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Chapter Text

Elgar’nan adjusted the collar of his mantle, his gaze scrutinizing as he watched his little bird fussing with that horrendous piece of leather she dared to call armor. The thing was entirely purple—garish, impractical, and utterly useless, as far as he was concerned. How such a flimsy creation was meant to protect her, he couldn’t understand. And yet, no matter how many times he’d tried to convince her to wear something else, her answer never changed.

She had just finished tucking a hidden throwing knife into one of her boots when she glanced up at him, her eyes rolling in exasperation. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, ara’vheraan. Stop looking at me like that, or I’ll leave the bond closed. I mean it,” she warned, her voice carrying the sharp edge of lingering frustration from their recent arguments.

If she was displeased, so was he. Her refusal to wear proper protection was infuriating, especially with what awaited them. “My stance on this matter will not change, Tavellia,” he said, his voice heavy with disdain. “We are about to face Fen’Harel and your former companions—people who will demand my head on a pike the moment we step out of this prison. As much as I trust you and your persuasion skills, I do not believe they will listen to you.” His tone was clipped, each word deliberate, a reflection of his growing frustration. Why did she insist on gambling with her life this way?

That made her roll her eyes again, the gesture sharp and dismissive as she tucked another knife behind her belt buckle. How many of those blasted things did she carry? He frowned, wondering not for the first time if she’d simply decided to arm herself with her entire weight in blades.  

“Yeah, we’ve had this argument, what, five times now? Or is it six?” she retorted, her tone clipped but tinged with a weary sarcasm. “I know what I’m doing, my love.” Her emerald eyes narrowed, and she leveled one of her infamous angry stares at him, the kind meant to cow him into submission. But the effect was always ruined by the faint, unconscious wiggle of her nose, a habit so endearing it made him want to laugh despite himself.  

“No one is going to attack me,” she continued with a pointed sniff, “and even if they do, I’m much faster in my leather than I am in that monstrosity you keep trying to shove me into.”  

Elgar’nan huffed, his exasperation spilling into the air between them. Why couldn’t she just see reason? He adored her fiercely, but her stubborn defiance could be maddening.  

“Your movement wouldn’t be constricted in that so-called monstrosity, my little swan,” he replied, his voice low but firm. “Elvhen armor is designed to provide the best freedom of movement possible.”  

He stepped closer, his presence looming over her, though he knew full well that his size and glare would do nothing to dissuade her. She was fire and storm wrapped in delicate flesh, and nothing—not his frustration, not his logic—could snuff out her resolve.  

“You would know that if you’d at least try it, Tavellia,” he said, his tone as sharp as the knives she insisted on carrying.  

“No means no, Elgar’nan.” She shot back, hands firmly planted on her hips, those lovely emerald eyes blazing with simmering anger that he could feel through the bond, even though she had it closed off on her side. “Just trust me on this one.”  

They stared at each other for several long moments, the tension between them thick enough to choke on. Elgar’nan could almost feel the weight of her defiance pressing against him, as if her very will could force him to bend. He could see the fire in her eyes—the same fire that had made him fall for her, even as it now drove him mad. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping in reluctant retreat, and he stepped back. He knew his little bird well enough to understand that she wouldn’t back down from this, no matter the cost. Not even if her life was on the line.  

“Fine,” he muttered, the word slipping from his lips. “But at least stay behind me until we know it’s safe.”  

She held his gaze a moment longer, her expression unreadable, before a slight smirk tugged at her lips, and she spoke again.  

“I still need to do the talking, my lion,” she said, the words deliberate, laced with the kind of confidence that made his stomach tighten. “How about we meet in the middle? I’ll allow you to carry me, so you can protect me in case of an emergency, while I still get to see them.”  

“You want me to carry you into a negotiation?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yes,” she replied, her lips curling into a smirk, confident in her own solution. “It’s practical, isn’t it?”

He met her gaze, seeing both the spark of defiance and the sincerity in her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh, but as always, she had a way of making the most ridiculous ideas sound plausible.

“You are incorrigible, ara’sal’shiral,” Elgar’nan sighed, his voice heavy with both exasperation and affection. “Fine, I’ll carry you, but I’ll do it my way.” If she thought she was the only one who could be stubborn and get her way, she was sorely mistaken.

He crossed his arms over his chest, locking his gaze with hers in another silent clash of wills. This time, he wouldn’t be so quick to relent. His resolve was solid, unyielding, and he wouldn’t allow her to wear him down with that wretchedly adorable defiance.

She held his stare for a long moment, those emerald eyes burning with something fierce, as though testing his limits, before she finally exhaled a heavy sigh. “Fine, we’ll do it your way,” she muttered, her voice betraying her annoyance, but it was clear she was conceding. “But you’ll have to promise to stay put until I tell you otherwise.”

Her eyes flared with that familiar fire, the same passion that always ignited his heart when he saw it—whether in moments of anger or when she was writhing beneath him in the heat of desire. She was beautiful in every way, and in that moment, she looked stunning.

“Good,” he said, his tone softening just slightly. “Now that we’ve finally come to an agreement, we can leave.”

His little swan nodded in agreement, though he could still feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, a faint pulse through their bond even with her end sealed off. He knew he’d won, at least for now, but that fire inside her wasn’t going to die down so easily. In time, she would calm—probably.

For a moment, he considered kissing her again. It had helped during argument number five, had ended in very satisfactory make-up sex, but it had also ended with her shutting down the bond. Maybe he shouldn’t press his luck this time.

His swan double-checked all the places she’d hidden her knives, the familiar movement a small comfort. She sighed once more, then stepped toward the other door of their little hut. The one that had been closed from the beginning. The massive lock was gone now, the way to their freedom closer than ever before.

“Are you ready?” His little bird asked, her hand resting on the door handle, and he could already feel that familiar prickle of her magic flaring to life.

Elgar'nan nodded, of course, he was ready. There was nothing to be concerned about—well, almost nothing. The safety of his beloved little swan still gnawed at him, a quiet, persistent worry, but he knew she wouldn’t give in. She never did. He just had to protect her, and protect her he would. “I am,” he simply stated, his voice leaving no room for doubt.

Her hand began to glow in that beautiful green and golden light— even her magic held the colors of his own palette. She truly was made for him. With that quiet determination etched into her features, she stepped forward and opened the door.

It creaked open, and behind it, he could see the shimmering reflection of the Archon’s palace. The place where she had plunged them into this prison not long ago, yet it felt like a lifetime. 

Without a word, Elgar'nan stepped closer to the small, fragile woman he would sacrifice almost everything for, and lifted her into his arms. He couldn’t help but chuckle softly at her surprised squeak. 

“Hey!” she protested, her voice a mixture of indignation and surprise, but he paid it no mind.

“I said I’ll carry you the way I want to,” he replied, his tone firm but affectionate. He adjusted her in his arms, pulling his precious love close to his chest. His left arm supported her ass and thigh, while his right arm wrapped around her, holding her securely against him. She was his to protect, and nothing—no protest, no argument—could change that. “And I will do so until I deem it safe.”

His little swan let out a soft moan, a sound that mingled annoyance with reluctant acceptance. “You’re ridiculous, Elgar’nan,” she huffed, but despite the words, she nestled her head into the crook of his neck. “Fine, but I hope you realize how stupid we look.” She mumbled the last part against his skin, her voice tinged with a mix of irritation and affection.

He shrugged nonchalantly, his posture relaxed. He didn’t care how her mortal little friends saw him, nor did he give a damn about Fen’harel’s opinion of him. He had bigger things to worry about than the judgment of others. He didn’t comment on her mumbled words as he stepped through the door.

It felt like walking through an Eluvian—one moment, they were in the Fade prison, and the next, they stood in the Archon’s palace. The transition was effortless, as if they had simply passed through a veil, leaving the prison behind them.

The chamber hadn’t changed much since his battle with Rook. The only difference was the absence of the dead Venatori and Magister he had sacrificed for his ritual. The blight still clung to every corner, singing that all-too-familiar, haunting melody in his ears.

“We’re really back,” Tavellia whispered, her voice shaky, filled with wonder. “I can’t believe we actually made it.”

Elgar'nan chuckled softly, his hold on his little bird firm and protective. He wanted to reassure her but before he could bring forth a word, the voice, he wanted to hear the least cut through the room. 

“You… How is that possible?” There he stood, Fen’harel still bruised and to Elgar'nan’s slight amusement, he looked like he lacked sleep. 

It was clear to him that the wolf wanted to say more but his words died on his tongue as his eyes fell on his little swan, still cradled securely in his arms. Fen'harel’s eyes widened in shock which turned into confusion, his brow knitting together as he tried to find an explanation for all of this.

"Greetings, Fen’Harel," Elgar’nan drawled, his voice laced with mocking sweetness, a gloating smile curving his lips. "I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you, but that would be a lie.”

Chapter Text

Elgar’nan pulled his little swan closer to his chest, his arm still draped protectively around her. He had promised her he wouldn’t attack the Wolf immediately, but that didn’t mean he would lower his guard. His vigilance remained sharp, his gaze fixed on the trickster. 

The Wolf schooled his expression into a mask of indifference, though his cold, calculating eyes lingered on Tavellia. “Elgar’nan,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain and underpinned by a trace of curiosity. “I did fear you might find your way out of that prison. What surprises me is that you are not alone.”

That earned a low, mocking chuckle from Elgar’nan. If Fen’harel was already surprised, then he was in for far more than he could imagine. “You thought I’d have killed her by now,” Elgar’nan countered smoothly, his tone laced with scorn. “Of course, you would think only the worst of me. I must say, I’m almost hurt, Fen’harel.” 

Elgar’nan’s lovely little swan began to squirm in his hold, her delicate form shifting as she peeked over his protective arm to catch a glimpse of the man not far from them. His instinct was to shield her from view once more, to block her from the Wolf’s eyes entirely, but he resisted. She had been angry with him enough already, and doing so would only stoke her ire further. 

“Before you two start tearing each other apart again, may I say something first?” she chimed in sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her tone was almost too friendly, the kind of sweetness that carried an unspoken warning. Elgar’nan knew better than to ignore it. With a measured sigh, he lowered his arm just slightly—a concession meant for her and her alone. 

The Wolf remained motionless, his gaze like ice as it settled on Tavellia. He gave the barest nod, his voice calm but cold as he spoke. “Go on, Rook.” 

Elgar’nan scoffed silently, his lip curling. Of course, the great Fen’harel didn’t even know her real name. It was no surprise; the Wolf never bothered to truly see the people he used.

Her emerald eyes glinted as they rose to meet his, their unspoken warning clear as day. Still, she asked for his permission, a gesture that soothed the tension coiled in his chest. It was enough for him. Elgar’nan nodded, his expression softening into a smile—one meant only for her. “Go on, my little swan.” His voice was gentle, a rare tenderness reserved entirely for her. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flicker of confusion in the Wolf’s gaze at the endearment. The subtle shift in Fen’harel’s expression, as though the words didn’t quite fit the picture he held, was almost too much. Elgar’nan had to fight the amused laugh building in his chest, the corners of his mouth twitching with suppressed mirth. 

His little swan shot him one last warning glare—no doubt she’d saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes—before turning her focus squarely on Fen’harel. “Well, this might seem crazy, but Elgar’nan and I are here to help.” Her words were sharp, short, and tight, cutting to the heart of the matter with the kind of precision that only she possessed. So like her. 

Fen’harel huffed a mirthless laugh, his eyes narrowing with disdain. “Of course he is. Do I need to remind you that it was his doing that caused the spread of the Blight in the first place, Rook?” 

“No, you don’t have to do that, Solas,” she shot back, her tone unbothered as she rolled her eyes at his accusation. “But shall I remind you that he is the only one who can control this mess?” Her voice fired back without hesitation, fierce and fearless. Elgar’nan couldn’t help but feel a flare of pride. It was a welcome change to see her fury directed at someone other than him.

The Wolf clasped his hands behind his back, eyes narrowing in disbelief, tinged with anger. “The only thing I see is manipulation, Rook," he sneered, his voice cold and accusing. "Tell me, does he use blood magic on you to keep you by his side? Or have you fallen so far that you no longer see it?” 

Elgar’nan’s hold on his swan tightened, his arm pressing her closer as his gaze fixed on Solas with a sharpness that could cut through stone. The accusation, while not without merit, came from the very one who had done the same to manipulate his Tavellia. That was enough to ignite his anger. 

Elgar’nan was just about to speak, but his little swan beat him to it. “Oh, that is rich, coming from you!” she spat, her voice dripping with venom he rarely heard from her. “Or have you forgotten that you made me believe my friend and mentor was still alive? For months, I might add!”

The words hit their mark, and Elgar’nan saw the faintest flicker of guilt cross Fen’harel’s face, before it was quickly masked by the familiar indifference he wore like armor. But the brief flash of vulnerability didn’t escape Elgar’nan’s notice. He couldn’t help but let out a small huff, a silent expression of disdain. Fen’harel would never change—his arrogance, his manipulations—it was all so predictable.

“You are right,” Fen’harel answered, surprising him and if his little swan's subtle shift in her posture was anything to go by, also her. “What I did to you was cruel and wrong and for that, I owe you an apology.” He paused, his gaze shifting briefly to Elgar’nan, his tone sharpening once more. “But it was necessary. You were my only hope of stopping him from blighting the world.” 

Elgar’nan’s grip on his swan tightened, his lips curling into a snarl. He had reached his limit. “It is always the same tired tune, Fen’Harel!” he spat, fury coiled beneath his words. “You dare to justify your deceit by painting me as the greater threat! You twisted her mind, used her like a pawn, and discarded her the moment she ceased to serve your schemes! Do not think for a moment I will let this pass, Wolf!” 

“Enough!” his swan’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, her fiery gaze darting between him and the Wolf, commanding their attention. “Both of you! This is not the time for your petty battles.” Her eyes softened as they met his, a plea flickering in their depths. “I understand your anger, my lion, truly I do. But we have discussed this. I can speak for myself.” 

Elgar’nan’s growl rumbled low, meant only for her ears. “I know, ara’sal’shiral, but I will not relent in this.” His tone was weighted with unshakable resolve. He adored his little swan, but this? This was personal. No apology could undo the past, especially not one tainted with another insult.

His golden gaze snapped back to Fen’Harel, whose composed mask betrayed the faintest crack—a flicker of uncertainty. Elgar’nan saw it, savored it. “Say whatever you will to me, Wolf. I couldn’t care less.” His voice rose, thundering through the tainted halls, resonating with a promise. “But know this: if you so much as insult or harm my little bird again, you will regret it.” Every syllable was a weapon, sharp and precise, a warning, a threat, and an oath bound in a single declaration.

Fen’Harel’s lips curled faintly, a shadow of a smile that failed to reach his piercing eyes, punctuated by a sharp, mirthless laugh. “Your possessiveness grows tedious, Elgar’nan,” he replied, his tone laced with disdain. “I had no intention of harming or insulting Rook. I merely remarked on the improbability of an alliance between you.”  

“Spare me your lies,” Elgar’nan cut in sharply, his voice edged with venom. “You assumed she was under the sway of blood magic, as if she lacks the ability to choose for herself. Just because you relied on blood magic to command her loyalty doesn’t mean I would stoop to the same!”  

“By the Creators! Can you two just shut up for one fucking minute?” His swan broke free from his grasp, stepping boldly between them. Her emerald eyes blazed, a tempest of fury barely restrained as she glared at them both.

“I am right here, you know? How about you stop talking about me and start talking to me instead?” She crossed her arms firmly, standing as fierce and stubborn as ever. Her blazing gaze zeroed in on the Wolf first, sharp as a blade. “I am not under the influence of any blood magic. You’d realize that if you stopped insulting him for one voidforsaken second and actually looked.”  

Her attention then shifted, her emerald eyes locking onto him, and this time, there was no trace of softness. It had been far too long since he’d been the sole target of her unbridled wrath. “And you!” Her tone, somehow, grew even sharper. “I love you, but by the creators, I have never wanted to strangle you more than I do right now! You know we need his help! Stop making this harder than it already is!” 

Fen’Harel’s jaw tightened, Elgar'nan could see a flicker of a retort curling on his tongue, but her glare held him in check. The ferocity in his Travellia's voice had left him speechless for a few long moment's, before his lips parted again.

“Elgar’nan,” he said, the name escaping like a low growl, “if she insists she is not compromised, then I will trust her judgment. But do not think for a moment that I trust you.” His purple eyes narrowed, a wolf’s gaze unrelenting and poised, the threat unspoken but tangible.  

Elgar’nan smirked, his tone dripping with mockery. “You’re learning, Fen’Harel. For once, you’ve managed to listen. Small miracles.” He crossed his arms, but his gaze flickered to his little bird, softening briefly before hardening again. “But you know he won’t stop baiting me. The wolf cannot help but snarl, even when there’s no prey.”  

His little bird raised a hand, her fingers trembling slightly with barely contained frustration. “Enough.” The single word crackled like a whip. Her breath came sharp and quick as she stepped closer, looking between the two like she was deciding which one to throttle first.  

“I don’t care how much you despise each other,” she continued, her voice steel-edged like on of her many throwing knives.“This isn’t about you. This is about stopping something bigger than your egos, your grudges, and your endless bickering. Get over yourselves and act like the ancient, supposedly wise gods you’re supposed to be!”  

The fire in her words burned them both, leaving neither room to argue. Fen’Harel exhaled slowly, the tension in his frame ebbing just enough for him to notice. “As you wish, Rook,” he murmured, his voice low and measured, though the faintest trace of amusement lingered beneath the surface.  

Elgar’nan let out a short, humorless laugh. “She commands you as if you were her soldier. Interesting how quickly you obey.”  

Tavrllia’s glare snapped to him, sharp as a whip. “Do you want to be next, Elgar’nan? Because I swear to the creators, I am done with this nonsense.”  

Her fury surged through their bond, a searing wave so intense he wondered if she’d deliberately opened it just to make him feel the full force of her wrath. For once, even Elgar’nan seemed wise enough to hold his tongue, the weight of her anger silencing whatever retort had been on the tip of his tongue.  

“I thought so. Good.” Her voice carried the finality of a slammed door. “Now that we’ve settled that, how about we focus on what actually matters?” She gestured broadly at the Blight creeping like a living nightmare around them, her piercing gaze darting from one god to the other.  

“Well?” she demanded. “Any ideas?”

Chapter Text

If anyone had told him that Elgar’nan himself would hold a mortal in his grasp like something precious rather than a fleeting amusement, Solas would have laughed for days on end. To hear him call that same mortal the journey of his soul? At first, Solas had been convinced he’d imagined it.

He hadn’t slept for days, too preoccupied keeping the Blight contained while Dorian and the Shadow Dragons worked tirelessly to evacuate civilians. Who could blame him if he thought he might be hallucinating? That seemed far more plausible than the idea of Elgar’nan falling for someone like Rook—Rook, of all people.

Yet the crow had all but confirmed aloud that she loved him—loved him! The thought was so absurd, so impossible, that Solas genuinely wondered if he wasn’t slipping into delirium.

“I could wield the Blight, bend it to my will, force it to withdraw,” Elgar’nan murmured, his voice so uncharacteristically gentle that Solas thought for a moment he had misheard it. “But you, my little swan, made me promise I wouldn’t use its magic.”

The tenderness in those words was incomprehensible. That Rook had extracted such a promise from the man who believed himself to be a god defied every ounce of Solas’ understanding.

It must have been a farce, some elaborate manipulation. Perhaps it wasn’t even Elgar’nan he was seeing but a fragment of a spirit, one that had chosen to mimic the Evanuris’ likeness. Solas had encountered such things before, and it was infinitely more plausible than the idea of Elgar’nan genuinely falling in love. The absurdity of it all clawed at his composure until he couldn’t help but laugh.

Rook’s fiery gaze snapped to him instantly, the intensity of it striking him like a physical blow, leaving him with a shudder that felt unnervingly close to dread. “Don’t you even dare start again,” she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut. “I swear, Solas, I’m this close to punching you in the face!”

Despite knowing he could easily overpower her, some instinct told him not to push her further. He quickly smoothed his expression into something neutral, reining in his derision. Solas would never admit it aloud, but this woman was truly terrifying when enraged. “I did not mean to provoke your ire further, Rook. Ir Abelas,” he said, his tone measured and calm.

“Good!” she snapped, her glare burning into him, daring him to test her patience further. Her eyes stayed locked on him for a moment longer before she turned her simmering anger back to Elgar’nan. “I know what I said, ara’vheraan,” she bit out, her tone seething with defiance. “But you know exactly what I meant when I said it. Don’t twist my words against me.”

Elgar’nan chuckled, a rich, unhurried sound, the glint in his eyes remaining inexplicably soft and indulgent, even in the face of her blatant defiance. It was baffling. “A promise is a promise, my lovely little swan. You know I never lie.” His golden gaze flicked to Solas, sharp as a blade, daring him to contradict the claim. “But I am not without reason. You know how to persuade me.”

Rook huffed, and though her fire had not extinguished, Solas noticed the faintest ebb in her fury. The blazing storm in her eyes softened just slightly, revealing something far more disarming—something like affection. What in the Void had happened between them in that prison? The question churned in his mind, unanswered and confusing.

“You’re incorrigible, El,” she said, exhaling sharply, the use of a nickname pushing his confusion even further. A nickname—for Elgar’nan. It was a death wish for anyone else who had dared such irreverence. Yet the man merely laughed, unbothered, as if her familiarity was the most natural thing in the world.

If Solas hadn’t been a Dreamer, he might have thought this was some twisted nightmare. But no, he knew the line between dream and reality all too well. And this? This reality defied belief so thoroughly he couldn’t even begin to put words to it, but it was reality nonetheless. 

“Fine,” Rook said at last, stepping closer to Elgar’nan, her hand rising to rest against his chest in a gesture so tender it startled Solas with its honesty. Whatever had transpired, it was painfully clear now—Rook truly loved him. How utterly bizarre.

“I want you to use your control over the Blight to save this city,” she continued, her voice firm, though her affection lingered beneath the surface. Her fingers curled slightly against his chest. “Can you do that for me?” 

Elgar’nan chuckled softly, his golden eyes turning back to the small elven woman in front of him as he laid one of his hands over hers in a caring gesture. “Whatever my swan commands, shall be hers.” 

Solas could scarcely believe what he was hearing. His sharp intake of breath cut through the hall, his eyes narrowing as he studied them both. He had known Elgar’nan for eons, known his merciless nature, his disdain for mortals, his refusal to listen to anyone. The very idea that the man would follow a mortal, just because she wished it, was beyond his comprehension. Yet here they were.

Elgar’nan lifted his gaze to meet Solas’s once more, his features swiftly hardening into the familiar mask of unyielding arrogance and raw power that Solas had long associated with him. “This will take time,” Elgar’nan said, his tone sharp and commanding, steeped in the authority Solas remembered all too well. “If you want to see another day, make sure my Swan is still alive and well when I’m done, Wolf.”  

Solas chose not to respond to the open threat. There was no need. He had no intention of harming Rook—at least, not yet. Still, it wasn’t lost on him how much she appeared to be Elgar’nan’s weakness. A weakness that could be exploited if the situation ever demanded it.  

Rook moved away from him as Elgar’nan strode toward the Archon’s throne. He sat upon it with the ease of someone assuming their rightful place, as if it had always been his to claim. In that moment, Solas had to begrudgingly concede that Elgar’nan embodied regality and power in its purest form. This was the Elgar’nan he remembered. For better or for worse.  

Elgar’nan closed his eyes, his focus intensifying as the tendrils of Blight curled and twisted around him, slithering like snakes. They coiled tighter, engulfing him almost entirely, pulsing with a tainted, malevolent energy. Solas could feel the corruption in the air, vibrating with a dark vitality as Elgar’nan bent it to his will.

The Evanuris remained cloaked in the writhing tendrils of the Blight as he forced it to retreat. The corruption resisted, slow to obey, the air thick with the buzzing energy of his struggle. The ground trembled faintly beneath the throne as though protesting the power at work.

To his great surprise, Elgar’nan appeared to be keeping his word. The Blight was retreating—slowly but steadily—the shivering tendrils curling closer to the man seated on the throne. He was drawing it back, commanding the corruption with relentless focus, though the magnitude of such a task would undoubtedly take time—and a devastating toll on him.  

Elgar’nan had been blighted before, and with his archdemon slain, there was no way he could survive this effort unless he had found another tether for his spirit. But in that prison, the only other being present capable of such a bond was… Rook.  

Solas’s gaze shifted, flickering toward the woman in question. She stood still, her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before her. After a long, tense moment, her emerald gaze turned to him, sharp and searching.

“Tell me, Solas,” Rook began, her voice sharp but stripped of the usual sarcastic edge he had grown accustomed to. She moved toward him with slow, deliberate steps, her emerald eyes locked on his. “What happened while we were gone? And how long was it?” She stopped just short of closing the distance, far enough to speak but still well within her comfort zone.  

Solas’s gaze flicked down briefly, taking in her stance—the careful way she positioned herself, the subtle tension in her frame. His eyes lingered on her hands, hovering close to the hidden pockets where her throwing knives rested. 

This wasn’t a casual inquiry. This was a woman prepared for battle.  

The gesture was hostile, deliberate, and she didn’t bother concealing it. Why should she? Trust had been a scarce commodity between them, and Solas had done little to earn hers in their reluctant partnership. He allowed himself a faint sigh, unreadable and cool as his purple gaze met hers.  

Solas regarded her in silence, the weight of her scrutiny pressing against him. He measured his words carefully, deciding just how much truth to offer under the circumstances. Rook’s loyalty to Elgar’nan was evident, but the deeper question lingered: which side did Elgar’nan truly stand on now?  

“After your confrontation with Elgar’nan,” he began, his voice calm and precise, “and your reckless attempt to thwart my plan, the Inquisitor intervened, preventing me from tearing down the Veil. That decision made it impossible to extract you from the prison.” His tone remained neutral, but the words carried an edge, a faint trace of blame.  

Not that he had tried to save her. Solas had opposed any effort to retrieve her, despite the protests of her team—and his Ellana. A contained Elgar’nan had been, in his eyes, worth Rook’s sacrifice.  

Rook’s expression hardened, her sharp eyes narrowing as she processed his explanation. He saw the doubt flicker within her, the way her lips pressed into a thin, grim line, her brows furrowing. She didn’t believe him.  

She was smarter than he had given her credit for.

“Barely a week has passed since then,” he continued, watching her carefully. “The Inquisitor has returned south, rallying a counterattack against the Darkspawn hordes left leaderless after Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain ceased controlling them.” Rook’s eyes gleamed with something Solas immediately recognized: worry. “What about my team?” Her voice picked up speed, frantic now, as her emerald gaze darted between him and Elgar’nan. “Where are they? Are they okay?”  

Solas took a breath, his tone steady as he responded, “Your friends are mostly safe.” He watched her closely, noting how she held her breath, waiting for him to continue. “Bellara was brought to the Grey Wardens. She went through the Joining ritual and survived. She will return to the Lighthouse once she’s fully recovered.”  

That seemed to ease her, just a fraction. Her shoulders relaxed for a brief moment, the tension there beginning to melt away. But it didn’t last long. “Good,” she murmured, then her gaze hardened, a new urgency creeping into her voice. “What about Neve and Harding? They were the closest to me when I opened the rift.”  

Solas could hear the steadiness in her words, but he knew better. She would hold herself accountable if her friends had been in danger because of her. “Neve is here in Minrathous,” he replied, his voice level, even as he observed her closely. “She’s currently working with the Shadow Dragons, helping to evacuate civilians in need.”  

There was a brief silence as Rook processed the information, her mind clearly racing. Solas, remained steady, watching her closely. “Harding is on a mission for the Inquisitor,” he continued, his voice cool but tinged with something unreadable. “What that mission entails, I cannot say.”  

That was, of course, an omission of the full truth, and Solas could feel the weight of Rook’s questioning look as she registered the gap in his words. But to his surprise, she didn’t press him on it, merely acknowledging the shift in his tone.  

“The assassin has returned to his home, while your dragon hunter and the professor went off on a mission of their own choosing.” Solas finished with a shrug, offering no more detail, his purple gaze flickering briefly back to Elgar’nan, whose form was still wrapped in the tendrils of the Blight.  

Rook’s sharp voice cut through the stillness. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you gave me absolutely zero information about their actual location, except for Neve’s, Solas.” Her eyes narrowed, voice icy. “You don’t trust me, or rather, you don’t trust him.”  

She glanced over at Elgar’nan, her gaze hardening as she spoke. “Which is ironic, considering the fact that he abhorred lies and trickery—unlike you.” Her words held weight, each one measured with a sharp edge. “We’re here to fix the mistakes you and the rest of the Evanuris made. The Blight here is just the beginning, but I know we won’t be able to do it alone.”  

Her eyes held his now, unshaken, as though daring him to refute her claim. The tension between them crackled with unspoken truths, each word more loaded than the last.

Her gaze shifted back to him, the hostility in her eyes still present, but beneath it, he noticed something else—a flicker of hope. "I carry a piece of his soul," Rook said, her voice steady, though it held an undertone of something deeper.  

Despite the fact that he had already suspected as much, hearing it confirmed caused a ripple of disbelief to surge through him. The idea that Elgar’nan had agreed to such a bond—it was either born from desperation or, and Solas shuddered to even entertain the thought, love. The notion was so absurd that he still struggled to wrap his mind around it.  

"I can feel the Blight wearing him down," she continued, her voice softening just slightly, though her expression remained unchanged. "He would never admit to it, but I know how much it costs him to keep it in check." There was a hint of sadness in her words, but it was quickly buried beneath her resolve. "I've seen the full extent of the Blight, Solas. There’s no way he can stop it alone. That’s why we need to work together."  

Solas raised an eyebrow, the flicker of curiosity overriding the weariness he had been carrying. "And what exactly do you think we can accomplish?" he asked, his tone skeptical, though not unkind. "I may be powerful, Rook, but as I’ve told you before, my magic pales in comparison to his."  

A sly grin curled at the corner of her mouth, her expression shifting into one of quiet confidence, as though she were about to reveal the perfect hand in a game of wicked grace.

"Simple," she said, the gleam in her eye sharp. "You and I are going to have a little nap and a nice cuddly dream with the Titan's nightmares." She paused, savoring the moment. "Who better suited than the most powerful somniari and one very determined woman?"  

Solas blinked, caught off guard for the briefest moment, but then a quiet laugh rumbled deep in his chest. He couldn’t deny the absurdity of the idea, but it was one that carried a strange, daring sense of logic—one that made him wonder, despite himself, if it might just work.

Chapter Text

Rook waited, her patience thinning as Solas remained silent, his expression carefully unreadable. Her gaze flicked between him and her lion. Elgar’nan sat unmoving on the throne, Blight tendrils still coiled around him, their bond vibrating with his effort. The faint song of the Titans’ severed dreams hummed in the back of her mind, strange and unforgiving. She had no idea why she could hear it, but it wasn’t something she planned to share with Solas.  

Rook wasn’t stupid. She could see through his carefully worded explanations. His rundown of the past week had been thin at best, giving her just enough to piece together fragments. Her friends were alive, barely seven days had passed—though it felt like a lifetime—and Solas, as always, had taken up the mantle of the reluctant hero, for better or worse.  

“You want to dream with the Titans’ severed dreams?” Solas finally said, his tone carrying that faint, familiar amusement that grated on her nerves.  

Arrogant idiot, Rook thought, as if your plans were better, her jaw tightening as her fingers curled slightly at her sides.  

“That’s more or less the plan,” she answered, voice level. “Though I’m not sure if your magic and mine will be enough to even breach their dreams.”  

She saw the flicker of surprise in his expression at her mention of her own magic and felt a small, sharp satisfaction bloom in her chest. Catching him off guard wasn’t an easy feat, but when she managed it, it was deeply rewarding.  

The silence hung between them for a moment, heavy with the unspoken weight of her words. She let it linger, watching him closely, the faint hum of the Titans’ song still threading through her thoughts, making her head hurt.

Solas cleared his throat, his features shifting back to the mask of cool superiority he always wore during their conversations. He truly was an arrogant idiot. “Entering their dreams will indeed be a momentous task and not easy to accomplish. Even for a somniari like me.” His gaze slid from her to Elgar’nan, lingering as though weighing the man’s current state against the enormity of the challenge.  

“I doubt that even Elgar’nan, in his current condition, could provide the necessary amount of magical energy we would require. Alas…” Solas hesitated, his eyes closing briefly as if bracing himself for what he was about to say. “There could be an option.”  

Rook’s interest piqued, though she kept her expression neutral. Crossing her arms over her chest, she glanced quickly toward her lion. He was still consumed by the Blight’s tendrils, and through their bond, she could feel the weight of the taint he was willingly taking on to fulfill her request. Her throat tightened, but she swallowed it down, turning back to Solas with a raised brow.  

“What kind of option?” she drawled, her tone deliberately casual as she scrutinized him.

Rook studied him, her emerald eyes narrowing with suspicion. Solas had proven himself a master manipulator, his words as slippery as the Fade itself. She didn’t trust him—not for a second. But the chance, no matter how slim, to save Elgar’nan from the Blight was worth the risk.  

“Every Evanuris had a focus—an orb used to store their magical power,” Solas said, breaking the silence. His purple gaze met hers, unwavering, calculating. “I believe Elgar’nan was unable to access his when he awoke. I faced a similar issue with my own orb when I emerged from Uthenera.”  

He paused, his shoulders sinking slightly as his gaze drifted, unfocused, as though caught in some distant memory. “My orb was lost due to my own miscalculations,” he admitted, the faintest edge of regret in his voice. “But I believe Elgar’nan’s may still be within reach. The challenge lies in his inability to unlock its power—not while the Blight festers within him.”  

Which had probably been a blessing, she thought grimly. Their battle against Elgar’nan had been grueling enough. The memory of him summoning a damned eclipse lingered, a stark reminder of the raw, terrifying extent of his abilities. And yet, she couldn’t help but wonder: just how powerful had her lion been at the height of his strength?  

“So even if we have access to his orb, he won't be able to use it,” Rook said, skepticism lacing her tone as her arms crossed once more. “How exactly is that supposed to help us?”  

Solas chuckled softly, the sound irritatingly smug. His hands folded neatly behind his back, his posture exuding the composed patience of a tutor waiting for an unremarkable pupil to grasp an obvious lesson. It was a demeanor that instantly reminded her of Heir, her Crow instructor. She didn’t like it then, and she liked it even less now.  

“You said it yourself, Rook,” Solas replied smoothly, his purple gaze sharp and deliberate, as though he were examining her very soul. “You carry a piece of his spirit—an untainted one. Were it otherwise, the Blight would have already consumed you entirely.”  

His piercing stare seemed to challenge her, the weight of expectation hanging in the air as he waited, unyielding, for her to connect the dots herself.

She hated that it worked. That small, insidious realization settled over her like a weight she couldn’t shake. “You want me to use his orb,” Rook concluded flatly, though the idea grated against her. “You think I can use it because it will recognize his magic inside of me.”  

Solas nodded, his expression softening with a slight smile that seemed almost… approving. “That is correct. Elgar’nan was powerful—more than you can even imagine. With even a fraction of his former strength, and with Harding’s connection to the Titans, we might be able to enter their dreams. Calm them enough to soothe the Blight.”  

Rook’s lips pressed into a thin line, considering his words. It was a plan, a fragile beginning to one, but a plan nonetheless. And for now, it was enough. She refused to let her hopes get the better of her—not yet. Her mind had grown accustomed to disappointment. Yet, despite herself, she felt a shudder of relief pulse through her body.  

Maybe—just maybe—the Blight could be healed. The Titans would know how, wouldn’t they? Harding, with her connection to those ancient beings would surely have more insight. Even with the gnawing guilt and the weight of loss, of Davrin and Assan, Rook couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude. She hadn’t sent Harding into that suicide mission. And, perhaps, that decision would be the one that gave them the opportunity to save them from the Blight.

She looked back at her lion, feeling the strain through their bond. The Blight was pushing against him, but he was holding strong, his will unyielding. He had once told her, with that characteristic confidence of his, that all that was needed was power and will—and he had more than enough of both. That thought made her chuckle, despite the grim situation. He would make it. She knew it in her bones.

Rook believed in him—in them.

“Finding his orb will be difficult, I am afraid,” Solas interrupted her thoughts, his voice steady, but when she glanced at him, she found his gaze fixed on Elgar’nan as well. “The Tevinter magisters of old used them during their ritual to breach the Veil. They were unable to unlock their full potential, but they used the orbs as conductors for their power.”

Rook let out a harsh huff. Of course, the Tevinter bastards had stolen from her people. What hadn’t they taken? Did they ever create anything of their own? Her lip curled as she muttered bitterly under her breath, “And here we are, still cleaning up their mess, even after they destroyed and plundered our people.”

“I will use my network of spies and the remaining Inquisition agents to gather any information on its whereabouts,” Solas said, his tone final. If he had caught the bitterness in her words, he didn’t let on, choosing instead to ignore it entirely.

Rook didn’t know how to feel about accepting his help. He had caused enough chaos in their lives already, but what other option did she have? Her team was scattered, far and wide across Thedas, and the moment they discovered what she had done—what she had become—chances were they wouldn't follow her anymore. Not after she had bedded their enemy and bonded with his spirit.

Elgar’nan’s forces were out of the question. Neither the Venatori nor the Antaam were any more trustworthy than the next faction, and Rook would not work with them. She’d do it if forced, but right now, Solas and the Inquisition seemed the safer option.

“Fine,” Rook began, her gaze never leaving her lion. “But don’t mistake my agreement for trust, Solas. I don’t trust you. Not after all the shit you’ve pulled.” Her voice was sharp, no effort made to soften the words. “But I trust the Inquisitor. And if she trusts you enough to save the north, then I’ll work with you.” 

She turned toward him, eyes fierce as they locked with his, and extended her hand. A peace offering, at least for now. “Try not to betray me this time.” There was sarcasm in her tone, despite the seriousness of the moment.

Solas studied her for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before a faint smile tugged at his lips. He took her hand, his touch cold and uncomfortable, but she didn’t flinch. “Then we have come to an agreement,” he said, his voice smooth, his grip firm. “As long as Elgar'nan doesn’t force my hand.”

Rook clenched her teeth, her retort already forming, but before she could get a word out, the ground beneath them shook violently. The larger tendrils of the Blight surrounding them stirred, a powerful ripple traveling through the earth as it moved in response to Elgar'nan's efforts.

Caught off guard, she lost her balance and stumbled forward, her arms flailing as she tried to right herself. She would have collided with the ground face-first if not for the cold, unfeeling grasp of Solas’s arms catching her.

The proximity to him was jarring. His touch was icy—unnervingly so. It wasn’t just cold; it was wrong. The shock of his body so close to hers made her stomach turn, the chill of his touch seeping through her clothes and skin alike, sending an odd wave of nausea coursing through her. It was uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t explain. She was in pain and her muscles stiffened instinctively in his hold.

Before she could push herself away, Elgar'nan’s voice broke through the tension, booming through the hall with a low, dangerous growl. “I would appreciate it, Wolf, if you keep your hands off of my swan.”

The movement of the Blight halted abruptly, and Rook could feel the full weight of Elgar'nan’s fury, the raw anger radiating through their bond. The tone of his voice was sharp, unmistakably clear in its threat. But there was something else there too—a faint hint of jealousy. That, she might have missed if not for the connection between them.

"I merely stopped her from falling, Elgar’nan,” Solas replied, his voice measured, but there was a subtle tremor in it as if he carefully treaded on fragile ground. His gaze flicked to Rook for the briefest of moments, before he distanced himself from her, as if to ensure there was no further misunderstanding. “I recall your warning that she was not to be harmed. I simply value my head and acted accordingly.”

Rook could feel the weight of Elgar’nan’s gaze burning into her back, a slow smoldering rage that vibrated through the bond between them. Yet, beneath that anger, there was something else—something darker, raw, and possessive. She smiled despite herself. He was not just furious, but jealous. It was an odd thing to realize, but one that almost amused her. She hadn’t expected this particular shade of his nature to appeal to her but it did.

Elgar’nan rose from the throne, the tendrils of the Blight retracting as he moved. His steps were measured, purposeful, and as he descended the stairs, every movement felt deliberate. Without hesitation, he closed the space between them and pulled her back into his arms. His warmth engulfed her, the tension in her chest easing. She could smell the familiar scent of him, grounding her.

“I’ve cleared the outskirts of the city and Docktown from the Blight. The rest is becoming more volatile. I could push it further, but that would destroy parts of the city.” Elgar’nan continued, completely disregarding Solas' words. His voice still held that rough edge, the simmering anger beneath it, but it was slowly easing, his tension dissipating as he focused on her.

“I assumed you wouldn’t want me to press any harder, so I let things settle before continuing,” Elgar’nan added, finishing his explanation before pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Rook couldn’t suppress the quiet laugh that bubbled up from her chest, recognizing the possessive gesture aimed squarely at Solas. Not that it was needed, of course. She smiled up at him and, in a softer voice, asked, “How long do you think it will take?”

Elgar’nan hummed in thought, leaning into her touch as she cupped his cheek. “At least a day, maybe two. To be sure.” His voice was rough again, but this time with an unmistakable fatigue threading through it. Rook could feel the strain under his words, though he would never admit it outright. He was more exhausted than he wanted to show, and she knew it all too well.

"Looks like we’ll be staying a bit longer here in Minrathous," Rook hummed, her voice light, before her eyes flicked back to Solas. He was staring at them, his lips pressed tight, his face an unreadable mask, but she could see the bewilderment in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

She arched a brow at him, her tone a little lighter than she intended. “Do you have a place where we can rest, Solas? Preferably somewhere with a bath, some food, and by the Creators, somewhere that isn’t the Fade?” She didn't think she could stomach another moment in that twisted realm. The thought of a real night sky, the stars shining down on her instead of the oppressive swirl of magic of the Fade, filled her with a joy she couldn’t hide.

Solas studied them for a moment longer than she liked, his mind clearly weighing whether it was worth the risk to reveal anything. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nodded. “Indeed, I may have a place like that. To our immense surprise, the Pavus estate is mostly intact. It is not far from here.”

Rook’s grin spread wide, her emerald eyes sparking with excitement as she turned to Elgar’nan. “Ready for some real sleep? I know I am.” Her fingers traced lightly over the fabric of his sleeve, the warmth of him steadying her.

This place, this brief moment of peace, was all she needed right now.

Chapter Text

Rook had never set foot in Minrathous’ Hightown before everything fell apart. Not that any free elf would’ve been welcome there. The first time she’d seen it, she’d been charging through the streets beside Solas, blades out, focused on finding Elgar’nan.  

Now she was retracing her steps, only this time Solas led, and Elgar’nan walked beside her. The irony wasn’t lost on her. It almost made her laugh out loud.

With no immediate danger looming and the sun shining as it should—no eclipse blotting it out—Rook finally had time to take in the destruction. The Blight had twisted everything. Tendrils snaked through streets and shattered stone, entire estates reduced to rubble. There were no sounds of life, no voices, just the creak of debris and the low hum of corruption in the air.  

The silence crawled under her skin. How many lives had been wiped out here? How many people lost everything before it was over? Her throat tightened, but she pushed it down, like always. She had to.  

Rook burrowed deeper into the comforting warmth of Elgar’nan’s arms. He had insisted on carrying her, his tone leaving no room for debate, and for once, she hadn’t fought him. Fatigue had dug too deeply into her bones to muster any argument.  

The silence between them stretched as they moved through the desolate remains of the city, only the faint crunch of debris underfoot breaking it. Her mind wandered, trailing alongside the ruins they passed. What did he think of all this destruction? Did he even care?  

She tilted her head slightly, studying his face. His expression was a mask, smooth and impenetrable, his golden eyes fixed straight ahead. A kingdom for your thoughts, she mused, half-amused, half-curious. The words lingered in her head, unsaid but loud enough to echo.  

Then, as if he had plucked them straight from her mind, his gaze flicked down to meet hers, the hard lines of his face softening ever so slightly. You could always just ask, my little swan, his voice resonated through her mind, startling her for a heartbeat before she remembered the effects of the bond they shared.  

Rook's lips twitched, caught between irritation and amusement. Of course, he’d turned her words back on her. Smug bastard. The thought carried a trace of affection she didn’t bother to hide, knowing full well he’d hear it.  

His grin was infuriatingly charming, his head tilting ever so slightly acknowledging her silent commentary. His gaze flickered briefly toward Solas before returning to her. My mind is an open book to you, Tavellia. I will not harbor any secrets. I will answer truthfully, as I always do, his voice murmured in her mind, the bond between them carrying an undeniable warmth.  

Her eyes followed his, landing on Solas, who moved several steps ahead of them. He seemed utterly oblivious to their private exchange, his focus elsewhere. She couldn’t deny it—the bond had its perks. Then tell me, my lion, she thought, her tone teasing but curious. What do you think about all of this?  

Elgar’nan didn’t respond immediately, though his grip on her tightened just enough to feel protective rather than stifling. When his voice finally came, it was a low rumble that resonated in her very core. I do not trust him, he admitted, his tone dripping with disdain. This could be a trap.

She felt the tension ripple through his chest, his simmering anger barely contained. His emotions bled into her through the bond. It was a stark reminder of his nature, of the powerful god that laid beneath the surface.  

Without hesitation, Rook pressed her hand against Elgar’nan’s chest in a soothing gesture, her fingers curling into the fabric of his mantle. You’ve saved half the city today, Elgar’nan, her mental voice was steady, laced with the quiet conviction. He knows he needs you, whether he admits it or not. For now, we’re safe.  

The subtle shift in his demeanor was immediate. Her words tempered the storm within him, his anger receding just enough for her to feel the slightest ease in the bond they shared.  

Before he could respond, Solas’ sharp voice pierced the air, cutting their private exchange short. “Our destination is close by,” he announced, his tone measured but clipped, a stark contrast to the charged energy between her and Elgar’nan. “We only need to climb over this tendril.” He gestured toward the massive Blight tendril that had burrowed through a crumbling estate, blocking the street entirely.  

Solas was about to climb, his movements precise and practiced, but Elgar’nan let out a derisive huff. “As if I would climb, Wolf,” he growled, his displeasure clear in both tone and stance.  

Elgar’nan stepped forward, magic flaring with an effortless authority that made the air hum around them. His golden eyes glinted, power pooling at his fingertips. With a flick of his wrist, the monstrous Blight appendage shifted, groaning under the sheer force of his will as it was wrenched to the side.  

Solas barely managed to step back in time, his neutral expression faltering for the briefest moment before he composed himself again. “Subtle as ever,” he muttered under his breath.

Rook smirked at the display, her fingers still resting against Elgar’nan’s chest. Show-off, she teased through the bond, the warmth of her amusement brushing against his mind.  

For you, always, came his response, a whisper of satisfaction threading through his words. 

It seemed so effortless, so commanding, that anyone watching might have mistaken it for an act of casual dominance. But through their bond, Rook had felt the strain it had truly cost him. His power might have been immense, but even he wasn’t immune to the toll this prolonged battle against the Blight was taking.  

Elgar’nan shifted her weight in his arms with practiced ease, cradling her closer as though she weighed nothing at all. The motion was seamless, yet she felt the subtle tension in his muscles, the lingering effort hidden behind his golden gaze.  

As he strode forward, he didn’t miss the opportunity to cast a pointed glare at Solas—a mix of superiority and simmering pride etched across his features. It was a look that practically shouted his disdain without uttering a word.  

You are so ridiculous sometimes, Rook commented mentally, her inner voice dry with sarcasm, though affection softened the edges of her words.  

His response was immediate, a low chuckle that rumbled through his chest. And yet you adore me for it, he replied, his tone dripping with amused confidence.  

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. Unfortunately, you’re not wrong.

They seemed to have reached their destination, just like Solas had promised. The estate loomed ahead, its grandeur still visible despite the evident scars left by the Blight. The gates were ajar, the stone walls scarred by cracks and dark tendrils of the Blight that had tried to crawl up them, but it was still standing. 

The estate was damaged, sure, but it wasn’t beyond hope. It looked intact enough to offer some protection, a safe place to rest, and for that, Rook was grateful.

Solas walked past them, stepping through the broken gates and into the remains of what was once a beautiful garden. Now, it was little more than a chaotic mess, the once carefully manicured paths overtaken by the tendrils of the Blight. He motioned for them to follow as he made his way toward the giant oak doors ahead. 

“We use this as our base of operations here in Minrathous,” Solas explained, his voice low and matter-of-fact. “We should have some privacy for the time being. I will inform Dorian of your arrival—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the heavy doors swung open. A woman stood in the doorway, her presence commanding attention. She appeared to be in her mid-40s, with short, dark hair that was somewhat disheveled, as if it hadn’t been tended to in days. The most noticeable feature was the deep red scar running across the bridge of her nose—a mark that made her look like she had lived through countless battles. Her eyes were sharp and alert, gleaming with something that bordered on suspicion.

“There you are,” she said, her voice biting, laced with barely veiled disdain as she fixed her gaze on Solas. “I assume you’ve finally figured out how to clean up your mess?”

Solas straightened, his expression neutral as he gestured toward Rook and Elgar'nan. "Not me, no, Champion," he replied, his voice calm, betraying no emotion. He paused, as if carefully considering his next words. "But Rook managed to convince Elgar'nan to take on the task," he finished.

The woman’s piercing blue eyes darted between Rook and Elgar'nan, lingering just long enough to feel like she was dissecting them. Then, in an instant, her demeanor shifted, the sharpness melting into a grin that lit up her face. She strode past Solas with confident and firm steps, stopping just short of them. Extending her hand, she smiled.  

“So, you’re the famous Rook,” she said, her tone laced with playful amusement. “Varric’s written volumes about you. Though, honestly, I thought you’d be... taller.” Her laughter was warm, casual, like she was greeting an old friend rather than meeting a stranger. “Name’s Hawke.”

Rook blinked, the name ringing louder in her mind than it should have. Hawke. The Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall, a living legend, and a mage who had faced dangers most wouldn’t survive. Varric’s countless tales of their exploits raced through her thoughts, and for a moment, it felt surreal. To meet Hawke—without Varric beside her, to introduce them, like he had always promised—felt strange and sad.

She moved to take the offered hand, but Elgar'nan’s grip closed around hers, halting her mid-motion. His golden eyes burned with quiet intensity as he looked at Hawke. “Her size,” he said curtly, his voice filled with a mixture of offense and pride, “is more than adequate.”

Rook gave Hawke an apologetic smile, shrugging slightly, as if to say, What can you do? Inside, though, her patience was wearing thin. No reason to be so sensitive, Elgar'nan, she thought, letting the words drift through their bond with a gentle reprimand. She only wanted to shake my hand.

Elgar'nan’s grip on her tightened ever so slightly, his voice brushing against her mind. Go ahead, Tavellia, if you want to feel ill again. His golden eyes remained fixed on Hawke, unflinching. The bond pulsed with his restrained irritation and a hint of annoyance. I will explain this later. For now, make them move. We’re wasting enough time as it is.

Rook sighed inwardly. Possessive and cryptic. Great.

Out loud, she cleared her throat, realizing everyone was now staring at her—Hawke with curiosity, Solas with mild exasperation, and Elgar'nan with his usual intensity. “So, uh,” she started, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips, “are we just going to stand out here chatting? Or are we heading inside? Because I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m dying for a bath. And a bed. Preferably in that order.”

Hawke chuckled, a mischievous spark lighting up her sharp blue eyes. “Oh, don’t get too comfortable. You’ve still got a very long discussion ahead of you. Dorian and this one,” she gestured loosely at Solas, “love the sound of their own voices.” Her tone was drawn out, playful, as she turned and strode into the estate. Solas followed silently, his measured steps betraying a flicker of irritation.

Elgar'nan adjusted Rook in his arms with a huff, his gaze narrowing briefly at Hawke’s back. Without a word, he followed, his towering frame forcing him to duck beneath the doorway. His frown deepened at her soft chuckle but, to Rook’s surprise, he let it go.

The interior of the estate wasn’t much better than the gardens outside. Cracks spiderwebbed through the walls, paintings hung crookedly, and the absence of servants gave the place an eerie stillness. Hawke gestured vaguely to the dilapidation with a smirk. “Dorian really needs to work on his decorating, don’t you think?”

Rook glanced around at the wreckage, raising a brow. Since no one else seemed inclined to answer, she shrugged and decided to play along. “Maybe he’s going for a new trend. You know, avant-garde or something.”

Hawke grinned, her stride not faltering. “Oh, I like that. What should we call it? ‘The-Blight-wrecked-my-house-but-I’m-making-it-work chic’? Tacky, but catchy, wouldn’t you say?”

Rook snorted, her laugh easy. “A little wordy. How about just ‘rustic, almost new’?”

Elgar'nan huffed faintly at their banter, but through their bond, Rook could feel the faintest glimmer of amusement. She glanced up at him, grinning, before whispering through their connection. Admit it. You’re laughing on the inside.

Hardly, came his dry response, though the warmth seeping through their bond told a different story. 

Hawke led them deeper into the estate, walking through the dimly lit corridors as if she would own this place. Despite the structural damage, there was still a grandeur to the estate. The faint hum of magic pulsed in the air, a sign of wards that had been hastily cast to keep the worst of the Blight's corruption at bay.

“So, what’s the story?” Hawke asked over her shoulder, her tone casual but curious. “Last I heard, you two weren’t exactly on speaking terms.” She glanced briefly at Elgar'nan, her expression unreadable.

Rook hesitated, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of Elgar'nan’s mantle. “It’s… complicated,” she finally said, her voice carefully neutral. She wasn’t looking forward to the fact that she would have to explain the whole situation more than once. “Let us wait until we are all together in one room, I don't like to repeat myself.” 

Hawke’s grin returned, sharp and knowing. “Complicated, I like complicated things, at least when they are not my complicated things!”

Rook smirked despite herself. “Let’s just say a lot has happened since then. But, hey, at least we’re all here now. That counts for something, right?”

“Sure,” Hawke said with a light shrug, leading them into what must have once been a grand sitting room. Now, the furniture was hastily pushed aside and the faint smell of plaster lingered in the air. A large map of Minrathous was sprawled across a makeshift table in the center, marked with various notes and sigils.

Elgar'nan set Rook down gently, his gaze scanning the room with a faint look of distaste. “This is hardly what I would call a base of operations.” he muttered, his voice low but brimming with judgment.

Hawke snorted, crossing her arms. “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers. Dorian’s been working with what he’s got, and I’d say it’s better than camping in the Blight-ridden streets.”

“Low bar,” Elgar'nan retorted, his tone clipped.

Solas stepped forward, ignoring the exchange. “I will fetch Dorian. Remain here and… try not to antagonize each other further.” His sharp gaze lingered on Elgar'nan for a beat longer before he turned and disappeared through another doorway.

Rook sat on the edge of an armchair, leaning back as she exhaled. “You know, I think this might be the first time in ages I’ve been in an actual house.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Even if it does smell like mold and Blight.”

Hawke barked a laugh at that, leaning against the table. “Welcome to the glamorous life of a hero. Don’t worry, once Dorian gets here, I’ll complain enough about the smell for all of us.”

Elgar'nan, standing stiffly near the doorway, crossed his arms. “This Dorian better be worth the time we’re wasting.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow at him, her grin taking on a wry edge. “Oh, he’s worth it. Trust me. You don’t survive Tevinter politics without being sharp as a dragon’s tooth. You’ll see soon enough.” 

Rook glanced between them, the tension in the air palpable. She sighed and rubbed her temples. “This is going to be a long night.”

Silence settled between them as they waited for Solas’ return. Rook tried to relax, her legs crossed over the arm of the chair, but her gaze kept darting to Elgar’nan, who stood like a statue, golden eyes locked on the door Solas had disappeared through. Hawke, meanwhile, amused herself by twirling a dagger she’d pulled from her belt, humming a melody that seemed completely out of tune.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Solas re-entered, his expression calm but unreadable. Behind him, Dorian strode in with his usual flair, his robes pristine despite the chaos outside. His hair was as immaculately styled as always, and his signature mustache framed his familiar smirk.

“Rook, my dear! It seems trouble continues to follow you like an overzealous bard with a grudge. And,” his gaze shifted to Elgar’nan, his smirk twitching at the edges, “you’ve brought some… impressive company.”

"Dorian!" Rook greeted, her tone warm, but before she could add anything more, another figure stepped into the room. He was an elf—tall, lean, and draped in black armor with red accents. His hair, white as snow, contrasted sharply with his piercing green eyes. A massive two-handed sword was strapped to his back, but what truly caught Rook’s attention were the silver-like lines etched into his skin. 

Rook blinked, her eyes tracing the glowing, intricate tattoos that shimmered softly against his darker complexion. They were unlike anything she had ever seen, captivating in their quiet, otherworldly beauty. Elgar’nan’s golden eyes followed her gaze, his expression betraying a flicker of curiosity, but he said nothing.

“Dorian,” Hawke greeted, leaning back in her chair with a grin. “And look who finally decided to grace us with his brooding charm,” she teased, a grin spreading across her face as she rose to meet him. She approached the elf with a confident ease, placing a hand on his armored shoulder. “Everyone, meet Fenris. My better half, even if he hates it when I call him that.”

Fenris’s expression softened slightly at her touch, but his eyes remained locked on Elgar’nan. “Who is this?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, each word clipped with suspicion.

“This is Elgar’nan,” Solas interjected before anyone else could speak, his tone calm but filled with disdain. “And that,” he added, gesturing to Rook, his tone growing softer. “is the reason we are all still standing in this city.”

Fenris’s gaze shifted to Rook, studying her with a wary intensity. “You trust them?” he asked, his words clearly aimed at Hawke.

The mage laughed, her grin widening. “Since when do you trust my judgment?” she teased, but her voice softened as her gaze flicked toward Fenris. “I trust Varric,” she admitted, her tone quieter now, laced with a subtle melancholy. “And he believed in the kid.”

Fenris’s jaw tightened, the faintest twitch betraying his thoughts. He grumbled something unintelligible, then straightened, his piercing green eyes never wavering from Elgar’nan.

Rook glanced over to Elgar’nan, surprised at his silence. He wasn’t one to let suspicion slide so easily, yet his focus was wholly fixed on Fenris. His golden eyes traced the intricate lines etched into the elf’s skin, his expression unreadable but intent. It wasn’t anger, nor distrust—just quiet, curiosity.

The tension was palpable until Dorian broke it with a dramatic clap of his hands, his voice cutting through the silence. “Well, isn’t this cozy? One big, happy, dysfunctional family.” He strode confidently toward the map table, his usual charm and exasperation mingling effortlessly. “Now that the obligatory posturing and glaring are out of the way,” he added, casting a pointed glance between Fenris and Elgar’nan, “how about we focus on something productive? My dear Rook,” his tone turned lighter, almost playful, though it was tinged with genuine curiosity, “care to enlighten us on exactly what happened since you went out to kill him?” he nodded into Elgar'nan's direction. “No offense.” He quickly added.

Rook shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room settle on her. Elgar’nan’s displeasure flickered through their bond, directed at Dorian’s casual tone, but she ignored it, he would have to get used to the fact that there were other people who acted friendly with her.

“Well, a lot, actually,” Rook began, her laugh shaky and awkward. The words she needed seemed just out of reach, tangled in the mess of everything she was trying to figure out how to explain. Creators, this was going to be a nightmare.  

Before she could untangle her thoughts, Elgar’nan stepped forward, his movements deliberate and assured, radiating an air of unshakable confidence. He stopped beside her, placing a hand firmly on her shoulder, the gesture as protective as it was possessive.  

“She fell in love with me,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the room’s tension with startling clarity. “Bonded her spirit to mine and persuaded me to address the issues plaguing this world.”  

His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, as though he had simply commented on the weather rather than declared something that would make anyone’s head spin.

Rook froze, her mouth halfway open, the words she had been fumbling for slipping through her grasp like sand. The room fell silent, every pair of eyes snapping to her and Elgar’nan.  

"Creators," she muttered under her breath, heat rushing to her face.  

Dorian blinked, his perfectly shaped eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Well," he said, dragging the word out, a smirk tugging at his lips. "That’s certainly... efficient."  

Hawke, on the other hand, burst out laughing, the sound loud and unabashed. "Fell in love, bonded spirits, saved the world—sounds like a Varric bestseller," she teased, her grin widening as she glanced at Rook.  

Fenris didn’t share in the humor. His piercing green eyes narrowed, darting between Rook and Elgar’nan as if trying to unravel the truth from their expressions. “You bonded with an ancient mage of immense power,” he said, his voice low, measured. “And you expect us to trust this arrangement?”  

Elgar’nan met Fenris’s gaze, unflinching. "Trust is not required," he said, his tone sharp and regal. "The results speak for themselves. The Blight has been pushed back, your city still stands." 

Rook cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the stares directed at her. “It’s... complicated,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. “But it worked. And it’s the reason we’re all here instead of... well, dead.”  

“Complicated is an understatement,” Dorian chimed in, his voice dripping with amusement. "But I must admit, your taste in world-saving methods is nothing if not dramatic."  

Rook shot him a glare, though there wasn’t much heat behind it. “You’re not helping, Dorian.”  

“I’m not trying to.”  

Hawke smirked. “Well, I like her. She’s got guts.”  

Fenris’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze still locked on Elgar’nan, though he said nothing more.  

Solas just stared at them with the same emotionless expression as before.

Rook sighed, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands. This was going great. Absolutely great.

Chapter Text

Rook sighed heavily, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose as she tried to figure out how to address this mess. Elgar’nan didn’t make it any easier—his displeasure was palpable, a steady, simmering force she could feel through their bond, growing more insistent by the second.

That it was Solas who ultimately spared her further embarrassment felt almost absurd. “Though it confuses me greatly to do so, I can attest that their spirits are indeed bonded,” he began, his tone sharp with the same displeasure that seemed to radiate from Elgar’nan. “Working together until we have found a solution to get rid of the Blight once and for all is... advisable.” 

“Sounds fine to me,” Hawke chimed in, settling casually into a seat near Fenris, her dagger still spinning lazily in her hand. The gesture wasn’t lost on Rook—there was nothing casual about it. The blade was a message, a subtle reminder of how quickly Hawke could act if she decided to.

Fenris didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His silence was louder than words, his presence heavy with distrust. The way his sharp, green eyes swept across all three of them—Solas, Rook, and Elgar’nan—made his stance abundantly clear. He didn’t trust them, and likely never would.

His gaze finally settled on Elgar’nan, his expression hardening. The rigid set of his shoulders and the taut line of his posture made it clear he was ready for violence at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t surprising. Varric had once said Fenris despised Tevinter and everything tied to magic. Now, with Elgar’nan in front of him, towering and brimming with power, Fenris looked like a wolf ready to pounce.

What a great start, she thought, resting her hand on Elgar’nan’s where it lay on her shoulder. Can you let me do the talking now? 

Elgar’nan huffed, stepping fully behind her, his presence a steady weight at her back. His other hand came to rest on her opposite shoulder, his grip firm. Fine, his voice rumbled in her mind, tinged with irritation. But make it quick. We have wasted enough time already.  

Dorian sighed audibly, dragging their attention back to him as he rearranged several of the small figures on the map. With a flourish, he plucked two new pieces from the edge and set them down near the representation of Minrathous.  

Rook’s heart sank the moment she saw them. One was a slender, tower-like figure, clearly meant to symbolize her. The other… oh, no.  

Beside her marker stood a large, imposing statue. It was unmistakably Elgar’nan—or at least an interpretation of him. The figure was grand in scale, almost ostentatious, but its face had been crudely defaced.  

Bright red streaks marred its features, painted into a clownish grin that made a mockery of his stern visage. In one hand, it held a blackened sun aloft, the gesture almost cartoonish in its exaggerated grandeur.  

Her stomach flipped as the memory surfaced. She had done this. Weeks ago, in a moment of boredom and mischief, she’d taken the liberty of “enhancing” the figure with some spare paints. At the time, it had seemed hilarious—a private joke she hadn’t thought would see the light of day.  

Now, standing in the room with the real Elgar’nan, it was anything but.  

She felt his displeasure immediately, a ripple of irritation flaring through their bond as his gaze landed on the statue. Her grip on his hand tightened reflexively, but he didn’t react.  

Elgar’nan’s golden eyes lingered on the figure for a long, heavy moment, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched as the air seemed to grow heavier, and Rook braced herself for what would surely be a sharp reprimand.  

But he didn’t speak.  

Instead, his attention shifted slowly to Dorian, his golden gaze sharp and unyielding, brimming with quiet judgment. The magister, either oblivious or thoroughly enjoying the tension, hummed to himself as he continued adjusting the map pieces, entirely unbothered by the scrutiny.  

“Well,” Dorian finally said, catching Elgar’nan’s unwavering stare. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’d almost forgotten about the little artistic touch on that one.” He gestured lazily at the defaced statue, his voice laced with amusement. “I do wonder who could’ve done such a thing. But no matter. It’ll be replaced in due time.”  

His gaze flicked to Rook, the knowing smirk on his face unmistakable.  

Rook felt her stomach churn. “Anyway,” she blurted, her voice a touch too eager, cutting through the moment before Elgar’nan’s displeasure could escalate further. “Solas gave us a very… brief overview of what’s been happening since we’ve been gone. But he conveniently left out most of the critical details. So, how bad is it?”  

Hawke’s demeanor shifted immediately. Her grin faded, replaced by a sharp, steely expression. Her gaze darted to Solas, icy and cutting, her jaw tightening in visible displeasure.  

The tension was palpable, her unspoken accusation hanging thick in the air. It wasn’t directed at Rook, yet the weight of it made her shiver. If Solas noticed—or cared—he didn’t show it.  

“Why am I not surprised, Dreadwolf?” Hawke’s icy retort sliced through the air, her voice cold and full of anger. Rook didn’t need to sense Elgar’nan’s thoughts to know he was likely satisfied by her words. “Varric’s death wasn’t enough to make you realize that working with those who can help is better than letting your mistrust run the show?”

The remark hit harder than Rook expected, and Solas’s face tightened with a sharp, pained grimace. He lowered his gaze, the weight of her words clearly weighing on him. “I apologize once again, Champion,” he said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of weariness. “I am here to help, to work with you. My only aim was to keep him”—he motioned slightly toward Elgar’nan—“from dangerous knowledge that could be used against us.”

Rook felt Elgar’nan’s grip tighten on her shoulder, his golden eyes narrowing with disdain. “A feeble excuse, Fen’harel,” he growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble that filled the room. “Deceit is your nature, your essence. No amount of claimed guilt has ever truly altered that.”

Solas’s gaze snapped back to Elgar’nan, his eyes sharp and filled with fury. “And tyranny and vengeance are yours,” he retorted, his voice rising with fury. “And yet you want us to believe you are here to help and not to destroy what remains of this world.”

“I do not like to repeat myself, Wolf!” Elgar’nan snapped, his voice low but filled with raw fury. The anger poured through their bond, suffocating her, and Rook struggled to contain it, closing herself off from the onslaught of emotion. “I’m here because she wanted it. I don’t give a damn about your so-called efforts to save this broken world.”

“Enough!” Rook's voice cut through the tension, her frustration boiling over. She stood abruptly, rounding the table to face the two of them. Her glare moved from Solas to Elgar’nan. “Stop this bickering, both of you!”

She exhaled sharply, a hand pressed against the map as she scowled. “All I wanted was a rundown on the important stuff—what’s happening right now and why the Champion is here in Minrathous,” she said, her voice tight with irritation.

Fenris was the first to speak, his tone steady but heavy with the weight of his own anger. He stood close to Hawke, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hawke and I were hunting Varric’s murderer,” he began, his gaze never leaving Elgar’nan. “We found him fighting against the Blight in this cesspit of a city.” His eyes burned with frustration as he shifted his focus from Solas back to Elgar'nan.

“And since I still have such a deep love for this wretched city—thanks, Fenris—I politely suggested that they hold off on their little ‘stabbing-the-Dreadwolf-while-screaming-obscenities’ plan, and do it after he saved what little remains of my home,” Dorian interjected, his grin widening as he twisted his mustache, clearly enjoying himself.

“Which leads me to my next point.” His gaze shifted, narrowing on Elgar’nan with a gleam in his eye. “Color me surprised when Solas informed me that you succeeded in mere moments where he had failed for an entire week.”

The sly bastard was doing what he did best—stroking Elgar’nan’s ego—and Rook could feel it working, even without their bond.

Elgar’nan’s voice broke the tension, smooth and full of that familiar arrogance. “I still believe it would be wiser to use the Blight rather than fight it,” he began, his tone cool. “But I made a promise to my little bird. You may thank her for her generosity in saving this pitiful mockery of the empire I once created.”

Silence hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Rook fought the urge to lash out, to strangle her lion right here in front of everyone. Why did he have to make everything so much harder? She cleared her throat sharply, attempting to cut through the growing tension.

“What he’s trying to say,” she drawled, voice heavy with irritation, “is that we’re here to get rid of the Blight. First, we save Minrathous, but for the real solution, we need a bit more magical power.”

“More magical power?” Hawke stopped playing with her blade, her interest clearly piqued. “Not to sound insulting, but aren’t those two”—she gestured to Solas and Elgar’nan—“supposedly gods or something? Seems plenty powerful to me.”

“Giving mages more power has never worked before,” Fenris interjected, his voice low and edged with a growl. “Why would it work now?”

“As much as I hate to agree with the mage-hating ray of sunshine here,” Dorian added, his smirk never fading, “handing more power to either Solas or Elgar’nan sounds like a recipe for disaster. Don’t you think?”

Solas stepped in quickly, his expression calm but firm. “It will not be me, nor Elgar’nan, who wields the power we seek,” he said, his gaze shifting toward Rook. “It will be Rook. This way, we ensure it does not fall into the wrong hands.”

"Isn't she a slave to this one?" Fenris growled, his voice low and sharp, head jerking toward Elgar'nan with a mix of anger and confusion etched across his face.

The room stilled, the air charged with an almost unbearable tension. Of all the words he could have chosen, those were the worst. Rook felt Elgar'nan’s rage erupt through their bond, a storm of fury battering against her despite her efforts to close herself off from him. 

Elgar'nan's golden eyes snapped to Fenris, molten and unforgiving. His voice, though quiet, dripped with venom. “Mind your tongue, warrior,” he hissed, his fury crackling in every syllable. “I would never desecrate her brilliant mind, nor would I mar her body with the chains of slavery.”

Magic surged through the room, tangible and oppressive. Fenris flinched as the blue glow of his lyrium markings ignited involuntarily, casting sharp, flickering light over the walls. Elgar'nan’s hand flexed at his side, a silent command radiating through the air. “Your master may be long dead, but I remain the commander of the enlightened army—master of every lyrium knight who yet breathes.” His voice rang out like a death knell.

Fenris staggered, his body trembling as if rebelling against itself. His teeth clenched, veins straining against his skin. “What…” he hissed through the pain, his knees buckling, “are… you… doing?” His body bent under an invisible weight, inching closer to the ground with every word. 

Rook’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the struggle twist across Fenris’s face. But before he could fall completely, a streak of lightning tore through the air, aimed directly at Elgar’nan. 

Her lion turned his head with an almost lazy elegance, deflecting the spell with a casual wave of his hand. The force dissipated harmlessly against a barrier of golden energy, but it was enough to break his focus. Fenris’s glowing tattoos dimmed, and his body slumped forward, no longer forced into submission. 

Hawke stepped forward, planting herself firmly between Fenris and Elgar’nan. Her body radiated tension, a crackling spell already dancing at her fingertips. “That one was a warning,” she said, her voice calm but cutting. “The next will find its target—and it will not be you.”

The air became suffocating, thick with the charged energy of impending violence. Rook’s breath hitched. She wasn’t certain she could move fast enough to intervene if this escalated further. Hawke’s magic was terrifyingly swift, her precision unmatched, and the deadly intent in her eyes left little room for doubt. Even Elgar’nan seemed to recognize the danger, though his golden gaze remained defiant, his fury a storm barely contained.

“My, my. Let’s all take a collective moment to breathe, shall we?” Dorian interjected smoothly, stepping forward with his usual flourish. One hand rose in a placating gesture while the other made an exaggerated sweep toward the tense scene. “Fenris, I’m sure, didn’t mean to insult anyone. He’s just… delightfully straightforward, like a blunt instrument one learns to appreciate over time.”

Dorian turned his attention to Hawke, a wry smile curling his lips. “And, dearest Marian, my house is clinging to life by a thread as it is. Can we please avoid turning it into a crater? I’m rather fond of the walls that are still standing.”

He stepped into the space between the clashing forces, casting a significant glance at Rook as if to say, Do something before this explodes. 

Rook didn’t need further encouragement. She crossed the room swiftly, placing a steadying hand on Elgar’nan’s chest. The heat of his anger still thrummed through their bond but she pressed harder, her voice low and urgent. “Enough,” she whispered. “Let it go. Please. For me.”

Elgar’nan’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on Fenris with unflinching intensity. But after a long, agonizing moment, the crackling tension around him began to subside. He let out a sharp breath, though the animosity in his gaze didn’t waver.

Hawke didn’t lower her hand, though the glow of her spell faded slightly. Her protective stance over Fenris remained firm, her eyes flicking between Rook and Elgar’nan with careful calculation.

Dorian’s clap broke the silence, light and purposeful. “There we have it. A shining example of diplomacy in action,” he quipped. “Now, might we return to the pressing matter of saving this poor, beleaguered city without murdering each other in the process?”

“Dorian,” Hawke said sharply, her voice stripped of its usual humor. “If he so much as tries anything like that again, I won’t hesitate. God or not.”

The weight of her words hung in the air, leaving no room for any doubts. Fenris, though still visibly shaken, straightened behind her, his eyes burning with a quiet, unspoken agreement. 

Rook tilted her head up toward Elgar’nan, her voice low and soothing. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest in a grounding gesture. “That’s just the way he is. I’m not insulted, and you shouldn’t be either.”

Golden eyes flicked down to her, the fury in their depths simmering but no longer boiling over. The room was still suffused with his dominance, but she could feel the sharp edge of his anger beginning to dull. “You ask much of me today, my little swan,” he growled, his voice quiet but heavy with restrained irritation. Yet, as he held her gaze, something softened—just enough to ease the tension.

His gaze swept briefly back to Fenris, still hard but no longer brimming with the promise of retaliation. “I will not do that again,” Elgar’nan said at last, his voice carrying through the room. “As long as he minds his words.” 

Rook sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a bit. This was going approximately just as she had expected, a part of her relieved that Neve wasn't here as well. She loved the detective but by the creators, she would've made this worse.

Well,” Dorian drawled, stepping in once more with his trademark flair for diffusing tension—or at least attempting to. “Now that everyone’s agreed not to kill each other for the next five minutes, shall we return to the matter at hand? You know, saving this lovely cesspit of a city and potentially the rest of the world?”

Solas cleared his throat, drawing Rook’s attention back to him. She blinked, realizing she had nearly forgotten he was still part of the conversation. “Minrathous can be saved,” he began, his tone measured. “Elgar’nan has already demonstrated his ability to command the Blight to retreat. He achieved it earlier today but paused to minimize collateral damage.”

“I’ll finish the job when the Blight settles,” Elgar’nan interjected smoothly, his arms winding possessively around Rook’s waist and pulling her closer to him. “Give it a day or two to stabilize, and I will clear the rest.”

Dorian gave a curt nod, though his lips curled with the ever-present edge of sarcasm. “Grateful as I am for that glimmer of hope, saving Minrathous alone won’t undo the mess your delightful little campaign has left behind. The Blight spreads far beyond my beloved city.”

“That’s why we need more magical power,” Rook cut in, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Solas and I are both somniari, and the Blight… it’s the severed dreams of the Titans. If we can combine our magic, channel it through Elgar’nan’s focus, we might be able to suppress it—calm it down enough to stop the spread.”

An eerie silence settled around them as all eyes snapped back to her. Rook didn't feel comfortable with exposing herself like that but she had no other choice. She needed them to believe her and if revealing her secret was the price for that, she would gladly pay it. 

You’re a mage?” Hawke asked, her voice flat, though it was lacking the malice it carried before.

Rook shifted uneasily, her body instinctively leaning into Elgar’nan’s hold. “I—yes,” she admitted, the ever present fear of being discovered and cast out, building inside of her. “I didn’t think it was important before.”

“Not important?” Fenris growled, his fists clenching at his sides. His gaze was sharp, piercing, as though he were trying to dissect her with his eyes. “Magic is never not important. And a dreamer, no less?” His tone dripped with disdain, but he held himself back.

“It’s rare,” Solas interjected calmly, though his gaze remained fixed on Rook. “Incredibly rare. To be a somniari is to wield power over the Fade itself, to walk where others can only dream. But it is exactly what we need.”

Dorian’s expression shifted, intrigue outweighing his usual mockery. “A somniari,” he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You’ve been keeping that under wraps, haven’t you? And here I thought I’d heard all the juicy secrets.”

Rook shifted uncomfortably in Elgar’nan’s hold, his looming presence a quiet reassurance against the tension in the room. She glanced at the others, her shoulders tight under their scrutiny. “The only other person who knew was Varric,” she confessed, her voice low. “He promised me he wouldn’t say a word.”

She hesitated, then refocused her thoughts, turning slightly in Elgar’nan’s embrace. Her gaze sought his, her voice softening as she spoke. “But that’s not the main issue right now. My lion,” her tone carried a note of pleading, “we’ll need your Focus if this plan is going to work. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

Elgar’nan was quiet, his silence heavy as he considered her question. When he finally spoke, his words came with a sigh of frustration. “No, I do not,” he admitted. “The Watchman of the Night used my Focus to breach the Fade. What became of it after their ritual, I cannot say.”

Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. When was it ever? Rook exhaled sharply, brushing a hand through her hair as she turned back to face the group. “Then we’ll have to locate it,” she declared, squaring her shoulders. Her eyes flicked to Dorian. “What about the south? How is the situation there?

“After Ghilan’nain was slain and Elgar’nan withdrawn, the Darkspawn lost their leadership and began to scatter,” Solas explained, his tone measured. “The Inquisitor has rallied her remaining forces and is currently working with Ferelden and the Free Marches to push them back into the Deep Roads.”

“Dear Ellana keeps me informed through the messaging stone I gifted her years ago,” Dorian added, his posture easing as he leaned casually against the edge of the war table. “Progress is being made, though it’s slow. The Blight left deep scars on the south, especially in Kirkwall and Denerim—they were hit the hardest.”

Rook exhaled heavily, the weight of responsibility pressing against her chest. Guilt gnawed at her thoughts; it was her actions that had unleashed both Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain into this fragile world. Yet, despite the chaos, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it entirely. Without it, she wouldn’t have Elgar’nan—her lion, her solace—and that was something she would never trade for anything.

“We still have work to do,” she said firmly, forcing strength into her voice. “First, we save Minrathous. Then, we move south to see if we can support Inquisitor Lavellan in clearing the Blight.”

She turned her gaze to Dorian and Solas, her tone sharpening with purpose. “I need the two of you to focus on finding any clues about Elgar’nan’s Focus. Coordinate with Neve—if anyone can uncover a lead, it’s her.”

Solas inclined his head slightly, though his expression remained cool and contemplative. “I will begin at once, though it will probably take some time. I am sure that Dorian’s access to the archives of the Arcanist Halls will prove useful in our endeavour.”

Dorian inclined his head, his lips curling into a dry smile. “Very well, I’ll sift through the remains of what the Venatori and Blight haven’t obliterated yet. Assuming, of course, we still have a city left by the time we get to that.”

Hawke leaned on the edge of the table, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Oh, don’t worry about Minrathous, Dorian. It’s not like the Blight is on the doorstep this very second. We’ve got time—enough for tea and maybe a parade. In fact, Fenris and I should probably head south and make sure Kirkwall hasn’t sunk into the Waking Sea without a proper farewell.”

Fenris cast her a sidelong glance, unimpressed by her sarcasm but unwilling to respond. His simmering glare, however, remained fixed on Elgar’nan, his tension visible in every muscle of his body.

“Perhaps you should add ‘stand-up comedian’ to your impressive résumé, Champion,” Dorian quipped, though his tone lacked its usual sharp edge. 

Rook, feeling the weight of exhaustion creep over her, rubbed at her temples before exhaling sharply. “I know all of this is important, and we’ll figure it out. But right now... I need a bath. And real sleep. Sleeping in the fade is… not very restful.”

Dorian’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “A bath? My dear, you wound me. Why didn’t you say so earlier? I could’ve arranged for the full Orlesian spa treatment. Alas, though, I am afraid we are currently out of the usual luxury you would expect.”

“Dorian,” Rook said flatly, though the faintest twitch of a smile tugged at her lips. 

“I’m only teasing,” Dorian replied, raising a hand theatrically. “But truly, Rook, take the time. The Blight can wait a little while longer, and Minrathous isn’t about to crumble overnight.”

“See?” Hawke said, straightening up and clapping her hands together. “You’ve got a green light from the resident Orlesian enthusiast. Go scrub off the existential crisis. We’ll manage to keep this city from turning into rubble for another day or two.”

Fenris finally spoke, his tone cold as he glared at Elgar’nan. “If the supposed god keeps his word, that is.”

The tension thickened for a moment, but Rook was too drained to mediate. Instead, she simply leaned further into Elgar’nan’s embrace, letting his silent presence do the talking. She tilted her head up to look at him, her voice quieter now. “El, you heard them. Let me rest for a bit before we sort through all of this.”

Elgar’nan’s eyes softened as they met hers, though his voice remained firm. “You will rest, little swan. If anyone disturbs you, they’ll answer to me.”

Hawke snorted from across the room, arms folded as she leaned against Fenris. “Well, that’s one way to get some peace and quiet. Maybe I should hire a god to handle my distractions.”

Dorian chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. “You couldn’t afford him, Hawke. Now, let’s all give Rook some breathing room before we’re all turned to ash for speaking out of turn.”

With that, the group began to disperse, though not without lingering tension. As silence reclaimed the room, Rook leaned further into Elgar’nan’s hold, feeling his arms tighten protectively around her. 

“For once, they’re right,” she murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “I need a break.”

“And you shall have it,” Elgar’nan promised, his voice low and steady. “The world can wait.”

Chapter Text

Rook's energy plummeted, leaving her feeling utterly drained as the last of the others filed out of the room. She was tempted to ditch the bath altogether and collapse into a fitful sleep.

"I carry you," Elgar'nan whispered, his breath dancing across her sensitive ears, sending shivers down her spine. Damn his voice—it was impossible to resist. She wanted to lash out at him, to summon some spark of indignation, but her body felt like lead, refusing to cooperate. Defeated, she let herself sag into his arms.

He scooped her up effortlessly, cradling her against his chest as her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder. Her face burrowed into his neck, her eyes drifting shut as she breathed in his familiar, intoxicating scent. A low, amused chuckle rumbled through his chest, but he said nothing, simply holding her close as he began to carry her out of the room.

"Don't laugh at me," Rook mumbled, her voice muffled against the fabric of his mantle. Dorian's voice floated in the background, a distant hum of conversation, but she tuned it out. Even Elgar'nan's response was lost on her, though she felt the vibrations of his voice thrumming through his chest, a soothing addition to the gentle motion of his footsteps.

The next thing Rook noticed was being sat down on a soft mattress, Elgar'nan kneeling in front of her like some kind of servant. The thought of him kneeling to anyone was so ridiculous that she snorted, earning herself a soft pat on her thigh. "What is so funny, Tavellia?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, but with a hint of amusement.

His voice brought her back from her delirious state, far enough to realize she wasn't hallucinating - there he was, kneeling in front of her, busily removing her boots like it was the most normal thing in the world. She couldn't help but giggle again, the sound slurred and sleepy.

"It's just..." she began, her voice trailing off as she struggled to form coherent thoughts. "I never expected to see you kneel, for anything." She confessed, a soft smile spreading across her lips. It was just so… Elgar'nan didn't kneel. He was something akin to a god, for crying out loud. He didn't do humble.

Elgar'nan didn't answer directly, taking his time to remove the first boot—careful not to cut himself on one of her hidden throwing knives—followed by the second. When he finally looked up at her, she was surprised to see a genuine smile on his face - not his usual half-smirk, but one of those rare, honest ones that never failed to take her breath away.

“I am not kneeling for anything, my little swan,” Elgar'nan finally spoke, his voice soft and warm, a stark contrast to the icy demeanor he'd displayed all day. “I am kneeling for you.” The simplicity of his words belied the depth of emotion behind them, and Tav felt a blush creeping up her cheeks, her heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his voice.

Elgar'nan continued to undress her, removing her armor and hidden knives piece by piece, his movements deliberate and unhurried. It was as if he had all the time in the world, and then some. 

When he had removed the last piece of her armor—letting it fall carelessly beside him—Elgar'nan rose up from his kneeling position and leaned over her. His lips brushed against her ear, sending another wave of shivers down her spine. 

"You are so beautiful, my little swan," he breathed, his voice husky with desire. He trailed kisses down her neck, his touch soft and gentle, but Tav could sense a hint of something else beneath it—a spark of mischief that made her skin prickle with anticipation.

His teeth scratched softly against her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, but he always shied away from the places she truly wanted his mouth to land. Her frustration grew by the second, and if his low, throaty chuckle was anything to go by, he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

"Something wrong, Tavellia?" He practically purred against the skin of her belly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He knew exactly what was wrong, smug bastard.

Tavellia withered under him, her eyes snapping open to glare at him with a ferocity that only seemed to heighten his amusement. "Don't play dumb, my lion," she growled, her voice low and husky with frustration. "You know exactly what you're doing." Her gaze locked onto his, a challenge burning in her eyes, but Elgar'nan just smiled, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“I do not know what you mean,” Elgar'nan teased, feigning innocence as he descended lower, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of her thigh. “It seems like I am still a bit distracted.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm and she didn't need to see his face to know he was grinning.

Tav knew she would regret the question, knew he was definitely toying with her, but she asked anyway. “And what is distracting you?” She whimpered breathlessly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elgar'nan didn't answer her, his mouth too busy biting and kissing its way up, close to her sex, only to chuckle and repeat the same process on her other thigh when her hips chased after his mouth, seeking more.

"I am still wondering," Elgar'nan paused to leave another bite at her hip, eliciting a wanton, needy whine from her throat, "who could possibly be responsible for that rather... creative redecoration of the figure that was clearly meant to picture me."

Tav's heart skipped a beat as she registered his words, her hopes of escaping the consequences of her prank rapidly dwindling. She had hoped he would have forgotten about it, but it seemed she wasn't that fortunate. Her initial instinct was to deny any involvement, but she knew that would only make matters worse. Lying to him was the worst thing she could possibly do.

As he stopped his ministrations on her hips, Elgar'nan's golden eyes looked up to search for hers, the knowing glint in his gaze telling her everything she needed to know - he already knew she was responsible, and this was probably part of her punishment.

Elgar'nan's laughter erupted once more as he took in her spooked expression, the deep, rumbling sound sending her arousal soaring. "Oh, you should see your face right now, my little bird," he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. "Adorable, absolutely adorable." 

Tav's face burned with embarrassment as she felt the heat rising up her neck, over her cheeks, and to the tips of her ears. She felt like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, her dignity wounded by Elgar'nan's teasing. "I am not adorable," she protested, her voice flustered and too fast for her own liking. "I'll have you know that I am one of the most feared assassins the Crows have to offer." She huffed, trying to salvage what was left of her pride.

Elgar'nan chuckled again, the sound low and husky, as he rose up from his hovering position over her. "Oh, I have seen how deadly you can be, do not worry about that, my little crow," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. He began to remove his mantle and armor, his movements fluid and deliberate.

Tav couldn't help but stare, mesmerized by the sight of Elgar'nan shedding his layers. He looked absolutely stunning, his complex outfit unfolding like a puzzle, revealing the chiseled lines of his body beneath. It was absurd how he managed to make even the mundane task of undressing look like an art form.

"Tavellia," Elgar'nan smiled, his voice a low rumble, her name sounding almost like a prayer on his tongue. "You are staring, my little swan." There was no mockery in his voice now, only a simmering lust that seemed to mirror her own. His eyes locked onto hers, burning with desire, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

For a long moment, Tav considered just staring at Elgar'nan until she had committed every single line of his body to memory. He was breathtakingly gorgeous, even more so than he had been in the Fade. The firelight of the guestroom danced across his skin, casting shadows and highlights that made him look almost otherworldly. Here, in this moment, everything felt more real. 

They were real. Alive and back where they belonged.

The realization hit her harder than she had expected. Until now, she hadn't had a moment to relax, to just be, but now she did, and by the creators, she felt raw and exhausted but more than that, she felt happy and relieved.

"You are crying again, my little swan," Elgar'nan stated, his tone full of concern that she could feel through their bond, even with her side shut down for the moment. Tav hadn't even realized she was crying, but the fact that Elgar'nan cared—truly cared—was enough to make her cry even harder.

Her lion didn't need more encouragement. With two purposeful steps, he closed the distance between them and scooped her up into his arms once more. He carried her without a word into the adjacent bathroom, a space that had once been luxurious but now showed signs of the Blight's ravages. Cracks marred the marble floor, and the mirrors were cloudy with a strange, otherworldly grime. But the bathtub, a massive, ornate affair, was still intact, and steam rose from the water, carrying the scent of rose petals and lavender.

Without ceremony, Elgar'nan stepped into the steaming water, still cradling Tavellia in his arms. He lowered them both into the tub, the hot water enveloping their bodies in a soothing, liquid warmth. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, content to simply exist in the peaceful atmosphere, letting the world outside recede from their minds.

Tavellia allowed herself to melt against Elgar'nan's chest, her tears gradually subsiding as she calmed down again. She could feel his heart beating steadily against her back, a sensation that had become a source of comfort and reassurance. It was a feeling she couldn't imagine living without anymore, a reminder that she was no longer alone.

"I still can't believe that we made it," she whispered, breaking the comfortable silence. Her voice was barely audible. "That we are truly here, in the waking world, sitting together in a bathtub, as if it were a Sunday morning." The ordinariness of the scene was a balm to her frazzled nerves.

Elgar'nan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest, before he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. His arms tightened slightly around her, holding her close. "Please tell me you didn't only go to the bathtub once a week, Tavellia," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "Personal hygiene should be taken seriously."

Tav's laughter was a rich, throaty sound that filled the air as she playfully slapped Elgar'nan's forearm. "Of course not!" she protested, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I am a Crow, not some uncivilized brute."

Elgar'nan's retort was swift, his voice laced with a teasing inflection. "You could have fooled me, if the way you devour your food is any indication."

Tav's expression turned stern, her eyes narrowing into slits as she recalled the countless times she'd been forced to survive on nothing. She knew how it looked, and Elgar'nan wasn't the first person to comment on her eating habits. Viago had been utterly perplexed when he'd offered her dinner after a particularly grueling job, only to watch her wolf down the food like a wild animal.

She shifted her weight, leaning her head against Elgar'nan's shoulder as she gazed up at him with an angry scowl. "If you're starved nearly to death, only to be fed stale, moldy bread, you'll soon lose all sense of taste as well," she growled, her voice low and rough.

In a sudden, mischievous move, Tav decided to nip at Elgar'nan's ear, mimicking the way he often playfully bit hers. To her surprise, Elgar'nan let out a sound that was remarkably close to a whimper.

Tav's eyes widened in astonishment, and she couldn't resist trying it again. But before her teeth could even graze Elgar'nan's ear, he stopped her, pulling her back by her hair. His eyes locked onto hers, a blend of amusement and caution in their depths.

"Ah-ah, my little swan," Elgar'nan whispered, his voice a breathless whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. It was a warning, but one Tav didn't want to take seriously. "I think you've made your point."

Tav's grin spread wide, despite the slight sharp pain on her scalp where her hair was still pulled tight. She had discovered a weak spot, and it delighted her to find out that it was his ears. He could deny it all he wanted, but Tav had felt his arousal and surprise through their bond the moment she bit down, and she had no intention of letting this go.

"I don't think so, my lion," she whispered back, her breath hot against the skin of his throat. "Don't pretend you didn't like that. I felt it, and I heard it." She couldn't stop grinning, even if her life depended on it. This was just too priceless.

Her provocation earned her one of Elgar'nan's deep growls, the kind that could reduce her to a whiny, needy mess. As he bowed down, his lips crashed down on hers without warning, the kiss rough and possessive.

All Tav could do was surrender. She opened her mouth beneath his, her lips parting to allow his tongue to claim her mouth. The kiss was fierce, possessive, and all-consuming—what else could she do but let herself melt into it?

The water in the bathtub lapped gently against their skin, a soothing counterpoint to the intensity of the kiss. But Tav was oblivious to it, too caught up in the sensation of Elgar'nan's lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, and his hand on her hip, turning her body so she was straddling his hips completely.

She was lost, utterly and completely lost, as he deepened the kiss impossibly further. She didn't even notice the way he plucked her hands from his shoulders and guided them behind her back, his fingers closing around her wrists in a firm hold.

It wasn't until he stopped their kiss, his teeth sinking into the soft tissue of her lips, that she realized the true extent of her predicament. The sharp sting of pain elicited another needy whimper from her, and as she struggled against his hold, Elgar'nan's eyes sparkled with amusement.

"It seems I have caught myself a little swan," he mused, leaning forward to whisper into her ear. His breath danced across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. "Open up our bond again, Tavellia. I want to feel you, to know what you're thinking right now."

As he spoke, Elgar'nan's teeth sank into her earlobe once more, the gentle bite sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. Tav's eyes fluttered closed again, her mind reeling with the sensations that threatened to overwhelm her. She knew she was trapped, helpless against Elgar'nan's hold, it should've frightened her—to be at his mercy, giving up control—but it didn't. 

“Only when I'm allowed to bite your ear again,” Tav moaned back, her body arching closer to his as his free hand roamed from her hip to her breast, pinching her nipple between his fingertips.

Elgar'nan's response was laced with amusement. “I don't think you're in any position to dictate terms, my love,” he said, a smug grin spreading across his lips as he tightened his hold on her hands. “But I'll humor you, as always, my lovely Tavellia. All you have to do is ask.”

Tav's thoughts were tinged with a hint of irritation, but it was a token protest at best. She knew she was close to getting what she wanted, and she was willing to do whatever it took to get there. It was still a struggle to ask for something, to go against her natural instinct to take what she wanted by force. But with Elgar'nan, she was willing to make an exception.

“May-” she began, her voice faltering as she felt his erection pressing against her thigh. She took a shaky breath, her cheeks flushing with heat. “Can I bite your ear again?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with a mix of lust and embarrassment.

Elgar'nan's chuckle was low and husky, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of her throat. Tav let out a needy moan, her body responding to his touch like a puppet on strings. It was unnerving, how easily he could manipulate her, but she couldn't deny the pleasure he brought her.

“You may, Tavellia,” Elgar'nan purred into her ear, “But only if you open up our connection once more.” The sound of his voice was enough to make her forget every rational thought she'd ever had, leaving her a quivering mess of desire and need.

As she opened up their connection, Elgar'nan's emotions surged into her, a maelstrom of desire and need that left her gasping. His hunger was more ferocious than she had anticipated, a primal urge to claim her now, hard and fast - the thought alone was almost enough to unravel her.

Desperate for a distraction, something to anchor herself to before she was consumed by the torrent of emotions and sensations, Tavellia did the only thing she could think of: she bit into Elgar'nan's ear.

Through their shared connection, she felt his arousal spike, his desperate need to bury himself deep within her. The sensation was accompanied by a breathless whimper, a sound she had never expected to hear from someone like him, but one she treasured more than any growl or moan he could make.

Elgar'nan's grip on her wrists tightened, his fingers digging deep into her skin. "You're pushing my patience to the limit, Tavellia," he purred, his voice low and menacing. His lips grazed her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

Tav's body arched against his, her hips pressing against his erection in a desperate bid to get closer to him. She needed him inside her, now more than ever, but his hold on her wrists was firm. "My lion," she whimpered, "please, I need you." Her voice was barely audible, a pathetic whisper of desperation, but Tav was too far gone to care. 

Elgar'nan's eyes locked onto hers, his gaze burning with desire. For a moment, she thought he would deny her, leave her hanging in a state of desperate need. But then, his expression softened, his lips curling into a soft smile.

"Very well, my little swan," he purred again, his voice more a vibration than a sound, "Your wish is my command."

With a sudden, swift motion, Elgar'nan grasped her hips and yanked her down onto his cock, impaling her with a single, brutal thrust. Tav's body arched against his, her mouth opening in a silent scream as she felt both of their emotions and sensations at the same time.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Everything was too much, too intense, as her orgasm ripped through her body like a wildfire. Tav's vision blurred, her world narrowing to a single, burning point of sensation as she felt herself being torn apart by the sheer force of their combined pleasure.

Elgar'nan remained still, his body rigid with restraint, as he waited for her to come back from wherever her mind had wandered to. The need to take her hard and fast burning within him was undeniable, she could feel it through their bond. And yet, he held himself back, his eyes locked onto hers with a patience that was both mesmerizing and infuriating.

“Move,” Tav finally whispered, her voice husky with both of their needs, the bond making it hard to form coherent thoughts. 

As soon as the word left her lips, Elgar'nan's restraint shattered, his body surging forward with a ferocity that left Tav breathless. He slammed into her, his cock pounding against her inner walls with a force that sent shockwaves through her entire body. 

Elgar'nan's grip on her wrists remained firm, holding her in place as he took her with a ferocity that was both exhilarating and terrifying. Tav felt herself being stretched to the limit, her body straining to accommodate his massive size. Yet she still craved more, how couldn't she when everything felt so good? 

“You are so beautiful, Tavellia,” he growled between thrusts, his golden eyes burning with all the emotions she could feel mirrored inside her soul: devotion, trust, adoration and love. “So strong, so fierce.” Every word was accompanied by a deliberate forceful thrust of his hips. “You were made for me, never doubt that, ‘ma’sal’shiral.” 

Tav's response was a strangled cry, her voice barely audible over the sound of their bodies crashing together and the water splashing around them. But she knew he didn't need to hear her words to know the answer. He could feel it through their bond, could sense the depth of her emotions, the love and trust she felt for him.

The sensation of being taken, of being claimed, was overwhelming, and yet, Tav couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, of accomplishment. She was Elgar'nan's, and he was hers, and in this moment, nothing else mattered.

As the pleasure built to a crescendo, Tav felt her body responding, her hips pressing against his, her muscles clenching around him. The water was splashing and foaming around them as they moved together—they probably had flooded the whole bathroom by now but she couldn't care less.

"Come for me, Tavellia," Elgar'nan growled, his voice low and husky. "Let me feel you shudder with pleasure. Let me feel your body tremble with release.”

Tav's response was immediate, her body convulsing with pleasure as she felt herself being swept away by the tide of their passion. Elgar'nan's grip on her wrists tightened, holding her in place as he thrust into her one final time.

"Mine," he whispered, his voice a low, possessive growl. "You're mine, Tavellia."

As the wave of pleasure finally began to recede, Tav felt herself trembling with aftershocks, her body still responding to Elgar'nan's touch. She was spent, exhausted, but undeniably happy. Her body slumped forward, her face burying into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent—now mixed with lavender and roses. "And you are mine.” she whispered back.

Elgar'nan didn't answer her—he didn't need to. She could feel his agreement burning inside their connection. 

They belonged to each other and nothing would be able to change that.

Chapter Text

The water was beginning to cool again. For a moment, Elgar’nan considered heating it once more, but no—his little swan had reached the end of her stamina, and if he was honest with himself, so had he. He was more drained than he cared to admit.

The Blight had cost him more than he would've liked. He might even have lost control of it, if not for her. His little swan had protected his spirit, anchoring him against its corrosive effects. She probably didn’t even realize how vital she had been, how much her strength had saved him today.

His gaze dropped to the sleeping woman nestled in his arms. The woman who had saved him twice now—no, three times, if he counted the way she had helped him find his true purpose again. His little swan. His Tavellia.

She was beautiful, even more so in sleep. The angry scowl she so often wore was gone, as was the sharp, piercing glare that could stop a lesser man dead in his tracks. Not that he didn’t appreciate those too—they had their own kind of charm, their own fire. But like this, her face was soft, peaceful, free from the burdens she carried while awake.

He loved her. It was a foreign concept, one he had never thought to feel, but there it was. He loved her completely, in every form, every mood, every fleeting expression. And it was a feeling he had decided he would savor in all its facets.

Elgar’nan carefully withdrew from his little bird, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as their bond resonated with her lingering soreness. He hadn’t been as gentle as he usually was—lost in the heat of the moment, his control had slipped, his thoughts scattered and consumed by her. Yet even through the haze of passion, her pleasure had been undeniable, her happiness radiant and unwavering. 

She had loved every second of it. That knowledge settled warmly in his chest, a reminder of their connection, their shared desire. Still, he made a mental note—this was something they could explore more carefully, more deliberately, another time.

Elgar’nan remained still for a moment, his golden eyes tracing the relaxed lines of Tavellia’s sleeping face. She rested against his chest, her breathing soft and steady, her exhaustion evident in the way her body had completely surrendered to slumber. The sight stirred something deep within him—a need to take care of her, to protect this small and beautiful creature with everything he had.

Carefully, he reached for the cloth draped over the edge of the tub, wetting it in the lukewarm water before running it gently over her shoulder. He moved slowly, methodically, ensuring each stroke was light enough not to disturb her rest. The soapy water slid over her skin, carrying away the remnants of their shared passion and the grime of the day.

Elgar’nan’s gaze softened as he worked, his hands steady and slow. The faint light glinted off her damp skin, and he marveled again at how delicate she seemed like this. His little swan, fierce and strong in battle, now so utterly at peace in his arms. 

When the task was complete, he set the cloth aside and leaned back, allowing her to rest fully against him. His little swan stirred faintly, her emerald eyes peeking up at him through half-lidded lids. She mumbled something incoherent, her voice soft and slurred with exhaustion. He didn’t need to decipher her words, though—the sentiment echoed clearly through their shared bond, a quiet thank you that warmed him in ways he could never explain.

“Only for you,” he murmured in reply, his voice low and tender as he adjusted her weight in his arms. With a steady breath, he rose from the cooling water, cradling her as if she weighed nothing. Droplets clung to their skin, trailing down in rivulets, but he dismissed them with a simple flick of his wrist. His magic responded instantly, heat washing over them and drying every trace of water. Warmth enveloped them both as he carried his Tavellia back through the door, retracing their steps to the guest room the insufferable Tevinter magister had so begrudgingly offered.

Elgar’nan moved with care, his steps silent as he approached the bed. Lowering her gently onto the mattress, he tucked the blankets around her with practiced precision, ensuring her comfort before leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Sleep, ma’sal’shiral ," Elgar’nan whispered, his voice soft as a caress. His little swan frowned faintly when he pulled away, her brows knitting together as if in protest. He could feel the faint flicker of a complaint forming through their bond, but exhaustion claimed her before the words could surface, dragging her back into the depths of her slumber.

Elgar’nan lingered at the bedside for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on her peaceful form. The thought of joining her tugged at him briefly—he was weary, his body and spirit heavy with the toll of the day. Perhaps if he closed his eyes, she would find her way into his dreams again, her presence a balm even in the Fade. But no. He couldn’t allow himself that luxury. Not here. Not now.

The Wolf’s shadow loomed too close, and Elgar’nan trusted neither him nor anyone in this cursed house enough to let his guard down. The thought of casting wards at the door crossed his mind, but he dismissed it just as quickly. Fen’Harel would likely twist such efforts into another one of his deceits. Elgar’nan refused to give him even that small foothold. 

No, vigilance was his only option. This wasn’t his first sleepless night, and with Tavellia’s stubborn insistence on working with those who saw him as an enemy, it would likely not be his last.

Turning away from the bed, he paced back to the corner where he had discarded his clothes and armor. The faint clink of metal broke the room’s stillness as he began to dress, piece by piece. His fingers moved with practiced precision, securing the straps and buckles with ease. 

As he fastened the last piece, Elgar’nan allowed his gaze to wander back to his little bird. She was still, her breathing even, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the fireplace to the left. A part of him mourned the possibility of joining her but he had to be sure that she was safe. 

Reluctantly, Elgar’nan crossed the room to the small balcony on the far side. He pushed the doors open without a sound, the crisp night air brushing against his face as he stepped outside. 

The city below was quiet, save for the distant groans of its broken foundations shifting under the weight of the Blight. Nothing he couldn’t repair, nothing beyond his power. Though, he had to admit, it was a task he wouldn’t have even considered if not for the woman sleeping peacefully inside. It was strange how priorities shifted. 

A soft clink of glass drew his attention. He turned his head just slightly and spotted the strange woman—he believed they had called her Hawke—leaning casually against the railing of the neighboring balcony. A bottle swung lazily from one hand, her posture relaxed, though her sharp eyes told a different story. This was a woman ready to attack the moment she needed. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Hawke drawled, lifting her bottle in a mock salute before tipping it back for a long, casual drink. “Though I have to say, brooding doesn’t seem like your thing. That’s more of… your brother’s department, isn’t it?”

Elgar’nan’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his features at the mention of Fen’Harel. It was an association he detested, though denying it outright would have been pointless. Both he and the Wolf had been both former spirits, and while the addition of Fen’Harel to the Firstborn had come later, it was a truth Elgar’nan could not escape. Much to his chagrin.

“Brooding,” he said at last, his voice smooth but laced with disdain, “is undoubtedly Fen’Harel’s preferred pastime.” He turned to face Hawke fully now, his golden gaze sharp as it settled on her. “I, however, have better uses for my time.”

Hawke smirked, leaning a little further onto the railing, the bottle swinging lazily in her hand. “Better uses, huh? Is that what you were doing just now? Staring at the city like a tragic hero from some bad Orlesian play?” Her tone was casual, but there was a careful calculation behind it, a subtle test to see just how far she could push.

This mortal woman had nerve, he would grant her that. Few dared to speak to him so boldly, and fewer still lived long enough to boast about it. Yet, instead of anger, a flicker of intrigue sparked within him.

“I do not claim to understand the peculiarities of your Orlesian ‘culture,’” he said at last, his voice smooth and deliberate, “but if that is what your people find entertaining, then I am astonished they have survived as a nation for this long.”

Hawke barked out a laugh, tipping the bottle toward him in mock salute. “See? Now that’s the kind of wit I’d expect from a god. Who knew you had a sense of humor buried under all that divine doom and gloom?”

Elgar’nan arched a brow at her reply, though he couldn’t entirely suppress the faint curl of a grin at the edge of his lips. “Just because I am a god does not mean I lack a sense of humor,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of wry amusement.  

Hawke twirled the bottle absently, her sharp eyes fixed on him with the kind of curiosity one might reserve for a predator leashed—dangerous but contained, for now. “Well, you’re already leagues ahead of Solas in that department. I’m pretty sure he thinks humor is a mortal weakness. Must be exhausting, carrying all that self-importance around.”  

Elgar’nan’s half-smile lingered, though his golden gaze sharpened slightly. “Fen’harel has always been burdened by his delusions,” he said smoothly. “A pity he mistook them for wisdom.”  

Hawke snorted, tipping the bottle toward him in a mock salute. “Well, you’d know better than most, wouldn’t you?” she quipped. “Though I have to say, it’s a bit rich, coming from someone who talks like they stepped out of an ancient epic.”  

“Perhaps because I am the subject of many such epics,” he replied, his tone unruffled, laced with a faint hint of mischief. “Though I do not care for mortal interpretations. They are as fleeting as your lives.”  

Hawke smirked, taking another sip of wine. “Sure, sure. That’s why you used whatever magic trick you pulled earlier on Fenris, right? To remind him of his place, even though you do not care about his opinion right?”  

Her tone was casual, almost lazy, but Elgar’nan could hear the undercurrent of anger and warning beneath her words. He studied her for a moment, then inclined his head ever so slightly. “What I did was no trick. The lyrium carved into his flesh binds him to power older and greater than he can comprehend. I merely… reminded him of what he already knows, deep down.”  

Hawke’s smirk thinned, the sharpness in her gaze never left. “You mean you controlled him,” she said bluntly, her words cutting through the night air, the casual tone now completely gone.

Elgar’nan’s expression didn’t change, though his voice dipped lower, carrying an edge of warning. “He spoke out of line, Champion. I do not care about your opinions of me but I demand the respect that is owed to me and my wife.” 

Hawke laughed, a humourless bitter huff. “And you really think that forcing your will upon him will actually gain you respect?” She shook her head. “Respect is earned not forced, you would think someone as old as you would have learned that by now.”

Elgar’nan’s jaw tightened, though his outward composure remained intact. There was truth buried in her defiance, a perspective he rarely entertained. Yet, he had not come here to debate morality. 

“It is not force, Champion. It is authority. The lyrium markings on that one’s flesh mark him as a soldier of my kind—a gift that binds him to the will of those he serves. It is a bond of command, a relic of a war fought long before your time, where warriors like him stood as shields and blades for the first of my armies.” 

Hawke’s expression shifted, her sharpness giving way to something colder, more calculated. “Gift? Bond? Let me tell you something about that so-called ‘gift' that was carved into his skin by a Tevinter magister who treated him like property. He didn’t take those markings by choice, they were forced on him, like shackles he can’t remove.”

Elgar’nan frowned, his initial impression had been correct after all—the boy was truly an elf of this time. That he had survived the ritual, despite his connection to the Fade being severed, was nothing short of astonishing.

“Does he remember how he obtained them?” His interest piqued, Elgar’nan’s gaze sharpened. Tevinter shouldn’t have been able to replicate the ritual, not without one of the sarcophagi. And those had been destroyed eons ago.

Hawke didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she took another sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving him. He could still sense the hostility in her, but it was of no concern. Her opinion of him mattered little.

“He lost most of his memories before the ritual,” Hawke said at last, her voice calm but firm. “All we really know is that Danarius used some kind of sarcophagus. Later, another magister—Nenealeus—tried to recreate it, but things didn’t go so well for him.”

Elgar’nan frowned slightly, considering her words. The use of a sarcophagus and the fact that the boy wore Falon'din's lyrium markings were concerning. He was about to press her further when he felt a sudden tug in his chest—a familiar pull, subtle but unmistakable. It sent a wave of disorientation through him, it seemed that his little swan had woken earlier than expected.

Too soon , he thought, though not with frustration. Despite the conversation turning out far more interesting than he first believed, his Tavellia took priority.

“Well, Champion,” he said, straightening, his tone brisk but polite, “it seems we’ll have to continue this another time. My wife is calling for me.”

Hawke gave a half-smile, raising her bottle in a mock toast. “Better not keep her waiting. I hear gods aren’t exempt from spousal wrath.”

Elgar’nan let out a quiet huff, something between amusement and dismissal, then turned back toward the door. “Wise words,” he said over his shoulder before disappearing inside. 

He closed the door quietly behind him, sealing it with a subtle trace of magic—deliberate yet unobtrusive, designed to avoid offense. As the soft shimmer of his enchantment settled, Elgar’nan turned back to the bed, his steps purposeful but quiet.

Her relief rippled through their connection as her lovely emerald eyes found him. “Where were you?” his little swan croaked, her voice hoarse as she blinked away the remnants of sleep.

“Outside,” he replied immediately, his tone steady. “I had a rather intriguing discussion with Hawke, I believe her name was.” Lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress, he reached out to cradle her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “But you shouldn’t be awake right now. Tell me what happened.”

Her expression shifted, unfamiliar and unsettling. Fear. A raw and fragile emotion that seemed so alien to his fierce and strong swan. She didn’t answer right away, her teeth worrying at her lower lip as if debating whether to speak. 

That wouldn’t do.

With a gentle touch, Elgar’nan used his thumb to free her lip from between her teeth, his movements careful. “Talk to me, my little swan,” he said, his voice low and calm, carrying a soothing tone. “I can feel your emotions, but I need you to tell me why you feel them.”

His Tavellia nodded faintly, though her shoulders trembled under the weight of another surge of emotion—this time shame and anger, bittersweet and sharp. “I had a nightmare,” she admitted at last, her voice small. “I was back in the prison, but you weren’t there. None of what we did had happened. It was just me… alone.”

Elgar’nan’s hand stilled against her cheek, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he read the layers beneath her confession. There was more. He could feel it through their bond—the shame and anger stemmed from something deeper. “Go on,” he prompted, his tone soft but firm.

She swallowed hard, her throat working against the weight of her words. Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked quickly, as if to fight them back. “There was a demon. Of despair, I think,” his little bird began, her voice faltering. “It didn’t attack me, it just… talked. Whispered. It told me I was wasting my strength. That I would never leave that place. That I should stop fighting and just… accept it.”

Her voice cracked, trembling under the weight of the memory. Pressing her palms to her face, she shook her head, her breaths uneven. “It felt so real. Like everything we’ve been through—us, our return to the waking world—it never happened. Like I’d dreamed it all.”

Elgar’nan’s jaw tightened, a spark of anger flaring within him at the thought of a misguided spirit preying on her fears. It wasn’t just an affront to her, but another reminder of the chaos Fen’harel’s actions had unleashed upon this world. The fragile balance needed to be restored, and that needed to be done soon.

He moved closer, his arm wrapping securely around her shoulders while his other hand cupped the back of her head, guiding her gently against his chest.

Tavellia clung to him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his mantle as though anchoring herself. “I don’t know what happened,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. “I used to be able to defend myself properly from demons. I’ve faced temptation before, but this…” She faltered, her words breaking into a fractured admission. “I—I almost believed it. I didn’t want to live in a world without you. I almost… gave up.”

His grip on her tightened, his golden eyes burning with a quiet but fierce resolve. Whatever torment had crept into her dreams would find no place to linger. His little swan would never face such despair again—not while he stood by her side.

“You didn’t though.” He pulled back slightly, tipping her chin up so she was forced to meet his eyes. His gaze burned with conviction. “That demon underestimated you, my swan. Just as many have before it. And I will not let anything, in dreams or otherwise, make you doubt your strength.”

Tavellia’s lip trembled, but she nodded, her tears spilling over. “I thought I lost you,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I can’t go back to that. I can’t—”

“You won’t,” Elgar’nan interrupted, his tone firm. “You are not alone, Tavellia. Not now, not ever again. I will not allow it.”

His words hung heavy in the air, their weight settling into her chest. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased, though her grip on him remained tight. “You promise?” she asked, her voice barely audible, fragile like a breath.

Elgar’nan leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, his golden eyes locking onto her tear-streaked emerald ones. “I swear it. On my power, my life, and all that I am. And you know I do not lie.”

Chapter Text

Tavellia nestled closer to the warmth beside her, pressing her face against soft skin to shield herself from the intrusive sunbeam hitting her eyes. 

Last night had been far from restful—not that she would complain. Not after the way her lion had chased away the lingering shadows of her nightmare. He’d ensured she didn’t feel alone, his every touch and whisper a reminder of their bond. Deliciously thorough, as always.

Still, she wasn’t ready to face the day. Not yet. Not if it meant leaving this nest of warmth and comfort. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d slept in a proper bed. No, she was going to savor this for as long as she could.

“On dhea, 'ma'da'Tavellia,” Elgar’nan murmured, his voice a deep, melodic hum that sent shivers coursing down her spine. His lips pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head, and his arm tightened around her, holding her impossibly closer.

It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly he unraveled her. She had been indifferent to such things once, distant and guarded. But now? A single murmured word, her name shaped by his sinful mouth, was enough to ignite a hunger deep within her. It’s ridiculous.

Elgar’nan chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her and stirring heat low in her core “It’s not ridiculous, my lovely little swan,” he said, his hand moving in lazy, deliberate patterns across her back. “You were made for me, Tavellia. For me alone. Of course, no one else could satisfy you.” 

Smug bastard. The thought flickered through Tavellia’s mind, though it carried no malice. Yes, he was arrogant—terribly so, and undeniably full of himself. But she couldn’t deny that he had every right to be. If she were honest, she rather liked him that way. “You’re awfully confident this morning,” she murmured, her voice still rough from last night’s overuse and the remnants of sleep.

His chuckle was a low, rich sound, one that sent a familiar warmth curling through her. Half-lidded golden eyes sought hers as he shifted, propping his free arm beneath his head. The motion caused the blanket to slip, exposing more of his sculpted chest. He didn’t seem to notice—or more likely, he did and didn’t care. “I recall you enjoying my ‘awful’ confidence quite a bit last night, my little wife,” he teased, his tone playful and edged with mischief.

Heat crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks at his words. The way he called her his wife had no right to feel so intoxicating. She huffed, trying to mask her flustered state. “Oh, shut up!” she exclaimed, smacking his chest lightly. The firmness beneath her palm only made her flush more. “Don’t act like I’m the only one affected here, or should I remind you what happens when I bite those very biteable ears of yours?”

The smirk that curved his lips was absolutely maddening. “Ah, my little swan,” he drawled, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at her. “You’re welcome to remind me anytime. I recall that particular tactic led to me ravaging your delicious body thoroughly.” His gaze burned with the memory, leaving her wondering whether it was a challenge or an invitation—or perhaps both.

Tavellia narrowed her eyes at him, though the twitch of her lips betrayed the smirk she struggled to suppress. “It did, but only because it made you lose control—which, in my book, is definitely a win for me.” She pushed herself up on one elbow, her emerald eyes glaring up at him.

The grin on his lips only widened at her words. “Oh, Tavellia, my love,” he drawled, amusement dripping from every word. “If me, losing control is what you truly want, you only have to say the word.” Without missing a beat, the arm on her back pushed her up, guiding her movement until she straddled his chest.

By the creators, words alone shouldn't be able to make her that wet, but every single one of Elgar'nan's made her tremble with need. Tavellia was utterly helpless against him, and if the smug confidence she sensed was anything to go by, he knew exactly what effect he had on her.

Well, it wasn't like she had no effect on him either. In fact, beneath his bravado and smugness, she could feel his arousal simmering, waiting to be unleashed. It was time to tease him back for a change.

Tavellia leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You're right," she hummed, attempting a sultry tone that felt strange on her lips. Determined to see it through, she added, "But why should I ask, when I can make you do it anyway?" Without giving him a moment to react, she sank her teeth gently into the curve of his ear.

Elgar'nan's entire body tensed beneath her, and a needy whimper—uncharacteristic of him, but oh so rewarding—escaped his throat.

Through their bond, Tavellia could feel the heat of his lust spiking. "Ah, my little swan," he murmured, his voice slightly breathless as he moved both hands to her hips, his fingers tracing the contours of her skin. "You seem eager to take charge this morning."

As Elgar'nan's fingers danced across her skin, Tavellia's body began to squirm beneath his touch, her senses heightened by the gentle caress. She could feel his arousal growing, mingling with her own, the potent combination intoxicating and empowering her.

A sly smile spread across her face as she leaned in to tease him, her lips tracing the edge of his ear. For a moment, she considered biting down again, and the wave of anticipation that swept through their bond suggested that he was hoping she would do just that.

Instead of biting down though, Tavellia opted to whisper a soft taunt into Elgar'nan's ear. "You want me to bite you again, don't you?" she murmured, her voice husky with amusement and the heady mix of their arousal. "I can feel it, my lion," she added, her tone laced with a teasing triumph. "It seems I've discovered a weakness."

Elgar'nan's eyes flashed with a mixture of amusement and arousal as he listened to her taunt. "You have no idea, my little swan," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands grasped her hips, pulling her closer as he emitted a low, throaty growl. "I want you to do whatever you desire," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "But right now, I want you to ride my face."

As Elgar'nan's words sank in, a flush of heat rushed to Tavellia's cheeks, her embarrassment clear as day. She had never attempted anything like this before, and the mere thought of it was mortifying. Yet, a spark within her stirred, urging her to push past her reservations and indulge in the unknown. Whether this spark was born of her own desire or a reflection of Elgar'nan's influence, she couldn't quite say - and at this moment, she didn't particularly care.

“I want to taste you,” Elgar'nan continued, his voice low and uncompromising, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "I want to feel your weight on my face, your thighs squeezing my head as you reach your climax," he added, his words painted with a brutal honesty that made her skin prickle with anticipation. His eyes locked onto hers, burning with an undeniable intensity that seemed to sear itself into her very soul. 

“Okay,” Tavellia whispered, the word barely leaving her lips before Elgar'nan's face lit up with a triumphant smile. His eyes gleamed with excitement as his hands guided her, his fingers digging gently into her hips as he helped her settle into place.

“Look how wet you are for me,” Elgar'nan whispered, his voice rough with arousal and a hunger for her that she could feel not only in his words but also through their bond. “Go ahead, Tavellia, take what you want.” he urged, his golden eyes burning with a fierce lust and desire as they locked onto hers. With every spoken word, his warm breath danced across her heated flesh, driving her mad with desire.

How was she supposed to resist when he spoke to her in that husky, arousal-roughened tone? With a soft sigh, Tavellia finally lowered herself down onto Elgar'nan's face, her legs trembling with anticipation as her entire body shook with the combined force of their need. Elgar'nan didn't waste a moment, his tongue darting out to lap at her heated flesh with eager, worshipful strokes.

A deep, guttural moan escaped Tavellia's throat as Elgar'nan's tongue delved deep into her core. It was huge, thick, and long - not nearly as big as his cock, but it was more than enough to fill her completely. She felt stretched to her limit, her inner walls straining to accommodate him.

"Ah, Creators," she breathed, her voice a desperate mixture of a needy moan and a whine. "I can feel you everywhere," she whispered, her words barely audible. She could feel not only his tongue coming alive inside her, twitching and pulsing as he dragged it along her inner walls, but also his excitement and pleasure through their bond. He was reveling in his ability to unravel her, even when she was in control.

Elgar'nan let out a soft growl, the sound vibrating through her entire body, leaving her breathless and prompting a desperate cry of his name. I know, he shared through their bond, his thoughts echoing in her mind. I can feel you too, my little swan. I can feel your arousal, taste your need in your delicious nectar.

The things this man could say—or rather think, in this case—never failed to make her blush. But she was in control this time, and she wouldn't give in so easily, just because he used some crude words to embarrass her. Besides, she could feel his arousal too—the way his hips were moving in tandem with her own—and she knew he was just as affected by this as she was. "You like that?" she moaned back, her voice a mixture of desperate need and teasing intent.

That made him chuckle, the sound vibrating through her core and heightening her climbing need for release. Oh, yes, he groaned through their bond. I love every second of it.

Fucking void, the power this man had over her was unlike anything she'd ever experienced in her life. Just a few raunchy words, and she was done for. But how could she be mad about it when it felt this good? 

His tongue never stopped fucking her in the most delicious way possible. She was aware of every movement—every twitch and every pulse—as it dragged along her inner walls. It was almost too much and for a moment, Tavellia contemplated giving in to him, letting him take over, but no, this was her time in control, and she was determined to make him lose his for a change. 

"Harder," she demanded, her voice a husky whisper, yet firm enough for him to hear. "I want it harder."

Elgar'nan didn't waste a second in obliging, his tongue diving deeper into her with a fierce intensity. His fingers dug into her skin as he held her hips steady over his mouth, stopping the frantic movements of her hips to plunder her depths with ruthless abandon. He stretched her to the limit, his tongue driving into her with a relentless ferocity. Her own hands were clenched around the headboard of the bed, her knuckles white from the force of her grip.

Through their soulbond, Tavellia could feel how close Elgar'nan was to snapping, his desire for her raging out of control as he drove his tongue into her over and over again. His muscles were straining with the effort to hold back, his body trembling with restraint as he fought to maintain control.

“Let go, my lion,” she panted, her breaths coming in heavy gasps as she reached out with their bond to urge him further. “Take me exactly as you need to.”

That was the last push he needed; his control snapped. Without missing a beat, he grasped her hips and threw her down onto the mattress beside him, his body covering hers in the same instant. He didn't wait for her permission before driving into her with a single, brutal stroke. "Mine," he growled, setting a punishing pace as he claimed her. "You are mine, Tavellia."

Her response was a needy moan of his name, accompanied by a desperate attempt to hold on to him, her fingernails digging deep into the soft skin of his back. He fucked her hard and fast, his hips pounding into hers with an intensity he hadn't shown before. "I need you," he panted, his breath hot against the skin of her throat. "You're the only one who can satisfy me, Tavellia."

Creators, she felt herself being consumed by the sensation - his primal need for her mingling with her own, the bond between them creating a feedback loop that was almost unbearable. Tavellia had lost all ability to form coherent thought; all she could do was feel. Her body arched upwards to meet his every thrust, as if driven by a will of its own.

"More," she croaked, though whether it was her own need or his that drove her to speak, she couldn't tell - and didn't care. The distinction had long since ceased to matter.

"More?" Elgar'nan repeated, his voice a mixture of laughter and surprise. "Oh, my little swan, I'll give you more." With a sudden movement, he bit down on her throat, the feeling of his teeth sinking into her tender flesh hard enough to leave a mark, elicited a loud and desperate moan of his name from her lips. "I'll give you everything, my love," he growled.

Tavellia felt herself being pushed to the limit, her body trembling on the cusp of climax. Elgar'nan's relentless pace had her teetering on the brink of release, and she could feel his own need building to a crescendo. Suddenly, a blinding flash of light exploded behind her eyelids as his primal urge to claim her overwhelmed her completely. "Elgar'nan," she moaned, her voice rising in desperation.

"I know," he growled, his voice low and husky with desire. "Let go and come for me." With a final, mighty thrust, he drove into her depths, his hips locking into place with hers as he unleashed his passion within her.

Tavellia's voice shattered as she screamed his name, the sound tearing from her throat until it was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, as wave after wave of their combined orgasms crashed over her, threatening to consume her entirely.

Her trembling fingers curled against his chest as her body shuddered, her breaths shallow and uneven. She could feel the weight of him above her as her head tipped back, exposing the delicate curve of her throat as she struggled to regain control of herself. 

Elgar’nan’s hand rested gently at her side, his thumb tracing idle patterns against her flushed skin as if to soothe the tremors wracking her frame. His golden eyes bore into hers, molten and steady, but tempered with a tenderness that was almost as overwhelming as the sex they just had. “You are stunning, my lovely little swan,” he said, he too was clearly out of breath---an accomplishment Tav couldn't help herself but be proud of---as he carefully slipped out of her.

Tavellia let out a breathless laugh mixed with a hiss. "Stunning? I feel like I’ve been completely undone,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but laced with a teasing edge.

Elgar’nan’s lips curved into a slow, smug smile, his hand moving to cradle her face as his thumb brushed over her cheek. “Then I’ve succeeded,” he replied, his tone unapologetically self-assured. “And yet, my little swan, you endure beautifully.”  

Her cheeks flushed, though she wasn’t sure if it was from his words or the intensity of his gaze. She lifted a hand to lightly smack his shoulder, though her strength barely made the gesture more than a playful tap. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”  

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, his body still pressed against hers, grounding her in the aftermath. “I recall hearing that before,” he remarked, leaning closer until his lips hovered just above her ear. “But you’ve yet to deny that you enjoy it.”  

Tavellia groaned softly, covering her face with her hands in mock exasperation. “Why do I even put up with you?”  

“Because no one else could handle you the way I do,” he said without hesitation, his words a mixture of confidence and reverence.  

She peeked at him from between her fingers, her emerald eyes narrowing playfully. “One day, your arrogance is going to get you into trouble.”  

“And yet,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her forehead in a gentle kiss, “I recall you promising to keep me in line, my little bird.”

Her laughter was soft, yet genuine, as she let herself relax further beneath him, the warmth of his presence dispelling any lingering shadows of doubt or fear. “You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to argue,” she mumbled, her hands drifting down to his shoulders.

A quiet smirk played on his lips. “Fortunate indeed,” he replied, his voice infused with affection, before he rolled onto his side, his arm slipping around her to draw her close.

Tavellia shifted against him, her fingers tracing aimless patterns on his chest as her thoughts drifted back to the previous day. A nagging question had been bothering her since it happened, and she hesitated, unsure if she wanted to bring it up. But the silence between them seemed to grow heavier, until finally, she sighed, breaking the stillness.

"Elgar'nan," she began, her voice soft and cautious, "yesterday... when Hawke tried to shake my hand... why did you stop me?"

Elgar'nan's hand, which had been resting on her back, stilled for a moment, and she sensed a subtle tension in his body. He released a slow breath, his golden eyes dropping to meet hers, their gaze locking in a gentle, yet intense, connection.

"I had my reasons," he said, his voice calm and measured, yet carrying a weight that suggested the matter was far from trivial.

Tavellia's brow furrowed as she propped herself up on her elbow, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. "I gathered that much," she said, her tone gentle but insistent. "But I want to know why. I understand your concerns about me touching Solas, but Hawke should have been fine, shouldn't she?”

He studied her for a moment, his expression a mask of calm contemplation. Then, as if deciding the time was right, he spoke. "It has to do with the bond we share."

Tavellia's head tilted to one side, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "The bond? What does that have to do with Hawke?"

Elgar'nan's voice was measured, his words chosen with care. "You've become more attuned to magic, more sensitive to its presence. Especially when it comes to those who wield significant power. Their magic resonates within you, my lovely little bird."

Her brows furrowed as she struggled to understand the implications. "Resonates?" she repeated, the word feeling strange on her lips. "But it makes sense, I suppose. It would explain why I felt so cold when Solas touched me.”

"Exactly," Elgar'nan confirmed, his tone softening slightly. "Fen'harel's touch left you feeling that way because of the type of magic he wields. As a somniari, you share a certain... affinity, but his ice magic is what caused the cold sensation. Hawke's lightning magic would likely be just as uncomfortable, I imagine."

Tavellia's frown deepened, her fingers stilling against his skin as she considered the implications. "So, she would've... zapped me when I touched her?" she asked, her voice laced with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

Elgar'nan's voice carried a hint of a smile, and through the bond, Tavellia felt a flutter of amusement. "That is correct," he confirmed. "And the Tevinter magister's necromancy is another magic you should avoid. Just to be sure.”

Her lips compressed into a thin line as she tried to ignore the amusement dancing in his eyes. "So, what am I supposed to do? Avoid every mage I meet?" she asked, her voice tinged with frustration.

"Not forever," Elgar'nan replied, his tone gentle and reassuring. "As you grow more accustomed to the bond and your connection to your spirit deepens, your sensitivity will lessen. But for now, it's best to limit unnecessary contact, especially with mages whose power rivals your own."

Tavellia let out a sigh, dropping her head back onto his chest. "Great. Just one more thing to worry about," she muttered, her voice laced with resignation.

Elgar'nan's soft chuckle vibrated against her ear, and his fingers resumed their soothing patterns along her spine. "It's not a burden, my little swan," he said, his voice warm and comforting. "It's a testament to the power of your spirit," But his tone shifted, taking on a hint of anger as he continued, "This wouldn't be a problem if not for the Veil. One more consequence of Fen'harel's actions.”

A faint smile played on her lips as she listened to his words. It was almost laughable how he always managed to shift the blame onto Solas, oblivious to his own role in the problem. For a moment, she considered calling him out on it, but decided to let it slide. There were already enough discussions waiting to be had; no need to add this one to the list.

"Fine," she muttered, a hint of resignation in her voice. "I'll try to avoid unnecessary contact. But next time, warn me before intervening. No more sudden stops without explanation.”

Elgar'nan's smirk was unmistakable as he gently tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. "As you wish, my Tavellia," he said, his voice low and smooth. "But if I don't warn you, it's only because I enjoy the way you question me afterward."

She groaned, swatting lightly at his chest. "Smug bastard," she teased, trying to hide the flutter in her chest.

"And yet, you adore me," he replied, his voice dripping with confidence. He pulled her closer, his lips brushing against her temple in a tender kiss.

Chapter Text

Rook slid the last of her hidden throwing knives into its place near her right wrist, her fingers moving with practiced precision. She adjusted the collar of her armor for what felt like the hundredth time, trying in vain to cover the bite mark Elgar’nan had left there. No matter how much she tugged or pulled, the indentation of his teeth remained visible—a stubborn reminder of the night before.

Her annoyance was swiftly replaced by a wave of amusement that was clearly not her own. Elgar’nan’s presence behind her was undeniable, and his voice followed soon after, rich with pride and amusement. “My little bird,” he drawled, his tone teasing yet unmistakably possessive, “there’s no need to hide that, truly.”

Before she could respond, he leaned down, his breath grazing the shell of her ear, sending an involuntary shiver coursing through her body. “It’s simply visible proof of my claim,” he added, his voice low and deliberate, every syllable laced with smug satisfaction.

Heat rose from her neck to her ears, her embarrassment mingling with an entirely different kind of warmth she was trying—and failing—to suppress. “Well,” she started, her voice coming out just a touch too high-pitched for her liking, “excuse me for trying to look presentable.”

Elgar’nan chuckled softly, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he straightened. “Presentable? My lovely Tavellia, you look perfect as you are—marked as mine.” His hand brushed against her shoulder in a lazy, possessive gesture, as though emphasizing his point.

Rook sighed, her lips twitching as if caught between a scowl and a smile. “Smug bastard,” she muttered under her breath, though the words lacked any real venom.

Elgar’nan didn’t comment on that, with a soft kiss to the top of her head, he moved around her with a fluid grace, walking up to the door leading out their guestroom into the hallway. “Come, my little bird. You need something to eat and we shouldn’t keep your friends waiting too long.” he said, the smirk on his lips suggesting he was already anticipating the chaos downstairs.

“Wonderful.” Rook groaned, adjusting the last strap on her armor and followed him. “If I die of embarrassment, you’re the one to blame.” she muttered, earning her a knowing glance from Elgar’nan.

The walk to the dining hall was mercifully quiet, though the tension she felt building in her chest grew with every step. She wasn’t stupid—of course they had heard her last night. She wasn’t exactly quiet. But dealing with Hawke and Dorian’s relentless teasing wasn’t something she was looking forward to. It almost felt like walking in an obvious trap.

When they stepped into the room, it became immediately clear that her fears were well-founded. Solas was seated at the far end, his expression characteristically neutral but his raised brow betraying faint disapproval. Fenris sat beside him, arms crossed, scowling into his tea. Hawke and Dorian, however, were the real problem—both grinning like cats that had caught a particularly juicy canary.

“Well, well,” Dorian started, his tone as rich and theatrical as ever. “If it isn’t our favorite lovebirds. Or should I say—Crows? Given the noise, I thought a murder might’ve been happening upstairs.”

Hawke snorted into her cup, barely managing to keep her tea from spilling. “Crows, Dorian? Really? I think you can do better than that.”

Jaw tight and mortified, Rook made her way to the seat next to Fenris, sinking into it as if the chair might somehow swallow her whole and save her from this nightmare. “I hate both of you,” she muttered through gritted teeth, avoiding their eyes, already regretting coming downstairs.

Elgar’nan entered behind her, completely unbothered by the teasing. If anything, he looked infuriatingly pleased. “Good morning to you as well,” he greeted smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement. “It’s heartwarming to know my little bird’s enthusiasm has brought you such... entertainment.”

Rook turned to him, her eyes narrowing into a glare sharp enough to pierce armor. “You’re not helping.”

Hawke leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand as she gave Rook a mockingly sweet smile. “Oh, don’t be so shy, Rook. It’s refreshing, really. Some of us could use a little more... vigor in our lives.” Her eyes flicked to Solas, who stiffened visibly at her little jab.

Dorian smirked, gesturing dramatically. “It’s the acoustics of this place, you see. Magnificent design, truly. Carries sound beautifully. I’m tempted to write to the architect and offer my congratulations.”

Creators, they are relentless! 

Rook groaned, dragging her hand down her face as if that might somehow shield her from the onslaught of mockery. “I should’ve stayed in bed,” she muttered under her breath, though it only made Hawke snicker louder.

“You could’ve, you know,” Hawke teased, leaning back in her chair with an infuriatingly relaxed grin. “I’m sure Elgar’nan wouldn’t have minded keeping you there a little longer.”

“More than a little,” Elgar’nan added smoothly, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement as he slid into the chair beside Rook. His arm rested on the back of her seat, a clear statement of possession that only added fuel to the fire.

Dorian nearly choked on his tea, his grin widening. “By the Maker, Elgar’nan, you’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

“No I do not.” Elgar’nan countered, his tone calm but laced with smug satisfaction. “I see no reason to hide my pride in what is mine.”

Rook buried her face in her hands, muffling a frustrated groan. “I’m begging you all to stop talking. Just... stop.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Dorian quipped, resting his chin on his hand as he studied her with mock curiosity. “Tell me, Rook, is it true what my dear Elana said about ancient elves? Stamina and all that? Or is he simply—”

“Enough.” Rook’s voice cut through the air, sharp and firm despite the pink flush still staining her cheeks. She leveled Dorian and Hawke both with a glare, the kind that promised gruesome revenge, if they pushed her any further.

Dorian raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his face. “As you wish. But you can’t blame a man for being curious.”

Hawke shrugged, clearly unrepentant as she sipped her tea. “Fine, we’ll behave. For now.”

Rook sighed, slumping back in her chair. Elgar’nan’s hand brushed lightly over her shoulder before retreating. She watched as he calmly began assembling a plate, carefully selecting an assortment of food from the table. Once satisfied, he set the plate down in front of her with a decisive gesture.

“Eat,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, though there was a softness in his eyes that tempered the command.

Rook stiffened slightly, her gaze flicking between the plate and the others seated at the table. She was all too aware of the way her table manners—or lack thereof—would draw more unwanted attention to her. “I’m fine,” she muttered, attempting to slide the plate away, but Elgar’nan’s hand gently stopped hers.

“You are not,” he countered firmly, “You need to keep your strength up.” The way he looked at her left no room for arguments. With a reluctant sigh, she picked up a piece of bread, trying to nibble at it in a way that might pass as acceptable. Though she didn’t really know how to do it. The urge to just gulp it down and be done with it was strong and it took her a lot of willpower to suppress it. 

Elgar’nan watched her efforts with a mixture of amusement and patience. “My little swan,” he murmured, his voice low and undeniably caring, “you don’t need to pretend with me.”

Her teeth clenched, the bread momentarily forgotten in her hand. “I don’t want to give them more reasons to talk,” she hissed under her breath.

“Too late for that,” Dorian interjected brightly, resting his chin on one hand as he regarded her with exaggerated curiosity. “Though, I must admit, I’m now far more interested in your eating habits than I ever anticipated being.”

Rook glared at him, but before she could retort, Fenris’s voice cut through, low and gruff. “Some of us came here to eat, not to gossip.”

“Thank you,” Rook said, casting him a look that carried genuine gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” Fenris replied shortly, though his gaze flicked to Elgar’nan, narrowing slightly before returning to his meal.

Solas, who had been quietly observing the interplay with an air of detachment, cleared his throat with deliberate precision. “If we could move past this fascinating topic,” he said, his voice calm but pointed, “there are more pressing matters that require our attention.”

Elgar’nan nodded, the amusement vanishing from his expression in an instant as he regarded Solas with a calculating gaze. “As much as I hate to admit it, the wolf is right. There is much to be done, and I would rather not waste more time here than necessary.”

Rook set down the piece of bread she had been holding, her gaze lifting to him with a hint of surprise. That he would agree with anything Solas said seemed improbable. Perhaps wonders do happen now and then. 

I am not unreasonable, my little swan. You, of all people, should know this. His voice threaded through their bond, carrying a faint note of amusement. Though it seems your friends hold a different opinion. He added the last thought with wry humor, but before Rook could press him to elaborate, the dining room door swung open, revealing an irate-looking Neve.

“Ah, Detective!” Dorian greeted brightly, either unaware of or deliberately ignoring her foul mood. “Impeccable timing, as always. We were just beginning to discuss our plans. Care for a cup of tea?”

Neve’s brown eyes scanned the dining hall, flicking from Dorian to Hawke, over Fenris to Solas, and finally landing on Elgar’nan and Rook. There, her gaze lingered, sharp and piercing like an ice shard, sending an uncomfortable shiver through Rook’s entire body.  

She didn’t speak for a long moment, her eyes locked on Rook, unblinking and heavy with unspoken tension. At last, she shrugged her left shoulder. “I do not drink tea, Dorian, but I wouldn’t say no to coffee.” Her voice was cold and detached, her tone betraying not a single hint of emotion but Rook knew this was just the quiet before the storm.

But to her surprise, Neve just continued. “I drink it with lots of sugar,” she said, turning away from Rook like she had stopped existing all together and moved to sit in the sea furthest from her and Elgar'nan. 

This wasn’t anything like Rook had expected, and it stung. Anger, she could have handled. Disappointment, she would have understood—even if a part of her had hoped for some kind of relief. But being ignored? That was a low blow.  

The silence in the room was thick, weighted with unspoken tension. No one dared to break it while Neve busied herself with one of her horrible concoctions she called coffee. She took her time, moving with an almost deliberate slowness, as if this were just another ordinary day in the lighthouse.  

Her composure is a farce , Elgar’nan’s voice echoed in Rook’s mind. Concentrate, and you will notice—she has drawn her magic close, ready to strike. 

Rook glanced up at him, but his gaze remained locked on Neve. His posture was deceptively relaxed, his expression unreadable, but Rook knew better. He was watching, waiting, ready to step in if things took a turn. His magic simmered beneath the surface, a slow, smoldering heat.

Taking a deep inhale, Rook tried to follow Elgar'nan’s instructions, concentrating on the fabric of the Veil around them. It was subtle at first but then she noticed it—a sharp biting chill around them, a familiar feeling: Neve's magic. 

Before the tension could rise even higher, Hawke let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back in her chair. “You know, for someone so picky about their drink, you’d think you’d make a decent cup of coffee.” she grinned as she waved in Neve’s direction. “Instead, we all get to witness this slow, painful murder of good taste. Tragic, really.”

Neve didn’t so much as glance her way, but the corner of Fenris’ mouth twitched, and Dorian, not letting this opportunity to chime in pass, rolled his eyes theatrically. “Yes, well, as fascinating as Neve’s continued assault on beverage culture is, we do have more pressing matters.” He set his own cup down with a click and looked at the group. “I assume none of us are under the illusion that this situation with the Blight will solve itself, right?” 

Solas shook his head. “No, and as much as it surprises me as well, I have to agree with Elgar’nan. The longer we take, the situation in the south becomes more devastating.”

His violet eyes locked onto Elgar’nan’s, and for a brief moment, they simply stared at each other, their expressions blank, unreadable. Then, Solas continued, his voice steady. “Therefore, I suggest that I go and assess the current state of the Blight.”

Elgar’nan said nothing at first. His molten gaze remained fixed on Solas, his expression impossible to decipher. Rook considered reaching out for his thoughts but found she didn’t need to . I do not trust him. This could be one of his games. If something goes wrong, he will blame it on me.

Before she could answer, Elgar’nan spoke again, his tone firm, commanding, leaving no room for discussion. “I will accompany you. You’ve messed up enough already. I will not have you jeopardize my work—again.”

The remark, a not-so-subtle jab at Solas’ creation of the Veil, earned him a sharp glare from the mage in question.

Creators, those two were more like bickering siblings than ancient gods.

Rook cleared her throat, drawing the attention of everyone gathered—everyone except Neve. The detective remained focused on her coffee, or rather, the thick sludge she insisted on calling coffee.

“I’m coming with you,” Rook stated. “Someone needs to make sure neither of you kill each other if left alone.”

Her declaration hung in the air, met with varying degrees of reaction. Solas’ lips pressed into a thin line of mild disapproval, though he said nothing. Elgar’nan, on the other hand, turned to her with an expression that softened—just enough for her to notice, but not enough for anyone else to.

“No,” he said, his tone leaving little room for argument. “You should rest. You barely got any sleep last night.”

His golden eyes flicked toward Neve with a knowing glint. I also believe you should talk to her. And I doubt she will speak with you as long as I am at your side.

As much as it pained her, Rook suspected he was right. She had known the detective for only a few months, but if there was one thing she had learned, it was that Neve was just as stubborn as she was.

Her gaze drifted toward the woman in question, watching as she took another sip—bite— whatever from her cup, eyes closed as if savoring the undoubtedly horrendous taste. However Neve managed to stomach something that sweet without so much as a flinch was beyond her.

“Fine,” Rook finally conceded, though the word tasted bitter in her mouth. She hated being left behind, no matter how reasonable the argument. She was a fighter, not someone who sat idle while others handled what needed to be done.

“But someone should go with you.” She had no illusions—if Elgar’nan and Solas were left unchecked, this would end terribly.

“I suppose that’s my cue,” Dorian said, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp as they flicked between Elgar’nan and Solas.

Elgar’nan exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

Undeterred, Dorian smiled. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I have no hope of preventing you two from trying to kill each other—but I can ensure that no innocent bystanders get vaporized in the process. Consider me the designated damage control.”

Solas arched a brow but said nothing. Elgar’nan simply crossed his arms.

“I like this plan.” Hawke leaned back in her chair, lacing her hands behind her head. “In fact, I like it so much, I think I’ll come too. I wouldn’t miss a front-row seat to this disaster waiting to happen.”

Elgar’nan let out a low sound of irritation, clearly unimpressed with his growing entourage. Rook, despite herself, smirked.

“The more, the merrier. Isn’t that right?” Dorian drawled, throwing Rook a wink that was almost—almost—reassuring.

Hawke grinned. “And here I thought you were coming for the thrill of watching these two have a dramatic standoff.”

“Oh, I absolutely am, my dear Marian,” Dorian admitted. “But a little chaos management doesn’t hurt.”

His gaze drifted to Fenris, who had just finished his breakfast and was reaching for the fruit basket, looking at him with an expectant expression. “What about you, dear Fenris?”

Hawke followed his stare, and the moment she caught on, she burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as she tried to regain composure. Fenris, on the other hand, didn’t so much as flinch. He plucked a particularly delicious-looking apple from the basket, took a slow, deliberate bite, and chewed at his own pace.

Only when he swallowed did he finally look up at Dorian, his expression just as gruff and serious as it had been all morning. “Following four powerful mages to do who knows what in a city full of Blight and potential blood magic?” He took another bite. “No, thank you. I pass.”

Rook couldn’t help but giggle at that. Fenris was exactly as Varric had described him—gruff, broody, and brutally honest. She already liked him.

A gentle weight settled on her shoulder—Elgar’nan’s hand, warm despite its barely-there touch. She glanced up at him, meeting his gaze just as his golden eyes flicked toward her plate in silent command. Eat up, my lovely little swan. You’ll need it.

Rook exhaled softly, feigning consideration. Okay, I will—under one condition. She made a deliberate pause, daring him to interject. Elgar’nan merely waited, patient as ever, his curiosity a quiet hum in the back of her mind. You promise me not to fight with Solas. It was a feeble attempt to keep her lion in check, but she had to try.

Elgar’nan regarded her with a guarded expression, his thoughts unreadable, before finally sighing—a deep, heavy sound of reluctant concession. I agree… as long as he doesn’t start a fight, that is.

Rook sighed too. It was probably the best outcome she could’ve hoped for, though that wasn’t saying much. Solas could be just as arrogant and taunting as Elgar’nan, and if their last few interactions were anything to go by, neither of them would hold their tongue for long.

All she could hope for was that they’d keep it at just that.

Elgar’nan rose from his seat in one smooth, effortless motion, drawing the attention of everyone in the room—even Neve.“I will be back soon, my little swan,” he said simply, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the top of Rook’s head before striding out of the dining hall, unconcerned with whether anyone actually followed him.

Rook wasn’t sure if she had just imagined Solas’ eyeroll, when she tried to double check, his unreadable expression was perfectly set into place once more as he stood up from his seat as well. “Leave it to him to make this all about the great Elgar’nan again.” he said to no one in particular before he followed after him.

Dorian and Hawke gave each other a nod and moved up from their places almost at the same time. “Shall we, my dear Marian? I would like to keep the rest of my city intact.” 

Hawke chuckled, her voice laced with amusement. “Don’t worry if they start to fight,, we’ll just put up a sign: ‘Mages Only—enter at your own risk. To keep civilians safe, just in case.” 

Hawke leaned down to Fenris, pressing a quick peck to his cheek, eliciting a grunted response from the elf, though he didn’t seem bothered by her antics. “I’ll be back soon. Try not to brood too much; I hate to see more wrinkles on your pretty face,” she teased affectionately. Rook couldn’t help but marvel at the contrast between the two of them.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Marian. Just come back in one piece. I hate dragging your sorry ass out of another dangerous situation you’ve managed to get yourself into,” he grumbled, shooing her away with a wave of his hand.

Dorian was already halfway through the door before he turned back around, giving Rook a small wave and a pointed nod toward Neve. “You two should catch up while we’re gone. We can talk about the next steps when we’re back.”

Neve stiffened at his words, her gaze flicking briefly to Rook before settling on Dorian. She took a long pause before answering, her voice as cold and detached as ever. “Take care, Magister.”

Dorian gave Rook a simple shrug and a smile that was likely meant as encouragement before he followed Hawke out of the dining hall.

The sound of the door closing echoed too loudly in Rook’s ears, more jarring than it had any right to be. Her gaze flicked to Fenris, who was chewing his food with an almost exaggerated slowness, each bite somehow amplifying the tension in the air. He merely shrugged, giving her a pointed nod toward Neve.

Rook’s jaw tightened at the third reminder from someone else, telling her she needed to talk to Neve, as if she didn’t already know the weight of the silence that had stretched between them. Were they still even friends? The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wasn’t sure anymore. But as much as she bristled at it, she knew Fenris was right, just as Dorian and Elgar’nan had been.

Whatever rift had formed between her and Neve, Rook would have to try to mend it. They needed Neve, and if she was being honest with herself, Rook needed her friend too.

Chapter Text

The silence in the room stretched out like a taut wire, the sound of Fenris crunching into his apple amplified to an absurd degree in Rook's mind. It was as if the universe itself was conspiring to make her feel more uncomfortable.

Damn the Void! She had faced down archdemons and gods without flinching, but this conversation with her best friend had her paralyzed. What was so hard about it, anyway?

Apparently, everything. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air on dry land, but no matter how many times she tried to speak, the words died on her tongue. What was she supposed to say, anyway? 

Sorry for acting on my own? No, she wasn't, and Neve would know she was lying the moment she opened her mouth. With Neve, it was proba bly smarter to stay with the truth . I didn't mean to fall for the enemy, but he was so charming and smooth, and the sex is incredible? Not much better but the thought made her snort.

"What's so funny, Rook?" Neve's voice cut through her amusement like a cold wind, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Only Neve could manage to sound both angry and detached at the same time, a skill that always left her off balance.

Rook coughed, trying to compose herself before meeting Neve's gaze. But as soon as their eyes met, she wished she hadn't. The way Neve looked at her sent a shiver down her spine, a stark reminder of the slippery ground she was standing on. Rook had once joked that she hoped to never be on Neve's bad side, and now it seemed she had earned a top spot on that list.

"Nothing, Neve, sorry," she added hastily, trying to fill the awkward silence. At least the ice was broken now, for better or worse. "I was just trying to figure out what to say, but it seems like nothing I can say would make this better."

"I don't know, Rook, how about an explanation?" Neve shot back, every word a sharp, icy barb that dug deep into Rook's skin. "I was under the impression that you wanted to kill Elgar'nan, not fuck and marry him."

This was going exactly as Rook had feared it would, a disaster unfolding in slow motion. But knowing that a blow was coming didn't make it hurt any less. Her first instinct was to lash out, to deflect the criticism and shift the blame. But not this time. She needed to own up to her mistakes, to face the consequences of her actions and try to fix the mess she had made. Retaliating would only make things worse.

"Okay, you're angry, I get it," Rook began, trying to keep her own anger in check. Neve's expression, a perfect mask of calm disdain, didn't help. "I know this isn't what we planned, but let's be real, when do my plans ever work out as intended?" Rook asked, a hint of self deprecation creeping into her voice. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. "I know I messed up, Neve. I'm not trying to make excuses or justify what I did. I just want to explain what happened."

Neve huffed dismissively, her expression a picture of incredulity. "I know you have a knack for improvising, Rook, but this is madness, even by your standards." She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes flashing with anger. "By the Maker, he's the enemy, Rook."

Rook flinched, that familiar anger bubbling up inside her like a pot about to boil over. It took an enormous effort to swallow it down, to keep her temper in check. She understood Neve's reaction—she really did. If their roles were reversed, she'd be saying the same thing to Neve. But that didn't change the protectiveness she felt for her lion.

"He was the enemy," Rook hissed, her tone more aggressive than she'd intended, "but he isn't anymore. We're here to help with the Blight, and he's promised me he won't use blood magic or the Blight to do it."

Neve's laughter was humorless, a cold, mirthless sound. "Sure, the elven god who enslaved his own people, who worked with the Venatori and blighted our world in his megalomania, will absolutely tell the truth. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were under the influence of blood magic." Neve took a step closer, her gaze as cold as her magic, her eyes flashing with disdain. "But no," she spat out, her voice venomous, "it's even worse. Blood magic, I could understand. But love? That man is a walking red flag, Rook. He's a disaster waiting to happen, and you're just standing there, blind to it all."

Creators, her self-restraint was dangling on a thin thread. Rook clenched her fists so tightly that she could feel the tips of her nails burrowing into her skin. She knew exactly who she was dealing with—the man who carried a piece of her spirit with him, just as she carried his. But shouting that out probably wasn't the best idea.

Just as she was about to say something else, the sound of wood scraping over stone interrupted her, as Fenris rose from his seat. The apple in his hand was finished, but he grabbed another one before moving away from the table. "Don't mind me, ladies," he said, raising his hand in a mock surrender. "As entertaining as your little fight is, I don't want to be in the line of sight when you start throwing your magic around."

Rook flinched at his choice of words. This was another secret Neve didn't know about, and if the detective's suspicious glare was any indication, she was already connecting the dots—not that Rook had expected anything less from Tevinter’s greatest detective.

"Rook is not a..." Neve began, but stopped herself as realization flashed across her face. She waited for a second before addressing Rook again, her voice dripping with suspicion and mistrust. The lack of trust was what hurt Rook the most. "Is he saying what I think he is saying?"

Gulping down the fear that began to settle in her throat, Rook tried to force a smile. "I don't know? What do you think he is saying?" Creators, she wanted to hit herself for that weak deflection. Years of conditioned secrecy were hard to overcome in just one night.

Neve wasn't thrilled or impressed with Rook's feeble attempt to avoid an answer. She raised an eyebrow in question and stared at Rook with a nonplussed expression that screamed "Don't act dumb."

Well, Neve wasn't screaming 'apostate' and 'burn the mage' from the top of her lungs - not that Rook thought she would, no. But those were the images she had carried with herself since the night the templars took her sister. So this must be good, right? She hoped so, at least.

"Okay," Rook began, gulping down the bile rising in the back of her throat at the thought of what she was about to say.

 "I might've happened to be a mage.”

His little swan was angry. He could feel it, even with the ever-growing distance between them. That meant one of two things—either she was furious beyond measure, or their bond was stronger than he had anticipated. Knowing his Tavellia, it was likely both.  

The real question was why she was so angry in the first place. Too bad their mental connection only worked when they were touching. An inconvenience, but not one he couldn’t work around. He simply had to ensure his little bird never left his side again.  

But first, he needed to finish their task in this wretched city. Why his wife insisted on saving a culture so mundane—one responsible for so much of her peoples suffering—was beyond him. But then again, that was just who she was.

The city—or rather, what little remained of it—reeked of death and decay, the ever-present song of the Blight thrumming louder here than it had back at the estate. Not that it bothered him. If anything, it was a welcome distraction, drowning out the incessant chatter of the two mortals trailing behind him.

"You know," Hawke mused, stepping over what might have once been a merchant’s cart, "for all the doom and decay, I have seen worse. There was that one time in Kirkwall—”

"According to Varric's stories I am sure you were responsible for whatever you are going to say," Dorian interrupted, smirking. "And it probably smelled better."

"True," Hawke admitted. "I’d rather the scent of burning Templars over whatever this is." She wrinkled her nose. "I had my run-ins with dark spawn and I don't remember it stinking this much. Like rot and despair.”

"And failed ambition," Dorian added. "Don't forget that part. This city used to be something grand. Now look at it. A shadow of its former self. The south probably isn't faring much better. I wonder how my dear Elana is doing on her end." His gaze flicked meaningfully toward Solas who was currently a few steps ahead of them.

Elgar’nan rolled his eyes at yet another pointless exchange of sarcasm. He was prepared to tune them out again when a fleeting flicker of pain crossed Fen’Harel’s face, pulling his attention back. This was the third time this Elana had been mentioned, and each time, the wolf had reacted the same way. Interesting .

“I am confident in the Inquisitor’s capabilities, Dorian. So should you,” Fen’Harel answered, his tone calm, detached. But it wasn’t enough to fool him. Elgar’nan had been forced to endure the liar’s presence for far too long not to recognize when he was being dishonest.  

“Oh, I have plenty of confidence in her, Solas—Maker preserve us, imagine if you had as well!” Dorian shot back, his tone shifting from aloof to accusatory in the span of a breath. “But no, you left her— twice , I might add—because you thought you could handle it yourself. And look where that’s brought us.”  

Elgar’nan’s lips curled in amusement. Ah. Now this was turning out to be far more entertaining than expected.

The liar’s expression remained composed, but something flickered in his eyes—something he swiftly buried beneath that infuriating calm of his.  

“I did what I believed was necessary,” he said, his voice measured.  

“Oh, necessary ? Don’t make me laugh.”  

Hawke finally cut in, her voice deceptively light— too light. “Funny how your grand plans always seem to require the death of the people closest to you.”  

Elgar’nan glanced at her, intrigued. There was no mistaking her anger, but it wasn’t just that—it was the raw, potent magic thrumming within her spirit that had caught his attention. He had never encountered a human with such potential. Not even in the old Tevinter Imperium. Interesting . He would have to keep an eye on this one.  

Dorian folded his arms, tilting his head toward her. “Master Tethras was also a friend of mine. Please, my dear Marian, do continue.”  

Hawke stepped closer, her sharp, icy glare locking onto Solas. “You murdered Varric.” Her voice was quiet, but the deadly edge beneath it was unmistakable. “And don’t even try to tell me you had to. I’ve seen your magic, Solas. You didn’t have to kill him. But you did .”  

Fen'Harel closed his eyes briefly, as if composing himself. “I regret—”  

Hawke laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “No, you don’t.”

Elgar’nan watched, golden eyes glinting with interest. When he had carried his little bird back into the waking world, he had fully expected to be the sole focus of their hatred. Yet, to his pleasant surprise, the wolf had once again managed to draw their ire upon himself.  

“You don’t regret it,” Hawke continued, voice low and dangerous. “You regret that it cost you. You regret that it makes you feel guilty. But Varric ?” She shook her head. “The moment he tried to stop you from destroying the world—and yourself—you removed him. Just another sacrifice for the greater good, right?”  

Solas didn’t answer immediately. His face remained unreadable, but Elgar’nan saw through him. He hasn’t changed at all. Still clinging to the role of the tragic hero. So pathetic .

Dorian pressed his lips into a thin line. “Tell me honestly—was there really no other way?” His voice had lost its usual sharpness, edged now with something quieter. Sadness. A kind Elgar’nan hadn't heard from him before. “I saw your magic. I fought beside you for over a year. Did he really have to die that day?”  

Solas exhaled slowly, looking away for the briefest of moments before turning back to them. His expression softened, as though he felt the weight of his actions, as though he carried that grief.  

But Elgar’nan knew better.  

Fen’Harel had always been good at looking mournful, at playing the reluctant savior. And knowing him, those feelings were probably even real.  

But it didn’t change the truth.  

If the moment came again, and if it suited his goals— He would do it all over again.

“I did not wish for his death,” Solas finally answered.  

Elgar’nan smirked. Oh, how carefully the wolf danced around the truth. Some things truly never changed.  

For a moment, he considered chiming in—pressing, needling, shattering whatever fragile illusion of remorse Fen’Harel was trying to maintain. But he held back. Tavellia would be furious if he started a fight now, and his little swan was already at her limit, if the white-hot rage burning through their bond was any indication.  

And she wasn’t the only one seething.  

Hawke’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury. “And yet, he’s still dead.”  

And for the first time since this argument had begun, the liar had no immediate answer.

“You are a mage,” Neve finally said after a long stretch of uncomfortable silence. Her brown eyes were locked onto Rook’s face, her expression unreadable.  

“Surprise.” Creators, why did she have to make it even more awkward? The self-deprecation in her voice, paired with the ridiculous little hand wiggle, was a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood—no question about it. But to her own surprise, it managed to pull a snort from Neve.  

She schooled her expression almost instantly, but the damage had been done. She was trying to hide her amusement, but Rook saw right through her. Maybe some of Elgar’nan’s hawk-like perceptiveness is rubbing off on me.

Neve must have realized her defeat as well, because her expression softened into something Rook could almost describe as amicable. “You are absolutely incorrigible, you know that?” she huffed.  

But before Rook could answer, Neve’s expression shifted again—sudden and sharp. And Rook had only seen that look once before.  

During the fight with Amelia.

Rook barely had time to brace herself before Neve stepped closer, arms crossed tight, brown eyes burning with so much anger and hurt that she almost wished for her mask of indifference to return.  

“You think you can joke your way out of this?” Neve huffed, her voice sharp. “That we can just laugh and move past it like nothing happened?”  

Yeah… her little stunt had definitely not been the greatest idea she’d had this morning. Rook sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I was hoping, maybe, just this once—”  

“ Don’t .”  

Neve’s glare cut through whatever weak excuse she had been about to make, and honestly? It probably would have been a terrible one. “Don’t act like this is nothing.”  

That one stung. Because Neve was right.  

Deflection, sarcasm—that was what Rook did. Her default, the easiest way to keep things at arm’s length. And when that failed? Anger, violence. The only weapons she’d ever really known.  

But not this time.  

Rook exhaled slowly, forcing herself to meet Neve’s gaze. “I never said it was nothing.”

“No?” Neve’s voice was sharp, her glare sharper. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you were just about to make some stupid joke about it.”  

She stepped forward again, words like daggers, cold and cutting. “You do no t get to joke about this, Rook. You changed the plan. You asked me to trust you. I was the one who gave you the dagger, and for what? So you could use it for some reckless, idiotic self-sacrifice?”  

Rook clenched her jaw. The accusation wasn’t even hidden—it was laid out, plain and raw, and it hurt. Because Neve was right.  

She hadn’t thought about it, not really. Hadn’t thought about the consequences, about what it would mean for the people left behind. Neve must have blamed herself for handing over the dagger, for giving her the opportunity to do it in the first place.  

“I’m sorry, Neve,” Rook forced out, voice quieter. “I know I should have said something, but I couldn’t risk you stopping me. And I had to do this to stop Solas—”  

“And there it is.”  

Neve let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You always have to be the one to throw yourself into the fire, don’t you? No second thoughts, no trust, just Rook knows best .”  

There it was again—that raging inferno, burning beneath Rook's ribs, clawing at her throat.  

Her fists curled even tighter. Fingernails bit into her palms, the sharp sting grounding her, but not enough. Wetness pooled beneath her fingertips, and by the way the skin throbbed, she must have broken it.

Oh, how she wanted to  dish out those punches. The only thing stopping her from snapping outright was the desperate need to fix this. But she wasn’t just going to sit there and take it—not without a fight.  

“I was doing what needed to be done,” she hissed, her nose wrinkling with barely contained anger. Her lion was probably having a field day with the raw emotion surging through their bond. “Whatever it takes, Neve. We all agreed on that.”  

Neve scoffed, unimpressed. She wasn’t backing down either. “Oh, right. The greater good. The cause. That excuse is starting to sound a lot like something Solas or Elgar’nan would say.”  

Rook went rigid.  

It felt like being doused in ice water. If her anger had been molten in her veins before, burning—it was something else entirely now. A cold, blinding rage.  

“Meaning?” she asked, her voice dangerously even.  

She knew exactly what Neve meant, but it was all she could manage as she fought against the overwhelming urge to lash out.  

If Neve noticed the shift in her, it certainly didn’t stop her. "You know exactly what I mean."  

Neve’s voice was steady, but the frustration bled through in the way her hand snapped to her hip, fingers twitching like she wanted to grab a weapon—like she was holding herself back from treating this as the fight it was becoming. "You think Elgar’nan wouldn’t have done the same? He and Solas have a lot in common, Rook. They have their own goals, their own greater good . He’d throw you aside the moment it served him.”  

Neve's eyes burned with something raw, something furious and hurt.  

“Yet here you are. Trusting him while you didn’t even trust us ! We worked together for half a year, and you never thought to tell us you were a mage?”  

"It’s not the same—” Rook barely got the words out before Neve cut her off.  

“ Isn’t it ?”  

Her voice didn’t rise, but the accusation in it rang louder than a shout. Not that Rook could focus on it. Not with the way her own fury clawed at her ribs, twisting sharp and ugly. 

“You think he’s changed?” Neve went on, relentless. “You think whatever twisted bond you two have is going to keep him in check? That he won’t turn on you the second it benefits him?”  

Rook didn’t answer.  

Not because she didn’t have the words—no, she had plenty of those. But because it took everything she had to keep herself from reaching for her knives.  

From using them.  

The fact that she was even thinking about it should have been alarming. If she wasn’t so blindsided by rage, maybe she would have noticed just how wrong this was.

Oblivious or indifferent to the storm raging in Rook’s mind, Neve exhaled sharply and pressed on. “And even if you are correct, and he keeps his word, then what? You’re still mortal, and last time I checked, he’s an ancient, immortal elf. What do you think will happen when you ultimately die?”  

The question landed with the weight of a falling stone, and Rook couldn’t shake the cold knot that formed in her stomach.  

And wasn’t that the million-and-one Andris question?   

Contrary to what everyone seemed to believe, Rook wasn’t under any delusion that she could somehow ‘fix’ Elgar’nan. Quite frankly? She didn’t want to, she loved her lion just the way he was.

But that didn’t change the reality of it—when she did go, when time caught up with her mortal flesh and she faded, he would be left behind, alone. Back to his old designs, or worse—the moment she wasn’t in the picture anymore, he would return to whatever it was that had driven him in the first place and she knew for certain that the world would burn this time. 

Sure, they had a plan for that particular problem—one that she would be insane to voice right now. But there were too many uncertainties in it.  

What if removing the Veil didn’t grant her the immortality from the old elves? The stories painted a grim picture of a slow, unstoppable process that affected generations. If they tried to reverse it, would that affect current generations as well or would she stay mortal?

And then there was the issue of Elgar’nan’s connection to the Veil. His lifeforce was still bound to it in ways she didn’t fully understand. How—or if—he could be detached from that connection was a mystery, one that they were not able to explore right now, not with the Blight looming ahead.  

Yeah. My plans are truly shitty indeed.  

Neve finished her barrage of questions, staring at Rook with that look—an expression that practically screamed, ‘thought so.’ The challenge in her eyes was sharp, daring Rook to offer a response.

Rook’s pulse pounded in her ears, the words she was about to speak rising from a deep place inside her, so distant they barely felt like her own. The anger, the pain, and the desperation for a connection that seemed to have been broken—everything welled up inside her, threatening to burst. She was furious, absolutely seething, but it wasn’t just the words Neve had spoken. It was everything—the questions, the accusations, the suffocating weight of doubt.

“Yeah, Neve, I got it,” she growled, her voice taut with restraint, her left hand instinctively finding its way to one of her hidden blades. She was barely holding herself back.

“I heard every damn word. You don’t think I’ve asked myself the same questions?” Her eyes flicked briefly to Fenris, but she barely registered his presence. Her focus was entirely on Neve. The anger radiated off her in waves.

“You think I’m not terrified of what’s going to happen? That I don’t know how fucking horrible this could all end? I’m mortal, Neve. I get it. But do you want to know the truth?” She leaned in, her voice hard as stone. “I do not care!”

The heat of her fury curled around her, raw energy buzzing beneath her skin, boiling in her blood. The urge to strike out, to do something—anything—was overwhelming.

“You keep asking me all these ‘what if’ questions, like I’m some kind of fool for following my heart,” Rook snapped, stepping forward, pointing one finger in the direction of Neve’s sternum. “Yeah, I don’t have the answers. But you know what?” 

She leaned in, her eyes fierce. “I’m choosing to be selfish for once in my life. For once, I’m choosing me . I’m not going to pretend this is going to be easy, or that it couldn’t backfire horribly. Believe me, I know all that.” 

Neve’s expression didn’t soften; if anything, it grew harder with every word that left Rook’s mouth. She looked like she was about to snap back, but Rook cut her off. “No, Neve. I’ve listened to everything you had to say, and now it’s my turn.” 

Neve’s jaw clenched, her eyes flashing, but she nodded.

“I am tired, Neve. I am so fucking tired.” Her voice trembled with raw emotion. “My whole life, I’ve been burdened with responsibilities I never asked for. This void-forsaken magic? Never wanted it! Being hunted by templars and slavers alike? Could’ve done without that!”

Each word came faster, more jagged, as the anger surged to the surface. “You have no idea what it’s like to be bought like a circus animal, to be trained and conditioned against your will. Did I want to be a fucking assassin? Creators , I was the child who cried at the sight of blood! Of course not! But I had to if I wanted to survive and so I did.”

Her breath hitched, her pulse pounding in her ears. The words spilled out faster than she could stop them.

“I wanted to get out of this life, Neve. I wanted to escape all the bloodshed and violence, as far as I could. But I couldn’t. And when Varric offered me a chance, I took it.”

The memory of her first meeting with Varric flashed through her mind, just enough to quiet the storm inside her for a moment. “He asked me if I wanted to do some good in this world for a change, after I saved him from a group of rogue Antaam—despite my orders not to engage with them. Do you know what I said?”

Neve shook her head slowly, her eyes unreadable. Of course she didn’t know. Not once had they ever talked about Varric or his death. And wasn't that just fucking sad?

“I told him that this world could burn for all I care.”

"And yet, I killed my friend. You are correct, Champion. No apology will change that," the wolf finally answered, his voice thick with pain, sorrow etched so deeply into his face that Elgar’nan wanted to vomit.

"I still want to apologize. To you as well, Dorian." Fen’Harel sighed. "I lost control of the ritual. I had barely any magic left, and when I realized it would free Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan, I panicked. I acted without thinking." At least he had the decency to sound sincere—Elgar’nan had to give him that.  

Despite his deep reservations, Elgar’nan knew there had to be some truth in Fen’Harel’s words. Even in his weakened state, after millennia trapped in the Fade, the wolf should have been no match for him. And now, thanks to the blood spilled at the ritual site, Elgar’nan had finally crossed into the waking world once more.  

So no, he couldn’t care less who had died or why. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t use this to his advantage. Isolating the wolf further would only strengthen his and Tavellias’ position. That it would also bring him great joy? Just a delightful little bonus.

"This man you're speaking of," he began, watching with smug satisfaction as Fen’Harel’s shoulders tensed, the slightest quiver betraying him. So, the wolf hadn’t anticipated his commentary. How delightful. "Varric was his name, correct?"  

Hawke and Dorian nodded in unison, their gazes shifting from the liar to him. They were wary, but not as openly hostile as they were toward his brother . Meanwhile, said brother watched him intently, his brow furrowed, those piercing eyes brimming with barely restrained mistrust and hatred—both of which, without a doubt, were mutual.  

"Was he the one you impersonated to manipulate my dear little bird while she was under the influence of your blood magic, lethalin ?"  

Fen’Harel’s jaw tightened. For a fleeting heartbeat, he said nothing, his violet eyes flickering with anger and irritation. And one glance at the other two told Elgar’nan that his little jab had struck exactly where he wanted.  

Hawke’s eyes snapped back to Fen’Harel, fury burning even hotter than before. "You did what ?" she hissed, stepping forward, fists clenched. Dorian’s reaction was more measured, but his silence spoke volumes, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.  

The wolf exhaled sharply through his nose, throwing Elgar’nan a heated glare that said more than words ever could.  

Sun above, this was priceless .

"It was necessary," he admitted at last, his voice quieter now, almost weary. "She wouldn’t have trusted me otherwise."  

"And why would she?" Dorian countered, his tone sharp. "You’re hardly a paragon of truth, Solas. But blood magic? I thought even you were above that."  

The wolf turned his gaze to the magister, his expression carefully schooled into something unreadable. "I did what I had to," he said, voice low, measured. "Varric was the only voice she would have trusted at that moment. I needed her to listen."  

Elgar’nan’s lip curled into a snarl. He didn’t like the way this traitor spoke about his Tavellia—not one bit. And he certainly wouldn’t let him talk his way out of this transgression.  

"You needed her compliant."  

"What happened to good old-fashioned communication?" Hawke cut in, arms crossed, her sarcasm muted only by the tension in her stance—battle-ready, like she was preparing for a fight.

"You clearly don’t know her," the wolf said, his tone infuriatingly calm.  

Elgar’nan’s fingers twitched at his sides. The audacity—to think this traitor believed he knew more about his little swan than he actually did. It was almost enough to make him break his promise to her. Almost.  

Fen’Harel folded his arms across his chest and turned to Hawke. "I did my research, Champion. Rook and Varric chased me for over a year. I needed to know who I was dealing with."  

Elgar’nan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain silent. This could be just another of the wolf’s manipulations, another deceit layered atop a thousand others. But there was also the possibility—however slim—that he could learn something new about his little swan. So, for now, he listened.  

"Tell me, Champion," Fen’Harel continued, "how would you convince someone to fight for the world, when the only reason they had to live died with the man you just murdered?”

His words stunned even Elgar'nan for a brief moment. Did he truly insinuate that his fierce, headstrong, and stubborn Tavellia was ready to give up? Ridiculous. That woman would keep fighting, even if the world around her burned, just out of spite for death itself.

Hawke seemed stunned too, though for entirely different reasons, Elgar'nan assumed. The magister stood uncharacteristically silent as well, his usual bravado absent. Fen’harel must've seen their silence as his cue to continue.

“If I had just spoken to her, she would have outright rejected me. So, I gave her a reason to keep going,” the wolf said, his voice even.

Dorian scoffed, his disapproval evident. “You lied to her.”

“I know, and for what it’s worth, I am deeply sorry for that. But I needed her as my connection to the waking world to save it from him... and Ghilan'nain,” Fen’harel replied, tipping his head toward his direction.

Elgar’nan took a deliberate step forward, watching the wolf closely, his body fighting the urge to strangle him. “You used her,” he corrected, his voice tight with barely controlled fury. “You bent her to your will with whatever lie suited your purpose. What was it that only their friend knew, I wonder.”

The wolf hesitated before responding, his posture subtly shifting. His fingers twitched, his jaw tightened—small movements, barely noticeable, but Elgar’nan saw them: Shame.

Hawke folded her arms, her gaze sharp, eyes narrowed. “Well? I’d love to hear this one too.”

The traitor exhaled slowly, and when he finally spoke, his voice was laden with sorrow and regret. “Varric had promised her Miralin, her sister… and a way to save her.”

"I don't understand," Neve's voice was barely above a whisper. The only other time Rook had seen that kind of shock on her face was when Minrathous was destroyed by the dragon and taken over by the Venatori. "Why did you help him, then?"  

"He promised her information. Some pretty valuable ones, I'm sure," Fenris chimed in. Rook had almost forgotten he was still there. "Varric had some of the best connections—and one of the most efficient spy networks in all of Thedas."  

And he’d probably rise from the grave just to kill her himself—or worse, haunt her as a damn spirit for all eternity—if she revealed what, or rather who , he had been planning to introduce her to. Varric had made her swear, over and over again, to never speak of the man in question, especially not to anyone from his "Kirkwall family." And she would respect that promise. Not that it mattered anymore. That information was lost, buried with him.  

Swallowing down the bitter taste that thought left in her mouth, Rook decided to reveal at least part of the truth. "He promised me he’d use his connections to find my sister."  

There. Not a lie. 

"You have a sister?" Neve's brows knit together, her expression shifting from shock to curiosity. "You never mentioned one."  

Rook gave a single, stiff nod. She hadn't mentioned a lot of things—mostly because no one had ever asked. And that fact stung more than she cared to admit. It wasn’t that she wanted to spill her past to anyone who’d listen, but the silence, the absence of curiosity from the people she called friends, left a bitter taste in her mouth.  

"My twin, to be precise. We were separated when the templars took her to the Circle." The words scraped against her throat, raw and bitter, but she forced them out anyway. Talking helped to keep the boiling rage at bay. It was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but at least she no longer felt like throwing a knife at someone.

Fenris stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a scrutiny so sharp it made her want to claw at the walls. She could feel the questions forming on his tongue.  

Varric had once told her Fenris was the observing type. His years as a runaway slave had sharpened his instincts—honed his perception and insight, both necessary skills for survival. With his perfect poker face and the ability to detect lies, he was a terrifying opponent, whether in an interrogation or in a game of Diamondback or Wicked Grace.  

And he wasn’t alone. Neve was just as perceptive, if not sharper.  

And Rook? She was one of the worst liars in history. Her palms were already starting to sweat.

“You’re a Crow. Your connections should be enough to find a mage who survived the Mage-Templar War.” Fenris’ gaze flicked over her, studying every twitch of her body, every shift in her expression. “Which means she is either dead or…”  

“Tranquil,” Rook finished for him, meeting his inquisitive stare head-on with an angry glare of her own. “She was made Tranquil before the mage rebellion even started.”  

Neve sucked in a sharp breath. Fenris, however, didn’t flinch. His gaze remained locked onto hers, and Rook could’ve sworn he knew something she didn’t. She had to tread carefully now, that much was certain.  

“So he promised to find you the hollow shell of the person your sister once was, and then what? Keep her as your housemaid?” His voice was steady, but his words were unnecessarily cruel. He was testing her—Rook was sure of it. “I’ve seen my fair share of the Tranquil, and I can tell you, there’s a reason no one wants to be around them.”  

Her jaw ticked as familiar anger bubbled up inside her again. “What I would’ve done with her is none of your business,” she hissed. “And this is, quite frankly, a topic I do not want to talk about.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie.  

“My point was…” Rook drawled, her gaze shifting from the broody elf back to the detective. “I was ready to fight the mighty Dread Wolf—one of my gods, the one I was raised to fear—just for the chance to get my sister back.”

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “You’re afraid of what Elgar’nan would do if something happened to me?” Rook huffed a mirthless laugh. “You’re looking at the wrong monster.”  

Fenris’ arms tensed at his sides, and Neve swallowed hard, but Rook pressed on. She was done playing nice. How many times had she helped Neve and the rest of the team through their personal shit—without complaint, without unsolicited advice? Now it was her turn.  

“I’ve already lost more than I ever thought possible,” she continued, her voice tight with barely contained anger. “My sister. My clan. My freedom. Varric.” The last name caught in her throat for the briefest second, but she forced herself to push through it. “I am done with losing.” A bitter smile curled her lips. “So if you’re scared of Elgar’nan, fine. Be afraid. But if I were you? I’d be far more terrified of what I’ll do if something happens to him.”  

Rook exhaled sharply, squared her shoulders, and set her hands on her hips, leveling them both with a glare. “So here’s the deal,” she said, her voice unwavering in a way it hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. “You can either trust me and work with me, or you can stay the fuck out of my way.”  

Neve’s jaw clenched. “Rook—”  

“No.” She cut her off. “I am done justifying myself. I am done being questioned like I haven’t already proven myself over and over again these last few months.” Her gaze swept between them, daring either to argue. “The Blight is still a threat to us all— to my husband more than most. I don’t have time for doubt. Not from you. Not from anyone.”  

Fenris finally spoke, his voice edged with the disdain Rook knew he felt toward Elgar’nan. Not that she could blame him. Her lion hadn’t exactly left the best first impression. “And if we don’t?”  

“Then you’d better hope you’re not in our way.” She answered without hesitation. “Because if you are, you won’t have to worry about Elgar’nan’s wrath.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes dark with promise. “You’ll have to worry about mine .”  

A heavy silence settled between them.  

Then, at last, Neve let out a slow breath, her shoulders deflating just slightly. “Fine,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, almost resigned. “I trust you.”  

Fenris remained silent a moment longer, his gaze locked onto hers. Then, finally, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.  

Rook exhaled, some of the tension in her own body easing. “Good,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off the weight of the conversation.

She was just about to speak again when a loud crash from the front doors of the estate made her stop. Instantly, all three of them turned toward the noise without missing a beat.  

Fenris’ hand was already on the hilt of his sword, and Rook could feel the magic swirling around Neve—a clear sign that she was ready to strike at any moment.  

“Do we expect visitors?” Fenris spoke first, his voice completely devoid of emotion, making it difficult to tell whether he was being sarcastic or serious as his eyes flicked from Neve to her and then back to the door.  

Neve shook her head. “No one, except a few members of the Shadow Dragons, knows this place still stands, and they all know about the servant entrance.”  

Rook’s left hand found the familiar weight of her throwing knife, a small comfort in the tense silence that followed. Her heart was still thrumming with adrenaline, but the knife steadied her—at least momentarily. “Is it too much to hope this is just someone who mixed up the doors?”  

That earned her a chuckle from Fenris as he drew his two-handed sword from his back. “Nothing in this Maker-forsaken city happens by chance, Rook.”  

“He’s right,” Neve agreed, stepping toward the double doors that separated them from the hallway leading to the front entrance. “Especially in Hightown.” She added before swinging the doors open, revealing a rather unpleasant view.

“Well, there goes my hope,” Rook muttered under her breath as she peered through the open doors, counting at least seven angry-looking darkspawn ahead of them.  

Something was off about them, but she didn’t have much time to stand there and figure out what it was. One of the darkspawn locked eyes with her, emitting an unnatural, chilling screech before charging in their direction.

“Her sister?” Dorian was the first to speak, his ever-present nosiness dripping from every syllable. “And what exactly do you mean by saving her?”  

Elgar’nan knew precisely what the wolf meant—and he didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading. True, Tavellia hadn’t confided in him about this particular matter either, but that was irrelevant. Her secrets were hers to keep, and it was neither his nor the wolf’s place to reveal them without her consent.  

“How about you ask her yourself, dear magister,” Elgar’nan interjected smoothly, cutting off the damn traitor before he could reveal more than he already had. “I’m sure my little bird will gladly answer your questions—if, of course, she’s comfortable with you knowing them.” 

The trickster exhaled slowly, as if carefully weighing his next words. “I will not reveal more without Rook’s consent,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I deceived her. I used her. And for that, I am truly sorry.”  

His gaze flickered to Elgar’nan, and the wolf's eyes held a familiar, insufferable sadness. Sun above, he would always play the kicked puppy, wouldn't he?  

“But I am here now to help.”  

Elgar’nan scoffed, unimpressed. “How noble of you, traitor.”  

Fen’Harel did not rise to the bait. “I made a promise—to the Inquisitor—that I would do everything in my power to save Minrathous and find a way to heal this world from the horrors I created.” His eyes darkened, regret pooling in their depths.  

Here he was again. The man would always return to the same old song, wouldn't he?  

“The Blight threatens everything. Whatever our differences, we cannot afford to let them blind us to what must be done.”

Hawke let out an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms. "Ah yes, the world is ending, and we're all supposed to hold hands and get along. I remember the last time I was given that speech. It almost ended with me as demon food." She tilted her head at the magister with a lopsided grin. "Tell me, Dorian, should we just forget everything and maybe bake a pie together?"  

Dorian scoffed, arms folded as he shot Fen’harel a pointed glare. "As tempting as that sounds, I don’t believe our dear Solas here has quite earned a slice of redemption yet."  

The wolf barely acknowledged them, his attention now fully fixed on Elgar'nan. His eyes sparkled with renewed confidence—this was a wolf ready to strike. "And you," he said, his tone shifting from rueful to accusatory, "expect me to believe that you—Elgar’nan, All-father and First of the Firstborn—are here because a mortal woman asked it of you?"  

So the wolf had bared his fangs. Elgar'nan had known the groveling act was a ruse, and ordinarily, he would have laughed at how easily he'd baited him out of his mask. But not when the wolf was questioning the bond he shared with his Tavellia.  

"You misunderstand, trickster." His voice was calm, almost friendly, but with an edge that left no room for doubt about how serious he was. "I am not here because a woman asked it of me." He took a deliberate step forward, towering over the smaller elf for a moment, his gaze burning down into his.  

"I am here because my woman, my little swan, asked it of me."  

Elgar'nan couldn't suppress the slow, dangerous grin spreading across his lips, and frankly, he had no intention of trying. There was no need to hide his true emotions. "You think me a fool, that I would not listen? But I am not you. I do not dismiss what is in front of me for the sake of what I was. I know what I want, what I have, and I will not let it slip away."  

A flicker of something—disbelief, maybe even a hint of understanding but mostly regret—crossed Fen’harel’s face before vanishing as quickly as it had come. But it was enough for Elgar'nan to know his assumptions were right. The wolf had feelings for the Inquisitor. And if the magister’s words were true, this fool had left her—twice—in his pathetic attempt to fix his own mistakes.  

Just as Elgar'nan prepared to add more insult to the injury, something shifted in the air around them, pulling his focus away from the conversation and back to their surroundings. A glance toward the wolf confirmed his suspicion; he, too, had noticed the change.  

“We are not alone,” Hawke’s voice rang out steadily, her grip tightening around her unusual-looking staff. “I count six, and they’re definitely not human.”

The Champion’s assessment was accurate. Elgar’nan could feel them, but more tellingly, he could hear them too. Beneath the ever-present hum of the Blight, there was another rhythm—offbeat, slightly discordant, but unmistakably the same tune. “Darkspawn,” he simply confirmed.

No sooner had he spoken than three hooded figures emerged from the shadows of a nearby destroyed estate.

“Darkspawn with a sense of fashion, it seems,” Dorian remarked dryly, his hand already moving toward his weapon. “How... odd.”

True to the magister’s words, the three hooded figures were indeed unusually clothed for any darkspawn Elgar’nan had seen. Combined with their strange behavior and the eerie song in the air, it was clear these were no ordinary darkspawn.

One of them—the tallest—stepped forward, hands raised as if signaling he meant no harm. The notion was ridiculous. Judging by the snorts and huffs from his companions, Elgar’nan wasn’t alone in his assessment.

“We come in peace,” the darkspawn growled—if one could call it speech—pulling back his hood to reveal the grotesque deformations and blackish skin of his kind, though he was missing the red glowing eyes that Elgar’nan had come to expect.

“Okay, since when do they speak?” Hawke muttered under her breath, and Elgar’nan found himself wondering the same.

The darkspawn ignored her, his unnerving black eyes fixed solely on Elgar’nan. He likely recognized the same song Elgar’nan could hear. It was familiar, but not in the way the Blight’s song was. No, this was a song Elgar’nan had heard long ago, and he was certain of it.

“You are Lusacan, Dragon of Night,” the creature screeched, the sound almost painful to the ears. “You are who our father seeks.”

A darkspawn with a creator and knowledge of the old gods? This was growing more intriguing by the moment. Whoever this ‘father’ was, he must have been the one to grant this creature some form of conscience. Someone with that kind of power could be useful.

Deciding to play along, Elgar’nan stepped forward, his posture exuding the weight of the title he’d been given. “Indeed I am. And who is this father you speak of?”

To his surprise, the creature dropped to his knees the moment Elgar’nan confirmed his title, and his companions followed suit.

“Our father wishes to speak with you and your companions.” Keeping his head lowered, the darkspawn reached into his mantle and pulled out something that looked like a letter, holding it up as an offering.

Elgar’nan took it without hesitation, turning the almost ordinary-looking piece of paper in his hands. As he turned it, one small detail revealed its origin.

Written in neat, black ink in ancient Tevene letters was a single name. A name Elgar’nan recognized.

“The Architect.”

Chapter Text

Without missing a beat, Rook dove headlong into the fray. Her knife sang through the air, finding its target—the throat of the closest darkspawn—with practiced ease. “That's one for me!” she called out to her companions, a big grin on her face as she pulled two more knives from their hiding place.  

Fenris huffed in response, his lyrium brands beginning to glow just as they had the day before—but this time, of his own accord. “Try to keep up, kid.” Without waiting for a reply, he almost vanished from his position in an instant, leaving nothing behind but a bluish hue.  

In the next moment, he was standing between two of the darkspawn ahead, his massive sword held high as he brought it down on one of them. Black blood sprayed against the stone floor, the creature’s momentum carrying its bisected corpse another step before it collapsed in two twitching halves.  

Fenris didn’t waste any time. He pivoted, his left hand releasing the handle of his sword so he could plunge it into his enemy’s chest. To Rook’s surprise, it phased through armor and skin alike without leaving a mark. The entire movement took only a second, his hand leaving the body just as effortlessly as it had entered. The creature tumbled dead to the ground.  

“That’s two for me,” he taunted, not turning back as he readied his sword for the next attack.

“Show-off,” Rook mumbled under her breath. But two could play this game. She sprinted forward, gaining momentum with each step. The air behind her turned freezing cold as Neve prepared her attack. Ice shards were forming along the ceiling, and with one glance, Rook understood her friend's plan.  

“Rook, ready in two,” was all Neve needed to say.  

With a smug grin, Rook pressed ahead, reaching Fenris' position before leaping, her hand gripping his shoulder for leverage to propel herself higher.  

“Thanks for the lift!” she smirked at him.  

“Rook, now!”  

“On it!” she answered, hurling the two knives between her fingers with enough force to shatter the massive ice shard ahead. The magical ice exploded into countless jagged shards, raining down on the remaining darkspawn. They shrieked in a mix of pain and rage as the shards buried deep into their flesh, one after another collapsing to the floor.  

Rook landed a few feet ahead of a grumpy-looking Fenris. “That makes it five to two, Mister Keep-It-Up,” she teased, grinning as she began collecting her knives.  

“That last move hardly counts—you had help,” he said as he began to return his sword to his back. But he suddenly froze, his head snapping toward the entrance.  

“But it seems our little contest isn’t over yet.”  

Rook had no time to ask what he meant before the bloodcurdling screams of a dozen more of those disgusting monsters echoed from outside the estate. Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Why was it never that easy?  

“Get ready,” Fenris said, his voice calm yet resolute as he readied his stance once more.  

He didn’t have to tell her twice. With practiced ease, Rook sheathed her used daggers into their hiding places and drew two fresh ones. Behind her, the air turned icy once again—a clear sign that Neve had another spell at the ready.  

All three of them turned their focus to the broken front door—but nothing happened. No mindless darkspawn charging in, no crude projectiles, not even another sound. That was ominous.  

Licking her lips nervously, Rook’s eyes flickered to her companions. At least she wasn’t the only one on edge. Neve’s eyebrow quivered ever so slightly, and despite Fenris’ calm exterior, his lyrium brands pulsed in irregular patterns.  

She was just about to speak when Neve’s eyes widened.  

“Rook, take cover—now!”  

Rook didn’t hesitate. She threw herself to the ground, and not a second too soon—an arrow whizzed past, narrowly missing the spot where her head had been just moments before.  

Looking up to see where the attack had come from, all Rook could make out was another volley of arrows, all aimed at her prone form. It would have been a painful—and utterly ridiculous—way to go, if not for the wall of ice that materialized just in front of her.  

The world around her erupted into chaos. Fenris had been behind her one second, and the next, he was gone. Her vision was still obscured by the slowly crumbling ice wall, but the agonized screams from the entrance told her exactly where he was.  

Fuck, she needed to pull herself together and get back in the fight.  

Scrambling to her feet—far less gracefully than she would have liked—Rook couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran down her spine.  

Something was off about these darkspawn.  

But before she had time to dwell on it, the ice wall in front of her shattered into a multitude of glimmering shards, providing her with a clear view of the entrance.  

Darkspawn. A lot of them.  

They stood in the shattered doorway, hulking figures with crude armor, their twisted faces contorted in something too close to intelligence. One at the front held a massive bow, already nocking another arrow, its black eyes locked onto her. Black ones! Rook finally noticed, not the red glowing she was used to.

The Dark spawn was just about to shoot her but Fenris was faster.  

A streak of blue light cut through the air and in an instant, he was upon it. His greatsword cleaved through the archer’s shoulder, black blood spraying as the darkspawn staggered back, its arm chopped off in a clean cut.  

Creators, this man was a force of nature! He was like a ghost, jumping in and out of existence within a blink of an eye and wherever he jumped back into reality, his deadly sword followed.

Rook had to force herself into action, pushing past the last of the ice shards and sprinting forward. There was no way she would let him handle it alone. She heard Neve murmuring behind her, the telltale hum of magic rising in the air.  

The darkspawn began to circle them, a few breaking formation and charging forward.  

Rook threw herself into the fray, knives flashing as she ducked beneath a massive cleaver, slicing clean across the monster’s exposed gut. It howled, but she was already gone—spinning to drive her second blade into the throat of another.  

Two more for me!   

Her eyes flicked to Fenris, just in time to see him finish off another. That smug bastard actually had the audacity to wink at her before vanishing again in a blur of blue light.  

No sooner had he disappeared than a burst of cold swept past her—a spear of ice shot forward, impaling one of the charging creatures mid-stride. Its body seized, then shattered into frozen chunks.  

“Rook, left!” Neve shouted.  

Rook didn’t hesitate. She dove to the side just as another darkspawn lunged, its jagged axe missing her by inches. Rolling to her feet, she flipped her knife in her grip and drove it backward, straight into its side.  

The creature howled in pain and fury, but Rook was already focused on her next target. She yanked the dagger free and hurled it—right between two more darkspawn—and into the back of the head of the one about to ambush Fenris from behind.  

“Careful, old man!” she called out, twisting to dodge another attack. “Hawke would kill me if something happened to you.”  

Two more darkspawn broke from the line, howling as they—much to Rook's surprise—rushed past her to go for Neve instead.

In all their battles, she had never seen them attack with purpose, even under Ghilan’nain’s or Elgar’nan’s command. What in the Void's name was going on here?

Neve slammed the end of her scepter onto the ground, the metallic thud loud enough to pull Rook out of her head and back into the battle.

“Not today,” she hissed, as a shockwave of frost erupted outward, freezing one in its tracks. The other managed to dodge behind his fallen mate and was about to press forward—only to meet Fenris’ blade mid-leap, cleaving the creature cleanly in half.

Rook spun as the last two came for her. The first swung wide—too slow, too predictable. She ducked low, slashing at its knees and carving deep. It stumbled, but Rook wasted no time. She drove her second blade into its chest and twisted it to get it loose—only to realize it was stuck.

Fuck.

The resistance caught her off guard. Momentum broken, Rook stumbled forward—straight into the crude weapon of the other darkspawn.

She tried to twist her body to the side, but her footing was wrong. Its jagged sword grazed her ribs, slicing through leather and skin. The sting came fast and hot, blood blooming beneath her armor.

Shit, that cut ran deep. She didn’t need to look to know. But there was no time to sit back and lick her wounds. Hissing through her teeth, Rook shoved the pain aside.

With one swift move, she pulled out another throwing knife and shoved forward, stabbing it into the darkspawn's right eye before it could finish the next swing.

It collapsed with a wet, gurgling growl—just as Fenris cut off the head of the last approaching darkspawn.

And just like that, the room fell still.

Where in the Void’s name did they come from? Rook knew they’d have to fight darkspawn eventually, but this attack was more coordinated than anything those creatures had pulled off in the past—and back then, at least they had leadership guiding them.

Her breathing slowed, but with the adrenaline leaving her system, the pain returned in full force. Her side throbbed, hot and wet, blood seeping through the torn leather of her armor. She pressed a hand to it, but all that did was smear blood across her glove.

So much for being more flexible in this gear. Creators, she thought bitterly, Elgar’nan is going to be so unimaginably smug about this.

“Rook, are you alright?”

Neve’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to reality. She was already rushing over, healing magic dancing at her fingertips.

But that wouldn't do.

Before Neve could touch her, Rook held up her bloodied hand to stop her in her tracks. The last thing she needed right now was another wave of nausea.

“No touching, please,” she panted through gritted teeth. “Not quite sure how I’d react to your magic right now.”

Neve nodded, but the disdain was clear on her face. Well, Rook would probably have to explain herself later—but first, she needed to make sure that was really the last of the darkspawn.

Fenris cleaned his sword and fastened it to his back before stepping beside her, casting a quick glance at the wound. “You’ll live,” he muttered, holding out a hand to help her up.

“Wasn’t planning on doing anything else,” she shot back, wincing as she accepted his hand. Her skin tingled where they touched, but the sensation was quickly eclipsed by the pain flaring in her side as he pulled her to her feet.

Neve exhaled, concern still etched across her face as she took in the injury. Clearly, she wasn’t convinced Rook was as fine as she claimed—and judging by the amount of blood still dripping from the wound, Rook wasn’t entirely sure she was wrong. If Neve reached the same conclusion, she didn’t voice it.

Stepping away, Neve took in their surroundings. Several darkspawn corpses littered the room, dark blood pooling beneath them and painting the walls in grotesque smears. The stench of decay and the Blight hung heavy in the air.

Dorian was going to be very angry.

“Something’s off about these hurlocks,” Neve said aloud as she approached the one that had nearly gutted Rook. “Too organized. No red-burning eyes. And look at their armor and weapons.”

She knelt down to examine the corpse more closely. Rook could almost hear the gears turning in her head.

“These weapons aren’t organic like the ones darkspawn used under Ghilan’nain’s command. And they don’t match anything crafted by the people of Thedas either.”

Pressing her hand tighter to her side, Rook nodded. “They definitely leave a mean, uneven cut.”

A glance at the weapon in question confirmed it. The blade was crude, serrated like a saw, caked in rust and still wet with her blood. She’d need elfroot soon—no way was she dying of infection after surviving everything else. That would be humiliating.

“We saw something similar during our Deep Roads expedition a few years back,” Fenris mused, eyes sweeping the room, probably watching for more trouble. “But nothing this… advanced. If you can even call it that.

Neve nodded slightly. “These weren’t stragglers from the fight against Elgar’nan. Whatever—or whoever—is in charge, they attacked us with intent. The wards around the estate are designed to mask our presence from everyone except the Shadow Dragons.”

Rook swallowed the uncomfortable lump rising in her throat. She didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit.

“So what you’re implying is—”

“That someone on the inside betrayed us,” Neve finished for her, her voice grim, her nod barely noticeable. “Either that, or the one behind this attack is stronger than Hawke, Dorian, Solas, and me combined.”

Rook groaned, the sound a blend of pain and frustration. Both possibilities were horrifying—but something in her gut told her it was probably a twisted mix of both. “Just our luck, right?” she muttered through clenched teeth, pressing her hand even harder against her bleeding side. That shit really hurt.

“Either way,” Rook continued. “as much as it pains me to say it, and trust me, it really does—this hideout isn’t safe anymore. Any ideas where we can regroup?”

Neve considered that for a moment, one finger tapping her chin as her gaze swept the room, never settling on anything. “If the Dragons are compromised, then none of our safehouses are viable. Not until we know for sure if there's a nug among us.”

“In other words, you’ve got nothing. Wonderful,” Rook muttered, voice heavy with sarcasm, disappointment and a heavy dose of suppressed pain.

For a moment, her thoughts drifted to the Lighthouse—but that didn’t feel safe either. If the Shadow Dragons were compromised, then the Eluvian connected to their hideout wouldn’t be secure. And frankly, she had no desire to step into the Fade anytime soon.

“I don’t know what state it’s in, but we could try my former ma—” Fenris paused, coughing lightly, “Danarius’ estate. It’s not far from here. It was abandoned after Tractus Danarius was captured by the Aantam. There might be something there to treat your wound.”

He eyed her side, his brow creased. She didn’t need to look to know what he was seeing. The dizziness crawling in at the edges of her vision was warning enough—she was in more trouble than she wanted to admit.

“Sounds good to me,” Rook replied, her voice tight. Anything was better than staying in this blood-soaked hall, and she needed to tend to her wound, and soon. Neve nodded in agreement, but before any of them could take a step toward the exit, a low rumble echoed through the ruined estate.

The three of them froze, their postures shifting from relaxed to battle-ready in an instant, as the room fell into an oppressive silence. Rook held her laboured breath as best as she could, straining to listen for more sounds.

Then came the footsteps.

Not fast or clumsy like the usual shambling of those creatures. No, these steps were rhythmic, purposeful.

“Get behind me,” Fenris hissed, pulling Rook’s arm to shove her roughly behind him. It aggravated her wound, and she nearly snapped at him, ready to spit out some not-so-friendly words. But then, a figure stepped around the corner— from behind them , from inside the estate.So someone must’ve tipped them off about the hidden tunnels after all.

The creature was bigger than any darkspawn Rook had ever seen. This thing—this abomination—walked with the dignity of a king among its people. Its tattered robes clung to its frame like the ghost of a forgotten era, clearly Tevinter in origin—rich brocade now faded and caked in rot. Chains webbed across its body, some buried in flesh, others hung with golden trinkets etched with a familiar sigil: the constellation of Tenebrium. The symbol of the shadows. Lusacan’s mark.

Rook shifted to catch a clearer look at its face and immediately regretted it.

The skin stretched thin over its skull like brittle parchment, lips torn back in a grin too wide, too knowing— as if it remembered what smiling used to be and mocked it out of sheer cruelty. Its priest-like hood had fused into its skull, threads merging with bone and rotted flesh in a grotesque imitation of something sacred, defiled beyond recognition.

But it was the eyes—or the absence of them—that struck her deepest. Veilfire burned in sickly green within its sockets, casting flickers of eerie light across its corpse-pale face. Not the corrupted red glow of Blight.

Creators, that thing is ugly.  

The creature took a step forward, its tattered cape trailing behind, dragging through the blood and guts of the fallen darkspawn. With each step, its staff clinked against the stone floor. That thing looked like it had been pulled from a necromancer’s wet dream, an abomination crafted from jagged black obsidian fused around what could’ve only been a humanoid spine.

More shuffling sounds followed behind it—more darkspawn, Rook was sure. And by the racket coming from outside, they were far from alone. Fenedhis, they surrounded us! 

Rook’s gaze snapped from the monstrous figure to her companions. Neve’s expression mirrored her own—disgust, confusion, and the dawning realization that they were trapped were written across every line of her face.

From her angle, Rook couldn’t make out much of Fenris’ expression, but what she could see made her pause. He was staring at the creature with something that resembled recognition. That was... strange. But before she could think on it any further, the abomination spoke— spoke .

No guttural growls, no mindless roars. The words were clear, though the voice was uncomfortable, like someone dragging a blade across stone, but there was no mistaking it—it was speech.

“Kill the elf and the mage,” it growled, raising its twisted staff and pointing it directly at Rook. Its haunting, glimmering eyes—though lacking any real features—were unmistakably fixed on her. “The dreamer belongs to me—alive.”

Chapter Text

Thirty-seven hours, thirty-six minutes—and who knew how many seconds. That was how long Ellana had been on her feet, with still no end in sight.

She’d thought the Inquisition had pushed her limits. Endless war councils, the weight of the world balanced on a knife’s edge—but that had been theater compared to this. This was raw. Ceaseless. A war waged in the dark, against an enemy that never slept, never relented. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a moment to breathe.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose between her fingertips—a desperate, futile attempt to soothe the ever-present headache—she exhaled slowly and leaned her broadsword against the makeshift war table in her too-small tent. Her right hand—the one still whole—traced the edge of the map of Thedas as her gaze swept across it. Dozens of figures representing her forces clustered around the circle she had drawn around Starkhaven. The rest of the map teemed with darkspawn markers.

Denerim had fallen almost a month ago. And despite the occasional rumor to the contrary, it was unlikely anyone had survived. Too much time had passed to hope for anything else.

Hope… Ellana had long since stopped believing in such a novelty. Yes, it could be powerful—hope had once been the only thing that allowed her to rally the south against Corypheus, his Venatori and the red Templars. But back then, people hadn’t lost nearly every quarter of their home to a force as cruel and unforgiving as the Darkspawn.

She brushed away a stray strand of cherry-blonde hair that had slipped from her braid, contemplating—not for the first time in the past few days—whether she should just cut it short again. As much as she liked how it looked on her, it was wildly impractical in a fight. And fighting was just about the only thing she did these days.

A cough and the rustle of her tent flaps being pushed aside interrupted that admittedly silly thought—seriously, who thought about their hairstyle in the middle of a void-forsaken war? The heavy fall of armored boots and the sure, steady cadence of his stride were all Ellana needed to recognize Cullen.

“Commander,” she greeted him, without turning around.

“Inquisitor,” he replied, his steps stopping as he reached her side, one gauntleted finger resting on the edge of the war table.

They stood in silence for a long moment. Not an awkward one—more the kind of pause both of them needed. A moment to breathe before duty called again.

It was Cullen who broke the silence first. “I bring bad news and… slightly less bad news. I'd ask which one you want to hear first, but I’m afraid it won’t make much of a difference.” He sounded as tired as Ellana felt.

She managed a halfhearted smile and looked up at him. Creato—she really needed to stop honoring those monsters. Shaking the thought from her head, she focused back on Cullen. His soft brown eyes were shadowed by dark circles, and she could’ve sworn he’d aged more in the past couple of months than in the previous eight years combined.

“Wanna trade them for my slightly concerning and even stranger news from the north?” she offered, her voice touched with dry amusement.

That got his attention. His left brow arched, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a hesitant smile. “Why do I get the feeling I actually don’t want to know?”

“Because you’re probably right. Not that we can ignore the shit around us anyway, but C—” She stopped herself abruptly, as if tasting the word before speaking it. Then, hesitantly, she added, “Maker, do I wish we could.”

Ellana didn’t miss the way his eyes lit up when she used the name of his god instead of her own. The smile on his lips was no longer restrained as he stepped closer. When she didn’t pull away, he laid a hand gently on her uninjured forearm.

She should’ve stepped back, reestablished the space between them. She knew that. It was wrong to lean on him, especially knowing exactly what he hoped for whenever they found themselves like this. A stronger person would’ve created that distance. But she wasn’t strong—not anymore. Not after everything the last ten years had carved out of her.

So she stayed. Close. Her skin prickling beneath her armor where his gauntleted hand rested.

“Me too, Ellana.” Cullen barely whispered it, her name slipping from his lips a painful echo of that stupid, drunken night they’d shared a year ago.

Yeah, she was a horrible person. To him. To Solas. To herself.

She’d never meant to lead Cullen on. That had never been the plan. But one moment had bled into the next, and she’d been so desperate, so terrified of losing him completely. Rejecting him might’ve shattered what little stability she had left—and that loss would’ve been the final nail in her coffin.

She was a coward.

If Cullen noticed the turmoil swirling just beneath her skin, he didn’t show it. But he withdrew his hand all the same. Maybe he had noticed. Maybe he was just tired of the same quiet, empty response. Ellana didn’t know. And, truthfully, she didn’t want to.

“So. Let me start with the bad news,” he said, exhaling the words like he was already preparing himself for the battles to come. The hand that had just rested on her arm shifted to the war table, sliding one of the darkspawn markers from Kirkwall north to Wildervale. “One of Leliana’s spies reported that the city has fallen. We’re expecting a fresh wave of refugees, and I’m not sure we can accommodate them. Supplies are low. People are already starving.”

Ellana nodded along. They had all known this would happen eventually. But that didn’t make the blow any less painful. Good men and women had died there over the past few weeks just to buy more time for people to escape. And now those refugees would face hunger and death anyway.

And it was her fault. If she had stopped Solas all those years ago...

Swallowing the guilt rising in her throat, she forced herself to focus on the present instead. “And the slightly less bad news?”

He didn’t answer right away, his warm eyes lingering on her face. Studying her—probably guessing exactly where her thoughts had gone. For a moment, she was sure he was about to say something, to call her out. But he didn’t.

“Merrill is almost done fixing that Eluvian down in the cellar. I have to admit, I still don’t like those things—but I guess they have their uses. If it works, we might be able to retrieve desperately needed supplies. Though I’m not sure who’s even available to help in the first place.”

His fingers brushed over the circled name of Val Royeaux, eyes fixed on the map—but his gaze was far away. Ellana couldn’t help but wonder where he’d gone.

She didn’t have to wonder long.

“None of Leliana’s people have made it back from Orlais yet, and she fears the worst. I can’t believe it’s just... gone. After everything we did to keep it safe.” A heavy sigh escaped him before he turned back to her. “I’m hoping Cassandra will be able to negotiate help from Nevarra—but hope is a fragile thing these days.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she mumbled under her breath, more to herself than to him—but the slight chuckle that slipped from his throat told her he’d heard anyway.

“So,” he said, straightening a little, “how about your strange news from the north? Anything useful?”

Ellana could tell he was trying to mask the disdain in his voice—he always did, whenever talk turned to the north, to Solas—but she heard it anyway. He didn’t mean to hurt her. And still, she felt guilty all the same.

“Dorian contacted me last night. They finally made progress in removing the Blight in Minrathous. Half the city is free of it, and they’ll probably finish clearing it by the end of tomorrow.”

There. That was the easy part.

The confused expression on her commander's face was expected. He didn’t take long to voice the question she knew was coming.

“This sounds like wonderful news. Where’s the catch? You said it was concerning.”

Well, she’d always been the pragmatic type. Why sugarcoat something when you could just state the facts? But how was she supposed to explain this—when even she could hardly believe it?

“Yeah... because it wasn’t Solas who did it.” Ellana pretended not to notice the way he flinched when she said the name—still treated like a curse. “It was Elgar’nan.”

Cullen’s focus snapped to hers the moment her words registered, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. She’d probably looked exactly the same when Dorian had told her the news.

“Maker, Ellana, my dear, close that mouth of yours, will you? This isn’t even the craziest part.” Dorian's voice had echoed in her mind then, and she was half-tempted to say the same to Cullen now.

“Are you joking?”

She shook her head. “No, not at all.”

Cullen didn’t respond right away. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he was trying to say everything at once and couldn’t get a single word out.

Yeah. Definitely the same reaction she’d had.

Then, when the dam finally broke, the words came pouring out in a rush. “I thought he was gone? Why is he back—and why, by Andraste’s holy ash, is he helping us? Is he even helping us?”

Now it was her turn to lay a calming hand on his forearm, her blue eyes searching his as she waited for him to get his breath back under control. “As I said—strange and slightly concerning. But I don’t look a gifted halla in the mouth.”

Cullen nodded once he’d found his footing again. “I still can’t believe he’s actually helping... but I have to admit, it’s better than the alternative.”

That, she could agree with. “If Dorian is right—and I know he wouldn’t lie about this, not to me—it was Rook who convinced him—and let me quote—‘that he should finally own up to his mistakes and do something good for a change.’ How she managed that is beyond me.”

That wasn’t the whole truth. Dorian had made it clear—and if the background noise she’d heard during their conversation was anything to go by—that the two of them were definitely in some kind of relationship. Somehow. That had apparently happened during the two weeks they’d been banished inside the Fade.

But she really didn’t need to delve into that—not until she had the chance to talk to Rook in person.

Cullen was quiet again, but it wasn’t the silence of disbelief this time. It was the kind of pause he took when his mind was working through too many variables—calculating strategy, risk, the possibilities and the dangers coming with that new information. His gaze drifted down to the war table, then to her hand still resting lightly on his arm.

“If he’s truly back,” Cullen said, voice low, guarded, “and helping—even for the wrong reasons—then we’ll take what we can get. But I won’t trust him. Not now, not ever.”

Ellana didn’t blame him. She didn’t trust Elgar'nan either. Removing the Blight or not. She’d seen too much, lost too much. But something in her gut told her the game had shifted—and not just because of one presumably redeemed ancient god.

No, when Varric had informed her about the crow, Ellana hadn't been so sure about that woman. Rook was far too emotional, she had seen all this hatred and anger for the world, simmering under that skin of hers. Someone like that was unpredictable. “Exactly what we need, if we want to catch Chuckles unguarded.” had been Varric's reply when Ellana had voiced her concerns. And he had been right, like always. 

Rook had surprised her. No matter the odds, no matter how difficult, that woman had fought with teeth and nails to get it done. They all had been lost a long time ago, if not for her and even if Ellana didn't like her, she trusted Varric and Varric trusted Rook and it seemed like she pulled off the impossible once again.

That was enough for Ellana to let a sliver of hope blooming inside her chest.

“I’m not asking you to trust him,” she replied softly, pulling her hand back. “I don’t. I trust Dorian. I trust Rook. That’ll have to be enough for now.”

Cullen ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the sweat-damp strands. “Do they have a plan beyond clearing Minrathous?”

She nodded. “But it sounded like utter madness to be honest. Do you remember Corypheus’ orb?” Cullen nodded, expression grim of course he remembered it, they all would. “It seems like all of the Evanuris had something like that. The plan is to find Elgar'nan’s so Rook and Solas have enough magical power to sooth the angered dreams of the Titans.” 

“Maker’s breath,” He exhaled hard. “If that works, it could change everything.”

“It could.” Her eyes darkened, fixed on the map. “But it could also turn into a disaster. We are talking about a lot of magical power, Cullen. More than any mage of our time ever had control of and I don't need to tell you how dangerous that is. If someone like Corypheus takes a hold of it or if Elgar'nan changes his mind...”

Cullen looked at her again, his jaw strained and his eyelid twitching. “Then what do we do?”

Ellana’s jaw tightened as well.  “We remind them who's world this still is. If Rook had proved anything, it is that even gods can bleed.”

Elgar’nan could feel the questioning gazes of his little entourage at his back, but he paid them no mind. The scrap of paper in his hand had claimed most of his attention. The name mentioned belonged to June’s pet priest—“The Architect of All Things Beautiful,” or something along those lines, if he recalled correctly. Not that he truly cared. The magisters had always been little more than tools to them.

Which made it all the more surprising that this creature not only recognized him as Lusacan, but also addressed him by that name.

Elgar’nan cast a swift glance at the kneeling darkspawn, smirking at its submissive posture before ripping the letter open.

The paper inside was neatly folded, pitch black, and—to his surprise—released a sickly sweet fragrance as he unfolded it. If it was meant to impress, it failed utterly. These days, he preferred the scent of heavy red wine and cinnamon.

The white ink shimmered like oil on water, iridescent across the black paper as Elgar’nan’s eyes skimmed the elegant, looping script. The Architect’s words slithered more than they spoke—careful, cryptic—exactly the kind of writing that betrayed a mind convinced of its own genius.

“To Lusacan, the Dragon of Night,
Also known as Elgar'nan,
All-Father, Eldest of the Sun, Sun-Tamer, He Who Overthrew His Father, and General of the Enlightened Army,”

Someone had done their homework, Elgar’nan noted with an amused huff. Not that it would earn the Architect any favors, but it was nice to be addressed formally once more.

“We have not spoken, but I know you. I have witnessed your empty throne with my brothers, seen the devastation your dark blessing has wrought, and survived the past millennia waiting in the shadows for the return of my gods.
Your return.

I address you now not as a slave, nor as an enemy, but as a potential ally. I offer this not in defiance, but in goodwill.”

Elgar’nan’s lip curled. Theatrical bastard.

“I know you will burn this world to shape it anew. I ask only to be spared the fire.
My children—free now, no longer bound to the Song—kneel only because I asked them to. They would stand for you, if you let them. In return, I offer loyalty, information, and the mind of a scholar. I ask only that you do not chain them again.”

Elgar’nan’s gaze drifted from the letter to the darkspawn kneeling before him, one brow lifting in mild curiosity. A darkspawn severed from the Song? He hadn’t thought such a thing possible. Then again, no one had bothered to try. They had never wanted willing servants—only silence and submission. Still… it was a curious detail.

"There is another like me. He has waited all these years, feeding on vengeance… The Watchman of Night. He remembers you not as a god, but as a liar. As a traitor. He dreams of your end. He watches even now—here, in this very city—waiting for his chance to strike. His followers, a swarm of corrupted magisters and darkspawn, are marching south to claim what you once called yours, while you fight against the dread wolf's pets. 

I can stop them—for a time. Long enough for you to deal with those who stand in the way of your rightful place, the last true god.
Grant us freedom, and we will follow. I trust your wisdom will know the right course."

—The Architect

Elgar’nan’s gaze lingered on one of the final lines. Judging by the content, the letter had been penned before the minor confrontation with his swan. That made things… complicated. If the Architect spoke true, then the Watchman was here, alive and festering with ancient rage. How predictable. But still—troublesome.

Especially when the Swan still refused to wear proper armor.

“Please tell me it’s an invitation to some kind of tea party,” Hawke said behind him, pulling him back to the present. Her voice was dry, yet laced with a hint of uncertainty she masked well beneath one of her usual sarcastic remarks. “I love tea parties. Especially Antivan ones. The gossip is one of a kind.”

Elgar’nan chose to ignore her as he folded the letter slowly. He didn’t bother turning to look at the others; he didn’t need to. Their silence was telling enough. Solas' distrust radiated from him in cold, quiet waves. The magister’s eyes were burning a hole into his back. And Hawke… well, she still looked like she expected the darkspawn to start reciting poetry before leaping for their throats.

No one trusted the creature kneeling before them, nor the contents of the letter now neatly folded in his hands.

Fair. Neither did he.

But trust had never mattered. Obedience did. And desperation made even the foulest things obedient.

“Interesting,” he murmured, sliding the paper into the folds of his coat. “This one speaks of freedom as though it’s something it understands. Like a bird admiring the sky through iron bars.” He cast the darkspawn a glance—sharp teeth and mild curiosity. “Still. Even birds can be taught to fetch.”

“You can’t be serious,” Solas said, clipped and quiet, every syllable laced with caution and warning. Of course the coward would oppose him. Not that his opinion mattered in the slightest.

“I am curious.” Elgar’nan’s reply came softer, more to himself than to the others. “He wants a leash he doesn’t feel. I can grant him that.” The whole situation was proving far more interesting than expected.

“I think I’ve heard this story before,” Dorian muttered. “It ends with screaming. And blood. Lots of blood.”

Elgar’nan chuckled. “Most stories worth telling do. We are in the middle of a war, magister. A war I intend to win.”

He was just about to add more when a sudden wave of searing pain tore through his side. For a moment, he thought he had been struck by a blade—but no. There was no impact, no wound. Just a hot, relentless throbbing. He staggered, one step, before catching himself upright again. The movement was enough to alarm the others, but he didn’t acknowledge them.

He couldn’t.

Not when he had to fight against the strange, choking weight building in his throat, his stomach roiling as the realization took shape.

It wasn’t his pain.

It was Tavellia’s.

It lashed through the thread that tied them together—a violent jolt that ripped through the distance separating them. The boiling anger she previously funneled through their bond had vanished, replaced by adrenaline, pain, and something he couldn’t quite name—and then… nothing.

Their connection went quiet. Dormant.

Elgar’nan stood frozen, the weight of that sudden stillness louder than any scream. His breath hitched—just once—as he reached inward, grasping along the weakened thread between them. The piece of her soul inside his own was still alive. Whatever had happened to his Tavellia, she wasn’t dead—but something was blocking their connection. Something powerful.

The rage came instantly. Hot. Sovereign. Endless. Whoever had done this to his little swan would suffer a long and painful death.

“Elgar’nan?” Dorian stepped forward, brows drawn together. “What happened?”

But he didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His focus had tunneled, burning straight through the spiritbond in his mind, searching for even the smallest spark of her. She had always been fire—too bright, too reckless, too alive to vanish like this. His Tavellia was a warrior, not some damsel in distress. And yet… nothing. It was as if someone had swallowed her whole.

“Elgar’nan?” Solas asked too, quiet but tense. He kept his distance—a smart choice, considering the state Elgar’nan was currently in: his head bowed, golden eyes shadowed beneath furrowed brows, teeth bared in a silent snarl.

“She is hurt.”

None of them needed to ask who.

“And whoever dared lay hands on her,” he continued, his voice rising now, “has signed a death sentence for every wretched soul that stands between me and her.”

Magic pulsed from him then. The surrounding air shifted, charged with static, crackling as lightning licked the ground at his boots. This spell would cost him more of his magical power than he cared to admit, but it was the fastest way to her last known location—and he would not waste a second longer than necessary.

“Elgar’nan—” Solas tried again, his voice edged with warning, but Elgar’nan had had enough of his cowardice and holier-than-thou attitude.

“This is a declaration of war, Wolf.” He interrupted him harshly. “And I will answer it gladly—with one of my own.”

Elgar’nan’s gaze snapped back to the darkspawn. “You,” he boomed over the growing rumble of his magic, “run to your master. Tell him the leash he offered will remain without its master—for now. There has been a transgression. And I will not be diverted.”

His magic engulfed him fully now, lightning bolts cracking across his skin in rapid succession. Raising his arm, he channeled the energy through his body and, with one decisive slice of his hand, tore a hole into the already broken fabric of the Veil itself. 

“Go and fulfill your task,” Elgar’nan said, stepping into the tear without hesitation, “while I go find whoever dared touch what is mine.” 

If anyone answered him, he couldn’t hear them anymore as the rift closed behind him with a thunderous boom. For a single breath, gravity lost its grip on him as the spell drained a good portion of his magic from him. It would take time until he would be able to cast another powerful spell like that but he didn’t care. His Tavellia was more important than saving this cesspool of a city. 

The Veil tore open again, his magic erupting in a shattering crack as he stepped through—right into the dining room where he had last seen her.

The choking stench of blood hit him first, thick and congealed, mingled with the unmistakable rot of the Blight. His boots crunched over broken stone, cracked tiles, and twisted darkspawn corpses—some cleaved clean in two, others pierced by shards of ice and the telltale stab wounds of throwing knives. This was unmistakably the work of his little swan and her companions.

The estate stood barely upright, scorched walls flickering with the fading remnants of warding spells. He stepped through the crumbling archway, trying to piece together what had happened here.

One thing was brutally clear: his little swan was not here. Their bond was eerily silent.

A slow, dragging movement to his left drew his attention. The woman he despised more than ever—responsible for leaving his little bird alone in the first place—pushed herself upright from behind an overturned table. Her left arm hung uselessly, blood staining her robes in sticky patches. The elf boy limped out a moment later, a fresh split over his eye still leaking. Both bore the marks of a battle barely survived, but he couldn’t care less. The fact they were alive while his little swan was missing was intolerable.

“Elgar’nan,” Neve rasped, coughing wetly. “You came fast…”

“Where is she?” he cut in, barely holding back his fury.

Neve hesitated. Her eyes were hollow, haunted, too exhausted for defiance. She opened her mouth once, closed it, then finally met his gaze.

“She…” Neve swallowed hard. “She is gone. Whatever it was that attacked us. It took her with it.”

Chapter Text

“Fuck.” The word slipped out between her lips before she could stop it. Not that it would’ve changed anything. Rook wasn’t stupid, neither was Fenris, and especially not Neve. A quick glance at her friends told her they’d realized the same thing she had.

They didn’t stand a chance. Not against this many Darkspawn, and whatever twisted face was leading them. No, they needed a plan—and fast.

“Neve,” Rook bit out through clenched teeth, “we need one of your ice domes. As fast as possible.” Her eyes flicked to Fenris as she drew two more throwing knives. “I hope your little party trick works for your whole body. We have to buy her time.”

She didn’t wait for his answer, instead, she darted forward, launching both blades toward the advancing Darkspawn. Her aim was true—each knife sank deep between the eyes of its target. The strangled cries that followed were almost satisfying.

Fenris was right behind her, sweeping past and cleaving one of the creatures in half. “My little party trick,” he said, pausing only to deflect a heavy cleaver, “works just fine.” He turned the parry into a counter, his blade flashing as he beheaded the beast with a single swing. “What about you?”

Rook dodged another attack, a sharp hiss escaping her as the movement tugged at the wound in her side. But she didn’t stop. She rolled to the side, drew two more daggers, and hurled them past Fenris’ head toward the flank. One struck true—throat hit, clean drop. The second missed, clanging against the stone wall.

She huffed, frustrated, but had no time to care. Two more of the bastards were heading straight for Neve.

Neve stood still, eyes closed, her focus locked on the spell. Shards of ice were beginning to form around her, spinning slowly. But she wouldn’t be able to dodge or defend herself in time.

Rook didn’t hesitate. She pulled more blades and threw herself back, narrowly dodging another swing. Her wounded side flared in protest as she stumbled, her footing faltering with the shift in weight.

Her vision swam. She hit the ground hard, pain lancing through her ribs. Her grip failed—her knives skittered across the floor.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! She screamed in her head as the creatures neared her friend.

“Neve!” Rook shouted, voice raw, one hand pressed to her side, the other desperately reaching for her fallen knives—anything that could turn the tide—but she was too late to do anything. 

No. That wasn’t true. There was still one thing left.

For a split second, a memory flickered in her mind. “Objects, weapons, even spirits—all can be pulled from the Fade into the physical world. It requires precision, strength of will, and a deep connection to the Fade.” Elgar’nan had tilted his head slightly, eyes steady. “And you already possess all three.”

Rook gritted her teeth as she reached inward. The magic—unwanted, yet ever-present—thrummed in her spirit. All she had to do was touch it. Just like in the Fade.

Green and gold light began to shimmer around Neve, the air around them humming with a soft, strangely familiar melody—like a lullaby half-remembered. Her vision blurred, not from pain but from something else. Threads of magic, delicate and intricate, became visible all around them. The Veil pulsed—breathtaking in its beauty. But she had no time to marvel.

Her gaze followed the strands, driven by instinct. And there it was: a shimmer, a ripple, a brittle thread.

Without hesitation, she pulled.

The Veil tore with an almost ear-splitting crack.

A rush of heat flooded down her spine, into her limbs, setting her veins ablaze. Her hand lifted, fingers outstretched toward Neve—and the space between them bent. A golden shield—ancient in design, unmistakably elven—materialized midair, slamming into place between Neve and the oncoming blow.

The impact splintered light across the shield in fractured green and gold before it shattered seconds later into a million crystalline shards. The force of the blast redirected, spared Neve’s head but slammed into her arm instead.

Neve screamed, the unmistaken crack of breaking bone echoing through the hall. She staggered, blinking hard, her uninjured arm wavering—but she didn’t fall. The ice shards orbiting her flickered, faltered, then surged again with renewed force. Despite the pain, despite the damage—she held her focus.

A heartbeat later, the dome solidified. The shards wove together in a seamless sheet of enchanted ice, thick and impenetrable. Threads of magic curled around it in blue and violet.

Rook smiled, but it twisted quickly into a grimace. Her vision blurred once more. The glowing threads of the Veil—brilliant just seconds ago—began to fade, one by one, until the world settled back into its dull, ordinary shape. And with it, the pain in her side came roaring back.

“Interesting,” came the screeching voice of that wretched monster, slithering across the room like a cold wind down her spine. “That was not in my expectations.”

The Darkspawn retreated as he advanced, parting like water, their heads bowed in eerie reverence. It was as bizarre as it was horrifying.

“Your magic sings like something lost, girl,” the skeletal mage purred, his voice smooth and wrong. Each step he took was soundless, as if he floated just above the ground. “Stronger than it should be. Stronger than you understand.”

Rook forced herself upright, staggering to her feet. One hand clutched her side, the other still tingled from the spell she had dragged into reality. She shook it off and drew a hidden dagger from her wrist sheath.

“Fenris,” she rasped, coughing, blood rising in the back of her throat. “Get inside the dome.”

“No,” he barked instantly, sword already raised. “Your guard dog will gut me if I leave you behind.”

“You will,” she snarled, turning just enough to meet his eyes—defiance burning hot through the pain. “That thing’s coming. And it’ll kill you before my lion even gets the chance.”

He stepped toward her, jaw tight, a protest on his tongue—but the creature halted, lifting one hand.

Without thinking, Rook shoved Fenris aside just as a blast of magic tore through the space he’d occupied.

A column of green and black fire erupted with an earshattering explosion. It swallowed everything—light, sound, breath. Rook was flung backward, slamming into the doorframe with bone-jarring force, agony flaring like lightning through her limbs. Fenris was thrown too, launched toward Neve’s ice barrier. His lyrium markings lit up, a searing blue glow just before he struck.

But he didn’t strike. His body phased through the barrier effortlessly, a glowing arc of lyrium trailing behind him as he vanished into the dome’s protective magic.

Rook hit the floor hard, her breath gone, smoke and blood choking her throat. She gritted her teeth, tasted iron.

Above her, the magister approached, his shadow stretching long and slow over the ruined stone.

“I admit,” he said, almost fondly, “your bleeding heart is touching, little one. Your effort to keep them alive shall not be wasted.” He paused, tilting his head. “I’ll grant them their lives.”

The monster crouched beside her with the slow elegance of something inhuman, his skeletal hand hovering just above her cheek. His face, if it could be called that, hovering just a few inches from her face. He stank like rotten flesh and decay. 

“I need you breathing,” he murmured, “and screaming, eventually but you are barely alive at it is, so this will have to wait.”

Rook tried to move, fingers twitching around the dagger in her hand but her limbs felt soaked in lead. Pain howled through her side. Her vision doubled, then steadied, just enough to lock eyes with him. 

“Fuck you,” she rasped, blood dribbling down her chin. She made one last lunge, weak and ragged, trying to drive the blade up into his throat.

He caught her wrist with a single hand.

And then she felt it. 

Magic, thick and foul, crawled over her skin like a thousand little bugs, slithering over and beneath it. Her body convulsed. She gagged, bile burning up her throat. The world spun. His magic wasn’t like any she had felt so far—it was just…wrong, something diseased trying to slip inside her spirit and hollow it out, erasing every little spark of light until only darkness remained.

Her stomach heaved. She choked once, then vomited onto the floor beside her, her mouth tasting like bile and blood.

“Ah,” the magister cooed, almost tender. “You have bonded your spirit. How unfortunate.”

Rook's vision tunneled. The last thing she saw was his gleaming eyes crackled with something she couldn't recognize, as his cold fingers curled around her throat in an almost gentle caress.

Then everything went black.

—

“After he took her, his Darkspawn left the estate,” the elf boy finished, eyes cast down as that accursed frost mage tended his wounds. At least he had the decency to look distraught. Still, he was a Lyrium-Knight—his sole duty was to lay down his life for those above him.

“You’re lucky my swan would be furious if I skinned you alive right now,” Elgar’nan growled. “Otherwise, I’d remind you exactly what your duties are, boy.”

The mage looked up then, brown eyes flashing, her brows drawn tight in a scowl. She looked just as furious as he felt.

“Fenris and I acted on your little swan’s orders,” she hissed. “In case you haven’t noticed, Elgar’nan, Rook has a nasty habit of coming up with the most ridiculous plans and acting on them in the heat of the moment.”

He knew that, naturally. That didn’t excuse the fact that they had listened to her ridiculous demand. His Tavellia was reckless— that was the sole reason they’d landed in that cursed Fade prison in the first place. But it had only ever been a question of when, not if, her luck would run out.

The piece of her spirit nestled inside his own flickered softly. She was still alive, but their connection was faint. And if the description of the creature that took her was accurate, he knew exactly what—no, who —had stolen what was his.

The damn Watchman of Night.

The irony that it was his own high priest—the very creature they were hunting—was not lost on him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. With their bond rendered useless for the time being, the only one who might be able to find her was the one person he least wanted to rely on.

“Hey,” the mage said softly, pulling him from his thoughts. “It wanted her alive, so it won’t kill her. At least, not yet. We will find Rook.” Her hand hovered near his arm before she drew it back. He almost laughed at the pathetic gesture of comfort.

Elgar’nan huffed instead. “I do not require your condolences, shem . I need solutions—and I highly doubt you’re capable of tracing her through the Fade.” No. She wasn’t. And as much as it grated him to admit it—neither was he.

The mage answered his huff with one of her own, folding both arms across her chest. “I’m not. That’s true. But you and I both know who is.”

Elgar’nan clenched his jaw and raised a hand in her direction to stop her from saying his name. “No.” A simple answer—more than she deserved for daring to even think of this. “I will not trust this pathetic excuse of a lapdog with anything as important as the rescue of my wife.”

To his dismay, that infuriating woman continued. “You’re running out of options.”

“I said no,” he snapped, his voice deceptively quiet, but the fury behind his words left no doubt that he was seething. Such insolence might have been endearing when it came from his Tavellia’s sweet lips, but he would not tolerate it from anyone else. “And you’d better watch your tongue, lest I cut it out of your mouth. I may not kill you—but I can make you wish I had.”

The frost mage didn’t flinch—he gave her that—but her posture shifted to something more defensive. She unfolded her arms, one hand drifting down toward her weapon, hovering over the handle, while the other rested against her hip.

“Elgar’nan,” she said again, slower now, her brown eyes locked on his as she gauged his reaction. When he didn’t interrupt, she continued. “He’s the only one who can trace her through the Fade. You know it. I know it. And he has a great interest in saving her.”

“Does he now,” Elgar’nan hissed. “He wanted to leave her behind in that cursed prison he created, if it meant he could defeat me. He didn’t care for her well-being then—so I doubt he does now.”

Fenris crossed his arms. “He will,” he said, quiet but pointed. “He left her behind for the same reason he killed Varric. For the greater good. We can only imagine the horrors you’ll unleash if something happens to her.”

Elgar’nan turned to face him. Naive. The boy still didn’t see it. To someone like Fen’harel, everyone was a pawn in his pathetic crusade. “He won’t lift a finger unless it furthers his designs. Everything with him is manipulation, dressed up as a righteous cause no one but him believes in.”

“No disagreement here,” Fenris replied flatly. “But you’re not arguing with me—you’re arguing with reality.”

Elgar’nan’s spirit flared. The fragment of Rook inside him pulsed faintly, like a dying ember refusing to be extinguished. He wanted to break something—to tear open the Veil and claw her out with his bare hands. Instead, he stood there, impotent fury simmering beneath his skin, caught in a war he couldn’t fight and a choice he refused to make.

“You hate him,” the detective said, her voice harder now. “I get it. We all do. But this isn’t about you or him. It’s about Rook. And if you let her slip away because of your vendetta, then you’re no better than he is.”

His nostrils flared. His gaze burned. But she wasn’t wrong. And that made it worse. He couldn’t argue with that. And if his little swan's wounds had been assessed correctly, they might not have time to stand here and argue.

For a moment, he considered breaking his promise—to use blood magic to trace her. But that wasn’t an option. Tavellia trusted him because he had never lied to her. Breaking that trust, when another path remained, could destroy their bond in ways he wasn’t willing to risk.

No. He would have to work with the dreaded wolf. But he would do it on his own terms. “I am not calling him and asking for his help,” he said at last. “I will drag him here—and he better find her, or I will remind him why I was once known as the god of vengeance.”

—

Creators, everything hurt. Her legs felt heavy, her side throbbed in unbearable waves of hot and cold, sharp, piercing pain. She tried to move her arms, but they wouldn’t budge.
But all of that paled in comparison to her head.

It felt as if someone had split her skull clean in half, the edges raw and exposed to the air around them. That would explain the heat and cold pulsing through the rest of her body.

“Hard day, huh, kid?” An all-too-familiar voice reached her ear, warm and welcoming—but when she tried to remember who it belonged to, her head erupted with another wave of searing pain, making it impossible to hold a thought for more than a second.

“Easy now.” Something that felt like a small, sturdy hand pressed softly against her shoulder, guiding her back down. “You got a nasty beating there. Pretty sure that wound’s going to be infected,” the deep voice rumbled. She knew him. She knew—but she couldn’t remember.

“Am—” Rook coughed. Her throat felt like unused sandpaper. She cursed herself for not drinking anything that morning.

Always be prepared. Eat and drink enough for the day when you can. You never know when you’ll get your next chance.

These were her principles. Her guidelines. When had she stopped living by them?

“Dead?” The voice finished the question for her, as if reading her mind. “No, Rook. Not yet. But damn close for sure. Your stubborn way of doing things yourself almost killed you this time.” He sounded angry, but not unkind. It reminded her of her father scolding her when she did something dangerous as a child. He would’ve carried her on his shoulders afterward, promising he’d never let her wander off alone again.

 If only he had kept that promise...

The hand on her shoulder left—only to return to her head, moving in gentle, soothing strokes. Soft. Caring. Like her mother would’ve done when nightmares woke her—when another demon tried to take her body. She would hold her for hours, stroking her hair and whispering sweet encouragement, empty promises of safety.

Empty, yes. But she’d give the world to hear them again.

“How many times do I have to tell you to rely more on your team?” the voice continued, softer now. “Broody and Slicks could’ve fought with you. I’m sure your questionable choice of a husband was already on his way back. You only had to hold the line for a while.”

Tavellia grunted in pain, fighting the heavy weight of her eyelids in a futile attempt to open them. “Couldn’t risk it,” she breathed through clenched teeth. “That thing… wanted me alive—” A violent coughing fit seized her, the unmistakable taste of blood and vomit flooding her mouth.

“So you risked your own life—consequences be damned—just to save your friends?” Another voice. Female this time. Harsh, decisive. Familiar—but again, Tav couldn’t place it. Still, the sound of it made that scar on her thigh throb.

“That’s Rook for you,” the other voice answered for her. “Her compassion and unpredictability were the reasons I chose her.”

“Of course they were,” the woman replied, voice thick with disdain. “But you’re too late. This one has an important role in the play ahead, so be gone. I have significant matters to discuss with her.”

To say Tavellia was confused would’ve been an understatement. She knew those voices, knew that what they were talking about was important—but no matter how hard she tried to remember, the only thing her mind gave her was that same unbearable headache.

The sturdy hand caressing her vanished, leaving a cold emptiness behind—a feeling of dread and loss.

“Fine,” the male voice spat, a dark, twisted undertone seeping into his voice that hadn’t been there before. It sounded… wrong. “But you misunderstood something, your majesty . This one is mine. She always was. And I intend to collect my due.”

A soft, condescending chuckle followed. “I’m afraid I’m not the one you’ll need to fight on that,” the woman said. She followed up with what sounded like a name, but Tav couldn’t understand it. “But I won’t stand in your way if you want to challenge Elgar’nan on this.”

“Creators…” Tav finally managed, her voice still raspy and cracking. “I’m right here, you know? Stop talking about me like I’m not.”

“Yes, child,” the woman huffed. “But I highly doubt you’re capable of following us. You’re barely alive, and the magister’s magic is still fogging your mind.”

Oh, so that was why her head felt so heavy and her memories hovered just out of reach. Now that she’d mentioned it, Tavellia recalled a few fragments of the fight—against one of the most hideous-looking things she’d ever encountered. How she was injured. Neve forming her ice barrier. How she shoved Fenris into it— oh, he was going to be an absolute pain in the ass about that, no doubt —and the last thing she remembered was the horrible knot in her stomach, the fear and panic that threatened to completely paralyze her the moment he touched her.

Then… nothing.

“Fucking Void,” she groaned through gritted teeth. She’d passed out after that. Which could only mean… “I’m in the Fade, aren’t I?”

“Ding, ding, ding! One golden star for perceptiveness!” the male voice chimed in again. His tone had changed—still familiar, but entirely different than before. Darker, more eccentric… more evil . “Contact with his vile and powerful magic knocked you right out of your skull into this lovely little pocket of the Fade.”

“Which did not stop the creature from taking your unconscious, barely living body with it,” the other voice added. “Not that you could have stopped it either way. I must admit, I’m disappointed, Rook. After our confrontation, I expected more than this.”

“Mythal…” Rook muttered as the fog in her mind began to lift. How she hadn’t made the connection sooner was beyond her, considering this was a voice that would haunt her until the day she died.

“Of course she recognizes you but not me . I’m wounded, Rook,” the other voice complained—though his tone dripped with mockery, as if he already knew she couldn’t remember him, even if she tried. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but alas.”

“Seems like I disappointed both of you,” she muttered, finally managing to pry her eyes open. Everything was blurry, bathed in that unmistakable green glow of the sky. Creators, she really hated the Fade. “Sorry, not sorry,” Tav added with a sad attempt at a sarcastic grin.

“Always so feisty,” the other voice said, drawing her attention away from the blurred image of Mythal to its owner. The haze thinned just enough for the figure in front of her to take shape. Broad shoulders. A cocky slouch. Dark hair streaked with white, swept back just as she remembered. Whoever—or whatever—this was, it looked like Varric.

But his voice was off. Uncanny in a way that raised goosebumps along her arms. Gone was the warmth, the easy sarcasm, the underlying kindness that defined her dead mentor and friend.

This thing might have worn Varric’s face, but it wasn’t him.

“Aw, don’t look at me like that,” he said, tilting his head. “I’m just borrowing the face of someone you trusted. Easier on the mind, isn’t it?”

Her stomach clenched. “Doesn’t work if you’re not really him,” she spat, throat still raw.

“Well, duh .” The thing in Varric’s shape snorted, then grinned with too many teeth. “I can’t be him. He’s dead, sweetheart. I’m not. Well… not really.”

Rook wanted to snap back, but her mind was still a haze—too slow to summon a proper retort before Mythal cut in, her voice commanding.

“Enough of your little talk,” she hissed. Her golden eyes moved from Rook to the creature—a demon, for all she knew—and if looks could kill, he’d have dropped the moment her gaze landed. “We have little time, and you are not helpful. Be gone before I make you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the thing said, waving a hand dismissively. “I know when I’m beat.” He leaned over her still-prone body, his cold, cruel eyes searching hers before a slow, maniacal grin spread across his face. A grin she recognized. A grin that froze the blood in her veins with dread.

“But don’t think I’m gone, sweetheart. You still owe me a debt, little girl. And I will collect it.”

“Who are you?” Rook whispered. To say she was shocked would’ve been an understatement. Of course, this thing could’ve been full of shit—it was the Fade, after all. It wouldn’t be the first demon to try and trick her, and it wouldn’t be the last. But something about this one felt different. Familiar. Real.

The demon chuckled, the sound unsettlingly close to friendly. “You know who I am, Tavellia of clan Aridehl. And you’ll remember me… when the time is right.” With that, he vanished into thin air, as if he’d never been there at all.

Her heart skipped a beat, breath catching in her lungs as the shock of what had just happened settled in. How in the void did he know her name? Her real name?

“You keep interesting company, Tavellia.” Mythal’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, dragging her back to the moment. Her head snapped toward the other woman—too fast—and the pain behind her eyes flared with a vengeance.

“Don’t use that name,” Rook hissed, pouring every ounce of malice she could muster into her words. “My name is Rook de Siva. Use it .” Of all the people in existence, Mythal was the last she ever wanted speaking her real name. Everything about the woman set her on edge. She didn’t trust her. She never would.

Mythal regarded her in silence for a long beat, her expression unreadable as always. Then she tilted her head slightly—just enough to register, subtle and deliberate.

“Fine, Rook de Siva . As I said, we don’t have time. So take that anger of yours and channel it into something useful for once.”

Oh, she could show her something useful alright…

Rook tried to sit up, but her limbs felt like they were weighed down with stone, her pulse sluggish and uneven, thudding dully through her skull. Still, she kept trying—if only to throw one of her knives at this arrogant bitch of a—

“You are dying, child,” Mythal cut in, interrupting the venom building in Rook’s thoughts. “The wound is infected. And your reaction to his magic has weakened your body even further. Time is not on your side.”

With a huff and a dry, humorless laugh, Rook let her head fall back against the ground. “Very helpful, Mythal. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin—there’s so little you truly do know,” she countered, her voice dripping with mockery as she stepped out of Rook’s field of vision. “But that’s not our concern right now.” Her tone shifted, low and serious. “I can help you. For a price, of course.”

Of course there was a price. There was always a price. And knowing Mythal, it would be something that seemed harmless in the moment but would eventually doom the world—or worse. From what Rook had pieced together from their few, tense interactions, and from the old tales Varric used to tell, Mythal was not to be trusted. Still… it wasn’t like she had a dozen other options laid out for her.

“What kind of price are we talking about?” Rook asked at last, the words already tasting like regret the moment they left her mouth. With great effort, she turned her head slightly, just enough to get Mythal back in view. Not that she expected to read anything in that face—Mythal was the living embodiment of a wicked-grace bluff—but not seeing her was definitely worse.

Mythal stood beside a massive golden frame, its intricate design shaped like curling elfroot leaves—delicate and beautiful, though it held nothing inside. It reminded her of an Eluvian, minus the mirror of course.

“I can use the lyrium in your dagger to channel my power into your body—temporarily,” she said, her piercing gaze flicking from Rook to the empty frame. “It won’t be enough to get you out of here, but it might give you the time you need to reach out for help.”

Mythal’s words hung heavy in the air, and the silence that followed was almost worse than the pain still burning in every fiber of Rook’s body. She didn’t respond right away—her tongue felt too thick, her throat like dry parchment, and the ever-present green glow above gnawed at her sanity. Creators, how she hated the Fade.

“There are two others trapped in this pitiful creature’s lair,” Mythal said at last, each word carefully measured. Despite the neutral phrasing, her voice dripped with disdain. “One is a healer—a rather fascinating human. Spirit-touched. Or rather, possessed. But contained... for now. If you reach him, he may be able to mend enough of the damage to stabilize your body. Though I must warn you—his magic will hurt, given your... inconvenient condition.”

Rook blinked slowly, her brow twitching at the faint glimmer of hope. “And the catch?” she rasped.

“There’s always a catch,” Mythal replied, the corner of her mouth curling into a humorless smile. “I suggest catching it while you still can.” She stepped closer again, her gaze sharp enough to cut through bone. “There is a second person here. Someone whose spirit has long been severed from the flesh. A tranquil. Their mind is dulled—shattered—but still intact enough for me to connect.”

Rook’s breath hitched. “You want to possess them.”

“I want to use them,” Mythal corrected, cold and precise. “I cannot anchor myself through you—your spirit is already claimed, and the lyrium in your dagger is not enough to forge a new vessel. If I tried to manifest fully, it would consume what little I have left. But that shell—” she nodded toward the golden frame—“will hold. Just long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” Rook asked, her voice shakier than she liked.

“To give fate a little shove.” Mythal’s gaze locked with hers. “But that’s none of your concern, child. You will retrieve that body. Guide me to it. And I will give you strength—borrowed, temporary—but enough.”

Rook swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat. Possession—even temporary—felt like a line she never wanted to see crossed, let alone step over. And to do it to someone already made tranquil? If someone had done that to her sister… Her fists clenched.

“And the healer?” she asked, voice hoarse.

“Oh, he will help you. And you will need his help. If you die, all of this becomes meaningless.” Mythal’s gaze softened, though only slightly. “But I suggest you don’t grow attached. I suspect he won’t want to stay.”

Rook closed her eyes for a long moment. There had to be another way. There was always another way. She just had to find it. 

And wasn’t that what she was supposed to be best at?