Chapter Text

The prison's impossible architecture stretched around them, reality bent to contain beings who had once shaped it at will. Solas stood with that careful grace that made even stillness feel like movement, his presence carrying the weight of ages as he studied her.

"The fall of Weisshaupt resonates through the Fade itself," he said, voice carrying that particular blend of ancient wisdom and perpetual sorrow. "As does the death of Ghilan'nain's corrupted creation. But Ghilan'nain still stands." His eyes caught hers with careful purpose. "She bleeds, but is far from broken."

"We had everything," Rook's words emerged raw with fresh grief. "A dragon hunter born of fire and storm. An assassin who makes death into art. The greatest warriors the Wardens could offer." Her fingers found her hair as shame painted itself across features too tired to hide it. "And still we failed."

Something shifted in Solas's expression, not quite softening, but carrying understanding earned through countless similar moments. "I led armies against impossible odds for hundreds of your lifetimes," he said quietly. "Retreat is not defeat, lethallan. Taking down her Archdemon was victory claimed in blood and courage."

The words she couldn't speak pressed against her chest: how close she'd come to using blood magic, how desperately she feared losing those she'd grown to love. But different truth emerged: "I didn't come here for comfort."

"Of course not." His smile carried a small chuckle. "After all, you have Varric for such conversations."

The naming of her closest confidant made something twist inside her. Guilt for secrets kept from the one person who had always seen her clearly, who had helped forge her into something more than mere survival had made her become.

"And your team?" Solas's question carried careful measure beneath its seeming casualness. "How do they fare after such... revelations?"

"They're rattled," Rook admitted, the memory of Neve's accusing gaze pressing against her consciousness like a blade. The unspoken truth of blood magic attempted hung between them like smoke. "Mostly they're yelling at each other, at me. At everything."

"Good." His response made her blink in surprise. "Such passion will drive them to greater heights next time. You have a team to shape, lethallan. To forge in fire of your own making."

"I know what they're capable of," she said softly, her red hair falling forward as she considered each member's unique strengths. "It's just... getting there. Finding the path between what we are and what we need to become."

Something shifted in Solas's ancient gaze, approval wrapped in deeper understanding. "That you see them this way speaks well of your leadership. Such passion, such devotion..." His voice carried weight of ages watching similar bonds form and break. "They will follow you to death itself."

The words struck like arrows finding vulnerable flesh, making her magic coil tight beneath marked skin. "That," she managed, each word carrying steel wrapped in quiet thunder, "is the one thing I will not allow."

"It may come to that," Solas said, his voice carrying the weight of countless sacrifices witnessed across ages. "But perhaps..." He paused, choosing his words with careful precision. "Perhaps you will find ways to prevent such choices from becoming necessary."

"Let's discuss something else," Rook cut in, her magic stirring restlessly beneath marked skin. "I need suggestions for our next move against the gods. Where they might be found."

Solas's lips curved into a knowing smile. "The Venatori or Antaam. Push them hard enough, and the gods will take notice. They cannot resist responding to such... provocations."

A sharp laugh escaped her throat. "You think I have the ability to goad gods into making mistakes?"

"I have absolute faith in your ability to aggravate those who should know better than to underestimate you." His eyes held ancient amusement. "Few possess such a remarkable talent for turning an enemy's pride against them."

Her fingers found another braid as she considered his words. "One last question," she said softly, her hair falling forward to curtain her face. "When Ghilan'nain reached into my mind... she called me Nyr'ash. What does that mean?"

The prison-space stilled around them as Solas studied her, his expression shifting through subtle changes that spoke of calculations being made and remade. "The name is... not entirely familiar to me," he said carefully, though something in his tone suggested deeper recognition than he admitted. "Though you bear remarkable similarity to someone I once knew, in times best left to memory's kinder shadows."

His eyes tracked across her features with renewed intensity, as if pieces of a puzzle were slowly clicking into place. "Tell me something," he said, voice carrying that particular blend of casual interest that meant the question was anything but simple. "In your earliest memories... did you share your first breath with another?"

"Answer my question first," she challenged. "Then perhaps I'll answer yours."

Something ancient and dangerous flickered through his eyes, not quite anger, but recognition of a game well played. His presence began to fade like mist before dawn, though his final words carried weight of conversations yet to come: "Another time then, when we both feel more... forthcoming with our truths."

The prison-space dissolved around her, leaving only the echo of unspoken knowledge hanging between them. Whatever connection he'd recognized in her face, whatever truth lay behind Ghilan'nain's naming... those answers would wait for another dance between half-truths and careful deflections.

Rook rose from her meditation, frustration rippling through her like troubled waters. Her feet carried her in restless patterns across worn stone as Ghilan'nain's voice echoed in her mind: Nyr'ash... traitor. The words twisted together like poison in her veins, each repetition carrying weight of mysteries she couldn't unravel.

Her fingers found another anxious braid as she paced, red hair catching lamplight like captured flame. A month ago, she'd barely known these gods existed beyond ancient tales whispered in Tevinter's shadows. Now one had reached into her mind with terrible familiarity.

"Maybe Solas is right," she muttered, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. Perhaps she did simply bear unfortunate resemblance to someone long dead, some ancient figure who had earned divine ire. But then... why had he asked about a twin? The question had carried too much weight, too much careful purpose to be mere curiosity.

Each possible answer only birthed fresh mysteries, each thread pulled revealing tangles she wasn't sure she wanted to understand. The very air felt heavy with unspoken knowledge as she fought the urge to call Solas back, to demand truth rather than careful deflection.

But she knew him too well by now. Knew how he would weave half-truths into prettier lies, how he would study her with those ancient eyes that saw too much while revealing too little. No, pushing him would only lead to more delicate evasions, more carefully crafted walls between what she needed to know and what he was willing to share.

A sound of pure frustration escaped her throat as she spun toward the door. She needed distraction, needed something real to focus on rather than divine naming and cryptic gods. Her feet carried her with purpose toward Davrin's quarters, where at least honest friendship waited.

Rook hesitated at Davrin's doorway, heart catching at the sight before her. He sat surrounded by tiny wooden figures, each one carved with loving precision, each face capturing essence of fallen friends. Assan lay curled beside him, the young griffon's presence a quiet comfort as Davrin's knife continued its careful work, shaping memory into something tangible.

Her magic hummed softly beneath her skin as she recognized the faces emerging from cedar. Wardens who had stood against corruption until the very end. Her throat tightened as she traced the careful detail in each figure, the way he'd captured not just features but spirit in wood and dedication.

"Davrin," she said softly, the name carrying weight of everything she struggled to express. "I wanted to make sure you're okay."

His hands never stilled on his current piece as he spoke, voice rough with memory: "Marcus here, he used to brag about how he'd be the one to take down an Archdemon. Said he'd make it look easy." A bitter smile touched his lips. "Elena would just roll her eyes, tell him she'd probably have to save his ass first."

Her heart ached watching his fingers trace wooden features with such care. "You did them proud," she offered, though the words felt inadequate against the weight of loss carved into his expression. "You continue to do them proud."

The knife's movement suddenly stilled as something dangerous flickered through his eyes. "Proud?" The word emerged like broken glass. "I killed an Archdemon and I'm still breathing." His grip tightened on carved wood until his knuckles went white. "That's not how it works. That's not how it's supposed to work."

Raw fury painted itself across his features as he continued: "I was ready. I had accepted it, made my peace with what needed to be done." His voice cracked slightly. "I was supposed to die in that moment. It was my time, my sacrifice to make. And instead..."

The accusation hit Rook like a physical blow, making her magic coil tight beneath marked skin. She took a step forward, hands raised in placating gesture. "You're alive, Davrin. Here to fight another day. Why are you so determined to die?"

"Because I'm not supposed to be here!" The words erupted from him like something long festering finally breaking free. "This isn't right. This isn't how it works."

"Maybe the old rules don't apply anymore," she offered softly, her heart aching at the raw pain in his expression. "The gods have changed everything: the blight, the corruption itself. Perhaps..."

"Unless someone changed it for me." His eyes cut into her like blades as he rose, wooden figures scattering across stone. "I felt something, right before that final strike. Magic, but wrong, twisted." His voice dropped lower, carrying edges sharp as broken glass. "Like when blood mages try their corruption, but none are ever strong enough to affect a Warden. None except..."

The accusation hung between them like smoke as understanding bloomed. Her throat closed around denials that wouldn't come as shame painted itself across features too tired to hide it. Her fingers found those anxious curls as everything she'd tried to bury came rushing back: the desperate reach for blood magic's familiar chains, the frantic attempt to save someone she couldn't bear to lose.

"Did you do it?" He advanced on her, each step carrying carefully contained fury. "Did you use blood magic to keep me alive? Take away my right as a Warden to die fighting corruption?" When she remained frozen, unable to form words past the guilt crushing her chest, his control finally shattered.

"How dare you?" The words emerged like broken glass wrapped in betrayal. "After everything we've been through, everything we've shared, you would use that corruption on me? Try to control me like just another sacrifice for your magic?"

"I didn't..." she started, but he cut her off with a bitter laugh that held no warmth.

"Didn't what? Didn't succeed? Didn't manage to bind me like all those other poor bastards your master had you prepare?" His hands curled into fists as he continued, each word chosen to cut deepest: "Or maybe that's all I ever was to you. Just another vessel for your blood magic, another body to corrupt when the moment was right."

Her magic sparked uselessly beneath her skin as tears carved hot paths down her cheeks. She wanted to explain how desperation had made her reach for familiar chains, how love had nearly driven her back to everything she'd fought so hard to escape. But shame stole her voice, leaving only the echo of his accusations hanging between them like smoke that refused to clear.

Assan moved with unexpected grace, his form inserting itself between them like a living barrier. The young griffon's presence seemed to cut through Davrin's fury, making him blink as if waking from a darker dream. The warrior's face shifted from anger to horror as he truly registered what he'd just said.

"Rook, wait..." His hand reached for her, regret painting itself across features that had held such fury moments before. "I didn't mean..."

"Don't." The word emerged soft but carrying edges sharp as broken glass. Her hair fell forward to curtain her face as she stepped back, each movement precise and controlled despite how her heart tried to tear itself apart in her chest. "You need space. We both do."

She turned with careful dignity, though her magic thrummed beneath her skin with barely contained anguish. The door felt impossibly heavy as she pulled it closed behind her, sealing away his attempted apologies and her own shattered composure.

The night air wrapped around her like a familiar cloak as she stumbled into the courtyard, each breath fighting past the tightness in her throat. Her hands pressed against cool stone as she forced herself to breathe through the pain, through memories of chains and corruption that his words had dragged back to the surface.

Tears carved hot paths down her cheeks as she remembered how desperately she'd wanted to save him, how close she'd come to betraying everything she'd fought to become. The worst part wasn't his anger, it was knowing he had every right to it. She had reached for blood magic's familiar chains, had tried to force his fate because she couldn't bear to lose someone else she loved.

Her fingers trembled as she wiped away evidence of weakness, her hair falling back into careful order as she rebuilt her walls. She couldn't fall apart, not now when everyone needed her to be stronger than mere survival had made her. Her team was fractured, trust lying shattered like mirrors that showed too much truth, and she needed...

She needed Lucanis.

The thought emerged unbidden but carrying weight of certainty. He would understand, would know exactly how it felt to carry corruption's touch while fighting to become something more than what darkness had made you. Her feet carried her with purpose toward his quarters, each step measured against the cost of vulnerability and the desperate need for someone who saw all her broken pieces and chose her anyway.

Rook found Lucanis in his quarters behind the kitchen, the familiar scent of weapon oil and coffee wrapping around her like comfort as she entered. She forced a smile onto her lips, though the expression felt brittle after her confrontation with Davrin.

"I had her," he said quietly, purple light flickering through his gaze. "Was close enough to end it..." His words trailed off as he studied her, something shifting in his expression. "But that's not why you're here."

"How are you holding up?" She kept her voice carefully light.

"Did you do it?" His question cut through pretense like a blade, purple light bleeding into his gaze. "When Davrin faced the Archdemon, did you use blood magic?"

The directness of his question made her magic coil tight within her. She could have denied it, could have hidden behind the fact that she hadn't actually completed the casting. But something in his eyes demanded truth, even knowing what it might cost.

"I tried," she admitted softly. "I reached for it, wanted to use it to save him, but..." Her voice caught as understanding bloomed across his features. "I couldn't find his essence in time."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Spite's presence surged forward, ancient fury wrapped in newer betrayal. Lucanis went perfectly still, that deadly stillness that had earned him legend status among the Crows.

"You would use that corruption?" His voice emerged deadly quiet. "After everything you've seen me do to blood mages, everything you know about what they did to me..." Something dangerous flickered through his eyes. "Was I just another potential vessel to you? Another sacrifice waiting to be bound?"

"No!" The word tore from her throat. "I never... I wouldn't..."

"But you would," he cut her off, each word precise as a knife strike. "When it suited your needs, when someone you cared about was at risk, you'd reach for those same chains that Zara used to bind me." His laugh held no warmth. "At least she was honest about her corruption. How do I know you haven't already used it on me?"

"I wasn't trying to bind or corrupt anyone!" Rook's voice cracked with desperate need to make him understand. "I just wanted to save him, to stop him from throwing his life away..."

"His life wasn't yours to save!" Lucanis's control finally shattered, fury bleeding through his careful composure. "A Warden's Oath is sacred. His choice to make that sacrifice was everything he is, everything he's fought to become."

Purple light stormed through his eyes as Spite's presence surged with shared rage. "But you didn't care about his choice, did you? About what that sacrifice meant to him?" His words cut deeper with each precise strike. "You only thought about what you wanted, what you couldn't bear to lose. Just like every blood mage who thinks they have the right to reshape others' fates."

"That's not..." But shame stole her voice as truth crystallized between them. She had thought only of her own heart, her own desperate need to keep Davrin alive. The fact that she'd failed to actually use the blood magic almost didn't matter. She'd been willing to strip away his agency, his warrior's choice, just to ease her own pain.

"You would have taken everything from him," Lucanis continued, each word carrying weight of personal understanding. "His dignity, his purpose, the very core of what makes him a Warden, all because you couldn't accept his right to choose his own end."

She opened her mouth to defend herself further, to try to make him understand, but Lucanis cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"Leave." The word emerged wrapped in careful control, though purple light still stormed through his eyes. "It's been a long day. I need..." His hands curled into fists as he fought for composure. "I need time to think."

Her magic twisted beneath her skin as the dismissal hit home. This wasn't just about her attempted use of blood magic anymore. This was about trust shattered, about how easily she'd been willing to become everything he fought against when desperation stripped away her carefully maintained principles.

She turned without another word, each step toward the door carrying weight of conversations left dangerously unfinished. Her fingers found her hair as she tried to sort through the tangle of emotions threatening to overwhelm her: shame and defiance warring with deeper understanding she wasn't ready to face.

Behind her, Spite's presence rippled with complex emotion, ancient fury wrapped in something that felt almost like disappointment. But she didn't look back, couldn't bear to see that careful distance in Lucanis's eyes or acknowledge how thoroughly she'd damaged what lay between them.

⋅ ∙ ∘ ◦ ∘ ∙ ⋅⋅ ∙ ∘ ◦ ∘ ∙ ⋅

Rook stood at the base of the steps leading to Neve's quarters, her hair catching starlight as she stared upward. The stone seemed to stretch endlessly before her, each step a mountain she wasn't sure she had the strength left to climb. Her confrontations with Davrin and Lucanis had left her feeling hollowed out, raw in places she usually kept carefully guarded.

"Looking to start another war?" Taash's voice carried surprising gentleness despite the teasing words. She turned to find the dragon hunter and Bellara watching her with matching expressions of concern.

A weary laugh escaped her throat. "Why not? I've been yelled at by almost everyone today." Her fingers found another braid as exhaustion painted honesty across her features. "At least fighting gods is simpler than this."

"Oh! Speaking of gods," Bellara started with characteristic enthusiasm, but Taash's gentle hand on her shoulder made the Veil Jumper pause. Her expression shifted to something softer as she studied Rook's face. "Maybe... give it a day? Let everyone breathe?"

"You look like you could use some rest yourself," Taash added, their massive form radiating quiet support. "The detective will still be here tomorrow. Her anger isn't going anywhere."

Something twisted in Rook's chest at their careful concern. It would be easier, perhaps, to face Neve's fury than this gentle understanding from people who had every right to share in the detective's suspicions. But exhaustion pulled at her edges like gravity, making even standing feel like scaling the Frostbacks.

"I don't think I can sleep right now," she admitted, her hair falling forward as weariness painted itself across her features.

Taash's grin flashed quick and dangerous in the darkness. "Then tire yourself out properly. Go kill something." They spun Rook around with warrior's grace, their massive form radiating mischievous energy. "Or better yet, picture us fucking right now."

Heat rushed to Rook's cheeks at the unexpected suggestion. "I..." she managed, caught between embarrassment and reluctant amusement, "Taash, I'll be honest, but I prefer, well... dick."

"Oh, that's easily solved," Taash's eyes danced with wicked promise. "I can make some. All sizes and kinds. Give me a theme. I can make a dragon one."

"TAASH!" Bellara's scandalized exclamation echoed off stone, though her lips twitched with poorly suppressed amusement.

The absurdity of the moment broke through Rook's darker thoughts, drawing genuine laughter from her throat. Trust the dragon hunter to find exactly the right way to shock her out of her spiral into self-recrimination.

⋅ ∙ ∘ ◦ ∘ ∙ ⋅⋅ ∙ ∘ ◦ ∘ ∙ ⋅

Lamplight caught on Emmrich's instruments as he examined her with precision, each movement careful and methodical. His quarters felt like sanctuary after the emotional storms of the day. Books and artifacts created a bubble of academic calm that helped ease the tension from her shoulders.

"Everything appears stable," he said, making another careful note in his journal. "No sign of the blight returning, and your magical resistance remains remarkably consistent." His quill paused as he studied her face. "How are you feeling otherwise?"

"That depends," Rook's lips curved into a weary smile. "Planning to yell at me too?"

Emmrich's composure softened with genuine warmth. "I see little benefit in such childish displays," he said, setting aside his tools with characteristic precision. "Though I imagine you've had quite enough of those today."

The gentleness in his tone made something crack in her carefully maintained walls. "Everyone's so angry," she admitted softly, her hair falling forward to curtain her face. "And they have every right to be. I nearly became everything I've fought so hard not to be."

"Did you?" His question carried no judgment, only academic interest. "Or did you simply reveal that you're human, capable of both terrible mistakes and remarkable growth?" He settled into his chair, regarding her with that particular blend of scholarly assessment and paternal concern. "The fact that you reached for blood magic in desperate circumstances is perhaps less significant than the fact that you chose not to use it."

"Choice had nothing to do with it," she said bitterly. "I just couldn't find his essence in time."

"You were born into slavery in every way," Emmrich said softly, his scholarly tone gentling with understanding. "And now you have something precious to protect: companions, purpose, freedom itself. The fear of losing it all..." He adjusted his spectacles with careful precision. "Such terror can drive even the strongest souls to reach for darker powers."

"Everyone is taking this battle hard," he continued, organizing his examination tools with methodical purpose. "The wounds are still fresh, the failure too raw. People seek something to blame, someone to hold accountable for their own fears and frustrations." His eyes held quiet wisdom as he added, "Give them time to rest, to think beyond the heat of recent battle."

Behind them, Manfred hissed softly, whether in agreement or protest, she couldn't quite tell. The sound drew a small smile from her lips despite everything as she rose from the examination table.

"Thank you," she said quietly, then stepped forward to wrap her arms around him. Emmrich stiffened for a moment, glancing anxiously at the door as he recalled the chaos that had erupted after her impulsive kiss on his cheek. But something in her exhausted posture, in the way she seemed to be holding herself together by sheer force of will, made him set aside his usual scholarly reserve.

His arms enfolded her with paternal warmth, offering the kind of comfort she hadn't realized she desperately needed until that moment. She let herself sink into the embrace, finding unexpected solace in this simple human connection. After a day of accusations and shattered trust, the unconditional acceptance in his gesture threatened to undo her careful composure.

"Rest," he murmured, the word carrying all the gentle authority of someone who had witnessed countless similar struggles. "Tomorrow's battles will still be waiting."

She pulled back, wiping quickly at her eyes before managing a small but genuine smile. The short walk to her quarters felt more manageable now, as if his understanding had somehow lightened the burden of choices made and trust betrayed. Whatever storms lay ahead could be faced after sleep, when hearts weren't quite so raw and minds weren't clouded by battle's aftermath.

Chapter Text

Knocking jolted Rook from uneasy sleep. She blinked in confusion as Neve entered without waiting for response, the detective's presence carrying an urgency that cut through lingering exhaustion.

"Get ready," Neve said without preamble, her tone brooking no argument. "The Venatori are moving, and I've arranged a meeting with the Threads." She surveyed Rook's disheveled state with that particular blend of assessment and impatience. "We need to leave soon."

Questions pressed against Rook's tongue. Why was Neve here after yesterday's accusations? What about the trust stretched thin between them? But weariness made her cautious, unwilling to shatter this fragile moment of potential reconciliation with words that might reopen barely scabbed wounds.

"I'm getting Bellara," Neve continued, already turning toward the door. Her shoulders carried tension that spoke of deeper concerns left unvoiced. "Be ready when I return."

Rook managed a nod, still trying to shake off sleep's lingering grasp. The unspoken weight of everything between them hung in the air like smoke: blood magic and broken trust, accusations and aftermath. But Neve's professional demeanor offered a path forward, a way to focus on the mission rather than the raw edges of their fractured relationship.

"I'll be ready," she said softly, the words carrying acceptance of this tentative peace offering.

⚔ ❦ ⚔

Rook moved through her morning routine with practiced efficiency, though exhaustion still pulled at her edges. The familiar weight of leather armor settled against her skin as she dressed, each buckle and strap a reminder of how far she'd come from the slave who once wore only chains. Her weapons found their homes: staff against her back, blade at her hip, orb secured firmly at her belt. Each one represented hard-won freedom.

She gathered her hair into a quick bun, grateful that their destination meant she could travel light without her usual pack. But as she prepared to face the day ahead, something heavy settled in her chest at the thought of entering Minrathous's tragic state. The Venatori's control had transformed the proud city into a shadow of itself, corruption seeping through ancient streets like poison through veins.

Yet beneath that dread, a smaller hope flickered. Perhaps she would catch glimpse of Viper among the shadows.

She pushed the feeling aside as she heard Neve and Bellara's approaching footsteps. Now wasn't the time for such thoughts. They had Venatori to track and Threads to meet. Whatever personal storms still brewed would have to wait while they faced the more immediate threats to everything they fought to protect.

With one final check of her gear, she stepped into the hall to meet whatever challenges the day would bring.

✦ ◆ ✦

The cat's purring vibrated against Rook's palm as she crouched in the alley's shadows, its sleek form representing one of the few creatures in Minrathous untouched by the Venatori's corruption. Nearby, Bellara's excited whispers about ancient artifacts drifted from a merchant's stall, while Neve's low voice carried notes of interrogation as she collected intelligence from her Shadow Dragon contact.

"He misses you, you know."

The soft voice made Rook look up to find Harlie watching her with that particular blend of knowing and discretion that marked all of Viper's most trusted agents. The elven spy moved like shadow given form, her presence barely disturbing the air around them.

"Viper wants to meet," Harlie continued, her words carrying weight beyond simple message delivery. "When you have a moment."

The cat pressed harder against Rook's hand as she considered her response. "This evening," she said finally, each word measured against the cost of vulnerability. "Though I need to speak with Tarquin first."

Something like approval flickered through Harlie's eyes, whether at the prioritizing of duty over desire, or at how Rook navigated these shadowed waters, she couldn't tell. The spy's nod carried all the precise economy of movement that marked Viper's training, and then she was gone, leaving only the cat's continued purring as evidence she'd been there at all.

Rook's fingers found a particularly appreciative spot behind the cat's ears as she processed the exchange.

A cart's wooden wheels groaned against cobblestones, each turn marking another life claimed by Venatori corruption. Rook's hand stilled against the cat's fur as her eyes tracked the bodies. Some still wore the simple clothes of merchants or servants, others bore marks of those who had dared to resist. Above, empty gallows waited like patient hunters, their ropes dancing in morning breeze that carried too many memories of similar displays.

Her fingers unconsciously found the scar at her throat where Zara's ownership had once been carved into flesh and soul alike. She remembered standing in this same square, watching others swing while gratitude for her "useful" talents had kept her feet on solid ground.

Bellara's presence shifted closer, the Veil Jumper's usual enthusiasm dampened by the grim procession. Her newly purchased artifact disappeared into her bag without comment as she settled beside Rook, offering quiet solidarity against darker thoughts.

"They're getting bolder," Rook said softly, the words emerging thick with understanding earned through years of watching similar displays. The cat pressed harder against her palm, as if sensing how memories threatened to drag her back into shadows she'd fought so hard to escape. "This isn't just control anymore. It's performance. They want us to watch."

⊰ ❋ ⊱

The door groaned open to reveal a dimly lit chamber, stone walls sweating with dampness that spoke of depths beneath Minrathous's proud streets. A single lantern cast wavering shadows across the scene before them: a Venatori soldier strapped to a chair, his face a masterwork of bruising and blood. Each labored breath whistled through what was likely a broken nose as another blow landed with practiced precision.

"Where are they taking them?" The interrogator's voice carried cold fury beneath steady control, his fist drawing back for another strike. The Venatori's head snapped sideways, fresh blood spattering against worn stone.

Rook nodded at Bellara to stay outside.

Rook's boots scuffed deliberately against the floor, announcing their presence. The interrogator straightened with fluid grace that spoke of extensive training. His knuckles were raw as he reached for a nearby cloth, methodically cleaning away evidence of his work while studying their arrival.

The click of heels against stone drew her attention to a new presence: a woman whose red dress seemed to absorb what little light reached these depths. She moved like music given form, each gesture choreographed for maximum effect.

"Cida?" Neve's voice carried rare surprise. "You sing at the Cobbled Swan." A heartbeat's pause as pieces clicked into place. "Spy for the Threads?"

The singer's laugh wrapped around them like silk. "You got it."

"All right." Neve's stance shifted minutely, the way it always did when she sensed deeper currents beneath surface presentations. "You called. I showed up. Why are we here?"

But the interrogator's attention had fixed on Rook, his assessment carrying weight that made her magic stir with recognition. Blood still clung to his fingers as he studied her, reading stories written in how she held herself, in the particular way power hummed beneath her skin. His scrutiny spoke of someone who knew exactly what to look for in those who carried darker gifts.

A disarming smile curved across his blood-flecked features, the sudden charm in his expression making unexpected heat rise to Rook's cheeks. The contrast between his earlier violence and this casual warmth spoke volumes about the complexities of surviving in Minrathous's shadows.

"The Venatori," he said, wiping the last traces of interrogation from his hands, "have decided to make the Threads their new favorite target. We'd like to... adjust that balance of power."

Rook's eyes drifted to the battered Venatori soldier. "Seems like you're handling things well enough on your own."

"They're not just hunting us anymore. They're methodical about it. Even managed to take Makal Damas." Something shifted in his stance as he added, "Our leader."

"Wait." Neve's posture straightened with sudden intensity. "Your leader works from shadow, never seen, never known. That's what makes the Threads so effective." The way she said it reminded Rook achingly of Viper, of how the Shadow Dragons' strength lay partly in their leader's mysteries.

The man's expression hardened slightly. "They have a spy in our ranks. Someone feeding them information about our movements, our methods." His eyes caught Rook's again, that earlier charm bleeding into something more calculated. "Which is why we need outside help. People they don't have eyes on yet."

※ ※ ※

As they emerged into the corridor, the wet sounds of interrogation resumed behind them. Rook's magic stirred uneasily at how easily the man had switched between charming negotiator and methodical questioner. Bellara fell into step beside them, her usual enthusiasm dampened by the echoes of violence.

"Are we certain about this alliance?" Rook asked as they wound through Minrathous's shadowed streets, her voice low enough to carry only to her companions. "The Threads aren't exactly known for their... restraint."

Neve's steps never faltered as she led them toward the market district. "They protect their streets, protect their people. Dock Town needs that kind of dedication right now."

The words hung between them as they approached the market's outer reaches. Here, ancient architecture gave way to newer desperation: makeshift barriers and hastily erected watchtowers speaking of a community under siege. But before they could discuss further, movement caught Rook's attention. Shadows detached from alcoves with deadly purpose.

Venatori emerged like corruption given form, their armor catching weak sunlight as they moved to surround them. Rook's staff found her hand with practiced ease as Neve's magic crackled to life beside her. Bellara's quiet "Oh dear" seemed to trigger the assault, steel singing against steel as their enemies closed in.

◇ ◆ ◇

The last Venatori fell as Rook's lightning found its mark, their body joining others scattered across blood-slicked cobblestones. Her breath came in measured intervals as she watched Neve move with lethal grace, the detective's magic weaving death with the same precision she used to unravel mysteries. Whatever accusations lay between them, whatever trust had been shattered by recent revelations, they still fought as one when battle demanded it.

"We need to move," Neve's voice cut through the aftermath, her eyes scanning for witnesses to their violence. "Quickly, but quiet this time."

They slipped through shadows like smoke, each step measured against the risk of discovery. But as they approached their target, sounds of struggle drew them to a scene that made Rook's blood freeze in her veins.

Through the partially open door, a scene unfolded that made Rook's breath catch. Venatori mages with hands upraised, blood magic pulsing with terrible purpose as Thread members knelt before them with empty eyes. Their wills dissolved beneath corruption's touch, minds reshaped by power that turned protection into possession.

Her gaze shifted to Neve beside her, watching how the detective's hands curled into fists at such violation, and something clicked into place. She saw it now. Not the horror of blood magic itself, but what Neve had truly feared at Weisshaupt. The way desperation could transform even the deepest love into a desire to control, to own, to reshape another's choices beneath magic's corrupted touch.

The detective's fury carried new meaning as Rook studied her profile in the dim light. This was what had driven Neve's accusations. Not just the magic's darkness, but how easily it could make even the most devoted heart forget the difference between protection and possession. Her own attempt to bind Davrin took on different shadows now, not as something inherently wrong, but as confirmation of everything Neve had dreaded about such power's seductive call.

Through Neve's eyes, she finally saw what the detective had hated all along.

Battle transformed the chamber into deadly theatre as they crashed through the door. Lightning arced from Rook's staff while Neve's magic carved paths of precise devastation. Bellara's power wove between them with scholarly efficiency, each spell chosen to complement their combined assault.

The Venatori's blood magic dissolved beneath their coordinated attack, their victims collapsing as corrupted bonds finally broke. When the last enemy fell, they found themselves surrounded by dazed Thread members slowly reclaiming their own minds.

"Take the eastern tunnel," Rook directed them, her voice carrying quiet authority as she helped a woman to her feet. "Follow it until you reach the old stone arch, then head north. The Shadow Dragons will find you." She recognized the particular vacancy in their eyes, the way blood magic's release left minds temporarily adrift, seeking new anchors after forced submission.

As the last of the refugees disappeared into shadow, words suddenly spilled from Rook like a dam breaking. "I'm sorry," she blurted, the admission catching them both by surprise. "I've never... I've never known what it was like to have a family before. Never had anyone to care about." Her voice caught slightly as vulnerability painted itself across features usually kept guarded. "I was always too scared to let myself care. I didn't know I would react that way when faced with losing Davrin. I would have done it for you, too."

Neve's expression softened with understanding that made Rook's heart twist. "I know," the detective said quietly. "After what happened with Varric, I should have realized it was just a moment of panic. Not wanting to go through that kind of pain again."

Something in Neve's tone carried weight Rook couldn't quite decipher, but before she could question it, that urgent voice called again: "Neve!"

They exchanged glances, personal revelations temporarily set aside as duty called them forward. But something had shifted between them, some bridge beginning to rebuild across the chasm recent events had carved. As they moved deeper into the sanctuary, Rook felt lighter somehow, as if naming her fears had somehow made them less powerful.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

They entered a chamber where firelight caught on a scene that made Rook's pulse quicken: a Venatori standing sentinel beside a seated figure she recognized from their earlier descriptions. Makal Damas, the Threads' mysterious leader, sat with unnatural stillness that spoke of deeper wrongness.

"Makal Damas," Neve's voice carried steady authority. "I'll take him off your hands."

The Venatori's smile held edges of fanatical devotion. "He is not mine to give. We serve only the finest."

When Makal rose, the wrongness of his movement made Rook's magic coil tight with recognition. His lips moved but two voices emerged, his own and a woman's, layered together in terrible harmony. The particular cadence of it spoke of blood magic's deepest corruption, of connections that required sacrifice beyond mere power.

"Hello, Neve. I've missed you."

"You know me?" Neve's stance shifted minutely, reading threats beyond the obvious.

"Damas doesn't, but I do." That doubled voice carried echoes of older battles. "You stopped me once, but my purpose remains."

Understanding bloomed across Neve's features. "Aelia. What have you done?" Horror threaded through her tone. "Speaking through him like this? The blood magic required..."

"Impressed?" Makal's puppet-voice dripped satisfaction. "It pales to the power Tevinter once had. How long has it been, Neve? How long will our city suffer? The risen gods have shown me my path and..."

The voice cut off as his gaze found Rook, something terrible flickering through possessed eyes. "Well, isn't this a nice surprise. I almost didn't recognize you, Rabbit."

The word pierces through conversational fabric, a shard of glass cutting clean through membrane of safety. Everything stops.

Fragments scatter: blood-memory. Master's chambers. Whispered designations that never meant human. Never meant alive. Just property. Owned. Consumed.

Not a name. A brand. A claim etched deeper than skin. Deeper than bone.

"Her name is Rook!" The detective's fury carried notes that spoke of deeper protection than mere companionship.

As battle erupted around them, Rook forced herself past memory's paralysis. "Don't kill him!" Her voice cut through chaos as magic began to fly. "Just tire him out. Exhaustion weakens the connection!"

Her fingers found her staff with practiced efficiency, though that hated name still echoed in spaces she usually kept locked.

❅ ❅ ❅

Makal sagged against the wall, chest heaving as exhaustion finally claimed its toll. But even as his borrowed body showed strain, that doubled voice carried echoes of purpose:

"Impressed? This pales to the power Tevinter once held." Each word emerged precise despite his labored breathing. "How long will you allow our city to suffer in its former shadow? The gods will restore what was lost, what was stolen from us."

Neve's eyes narrowed as pieces clicked into place. "And damn the lives involved. The Venatori already grant you power. But the Threads..." Understanding bloomed across her features. "This isn't just about control. You wanted us here."

"A message." His laugh carried two voices twined in terrible harmony. "I knew you would come, Neve. But the gods..." His gaze shifted to Rook with unsettling intensity. "They spoke of her presence. The one who turned away from true power." Something ancient stirred behind his eyes. "Or perhaps not entirely turned away?"

"Enough games, Aelia." Neve's stance shifted subtly, reading deeper currents beneath surface taunts.

"The game never ended."

Magic gathered like storm clouds as Makal lunged toward Rook, corruption painting possibilities across reality's edge. But Neve moved with protective fury, her power meeting his assault with precision born of deeper understanding. The spells collided in a display that made reality itself shudder.

His doubled laughter filled the chamber. "How beautifully ironic, you defending a blood mage." Those possessed eyes held terrible knowing. "Especially given your shared history."

"Goodbye, Neve."

The possession released like tide retreating, leaving Makal's form to collapse as Aelia's presence withdrew.

"Fucking cultist snakes." Damas's voice emerged raw but entirely his own, rage threading through exhaustion. "They will pay for this!"

"Are you alright?" Rook studied him with mage's assessment, reading the particular way possession left minds temporarily adrift.

He pressed fingers against his temples, fighting through the crushing headache that accompanied such violation. When his eyes finally focused on them, recognition bloomed. "Neve Gallas." The name carried weight of pieces clicking into place. "If you're here, Elek sent you."

"You're welcome," Neve's dry response held notes of familiar tension beneath professional distance.

Damas was quiet for a moment, considering something with deliberation. His nod, when it came, carried purpose beyond simple gratitude. "For this... I have information about Batarius. His movements, his plans."

Something shifted in Neve's stance, the subtle way she always responded to valuable intelligence. "Enough for the Shadows to make their move?"

"That and more." The promise hung between them like smoke, each word measured against the cost of such knowledge.

"Deal." Simple, direct, carrying weight of choices about to reshape the balance of power in Minrathous's endless dance of shadows and survival.

◦ ◉ ◦

The Lamplighter's shadows embraced them like old friends as Rook shifted beneath her borrowed cloak, the disguise feeling both foreign and achingly familiar after years of learning to move unseen through Tevinter's streets. Beside her, Bellara's presence carried its usual warmth, though her scholarly enthusiasm had gentled to match their need for discretion.

"I knew you and Neve would work things out," Bellara said softly, her eyes bright with genuine pleasure at the day's unexpected reconciliation. "The way you two fight together... there's too much trust there to let misunderstandings destroy it."

Rook's fingers found a loose thread on her borrowed clothes, twisting it as she watched Neve deep in conversation with their new allies across the room. "Trust is... complicated," she managed, though something had definitely shifted between them after witnessing blood magic's corruption firsthand.

"Only if you make it complicated," Bellara countered with that particular blend of wisdom and innocence that made her so endearing. Her hand found Rook's arm, squeezing gently. "Some bonds are stronger than fear or doubt. They just need time to remember why."

The touch carried warmth that made Rook's magic stir with quiet recognition. After a day of battles both physical and emotional, Bellara's unwavering faith in people's ability to find their way back to each other felt like balm against darker thoughts.

"Besides," Bellara added with a hint of her usual enthusiasm, "I never doubted for a moment. You're both far too stubborn to let anything truly come between you."

Bellara adjusted her satchel, her eyes carrying that particular warmth that always made hard conversations easier. "Will you see him while you're here? Viper?"

"Yes," Rook admitted softly, the single word carrying weight of everything still unresolved between them. "Though I'm not sure what I'll say."

"Then I'll head back through the Crossroads." Bellara's embrace carried affection wrapped in genuine care. "Strife needs checking on in the Forest anyway. I'll see you at the lighthouse later?"

Rook nodded, watching her friend disappear into evening shadows with characteristic purpose. The wall felt cool against her back as she settled into solitude, deliberately not listening to the negotiations still ongoing across the room. But her gaze kept drifting to the doorway where the Venatori prisoner sat, his face a masterwork of questioning, each bruise telling its own story of information extracted with violence.

Neve paused in gathering her things, eyes finding Rook in the dim light. "We should head back."

"Actually," Makal's voice carried purpose as he stepped forward. "I'd like a word with Rook, if she's willing." His gaze shifted between them before adding, "Traveling separately might be wiser anyway, given the Shadow Dragons' current... situation."

Neve's expression shifted with subtle warning as she studied Makal and Elek. "Remember who her allies are," she said softly, each word weighted with protective intent. "The Shadow Dragons don't take kindly to threats against their own."

"She'll be perfectly safe," Elek's smile carried that particular charm that made heat rise to Rook's cheeks despite herself. "You have my word."

Rook nodded, letting her magic settle into quiet readiness. "I'll be fine, Neve."

✧ ✦ ✧

Once the detective's footsteps faded, Makal gestured toward a small table where bottles promised temporary comfort. "Join us for a drink?"

The wine caught torchlight like blood as Elek poured, his movements carrying deliberate grace. Makal studied her over his glass, reading stories written in how she held herself, in the particular way power hummed beneath her skin.

"Blood magic leaves its mark," he said finally, each word chosen with care. "The kind of control she held... could it resurface?"

"The severing always leaves a mark," Rook touched her temple, understanding blooming as his headache confirmed Aelia's brutal demonstration of power. "She cut the connection to prove she could. To show exactly what she's capable of."

Elek withdrew something from his coat, laying it on the table between them. The wanted poster's edges were worn, speaking of how long they'd hunted the face captured in faded ink. Her own features stared back at her, though hollowed by chains and desperation she'd since left behind.

"You look healthier now," Elek's charm carried new weight as he studied the difference between image and reality. "This isn't a threat, consider it a peace offering. We had... standing orders to return you to Zara."

Rook's fingers brushed the poster's edge, remembering how that bounty had haunted her first tastes of freedom. "With a price that high, I can hardly blame you."

"All bounties have been removed," he said, that disarming smile making her magic stir despite herself. "Your head is no longer worth quite so much gold."

"Pity," her lips curved with dangerous playfulness as she met his gaze. "I wouldn't have minded being caught by you." The wine's warmth made such flirtation feel natural, even as part of her recognized the dangerous game they played.

Makal's quiet laugh carried understanding of deeper currents flowing beneath their dance of words and wine. Some hunters, it seemed, made for interesting allies when circumstances shifted enough to align their stars.

Elek turned the wanted poster, studying the warnings inked beneath her portrait with scrutiny. "Are any of these true?" His finger traced the words: 'dangerous blood mage, unstable, knife-ear savage.' Each slur carried weight of prejudices wrapped in fear. "Must be returned alive and unharmed to Magister Renata..."

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm mad. Though I suppose that depends on who you ask."

Something shifted in his expression as he leaned forward, that earlier charm taking on calculated purpose. "Speaking of particular talents..." His eyes drifted meaningfully toward the room where their Venatori prisoner waited. "Perhaps you could help us understand what he knows?"

"That belongs to my past," she said softly, each word carrying weight of chains she'd fought too hard to escape. "To someone I no longer wish to be."

Elek released a measured breath, settling back in his chair. "A pity, but I understand." His eyes held that dangerous charm as he added, "Though know that such... talents... would always be welcome here."

Their conversation drifted to safer waters: tales of the Threads' influence in Minrathous, edited stories of recent victories against the Venatori. The wine painted everything in softer focus as they navigated this delicate dance between potential allies and former hunters.

When she finally rose to leave, the evening air embraced her like an old friend. Her path toward Viper's sanctuary took her past familiar alleys where cats gathered in comfortable clusters. She paused to scratch behind velvety ears, these small moments of gentleness feeling like rebellion against the weight of darker choices that waited ahead.

The cats' purring vibrated against her palm as she considered the evening's delicate negotiations: with the Threads, with Neve, with her own principles.

⋆ ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ⋆

Harlie's smile brightened the dim corridor as she caught sight of Rook, her wave carrying the particular warmth she reserved for those Viper trusted. But Tarquin's stance remained neutral.

As Harlie slipped away into shadow, Tarquin's attention fixed on Rook with measured assessment. "What did you need?"

"The reports." Her voice emerged steady despite how her pulse quickened. "The ones about my past. I want to know exactly what they said."

Tarquin's expression hardened with practiced irritation, as if her very presence was an unwelcome interruption to his ordered world. "What is it you want to know?" The words emerged clipped, professional distance barely masking his annoyance.

"Family records. My clan, if there was one." She kept her voice deliberately steady as she added, "Anything from before... before the chains."

Something flickered across his features. Not quite sympathy, but recognition of questions that ran deeper than mere curiosity. For all his maintained distance, he had read those reports, had seen how thoroughly masters could erase everything that came before slavery's claiming.

Chapter Text

Evening shadows wrapped around them as Rook perched on the edge of Viper's desk, watching him sort through endless reports with assassin's methodical precision. Her fingers worked through her hair, seeking comfort in the familiar motion as Tarquin's words echoed in her mind. The quiet between them felt like sanctuary after the day's storms, his presence alone enough to ease the weight pressing against her chest.

Nine years old. She'd been nine when Zara claimed her, when chains first carved ownership into flesh too young to understand the price of survival. Her brother - one small mercy that the reports hadn't detailed his fate, just noted his disappearance when the Breach tore reality apart. No clan name, no family histories, no hints of who she might have been before masters stripped away everything but what they chose to leave.

She shouldn't have hoped for more. Slaves rarely kept their histories, their stories erased as thoroughly as their freedom. Yet something in her had yearned for even the smallest thread connecting her to a past where chains hadn't defined her entire existence.

"Are you alright?" Viper's voice carried that particular gentleness that always found its way past her careful walls. His hands stilled on his paperwork as he studied her, reading deeper currents beneath her surface stillness.

Her eyes traced the corruption spreading beneath his skin - dark veins mapping paths she wished she could erase. "The Threads provided valuable information, it seems?" The deflection emerged practiced, careful.

"They did." Viper's hands stilled completely on his reports, that measured stillness that meant he'd caught her attempt at evasion. "Don't dodge the question."

A small sigh escaped her as she yielded to his gentle persistence. "I just... I wish I knew more about my early life." Her fingers found a loose thread on her sleeve, twisting it as darker thoughts surfaced. "And half my team is furious with me, so there's that."

"I'm aware." His voice carried that particular blend of understanding and careful assessment that had first drawn her to him. Each word emerged precise, measured. "Exactly how much do you think I know?"

Her gaze lifted to study his masked features, reading the subtle ways exhaustion and corruption painted new lines around his eyes. The Blight's progression was becoming harder to hide, yet he maintained that perfect control that defined everything about him - even now, even like this.

"Neve told me about Weisshaupt," he said quietly, each word carrying careful measure. "About your attempt with blood magic, how the team is processing it."

Shame painted itself across her features as she turned away, but his hand caught her chin with gentle insistence, guiding her gaze back to his. Even through his mask, she could feel the intensity of his scrutiny.

"I watched you summon a demon at those docks," his voice softened with memory, "to save people you didn't even know. I've seen every chance you had to reach for blood magic since then - every moment survival could have demanded it. Varric's reports spoke of how you struggled learning to touch the Fade properly, how hard you fought to find cleaner paths to power." His thumb traced her jawline with familiar tenderness. "And now there's more at stake - not just survival, but a world to protect. Anyone facing that weight might reach for whatever power promised to save what they loved."

The understanding in his voice made her heart ache more than condemnation would have.

"Maybe Neve was right," the words spilled from her like secrets too long kept. "The way you understand, the way you support me..." Her fingers twisted anxiously in her lap as darker thoughts surfaced. "Sometimes I wonder if I've been controlling you without realizing, if blood magic has twisted everything between us into-"

Her rambling confession cut off as Viper sighed - not with exasperation, but with that particular tenderness that always undid her careful defenses. His hands moved with practiced grace as he pulled down his mask, the gesture carrying weight of barriers finally lowered. When his lips found hers, the kiss held none of their usual careful restraint - just pure connection that spoke of moments too long denied.

The contact caught her off guard, making her magic surge with recognition beneath her skin. They had maintained such careful distance since the Blight's claiming, each touch measured against the risk of infection. But now he kissed her like a man reclaiming something precious, like someone who had grown tired of letting corruption's touch deny what lay between them.

Though the Blight's corruption could still weaken her, could still seep poison through her veins despite her resistance, Rook found herself melting into his kiss. His fingers threaded through her hair with that careful possession that had always defined their connection, drawing her closer as years of maintained distance finally crumbled.

He tasted of coffee and careful control finally surrendered as his other hand settled at her waist, each point of contact carrying weight of choices made despite knowing better. When she responded with equal hunger, his grip tightened in her hair - not commanding, but desperately grateful for this moment of connection too long denied.

The kiss deepened as he pulled her to the edge of his desk, her fingers finding the familiar planes of his shoulders while his traced patterns of need against her skin. They moved together with the fluid grace of those who knew each other's rhythms by heart, even after so much time spent maintaining careful space between them.

His mouth traced a path along her jaw that made her magic spark with recognition, each brush of lips carrying promises that had waited too long to be kept.

When they finally parted, her heart twisted at the corruption threading through his veins, marking how precious their remaining time had become. For the first time, she truly studied the face he kept so carefully hidden - memorizing each line, each subtle expression that his mask usually concealed. His features held a quiet strength she'd always sensed but never seen, making something ache in spaces she usually kept carefully guarded.

The weight of mortality hung between them, each heartbeat a countdown neither wanted to acknowledge. But watching how the lamplight caught in his eyes, she found herself smiling with deliberate mischief.

"You know," her voice carried warmth wrapped in challenge, "I think I can finally match your stamina now."

His laugh emerged genuine and surprised, the sound transforming his entire face with unexpected joy. His thumb traced her lower lip as memory painted itself across his features - of that first night when healing salve and gentle hands had shown her what touch could be beyond pain and purpose.

"Is that so?" His eyes held dangerous promise as his other hand settled at her waist, drawing her closer with careful purpose. "Perhaps we should test that theory."

His hands moved with assassin's grace as he undressed her, each motion carrying the careful reverence of someone mapping territory too long denied. She reached for his shirt with equal purpose, fingers working buttons free as corruption's touch revealed itself across his chest - a map of mortality that made her heart ache even as desire pulled her closer.

His fingers traced paths across her skin with careful reverence, each touch measured against the corruption flowing through his veins. Where Davrin's passion burned quick and fierce, where Lucanis and Spite claimed with possessive hunger, Viper moved with deliberate tenderness - mapping her body like sacred territory he feared to taint.

"Let me," he murmured when she reached to pull him closer, his hands catching hers with gentle restraint. Time had taught him precisely how to touch her without risking deeper infection, how to love her while keeping the Blight's poison contained. His mouth found her throat with careful purpose, each kiss a promise wrapped in bittersweet necessity.

She melted beneath his attention, understanding the delicate dance they performed between desire and danger. His control never wavered as he worshipped her with careful dedication, turning limitation into artistry. Where others claimed her with passionate abandon, he transformed restraint into its own form of intimacy.

His hands swept papers from the desk with uncharacteristic urgency, documents scattering like autumn leaves as he lifted her onto the cleared surface. Their careful restraint finally broke as her legs wrapped around him, drawing him closer with desperate need. His breath caught as her magic surged between them, power answering primal connection in ways that made light dance at reality's edges.

His mouth found her pulse as she arched against him, each kiss carrying weight of moments too long denied. When they finally joined, her magic exploded in sparks of pure pleasure, making him groan against her throat. They moved together with perfect synchronicity, each thrust carefully measured yet carrying deeper hunger that transcended mere physical connection.

Hours melted away like candle wax as they lost themselves in each other, finding new ways to express what lay between them without words. Every touch was deliberate, every moment savored as if they could somehow slow time's relentless march through sheer force of will. His careful control never wavered, even as passion threatened to consume them both - always mindful of the corruption flowing through his veins, always protecting her even in their most intimate moments.

Her release crashed through her like waves against Minrathous's ancient shores, his name emerging as prayer rather than mere sound. He followed moments later, her name breathed against her skin like secrets finally spoken aloud. Their magic twisted together as pleasure peaked, creating patterns in the air that spoke of connection deeper than mere flesh could contain.

As they caught their breath, his forehead pressed against hers, sharing air that carried weight of everything still unspoken between them. His thumb traced her lower lip with that particular tenderness that had always defined them, even as the Blight's corruption painted darker possibilities across their shared future.

Her copper waves fell forward, creating a curtain between their world and everything else. For a moment, time itself seemed to pause - their breath mingling, heartbeats finding a shared rhythm that spoke of something deeper than mere physical connection. The room around them dissolved into fragments of soft lamplight and scattered clothing, a landscape of intimate aftermath.

Viper's fingers traced patterns along her spine, each touch carrying the careful precision of someone who understood exactly how to offer comfort without overwhelming.

With a slowness that spoke of reluctance, she began to move. Each shift was deliberate, careful - acknowledging the weight of what they'd just shared and the necessary distance that now demanded to be respected. Her fingers found her scattered clothing, gathering pieces that told the story of their desperate need for connection.

Her body still hummed with recent intimacy as she moved to gather her scattered clothing. Muscles ached in delicious reminder of moments just passed - each movement a careful negotiation between satisfaction and lingering desire.

She hadn't realized he was behind her until his presence filled the space, precise and controlled. Viper stood already partially dressed, pants secured with that assassin's efficiency that made her pulse quicken. Her copper waves caught the lamplight as she turned, a smile tugging at her lips.

Rising on her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss against the edge of his mask - playful, tender, a silent thank you for moments both shared and carefully guarded. Something low in his throat rumbled - caught between hunger and restraint. His hands flexed, and she could see the razor's edge of control he maintained. One slight shift, and he could drag her back, claim her again despite the dangerous dance of the Blight that separated them.

But he chose precision. His fingers helped her into her shirt with deliberate care, each touch a careful mapping of boundaries. The fabric settled against her skin like a promise, like armor crafted from shared intimacy.

When she perched back on his desk - her favorite spot in this room of shadows and secrets - he knelt to secure her boots. The gesture felt more intimate than any passionate embrace. His hands moved with that deadly grace, each buckle a testament to the careful control that defined everything about him.

"If you feel any weakness," Viper's voice carried that particular blend of command and care, "tell Emmrich immediately." His fingers adjusted the last boot buckle.

"Of course," she said, the lie sliding between them as easily as her earlier touch had.

"Be careful," he murmured, the words carrying weight of everything unsaid.

She pulled the hood low, copper waves disappearing beneath dark fabric - a deliberate transformation from lover to shadow. At the door, she paused. Not quite a goodbye, not quite a promise. Just a moment of connection that defied the distance they knew they must maintain.

Chapter Text

Neve glanced up from her reports. "Did you know Aelia? When you were with Zara?"

Rook's fingers found those anxious braids, "I rarely knew anyone's names. Zara liked to keep me..." --*Isolated. Controlled. Hers.*-- "There was the Ossuary with Lucanis, and one other time she forced me to assist another magister. But mostly she kept me close."

But memory stirred like tide against ancient stone, pulling her back to salt air and desperate flight. "I remember the docks though. My first real escape attempt." A bitter laugh escaped her throat. "I was so terrified I'd been caught that I ran straight back to Zara. She didn't even know I'd tried to leave."

The words emerged careful, measured against the weight of darker recollections. "Then there were the disks - some ritual I never understood. And a raid one night..." Her voice caught as fragments of chaos painted themselves across her mind. "That's when I finally managed to get away. For a little while at least."

*For one perfect day, I tasted real freedom.* But the words died unspoken as she added quietly: "They caught me the next morning. Brought me back in chains."

Neve's expression remained carefully neutral, though something flickered behind her detective's mask - recognition or calculation, Rook couldn't quite tell.

Rook's fingers found the edge of her sleeve, twisting fabric as she considered how much to reveal. The silence stretched between them like shadow, heavy with possibilities and darker truths. "Tarquin told me about some reports on my past, before I was a blood mage," she said finally, each word measured against the weight it carried. "About my past."

Something shifted in Neve's posture - that subtle way she had of indicating full attention without overtly showing it. The detective's hands stilled on her papers, though her expression remained carefully neutral.

"Nine years old when Zara claimed me." The words emerged soft, carrying edges of memories better left buried. "And my brother..." Her voice caught slightly. "He disappeared when the Breach opened. That's all they know." - -That's all anyone knows of who I was before chains carved ownership into flesh too young to understand the price of survival. - -

Her eyes found a point beyond Neve's shoulder, unable to face whatever judgment might live in that careful gaze. "I don't suppose..." She forced steel into her tone. "With your connections, could you help me find anything about him? About who we might have been?"

The question hung between them until Rook added, almost reluctantly: "There's something else. When Ghilan'nain reached into my mind, she called me Nyr'ash." Her magic stirred uneasily beneath her skin at the naming. "Called me traitor. But I've only known of these gods for months, never..."

Neve's brow furrowed with that particular focus she reserved for piecing together complex mysteries. "How is that possible?" Her fingers drummed thoughtfully against her desk. "The gods only just emerged from their prison. Unless..." Her eyes narrowed as she considered deeper implications. "The mental connection - could she have been speaking to Solas through you?"

Rook's magic stirred beneath her skin as the detective continued, "We know about your blood connection to him. Perhaps Nyr'ash refers to some ancient title or mark of betrayal against Solas, not you directly."

The theory made a certain kind of sense - the kind that should have eased the weight pressing against her chest since that moment in Weisshaupt. But something deeper, more primal, rejected the explanation even as she considered it. - - No. She was looking at me. Speaking to me. Not through me. - -

"It's possible," she admitted, though her voice betrayed her doubt. Her fingers traced one of the small braids she'd woven earlier, finding comfort in the familiar pattern Viper had suggested to replace her anxious hair-pulling. "But you didn't feel it, Neve. The way she reached into my mind..." Memory painted itself in shades of violation as she worked another tiny plait into her hair. "She wasn't using me as a conduit to Solas. She knew me. Recognized something in me that I don't even understand myself."

"I'll look into it," Neve said, her voice carrying that particular blend of promise and professional distance that had become her trademark.

Before Rook could respond, Lucanis's presence filled the doorway like shadow given form. The air shifted with subtle tension - not quite hostility, but the careful dance of people whose trust had been recently tested. His eyes caught hers for just a moment before sliding away, purple light carefully contained beneath his professional mask.

"The Crows have information about Zara." Each word emerged precise, measured. "We need to move quickly."

"I'll sit this one out." Neve's response carried layers Rook couldn't quite decipher, though she wondered if the detective's choice stemmed from deeper wounds - watching another city stand untouched while Minrathous bled beneath Venatori control.

"I'll meet you at the eluvian." Lucanis's words fell between them like stones into still water, his carefully maintained distance a reminder of how thoroughly recent events had shaken their careful foundations.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

The Antivan marketplace exploded with life in ways Minrathous's shadows could never match. Bright fabrics rippled like captured sunlight, while spices painted the air in shades that made Rook's magic sing with appreciation. Dancers wove between merchant stalls, their movements carrying stories older than the city itself, while children darted past with laughter that spoke of freedom she'd never known at their age.

Her fingers found another small braid as she watched a mage turn copper coins into butterflies, delighting wide-eyed observers with practiced showmanship. Such casual display of magic - not as weapon or chain, but as art and entertainment.

A cat wound between her ankles, its purring mixing with the market's joyful chaos. She crouched to scratch behind velvet ears, letting the simple pleasure ground her against deeper anxieties. The Crows waited ahead - Lucanis's family, his chosen shadows who dealt death with the same precision she'd once used blood magic.

-- Will they see only what I did to him? --Her magic curled tight beneath her skin as she watched Lucanis navigate the crowd with assassin's grace. --Or will they understand I was as bound as he was?--

She'd kept her distance from the Crows until now, letting guilt and uncertainty build walls between herself and this part of his world. But Illario waited ahead - cousin, confidant, someone whose judgment carried weight beyond mere professional assessment. Her fingers worked another tiny plait as she followed Lucanis through the vibrant chaos, trust in him warring with fear of what his family might see when they looked at the blood mage who had helped craft their cousin's corruption.

Compared to Minrathous's careful control and Tevinter's rigid hierarchies, this city breathed with authentic joy. Game masters called odds while dice clattered against wooden tables, each bet carrying weight of choices freely made rather than survival's desperate gambles. Yet even surrounded by such genuine life, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she walked toward another kind of judgment - one that might cut deeper than any blade.

Rook found herself pausing at every stall they passed, drawn by colors and scents that painted the market in shades of freedom she was still learning to recognize. Each merchant's display felt like a small treasure waiting to be discovered - dried flowers that made her magic hum with recognition, woven fabrics that caught light like captured dreams.

Lucanis's sudden stop drew her attention to a stall laden with seafood and exotic spices. "Bellara mentioned a Dalish seafood recipe she wants to try," he said, his assassin's precision somehow transformed into careful consideration of fresh herbs and shellfish.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat - unexpected and genuine - at the sight of the feared Demon of Vyrantium selecting produce with the same methodical attention he brought to missions. --The deadliest Crow in Antiva, grocery shopping for our mismatched family.--

"Amazing any of you survived before I arrived," he muttered, though warmth threaded through his mock exasperation. The words painted memories across her mind - endless nights on the road with Varric, surviving on dried meat and foraged nuts, their attempts at cooking usually ending in creative disasters that became stories for his next serial.

She watched as he moved through the market with practiced purpose - fresh fish and fruit for Neve, spices that would remind Taash of home, simple fare that spoke of Harding's Ferelden roots. When he paused at a stall selling fresh greens and root vegetables, his voice carried surprising tenderness: "For Davrin and Assan - the griffon needs proper feeding."

Each careful selection revealed how thoroughly he'd learned them all - their tastes, their comfort foods, the flavors that spoke of homes left behind. Something twisted in her chest watching him transform assassination's precision into this peculiar form of care, using his deadly attention to detail to nurture rather than end.

--A gift for someone who has everything--, Rook thought as she slipped away from Lucanis's methodical shopping, her magic humming with nervous purpose. The market's vibrant chaos swallowed her as she moved from stall to stall, each potential offering falling short of what she wanted to express.

The coffee merchant's display caught her attention - dozens of varieties that spoke of lands she'd never seen, each promising different notes and complexities. But uncertainty made her fingers twist another small braid into her hair. --Tea I understand, but this? I'd probably choose something he hates.--

Her frustration grew with each stall she passed, until light caught on steel in a way that made her magic sing with recognition. Daggers - not the mass-produced blades that filled most merchants' racks, but works of deadly art that would speak to both assassin and demon. Her breath caught as she found it - a Wyvern Tooth Dagger that seemed to absorb shadow itself, its display case holding promise of perfect balance and deadly grace.

But the price... Her fingers brushed her coin purse, magic stirring as she counted what little gold remained after recent travels. The merchant's eyes held calculation as she approached, his assessment taking in her staff and orb with professional interest. --Worth it,-- she decided, even as her heart ached at the thought of trading away her weapons. She had other's back at the lighthouse that needed testing.

"Let's make a deal," she said softly, laying her staff and orb beside her gathered coin.

The merchant wrapped the dagger in shimmering blue silk with practiced reverence, tucking a vial of cleaning oil beside it before sliding the weapon into its ornate sheath. The entire package spoke of deadly beauty - a gift worthy of someone who had transformed assassination into art.

Life pulsed around her as she made her way back through the marketplace, each sound and sight imprinting itself in memory like treasures to be hoarded against darker days. Children's laughter mixed with musicians' melodies, while conversations in rapid-fire Antivan painted the air in shades of belonging she'd never quite known. --This is what freedom should feel like,-- she thought, watching a young girl dance between market stalls with copper coins clutched in tiny fists. --Not just survival, but joy.--

Her heart skipped when she caught sight of Lucanis, his presence drawing her eye even amid the market's chaos. The small bag containing his gift seemed to burn against her hip as she watched him juggle his purchases - each carefully selected ingredient stored precisely, from fresh meats wrapped in waxed paper to vegetables sorted by cooking time. The rich scent of coffee beans drifted from one particularly full bag, making her smile at how thoroughly he planned to stock their kitchen.

Our kitchen, she corrected herself, the thought carrying weight of belonging she was still learning to accept. She tucked her gift deeper into her bag, saving it for a moment less public than this vibrant square.

A flash of movement caught her attention - Spite's ethereal form twirling in mock imitation of a nearby dancer, his presence transformed into something almost playful as he attempted increasingly ridiculous pirouettes. The demon who had helped reshape reality itself, now spinning like a drunken noble at a winter ball.

The sight made her bite back a laugh, remembering she wasn't supposed to acknowledge his antics. But watching the feared demon prance between market stalls with exaggerated grace, she couldn't help but wonder if this side of him - this unexpected delight in simple joy - was what had first drawn Lucanis to accept their strange partnership.

A subtle pull hummed between them, making her magic stir with familiar recognition as Lucanis's eyes met hers across the market's chaos. She caught his exasperated glance at Spite's continuing performance before making her way to his side, deliberately focusing on the bags of food rather than the demon's theatrical bows.

"Did you find everything you needed?" She peered at the carefully sorted purchases, the question emerging more casual than the nervous energy thrumming beneath her skin.

"Yes." Something in his tone suggested he knew exactly why she'd disappeared, but he simply asked, "Where did you wander off to?"

"Just looking around." The gift seemed to burn against her hip as she aimed for nonchalance. Her fingers found another small braid, weaving it as market life flowed around them. "Taking in the sights."

"Illario's at the coffee shop," he said, his voice carrying that careful measure that meant deeper currents ran beneath surface words. The mention of his cousin made her magic coil tight with renewed anxiety, but she matched his stride as they turned toward their destination.

The warmth of the market began to feel less comforting as they approached this meeting she'd avoided for so long. Every step carried them closer to judgment she wasn't sure she was ready to face, even with the weight of Lucanis's carefully chosen groceries between them like some strange shield against harder truths.

The coffee shop's warmth embraced them as they settled at a corner table, Rook watching how Lucanis arranged his purchases with assassin's methodical care - each bag positioned for quick assessment, nothing left vulnerable to unseen threats. His movements spoke of lessons learned through blood and betrayal, yet carried an almost domestic charm in this sun-drenched setting.

"Tarde como siempre, primo," Illario's teasing carried the easy affection of shared history. "Always late."

"Coffee cannot be rushed," Lucanis responded, his voice carrying notes of familiar argument wrapped in genuine warmth. His fingers traced the edge of a bag as he added, "Some things demand proper attention."

"All stomach, no heart!" Illario laughed, then launched into rapid-fire Antivan as Lucanis detailed the specific roasts and coffee he'd selected, each name rolling off his tongue like poetry.

"I'm afraid I only know tea," Rook admitted, her magic humming softly as she watched their easy interaction. The confession drew a grunt of mock outrage from Lucanis.

"We'll fix that," he said, the promise carrying echoes of countless shared moments in their kitchen, of careful teachings wrapped in deeper care.

But something in his stance - the particular way he held his shoulders, how his fingers tapped against the table's edge - betrayed the performance beneath their casual banter. --He's trying so hard to make this normal,-- she realized, her heart twisting as she recognized the careful dance he performed. So she matched his rhythm, playing her part in this choreography of pretended peace

Heat crept up Rook's neck as she realized she'd been watching only Lucanis, reading the careful performance in each gesture while completely ignoring his cousin. She forced her attention to Illario, taking in details she should have noticed immediately - the practiced charm in his smile, dark hair swept back with careful precision that spoke of deliberate image cultivation. His features carried the same deadly grace as Lucanis, though softened by an ease his cousin had never quite mastered.

"Why are we discussing coffee preferences," she cut through their banter, her magic stirring with impatience beneath her skin, "when we're here for something else entirely?"

Lucanis's fingers stilled on his cup, that particular stillness that meant he was counting heartbeats. "Waiting for the last spy to leave."

"Already gone." Illario's charm melted into something sharper as his eyes swept the room with professional assessment. "The one pretending to read by the window finally decided his coffee had gone cold."

--Assassins--, she thought, watching them exchange glances heavy with shared understanding. --Even their casual moments carry edge of blade against throat.--

"Zara's moved to Vyrantium," Illario said, his charming facade hardening into something more purposeful. His fingers traced patterns on the table's worn surface - the same unconscious tell she'd noticed in Lucanis when discussing missions that carried personal weight.

"I have someone who's particularly skilled at tracking," Rook offered, thinking of Neve's uncanny ability to unravel even the most carefully hidden trails. Her magic stirred at the thought of finally closing in on her former master.

Illario's smile carried edges sharp as any blade. "This is Crow business. We can handle our own."

"Apparently not." Lucanis's voice emerged cold enough to frost the air between them. "Since your lead is worthless."

"And yours is better?" Challenge threaded through Illario's tone as cousins faced each other across coffee gone cold.

"We're compromised." Each word fell precise as knife strikes. "Zara couldn't have reached Caterina without help from inside. Keep your eyes on home, primo."

"She wouldn't be foolish enough to stay-"

"Of course she would." Purple light flickered through Lucanis's eyes as Spite stirred with ancient interest. "Because the Crows are protecting her there."

Illario's attention shifted to Rook, his charm returning like a weapon drawn from sheath. "Reason with him, please. He's being paranoid."

--He doesn't see it--, Rook thought, watching how tension thrummed through Lucanis's frame. --Doesn't understand how thoroughly Zara corrupts everything she touches.-- Her fingers found another small braid as memories of her former master's careful manipulation painted themselves across her mind.

Illario rose with fluid grace, tension rippling beneath his carefully maintained charm. His fingers were warm as they captured Rook's hand, lips brushing her skin with practiced gallantry. "Pardón my abrupt departure." The words carried weight of deeper fractures as he cast a pointed look at his cousin before disappearing into the market's chaos.

--Stop him--, Rook's magic urged as she watched another potential ally slip away. But Lucanis remained seated, his attention fixed on coffee gone cold, shoulders carrying weight of battles chosen with careful precision.

"You're letting him go?" The question emerged soft, heavy with understanding of how thoroughly Zara could shatter even the strongest bonds.

"He won't listen." Simple words that carried years of shared history and newer betrayals. "There's no point."

Silence settled between them like frost, each unspoken truth adding another layer of careful distance. Her fingers found the gift hidden in her bag, but words failed as she studied his profile. How did you bridge gaps carved by blood magic and demon-touched possession? What could possibly ease the weight of choices that had transformed both their lives?

"Thank you," he said finally, his voice carrying that particular gentleness that always found its way past her careful walls, "for coming with me today."

The gratitude twisted like a blade in her chest - not because it wasn't genuine, but because it spoke of how thoroughly recent events had shaken what lay between them. We used to need no thanks for simply being present in each other's shadows, she thought, watching how carefully he held himself apart from her now.

A flash of movement caught Rook's attention - dark robes against darker tiles, a Venatori scout disappearing like smoke across Antivan rooftops. Her magic surged with recognition even as Lucanis tensed beside her, his assassin's instincts matching her own.

"Let's go." She swept their purchases into her pack with urgent efficiency, each movement measured against the cost of losing their quarry. Her heart thundered against her ribs as they took to the rooftops, feet finding purchase on sun-warmed tiles that spoke of paths well-traveled by those who dealt in shadow.

They moved like water through the city's heights - up rickety ladders, through windows that opened to secret passages, across gaps that made her magic sing with dangerous possibility. The Venatori stayed just ahead, leading them deeper into Antiva's maze-like architecture until voices drifted through a partially open door:

"...tired of Zara's games..." The words carried edges of rebellion wrapped in familiar accent.

Rook's magic coiled tight as they discovered the hideout, Venatori gathered like corrupted birds in their stolen nest. Her eyes met Lucanis's, finding perfect understanding in that purple-tinged gaze. They moved as one - her lightning arcing between targets while his blades found flesh with deadly precision.

The battle painted itself in familiar strokes - power answering needed wrapped in darker purpose. But something had shifted in how they fought together, each movement carrying weight of recent revelations. Where once they had flowed like twin rivers joining, now they moved with careful space maintained between their deadlier currents.

The last Venatori fell as Spite's presence rippled with ancient satisfaction, the demon's hunger bleeding through Lucanis's careful control.

Warmth bloomed against her hip, drawing her attention from their deadly handiwork. Her palm came away painted crimson - not Venatori blood, but her own seeping from a gash she hadn't felt in battle's heat. The sight made her magic stir with familiar recognition, old instincts whispering of power that could be drawn from such spillage.

Lucanis's grip found her wrist with sudden urgency, his fingers gentle despite the intensity in his gaze. The careful distance he'd maintained since Weisshaupt dissolved like morning frost as concern stripped away his practiced coldness. The scent of coffee still clung to him, mixing with leather and weapon oil in ways that made her pulse quicken beneath his touch.

"Are you alright?" His voice carried that particular tenderness she'd thought lost to recent revelations. "We can stop-"

Their eyes met, and for one crystalline moment, everything else fell away - blood magic and demon-touched possession, choices that had shaped them both into creatures of shadow and survival. His thumb traced patterns against her pulse that spoke of everything still unspoken between them.

But then something shuttered behind his eyes, that careful wall slamming back into place as he released her and stepped away. The loss of contact felt like physical pain as he said, voice carrying careful professional distance: "Take a moment. Bind that wound."

"No need." Her magic sparked between her fingers as she channeled just enough power to slow the bleeding. The gesture felt like defiance against whatever had made him retreat back behind his masks - both literal and metaphorical. "This will hold. We should keep moving."

--Before you pull away completely--, she thought, watching how he maintained that careful space between them. --Before whatever lies between us shatters beyond repair.--

"This needs proper attention," Lucanis's voice carried that edge of command that always made her magic stir with defiance. "We can't afford to fall."

"I'm fine." She kept her voice deliberately steady, even as pain blazed along her hip with each careful step. Years of survival had taught her exactly how to mask such weakness - how to hold herself so others wouldn't see the way agony carved paths through flesh and bone. *Just like in Zara's chambers*, she thought, then pushed the memory aside before it could claim more ground.

Movement ahead made them both freeze, but the figure emerging from shadow carried familiar grace. Illario's presence filled the narrow passage like smoke given form, his charm barely masking deeper purpose.

"Mierda," Lucanis muttered, tension thrumming through his frame. "What are you doing here?"

"Saw someone following you at the shop." Illario's eyes caught on Rook's careful stance, reading stories written in how she held herself against pain's insistent drum. "Thought I'd return the favor."

"And didn't think to mention it?" Purple light flickered through Lucanis's gaze as Spite stirred with ancient interest.

His cousin's attempt to dodge the question died beneath that demon-touched scrutiny. Something shifted in the air between them - not quite hostility, but recognition of deeper fractures running beneath surface loyalty.

"Leave." Lucanis's voice emerged cold enough to frost the air. "We're close to Zara. Your particular... talents... won't work here. You'll only be in the way."

Illario's shoulders settled with practiced resignation, though his smile never wavered as he turned to Rook. "Cuidate, cariño." The endearment rolled off his tongue like honey, carrying all the careful flirtation that made Lucanis's jaw tighten beneath his mask.

As his cousin disappeared into shadow, Rook caught the way Lucanis's hands had curled into fists at that final display of charm.

"Your cousin seems quite taken with me," Rook said, deliberately shifting attention from how pain pulsed through her hip with each heartbeat. Her eyes found Spite's shimmering form as she added, "What was that he said?"

The demon's presence rippled with amusement. "Oh yes, he's quite..." But whatever Spite planned to reveal dissolved into ethereal laughter as Lucanis cut through their banter.

"Nothing." His voice emerged sharp enough to make his demon retreat, though Spite's knowing chuckle lingered like smoke in the narrow passage. "Let's go."

Deflection works both ways, she thought, watching how tension painted new lines across Lucanis's shoulders. Her attempt to distract from her injury had somehow struck deeper nerves - ones that spoke of complicated histories she couldn't quite grasp. The pain in her hip felt almost welcome now, giving her something solid to focus on besides the careful distance Lucanis maintained between them.

Spite's presence faded like mist before dawn, but his laughter seemed to echo in spaces where truths lay carefully buried.

Terror crawled through Rook's veins like familiar poison as they moved forward, each step carrying her closer to the architect of her nightmares. Her magic coiled tight beneath marked skin, recognizing this particular flavor of dread - the same suffocating fear that had accompanied every time she was dragged her back to Zara's chambers. Only now she walked under her own power, though her legs threatened to betray her with each careful movement.

--Breathe. Just breathe.-- The command emerged in her mind like ritual, like the prayers she'd once whispered in darkness when chains bit too deep. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee back into shadows where Zara's reach couldn't find her. Her throat burned with trapped screams that echoed years of similar terror, while tears threatened to spill despite her desperate control.

She forced herself to focus on Lucanis's presence ahead of her, using him as anchor against the tide of panic threatening to drag her under. -- I won't leave him. Not to her. Never to her. -- The thought emerged with steel wrapped in desperate need - even if her body remembered too well what waited ahead, she would not abandon him to face this battle alone.

Her magic stirred with bitter recognition as Zara's particular energy began painting the air in shades of corruption she'd never quite forgotten. Each breath came slower, heavier, as memory threatened to drag her back to chambers where blood magic had carved ownership into flesh too young to understand the price of survival.

But she kept moving forward, one trembling step after another. If Lucanis noticed how fear made her magic spark erratically beneath her skin, he gave no sign. Though she knew with bone-deep certainty that if she faltered now, he would indeed drag her forward - not out of cruelty, but because some battles had to be faced no matter how thoroughly terror tried to claim its due.

--This time I choose,-- she told herself, even as old scars burned with remembered pain. --This time I walk toward her on my own feet, not in chains.-- But the thought offered little comfort as Zara's presence grew stronger ahead, painting shadows in shades that spoke of choices about to reshape everything once again.

Chapter Text

The chapel doors opened like a wound, spilling white stone and crimson horror into Rook's carefully maintained composure. Her steps faltered as the room's reality crashed through every wall she'd built since escaping Zara's chambers. White marble stretched endless in every direction, its pristine surface painted with patterns that made her magic recoil in primal recognition - arterial sprays and desperate handprints, lives spent in pursuit of power that should never have been mortal domain.

In the chamber's heart, what might once have been a reflection pool now held darker purpose. Blood lapped at marble edges like tide, its surface catching torchlight in ways that made human minds want to shatter. And there, lounging in corruption's embrace like some terrible goddess of older nightmares, waited Zara.

Rook's world contracted to a single point of blind terror as her former master's gaze found her. Every scar on her body blazed with remembered agony - not just physical pain, but the deeper wounds carved by years of careful degradation. Her legs threatened to buckle as muscle memory screamed at her to kneel, to crawl, to present herself for whatever torture awaited.

*Please no please no please-* The litany repeated in her mind like broken prayer as Zara rose from her crimson bath, power rippling around her form like smoke given malevolent purpose. Blood ran in rivulets down perfect skin, each drop carrying echoes of lives spent in pursuit of magic that should have remained forbidden.

"My little rabbit." Zara's voice sliced through every defense Rook had built since tasting freedom's first breath. "Did you really think you could run from me forever?"

A sound escaped Rook's throat - something between whimper and scream, childhood terror wrapped in adult desperation. Her feet carried her backward without conscious thought, every instinct screaming at her to flee, to hide, to do anything but stand before this architect of her nightmares. But Lucanis's presence behind her became immovable wall, trapping her between assassin and tormentor with nowhere left to run.

Bile rose hot in her throat as Zara's lips curved into that familiar smile - the one that had always preceded new lessons in pain's infinite variations. Her master's eyes held the same calculating hunger that had assessed her worth when she was too young to understand the price of survival, too small to fight back against hands that reshaped her into something that existed only to serve.

"Still so beautiful when you're afraid." Zara's words painted frost across Rook's soul as she approached, each step carrying ritual's careful purpose. "Though I see they've let you forget proper respect."

Rook's knees hit marble before she realized she was falling, her body betraying every careful lesson in standing tall that Varric had spent a year teaching. Tears carved hot paths down her cheeks as she curled into herself, copper waves falling forward to shield her face from that terrible regard. Her magic lay frozen beneath her skin, years of conditioning turning power to ash in her veins.

"Look at me." The command cut through her like blade against bone, making her flinch as if physically struck. When she didn't immediately obey, Zara's voice gained that particular edge that had always preceded fresh lessons in absolute submission: "Now, little rabbit."

Her head lifted without conscious thought, body responding to training carved too deep for freedom's brief taste to erase. Through tear-blurred vision, she watched Zara's hand reach for her face with terrible gentleness - the same touch that had once preceded countless violations of flesh and spirit.

*No. Please. I can't. Not again. Not this. Please-* But even her thoughts emerged broken, fractured by terror older than memory as Zara's fingers brushed her cheek with poisoned tenderness. The touch painted every scar on her body with fresh fire, while somewhere deep inside, that small frightened thing she'd once been began screaming without sound.

"Such spirit," Zara mused, her nails grazing paths along Rook's jaw that promised future suffering. "We'll have to remind you what happens to disobedient pets, won't we? But first..." Her smile carried edges sharp enough to flay soul from flesh. "Watch what happens to those who think they can steal what belongs to me."

Horror bloomed in Rook's chest as she realized Zara's attention had shifted to Lucanis. But before she could find her voice, before she could beg or plead or offer herself in his place, blood magic's song filled the air like corruption given voice. The power painted impossible patterns through marble halls as Zara reached for the demon-touched assassin with terrible purpose, her smile promising lessons in pain's infinite variations that would reshape everything Rook had fought so hard to protect.

Purple light exploded through the chamber as Spite's presence erupted from Lucanis like storm breaking against stone. The demon's rage painted impossible patterns across white marble, his form writhing with fury that threatened to consume host and consciousness both. Rook watched in horror as Lucanis fought his own battle - not against Zara, but against hunger that demanded absolute control.

"Such a waste," Zara's voice sliced through Rook's concern like poisoned blade. "Though I suppose broken things attract their own kind." Her power rippled through the air, making reality itself seem to shudder as she added, "Just like all those other broken things you helped me shape, little rabbit. Do you remember their names?"

Lightning crackled uselessly between Rook's fingers as Zara's words painted memories across her mind - faces she'd tried so hard to forget, voices that had begged her to show mercy before blood magic turned pleas to screams. Her magic faltered as each name carved fresh wounds in her carefully rebuilt soul.

"Marcus." Zara's smile carried edges sharp enough to flay flesh from bone. "How he trusted you. Let you hold his hand while you bled him dry." Blood rose from the pool in crimson ribbons as she continued, "Or little Ana. She thought you were her friend right until the end. Called you sister even as the demon took her."

--No. Those weren't my choices. I had no choice.-- But the words died in her throat as Lucanis's blade sang through air thick with accusation, forcing Zara to dance back from his fury. The assassin's movements carried both precise grace and barely contained violence as Spite's presence bled through his careful control.

"Your brother would have been perfect." Zara's words hit like physical blows as she deflected Lucanis's attacks with casual ease. "Such a shame I had to give him to Corypheus. But sacrifices must be made, and you..." Her laugh carried edges that made Rook's magic curl tight with remembered terror. "You were always so eager to please after I threw you to the darkspawn."

Horror bloomed in Rook's chest as memories surfaced - the endless dark of those tunnels, watching other women dragged screaming into depths where worse fates than death waited. The corruption had sung to her even then, whispering promises of power that could reshape flesh into forms that defied natural law. She remembered how they'd screamed - not for mercy, but for death before the transformation could begin.

"Do you still hear them?" Zara's power wrapped around Rook like chains forged from nightmare itself. "The ones you couldn't save? The ones who begged you to end it before they became broodmothers?" Her smile carried winter's cruel edge as she added, "But you always came crawling back, didn't you? So desperate for approval that you'd do anything I asked."

"Shut up!" Lucanis's blade carved paths through air gone thick with memory, but Zara's laughter only grew colder as she turned his attacks aside.

"Such fire," she mocked, her eyes never leaving Rook's trembling form. "Though I remember when you burned brighter, little rabbit. All those nobles who paid so well to taste such innocent corruption. The way you'd smile for them, pretend it was choice rather than command..."

Each word carved deeper than any blade as Rook fought to maintain her grip on present reality. But Varric's voice cut through the darkness of memory - You're more than what survival made you, Scribbles. The past only owns you if you let it.

Her magic surged with desperate defiance as she pushed back against Zara's power. "You're wrong," she managed, though her voice cracked on words that carried weight of everything she'd built since tasting freedom's first breath. "I'm not yours anymore. I'm not that frightened thing you twisted into weapon."

"No?" Zara's smile carried edges sharp as broken glass. "Then why do you still flinch when I reach for you? Why does your magic remember exactly how to yield?" Her fingers traced patterns in the air that made Rook's scars burn with remembered agony. "Show me your arms, little rabbit. Let me see how beautifully you carved my lessons into your flesh."

But before shame could drag her back into darkness, Lucanis's presence blazed beside her like fury given form. His blade sang deadly harmonies as Spite's power surged through him, purple light painting patterns that spoke of possession transformed to protection. They moved together - her magic finally finding proper voice while his weapons carved paths through Zara's defenses.

"You can't have her," Spite's voice emerged like storm breaking against stone, demon-touched rage wrapped in newer purpose. "She's ours now."

Rook's lightning answered his fury as they pressed forward, each strike carrying echo of Varric's patient teaching. --The past is just that - past. You choose who you become.-- Her power sang clean notes that cut through blood magic's copper tang, while memories of quiet campfires and shared stories gave her strength to face this architect of her nightmares.

Yet even as they fought, Zara's words continued carving deeper wounds: "Did you tell them about the children, little rabbit? How their tears made the demons come easier?" Her laugh carried edges that made reality itself seem to shudder. "Or about how eagerly you spread your legs for anyone I commanded? Such a perfect little slave, so desperate to please..."

But Rook forced herself to remember other things - Varric's proud smile when she'd finally learned to write her name, Viper's gentle hands showing her touch could heal rather than harm, Davrin's quiet understanding as he taught her to stand tall rather than cower. Chasing Assain on the oceanside sand. Her laughing at Bellara's face covered in smoke from something that exploded. Taash helping her get out of trouble. Emmerich's kind smile of understanding. Neve's determination to protect. Harding's smile and failed attempt at cooking. Lucanis showing that their inner demons does not define them. Each memory became armor against Zara's poisoned words, while her magic found strength in everything she'd built since breaking those ancient chains.

But Rook forced herself to remember other things - Varric's proud smile when she'd finally learned to write her name, Viper's gentle hands showing her touch could heal rather than harm, Davrin's quiet understanding as he taught her to stand tall rather than cower. Each memory became armor against Zara's poisoned words, while her magic found strength in everything she'd built since breaking those ancient chains.

"Such pride in your demon-touched assassin." Zara's words dripped venom as she deflected another of Lucanis's strikes, blood magic painting crimson patterns through air gone thick with corruption. "Did you tell him how you prepared the ritual chamber? How carefully you cleaned the blood from stone after each failed attempt?"

The memory hit Rook like physical blow - other assassins who hadn't survived the binding, their screams echoing through chambers where she'd learned exactly how much pain a body could endure before spirit finally broke. Her magic faltered as she watched Lucanis fight, knowing she'd helped craft the horror that lived beneath his skin.

"Do you remember, little rabbit?" Zara's smile carried edges sharp as broken faith. "How many times we tried before finding the perfect demon? How many throats you cut to draw Spite through the Veil?" Her laugh made reality itself seem to shudder as she added, "Though I suppose he found his own way to thank you for that particular gift."

Purple light blazed through Lucanis's eyes as Spite's presence surged with ancient fury. The demon's rage painted impossible patterns across white marble while his host fought to maintain control of their shared form. But Zara's next words cut through even that carefully maintained balance:

"Tell me, assassin - when you take her, does it feel like choice? Or do you recognize the compulsion for what it is?" Her power rippled through the chamber as she pressed forward. "Every demon needs to control its summoner. To own what gave it form." Blood rose from the pool in crimson ribbons as she purred, "Such a clever way to ensure your pet would never truly escape, isn't it?"

Horror bloomed in Rook's chest as understanding crystallized like frost across glass. Everything between them - every heated touch, every moment of possessed claiming - had been nothing but echo of magical binding. Her stomach lurched as she remembered Solas's warning about blood magic's deeper costs, about prices paid willingly that corrupted more thoroughly than any demon's touch.

But there was no time to process this fresh wound as Zara's attacks grew more desperate, each strike carrying less precision and more raw power. Blood magic sang through the chamber like storm breaking against stone, while reality itself seemed to buckle beneath the weight of corruption unleashed.

"Has your true master called to you yet, Nyr'ash?" The name carved itself across Rook's consciousness like blade against bone. "Do they whisper in your dreams, remind you of older betrayals?" Zara's laugh held edges of something like fear as she added, "Did you think I wouldn't recognize what you truly are?"

--Focus. Just focus.-- Rook forced her magic forward despite how each word threatened to shatter her carefully maintained walls. Varric's voice echoed in her memory: --The past only owns you if you let it, Scribbles. You're family now, my family. Don't like it? Tough. --

Her lightning answered Lucanis's blade as they pressed their advantage, each strike carrying echo of everything they'd built since breaking free of Zara's chains. Though truth lay between them like poisoned blade - demon's compulsion wrapped in blood magic's taint - they moved together with deadly precision born of shared survival.

Yet even as they fought, even as victory seemed almost within reach, Rook couldn't quite silence the voice in her head that whispered: *--What if she's right? What if everything between us was just another form of magical binding? She knows my past. All the meanings. She knows my brother. -- The thought cut deeper than any physical wound as she watched Lucanis battle both Zara's power and Spite's desperate need for control.

But she forced herself forward despite the doubts trying to drag her under, despite how each breath carried weight of revelations that threatened to reshape everything she thought she understood. Her magic found strength in memory of quiet moments between battles - of gentle hands that had shown her touch could heal rather than harm, of purple-tinged eyes that had seen her clearly despite demon's influence.

--Some truths can wait--, she told herself as they pressed their attack. --Lucanis matters now. Not my past. -- Right now, survival demanded focus rather than understanding. Victory required pushing aside questions that could shatter carefully built bonds.

Her power crackled through air thick with corruption as they forced Zara back step by careful step. Each strike carried weight of choices made and remade, while lightning answered blade in deadly harmony that spoke of trust built despite - or perhaps because of - shared darkness.

"The Antivan Crows were just the beginning," Zara's voice carried edges of desperate triumph as she pulled more power from the blood-filled pool. "House De Riva, House Arainai and Cantori - all of them fell before true power." Her laugh made reality shudder as crimson ribbons danced through air thick with corruption. "Did your precious family tell you how many of their own I've already claimed, assassin? Do you know how many of your own crow family that Rook claimed herself?"

But Rook saw it - the subtle tremor in Zara's hands as she wove her spells, the fraction-of-a-second delay between thought and manifestation that spoke of deeper strain. Her own magic lay hollow inside her, mana burned to ash by endless combat, yet understanding bloomed like dawn breaking over ruins: --She's weakening. All this blood, all this power... and she still has to think. Still has to move.--

Memory surfaced through battle's haze - lessons carved in flesh and sealed in blood about the true cost of corruption's embrace. How even unlimited power required focus, demanded constant attention to maintain its terrible beauty. Each gesture had to be perfect, each thought precisely aimed, or blood magic would turn against its wielder like snake devouring its own tail.

( ( past memory) "The body betrays,"* Zara had taught her, voice carrying edges of cruel wisdom as she'd forced Rook to maintain complex spells until exhaustion made her collapse. *"No matter how much power you command, flesh remains weak. Requires rest. Demands focus." ) )

Understanding painted itself across Rook's consciousness in shades of brutal clarity. The blood surrounding them wasn't weakness - it was distraction. Every drop demanded attention, required perfect control to prevent corruption from claiming its commander. Zara might have endless power at her disposal, but her mind still had to direct it all.

"Keep her moving," Rook called to Lucanis, her voice carrying weight of desperate strategy. "Don't let her settle. Force her to split focus."

They pressed forward with renewed purpose - blade and lightning working in harmony to drive Zara into constant motion. Each attack forced her to divide attention between maintaining her blood magic and defending against physical strikes. The strain began showing in subtle ways - sweat beading at her temples, breath coming faster despite power's endless font.

Questions burned in Rook's throat with each exchange: --What do you know about who I was? What is Nyr'ash? Why do the gods remember me?-- But she recognized this particular game - how Zara had always used truth like weapon, dealing out morsels of knowledge to make her victims hesitate at crucial moments.

--Later,-- she promised herself as they forced Zara back another step. --Truth can wait until after victory.-- Though part of her wondered if she'd ever truly learn who she had been before chains and blood magic had remade her into something else entirely.

Purple light blazed through the chamber as Spite's presence leaked through Lucanis's careful control, demon-touched fury adding new patterns to their deadly dance. They moved like twin blades now - each strike perfectly timed to force Zara's attention in too many directions at once. Her power might be endless, but her body remained frustratingly mortal despite corruption's embrace.

"Tell me, Nyr'ash," Zara's voice carried edges of strain beneath its usual venom. "Did you really think you could hide what you are? That your true master wouldn't-" But whatever revelation she planned dissolved into snarl of frustration as Lucanis's blade found her shoulder, forcing her to expend precious focus on healing.

The tide turned with brutal efficiency as they pressed their advantage. Each attack forced Zara to divide her attention further - between maintaining her connection to the blood pool's power, protecting against their coordinated strikes, and keeping her own increasingly exhausted body moving. The corruption surrounding them sang with terrible possibility, but even unlimited power required mortal mind to direct it.

Victory painted itself in heartbeats and desperate gasps as Zara's strength finally began to fail. The woman who had reshaped Rook's entire world, who had carved ownership into flesh too young to understand the price of survival, stumbled beneath the weight of too many demands on her concentration. Blood magic's song filled the air like broken symphony as her careful control began to slip.

--I could ask her,-- part of Rook whispered as they closed for the kill. --Force her to tell me everything about who I was, about what the gods remember.-- But deeper wisdom - earned through blood and pain and desperate survival - knew better than to trust truth offered by serpent's tongue.

Some questions would have to wait for their answers. Some mysteries needed time to properly unfold. For now, victory demanded focus rather than understanding as they moved to end what they'd begun so many years ago in chambers where blood magic had first carved its terrible price.

Pain blazed through Rook's hip as her magic guttered like dying flame, each breath carrying weight of battles fought too long. The wound Zara had ignored throbbed in time with her heartbeat, making reality blur at its edges as blood seeped through hastily applied bandages. But deeper terror bloomed as understanding crystallized: --My blood. She knows my blood. Has known it for years...--

Yet no chains of corruption wrapped around her limbs, no familiar song of possession tried to claim her will. The absence felt wrong - like trap waiting to spring, like mercy offered by serpent's tongue. Her eyes found Zara's form as their former master slumped against white marble, chest heaving with exhaustion that spoke of power finally finding its limits.

The sight hit Rook like physical blow - Zara fallen, Zara weakened, Zara needing... --No.-- She fought against the urge to run forward, to help, to heal. Years of conditioning screamed at her to protect, to serve, to prove herself worthy of whatever scraps of affection might be offered. Her hands trembled with need to ease suffering she'd helped cause, even as her mind recoiled from such twisted loyalty.

"We can discuss this civilly," Zara's voice emerged rough with strain, though her smile still carried edges sharp as broken faith. "I'll tell you everything - about your precious Crows, about who I was protecting Nyr'ash from-"

"Protecting?" The word scraped past Rook's throat like broken glass. "You... what?"

"Such loyalty," Zara's laugh held notes of genuine appreciation. "Even now, you stand between me and death. My perfect little rabbit, always so eager to please..."

But whatever revelation waited on her tongue died as purple light exploded through the chamber. Spite's presence erupted from Lucanis like storm breaking against stone, the demon's hunger painting impossible patterns across blood-stained marble. "Her heart," his voice emerged like corruption given form, ancient need bleeding through his host's careful control. "Give me her heart on my blade!"

Rook moved without conscious thought, copper waves catching torchlight as she placed herself between assassin and fallen master. Her magic lay hollow inside her, yet still she stood - not to protect Zara, but to save Lucanis from what vengeance might cost him.

"The traitor," Zara's words carried weight of secrets too long kept. "I can tell you who sold you to the Crows, who gave you to me..."

Movement caught Rook's peripheral vision - shadow given form as Illario emerged like smoke through ancient stone. His presence filled the chamber with deadly purpose, each step carrying weight of choices carved in blood and sealed with darker oaths.

Relief painted itself across Zara's features, softening edges carved by power's constant embrace. For one crystalline moment, she looked almost human - almost like someone who might indeed have tried to protect something, even in her own twisted way.

Then Illario's hands found her throat with assassin's precision. The crack echoed through marble halls like thunder, like prophecy, like end of everything Rook had both feared and needed to understand.

"NO!" The scream tore from her chest like something feral, like childhood terror wrapped in adult desperation. Her legs gave way as truth crashed through her soul - all the answers lost, all the mysteries sealed behind death's final silence. Every question about who she'd been, about what the gods remembered, about why Zara had claimed to protect her... gone.

The tears that carved paths down her cheeks carried weight of futures destroyed rather than past finally laid to rest.

But there was no time to process this particular wound as Lucanis erupted beside her, demon-touched fury carrying him toward his cousin with deadly purpose. Spite's presence blazed through him, purple light painting patterns that spoke of possession finally breaking all careful bounds.

"Please," Lucanis's voice emerged desperate beneath the demon's hungry chorus. "Stop me. I can't... I can't hold him back..."

His blade pressed against Illario's chest, drawing blood that sang with family's shared resonance. But before Rook could move, before she could reach for power that lay too hollow to properly answer, Illario's hand found the pendant at his throat. Light blazed between cousins like dawn breaking through shadow - pure notes that made Spite's presence recoil as bonds forged in blood and demon-fire suddenly snapped.

"Take him away from here," Illario's words fell like stones into still water as he pushed his cousin back. "He's too dangerous - to the Crows, to Tevinter, to everyone." His eyes held storms as he added, "He's not even truly Lucanis anymore, is he? Just vessel for something that wears his face."

The words hit Rook like physical blows as she caught Lucanis's stumbling form. His body trembled against hers, demon-touched power still crackling beneath his skin despite whatever Illario's pendant had done to temporarily sever their connection. When she looked back, his cousin had already disappeared into shadow, leaving them alone with Zara's cooling corpse and questions that would never find voice.

The blood pooled beneath Zara's broken form, each ripple carrying fragments of a life Rook had never chosen but couldn't quite release. A sound caught in her throat - not quite scream, not quite sob - as her world contracted around this impossible loss. Her tormentor, her master, her twisted version of mother... gone. The woman who had shaped her through pain and purpose lay silent when answers had been so close, when truth had danced just beyond desperate reach.

--Why does it hurt?-- The question clawed at her chest as tears fell without permission. --Why do I mourn the monster who broke me?-- But deeper wisdom - earned through blood and survival - recognized this particular grief: not for Zara's death, but for the death of the only certainty she'd ever known. Even chains could become familiar, could offer terrible comfort in their absolute clarity of purpose.

Her arms tightened around Lucanis's trembling form as sobs wracked her body - mourning not just for answers lost, but for the small, frightened thing she'd once been who had learned to find safety in her cage's edges. Part of her - the part still wearing scars carved by years of careful conditioning - felt suddenly, terribly untethered, set adrift in a world where even hatred's familiar comfort had been stripped away.

--She was going to tell me. About who I was. About why...-- But the thoughts dissolved into fresh tears as she pressed her face against Lucanis's chest, letting his heartbeat anchor her against grief she couldn't quite understand. The marble beneath her knees grew warm with spilled blood as she knelt in the ruins of her past, cradling her future while mourning possibilities that died with her nightmares' architect.

Chapter Text

The chair scraped against stone as Rook wedged it beneath the bathroom door's handle, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through muscles pushed far beyond endurance. Her body felt like something borrowed and broken - every breath a negotiation with pain, every heartbeat echoing through wounds both visible and hidden.

Steam rose from the running bath, carrying hints of elfroot and prophet's laurel that should have promised healing but somehow felt empty as the hollow space where her magic usually sang. Her fingers moved through familiar motions - measuring herbs, testing water temperature - while her mind drifted somewhere far beyond the lighthouse's walls.

The mirror caught her eye as she reached for another vial, and suddenly the world contracted to a single point of horror. There, painted across her cheek in drying crimson, was Zara's final touch - fingers splayed in perfect clarity against skin that had worn similar marks countless times before. The handprint seemed to pulse in the bathroom's dim light, each heartbeat making the blood look freshly drawn.

Her reflection stared back with eyes she barely recognized - bloodshot and haunted, tear tracks carving paths through grime and worse things. She looked like something that had crawled from the Deep Roads, like corruption given flesh, like every nightmare she'd fought so hard to leave behind.

--No. No no no- -The litany repeated in her mind as she lunged for the washbasin, hands trembling as she scrubbed at the mark. Water ran pink as she clawed at her own skin, desperate to erase this last claiming touch. But when she looked up again, the blood had only smeared - painting patterns across her face that made her stomach lurch with terrible recognition.

Memory crashed through her careful walls: other faces marked with similar stains, eyes that had trusted her until the final moment, small hands reaching for comfort even as blood magic turned their screams to silence. Her reflection blurred as fresh tears carved hot paths down her cheeks, making the crimson streaks run like fresh wounds.

The mirror shattered beneath her fist, pain blazing through her knuckles as glass sang against stone. Blood - her blood, freely given rather than taken - painted delicate patterns across broken shards that caught lamplight like accusations. She turned away, unable to face the fractured image of what she'd become.

Her clothes fell away like shed armor, each piece carrying evidence of battles fought in corruption's depths. The bath embraced her with warmth that should have soothed, should have promised comfort, should have meant something beyond this terrible emptiness that had claimed every space where feeling once lived.

Steam rose around her like ghosts as she sank deeper into herb-scented water, letting heat seep into muscles that could no longer remember how to relax. Her mind drifted in spaces between thought and memory, while her body remained something distant and wrong - like puppet with cut strings, like vessel emptied of purpose, like thing that had forgotten how to properly exist in a world where even nightmares could die.

Red threads danced from her split knuckles, painting delicate spirals through bathwater gone slowly crimson. She watched with detached fascination as her blood mixed with whatever else she'd carried back from that marble chamber - unable to tell anymore which stains belonged to her and which belonged to the woman who had shaped her entire world through pain and purpose.

The water grew slowly cold around her unmoving form, but she couldn't summon the energy to care. Some wounds went deeper than flesh, some battles left scars that no amount of herb-infused baths could properly heal. She floated in that space between numbness and grief, between emptiness and something too vast to name.

Solas's voice emerged gentle as snowfall, carrying none of his usual sharp edges: "You need not face this alone, lethallan."

Rook couldn't summon energy to even open her eyes, letting his words wash over her like tide. No crystalline prison formed around them - she was too drained, too hollow for such careful constructs. Instead, his presence settled like fresh snow, offering comfort without demanding response.

Her throat burned with tears she couldn't quite shed as he continued: "You mourn not just for answers lost, but for the small, frightened thing you once were. The one who learned to find safety in her cage's edges." Understanding threaded through his tone as he added, "There is no shame in such grief."

The water's surface rippled with her silent sobs as ancient god offered unexpected kindness. No demands for information about the battle, no questions about Zara's final words, no pressure to be anything other than this broken thing floating in herb-scented water gone slowly cold.

"Rest now," he murmured, his presence already beginning to fade like morning frost before dawn.

"Tomorrow will bring its own battles," Solas's voice carried ancient gentleness as frost patterns danced across cooling water. "But first... I believe I owe you truth about Nyr'ash."

The name hummed through her bones like forgotten song as he continued: "Dirthamen, keeper of secrets, had two ravens - Fear and Deceit." His presence settled like fresh snow around her. "Twin spirits who saw paths that might have been, futures that could still be."

Her heart stuttered in her chest as understanding bloomed. --My brother...--

"Yes," Solas answered her unspoken thought. "I believe you and your brother were those ravens given form, released when Dirthamen's connection to his servants began to fade." Kindness threaded through his voice as he added, "Not trapped spirits, not bound souls - but possibility itself learning to walk in flesh."

The tears that slipped down her cheeks felt different now - not just grief for answers lost with Zara's death, but something deeper, older. Memory of wings she'd never worn, of futures she'd once seen spread before her like tapestry waiting to be woven.

"I will help you find him," Solas promised, his words carrying weight of oath freely given. "There are ways, paths between what was and what might be..." He paused, then softer: "But first, rest. Mourn the family that shaped you through pain and shadow. Then look to the one you've built through choice and brighter purpose."

The water lapped at her skin like forgotten tears as his presence began to fade. But this time the hollow spaces inside her held something new - not answers exactly, but possibility. Understanding that stretched beyond blood magic and demon-touched corruption, beyond chains that had bound flesh too young to remember different forms of flight.

--A raven,-- she thought, watching ripples dance across bathwater gone slowly cold. --I was a raven.-- The knowledge settled in her chest like feather finally finding home, while somewhere deep inside, something that had always felt broken began slowly, carefully to heal.

Chapter Text

[Lighthouse Letterhead]
Dear Inquisitor,

I'm sending the wanted poster of Rook. Maker, you should see it - we're practically the same height, but somehow she looks ten feet tall on paper. Typical.

Something's wrong, and I'm not talking about the kind of wrong we're used to dealing with. She's still sharp as ever in the field, still hits her marks, but there's this... emptiness growing. Reminds me of how things went sideways after we lost Varric.

She hasn't grieved. Not once.

When I mention Varric's name, her blue eyes go distant. Not sad, not angry. Just... empty. As if she genuinely believes he's still alive somewhere, waiting to tell another story. I've watched her organize his papers, maintain his writing desk, talk about him in present tense. It's not denial. It's something worse - a complete detachment that feels like a wound waiting to become infected.

She returned yesterday after killing Zara - a mission shrouded in more mystery than our Deep Roads intel. She's been locked in the bathroom for hours, water running like she's trying to wash away something more than just blood.

Death's been our constant companion lately. Varric's loss hit us hard, but Rook... she's changed. Then came that moment with Davrin - I saw her fingers dancing with blood magic, desperate to change his mind about sacrificing himself. She couldn't find the right blood link in the chaos, but the intent was there. The darkness is closer than she realizes.

Zara's dead by her and Lucanis's hands, and now Viper's infected with the Blight. I know Rook's strong - we've all survived nightmares that would break lesser scouts. But something's different this time. The way she moves, the way her magic sits just beneath her skin - it's like watching a storm gather before it tears everything apart.

And Solas? Maker help us. He moves through her mind like a predator, and I'm terrified of what he might be weaving.

I know I should probably be writing to Cullen about this. You remember how he fought his lyrium addiction? This feels the same - like blood magic is eating away at Rook, making her choices darker with each use. How did you help him break free? I can't help but see the same patterns - that desperate need, that belief that just one more time will solve everything. It's consuming her, and I'm watching it happen.

Yrs,

Harding

X X X X X X X X X X X

[Official Tevinter Magisterium Proclamation]
WANTED: BLOOD MAGE
Name: Rook (Surname Unknown)
Reward: 2,500 GOLD SOVEREIGNS
Crimes:

High Treason against the Magisterium
Destruction of Magisterial Property
Interference with Sanctioned Slave Operations
Magical Assault on Magister Zara Renata
Collaboration with Rebel Factions
Escape from Magical Servitude
Destruction of Magisterial Assets
Conspiracy against Tevinter Interests

ADDITIONAL BOUNTY:
Magister Zara Renata offers personal reward for capture
Description:

Elven Female
Dark Red Hair
Blue Eyes
Distinctive Scar: Left Side of Jaw, Leading to Chin

CAUTION: EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
Affiliated with Shadow Dragons
Known Blood Mage - Do NOT Approach
Wanted Alive
By Order of the Tevinter Magisterium
Sealed: [Official Seal]

Chapter Text

Voices pierced through Rook's skull like badly aimed arrows, each echo down the hallway driving fresh spikes of pain behind her eyes. She groaned into consciousness, mouth tasting of elfroot and something darker that memory didn't want to properly name. Her body protested every movement as she pushed herself up from bed, muscles screaming reminders of battles fought in blood-soaked chambers.

The argument drifting up from below painted patterns of familiar chaos - voices rising and falling in the particular way that meant someone was trying to solve her problems without actually consulting her. --Wonderful, --she thought, making her way toward the balcony with steps that felt less steady than she'd like. --Everyone's decided to be helpful.--

Varric stepped up beside her as she reached the railing, his presence carrying that careful warmth he reserved for moments when she needed anchoring. "How you doing, kid?"

"My head feels like I tried arm-wrestling a druffalo," she muttered, watching the scene unfold below. "And lost. Badly." Her fingers found her temples, trying to massage away pain that felt soul-deep. "What's the current crisis they're solving without me?"

His chuckle carried understanding earned through countless similar moments. "You, actually. They're worried." A slight pause, then softer: "We all are."

A sigh escaped her as she surveyed her well-meaning family's increasing volume. Emmrich's scholarly precision collided with Bellara's enthusiastic theories while Harding tried to maintain some semblance of order. Even Taash had abandoned their usual stoic stance to join the helpful chaos, while Lucanis... --Flames and fury, has he even slept?--

"IF YOU ALL HAVE THIS MUCH ENERGY," her voice cut through their debate like blade against bone, "PERHAPS YOU NEED ASSIGNMENTS?"

Silence fell as faces turned upward, a mixture of guilt and relief painting itself across features she'd grown to love despite everything. Or perhaps because of everything.

Emmrich recovered first, his scholarly composure barely masking concern: "We merely wished to ensure-"

"That I'm not falling apart?" The words emerged sharper than intended, exhaustion making her tongue looser than wisdom would allow. "Well, your hovering is giving me a headache, so..." Her finger pointed at him with deliberate purpose. "Hand of Glory. Research. Now."

She moved down the line like general commanding troops, each gesture carrying weight of authority earned through shared battles: "Bellara - whatever you're planning to explode, don't. Taash - those reports about the blighted dragon won't read themselves. Harding - check what the dwarves sent about-"

A familiar trill interrupted her as Assan bounded past, wings half-spread in excitement as he made straight for her room. --Perfect. Just perfect. I hate how adorable he is.--

"Davrin," she pinched the bridge of her nose, "get your griffon off my bed and send up the Gloom Howler information." Her attention shifted to Neve, who watched with carefully maintained neutrality. "And you... go find someone to... whatever."

"I won't sleep." Lucanis's voice carried that edge of careful control that meant Spite was pushing against his barriers. "He'll just make me walk anyway."

A sound somewhere between laugh and growl escaped her throat as she turned to their resident dragon hunter. "Taash? Throw him in his room and stand guard. Blighted dragons in the next six to eight hours."

"Spite will just possess me," Lucanis argued, though something like amusement flickered through his exhaustion. "You know how he gets."

"Taash use your fire on him then. Fried up demon." Rook sighs, not wanting to argue with anyone, human or otherwise.

Taash's grin blazed bright as summer lightning. "Hear that, my future campfire companion?" They cracked their knuckles with theatrical menace. "Don't make me demonstrate how dragons learn to behave."

"You wouldn't-" But whatever protest Lucanis planned dissolved into undignified squawk as Taash simply scooped him up, throwing him over one massive shoulder like particularly disagreeable sack of grain.

"I do love a good roasting," Taash declared, heading toward the stairs with their cursing burden. "Though usually I prefer my meat less demonic..."

Something loosened in Rook's chest as she watched them disappear - not quite laughter, but cousin to it. Her family might be chaos incarnate, might drive her mad with their particular brands of caring, but they were hers. Chosen rather than forced, built through trust rather than terror.

"Well?" She raised an eyebrow at the others still lingering below. "Did I stutter?"

They scattered like startled nugs, though she caught the relief in their expressions - not just that she was up and giving orders, but that some piece of her remained unbroken despite everything. Varric's quiet chuckle beside her carried its own weight of understanding as chaos transformed into purpose around them.

"You know," he said softly, "they're not going to actually do any of that. They'll just pretend to work while watching you like mother hens with one chick."

"I know." Her smile felt genuine despite bone-deep exhaustion. "But at least they'll be quiet about it."

Happy griffon trills drifted down the hall like particularly smug victory song. Rook's head throbbed in time with each delighted squeal as she pushed away from the railing. --Of course Davrin went for the reports first. Of course.--

Varric's laughter followed her retreat. "Good luck with that one, Scribbles." His boots, as silent as an assissan's, walk against stone as he descended, leaving her to face whatever chaos waited in her room.

Assan's entire rear end wiggled with joy as she appeared in the doorway, his wings half-spread across her bed like he was claiming new territory. The glare she leveled at him bounced off his enthusiasm like arrows off dragon scales. --Fine. Fine.--

She crawled under the covers on her side of the bed - when had she started thinking of it as 'her side'? - pulling blankets over her head until darkness wrapped around her like comfort freely given. The mattress shifted as Assan performed his ritual circling, each bounce sending fresh spikes of pain through her skull. But when he finally settled against her back, his warmth seeped through layers of exhaustion like healing magic.

Familiar boots scuffed against stone - Davrin's careful tread, though trying for quieter than usual. "Come on," he whispered, voice carrying that particular tone he reserved for griffon-wrangling. "There's fresh meat waiting..."

Assan's only response was to press more firmly against Rook's spine.

"Really?" A sigh heavy with resignation. "What about those little cakes you like? The ones with berry filling?" Another pause. "Fine. Those fish treats from the market?"

Rook kept her breathing carefully measured, feigning sleep while listening to increasingly desperate bargaining. Her lips twitched beneath the blankets as Davrin moved through his entire repertoire of bribes, each one meeting stubborn rejection.

"I will pluck every single one of your tail feathers," he threatened, though affection threaded through his mock severity. "Turn you into the saddest looking griffon in Thedas."

A soft yank that had to be him tugging said tail earned only dismissive snort from his charge. The mattress dipped again as Davrin finally admitted defeat, his weight settling on her other side with warrior's grace that still carried conscious care not to disturb her "sleep."

Memory stirred like tide against stone - his face in Weisshaupt's broken halls as she'd reached for blood magic's familiar chains. The hurt in his eyes when she'd pulled away from his attempt at comfort, shame making her retreat from the very touch that might have helped heal deeper wounds. Now he lay beside her, close enough to reach yet somehow distant as mountains.

--I'm sorry,-- she thought, the words catching in her throat like broken glass. --For nearly betraying everything you helped me become. For not letting you help after. For- --But the thoughts scattered like autumn leaves as exhaustion finally began dragging her under.

Assan's warmth pressed against her back while Davrin's presence anchored her other side, their combined weight somehow making the hollow spaces inside her feel less raw. Sleep reached for her with gentle hands as her griffon-enforced family settled into familiar rhythms - Davrin's carefully measured breaths mixing with Assan's soft chirps of contentment.

At least, she thought as consciousness began to fade, one of us knows exactly what we need.

X X X X X X X X X X X

Hunger clawed at Rook's insides like particularly demanding darkspawn as consciousness slowly returned. Her hand reached back instinctively, finding only empty space where griffon warmth and Warden presence should have been. - - When did I get so used to not being alone? - -

She pushed herself up, copper waves falling in sleep-tangled chaos around her face as she blinked at the pile of reports on her nightstand. Beside them sat a small wooden figure, its details carved with the particular care Davrin brought to everything he created. Her fingers found the tiny rook, tracing wings that somehow managed to look both delicate and deadly despite being hewn from simple cedar.

Her stomach voiced another protest as she gathered the papers, the sound echoing through her room like angry dragon. --Food. Food first, then reports. --The carved bird found new perch on her nightstand, its presence somehow making the room feel less empty as she ventured into lighthouse halls.

Silence pressed against her skin like physical thing, broken only by Emmrich's voice drifting from his study - something about theoretical applications that had Manfred's bones rattling with scholarly enthusiasm. The common area lay deserted, though evidence of recent occupation scattered across tables like breadcrumbs leading nowhere.

Outside, Assan's joyful screech painted patterns across morning sky as he chased clouds with typical griffon determination. The sight made something ease in her chest - at least someone was having a proper morning, even if her own felt like walking through fade-touched honey.

Her feet carried her toward the promise of food, but movement caught her attention - Lucanis's door standing open, scorch marks painting interesting patterns across its frame while Taash's voice carried notes of exasperated fury:

"I swear by every dragon's egg I've ever stolen, if you try to 'sleep-walk' past me one more time..."

"No. Stay. Sleep." Taash punctuated each word by jabbing a finger toward Lucanis's chest, their massive form radiating frustrated determination. They turned at Rook's entrance, relief painting itself across features gone tight with extended demon-wrangling. "The demon's back."

"He never really leaves," Rook said, watching how purple light blazed constant through Lucanis's eyes. Something in her chest twisted at seeing him so thoroughly possessed - not just Spite bleeding through, but full control claimed with hunger.

"Melon and woodsmoke," Spite's voice emerged layered with Lucanis's, their shared mouth curving into smile that belonged to neither host nor demon. "You smell like memory."

"I've got this." Rook nodded to Taash, her magic stirring with familiar recognition as demon-touched power filled the room like smoke.

Spite waited until Taash's footsteps faded before letting his hunger properly show. "Finally," their doubled voice purred, "we can talk."

"We can talk anytime," Rook kept her tone carefully neutral. "Outside of Lucanis's body."

Rage blazed through those purple-stained eyes as Spite surged forward. "No! He made a deal he hasn't kept." Fury painted itself across borrowed features as he added, "Break our chains. Kill. Escape prison. Live."

"That is what happened," she said softly, watching how corruption rippled beneath Lucanis's skin. "And more."

"NO!" The word emerged like storm breaking against stone. "I want OUT!"

"Out where?" But before she could properly process the question, his hands found her shoulders with demon-touched strength. Her back hit the wall hard enough to drive air from her lungs as he pressed closer, borrowed body caging her with terrible purpose.

"You put me here," Spite snarled, fingers digging into flesh that remembered other bindings. "You can take me out."

"I can't." The words emerged rough with truth that cut both ways. "I don't know how."

His grip tightened as fury blazed through purple-stained eyes. "Take me out! We had a deal - he and I. You owe us this!"

"I'm worried what would happen to you, Spite" she admitted, watching how confusion flickered across features caught between demon and host.

"You... worry?" The pressure against her shoulders eased slightly as ancient hunger met something it hadn't expected. "About me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

The question seemed to break something in him - some carefully maintained wall between possession and possibility. Purple light faltered, then faded as Lucanis's consciousness surged back through, his hands gentling against her shoulders as control settled back into proper balance.

"Rook?" His voice emerged rough, carrying none of Spite's ancient resonance. "What..." But the question died as understanding painted itself across his features.

Lucanis released her as if burned, putting careful distance between them as consciousness fully settled back into proper alignment. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Why?" A smile tugged at her lips despite everything as memory painted itself in shades of purple-tinged passion. "Last time Spite took control-"

"Don't." His voice carried edges sharp enough to cut, though something darker threaded through his tone. Something that spoke of nights when demon and host had shared more than just flesh.

Her arms crossed over her chest - not defensive exactly, but searching for anchor against the way his proximity made her magic stir with familiar hunger. "Sorry."

"Your hip?" The question emerged careful, measured against the weight of battles fought in blood-soaked chambers.

"Healed." She kept her voice deliberately steady, eyes finding sudden fascination with the floor's stonework. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Such simple words to carry so much weight. "Really?"

Her copper waves fell forward like shield against the intensity of his regard, but his fingers found her chin with assassin's precision. The touch was gentle yet inexorable as he tilted her face up, forcing her to meet eyes that held storms.

"Why do you do that?" His thumb traced patterns against her jaw that spoke of everything still unspoken between them.

"Do what?" But the words emerged breathless as he leaned closer, his body creating cage of careful heat that made her magic spark beneath her skin. His mouth hovered mere heartbeats from hers, close enough that she could taste the promise of what they'd once shared - what demon and host had both claimed with perfect possession.

Then he pulled away, leaving her bereft of everything but memory of almost-contact. "I need to clear my head." Simple words that cut deeper than any blade as he turned, boots silent against stone as he disappeared through kitchen doors.

She remained pressed against the wall, heart thundering against her ribs as emptiness clawed at her chest with familiar hunger. Her fingers found the reports clutched forgotten in her hand - Davrin's careful writing swimming before eyes that burned with tears she refused to shed.

--Numb,-- she thought, forcing herself away from the wall that had witnessed too much. --Numb is better than this.-- But her magic sang beneath her skin with remembered passion - purple-tinged memories of when possession had meant something besides loss, when demon-touched claiming had filled spaces that now lay hollow inside her.

The kitchen's familiar warmth wrapped around Rook as she gathered breakfast, though food felt more like duty than desire. An apple found its way into her hand - something simple, something that wouldn't fight back if her stomach decided to reject it. The reports rustled against her hip as she moved, each page carrying fragments of horror painted in carefully measured words.

Her fingers traced redacted passages as she climbed worn steps, the gaps in information somehow more ominous than whatever darkness the Wardens had chosen to hide. --The Cauldron.-- Even the name carried weight of wrongness, while what little remained visible spoke of things that made seasoned warriors hesitate to venture deeper.

The apple's flesh surrendered beneath frustrated teeth as she reached Davrin's floor, juice painting bitter patterns across her tongue. But movement caught in her peripheral vision - her reflection in a window's darkened surface, copper waves telling stories of battles and bathwater and beds shared with griffon-enforced family.

--Maker's breath, I look like something dragged backwards through the Deep Roads.-- Her fingers caught in tangles that spoke of nightmares and fitful sleep, finding a braid gone feral somewhere near her temple. The harder she tried to work it loose, the more it seemed determined to claim permanent residence.

A particularly vicious snarl earned nothing but fresh pain, making her grunt with mixture of frustration and defeat. Fine. Fine. Her clothes at least could be straightened, though they still carried wrinkles that spoke of too much time spent in borrowed beds.

The griffon's excitement painted patterns through morning air - joy given wing and voice as he spotted her entrance. But it was Davrin's careful assessment that made her magic stir beneath her skin, his eyes catching on each sign of fitful sleep and fingers that had lost their battle with copper waves gone rogue.

His smile hit her like blade between ribs - gentle and devastating in ways that made her want to carve her own heart out just to stop it from aching. The reports crinkled in her grip as she forced her attention to carefully measured words, though each letter seemed to swim before eyes that desperately wanted to drift back to his face.

"The Cauldron seems to be-" But the words died in her throat as Davrin moved closer, his hand finding hers with that careful purpose. Every instinct screamed at her to retreat, to maintain careful distance that guilt had carved between them. Yet something in how his fingers ghosted across her skin made her feet refuse to carry her away.

The papers whispered protest as he pulled them from her grip, setting them aside with deliberate care that spoke of deeper purpose. His other hand remained wrapped around hers, thumb tracing patterns that felt like forgiveness she didn't deserve as he asked, "How are you really doing?"

"I'd feel better if I could kill something," she managed, reaching for the reports with her free hand. But he caught that one too, both her hands now trapped in his careful grasp.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, "for how I reacted that day."

"Don't." The word emerged sharp with edges that cut both ways. She tried to pull away, to reach for papers that promised simpler problems with clearer solutions. But his grip remained gentle yet inexorable, refusing to let her retreat into familiar patterns of avoidance.

"Why?" His voice carried that particular blend of warmth, "Why am I the only one you won't accept apologies from?"

"Because you're the one I almost betrayed!" The words burst from her chest like things too long caged, each one carrying weight of shame she'd carried since Weisshaupt's broken halls. "You taught me to be better, to choose differently, and I reached for blood magic like it was breathing." Her voice cracked as she added, "Your hatred is the only thing that makes sense."

His arms wrapped around her before the last word fully formed, pulling her against his chest with warrior's strength wrapped in impossible gentleness. The embrace felt like coming home - like quiet campfires after endless battles, like griffon-warmth pressed against her back, like every moment he'd helped piece her back together when survival had left too many cracks.

Heat radiated through his shirt where her forehead pressed against his chest, while his heartbeat painted steady rhythms beneath her ear. One of his hands found her copper waves, fingers combing through tangles with careful patience that made something inside her start to crack. His other arm remained firm around her waist, holding her together even as carefully constructed walls began to crumble.

"I never hated you," he murmured into her hair, his voice carrying truth that threatened to break whatever was left of her careful composure. "I was afraid - not of what you almost did, but of losing you to those shadows again."

The sob that tried to tear free from her throat felt like breaking, like drowning, like everything she'd fought so hard to contain finally finding voice. His arms tightened as if he could somehow hold all her shattered pieces together through simple strength of will, while his chin came to rest atop her head like shield against darker things.

"I hate you," Rook muttered against his chest, the words carrying none of their intended heat. His chuckle rumbled through her like summer thunder, arms still holding her with that careful strength that somehow made everything feel less broken.

"You hate me?" Amusement threaded through his tone as he added, "Like that time I caught you sneaking back in when you were supposed to be bedridden? What was it you promised then - your eternal gratitude for not telling Viper or Lucanis?"

A sigh escaped her that carried echo of older bargains, of promises made and kept between battles. "I hate you," she managed, then softer: "My Champion."

Their moment of peace shattered as Assan decided he'd been ignored quite long enough. The griffon's bulk somehow found impossible space between them, wings half-spread as he demanded his share of attention. His happy chirps painted patterns through morning air as previous tension finally settled into something closer to their usual rhythm.

Davrin leaned against the wall with warrior's grace, though his eyes held shadows as he explained: "Old Warden redoubt. Well-defended, well-hidden." His jaw tightened slightly. "Was well-defended, at least. Something got in."

"Why us?" Her magic stirred beneath her skin as pieces started clicking into place. "This sounds like Warden business."

"Because whatever attacked matches the Gloom Howler's particular style of horror." His fingers found familiar patterns against stone as he added, "Same signatures, same... methodology."

"Then it's our problem." Simple words that carried weight of choices yet to be made.

"The Wardens are still gathering what's left of their strength." Understanding painted itself across his features as he watched her already planning their approach. "We go alone on this one."

His attention shifted to Assan, voice taking on that particular tone he reserved for griffon-lectures: "Which means you need to be extra careful. No eating strange things, no drawing attention, absolutely no staying in one spot too long..."

"He learns by doing," Rook interrupted, though warmth threaded through her mock exasperation. Watching him try to explain tactical stealth to a creature whose idea of subtlety involved only slightly fewer excited screeches felt like returning to familiar ground after too long walking darker paths.

Davrin's hand found that spot just beneath Assan's wing joint that always made the griffon melt, his fingers working with the particular care of someone who had mapped every feather through countless similar moments. The way they moved together spoke of bonds forged through more than mere circumstance - each gesture carrying weight of choices made and trust earned between warrior and mount.

His other hand extended toward Rook, offering a small bucket that clinked with hidden contents. "Here. You'll need these."

The collection of soaps that rolled against wooden sides as she took it carried scents that made her nose wrinkle - herbs mixed with something distinctly medicinal. "I already bathed," she said, watching how Assan's eyes had locked onto the bucket with suspicious recognition.

Davrin's smile bloomed slow and terrible, carrying all the satisfaction of someone who had waited too long to spring this particular trap. "A deal's a deal, remember?" His fingers continued their gentle work against Assan's wing as he added, "You promised to handle all griffon-bathing duties. Forever."

--Oh no. Oh no no no.-- Her eyes found Assan's massive form with fresh horror as she reconsidered every choice that had led to this moment.

"Better hurry," Davrin's voice carried edges of wicked amusement. "Before he decides to-"

But Assan was already moving, wings spread with joyful purpose as he launched himself through the nearest window. His triumphant screech painted patterns through morning air as he disappeared into carefully calculated distance.

"Takes after you," Davrin observed, watching his charge's tactical retreat with poorly concealed pride. "Always did have perfect timing."

The bucket suddenly felt much heavier in Rook's hands as she contemplated the magnitude of the task ahead. --One griffon. How hard could it be? -- But something in Davrin's expression suggested she might be drastically underestimating the challenge of bathing a creature whose idea of proper hygiene involved rolling in whatever interested him that particular day.

Chapter Text

Lavendale's mist painted everything in shades of grey, though nothing quite matched the particular shade of Rook's mounting frustration as she watched Assan roll with enthusiastic abandon in what appeared to be the deepest, darkest mud puddle in all of Thedas. Each happy wiggle undid hours of careful scrubbing, rendered useless every drop of that specially formulated soap that had cost more than some magisters' shoes.

*Three hours,* she thought, watching another clump of carefully cleaned feathers disappear beneath nature's particular revenge. *--Three hours of chasing, wrestling, and bargaining with a creature whose idea of proper hygiene involves looking like a swamp thing.--* Her arms still ached from the battle of wills that had ended with both of them soaked and only one of them properly clean.

Taash's massive form cast shadow across half the courtyard as they settled beside her, their presence making Rook feel even more like an especially short sapling trying to grow beside ancient oak. The top of her head barely reached the Qunari's hip, a fact that never failed to make her feel like someone had cast a shrinking hex when she wasn't paying attention.

"Sure about this?" Taash's voice carried that particular blend of warrior's concern and dragon hunter's practicality. "Last time you were surrounded by this much corruption..." They gestured toward where Davrin spoke with another Warden, their conversation painting patterns of careful strategy across morning air.

"I'll be fine." The words emerged steadier than the flutter of anxiety in her chest as memory painted itself in shades of fever and darker things. "We won't be here long - in and out before anything has time to take hold." Her smile felt genuine despite everything as she added, "Plus, I have you to set anything scary on fire."

Assan chose that moment to achieve maximum mud coverage, his triumphant trill carrying all the satisfaction of someone who had found their true calling in life. Each feather now bore evidence of his determined effort to return to his natural state of carefully cultivated chaos.

--Next time--, Rook promised herself, watching her morning's work disappear beneath fresh layers of muck, *--I'm gonna bring a leash--.*

Rook's eyes swept the Warden compound, searching for Antoine and Evka's familiar forms among the bustling activity. Their absence felt wrong somehow - like missing pieces in a puzzle she hadn't known she was trying to solve. Snippets of conversation drifted through morning mist: "...collecting reports from the western outposts..." "...should return by nightfall..."

Movement caught her attention - a small figure bouncing with impossible energy against grey sky. "Rook! Rook!" Mila's voice carried none of the unnatural calm that had marked their time in Weisshaupt's shadowed halls. Instead, she practically vibrated with excitement, dark hair catching what little sunlight penetrated the mist as she waved with childhood's pure enthusiasm.

Something in Rook's chest eased at the sight - this version of Mila felt more right somehow, more properly young than the eerily composed child who had navigated darkspawn-filled corridors with mechanical precision. A smile tugged at her lips as she made her way toward the makeshift forge where the girl's father worked steel with careful purpose.

The scent of hot metal and coal dust painted familiar patterns through morning air, while hammer's rhythm against anvil carried echo of simpler times. Mila bounced on her toes as Rook approached, her dark eyes holding none of the shadows that had made them seem so unnaturally old in Weisshaupt's depths. Yet something about the way she moved still spoke of careful grace - like someone who had learned to dance before learning to walk.

--She feels... different here,-- Rook thought, watching how Mila's entire being seemed to light up at her approach. *More real somehow. More...* But the thought scattered like smoke as the girl's father looked up from his work, hammer pausing mid-strike as he registered their visitor's presence.

"There was this huge one," Mila's hands spread wide with storyteller's enthusiasm, "with spikes all wrong and teeth that didn't fit in its mouth properly!" Her description painted horror in child's colors, somehow making darkspawn sound more like particularly interesting curiosities than nightmares given flesh.

But then her attention shifted, dark eyes catching on Rook's staff with craftsman's inherited precision. Her head tilted slightly as she studied the weapon, something older than her years bleeding through childish excitement. "That's not Warden-make," she observed, fingers tracing air patterns that spoke of intimate familiarity with proper measurements. "The balance is all different."

"It's new," Rook admitted, watching how Mila's gaze mapped every detail of her equipment with professional assessment that felt strange coming from someone so young. "Haven't properly tested it or the orb yet."

"Too long," Mila declared with absolute certainty, her father's careful attention to proper sizing evident in how she measured the staff against Rook's height. "See how it makes you compensate? You're shifting your weight wrong." Her nose wrinkled as she added, "And those leathers... did you let a drunk nug do the stitching?"

Heat crept up Rook's neck as she glanced down at her armor's admittedly worn state. But before she could defend her equipment choices, Mila's attention had already shifted to where Taash waited with characteristic patience, their massive form making the forge look almost delicate in comparison.

"Now that's proper work!" Mila's appreciation painted itself across features gone suddenly serious with professional assessment. "Double-headed axes balanced for someone who actually knows how to use them." Her grin blazed bright as summer lightning as she added, "Good thing too - since you're stuck doing all the real fighting while she figures out how to work that oversized stick."

Something about the way she said it - that particular blend of childhood sass and combat knowledge - made Rook's magic stir with strange recognition.

The Cauldron's underground chambers stretched endless before them, each vault telling stories of power too dangerous to leave unguarded. Rook's fingers itched with need to explore as her eyes caught on artifacts that hummed with familiar resonance - staves wrapped in runes that made her magic sing with recognition, orbs that pulsed with possibilities she'd only read about in stolen texts.

"Don't." Davrin's voice carried that particular tone he reserved for moments when her curiosity threatened to override her survival instincts. "There's reason these things were sealed away. Why so few even know this place exists."

Her magic stirred restlessly beneath her skin as they moved deeper, each step carrying them past treasures that spoke of battles fought in ages when the world itself had been younger. Weapons that had tasted darkspawn blood, trinkets that promised power at prices too steep to name, secrets wrapped in steel and shadow that even the Wardens had deemed too dangerous to use.

Then... something else.

The pull hit her like tide against stone - not the familiar hunger that drew her toward Lucanis, not blood magic's copper song or demon's ancient need. This felt older, deeper, like memory of different forms of flight. Her magic responded with recognition that bypassed conscious thought, reaching for something that called to parts of her soul she hadn't known existed until Solas spoke of ravens and possibilities.

Her feet moved without conscious direction while her magic painted patterns beneath her skin that spoke of power older than the Veil itself.

"Rook?" Taash's voice seemed to come from very far away as she followed this strange summons. Something waited in the darkness ahead - something that knew her, that remembered her, that called to what she had been before flesh had learned to walk upright.

Rook moved through the Cauldron's depths like someone walking through memory rather than stone, each turn taken with certainty that bypassed conscious thought. Her magic hummed beneath her skin with recognition of paths her mind had never known but her soul somehow remembered.

"Do you actually know where you're going?" Davrin's voice carried equal parts concern and wonder as she led them through another series of turns that shouldn't have made sense but somehow did.

The question hung unanswered as they entered a chamber that made her heart stutter in her chest. Griffon statues stood sentinel, their stone wings spread in eternal vigilance while glass containers lined walls like macabre library - each jar holding pieces of what these guardians had once been. Wings and talons and other remnants preserved in solutions gone cloudy with age, telling stories of majesty reduced to specimens.

"When?" Taash's question emerged soft with uncharacteristic gentleness as they surveyed this tomb of fallen magnificence.

"Fourth Blight." Davrin's hand found Assan's crest, fingers working through feathers that carried warmth of life rather than preservation's cold comfort. The young griffon pressed against his leg, chirping comfort that painted brighter notes through chamber's solemn air.

But Rook barely registered their exchange as the pull drew her forward, past evidence of one species' extinction toward... something else. Her feet carried her down halls where dates marked doors like tombstones - each number corresponding to a Blight's end, to moments when corruption had been driven back into darkness only to rise again in new forms.

*9:31 Dragon - Fifth Blight's end*
*5:24 Exalted - Fourth Blight's end*
*3:25 Towers - Third Blight's end*
*-203 Ancient - First Blight's end*
*1:95 Divine - Second Blight's end*

The dates blurred past her vision as that strange summons grew stronger, drawing her toward one particular door that sang to parts of her soul she still didn't properly understand. Her hand found its handle without conscious thought, fingers moving with puppet's precision as ancient mechanisms yielded to touch that carried echo of something far older than mere flesh.

The chamber opened like wound in reality's flesh, spilling ancient horror across Rook's consciousness as an archdemon's skeleton sprawled before them. Dragon bones stretched across stone in terrible majesty - each vertebra larger than a man, each massive rib curving upward like architects had studied their arc to design the vaulted ceilings of Tevinter's greatest temples. The skull alone dominated the chamber's heart, eye sockets large enough for her to crawl through, teeth longer than daggers still gleaming with metallic sheen that spoke of power never meant for mortal form.

Her magic sang beneath her skin with recognition that bypassed mere memory, reaching for something in these remains that spoke of gods and their dragon thralls. --Not just corruption--, she thought, watching how torchlight caught surfaces that seemed to absorb shadow rather than reflect it. --Something older. Something that remembers what it was before darkness claimed it--. Each bone carried echo of divinity bound to flesh, of immortal essence trapped in form that had been meant to serve rather than sleep.

"Zazikel," Davrin's voice emerged barely above whisper, carrying weight of every Warden tale ever whispered about the Second Blight's architect. "The Old God of-"

The scream shattered reality's edges like glass breaking against stone - the Gloom Howler's presence painting impossible patterns through air gone thick with ancient corruption. The sound dragged Rook back to herself like drowning person finally breaking surface, her connection to Zazikel's remains snapping as survival instinct flooded her system with familiar urgency.

Blight cysts pulsed around the dragon's skeleton like corrupt hearts, each one heavy with corruption that made her magic recoil even as she reached for power to destroy them. The creatures they'd tracked from Lavendale had led them here - to this chamber where old corruption met new purpose, where something sought to harvest power from bones that should have remained forever sealed in darkness.

"There!" Taash's axes caught torchlight as they indicated the nearest cluster of cysts. "Before they burst!"

They moved with practiced efficiency born of countless similar battles - Rook's magic carving paths through corruption while Davrin and Taash's weapons found flesh that needed ending. Each cyst they destroyed earned fresh screech from their unseen adversary, its fury painting patterns through shadows that spoke of carefully laid plans being undone.

*It's harvesting the corruption,* Rook thought as her lightning found another cluster of pulsing growths. *Using what remains in Zazikel's bones to...* But the thought scattered as fresh horror erupted from darkness, the Gloom Howler's rage growing with each piece of its work they destroyed.

Her magic thrummed beneath marked skin as they pressed forward, each destroyed cyst earning another scream that spoke of purposes being thwarted. Yet even as they fought, part of her remained achingly aware of Zazikel's presence - of ancient bones that sang songs she shouldn't understand but somehow did, of connections between gods and dragons that ran deeper than mere corruption could touch.

The last cyst burst beneath Rook's lightning just as darkspawn erupted from every shadow - an endless tide of corrupted flesh that painted horror across ancient stone. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she registered just how many emerged, each creature's wrongness adding to a wave that threatened to drown them in sheer numbers.

"Assan, up!" Davrin's command cracked through chaos like whip. The griffon launched skyward as they scrambled for shelter within Zazikel's massive ribcage, ancient bone offering framework for whatever defense they could muster.

Rook's magic surged outward with desperate purpose, barrier expanding to encompass their skeletal sanctuary. Power hummed through her as she anchored the ward to dragon bone, each point of contact sending strange resonance through her marked flesh.

"Well," she managed, watching darkspawn press against her barrier's edges like tide against stone, "this thoroughly sucks."

Davrin's eyes mapped possible escape routes while beside her, Taash's hands blazed with gathering flame. "Don't," Rook warned as the Qunari's power built. "Fire inside the barrier will cook us faster than they can."

Words died in her throat as the Gloom Howler materialized above them, its form hovering near Zazikel's horns like corruption given terrible purpose. The creature's presence made reality itself seem to shudder as it regarded them through eyes that held too much intelligence for comfort.

"Return what you've stolen," Davrin's voice carried steel wrapped in command. "The griffons don't belong to you."

"Belong?" The word emerged wrong from the Howler's throat - too many sounds layered beneath simple syllables. "I mean to free them." Its blade found ancient bone with terrible precision. "Free them through gift of blood that remembers older songs."

Horror bloomed in Rook's chest as understanding crystallized - the weapon drinking corruption from Zazikel's remains, becoming vector for taint that could reshape even creatures as magnificent as griffons. *No. No no no-*

Assan's screech painted fury across chamber air as he dove, talons extended toward the creature that threatened his kind's future. The Gloom Howler's blade sang deadly patterns through space where his wings had been heartbeats before, each near-miss making Rook's magic surge with protective need.

"Now!" She didn't wait for Davrin's command as she dropped the barrier, lightning already crackling between her fingers as they erupted from their shelter. Taash's flames painted devastating swaths through darkspawn ranks while Davrin's blade found corruption that needed ending. But Rook's attention remained split - part of her focused on the immediate threat while another part tracked Assan's movements with desperate intensity, each sweep of his wings carrying him too close to that tainted blade for comfort.

They fought like tide against darker waters - each victory against endless waves carrying them one step closer to the creature that orchestrated this horror. The Gloom Howler's presence painted wrongness through air thick with corruption as it reached for purpose that would destroy everything griffons were meant to be.

Lightning arced from Rook's fingers in desperate patterns as her attention split between immediate threats and Assan's deadly dance above. Each beat of his wings carried him closer to that corrupted blade, each triumphant screech making her heart stutter with terror that tasted like copper on her tongue. --Too close. He's flying too close.--

"Left!" Taash's warning preceded waves of fire that turned darkspawn to ash, their massive form providing cover as Rook spun to face fresh horrors erupting from shadow. But even as her magic found corrupted flesh that needed ending, her eyes kept tracking upward - marking every near-miss, every moment that blade sang too close to feathers she'd scrubbed clean mere hours ago.

Memories painted themselves across her vision in heartbeat flashes: Assan curled against her back during nightmares, his warmth anchoring her against darker dreams. His happy trills when she snuck him extra treats, the way he'd press his beak against her palm in silent comfort when magic lay hollow inside her. A hundred small moments that had transformed a Warden's weapon into family she couldn't bear to lose.

"Focus!" Davrin's blade carved paths through endless waves as he pressed closer to her position. But she heard the strain in his voice - the same fear that made her magic spark erratic beneath her skin.

The Gloom Howler's laugh painted wrongness through air gone thick with corruption as Assan dove again, his talons raking across its form without finding proper purchase. --Please,-- Rook thought, her magic surging with desperate need as she tried to clear path toward their aerial battle. --Please, little one. Be careful.--

"He knows what he's doing," Taash shouted over chaos of endless combat, flames turning another wave of darkspawn to nothing but memory. "Trust him!"

But trust felt impossible as that tainted blade swept closer to wings she'd helped teach to properly spread, to feathers she'd smoothed during countless quiet evenings. Her lightning carved increasingly frantic patterns through corrupted ranks as she fought to reach him - this strange, wonderful creature who had somehow become as much her child as Davrin's charge.

X X X X X X
After the battle's chaos subsided, the silence felt more violent than the combat itself. Darkspawn corpses littered the ground like discarded puppets, their corrupted flesh slowly cooling in the aftermath. Her staff trembled in her grip - not from fear, but from pure, bone-deep exhaustion.

Just hold together, she commanded her magic, but the order felt like pleading more than control.

Each breath came harder than the last. Lightning had always been her most natural magic - clean, sharp, a power that cut through darkness with surgical precision. But now? Now her magic felt like shredded silk, thin and fragile, threatening to dissolve at the slightest touch.

Assan landed nearby, his wings folding with a careful grace that belied the brutal battle they'd just survived. His feathers, still slightly ruffled, caught the dying light like burnished copper. She could see the minute tremors in his muscles - the aftermath of pure adrenaline and near-impossible survival.

Relief flooded through Rook's veins like healing magic as Assan bounded toward them, his wings still half-spread with battle's lingering energy. Each happy trill painted life across chamber air gone thick with darker things, while his feathers remained blessedly, beautifully untouched by corrupted steel.

"Of all the reckless-" Davrin's lecture carried more fear than fury as Assan pressed against him, seeking comfort even as his Warden tried to maintain stern facade. "Getting between us and-"

---Just need a moment, she thought. Just need to...---

The moment her skin touched the bone, reality fractured.

No gradual drift. No gentle sliding between consciousness. Just... elsewhere.

Darkness collapsed into sudden, impossible light. Her body - no longer heavy with battle's aftermath - felt weightless, suspended in a space that existed between memory and nightmare. The bone's touch burned like a brand, each point of contact erupting with sensations that weren't touch, weren't memory, weren't anything she could properly name.

Chapter Text

Through the veil of memory, bright and sharp as sunlit crystal, she soars - not in mortal form but as wings unfurled against ancient sky. The Fade shimmers with possibilities, each breath painting colors that no modern eye could comprehend. Below, her people move like poetry through streets spun from stardust and dreams, their laughter rising like smoke from sacred fires.

The name "Vir'revas" pulses in her heart like a lodestone drawing her home. Brother. Friend. The other half of her soul's first flight. She can feel him waiting, his spirit a beacon through the swirling ethereal winds.

Dancing between bodies that glow with inner light, she shifts - feathers melting into flesh, wings becoming arms that reach toward joy. Her feet barely touch the crystal pathways as she weaves through the crowd, each step a celebration of being young and free in a world where magic runs as deep as blood.

But caution threads through her elation. She must be careful, must keep her raven-self hidden from eyes that see too much, too deep. Somewhere in these ancient streets walks Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf whose gaze could pierce any shadow.

Her excitement builds as she nears her destination, the bond with Vir'revas pulling stronger. Around her, the eternal city blooms with life that time has forgotten - merchants calling their wares in voices that chime like bells, children racing through fountains that sparkle with liquid starlight, scholars debating in courtyards where reality bends to match their thoughts.

Her heart soars as she catches sight of him - Vir'revas, her twin, her anchor, his form stretching tall as an ancient oak while she barely reaches his chest. His dark hair catches light like dew on spider silk, each strand holding fragments of stars that mortals have long forgotten how to see. When she launches herself into his arms, he catches her with practiced grace, their laughter mixing like streams joining to form rivers.

"Ma'len," he chuckles, the ancient tongue flowing sweet as honey, "still refusing to match my height?"

"Ma'tarlin," she counters, bouncing on her toes with barely contained excitement, "some of us appreciate being able to slip through small spaces. Not everyone needs to scrape the sky with their head." Her fingers find his, weaving together with the easy intimacy of souls who have shared breath since before breath existed.

When they touch, light seems to pool around them - not the harsh glare of modern flames, but the gentle luminescence of spirits dancing through ancient forests. Together, they are whole in ways that defy mortal understanding, two halves of a song first sung when the world was young.

Through the liquid light of ancient pathways, Vir'revas's question dances like windborn leaves: "Ready to see him, ma'len?"

Her joy bubbles forth in crystalline laughter, pure as springs that feed eternal rivers. "Always," she breathes, her form already shimmering with anticipation. Together they move through spaces between spaces, shifting from flesh to feather and back again with the fluid grace of those born to dance between forms.

Their flight paints poetry across reality's canvas - two ravens soaring through air thick with magic, then two forms touching crystal paths with barely-there steps, then wings again reaching toward divine spires. Each transformation flows like music, their shared essence harmonizing in ways that make spirits pause to watch in wonder.

When they reach Dirthamen's sanctum, surprise ripples through her like sunlight touching still pools - for there stands Elgar'nan as well, his presence making reality itself sing sweeter notes. Divine light pools around both gods like liquid starlight, their power turning mere air into something that tastes of possibility and songs.

At her side, Vir'revas's essence pulses with shared recognition - two ravens about to land before beings whose very breath reshapes the world's weave.

Dirthamen opens his arms to them as they land and shift to corporeal form, his smile carrying all the warmth of secrets finally coming home to roost. "Mir'da," he greets her, while beside him Falon'Din materializes like twilight taking form. Their divine presence wraps around the twins like wings of midnight studded with stars.

"My lords," she bows with practiced grace, though excitement makes her movements quick as bird-heart beats. Her eyes find Elgar'nan's, his radiance making her spirit flutter beneath mortal flesh.

"I've been working on something," she almost bounces with contained joy, silver hair catching divine light like dew on spider silk. "Something I've never shown anyone - not even you, ma'lin." Her fingers find her brother's, squeezing with the particular pressure that speaks of shared wonders about to take wing.

"Not even your twin?" Falon'Din's voice carries notes of amused curiosity. "This must be quite the secret you've been keeping, little raven."

Dirthamen's knowing eyes study her with fond patience - he who has taught her the value of holding mysteries close until they're ready to fly free. "Show us then, ma da'asha. What has our clever bird been crafting in shadow's embrace?"

Her heart soars with their attention, with being surrounded by these beings who have shaped her understanding of love in all its forms. "Watch," she breathes, joy making her voice chime like crystal bells. The secret she's held close finally ready to take wing...

The transformation begins not with the usual melting between forms, but with something entirely new. Her corporeal shape remains, but from her shoulders unfurl wings that span impossible distances - massive pinions of purest white that catch light like starlight trapped in fresh snow. Each feather holds fragments of eternity, the entire sweep of them making reality itself sing sweeter notes.

Wonder paints itself across divine features - Dirthamen's eternal composure softening with pride, while Falon'Din's eyes hold storms of amazed delight. But it's Elgar'nan's reaction that makes her spirit dance within its flesh-bound form - the Sun God rendered speechless by her radiance, his very presence seeming to reach toward her like flowers seeking dawn's first touch.

A dragon's,Zazikel's, cry pierces the veil of timeless moments, its notes carrying power that makes reality itself shiver in recognition. But even his cries couldn't pull their eyes from her wings.

Her heart thunders against mortal bounds as she whispers, "There's more." The words emerge soft as falling feathers, weighted with years of secret practice and hidden dreams. Only Zazikel has witnessed these attempts, has watched her learn to match his dance through celestial seas.

Deep within, in spaces where blood carries songs older than time, she reaches for power kept carefully veiled. The magic responds like a lover's caress, each drop of essence transformed into pure possibility. Her wings - already magnificent in their pristine glory - begin to move with new purpose, each feather alive with intention born from sacrifice's sweetest gifts.

She holds her breath, this moment balanced delicate as dawn's first light on dew-kissed webs. Years of practicing beneath Zazikel's patient gaze crystallize into this single heartbeat of possibility. The blood magic flows through her like liquid starlight, hidden beneath wonder's purer radiance. The magic Dumat taught her on how to link to her wings.

Then she rises.

The ground falls away like abandoned dreams as her wings catch air that has never known mortal flight. Each beat carries her higher, closer to where Zazikel's presence makes the very sky sing ancient songs. Behind her, she feels the weight of divine gazes - Dirthamen's pride, Falon'Din's wonder, Elgar'nan's admiration - but ahead waits only the pure joy of joining her mentor in realms where even gods rarely soar.

X X X X X X

She had soared for hours with Zazikel, tracing paths across mirror-lakes and through ancient forests where magic ran thick as honey. Each wingbeat carried the joy of hard-won grace - so different from those first attempts that had left her sprawled in countless ungraceful heaps upon sacred ground. Now her wings knew their purpose, moved as if they had always been part of her eternal dance.

Wings in corporal form had an entire new magic over her raven birth form.

When the summons brushed against her consciousness like sunlight touching still waters, she banked with newfound confidence. She flies back to her home within moments. Her descent carried none of the awkward fumbling of previous landings - no more skidding across crystal paths or tumbling into fountains that had witnessed her countless practice flights. Instead, she alighted before Elgar'nan with fluid grace that made spirits pause their endless waltz to watch in wonder.

"Tell me of your flight," he asks, his voice carrying notes that make reality sing sweeter songs. His eyes track the graceful fold of her wings, watching how they settle against her form like poetry made flesh.

Her laughter spills forth like crystal chimes in sacred halls. "It's different," she breathes, joy making her voice dance with ethereal notes. "As a raven, the wind is friend and sister. But like this..." She stretches her magnificent wings, each movement precise and purposeful, "...like this, I am both more and less than air's beloved child."

He moves closer, each step making the very Fade ripple in recognition of divine passage. His fingers lift with deliberate grace to trace the edge of one pristine wing, following the curve of feathers that catch starlight and transform it into something even more ethereal.

"Such perfect crafting," he murmurs, his touch reverent against plumes white as newly fallen snow. "Though even these pale beside your radiance." The words fall like blessed rain, each syllable carrying weight of power barely contained.

Something shifts in the space between heartbeats - a current of energy ancient as the first dawn he ever called forth. She rises on tiptoes, drawn by forces older than memory itself, and their lips meet like stars finally finding their ordained dance.

His hand threads through her silver hair, fingers tangling in strands that hold fragments of captured moonlight. The kiss deepens as he draws her closer, his touch gentle despite the terrible power that thrums beneath his skin. Together they create something new - not just god and immortal, but two beings finding perfection in shared breath.

His hand cups her face with infinite tenderness, terrible power gentled to match mortal form. "Ma alhasha'vun," he breathes - my moon-winged raven - the ancient words carrying weight of divine recognition. In his presence, her wings shimmer like starlight caught in morning dew, each feather a testament to beauty that makes even gods pause to admire.

"Ma'nas," she whispers against his lips - my sun - the ancient words carrying echoes of countless encounters held in spaces between shadow and light.

Chapter Text

The world crashes back in fragments—first the copper tang of blood, sharp and metallic on her tongue, then the acrid stench of darkspawn corruption, thick enough to choke her. Her eyelids flutter open, the dim light of the ancient ruins stabbing at her vision. Blurred shapes swim into focus: the jagged outline of crumbling stone, the hulking shadow of Taash kneeling nearby, and Davrin’s silhouette, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he watches her with a furrowed brow.

But her thoughts don’t linger on them. Assan’s worried chirps cut through the battle-fog, high-pitched and frantic, and her body moves before her mind catches up. She pushes herself upright, her head spinning as the world tilts and sways. Her hands reach out instinctively, fingers trembling as they brush through the soft down of Assan’s feathers.

--Still here. Still whole.-- Relief makes her fingers tremble as she finds only unbroken feathers where corrupted steel had nearly struck. Around them lie scattered darkspawn corpses, their twisted flesh already beginning to dissolve into something that makes her magic recoil in recognition.

Davrin shifts closer, his boots scraping against stone. "You with us?" he asks, his voice low but edged with concern. Taash remains silent, their massive frame a steady presence at her side, one hand hovering as if ready to catch her if she falters.

She nods, though the motion sends a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over her. "I’m here," she says, her voice rough as crow-calls. Her legs tremble as she adjusts her position, one hand still resting on Assan for balance. The young griffon chirps again, softer this time, and nudges her shoulder with his beak.

"Good," Davrin says, his tone easing slightly. "You gave us a scare."

Assan presses close, his warmth anchoring her to now rather than then, to what is rather than what was. Her fingers find his crest, grateful for affection that asks nothing in return. All around them, the Cauldron's ancient stones hold their silence, witnesses to both past glory and present corruption.

The memory claws at her edges like a starving thing, but Rook shoves it down with the particular violence of someone who has learned to cage unwanted truths.

"We need to move." Davrin's voice cuts through the chamber's ancient silence. Her protest about the Gloom Howler's escape dies as he gestures to what Assan cradles - a chunk of twisted flesh wrapped in cloth, evidence torn from their quarry's corrupted form.

"This will help us understand what we're dealing with." His fingers work with practiced efficiency, securing their prize against further decay. The young griffon watches with fierce pride, wounds from the fight already forgotten in triumph's sweeter song.

Relief loosens the knot in her chest as they turn toward exit passages. Her feet drag slightly, each step weighted with more than mere battle-fatigue. The others move ahead, their forms casting long shadows across stone that has witnessed too many ages of horror.

At the chamber's edge, something pulls her gaze back one final time. The dragon's skeleton towers above fallen darkspawn like a monument to forgotten glory, its bones holding memories of when wings meant freedom rather than chains. Her fingers curl against her palms, fighting the urge to touch phantom pinions that still ache with loss's sharper edges.

She stares at the massive skeleton, something ancient and terrible stirring in spaces between heartbeats. --I knew you,-- the thought emerges unbidden, carrying weight of memories that taste like stardust and betrayal. --Before wings, before love learned to wear divinity's mask, I knew...--

The past reaches for her like drowning hands through dark water, like silver-haired ghosts crying out across ages of enforced silence. A siren song of remembrance pulls at her essence - fragments of flight and freedom, of dragons soaring through skies unmarred by corruption's touch, of moments when gods walked freely and wings meant...meant...

Then something tears through her consciousness like blade through silk, ripping away those almost-grasped memories with surgical precision. The loss leaves her hollow, empty of something she can't quite name. Her mind feels scraped clean, while that desperate reaching from her past fades like smoke in winter winds, leaving only the bitter taste of something that should have been remembered.

She blinks, momentarily confused by the weight of absence where knowledge should live. But the sensation slips away before she can grasp its edges, leaving her standing before ancient bones that hold no meaning beyond their stark testimony to ages long dead.

The others' footsteps echo ahead, calling her back to present concerns, to corruption that needs hunting and mysteries that await solving. She turns away from the skeleton, already forgetting what she'd almost remembered, while somewhere in deeper shadows, her past weeps for truths kept carefully caged by powers that remember too well what wings once meant.

X X X X X X X X X

Lavendale's evening air carries notes of forge-fire and weariness as they return from the field. Davrin's fingers curl protectively around the cloth-wrapped evidence as he heads toward the Warden compound, while Rook tilts her face toward the setting sun, letting its warmth paint patterns across skin still marked by battle.

The blacksmith's hammer rings steady against ancient stone - not the frantic pace of war preparations, but the measured determination of someone who refuses to let horror claim every moment. Around her, voices rise and fall in patterns that speak of life continuing despite corruption's closer press: merchants haggling over dwindling supplies, healers calling for herbs, what remains of the Wardens running drills with grim purpose.

Assan's feathers catch evening light as he pads beside Davrin, the young griffon's presence making even battle-hardened warriors pause in their tasks. Her chest tightens at how naturally they move together, at the easy trust between them that makes something in her ache with its simple purity.

Davrin stops, turning back with that particular grace that marks everything he does. His eyes catch hers, carrying weight of battles fought and memories best left to darker chambers. "You're sure you're alright?" The question emerges soft, meant for her alone despite the camp's bustle around them.

She manages what she hopes passes for a reassuring nod. His lips quirk slightly as he glances at Taash, whose jade horn catches sunset's fire while steam curls from between sharp teeth - evidence of the internal forge that lets them breathe flames bright as dragon-fire.

"Keep her out of trouble," he tells the qunari, though affection threads through his warning. Taash's silver braid swings like a pendulum as they laugh, the sound carrying notes that make nearby refugees pause in their tasks, reminded that joy can still exist even in corruption's shadow.

"Me? Trouble?" Rook protests, grateful for this moment of normal banter. Her eyes can't help tracking how Davrin's shoulders move beneath worn leather as he heads toward the Warden compound, the cloth-wrapped evidence secured against his chest.

"Careful there," Taash grins, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your appreciation's showing." Steam curls between their sharp teeth as they add, "Though I can't blame you. The way he handles that blade..."

"Says the one who conveniently needs training tips every time he's running drills," she counters, heat rushing to her cheeks even as she welcomes this simple exchange. Around them, Lavendale continues its determined struggle toward something like normalcy, while beneath it all, her magic whispers of corruption threading through soil that once held prouder purpose.

Looking down at her battle-worn attire, Rook sighs at the memories of Mila's diplomatic observations about her appearance. Blood and ichor paint patterns across leather that's seen better centuries, while her copper waves tangle with evidence of too many close encounters with corrupted claws.

"Yep, you look like shit," Taash observes. The qunari's casual assessment draws a genuine laugh from Rook's throat.

"Going to check on Mila and her father," she says, already moving toward the steady ring of hammer on anvil. Taash falls into step beside her, their jade horn catching evening light while refugees scatter respectfully from their path.

"So..." Taash's voice carries unusual hesitation, making Rook glance up at their towering form. "How do you handle all your... arrangements? The exclusivity thing?"

"Arrangements?" Rook's brow furrows before understanding blooms. "Oh, you mean Viper, Lucanis, and Davrin?" The names feel strange spoken so casually, like cataloging battle scars that have healed into something more complex than mere wounds.

The realization settles strange in her chest - how she's never truly examined these connections that have grown like vines through fortress cracks, each one taking root in different soils of survival and desire. "I haven't really thought about it," she admits, her magic stirring with newfound awareness. "About being exclusive with anyone. It's never been..." --Safe,-- her mind whispers, but she pushes that thought aside. "It's never been something I considered possible. Why?"

Steam curls more thickly as Taash's silver braid swings with nervous energy. "There's someone I want to... impress. Her, specifically. I want to show her I'm more than just..." They gesture at their intimidating form with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

--Her.-- The word catches in Rook's mind like a key finding lock. She sorts through recent memories - shared glances, careful movements, the way Taash always seems to position themselves... "Wait." She stops dead in her tracks, pieces clicking into place. "Harding?"

The way Taash's horns dip in embarrassed confirmation makes Rook throw back her head and laugh - not mockery, but pure delight at this unexpected revelation. She looks up - and up - at her friend's impressive height, imagination already painting pictures of this potential pairing.

"That's... actually adorable," she manages through her mirth. "The height difference alone..."

"You're pratically her size," Taash grumbles, though steam curls with amusement rather than offense. "Besides, size differences just mean more creative solutions."

The innuendo makes Rook snort most unelegantly, her earlier darkness temporarily forgotten in this moment of simple friendship.

"I'm hardly qualified to give relationship advice," Rook says as they navigate between refugee tents. "But Harding practically sleeps with that bow of hers. Maybe start with some new fletching, or those silverite arrowheads the merchants brought through last week." Her lips curve slightly, remembering how the scout's eyes had lingered on the craftwork.

The way Taash's expression softens at just the mention of Harding's name makes something twist in Rook's chest. "Why her?" she asks, genuinely curious about what drew the fierce dragon hunter to their seemingly opposite companion.

"She sees things others miss," they say finally, voice dropping to something almost reverent. "Not just tracks or enemy movements. She sees people. When everyone else was staring at my horns or flinching from my size, she just... saw me."

Their silver braid swings as they gesture, trying to capture something that defies simple words. "You know how she laughs? Not the polite one she uses with nobles, but that real laugh when something genuinely delights her?" Taash's own smile grows impossibly soft. "It's like... like finding a perfect landing spot after hours of flying blind through storm clouds."

"She never asks me to be less than I am," they continue, steam curling thicker with emotion. "Never suggests I should be more 'civilized' or less fierce. She just... accepts. Watches me breathe fire during battle and instead of fear, she gets this look of pure appreciation, like she's witnessing something beautiful rather than terrible."

Rook studies her friend's face, seeing how these simple truths transform their fierce features into something almost vulnerable. Here was no mere physical attraction, but something that spoke of souls recognizing their matching pieces across battlefields and broken worlds.

"Plus," Taash adds, their usual playful spark returning, "have you seen how steady her hands are when she's lining up a shot? Makes me wonder what else those fingers might be good at."

The comment draws a genuine laugh from Rook's throat, while around them, Lavendale continues its evening routines, unaware of how love might be blooming even in corruption's shadow.

X X X X

The makeshift forge radiates a warmth that has little to do with fire and metal. Mila’s tongue clicks with familiar disapproval as she circles Rook, a measuring string held taut between her nimble fingers. She pauses, crouching to measure the length of Rook’s thigh, her brow furrowed in concentration. “This won’t do at all,” the girl declares. “Your armor’s too loose here, and the stitching’s frayed. You’re lucky you didn’t get caught on something during the fight.”

Her father’s hands move with practiced grace across the worktable, cutting leather with precision as steam rises from cooling metal nearby. The steady rhythm of his work mixes with Mila’s cheerful interrogation. “How many darkspawn did you kill?” she asks, her voice bright with curiosity. She tugs the measuring string around Rook’s waist, marking the length with a small notch before moving to her shoulders. “Did you see any emissaries? Father says they’re the worst—all magic and no sense.”

Rook chuckles, the sound low and warm. “A fair few,” she admits, tilting her head as Mila adjusts the string. “No emissaries this time, though. Just a pack of genlocks. Nasty little things, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Mila’s eyes widen, and she leans in closer, her fingers still busy with the measurements. “Did you use your staff? Or did you just use magic with your hands? Father says mages can do that, but I’ve never seen it.” Her voice is full of wonder, completely devoid of the fear or suspicion that so often accompanies such questions.

“Mostly my staff,” Rook replies, her tone light. “It helps focus the magic. But sometimes, when it’s close quarters, you don’t have the luxury.” She demonstrates by raising her hand, a faint shimmer of frost forming at her fingertips before dissipating into the air. Mila gasps, her eyes lighting up with delight, and Rook can’t help but smile. The girl’s fearlessness is a balm, a reminder that not everyone sees mages as monsters.

She watches Mila as the girl finishes her measurements, her small hands moving with practiced ease. There’s something awe-inspiring about her, Rook thinks—the way she faces the world with such unshakable courage, as if the Blight and darkspawn were nothing more than stories to be marveled at. It’s a stark contrast to the fear and suspicion Rook has grown accustomed to, and it stirs something deep within her, something she hadn’t realized she’d buried.

“You’ll need new boots, too,” Mila declares. “The soles on those are practically gone. I’ll tell Father to add them to the order.” She turns to Taash, who nods in agreement, already reaching for a fresh piece of leather.

Something softens in Rook’s chest as their laughter mingles with the forge-smoke and the cool evening air. It’s a strange, fragile feeling, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through a storm she’s carried for years. She watches Mila adjust another measurement with exaggerated precision, the girl’s tongue poking out in concentration, and something in Rook’s heart shifts. This, she realizes, is what she’s been fighting for—not just survival, not just the end of the Blight, but this. These small, stolen moments where joy feels as real and tangible as the leather in Taash’s hands, where the weight of tomorrow can’t quite crush the lightness of today.

For the first time in days—maybe longer—Rook lets herself breathe. Not the shallow, cautious breaths of someone always braced for the next fight, but deep, full breaths that fill her lungs with the scent of leather and hearthfire. It’s a peace she’s still learning to trust, one that feels almost foreign in its simplicity. For a moment, she lets herself believe that this light, this warmth, might be enough to keep the shadows at bay. And for the first time in a long time, she feels something close to whole.

X X X X

Mud and grime trail in Assan's wake, marking his path through the lighthouse's halls like a map of their recent travels. "Really?" Rook growls, watching him shake water and who-knows-what across stone. The young griffon just chirps, entirely too pleased with himself as another clump of dirt falls from his feathers.

--When did I become the one worrying about clean floors?-- The thought carries edges of something between amusement and exhaustion. Twenty-four hours of constant movement paint themselves in every aching muscle, while her magic lies dormant beneath skin marked by too many close calls with darkspawn claws.

Taash's wink catches lamplight as they practically bounce toward where Harding works at her maps, a small package clutched with uncharacteristic nervousness between massive hands.

"You're sure you're alright?" Davrin's voice carries that particular weight she's come to recognize - the tone that says he's seen too much to believe simple answers. His presence anchors the space between them, steady as stone and twice as patient.

"I'm never okay," she admits, the words emerging raw with honesty earned through shared battles. "But I'm fine. Just need..." The rest dissolves as something else catches her attention - a pull that has become familiar as breathing, yet grows stronger with each passing day.

She freezes mid-step, copper waves falling forward as her magic stirs with recognition. --He's here.-- The knowledge settles in her chest like blade against skin - Lucanis waits at the top of those stairs.. That connection between them thrums like bowstring drawn too tight, while somewhere in shadow, Spite watches with interest.

The pull has been growing stronger lately, though whether from demon's influence or something deeper, she can't quite tell. All she knows is that each time it draws her toward him feels more inevitable than the last, like corruption spreading through clean flesh.

Davrin’s gaze sharpens, his concern cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “Rook?” he prompts, his voice low but insistent. “Do you need anything?”

She shakes her head, hugging herself as if to ward off the chill. “I just need a moment,” she says, her voice softer than she intends. “I’ll be fine, Davrin. I promise.”

He studies her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She can see the questions in his eyes, the ones he doesn’t ask—about Lucanis, about the tension that’s been building between them, about the way she’s been pulling away. But Davrin has always been good at reading her, at knowing when to push and when to let go. Finally, he nods, though the worry doesn’t leave his face.

“Alright,” he says, his tone careful. “But if you need me, you know where to find me.” He whistles softly, calling Assan to his side. The griffon chirps, trotting over with a final shake of his feathers that sends another spray of mud across the floor. Davrin spares her one last glance before turning to leave, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Rook watches him go, her chest tight with something she can’t quite name. Guilt, maybe, or regret. Davrin has always been there for her, even when she didn’t deserve it. Even when she’d tried to use blood magic on him, a mistake she still can’t forgive herself for, no matter how many times he’s told her it’s in the past. Their relationship has always been complicated—friends, allies, occasional lovers—but never more than that. Or at least, that’s what she’s told herself. Lately, though, she’s noticed the way he looks at her, the way his concern feels heavier, more personal. It’s unsettling, in a way she’s not ready to examine.

But there’s no time to dwell on it now. The pull is stronger, insistent, drawing her toward the stairs and the man waiting at the top. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and starts to climb. Each step feels heavier than the last, her magic humming beneath her skin, restless and eager. By the time she reaches the top, her heart is pounding, though whether from exertion or anticipation, she can’t say.

Lucanis stands at the far end of the room, his back to her, his silhouette framed by the pale light filtering through the window. He doesn’t turn as she approaches, but she knows he’s aware of her presence. The connection between them pulses, a living thing that seems to tighten with every step she takes.

His black hair falls just past his shoulders, a curtain of shadow against Crow leathers that cling to him like a second skin, tailored for death dealt with precise purpose. The lamplight catches on the edges of blades at his hips—not ornamental, but tools worn smooth by countless missions, their edges honed to a lethal sharpness. Papers rustle between his fingers, though whether he’s actually reading them or simply using them as a prop to maintain this careful distance, she can’t tell. His posture is rigid, shoulders squared, but there’s a tension in the way he holds himself, as if he’s bracing for something. Or against something.

Her feet stop of their own accord, her body remembering other moments when the space between them carried a different weight. Back then, it had been charged with something electric, something dangerous and intoxicating. Now, it feels like a chasm, carved deeper by the fallout of Zara, by the truth about blood magic and the broken bonds that have reshaped them both.

She wants to ask him if he’s sleeping, if the nightmares still claw at him the way they do her. She wants to know if he’s spoken to his family, if the Crows have forgiven him for the chaos he’s brought to their doorstep. She wants to ask if he’s eaten, if he’s rested, if he’s anything close to okay. But the words stick in her throat, tangled in the memory of his hands on her skin, his breath against her neck, and the way it had all felt like a lie.

--Where’s Spite?-- The thought emerges unbidden, sharp and insistent. Her eyes flick to the shadows, searching for the familiar glint of purple light that should accompany him. The demon’s absence feels wrong, like a missing limb she hadn’t realized she relied on until it was gone.

Her boots find the next set of stairs without conscious thought, each step carrying her away from him, from the pull that thrums between them like new magic from the Fade. ---Another day,-- she thinks, though the pull between them protests each step that widens their careful gulf.

X X X X X

The soft bristles of the brush whisper through Rook's copper waves, catching the flickering candlelight like liquid fire. She sits cross-legged on her bed, the worn quilt beneath her a patchwork of memories. Her eyes drift to the corner where her new leathers hang, their pristine surface a stark contrast to the battered armor she'd shed hours before.

--Tomorrow,-- she thinks, a small smile tugging at her lips. --Tomorrow, I'll feel like myself again.--

The brush pauses mid-stroke as her gaze falls on her traveling bag, its weathered leather bulging slightly where the wayvern tooth dagger nestles, still wrapped in its silken shroud. The weight of its presence feels heavier.

A knock at the door cuts through her reverie. Before she can respond, it swings open, and Lucanis steps through, his lithe form a study in controlled grace. Steam rises from the tray in his hands, carrying scents that make Rook's stomach growl in primal recognition – roasted meat, herbs, the rich warmth of freshly baked bread.

His eyes find hers, purple light flickering at their edges like contained lightning.

"You missed dinner," Lucanis says, his voice carrying that careful neutrality that speaks volumes in its restraint. He sets the tray on her bedside table, the motion fluid and precise. "Thought you might be hungry."

The scent of food intensifies as he removes the cloth covering, revealing a spread that puts the tavern's usual fare to shame. Rook's mouth waters despite herself, her body reminding her of how long it's been since she last ate.

"Thank you," she manages, the words feeling inadequate against the weight of everything unsaid between them. Her eyes track his movements as he arranges the dishes, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers linger just a fraction too long on each plate.

Lucanis straightens, his gaze sweeping over her with an intensity that makes her skin prickle. "You look better," he observes, though something in his tone suggests he sees more than mere physical recovery. "The bath helped?"

Rook nods, suddenly acutely aware of how the thin fabric of her robe clings to still-damp skin. "It did," she says, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"Lucanis, I–" she starts, but he cuts her off with a sharp gesture.

"Eat," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "We can talk after you've had something other than field rations and adrenaline."

As if on cue, her stomach growls again, louder this time. Rook feels heat rush to her cheeks, but Lucanis's expression remains carefully neutral. He turns to leave, his movements carrying that predatory grace that always makes her magic hum in recognition.

At the doorway, he pauses, his hand resting on the frame. "When you're done," he says, not looking back, "come find me. There are... things we need to discuss."

"Wait." The word hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken need.

Lucanis pauses, his hand still on the doorknob. For a heartbeat, he stands frozen, a living statue carved from shadow and controlled violence. Then, with fluid grace that speaks of countless missions in darkness, he turns back to face her.

Rook's fingers twist in the bedsheets, her knuckles white with tension. "Stay," she says, softer this time. "Please."

Something flickers across Lucanis's face. His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath skin that's seen too many battles. For a moment, Rook thinks he might refuse, might retreat behind the careful walls they've both constructed.

But then he nods, a sharp, precise movement that carries more weight than any words could. He moves to the bed with predator's grace, settling at its edge like a coiled spring ready to unwind at the slightest provocation.

Rook reaches for the tray, her hunger suddenly sharp-edged and insistent. The first bite of roasted meat explodes across her tongue, flavors dancing like embers in a dying fire. She closes her eyes, savoring the richness, the simple pleasure of food untainted by battle's copper tang.

"What did you want to discuss?" Rook asks finally, her voice steadier than she feels. She tears into a piece of bread, its crust crackling beneath her fingers.

Lucanis is silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point beyond her. When he speaks, his voice carries edges sharp enough to draw blood. "Illario used blood magic to control Spite. After we killed Zara."

The bread turns to ash in Rook's mouth. She swallows hard, forcing it down past the lump that's formed in her throat. "Are you sure?" she asks, though she already knows the answer. "He's not a mage, how could he–"

"I don't know." The admission seems to cost him.

Rook's mind races, pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. If Illario could use blood magic... "Do you think he was working with Zara?" The question emerges barely above a whisper. "That he killed her to keep quiet?"

Lucanis's expression darkens, shadows gathering at the corners of his eyes. The look on his face tells her everything she needs to know – he's considered this possibility, has turned it over in his mind like a poisoned dagger, examining it from every angle.

"I don't know," he says again, but the words carry a different weight now.

Rook sets the tray aside, her appetite evaporating like morning mist. She leans forward, her copper waves falling like a curtain around her face. "Lucanis," she says softly, her hand hovering just above his knee, not quite touching. "What does this mean? For you? For the Crows?"

His eyes meet hers, and in them, she sees a storm barely contained. Fury and pain war for dominance, while beneath it all, a current of something deeper – fear, perhaps, or a loneliness so profound it makes her chest ache in sympathy.

"It means," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "that everything I thought I knew might be a lie. That the family I've bled for, killed for..." He trails off, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Without thinking, she closes the distance between them, her fingers finding his clenched fist. At her touch, Lucanis goes perfectly still, like a predator scenting prey.

"We'll figure this out," she says, infusing her voice with a certainty she doesn't quite feel.

"Finish your food," Lucanis says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the air between them. The candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles and deep hollows that speak of too many sleepless nights.

Rook nods, reluctantly releasing his hand to reach for her plate. As she takes another bite, savoring the rich flavors that burst across her tongue, she gestures towards her travel bag with her free hand. "Look inside," she says, her words muffled slightly by the food.

Lucanis raises an eyebrow, a question forming in the slight tilt of his head. He reaches for the bag, his movements slow and deliberate, as if expecting a trap. The worn leather creaks softly as he opens it, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room.

His hand disappears into the bag's depths, emerging with a small, silk-wrapped bundle. Rook watches, her heart suddenly racing, as he carefully unwraps it. The silk falls away, revealing the wayvern tooth dagger in all its deadly beauty.

For a moment, Lucanis is perfectly still, his eyes widening in a rare display of genuine shock. Then, "¡Joder!" The exclamation bursts from him, a mix of surprise and delight. "My grandmother would never– How did you–" He breaks off, shaking his head in disbelief.

A smile spreads across his face, slow and genuine, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. It transforms him, softening the hard lines of his face, making him look younger, more vulnerable. Rook feels her breath catch in her throat at the sight.

"Why wouldn't she let you have one?" Rook asks, leaning forward, drawn in by this rare glimpse of the man behind the assassin's mask.

Lucanis laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Oh, she had her reasons," he says, his fingers tracing the dagger's deadly curve with reverent care. "Said I was too reckless, too prone to showing off. She probably wasn't wrong."

As he launches into a story about his first failed attempt to acquire such a blade, Rook finds herself drawn in, not just by the tale, but by the way he tells it. His hands move as he speaks, painting pictures in the air, his eyes alight with memories of home and family.

The candles burn lower, shadows lengthening across the room, as they talk of daggers and distant shores, of family traditions and childhood misadventures. For a few precious hours, the weight of their responsibilities, the looming threat of gods and corruption, fades into the background.

In this moment, they are not the Demon of Vyrantium and the former blood mage turned hero. They are simply Lucanis and Rook, two people finding connection in the quiet hours of the night, building a bridge across the chasm that has grown between them, one shared story at a time.

Chapter Text

The air is alive—thick with the reek of rancid meat and the metallic tang of the Deep Roads. Rook’s boots sink into the ground, which isn’t ground at all but a carpet of eyes, their lids blinking wetly beneath her weight. Above, the sky throbs like an infected wound, pulsating veins of green light snaking through clouds of ash.

Viper stands ahead, but not as she knew him.

Viper’s hands find her face—cold, wrong, the skin sloughing off in wet ribbons. His touch is gentle, as it always was, but his fingers leave trails of blightwaste that burn like acid. Rook gags at the stench of rotting meat and embrium oil—his scent, now twisted into something rancid.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

She can’t look away.

The Blight has hollowed him. His sea-green eyes are milky now, eaten through by black veins. Flesh peels from his jaw, revealing yellowed bone, yet his smile remains—that same crooked tilt he’d worn when he’d freed her from chains. “You can still fix this,” he whispers, thumb brushing her cheek. A fingernail detaches, clattering to the floor between them.

Behind him, Davrin and Assan lie tangled in glowing green chains. The Warden’s throat is torn open, his lifeblood pooling beneath the griffon’s mangled wings.

“One cut,” Viper murmurs, pressing her palm to his chest. His heart beats erratically beneath decaying muscle. “One spell. You know how.” His breath reeks of death, but his lips brush hers with terrifying familiarity—a mockery of the kiss they’d shared, when gratitude had briefly masqueraded as something softer.

Rook’s magic thrums, drawn to the blood seeping from his sores. Sigils flicker in her periphery: Par’ma’lin. Control. Domination.

His body convulses, spine arching as the Blight ruptures through his skin. A rib pierces his side, oozing green-tinged pus.

“I’m sorry,” Rook chokes out.

Viper’s laugh is a wet rattle. “No. You’re relieved.” His decaying hand clamps around her wrist, forcing her fingers into the wound at his chest. “Finally, a reason to break. To be the monster you’ve always—"

Viper’s fingers curl around her wrist—cold, even through his rotting gloves. Rook’s breath hitches as she stares at his face, or what’s left of it. The Blight has gnawed through his left cheek, exposing molars and a tongue blackened by necrosis. But his right side remains agonizingly familiar: the scar above his eyebrow.

“Still playing the martyr, da’len?” His voice is a wet rasp, but the old endearment—little one—splinters her composure, a title someone else once called her, not him. Tears blur her vision, mixing with the blood trickling from her nose. His blood, she realizes, as he presses her palm to the festering wound at his throat.

The smell is unbearable—sweet rot and iron, like a butcher’s shop in high summer. Her stomach heaves.

The stench of decay clogs Rook’s throat—sweet rot, iron, and the acrid bite of blightfire. Viper’s half-rotted hand strokes her cheek, his thumb catching a tear. “So soft,” he rasps, blightwaste weeping from his milky eye. “Still that scared girl in chains.”

Davrin’s sword arcs toward Viper’s neck.

“NO!” Rook screams, but her magic curdles—thick, sluggish, useless.

The blade passes through Viper like mist. He laughs, a wet rattle, and lunges at Lucanis instead. The Crow’s daggers meet rotten flesh, but the ghoul doesn’t bleed. Doesn’t die.

“Pathetic,” Viper sneers, his jaw unhinging to clamp onto Lucanis’s shoulder. The Crow chokes as Spite’s flames reverse, crawling into the wound. “You think your demon can save you? She gave it to you. She made you weak.”

Rook’s knees buckle. “Stop—please, STOP!”

The ghoul releases Lucanis, who collapses, choking on black veins spreading from the bite. Viper turns to Rook, his remaining eye glowing faintly green. “They’ll keep failing. You will keep failing. Unless…”

He grips her wrist, forcing her palm against his chest. His heartbeat stutters—human, alive, beneath the rot.

Davrin roars, charging blindly. Lucanis crawls toward her, Spite’s flames now purple-black, hissing: “Kill him. Kill him now.”

Viper’s lips brush her ear, cold and familiar. “You know how this ends, da’len. One cut. One spell. Save us.”

Rook’s dagger materializes in her hand, its edge already crimson.

“Do it,” he whispers. “Or watch them die again.”

Her magic screams. Sigils ignite in the air—blood, control, domination—as Davrin’s armor cracks, revealing red lyrium beneath. Lucanis vomits spiders, their legs skittering over her boots.

This is a dream. Only a dream. Only a—

“Your restraint is a noose. Cut it, or hang."

A wolf’s jaws clamp around her throat.

Chapter Text

To the Loyal Companions of Our Journey,

Firstly, let it be known that no darkness comes without dawn, no path without its moments of respite.

As the quill trembles in my hand and the candle flickers, I must share a truth that weighs heavy upon my heart. The chronicles of Rook shall pause—not in abandonment, but in careful reflection.

The silence that followed the second part of our tale has echoed like a distant battlefield, filling me with doubts. Self-criticism has been my unwelcome guest, questioning every line, every breath of the narrative we've woven together.

But take heart, dear readers. This is not an ending, merely a strategic retreat.

I shall spend the remainder of this month tending to my craft.

March approaches with promise—a time to resurrect Rook's journey, to breathe new life into our shared adventure. In these quiet moments, I am also nurturing a personal quest—a novel of my own.

Know that my commitment to Rook remains unbroken. This pause is not surrender, but preparation. Like a Grey Warden gathering strength before a crucial battle, I am realigning my purpose, my passion.

Your patience is a gift more precious than sovereigns, more powerful than any spell from the Circle.

Yrs,
Silver

[A small sketch of a sleeping nug accompanies the missive, curled peacefully in the bottom right corner]

Chapter Text

Written on parchment bearing the seal of the Shadow Dragons, ink slightly smudged as if by trembling hands

To My Readers,

By the Maker's grace and Andraste's mercy, I find myself writing to you once more—though I fear my words come heavy with apologies.

I broke my promise to you. The words I should have written remained trapped, not by writer's block or creative drought, but by a battle far more personal.

The Stage IV TN Breast Cancer that had been my shadow for years returned with renewed vengeance, bringing with it permanent nerve damage that makes even holding a quill feel like wielding a blade with numb fingers. For months, I fought this battle in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, much like our beloved rogue learning to navigate the spaces between trauma and healing.

Yet here I sit, clear scans spread before me like victory banners, alive and stubborn as any dwarf defending Orzammar. Rook's story had to retreat to the back of my mind while I fought my own demons - unlike most mages.

During this time, I found myself scribbling other tales—D&D adventures rough as uncut lyrium, sloppy and unpolished, never once re-read. They wait in my drafts like recruits yet to see their first real battle. Perhaps someday they'll find their way to these archives.

And then, Maker preserve me, I discovered the Mass Effect saga for the first time. I fell harder for a certain turian than Hawke(I) ever fell for Anders. Garrus Vakarian, with his calibrations and that voice that could make even a Qunari weak in the knees... *clears throat* But fear not, I have no plans to abandon our beloved Thedas for the stars. My heart belongs to dragon fire and blood magic, to lyrium songs and Fade dreams.

To every soul who continued reading, who left kudos like breadcrumbs leading me home, who commented with the patience of a spirit healer tending stubborn wounds—you have my deepest gratitude. You kept Rook's flame burning when I could not tend it myself.

The lighthouse calls once more. I feel the familiar pull of unfinished chapters, of Lucanis waiting in shadow and Spite whispering wicked truths. My hands may shake more than they once did, but they remember the rhythm of storytelling, the weight of words that carry readers through dark passages toward something like light.

I cannot promise perfection, but I can promise return. Daily updates, if the Maker wills it and my nerve-damaged fingers cooperate. Rook's story demands completion, and who am I to deny such a formidable mage her due?

Thank you for your patience. Thank you for waiting. Thank you for reminding me that some stories are worth fighting for—even when the fight feels impossible.

May the Maker watch over your chargers,

Your Faithful Wordsmith

Silver Curse

Chapter Text

&;

Warmth spread through her consciousness like sunlight through morning mist, gentle fingers stroking through copper waves in a rhythm that spoke of infinite patience. The touch was careful, reverent even—each movement designed to coax rather than command her return to wakefulness.

Her eyes fluttered open to find Manfred's familiar skull tilted in concentration, bone-white fingers working through her hair with the same meticulous care Emmrich brought to his most delicate research. When he noticed her stirring, his jaw shifted in what she'd learned to recognize as his version of a smile.

A genuine smile tugged at her lips in response. "Good morning to you too," she murmured, voice still thick with sleep but carrying none of the sharp edges that usually guarded her words. There was something profoundly peaceful about waking to such gentle care—no urgency, no demands, just simple kindness freely given.

As she began to sit up, Manfred's hands immediately moved to support her, one at her shoulder and another steadying her back with surprising gentleness. His touch carried the same careful precision she'd come to associate with both skeleton and master—strength tempered by an understanding of exactly how much pressure was needed and no more.

"Thank you," she said softly, studying the way morning light caught on polished bone. His kindness never ceased to amaze her—this being of death and scholarship who somehow embodied more tenderness than most living creatures she'd known.

A yawn escaped her as she stretched, muscles protesting their long rest in ways that felt more satisfying than painful. Her magic stirred contentedly beneath her skin, no longer the sharp-edged thing of recent battles but something closer to its natural rhythm.

Manfred moved with sudden purpose, producing a small stack of correspondence from somewhere within his impeccably organized person. His skull bobbed with what could only be described as eager anticipation as he placed the letters in her hands, his entire frame radiating the particular joy of someone completing an important task.

"Messages for me?" She took them gratefully, noting how his jaw worked in silent excitement. "Thank you, Manfred. You're wonderfully thoughtful."

At her praise, the skeleton practically vibrated with happiness. His movements transformed into something closer to dancing as he made his way toward the door—a graceful, celebratory glide that spoke of genuine delight at her gratitude. His skull turned back once to bob in what was unmistakably a bow before he swept from the room with theatrical flourish.

The sight pulled another smile from her, warmer and more genuine than any she'd worn in weeks. "Too adorable for his own good."

The letters shuffled between her fingertips like cards in a nervous game, each envelope revealing glimpses of familiar handwriting. Josephine's diplomatic flourishes flowed across expensive paper—all curves and careful elegance that spoke of countless hours perfecting diplomatic arts. Cassandra's practical script marched in neat lines, each letter formed with military precision that brooked no nonsense.

Her finger traced the bold strokes of Hawke's familiar scrawl, letters that leaned forward as if perpetually rushing toward the next adventure. Merrill's delicate writing decorated pale green paper in script so careful it looked more like art than correspondence. Anders's angular handwriting covered rougher parchment, ink slightly smudged as if written between patients or in flickering candlelight.

Each name processed slowly, her finger moving beneath the carefully formed letters as comprehension bloomed. The habit felt as natural as breathing now, though memory flickered to firelit evenings when patient hands had guided her trembling fingers across printed words. "Take your time, Scribbles. No one's timing you here. See how this letter curves? That's how you know it's different from..." Varric's voice, gentle and encouraging, teaching someone who'd never been allowed the luxury of literacy.

The memory dissolved as her fingers found heavier parchment bearing the Pavus family seal. Dorian's characteristic script sprawled with casual elegance across Tevinter-quality paper, each letter formed by someone who'd never doubted their place in the world. The familiar handwriting made warmth spread through her chest—gossip and insight wrapped in wit sharp enough to cut glass.

The wax seal cracked under her careful pressure when the door burst open without ceremony.

Harding filled the doorway in full battle gear—bow strung across armored shoulders, quiver bristling with arrows, every buckle and strap speaking of someone prepared for immediate action.

Dorian's letter slipped forgotten from her fingers as she took in the scout's appearance. The familiar sight of Harding in expedition gear brought back memories of countless missions, but there was something different about her bearing today—a particular tension that spoke of personal stakes rather than simple duty.

"Any luck with the information you've been needing?" Rook asked, setting the remaining correspondence aside as she studied her friend's expression.

Harding's jaw tightened, frustration bleeding through her usually composed demeanor. "Orzammar has requested I stop harassing their citizens with talk of dwarven magic."

A bitter laugh escaped before Rook could stop it. "Wish we had time to head down there and show them what you can do."

"I don't think that would've helped." But something in Harding's tone suggested she'd considered it.

The mental image of traditionalist dwarven nobles confronted with stone magic blooming under Harding's careful control was almost too satisfying to resist. "But think how satisfying it would be."

"Yeah? What's satisfying about being thrown in a Deep Roads prison?" Harding's eyebrows rose. "Orzammar takes its heritage very seriously."

"So what now?" Rook shifted fully upright, the letters completely forgotten as she focused on the weight pressing down on her friend's shoulders.

Something shifted in Harding's expression—the particular look she got when pieces of a puzzle finally clicked into place. "I was thinking... the voice said 'look to those closest to the Stone.' What if she meant Orzammar? There is another great thaig. The original capital of the dwarves. Kal-Sharok."

The name felt heavy with history, even spoken in the lighthouse's comfortable chambers. Rook's limited knowledge of dwarven politics stretched to accommodate this new possibility.

"It was lost during the First Blight," Harding continued, "and its people survived in isolation for hundreds of years. They re-emerged, oh, some twenty years ago?"

"And you think they're closer to the Stone?"

"Orzammar can't help. What have I got to lose?" The words carried weight of someone who'd exhausted easier options and was ready to take risks.

Rook studied her friend's face, reading the particular determination that meant arguments would be wasted effort. Still, the investigative part of her mind couldn't let it go completely. "Are you sure Orzammar isn't hiding something?"

"Pressing them for information would be tricky. I could anger someone important." Harding's diplomatic training showed in how carefully she measured each word. "If Kal-Sharok doesn't turn out, I can go back to poking Orzammar. But not before then."

The answer made sense from a tactical standpoint, even if every instinct screamed that powerful institutions hiding information usually meant they had something worth hiding. "How do we get in touch with these Kal-Sharok dwarves." A terrible suspicion was already forming. "Please, don't say Deep Roads."

Harding's grin carried notes of mischief beneath the professional competence. "Already working on it! You don't spend ten years in the Inquisition without making contacts. I should have a meeting set up by the time we're ready to leave."

The relief was short-lived as reality caught up to optimism. "So, Deep Roads?"

"Deep Roads."

"Fuck."

The ancient entrance to the Deep Roads yawned before them like the maw of some primordial beast, carved stone weathered by centuries of wind and rain. The familiar scent of old earth and deeper things made Rook's magic stir restlessly beneath her skin, responding to memories she'd rather leave buried.

Her feet found an automatic rhythm against the rocky ground—small, quick steps that helped work energy through muscles that wanted to flee. The jogging motion felt ridiculous here, bouncing in place like some nervous recruit before their first battle, but movement was better than standing still while panic clawed up her throat.

Taash's laughter rumbled through the air, rich with genuine amusement rather than mockery. "You planning to dance your way through the tunnels?"

"I'm going to run the entire time," Rook declared, breathlessness already threading through her voice from the nervous energy burning in her chest. "You better keep up."

Harding and Taash exchanged glances, the kind of look that passed between people who'd seen their share of unconventional battle strategies.

"Run?" Harding's eyebrows rose with the particular expression she wore when trying to determine if someone was joking.

"Run?" Taash echoed, their tone carrying equal parts confusion and growing interest.

Without another word, Rook broke into motion. Her boots found purchase on the uneven stone as she plunged into the darkness ahead, copper hair streaming behind her like a battle banner. The sound of her footsteps echoed off ancient walls as the Deep Roads swallowed her whole.

Thirty minutes of relentless pace through winding tunnels left them all gasping for air when they finally stumbled into a wider chamber. Rook's lungs burned as she doubled over, hands braced against her knees while copper waves fell forward in sweat-dampened curtains. The run had accomplished exactly what she'd hoped—her mind felt blissfully empty of everything except the immediate need for oxygen.

Taash leaned heavily against the tunnel wall, their massive frame heaving with each breath. Steam curled between their lips with every exhalation, evidence of the internal fire that drove them. "Remind me," they panted, "never to follow you into a tunnel again."

Harding fared slightly better, years of scout training evident in how quickly she recovered her composure. Still, she braced one hand against the carved stone while the other pressed against the stitch in her side. "Next time," she wheezed, "we're walking."

"Was that... necessary?" The unfamiliar voice carried the particular accent of someone from the deep places, words shaped by stone and tradition.

Rook straightened slowly, still catching her breath as she took in their contact. The dwarf stood with the bearing of someone accustomed to authority, his dark hair braided with small stone beads that caught the dim light filtering down from above. His clothing bore the practical elegance of Kal-Sharok—functional but crafted with an attention to detail that spoke of pride in workmanship.

"Depends," Rook managed between gasps, "on how you feel about punctuality."

The dwarf's eyebrows rose slightly, though whether from amusement or disapproval remained unclear. "Stalgard," he said simply, offering a formal nod. "You must be Scout Harding's companions."

"That's us," Harding confirmed, finally managing to speak without wheezing. Her diplomatic instincts reasserted themselves despite her exhaustion. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice."

Stalgard's gaze shifted between the three of them, taking in their winded state with the calculating assessment of someone used to evaluating unexpected variables. "The message spoke of urgent matters regarding the Stone. Though I admit, I expected a more... traditional approach."

Fascination replaced exhaustion as Rook studied him more carefully. Where Orzammar dwarves carried themselves with the particular arrogance of inherited position, Stalgard's bearing spoke of something different—authority earned through survival rather than birthright. His tools were practical rather than ornamental, his clothing free of the elaborate caste markings that defined surface dwarven society.

The differences had always captivated her. Above ground, dwarven politics revolved around ancient hierarchies and rigid traditions that seemed designed to prevent change. But here, among those who'd survived isolation and darkness, she could see evidence of adaptation. Stalgard's very presence spoke of a people who'd been forced to value capability over lineage.

"It's remarkable," she said, still studying the subtle differences in his bearing, "how different you are from those who live above. I've always been fascinated by how environment shapes a people—the choices made in darkness versus those made in sunlight."

Something shifted in Stalgard's expression, a flicker of appreciation for her observation. "Isolation teaches hard lessons. We learned to value what works over what tradition dictates."

"Speaking of what works," Rook straightened fully, pressing down the familiar weight of stone pressing in around them, "the sooner we can get out of these tunnels, the better. The Deep Roads and I don't exactly have a friendly relationship."

Stalgard's nod carried understanding. "Few surface dwellers feel comfortable in the deep places. But if you seek answers about the Stone, the path leads deeper still." He gestured toward a passage that sloped further into darkness. "What you need to see cannot be found near the surface."

Harding stepped forward, her exhaustion replaced by the focused energy that marked her most important missions. "We're ready to follow your lead."

"Then come," Stalgard said, already moving toward the darker tunnels. "The Kal-Kurne outpost lies ahead, where the Stone still remembers what it was before the surface world forgot how to listen."

The passage ahead yawned like a throat waiting to swallow them whole, but Rook found herself following despite every instinct screaming to run back toward sunlight. Some answers, it seemed, could only be found in the places that frightened you most.

The doors of Kal-Kurne rose before them like monuments to forgotten artistry, each panel carved from single slabs of deep stone that seemed to drink in torchlight and transform it into something warmer. Intricate patterns spiraled across the surface—not the rigid geometric designs favored by Orzammar's nobles, but flowing representations of root systems and underground rivers, of the living stone that pulsed beneath their feet.

As the massive barriers swung open with barely a whisper, revealing the outpost beyond, Rook felt her breath catch. Where she'd expected rough-hewn survival, Kal-Kurne bloomed like an underground garden. Crystalline formations had been coaxed into architectural elements, their natural beauty enhanced rather than carved away. Pools of clear water reflected lamplight from graceful stone bridges, while carefully tended fungi provided both illumination and sustenance in shades of blue and gold.

The dwarves who moved through this space carried themselves with quiet confidence, their clothing practical but beautiful—leather worked to supple perfection, metal fittings that gleamed without ostentation. Children played near the water features, their laughter echoing off stone in ways that felt more like music than noise.

"Incredible," Harding breathed, her voice filled with wonder as she turned slowly to take in every detail. Her eyes tracked the way natural stone had been shaped into living spaces, how the builders had worked with the Deep Roads' existing structure rather than fighting against it. "It's nothing like what I expected."

Her smile bloomed soft and genuine as Stalgard began explaining the outpost's history, how his people had found beauty in isolation and created art from necessity. The expression transformed her features completely—the careful scout's mask dropping away to reveal someone capable of pure delight in discovery.

Rook found her attention drawn not to the architectural marvels surrounding them, but to the way Taash watched Harding's reaction. The dragon hunter stood slightly apart, their massive frame somehow managing to look both protective and utterly relaxed. Their eyes never left Harding's face, tracking each shift of expression like someone memorizing something precious.

When Harding laughed at something Stalgard said—a bright, unguarded sound that spoke of genuine joy—Taash's entire posture softened. The constant tension they usually carried, the warrior's readiness that marked their every movement, simply melted away. In that moment, they looked like someone who'd found exactly where they belonged, not through any grand destiny or purpose, but in the simple act of watching someone they cared for discover wonder.

It was beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Taash's peace flowed directly from Harding's happiness, their contentment entirely dependent on the scout's smile. There was something profound in how completely they'd surrendered their attention, how Harding's delight had become their anchor in a world that usually demanded constant vigilance.

"The craftwork is extraordinary," Harding said, running gentle fingers along a section of carved wall where stone seemed to flow like water frozen mid-motion. Her touch was reverent, the way she might handle ancient artifacts in the field.

Taash's eyes tracked that gesture too, their expression holding depths that spoke of feelings not yet voiced. They stood guard over Harding's wonder like a dragon protecting treasure, fierce and tender in equal measure.

Hours deeper into the tunnels, exhaustion finally forced them to make camp in a wider chamber. The stone here felt different—older, more watchful. Harding kept glancing over her shoulder, her scout's instincts clearly picking up something the rest of them couldn't sense.

"There's something else down here," she said for the third time, voice tight with unease. "Something watching us."

"Probably darkspawn," Taash offered pragmatically, arranging their bedroll with practiced efficiency. "These tunnels are crawling with them."

The words sent ice through Rook's veins. She pulled her own blankets closer, knowing already that sleep would be impossible. The Deep Roads had always been her nightmare—too close, too dark, too reminiscent of places where screams echoed off stone walls and blood magic painted patterns she'd rather forget.

Her mind reached automatically for Varric's stories, the way his voice could transform even the darkest spaces into something bearable. Tales of Kirkwall's underground, of dwarven kings and surface politics, of Hawke's adventures that always ended with everyone safely home despite impossible odds. His words had been her anchor through countless dark nights, his gentle humor the only thing standing between her and the panic that clawed at her chest.

She settled against her pack, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like armor. Sleep wouldn't come, but maybe she could find some peace in memory.

The soft murmur of voices drew her attention across their small camp. Taash had moved closer to where Harding sat keeping watch, their massive form somehow managing to look hesitant despite their usual confidence.

"Can't sleep either?" Harding's voice carried gentle understanding.

"Don't really need much," Taash replied, though they settled beside her with careful precision. "Figured you could use the company. These tunnels..." They gestured vaguely at the oppressive darkness. "Not exactly comfortable."

Rook watched as Harding's posture relaxed slightly, the tension that had been riding her shoulders since they'd entered the Deep Roads finally easing. There was something about Taash's presence that seemed to quiet whatever instincts were screaming warnings at her.

"You know," Harding said softly, "I never expected to feel safe down here. But somehow..." She glanced at Taash, and even in the dim firelight, Rook could see the warmth in her expression. "I do."

Something shifted in the air between them. Taash moved closer, their hand coming up to touch Harding's cheek with surprising gentleness. "You don't have to be scared. Not while I'm here."

But before their lips could meet, Harding suddenly stiffened, her eyes going wide with something that looked like pain.

"Do you feel that?" Her voice carried an edge of panic that made Taash's protective instincts flare. "It's dark. And they're so afraid. So alone."

"Harding, what's happening?" Taash's hand moved to her shoulder, concern replacing any romantic intent.

"There's so many of them." Harding's breathing quickened, her eyes unfocused as if seeing something beyond their small camp. "I can feel them through the stone."

"Shit. Talk to me, Lace."

"I could feel it rippling through the rock. Confusion. Terror." Her voice shook as she pressed her palms against her temples. "Something's hunting them."

"Whose fear?" Taash kept their voice steady despite the worry clawing at their chest.

"The dwarves. Whatever was stalking us has found them instead." Harding's gaze snapped back to the present, focusing on Taash with desperate intensity. "It's drawing me closer. I can feel it pulling—"

"Hey." Taash cupped her face gently, their touch grounding. "You're not alone down here. Whatever's out there, we fight it together. That's a promise."

Something shifted in Harding's expression—relief mixed with something deeper. "I could kiss you right now."

"Then do it," Taash said simply.

From her position across the camp, Rook watched as their lips met. But the moment lasted only seconds before something went wrong. Taash jerked backward as if struck, their massive frame stumbling before hitting the ground hard. Their eyes went unfocused, blinking slowly like someone fighting off unconsciousness.

"What the hell—" The words came out slurred, barely coherent.

"Lyrium," Harding breathed, staring at her hands with dawning horror. "It's like I'm infused with lyrium."

Taash tried to push themselves up, movements uncoordinated and clumsy. "Noticed... when we touched before. That night we talked."

"You knew?" Harding's voice pitched higher with disbelief. "You knew and you still kissed me?"

A loose laugh escaped Taash's lips, the sound uncontrolled in a way that was deeply unsettling from someone usually so composed. "Feel drunk. This is weird."

"I scrambled your brain," Harding said, guilt and panic painting her features.

"Or it's just you," Taash managed, reaching toward her with unsteady coordination. "Could be love making me stupid."

"That's not funny!" But even through her distress, Harding fought against a smile, tears gathering in her eyes as she watched Taash struggle to focus.

Rook found herself torn between concern and the most inappropriate urge to laugh as the scene unfolded before her. Harding had both hands thrust straight up in the air like someone surrendering to invisible authorities, her entire posture rigid with the effort of keeping her distance. Meanwhile, Taash swayed on their knees, a dopey grin spreading across their features as they giggled—actually giggled—like someone who'd discovered the world's most amusing secret.

"Don't touch me!" Harding's voice carried genuine anguish, but the sight of her standing there with her hands raised high while backing away in tiny, careful steps was absurdly reminiscent of some bizarre dance.

"You're so pretty," Taash slurred, trying to crawl forward and immediately listing to one side. "Like... really pretty. Did I mention pretty?" Another giggle escaped as they attempted to correct course, only to veer in the completely wrong direction. "Love you. Love your face. Love your... your hair thing."

"Taash, stop moving!" Harding's hands windmilled frantically as she fought the urge to steady them. "You're going to hurt yourself!"

"Can't hurt me," Taash declared with drunken confidence, trying to stand and immediately sitting back down hard. "I'm a dragon hunter. Very tough. Very... oop." They blinked owlishly as the world apparently spun around them. "Why is everything sideways?"

The comedy of watching Taash—normally the picture of controlled power—reduced to a giggling, love-drunk mess while Harding performed an elaborate mime routine to avoid contact was almost too much. But underneath the absurdity, Rook could see the genuine pain in Harding's eyes as she watched someone she cared about struggle and couldn't help.

"I love you too," Harding whispered, her voice breaking as Taash made another valiant but completely uncoordinated attempt to reach her. "That's why I can't—that's why you have to stay over there."

"But I want to hold your hand," Taash complained, pouting like a child denied their favorite treat. "Hands are nice. Yours are especially nice. Very... handy."

Despite everything, a strangled laugh escaped Harding's throat, which only made Taash beam more proudly at their perceived comedic success.

As the absurd scene continued to unfold—Harding now resorting to backing toward a stone formation for protection while Taash made increasingly creative attempts to crawl in her direction—Rook realized something that stopped her cold.

For the first time in months, her mind felt quiet.

Not the terrible, hollow quiet that came with exhaustion or despair, but something else entirely. Peace. Her thoughts weren't scattered between a dozen different fears, weren't constantly checking shadows for ancient elven gods or parsing every sensation for signs that blood magic was seeping back into her consciousness. She wasn't dissecting every word Lucanis spoke for hidden meanings, wasn't replaying conversations with Viper until they lost all sense, wasn't calculating how many people would die if she made the wrong choice.

The familiar weight of paranoia—that constant, suffocating awareness of being watched, judged, manipulated—had simply... lifted. Solas's presence, usually a cold whisper at the edges of her awareness, felt distant as morning fog. The persistent dread that tomorrow might bring the end of everything had faded to background noise.

Instead, her attention rested entirely on this moment: Harding's mortified laughter as she tried to explain physics to someone whose spatial reasoning had temporarily abandoned them, Taash's delighted discovery that they could make their beloved giggle even while causing her complete exasperation, the simple comfort of watching two people navigate something difficult together.

It reminded her of those precious evenings with Varric, when the world's weight could be set aside for stories and shared silence. When her mind had been allowed to exist in the present rather than constantly anticipating catastrophe. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be anchored by affection rather than fear, to find her center in friendship rather than endless vigilance.

Here, in the depths of the place that should terrify her most, surrounded by the kind of love that persisted despite impossible circumstances, Rook discovered something she'd thought lost forever: the ability to simply be present with the people who mattered, focused on the mission that bound them together rather than the fears that threatened to tear her apart.

For once, her mind belonged entirely to her.

And somewhere in the quiet spaces between Taash's slurred declarations of affection and Harding's mortified laughter, she could almost hear Varric's voice—warm with the particular satisfaction of someone who'd seen this truth play out in countless stories: "You know what the real magic is, Scribbles? It's not the flashy stuff that reshapes the world. It's this—sitting with your people while one of them's too drunk on love magic to walk straight, and realizing that for just this moment, you're exactly where you belong. That's the kind of chapter that makes all the dramatic sword fights worth writing."

The thought settled around her like one of his old coats, worn soft with use and smelling faintly of ink and gunpowder and home.

Chapter Text

Sleep refused to come, no matter how Rook shifted against her pack or counted the steady drips of water echoing somewhere in the darkness beyond their small circle of firelight. The Deep Roads pressed against her consciousness like a physical weight—ancient stone that had witnessed too much suffering, air that tasted of old blood and older fears. Every shadow seemed to writhe with potential threat, every sound magnified into something sinister by her overactive imagination.

The underground had always been her enemy, but tonight felt different. Something is watching us. The certainty settled in her bones like cold, making her skin crawl with invisible attention. Not the mindless hunger of darkspawn or the territorial aggression of deep stalkers—this felt deliberate. Calculating. Patient in ways that sent electricity dancing along her nerves.

Across the dying embers, Taash sat propped against the tunnel wall, their movements becoming steadier as time passed. The dragon hunter's eyes had regained their focus, though they still tested each gesture carefully, as if ensuring their body would obey before committing to larger motions.

What captivated Rook more than Taash's recovery was the intricate dance of stolen glances happening between them and Harding. The scout sat within arm's reach but might as well have been across the Waking Sea for all the distance her dangerous magic now demanded. Yet their eyes found each other constantly—quick, furtive looks that carried the weight of everything they couldn't say, couldn't risk.

Taash would catch Harding checking on their steadiness, and something soft would flicker across their features before they looked away. Harding would steal glimpses of Taash's careful movements, relief and longing warring in her expression before she forced her attention elsewhere. Each glance lasted barely seconds, but the tenderness in them made Rook's chest ache with recognition.

They're falling in love. The realization hit her with unexpected force, bringing with it a cascade of her own longing that threatened to overwhelm her carefully constructed composure. She missed Viper's gentle hands and knowing smile, missed the way he could read her moods in the set of her shoulders. Missed Davrin's steady presence and the comfortable silence they'd found beside countless campfires. Even missed the dangerous complexity of whatever lay between her and Lucanis—the way purple light would storm through his eyes when Spite stirred, the careful control that both attracted and terrified her.

Here, surrounded by stone and shadow, watching two people navigate the cruel irony of love made dangerous by magic itself, homesickness crashed over her like a tide. The lighthouse felt impossibly far away, its impossible architecture and gentle spirits replaced by this oppressive weight of earth and—

The sensation intensified suddenly, that feeling of being observed shifting from background unease to immediate presence. Something vast and ancient turned its attention toward their small camp, awareness pressing against her mind like fingers testing the boundaries of her consciousness. Not Solas—she knew that particular touch too well. This felt older, deeper, connected to the stone itself.

"You feel it too, don't you?"

Harding's quiet voice made Rook jump so violently she nearly knocked over her water skin. The scout was watching her with knowing eyes, her expression carrying the particular tension of someone who'd been fighting the same unease.

"Feel what?" Rook managed, though her magic was already responding to whatever presence lurked just beyond perception, power gathering beneath her skin like storm clouds.

"That we're not alone down here." Harding's gaze drifted to the tunnel entrances, shadows that seemed to breathe with malevolent life. "Something's been watching us since we made camp. Something that knows we're here."

Taash's hand moved to their weapon with fluid precision, their recovery apparently complete enough for violence if necessary. "What kind of something?"

"I don't know." Harding's fingers traced unconscious patterns against the stone beside her, her connection to the Deep Roads' ancient network clearly picking up signals the rest of them couldn't sense. "But it's old. And it's getting closer."

The silence that followed stretched taut as bowstring, broken only by the persistent drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the soft whisper of their breathing. Rook found herself counting heartbeats—her own, erratic with adrenaline, and the steadier rhythms of her companions. The firelight seemed to dim without anyone touching it, shadows creeping closer to their small circle of warmth.

Then the first sound came: a skittering, like claws on stone, but wrong somehow. Too purposeful. Too coordinated. It echoed from multiple directions at once, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

The sound stopped abruptly, leaving only the thunderous silence that follows sudden absence. Rook's breath caught in her throat as she strained to hear movement, anything that might betray the location of whatever was out there. But the quiet felt heavy, oppressive—the kind of silence that came when predators held themselves perfectly still, waiting for prey to make the first move.

"Pack up," Taash said quietly, their voice carrying the absolute authority of someone who'd faced enough dangerous creatures to recognize the signs. "Now."

They moved with the efficient haste of people who'd learned not to argue when survival instincts screamed warnings. Bedrolls disappeared into packs, gear secured with practiced speed. The dying fire was doused with sand, plunging them into the phosphorescent half-light of the Deep Roads' natural luminescence.

As they shouldered their equipment, the skittering began again—closer this time, more insistent. It seemed to echo from the tunnel walls themselves, as if whatever was making the sound had learned to use the ancient stone to amplify and distort its presence.

"This way," Harding whispered, her hand pressed against the tunnel wall as she navigated by touch and instinct. Her connection to the stone itself seemed to guide her toward a narrow opening that branched off from their larger chamber.

The passage was barely wide enough for their shoulders, forcing them into single file with their packs scraping against rough stone. Rook found herself pressed between cold rock, the walls so close she could feel her own breath reflecting back from the ancient surfaces. Claustrophobia clawed at her throat—this was exactly the kind of space that featured in her worst nightmares, tight and dark and filled with the promise of things hunting in shadow.

Behind her, she could hear Taash's controlled breathing and the soft whisper of Harding's movements. Their presence should have been comforting, but instead it felt like pressure building—she was trapped between stone and flesh, unable to retreat even if terror demanded it.

The passage curved ahead, darkness swallowing their feeble light. Each step forward felt like descending deeper into the throat of some ancient beast. The air grew staler, heavier, carrying scents that spoke of things long dead and others that shouldn't be alive.

That's when she saw it.

A flicker of movement in the shadows ahead—something ruby red and quick darting across their path. It moved wrong, too fluid and too fast, like liquid mercury given predatory form. The glimpse lasted barely a second before it vanished into a crack in the stone that should have been too small to accommodate anything larger than a spider.

Rook's entire body seized with the primal urge to flee. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to fight her way back through the narrow passage, to run until the Deep Roads were nothing but a terrible memory. The word rose unbidden in her throat: NOPE. Just turn around and leave, let whatever ancient horror stalked these tunnels find different prey.

But behind her, Taash's steady presence blocked any retreat, and she could sense Harding's determination radiating like heat. They would push forward regardless of her fear, would probably push her along with them if necessary. There was nowhere to go but deeper into whatever nightmare waited ahead.

The skittering sound began again, multiplied now, as if their movement had awakened an entire colony of whatever had darted across their path. The sounds came from above, below, from cracks in the stone too small to see but apparently perfect for things that moved like liquid shadow.

We're not hunting anymore, the thought crept through her mind like ice water, paranoia and exhaustion weaving patterns she couldn't quite trust. We're being herded. But even as the certainty settled in her bones, a quieter voice whispered doubt—was this real tactical assessment, or just her terrified mind imposing narrative on random horror? The Deep Roads had always been her weakness, the place where rational thought gave way to the kind of fear that transformed shadows into monsters and coincidence into conspiracy.

The narrow passage finally opened into a cavern that stole what remained of her breath. Heat struck them like a physical blow—the air shimmering with waves that rose from rivers of molten rock carving bright scars through the ancient stone. Lava flowed in channels that had been carved by time and geological fury, painting everything in hellish red-orange light that made their torches seem pale and inadequate.

But it was what grew in the spaces between fire and stone that made her magic recoil in recognition. Blight. The corruption spread like a disease across surfaces that should have been too hot to sustain any life, pulsing tendrils of wrongness that defied every natural law. Dark veins threaded through rock formations, while pustules of infected matter clustered around water sources like malignant flowers.

And moving through this nightmare landscape, darkspawn skittered and crawled with the particular wrongness that came from flesh reshaped by ancient malevolence. Their forms had adapted to the heat—skin like charred leather, eyes that reflected the lava's glow with unholy intelligence. They moved with purpose among the blight growths, tending corruption like gardeners nurturing some terrible harvest.

The moment they entered the cavern, Rook's magic responded with violent recognition. Power surged beneath her skin—not coiling this time, but crawling like living insects seeking escape. The sensation was nauseating, intimate in ways that made her stomach lurch. Her magic knew this corruption, recognized it on levels that bypassed conscious thought and struck directly at the part of her that had been forged in similar darkness.

Blood magic and blight singing to each other across the space between us, she realized with sick clarity. The corruption called to the part of her that had been shaped by Zara's teachings, the twisted knowledge that still lived in muscle memory and magical instinct. For one terrible moment, she felt the pull—how easy it would be to reach out with blood magic, to command the darkspawn as she'd once commanded demons, to embrace the power that came from surrendering to darkness.

"We have to take care of this blight for the door to open for Stalgard," she forced out through gritted teeth, fighting against the nausea that came from her magic's recognition of kinship. The practical necessity of their mission provided anchor against the whispers in her blood.

What followed was two hours of methodical slaughter that felt like walking through her own nightmares made manifest. Every blast of lightning that carved through darkspawn flesh reminded her of other battles, other deaths. Every time her magic reached out to cleanse corruption, she felt the answering call of the blight—a seductive whisper that promised power, promised belonging, promised an end to the constant struggle of maintaining her humanity.

Taash moved through the cavern like contained dragonfire, their flames meeting the lava's heat with primal satisfaction. Harding's arrows found their marks with sniper's precision, each shot calculated to avoid triggering the stone magic that might bring the entire cavern down upon them. They worked with the efficiency of people who understood that hesitation meant death, but Rook found herself fighting two battles—one against the creatures before them, and another against the part of herself that wanted to embrace what they represented.

By the time the last tendril of blight had been burned away and the final darkspawn lay still, exhaustion weighted her limbs like lead. But beneath the fatigue lay something worse—the knowledge that part of her had enjoyed the violence, had felt at home in a place where corruption and blood magic sang the same dark songs. The cavern was cleansed, the path ahead clear, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something in herself had been awakened by the proximity to so much familiar darkness.

The air still shimmered with heat, but now it felt clean rather than oppressive. Ahead, carved stone suggested the presence of the door Stalgard had promised. But as they prepared to move forward, Rook caught herself looking back at the space where blight had flourished, wondering if she'd left something essential behind in the ashes—or if she'd brought something terrible along with her.

The final stretch of blight at the door proved stubborn, clinging to the ancient stonework with malevolent persistence. But their combined efforts—Taash's flames, Harding's precise shots, and Rook's lightning crackling through corrupted veins—eventually burned away the last tendrils of infection. The massive portal groaned as it swung open, revealing darkness that felt different from the tunnels they'd traversed. This was sacred darkness, heavy with age and purpose.

Stalgard stepped through first, his voice carrying the weight of ritual as he addressed them. "Mind yourself here, and show respect. This place is older than kingdoms, older than the divisions that split our people." His tone carried warning wrapped in reverence.

The chamber beyond stole breath and reason in equal measure. Massive stones lined the walls—not rough-hewn like typical dwarven architecture, but polished to mirror smoothness and glowing with inner light the color of deep ocean. The blue radiance pulsed in rhythm, like the heartbeat of something vast and living. Each stone seemed to sing, their voices joining in harmonies that bypassed the ears and resonated directly in bone and blood.

"The song..." Harding's voice carried wonder and recognition intertwined. "Do you hear it?"

But Rook was already nodding, because of course she could hear it. They all could. The melody wrapped around them like invisible hands, ancient and complex and achingly familiar. Notes that spoke of creation and connection, of power that moved mountains and shaped worlds. Her magic responded to the sound—not with the violent recognition she'd felt around the blight, but with something deeper. Something that felt like coming home after a journey she couldn't remember taking.

I know this place. The certainty settled in her chest like stone, solid and undeniable. Not from any memories she could access, but from somewhere deeper—muscle memory written in magic itself, in the way her power responded to the song's ancient rhythms. Her footsteps moved without conscious direction, following paths that felt worn smooth by countless repetitions she'd never experienced.

The stairs ahead carved themselves from living rock, each step perfectly proportioned for ascent toward something magnificent. As they climbed, the song grew stronger, more complex, harmonies layering upon harmonies until the air itself seemed to vibrate with accumulated music. And at the center of it all, dominating the vast chamber like a mountain made manifest, stood a statue that defied every assumption about dwarven craftsmanship.

The figure towered above them, carved from stone that seemed to contain its own light. Not the geometric precision favored by modern dwarves, but something more organic—curves that flowed like water frozen in stone, features that suggested both human and something far more ancient. Power radiated from every line, every carefully sculpted detail speaking of beings who had shaped the world with thought and will.

As they reached the platform before the statue, its eyes opened.

Blue light flared—not the cold illumination of lyrium, but something warmer, deeper, alive in ways that made Rook's soul sing in recognition. The gaze that fell upon them carried weight of ages, intelligence vast and ancient and somehow familiar. When it spoke, the voice resonated not just in the air but through the stone beneath their feet, through the very foundations of the Deep Roads themselves.

"They call me the Oracle."

The words fell into Rook's consciousness like stones into still water, sending ripples through thoughts and memories she couldn't quite grasp. Something stirred in the depths of her mind—not Solas's invasive presence, but something that belonged to her, something that had always been there waiting for the right key to unlock it.

I've been here before. The knowledge rose unbidden, carrying with it fragments of sensation—the taste of this air, the way light moved across these walls, the exact pitch of the Oracle's voice speaking words in languages that predated written history. But when she tried to focus on the memories, they scattered like mist, slipping away as if something gentle but implacable guided them back into shadow. Solas's presence lingered at the edges of her consciousness—not intrusive, not commanding, simply there like a careful guardian standing watch over thoughts too dangerous to fully remember. The aching certainty remained that this moment was both first meeting and long-awaited reunion, even as the details remained frustratingly beyond her grasp.

Beside her, Harding stepped forward with trembling hands pressed against her chest, her voice barely above a whisper: "All this... is this what I am? Am I like you?"

The Oracle's gaze shifted to the scout, and in that ancient attention Rook saw recognition—not just acknowledgment, but the deeper knowledge that passed between kindred spirits separated by incomprehensible spans of time.

"I cannot tell you what you are," the Oracle's voice resonated through stone and bone alike. "Look within, and remember. Remember when the earth was alive, and the Titans walked the land. In one voice they sang. A chorus of creation, and of connection."

The words struck Rook's consciousness like lightning finding a conductor, each syllable triggering something vast and terrible in the depths of her mind. The chamber around her began to blur, the blue light of the stones shifting and changing until—

The vision took her completely.

Wind rushed beneath white wings as she soared above a landscape that defied mortal comprehension. Mountains sang with voices of living stone, their peaks crowned with crystals that caught melodies and threw them back transformed. Rivers of liquid starlight carved paths through valleys where flowers bloomed in harmonious choruses, each petal a note in the vast symphony of creation.

She was raven—sleek and wild and free, but not of flesh and blood. Her form was spirit given shape in the Fade, white as fresh snow against the impossible colors of the dream realm. Her corvid mind was simple but sharp, focused on the pure joy of flight and the companionship of another dark shape wheeling through the air beside her. Her brother, her constant companion—black wings to her white, shadow to her light—calling to her with cries that spoke of shared adventures and perfect understanding.

Below them, a Titan moved through the landscape like a living mountain, each step causing new springs to bubble up from the earth, each breath nurturing groves of impossible trees. The being was vast beyond imagining, but there was nothing frightening about its presence—only the deep contentment of watching creation unfold according to ancient songs.

Then came the moment that changed everything.

A sudden gust, a miscalculation, a wing that caught wrong against an updraft. She tumbled from the sky, white feathers scattered on the wind as she struck the rocks below with force that shattered more than just form. Pain exploded through her spirit-body—not just the trauma of impact, but the deeper agony of a being torn loose from the very fabric of the Fade itself.

Her brother's distressed cries echoed off the stone as he landed beside her, but there was nothing he could do. Death approached with gentle inevitability, and she felt herself beginning to dissolve—not the peaceful return to the Fade that most spirits experienced, but something far more devastating. She was unraveling at the edges, her very essence bleeding away into nothingness.

That's when the Titan noticed.

The great being turned its attention downward, and in that gaze she felt compassion vast as continents. Without hesitation, without calculation, moved purely by the desire to preserve something precious that was about to be lost forever, the Titan reached out with one impossibly gentle finger.

A single drop of its essence—blood of the earth, liquid creation itself—fell upon her dissolving form. The change was immediate and astonishing. Her spirit-body began to solidify, but instead of death came transformation. Form reformed itself larger and more complex, white feathers became hair that caught light like polished silver, wings became arms that could shape reality with gesture and will.

She stood—stood—on legs that had never existed before, looking down at hands that sparkled with the same blue radiance that now surrounded them in the Oracle's chamber. For one perfect, crystalline moment, she possessed a form that bridged the gap between spirit and flesh, between possibility and reality. She could feel the Titan's song flowing through her new body, could taste the mathematics of creation on her tongue.

Her brother—still spirit-raven, still beloved—stared at her transformation with wonder that bordered on worship. In his dark eyes she saw not fear but awe, not revulsion but recognition of something miraculous. They were still connected, still family, but now she existed in a way that opened doors to possibilities neither had imagined.

But the change was temporary, a gift of healing rather than permanent transformation. As the immediate crisis passed, her borrowed form began to fade. The Titan's blood had saved her, given her life, but it could not sustain such a radical alteration indefinitely. She felt herself shifting back toward her original nature, though something essential remained changed—a spark of deeper understanding, a memory of what it meant to touch the fundamental forces of creation.

The vision began to dissolve as gentle pressure guided it back into shadow. Solas's touch, unrecognized but inexorable, carefully obscured the implications while preserving the wonder. But not before she understood the terrible truth: she had been the first. The first spirit to receive Titan blood and corporeal form. Her transformation had been witnessed, studied, eventually replicated by beings with far darker intentions than simple healing.

Rook gasped, finding herself back in the Oracle's chamber with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hand moved unconsciously to her throat, where she could almost feel the ghost of feathers that had once been. The blue light seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat, and somewhere in the depths of her mind, she could hear the faint echo of raven song.

I was raven. I was healed. I was changed. The knowledge settled in her bones like truth too fundamental to deny. And in witnessing my healing, they learned how to steal what was never meant to be taken.

But even as the understanding crystallized, she felt it being drawn away like tide retreating from shore. Gentle hands—familiar yet unrecognizable—guided the knowledge back into safer darkness. The vision fractured, scattered, leaving only fragments too small to hold meaning. The echo of ancient music faded until all that remained was the aching sense that something precious had been lost.

Confusion crashed over her as the last wisps of memory dissolved. Why was she crying? The tears felt foreign on her cheeks, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. Her magic still hummed with strange contentment, but the reason eluded her completely. Something about the chamber felt significant, but the knowledge slipped away each time she tried to grasp it.

A presence lingered at the edges of her consciousness—not threatening, but undeniably there. Solas. But why could she sense him so clearly here? Why did his nearness feel like both comfort and violation? The questions formed and dissolved before she could examine them properly, leaving only vague unease.

She blinked hard, forcing her attention back to the present moment. Harding stood before the Oracle with hands pressed to her chest, her face radiant with understanding that Rook somehow envied. The scout's connection to this place was obvious, written in every line of her posture, every breath she took in rhythm with the ancient stones.

"Isatunoll," Harding breathed, and the word resonated through the chamber like coming home. "The Song."

The Oracle's massive form shifted slightly, ancient attention focusing on the dwarf with something approaching approval. "When the Titans fell, we woke, but the melody was already lost."

"The dwarves," Harding whispered, pieces clicking into place with audible precision.

"We were always just shattered fragments of a greater whole." The Oracle's voice carried infinite sadness wrapped in acceptance. "But you remember. The stone speaks to you as it once spoke to all our people."

Rook wiped at her cheeks, still bewildered by tears she couldn't explain. Something important had just happened—she could feel the weight of it settling in her chest—but the details remained frustratingly beyond reach. Only the Oracle's words anchored her: fragments of a greater whole, melodies lost and found, connections that transcended the boundaries between flesh and stone.

Whatever she'd forgotten, whatever Solas had deemed too dangerous to remember, it didn't matter now. What mattered was Harding's journey, the answers she'd come so far to find, and the music that still echoed faintly in the space between heartbeats.

Harding stepped closer to the Oracle, her voice carrying desperate need. "The Stone sense... my magic. It's Titan magic. But why? Why did this happen? Why do I remember Isatunoll? What happened to the Titans?"

The Oracle's massive form shifted, ancient wisdom weighing each word before speaking. "The Titans sang the world into being, and when they—"

A sound cut through the sacred chamber that made every soul present recoil in instinctive terror. Not the gentle music of creation, but something harsh and discordant—the grinding of stone against stone, the groaning of earth in torment. It was the sound of mountains being torn apart, of foundations cracking under impossible pressure.

Dust rained from the ceiling as the chamber shook, and in that dust Rook could taste something wrong. Something angry. Something that had been sleeping in the deep places and had awakened to find intruders in its domain.

The Oracle's glowing eyes dimmed momentarily, ancient attention turning inward as if listening to voices only she could hear. When her gaze returned to them, it carried urgency that had not been there moments before.

"There is something else here," the Oracle's voice resonated with warning. "It has found you."

The grinding sound intensified, and through the chamber's entrance came things that should not exist. The creature that led them defied every natural law—stone given malevolent life, fury made manifest in granite and rage. Its form shifted constantly, boulders rearranging themselves into new configurations of threat, eyes that burned with the same blue light as the Oracle's stones but twisted into something hungry and hateful.

Behind it scuttled smaller horrors—deepstrikers with shells like broken armor, their movements too quick and too wrong for creatures that should be bound by the laws of physics. They moved in perfect coordination with the stone monster, as if sharing some terrible common purpose.

"The Wrath of the Stone," Stalgard breathed, his voice carrying the particular terror of someone who had grown up on stories of such creatures. "It should be sleeping. They all should be sleeping."

But there was no time for explanation, no moment for understanding. The creatures surged forward with malevolent purpose, and Rook found herself moving on pure instinct. Lightning crackled from her fingers, meeting stone with fury that lit the chamber in stark relief. Beside her, Taash roared challenge while their flames met the Wrath's assault, and Harding's arrows sang through air thick with ancient anger.

The battle was chaos incarnate—magic against malevolence, flesh against animated stone, the desperate fury of mortals against creatures that had slept since the world was young. Each blow struck against the Wrath sent shockwaves through the chamber, while the deepstrikers darted between their legs like living nightmares seeking vulnerable flesh.

When the last creature fell and silence returned to the Oracle's chamber, they found themselves gasping for air that tasted of ozone and old blood. The sacred space had been violated, its peace shattered by violence that left scars in the ancient stone.

They retreated to the Oracle's presence, seeking answers in her ageless wisdom.

"Did you feel it?" the Oracle asked, her voice carrying notes of sorrow that made the chamber itself seem to weep. "Fury. Such fury. And with you as its mark."

Harding's face went pale as understanding bloomed. "Me? But why?"

Rook stepped forward, her voice carrying fierce protectiveness despite her own confusion about what had just transpired. "Hey, we can handle anything that comes our way."

The Oracle's attention settled on Harding with the weight of geological ages. "There are horrors in the depths. They awaken to you now. Look within you for answers, and beware."

The blue light in the Oracle's eyes began to fade, ancient consciousness retreating back into whatever dreams sustained beings older than civilization.

"Wait!" Harding lunged forward, desperation painting her features. "I have more questions!"

But the light died completely, leaving only carved stone where moments before had stood living wisdom.

Stalgard's voice cut through Harding's distress with dry resignation. "She does that. Riddles. Riddles. Riddles. Oh, I'm a rock."

"But those weren't answers!" Harding's voice pitched higher with frustration that had been building since they'd entered the Deep Roads. "She gave me nothing! Come back!" She stepped toward the statue, hands reaching as if she could physically drag consciousness back into stone. "Make her come back!"

Power erupted from Harding like pressure escaping from a sealed vessel. Her eyes blazed with blue-purple light that matched the Oracle's faded radiance, and magic swirled around her in patterns that made the very air seem to crystallize. Stone dust rose from the floor, responding to her fury, while the chamber itself seemed to pulse in rhythm with her anger.

"Harding!" Rook called, but the scout was lost in rage and desperation, power flowing through her in ways that spoke of connections too deep and too dangerous to fully comprehend.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm passed. Harding's eyes cleared, the light fading as she stumbled backward, looking as stunned as if she'd awakened from a dream. The magic settled around them like dust, leaving only the echo of power and the taste of stone on the air.

"I'm sorry," Harding whispered, her voice small and lost. "I don't know what... I didn't mean to..."

Stalgard cleared his throat, the sound carrying diplomatic weight. "Perhaps it would be wise to return to the surface. The deep places have been... unsettled by today's events."

As they prepared to leave the Oracle's chamber, Rook found herself looking back at the silent statue. Something had been revealed here, something important that she couldn't quite grasp. The answers they'd come seeking felt more distant than ever, buried beneath layers of mystery and manipulation she was only beginning to understand.

But one thing was certain: Harding's journey into her own nature had only just begun, and the forces awakening in response to her power would not be content to sleep much longer.

The song of the Titans might be broken, but its echoes still had the power to shake the foundations of the world.

But even as the memory reached its crescendo, she felt it being pulled away. Gentle hands—Solas's touch, though she could not recognize it—guided the knowledge back into safer darkness. The vision fractured, scattered, leaving only the aching sense of loss and the echo of music that had once moved worlds.

Rook gasped, finding herself back in the Oracle's chamber with tears streaming down her cheeks. The blue light seemed dimmer now, or perhaps her eyes had been opened to illuminations that made all other radiance pale by comparison. Her magic hummed beneath her skin—not with the violent recognition of blood calling to blood, but with the deep contentment of finding a missing piece of herself.

I was there. I was part of it. The knowledge remained despite Solas's interference, too fundamental to be completely erased. I carried their song.

"Isatunoll," Harding breathed, and Rook understood that the scout had felt something similar—perhaps not the same vision, but an awakening nonetheless. "The Song."

The Oracle's ancient gaze encompassed them both. "When the Titans fell, we woke, but the melody was already lost."

"The dwarves," Harding whispered, understanding blooming across her features like sunrise.

"We were always just shattered fragments of a greater whole." The Oracle's voice carried infinite sadness wrapped in acceptance. "But you... you remember. Both of you, in different ways."

Rook's hand moved to her chest without conscious thought, feeling for the echo of music that lived beneath her ribs. Something vast had been lost, something precious beyond measure. But here, in this sacred space, surrounded by the last remnants of the Titans' glory, she could almost hear it again—the song that had created worlds and would, perhaps, create them again.

Chapter Text

The eluvian's familiar shimmer welcomed them back to the lighthouse like an old friend, its crystalline surface rippling with the promise of safety and warmth. As they stepped through, Rook felt her entire body sag with relief so profound it nearly brought her to her knees. The oppressive weight of stone and shadow that had pressed against her consciousness for days finally lifted, replaced by the lighthouse's impossible architecture and gentle, ever-present light.

Every muscle in her body ached with the particular soreness that came from sleeping on stone floors and constant vigilance. Her back protested each movement, shoulders knotted with tension that wouldn't ease even now that they were home. The Deep Roads had left their mark on her—not just physical exhaustion, but the bone-deep weariness that came from fighting her own fears every step of the way.

But they were out. They were safe. And the familiar scent of the lighthouse—old parchment and something faintly magical that reminded her of distant storms—filled her lungs like the first breath after nearly drowning.

"Thank the Maker," she breathed, leaning heavily against the eluvian's frame as her legs threatened to give out completely. "I thought we'd never see sunlight again."

Though calling it sunlight was generous—the lighthouse existed in its own pocket of reality where time flowed differently and illumination came from sources that defied natural law. Still, it was their light, their impossible sanctuary, and after days in the crushing darkness of ancient tunnels, it felt like coming home.

Harding moved past her with the efficient grace of someone whose exhaustion ran deeper than mere physical fatigue. The scout's face carried new lines of worry, her eyes holding the distant look of someone processing revelations too large to fully comprehend. The Oracle's words had shaken her to her core—all those cryptic hints about Titans and songs and fragments of a greater whole.

Rook started to follow, intending to walk with her friend back to her quarters, to offer whatever comfort she could after such a traumatic revelation. But she stopped short when she noticed the way Taash fell into step beside Harding, their massive frame somehow managing to look both protective and uncertain.

The dragon hunter leaned down to whisper something in Harding's ear, their voice too low for Rook to catch. Whatever they said made Harding's shoulders relax fractionally, though her response was equally quiet. They moved together like people sharing secrets too precious or too fragile to risk in the open air.

Another whispered exchange followed, Taash's hand hovering near Harding's elbow without quite touching—the careful distance of someone who'd learned that their touch could cause harm. Harding's reply carried a note of something that might have been fondness despite the exhaustion that weighted her every step.

Watching them navigate this new reality—love complicated by magic that made physical contact dangerous—made Rook's chest ache with recognition. She knew what it felt like to want comfort you couldn't safely take, to have your body betray you at the worst possible moments. They needed this time together, needed to figure out how to be close when closeness itself had become a weapon.

With a small smile that carried more weariness than happiness, Rook turned away from their quiet conversation and headed toward her own quarters. Her muscles protested every step, but the thought of finally settling into her own space—surrounded by familiar books and blessed silence—gave her the strength to keep moving.

The letters. The thought struck her with sudden urgency as she remembered the stack of correspondence Manfred had brought her that morning. It felt like a lifetime ago, though only days had passed since she'd sat in her bed sorting through familiar handwriting. Dorian's letter still waited, unread, along with all the others that had slipped forgotten from her fingers when Harding had burst in with news of their Deep Roads expedition.

Now, finally, she could read them properly. Could lose herself in gossip from Tevinter and updates from old friends, could remember what it felt like to exist in a world where the most pressing concern might be palace intrigue rather than ancient gods and Titan magic.

Her door creaked open to reveal a sight that made her pause—Assan curled up in the center of her bed, his feathers ruffled from sleep and his beak tucked beneath one wing. The young griffon had claimed her space with the confidence of someone who belonged there, though his presence meant Davrin couldn't be far. She'd have to ask him about that later.

Moving with exaggerated care to avoid waking her unexpected guest, Rook eased the door closed behind her and crept toward the scattered correspondence that still lay where she'd left it. Her travel-stained clothes felt heavy and gritty against her skin, but disturbing Assan's peaceful slumber seemed like a greater crime than sleeping in dirt from the Deep Roads.

The letters rustled softly as she gathered them with hands that still shook slightly from exhaustion. The Pavus family seal caught the lighthouse's ambient light, promising wit and warmth from someone who'd never let a little thing like the end of the world interfere with a perfectly crafted insult.

Settling carefully onto the edge of her bed, far enough from Assan to avoid jostling him but close enough to use his warmth as comfort, Rook finally had what she'd been craving for days—silence, safety, and the simple pleasure of reading words meant just for her.

The Pavus family seal cracked under gentle pressure, revealing Dorian's characteristic script sprawled across expensive Tevinter parchment. Even before reading a word, she could practically hear his voice in the way he'd shaped each letter with careless elegance.

My dearest Rook,

I must begin with the most abject apologies for my silence these past weeks. Between the chaos of rebuilding half my city and certain urgent... financial reallocations to our mutual friends in the shadows, correspondence became rather secondary to survival. Though I suspect you've been equally preoccupied with saving the world—again. Really, darling, your timing is impeccable. Just when I thought Tevinter politics couldn't become more dramatic, ancient gods decide to redecorate Minrathous with dragon fire.

Yes, I was here when it happened. Standing in my study, actually, reviewing some perfectly boring Magisterium proposals when the sky literally caught fire. I've experienced many things in my life, but watching a blighted dragon tear through the Archon's Palace like it was made of parchment ranks among the more memorable. The view from my estate was... educational. Nothing quite prepares one for the sound an entire district makes when it's being eaten by corruption.

Mae survived, thank the Maker—though she's been insufferably smug about her emergency preparations proving worthwhile. She's currently treating Viper's condition with the same stubborn determination she once applied to Magisterium reform. Her letters regarding his care have become increasingly creative in their medical terminology. Apparently, 'ancient Tevinter healing methods' require both specialized herbs and lengthy lectures about strategic positioning during dragon attacks. I suspect she enjoys having a captive audience for her theories.

Speaking of our masked friend—the emergency funds I've released for reconstruction are flowing through Shadow Dragon channels as we discussed. The organization has proven remarkably efficient at redirecting resources where they're most needed. Viper's network remained intact despite the devastation, which speaks to both his planning and the loyalty he inspires. Though Mae warns the blight infection is progressing, she remains optimistic about slowing its advance. Her exact words were 'I've seen worse odds in the Senate,' which from her constitutes practically giddy confidence.

I've also heard disturbing whispers about your own struggles since the attacks. Mae mentioned observing certain... familiar patterns during your recent visit. Darling, I know the allure of old methods when faced with impossible circumstances. The blood sings sweetest when we're most desperate, doesn't it? But you've come too far to let ancient hungers reclaim what you've built. Power taken freely is always stronger than power stolen—remember that when the whispers grow loud.

You are not the frightened thing I first met in those Shadow Dragon safe houses. You are not defined by what was done to you, or what you were forced to do. The magic you've learned, the bonds you've forged, the person you've become—that is your truth. Hold fast to it, even when the darkness promises easier paths.

Write when you can. These times demand we hold our people close, and you, my dear, are certainly people worth holding onto.

With deep affection and unwavering faith in your strength,

Dorian

P.S. - I've enclosed emergency funds and a protective charm from my personal collection. The coin is for the Shadow Dragons—Mae's medical supplies don't pay for themselves. The charm is for you. Try not to test its limits by wrestling any more primordial forces of evil this week.

Despite the exhaustion weighing down her limbs, Rook found herself smiling as she traced the elegant script. Trust Dorian to make funding a resistance movement sound like a minor inconvenience compared to Senate taxation debates. The warmth in his words—beneath all the wit and theatrical complaining—reminded her why his friendship had meant so much during those early, uncertain days with Varric.

A small wrapped package had indeed been tucked behind the letter, no larger than her palm but radiating a subtle warmth that spoke of protective enchantments. The gesture made something tight in her chest loosen—proof that even separated by distance and duty, some people still cared enough to worry about her wellbeing.

She set Dorian's letter aside carefully and reached for the others, but paused as she realized something odd. Varric—who usually received more correspondence than anyone else at the lighthouse, letters from contacts across Thedas, publishers clamoring for his next serial, old friends checking in—had received nothing. Not a single envelope bore his familiar name.

The thought should have worried her, but instead a gentle smile tugged at her lips. He needed rest, needed peace after everything they'd been through. Perhaps it was better this way—no urgent messages demanding his attention, no crises requiring the steady wisdom he always provided. Let him sleep, let him heal, let the world turn without requiring his constant guidance for once.

A knock at her door made both her and Assan's head snap up. The young griffon immediately began chirping with delight, his entire body wiggling with excitement as he recognized whoever stood beyond the wood.

"Come in," she called softly, not wanting to disturb Assan's happiness but curious about who would visit at this hour.

The door opened to reveal Davrin, and Rook's words died in her throat. He stood in her doorway shirtless, a towel draped casually around his neck, his dark skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. His chest rose and fell with the controlled breathing of someone who'd just finished an intense training session, muscles still flushed from exertion. Water droplets caught the lighthouse's ambient light along the defined lines of his shoulders and chest, evidence of either a workout or a much-needed wash after their return from the Deep Roads.

Her eyes traced the familiar scars that mapped stories across his torso before she could stop herself—the precise mark of a darkspawn claw along his ribs, the older wound from some long-ago battle that had healed into a pale line across his collarbone. Heat crept up her neck as she realized she was staring, but Maker help her, Davrin had always carried himself with that unconscious confidence that made even breathing feel like a privilege.

"Well," he said, that warm smile spreading across his features as he caught her appreciative gaze, "finally returned. Feeling better?"

Assan's ecstatic chirping filled the room as the griffon practically launched himself from the bed, wings half-spread in pure joy as he bounded toward his bonded partner. His obvious delight at seeing Davrin again was infectious, making the awkwardness of the moment dissolve into something warmer, more natural.

"Assan!" Rook laughed, finally finding her voice as the griffon performed what could only be described as a victory dance around Davrin's legs. "I think he missed you."

"The feeling is entirely mutual," Davrin replied, reaching down to scratch behind the griffon's head with practiced familiarity. "Though I admit, I wasn't expecting to find him claiming your bed as his own territory."

Rook began gathering the scattered correspondence, smoothing out wrinkles as her eyes kept drifting back to Davrin's form. Each time their gazes met, heat crept up her neck—memories of their time together mixing with the simple appreciation of watching him move with that unconscious grace he'd always possessed.

"I'm better," she said softly, fingers tracing the edge of Dorian's letter as she organized the others. "The Deep Roads were... challenging. But we made it through."

Davrin nodded, though his attention seemed split between containing Assan's enthusiasm and studying her with that careful concern she'd grown used to. The griffon was making increasingly creative attempts to climb his bonded partner, wings fluttering with pure joy at their reunion.

"Down, you overgrown bird," Davrin said with fond exasperation, though his hands were gentle as he guided Assan back to the floor. "Yes, I missed you too, but that's no excuse for acrobatics."

A comfortable silence settled between them as Rook continued organizing her letters and Davrin worked to calm his exuberant companion. But there was something in his posture, in the way he kept glancing at her, that suggested deeper currents beneath the surface pleasantries.

"So," he said finally, his tone carefully casual, "how are things with Lucanis? After the other night?"

Rook's hands stilled on the correspondence, memories flooding back—the weight of the wayvern tooth dagger in her palm, the way his eyes had widened in genuine shock when she'd unwrapped it. The reverent care with which he'd traced its deadly curve, his voice thick with emotion as he'd spoken of his grandmother's restrictions. The unexpected intimacy of shared stories by firelight, of trust offered despite everything that lay between them. Of purple-tinged eyes and careful touches that spoke of possibilities neither quite dared name.

"The other night?" she asked, though she knew exactly what he meant. Her fingers traced the edge of Dorian's parchment as heat bloomed in her cheeks.

"When you gave him the wayvern tooth dagger," Davrin clarified, his voice carrying that particular gentleness he used when treading carefully. "You were both... different when you returned. Softer, somehow."

A flutter of warmth settled in Rook's chest as she considered Davrin's question, the memories of that night with Lucanis painting themselves in softer hues. Things feel... settled, she thought, allowing herself a small smile. Like we've finally found our footing with each other. The wayvern tooth dagger had been more than a gift—it had been a bridge across the careful distance they'd maintained, a gesture that spoke of understanding and acceptance.

"We're good," she said softly, her fingers still tracing the edge of Dorian's letter. "Better than we've been in a while, actually. That night was... important."

Davrin's expression softened with something that might have been relief. "I'm glad. You both deserve—"

The words fractured as something shifted behind Rook's eyes, the lighthouse's warm light suddenly feeling too bright, too harsh. A memory that wasn't quite a memory flickered through her consciousness—wind beneath wings that weren't wings, the world spread out below in a tapestry of forest and stone. The sensation of flight, of freedom, of being something wild and untethered.

Raven, her mind whispered, though she couldn't grasp why that single word carried such weight, such terrible familiarity.

Then came the cold.

It started as a whisper along her spine, creeping upward like frost claiming glass. The lighthouse's warmth fled before it, leaving her sitting rigid on her bed as something ancient and patient pressed against the edges of her consciousness. Not invasive—not yet—but present, watchful, waiting with the infinite patience of mountains.

You won't remember.

The voice that wasn't a voice made her magic recoil, every instinct screaming danger even as her rational mind struggled to understand what was happening. Solas. His presence settled around her like winter fog, carrying the weight of eons and the particular sadness that seemed to define him.

"Rook?" Davrin's voice sounded distant, muffled, as if he were speaking from across a vast chasm. "What's wrong?"

She tried to respond, but the cold had crept into her skull, pressing against her temples with steady, relentless pressure. The headache built like storm clouds, each pulse bringing flashes of that impossible flight, of seeing the world through eyes that weren't human.

Why? she managed to think, directing the question toward that patient presence. What do you want?

But Solas didn't answer. His attention simply... lingered, as if cataloguing something important before withdrawing as quietly as he'd arrived. The cold receded, leaving her gasping and disoriented, one hand pressed to her throbbing temple.

"Rook!" Davrin was beside her in an instant, Assan forgotten as he reached out to steady her. "Talk to me. What happened?"

Before she could answer, before she could even try to explain the inexplicable, her door burst open with enough force to rattle the frame. Harding stumbled through, her face flushed with exertion and something that looked dangerously close to panic. Behind her, another dwarf—unfamiliar, younger, his clothes still bearing the dust of hard travel.

"Rook!" Harding's voice cracked with urgency. "We need to go. Now."

The young dwarf behind her was breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he'd run a marathon. Which, Rook realized with growing dread, he probably had. The Crossroads weren't kind to those unfamiliar with their shifting paths, and the look in his eyes spoke of someone who'd pushed himself beyond normal limits.

"They took them," the stranger gasped, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "Stalguard, Yorven, half the mining crew. Just... gone."

"Darkspawn," Harding confirmed, her knuckles white where she gripped her bow. "They've gotten organized down there. More organized than we've ever seen. They're taking prisoners instead of just killing."

The word hit Rook like a physical blow, making her magic curl tight and defensive beneath her skin. Deep Roads. After everything they'd just endured, after finally finding safety and warmth and the simple pleasure of reading letters from friends, the universe was demanding she return to that crushing darkness.

A sound escaped her throat—part growl, part snarl of pure frustration. The letters scattered from her lap as she stood, her body moving with the coiled tension of someone pushed beyond their breaking point.

"No," she said, the word sharp enough to cut. "Absolutely not. We just got back. We barely survived the last time, and now you want us to—"

"Rook." Harding's voice carried the weight of command, of someone who'd made impossible decisions and lived with the consequences. "I know. I know what I'm asking. But Stalguard saved my life down there. He saved all our lives. And if the darkspawn are taking prisoners..."

She didn't need to finish. They all knew what darkspawn did to prisoners. The corruption, the transformation, the slow dissolution of everything that made someone human. It was a fate worse than death, and they all knew it.

The young dwarf straightened despite his exhaustion, something fierce burning in his eyes. "They're my people," he said simply. "My family. I'll go alone if I have to, but—"

"You won't make it past the first tunnel," Davrin said quietly, though not unkindly. "Not alone."

Rook closed her eyes, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders like a familiar burden. The lighthouse's warmth, the letters, the promise of rest and recovery—all of it slipping away like water through her fingers. But beneath the frustration, beneath the bone-deep weariness, something else stirred. The same thing that had driven her to pick up a staff in the first place, that had made her stand against impossible odds time and again.

They're counting on you, a voice whispered in her mind—not Solas this time, but her own conscience. They always are.

When she opened her eyes, Davrin was watching her with that careful understanding he'd always possessed, while Harding waited with the patience of someone who already knew what the answer would be. The young dwarf simply stood there, hope and desperation warring in his expression.

"How long do we have?" Rook asked, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest.

"Every hour we wait..." Harding shook her head. "You know what happens to people down there. Every hour matters."

Rook nodded, already reaching for her staff where it leaned against the wall. The familiar weight settled against her palm like an old friend, magic humming through the wood in response to her touch. Assan chirped uncertainly from his corner, sensing the shift in the room's energy.

"Give me five minutes to gather my gear," she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "Then we go save some dwarves from the dark."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

ᚨ∘₊✧──❋ 𖤍 ❋──✧₊∘ᚨ

The silence stretched between them like a bridge neither knew how to cross. Rook's fingers trembled against the ancient stone, her copper hair catching what little light filtered through the Deep Roads' eternal gloom. The weight of the Titan's words hung heavy in the air, but it was the weight of her own confusion that threatened to crush her.

"I don't know who she really is," Rook whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant drip of water somewhere in the darkness. Her eyes remained fixed on Harding's face, searching for something—understanding, maybe, or just the comfort of not being alone with this terrible uncertainty. "I don't know what that was, or if it's some past life, or... whatever it is."

Her magic coiled tight beneath her skin, responding to emotions she couldn't name. "All I know is that it's not me. It's not my life, not my memories." Her voice cracked slightly. "And every time some random memory surfaces that doesn't belong to me, Solas shows up. Like he's... watching. Waiting for something."

The fractures in her sense of self ran deeper than any wound she'd ever sustained, Rook thought, the realization settling into her bones like winter cold. How do you fight an enemy that lives inside your own mind, wearing faces you don't recognize but somehow know?

Harding's expression softened, the frustration from the Titan's riddles melting into something warmer, more protective. She stepped closer, her own newfound connection to stone magic making the air around them feel more solid, more grounded. She understands, Rook realized with a rush of gratitude. She knows what it's like to have your entire understanding of yourself shattered in a single moment.

"This has all been so intense," Harding said gently, reaching out to pull Rook into a hug that smelled of earth and home and safety. Her arms wrapped around her friend with the kind of fierce protectiveness that had made her a legendary scout. "We should go home."

Rook melted into the embrace, allowing herself this moment of vulnerability—of being held by someone who understood that sometimes the weight of ancient mysteries was too much for one person to carry. Her copper waves fell forward as she nodded against Harding's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and determination that had always meant safety.

"Yeah," she managed, her voice muffled against warm fabric. "Let's go home."

Together, they turned away from the Titan's chamber and its lingering echoes of prophecy and power. Their footsteps echoed through the ancient corridors as they made their way back toward the surface, toward the lighthouse and the family that waited for them there. Home, Rook thought, testing the word like a prayer. When had that word stopped meaning chains and started meaning chosen family?

Behind them, the Deep Roads kept their secrets, but ahead lay the promise of warm beds and Lucanis's coffee and the simple comfort of belonging somewhere. The darkness couldn't follow them home—not when they carried their own light within them, kindled by friendship and fierce loyalty and the stubborn refusal to face the end of the world alone.

Rook looked up from her half-finished reports, that satisfied smirk still playing at the corners of her mouth. "Varric told me that Dorian punched Solas once..." She paused, savoring the mental image all over again. "Was it really just once?"

Harding's laughter bubbled up like spring water, bright and genuine in the lighthouse's quiet spaces. The sound transformed her entire face, erasing the weight of recent revelations and replacing it with something lighter, more human. When was the last time either of us laughed like that? Rook wondered, feeling her own smile broaden in response.

The moment of levity shattered as Bellara burst through the door with characteristic energy, practically vibrating with excitement. Her satchel bounced against her hip as she approached their table, eyes bright with the particular enthusiasm that meant she'd found something fascinating to investigate.

"Rook! I need your help," Bellara announced, barely pausing to acknowledge the scattered reports covering their workspace. "Irelin and Strife sent word—some artifacts they have in safekeeping are acting up. They wondered if you could come along and take a look."

Rook's gaze drifted to the unfinished paperwork spread before her, then back to Harding's face. The weight of documentation felt suddenly oppressive compared to the promise of hands-on magical investigation.

Harding caught her expression and smiled—soft, knowing, carrying all the understanding of someone who'd spent years balancing duty with necessity. "I have the reports covered," she said gently, already reaching for Rook's abandoned quill. "Go."

The permission felt like a gift, removing the guilt that had been building in her chest. Before Rook could respond, Emmrich's measured footsteps echoed from the direction of the kitchen, his scholarly robes rustling with each deliberate movement as he approached their impromptu war council.

"Emmrich," Rook called out, struck by sudden inspiration. "Want to come along? Magical artifacts behaving strangely—seems like it might be right up your alley."

Bellara practically danced on her toes, excitement radiating from every line of her body as she turned toward the necromancer. Her hands gestured animatedly, already painting pictures of the mysteries they might uncover together.

Emmrich paused in his tea preparation, considering the proposition with the kind of careful deliberation that had made him legendary among Mourn Watch scholars. "Anything to enhance my studies of such artifacts," he said finally, his cultured voice carrying notes of genuine academic hunger. "The intersection of ancient magic and contemporary manifestation has always fascinated me."

"Perfect," Rook said, already pushing back from the table. "I'll meet you both at the eluvian in an hour." Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, gathering scattered reports into neat stacks, organizing the chaos of their documentation into something Harding could navigate without confusion.

Bellara practically bounced toward the door, her excitement barely contained as she began planning aloud what supplies they might need. Emmrich followed with more measured steps. Their voices faded as they disappeared into the lighthouse's winding corridors, leaving behind only the echo of anticipation.

The silence that followed felt weighted with unfinished conversations. Rook's fingers lingered on the edge of her final report, copper hair falling forward as she studied Harding's patient expression. Some promises are easier to make than others, she thought, feeling the gravity of everything left unsaid between them.

"Once I get answers," she said quietly, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested, "or know anything..." The sentence hung incomplete, but its meaning stretched clear as morning light between them.

Harding's smile held understanding earned through years of reading between lines and navigating the spaces where words failed. "I know," she said softly. "I know you'll tell me." Her fingers drummed against the table's wooden surface, a nervous habit that betrayed deeper concerns. "But I wonder... do you think Solas would tell you anything? Or is he hiding information from you too?"

The question struck closer to her fears than Rook had expected. How do you admit that the ancient god in your dreams might be playing games with information that could reshape your entire understanding of yourself? The possibility felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble beneath her feet.

"I need you to have Neve do more research on my background," Rook said, the request emerging with sudden clarity. "But don't tell her anything about... about my past. Let her approach it fresh, see what she and you can uncover on your own." Her magic stirred beneath her skin, responding to the vulnerability of asking for help with something so fundamentally personal.

Harding nodded, already mentally cataloging the resources they'd need, the contacts they could leverage. "What about Tarquin?" she asked, the name carrying significance between them. "Viper's right-hand—he's the only one who really knows about your past, isn't he?"

The mention of Tarquin brought memories rushing back—careful conversations, shared secrets, the weight of trust exchanged in shadow dragon safe houses. He knows things about me that I don't even know about myself, Rook realized with a mixture of gratitude and unease. And he's kept them secret all this time.

"Go to him," she said finally, each word deliberate as stone. "See what you and Neve can find out." Her eyes met Harding's, holding steady despite the fear coiling in her chest. "I need answers, Harding. Real ones. Not riddles from Titans or silence from ancient gods." Her voice carried the edge of someone who'd reached the limits of patience, who was ready to tear apart mysteries with her bare hands if necessary.

Chapter Text

The Crossroads had become almost effortless to navigate, their crystalline pathways yielding to familiarity like well-worn roads. When did the impossible become routine? Rook wondered as they emerged into the dappled sunlight of Arlathan Forest, stepping into a camp where several Veil Jumpers had gathered among the towering trees. The transition from ethereal crystal to living wood felt like stepping between worlds—which, she supposed, was exactly what they were doing.

Four Veil Jumpers waited in the camp's organized chaos, their forms relaxed but alert. Rook recognized Strife immediately, his characteristic vigilance evident as his eyes constantly scanned their surroundings for threats both mundane and mystical. Irelin stepped forward with the quiet authority that had made her invaluable to their operations, her expression mixing relief with concern.

"Thank you for coming," Irelin said, though her gaze lingered on the subtle wrongness that seemed to permeate the very air around them. "The artifacts started acting up three days ago. Nothing violent, but... unsettling."

A weathered woman with steel-gray hair nodded grimly from her position near the supply tent, while a younger man with easy features maintained watchful silence. More Veil Jumpers I haven't met, Rook noted, recognizing the signs of carefully controlled concern in their bearing.

Bellara transformed before their eyes, scholarly enthusiasm yielding to something harder, more focused. Her voice carried new authority as she began organizing their approach with military precision. "We split into teams," she announced, every word deliberate and commanding. "Yenrel and Hamuel, check the perimeter alignments. Strife and Irelin, assess safety protocols and establish fallback positions."

This is new, Rook realized, watching her friend take command with unexpected competence. Good to see her being so careful about this. The weight of responsibility sat visibly on Bellara's shoulders, but she carried it with natural grace.

"No one approaches the vault alone," Bellara continued, her eyes finding each team member in turn. "No unnecessary risks, no heroic gestures. If something feels wrong, we retreat and reassess."

The woman Bellara had called Yenrel shifted impatiently, her weathered features twisting into skeptical lines. "This seems like an overreaction," she said bluntly. "The artifacts are just... humming a bit louder than usual. Nothing we haven't handled before."

Bellara's expression hardened, her voice taking on an edge that brooked no argument. "We're not taking chances. Period." The authority in her tone surprised even Rook—this wasn't the enthusiastic scholar who got excited about ancient elven theory. This was someone who understood that lives depended on her decisions. "These protocols exist for a reason, and we're following them."

Yenrel opened her mouth as if to argue further, but something in Bellara's unwavering stare made her reconsider. She nodded curtly and moved toward her assigned partner.

The teams dispersed with practiced efficiency, leaving Rook, Bellara, and Emmrich to approach the artifact vault. The structure itself seemed to pulse with barely contained energy, ancient stonework humming with power that made the air itself feel thick and strange.

Emmrich paused at the threshold, his curiosity warring with genuine concern. "The magical resonance is... extraordinary," he murmured, though something in his tone suggested that extraordinary might not be entirely positive in this context. "I've never encountered anything quite like this confluence of energies."

The moment they crossed into the vault's shadowed interior, Bellara moved to Emmrich's side with fluid precision, her entire demeanor shifting into something that resembled protective mentorship. The transformation was so immediate, so complete, that Rook found herself pausing to watch the unexpected dynamic unfold.

"This one's from the Fourth Age," Bellara explained as Emmrich approached a delicate crystal formation, her hand gently guiding his attention away from direct contact. "The resonance patterns can be... unpredictable when touched directly." Her voice carried the patient authority of someone who'd learned these lessons through experience rather than theory.

Emmrich nodded with scholarly deference, clearly recognizing expertise when he encountered it. How fascinating, Rook thought, observing the way the necromancer—so confident in his own domain—yielded to Bellara's guidance without any trace of wounded pride. He knows exactly who the real expert is here.

They moved deeper into the vault, Bellara continuing her careful choreography of education and redirection. When Emmrich's natural curiosity drew him toward an ornate mirror that seemed to shimmer with its own light, Bellara was there immediately, her presence subtle but unmistakable.

"The reflective properties can cause temporal displacement if you look too long," she said conversationally, positioning herself between Emmrich and the artifact with the casual grace of someone who'd done this dance many times before. "We've learned to approach these particular pieces from the side."

She's protecting him, Rook realized with growing amusement, and he's letting her. Not because he doesn't understand the danger, but because he trusts her judgment completely. The sight of Mourn Watch expertise deferring to Veil Jumper wisdom struck her as both endearing and oddly touching.

A soft giggle escaped her throat as she watched Bellara gently redirect Emmrich away from a seemingly innocuous statuette, her explanations flowing with the kind of patient instruction usually reserved for beloved students. The reversal of their usual dynamic—the ancient death magic scholar following the guidance of the enthusiastic artifact specialist—felt like watching a carefully choreographed dance where both partners knew their roles perfectly.

But their progression through the vault's carefully organized chaos came to an abrupt halt before a massive crystal that dominated the chamber's far end. The artifact rose from the stone floor like a captured star, its faceted surface pulsing with light that seemed to breathe in rhythm with something vast and unknowable.

This is what's been causing the disturbances, Rook understood immediately, feeling her magic respond to the crystal's call with uncomfortable recognition. The air around the artifact felt thick, almost viscous, as if reality itself had become unstable in its immediate vicinity.

"This," Bellara said quietly, her earlier confidence replaced by something closer to reverence mixed with concern, "is what we need your help with."

Chapter Text

Bellara approached the nearest prison, her hands hovering just outside the energy field as she studied its construction with expert eyes. "Maybe," she said finally. "But if I'm wrong about the release mechanism, we could end up killing them ourselves."

The sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber—slow, deliberate, carrying a rhythm that seemed both familiar and impossible. All three of them turned toward the entrance, weapons ready, magic crackling at fingertips as a figure emerged from the shadows.

Bellara's gasp cut through the silence like a blade through silk. The figure approaching them had her eyes, her nose, the same delicate bone structure that marked him as unmistakably elven. But there was something wrong with the way he moved, something in his expression that spoke of corruption that ran deeper than flesh.

"Cyrian." Bellara's voice broke on his name, the single word carrying years of grief and guilt. "You're dead."

"No," he replied, his voice carrying notes that were both beloved and utterly alien. "Nothing could be further from the truth. He delivered me. As he will deliver us all."

Confused glances passed between Rook and Lucanis as they tried to process this impossible reunion. He's supposed to be dead, Rook thought, her magic coiling tight with protective instinct. She watched him die. So what is this thing wearing his face?

"Who?" Bellara asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Who delivered you? Cyrian, what happened to you?"

Before her brother could answer, another figure materialized from the shadows—not emerging from the passages like Cyrian had, but simply appearing as if reality had bent around his presence. The moment Rook's eyes fell upon him, ice flooded her veins and her breath caught in her throat.

He was beautiful in the way that ancient elven magic was beautiful—terrible, perfect, and utterly without mercy. Tall and ethereal, with features that seemed carved from starlight and shadow, skin pale as winter moonlight and hair that flowed like liquid silver. His eyes held the cold depth of eternity, ancient beyond measure, and when he smiled it was with the kind of cruelty that found art in suffering.

I know you, her mind whispered in a voice that wasn't quite her own, memories surfacing from depths she couldn't name. I know what you are, what you've done, what you're capable of doing. Recognition slammed into her consciousness like a tide of ice water, sending tremors through her magic that made the very air around her crackle with uncontrolled power.

This was something from the time before, from the memories that weren't hers but somehow lived in her bones. Something that should have remained buried with the fall of Elvhenan, locked away with all the other horrors that had once walked freely through a world without the Veil's protection.

And now it stood before them, wearing beauty like a mask over malevolence that ran deeper than the Abyss itself.

"Who are they?" Lucanis asked, his voice tight with the kind of controlled tension that meant his hand was already on his blade. His eyes never left the ancient figure, reading the threat in its very presence.

"I am Anaris," the being replied, his voice carrying the weight of eons and the promise of terrible knowledge. "They call me—"

"A Forgotten One," Rook interrupted, the words spilling from her lips before conscious thought could stop them. The title tasted like ash and old blood on her tongue.

"Yes." The smile that curved his perfect lips held no warmth, only the satisfaction of being recognized for what he truly was. "Forgotten. But not gone. The sixth and seventh are free, and the way stands clear. And I will guide your people—our people—to ascension. As the others have found. As these two will soon find."

The others, Rook realized with growing horror. He's talking about the missing Veil Jumpers. He's been turning them into something else. Something worse.

As Bellara and Cyrian began to argue—her voice breaking with desperate questions while his carried the hollow certainty of the corrupted—Rook's attention drifted to something that made her magic recoil with instinctive revulsion. An ugly bronze mask covered Cyrian's face, its surface carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly.

There's magic on it, she noted, her mage-sight picking up energies that swirled around the artifact like poisonous smoke. But not blood magic. Something older, more fundamental. Something that binds and changes and...

The thought struck her like lightning: Could I use blood magic to compel him to remove it? Force him to take off whatever's controlling him? The idea felt both natural and horrifying, her fingers actually twitching toward the ritual knife at her belt before she caught herself.

No, she told herself firmly, even as part of her mind continued to calculate the precise incantations that would be needed. Not here. Not in front of Bellara. Not when I don't know what removing it might do to him. But the knowledge of how to do it sat in her consciousness like a loaded crossbow, ready to be fired if desperation demanded it.

"How could you?" Bellara's voice cracked with anguish as she stared at her brother, searching for any trace of the person she'd loved beneath the bronze mask. "How could you turn Veil Jumpers into demons? These are our people, Cyrian! Our friends!"

The masked figure that had once been her brother tilted his head with mechanical precision, no warmth in the gesture despite its familiarity. "You always were too sentimental, sister. Too bound by small thinking, small loyalties."

Anaris stepped forward, his terrible beauty radiating condescension like heat from a forge. "We knew you wouldn't understand," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ancient disappointment. "Your mind remains trapped in mortal limitations, unable to comprehend the gift we offer."

"Gift?" Bellara's voice rose to near-hysteria. "You call corruption a gift? You call turning people into monsters—"

"Ascension," Cyrian interrupted, his words echoing with hollow certainty. "Freedom from the constraints of flesh, from the burden of choice. They are better now than they ever were as mortals."

"She will never see," Anaris declared with finality, as if Bellara's fate had been decided long before this moment. "Come, Cyrian. Let us leave them to face the consequences of their narrow vision."

The two figures began to withdraw into the shadows, but not before Anaris gestured with casual malevolence toward the chamber's far corners. "Perhaps direct experience will open her mind to possibilities she refuses to consider."

As they vanished into the temple's depths, the air itself began to thicken with malevolent energy. Something was coming—something summoned by the Forgotten One's parting gesture, something that would test their resolve in ways that words never could.

The demons had been fierce but ultimately no match for their combined fury and desperation. Rage had given Bellara's magic a cutting edge that carved through corrupted spirits like a blade through silk, while Rook's lightning and Lucanis's precise bladework had cleared the path to the trapped Veil Jumpers. Yenrel and Hamuel were weak but alive, their magical prison dissipated with careful application of Bellara's expertise and a healthy dose of controlled violence.

Now they sat in the relative safety of the outer chambers, where Irelin and Strife waited with supplies and concerned expressions. The rescued Veil Jumpers huddled nearby, wrapped in blankets and nursing hot tea while recounting their capture in voices still shaky with recent terror.

"Tell me about the mask," Irelin said quietly, her weathered features drawn with worry as she studied Bellara's haggard expression. "You said your brother was wearing something bronze, carved with symbols?"

Bellara nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she wrapped them around her own cup of tea. "It covered his whole face. There was something... wrong about it. Ancient. The symbols made my eyes hurt to look at directly."

Strife exchanged a meaningful glance with Irelin before speaking, his voice carrying the weight of uncomfortable knowledge. "Those masks... they're from the time before the Veil. Powerful mages used them on their servants, their slaves. The enchantments let the master feel what the wearer felt, experience their emotions, their thoughts. Complete control through shared sensation."

"But more than that," Irelin added grimly. "Over time, the boundary between master and servant would blur. The wearer would begin to think the master's thoughts, feel the master's desires as if they were their own. It's a form of possession that works through willing submission rather than force."

Influence rather than domination, Rook realized, her magic stirring with recognition that felt both foreign and familiar. Make them want to serve, make them believe it's their own choice. More insidious than simple mind control because the victim becomes complicit in their own corruption.

"So he could be... influenced by this Forgotten One?" Bellara asked, hope bleeding into her voice for the first time since they'd encountered her brother. "Not truly corrupted, but controlled through the mask?"

Rook leaned forward, her own voice carrying conviction she hadn't known she possessed. "There's hope," she said firmly. "If it's influence rather than true corruption, if some part of him is still fighting underneath... then there might be a way to save him. To break whatever hold Anaris has over him."

The possibility hung between them like a lifeline thrown to someone drowning in despair. Maybe he's not lost, Rook thought, watching as fragile hope flickered to life in Bellara's eyes. Maybe this isn't another tragedy we have to simply endure. Maybe this time, we can actually save someone.

Lucanis shifted forward, his assassin's mind already calculating possibilities. "If I could get close enough," he said, his voice carrying the quiet confidence of someone who'd solved similar problems with blade and stealth, "I could rip the mask off his face before he knew what was happening."

Strife shook his head grimly, dashing that hope with the weight of hard-earned knowledge. "It's not that simple. The enchantments run deeper than physical attachment. Cyrian has to take it off himself—has to choose to remove it. Forcing it off would likely kill him, or worse."

Of course it's not that easy, Rook thought with bitter recognition. Nothing ever is when it comes to ancient elven magic. There's always a catch, always a price that makes simple solutions impossible.

"We'll see him again," Rook said with quiet determination, her voice carrying conviction that surprised even her. "When we do, we'll try to talk reason with him. Find some way to reach the part of him that's still fighting underneath all that influence."

Bellara's smile was watery but genuine, the first real expression of hope she'd shown since this nightmare began. "Thank you," she managed, her voice thick with gratitude and exhaustion. "All of you. For believing he can still be saved, for not giving up on him when..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

When everyone else would have written him off as lost, Rook completed silently. When the smart thing would be to assume he's too far gone to save.

"Can we go home now?" Bellara asked, the words carrying the weight of someone who'd reached the absolute limit of what they could endure for one day. "I need to think, to plan our next course of action. Figure out how to save my brother from whatever that thing has done to him."

The lighthouse beckoned like sanctuary—a place where they could process what they'd learned, where ancient mysteries could be unraveled in safety rather than discovered at the point of a blade. Home, Rook thought, the word carrying warmth that had once been foreign to her vocabulary. Where we can lick our wounds and plan how to fix what seems unfixable.

Chapter Text

Well, this is frustrating timing! My laptop has suffered what appears to be a fatal error (RIP to all my open tabs), which means I'm temporarily unable to write, edit, or update any of my stories. I'm working on getting it repaired or replaced ASAP, but realistically I'm looking at about a week or two before I'm back up and running.

I attempted to use my phone as a backup, but let me tell you, even writing this short update has been annoying enough to remind me why mobile writing is absolutely not my preferred method. My thumbs were not made for crafting complex political intrigue!

I hate leaving you hanging, especially with everything that's happening all of my stories right now, but I promise I'll be back soon with more chaos, political intrigue, and morally questionable decisions from our beloved disasters, even Rook's.

Thank you for your understanding and patience!

~ Silver_Curse 

Chapter Text

The lighthouse's study feels more like home than anywhere Rook has ever been. Books line the walls in comfortable disorder, their spines creating a patchwork of knowledge that speaks of minds curious enough to collect wisdom from every corner of Thedas. The desk where she sits is worn smooth by countless hours of use, marked with the small scars that come from years of urgent correspondence and late-night research.

Her sketchbook lies open beneath the warm glow of a reading lamp, charcoal moving across paper with careful precision. The bronze mask takes shape under her fingers—not as she saw it on Cyrian's face, but as it exists in her memory. Clean lines and geometric patterns that hurt to look at directly, symbols that seem to writhe even when rendered in simple charcoal.

Each stroke feels like picking at a scab. The way the metal curves around familiar features. The particular slant of those carved sigils that makes her magic stir with uncomfortable recognition.

Her hand pauses mid-stroke as something flickers at the edge of memory. Not the clear recollection of their temple encounter, but something older, hazier. The ghost of recognition that struck her the moment she saw the artifact.

I've seen this before. The certainty settles in her chest. But when? Where?

The study door creaks open with the particular sound that means someone is trying to be quiet but hasn't quite mastered the art of stealth. Familiar footsteps cross the threshold—unhurried, comfortable, carrying the weight of someone who belongs in spaces filled with stories and secrets.

"Burning the midnight oil again, Scribbles?"

Varric's voice carries the warmth of shared history, tinged with the gentle concern that has become his default when checking on his self-appointed family. He approaches the desk with his characteristic easy confidence, though his eyes immediately find her sketch with the sharp attention of someone who's learned to read between the lines of both stories and silences.

"Something like that," Rook replies, not looking up from her work as she adds another layer of shading to capture the mask's horrible perfection.

Varric leans against the desk, his gaze studying the bronze mask taking shape on the page. "That's the thing Bellara's brother was wearing, isn't it?" His tone carries the careful neutrality of someone who understands that some subjects require delicate handling. "Nasty piece of work. Ancient elven, I'm guessing?"

"Forgotten One magic," Rook confirms, finally setting down her charcoal. "The kind that turns people into willing puppets."

Varric's expression darkens slightly, but he nods with understanding. He's seen enough of the world's darker corners to know that some horrors defy easy categorization.

"Speaking of your art," he says, his voice deliberately shifting to something lighter, "I haven't asked to see what else you've been working on in a while. Mind sharing? I know you've been keeping that sketchbook busy."

A genuine smile tugs at Rook's lips—the first real one she's managed all day. She flips backward through the pages, past tactical drawings and spell diagrams, until she finds what she's looking for. The sketch is rougher than her usual work, more impression than precision, but the love in every line is unmistakable.

"I drew this a few weeks ago," she says softly, turning the book so Varric can see. "What I remember of my brother."

The figure on the page is young, elven, with dark hair that catches light in ways that suggest it was once touched by sunlight. His eyes hold warmth and mischief in equal measure, and there's something about the tilt of his head that speaks of someone who was quick to laugh. The drawing captures not just features but feeling—the echo of unconditional love that has survived years of separation and trauma.

"He looks like he was trouble," Varric observes with the fond tone of someone who appreciates troublemakers. "Good trouble, though. The kind that keeps life interesting."

Rook's fingers trace the edge of the drawing, her touch gentle against the paper. "At first, Zara never even knew we existed. We were just two more elven children in the slave pens, unremarkable enough to be overlooked." Her voice carries the distant quality of someone revisiting memories that feel both precious and painful. "My brother would always cause trouble to annoy her. Little things—spilling water when she walked by, making faces behind her back, teaching the other children rude songs about magisters."

A soft laugh escapes her throat, genuine despite the weight of the memory. "He had this way of making even the worst days bearable. Like he refused to let them break our spirits, no matter how hard they tried."

The warmth in her expression fades as she continues. "That's probably what got us noticed in the end. His defiance. His refusal to just... disappear into the background like the rest of us."

Rook sighs, her shoulders sagging under the weight of years of wondering. "I keep thinking about whether he survived being sold off to Corypheus. Whether he made it through whatever that monster had planned for him. Some days I hope he did, other days I..." She trails off, unable to voice the darker possibility.

Varric leans forward slightly, his expression serious but not without hope. "Kid, if he's anything like you, then there's a strong chance he's alive somewhere and getting himself into some kind of trouble." His voice carries the conviction of someone who's seen enough survivors to recognize the signs. "You've got a core of steel wrapped in stubbornness that kept you breathing through hell itself. Family traits like that tend to run deep."

A genuine smile spreads across Rook's face, the first she's felt in days that doesn't carry shadows at its edges. "You really think so?"

"I've seen you stare down ancient gods and live to tell about it," Varric says simply. "If that kind of determination runs in the family, your brother's probably somewhere out there making some very powerful people very frustrated with his continued existence."

Rook's expression grows more thoughtful, her fingers absently turning pages in the sketchbook. "I believe, just like me, he's the other raven. Vir'revas—my twin from... before." She pauses, struggling with concepts that feel both foreign and intimately familiar. "Somehow tied to the same past life I keep glimpsing in fragments."

She flips to a different page, revealing a sketch that is far more detailed than the others. Two figures stand before what can only be described as a massive, prone form—the outline of a Titan. The smaller figures have their hands extended toward the giant, and dark liquid flows between them in careful lines that suggest ritual rather than accident.

"I drew this after one of my... episodes," Rook says quietly, her voice carrying the weight of revelations she isn't sure she wants to understand. "I think I'm tied to being the one who discovered that Titan's blood could give spirits corporeal form. And worse—I think I told others about it."

Varric leans closer to study the drawing, his expression growing more serious as he takes in the implications. The figures in the sketch are clearly elven, their poses suggesting reverence mixed with something darker.

Rook turns back to the bronze mask sketch, her finger tracing the carved symbols that seem to writhe even in charcoal form. "Now I have this feeling I know more about this mask than I should. This sense that I'm somehow tied to the Forgotten Ones in my past life, somehow connected through artifacts like this."

She looks up at Varric, uncertainty and fear warring in her expression. "What if I wasn't just a witness to what happened to the Titans? What if I was complicit in creating the very tools that enslaved people like Cyrian?"

Varric is quiet for a long moment, his weathered face thoughtful as he studies both the drawings and the woman who has created them. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the steady wisdom that has guided countless people through their darkest moments.

"Kid, I don't pretend to understand how past lives work, or what kind of cosmic bookkeeping the universe keeps track of." He gestures toward the sketches with one calloused hand. "But I know this—that was a past life. Those weren't your choices to make, they weren't your hands doing the work, and they sure as hell weren't your heart driving the decisions."

He leans back in his chair, his expression growing more serious but not unkind. "The woman sitting in front of me right now? She's the one who risked everything to save Bellara's brother, even knowing he might be lost. She's the one who's agonizing over whether ancient actions she can't even remember might have hurt people. That's not the mindset of someone who'd willingly create tools of enslavement."

Varric's voice softens slightly, taking on the tone he uses when he needs to cut through someone's self-doubt. "But here's the thing, Scribbles—those memories, painful as they are? They might be exactly what you need to save Bellara's brother. If you understand how these things work, how they were made, maybe you can figure out how to unmake them. Turn your ancient mistakes into present-day solutions."

He nods toward the bronze mask sketch. "Knowledge is just a tool. It's what you choose to do with it that defines who you are. And I've seen enough of your choices to know exactly who that is."

Rook's gaze drifts to Varric's desk across the study—pristine, untouched, every quill and piece of parchment exactly where it has been placed weeks ago. The sight makes something twist in her chest. She looks back at him, then down at her sketchbook, and sighs.

She flips through the pages slowly, past the bronze mask and her brother's face, revealing other drawings she has accumulated over their impossible journey. Blighted dragons with corruption eating through magnificent scales. Strategic diagrams of Venatori positions. Quick sketches of her companions caught in unguarded moments. And there, near the back, a careful study of sharp cheekbones and ancient eyes that she has drawn from memory and dreams—Solas, rendered in charcoal with an accuracy that makes her magic stir uncomfortably.

"Rook!" Harding's voice cuts through the study's quiet atmosphere as the door bursts open without ceremony. The scout is breathing hard, her face flushed with urgency and what looks like barely contained excitement. "There's been a sighting of a blighted dragon. I'm summoning everyone to the meeting area."

Varric catches Rook's arm gently as she moves toward the door, his eyes holding the weight of their interrupted conversation. "Go on, kid. Handle this dragon business." His voice carries the particular exhaustion of someone who has seen too many battles and crises blur together. "I think I'll get some rest. Haven't been sleeping well lately."

Rook pauses, studying his face with concern. There are new lines around his eyes, a weariness that goes deeper than simple fatigue. But Harding's urgency presses at her back, and she can already hear the sounds of preparation echoing from other parts of the lighthouse.

"We'll talk more when I get back," she promises, squeezing his shoulder briefly before following Harding out of the study.

The door closes behind them with a soft click, leaving Varric alone among the books and scattered papers, the weight of unfinished stories settling around him like dust.

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The lighthouse's meeting area hums with subdued energy as the team assembles. Maps cover the central table, weighted down by daggers and spell components that serve as makeshift paperweights. The familiar scent of Lucanis's coffee mixes with the sharper tang of weapon oil and the earthy smell of travel gear hastily gathered.

Rook settles into her usual chair, the worn leather creaking in a way that has become comforting over the months. Almost immediately, Assan paddles over on silent paws, the young griffon circling once before curling up at her feet with a contented sigh. His warmth presses against her boots, a small anchor of comfort in the face of whatever crisis has summoned them.

Around the table, her family arranges themselves in their familiar positions. Emmrich adjusts his robes with careful attention to detail while Manfred sorts through documents, his bone fingers moving with the same methodical care his master brings to his research. Bellara spreads technical diagrams across her section of the table, her focus sharp despite the worry that has been haunting her since their encounter with Cyrian. Taash leans against the wall, steam curling between their teeth as they listen with the patient intensity of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

Lucanis stands in the shadows near the doorway, purple light flickering occasionally in his eyes as Spite offers commentary only he can hear. Davrin occupies the space between protection and action, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt while his attention remains fixed on Harding.

"We've gotten word from the Wardens," Harding begins, her voice carrying the weight of news that will reshape their immediate plans. "They found the blighted dragon that attacked Minrathous."

Rook's heart plummets. Images flash through her mind unbidden—Viper's gentle hands, his masked face, the way corruption has already begun its slow work beneath his skin when she last saw him. The dragon that tore through Minrathous, spreading blight like wildfire through streets where he still fights to save people who will never know his name.

"Where is it?" she asks, her voice steadier than the fear clawing at her chest.

"Hossberg. Not far from Lavendale."

Rook frowns, something nagging at the edges of her tactical mind. A strange place for a blighted dragon to land after attacking Tevinter's capital. Too remote, too far from major population centers that corruption typically seeks to claim. The placement feels deliberate rather than random.

"This time everyone on the team is going," she says, her tone carrying the absolute authority that has kept them alive through impossible odds. "No splitting up, no skeleton crews. We face this together."

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Rook's hands shake slightly as she pulls her leathers from the wardrobe, the familiar weight of the armor both comforting and ominous. The smell of treated leather mixes with the faint scent of elfroot oil she uses to keep the material supple. Each buckle and strap falls into place through muscle memory, her body preparing for war while her mind churns through possibilities she doesn't want to consider.

Her new staff leans against the wall—recently upgraded with a focusing crystal that hums with barely contained power. The weapon feels different in her grip, heavier somehow, as if the enhanced magic demands more from its wielder. She secures it across her back with practiced efficiency, though her fingers linger on the smooth wood longer than necessary.

Travel supplies scatter across her bed as she stuffs them into her pack with nervous energy. Healing potions clink against spell components, rations crammed between clean underclothes and the small personal items that make camping bearable. Her movements are sharp, almost frantic, driven by the need to do something, anything, rather than sit still with her fears about what they might find in Hossberg.

She doesn't notice the purple flicker at her doorway, doesn't register the familiar presence until knuckles rap against the wooden frame.

"Rook?"

Lucanis's voice carries the careful tone he uses when he isn't sure of his welcome, when Spite's presence makes him uncertain about boundaries. She looks up to find him filling the doorway, his dark eyes studying her face with the intensity of someone reading a tactical situation.

"Lucanis?" Rook stares at him for a moment, her eyes shifting to catch the subtle purple glow that indicates Spite's presence before returning to her packing. She grabs another potion from her supplies, focusing on the familiar ritual of organization rather than the tension crackling between them. "What do you need?"

Lucanis steps into the room, his movements careful and deliberate. The careful distance he maintains speaks of someone who has learned to read the signs of when his welcome might be uncertain.

"I wanted to check on you before we leave," he says, his voice carrying that particular gentleness that always manages to slip past her defenses. "You seemed... tense during the briefing."

From the shadows cast by his form, Spite's presence ripples with interest. "She smells like fear," the demon's voice layers beneath Lucanis's words, though only Rook can see the way purple light flickers in his eyes. "Not of the dragon. Of something else."

Lucanis's jaw tightens slightly, a sign that he is having to work harder than usual to maintain control of their shared conversation. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he adds, though his dark eyes continue to study her face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. "But if there's something specific about this mission that's worrying you..."

The unfinished sentence hangs between them, an invitation without pressure, the kind of careful offering that has become his way of navigating the complex territory of whatever lies between them.

"It's this dragon. It destroyed Minrathous. It's the reason Viper is..." Rook's voice catches, the words dying in her throat as she stares at a healing potion in her hands. She takes a shaky breath, forcing steel back into her voice. "We must kill it before it destroys more cities. Before the Venatori use it to control more."

Lucanis moves closer, his expression softening with understanding. The careful distance he has been maintaining dissolves as he recognizes the particular quality of her pain—the kind that comes from watching someone you care about suffer while being powerless to help.

"Ah," he says quietly, pieces clicking into place. "This isn't just about stopping the dragon. It's personal."

Rook's hands shake slightly as she stares at the healing potion in her grasp, the glass reflecting the lamplight in fractured patterns. "This isn't just personal," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Every time we face something—something happens. And I don't know if I can deal with it again."

The words tumble out faster now, desperation bleeding through her careful control. "What if I used blood magic or—"

"Stop." Lucanis cuts through her spiraling thoughts with quiet authority, moving closer until he's standing directly in front of her chair. His dark eyes hold hers with unwavering certainty. "I know you won't."

Spite's presence flickers more intensely, purple light dancing at the edges of Lucanis's vision. "She's afraid," the demon observes, though his tone lacks its usual mockery. "Afraid of what she might become. What she might do."

Lucanis's jaw tightens as he pushes back against Spite's commentary, his attention remaining focused on Rook. "You've faced impossible choices before. Treviso, Minrathous—decisions that would have broken lesser people. But you didn't break. You made the hard calls and lived with the consequences."

He crouches down so they're at eye level, his movements careful and deliberate. "I've watched you choose the harder path every single time when it would have been easier to reach for old methods. When Davrin was dying, when we were overwhelmed by darkspawn, when every instinct probably screamed at you to take the power that was right there—you didn't."

His voice softens, carrying the weight of someone who understands the constant battle against one's own nature. "You won't use blood magic because that's not who you are anymore. That's not who you've chosen to be."

Rook's fingers tighten around the potion bottle. "But what if it's not enough? What if my magic, my skills—what if I can't save him without..." She can't finish the sentence, can't voice the fear that's been gnawing at her since she first saw Viper's letter.

"Then we'll find another way," Lucanis says simply. "Together. All of us." He reaches out, his fingers hovering just short of touching her hand before he catches himself. The restraint speaks of boundaries carefully maintained, of complicated feelings held in check. "We'll kill this dragon, and then we'll find a way to help him. I promise you that."

Rook wanted to tell him about the fragments of her past life bleeding through—the bronze mask, the memories of Titans and ancient magic, the certainty that her past life was somehow connected to these artifacts of enslavement. But the pieces felt incomplete, like trying to describe a dream while still half-asleep. Even Harding couldn't make sense of what they'd glimpsed together in those shared visions.

How could she explain that she feared not just reverting to blood magic, but that some ancient version of herself might have helped create the very tools that enslaved people like Cyrian? That her resistance to using blood magic might be the only thing standing between this world and repeating mistakes made millennia ago?

Instead, she leans forward and wraps her arms around him, the healing potion carefully set aside as she pulls him into an embrace. His body goes still for a moment—surprise, perhaps, or uncertainty about boundaries—before his arms come up to hold her in return.

"Thank you," she whispers against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of weapon oil and coffee that always seems to cling to him. "For believing in me when I can't believe in myself."

Chapter Text

The Warden Forward Camp in the Hossberg Wetlands sat like a festering wound against the landscape, corruption seeping through every board and rope that held the structures together. The moment they stepped through the camp's perimeter, Rook felt her magic recoil, a sharp tingling sensation spreading across her face and down through her hands to her fingertips. The Blight here was thick, almost tangible, making the air itself feel diseased.

Her team moved with the careful precision of people who understood they were walking into a place where death lingered in every shadow. Lucanis's hand drifted instinctively toward his daggers, while Davrin's grip tightened on his sword hilt. Even Assan seemed subdued, the young griffon pressing closer to his Warden companion as they navigated between hastily erected tents and supply stations.

The sounds of hammering drew their attention toward the blacksmith area, where despite the camp's grim circumstances, the work of war continued. That's when Rook spotted them—Mila helping Holden organize supplies near the forge, their movements quick and efficient despite the corruption that painted everything in shades of sickness.

Recognition bloomed in Rook's chest. She'd seen them before, during their mission to Weisshaupt. Mila couldn't be more than ten, her dark hair pulled back in practical braids, her small hands busy with tasks that seemed too large for someone so young. But there was that familiar resilience in her posture, that unnatural calm that had marked her even in the deepest horrors of the fortress.

For a moment, their eyes met across the camp's chaos. Mila's face brightened with recognition, and she offered Rook a small but genuine smile—a brief spark of warmth in this place of corruption and fear. Rook returned the gesture, her heart twisting at the sight of this remarkable child who had navigated darkspawn-filled corridors with mechanical precision, now helping her blacksmith father in yet another place where the Blight made her magic crawl beneath her skin like living things.

But there was no time for proper greetings, no space for the kind of conversation that might bring comfort to a child in such dark circumstances. Her team pressed forward with urgent purpose, their mission too critical to allow for the human connections that made fighting worthwhile.

"Evka should be near the command tent," Harding said quietly, her scout's eyes already mapping the camp's layout for threats and escape routes. "The sooner we find her, the sooner we can track this dragon."

Rook nodded, though she couldn't help glancing back once more at Mila and Holden. Some things were worth protecting, worth fighting for, even when the world seemed determined to consume everything good and pure. The tingling in her hands intensified as they moved deeper into the camp, her magic responding to the thick corruption that hung over everything like a shroud.

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By the time they found Evka near the command tent, what passed for sunset had begun to creep across the wetlands—as if the sun's light could even touch this place during the day anyway. The corruption seemed to swallow illumination before it could penetrate the thick miasma that hung over everything like a shroud.

Rook's team spread out behind her in their familiar formation: Lucanis melting into the shadows at her left, Davrin's steady presence at her right with Assan pressed close to his side, while the others positioned themselves with the practiced ease of people who had learned to read each other's movements in battle.

"Evka," Rook called out as they approached the weathered Warden commander. "How's the situation here?"

Evka turned, her scarred face grim in the failing light. "For now, the darkspawn have withdrawn," she said, her voice carrying the particular exhaustion of someone who had been fighting a losing battle for too long. "But they keep attacking in random places, never hitting the same area twice."

Evka's eyes swept the camp's perimeter, noting the hastily erected barriers and the nervous energy of the soldiers on watch. "I believe they're looking for a weak spot."

"They're testing our defenses for weakness," Evka continued, her voice heavy with implications. "Darkspawn aren't supposed to be that smart. But it's not really them thinking, is it?" Her gaze drifted toward the corrupted sky above. "Weisshaupt left people terrified. No one signed up to fight the gods. The First Warden called it the 'Blight to end all Blights.' He might be right."

"He's not First Warden anymore," Rook said firmly. "The Wardens now look to you, Evka. Show them what it means to fight."

Evka's shoulders straightened slightly at the words. "Right. So, any advice? Get back up every time you've been knocked down?"

A wry smile tugged at Rook's lips. "I'm surprisingly bad at knowing when I should quit." Her expression grew more serious. "Now, the blighted dragon."

"Right," Evka nodded. "We've tracked it to a ruined tower nearby. Probably licking its wounds after its fights. We've got ballistas ready with clear shots on the tower. But it won't come into the open. Already lost eleven Wardens trying to pry it out."

"Only another dragon can fight a dragon in a tight space," Taash said, stepping forward with their characteristic directness. "Anything else gets shredded. No room to dodge or keep your distance. We need to lure her out to have any chance."

"How do we do that?" Evka asked.

"Get me inside the tower. I've got a call that'll grab her attention."

Evka nodded. "Works for me." Then she looked to Rook. "I sent word to the Shadow Dragons. Thought they might want another shot at the dragon. Besides, figured they owed you one, after you helped drive it off the last time."

Rook's heart jumped at the mention of the Shadow Dragons, hope and fear warring in her chest as she wondered if Viper might be among any potential reinforcements. "And?"

"Haven't heard back yet," Evka replied, a note of disappointment in her voice. "We reached out to the Veil Jumpers too, but they've got their own problems with the Venatori. Looks like it's just us."

"If anyone can do this, it's us," Rook said, though her gaze drifted toward the horizon where she hoped against hope that familiar masked figures might still appear.

Rook focused her attention back on her team, noting the way Taash and Harding were looking at each other—not just the silent communication of battle-tested partners, but something softer, more intimate. Harding's fingers brushed against Taash's gauntleted hand as they discussed positioning, and the dragon hunter's usual fierce demeanor gentled whenever their eyes met. It was the kind of tender understanding that bloomed between people who had found something precious in the midst of chaos.

Then she noticed how both Spite and Lucanis were watching her, purple light flickering in the assassin's eyes as the demon's presence rippled with something that felt almost protective. When Lucanis caught her looking, something shifted in his expression—the careful mask he usually wore slipping just enough to reveal warmth underneath. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, soft and almost shy, the kind of expression she remembered from quiet moments in the lighthouse kitchen before everything became complicated.

Her heart stuttered in her chest at that smile, at the way his dark eyes seemed to linger on her face like he was memorizing something precious. The intensity of his gaze made heat bloom across her cheeks, and she had to look away before she forgot they were standing in the middle of a war camp planning to fight a dragon. But even as she turned back to Evka, she could feel the phantom warmth of that look, the promise that whatever fragile thing was rebuilding between them was worth fighting for.

She turned back to Evka. "We had your back at Weisshaupt. And we've got it here."

"Okay. Here's where we stand," Evka said, her voice taking on the crisp efficiency of a commander laying out battle plans. "Wardens Jaynie and Rhodri are keeping people out of the battlefield. I don't think anyone local will test their luck with a dragon, but we're taking no chances. They've already got orders to let you through."

"Good," Rook nodded, then addressed her team. "Rest of you head to the walls. Give the Wardens all the support you can."

"Got it, Rook," Bellara replied, already moving toward the fortifications.

"Taash. Davrin. With me."

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The team split up across the camp, companions dispersing to their assigned positions with the practiced efficiency of people who had learned to trust each other's capabilities. Rook watched them go—Lucanis melting into shadows near the eastern wall, Bellara's excited chatter with the Warden engineers already audible from the ballista emplacements, Neve striding toward the command post where her detective's mind could coordinate intelligence, and Emmrich and Manfred heading toward what passed for a medical station in this blighted place.

Then Rook, Taash, and Davrin began their approach toward the ruined tower, each step carrying them closer to the source of the corruption that made her magic writhe beneath her skin. The wetlands stretched before them, twisted and wrong, where even the reeds seemed to bend away from some central point of infection.

As they moved through the blighted landscape, the dragon's presence became impossible to ignore. Roars echoed across the wetlands—not the triumphant cries of a creature in flight, but something deeper, more frustrated. The sound of something massive and powerful that had trapped itself within stone walls it could not break, rage and desperation mixing in calls that made the very air vibrate with primal fury.

Between the roars came other sounds—the scrape of claws against stone, the crash of a huge body throwing itself against unyielding walls, the particular shriek of a predator that had become its own prey. The dragon had made the ruined tower into its fortress, but that same fortress had become its cage.

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They reached the tower's perimeter where two Wardens stood guard, their armor bearing the scars of recent battles and their faces carrying the grim determination of people who had watched too many comrades fall. The ancient structure loomed before them, its stone walls blackened with corruption and dragon fire, windows dark as empty eye sockets.

"Dragon's right this way," Warden Jaynie called out as they approached, her voice carrying the particular weariness of someone delivering bad news repeatedly. "Careful, though. Nasty creature. It's already killed eleven Wardens."

"That's why we brought our dragon hunter," Rook replied, nodding toward Taash. "We fought this thing before and don't want to take any chances this time around."

Warden Rhodri stepped forward, his weathered face grim but determined. "Agreed. You'll find it straight ahead. Good luck, Rook. We're ready when you are."

Taash cracked their knuckles, steam curling between their lips as they studied the tower's entrance. "She's still a dragon under all that blight. I'm going to go inside and challenge her—that will lure her out."

The plan was simple but dangerous. Rook turned to the Wardens. "Ready the ballistas. When she comes out, we'll only have one chance to bring her down."

Both Wardens nodded and began moving toward their positions, leaving Rook, Taash, and Davrin to prepare for what came next.

Taash reached into their pack and withdrew a curved horn, its surface carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the failing light. The artifact was ancient, crafted from the horn of some long-dead dragon and etched with symbols that spoke of primal challenges and territorial claims.

"Here we go," Taash muttered, raising the horn to their lips.

The sound that emerged was unlike anything Rook had ever heard—deep, resonant, carrying the unmistakable authority of a dragon's challenge call. It echoed off the tower's corrupted walls, seeming to penetrate stone and flesh alike with its primal demand for acknowledgment. The note held power older than civilization, speaking in the language dragons used to mark territory and demand submission or battle.

Inside the tower, the frustrated roars suddenly stopped. For a moment, the wetlands fell into an ominous silence.

Chapter Text

The silence shattered like glass.

The blighted dragon exploded from the tower's entrance with impossible speed for something so massive, corruption streaming from her wings like liquid shadow. Rook's breath caught in her throat as she took in the creature's horrific transformation—scales that had once gleamed now pulsed with sickly veins of blight, eyes that burned not with dragon fire but with the cold light of corruption. This wasn't just a dragon anymore; it was something far worse, a magnificent creature twisted into an abomination.

"Get her wings!" Taash roared over the thunderous beating of corrupted membrane against air.

The Wardens responded with trained precision, ballista bolts singing through the air toward the dragon's spread wings. Rook watched in horror as some found their mark, dark ichor spraying from puncture wounds, but the dragon's response was swift and merciless.

Blue fire erupted from the creature's maw—not the clean orange-gold of dragon flame, but something cold and wrong, tinged with the sickly light of blight corruption. The flames washed over the ballista positions like a tide of death, and Rook heard the screams cut short as good people—brave Wardens who had stood against darkspawn and worse—were consumed in an instant.

The acrid stench of burning flesh and metal hit her nose, making her stomach lurch even as her magic recoiled from the wrongness of that fire. This wasn't just death; it was corruption given form, designed not just to kill but to taint everything it touched.

Before she could process the full horror of what she'd witnessed, movement caught her peripheral vision—a massive tail sweeping toward them with the force of a battering ram.

The impact drove all air from her lungs. Pain exploded through her ribs as she was lifted off her feet, the world spinning in a nauseating blur of sky and corrupted stone. She felt herself falling, weightless for a terrifying moment before gravity reclaimed her with brutal efficiency.

The pit rushed up to meet them, ancient stone walls blurring past her vision. She hit the bottom hard, the impact jarring through every bone in her body as loose earth and debris showered down around them. Her staff scattered somewhere in the darkness, the familiar weight torn from her grip by the fall.

Rook lay stunned for a heartbeat, tasting blood and dirt as her vision swam with stars. Every breath sent spikes of agony through her chest, and she could feel wetness spreading beneath her armor where stone had found vulnerable spots. Around her, she heard Taash cursing in Qunlat and Davrin's pained grunt as he tried to find his footing.

Then the shadow fell over them.

The dragon landed in the pit with earth-shaking force, her massive form blocking out what little light remained from above. This close, Rook could see every horrific detail of the creature's corruption—pustules that wept blight along her neck, scales that had turned black at the edges where infection spread like rot through living tissue. The dragon's breath came in harsh rasps, each exhalation carrying the stench of decay and wrongness that made Rook's magic writhe beneath her skin like a living thing desperate to escape.

Those corrupted eyes fixed on them with predatory intelligence, and Rook realized with crystalline clarity that they were trapped—wounded, separated from their weapons, facing a creature that had already killed eleven seasoned Wardens.

The dragon's maw opened, revealing teeth stained with blight and the promise of that terrible blue fire building in her throat.

Panic and instinct merged into pure reaction. Rook's magic surged without conscious thought, ice crystallizing in the air around her as she threw herself sideways. The frost barrier erupted between her and the dragon just as blue flames scorched the air where she'd been lying, the corrupted fire hissing against her elemental shield with the sound of acid eating through metal.

"Move!" Davrin's voice cut through the chaos as his strong hands found her shoulders, hauling her upright and away from the dragon's snapping jaws. His armor bore fresh scorch marks, but his grip was steady as he pulled her toward the pit's edge.

Taash roared—not in pain but in challenge—as they unleashed their own dragon fire directly into the creature's face. Clean orange flames met corrupted blue in a collision that lit the pit like a miniature sun, steam and acrid smoke billowing around them as two kinds of fire warred for dominance.

From above, salvation came in the form of familiar voices and deadly precision. Bellara's lightning crackled down into the pit, arcing between her fingers and the dragon's corrupted hide. Neve's ice shards followed, each one finding gaps in the creature's armor where blight had weakened scale. Lucanis appeared at the pit's edge like a shadow given form, his throwing knives spinning through the air to find the soft spots behind the dragon's jaw.

"Rook!" Emmrich's voice carried over the battle's din. A spirit barrier shimmered into existence around her, Davrin, and Taash, giving them precious seconds to recover and regroup.

With her team's support raining down from above and her footing finally secure, Rook felt her magic settle into familiar patterns. Her staff flew back to her hand with a gesture, frost already gathering along its length as she prepared to join the assault. Around her, Taash readied another gout of dragon fire while Davrin's sword sang free of its sheath, the blade gleaming with righteous purpose.

The real battle was about to begin.

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An hour of relentless combat had worn them all to the bone.

Rook's robes hung in tatters, singed by dragon fire and torn by claws that had come too close. Her magic felt strained, each spell requiring more effort than it should, her mana reserves running dangerously low. Around her, the signs of exhaustion painted themselves across her companions' faces—Davrin's sword arm trembled between strikes, Taash's fire had diminished to mere spurts, and even from above she could hear the ragged breathing of her team as they continued their assault.

But the dragon was faltering too.

Dark ichor pooled beneath the creature's massive form where countless wounds had finally begun to tell. Her wing beats came slower now, more labored, and the corrupted fire that spewed from her maw had dimmed to weak blue flickers. When Bellara's latest lightning strike found its mark, the dragon's roar carried notes of pain rather than rage.

Then, with a crash that shook the pit's walls, the creature collapsed.

The dragon's massive form hit the ground hard, her great head pillowing against stone as her sides heaved with exhausted breaths. For a moment, Rook dared to hope—they had done it. They had brought down the monster that had killed eleven Wardens.

"Is it over?" Davrin panted, his sword still raised but his stance wavering with fatigue.

The dragon's eyes—those terrible, corrupted orbs—suddenly blazed with renewed fury. With a sound like thunder, her wings spread wide once more. Muscles that should have been too damaged to function responded to some final surge of blight-fueled energy.

"No!" Rook screamed, but it was too late.

The dragon launched herself skyward with desperate strength, corruption streaming from her wounds like dark banners. In seconds, she was beyond the reach of sword or spell, her massive form growing smaller against the diseased sky as she fled toward some distant sanctuary where she could lick her wounds and grow stronger still.

Rook sank to her knees in the pit, exhaustion and defeat crashing over her like a tide. They had fought so hard, sacrificed so much, and still the creature lived. Still the blight would spread from whatever hole the dragon crawled into to die—or worse, to heal.

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The respite lasted barely minutes.

A shadow fell across the wetlands, larger and darker than before. Rook's blood turned to ice as she looked up to see not one dragon, but two—the wounded creature they had just fought, and beside her, another blighted behemoth whose scales gleamed with fresh corruption. This new horror was larger, more vicious, its eyes burning with the cold intelligence of a predator that had never known defeat.

"Maker preserve us," Davrin breathed, his voice barely audible over the thunder of four massive wings beating against poisoned air.

The camp erupted into chaos. What few Wardens remained at the ballista positions scrambled to reload, but Rook could see the terror in their movements, the way hands shook as they tried to load bolts with fingers gone numb from fear. These were people who had already watched too many of their brothers and sisters die, and now faced not one blighted dragon, but two.

The new dragon struck first, diving toward the eastern wall where Lucanis had taken position. Blue fire erupted from its maw in a torrent that dwarfed anything they had seen before, washing over the fortifications like a tide of corruption. Rook heard screams—too many screams—as more good people were consumed by flames that burned both flesh and soul.

But worse was yet to come.

The air itself seemed to tear as reality bent around a figure of impossible beauty and horror. Ghilan'nain materialized above the battlefield, her grotesque form suspended in space like a nightmare given flesh. Tentacles writhed where limbs should be, and her eyes—those terrible, ancient eyes—surveyed the carnage below with the detached interest of a scholar observing an experiment.

"My children," the goddess spoke, her voice carrying across the battlefield with unnatural clarity, "you have been wounded. Let me mend what these mortals have broken."

Golden light—wrong, corrupt, beautiful—flowed from Ghilan'nain's form toward both dragons. Rook watched in horror as the wounds they had spent an hour carving into the first dragon's hide began to close, scales knitting together as if the battle had never happened. The creature's exhausted roars transformed into triumphant calls as strength flooded back into limbs that should have been too damaged to function.

The wounded became whole. The defeated became victorious. And Rook's team, already pushed beyond their limits, now faced not just two healthy dragons, but the goddess who commanded them.

Rook struggled to her feet, her staff blazing with renewed magical energy despite her exhaustion. Ice crystallized in the air around her as she stared up at the impossible odds—two perfectly healed dragons and an ancient goddess who could unmake all their efforts with a gesture.

"No," she said, her voice carrying across the battlefield with surprising strength. "We don't run. Not from this. Not when people are counting on us."

Her magic surged, fueled not by mana reserves but by sheer determination. The same stubborn refusal to yield that had carried her through slavery, through blood magic's corruption, through every impossible choice that had brought her to this moment. If they were going to die here, they would die fighting.

The battle resumed with desperate fury. Taash roared their defiance as dragon fire met dragon fire in the sky above. Davrin's blade sang through the air, seeking any weakness in scales that had been made perfect once more. From the pit's edge, her companions poured everything they had left into the fight—Bellara's lightning crackling with renewed intensity, Neve's ice forming deadly spears, Lucanis dancing between shadows as he sought the perfect killing strike.

But two dragons were simply too much. Even with Ghilan'nain's attention focused elsewhere, her mere presence seemed to strengthen the creatures beyond mortal capacity. Claws raked across stone where Rook had stood moments before, and blue fire scorched the air so close she could feel her eyebrows singe.

Then, impossibly, a ballista bolt wreathed in glowing blue energy punched through the neck of the larger dragon.

The creature's triumphant roar cut off in a gurgle of dark ichor as the enchanted projectile tore through scale and sinew. Rook spun toward the source of salvation, her heart nearly stopping as she traced the bolt's trajectory.

There, cresting the ridge beyond the camp, rode the Shadow Dragons in full battle formation. And leading the charge, his mask catching the diseased light as he raised his arm in command, was Viper.

"FIRE!" his voice carried across the battlefield, strong and commanding despite the blight coursing through his veins.

Another glowing blue bolt sang through the air, this one striking the second dragon square in the chest. The Shadow Dragons had brought their own ballistas—weapons enhanced with whatever magic Mae had been able to weave, projectiles that burned with clean light against the corruption that had seemed so unstoppable moments before.

Rook's breath catches as she sees him—alive, fighting, refusing to let the blight claim him without a battle. He has come for her, just as she had hoped, bringing salvation when all seemed lost.

"Let's bring them down, Rook!" Viper's voice carries across the battlefield, cutting through the chaos of dragon roars and ballista fire. Even through his mask, she can hear the fierce determination that has always defined him, the same unwavering resolve that had driven him to lead the Shadow Dragons despite the corruption slowly claiming his body. His call ignites something fierce in her chest—not just relief at seeing him alive, but the renewed strength that comes from knowing she doesn't fight alone.

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With the Shadow Dragons' arrival, the tide of battle shifted. The wounded dragons, now bleeding from multiple enchanted bolts, thrashed in renewed fury but their movements had lost their earlier precision.

Rook poured frost into her staff, ice shards spinning through the air to find the gaps the ballista bolts had torn in the larger dragon's neck. Blood—dark and corrupted but still blood—poured from the wounds, weakening the creature with each passing moment.

Davrin rolled beneath snapping jaws, his sword finding purchase between scales that had been loosened by Viper's assault. The blade bit deep, carving a furrow along the beast's flank that sent more ichor spattering across the pit's stone floor.

Taash roared their dragon hunter's challenge, flames erupting from their mouth to clash directly with the second beast's corrupted fire. The Qunari stood their ground as blue and orange flames warred in the space between them, their massive frame unyielding even as claws raked toward them. From below, Shadow Dragon ballistas continued their relentless barrage. Each bolt that found its mark was answered by lightning from Bellara, ice from Neve, and the deadly precision of Lucanis's thrown blades.

The coordinated assault was working. What had seemed impossible with just her exhausted team was becoming achievable with the Shadow Dragons' support. Hope, fragile and fierce, began to bloom in Rook's chest as she watched the dragons falter under the sustained attack from all sides.

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Rook screams, her battle cry tearing from her throat as raw and fierce as any warrior born to the blade.

Her magic flickered and died, mana reserves finally exhausted beyond even determination's ability to sustain them. But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. With her staff now nothing more than carved wood in her hands, she swung it like a club, striking at corrupted scales with the desperate fury of someone who had nothing left to lose and everything left to protect.

Beside her, Davrin moved with the deadly precision of a Grey Warden pushed beyond mortal limits, his sword carving patterns of destruction through dragon hide. Taash's flames had dimmed to embers, but the Qunari's massive frame still stood defiant, using brute strength and dragon-hunter instincts to keep the beast's attention divided.

Then, with a crash that shook the very foundations of the wetlands, the larger dragon collapsed.

Dark ichor pooled beneath its massive form as life fled from eyes that had burned with corrupted fire. The ballista bolts and coordinated assault had finally found their mark, piercing through to whatever remained of the creature's heart.

From somewhere far above, Ghilan'nain's scream of rage split the air like thunder. The goddess's fury at losing one of her precious children carried across the battlefield with enough force to make the remaining dragon falter in its assault.

But there was still one more.

The second dragon, maddened by its companion's death and its mistress's rage, threw itself at them with renewed desperation. Rook felt every muscle in her body scream in protest, every bone ache with exhaustion that went deeper than flesh. Her vision blurred at the edges, her legs trembled with each step, and her lungs burned with each ragged breath.

But she kept fighting. When magic failed her, she fought with wood and steel. When her staff splintered against corrupted scales, she fought with ice conjured from pure will rather than mana. Every ounce of her being had moved beyond tired into something that transcended physical limitation—the absolute refusal to yield when people depended on her.

The blighted dragon's claws rake toward her, and Rook raises her shattered staff to meet them, determination burning brighter than any magic she has ever wielded.

Then she feels it.

The song.

Dragon blood—gallons of it—pools around her feet, seeping into stone and earth with the promise of power beyond imagination. Rich, potent, untapped. It calls to her with voices she remembers from chains and darkness, whispering of how easy it would be, how simple. All she has to do is reach out, take what is freely offered by death itself.

The world slows to crystalline clarity. She can see every drop of ichor glistening in the dim light, can feel the raw magical potential thrumming through the air like a living thing begging to be shaped, controlled, used. One touch. One small betrayal of everything she's sworn to be. The dragon's blood sings to her of victory, of power, of an end to this endless struggle.

Her fingers tremble as she kneels beside the dark pool. Just this once. Just to save her friends. Just to end the suffering. The familiar weight of old choices presses against her consciousness—how easy it has been before, how natural it has felt to let the blood flow through her magic, to make it part of herself.

The remaining dragon roars above her, and she can end it. Right now. One spell fueled by corruption and death, and it will be over. No more pain, no more exhaustion, no more watching good people die for her failures. The blood whispers promises of strength, of the power to protect everyone she loves without the weakness that comes from fighting clean.

Her hand hovers over the dark surface, magic already stirring in response to proximity alone. She is so tired of being weak. So tired of not being enough. The blood offers to make her more—to make her what this world needs her to be.

"ROOK!"

Neve's voice cuts through the song like a blade through silk. A glass vial sails through the air, catching what little light remains as it spins toward her outstretched hand.

Time snaps back to normal speed as her fingers close around the mana potion. The crystalline liquid within glows with clean, pure energy—magic freely given, ethically sourced, untainted by death or corruption. She can feel its gentle power through the glass, so different from the seductive call of blood that still pulls at her from below.

For a heartbeat that lasts eternity, she holds both choices in her hands. The easy path and the right one. Power stolen from death, or strength earned through trust.

She yanks the cork free and drains the potion in one desperate swallow.

Clean magic floods through her exhausted channels like cool water through parched earth. Her staff blazes to life with frost and starlight, pure energy that comes from synthesis rather than sacrifice. The dragon blood's song fades to a whisper, then to silence, as she chooses—once again—who she wants to be.

The remaining dragon's roar becomes a challenge she can finally answer.

Chapter Text

The second dragon fell with a crash that seemed to shake the very bones of the earth.

Rook stood swaying in the sudden quiet, her staff still blazing with frost magic that had nowhere left to go. Around her, dragon blood pooled in dark mirrors that reflected nothing but shadow, the metallic stench of it mixing with smoke and the acrid bite of blight corruption. Her robes hung in tatters, scorched and torn, while her hair had come loose from its careful braids to hang wild around a face streaked with soot and other people's blood.

The silence felt wrong after so much chaos. No roars, no screams, no ballista bolts singing through the air. Just the harsh sound of her own breathing and the distant crackle of fires that still burned where Ghilan'nain's children had spilled their corrupted flame.

Davrin leaned heavily on his sword, the blade's tip resting against stone as he fought to stay upright. Blood ran from a gash across his forehead, painting half his face in crimson, but his eyes held the fierce satisfaction of a Grey Warden who had faced impossible odds and emerged victorious. Taash stood nearby, steam still curling between their lips as they surveyed the carnage with the critical eye of someone tallying a hunt's success.

"Is it over?" Davrin's voice came rough with exhaustion and something deeper—the weight of surviving what should have killed them all.

Before Rook could answer, movement caught her eye. Shadow Dragons emerged from positions along the ridge, their distinctive masks catching what little light remained as they made their way down toward the ruined battlefield. At their head, Viper moved with that controlled grace that had always marked him, though she could see the subtle signs of the blight's progression—the slight favor of his left leg, the way he held his shoulders just a fraction too rigid.

Her heart clenched as he approached. Even through his mask, she could read the exhaustion in his stance, the way corruption worked to steal strength from limbs that had once moved with assassin's fluidity. But he was here. He was alive. He had come when she needed him most, and somehow that made the ache in her chest both better and infinitely worse.

The air above them shimmered with malevolent energy, and Ghilan'nain's voice descended like poisoned honey over the battlefield.

"Confidence. Eagerness. All for naught." Her words dripped with ancient contempt, each syllable carrying the weight of divine fury barely held in check. "You think the blight means death."

The ground beneath the dragons' corpses began to crack and split. Massive tentacles, slick with corruption and pulsing with unnatural light, erupted from the earth like primordial nightmares given flesh. They wrapped around the fallen beasts with obscene tenderness, caressing scales that no longer gleamed with life. The touch was intimate, possessive—a lover's embrace twisted into something grotesque.

"It is raw potential," Ghilan'nain continued, her voice growing stronger as the tentacles began to glow with sickly radiance. "A perfect tool of creation."

Magic surged through the air like lightning given form, crackling between the tentacles and the dragon corpses with intensity that made Rook's teeth ache. She felt it in her bones, in the marrow of her magic—power being channeled, shaped, perverted into something that violated the natural order. The very Fade seemed to recoil as divine will bent reality to its whims.

The pulse of magic was familiar, terrifyingly so. She had felt this exact resonance before, in nightmares and half-remembered visions that left her gasping in the middle of the night. Her past life's memories stirred like serpents in her mind, whispering of rituals performed in shadow, of life twisted into new and terrible forms.

"No..." The word escaped her lips as a breathless denial. "She's reanimating the dragons! We have to stop her!"

Panic crashed over her like a tide of ice water. The dragon blood around her feet sang its seductive song, promising power enough to match a goddess if only she would reach down and take it. Her fingers twitched toward the dark pools, magic already stirring in response to desperate need. Just this once. Just to save them all. The blood would flow through her like liquid fire, would give her strength to challenge divinity itself...

But then her gaze fell on one of the Shadow Dragons' ballistas, abandoned in the chaos but still loaded with one of their enchanted bolts. The weapon gleamed with clean light, untainted by corruption or compromise. It offered no promises of easy power, only the chance to act according to her chosen principles rather than her darkest impulses.

She broke into a desperate sprint, her feet sliding in dragon blood as she fought for purchase on stone slick with ichor. Every step was a choice—away from the easy path, toward the harder one. Away from power stolen from death, toward strength earned through courage.

Her hands found the ballista's firing mechanism with the certainty of someone who had operated such weapons in another life. The bolt was already nocked, its blue-white enchantment humming with readiness. She swiveled the weapon upward, tracking Ghilan'nain's floating form through iron sights that trembled with the force of her heartbeat.

The goddess hung suspended in corruption-thick air, tentacles writhing as she poured divine power into her fallen children. Beautiful and terrible, ancient beyond mortal comprehension, wielding magic that could reshape reality at her whim.

Rook drew in a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.

The enchanted bolt streaked through diseased air like a falling star, its trajectory true as prayer and twice as desperate. For one crystalline moment, mortal determination challenged divine will across the battlefield's hellish expanse.

The bolt found its mark.

Ghilan'nain's scream tore through the air—not the rage-filled shriek of before, but something raw and agonized, the sound of divine flesh pierced by mortal defiance. The enchanted projectile had driven deep into her writhing form, its clean light burning against corruption like acid through silk. Golden ichor, beautiful and terrible, began to weep from the wound as her perfect features contorted in pain.

The magic sustaining her grotesque ritual faltered. The tentacles that had been pulsing with divine energy shuddered once, twice, then collapsed like severed limbs beside the dragon corpses. The resurrection that had seemed inevitable moments before died with them, leaving only the still forms of beasts that would stay dead.

"CHARGE!"

Rook's battle cry ripped from her throat with primal fury, echoing across the bloodsoaked wetlands like a war horn sounding the final assault. Her staff blazed with renewed power as she hurled herself forward, feet pounding against stone slick with dragon blood, every fiber of her being focused on the wounded goddess above.

Behind her, the battlefield erupted into motion. Davrin's sword sang as it cleared its sheath, the Grey Warden's exhaustion forgotten in the face of divine prey. Taash roared their hunter's challenge, flames wreathing their massive form as they charged. From the ridge, Shadow Dragons poured down like a dark tide, Viper's masked figure leading them with lethal grace despite the blight eating at his strength.

Even the surviving Wardens, bloodied and broken from their losses, found their voices in shared defiance. Veterans who had faced darkspawn in the Deep Roads and lived to tell the tale raised their weapons against a goddess, their battle cries mixing with those of their unexpected allies. Fear had no place here—only the desperate courage of mortals who refused to kneel.

The charge was magnificent in its futility, terrible in its beauty. Dozens of voices raised as one, boots and claws and hooves thundering against corrupted earth as an army born of necessity threw itself at divinity wounded but not yet broken. They had drawn blood from a god, and now they would see how much more she had left to give.

Then reality fractured.

The Void itself seemed to tear open, bleeding darkness across the wetlands as power beyond mortal comprehension pressed against the boundaries of existence. Time crystallized around them like amber, trapping every warrior mid-stride, every battle cry half-formed on frozen lips. Rook found herself suspended between heartbeats, her staff raised in futile defiance while her body refused to obey her desperate commands.

From the wound in reality stepped Elgar'nan, the Eldest of the Sun, and Rook's heart shattered in recognition.

He was exactly as she remembered from dreams that felt more real than memory—tall and terrible in his perfection, radiating the kind of beauty that mortals were never meant to witness directly. His presence made the air itself burn with authority, every line of his form speaking of power that had shaped the world when it was young. But it was his eyes that destroyed her—those ancient, knowing eyes that had once looked upon her with something approaching love.

The god of vengeance regarded his wounded sister with the patience of eons, paying no heed to the army frozen in their charge around him. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of mountains, the heat of dying stars.

"Oh, sister. Do not be blinded by righteous anger."

Ghilan'nain's pain twisted into petulant rage, golden ichor still weeping from her wound. "They stole Razikale from me, Elgar'nan. My greatest creation!"

"A thrall is easily replaced." His dismissal was absolute, carrying the casual cruelty of someone who had never valued mortal life. "You are not. Without you, the Blight is but a brute weapon. Only your hands mold it into life."

With a gesture that seemed almost gentle, he reached toward the bolt protruding from his sister's form. The enchanted projectile crumbled to ash at his touch, its clean light extinguished like a candle in a hurricane. Ghilan'nain's wound began to close, divine flesh knitting itself whole once more.

"The mortals deserve worse," she hissed, her beautiful features marred by hatred that had festered for millennia.

"But we have crucial work in Arlathan," Elgar'nan replied with the patience of someone accustomed to managing his sister's temperament.

"After it is complete—" His words died as his gaze found her across the frozen battlefield, those terrible, beloved eyes locking onto hers with recognition that cut deeper than any blade.

"Our little raven." The endearment fell from his lips like poisoned honey, carrying echoes of intimacies shared in another life, another age when the world was different and she had been someone else entirely. "She resists."

"The Dread Wolf's influence," Ghilan'nain spat with disgust. "His presence lingers."

Something darker crossed Elgar'nan's perfect features—jealousy, perhaps, or the wounded pride of a god denied what he considered his by right. "Ever defiant in taking what is mine." His voice carried promises of reckoning, of accounts that would one day be settled. "For now."

The portal tore reality apart once more, bleeding shadow across the wetlands as the gods prepared their departure. But not before Elgar'nan's gaze lingered on her one moment longer, drinking in the sight of her as if memorizing every detail for some future confrontation.

Then they were gone, and time crashed back into motion like a dam breaking. Warriors stumbled as momentum carried them forward into empty air where gods had stood moments before. Battle cries became confused shouts as mortals tried to comprehend what they had witnessed.

Rook collapsed to her knees, the weight of recognition crushing down upon her like the collapse of worlds. He had called her raven. Her past life's lover, the god who had held her heart in ages long dead, had looked upon her with eyes that remembered everything she had tried so desperately to forget.

⚔━━━━━━━⚜◊ ◈ ◊⚜━━━━━━━⚔

Rook knelt in the blood-soaked muck, her body trembling with exhaustion and the aftershock of divine recognition. The weight of Elgar'nan's gaze still burned in her memory—those ancient eyes that had once looked upon her with something approaching tenderness, now holding promises of possession and reckoning. The endearment "little raven" echoed in her skull like a curse disguised as affection.

Heavy footsteps splashed through the gore-slicked puddles, and suddenly Evka's weathered face appeared in her vision. The Warden commander's scarred features were painted with dragon blood and soot, her hair hanging in matted strands, but her eyes held the fierce vitality of someone who had stared death in the face and spat in its eye.

"Rook!" Evka's calloused hands found her shoulders, steady and warm against the chill that had settled deep in her bones. "Maker's breath, are you hurt?"

The simple concern in the dwarf's voice nearly undid her. After facing gods and their casual cruelty, after being claimed by ancient powers she barely understood, the basic human decency felt like absolution. Rook's throat worked around words that wouldn't come, her eyes drinking in the sight of someone she'd feared lost to dragon fire and divine wrath.

"I thought..." she managed, her voice raw from screaming battle cries and breathing corruption-thick air. "When the flames hit the ballista positions, I thought we'd lost you."

Evka's grin split her bloodied face like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. "Takes more than a few overgrown lizards to put me in the ground." She helped Rook to her feet, her grip firm despite the tremor in her own hands—the aftermath of adrenaline and too many close calls. "You know what lesson I learned again today? Never bet against Rook."

Rook smiled at her, something genuine breaking through the weight of divine recognition that still pressed against her consciousness. Even with gods marking her as their own, even with the shadow of ancient loves and cosmic machinations hanging over her head, this simple moment of friendship felt like an anchor to her humanity.

"Where did they go?" Davrin's voice cut through the aftermath, his sword finally lowering as he wiped dragon blood from the blade. Around them, her team had begun to gather—Taash still wreathed in wisps of steam, the others making their way down from their positions with the careful movements of people checking themselves for wounds they might have missed in the heat of battle.

"Arlathan Forest," Rook said without hesitation, the words falling from her lips with certainty that surprised even her.

Bellara's eyes widened, ancient elven ruins no doubt spinning through her mind like pieces of a puzzle she'd been trying to solve her entire life. "How do you know that?"

Rook's hand drifted unconsciously to her throat, where Elgar'nan's voice seemed to have left invisible fingerprints on her soul. The memory of his presence, that terrible familiar warmth twisted into something possessive and threatening, made her skin crawl with recognition.

"I was close enough to hear them," she said simply, though the truth was far more complicated. Close enough to feel the weight of his attention like chains wrapping around her spirit. Close enough to understand that when he'd called her 'little raven,' he'd been staking a claim that transcended mortal understanding of possession.

Around them, the surviving Wardens had begun to take stock of their victory. Someone let out a whoop that echoed across the wetlands, and suddenly the air filled with voices raised not in battle cries but in celebration. They had done what eleven of their brothers and sisters could not—they had brought down not one but two blighted dragons, the very beasts that had torn through Minrathous and Treviso like divine punishment given wing.

"Look at them," Evka said, nodding toward the massive corpses that dominated the battlefield. Even in death, the dragons were magnificent—terrible and beautiful in equal measure, their scales dulled by corruption but still reflecting the firelight from scattered blazes. "The bastards that burned half the world, and here they lie with their guts spilled in the mud like any other beast."

The cheers grew louder as more Wardens gathered around the fallen creatures, some brave enough to touch the scales, others content to stare in wonder at what they had accomplished. These were men and women who had spent their lives fighting darkspawn in the Deep Roads, who knew better than most that monsters could be killed if you had enough steel and stubbornness to see it through.

But Rook could still feel the phantom touch of Elgar'nan's attention, the way he had looked at her like she was something that belonged to him. The victory felt hollow when weighed against the knowledge that greater powers had simply chosen to let them have their moment—and that those same powers knew exactly who she was, who she had been, and what they intended to make her again.

Still, she forced herself to smile as the Wardens celebrated around her. They deserved this moment of triumph, this proof that mortals could stand against gods and their creatures and emerge bloodied but unbroken. Let them have their joy—she would carry the darker knowledge alone, for now.

Chapter Text

The camp stank of death and ambition. Wardens crawled over the dragon corpses like beetles on carrion, scraping scales into glass vials and measuring the spread of corruption through flesh that had once commanded the skies. Their methodical butchery reminded Rook too much of anatomists she'd known in darker days—the same careful precision, the same hunger for knowledge gleaned from suffering.

Emmrich directed the grisly work with barely restrained excitement, his gentleman's manners stretched thin by scholarly appetite. "Notice how the blight doesn't simply consume," he instructed a blood-spattered scribe. "It adapts. Transforms. Uses what was already there." Manfred held collection jars steady while his master extracted samples that writhed like living things even in death.

Bellara had claimed a section of wing membrane, her tools singing with ancient magic as she traced corruption's path through delicate flying apparatus. Taash watched the proceedings with hunter's suspicion, ready to put steel through anything that twitched wrong. Davrin moved among the Wardens like he'd been born to it, offering orders and comfort in equal measure.

All very noble. All very necessary. But Rook's stomach churned every time the wind shifted, bringing fresh waves of blight-stench that made her magic writhe like something trying to escape her skin. She'd had enough of corpses and their secrets. Enough of watching people pick apart monsters while pretending they weren't becoming something similar themselves.

She needed air that didn't taste of rot. Needed space to think about gods who called her pet names and friends who might not forgive her choices. Mostly, she needed to see with her own eyes that Viper was truly here, truly breathing, and not some fever dream born of desperate hope.

She found him where she'd expected—at the camp's edge, away from the celebration and the stench. He stood like a man reading his own funeral notice in the distance, mask turned toward horizons that promised nothing good. Even through leather and steel, she could read the wrongness in him. The way he held his left side like something precious and broken. The tremor in fingers that had once moved with killing precision.

The blight was eating him alive, inch by careful inch. But he was still standing. Still breathing. Still here when she'd feared she'd lost him to dragon fire and divine wrath.

"Brooding suits you," she said, keeping her voice steady despite the knot in her chest. "Very mysterious. Mae would probably write poetry about it."

He turned, and she caught a glimpse of exhaustion so deep it had carved new lines in his face. Not just the tired that came from battle and blood loss. Something deeper. The bone-weary desperation of a man fighting a war he couldn't win.

"Rook." Her name scraped out of him like he'd forgotten how to say it properly. "Thought you might not want to see me. After everything."

"After what?" The question came out harder than she'd meant, old defenses rising before she could stop them. "After you showed up with exactly the weapons we needed? After you helped us kill two blighted dragons? After you probably saved every life in this camp?"

She closed the distance between them, near enough now to see the hitch in his breathing, the careful way he held himself upright through will alone. Close enough to smell leather and steel and underneath, something that spoke of corruption held at bay by nothing more than stubborn refusal to die.

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to barely a whisper that the wind might steal before it reached his ears. "I'm immune to the blight."

He went rigid, then took a deliberate step backward. "We shouldn't." The words carried the weight of a man who'd spent too long watching everything he touched turn to ash and ruin. "Rook, you don't understand what you're—"

"We almost died." She followed him, closing the distance he'd tried to create between them. Her eyes held his, refusing to let him retreat behind duty or fear or whatever noble stupidity was making him pull away. "Both of us. Today. And I'm tired of pretending that doesn't matter."

His breathing had gone shallow, the careful control he maintained slipping just enough for her to see the want beneath it. The longing he'd been burying under layers of leadership and sacrifice and the grim acceptance that his body was slowly betraying him.

She glanced back toward the camp, where the Wardens continued their grisly work and her companions remained focused on their tasks. The celebrations had died down to murmured conversations and the clink of tools against dragon scale. No one was watching. No one would see.

"Rook..." Her name escaped him like a prayer, like a curse, like something too precious to speak aloud.

That's when he broke.

His hands found her arms, pulling her against him with desperate strength that spoke of a man who'd been drowning and had finally glimpsed air. He yanked the cloth mask from his face, keeping it crushed in one fist as he claimed her mouth with the hunger of someone who'd been starving himself for far too long.

She tasted the copper tang of blood where he'd bitten his lip in battle, felt the tremor in his hands as they tangled in her hair. There was nothing gentle about it—nothing careful or controlled. Just raw need and the terrible relief of finally surrendering to something that felt more real than duty or corruption or the slow march toward death.

When they broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, breath coming in ragged gasps that had nothing to do with the blight eating at his lungs. His eyes—those pale eyes she'd memorized in a dozen stolen glances—held hers with an intensity that made her knees weak.

She kissed him again, softer this time, savoring the warmth of his mouth and the way he melted against her like he'd forgotten how to be anything but desperate want wrapped in duty's armor. Her tongue traced the curve of his lower lip, drawing a sound from deep in his chest that made her blood sing.

The thunder of boots on stone shattered the moment. Wardens rushed past them in the near distance, shouting about sample containers and preservation techniques, their voices carrying the particular urgency of people who'd found something worth getting excited about in dragon guts.

Reality crashed back like cold water. They weren't alone in some romantic fantasy—they were standing at the edge of a battlefield where people could see, where questions would be asked and assumptions made about the Shadow Dragon leader and a blood mage slave he'd saved.

Rook reached for the crumpled mask in his fist, her fingers brushing his as she took the worn cloth. "Here," she murmured, lifting it toward his face with the practiced ease of someone who'd helped others hide their true selves more times than she cared to count.

He held still as she settled the fabric over his features, her hands steady despite the tremor she could feel in her own chest. When she finished, only his eyes remained visible—but they held hers with enough heat to melt steel.

She smiled up at him, the expression soft and real in ways she'd forgotten she was capable of. Her hands came up to cup his face through the mask, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones as if memorizing the shape of him through cloth and stubborn hope.

"This isn't over," she said quietly, a promise wrapped in words that tasted of dragon blood and defiance.

His hands covered hers where they rested against his face, fingers threading through hers with possession rather than reverence. When he spoke, his voice carried the steel that had built the Shadow Dragons from nothing.

"No. It's not." The words came out like a vow, rough with certainty that brooked no argument. "I don't care what Mae says about timelines. I don't care what the corruption wants to take. I'm not done fighting."

His grip tightened on her hands, not gentle but fierce—the hold of a man who'd spent his life taking what he needed to survive and wasn't about to stop now. The mask couldn't hide the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his whole frame radiated defiance against fate itself.

"The blight thinks it owns me," he continued, voice dropping to something dangerous and determined. "But I've been owned before. I know how to break chains, even ones made of corruption and divine will." His thumb traced her knuckles with deliberate pressure. "And I know what's worth fighting for."

A different kind of fire entered his voice, satisfaction mixing with the steel. "Besides, we got our revenge today. Both of us. Those dragons that tore through Minrathous, that burned half of Treviso to ash—they're dead. Rotting in the mud like the monsters they were." His grip on her hands shifted, becoming almost gentle again. "The Shadow Dragons lost people in that attack. Good people. But today we made the bastards pay for every life they took."

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating through his leathers despite the corruption that should have been making him cold. "Treviso gets its justice too. Those dragons won't be burning any more cities, won't be turning any more children into orphans. We did that. Together."

The word hung between them, weighted with more than just shared victory. Together in battle, together in loss, together in whatever came next despite gods and corruption and every rational reason they had to stay apart.

"The people in both cities can sleep a little easier tonight," he continued, voice growing rougher with emotion he usually kept buried under layers of command and careful control. "That's not nothing. That's—"

"Oh. I'm... sorry. I can come back."

Evka's voice shattered the moment. The Warden commander stood at the edge of their makeshift sanctuary, her weathered face painted with the particular embarrassment of someone who'd walked in on something they definitely weren't supposed to see. Her eyes tracked the minimal distance between them, the way Viper's hands were still tangled with Rook's, the unmistakable intimacy that hung in the air like incense.

Rook and Viper sprang apart like they'd been burned, putting what felt like miles between them in the space of a heartbeat. The sudden absence of his warmth left her feeling strangely hollow, like something vital had been stripped away along with the contact.

"No," Rook said quickly, her voice pitched higher than usual as she fought to inject some semblance of normalcy into the situation. "No, you don't need to come back. I was just leaving anyway." She could feel heat climbing her neck, painting her cheeks with evidence of exactly what Evka had interrupted. "I need to head back to the Lighthouse. Prepare for our next move."

Evka's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline, but she had the grace not to comment on what she'd walked into. Instead, she fell back on the comfortable territory of tactics and planning. "Next move? We just killed two blighted dragons and watched a goddess flee with her tail between her legs. I figured you'd want to celebrate, maybe take a day or two to recover before charging off to the next impossible fight."

"Arlathan Forest," Rook said, grateful for the chance to focus on something other than the way Viper was carefully not looking at her. "The gods mentioned Arlathan Forest. There's something happening there, something they called 'crucial work.' We need to find out what."

The dwarf's expression shifted from embarrassed amusement to grim professionalism in the space between one breath and the next. "How do you know that? The gods were talking, sure, but they weren't exactly holding a public meeting about their plans."

Rook's throat worked around words that felt like swallowing broken glass. How could she explain that Elgar'nan had looked directly at her, had spoken to her like she was something that belonged to him? How could she admit that when he'd called her 'little raven,' every instinct in her body had recognized the claim being staked?

"I was close enough to hear them," she said finally, the same explanation she'd given the others back at the main camp. It was true, after a fashion. Just not the whole truth. "They talked about crucial work in Arlathan, something they needed to complete. After everything we've seen them do, I don't think we can afford to let them finish whatever they're planning."

Evka ran a hand through her hair, leaving fresh streaks of dragon blood in the already matted strands. "Arlathan Forest is huge. We're talking about thousands of square miles of ancient woodland, most of it unmapped and crawling with things that would rather eat you than say hello. It would take an army months to search even a fraction of it, and that's assuming the forest itself doesn't decide you're trespassing and make you part of the landscape."

"The Veil Jumpers know the forest," Rook pointed out, though even as she said it she could hear the weakness in the argument. "They have maps, guides, people who've spent their lives learning to navigate those woods."

"The Veil Jumpers have their own problems right now," Evka replied with the bluntness that had made her a favorite among rank-and-file Wardens who appreciated commanders who didn't sugarcoat bad news. "Last I heard, they were dealing with Venatori incursions throughout their territory. Cultists setting up camps, disrupting their operations, making life generally miserable for anyone trying to study ancient elven ruins."

A cold certainty crawled up Rook's spine. "That can't be a coincidence. The gods mentioned crucial work, and suddenly the Veil Jumpers are too busy fighting Venatori to pay attention to what's happening in the deep forest?" She shook her head, puzzle pieces clicking together with the horrible clarity of hindsight. "The Venatori aren't just causing trouble. They're providing cover. Keeping the Veil Jumpers busy while Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain do whatever they came there to do."

Viper had been silent through the exchange, but now he stepped forward with the measured movements of someone who'd been thinking while others talked. "If the gods are using the Venatori as a distraction, then they're probably working somewhere the Veil Jumpers would normally patrol. Somewhere important enough that they'd notice divine intervention if they weren't busy fighting cultists in the outer regions."

"The heart of the forest," Evka said grimly. "The old places. The ruins that predate even the ancient elven empire, if the scholars are right about their dating." She looked between them, reading the determination in their faces with the weary resignation of someone who'd learned to recognize when people had made up their minds to do something spectacularly dangerous. "You're really going to do this, aren't you? March into one of the most dangerous forests in Thedas to hunt down two angry gods based on a conversation you overheard during a battle?"

"Yes," Rook said simply. The word carried no doubt, no hesitation. Whatever was waiting for them in Arlathan Forest—gods, ancient magic, Venatori cultists, or horrors older than memory—it had to be stopped. The alternative was letting Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain complete whatever work they'd deemed crucial enough to abandon a battlefield for.

Evka stared at her for a long moment, then let out a bark of laughter that held no humor. "Maker's breath, you really don't know when to quit, do you?" She shook her head, but there was admiration mixed with the exasperation. "All right. If you're determined to walk into the jaws of death again, at least do it smart. The Wardens have contacts among the Veil Jumpers—people who might be able to give you better intelligence about where the Venatori are hitting hardest. If you can figure out what they're trying to keep hidden, you might have a better idea of where to start looking."

"That would help," Rook admitted, some of the tension leaving her shoulders at the offer of assistance rather than argument. "Any information about the Venatori movements, the areas they're avoiding, anything that might point us toward where the gods are actually working."

"I'll send word ahead," Evka promised. "Though I still think you're all insane for even considering this." Her gaze flickered between Rook and Viper again, taking in the careful distance they were maintaining and the tension that hummed between them like a plucked string. "Just... be careful. All of you. Gods are dangerous enough without adding personal complications to the mix."

The words hit closer to home than Rook cared to admit. Personal complications. As if what was growing between her and Viper was just another tactical consideration to be managed rather than something that felt like the first real warmth she'd known since breaking her chains. As if the way he looked at her—like she was worth fighting for rather than just another burden to bear—was a liability rather than the thing that made her feel human again.

But Evka wasn't wrong. Personal feelings had a way of making people stupid in battle, and they couldn't afford stupidity when facing the gods who'd nearly destroyed two cities already. They needed to be smart, careful, professional.

She just wasn't sure how to do that when every instinct in her body was screaming that walking away from Viper felt like cutting off a piece of herself.