Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s something wrong.

She can feel it in her gut, even without the haziness in her vision and the way her thoughts seem like they are tangled in webs. Every step feels like moving through the failed attempts at treacle that Luca spent weeks trying to perfect when they were fledglings — thick, goopy, nigh on impossible to shift from the pan.
She stumbled, her hand catching on one of the stone walls near the pier, when she heard the voice behind her.

“Ah, Ashara, you look in need of assistance.”

Not from you, she tried to spit out. The words are caustic, but exist only in her mind. Her lips are numb. She can’t move them properly. Never from you, Illario. But the words just won’t tumble forth, the only sound her raspy breathing as she feels his hand press roughly into the small of her back and guide her into one of the many secluded alleyways of the Treviso streets.

The lights of the apartments that house the visiting crows of House de Riva twinkle mockingly at her in the distance, so close she could sprint to them— but her legs feel useless beneath her.

Ashara tries to push him away, tries to whip out her knife and bury it in his odious throat, but her arms won’t respond. A neurotoxin? Slow acting, perhaps, but when— her water. Of course. It had tasted odd as she walked from the Cantori Diamond— but how?

Her thoughts are muddled, and trying to latch onto any idea is akin to catching a fish in the Rialto Bay with her bare hands— after two or three bottles of wine. They swim in and out of her mind, in and out of focus, and she can’t give chase.

“Come now, don’t be rude. My cousin speaks so highly of you, as do the Seventh and Fifth Talons,” his voice is greasy in her ears. She hates it. She hates his breath on her skin, hates the way his thumb is stroking over her spine. “I’d like to see how you earned that honour, hm?”

She doesn’t like his tone.

His hands are under her leathers now. How has he done that? They’re form fitting, made to order— they’re shredded, she realises, as the cool breeze off the Bay tickles her bare torso. He’s cut them away.

Which is impressive in and of itself, because whilst these aren’t her usual job leathers, they are tough and can take a beating. But apparently she’s losing time as well as clothing, because the clock tower had only struck seven when she began to feel the impact of whatever poison was creeping through her veins and now she can hear it striking eight in the distance.

Her face hurts. Why does her face hurt?

Her mouth is full of blood. Her jaw aches. She tries to open her eyes, finds one is swollen and won’t respond, and with the other, she sees Illario is saying something, but his voice is fuzzy.

His hands, however, are not.

She can hear the pained noises she makes as he palms her breast and digs his nails into her flesh. She can feel the way his fingers pluck at her dusky nipples until they harden in the cool air, and how he twists them until a broken cry echoes from her.

“— not sure how you convinced de Riva to take you on— this easy to subdue — may as well have a go— before — canals—“

His words are choppy and discordant in her ears, but she can make sense of some of them. She’s known, they’ve all known, that Illario held her with a measure of disapproval, that he didn’t feel the street rat who Viago had quite literally snatched out of mid air and dragged back to Salle hissing and spitting and biting was worthy of becoming a Talon’s protégé.

She hadn’t realised he may have coveted her in other ways, ways that are becoming clearer and clearer as his hot breath skates across her throat and he bites down hard enough to make her cry in pain. She can smell the blood in the air.

“Vi—ago,” she spat, though it came out more as a soft slur. “Will — kill you for this.” The words are hard to form, but important. If they are to be the last she speaks, let them be a damning message to her would-be, could-be, will-be killer.

Illario laughs but his words are lost to her.

Ashara blinks her one good eye, time shifts, and she’s on her belly, her back screaming as Illario drags his dagger across her skin. Not hard, not deep enough to sever anything important, but enough to draw blood, enough to send it down her back and arms in rivulets, enough that she can see the steadily forming ruby pool of life on the cobbled street below her.

“You’re awake? Good— I wanted you to feel this part.”

His fingers, slicked with her blood, press between her legs— when had he taken her trousers? What— no, no!

She tries to scream, tries to struggle away, but Illario has her draped over an upturned keg of something, she doesn’t know what, and she can’t get away as she feels him, hot and cruel, pressing at the seam between her legs.

She knows she’s dry as a bone. She knows he knows this too, because he laughs and makes a snide comment about her already not being a very good fuck. She screams, as loud as she can, tries to fight, but it’s to no avail as she feels him force his way inside of her. His fingers are cruel, not giving her any time to adjust or prepare — though her body seems intent on denying him entrance all the same.

He laughs, and spits on her cunt, and there are tears on her cheeks now as she tries and fails to crawl away from the onslaught. He draws back his hand and cracks it down on her arse, across her back, against her sex, seemingly delighting in her cries of pain before she feels the hot press of his cock against her spit-slick folds.

It hurts in all the wrong ways. He’s not an overly large man — slightly above average, clearly aware of how to use his cock— but she is still dry and terrified and drugged and her flesh is fighting him just as keenly as she would fight him if she had her wits about her.

He seems to like that though, groaning into her ear as he starts to fuck her, using her own blood to ease his passage though it does little more than clot and stick and make things worse for her.

It hurts, it hurts more than she can remember anything hurting, and she’s crying as he finds a rhythm that pleases him but makes her feel as though he’s tearing her apart.

Illario grunts, his fingers digging into her hips, as he ruts against her like a beast. He mouths at her bloodied back, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. The longer he fucks her, the more her body loosens out of sheer necessity, and he bites on one of her sensitive ears before sneering, “Does the Fifth Talon know his protege is a whore?”

The words feel like a slap, but the follow up is somehow worse, “How often do you spread your legs for him, hm? Is that how you earned your place? You’re sucking me in, filthy sewer rat.”

The poison in her veins keeps her sluggish and dazed, but she manages, finally, to capture one flitting thought — her most recent job had been in Tevinter.

Mail is unreliable, so Viago had given her one of the sending crystals used for long contracts. She shifts slowly, her arms defiant to her brain's commands, but eventually she manages to bring her hand to her throat and slowly pulls up the small crystal attached to a sturdy chain — thank the Maker he had not torn it away with her clothes. She grips it tightly, keeps it hidden, crying out in pain as Illario slams into her cunt.

The crystal warms beneath her hands, and she lets out a broken, desperate sob. “Stop— Illario— you’re hurting me,” is all she manages before her head starts to drift again, her thoughts led away by the current of the toxin. More words tumble from her lips, as close to the crystal as she can get, before she starts to fade.

“Good,” he spat, pulling hard on her curls in a way she would love in any other circumstance, with anyone else. “Perhaps you will understand how it feels to be used and pushed aside.”

Somewhere in the distance, the clock chimes ten times, and Ashara wonders how long she would be forced to endure this defilement. Illario has pulled out of her now and is biting at her thighs, making her cry out in pain as he left impressions of his teeth that wouldn’t fade for days — should she live that long.

He had forced something inside of her, and she felt vaguely ill as she realised it was the handle of his dagger, the sharp edge just centimetres away from her cunt as he sucked bruises across her breasts and stomach. His thumb presses against her clit, sharp little circles that make her feel sick inside. Through her blurry vision, she can see a cruel smile on his face – will he force this final indignity on her? Force her body to betray her, make her come on his knife and tell her she likes it?

“Stop,” she rasped, still gripping the crystal and feeling it burn — they weren’t meant to be used in such close proximity, which meant— Maker, could that mean—

The blade is gone from inside of her, Illario back in its place, slamming into her sore, swollen cunt and yanking her hair back to bite at her throat. Ashara lets out a helpless gurgle of pain, vomit spilling from her lips and then

Everything goes black, even as angry voices fill the world around her.

Flashes of light.

Head pounding.

Bile in her throat. Clawing at her, trying to escape. She wants to wretch but she is floating and can’t find purchase to turn.

No—not floating but… being carried? Who has her? She tries to squirm free, but her limbs refuse to respond.

The movement stops.

“Hush, uccellina(little bird), be still.”

A voice she knows, a voice she trusts— she lets it guide her back into the abyss.

Ashara has always been a slip of an elf, even when she was seven and he fifteen and he caught her by the scruff of the neck as she tried to leap between two buildings she couldn’t possibly manage, all to escape with his coin purse. But now, with her bloodied and slumped on the cobbles, she seems tiny.

It was long past when his protege was supposed to arrive at the apartments he had acquired for his House during their stay in Treviso – in their last correspondence before she left Tevinter, he had instructed her to turn in her contract to the Seventh Talon at the Cantori Diamond before returning home (returning to him – he pushes that thought away swiftly) no later than seven to debrief.

By the time his timepiece read half past, he was angry – this was just like her, to flout his orders, to linger and forget her responsibilities.

By eight, he was irate.

By eight thirty, he was worried – Ashara had been late before, it was almost a running joke, but she had never been this late.

As his timepiece ticks to twenty-three minutes past nine, the sending crystal on his desk blazes to life. He snatches it up, prepared to give her the verbal lashing of a lifetime, only to freeze as he hears grunts and choked sobs coming from the warm stone in his hands. Stop, Illario - you’re hurting me.

That is Ashara’s voice. He would know it anywhere. And those cries – he hasn’t heard her cry like this in over a decade, closer to two.

He’s on his feet when the whispered words come through the crystal – near apartments, per favore, aiutami. (please, help me.)

Viago de Riva chooses not to acknowledge the way his hand shakes as he dashes a note off to Teia, shoving it into a fledgling's hands as he sprints past, shouting orders. He barely stops to open the doors, instead throwing himself down the trellis, hand gripping the sending crystal like a lifeline.

He will murder the man who has lain hands on his protege, his Ashara.

(He chooses not to think too hard on the possessive curl of anger in his gut.)

His head whipped wildly as he tried to determine the route she would’ve taken back from the Diamond – he loves Treviso, perhaps more than he loves Salle, but it is rife with alleyways and back passages and he can’t be sure which path his uccellinalittle bird would have taken home.

“Cazzo (fuck),” he hissed, but then – the crystal. They are not intended for close communication, and they burn when they are too close. He squeezes it, and it burns hotter than it had minutes earlier. He follows his gut – Ashara likes simplicity after a job, so she would likely have taken the canal path to the apartments. He takes off, intermittently squeezing the crystal as he runs.

The clock chimes ten as he hears muffled grunts and drugged sobs quietly emanating from a nearby alley. He doesn’t stop to think. He doesn’t take time to consider the environment, the possibility that this is an ambush, or to think through the best way to ensure he has the upper hand. He surges into the alley and the sound that tears from his chest is more akin to beast than man.

His uccellinalittle bird, his protege, his Ashara, bloodied and bent over a barrel, vomit dripping from her lips as Illario Dellamorte fucks her limp body.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He doesn’t even think.

One moment he is standing there, and the next he is on Illario, tackling the man and ripping him away from the prone elf. “You dare,” he spits, throwing Illario against the cobbled street. “You dare?”

And then he is on him, his fist cracking against the younger man's jaw. His knees protest being pressed against the stone floor, he didn’t bother with his usual leathers and so the stone is rough through his linen breeches. The world around him is bathed in red, his vision clouded by his rage, and all he can focus on is the way Illario’s face feels as he slams his gloved fists into his smug face.

“Not even–” Illario spits out a tooth and laughs rawly. “Not even a good fuck. You should train your Crows better, Fifth Talon.”

Viago hears a sound not unlike a roar, realises it has come from his own lungs, and slams Illario against the ground once, twice, three times, before there is a hand dragging him away. “Get off,” he snarls, but a familiar perfume fills his nostrils.

Teia.

His vision clears – Illario is bleeding beneath him, and Teia is holding his fist.

“Enough, Viago.”

It is not enough. It will never be enough. He violated his protege. He defiled her. His uccellinalittle bird. Viago snarls again and tries to yank his fist free, determined to land another blow on one of the Dellamorte heirs, but Teia holds fast.

“Ashara needs you.”

That, more than anything, stops him. He whips his head towards Teia, and then towards the broken, crumpled form of his prize pupil a few meters away. Like a shot, he is off of Illario, casting the man a filthy, merciless look that promises future retribution, and then he is at Ashara’s side.

His little bird is pale, too pale compared to her usual warm olive skin. Bile and blood have dried around her lips and her nose. They have dripped down her jaw and splattered against her chest, and Viago feels that rage clawing at his gut again, insisting that he make Illario pay for his misdeeds.

But no.

Ashara comes first.

He takes the cloak Teia offers him and wraps it around his Crow, heart tight and gut twisting as the girl barely even reacts. She’s always been small, but as he lifts her into his arms and turns his gaze towards Teia, Chance, and Noa, the latter two of whom have Illario held limply by his arms, he is struck by how fragile she seems.

Teia beats him to words. “He will remain in the cells beneath the Diamond until you are ready to pass judgment, Fifth Talon.”

Professional. Serious. Clipped.

Andarateia Cantori is furious.

It brings him a small measure of peace to know that Illario’s journey back to the Diamond will be anything but pleasant, and that is before Caterina hears of this.

But these are thoughts for another time. Ashara’s breathing is too shallow and reedy for him to focus on anything else. The streets around him are a blur as he sprints through Treviso with his charge in his arms.

The apartments are empty as he returns through his private entrance, and he takes a brief moment to send a prayer of thanks to the Maker for his steward’s forethought – Matin has always known Viago better than the man knows himself, perhaps thanks to the decades the steward has spent at Viago’s side, the only courtesy afforded to him by his royal father.

Matin has also, it seems, heard from Teia – Viago will never cease to be amazed at how quickly she can get information through Treviso, but he is endlessly grateful for it as he bursts into his quarters and finds a steaming tub of water already prepared, a cot with fresh linens, and his antidote kit already open.

He lays the prone elf down on the cot, wincing as he realises he will need to remove the cloak. He can do this. He has seen her in various states of undress– it is a necessary evil to dress and undress quickly during jobs. But this… this is different. He feels sick as he unwraps the cloak and her body is revealed to him – he feels sicker as he sees the extent of the damage.

You are her Talon. You are her mentor. Behave like it, de Riva.

He checks her pulse – thready, erratic. Her pupils – blown. Skin – clammy. Her body is rigid, her muscles clearly seizing and spasming of their own accord. His mind races as he looks at the dried blood and bile trailing from her lips – what causes these symptoms?

Time seems to pass oddly, but after minutes buried in his books, searching out her symptoms, he finds it – Andraste’s Lament. And the antidote as well – two parts powdered crystal grace, two parts distilled Andraste’s Mantle, an equal mix of salubrious embrium and heatherum, and a base of royal elfroot. By all accounts, it is one of the most expensive antidotes he has ever brewed – and the one he takes the most care in creating.

Whilst he waits for the distillation to complete, he dabs at Ashara’s brow with a cloth soaked in elfroot extract. Her waterskin sits on his workbench, delivered an hour earlier by Matin with a note from Teia advising Illario had admitted how he had slipped her the poison – when she delivered her contract to the Diamond, she had put down her waterskin whilst speaking to Teia. It was, apparently, easy for him to simply slip a powder tablet of Andraste’s Lament into it whilst the two women were occupied– Viago makes a mental note to chastise Ashara for her carelessness later.

Later.

There will be a later. He will not abide a world without Ashara de Riva. It doesn’t bare thinking about, that she might not survive this.

(Hours from now, he will realise the only reason she did survive was because of his insistence on her adopting the same practice of daily doses of diluted poisons that he has followed religiously since his early teens. The knowledge will fill him with pride and grief in equal parts.)

He presses the full vial against her lips and gently massages her throat like he would a stubborn animal, forcing the antidote down her. And then he waits, minutes that feel like hours, until her rigid muscles loosen and the death rattle that had been echoing in his quarters fades away, replaced by the pained sounds of someone who is bruised, battered, bleeding, but blessedly, alive.

“Thank the Maker,” he murmurs, the knot in his stomach loosening as he sees her skin slowly regain some of its usual warm colour. Now that the antidote is working, he has other matters to attend to – like the blood and bile and wounds on her body.

She is your protege, he reminds himself forcibly, keeping his eyes on her face and not her body as he lifts her away from the soiled cloak and cot and carries her to the still-steaming tub. It smells faintly of rose oil and elfroot. She is your responsibility.

He’ll recite the fucking Chant if he has to. He has a duty to her.

Hot… She's hot, surrounded by water, and that in itself sends her into a panic – Illario had said about the canals, oh Maker, she was drowning, she is drowning even if her head is above the water and there’s a soothing voice and a gentle hand on her head.

“uccellinalittle bird, calm yourself. You are safe.”

That isn’t Illario.

That’s– That’s Viago.

Ashara opens her one good eye, the other still swollen shut, and manages to blearily make out the outline of her mentor. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, his hands are bare, and he is gently stroking her hair with one hand and holding a sponge in the other.

“Wha–”

Her voice is hoarse, her throat raw and burning. Her head is pounding. She slumps back and Viago is there, catching her before she can slide beneath the warm, rose-scented water. He puts something behind her neck to support her – a rolled towel perhaps?–, and it keeps her from sliding down further so he can free his hand.

“Hush, Ashara,” says her mentor, and she’s so confused, because she doesn’t remember how she got here, or what has happened, or anything really. The confusion must show on her face, because the blurry face of Viago seems to soften. “You’re badly hurt, uccellinalittle bird. Will you let me clean you?”

She’s confused again, because why wouldn’t she let him clean her– and suddenly she stiffens as memories flood her. Illario. His hands. His touch. His fingers. His cock.

Viago shushes her again, stroking her cheek with a gentle, bare hand (she will muse on this later, that he is willing to touch her, despite her being recently poisoned, without his gloves), murmuring soothing words in Antivan. “I know, mia cara(my dear / my darling), I know. I will be gentle, si?” He won’t take no for an answer, but he has no desire to traumatise her further, and would rather her be awake and somewhat alert.

She looks back at him and nods once.

Viago gives her a fond look that she can barely discern, and lifts the thick sponge to her face first, gently wiping away the bile and blood. Each pass of the sponge makes her wince – only with Viago will she allow herself to show so much vulnerability, and only because she is simply so tired.

“Wha’... h’ppen?” She stumbles over the words, suddenly aware of how badly her jaw hurts, and that her lip is split and swollen. The sponge brushes across her lower lip and she lets out a low whine of pain.

“We will talk after,” Viago says simply, carefully washing away the muck from her face and putting the sponge down in favour of a thick elfroot salve. He spreads it thinly across her face, her eye, and her cheek, frowning at the blooming bruises – he waited too long, and she’ll wear the marks for several days.

“Bu–”

“No, Ashara,” his voice is sharper this time. “For once, per favore(please), listen to me. We will talk after.”

He is in no state to rehash how he found her, and judging by her disorientation, she is in no state to recount her own experience.

It’s a testament to how exhausted and wrung out she feels that Ashara simply nods and doesn’t protest. It makes something in his chest twist – this isn’t the young woman who bit him in an attempt to get away twenty-some years ago, this isn’t the Crow who once stormed a slave ship to free children against his express instructions– this is a shadow of his Crow.

She remains silent but for soft whimpers as he picks up the sponge and begins cleaning her neck, her shoulders, her collarbones. Viago keeps his eyes on the sponge, because he knows he won’t be able to stop himself dragging her into his arms if he sees the tears that are silently streaming down her cheeks. And that would cross the line he is desperately clinging to – she is his Crow. His Crow. His.

Ashara lets out a shaky sob as the sponge passes over her breasts– she can’t look down, can’t bring herself to look at the constellation of bruises forming on her body, because if she does – if she does, she isn’t sure she’ll survive. But the sponge catches on sore skin, reminds her of how raw her nipples are, of the cruel way Illario dragged his dagger across her breasts and toyed with her, threatened her. Her tears don’t stop as the water turns a murky pink.

Her hair is next – she tips her head back at his urging so he can pour fresh water over her curls. Honeysuckle and dawn lotus fill her nostrils as he massages soap into her hair and tears spring to her eyes as she realises this is the soap she always uses – it is a frivolous expense, a little luxury, but he somehow had it to hand to cleanse her hair. He works a thin oil through the clean curls, braiding them in a loose crown around her head.

Viago helps her turn so he can wipe down the cuts on her back – deep enough to bleed, to sting, but not enough to incapacitate – the poison had done that job nicely.

No, these were there for amusement, to bring her pain, rather than for any real purpose. She can feel Viago tense behind her as he realises the same thing. She can feel how his hands slow, can hear the low, vicious swear that leaves his lips as he carefully applies the thick salve to the freshly cleaned wounds.

And then he helps her stand.

This is the worst part. He gently wipes away the pink rivulets from her legs, but his eyes darken as they both realise what is next. She doesn’t wait for him to ask, just puts her shaking hand on his shoulder and spreads her legs so he can gently run the sponge across her bloodied and bitten thighs, across her swollen cunt, and her arse where a trickle of blood has dried. Her silent tears become loud now, and Ashara sobs as he gently cleans the blood and mixed fluid from her sex, but he does it with a clinical efficiency that she appreciates.

Before she can realise what is happening, he has wrapped a thick towel around her and is scooping her up. Normally she would protest, she would argue she is capable, she can walk, but she is simply so tired that instead she tucks her head against his chest – she shouldn’t allow herself this, too afraid her feelings would become obvious, too afraid of how this could change things between mentor and protege, but she is simply so tired.

So she tucks her head against him as he carries her over to the most comfortable bed she has ever laid upon, and she makes a distressed sound as he moves away. “I just need the salve, Ashara,” he murmured softly, his voice soothing and mellow. “I’ll just be a moment.”

True to his word, he is back beside her in seconds, the pot of salve in hand.

“Can I put this on you, uccellinalittle bird?”

His voice is low, gentle in the way one would speak to a frightened halla, but she loves him for it – appreciates him for it. Because she does feel like a skittish halla, even as she nods and slowly unwraps the towel from around her body. The salve feels more like a balm to her nerves as he gently spreads it across her breasts, her thighs, the rest of her back, and her throat. His hands are careful, respectful, and so, so gentle – it makes her want to cry.

She does cry.

Neither of them mention the tears that streak down her cheeks, nor the way Viago’s eyes burn as he helps her into one of his sleeping tunics and loose trousers.

Covered from shoulders to ankles, she is drowning in fabric, his clothes far too large for her smaller frame. Despite the rigorous training regime of a Crow, Ashara has never lost the softness of her belly or the roundness of her hips, but she has always been shorter for an elf, and Viago’s shirt drops nearly to her knees.

(It takes every fibre of his self control not to wrap her in his arms, bury his face in her braided hair, and keep her by his side for eternity.)

Despite the antidote, Ashara still feels ill – her head is fuzzy, her skin too tight, and her heart racing in her chest. As Viago stands, clearly intent on leaving her to rest, she lurches forward and grabs his wrist, her unfocused eye teeming with terror.

“Non lasciarmi(Don’t leave me),” she whispers, voice thick with fear. “Non lasciarmi, per favore(Don’t leave me, please), Viago… I— please.”

Shame floods her – she is no child, no fledgling who has not yet taken her first kill. She is an Antivan Crow, but right now she feels like nothing more than a scared woman desperately clinging to the only person who makes her feel safe.

She looks down at his wrist, at her shaking hand pressed against his bare skin, and it occurs to her that she cannot recall the last time she touched him skin to skin– if ever. She goes to release her grip, “Mi dispiace(I’m sorry),” on her lips, but Viago shushes her and walks away.

Her heart sinks and her good eye closes to prevent more tears streaming down her cheeks. Foolish, foolish girl. Idiota.

But then the bed sinks beside her, and her eye opens to see Viago in similar clothes to the ones he has put on her – a loose linen tunic and trousers, ideal for the Treviso nights – climbing into his bed. She stares at him until he lifts one arm and tugs her into his chest, pressing her head down against his shoulder.

“Sleep, uccellinalittle bird,” he says roughly. There’s something else in his tone, but her head is too cottony to suss it out. “Sleep, and I will keep you safe, mia cara(my dear/ my darling). Ti prometto che(I promise you that).”

And though she knows it is a terrible idea to give in (because if she falls asleep on him now, she’ll never be able to forget what it is to be held by Viago de Riva, and truthfully she isn’t certain she’ll be able to keep her foolish feelings in check once she knows what that feels like), she does, twisting her scraped fingers into his tunic and tucking her head into his neck. His arms are stiff for a moment before he lets out a strangled breath and softens, holding her to him as though she is the single most delicate and important thing in his world.

Ashara de Riva falls asleep in the arms of her mentor, the warmth of his skin permeating his clothes and lulling her to the Fade. The scent of his cologne fills her senses as she drifts away, and she only catches the first words of the soft lullaby he murmurs to soothe her.

She is asleep in moments, comforted by the knowledge that no harm can come to her so long as Viago has her.

Chapter Text

It begins like a normal dream – one she’s had many, many times. Ashara is seven (she thinks she is seven, but there’s no way to know for certain, not with Babae and Mamae long dead) and living on the streets of Rialto, or Salle, or Treviso – all of the cities blur into one in the Fade. But some things remain the same.

She is so very, very hungry. It's been two, maybe three?, days since she last had more than half an apple and a corner of bread – the smaller children need the food more than she does, but tonight she is hungrier than she can ever remember. And maybe, just maybe, that is why she is so easily distracted by the pretty charm that glints on the young man's coin purse.

She should be more interested in the purse itself, or the fact that the young man and his companion, an older man in the same blue-purple leathers, seem to have mildly overindulged as they walk along the seafront. But no – it’s the tiny little bird charm that catches her eye first.

It would fetch a pretty penny if she could sell it, but really she wants to keep it – it’s small and delicate and shiny, and Ashara so loves birds, loves the way they can take flight and soar away, loves how they chirp and dance in the morning light.

She loves birds and so when she sidles past the two men and cuts the younger man's purse strings, she is bewitched by the charm and giggles to herself. Her first mistake.

Well no, it’s her second mistake. Her first is trying– successfully, she might add– to rob an Antivan Crow.

A shout echoes from behind her, followed by the older man’s raucous laughter. Ashara turns her green eyes back towards her victims and yelps as she realises the younger has taken off after her and is mere feet away, his own eyes blazing.

But this is her city (for eighteen months, at least), and though she is small, she is quick, nimble, and fleet-footed. She darts away from his outstretched hand, ignoring his vicious swearing and the laughter of his companion, and makes for a nearby trellis.

It is scaled with ease by both thief and pursuer, and parts of the dream are hazy but Ashara remembers this as clear as day – she leaps from building to building, determined to put distance between her and her teenage pursuant; until she takes a jump she hasn’t tried before, and she realises too late that she will go plummeting to the canal below, and Maker, she can’t swim.

A hand catches her by the scruff of the neck, and little Ashara hisses and spits and claws– and then the dream shifts, and she is no longer seven, but thirty, and it is no longer fifteen year old Viago who has caught her, but Illario Dellamorte, his eyes dark and cruel.

She screams as the rooftop becomes a dark alley in Treviso, and she is on her knees, his fingers pinching her nose and forcing her mouth open. There is a hint of reality to this dream, this nightmare, and despite knowing she is in the Fade, Ashara begins to realise there are parts of her assault she had lost to the poison that are steadily flowing back to her.

Choking. Gagging. Bile dripping down her lips. Throat bruised, eye swollen from the backhand when she tried and failed to bite down – she is screaming, screaming, terrified and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe–

“Ashara! Damnit, Ashara – wake up! Wake up!”

There’s a hand in her hair, stroking softly, and another on her shoulder shaking her.

“Mia cara, mia dolce cara(My dear, my sweet dear), it’s a nightmare. Ashara, Ashara, listen to me, cara(dear) – it is a nightmare!”

She’s thrashing, and someone is holding her arms down, and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe – and suddenly she can, because a sharp order cuts through her panic. “Stai fermo(Be still.).”

Stai fermo(Be still.). Be still.

Be still.

It is an echo back to her youth, her training, when Ashara de Riva was just Ashara, the feral little thing Viago and Alejandro had brought back with them from their trip to Rialto. She was always on the move – always fidgeting, never in her seat during lessons, or paying attention during training. But she always listened to Viago, whether she would admit it or not, and when he said, stai fermo(Be still.), she did just that.

Her body relaxes, and the voice softens.

“Ashara, mia cara(my dear), can you open your eyes for me? Open those pretty eyes for me, tesoro(treasure / darling).”

And because she knows Viago’s voice, she does. It hurts to open her eyes, one of them crusted shut and still swollen, but she does it and her bloodshot eyes widen as she realises Viago has a red mark on his cheek and looks…

Maker, he looks afraid.

“Ashara, are you with me?”

Like he isn’t sure she can understand him. His voice is soothing and gentle, like the ocean lapping at the shore on a calm morning. She nods– her throat hurts too much to try to speak right away.

“You were having a nightmare, uccellina(little bird),” he says softly, stroking her cheek carefully to avoid causing her any pain. “You lashed out. You can land a solid punch in your sleep.” And he does sound a little impressed, a little indulgent– and also a little put out that his cheek is slowly reddening.

A nightmare.

Of course. Illario wasn’t in Rialto when she was a child. Illario had not saved her from falling, just to– just to–

Viago moves so quickly she barely registers it, but as she wretches into the bowl whilst he sits her up, she is grateful for his forethought. It’s bitter, sour, and her stomach twists painfully as her body insists on emptying itself though there is nothing left to be emptied. She heaves, tears trickling down her cheeks, and suddenly she feels hot, so hot, from her fingers up to the top of her skull, and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she’s going to die, she’s going to burn alive as she chokes and gags but nothing comes out.

“Ashara!”

His voice cuts through the rising panic.

His hand is cold on her cheek – no, it’s a small towel, dipped in cool water. He is mopping her brow, tapping her cheek with his finger.

“Breathe. Breathe for me. No, do not gasp – take a nice, deep breath– that’s it, that’s a good girl.”

Tender. Soothing. She exhales.

“Bene, molto bene.(Good, very good.) Keep breathing like that for me, little bird. I have you.”

Slowly, the world begins to cool, the heat recedes from her cheeks and ebbs out of her fingers like the tide pulling away from the beach. She feels clammy and shaky and scared, but Viago has a firm hand on her back, rubbing gently between her shoulder blades, and it calms her enough that her body stops its relentless attempts to purge her organs.

“There we go.”

He helps her sit up, moves the bowl out of sight, and dabs at her swollen lip with the washcloth.

“Tell me about the nightmare, Ashara.”

It is not a question, not quite an order, but she’ll treat it as one.

“It was… Rialto,” she mumbled, pulling her knees to her chest and wincing as the motion pulled on the healing scabs across her body. Viago gives her an exasperated look but doesn’t say anything, just continues to rub her back. “When we… when I stole your purse. Just like always. But– when I fell, it – it wasn’t you. And I wasn’t a kid anymore.”

Her voice gets thick.

“He pushed me to my knees. I tried to bite him, Viago. I swear, I swear I did, I swear, I just couldn’t– I couldn’t move… And he hit me,” at this, her fingers reach up to trace her swollen eye and it is clear that this is not just a nightmare. “And said he would– he would tear out my teeth before he threw me to the canals. And then he– he–”

“Enough.”

Viago is stroking her cheek, brushing his thumb beneath her eye to catch the tears that have started to fall without her knowledge or consent.

“I will bring you a brew for your throat.”

And that’s it. No more questions. He doesn’t need to ask them, he knows enough, and she doesn’t want to say any more.

“You are safe here, uccellina(little bird),” he says roughly, pressing a kiss to her hairline as he tugs her against his chest and lifts her into his lap. She feels almost silly, curled up there, but his hand shifts to rub her upper arm and it feels so natural to tuck her head into his shoulder. “You are safe. No one will touch you, mia cara.(my dear)No one.”

“Just you,” she whispered, her voice muffled by his throat. “Just you, Viago. No one else, per favore(please). No doctors. No healers. Just– just you.”

She can’t bear to be seen like this by anyone else, Viago is safe, Viago is home, Viago is… She tucks her head into the crook of his neck and mumbles, “Promise?”

Viago, for his part, shushes her and presses another kiss to her temple. “Just me, tesoro(darling.). Ti prometto(I promise.).” There’s an odd warmth in his gut as he processes her words, her request – just you, Viago, just you. She trusts him implicitly, and he will not betray that trust, not for anything. (He files away the way it makes his heart clench, how his cheeks darken ever so slightly, to hear her say just he is allowed to touch her. These are things he does not need to think on now or ever.)

They stay like that for a long time, Ashara twisting her fingers into Viago’s tunic, shaking in his arms, and Viago holding her protectively in his lap, murmuring soft Antivan into her ear and intermittently pressing kisses to her hair when she starts to get too upset. The clocktower in the distance strikes four when her breathing shifts from shaky to sleepy.

He doesn’t fall asleep again, too entranced by the sight of his protege in his arms. He would be lying to himself if he said he had never appreciated how beautiful she had become – they had all but grown up together, despite the eight years between them, and Viago appreciates fine things; fine wines, fine food, fine people. But for years he has been her Talon, her mentor, and he has always pushed back on the possessive desire inside of him to claim her as his own.

She looks right curled up in his lap. She fits. Her head sits perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, her hair tickles his beard and chin in a way that makes him smile fondly, rather than in irritation. Ashara is, by far, his prize pupil. And he knows he would kill for her.

He thinks he might even die for her.

Careful not to jostle the elf in his lap, Viago presses the heel of his hand to his eye before covering his face with his hand, rubbing slowly at his temples. These are not thoughts he can entertain, especially not now.

His little bird has just experienced unspeakable trauma at the hands of someone she should be able to rely on – a fellow Crow, but not just that, a Crow from an allied house. The house of her best friend, her frequent contract companion, and the house of the Talon who, when faced with the vengeance of Zevran Arainai, acknowledged that the Crows needed to change, and brought about that change with an iron fist.

But allies be damned, he thinks as his lip curls into a sneer. Illario Dellamorte will rue the day he touched Ashara de Riva.

Dawn rises on a sombre Treviso.

Andarateia Cantori looks at the missive in her hand and fights the urge to crush the parchment between her fingers. She takes a steadying breath, and then fights the urge to stalk down to the cells beneath her casino and put a dagger in the throat of one of the two heirs to House Dellamorte.

She fights these urges, and looks to one of her own Crows.

“A representative of the Fifth Talon will arrive shortly to conduct their contract business for the next several days. Some of their Crows have already arrived and will be bunking in the unused Cantori quarters on the second level. Please ensure they have everything they need, and provide them instructions on the kitchen usage.”

Teia paused, then spoke again as her Crow went to leave. “Perhaps include that brewing poisons is strictly prohibited in the communal kitchen,” she cracks the ghost of a smile. “But that we will provide separate cutlery and plates specifically for their use.”

House de Riva are all, she thinks, a little strange, not least because of their insistence on microdosing poisons near daily. Viago never made it a stipulation, but the de Riva Crows are proud and stubborn and frankly, yes, a little strange.

Teia’s Crow departs, and the Seventh Talon turns to the First, a woman who has always been something like a mother to her.

“Viago will not be joining us,” she says simply.

Caterina Dellamorte’s sharp eyes linger on Teia’s face, on the crease of her brow and the blink-and-you-miss-it hint of redness around her eyes, and then she nods. “I would be disappointed if he was.”

Silence hangs heavily between the two women, each lost in uneasy thoughts.

There are two wine glasses on the table between them, and as Teia sits down, Caterina gestures to the unopened bottle. “We will do nothing until Viago joins us.” She taps the parchment before her, already embossed with her official seal. Teia doesn’t ask what it says – she already knows.

Everyone knows.

“Why did you do it?”

“Why not?”

“She is our friend, Illario! Il respiro del Creator(Makers breath!), how could you?”

“She is your friend, Lucanis. Leave me.”

“Illario, tell me–”

“You are not First Talon yet, Lucanis. Leave.”

“Illario–”

“Leave.”

The de Riva Crows, fledglings, assassins, and masters alike, sit huddled in a corner of the Cantori Diamond, nursing bottles of wine they brought with them when Matin all but escorted them out of the apartments a week earlier.

“Can’t believe there are so many Talons all here in Treviso,” murmurs one of the older Crows. “Last time this happened, half of them ended up dead! I wonder why they are here…”

“You know Illario,” the name is said with a sneer, “must be involved. No one has seen him in a week.”

“Hush,” says another, her violet eyes darting around the sitting area. They are alone, the ten of them, but in a casino owned and operated by the Seventh Talon, no one is ever truly alone. “You heard Matin – we don’t speak of it.”

“How can we not? Rook is one of ours,” pipes up one of the fledglings, a round-faced elf with dark red hair and a severe frown. “She’s always looked out for us. We should be looking out for her!”

That isn’t traditionally how Crows ought to act, Teia muses to herself as she sips her wine from her seat a floor above, enjoying the chatter. But perhaps it is good they did not grow up as we did.

“I hear the First Talon has stripped him of his feathers,” murmurs the first, a little too gleeful. “No protections, no position, no support. Houseless.”

“What could he have done to earn that?” asks the fledgling, voice horrified and higher than a moment ago. Her elders shush her and look around nervously. She drops her voice, “Senor Viago told me he has never stripped a Crow of their feathers…”

“Don’t think it’s happened in a long time… Whatever happened, Rook is fucked up. I heard Matin speaking to Chance about ingredients for calming draughts. If Senor has run out of ingredients, she must be in a bad way.”

Teia takes this opportunity to lean over the railing.

“Chirping birds should mind their tongues,” she calls sweetly, taking a small measure of pleasure in how quickly the Crows blanch and clear their faces. Viago would be proud of them, she thinks fondly. “Be assured, Ashara will be fine. And as for a Crow losing their feathers…”

Her voice darkened.

“It is no small thing to clip a bird’s wings, my friends – it is a decision made by many Talons, not just one. And you of all people should know the danger of speculation. I hope to hear no more of this.”

The whispers rekindle beneath her, much quieter, but Teia ignores them – she has said what needed to be said, she has given them the information they needed.

Two weeks after that, the de Riva Crows return to their apartments. Nothing has changed, except…

Except that there is a ghost in their home now.

A ghost who used to be one of them, used to be lively, used to be vivacious, used to be free.

Ashara flits from room to room, her hands shaking as she presses against a wall when she hears footsteps. She can’t face them, not now – not yet. It’s… too soon, she reasons to herself, stealthily making her way back towards the most private area of the apartments – Viago’s set of rooms.

She had tried to return to her own quarters, had tried to sleep in the bed she was so accustomed to, with the blankets she had picked up in Rivain, and Nevarra, and Arlathan, but when she did fall asleep there, she was haunted by nightmares and found herself either waking to Viago’s panicked eyes after her screams roused him all the way on the other side of the apartments or waking in his bed, having walked there in the night, desperately seeking out comfort.

After several days, Viago moved her trunk of clothes to his quarters and brought her blankets through, laying them out on the side of the bed she slept on. He never said a word to her, and Ashara–

Well, she didn’t mention it either.

She tried to go to the Diamond the day before last, determined to see Teia, Lucanis, her friends, but the moment her eyes fixed on the alleyway that she would have to pass by on her way, she dissolved into such hysterics that Matin had to fetch Viago and a calming draught.

So today, she sits on the couch in his study as Viago works – guilt floods her because he has been neglecting his duties for her, because she cannot get her head back on. He hasn’t left the de Riva apartments since the night she was attacked, because she starts to panic if he is not near. He speaks to very few, and only when Ashara is asleep, because voices that are not Viago’s sound like Illario, and she starts to panic, and the panic becomes consuming, strangling, like vines that she cannot escape, and–

“Uccellina(little bird),” his voice is sharp enough to drag her from her self-loathing, and she looks up at him with wide eyes. “Come here.”

He pushes his chair back and she stands, slowly makes her way over to him, and then squeaks as he sighs, shakes his head, and pulls her into his lap. The faintest hint of red blossoms at the tips of her ears.

“I can hear you worrying,” he says lowly, catching her chin with his fingers and tipping her head so her green eyes meet his piercing blue. “Sit. We have contracts to review.”

He always provides a distraction when her thoughts get too loud. Maker, I love him, she thinks, and then her brain stutters to a stop, the unbidden thought putting her in a tailspin. Her ears burn, she’s certain her cheeks are pink, but Maker love him, Viago doesn’t say a word, simply scoots the groaning chair back towards his desk, shifts Ashara so he can see both her and the paperwork, and picks up a contract.

“Who do you think, uccellina(little bird), for this one?”

His voice is gentle, but there is steel beneath it – she will obey, because he won’t permit her to sink into the depths of despair that threaten to drown her. She doesn’t speak, and he pinches her chin. “Ashara.”

She swallows, and takes the contract, reading the directive and sucking her lip between her teeth. Yet another contract on King Markus of Nevarra. She snorts. “Alissa and Cian have had several long contracts this year – perhaps them? They would like a holiday.”

Because everyone knows a contract on the King of Nevarra is a fools errand. He is easy enough to stab, very simple to poison, oddly susceptible to falling down stairs and out of windows – but he is damn impossible to kill.

Viago laughs and nods. “My thoughts exactly,” and it makes her want to squirm because he sounds so fond of her in that moment, like she isn’t a burden, like she isn’t–

A pinch to her waist makes her yelp and she looks at him, wounded.

“Thoughts here, per favore(please.),” is all he says. He scribbles down Alissa and Cian’s names on his ledger and motions for Ashara to roll the contract and place it in one of the delivery holders. She does, affixing the holder with the names of the two Crows, and sets it aside.

Viago picks up the next contract, hands it to her, and waits as she reads it.

They both ignore the fact his hand has splayed across her waist, never removed after his pinch minutes before. They ignore the heat of his skin against hers, and how her breath hitches ever so slightly when he rests his chin on her shoulder to read along with her.

It is for the best if they ignore it.

She doesn’t get better, per se.

She simply does not get worse.

Four weeks after her assault, with Illario still languishing beneath the Diamond, Ashara wakes to blood between her legs and cries for an hour.

When Viago finds her, something loosens in his chest and he spends the next four days with a snappy, emotional, easily distressed Crow who sleeps too much and drinks her way through his entire supply of cioccolata calda(hot chocolate.). Nevermind that he had given her witherstalk tea the same night, nevermind that she was certain Illario had not spent inside of her – the blood is a welcome friend for them both.

It is in the days after that that Ashara joins some of the other de Riva’s on the apartment patio for coffee. She returns to the training room and works with Danica, the little red-headed elf that Ashara had retrieved from Rialto four years earlier, and Eoin, a young man with strange blonde curls that should not fit his dark complexion but do, on their knife throwing and grappling.

She spends hours going over poisons with the youngest fledglings, reminding them to wear their gloves at all times when handling ingredients and toxins, and to always, always, always have an antidote kit with them.

But she still does not leave the apartments. She still cannot sleep in her own bed without nightmares terrorising her and screams clawing their way from her throat. And Viago finds he cannot sleep without the slip of an elf in his arms – he worries when she stays late in the library with the fledglings, comes to find her if she misses a meal because she has lost track of time whilst training with Marisol, one of the Master Crows.

The fleeting glances between Viago and Ashara de Riva are the worst kept secret in House de Riva, but none of the Crows say a word.

“Give her a contract.”

“Andarateia, lovely to see you.”

“Viago.”

He puts down the paperwork he has been reading and fixes his former lover with a pinched stare.

“She needs a contract. Neither of you can continue like this.”

Logically, Viago knows that Teia is right – he will never admit this, she will be insufferable about it, but she is right. Were Ashara any other Crow, he would not have allowed her to sit out contracts for so long, would have dragged her out of the apartments himself – he did much worse to her in the name of training when she was a fledgling. But…

“I– cannot.”

Teia freezes in her methodical pacing back and forth in front of his desk. She raises her head and stares up at him. Teia has always had the uncanny ability to strip him down to his core, she sees him for precisely who he is, and perhaps that is why they never managed to make it work. She forces him to acknowledge the darkest parts of himself, but she is not soft about it – not like Ash– no. He shakes his head.

“She’s… she isn’t ready, Teia–”

“Bullshit.”

Viago winces. He should’ve expected that.

“You are not ready, Viago. Illario Dellamorte is still taking up space in my cells because you have not been able to leave these apartments in nearly two months. The two of you–”

Teia throws her hands up.

“Vi,” she says, softening her tone. “I know you love her, but–”

“I– I most certainly do not!” He splutters, looking for all the world as though Teia had just slapped him, or told him his father had died and named him Heir to the Throne. Viago de Riva does not splutter. He is not taken aback. But this is Teia, and she always manages to surprise him.

Teia gives him a look that can only be described as pitying before she continues, “Both of you need time apart. Ashara needs to reclaim control over her life, and you need to remember that she is still the woman you trained – strong, capable, and resilient.”

He doesn’t respond.

He can’t respond.

Because he knows she is right, but…

“I failed her, Teia.”

The words hang between them.

“Oh,” she says softly.

“I was angry. I didn’t go looking for her until…” He gestures to the sending crystal. “If I had simply walked outside, I would have found her. She wouldn’t…” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to force the burn of tears away. He won’t cry, not now. He did not cry when his mother died, when he was given the choice between exile or the Crows, and he will not cry now.

Teia has made her way to his desk. She perches on it like she owns it, and her hand is on Viago’s shoulder. “No,” she murmurs. “No, Vi, you cannot think like that. There is only one person to blame for what happened that night.”

“I failed her, Teia. I did not do enough.”

Teia’s hand is a comforting weight, even as he takes a strangled breath. He tries to reassert his usual cool control over his maelstrom of emotions, but a tear slips free of his traitorous eye. Teia doesn’t say a word as it drips onto the papers between them.

“Give her a contract,” Teia murmurs.

He knows he has to. He knows he should. He has not been thinking like her Talon, but like… like… He sighs, long and heavy, and slowly nods.

“I will.”

“I’ll send her to your study in an hour.”

Teia hops off his desk and, in a moment of softness between two people who have seen so much cruelty, she squeezes his shoulder and presses a kiss to the rumpled curls of his hair. It’s been too long since she’s seen him without his hair slicked back, the curls he inherited from his mother stifled by his need for control and sleek lines.

“Grazie(Thank you), Teia.”

“Teia – ah, the Seventh Talon said you wanted to speak with me, Senor?”

Ashara’s voice is calm, controlled, every syllable carefully constructed to project the image of a perfect Crow. If he didn’t know her better, if he hadn’t held her in his arms every night for weeks now, he might have been fooled by it – but Viago trained her, he knows her.

She is nervous.

“Si(Yes). Sit, per favore(please).”

He gestures to the seat in front of his desk, and she obeys, folding herself into it and looking at him expectantly. He runs his fingers through his hair, an unconscious habit that he thought he had broken long ago. He pushes a scroll towards her, nods at it, and waits.

She tilts her head but picks up the scroll, unrolling it and reading it once quickly, then again, taking in each word.

A cadet branch of House Valmont seeks to reach above their station. The recipient of this contract, Ashara de Riva, is to remove Lord and Lady Valmont of Verchiel, and deliver their children to Her Majesty, Empress Celene Valmont I’s care in Halamshiral.

Should the recipient fall, their next of kin may claim this contract.

Ashara racks her brain for what she knows of Orlesian royalty and nobility. “Why us?” She looks up at Viago, eyes narrowed. “The House of Repose handles most of the Orlesian Grand Game – why has the Empress outsourced?”

Viago’s lip twitches ever so slightly, but his eyes betray the pride he feels at her questions. He has trained her well.

“The Empress cannot be seen to be involved. And following the House of Repose’s, ah– performance regarding the Montilyets and the southern Inquisition, I believe their services are not so sought after these days. Hence, we have received the contract.”

She nods, running her finger across the letters that form her name – it’s Viago’s handwriting.

“I accept,” she murmurs, looking up at him. Her stomach twists in knots – this contract means not only leaving the apartments, but leaving Antiva. Two months ago, this would not have scared her. Today, it terrifies her.

She stands to leave, but Viago is by her side in an instant, walking to his office door with her.

“I–”

“Ashara–”

They both stop, and there’s smiles where before there had simply been stoic masks. Viago brushes one of Ashara’s curls away from her face, his gloved fingers lingering on her cheek for a beat too long.

“Be safe, uccellina(little bird),” he murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

She looks up at the last moment, and is suddenly aware of how close his mouth is to hers.

The world around them seems to freeze. Ashara is hyper aware of the wall behind her, the way Viago is standing a hair too close, and his breath on her lips.

So close. So close she could move a centimeter and they would be touching. Viago’s other hand presses against the wall beside her head, and for a moment they simply stand there, staring, barely daring to breathe.

“Vi–”

Her words are breathless, her cheeks pink, pupils consuming the green of her eyes. Viago’s eyes are similar, the faintest hint of blue around a sea of black.

“Ashara,” and she can feel the damp heat of his breath against her mouth. His breath smells of mint, his cologne surrounding her like an old, familiar blanket – comforting, warm, secure. Her heart is racing, this is a line they should not cross, but Maker, she wants his lips on hers, she wants his body crushing her to the wall, she wants…

She wants…

A clock chimes in the distance and Viago tears himself back like he has been burned, clearing his throat and tugging at his collar.

“I expect weekly updates,” he said roughly. Ashara nods, her fingers brushing her lips, and then she is gone.

Teia is waiting for her when she leaves the apartments that evening– Ashara has never been happier to see a friend. The two elves walk in silence, side by side, stopping so Ashara can catch her breath only twice. And Teia doesn’t say a word as Ashara lets tears roll silently down her cheeks, simply hands her a fine handkerchief and tucks it away in her pocket on its return.

The Seventh Talon walks the Master Assassin to the docks and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Buona caccia(Good hunting.).”

Chapter Text

My dearest friend,

I arrived yesterday in Verchiel – it is beautiful this time of year, but it took me everlong to arrive thanks to poor conditions at sea. My cousin Philomela has kindly offered me lodging in her home whilst she is in Val Royeaux, and I have a wonderful view of Chateau du Valmont! You would not believe how busy this city is, so many people coming and going!

I am so looking forward to this time away – my sister was correct that a month in the Orlesian countryside is just what I needed to recover from the loss of dear Emil. Kisses to Tara and the children.

Ever yours,
Ariana

My dearest friend,

Please forgive my folly – I realised this morning I have not written in two weeks! My health has taken a turn, and the healer believes I should stay in Verchiel until the next full moon, rather than leaving after this one. Nothing to worry about – I believe the loss of our beloved Emil has struck a chord within me, and I simply cannot fathom returning with him so recently gone.

I have spent many days in Philomela’s garden, admiring the flowers. I feel they will come in useful throughout my recovery. I do hope I have done them justice below.

I hope to see you soon, my dearest friend. Perhaps once I have gathered myself! I will write again, kisses to Tara and the children.

Ever yours,
Ariana

(This letter is accompanied by a small drawing of several flowers, and a snake wound amongst them – the snake bears a striking resemblance to Emil, Viago’s adder.)

My dearest friend,

You will be so impressed – I have secured a ticket to the most grand occasion! Their Lord and Ladyship host an annual ball, and Philomela has arranged for me to attend! Can you imagine, she managed this all the way from Val Royeaux! I simply must send her a gift when I am home.

The ball is to take place a week from today, so I must send this quickly, else I shall be late for my fitting at the modiste! I have arranged for a beautiful assortment of flowers from Philomela’s garden to be my gift to their Lord and Ladyship at the ball – I am sure they will adore them!

Kisses to Tara and the children.

Ever yours,
Ariana

(Another sketch accompanies this letter – Ashara herself in a gown that looks to be Antivan-inspired but Orlesian-made.)

My dearest friend,

A Valmont ball is truly a wondrous sight – though the entertainment for the evening was sorely lacking. Our esteemed hosts caused quite the stir– I shall tell you all about it when I return home! My ship has sadly been delayed, so I have procured a carriage to take me from Verchiel to Jader, where I will sail.

I may linger on the Imperial Highway – I have collected much during my stay, and I fear I cannot carry all of it through Halamshiral and all the way to Jader!

Hugs to Tara and the children.

Ever yours,
Ariana.

The weeks since Ashara left were…difficult to begin with.

Viago has never been renowned for his pleasing temper, but even Matin has raised an eyebrow at how surly his master has been. It is only once her first letter arrives that Senor de Riva finally seems to relax, though he grows surly again when seven days go by without correspondence.

He knows he is being ridiculous, but– He worries! She is his protege, after all – he has put so much time and work into her, she is his prize pupil, his greatest accomplishment, and if something were to happen to her, it would mean years of work snuffed out.

(Ice fills his gut at the idea of Ashara and snuffed out existing in the same sentence. Best not to think on that for too long.)

He finds himself distracted, though no one would know – if anything, he seems more attentive, spending longer hours at the Cantori Diamond, working on contracts, taking a few of his own, brewing and restocking his poisons and antidotes cupboards.

When he receives the letter and the sketch of Ashara in a ball gown, he drops it like he has been burned.

Hours later, he picks up the sketch as he takes himself in hand, gloves cast aside on the rosewood desk. He hadn’t realised Ashara was so talented with charcoal, and the letter still holds the faintest hint of honeysuckle and roses. He slicks his hand with oil (and it is a coincidence, nothing more, that the oil happens to be rose oil) and groans as he slowly strokes his arousal.

He shouldn’t. Shame floods him and goes straight to his groin, the hot mortification only fueling his desire. She is his responsibility. She is his Crow.

“Only you, Viago,” her voice echoes in his ear.

Viago moans, thumb catching some of the precum from his weeping slit and using it to further ease the slow glide of his hand. It has been too long since he last did this, and considering that he and Teia have been off again since their last break up (which seems very permanent this time, though this does not fill him with the usual nostalgia or longing, just a comfortable acceptance that they are better as friends), his bare hand feels divine.

With his free hand, he holds the sketch of his uccellina(little bird), and his mouth goes dry as he imagines her in silks, in chiffon, in nothing at all, stretched out nude on his bed, crying out in pleasure rather than panic as he feasts between her legs and brings her to ecstasy after ecstasy, peak after peak–

He grunts as he spills across his hand, faintly shocked by the suddenness of his climax.

Hot shame chases the feeling of cooling seed. She deserves better than this, better than a lecherous Talon eight years her senior, better than the paranoid bastard of the King, better than him. This cannot happen again.

(It does.)

The Dawn Lotus arrives just after nightfall, seven weeks after Ashara de Riva left Treviso. Her hair is longer, her skin scattered with more freckles and dark moles than before, and her eyes are brighter. As she disembarks the ship with just the clothes on her back, her thick green cloak, and her rucksack, she smiles at her home.

Because Treviso is her home, but that is not where she is looking. Viago stands by the dock, leaning against one of the many buildings, expressionless.

“Fifth Talon,” she dips her head respectfully as she approaches him, desperate to tease, desperate to hug him, desperate to– She shakes her head as if trying to rid water from her ears, rather than inappropriate thoughts from her head.

“Ashara,” he responds simply, and reaches for her bag. She is so surprised that she lets it go without a fight and falls into step beside him as they walk towards the de Riva apartments. They chat about nothing in particular – the beautiful birds she saw in Jader; that Lucanis has apparently been dead set on acquiring a wyvern, of all things!; and the cat that lived on the Dawn Lotus, which had taken to her from the very first evening aboard – as they slowly meander their way home.

Home.

Viago is her home, she realises. And what a fucking stupid move that is, because that can never happen. If it was going to happen, it would’ve the night she left– but it didn’t, and she’s certain he sees her as nothing more than his protege.

He guides her up the stairs, not to his office, but to the study where she fell asleep so many nights after That Night, the one attached to his quarters. He pours her a drink, smiles indulgently as she tests it with her own kit from her pocket first, and tests his own.

They sit quietly for a few minutes before he looks up at her with an expression that could be called resigned and says, “In the middle of the ballroom, Ashara? Really?”

Her laughter filled the study. Because of all of the things she had expected, that was not what she had thought he would start with. (Privately, she thought he would’ve started with reprimanding her for being delinquent in her reports.)

“Whilst I was doing my reconnaissance, I discovered that Lord and Lady Valmont had a… predilection for their elven servants,” she said, giving him a look. “I’m sure you understand I could not let that go unpunished.”

The Adder’s Kiss she had slipped into their drinks worked beautifully, the dosage and suspension agent keeping them in fine health until they both dropped dead in the middle of the ballroom midway through the ball.

The piece de resistance, though, had been the paperwork that was obtrusively sticking out of Lord Valmont’s doublet, which painted a sordid picture of treason, exploitation, and slave trading. And that the loudest gossip in Verchiel happened to be the first to spy those papers as they fell from his Lordship’s breast on his untimely demise?

Sheer coincidence.

Viago clearly does not believe her, and he groans. “You vex me,” he tells her, taking a long drink of his wine. “But the Empress was apparently quite pleased – her agent has sent a bonus.” He puts the bag on the table and pushes it towards her. It is twice as heavy as it should be, even accounting for the House cut.

As she lifts it, she catches sight of the well worn sketch she had sent him a month earlier, of her in the gown that had been made for the ball. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it, even as Viago quickly covers it with another letter.

“Contract compete,” she tells him happily, handing back the scroll as is their custom. Viago smiles, a real, genuine smile, and accepts the scroll, standing to place it in the wardrobe behind him, where completed contracts end up for record keeping (or blackmail).

“And the children?”

“The three Valmont children arrived as unexpected guests at the Winter Palace two weeks ago,” she reports cheerfully. “Accompanied by their closest confidantes, and their nannies.” Briala had been more than happy to take the elven nannies and their children under her wing, and the Empress was pleased that her young relatives were in good spirits and behaving as children should, playing with their companions and, surprisingly, not asking after their parents.

Ashara had taken the time to explain that there had been a terrible accident and she was charged with bringing them safely to their closest relative, the Empress. The youngest child had asked if there would still be honey-bread, and the oldest had simply been happy that the three of them would remain with their friends.

Her mentor nods. “You’ve done well, uccellina(little bird).” He pauses, swirls his wine, and takes a sip. “... How are you?”

The air shifts slightly. Ashara lets her mask fall and relaxes back into the chair – no more are they Talon and Master Assassin, now they can just be Viago and Ashara.

“I– Better,” she lands on. “I am better. It— The contract was the right decision. I don’t know that I ever– that I would have been able to go without you ordering me away.”

“That was not–”

“I know,” she says quickly, realising how that must’ve sounded. “I know. What I meant is… if anyone had suggested I get out of Treviso for a bit, I don’t think it would have helped. But you… you gave me a contract. And a Crow never fails a contract.”

A small smile plays on her lips as she looks up at him. “You taught me that.”

“That I did,” he muses, smiling at her over the rim of his wine and watching as she takes her own long sip. The Antivan red is one of his better vintages, and they both know it. They sit again in comfortable, companionable silence, listening to the crackle of the flames in the hearth and drinking their wine.

Soon, the bottle is gone, and they are sitting on the couch rather than at his desk. Ashara has kicked off her boots (and then retrieved them and placed them neatly by the door at the horrified expression on Viago’s face), and rests her feet in his lap as he recounts some of what she has missed.

His thumb brushes against her ankle and her breath catches in her throat. The air shifts again, suddenly hotter and heavier. Ashara looks up at Viago, swallowing hard. It’s just the faintest touch of skin on skin, but it has her feeling electrified in the best way.

“I– should go,” she murmurs, pulling herself up and swinging her legs so her feet are on the ground. “Long trip. Tired, you know.” She’s glad her hair has grown, because at least the tips of her ears are covered – no doubt they are red as the peppers Lucanis likes to grind up for his paella.

“Ashara…”

“Goodnight, Viago,” she shoots him a bright smile as she pads across his study and grabs her boots and the hefty bag of gold her contract has netted her. He looks, for a moment, like he is going to say something, like he might get up and walk over to her, but he doesn’t.

“Buonanotte(Good night), uccellina(little bird).”

His voice follows her from the room, something soft in his tone that she cannot place. The door shuts behind her, and Ashara de Riva returns to her own bed for the first time in many, many months.

As she enters her quarters and deposits her earnings in the small safe she keeps beneath a loose floorboard, Ashara realises that her pile of blankets must still be in Viago’s quarters, because the room is missing the pops of red, green, blue, gold, and purple that usually make it feel so cozy and comforting. But there’s no way she is returning there tonight, not with the ache between her legs growing with every passing second.

She locks her door (ultimately a pointless exercise – there is no door that a de Riva Crow cannot breach, besides Viago’s study) and strips off her travelling clothes, dropping them into the empty hamper and reaching for her sleeping linens. Her hand catches on the shirt Viago had given her on That Night, and try as she might, she can’t bring herself to put it back.

It hits midthigh and she pads to her bed, sliding under the cool sheets with a sigh. Sleep. She can sleep. Sleep is good.

But the ache pulses still.

She rolls over, determined to ignore the neediness between her thighs. She is a Master Crow. She has control over her body. But seconds turn into minutes and she realises after a little while that there will be no rest until she is sated.

“Cazzo(Fuck), fine!”

She hasn’t done this in a long time – after That Night, even seeing herself bereft of clothes was difficult until she left for her contract. Touching herself had been completely out of the question. But now..

Nerves lubricated by the wine she had indulged in, it’s a simple thing to slowly slide her hands down her body. Viago’s tunic still smells a little like him, woodsy and musky, and she most certainly does not tuck her head down so she can inhale the scent of it whilst her fingers ghost across her breasts.

Her breath catches as she starts slowly, letting her fingers trace soft circles on her tummy, stroking closer to her breasts but never quite touching. The gentle caresses make her breath hitch and she whimpers as she cups her breasts and lets her thumbs brush across her nipples. She has never been quite so soft with herself, so sensual, but it feels good and so she lets the feelings guide her.

Ashara had never thought of her tits as particularly impressive or overly sensitive, but as she kneads the soft flesh and traces her nipples, her hips twitch and that hot throb between her legs grows more insistent. Her mouth is dry as she lets one hand drift lower, tugging up the hem of the nightshirt to expose her tanned legs, her bare sex, and her stomach.

She lifts the tunic until it sits just above her breasts and Viago’s cologne is more concentrated. The smell fills her senses as she tweaks one pert nipple and she moans, hips jerking off the sheets. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t stop, rolling the little nub until she can’t stop herself from whining and squirming.

And then she does it again to the other breast, until her heel is dragging across the bedsheets and she can feel a slickness between her thighs. Her free hand skirts towards her exposed core but she stops just above her pelvis and drags her nails across her skin.

That makes her spine arch, a shiver rolling through her as it sends a needy bolt straight to her center. She swallows another moan as she lets her fingers dance slowly towards where she wants them most – Maker, she just wants to touch herself, but she deserves this.

Her finger swipes across her folds and she is shocked at how wet she is – slick, slippery, soaked. The feeling makes her moan louder, and she gathers some of that slick on her finger and nudges at the bundle of nerves at the apex. This, too, makes her moan.

This continues for minutes until there is a sheen of sweat at her brow and every stroke of her fingers makes her spine curve and arch. Her foot drags along the bedsheets as her thighs fall open and as she lets one slim finger dip inside, she is struck by how much bigger Viago’s hands are than hers, how one of his fingers is likely two of hers, and she adds a second without even thinking about it.

The stretch is divine.

The press of her fingers, the way the heel of her hand presses against her needy clit – it’s all perfect, no, it’s more than perfect, it is everything. She’s mewling and squirming now, plucking at her nipples one after another, crying out as she squeezes just a hair harder than she normally would have.

It’s delicious, the way it sends heat straight to her core.

One hand on her breast, the other in her cunt, and her moans fill the room. Her hips chase her hand greedily, desperate for more, desperate for that decadence she has denied herself for so, so long. It creeps up on her as she imagines Viago’s voice in her ear, calling her uccellina(little bird), calling her tesoro(darling.), telling her how beautiful she looks as she cums on his fingers, how gorgeous she will look taking his cock.

“Bellissima(Beautiful),” she hears in her mind, and it tips her over the edge as her thumb presses sharp, erratic circles around her throbbing clit.

She shatters, and only one word leaves her lips.

“Viago!”

She sleeps soundly through til morning, and when she sees him in the communal kitchen for breakfast, his hair mussed and wearing the dark plum gloves that featured in one of her dreams last night, her ears flick and flush so red that Marisol asks if she caught the sun in Orlais.

Chapter Text

Things go back to normal after that.

Well, normal for Crows, anyway.

Ashara learns that Illario was judged in her absence, and while part of her smarts at being denied the opportunity to look him in the eye, she knows she couldn’t have faced it. Faced him.

Caterina stripped him of his name, his position, and his accolades on the first night, stamping it with her seal before Viago had even finished brewing the antidote for Andraste’s Lament. Teia and Noa had stood as witnesses to the declaration.

A Crow stripped of his Feathers is no Crow at all.

As Head of House de Riva and Fifth Talon, Viago was given full rights to Illario’s punishment following a trial before the gathered Talons. Ashara – or Rook, as many of the others call her– was (and is) relatively well known amongst the larger organisation of Crows, and when Viago delivered his testimony of what he had witnessed, what he had seen on Ashara’s limp body, it was a wonder that Illario had gotten out of that room alive, let alone uninjured.

Caterina had branded him a disappointment to both herself, and to his late mother, her beloved daughter, before sweeping from the room. Lucanis had simply shaken his head and walked out.

Talon’s are notoriously tight lipped and so she isn’t entirely sure how it all ended, but Teia assures her over a warm mug of spiced wine that Illario will never be able to return to Antiva.

And so, as it is wont to do, time passes. The colder months roll through Treviso, and Satinalia fast approaches – and with it, the annual Dellamorte Satinalia Gala. Ashara completes her contracts – some further away, some closer to home, but every Crow of note will be in Treviso for this, and she is no exception.

–

Teia absconds with her two weeks before the Gala, sweeping past Viago with his protege on her arm, calling out, “I am stealing her, Vi– don’t wait up!” as she passes. Both Ashara and Viago have similarly dumbfounded expressions as Teia all but kidnaps Ashara whilst she is in the midst of brewing.

“Can you– finish that for me please?” she calls over her shoulder, casting a wide-eyed look at Viago, who sighs as though he has been personally, grievously, offended, and nods. Her half-finished potion bubbles ominously on her desk in the corner of the Diamond that the de Riva’s have commandeered as theirs.

It isn’t until Teia is leading her down a brightly lit, bustling street that Ashara clocks what is happening – dress shopping. The shopfront that Teia has stopped at is unassuming by Antivan standards, and Ashara casts a grateful look at the Seventh Talon– at her friend, because somewhere in the last few months, the other elf has become just that – Teia is more than a Talon now, she is a friend, someone Ashara knows she can rely on.

This is somewhere quieter than where most of Antiva’s elite will be gathering their gowns for the gala. “Annette is a miracle worker,” Teia assures her, leading her into the small shop. Ashara can tell why they have come – the fabrics are all ones she has seen before. This seamstress clearly supplies many of the leathers and outfits she has purchased from Fletcher at the Diamond.

She is admiring a pair of butter-soft leather trousers, so blue they are almost black, with discrete inner sleeves for blades, when Teia begins to chatter rapidly in Antivan with a woman in her early forties. The two seem well acquainted, and so Ashara simply waits whilst the women laugh and chat, before the attention is turned back to her.

“She needs a gown for the Dellamorte party, Annette. It must be perfetto(perfect),” Teia explains as Annette leads Ashara to a small box surrounded on three sides by angled mirrors.

“Undress, per favore(please).”

Ashara looks to Teia, discomfort rising in her chest, but Teia is pulling the curtains and locking the singular entrance. And… that– that helps. She strips out of her leathers and makes to step down to set them aside, but Teia is there, taking them in hand. “Good girl,” she teases, and Ashara’s ears twitch as her cheeks flood.

Teia laughs. “Does Vi know how that makes you feel?”

She feels like she’s been punched in the gut and casts her eyes down to the floor as Annette begins taking measurements. “It’s not like that, Teia. You know that.”

The other elf looks thunderstruck for a moment before her well-practiced smile is firmly back in place. “Of course not. But we are friends, si? You know you can tell me–”

“It’s not like that,” and Ashara’s voice is sharper this time, an undercurrent of… something fragile, something so very un-Crow-like in her words. “Cazzo(Fuck), Teia, it will never be like that.”

Teia’s face softens. “Ash–”

“Please don’t.” She’s exhausted now, her reserves sapped by the knowledge that her inappropriate secret is apparently not as secret as she once thought. Her eyes stay low as she asks, “Does everyone know? How I… feel?” She feels sick at the thought that Viago could know. That he could be aware of how her heart beats faster when he is near, and that he is ignoring it because he doesn’t feel the same way.

Teia cocks her head. “Ashara, surely you’ve heard the rumours…?”

“... Rumours?” Maker, there were rumours now? She wishes she was a mage so she could conjure up a way to disappear on the spot.

The Seventh Talon has the good grace to look abashed. “It is considered common knowledge that you and Viago are… an item, I suppose? I thought you knew…? You are attending the party with him.”

“I always attend with him, Teia!” Ashara knows she sounds exasperated now, but she can’t help it – has she fallen into one of those terrible serial romances her Veil Jumper friend sends her? “Since I first became a Crow! de Riva’s attend together, it is what we do!”

“But–”

“There is nothing to be said, Teia. Viago– does not see me that way.” The words burn in her throat as embarrassment, no– mortification floods her at the realisation that her soul is bare and obvious before the other women. “I am a foolish girl with a foolish infatuation with her Talon. That’s it. That’s all.”

Her voice is tight, her words thick, and Teia doesn’t respond, simply fixes her with that impenetrable stare that has been credited as part of the reason the young woman was able to climb the rankings so quickly. Teia Cantori can see into your soul, they say. Don’t let her look into your eyes for too long, lest she learns all your secrets.

“I see.”

And then she moves away, over to the bolts of fabric that line the wall, and she peruses them whilst Annette pulls out a piece of charcoal and a sketchpad.

“This, I think,” Teia passes a bolt to Annette, who gives the fabric a critical once over and nods. It’s beautiful – a navy silk shot with hints of gold thread, barely noticeable until it catches the light and Ashara wants to protest that it’s too delicate, too fine. Annette reaches for a dark, floaty fabric, almost entirely sheer had it not been dyed so dark, and holds it against Ashara’s skin.

“Yes, this will do nicely. Shoulders open?”

“I think so. And her neck, not too high. Slits on the sleeves?”

“Of course. I will include the sheaths that I do for your gowns, si?”

“That would be lovely. Thank you Annette.”

“A pleasure, Senorita Cantori. Senorita de Riva.”

And with that, Annette is gone, and Ashara is left feeling as though she has missed something. But Teia is handing her her leathers and then ushering her down the street to a little wine bar that she swears serves the best wine in the city, and well– she doesn’t have time to think about it anymore.

Teia returns a very tipsy Ashara to Viago as the clock chimes nine, depositing the elf on her fellow Talon’s couch with a cheeky smile. “Buonanotte(Good night), Viago!”

The scathing look he sends her could curdle milk, but Teia is gone before she can see it, and he laments that he has wasted a perfectly formed sneer. Ashara is curled on the couch, eyes a little unfocused, but she perks up as Viago comes to sit beside her. He lifts his arm and she is leaning against him within moments, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck.

“Y’always smell so good,” she mumbles, voice thick with wine. She’s not quite drunk, just edging over tipsy, but she’s clearly allowing herself to feel it more than she would with anyone else – he makes her feel safe, secure, and so she doesn’t have to call on her years of control, her years of training. Instead, she can snuggle into his side and let the warmth of the wine settle into her bones. “S’unfair.”

Viago laughs and stokes her hair, ignoring the spark in his gut at her words. “Have you overindulged, uccellina(little bird)?”

“Teia’s fault,” she tries to huff, but it comes out more plaintive. “She’s– tricky. M’tired, Vi.” And with that she swings her legs over his lap and shuffles until she gets comfortable, curling up against him like an oversized cat. Viago’s laugh catches in his throat as he realises he has a lap full of drunk, soft, warm Ashara. “Yer cosy,” and she cuddles closer to him, her nose cold against his throat.

He curses the day Andarateia Cantori was born.

And then he presses a soft kiss to his Crows hairline and recites antidote recipes in the back of his mind. “Shall we get you some water? I think you will thank me for it in the morning.”

The response is a muffled grunt, which he takes as a yes. With ease, he stands and lifts her with him, one arm under her legs, the other around her back, as she wraps her own arms around his neck and grumbles. He’s grateful that Teia brought her back to the apartments, because he would not have enjoyed carrying this squirming armful of Crow across Treviso.

“Come on, tesoro(darling.),” he coaxes, setting her down on her bundle of blankets on the side of his bed. It’s been months, but he has not returned them, and she has not asked for them. She makes a sleepy, happy sound not unlike a chirp as she snuggles into the soft cotton, her words slurred, “My– my blankets!”

“Si, your blankets, tesoro(darling.). Come, drink this.” He hands her a cup filled with water after crossing the room. “And this, per favore(please),” handing her a small vial. She eyes it suspiciously, wrinkles her nose, and he snorts. “Would you feel better if I tasted it first, uccellina(little bird)?”

She nods, eyes sharp despite her inebriation, and he takes a sip of both the water and the vial of potion. Seemingly satisfied that he has not given her a fast acting poison, and confident that she has built up enough immunity over her life to most slow-acting ones, particularly after the events of That Night, she takes the vial and necks the potion. Her face twists. “Disgusting,” she grumbles, tipping the water into her mouth and down her throat. Viago laughs again at this displeasure on her pretty face.

Where had that come from? Pretty face?

No.

No.

He mentally recites the correct method to powder crystal grace before responding.

“It will help with your sore head tomorrow, ti prometto(I promise). Would you like something to sleep in?” Because he isn’t having her sleep in his bed wearing her leathers – Maker only knows the things she could have come into contact with whilst out today.

She bobs her head in an enthusiastic yes, sending her curls flying, and whines as it makes her head spin. Viago can’t help it – she’s so adorable like this, so silly – he laughs and presses another kiss to her hair before going to fetch a tunic and trousers from his dresser.

“Up you get,” he murmurs, holding out the clothes to her and turning his back once she has accepted them. She is not so inebriated that she can’t get changed herself, though judging by the vulgar language coming from behind him, she is not best pleased at her lack of stability. Eventually, though, he hears her sigh with relief, and sees her pad past him to put her folded leathers on a nearby chair.

Maker, he loves her.

Wait.

No.

Whilst he wrestles with the implications of that errant thought, his tipsy charge traipses past him and all but flings herself into the pile of blankets where she had slept for many, many weeks earlier in the year.

By the time he has extinguished the lanterns and added new logs to the fire in the hearth – Treviso does get colder in the winter months, particularly as they are on the ocean – Ashara has fallen asleep, face half smushed into one of his pillows, already tangled in her beloved blankets.

He allows a single fond smile as he slides into his bed beside her. And if he lets himself tug her closer, lets himself wrap his arm around her waist and bury his face in her sweet-scented curls, well… He wakes up earlier than she does. She will be none the wiser if he allows himself this one indulgence.

Her gown arrives two days before the gala, and Ashara looks at Marisol and Teia as she models it for them in her small bedroom at the de Riva apartments. She has to admit, the gown is a thing of beauty – a high neckline that leaves her shoulders bare until her upper arms, where dark gossamer sleeves, shaped like a bell, cascade to cinch at her wrists. The top of the dress itself is gossamer as well, nearly sheer but for how dark it is, pleating across her chest until it comes to the ribbon around her throat. Two pearl buttons close it at the nape of her neck, but her shoulders and upper back are exposed.

The torso is more constructed, with some light boning to help it maintain shape, but it is made of equally beautiful dark silks, crossing and twisting pieces of navy and plum that melt together to look like a crows feathers.

She feels beautiful. She feels lethal too, because the dress has many hidden sheaths for poisons and blades alike.

Annette had included a strappy leather garter which Ashara balks at until Teia shows her how to secure it around her thigh and points out that it will hold her favourite dagger at exactly the right height for her to grab it through the high slit in the skirt.

“Viago will lose his mind,” Teia murmurs to Marisol whilst Ashara is getting changed and is otherwise occupied by hanging up the dress. It’s amongst the finest things she’s ever owned, and she won’t let it be spoilt before she gets to wear it properly.

Marisol giggles and turns that giggle into a cough as Ashara turns to look at the other two women, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow and receiving only serene smiles in return.

“Perhaps they will finally put us all out of our misery,” Marisol whispers, a grin on her lips as Ashara closes the cupboard and pads back towards them. The two women lean back on the couch as she takes a seat across from them, tucking her legs beneath her.

As Marisol and Teia discuss a recent scandal unearthed by Chance, Ashara allows her mind to wander. In her minds eye, she sees the beautiful ballroom of Villa Dellamorte, and herself in the gown she has just put away. And she sees Viago, asking her to dance. Viago, holding her gently, his hand on her hip as he spins her around the floor. Viago, telling her she looks beautiful.

Would he kiss her, in front of all of their colleagues? She doubts it – even during Viago and Teia’s long, ill-fated romance, she rarely saw them kiss in public. But it’s nice to dream, even if the dream is an impossibility.

“-- right, Ashara?”

Her head snaps up and she looks owlishly at Teia. The other elf snorts. “Lost in thoughts, de Riva?”

Marisol elbows her. “There’s two of us here, you know.” But there’s no heat to her words, just laughter as Ashara tries to determine what she was being asked. “Besides, Ashara has never snuck off during the galas.”

Her head tilts, still confused, and Teia takes pity on her. “I was simply recounting a few of my more amorous exploits during the Satinalia Gala. The balcony is by far the best, but you have to arrive at the right time, lest it already be occupied!”

“Oh,” Ashara laughs, but she feels an unexpected tightness as she wonders with whom Teia has spent that time on the balcony. “I suppose I’ll avoid it – I don’t fancy catching you and Viago.” She tries to sound nonchalant, but from the way Teia’s eyebrow raises, she’s clearly not fooling the Seventh Talon. Marisol, though, simply chuckles.

“You two haven’t been together since– Maker, last Satinalia?”

“The one before. I think. Just after First Talon made the call on House Kortez.”

Has it really been that long? House Kortez had been on thin ice since the events at the Verdant Isle in 9:45 Dragon, but it had only been in 9:49 that Caterina had decreed the house be culled. But then, Ashara can’t remember Teia and Viago being together since before That Night. The knot in her stomach loosens, even if it shouldn’t exist to begin with, because there is no reason to be jealous.

Because it can never happen. Because he does not see her like that.

“Perhaps it will be our darling Ashara out on the balcony, hm?” Teia grins slyly over her cup of coffee, and Ashara shoots her a scathing glare that Viago would have been proud of.

“Unlikely,” she says dryly, picking up her cup of cioccolata calda(hot chocolate.) and taking a long drink. “I believe to take advantage of that I would need a companion and sadly I am bereft of suitors.” She lets out a mock sigh, but the thought of Viago finding her on the balcony, or bringing her to the balcony, makes her cheeks heat.

But it can never be.

“Stranger things have happened, little bird,” Teia says softly, but after that the subject is dropped in favour of discussing the likelihood that the Merchant Princes will make an appearance.

Stranger things, indeed.

Chapter Text

The Dellamorte Satinalia Gala is a wondrous event, but this year it seems almost… moreso. Perhaps House Dellamorte are trying to put the sins of the previous year behind them and rebuild the trust they feel they have lost following the trial and exile of Illario, or perhaps Caterina is simply feeling more festive than usual, but this year the ballroom and estate are dripping with carefully arranged opulence. Nothing too gauche– they are not Orlesian, for the Makers sake– but it is beautiful with crystalline ornaments and magic supported candles hovering from the ceiling and the walls.

The magic, if anything, is the most unusual part – Lucanis is not known as the Demon of Vyrantium for nothing, but Ashara sees a cluster of Antivan mages in the corner, clearly admiring their spellwork. She tips her head to them in respect, eyes flicking to the beautiful lights dancing around the hall, and the youngest mage turns pink with delight at the recognition of his work.

Viago has gone on ahead, so Ashara lingers with the rest of House de Riva, almost as a guide to their fledglings – for the first time, they have permitted the oldest group to join them at the Gala, given they will soon be undergoing their initiations. It will be good for them, she had pointed out to Viago when she proposed it, to begin properly building alliances with the nobles and Princes and the other Houses. He couldn’t find fault with her logic and so here they are, dressed in finery they seem uncomfortable with, preparing to put their training to the test.

She spends time making her way round the ballroom, only trying the food once she has located and scoured the kitchens and ensured Matin is amongst the overseers. One of House de Riva’s own staff has come along as well, and takes responsibility for bringing canapes, food, and drink to the various crows whose suspicious nature is well known.

An hour in, she feels her stomach flutter when she sees Viago on the dance floor, small smile on his lips, heading towards her. He couldn’t– he isn’t– could he? Is he?

Her foolish hopes are dashed as he veers right and bows to Teia, offering her his hand. The Seventh Talon looks delighted, and all Ashara thinks is that she will certainly have to avoid dark corners, because her heart feels like it is being torn asunder as she watches Viago lead Teia to the dance floor.

The clouds of heartbreak are interrupted as Lucanis appears at her side and, to her shock, bows similarly. “Would the most lethal woman in the room do me the honour of a dance?” His tone is serious, but his eyes twinkle.

“Your nonna(grandmother) is over there,” Ashara teases, nodding towards the far end of the room where Caterina is holding court. Lucanis laughs as Ashara accepts his hand and leads her onto the dancefloor.

“I would argue, hermanita(sister (affectionate)), that you are far more deadly than nonna(grandmother) tonight.” After all, Lucanis can see the sudden sneer aimed at him by Viago de Riva, but Ashara cannot.

They spend several songs dancing, including a slower one that has them both restraining giggles as they press closer together. Perhaps in another life, in another world, this would have been right for them– but here and now, Lucanis is the closest thing Ashara has to a brother, and she loves him all the more dearly for it.

“Grazie(Thank you), Lucanis,” she murmurs as they separate. In the corner of her eye, she sees Viago stalk away from Teia, his face a mask of indifference – but Ashara knows better. They have fought, clearly.

“I don’t think the First Talon will be pleased if you kill her remaining grandchild tonight, Viago,” Teia’s voice is low but deeply amused as he dips her during a drop in the music.

Viago’s eyes snap back to his dance partner, away from the dancing figures of his Ashara and that damned Dellamorte. “I am simply keeping an eye on my House,” he responds primly, fluidly pulling Teia up from the dip and moving into the next steps of their dance.

“And the reason you do not look at Marisol and Chance or Alissa and Francesco the same way?”

Teia has a point.

Viago ignores her.

“Vi,” her voice is gentle and cajoling. “No one cares about how you two fee–”

“Enough, Andarateia.” Sharp. Like an order. But Teia Cantori is not one of his crows and he cannot order the Seventh Talon to do anything. The fact he has even tried is unprecedented. Teia’s eyes narrow.

“You are a stubborn man,” she remarks, bowing to him as the dance concludes and they step apart. “You should decide what you want– who you want – quickly, Viago, lest someone else steal your uccellina(little bird) away.”

A flash of hot rage fills him at her words, and Viago turns a look on Teia that he never has before– it is a look that says, I will kill anyone who tries. Teia simply arches one elegant eyebrow and tuts. “Or perhaps you simply enjoy stringing the poor woman along? I didn’t think you so cruel, but perhaps you are your fathers son after all.”

That–

That stings. And lands precisely how Teia intended it to, though Viago doesn’t realise it. He turns on his heel and stalks away from his once-lover, determined to find a bottle of wine to distract himself from her words.

“Now or never,” murmurs the elven Talon, plucking a glass of sparkling wine from a passing member of her house staff. “Do not disappoint me, de Riva…”

The ballroom has grown stuffy, and so Ashara makes her excuses to Lucanis and the other ‘second in command’ Crows that she is chatting with and begins to make her way towards the nearest exit.

“Si, a silver ribbon around his throat... How strange.”

She catches bits and pieces of conversations as she weaves her way through dignitaries, nobles, Merchant Princes, and Crows. Her ears twitch at the mention of the silver ribbons, familiarity sparking in her mind, she would swear she has heard someone else mention silver ribbon recently but the connection eludes her. She casts a glance at the speaker, recognising her as the fourth daughter of the merchant house of Altimaro. Her father is the current Merchant Prince of Bastion, and she recalls one of his children was recently lost at sea.

The girl looks a little lost, her eyes slightly red rimmed as though she had been crying before she put on her dress and make up. Ashara files that away for later, but continues on her way to the exit.

When Ashara escapes the ballroom, Viago knows. He always knows where she is when they are near, like his body is specifically attuned to keeping track of her. His stomach is in knots as he makes his excuses to the Governor and her wife, and it is only as Teia catches his eye and discretely nods towards the glass-paned doors that he realises where his uccellina(little bird) has gone.

The balcony.

Now or never, de Riva.

Because he cannot live another day like this, not anymore.

Not now Teia’s words suddenly make sense – his father, the King, was a wasteful man, a man of fleeting interest and little love, affections stifled by the missteps of youth. Viago has always sworn to be a better man, knows he would have been a better king, but the way he has denied his affections for Ashara for so long is precisely what King Fulgeno II did to his first paramour, a woman of too low noble ranking to be truly eligible to wed a future King, and that is what set the King on his current, lonely path.

He will not make the same mistakes.

The air outside is cold, bracing, but it doesn’t deter him as he shuts the patio door behind him. His eyes are fixed on the slim elf a few yards away, her bare back and shoulders bathed in the candlelight from the braziers that litter the balcony.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs to herself, looking across the Bay as Viago approaches. The lights of the city glitter against the water and the tide reflects the fireworks that someone is setting off on the beachfront. Her fingers curl around the railing as she feels his presence behind her.

“It is,” he murmurs, and his breath is hot against her bare shoulders.

She shivers, but it is not the cold that gives her goosebumps.

Viago’s gloved fingers splay across the small of her back, and Ashara bites back the little moan that threatens to spill from her painted lips. “But I prefer another view, uccellina(little bird).”

“Don’t.”

Her voice is sharper than either of them expected, and she knows she has surprised him because his fingers tighten on her waist.

“Don’t say things like that, Viago.”

“And why shouldn’t I say it? You look beautiful tonight.”

Her cheeks flush, and it is not the Antivan wines that make her heart flutter like that. She grips the railing tighter, begging the cool metal to help her keep her head.

“Don’t say things like that, Viago. I– I can’t bear it,” she admits softly, words nearly lost to the party in the ballroom behind them. There’s a vulnerability to her, a fragility that she is uncomfortable with. But Viago hears her, and he presses closer, until she can feel his heat against her back.

“Tell me why I should not compliment you, Ashara,” he demands quietly, his thumb rubbing at her waist. She makes to move away from his hand but he has her caged between his body and the railing. “Why shouldn’t I tell you that you are the most beautiful woman here?”

Tears spring to her eyes.

“Because it’s a lie,” she spits, turning and immediately regretting it as she is now intimately aware of how close Viago is to her. The railing bites into her back, and Viago is so close to her… Her nipples pebble beneath the flimsy breastband and gown that Teia has laced her into. Her cheeks are hot, blood pounding in her ears. “Because that is not how you see me, Viago. It never has been, it– it never will be.” Her voice catches.

Viago looks down at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable, then takes her chin in his hand.

“Why not?”

As if it’s that simple. As if it’s that easy.

“Because I– I’m me,” she says softly, wishing she could look away. But his eyes are magnetic, drawing her in, and she can’t avert her gaze, even for a moment. His grip is firm, but not punishing, his eyes somewhere between disapproving at her self-deprecating tone and… something else she can’t quite place.. She knew dancing with Lucanis had been a silly indulgence, but she had simply wanted to feel beautiful and graceful and elegant, like the little bird Viago always calls her. “Just– just stop it, Viago. Per favore(Please), don’t tease me like this.”

“And if I want to tease you, tesoro(darling.)?” She can feel his breath on her ear. It sends a shiver down her spine. “Then what?”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” she whispers. “If this is a game, I– I don’t want to play.”

Viago looks as though she has slapped him. “You think I’m toying with you, Ashara? You really think so little of me?”

“No! I– Don’t be cruel, Viago. You’ve clearly spoken to Teia, and she told you–” She tries to pull herself away from him, tears threatening to spill over, and that just won’t do, she spent so long painstakingly applying the kohl around her eyes. But Viago snakes his arm around her and presses her against him, and she gasps as her breasts crush against his chest. “Vi–”

His knee slots between her legs, and she looks up at him, eyes glassy, confusion that borders on distress colouring her expression.

“I have wasted so much time,” he murmurs, leaning down and breathing the words against her lips. “I won’t waste another moment, mio tesoro(my darling.). May I kiss you, Ashara?”

Her heart stops. Time stops.

“Is this real?”

Because if he kisses her, and that is all he wants, it will ruin her.

“Si, uccellina(little bird). This is real.”

“... Please.”

And his lips are on hers. Soft at first, gentle, probing, and as she gasps into his mouth and her hands fly up to his shoulders, it is like a fire is lit. He crushes her to him, his mouth claiming hers. All she can feel is Viago, Viago, Viago. The kiss is everything, and she allows herself to be swept away into it, clutching at his doublet.

He tastes like the expensive wine she knows he brought from the apartments, rich and full bodied. As he licks into her mouth, she cedes the ground to him, simply melting into his embrace, his kiss. She feels like she is floating.

His cologne and his presence surround her, his knee between her legs, his arms around her, these are the only things that are keeping her upright. She moans into the kiss as one of his hands catches on her hair and tugs.

He makes a strangled sound deep in his throat as he pulls back. “You moaned, uccellina(little bird).”

“You… pulled my hair,” she whispers, eyes wide and nearly completely black. “Viago, per favore(please), if this is just… a passing fancy– I can’t–”

“I have wanted you for far too long,” his voice is so solid, so certain. She wants to cry. She wants to kiss him again. She wants – she wants. “But more than that, Ashara, I have adored you for far too long. I want as much as you will give me, tesoro(darling.).”

Her heart clenches in her chest and she strokes his cheek. “I want everything,” she whispers. And she leans up and captures his lips again.

Kissing him feels like spring in the midst of winter. It feels like coming home after a long while away. It feels right.

She kisses him like she wants to drown in him, like she wants him to consume her, and he is happy to acquiesce. He breaks away and presses hot kisses to her jaw, her throat, her shoulders. “This fucking dress,” he rasps, nipping at her exposed collarbone as she whines. “Was created to torture me.”

“Teia’s– idea,” she gasps, one of her hands twisting into his hair as he shifts the neckband of her dress in order to suck a raspberry bruise onto her throat. He leans back to examine his brand, smirking as her hips buck against his leg. He carefully moves the neckline back into place to hide the lovebite, presses a soft kiss over the fabric, like it is a secret just for him.

The entire experience makes her moan and shiver.

“You–” Her words are lost as his hand drifts from her hip to her breast, his clever fingers catching her hardened nipple with ease. “Oh, oh, Viago!”

Her noises are addictive. He should’ve realised they would be. He can’t get enough, nosing at her skin as his fingers pluck her nub to full hardness. She is squirming against his leg and he would swear he can feel her dripping against his trousers.

“Viago, per favore(please),” she whines, eyes glassy with desperation now, rather than despair. “Toccami(Touch me.).”

He has never been happier to oblige. His gloved hand slides from her breast to the slit of her skirts, hiking up the fabric so he can stroke her thighs. She mewls, his name a constant refrain, as his hands caress olive skin marred with scars and dusted with moles. As his fingers trace the edge of the fabric separating him from her core, he freezes.

Because there is someone else coming out onto the balcony. Raucous laughter and chatter echoes from the ballroom as the patio doors open, and a nobleman of no particular renown stumbles out with a Crow from House de Acutis. Viago’s fingers are mere centimeters from the hot, slick center of his uccellina(little bird), so close he can feel the heat radiating from her, and all he can think is that he wishes he had his throwing knives.

“Mi dispiace(I’m sorry)!” says the Crow, backing both herself and her companion towards the door. “Mi dispiace(I’m sorry), Fifth Talon. I– saw nothing.” And then she is gone, clearly terrified that she has walked in on something that could get her killed. Viago isn’t entirely convinced he won’t kill this woman for the intrusion, regardless of how annoyed Noa would be.

Ashara lets out a strangled whine as Viago’s fingers twitch against her thigh.

“Not here,” he grinds out, the words causing him physical pain. Ashara seems to agree with that sentiment, because as he goes to pull his fingers away from her core, she whines unhappily and gives him the most baleful look she can manage.

“Be good for me, Ashara,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth and delighting in the sharp inhale that his words draw from her. “Be good for me, and let me take you home. Let me take you to our bed so I can worship you like you deserve.”

Our bed.

She is putty in his hands, nodding as he steps back and helps her straighten her gown.

It takes nearly an hour for them to escape the party – everyone wants to speak with the Talons and their second-in-commands, even with the representatives of House de Riva clearly interested in nothing more than leaving. Teia shoots them a sly smirk as they leave.

They take the rooftop roads, cutting their travel time in half, and before the clock strikes twelve, they are stumbling into Viago’s quarters. Ashara has her legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth hot on his throat, as Viago kicks the door shut and twists the lock. He pulls her back and puts her down, to her clear disapproval.

“Undress for me.”

His command sends a thrill through her, and she hurries to obey – not because she has to, but because she craves seeing the look on his face as she strips out of her gown.

He does not disappoint. His eyes are fixed on her as she slowly undoes the buttons that secure her gown in place, revealing the tops of her breasts to his eyes, then the laces of her breastband, and finally the thin scrap of fabric that Teia had assured her was considered underwear, all as the concoction of chiffon and silk slid to the ground.

“Il respiro del Creator(Makers breath),” he breathes, crossing the room in three long strides and pulling her into a consuming kiss. His hands are everywhere, as if he is determined to touch every inch of her skin. “You are a vision, mio tesoro(my darling.).”

His gloves are gone, she realises, as his bare skin presses against hers, and her cheeks flush at his words. They have been discarded like they mean nothing and that– it means everything. She knows she is nothing special, but a look at his face makes her feel as though there has never been anyone more beautiful in all of Thedas.

There are so many things he wants to do to her, with her– but they have all the time in the world now. “Bellissima(Beautiful),” he murmurs, his hands settling on her hips. He’s suddenly aware of how short she really is, and a possessive inferno flares in his gut – she is his. And he will show her what it means to be loved by him.

With a delicate nip at the tip of her pointed ear, which makes her shudder and mewl desperately (oh, and he loves that sound, so he files away that information for later), he guides her to his bed– their bed, because her blankets still cover it.

They have both been fools for far too long.

Her legs hit the mattress and she lets herself fall back, cushioned by the pillows that smell like him (and somewhat of her). He crawls over her, boxing her in with his hands on either side of her head. He tuts and sits her up, and she looks at him, confused, until he has her turn so he can deftly work free the pins that have been holding half of her hair in an elegant knot atop her head.

As her curls tumble free, she lets out a low, gratified moan, the tension she had all but forgotten about against her scalp suddenly gone, and she hears the pins as they clatter to the floor, but that isn’t important, because suddenly she is pressed against the mattress and Viago is looming over her with fire in his eyes and his lips catch hers and it is perfect.

“So beautiful,” his lips press hot kisses to her jaw, her cheeks, her throat, as she squirms beneath him. “Can I take this off, bellissima(beautiful)?” He sucks a bruise just beneath her jawline as his fingers trace the swell of her breasts and she nods emphatically.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, leaning back to brush another kiss across her lips. “I want to hear you, Ashara. I have waited too long not to hear that beautiful voice of yours like this.”

Maker, he is ruined as a Crow. His words make her whimper, pupils nearly all black as she tangles her fingers into his hair. “Cazzo(fuck), Viago – si, per favore(yes, please)!”

He smiles and she is certain she would crush Antiva if he asked her to. He takes a moment, brushing his nose against hers, before he leans back on his haunches, deft fingers going to the satin cord that holds her breastband in place.

“I want to tear this off of you,” he admits, carefully loosening the ties and tugging the restrictive band away up and over her head. “But I don’t think you’d appreciate it.”

“Not that one,” she says softly, her cheeks tinged pink at the thought. “It’s new.”

“Another time, then,” he presses his lips to her collarbone, seemingly insistent on mapping each and every one of the moles and freckles that are scattered across her skin. His lips are hot, constant, and by the time he reaches the swell of her breasts, she is whimpering and squirming simply from the anticipation of having him so near.

“Viago, please, for the love of the Maker, touch me.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. With a twinkle in his eye, he catches one dusky nipple between his lips and sucks, never breaking eye contact. His hand strokes her other breast, thumb carefully circling the swollen peak but never touching.

Heat floods her. There is something so indescribable about seeing him there, looking up at her as though she is Andraste in flesh. He is reverent as he pulls his mouth back from her aching breast with a wet pop, and then his breath is ghosting across its desperate and ignored twin, and she feels as though he has lit a fire within her.

His free hand, the one not determined to drive her to madness as he gently, sensually, strokes her breasts, is on her hip. His thumb tucks under the waistband of the scrap of fabric there and she lurches. He pulls back, concern dancing through his eyes.

“We don’t have to–”

“I want you,” she says immediately, tugging on his hair to drag him up for a kiss. “I want you so badly it hurts, Viago.” And then she kisses him properly and lets one hand slide down between them to join his at her smallclothes and, together, they push them down. It’s a bit of a wriggle, kicking them off, but soon she is bare beneath him and he is kissing her and tasting her like she is the finest wine he has ever drunk.

Her hand trails between him to stroke him through his trousers – hot, hard, weighty against her hand. His hips buck into her hand as she touches him, and the thought of him, filling her, claiming her, loving her, is intoxicating.

“Off,” she murmurs between kisses, pressing her free hand to the fine doublet he is still wearing. “Want to see you. Want you. Per favore, amore(Please, love).”

The words do something to him. One moment he is looking at her, tender and affectionate, and the next his nostrils flare and he is at her throat, sucking a bruise– no, this is a brand– into her flesh.

“Say it again,” his voice is rough and she can feel his erection pressing against her thigh. “Say it again, uccellina(little bird). Il mio bellissima uccellina(My beautiful little bird).”

“Amore(Love),” she rasps, back arching as he shifts and sucks a new bruise on her collarbone. “Amore mio, il mio prezioso amore(My love, my precious love).”

The noise he makes is inhuman, strangled, and his mouth is everywhere. Kisses down her sternum, nosing at her belly, nipping at her hip bone.

“Let me taste you, bellissima(beautiful). Per favore(Please).”

And he sounds so desperate– how can she refuse? With a whine and a nod, she croaks, “Si, per favore, per favore(Yes, please, please)!” And then his lips are at her bare center and she keens. He breathes in, cheeks darkening as he inhales the scent of her - heady, musky, tangy. Ashara flushes red and her thighs start to close, embarrassment burning her cheeks, but Viago’s hands are like iron as he holds them apart and nuzzles closer to her wet cunt.

“You smell,” and his pupils, somehow, dilate further, “like heaven.” And then he presses the most delicate kiss between her legs and she can’t help herself– she whimpers. “Shall we if you taste like it?”

Blood is pounding in her ears and then she feels his tongue splitting her folds. Then he moans, pressing his face between her thighs, his nose nudging her clit as it rapidly swells beneath its hood, and his tongue is licking long strokes from bottom to top. Ashara’s hands fly to his head, and Viago grunts as her fingers tangle in his hair again.

“Merda – Cazzo, cazzo, si(Shit – fuck, fuck, yes), just there!”

He licks her like he is intent on knowing every inch of her, every centimeter. He feasts like she is ambrosia. His hands stroke her thighs as he devours her, and within minutes she is squirming and mewling and whining and desperate, desperate, desperate!

“Viago! Please, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

One of his fingers presses against her and he traces her fluttering hole to gather the wetness dripping from her. “You taste,” he groans, pulling back to look up at her. His face, his goatee, are slick and shiny, and she feels her hips jerk as she sees him lick his lips. “You taste incredible, amore(love).”

And it’s not just the way his fingers curl inside her that makes her see stars.

Every stroke of his tongue is the most exquisite torture – she wears her desire like a second skin, feels it writhe within her as her body gravitates towards his. Her hips rock against his fingers and his mouth, her fingers tugging on the dark curls. His tongue switches between long, decadent strokes and short, quick bursts, no discernable pattern or rhythm, his only goal to pull as many of those beautiful whines and gasps from her red lips as he can.

He savours every second of it – he could die a happy man in this moment, buried between her thighs and drowning in her nectar. It would be, he thinks, a very good death.

“Stop,” she gasps, voice cracking as the feeling inside her, that heat coiling tight, tight, tighter in her gut, pressing her closer and closer, begins to overwhelm her. She yanks at his hair as she mewls. “Vi– Viago, stop, stop!”

And just like that, he freezes and pulls himself away from her. He shifts, crawling up her body to cradle her face, his lips still shiny, eyes desperately searching hers for injury, for fear. “Tesoro(Darling)...” and he sounds so concerned that she could cry, “are you alright, amore mio(my love)?”

She realises suddenly how her sudden reaction could be misconstrued. “Si,” she whispers, leaning forward to catch his lower lip and sucking it between her teeth for a moment. He groans and presses closer to her, the knowledge that she is tasting herself on his mouth enough to make him instinctively thrust against the bed for relief. “I want to come on your cock,” she admits, her ears red and twitching as she speaks. “The first time, I– I want to come on your cock.”

The air stills.

And then Viago makes a sound like he has been punched in the gut and sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You,” he rasps, voice strangled, “will be the death of me.”

Things move… quickly after that. Ashara’s fingers are at his belt, Viago’s hands are pushing his trousers down, kicking them off, and within moments he is rolling his erection against her dripping pussy. Ashara whines as his cock catches against her for a moment and then slides up, pressing against her desperate clit. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Per favore(Please),” she mewls as his tip gathers her slick and pushes ever so slightly against her needy center. “Viago, ho bisogno di te(I need you), please!”

He’s moving deliberately, slowly, every press of his body intended to drag whimpers and moans from her. Her nails drag down his back, catching on the puckered skin of a scar she didn’t realise he had. Blue eyes meet green and suddenly, blessedly, he is sinking into her.

It’s nothing like Illario. Nothing like That Night.

It’s nothing like any of the marks she has bedded, or the fellow Crows she has tumbled with.

Viago is an experience all his own. As his head splits her, she moans, and he captures the sound with his lips. “So good for me,” he breathes against her lips. “So— cazzo(Fuck), so tight.” He stills, swallowing down great gulps of air, and the forearm resting on the bed beside her head is shaking. His other hand is still between them, holding her open for him as he shakes and shudders. “Merda, amore mio(Shit, my love)…”

“Sono tuo(I am yours),” she murmurs, cupping his cheek and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Let me be yours, Viago.”

He presses his forehead against hers, sweat-slick skin to skin, as he sinks inside her for the first time. His eyes flutter shut as he grits his teeth, and grunts. Ashara clings to him, tangled in him, as she feels that delicious fullness inside her – her body isn’t rejecting him, but instead seeks to drag him deeper. She wants all of him, everything she can reach, everything she can have, she wants.

“Mine,” he grunts, pulling back so just the tip is still nestled between her glistening folds. She moans her response, yes, yours, always yours, just yours, and he thrusts, filling her with one press. Her head falls back as her back arches, the pressure just the right side of too much. “Maker, yes.”

The stretch is decadent, every slap of flesh on flesh its own perfect melody, and Ashara cries out as she feels that coil inside of her twist tighter and tighter and tighter with every exquisite snap of his hips. He is whispering sweet nothings to her, how beautiful she is, how tight she is around him, how good she looks taking all of his cock, and she can’t, she can’t, she– she–

“Viago!”

Her world explodes as he lifts her hips to slide a plush pillow beneath her and rubs tight circles around her clit. She knows she’s babbling but as for what the words are? She has no idea - words keep coming and so does she, spasming around his cock and crying out her pleasure.

Viago stares at her, his rhythm never faltering as he watches his uccellina fall apart beneath him, and on his life, there has never been a more beautiful sight in all of Thedas.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he grunts, fingertips digging into her hip, one thumb still circling her throbbing clit. “Just like that, my darling, just like that. Again, Ashara. Come on my cock again, bellissima(beautiful).”

“I can’t,” she gasps, fingers twisting in the sheets as the wiry hairs at his base press flush against her flushed pink cunt. “I c-can’t!”

“You can,” he groans, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips as he pounds into her. His hair is falling across his face, his eyes locking with hers, and she has never seen such devotion, such love, in all her life. “You will. For me, uccellina(little bird). Come for me again.”

His words… The look on his face…

“Yes, yes, yes, f-fuck, just there, like that!”

It’s almost too much, it should be too much, but she reaches up for him and drags him down for a kiss and the way it shifts his cock inside of her tips her right out of one orgasm into the second. She drinks down his kisses, savouring every swipe of his tongue against hers, every little nip she can land on his lips.

Viago groans as she clamps down on him, his rhythm faltering as he feels his own release surging to the surface. He doesn’t want it to end yet, wants to savour this moment forever, wants to live in it every second, but all things must end and he grunts into her mouth as he slams into her harder once, twice, three times…

“Inside,” she gasps against his lips. “Need it. Fill me. Come inside me, Viago. Make me yours.”

His eyes roll back and he buries his face into her sweaty neck as he roars his release, cock jerking violently as rope after rope of his hot spend fills her hot, slick pussy. He mouths at her throat, breathing hard as his hips stutter and jolt against her, and it feels like the longest release of his life.

He slumps against her, breathing harder than he has in ages, and all he can smell is honeysuckle and roses and the mixed aroma of sex. It is intoxicating. He wants to bottle it so he can smell it at his leisure, bathe in the scent that is purely the two of them, let it wash away his sins. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, and lets his eyes flutter shut for just a moment.

A paranoid, neurotic man by nature and nurture, he so rarely allowed himself the indulgence of laying with someone in the afterglow – the sweaty, sticky aftermath is normally too much for him to abide. But as he feels his skin press against hers, he can think of no sweeter place in all of Thedas, no more perfect moment in all his life, than being here, with her.

It took him the first fifteen years of his life to find his twin flame– but so much longer to realise it. He won’t waste another moment. He makes that vow silently to himself, sealing it with kisses to her throat and jaw, until she giggles and squirms beneath him.

“Viago,” her voice is raw, her eyes bright.

And as he pulls out of her and sees some of his spend leak from her swollen, well-fucked cunt, he gives her a salacious wink and carefully scoops it up and presses it back inside of her. She whimpers, hips twitching erratically. “Si, uccellina(little bird)?”

She laughs roughly as he settles down on his side, head propped on his hand, elbow against the bed, and uses his free hand to stroke across her breasts and stomach. Already he can see evidence of their lovemaking on her skin, red bruises against her warm olive skin, and it sends a possessive thrill through him that it is his marks she wears.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing a sweaty curl away from her eyes. “My beautiful Ashara. I should never have waited so long to tell you.”

She exhales and the smile she gives him is, in his expert opinion, the most beautiful thing in all of Antiva. She nuzzles against his hand and sighs happily. He tugs her into his arms and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, little bird – you’ll need your rest.”

Ashara snorts, mutters something that sounds vaguely rude, and Viago laughs at her. “Stay here. Let me get a cloth to clean you up, hm? Then we can get some rest before I ensure you cannot leave my bed tomorrow or any other day.”

Viago tenderly cleans the sweat and spend from her thighs and body. It strikes her how similar and yet how different this is to earlier in the year, when he cleaned her after That Night. She knows he is thinking it too, because his eyes are tender and his touch softer than she would expect. And then he tugs one of her blankets across their cooling bodies, and hums to her as she drifts off, skin to skin, legs tangled.

True to his word, she wakes not long after to his mouth on her throat and his hands tracing the curve of her waist.

He is insatiable– but then, now she has a taste of him, so is she.

A tray with two Antivan breakfasts is on the bureau outside his rooms when Viago pokes his head out just as the clock tower chimes six. Matin is walking away quickly, but calls out that he has asked the staff to steer clear of the Talon’s private wing of the apartments for the next few days, and that lunch and dinner will be served promptly, as usual, to the bureau.

He needs to give that man a pay rise.

Viago carries the tray back into his bedroom, setting it on a small table before opening the glass paned doors and looking out over the city he has come to love. A small snuffle behind him has him turning to look upon the other great love of his life.

Ashara de Riva, mussed hair and dark bruises on her throat and breasts, sits up in her mentors bed and clutches silken sheets to her chest, eyes wide.

“Matin brought breakfast,” he says casually, eyes darkening as he spies a patch of freckles he certainly didn’t give enough attention to the night before. “Come here.”

He doesn’t make it an order – he is not her Talon or her mentor here, here they are just Viago an Ashara– but she obeys regardless, sliding out of the bed and bringing the sheet with her. He laughs at how ridiculous she looks, dragging his white sheet across the floor as she approaches him. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out to catch the sheet and tug it (and her) towards him.

With the tray on the table beside them, he sits and tugs Ashara onto his lap. She squirms for a moment, but settles as he picks up a piece of fruit and presses it to her lips. “Eat, uccellina(little bird).”

She eats. And as she sucks the juice from his fingers, he looks at her fondly.

“I love you.”

She freezes, eyes wide, and he takes advantage of her open mouth to pop another piece of fruit in. She splutters, chews, swallows, and then…

“Truly?”

His skeptical little bird.

“I would burn the world for you, Ashara. I love you. I wasted far too long on foolish reasons why I should not, and I will not deny myself this any longer. I love you, I will love you, and I will be yours as long as you will have me, tesoro(darling).”

Her eyes glisten with tears, and then she is pressing kisses to every part of his face she can reach. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Breakfast is… swiftly forgotten, and eaten cold an hour later, once they finally drag themselves from the bed as their stomachs begin to moan louder than either of their mouths do.

Across Treviso, Andarateia Cantori presses a kiss to her bedmates forehead and dresses quickly. A raven has arrived, bearing a silver ribbon.