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Chapter Text

There was something not quite right about her new husband, Rook thought as she stood opposite Lucanis Dellamorte in a resplendent gown of white. Something strange. Something… off.

Outwardly, he looked perfectly normal; handsome, even, in sombre black velvet and silver trimmings, with a silk cravat at his throat and his raven hair in a queue. His face was unsmiling but he wasn't frowning—showing neither pleasure nor displeasure at his upcoming nuptials. His voice was steady when they exchanged their vows. His hands were too when he slid her wedding band firmly onto her finger. But his eyes, as they watched her own hands shake to place the matching ring on his, were far too intense to be anything but warning.

When Rook managed to fit the ring past the callous of his second knuckle to the base of his finger, she swore his brown eyes flashed violet. For a second, she felt the temperature drop several degrees—as if a cold wind had descended upon the Villa gardens—and the hairs on the back of her neck, sticky now with unexplainable cold sweat, stood on end with the uncomfortable feeling of being watched by something… other.

And then it passed.

The warmth of the sunny day in the Villa Dellamorte gardens returned, and Rook's ears rung with the applause of their guests and witnesses. Someone was tossing flower petals in the air and it rained like blood drops above the pair—but Rook couldn't look away from her new husband's dark, knowing eyes.

And though his lips were warm when he slanted his mouth over hers, though his hand at her back was steady and strong, and her lungs were filled with the scent of coffee and blade oil and something indescribably electric—Rook couldn't help but shiver violently.

There was something off about Lucanis Dellamorte. But Rook couldn't say what it was.

The previous First Talon, Caterina Dellamorte, had three requests before her death.

The first was for her grandson Lucanis to succeed the title. He had been named First Talon before her body had even gone cold.

The second was for him to wed. Caterina had a curated list of candidates she had hand-selected, with merits and disadvantages listed beside each one. Rook had not even been near the top of the list—but it was to her that the only marriage contract had been delivered, just days after Caterina's funeral. Viago had thought it to be a mistake.

The third request was for him to sire an heir to continue the Dellamorte bloodline. The clause was not hidden or glossed over, but stated explicitly in the contract that arrived to House de Riva. Lucanis had not cared for the gender, nor how many heirs—he just needed at least one, and he would consider the request fulfilled.

These three things, Lucanis Dellamorte dutifully honoured—but it seemed he cared little for anything else.

Being wed to the new First Talon was no small affair. The wedding ceremony took most of the morning and the celebrations continued long into the night.

Rook felt as though every Crow in Antiva had been invited—certainly each of the Talon Houses had. Though Viago had reassuringly been close by for most of it, she could not hide behind his cloak anymore like a Fledgeling.

Her left hand, burdened with the unfamiliar weight of a ring, was tucked into the crook of Lucanis' arm as he stoically accepted the well-wishes of various guests. Her other hand held the stem of a glass filled with wine as dark as blood. She clutched it like a lifeline as she smiled tightly at the rolling compliments; 'Oh what a beautiful bride you make!' and 'What a fine match!' and 'It's about time you found yourself a wife, Lucanis!'. No one commented on how stiffly they stood together.

Rook had desperately caught Viago's eye several times. Each time she hoped he would call her away, or Maker-forbid, ask for a dance—but he always replied with a somewhat apologetic look and a minute shake of his head.

"Lucanis!" a smooth voice cut through the haze. Rook's gaze flickered back to her husband, and then at the unfamiliar man in front of him. Tanned skin and a flash of white teeth, and long hair bound neatly at the nape of his neck. "Will you not introduce me properly to your new wife?"

Rook startled as the man's piercing eyes were turned on her—blue as the sky she had been wed under not hours before. Lucanis' arm loosened around her hand, allowing the other to draw it into his gloved one to press a kiss to the cool metal of the ring.

Lucanis seemed unperturbed. "My cousin," he introduced tonelessly to her, "Illario."

Illario flashed her a wink. "The more handsome Dellamorte," he said with a crooked smile. He moved so animatedly—so much more human than her statue of a husband—that it made Rook slightly more at ease.

"I'm sure you heard my name at the ceremony," she replied politely, "But I go by Rook, to my friends. I hope we can be that in time."

Illario pressed his hand over his heart. "More than that," he corrected her, "We are family now." He gave his cousin a good-natured nudge with his elbow. "Lucanis is like a brother to me. I'm sure you will be like a sister before long."

Lucanis' expression remained unmoved. Illario's smile faltered for a moment. Then he forced it wider and gestured to the dancefloor behind them. "Would you care for a dance, Rook?" he asked courteously. "I have not seen you yet enjoy yourself. Surely my cousin is willing to part with his bride for a song?"

Rook's feet were aching from standing and talking, but the thought of a dance and getting away from her icy husband for at least a few minutes was just too enticing. She turned her eyes hopefully to Lucanis'.

He was expressionless for a moment. Then his eyes flickered oddly—as if he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He shook his head to clear his mind. "Very well," he said, gesturing them onward stiffly. "But keep an eye out, Illario."

"Don't worry. I'll keep her safe," Illario promised as he took Rook's hand again. It felt warm in hers, even through his gloves.

As they descended onto the dancefloor, the band began to strike up a new song, and the strange chill she had felt since Lucanis had kissed her at the altar felt like it was finally beginning to dissipate. Music and dancers swelled like a storm around her, and Rook soon found herself lost in the spinning waves and the warmth of another's hands.

And once she started, she couldn't stop. She danced until her feet bled—twirling from partner to partner—suddenly desperate to take her mind off the wedding, and her husband, and what she knew would soon follow that night.

But no matter how far she danced or whose arms she was in, she swore she could still feel a strange, dark gaze strike between her shoulder blades, scraping like a blunt knife down the bones of her spine.

Rook performed her marital duty on her hands and knees at the foot of their bed. Her forehead, beaded with sweat, was pressed to the mattress, and her hair spilled forward like wine, dark against the white sheets. Lucanis pushed into her slowly but unrelentingly.

He was still fully dressed in his wedding garments behind her. One hand was braced on the mattress by her trembling shoulders, and the other splayed tight across her bare hip bone. His wedding ring was cold against their flushed skin. Though earlier, he had given them both a pink vial of aphrodisiac—a gift, he said, from Viago, to ease their first night—Rook's anxiousness kept her body tense as a bow.

Her fingers fisted in the sheets as he moved inside her, devastatingly slow as her body struggled to take him in. She fought to keep silent when he seemed unable to go deeper—when she seemed too tight to allow him further in—and he was forced to twist his hips back sharply and nudge her knees wider apart.

The bed shuddered as he tried again.

Rook muffled the moan with her own teeth in her arm. The foreign feeling of his body burying itself so fully in hers was both exhilarating and overwhelming—stretching her taut like he was crawling into her skin, settling himself within her throat. She tried to cant her hips forward, to escape the unforgiving pressure, but he just followed her deeper with a shaky groan.

"Too deep," she gasped. She reached back blindly to grasp at his hand on her hip. "It's too much." She tugged pleadingly at his wrist.

He withdrew again. This time, he thrust back in shallower.

Lucanis set a jerky rhythm behind her. It was uneven at first as they both grew accustomed to the unfamiliar sensation. Then, as her body relaxed fractionally around him, he settled into a more comfortable pace. It gave Rook more room to breathe.

She tried to focus on counting steady breaths as he worked. She turned to gaze blindly at the candlelight by the bedside—anything to distract her from the strange friction growing between them and the odd thrumming in her belly. The flames flickered slightly in the night air, jostled perhaps by the vigour of their coupling—but strangely the longer she continued to watch, the more violently they wavered as if in the winds of a hurricane.

She frowned.

A shiver of shadows suddenly pulsed through the room as every candle flickered as one. She felt Lucanis shudder above her. And then that unnatural chill again, like Winter's grasp, flooded the air in an instant. The corner shadows grew—blooming like a bloodstain, dark and sudden across the bedroom walls in a familiar shape. Wings.

Like the wings of an angel. Or perhaps a demon. Or something else unholy in between. They unfurled from the shadow of her husband, flexing and flaring until they seemed to encircle the whole room. In a blink, the yellow light turned purple—and there was a sudden, eerie feeling that there was something else in the room with them.

Gasping, Rook tried to turn around—tried to look over her shoulder to see if there was truly something coming out of Lucanis' spine—

—but then his hips stuttered. He fell forward, catching himself on his forearms and pinning her to the bed. The breath was driven from her lungs. She was consumed with the feeling of his heavy weight pressing deeper inside, the cool metal of his coat buttons against her naked back, and then the unfamiliar intimacy of liquid heat pooling in between her thighs.

The darkness seemed to recede from the room. When Rook blinked and looked up again, the candle flames were yellow and steady, with not even a hint of a flicker. There were no shadows on the walls except that of her and her husband's bodies tangled as one.

There was no one there, but them.

Viago had made sure she knew what she was getting into. A few weeks before Rook had even accepted the betrothal, he had ushered her into the privacy of his office, locked the door, and grimly handed her a dossier. It was several pages thick of everything he knew about Lucanis Dellamorte—all his biological quirks, his mannerisms, his skillset, and course, his contracts. And it wasn't like she had never heard of him before. She had already known his nickname from how often he was mentioned in the news columns. The Magekiller, was what many called him, or the Demon of Vyrantium that haunted the Tevinter Imperium. He was there on a contract more often than he was home in Treviso.

But Rook hadn't expected he would leave so soon.

After they had consummated their marriage, he had all but fled from their chambers. Rook slept restlessly alone in the unfamiliar bed, in the new master bedroom in the Villa of a House she had not even been joined to for a day—unable to forget what she swore she saw when he had driven himself deep inside her. Nothing in the dossier had hinted at anything like that.

Strange dreams plagued her, of a thousand violet eyes watching from the shadows, of black feathers soaking in a pool of blood, and of being sunk several hundred leagues beneath the sea, unable to breathe or to speak, as fish the size of castles swam serenely above her.

Rook awoke to the sun was streaming cheerfully through the windows, and Lucanis having long since left the city.

Dear Viago,

I have tried not to write too soon, lest I appear like a Fledgeling on her first contract away from home—but it appears two weeks is my limit.

It has taken me longer than expected to find the Dellamorte's rookery, but the caw of the birds and the rustle of feathers in their cages gives me comfort in an unfamiliar place. It takes me back to the memory of where you first found me and my namesake. Even now as I sit here under a similar table, I wonder when I look up, if I will see you crouching there with your hand outstretched to take me home.

House Dellamorte is like a tomb. I do not know how it was when Caterina still lived, but it is now run by a grim-faced skeleton crew of servants who I am certain are avoiding me—or else perhaps they have been instructed to respect my privacy and leave me be. It is like I am the only person here alive.

'Where is Lucanis?' I can already hear you asking. My husband has been in Tevinter since the wedding. He has apparently left some instruction for the servants on how things should be run while he is away, but he has left no message for me, nor any word of when he is to return. I think he cares not for what I do at all.

But fear not—I am staying put as you have asked me, so that I keep my end of the contract. I spend my days exploring this enormous Villa and cataloguing every room. I think it is the only thing that will keep me from going insane.

Viago, if you are able, I beg you to send some work my way. I am still a Crow, even if my husband thinks I am some sort of trophy wife he can leave dusty on a shelf. Let me feel useful again instead of rotting here in this opulent coffin.

Rook de R Dellamorte

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #6

The Kitchen & Pantry

This is the only room in the Villa where I have regularly encountered the servants employed by House Dellamorte. They cook here three meals a day, and disappear every other time, but at least I have the place to myself when I want a snack.

The kitchen is large and fully stocked with foodstuffs and ingredients to feed a family of ten—and yet I am quite sure I am the only recipient so far. Everything is neatly labelled and organised into sacks and baskets. For some reason, there appears to be an excessive abundance of coffee beans buried in the lower cabinets.

Someone has moved my favourite tin of tea to the top shelf, where I cannot reach without climbing the cabinets like a child.

Four weeks after the wedding, Rook stumbled downstairs in the early hours of the morning to find a surprise guest in the kitchen making himself coffee. He had his back turned and was barefoot, in nothing but a half-buttoned shirt and a pair of silk sleep pants. Strangely, there was not a servant in sight.

He didn't notice her until he turned to pour his cup.

"Mierda!" he cursed. He spilled nearly half of the brew on the counter. "Rook! Maker's breath. I forgot you lived here." He had to set the pot back down to mop up the spilled coffee.

Rook stepped forward cautiously, tying her own dressing gown tighter around herself. "Well, you're not the only one," she replied wryly. "Do you need… help?"

"No, I just—mierda. It got on my pants," he huffed exasperatedly. "I had a long night. Thought I'd come home for a bit and make a coffee. I forgot I'm not the only other Dellamorte in here now."

Rook took pity watching Illario try to herd the puddle of coffee when he was clearly hungover. She rinsed a dish rag into a basin of water and then nudged him out of the way. "Here. Let me."

"Ah. Thank you." He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. Rook could smell the alcohol on him and see the dark smudges under his eyes—doubtless from the productive evening before. "Forgive me," he rubbed his face tiredly. "It's been… a night. I didn't mean to disturb your morning."

She methodically wiped the counter. "You're not. In fact, I could do with a disturbance."

He blinked. "You could?" He paused. "Well. Then, let me make you a cup too. It is the least I can do."

He twisted to reach for the cupboard above her head with the ease of someone who knew this kitchen well. His shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of his waist as he plucked a matching mug by the handle and set it beside his. "Do you take your coffee with cream or sugar?" Illario asked, pouring her cup first. "We have honey in the pantry too, I think." The comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air. It felt oddly domestic after weeks of silence.

Rook tossed the soiled dishrag into the laundry hamper in the corner. "Just cream, if we have it."

He found a pot of it as Rook began assembling a breakfast tray. "Lavender-infused," he read aloud the little label on the jar. "Hm. Wonder what that tastes like." He gave it a tentative sniff. Then turned and wiggled the jar at her. "What do you think, Rook?" he said with a half-hearted grin. "Coffee with honey and lavender cream might be an interesting combination."

Rook's lips twitched into a smile despite herself. She shrugged. "Sure," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "Why not?"

She finished slicing a small loaf of fresh bread, and added it to her half-assembled tray. She blinked at the assortment. Pastries, butter, and fruit. She had unconsciously gathered enough for two people. She slowly looked back up to where Illario was stirring cream into both their mugs.

"Illario?" she asked tentatively. "Do you want to have breakfast with me? I've appeared to have made enough food for the both of us."

He lowered his spoon, surprised. "You… want my company?"

She cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. "I mean, only if you aren't busy." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

He watched her for a moment. His eyes flickered over her in her dressing gown, the ink stains on her hand from writing all night, and the tiredness in her eyes that mirrored his. "…Sure," he echoed her earlier answer slowly. "Why not?"

Rook,

I regret to say that as I am no longer the Talon of your House, I cannot assign you a contract like I have in the past—but I have heard your plea. I will see if I can send some work your way which you can accept on behalf of House Dellamorte. It may not be your usual jobs but it will at least give you an excuse to leave your extravagant tomb.

For Lucanis to have asked for you personally and yet not made use of your full capability—either makes him a fool, or makes me extremely suspicious. Regardless of the circumstances, they do not excuse the neglect my best Crow. Let us both make sure to remind him of this, and so we do not regret accepting his offer in the first place.

Know that I do not take lightly what you have traded away to secure my position as Talon. You have always been my most loyal supporter, Rook. I will not forget this, no matter how far we are between cities, and no matter how many times you change your surname. Whatever else you wish or require, ask, and I will see what I can do.

Continue to write to me. Your letters will inhabit the rookery here in your absence, in that little place under the table.

Viago

Illario began to drop by more often. It was not always regular—sometimes he would be there every day of the week, and other times, just the once—but Rook found herself looking forward to waking up to the now familiar scent of coffee and honey and lavender cream.

With the servants continuing to make themselves scarce, it felt like the Villa came to life every time Illario was home. The kitchen felt warmer and lighter when Rook peeked around the corner in her dressing gown and saw the tall Crow there. He would always make them matching cups of coffee—with honey and lavender cream like the first time— and he would turn around silhouetted in the sun, with that crooked smile and twinkling eyes.

They would chat a little by the kitchen counter, drinking slowly and savouring both the warmth of the brew and the company of another. Illario would tell her of his latest contracts and the outside world (for Rook had not ventured much outside the Villa in case Lucanis was to return). His retold escapades were always dramatic and at times, raunchy, and oddly hilarious. The kitchen would echo strangely with their laughter, as if unused to having that sound within its halls.

Rook would in turn, ask him questions about the different rooms of the House that she had discovered the day before. He always had an interesting fact or story to go along with them, and knew every hidden passage.

"I can't believe you found the secret hallway behind the Music Room," he snorted as he swirled the coffee in his cup. "Lucanis and I only found it when we were ten because I'd tossed him into the wall!"

Eventually, they began to take breakfast together too. Rook's favourite spot to eat was in the solar of one of the guestrooms—which she had decided to move into instead of the master bedroom as it faced the morning sun. The balcony windows opened straight into the garden, and they'd bathe in the warm light as they picked indulgently at their pastries and fruit.

Illario was the picture of lazy elegance that morning as he lounged beside her in a dressing gown, half-open over his bare chest with his long legs crossed at the ankles. The light played lovingly along the slant of his cheekbones, shimmering against the golden tint of his skin. The steam from their too-sweet coffees curled gently in the air.

"It's still not as good as Lucanis makes it," he grimaced after the first swallow. "He always had a knack for brewing it just right every time."

Rook blew gently over the top of her steaming mug. "Luckily for you, I wouldn't know any better," she answered coolly. She took a tentative sip. "And I quite like how you make it."

The corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile.

It stunned her, for a moment, how beautiful he was. His hair was casually loose for once, falling in gentle waves around his face. It softened the sharp planes of his cheekbones. His smile put a dimple in his cheek, and the softness in his eyes that sparkled blue like the waters of Rialto Bay made the pit of Rook's stomach burst into butterflies.

The moment broke as Illario cleared his throat suddenly and tore his gaze away.

"Lucanis should be returning home soon," he said abruptly. "I think I read in the papers that a certain magister in Marnas Pell took a tumble out of the tallest tower in the city. I'm pretty sure that was his target."

"R-Right." Though she had been waiting for him, the thought of Lucanis returning and breaking the strange sort of peace Rook had settled into in the Villa was oddly disappointing. It would probably mean less breakfasts with Illario and more waking up to her husband's cold back.

She hid her discomfort by idly traced the rim of her cup. "Illario," she said slowly, "Has Lucanis… said anything? About me? I am afraid I've displeased him somehow, but I honestly don't think we've had enough conversation for there to be anything to be displeased about."

Illario raised his eyebrows. "Why would he be displeased with you?" he said in surprise. "I thought he picked you for himself out of a list of eligible Crows."

Rook shrugged. "I am as lost as you. We'd never met before this. But I… we haven't really talked, since the wedding. I fear he is avoiding me."

Illario's expression softened. "I'm sure it is nothing you did," he consoled her gently. "You've been dutiful. And kind. I… I'll talk to him. He's an idiot sometimes, with people—I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding."

She lowered her eyes to her coffee. "Thank you," she murmured. "I wasn't sure if… if he was always like this. Or if it was just with me."

Something like pity flickered in his eyes.

"It's not you, Rook, it's… He's always been a little dour, but he has been more aloof since Caterina passed away. And even before that since he returned from the one-year contract in the Ossuary." Illario hesitated. Then carefully reached across the table and patted her hand comfortingly. His hand was warmer than the sun. "So it's nothing you did, I promise. Let me talk to him. I'll tell him to come home at once and to be more considerate to his wife."

Rook flushed. "I-It's fine," she said hurriedly. "This was an arranged marriage. I don't expect to be—"

"Arranged or not, you are a Dellamorte now," he interrupted, "And Dellamortes always look after our own. I think he has forgotten that." He cleared his throat. Then added quietly, "And besides, I know what it feels like to be left behind. It is... not a pleasant feeling."

Rook's eyes stung hot with unwanted tears. Illario tactfully didn't comment when she clutched his hand back and turned her cheek into his shoulder, nor when he felt dampness through the thin robe. They both just turned their gazes out at the blue sky outside and finished their coffee in silence.

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #14

The Library

The Villa boasts a large collection of texts and tomes, which according to Illario, have been handed down through generations. There are maps and ancient lineages, histories and combat manuals, as well as the journals of previous Dellamorte heirs. I have tried to read two of them, but they are so sad and violent that I have decided it is better for my health if I stopped.

There is also a copy of every contract a Dellamorte Crow has completed. I have taken some time to read more on my husband's history. He has been taking back-to-back contracts since he was sixteen—which is awfully young, I think, for a newly Fledged Crow. Illario had mentioned a contract in the Ossuary which he took one year to complete. It is by far the longest in his recorded history and the strangest, for all details that had been meticulously described in his previous contracts are missing from this one. It is as if someone has removed them entirely.

All I know is that his target was the Venatori prison warden named Calivan, and that when he returned, he took two months break from work—and then married me. It is the longest gap in his history. 

I must ask Illario more about this job later, as the description of the Ossuary matches what I have seen in my dreams. I think it may hold some answers to the peculiarities that plague my husband.

Rook's knife was still satisfyingly wet with mage blood when she swung her window open and landed soundlessly in her bedroom. The moonlight poured in with her; silver and luminous, and pooling across her bedroom floor like a river. She followed it absently as it ran across her woven rugs, the cold tiles by the fireplace, and up a silhouetted pair of boots—

Lucanis snatched her throwing knife from the air with an infuriatingly lazy swipe, just inches from his face.

"L-Lucanis," she breathed when she recognised the shape of his hair and his broad shoulders. She slowly lowered the second knife she had poised between her fingers. "You… you startled me."

The moonlight threw his features into sharp relief as he stepped forward, dressed to the chin in his combat leathers. "You're not using the master suite," was all he said in reply. He pointedly glanced around her bedroom.

Unlike the opulent but impersonal room that housed their wedding bed, this one was filled to the brim with all sorts of trinkets and souvenirs from her contracts and travels. Viago had sent up boxes of them to try and make her feel more at home. Lucanis viewed them all expressionlessly as he slowly set her throwing knife on her desk. He idly picked up a random bauble—an Antaam Commander's pin.

Rook had wanted to be calm when she met him. To not show how much it had hurt when he had abandoned her for two months, and to ask him why he had been avoiding her. But the sight of him in her most personal space and touching her most treasured possessions sparked something a little ugly instead.

"Why should I?" she retorted coldly. She swept forward and snatched the pin from his hands. "I have no need for a room as large as that when you're never here anyway." She slammed it back down on the desk.

He paused. Then crossed his arms. "So it seems," he said coolly. "Where were you tonight?"

"On a job." She returned her throwing knife to its sheath on her gauntlet.

"Where?" he repeated.

She stepped carefully around him to her armoire in the corner. "Porto Blanco," she replied shortly.

"You were not to leave the city."

"Porto Blanco is just the next town over. And I did not stay there overnight." She began unstrapping her weapons. "Not that I owe you reports on my whereabouts when you haven't had the courtesy to do the same."

His face was unreadable. "I asked you not to leave the city unguarded for your own safety," he reminded her warningly, "And I'm the Talon of this House, not you. I need to be made aware if you take a contract."

She shrugged as she took out all her knives and began to hang them up on their proper hooks in the wardrobe. "And you will be. When I file the report officially." He would be entertained, she thinks, or perhaps insulted, when he finds out that her client had been initially looking for the Magekiller. But Rook figured that in this case, they wouldn't really know the difference, and she could kill a mage just as easily as her husband.

She left out her bloodier knives in a separate pile to clean later. "If you are afraid I have not been fulfilling my end of the contract, don't be. I haven't left Treviso for months. You were just unlucky to have caught me on the one night I was out."

"Or perhaps you are the unlucky one," he countered swiftly, "To have been caught at all."

Perhaps she was, Rook thought idly. She removed her boots and hung up her cloak. She was about to unbutton her tunic when she hesitated—more than aware of her husband's looming presence behind her—but then remembered he had just about seen everything anyway.

She began to disrobe. "Why are you here, Lucanis?" she asked, deliberately not looking in his direction. "Breaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night? Surely whatever it is can wait until morning."

Lucanis watched her with arms crossed and his head cocked like a predatory bird. "I think you know why I have to be here," he said quietly. Her clothes fell carelessly into the pile at her feet.

She let out a humourless laugh as she scooped them up as one heap and tossed it into the laundry hamper. "So this is it, then? What our marriage is to be?" She reached next for the cloth at her wash basin to wipe away the blood and dust from her job. "Months of silence—in which we are mostly not even in the same country—interrupted by random nights where you turn up at my door and I let you between my legs?"

It didn't look like she was going to get a nice, relaxing bath tonight, she thought dismally. Instead, she dunked the cloth in the basin's cool water and scrubbed at her face until her shoulders relaxed. She sluiced it down her neck and her arms, and across her ribs. All the while, Lucanis watched silently.

He took a step forward. "You signed a contract," he reminded her. She glanced up to see he was watching her slide the cloth down her hip, but his eyes remained cool. "I have given you peace and privacy. I have not disturbed your life."

His next step brought him but a metre away from her. She slowly straightened to full height. "All I ask in return is an heir," he continued softly. His eyes flickered to her flat belly, bare and glistening softly from the damp wash cloth. "And since you are not yet with child, you know we must keep trying."

She felt a jolt in her abdomen from the heat of his gaze—but it twisted into a restless coil at the thought of carrying a child for her distant husband. She masked her uneasiness with a scoff. "F-Fine." She swallowed and tossed the cloth back in the basin, ran her fingers through her hair and untangled it roughly. "Fine. Let's get this over with. Though you'd better have one of Viago's potions with you. I can't say my body is exactly eager at the thought of us doing that again."

Lucanis' eyes flickered down once more. Her body betrayed her—trembling and peaking under his attention in the moonlight. She flushed.

But Lucanis didn't call her bluff. He merely plucked two sealed vials from his potions belt in a familiar pale pink. He handed one wordlessly to her. She took the aphrodisiac with unsteady fingers.

His eyes didn't leave hers as they drank it in one swallow, at the same time.

She set the empty vial by her bedside. "How do you want me?" Rook asked with a voice steadier than her limbs as she moved naked to the end of the bed. "Same as last time?"

Lucanis followed behind her silently. "Yes," he replied. He didn't take off any clothing, but had to unbuckle a few straps to get to his belt. "Don't worry. I'll make this quick."

Rook rolled her eyes as she kneeled on the bed. "Exactly what any wife wants to hear," she muttered. Her husband didn't reply.

Like before, Lucanis didn't touch her any more than he had to. The aphrodisiac did most of the work to get her warmed up—just pliant and wet enough to allow him entry. His hand settled on her hip to steady himself—gloved this time, she noted, as if he could not bear to touch her skin—but that was the only place he dared to hold. She inhaled sharply as he mounted her in one smooth stroke.

There was no candles she could watch this time to distract her; only moonlight across the headboard, the leather grip on her bare waist, and the rocking of his body. And though he was not cruel, not rough—for she could feel the way he held back his strength and the shortened length of his strokes—he still stretched her uncomfortably full.

She tried to focus on relaxing. Tried to focus on being professionally detached like he was. She shifted her knees further apart and counted her breaths, anything to stop herself from being distracted by the growing friction of his body moving hot within her.

But it took longer than he promised. More than a few torturous minutes in which she began to feel sensations not wholly unpleasant—gradually warm and tingly—before Rook felt his rhythm start to shift. Long and slow strokes gave way to a tight circle grind, hitting a part of her that shot sparks of ecstasy dancing up her spine. His breath began to quicken as he chased his own pleasure. And there—!

Violet flashed across the walls like lightning. A strange purple glow that could not be attributed to moonlight burst from behind her. A gust of wind ran up the backs of her thighs, followed by the brush of something soft. And then that same sudden chill descended like a fog and raised goosebumps on her flesh.

The grip on her waist tightened painfully hard. A soft murmur came from behind her—so low she could barely hear it—"No, no… not here!" But before she could turn around, Lucanis was pushing her head and shoulders into the mattress.

He spilled his seed inside her as she gasped facedown, and he held her there until he finished trembling. The entire time, she was afraid to look up. He knew, she realised, wide-eyed in her own sheets as violet lights flashed around them like a storm. He knew there was something wrong, something there, and he had stopped her from looking. It was the confirmation she needed to know everything she had seen and felt so far was real.

But how was she to voice it?

Lucanis didn't give her a chance. Once he caught his breath, he withdrew abruptly. She felt the absence of his body immediately as he was replaced with the cooling night air. A slide of metal as he refastened his belt. And then her curtains were swaying back into place, and he was gone.

But not without a trace.

On the carpet next to the bed where he had stood, lay three scattered black feathers—much larger than that of any messenger crow—edged in violet.

That night she dreamed of iron bars and swaying cages, the creak of rusty chains and the whimpering of the damned. In the shadows she saw a monster completely swathed in dark feathers, whose body she could see nothing of except for six glowing, violet eyes. They looked directly at her and she felt as if they could see her to the bone.

A croaking voice she never heard before cried out, "HELP US!"

And then she woke with a start.

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #21

Illario's Room

There are many bedrooms within the Villa. Most of them are empty, or for guests that the family never seem to entertain. But today I have found the wing where the children used to live—well, when there still used to be children. Illario's childhood bedroom is still here.

Illario doesn't linger in the Villa. Though he breaks his fast with me often now, he only seems to visit the kitchen and his bedroom to sleep off a late night. He told me I could have a peek, if I wanted, and he wouldn't be offended. He has another apartment in the city where he keeps most of his personal belongings.

His bedroom here is not lavishly furnished but the rugs and the linens are of good quality. There are some books here—more frivolous in nature than I expected—and old toys, such as the well-worn carvings of Crows and knights and ships. There are some boardgames and decks of cards stashed in corners, as well as favours from previous lovers and admirers in a box (ribbons and pins and the like).

There is also a hidden door that leads to the room beside it. It is furnished nearly identically to this one, except the books are all poetry and escapist romances; the toys are more of deadly snakes and wyverns; and though there is no box of ribbons, there is instead the most impressive array of ornate knives. I have a sneaking suspicion this room once belonged to Lucanis.

If so, then it is difficult to reconcile the boy who once lived here with the cold man that is now my husband. I would have thought a man who so loves his romances would not treat his wife with such apathy.

It was rare for Rook to see Illario in the evenings, but he had surprised her by turning up at her door at sunset with a bottle of Orlesian brandy and a familiar boardgame tucked under his arm.

"I forgot I had it until you mentioned you saw it in my room," he said excitedly as they set up the chessboard on a table in her solar. The setting sun was golden through the arched windows of the room and warm against the floor tiles. "I used to make Lucanis play against me every night," he laughed. "He got sick of it after a year or two. And since then, well…" He shrugged with that same lopsided grin again. "I guess I never had anyone else to play with."

The game brought out a boyish side of Illario that Rook found both amusing and endearing. They fixed themselves some snacks alongside the board and poured a generous glass of brandy each. All the while, he rambled a little about the history of chess and the different variations that were played in Southern Thedas compared to the North.

"What colour do you usually play?" Rook asked him once the board was between them and all the pieces lined up.

"Lucanis always played black and I would play white. But you can choose whichever colour you like," he told her graciously.

Rook chose black.

The sun sunk slowly below the horizon as they began to play at a leisurely pace, moving one thoughtful piece at a time with plenty of snickering commentary inbetween. Rook was no chess master, but she knew how to play, and figured Illario was just looking for a slow, easy game that night.

"More brandy?" he offered when she had lost half her pieces in the first fifteen minutes.

She grimaced and nudged her empty glass across. "Might as well. Can't play worse than this." She crossed her legs as she shifted in her seat—then winced.

Illario noticed and frowned, lowering the bottle. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she waved him off.

"You were in pain."

Rook flushed. "Just a bit… sore," she admitted reluctantly. "Lucanis visited me earlier in the week."

He paused. Then lowered his voice. "He wasn't… violent with you, was he?" he said uneasily. 

"No, no," she said quickly, "Nothing like that. He can just be a little intense when we…" She trailed off embarrassedly. She cleared her throat. "Well. You know. Always just takes me a little bit to recover."

Illario didn't look relieved. His frown only grew deeper. "He should know his own strength," he said slowly, "Lucanis is always careful with how he interacts with others."

"Well perhaps it's different when he's in the throes of… passion," she said lamely, though passionate was hardly the word she could use to describe their coupling.

…But if she did think about it, Lucanis' stiff demeanour and tight control only seemed to unravel when he was deep inside her—when he would start to hold her too tight, or push in too far—as if he was no longer wholly in command of his own body. And it was always at these times when those strange, unexplainable events would start to occur.

The sun was a sliver now on the skyline. She watched as the last of its golden light glimmered, and then disappeared with a wink.

"Illario," she said slowly as he took an agitated sip of his drink, "I've been meaning to ask you... Have you noticed anything odd about Lucanis lately?"

Illario's hand stilled.

Rook went on carefully. "If he's been acting strange or… or unusual since he's come back from that contract in the Ossuary?"

He put down his glass slowly. "The contract in the Ossuary?" he repeated. "What… do you know of it?"

She shrugged. "Not much. Only that it is the only contract missing from the records. And that he was there for a year, which was unusual."

Illario sighed. "It was." He idly spun a chess piece between his fingers. "He is usually very efficient in his contracts. But that time… he was gone so long, we thought he died. And when he came back alive as if nothing happened… we almost couldn't believe it."

"But you agree he's been a bit… off? Since then?" Rook pressed.

He met her eyes hesitantly. "Look, Rook, he… doesn't talk about it. What happened there. I think…" He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "I think he was tortured," he admitted, "Badly. Maybe worse. He won't tell a soul about what happened. He…" Illario raked his hand agitatedly through his hair. "He… was never this aloof. Not this quiet.

"When he came back, he'd ignore any suggestion I'd make to reconnect—to go for drinks or do anything together. Like he'd forgotten we were like brothers once. Instead he would lock himself in his room and not come out for hours. I'm pretty sure he stopped sleeping at some point too. Whatever happened…" He swallowed. "It was bad. And if he is a little different because of it, I'm not surprised."

"Of course," she murmured. She felt a pang of shame at jumping to conclusions. "I never meant to… I mean, I'm sure it was a very traumatic experience. He can't have come back the exact same man he was."

He gave her a solemn nod. "Everything has happened so fast since he's returned. Caterina passing away. His rise to First Talon. His marriage to you." He softened. "I know he's been cold to both of us but… I think he's still processing everything. We just need to give him time."

Rook gave him a tight smile. "You're right. I'm sure it will… fade away soon." She looked down at the chessboard and moved a piece at random.

They played a few more turns but the playful air of the evening had vanished with the sun. She steadily lost more and more pieces but she hardly cared. Her mind was still turning the peculiarities of her husband around in her head; his too-careful movements, the unexplainable chills, the violet lights she would see flashed in his eyes or across the bedroom walls. The feathers.

"You're still troubled," Illario noted as he slid his queen to checkmate. "About Lucanis." He leaned back in his chair.

Rook gave a humourless laugh. "I… I don't know, Illario. I think maybe I'm just losing my mind."

"Rook, you are probably the most sane person in this household." He poured her another drink. "Tell me. So that I might ease your burden."

She bit her lip. Dusk had settled now, a quiet blanket of darkness over the Villa. The only light came from the stars and the oil lanterns in her room.

"I see things, sometimes," she confessed quietly in the secret of night. "Strange things when I'm with Lucanis. Shadows and lights and wind where there shouldn't be any. And I feel cold… so cold. And a…" She swallowed. Raised her eyes nervously to meet his. "…A presence. Like there's someone… something else there."

Illario frowned. "Something else?" he echoed, but Rook was glad he was taking her seriously.

"Yes," she whispered. "Something not of this world. Something from beyond the Veil." Illario stiffened. Rook swallowed. "You've never felt that?"

He shook his head uneasily. "He can be strange, yes, but I've never felt anything supernatural."

Maybe she was crazy, Rook thought. She licked her lips nervously and tried one more time. "Is… is Lucanis a mage?"

He startled. "A mage? Lucanis?" The confusion threw him slightly. "No, no. He has always been sensitive to the Fade and to magic being cast but he has never shown signs of any magical ability."

"Right," she said slowly. "Okay. I just had a thought that maybe he… had somehow picked up a cursed object or a malevolent spirit there." She swallowed. "But I-I supposed if he isn't a mage then… it should be impossible, right?"

"That's impossible," he agreed. "A spirit would have no interest in a non-mage."

Rook laughed nervously. "Yes. Of course."

"And he's the Magekiller," he continued reassuringly. "He knows how to defend himself from spirits and curses." He gave her hand a pat. "So don't worry, Rook. It can't be that. He has no connection with the Fade. These strange sensations you've felt… maybe it's something in the Villa and not from him." He waved his hand around the room airily. "Maker knows it's an old house and there's some weird objects and rooms here. I wouldn't be surprised if the Veil is a little thin."

Rook forced a smile back. "I'm sure that's it. Newlywed nerves and big empty house." Though she had never felt those sensations when Lucanis wasn't there, she thought privately.

Then Illario's warm hand was on her shoulder, soothing her anxieties with a touch. "You just need time to settle in," he told her gently, "And Lucanis needs time to get used to life here again. We just all need to be a little patient, Rook."

She relished in the warmth of his hand as she pressed hers against it. "Thank you, Illario," she said with a more genuine smile this time. "Well, at least I have you to anchor me in the middle of all this madness."

He gave her that favourite crooked smile of his. "And I have you," he agreed, "And you are infinitely better company than Lucanis these days." Then he picked up his rook chess piece and wiggled it at her playfully. "Now. Ready to lose another game?"

Rook laughed. "Alright, another round then." She reached to reset the board. "But next time," she said with a smile, "We're playing Wicked Grace."

Later, she would check in secret the drawer of her bedside table to see the three black feathers she had nestled there. She touched them gently to make sure they were real, and sighed in relief when she felt them soft beneath her fingertips.

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #33

The First Talon's Office

I know I shouldn't be here, but I still need answers. My instincts continue to tell me that whatever plagues my husband is from beyond the Veil. Though Illario is right in that a spirit can only possess a mage, that doesn't mean they can't inhabit other objects.

I am looking to see if he brought anything back from the Ossuary. If he did, I'm sure he would have kept it in his securely locked office. The windows had hair trigger traps and the door knob was coated in a corrosive acid—but I wouldn't be Crow of House de Riva if I couldn't get past a few minor obstacles.

It is an intimidating office for the workspace of the First Talon—thick drapes that block the light, dark mahogany wood, and tall, looming furniture. Designed to impress. It is filled with paperwork, contracts, and research papers. I found three cabinets filled with dossiers alone. There are a few trophies; foreign trinkets and blades and bones from contracts I probably don't want to hear about. But nothing that looks to have been brought back from a Venatori prison.

A slight chill emanates from the large desk in the centre of the room. I find the source in the bottom drawer: several vials of blood, dark and thick and recently drawn. I am not certain whose, but I can guess. If I hold one up to the light, the blood swirls as if it has a life of its own, and I think I can see a flash of violet.

It was the middle of the night when Rook startled awake at a sudden sound. Glass breaking and a muffled thump. Something heavy being dragged on carpet.

In a split second she is sitting upright and wide alert—her years of Crow instincts kicking in. She gripped the knife hidden under her pillow and padded barefoot to her bedroom door. She pressed an ear to the wooden surface. There was a creak of another door opening but not quite closing.

Rook slowly but silently turned her own doorknob. Almost complete darkness greeted her. Only one brazier was lit in the hallway outside, but it was burning low on oil. In the dim glow, she could make out an empty corridor. No figures loomed there, but as she continued to look, she saw something glint wetly on the floor.

Blood. A pattern in the shape of a man's dark footprints, trailing along the hallway and disappearing into the master bedroom.

She tried to steady her shaky breath. She should probably stay put, she thought. She could see in the morning if there was anything worth worrying about. Or she could go and get Illario. But there was no guarantee he was in the Villa at all. His nights were usually when he worked his contracts.

Or she could go by herself now, the small part of her mind whispered to her. If the footprints belonged to her husband, then maybe she could confront him. It was an extremely rare occurrence that he would be home and not have gone to see her. She would be catching him off-guard.

Her feet were moving before her mind caught up. The brazier's light flickered as she crept up the hallway. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet alongside the bloody tracks as she kept her eyes on the door at the end of the corridor. It was still left ajar. In the gap she could see light—soft and flickering from a freshly lit candle.

She barely dared to breathe as she neared it, stifling any sound with her own hand pressed over her mouth when she reached the doorframe. She could hear ragged panting inside. Then a pained grunt. Rook froze.

Was he… injured? For some reason, the thought that the blood had belonged to him had never crossed her mind. Guilt flashed through her, of being a terrible wife.

"L-Lucanis?" she dared to whisper. "Are you alright?" She pushed the door gingerly. It swung open with an eerie creak.

The room was almost completely dark, save for three candles that had been lit in the corner. There was a trail of leather armour on the floor, unbuckled haphazardly—and then she saw her husband's silhouette leaning against the wall. He was sitting on a low divan by the wash basin. Next to him were rolls of bandages on the side table and a wicked-looking dagger. As she stepped closer, she could smell the salty, metallic tang of blood and a hit of strong alcohol.

"…Rook?" His voice was rough—gravelly and uneven, strained in pain.

"You're hurt," she realised. She closed the door behind her. Left her dagger on a side table. "Maker. That's a lot of blood."

"Leave me." The command was brusque—but there was no bite to it, only pain.

Rook was too shocked to be offended. "Don't be ridiculous. Let me help." She was kneeling at his side before she knew it. His hands were bloodied to the wrist trying to bandage his own side. A knife wound—small but effective, if the way he was hunched over gave any indication. "Do you have healing potions?"

"They don't… work…" he said raggedly. "Alcohol. Stitches." He pointed weakly to the tools he'd set out on the side table. Clearly part of a medical kit he'd packed.

"The old fashioned way," she muttered. She automatically picked up the bottle of whisky first. She soaked a clean rag in it, grimacing at the smell, and then turned to face Lucanis. He grimly lifted his shirt, and then the bloodied hand that had been holding his wound shut. She replaced it swiftly with the rag and pressed hard.

He groaned out loud, the sound ripping from his throat like a growl. For a moment she thought his eyes flashed purple, but it was gone before she could blink. "I… I have to clean the wound properly," she said slowly. "You'll have to take off your shirt."

She couldn't see his expression in the low light but he was silent for a moment, breathing unevenly. Then he began fumbling for his buttons.

It felt oddly intimate, she thought, to see him undress when he had never done so in her presence before. His movements were jerky—stiff with discomfort. "What did you mean when you said the potions don't work?" she asked to distract him. The rag was swiftly beginning to darken.

"I'm immune," he replied shortly. He reached the last button and then tried to shrug out of the sleeves. "Used too many in the past. Now they don't—ngh—" Rook felt his side spasm in agony as he twisted too far. She used her free hand to help unhook his arm from his sleeve. "—they don't work like they… they used to."

He was naked from the waist up now. Rook tried not to stare at the swathes of sinewy muscle, rippling in the candlelight, nor at the multitude of barely-healed scars that clawed up his body. Far too many to be accidental, and far too new to have been from anything other than from the Ossuary. Evidence of torture.

Illario had been right.

Lucanis half-reclined on the cushions as she worked. She cleaned the wound as best she could before taking the needle and thread from his medical kit. Beneath her hands, she could feel him trying to regulate the way his chest rose up and down with his breaths. The weight of his dark eyes were heavy on her nimble fingers sewing up his side with neat, even stitches—the way Viago had taught her—and then as the pain or the delirium got to him, she felt him gaze upon her face.

"Why… are you here?" he asked her after a while. The candles were beginning to burn low. His voice slurred slightly. "You could have let me bleed out."

She glanced at him. He looked strangely softer in the light. Younger, somehow. "I am your wife," she replied curtly. She returned to focusing on her stitches.

"Not a happy wife."

"Oh? What gave it away?"

"…Illario said so."

She snorted. She hadn't realised he could be funny. "Doesn't mean I want my husband dead." She cut the thread with the dagger. Then smeared a liberal amount of healing salve on the closed wound and prayed it did its job. "Sit up again," she urged him, "I have to bandage your side now."

He propped himself up groggily. He seemed so vulnerable in this situation. So human. Rook tried to ignore how his muscles tensed under his weight, the way they flexed and shifted as she wrapped rolls of clean bandages around his middle. The way they twitched when her fingertips grazed over his abdomen.

"Careful," he grunted warningly when they swiped a little too low in her haste. A muscle jumped in his thigh. He gripped her wrist and pulled her away. "I'll… I'll do it."

She flushed and dropped the bandage. Let him finish pulling it across his body as she cleared her throat and turned to tidy up a little. She tried to wash his blood off her own hands in the basin, but it was so dark she could barely tell if the water ran clear or scarlet.

Afterwards, she helped him stagger to the bed—their marriage bed, she recognised, which had been untouched since their wedding night. She tried to lower him gently, but he was heavier than she anticipated. She stumbled. They tripped with a pained groan across the covers.

His face landed inches from hers. He was so close, she could see the pupils of his eyes dilate in the low candlelight and feel his uneven breath on her lips. And she realised that despite everything they'd done, this was the most intimate they'd ever been—him half-naked and her in her nightdress, both stained with his blood and tangled together on their bed. 

Her breath caught in her throat as Lucanis stared back. His eyes, glazed with pain and delirium, traced slowly over the curve of her cheek, her hair that spilled down her neck and their sheets, and finally her lips, half-parted in wonder.

Then he flinched. "You… You can't be here," he murmured, "With me." He turned resolutely to face the ceiling. "Go back to bed."

"Lucanis…"

He needs time, she remembered Illario telling her. She reached out hesitantly to touch him, to comfort him—but Lucanis was faster. He caught her wrist before she could land. His eyes had hardened coldly. "Don't touch me."

The rejection stung like a barb. Like an ice cold knife hammered in the space between her ribs. It hurt more than Rook wanted to admit.

"Is this really how our marriage is to be?" she whispered.

Lucanis closed his eyes and turned his head away in response. Rook's wrist went limp in his grip. "Are we really to have no relationship outside our marital duty?" she said hollowly.

His silence rang in answer.

She swallowed hard the lump in her throat. "I see," she said, voice shaking slightly. "Then forgive me. I… won't try again." She wrenched herself from his hand and pushed herself upright. "Goodnight," she said hurriedly. She stumbled to her feet in the dark, half-blind with tears. "And please see a healer in the morning. I'll leave you to—"

"Rook."

Lucanis caught her arm again. The momentum swung her back into the bed, sending her sprawling to her knees beside his thighs. "I don't mean to..." he tried, "...I can't…" She caught herself inches from his face. In the reflection of his eyes, she saw the wetness on her own cheeks. He dropped his gaze and released her abruptly.

"Why not?" she begged tearfully. "We're married, Lucanis!" He winced. "Bound in contract. Sealed in blood. I am stuck in this house with you forever." The finality of the words scared even herself. She felt them both shudder violently. "…I am a Dellamorte now, forever," she repeated softer. She brushed a hand against his shoulder, her wedding ring a cool reminder against his skin. "Are you really going to push me away for the rest of our lives?"

He leaned into her hand helplessly, drawn irrestistably like a moth to a flame. "Are you never going to touch me?" she whispered, "Never going to confide in me what haunts you?" He stilled beneath her. Her voice cracked. "Will you really only seek my presence to find pleasure in my body?"

When he raised his tortured eyes to hers, they were full of agony.

Rook felt more tears spill uncontrollably down her cheeks. She lowered her voice, trembling. "Will you be this distant when I finally give you an heir?" she whispered. "B-Because I don't know if I can do it, Lucanis." Her breath came faster and faster. "I-I don't know if I can do it alone in this empty house. If I can raise a child when their father won't even look in my direction. If I can tell them that their father still loves them even though he never comes home, even though he leaves for months at a time without a word of when he is to return, even if he has never shown a hint of affection for me—"

Lucanis stilled her lips with his own.

He tasted like warm blood and coffee, salty tears and the tang of the whisky she had used to clean his wound. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her quivering lips. His beard brushed against her skin as he pressed an apologetic kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I'm sorry."

Rook wept silently as she kissed him back. Couldn't help but clutch his shoulders as she pressed feverishly to him—wanting, despite herself, for any scrap of affection he'd give her. He sighed as she ran her hand through his hair and grasped at the scarred skin of his back.

She let him lay her down on their wedding bed—let him crawl back over her, open her mouth with his lips and apologise with his tongue until she moaned. Perhaps she was wrong, she thought hazily when he finally broke away for a breath. Perhaps she was wrong and this was the man beneath the stone cold exterior all along and she just had to find him. Her eyes slid shut as he kissed his way downwards—hot, open-mouthed kisses as he sucked bruises on the column of her throat. She could feel the raspy texture of his beard and then a sharp graze of teeth, as if he couldn't help himself to test it against her skin. His hands slipped her lacy sleeves down the curve of her shoulders.

When he took the peak of her breast in his mouth, she cried. She tangled her hand in his hair and raked her other down his back until he groaned. Her spine arched into his searing mouth, and she was tugging him desperately for more.

She didn't notice the temperature in the room dropping until her gasps began to fog. Then her roaming hands on his back hit the base of something strange—something feather-soft and moving in between his shoulder blades. The feeling was so foreign that it pulled her out of her daze. Her fingers followed thin membrane and feathers and—

Rook's eyes snapped open.

Black wings burst from the body of her husband—stretching long enough that the feathered tips skimmed the walls and the ceiling, eclipsing the candlelight behind him. On each of his wings was a glowing violet eye—six altogether—gazing down at her like stained-glass windows in a chantry.

"L-Lucanis..." Her breath stuck in her throat. Her trembling hands fumbled for the edge of his jaw, and then she was urging him to look up at her, to face her, so she could see for herself—

It was not Lucanis.

It was his face and his features but it was someone else in his skin. 

For his brown eyes were filled violet with unholy light and his lips stretched demonically in a too-wide smile—revealing a row of pointed, razor-sharp teeth.

She screamed.

She dreams of the Fade. It is infinite and expansive—an endless swirl of colours and light and memories long forgotten. She is floating. Peaceful, like how a star drifts in the sky. And then she is ripped from it—torn in half and wrenched through a pinhole to a screaming cacophony of pain and blood and horror—

A woman's voice sings. It is unfamiliar and pitched low in a lilting Tevene accent. "My beautiful crow," she croons, but all Rook could feel is waves of revulsion and fear and terror—

There is a door. It is iron-barred and creaking ominously on its hinges. Rook has a strange and intense feeling that she needs to escape. When she pushes against the door, it gives way easily, swinging to reveal… another door. Wooden, this time, and carved with the Dellamorte crest. She presses it with a palm but it doesn't move. She throws her whole weight against it until her shoulder aches, and it explodes into a shower of splinters. She runs through it gasping—but the next door is steel.

She has to get out.

She hurls herself at it, again and again, claws at it with her nails until they bleed. And she knows after this door, there will be another. And another after that. But there is only one way out and it is through here and so she must keep trying—SHE HAS TO KEEP TRYING—I MUST KEEP TRYING—I WANT OUT—OUT—LET ME OUT—LET ME OUT—

Rook blinks awake in the master bedroom of Villa Dellamorte. She is alone. There are no bloody footprints in the hallway outside, nor blood on the divan or in the water in the basin. In fact, there is no trace that her husband had been there at all that night.

When she pushes herself unsteadily to her feet and sees she is still fully dressed in her nightgown in the mirror, she relaxes. Maybe it was all a dream after all. But then a smudge of red draws her eye.

A lovebite in the hollow beneath her jaw. Another, dark and bruised purple over the pulse of her throat. Her heart beats faster and faster. She pulls the neckline of her gown aside and there's more: a passionate trail of teeth marks in growing blooms of mottled red and purple, all the way to the peak of her breast.

She meets her own haunted eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

Something was very wrong with Lucanis Dellamorte. And Rook was quite sure he was possessed by a demon.

Chapter Text

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #48

The Portrait Gallery

In the east wing of the Villa is a very long room whose walls are lined with portraits. The gallery is so dusty that it appears to have had no visitors for months.

Each one is of a Dellamorte Crow ancestor. Some are larger than others, in gilded frames rather than simple wooden borders. Others even have curtains around them and small objects in front like a shrine. I recognise none of them, of course, except for Lucanis and Illario.

It is a little strange to see the faces of long-dead strangers with their familiar nose, or the set of their brows, or their strong chin and jaw, or their eyes. The only portrait of Illario here is when he was a child with his parents.

Lucanis has two. One is with his mother, and the other is when he was promoted to First Talon. It is a sombre portrait but it rather realistically captures his brooding expression. However, any further details are obscured, as someone has vandalised this portrait and this one only.

Three long talon marks have been carved down the face of this painting, and the word 'Demon' has been scrawled in the corner.

Illario was fully dressed for once when Rook finally made her way downstairs, in a billowy white shirt tucked into a pair of leather breeches like a roguish prince of Antiva. The kitchen was peacefully still—awash in cloud-filtered light, with nothing disturbing the quiet but the soothing sound of steaming coffee pouring into identical ceramic mugs. Rook watched Illario's broad shoulders shift beneath silk as he carefully stirred in the cream.

"Morning, Rook," he greeted cheerfully when she neared the kitchen counter. "Sorry I can't stay for breakfast this time. I have a meeting with an informant, but I have a few minutes for coffee if you do?" He raised his eyes to hers with a bright smile—but it faded slowly as he took in her unusually pale visage.

Rook couldn't hide the tightness around her eyes, nor the tense set to her shoulders, nor the slight tremble in her hands as she gratefully took her mug. It was reassuringly warm in her white-knuckled grip.

Illario frowned. "Are you…" He trailed off as his gaze fell upon the reddened marks peeking over the neck of her dressing gown. A vivid splash of colour in the grey stillness of the kitchen.

When she hesitantly turned her face up to meet Illario's, she saw something hard in his eyes. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. "…Lucanis was here last night?" he asked abruptly.

Rook hid her wobbling lip in her cup. "Yes," she said after a few moments of tense silence. "Though I'm sure he's long gone now." She swallowed a mouthful of too-hot coffee. Then hurriedly pushed his mug towards him. "Here, Illario, you should drink too before it gets cold." The movement shifted her dressing gown slightly, slipping a few inches below her neck.

Illario caught the edge before Rook could pull it back up. 

His face was unreadable as he slowly pulled the fabric further to the side, uncovering the teeth marks and love bites that trailed their way downwards, disappearing into the lace of her night dress.

She could tell him, Rook realised as Illario's mouth settled into a tense line. She could tell him about Lucanis—about what she saw that night—and maybe with the proof on her skin and the black feathers in her bedside table, he would believe her.

…But then again, it was still no light matter to accuse one's cousin of being an abomination. No matter how estranged their relationship, it wouldn't be an easy thing to hear. And it still should have been physically impossible. How could she even begin to explain—

They were interrupted by a quiet knock at the door.

A Dellamorte maid peeked in, with eyes carefully turned down to the floor. "Master Illario," she murmured as Illario slowly released his grip on her gown and stepped back. "Mistress Rook. The family healer is here to see you."

Rook blinked in confusion. "Me?" She readjusted the drape of her dressing gown. "I didn't call for a healer."

The maid bowed her head. "No, signora. Master Lucanis called for one. She is waiting in your solar."

Lucanis, Rook thought warily. If anyone needed a healer, it was him. Why would he…?

"Is Lucanis here too?" she couldn't help but ask. The maid shook her head. Of course not. Rook smoothed back an errant strand of her hair. "Right." She gave Illario a forced smile. "I should probably see what this is about. You go on to your meeting. I'll see you some other time."

Illario frowned uneasily. "Rook, I can stay for a few minutes," he offered, "If you don't want to be alone for this."

"It is a private appointment for the Mistress," the maid interjected.

"He's family," Rook replied automatically. "And I…" She swallowed and glanced up at him. Illario met her gaze steadily. There was no insistence in his expression, just concern. She brushed her fingers against his sleeve. "I'd appreciate you being there," she admitted, "If you don't mind."

He gave a single nod. "Of course."

The steady drum of rain against the roof tiles echoed through the silence of Rook's solar. It was a heavy shower that brought with it a sticky humidity and the warm, north-easterly winds from Rivain—a taste of the Summer that was soon to come. The sun that usually streamed so cheerily through the Villa gardens and the double-bay windows, was hidden that day behind a sea of grey clouds.

Rook felt a prick in her arm—a familiar hot sting that always preceded the flow of blood. Her eyes glanced down to where the healer collected a sample of it from the vein that throbbed in her elbow.

"Is she ill with some malady, signora?" Illario asked from where he hovered with crossed arms beside Rook. "Or is she… injured, in some way?" His eyes flickered reluctantly once more over the evidence of Lucanis' attentions on her neck.

"No, signor," the healer answered calmly. She sealed the vial and her wound with a spell. "Master Lucanis has simply asked me to check on her health." She cast another diagnostic spell over the little vial of blood. It glowed green with magic. "And to see if there is anything we can do to increase the likelihood of conception."

"Oh," he said. Illario cleared his throat and shifted his weight. He exchanged an uncomfortable look with Rook. "Right… No such luck on that front, yet?"

Rook just shook her head. "No," she said simply. Several months married and still no hint of a child. She neatly folded her sleeve back down to her wrist.

The healer made a few notes in her journal. "How often are you two intimate?"

Rook shrugged as Illario pretended to look out the window. "Not often enough," she admitted. "Once every few months. My husband is away frequently." And she didn't think it would change.

The healer made another note. "You two should attempt to make it a few times a month for reasonable chances. Your blood is showing some deficiencies as well that is common in noble ladies." She glanced up at Rook. "I would recommend regular sun and fresh air to strengthen the body."

"I take a walk around the garden every day," Rook replied.

"I meant outside of the Villa," the healer corrected, "Not just for your physical health, but your mental wellbeing. Being within the same grounds for too long can cause undue stress." She gave her a knowing look. "A child will be more likely to take root if you are more relaxed."

Rook didn't think she could ever be relaxed again. Not when she now knew her husband was possessed by a demon.

Perhaps if she couldn't tell Illario, then she could write to Viago. She wasn't sure if he'd believe her, but he always did listen… But if he did deem her husband a threat—that he was no longer a man—then she feared he would order a hit on the First Talon. And if he did and he failed, she wasn't sure Lucanis would spare him.

"…Mistress Rook?"

Rook shook herself out of her thoughts. "Sorry," she said. She cleared her throat. "I'm afraid my husband gets a little anxious when I leave the Villa for too long. I'm not sure if I—"

"I can take you," Illario interrupted suddenly. She blinked and looked up at him. "If Lucanis is worried about your safety," he said hesitantly, "I can be a… guardian, of sorts. A companion. He can't complain if I'm with you."

"You'll… take me around the city?" Rook repeated slowly.

He nodded. "Sure. We can see the sights. Or go shopping. Wherever you want to go."

"Good," said the healer. She made another note in the journal. Probably to report back to Lucanis later, Rook thought. "Otherwise, physically, you seem in good enough health. I am sure with more frequent coupling, it won't be too long until you receive the good news." Rook shifted a little uncomfortably but the healer went on. "Now, there was one other thing Master Lucanis mentioned you might have been having trouble with…"

Rook frowned in confusion. "He did?"

The healer gave a side glance at Illario. He looked back coolly, making no motion to move. The rain beat harder against the windows. She lowered her voice. "He said you may have been having some… hallucinations," she said discreetly.

The blood drained out of Rook's face.

The healer went on carefully, "That you've been seeing things that aren't there. It is nothing to be ashamed of—common even, amongst noble women in large estates such as this—but if so, then there is some medication I can give you—"

"That won't be necessary," Rook cut her off tightly. Her palms were clammy now and the back of her neck damp with sweat. Hallucinations. He was trying to make her look insane, she realised, so that no one would believe her. She swallowed and gave a terse smile. "I haven't been seeing anything worth reporting," she assured the healer, "You can tell him that."

The healer paused. Then looked back down at her journal to make another note. "I see," she said in a voice a little too calm.

"Is that all?" Rook said abruptly. "I wish to have the rest of the day to myself now."

"Of course, signora," the healer murmured. "I will give you some health tonics for you to take, but you may leave first."

Rook tried to look calm as she gathered her skirts and stood up. Illario watched her with too sharp eyes as she brushed past him. "Rook, are you—"

"I'm fine, Illario," she said as he fell into step beside her and they left the solar. The corridor was blissfully dim. "Thank you, for staying. I don't mean to keep you from your work."

His hand was gentle on her elbow. "Rook," he said lowly, "She mentioned hallucinations. You told me before that you saw—"

"Nothing," she said immediately. "I saw nothing." Her smile was tight as she squeezed his hand back. "I was being ridiculous. Don't worry about it."

Illario slowly lowered his hand. "I… all right. If you say so." He didn't sound convinced, but he cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair. "I suppose I am running late so I should get going. Will you be all right by yourself today?"

She forced a smile. "Of course. You know I always am."

He nodded. "Very well." He gave her a slightly awkward pat on the shoulder. "You should lay down and get some rest," he suggested, "Since it looks like Lucanis kept you up all night. And tomorrow, if it isn't raining, maybe I can take you into Treviso?"

Rook released a breath she didn't know she was holding. A day in Treviso sounded so normal after all this. Her eyes softened when she smiled this time. "I look forward to it," she said genuinely.

His mouth pulled into a smile. "Then it's a date."

Dear Viago,

There is something I need to tell you

If I told you that my husband was

Do you think it is possible for someone who is not a mage to be

I hope you are well, and that the horrendous storm that just passed has missed the coast of Salle. I still remember that one two Summers ago that took your front door off its hinges, and half the sand off the beach. I hope it is not so greedy this time.

I am writing to ask if you happen to have any contacts who are an expert on spirits? I have a little problem that I can't solve with books alone. If you can set up a correspondence for me, it would greatly ease my mind.

Let me know,

Rook de Dellamorte
(I am still unused to writing my name!)

The rains and the storm continued for another week before Illario could finally make good on his word—during which both of them ended up mostly indoors. Their usually bright, sunlit mornings turned dreamy dove-grey; a little safe haven in the round space of her solar as the trees shook and trembled wildly outside. It felt like there was no one else in the world but them. She lost track of time as they traded stories around her little table, with their too-sweet coffees and the chessboard between them.

Then when the sun rose too high in the sky to be considered 'morning' any longer, Illario reluctantly took his leave. Though the weather impacted his usual work outdoors, he still had plenty of paperwork to do to sort out his own contracts and payments and never-ending correspondence. Rook let him go with the promise of tomorrow. After all, there were always more rooms of the Villa to explore.

In the evenings when all was still except for the wind and the rain banging on the window panes, she took a lantern and went down to the Villa's Library. It was dark and gloomy there, but she lit every brazier she could until it simmered with a reddish glow. Then she curled up on a chaise lounge and spent the rest of the night reading every tome they had on spirits and demonic possession, until she finally slipped away into uneasy dreams.

On the eighth day, the heavy clouds finally moved on from the coast of Antiva. The sight of crystal blue skies when Rook flung the windows open and the warm smell of the sea that swirled into the room, seemed to lift some of the heaviness in her heart.

"It's time!" Illario announced when he brought her coffee that morning. The scent was sweet and comforting, but nothing compared to the mischievous smile that graced his face. "We're going out today. Wherever you want." He flourished a low, exaggerated bow. "I am at your disposal, Lady Dellamorte."

Rook snorted and batted his head until he straightened with a grin. "Stop that," she laughed. "And you're sure you don't have something better to do? A contract? Work? I don't want to be keeping you from something."

"No-one is more important than the First Talon's wife," Illario replied pompously. He folded his hands behind his back like a soldier. "Besides, I'm in between jobs. Might as well make use of me while I'm still available," he winked.

"Well then," she smiled and quirked her brows at him, "I do not intend to waste a single minute."

They raced each other across the Trevisan rooftops in broad daylight—soaring and jumping and spinning through the air between buildings. Illario moved with enviable grace, his jacket flying behind him like a cape and his braided hair whipping down his broad back. Rook matched his loping gait with her own quick feet, and exhilarated at the feeling of the wind in her hair.

Illario showed her how to use the clever ziplines that criss-crossed through the Trevisan skyline. Her joyous laughter turned breathless over the beauty of the crystal canals below. And when their cheeks were flush with exertion, he brought them down to the street level, where they could stroll along the harbour and watch the ships pull into the port.

"It's like Salle," Rook told him with a homesick sigh. "The boats and the Bay. The sea birds."

Illario ambled leisurely beside her, looking rakishly handsome with his open collar and his hair blowing in the wind. "Except Salle smells a lot more like fish," he teased with an exaggerated sniff.

She couldn't help but laugh. "It does," she agreed, "But well… I still miss it. It's home."

His eyes softened slightly as he watched her gaze into the glittering waves. "Maybe you should go back and visit," he suggested as they passed a group of tittering children. They ran and ducked around the posts in the pier. "I'm sure Viago would let you, if you asked."

Rook sighed. "I shouldn't," she said reluctantly. "I signed a contract with Lucanis. I… I need to do my duty here first."

"You're not a prisoner, Rook."

"No," she agreed, "But we all have our responsibilities. And the House always comes first."

Illario, unfortunately, looked like he understood. He grimaced with sympathy. Then he gently took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. "Come on," he said, steering them the other way. "I know how to take our minds off things."

He took her on a shopping spree in the Market District. They lingered at every stall, perusing all sorts of wares from craftsmen and artisans; fine-spun clothes imported from Orlais and Nevarra; jewellery and accessories inlaid with Rialto Bay pearls; ribbons and feathered hats in every colour; and the most luxurious of Antivan leathers crafted into supple boots and gloves and fashionable belts.

"You have access to our House coffers, you know," Illario told her with a sly grin. "All of Lucanis' gold is yours too." He jingled his coin pouch enticingly in front of her. "You don't need to be afraid of spending some of it."

"Oh, I shouldn't," Rook tried to protest, "It's his hard-earned gold."

"He hardly uses it!" Illario said dismissively. "If he isn't going to spend it on his wife, then we must do the job for him."

Illario, she found, was a dangerous influence.

They spent it on frivolous things; sweet treats and snacks in the form of sugar-dusted pastries and deep-fried dough; a new deck of playing cards and a set of hand-carved dice; and a ribbon, Rook insisted, for Illario's hair. "I've seen your little collection in your room," she reminded him with a smirk, "And since I am yet another great Illario admirer, it would be remiss of me not to add to it."

Illario rolled his eyes, but good-naturedly let her purchase a pretty teal ribbon. She relished in threading it into the thick braid of his hair, and tied it off with a little bow. In return, Illario bought her a bouquet of Summer blooms—wild flowers of pinks and reds and sunny yellow—and deftly wove them into a crown.

"What a neat little party trick," Rook teased as he arranged it carefully atop her head. "You do this for all your victims, Dellamorte?"

"Only the ones I'm fond of, Dellamorte," he replied with a smirk. He adjusted a daisy to sit right above her ear. If she returned to his arm with pinker cheeks than usual, he was gracious enough to not make a comment.

The Markets grew rowdier as they shopped into the late afternoon, filling with Antivans who were desperate to enjoy the good weather. The smell of food was soon weaving through the crowds; of spices and oil, fresh seafood and spun sugar. Rook was lulled into the golden atmosphere and the laughter of the streets, and the reassuring feeling of Illario's strong arm beneath her hands.

It was sunset by the time they finally reached the last few rows of patterned tents and stalls. "Oh, we must buy a set of these," Rook said as they passed a little pottery vendor who sold ceramic bowls and vases and mugs.

"A pair of matching cups?" Illario raised his eyebrows as he peered over her shoulder. "How forward of you, Rook. Next thing I know, you'll be asking me to move in."

She snorted and nudged him with her elbow. "Come on. It can be part of our little morning ritual," she told him. "Tell me which one you like. This one's on me—I have my own gold too, you know."

Illario tried to roll his eyes again—but she caught the dimple in his cheek as he failed to suppress a pleased smile.

They deliberated at the stall for a while as the sun set lower and lower on the horizon, and eventually settled on a pair of white cups trimmed in purple, with the likeness of a lavender imprinted on its surface. It was almost dark when Illario packed away their wrapped ceramics in his bag.

"Maker, the day's just flown by! Should we start heading back to the Villa?" Rook asked him as lanterns across the Marketplace began lighting up like fireflies. "Or did you want to have dinner first?"

"Actually," he said, "I have a reservation for us at a popular café not far from here. Thought we could end the day the way we started it."

"Oh?" Rook said, amused as he led the way with a chivalrous hand wave. "What coffee can stand up to the one you make every morning?"

He snorted. "You haven't tried the blends at Café Pietra yet," he told her in a dramatic undertone. "You won't be saying that once you've tasted the elixir of the gods. Or well, that's what Lucanis would probably say about it." He slung his arm across her shoulders. "Either way, they make a good roast and also cook up a mean paella. Come on."

The café was nestled in a hidden balcony against a sky full of stars, overlooking the winding canals that were lit golden with firelight. A bard strummed a lute as they sat at a cosy table by the railing, and her sweet voice soon joined the smell of brewing coffee and spices in the air.

"This is beautiful," Rook murmured when Illario returned after ordering them both drinks. "The view alone makes it worth it."

"Treviso is the best city in the world," Illario agreed, leaning back in his chair with an easy grace. "It is a shame you haven't had the chance to enjoy it properly until now."

She smiled shyly at him. "Thank you," she told him honestly, "For spending the day with me. And, well, for spending any time with me when you can. I can't express how much I enjoy every minute of your company."

"Well, I suppose you haven't had many other options," Illario tried quip back, but his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. "And I enjoy yours as well," he confessed, "More than I would have ever thought. The last two years have been so strange and quiet, I felt for a while like nothing was anchoring me in Treviso. But with you here now…" He glanced up at her through his eyelashes. "It makes home a little warmer. Like there is still a home to return to." His lips pulled up into a crooked smile.

Rook felt warmth bloom in her belly and flare her cheeks. She dropped her gaze—suddenly unable to hold eye contact when he looked so perfectly handsome against the stars and in the golden lanternlight. It stirred up an unfamiliar emotion in her—a dangerous one—and one she dared not to indulge lest she disturb the fragile peace in her life.

"Andoral's Breath," the waiter announced as he slid their cups onto the table. "Your food will be arriving shortly."

"Oh! Thank you," Rook murmured, looking up, "It smells wonder—" She broke off as the waiter slid a third cup onto the table. She blinked in confusion, but before she could say anything—

"Illario."

Rook was plunged into a sudden chill —and despite the fact it was a late Spring evening, she gave an uncontrollable shiver. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. All ambient sound of customers and the singer seemed to muffle into silence. And then out of the corner of her eye, she saw him; a dark shadow that concentrated into the shape of her husband, moving with unnatural grace as he materialised beside their table.

Her breath stilled in her lungs. Lucanis looked ill—more tired than when she last saw him—with dark circles under his eyes and paler than he'd ever been. But his shoulders were still held high, the turn of his head still sharp, and… he looked human. There was not a trace of the demon—no wings on his back, no purple in his eyes, no hint of what she had seen that night. Instead, his gaze was dark and piercing as he took in the sight of them.

"You said you had information, Illario," Lucanis continued slowly, frighteningly expressionless. "I hope you didn't call me here to waste my time."

"Lucanis!" Illario stood up with a forced smile. "Don't be like that, cousin. Come sit with us."

Lucanis didn't move. "What information do you have?" he repeated lowly. He glanced at Rook and the flowers in her hair… then the ribbon in Illario's. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You said my wife was in danger." He tilted his head. "Did you lie to me?"

Rook shivered again at the coldness in his voice. Illario tried to lay a soothing hand on his cousin' shoulder, but met only air. "I didn't say that, Lucanis," he said carefully, "I said that I had information concerning Rook's health."

Lucanis deliberately did not look her way. "The healer said she was fine."

"And she is," Illario said, "Physically. But Lucanis…" He gave Rook an apologetic look. "You need to work on your relationship. Both of you. It isn't right, what has been going on the last few months."

Lucanis' coat flared as he turned on his heel. "I'm leaving."

Illario was in front of him in an instant, with a hand on his chest. "Lucanis," he said quietly, "Please. One night." His hand tightened. "We are a family—all that is left of House Dellamorte—and the three of us have not even had one dinner together. Is that not ludicrous to you?"

Lucanis stared back unblinking. Illario waved his hand at the scenery—at the stars and the bustling venue and the canals below. "This was your favourite café once," he said, voice breaking a little. "I don't know if you've been back since the Ossuary, but I thought it would be good to start here. Coffee. Food. A little company. Please?" He lowered his voice even more. "If not for your wife, then for me?"

Lucanis' face was unreadable. Rook swallowed nervously as she watched him meet the gaze of his cousin, and something unsaid seemed to pass between the two of them.

Lucanis very slowly pulled out a chair.

"Thirty minutes," he said as he lowered himself stiffly. He took the seat opposite Rook, not beside her. "And then I'm leaving. I have to catch a ship tonight."

Illario forced a smile on his face as he sat back down. "Of course. Half an hour is plenty to spare." He turned to Rook. "You don't mind, do you Rook? I thought… I thought it would be a good chance for us to all eat together."

Rook nodded with a stiff smile. "Not at all," she said despite the fact that she had never shared a meal with her husband. "It… it was a good idea. You're always so thoughtful."

The sweet, cosy atmosphere of the café seemed to have vanished in an instant. She felt suddenly hyper-aware of Lucanis sitting just inches away from her. And the way he finally stared back, he was too. The heavy weight of the demon laid unsaid on the table between them.

She felt a cold prickle on the back of her neck again, and wondered if the creature was here too.

"A-Are you well, Lucanis?" she said awkwardly. Rook hid her unease by bringing her coffee cup closer to her. The porcelain was warm in her hands, and the aroma of the brew intoxicating, but she could barely look at it when her husband's eyes were boring into her like he was reading every thought that crossed her mind. "Your injury—"

"I'm fine."

"You were injured?" Illario said, surprised. "You didn't tell me."

Lucanis drew his own mug to himself. "It was minor," he said as if Rook had not found him bleeding out just days before, "And it is healed now." He brought the cup to his nose and inhaled deeply. His eyes slid shut for a moment.

"G-Good," Rook said, "That's good to hear." She took a nervous sip but couldn't taste a thing. "And you said you are leaving soon? I didn't even realise you were still in Treviso." He had been hiding from her, she realised, for the past week. Somewhere other than the Villa.

"Just until the storm passed," he replied stiffly. "No ships were leaving the harbour until today."

"I see."

There was a pause. "I was going to see you tonight," he said reluctantly, "Before I left. We need to… talk."

Her eyes lowered at his meaning. Right. "Of course." It would be the last time he could lay with her before leaving for probably another month or two.

Lucanis looked vaguely ill at the thought. He raised his cup distractedly and swirled it a few times before taking a sip. He swallowed. And for a moment, the tightness around his eyes softened and the furrow in his brow eased. She thought she heard him give the smallest sigh.

"Still your favourite brew?" Illario prompted him gently.

When Lucanis opened his eyes again, they looked almost gold in the lanternlight—softer and tired. "Yes," he murmured. "Still."

Illario looked pleased. He took his own deep sip and let out a satisfied hum. "What do you think of it, Rook?" he asked her.

Rook tried again. She swallowed and attempted to pick out the flavours in the aftertaste. "It's… good," she said hesitantly, "Bitter but still sweet." She licked a bit of milk foam from her lips. "But well, I can't say it's the best I've had." She gave Illario a side-glance. "You make it better."

To her surprise, Illario blushed. It was a subtle thing—his ears went pink and his cheeks coloured slightly—but the bashful duck of his head made Rook's mouth curl into a bemused smile. "Oh?" she said, delighted. "You are embarrassed by this, of all things?"

He tried to scoff. "I hardly—I… It's not even good coffee, Rook!" he spluttered. "Not like this is!"

"Then perhaps I have just gotten used to it," she murmured, taking another sip. "Now it just doesn't taste right without honey and lavender cream."

"…You make her coffee?" Lucanis' quiet voice surprised them both. When Rook looked over, he wore the strangest expression on his face.

"Well…" Illario rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly. "…On occasion. Whenever I'm home." He exchanged a sheepish glance with Rook. "We do breakfast together sometimes."

At that, Rook felt another sudden cold swell in the air—an icy gust that swept up her arms and tugged through her hair like a lover's caress. It swirled jealously into the space at the table between her and Illario, and seemed to concentrate there as if to pry them apart. Lucanis' entire body stiffened.

"Maker, Rook. Are you that cold?" Rook didn't even realise she was shivering until Illario was standing up. "Here, take this." He crossed the space between them completely unaffected and swept his jacket over her shoulders. "Maybe you are catching a chill from the storm," he mused as he settled it over her, "Or we tired you out too much today."

Rook forced a smile as he sat back down. "N-No, nothing like that." She pulled the jacket around her. It was still warm from his back. "I just… felt a cold breeze, is all." But when her eyes glanced over to look at Lucanis, he looked like he'd seen a ghost.

He pushed his coffee away and stood up abruptly. "I… I can't do this," he said suddenly. There was cold sweat gleaming at his throat. "I have to go."

"Lucanis?" Illario said, confused. He tried to stand up after him. "Wait! Where are you going?"

Lucanis couldn't meet their eyes. "I'll see you at home," he said brusquely, and then he was striding out of the café without a backward glance.

"Lu—! Andraste's ashes. He's gone," Illario said in disbelief. He looked at her in confusion. "Do you have any idea what that was about?"

The cold chill had evaporated with Lucanis' absence. It was as if a bubble around them had popped. The ambient sound of the café returned—customer chatter and the singing of the bard, cups and plates clinking. Warmth began to seep back in through Illario's jacket over her shoulders as if the sun itself was shining on them. And when she took a shaky breath, it was spiced with the scent of fresh coffee and saffron.

"N-No," she said shakily as the waiter appeared once more to deliver the plates of paella to their table. "I have no idea what just happened."

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #53

The Rookery

On the rooftops of the Villa is one of my favourite places in the house—the rookery, where all the messenger birds that come to and from the house reside. The rookery lies open under a blanket of stars, and the sounds of the nesting crows, their squawks and the gentle rattle of cages, reminds me very much of home. 

It is quiet tonight. Only a few birds flutter their wings at me as I enter the roost, sending the odd feather dancing to the ground. Along the wall are shelves filled with scrolls and records of every letter sent within the last few years. Writing supplies such as inks, quills, rolls of parchment and candle wax are stocked in the corner, as well as a comfortable desk for one to write at if they wish.

I found what I came for on the desktop; a reply from Viago. The letter is pressed with the familiar blue seal of House de Riva and my name penned in his hand—but an inkpot has been clumsily spilled across the parchment, rendering its contents illegible.

A few black talon marks smeared across the surface imply this was the work of a careless bird—but the unfortunate timing makes me wonder instead if this was a purposeful attempt to hinder my correspondence with the Fifth Talon.

After Lucanis had abruptly left Café Pietra, she and Illario had finished their dinner in near silence. Their warm, sunny day in Treviso seemed to dissipate like a hazy dream; like the steam of their coffees long gone cold. The paella tasted like ashes in Rook's mouth. Both of their minds were on Lucanis' unusual behaviour—and though Illario knew less than she did, she had the feeling he was catching on fast.

After they walked back to the Villa, he had tried to brush her off gently. "You should get some rest, Rook," he encouraged with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I don't want you falling ill." But the clenched muscle in his jaw told her that he was going to look for his cousin the moment she was out of sight.

Rook pretended to agree. She slid her arms out of his warm jacket and returned it to him. He gave to her the goods she'd bought and kissed her cheek goodnight in the way Antivans did. Then with a last parting smile and a wave, Rook made a show of returning tiredly to her quarters.

The moment she shut the door, her smile dropped. She set her purchases carefully on her desk, then threw open her wardrobe to take her spare knife and climbed straight back out the window.

It was a full moon that night; huge and luminous against the darkness, but shadowed by fast-rolling clouds. It would likely rain again, Rook noted as she hooked her heel into the gutter and hauled herself onto the roof. The air was heavy with moisture, along with the secrets and mysteries only the night seemed to bring.

The rooves of Villa Dellamorte were easy to climb—the shingles were well-made and sturdy, and the slope of the eaves not terribly steep. It didn't take long to slip to the other side of the house and locate the balcony that opened into the First Talon's office.

"—here for a week, and you didn't come to see me?" she heard Illario before she saw him. His voice echoed clearly through an open window. Rook was careful to make no sound as she eased herself onto the eaves.

"I've been busy," came Lucanis' terse reply.

She heard Illario give a loud scoff. "Yes, running to Tevinter every month as if you're being chased by the Crows themselves! What is it that is hunting you, Lucanis?" He paused, then lowered his voice. "Or is it that you're running from something?" Rook had to inch nearer to hear. "Treviso? Your First Talon duties? …Your wife?"

"Illario…"

"What?" Illario's voice goaded furiously, "Is the guilt too much to bear? I saw the marks you left on her, Lucanis!" Rook lowered herself to the railing of the balcony below. "Teeth marks! Like an animal. If you were a different man, maybe they can be mistaken for marks of passion, but I know your relationship with Rook has been less than cold."

"Stay out of this, Illario," Lucanis' low voice warned. "She's not your wife."

Rook startled as someone slammed a fist into a wooden surface. "No. She's yours! And she's basically my sister-in-law." She pressed herself closer to the stone wall for balance. "Who does she have to defend her, if not me?"

"…When did you two get so close?" she heard Lucanis say suspiciously.

Illario gave a bark of laughter, but there was no amusement in his voice. "Since you left the both of us here for months at a time. Who else do we have to talk to in this wretched house?"

There was more creaking of wood. Someone leaning on furniture. Rook wished desperately to be able to see their faces. If she could rise to her toes, she might be able to peek through the window.

"You don't see her every day like I do, Lucanis," Illario had lowered his voice. Rook had to strain to hear. "She is trying so hard to be strong, to put on a brave face while she fulfils the contract she signed. But every time you leave, she loses confidence. She retreats into herself, becomes anxious, roams the house like a ghost and starts hallucinating all these strange things." Rook paled. "You can't just do that to her, Lucanis—leave her cold and dry—and then swoop in when it suits you and take her like a beast."

Another creak of wood. "Don't presume you know anything about our relationship," Lucanis replied coldly, but there was a touch a tension in his voice. "We're both Crows. We have our duty." It sounded rehearsed, like he was trying to convince himself. "She is always willing in all our—"

"Who are you?" Illario interrupted in disbelief. "Who are—It's like I'm not even talking to Lucanis. Like you're not even my cousin. He would never have spoken about his wife like this."

There was silence. Rook had no idea what looks were being exchanged, but it was likely something only two cousins who had grown up together could decipher. She shakily rose to stand, balancing on the railing on the balls of her feet. Her fingers gripped the windowsill above her. Just a little higher…

"The Lucanis I knew was a kind man," Illario went on through clenched teeth. "He may not have had much experience in relationships, but he was kind. Thoughtful. Empathetic. Even if the marriage was arranged, he would have wanted to be a good husband. He wouldn't have wanted… whatever sick parody of a relationship this is."

She got a good grip on the window ledge. Just enough to rise to her toes.

She saw nothing at first—the ceiling and the oil lamp that was burning on the desk. Then she saw Illario's silhouette. His back was to her, and she couldn't see his face—but opposite him at his desk sat Lucanis. His face was cast into a deep shadow from the harsh light of the lamp. He didn't meet his cousin's eyes. Expressionless. Silent.

"Maybe Rook was right," Illario said abruptly when Lucanis continued to say nothing, "And there is something seriously wrong with you. Something beyond what can be reasoned from the Ossuary." He gave another hysterical laugh. "Some days, I'm not sure it was even you that returned."

Lucanis' eyes flickered. The only movement that caught a glint of light from the lamp. His hands tensed on the desk, curling into tight fists. He reluctantly opened his mouth to speak—when his head suddenly gave an odd jerk. As if a sound caught his ear. He listened. Then his head snapped up.

He looked directly at her.

Rook's heart stopped.

He looked at her as if he could see right through the wall; piercing and dangerous like a crow catching sight of a mouse. Then his eyes flashed a warning violet.

She ran.

She dropped from the window with blood roaring in her ears, reached for the hanging eaves above her and scrambled back to the roof. She heard the loud screech of a chair being shoved back violently. Her foot slipped on the gutter.

"Fine," she heard Illario snap. "Go on then. Leave us again. Run away like you always do." The sound of a window banging open roughly. A gust of wind. Rook was stumbling across the rooftiles as Illario's hollow voice grew fainter with the distance. "I guess I'll be here to pick up the pieces. As always."

She could feel the icy presence behind her like a cold grip on her neck as she silently raced across the rooftops of the Villa. She dared not look back. Dared not to see who or what was chasing her under the pale moonlight.

Dark clouds had drawn even further over the sky now. Not as thickly as the storm from the past week, but enough to make the scent of rain thick in the air. She felt the first few drops of it as she ducked behind a chimney and swung onto the balcony below.

She tried to leap from there to the roof of the guesthouse—a running jump from the protruding railing—but the rain betrayed her. Her boots slipped on the newly slick tiles. She threw herself at an angle for the ledge. Her arm scraped against edges of slate, raking a bloody graze from elbow to wrist until her scrabbling fingernails found purchase on a stone ledge.

She jerked to a halt, gasping and dangling from the roof. And as she hung there, she couldn't stop herself from glancing back.

Six wings silhouetted against the moonlight. It had never occurred to her that he could fly—but he unfurled dark in the sky like an angel of death. The violet eyes on his feathers and under his brows all locked on her, unblinking and watching as he soared towards her. She wouldn't be able to outrun him.

But she would try.

With a groan, Rook hauled herself up, unheeding of the blood smeared dripping down her arm. The rain was coming down harder now, plastering her hair to her face and her neck, and soaking into her thin Summer clothing. She staggered to her feet just as a winged shadow was cast over her shoulder, but she didn't look back.

She raced across the roof of the guesthouse—past a tall watchtower and a shadowy rooftop garden, wrenching herself around the corner and dropping into the open courtyard of the bathhouse. She only managed to take two steps more before her skin erupted into goosebumps. An unexplainable chill clawed up her spine. Then she was completely cast into shadow.

A flash of violet feathers was the only warning before she was spun around—but just enough time to draw and point a knife at her winged husband's chest.

Silence.

Rain dripped down the both of them as they stood an arm's length apart. Rook's chest heaved with exertion. Lucanis' wings dragged sodden behind him like a dark feathered cloak. Water ran in rivulets down his slickened hair, along the broad shoulders of his armour, and down the glinting knife at his heart.

"D-Don't make me do it," Rook panted, unsure if she was shaking from fear or adrenaline or the cold. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will. I know what you are."

His violet eyes bore into hers. The way he cocked his head to the side as he considered her wasn't entirely human. "Then say it." His voice reverberated with the ghost of a voice not of this world.

Rook swallowed. "Demon," she whispered for the first time out loud. "I don't know how, and I don't know why, but there is a demon that shares your body." Her knife trembled against the leather of his armour. "I've seen him! You… You tried to make the healer tell me I was crazy!" she cried desperately. "And you sabotaged my letters to Viago!"

Lucanis took a small step forward. "I couldn't risk you telling anyone," he said calmly. Her knife cut threateningly into leather, but he seemed unperturbed.

"Illario deserves to know!"

That got a reaction. He twitched agitatedly—an involuntary spasm that had him reaching before she could move. "Illario of all people cannot know." He gripped her wrist and twisted, until she was forced to let go of the knife. It clattered harmlessly to the floor with a splash.

"Why not?" she cried. "Do you even know how worried he is about you? How much he misses you? He loves you!"

"I know!" he snapped. When he took another step forward, Rook took a step back. Her shoulders hit the surface of a stone column behind her. "I know," he repeated lowly, "But it is better he thinks my past self died down there, because if he finds out what I am… whatever is left of the love between us will not stop him from killing me."

"Y-You don't know that."

He shook his head. "You were never meant to find out. And I was lucky that when you did, you just fainted. But Illario?" He tilted his head with a knowing look. "He will not wait for an explanation. He will not see the demon and I as separate beings."

"…And are you?" she breathed uncertainly, "Separate beings?"

Lucanis gave a humourless laugh. Then he braced his hand on the stone beside her head, and leaned forward until his face was an inch away. Violet eyes were all she could see—and for a moment she thought she was staring back into the Fade. He smiled mockingly and rasped, "What do you think?"

The rain came down harder. The drumming of it on rooftiles seemed to drown out all other sound. But all Rook could think of was that even with violet eyes and ghostly wings, Lucanis had never looked more human. This close to her face, he couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes, nor the weariness in his bones. For once, she could even feel the heat coming off his body through the transparent layers of her clothing.

And despite all that she had witnessed, she still remembered the brown-eyed man who kissed her so tenderly in their wedding bed just a week ago. The man who looked at her so longingly when he was half-mad in pain; who could not stand the sight of her tears; who was so starved for touch that he broke when she laid her hand on him.

She raised a trembling hand now to his cheek. His eyes darted to it warily, but he didn't move. Just watched in disbelief as she pressed it to his sodden beard and curled her fingers around his jaw. "I saw you," she whispered. She swept a thumb across a shadowed cheekbone. "I saw the demon that night, but I saw you too."

His violet eyes flickered. Something stirred in them, but she didn't know what. He stared into her eyes as if looking for an answer to a question he didn't dare ask.

She swallowed. "I saw the husband I was supposed to have," her voice broke. "The man who Illario remembers so fondly. Lucanis Dellamorte." Her hand shook slightly as she tucked a dripping lock of hair behind his ear. His lips parted in a shaky breath. Her eyes couldn't help but follow them. "And I want to know him," she murmured. "I want to help him."

She gave him ample time to pull away. Long enough for him to turn his head or toss her back into the stone column—but he seemed helpless to do anything but watch through half-lidded eyes as she closed the gap between them, tightened her fingers in his hair and pressed her lips to his.

His eyes slid shut.

Rook kissed her husband gently against his cold, unmoving lips. He tasted like the coffee they drank at Café Pietra, of the fresh rain that flowed over them both, and of the electric sharpness of something touched by the Fade. "Let me help you," she whispered between his lips. "I can help you." His answering groan was swallowed as she kissed him again.

When she broke away for breath, she saw his eyes were golden brown. His sweeping wings were still there, but his eyes were brown when he pressed her roughly against the stone column and finally kissed her back. A clumsy kiss with too much teeth—but desperate and hungry as he crushed his mouth to hers. A man starved of affection for far too long.

His body pinned her flat against stone as if desperate for her warmth. She could feel every inch of him through her sodden clothes—the leather of his pants and his armour, and the weapons on his belt that jutted uncomfortably into her belly. His desire.

"Rook," he groaned helplessly against her mouth, "I can't… I need…"

"Okay," she murmured, as he tried to press even closer into her. She looped her arms around his shoulders, smearing her blood across his armour. "Okay."

The rain came down so heavily now that they could barely see—but it doesn't slow them down. Lucanis kissed her like he was drowning and she was his only source of air. His only source of warmth. He tore the gloves from his hands in a desperate need to feel her against his skin, and his hands were soon everywhere—on her cheek and along her neck, dislodging the sopping crown of flowers in her hair. Petals were scattered to the ground as he traced her skin over whisper-thin clothes, the curve of her chest and the dip of her waist, and finally the undersides of her thighs.

He hooked his hands beneath her. Rook clutched his shoulders as he lifted her up.

They didn't stop to take a pink vial of potion. His eyes flashed between violet and brown as they fumbled at their clothes, but Rook couldn't bring herself to care. Buckles and belts fell to the floor. Wet breeches shoved past clammy hips. She just helped align him to her entrance, and then Lucanis took her against the stone column under the rain like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The feeling of him drove all thoughts from her mind. She cried out from his entry—from being stretched too full, too fast with no preparation—but with her legs wrapped around his waist this time and her hands in his hair, it almost felt good. It felt right in the rain and under the moon and the clouds, with his feathered wings like an embrace around them.

Lucanis swallowed her low moans with his feverish mouth. His movements had no finesse. There was no slow, measured strokes this time, but just a helpless rut between her thighs, betraying months of pent up frustration. "Forgive me," he muttered against her lips, "I didn't want to do this." She shuddered as she met the roll of his hips. "I didn't want to be a bad husband. But you've seen that every time I slip, he—"

"I know," was all she could gasp back. "I know." She held on tight around his shoulders and across his back, against the now familiar brush of feathers. His wings no longer scared her, even as they stretched wide to balance their weight and their violet eyes watched unblinking.

"No you don't," he murmured, gasping in a senseless haze of pleasure. "You don't know what he can do." She felt his hot breath as he exhaled shakily by her ear. "Sometimes I black out," he confessed in a low voice, "I don't remember things. I wake up in rooms with bodies I don't remember killing, and blood on the walls in patterns I don't remember drawing." He shuddered as another wave of ecstasy overwhelmed him. "I don't know what he does when he's in my body," he went on terrified, "And I can't risk—"

"He didn't hurt me," Rook tried to tell him. Tried to soothe him with another kiss, even as he ground his hips into her in a way that nearly wiped her mind of all thought. "He could have that night, but he didn't."

"I can't risk it," he repeated. She started to taste salt. "I can't risk any of it here. You deserve better." He grunted as her tongue followed the trail of salt to his cheek—wet now with more than rain. "Better than… than this. Better than me." He exhaled shakily as she kissed him beneath his weeping eyelashes. His hands fumbled between her thighs as he tried to please her with his fingers. "Once this is over, you can have it."

"H-Have what?" she panted deliriously. Her head fell back against the stone column, unable to focus through the intense sensations.

He pressed a clumsy kiss to her cheek. "A better life." He was close now—she could feel it. The change in his rhythm. The grinding circles. "Once you… ngh…" He dropped his forehead into the crook of her neck. "…Once you deliver the next Dellamorte, I will leave you be. I promise."

The words took a few seconds to sink in. "What?" All the warmth and pleasure she felt from him suddenly evaporated. She grabbed his collar and tried to yank him back up to face her. "Leave me be? H-How?" A terrible thought dawned on her. "You mean to send me away from the Villa?" she whispered. Away from her child. Away from Illario.

Lucanis' fingers tried to move again between her legs, but Rook felt only the scrape of calloused skin. "No, no," he soothed as he mouthed at her throat, his nipping teeth too sharp to be human. "I'll go."

"What do you mean, you'll go? Go where?" She couldn't comprehend him. "You can't go! I can't…" Her legs tightened around him, stilling his hips as she tugged at his hair. "Lucanis! You can't mean to leave me to raise our child alone?"

"Not alone," he said when he finally raised his head. His eyes were half-lidded, but she didn't know if it was from weariness or pleasure. "You have Illario, don't you?" he smiled sadly. "You like Illario."

Rook grabbed his face in her palms. "He'll be the child's uncle," she hissed, "Not their father!"

Lucanis' smile turned bitter. "He'll be a better father than me in my condition."

Her mouth fell open. "And you're fine with that?" she said angrily. "You're fine having your child never knowing you?" She furiously rolled her hips against him until he gasped. "A little boy with your likeness who knows you only through a portrait? Or a little girl with your brown eyes calling Illario 'father' instead?"

He clenched his agonised eyes shut. "I have no choice, Rook," he gritted through his tears. "I promised—"

"Promised who? Caterina?! She's dead!"

"The demon!" he finally shouted. "I promised the demon freedom! I owe him that—"

"W-We can make him another deal!" she said desperately, "Or we can kill him—"

"No."

Lucanis stopped moving, breathing hard. His eyes were squeezed shut. His wedding ring suddenly felt cold between her legs. Then he withdrew his hand.

Instead, he slowly hooked one of her legs over his armoured shoulder. Then the other. The change in angle folded her nearly in half and she had to scramble for his shoulders to keep upright. Inside her, he reached a place impossibly deeper—but she realised from this position, suspended between him and the wall, she couldn't control their movements at all.

Rook was helpless as Lucanis' hips returned to slow, steady strokes—a calm, single-minded determination to get to release. "No," he repeated with shuttered eyes, "I owe him everything. I was alone in the Ossuary for a year, and no one came for me. No one saved me. No one was there, but him." She felt the cold presence returning, whispering feather-soft along her arms, her cheek. "He got me free," Lucanis murmured, "I promised to do the same. Once my duty here is done, I will surrender myself to him."

"…W-What does that mean?" Rook whispered, afraid. The rain suddenly felt icy against her skin, like she was drowning under the sea. He was still moving rhythmically inside her, but she felt numb. "Surrender yourself? What will happen to you?"

"We will be free," he repeated, eyes closed. "Freedom and vengeance. I promised."

When he released inside her, it was with a quiet gasp—drowned out by the continuous drumming of rain. Rook felt only cold emptiness when he pulled out, and despite the evidence, Lucanis looked like he felt no pleasure either. His face was expressionless as he lowered her legs one by one from his shoulders to the ground and steadied her wobbly stance. But as he tried to pull away, her arms tightened around his shoulders.

"You promised me too," she accused him. Her voice shook more than she would have liked and she couldn't stop the tears falling, but she went on. "You signed the contract. You said the vows. You married me." Her voice cracked. "You're my husband!"

His eyes flickered with guilt. But then he straightened his back. "I have never belonged to one person," Lucanis said. He fixed her breeches back up her hips, and then his own. "The Antivan Crows. House Dellamorte." He gently unhooked her arms from himself. "My wife," he said softly. He returned her hands to her sides. "And now the demon. I've made many promises, Rook. I'm sorry. But this is the only way everyone can be happy."

Rook fell back numbly against the stone column behind her. The ruined flowers in her hair finally fell apart, falling to the ground in tragic clumps of yellow and pink, and sinking into the puddles in the courtyard. "None of us are happy, Lucanis."

He sighed, then leaned in to brush one last icy kiss on her forehead. "I know," he said sadly. "But we will be."

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #59

The Nursery

In the family wing of the Villa is a nursery. The entire room is coated in a layer of dust so thick that I am certain it has not been touched since perhaps the year my husband was born. There are six empty cribs lined up by the wall—likely hand-carved at some point by an ancestor or a friend of the family long passed.

There are a few shelves by the window. The hollow nooks house a few untouched toys; wooden carvings and fabric dolls; a child's old ballet shoes with ribbons still laced up; embroidered baby blankets; a miniature cape. By the window, the corner of the rug and floorboards are dark with a blotchy stain—from a pool of what must have once been a sticky, red liquid.

The thought of raising a child here brings no joy and only dread, and I am afraid of what will happen if Lucanis makes good on his word—if he truly means to leave me to raise his heir alone in this empty house of ghosts.

If Lucanis cannot be convinced—if he cannot be warm to me—then I pray instead he will one day extend some kindness to our child, so that they will not have to know the coldness of his turned-away back.

She dreamed strangely that night. Flashes of azure skylines and foreign architecture, of spiralling towers and floating buildings—cities she had never seen from an aerial angle she could not have ever biologically achieved. When she breathed in, her lungs filled with crisp, cold air and she was weightless. Adrift. A handbreadth away from the Fade. Freedom.

Then her vision went black.

She opened her eyes to a tiny, dark room and an empty cell. Her shaking hands were bloody to the elbow, and on the floor and the walls and even the ceiling was scarlet writing in an alien code—spiralling patterns and numbers and overlapping shapes attempting desperately to convey something, an important message, but one she just could not understand—

Rook blinked and then she saw herself. The sight startled her abruptly. Rook from another's eyes—a golden blur at first, and then sharper and sharper as they moved within her—strange and not quite realistic, with skin much softer than reality and a molten warmth much hotter than the truth. The dream Rook wrapped her arms around them and it felt so foreign yet so good, they shuddered. More. They wanted more of this—whatever this was—but they didn't know how… so they would try in every way. With their hands and their teeth and their tongue, tasting and licking, biting and sucking to get just a little more, a little deeper, a little further, a little more, just a little bit—

She was in the dark cell again. The walls had been wiped clean. But now she could see a tiny crack in the ceiling, just large enough to see the moon twinkling through. She calmly pressed a long fingernail into her arm until it bled, and swiped her index finger through the crimson flow. It wouldn't be long now. He promised. She sat down and began to draw on the walls.

Rook fell into a scorching fever for three days and three nights, in which she could not leave her bed. She tossed fitfully in sweat-soaked sheets, delirious and unable to tell the time of day—let alone to explain to the healer how she fell ill in the first place, nor how she received such a bloody cut on her arm. And even if she could, she would not tell them that this was all the result of a foolish decision to engage with her husband in the pouring rain.

Illario visited her. Though she was not lucid, she remembered hearing his voice—low but always somehow reassuring, often speaking with the healer or murmuring in her ear. Sometimes, she even thought she smelt coffee in the air, sweetened with honey and lavender cream.

Most times, she just felt the healer tipping a bitter concoction at her lips.

She did not remember ever hearing Lucanis' voice, nor the chill of his demon.

When she woke, it was morning and she was alone. There were voices just outside her door—the hushed murmur of a low argument. Rook tried to call out to them but the only sound that left her throat was a hacking cough that ached her lungs and set a ringing pain in the back of her head. And then the door flew open.

"—just need to see her before I go!" Illario finished his sentence as he strode into the room. His handsome face was pinched with annoyance—but it smoothened in relief at the sight of her. "Rook! You're awake."

Rook gave him a wincing smile. The healer hurried in and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. "Slowly, signora," she advised as Rook gulped it down. "But it is good to see you're lucid."

Illario slowly sat at her bedside. He was dressed in his Crow leathers for once—in dark, muted colours and nondescript linen. His hair was tied into a high ponytail. His weapons strapped to his body. "You're leaving," Rook realised with a strange feeling tightening in her chest.

He gave her a terse smile in return. "Yes. I was due to leave two days ago but… I delayed my departure. I was hoping I could at least see you wake before I did. Are you feeling alright?"

The healer helped Rook sit up against the headboard with a stack of pillows supporting her back. Her head fell back tiredly. "I…" She didn't know what to say. "I'll be fine," she ended up murmuring. She glanced up at him. "Where is it you're going?"

Illario paused. "Tevinter," he answered slowly. "I have a contract there. And I have a lead I want to investigate." He cleared his throat and glanced at the healer. The woman bowed her head, and quietly saw herself out. Illario turned back to Rook when the door closed. "Rook," he whispered, "Remember when you mentioned Lucanis feeling a little strange to you?"

Rook stilled against the headboard. "…Yes?" she said carefully. "But you said it was just his trauma, from the Ossuary."

He grimaced. "Yes, well. That's what I thought. But nowadays… I'm not so sure." He rubbed his face tiredly. "You're right. He's different. He's changed, in a way that's almost unexplainable. I want to look into what happened there, in the Ossuary, and I have a few informants who say they know the Venatori that ran that prison. I need to find out what they did to him."

Rook felt all her muscles seize with a slow creeping fear. "Illario," she breathed, "This is… dangerous. Those people are dangerous." She swallowed. "They caught Lucanis once—the Magekiller—and they tortured him for a year. You can't underestimate them. If they catch you too…"

"I know," he soothed her, "I'll be careful, don't worry. I won't make the same mistake. But I have to do this." He reached out and took her limp, cold hand. "For you," he promised, and her heart skipped a beat. "And for Lucanis. It is the only way we can fix this." His words unknowingly echoed his cousin's: This is the only way everyone can be happy.

Her hand tightened helplessly on his. "But Illario," she tried, "I'm not sure this is even something that can be fixed."

He just smiled sadly and ran a thumb over the back of her hand. "Either way, I have to try."

"And what if you learn something you don't want to hear?" she swallowed, "Something that… that makes you think Lucanis can't be changed?"

His eyes were resolute. "I won't give up on my cousin," Illario vowed. Then without breaking his gaze, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "And I won't give up on you," he promised against her skin. "You and he are all I have left. You… We all deserve better."

His lips were as warm as the sun. Rook felt the loss of his warmth as he lowered her hand gently back to her bedsheets and slowly stood up. The cold, empty feeling that settled in his absence turned to desperation in an instant. "Illario, wait!" Fear and panic surged within her like boiling water overflowing in a pot. "I-I don't want you to go!" she confessed. "I don't want to be here alone. I'm scared. Illario, I—"

"I'll be back before you know it," he assured her. He pulled on his gloves and turned up the collar of his jacket. "You just focus on feeling better, and I will return with your wayward husband in tow." Illario gave her favourite crooked smile as he reached the door. "I'll fix this for you, Rook," he said. "You'll see."

Chapter Text

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #66

The Hall of Mirrors

It has been two weeks since both Lucanis and Illario have left the Villa, and I have found myself spending time more than ever in the Library reading. Most texts on spirits and demons hold more speculation and theory than anything else—but in every rumour, there is often buried a grain of truth—if one is willing to look.

The entrance to the secret Hall of Mirrors is behind the grand mirror in the master bedroom. It is unmeasurably long and narrow and lined with mirrors on every side. How far it goes, I cannot tell—for the reflections echo in each other and there is no source of light, which makes it difficult to walk through without meeting glass.

There is an Elven rumour that goes like this: if one is desperate enough to summon a demon and does not have a connection to the Fade, they can call to one with the use of a mirror and a candle. Mirrors are strange objects—not just a means to reflect those of this world, but a gateway to another. To a world beyond, or perhaps, parallel to this one.

I sat before the largest mirror there with a single white candle. There was no light there except the shaky gold flame in my hands, and its glow echoed around me in the darkness like a bobbing sea of wisps. I set it down carefully in front of the mirror—precisely in the centre—and then raised my eyes to watch.

In the reflection, I saw my scared eyes looking back at me and the hall of mirrors behind. Arches into arches, doorways into doorways—and a long row of candles stretching back and back into darkness. The flames danced despite the lack of breeze. I did not know the name of the demon I wished to summon—only that it was stuck inhabiting the body of my husband. So I chanted his name instead.

"Lucanis Dellamorte," I whispered. I said it three times.

At the first, I blinked and the dancing flames began to look violet. At the second, the glass appeared to fog. And at the third, something seemed to stir in the shadows.

If I squinted, I could mistake it for the vague shape of a man.

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #73

The Conservatory

On the south side of the Villa is a glasshouse Conservatory, that looks like it once held a variety of rare plants and specimens. It appears to have taken damage during the recent storm, and that no one has tried to repair it since.

What was once a lovely domed roof is now shattered on the floor. Great slabs and shards of glass are mixed now with soil and broken pottery, dried leaves and brambles. Dying plants lay half-uprooted and wilted brown. It is a very sorry sight.

In the centre of the Conservatory is a small table and chairs, where I assume one might have liked to take a morning tea. The chairs have been knocked over but the table still stands, and on it is a chessboard with pieces all scattered. The sight of it makes me ache with some terrible loneliness.

…I think I miss Illario. Very much so.

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #79

The Opera House

It is a ridiculous and luxurious thing, this private Opera House that sits semi-detached to the Villa—as if one needs their own private venue so close to their home. Perhaps other Dellamortes have agreed, for it looks to be unused for at least the last half-century.

But at least for now, there is much to explore in this abandoned theatre. Dusty rooms upon rooms that still smell like tobacco and spilt wine, that once bore witness to gossip and scandals, and the most wonderous soirées. Empty seats and velvet curtains have begun to look moth-eaten, but the stage still sits magnificently in the centre as if waiting for a song.

I have come here to take my mind off the two cousins—but the sight of the ballroom has only brought to mind the day of my wedding. It is the last time I had danced, and I think I do miss it. And perhaps the arms I had found myself spinning in.

Maker, I pray that they return soon, for it has been almost a month now that I have not received word from either Illario nor my husband. I fear I am running out of rooms to catalogue. If so, I do not know what I will do. Perhaps I shall go mad.

Notes on the Villa Dellamorte
Room #92

The Family Mausoleum

I really shouldn't be here. There is a very uncomfortable and oppressive atmosphere down in the family crypt, as if we are not just buried deep under the weight of the house, but several generations worth of bloodlines and expectations.

I think I may have begun to understand how my husband often feels.

I should leave this morbid place soon, but it has been more than a month since Illario left and neither he nor Lucanis have returned—so there is little else to do. The Mausoleum is deeper and larger than I initially thought. It is carved into stone and marble, with archways and hollows where the dead have been laid to rest, and lit with ghostly green veilfire braziers that burn endlessly with no heat.

There are no Dellamorte bones here—for they cremate their dead—but their ashes are still kept in urns and set beside grim statues of their likeness. I have found the chamber which houses all of Caterina Dellamorte's children. Lucanis and Illario's parents both have been memorialised here. In the room next door are all the ashes of her grandchildren. Their urns are much smaller than anyone else's. There is no waiting alcove for Lucanis nor Illario.

I wonder if when the time comes, will they be laid to rest here? If so, I wonder too if I will be buried beside them, and if I will be forever doomed to haunt this wretched place, hundreds of metres beneath this cursed house.

Or perhaps I will ask Viago to take my ashes back to Salle where I once loved to live, so he can scatter me under the sun into the endless blues of Rialto Bay.

I really shouldn't be here.

It was nearly mid-Summer when Andarateia Cantori arrived in a glorious whirl on Rook's doorstep one bright, sunny day, in a wide hat, flowing silks, and bags laden with gifts.

"A little bird told me you were feeling lonely," Teia announced as she greeted Rook in a flurry of air kisses. "I was in the area and I thought I'd drop by!"

After weeks without company, Rook nearly cried at the sight.

Like how Illario's presence had once brightened the empty rooms of the Villa, Teia too brought a river of colour into the stony halls of the house. The servants put out flowers in vases for her, and her endless shopping had filled Rook's wardrobe with satin and silk and gauzy tulle. The windows were opened, the rooms aired out, and the curtains drifted with the breeze and the scent of the sea.

They took lunch out in the gardens, surrounded by seasonal blooms and roses and trailing grapevine. Rook felt like she was seeing the sun for the first time in months.

"You can reject most of these," Teia advised as she lounged. She sipped from a chilled glass of white wine as she sorted through the thick stack of event invitations Rook had shown her. "They're more courtesy invites really. You only need to read the ones from a Talon House."

It had been a few months since she had become the First Talon's wife, and Rook had begun to receive an influx of invitations to various Crow balls, parties and events. Some were frivolous—tea parties and music concerts, or else birthdays and anniversaries. Others were much larger; intriguing soirees and operas, political weddings and galas. They all sought the prestige of the presence of the First Talon—but no one really wanted him there.

So they sent the invites to his wife.

"You should go to at least some of these, my dear," Teia went on. She tossed a few behind her with a derisive snort. The papers fluttered to the ground like feathers. "You're much too young to be wasting away all by your lonesome here."

"I'm not supposed to leave Treviso," Rook said glumly. She idly chased a cherry tomato around her plate with a fork. "But maybe if I go with you, then Lucanis won't mind."

Teia grinned. She leaned one elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand. "Why Rook, are you inviting yourself to be my date?" she said slyly, batting her lashes. She seemed unaffected by the heat. The sun curled lovingly down her dark skin, shimmering in her Summer silks. "Careful. Lucanis might get jealous."

"I assure you he won't," Rook said stiffly. She dropped her fork and reached irritably for her wine glass. It had been yet another month and a half since she had seen her husband—but a fortnight ago she had read in the papers that he had killed two magisters in Ventus. He should have been home by now.

Illario should be home by now too, she thought—which wasn't a good sign. He had sent no letters nor updates on his journey. Either he was still chasing leads on his investigation into Lucanis' imprisonment, or he had gone to confront his cousin. Neither were positive outcomes.

The situation as she understood it was so; Lucanis would not come home until he was certain she was still not with child—until he was forced to try again. He seemed to have committed at full speed the deal he made with his demon, and would not consider another option.

Similarly, Illario would not come home until he eventually found out what was done to his cousin in the Ossuary all those months ago—until he learned about the demon. And from there… Rook was afraid he would see no other recourse except to either kill the demon, or Lucanis himself.

But there was another party in this strange situation, that she had not yet attempted to convince… Rook tapped her wineglass thoughtfully and took another long sip. Another presence who had tried to reach out to her; who, if she played her cards right, might open up another ending for all of them. A happier ending.

Perhaps she had waited dutifully long enough.

"Teia," Rook said abruptly, "You're an expert in getting men to do what you want, right?"

Teia tossed her hair and laughed in reply. "Well, among other things, yes. It is my specialty." She shuffled a few more papers. "But every man is different. Who is your target?"

"My husband."

The Seventh Talon slowly raised her gold eyes to meet Rook's. Assessing. Calculating. "Oh?" she said carefully. "Vi said you and Lucanis were having trouble, but I didn't think it was so serious."

"I just need to talk to him," Rook corrected her, "But he's been avoiding me. And he's been aloof. I cannot just run off to Tevinter to find him."

Teia tapped her chin thoughtfully. "No," she agreed, "You cannot. But dear, I think you're looking at this the wrong way." Her lips curled into a slow, cunning smile. "A man like that does not want to be chased. If you want him," she said with a gleam in her eyes, "You're going to want to make him come after you."

Dear Viago,

Thank you for sending all my belongings and Teia to Treviso. You always know what I need before I even think of it. The Villa here is still not home, and maybe it never will be, but it is a little brighter because of you and I will not forget this.

You told me before that if I ever needed anything else, that I should ask it of you. I am asking now. There is a situation here that calls for certain events to come into motion, and the only person who can help make them happen is you…

For the first time in months, Rook left the Villa Dellamorte.

It did not want to let her go.

As she walked through its halls for the last time, she felt its heavy weight like the pressurised depths of the ocean—ancient bloodlines and expectations, and the solemn duty of Crows—all attempting to drag her back to its dark and dreary rooms like steel chains at her ankles.

But Rook had had enough. She grit her teeth and waded onwards, one step at a time, until she reached the front door.

It looked almost like a magic portal—like another world existed just past the doorframe, if she were brave enough to cross. One side the foreboding Villa, and the other, the Spring breeze and sunshine and the cawing of sea birds. When she stepped through, it had felt as though she had broken the surface of the ocean—and when she gasped at the sudden relief and weightlessness that gripped her, like she had taken her first breath of air.

A carriage waited at the foot of the steps. Her luggage was already there, as well as a footman, and the Seventh Talon perched beside him in her riding habit. She gave Rook a wave and an encouraging smile.

Rook breathed. She took one step forward, and then another.

She did not look back.

Rook attended three Crow events in quick succession. The first was in Antiva City—a midnight party that had been organised to watch a once-in-a-lifetime comet pass through the sky.

Teia had spent a small fortune to dress Rook like she was her lover. They had arrived to the rooftop party fashionably late, spangled in metallic gold and silver, with diamonds glittering at their throats and wrists. Teia made sure they both were seen—that Rook was introduced to enough influential people for the rumour to spread: The First Talon's wife was here. She was beautiful and accessible, and much more open to talk than her taciturn husband.

Teia's presence goaded her into confidence. With the Seventh Talon's slim arm around her waist and her long fingers grazing her side, she felt like the most desirable woman alive. She allowed her body to stretch languidly into Teia's, for her gown to ride enticingly up her thigh or slip down the curve of her shoulder, and revelled in the hungry gaze of the Crows they entertained. All the while, Teia smiled knowingly with half-lidded eyes.

When the comet did fly overhead—a bursting trail of light and stars that arced like an arrow piercing the clouds—Rook was bathed in gold. The shower from the comet, the glow from the lanterns that were strung from each balcony, and the champagne that sparkled in their glasses, all made for a heady atmosphere that made Rook forget about dark feathers in her bedroom nightstand and unused sets of coffee cups. She was surrounded by an extravagant array of allies and strangers and enemies—but at least she wasn't alone.

The second event was in Seleny. She and Teia had spent a few wild nights in Antiva City before travelling downriver to where the smaller city lay nestled between lakes and forests. There was a wine festival there—traditionally held to celebrate the first bountiful harvest of the season—but was now more a thinly-veiled excuse for the rich to drink to excess. House Valisti was hosting an elite soirée in one of their vineyards that would last from the late afternoon to early morning.

Summer had truly settled into the country by then. Teia had encouraged Rook to don a silky number that flashed more of her olive skin than she'd ever dared to show. She drew more than one appreciative eye as she lounged around and sampled various wines from the region, growing steadily more giddy on the drink and the atmosphere.

At some point, she was separated from the Seventh Talon. A seemingly never-ending line of Crows sought her audience; to compliment her beauty and her elegance; to ask 'Where is dear Lucanis this evening?'; and to beg 'There is another party in our city next week—you must come!'. It was a powerful feeling to suddenly be the most sought after Crow at a party, when not a few months before she had been no one.

She demurred and danced past their grasping hands like a wisp, flitting between the tangled leaves of the vineyard and the gatherings of Crows. The most insistent of them were deterred by the cold ring that flashed on her finger, but there were always a few exceptions.

A lone Crow chased her doggedly through the shadows of the trees. He must have thought it was a game, Rook thought—that the way she eluded him and avoided his attention must have been a teasing play. He tried to corner her between the stone walls of the Villa and the cage of his arms, with pawing hands and the pungent whispers of 'your husband will never have to know'. She opened his neck as easily as she would a vintage bottle, and the blood that flowed from his gurgling throat to the floor, was just about the same colour anyway.

"Looks like you didn't need my help," a familiar voice commented calmly as he stepped out from the shadows. He watched as she cleaned her blade on the man's bloodied shirt. "They think you are just his wife. They have forgotten you are a Crow as well."

A slow smile spread across her face. "Illario!"

Something inexplicable lightened in Rook's body at the sight of him—a weight off her chest and a flutter in her heart. He looked stunning in soft lavender with silver glinting at his ears. "When did you get here?"

"Just a few minutes ago," he replied. He raised his wine glass and swirled it at her with a crooked smile. "This one is my first."

She returned her blade to its sheath on her thigh. Her gown draped back into place to hide it. "Then you need to catch up," she said, straightening back to full height. "Maker knows how many I've had."

As if to prove it, her next step was not so steady. She tried to reach for him but stumbled as her heel slipped. Illario smoothly caught her arm before she fell.

"Actually, I think one of us should keep our heads tonight," he smiled. "House Dellamorte should watch each other's backs." He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and began to walk her towards the firelight in the villa.

She leaned on him gratefully as they sauntered back. The sounds of laughter and song echoed through various parts of the vineyard, as well as amorous whispers of lovers making use of the many secluded shadows of the property.

"How did you know I would be here?" she murmured as she felt the silk of his shirt beneath her fingers. His skin was so warm beneath it, his muscles strong and steady.

Illario chuckled lowly. "You made quite an impression at the comet-viewing. Very clever. Surely you knew the whispers would reach his ears."

A hot bloom of wicked satisfaction. "Was he jealous?"

"Maker, Rook," he shook his head. "Even I was jealous hearing about you and Andarateia Cantori."

She gave a small smirk. But it faded as she realised her ploy did not have the outcome she intended.

She turned to face him, just as they were about to round the corner to join the main party in the courtyard. His shirt was tantalisingly open—deliberately, she was sure, to draw attention to the smooth expanse of his chest. She grasped the lapels of it—revelled in scrunching the expensive silk in her hands—and tugged until he bent over to face her at eye-level.

"Tell me he is on his way," she whispered to him, "That he has come to see me here tonight."

A shadow of regret passed over Illario's face. "Rook…"

The sting of rejection struck like a physical ache—blunt and twisting into the pit of her heart. Rook closed her eyes with a soft scoff. "No, he's sent you instead, hasn't he?" she said dully. "To escort me back? Like a prisoner." A flash of fury overcame her. "You said you could convince him to come home!"

Illario sighed. He pulled her aside into the shadow of the villa wall. "I've tried, Rook," he murmured quietly, "I swear, I tried. I've spent more than a month in Tevinter researching the Ossuary, and the rumours… they are horrifying at their least and downright macabre at their worst." He swallowed and lowered his voice even more. "Rumours of blood magic, red lyrium, spirits and demons," he whispered. "What you've been feeling in the Villa is starting to make sense. But what I fear has been done to Lucanis... something went wrong. An experiment that didn't go quite right. It has left him... not whole."

"Not whole," she repeated tonelessly. That was one way to put it.

He licked his lips nervously. "I am still working out how to fix it. I've been in contact with a Tevinter magister who claims she is an expert on these things, but her methods are… questionable. I am reluctant to use them."

A shiver ran up Rook's spine. She met his eyes uncertainly. "Will it… hurt him?" she whispered.

Illario swallowed again. "I don't know," he confessed. "I… will not use them until I have no other choice. I-I went to find him, in Tevinter. Chased him across three different cities to try and talk to him first, to see if there is another way but… he didn't want to listen. Didn't want to talk. Until we caught word of your sighting in Antiva City."

Rook's hands loosened slightly on his shirt, unsure how to feel. Her mind spun a little—from drink or the situation, she wasn't sure. Illario softened the tone of his voice. "He was concerned for your safety, Rook," he said gently. "He wants you to come home."

Illario looked stupidly handsome in the firelight, she thought—all softened edges and shadowed eyelashes, and a low crooning voice. She knew why her husband sent him. Knew that he thought her weak to him. But it was exactly the too-easy way he lulled her closer with a look and a brush of his hand, that she drew back sharply.

"No, he doesn't care for me," she snapped instead. "If he did, he would be here. Not you."

"I'm sure he—"

"Well, I'm not going home!"

She didn't know if it was the fear of returning to that empty house with her cold, unsmiling husband, or perhaps it was the fury of being recalled like a loyal dog, but Rook was seized with the sudden feeling that if she didn't act now, nothing would change. Her hands tightened desperately on Illario's shirt.

"If I go home and try to confront him there, he will just sleep with me and flee again as always," she said feverishly. "This cycle will not break. We need to make him come to me."

"Rook—"

"Tell him," she repeated. She shook him, slightly crazed. "Tell him I will not come home until he attends one of these stupid parties with me."

It was a bluff. It would be breaking her contract. But she had a feeling Lucanis would rather cave than divorce her over this.

Illario shifted uneasily. "I do not think he can be swayed by your words, Rook," he warned. "If he will not listen to me, what makes you think he will listen to you?" He was not being cruel, he was right—Lucanis' bond with his cousin spanned years, and Rook's farce of a marriage to him meant little in comparison. But that didn't mean she didn't have leverage.

She hesitated for a moment. Then leaned closer. Tugged Illario down until her lips nearly brushed his ear. "I know what happened to him," she confessed. Illario's eyes widened. "I know you suspect it. I have seen it." From the way Illario's whole body stiffened, she knew that he knew what she meant. "It has spoken to me," she whispered, "In my dreams. And I know it sounds crazy but I think I can convince it. Lucanis may not be moved by me, but the creature might."

"Rook…" his voice was so quiet, it was softer than a whisper—and it had to be, for what they spoke of was taboo. "You cannot make a deal with a demon." She swore she could hear his heart beat loudly in his chest.

She shook her head. "I am not a mage," she soothed him, "It cannot possess me. But I have to try, Illario. There must be another way that this does not end in bloodshed." It was her turn to use her eyelashes and low voice against him. To press her softer body into his. "Let me try."

Illario sighed. He straightened his back, forcing Rook to let go. She watched as he drained the last of the wine in his glass in one long swallow, watched as the long column of his throat bobbed and she imagined the dark liquid trailing all the way down his bare chest to his belly.

"Fine," he said, with the exhaustion of a man grasping at his last straw. "Where will you be next?"

Rook steadied her ragged breath. "Tell him," she said, "I will be home in Salle."

Illario meant to leave as soon as possible. He had finished his drink and wasn't keen for another. With a message to deliver, and a most definitely irate cousin to soothe, he had planned on making a graceful retreat.

But when he kissed her cheek goodbye and turned to go—Rook was seized with a sudden terror at the sight of his back. She found her fingers digging into his arm once more.

"Illario, wait!" she said breathlessly. "Don't… don't go just yet." She wet her lips. Laughed breathlessly. "You just got here. You should enjoy the festival a little longer—"

His eyes softened slightly. "I must leave soon to find Lucanis in time. If you do not wish to be left alone, I can find Teia for you," he told her, patting her hand. "I think I saw her over by the bonfire with Dante Balazar. I can walk you."

"N-No. I don't need Teia. I need…"

She was drunk, she thought. She was most definitely drunk. She was surrounded by the sound of tinkling glasses, gossip and laughter, bluster and banter—but the giddy excitement of the festival that had swept her senseless when she had arrived was gone. So it must have been the wine.

"I missed you!" she blurted out. Illario's eyes widened. She clutched him with both hands now. "A lot. In the Villa when you were gone, it was all I could think of." She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Everything reminded me of you," she babbled. "My morning coffee. The sunlight in my solar. The chess set you left on my table. Every room of that cursed house. I have never felt more alone—not even in the first two weeks of my marriage—because now I know what it's like to have you there, and without you I…" Her voice broke off with a strangled sob.

Then Illario's hand was there, cupping her jaw gently. His palm was rough but warm against her cheek. "Hey," he said softly, soothingly, "I'm here now. I'm here." He glanced around the courtyard—where other Crows were a little too close to have not been trying to eavesdrop. He lowered his voice. Shifted his body so his broad back hid her from view. "I missed you too," he admitted, "Every day spent in Tevinter made me think of home. Of you, waiting there for us." He stroked a thumb over her cheek. "If you need me to stay, I'll stay. As long as you want me to."

Rook tried to blink away her tears. Tried to steady her breaths again and stop the trembling in her hands. "Thank you," she whispered. He hesitated. Then dropped a soft kiss on the top of her head.

"Come on," he said gently. "I know what will make you feel better."

He tugged them over to where the courtyard was brighter—lit with multi-coloured braziers and where the giant festival bonfire was crackling away. Music played by a string quartet danced on the cool night air, entwining with the sparks and the smoke and the smell of spilt wine. In front of them were scattered pairs of dancers who laughed and swung in time to the song, giggling or embracing, and lost in a world of their own.

"What is this?" Rook huffed a reluctant laugh as he pulled them into position.

It wasn't like dancing at her wedding. Illario stood so close that Rook could feel the heat coming off his chest. He wrapped his arm around her in a loose embrace and with his other hand, held hers just beside their shoulders. He didn't bother with fancy footwork or spins or lifts this time. He just let them sway gently in time to the music.

"Dancing," he smiled. "You seemed to like it at your wedding when you wanted to take your mind off things."

"You noticed that?" she murmured. It felt nice, she thought, the swaying. She hesitantly leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I think anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain would have noticed you fleeing your husband on your wedding day," he said quietly.

Rook closed her eyes. "Is it silly of me," she said slowly, "That I wanted him to see me tonight?" She looked down at her silky gown—so thin in some places it seemed nearly sheer, and baring so much of her skin at her back and her arms that she felt like she wore nothing at all. "He didn't react at the sight of me on our wedding night. He is like a statue when he takes me to bed. Teia thought making him jealous would surely make him act." She scoffed now at the thought. "And I thought if he came here tonight, and he saw me in this and in the arms of another, he might regret pushing me away. That he might want to spend at least a few moments in my company. To give us a chance."

There was silence. Illario's voice was a little rough when he answered, "He would." He cleared his throat. "If he saw you like this." The hand at her back brushed hesitantly down the silky skin of her back. 

She all but melted into his arms.

Illario took a sharp inhale and tore his eyes away. "I'm sorry he hasn't been kinder," he said. "Lucanis wasn't always like that. He used to be very thoughtful, even. He would have wanted to be a good husband. Sometimes I wish you got to see the better side of him, but then…"

"Then what?"

Illario let out a hollow laugh. "Selfishly, then you might have never gotten to know me at all. Why would you? If you had a doting husband, you would never have invited me for breakfast in your solar. And I would have just been your brother-in-law, who comes home once in a blue moon to sleep off a drunken night."

"I would have still invited you," she mumbled. The swaying and the music and the haze of wine was starting to make her sleepy against the warmth of his chest, the cradle of his arms. She tilted her head upwards and nuzzled his neck. "I would have known you."

He grunted as her nose skimmed the underside of his jaw. "Careful," he murmured, "Crows are watching. If you don't want a scandal with your husband's cousin—"

"I wish you were my husband."

The thought escaped her lips before she had time to think it through. Illario stilled completely.

"Y-You're drunk," he tried to laugh it off. "You're completely drunk. You have no idea what you're saying—"

She closed her eyes. "It would have been so easy to fall in love with you. I would be halfway there already."

His hands tightened on her. "You would not. I would have been a terrible husband," he said lowly, furiously, "Neglectful and cold. And I can be a cruel lover. You don't know what—"

She gave a broken sob. "It can't be worse than this."

She buried her face in his chest and burst into tears. The sight of her misery broke him. His fury evaporated in an instant. Illario could do nothing but ignore the curious glances of the Crows around them, gather her limp body in his arms and hold her close to his heart.

She shouldn't have.

She knew she shouldn't have—but Illario's arms were so gentle in the dawn when he carried her into the vineyard's villa.

She knew she was married to his cousin—whom he loved like a brother—but it was always just so easy with Illario than it ever was with Lucanis; her husband who rebuffed every attempt she had made to reconcile them.

And it was Illario who was here and not Lucanis. His arms and that were so comfortingly warm and strong as he took her up the stairs, three steps at a time with heart-stuttering ease. She was lulled by the rumble of his voice beneath her cheek as he murmured to the maids, to inform the Seventh Talon where he had taken to safety the First Talon's wife. And when he kicked open the door of a spare guestroom, checked it for danger, and then laid her down with such tenderness on the simple bed there—she had lost all resistance.

She was so tired of trying.

Illario had bent his head low to unhook her slippers from her feet. His hair fell like a molten river between them. Rook felt the relief at her ankles, of skin finally being released from a pinched hold all night, and then cool sheets as he tucked them around her. So when he turned back with softened eyes and dipped to kiss her forehead—she met his lips instead with her own.

Illario stilled like a statue.

It was nothing like kissing Lucanis. Not tainted with blood and salt of tears—but hot and wine-sweet. A kiss not exchanged in apology, not in a savage, desperate need—but with a growing emotion she was too afraid to name. It made her quiver, made her shake, with fear or guilt or something else entirely, until she flushed red and tried in hot-faced shame to retreat—

—and then Illario kissed her back.

Warm and slow, wickedly skilled; a slanted press of lips and a flicker of tongue that had her heart stuttering and cheeks burning. His strong hand slid to the back of her head, cradled her there and angled her just so. The slow-creeping simmer of blood in her veins burst into flame. Her heart beat to life—golden fire and sparks in her belly, honey on her tongue. His perfumed hair spilled beside them like a thick curtain, scented with lavender and spices as he shifted forward on the bed.

His groan was a sinful sound—delicious and forbidden against Rook's mouth—and it tasted like guilt. Desire. Loneliness. Hope.

Her hands raked at his back. She scrabbled for purchase on his too-smooth shirt, fumbling for his buttons until the fabric loosened over his chest. Illario peeled it from his arms, his lips never once leaving hers, and threw the shirt unseeingly over the side of the bed. Her palms met skin—searing hot and smooth across his back and his ribs, and up his shoulder blades until he hissed in pain.

When they broke away, gasping for air, she could see why.

Someone else had raked their own fingernails across Illario's body before her—not just his back, but down his chest too. Thin, crimson lines from too-sharp nails and a foreign lovebite over his heart. Illario panted as he followed her gaze.

"From my contract in Tevinter," he explained, breathing heavily as he sat back on his heels. "Does it bother you? What I do for a living?" His boots were still on—he hadn't made any more movements to undress. Unsure if she still wanted this. If she still wanted him.

Rook slowly but clearly shook her head.

Illario's eyebrows jumped a fraction. Disbelieving. "You don't mind?" he repeated with piercing eyes, "What I must do with my body with others?"

Her own breaths were unsteady from their kiss, her thinly-clothed chest rising and falling in a struggle for air. "No," she told him truthfully, "I don't care. I have known what you do from the beginning." She swallowed, then whispered, "Does it bother you what I must do with mine?" Her voice was shakier than she would have liked. "T-That Lucanis has had me before, repeatedly, and will have me again?"

Illario stared at her, his blue eyes unblinking in the sunrise. Then he kicked off his boots and grunted, "It bothers me how much it does not."

When he kissed her again, she was consumed with heat. She could feel his bare chest almost skin-to-skin with hers, and it felt like coming home to lay in front of the hearth. She writhed beneath him, desperate for contact—for heat, for comfort—until the thin straps of her gown finally slipped down her shoulders.

They both groaned when his calloused thumb followed the newly revealed path. His skin was rough but warm between her collarbones, tracing down every dip in her sternum and palming over a quivering breast. He squeezed. Rook arched into him with a breathless whine. She broke the kiss to pant against his jaw, fogging the silver of his earrings, until he licked down her throat with a rasp of teeth and smoothed his hand down her belly.

Blooming heat followed wherever he went.

"Please," she found herself begging as he mouthed at her neck. "Please, Illario!" Her legs were tangled in the bed clothes he had tucked too tight around her, but she managed to slide her knee halfway up his thigh.

Illario grunted. "I shouldn't," he muttered into her skin. "You're drunk. You're… married. To the one person I can't do this to." His hands couldn't help but move though, skimming down her ribs and back up to her breast. Circled the peak maddeningly with his thumb. "We shouldn't do more than this."

"Just once," Rook whimpered, "Show me how it's supposed to be." She smoothed her hands over his back and his arms, and kissed his hair with desperation. "What it's like when it's good. What it's like to find pleasure with another."

Illario moaned at the words. "Fuck," he gasped, "Rook." He drew back to look her in the eyes. "You've never… Has Lucanis never satisfied you?"

"No," she cried. "Please, Illario, I just want—" 

He captured her lips with a searing hot kiss. Harder than before, and more determined. "He doesn't deserve you," he whispered, "And neither do I. Maybe none of us deserve each other." His clever hand slipped beneath the silk of her gown to the cradle of her thighs. "But I can give you this, just once," he murmured. She startled at his electric touch. "Just once, and just you."

Illario kissed her honey-sweet as his hand played her like a lyre—gently at first, carefully, until she adjusted to the newness of his touch. Her body thrummed to life with a 'oh—!' and a gasp—and then he was stroking and circling, strumming her to a crashing crescendo.

Rook couldn't tell how long he had his hand between her thighs; all her feeling seemed to narrow to a pinpoint where his long fingers crooked deep inside. Illario hungrily drank every cry from her lips. He turned her mindless with pleasure; her lungs soon screaming for air for he would not slow their kisses, and she was so breathlessly dizzy between the wine and his body, his mouth and his hand that she thought she would shatter to pieces. 

When she did come, it was in silence and her vision went white.

Teia dropped Rook off directly on the doorstep of Viago's Summer house in Salle. To say Viago welcomed her home with open arms would be an overstatement—but the slight twitch of his moustache and the softening of his brow when he opened the door was just about the same.

"You're late," he grumbled as he let her in. "I thought you were getting here yesterday."

Rook shrugged. "The ship was delayed coming back upriver from Seleny. But I do come bearing gifts." She wiggled two dusky bottles at him. "Weyrland reds from the festival. Two of those sour ones you seem to like."

He sighed but took the peace offerings. "I would have thought you'd have enough of wine by now."

"They're for you, not me," she waved him off. "Maker knows I've had enough for the rest of the year."

In truth, she could no longer stomach the taste of wine now, and she was a little ashamed of how desperately she had thrown herself at Illario that night. Her memory was a little blurred from drink—but not hazy enough to forget the agonising loneliness she saw mirrored in Illario's eyes, nor the scent of lavender and spices when he pressed her into the bed, and his searing lips and his clever hands and oh—! Such blinding pleasure.

She must have fainted after that—must have whited out from ecstasy. Or it could have been the wine. Apparently Illario had waited in the guest bedroom afterwards, perfectly innocently in a chair until Teia had come looking for Rook. He hadn't left until he knew she was safe.

In contrast, Rook had woken up in bed next to an equally groggy Seventh Talon, and had immediately thrown up everything in her stomach. She was left with nothing but a hangover and the echo of an empty heat between her thighs.

...Perhaps she should have felt guiltier—felt some remorse at coveting her husband's cousin... but in the end, she was well aware their arranged marriage was an unusual one. She only felt regret that she hadn't had the chance to talk with Illario afterwards, to talk about what this meant between them...

...But either way, it did not change their plans. Neither Illario nor Rook could move forward without first solving Lucanis, and solving Lucanis meant—

"Thank you for letting me stay," Rook said as Viago's servants took her luggage. "I've missed home so much."

"So you have said in your letters." Viago gestured for her to follow him into the sunroom. "One of the guest rooms has been made for you. It is the one with the blue curtains that faces the sea." He cleared his throat as they entered the doorway. "I wasn't sure if Lucanis would be joining you. If he is and you would prefer not to share a room, I can arrange—"

"Oh, don't bother," she said hurriedly, flushing in embarrassment. "He never stays the night anyway."

The sunroom was spectacular in Summer. Almost an entire wall of glass and gauzy drapes, with potted fan palms swaying in the sea breeze and colourful hand-painted tiles warm beneath their feet. Rook took a seat on a low divan. Viago took the armchair opposite, and waved for a servant to pour them cool drinks.

"Everything is set for the ball tonight," he told her as she sipped her chilled lemonade. "We are holding it in the Opera House. Will that suffice?"

The drink was soothing in the humid heat—refreshing and sweet after a long week of travel. "More than enough," she assured him. "Thank you. For organising all this on such short notice."

He shifted uncomfortably. "You wed yourself to the First Talon so that I could secure my position as Fifth. It is the least I could do." He paused. Then asked in a low voice, "I hope you know what you're doing, Rook. Playing Crow politics is always a dangerous game."

"Teia has been a good tutor," Rook assured him. "Isn't that why you sent her to me?"

He took an agitated sip. "I don't send the Seventh Talon anywhere she doesn't want to go," he corrected. "But she's always been fond of you. You know this." He sighed and leaned his forearms on his knees. "Tell me everything is all right, Rook," he asked quietly, "With you and Lucanis? Your last letter to me was very sudden and desperate."

She blushed again. Took another gulp of her lemonade. "We're having a bit of a disagreement," she said evasively. "But we should be resolving it tonight."

"He hasn't sent a reply to the event invitation," Viago said carefully. "Are you sure he's coming?"

Rook set the glass down carefully onto the table. She swallowed past the lump in her throat as she met his blue eyes. "He has to."

Viago was not known to enjoy social events, but Rook thought he had a flair for throwing them. The ball Rook asked him to organise was under the guise of celebrating the Summer Solstice—the longest day of the year. The sun would not even set until late in the evening, which meant that by the time the party was in full swing, the sky was still pink.

The Opera House in Salle was decorated in white and gold and saffron yellow. Semi-transparent drapes billowed in the gentle evening breeze, whispering over mirrored tiles and wrapping themselves around gilded columns. Bouquets of colourful blooms overfilled the vases in every corner; long-stemmed lavenders and dahlias, roses and wispy baby's breath.

Rook whirled past them all in the arms of the stoic Viago de Riva. They cut a striking figure through the ballroom of the Opera House, turning heads and igniting whispers everywhere they went. Rook had dressed carefully in soft lilac damask that night—a nod to House Dellamorte's colours. It draped like a lover over her body, teasing a tantalising swathe of skin at her neck and back, and falling to the floor in gentle ripples. It drew attention to the only ornaments that adorned her—her wedding ring, and a feathered headpiece in the twist of her hair.

After Viago, a Crow from House Valisti asked her to dance. And after him, another from House Nero, and then someone else from Cantori. It wasn't the same sort of party as the hedonistic revels she'd attended with Teia. There was less impropriety here—but it meant much more watching and waiting and strategic machinations.

"You have been very popular of late, Lady Dellamorte," Emil Kortez said smoothly as she found herself waltzing in his arms at the edge of the ballroom. It was nearly dark outside now, and the only light came from the thousand candles in the chandelier that hung above the dancefloor. The Fourth Talon was watching her with a sharp-eyed look. "You caused quite a stir in Antiva City and in Seleny." Rook was reluctant to turn her back to him as he lifted his arm for a spin. "One would think you were fishing for something."

"What could I possibly be fishing for, sir?" she deflected sweetly. "The First Talon ensures I have everything I need."

"Does he?" he said silkily. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believed you were looking for his attention." He tilted his head as she dropped her gaze from his. "Why else would one parade themselves on the arm of the Seventh Talon when they are married to the First? Or instead seek comfort in the arms of his notoriously amorous cousin?"

Rook's heart plummeted. Emil's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course, I don't blame you," he murmured, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. "So young, and yet your husband leaves you so alone for most of the year. Our First Talon can be such a… cold man, don't you think? One might even wonder if he's even human."

Rook tensed in his arms. Emil smiled wider. "Oh?" his lip curled triumphantly, "I—"

"Kortez."

She felt a chill as if a cool breath brushed the back of her neck. Then Lucanis Dellamorte melted from the shadows of a column behind her like a wraith. "You don't mind if I steal my wife for a dance?" His voice was calm, cool and collected—but there was an underlying warning in them that made the Fourth Talon's smile slowly disappear. His hands slipped from her waist.

"Of course not," Emil Kortez replied equally coolly. He inclined his head to Rook. "Until next time."

The chill at her neck did not abate. In fact, it only intensified. Rook felt it along the exposed skin of her back like a warning and it raised goosebumps on her arms. Her breath grew shallow in anticipation. She didn't turn around.

Though dancers continued to whirl around them, the music seemed to fade away into muffled silence as Lucanis walked slowly forwards.

Step.

Step.

She felt him on the edges of her senses like a shadow—a dark blur in the corner of her vision like a predator approaching his prey. A smudge of black in a ballroom of gold and white.

She saw his boots first in the polished-mirror surface of the floor tiles. They were dusty still from travel. He must have not stopped for rest. His tailored pants next, along his lean calves and powerful thighs; his slim waist wrapped in a silk vest; and tense, broad shoulders filling out a smart waistcoat. Still in all black, up to the silk cravat at his throat. But his face…

His face looked terrible. Lucanis' hair had been half tied up but it only exposed the gaunt cut of his cheekbones. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed red and were bruised darkly beneath them as if he hadn't slept for months. He regarded her now with a guarded expression, both watching and waiting. Angry but wary.

Rook let her hands fall limply to her sides. "Lucanis," she greeted simply.

His shadowed eyes flickered over her dress. Dellamorte purple. The glint of gold on the fourth finger of her hand. The generous amount of skin at her collarbones and her shoulders and her throat. The braided twist of her hair and the—

He stilled.

"Do you not like it?" Rook asked quietly. "I wore this for you."

His breath came fractionally faster. "Those feathers," he said slowly with an uncertain waver in his voice. "Where did you get them?"

Three feathers—longer than possible to have come from any bird—black and edged in violet, deliberately threaded through the dark locks of Rook's hair.

"Oh?" she said in a voice steadier than her nerves. "And here I thought you left them behind for me as a gift."

It was Lucanis' turn to go pale. Rook didn't miss her chance.

"You said you wanted to dance," she said quickly, slotting herself into the narrow space between Lucanis's arms. It startled him. He flinched almost imperceptibly as she slinked her arm around his back and slipped her other hand into his gloved one. But he couldn't retreat—not here in full view of the ballroom, where every Crow eye was watching with intense curiosity. Rook was counting on it.

"You're playing with fire, Rook," he warned lowly as she pulled them into position. "You're tempting a demon." His gaze flickered to the offending feathers—but her grip tightened on him before he could move.

"He left it behind for me," she countered, forcing his gaze back to her. "Why shouldn't I wear it?"

His jaw clenched, and a ring of violet began to glow around his irises—but before he could say anything more, the music started up again, and they were forced to dance.

It was not like dancing with Illario, nor Viago, nor any man she had danced with before. Her heart never beat so fast; here in the arms of her husband in full view of their fellow Crows. She caught a glimpse of Viago as they spun. A flash of navy and gold in the crowd. His lips were flattened to a tense line as he watched, his eyes narrowed.

"Fine," Lucanis said curtly as they swept stiffly across the dancefloor, "You summoned me here. You wanted to talk." This close to her, she could see the burst blood vessels in the whites of his eyes and smell the alcohol and coffee beneath his cologne. "You have my full attention now."

So she did. And what a heady thing it was.

"Don't be too angry, Lucanis," she murmured, "I did what I had to to make you return to me." He raised his hand so she could twirl under his arm. She twisted back into his chest.

"Andarateia Cantori, and then Illario," he muttered with a hint of annoyance. "You could have chosen less prominent figures to start a scandal with."

"Don't tell me you're jealous?" They parted for a moment, as the dance allowed, but his eyes didn't leave hers as she spun and returned to his arms. Rook tilted her head. "After two months avoiding me, I don't think you have the right to be jealous."

"I know," he gritted out. "But your reputation will not benefit our child." His grip tightened on her waist meaningfully. "Their parentage cannot be disputed, if we are to only have one."

"Teia cannot get me with child," Rook scoffed, "And Illario—"

"—Illario's bastard can still pass as mine?" he suggested cruelly. Rook flushed. A twinge of guilt thrummed through her at the memory of the wine festival in Seleny, in the arms of his cousin. 

"Illario has not lain with me," she corrected stiffly. Though not for lack of trying.

Lucanis seemed to read it on her face. He exhaled a low scoff. "Then we should be quicker with this, before your patience runs out." The hand on her waist dropped to brush her flat belly. His eyes were intense beneath his brows when he asked lowly, "Has my seed truly not taken?"

Rook slapped his hand away. "Perhaps it would take had you not been so half-hearted in your attempts!" she hissed. She had to break off as they whirled into another spin. "I'm sure the Healer told you too, Lucanis," she snapped when they met again, "We're not exactly maximising chances when you go gallivanting off to Tevinter for half the year."

His eyes flashed dangerously. "What would you have me do, Rook?" He stepped in close until his lips were by her ear. "Would you rather I bed you daily?" She shivered at his tone—then gasped as he gracefully bent her low into a dip. "I could stay in Treviso," he continued lowly as they paused there for a moment, "Subject you to my presence until our union bears fruit." His thumb rubbed a small circle at her back, half-soothing, half-threatening. "Would you prefer that?" he whispered, "Sharing the bed of a bloodthirsty demon to this?"

She inhaled deeply as he pulled her back upright. Her mind spun slightly as the blood rushed from her head. "I'd rather live with my husband," she gasped in a voice steadier than her legs, "The way we agreed to when I signed the contract."

His breath spilled hot down her neck in a half-amused huff. "Then you'd be living with two demons."

All the other dancers took a step back as the music slowed for the end of the song—except Lucanis. He dropped all pretence of dancing and began to pull her out of the room. "Enough of this," he said in an undertone, "You wanted me. Now you have me. We should make use of our time together."

"What?" Rook stumbled after him. "Right now?" They passed a swirling crowd of Crows, all watching curiously as the First Talon nearly dragged his wife bodily from the room. She thought she saw a glimpse of Illario watching them, high on a balcony. "Lucanis, maybe we—"

"Excuse me, First Talon?" a Crow interrupted them, "May I have the pleasure of asking your wife for a—"

"No." Lucanis didn't even spare the boy a glance. The icy glare he gave everyone else in their way sent them scattering like birds.

Any other Crow would have assumed the usual—that the jealous First Talon and his wife were stepping out for a private, amorous reunion. Rook had tried to look unaffected as she hurried to keep up with his furious strides, up the spiralling staircase and ducking through a curtained doorway. The loud music and dancing and chatter all seemed to drop away in an instant.

"W-Wait! You said we could talk!" she gasped, heart thudding louder as he pulled her through the hallway and into a series of twisting corridors. "I still have questions."

"Then ask them," he said curtly. "I can multi-task." He started opening doors to random rooms as he passed, peering inside for a second before shutting it and trying another.

"Why me?" she finally asked. "You said you don't plan to stick around after all this, but you chose to marry me out of a long list of candidates. To be the mother of your child, even though we'd never met." His shoulders stiffened. Her fingers dug into his arm. "There has to be a reason."

"Well, I had to choose someone," he said evasively. He slammed the door of another room. "There was a lot of people on that list I didn't like."

She stared incredulously at the back of his head. "Don't play dumb with me, Lucanis."

The next room, Lucanis seemed to like enough to drag them both inside. The door slammed shut behind them and he sighed. His voice sounded louder in the sudden silence. "I chose you because of Viago."

Whatever she had expected, it hadn't been that. "…What?"

"That's why you accepted the contract, isn't it?" Lucanis turned stiffly away from her and began to check the room clinically for danger or other occupants. It was a small storage room with various musical instruments and cases stacked neatly in shelves—and one long, dusty mirror half-covered by the wall. "You wanted to secure his position as Fifth Talon by having support from House Dellamorte. He owes you."

"Y-Yes… but what does that have to do with—?"

"I may not have ever met you, but I had heard of you," Lucanis admitted. He checked outside the window for a moment, before closing it and drawing the curtains shut. "I knew Viago was to become Talon sooner than later, and you were always at his side. His most loyal. His favourite."

Rook could not deny it.

"Which meant," he said, turning around and beginning to unfasten his cravat, "That when I eventually left, he would look after you." He tugged the silk agitatedly from his throat. "I… I didn't know you would take so well to Illario—but even if not, I hoped you and our child would have at least one protector. That even if the world turned their back on you for laying with a demon, you would have someone in your corner."

She shifted uncomfortably in the middle of the room. It was an oddly sweet thought that contrasted how harshly he yanked at his own clothing. He threw his cravat on a shelf and began to unfasten his waistcoat. "Get undressed," he advised without looking at her.

"Here?" The room was dim, with only one wall brazier lit near the door, but it still felt far more public than the privacy of the Villa. "I don't know if I can do it here," she said stiffly. She glanced nervously at the door. "I have a room at Viago's Summer house. Let's just return—"

"We are not doing it in Viago's house," Lucanis shuddered. "And I don't have time to wait. I have another contract and I need to leave the city tonight." He threw her an annoyed look. "You wasted too much time making us chase you across Antiva."

"Well, I wouldn't have had to if you had come home on time," she retorted.

"Then let us both get this over with so I can leave you alone." He tossed his coat over the back of a chair. "Then you may enjoy the rest of the evening with whoever you please before going straight home to Treviso tomorrow."

Rook scoffed as Lucanis loosened the top few buttons on his shirt. "Whoever I please? What is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged noncommittedly. "You know who I mean."

Her jaw dropped. What could he possibly...? "You're… encouraging this," she said in disbelief.

A slight sheen of sweat that gleamed at his throat betrayed his tension but Lucanis continued calmly, "As you said, I have no right to be jealous. And our contract is… taking longer than I anticipated." He fumbled as he tried to tug off his gloves. "If… If it turns out I am unable to sire an heir with you, then maybe my cousin can." His face was expressionless as he said it, but Rook felt a distinct chill in the air. "At least the child will still be a Dellamorte."

"Still be a…? I can't believe you." Her stomach twisted oddly—a strange mix of incredulity, horror, relief and insult. "What—you can't get me with child, so you just pass me onto your cousin?"

He looked up exasperatedly. "What are you upset about now?" he cried. "You hate laying with me. Don't pretend like you do—"

"Yes, because you make it such an enjoyable experience every time!"

"—And you like Illario! I assure you, you will enjoy the process of making an heir with him much more than me—"

"Again, you have not said a single word of this to him! How do you know he even wants to—"

"Oh, he will want to," Lucanis sneered cruelly. "He has always wanted what's mine."

Something snapped in Rook. She strode forward and smacked Lucanis in the chest. "How dare you?" she said coldly. Lucanis let his back hit the shelves. "How dare you? You don't know how much your cousin loves you. Despite how cold you've been to him, how cold you've been to me—he has vouched for your ungrateful character over and over." She fisted the front of his shirt and dragged him close. "And yes, maybe I do like him," she said lowly. "How can I not? For he has been to me everything that you were supposed to be—kind and gentle, a shoulder to cry on. But it was he who tried to stop us when I kissed him. When I begged for more and cried and asked for just one night where I could feel wanted. One night that I didn't have to feel like duty. And he stopped."

Something flickered in Lucanis' eyes. A waver of guilt or remorse, and for who she wasn't sure—but Rook didn't care. "He stopped despite how much I knew he wanted it too. One night where he could feel wanted—needed. Because of you." She laughed hollowly. "'The one person he could not do this to'—that is what he said. And yet you show him so little regard in return." She released his shirt and stepped back with a scoff. "You let Caterina and the Crows and the demon order you around. Say you owe them everything. But you do just the same to Illario with your expectations, and give back nothing."

Lucanis was silent for a moment. Unmoving. Then he said quietly, a little unsteadily, "We are both Dellamortes, Rook. Crows. We know our duties. We are the same."

"No," she shook her head, "You're not. Because you've chosen to be loyal to those who don't care for you, Lucanis. And Illario has chosen to be loyal to you."

Something shuttered in his eyes—a finality of some moment. But Rook was turning away and pulling at her dress. "Fine," her voice cracked as she wrenched her beautiful gown from her shoulders. "You want to do your duty? Then let's do it. After all, I am yours to do with as you wish, aren't I? As stipulated in the contract." She gave a small hysterical laugh as lilac silk pooled to a puddle on the floor.

"Rook, that's not what I—"

"Do whatever you want, Lucanis. I don't care anymore." Her smallclothes slid down her trembling thighs and fell to the pile too. "I've tried being patient," she said. "I've tried being kind. And now I just want it to be over." She kneeled naked on the velvet green chaise, then bent over until her face pressed into the cushions. "Just do me a favour and make it quick," she murmured into the fabric, "And then pass me off to Illario, like a broodmare."

"Rook…" Lucanis' voice sounded strangled behind her. But she said nothing. Just closed her eyes and waited.

It felt like an eternity. Silence and breathing. And then finally footsteps, barely audible on the rug below them, coming closer. Rook's skin prickled in anticipation. She steeled herself for his touch, her fingers bracing into the cushions—

Lucanis' hand brushed her hip. Just a palm, to the one place where he usually would allow himself to hold her—but it was drenched with sweat and shaking so violently, it barely made contact before he was wrenching away.

"I-I can't," she heard him choke. "Rook, I can't. Not like this." His hand moved to her shoulder instead and tried to tug her upright.

"What?" she mumbled, "You want a different position? Should I lay on my back?"

"No," he said, and when she finally saw his face, Lucanis looked like he was about to be sick. "W-We don't have to do this," he swallowed. "Forgive me. I-I've been insensitive. Pushed too hard. We can… try again another night. Another time, in Treviso."

"What's the difference?" she said dully. "Tonight or tomorrow night, here or the Villa? You will keep doing this until it takes."

"I…" He didn't seem to know the answer.

She sighed and rolled upright. "I'd rather we get it over with now." 

She pulled a shaking Lucanis to the lounge with her. He fell to the seat with a sharp exhale—then froze altogether as she swung a leg over and straddled his lap. "Maybe we'll be lucky," she murmured, "And tonight will be the night I conceive." She felt no hardness against her, no desire from her husband—so she just ground her hips against his until she did. "Then we won't have to do this again," she sighed. "You'll be free to live your life, and I'll be free to live mine." She rolled her hips harder until his breath stuttered. "Isn't that what you want, Lucanis?"

"Forgive me," he was all he could say as he rolled his hips up to meet hers. "Please, forgive me."

It was different in this position, Rook thought as she slowly unbuckled his belt and mounted her husband. She felt in control. More powerful. Despite the events Lucanis had orchestrated so far to get them here, it was she who had forced him to travel to Salle this time, to meet her here in her territory, and she who took the lead in their coupling. Lucanis seemed unable to meet her gaze—in shame or guilt, she wasn't sure—but he closed his eyes and laid his damp forehead on her bare shoulder as their hips moved in tandem.

There was stretching pain, as there always was with Lucanis—but it was a pain Rook could ignore if she brought up the memory of Illario's long fingers instead. With Lucanis' head buried in her shoulder, she could smooth her hand down his long hair and imagine it was Illario instead she was riding—that it was Illario's breath that warmed her skin and his sweaty hand that clenched tighter and tighter on her hip... If she ignored the cold stripe of his wedding ring.

Lucanis' breath began unravelling in the crook of her neck as she picked up the pace. She took him deeper than before, spurred by the heady sense of power, pressing back into his shoulders for leverage as she made him undone. She knew he was always helpless to her touch by the time he came looking for her. Too starved of affection and the warmth of another to resist the feeling of her skin on his. She took advantage of it now—squeezing and rolling her hips in a motion that had his stuttering upwards in a familiar rhythm. He would not last much longer.

Her eyes raised to the opposite wall. Facing her was a dusty mirror framed in gold and half-draped with cloth. It was pointed at the top, in the Elven style, and only a sliver of its smudged surface revealed. Rook could see her own face looking back at her—pale but with flushed cheeks. Eyes lit with giddy power. But strangely, Lucanis was not reflected in it at all. Not his head nor broad shoulders where it should beneath her hands—but just a dark smudge. A shadowed blur.

The mirror began to fog.

The temperature dropped. Cool wind swirled around them though the window and door were sealed shut. It whipped Rook's hair loose from its twist—locks unfurling like a banner and dislodging the three feathers in her hair. They were caught in the breeze, taken upon its current before Rook could reach for them. She almost missed the six glowing eyes that bloomed in the mirror, surrounding her in a ring on all sides.

"T-The demon," she gasped. She had wanted to see him—wanted to talk—but now he was here, she was afraid. She tugged at Lucanis' hair. He didn't respond. He just rolled his hips faster into her as if he were in a trance.

In the mirror, Lucanis was still a shapeless darkness—but behind her, she saw someone else. Violet eyes and a too-wide smile. She watched the creature reach up and catch the feathers in a clawed fist.

And then Lucanis raised his head. His pupils were gone, as were the whites of his eyes. Filled with unholy violet light. His hands came up to her then—framed her face even as his hips stuttered one last time. She felt the heat of his release bloom deep inside her like a promise.

"Help us," he croaked. She felt a tug on her mind, like something trying to drag her into subconsciousness. The corners of her vision darkened. The mirror behind him began to swirl a whirlpool of violet. She leaned, entranced, into the hypnotic glow of his eyes.

"HELP US!"

She was in a cell—small and dark and somewhat familiar. The walls were covered in unintelligible writing, inked with human blood. And in the stone ceiling, there was a crack. A chip in the sky large enough for moonlight to pour through and pool on the ground. Large enough for a man, were he nimble enough, to scale the walls and escape through.

There was a man in the cell. He was huddled in the corner with his arms wrapped around his knees. His hands were stained crimson to the wrist. And despite the luminous moonlight that trickled into his cell and stroked lovingly at his back, he faced the wall. He did not turn around.

"Hello?" Rook said uncertainly. She took a step forwards but the man didn't so much as twitch. "Are you alright?" She crouched and touched him gently on the back, and when he didn't move again, she gripped him by both shoulders to turn him around—

Lucanis' face stared back at her. Pale and gaunt and beard grown ragged—but it was him. The dark eyes that usually stared back with a quiet intensity were blank. 

"Lucanis," she said slowly. She tried to tug him to his feet. "I don't know why you're here, but I think you need to leave. We need to go." When Rook turned around, she saw there was suddenly a door in the cell. It was flimsy, made of wood, and already ajar. She let out a breath of relief. "There," she told him, "The way out. Easy."

She made to walk through, already pulling the door open for him—but Lucanis stopped in the middle of the cell, bathed in moonlight. "You go on," he said dully. "I will remain."

Rook paused. "What do you mean? You don't want to leave this madman's cell?" Too late, she realised the blood on the walls could have only come from himself.

"It is better for everyone that I remain here," Lucanis said. The walls began to shake, like an angry rumble. Dark clouds began rolling across the full moon above, a sense of terrible unease came over her.

She reached out her hand to him. "Don't be ridiculous, Lucanis. You need to go home. Come on."

Lucanis remained unmoved. The tremors grew more violent like an earthquake, and with a crack of thunder it began to rain. Fat drops of water hammering down like hail and beginning to pour in like a river through the crack in the ceiling. "Don't you understand, Rook?" he said lifelessly. His voice echoed over the rushing water. "I cannot leave. For wherever I go, the demon will follow." It was flooding in now like a waterfall. It pooled into the tiny cell and splashed violently up the bloodied walls. "I cannot let the demon out. Not while you're here."

Rook growled in frustration, even as thunder crackled again and the water began to raise rapidly higher. She sloshed through the flood, grabbing his shoulders again roughly. "I can handle your demon!" she shouted, "You've never even let me try! Maybe if you did, you would see that between you, Illario and I, we could make this work!"

Lucanis shook his head sorrowfully. The water was now at knee-height—uncomfortably cold and seeping into their clothes. "I will not take the risk," he murmured, barely audible over the rushing flood. "It is not worth a few moments of hope, only to wake up one day to find your blood on the walls or Illario's body at my feet." He nodded towards the wooden door—still open but half-submerged now. "You should leave while you can, Rook. It will not remain open for long."

Thunder roared. MAKE. HIM. LEAVE!

Rook grabbed his arm and wrenched him forward. "I'm not leaving without you!" she shouted. The flood came up dangerously to their shoulders. "Come on, before you drown!"

Lucanis gazed up at the ceiling. The water that continued to pour through glistened with moonlight. "Maybe I should have drowned," he said. "Maybe I should have drowned in the Ossuary and never come back. I would have saved all of you the trouble. You could be with Viago in Salle, where you long to be. And Illario…"

"Would have mourned his cousin," Rook snapped, "For real." He didn't move again, so she threw one of his arms over her shoulders, just as the flood swept them off their feet.

She swam for the two of them—kicking desperately to stay afloat. Lucanis was like a deadweight but she wouldn't let him go. The wooden door was out of sight beneath the flood—but there was still that crack in the ceiling which had widened with the oncoming of rain.

"Come with us," she gasped as she struggled to keep their heads above the water. "We're stronger than you think—Illario and I. All of us. We can… we can speak with the demon. Find a compromise." She choked for a moment under a spray of water. Coughed and spluttered with a desperate breath. "Let's have breakfast together!" she begged, "Coffee again at Café Pietra's. Have a dinner that doesn't end in argument—Lucanis!" He was too heavy to keep upright much longer. "Let's all learn to… ngh! To live again!" She swallowed rainwater as she dipped below the roiling waves—and this time, her weighted legs couldn't find the energy to raise back up.

And then Lucanis started kicking.

With a rush, they broke the surface again—both of them now gasping for breath. "Mierda! Just let me go, Rook!" he begged. There was fire in his eyes now—fear and desperation, but more emotion than before. "Just go! I can't do this any more. I regret it—all of it! I just want to go!"

"Well, you don't get to!" she screamed, "Not after doing all this!" She kicked harder, reached for gap in the ceiling and the moon. "You will live, Lucanis Dellamorte! If not for yourself, then for me. For Illario. For our child. And for that fucking demon too!"

Her fingers hit something—the edge of the hole in the ceiling. Plaster and stone crumbled in her hands but she managed to get a grip strong enough to heave Lucanis upwards. His hands automatically grabbed the ledge alongside hers. "Go!" she urged. The hole was only big enough for them to squeeze through one at a time and she was shoving him through it. "Go, and don't look back!"

"Rook…" His brown eyes were wild with terror. One hand was still gripping her tightly. "I don't know how to—"

"Go!"

The walls shook harder than ever. Everything began collapsing inwards—stone and rubble, water swirling like a maelstrom. Rook shoved with all her might, until it was just Lucanis' boots that were still in her hands. Her head went below water again. Her breath turned to bubbles. And—

Rook.

Rook!

ROOK! WAKE UP!

Rook awoke abruptly on the green chaise lounge, drenched in sweat and naked—except for Lucanis' waistcoat draped over her body. Illario was there, clutching her shoulder with eyes wide in concern.

"Illario? Where is he?" she gasped, looking around in terror. "Lucanis? Where is—"

"He's gone," Illario told her. Lucanis' silk cravat and gloves were missing, as were the violet feathers she had worn in her hair. The window of the room had been thrown open and the curtains fluttered with the warm, Summer night breeze.

"He's gone."