Chapter Text
The fits continue in the night, in the same pattern that they had been for the past three months, though in the last few weeks they had been increasing in frequency. His chest, gripped as though in a vice, and the slow billow of his breath constricted at once to the pressure of pulling through a clogged tobacco pipe, rousing him out of his already disturbed sleep faster than a bullet fires. And once more, in a matter of moments, the great Daud is reduced to a pathetic, wheezing creature, grasping at his chest through his dampened nightshirt as a possum infant to its mothers belly, with all the same desperation and dependence to life that he himself had seen flash through the eyes of countless targets, inflicted by his own hand. How quickly the tables would turn then, in these brief flashes, panic coursing through him for as long as it took to sit himself up and reach to his bedside. With fate’s favor he would have enough strength to pluck the head of the dropper from his tincture bottle, place it under his tongue, and squeeze a dose of the foul emulsion behind his teeth.
This time, though, Daud didn’t reach for the amber bottle, and in the time it would’ve taken him to do so, the latch on his door clanked loudly with the fervor of an entry too hurried to handle the knob delicately. Billie’s footsteps didn’t carry the weight her preferred boots usually gave them, now her bare and calloused feet shuffling in a quickened pace across the uncarpeted floor.
“Daud, your tinc—“ she began in a voice tinged with an unnatural quality of urgency for such a guarded woman, her body instinctively moving to pick up the bottle herself, not willing to risk the amount of time it would take for Daud to react to her command.
“That muck doesn’t do a damn thing,” Daud answered in a half groan and finished his motion to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing at the spot on his ribs where the sensation beneath them seemed to pass just as quickly as it had began. His ears pulsed with the steady return of his homeostasis, and the mark on his hand throbbed with an echo of his remaining vitality. He often wondered if some unseen force that ran through his veins because of that mark was to blame for every spared encounter between him and what threatened to be his end with every onset of attacks. The idea rather enraged him; that he might be in some drawn out cat and mouse game between his secured slot in the void and the grip of the black eyed bastard’s hand pulling him back into life each time.
Billie hovered unmoving in front of him in a moment’s contemplation, her facade darkened to him as the window’s moonlight illuminated her from behind, before surrendering with what was a very obviously frustrated exhale through her nose as she set the bottle back down on the nightstand.
“How can you be sure?” Her tone held the biting edge of stubborn righteousness, which even after all her years of maturing and settling into a calmer personality would rear its head during particular interactions. With anyone, but especially Daud, who she simultaneously feared least about offending and apparently felt strongly enough about to even bother standing her ground with.
“Don’t mother me, Billie,” Daud’s answer came, his voice still thick with sleep, and to only the most discerning of ears carried a plea of exhaustion in equal measure to his defensiveness.
This was enough for Billie to drop the subject. She couldn’t compel another man, let alone her senior, into caring more for his wellbeing than he desired to. And, admittedly she was just as bad at following the orders of physicians, especially with how rarely she deemed it necessary for herself to ever consult with one (despite the fact that they were both aging at the same pace). She was now about the same age as he was at that time, all those years ago.
With another quieter sigh of resignation, she approached him more closely and shifted her weight onto one hip. “Do you need fresh water?” she inquired, now with a mote more gentleness.
“I‘ll be alright. I need to get a walk around the cabin anyway, so I’ll fetch my own. …Did I really make enough noise to wake you?” Daud inquired, glancing up to her line of sight for the first time since she’d entered.
“No, I…was awake.”
As he’d expected. He knew she would sit awake at night, especially recently, listening for any sign of trouble from his room. But Daud didn’t bother making his own concern audible by speaking again. He rose silently from his seat as Billie left his sleeping quarters, following her out into the Dreadful Wale’s main cabin. He took a brief detour to the lavatory to splash some water on his face and the back of his neck; if he was up and out of bed he might as well wake up proper. He stayed there a moment, hovering knelt over the washbasin and letting the water droplets fall from the tip of his nose as he contemplated his lingering consciousness and his place in the world.
He and Billie were companion drifters now, floating aimlessly together for as long as time would allow and whose only motivations were to finally take as much of a backseat as possible in the machinations of the world around them. Especially for Daud, who took a silent pleasure in the idea that the remainder of his days in the mortal plane would be absolutely devoid of anything close to entertainment for the one that only ever saw him as a plaything. That he was now nothing more than an utterly uninteresting, weathered old man, with the only evidence of his old life gathering dust in the recesses of his and Billie’s minds. The only others who held copies of those memories were either gone from this earth, or deliberately took a clean slate on their mind in a shared interest to start a new life themselves.
Returning upright once again he took the cloth that hung over the mirror’s frame and wiped his face with it, pressing closely to soak up the moisture that settled between what were now deep grooves around his eyes and forehead.
A weak chuckle pushed it way out of his dry throat as he came face to face with his reflection in the tarnished mirror of the vanity stand; Daud allowing himself something like a smile as he wondered what Billie must think to herself whenever she saw him. Did she look on him with the same melancholic pity one feels when beholding a great and dying elm, still towering above in all its majesty yet merely a shadow of its previous form, bark all fallen and branches bare? Or did she see, under the veil of his thick silver brows, the gaze of the same mentor she once admired, respected…feared? Did she ever fear him? No, he was sure not. When she killed that aristocrat—what seemed now multiple lifetimes ago—she vowed to never fear again, to only make others feel that mortal terror instead. Daud vaguely remembers Billie even saying as much to him, in her precocious youth, declaring all her philosophies and motivations like a manifesto to anyone who would listen.
But those memories were vague now, and he would probably believe an alternate version of events just as easily if someone were to retell them to him with enough conviction. All that was put to rest when the pair of them left Dunwall together, some three years ago now, and it felt as if everything before they embarked on their…sightseeing?..was hazier now. Daud would have done it sooner, leave it all behind, if not for him, if not—
“Come have some broth, old man,” Billie called to her shipmate from the main cabin, setting out two mugs of the stash she’d picked up when they’d docked in Saggunto.
Daud had half a mind to resist her offer and dig his heels in about not wanting to be babied, but after waking up this fully his now conscious mind was becoming aware of several bodily needs, not the least of which included his dry throat and shivering body. His night sweats had only served to dampen his body enough to feel the night air’s chill even deeper into his bones. There would be no easy return to sleep like this.
With a few strides across the cabin, Daud had made it to what at this point was probably appropriate to dub “his” chair, as it was the most comfortable for his aching back, and maybe for this reason, Billie seemed to avoid it insistently.
“No whiskey?” he asked, half jokingly.
“We’ll share some tomorrow,” Billie answered as she took her seat astride her folding stool beside him, resting her elbows on her thighs and holding the mug of broth between her knees, savoring the warmth it radiated through her palms. The best way to deny Daud something without getting him in a twist about it was to just say ‘maybe later,’ as if it were just a personal preference and not a disguised parental limitation.
Billie’s face wobbled and warped in the shaking reflection of her broth, the two copies smiling at one another to consider how their roles had swapped over the years. Daud’s parental limitations were never so calculated in tone, though. He would simply make a decree, set a boundary, lay down a line, and Billie would have to follow it if she wanted to progress under his tutelage. And oh, how it infuriated her at first, while she still had the fire of youth and rebellion burning in her. How it made her seethe under her tense lips, which didn’t dare waver. She would ultimately get out that frustration by resolving to be even better, faster, stronger, more cunning.
A fit of coughing from Daud’s side of the room had shaken Billie from her memory reel. She raised her head to look at him, trying not to wear her concern too visibly, but Daud’s eyes didn’t meet hers regardless. As he hacked out the final wheeze of his coughing episode, he seemed to pause before returning the broth to his lips, as if he were formulating a thought. “Billie…I don’t have much ti—“
“It won’t be much longer ‘til we arrive,” she found herself interjecting. “Maybe a day til we reach Kiperow. We’ll…I’ll dock us in Holmouth. I know of a comfortable inn just off the port; we’ll be able to see the eclipse just fine from there. It’ll be faster.”
Daud didn’t respond. He merely stared contemplatively as his mug, then nodded in slow forebearance before taking his final mouthfuls of broth, its lingering heat soothing his tired vocal cords. “Go ahead back to bed, Billie,” he started again a minute later. “I’m just fine. You’ll need more rest to captain us to Holmouth in time. I’ll sit out here just a bit longer.”
The two shared an extended gaze, looking into each other’s eyes directly for only the second time that night. Billie exhaled her answer as she rose from her seat, deciding she would quiet that nagging voice in her mind that told her to not let Daud out of her sight. “Fine.” Once on her feet Billie offered her hand out to take Daud’s now empty mug, who handed it over and watched her set them in the utility sink, not bothering to wash them out tonight. “Good night,” she spoke softly to Daud before departing back to her bed.
Daud let out a heavy sigh, the fog of sleep deprivation putting pressure on his skull. He pinched his brow and settled into his seat more comfortably, sinking down into the cushion before his gaze finally fell on the cigar box sitting on the tabletop steamer trunk beside him. A gift from Billie on his last birthday, despite his fervent protests. Not that he didn’t enjoy a finer quality cigar, but the gift giving, especially for celebrating his life…something about it made him uncomfortable. Now a twinge of guilt shot through him at the fact that he still hadn’t opened it up being that it was so expensive, and he knew it was harder for Billie to make a purchase like that. Not like in Dunwall tower where the boxes seemed to be in such steady supply that he hardly ever saw an empty one before it would be replenished by some servant in the night. Always refilled into some ornate tin with the Kaldwin seal and never their original wooden packaging.
He picked up the box and held it in his lap, brushing dust off the top cover. ‘Recommended by physicians across the aisles for impeccable quality,’ read the embossed print on the wood. Maybe it was the finishing nightcap he needed to head back to sleep…he wouldn’t smoke it all, and by this point he was far past tolerant of the tobacco’s stimulant effects. He tore the paper sealing on the box and opened it up, carefully pulling out a cigar and standing up to open a port window behind him before lighting it up. With a long draw he settled back into his armchair, and shut his eyes, listening to the sound of the gulls on the wind.
The frigid pull back to consciousness tugged Daud from his rest like a fishhook, leaving no space for a gentle awakening. Yet despite being roused instantaneously, he found himself fully alert, maybe from the sudden glow of light to his face or maybe for the chill that seemed to almost be coming from inside him. As his eyes adjusted to the light conditions around him, a dreadful realization set in at the real reason for his sudden wakefulness.
Daud rose from his seat abruptly, still in his bedclothes from the previous night, but no longer in the cabin of the Wale as he was when he’d drifted off. He needed no time to asses his surroundings. He immediately began a contemptuous stomp towards the source of the light and out of the distorted ruins of the void’s best attempt at recreating the ship’s interior.
“Alright, alright…show yourself already. I’ve no interest in hide and seek,” Daud growled as he came face to face with the sprawling nothingness. In a swift move that was very nearly foreign to him now, but still embedded deep enough in his muscle memory to perform without hesitation, Daud transversed the gap between him and a mass of wood and stone in front of him, where he was determined to stay until the bastard showed his face.
And appear he did, seemingly giving in to Daud’s impatience without protest. ‘’Daud,” began his voice on the wind, disembodied for a moment before his form finally finished materializing in front of the disgruntled man. ‘’It’s been some time, old friend.”
“I’m no friend of yours,” he spared no second in biting back. “What the hell do you want from me? It should be no mystery to you that I’ve made no attempt to see or speak to you, in…” Daud tried to find the number but time was blurred to him here. “…ages. I’m sure you’ve noticed a sore lack of any offerings, and any counsel sought in return. I’ve no use for you anymore, and you should have none me. So why do you bring me back here?” he demanded, feeling more of a rising anger in him than anticipated.
‘’You might be surprised what holds my attention and what doesn’t, Daud. And you might forget that you’re not the only passenger bearing my mark on that ship,” he continued, the wisp of his voice sending an unwanted shiver down Daud’s spine. Nothing in the Outsider’s substanceless answer gave Daud enough to retort on, and he took advantage of that silence to finish his thought.
“You and Billie Lurk are on your way to a nearby coastal town for the viewing of a total solar eclipse. A rare event in your lifetimes. I have borne witness to thousands, of course. But for you, it’s a notable occasion, no? A time, they say, of great transformation.”
“…Get on with it,” Daud grunted flatly, coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be going anywhere until the bastard’s spiel was over.
The outsider’s tone shifted at that point, to a more focused and directed one, locking in on Daud’s gaze as much as eyes with no pupils could, and dropping his teasing demeanor. “I’m here speaking to you now, Daud, because I sense you feel your time of great transformations has long passed. I sense, too, that your understanding of your life has become clouded as of late. And I also know that you are dying.”
Daud glared on spitefully.
“…I know I am. And I didn’t need you to tell me.”
“There’s that unwavering self assurance I know in you. You’ve lived a long life, Daud. You have been many men, and gone through many changes.You single-handedly destabilized an empire, dissolved a great organization of devoted followers, and then…you ended up back at the helm of it all, after being the one to drive the wedges, as Corvo’s right hand man. You took up office to mend it all again as Royal Spymaster. And through it all, I never saw an ounce of self doubt in you, at every turn. You committed to every decision with integrity and resolve. And yet…”
Daud held a deliberate silence.
The Outsider smirked at the snubbed offer for an interjection. “And yet, after all that…I sense you do not feel you have a good grasp of the type of man you truly are, at the end of the story. Your story.”
After a moment of stubborn silence, Daud’s shell seemed to crack as his expression finally shifted. Crestfallen, almost. “I don’t know that any of us can really know what type of man we are at the end. Maybe that’s the consequence of me choosing to be too many different ones, as you said.”
The deity’s smile spread farther across his cheeks, though never enough to appear sincere. He might have been incapable of such a smile. “The Knife of Dunwall would marvel to see you now.”
Daud fought not to cringe visibly at the moniker. “…He would, I’m sure. No, he…wouldn’t understand at all. …I’m not sure I understand,” he admitted. “I spent years…decades, carving out an identity for myself, a frame to fit into. To have something to abide by, something to convince myself that I was. Your… meddling interventions didn’t help. It only served to grow my ego, distort that idea of myself. But sooner or later I would have to face the consequences of one of my many actions… The noble leader of a great gang turned into…a wretched, uncertain fool whose resolve began to leak out of him. Billie saw that in me and seized it immediately. As she should have.” A weary, tired laugh escaped his lips. “And…then…”
“The Royal Protector,” the Outsider finished, in a nearly undetectable air of smugness.
“…Yes. I couldn’t even stick to my previous plan long enough to absorb it before I…chose a totally new path, again. But I had to. I wanted to…atone. Just for a while, but he…” Daud seemed to stop not out of a loss of his train of thought, but of a very tangible desire to drop the subject immediately.
The pain was not well hidden to the immortal’s all-seeing eyes. No amount of practiced deception could hide that flash of ache behind Daud’s greying eyes that even he himself denied the presence of. “Indeed, you stayed longer than you planned. And when he died, you—“
“I’ve had enough,” Daud hissed back, his defenses erected at once all over again. “I’m not doing this. I won’t sit here and recount it all with you just so you can…take some meandering, cryptic route to get me to reflect on what kind of man I am. I’ve had plenty of hours to reflect on my own, you coal-eyed bastard, and I don’t need you around to do it. Whatever answer you’re looking for out of me with your word games, I haven’t got it. Even I can’t make sense of it all, of my motivations and of…the person I’ve chosen to be. The kind of impact I made with the sum of my parts. I’ve accepted that I’ll die not understanding, and I’ve made peace with it. So what do you show yourself to me now for, at the very end, when there’s no decisions left for me to make? And what’s all your rambling about transformation and…whatever the hell else? If you’re here to offer to extend my life with some more of your black magic, I don’t want it and I never wanted it.” Daud’s chest rose and fell feverishly, even in the stasis of the Void feeling like his empassioned yelling might collapse him at any moment.
The young man’s form lowered from his weightless position in front of Daud to finally meet his feet to the same ground the older man stood on, settling to his level and stepping forward to his side. It was time to leave otherworldly pretenses behind and behave more like a human if he had any chance of reaching Daud while his heart still beat. He placed his pallid hands on Daud’s shoulders and softened his voice.
“Daud…I have no offer to make to you, not of any power. You already know what your final transformation is and where it will take you. And at the end of it, you shall have to walk in the Void with me for the rest of time. But first…I have something I want to show you. To help you understand.”
Daud stared insistently at the crumbling stone beneath their feet, trying to ground himself in the weight of his body while he still occupied a corporeal form. “…And then you’ll take me?”
“You will take yourself. I will merely be here, waiting.”
Daud took in a long, deep breath, calming himself. Settling his animosity for this undead figure, for the time being. If this is what it took to finally be done with it all... “What is it?” he finally asked.
“If you cannot see your character through your own eyes…I will show it to you through mine.”
Daud’s lips parted to respond in objection, but the only thing that left them was the breath seeping out from his lungs as a light overtook his vision, his eyes shut and yet seeing beyond the void around them, and then, piercing through the weightlessness…a sound, something all at once achingly distant and deeply familiar. It was garbled at first, like a damaged audiograph…but becoming clearer as it repeated, pulsing, pulsing in his ears, in his chest, ____, ____, ____…
Chapter Text
“Danya...danya,” her voice came cloudily, too indistinct at first to rouse the young boy over the sounds of the humming world through the parted window above him. Her warm tone was one with the mellow chorus of voices, the clattering of cart wheels over the cobblestone, merchants shouting their solicitations to the passing crowd, nylon strings plucked at the edges of hardened nails and bone picks.
A gust of salted wind cut through the black snake grass along the perimeter of the outer wall before feathering through the window frame, settling down on Daud’s cheeks which perked him up from sleep enough to finally make out his mother’s voice. “Danya,” she repeated her pet name, placing a hand on his cheek. It was so small in her hand that her palm nearly covered half his face. “You must wake up now, my love,” she spoke again, an air of anxiety penetrating through her gentle coaxing. It would be dangerous if he slept any longer. She ran her fingers through his hair; still baby-soft after seven years.
Daud sat up and rubbed his eyes, briefly startled by the sudden press of her cool hand to his forehead. She nodded in affirmation to herself, a visible untensing of her shoulders when she felt the lack of heat on her palm. The remedy was doing its job. No less than she expected, but it was difficult to fully quiet the fear that ignites watching one’s only child turned weak and delirious by fever. “Open up,” she commanded in her typical no-nonsense tone, pulling yet another papered bundle from her apron pocket.
At the sight of it Daud let out a groan, making no effort to hide his grimace as he watched her unwrap the resinous ball from the parchment scrap. With his head now cleared from his fevers, he was unfortunately much more conscious of the foul experience he was about to endure than the last three times his mother had compelled him to take one in a half-woken state.
“Ne! No complaining. This is the only reason you are well,” she retorted, rolling the sticky pellet onto his tongue and tossing the paper aside. “Don’t you dare spit it out.” Knowing a warning was enough for Daud to obey her, the woman didn’t bother sticking around to monitor if he did as told, and stood up with a jingle of the chain on her belt as she returned to the main room.
Daud tasted every component—the coriander, the garlic, the moonseed, the pine sap, the ginger, the mountaingrape root. It was a flavor profile that, ironically, Daud would come to develop a taste for later, and even made the same concoction by his own hand every time he or one of his men were stricken with illness in his adult life (though some ingredients he never was able to acquire in the Isles). But for his child’s palate, the oily lozenge was as vile as it was nostalgic.
Pushing aside the wool blanket they shared and stepping out into the main room, Daud spotted glimpses of fish, potatoes and herbs being tossed around in the pot under his mother’s hands. It was a surprisingly hearty meal for the two of them, who often only dined on passing morsels as they moved from town to town. If lucky, a meal would be shared at the table of a short-lived ally, or his mother would acquire higher quality food by means of a trade. She must have given up all of her last coin to come by the ingredients that steamed in the pot before him now. Daud felt a small flash of guilt knowing that it was for his sake, but it was quickly overshadowed by his desperation for a nicer meal, and a moment of calm. Their days of safety in every locale were numbered, as well as the time his mother would spend under a given alias. But things shifted fast and often in Serkonos; winds, tides, shipments, fashions, weather. It was only appropriate that the two of them kept pace with those changes, lest they stand out.
Their current lodging was in the basement of the home of someone akin to a friend his mother had made, making a partial living off the coin she earned nursing the upstairs resident’s infant while the mother prepared meals for nobles.
“Ten minutes, Daud,” his mother’s throaty purr declared with a clockwork sharpness; her way of informing him of his allotted free time that day before she would expect him back in for curfew.
For the first time in days, Daud possessed just enough of the energy needed to fuel his evenings of play with his fellow street urchins, wandering the docks into the glow of evening. It had been nearly a week now, so much time that Daud wasn’t sure he would still be out there where they met most days. If he hurried now…
Daud’s feet hit the floor with a dull slap, gathering all his remaining strength to sprint up the earthen stairs and out onto the paved streets, looping around the house and heading to the back alleys of the nearby shipyard. It probably was unwise for him to be moving at such a speed, demanding such exertion from his body in its still weakened state, but he had to see if he was there, if it was too late—
He came to a skidding stop at the edge of the docks, instantly freezing at the sight of the boy. Across the dock, sitting atop the third steel mooring bollard, the other child gazed in stillness over the pier. His legs dangled absentmindedly beneath him, no anticipation to be seen on what was usually an eager demeanor, when he would wait with bated breath for Daud’s appearance. The setting sun cast a lengthened shadow behind him, lighting up the boy’s already glowing hair; amber like a flame.
“Leon!” Daud shouted, a little more hoarse than he expected to sound.
Before the redhead could turn in response to his name, Daud was already running to his side. A bright smile lit up Leon’s face as he slid off the bollard, hurrying to Daud in return. “You came! I thought…I thought maybe you left,” he panted upon coming to a stop in front of Daud.
Daud shook his head. “I’ve had a fever. …Why are you here? Especially if you thought I left.” His eyes squinted at the piercing light of the sun, having reached the perfect end point along the horizon line to beam its rays directly into his line of sight.
“…I don’t know,” Leon admitted.
Daud merely offered silence in response, and began walking down the docks, picking up a piece of broken scrap wood and dragging it on the ground behind them, feeling it jut and jump in his hand as it scraped the edge of each cobblestone. “I only have ten minutes.”
“Alright.”
The two meandered in silence for some time, the passage of time marked only by a periodic cawing of gulls above them, of the impact of waves on the pier wall. The docks were bare of life save for the two of them, having long passed the time of the day’s cacophony of boat horns and men hollering jargoned commands at one another across the space between land and ship. They would often walk like this, in a silence that only the two of them could be satisfied by, winding their way through some empty alley or trespassing into an abandoned property with only the unspoken telepathy between them guiding them to their eventual destination.
“…So are you going to?” Leon’s voice broke the quietude.
“Am I going to what?”
“Leave.”
Daud’s gaze fell to the ground. When the answer came out of him, it oddly resembled the taste of his mother’s bitter lozenge. “…I will, eventually.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” He kicked a pebble across the stone, hearing it land in the water.
Leon came to a halt beside him. It took Daud a moment of continued walking before he’d noticed the abrupt stop and turned around, their eyes meeting.
It was only now with the glare out of his eyes that Daud noticed a triad of bright red lines across the boy’s cheek, nearly matching in shade to his auburn hair. They no longer bled, but they were fresh. “What is that?” Daud balked, gesturing to his face.
A visible shame washed over Leon, who turned immediately to begin a walk back toward the direction of Daud’s home, wanting a head start on his eventual return but also to escape his companion’s scrutinizing gaze. “Nothing.”
“Tell me!” Daud hissed, stomping in upkeep with the boy’s hurried stride. “Was it Matteo?”
The redhead clamped his lips shut tighter.
“What happened?” he pressed, the gravel returning to his voice making it clear he expected an answer.
“…He said if he scrubbed hard enough that he’d be able to wipe my freckles off,” the boy finally surrendered in the alley alongside Daud’s dwelling.
Daud was the one who stopped this time. He had been ill. He had been ill and so he hadn’t been there, he should have been there, he knew how to fight and could’ve taken him, no matter how much older—
“Daud,” the lad interjected, cutting short his seething with a grab of his hand. He felt Daud’s fist clenched under his grasp. His skin was warmer than it should’ve been for the evening chill; a few lingering degrees of elevation to his temperature. Slowly, his fist relaxed into the cooler palm that held it.
Daud stared on into Leon’s chestnut eyes, an unbearable lump in his throat, one he could no longer blame on swollen lymph nodes. “I swear, before we leave this town I’ll—“
“Stay out here with me,” Leon begged over his almost-promise, “Just another minute.” The boy retained a clinginess that Daud had either long learned to shed, or rarely had the opportunity to exercise.
But he did stay. Daud’s mother, in all her love, was known to occasionally take a palm to his rear, only in his most blatant moments of disobedience. But one more minute would be alright. Just one more.
The sun’s warmth had abandoned them now, only a faint aura of light remaining in the atmosphere, enough for one to find their way home before dark, but not enough to shield their bare legs from the steady gusts of wind brought on by the approaching night. Hairs stood on end on their legs, goosebumps forming in tandem on the two of them. Leon leaned up to Daud, ever so slightly taller than he, and pressed his lips to the corner of Daud’s mouth, just like his father would to his mother when he arrived at the end of the day.
“…I’m sick,” Daud reminded.
“I don’t care.”
It was only a few more syncopated breaths between the two of them later before the elder boy decided he wouldn’t push his luck any longer by staying out farther into the evening, and he slowly, gently, pulled his hand free from Leon’s grasp.
“Will you come tomorrow?”
“I’ll come tomorrow,” Daud echoed, turning on his heel to round the loop back to the back entrance; closer to the kitchen. His stomach twisted and his face flushed, but he wasn’t sure it was from hunger or fever this time.
Daud’s feet stopped at the back doorway, stiffening instinctively at the scene before him. His mother was absent from her seat at the table, and the face of the man who held her by her throat in the doorway held only the briefest flash of familiarity to him. The husband of the upstairs neighbor, he was sure, he’d only seen him in passing once, maybe twice—
“You treacherous, scheming witch! ” he hissed, showing no response to the clawing at his hands, only pressing his grip tighter into the wall. It was only now that Daud noticed the man’s wife, holding her baby and tears on her face as she stared on in horror.
“Gaspard, please stop—!”
“You think you can plot against me behind my back?! You think you can sell my wife poisons to plant in my food, in my drink, you wench?” The laugh that escaped his lips was unlike any laugh Daud had heard before; crazed and maniacal. “You and your festering bastard child, you think you can cross me? Kill me—“
His mother’s hand moved in a motion so fluid from her belt that Daud had not even noticed the knife plunging into the man’s thigh until he croaked out the most guttural noise, her body hitting the ground with the thud of a dropped ballast. She wasted no time to gasp for oxygen before clambering to her feet over the screams of the bystander wife. It was only at this moment that she finally met Daud’s gaze, suspended in animation like the possums that came to their doorstep at night, mimicking a living death.
“Daud, run.” She did not wait for his compliance to her command before rising herself and scrambling to his side, taking him by the wrist.
The knife she carried at her side was insubstantial in size, one she mostly used for cutting thicker stemmed weeds or rope, but not of enough length to stop the full grown man from hobbling after her at enough speed to catch up to them, with the aid of adrenaline. The shine of rage in his eyes reflected this knowledge, and yet the frenzied man made no such movement after them, instead taking one step forward and then toppling to a kneel, his eyes losing focus on the fleeing pair. “Wha…what is… Your blade, you witch, what have you—“
His mother had already dragged Daud out of their hovel and into the night air by the time his body had collapsed fully, panting as fast as her pace carried her. Over the pattering of her sandals on the stone, Daud turned his gaze back to the alley they departed through to make sure they weren’t followed, and in doing so barely caught contact with Leon’s shattered gaze, who was lingering in the alley on his own return home.
She had not grabbed their blanket.
Notes:
[i hope you'll forgive my OC usage both in this chapter and throughout the remainder of the story; I promise to do it tastefully UvU thx for reading]
Chapter 3
Notes:
[A warning: this chapter contains mild allusions to SA, no actual depictions of sexual acts. it has a satisfying response tho so I hope that makes up for it. read with care x]
Chapter Text
“Sergio.” The professor tapped his meterstick to the podium with a bracing snap, startling any students with wandering thoughts into an upright pose. He narrowed his bespectacled eyes expectantly, staring down his nose at the absentminded student, who was no stranger to distraction or being the regular subject of antagonization for that distraction. “Would you care to speculate on the motivations behind the smear campaign of Lady Enid? What could compel the academic society she so respected to not only reject her from their institution, but to go out of her way to slander her name in such a calculated manner?”
The tan skinned boy shifted in his seat, his legs splayed at obtuse angles under his workbench and his back collapsed into his seat in a manner that shamelessly mocked every student whose spine was frozen erect in fear of their educator’s wrath. Never one to prioritize his marks in class, he was especially disinterested in playing the part of student so close to the end of the semester, knowing their break was ahead. “Well, maybe they just didn’t think she was all that smart, or they didn’t allow girls into their little club.” Sergio sucked his teeth, pulling one of his ankles across his knee.
A heaving sigh escaped the professor’s lips as he pulled off his eyeglasses, letting them drop by the chain around his neck so he could pinch his nose properly in hopes it would alleviate his fast-developing tension headache. “Not even remotely true, mister Alonso. Can anyone explain why that is incor—“
The boy’s hand went up automatically.
“…Yes, Daud,” the instructor prompted, a vague tinge of amusement audible in his answer. Despite the student’s…rugged appearance (he clearly had not come from means), he was inexplicably well read and quick to participation in class. How such a dedicated student could be found in someone whose shirt would be regularly missing buttons and whose parent he never saw on the school grounds, he didn’t know. He had made several efforts to approach Daud after lessons had ended to try and have a conversation with him about potential advanced placement, but as soon as the bells chimed the boy would take off on a solitary walk home with the quickness of a scampering rodent, balancing a stack of belted workbooks on his hip.
“It had nothing to do with her being a woman,” Daud began, not an air of smugness in his newly deepened voice. He only spoke his answer as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “There was no such regulation excluding applicants to the institution on the grounds of their sex, and furthermore women were highly respected in Anatolian society. They thought that women possessed an inherent biological attention to detail that made them especially suited for being mathematicians, provided that they were of noble birth and had access to education. Especially Lady Enid’s family, whose great grandfather was a founding member of the Barkov academic society. Their rejection and smear campaign was a conspiracy brought on by skewed astrological beliefs at the time, as Enid was born during an alignment of the spheres that Anatolians believed was a bad omen.”
“…That is quite right, young man,” the man marveled, eager to witness Daud continue on his display of knowledge—until the midday bells chimed.
The commotion of two dozen bodies rising and clamoring for the door all at once always startled the professor, who rarely left the trance of his lesson’s subject matter enough to notice the passing of time before the lunch hour. “Err, ahem—right, see you after your recess,” he muttered, returning to his seat.
Daud walked through the buildings weathered halls, gusts of classmates blowing past him as they rushed out into the yard. They would split up into pairs, trios, quartets, but none came to split off with him. Daud’s intention for the day was the same as any other: hang back deliberately, keep a low profile, and stay focused on the plan. It wasn’t that he was the only intelligent pupil in the group, or the only one with aspirations to rise above his class status, but spending time developing school groundalliances only distracted him from his studies, and would diminish the valuable time he dedicated to strengthening himself. Kindling a friendship at this point might not only be unwise, but…maybe for Daud, impossible. He found himself lacking any way to relate to the vast majority of his peer group. He shared none of their motivations, their interests, or their wants.
But Daud didn’t mind. He had a singular goal, and an unwavering drive to attain it.
When Daud rounded the corner into the schoolyard a moment later than everyone else, the unflinching reaction he had to his arm being hooked off to the side and pulling him into a standoff with a familiar face was almost suspicious.
Almost like he wanted it.
Sergio stood firmly planted in the earth, hair black as coal hanging into his eyes. He needed to say nothing to make his offense known about the affront to his status in the classroom.
Daud could’ve laughed, really laughed, at just how much of a hit someone like Sergio could take to his ego for an individual that seemed to have no interest in doing anything to earn such an ego. But the display of wits in the classroom was merely a formality between the two of them at this point. Daud wasn’t here to uphold his social standing. He was here to spar.
The reason why they always went at it in the alley behind the school building could’ve been either to avoid a reprimanding from administrators, or because Sergio couldn’t bear to lose a fight in view of the entire schoolyard. Daud tried to make sure it was the latter.
At the first sign of movement, Daud had learned to anticipate one of two things. Sergio would either lunge at him, rather unceremoniously, to attempt grabbing him by the collar. Or, he would take his first swing, always with his left hand. Daud might’ve not learned to dodge a left hand swing until much later had it not been for his experience with the fiery delinquent.
He made quick work of it, engaging up close with Sergio just as much as was necessary, no more. He knew never to swing more than the amount needed to just overpower his opponent, until he saw a moment of weakness or of exhaustion in their approach. And when he spotted it, Daud shuffled forward on quick feet that never stopped, never placing the weight of his heels fully into the ground. In one spinning movement, he planted his heel directly into the side of Sergio’s knee, toppling him to the ground with a yelp of pain.
Sergio’s entourage sat back at a safe distance, observing from behind with a growing concern on their face as they watched, once again, his defeat. With the boy now knelt on the ground, Daud considered landing a final blow, to really solidify himself as the victor in their little match. His ribs expanded and contracted with a steady breath, looking down at Sergio who was now all but cowering in anticipation of a coup de grace from his opponent.
“…Not worth it,” Daud sighed, almost in disappointment, before turning to head back into the school building to eat the olive loaf and peach his mother had packed him. He had not even noticed the distant pair of eyes on him, silently peering over the grounds and observing Daud’s actions with a pleased grin.
Daud wasn’t sure how long it had taken before he was entirely confident that he was being followed as he walked the solitary path back to his home that afternoon. An eerie hush was not unusual in that part of the neighborhood, at that time of day, threading between the shadows of buildings and behind the gates of bakeries and butcher’s shops. It was in fact the knowledge that it was not silent enough for a path that only Daud was ever known to take regularly, and none of the area’s stray animal population would ever dare to venture around in broad daylight at this hour. He shut his eyes in concentration as he walked, listening in closely. The footsteps started when his did, and stopped when his stopped. Someone wasn’t just following him, they were trying not to be seen.
Daud dropped his books and spun around in a flash. “Show yourself at once!” he commanded, instantly shifting to a defensive stance, his hands hovering at his sides ready for a fight or an escape.
A soft chuckle came from behind one of the building’s walls, a refined sounding voice that carried none of the gruff and gravel of a manual laborer. “Alright, then. You’ve caught me. I knew you would. You’re very perceptive, aren’t you?,” spoke the man that approached him, in a voice that was soft but yet did not exactly instill the ease in Daud that he was clearly trying to. The gentleman was tall, slender, and dressed well. Older than his mother, but hair not yet graying…certainly high-born, his shoes and pants clean in a way that suggested he rarely was in a position to dirty his feet by the mud of the street. He surely came off a carriage, but Daud didn’t see one here.
Daud lowered his hands, but never quite relaxed them at his side. He held his body at the ready should the need arise to flee suddenly, even though he was sure he was in no danger of a physical attack. The spectacled man before him undoubtedly was not one to do such dirty work with his own hands. “State your business. Now.”
“Now, now, boy, there’s no need to fret. I’m no danger to you. I merely approach you because…” a vague smirk weaseled its way onto his thin lips, like he knew something no one else did and was thrilled to death with the knowledge. “Well, I admit that I’ve had my eye on you for some time now. A once-colleague of mine, one of your school professors, informed me of your…excellence, among your class. He said you seemed to know things that had never been taught, to you or to any of your classmates either. A great deal of experience in herbology, history, the natural sciences…This was enough to pique my interest, but when I came to observe you up close, I noticed you seemed to also be quite skilled in the occasional scuffle with some of your fellow…slum dwellers, isn’t that right?”
Daud stared on with a scrutinizing glare.
His grin widened, unsavorily. “I sense there’s some accuracy to my assessments, is that it?” The man began to approach closer, stopping in front of Daud and leaning forward just enough to meet his eyeline. “I have a proposition for you, boy—“
“Daud.”
“Daud,” he continued. “The knowledge you have, the skills you’ve learned…the scrapping you’re forced to engage in day after day, scraping any spare resource for coin…you’ve been handed a hard life, have you not? Tell me, how would you like to be rid of that tiresome grind, fending for yourself here in the streets? Wouldn’t you be much happier among your own kind?”
“…My own kind?”
“Yes, Daud. You would be among scholars and learned men, among the very few who have access to such knowledge of yours. I would like very much to take you with me as an apprentice back at the academy. Under my recommendation, you would be granted what is normally a stringent and exclusive access. I tell you boy, you would never again have such an opportunity.”
Daud’s dark eyes widened at his words. All at once it became very clear to him what the terms of this proposition were. “…The Academy of N—“
“We must leave at once,” the man stood erect once again and clapped his hands, summoning at once the carriage that Daud had guessed was the source of this bizarre gentleman. The carriage shambled toward them and stopped abruptly at their side, the door opening to reveal two more men of visible status. In his foolishness, Daud had allowed his guard to waver, and the stranger before him seized the opportunity to grab him by the forearm as he stepped up into the carriage.
“W-wait, my mother…! Stop! Put me down at once!” Daud stammered, instinctively pulling back on his arm. His body’s gut reaction was to resist, and yet…he didn’t put up much of a fight. He may have been taller than Daud but only the latter was skilled in combat. Should he want to overpower the man’s grip, he had every confidence that he could. So why didn’t he?
“I’ve already made arrangements with someone to visit your mother and explain your leave,” the man tugged Daud into the carriage and shut the door behind him and pulled the activating lever, sending the vessel off with the lively spark of her electrified tracks. “Best to leave all that behind, now. You’ll have many new faces and names to remember once we arrive at the academy.” A final smile of satisfaction grew onto the moustached man’s face, a hearty low chuckle leaving his throat.
Daud turned and stared out the back window of the carriage as the empty road became smaller and smaller behind him.
There would be no such visitors to his mother’s home.
Daud shut the steamer chest at the foot of his bed, the latch hooking shut with a clank that reverberated off the walls of the empty room. Picking up his jacket and tossing it over his back, Daud slid his arms into the sleeves as he headed out the door into the dormitory hall. Soon he wouldn’t need so many layers just to stay warm; if he could just make it to the Month of Seeds, he would be able to conduct all his studies out of the Academy’s walls, up close and personal.
The now familiar clang of metal and muffled shouting slowly faded into earshot as Daud reached the first floor and passed the fencing salon, or what at least was the fencing salon on the second day of the week. He spent a fair amount of time in the martial arts hall, but not today. He continued the path down the halls, hooking a right into the open doorway of lecture hall C, following the sound of a droning voice. Entering the room, he took a quiet seat in the back row, the uppermost of the tiered benches that encircled the lecture podium.
Although the majority of the men and women that wandered the Academy’s halls day to day had reacted with confusion to the presence of such a young man, with not even a completed primary education being allowed into the institution, they had on the whole become accustomed to his presence by now or ignored him entirely. Much of this had been due to the good word spread about him by Aloysius, the man who had initially “scouted” Daud from that Serkonon village some six months ago now. Despite this apparent favor in both his and the rest of the student and faculty’s eyes, Daud preferred to function mostly unnoticed in his daily studies. He would ask his questions to the pages of his textbooks instead of those who taught of them, quietly taking extensive notes in his journals during even the most active of group discussions.
“…which has had sparse historical documentation prior to the fifteenth century, although materials found to support such practices were discovered in ruins that were dated to as early as the year 1400 prior to our Abbey’s formation. For those of you that attended my lecture on the 15th, this material will be of some familiarity to you, but, to briefly summarize: we explored the relevant texts on the observable behavioral effects of certain frequencies, both naturally and artificially produced, and took note of how various branches of modern theosophical groups try to recreate these effects in…”
At the lecture’s end, the outpouring of students exiting the hall simultaneously blew a gentle air past Daud, who remained seated as he scanned over the pages of his notes for the fourth, fifth, sixth time. It was not until he felt the placement of a hand on his shoulder that he was shaken from his focus, whipping his head around to meet the gaze of Aloysiuis Rand. A wave of repugnance shot through Daud, straight up through his stomach. He had not been present earlier, and Daud was surprised that the man would approach him so familiarly in the presence of another professor, but when Daud glanced back at the lecture podium, he saw that the topic’s speaker had already gone from the room with the exiting crowd. A sigh left Daud’s lips as he shut his notebook. “Did you need something from me?” he reluctantly inquired.
“A good day to you too, Daud,” the elder replied sardonically. “Impressive focus for someone who arrives thirty minutes late for a lecture. Do you know that you are the only member of this academy to be pardoned of such impudencies?”
Daud stood in a swift motion from his seat, shifting away from the man’s touch. “I’m not a member here. I wouldn’t even be allowed to apply for such a standing considering my background. I often wonder if you know that you are the only member of this academy to permit me to act as a student here when I am not even a recognized attendee?” He opened his satchel and returned his journal to its confines.
Aloysius chuckled lowly and nodded, bracing his stance with a hand on the tabletop. “About that you are right, young man…we both are operating under some, shall we say, unusual circumstances in your being here. I actually wanted to discuss this very matter with you today, as it happens. For as passive as you may seem in your attendance to classes and lectures, I notice your work shows no such lapses in quality. It’s indicative of a fine student. After all…I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t see as much in you. I feel you’re worthy of a secured position here at the academy.”
Daud snorted. “And you expect the headmaster to take well to a move like that? To take a nameless, low born minor into their record books?”
“It’s true that such a thing has never been attempted since the academy’s formation,” Rand began, taking a few paces toward Daud. “But I am as confident in my standing here as I am in you, Daud. I hold certain authorities that would allow me to make such exceptions, were I to stand firmly enough behind my reasons. I would feel better about doing it for you if you would just show some initiative in return,” he continued in a softer tone, returning his hand to the boy’s lower back.
Daud jerked away with a hard shrug to shed himself of the man’s touch. “Take your hands off me,” he hissed, taking several retreating steps backwards. “And keep your exceptions. You said yourself how I managed to direct my own education in the world even before I ever stepped foot in this school. I’ve no need for this place or your favors. Conduct your filth with your own kind.” Daud tossed his satchel over his shoulder and turned on his heel to stride hurriedly out of the room.
That evening Daud declined to attend the dining hall for dinner, and instead returned to his dormitory to retire early. It was still soon enough in spring that the sun had long since set that day by the time Daud returned to his bed for an early rest. He changed into his nightshirt and hung up his coat on the rack by the door, lighting one candle at his bedside before settling into its sheets.
It was unclear when night had truly fallen that evening with the winter sky having already been dark for hours. At some point, though, after Daud had been in bed awhile, and once the hustle and bustle of the school’s halls had settled to a quiet ambiance, all that remained was a pair of hushed footsteps cautiously approaching his door.
Aloysius treaded lightly across the rug, reaching Daud’s bedside and taking a slow kneel over his sleeping form. His chest rose and fell in the glow of the moonlight, his stern brow finally softened. He was beautiful in that moment, maybe for the last time before his impenetrable guard would be erected permanently. Or had it already been?
“Superb,” Aloysius breathed, slinking his hands up to the hem of Daud’s nightshirt and under its thin cloth.
The sensation jolted Daud awake like an eel sting. He didn’t have to see Rand to know, nor did he hesitate to reach his free hand down to the edge of the bed, pulling his pocketknife out from between the frame and mattress.
Aloysius hadn’t caught the movement that followed until the knife was already in his hand, pinning it to the mattress like a failed game of five finger roulette.
“Hrrk—!" Rand choked on the surge of pain, so unprepared for the retaliation was he that he could not even muster up a scream until Daud had already gotten out of bed and grabbed his satchel and sword. “G-gahh! My hand…! Why, you damned—Help! Heeelp!”
Daud hadn’t spared a moment in fleeing the room immediately, running down the hall with a speed he hadn’t taken since before his arrival. Commotion stirred in the distancing dorms behind him. “What in the Void is going on down there?!”
Luckily his haste had gotten him out of the academy in time under the cover of night and empty halls, now baring the late winter’s chill without the coat he hadn’t time to grab. But the thrill of imagining the pathetic, gangly man fumbling through unbearable pain to explain his predicament brought an invigorating warmth to Daud’s face as he smiled, beginning his descent down the hill.
The following week was the first time Daud’s face had ever been printed on a wanted poster.
Chapter Text
The young man continued to stare in confoundment. He parted his lips to speak, and the recruit at his side placed a hand on his arm, cutting off his thought prematurely.
“Don’t bother speaking to him now. He can’t hear you while he’s communing with…erm, it. Him.”
The first whaler exchanged a glance with his partner, before returning his gaze to Daud, standing at a newfound shrine, seemingly hobbled together from scrap parts that were anything but divine in nature. Markus could hardly believe such a makeshift altar could channel anything metaphysical, let alone communion with the supreme deity of the known universe.
“Can…we…?”
“No,” Aurelio answered promptly. “You must remember that we are only proxies to his abilities and that we are not marked.”
“Right, of course,” Markus concurred, nodding as if to convince himself that he understood. “And…could he decide to…detach us from those powers at will?”
Aurelio placed a hand on Markus’ arm to lead him back out onto the balcony. Enough time had passed with Daud’s…consultation that it would be unwise to leave their surroundings unmonitored while he finished. “I…am not sure. I haven’t seen that far into his powers in the time that I’ve served him. With all recruits, upon reaching a certain level of skill, he will bestow on them the ability to harness those powers to the same degree that he himself possesses them. But, as for revoking them…if one were to be unfaithful, or trespass against him…as punishment, perhaps…” Aurelio trailed off. “…I couldn’t say. Only that I have never seen him do such a thing in my time with him.”
Markus’ gaze was not on his tutor (he could not even see through the mask to do so), but something in the way that he had ended his phrase suggested he had more to say. Even in the short time he’d been among Daud’s ranks—only the last few months—Markus was already picking up the unspoken things in the way Aurelio taught and directed him. He was always so sure of himself, in the way he spoke, always making every statement and every correction and every shared insight so decidedly, so absolute that Markus could not doubt his authority for a moment.
He had heard others, his peers among his novice level, remark on Aurelio’s teaching style as…abrasive. Somehow, though, Markus could never find himself agreeing with the assessment enough to commiserate with his fellow recruits, much to their distaste. He found it…reliable, safe. That feeling of absolute certainty, it allowed him to learn with confidence; that if he simply followed his every word, he would become exactly who Daud told him he could be.
“…If you’ll permit my opinion on the matter,” Aurelio finally continued.
Markus ears perked up at the sudden informality. “Please.”
“…I find that Daud has been incredibly generous, to all of us,” he began. “And he shows a great deal of trust in us to impart his gifts so abundantly. I consider it a privilege, and would find it to be entirely justified were he to revoke such abilities in response to one of us betraying those kindnesses.”
“…His gifts…” Markus lamented as he looked out over the city streets. “Do you describe them thusly simply because they were bestowed onto Daud by another entity? Or because they are actually desirable to receive?”
Aurelio’s eyes finally left the overlook to stare at Markus. “Do you mean to say you find your abilities to be undesirable? You desire to return to your life in the sweatshops, unable to defend yourself against oppressive masters and then sleep amongst the trash and dirt, at the mercy of the city watch for your wellbeing in the streets?”
“Of course not,” Markus huffed, clasping his hands in front of him. “…It’s just that—“
“Any trouble while I was indisposed?” Daud’s gravelly voice reappeared from the empty apartment room to join the two men on the balcony.
Aurelio and Markus stood at attention in unison, turning to face their master. “No, sir. If you’ve procured the items you came for, all is set for our return to Rudshore.”
“Good.” Daud stepped closer and turned his gaze to the younger recruit. “Markus…I want you to take the path ahead of us and scout for any potential disturbances. Give us a smooth ride home. Dispose of any interruptions as you see fit, provided that it doesn’t attract unnecessary attention.” He glanced briefly at Aurelio. “He’s ready to go alone?”
Markus watched his mentor’s head turn back in his direction, and take a distressingly drawn out moment of contemplation before answering. Had he made a grave error in speaking so freely about his concerns? Did Aurelio see him as weaker now that—
“Yes,” his voice cut through Markus’ inner dialogue with a tone as confident and unwavering as ever. “I believe he is.”
Markus knew he couldn’t let out his relief in an audible sigh here in the presence of his two superiors. But after a bow of confirmation to Daud, he made sure to let his exhilaration flow freely through him as he hit the crisp rooftop air and blinked across the gaps of buildings, weaving through the air on the shoulders of the wind.
“Sir, I’ve completed multiple training sessions with him now where he has anticipated all my direction and guidance. His reflexes are sharp and he’s a formidable sparring partner one on one. With more privileges, more abilities…I feel he could grow quickly to learn to take on two , even three men at a time in combat. He’s the only new recruit of the most recent cohort that consistently bests me in practice.”
Daud glanced up from the schematics spread over his desk to meet Aurelio’s eyes briefly. “And? You have the authority to promote his rank at your discretion. What do you need my approval for?”
Aurelio hesitated. “He…seems to be holding himself back, sir. Like he doesn’t want to progress forward. Yet, when I press him on it, he assures me he wants nothing more than to advance his skill enough to be a trusted agent for you. It’s clear he has some internal conflict that is hindering his growth, but I’m not sure what it is, or how to challenge him on it. I was thinking…perhaps he might trust your insight more. He’s too valuable to let slip through our fingers due to some lingering anxieties.” He took a brief pause before continuing. “…You always had a way with words when you were teaching me. It was hard to doubt myself under your instruction.”
Daud couldn’t help but chuckle as he stood up from his seat, placing his hands on the desktop. “I think it’d be hard for you to doubt yourself anyway. You don’t seem the type to know how.”
“Like you, sir?”
At the time, Daud could not see the cosmic irony in such a statement. He had not yet partaken in the acts that would bring him to his knees in reckoning, a self doubt so crippling it toppled the foundations of his very life and alienated the network of allies that seemed so unshakeably devoted to him now. He could only be amused that Aurelio had such a view of him, as even he forgot at times just how impenetrable the facade of self assurance he wore was. So much so that it would take years to realize it was a facade at all.
“Maybe,” he added with a smirk, stacking the schematics sheets into a neat pile. “I’ll talk to him. You’ve done enough for today, Aurelio. Thank you.”
“Master,” the Whaler took a deep bow of reverence and disappeared from his spot once Daud had left the room.
As he approached the storeroom of the commerce building where they now kept their extra weaponry and where he had sent Markus to condition his blade, Daud thought on the circumstances he had found the teenager in. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pulled someone out of vagrancy, but it was not a recruitment method he used out of altruism or charity. In fact, the majority of the wayward denizens wandering the streets of Dunwall were at best utterly useless, and at worst, despicable even in the eyes of an assassin by trade.
Some of the best street brawlers he’d come across in the wild were lumbering idiots who wouldn’t know restraint if it latched into their flesh like a lamprey. All brawn and gristle for brains, oafs throwing themselves eagerly into every opportunity for a petty scrap with no discernment as to which battles were worthy of the effort. Most times it’d be impossible to tell if they marked victories by the loot they’d gain in the scuffle, or by the size of the spectacle they’d rouse during it. Such disregard for the art of it all made such a self proclaimed “fighter” lower than the lowest in Daud’s eyes. And even if they had a skill level anywhere near Daud’s personal standard, he made it a rule to never pluck members of any formed street gangs, however small, into his ranks (even though he knew they would lose all fealty once faced with the amount of coin he and his men regularly made). Keeping a clean reputation through all sorts of opposing contracts was difficult enough without invoking the wrath of a gang scorned.
Reaching the doorway, Daud’s footsteps had clearly not been enough to catch Markus’ attention, who wiped away at a sword in a state of impenetrable focus—or rumination. Another moment passed before he finally snapped out of his silent contemplation and reacted to Daud’s presence at the door, placing his blade and oil down to face him. “Oh—Daud…forgive me. How can I be of service?”
Daud walked in and shut the door behind them, walking over to take a seat on the lid of a storage trunk. “If you’ll pardon my interrupting…I was hoping to discuss the terms of your contract under my employment.”
The boy visibly stiffened at the words, though kept his composure solid in the face of his highest superior. “Is my performance unsatisfactory, sir? I’ll spend as long as is necessary training if you’ll allow me the privilege of continuing to—“
“Your performance is excellent,” Daud interrupted. “That’s not a concern. Actually, I’d like you to tell me what the concern is, Markus. There’s something you’re not telling me, or Aurelio. I need you to be honest with me, now, about what it is that holds your progression back.”
Markus still wore his gas mask, yet even through layers of leather and rubber Daud didn’t have to guess at the expression on his face, only made clearer by his body seizing up in shame like a hound caught with its tail between its legs. When he reached up to pull the hooded mask from his head, running his fingers through sweat dampened loose curls underneath, he bore exactly the look of defeat Daud had expected.
“I…beg your forgiveness, master, for my…distraction. I should have been more forthcoming about my thoughts, but it…didn’t seem appropriate to do so.”
“Distraction in the field can be a death sentence,” Daud stated, taking on the firmer disciplinary tone he was all but infamous for among trainees, to shake them from their worst moments of folly. “You think that’s appropriate to let interfere with your work?”
“Of course not, sir. You’re right. I—…actually, death is…somewhat the nature of my preoccupation.”
Daud almost laughed. “I’m surprised to hear you say that such a thing preoccupies you. You certainly had no fear of death when I found you, nor during any of your training. You joined my men and picked up my blade and now the threat of death is making you stumble?”
“Not of death, sir,” Markus’ voice carried a degree more defensiveness now. “It would be more apt to say it’s the…the lack of it which plagues me.”
Daud cocked his brow at the recruit. “The lack? ”
Markus took a brief moment to muster up the gumption to speak candidly before continuing. The words seemed to catch in his throat. “…I have heard it said that those who have been marked by the Outsider’s hand are doomed to wander the Void for all eternity, after death…that their spirits never find rest.”
An odd silence met his admission as Daud seemed to take pause for the first time since they’d started speaking. One could’ve almost been convinced the idea caught him off guard, but when he continued he came off as unfazed as ever. “You wouldn’t have struck me as someone that would let those cursed overseers sway you with their drivel.”
“The strictures are of no importance to me,” he assured. “And yet…I watch you…speak to him, see him…hear him? I no longer have the luxury of denying his presence, and the…powers he bestows onto those of his choosing. Yet I…I must admit at times I fail to understand the bargain you have made. I am grateful for your power, and to have the chance to share in it, but what are you wagering in return, what of the unending emptiness that awaits were one of us actually to—“
“Markus!’’ Daud nearly barked to shake the young man from his frenzy, taking him by the shoulders and linking their gazes together. “If you don’t rid yourself of these foolish terrors, all the skill in the world won’t help you. If I have to worry about you dying at the hands of a damn agent of the state because you’re too busy having second thoughts about what awaits in the Void, then save us the effort of training you here. Feel free to go back to the alley I found you in and find out for yourself what lies beyond, once the right Watch officer comes by to cleanse the streets of you for good. I don’t convince anybody to work for me. You decide here, now, if that is what you want.” Daud released his grip from the boy’s frame and took a step back to gaze firmly at him. “And I won’t entertain being asked to make a defense for the use of my power, either. I don’t want to hear this line of questioning from you again. Do you understand, Markus?”
At this point Markus’ shame had all but drained him of any remaining composure to face his leader with, dropping his knee to the ground in a kneel and hanging his head. “Yes…I…forgive me, master. My conflict is a liability. Nothing else. I will erase it from my thoughts and focus on my training. …The last thing I want is for you to regret taking me on as your apprentice.” The boy rose from his kneel and dusted off his coat, returning to his sword kit and beginning to pack everything away.
Daud let out a sigh. This unresolved tension wouldn’t do. Not for the trust he fostered with his pupils and not for the strength of their skill. “Markus…why did I choose you?”
The question caused the boy to stop in his tracks briefly. “…I assume because of my combat abilities.”
“There were better fighters on the same block as you. At least farther along in their skill. They lacked tact and strategy, but in any case, that wasn’t what drew me to you.”
“…Then…?”
Daud stepped closer to Markus. “I saw you…face off against two overseers at 16, with the same attitude as you’d have swatting away mayflies in the summer. Fearless. When I handed you your first blade, I watched you pull it across a mark’s throat at my command without blinking. You showed no hesitation, no pause. You don’t fear the retaliation of the Watch, of the Abbey, of street gangs. Why do you fear that which you cannot see?”
Markus ran his hand over the steel of his sword, his fingertips brushing over the grooves. “…I cannot best the Outsider in combat. And even if I could…what would I gain from it? If I’ve reached death…I’ll have already lost.”
“You’ll never need to, Markus. Look,” Daud began and pulled off the leather glove from his left hand, still warm and lightly damp, before taking Markus by the wrist and removing his glove as well. He placed his palm on the table beside the boy’s, the weathered and calloused surface of his hand framing the imprinted mark and contrasting the smoother and so far unmarred skin of Markus’ hand. “I am the one who carries his mark. Not you. Our work may not bring you easy rest at night, but let this not be one of the thoughts that plague you. We have enough to concern ourselves with.” The assassin picked up Markus’ glove and returned it to his grasp with a toss. “Now go to bed and forget all this. You’ll be advancing in rank tomorrow.”
The boy nodded slowly in understanding. “…Thank you, master,” he exhaled with a deep bow, and immediately returned to his barracks with mask in tow.
Daud hung behind in the weapon room for some time, heaving a great sigh when he finally stood and took out the lighter from his pocket to ignite the end of his last cigarette, leaving a trail of exhaled smoke on the return to his quarters as well.
The boots came off with the gloves, laid to await their next shift at the foot of his bed. His eyes lingered on the obscure outlines of his mark, only barely visible in the moonlight. He studied its contours closely, brow pinched in scrutiny. How far did it sit in his flesh? Was it only on the surface as it appeared? Or did it reach down into the muscle and sinew, etched onto his very bones?
A noise from above shook him from troubled contemplation—a crow, perching on a stray ledge of the building’s rotting roof.
Daud watched its darting head; unusual to see one out this late, he thought, until—he had to double take to make sure his vision wasn’t distorted by the thin lighting conditions. No, it was no mistake…the crow was staring at him. Daud’s brow furrowed in confusion after several moments passed of a disturbing affixation of the bird’s gaze; its flitting avian head movements come to an unnatural stop.
“Shoo!” he spat with a wave of his glove in the air in the bird’s direction, waking no reaction in the crow whatsoever. Only after a few more moments of a piercing gaze, and a chill running up Daud’s back, did it finally lift its wings to ascend from its perch and fly off into the misty night.
He watched it ascend and disappear into the nighttime fog before kicking off his boots and settling into his bed, though an unexplained chill never left his spine that night.
Notes:
[I just love the whalers.....I love them all...could write a fic just about them alone. but for now you'll have to settle for these and more whaler OCs to come. may u enjoy them as much as me :^) also some intricacies about the nature of how daud's power distribution functions were not clear to me in brushing up on the daud/whaler power relationship research...so forgive me if i'm taking some liberties that are not canon cause I could not really figure out the deets of how that ability sharing works lol. enjoy xo]
Chapter 5
Notes:
[hello friends :^) wanted to share a little piece o music that pairs well with this chapter like a nice cabernet...if you're feeling so inclined you can give it a listen after finishing and get choked up as you reflect on the gut punch of it all like me hehehehdhfgsjk
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3swNIj9ySDk
I'm updating these chapters at the speed which my fingers will take me every day so make sure to sub the work if you're eager for more, I'm abandoning all personal priorities to finish this fic lovingly UvU thanks again, -A]
Chapter Text
The muted roar of the rainstorm pelting every surface of the commerce building resounded through the rooms and hallways, penetrating even to the deepest chambers where a group of Daud’s finest pored over last-minute reconnaissance documents behind him. Daud himself stood at the end of the hallway just outside the room, staring out one of the windows. Severe weather like this often worked to his advantage, the veil of rain an added cover against witnessing eyes. But tonight was different. This storm risked carriage accidents, flooding, and delays—and the courier they intended to intercept might not even appear.
He peered downward out the window at the growing pools of water at the base of the legal campus, deliberating on a plan.
“Julian,” Daud’s voice finally broke the silence from his position at the window, still staring out sternly.
“Sir?” a voice from behind answered promptly.
“What date is the delivery scheduled to be made to Sullivan manor?”
The whaler glanced down over the documents briefly. “The…11th, sir.”
Daud nodded silently to himself, sighing and turning to face his team. “We’ll keep watch on the downpour. At first sight of improved conditions, we’ll head out. Consider yourselves on standby. I think the timeline can afford another day or so without risking our moment of opportunity.”
The group of men nodded in understanding and dispersed from the planning room, though remaining close by to depart on a moment’s notice.
Daud relaxed his stance and headed down the corridor back to the main room and searched for a cigar in his pocket. Empty. And after last night’s bout of insomnia, none remained in his personal chest either. With a dissatisfied click of his teeth, he took a detour down a side hall, approaching the old library where he knew he had stashed several boxes of Cullero specials.
It wasn’t an oft visited room–the cloud of dust that billowed into Daud’s face upon entering proved it. This wing of the building was less used as it was merely an abundance of personal offices and small rooms that branched too far off from the main building to store most important items. Spreading their belongings too thinly through the offices never seemed wise when, in theory, they could need to depart from the Rudshore area on a moment’s notice any month now due to the dilapidation becoming too severe (it was a wonder they were still here at all).
As Daud approached the shelf he’d stored his boxes on, a shuffling noise from below had begun to take his attention. Actually, he’d heard it from the moment he entered the room, but it was easy to brush off miscellaneous sounds through the building as one of any number of ambient noises–the old building creaking and shifting, rats skittering about, foundation crumbling. But the more it went on…no, this was no passing rodent. It was much too heavy a sound, from a room below, a fair ways away from the areas his men typically patrolled.
Daud sighed and unsheathed his sword. Weeper extermination was a begrudging duty of his role, but one becoming increasingly necessary over the previous months. Walking to the edge of the floor and staring down into a gaping hole in the wood, Daud followed the sound of the commotion from below, traversing the gaps with a squeeze of his fist.
As he neared the source of the sound, the errant moaning of voices came more clearly into his ears. It was definitely more than one. Daud readied his other hand with a wristbow, prepared for a cluster. Irritating to deal with a group of infected in such confined spaces–how had they even managed to get up this far into the building?
Rounding the corner and pushing open the door that separated him from the source of the noise, Daud stumbled back and grimaced at being met with a sight that was nothing short of upsetting. “Oh, for the love of...”
The one on top turned around first, unlocking his mouth from the other whaler’s to choke out a gasp as he shuffled off the edge of the desk in a scattered panic, grabbing his tunic quickly to begin dressing himself again–though it was too late to save himself from being seen. “Daud–”
“Damn it, Elias, I told you to use the sight to see if anyone was coming!” the one underneath berated as he returned to his feet. He had apparently stopped just short of disrobing to the point of no return right before Daud’s entry. He reached to grab his mask first, tempted to put it on to shield himself from the shame of having to look his superior in the eye.
“I-I…became distracted–”
“Gentlemen,” Daud interjected sharply, his voice drenched in distaste. “Clothe yourselves immediately. By the void, are there really such children under my employment?” he questioned with an exasperated resheathing of his blade. “Clean yourselves up at once and come back upstairs. Elias,” he began once more as he turned to exit, locking eyes with the first whaler, “I’ll want to see you in my quarters before nightfall.”
The assassin didn’t stick around to witness the look of humiliation on the man’s face or hear his sigh of defeat before invoking the void to blink him out of the room at once. There were times that even instantaneous relocation wasn’t fast enough.
Somehow Daud had lost his appetite for the cigars.
“Are you ready?” he called across the stretch of the room.
Another slow breath through the nose. “Yes.”
“Remember the delay–”
“I am ready , Daud,” she bit back. She was skilled with her tools, but had yet to master her inner fire.
Pulling up his arm to aim, he held for a moment of pause before firing off his wristbow at her, aiming right at her nose. This was the only of his trainees he had ever performed such a brazen test with. But…something he saw in her allowed him to fire off the shot without fear.
For Daud, it was only a heartbeat of time (he could have chosen to follow her if he wanted to, but that wasn't the point of the test). For Billie, when she flexed that still strange impulse within her that allowed her to invoke his abilities, it was several moments spent in that eerie quiet, on another plane of reality from her surroundings.
When she opened her eyes, the arrow was less than an arm’s length from her face. She let out an incredulous half-relieved, half-proud breath at her timing, and gazed down the path of the arrow to Daud’s arm, still suspended out in front of him. She plucked the frozen arrow from the air and walked over to his side, harnessing her force once again to return the passage of time to its normal flow.
Within the same instant Daud had fired his shot, Billie appeared instantaneously beside him before he could even lower his aiming arm, arrow in hand. She was doing her best to wear an air of diligence and professionalism, but by now Daud knew she was holding back a smug grin.
“Like that?” she prodded confidently.
“...Evidently,” Daud replied, turning back to his desk and suppressing a grin of his own until the figure of one of his men caught his eye, standing in the doorway. He needed no identification despite being clad in identical garb to the dozens of others. “...That’ll be all, Billie. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
Billie nodded and glanced at the whaler at the door, her cocked brow invisible to him under the mask as she brushed past him to exit through the same door.
Daud took a seat at his desk and let out a sigh as he relaxed into the seat. “Come in, Elias.”
The recruit approached tentatively, standing before Daud and removing his mask to stare expectantly at him. “Master, I understand that you’ll have to dismiss me–”
“I expected better from you, Elias. You’re his superior. I’m holding you accountable for this, not him.”
The young man’s voice seemed to catch in his throat for a moment, but finally let out a sigh. “I can only apologize for my…behavior, master. It was unacceptable. I’ll be gone by morning.”
Daud shook his head, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him. “But why?”
“...Why, sir?”
“Why is it unacceptable? And to whom?”
“...To you, sir? Fraternizing between us is inappropriate, even when not actively on patrol. On building property, it’s–”
Daud slammed his hand on the desk and stood up from his seat. “No, Elias. Even if you had done it in the privacy of some hovel anywhere else in Dunwall, in the dead of night, it should still be unacceptable to you, and to Felix. Not me, though I find your choice of time and place to be detestable. Have you forgotten what you give up when you pick up the blade?”
Elias sat in silence for a moment. “...I understand, sir,” he murmured.
“Do you?” Daud stepped closer, his shadow looming. “Because if your priorities are on sugarplums and schoolyard crushes when we’re out there, at the end of a sword or pistol, and your head is halfway to kingdom come when I need your skills alongside me because of some folly of the heart–”
At this Elias finally dared to speak up. “Forgive my interruption sir, but I would never allow such a lapse to happen. Have you seen my focus waver yet on the field?”
Daud’s stare held firm. Billie’s performance earlier flashed briefly in his mind. Impulsive, yes, but always clear-headed when it mattered. She was a weapon honed to precision—no remnants of distraction. A lesson Elias could have stood to learn.
“You’re rather bold today, doubting my judgement,” Daud continued, his tone cold. “Are you going to put me in a position to test if you’ll lose focus when it counts?”
Elias clasped his hands behind his back and held his chin high as he stood his ground. “With respect, sir, if you thought me weak of mind I wouldn’t be here. I’ve trained harder than anyone at my level. I’ve sacrificed as much as anyone here, maybe more. I would never let my feelings interf–”
“You think I care how hard you’ve trained? Strength is worthless if your head is clouded!” Daud narrowed his gaze at the subordinate. “And I’ve watched stronger men than you fall because they couldn’t separate their heart from their blade. You may think you can fight through it, for now. But will that hold when his life’s on the line? Or yours? Or mine? What happens when you’re forced to make a choice?”
Elias held his tongue. He thought better than to retort again.
Daud pulled one of his previously retrieved cigars from his pocket. “When you took up my post, you agreed to a deal. Your life isn’t yours anymore—it’s mine. And the sooner you accept that, the fewer bodies I’ll have to bury. End it, or you’ll find out what happens when I stop trusting you.” His thumb flicked the lighter, smoke curling from his lips. “...I’m going to use the remainder of that trust to let you decide, right now. If you stay, I never want to see another trace of this involvement again.”
The whaler’s brow stiffened with resolve, taking a deep bow. “Yes, sir. It is forgotten.”
“You’re on probation for the next three months,” Daud waved and took his seat once more. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“Master,” he greeted gratefully, eager to leave the room.
They would have to take some kind of a break after this, Daud thought. Just for a short while. The current heist had taken weeks of planning and reconnaissance, and kept the majority of his men at work night and day after five months of an unusually continuous string of missions.
In reality, though, it would only take a simple walk through the city to demonstrate how not unusual it was. Death hung in the air, trapping everything in an inescapable net. Desperation had taken root in the hearts of thousands, and coin flowed freely toward any reckless solution: theft of resources, murder of any perceived threats, paranoid demands for a personal bodyguard (as if a skilled swordsman at the door could stop the plague from entering).
They were thriving, in a way. But none of them had experienced this level of work since he had formally assembled the whalers. They didn’t need it then. But now, with plague demand skyrocketing the price of resources on both the white and black markets—and an ever growing band of men to look after—Daud hadn’t turned down a job in months.
This one, at least, had gone off without a hitch. The payload was already tucked inside his coat, waiting to be delivered. The research documents had been kept under layers of security in the form of personal guards at the physicist’s home, various Sokolov devices, and a safe with a key that Billie had scoped the password to days prior.
Daud allowed himself a brief moment of relief as they began their retreat to base. Easy coin, he thought. Too easy. He should have known better.
Nothing was ever that simple in Dunwall.
Movement through the district was smooth enough, he and the others passing unseen along rooftops until they had reached the warehouses at the outskirts of the industrial district.
Billie motioned to stop Daud at the edge of the building, crouching to perch along the shingles while the others caught up behind them. “Daud, that first building there,” she gestured. “That’s where the tip said the supply drop would be.”
Daud followed her eyeline and peered narrowly at the warehouse. The area was relatively unpopulated, perhaps a stray dock worker here and there. The informant had picked a favorable location. Daud was already feeling himself grow a bit weary at the lack of elixir. “Wait for me outside,” he instructed, glancing back to receive a nod of affirmation from the three behind him.
In a few fluid movements, Daud had traversed the loading yard and dropped to his feet at the opening of the warehouse’s sliding doors. Even without stepping fully inside, the air pulsed with void magic, thrumming through his bones familiarly.
His footsteps were soft on the smooth stone, his eyes scrutinizing as they scanned the room, tracing the lines of crates and stacked machinery. No sign of a drop anywhere, but contacts in the past have been known to plant supplies in obtuse locations rather than to let an exchange fall through because the wrong man came upon the stash.
Advancing further into the room alerted Daud to a notable increase of the humming draw of an artifact, seeming to come from behind a stack of palettes. The silence stretched thin, taut as a bowstring save for that quiet singing that only those cursed charms made.
Then it hit—a jagged, mechanical wail that split the air, crawling through his skull and down into his chest. He couldn’t help but grimace, his jaw clenching and eyes shutting for a moment before summoning the willpower to fight every instinct telling him to flee.
His hand returned to the hilt of his blade, taking several steps back to both distance himself from the awful sounds and to assess his surroundings. It was then that he saw the four of them, appearing from behind cover with blades and pistols drawn…and a music box.
“So, the heretic comes to collect his blasphemous toys,” one of them sneered, his voice filled with righteous disgust.
“Shit–” Daud groaned, drawing his blade even as the sickening melody had already begun to lay its leaden blanket over him, dampening his movement and reflexes. Through a narrow glance, Daud caught a glimpse of a rune fastened to the overseer’s belt. A clever trap, he had to admit.
The first strike came fast. Daud parried it, twisting to deflect a second blow that came from his left. The clash of steel filled the room as the hurried footsteps of Billie and the others came up behind them. They just barely outnumbered the zealots–five for four, and it should’ve been a laughable task–but all of Daud’s men were equally as reliant on their powers for the advantage.
The others descended upon the overseers like a tide of shadows, their strikes relentless despite the oppressive dirge that robbed them of their arcane powers. Billie took up a spot at Daud’s six, covering his blind spot as the others ran up ahead.
“More of you vermin?” one goaded contemptuously. “Even better.” The Abbeyman swung his sword toward one of the masked mercenaries, only for him to evade backwards and fire a shot in return, piercing an arrow into the zealot’s leg and using his blade arm to cut him down in one smooth attack.
Billie fired next at the one holding the music box, the arrow ricocheting off the contraption with a clang. “Damn,” she cursed under her breath, the vibrations rattling her ribcage and threatening to collapse her.
“Your tricks cannot save you,” he snarled with pride, churning away at the device’s crank. “The Abbey will see you burn for your corruption!”
The one at Daud’s right–the youngest one–nimble as ever, leapt forward in a final gust of effort against the debilitating shriek of the music, plunging his blade deep into the overseer’s chest. The satisfaction of the kill lasted only an instant before the bullet followed, hitting his back with a timing that left him and his newly impaled victim falling to the ground together.
“Fall back!” Daud barked over the cacophony, pulling the last smoke bomb he had on his person and flinging it at the ground. “We’re leaving, now!”
After a collective retreat and the gas canister’s fumes incapacitating the overseers for just enough time to find the void’s touch once again, the team disappeared around the backside of the warehouse.
Behind them, a distant voice called from within. “You run now…but the Void cannot hide you forever!”
They spilled into the alleyway, the sound of the music fading as they vanished into the city’s labyrinthine shadows. It wasn’t until they reached the rooftop—silent and safe above the chaos—that Daud assessed the state of his team.
Luckily Billie was always easy to identify, in her crimson uniform (so determined to stand out even in anonymity). Yet of his men, only two remained.
“Who’s still with us?”
“I’m here, sir,” Thomas affirmed in his unmistakable voice.
Daud shot a look of anticipation at the remaining whaler. “Felix?”
Elias’ voice came grimly after a pause. “...No, sir.”
The following silence was like a chasm, the masked fighters glancing at one another before returning their gaze, expectant and attentive, to their leader.
Daud’s face remained impassive, his voice calm but edged with finality. “Let’s move. It’s nearly dusk.” He glanced at Elias and pulled the bundled schematics from his coat, handing it over. “Make the drop before dawn.”
Elias took the bundle, his eyes exchanging a glance down at the package then back up at Daud’s eyes, his brow firm as ever. “...Yes, sir.”
Without a word further he disappeared from the rooftop, and the remainder of them took off for the hideout.
The faint, watery light of dawn crept over the rooftops of the city, pale and sluggish as if reluctant to illuminate the decay it found there. Daud’s room was dim, and the dilapidation of the building offered him no reprieve from the morning cold. He sat upright on the edge of his bed, donning his blouse once more and sliding his feet into his boots. Sleep had not come to him—not truly. It never did. It lingered just beyond his grasp, teasing him with brief moments of oblivion before dragging him back into his own thoughts. Without the touch of the Void, who knew what impairment he might suffer in his mental acuity after such a chronic disruption to his rest.
Tonight that disruption lingered, more sharply than usual…though not unfamiliar. The loss of Felix was another tally in a long ledger; expected, if inconvenient. It wasn’t grief Daud felt—not in the way others might define it. He’d shed that weight years ago. His mind turned now to strategy. Elias had potential—more than most—but he was still young, still vulnerable to the kind of doubt that crept in like a poison and curdled purpose into hesitation.
Doubt, Daud knew, was deadly.
With a grunt he rose to his feet, the bed creaking beneath the shift of his weight. His joints felt stiff, a dull ache in his shoulders and knees from hours spent motionless. He straightened his coat, returned his weathered gloves to his hands once again, and strode toward the door.
The corridor beyond was quiet, empty save for the faint sound of the wind rattling loose shingles. Thomas was in the common room, seated at a makeshift table with a steaming cup of something that smelled faintly of herbs. He glanced up as Daud entered, his expression neutral but attentive.
“Has Elias returned?” Daud asked, his tone clipped.
Thomas nodded. “Late last night. Dropped the payload and came back without a word. I last saw him near the oil refinery.”
Daud’s lips thinned at that. Without a word.
He inclined his head, a gesture that might have been gratitude if he’d allowed himself such pleasantries. He readied himself to head out across the campus toward the refinery, but not before detouring through the commerce building to stop by the whaler barracks first.
Across the yard, Daud found him perched on the edge of the neighboring building, a dark silhouette against the pale sky. The city stretched out below, rooftops jagged and uneven. Elias was seated on the edge of the roof, legs hung over the side, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the city’s sprawl.
For a moment, Daud simply watched him. Elias’ posture was composed, shoulders square, hands resting loosely on his thighs, but there was a stillness about him that spoke volumes. He hadn’t moved when Daud approached, nor did he acknowledge his presence now. It was as though he’d been carved from the very stone of the city, a silent figure bearing a weight too heavy to speak of.
“How did the drop go?” Daud asked, breaking the quiet. His voice was low, carrying no judgment. He neared the roof’s edge, keeping a careful distance as he stood beside the younger man.
“The client didn’t ask questions,” Elias replied flatly. “Payload delivered. No complications.”
Daud nodded. “Good work. You’ve done everything I asked of you.”
Elias remained still, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Another silence, heavier this time. The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint tang of brine from the Wrenhaven.
“Felix was a valuable member,” Daud continued finally, his words deliberate, as if testing their own weight. “Loyal. Reliable. Losing him…it’s a shame.”
Elias shifted slightly, as though the words had struck a nerve he couldn’t admit was there. “He knew the risks. We all do.”
The city hummed faintly beneath them, the distant sounds of early risers stirring in the streets below. Daud’s gaze drifted, taking in the skyline as he gathered his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but firm, like the strike of a blade against stone.
“I’m going to dismiss you, Elias. Thomas should have already given you your share of coin from this mission. Be gone by tomorrow.”
At this Elias finally turned to face Daud, standing from his perch on the roof’s edge. “Dismiss? I–...Master, you said I’d passed my probation period. That I’d proven myself to you.”
“You don’t belong here, Elias,” he answered matter-of-factly. “This life…it’ll hollow you out. You’ll lose more than just comrades. You’ll lose yourself.”
“…I believe I am capable of the task, sir,” he began, “I’ve shown I can handle the cost.” He spoke every word with intent, almost pleading. It was unclear if he was trying to convince Daud or himself.
Daud stepped closer, his voice audible only to Elias now. “You think you can. The cracks don’t show right away, Elias, but they come. And when they do, you’ll find yourself somewhere worse than grief. For as much as you might like to…I don’t want to see you join him.”
The whaler’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He looked back out over the city, his expression hidden under the hooded mask. “…I suppose I can’t convince you to reconsider. If that’s your decision, I’ll respect it.”
“This isn’t a punishment,” Daud answered. “It’s mercy. And I don’t offer it often.”
Elias inclined his head, just enough to acknowledge the words. “…Understood.”
Daud reached into his pocket and pulled out an object, wrapped in a scrap of leather. A small pocket knife with a simple design etched into the handle, with little use as more than a letter opener—taken from Felix’s footlocker.
“Take it,” Daud said. “It’s not much. But it’s his. And it’s yours now.”
Elias hesitated before taking the knife, examining it in his hands and tracing his finger along the handle. He wrapped the leather back around it tenderly, as if it might shatter in his hands at any moment. Though he was shielded by his mask, the faintest flicker of something came through his mannerisms—gratitude, perhaps, or a pain too deep for words.
“…You said I don’t belong here,” he began, his voice quiet, bare of whatever stoicism he’d managed to assert until now. “But I’m not certain I belong anywhere else. All I know is what you’ve taught me. …What am I supposed to do now?”
Daud took a look out over Dunwall from where the whaler had been standing. His shadow stretched out underneath him in the pale light. “Survive. Use what you’ve learned to protect yourself. You have something the rest of us lost a long time ago. Don’t let this world take it from you.” He reached for his pocket a final time and handed Elias a note with his handwriting on it. “If you’re in need, find this address and ask for Ludmilla. Tell her I sent you. She’ll have ample work for you.”
The young man nodded slowly, taking the note and gripping it tightly along with the bundle in his hands, gazing at the memento with an invisible longing. “...Thank you, master,” he said finally in a voice just above a whisper.
“I’m not your master anymore.”
Elias looked up to meet Daud’s eyes, then removed his mask and hood, and handed them off to his once teacher.
With his final measure of fortitude, he placed the knife in his pocket and shot Daud a final look of silent acknowledgement, an unspoken thanks for his mentorship, before turning away to begin his journey away from Rudshore—from Dunwall. This time, he would use no magic.
Daud watched as Elias climbed down from the roof and disappeared into the winding alleys below. When he was gone, Daud remained there, staring out over the city as the sun climbed higher, casting its light on a world that never stopped taking.
Chapter Text
Daud ran his thumb along the handle of the small blade in his hand, toying with the grooves of the engraving in the antlerbone with such a persistence that it had already begun to dull the sharp edges of the decorative etching. A rag and basin of cloudy water sat beside him on the desk, alongside a small hand mirror whose surface held a thin fracture along the perimeter of the glass.
The faint fragrance of soap still hung in the air, though the pleasant scent wasn’t enough to break the absence of mind Daud found himself in, his eyes transfixed on some distant point that may as well have been a window directly into the Void. Shaving had always been a meditative act—a ritual by which to anchor himself to the present. A deliberate act of control. But today, it had done little to still the unease that had taken him by the bones and tethered him to his seat.
His gaze drifted past the mirror to the window, where the last vestiges of twilight bathed the yard in a pale, fleeting glow. Shadows stretched long across the walkways of the Rudshore campus, their edges softened by the encroaching dusk.
For an hour, he had waited with his eyes drawn in restless anticipation to the bridge that led to his quarters. Any moment now, he told himself; waiting to hear the faint echo of her footsteps, the sharp rap of her boots against the metal. But the silence held fast.
Beyond the doors to his room, muted voices carried through the corridors, rising and falling like waves breaking against distant cliffs. The Whalers gathered in scattered clusters, their conversations hushed, their tones clipped. They never spoke openly when he was near, but Daud felt the weight of their words all the same. Their discipline might have kept their tongues in check, but it couldn’t disguise the shift in the air, the disquieting undercurrent of tension threading through their ranks. They were watching him. They always were.
From the far end of the room, a faint knock finally broke Daud from his reverie and pulled his attention to the chamber doors. “What is it?”
With a soft creak the door opened and Thomas crossed the threshold to step inside, approaching Daud steadily.
“Master, I’ve checked with the others. They’re ready to move at first light.”
Daud’s gaze lingered on him for a moment as though considering the words, though his thoughts seemed elsewhere. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the report but saying nothing. His fingers drummed absently against the desk, the rhythm irregular.
Thomas stood silently, waiting. The faint flicker of the oil lamp deepening the shadows on Daud’s face, casting him in stark relief. He couldn’t have looked all that different now than last month, Thomas thought, but it was certain—somehow the lines on his brow seemed deeper than ever.
“...And Lurk?”
“I assume she’s nearly finished her scouting. She said she would do a sweep of the perimeter of the base before she reported back. Should I pull someone else to cover her sector until she’s returned?”
Daud exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze falling once more to the straight razor in his hands, tucked away neatly into its sheath. “No,” he spoke through his settling breath. “Let her finish. It’s nearly dark.”
There was a pause where neither of them spoke. Thomas shifted slightly, his hands clasped behind his back, and when Daud finally looked up, their gaze met briefly (though Daud could only picture the blue eyes behind Thomas’ mask).
“Anything else?” Daud prompted.
“...No, sir.” Thomas hesitated for the briefest moment, another breath passing between the two of them before adding, “I’ll keep the men ready.”
Daud’s gaze lingered on him for a fraction longer before he gave a curt nod. “Good.”
Thomas stepped back, offering a slight bow of his head before retreating toward the door. As his hand rested on the latch, he paused. “...Sir,” he began, his voice carefully measured, “if there’s something more you need of me, you only have to say.”
Daud’s eyes narrowed, the faintest trace of curiosity crossing his dark eyes before it was extinguished. “...That’ll be all, Thomas.”
Thomas inclined his head once more, his face impassive. “Of course.” He slipped out, the door closing softly behind him.
A breath Daud didn’t seem to know he had been holding left his lungs, a small tension leaving his shoulders. His hand resumed its earlier rhythm with the knife, though his grip was tighter now, the motions less fluid. The sound of distant water dripping onto stone filled the silence, whispering to remind of the rot and decay that engulfed him. Some days he wondered if perhaps Void and world had been merging for him, if maybe for those with this cursed sigil embedded into their skin death was not some quick strike that came suddenly but rather the end point of a long and slow withering of reality, until all that was left was nothingness and you hadn’t even realized you were dead.
When the lamp’s oil finally burned low, Daud rose, leaving the papers and the knife untouched as he stepped away from the desk. He moved toward the window, where the faint outline of the city’s ruins stretched beyond the darkness, fractured and impenetrable. He watched, waiting for something to make itself clear. But nothing did.
He had already begun a stride towards the stairs leading to his bed when the faint scrape of footsteps along the walkway came into earshot. Daud turned his head sharply, his gaze narrowing as he stepped back into view of the doorway. Billie entered unceremoniously, brushing her gloves hands off on her coat. Her demeanor was cool and unaffected as ever, but under the mask a sheen of sweat lay on her brow despite the chill outside.
“You’re back late,” Daud remarked.
Billie shrugged, pulling her hood back and smoothing her hair with one hand. “Ran into a couple of vagrants poking around near the north side of the campus. They scattered before I could get a good look, but I made sure they won’t be coming back.”
Daud’s gaze lingered on her, still and unblinking, measuring her answer as one might weigh the heft of a blade. “Didn’t hear any commotion.”
“Didn’t need to make one,” Billie replied smoothly, meeting his stare without flinching. “They weren’t much of a threat.”
Daud said nothing, letting a silence settle between them. Then, with a faint grunt, he stepped away from the window and began slowly toward the stairs again. “What do you have for me?”
“There’s overseer activity at the edges of the district, just barely making its way across the outskirts. Based on my intel, they don’t have our whereabouts, but there’s higher numbers of them than usual. Something to keep an eye on.”
The nod he gave back was more of a hanging of his head than anything else, his eyes falling to the floor and not meeting Billie’s again. “We’ll disperse some surveillance farther out past the usual area tomorrow. Get some rest for now, Billie.”
Billie’s eyes hung on him as she turned to leave the room. “You too, old man.” Her voice was softer than usual, lacking its characteristic snark that Daud had inadvertently grown fond of over the years.
Daud’s eyes didn’t lift again until just the tail end of her foot was all he could catch on her way out, and he watched the door for another minute as if she might reappear before turning up the stairs to the closest thing he had to private quarters.
From the side of his view, the moon caught his eye. It hung low and swollen in the sky, beaming an inescapable and oppressive glow down onto him through the barred windows of his decrepit home. Daud almost cringed at the feeling, like it was watching him, casting a spotlight over his every move like all the city’s watchtowers combined into one massive and terrible structure—no doubt manned at its peak by that black eyed bastard himself.
He let out a heaving groan as he settled into his bed and removed his boots and coat. He and Billie hadn’t spoken these days like they used to.
But then again, nothing was like it used to be, now. And whatever had changed between them, Daud wasn’t one for pulling strings. He preferred to let them tighten on their own until they snapped.
Tonight, though, there was no snap. Only the heavy hum of the Flooded District, the slow churn of waters below, and the faint feeling of something long overdue shifting just beyond his field of view.
“I’m just saying,” the taller one spoke in a light tone, careful not to let their voice carry across the reverberant concrete of the building’s alcove. “It’s strange to be so aloof, even for him. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. He doesn’t talk to us anymore unless he has to.”
Just above them Billie sat at the edge of the stoop, elbows on her knees as her feet dangled above the heads of the younger recruits below.
The other one shrugged, resting a hand on his hip as his eyes continued their vigilant scan of the courtyard below. “Maybe he’s just getting old. You seen how he moves lately? Like he’s dragging something.”
“Maybe it’s not his feet that are heavy.”
The two below turned their heads up to her, almost startled at her sudden contribution to the conversation after radio silence for the last hour.
“What are you getting at?”
“I mean,” Billie went on, her words dropping into the air like an accusation, “a man doesn’t carry that much blood on his hands without feeling the weight of it, eventually. Sometimes enough to drown you.”
“Daud?” The taller one scoffed under his breath, keeping his voice barely above the wind. “Thought he didn’t feel anything. That’s why he’s Daud.”
“No one’s unshakeable,” Billie murmured, her head tilting as she watched the flitting of rats across the courtyard like they were ants on a stone. “Not forever. Even the sharpest blades lose their edge.”
The others fell silent for a moment, sharing a look between themselves, her lamentations settling slowly upon them like a falling leaf caught in a hesitant breeze; reluctant to reach the ground but destined to land all the same.
Thomas—who had been crouched with a statuesque stillness at the far edge of the alcove (and who had refrained from conversation since they’d taken their posts) finally turned his head towards the group. “Keep your focus on the street.”
They turned to regard him, the younger one flinching slightly at his sudden interjection.
“We’re just talking,” Billie retorted coolly, not bothering to glance his way.
“You’re gossiping,” Thomas corrected, straightening to his feet as he shot a dispassionate look at the younger recruits—though his words seemed intended for Billie alone. “And gossip won’t keep you vigilant. The Overseers could advance at any time. Would you rather be found with your guard down when they do? Enough of this foolishness.”
The young one clasped her hands in front of her, anchoring her feet more firmly into the ground as she returned her gaze to the yard. “Yes, sir.”
Billie lingered for a moment, her sideways glance resting on Thomas as a smirk returned to her lips under the cover of her mask. “Touchy,” she mumbled, just loud enough to reach his ears.
Thomas did not deign to respond, his attention remaining fixed unwaveringly on the yard below.
Yet—maybe in the way he seemed to square up his posture just a fraction tighter than usual, or the way he turned away deliberately from Billie—there was a momentary glimpse of something that only her eye caught. A fleeting tremor in Thomas's usually unyielding focus.
A seed planted.
It was sunset again before Daud knew it, plunging their hideout into yet another murky twilight and the same cloud of briny fog that accented every evening in this Void forsaken corner of the city.
After hours of what started as fruitless investigation and dead ends, the day’s work had eventually yielded several promising leads to that cryptic name the God had left him with, spoken like a curse. For all his contempt at being sent on another aimless chase at the behest of that black eyed bastard, it was something to do. Something to occupy a mind that otherwise churned ceaselessly and threatened to rot him from the inside before Corvo ever even arrived at his door.
But now the quiet of the base had crept in once more with a frightening persistence, and with it came the restlessness—a gnawing disquiet that no work could truly banish. He had told himself that a meal might stave off the roiling thoughts, and ease the ache in his stomach and in his spirit alike.
When he rose from his desk and moved toward the door, a faint murmur reached his ears, carried on the cold breath of the evening.
He stepped closer to the window, catching a glimpse of the red hue of Billie’s coat before seeing her actual face. She sat against the wall of the alleyway with a cigarette between her lips, gas mask tucked loosely under her free arm. He realized then it was Thomas’ voice that had caught his attention, low and even as it rose from the shadows where he had appeared in an unannounced transversal, silent as a wisp of smoke.
“Lurk,” he repeated, carrying more of a bite on his tongue the second time around.
“Well, if it isn’t Daud’s most devoted,” she taunted with a mocking lilt, wearing a light grin as she tapped the ash from her cigarette. “I’m having a smoke. Can’t it wait?”
“I wanted a word,” he continued, coming to a stop a few paces away. “Alone. So I’m afraid it can’t.”
“A word, huh?” she conceded, heaving a sigh as she tossed the remainder of her cigarette into the gravel. “Alright, let’s hear it. Got a bedtime story for me?”
“You’ve been stirring the pot, Billie. I’ve heard enough from the others. And I’ve heard you. Planting false doubt, sowing mistrust—it ends now.”
Billie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “False? You give me too much credit. People aren’t blind, Thomas. They see what’s as plain as day. Daud’s slipping, and they don’t need me to spell it out.”
Thomas took a step closer, his voice dropping. “You’re not ‘people.’ You’re second to him. If you have doubts about his leadership, say it to him. Not behind his back.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” Billie countered, her eyes narrowing. “Run to Daud? Tell him I’ve been naughty? Or are you afraid he won’t believe you?”
“I don’t need him to believe me,” Thomas replied, his words hard as steel as they left his teeth. “I need you to stop. Whatever you’re playing at, it ends here.”
Billie tilted her head, studying him with a sly smile. “You’re awfully protective of him, aren’t you?" she drawled, crossing her arms slowly over her chest. "Always ready to jump in and defend his honor. Makes a girl wonder why.”
Thomas didn’t flinch. “He’s earned my loyalty. That’s more than I can say for you.”
“Loyalty,” Billie repeated, her smile twisting into something more mocking. She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial purr. “Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like something else.”
Thomas’ stare held firm. “Has the sight of integrity become that foreign to you, Billie? He’s my leader. And yours.”
Billie’s dark eyes narrowed, the grin on her lips sharpening at the edges. “Oh, it’s more than that. I’ve seen the way you look at him. It’s almost sweet, really. Like a dog waiting for a pat on the head.”
“Say what you want about me, Billie. You’ve always been good at spinning a story when it suits you. But don’t mistake my loyalty for weakness. I once thought you better than a coward who undermines their master in secret. Don’t forget who built this gang.”
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, beginning a slow pace around Thomas. “Built it, sure. But maybe he should’ve known when to let it go. A leader who can’t lead is just dead weight, Thomas.”
“If you’re so convinced he’s lost his way, why not challenge him outright?” Thomas’ head tilted forward, resting a hand on his hip. “Or are you afraid of what’ll happen when you do?”
She straightened now, and for a moment, something harder and less certain crossed her eyes.
“...Maybe I’m waiting. Maybe I’m giving him time to prove me wrong. But you don’t really think he can, do you?" she went on, stopping close enough to lower her voice. "Not deep down. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be out here, trying so hard to convince me...or yourself.”
Thomas took a slow breath, letting the chill steady him. “I’m afraid I’m not as easy to sway with your rhetoric as the newer recruits, Billie.”
“You sway yourself, Thomas. You’ll believe anything as long as you don’t have to face the truth. Because if Daud falls, where does that leave you? The faithful lieutenant, clinging to the wreckage of a sinking ship. You’ve tied yourself so tightly to him, you’d drown right alongside him.”
Thomas finally pulled his hood down, dropping his mask down around his neck to look Billie in the eye. “Better to drown with a man I respect rather than scuttle the ship myself out of ambition and spite.”
He stepped closer to Billie one last time, their faces close enough to feel the heat of one another’s breath.
“Talk all you want about Daud, but face the truth, Billie—this isn’t about him at all. It’s about you. You think if you knock him down, you’ll stand taller. But you’re wrong. And the others will see it too, in time—that is if you don’t get killed for mutiny first.”
Billie’s lips pressed into a thin line, the mask of her self assurance slipping just slightly. But then she laughed, a low, bitter sound. “I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” She took the mask from under her arm now, pulling it back over her head and pulling up her hood around it. “...How about this, Thomas? Go tell him. Tell him everything I said, make sure he cuts me down where I stand. Unless, of course, you think I might be right. I’ll let you be the judge.”
With that, Billie brushed past Thomas’ shoulder on her way up and out of the building’s back passage, disappearing into the air like mist.
Thomas remained where he stood, his ribcage rising and falling in a desperate attempt to steady himself, and eyes fixed with a fiery intensity on the wall as if searching for some answer in the cracks of its mortar. He wanted to cast her accusations aside and dismiss them as nothing more than the mutterings of a dissenter who had long since lost her faith. But doubt, once spoken, had a way of burrowing into the mind.
Was he as blind as she said? Was his loyalty not strength but a kind of sickness, wound like a leash around his throat so tightly that he could no longer tell where devotion ended and delusion began?
Loyalty in the Isles was not a thing of comfort. It was a pact often sealed in blood, and the ways it asked to be proven were never easy. He had always understood this.
And yet—
A rat skittered across the cobblestones nearby, the tiny claws clicking against the stones pulling Thomas from his thoughts. He watched its hurried escape with a grim expression. Dunwall’s rats, like its people, always survived by the narrowest of margins, crawling through the cracks left by larger forces. But Daud wasn’t a rat—he was the force of death itself.
Or he had been.
With a sharp inhale, Thomas, too, returned his well worn mask and hood to their rightful places on his head. He pulled the straps of his mask a little more tightly, as if it would shield him from identifying himself as much as from another—but no such comfort came. Instead what came was an intrusive image of Daud’s face, staunch and unwavering, appearing before him like a ghost.
If he had been listening, if he had heard any of this, what would he have seen in Thomas’ face?
And what would Thomas see in his?
-
Daud remained at the window for some time after Billie disappeared, his gaze fixed on the spot where Thomas still stood. The younger man’s shoulders were squared tense and rigid as if bracing himself against some unseen blow. And when he finally turned and walked away, Daud also left his quiet perch, returning to the halls of the commerce building with only the creak of the floorboards as his companion.
Lately, he felt more like an audience member to his own life than the actor he once was. Like he was somehow both puppeteer and puppet, pulling the strings even as he danced involuntarily to their movement. It was in moments like these, when the threads of his fate and that of his counterparts tangled beneath his watchful eye, that he felt a sickening kinship with the Outsider—that silent voyeur to the theater of human folly.
For the first time he wondered, really wondered, how was it? To stand eternally at a remove, watching people scramble and betray, act and react, with all the grace of marionettes tugged along their erratic paths? Was that where his detachment came from now, this growing apathy that chilled him more than the coastal fog of Dunwall ever could?
Billie had made her move, one years in the making. And Thomas—no, all his Whalers—stood now at the precipice with her; all of them players in the terrible unfolding of something he both directed and could not influence. And Daud himself? He watched. Half-amused and half-sickened, drawn insatiably into the spectacle as though it were someone else’s life entirely.
Perhaps it was, he considered. Perhaps that was all that was left of him now. A hapless witness to the consequences of a thousand choices, waiting to see if the final act would bring redemption, or simply the curtain falling on all that he had built.
The meal he’d prepared was meager, as they had nearly all been for the past year, at the mercy of rations and whatever farmers remained untouched by disease. The stew of some small game, with bread to fill the remaining gaps in appetite.
The echo of Billie’s boots reached the room before she did, and when she appeared in the doorway Daud did not yet look up to regard her.
“You sent for me, sir?”
He took his time breaking the loaf in his hand in two, setting one of the halves down in the plate across from him over a longer than usual stretch of silence. “You haven’t eaten much today,” he said finally, glancing at her as he took his seat.
Billie hesitated in the doorway, caught off guard by his tone—neither commanding nor critical, but calm, almost inviting. “I’ve been busy,” she replied lightly, masking her surprise.
“And now you’re not.” Daud pulled himself closer to the table, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
After a moment’s pause, she complied, lowering herself into the chair with a casualness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She removed her mask and set it on the floor beside them, giving a small nod of gratitude as she took the bread to absently pick off a smaller portion. “Thank you.”
Daud gave a nod. “How’s that knee holding up?”
Her eyes found his once more, nodding as she wiped the crumbs from her lap. “Fine. The wrap helped a lot.”
He watched her for a long moment, his eyes scanning her familiar features as she brought a spoonful to her mouth, then leaned back slightly, his own plate untouched.
“Do you remember that time in the Waterfront District, when you decided you were going to prove yourself by sneaking into that Overseer encampment alone?”
Billie stilled, her brow furrowing slightly. “Which time?”
A faint smile ghosted over Daud’s lips. “The first time. You couldn’t have been more than eighteen. You swore up and down you didn’t need backup. Said you’d mapped every route, knew every patrol schedule. ...And then you tripped over a loose board on your way out and twisted your ankle.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” she huffed softly, stubbornness rising ever so slightly in her voice even now. “That board was practically rotten.”
“And yet, it was loud enough to wake half the camp,” Daud said through a soft chuckle. “By the time we pulled you out, you were cursing louder than the Overseers chasing you. I thought we’d have to gag you just to make it back to the hideout without being followed.”
You didn’t have to pull me out,” she went on, placing her spoon down. “I would’ve handled it.”
Daud tilted his head slightly, locked onto her eyes with a faint intensity. “Maybe. But you didn’t have to. That’s the thing about running with a crew—you’re not alone. You shouldn’t have to be.”
The sentiment lingered in the air, carrying with it a heaviness that Billie couldn’t quite shrug off. She looked down at her plate, her appetite vanishing as the memory settled over her like a too-warm cloak.
Daud finally began to eat from his own plate, allowing a quiet between them as they made their way through their portions. Some time later he spoke again, wiping his mouth on a cloth. “I still remember finding you, like it was only this morning. Thin as bones and half-starved…but you didn’t even flinch when you saw me. Any kid your age would’ve run screaming, but you…you stood there. Like you were daring me to kill you,” he laughed softly. “Impressing me from day one. Watching you grow, seeing the skill you’ve honed—it’s been... something to behold.”
Billie said nothing, but returned Daud’s gaze, though she couldn’t hold it for longer than a few seconds before averting her eyes back to her plate. “You seem to have plenty of criticism left, for all that honing.”
“You’ve got some rough edges left to you. But maybe they don’t all need to be polished out,” he mused, dropping the napkin into his lap as he leaned an arm over the back of his seat. “You’ll have to forgive me if I keep trying to knock those edges off. Some habits are hard to break. Balance—that’s harder to teach.”
She set her napkin down. “Even for you?”
Daud smiled proper this time, colored though it was with his trademark irreverence. “Even for me.” He poured from the pitcher of water beside him, continuing as it bubbled into his glass. “...Sometimes I wonder if I’ve taught you too well.”
She dared a faint grin at that. “Awfully proud of yourself.”
“Or of you.”
Billie’s head lifted finally to meet his eyes fully, failing to mask being caught off guard by the rare candor of his remark. For a fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them—a rare, tenuous thread of connection that for some reason felt like a blow to the guts.
It wasn’t entirely a lie. But for all the pride Daud felt in Billie’s growth, there was a question buried within the comment, asking if she too still felt that bond or if she had already severed it in her heart, leaving only pretense in its place.
Billie cleared her throat, breaking the silence with a soft laugh that sounded almost forced. “You’re getting soft, old man,” she said, standing and picking up her mask. “Better watch that. Wouldn’t want the others thinking you’ve gone sentimental.”
“Keep my secret, then.” He stacked their plates and stood as well, his brow returning slowly to its usual stern pinch. “...All’s set for our meeting with Timsh’s niece, then?”
The nod she gave was slow, as if she had forgotten briefly how to perform the gesture. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Head back to the yard, then, Billie. You’ve got a patrol to finish.”
She remained still for another beat, searching his face for any sign of duplicity to no avail, before slipping the mask over her head and donning her hood once more. She crossed the room with a purposeful stride, though upon reaching the door her hand hesitated over the handle. Some unformed thought bubbled its way up to her lips, but instead of voicing it she only shook her head, straightened her shoulders, and stepped out into the shadowed hall before her.
The door swung gently shut behind her, and as Daud watched her silhouette shrink down the length of the corridor, all at once his vision shifted before his eyes, and he saw her as the girl she had been all those years ago. Shorter then, and more slight, with her chin held high even in frailty—but before he could ponder the sight she changed again, and he instead saw himself in her place: in the prime of youth, taking her steps and walking her path, with all the same ghosts snapping at his heels.
Chapter 7
Notes:
[the corvodaud.... it begins... so many cumulative days of hours spent listening to too much tame impala have led to this moment and i am so thrilled to be taking u all on this journey w/ me...thank u for ur patience while i've been writing these (and also my thomas/daud fic, the bias of which has seeped even into this fic a bit but i hope u all will forgive me for that). hope you love it. -A]
Chapter Text
He knelt on the damp wood of the pier to tighten the lace that had fallen loose from his boot, feeling the knee of his trousers chill his skin as water from the dock grounds seeped through the fabric. With a soft grunt he rose to his feet again, adjusting the handle of his satchel back over his shoulder. It was insubstantial in weight, its contents meager—mostly coin, a few spare clothes, and one of his smaller blades, more for utility than defense. The thought struck him with an amusing irony: it had taken him decades to accumulate so little worth taking with him. It was enough to start over, or enough to die quietly somewhere hidden.
He wasn’t sure which outcome he favored.
Taking a deep breath of the salted mist that engulfed the pier, he dusted off the sleeve of his coat, noting the frayed stitching at the cuffs, and the wear it held from years of use. It wasn’t much, but it had seen him through enough fights and bloodshed to earn a quiet reverence. The same couldn’t be said for him.
Above him the shrill sound of a gull’s caw cut through the soft cacophony of the shipyard, but his eyes stayed fixed on the faint line where the horizon blurred into the sky. He hadn’t even bothered to look back at the city. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t—not at the sprawling towers of Dunwall, nor at the ruin he’d left behind. But promises, like knives, had a way of dulling under pressure.
Still, wasn’t this running away?
He tugged the satchel’s straps tighter, as though binding his memories might keep them from surfacing. Where would he go? That question had burned in the back of his mind since the night Corvo spared his life. He had toyed with the idea of Serkonos—a return to the glittering coasts of his birthplace, though the notion felt as distant and irrelevant as the stars. Tyvia, maybe, where the cold would gnaw the edges of him until there was nothing left. Or some nameless outpost where no one knew his name, or his sins.
He stood slowly, slinging the satchel over his shoulder and adjusting the weight of it as he turned toward the pier. A small boat waited, its owner paid well enough to ask no questions. He could be gone before the city even stirred.
The faint scuff of boots on the dock jerked him from his reverie. His hand went instinctively to the knife at his belt before he glanced over his shoulder, and upon meeting the eyes of the approaching figure, his grip relaxed in recognition.
“...Should’ve known it’d be you,” he muttered with a touch of irritation, placing a hand on his hip.
The man stood casually, standing a familiar distance from Daud. He wore no mask, his sharp features illuminated faintly by the distant lanterns on the dock. The years had etched lines around his mouth, faint but noticeable now that Daud had time to look.
“I figured I’d find you here,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Did you now?” Daud replied sharply, turning back to face the waters. “What do you want, Thomas?”
“It’s not what I want,” Thomas began, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to one leg. “It’s what Lord Attano wants. He sent men to find you, you know. Good men. None of them could track you down,” he added with a soft amusement in his tone. "So he sent for me. Said I’d know where to look.”
Daud pulled his cigar case from his pocket, lighting one to take the edge off the morning chill that was now seeping through his coat. “Still taking contracts, are you?”
Thomas shrugged. “Not all of us can afford to disappear into the fog. Some of us still have debts to pay.”
That earned him a quiet huff of laughter, and for a moment, the tension between them loosened. “Figures,” Daud muttered, taking a long puff from his cigar and letting a brief silence pass—one Thomas didn’t challenge—before answering. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Maybe not,” Thomas admitted. “But here I am. And so are you.”
The two men stared for a moment, Daud out at the chopping waves and Thomas at the back of Daud’s graying head of hair.
Finally, Thomas sighed, his tone softening just slightly. “Corvo wants to see you. Says there’s a place for you, if you’re willing.”
Daud laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the stillness. “A place for me? He should’ve killed me when he had the chance.”
“Maybe,” Thomas said, unshaken. “But he didn’t. And now he wants you at his side. Not as a free man, I’m guessing. But alive.”
“By his side? To do what, pray tell?” He tapped the ash off the cigar, putting the case and lighter away.
Thomas tilted his head. “Didn’t say much. Just that he’d prefer you in his corner rather than running loose. Guess he figures you owe the crown something. Or maybe he thinks it’d be a waste, letting someone like you vanish.”
Daud paused, his back still turned. He stood motionless for a long moment, the mist curling around him like a shroud. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, his shoulders slumping slightly. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Damn him,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the cigar at the ground and stamping his heel over the remains.
“Damn him,” Thomas repeated with a faint smirk. “But he’s waiting all the same. So what’s it going to be, Daud?”
The sometime assassin turned finally, facing Thomas with a scrutinizing gaze. “I’m not going back, Thomas.” He spoke with deliberate words, though the edge of certainty his voice usually carried was duller now.
Thomas let out a small sigh, his hands dropping to his sides.
“You know I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t have to. But Corvo sent me to bring you back—and I’m not leaving without you.”
“You took the order, Thomas. Of all the contracts out there, why take this one?”
“Same reason as ever,” he answered evenly. “The Kaldwins’ coin was enough to employ you too, once.”
Daud’s brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “And if I say no? You going to drag me back to the tower by my throat?”
Thomas shook his head, bracing his feet into a more imposing stance. “We both know how this would go if it came to a fight. I’d rather it not reach that point. Besides, I’ve got a feeling you’ll come quietly.”
Daud met the younger man’s eyes. He was only a shadow of the boy he had recruited all those years ago. Now the sight of him stirred up something in Daud he couldn’t pinpoint as he studied him, standing there with a posture that was loose and unafraid. He wasn’t pleading, wasn’t bargaining. He was simply waiting. The air between them hung heavy with unspoken understanding, the kind that only years of shared blood and partnership could forge.
For a moment, Daud said nothing, his gaze flicking past the other’s to the fog-heavy horizon. Thomas’ words hung between them like a blade balanced on its edge, with only the lapping of the waves onto the dock’s edge narrating the silence, until finally Daud let out a deep sigh and stepped toward him. The wood creaked beneath the weight of his boots as he stopped just short of the other man, his hand gripping the strap of his satchel tightly.
“Let’s get this over with,” Daud muttered with resignation. “Lead the way.”
Thomas gave a faint nod as he turned back toward the city. “This way, then. We’ll take the quieter route. You wouldn’t want the good people of Dunwall getting any ideas.”
Daud didn’t respond, simply falling into step beside him as they made their way toward the distant spire of Dunwall Tower, the shadow of their unspoken history trailing behind them like ghosts in the mist.
_______
For all the times he had been here, Daud had never entered the Tower by its public gates, which now loomed above the two of them, its silhouette as cold as the pale gray sky behind it. The sprawling stone structure was as imposing as ever, its jagged spires piercing the sky like silent sentinels. Already from the outer grounds, Daud felt that deep and twisting discomfort he always did when amidst such grandiosity. For all the coin his work had earned him, he’d never felt at home anywhere that wasn’t decrepit, rat-infested, or otherwise totally invisible to the eyes of the nobility that surrounded him and made up the majority of his clientele.
Ahead of him Thomas strode the cobblestone path with a relaxed but purposeful gait, no less comically out of place in Daud’s eyes, which now remained sharp as they swept over the scene before them. Soldiers were posted at regular intervals, and though clearly instructed to stand down for their approach, Daud still spotted how they balked at the characters that now waltzed so casually toward the gates. Another time he might’ve used his void touch to listen in on the hushed exchanges they made between one another, getting a small thrill from the disturbance the very idea of him could draw out of even the highest ranking guards. Now, though, he would get no such thrill from listening. If only his mark allowed him to erase his name and face from the minds of everyone within his line of sight with the same ease.
“Wait here,” Thomas spoke up as they approached the tower’s entrance. He stepped up to a guard stationed by the heavy doors, exchanged a few quiet words, and gestured over his shoulder at Daud. The guard frowned but eventually nodded, handing Thomas a small bundle before signaling another to step over and open the doors.
Thomas turned back to Daud, his amusement visible as he returned to escort the man towards the open entrance. “They’re not thrilled to have you here, you know,” he added, failing to suppress a grin.
Daud let out a snort as his eyes locked briefly with the guard holding the doors open as they entered the foyer. “The feeling’s mutual.”
“They’re bringing Corvo down,” he continued, stepping just past the entryway before stopping. He reached into his coat and produced a small pouch, tossing it lightly in his palm before slipping it back into his pocket. “My payment. Guess that means my part here’s done.”
“Guess it does.” Daud glanced back at Thomas. “Bring me in, get paid, get out. Right?”
“Right,” Thomas repeated, resting a hand on his hip. “Unless you’re going to try running again.”
He let out a soft chuckle, though no smile came with it, and shook his head. “No. Not this time.”
“Very well.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on the man before him as he regarded him one last time. “...Maybe we’ll meet again. Dunwall is as small as it is vast.”
Daud’s hand tightened briefly on the strap of his satchel, meeting Thomas’ eyes for a moment. “Maybe.”
Giving one last nod of silent acknowledgement, Thomas turned on his heel and started back down the stairs to the cobblestone path. The morning haze swallowed him quickly, leaving only the echo of his distancing footsteps until they, too, faded into silence.
Daud stood solitary in the center of the grand foyer now, with only the faint rustle of the distant banners that adorned the tower audible until the front entrance was shut with a ringing thud. When he turned back toward the staircase, a figure stood waiting on the middle step.
Daud hadn’t seen him unmasked since that day—he’d about forgotten the man’s face after nearly eight months, and even then…he’d hardly gotten a look at him among the chaos, not like the other whalers had. Now Daud could finally see him up close, revealing a face carved by loss and duty, with dark eyes whose coldness rivaled Daud’s as they fixed their gaze on him.
“Attano,” Daud spoke to break the silence, sharp and indifferent. He watched Corvo descend the remainder of the staircase and stop a few paces away. “Changed your mind? If you brought me here to put an end to things, let’s not waste time.”
Corvo remained still, his stare enough to melt stone. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”
His voice struck Daud’s ears, deeper and more gruff than he had imagined. He remembered musing on how silent he had been there on the cold marble of the gazebo, saying nothing even as Daud plunged his sword so far into his empress he’d run out of blade.
“You should have kept running,” Corvo said at last in a low growl, taking a slow pace around the elder man. “It might have been easier for both of us.”
“Sorry to disappoint you with my compliance,” Daud retorted sarcastically, watching Corvo circle him from the corners of his eyes. “But you’re the one who summoned me. Why?”
Corvo finally stopped beside him, meeting his eyes once more from under the cover of his fierce brow. “The post of Spymaster is unassigned, as it happens,” he began again in a voice laced with bitterness. “And when trust seems to be in short supply, one turns to the individual who has the appropriate skills for the position…wherever he may come from.”
Daud raised a brow, matching the ferocity of the other’s glare. “You’re that desperate?”
“Call it shrewd,” Corvo replied, clasping his hands behind his back. The guards posted at each wall of the room watched the exchange with an unwavering attention. “Upon consideration, I find your skill set proves you more than capable. And you owe the crown. Consider it your restitution.”
Daud let out a soft huff, folding his arms across his chest. “And if I refuse?”
Before Corvo could answer, a smaller, sharper voice broke the tension.
“Then you’re a coward.”
Both men turned to see Emily standing at the base of the stairs, her chin lifted defiantly. She was smaller than Daud remembered her, but her presence filled the space of the room like her mother’s once had. Her eyes, wide and piercing, burned with fury as they locked onto Daud’s.
“This is all because of you,” she went on, her voice trembling but unafraid. “You murdered my mother, and now my father wants you to work for us? Why shouldn’t I just have you executed right here?!” Her small frame rose and fell with the deep breaths she now took to calm herself, her pale hands balled into fists at her sides.
Daud stared at the small creature, holding within himself a silent respect for her boldness to address him so fearlessly. “If that’s what your Majesty wishes, I won’t stop you.”
Emily’s jaw clenched, her shoulders tightening as her face twisted into a sneer. “You don’t get to act noble now,” she snapped, taking a step closer. “You don’t get to– ”
“Emily,” Corvo interrupted, his voice soft but commanding. He turned to face her, holding up his hand in a gentle limiting gesture. “Enough.”
She froze, her lips pressing together tightly in restraint of a rage that bubbled up within her. “You can’t trust him,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “He’ll betray us. He’ll hurt us again. What if he takes you next?”
Corvo placed a hand on her shoulder, the stoney mask on his face letting a brief pained look slip through, but his voice remained firm. “He won’t,” he said, quietly. “Because I won’t let him. And neither will you.”
Emily’s eyes darted to Daud’s again, her glare hardening, though she didn’t respond. Instead she straightened, smoothing the fabric of her outfit as though putting on a coat of armor. “I hope you’re right,” she said coldly, her demeanor suddenly steady and regal. “For your sake.” Without another word, she turned and strode back up the stairs, her steps quick but willful.
Daud watched her go with a somber gaze, turning his attention back to Corvo. “Are you sure this is what Jessamine would have wanted?”
Even from behind, the grimace that overcame Corvo was palpable, like the mere mention of the name ran a knife through his spine the same way it had for her, all those months ago.
“What she would have wanted— though it’s not your place to speculate,” Corvo bit back with a flare of the same vitriol he’d just quieted in his daughter, “is for you to pay. And this is how I see fit to do just that.” He turned now back to Daud, stepping toward him in a decidedly more threatening manner. “I think it’s rather fitting, don’t you? You’ll be taking the place of the very man that got you into this mess to begin with. I can’t think of anything more just. Don’t you think so, Daud?”
Daud met his gaze, something unreadable flickering in his own eyes before he straightened, as if to brace himself against Corvo’s scrutiny. “What I think doesn’t matter.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Corvo goaded, his posture softening as the rise of emotion settled within him. “What matters is what you do from this moment on.” He turned to catch the attention of one of the guards at the base of the stairs. “Please, take his things up to the office.”
Without a moment to spare, the guard was at Daud’s side, taking the satchel from his shoulder and heading to disappear up the stairs with it towards the Spymaster’s quarters.
Daud grunted lightly, twisting his shoulder to adjust to the release of his bag’s weight off his admittedly tired joints. “...What now?”
“Now,” Corvo continued, stepping aside to gesture towards the stairwell, “we talk about what you’re going to do for the crown. Come on.”
Without further comment, Daud glanced up at the length of the stairs, taking in a breath before finally stepping forward to follow his former opponent up the winding steps, its stones worn smooth by the passage of countless feet before his own. In the expanse of the hall, his steps echoed softly, each clack like the final nails being driven into a coffin of his own making, sealing within it once and for all the ghost of his former life.
The months that followed Daud’s appointment to the Spymaster chair would pass with a strange monotony: a blur of ink-stained directives, quiet interrogations, and endless reports. The empire was a fractured and uneasy beast whose economy hung heavy with the weight of the plague’s devastation, and Dunwall’s streets most of all still teetered on the edge of unrest. Every cobblestone tile, every wall of every abandoned room was still steeped in old blood and misery. Though Corvo and what little remained of his allies would toil tirelessly to restructure the Regent’s tyranny into something more like its old normalcy, the city’s newfound stability was a thin veneer that could crack again just as easily as it had at the start of it all. But eventually, order—or something resembling it—would return. And in the shadow of that order, Daud now worked under Corvo and Emily’s hand; diligent, unseen, and bitterly aware of his station.
Chapter Text
The faint scent of tobacco lingered in the small office, curling through the air from the recently extinguished cigar in the ashtray. Its aroma was the only thing that gave the small office an atmosphere of familiarity to Daud, despite having been its occupant for nearly a year now.
The desk before him was cluttered with documents—intelligence reports, maps, and coded messages—but the pen in his hand hovered idly above the page, his attention far from the task at hand.
Through the tall mullioned windows, the expanse of the palace grounds unfolded. Manicured hedges framed the yard, guards paced their steady circuits, and the faint chatter of birds decorated the otherwise still afternoon. It was a view most in Dunwall would envy. For Daud, though, the sight was immaterial, his gaze instead fixated in a trancelike attention on the pair in the courtyard below.
Corvo stood in the center of the yard, his coat discarded and sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms whose musculature was a testament to years of wielding a blade, though the one he held now was merely a wooden training sword. His stance was balanced and grounded, the weight perfectly distributed between his feet.
The girl, though smaller, matched Corvo’s ferocity and mirrored his stance like the two of them had been carved by the same sculptor. She carried the essence of he and the late empress on her very brow, a fiery cocktail of Jessamine’s poise and Corvo’s tenacity. Under the regular tutelage of her father, the ruggedness of his demeanor and mannerisms was already leaving a permanent impression; coloring her attitude, her posture, even her expression.
Daud’s lipped pressed into a thin line as he leaned forward, watching how the two danced tentatively around one another, Corvo clearly restraining himself to allow Emily to strike first. Her grip on the wooden blade was tight, almost too tight. Daud could see the tension in her shoulders as she lunged forward, her blade aimed at Corvo’s midsection.
Corvo parried with ease, his blade coming up in a smooth arc that deflected hers with a sharp crack. He stood tall now, lowering his blade and speaking something Daud couldn’t read on his lips back to Emily, no doubt correcting her form. Daud reached to open the latch on the window, pushing it open a few inches to extend his earshot down to the yard.
“Release your shoulders,” Corvo instructed. “You’re telegraphing your attacks. If you clench, your whole body will follow you when you strike, and you’ll lose your center of weight. Again.”
A soft smirk grew on Daud’s lips as he listened in. It was a quiet and enduring thrill to watch Corvo’s tutelage, to imagine having such a formal education for the skill he had learned by the hand of survival alone. Corvo made all the same criticisms of Emily’s form that he himself would’ve made, but for Corvo’s turn, he knew nothing of the man that watched him now, observing his every move with a critical and kindred eye.
Emily adjusted her grip with a nod, her jaw set in determination. She stepped back, circling Corvo with careful, measured steps. Her footwork was good—that she had learned quickly—but she was too hesitant. Her movements lacked the instinctive flow that came from experience, the kind of instinct that couldn’t be taught in a courtyard. Corvo lunged this time, his blade darting toward her with startling speed. Even through what was visible restraint in the force he used with her, Emily barely managed to block, the impact reverberating through her arms. She stumbled back, her feet fumbling for balance.
“Anticipate,” Corvo said, stepping back and resetting his stance. “You’re waiting for me to act, but you have to see it coming.”
Daud leaned back in his chair, enraptured with the scene below. Corvo was precise, of course, honed through years of focused training and survival. But it was also predictable. His style leaned heavily on discipline and counterplay—waiting for the opponent to make the first move and then exploiting their weakness.
He’s teaching her patience, but not aggression, Daud thought, his fingers tapping idly against the desk. She needs to know when to strike first. When to make the other bastard react to her, not the other way around.
When Corvo struck again, she feinted to the left before pivoting sharply, her blade sweeping toward his side. It was a clever maneuver, but her balance betrayed her again, and Corvo sidestepped effortlessly, his blade coming down to tap her wrist.
“Better,” he said, his tone approving. “But you’re rushing. Focus on your footing. ”
Emily scowled, frustration flickering across her face. She stepped back, raising her blade again, her stance more resolute.
Daud let out a soft huff of amusement. It was apparent to anyone who saw her—that fire, the refusal to yield, even against impossible odds, same as her father. She wasn’t just trying to learn; she was trying to win. He had to admit a respect for her in that. Still young, still raw…but she had the makings of something formidable.
He indulged himself the thought then of what he might do differently were he to have the opportunity to teach her. He wouldn’t waste time on formality or drills. He’d show her how to fight dirty, how to survive when honor and discipline wouldn’t save her. He’d teach her to use her size and speed to her advantage, to strike with precision and ruthlessness.
She’d hate me for it, he thought, his smirk returning faintly. But she’d survive.
His musings were interrupted when Corvo disarmed Emily with a swift motion, her blade clattering to the ground. She let out a frustrated groan, but Corvo placed a hand on her shoulder, offering a rare smile. “You’re improving.”
Daud’s gaze lingered on the scene for a moment longer. For all his criticisms, he couldn’t deny the bond between them. The way Corvo guided her, the way Emily listened despite her frustration—it was something Daud had never had. Not with the Whalers, not with anyone.
He was almost enjoying the rare quiet, this unexpected glimpse of something simple and unburdened, when a figure entered the yard. A palace officer, stiff-backed and uniformed, approached Corvo with urgency in his step.
Daud’s brows furrowed as he watched Corvo listen to the man’s words, who handed him a dossier. The Protector’s expression darkened, and with a curt nod, he dismissed Emily back to the palace, ruffling her hair briefly before striding toward the tower.
Daud let out a gruff sigh and turned back to his desk, grabbing some alcohol to clean the ink that had dried on the pen he’d been holding during his brief distraction. After a few minutes the soft clacking of bootsteps eventually began to grow in volume outside of the office until the door opened without ceremony, and Corvo stepped inside, carrying the dossier under his arm.
Daud glanced up, his brow furrowing. “You don’t knock?”
“Didn’t know you cared for pleasantries,” Corvo retorted and set the folder down on the desk, flipping it open to reveal a map marked in red ink across several points. “We’ve intercepted a lead. Same group. Same pattern. They’ve been funneling arms into the city under cover of grain shipments from Karnaca.”
Daud’s gaze sharpened, his eyes scanning the details on the map. “The Oswin faction,” he muttered. “They’ve been quiet since the last rebellion. What changed?”
“They’re not acting alone,” Corvo said, resting a hand on his hip and propping himself against the edge of the desk with the other. “The weapons are coming from an arms smuggler in Serkonos—one who has no shortage of connections to rival houses. It’s bigger than just one family grasping for influence. They’re planning to push us into a corner.”
Daud’s eyes flicked over the details, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “So what’s the play? Round up the Oswins, let them rot in Coldridge?”
“No,” Corvo said, his voice contemplative but edged with steel. “Not yet. We need names. Allies. Someone higher up is funding this operation, and I want them exposed. Find the smuggler, put pressure on them, and trace the network back to its source.”
A huff left Daud’s throat as he leaned back in his chair, resting a foot across his knee. “We already know who’s pulling the strings. Skovel, the mill owner. Why have me interrogate a smuggler when we could be dismantling the entire operation right now? We have enough here to move in and make arrests.”
Corvo’s jaw clenched. “The point, Daud, is precision. If we don’t have enough to implicate him outright, we can’t risk tipping our hand. Not to mention it’ll send half the city into a panic. I won’t trade one disaster for another because we acted too soon.”
“Tipping our hand,” Daud repeated, sharp with derision. “We have enough to cut his legs out from under him. If you’d let me do it my way—”
“You’re not doing it your way,” Corvo interrupted, his tone hardening as he stood up straight once more. “You’re doing it mine. Your ‘way’ is what got you here in the first place.”
“Actually, it was Burrows’ way,” Daud shot back, meeting Corvo’s eyes. “You’re afraid,” he went on, leaning forward once more. “Afraid of pushing too hard. And while you hesitate, they’re consolidating more power.”
“And you think charging in without understanding the full scope of their plan is smarter?” Corvo snapped. “If we don’t dismantle their network piece by piece, we risk leaving loose ends. Loose ends that could come back to strangle us.” He shut the folder conclusively and crossed his arms.
Daud let out a sigh and collected the remaining papers into a stack. “Have it your way. Though I don’t know why you went to the trouble of fishing me out of the streets to bring me here if you took issue with my methods. They were effective enough to topple everything right under your nose the first time,” he dared.
Corvo’s eyes darkened, his nostrils flaring in frustration, stepping closer to Daud before he spoke again through grit teeth. “Your methods aren’t why you’re here. I just need you where I can see you. Because I’d rather have you working for us than against us.”
“Then you’ll have to start trusting me at some point,” Daud went on calmly, lacing his gloved fingers together under his chin. “I’d wager to say that you already do, or you’d never let me outside the walls of this room.”
Corvo’s glare penetrated deep into Daud's eyes, holding the silence in a quiet standoff for a moment before letting out a smug breath. “I don’t need to trust you.” He shifted his weight forward and rested his palms on the desk, closing the space between them as he leaned down to Daud’s eyeline. “You came walking here on your own two feet, Daud. You wouldn’t be sitting in that chair if you didn’t think you had something to make up for.”
Daud was silent then, only holding the other man’s gaze for another heartbeat before averting his eyes to the window as if contemplating some distant horizon far beyond the walls of the office. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of its usual defiance. “I’m here for one reason, Lord Protector, and that’s to work.”
“Then do it,” Corvo straightened, his posture softening though his stare remained unrelenting. “This city can’t afford another mistake. You’ll do as you’re told.”
“I’ll head out first thing,” Daud said finally, tapping his pen against the desktop. “If that’s what you need to hear.”
“Don’t care what you say,” Corvo replied, patting his hand against the leather backed chair across from the desk as he turned to leave. “Only what do you do.” His hand brushed over the back of the chair before he turned and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Daud alone with the heavy air of unfinished business.
For a long moment, Daud didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on the dossier, its pages still splayed open like an accusation—or a challenge. He reached for it eventually, his fingers brushing the edge as his thoughts churned. He shoved the regret that bubbled up in him aside, picking up his pen and scrawling a quick note in the margin. The work was what mattered now—Corvo was right about that much. The job wasn’t what ate at him, anyway.
It never was.
The dining room of Dunwall Tower was awash in warm candlelight, its grandeur softened by the faint clink of cutlery and the low hum of conversation. Emily sat at the head of the table, her posture poised but not stiff, wearing a look of restrained boredom as she picked at her plate. Across from her, Sokolov leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of red wine with one hand and gesturing animatedly with the other.
“I told him—only an imbecile could mistake the two notation styles! Honestly, the apprentices this Young Alchemist’s Guild sends me get worse every year; each one is a greater fool than the last. All they want is my signature on a recommendation to the Academy, but not a one of them has the appetite for actual thought,” he grumbled, draining his glass with a flourish. “Bah. It’s what I get for indulging these so-called consortiums of ‘promising’ minds.”
Sokolov set the empty glass down, his exuberance settling as he addressed Emily. “Speaking of promise, Corvo tells me you’re making quick progress with your studies of the blade. I say it’s excellent that you learn such disciplines—though do take care. A blemish on your face or arms would make my job as a portraitist immeasurably harder.”
The young girl glanced up, giving a small nod with a soft smile toward Corvo. “I’ve been enjoying it…when I’m not stumbling over and over. Will we have time for a session today, Corvo?”
Corvo dabbed his stubbled lips with a napkin, nodding briefly to the servant who took his now emptied plate. “Not today. Once the Spymaster returns, I’ll be tied up with his report well into the night. You’ll be in bed by then.”
Emily said nothing, but her mouth twisted into a poorly masked scowl as her eyes fell back to her plate.
“I must say,” Sokolov began before she could speak again, a smirk growing on his lips, “seeing this Daud reduced to drafting reports and attending strategy meetings has been one of the most unexpected joys of my twilight years. Who would’ve thought the man who once stalked the streets like a phantom would now be fretting over requisition forms and delivering orders between parties like a messenger boy?”
Emily’s eyes flicked up from her plate with an icy glare. “I don’t find it amusing,” she muttered, hitting her consonants sharply with disdain. “He shouldn’t even be here.”
“Emily,” Corvo began, his voice calm but firm, “I understand how you feel. Believe me, I do. But Daud’s presence here is not about forgiveness. It’s about necessity. We’ve talked about this.”
She crossed her arms and let out a huff. “I just don’t see what could possibly make it necessary to have a murderer living in our home.”
“You mean besides me?” Corvo contested, cocking a brow at her.
Emily froze, stunned in contemplation. “...That’s different,” she admitted finally, turning away from the man’s harrowing stare.
Sokolov let out a low hum, leaning forward slightly as he rested his elbows on the table. “She has a point, you know. It is a rather peculiar arrangement. One might even call it…ironic.”
“Anton, please,” Corvo interrupted with a degree more irritation in his voice, holding up his hand to the man. “What’s really ironic is that Burrows was even less trustworthy than Daud. Somehow, though, no one had anything to say about that when it was happening. You’re quite willing to blame the blade and not the one who held it.” He turned back to the girl, his tone softening only slightly. “Punishment doesn’t always mean exile or death, Emily. Sometimes it means service.
Emily finally looked up, her young face hardened by a depth of anger that Corvo recognized all too well. “I blame them both. Burrows was a snake, and Daud is no better. If it were up to me, he’d be in Coldridge for the rest of his miserable life.”
“I’m not discussing this further, Emily,” he stated curtly. “You’re excused.”
Emily’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor as she pushed it back. She cast Corvo one last withering look before turning on her heel and stalking out of the room without a word.
Sokolov watched her go, his smirk fading into a contemplative look. “A strong will, that one,” he remarked. “Takes after you.”
Corvo didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on the doorway Emily had disappeared through. After a moment, he stood as well, straightening his jacket. “Thank you for joining us, Sokolov,” he said with a polite firmness. “I’ll have someone escort you to your chambers.”
Sokolov raised his glass in a half-toast, tipping his head in a smug nod. “Always a pleasure, Lord Protector.”
The click of Corvo’s boots on the marble flooring was soft despite the slight hurry in his step as he entered the tower’s strategy room, where the crown’s financial advisor sat waiting for him to arrive. Various documents had already been scattered across the oak table’s polished surface before the younger man, whose brow was pinched in scrutiny as his eyes pored over their contents, clearly already having been at work assessing the matter in front of him long before Corvo’s arrival. The air was cool despite the oppressive lights of the room—a place of deliberation and consequence.
Corvo stood in the doorway a moment before gathering that his presence hadn’t been heard, noting the advisor’s eyes locked onto the paperwork before him. His wiry frame was hunched slightly, and the frame of his spectacles glinted softly in the low light.
“Nikos,” he stated declaratively, catching a start from the young gentleman.
“Lord Protector,” he breathed, straightening his posture to address the man. He held a thick ledger close to his chest, as though it contained secrets too weighty to be shared casually. “Forgive me. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Corvo nodded, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. “You said it was urgent?”
The advisor stood then, placing the ledger carefully on the table. “Yes, my lord. It concerns Spymaster Daud’s recent operations. There are…irregularities that warrant your immediate attention.”
Corvo’s brow furrowed as he moved closer, stepping around the table to join Nikos on his side. “What kind of irregularities?”
Nikos opened the ledger carefully, the thick pages rustling as he flipped to a bookmarked section. “At first glance, these are routine expenditures. Allocations for covert operations, informants, and discretionary funds—a necessary part of maintaining the Spymaster’s network. But as I reviewed the ledger in its entirety, I noticed patterns. Or rather, anomalies.”
He gestured to a column of figures, his finger tracing the page. “These entries correspond to missions that were officially sanctioned by the crown. But here—” he tapped another line, his voice lowering slightly—“are expenses that don’t align with any recorded directive. Payments to unnamed agents, supplies purchased off-the-books, and locations visited that don’t match with any known objectives.”
The corners of Corvo’s eyes wrinkled as he leaned over the table, peering with suspicion over the paperwork. “Could it be graft? Personal enrichment?”
Nikos hesitated, adjusting his spectacles. “That was my initial suspicion, but… no. The amounts are modest, almost deliberately so. And the timing of these expenditures coincides with several incidents that don’t appear to have been directly addressed by the Spymaster’s official operations, yet were resolved before they escalated.”
“Incidents,” Corvo repeated, his tone heavy with skepticism. “Such as?”
Nikos reached for another document—a report from the city watch—and slid it across the table. “There was an attempt on Prime Minister Blackwood’s estate three months ago. A group of armed men were apprehended in the vicinity, but their connections and motives were never determined. This entry,” he pointed to a line of expenses for hired mercenaries and discreet transport, “corresponds to that same night. And here,” he continued, pulling another report, “a shipment of arms meant for a smuggling ring targeting the empress’s trade reforms was intercepted and destroyed in the dockyards last month. Again, no direct link to Spymaster Daud’s network, yet the funds suggest otherwise.”
“...I see,” Corvo mused gruffly. “He’s been operating outside the bounds of his orders.”
“It would seem so,” the advisor continued with a soft sigh. “I know that the post of Spymaster used to function under…looser parameters, allowing the appointed individual to make executive decisions and conduct defensive measures for the crown’s safety at their own discretion, without needing explicit approval from the Empress, but…” he glanced up over his shoulder at Corvo. “It was my understanding that Daud had been made aware of the need to reform this system due to…previous misconduct in the administration. Could it be that he misunderstood the nature of the constraints of his role under the new regulations for Spymaster appointees?”
An unamused huff left Corvo’s throat. “No…he knew. I spent weeks training him on our new protocols. He knows firsthand why those changes are in place.”
Nikos shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “...That paints things in a different light, then,” he added more quietly, hesitant to reveal more.
“What light would that be?” Corvo asked, a distaste rising in his voice. “Is there more?”
A pause passed before Nikos continued. “It’s just that…there are several entries for these recent operations that are unusually vague, especially compared to Daud’s other, more detailed entries for his regular missions.” He pointed to a series of notations, faint and almost imperceptible against the neat columns of figures. “These entries here…‘Emergency resource requisition.’ ‘Incident mitigation.’ ‘Discretionary countermeasures.’ These phrases wouldn’t normally raise suspicion. But they appear irregularly, tucked between otherwise mundane logs. Almost as if they were added as an afterthought.”
Corvo picked up the ledger and peered more closely over the entries, his eyes scanning the lines through a squint. He would have to see Sokolov soon to assess his vision. “It is out of character for him to be so…chaste in his report summaries.” He set the paper down and looked over the lot of documents across the tabletop. “How many of these anomalies have you found, Nikos?”
“A handful,” Nikos admitted. “None egregious on their own, but together…it paints a picture. Not of negligence, but of someone unused to operating under this level of scrutiny. Either that, or…he’s trying to obfuscate certain pieces of information. But, it’s strange…”
“Strange?” Corvo repeated bitterly, letting out a breath of disbelief at his own naivety. “What could be strange about Daud refusing to follow orders?”
“It’s just…” Nikos removed his glasses and turned in his seat, looking up to face Corvo. “These actions, and all these obscure dealings—while unsanctioned—seem to have consistently benefited the crown. Protected it. It’s clear, despite his efforts to hide the details, that he couldn’t have possibly gained anything from the discrepancies. Several things that could have panned out to be a threat to her Majesty Emily’s throne or personal wellbeing have been neutralized. And yet he’s…made no explicit mention of them in his reports. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want anyone to know.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the clock. Corvo’s mind churned, the pieces falling into place with chilling clarity. Daud’s shadow loomed larger than ever, and now, for the first time, Corvo glimpsed the man behind it—not just a killer or a leader, but something far more complicated.
“...Keep this between us,” Corvo said finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll handle it.”
Nikos inclined his head, though the unease in his eyes was unmistakable. “As you wish, Lord Protector.”
Corvo turned to leave, the ledger still open on the table, and the weight of the revelations pressed heavily against him. Daud had acted in the dark, unseen and uncredited, but to what end? And for whom?
Corvo pushed open the doors of their meeting chambers with a heave and strode down the corridor, his resolve hardening with each step as he approached the Spymaster office.
Daud had taken his meal late upon his return, in the servant’s quarters in the basement as he always had since coming to the Tower. Even though the cooks and maids would look upon him with queer expressions and wordless sentiments, equal parts disgust and fear—he preferred the honesty of their stares to the mechanical pleasantries and farce of subservience they gave him upstairs, among more ‘polite’ company.
The upper halls of Dunwall Tower were quieter at this hour, steeped in shadow and the low, rhythmic ticking of the great clock that marked the steady and inescapable march of time. The lamps lining the corridors flickered low with a restless energy, casting long, wavering shapes along the velvet draped walls. Daud walked through them like a ghost, with a stride that was sluggish with the weight of a day's work that clung to him like an ill-fitting cloak. His coat was damp from the evening drizzle, a faint air of salt from the harbor clinging still to the fabric.
The door to his office let out a groan from its tired brass hinges as he stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind him. He shed his coat, draping it over the back of the chair before taking a seat with a sigh of fatigue, turning his attention toward the rain-misted window. He would begin drafting a report of the day’s events, soon. But not yet.
He watched the water droplets on their descent, some falling faster than others and some collapsing together to form one larger droplet before cascading down with the rest of them. Beyond the glass, the city sprawled in a patchwork of dim lights and billowing fog, the faint hum of life continuing even in the dead of night. Dunwall never truly slept; it only shifted, like a restless beast caught between dreams. In those dreams, as now, Daud searched. For what, he didn’t know. Solace, maybe, or the fleeting illusion of it.
Fracturing the soft hiss of the rainfall, the door at once swung open with a force that even Daud’s vigilant guard was unprepared for.
Corvo entered unceremoniously, his presence a tide that pulled all the air from the room. From under his arm he pulled the dossier he had been carrying—one Daud recognized immediately. His eyes, dark and unyielding, bored into him with an intensity that promised no escape.
“Daud,” he began in a near growl, slapping the folder onto the desktop indignantly. “Care to explain what the hell this is?”
Daud’s gaze hung on the book for a long moment before he finally met Corvo’s eyes for a split second. There was no surprise in his face, only that quiet, distant resignation that Corvo had come to recognize as a defense all its own. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly. "It’s what it looks like," he said, his voice gravelly, worn thin with exhaustion. "I’ve been doing my job."
“Your job,” Corvo repeated incredulously. “Like I told you just this morning, your job is to follow my instructions, complete your assignments, and to report every move you make. Not to leave me chasing breadcrumbs through a maze of bullshit, Daud. Is this to be the way of things, now?”
He struggled to look Corvo in the eye for more than a few seconds, though once he finally seemed to accept the confrontation at hand, his composure settled back over him like a shroud. Daud settled his arms on the desktop, folding his fingers together. “Is Emily safe?”
Corvo’s fists tightened. "Don’t do that," he snapped, leaning in. "Don't act like the ends justify the means. You had your orders, Daud. No secrets. No games. And yet I find entries buried in the ledgers that lead nowhere, unauthorized trips in the dead of night, supplies sent off to unnamed agents. It’s too late to pretend like it was accidental. What the hell are you hiding?"
Daud’s lips pressed into a thin line. He leaned forward slightly, hanging his head over his clasped hands. For a moment, he looked like he might speak, like the gravity of it all was pressing too heavily to bear in silence. But then, with a slow exhale, he straightened, and his fingers taking to a nervous tapping against the desk once more.
"Does it make a difference?" he asked, his voice quieter now, bare of its usual sharp edges. "The threats were neutralized. The crown is safe."
Corvo studied him, searching for something beyond the detached veneer. The same weight he carried in his own chest, the same restless burden of past sins clawing at the conscience. His lips clamped shut tightly and he gave a dispirited shake of his head, letting out a deep sigh as he turned to look out the same window Daud had sought escape in only moments earlier.
“I’m willing to be transparent, Daud. I’ve let you into my home. And as much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. That does take a degree of trust.” He took a half seat against the sill of the window, his eyes falling to the floor with a quiet defeat. “Maybe only a fool would expect that transparency in return. But I imagined it would be the least you could give me, in exchange for letting you keep your life.”
Daud’s fingers stilled against the wood, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. His eyes met Corvo’s then, and for the briefest moment, there was a glimpse of something real—something that Corvo had been chasing since the day he'd spared Daud’s life in the Flooded District. There, undeniably, and then gone in an instant.
"I don’t owe you an explanation, Corvo," he said, his voice cool again, distant. "Other than to remind you that you know how I operate. I don’t work without incentive. And the last man with enough coin to turn me against you is dead.”
Corvo stared on with eyes that only burned darker by the second, the heat of frustration and indecision pressing at his ribcage with the grip of a vice. Was he the injudicious fool everyone thought him to be, to entertain this farce of alliance? Was it even an alliance at all, or just two men circling each other, waiting to see who would blink first?
"You say you don't work without incentive," Corvo murmured, almost to himself. "And yet here you are. No coin, no contract. What does that tell me?”
Daud didn’t move, but he seemed to take pause for the first time to search for his next words before responding.
“I’ve given you my answer, Corvo. If it doesn’t suffice,” he continued, leaning back in his seat and his eyes flicking to the blade at Corvo’s hip. “You can end this arrangement. No one would question it. Not even me.”
Corvo’s grip on the edge of the windowsill tightened, his heart pounding against the frail bones of his ribs. For a long moment, the room felt too small, too suffocating, as if the walls themselves threatened to swallow him whole. He toyed with the image of cutting him down then and there, let himself taste the temptation of it—a simple solution to the man that had shattered his world and had become a thorn in his side.
But again something pulled him off the edge, the nerve giving way under his feet. It was the same force that stilled his hand in the Flooded District, when he finally held Daud in his grasp, blade to his throat. He had spared no moment’s hesitation in stopping the hearts of all the others, but why not his? He saw the same thing reflected back to him now in Daud’s weary, guarded eyes as he did then—cowardice? No…something else. Recognition. Something uncomfortably, terrifyingly familiar.
And there was the heart of it, wasn’t it? They were too alike. Daud was a killer, a man who had done things beyond forgiveness, but then, so was he. How many lives had he taken in his pursuit of justice? Could he condemn Daud now, yet stop the blade short of his own throat?
Corvo stood up from his perch, approaching the desk and pointing a finger at Daud. “You don’t get to decide when you’ve paid enough, Daud,” he hissed, sharpening his words on his teeth. “I do.”
Daud offered only silence in return, but he nodded, just once, as if to say he’d expected nothing less.
A knock at the door cut through the thick energy of the small room. “Lord Protector?” came a voice from the hall. “Captain Fields would like a word with you in the meeting room, urgently.”
Corvo’s eyes lingered on Daud a moment longer, scrutinizing him as if trying to peel back every layer of armor the man had wrapped around himself. “This isn’t over,” he warned lowly.
A puff of air left Daud’s nostrils, and he returned his attention to the dark void beyond the office window. “It never is.”
With a final, pointed look, Corvo turned and left, the heavy thud of the door closing behind him echoing through the room.
Daud sat in the heavy silence that followed, staring at the closed door as if it might open again. He rubbed at his temples with one hand, the other drifting over the worn edges of the desk.
And yet, despite the tightness in his chest, he felt something uncomfortably close to relief.
Through the dim glow of the low-burning lamps that lined the tower’s halls at night, Corvo followed the candlelight that seeped out from the cracked doorway easily, though he could’ve found the room even in the pitch black dark without missing so much as a step. She hadn’t shut the door fully—she never did until he came in to bid her off to sleep.
When he reached the door and pushed it open to step in quietly, he was greeted by the soft but familiar aroma of bergamot and gardenia. It had been nearly two years since her passing, and the scent of her might have faded altogether by now if not for the last traces of the perfumes that still clung to the fibers of the heavy drapes and velvet upholstery. Though they both had forbidden her to wear perfumes at her young age, he would catch the scent on Emily from time to time, knowing she must have stolen away to the room to spray herself with them when not in eyesight of her governess. He could not bring himself to scold her for it.
Beneath the thick quilts and lush comforter Emily’s small figure lay curled up in the center of the bed, where she had slept every night since the murder—or at least since her return to the Tower. Corvo’s chest tightened at the sight of her, at the way she seemed so small against the vast emptiness of the bed. She had never spoken about it, never asked permission—she had simply claimed it as her own. It was possibly her sleeping here that caused what had once been nightly disturbances and night terrors to subside at last, though Corvo doubted she would ever again have the ease of rest as she did before.
He stood there in the warm glow of the candlelight, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the soft flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks, her hair spread like dark silk over the pillow. Beside her a book lay open, her hand still draped over the edge of the pages. For a moment, he considered leaving, but the creak of the floor beneath his boot stirred her from sleep before he could have the chance.
Emily’s eyes fluttered open, straining to find him in the light light, her voice barely above a whisper. “Corvo?”
He stepped closer, sinking into the edge of the mattress. “I’m here,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow. Her eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked up at him, and for a moment, he saw Jessamine staring back at him—equal parts soft and intense, warm and hypnotizing.
“You’re late,” she murmured, a teasing smile growing faintly on her lips.
“And you should be asleep, your Majesty,” he chuckled softly, picking up the book from its crumpled position. “You know not to wait up for me if I’m late.”
“I was reading,” she protested weakly, still fighting the pull of sleep. “I wanted to finish the chapter before you came.”
He smiled, his hand brushing lightly against her cheek. “And did you?”
Emily sighed dramatically, burying her face into the pillow. “No. It got boring.”
“That’s because you picked the wrong book,” he went on, turning the leather bound book over to inspect the cover. “Political Essays of the Northern Isles? Emily, no wonder you fell asleep.”
She giggled softly, a sound so rare and precious that he almost ached to hear it. “Callista kept saying it would be useful.”
“There might be better stories to put you to sleep.” Corvo placed the book back on the nightstand and pulled the covers tighter over her. “What happened to those adventure stories you used to read?”
“I’ve read them all,” she mumbled, turning onto her side and settling deeper into the downy sheets. “I liked them better when you used to read them to me.” She reached for his hand under the sheets, her fingers curling around his like they used to when she was younger, when she could only fit one of his fingers in her palm at a time.
Corvo’s chest ached at the memory—of simpler days when she was small enough to fall asleep in his arms, before thrones and politics and assassins. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, petting his roughened thumb over her skin. “I’ll read to you tomorrow night,” he promised, his voice softer and more tender now. “How about that?”
Emily gave a soft smile, her eyes slipping shut. “Okay, tomorrow. But don’t forget.”
He remained there with her for some time, watching as sleep reclaimed her features and softened her brow. When he was sure she was truly asleep once again, he pressed a soft kiss to her hairline, blew out the candles beside the bed and rose to his feet. He lingered in the doorway for another moment with his eyes on her, trying in vain to commit this fleeting image of her to memory for all time. She looked so peaceful like this, safe in this room. But the shadows outside her room were long and dark, and the world beyond them was restless. And so was he.
Silently, he slipped out into the corridor, ensuring the door closed with the faintest click behind him. He cast a glance down the hallway, confirming that no prying eyes lingered, then turned on his heel, his steps now carrying him toward another destination—Daud’s quarters.
The room was dim when Corvo entered, the faint scent of pipe smoke and old leather lingering in the air like ghosts of long-forgotten confessions. It was a spartan space, sparse and utilitarian, without indulgence or sentiment. A desk stood near the window, its surface marked by neat, methodical stacks of reports and missives, each item placed with the precision of a man accustomed to order. A single cot, narrow and rigid, was pressed against the far wall, the blanket folded in a way that spoke of an ingrained habit, not comfort. Even here, alone in his quarters, Daud allowed himself no room for softness.
Corvo closed the door behind him with deliberate care, letting the silence stretch around him as he took in the room. It was quieter here than anywhere else in the tower—no whispers of staff, no shuffling of papers. Just the weight of a man’s solitude, heavy in the air. The desk near the window was cluttered but meticulously arranged—papers stacked with the precision of someone who lived and breathed routine, the ink bottle placed just so, the faint scratch of quills still lingering in the air.
With a near frantic energy, he began to take them one by one and scanned through the pages, until he found one that contained a handwritten scrawl, one that he recognized as Daud’s.
The entries were terse, written in Daud’s sharp, deliberate style—notations of missions, assessments of threats, a running tally of dangers kept at bay. Mentions of figures lurking too close to Emily’s path, intercepted missives hinting at conspiracies that never reached the Tower’s ears. A particular entry drew his brows together and sped his heart:
"The dockside informant’s word was good. Tracked the mark for three nights to confirm. He carried the blade laced with oil slick poison—enough to stop the Lord Protector with a single cut, quick and quiet. His contact waited two streets over for a signal that never came. Neither of them left the docks alive. I found the assassin at the Arrowhead tavern. He knew Corvo’s face well enough, but not mine. A quick, quiet end. No fanfare, no suspicion. The fool never made it past his second drink."
Corvo clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the edge of the book. How long had it been since that night? He remembered the tavern vaguely, a fleeting stop after an evening of tending to diplomatic affairs. He remembered thinking little of the man who had sat alone in the corner, nursing a glass with the kind of patience only a predator could afford. He hadn’t seen the danger then. Hadn’t noticed the way his every movement had been observed, catalogued. And yet Daud had.
With each turn of the page he found more references—each one threading together an invisible net of protection woven so tightly around the throne that Corvo had never even seen it. And then, beneath all the careful entries, an audiograph file lay nestled in the leather binding. Corvo hesitated before placing it in the player on Daud’s desk, the device crackling to life as the assassin’s voice, gruff and low, filled the room.
"No one will ever know exactly what it took to save Emily Kaldwin from a living death as Delilah’s puppet," the recording murmured, Daud’s voice carrying the weight of something beyond mere duty. "No one except the Outsider, who watches everything, and thinks his own dark thoughts, and speaks to few in any generation."
Corvo swallowed thickly, listening as Daud recounted his battle against Delilah and her witches, the lengths he had gone to in order to free Emily from an existence of dark servitude, of a stolen future that would have shattered Dunwall. The recording ended with a silence that stretched far too long, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the wax cylinder spinning to a halt.
The realization settled over him slowly, an invisible weight pressing down. How many times had Daud done this? Moved unseen in the background, severing threats before they could take root, ensuring the throne remained intact? The words were spoken without embellishment, without self-congratulation. Daud had done what Corvo himself had not—he had faced Delilah and thwarted her plans before they ever reached Emily’s ears. And he had done it alone, in secret. No reward, no recognition.
He stared down at the book, at the sum of all Daud’s quiet efforts, and for the first time in a long while, he felt...uncertain. About Daud. About himself. About the delicate line they walked between damnation and redemption.
He sat down heavily at the edge of the cot, running a hand down his face. His heart beat dully against his ribs, a slow, heavy thud. He had failed again. Just as he had failed to see Burrows’ betrayal before it was too late, just as he had failed Jessamine, just as he had nearly failed Emily. The list of his supposed titles—protector, father, survivor, killer?—churned aimlessly in his mind like a thick fog. Was he any of these things, none of them? Was Daud?
The door creaked open.
Corvo didn’t look up to face the figure behind him, though he knew his presence undeniably in the shadow he cast in the lamplight. Daud’s eyes flicked to the open book, the audiograph still spinning on the desk, and then back to Corvo, his expression frozen. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Daud exhaled through his nose, a tired sound laced with something between annoyance and resignation. “Do you read all your staff’s personal writings?” he asked dryly. “Or am I just special?”
Corvo remained seated, head hung low, his fingers tapping against the book’s worn leather cover. “I had to know,” he said, devoid of apology. “You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
Daud stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He didn’t look angry, not exactly—just weary, his shoulders heavier than usual. “I suppose I didn’t,” he admitted. “What’s the verdict, then? Should I be expecting the gallows or another lecture?”
Corvo finally turned halfway to face the man before him, studying him for a long moment before shaking his head. “You’ve been protecting Emily. Protecting me, beyond the scope of your orders.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Daud scoffed, looking away toward the window, his face half-shrouded in shadow. “Does it matter?” he muttered, his voice laced with a vulnerability so faint it could almost be mistaken for indifference—almost. “It’s what you brought me here to do.”
“It matters," Corvo said. “It matters to me.” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “You could have let it all burn. You had every reason to. But instead, you put yourself in the line of fire—again.” He studied Daud’s profile, searching for something he wasn’t even sure he wanted to find. “So tell me. Why?”
Daud’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. He stared out the window, his reflection barely visible in the glass. “I don’t know,” he said at last, the words escaping like a confession he hadn’t meant to give. “Maybe...maybe I don’t like unfinished business. It had to be done. That’s all.”
Corvo regarded him for a long moment, the man before him now a strange, contradictory figure—though perhaps no more contradictory and strange than himself. He looked at him as he would a mirror, feeling the weight of the years between them, the silent understanding neither wanted to acknowledge. Both of them the same kind of pathetic beast, searching desperately for absolution, and clinging to their silent paths of regret as the last bastion of pride they had in this world. “...I should’ve been the one to see it. To stop it myself.”
A breath left Daud’s throat, shaking his head slowly as he walked around to take a seat at the armchair across the room. “You can’t catch it all. I had more men working for me than this whole tower employs and we still couldn’t stop you.”
Corvo fell into begrudging silence, giving a nod that was for no one but himself. “...I owe you my thanks. You saved Emily…and me. Regardless of anything else…” he turned to Daud, an uncharacteristic softness breaking through his eyes, veiled by the shadow of his cognitive dissonance. When he spoke again it was almost with fear, as if the things he felt now were more terrifying than any battle the two had ever fought. “...You have my gratitude.”
A wave of something sickening fell over Daud, a pang of disgust, nearly flinching at the sentiment Corvo had just offered him. This, this horrid feeling—this was what he had been trying so hard to avoid. He turned his head away swiftly, a fist clenching at his side which he then rested his mouth against to keep from emoting his discomfort. “...Don’t thank me,” he rasped. “You don’t owe me anything. And I don’t want it.”
From his position still seated at the edge of Daud’s bed, Corvo could only give an absent nod, a strand of coal black hair falling into his eyes. “...I want your reports cleaned up from now on. No more of this. No more lies. I won’t have this…secrecy.” He stood up and faced the man opposite him once more with a stern brow. “If you’re any sort of man, Daud, you’ll step out of the shadows for once.”
Daud pulled his eyes from the wall with a great effort to meet his gaze. “...Understood,” was what he said, though he knew he had no conception of how to do such a thing.
Corvo held his eyes for a moment longer, the two of them sitting in the pained silence and exchanging breaths for what felt like a small eternity before he finally turned from Daud, leaving the room with a stride that couldn’t possibly take him away fast enough.
Daud’s eyes hung on the doorway as the last of the fuel in his desk lamp burned down to its final embers. In the last breath of its glow, he took himself to his bed, a faint glimpse of himself in the window as he removed his coat and shirt. A man, or a beast perhaps, half-formed, once filled only with blood and shadows now being asked to walk into the light. The idea tasted bitter on his tongue, like ash, a thing not meant for him. To stand exposed now felt like standing on the gallows, waiting for the rope to snap taut.
He imagined it now, the sound of the ground giving way beneath his feet as the final thing he heard before darkness swallowed him, and the idea brought him just enough comfort to fall asleep.
Chapter 9
Notes:
[Y'ALL. holy shit. sorry for that big long break my personal life was getting crazy there for a sec. anyway im posting this in a rush because its been cranking this out mid-flu for y'all and I did a bunch of rearranging to the remainder of the story, just lettin ya know now so if you see the title of this story change to eleven vignettes to not be alarmed cuz it's for the greater good I promise LMAO
As you can probably tell this one is 1) a doozy, length wise, and 2) a different sort of approach than a lot of the past chapters in terms of POV as now we are getting a lot more stuff from not Daud's eyes, but im justifying it all under the magical lens of Outsider brand highlight reel master settings and I feel it is all the more delicious for it. sorry if ya don't like that tho. Anyway enjoy, the rest of it is nearly done as well so I'm hoping to post soon, thanks again for all the patience, xoxoxo -A
p.s. i made a tumblr to post dishonored fanart and stuff at, if u wanna follow me there the username is itsmouseyhair k byeee]
Chapter Text
The rain had come in fits and starts that day, as it had for the week prior to their journey, leaving the air damp and cool and the scent of wet earth blanketing everything.
Already Daud had noticed his mood improving day by day as the sun returned, though it didn’t count for much in the historical pattern of his apathy. Now, at least, the sun had begun to set—and whatever remained of the day’s glow was passing as the wine was drained from its carafes at the dining table before them.
Corvo had asked Daud to accompany them as an extra precaution. “Hargreaves plays the role of a gracious host,” he had said, “but I’ve never trusted him. I’d rather not take any chances.”
Daud had needed no more explanation than that. Corvo had been cautious in the last half year thanks to his hidden dealings for the Empire, and Corvo’s subsequent discovery of them—and now he was, begrudgingly, left playing bodyguard to a bodyguard. Probably a wise level of vigilance, Daud thought, considering what he had seen, but still he couldn’t help feeling as though he was only here under some kind of probationary supervision rather than necessity.
Emily sat at the head of the table with Corvo beside her like a shadow, while Daud kept to the periphery to observe the scene from a hallway adjacent to the banquet room.
The hum of conversation wove through the hall, punctuated by the occasional clink of crystal goblets and cutlery. Servants moved in silence, refilling glasses with dark Morleyan wine and clearing away emptied plates, while Duke Hargreaves—a man in his late fifties with a shrewd gaze and a carefully curated air of geniality—raised his goblet in a toast.
“To new understandings,” he said smoothly. “May Dunwall and Morley continue to find prosperity together.”
Emily lifted her own goblet of cider, her chest high as her forehead. “To prosperity,” she echoed, nodding to Corvo at her right with a small grin.
“Ah, and speaking of prosperity,” Lord Runswick of Arran interjected, swirling the wine in his glass, “we should discuss the matter of the naval patrols. Now that we’ve finished our meal, we can take up from where we had left off before.”
Hargreaves held up a hand of pause to Runswick before he could continue, and gestured to the young men seated near the lower end of the table. “But first, if I may, Lord Runswick, introductions are in order. My son, Edwin.”
A blond-haired youth of perhaps seventeen inclined his head stiffly, meeting Emily’s eyes for only a brief moment.
Emily gave a respectful nod in response before Runswick motioned to his own son, a more distinguished looking boy with dark eyes; similar in age though younger looking, perhaps only a year older than Emily herself.
“And this is Callum,” Runswick added, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “He has been keen to learn about the affairs of court. I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for him to witness diplomacy firsthand. Isn’t that right, son?”
Callum nodded, a polite but unmistakably appraising look in his gaze as he regarded Emily.
Runswick smirked at the oddly quiet greeting from the young man, turning toward Hargreaves with a pat on the shoulder. “He’s quite the spitting image of you, Desmond.”
The elder man chuckled heartily and leaned back in his seat. “Where it counts, he is. Though thankfully it seems he’s gotten Tanya’s hair,” he remarked, running his palm over the thinning golden strands on his scalp before returning his attention to Emily. “Anyhow, as I was saying…surely your Majesty sees the merit in strengthening the naval forces along the southern trade routes. The raiders grow bolder, and yet our patrols remain stretched thin. A modest increase in Dunwall’s contributions would ensure security for all.”
Emily had no hesitation in her reply.
“Dunwall already allocates considerable resources to the protection of the Empire's waterways,” she began. “To do so again would result in considerable losses to vital industries within the city.”
“But piracy affects us all, Your Majesty,” Runswick cut in, raising up his glass which a staff member promptly refilled. “If the northern routes are not secured, trade will suffer across the Empire. Surely Dunwall sees the benefit of strengthening the navy further. It would only be temporary, of course.”
“Temporary measures have a way of becoming permanent,” Emily rebutted. “If Morley’s merchants are struggling to defend their ships, perhaps they should consider contributing more of their profits to their own protection.”
Runswick gave a thin smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Your Majesty, I admire your boldness. But surely you understand the importance of shared responsibility. Morley’s economy supports the Empire as a whole. Allowing its trade to falter would harm Dunwall in the long run.”
Corvo set his glass down, leaning forward onto his elbows and lacing his fingers together. “The Crown has already made significant sacrifices to support the navy, Lord Runswick. If more funds are required, perhaps it would be wise to assess how they are being allocated. Are the patrols currently in place operating as efficiently as they should be?”
Duke Hargreaves’ cleared his throat gruffly, setting down his glass. “The navy’s efficiency is not in question. What is in question is whether Dunwall is willing to show leadership and solidarity in the face of a growing threat.”
Emily opened her mouth to respond, but Corvo placed a hand lightly on her shoulder—a silent signal.
“Solidarity is a two-way street,” he said, locking eyes with the men before him. “If the other nations in the Empire wish to see increased support, they must be willing to step forward and contribute as well. The Crown will not bankrupt its own people for the sake of a one-sided agreement.”
Runswick gave a nod through raised brows, returning his eyes to Emily. “It seems as though your Lord Protector has already decided the course of this discussion.”
Daud watched her match Runswick’s stare in equal measure, replying with the lightest of ease in her tone as if impenetrable to his jabs. “The course of this discussion,” she continued softly, “is decided by what is best for Dunwall.”
There was only certainty in the way she spoke, but in the space that followed even Daud from his spot against the far wall could see the shift in their energy, the ripple of unease beneath the civility. A moment too long, a glance too sharp. They would remember this conversation—and so would she.
The dignitary exhaled, rubbing a thumb along the stem of his glass. “A difficult position, no doubt,” he murmured. “But perhaps a necessary one.”
Beside him Hargreaves let out a sigh, though the calculation in his eyes had not faded. “Indeed. There is much to consider.” With another deliberate breath he pushed back his chair, smoothing down the front of his coat as he rose. “Come, let us take a moment to clear our heads. I would be honored if Your Majesty and Lord Protector would accompany us on a brief tour of my private vineyard. We can enjoy the fresh air while we continue this discussion.”
Runswick followed suit, already regaining his smooth demeanor. “An excellent idea.”
Emily hesitated only a fraction before rising as well, glancing at Corvo. He gave her the barest of nods, an acknowledgment that he, too, understood the layered nature of this invitation. This was no mere stroll through the vines—it was another stage, another battlefield where words were wielded as weapons.
He turned to shoot a glance at Daud, who had remained at the edge of the room, nearly camouflaged into the ornamental tapestries behind him. He gave Corvo a silent nod. There was no need for instruction.
He remained behind, watching unnoticed among the staff as the party left the table to be cleared by servants. The young heirs remained at the table, helping themselves to leftover servings of wine from the discarded cups of their fathers, speaking among themselves as the wait staff wove in and out of the room.
“She speaks well enough,” Edwin muttered, mouth half full of the last stray grapes from the serving tray at the center of the table. “It’s clear she’s had a proper education. But at the end of the day she’s just a girl playing Empress. Reminds me of how we would play when we were children, pretending to be our fathers.”
Callum snorted, sneering at his reflection in his glass of wine. “Worse than that. She shouldn’t even be wearing the crown. Bastards don’t inherit thrones.”
Daud’s fingers curled at his side. He studied their faces, memorizing their coats and insignia. He had killed men for saying less.
A grin grew on Edwin’s face. “If she weren’t the Empress’s brat, she’d be married off to some merchant by now. Maybe not even that. Imagine—Emily Kaldwin, barmaid.”
Callum chuckled darkly. "Even if she weren’t, she might as well be a puppet. Corvo does the talking, she nods along. So what does that make him, then? Regent? Chancellor? Some great power behind the throne?"
Edwin scoffed. "That would require him to be great. He was an officer of the guard, nothing more. Not a noble, not a statesman. He knows how to wield a blade, not how to run an empire."
The elder boy exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. "You say that now, but don’t pretend you wouldn’t find a way to charm your way into the family if given the chance. A weak ruler is easily led. It’s only a matter of time before she realizes she’ll need a husband to stand at her side."
After a moment of pause, Edwin shook his head slowly. "No. She’s not half as clever as they claim, but she’s not foolish enough to take a consort from the likes of us. Whoever gets that role will be handpicked by the Lord Protector himself."
"Then perhaps we ought to win his favor instead," Callum mused. "Or at least make sure we’re not standing in his way when the time comes."
Daud settled an arm on his hip, tipping his head back to rest it against the wall behind him. He had heard men, young and old alike, speak like this before—smug, entitled, and utterly convinced of their own importance. The young ones were always the worst, the ones who thought power was something that could be courted instead of earned.
His fingers curled slightly at his side, but he did not move. Not yet.
Callum set his goblet down with a careless clink, stretching his arms before gesturing toward the vineyard. "Come on, let’s catch up before they start griping about us not participating."
As the pair turned to leave, Daud stepped out into the walkway with a slow amble.
He didn’t block their path. He didn’t reach for a weapon. He only moved just enough into the dim light that his presence was known. The laughter died between them as they halted, startled.
He regarded them with a neutral expression, his voice smooth, almost idle.
"You boys are awfully bold, talking like that," he mused aloud, a quiet teeth in his voice. "Makes a man wonder if you’ve ever tasted real consequence."
Callum stiffened, exchanging a quick glance with Edwin. "We—"
"I wouldn’t worry too much about who’s really in charge,” he went on, and as he tilted his head slightly the lamplight caught the contours of the scar on his brow, dancing over its edges. “You might find yourselves learning the hard way soon enough."
There was a pause—just long enough for them to consider whether he was playing or warning. Only then did Daud step aside and allow them to pass.
And they did, quickly, without looking back.
When their hurried footsteps faded into the distance Daud let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. Arrogant little creatures, he thought . They weren’t wrong about everything—but they were wrong enough.
Still, as he stood in the dim light of the hall, he felt the plan forming in his mind again—the same one he had considered before and dismissed as impractical. But now he was sure.
He’d begin writing tonight.
The early afternoon had brought a soft warmth to the Tower courtyard, blanketing the cobblestoned ground in a light buzz of heat as the sun climbed. The yard was quiet now, save for the faint shuffle of boots against the stone and the occasional call of orders from the nearby guard patrol.
Daud stood in the shadow of the archway, arms folded, watching Emily wipe sweat from her brow. Corvo, standing a few paces away from her, muttered something inaudible, then gestured towards the sword she held at her side.
The two of them had been at it for the better part of an hour. A training session that, even for all his fitness, had now decorated Corvo’s brow with a glowing veil of sweat. The strands of hair that had fallen loose from the tie at the back of his neck now clung to his temples like creeping vines, and he had discarded his coat at the seat of the patio table along the wall of the tower.
Daud had seen countless battles, and trained more than his fair share of fighters. But watching Corvo had always been something else entirely.
He moved with a concoction of discipline and street-borne grit that no duelists of noble birth ever quite had. To watch him spar was to behold an effortless dance between refinement and brutality—knowledgeable in classical form, yet utterly ready to fight dirty when he’d deemed it strategically prudent. Of the dozens Daud had brought up in skill, none of his men had ever possessed this.
There were times, in those brief moments between the demands of his office, when Daud’s mind would wander. When his vigilance had slipped just enough to allow himself to picture, at the very edges of his thought, what it would be like to cross swords with him again. A match unburdened by blood and history. A contest of skill. Nothing more.
No—it would be more. It would be like it had been then, all those years ago, a fight unlike any he had known. He had battled too many to name, too many to number, and yet none had compelled him to the very edge of his abilities with such incredible, electrifying ease. None had felt like staring into a mirror and seeing himself and the abyss staring back.
And none, like him, were marked.
They fought that day with all the power of gods and men alike, moving through space and time as if they were immaterial, and making every strike with the knowledge that the world itself bent to their will. Never had he tasted such a thing, before or since. It had been exhilarating .
And he had lost.
Ever since that day something in him had longed for it again, with an invisible and unquieting hunger. Not out of vengeance, not to prove himself, but for the sheer, reckless thrill of it; to taste that pressure, that challenge, again.
But he had no right to long for such things. The very thought was as audacious as it was fleeting, the laughable absurdity of it—and when he caught himself daring to indulge the fantasy again, a wave of disgust fell over him.
There would be no such rematch.
The energy between them had shifted the moment Daud had done the unforgivable—and some lines, once crossed, could not be redrawn. He had taken his place outside of Corvo’s world, watching it from its frayed edges just like the Outsider watched them both now, and there was no re-entering it. No duel, no sport between equals. Only this: Daud in the darkness, and Corvo, standing in the light.
And yet, for all his shame, he could not look away.
Before him now in the yard, Corvo exchanged some inaudible instruction to Emily before giving her a pat on the shoulder and turning to exit, leaving his practice sword on the tabletop at the edge of the yard. He waited until Corvo walked off towards the upper balconies, leaving Emily to herself, stretching out the stiffness in her shoulders as she, too, prepared to leave.
His feet seemed to pull him along their path involuntarily, approaching her from behind.
“You’re improving,” Daud said into the stillness.
Emily turned sharply, her sword half-raised in a reflexive guard. Her eyes widened when she saw him and narrowed just as quickly.
He was no stranger to her, not after the day he’d stolen her mother and not after the years she now suffered in his presence; his face and foreboding frame a constant fixture in the corner of office rooms and strategy meetings. She had learned to ignore him, and perhaps he her, too—but this was the first time he’d addressed her directly. Alone.
“What do you want?” she asked. The afternoon’s lesson had wrung the energy from her, but she wouldn’t dare let it show.
“...I have a small proposition,” Daud found himself saying, taking a few slow steps toward the table where Corvo had left the practice sword. “A challenge, if you will. For the good of your education.”
She watched him cross the yard with a barely suppressed scowl. “Corvo oversees my education.”
“That’s my point.” He took the blade into his hand, thumbing its blunt edge. “He teaches you control. He tempers you. That’s his job.” Then he turned, making his way back to her with a dark gleam in his eye. “But you don’t need control, do you? Not with me.”
Emily stood taller, her defensive stance dropping as she took in the implication of his words. “...What are you saying?”
Daud took another step forward, closer now; close enough that he could see the tension in her shoulders returning. “When was the last time you fought someone who wasn’t trying to protect you? Someone you could hit as hard as you wanted, without worrying how they’d feel about it?”
Her eyes had taken on a glare. For all her inexperience, she was alight with a low-burning rage at the mere approach of him—at having to listen to him speak to her so informally, as if he were just anyone. As if he weren’t her greatest enemy this side of the Void.
“You want to fight me?” she asked incredulously, as suspicious as she was taken aback.
“Actually, I think it’s more accurate to say that you want to fight me,” Daud answered evenly, betraying none of his intent. “And I’m giving you the chance to.”
Her brow twitched in indignance, peering at him through thin eyes as if he might shapeshift any moment into something inhuman.
“And who are you to challenge me?” she spat, taking a wider stance with her feet as though it would increase her stature to match his.
“Someone that isn’t your father.” He stood tall before her, but the way he looked on at her was with the same credence he would give any worthy opponent. “Someone who I’d wager you’ve been waiting to take a blade to for about five years. So do it. Take a swing at me. Don’t hold back. Treat me like one of those rats that’s crawled up out of the sewers. You hate me, anyway. Right, Emily?”
That got a reaction. A flash of anger gleamed in her eyes; the freshly ignited flame of defiance and contempt—but she said nothing at first, merely hovering her hand over the hilt of her sword in restraint as her breathing quickened.
He could see her weighing it, wrestling the years of unresolved heartache with the balance and restraint she worked so tirelessly to prove she was capable of exhibiting. But he could also see the fire, the same fire that her father’s blood had planted in her and would not extinguish. She could say no, she could turn away now and return to the safety of the tower.
But the thought of it filled her with something worse than apprehension.
And so she pictured it again, for all the horror it ignited in her. Played that moment in her mind, watching him plunge his blade into her chest. Watching her crumple like burnt paper to the ground; repeating the scene, again, then again. Then again.
Slowly, she braced her feet beneath her, adjusting her grip on the practice blade, feeling its heft—and then she spoke.
“...Okay.”
Daud nodded, and before the word had fully left her lips, she lunged.
She came at him fast—faster than he’d expected—her blade flashing in a clean arc aimed at his shoulder. He sidestepped smoothly with a light shuffle of his boots, feeling the whisper of air as the strike missed him by inches.
A low, throaty chuckle laugh left his lips, speaking under his breath. “That’s it.”
He let the momentum of the miss carry her forward, though she recovered after with a surprising ease. Good, he thought. She wasn’t afraid to overcommit.
When she pivoted on her heel back to him she struck back at him with no loss in her power, her arm shooting forward in a swift riposte that came dangerously close to his ribs before he caught the base of the blade on his bracer, sending her arm out wide with a grunt. She was smaller, and he stronger—but there was no denying her raw talent. Corvo had shaped her well.
But she was predictable.
Her movements followed a pattern: quick thrusts to his midline, slashes aimed at his dominant side, and footwork that mirrored Corvo’s too perfectly. She favored her right, always reset after an attack, and her guard opened slightly on the retreat. Emily was fast, that was her advantage. But speed without unpredictability was something any good bladesman could dismantle.
He let her push him back, let her believe she had the upper hand until her rhythm faltered for the briefest moment. He waited for that hesitation between her attack and recovery, and only then did he take his chance to strike back.
From the open corridor overlooking the courtyard, Corvo had been halfway to leaving when he heard the unmistakable clash of their training swords. His brows knit together, a mask of confusion growing on his face as he made a quick return to the yard to follow the noise. He had assumed Emily was done for the day.
And then he saw them.
He couldn’t identify what it was that he felt when he spotted the two locked in combat, his daughter and his—... Daud, circling each other like stray hounds having a scrap in the alleyways. It had to be some type of anger, surely, this dismay at what had unfolded before him.
His first instinct was to intervene, to put a stop to whatever reckless idea had led to this. And yet as he took a step forward, he found himself still in hesitation.
Emily wasn’t just practicing. She was fighting, and with an intensity she had not yet worn in his presence while sparring. Not just to win but to break through him, to land a blow on the man who had haunted her life for years.
And Daud was letting her .
He caught her blade on the edge of his bracer and twisted, sending it wide before stepping in close; too close for her to bring her weapon to bear.
She glared up at him, breathing hard, her face flushed with a tempest of exertion and frustration.
“You’re still fighting like him,” Daud barked gruffly, panting through the tandem force of his swings and parries. There was an ache in his voice under the gristle, one that could see her in a number of years—once she had succeeded and maybe even surpassed Corvo—and wondered if one day she would be the one to break through and land the cut that mattered. Maybe if not him then her, and he let himself think of it again—that craving for the sting of failure, the bruising reminder that he was not untouchable. That someone could make him bleed for what he had done.
Their blades met again in a clash that echoed through the courtyard, and Daud twisted her final blow in a forceful circular parry.
“You’re good,” he said, panting, and took a backstep into a defensive stance. “But you’re not ready yet. Not for someone like me.”
Emily wrenched her blade free and stepped back, her stance guarded, but she didn’t attack again. She was smart enough to know when she’d been outmatched—for now.
“You’ll get there,” he said, putting space between them once again. “But it won’t happen if you only fight people who let you win.”
She held her eyes on him steadily, her chin held high and her shoulders broad. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Daud lowered his blade and turned from her, pivoting to leave the courtyard.
And when he faced away from her, Emily lifted her blade once more, and she swung at him again.
Her blade shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow in a swift strike at his core. The sun caught the edge of the steel, casting a blinding gleam as it cut through the air with lethal intent. The breath left his lungs in a harsh gasp as the hit knocked the air from his lungs, his boots scraping against the stone to catch himself.
For a heartbeat his vision blurred, and when his eyes came back into focus he turned and looked at her in earnest. Not as a girl trained by Corvo, but as a force all her own.
Emily straightened, tilting her chin just slightly, the fire in her eyes no longer smoldering but blazing with righteous fury. When she spoke she carried all the gravitas of her late mother, every word sharp and cutting like a blade of its own.
“And you won’t win if you keep underestimating your opponent.”
Daud let out a cough. His ribs ached, but his pride did not. He turned his face back to her, regarding her face that was so strangely caught between youth and maturity.
And then, unexpectedly—he laughed.
A real, deep laugh, crawling roughly out of his throat like it was worn from disuse. The sound echoed off the courtyard walls, ringing through the open air like the toll of a distant bell.
From his hidden spot in the walkway, Corvo stilled at the sound. He had never heard Daud laugh, not like that . Not as if the world had pulled something loose inside him. And yet, there it was: wild, echoing, and utterly unguarded.
Daud wiped his mouth, still smirking, and inclined his head to the girl. “You’re quite right.”
He turned then, and returned the blade to its place as he retreated from the courtyard—but before he did, he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder. He left his parting thought with the image of her in his mind, of the day he had picked her up from the slums and taken her as the first woman into his fold. Of the duels they had shared in kind.
“...Don’t lose that fire, your Majesty.”
He had begun a walk back through the path out of the courtyard when he came upon Corvo standing in the gateway, his face riddled with confusion.
Their gaze met, only for the briefest moment but undeniably locked for an instant—before Daud averted his eyes and pressed on forward as if he had seen nothing at all. His shoulder brushed Corvo’s on his stride toward the Tower entrance before Corvo took him by the arm, pulling him back like a taut rope.
“What the hell was that?” he hissed, baring his teeth.
Daud gave Corvo an unintimidated look, the faintest glimmer of amusement still in his eyes.
“Just a lesson,” Daud told him, his tone light but colored with something deeper. A truth he had no intention of sharing. “For both of us.”
He pulled his arm free before Corvo could respond, his steps carrying him into the shadows of the tower, leaving only the faint echo of his laughter behind.
The soft tamp of their boots was the only presence following the pair as they ascended the staircase and made their way down the corridor leading to Emily’s chambers. The weight of the parliament session pressed against her temples still, not aided by the tight coil of her hair. Corvo walked beside her with hands clasped behind his back, seemingly untouched by the pressure of the expectations that loomed above them.
“You handled yourself well today,” he commented as they came to a stop at her office door. “Just remember what we discussed. The proposals from Morley are layered with language meant to distract from what they’re trying to accomplish. Read them carefully, and don’t be afraid to question what’s presented as fact.”
Emily gave a nod of understanding and tightened her grip on the stack of papers she carried. “I will. Thank you, Corvo.”
Corvo’s eyes softened slightly, the sharp lines of his face easing into that paternal gaze that he withheld but for these private moments, when all eyes but hers were gone from him.
“I trust your judgement, Emily. Don’t doubt yourself. Take your time with them, and we’ll go over your conclusions later.”
She gave him a small, appreciative smile, returning a glimpse of the same warmth. With a final nod Corvo turned to make his leave, and she remained in the doorway long enough to watch his figure disappear down the hall.
With that she pushed open the door to her office, greeted by the familiar scent of leather and the small pot of incense she kept by the desk. As she slid the proposals from her arms onto the desk and took a seat, she couldn’t help feeling as if she were trespassing still—as though her mother might walk in at any moment and catch her at the desk she was once forbidden from approaching lest she misplace some important document from its surface or spill an inkwell across some vital executive order.
She remembered the first time she had taken a real seat at this desk, and how it had been here, not on the throne, that the act of taking a place in its chair had caused her to unexpectedly burst into tears, much to the alarm of everyone else present in the room. Everyone, that is, except Corvo—for he alone seemed to understand her outburst that day, promptly dismissing everyone else from the room to sit quietly with her until she had settled again.
On reflection afterward she thought it must have been because she had sat in the seat of the throne countless times, both in stolen opportunities of the games of her youth and at the direction of Jessamine herself, who regularly brought her to do so during those occasional moments when none but Emily were present. You’ll be here one day, she would say, long after I’m gone.
She used to imagine such a day in her head, the sight of her mother gray and withered on her deathbed, passing quietly from this earth not by the cold chill of steel, but in the embrace of the finest down blankets and of lavender scented pillows.
She sank into the chair now with a heavy sigh, fighting the suffocating pull of grief to seek, as she now often did, a solace in the quiet monotony of governance.
It was not until she had already picked up the first sheet off the stack she’d set down that something had caught her eye on the desktop before her: placed neatly in the middle, out of place even among the organized chaos of her workspace. For all its clutter, she knew every document, every correspondence spread across its surface—but not this.
A letter was what it appeared to be. Multiple pages long, and one that had clearly been folded with care—though strangely it was not enveloped or even finished with a seal, something which was highly out of the ordinary for even the most casual of correspondences she would receive. Almost as if it had not arrived by mail at all.
A soft knock rang against the door (which she had failed in her distraction to close fully), and without waiting for acknowledgement Callista’s ivory-pale face appeared from behind it, holding a saucer and cup in her hand from which steam billowed out in ribbons.
“You forgot your tea in the meeting room, your Majesty,” Callista alerted softly. “Would you still like it?”
Emily’s eyes lifted to meet hers briefly before she turned back to the foreign letter in front of her, taking it into her hand to begin unfolding it. A quick glance to the bottom showed no signature, though the hand it was penned in seemed familiar.
“Callista, do you know what this is?” she asked, ignoring her governess’ question and half lifting the sheet with a confused expression. “I don’t remember it being among the mail you presented to me earlier.”
A queer look came upon Callista’s face as she set the cup and saucer beside Emily on the desk, her eyes averting away from the girl’s with some unspoken air of discomfort. She seemed to hesitate before responding, as if weighing the idea of answering honestly.
“...The Spymaster asked me to deliver them to you,” she began, “earlier today. I asked what they were, but he merely said they were important matters meant for your eyes alone. I assumed it was some official royal business.” She stood tall, and her next words were laced with that quiet degree of protectiveness that Emily had not heard in her since those days at the pub. “Would you like me to bring them to the Lord Protector to look through first?”
Emily’s brows pinched in puzzlement, though she gave a slow shake of her head. “...No, Callista, that won’t be necessary. Thank you for the tea. That’ll be all.”
She gave a small bow, shutting the door quietly on her way out and leaving Emily alone in the room to begin reading the neat scrawl of Daud’s hand.
Your Majesty, it began,
I don’t expect you to welcome this letter. Maybe I shouldn't even expect you to read it.
Dunwall has been a strange place during the years I’ve spent in it. I’ve come to see her from many angles, and through many eyes. It’s allowed me to learn a great deal of lessons. Ones that I watch your Lord Protector try to teach you now. Some of which you’ve learned the hard way by my own hand.
By now you know as well as any: Dunwall is a city that never runs out of ways to kill you, and the threats don’t stop when you climb the Tower walls. If anything, they just dress better.
Corvo has done well to put a blade into your hand, and to teach you how to use your fists and wits when you find yourself unarmed. After a few years of my work in the Tower, however, I’ve seen enough of your training to notice what I believe to be gaps in your teachings. Call it experience, or call it habit. But there’s more you should be learning, things that your father doesn’t know. Not like I do. And if I happen to be at hand, I find it my obligation to tell you.
I’ve spent some time writing out everything I can think of that is pertinent for you to know—things I’ve taught to dozens before, though with them I couldn’t gamble putting it into written word and risk a compendium like that falling into the wrong hands. You, though, I imagine will protect it carefully.
For now, let’s start with the nobles. They lie better than most, and you have the advantage of them thinking you too young and inexperienced to know the signs. Let them, and know the fact of their deception quietly so that they might incriminate themselves further around you. Their words are smooth, but their bodies give them away. Watch their hands—when they’re nervous, they’ll fidget. Adjusting a sleeve that doesn’t need it, tapping a ring against the table, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. As for their face, watch for signs of blinking with an unnatural frequency. They will often glance downward before they speak, as if choosing their words from the floor, or may overcompensate with stillness by holding themselves unnaturally rigid so as not to let their body language betray them. Spotting these becomes second nature once you recognize the tells.
Often, they will say nothing. In a room full of men who live and die by words, silence is just as tactical as speech. If a noble avoids speaking about a subject they ought to have an opinion on, pay attention. A man who is eager to advise you on every other matter but suddenly grows quiet when one is raised is almost always hiding something.
Then there are those who believe deception is a game of sheer confidence. They meet your eyes with an impenetrable stare, thinking you won’t see through them. These are the most dangerous liars of all. If someone stares at you too directly, holds your gaze too long when they answer, it is not honesty—it is calculation.
The intellect you work so hard to prove is your greatest weapon, especially to those that think you do not possess it. Let them think you naive, and take silent note as they weave their fabrications. Then, when you are certain of their deception, back them into a corner from which they cannot escape. Remember that your mother trusted in the words and promises of men who smiled as they sharpened their knives. You don’t have the luxury of making that same mistake.
She hadn’t realized that her hands had been shaking, that the swell of anger that burned beneath her ribs had reached her fingertips and left the sheets of paper trembling under her grip. Her pulse quickened as her eyes followed the lines of text and flipped quickly through the stack, skimming their contents. There were pages and pages just like this one that followed, filled with ramblings about whatever skills he thought valuable.
The nerve of him, the absolute gall of him to leave something like this for her; to speak of her mother and to use her death as a lesson. The very presumption was outrageous, the notion that he had anything to teach her, that she thought she would want to learn from him.
Without thinking or hesitating, she tore the stack of papers down the middle and walked briskly to the fireplace across the room. It whispered a soft crackle, its amber flames licking the edges of the stones around it.
With a heavy rise and fall of her chest, she lifted the torn pages to the mouth of the hearth. The pieces seemed to feel too light in her hand for how heavy they had made her heart. Her hand hovered above the flames, and the heat radiated up to her skin, inviting her to let them fall.
Her throat tightened. And the fire snapped and hissed, waiting.
“...Damn it,” Emily cursed under her breath with a sharp huff, and turned to bound back to her desk, pulling open a drawer and tossing the torn pieces into it indignantly. With a quick scan of the desk compartments she spotted her bottle of glue and dropped it in among the sheets, slamming the door shut and sealing them inside. Out of sight, she thought. But not gone.
Without pause, she dropped back into her chair, the crisp pages of the trade proposals waiting, sterile and cold. She pressed her lips together and dipped her pen into the inkwell, her strokes across the page steady, sharp. But beneath her composed surface, the pen felt heavier than it should, the ink thicker.
And Daud’s words, scorched into her mind, refused to fade.
The long table in the council chamber was cluttered with ledgers, trade manifests, and ink-stamped contracts. The conversation was the usual song of bureaucracy—that of logistics, tariffs, and the tedious dance of negotiating shipments between Dunwall and the other isles.
Emily fought to maintain an upright posture though they had been at it for longer than was preferable, her face ever pleasant as she skimmed the document in front of her. Across the table, Lord Hargreaves slid another paper toward her.
"You’ll find the adjusted terms for Serkonan tariffs agreeable, Your Majesty," he said smoothly, his voice as polished as his signet ring. "Naturally, Morley expects Dunwall to match these rates to maintain competitive neutrality."
Emily took the document without a word, her eyes flicking over the carefully inked numbers. A routine proposal. Lower rates for Morley’s merchants, just enough to appear reasonable but slyly undercutting Serkonos. The kind of political maneuvering that had become all too familiar.
She scanned the table before her until her eye caught something off. A small, seemingly insignificant symbol—a curved line intersected with a single diagonal slash—and her eye glinted with recognition immediately.
Without hesitation, she lifted the page, turning it toward the light. "This shipment here was rerouted," she remarked, the words falling absently from her mouth as if stating a fact. "Or someone paid to have it delayed."
A silence fell over the table.
Hargreaves’ fingers twitched, his easy smile faltering for just a fraction of a second before he let out a forced chuckle, though its sound was hollow.
"My…such an imagination, Your Majesty," he said lightly. A shade too light. "A simple merchant’s mark, nothing more. A common practice among suppliers. I assure you, everything is above board."
Emily set the page down, glancing up briefly at him. "Of course, Lord Hargreaves,” she said at last, polite but indifferent. “If you say so." She had already moved on.
But Corvo hadn’t.
Standing at her side, he watched her with careful intensity. He hadn’t noticed the mark on the document; not until she pointed it out. And even then, it took him another second to remember what it meant.
Smugglers’ codes. Not common knowledge.
Not something a fifteen-year-old should know, empress or otherwise.
Emily was already moving ahead with the matters at hand, exchanging words of compromise and consensus with the players at the table. Corvo participated in equal weight as they made adjustments to the trade propositions, but his mind had not shaken her earlier comment.
It wasn’t just that she knew something she shouldn’t have—it was how easily it had slipped from her mouth, like it was evident to anyone.
Runswick cleared his throat, reaching for his glass as the tension in the room thinned. “Well then,” he said with a cordial nod toward Emily, “this has been… illuminating. We’ll send along the revised drafts for your final approval by week’s end.”
“Very good,” she replied, folding her hands neatly atop the table.
“Until then…” Runswick began again, almost sincere now as he rose slowly from his seat, taking in a deep breath as if to shed the earlier topic and begin anew. “I would like to extend again my sincerest apologies for being unable to attend your late mother’s upcoming memorial, Majesty. As I explained before, my father…”
“Lord Runswick,” Emily’s hand went up as she stood too, a gentle halt. “There is no need to apologize. Those who remain living with us take precedence, especially when infirm. Please spend what time you can with him, and give him my regards. Your loyalty is well known by the Crown.” She offered a smile, though it seemed to stretch a hair wider than usual.
Runswick’s eyes scanned the shape of her a moment before nodding slowly. “Your Majesty is too gracious,” he thanked.
The remaining group stood, making their farewells with practiced civility before trickling out of the room in pairs. Corvo nodded where appropriate, murmuring polite parting phrases—but his eyes lingered on Emily.
She had turned to speak with one of the aides as they gathered her papers, composed even in her distraction. But when the nobles finally took their leave and the room had quieted, Corvo stepped forward, taking her gently by the arm to the range of his whisper as they exited the room side by side.
"Where did you learn that?" he rasped.
Emily blinked at him before tilting her head slightly. "What?"
"The symbol. On the document." He studied her face carefully. "That’s not something from Callista’s lesson plans."
Emily’s lips parted, a quick retort at the ready on her tongue, but the words died before she could speak them. Then her eyes flicked away from his to the floor, and for a moment she looked her own age again—fifteen and unsure, stripped of the polished mask she wore so instinctively before her fellow nobles; of the years she feigned to have beneath her belt.
"It was obvious."
Corvo didn’t answer, but an audible breath left his nose.
Obvious to whom?
He ceased his stride down the hallway, stopping hers as well with his arm and stepping into her path. His voice dropped into its well-worn bass when he spoke again.
“Emily. Where did you learn it?”
She hesitated.
Her shoulders drew up in silent defense, the way he had once seen Jessamine’s do—just as they had all those years ago when she stood before her own father, and Corvo sat watching as she clawed her way through the admission that they had become more than just empress and protector.
“...Daud,” she finally said, barely audible and grimacing slightly with the taste of his name on her tongue—bitter even now, though in truth the bitterness came with knowing she had allowed him too far into her mind to still be so averse to the speaking of his name.
Corvo’s face went blank, just for a heart’s beat—and then he squinted in discernment, the fine lines around his brow and eyes wrinkling with the shift. A nostril lifted, and took the edge of his lip with it in a sneer; one which he did not attempt to mask.
“Daud,” he repeated slowly, as if only just now piecing together the image of the man in his mind for the first time. “ How? ”
Emily’s gaze remained low, staring at Corvo’s belt for some distraction as she clasped her hands behind her back. “He…wrote it in letters. To me.”
Corvo’s eyes remained as a statue upon her face, flicking away for only the briefest moment in deliberation on the meaning of such an answer, and a disciplinary edge—one that Emily hated—grew in his tone with every word.
“Show me.”
She seemed to contemplate refusing for a moment—but seemed to know better than to go to the effort of starting a new dispute with a man she so rarely won them with, and turned on her heel to begin a brisk stride toward her office.
Corvo followed with a stare like ice, strong enough for Emily to feel on the back of her scalp even without seeing him. She pushed the door open almost hesitantly and approached her desk, pulling open the side drawer to remove the collection of letters.
It was a larger stack now than the first time she’d received them, and their contents held even more lessons, more warnings, more hours of written word. She handed them to Corvo without meeting his eyes.
He looked at her once more before taking them, trying to find some hint of unspoken explanation in her eyes. But her averted gaze, unclear whether one of shame or contempt, offered no such answer, and his eyes fell to the papers.
He recognized the sharp, angular hand at once; so unmistakably Daud’s, all harsh edges and pared-down flourishes. None of the refined and elegant script that the average letter Emily received from nobility and court members would display. He noticed, too, the scar splitting the first several sheets in two, visibly reattached by some liquid adhesive with the patience of someone who had tried not to care, and had failed.
Corvo took them into his hands and pored over the lines, page after page, the tune of the lessons on them all too familiar: observation, instinct, the harsh realities of survival in a world where truth and sincerity had long since proven insufficient. Lessons not unlike the ones he himself spent day in and out trying to impart upon Emily—but with every page flipped, it became evident that the words before him held more .
They were not just instructions in self defense or in the art of balancing blade and scepter. No, these were the tales of someone who had spent decades surviving under the heel of the Empire in the filth and mire, and who had clawed his way back from death more than once. The tales of one who had seen a darker shade of mankind than even Corvo had known in his time among Dunwall’s lower castes, and who had learned the blueprint of its most unsavory individuals from the inside out. They were more confessions than notes—the grim and uniquely detailed admissions of a man who had killed to learn what he now passed on.
“When did this start?” Corvo spoke again, halfway through the stack when his eyes returned to Emily’s face. She stood at the edge of the desk, her posture rigid, like she’d expected reproach.
“...Some weeks ago now. Maybe a month and a half.” She ran a finger across the threads of the grain in the wood of the desk absently as she spoke. “He said it was important. For an empress to know these things.”
He looked back to the letters, and didn’t bother to finish scanning their pages, for a gnawing certainty had already begun creeping under his skin—the understanding that it was too late. Too late to intercept such a reaching out, and too late to have been the one to write them.
“You read them all,” he spoke, and it was more to confirm than to ask, for he knew the answer already.
Her eyes lifted, though her chin did not follow. “...Yes.”
There was only the dull hush of the office between them for a minute before Corvo finally set the letters down.
His chest felt tight beneath his skin, like his ribs had shrunken around his lungs, his heart. He could not immediately place the dreadful feeling which had overtaken him. It felt like anger, but if it was then it wore a face he had not yet seen—one which bore an awful resemblance to loss, though he couldn’t name what he felt had been taken from him.
No words came at first. None that felt right. He only gave a short breath through his nose and stepped back from the desk, wiping at his stubbled jaw.
“We’ll discuss this later,” he concluded at last. It came out thinner than he meant.
There was dread in the pit of Emily’s stomach when she gave her small nod in response.
When Corvo turned and walked toward the door his eyes found the back of the room, where the fire crackled low in the grate. For a moment, he too thought about what it would take to burn those pages. To reduce them to ash.
He didn’t pull the door shut after him as he left.
His boots carried him down the palace corridor out of habit, though his mind was no longer in the tower’s halls, churning instead with rumination.
It was not mere loss, he was sure, that he felt now. He knew all too well that gutting wound of having something stolen from you, of the devastating shift from having to not having, and of the screaming hollowness left behind in the wake of what was carved out. But this was something more like a dark doppelganger of that feeling, like the thief which had come had not taken that which was most valuable, but had instead broken in and left behind something new . Something better, superior, hiding all the malice of the act in the way that the thing which you cherished now paled in comparison to their unbidden offering; taking without ever touching the object of their desire.
Corvo could not decide which cut deeper: that Daud had given her these tools unasked for, as though it were his place to shape her soft edges into something sharper, or that he himself had not. That perhaps he could not, even after all the blood he waded through to return her into his arms those years ago. That maybe Daud—because he had been its instrument in a way Corvo had not—knew better the truth of Dunwall’s cruelty, and in some twisted calculus had elected to spare Emily the same slow discovery though he stood to gain nothing from it.
He found himself grappling, willing himself to believe this interference was merely an act of arrogance; a power play from Daud in an effort to worm his way deeper into their lives. But it didn’t feel like arrogance.
It felt like inevitability.
Maybe the same Void born inevitability as the path that had led Daud to Jessamine at the start of it all in the first place, and as the blade that Corvo had failed to place between them.
If that was true, if even a fragment of it was true—it had been he who left the door open. He who had brought Daud close enough to peer into the same lens Corvo stared through every day to watch the same future, and the single, burning shape within it: the girl they both sought to shield, and the waning chance they had to try and shape her into a blade sharp enough to cut free of the noose they had placed around her throat.
Corvo drew a slow breath, though it did nothing to ease the terror coiled tight around his heart.
How long, he wondered grimly—before she could no longer tell them apart?
After the third throb of his temples Corvo finally sat up away from the desktop and set his pen down. His hand instinctively lifted up the teacup at his side to his lips again, and in doing so found that it was empty—something which he’d now remembered already noticing at the last such automatic movement and had forgotten about in his concentration.
With a disappointed quirk of his mouth he returned the cup to its saucer and shifted his eyes wearily back to the sheaf of documents before him. Parliament’s endless disputes, petitions for more Watchmen on the streets, security measures drafted and redrafted; each more toothless than the last. He stared at the lines of figures, the tight script collapsing into nonsense as the muscles behind his eyes gave another aching pulse.
He heaved a deeper sigh than he’d allowed himself all day, pinching at the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes tightly against the fatigue that gathered there. The hour had grown late again without his notice, and with it had come a penetrating soreness that settled into every crevice of his frame like an overstayed guest.
His hand fell from his face and reached for the lamp beside him, fingers brushing the tarnished knob to turn it down and hopefully ease the headache its glow had begun to feed. But before he dimmed it, he his eyes fell upon the hand itself. His hand, stilled in the low yellow light as if belonging to someone else, and the sight of it gave him an unexpected pause.
He began to inspect its surface with a slow intrigue, noticing at once all the details he had not spent time regarding up close in years, if at all. He saw the various small scars, ones he knew by heart, etched into his skin by years of blade training long since past. He saw, too, the hardened calluses along his grip points that no amount of idle months could wear away. The faint freckling that had begun peppering the places touched too often by sun. And between them, a network of fine lines beginning to feather across the skin; deeper and more numerous than he remembered. Signs, all of them, of the years that had passed unnoticed—or rather, uninvited.
Every day he was more aware of the silver creeping into his beard and in stray strands between his umber waves (grown out nearly too long now and rarely loose from its knot at the base of his skull). The way the fatigue came sooner and lingered longer; the way he had to work harder now to keep his strength from slipping, as it inevitably would. There was no weapon to take up against it; this steady and indifferent undoing of his youth. Time, he knew, carried out its erosion with permission from no one but itself.
Indeed, perhaps he knew best of all.
With a short twist of the knob the lamp was extinguished, and then Corvo pushed himself away from the desk at last. The chair scraped a soft half-circle on the rug beneath him, and another breath later he was in the hall, leaving his documents to the darkness for another day.
His feet carried him on the path to Emily’s room without conscious thought, the sconces along the walls guttering low with the night’s breath on either side of him. He’d lifted his hand toward the pocket holding his watch to check the time, but the sight of Callista softly closing the door to her chambers as he rounded the bend stilled his hand, and he dropped it to his side once more.
Her eyes lifted to him only once she’d ensured the latch had closed fully, taking her hand away from it gingerly so its release would not make sound.
“She’s asleep?” Corvo asked, keeping his voice low as he came to a halt.
Callista nodded. “Yes, my lord. She finished her lessons just before dusk.” There was a soft pride in her voice, enough that it warmed something tired in him but for a moment.
“Did it go well?”
“She worked hard,” Callista went on. “Arithmetic today. And composition. She’s made great progress.”
Corvo nodded slowly; pleased and guilty in the same breath. Another missed evening. Another day folded into the Tower’s endless, grasping hours.
“Thank you,” he added softly. “For getting her settled. I’m sorry that I was…” he gestured loosely to the hall of the office he’d come from.
She shook her head softly, lifting a hand in reassurance. “She understands, my lord.”
Corvo gave her a weak smile—though he couldn’t be sure of such a platitude.
“Your work is appreciated as always, Callista. Rest well tonight.”
She gave him a small bow as she bid him good night, and when she disappeared down the hall Corvo lingered outside Emily’s door a moment longer, listening to the hush behind it. No sound came through but the quiet shift of night air through the vents.
He let his hand rest lightly against the wood for a breath in a gesture he knew was too small and absent to matter, before he too turned away and made his own stride back down the hall.
It was only by chance, then—if such a thing existed in the world—that he came upon a kitchenmaid on his path back to his chambers, carrying a tray in her hands. She moved cautiously up the corridor, careful not to spill the contents of the platter she held, which wafted off the familiar scent of the meal he himself had shared among the rest of their usual dinner company only a few hours prior.
“Late for supper,” he mused aloud as he passed, cocking a brow.
The maid nodded, a twinge of nervousness in her otherwise composed expression. “For the Spymaster, my lord. He returned not long ago.”
Corvo’s feet slowed to a stop beneath him. He watched her walk past, his eyes darting between her and the covered plates on the tray.
“...Wait,” he called to her.
The maid came to a stop herself, turning to him with anticipating eyes. “Sir?”
“I’ll take it,” he found himself saying. “If you don’t mind. I need to…speak with him, anyway.”
Her eyebrows lifted a moment, confusion flickering through her deference—but she handed it over without protest, relieved perhaps to be spared the errand. “I…very well, my lord.”
He nodded in thanks, and once she’d shifted the tray’s weight into his hands he inclined his head slightly in dismissal, watching her give a small bow in return before vanishing back toward the kitchens.
For a moment, Corvo stood alone in the hall. The smell of peppers and barley curled its way out of the covered plate up to his nose again as his mind wandered to the words that festered at the edges of his thought; the ones written in that too-well-known hand which now lay similarly festering in a locked drawer of his desk—as if the key could do anything to erase them from his and Emily’s memory.
He had told himself he would confront Daud. That he would not tolerate such an undermining of his authority over Emily’s life—though in truth, he didn’t know how much more energy he had in him for these continued discoveries of Daud’s meddling in their lives and the disputes that so often followed, nor for the futile attempts to divine some kind of understanding of his motives in the aftermath. He’d had his fill of confrontations with the man ever since the first one they’d shared; that day in the cold, though no words were brought but their blades.
Corvo began the steps toward his office all the same.
When he reached the door he did not knock, instead shifting the weight of the tray into one hand and supporting it on his hip as he pushed the latch open.
He found Daud at his desk, hunched over what was presumably his report of the day’s mission, quill scratching with slow deliberation. He looked up in what seemed to be confusion at the sudden entry at first, though it was only when Corvo approached the desk that their eyes met in full—a flicker of surprise crossing his brow before he smoothed it away.
Corvo set the tray down on his desk without ceremony.
Daud lowered his pen, leaning back slightly and giving the meal a narrow look before shifting his eyes to Corvo.
“Not the kitchenmaid today?” he quipped, stacking up his papers and setting them aside so that he could pull the tray closer to himself. “If the time’s finally come for you to poison me, you’ve made a terrible blunder by showing your face beforehand.”
Corvo gave an unamused grunt. “Just…wanted to see how the Rinaldi business turned out today.”
Fuck.
Daud paused. He tapped the end of his quill against the desk once, his eyes locked with Corvo’s curiously. “...According to plan.”
Corvo nodded once, slow and stiff, as if that reply answered something deeper—and for a moment the room stilled.
He remained standing there, weight settling unevenly onto one foot, the words he’d meant to say thickening and clotting in his mouth. His eyes jumped from Daud’s face to the neat stack of papers, then to the curl of steam from the plate, then back to Daud—all of it blurring at the edges in his vision as he fought the absurd, gnawing sense that he’d already lost whatever ground he thought he’d come here with.
Say it, you idiot, he told himself, say it now . But the words had gone paper-thin in his throat, too thin to push past his clenched teeth.
Daud watched him, head tilted slightly in suspicion—or perhaps just the patience of someone used to waiting out tempests.
Corvo shifted his weight back, gritting his teeth. Coward, he thought viciously. Coward.
With a low sound, almost a sigh, Daud set his pen down and lifted the cover from the tray, settling back into his seat with the casual finality of a man long since resigned to another supper alone.
“Thanks,” he said finally; a clipped, dry courtesy that rang strangely in the stale air.
Corvo exhaled through his nose and turned away, the air tight around shoulders as he left, like it wanted to drag him back by the collar. He felt only disgust—at himself, at his hesitation; at the silent, pitiful retreat of his own intentions. Daud was inspecting the meal now, fork in hand, his movements slow, almost hesitant as he lifted the first portion to his mouth.
Corvo had crossed half the distance to the door, already composing the shame in his head over the sound of cutlery against the plate behind him when Daud’s voice caught his hand at the doorknob.
“…Is this soutza?”
Corvo paused mid-step.
He turned his head slowly to look back at Daud.
“Yes,” he answered, though it came out more like a question. “It is.”
Daud speared another bite, slower this time, rolling it between the tines of his fork before eating. He chewed it slowly, thoughtfully; the lines around his eyes softening ever so as he swallowed.
“...Hardly a meal fit for the residents of Dunwall Tower,” he remarked, a whisper of amusement in his voice. “This is peasant food.”
Corvo turned more fully now; releasing his grip from the doorknob and folding his arms over his chest. “I requested it.”
Daud gave a slow nod, a glimpse of something Corvo couldn't discern crossing his features as he poked at the meal—a paste of thick crimson, bright with peppers and sharp spices, plated over a fluffy bed of barley with slivers of onion and wilted greens at the edges.
“Haven’t had it since I was a boy,” he continued, more quietly, as though speaking only to himself. “My mother used to make it. Saltier than this. Sometimes with fish.” He stirred the paste absently, as if conjuring memories from the depths of the bowl. “When we could afford it.”
Corvo didn’t move.
The words were unexpected. Not just their content, but the fact of them at all, having so far heard nary a word further from Daud than the summary of his field work in all the times they had spoken since his—sentence?—in the Tower, let alone tales of his personal history.
“You’re from Serkonos,” Corvo said, too taken aback to give it the proper inflection.
Daud nodded once. “Karnaca, mostly—though we spent a few years in Cullero. Then Palmera…San Rovino…” he trailed off, like finishing the meandering list was too great an effort to bother.
Corvo watched him for a long beat, lingering by the door and shifting his weight as if trying to persuade himself to leave. But the room was quiet now, and there were no reports, no orders, no staff bustling to excuse him. There was only the slow scrape of Daud’s fork against the plate.
“...Do you like it?” Corvo asked.
Daud’s gaze lingered on the food a second longer before he lifted it back to Corvo, and for the briefest moment, the steel was gone from his eyes—worn down to something tired, and remarkably human.
“It’s good,” he said. “Impressive from a Gristolean cook.” Another pause. “...Tastes like home.”
Corvo gave a small incline of his head, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment, uncertain of what to do with the uncomfortable recognition twisting in his chest. He could only glance again at the food and the hollowed man sitting before it. For a moment he was only a man, one with memories older and more worn than Corvo had allowed himself to consider before.
A moment later he found himself speaking again, before he could think better of it:
“Used to have it at my uncle’s house,” he began. “Up on the cliffs near the Bastillian coast.”
Daud’s eyes lifted slowly, a faint crease of something like interest growing between his brows, or maybe only memory.
Corvo let his gaze drift, somewhere past Daud’s shoulder, past the stone and oil and old air. “His wife would make it every summer. Soutza with black beans. When the wind came in off the water you could smell the peppers for streets.”
Daud’s mouth twitched, almost a smile—but thinner, worn down by years.
“We didn’t have peppers,” he said. “Not often. Too expensive. My mother grew wild tomatoes against the wall in the alley. Didn’t taste like much, but she'd throw them in anyway.”
Corvo only watched him for a breath.
“The tomatoes would split,” Daud continued distantly, “under the heat. You’d see it—the skin cracking open, leaking out in the sun...”
Then Corvo nodded absently, his eyes hanging on some unseen point in the distance. “We grew our own, mostly. But there was a market down by the Dry Docks. They’d hang garlands of garlic and peppers from the beams. The vendor there liked us. Gave us a discount if we brought her my mother’s herbal balm for her joints.”
Daud nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “I know that market,” he muttered, like he was reforming the memory brick by brick with every word. “It had a fountain...marble lions. Cracked and chipped.”
Corvo huffed a low breath through his nose—a sound almost like amusement, almost like disbelief.
“More moss than marble by the time I knew it,” he said. “But yeah. Lions. Faces all worn off.”
A silence, brief only, as the fabric of visions past wove itself between them.
“I used to run across the square there,” Daud said, “when I was small. Had my mother running after me between the stalls. Used to climb the lions until she caught me and cuffed me by my ear.”
Another longer quiet came, and for a moment, there was only the dusty memory of heat, of coastal air, of broken fruit stolen from forgotten docks—and of two boys, separated by streets and stations and only a few years, thrown toward futures neither could have imagined.
Corvo’s mouth twisted with something bitter and small. “Funny,” he muttered, “what sticks.”
Daud only nodded a slow and hollow nod, turning the fork slowly between his fingers and watching the light catch its edge. Then he set it down with a soft clink, folding his palms in his lap.
“Thank you,” he repeated, just barely neutral.
Corvo gave only the faintest nod, almost reluctant, his eyes long gone from Daud’s. He stood there another beat longer—too long, not long enough—then he turned and left Daud alone once more in the quiet, with only the memory of a boyhood far behind him and the taste of a salt air that no longer reached them.
spider_fingers on Chapter 1 Thu 12 Dec 2024 02:04AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 12 Dec 2024 02:05AM UTC
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mouseyhair on Chapter 1 Thu 12 Dec 2024 06:43PM UTC
Last Edited Wed 26 Feb 2025 11:05PM UTC
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SRed on Chapter 4 Thu 12 Dec 2024 02:09PM UTC
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spider_fingers on Chapter 9 Sat 07 Jun 2025 11:11AM UTC
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