasteless fish without a chaser. 

At least they don’t suspect me. Although it’s hard not to laugh as they explain spirits and possessions to her . 

Bellara’s sympathies and Neve’s wary acceptance of Lucanis’s condition surprises her a little, but she does not trust that such tentative trust might extend to her. Not when I’m meant to be their steadfast leader. If they knew, they might doubt my every call. Or more likely, they would also plan my death in front of me. 

Spite leaps across the table back to his host. I WANT TO TALK TO HER! It demands Lucanis’s attention, but the man again looks past his demon, avoiding its vicious glare. 

Their companions brainstorm some alternate ways to cure the Demon of Vyrantium, but Rook hardly listens. Bellara is right. Only death can separate them now.

LET ME TALK TO THEM. Spite screams.

Sensing the demon’s building rage, Ruthlessness rises within her, ready to defend.

I WANT. TO TALK. TO ROOK! 

Lucanis’s head whips to the side as Spite lands a nasty blow. Both Neve and Bellara leap from their chairs, but Rook hangs back, grinding her teeth.

This cannot stand , Ruthlessness whispers, both Lucanis and Spite too preoccupied to hear them. Let me set him right.  

But how? We can’t risk revealing our nature.

She winces as Lucanis’s nose begins to bleed. Rook stands, to help somehow, but he holds up a hand, blood staining his fingers. 

“No. It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

To insist otherwise would be to undermine what little sense of control he has left. But she can’t stand down, not fully. “We can figure this out together, Lucanis. If Spite hurts you again—"

“He won’t kill me,” Lucanis cuts her off, pretending again at nonchalance, though Spite breathes down his neck. “He cannot do that and get what he wants.” He turns away from them all. “Just give me a minute. He’ll get bored when everyone leaves.”

“Alright,” Rook draws the other two away. Though it’s not a long-term solution, Rook agrees that it will help calm the spirit down. She looks at Lucanis’s untouched plate of food. “Just make sure you eat something. It’s important to keep up your strength.” She grabs the equally untouched bread rolls from Bellara and Neve’s plates and places them upon his. 

After they exit, Neve draws her aside. “That could have gone better. Though you seem strangely calm, considering we have a violent demon on the loose.”

Rook shrugs her shoulders. “You haven’t fought beside them yet. Spite can become a great asset if Lucanis can get him under control.”

“That’s a big if,” Neve adjusts her weight onto her good foot. “But I was the one who suggested we recruit him. And if anything, I trust that if Lucanis cannot handle it—we will.”

“Exactly,” Rook smiles though it leaves her feeling hollow. Eventually she coaxes the mage to bed. She checks in on Bellara too, and after properly reassuring her, she doubles back to the kitchens. 

Before she heads in, Ruthlessness stills her hand. Not yet. Wait until he sleeps. Then, we may talk to Spite alone. 

“He’s not like us. I can’t leave him alone with his demon, not in that state—”

A sudden crash reverberates through the door, followed by the shattering of glass.

Don’t!

She rushes in and finds the kitchen in complete disarray. Broken plates scatter across the room. Potatoes drip down the walls. And Spite—it can only be the demon, drags a broken shard across Lucanis’s wrist. 

“Spite, No!” She tackles him and pins him down. 

“ROOK!” Blazing purple eyes glare up at her. “ YOU CAME BACK! LUCANIS WOULDN’T LET US TALK. I HAD TO PUNISH HIM.”

“None of that, Spite,” Rook barks. “You must treat your host better.”

“ BUT HE DOESN’T LISTEN ,” Spite insists as he struggles beneath her grip.

“I’m listening.” She cannot allow a demon like Spite to fixate on the wrong things. “Didn’t you want to talk to me?”

A cruel smile lights up Lucanis’s face. “ I KNEW YOU COULD ALWAYS HEAR ME .” She tries to deny it, if only in case Lucanis lies awake beneath his demon’s dominion. Spite, however, cannot be fooled. “ BUT HOW ROOK? WHY ROOK? WHO’S ROOK? ”

Her mind races, trying to figure a way out of this—without losing the assassin she worked so hard to save. 

Borrowing Lucanis’s skill, Spite escapes her hold and reverses their positions. His wings drape over them, those dazzling, dangerous feathers filling her vision, each posed to stab her. “ OH SWEET ROOKY. SHE CAN’T HURT LUCANIS. BUT I CAN HURT HER. ” 

“ENOUGH!” Ruthlessness roars as it assumes control, cloaking Rook in its brilliant rays. Her hands full of brilliant fire, the Spirit incinerates every feather she can reach. 

Spite hisses in pain as he retreats. “ NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR. WHERE’S ROOK?”   

“You pathetic, lonely creature,” Ruthlessness rises to her feet, easily batting away the razor sharp feathers Spite flings at them. “ Why have you not overtaken your host already ?”

“ WE HAVE A DEAL .” Picking up a kitchen knife, Spite throws that too. It hits its mark yet falls harmlessly to the floor, the sharp edge bent and melting. 

“ Well now, you’re going to make a deal with me ,” Ruthlessness corners Spite. Taking him by the jaw, its unblinking golden eyes sear into his violet one. “ You will guard ROOK with your life. However she needs you, you will HELP. You will not run. You will not damage your host. And if he ever learns of us—of ME—YOU will wish you were ASH.”

Repeatedly Spite nods. When Ruthlessness makes no further demands, he whispers, “ WHAT’S IN IT FOR SPITE? ”

“ Ask Rook ,” Ruthless growls. “ Next time .” As her spirit recedes, though lingering close enough to defend her at a moment’s notice, a sudden weakness seizes Rook’s limbs. She practically falls against the trembling demon. 

“Rook?” Lucanis catches her, his gaze equally glassy. “I don’t remember…Mierda.” His breath catches as he discovers the bedlam Spite and Ruthlessness left behind. He quickly turns back to Rook, desperately scanning her for any new injuries. 

Shit. How long has it been since Ruthlessness consumed me so fully? I forgot how weak it leaves me.

“I’m fine,” she untangles herself from him. Finding it tough to stay on her feet, she slides down against the wall. “Spite and I just had a little talk.”

“A little talk?” he sneers. His body twists away from her, clearly anxious to create as much distance as he can between them. 

If he leaves through that door, she’s not sure if she’ll ever see him again, no matter how badly Ruthlessness might have scared Spite. 

“Stay.” She had meant it as an order. But it escapes her like a question, weak and vulnerable. 

Lucanis continues to hesitate, visibly torn. 

Rook searches desperately for some way to convince him. “I’m thirsty,” she holds up a mostly intact wine glass. “And I don’t want to drink alone.”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” a bewildered chuckle escapes him as he crouches and accepts the glass, rolling it expertly between his fingers. 

“It doesn’t have to be wine,” she insists, sensing her in. “You could brew us some coffee instead.” Before he can deny her, she goes in for the kill. “Don’t you owe me a cup, Lucanis?”

“Mierda, you’re impossible, Rook,” he pushes back the hair that falls wildly over his face, a few strands singed from Ruthless’s attack. “Coffee doesn’t fix everything.”

“I haven’t encountered a problem it can’t fix,” she grins wanly at him. 

Lucanis rolls his eyes, but a ghost of a smile flickers across his lips. “Then I better hurry and get us some. After that, you have some explaining to do.”

Deftly he crosses the disorderly remnants of their kitchen. As he brings a kettle to a boil, Rook considers, for the briefest moment, telling him the truth. 

Be WE are not the same as THEM, Ruthlessness reminds her as the kettle screams. He has not met DEATH. He remains human still. And WE…

Are but the kind of monsters he slayed to achieve infamy.

Talk may have worked on Spite, but it would not on Lucanis. So as he brews their coffee, Rook composes her lies. 

Chapter Text

“Maybe it’s da Wisps,” Harding scrapes her tongue with a fork, abandoning her ruined cup of tea in the kitchen sink.

Neve dips her pinky into the sugar bowl and purses her lips at the clearly salty taste. “Possibly, but I’m not convinced. This seems a bit too involved for them.”

Spite kicks his feet with childish glee as he sits on the counter between them. When he catches sight of her, those phlox eyes glower cruelly—eager for her reaction.

Rook continues to nurse her decidedly nasty cup of coffee with a secret smile. It’s been a week since Lucanis joined the team, since Ruthlessness had its talk with Spite, and every day since the demon had tested her. She too had fallen for the demon’s latest prank, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Taking a longer, deeper sip, she sells it with a satisfied moan. “Nothing like coffee in the morning.” 

Spite claws at his face in frustration and she turns away to hide her chuckle. So focused on Spite, she hadn’t heard Lucanis slip into the kitchen just behind her. Only her quick reflexes save her from spilling the remains of her drink down his silk vest. 

“That good huh?” Lucanis catches her smile before she can tuck it away. “Then, I must have what you’re having.” His nimble fingers brush over hers with the tender touch of a good lockpick, and she nearly drops her mug at the unexpected contact. 

Before she can stop him, he takes a heavy swig of her brackish coffee. Immediately Lucanis’s face contorts in utter disgust. 

GOOD ONE ROOK! Spite cackles, his irritation with her completely forgotten at his host’s expense. 

Do I lean into the ruse or deny it? Rook doesn’t know which is less suspicious and he’s too close for Ruthless to chime in.

“Not sweet enough for you, Delamorte?” she hedges, forcing levity into her voice. 

“Chale, de Riva,” Lucanis’s eyes water. “It’s—this is an insult. To coffee. To taste. To—”

“Well that's your fault,” she seizes her mug back, her cheeks burning, and for a moment she hates Lucanis and Spite both. Rook hears how childish she sounds, but she’s beyond caring.

Gods, it’s too hot in this kitchen. As she makes her graceless escape, Spite’s laughter chases her into the Fade.

THIS CANNOT STAND. Ruthless grumbles when they reach her room, safely out of earshot.

“Replacing the sugar with salt is harmless enough.”

Give Spite an inch and he will take a mile , Ruthless warns. 

“He must be allowed to embrace his nature at least sometimes,” she argues back. 

Ruthless doesn’t say anything further. But of course, her spirit proves right.

The coffee incident emboldens Spite. 

Since Lucanis sleeps in the pantry, food is the easiest way for Spite to exact its petty revenges. In the following days she finds the spices continuously swapped and mislabeled. Her favorite Dalish sourdoughs always go missing. And the oranges! Every. Single. One. No matter where she hides them, even if the peels initially appear intact, the oranges always wind up desiccated when she opens them.

“I’m sorry, Rook,” Lucanis finds her sitting at the top of the Lighthouse, sucking on another disappointing slice of citrus. He leans against the column, his demon grinning balefully from the shadows, “I don’t know why Spite’s so fixated on you.” 

“It keeps me sharp,” she shrugs. And what’s a few bad oranges compared to the blight raging across Thedas or tracking down a Warden that actually gives a shit about fighting it.

“I should have him under better control,” Lucanis’ says tightly. The shadows curl thickly around his eyes. She knows he hasn’t been sleeping. Ruthlessness chomps at the bit as he waits to have a follow-up conversation with Spite. 

“Why should you be in control?” she asks, startling both him and his demon. “Usually, it’s the other way around. It takes a formidable soul to keep a demon from consuming them. Or perhaps an unusually kind spirit.”

An unreadable expression storms across the demon’s face. 

“Surely kindness is anathema to a creature of Spite.” Lucanis frowns as he takes a seat beside her, their feathers fluttering in the Fade’s strange breezes.

She’s already said too much, but Rook tires of finding her knives in the marmalade or her books with their endings torn out. “Even Sorrow and Rage were not born so. It is the mortal soul and our suffering that taints them, just as the blight corrupts living things.”

“So you’re saying it was my hate that turned him into Spite,” his jaw clenches. 

“Or it’s your determination that keeps him from devolving into Despair.”

Lucanis shakes his head, dismissing her ideas. “You say the strangest things, Rook.” 

She smiles sadly at the sun that never sets. “When you’re on your own for too long, it’s easy to lose touch.”

Gently, Lucanis takes her hand, absently tracing the scars along her knuckles before placing a pouch in her palm. “Well, you have us now, Rook, to tell you when you’re sounding loca.” 

Gingerly she unties the silver ribbon and finds candied orange peels, bright as lit matchsticks, each strip dipped in chocolate. She tries to catch his gaze, but now it’s his turn to stare into the strange sky. Rook wastes no time trying them and an involuntary sigh escapes her as the dark chocolate melts on her tongue. The sparkle of citrus beneath the bittersweet pith and cocoa delights her.

“It’s good,” she remembers to say after finishing nearly half the bag. 

“Just good?” his dark eyes dart back to her.

“Where can I get more?”

The redness of his ears betrays him.

“You’re good,” Rook insists. “Gods, you’d sell out by midday in Treviso—or even Antiva City.”

Abruptly, Lucanis stands to leave, clearly unable to take a compliment outside of his lethality. “Well, good. I’m glad you liked them.” 

“It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever given me,” Rook decides to play with him. She laughs at how quickly he flees. 

Spite, however, lingers. 

DID YOU MEANS IT? THAT I AM KIND?

“You are Spiteful,” she whispers softly, knowing the folly of trying to be something you are not. She smiles down at the chocolate-covered orange peels. “But even if you resist him, Lucanis will make you more.”

Chapter Text

He’d like to think that it was an easy choice—to pick the Crows, to defend their home. And yet, when Lucanis spots her, running across the frozen courtyard, her braids glittering with frost and her arms up to her elbows soaked in blood, he realizes just how much he needed her to choose Treviso. 

And how easily Rook could have chosen to save Minrathous instead.

WE CALLED. Spite rasps. 

She answered.  

When Rook decides something, she does not waver. She pushes forward with a brazen confidence that leaves no room for doubt. With her here, fighting beside them, their makeshift plan, mostly scrapped together with luck and hope, no longer sounds impossible. 

Teia too stands a little straighter, her valor reinvigorated. “Dragon fighting isn’t exactly our specialty…”

“Well, it’s time to learn,” Rook smirks at the Warden she brought with her, a young griffon perched on his shoulder. 

As if Rook’s very presence summoned their enemies, Ghilan’nain waits for them just beyond the portcullis. It’s the first time he’s ever laid eyes on the target, and Lucanis endeavors to memorize everything he can about the elven goddess of blight. 

Immediately, Lucanis abandons his knowledge of elven anatomy—it will not help him slay this Mother of Monsters. Beneath her breastplate, her torso stretches long and winding like a centipede, two sets of arms sprouting from her sides. She’s traded her legs for a score of fleshy tentacles, though even more erupt from her back and wrap around her antlered helm. She does not bother armoring them. Whether that means they are impenetrable or expendable, he doesn’t know yet. Instead, she invests her vanity and her security in her golden helmet. 

That’s where I must strike. 

“Despair. Ignorance. Mortal Confusion,” the goddess inhales the pandemonium. “Yet this city offers nothing better than the pawn of the Dread Wolf. Your patron could not stop us in ages past. He will not help you now!”

Rook squeezes the Dalish necklace she always wears. Glaring up unflinchingly at her god, she calls defiantly. “Ma banal las halamshir var vhen!* We seek your guidance no longer!”

“Give us the Dread Wolf’s Dagger,” Ghilan’nain demands.

“Come get it, gusano!” Rook taunts.  

“Retrieve the knife,” the monstrous goddess points one of her long fingers at them, and her dragon, equally grotesque and writhing, shrieks as it dives down to face them. “And whatever remains of these mortals.”

Only the elven warden has any training on how to take down something so big.

“Strike fast and hard,” he tells them as the icy dragon paws the ground. With every beat of its foul wings, the temperature drops below freezing. “It will be a war of attrition, a death claimed by a thousand cuts. But it will only take one thoughtless blow from her to end us.”

“Claro,” Lucanis nods and Spite unfurls his wings. 

Before he can charge the beast, Rook lays a hand on his arm. Dark certainty shines in her eyes. “Be Ruthless.” 

AND SPITEFUL. Within him, his demon bears its teeth, their power surging. 

She smiles wildly back. 

Fearlessly she charges the beast, waving the lyrium dagger high. She takes on the brunt of its focus as the Warden and Lucanis take either flank.

“Close in!” Rook calls.

In a whirlwind of feathers, Lucanis slashes at the beast’s ankle, flipping away before the dragon can retaliate. 

Since leaving the Ossuary, Lucanis has found it increasingly difficult to live with his demon. Spite is shackle and shock collar. Every time he begins to breathe easier, Spite drags him back toward despair. Every glimpse of freedom makes him even more resentful of his cellmate. 

ONE. Spite counts their blows, determined to land the one thousandth cut. 

Yet Lucanis smiles at his demon’s antics. Only here, on the battlefield, are they of one mind. 

"Incoming, Rook!" the Warden calls and immediately she rolls out of the way of the dragon's frigid breath. Midroll she throws a dagger, securing a hit in the beast's open maw. It roars in pain.

He’s studied Rook’s fighting style for a while now. Whether she opts for brutality or precision, they both impart her mercy. But even before Spite, Lucanis has always savored the suffering of his enemies. When he strikes again, he eviscerates the exact same tendon.

Over and over he dances with the icy beast until she starts to baby that talon each time she lands. He’s so maliciously focused on landing the next blow that he misses the telltale signs that the dragon will soon charge. 

“Lucanis—look out!” Rook tackles him down. 

The dragon’s cold claws ravage the space where he once stood. An unstoppable force of nature, her glacial body surges over and past them like an avalanche. 

Rook’s shoulders tremble in the unbearable chill left in the dragon’s wake, her cloak stiff with ice. Her steely eyes scan him and when she is satisfied, she quickly rolls off him, leaving him suddenly colder. 

“Spite!” she barks. “Get up!”

His demon stirs within him. YOU TOOK ME DOWN.

“If you don’t hurry Davrin will steal the killing blow.”

NO! SHE’S MINE.

Rook smirks and waves the Dread Wolf’s dagger, calling the dragon down from her perch. 

“Get ready to take your shot!” she warns him.

These are the moments where goddesses rise above the ranks of men. Her face shines with valor. Dark feathers sparkling with beads of frost, rain down around her. Rook roars as the dragon splits the night, its wings stiff with blood, its left talon curled and lame. 

“Davrin to me!” Just before the dragon can pummel her into the ground, the Warden slides before her and backhands it with his mighty shield.

The dragon recoils, rearing its head and bearing the softer scales of its belly. Lucanis needs no orders. In a burst of speed, he stabs both of his blades deep into her and wrenches them on the way out. 

ONE THOUSAND! Spite cackles as its wings needle relentlessly into the dragon’s weak point. 

Though surely his demon can’t count, the dragon must have been close to falling, for Ghilan’nain calls for it to withdraw.

“Next time it dies,” Lucanis glares at its retreating form.

“That’s a promise,” Rook clasps his shoulder.

He turns to her, her cheeks rosy from the fight, her eyes sparkling and bright. Lucanis cannot imagine how much worse things would have gone for Treviso if she hadn’t arrived when she did. 

“Thank you,” he tells her, though his words seem utterly inadequate, “…for choosing us.”  

Her fingers, so warm against the cold air, brush the blood off his brow before it can blind him. “Of course. I’d do it again.”

Chapter Text

The Lighthouse bends often to the wills of her companions. It reflects their desires, it caters to their needs, but it remains blind to hers. If it recognized her, even a little, it would not provide the stiffest of couches for a bed. Shelves full of books might line the empty walls. And it would not so callously torment her with such a view.

No prank Spite could ever inflict will compare to waking every morning and finding herself beneath the waves again. The schools of fish shimmer beyond the bay windows, taunting her. Maybe someone else might find it mesmerizing or relaxing. But this view sets even Ruthlessness on edge. 

LET US SLEEP SOMEWHERE ELSE TONIGHT . It demands after their victory in Treviso…after Minrathous. 

But the others would surely notice. And how could I explain it? How can I admit that their fearless leader sleeps with a blanket over her head like a da’len?

Besides, the Dread Wolf will surely be seeking an update tonight. And she needs more answers. Rook sits to meditate. Blocking out the water and instead focusing upon the lyrium wolf statue on the table before her, she slips into his prison between blinks.

“Ruthlessness,” his silky voice drifts across the chasm still wide and deep between them. “How fares your hunt?”

Rook has no fight left in her. If Pride would rather speak to that part of herself, she resigns herself to oblige him. 

WE FACE DRAGONS. Ruthlessness pushes forward, their eyes glowing like stars against the nebulous dim. 

“Dragons?” the Dread Wolf frowns, “That is worse than I feared.”

TREVISO WAS SAVED. But Minrathous burned. Ruthless keeps their head held high, unwilling to admit how shaken they are. In Rook's absence, the Venatori claimed the Tevinter capital. Shadow Dragons hang from the gallows. And Neve’s trust—lies broken with her city. Rook's not sure if the mage will ever return. THE COST WAS HIGH.

“No war runs without loss.” The Dread Wolf maintains his stiff stance, his hands still clasped behind him. “By what reigns do the gods exert their control? Blood magic or—”

BLIGHT.

He dips his head, bearing a noble sorrow. “So that is the fate Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain plan for this world then. Corruption and blighted slavery.”

YOU’RE NO BETTER, PRIDE. Ruthlessness growls, becoming so bright that any mortal would be forced to look away. WE HAVE WALKED THE FADE. WE HAVE SEEN THE SPIRITS YOU DOOMED IN BATTLE. WITH IDEALS YOU BLIND AND BIND US.

“If you abhor being my pawn, why then do you still fight?” Pride stares unflinchingly into her harsh radiance. 

This all began with a contract—for the Dread Wolf’s life. Rook was just the mask she needed to wear to close in on her kill. But somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. The fight had become theirs. 

When Ruthlessness closes their eyes, it sees again the child, ignoring the raging torrent rising from the riverbeds, tearing down trees. A kind child so focused on saving that insignificant, broken magpie, that she forgot to save herself.

WE ACT SO WE DO NOT REGRET, Ruthless admits at last.

Pride turns away, his hands balled into fists. “And what if those actions then become the source of your regret?” 

Ruthlessness does not accept such a reality. It does not answer.

The silence only further crumbles the Dread Wolf’s composure. He speaks of saving the world and rectifying past mistakes. But Ruthlessness does not buy into his vain rhetoric. Tired of Pride, it pushes Rook back to the surface.

Yet the Dread Wolf again dismisses her. “I have no need to speak with your human-shaped lure.”

Rook bristles beneath his derision but does not acknowledge his slight. “We didn’t just come to satisfy your curiosity,” she sighs, resenting how much they rely upon such a prejudiced creature. “How would you guide us?”

His answer, long-winded as always, still holds some of the wisdom of his former self. Rook has her next task, she will seek out a fade expert and dragon slayer. As he too parses her answers, he proudly declares how his new understanding of her might be useful to him in the future. 

"Tonight was one of fleeting victory and heavy loss,” Rook seethes. Already the walls around her heart grow thicker, Ruthlessness hardening further against the world and their captive god. “And yet all you can think about is your own advantage, Pride.”

“As a leader, you cannot just fight the battles before you. You must strategically position yourself to win the war,” the Dread Wolf’s voice drips with condescension.

Tomorrow has never been an assurance for Rook. She doesn't know how to work towards it. As a slave, as a Crow, there was only surviving the day.

Always keen to fill her silences, Pride continues, “ I applaud your commitment to a hard choice, today. To try and save everyone is to save no one. So, I advise you to stay the course, Rook. Be careful you don’t spread yourself too thin. Or else the cost may rise beyond what you can abide.”

Despite her heavy guard, a seed of self-doubt takes root in her heart. 

"You're wrong," she rebukes him. "I refuse to be like you. Playing god, cherry-picking who gets to be saved, and making such determinations by what degree it benefits you."

The Dread Wolf smiles pityingly. "Such noble words from an assassin who never questioned a contract."

Before she can retort, a curtain of darkness falls between them and her body jolts wakes.

A deep weariness settles over her bones. Rook only wishes to sleep—to dream as she once did, before they put the world on her shoulders and a demon curled in her gut. 

We CANNOT afford to be IDLE. Ruthlessness forces them off the couch. TIME too stands against us.

With a heavy groan, she heads to her desk and faces down the map of northern Thedas.

We won't be like him, Rook  promises. We'll save them all.

Besides, who needs sleep when I have coffee?

Chapter Text

“No Spite, we cannot leave dead fish in Rook’s room!” Lucanis chastises his demon. He had drifted off…surely no longer than a handful of minutes, and had startled awake before her wardrobe with a bucket of mackerel in hand. 

Thank the Maker, the bucket was still full. But the stench so thoroughly clings to him, that he can't be sure if they had left one behind. 

Fucking Spite refuses to tell. 

BUT SHE HATES IT. HATES THE SMELL. HATES THE SEA. HATES—

“But why do you hate her?” Lucanis cannot keep up with Spite’s ever-changing opinion of Rook.  

SOOO BORED. Spite complains. 

Lucanis sighs, unwilling to admit the same. 

The first time Rook left him behind at the Lighthouse, Lucanis thought nothing of it. Of course, Harding would follow through with her own leads and go with Rook to recruit their new dragon slayer. Likewise, Bellara would accompany their leader to bring her friend Emmrich, necromancer and fade expert, on board. 

But then she went to Dock Town without him. And then Arlathan…

ROOK HATES US!

“Maybe because you keep torturing her,” Lucanis grumbles as he leans against the balcony overseeing the courtyard. A muscle in his jaw twitches as she returns with the Grey Warden at her heels. He watches Davrin smile softly at her as she pets his griffon. 

SHE’S ALWAYS WITH HIM.

Lucanis hums noncommittally. “Then he must be the right person for the job,” he tries to convince them both. 

Spite grows shrill and incoherent with his protests. The assassin must turn away from the pair below, in hopes of disrupting the demon’s violent fixation. 

But of course, Spite does not let go so easily. 

***

“Rook, do something,” voices call beyond the veil of his dreams. 

Spite, enough.

Beneath the ethereal glow of the Eluvian, Lucanis comes to, a migraine pounding behind his eyes. The smell of jam and brimstone and citrus sear his nose. 

Taash stands, fists up and ready,  between him and the magic mirror while Rook grips his arm so hard he will surely bruise. 

“How did…ahhh,” his voice is still rough with sleep and spite. “I need coffee.”

“You can't just stay awake forever,” Rook frowns. He notices then that she's not in her Crow leathers. Even at dinner, she eats in them. To see her with her hair unbraided, her thin robe falling off one shoulder, thick scars laced across and dipping down her back— His eyes snap up and his headache rages with even greater malice. 

“I'll be more careful next time,” Lucanis tries to draw away from her, but she holds fast.

“Have you been sleepwalking a lot lately?” Harding asks. 

“He has,” Taash answers before he can lie about it. “Clearly, Spite wants out.”

“And for that I share the blame,” Rook admits. Her eyes shine with worry. “But Lucanis, you also need to sleep, even if we have to lock the door and tie you up. You shouldn't live in fear of Spite taking over you every night.” 

“I’ll come up with something,” Lucanis tries to assure her. Yet his answer isn't good enough for Rook. 

“You’ll kill yourself if you don't sleep soon.” Her hand slides down until she holds his. “Taash, Harding, I'll take it from here. Don’t let anyone near the kitchens. In fact, take the others out for brunch tomorrow. Once he's down, I don't want to risk anyone disturbing us.”

A violent blush creeps over his face. Lucanis knows she doesn't mean it that way. But doesn't she hear how it sounds? 

Rook drags him away and when he turns back, he finds Taash wiggling their eyebrows at him and Harding hiding her giggles behind her hands. 

Mierda . Rook will surely be the death of me. He can only imagine the gossip at brunch tomorrow. 

Only when the pantry door is closed and barred behind them does she let go of his now embarrassingly sweaty hand. 

“You're not really going to tie me up?” he asks. 

“Do I need to?” she tilts her head. 

His pulse quickens, “I’d rather you not.”

“Okay then.”

When she challenged him once on why he had chosen the pantry as his quarters, he had snarkily replied that it had a single entryway and a controlled approach. With his cot pressed against the opposing wall, no one would ever get the jump on him. 

But she’s now turned it to his disadvantage. Lucanis is trapped. The thin tarp of his bed sags beneath him, hardly more comfortable than the stone floor below. 

Andraste, are we really doing this?

Rook leans over the final candle, ready to blow it out. 

“Wait!” He calls out before he can figure out a reason why. Obediently she pauses, her gaze expectant. Scrambling for a reason, he finds a deep-seated fear, “What if Spite hurts you when I'm out.”

“He won’t,” she says with unmatched certainty. Not once, even when they met in the Ossuary, had she ever expressed even a hint of fear of his demon. 

“He’s tried already.”

“Spite is young, of course he’s going to act out,” Rook assures him. She leans against the wall, “I can handle a few roaches in my canteen or my diary pages sent out to half of Thedas.”

Lucanis's heart drops. “He didn’t!”

Mirth glitters in her eyes as she coaxes him back to bed. “He didn’t. And Spite won’t if you’re rested enough to stop him. So sleep, Lucanis…please.”

He shifts to lying on his back as darkness engulfs the room. Whether he opens his eyes or closes them, he can see nothing. But as quiet as his fellow Crow may be, even she must breathe and he catches every gentle inhale and exhale. 

He twists and turns unable to get comfortable. 

How can I sleep, knowing she's there?

“Rook,” he whispers. 

“Lucanis?” Hearing his name sighed so softly in the dark sends a shiver up his spine. 

“Are you…just going to stand there all night?”

“Well, you don't have a lot of furniture.”

Before he can think better of it, he moves closer to the wall. “There should be enough room for two.”

Rook doesn't reply.

He’s struck her speechless.

The silence between them stretches uncomfortably long. 

Maker above, if he wasn't afraid of Spite reanimating his body, he’d kill himself right now. He almost wishes he were back in the Ossuary. At least the tortures there—

The cot creaks as she lies beside him. His next inhale is full of her lavender shampoo. Her soft hair tickles his nose, yet when he tries to give her more space, he finds there's nowhere left to go. Gods, she must hear my heart hammering through her back. 

“No more stalling,” she settles his arm over her waist, their bodies now flush together. “Sleep, Lucanis.”

Rook runs warm, warmer than anyone he’s ever laid with. He can’t recall who or when was the last. But surely, never, has he felt so safe lying next to someone before. 

The weeks of sleep deprivation, of fighting demons and darkspawn and dragons, all catch up to him, demanding recourse. His eyes sink closed and his breathing slows, aligning with hers. 

Chapter Text

It’s just another stake-out , she repeats to herself. I’ve been in tighter spots before. 

Except that laying in Lucanis’s arms is nothing like camping out in the cramped vents of a fish cannery for seventy-two hours or waiting behind a portrait in a brothel to vet no less than fifty-eight suspect patrons. At least he smells much better. Like coffee and cardamom. However, her body grows stiff on this tiny cot as he presses close enough for her to feel every inch of him.

Rook tries to adjust her position. His surprisingly soft beard tickles the crook of her neck. But he denies her escape. Sighing deeply, he nuzzles her until her blush makes her light-headed. 

Where the hell are you, Spite?

Helping Lucanis sleep was only her first challenge of the night. Rook must also get through to his demon. 

Her lids grow heavy as she waits. With each passing hour she grows increasingly inclined to join Lucanis in his slumber. It would be so easy to turn over, bury her face against his chest, and deal with Spite another night. 

Except that would be extremely unprofessional, Rook chastises herself. She continues to monitor his breathing, waiting for it to deepen so she can continue her vigil far from the temptations of his bed. 

Even if he was the one who invited you into it? Another, traitorous voice whispers as his hand tightens against her hip. 

Rook quietly curses before beginning her delicate extraction. 

Just before she manages to fully untangle herself, Lucanis draws her in again, filling his lungs with her. 

LIKE LAVENDER AND…OLD BLOOD, Spite purrs. 

Quickly she spins around and finds herself completely transfixed by his violet eyes, smoldering against the darkness that so intimately envelops them. 

“I was waiting for you, Spite,” she whispers, though she need not anymore. 

WAITING FOR SPITE?

This time when she moves to pull away, he hardly resists her. “I’ve come to talk terms,” she stumbles to her feet. “Though perhaps maliciously at times, you've been largely compliant to the rules Ruthless set. So let’s talk about what you want.” 

Bright wings erupt from his back, casting a mesmerizing magenta light upon them both. Spite grins behind the palm he leans against. 

I WANT LOTS . 

Rook nods. “I’m sure you do. But I want more from you too.”

LET US FIGHT. Spite snaps his teeth at her. LET US OUT!

She busies her hands with restoring her braids. “I'm sorry, Spite. It wasn’t fair to keep you guys trapped here. Especially without an explanation.” 

Spite isn't a person. Unless it involves his nature, he won’t understand things if she doesn't speak plainly. Rook stares at the ceiling. She hadn't expected it to be so difficult to admit it. But she’s never had the chance before—to discuss Ruthlessness with another being. 

I won't count Pride.  

SPEAK ROOK . 

She chuckles, knowing Ruthless would likely say the same. “Since Minrathous, Ruthless has not been…well. The Dread Wolf offset our balance and now it's less tolerant. More impatient. I never know when it's going to burst out…so I’ve been avoiding going on missions with people who can hear it. Poor Emmrich hasn't seen the field since I recruited him.”

WE STILL NEED BLOOD. Spite hisses. 

“I agree. So I promise I'll start taking Lucanis on missions again. But you need to let him sleep, Spite. No unsupervised sleepwalking. Or I won't be able to trust either of you.”

Spite opens his mouth to complain when he catches the keyword. Immediately he leaps from the bed and rushes in so close to her their noses nearly brush. JUST SPITE GETS TO PLAY?

“Ruthless and I need to work through this, spend some quality time together. And I need someone to watch our backs. Can you fight without waking up Lucanis?”

Spite sneers, HE COULD KILL IN HIS SLEEP. 

“Then do we have a deal?” she smiles, pushing him back with a firm poke against his forehead. 

LUCANIS SLEEPS, SPITE PLAYS. He plucks a long flight feather from his back. OUR SECRET.  

Though she's never had a spirit friend, she immediately recognizes the honor of such a gesture. “Our secret,” she echoes him, but he knocks her hand away when she reaches for the feather. 

Instead, Spite claws her robe aside and places it against her chest. The feather burns and itches as its barbs etch into her skin. For an eternal moment, her own spite swells within her, her hatred for the slavers that sold her to the Crows, her resentment when the Crows sent her on a wild goose chase after it became too political to keep her, and her irritation with the team that takes and takes endlessly from her. And then, just as her animosity would set her alight, Fen Harel’s face burning behind her closed eyes, her spite subsides as the demon absorbs it. 

THEY SHALL BLEED.  

Left behind is a thin scar, the same length as his feather. The demon traces it gently and its ethereal glow subsides. 

“Thank you, Spite.” Her body sags, suddenly even more tired. 

In answer, the light of his wings dim and he leads her back to the cot. 

SLEEP ROOK…I PROMISE TO STAY. 

Even after their talk—that honestly went suspiciously well—Rook can't say that she trusts Spite. Besides, she promised Lucanis a full night's sleep under her careful watch and she keeps her promises. So instead of lying down and sleeping like she wants to, she invites Spite to sit beside her. 

He perches at the edge of the bed, suddenly shy. 

Rook tugs him closer. “You always want to talk to me, Spite. So talk.”

The demon needs no further prompting. Immediately he launches into a rant on what everyone smells like. 

Ruthlessness stirs to the surface, having promised not to interfere until after she sealed her deal with Spite. 

Davrin smells more like a wet griffon than cedar, Ruthlessness interjects. 

UNTRUE, Spite argues. LIKE TERMITES IN DEAD WOOD. 

Leaning against his shoulder, Rook retreats within herself a little, happy to let the two playfully spat. It has been a long day and an even longer night. But for the first time since Minrathous, she feels at ease. She hopes Lucanis dreams just as sweetly. 

Chapter Text

I’m home. 

HOME, his demon repeats reverently. 

Lucanis still can’t quite believe it. Beneath the strings of light, the Grande Markets swell with people, overwhelming Spite with a medley of perfume and smoke, sweat and spice. Seasoned meats sizzle on the grill. Merchants hold shimmering bolts of silk up high, hawking and crooning at every handsome person who passes by. Sharp knives slice fresh fruit with a satisfying chop and sticky juices spill down their fingers, as greedy children eagerly reach for their slices. 

Maker above, may Treviso never change. 

Though he largely has his companion to thank for that. Lucanis steals a glance at her. As she always does outside the Lighthouse, Rook draws her hood tightly over her face. But beneath those dark shadows, he finds a quiet, secret smile and he knows that she too shares his deep love for this place.

“In the Ossuary, I used to tell Spite stories about Treviso,” he finds himself sharing without prompting. 

“Does it live up to your memory of it?” she asks. 

He nods as he admires the evening sunlight sparkling across the canals. The sun will set soon. 

She turns fully to him then, “We still have a few hours before we meet with Illario. Let’s shop.”

Lucanis came prepared with a list. But he hadn’t known whether she had some other missions in mind. Since that night, she’d taken him out with her every day. He’d witnessed firsthand how tirelessly she worked. No task was beneath her attention. Every monster, every beating bud of blight was worth eradicating. Each night they returned exhausted. Yet tirelessly she’d meet him at the coffee pot each morning. 

The bags under her eyes could rival his own. 

“Let’s stop here,” he takes his time browsing the selection of fresh fish. It does not escape his notice that Rook recoils from them. Lucanis tasks the fishwife to wrap it thrice to reduce its smell. “Bellara mentioned a Dalish seafood recipe she wanted to make.”

"The Demon of Vyrantium is grocery shopping for the team?” Rook chuckles as she places the fish in their bag. 

“Have you seen what they eat? It’s a miracle you didn't all starve before you hired me.” 

Dutifully Rook follows him around. They find wine glasses for Emmrich, a potted mint plant for Harding, fresh fruit for Neve, and peppers for Taash. He even buys some monster bones for Assan—ignoring Spite’s grumbling. With a flourish, he crosses off the final items on his list and settles the ingredients for an orange granita at the top.  

“You have quite expensive tastes,” she teases him. 

“I lived quite a comfortable life before,” he admits 

“But you did your own shopping?” She adjusts the very full bag to her other shoulder. 

“I suppose not always,” Lucanis grins wryly. Ignoring her protests, he relieves her of their haul. “Rook, are you not going to buy something?”

Rook shifts nervously. “I can do it later.”

“Allow me to treat you,” he insists. “You do so much for the team.”

She tugs her hood down again, so Lucanis leans over to catch her gaze. “Let me spoil you, Rook.”

Bashfully she pushes him away, a warmth spreading in his chest where she touched him.  

Without a word, she leads him to a stall selling hot almonds and hazelnuts and buys two large bags. Then to his surprise, Rook crosses the canal to purchase a half bushel of dried sardines. Lucanis does not question it aloud. He just slides his gold across the counter and follows her to the quieter side of the marketplace. 

Rook weaves through an alleyway smelling strongly of piss. “De Riva, where are you taking us?” he asks, just as the first cat rubs against his ankles. 

Half of the strays in Treviso must live here. She crouches to scratch a dog behind the ears. Its tail thumps hard against the ground. 

“Who’s a good boy?” she coos as it shows her its belly. A pair of cats leap down from the trash cans and stretch out before her, demanding the same attention. Eagerly, Rook obeys. 

“The Prince of Crows feeds you tonight,” she declares, a shit-eating grin stretching her cheeks wide. “Well Lucanis, hand out the sardines to your faithful subjects.”

Before he can unseal the container they swarm him. In a chorus of meows and with prodding paws they beg with the biggest of eyes. To his horror, he runs out quickly. 

“Time to run,” she calls as she abandons him to the mob of strays. She ascends the trellises with unmatched grace, her cape billowing behind her. 

Between the cats tangling his feet and their groceries, it takes him a while longer to follow her up. As he reaches the rooftops, it hardly surprises him to find a murder of crows surrounding her. 

Yet his breath catches as she throws back her hood, her hair flowing in the salted breeze. The golden hour haloes her face. Lucanis doesn't think he's ever seen Rook smile so freely. The hard lines of worry and stress fall away as the dark crow feathers gently fall at her feet. She laughs as the bird perched on her shoulder nips at her braid and nuzzles her cheek. 

Lucanis wishes in that moment for the world to still, for someone else to rise up and save it. 

But it is his presence that breaks their serenity. The crows caw warningly at his approach. Perhaps they sense Spite within him. Or maybe in his leathers, he is just another dangerous stranger. 

“It’s alright,” she soothes them. “Lucanis is a friend.” 

A friend. His face flushes with warmth. Had he ever had one besides Illario? 

“Hurry, offer them some almonds.”

Making sure to move slowly so as not to further startle them, he slices the bag open. A delightful steam rises into the air. The birds immediately hush. Their heads tilt with curiosity. He lays a few of the nuts on the brick before him. And then he waits, as still as possible. 

The one on her shoulder hops down and struts boldly over to him. Eying him with suspicion the entire time, it pecks at the almonds before quickly claiming them all. With a clatter of its beak, it demands more.

“He likes you,” Rook swings her legs over the edge to sit beside Lucanis. She reaches into the bag of hazelnuts he holds and scatters a handful into the paling sky above their heads. Not a single nut hits the ground. 

“He likes my nuts,” Lucanis says without thinking. 

An honest laugh escapes her, startling the birds. It’s not a gentlelady’s laugh, musical and polite. There’s a rawness to it. And by the Maker, does he want to hear it again. If only he had a pinch of Illario 's charm. 

“You must think it's weird,” their hands brush while scraping the last of the salt and almonds at the bottom of the bag. “A Crow feeding the crows, sounds like the punchline of a bad joke.”

A rare vulnerability draws her brows together. He offers her a reassuring smile, “It’s not weird. Though it’s very you, Rook.”

She laughs quietly to herself. “I spent the second coin I ever earned feeding these birds. I already took you where I spent the first.”

He’ll never forget that rainy cup of coffee. Lucanis hadn't been able to fully appreciate it then. If he wasn't so excited to share his favorite cafe tonight, he’d demand they go back now.  

“I like seeing Treviso through your eyes,” he finds himself caught in her gaze. “You find beauty where I never would have considered to look for it.”

Rook startles at the compliment and quickly busies herself with her crows. They are alike that way, unable to accept a few nice words. Lucanis reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind her ears and finds them burning at the pointed tips. 

Before he can touch her, one of the crows snaps at him. 

“Be nice,” she scolds them. 

“How can I blame them for defending their Talon? They adore you,” Lucanis sighs. Even when his hands are full and hers are empty, they nuzzle her pockets and drop baubles in her lap. Rook treasures each one and strokes their heads with equal affection. 

Might I expect the same when she receives my present? A dangerous voice whispers. Shaking his head of such thoughts, he unearths his gift. 

“What is this?” She stares dumbly at the box he holds out to her. 

“Did you really think I would shop for everyone but you?”

“And yourself,” Rook notes quietly. Gently she unwraps the ribbons and finds the simple silver necklace within. It bears but a humble topaz. 

If he were braver, he’d tell her that the golden jewel reminds him of her and the day she rescued him. Of seeing the high noon sun for the first time in over a year, blazing high above the waves. But Lucanis bites his tongue. 

“It’s too much,” she tries to hand it back. 

“Nonsense,” he lifts the chain and unhooks the clasp. By Dellamorte standards it's hardly a trinket. A shameful gift. And yet she gapes at him as if he had offered her the keys to the city. “You used to wear a necklace. I haven't seen it since we fought off that dragon…”

Rook tilts her head like one of her crows. “You noticed such a small thing, Dellamorte?” She clucks her tongue. “It was my mother’s. She worshiped Andruil, goddess of the hunt. Lover and creator of Ghilan’nain. After meeting the goddess for the first time, I couldn't bear to wear a token of the one who made her…”

Lucanis hadn't been trying to replace something so meaningful. Yet before he can find the words to retreat, she nudges the crow off her shoulder. Twisting around, Rook brushes the hair off her neck and bares it to him. 

Unbidden he recalls how it felt to bury his face against her skin. Even through his gloves, he can feel her radiating heat as he slides the chain around Rook’s neck. She leans back, her weight against his knees. And Lucanis gets another whiff of the lavender in her hair. 

With a heavy swallow, he pinches the clasp closed. 

Leaning back even further, she stretches to look at him, her eyes sparkling like the city below. “Thank you, Lucanis.” 

Her smile could rival the setting sun, those lips so soft and bright. It would take so little to close the gap, to—

Something startles the murder. In a chaos of wings, they scatter across the golden sky and Rook falls fully into his lap. 

“I hope I'm not interrupting?” Illario calls, a strange expression flickering across his face before it settles into a teasing smile. “I never knew you two were so…close.”

Rook immediately scrambles away. “We’re not, we’re just—I mean…” She tries and fails to hide her blush behind a hand. “We’re friends.”

The word doesn't warm Lucanis as it did earlier. He looks between them, his cousin and his…colleague and he wonders again what their history entails. 

“Need a hand, Cousin?” 

Gratefully Lucanis accepts the help up. “You’re not one to dally on rooftops. What brings you up here, Illario?”

“Why the crows, of course. Whenever I see them congregate here, I know our Wisp is back in town,” his cousin smiles dashingly. 

Lucanis nods, though Spite stirs again within him. NOT HIS. OUR ROOK. 

His demon had been blissfully quiet this evening, enamored with so many new experiences. These days, Spite always settles contentedly when Rook is near. But Illario, for all that Lucanis loves him, brings out his demon without fail. 

“Since we’re all here, let's delay no longer. Pietra’s coffee calls to me,” Lucanis suggests. 

“Yes,” Rook agrees quickly. 

Illario delicately plucks some of the feathers tangled in her hair. “It’s been too long since I've shared a cup with either of you.”

Spite mimics him childishly. 

Before he descends, Lucanis takes one final look at the golden ocean swallowing what remains of the setting sun and considers what might have happened had his cousin not interrupted. 

WHAT MIGHT SHE TASTE LIKE?

“Enough, Spite,” he mutters. 

It doesn't matter. She would surely regret getting tangled up with someone like me.  

Chapter Text

Rook hardly hears a word Illario says as they walk through the market district. She’s too lost in her thoughts.

Gods! What’s wrong with me, throwing myself at Lucanis like that? A man gives me a necklace and I—ughhh. 

It takes all her self-control to keep her hands off the necklace, to not play with the topaz. 

My color. 

Her eyes dart to Lucanis, afraid he might have heard her spirit. But the crowds bustle loudly around them and Ruthless’s unhelpful comment falls within the din. 

“We’ve arrived,” he smiles with unbridled enthusiasm. She has never seen Lucanis so excited. 

Cafe Pietra represents that quiet luxury that Lucanis effortlessly embodies. They enter through an unmarked door tucked between two trellises blooming with wisteria and Andraste’s roses. Only insiders would ever waltz into such a place. 

“Welcome back, sir,” they recognize her companion instantly, as if not a year has passed since his last patronage. “Your usual table will be ready in just a moment.” Another waiter hurries to the back corner of the cafe where a couple sits. Words and coins are exchanged before the other patrons graciously vacate their seats. 

One of them, a Crow she has seen occasionally at the Diamond, points and giggles as they pass. “It’s really him, Pearl. The Demon of Vyrantium.” Their companion, however, nervously keeps her eyes forward. 

“Surely we could have sat somewhere else." Yet when Rook looks around she finds not a single table empty. 

“Oh Rook,” Illario shakes his head. “Things work a little differently when you dine with two Dellamortes.”

Lucanis hardly noticed the interaction. His eyes leap between the ivy crawling across the arches, the guitarist sitting by the bar playing a romantic picado, and the immaculate servers pouring coffee and serving fluffy slices of tarta de queso—their tops beautifully charred. 

She slides closer to him and asks, “Is it all that you hoped for?”

He hums with pleasure as he smiles at her. “No. It's more.”

Illario lays a hand on each of their shoulders, “Don’t get him started, Rook. Or soon he’ll get all romantic about their roasts.”

“They have very good roasts!” Lucanis insists as he leads them to their table. Before Rook can take a seat, he pulls out her chair for her. 

Without meaning to, she squeezes the topaz he gave to her as she sits down. 

“What about me, Cousin?” Illario bats his eyes. 

“Percebe,” Lucanis sighs, yet pulls out his cousin’s chair with a flourish and a bow. He then takes the seat between them. 

It's a good table. The woodwork deceivingly simple, its ornate carvings following the grain of the wood. More importantly, none of them sit with their backs to the crowd. 

A server soon approaches and asks for their orders, notably without offering them a menu. 

“I'll take Blood of Asha,” Illario instructs, “With half a teaspoon of cream. Should I order you the same, Rook?”

She looks helplessly at Lucanis. 

“They serve a specialty roast here. Andoral’s breath. Bitter and sweet. Like a kiss goodbye. You’d like it.”

“Your favorite roast is named after an Archdemon?” she quirks a brow at him. “Of course, I'll try it.”

Lucanis laughs heartily and requests a double shot for himself. 

They chat about nothing for a while. And for Lucanis's sake, she will smile and play nice with his cousin. But Rook has not forgotten Illario’s words to Caterina last they met— knife-eared slave. 

Their coffee arrives and Lucanis wastes no time. He lifts his cup and inhales deeply. Even Spite sighs within him. 

Always one to take her coffee hot, especially a roast named after dragon fire, Rook takes a tentative sip. A gentle moan escapes her. 

“That good?” Lucanis watches her beneath the steam. 

“Dark, complex, intriguing,” she sighs again and squeezes her cup with both hands. “I'll need another before we go.”

He smirks at her. “That can be arranged.”

Illario huffs, “So that’s what you're into Wisp? A man who’s all stomach and no heart?”

“No,” Rook snaps, irritated to share this moment with him. “I appreciate a man who will feed me more than just empty words.” 

Illario opens his mouth to retaliate, but Lucanis speaks first, “Cousin, in your letter you said that you had a lead. Do we have a location on Zara? Any news on Caterina? Tell us.”

“Caterina is still missing, I’m afraid.” With the attention fully on him again, Illario milks the moment. He stirs his coffee mournfully before taking a long, dramatic sip. 

Rook barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. 

“But our grandmother knew much: of the Crows, of the inner workings of Antiva. They have good reason to keep her alive. We cannot lose hope yet,” he clasps his cousin’s shoulder. 

“Then you must have news on the blood witch then,” Lucanis narrows his eyes and Rook senses Spite draw close to the surface. 

“The Crows I sent after Zara picked up on her trail. They believe she’s gone back to Vyrantium.”

“We have a friend  who’s very good at finding people,” Rook offers, though things remain icy with Neve despite her recent return. 

Lucanis shakes his head. “Zara would not leave Treviso—if the Crows protecting her are here. We’ve been compromised, Cousin.”

Illario turns back to her, “Rook, reason with him. Lucanis is being paranoid.”

“I’m not being paranoid,” Lucanis grits out, his eyes flashing violet. “Zara came after me! She has Caterina. She will come for you too.” 

Illario waves his concerns aside. “If it will make you feel better I’ll clean house, all right? Even after all this time, you always second-guess my judgments. I don't need your overbearing protection anymore, Luc.” 

Before Lucanis can reply, Illario rises from the table. His chair groans against the cobblestone. He throws his napkin over his barely touched coffee and practically storms off. 

Lucanis follows him out. Yet Rook is not surprised when he returns alone. 

“Well that went well,” he sighs and drains his cup before it gets cold. Without even having to signal, the server brings him another. 

“That’s Illario for you. Only hearing one word in ten.”

“You seem quite familiar with my cousin,” Lucanis notes lightly, though she’s sure he must be quite curious at this point. 

“We make an ideal infiltration team. He charms the front. I cover the back end of things. Viago lent me out often to him.”

Her companion frowns. “You're not a thing to be borrowed and returned. I was sure Crows in House de Riva chose their contracts.”

It shames her to acknowledge it, especially in a fancy place like this. But she already hides Ruthless from him. She can’t deny him another truth about herself. “Slaves don't choose.” 

Pity, horror—whatever his look holds, she hates it. 

“Once I killed Solas, I would have finally been able to buy my freedom. But as I can't claim that contract yet—I still technically am one.”

Rook finishes her coffee too and stares down into the empty cup. “But if you were curious on whether Illario and I have history, then the answer is, no, not really. If two people are both putting on an act around each other, it's just a private stage play.”

She can feel his stare. But Rook doesn't want to look at him. That mark Spite left on her chest burns too hot. And Lucanis, least of all, deserves her ire. 

IF HE HURT YOU, HE’LL BLEED. Spite assures her. 

Very nearly, she reacts and gives herself away. Instead, she thrusts her empty cup in Lucanis’s direction.  “I think you still owe me, two cups at least.”

“I should get a reduction for that salty travesty you made in the kitchen,” he argues back. 

“That was mine. I didn’t even offer—”

“Rook.”

Despite herself, she immediately glances up and meets his steady gaze. His brows narrow, his brown eyes darker than night threaten to swallow her whole. It is the Demon of Vyrantium that makes her this promise, “Whatever you need to make this right, I'm yours to wield.”

My freedom. It would be nice to hold those papers in my hand. But—  Her chest burns so badly she must steady herself against the table. Until I catch the rest of those Antaam slavers, I’ll never be free. Not as long as that man lives. 

Lucanis’s offer is not just pretty words. If she dares to want it, he will help her take it. She must consider it carefully. 

“When the time comes, I'll let you know.”

“Good,” he eases back into his chair. 

Speaking of timing…It seems like the wrong time. But she knows if she waits for the right one, she’ll never end up giving it to him. 

Rook slides the leather case across the table to him.

Putting his coffee down gently, he unwraps the blade. “A wyvern tooth dagger?”

“You can't buy something for everyone but yourself,” Rook mutters as she toys with her necklace. 

“I loved wyverns as a boy,” he says brightly and she glimpses that lonely child as he playfully slices the air with it. “But Caterina—” His face shutters closed.

“Between the Cantoris and De Rivas, I'm sure we will find her soon,” she offers a gentle touch at his shoulder before shying away. 

“She is a tough woman. I'm sure she’s fine,” he runs his thumb along the razored edge. “As much as I might have wanted one of these as a child, she never would have encouraged a passion so frivolous.”

“Maybe after all this is over, we can hunt a wyvern down together,” Rook suggests. “I’ve always wanted to brew a poison with their venom.” She nearly offers to bring Taash along. But Rook can't bring herself to say so. His look of joy…she doesn't want to share it. 

“I’d love that,” his lonely laugh runs straight through her. 

Shit. The realization hits her like a bad hangover. But when did it start? I can't place it. 

Her heart, already fluttering fast with caffeine, only beats faster as he leans close to place another full cup of Andoral’s Breath in her hands. Rook might combust on the spot.

I need to kill these feelings quickly. We can't afford them.

Yet she cannot deny herself another intoxicating sip of his favorite coffee and she melts as he smiles at her, sweeter than honey lavender. A dangerous affection blooms within her. I'll deal with it tomorrow, she decides, as for tonight, maybe it would be okay to savor this feeling...

The two Crows stay at Cafe Pietra long after final call.

Chapter Text

Everyone needs our help. 

A chaos of missives and notes and open books completely buries her map of Thedas.

Rook presses the heel of her hand against her tired eyes. The Veil Jumpers, the Gray Wardens, the Mourn Watch, the Lords of Fortune, the Shadow Dragons, and of course, her Crows—their needs and requests go on and on. She’s just one person, leading a team only eight strong. She's running out of steam. 

“To save everyone is to save no one,” Pride’s words echo in her head. 

But how can I choose? I'm just an assassin, one who specialized in small unit infiltrations. It was my lack of vision regarding the Antaam that got me in so much trouble with the Crows. 

IT'S TIME TO PLAY. 

She twists around to find Spite leaning against the doorframe, his eyes alight, his wings already out and trailing behind him. 

“Did Lucanis finally fall asleep?” She rolls her shoulders back and stretches her arms high above her head as a long yawn escapes her. “He managed to stay awake nearly six days this time.”

HE’S TOO AFRAID. DOES NOT TRUST SPITE. 

“Trust takes time,” Ruthless borrows her voice. “This body feels sluggish. Are you sure we should not also sleep?”

IT’S PLAYTIME, Spite insists. I WANT OUT. 

“Wasn’t planning on sleep tonight,” Rook chugs what remains of her coffee. Slipping out of her robe, she tosses her sleep shirt onto the chaise. Quickly she suits back up and pulls her bow off the rack. 

“Barbed arrows,” Ruthless directs her. Obediently Rook fills the quiver with them and pockets a few extra potions. 

HURRY, LET’S GO. Spite rocks back and forth on his heels. 

“Hold on,” Rook forces him to stand still. In his overeagerness, a few of his buckles hang too loose and his crow skull pins sit crookedly upon his chest. 

As she fixes them, she feels the blatant intensity of his gaze. 

FRESH LAVENDER. His voice rasps, softer than usual. AND ELFROOT. He tilts her chin up to meet his violet gaze. WHAT HURTS, ROOK?

“Nothing,” she says automatically. But she knows how he hates dishonesty, especially about the things that humans lie habitually about. “Everything,” she admits. 

He places a hand against her chest and she can feel his feather glow between her ribs. Spite’s brows furrow, as some of her weariness drains out of her and into him.

Quickly she shoves his hand away. “Spite! What are you doing?”

HELPING , he winces in his attempt to smirk.  STEALING YOUR PAIN. 

“You shouldn’t,” she scolds him, unsure what would possess him. 

I WANTED TO, he lifts his head defiantly. 

Before she can argue further, Ruthless draws her back. “Enough. I too want to play.”

There’s no arguing with Ruthlessness. Pushing past Spite, they quietly sneak to the Eluvian. The Crossroads need her help too—but these fights, straightforward routs of their enemies and blight, she can leave to their demons. 

***

They’ve only managed to steal away a few times so far. But, Rook must admit, it is fun to just take a backseat and enjoy the views.

TWENTY-TWENTY! Spite shrieks gleefully as he rips off the horn of the Antaam warrior and kicks the broken body into the Fade. 

“Forty,” Ruthlessness corrects as it collects their arrows from the shriveled remains of a Sorrow demon. “And that’s forty-two for me.”

CHEATER. Spite swipes at the spirit with his bloody horn. THE PRIDE DEMON COUNTED FOR ONE, NOT FOUR. 

“Three extra summons is three extra kills,” Ruthless declares smugly. “FORTY-TWO.”

Ruthless leads them to the top of the temple, where they sit at Fen Harel’s feet. With open disdain, her spirit considers the lyrium wolf that the Antaam had been tasked to guard. 

“I wonder what terrible, world-shattering secret this one holds,” Rook muses aloud without taking back control from Ruthless. 

She doesn't need to. 

Their endurance has increased dramatically with these outings. A halo of fire crowns their head whenever Ruthlessness takes the helm. It has learned not just to blind with their rays, but to pierce through armor as easily as a hot knife through butter. 

“You see so much more than I do,” Rook admires a flower, nearly half a mile away, drifting in the breeze. 

“Nothing can escape the sun’s gaze,” Ruthless announces proudly. “But few things rarely claim it either. That is why I need you. To focus me.”

FORTY-FOUR! Spite declares as he throws down two construct heads and two Venatori masks at Ruthless’s feet. I WIN. 

Ruthlessness rolls their golden eyes. “The game has already finished.”

YOU NEVER CALLED IT, RUTHY. 

Rook chuckles. Rules are rules, Ruthy. 

Her spirit shudders at the name. “I think I tire after all. I leave his reward to you.” 

Like dumping a bucket of water on a campfire, the loss of warmth and light is immediate. Rook shivers violently as Ruthless shoves her to the front of their consciousness. 

QUESTION TIME! Spite sits as closely as he can and draws her under his wings. It amazes her that the same feathers that can shred a person’s face to ribbons, can also be so fluffy and soft. 

“Just one,” she warns him. 

He clamps a hand over his mouth, to keep himself from asking a stupid one. Spite doesn’t make the same mistakes twice. 

The long grass rustles across their ankles. Thankfully the Blight hadn't gained a foothold on this island. It's still beautiful…a memory perhaps of a younger earth, untouched by people. 

“Spite,” she pokes his temple. He never takes this long. “Just ask me.”

HOW…HOW DID YOU AND RUTHLESSNESS COME TO BE?

She'd draw away, except there’s nowhere to go. Their knees brushing, his wings cradling her, she has to face him and the question no one has ever known to ask. 

RULES ARE RULES, ROOK. He gazes at her with a terrible seriousness. 

“I’m sorry.” She doesn't know how to put into words what had happened. But Ruthlessness takes pity on her. 

They tangle a hand through his dark hair and pull him close until their foreheads touch, their breaths intermingling. 

ROOK , Spite gasps. 

And then they both slip into the past. The water rushes over their heads, the air squeezes out of their lungs. 

She shrinks and her body chills, ice cold. 

But she’s not alone this time. Spite flutters against her chest, a flicker of light in the murky dark. 

***

She wakes up the morning of the storm. 

“Don’t follow the wisps too far, da’len,” her mother braids her hair back. “You cannot trust the spirits on a day like today.”

Her eight-year-old self had not paid attention to such warnings. She would wiggle away, annoyed with such overbearing love. 

But Rook freezes, tears springing to her eyes . She had forgotten her own mother’s face. Rook could endure the loss of her name. She had long ago grieved and set aside the loss of their future. 

But to see her alive again! 

“Da’assan, what are you doing?” her mother laughs as Rook traces her vallaslin, the tattooed bow that splits her narrow face, the rays that spring up above her silver eyes and disappear beneath her dark bangs. 

“Ar lath ma, Mamae,” her heart breaks as easily as it once did. “Ir abelas.”

Move along, or else the dream will break before Spite gets his answers. Ruthlessness prods her. Though it doesn't speak from within her. Instead, a golden wisp curls at her neck, tickling her. 

“Go play,” her mother pushes her away gently. “You don't have much time before the rains. Be back before the earth turns to mud.”

Reluctantly she slips out of their aravel. 

Ruthlessness isn’t the only spirit waiting to play with her. Curiosity. Compassion. Mischief. They flicker between forms. Wisps sometimes. Elvish children when it pleases them. 

WHERE ARE THE OTHER CHILDREN? Spite appears before her, still a man, and annoyingly so much taller than her now. He crouches to her level. 

“There are none.” 

“Their clan has not married well and the winters had been hard. Those with prospects had joined other clans. Only her mother and the old remained,” Ruthlessness explains. 

“Ma ghilana mir din’an,” she smiles sadly at her only friends. 

Rook takes Spite’s hand and leads him on the meandering journey she took through the forest. Curiosity drives her up the tallest tree, where she could see the storm descend into the valley, thick sheets of rain causing the river to swell. Mischief tries to drag her back. But she tended to ignore its nudges. While Compassion urges her to find a fallen magpie, a fledgling with a broken wing. 

THEY TRIED TO WARN YOU! Spite cries as the rain reaches them. 

“I could not hear them,” she says numbly. Her feet leading her toward the river despite her every effort to go anywhere else. “Not yet.”

It was just a bird. She picks up the pathetic creature as the rain falls like a thousand bitter arrows upon her head. 

And it would die despite my efforts.  

With a terrible crash, ancient trees fall around them, the rot in their barks and their enfeebled roots unable to endure the demands of the flood that sweeps through the valley. 

“Halani!” she had cried before the waters drew over her head. “Spite!” she screams as her mouth and lungs fill with water. 

But her hands fall empty. And both he and Ruthlessness are lost to her. 

The river swells with devoured trees, a slurry of mud and filth. She tumbles beneath the waves, unsure which way the air she so desperately craves lies. 

And then the merciless currents slam her against a rock. Darkness claims her. 

Death awaits on the other side. 

Chapter Text

No breath. No heartbeat. Her smell completely washed away. 

The child lies broken in his arms. 

Rook lies dead. 

NO! NO! NO! WAKE UP, ROOK! He shakes her violently.

Where are the spirits?

Where is her mother?

Why has no one come to save her?

Spite presses their foreheads together, to return to the world where she smiles. 

Without her warmth, she’s not Rook. 

“And that is your answer,” Ruthlessness’s cold voice breaks through the indifferent morning.

Spite doesn't look up at the spirit. He's too afraid that if he takes his eyes off her she might turn to ash, scattered forever upon the water. 

The world keeps turning without her. Birds chirp happily to each other, celebrating their survival. No longer enraged, the river flows gently just beyond its usual banks. 

WHO WERE YOU, RUTHY? Spite growls. CURIOSITY THAT DREW HER AWAY? COMPASSION THAT DAMNED HER?

“SHE is COMPASSION. Or mostly anyways. The spirit saved what she could of the girl before.”

As if summoned, the tiny wisp buzzes anxiously around her body. It lifts her hand. It kisses her cheek, before it slips into her chest. 

The warmth returns to Rook’s body. But it is feeble. And her eyes do not open. 

Ruthlessness steps closer. 

And despite himself-—or perhaps true to himself, Spite turns to glare at it. 

As long as they’ve known each other, Ruthlessness has never taken a corporeal form outside of Rook. Unlike the form Spite prefers, Ruthless looks nothing like its host. 

They stand much taller. A proud elf in ancient armor. They smell of blood. So much blood. 

“I was the STORM. I am the CURSE, a lieutenant of Andruil and also her WRATH against the servants that betrayed her. She tasked me with purging the earth of their FILTH until not a single soul remembered their name. They called me MISFORTUNE.”

As Misfortune booms, the current drags along the shattered remains of Rook’s aravel. Broken halla. Dead bodies. Impassionately, the water draws the last of her clan to sea. 

The spirit wades into the muck and snaps the necklace off the bloated creature that once was her mother.  

STAY AWAY FROM HER , Spite shrieks as it tries to approach. 

“She cannot live without me,” Misfortune whispers. “Compassion could not revive her alone.”

Her heartbeat already staggers too slow. Spite’s shoulders sag in defeat.

YOU WERE TASKED TO KILL. HOW COULD YOU HELP HER?

Misfortune stops short. It rubs Andruil’s totem absently. “What would I become without my task, without a master?” Its golden eyes drift to the far distance. “When she died, I was released from my oath. For the first time in many a millennia, I could make my own choice.”

With uncharacteristic gentleness, it takes Rook from Spite. Laying her down on the wet grass, it places her mother’s necklace upon her. 

“spare her. someone save me. save her,” Compassion wheezes out the corner of Rook’s mouth. 

Misfortune places a searing hand on the little girl’s distended stomach. “ And so we were Misfortune no longer. By Compassion, we became Ruthlessness.”

Immediately a blinding light consumes them. It evaporates the river. It burns away the trees. Until all that is left is Spite and the woman he again recognizes as Rook. 

Carefully, Spite brushes away the tangled hairs that fall across her face. A joy, unlike any he’s ever known before, fills Spite as she stirs. 

To his disappointment, two golden eyes flash open. “Whatever questions remain, speak them now. WE WILL NOT EVER REVISIT THIS DAY AGAIN.”

Spite has only one thing left to ask. 

DOES SHE KNOW?

“She CANNOT. Or the Dread Wolf would use it against US.” Ruthlessness again embodies the storm, the wrath of Misfortune. “YOU WILL NEVER TELL HER.”

The demon nods fearfully. But he does not promise. She deserves to know her nature, and if she chooses, to exact her vengeance. When the time is right, Spite will give her back the choice. 

***

They return to that gentle hillside above the temple. The air swells with the sweetest of flowers and the breeze ripples through his feathers. 

“Spite?” Rook whispers brokenly. Her hand still grips the back of his head and her fingers tangle in his dark hair. 

He doesn’t really know the meaning of the act. From Lucanis’s fantasies he could only parse the feelings. The desire. The pleasure. The NEED. Spite NEEDS to know that she still breathes. To feel her heart racing. 

There is hardly a gap to cross. Spite drags her across it, wrapping his arms around her in a tight squeeze. Her hot breath stutters against his neck and then his chest as he tucks her head beneath his chin.

She freezes against him, deadly still. 

ROOK? His voice flares with panic.  

Spite moves to check on her, but then her arms wrap around him and that awkward space between their chests evaporates. Her heart beats right next to his as she clings to him. 

Folding his wings around them both, he rocks her. He is not a creature capable of apologies. So this foreign emotion fluttering in his chest cannot belong to him either.

YOU’RE ALIVE. Spite rasps. YOU’RE SAFE. 

Her tears soak his neck as she nods. 

It must be HATE. Against the spirit that now guards but once tormented you. 

Except that when her sobs subside and Rook pulls away, Spite knows that isn't all he feels. It's too akin to the emotion Lucanis refuses to name. 

Chapter Text

Dying a second time shatters the mask named Rook. 

Her hands won’t stop shaking. Not even long enough to write a damn note. So she leaves the Lighthouse without letting anyone know. The team can’t see her like this. It’s bad enough that Spite did. 

She returns to the Crossroads, far from water of any kind, far from anyone that might overhear. 

Ruthlessness, are you there? I can’t—I need your help. 

Its silence is deafening. 

She paces through the Fade, attracting all the wrong kinds of spirits. 

Why won’t my hands stay still? I can’t hold a blade like this, let alone make a kill shot. And then what good am I, in the war, to the team, to anyone?

CEASE THIS. The lurking spirits immediately scatter. Ruthless finally bubbles to the surface, though the warmth it brings cannot banish the chill in her bones nor the water she swears still floods her ears. 

Her words fall out in a tumble, “I feel so helpless…anxious…exhausted. We're over our heads, Ruthless!”

Nothing has changed. Her spirit recoils from her self-pity. We are doing what we always do—whatever it takes to survive. 

Her breaths fall out of rhythm as her panic rises. “Spite could tell them. Tell them what we are, and then—”

“He WON'T.” It slows her racing heart. 

She glares down at her shaking hands. “You should take the helm, Ruthless. This body is stronger when you wield it. You do not carry these doubts.”

“I’d BURN through this mortal form in a week. Besides, it is not ME that your companions are inspired to follow. It is YOU, da’len." Warmth floods through her muscles and they still. 

“I'm so tired,” she falls to her knees and buries her face in her hands. 

“Do I not help you bear it?” Her spirit lifts her head. The tears evaporate from her cheeks. Her eyes swollen and red, clear up. 

Gently, a wisp nudges her and leaves behind a letter in her lap. 

I’m not ready.  

Reliving her final moments has exposed her every weakness. And her lack of progress. When she closes her eyes that magpie still lies in her hands. Its iridescent wings are stained with blood. Each laborious breath pushes feebly against its white breast. I risked everything to save it! And my reward was death. 

But the world summons Rook again. With a heavy sigh, she retakes the mantle.

She recognizes Teia’s handwriting instantly. Tearing open the letter, she scans its contents twice, unable to believe it. 

Caterina is dead. 

Lucanis must be informed immediately. 

***

They arrange to meet Viago and Teia in the Queen’s Gardens, infamous for their extravagant menagerie of flora. Some of the trees and rose bushes trace back to the Black Age, dowry gifts and fealty from royals throughout Thedas to Queen Asha. While the gardens usually host exclusive masquerades, tonight House De Rivas closes its gates to allow the Crows to meet privately. 

Drifting quietly between the roses, Rook lets Lucanis take the lead. She monitors the carefully blank expression he wears and his tight grip on his rapier. He hasn’t said anything since she broke the news to him. 

To her relief, Spite remains blissfully subdued, allowing Lucanis to mourn in peace. Though Rook does not miss the demon’s stolen glances or his obvious concern. 

Rook picks a lilac rose, one particularly sweet. After a little distance from last night, she can better appreciate how gentle Spite had been with her. “Thank you,” she whispers to the flower and places it before his path. 

“Oh good, you’re here,” Teia runs to greet them, Viago not far behind. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Lucanis. This must be such a blow.”

“I appreciate you taking care of the arrangements, Teia,” Lucanis says quietly. “This is a responsibility Illario and I should have bared.”

“Don’t get me started with him,” she rolls her eyes. “When I requested her ashes, the fool sounded like he had misplaced them.”

“How did she die?” Some emotion finally leaks into Lucanis’s voice. “Blades? Blood magic? Do we know where they were keeping her and for how long? How did they get past our people? I need to know.”

“We know frustratingly little,” Viago interjects. “Only Illario and his Crows saw the body—deposited on the Dellamorte Grand steps.”

“Our people are still investigating,” Teia promises him. “But while they do, I need at least one Dellamorte to help me plan the funeral. Illario is not in the right mindset. I’ve only ever seen him like this…when you died.”

A muscle tightens in Lucanis's jaw. Instinctively Rook brushes a hand over his white knuckles and his grip on his sword loosens. He glances at her as if recognizing her presence for the first time, “Thank you for coming, Rook. You are far too busy to be wasting your time on a meeting so trivial to the cause." 

“Nonsense. If there’s anything I can do, just say the word.” She squeezes his hand one more time before retreating. 

“Come,” Teia shepherds them to a secluded gazebo. “This is not a discussion to be had sober.”

Wisteria drapes down the calacatta pillars. The gold veining through the white marble catches the gentle light of the candles. They take their seats on the stone benches, facing a magnificent view of the summer palace and the canals running beneath. Distant and regal, it's the perfect place to toast a woman like Caterina. 

Viago breaks out the wine glasses and pours generously. "To the First Talon,” he lifts his glass. 

“To an unbreakable woman,” Lucanis proclaims and then he drinks. Only Spite prevents him from draining the glass. 

Rook has never sampled such an expensive vintage. Immediately it hits her. This isn’t some prissy noble drink. The legs on this red wine could go on for days. 

They talk of things the dead don’t care about: who will be invited, the color theme, what foods will be served. Yet if such things give Lucanis the comfort of action, of control, she will not hold it against him. 

The night wears on and the wine bottles run dry. As poison smiths, such legal venoms hardly affect Viago or herself. Teia, however, practically lays in the Fifth Talon’s lap and he softly strokes her hair out of her face. 

“Caterina would be furious to see us like this,” Lucanis drags a hand through his hair. “ Drunken fools. She’d demand why we weren’t out in the streets catching her killers.”

“She loved you,” Teia points out, her words only slurring a little. 

“Ha. If she did, she only knew how to show it by whip and cane. She was a cold-hearted bitch,” Lucanis sneers. Though he had stopped long ago, he had imbibed enough wine for it to loosen his tongue. “Illario and I spent all our lives chasing her approval…”

“Of course you did. She was your Talon—she was family,” Viago nurses his wine, the only one still drinking. “And after the other Houses took their shots, the only family you and Illario had left.”

Rook listens intently. Much of this was before her time as a fully fledged Crow. 

“Everything she did, she said, was to make us strong. But look at me! Possessed by a demon. Unable to protect her when it matters most.” Lucanis glares at his empty glass. 

Rook grabs the final bottle and after taking a sip, offers it to him. When he proves reluctant to take it, she leans over and whispers in his ear, “It’s okay. Leave Spite to me.” After a final moment of hesitation, he takes a long swig. Rook draws back and finds Viago studying them. Quickly she turns away. 

Teia, sensing Lucanis’s loss, tells a gentler story of Caterina and how much the First Talon supported her when she ascended as Seventh Talon over the Cantori House. Though Lucanis has few such tales to share, his anger unravels into sorrow by the time he reaches the end of the bottle. "I didn't even get the chance to thank her for everything she's done for me..."

Dawn comes gently to Treviso, the tops of the palace walls glowing beneath the sun’s light touch. 

“I'll be taking Teia home,” Viago cradles her friend with a tenderness Rook did not know he possessed. 

Rook nods as Lucanis leans heavily against her. His eyes may be closed, but even now he does not allow himself the respite of sleep. When they are alone, Lucanis reaches for her hand. His thumb traces each scar. Slowly she relaxes into his touch and her own rawness smooths out just a little. 

Chapter Text

Lucanis leans against the kitchen counter and reviews his log book as he waits for the sourdough to rise. If he can account every hour, he can assure that Spite remains out of mischief. If he keeps busy, he doesn’t have to think about Caterina and how her killers still go unpunished. 

• Dawn: Sharpen blades. (They dull quicker than before)
• Midmorning: Clean armor. 
• Midday: Talk to Taash (about the Crows) 
• Early Evening: Make bread

His tight, neat handwriting abruptly devolves. 

RembURnings from before

When one was DEVoted to iNfinITy

Not a sMalL shade

Not a SHaRP hooked claw

In a GuT

takeMEOuttakemeoUtletmouT

LetmeHOLDher. 

Lucanis claws at his face. He doesn't remember writing this. He doesn't recall blacking out. Shouldn't there be a gap in my memory whenever Spite pushes me down? If not for the words on the page, he wouldn't have known… He snaps the leather book closed and sets it aside. 

Yet a terrifying thought seizes him, How often does Spite take control? 

There's no one he can ask. He doesn't want to worry the team. And he knows if he brings it up to Rook she will do something drastic again. 

His cheeks burn. I would not survive another night in bed together.  

COWARD , Spite hisses. 

“It’s you I don't trust,” he mutters. 

Spite hums with dissatisfaction but otherwise says nothing. The demon just stares gloomily into the fire. 

“What’s upset you, Spite? I must know—for the next time I desire some peace and quiet.” 

To his growing frustration, Spite continues to sulk in silence. Ever since that night in the Queen's Gardens, his demon has been acting strange. But that doesn't make sense. Lucanis knows Spite does not share his grief. 

Turning away, he resists the urge to check on the bread again. It will rise faster if he does not interfere. His fingers tap a listless rhythm upon the kitchen counter. 

Dinner is ready: a bright salad full of cheese and fruit, lemon braised asparagus and potatoes, and roasted lamb that Assan has twice attempted to steal. Lucanis waits now only on the sourdough and company to share it with. 

As if summoned, the team pours through the kitchen doors. 

“Please consider joining the book club,” Bellara waves this week’s serial in Rook’s face as they enter. “It’s everything you could want! Two enemies forced to join the Grey Wardens together and falling helplessly in love! The slow burn as they deny their feelings. Murder! And—oh what smells soo good?”

He tries to catch Rook’s gaze as she walks in, but she offers him only the briefest of nods before pointedly looking away. 

“I’m starving,” Taash declares. “If I have to eat another bland-ass meal—"

He hands them a personal bowl of salad. Just crushing the extra peppers had made his eyes water. They grunt in approval. 

Emmrich and Manfred help him set the table. “We all so look forward to the days when you take charge of our nourishment. Did Spite help?”

“Of course not,” Lucanis spares the demon a withering glance. “The only time I trust Spite around a knife or fire is when we’re stabbing a Venatori together.”

Emmrich raises an eyebrow when Spite fails to retort. Before the necromancer can make any further observations, Bellara swoops in to ask Emmrich what he thinks of the story so far and whether Rook might love the Crow subplot as much as she does. 

“I'm fine,” Rook cuts in, her expression strained. The Veil Jumper’s face crumples and Rook quickly tries to comfort her, “I can hardly keep up with all the things I have to read. There’s no time to read for fun. But it does sound fun, Bellara. I mean it. Another time, perhaps.”

It’s not just me… Lucanis can’t help but feel some relief as Rook takes her plate and leaves the room. She's being distant with everyone lately. 

In her absence, the mood around the dinner table grows stilted. They chew more and talk less. And while Lucanis doesn't mind the quiet, his eyes keep wandering to her empty chair. 

THE BREAD , Spite reminds him. 

Lucanis rescues it from the oven just in time. The sourdough is a bit darker than he’d like but not burnt. The bread saved, Spite returns to brooding over the fireplace.

Rarely does the demon ever do anything that might incur his gratitude and so the words stick to the roof of his mouth, "Thanks...Spite."

IT’S FOR HER, ISN’T IT? 

He doesn't need to answer. For while Spite can keep his secrets, Lucanis will always be an open book to his demon. 

“Well so much for plan number twenty-seven,” Bellara laments, breaking the awkward tension. “Rook refuses to take any time for herself.”

“Minrathous still weighs on her,” Davrin notes as he shares a bone with Assan. 

Neve hums unconvinced and sips at her wine.

“I think the future burdens her more,” Harding suggests as she stirs her potatoes into mash. “Our allies are treating us like the Inquisition. They are demanding a lot of aid. But we don't have the people to support every front.”

“Maybe she’s on her period—what?” Taash exclaims as the dwarf slaps them. “The body has its rhythms. And she stresses hers the fuck out. She hardly sleeps more than Lucanis.”

Around the dinner table, the team continues to theorize about what might have put their leader in such a funk lately. And while each point must contribute, Lucanis fears none strike at the heart of things. His eyes drift to his sulking demon and a crazy thought occurs to him. Maybe Spite knows what troubles Rook. 

If this is his fault—if this is something he can fix—Lucanis endeavors to set things right. 

 ***

In a team of insomniacs, the best place to catch someone is at the coffee pot. And sure enough, at the devil’s hour, Rook sneaks into the kitchen with her empty mug. 

“Rook,” he slips out of the shadows and it gives him great pleasure to get the jump on her for once. 

“Lucanis,” she eyes him warily. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not tonight,” he leans against the counter and crosses a foot casually over the other. “How about you?”

“Too much to do and not enough hours to do it.” Not waiting for the coffee to cool, she immediately inhales it.

Lucanis expected her to flee. He even prepared a trap for her.

And yet, Rook lingers. She dumps whatever atrocity Neve made earlier and starts a fresh brew. Eventually, she murmurs, “Was Bellara okay after I left?”

“She’ll be fine. She’s just worried about you…we all are.”  He unwraps the sourdough, the crust still a little warm, and slices it in half. Steam fills the air and Rook draws even closer. 

"It's a miracle one of your infamous loaves survived dinner." She crackles the crust, savoring the sound, before ripping off a piece. 

"It needed to rest," he shrugs.

She shoots him a disbelieving glance before taking a bite. Rook makes so many little sounds when she eats. Lucanis wishes he could catch them all and save them in a jar. Before she can catch him staring, he busies himself with slicing the rest of the bread.

In the dim of the kitchen, they don't talk for a while. Rook stands close, their shoulders nearly touching, as he lathers marmalade on another slice for her. Eagerly she takes it.

“Is there anything you’re not good at, Dellamorte?” she asks between nibbles, finally starting to slow down after devouring half the loaf.

"Of course not," he scoffs though a thousand things come to mind.

Rook sucks her fingers clean of the orange jam and Lucanis urgently wishes he was better—at flirting—at not caring—whichever might release the sudden tension he feels tracking the crumbs at the corner of her mouth.

But Spite was right.

I am a coward.

And like everything else he's ever desired in life, he sets his feelings aside.

"You're just easy to please," he grips the counter to keep his hands in line.

"That's not fair," she pouts. "You made one of my favorites..." A deep sadness hollows out her eyes. "My Mamae used to make a loaf for my name day each year. I've never had a slice that could compare to hers. But somehow, this was close."

Lightly Rook leans against him and he stiffens beneath her sudden warmth. Lucanis doesn't know what he's supposed to do. Wrap an arm around her? Just wait it out?

"I think it's because you burned it," she muses and even though he's not brave enough to turn to look at her, he can hear her smile.

"Burnt's a strong word. It's just lightly toasted," he exaggerates his defensiveness. 

The quiet builds again and his mind races. Is this what's been bothering her lately? Did we miss her name day? Or maybe Rook's just missing her mom? Lucanis doubts it. Yet he realizes then just how little he knows her. I don't even know whether her parents are still alive. 

"Thanks for the sourdough," Rook eventually blurts. 

“It’s the least I can do," Lucanis says softly. "You carry so much on your shoulders, but know that we’re here to help you carry the load.”

She pulls away. “I’m doing a shitty job. I know it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he scrambles and grabs her wrist before she can run. 

“But it's true. Varric picked the wrong person. I'm not cut out for this. Leading people, saving people? I was trained to kill. It's all I’m good at.” 

“The people of Treviso breathe freely thanks to you,” Lucanis insists. He tries to lighten the mood, “The strays don’t starve. The crows eat like kings.”

Still, her face remains crestfallen. 

He rubs comforting circles along her pulse. “We did not get to choose our profession, but you did choose to be more.”

Rook finally looks up at him, her eyes glassy. “And what if that’s not enough?”

Lucanis brushes away those infuriating crumbs and cradles her cheek “Already you give more than this world deserves.”

Her lips ghost against his palm, searing his skin before she steps away.

He forces himself to remain, to let her go. But before she leaves, he has to know. “Rook?”

His demon shifts uneasily within him. 

“Yes?” She pauses at the door. 

“Did Spite…do something to you, last I was asleep?”

Backlit by the brightness of the Lighthouse and the Fade, Lucanis cannot read her expression well. 

“Spite has only been a help to me lately,” she says carefully. “My problems are my own.”

“Alright, Rook,” he sighs as she retreats behind her lonely castle walls again. “Get some rest…if you need someone to watch you as you sleep—I mean like how you were there for me, not that I would offer to tie you down unless—”

What the hell am I saying right now? 

A laugh escapes her and his cheeks burn hotter. 

“Don’t make an offer you can’t keep,” Rook smiles brightly for the first time in days. 

And though he wants to melt into the floor, Lucanis will take it as a win. 

Chapter Text

“Keep up, Dellamorte!” Rook leaps between the rooftops as if she were the one with wings. “Most kills tonight picks the coffee spot. Loser picks up the tab.”

“You’re going to be broke after tonight,” Lucanis speeds up. 

Rook had been so down yesterday, he's glad they can take it easy in Treviso tonight. Returning to their city always lifts her spirits. Nothing is more comforting than the familiar. Murder, backstabbing, and politicking? That’s just another day for a pair of Crows. 

The city roofs slope downward as they enter the Drowned District. It's the perfect time to overtake her. He veers off her path to a higher vantage. Violet wings snap open as he leaps off the ridge. 

Lucanis flips just over her head and Spite flares with excitement. TOO SLOW!

Snagging his cape, Rook tries to pull him back. So he spins with the new momentum and meets her head-on, a knife to her throat. 

“I thought the Wisp would be above such cheap tricks,” he says a little breathless. 

Her cheeks glow rosily from the exertion, “You’re the one cheating.”

“Just using every tool at my disposal,” Lucanis grins wickedly. “It's not my fault that I have a demon and you don't.”

He catches the briefest flicker in her smile before she rolls her eyes and steps away from him. “Whatever. We shouldn't keep Jacobus and Dareth waiting any longer.”

They have a simple mission today: Help a young pair of scouts with their lead. Clear some of the Antaam rot from Treviso—and maybe find evidence on the traitors that paved their way. It’s the kind of job they could do in their sleep. 

Rook is all business by the time they arrive at the appointed warehouse. The Drowned District has been squeezed dry under the occupation. No foreign ships want to dock. Few locals can afford to leave. So they don't expect too many people to be walking the streets at night. But it shouldn't be this quiet. Even the stray stay away.

"Smells like a trap," Rook whispers.

WHAT DO TRAPS SMELL LIKE? Spite asks. CHEESE?

Lucanis ignores his demon and gives Rook a nod. He follows her into an adjacent building. Soundlessly they slip into the attic and hop softly back across to the warehouse's caved in roof. As they feared, three Antaam lie in wait to ambush them. One Crow slumps dead in the corner. The surviving fledgling curses loudly from within his cage until the nearest soldier punches him through the bars.

Silently, they sneak closer and just as the other two turn their backs on their perch, Rook strikes. Her knife artfully lands right in the gap between his helmet and gorget and pierces an artery. The qunari would have fallen instantly if her enemy was not such a massive tank. Before the karasaad can cry for help, Lucanis lands on his shoulder. Seizing her hilt, he eviscerates his windpipe and confirms the kill. 

“Nehraa kadan!” his companion roars with grief and rage. The warrior bangs his shield once with his axe before charging. 

Sliding out his dual blades, Lucanis does not bother trying to parry such heavy blows. He weaves around his enemy and slices his exposed ankles. Yet the qunari hardly stumbles. 

“They killed Dareth! They killed my cousin,” Jacobus screams as he rattles the bars of his cage. 

Lucanis cannot spare him any further attention. A blast of gaatlok burns the shipping containers just behind where he once stood. 

The third Antaam torches the area carelessly. Yet Rook dances with the flames, not a single feather singed. At least thirteen daggers protrude throughout her opponent’s body. Lucanis cannot fathom how the soldier still fights. 

BURN! BURN! Spite squeals within him. BRING THE HOUSE DOWN!

They can’t let that happen—not with a hostage and whatever evidence they need to find still in the building. Lucanis rushes the trigger-happy bastard. And with Spite’s power reinforcing the blow, his blade carves through the soldier’s back, severing the lower spine and nearly cleaving their enemy in two. 

Spite cackles, beyond delighted. 

To his surprise, a look of rage rather than relief floods Rook’s face. But there’s no time to apologize for whatever Lucanis did to offend her. 

“Saar-bas!” their final enemy curses. 

MORE BLOOD ! Spite shrieks and his demon throws his feathers like daggers. Each one thuds heavily into the warrior’s shield. With the qunari’s full attention on him, the soldier stands defenseless as Rook rises like a phantom from behind and decapitates him. 

“You stole my kills,” she growls before the head hits the ground. 

Still high off the battle, he raises his voice to meet hers. “If I see an opening, I take it.”

Her jaw clenches as she turns away to retrieve her blades. “If only I could also…” she grumbles to herself. 

Lucanis takes a centering breath, his concern overwriting his annoyance. What is going on with her?   He studies her: the dark circles around her glassy eyes, the notable heaviness in her usually silent steps. She's all sharp edges. A bow strung too tight. It's like looking at a mirror—

NOT SLEEPING ENOUGH. Spite draws the same conclusion. Though that cannot be guilt he detects in the demon's voice. Spite surely isn't capable of such an emotion.

He recovers her first dagger from their enemy's throat. A perfect throw. It just didn't have its usual power behind it. 

“We fight on the same side,” he reminds her gently as he returns it. 

Guilt mixes with her anger, twisting it inward instead of at him as she pockets the blade. Finally, Rook replies, “I'll just have to work harder to keep up.” Her shoulders round as she stares at the two enemies she failed to kill alone.

“I didn't know you were such a sore loser,” he goads her. If she's like him, her anger will help her endure until he can force her to sleep tonight. It earns him an elbow to the ribs and the ghost of a smile. 

“Hello? Still locked up over here!” the fledgling complains. Effortlessly Rook picks the lock. And without so much as a ‘thank you,’ the teenager barrels past them both. He collapses on his knees before the fallen Crow, unceremoniously dumped in the corner. “Please,” Jacobus sobs into his cousin’s chest, “You must finish Dareth’s contract. He had a lead on the Butcher.”

“We will,” Lucanis assures him.

“He was all I had left,” the boy cradles his cousin’s hand. 

Lucanis squeezes Jacobus’ shoulder, remembering the day his world had shrunk so bitterly, leaving only Illario and Caterina to anchor him. And now I don't even have her anymore.  

“You should go back to the Diamond,” he speaks softly, knowing no consolation will reach him. 

“I...” He quickly wipes away the tear that slips down his face. “Just give me a minute.”

Rook stands to the side, gripping her blades too tightly. Usually she would be the one offering comfort. But she hangs back, her mind elsewhere.

“You ready, Rook?” he tries to focus her. 

“I’m fine." She shakes off his concern. "Let’s go.”

SHE’S NOT FINE, Spite hisses when she’s out of earshot. 

“Now is not the time to confront her,” Lucanis tells his demon. “All we can do is keep her safe and finish the contract as quickly as possible.”

***

Again the gods have interfered and made more men into monsters. With a guttural groan, the qamekmaster dies in a pool of his poisoned blood, black and rotting. Spite kicks the transmuted creature for good measure.

CUT OFF THE HORN. I WANT IT!

Lucanis shakes his head, exasperated. 

“We cannot let the Butcher unleash this upon Treviso,” he turns to Rook.

“If only this were all of it,” she crumples the rabid note that the mad artificer left behind. “It seems Treviso’s traitors make plans to double cross the Butcher too.”

The battle should have been easy for them, their enemy strong but stupid under the influence of the corrupted qamek. But the beserker proved both resistant to her poisons and her weakened attacks. Prickly irritation leaks through the cracks of Rook's careful mask of professionalism.

"Let's burn this fucking lab to the ground."

Grabbing torches from the wall, they set the barrels of altered qamek ablaze. The flames turn a sickly yellow as the rusty liquid burns, t he poisoned smoke rankling their noses through their cowls.

SMELLS LIKE SOURING. PEOPLE TURNING INTO CORPSES. 

“Carajo. I need to clear my head,” she gags. “Can you finish torching the room?”

“I'll make it look like an accident,” he assures her. “Meet you on the rooftop.”

His Crow leathers stink by the time he finishes. He might have to burn them. Unfortunately, the air above the brig is hardly any better. The entire garrison stinks of gaatlok powder and qunari piss. Deepening his annoyance, the qunari leader continues to drone on over the speakers.

“But the Antaam do not listen to whispers and traitors,” the Butcher growls. 

If Lucanis has to listen to him repeat that hypocritical nonsense one more time— WE’LL SKEWER THE BUTCHER! GIVE HIM SOMETHING TO REALLY SQUEAL ABOUT.  

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Spite.”  A deep frown settles in his jaw as he studies the Antaam flags hanging so brazenly upon the summer palace walls. This occupation is a stain upon his city, one he cannot wait to wipe clean. But not tonight. Not when Rook is falling apart. 

He finds her tucked in the turret tower, in the middle of berating herself. Not wanting to intrude, Lucanis waits just out of sight. 

“At this rate, I'll just be a burden to the cause. Lucanis and Spite had to clean every single one of my kills tonight…If only I could wield Ru—”

I’M BOREDDD, Spite groans so loudly, Lucanis cannot hear anything besides his demon's wheedling. MORE KILLING!

“Shut up, Spite!” he hisses.

But its too late. She must have heard him. Slipping down from her perch, Rook hurriedly wipes at her eyes. “I know what you're going to ask. And no, I’m not fine,” she looks up at the sky. “Though maybe we could just pretend I am until we get the fuck out of here.”

“Fine,” he agrees tightly, but he cannot abide this any longer. “On the condition that tonight you sleep with me. All night long.”

She gapes at him, completely stunned by his proposal. "Dellamorte—"

“You lost our bet,” he cuts off any protests. “All the kills were mine tonight. So I pick your bedroom. And we’re ordering decaf.”

RULES ARE RULES , Spite sneers. 

Mustard smoke begins to rise through the brig’s open windows. The entire army will soon be upon them. They need to leave now. 

“This isn’t over,” she huffs and races away. Easily he keeps pace. 

Rook can be mad at me all she wants. I don't care. Lucanis dispatches the scouts they stumble into as they make their escape. Tonight was unacceptable. If he hadn't been there—if they had faced a stronger enemy—if he doesn't help her figure this shit out, next time she might get seriously hurt... And Lucanis can't afford to lose anyone else.

Chapter Text

“How was Treviso? You two are back awfully late,” Neve notes icily as she waits cross-armed just beyond the Eluvian. The mirror's ethereal light cannot soften the hard lines on the Crows' faces. Its magic cannot dampen the stink of qamek and burnt feathers. Neve's nose wrinkles. "It was supposed to be a routine patrol. What the hell happened?"

“The mission went fine,” Rook grinds out, barely containing her fury. 

“It did not,” Lucanis immediately contradicts her, snagging her arm so Rook can't escape. “Neve, tell the others it's time to execute Bellara’s Plan, number sixty-nine.”

“You mean sixty-eight,” Neve smirks and shifts to block the exit. 

“What are you two going on about?” Rook demands but they ignore her.

She tries to break his hold. Lucanis however, is ready for her and she ends up getting her arm pinned tightly behind her back. Gods, I really must be exhausted for him to so easily manhandle me. Gritting her teeth, she glares at Neve, angry that somebody else is witnessing her in such weakness. 

“You know what I meant,” Lucanis snaps yet that only deepens Neve’s amusement. 

“Alright,” she sweeps her eyes over Rook with something approaching concern, “I’ll gather the team.”

***

Perhaps I forced his hand. Though Rook won't admit it aloud.

A bruise blooms beneath his beard after her last escape attempt. Heavily Lucanis leans on her, pinning her facedown into her damn couch as he ties her wrists together. After tugging the knot extra tight, which they both know would hardly slow down any Crow worth their salt, the pressure on her back lightens and he rights her.

“This is mutiny,” Rook spits, Spite's feather flaring beneath her linen shirt.

Lucanis grunts in response. He hardly has any words left. The night's been too long for him too. Releasing a long-suffering sigh, he kneels before her and double-checks the binds around her ankles. Rook tries to jerk away. Yet when he lifts his head to look up at her, his dark eyes softening with worry, she cannot find it within her to struggle anymore. 

"It's not too tight," she hisses, answering his unspoken question. 

He nods and recedes just as Bellara and Assan enter the room. 

The griffon leaps over the back of the couch and stretches out across her lap. Assan chirps insistently, demanding pets, but she cannot appease him. Just another reason to string up these traitors once I'm free.

The mastermind behind this inane plan takes her place beside Lucanis. “We’re doing this for your own good, Rook,” Bellara shifts uneasily. “How long has it been since you slept, really slept a solid six hours? Or even four?”

Probably, not since the night after the dragon attack. More than a month ago? But Rook refuses to say. 

Bellara does not falter against her silence. “We know Assan brings you the most comfort. But since he isn’t above bribes, Lucanis is here to ensure you sleep tonight.”

“Why not Davrin?” Rook glares at the assassin. 

“Would you prefer him?” Bellara asks. 

To spite them both she nearly says, yes. But her pride checks her tongue. The fewer people who see her like this, the better. 

“No,” Rook growls. 

“Then the arrangement stays as is. Taash will be just outside the door if you need backup, Lucanis.” Bellara announces and then turns back to Rook. “Once Lucanis confirms you’ve gotten some real sleep, we'll work on reorganizing our agendas. Neve and Harding will help!” 

Rook groans. Nothing sounds worse. 

The Dalish elf places a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Cyrian used to say, ‘a good nap makes the world make sense again.’ Sometimes that's all we need…someone who cares about us to help us take care of ourselves.” Her countenance droops as it always does when she talks of her brother. “Sulahn’era, ma falon.” 

Sparing her one last worrying glance, Bellara leaves. When the door slips shut behind the Veil Jumper, Rook stretches, her ropes slipping off her hands and feet. “Stay here if you want, Lucanis. But I still have things to finish up tonight.” 

“Rook,” Lucanis pushes her firmly back into the couch. “Enough.” 

His arms cage her in. Before she can slip away, he drives a knee between her legs.“ Are you not tired?”

Her breath hitches as she meets the dark intensity of his gaze. His black hair drapes around his face and tickles her cheeks. 

SLEEP ROOK. Spite croons from somewhere behind her. 

“Things won’t fall apart if you sleep one night.”

She clings to her anger. Because if Rook releases it, she truly will be defenseless. “Like you can talk.”

“That’s not fair,” his voice lowers dangerously. 

Her body tenses, ready to bite and claw her way out, when Assan chirps beside her. It nuzzles her clenched fist, begging her to pet him. The fight leaks out of her and a deep weariness quickly takes its place. 

How did it come to this?

Behind him, the Fade's aquarium glows menacingly. Schools of fish press against the window as if to laugh at her. Sinking further into the cushions, a terrible pressure squeezes her lungs and head as she recalls plunging to the bottom of that river. Rook turns away, ashamed. “I hate sleeping here.” 

“Why?”

THE FISH. THE WAVES. Spite understands. THE FLOOD.  

But she cannot let him speak for her. “Can we at least turn the couch around?” 

Suspicion still draws his sharp brows down.

Absently Rook strokes Assan’s soft feathers. His purrs chase away the cold creeping up her spine. “I promise I'll try and sleep if we do.”

Reluctantly, he withdraws and the breath she’d been holding escapes her.

The chaise is surprisingly heavy but they manage it without Taash’s help. Rook lays on her side, curling around Assan. Between the two of them, there’s no room for Lucanis. Not that I would invite him. He can sleep on the floor for all I care. 

Lucanis shows no signs of discomfort as he sits on the ground before her. He closes his eyes. But she knows he’s very much awake, every other sense tracking her, prepared to stop her if she moves even an inch from the couch. 

Her fatigue consumes her all at once as Ruthlessness withdraws, no longer buffering her against it. On a night like this, her spirit would usually rock her as it did those first terrible weeks in Antiva. But it won’t dare sing to her tonight. At least she has Assan. Burying her face in the griffon’s mane, Rook lets out another shuddering breath. Sleep hunts her now. It's practically at her heels. 

She sneaks one final look at her insufferable assassin and the demon crouching beside him.

“I hate you,” Rook whispers. But a different kind of warmth pools in her chest as she slips into dreaming. 

***

Rook wakes hours later. It's impossible to know exactly how long in the Fade. Yet the space beside her runs cold, Assan having long ago shifted to the far arm of the couch. His tail twitches as he dreams. The Crow before her, however, hasn’t moved an inch. 

Maybe she’s not thinking straight still or maybe she wants a little revenge. Rook refuses to assess her motives too deeply.

“Lucanis,” she calls, her voice husky from a deep sleep. 

His eyes snap open, dark yet alert. 

“Come on,” she pats the seat cushion. Before he can refuse she smiles, “I’ll sleep longer.”

It’s almost a magic phrase. Despite his obvious discomfort, he draws closer. 

“Not in your armor,” she scolds him. It must have been terribly uncomfortable to sit in it all night , she notes smugly. 

“If this is a trick,” Lucanis says warningly, his voice rough from disuse. Yet obediently he begins to unclip his weapons and loosen his buckles. 

Openly she admires him as he removes his armor piece by piece. His fingers work rhythmically, not a waste of movement. He pretends not to notice her, folding each article as must be his routine. But his blush gives him away. Lucanis strips down until only his base layers remain. And then to her surprise, he abandons his vest and begins unbuttoning his shirt. “Stinks of qamek,” he mutters as he tosses it to the floor. 

A lifetime of scars, of near brushes with death, lattice across his warm skin. Rook notes the not fully absorbed sutures rising in a forbidden set of rings around his neck and along his collarbone. That must have been where they inserted Spite. Otherwise, his toned chest is surprisingly smooth, though a dark trail starting at his naval leads her gaze steadily downward. Catching herself, her eyes snap back up and she finds Lucanis smirking at her. 

“Like what you see, Rook?” he asks with easy confidence, but something more vulnerable lurks beneath. 

“Can’t you tell?” she swallows hard and sits up slightly. 

He approaches her with careful deliberation. Yet Lucanis stops just short. He leans over her, his nails digging into the couch.

“What are we doing, Rook?” his voice raspy, his eyes searching. 

“Just sleeping,” she replies, soft as a prayer. 

For a long moment, he stands there, trapped in indecision. 

“I’ve always hated sleeping alone,” she bridges the gap between them, touching his arm lightly. 

“Me too,” Lucanis admits so softly she barely hears him. 

The couch dips beneath his weight. Yet half of his body must still hang over the edge. Unsatisfied, Rook pulls him close until she can smell the sweat and smoke on his skin, until she can hear his heart thundering in his chest beneath her ear. 

Carefully Lucanis raises a hand to her hair. He scrapes her scalp softly, carding his fingers through her tangles with great gentleness. Rook leans into his touch and buries her face against his scars. 

They don’t speak. Afraid to break whatever this might be. Rook only knows that all her rage, all her fear, falls quiet as she entangles herself further with him. Despite herself, she falls back asleep much too quickly. 

***

As Neve and Harding go over her organization system, she can’t help but steal glances at the empty couch. It could have been a dream. When she awoke the second time, he was already gone, not a trace of him left behind.  But I hope it wasn't. 

“Need another nap?” Harding asks, worrying her lip. 

Rook shakes her head, hoping to dislodge such useless thoughts. Maybe the team was right. She must truly have been sleep-deprived to have coaxed Lucanis into her bed like that. 

“You lack priority,” Neve criticizes as she considers Rook’s notes. “Helping a woman find her drunken husband shouldn’t be considered equally important as assisting the Grey Wardens with researching a strange new strain of the blight.”

“And you don’t have to take every mission personally,” Harding suggests gently, “You can spread out tasks like these to us.”

“But they both feel equally important,” Rook tries to defend herself. “And that missing person led us to finding a demon of Desperation in Dock Town…I had to take care of it.” 

Neve breathes out sharply. “Rook…”

Harding clears the map of all its pins. “There are eight of us. And at least two people should go on every mission, three if we expect high enemy resistance or danger. So let's choose four objectives, the most important and most urgent to the cause and deal with those first.” The dwarf hands her a list of twenty missions that Neve and Harding had already screened. 

"To try and save everyone is to save no one," Solas's words haunt her.

Her vision blurs as she looks down at the list. Where was the confident bluster I had when all this started? How could a single line from the Dread Wolf infect me with so much doubt?

Ruthlessness stirs within her. If you cannot choose who to save—then choose who to maim. Our greatest enemies at the moment are the Venatori. What would hurt them most?

As always, her spirit centers her, helping her find a path through the impenetrable dark. Rook steels herself. “We need to cut off the heads of some Venatori snakes. Zara and Aelia.”

Neve stirs at the name, “I only have my suspicions. No real leads.”

“Then let’s get some. Get cozy with the Threads if you have to. Shake out old Templar contacts. We do what it takes to kill Venatori presence in Minrathous at the roots.” She smiles caustically at Neve. “And take Emmrich with you. Maybe the dead will talk if the living won’t.”

“I assume you and Lucanis will take care of Zara,” Harding puts down a pin in Dock Town and Treviso. 

“And the Butcher will be next,” Rook says with more clarity than she’s had in a while. “The rest of the team will focus on the Blight. We must cull Ghilan'nain’s army before it can reach full strength.”

Neve considers the map. “We can send Davrin and Taash to Hossberg where the infection runs deepest. And Bellara and Harding can work on cleaning up Arlathan before it gets worse.”

“Works for me,” Harding says, sounding more sincerely chipper. “But this means neglecting Nevarra and Rivian.”

“It does,” Rook sets aside her unease. “If we start hearing about the gods shifting further into those fronts we will adjust.” 

Harding places a hand on Rook’s shoulder, still tense and rounded. “This is a good start. But eating well is just as important as sleeping. I'll go check if Bellara and Lucanis have finished prepping brunch.”

“Thanks, Harding,” she tells the dwarf, hoping she might understand the fullness of her gratitude. 

“No matter the odds, no matter how hard you go down, you don’t give up.” Sadness creeps into Harding's smile, “That’s why Varric chose you. Not once have I questioned it.”

Unable to endure such praise, Rook hurriedly turns back to the map. Yet the warmth in her cheeks soon fades. In her mind’s eye, she can still see all those other pins, all those cries for help. Her heart already aches at the loss. Rook glances down at the list they made her, wondering if she can somehow find a way to fit more of them on the board. 

I always thought that was the difference between the Wisp and Rook. The latter didn't leave the wretched behind to fend for themselves.  

“You know, I kind of get how you feel,” Neve speaks softly, the kindest she’s approached Rook since the fall of Dock Town. “You’ve got a bleeding heart and no sense of self-preservation. And there’s always someone ready to take advantage of that. No matter how many people you help, there’s always someone else waiting behind them, just as desperate. But we never learn, we never stop….” 

Rook turns to face her fully. “If I could save them all, I wouldn't care if they bled me dry.”

Neve’s brows furrow. “That’s why the team worries about you. You’re not just some Talon’s lackey anymore. You’re not expendable, Rook.”

“Neither are you, neither was Minrathous,” Rook finally confronts the blade she sunk in the mage’s heart. 

“It was the right call for you,” Neve smiles bitterly, the scar over her right eye still bright. “How could I even ask you to choose my home over yours?”

“That wasn’t why I—”

Neve waves her excuses away. “No explanation you give me could make it better. But Rook, you’re fighting for us now. And I've learned to take the small wins where I can.” Neve takes a final look at their plans. “It’s the only way people like us can endure when the tables inevitably turn.”

Long after Neve’s gone, Rook considers her words. Small wins, huh? Absently she pets Assan as he curls around her legs. 

Maybe I've been approaching this all wrong. I've been so afraid of another big loss like Minrathous, so tangled up in Solas’s vision of a grand war and Varric’s romanticization of the hero Rook—that I've forgotten who I am. 

We are Ruthless. 

And we are a Crow. We don’t lead battles. We take out targets, the kind that send a message.   She rearranges the map pins. Zara, Aelia, those can stay. She adds another pin in Treviso for the Butcher. And then two pins in the Wetlands for Ghilan'nain's blighted dragons.  And once we’re done with them…

Upon the compass rose—the arrows a symbol of guidance like Ghilan’nain was supposed to be and the sun’s rays shining behind it: Elgar'nan and his celestial might—Rook plunges a dagger. 

Chapter Text

Brunch is a fucking disaster. The eggs are rubbery, the bacon burnt. Lucanis fried the tomatoes in the bacon grease instead of olive oil and now he can't serve them to Emmrich. Worst of all, Taash’s spice blend somehow got into everything—including the orlesian toast. 

There’s no time to start over. The entire team, barring Rook, already buzzes around the table like vultures circling a kill. Bellara tries her best to save some of the dishes. But Lucanis has no hope. 

And he can't even blame Spite. 

Lucanis curses. Because Rook’s breath still ghosts across his skin. He cannot shake the molten heat of her and his desire to bury himself in it.

TOO MUCH SUGAR. Spite calls out. 

It had taken all of his self-control to restrict his hands to her hair, to restrain them from chasing every glimpse of skin as her shirt rose up.

THAT’S A LOT OF CHAMPAGNE. 

She leaned in when I touched her. Maker, she practically pulled herself on top of me . Their hips slotted so perfectly together and as she slept, he felt her every torturous shift. Rook would have driven him to insanity if he had stayed any longer. 

Even now, just the thought of her—

Mierda. Lucanis winces as he sips the mimosa he’d been mixing. The team won’t get any work done today if he serves them this. Yet he finds himself draining an entire glass just to clear his head of her.  

“Sooo Lucanis,” a chipper voice summons him to the present, “how did it go last night?”

“How did what go?” he asks. He’s not sure if the cocktail is just that strong or if he’s becoming a light-weight. Lucanis hasn’t drunk since that night in the Gardens with the Crows. Unbidden he remembers Rook’s lips brushing against the shell of his ear. 

“Plan Sixty-Eight, of course!” Bellara beams as she mixes the eggs and bacon bits into a salad. 

“Good,” he sees no need to elaborate. 

“Good how?” Bellara probes him tirelessly, “How many hours did she sleep? Did Rook try to escape but you ended up paralyzing her with one of your Crow poisons? Or maybe you seduced her first with your roguish charm to stay in bed with you.”

TALK, TALK, TALK, Spite complains in his ear. 

Lucanis blinks owlishly. “Was Plan Sixty-Eight the plot of one of your books?”

He discovers then just how terrible of a liar she is. “Not completely,” the elf eventually admits.

ROOKY’S HERE, Spite announces gleefully, relishing Lucanis’s immediate discomfort. 

A full night’s sleep had done wonders for Rook. Her footfalls again are practically silent. Her gaze shines bright and clear. Lucanis fights the urge to track her across the room, to keep his eyes from lingering at the curve of her hips or the slender length of her legs. 

Assan follows at her heels. “Might have had the best night’s sleep I've ever had with this guy watching over.” Rook smiles brightly at Davrin, who sits whittling in the corner. 

BECAUSE OF US! NOT HIM! Spite hisses, but Lucanis just rolls his eyes and sips at his mimosa. 

“Thanks for lending him to me.”

“Anytime,” the Grey Warden offers. “Though next time you’ll have to pay Assan’s fees.”

The griffon chirps in agreement. 

Rook works her way around the room, offering her apologies and thanks. She informs the team of the plans she, Neve, and Harding developed this morning and pairs the team up until the only two left unmatched are him and her. His heart beats faster. 

Only a lifetime of stoicism keeps the anticipation off his face as Rook crosses the dining hall toward him. The room hushes as they watch them. 

“Rook,” he manages to say her name with the appropriate amount of levity. 

“Lucanis,” she acknowledges curtly. Whatever she truly feels remains hidden behind a mask of professionalism. “That leaves Treviso to us. We focus first on uprooting the Venatori before they can get a proper foothold in our city.”

Her eyes burn with their old fire. Zara . The name goes unspoken between them.

He dips his head. “No one better for the job than a pair of Crows.” 

They could leave it at that for now and sit down for breakfast, but her feet remain firmly planted in the kitchen. Rook bites her lip, and suddenly that’s all he can focus on. “Lucanis,” she says his name more softly this time. “I owe you.”

“Not any more than I owe you,” he replies, wishing he could brush the worry lines from her brow. Lucanis restrains himself.

Her anger from last night resurfaces, “Last night, I was a liability. And if you hadn’t interceded I—I would still be leading the team astray.” Her jaw clenches with determination. “I know I’m not the right person for this job.” When he tries to correct her, she silences him with a hand. “My whole life I have taken orders, not given them. I’ve killed without question and often without much perspective. And when I tried to be the hero I always wanted to be, my mistakes contributed to the same Antaam occupation that we must now overthrow.”

Though Rook speaks to him, he realizes then that this confession is for everyone.

“My strengths lie in infiltration and improvisation, not long military campaigns, and so it's time I stop trying to be someone I'm not.” Rook straightens her shoulders and juts her chin out defiantly. “Blades like us end wars not on the battlefield, but behind locked doors where our enemies think themselves safe and untouchable.” 

She turns to face the others. Maybe it's the second mimosa kicking in, but Lucanis swears her eyes blaze bright as the sun. “This time we do not wait for the Venatori to overthrow a government. We do not wait for the dragon to attack our homes. We abandon all else in favor of hunting our enemies down first. The gods will have no choice but to face us openly.”

WE WILL MAKE THEM MORTAL. WE WILL MAKE THEM BLEED, Spite growls. 

Rook’s chest heaves as she finishes her speech. As she’s not one partial to giving them, the team is slow to react. 

Soon, however, Harding and Emmrich are applauding as Taash roars their approval. Neve and Davrin close in to pat her on the shoulders and Bellara sweeps Rook into a hug. Their leader freezes under the attention—under the unexpected affection and yet amidst it all, her eyes draw back to him.  

Rook smiles. It’s full of gratitude and warmth and though he is adept in reading lips, he cannot make out the silent words she mouths. 

Her eyes quickly dart back to the pitcher of sunny orange juice he’s been spiking and he finds a small note tucked beneath. 

Find me later. I have something for you. 

Brunch is a lively affair. And everyone, especially those who can’t cook to save their lives, enjoy taking pot-shots at his terrible cooking today. Yet Lucanis hardly defends himself. Her note in his vest pocket might burn a hole through his chest. At least he manages to keep his eyes off her. It’s a near thing. 

***

Rook isn’t perched atop the Lighthouse. She’s not working at her desk or waiting for the coffee to brew. Lucanis even checks Davrin's workshop to confirm she’s not playing with Assan. But he can’t find her at any of her usual haunts. After asking everyone, he’s not even sure she’s still in the Fade. 

SHE’S HERE, Spite affirms confidently. 

But where?

Lucanis drags his feet up the stairs. His hopes that she might be waiting for him at the Eluvian had proven unfounded. 

Suddenly a wall rolls open and an arm reaches out. Before he can break the hand that grabs him, Spite wrestles for control. Not hard enough to take it, but enough for Lucanis to falter. Between blinks, he finds himself pinned against the cold brick, one arm above his head, her body pressed firmly against his. 

“Congratulations, you’ve finally found me,” Rook announces.

“So, what’s my reward?” he asks, her closeness intoxicating. 

She licks her lips, desire darkening her eyes even as she pulls away. Impulsively he springs forward to capture her arm and reverse their positions. 

Rook gasps his name as her back hits the wall.  Leaning heavily upon his other arm so as not to crush her beneath him, Lucanis tenderly cradles her jaw with one hand. It would be easy for her to slip away. He holds her delicately, afraid to bruise her. Yet she stays beneath him while also careful to not pull him any closer.

The brightest blush blooms across her cheeks. Rook wants this. I want this. And still, Lucanis lacks the courage to capture her lips and make her his. 

She’s the first friend I’ve made in a while. And what if this goes wrong? 

“Rook.” Just saying her name sends her heart fluttering to her throat. “You—”

You deserve better than to deal with my mess. You deserve someone whole. Not a monster like me that cannot even keep the people I love safe. 

Before Lucanis can retreat, she leans in and presses her forehead briefly against his. She whispers something wryly in elvish. 

Is she disappointed? Annoyed? He knows he doesn't have the right to ask. 

In common, she follows up with, “Ready for your real present?”

Blithely Rook slips out of his grasp and leads him into a secret music room. Golden light pours through the windows and the wisps dance in the dark shadows between them.  Hanging along the opposing walls he finds instruments of every variety, including some he does not recognize. And at the heart of the room sits a grand piano of a deep red mahogany. 

“Do you play anything?”she asks as he runs a hand along the polished wood.

“A few chords on the guitar and I can get through most songs on the piano.” Her eyes sparkle dangerously and Lucanis immediately regrets admitting it. 

But after his fumble earlier, he cannot deny her when she pushes him to sit before the keys. Lucanis lifts the fallboard and finds two teacups sitting beneath. With great care, he admires the first. The porcelain shines the iridescent black of a crow’s feathers, the color shifting as he turns it. Exquisite gold leafing lines the rim and the flared handle. 

“That one reminded me of you and this one is like Spite,” she grins. Rook holds up the second cup and his demon emerges to appreciate it. 

SAME COLOR AS SPITE’S WINGS!

Though she cannot feel it, Spite wraps his hands around hers in an attempt to hold it. 

“You treat us the same,” Lucanis muses aloud. “Like Spite is another… person.”

“Obviously he’s a demon,” she smiles softly as she places the violet cup next to his. “Is this your way of telling me you don’t like your gift?” Rook teases. “Because if you don’t, I can probably get a decent refund. The merchant was quite upset with me for breaking up two of his sets.”

“Rook,” he drags her down to sit beside him. When Lucanis has fully captured her gaze he tells her, “I'll treasure them for the rest of my life.”

“Oh.” Somehow she looks more vulnerable now than when he failed to kiss her. Bowing her head, she plays with the ends of her cape. Her mind races yet he does not hurry her to stitch together whatever words she is trying to say. 

Carefully she begins, “You asked me why I treat Spite like a person. Do you remember that memory we all watched together, how Solas and Mythal and all the gods were spirits once? We consider them people…so how is Spite any different?”

“Spite is a parasite forced upon my body,” Lucanis struggles to follow her logic.  

“He was put into you,” she agrees. His demon creeps closer, hanging onto her every word. “But before that he was an independent being, one with preferences and history. Even now, mixed up with you, Spite still has own desires, his own will. That sounds like a person to me.” 

Lucanis doesn't know what that would mean for him and his demon if he were to accept such a concept. So he turns away from it. “A demon’s a demon. And if fate had not bound us together, Spite would be but another monster to slay.”

A terrible sadness eclipses her. “For both your sakes, I'm sorry to hear that.” 

YOU’RE LOSING HER, Spite whispers before fading back into him. 

Whenever they are alone together, Lucanis recognizes that he gets to see a part of Rook that no one else does. The mask she wears for the world dissolves and he had hoped he might be the cause. But now he watches her put it back on. 

“Play me something,” she smiles, a thick shadow bisecting it. 

Lucanis can’t take his answer back. Not when it's the truth. So, although he hates performing, he places the teacups safely in her lap before running his fingers along the keys. He only knows a few songs by heart, one that he can play with feeling. His rusty hands stumble out of time. Yet she does not wince at each wrong note like Caterina might have or take over as Illario would. 

Closing her eyes, Rook sways like a reed, his music a breeze flowing through her. Lucanis wishes he knew the song better, so that he could steal more than just glances. 

Twice he plays the song and when she recognizes the melody the second time her breathing slows in anticipation for the melancholic longing that the notes devolve into as it approaches its close. 

“You really are good at everything, Dellamorte,” she sighs into the quiet that embraces them. 

Lucanis tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “Not everything.”

“Sleep with me,” she whispers, leaning into his palm. “Nothing more than last night. Just this time, you sleep.”

“Here?” he questions, looking for a way out, but not very hard. 

“Your cot and my couch are hardly better alternatives.”

The wisps drop a blanket over their shoulders and she laughs. How I've grown addicted to the sound. 

“This isn't a good idea,” Lucanis implores her, unable to deny her gravity. 

“Sometimes a bad idea is better,” Rook persists. She places the teacups safely aside. 

Taking her blanket, she retreats to the darkest corner of the room and makes a nest out of it. With less grace than he had, Rook strips out of her armor and abandons her leathers in a messy pile on the floor. 

Lucanis can’t help but stare at the toned definition of her bare legs and the thick scars that crisscross her back. Unabashedly she straightens beneath his gaze, leaving nothing to his imagination. She’s so beautiful. Suddenly his own leathers fit too tight.

He doesn’t dare remove them. But does he dare draw closer? Lucanis rises. Though whether to escape or to join her, he isn’t sure. His shadow swells monstrously before him.

Yet as always, Rook steps boldly into his darkness. “I know you’re still afraid to sleep, Lucanis. You trust Spite only as much as you can control him.” She moves slowly, giving him every chance to back away, before settling her hands against his lapels. “And I know that I haven't been the most reliable of late…but I promise you can trust me with this. Let me take care of you. As you’ve taken such good care of me.”

“Rook,” he whispers raggedly. His hands settle on her hips. “There’s no one I trust more right now.” 

And yet, I can't trust myself to hold her in all the ways that I want to. 

That deep sadness returns. “Then let’s take turns. You sleep a few hours and then I'll sleep. Between the two of us, we’ll get a full night in. And once we’re both finally rested, we renew our hunt for Zara.”

KILL. Spite snarls lowly. ONLY THEN WILL WE KNOW TRUE REST. 

Lucanis closes his eyes and gives in, “Lead the way then, Rook.”

They sink into the blankets, Lucanis tangling himself into her warmth. He stops fighting the tiredness that he always carries with him, and rests his head between her breasts. 

Neither of them acknowledges his arousal. It is just another ache that he must bear. Her hands instead massage his scalp, scratching deep, soothing, circles until he relaxes against her. 

“Don’t let me sleep too long,” he rasps as his eyes begin to droop closed. 

Rook hums gently. Only when he already has one foot in the realm of dreams, does he realize that she hums the song he played for her:

What Lies Between Us. 

Chapter Text

A good assassin picks up on the little things. So, it's her professional obligation to count how many beauty marks Lucanis has on his face as he sleeps. Rook traces the constellation: Three above his right brow, one right of his nose. One high on his left temple and the other just on the edge of his beard. Yet Rook finds her favorites trailing down his throat. 

We are such fools, you and I . She lays a chaste kiss upon the mark above his brow. And yet it feels like a sin. I'm sure your reasons for denying yourself are as good as mine.

You would have told him , Ruthless startles her. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lies, though she cannot deceive her spirit. 

Do not forget HIS nature. It is because of men like him that we remain hidden. 

Rook bristles, “I did not forget. And I didn’t tell.” 

TELL US WHAT? Spite stirs awake. His mouth stretches wide in a long yawn. DON’T STOP, KEEP SCRATCHING, ROOK. 

“She nearly gave US away,” Ruthlessness adopts her voice as it pets Spite. “Just because she got a little wet. ”

“Ruthless!” Rook exclaims, horrified and pushes the spirit down. 

The remaining demon grins wickedly at her discomfort and rises to cage her beneath him. He cradles her jaw as Lucanis had earlier. SPITE COULD CONTINUE WHERE THE COWARD LEFT OFF. 

Rook grabs both of his cheeks and pinches hard. “Bad, Spite.”

The demon cackles but relents. He fully unfurls his wings before settling back into her arms.

Lightly she grazes her nails along his feathers and when he leans into her touch, she applies more pressure.  Rook is a little surprised that he hasn’t demanded that they go out yet. Perhaps the promise of hunting Zara down tomorrow satisfies him enough. Tonight, Spite seems more inclined to talk. 

ROOK HAS BEEN SAD. Spite holds her tighter. LUCANIS MADE YOU MORE SAD. 

She doesn't deny it. She won’t lie to Spite. 

“Well, you haven’t pranked anyone for weeks. What’s going on, Spite?”

HIS GRIEF. SUFFOCATES ME. 

She nods. Though Lucanis hides it well, she is sure Caterina will weigh on the assassin for a long time. But that shouldn’t shut down a being like Spite so fully. If anything he should rally, as Lucanis does, around revenge. 

“Anything else?” she prompts. 

The demon buries its face against her neck and mumbles a reply. 

“For once I can’t hear you,” she teases. 

He practically leaps off her as it screeches. SPITE CAN'T STAB A FLOOD. I CAN'T…HURT THE THING THAT HURT YOU. 

His wings fold around him as he again hides from her. She’s never seen him upset like this. 

Gently, Rook peeks through the feathers and finds him curled up, his face buried between his knees. “I’m sorry, Spite. What happened that day, I didn't realize it affected you so much.” She tries to coax him into looking at her, but he refuses.  “Some hurts cannot be avenged,” Rook tries to help him process it. “But you protect me now. You keep my secret. You kill my enemies… And I almost miss your pranks.”

ALMOST? Spite perks up just a little. 

“Well, you could be a little more creative,” she riles him up. “The fish in my boots was a good one. But the rest? I think you could be more…Spiteful.”

In a burst of speed, he pounces. His hand knots at the back of her head as he pulls her in. Their noses smash together, his teeth grazing her bottom lip before he sucks on it. 

A gasp escapes her. Is Spite kissing me?

Cradling her jaw, Spite turns her head for better access. Softer his lips press against hers, but no less insistent. 

No. It has to be a prank. A good one, she’ll admit. 

Yet when she tries to pull away, he pushes her down. As their lips meld together, Rook can’t help it. All the tension, all the need from earlier blazes even hotter than before. 

Tangling her hands in his hair, she yanks his head back, exposing his throat to the heat of her mouth. She pays extra attention to each dark freckle trailing down his neck, kissing them softly, until she reaches the raised scars at his collarbone. Her teeth scrape the one on his shoulder. 

ROOK , Spite groans as he wraps her leg over his hip in a desperate attempt to be closer. 

The need for Spite and not just Lucanis pools low within her. 

If the demon is really just toying with me—

Just as abruptly as they began, Spite pulls away. Chest heaving, the demon clenches his eyes shut—trying to gather himself, gasping for air like a man who dived too long and too deep. 

KISSES TASTE LIKE SPICED ORANGES, he notes breathlessly. 

All she can see is him. Golden light halos his violet wings. The scars on his neck, where the Venatori inserted Spite, glow in time with the feather tattooed between her breasts. And when Spite finally dares to open his eyes again, they smolder so bright with desire she might melt beneath his gaze. 

The prickling doubt building in her chest dissolves. Spite meant it. 

Rook shudders with relief—and with the burning need to kiss him again. 

Yet when she reaches up to draw his lips back to hers, her thumb traces the scar running along his ear. The scar he got sparring with Illario as fledglings. 

Immediately Rook freezes. How could I forget about Lucanis? Her heart stutters—so confused and full of feelings for both of them, while utterly unsure what she’s allowed. 

Though still pinned beneath him, Rook curls away and says aloud the only thing she is sure about, “We can’t do this again.” 

I'VE MADE YOU SAD, Spite rasps. I DIDN’T MEAN—

“I know, Spite.” And she knows that she must make things clear to him. “It was a good kiss. I really liked it. But…I don’t want to hurt Lucanis.”

Spite sighs bitterly. HE WANTS THIS TOO. OFTEN HE’S THOUGHT OF TOUCHING YOU THIS WAY. OF MAKING YOU OURS . 

“But he didn't want to kiss me today,” Rook reminds him and pushes him gently off. “And it's important to respect that, to kiss someone only when they want it.”

BUT WE WANT IT . 

While Rook may be included in that ‘we,’ she draws the line firmly between them. “No more kisses, Spite. Until Lucanis and I figure this out, they’ll only make me sad. Promise me.”

Sitting up, Spite rakes a hand through his mussed-up hair. FINE. NO KISSES. 

Her relief is short-lived. 

UNTIL YOU ASK SPITE. 

She draws the blankets around herself as if that might dampen the blush in her cheeks or the thundering of her heart. Spite leans back heavily against the wall, sitting as close as he can without touching her.  A new silence builds between them. A chasm that Rook doesn’t know how to cross. 

You’ve made such a mess of things, Ruthlessness drawls and she lowers her head further. 

ROOK DIDN’T, Spite growls. 

Her spirit blazes to the surface and shrugs off the blanket. It spins three flames between her fingers. “Then let’s all agree. Nothing important has changed. You three care,” it rolls its golden eyes at the word, “for each other. You don’t kiss. You KILL—” Clenching her fist the fade fire blazes even brighter over her knuckles before it extinguishes. “And Zara will soon breathe her last.”

The demon nods. Rook too.  

Petulantly Ruthless smooths out her hair and scrubs Spite’s mouth clean. It then positions the demon on its side, laying his head onto her lap. 

“Be gone with you, Spite. This body demands sleep,” Ruthless orders before receding. 

Before Spite withdraws, Rook gently massages the furrow out of his brows. “Don’t sulk so much,” she chides him, unsure when they’ll next have a chance to talk. 

BECAUSE LUCANIS WILL PRY? Spite pouts. 

She pokes his forehead. “Because I'll worry.” 

His eyes soften into a gentle purple glow. NOT FAIR, ROOK. And then he closes them.  Spite rescinds control, submerging the body back into blissfully ignorant sleep.

But Rook doesn't wake Lucanis. She just needs a moment. Surely it will take but a moment to untangle the thorny knot of feelings in her chest. 

Chapter Text

The two Crows investigate their Venatori leads quietly, under the guise of taking other contracts. Perched in the rafters of a noblewoman’s office, they wait for the target’s lover to leave the room before striking. 

Lucanis blows three darts in quick succession. One to silence the contract’s screams before they begin, the second to stop her heart, and the third high on her spinal cord to speed up her demise. Death will greet her soon. 

“Your husband sends his regards,” he whispers as he catches his target. Not a drop of her blood spills upon the sable fur rug. 

Lady Cardozo’s eyes turn white with fear. They keep her conscious just long enough to appreciate the loss of her ring finger before finally putting her out of her misery. 

“Is every kill always such a performance?” Rook asks as she wraps up the target’s finger in a silk handkerchief. 

Carefully, Lucanis props the noblewoman up in her office chair for her lover to find later. 

“In my House sending a message is not enough. It must be done with flair.” He places a letter from their contractor on the desk and a crow feather on top.  “I’m sure my cousin treated you to much better performances.” 

She arches her brow beneath her slate Crow mask. “Knowing him, he would have seduced the target himself before making her cut off her own hand. I much prefer watching you work.”

Lucanis nods stiffly, his bone-white corvid mask glowing in the moonlight. “We should hurry and determine Lady Cardozo’s true betrayal before her lover returns.”

The Crows search the room, including the hidden vault with the ciphered papers. And for the third day in a row they find nothing pertinent to Zara. 

Carefully they gather Cardozo’s blackmail against the merchant’s council, meant to ensure tariffs favoring the Antaam. They find receipts of black-market art deals with the Venatori and further evidence that the traitor of Treviso works high up in their local government. But it feels like another dead-end. 

“Mierda,” Lucanis curses, his eyes flashing violet before he suppresses Spite. They’ve been very careful to hide their identities so far, even going so far as to wear the masks and leathers of minor Houses. “Has Zara already been tipped off?” he growls. 

“Even if she’s left the city, there’s nowhere she can go where we won’t find her,” Rook promises.

“At least Viago will be happy with our haul,” Lucanis sighs. 

“Always so eager to please him,” Rook bumps her shoulder against his. “I heard you sent him a knife once.”

Lucanis quickly rounds on her. “Who told you that?”

She chuckles and mimes the sealing of her lips. 

“Was it Teia?” he prowls toward her, backing her into the large desk. “Emmrich, maybe?”

Rook pulls her Crow mask down further over her face. Though it cannot hide her smile. 

He locks her in and she swallows hard when she finds his eyes glowing bright beneath his mask. 

She hasn’t told him, about that night with Spite. And despite their mutual attraction, she and Lucanis continue to deny their feelings while dancing ever closer to the dangerous edge. What fools we are...

“You might recall who his right hand was,” Rook says lightly, “Before she fucked up. Someone had to screen his mail.”

Lucanis sags in defeat. He rests his head against her, unable to meet her eye, “Maker, don’t tell me you read that letter.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she assures him. Just as he begins to withdraw, Rook continues, “ You have bewitched me. Thoughts of you, a poison that seeps into every aspect of my life...”

Lucanis immediately clamps her mouth shut, smothering her laughter. “Not another word.” 

In the quiet, they hear the steps creak. The lover will be back any moment. Swiftly they slip away, Rook careful to lock the window behind them. 

After turning in the contract at the Diamond, they find a dark corner to sip espressos in before heading back. Though the red leather couch stretches long, they sit curled together, her legs in his lap. 

Lucanis’s face wrinkles with disgust as he rests his cup on her knees. “Just as bad as I remember.”

Rook smirks, “Yet still better than whatever Neve boiled when we were gone.”

He closes his eyes and sends up a prayer to Andraste. 

They sip in companionable silence, just two Crows among a murder. With their masks on, and their bodies so intimately intertwined, no one spares them a second glance. 

As he runs his hands up and down the length of her legs, she fails to suppress a shiver. 

Would Lucanis taste any different than Spite? The intrusive thought has her choking. 

“Chale,” Lucanis slaps her back. “Breathe!”

When she finally can speak again, she croaks, “Ready to head back?”

“In a moment,” he takes the rest of his bad espresso like a shot. After a long-suffering sigh, he announces, “I think I’ll sleep tonight.”

Her breath catches. Rook’s not sure she’s ready to face Spite alone again. She doesn’t know if behind closed doors, tangled so tightly, she can hold herself back anymore with Lucanis.

How badly she wants to kiss him. 

And tell him everything . 

“What’s the occasion?” Rook extracts herself quickly. “I didn’t even have to bribe or beg you.”

Lucanis smirks wildly. “It’s not too late to get on your knees.”

Rook crosses her arms, though a bright blush stains her cheeks. She hides behind more teasing, “You know Viago would regift that knife right? It became a symbol of his disfavor. Though I think I know who last received it.”

“Not this again,” he pouts.  

Unable to resist such an adorable expression, she leans over him and slides a knee between his legs as he once did to her. Rook whispers, “ May this blade bury itself deep in the throats of your enemies.”

Spite chuckles as the Crow squirms.

Dragging her down by the collar, Lucanis threatens, “Maybe I should gift you a dagger.”

“How deep will you bury it?” Rook flirts boldly, unable to release this tension she feels any way else. 

“Get a room, you two,” Teia barks as she passes. 

Lucanis tosses her onto the couch and Rook laughs, half-relieved as she falls. 

He gives her the silent treatment the whole way back to the Lighthouse, through dinner and dessert. 

And yet, after the team has fallen asleep and the Fade falls quiet, he appears in her room, a pillow tucked under his arm. 

Without a word, she abandons her work and joins him on the couch. Rook doesn’t know whether to be pleased or offended that he falls asleep so quickly. 

Ruthless, however, takes over immediately. With minimal care, it pushes Lucanis away and begins reapplying her armor. 

“I need to KILL something. Right now,” her spirit growls as Spite rouses. “If I have to endure their awkward dance another night I will go mad. Hurry back, demon. We go OUT.”

Spite needs not be told twice. 

I’m sorry, she squeaks from within when the demon is gone. 

It rolls her eyes. “Spare me your feelings. If just for a few hours.”

Rook makes herself small as Ruthless carefully picks through her arrows, wrapping a few more in resin-soaked cloth. 

“The Fade will burn bright tonight ,” it promises. 

Chapter Text

Do you seek the blessing of your god? A benevolent voice, or at least one that wants them to believe so, calls as they enter the Dread Wolf’s Crossroads. 

The blight curls and twists away, revealing a gate Rook had never noticed before.  It opens from the inside. 

Spite unsheathes his knives. SMELLS LIKE AN ANCIENT STORM…AND RETRIBUTION.

If it were Rook, she would have turned back and brought more backup. But Ruthlessness is at the helm and eager for a challenge. Whatever lies beyond holds great power. And if this “god” does not offer aid, Ruthlessness will revel in their battle. 

They enter a ruined kingdom. Snow and ice buries what remains. Yet even in desolation, the surviving castle walls tower regally, their spirit unbroken. 

A silver figure waits for them at the center of the frozen wreckage. As they approach, a cold wind pierces even Ruthlessness’s heat—chilling its bloodlust. 

“Well, well…what have we here?” her pale lips twitch with foreign amusement. “Two spirits in sympathetic possession of elf and man? Long have I watched you, and yet still your existence bemuses me.”

“Mythal.” Ruthless forces Spite to bow his head before shifting itself into a parade rest. Rook cannot recall her spirit ever showing such respect to another being. 

The All-Mother defines elven beauty: her slender form, her homely pointed ears, the regal lines of her face. She is the source and desire of every elf to follow. 

Yet Rook shivers deep within herself. According to Solas’s memories, Mythal should be dead. So what exactly do we speak to?

“Child of compassion and misfortune,” the goddess turns her cold gaze upon Ruthless and Rook. “Long did you hide beneath the shadowy wings of obscurity. I must know, why you brave the harsh light of Order and the cruel gaze of Creation.”

Ruthlessness, usually so brash and confident, carefully considers its answer before replying, “One cannot hide from the end of the world. We seek, as we always do, to survive.”

“Some might argue that fighting for the Dread Wolf would lower your chances, not raise them. Surely, Elgar'nan would have taken to a creature like you.”

“Not all of me,” Ruthless replies quietly. 

Beneath the ethereal crown that frames her face, her starry eyes soften. “You do well by my child, Ruthlessness. But what are your reasons, ***?”

Mythal says a name Rook almost remembers, one she might have once claimed as her own, but it melts instantly like snow in her hand and Rook cannot catch it. 

Even so, she rises to the surface, “Nearly all my life I have been a tool of Death. As if deeply indebted to them, I’ve reaped desperately and callously. But I've always wished to be more…to be good. If I pretend at it long enough, I hope to become so.”

The Great Protector inclines her head, acknowledging her endeavor. She then turns to Spite. “Corrupted spirit, once Devotion, then Envy, now Spite. Why do you fight beside them?”

The demon sharpens its blades against each other. SPITE CARES NOT FOR THE WORLD. NOR FOR GOOD. I STRIKE AT THOSE WHO DARE HURT WHAT IS MINE. 

A stormy expression falls upon the goddess’s face. The once invisible edges of her crystalline skin grow harsh and rigid like the scales of a dragon. “I am what survived the Evanuris’s betrayal of Mythal. Solas drew me from the dagger that struck her down. Though this pale existence has revealed itself no less a prison than the Veil where he kept those traitors.” 

Mythal turns away from them. And yet that does not dampen the magnitude of her ire. The ground crackles with electricity, the air buzzes deafeningly as it prepares to embrace the lightning. 

Ruthlessness tenses and Spite hisses. Yet they cannot move. Completely paralyzed. 

Before it can obliterate them where they stand, Mythal bats the bolt away with the back of her hand and the remaining castle wall shatters into a thousand pieces. 

“Fenedhis!” Rook curses, her knees trembling. 

Just as quickly the charge in the air recedes, and when Mythal faces them she again embodies composure. “What is left of me can only endure here. I cannot return to the world and even the true Fade is denied me. All I can do is watch,” she concedes bitterly. 

Neither Spite nor Ruthlessness knows what to say to that. So Rook must speak up. “It must have been very lonely—”

“Spare me your pity—”

“It is not pity,” Rook forces herself to raise her head and meet her goddess’s cold gaze. “You called us here, not for our company, but because you seek to again shape the world you once ruled. We fight your traitors. We—” Rook remembers the emotion that Spite sensed earlier, “offer you retribution.”

Mythal freezes. 

“We are but Solas’s pawn,” Rook admits. But she gathers Ruthlessness around her and fire crowns her head. “Make us more.”

Gently the goddess takes both of Rook’s hands in her own, the fade fire engulfing them both. “Not once has he visited me since waking from his slumber. When I called to you, I thought maybe I could finally reach him. But I see now that your will is insurmountable.”

Between their hands she fabricates a statue of fossilized lightning, the blue glass aflush with her power. “I find your spirits worthy. Protect this world with compassion when possible. Be my ruthless and spiteful retribution when necessary.” 

According to her blessing, the purple smoke around Spite thickens and the flames haloing Rook’s head burn brighter. 

Already Mythal’s form begins to fade, drawn into the statue she’s gifted them. “When you find yourself at the brink of terrible defeat, call upon me to turn the tide.”

“Thank you,” Rook tells her, though the words fall between them, completely inadequate. 

As the goddess disappears in a burst of light, a gentle, pure feeling envelops her. Like a mother’s first embrace of a newborn child, it stills all tears and fears. 

Spite trembles. WHAT IS THIS?  

No word in elvish or common can express it. But for the demon’s sake, Rook tries. “Arlathvhen, Mythal’s unconditional love for her people.”

EVEN US? The demon touches his round ears. 

“She was a spirit of Benevolence once,” Ruthlessness reveals. “Perhaps even more than her elven children can claim, she is of us.” 

They return to the Lighthouse, not a drop of blood spilled. And yet they each experience the relief of walking away from a battle they were not meant to have survived. 

Her tangled web of affection for Spite and Lucanis falls into perspective.  Just as it had been greedy of her to want to save everyone, it would be selfish to burden them with her heart. 

To keep them safe. To aid their revenge. That is the best I have to offer. 

Ignoring Spite’s wistful glances, she returns to her desk and finishes reading her mail. She finds a letter from Viago. The one they’ve been waiting for. 

“Rest up, Spite,” she says without looking at him. “Tomorrow you get the blood you crave.”

Chapter Text

To his surprise, Lucanis wakes to find Rook sleeping softly, her face tucked against him, his arm snaking fully around her to hold her closer. Chuckling quietly, he brushes away the braid caught in her mouth. 

Rook must have been exhausted to have fallen asleep without waking me first. 

Violet wings envelop them both. The lilac down feathers block out the harsh light of the Fade and the unsettling waves beyond her window. His demon buzzes with contentment just beneath the surface as if he too happily dozes. Lucanis can’t comprehend it. How does she do it? Even asleep Rook can keep Spite under control. 

He can’t recall a time he felt so rested, even before the Ossuary. Yet despite his renewed strength, he loathes to get out of bed and leave her warmth. 

There was no reason to sleep last night. Easily he could have gone another two or three days without it. 

Except that I missed her. 

Working every day, side by side, isn't enough anymore. He dreams of kissing her, of worshipping every inch of her. Even awake, he can’t keep his hands off her and his reasons why he should are losing meaning to him.  Yesterday, as she fed him back the lines of a letter he wrote years ago, it had taken all his self-control not to take her against that desk or the leather couch or later upon the dinner table. 

Immediately he freezes as her eyelashes flutter gently against his skin. With a sleepy sigh, her lips ghost across his neck, leaving the lightest of kisses. Lucanis can't help it. He shudders beneath her. 

She curses in elvish, her voice still rough with sleep. Rook tries to back away, but he has her trapped against the cushions. Lucanis pulls her back into him. 

“I’m sorry,” she rasps. 

“Don’t be,” he whispers into her hair. With all that he denies them, he won’t forbade her this. Yet Lucanis doesn't trust himself to say anything more. Or else the final wall between them will crumble like sand and he won’t be able to stop himself from demanding a true good morning kiss. 

I'm an abomination. He reminds himself, trying to patch the holes in his fortitude. And if Spite were to slip through as I let down my guard—if he hurts her, I'd never forgive myself. 

SPITE WOULDN'T HURT ROOK. His demon seethes and retracts his wings. The Fade light rushes in and both Lucanis and Rook recoil from it. 

She takes the opportunity to escape, vaulting over the back of the couch. But she returns quickly and hands him a letter. 

“The wisps left this a few hours ago.”

He crumples the paper in his fist. The chantry! Of course the witch would hide there. 

“You should have woken me up immediately,” Lucanis growls as he steps past her. He needs to get dressed. 

“Zara will likely have a small army guarding her,” Rook follows him down the stairs and across the courtyard. “Anything less than our best and she might escape us. I needed sleep too.”

“I would have waited,” Lucanis argues as they enter the kitchen. He pours them both a cup of coffee. They take it black this morning. There’s no time for sugar. 

Rook crosses her arms as she leans her hip against the counter. “We both know that’s a lie, Dellamorte.” Never one to shy from heat, she drains her cup faster than him. 

“Spite, don’t let him leave without me,” she orders his demon to his chagrin. 

YOU’RE THE BOSS, ROOKY! Lucanis rolls his eyes at their spiteful antics. 

“I’ll meet you at the Eluvian,” she clasps his shoulder. And when he meets her gaze, he finds only cold determination. “Everything she did to you…we’ll make her pay, Lucanis. Side by side.”

Lucanis grunts. Yet he is grateful to have her with him. Retreating within himself, he washes out their mugs. 

As usual, Rook is right. We should not rush into this. The moment that he and Spite have been fantasizing about for over a year is finally within their grasp. 

WE SHALL SAVOR IT. 

***

The sun bleeds red over Treviso, bathing the rooftops in crimson light. As the two Crows approach the Chantry steeples, Lucanis spots a familiar figure waiting for them. 

“What took you so long?” Illario turns his back on the setting sun. “Did you stop for coffee again?”

Lucanis bristles, in no mood for his cousin’s jokes. “Illario? What are you doing here?”

“I'm coming with you Luc, no arguments. You know I’ll always have your back.”

Two boys stand facing each other on that rooftop. Born but a year apart. Bound by the same tragedy. By his fists or Illario’s words they scraped through every kind of trouble. 

But not this time. 

“This isn’t your type of job, Cousin,” Lucanis insists. “There’s no one you can charm into dropping their guard. All you can do is get yourself killed.”

Illario’s worry twists into anger. “You think I'm not good enough?”

“I’m not good enough,” Lucanis admits. “If you were there, I'd be distracted.”

“So, I’m a distraction?” Illario sneers. 

Lucanis cups the back of his cousin’s neck, drawing Illario’s brow against his. “I cannot lose anyone else. Please, Illario, you’re the only family I have left.”

Regret flashes in his cousin’s eyes before he jerks away. “Fine. Have it your way, Luc.” 

Illario then turns to Rook, who had otherwise been but a shadow witnessing their exchange. His cousin’s jaw clenches as he bites back whatever snarky comment he was going to make and settles instead with, “Take care of him for me.”

She nods. And then quiet as any good Crow, Illario slips away. 

Releasing a shaky exhale, Lucanis takes a single moment to recenter himself. Rook steps up to stand beside him as they watch a murder of crows darken the sky over the cathedral. 

“No distractions. No double guessing,” she breaks the silence. “Our blades will fly true.”

Her words steel him. “Let’s go, Rook. Zara is waiting.”

***

The Maker smiles upon me. Lucanis thanks his god as they carve through the Chantry halls, leaving a hundred dead Venatori in their wake. 

It’s all a twisted baptism party. Everyone who witnessed and made him the abomination he is today, everyone he’s ever dreamed of killing, all in one place. And Rook, the perfect hostess, takes care of all the masked nobodies, while he entertains his favorite guests. 

They find Porcia in the catacombs, her blood-stained fingers caressing the bones of saints and heroes. The soothsayer desecrates their remains with the same sadistic joy as she had the prisoners in the Ossuary. 

“THE BITCH WHO MADE ME!” Lucanis lends his voice to the demon raging within. “ MADE ME TEAR THEIR WINGS. MADE ME A SHARP HOOKED CLAW IN A GUT!”

“Poor little demon,” she sneers in her thick Tevene accent. Blood magic weaves around her staff and into the holy corpses around her. “I shall release you from the burdens of flesh. Return to your maker, and may your feeble feelings feed our Lady Razikale.”

The wings at his back turn heavy. Deadly. 

“CURS WILL GNAW ON YOUR BONES!” Spite promises. 

Lucanis never managed to learn the full story of his demon’s corruption, but he doesn’t need to, to know how this will end. The assassin need not even lift a finger. 

Porcia raises her arm to complete the spell and a flurry of razor-sharp feathers pin her body against the reliquary like a frog prepared for dissection. 

Her curses and screams only excite Spite. The demon pushes against its restraints and for once Lucanis does not hesitate to set him free. 

Unhurried, Spite stalks toward her, twirling a single feather between his fingers. As she laughs derisively, the plume turns sharper than any blade. With inhuman speed, the demon eviscerates her armor and the stomach beneath. 

Yet even with her twisted intestines within their grasp, Porcia manages to grit out, “No one fears a little Spite.”

“I AM MORE THAN YOU MADE ME.” Spite replies. With pleasure, he opens the wound further, her blood staining their boots and her guts spilling onto the floor. 

For good measure, Lucanis leaves one of Rook’s poisoned daggers in her chest, unwilling to either foreshorten her suffering or take any chances with her survival. 

Rook offers no judgment when she retrieves her blade after the poison has set. She simply runs her fingers along the base of Spite’s wings, sending a shiver up his spine.  And then asks, “Who’s next?”

They find Faustus in the nave, sitting at Andraste’s feet as he sharpens his serrated scimitars. 

“I will bring Lady Zara your beating heart as a gift,” he giggles. 

Spite recedes and Lucanis unsheathes his dual blades. Their battle is disappointedly short. But what should he expect from a sycophantic shadow, a weakling clinging to the coattails of greater women?

Lucanis has no taunting words for the brown-nosed weasel. Yet he remembers how the little shit would often egg Lady Zara on when she tortured him, extending their sessions sometimes hours longer. 

CUT HIS TONGUE. Spite whispers. MAKE HIM CHOKE ON IT.  

Just like their battle. It ends too soon. 

So, he joins Rook in the fray and defeats the remaining minions previously under Faustus’s command. 

Lucanis pauses before his Lady’s altar. I could buy out all the indulgences in Thedas and not be able to cleanse the dark bloodstains on my soul. Not that the Maker was ever going to let an abomination like me stay by his side... Still, Lucanis mutters a prayer for his companion before leading her deeper into the Chantry’s annex.

All ten of Zara’s bodyguards await for them in the atrium narthex. The courtyard walls tower so high, he cannot glimpse his precious Treviso on the other side. But perhaps that is for the best. 

I don’t want my city to see the true Demon I’ve become. 

“I'll take care of the crystals,” Rook declares and slips into the shadows. 

“Finally a challenge,” Lucanis laughs as the ten guards box him in with their shields. 

Until Rook disarms the blood magic wards protecting them, he can’t kill them. Which means, he can have some fun before they die. 

He doesn’t know their names. Zara likely didn't either, referring to them only by number. But he remembers:

It was Nonus who made us eat our meals off the floor like an animal. 

EAT THIS! Spite hisses as his wings shred through his helmet and face. 

It was Quattour who would plunge needles beneath our fingernails so that Zara wouldn’t know he was playing with her toys. 

Lucanis doesn't bother with his nails. He relieves him of his fingers. 

Decimus. The only one above petty cruelty, offered to help us escape. How he gloated at the final gate when it proved to be a farce—just a training exercise for his sentries. They beat me within an inch of my life. 

When the blood crystals have long been shattered. When the other nine bleed out upon the sacred stones. Decimus still stands. He cannot see. He cannot speak. But Lucanis takes care to keep his ears perfectly intact. 

“ Don’t take this the wrong way,” Lucanis says with the same indifference, “ It’s not personal .”

Recognizing his old words, Decimus opens his mouth in a silent scream. And then Lucanis finally finishes him, twisting his blade as he removes it from his lungs. 

MORE BLOOD. KILL. THEM. ALL. 

Lucanis breathes heavily. 

Where does Spite end and where do I begin?

The sadistic pleasure numbs him to the massacre. Lucanis bears no remorse for the atrocities they committed. All he feels is SPITE. 

I truly deserve my title now. The Demon of Vyrantium. I have become the very monster Zara wanted. 

And then Rook stands before him. She too is covered head to toe in blood and gore. More gently than he’ll ever deserve, she cups his cheeks with both hands. 

“Don’t lose focus, da’mi. Do not turn your hate upon yourself when there still breathes an enemy far more deserving.”

Rook presses her forehead briefly against his and her warmth finally reaches him. Lucanis holds her hands against him just a little longer before bringing her armored knuckles to his lips. 

“I owe you,” he whispers and somehow it falls from his lips like a confession. 

“No more than I owe you,” she replies and his heart beats steadier. 

Together they follow the shrill call of blood magic deep into the Chantry’s bowels. Yet Lucanis is no longer afraid of losing himself. Not to Zara. Nor to Spite. 

Not when Rook stands beside him. 

Chapter Text

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. A migraine pounds behind his eyes as they begin their descent into the Chantry basement. Except, each painful throb beats in tempo. Like a heart. 

“We’re close. Someone is using blood magic, a lot of blood magic,” Lucanis clenches his jaw. 

Rook doesn’t question it. 

Even at the top of the stairwell the stench of corpses saturates the air. Beneath their soiled Chantry robes, the shriveled bodies are too pale…as if someone leeched all the blood from them. The desecrated litter the stairs. The Crows can hardly step without snapping dry bones beneath their boots. 

Killing Zara once will not be enough. If only we brought Emmrich so we might kill her again and again. 

ZARA WILL DIE. DIE. DIE. 

Swarms of flies buzz through the narrowing passage until they have no choice but to barrel directly through the writhing cloud. When they find the door at the bottom locked, Lucanis doesn’t bother asking Rook to pick it. Spite smashes through and they burst into the undercroft. 

The copper tang of forbidden magic sears his nostrils. Lucanis finds blood rather than water in the baptismal pool—Zara must have killed thousands of people to fill it. 

“Oh Spite, you don’t know how long I've been waiting to meet you,” a sultry voice echoes through the altar chamber. Like a desire demon, she rises from her bloodbath.  

With a twirl of her hand the blood from her face and hair wicks away while the rest crystallizes into a sleek crimson armor that hugs her body so close it is practically a second skin. 

“Lucanis was so possessive of you,” she sashays closer. “For over three hundred days he hid you from me. No matter how nicely I asked. Or not…He wanted me to think my brilliant experiment a failure. But I knew better for I am better than that.”

She doesn’t have his vial of blood anymore. Zara cannot control him. And yet despite his rage, his body instinctively freezes up. Spite shrivels away as she reaches out to touch his wings. 

Before she can, a dagger slices the witch’s cheek. 

Zara hisses and turns her cruel gaze upon Rook. “If that leaves a scar, knife-ear , I will turn you inside out, string up your hideous body on the chantry steeples and let your precious crows feast upon you.”

A violet feather carves a matching cut on her other cheek. 

“DON'T YOU DARE. TOUCH HER!”

Spite breaks to the surface, freeing Lucanis from his paralysis. The demon spreads his wings to shield Rook, yet she slips past them, undaunted. 

“Empty threats don’t scare me.” Rook draws up two more blades, “You’re going to pay for everything you’ve done, Zara.”

“Spoken like a true peasant,” the Venatori Magister sneers. 

Lucanis has no words for her. Only hateful blades. Without warning, he unsheathes his rapier and slashes at her. A foot of her pitch black hair falls to the ground. But her blood armor bears hardly a scratch. 

The witch smirks. “You won’t be able to touch me with your mortal steel.”

“Yet you already bleed,” Rook throws another set of her daggers, each one aiming for her unguarded face. 

This time Zara is ready for her, and with unexpected agility, dodges both knives. Pointing but a single finger, the Magister summons three fiery bolts. They sear the air, barely missing Rook, and explode against the pillar behind her. 

“Growing slow in your old age, hag?” Rook taunts as she rolls out of the way of another attack. 

Zara’s suave composure shatters. With a screech, she unleashes another barrage.

WE WON’T LET HER HURT ROOK. 

Spite’s purple haze swirls thickly around them. And when Lucanis lifts his rapier for another attack, the hateful energy coats the weapon. 

ZARA MUST SUFFER. BLEED. BEG. DIE.  

So self-assured in her own invulnerability, Zara does not dodge and his blade strikes true. Lucanis punctures her left lung. His sword runs so deep it runs straight through her back.

“Heal,” Lucanis commands as he violently withdraws his sword. They will not be satisfied with a quick death. 

Zara staggers back, clutching the wound. “I forgot you like it rough, Lucanis.” Her palms glow crimson as she knits herself back together. 

But Zara does not stop there. The undercroft swells with terrible magic. The blood rises from the pool, twisting and undulating like a pit of vipers. Six terrible tentacles pierce her back, canine shaped heads forming at the opposing ends. 

“Lady Razikale guides me,” the blood witch moans. 

“No! We shall guide you into death!” Rook does not wait for her to finish her transformation. Slicing with her dual blades, she beheads the nearest tentacle. Before the bloody jaw hits the ground, the rest of its body turns to ash, dissolving upon the slick tiles. 

The other slobbering maws, however, finish forming. Only Spite’s inhuman reflexes and rapid-fire feathers keep them from tearing Rook’s head off in retaliation.

Lucanis leaps into action. Between Rook’s interceptions and Spite’s protection, he does not bother with her monstrous tentacles. Weaving between Zara’s magical bolts, he feigns another slash to her chest and pivots behind her—stabbing the back of her left knee.

Though her blood armor keeps her from completely falling, Zara still stumbles. Before she can recover, he strikes again and again. 

Three hundred eighty-five days she stole from me. 

Lucanis snaps the tendons along her wrist. Just as he could not defend himself against her tortures, Zara too will be helpless to stop it. Her fingers twitch uselessly. 

BREAK HER. DEFACE HER! UNTIL HER OUTSIDES! MATCH HER INSIDES!

Lucanis cuts up the beautiful face she’s so vainly obsessed with. As her healing magic runs dry and her dark locks revert to gray, a sea of wrinkles ripple across the planes of her now blighted skin. Every imperfection bursts to the surface and he makes sure to leave the worst alone for the world to see. 

“So this is the spiteful creature I made. How lovely,” Zara scorns him, blood oozing between her teeth. She smiles even as he eviscerates her. 

“WE WANT YOUR HEART. BEATING. IN OUR HANDS!” 

They split her chest open. But just before he can rip it out, he hears a blood-curdling scream. 

Spite’s wings fall flat, opening his vision. And then Lucanis sees her. His Rook. 

OUR ROOK!

One tentacle pins her down by the stomach. A terrible smoke curdles from its mouth as it clamps down. The other remaining head violently shakes Rook’s severed arm like a dog with a chew toy. 

Her arm. Zara tore off her fucking arm.

“A demon with a heart,” the Magister sneers. “It's always been your weakness, Lucanis.”

“Cállate, bruja!” Lucanis doesn’t bother with the heads. Shoving the witch face down upon the tiles, he takes out the remaining tentacles in a single sweeping blow. Lucanis then plunges his rapier through her back, pinning Zara to the floor. 

Rushing to Rook’s side, Lucanis rips off his satin cape, douses it with healing potions, and presses it into the wound to try and stop the bleeding. He keeps her on her back, afraid she’ll lose even more blood if he props her up. 

TOO MUCH BLOOD. Spite notes anxiously. 

“Why didn't you call for help?” he demands. 

She shrugs her good shoulder. “You came here for revenge. I came here to help you.”

Lucanis would throttle her if she wasn’t so badly hurt. “You can't value yourself so little.”

“I just got a little overconfident,” she smiles weakly. Turning her gaze to her mangled arm, Rook asks, “Mind giving me a hand?” 

Puns? At a time like this? She must have lost too much blood. But Lucanis does as she asks. 

“You’re so handy to have around,” she chuckles and this time he does roll his eyes. “Now if you could line it up for me?”

His brows furrow with concern, “You can’t simply pop a ripped off arm back into place.”

Her eyes grow glassy, “Ruthy thinks it will work.”

“Who the hell is Ruthy?” 

DO IT. Spite compels him unexpectedly. 

There will be time for questions later. Already the purple satin has turned black. He removes the makeshift bandage and lines up the arm as well as he can. 

Without warning, her entire body bursts into flames and he scrambles away. Rook screams and writhes, her back arching as whatever strange magic this is, takes hold. 

Lucanis can only watch helplessly. 

Eventually, the fire subsides until only a golden band of light along her shoulder and across her stomach remains.

Slowly she sits up and says, “I think that went…hand-somely.”

Gently, urgently, he takes her into his arms. “Enough, Rook. People have been killed for less.”

She rests her head against his shoulders and he pulls her closer. Even beneath the death that clings to them, he can still smell the lavender in her hair.

“This time I just wanted to laugh in the face of death,” she murmurs. 

“You weren’t going to die,” Lucanis retorts as he rubs soothing circles along her neck, unwilling to acknowledge such a reality. 

“Not today,” Rook affirms. Feebly she pushes away from him. “Go finish what you came here to do so we can hurry back. I need more coffee.”

“Mierda, you’re impossible, Rook.” He cups her face, dried blood stains her too pale cheeks and gore tangles in her braids. And yet she's never looked more beautiful.

He lays a lingering kiss on her brow and then he stands to face Zara, once and for all. 

When Lucanis was distracted, the disgusting worm had tried crawling away toward the stairwell. A trail of blood seeps behind her. His sword still impales her. 

With great pleasure he wrenches it out and kicks her over. “What am I going to do with you?” he growls. 

“RIP OFF HER ARM! ” Spite hisses. “SET HER ON FIRE. WILL A BURNT HEART STILL BEAT?”

“So serious, Lucanis! Why don’t we talk?” Zara clings to the nearest column as well as she can with her broken hands. “I can tell you so much about Venatori…and our pet Crows.” Her eyes, stained and dark from her overuse of blood magic, dart behind him. “Or maybe I could enlighten you on the true nature of your beloved Rook.”

“KEEP HER NAME OUT OF YOUR FILTHY MOUTH!” Against Lucanis’s will, Spite roars to the surface and draws a blade on the blood witch. “NO TALK. I WANT. YOUR HEART QUIVERING ON OUR KNIFE.” 

With a groan, Lucanis seizes back control, though his eyes still blaze violet. 

Knowing that the demon cannot be reasoned with, Zara desperately appeals to Lucanis. She paws at him, “You want to know who betrayed you, don't you? Who sent you to the Ossuary?”

Before she can say another word, a heavy hand drags Lucanis away from her. 

“Illario?” Lucanis only barely stops his knife in time. 

“Ama—” Whatever else Zara was going to say dies on her lips as Illario stabs his blade through her throat. 

“NO! MINE!” Spite rages with such venom that he completely overtakes Lucanis. Knives and wings flashing, he tackles Illario to the ground. 

Spite lifts the blade to kill him. To stab Illario over and over until this unbearable sense of loss and powerlessness finally goes away. 

KILL-STEALER ! 

My cousin. 

The only family I have left. 

Lucanis almost bites his tongue off as he strains against Spite. Tears stream down his face at the momentous effort it takes to keep the blade from sinking in. 

“Rook! Get Illario out,” he yells desperately. 

But in her state, he knows she won’t make it in time. 

Illario tries to fight back, pushing the knife away from him. But he cannot best Lucanis, let alone Spite at his full strength. And the dagger draws lower and lower. 

Spite abruptly pulls back, shaking off their resistance and regaining momentum. A deadly purple light wraps around it. 

His cousin’s eyes widen and Lucanis sees himself reflected back in them. I am the demon. The harbinger of his death. 

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. 

The migraine returns with a vengeance. Suddenly, Lucanis is knocked back. His wings forcibly retract. And Spite goes unexpectedly quiet. 

Rook bolts to his side, knives out. 

Yet to Lucanis’s disbelief she doesn’t raise her blades against him, but rather to defend him against Illario. “What did you do to him?” 

“What did I do?” Illario scrambles to his feet. “Are you blind? He attacked me. I did nothing. You have to get him out of here. I can’t be near him.”

Rook does not lower her weapons. “Maybe you should go first. I’m the one who has to hold back a demon.”

Illario backs away slowly, not daring to take his eyes off them. “Rook, keep him away. From Treviso. From the Crows. He’s a danger to the family.”

Lucanis winces, unable to defend himself. 

When he finally reaches the door, Illario dares to meet Lucanis’s eyes one last time. “This…this was doomed from the start.” 

Only after his cousin is gone, does Rook drop her knives. Her injured arm droops lamely against her side. 

She doesn’t ask him if he’s okay. They are both so far from it. Instead, she puts him into motion, not allowing him to break down in such a cursed place. 

“Gather Zara’s body,” Rook instructs him. “Maybe with Emmrich’s help we can at least get a few more answers out of her.”

Lucanis nods. “He should see to you too when we get back.”

She grimaces, “If you insist.”

“I do.”

They don’t say another word as they limp through the Chantry halls. In their silence, Spite’s absence is incredibly loud.

Chapter Text

Always wet. Cold. Water dripping down the rusted bars. Of the Ossuary. Family sends us back here. 

LET US OUT. 

He will die. Unresolved. Drowning in Blood.

OUT. You. Promised.  

Into Open skies. Where the sun smiles. Golden eyes and crow feathers in her hair. With broken wings Spite staggers, seeking warmth again. Use her tricks to slip past his defenses. Blades won’t work here.

Finally, SPITE rises to the surface. The room smells of old books. Of sweet flowers to mask the corpses. Emmrich wears fear like a cologne. Fear of dying. Fear of living, unremarkably. 

Zara lies on the table. Dead. Not dead enough. She need not speak lies. The truths hurt more. 

“The job was to kill you...but this one does not waste those with potential.”

Lucanis recoils. That his cousin did not love us enough to kill us himself. That the TRAITOR did not ask for something we would have given him. But maybe we wouldn't have. That was before Spite. Before Rook . 

Rook stands apart. Her arm hangs in a sling. Blood still stains her clothes.

Spite steps out of Lucanis, needing to stretch his wings, wanting to look at Rook even when Lucanis turns away from her. He tires of their secrets. Spite wishes to sweep her again in his arms. To pluck her pain away like a bad feather.

“ROOK.”

She shivers when Spite calls her name. Rook hears. But she must ignore him or else Lucanis will know. And then his host won’t let them play.

“ BADLY HURT?”

“Spite…you’re awake,” Lucanis notes coldly.

More cheerfully Emmrich adds, “So glad you could rejoin us, Spite. And no need to worry over our leader. Whatever magic saved her arm was quite miraculous—" The necromancer flinches as the corpse on the table begins to cackle. Quickly he reinforces his magic and regains control over her.

“Enlighten us,” Lucanis grabs the witch so tightly the bones in her jaw crack. “What do you find so damn funny?”

“Little demon kept in the dark,” Zara wheezes. “All who claim to love him, lie.”

“Enough of your riddles,” Lucanis growls.

The witch is smart as she is cruel. Could she know Rook’s secret? Spite rejoins Lucanis, ready to interfere.

“Haste would be appreciated,” Emmrich strains against the magister’s strong spirit.

“Let her go for now,” Rook orders. “We’ve gotten more than enough from her today.”

Lucanis turns toward Rook, ready to contradict her. And then his eyes lock onto the pale scar along her neck and then at her arm that once dangled in bloody jaws.

We did that to her. High on Spite. We played too long with the witch. He won’t make the same mistake again.

“Fine,” the assassin relents. With a wave of his hand, the necromancer dismisses the foul soul.

“Excuse us, Emmrich,” Rook says tightly, her mask cracking. If she stays any longer, Spite is certain that the necromancer will see through her. Roughly she grabs Lucanis by the arm and makes her escape. Lucanis tries to question her. But she can’t hear him over the panic that rushes in her ears. She drags him down the stairs and into the secret music room.

The memories flood back. Wisps dancing a melancholic waltz. Pressing her against the cold stone. Her lips parting for him. And then so cruelly forbidding Spite from ever tasting her again. Lucanis too gets caught up in the swell and the urge to take her against the wall—to show her how much he appreciates and needs her—pushes against the dam of his self-control.

It is but a double-edged question that stalls him now: “Do you actually love me? Then what terrible lie stands between us?”

Lucanis won’t be able to endure much more. He nearly lost her today. To his revenge. To Spite. And in the end, it had been for nothing. His revenge stolen. The treachery running even deeper. His only family left alive now must be dead to him. 

Spite bursts free. Their thoughts are becoming too tangled and Lucanis cannot know what he knows, even if Rook manages to tell him this time. He slips out of view. Trying not to startle or distract her. From his dark corner, he watches them hungrily.

The golden light pouring through the windows casts harsh shadows across their faces. Yet they draw nearer. Tightly she still clings to Lucanis’s arm. As if Rook were afraid he might disappear. Tenderly, he tips up her chin. Fear and love swirling within him.

“Let there be no more secrets between us,” Lucanis whispers.

Rook shudders. Her pretty mouth opens and presses closed as she tries to find the right words. She is a fledgling preparing to fly. Desperately she flaps her wings, but her talons grip the branch below, too afraid to let go.

She's going to confess. Excitement and dread come to a boil within Spite.

“Rook,” Lucanis tries to give her one final out. “Maybe this can wait until tomorrow. After food and coffee and sleep. After we put this fucking day behind us.”

Tears bead at the edge of her long lashes, her face contorting with pain. “You deserve the truth,” she bites out. “I don't want to lie to you anymore. I—”

SAY IT. He urges her. TELL HIM ALREADY.

“Shut up, Spite,” she hisses.

And they both freeze.

Lucanis recovers first, “You…you can hear him.”

Her chest heaves. Panic rising, but Rook pushes it down and braves on. “Since the moment we met,” she admits. “I can see him too.”

Lucanis backs away from her. “How?” And Spite hears the thousands of questions trailing after it. But the most important iteration remains— how could you let me think I was alone like this for so long?

She rubs her bad arm, “You’re not the only one with a demon inside of you.”

“Solas?” Lucanis can't comprehend it.

Scrunching her eyes shut, she shakes her head. When she opens them, Rook finally allows Lucanis to see those beautiful golden eyes like twin suns shining from her narrow face. Gentle fade fire flickers between her writhing hands.

“Ruthy,” his host begins to piece things together.

“Ruthlessness,” her spirit borrows her voice to correct him.

“Mierda.” Lucanis runs his hand through his hair still stiff with Zara’s blood. He had thought nothing could hurt him as Illario had. Not with her grounding him. This final revelation puts him into a free fall. His heart plummets. The air is wrenched from his lungs. “I need to clear my head.”

Abruptly his host turns to leave.

Spite wants to stop him. Now that the secret is out, he doesn't have to wait for Lucanis to sleep anymore to interact with her. Nothing is preventing him from taking full control. But…this hurt Lucanis feels. It takes up a physical space. And Spite finds himself hesitating.

“I was afraid,” Rooks calls out to him, trying to make Lucanis understand. “Nowhere is safe for a possessed elf. If anyone knew…if the team found out—”

“You don't think I at least might have understood?”

She bows her head. “If you do, then why are you running away?” Her voice shrinks. “Why won’t you hold me?”

He's hurting her. But Lucanis can’t care. Not when she’s exposed that their relationship was built on a lie. “I don't have the heart for this,” he grinds his teeth. “We…I’m done. Don’t look for me.”

Lucanis doesn’t give her a chance to respond.  The stones groan as the door shifts for him to exit. Quickly his host moves for the Eluvian. His will currently indominable, Spite will soon be dragged away too.

Urgently Spite reaches for Rook. And though she can hardly feel him, he wraps his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers over and over, hiding her face behind her hands.

His fingers fall uselessly through her hair. I’M NOT. I HATE SECRETS.

She scoffs, “At least I made one of you happy.” Finally, she wipes away her tears and looks at him.

Lucanis is a fool. And since this is Spite’s “body,” he decides it’s not quite breaking her rules. Cupping her face with both hands he lays a phantom kiss on her lips. Though he cannot feel their heat, her cheeks burn just out of reach. I PROMISE TO BRING HIM BACK.

And then, Spite too must abandon her.

Chapter Text

With her good hand, she delicately traces the ebony wyvern scales lining the scabbard. The rapier it comes with is of cheap craftsmanship. But the sheath might perfectly fit God’s Foil.  

“Move along, rattus,” the Tevene shopkeeper sweeps her away with a broom. 

Rook lowers her gaze and resists the urge to pull up her hood and hide her ears. Without her Crow leathers, he sees the version of her she wants him to. A crippled knife ear. Someone's slave on an errand. An invisible, wretched creature. And in some ways, it's not far from the truth. Every time Rook closes her eyes she sees his face. The perfect storm of betrayal and anger and loss. 

Twenty-two days. It's been twenty-two days since Lucanis left and failed to return. But she can’t allow herself to think about that.

Or how her arm isn’t healing as well as she hoped. Beneath her cheap linen robe, it hangs in a sling against her chest. The salty breeze tosses her empty sleeve as she heads to the docks. There's been no good tips in the newspapers or the bulletin boards today. Just more missing people reports. With Zara gone, Rook must now concentrate on taking down Aelia and crippling the gods’ favored Venatori. 

Emmrich is certain that Aelia will be hosting her ritual soon—the dead tell cautionary tales. And today, Neve called a meeting with the Threads and Rana to discuss their leads. Rook will attend too. But not in an official capacity. They can’t let either their allies or enemies catch wind that Rook is so severely injured. 

“Out of the way, mancus,” a pair of Venatori guards shove her hard. 

Ruthless seethes within her. But Rook does what they expect her to do. Cower against the wall. Make her eyes big and sorry. And stutter through broken apologies. 

The cultists laugh and move on. 

But she memorizes their faces. Maybe not today. One day, however, they will die by our hands. A smile slips across her lips. Quickly Rook chases it away. 

Curling her bad arm tighter to her chest, she exaggerates the limp in her right leg as she approaches the Cobbled Swan. There’s hardly anything remarkable about the Tevinter pub. But perhaps that's what makes it perfect. She stumbles through the doors and heads straight to the bar. Slipping a silver across the counter gets her an ale so thin it's practically water. Rook bites back her objections and takes her drink to a dark corner where she can watch Neve, Emmrich, and her Templar friend sit openly together while their Thread contact sits discreetly behind the mage. 

Unable to read Elek’s lips from her angle, she must piece together his intel through the others’ responses. Emmrich offers the Thread his condolences. “So sorry about your boss. After we cleanse the sanctum I offer any and all assistance in preparing his body for burial.”

Whatever the Thread’s reply, the conversation moves forward as Rana and Neve argue about how involved the Templars should be—until a fourth person joins their table. 

Rook knows those footsteps. 

Even with a heavy Fereldan cloak hanging over his shoulders, his beard unkempt, and blood stains on his furs and boots, she would recognize him. She stares at the back of his head, wondering whether he had missed her in her rags—or if he had simply ignored her. 

She doesn't know which she wants to be true. 

“I’m glad you could make it,” Neve smiles softly. 

“I promised you fresh eyes and ready blades. How many Venatori are we expecting?” Lucanis asks and Rook leans closer, trying to catch his words against the noise of the bar. 

“Aelia is never short on zealots,” the Tevinter mage adjusts her veil. 

“And I'm never short on knives,” he quips. “What’s the hostage situation?”

“If she needs blood for the ritual she’ll want it fresh. If she wants puppets, she’ll need them alive.”

“Time is of the essence if we hope to save the poor souls,” the necromancer adds. “I sense a massive surge of spiritual energies pressing against the Fade. The ritual will likely commence before the morrow.”

Neve pushes herself up from the table, “Then we waste no further time. Let’s go.” The Templar makes her protests but the Shadow Dragon is now on the move. “I’ll send someone for you, Rana.”

Rook doesn't follow them out. She’ll meet them at the Thread Market. Abandoning the piss they call ale, she heads to the rooftops. Unlike in Treviso, very few Venatori or locals frequent the high places of Dock Town. Though she still wears her ragged linens, Rook strides with her usual confidence and brings forward her blades.

As she waits on a ledge overlooking the Parthenius Main Docks she can’t help but notice how, well, chummy Neve and Lucanis are as they stroll through town. Their closeness had never bothered her before. But now, an unreasonable envy curdles in her gut. 

Did Neve know where he was the entire time and just didn't tell me?

Focus , Ruthlessness chastises her as they wait for the mage to bring down the wards. We wear no armor. We can throw with but one hand. We must be at our best. 

Rook clenches her teeth before slipping behind the cold mask of the Wisp. Her injuries do not belie her grace as she descends the arching stonework and drops down before they can enter. “I'll scout first,” she tells Neve. “If Aelia discovers we’re here, it's over.”

Emmrich frowns. If he had his way, she’d be on bed rest for another month. But he couldn't keep her down for a day. He won’t stop her now. “At least take Lucanis with you,” the necromancer insists. 

“She’ll slow me down,” the Demon of Vyrantium states coolly. “I would go alone.”

“You go together,” Neve overrides their protests and glares at them both. “We only get one shot at Aelia, don’t fuck this up.” 

The Wisp nods and the two Crows slip in between the docks and dilapidated buildings that the Threads once claimed. Already the Venatori have charred and shredded their banners, the remnants of the crime syndicate are strung from the skywalks just like the Shadow Dragons before them. 

She and Lucanis work in chilling tandem. Even at odds, their synergy has only increased now that her spirit doesn't have to hide anymore. Her eyes blaze gold. Paired with ruthless firepower, her pinpoint precision is now completely lethal. The Wisp finds she can keep up with him in a way she couldn't before. 

Seven, Ruthless calls out as another zealot slumps to the floor, startling both her and Lucanis. 

EIGHT! Spite cackles as his feathers slice through a spellbinder’s mask. OH, HOW I MISSED YOU, RUTHY!

Kill shot after kill shot, they assassinate the sentries and guards. Even the Arch Mage can barely begin an incantation before a series of blades lodge in their throat. When the last of their enemies bleed at their feet, they turn to face each other properly for the first time in weeks.

“So this was the power you were hiding,” Lucanis accuses. He scans her as if she were another enemy, documenting weaknesses, his gaze lingering on the arm tucked beneath her loose robes.  

“It is as deadly to my enemies as it is to me,” the Wisp smiles cruelly to hide the hurt she feels. “ If anyone lives long enough to recognize it.”

“Guess that makes me a dead man walking,” the Crow shifts his blades at the ready. At this distance, he could eviscerate her four times over if Ruthless doesn't strike first. 

“I could say the same,” she steps closer to him and he lifts his knives instinctively. “The Demon of Vyrantium usually doesn't waste his time talking to monsters when he could kill them.”

COMPANY . Spite warns and her eyes flicker back to their muted gray. 

“Traitor,” Lucanis hisses below his breath, “Though it makes sense you two would protect each other.”

GOOD THING. SINCE I CAN’T TRUST YOU TO PROTECT HER ANYMORE.

The Wisp busies herself with collecting her knives. A few are unusable now, the blades warped by Ruthless’s heat. Begrudgingly she recovers a few of Lucanis’s blades too and shoves them into his chest, ignoring how he recoils at her touch. 

“Good work, you two,” Neve surveys the carnage and then the crackling tension between the Crows. “The secret entrance to the Sanctum should be hidden in that condemned warehouse. We’ll go together this time.”

She leaves no room for argument and the Crows fall in line behind her, following her through the secret passage and along the zip lines until they reach the back entrance to the Lusacan Sanctum. Time and age have worn the temple down, its basalt walls caving in and its crackling columns sliding against each other as the ocean cliffside reclaims it. 

They stumble upon a few Venatori patrols, but between the four of them, they dispatch the cultists with pitiful ease. 

“They claim to fight for the risen god, Elgar'nan, I presume?” Emmrich notes as he folds their enemies into more comfortable positions and lays a soothing hand upon the newly dead. 

“Aelia would bargain with anyone if it gave her the power—and city—she’s after.” Neve sneers at the statue of a monstrous Archdemon, far bigger than either of the dragons they faced so far. “The fact that he doubles as Tevinter’s god of night must have made the whole deal sweeter.”

Lucanis stumbles, gripping the side of his head. “Blood magic,” he groans and Rook forces herself to turn away. Any comfort she might offer is clearly unwelcome. “Aelia must be starting her ritual.” Shaking away the pain, he leads them through the halls into a crimson mausoleum. 

A fearsome wyvern skull hangs above the altar, a pile of twisted bodies slain beneath their dripping jaws. Curtains of blood slide down the walls and as they approach they draw open to reveal the missing citizens of Dock Town, strung like puppets on bloody strings. 

“Neve Gallus,” Halos struggles against the cords around his neck and arms. 

“Did you think I wouldn't notice you were here?” the young paper seller holds his neck at a broken angle. 

Rook doesn't know these people as Neve must or even Emmrich does after working so closely with them for so many weeks. Her horror is remote. But she can imagine, if it were the old elf who makes her favorite coffee strung up there instead, or if the gods were using poor Jacobus as an unwilling mouthpiece, Rook would be furious. Glancing at Neve, she finds icicles rising around the mage’s feet. 

“We could stop this,” Emmrich looks on horrified. 

“Not before she stops their hearts,” Neve clenches her frosty fists.

Lucanis squeezes the mage’s shoulder and she relaxes beneath his touch, “We will find a way to save them.”

Cida Ciconia laughs musically. “Better hurry, darling.” 

The curtains of blood slide closed, and demons of Pride and Wrath slip through the Fade. 

FINALLY A CHALLENGE! Spite shrieks. 

“We shall put them to rest,” the necromancer notes determinedly. “They will not delay us!”

Naturally they split up. Emmrich calls upon the spirits of the recent dead to entangle the Wrath demon as Neve summons an ice storm. Meanwhile, Lucanis and Rook flank Pride and its entourage of Sorrows. Before it can infuse the lower spirits with greater power, they manage to cut down two of the three. 

SPARE US YOUR TEARS, Spite gloats. 

But neither fighting pair can contain their demon. With a roar the Wrath demon erupts from his frozen prison and the pair of Pride demons teleport to block the exits. The room descends into a clusterfuck of elements. Lightning dances along the walls and fire ripples across the ground. 

“Close in,” Lucanis shouts after she shatters the orb of electricity the original Pride demon had tried to summon. 

Rook throws knife after knife into each of the demon’s seven glowing eyes, stunning it. Lucanis launches forward. He raises his rapier high to cleave it in two. With a heavy laugh, the minor Pride parries the blow and propels him straight into her. They both tumble hard into the red wall, Spite’s wings shielding them from the worst of the impact. 

“Get serious,” Lucanis growls at her as he drags her to her feet. “I can’t beat them alone.”

Her gaze drifts to Emmrich, his hands alight with replenishing magic as Neve pours everything into an icy barrage. The longer this fight draws out, the greater their disadvantage. Not just here, but against Aelia. They need to finish this fast. 

When she turns back to Lucanis her eyes glow golden. “You better keep up then. We finish this in five blows.”

Not waiting for his reply, she steals his off-hand sword, the blade twisting around itself like two coiled snakes. Channeling Ruthless, her view of the battlegrounds widens. Effortlessly she weaves through the electricity crackling through the air, Lucanis at her heels. 

The Wisp reaches the minor demon and stabs its altered core and infuses Ruthless’s force to damage it. Immediately the demon flickers back into a shade of Sorrow. Spite does not even slow as he runs past it, shredding it with his bladed wings. 

DIE! Spite squeals as he and Lucanis abominate the true Pride demon. Its barrier shatters with a thunderclap. 

The demon stumbles and she streaks forward. Her blade and Lucanis’s sweep just past each other as their slashes crisscross along its chest. She can smell the demon’s fear as it sinks toward her and meets her golden eyes. 

“Mis—” Whatever it was going to say dissolves into static as it disintegrates. 

With another enemy in the room, it takes more effort than usual to shove Ruthlessness back down. She clings to Lucanis’s corkscrew blade, willing the fire to cool in her veins. 

And then suddenly there is relief. Rook looks up to find Spite staring down at her, his hand pressed firmly against her chest. 

His violet eyes blaze with determination. I GOT HER. Spite assures her spirit and after a long beat, it recedes.  

They turn to the rest of their team and find Emmrich ringing his bell over the steaming creature, now just a pile of ashy sludge. 

“Everyone alright?” Neve calls out, her sleeves singed. Before they can answer the ensnared citizens begin wailing:

“Gallus, help us!”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Please don’t leave me here!”

The bloody cage surrounding Halos opens up again. “They don’t understand. You won’t save them,” he rasps. “What do you do for this city besides complain about how broken it is?”

Down the hall countless other voices rise to join the shrill chorus beseeching her. 

Cupping her hands over her ears, Neve tries to drown out their screams. Lucanis rushes to her side and gently shakes her shoulders. “Don’t let her get to you, Neve. She’s just trying to stall you so she can finish her ritual. Don’t let her win.”

Emmrich lays a gentle hand on her head. “Aelia can still be stopped. Dock Town can still be saved. But it needs you, Neve.”

The Shadow Dragon shakes them off. “One step at a time, that’s all I can take,” she says, more to herself than them. “We’ve got a job to finish.” 

Rook follows her silently down the hall of misery. She has no sweet words for Neve. Since Solas’s ritual, Rook has only ever done wrong by her. 

But not today. 

Her city may be broken. Her people doomed. But Neve won’t stop fighting for them. And so Rook and Ruthlessness will too.

Chapter Text

“Do you feel that Neve,” the missing cry in unison. “The Old Magic, our legacy, it returns.” Even their expressions warp to match Aelia’s patronizing smile. 

SHUT UP, HAG. Spite hisses within him. There's so few things that Lucanis and his demon agree about anymore. Against his will, his eyes draw to Rook—no, the Demon , he catches himself quickly. 

The team doesn't stop anymore. Hundreds of people, too many to lament, too many names and faces to endure, blur together as they race down the twisting hallway. Finally, they reach a stone staircase, though the stairs seem equally endless. Red lyrium blooms along the steps like a bloody mold, growing thicker as they approach the top.

Lucanis considers their enemy as they climb. Where Zara was a favorite of Ghilan'nain, creatively cruel and vain, Aelia is just as fitting for Elgar'nan. Her rhetoric of tyranny disguised as order and her delight in stripping the will away from others make her a perfect conduit of the vengeful god's will. 

His quads burn as they reach the final floor, the overgrowth of red lyrium making it impossible to pass. But that won’t be a problem for him and Spite. Cloaking himself with demonic power, they smash a way through. 

The doors swing open, and the Puppeteer herself waits on the other side. She’s plainer than he expected, hardly living up to the terrorizing stories Neve’s told him. She’s not dauntingly beautiful like Zara. Nor particularly imposing like Caterina. So it must be the ravenous ambition burning in her eyes that draws people to her. Only the gold rings along Aelia’s fingers, each connected to countless whipcord thin streams of blood, make any impression. 

“The Risen God—Lusacan—chose me,” Aelia declares as they cautiously enter the ritual site below her platform. Seven pillars anchor the ritual circle, one for each Old God. “After I restore this broken city to its former glory even the Magisterium will look to me to guide them.”

Neve draws her staff up, “You aren’t the future, Aelia. Nor are you some awaited prophet. You’re just a murderer.”

The Puppeteer only laughs at such a rebuke. “I am Minrathous! It's dark truth and bright power!” Storm clouds roll in off the sea, chasing away the blue sky and blotting out the sun. Like a conductor, Aelia waves her hands through the charged air and three familiar figures step out from behind the pillars. 

Wielding two wicked blades, dragons carved upon their silver hilts, stands the Viper. The blight rages along the veins of his face, the foreboding shadows making his now red eyes even more piercing. “You’ve failed us for the last time, Gallus.”

Rana and Elek flank him. The Templar bears a Venatori shield and a red lyrium tipped spear while the de facto Threads leader boasts a runic bow. They smile coldly. 

But he and Spite know better. SMELLS LIKE TERROR. Even while completely under Aelia’s control, these three puppets remain conscious of every unwilling action their bodies take.

“This city will be better without you, Neve,” Rana begins circling them clockwise. “You’re bad luck. Anyone who gets close to you gets hurt—or worse.”

“Dock Town won’t miss a self-righteous bitch like you,” Elek prowls in the opposite direction. “Your ‘help’ serves only you and your savior complex.”

“Let them go,” Neve demands, though her voice shakes. Magic buzzes anxiously around her with nowhere to go. A thick crimson barrier fed by no less than nine red lyrium crystals now safeguards the Venatori cult leader. 

Aelia sneers as she lifts up her hands to the heavens, “You’ll have to make me, darling.”

WITH PLEASURE . Spite uncurls inside of him, his violet wings snapping open as the rain begins to fall in heavy, fat droplets. 

Lucanis readies his blades. He reaches for the Butcher's Screw before remembering that the Demon stole it and sighs. What possessed her to come without her armor or weapons? 

This fight will be trickier than the one against Zara. There will be a lot more to manage. Break down the barrier. Kill the twenty zealots that just crawled in like roaches out of a storm drain. Not kill Neve’s very deadly friends. And take down Aelia before she can finish her ritual. 

Lucanis sighs. It's almost enough to make him miss his Venatori nemesis. And the way life felt simpler than. Before I discovered all the damn lies. 

“You’re mine, abomination,” Rana squares up against him. The Templar raises her spear and casts a spell. Her face shines bright with her God’s blessings. “Maker, take this demon into Your Hands!”

Following her prayer, reality grows rigid. His body weighs heavier. Spite’s wings burn less brightly. And the chilling rain falls like needles upon his skin as the Templar suppresses their magic. 

Aelia pairs each of her champions against her opponents. Elek draws his bow against the necromancer and Ashur raises his blades against his fellow Shadow Dragon. As for the Demon —the Tevinter cult leader hardly notices a crippled elf in rags slip away. 

IT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE TO SEE HER LIKE THAT . Spite calls him out. DISMISSED. BROKEN. SO SMALL. 

“Stop distracting me, Spite!” Lucanis grits as the templar rushes forward, easily catching the feathers his demon hurls with her shield. Her spear ruptures the air above his head as Lucanis ducks under the shaft and dispatches two of the zealots that had tried to block him in. 

“How did a sloppy Crow like you get the best of Zara?” Rana strikes relentlessly, her spear swift and sure. 

Lucanis can’t dodge. He must parry. And when Spite tries to deflect her blows with his feathers, the Templar infuses her power into her attack. “None can escape our Lady’s gaze!” 

HURTS. Spite hisses as his feathers turn to smoke and return to the Fade. 

Suddenly off balance with only one wing, Lucanis slips on the rain and blood-soaked pavement. 

Rana presses her advantage and drives her spear between his shoulder guard and breastplate and then brutally elbows him in the face. His head snaps back and Lucanis hits the ground hard as he falls. Once he’s down, the rest of the cowardly zealots finally close ranks. 

“Seems you’ve been fighting as a demon for so long—” Rana stomps down, her eyes glowing with lyrium as she fully represses Spite—pushing him deep into Lucanis’s psyche. “—You’ve forgotten how to fight like a man.”

Lucanis kicks at her, but between the spear pinning his sword arm and three other zealots holding him down he cannot get the right leverage to stop her as she lifts her shield with both hands to behead him. 

In a flash of searing light, the interfering cultists fall to the ground, each with a hot blade between their eyes. Rana stumbles. Knives pierce her shin, her side, and her shoulder. None of them were kill shots. But they each must hurt like a bitch and all are enough to stagger her. 

“Fuck off,” Rook pommels the Templar's head hard with her borrowed steel, knocking Rana out. 

Lucanis wrenches Rana’s spear off and tosses it away. “Mierda,” he curses. Until now he hadn’t realized how much he has come to rely on Spite in his fights. If not for the backup—

She offers him a hand up. Her eyes no longer glow against the silver rain. Thin and pale, her cheap linens cling to her every curve and Lucanis looks quickly away. She can’t fool him with that trick anymore. 

The Demon laughs humorlessly and crouches down before him. Red lyrium shards scatter through her ratty braids. When he glances at Aelia, he finds only two crystals left defending her. 

Dropping his sword back into his lap, she sneers, “Better get serious, Dellamorte. Neve needs the help.”

Following her gaze, he finds the Viper countering both Emmrich and Neve with ease. An altus mage, he switches effortlessly between lightning and fire and ice. Neve’s attacks only fuel him, her ice shards constantly redirected at the poor necromancer, frost creeping down his shoulder. 

“The Risen God is inevitable. You waste your gifts resisting him,” the Viper roars as a storm cloud of raw magic swirling above his crossed swords erupts into a flock of electric birds that hail down upon their heads. The relentless rain makes it impossible to avoid the ambient lightning and both Neve and Emmrich shudder in pain beneath her icy shield. 

Lucanis groans as he drags himself to his feet. His body feels unreasonably sluggish without Spite. But he pushes forward, two blades again in hand. 

The leader of the Shadow Dragons proves to be just as good of a swordsman as he is a mage. Better even. He infuses his silver shortswords with lightning and the shock runs through Lucanis’s arm as they match blows. But it gives the mages the opening they need. 

“Just in time,” Emmrich grunts as he summons the dead. Their hands erupt from the ground to tangle and drag the Viper to his knees. 

“Was wondering what was taking you so long,” Neve grits as she uses her ice to freeze the Viper’s arms in place. 

Emmrich raises his bell to cast a silencing spell but he is too slow. The Viper’s blades blaze hot and Neve nearly loses her fingers as he slashes through the snowmelt. 

With his legs still trapped, the Viper again concentrates all his focus on his magic. An inferno breaks through the Fade, quickly shaping itself into a serpentine dragon. It spins around the Viper, building momentum, its fiery claws swiping at them as it passes. Neve’s ice cannot dampen it. Lucanis’s blades won’t stop it.

“Witness me, Lord Lusacan!” The Viper shouts as he points his fiery blades at them. 

Lucanis is the Demon of Vyrantium. He has killed many a mage. With a single dagger he could stop the Viper dead. But what would happen to the remnants of the Shadow Dragons without their leader? Could Ashur even survive a paralytic with how far the blight has progressed? 

Yet we cannot afford to die here. 

Just before Lucanis can throw his blade, the Viper slumps forward, only the entangling dead keeping him from faceplanting. With a wheezing hiss, the raging inferno extinguishes. 

The rain falls rhythmically upon the stone as they catch their breaths, hot puffs steaming against the cold air. It’s then that he realizes his migraine has nearly faded away. The ritual. It stopped. 

Streams of blood flow down the steps leading to Puppeteer’s platform. Dead Venatori hang over the edge. And Aelia, her bloody puppet strings cut, clings to Rook’s arm with both hands, trying to stop her from slashing her throat. 

“It’s over,” the Demon tells her as she presses the cold blade harder against her pale skin. “Submit to judgment.”

“Are you another one of Zara’s experiments, rattus?” the Puppeteer hisses. She tries to break free, her heels cracking upon the broken red shards, but the Demon tightens her hold. 

“Death made me.”

“Well, you’re about to meet them again.”

Lub, dub. Lub, dub. 

Lucanis groans as the ritual circle below their feet submerges them in a bloody light. 

Instantaneously he loses all control of his body. Possession . He knows the feeling intimately. Except that Aelia has a heavier hand than Spite. He feels her fingers running through his brain, scooping out things she finds interesting. 

Zara’s horror as she died at Illario’s hand. 

Ghilan'nain's monstrous form as she summoned Corius, the Icetalon to blight Treviso. 

The day they cut him up, his migraine raging, and inserted a demon inside him. 

Rook’s lips pressed so softly against his. 

GET OUT! Spite claws to the surface. HE’S MINE! MINE! NOT YOURS! 

His demon manages to push Aelia out of his head, though not his body. Lucanis blinks awake, the rainwater running down his face like all the tears he cannot shed. 

To his horror, he discovers his hands wrapped around Emmrich’s throat. The necromancer’s eyes glow green, bright with awareness, but his body similarly paralyzed. 

“Don’t stop fighting,” Emmrich hisses between clenched teeth. 

With momentous effort, Lucanis drags his gaze to Neve. In a pool of glowing blood, the mage bows, her face pressed down into the foul liquid. When she lifts her head one of her eyes glows ruby red. The Puppeteer is winning the war over her mind. 

“I don't need full control to kill her. Stopping half a brain will still render her useless.” Aelia taunts, her own heart blazing a bright crimson through her Venatori robes. “Though based on what little I've gleaned so far, perhaps killing the Crow first might motivate you more. So back off, Rook.”

KILL HER. Spite wheezes. DON’T WORRY ABOUT US. 

“End this, Rook,” Neve manages the words with great effort. “You didn't choose…Minrathous before…Choose it…now…for me.”

The Demon’s blade draws the thinnest line against Aelia's throat as Rook meets Neve's gaze. “You were wrong, Neve. I tried. I really did try to be satisfied with the small wins.” Her eyes drift to Lucanis, full of regret. “But why shouldn't we be more greedy? If the tables will turn anyway, why not take as much as we can.”

“Your choice?” Aelia asks impatience overriding her fear.

The Demon relents and drops the knife. Two injured zealots quickly rise to take her hostage. After Rook’s fully restrained, the Puppeteer backhands her across the face. Aelia’s many rings leave behind bleeding lines.

“I knew you would see the big picture,” Aelia gloats. “Lord Lusacan will be so pleased when I deliver you to him. He might even make me Archon.” She then turns to sneer down at Lucanis. “Seems like hostages are the best way to keep your leader in line. You Crow, I obviously must keep. But as for the other two—”

“Enough!” Neve interrupts her, Rook’s distraction enough for her to break free. She raises both hands and a thick torrent of ice magic flows from her palms. 

Aelia easily counters with her blood magic. The two streams collide midair, the blood seeping into the ice, corrupting Neve’s flow. Still neither relents.

Lucanis can see the toll building in the Puppeteer’s face as she tries to keep up her attack while also keeping Emmrich and himself immobilized. He and Spite intensify their resistance.  

“Stop fighting me, Neve!” Aelia cries. “Tevinter, Minrathous, they’re broken. You did the best you could to fix them.” Releasing some of the shackles off Lucanis and Emmrich, she pushes more of her blood magic into overpowering Neve’s. “This empire needs stronger guidance in order to reclaim its glory. Join me Neve and together we will uplift our people.”

The Shadow Dragon cannot spare the effort to reply. Neve’s face pales as the stores of her mana quickly drain away. She falls to one knee as she pushes back against the next wave, straining as if the weight of the world lies on her shoulders. 

Emmrich groans as he breaks free from Aelia’s control. He stretches out to lay a replenishing hand on Neve's shoulder, lending her further strength. “You're not alone,” he tells her. “This city is not yours alone to bear or save. You have us now.”

Her chest heaving, Neve straightens to a stand. The rain and sweat beading down her brow crystalize into ice. Her brown eyes both shine clearly now and the magic flows evenly between the two mages.  

But Lucanis knows a stalemate is not enough. Aelia escaping again will still be an unendurable loss for Neve. 

“This serial ends here,” Lucanis croaks. Aelia tries to constrict his throat, but Spite rebukes her influence. “C’mon Neve, give those rags something to really write home about.”

“The people deserve better than either of us!” Neve declares. An icy storm spirals around her feet, and for an eternal moment the rain freezes midair. “But until someone better comes around—this city is under my protection!”

Her magic overtakes Aelia’s, the blood magic freezing and shattering as the ice surges up. Too late the Puppeteer tries to avert the spell. It encases her hands and then her core until Aelia too freezes solid, completely frozen beneath the ice. 

In the chaos, Rook dispatches the two remaining cultists. And then she races down the stairs, suddenly before him, and pulls Lucanis to his feet. 

He doesn't know what to say. Regarding the feelings Aelia so readily was willing to manipulate. Or the kiss he saw but doesn't remember. Or how she saved his life. Again.

HOW ABOUT, ‘THANKS, ROOK?’ Spite suggests. 

Her lips quirk up. Because of what my demon said, he realizes disconcertedly. Every time he thinks about it, how she can hear Spite, how she has always heard him, he bristles. 

Bitterness poisons his heart. What a fool you've made me!

The Demon quickly breaks away and turns to help Elek who shrieks when he finds a bunch of severed hands gripping him. 

“Lucanis!” Neve calls as she rushes to his side. A vulnerable relief verging on something happier lifts her cheeks. “It's finally over,” she smiles at him. 

Unlike me, her tale is now done. Her Venatori scars finally have the chance to close and heal.  

“Not quite,” Rana pinches her nose and shakes her head as if trying to relieve some terrible pressure. The Demon slaps a salve and antidote against her wounds. “Aelia will melt eventually. Leave her to me and I can get her to the cleanest justicar in the city. We can give Minrathous hope again.”

“Of course the Templars want to swoop in and play hero without getting their hands dirty,” Elek is quick to counter. He peels a decaying hand off his shoulder with visible disgust. “Neve, the Threads held Aelia off. We protected our streets. Let us send a message, so everyone knows what happens when they cross us .”

Emmrich half carries Ashur, his mana greatly depleted after their fight. The Viper coughs thickly into his hand and quickly tries to hide the blood that stains his palm. Lucanis swears the blight around his eyes now spreads farther. 

“Viper?” Neve defers to the Shadow Dragons’ leader. But he shakes his head. “This is your decision to make, Gallus. You know what Aelia's capable of. You know what the city needs. I'll support whatever you decide.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, Neve nods tightly. She takes her time walking up the staircase, obviously favoring her bad leg. The Demon quickly offers a shoulder to lean on and helps the Shadow Dragon to the top of the platform. 

“You took quite a risk on me,” Neve frowns as she finally stares Aelia down, face to face.

Rook grins slyly, “Though the ice will surely slow it down, if you don't give her an antidote within an hour, she will be dead either way.” She hands the green vial to Neve. “Glad I was here to witness you kick her ass. That's win enough for me.” The elf then slips away and waits down below with the others. 

Lucanis doesn't know exactly what goes through Neve’s head. She doesn't punctuate the moment with any big speeches. Neve simply pushes Aelia off her pedestal and when she hits the ground before the Thread’s and Templar’s feet, the Puppeteer shatters into a thousand pieces. 

***

They celebrate at the lower docks. The storm has swept past Dock Town, leaving the evening air crisp and clean. The first stars twinkle above the horizon, the lanterns of a few hopeful night fishers flickering beneath them. 

It’s a small party, considering the number of people they saved. But even after Neve’s decision, Rana showed up and takes shots with Tarquin. The rest of the Veilguard mingles with the Threads. And Cida Ciconia and the missing bards joyously serenade them. 

Halos insists he doesn't need the rest. “The sooner I'm behind my grill, the sooner I'll feel like myself.” Thankful townspeople keep the fish and wine flowing. Hal even makes potatoes and leeks especially for Emmrich, though Lucanis notes that the Demon eats those too over the grilled mackerel. 

Turning away from them, Lucanis finds Neve sitting alone at the docks, her feet hanging over the edge. A pile of clean skewers sits beside her and she's more than halfway deep into a champagne bottle. 

“Am I interrupting? Or are you too busy brooding into the middle distance?” he teases her. 

“Lay off,” she slaps at him but only hits air. “I haven't crossed that line yet. I would never dare be serious at my own party.”

And as Lucanis takes a seat beside her, he does find that she is far from it. Her hair is down, her expression lighter than he’s ever seen. She’s smiling again at him. 

“I couldn't have done this without you. Keeping my coffee pot full. All those midnight talks going over the same dried-up leads,” she says softly as their shoulders brush. “And Emmrich. Venhedis, I'm gonna be buying that man pineapples for the rest of his damn life or at least mine if he decides to embrace lichdom.” 

Pulling up one of her knees, she props her chin on it. “And of course Rook. I…it wasn't fair of me. I didn't blame you half as much over that blasted dragon. But every time I came back here, every time we went to Treviso—that anger would just build right back up again.”

Her hair falls like a curtain over her face. “Rook tried to make it up to me. She allowed me to pursue Aelia full time, gave me every resource. Rook even slept in the slums these last two weeks gathering intel. And I rushed us into that dragon's den without giving her the chance to put on a scrap of armor.” Neve takes a long swig of champagne before continuing, “Because I didn't care if she got hurt. Because I felt like she owed me every little pain. Fuck . How do I even apologize?”

“I don’t know,” Lucanis shakes his head. He doesn't understand Rook . There had been a time he thought he did but—

Though he may regret it later, he takes the bottle Neve offers him and drains the rest. 

None of that sounded like what a demon of Ruthlessness would do. Letting Aelia take her captive so that Neve herself could get her revenge. Silently enduring Zara’s torture so he could have his? 

Make it fucking make sense. 

Neve leans back, pushing her hair out of her face. “I don't know what happened between you two…but you’re going to come back right?”

Lucanis quirks a brow at her, “You trying to kick me out of your flat?”

“It is a little cramped for two. Not that I mind…” a blush runs across Neve’s dark cheeks.

Swallowing hard, Lucanis looks out into the dark water, “A Crow always finishes his contracts... I’ll see this through to the end...I still owe her that at least.”

Neve groans, clearly not wanting to say it, but she does. “You two make a good team. Even when you guys want to strangle each other instead of kiss.”

Lucanis nearly bursts into flames as a shadow of those old feelings rises to the surface. Quickly he kills them again. “We’ve n—It wasn’t like that.” 

Neve raises a brow, clearly not buying it. “Maybe you Crows have a different name for it then.” 

Slowly she tips his jaw and leans over, her lips brushing against his cheek. Warm. Soft and lingering. He can’t deny the chemistry between them. The weeks of secret glances and accidental touches. It would be easy to turn his head and meet her lips properly. 

But then he remembers the kiss he can’t recall. Thanks to Aelia it’s still so fresh in his mind. The way Rook had looked beneath him as he broke for air, her eyes so full of love and desire, his hair curled around her fingers before she tugged his head back and laid hot open mouthed kisses down his neck. 

Neve sighs against him. Her lips peppering affection against his brow, the shell of his ear…

Rook is a question I don’t know if I can solve. 

And the gorgeous woman before him? As gently as he can, Lucanis pulls away. Neve deserves at the very least someone who would be undeniably by her side. 

“I need time to figure this all out,” he tries to explain. She does her best to hide her disappointment with another smile. 

“I don’t want to be another worry for you to carry, Lucanis. You still haven’t slain all your demons,” she straightens her blouse and stands. “When things have settled for you, you’ll know where I'll be. So come back to the Lighthouse soon, okay? Preferably before we all die of food poisoning.”

Lucanis turns to watch her go. Neve soon laughs loudly as Elek drags her to take a shot with him and the Viper, their arms linked up to take it together. And then his eyes drift to Rook. Her face hidden in shadows, he can’t read her expression. But she swiftly turns away and disappears into the dark. 

GO AFTER HER , Spite insists. 

But just as he couldn't kiss Neve back, he finds himself unable to chase Rook down. 

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you want to do this,” Bellara asks as she chases away the wisps that poke at the many glittering half-finished projects in her workshop. If some of these artifacts went off…Rook isn't sure even the Lighthouse could endure the fallout. 

“It's long overdue.” Rook straightens in her chair and hands her the scissors. Long braids have always been a hazard in her profession. And after her weeks slumming it in Dock Town, her hair is unsalvageable.

Bellara with her luxuriantly long and soft mane cannot understand. But she doesn't need to. She just needs to cut.

As the dirty scraps of hair fall to her feet, Rook feels lighter. The Venatori have finally been defanged. According to Harding, they are scrambling to fill the power vacuums. Hopefully, it will keep them busy for a while. 

Rook closes her eyes, relishing every snip. “How have the Wetlands been?”   

“It’s honestly been a blast,” Bellara smiles as she finds her rhythm. “Like one long camping trip! I've learned so much about everyone through our campfire talks. And how I've missed sleeping under real stars," she sighs dreamily. "Feels like the old days, traveling with my aravel. Minus all the darkspawn of course.”

“Taash seems certain that you guys will find the Icetalon’s lair any day now.”

“You never know when tracking,” Bellara takes a razor to the side of her head, smoothing out an undercut. “Could be another month if we spook the dragon again.”

“I hope not,” Rook shudders. Even though she was born Dalish, she is grateful to have lived in the city most of her life. She’d take another week in the slums over a day in the wilderness every time.

“You hate it don't you.” Bellara bites her lip as she holds up a mirror. 

Half of her hair had to be completely shaved off. The other half barely grazes her shoulders. “It's perfect,” Rook assures her. 

The workshop door slides gently open and Rook finds herself holding her breath. 

“Bellara, are we low on onions again?” Lucanis steps in casually, flipping through one of the Veil Jumper’s serials as if he never left. 

The assassin has cleaned up since Rook last saw him. His beard is again handsomely manicured, his Crow leathers immaculately tailored. Yet despite his easy stride, she notices how much heavier the dark circles hang beneath his eyes and the deepening hollowness of his cheeks that further sharpen every line in his face.

Yet her traitorous heart beats faster—even as his lips curl in disgust when he spots her. 

“Lucanis, you’re back!” Bellara races over to embrace him. 

“I am,” he says stiffly. 

Rook stands to meet him. “Are you here to stay?” she asks, trying to keep her voice neutral. 

“I honor my contracts,” the Crow affirms with crisp professionalism. “No matter who gives them.”

Bellara cringes as she takes her book back, “Uhh, should I leave you two alone?”

“No,” Lucanis says before Rook can suggest otherwise. “When you're done here, please join me in the kitchens, Bellara. I hardly recognize them. And what is that cagada bubbling in the cauldron.”

As he speaks, Spite glides out of him. The demon makes a beeline for her and runs his fingers along the new edge of her hair. 

STILL SMELLS LIKE LAVENDER. STILL ROOK. Lucanis crinkles his nose. 

Bellara laughs awkwardly. “Oh, found Lace’s ‘soup,’ have you? None of us have been able to identify what exactly those pale chunks used to be. Though she dumped half of our spices in it, somehow it manages to be completely tasteless.”

“Mierda, it’s a miracle you all survived in my absence.”

I’VE MISSED YOU, Spite confesses incurring Lucanis’s obvious discomfort. 

“It’s good we have you back, then,” Rook offers Spite a secret smile and then picks up the broom behind him. “I'll clean up here, Bellara. Dinner sounds like it's in dire need of saving.”

Lucanis purses his lips at the obvious dismissal. But he seems equally unwilling to remain in her presence. Abruptly he turns, his steps clipped as he exits without another word.

“Well, that was awkward,” Bellara laughs alone. She glances anxiously between Rook and the door. 

“We can’t win this war without him. As long as he fights, that's all I care about,” she steels herself as she sweeps.

Bellara hovers, obviously wracking her brain for some way to comfort Rook.

But she has no use for pity, "Don’t let our issues dampen your reunion.” After a little more coaxing, she finally convinces the Veil Jumper to leave.

Spite lingers for as long as he can, though he fades with every step Lucanis takes toward the kitchen. When they are truly alone, he stands in her pile of hair clippings—forcing Rook to face him fully. 

ROOK, he frowns. I’M SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG. I…I DON’T KNOW HOW TO GET THROUGH TO HIM.

“It’s not your fault Spite. It's mine,” she cups the air where his cheek should be. “Once trust has been broken, there’s no going back to the way things were.”

Her words do little to relieve his panic. WHEN WE WERE AWAY, HE AND NEVE—

“Don’t. Please don’t say anything more.” Rook clutches the broom so hard it snaps in her hands. “It's none of my business.” After tossing the useless halves away, she swipes at her golden eyes, trying to get them to revert to normal.

HE LIKED YOU. HE STILL… the demon trails off. 

“Spite.” How desperately she wishes to touch him, yet how painful it is to see the shadow of Lucanis in his features. “Just because things have changed between your host and me, doesn't mean I care any less for you.” 

The demon steps closer and she can almost feel him like static across her skin as he lays a kiss on her forehead.

YET I HATE HIM, JUST A LITTLE MORE, Spite says wistfully.

He’s so faded now, barely a flicker in the Fade. 

“I missed you, Spite,” Rook finally admits. But she can’t be sure if he heard her. For she again stands alone. 

***

The first night Lucanis cooks, she doesn't think much of it. Seafood paella is an Antivan classic and a fan favorite around here. It’s a perfect welcome home meal. 

The next night he’s on dinner duty, he grills skewers, doing his best to recreate Hal’s recipe. Neve is delighted. And Rook tries not to hold it against her. 

The third night though… Is he Spiting me? She laughs loudly when Lucanis places a plate of ceviche before her. The look of absolute shock on his face as she takes her first big bite with a shit-eating grin is almost worth the torture of eating it. 

After the sixth night though, she admits defeat and sticks to the salads and vegetarian options alongside Emmrich. 

Rook pushes away her slice of half-eaten gooseberry pie. Gods, dessert might be the worst of his petty revenges.  I would kill for just a spoonful of his orange granita. Yet Rook has too much pride to ask him to make it for her.  

As she stands to leave, she catches his eyes across the table. They haven’t had a proper talk in the week since he officially returned. In fact, the only time he can tolerate being in the same room together is during dinner. 

But as terrible as things have gotten between us, he’s told no one about my secret. In the end, I can't ask anything more from him…

Sighing, she stands and takes her plates to the kitchen. 

“I thought he and Rook were a thing,” Taash whispers to Harding as they tackle dish duty together, though they’re incapable of speaking softly and Rook would have heard them from across the room.

Harding washes the pots and pans before passing them to Taash to dry. “He was gone a long time. No one, not even Neve knows why.” 

Without alerting them to her presence, Rook lays her dishes at the edge of the counter and slips away. 

She can feel Spite’s gaze on her, but the demon knows better than to speak directly to her with Emmrich around. Unwillingly her eyes gravitate toward Neve and Lucanis sitting by the fireplace. Their knees brush as they lean against each other, laughing over their coffee. Completely in their own world. 

Gracelessly, she flees the room.

I need out!

***

Rook dons her leathers for the first time since Ruthless reattached her arm. Her right fingers move clumsily over her buckles and it takes much longer than it used to. Though she’s regained much of her mobility, her right hand still doesn't always quite align with her will. 

“We better get some practice in before joining the Hossberg team tomorrow,” she grumbles to her spirit.

Yes, I tire of your sulking. Ruthless swells within her. Bring the bow too. She does as her spirit requests, curious if together they might still be able to wield it.

Leaving a note beneath the wolf statue, Rook heads to the Eluvian. She hadn’t expected to find anyone waiting for her there—Lucanis, least of all. 

“What are you doing here?” the words come out harsher than she intended. 

He too wears his armor. “Spite said you’d be going out alone.”

“And why might that concern you?” she crosses her arms, the motion still a bit stiff. 

He glares at her. “Because I want to see it. Ruthy.”

That’s RUTHLESSNESS to you, BRAT.

Lucanis instinctively draws out his knives, searching for the source of the voice. 

“It never comes out if you're hoping to glimpse my spirit.”

“Your demon,” he corrects and she rolls her eyes. 

“Whatever. Do what you want, Dellamorte. I can’t stop you,” Rook hisses. From coming. From leaving. Exhausted from their conversation, she shoves past him and enters the Eluvian. 

Dusk is settling upon the Hossberg Wetlands when they arrive. And the townspeople huddle close to their campfires, their shoulders hunched, barely fighting off the despair of another long night. 

Rook stalks through the old Warden Outpost with no intention of talking to anyone. The plan was to find an isolated field thickly infected with blight and blow off some steam killing darkspawn. Already she possesses an unwanted shadow. So when one of the locals abandons the bonfire to beseech her, Rook pretends not to hear. 

“Kind stranger,” a woman calls to her. “You with the Veilguard, please wait.” With a sigh, Rook pauses and waits for the farmer to catch up. “If you’re heading to the farmlands, would you please check on the Voss family. They warned us of the blight, long before anyone believed it was coming. Long before it consumed us. They knew , but if they did why aren't they here?”

“If I find anything, I'll let you know,” she falls back into the mask called Rook. 

They head east out of Lavendel and though it is only fall, ashy snow covers the Anderfels steppes. The two Crows don’t say anything as they dispatch a few strangling ghouls and push back the tainted mass that chokes the land. 

A sinister quiet claims the Voss fields overrun with blight. Rook holds no hope for survivors. But maybe they can find some answers. In the main farmhouse, completely consumed by the pulsating network of tainted masses, they find a room locked from the outside. Cautiously they step in and find the walls covered with bloody scrawls and scraps of paper. Nightmarish pictures cover every surface.

At the center of a runic circle nastily carved into the floorboards, lies the charred remains of an old woman, blood and splinters beneath her nails. They’ve seen too many such bodies in the past few months to not instantly recognize the telltale handiwork. 

“Mierda,” Lucanis covers his nose against the terrible smell. “We need to find whatever demon did this.”

Rook picks up a journal and reads aloud the last legible entry, “Who am I? Who am I? Who are you? I echo back to a voice now far away. And wait to hear an answer from the place where secrets lay.”

From beyond the moldy windows, a pack of ghouls howl and scream. They can’t afford to get trapped in such a tight place with them. Quickly the Crows head onto the balcony and find a horde of darkspawn crawling out from the strange, deep holes that scatter across the southern field. 

“Let’s see what you got, Ruthy !” Lucanis pointedly ignores her in favor of her spirit. Leaping off the banister, Spite’s wings flare and they divebomb the nearest hurlock. 

Ruthless rushes to the surface, but Rook pushes it down. The original goal was for her to practice and baseline her arm’s recovery. Experimentally she draws her bow. Yet even before she releases the first arrow, she knows her bad arm cannot draw enough power. 

The blighted wolf squeals as the arrowhead lodges into its side. But she only injures it. Lucanis’s blades must put the beast to rest. 

With a growl of frustration at her own inadequacy, Rook vaults down into the fray. 

YOUR ARM. HASN’T HEALED YET? Spite asks as she attempts to dual wield with slightly better success than her marksmanship.

“We are weaker than before,” Ruthless borrows her voice and Lucanis side eyes her eagerly. 

Gods, even Ruthless is getting more attention from him than me!

Before Spite can further inquire, a blighted ogre bursts through the wreckage of a barn. Swinging its club wildly, it charges them with a feral rage. 

For the sake of practice, Rook forces herself to use her right hand exclusively, even if it is to her detriment. Her knives slice its cheek instead of blinding it and she merely wounds its arms instead of staggering it. 

MOVE, ROOK! Spite calls out as the tainted giant charges her. 

Though sharp feathers and knives plaster its leathery legs, the ogre hardly slows. She winces as she rolls clumsily off her bad shoulder. The blighted giant shatters the boathouse behind her, scattering rotted wood and ice. With a roar, the ogre shakes off his daze and prepares to rush her again. 

“My turn,” Ruthless drives to the surface and fully takes over. A crown of Fade fire ignites around her head and her bad arm blazes as brightly as her golden eyes. 

Equipping her bow, it draws the bowstring back with even greater power than it could before Zara. The three bolts ripple through the ogre's chest and its boils of blight burst with a fiery pop. With a surprised groan, the giant topples over, revealing that her arrows burned straight through muscle and bone and melted all. 

This is not enough to satisfy her spirit. Ruthlessness grabs the ogre by the horn and sets the entire creature’s ugly face ablaze, suffocating it until it no longer twitches. 

To her spirit’s disappointment, Lucanis already culled the rest of the horde. Ruthless turns to find him staring at their fade fire, spilling off her shoulders like a billowing cape, “Enjoy the show?”

The Crow stiffens. “You are not like Spite.”

Her spirit laughs, “It is an insult to compare us.”

NO ONE CAN COMPARE TO SPITE, his demon adds petulantly. 

“You two do not wrestle for control,” Lucanis clarifies as he retrieves his knives. He reaches for her arrows, but what remains disintegrates into ash. “Is she subservient to you?" He wipes his hands clean. "Does the person I called Rook really exist or is she just a mask you wear to hide your brutality?”

“We COEXIST. Rook is Rook. And I am what I am." Ruthless steps closer to Lucanis and grins cruelly when he immediately backs away. "Of all people, you should be able to tell the difference.” Before he can further torment the Crow, Ruthlessness twists around, searching for something on the wind. “Do you SMELL that, Spite?”

DECAY. DESPAIR… Spite takes control of Lucanis to fully access his senses. He turns towards her, violet eyes blazing, and then to the well at the center of the blighted field. I SMELL ROOK?

Ruthlessness cautiously approaches the humble shaft, broken boards scattered around it. Rook cannot identify what sharp aroma Ruthlessness senses from it. But it fills her spirit with a rare longing. 

When Rook bubbles to the surface she is immediately hit with a different phantosmia Baking bread. The sourdough her mother made. Burnt crusts and marmalade. Except that Mother never let me have such sweetness—

“I owe you,” a voice like Lucanis’s but not quite, drifts from deep within the well.

“ No more than I owe you ,” her own distorted voice echoes after. 

She turns to Lucanis and he shares her bewildered expression. If this too is a hallucination, he shares it with her. 

“It must be the demon that killed the Voss family,” he grits, yet neither of them can draw themselves away. 

“Who am I?” The echo asks. “Worry not, for I am you. The demon.”

“Have you ever encountered a spirit like this before, Lucanis?” Rook peers over the dark edge, but whatever water may lie within the well sits deep within the abyss. “It embodies no emotion I can name. Rather it lies still as a lake, waiting to reflect us…TO DROWN US.” Her spirit finishes for her. 

Lucanis grips her, whether to push her in or pull her back, neither of them yet knows. “We have to board it up. We can’t—”

A shivering claw erupts from the deep sludge. It grabs Lucanis by the throat and drags him in. Immediately he drops her arm. So as not to take her with him. 

“Rook—WAIT!” Ruthless protests. 

Immediately she dives into the well. She cannot swim. But that doesn’t matter. If Rook hesitates for even a moment, there might not be any way to find them. Or anyone left to save. 

Her arms flail uselessly. The tainted mud is both thick and viscous, yet it also parts for her as easily as water. The Fade must be thin here. 

I may not know how to dive. But I intimately recall how I died. Her body sinks like a stone. Down and down she plunges through the well, her lungs burning, inky filth filling her every pore. 

In a squelching mudslide, it finally spits her out. With a sputtering cough, Rook clears her throat. Although her tongue remains heavily coated with fear. 

“I can't see!’ she anxiously rubs at her eyes. 

JUST GIVE ME A MOMENT, Ruthless rebukes her. Rook’s face grows hot as it purges her sight. 

Blindly she feels around, her palms sinking into something fleshy. Between blinks her vision is restored and she instantly recoils from the pile of blighted bodies she had landed upon. 

“Lucanis!” She cries, looking around the blighted cave, hoping desperately his body does not already lie beneath her. “Spite!” 

“ Spite ,” the echo of echo sighs like a lover. “ Lucanis.”

Even facing the demon directly, its influence swelling around her, Rook struggles to name it. This is not some mindless and wailing spirit of Despair. It has become more. 

“Or now I am less,” the demon reads her thoughts. “Once I was HIGH and now I am LOW.” The frigid wraith wraps its cloaked arms around Lucanis in a loving embrace, its hood sliding back to reveal its face full of rat-like fangs. 

“Soon you will be dead!” Rook promises. But before she can raise her blade, the demon splits itself. Its echo twists itself tightly around her body and her vision again goes dark. 

***

Warmth nests in her chest as she sits on the kitchen counter sharpening their knives. Rook has flour on her cheeks and up and down the length of her thighs. But she doesn't bother cleaning herself up, not when the culprit still stands within arm’s reach. 

“Are you only here to distract me?” Lucanis smirks at her, his hair tied up, though not as neatly as before. “Was your offer to help just another cunning deception?”

Rook holds up the kitchen knife and whetstone and shrugs, “If I get any more involved you’ll have to start over…again.” 

She follows his hands as he kneads the dough, stretching it out, firmly drawing it back. His knuckles roll in sensuous circles and she finds herself swallowing hard. With her eyes, she slowly traces the length of his deft fingers, the flexing veins in his hands, the cords of muscles along his scarred arms, and the thin strap of his apron over his shoulders…Openly she can admire him. Touch him if she desires. Because for the first time in her life, Rook doesn’t just belong to someone else. They belong to her too. 

Languidly she lifts her gaze and finds him already looking at her. Rook might drown in the dark depths of his eyes. 

“Rook.” Just hearing him call her name so lovingly is enough to make her shudder. “ROOK!”

The dream shatters in a thousand pieces and she gasps at the sudden chilling emptiness inside her. She glimpses him, the real Lucanis reaching for her, before the dream recaptures her, though it jaggedly rearranges itself. 

“Was your offer to help only a cunning deception?” He steals the kitchen knife and slices it against her throat, reopening the scar from the day they met. Blood pours down her chest. 

“If I get any more involved you’ll—” She chokes. 

His dark eyes refill with deep mistrust. “Demon,” he spats. 

This time when Rook leaps into the well she is truly drowning, her secret hopes inflated only to be stolen, despair creeping into her every pore. 

What a clever spirit, she thinks as she sinks. And aren't I just a lovesick fool?

From the beginning she had known it wasn't real. This echo of reality was far too distorted from the truth. Maybe if she had made different choices, that simple life could have been hers. But she has no real hopes for it now.

Still it had been nice to pretend he might love me back. If only for a moment. 

She fills herself with Ruthlessness and the oily black bubbles and boils around her as it evicts this Highest Despair. 

“Rook wants this. I want this,” it tries to deter her, borrowing his voice again. “ Rook…You deserve better than to deal with my mess—”

“Enough, Echo,” she scolds it. “You feed on us in hopes you might endure until your god also escapes their prison beyond the Veil.”

In the dark, Rook had glimpsed its clandestine dreams too. His body torn apart only to be killed again. Achingly it had scraped itself back together once more, clinging to prayers and whatever secrets lay in the hearts of men. It used to safeguard such things. Now remains only the instinct to consume them. 

“But Dirthamen would prove as cruel as the rest,” she tells it. 

“Who are you? Cruel! Cruel! Cruel!” It echoes.

Her vision returns and she finds the demon caught in a torturous loop. It lies trapped between two existences—beneath Lucanis’s boots, its shroud and face shredded—and curling up despondently in her embrace

“Do not despair any longer,” she tells the Echo in her arms. “It’s time to let go.”

With a withering sigh, it turns to ash. 

Slowly she stands, a little dazed as the well crumbles around them. So many bodies will be buried beneath the rubble, but at least the Voss family will be the last. 

Before Rook can call his name, his arms wrap tightly around her. He breathes her in as if she were his last gulp of air. It undoes her. To be held again. To feel the warmth of another person envelop her. Holding her breath and closing her eyes, she dares not move and risk ending the moment so soon--even as the well threatens to become their tomb. 

But who embraces me? Spite or Lucanis?

With the beat of his wings, he lifts them both out of the well. She doesn’t feel weightless in his arms. Tucked into him, she can hardly enjoy her first flight. But she feels precious and her heart soars even as her feet touch down upon the snowy ground. 

“I still don’t trust you,” Lucanis murmurs into her hair. “Nor do I forgive you.”

She nods against his neck. No matter what Echo might have shown him, she doubts it could heal such wounds. 

“But I want to believe you were real. That Rook is real.”

Lucanis waits for some assurance. And the quiet builds between them because she doesn't know how to give it to him. In more ways than one he was right about Ruthless and Spite being nothing alike. Spite is a branch grafted onto an already grown tree. But Ruthlessness and me? Sometimes I don't know where one of us ends and the other begins…

“Rook is just a name Varric gave me,” she tries to explain a concept she doesn't entirely understand. “While Viago designed and promoted the name Wisp so I could collect more contracts.”

Even though they are in the Fade where the snow needs not be cold, she shivers as she pulls away from him. It terrifies her to match his gaze, cool and calculating, as Lucanis weighs her truths. But even if he doesn't end up believing her, even if he dismisses her further—she refuses to lie to him any longer. 

“I.…I don’t know my own name. When I died,” and his detached mask slips just for a moment at the thought, “all those years ago and Ruthless revived me, I never recovered it. Ruthless just called me da’len. And later the slavers just called me knife-ear. And it didn't feel right to rename myself. Because I already have one. Even if I no longer know it.”

She’s rambling. But he hasn’t turned away yet. Lucanis still stands just within reach, no farther than he had in her dreams. So she bravely goes on. 

“I am me ,” she asserts. 

Even if I am just an echo of the child who died. 

“And maybe that is a demon. But while I may have kept the Ruthless part a secret from you, the me that you knew, that—was your friend. That was real.”

A soft snow begins to fall. While it gently crowns his dark hair, it melts instantly upon her flushed skin. 

Lucanis studies her for a long moment longer, his dark eyes neither cold nor warm. Finally, he says, “Let’s go home, Rook.”

She had known, the moment he walked out that they would never be lovers. Only now as Rook follows his lonely trail through the fresh snow does she realize that their friendship had died that day too. 

Chapter Text

WE SHALL MOUNT HER HEAD ON OUR WALL! Spite cackles as he runs around the pantry trying to figure out where he wants to frame the Icetalon’s skull. Lucanis rolls his eyes and returns to his preparations for the campaign. While he equally anticipates exacting revenge against the dragon who attacked Treviso, Lucanis finds all his feelings dampened, a dark storm weighing over his head.

Rook’s words from yesterday swirl in his mind and churn in his gut. While the warmth of her…sparks something forbidden for someone you neither forgive nor trust. Lucanis tries to summon back the anger he’s been honing against her. But it has lost its edge. And that leaves him defenseless. 

“Get your ass moving, Lucanis,” Davrin slams his door open without knocking, “You city slickers only have two days to train before we make the assault. And we’ve already wasted this morning.”

With deliberate slowness, Lucanis wraps up the wyvern poison the De Riva House brewed for their fight. “I don’t really see the point in this ‘dragon slaying bootcamp’ you’re running. There’s not much a Warden can teach a Crow.”

“Not with that attitude,” Davrin crosses his arms and Spite steps up next to him, imitating the Warden with the most insufferable expression. It takes all of Lucanis’s self-discipline to keep the smile off his lips. 

“Though perhaps my lessons will prove too rigorous for your delicate sensibilities,” Davrin drones on. 

“You mean my refined tastes,” Lucanis corrects him. “And I promise I can take your worst.”

To his surprise, Davrin lets the argument go. “We leave in ten. If I have to come back here to fetch you, I promise you’ll pay for it later.”

“Looking forward to it,” Lucanis sneers as the Warden huffs off. 

Though he was nearly finished packing before Davrin arrived, Lucanis intentionally strolls into the Eluvian hall a crisp fifteen minutes late. He’s the last to arrive. Harding and Taash have been in Lavendel since yesterday, working hard on mobilizing their allies in preparation for taking the dragon down. The rest of the team stands at attention as Davrin gives them the rundown. Sliding into the back of the group he finds himself standing next to Rook. She doesn’t acknowledge him, her gaze steadily forward. Only a few inches stand between their shoulders. Yet an uncrossable chasm stretches between them.

Lucanis hadn’t really taken a moment to study her since his return. Her time in the Dock town slums left her alarmingly skinny. Her travel pack, slung over one bony shoulder, dwarfs her. Her other arm…she hides the extent of the damage beneath dark leather and crow feathers. But it hadn’t escaped his notice yesterday, the stiffness, the weakness. If he were to peel the layers back, run his fingers along her skin, what would he find?

Teeth marks from Zara’s bloody monsters?

The leathery blisters from her demon’s fiery intervention?

Lucanis clenches his jaw so hard that her ear flicks in his direction at the grinding. Whatever the scars, he might as well have inflicted them himself. It was easy to push away the guilt when she was the Demon. But after fighting the Echo, after reliving every hauntingly blissful moment from before , the bile rises up his throat. 

“Well look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” Davrin growls.

Bellara lays a soothing hand on the Warden’s forearm. “We’re all here now though, so let’s get going!” Assan chirps in agreement. 

Defeated by their optimism, Davrin sighs and shoulders his pack. “Move out, team.” Without further ado, they step through the magic mirror and return to Lavendel. Davrin makes minimal small talk as he leads them through the fortress and out into the wilderness. Already he sets a punishing pace. 

As they march, Rook struggles to loop her bad arm through her second shoulder strap. No one else seems to notice. Rather than call attention to it, Lucanis impulsively raises her travel pack to help her. She offers a clipped thanks before quickly pushing forward to walk with Bellara and Davrin. 

IF I DIDN'T KNOW BETTER. I'D SAY SHE HATES YOU, Spite comments dryly. 

Maybe she does. Lucanis runs a hand through his hair. And why wouldn’t she? He’s tortured her at every opportunity. He swears when they get back he’ll make something other than fish. Orange chicken perhaps. Or that granita she loves. 

YOU THINK CITRUS CAN MAKE UP FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE?

“I…” Lucanis trails off. He can’t imagine anything that he might do that could ever make it up to her, that might ever recover what they’ve lost. 

The me that you knew, that was your friend. That was real. Her words echo in his head. 

He shivers under the cold wind that weaves across the dead landscape. Friends. Lucanis has never had many of them. And to lose her and Illario in one day—to demons and blood magic—it feels like a personal failure. Was he not the Demon of Vyrantium, the slayer of such evils? 

His eyes draw back to her. Would the Veil Jumper so readily link arms if she knew that Rook was an abomination? Would the Gray Warden let Assan curl on her shoulder if he knew that she was more of a demon than Lucanis was? Maybe they have the right to know. And he has a duty to tell them…

SO WHY DON'T YOU? Spite asks without any mockery. 

“It’s not like you to be late,” Neve unintentionally interrupts as she catches up with him. 

“Behave,” he mutters to Spite. The demon groans before receding. Lucanis then turns to Neve. Usually, he’d respond with a quip, but he can’t bring himself to match her today. “I'm sure I didn't miss much.”

“Not anything, I can assure you,” her golden heel slips a bit on the icy ground, but she digs her staff in and catches herself. “The Dalish couldn’t resist disparaging our urban ways and creature comforts. I don't know what I’m dreading more, Bellara’s team-building exercises or Davrin’s tight schedule.” 

“I'm sure it won’t be so bad,” he takes her pack from her. “Sleeping in the cold mud. The blighted vistas. Random darkspawn attack,” his voice drips with sarcasm, “why, I couldn’t imagine a more romantic getaway.” 

Immediately he cringes at his own line. Spite squirms uncomfortably within him, recognizing the patterns of their flirtations. Often, just to spite his demon, Lucanis would lay them on even thicker. But how can he when he can’t keep his eyes off Rook? She laughs ahead at something Davrin says. 

Jealousy is no stranger to him. However, reliving a few sweet memories doesn’t give him the right to it. Bitterly, he represses such a pathetic feeling.

“Oh?” Neve smirks oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Then I hope you pitch your tent close to mine. I may need some help appreciating the sights.”

His demon can’t handle it. Spite’s wings abruptly snap open and slap the mage as they unfurl. Neve falls in her attempt to avoid a face full of feathers and Lucanis barely catches her. 

“Mierda, I'm sorry,” Lucanis helps her back to her feet. “Spite! Apologize.”

Yet his demon refuses to and only offers excuses. TWO PACKS IS A LITTLE HEAVY. SPITE WAS JUST TRYING TO HELP LIGHTEN THE LOAD. 

“It’s alright,” she laughs it off. “Scatch the tent idea. Message received.”

Hearing the commotion, the elves spin around to check on them. Davrin opens his mouth to dress him down, but Rook holds up a hand. “I'll take care of this.” Slipping away from Bellara, Rook backtracks until she stands before him. “Spite,” she hisses warningly. 

Careful not to hit Neve with Rook watching, his demon draws forward again. Spite pouts his lips. Apologizing is anathema to him. Yet Rook so cleverly manages to extract one. 

“You wouldn't be intentionally harming our teammates, would you?”

“ THAT WOULD BE AGAINST THE RULES ,” his demon admits. 

“It won’t happen again,” she prompts him. Yet when he begins to repeat it, she jerks her head in Neve’s direction.

“ IT SHOULDN'T HAVE AND IT WON'T ,” he turns to Neve begrudgingly. 

Neve accepts his promise with a shrug of her shoulders, “Accidents happen.”

Lucanis can feel his lips draw in a cruel smile before the demon retreats. “THEY DO.”

Even though the demon no longer sits at the surface, Rook still speaks to him, “Don’t make things harder than it needs to be, Spite.” 

Her softened expression immediately shifts behind a professional mask as she addresses Lucanis. “ Our dragon is out there, Dellamorte. And Davrin is going to help us kill it this time. So stop treating this combat training like some joke and get your shit together.”

“No need to take that tone with me, Rook,” he scowls. “I am always serious, especially when it comes to Treviso.”

Rook scans him and frowns, clearly unimpressed. But she doesn't rebuke him further and the team resumes their march. 

Lucanis falls deeper into his brooding. Neve tries to coax him back out, but even after they’ve finished their hike and now work toward setting up camp, his thoughts swirl darkly. He tries to pinpoint what bothers him most: After their encounter with Echo, he’s made his professional peace with her demonic nature. Just as Spite is necessary to winning this war, Rook is even more so. Therefore, Lucanis must respect her jurisdiction as their leader to put him so publicly in his place when he is dampening morale. 

Personally, however, it all still rankles him.

Between the kiss Aelia showed him and the memories Echo forced him to relive, what was real —what is real—blurs beyond distinction. So when she wears again such a tender expression, yet looks straight through me and speaks instead to my demon, what am I supposed to do with that?

Lucanis can’t handle the whiplash…and how it stirs in him all the feelings that are better left dead.

***

Davrin makes good on his promises. Lucanis pays for every minute he was late and every clever remark. And to the rest of the team’s ire, so does everyone else. 

“Now that we’ve warmed up,” Davrin begins, inspiring a collective groan. “It's time to go for a little pre-dinner rucking.” Lucanis doesn’t even have to make a comment to incur Rook’s glare. “Bellara has helpfully filled your bags with rocks.”

“None blighted,” she assures with a bright smile. 

“You must climb to the top of the steppes and back five times,” Davrin points to the summit where Manfred helpfully waves the Warden’s flag, “to earn the right to Bell’s mushroom chowder.”

Their mouths all water. Davrin hasn’t allowed them to eat all day. And her Dalish chowder is legendary. 

“I cannot promise that there will be any left if you don’t hurry,” Davrin smirks, hardly noticing his own heavy load. “If that isn't enough to motivate you, know that after the sun sets we should expect darkspawn.”

Neve groans, “I think I'll skip the running and you can just end me now.”

Even Emmrich withers before their task. 

Rook stuffs her bad hand into her pocket, but Lucanis had noticed how terribly it had been shaking. The team stands at the breaking point. And that sick Warden is delighting in pushing them all over the edge. 

Yet when Davrin takes off, Rook follows at his heels, the griffon circling above their heads. Lucanis won’t be left behind. He summons Spite’s wings but the traitor refuses to help, still pissy from earlier. With a growl Lucanis drives forward, through the pain in his thighs and shoulders, chest and feet, comforting himself with the image of slicing the dead Icetalon to ribbons.

It doesn't take long for the crazy Warden to lap them. But even after he effortlessly finishes his fifth set, Davrin continues running with them, helping Neve and Emmrich especially along. Bellara offers them another small mercy. Each time they return to base camp, she takes out a few of their rocks and now that they are on their last lap they run free. 

Maybe there is something to this madness. His body should be beyond exhausted and yet a sudden high sings through his muscles as he reaches the summit and accepts the skeleton’s high five. 

Rook is just ahead of him. She doesn’t run down the mountain, so much as she flies. As he pursues her, he can’t help but recall their little games along the rooftops over the canals. 

Spite must be of the same mind. Because this time when Lucanis summons his wings, they flutter open and he somersaults over her head. 

“Cheater!” She cries, her eyes blazing gold for a moment before she remembers herself. 

A strange pity takes root within him. But he has no chance to process it. 

Rook slips. 

Before she can shatter upon the stones, Spite seizes complete control. Twisting midair, he scoops her up into his arms and they tumble until they crashland into a tree. Even beneath the surface, Lucanis winces as his back hits the bark.

“Are you hurt, Spite?” Rook recovers first, pushing past the feathers that curl protectively around her to probe him for injuries. 

ARE YOU?  

He smiles when she shakes her head. GOOD.

Lucanis had almost forgotten what it was like beneath her affection. The warmth of it. Her steely eyes turn soft, a smile tilts upon her bright lips as her warm hands flitter across his skin. Absently Spite traces patterns along her hips, drawing her closer. For a moment she leans into his touch before withdrawing to a proper distance.

“You know what would really be Spiteful?” Rook pokes his forehead and his demon blushes. “Helping me beat this bastard down the mountain.”

“Now who’s cheating?” Lucanis rises fully to the surface only to be pushed immediately back. GO, ROOK.

She takes off without once looking back. But Lucanis's frustration has nothing to do with losing their race. He’ll admit he’s running low on sleep, but it shouldn’t be so easy for his demon to override him like this. Especially when the feeling driving Spite, doesn’t feel anything like his namesake emotion…

Thanks to Spite’s interference, Lucanis finishes last. He’s so late in fact that the cauldron has been scraped empty to his severe disappointment.

“Thought you got eaten by darkspawn,” Davrin deadpans as he mops the remains of his soup with a bread roll. “Guess I’m not so lucky.”

Lucanis rolls his eyes. But the movement is too sluggish to be effective and only communicates his devastating fatigue. Without food or coffee to bolster him, he must finally give in. “I’m heading to bed.”

“You’re willingly going to sleep,” Neve cannot contain her shock. And Lucanis guiltily avoids her gaze, remembering how terribly his attempts in her flat went. Each time he dozed off, he’d wake to find Spite had completely trashed her place. 

“It might have been three weeks since I last tried for a full night,” he shrugs.

“Lucanis!’ Bellara exclaims. “Don’t make us roll out Plan Sixty-Eight on you.”

“We’ll post an additional sentry at your tent,” the Warden offers without his usual malice. “Leave the demon to us.”

“Spite will behave,” Rook says quietly and Lucanis blushes, unwittingly remembering all the nights she had assured it. She couldn't possibly be offering. Not in front of everyone. Not after all that's happened. 

Abruptly she stands and he finds himself holding his breath as she crosses the campfire toward him. The firelight casts a halo around her head and he wonders then if perhaps Ruthless rather than Rook kept Spite in line. Yet when she speaks, her gentleness makes who stands before him unmistakable. “Let me talk to Spite.”

Lucanis doesn't have a good reason not to allow them. There's nothing his demon can really do with the entire Veilguard watching, yet he finds himself stubbornly reluctant to bring his demon out. “I assure you he’s listening.”

Recognizing his resistance, Spite slips away from him. With her back to the team, Rook keeps her body firmly turned toward Lucanis, while her eyes track his demon. “You need to let him rest. No pranks. No wanderings. Not until after we defeat the dragon. The fight will be worth the wait,” she promises. 

SPITE WANTS OUT. He hisses, but not with his usual explosive passion. It's almost like his demon is performing for the others, namely Emmrich who can actually hear the full exchange. 

After a long moment she asks, “Well, did he agree, Lucanis?” She quirks an unimpressed brow at him for making this conversation unnecessarily convoluted. 

He has too much pride to let Spite speak now. So he too must join the facade. “Not quite. The demon is restless.”

“Spite,” she says more harshly. “I swear. If Lucanis doesn't sleep through the night. If his body leaves that tent to do anything but piss—I will bench you both. You will have proven yourself a liability in our fight and I will not abide it.”

NO! His demon hides behind him. WE MUST FIGHT. HE WILL SLEEP. 

Rook does not wait for Lucanis to offer her confirmation. Her threat hangs heavily in the air between them. Rather, she shoves her bowl into his hands, the bread barely nibbled and the chowder practically untouched. “You won’t sleep on an empty stomach.” 

Discomfort twists in his gut. As ravenous as he is, she’s the one who looks like she needs the food. He pushes it back.

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Dellamorte.”

There’s no winning against that tone. Guiltily he accepts it.

She turns back to the rest of the team. “Emmrich, please take the first watch. I’ll take second and Davrin, I’ll wake you for the third. If Spite proves disobedient, let me know Manfred.” The skeleton salutes her. “I wouldn’t linger at the fire tonight. Taash returns tomorrow morning to take over our training. You'll regret every minute of sleep you waste.”

Rook stands apart from the team, her shadow stretching long and alone across the cold ground. Her orders given, she heads to her tent, pitched far away from anyone else’s. Lucanis looks down at the soup in his hands. It shames him. Long had he wondered why someone capable of such warmth so resolutely refuses to accept any from anyone else. 

EXCEPT US. UNTIL YOU RUINED IT. 

Like a bad child sent to bed, Lucanis quickly retreats behind his thin canvas, not nearly thick enough to keep out the loud whispers of their teammates. 

“She’s got that demon wrapped around her damn finger,” Neve admires. 

“Rook is quite insightful when it comes to spirits,” Emmrich notes. “She’s very good at identifying what motivates them and pulling the right levers.”

Lucanis stifles a derisive laugh with another mouthful of chowder. Even cold, it's damn good. 

“Still going to bed in my armor,” Davrin huffs. 

“I can't believe that Lucanis put off sleeping for so long,” Bellara says, the dishes clattering as she collects them. “Before he left, he seemed to be getting better. I wonder…what happened between them.”

A pensive quiet settles around the fire, broken only by the crackling of logs. 

Lucanis puts his bowl aside and crawls into his sleep sack. Even through his bedroll, the snow beneath his tent leeches all the heat from his body. He can’t find a comfortable position between his back scraped up from Spite’s heroics and the rocks that assault his hips no matter how he twists and turns. Yet sleep comes for him anyway. 

Just before he’s about to drift off, fucking Davrin breaks the silence. “She liked him,” the Warden notes solemnly. “I thought it was mutual.”

“It was,” Bellara insists.

Neve taps her fingers as she does when considering an open case. “Yet in Dock Town he avoided her like the plague. Could hardly tolerate being near her.”

“What love can live without trust?” Emmrich questions as he snaps close his book on the physics of the soul he’d been squinting at earlier.

“But what could Rook have done to break his trust?” Bellara voices quietly, “Could she have known about Illario maybe? Is this Crow business?”

“That’s a sound theory, Bell, but I don’t think it holds water. While she and Illario did work together, Rook was a low-ranked Crow from another House. Illario stood only to lose by confiding in her.”

“Maybe Zara revealed that Rook and Illario were secret lovers?” the Veil Jumper’s romantic imagination soon gets away from her. 

Neve laughs, “I can't imagine Rook with such a pompous ass.”

“Enough gossiping,” Davrin finally puts an end to it. “Taash has hell planned out for you guys. Rook was right, sleep while you can.”

The camp grows quiet as the team disperses into their own tents and settles in for the night. The gales howl mournfully through the Hossberg Wetlands and in the distance the blighted wolves answer. This entire wilderness screams under the Blight’s violations and only the snow and ice slow down its complete perversion.

His body begs for sleep. However, no matter where he lays his head, he finds himself haunted. Not by Spite.

But by Rook. 

While dreams of warm Antiva eventually embrace him, as she prophesized, he does wake up in the middle of the night needing to relieve himself. With a groan, he abandons the feeble warmth of his blankets and slips out of the tent. 

Though surely by the few stars overhead it should be third watch by now, Rook still sits by the cold embers of the fire. 

Anyone else would think her curled up, mumbling quietly to herself. But Lucanis sees painfully clearly. 

Leaning against her, his demon wraps his wings around her as he keeps her company. His thumb ghosts along the thick scars along her palm in his attempt at holding her hand. Spite speaks quietly, his eyes filled with a soft reverence even as she pinches his cheek. 

Like a bucket of ice water, another mystery suddenly becomes frighteningly clear. 

Spite loves her. My demon is undeniably in love with Rook . 

While she—brushes phantom kisses along the hand she holds and the shoulder she leans against, before twisting to press her lips against his. 

“Even if this is all we can have,” the cold wind carries her sweet words to his ears. “I’ll savor every moment I can steal with you, Spite.”

And Lucanis finds his heart breaking a second time.

Chapter Text

Darkness chokes the sky overhead, conceding only an endless dim even past midday, while ashy snow shrouds the devastated wetlands. Despite deploying half the Veilguard to fighting in Hossberg, the relentless blight continues to claim more ground and steadily creeps toward Lavendel. It was in their attempts to beat the cancerous buds back to their wicked source that they finally found their dragon.

And today she will die. Maybe that will finally draw the gods’ attention. Rook plays with Solas’s dagger as she surveys the ruined fortress where the Icetalon nests. The blighted creature curls deep in the far watchtower, shards of dark ice sprouting like lyrium crystals at its base and through every crack. Even from across the courtyard Rook can hear the dragon’s wheezing like a haunting whistle in a snowstorm. 

“It’s unfortunate the Wardens couldn’t make it,” Strife offers as she checks on him and his Veil Jumpers. They struggle to find places not completely infested with blight to set up the artifacts they will use to anchor their barriers.

“Busy apparently,” Rook sighs. Though they had a good excuse this time, she assumes the First Warden will always be too busy for her. “Darkspawn are converging in the Old Roads near Weisshaupt. Nearly every available Warden has been recalled.”

The tall elf nods solemnly. “The Evanuris finally make their move. Mythal ma ghilana. Let us hope we survive it.”

“You could be home, preparing your own defenses,” Rook wonders aloud. “Garas quenathra? Unlike the Crows, you have no stake in this fight.”

“Too long the Dalish have taken that stance. Why aid the world that scorns us?” He looks out into the inky black wetlands. “What a bitter irony that the blame lied with us all along.”

“Telanadas. We are not our gods,” she clasps his arm. “And we will make sure Thedas remembers who saved them this day.” The usually stoic elf smiles at the thought and turns back to his preparations. 

The hour to wake the beast draws near. Rook must check on the Crows before sending Taash into the Icetalon’s lair. Scaling the broken walls, she finds Viago on the battlements. The ballistas stand at the ready. Their bolts glow green with their cruel wyvern poisons. 

“Rook,” her Talon notes the lyrium blade she carries. “May I?” She doesn’t hesitate to hand it to him. Viago tests its weight and balance, “So this blade can kill a god?”

“Unless they’ve revived their Archdemons like Ghilan’nain. Then we’ll have to kill it first.”

“A small inconvenience,” Viago sneers.

“Wouldn’t need the Demon of Vyrantium if any Crow could do it.” Her eyes draw down to Lucanis helping Davrin clear the blight in the courtyard for the Veil Jumpers. He’d been strangely off yesterday, despite getting a full night’s rest. Thankfully, the anticipation of today’s battle seems to have centered him. 

“You’ve always given yourself too little credit, Wisp.” Viago hands Solas’s knife back to her and then he again directs his Crows to adjust the sights on the ballista so that it might perfectly aim upon the blighted tower where today’s target lays. “And yet here you are, about to take down a motherfucking dragon and avenge Treviso! With my help of course.”

She tries to match his smile. But she can’t help but notice Lucanis down in a corner, arguing with himself. Spite’s wings flutter anxiously as Lucanis’s hands slice the air in angry sweeps. 

Viago catches her gaze and flicks her ear. “Don’t let one Dellamorte consume your thoughts. Or else I might have to gift you his dagger.”

Rook can’t help but laugh then. “If you still have it, I wouldn't mind it.”

His lips curl in disgust. “Go, Rook. And we shall see what this lovely day brings.” 

Knowing that Viago watches her, she resists the urge to chase Lucanis down. Instead, she joins the makeshift war table, Taash and Harding deep in their discussion. 

“Only a dragon can attack another dragon in a tight space,” Taash grins wildly, their hot breath billowing in the cold air. “Anything else gets shredded. There’s no room to dodge or keep your distance. We need to lure her out to have any chance.”

Harding listens intently, her cheeks rosy. “How do we do that?”

“Once I'm inside the tower I've got a call that will grab her attention. When you hear it, you guys better be ready!” 

Rook studies the table and the wonderful wooden figurines that Davrin made. Picking up her own figure, much taller than the others, she smiles softly before placing her back on the battlements. At the center of the map, sits the dragon he carved, surprisingly accurate for only ever facing her once. Miniatures of Taash, Davrin, Bellara, and Harding circle it. 

The Dread Wolf’s dagger hums as she spins it around a finger. Once more Rook reviews their plans. Taash draws her out, the Crows pin down her wings, and quickly after the Veil Jumpers will lift up a barrier to contain the dragon and the damage she can cause. Then it will be up to the Hossberg four to wear the Icetalon down while she and the city slickers keep her grounded.

A simple plan. Rook can't wait to see how it all goes wrong. 

“The Crows and Veil Jumpers have finished with their preparations. You're up, Taash,” Rook exchanges the lyrium blade for her bow. 

Snorting fire, the adaari knocks their fists together. “Let’s fucking go!”

Rook joins Neve along the high walls. Across the snowy courtyard, Emmrich and Lucanis stand ready upon the opposing parapets. She can’t tell from here if he’s ready, not without channeling Ruthlessness. But she sets her worries aside as the horn bellows from within the blighted watchtower. Drawing back her bow with renewed strength, Rook holds her breath.

Time seems to slow, the anxiety building that even their dragon expert won’t be able to coax her out.

“C’mon, c’mon,” the Shadow Dragon urges as she glares at the frozen tower.

Rook considers leaving her post and offering some backup.

When suddenly, in an avalanche of stone and ice, the dragon explodes through the broken walls. The Icetalon roars and its frigid breath would have frozen the ballistas solid had the Veil Jumpers not drawn up the barriers in time. Tangles of blight pulse along its throat and chest, still terribly damaged from their fight in Treviso. The claw that Lucanis had crippled is hardly recognizable, practically an icy tentacle. 

But a wounded beast is always more dangerous. Ruthless observes as she fires a barrage of arrows, trying to draw its attention away from the Crows. Following her lead, Neve bombards its bulbous jaw with ice. 

“Over here, pendeja!” Rook whistles as one of her arrows pierces the budding blight between its eyes and the mass bursts with pus and gore. The Icetalon throws back its head in an agonized scream. Terribly aggravated, its tail swishes—destroying the remaining foundations of the watchtower. The tower collapses behind it as the wounded dragon takes off. 

Taash clings to its tail for dear life. “Aim for the wings! Ground her!” 

A chilling wind blows through the battlefield as the Icetalon takes flight. The shimmery barriers fade, and the Crows immediately take their shots. Most miss. With a bang and a sickening squelch, one ballista bolt grazes where her left wing meets her shoulder. From Viago’s cornice, they fire a second and the bolt tears straight through the wing. The green poison instantly takes effect.

The dragon drops like a stone. 

With fire and thunder, the Hossberg team descends upon her. 

The teams on the walls offer suppressive fire each time the beast looks ready to charge. Dissatisfaction cools Rook’s battle fire. She’s not sure how much her arrows or Lucanis’s knives are really helping. At least Neve and Emmrich can tangle up the dragon’s feet. Unintentionally, she lowers her bow.

“You should be down there,” Neve grits as she raises her staff to redirect the dragon’s icy breath before it can hit Bellara. “If that was my dragon, I’d want to deliver Minrathous’s vengeance firsthand.”

“Rarely do I get what I want,” the words escape her too sharply.

But the Tevinter mage doesn’t falter. “You’re our leader, no one would stop you. No one would deny you your revenge.” 

“It’s not about—” Rook sends a volley of arrows into the beast’s tentacled claw—pinning it down so Harding can roll safely away. “What I want.” The dragon scrambles for an escape, but with its broken wing it can’t lift itself off the ground. Just a few more hits and they’ll down her for good. “I do what is best for the team, the mission.”

Neve turns to look at her fully and lays a gentle, though freezing hand on her arm. “Fuck that. Especially now. Be the killing blow.”

Ruthless swells within her. WE WANT IT. WE TAKE IT. 

Abandoning her bow, Rook leaps upon the parapet and shouts as loudly as she can. “Lucanis!” His head whips in her direction. “With me!” His wings flash and she knows that he understands.

The two of them descend like wraiths upon the field. Swiftly they take the Icetalon from opposing sides. Spite’s wings cleave the tentacle fully off and the dragon tilts off balance. She drives her knives along the line of its throat, black blood staining the snow. 

“HER HEAD! ON OUR WALL!” Spite cackles and fills the dragon’s gaping mouth with a spray of razored feathers.

The Hossberg team instinctively withdraws, unable to edge between the whirlwind of blows that Lucanis and Rook relentlessly deliver. 

Her heart sings as she flips out of the way of its sundering tail. Channeling Ruthless for a single burst, she mounts the dragon, running along its deformed spine. With all her hate, she plunges her blade into the creature's fathomless dark eye. Chest heaving, Rook looks up and finds Lucanis stabbing the other. With a guttural groan, the dragon collapses beneath their boots. Violet feathers and light snowfall between them. 

His cheeks flush, his hair wild, one promise at least stands fulfilled and his dark eyes dilate with something unfathomable.

“Rook, I—”

Only a life of close calls and near deaths saves her from the sharpened tentacles that erupt from the ground. Protectively the leathery appendages wrap around the Icetalon while forcing the Veilguard to quickly fall further back or else be skewered. 

Ghilain’nain herself rises from the sinkhole as fire rains down from the sky. “Such insolence!” Beneath her mask, she turns her fleshy eyes upon Rook. “You have been promoted from gnat to nuisance. I hardly noticed the loss of those Venatori puppets. But to raise your hand against my pet!” 

Emerging from the blighted earth like raging ants after their hill has been kicked down, a small army of darkspawn swarms the ruined fortress. With the sweeping of their blades, Rook and Lucanis are forced to thin a mob of ghouls as the goddess turns back to her felled dragon.

“Be healed my pet. The blight grants you new life.” 

“NOT FAIR!” Spite seethes.

There’s no time to dwell in her rage as the goddess reanimates the creature they had so painstakingly hunted and killed. 

The Veil Jumpers try to reinforce their shields, but the Seartooth bombs the barrier with fireball after fireball and it soon shatters down upon them. 

Rook turns to Bellara and Davrin. “Defend the Veil Jumpers.” Emmrich and Neve are closest to the Crows, they will surely aid them. To the rest of her team, she grins, “We came here to kill a dragon. And now we’re going to kill two! What a gift from the Mother of Monsters.”

“AGAIN AND AGAIN, WE SHALL KILL!”

“As many times as it takes,” Harding nods, blazing with determination.

“What about Ghilan’nain?” Lucanis asks as the blighted Evanuris withdraws to the parapets. The goddess seems content just to watch the chaos unfold. It is a small blessing that she brought the Seartooth and not her Archdemon to this fight. Though why she wouldn’t has too many disturbing implications to parse at the moment. 

“We cross that—”

“Second dragon!” Taash calls out as the Seartooth bombs down. Angrily, it prowls in front of the Icetalon, defending its icy twin as the blight revives it. 

“Bring me their bodies once you are finished,” Ghilan’nain orders with a lazy swirl of her hand as she lounges against her perch, a tarnished and crumbling griffon statue. They are not worth any further personal effort from her.

“One dragon or two. Doesn't matter,” Rook rallies the team. “We can’t lose here. We won’t! Lucanis and I will take down the Icetalon again. Taash, Harding, keep the Seartooth off our backs. I’m sure Neve will join you as soon as she can.”

“Ataash varin kata,” Taash growls, excited at the prospect of this double dragon fight.

“We won’t let you down,” Lace draws her bow.

Ballista bolts now freely hail upon the battlefield. And while the fiery dragon can incinerate most of them, a few plunge at its feet and one grazes its jaw. That will be enough to slow it down. At least until she and Lucanis can finish up with the Icetalon.

A torrent of fire splits the two teams and they each race to their battles. Though Ghilan’nain managed to drag her pet from the jaws of death, there hadn’t been enough time to restore its eyesight. 

More erratic than before, it sprays its icy breath. 

But even with this new variable, she and Lucanis find it easy to predict her. Though it may take another thousand cuts to bring her down again, each time they face the Icetalon it becomes more effortless. 

BEHEAD HER! Spite demands.

Still the hard training from the two days before catches up with her. Her muscles stiffen in the cold. Rook has no choice, she must channel Ruthless to stay warm, to stay fast. Hopefully, Emmrich and anyone else who might notice will be too preoccupied with darkspawn. Lucanis however, shows no such signs of slowing and Spite gets his wish. 

Soaring high above their prey, Spite gathers his miasma around their blade. Like a vengeful comet they dive back down. Violet blades and feathers flashing, they catch the blinded Icetalon unaware. After a single, arcing sweep, her head tumbles from her shoulders. The dragon’s tongue lolls as it chokes on its last, useless breath.

They turn to look at her, eyes blazing violet, frost glittering in his long lashes and along his fully extended wings. With a flourish of his sword, the black ooze coating his blade wicks away. “Like what you see, ROOK?”

She swallows hard. Unable to deny it, even on a battlefield of darkspawn with another dragon still on the field.  “Can’t you tell?” the old words find their way to her lips.

Before she can discern whether it is Lucanis or Spite that smirks at her, he’s suddenly knocking her down.

Fire blazes over their heads. The heat of it melts all the ice from his hair and beard and it drips down upon her cheeks, a few droplets trailing down her throat. Her heart is absolutely pounding. And she knows Lucanis can hear it—might even feel it through their armor, for it rages against her ribcage. 

“Looks like you owe me again, De Riva,” his words fan across her face, the gap between their lips so brief. 

Yet still insurmountable.

“How much?” she whispers. Hearing him acknowledge her House, her personhood, Rook cannot help but hope. “I think I’ve lost track.”

“Me too,” his eyes soften. 

MOVE! Ruthless roars inside of her. Wrapping her arms around him, Rook rolls away just before the dragon can trample them. So briefly, he might not notice, she presses her forehead against his and then she leaps to her feet, pulling him up with her. 

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Taash slams both of their axes against the Seartooth’s jaw, staggering it.

Harding groans, exasperated. “Flirting at a time like this!” Calling upon the Stone, she shackles the beast to the ground.

Neve follows up with a blast of ice that could rival the Icetalon. “For Minrathous! For every home you burned down. For every heart you broke and body you made ash. I shall UNMAKE YOU!” Cold and unyielding she abandons her staff to plunge both of her hands into the dragon’s vulnerable chest. Ripping through Ghilan’nain's stitches, she freezes blight and bone until even its smallest cells ice over and shatter.

Its final gasps crystalize in its throat, a pale smoke leaking from the corner of its broken jaw.

Neve stands in complete defiance of the cruel goddess of creation. “Let this be a reminder that we mortals do not back down!”

And yet Ghilan'nain doesn’t even straighten. Confident in her invulnerability, a few speared Crows and Veil Jumpers lay at the end of her tentacles with the casualness of a snack she is saving for later. Her hands glow blood red and the blight again rises to resuscitate both her dragons and the slain darkspawn. 

“In ignorance, you reject this world’s salvation,” she says as the blight draws the Icetalon’s head back toward its shoulders. The Seartooth’s jaw cracks audibly as it resets. Though the dragons remain objectively dead, their eyes glow again with murderous life. 

All their combined efforts—every person who died for their victory—Ghilan'nain negates their sacrifices with an air of indifferent inevitability.

“No!” Neve cries as she sinks to her knees, her body beyond exhausted from all the magic she drew from the Fade. “You can’t! Not again!”

Even Taash’s shoulders round as Harding leans against them. 

Ghilan’nain laughs, “We shall take this affliction you call the blight and will remake this world over and over until it matches our pure, shining vision. All who oppose it will be repurposed for the greater good.”

Rook clenches her blades. Her allies sag, tired and defeated. Only she and Lucanis have any fight left in them, and only if they rely on their demons. But even if she were to fully channel Ruthlessness, Ghilan’nain would easily outlast her, reviving her minions relentlessly. 

They have no way of stopping her, of even scratching her. What are two demons against a Flood?

There could be only one winner. Ruthless sighs.

She reaches for Solas’s dagger. There must be something I can do!  Yet even a retreat would be foolhardy. Without the Wardens, the losses from the darkspawn alone will be unendurable. Even those who escape won’t live long. 

“I’ll fight with you to the end, Rook,” Lucanis stands shoulder to shoulder, Spite’s wings brushing the snow off her head. 

“I wonder what I could make with the Dread Wolf’s pawn?” Ghilan’nain gloats from her pedestal. 

“NOTHING BETTER. YOU CORRUPT THINGS AND CALL IT CREATION. ” Spite raises his voice loud enough for the Mother of Monsters to hear. “ WHAT WERE YOU BEFORE? WONDER TURNED TO JEALOUSY?”

Ghilan’nain finally stirs. “Oh little Spite, I shall save you for last. So I may fully educate you upon the true difference between corruption and creation.” She lowers herself back into the field. But she no longer acknowledges them. For Rook, the Veilguard, and their allies are but raw materials that will soon be harvested. Instead, the goddess guides the blight with a stronger hand so that her pets reanimate properly.

There is no glorious final stand.

No sacrifice that might deliver miraculous victory.

Lucanis drops his blades and takes her hand firmly in his.

Only the crushing dread of a creeping defeat. 

Chapter Text

Only his hand keeps Rook from completely spiraling. I’ve failed them all. And they will pay for it with their lives. Anyone who tries to fight or run is killed on the spot. 

“Better to die than accept a life not yet molded to perfection,” Ghilan’nain lectures as the blight tangles around the feet of her captive audience, rooting them in place. “Do not abuse my mercy. I grant you the privilege of witnessing my work before I remake you. There is no creation without Pain, Destruction, Sacrifice.”

In horror, they must helplessly stand by as the goddess invalidates every sacrifice they’ve made. The goddess of Creation pumps the blood of the fallen back into her monsters. New life sparks in their bodies like stars dancing against the abyss. Her tentacles move leisurely for she is an unhurried artist perfecting her vision.

Rook glares at the Dread Wolf’s dagger. Is it too late to try and bargain with it? Has Ghilan’nain already all but claimed it?

She turns to Lucanis, his dark eyes equally lost. There remains so much left unsaid between them. To both of them. Yet even as death stalks nearer, ready to finally reclaim her, she finds the words lodged in her throat. 

And then she feels it. Her mother’s embrace. Mamae’s rough hands drying the tears that pour down her cheeks. A gentle kiss brushing across a bruised knee.

When you find yourself at the brink of terrible defeat, call upon me to turn the tide.

An electrical current runs through her body. And the blight leaps away to cling to her fallen weapons instead. Ghilan’nain remains too engrossed in her task to notice the switch.

ROOK. Spite rasps. DO YOU FEEL IT TOO?

Wield my power. Too compelling to disobey, she exchanges Solas’s artifact for the crystallized lightning statue that Mythal gave her. It shifts in her hand, her beautiful form tapering to a honed edge. Rather than a goddess, she holds a deadly fang that could only belong to a giant serpent. 

The All-Mother’s loving voice caresses their ears. Take my fang, the same that siphoned Andruil’s power and knowledge of the Void, and we shall drain Ghilan'nain of her arrogance.

“But her Archdemon still lives,” Rook whispers.

So does my High Dragon. There’s nothing Ghil fears more than death. I may be too weak to kill her outright, but she won’t risk it. 

“Rook!” Lucanis whispers urgently, his eyes wide with fear. “Who else whispers in my mind?”

There’s no time to explain. And as much as she wants to rely on the Crow, he was not the one who received Mythal’s blessing. “Lucanis, this is a job Spite must do.” She pushes the fang into his hands. “You need to trust me.”

Her body stiffens, expecting pushback. 

She isn’t prepared for the terrible grief that destroys what remains of his fearless facade. “Even in this, you seek to replace me,” he drops her hand. 

“What are you talking about?” Rook hisses. 

WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, Ruthless growls. 

Lucanis takes the fang and raw lightning crackles along his gauntlets. Reluctantly, he closes his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rook. If we don’t make it through this, I—I’m sorry.”

His brows soon unknit and magenta light fills his gaze. Spite surges forward. Abandoning their attempts at subterfuge and whispering, rebelling against the secrets that have forced them to hide so long, he slides his hand along her neck and cradles her jaw. Desperately he kisses her. Electricity sparks between their lips as he parts them. His tongue hungrily caresses hers, attempting to make a home in her mouth.

Her hands knot against him, pulling him closer, relishing the weight of their bodies finally against each other. 

ENOUGH. Ruthless pushes him away.

But it hadn’t been. Not nearly. Rook suppresses her spirit and cupping both the demon’s cheeks, she leans tantalizingly close. 

“Kiss me, Spite?”

His eyes soften, remembering his promise in the music room. He twists to brush his lips against the scarred, rough skin of her bad hand. Again he delays, his tongue lapping at the fluttering pulse along her wrist. Eagerly Spite drinks her every needy sigh as he sucks the tips of her fingers. 

Rook pinches his cheeks, so warm and real, ready to steal the kiss herself. 

"SPITE WOULD HAVE WAITED AN ETERNITY FOR YOU TO ASK."

“Bullshit,” she laughs. “You just stole a kiss!”

"THE KISSES YOU REQUEST FROM ME ARE DIFFERENT." 

With a teasing smile, he wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her with a gentleness he has never expressed in a physical body before. The feather tattooed between her ribs flickers like the cold embers of the campfire last night. But rather than stealing her pain, Spite infuses his gratitude, his desire, his need for her. Quietly they mix with her own.

"I AM YOURS, ROOK." 

Her heart swells. Is this what it's like to be loved?

Though Mythal’s blessing redirects any unwanted attention, his wings sweep around them. They no longer stand against impossible odds on a blighted battlefield. When she surfaces from their kiss, all she can see are his beautiful purple feathers, sharp as blades, soft as the dawn. 

A different kind of ache settles between her legs. One they can only satisfy if they win this fight. It shreds her soul to drag herself out of his embrace. But she must. 

Ruthlessness rages when she allows him back out. ARE YOU QUITE DONE?

Relax, soldier. Mythal slips from the fang and sculpts herself a form made of starlight. Even against the dim and dark pollution of the blight, the shade shines as undeniably as the north star. Unhurried, her magic uncurls around them. Your lives are too short not to take the happy opportunities that present themselves. 

Spite readjusts his grip on her fang. " RIGHT." 

“No. It can't be.” As the barrier fully falls, they find Ghilan'nain has abandoned her dragons and her immobilized audience in her attempts to get through to them. Burning sulfur singes the air and the darkspawn that she had enlisted to help her lay dead, barbequed, and smoking.  

Most of Rook's allies have withdrawn, hiding behind the ruins of the fortress if they are not halfway back to Lavendel now. Even the Veilguard cowers. The field lies empty except for the two abominations, a blighted goddess, and the shade of her empress.

“If only Andruil could see you now,” Mythal climbs the mountain of bodies and takes a seat upon the shoulders of an ogre that drapes over the top. “She’d be delighted at what a grotesque monster you've made for her. Truly, da’len you've outdone yourself. Even as you lay skewered beneath her spear, I can't imagine Andruil might recognize you.”

Ghilan'nain needles the air where the All-Mother regally convenes, doubling her efforts when it proves futile. Mythal simply adjusts her crown, indifferent to her tantrum. 

“You’re dead!” The blighted goddess screams shrilly. “I no longer need tolerate this! You—”

“You are the one we tolerated.” Mythal looks down her nose in severe disapproval and Ghilan’nain shrinks back like a child being reprimanded by their mother. “Andruil must have finally grown bored of you if you were so eager to escape the Veil without her.”

As Mythal dresses Ghilan’nain down, Spite retracts his wings and quietly slips away. Rook wishes she could too, but she can feel the current running between the three of them, connecting Mythal back to the fang Spite took with him. Rook must be the conduit. If she stays absolutely still, maybe Ghilan’nain will forget she’s here.

“You don't know the horrors we faced!” Ghilan’nain's four hands clench tightly. “What we did to survive. Andy—”

“Oh Ghil,” Mythal whiplashes her with a sudden burst of compassion. “It must have been so hard...” She gestures for Ghilan’nain to approach her and the goddess rises on her fleshy tentacles, close enough for Mythal to cradle her deformed face. “To embrace how unloveable you are.”

Spite rises from the dark and drives the fang deep into Ghilan’nain’s back. 

Tendrils thrashing, she knocks the demon away. His wing breaks as he hits the ground. It takes all Rook’s self-control not to scream and run after him. But a warning current crackles through her veins, paralyzing her to the spot. Not yet. Ready the Dread Wolf’s dagger.

“Cruel Mother!” Black blood pours from the blighted goddess’s mouth as she tries desperately to reach back and remove the fang. But already Mythal has stolen some of her power. Each tentacle she brushes her fingers along turns to stone and soon the goddess must prop herself up on her four hands. 

“What have you…done to me?” Her fleshy, stitched-up chest heaves laboriously. Immediately she had abandoned her breastplate, trying to get better access, but each limb that reached for the fang also ended up petrified and now hang limply at her side.

The All-Mother floats down to Rook’s side. Taking up the dagger, Rook finds herself instinctively mirroring Mythal. The goddess’s electrifying magic runs through her bad arm and sparks along her fingers—wrapping the blade with a silver light. “ I did nothing, lethal'lan,” their voices blend together. 

Ghilan’nain’s golden mask splits down the middle and falls from her face. Her fleshy eyes flood with the same eerie glow as the dagger. When the light fades, they revert to a dazzling emerald like spring emerging beneath a snowmelt. She blinks awake, a fawn taking their first gaze upon the world.

And finds the forest dead and ash around her. 

“Ma ghilan'him banal'vhen!” Horror seizes her. And she screams. Her nails rake black lines across her face. Tearing off her antlered crown, she starts ripping out her own tentacles. The blight itself recoils from her. Or perhaps she rebukes it, disgusted with what she has become. “Forgive me, Mamae.” And then she turns her wide eyes upon Rook. “Ma vhenan. Oh Andy. Don’t look at me!”

Her magic, green now instead of red, thrusts Rook back. Spite catches her, his broken wing dragging behind him.

HER MIND BREAKS. WHO SHE WAS FACING WHO SHE IS NOW.

“It hurts,” the goddess of creation curls her remaining limbs around her head. “Make it stop. Ma halani.”

“Mother of the Halla, we called you,” Mythal says kneeling before her broken daughter. “Kind da’len, who mourned with all your being over a fallen bird. Never have I met an elf so much like a spirit. We were wrong to force you to remain among the living, Ghil. All this corruption you’ve created…” Swiftly the All-Mother removes the fang from the other god’s back and Ghilan’nain arches in pain. “The blame does not fall just on you. We corrupted you first.” 

“What have I done?” Ghilan’nain rocks herself. “WhathaveIdonewhathaveIdonehathaveIdone...”

His arm wrapped over her shoulder, Spite relies on Rook to hold him up. The three dragon fights, suppressing his intent from Ghilan’nain, the burden of bearing his body alone, it all drags him down. Rook shifts his weight and they tentatively approach as the All-Mother mentally dismantles her daughter piece by piece. 

“Rook,” Mythal calls her forward. Reluctantly, she leaves the demon’s side. “There’s more of her left in there than I thought. If you were to offer her the mercy of death, Ghilan’nain might willingly cut off the connection with her Archdemon and surrender her life.”

“Me?” Rook says, unable to keep up with any of the Evanuris’s exchanges. “But why me? How could she possibly mistake me for Andruil.”

Mythal presses her lips together as if unsure how much to reveal. Finally she replies, “Your mother bore her vallaslin, your clan once followed her. Time cannot erode the magic we bestow with love.”

Ruthlessness rises to the surface. “I will handle this, da’len.” Beyond confused, Rook readily recedes to it.

With purposeful strides the spirit closes the distance. It stands over the goddess and in a voice firm, but not unkind, orders, “Look at me, Ghilan’nain.” Between her too-long fingers, she peeks at the brutal spirit. “Long has been our chase. Yet the hunt is over, ma vhenan.”

She groans unwilling and inconsolable.

Ruthless lowers itself to her level and pulls back her hands. Black tears spill from her green eyes and stain Ruthless’s palms as it tenderly brushes them away. “Are you not tired, Emma lath?”

“I’ll fix the world for you,” the goddess begs. The tentacles that had replaced her hair slither and writhe like a knot of anxious snakes. “With the blight, we can remake it anew—better than it was before. Please don’t throw me away. Don’t send me back to that dark place.”

“I would never,” Ruthless draws the Dread Wolf’s dagger and Ghilan’nain immediately quails, shaking her head violently from side to side as she presses her fists to her temples. Unflinchingly, Rook’s spirit presses forward, “Open yourself up to me. Let me free your soul from the shackles of this body and join me in Uthenera.”

She stills and the web of blight surrounding them stops beating. The darkness shrouding the sky begins to recede as a feeble morning crawls upon the horizon.

Gently Ghilan’nain places two of her hands around the dagger. The other two she uses to cup Rook’s face. Her emerald eyes, though still full of fear, fill also with trust. Carefully they align the lyrium blade over her heart, the black stitches all meeting at the center of her chest.

The goddess releases a deep breath, her leathery skin pressing for a moment against the tip of the knife. 

And then a blinding light floods the Wetlands. The fallen snow instantly evaporates and the clouds overhead are banished to the other side of the Anderfels. A horrific heat takes it place. The rage of Elgar’nan.

A black hole tears open the sky, ravenous for all light and life. And the All-Father steps through to take the field.

Ruthlessness immediately retreats to Mythal’s side and the All-Mother quickly and discretely passes the spirit her fang.

Rook has only met Elgar’nan in memories, yet even if she had never seen him before, she would have recognized him. One does not need an introduction to the sun. And his millenia trapped behind the Veil did not demand the sacrifices it took from Ghilan’nain. He is as handsome as the day he took his seat of power over the old world. Pale as the sky before the dawn, his silver hair, like Mythal’s was weaved from starlight. Ornate golden robes flow from his thick shoulders, yet even when dressed as a king, he strides with the deliberate cadence of a warrior used to bearing much heavier armor. 

“Daughter,” he gathers Ghilan’nain’s mutilated body in his arms. “Do not tear yourself apart with doubt. We have crucial work left to do and I cannot do it without you.” Elgar’nan lays his hand over her eyes and she clutches to it desperately. His magic swells over her, and then it overflows to consume every mind for miles. 

Rook finds she can no longer move. If not for Solas, time too would have stopped for her. Spite stares vacantly beside her, frozen in the awful moment that the Sun-Tamer arrived. The All-Mother shrugs off his binds, and flickers over so that she stands just behind him, looking over his shoulder as he resets Ghilan’nain’s mind, erasing the schism Mythal inspired. 

When Elgar’nan is done, drool leaks from the blighted goddess’s mouth and her bloodshot eyes hold not a fleck of green. Her body still jerks and a long moan squeezes from her lungs as her tentacles grasp for something unseen. With a heavy sigh, Elgar’nan forces her lids to shut. But he cannot stop her violent tremblings.

He startles when Mythal begins singing Ghilan’nain a lullaby, “Elgara vallas, da'len. Melava somniar.” Rook had never heard a sweeter sound. It is as gentle as the first rain after a century-long drought. Only the old might recognize the sweetness. The young would be inspired to worship her anew. “Mala tara aravas. Ara ma’desen melar.”

Ghilan’nain’s moans grow quieter, the tentacles on her head relaxing into curls around her peaceful brows. 

“ Sun sets, little one. Time to dream.” Mythal and Elgar’nan sing the verse again together, a perfect harmony between her dulcet tones and his resonant voice, “ Your mind journeys. But I will hold you here.” Finally, Ghilan’nain stops shaking and falls limp in his arms.

Mythal quickly retracts the hand that had rested upon his pauldrons. 

Carefully he lays Ghilan’nain down, too big for even him to carry without some awkwardness. Then he rises to greet Mythal, who he himself once slayed. “You are not one of the Dread Wolf’s tricks then.”

The All-Mother lifts her head and faces her murderer head-on. “You can drag the sun from her sky. You can poison the earth until she is barren and bone. But she shall outlive them all.”

“Riddles. Always riddles. You never could give a straight answer,” the All-Father drawls, beneath his mounting rage something almost like fondness still lives. “I will allow you and your mutt this victory.”

Elgar’nan turns the blistering heat of his gaze upon Rook. Though it is like glaring down the sun, she matches it—even as he sets her blood on fire and his heavy fist squeezes her mind. 

“You wanted our attention, little bird. Let’s see how long you survive it.”

Elgar’nan gently carries his daughter through the ominous black hole. Immediately upon snapping close, the temperature plummets below freezing. It takes a moment longer for his blood magic to recede. Yet when it does, the Crows and the Veil jumpers fall to their knees, enervated.  

“We survived,” some of them shudder, as they rub the feeling back into their legs and pull off the blighted webs. With queasy expressions, both Antivans and Dalish try to shake the itchy feeling of blood magic out of their limbs. 

“The Dragons. They are truly dead,” the Crows exclaim and approach their remains: the cancerous masses, muscles, and scales were all burned away, leaving only the bones. 

“The All-Father. The Sun-Tamer!” The elves tremble, some unable to stand. “He stole through my mind. He knows the faces of all I loved, of all that I love. How can an ant challenge the sun? How can we hope to win against such a power?”

Mythal nudges Rook to speak and rally their sentiments and then she recedes back into her fang. 

Though her body aches for mercy, Rook forces herself to climb atop the Icetalon’s severed head. Every eye turns to her. Her Veilguard assembles between the dragon’s claws, waiting with bated breaths for her to guide their feelings regarding the outcome of this fight. 

I fucking hate speeches. 

Yet she raises her voice and her blade anyways, “Today, we brought dragons to their knees and drove back gods. Mythal herself fights with us!”

The defeated lift their heads, hope beginning to swell within them as the morning light stretches in thick beams through the returning storm clouds.

“Our victory will invite retaliation,” Rook concedes, the wind swelling beneath her singed cape and tossing back her hair. “But we have proven today that when united, no matter the odds, gods again become mortal men. Dragons are just beasts to slay. A dawn will come when all that we fight for will again breathe easy because we dared to reject corruption and rebel against tyranny.”

She lowers her blade, clenching her teeth with how terribly her bad arm hurts. Rook fights to keep her voice clear and her posture proud. “So let us tend to our fallen and drink to their sacrifices. For we endure because they fought. And tomorrow we fight so the world we love may endure.”

As Rook trails off, Mythal offers one final boon. She reaches out with her magic, stirring their valiant hearts and chasing away their crippling fears. Determined voices rise from the ruins. Cheers echo through the wetlands. 

“We have won!”

“Treviso and Minrathous have been avenged!”

“Next time we shall slay the gods!”

The mask named Rook can barely hold itself together. Quickly she slides down the dragon’s spine. In that stolen moment before the Veilguard swarms her, she considers Mythal’s fang. 

Power radiates from it. A storm in a bottle. But it is no longer the All-Mother’s alone. They’ve also milked the poisonous potential of the Mother of Monster. And Rook can’t help but worry how that might corrupt the goddess they now must rely upon. Despite her rallying words, dread weighs down her heart. 

And as she rushes to find Spite, limping as he gathers his blade, and finds Lucanis instead turning to face her, the future has never been less clear.

Chapter Text

With a joy long forgotten, even before the recent blight, the dark halls of Lavendel’s Warden Outpost host a lavish feast. As per their decadent Tevinter tastes, the Shadow Dragons spared no expense. Their desserts alone could feed a small army. A rainbow of dainty macaroons and an assortment of cakes from Orlesian chocolate mousse to Nevarran strawberry swirl cheesecake take up half the counter space. 

Thanks to the Crows, the finest wines never stop flowing and it doesn’t take long for people to cross the arbitrary lines of faction and rank and find more private ways to celebrate their victory today against the gods. 

In a tired daze, Lucanis weaves between the party guests. He can hardly take a step without someone offering him a drink. 

“Tonight, both Minranthous and Treviso rest easier thanks to you,” Tarquin clasps his shoulder. “If only we knew the Seartooth would be there. Would have loved a rematch with her.”

“The way Viago tells it,” Teia smiles big, already deep in her cups, “Dellamorte here beheaded our motherfucking dragon and Neve froze yours from the inside out! She did you Dragones proud.”

“As did your Crow.”

“Have you seen Rook?” Lucanis doesn’t have the energy for such pleasantries. 

“I wouldn’t know.” Teia’s bubbly countenance sharpens, “Wearing such a stormy expression, what could you possibly need her for?” The Seventh Talon tries to press a wine glass into his hands, but Lucanis firmly refuses.

He’ll need a clear head for their conversation and his thoughts are already jumbled enough.

“We all would be darkspawn or worse if not for her. She should be the guest of honor," some of his frustration leaks out, "so how come not a single person has seen her?” 

Maybe she's avoiding me. But what if something's wrong? And the gods already move to retaliate against her?

“Guess you better keep looking, Lucanis.” Teia shrugs her shoulders and without any sympathy says. “It’s not like she spent weeks worrying about where you were.”

Usually Spite would jump at such an easy opportunity to double down and berate him. But his demon has been unusually quiet since Ghilan'nain broke his wing. Lucanis can hardly sense him. 

And that disturbs him more than he’d care to admit. 

“I'll find her,” Lucanis promises Teia, her sharp words only toughening his resolve. Optimistically he grabs two cups of coffee at the dessert table and continues his search. But by the time he drains both, he has still failed to gather a single clue on her whereabouts. 

The mood on the steps outside the Outpost is even more boisterous than within. The Crows host a drunken target game on the Icetalon’s skull. While the Veil Jumpers set up a makeshift dancefloor by the bonfires, livening up the area with garlands and flowers. The Dalish play their flutes, the Antivans their guitars, and new couples dance in the firelight. 

He’d been trying to avoid it all day, but just glancing at the fire stirs his jealousy. It had been one thing, to stumble upon their kiss at the dying campfire. Chaste. Incorporeal. He’d nearly convinced himself that it had been a dream. 

But Lucanis had been fully present for their kiss on the battlefield. He can still taste her. The copper tang of blood in her mouth. Honey and lavender from the tea she’d been nursing this morning. 

Mierda. It had been better than he’d dreamed it would be. 

Except, of course, that Lucanis had been but a passenger. An unwanted one likely. 

Slipping between the swaying bodies, the tempo slowing as the dancers intertwine more intimately, he leaves no shadow unturned. 

When he closes his eyes, he can feel her body pressed against his, their arms wrapped around each other, her smile against his lips. But the memory only leaves him colder. For none of it was meant for me. 

SO WHAT? Spite yawns, stretching within him, yet still too weak to slip out. I DIDN'T THINK YOU STILL CARED. 

Standing alone, unconcerned for the dancers that must maneuver around him, he finally admits it. “Even when I thought she was a demon manipulating my feelings—I never stopped wanting her.” 

WANTING AND CARING. ARE NOT THE SAME. His demon challenges.

Lucanis resists the urge to deflect with how violating it had been to find them using his body without his permission. He represses the desire to badger Spite into confessing how far they’d gone. But there would be a time later to address that. And it didn't change the fact that his demon had used this body to care for Rook far better than he had. 

So lost in his thoughts, Lucanis doesn’t move in time to avoid the couple swinging wildly in his direction. 

“I’m so—oh! Hey there, Lucanis!” Loose strands fall across Lace’s freckled face and escape her braids. Taash princess carries the dwarf, a winish blush staining their cheeks.

“Well isn't it the man of the hour,” Taash grins at him. “Look who finally got his shit together and won her back. Honestly didn't think she would take you with all the shit you were pulling with Neve.”

Lucanis groans. Neve . He's been avoiding her, but he owes her a conversation next. 

“Have you seen Rook?” he asks, attempting to keep the strain from his voice. 

“I'm surprised she’s not with you! That was such a romantic kiss. Even I got butterflies,” Lace giggles. 

“Was it the wings?” Taash asks suddenly. “Or maybe because they just killed a dragon together? ‘Cause we did that!”

Harding pinches the adaari’s nose. “It was the catharsis after pining for so long, the desperation to make up for lost time and steal one moment before the end, and yeah, okay, the pretty wings.”  

He can’t help it. Lucanis laughs derisively. At himself. Because how badly he must have fucked things up that people were congratulating him for a relationship he wasn't a part of. 

Someone taps his shoulder. They’d been so quiet, he hadn't even heard their approach. Even with all the Crows attending, there are only a few that could manage the feat of sneaking up on the Demon of Vyrantium.

Have we just been missing each other? Could she have been looking for me this whole time too?

His hope gets the better of him, leaving him completely blindsided when he finds Viago standing there instead, smiling over his wine glass. “Expecting someone else?” 

“Of course not, Alteza Real,” Lucanis mocks and Viago’s moustache twitches with disdain. Since they were boys, the title has never failed to get a rise out of him. 

Though just as unfailingly, it irks Lucanis to have to look up at the lean Talon, smug and handsome. The warmth of the fire glow does nothing to soften his dark, hawkish features. Viago is hunting. 

And Lucanis suspects he is the prey. Sensing the mood, Taash and Harding make their excuses and escape the dancefloor. 

Viago hands him his glass, still half full. “You’re bringing down the mood, Dellamorte.”

“I was just leaving,” he refuses to take the poisonmaster's wine. Though the Talon had been drinking it, his legendary immunity leaves no assurances for its safety. 

“Seeking the Wisp perhaps?” Viago stops him dead in his tracks. “No one can find her when she doesn't want to be found.”

“Except you,” Lucanis quirks a brow. 

Viago again extends his glass and this time Lucanis reluctantly accepts it. Poisoned or not. He needs to find her.

Until he drains every last drop, the Talon locks his gaze. Rewarding him with a devilish smile when he finishes it, Viago casually hands the glass off to the nearest de Riva Crow. 

“Now talk,” Lucanis demands. 

Viago sweeps into a mocking bow and then holds out his hand. “As we dance.”

“You’re asking the wrong Dellamorte.” He’s not drunk nearly enough wine to embarrass himself so. “I don't dance.”

“It’s time to embrace your weaknesses,” Viago steps closer as the guitarist begins to play. “Prove to me how badly you want the information I have to give.”

It’s been years since he held a torch for the man before him. And yet, Lucanis finds a blush burning across his cheeks as he accepts the invitation. 

They clap as they circle each other, establishing a rhythm with the band. 

“That was stupid,” Viago tells him, not wasting any time. “To kiss on the battlefield. To flirt. And not fully mean it.”

“We meant it,” Lucanis grinds out. Death had passed by closely today. And though he had not been in control, Lucanis is glad not to have faced the Maker before kissing her. 

Taking pity on all the new dancers, the guitarist starts the flamenco slow—allowing Lucanis to focus on mirroring his partner, anticipating his noble flourishes and matching his decisive footwork. 

“We're in the middle of a war. And she needs a clear head. Why overcomplicate things?” 

Lucanis is forced continuously to step back, to make space for Viago’s elegant sweeps of his arms. 

“I tried to suppress my feelings,” Lucanis defends himself with his own braceos. “It made things worse. Every time I pulled away—pushed her out—it only drove me further into her arms.”

The more amateur dancers retreat from the makeshift dance floor to give them more room. A crowd builds around them, clapping in time, but Lucanis cannot afford to focus on them. He’s barely managing to follow Viago’s lead. 

“Do you really think you’re good enough for her?”

I’m not. And he stomps with his whole foot instead of just the ball causing him to stumble out of step with Viago. That’s always been the crux of it. Spite aside, I’ve never had confidence in my ability to care for anyone. 

He hesitates too long and Viago’s brows pinch in disapproval. 

“Carajo, Lucanis. This is where you’re supposed to convince me.” As Lucanis continues to flounder for the rhythm, Viago takes center stage. Lithe seduction, he stomps with the confidence of a prince and the dexterous speed of a master assassin. 

Sweeping dangerously close, the Talon slides a hand along Lucanis’s waist guiding him back into step. “At this rate, I will refuse you the antidote.”

Lucanis’s eyes widen in horror. The wine was fucking poisoned. But he can’t think about that now. 

Inspired by their performance, the guitarist strums his rasgueado more passionately. Lucanis has to stop thinking about his steps and rely on his instincts. “Spite loves her,” he says as he seizes Viago’s hip and the lead. 

To his credit, the royal bastard makes even his startled pause look deliberate in their dance. 

“The demon,” Lucanis presses forward, “He protects her. At all costs.”

“And you?”

“I fucked up,” Lucanis’s steps grow heavier, charged with his self-loathing.  “I lost the right.” 

Viago groans. “And you wonder why the dagger you gave me has become a punishment. A threat.”

Lucanis blushes at the reminder. 

Viago breaks away for another solo, circling Lucanis like a bird of prey, “Let me ask this another way. How badly do you want her? Will you really abide losing her to your fucking demon?”

Sweat drops down Lucanis’s brow. His battle-sore feet already aching and tired. But he soldiers on. “How do I win her back?”

“Mi amor and I are broken up as much as we are together,” Viago’s expression softens and even his moves shift to accommodate a partner not there. “But never do I give up on her. Never do I stop fighting. For us.”

The guitarist begins his final breakdown, the song coming to a close. 

“The Wisp, she's quiet in matters regarding her heart,” Viago reveals as their claps slow, the rhythm winding down. “It took half a decade for her to say a word to me outside of the mission parameters. Even Teia rarely gets a letter that is anything but professional. Be something she needs, Lucanis.” 

Lucanis steps closer, the answer now clear to him, “Someone who frees her voice.” Their chests heave together as their dance ends, their breaths intermingling.

His ears turn bright red as the Crows stomp their feet and cheer for them. They call for an encore. And he fears Viago, who has always known how to work a crowd, will force him into one. 

He thanks the Maker when they leave behind the heat of the dance floor and stroll along the quiet streets of the town. 

“The antidote,” his anxiety disturbs the silence they lapse into. 

“You never needed one, percebe,” Viago rakes a hand through his hair, since their dance a few of the dark locks stubbornly spill across his verdant eyes. “I wouldn't poison the only Dellamorte I’ve ever liked .”

The Demon of Vyrantium quickly looks away, unable to endure any more of Viago’s teasing. They fall back into a companionable quiet, the clamor of the party behind them growing dim, their steps near silent upon the dirt path. 

Lucanis smells the hay and the animals long before they arrive at the stables. Of course, she would be here.  

The Talon muses aloud, “She's always preferred animals to people. They’re honest.” And then he nails Lucanis with the most caustic scowl, “And they don't abandon you for a month after you’ve sacrificed an arm for their revenge.” With a sweep of his cape, Viago struts back in the direction they came. 

It might just be his imagination, but Lucanis swears his tongue feels heavier, his mouth fuzzy. The bastard probably did poison me. He doesn't look forward to the hangover tomorrow. 

Carefully he approaches the barn door, not wanting to spook her. Her gentle voice spools through the air as she sings to the horses an elven lullaby. Lucanis pauses, unable to understand a single word, yet finding his heart soothed. 

It's another secret, what a lovely singer she is. When had her mysteries stopped delighting me? When did they become a threat?

Zara’s words still his hand, “Little demon kept in the dark…All who claim to love him, lie.” 

Clenching his jaw, he pushes through her curse and opens the door.

A knife thuds deeply into the wood next to his head. Her eyes glow golden in the dark. As the moment stretches, and she recognizes him, they slowly recede back to steel. 

“Lucanis…you found me.”

His breath hitches. It's been a long time since he's seen her out of her Crow leathers. Not since Dock Town, he realizes. Moonlight stretches through the skylight, haloing her hair. A hooded cape hides a soft dress, the palest of lilacs. Gently it accentuates the swell of her breasts, the pleasing dip of her waist, before falling like a shimmering waterfall down her long legs. A single slit offers an intoxicating glimpse of skin before she turns her attention away from him and back to the horses. 

Not a single one belongs to this devastated town. Most are thick work animals capable of transporting the heavy ballistas. Yet the black stallion she tends, its mane sweeping and long, could only belong to Viago. The proud creature nuzzles her face as she brushes it. Over her head, even Viago’s horse glares at him, holding him in contempt.

Lucanis has searched all night for Rook, but now that he finally lays his eyes upon her and knows she’s safe, he wonders if perhaps after such a trying day he should not intrude upon her solitude. 

“Would you rather I leave you alone?” he asks her quietly. And though it squeezes his heart to colorful bruising, he offers, “Or with Spite?”

Laying down her brush, Rook faces him fully then. She meets him at the threshold and gently leads him in. Her fingers lightly encircle his wrist. “You and I should talk first.”

Moving aside the buckets of oats and carrots, they sit on a wooden bench, not even fully sanded down. Patiently he waits for her to begin. Her lips twitch as she starts and aborts her sentences. Intimately, he understands. There had been so, so many things he had come here to apologize for, his brief words on the battlefield painfully inadequate. 

But Viago had advised him to listen. 

To empower her. 

So he does not immediately rush to fill up the space. He racks his brain for some way to help her open up and his eyes catch the glint of moonlight upon her throwing knife. 

Lucanis returns to the door and frees her dagger from the splintered wood. Kneeling before her, he slides the knife back into her palms. 

“People like us are more honest with a blade in hand,” he tells her as he guides her to hold it against his throat. 

“Too patiently you've endured my every insult and injury. No longer. Rook, Wisp, lovely elf whose name I would steal if we knew it so that no one else might ever hold it in their heart,” Lucanis beseeches her, "do not spare my feelings."

Her eyes glisten with unspilled tears, her hand shaking beneath his. 

“Tell me everything you've wanted to and I never gave you the chance to say,” he locks gazes with her. “ Please , bear its burden no longer and let me instead carry its weight.”

Rook’s throat constricts. Beneath her cloak, her chest flutters rapidly. So much she must have withheld. In her eyes, he sees her fear of the flood.

Lucanis presses into the knife until with a shudder it breaks his skin. The flash of blood unlocks her words.

Liquid gold, her eyes blaze hotter than the sun as she summons her demon to speak for her. “You ABANDONED us. After we trusted you with the secret no mortal has been allowed to live with. You scorned us and for what, your BRUISED EGO?” 

Ruthless pushes the blade deeper and Lucanis winces—forcing himself to finally acknowledge the greatest of his betrayals. 

“It was wrong of me—”

“SPARE US YOUR PATHETIC APOLOGIES.” As Ruthlessness raises her voice, her sacrificial arm begins to glow beneath her cloak. A halo of fire rages behind her head, yet the spirit’s chilling expression eclipses it. “SHE BLED HERSELF DRY FOR YOU. TAMING YOUR DEMON, SAFEGUARDING YOUR SLEEP AND YOUR REVENGE! AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY SHE PUT YOU FIRST. NEVER ASKING FOR EVEN THE SMALLEST SCRAP OF RECIPROCATION.”

Lucanis bites his tongue to suppress the painful groan as the blade heats up and cauterizes the new wound. But he refuses to recoil—he cannot deny its accusations and so willingly he submits to it. His knees ache from the cold, hard ground. But he does not stand. It cannot compare with how terribly he wounded her. 

“You hate yourself so much it could only pour outward. And she was a fool to hope you might accept her when you cannot accept yourself. YOU DO NOT DESERVE HER.”

The words hang over his head like an executioner’s axe.

And then it falls. 

“I loved you,” Rook whispers brokenly, though her eyes still smolder like the sun setting over the sea. “I loved you like I've never allowed myself to love anyone.”

His breath grows shallow and ragged. At the confession. At knowing that it is meant for a man in the past who squandered it. 

“Yet how you tortured me. Cruel and spiteful. You used your intimate knowledge of me to twist the knife in my heart deeper. How alone I felt every time you entered a room! Especially with her at your side.”

The tears slide down her cheeks. Lucanis desperately wants to brush them away. But he has lost the right and they drop like a heavenly rain upon his face. 

“I fear now even your kindness. Never sure when it might twist back into hate… I never wanted to hurt you—I wanted you to know, Lucanis. Desperately I wanted to tell you. Because who else in the world might understand me? I only upheld the lie because I was afraid…And you proved my fears right.”

The knife clatters to the floor. 

“Spite,” she sobs into her hands. “I want Spite.”

“Rook I—” He bows his head. Lucanis doesn't want to leave. He wants to be the one to comfort her. 

Too late. Too late. His own thoughts taunt him, Spite respectfully quiet as he oversees the exchange. Though he can feel his demon just below the surface, ready to catch her. 

But before he goes, he needs at least to say. “Your demon was right. You do deserve better than me. And if that is Spite. Then I won't get in your way. Do what you want with us.”

Lucanis knows he should recede deep, that they deserve their privacy, that he shouldn't torture himself so. But no matter how hard he tries to dive, he finds himself lurking at the edges of his consciousness. 

“I’M HERE, ROOK.”

She leaps into his demon’s outstretched arms, knocking him back into the hay. Rook kisses Spite fiercely as he wipes away the tears that stain her cheeks. Her hands tangle in his hair as she swallows his every loving sigh. 

They embrace each other as if they have waited lifetimes to be together again. 

Spite’s hands fall to her waist, stroking her sides, his fingers tracing the bite marks that glow beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Rook rests heavier atop his lap as she captures his lips again, her thighs squeezing around his hips, making even Lucanis gasp deep within himself.

“Spite,” she whispers with such promise when she finally comes up for air. “If you ever need me to stop, tell me.”

WHY WOULD I? Spite brims with curiosity as she helps him out of his vest and shirt.

Tenderly, she kisses the corner of his mouth. With growing heat, she trails steadily downward along his jaw, every freckle down his throat, careful to avoid his newest cut, until she reaches his Venatori scars. 

Spite shivers as she caresses each one with her tongue. And then she begins to suck. The demon freezes as the pain twists into pleasure. 

FUCK. He pants, his nails digging into her hips as he tries to ground himself. Afraid she’s hurt him, Rook begins to retreat, but Spite tilts his head back giving her fuller access. PLEASE, ROOK, PLEASE, he keens as she sucks harder. 

Every stab of pleasure Spite feels doubles as a visceral pain lancing through Lucanis’s heart. Too late. Too late. 

Win her back? What a laughable sentiment when facing utter and complete defeat. His only path to loving her will be standing aside. 

Chapter Text

With a joy long forgotten, even before the recent blight, the dark halls of Lavendel’s Warden Outpost host a lavish feast celebrating their victory against the gods. Dalish garlands wrap around the severe stone pillars and serene green and pink Tevinter lights cast a gentle glow. 

Lucanis finds Rook at the dessert table, discretely stuffing a handkerchief with chocolate-covered orange peels. 

“Are these really so much better than the ones I make you?” his touch light, ghosting along her spine before he takes his place beside her. 

Rook shivers, though it could be her lilac dress, the thin chiffon offering little warmth against the cold of Lavendel. So rare is it for her to wear one, he cannot help but sweep his eyes slowly down. Her sweetheart neckline leads his gaze along the lovely lines of her clavicle and the topaz necklace she wears so proudly. Long does he linger upon the soft swells of her breast, Spite's mark shining between them before falling upon the promising invitation of her waist. He bites his lip at the narrow glimpse of exposed skin before she pops her hip and her long legs again fall fully behind her lavender skirts. 

When Lucanis meets her gaze again, Rook ducks shyly away. So he leans in and whispers, “Today you nearly slayed a goddess. Tonight, you are one.”

BEAUTIFUL INSIDE AND OUT, Spite adds. 

And he chuckles at Ruthless's groans. 

The prettiest blush stains her cheeks and rises to the tips of her pointed ears. 

Picking up one of the chocolate-covered orange peels, she bashfully shoves it in front of his face. Delicately he accepts it, but before she can retreat he grabs her hand and sucks the chocolate off her fingers. “Not nearly as good as mine,” he confirms as her blush intensifies. 

“I didn't want to bother you. You've been busy,” Rook defends herself.  “But I've been craving them.”

“Just ask me,” he offers her his cup of coffee, and though she could have easily avoided it, her hand brushes his as she takes it. “I'm never too busy for you.”

Her shoulders sag as she smiles wearily over the rim of the mug. They're on their fifth cup. The double dragon fight had taken a lot out of them, but it had been a good reminder. While some things still remain unresolved for him, he won't let those things steal any more time from them . 

Rook leans in as if to kiss him and he closes his eyes in anticipation. At the last moment she swerves, her lips caressing his ear, “How long must we stay at the party before we can leave?”

“You're the guest of honor, the hero of the night. Do whatever you desire,” he replies lowly. 

Spite surfaces unbidden, surprising them both, and twists to kiss her cheek. 

SMELLS LIKE DRAGON’S BLOOD AND CHOCOLATE. DELICIOUS. 

“Not here, Spite,” she giggles pushing him away and Lucanis pushes his demon back down. 

Leaving the orange peels and coffee behind, weaving between the Crows and Shadow Dragon and Veil Jumpers that shower them with praises, they escape to the open air of the courtyard below the Outpost.

Always drawn to music, Rook leads them toward the makeshift dance floor, though she does not dare step onto it. Antivan guitarists plays vibrant flamencos and romantic picados. They alternate with the Dalish flutists, playing jaunty romps and sweet jazzes. 

“Do you want to dance?” Lucanis asks her. While he usually would avoid such an activity, with her, he wants to do it all.  

Rook shakes her head sheepishly, so for now he is content just to stand next to her, watching the firelight gently caress her face. He notes how she sways more when the flutes drive the songs. So when the guitarist next takes a rest, he coaxes her to join him on the dance floor. 

“I don't know how,” she tries to lead him back. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks. 

And she purses her lips. Because there is only one answer. 

He guides her arms to wrap around his neck and then slips his around her waist. 

They start with easy, sensual swaying, and he teaches her how to move in time with the music. Of course, as with all physical things, she picks it up easily. Soon they are twirling and swinging, and he drinks in her laughter as he dips her. 

What did I do to deserve this? It's like a dream to be like this with anyone, but especially with her. Mi solana, mi vida. 

Spite cuts in when the guitarist returns. They play a lively flamenco. And while neither of them knows how to dance to it, Rook no longer lets that stop her. Like children, they sway their arms and stomp their feet, with the silliest of braceos. The demon takes her by the hips and lifts her into a spin. Happily, they lean against each other as the song comes to an end, chests heaving, grins splitting their cheeks. 

The guitarist begins to pick a more romantic, sensual song and Spite does not resist as Lucanis takes over once again. 

He pulls her closer and the world narrows to just the two of them. 

A gentle snow begins to fall. Their hot breaths fan across each other’s skin. Lucanis recalls the Echo and the visions it showed him. How easily it would have been to have lost her the day they fought Zara, to have given into his fear and pride. I had been so afraid to want her, I nearly lost her. 

Lucanis is so glad not to live in such a world. Not wanting to look back at this moment and hold a similar regret, he cradles her jaw. 

“I owe you my life,” he tells her as the snowflakes stick to her lashes. 

“And I owe you mine,” her heart shines in her gray eyes. 

He doesn't care who might be watching. Lucanis kisses her, nibbling her lips so that he might taste her more deeply. Rook presses herself as close as she possibly can and he picks her up and wraps her legs around his hips. Spite’s wings sweep forward to help support her, to further embrace her. 

They kiss each other long and sweetly, sighing against each other as the snow melts against their skin.

Someone clears their throat and he reluctantly places Rook back down. They turn to find Viago glaring at them. “By the Maker, please spare us.”

Teia spins back into Viago’s arms and they dance with her back flush to his chest. She follows his lead effortlessly for he leads her exactly where she wants to go. Their footwork masterful, their hips sensual, no one on the dance floor can compare.  “Leave them alone, Vi. Why are you even looking at other women?”

“Teia! You know I wasn’t—”

“Men then,” she winks at Lucanis.

Viago growls and twists her around so that they again face one another. But his frown is as sincere as her accusations. And she rises onto her tippy toes to capture his lips.

Gently, Lucanis leads Rook away and they finish the dance intimately intwined, her head resting against his shoulder. 

After the song ends, Teia finds Rook and lays a hand on her cheek, “I’m so happy for you, ma falon.”

Lucanis has never seen Rook shine so brightly. And to know that he is partially to blame makes his chest swell with pride. 

Turning back to him, Rook leans in and whispers, “Let’s go somewhere warmer.” Their fingers interlock as she leads him. And though he has no idea where they are headed, Lucanis would go anywhere as long as he could remain at her side. 

***

They return to the secret music room, both the pantry and her room (more like office) too liable for interruption. The Lighthouse already anticipating their needs, finally allows them entry into the annex and they find a real bed behind the runic stones.

Lucanis runs his hands along the silk sheets, not so ostentatious to overwhelm her, but of a quality a Dellamorte could approve. With a smirk he finds ropes hanging along the bed posts. 

“Is this your doing, solana?” He teases her, wondering who the Lighthouse is trying to accommodate.

“Since Plan 68 I’ve wanted…” she trails off. Mortified, Rook picks up one of the pillows and hides her face behind it.

“Tell me." He slides the pillow down, “So that I might make it happen.”

Her eyes flash gold for a second’s courage, “I want to tie you up,” she says boldly though her body remains stiff and tense. “Defenseless and at my mercy.” 

His cock twitches in anticipation.

“I trust you,” he lowers himself onto his knees and brushes a kiss along her knuckles until her fists unclench. “Have your way with me, De Riva.”

Relieving him first of his vest and shirt, her fingers trail across the planes of his chest, lingering upon every scar. 

“Where did I get that one?” He tests her as he follows her onto the bed. The most banal stories. The palest scars. She knows everyone.

She kisses the crisscrossing lines just over his right peck. “On the Old Roads. An old qunari Warden who wanted a clean death.”

“And this one,” he draws her attention lower to a long, thick scar that runs from naval to hips. 

Rook follows the pale line with her tongue and another jolt shudders through his hips. “An elvish blood mage, or rather the demon that reanimated his body.”

Threading his fingers through her hair, he draws her head back to look up at him and places a finger upon his lips. “And here?”

Rook surges forward, knocking him back into the pillows. Straddling him, she declares, “Jumping out of a tree when you were four, thinking all Crows could fly.”

But she doesn't kiss him. “I think it's time to string you up.”

They decide to restrain just his arms this time and he likes how the ropes dig into his wrists. He sits with his back to the cushioned headboard, Rook between his knees as she worries over every little thing. 

“Do your arms hang comfortably? Are the knots really not too tight?” Her big eyes widen further, “Are you sure about this, Lucanis? And what about Spite?”

He would cup her cheeks if he could. As he can’t, he squeezes his legs around her sides in his attempt at an embrace. “We are Crows, remember? Two feeble restraints—that’s child’s play.” When he recaptures her gaze, he assures her, “ I want this, Rook. To be together like this, with you.”

KISS US ALREADY! Spite demands. 

Rook smiles as her lips crash against his, her fingers scraping his beard. Already he pulls at his restraints, the urge to hold her, to touch her, growing stronger in his inability to do so. 

Too soon she pulls away to leave a fiery trail of kisses. She administers her passionate attention to every scar she’d been tested on. Nibbling at his lip, leaving a hickey upon his chest, kissing every inch of the scar splitting his abs. Lower and lower Rook kisses and it is a sweet torture to find her on her hands and knees and be unable to take advantage of it. 

Her fingers trace the throbbing bulge between his legs and Lucanis can’t help himself, he bucks into her mouth as she lays a kiss through the leather. 

“Be good, Dellamorte,” her voice lowers warningly. “Or I might not let you come.”

And Maker, her threat only makes him so much harder. 

Rook pushes his knee aside so that she can lay kisses against his inner thighs. She teases him mercilessly, too casually rubbing her breasts against him as she travels up and down the length of his body. 

Despite her mask of loving patience, almost indifference to her own needs, he can see her nipples poking against the thin chiffon of her dress. So hard and perky. 

Not for the last time, he wishes his hands were free so he could palm her breasts and give them the attention they deserve. 

“Like what you see, Lucanis?” She quirks a brow and then slides her neckline down to give him a proper look. 

He chews his lip, his pants now unbearably tight, “Can’t you tell?”

Pressing herself flush against him, her fingers playing absently with his hair, she tilts her head and says, “You’ve been such a good boy not breaking from your restraints. How can I reward such good behavior?”

Knowing better than to ask her to release his hands, he begs, “I want to touch.”

“Touch what? Be specific, Dellamorte.”

He swallows hard, his hips twisting searching for friction to release his throbbing ache. “Everything.”

She rises on her knees and slides her dress off one shoulder, giving him full access to her tits. “Then start sucking,” she leans on her arm over him. 

Greedily, messily he takes as much of her left breast as he can in his mouth and moans. Unsure how long her generosity will last, his tongue quickly swirls around her nipple until she too is crying out, pressing herself further into him.  

Too soon she is pulling away. And a needy whine escapes him. Thankfully, her hands roughly bunch in his hair and drag him toward her right breast so that it might enjoy the same attention. 

Lucanis takes a different approach this time. Gently he scrapes his teeth against her nipple, pulling and sucking the nub, until she is arching into him, sobbing his name.

He can smell her arousal and as she rearranges to seat herself in his lap he can feel her wetness soaks through his pants. 

Mierda. When had she removed her underwear? Or had she not worn any all day? How he wishes he could curl his fingers inside of her and taste her. Fuck. 

Lucanis bucks against her and she rides the wave. Yet still, Rook doesn't offer to relieve the now painful pressure in his pants. Instead, she kisses him again, rocking herself against him. 

Unable to take any more, he begins to remove his restraints. But he’s not quick enough and she catches him. 

“Don’t,” she moans. “Or I'll come by myself.”

“Come as many times as you want, solana,” he growls but he ceases his escape attempt for now. 

Spite whimpers within him, not nearly so patient or enduring. 

Rook unzips his pants and orders him, “Let Spite out. I want to play with him too.”

YES! OUT. SPITE'S TURN NOW!

The demon springs forward even before Lucanis agrees to recede. His wings flare and with a wince they realize Rook hadn’t quite made room for them when tying Lucanis up.

Gently she adjusts the restraints. When Spite is properly secured, her nails scratch along the length of his wings and the demon trembles with pleasure. Up and down the long shafts she strokes them. 

DON'T STOP, Spite begs as she turns back to his dick. Yet Rook ignores his pleas. Tucking a hair behind her ears she props herself up on her elbows and begins to suck, following the same steady, blissful rhythm as before. 

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. Spite thrusts into her mouth. 

He nearly comes there, but Lucanis slips through and holds off the tide, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. 

“Not yet, Spite.” He groans. “Together, We want to come together with her.”

TOGETHER. His demon squeezes his eyes shut as he returns control back to him. WiTH ROOK. 

But while his demon can hold himself back from coming for a little while longer, he refuses to abide the restraints anymore. With his inhuman strength, the ropes snap as Spite drives forward. She gasps in surprise as he pushes her back and pins her beneath him. 

He sucks on her bottom lip, before stealing into her mouth. It's a sloppy kiss. Desperate and eager. And she raises her hands again to his wings, clawing mercilessly. 

Following through with every one of Lucanis’s fantasies, Spite dips two fingers into her sex. Curling them as he drives them in and out, her walls flutter against him. 

“Spite,” she keens, repeating his name like a prayer as his other hand plays with her breast, pinching and twisting her nipple. Her eyes rolls back with pleasure and unable to bear just watching anymore, Lucanis usurps his demon. 

After sucking her juices off his fingers, he pins both her arms over her head. Straddling her, he unceremoniously sheathes himself inside her.

“Mierda, you feel so good, Rook," he groans, each stab of pleasure drawing him closer to the edge. "How wet you are for us.”

Her gaze might consume him, “Finish me, Lucanis.”

Spite’s wings flap with every languid thrust. Rook's hips rise to meet each one, her walls squeezing so tightly around him. 

Lucanis wants this to last forever. Inside her. Beside her. She makes him so damn happy and he wants to spend eternity pleasing her. 

WE ARE YOURS, ROOK. 

Rook comes with a heartbreaking sob. And he follows her, pouring himself deep inside of her, his eyes fluttering in ecstasy.

Yet through the lovely haze, Lucanis notices her raising a trembling hand to draw him closer. Immediately he understands and he leans down to press his forehead against hers as they roll through each orgasmic wave together. 

"I love you, like I've never allowed myself to love anyone," she whispers as he rests heavily on her chest, her fingers lazily running through his hair.

Too soon sleep seeks to claim him, but he rises above the drowsy tide to reply, "And I've never known love before you. Te amo, solana."

If this is a dream, Lucanis hopes he never wakes. 

Chapter Text

With a groan, Rook wakes in Solas’s prison. A dark storm broods upon the horizon, flashes of lightning interrupting the usually dreary dim. 

The Dread Wolf paces along the widening divide. He has abandoned his elven facade. Six red eyes glare at her. Shadows curl off his raised spine and his massive claws rend the ground with his every step. 

“Ruthless,” the monstrous wolf barks. “I must speak to Mythal. Now.”

Her weary spirit rises to defend her, yet Rook dismisses Ruthless, bidding the drained soul to rest. On any other day, Fen’Harel’s nightmarish form would immobilize her. But not today—today a goddess had fallen at her feet and the sun itself threatened to smite her next they meet. 

She demands that this god acknowledge her likewise. “I am Rook. Whatever your concerns, address them to me.”

His ears flatten against the back of his head, his lip twisting back as he snarls, “Do not deny me any longer—or else you will know firsthand why our enemies fear me.”

Since she was a child, he has haunted her nightmares. Even facing the handsome trickster as an adult, she’s always nursed what she considered a healthy fear of him. So facing six of her tiny reflections in those lyrium red eyes? Rook won’t deny it, her whole body trembles. 

Yet even if she knew how to summon the All-Mother, Rook wouldn’t. “You had your chance to speak to her,” her voice shakes. “Millennia Mythal waited in the cage you built and not once did you visit.”

Silently his hate burns. Like a phantom, the Dread Wolf slips between the shadows, his crimson eyes searing the inky blackness before they too disappear.

Rook reaches for daggers that aren’t there. Hay in her hair, a thin cloak around her shoulders, she has never felt more exposed. 

From the distant dark, he rushes the gaping chasm. The ground quakes beneath his paws as he pounces.

Her heart hammering, her body frozen, she braces against his attack. 

Midleap, the lightning rebukes him. With a piercing howl, he crashes back onto his side, electricity dancing along his singed fur. 

So, this is Mythal’s answer. Knowing the goddess reinforces the boundary between them only brings her partial relief. Rook faced the dark tide, one capable of swallowing the sun itself, and now she knows true dread. 

“I saved her,” the wolf growls as it tries to pick itself back up. 

Saved her? Rook will never forget the lonely shade she found in a fading ruin. After today, she will forever be haunted by Ghilan'nain’s green eyes reverting to diseased flesh. And then Rook studies her own hands. “For whose sake was she saved?”

His storm of righteous anger is defeated by a whisper. 

“For whose comfort was she damned?”

His rumbling growls morph into a pathetic whine. 

She braves again the Dread Wolf’s omniscient gaze. “You sentenced her to a life alone. Because you were ashamed to show her what you became.” 

“I—” but whatever his excuses he bites them back. Heavily Fen Harel lowers himself onto his haunches and lays his head forlornly between his paws. “It seems I've grossly underestimated you.” 

And Rook already regrets losing that advantage over him. 

Too tired to stand anymore against gods, she too lowers herself to the ground. Hugging her knees to her chest, Rook rests her head upon them and closes her eyes, wishing she were truly asleep. 

An uncomfortable silence drags between them. Finally, he breaks it, “You managed quite a victory today. Two of Ghilan'nain's dragons lay dead and she irrevocably weakened. You even managed to force Elgar'nan to withdraw from the field.”

She lifts her gaze and finds him again an elf, though six red eyes blink back and the shadows still cling to his skin. “Careful Dread Wolf, you almost sound proud of me.”

A dark chuckle escapes him. “Don’t flatter yourself. While you have accomplished a feat few can claim, I expect you shall never repeat it. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain will seek to crush you by any means necessary.”

She sighs. “Any predictions on how they might try?”

Fen’Harel no longer feigns composure and runs a hand along his bald head. “Elgar’nan will waste no further time. He will revive his Archdemon as soon as he can gather the necessary sacrifices. While Ghilan'nain will seek a crippling blow. So you tell me Rook, what does that look like? What would hurt you the most?”

Rook leans her weight back on her hands, “Do you think me a fool, to so eagerly offer my weaknesses to the Dread Wolf?”

He smiles then. But not cruelly. “I already know you to be a fool.”

Dusting herself off, she rises to her feet. The chasm between them has again shifted, now that it must only keep a man from jumping across it. Yet an electrical current now sparks between the hands that hold them up and hissing winds rise from the depths of the abyss.

What Rook can keep from Pride remains unclear. How much of her life he sees through her eyes and how much he pulls from her mind the moment she steps into the Fade cannot be ascertained. Not by someone like her. She wishes she could rely fully on Mythal. But the one she knows is comparably young and lacks the wartime experience Solas has with the Evanuris. 

I still must rely on his counsel. 

And judging by the bastard’s smug expression as he waits patiently for her answer, he knows it. 

“They attacked Treviso by terrible coincidence before,” she finally admits. “Next time it will be in vengeance. Against the Crows that stood against Ghilan'nain today, against the Antivan abomination that stabbed her in the back, and against me…”

“Home is often the first casualty,” Solas agrees. “What of your other attachments? Spite by his own accord sits at the top of Ghilan'nain's shit list. And Elgar’nan has the Crow’s cousin firmly beneath his thumb—”

“How might I protect them?” Rook again reaches for the comfort of her blades and finds none.

The Dread Wolf grins, a mouthful of sharp teeth, “Why would you hide the bait?”

“And this is why you will die alone,” she bites back. 

Utter self-loathing paints his features. “Such a fate befits the god of lies and treachery. I no longer fight it.”

“Because you have a more important war to win,” she sneers. 

“So do you.” His red eyes burn into her soul. “Whether by your enemies’ hands or your own, you will have to cut ties sooner than you imagine. Elgar’nan will strike at your heart’s desires, your loved ones paying the cost long before he turns his heated wrath upon you,” Solas urgently tries to convince her. “How long can you call it love when it only invites their suffering?”

He closes four or his six eyes as he considers those who paid in his past and present. But his highest pair doggedly remain set upon the future.

“I don't understand, Fen'Harel.” Rook clenches her jaw. “What would you have me do? If Treviso is the trap, am I to defend or abandon it?”

Pity fills his heavy gaze. “You miss the point da’len. Your home, your lovers, they don't matter. Splitting your resources to try and save them will only prove a fatal distraction. The goal remains unchanged, slay the Archdemons and then the gods. Whatever the cost.”

“I can't kill my heart as you do.”

“You think me indifferent to what this will cost you. I assure you I am not. But when your heart is the only sacrifice victory will accept—” Tears stream down his face, blinding the red eyes below. “How can you withhold it, when so many hearts have stopped beating, have broken, to give you the singular opportunity to make their sacrifices meaningful?”

She can handle no more of Fen Harel’s impossible riddles. Shutting her eyes, she bids her body to wake. 

“ Rook ,” he uses her name for the first time, forcing her to pause. 

“What?” She growls, finding him a wolf again, lounging as his statues do, a paw dangling over the edge. 

His bristly tail uncurls. “Would you tell Mythal that I’m sorry…”

“That's it?” She crosses her arms, unimpressed. 

His ear flicks annoyed at her. “I would spend days making the proper apologies. But I can trust you only to butcher any attempt at relaying my full sentiment.”

Rook rolls her eyes. “Full sentiment? Sounds like love to me.”

The Dread Wolf bows his head. “And did Elgar'nan not make her pay for it?”

In his knowing gaze he reflects three things, the canals of her home swollen with blight, a dead magpie in tiny hands with phlox wings, and Lucanis lifeless in her arms. 

The crimson visions are burned into her retina as darkness swallows them both.

Chapter Text

Shuddering awake, Rook takes a sharp intake of breath—as she catapults back into the world of the living—as if encountering the Dread Wolf had been just some terrible nightmare. And not absolutely real. 

Fen'Harel ma ghilana mir din’an.

She wipes away the frozen tears from her lashes. It’s absolutely freezing in the barn. Snow falls through the skylight and frost clings to their thin clothes. The hay beneath their bodies frozen and stiff. 

The space beside her is disappointingly cold. Lucanis leaves a conscientious gap between them. Curled up in a ball, the assassin shivers as he wraps his arms around himself. Spite hibernates deep within the assassin, his wings retracted, his assuring energy all but muted. While the demon may have warded off hypothermia, his host feels miserably icy to the touch. 

Impulsively Rook draws him closer. Her comparably feverish embrace instantly wakes him. 

“Wrong Demon,” he groans and tries to push her away. 

But she holds firm. Lucanis needs to heat up first, enough at least to brave the frigid morning so that they might escape back to the Lighthouse. Rook takes the cold hands that push her away and blows on them. 

A terrible shiver wracks his body. 

“Lucanis,” she begins and he freezes, all sleepiness evaporating from his gaze as he measures her every breath.

Softly, the horses neigh and shift in their stalls. The morning quiet falls over them like a warm blanket and she finds herself lingering in it. He's being so careful not to fill the silence, to let me take the lead. 

Rook fights down the urge to apologize for last night. She’s proud of herself for finally saying the things she's been holding back. And for doing…her eyes drift to the hickeys on his neck and a fiery blush burns across her face. “What are we going to tell the others?”

"We?" Though regret flashes across his face, the rest of his body relaxes. Their hot breath turns to mist between them, sparkling as the particles freeze midair. Rook cups his chilled cheeks and Lucanis closes his eyes, leaning into her warmth. He sighs, “Whatever makes you feel most comfortable.”

“And what about your comfort?”

Lucanis shakes his head, nuzzling into her hands. “I told you last night, I won’t stand between you and Spite. He…he cares for you much better than I did. So I will aid him in that endeavor however I can.”

Rook wishes he’d brave her gaze, so she might better parse the layers of such a declaration. 

“You shouldn't have to hide anymore. Not with the team at least,” he goes on, twisting to hide his yawn in her palm. 

“I can't risk that,” she frowns. “I should be able to hide most of Ruthless behind Mythal and her blessings. But if I tell them about Spite and I—they’ll surely figure out that I can see and hear your demon, that I am just as unnatural.”

His dark lashes flutter open, Lucanis very awake again. “They're better people than me. More open minded. I'm sure they will immediately accept you, Rook. All of you.” His lip quirks up, “Except maybe Davrin. But I'm sure Assan will help convince him. And the damn Warden likes you, he’ll come around quick.”

Freeing one of the hairs caught in her mouth, Lucanis tucks it behind her ear, “They accepted me. Why would you ever question them accepting you?”

She pins him with a look and he groans. “Right. Mierda. Is now the time for apologies?”

Rook shakes her head, nowhere near ready to forgive him. She shifts so that her back is flush with his chest. He inhales sharply but she simply wraps his cold arms around her. 

He isn't Spite. It's not a passionate, clumsy embrace like when the demon holds her. By their training, Lucanis knows how to cradle her so that her neck won't get stiff. He aligns their bodies so that they slot together, his legs intertwining with hers to cushion her against the cold hay. Soon she is melting, as he holds her tighter than he should. 

It inspires a terrible idea. 

“What if we fake it?”

“Fake what?” he asks lightly. 

“The team was far away when Spite uh, kissed me. There's no reason they’d assume it wasn't you.”

“They already assume it,” he confirms with a groan that reverberates through her back. 

“We’ve both been trained for it. Infiltration. Seduction. A bit of light hand brushing. Getting caught in an occasional embrace. It would be easy to extend the ruse.”

“It would be me, not Spite,” Lucanis clarifies. 

“In public,” Rook confirms. “But then no one would question if we slept together every night.”

“Of course…if you're so intent on keeping this a secret, how else would you and Spite be able to sneak any time together?"

Rook isn't unaware of the resurgence of his feelings. Not easily can she forget the tortured look on his face when she told him that she…loved him. So maybe if she's being honest, her suggestion isn’t just about protecting her secrets or maintaining relations with the team. Spite’s feather flares between her ribs. 

Cautiously he rests his head on her shoulder and she shudders as his breath fans against her neck. “I owe you. And if this is one way I can repay you, then so be it.”

“Turn over,” Rook orders and he complies. His back is cold too and she hugs him from behind. 

“What are the ground rules?”

“You can initiate any touch except kissing.” Her lips ghost across his skin. “Only I can initiate that.”

Gently he takes one of her hands and begins to massage her joints. “Only on the cheek,” he amends. “If we were together, I wouldn't kiss you so publicly unless the world was ending.”

“Isn't it?” she whispers seductively into his ear. He elbows her and she relents. “Okay, okay. Kisses only on the cheek.”

“I assume that you'll want to sleep together every night. But if I could have at least one night a week where my body just sleeps. Where it belongs just to me...”

“Just one?” she asks with sincere concern. “I don't plan on…doing things…with Spite every night—and definitely not all night—”

“I want to be awake when you do things,” he interrupts her mortifying explanation. “Not because I want to watch!" Lucanis is quick to clarify. "I just…I hate not knowing what he does with my body. And I get that maybe there are conversations or nightly adventures you want to have just the two of you. But could we start slow, please?”

Grabbing his shoulder, she pushes him onto his back. His bed head is a mess of straw and frost. Beneath his long lashes, his dark eyes swell with the same vulnerability they had last night. 

“Spite still can't bear this body alone,” Lucanis tries to defend himself. “Not all the time. You still need me.”

“You still don't get it,” Rook leans over him. “Your body isn't a battleground that you and Spite must war for supremacy over. He wants to work together with you, if you'd just give him a chance. You both bring important skills and insights and I—I’ve always needed you both.”

“Even after I fucked up.”

Rook grimaces at the cut Ruthless left on his neck. It perfectly matches the one on her own.  

Her expression softens as she lifts her gaze to his, “Even when we fuck up.”

Lucanis cups her cheek. And the desire in his dark eyes threatens to drown her. 

Afraid to fall in again, she drags herself away, his thumb grazing her lips as she moves to stand. 

Everything about this is messy. Turning to a heavily cracked mirror in the corner of the barn, Rook picks out the hay from her hair and dress in a futile attempt to look less like she spent all night romping in a barn. Loving Spite. Hiding it with Lucanis.

Our brush with death yesterday brought clarity to all of us. But how could Lucanis swing so fast from hate to acceptance? She doesn't trust it. 

Rook had hoped to sneak a peek at him through the warped reflection, but he already considers her openly. She finds his expression frustratingly inscrutable. Lucanis leans back on his elbows, his fancy clothes wrinkled, his hair and beard handsomely unkempt. If anyone caught them sneaking back into the Lighthouse, she knows exactly what they would assume, whether they returned together or not. 

Maybe Solas is right and clinging to attachments will invite suffering for everyone involved. Surely Lucanis and I have already deeply wounded each other…but I want this with Spite. I won't wait for the tables to turn this time. I won't regret not trying!

“We’ll finish revising our contract when Spite wakes.” Rook returns to his side and offers to help pull him up. “Until then, another day, another fight awaits us.”

“I'm here for you,” Lucanis asserts, his professional mask back in place. He graciously takes her hand, “Just tell me what to stab next.”

Chapter Text

Lucanis digs his hands deeper into his pockets. Despite Rook’s efforts to warm him up, the cold still rattles his bones and Spite burrows deeper within him. Dark and oppressive, the blighted clouds hang heavily over the Anderfels, sobering Lavendel after a night of blissful festivities. The hungover townspeople drag their feet as they return to their daily drudgery. They can barely manage a hello for their savior. Not that she notices. Beneath her hood, her cheeks glow rosily in the cold air, her smile warmer than the feeble Lavendel sun. Rook strides with the confidence of a general who has secured a pivotal victory, of a lover who has finally gotten lucky.

Slowing to match his stride, Rook loops her arm with his. 

Immediately he stiffens.

“We got to practice,” she leans in, her hot breath inciting a new shiver that draws his shoulders up to his ears, “if we want to convince the team and the Talons.”

“Teia and Viago also have to buy it?” Lucanis grimaces. This will be a full-time operation then. He forces himself to relax, suddenly aware of the many eyes and the hidden Crows perched in this run-down town already appraising them. 

“They’ll put a hit on you before we reach the Lighthouse,” she promises with a mischievous grin. “Occupational hazard of dating me.” Rook pauses at the bottom of the stone steps, the Warden base rising like a temple over Lavendel, and she the goddess ascending back to heaven. “It’s not too late to back out, Dellamorte. I won’t force you.” She draws away to climb the first step alone, a challenge in her steely eyes—

And something else. More vulnerable.

A cold wind flows down the mountains, tossing her hood and short hair out of her face. His eyes draw to the scar along her neck and his fingers rise to the matching one he now wears along his throat. 

Fear flickers in his heart too. He’s never dated anyone. Not properly. And maybe if this were real, he’d be too afraid to try. 

With his teeth, he tears off his icy glove. Lucanis slips off the only ring he wears, an amethyst tucked between two silver bands. Gently he takes her warm hand and slides it onto her thumb. Perfectly, it fits. Any Antivan will know in an instant the sincerity of his intentions, and by her acceptance, their promise to each other.

Her protests shrivel in the cold air as he lays a tender kiss along her knuckles. 

“It’s not too much,” he assures her. “I am a Dellamorte, after all. Anything less would be an insult to both of us.” Even in a fake relationship, his pride would not allow him to settle for whatever two-bit ring this backwater village might offer. Dragging her into what any onlooker would read as a passionate embrace, he whispers. “Anything less, and we should give up the game now.”

“I’m all in,” she whispers fiercely as she wraps her arms around his neck, though he knows she does this to steal a look at the violet jewel. “I want this.”

And his pulse quickens, though he knows who she really wants.

“I already owe you my life,” Lucanis cups her cheek. “Now everyone knows it.” 

Rook licks her cracked lips, and he can’t deny how much he wants to kiss her. But it’s way too soon to be seduced by their fiction. Reluctantly he extracts himself from her warmth. Except he’s not strong enough to leave it completely—Lucanis laces their fingers together and leads her up the steps. 

“It’s too pretty,” she complains as they weave through the Outpost. Blacked out Crows and Veil Jumpers nap against the garlanded columns. Wine glasses and trampled flowers litter the usually severe stone halls. Beneath the pink Tevinter lights, she lifts her hand to admire the flawless gemstone. “And it’s much too expensive. I’m already so afraid to lose it.”

Lucanis knows better than to mention that the ring belonged to his late mother. Instead, he quips, “Have I finally found your weakness, de Riva? Must I simply adorn you in jewels to return to your good graces?”

“You’d have to empty the King’s coffers to earn your way back,” she scoffs.

“All it would take is a little theft and treason then,” he confirms in all seriousness.

“You’re impossible,” Rook rolls her eyes and holds his hand a little tighter. “Though right now a cup of coffee and a slice of cheese would get you farther with me.”

Hardly crumb or bone remains of last night’s feast. Their stomachs gurgle in disappointment. He’d hardly eaten anything yesterday and hadn’t bothered to partake in the feast when she was still missing. Based on the volume in which her stomach laments, she hadn’t eaten anything either.

“I’ll make us something when we get back,” he promises her. Maybe a big omelet for two… Spite stirs within him at the mention of food. Or perhaps for four.

Their hunger drives them back to the Lighthouse. Yet Rook stops short before the Eluvian, the mystical light swirling over her skin as she twists her new ring nervously. 

Lucanis drops her hand. “We’re not ready yet.”

Sadly she stares into the magical void. “Will we ever be—”

He hooks an arm around her neck, trapping her in a headlock. Aggressively he messes up her hair. Her fingers scrap for purchase, wrinkling his vest and silks as she wiggles out of his grip. Just before she escapes, Lucanis takes some of the straw in his pockets and dumps it down the back of her dress and hood.

“What the fuck, Dellamorte?” Rook growls as she stumbles away, her cheeks and ears burning bright, her fists balled.

“Now you look like you fucked a Dellamorte,” Lucanis smirks as he pulls his collar loose to show off some of the hickeys she had given Spite. 

Her eyes flash gold as she glares at him, but he laughs in the face of its heat. Once they return to the Lighthouse they will have to pretend at the lovestruck couple. He’ll be safe from her revenge soon. With a cheeky grin, he slips through the Eluvian.

Before Lucanis even fully manifests into the dark entry hall, Rook leaps onto his back. One of her hands knots into his long hair, pulling it painfully back, while her other arm hooks around his neck, practically choking him. 

“You think I’d just let you run away again?” Rook threatens, her voice low and full of promise. 

Fighting both the instinct to flip her hard over his head and the desire smoldering low within him, Lucanis reaches back to support her legs or else crash together over the gilded edge of the platform.  “Maybe I like the chase?” he grits out, though a smile still twists the corner of his mouth.

With a groan the giant double doors grind open, “You two are back awfully—uh.”

He whips his head around to find Neve bracing against the golden frame, her eyes wide with disbelief. 

“No one asked you to wait for us,” Rook melts against his back, resting her burning cheeks against his as her arms wrap possessively around him.

“We were all waiting,” the Tevinter mage stumbles to defend herself. Neve’s eyes flick to him, but he cannot spare her any sympathy. This is their first official test. If they can’t convince the detective that they’re dating, no one else will believe it.

“You shouldn’t have,” he drawls. Lucanis tilts his head so that even in the low light Neve won’t miss the love bites along his neck. “We plan to be a while longer.”

When Rook makes no move to slide off of him, he adjusts his grip to cradle her knees and effortlessly carries her past the dumbstruck mage. As he climbs the steps up to her room, they find the entire team puttering around the war table below. Harding spots them first, dropping her muffin as she gasps. Bellara squeals, shaking Davrin violently. And Taash’s wolf whistle follows Lucanis and Rook down the hall to her bedroom. 

After he kicks the door shut behind them, Rook immediately jumps off. Quietly she begins cursing. “Do you think she believed us?”

Lucanis collapses on her couch and runs a hand through his hair. “We’ve made a good opening impression. Though it will take more than a few data points to convince Neve.” Sighing, he considers the long overdue talk he needs to have with the Tevinter mage. However, if he plays it right, she will fully buy into the ruse after that.

Rook flops onto the cushions beside him, worry and concern crumpling her face.

“And the whole team wants to believe in us,” Lucanis tries to reassure her. When her brows furrow further, he clarifies, “They just want you to be happy, Rook…and by some blighted reasoning think I’m the man for the job.”

Twisting her body to face his, she searches his face. But whatever she was hoping to find isn't there and her eyes turn sad.

Spite, probably. Lucanis tries to nudge his demon to the surface, but Spite needs another day to recover and repair his broken wing. His demon growls below Rook’s hearing, you comfort her.

They sit so close. And yet for the first time since Lucanis handed her the knife and helped her bring it to his throat, he doesn't know how to breach the gap between them. So far every touch has been part of the performance. But in this room without an audience, he's unsure if he has permission, the right, to reach out. 

I should say something then—

Rook leans away and he lets go of whatever breath he'd been holding. 

I've missed my moment.

And then, lounging against the armrest, Rook stretches her legs across his lap. “I hate wearing closed sole shoes."

Tentatively he begins unlacing her boots, a fashionable pair Viago likely picked out. With care he slides it over her ankle, one and then the other, revealing a delicate lace that rises up to her knees. Lucanis traces their pattern before rolling them languidly down. Inch by inch he reveals scars he doesn't often get the chance to study. One large gash slices through her tendon. Tiny, pale lines lattice across her kneecaps. He wishes to know the story of each one. 

But his demon has tasked him with a greater task first. 

“We got this, de Riva,” Lucanis cautiously begins to massage out the tension in her calves. When she sighs, relaxing against him, he takes that as a sign to use both hands. “Nothing is easier than convincing a mark into believing something they already hope to be true…and so they shall not doubt, after all you've done for me, that I fell hopelessly in love with you.” 

Lucanis keeps his eyes down, focusing instead on his long, gentle strokes as he works up from her ankles, up toward her thighs, stopping short at the hem of her bunched-up dress. Blushing, he pulls it back over her knees. 

Swallowing hard he continues, “They will not question that when our deaths seemed imminent, I finally put my misplaced hurt and bruised pride aside and dared to ask one thing more from you. If there is anything unbelievable about the idea of us, it’s that you might reciprocate my feelings even after I hurt you so deeply. So deliberately.”

It’s not the apology he wants to make. But Lucanis wants to uplift her, not burden her with his words. Her muscles properly loosened, he begins to knead with his thumbs and a muffled moan escapes her. Clenching his jaw, he stoically continues, “They’ll eagerly believe in your happiness. And I'll do my best to make it the truth. I'll guard you and Spite…Ruthless and any secret you want me to keep.”

These are the words of a braver version of himself. One that honestly put that amethyst on her finger. Like a coward, Lucanis channels that fanciful version instead of speaking from his own brokenness.  “You’re deadly and beautiful,” he confesses. “So intoxicatingly warm and compassionate beneath your equally admirable brutality.”

Rook abruptly retreats from him. Curling into the far end of the couch, she wraps her arms around her knees. “How dare you,” she whispers, a single tear burning a trail down her face as she turns from him. 

He freezes, unsure what he said or did wrong. 

“I almost believed…” she wipes her cheek dry. “You’re right Dellamorte. With a performance like that, I'm sure we will convince them all in no time.” Slipping further away, off the couch and toward her armory, she slips Mythal’s fang out from a secret compartment. 

“Let's not keep the team waiting any longer,” she says coldly as she heads down the hall. “I have a lot to debrief them on.”

“Rook, wait,” he snags her wrist. To his surprise, she does not resist. Instead, Rook spins with the momentum and pushes him back into the wall. In a smooth sleight of hand, it's not her slender wrist he holds, but rather the fang, buzzing along his palm. For both her hands cup his face as she drags him into a kiss. 

It’s not the tender, loving way she kisses Spite. Hot and angry, her lips press against his as her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging and pulling until he gasps. Her tongue slides in and fuck, it all hits different when he is at the helm, when he can slant his mouth to better angle his lips against hers as their tongues battle for dominance. 

Lucanis wants to drag her closer. To ease his pulsing ache with delicious friction. But he’s afraid it might all end if he tries to take the lead. As if she could read his thoughts, she drags her lips away to nibble his ear and he groans at the sharp pleasure—and the anguish that the kiss is already over. 

Even sleeping alone in the barn, he's never felt so cold as when she steps away from him. Without warning him, Rook swings the door open to reveal Harding blushing redder than her hair and Taash grinning wildly as they hold a full breakfast tray, featuring two cups of coffee and an unidentifiable yellow lump on burnt toast. 

“Mierda,” he barely suppresses the urge to gag. 

“I told you I could smell it on them. Pay up, Lace.”

The details of their bet only makes Harding cringe harder. 

Lucanis hardly tastes his bitter coffee. It cannot compare to the sour aftertaste of Rook’s false kiss. 

Chugging hers, Rook leaves her empty cup on the tray and snags the slightly more edible charred bread before pushing past their voyeurs. Unwilling to take even a polite bite of what might have once been eggs, Lucanis quickly follows after her. 

But what might I possibly say, especially now as we step upon our appointed stage and give our first official performance?

“Two little Crows, sitting on a tree,” Taash sings after them. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

"the truth," Spite cackles weakly. "that you wish it were all real."