Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Morning
He lay on his side as morning's soft grey light caught in the silver of his dark hair. Even asleep, Emmrich’s face told his story: fine lines etched by laughter and age, a straight nose lending quiet dignity, and the faint stubble on his jaw suggesting a kind nature.
Rook lay unmoving, her chest tightening as she watched him. Each slow inhale deepened her ache to keep him close, every quiet exhale carrying away a sliver of her lingering anxiety while she studied his sleeping face.
The night had been full of restless dreams—flickers of fear and memory that would have kept her awake anywhere else. Here, with his arm around her, she slept better than she had since their first night together. The slow, steady rhythm of his breathing and the weight of his hand at her waist wrapped her in contentment, a warm embrace.
Rook's gaze wandered past him to the room as she blinked away the last dregs of sleep. Above, a canopy of deep green fabric hung, draped like leaves over a glade. Curling vines and blossoms covered the carved wooden posts. The sight reminded her of home. Heavy curtains in matching green flanked the windows like castle guards. Drawn just enough, the curtains allowed soft morning light to spill into the room.
Real comfort pulsed in her chest, so sharp and unexpected it brought hot tears to her eyes and tightened her throat, hope trembling just beneath the relief.
The bed was enormous, with maroon silk sheets and many pillows spilling across it, half tumbling onto the floor. She barked a laugh at the sight. Every surface gleamed in the low light: polished floors softened by Orlesian rugs, bronze-gilt furniture carved with scrollwork. In the air, myrrh mingled with her rose perfume.
It was a far cry from bedrolls on the ground or the crude comfort of Warden camps. The luxury still struck her—almost physically.
Her gaze was drawn back to him magnetically, a longing for his steady warmth rising as she sought the comfort of his presence, her heart fluttering in her chest.
A smile tugged at her uncertain lips as memories of last night sent a prickling wave of heat and shy, bubbling laughter through her, melting the last brittle edges of worry and leaving her flushed with vulnerable joy.
Careful not to wake him, she brushed his jawline with her fingertips, feeling the faint rasp of stubble beneath her touch. She traced his cheekbone, then gently brushed the silver at his temple, savoring the rare chance to let her eyes linger on his features.
His arm tightened.
He pulled her closer with a sleepy murmur, his warm palm resting at the small of her back until there was no space left between them. He held her tight, the simple grasp reminiscent of a boy clinging to a favorite toy.
For an instant, all her anxieties loosened. The tight coil in her belly unraveled and the world’s demands faded until only his warmth and quiet shielded her from panic.
Kisses and quiet murmurs roused him, not the crack of steel or a world falling apart. Just warmth. His mouth traced slow, reverent paths across her eyelids, cheek, and the corner of her mouth.
She couldn’t hold back a smile, one that trembled up from the hollow of her chest, startled and bright as sunrise, her throat tight with unspoken joy.
"Emmrich," she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.
Satin sheets whispered against her bare skin as she shifted closer. Maybe it was the sheets, or maybe, for once, the old weight was gone. No battles. No waiting for disaster. There was peace.
She pressed her face into his chest, gripping fistfuls of the sheet, needing this shelter; she wanted to anchor herself to his heartbeat, desperate for the moment’s safety to stretch on.
"Emmrich," she murmured again. "Don't you have a class to get to?" He sighed into her hair, a soft, indulgent sound.
"You cannot be late," she teased. "You are the professor." Her eyes opened, meeting his. He watched her, a small, warm smile curving his mouth, crow’s feet deepening.
Her gaze drifted down to her left hand.
The ruby ring glowed faintly in the pale light, the gold warm against her skin. She twisted her fingers, remembering the moment he gave it to her. His hands trembled so badly she thought he might faint. But he hadn’t. In the end, it was her knees that nearly gave out by nightfall, not his.
She wiggled her fingers and lifted her hand until his long fingers joined hers.
"Hey," she said, mock scolding. "I was looking at that."
"Not a hardship at all, darling," he said, kissing the center of her palm again. His long fingers trailed up her arm, lazy and slow. "Classes have been canceled today. There's a celebration in the city. Students are encouraged to attend."
They kissed again, slow and unhurried, each brush of lips a promise. Emmrich memorized her, the flutter of lashes, the soft sound she made as she melted against him.
Fatigue pooled in her again, but now it was welcome—a tide pulling her into his warmth, the thrum of his heartbeat steadying her uneven breath.
"Lie back," he whispered, shifting so her spine fit against him, arm around her middle. He pressed slow kisses along her shoulder, warm enough to chase away her nightmares.
I am safe here, she thought, letting her eyes close. This is exactly where I want to be.
"Just rest," he said softly, his breath warm against her hair. “I'll make us breakfast.”
Her lips curved in a sleepy smile as she burrowed closer, letting the slow, steady rhythm of his breath wrap around her like a blanket. For a moment, the world was just this: him, her, soft sheets, his mouth pressed gently to her temple.
No one else made her feel like this, she thought, just as she slipped toward sleep again.
And then there was a knock from their front door.
At first, they ignored it.
Then it came again. Louder.
Rook stiffened, a cold bolt of dread shooting through her chest, her heart hammering as she pressed her cheek harder against his racing pulse. Voice shaky, she murmured, "Tell me that was a bad dream," half-praying his denial could banish her fear.
"That was a bad dream," he said gravely.
The third round of knocking was not polite.
She groaned, throwing back the covers. "At this hour?"
It was barely past dawn. Muttering to herself, she sat up, the sheet pooling in her lap. A chill replaced the warmth they had felt. As she bent for her robe, her naked breasts peeked through. Straightening, she glanced to see if Emmrich was ready to rise. She froze like a Halla in the Anderfels. He hadn’t moved. Circling the bed, he prowled, eyes roaming over her, jaw tight, pupils wide. Rook understood all too well. “No, Emmrich.” She raised a hand, cold fingers pressing to his sternum to halt him. He paused. Displeasure was plain on his face.
Barefoot and hair wild, they padded through the apartment. The scent of sandalwood lingered, a soft echo of last night’s fire.
The bedroom opened into a long hall lined with framed sketches. The walls matched the same green as the curtains. Through a half-open door, she glimpsed his study—a warm world of mahogany shelves and golden firelight. At the end, the hallway opened into the sitting room.
The sitting room was all Nevarran elegance softened by comfort. Wide windows swathed in green drapes stood over carved bronze furniture. Low chairs circled a marble fireplace. Pale morning light turned everything to muted gold. It glinted off polished floors and the rich textures of Orlesian rugs.
The knocking came again as they reached the door.
When she opened it, cold morning air swept inside, and with it came Bellara.
She looked like she had run all the way here: curls coming loose, arms full of a precarious stack of letters, some tied, some spilling out like startled birds.
"Good, you are up," Bellara said, panting.
Emmrich blinked at her. "We were not."
Bellara shoved the stack into Rook’s arms. "Congratulations. Also, a catastrophe. The entire continent knows you are engaged."
Rook stared at her. "I am sorry. What?"
"It is everywhere. Someone leaked it." Bellara gestured wildly at the letters. "These are just from this morning. Every faction we have ever worked with is coming here today. They want to congratulate you. They want seats at the wedding of two Veilguard heroes. This has turned into a political summit. They will be here this afternoon."
"Here?"
"Yes. The Mourn Watch. The Mortalitasi. The Lords of Fortune. The Crows. Someone even signed a note as Respectfully, The Stone of Orzammar, which is probably an actual rock, but it still expects an invitation."
Rook blinked. "Today?"
"Yes."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Rook said, "Inside. Before someone sees you out here."
They steered Bellara through the hall and into Emmrich’s study.
The study felt like another world. Its walls were lined with books. The scent of parchment and old wood filled the room. mixed with the firelight, threw golden patterns on the rugs. Mahogany shelves groaned under tomes, their spines worn smooth. Scrolls and glass vials were scattered among the books. Trinkets from a lifetime of necromancy were tucked between them. Wisps of gentle blue light drifted near the ceiling, slow as moths, circling crown molding.
Bellara dropped into one of the deep leather chairs, clutching a stray letter like a talisman.
Rook dumped the heavy stack on the desk. The desk itself was a wide expanse of polished wood. Its surface was cluttered with maps, open books, and letters half-read. An inkpot sat near the tambour, next to a delicate glass orb filled with faintly glowing smoke.
"I swear to every god listening," Rook said, pressing both hands to the desk as if to hold herself in place, "if this turns into a week of handshakes and flattery, I am going to start handing out swords at the door."
Emmrich hummed from the sideboard where he was coaxing the kettle to life. "And then?"
"And then," she said, stabbing a finger at him without looking up, "we let them sort it out in the courtyard like civilized people."
Bellara made a thin, nervous noise that might have been a laugh.
Rook collapsed into the chair across from Bellara, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched in on herself. Her knuckles whitened as she yanked the robe tighter, glare fixed on the top letter as dread scraped raw beneath her skin. She rasped, "I hate this," frustration cracking in her voice.
"You have not read anything yet," Emmrich pointed out, voice maddeningly mild.
"I can feel the tone radiating off the paper."
He set a delicate porcelain cup on the table beside her, the faint steam curling upward like a benediction, and kissed the top of her hair as he passed. "Drink. Then we will sort through it."
"Easy for you to say," she said, glaring up at him. "You like people."
"I tolerate people," Emmrich corrected gently, lowering himself into the chair behind his desk. "I like you."
"Good for me," Rook said, reaching for the tea but not smiling.
Bellara glanced between them, twisting the corner of a letter in her hands. "This could be good," she said cautiously. "Support from every faction, maybe even funding."
"Bellara," Rook said, flat as an anvil.
"Yes?"
"Do not make me lock the door with a spell. You are on thin ice."
Bellara swallowed and tucked her legs up beneath her like a scolded child.
Rook tore open the first letter with a sharp rip and scanned it quickly, her lips curling. "From the Mourn Watch," she announced. "Offering congratulations and, and I quote, deeply honored to send our full retinue of death knights to stand guard at your ceremony. That is a solid no."
Emmrich sipped his tea. "Might be useful. They are very good at crowd control."
Rook shot him a look. "You just want them to scare the Crows."
"Can you blame me?" he asked mildly.
The second letter was from the Lords of Fortune, full of cheer and a promise to bring the full color of Antiva to the wedding. Rook pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Is this my life now? Is this what we have become?"
"You are famous," Bellara said, trying not to laugh.
"Do not remind me," Rook said, letting her head fall back against the chair. "I wanted something simple. Quiet. I wanted to marry him, not start a parade that ends in the Necropolis."
"You are marrying Emmrich Volkarin," Emmrich said gently. "I am afraid there is nothing quiet about that anymore."
Her eyes narrowed. "If I had wanted a parade, I would have married a duke."
Bellara bit her lip. "You might as well be marrying one," she whispered.
"Not helpful," Rook said through gritted teeth.
A silence settled for a moment, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the whistle of the kettle when it finally came to life.
Rook rubbed her temples. "This was supposed to be ours. You know? Before the world found out."
Emmrich leaned forward across the desk, his hand covering hers. His fingers were long and warm, grounding. "It still is."
Her eyes softened, just for a moment, before her mouth flattened again. "Well. It does not feel like it." She gestured at the pile of letters. "This feels like the world is clawing at the door. Again."
"And yet," Emmrich said, with a faint smile, "we have a door. And we will close it when we must. For now, we read."
Rook huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if she were not so irritated. "You make it sound so reasonable."
"Someone has to," he said, leaning back with his tea.
The third letter was from the Antivan Crows.
Rook did not even read it out loud. She skimmed two lines, went pale, and threw it across the room. "Absolutely not. If Zevran wants to come, fine, but if one more person says the word assassination in my wedding vows, I will"
"Burn the letter?" Emmrich offered.
"Burn the writer," Rook said.
Bellara giggled nervously. "Maybe just the letter?"
Rook stared at her over the rim of her tea.
"Letter," Bellara said quickly.
By the time she reached the fourth, she had slouched down in the chair, robe wrinkling at her hips, and was muttering under her breath. "We are not getting married. We are going to be presiding over a political circus. Maybe we should just elope in the woods. Let them all eat each other."
"Unfortunately," Emmrich said with deep calm, "they already know where we live."
"I hate this," she repeated, softer this time.
"I know," he said.
She looked at him for a long moment, something unspoken between them, then exhaled and pushed another letter across the desk with two fingers. "Fine. Read that one for me. I am going to drink this tea and pretend I cannot hear the sound of our life imploding."