Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She’s stuck. Trapped, and she can’t get out. A month, maybe two, maybe longer. She doesn’t remember. She spills words onto the keyboard, but they don’t make sense. She wishes she could keep them to herself, tuck them away, hide them like bruises under sleeves. Instead, she writes and erases. Writes and erases, over and over again.

Invent a story and never finish it. Leave it open-ended, just to feel guilty a little longer. A little more.

She doesn’t know why, but she’s stuck.

Ellana stares out of the window. The sun is shining, the sky an impossible blue—like a giant sheet of plastic stretched across the horizon. It brings tears to her eyes, sets her chest alight with a molten rage. Beneath her, clouds twist into galloping horses, carefree and full of life. Infuriatingly beautiful. She has no one to share it with, no one she wants to share it with. And that’s worse, somehow. The choice in it.

Emptiness. That’s what it is. A silent, agonising void in her mind. It hurts. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to her.

I want to go home.

It’s the only thought she can hold on to.

Go home—even if she no longer knows where that is.

I want to go home, she thinks, as the pilot’s voice crackles through the speakers, announcing their descent.

She stares vacantly at the laptop screen. That blank page mocks her. A slap in the face.

She had started writing when she was eight. Her first story came to life while listening to a sad song—one far too grown-up for a child. She didn’t understand the lyrics, not really, but Janis sang them in a voice that tugged at a strange string deep in her heart.

She still remembers the words, but now they hurt. So she doesn’t listen to them anymore.

You can go all around the world
Trying to find something to do with your life, baby
When you only gotta do one thing well
You only gotta do one thing well to make it in this world, babe

Her first story had been about a lonely wolf—though what, exactly, the wolf was doing escapes her now. Something sad, obviously. All her stories were sad. Probably wandered into a blizzard or died under a tree. What she does remember is the 10 her teacher scrawled on the page, underlining it three times in red ink. And the way he looked at her: surprised, a little moved, maybe even proud, as he handed back the lilac notebook.

She had blushed until her cheeks burned, walked back to her seat with a wide smile slicing across her face, the lilac notebook clutched to her chest, heart thudding like applause.

That was the first time she knew she was good at something, even if she didn’t yet understand what that meant. The stories moved into diaries. Cheap ones with foil covers and tiny padlocks that could be picked with a paperclip. She’d write until her fingers cramped, filling the pages with feelings that had nowhere else to go. Sometimes, the ink blurred with tears. Sometimes, the words were all she had. They were hers, no one could ever take them away.

It was when those words became everyone’s that she began to hate the ritual that had probably saved her life more than once: putting on her headphones and listening to a melancholic song while her heart poured out—first onto paper, later onto a screen—had become unbearable. The only thought in her mind while typing was: What might work this time?

What might go viral. What might sell. What might live up to the last book—the one that exploded. The one that hit bestseller lists, got picked up by a studio, became a movie, then a TV show, and of course, her publisher kept saying: “Just give us another one like that. Just one more.”

She hated it.

She hated that fucking book. She hated that shitty movie and that pastel-lit, algorithm-friendly TV adaptation. They had stolen the eight-year-old girl who held her lilac notebook to her chest and smiled with flushed cheeks.

And the worst part? Season 2 of that awful thing was already confirmed.

She had tried to fight it, of course, but that bastard, Alexius, smugly reminded her she'd signed a contract. Maybe she didn’t remember page 124 quite so clearly—the part that referred back to article 32, cleverly detailed in a footnote at the bottom of Annex Y. You know, the one marked by an asterisk shaped like a wingless chicken that thought it was a cat—or whatever. She stopped listening ten minutes in.

She called her agent, Bran, furious, and he proudly presented a twenty-page email he'd sent her months ago, with a subject line that read “Contract no. 48364638 per clause 384 as referenced in prior email titled…”, where everything was perfectly clear and transparent, or so he said, assuming she could decipher the densest bureaucratese known to man.

Long story short: Nugflix owned her soul. They bought it for pocket change. And there was nothing she could do about it.

The saddest thing was that, when she’d first started the book, she’d been inspired. Excited, even.

She’d poured hours into it. Countless, agonising hours of research into the real-life criminal network so powerful, so theatrical, they named themselves after the ancient Elvhen gods. June, Sylaise, Ghilan’nain, Andruil, to name a few. And, of course, Elgar’nan and Mythal—the infamous power couple. Business partners, lovers, legends. As passionate as they were violent.

They called themselves the Evanuris.

They moved in shadows, unseen but unmistakable, and even if no one knew their faces, everyone had heard their names. They controlled Thedas through lyrium—a drug so dangerous, so insidious, it had bled into every corner of society: boardrooms, bedrooms, alleyways. And as always, it was the poor who got the worst of it. The dirtiest cuts. The deadliest highs.

She'd been obsessed with their story. Lost sleep over it. Maybe because she’d grown up in a deeply traditional Dalish family, raised to revere those same names—taught to pray to them when life closed in and she couldn’t breathe. And now, here was a story that reeked of scandal, of defiance. A myth, inverted. Sacred names tied to blood, drugs, and power plays, a story that screamed blasphemy to the girl who had once whispered those names into the night for comfort.

And it wasn’t ancient history. It had happened only a few years prior—ended in a precision massacre just as she was starting university. They weren't deities, after all. Most of them were killed in a single night. The rest were killed in the years that followed. Back then, she consumed every article she could find, hungry for each grisly detail, every lurid headline, every breathless journalist turning carnage into spectacle.

So she decided to tell it. In her own way.

She tried, truly, to stay close to the truth. As much as possible. She tracked down sources—former agents, old contacts, relatives. Everyone who would talk, because she wanted the story to feel real. But one voice was missing. The most important of all.

Fen’Harel.

The one who’d betrayed the family. The one who had torn them apart from within—an infiltrator working for a Thedosian intelligence agency. The one who had brought the Evanuris to their knees.

The wolf among gods.

Oh, how she had tried to reach him.

She sent letters, emails, encrypted messages to buried inboxes. She knocked on doors, followed rumours into dead ends. Until, one day, she received a threatening phone call from a woman with a thick Nevarran accent and absolutely no patience for bullshit. She calmly—and with terrifying precision—laid out how Ellana was breaking at least twenty-five laws in three different countries. Copyright, defamation, data privacy, stalking. The list went on.

And then came the part that made her blood run cold.

The woman promised that she would personally drag her through the Void if she didn’t stop. Personally. She spat out the word with such venom it clung to Ellana’s bones long after the line went dead.

After that, her agent begged her to drop it. When she turned to her editor, Varric, hoping for backup, he just leaned back in his chair and said, “Fill in the gaps with fiction. No one gives a shit about the truth. People want sex, blood, and drugs. Give them that—and it’ll sell.”

And in the end… she gave in. It was a novel, after all. Not a journalistic exposé.

Varric—as usual—had been right. The critics praised it. The general public ate it up.

But, to her, it was a disaster.

The book hadn’t caused nearly as much uproar as the movie. That came later… in waves. She received countless protest letters, hate mail, and even death threats from the families of the victims, accusing her of glamorising murderers, of draping crime in silk and candlelight, of turning blood and addiction into something beautiful. They called her a parasite. A liar. A monster. And, privately, she agreed with them.

A vast, echoing hollow opened in her chest. She’d been silently, almost shamefully relieved that her parents hadn’t lived to read the book, or see the film, or witness the inevitable series that followed.

It was the elves—especially the Dalish—who took it worst of all. Her own people. They didn’t just hate the subject matter. They hated how she told the story, the names twisted, the reverence gone. The gods recast as gangsters, warlords, abusers.

And in the silence that followed the applause and the fame and the sparkling interviews, the hollow inside her only widened. It had never closed again.

She snaps the laptop shut, not even bothering to turn it off, and stuffs it into the small rucksack beneath the seat in front of her.

The landing is smooth as silk—just like her mind: flat, quiet, like sea ripples at dawn.

She’s about to disembark when the flight attendant gives her a smile—white as the moon, bright as the sun—and chirps, “Welcome back home.”

Ellana mumbles a clumsy “thank you” and attempts something resembling a smile, though her face probably looks more like a Picasso. She blames the jet lag.

The air outside—thick with suffocating summer heat—fills her lungs as she walks down the steps, suitcase in hand. She looks up, and the gentle hills where she grew up, the land that bore her and then cruelly forgot her, welcomes her with soft colours and a sky so blue it looks fake. Wycome.

Cry baby, cry baby, cry baby
Honey, welcome back home

The smell of home hits her the moment she steps inside—warm, worn, devastating. It’s the scent that used to wrap around her like a blanket after long, salt-slick summers by the sea. Back then, it meant safety, the end of being away. An inexplicable pull, maybe nostalgia, maybe instinct, like the way ducklings know their mother at first sight.

But this time, it’s unbearable, that damned sense of belonging that tears her chest in two. She stands in silence, one hand on the suitcase handle, eyes drifting slowly across the furniture, the shapes, the details she’s never seen so vividly.

Seven years. Seven long years away from these walls. She doesn’t turn the lights on. She doesn’t want to see the wall blush pink, the sofa turn red. She’d rather see these rooms in black and white.

There’s a mug on the table. She left it there before clutching her one-way ticket and locking the door behind her.

What am I even doing here?

Ding! Ding-di-ding!

Her phone vibrates and rings repeatedly inside the rucksack on her back, the sound echoing from her still-running laptop as well. Everything is screaming at her, but she’s almost glad for it. It gives her the perfect excuse to silence the hollow, deafening quiet gnawing at her thoughts, something to pull her into the digital din where no one expects her to feel anything too real.

Her face lights up in the dark as she reads the messages.

Love!
Have you landed?
Dinner tonight?
I’ll pick you up at 6!

Dorian. The only person she’d told she was coming back. She smiles—a crooked smile—and her fingers tremble as she types her reply.

Jet lag. Tired.
Tomorrow. Sorry.

…typing.
…typing.
…typing.
Pause.
…typing.

Ok darling. Rest. Tomorrow then, no excuses 😘

She rereads the messages at least ten times—still does, even after his “Online” status disappears, replaced by the cold timestamp of his last connection.

15:32.

It feels like three in the morning. She’s exhausted, hollowed out, as she slides the phone into the pocket of her jeans and lowers herself onto the chair by the table, its surface dulled by a fine layer of dust. It’s dust that speaks of absence, of time passed, but it also tells her no one was waiting for her.

She sighs, grabs her laptop and lifts the screen again. That blank page is still there, staring back at her. The click of the mouse as she hits the red X is louder than expected—sharp enough to make her jump. The page vanishes. Good riddance.

In its place, her inbox blooms—an endless list of unread emails.

A low groan. Nausea, thick and sudden. She opens just one, the most recent, an hour old. The only one with a red exclamation mark next to it.

Ellana, Paperback,
I hope the journey went smoothly—and more than that, I hope it’s knocked some inspiration into you, because I need you to send me something good. Quickly.

The publisher’s breathing down my neck (you know my brother). He wants a draft of your next book and we have to give him something. I’ve stalled as much as I can, but Paperback, if the best you can send me is another page of “he brushed her cheek until it blushed with passion” like last time… yeah, no. Not great.

Let me know.

Only good news, please.

Speak soon,
Master Tethras

She laughs, just once. It’s not a happy sound. Her stomach churns with the queasy, acidic blend of pressure, disappointment, and that peculiar shame of being expected to be brilliant on command.

Only good news, please.

She’s never shut her laptop that fast in her life.

She rests her forehead against the wide window of the bus. The glass judders with every pothole, and the road’s rhythm does its best to rearrange her dental work. She hopes (without much conviction) that the shaking might also jostle loose the fog in her head. The earbuds in her ears shield her from the chatter and the deafening growl of the engine.

As a teenager, she used to ride buses like this all the way to nowhere. Back and forth across the city, a pendulum that never settled. The driver might as well have been Falon’din—elvhen guide of the dead—ferrying restless souls across asphalt rivers, asking no questions, accepting no coins. She paid in pocket lint and the occasional student ID. Her headphones were big, clunky, permanently tangled. The music was whatever she could cram into a device heavier than her self-worth.

Those rides helped her think. Or at least delay the act of thinking. They kept her suspended in that liminal, fluorescent-lit state between school and home. Between the bad grade, the broken plate, Cullen pretending she didn’t exist, and that tight knot of dread she couldn’t yet name. Anxiety? Adolescence? Life?

Running away was her speciality. Maybe she’s doing it again. Now that a slithering voice hums through her ears over a sweet melody that raises goosebumps along her arms. She sinks into the lyrics—so quietly unsettling, so serenely off-kilter—they make no sense, and yet she understands them completely. She wishes she could write like that.

She used to draw rainbow faces in the sand
But the rainbow made the face sad
Had bits of foam coming out the bottom of its mouth
It’s kinda funny that way

She opens the notes app on her phone. Tries to write a word. A noun, a verb, damn, even a preposition. But nothing comes. The screen stares back, accusatory and bright. Even with the familiar weight in her chest—the one she’s usually so good at translating into metaphors about storms and cages and cracked porcelain—there’s nothing.

Frustrated, she turns to the window, thinking how much everything has changed.

Wycome.

The city her parents chose when they gave up the nomadic life. Too hard to raise a child under stars and canvas roofs. Her father, too proud to listen when her mother begged not to stop moving. She was never happy again—forced into shoes and concrete, just like the humans.

Wycome's changed, she thinks, watching the sprawling outskirts.

She remembers its edges: dry, cracked neighbourhoods far from the coast. Empty alleys, barefoot days, games of chasing bugs and stealing sweets, hoping the bored human clerk wouldn’t notice the Dalish girl slipping through the door. There wasn't much else to do.

The city started changing when she hit secondary school—growing outward, fed by the sea and trade, drawing in drifters and the desperate (like her and her family) from all across Thedas.

By the time she reached university, Wycome was unrecognisable. It throbbed with neon and bass. A city that pulsed after dark, alive with possibility—young, curious, moving with the rhythm of a new generation, a place where cultures finally started to blend. But all that energy drew more than just students. With the city's boom came others: people who slipped through cracks, thrived in them. The streets weren’t always safe anymore. And the police had grown harsher—quicker to turn suspicion into violence.

Still, the university buzzed with life. Not the most prestigious in Thedas—nowhere near the luxury of Orlais or the academic rigour of Tevinter—but people came anyway. Renting cheap rooms, chasing knowledge, or trying to outrun their pasts. It was there she met her dearest friends, the ones running from something, and the ones desperate to build themselves into something new.

She gets off the bus, and she’s not entirely sure where she is. It spits her out with a hiss and lumbers away, just as weary as when it first swallowed her up in its plastic and metal jaws.

She walks, eyes drifting over the shop windows where her own reflection follows her. The sunglasses hide her eyes—or maybe they protect the public from the purplish moons beneath them. Hard to say. Her hair is dark, frizzy, cut into a bob perpetually tousled by the fingers that can never resist diving in, raking through, shaking until the strands fall away from her face and stop tickling her brows. With a huff, she gathers the mess and twists it into a sloppy ponytail.

The tip of her nose is red—her skin is tired, sensitive, neglected. She never takes care of it, and sure enough, a new wrinkle has appeared on her forehead. She can even see it clearly in the hazy glass.

She’s still wearing her travel clothes. That cropped denim jacket, far too heavy for the sweltering summer, her black tank top, and high-waisted jeans, hugging her bum quite nicely.

Not bad, she thinks, pausing in front of a cleaner pane of glass. She tilts her head, arches her back ever so slightly to admire herself, her lower lip jutting out and curling down in a silent nod of approval.

That’s when she sees them—two alert eyes staring back at her from the other side of the window.

Wonderful.

Her cheeks go pink. She pats her butt in a pretend search for some invisible item, trying to play it off like she’s just... incredibly concerned about her back pocket situation. Naturally, there’s nothing there. Not even her dignity.

When she dares a second glance, the eyes are gone.

Instead, she’s met with pastel-coloured book covers that seem to scowl at her. Judging her. Them too.

She frowns and silently examines the selection in what looks like a small, slightly forgotten bookshop on the edge of town. The books are neatly arranged on narrow wooden shelves: no attention-grabbing titles, just classics, historical and psychological essays, poetry collections. No bestsellers—none recent, at least. With a quiet sense of relief, she notices her book—the curse—isn’t there.

Refreshing.
It’s the first word that comes to mind. As refreshing as the first bite of a sun-warmed pink peach, its nectar spilling down your chin like the final golden light of a day you never want to let go. That one’s nice. She should probably write it down.

Before the thought can dissolve completely, her feet carry her forward. The door opens with a soft chime, and as she looks up, she spots a little bird-shaped bell, cheerfully chiming just for her. A playful smile tugs at her lips. How quaint. How excessively charming.

She pictures the shopkeeper already: an elderly man, slightly stooped, a cardigan enthusiast, the sort who tells you the backstory of a book you didn’t ask about and calls the kids “temperamental.” He probably hasn’t seen a customer since before streaming services killed the collective attention span. The type who enjoys a chat because hardly anyone ever comes in—least of all a thirty-something woman in sunglasses with, let’s face it, a rather nice ass.

Yet no one greets her.

Ellana looks around. The bookstore is small, but carefully tended. Shelves of pale wood—beech, maybe maple—make the space feel brighter, their grain traced in wild, looping lines. The books are meticulously arranged. None sticking out. None out of place. It’s so clean the air itself smells like either love, or obsession. Sunlight spills through the windows, catches on the white walls, and touches the paintings hung without frames. Bold colours. Joyful and bright. Too much. She looks away.

Only then does she notice the reading nook in the far corner.

Someone is sitting there.

A man. Bald. Legs crossed, a thick book open in his hands, eyes framed by glasses, fixed on the page in front of him. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge her at all. His ears are long and pointed, like hers, but his clean face bears none of her people’s markings. She studies his expression, absorbed and quiet. He might be the only customer. Judging by the stillness of the shop, possibly the only one all week. Ellana glances away, shrugs, the gesture as much for herself as for the room. She steps past him toward the nearest shelf.

If you can’t write, then read, she reminds herself. Read until the words wake something up again, until a sentence stirs her blood, or a character makes her ache, or a world cracks open in her mind with light pouring through. She wants that. Desperately. It’s been far too long since she let herself fall in love with a story.

She's still daydreaming when something warm brushes against her shoulder.

Ellana startles, spins around, lifting a hand instinctively as if to shield herself.
Instead, she’s met with cotton—white, soft, not a wrinkle in sight. A shirt.

Her gaze climbs.

Sky-coloured eyes blink calmly down at her.

The man from the chair. The one who hadn’t even noticed her—apparently had. He’s speaking, his lips moving—but she can’t hear a thing. The music still pulses through her earphones. She tugs them out quickly, and can’t help but notice the slight twitch of his nose, the way he lifts his chin, as though annoyed by the gesture. Maybe it's a good idea to remove her sunglasses, too. She does.

“Sorry?” she says with a polite smile, trying to ignore the way he looks at her—from above, towering over her by at least a good foot.

“I was asking if you needed any help,” he repeats, his voice gentle now, as the tension in his brow finally eases.

Ellana raises an eyebrow, tucking her earphones into her pocket. Maybe he thinks I’m lost. Or maybe I just look that awful, like some junkie hunting for spare change, if it’s enough to pull a stranger away from his book.

“Who are you?” she asks, tilting her head slightly to the side. Pity always makes her skin itch, at least when it’s aimed at her.

“The owner of the bookshop,” he says it with such a flat, detached tone, so casual, that the faint smile tugging at his lips almost feels like mockery, even if there’s no malice in it.

“Oh!” A soft flush creeps into her ears. Her eyes flick quickly to the floor, then back up. “Oh. Sorry, I thought you were a customer.”

He shows mercy: he doesn’t rub it in.

The corners of his mouth lift a little higher now—friendly, polite. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

Ellana averts her gaze, letting it drift to the shelf of books behind his shoulder.

“No, just…”

Just something that’ll make me feel something, for fuck’s sake.

“…just something with feeling.”

He nods, not unkindly. “Feeling such as? Joy? Grief? Love?”

She lets out a breath. Almost a laugh.

“It doesn’t matter.”

He studies her for a moment, eyes flicking quickly over her face from beneath his glasses. She can almost swear she sees his pupils tracing the lines of her Vallaslin. But the moment is too brief to be sure.

For a second, she fears he’s recognised her. Maybe from one of the posters—those damn posters with her face plastered across them. She saw them through the bus window. Saw them and felt bile rise in her throat, looked away quickly, trying not to linger on the sight of her skin flattened by cruel post-production.

Gone were the wrinkles. Gone the slight bump that shaped her nose, the one she’d once tried to make peace with. Gone that irritated, strained look in her eyes during the photoshoot.

Smile, sweetheart. Just one more. Think: bright, accessible, powerful.

Gods.

Her smile in the photo looked carved from porcelain—white, wide, sterile. Her lips, impossibly soft, smoothed by some intern with a mouse and a warped idea of femininity.

And for what?

To reduce her to an image. A fantasy. Not even one that bothered with the title of the book—tiny, tucked in a corner like an afterthought. As if she were selling toothpaste. Or lingerie, judging by the ridiculous purple top and the push-up bra they’d forced on her, suggesting curves she’d never had. She wasn’t known for her body. She was barely known for herself anymore. Ellana Lavellan, the celebrated author. The reluctant phenomenon who (not that anyone would guess) would have bought every copy of that book just to burn them all in a massive bonfire. And spit on the ashes for good measure.

But the shopkeeper seems blissfully unaware of the storm behind her eyes. No knowing smile. No "wait, aren’t you—?". Perhaps he hasn’t recognised her, she thinks with a quiet sigh of relief, especially when, without another word, he moves with intent toward the shelf behind her.

She turns to look at him—and for the first time, notices he’s actually dressed well. Beige trousers, made of some soft, expensive-looking fabric, fall neatly and hug his backside just enough to suggest he’s doing fine in that department. Not that she was checking (maybe she was). His matching jacket covers half the view, and from the collar peeks that crisp white shirt she’d noticed earlier—perfectly pressed, spotless, not a wrinkle in sight.

White had never been her colour. Her mother decided that early on. “It’s no good for you,” she’d said, sighing at muddy knees and grass stains. “You always come home the colour of trouble.” Ellana watches the man’s shoulders shift as he folds his arms across his chest. She wonders—just idly—if he, as a child, ever had the same problem. Probably not. Too composed, too polite, too… symmetrical.

Still, he seems to be taking her request quite seriously.

She steps forward, ready to say something quick and dismissive—classic bookshop filler: “Don’t worry, I’ll just have a wander and maybe come back later.”

But just as she parts her lips, his voice returns. Smooth, sudden, perfectly timed.

“This seems appropriate,” he says, thoughtful.

She shuts her mouth, mildly sulky now, and glares at the back of his head.

He must have eyes back there, she thinks, slightly incredulous. Then stifles a laugh. No—if he did, you’d see them. Right in the middle of that shiny, bald head.

He reaches for the shelf, and as his jacket shifts just enough to reveal one side of his ass, she confirms what she already suspected—yes. Definitely not lacking in that department. She pulls herself together before the thought completes itself.

He draws the book out with practised ease, slipping a finger between the pages and turning toward her with that same calm, measured grace.

The cover is dark, a deep petrol green, almost black. The title is embossed in narrow, emerald letters: The Well of Sorrow. She catches it under her lashes before he even raises the book. Ellana blinks and, as always, her eyes go straight to the author’s name.

“Abelas Welsh,” he says before she can. Voice slow, with the faintest hint of smugness, enough to suggest he knew she was going to look.

She ignores him and takes the book. It’s heavier than expected, cold like stone. Her fingers press into the cover. She flips it over, skimming the blurb with quick eyes.

Something about a well of despair, a tormented bond, an invisible relationship, betrayal—and just to round things off properly, tales of long-lost passion in a version of Thedas you wouldn’t find in any history book: mysterious and romantic. Her lips curl into a smile, though she tries to hide the curve—too amused, too revealing.

“Oh, I’m always up for a toxic relationship.”

It was meant to be dry. A joke. Sarcastic, if a little self-effacing. But when she looks up and sees his raised eyebrow, hears the small, sterile pause that follows, she realises it landed all wrong.

She tightens her grip on the book, her fingers digging in just a little too hard. A nervous laugh escapes, thin and awkward as she tucks a curl behind her ear. “I mean… in fiction,” she blurts, as if that somehow clears it up. She’s not entirely sure it does. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn't even blink, just shrugs with that maddening calm, as though the moment was entirely unimportant.

“Just to feel something, I suppose," he offers, casually.

Her brow furrows. She’s sure she didn’t say that, not like this. But the words ring too close to her own, a little too close to thoughts she hasn't spoken aloud in weeks. He doesn’t seem to notice, let alone care. With a small tilt of his head, he steps back.

“You can start reading it here, if you’d like,” he gestures towards the chair he’d been sitting in earlier, and there’s something so kind and polite about the way he moves that she feels the sudden urge to get out.

She blinks. And smiles again—thin, practised, the kind her father once told her to master before they moved to the city.

Dalish aren’t welcome here, Dal'en. Always remember to smile and say thank you.

“Thank you,” she says softly, with a single nod. “But it’s getting late. I really should be going.”

He doesn’t look bothered, he simply keeps watching her, and she wonders what the hell he’s still waiting for—from her face, of all things. After a long pause, his gaze drops to the book still clutched in her hands.

“Are you buying it, or…?”

She startles. “Oh,” she breathes, blinking fast. And then, curse her blood, she blushes. She blushes, like some teenager caught with a crush and a stolen paperback. To end the moment quickly, or maybe to bury it, she says, “Yes,” too fast, without thinking.

He leads her to the till without saying another word. As she follows him, the weariness returns—wrapping itself around her bones, making her legs feel heavy. Still holding the book in one hand, she fishes her phone out of her trouser pocket, lighting up the screen with a flick of her thumb.

18:05.

A sigh escapes her lips, low and unguarded.

But before she can slide the phone away, a sudden flurry of notifications bursts onto the screen like startled rabbits.

Seven missed calls.

Two from Varric.

Five from the man she’d saved in her contacts as NugFucker, a nickname she remains quietly proud of. A crude little pun, sure. But well-earned. The guy from that godsdamned streaming service—Nugflix, of course—had been hounding her for weeks about the adaptation. Pushy. Enthusiastic. Always “just following up.”, like a mabari chewing on her ankle.

She shoves the phone back into her pocket like it bit her. The familiar squeeze of guilt grips her throat, and when the bookseller lifts his eyes to tell her the price, she doesn’t register the words. She just stares. Silent. Strung out.

He watches her for a beat too long. There’s a flash in his expression—doubt, maybe. Concern, maybe not. But she straightens, pulls her shoulders back and quickly composes herself.

Whatever he'd been thinking fades, or perhaps he simply decides not to care.

“Nineteen fifty,” he repeats, dryly, like reciting an old line he no longer hears himself saying.

Ellana slips her hand into the small cross-body bag slung across her chest. Her fingers find the wallet, she pulls out a twenty-sovereings note and hands it over without a word. No change requested, no small talk offered, just the aseptic rhythm of a transaction.

He parts his lips as if to speak—but before he can say a word, she offers a polite “have a nice day,” slides her sunglasses back on, pushes her earphones firmly into place, turns on her heel, and walks out of the shop.

Outside, the heat hits her again, thick and unrelenting. The book under her arm is awkward, and she curses herself for not asking for a bag, but there is no way she’s going back in there now. She’d sooner carry the damn thing on her head. Right now, she wants only one thing—simple, immoral, and absolutely necessary.

She pulls out her phone again and scrolls straight to the chat with Dorian, fingers trembling just slightly as she types:

Changed my mind
See you tonight
At 22, maybe later 
I need a nap first
And a shower

The reply comes almost instantly.

MARVELLOUS!
Dress cute
I’m taking you somewhere nice

Just take me drinking, Dorian

PFFF
Did you think I meant the theatre?
DRESS. CUTE.

Ellana smiles and rolls her eyes skyward, but something in her feels lighter. As the music kicks back in through her headphones, she selects a playlist that almost makes her taste the gin and tonic already, cool and sharp gliding down her throat.

Chapter Text

Her neighbours probably hadn’t missed her.

The old stereo speakers throb at a volume that’s almost aggressive—too loud for the quiet street, too loud for the small, aging walls of her flat. The windows are flung wide open, letting in the hot evening air and releasing the steam still curling from the bathroom like spirits in retreat.

Ellana walks barefoot across the cold floor, a white towel slung around her body, her hair soaked and dripping slowly down her back. Her hips sway to the deliciously lazy rhythm of the music—the bass vibrating deep in her bones, the drums keeping time with what might just be the beat of her pulse. Then the guitar bursts in, sharp and bright, under a clear voice that twists in her gut like a knot pulled tight.

And so, wet and bare, in a home that no longer feels like hers, with music draped around her like silk, eyes half-lidded, shoulders swaying just enough—Ellana feels, somehow, alive.

Alive, she thinks, just as the voice sings:

Let's take a chance, baby, we can't lose
Ain’t we all just runaways?

I definitely am, she tells herself with a smile as her lips silently mouth the lyrics.

Her bedroom welcomes her just as she remembered it. Faint echoes of a childhood long gone—posters still cling to the walls, faded images of a band she wouldn’t admit to loving now, not even under torture, despite having played their CD until the disc whined in protest.

An old computer buried under books, notes and scribbled thoughts. A battered desk chair that had never been comfortable, no matter how many cushions she tried. And the single bed, still tucked beneath the angular, wall-spanning wardrobe—a clunky arc of pale wood and mismatched blue cupboard doors, each one adorned with oversized handles that now look embarrassingly like buttons on a toddler’s coat.

The shelves are crammed with titles from her teenage years. Records she once obsessed over sit forgotten under a soft layer of dust. The stuffed toys—still arranged with care, as if they’ve been waiting for her—she can’t even look at them. And the walls still bloom with the chaotic mess of colour and shape she used to stare at for hours, trying to find meaning.

It almost ruins her mood.

She closes her eyes, and she's grateful when the music changes to something lighter, with a joyful voice signing:

Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake
I shake it off, I shake it off

To the rhythm still pulsing through her room, Ellana steps forward, grabs the wardrobe handle with a dancer’s flourish, and flings the door open like she’s on stage, mic in hand, spotlight on her, an ecstatic crowd roaring in place of the old clothes now staring back at her.

Dress cute, Dorian had suggested—no, ordered.

Ellana lets her eyes drift over the clothes, relics of her university nights out, and instantly regrets leaving her hotel room in such a rush.

Too hurried, too desperate to get out of there and home (whatever that meant) to stop and pack anything sensible. She’d left everything behind in the hotel wardrobe—silks and structure and the adult confidence of clothing that fit her now. Her manager had promised to sort it all, send the bags along in a week or two.

She hadn't thought it would matter.

Her pout deepens as she rifles through the clothes, each one more tragic than the last. A parade of whisper-thin scraps. Strappy tops barely wider than blades of grass. Mini skirts she once called 'empowering' and now only made her ask 'why?'. She mourns her sleek, grown-up dresses as she pulls one shimmery thing from the hanger, holds it up against her body, and winces.

She is not twenty anymore.

And thank the gods for that.

But still—what the fuck is she supposed to wear?

For a moment, she’s tempted to just throw on her usual jeans and an oversized comfy tee, slip into a pair of sneakers and head out. Easy. Done.

But then she thinks about the sweet, bitter taste of gin on her lips. She imagines Dorian taking her somewhere nice, somewhere with mood lighting and overpriced cocktails and maybe, she dares to presume, a dress code. And then, like a flash, a vision: she pictures a pair of deep eyes watching her from across the room, a stranger approaching, tall, lean, with gentle hands and strong arms that pull her into a bed that isn’t hers. Someone to keep her away from these walls for a little while, to draw stars across her skin without ever asking her name, and she doesn’t care to know his, or hers, either. So long as they make her come. Repeatedly. Head buried between her thighs until morning.

She yields.

Ellana finds a mint green bodycon dress, stretchy enough to still fit. One that hugs her ass just right and is kind to her lack of cleavage. A pair of towering heels—chunky and stable enough not to break an ankle if she drinks too much.

She throws it all on like armour. War paint in the form of eyeliner to follow. Red cherry lipstick as her weapon. If she’s going out, she’s going out.

She fixes her hair in front of the mirror—still wet, but it doesn’t matter. It’s warm outside, and giving it any real shape is a lost cause anyway. She gives herself one last look. Everything more or less in place. And for a moment—just a moment—she looks pretty. Real. Maybe a bit ridiculous. Maybe slightly out of place. But as her fingers rake through the dark strands, she sees someone she hadn’t noticed in years.

She allows herself a smile. Grabs her tiny handbag, too small for anything more than wallet, keys, phone, lipstick, and that damn thing that keeps her alive in case her lungs betray her.

She heads for the exit.

Music off.
Door shut.
Time? Too late.

She bolts down the stairs.

And only then—halfway to the street, adrenaline peaking—does it hit her:

Shit.
Shit!
This skirt might be way too short for cycling.

This skirt is definitely too short for cycling, Ellana mutters to herself as she locks up her salmon-pink bike to a street post, one that looks just well-lit enough to dissuade any would-be thieves from dismantling it piece by piece and selling it for scrap.

Dorian had been crystal clear with his directions, as always.

Keep going straight until you hear the music. If it’s loud enough, you’re there, he’d written. What he hadn’t mentioned—typical—was that “there” was all the way down at the harbour, past the soul-sucking, thigh-destroying bridge she'd never crossed on her own wheels before.

So, she’d had to check the map mid-ride—against every shred of common sense—one hand tugging her skirt down every five seconds, the other clumsily gripping the handlebars, fingers clenched awkwardly around her phone.

She’d cheerfully ignored the stares from passers-by, and the honk of a horn that, in the minds of the idiots behind the wheel, was probably meant as a compliment. It had only made her blush harder and let go of her hem just long enough to offer them, with all the elegance she could muster, the graceful arc of her middle finger.

Still flushed from the bike ride, Ellana tugs at he skirt (again) just to make sure her ass isn’t on full display. Not in all its glory, at least.

She takes a breath. Looks around.

Younger people—definitely younger—spill across the sidewalk and into the street, loud and lit up with alcohol and summer and the thrill of not yet knowing they’ll regret any of it. Drinks slosh in plastic cups, voices rise and fall in sharp bursts of laughter, and the patios of the bars lining the harbour promenade are overflowing with bodies and wine and heat. The night air carries the scent of salt and sugar and something fried, and not far off, the steady throb of loud music draws her in—a sweet, pounding call she’s been waiting for. Out on the water, boats drift lazily at anchor, their lights bobbing in scattered reflections across the dark surface like broken stars. Somewhere, the low clang of a buoy bell echoes faintly between waves.

Trying desperately to calm the ridiculous and unexpected racing of her heart, Ellana walks toward the venue with what appear to be confident strides, like she knows exactly where she’s going.

She doesn’t.

Luckily, in the crowd, she spots two unmistakable horns rising above everyone else—right beside them, a mop of tousled blond hair and a man dressed far more elegantly than she is. Not overdressed, just precise, with comically perfect moustaches and a sly grin stretched across his face.

With her lips curled upward, chest tight with a knot of nostalgia, pain, and happiness, Ellana quickens her pace toward them, waving a hand in the air until that pair of horns turns in her direction—and a cheer erupts.

“Boss!”

All three spot her. She barely has time to reach them before she’s hit at full speed by the blur of a girl—blonde-haired, wild-eyed, ears as sharply pointed as her own. She’s dressed in a ripped tee scribbled over with marker, shredded jeans plastered with band patches and sharpie-scrawled lyrics, and leather boots that make zero sense in this sweltering heat.

Ellana opens her arms a second too late.

The girl slams into her with a squeal that turns a few nearby heads—mostly the boys, caught somewhere between admiration and alarm—as she throws her arms around Ellana’s neck and nearly sends her crashing backward.

Ellana feels her eyes burn as she embraces her—tight—and for a moment, just one, it really does feel like home.

“You absolute bitch!” the girl shrieks, still clinging to her, and Ellana laughs, loud, unfiltered, helpless, hugging her even harder.

“Sera,” she breathes, heart suddenly light. “I missed you too.”

“You could’ve warned us you were back, Ellana,” the Qunari’s voice cuts in, booming, too eager to be angry.

Sera releases her, planting a boot hard on the ground and glaring up at her.
“Yeah!” she snaps. “What, fame go to your head? Forgot your friends, did you?”

Guilt rises, sharp in Ellana’s throat—but she sees it. Clear as day, beneath Sera’s fury and the Qunari’s bluster: joy.

Dorian steps forward, calm and immaculate as ever. He lifts his hands in a half-hearted gesture of peace, and even without shouting, his voice slices clean through the thump of the music. “Come now, Bull. Ellana was trying to surprise you.”

He finally turns to her with a small, private, radiant smile, and the last scrap of composure she’d been holding onto slips through her fingers.

“It’s good to see you.”

She doesn’t say a word, only pulls him into a hug—long, tight, almost desperate, the kind of embrace that speaks fluently in every word she can’t bring herself to say.

He chuckles, soft and low, emotion slipping just beneath that polished exterior. He hugs her back with that rare, easy warmth that belongs only to him. While she’s still wrapped around Dorian, Bull ruffles her hair with a big, clumsy hand, grinning down at her like she’s still the girl who once tried to drink him under the table with peach schnapps. Ellana opens her eyes, meets his, and mouths the words: I'm back.

Seven years.

Seven years without their ridiculous faces. Without Sera’s bark of a laugh, without Dorian’s carefully tailored snark and open heart, without the solid, steady comfort of Bull, who always saw more than he let on. Seven years without the only real family she’s ever known in the last few years.

Her university crew. The too-small flat, the shared room with Sera—and sometimes, the bed. The slow, careful, aching love story between Bull and Dorian, one she’d cradled between her arms more than once, whispering late-night reassurances that yes, she believed it would last.

And it had.

She can see it in the way they look at each other when Dorian lets her go, in the way they stand close, side by side. And it warms her heart.

“So,” Bull tilts his head slightly towards the structure behind him, “shall we go in?”

Ellana lets her gaze drift in that direction, past the lampposts and the play of reflections they cast across the water—which, at this hour of the night, looks like oil: flat and black, stirred only by the rising breeze. The faint gurgle of moored ships blends somehow with the low throb of music pulsing from the far end of the harbour.

And then she sees it. The Fade, reads the sign—stark, angular white letters, and behind them, a spiral of searing, acid-green light, alive with the flicker of neon. Tiny droplets of mist dance in its glow, catching the heavy, late-summer humidity that clings to Wycome this time of year.

Just beneath the sign, tucked into the darker side of the building, is the entrance. A pair of wide steel doors, matte and weathered, with a single line stretching loosely in front of them—patrons gathered like moths hovering just outside the flame. It is a square structure with a flat roof, dark walls surrounded by nothing but half-rusted gates and darkness.

If it weren’t for the green neon sign at the end of the street—and the throb of electronic music bleeding into the alley—Ellana might’ve mistaken it for an abandoned warehouse.

The people milling outside are roughly her age; a few younger ones approach with curiosity, but some clearly get spooked by the place’s dark, heavy aesthetic.

The crowd smoking and sipping outside aren’t exactly refined. In fact, not at all.
Combat boots, laddered fishnets, ripped jeans, oversized black clothes, the occasional lace-trimmed dress. They are beautiful, grimy creatures of the night—and they belong. But among them move others, fewer and quieter. Elegant, yes, but in a way that cuts. All clean lines, ink-black tailored silhouettes, soft matte fabrics that drink the light. No color. No shine. Their beauty is severe. Sculpted. Cool. Dark. Maybe gothic.

Ellana glances down at her stupid mint green bodycon dress, hugging every curve, then the tall heels on her feet. She looks like spring at a funeral.

She glares up at Dorian. “You said to dress cute. That you were taking me somewhere nice.”

“Oh, Ellana, darling!” he gasps, already laughing, not even trying to hide it. “You look stunning. Absolutely perfect,” he winks, and she very nearly elbows him in the ribs—but refrains. “If I hadn’t said anything, you’d have shown up in pyjamas, and you know it,” a pause, far too brief to let her object. “Besides, trust me. You wouldn’t guess it from the outside, but the cocktails are some of the best I’ve ever had. And inside? Much nicer than it looks. Something for all tastes, dear heart.”

Ellana wrinkles her nose, eyes drifting again to the venue. Back in her university years, this would probably have been her regular haunt after midnight. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Heavy eyeliner, vodka, and a willingness to sweat through three layers of thrifted clothing while screaming lyrics into the dark.

But now?

She still can’t believe Dorian has taken her clubbing.

He, of all people.

She tries to remember the last time she was crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, surrounded by pulsing lights and sweaty bodies, dancing badly but without caring, laughter on her face, breathless and happy. Safe within that tight circle of friends who would grab her wrist and yank her back in if some handsy stranger tried to sneak up behind her. Only, of course, if she wasn’t enjoying it. If she was, they’d grin and leave her to it, until the moment she shot the look, and then they’d drag her out like a rescue mission wrapped in rum and perfume.

Gods, she missed that. And she can't really remember the feeling of being so careless and free.

Sera grabs her hand, cutting through the spiral of thoughts.

“Relax, you look hot,” she says, then grins wickedly. “Like, candy-store hot. A minty little snack I’d happily suck on!” She cackles, loud, lewd, unfiltered, and guides Ellana toward the entrance.

Ellana barely has time to roll her eyes before Dorian and Bull fall into step behind them, close and gleefully unhelpful.

“You’re a little leaf who wandered out of a garden and into a den of degenerates,” Dorian croons, hands fluttering for emphasis. “You have exquisite taste."

“And that neckline,” Bull adds with a low whistle, “those shoulders? Damn, Boss.”

Ellana groans, face hot. But she can’t stop smiling. They drag her all the way to the door—Sera calling her “Toothpaste Barbie,” Dorian offering to fight the lighting designer if it doesn’t compliment her skin tone, Bull threatening to “accidentally” throw a drink on anyone who looks at her wrong.

She lets them sweep her forward, into the music and the lights and the night. For the first time in what feels like years, she doesn’t brace for impact.

The bass hits her the moment she steps through the door, it grips her ribcage and stretches it wide, syncing with her breath and making her chest bloom with sound. Fast, throbbing music surges through her bones, and the crowd swells around her, carried on the pulse.

Dorian had been right. The inside of the club is far more polished than its exterior.

The ceiling soars high above, vanishing into a haze of thick, swirling smoke that coils upward in lazy, filmy tendrils. Bright-white flashes strobe like distant heat lightning, slicing through the gloom and beneath them, a steady under-glow pulses in shades of blue and violet; the colours cut through the fog, wrapping the writhing crowd on the dancefloor in a ghostlike shimmer—beautiful, and just a little menacing.

Everything moves. Everything breathes.

At the far end, a massive glass-and-chrome wall bisects the room, a one-way mirror reflecting the dancefloor in fractured brilliance. Built into its center, like a glowing seam, is the wide, bright, crowded main bar, stretching across the mirror-wall like a line drawn in light. Bottles blaze behind the counter in carefully arranged mosaics—fiery amber, cool jade, electric sapphire—all catching the strobe and neon differently, a brilliant wall of color and movement, a lighthouse in the chaos. Behind it: nothing but reflection. Or so it seems at first.

Just off to one side of the bar, mostly hidden in shadow and motion, there’s a door. Slim. Black-framed. Easy to miss.

Ellana only notices it when a server pushes through with a tray in hand and vanishes inside.

And for a second, through the parting door, she catches a glimpse: another room. Still. Dim. A pool of calm beyond the noise. She narrows her eyes. The mirror wall—no, not a mirror. Not really. Not from the other side.

From here, it reflects everything. But from there…

Clever, she thinks. Fascinating.

Maybe Dorian sees the thought dart in her eyes, because he gently takes her arm and draws her gaze toward him. He’s already wearing that full, satisfied smile, eyebrows raised high to say told you so. He leans in, speaking loud enough to be heard over the throb of the music. “See? I did bring you somewhere nice.”

Ellana shakes her head, but her smile matches his. Behind her, Sera is already insisting (loudly) that they go straight to the dancefloor. She never needed alcohol to have a good time. Ellana remembers that vividly—her heart catching for a second at the memory of Sera barefoot on tables, or spinning in circles with glitter in her hair, high on nothing but energy and noise. Though, to be fair, Sera never turned down a proper Blue Angel, or a mojito done right.

But Ellana, despite the music pounding through her chest, despite the warm adrenaline beginning to fizz beneath her skin, needs a drink. Bull knows.

“First round’s on me!” he booms, already cutting a path toward the bar, ignoring Sera’s exaggerated groan and her desperate, melodramatic plea: “But I want to dance!”

In the end, she gives in. Ellana hooks her arm through Sera’s, Dorian flanks her on the other side, his hand resting lightly against the small of her back. Together, they drift past the glowing bar and toward the black-framed door beside it.

She pushes it open.

And everything changes.

It's quite inside. "Behind the Veil", a neon sign reads. The bass is muffled to a distant throb—still present, but removed, a low echo through the wall. The lighting is softer, dimmer, warmer, and—surprisingly—candles flicker in low glass cups on the tables. Worn velvet lounge chairs, dark wood tables, soft leather couches where bodies sink and lean: conversations happen here, murmured and close, a space where hands find knees, fingers toy with bottle necks, bracelets, rings. A place to breathe.

And through the glass wall that spans the lounge—the same wall that reflects the dancefloor outside—they can see everything. The crowd, the lights, the strobe and shimmer, the slow, churning chaos. From here, it looks almost unreal. Like watching someone else’s dream.

Set into the mirrored wall, opposite the main bar and perfectly aligned with it, is a second bar: the same glow of bottles in rows, but with fewer hands reaching. To the left of the shelves, a narrow door marked STAFF ONLY connects the two bars, an invisible artery between the noise and the calm.

They slide into the first free booth they find, and as soon as they sit down, Ellana can’t help herself—the questions come flooding out. She turns to Dorian first, eager. “So? How’s the university? You got the professorship, right?”

“I did. It's wonderful,” he replies, chest puffed like a smug peacock. “I teach Tevinter History. First-year students are a nightmare—but do you remember what we were like?” he laughs, rich and theatrical.

She smiles. Of course she remembers. They were a disaster, always ready to slip out of lectures for the flimsiest excuse. She was the nerd, the front-row pest who asked too many questions and was never quite satisfied. They were the reason her phone buzzed every five minutes, and she’d roll her eyes but always get up anyway—slipping out to meet them beneath the emergency stairs, where they passed elfroot and giggled like idiots.

She laughs now, the memory blooming warm behind her ribs.

“And you, Sera? What’re you up to these days?”

Sera leans back, smug. “Oh, y’know. Just running the best restaurant in the city.”

Ellana’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait—seriously?”

“Well, best outside the snooty center,” Sera adds, waving a hand. “Let’s not get fancy. But yeah. Real place. Real food.”

Ellana stares at her, stunned. “You’re a chef?”

“Well, I did study chemistry, didn’t I?” Sera says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Cooking is just chemistry that tastes good. I can make things explode in people’s mouths!”

“Figuratively,” Dorian cuts in, raising one finger like a scholar correcting his pupil.

“I need to try it,” Ellana says, smiling almost proudly. “I mean it.”

Sera lights up. “Only if you let me pick the menu. No whining about weird textures.”

Then Bull returns, grinning wide, arms loaded. A pint of pale beer for himself. A bright pink Minrathous for Dorian. A violently green concoction for Sera. And her usual—gin and tonic, sharp and clean.

He settles in with a sigh and tells her about his years in security—bouncing jobs, mostly—but now he’s teaching too. High school. Gym class.

“I like it,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Some of the kids are great. Some of the teachers too. There’s this redhead—Lace. Smart. Freckles. Real charming.”

That earns him a daggered look from Dorian. But Bull just throws an arm around his shoulders and laughs into his curls. Dorian scowls—long-suffering, theatrical—and then sighs, softens, and leans in. He never stays mad at Bull for long.

Ellana watches them all—this improbable, perfect mess of a family, still whole, still hers. She lifts her glass halfway to her lips. Her smile falters, eyes stinging.

“Shit,” she breathes. “I missed everything.”

The three of them exchange an uncertain and hesitant look. As always, it’s Dorian who leaps to her rescue first.

“Oh, please. You’ve got it better than the rest of us. Just yesterday, I walked into a café and your face was glaring at me from the window. Poster was huge. I spilled my coffee.”

Ellana takes a long sip through her straw—so long it nearly drains the cocktail.
“Yeah,” she mutters, stabbing at the melting ice. “Those fucking posters.”

“You look good, Boss,” Bull offers.

“Pff. Doesn’t even look like me.”

“That’s true,” Sera chimes in, unexpectedly earnest. “If it helps, I draw moustaches on every one I see. Some of 'em get monocles.”

“Deeply not comforting,” Ellana says, but she laughs, the sound low and warm, surprising even herself.

Dorian softens, still watchful. “You’ve traveled a lot. That must’ve been… something.”

“Oh, yes. Yeah. Fantastic.” She lies, lips twitching into a crooked smile, ashamed. Their lives seem so fulfilled, so grounded—unlike hers. “Travelling opens your mind, you know? No permanent home, always off to the next adventure.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Bull mutters behind his drink.

Silence.

“I hate it,” Ellana finally admits, the words falling out like stones into water.

“Yeah, sounds awful,” Bull echoes, softer this time.

“Exhausting,” Dorian adds, nodding grimly.

“A load of shit,” Sera concludes, ever the poet.

They all go quiet for a beat. The ice in Ellana’s glass shifts.

Then Bull speaks again, slowly, like he’s working his way toward something.

“They put up the posters ‘cause you’re promoting the book here, right?”

Casual tone, yet Ellana hears the question beneath it.

Are you staying?
Or just passing through—again?

Ellana doesn't know. She has no answer. When she told her manager she wanted to cancel everything—every appointment, including the most important one, the dreaded Nugflix meeting to finalize Season 2 of the TV adaptation—and go home for a break, Bran had nearly fainted.

There was a long silence. And when he finally spoke again, Ellana could practically feel his sweat beading through the phone’s speaker. “Don’t do this to me,” he had pleaded. But she had thought about it for a long time (a solid five minutes, drunk in the hotel lobby), and she insisted, “It’s a well-thought-out decision,” she swore, “Just a couple of weeks. Then we’ll see.”

He’d had no choice but to cave. On one condition: they’d spin her return home into a promotional opportunity—for the book, and especially for the cursed, looming TV show. Hence the damned posters plastered all over town.

She promised him, mostly to shut him up, that they could organize a few signings and public events in the city where she’d grown up. But she didn’t let him open the calendar, didn’t let him reschedule a thing. She hung up and booked the flight for the next weekend.

Ellana watches his friends from under her lashes. She sighs, but offers a real smile, both gratitude and guilt.

“No promoting for a while. But… maybe. In a few weeks.”

Bull nods, thoughtful. Not satisfied, but not pushing.

“ELLANA!” Sera shouts, startling the table. “You drink like a druffalo. Like me,” she waves her empty glass like a victory banner. “I'll get you another!”

And just like that, she vanishes—gone.

Dorian shakes his head, swirling the pink drink in his glass—still half full, of course, because he sips like a civilized human being, unlike her.

“How was it? Coming back?” he asks, raising his voice just enough to crest over the pulse of the music now pounding harder through the room.

Ellana shrugs, still busy tormenting the large, practically indestructible ice cubes in her glass.

“The trip was weary,” she says simply, before her jaw shifts just enough to offer a slightly exasperated pout. “I did a bit of shopping when I got to the city.”

Dorian’s eyes light up, instantly ignoring the grunt from Iron Bull nearby. “Oh? Something chic? Summer swimwear? Lingerie?”

Ellana chuckles, making a mental note to ask him to come with her to shop for actual grown-up clothes—if she doesn’t, she’ll be stuck in teenage fashion for weeks.

“Books,” she says instead, a little quieter. Her brow furrows again. “It was kind of weird, actually.”

Bull leans in, arms resting heavily on the table, sensing a story. “Weird how?”

"I don’t know. I walked into this strange little bookstore," Ellana says, gesturing vaguely as she stares into the empty depths of her glass, willing one last drop of gin to appear. "Middle of nowhere. Place looked like it hadn't seen a customer since forever. And the owner, he…"

Her pout deepens.

Something about the whole thing had left her off balance. Maybe it was the fact that he'd made her blush. Twice.

She taps her nails against the rim of the glass, the sound crisp beneath the chatter, thinking back to how it had gone: she'd asked for something vague—something with feeling, she'd said—and he hadn’t even hesitated. Just pulled a single book off the shelf. No questions, no alternatives. Like he already knew.

And the problem was that he might’ve been right.

She’d started reading it on the bus, one hand clutched around the pole, the other curled around the paperback. First lines—devastating. Beautiful. She hadn’t looked up once until she missed her stop.

Which, of course, only made it worse.

It was stupid, getting annoyed just because a smug book monk had made a good recommendation. It just meant he was competent.

Ellana stabs at the ice again, trying to murder the thought: he had read her. In five seconds flat.

She didn’t think she was that easy to figure out. Ordinary? Sure. Predictable? Maybe. But not obvious. Not someone you could just… solve.

She takes another sip, chasing the last drop. The glass comes up empty.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the book. Or the man. It was the sudden realisation that she couldn’t remember the last time someone had truly surprised her, truly seen her, understood her as a person—not a product. Worse than that, however, was knowing how quietly, over the years, she’d stopped expecting it. She’d walked out of that dusty little shop too fast, thumbing a message to Dorian like a lifeline—and felt, in that moment, more alone than she had in a long, long time.

She hated feeling like this. And it was somehow his fault. Or, at least, it was easier to blame a stranger for her own mess.

"Nothing, he just recommended a book," Ellana says, brushing the thoughts aside. She pretends to search for the title, though it’s pulsing loud and clear in her head. "Something about a well of despair. Dramatic. Boring..."

“The Well of Sorrow?” Dorian practically gasps, scandalized. “Wait—you hadn’t read it yet?”

“No.”

“It’s so your genre,” he insists, eyes wide. “It’s devastating. Gut-wrenching. Beautifully written,” he pauses—then adds, all too smug: “Sounds like the bookseller read you very well.”

Ellana tries to brush past the sharp little twist in her chest. That voice again, whispering, your life is such a disaster that you’re looking for comfort from a stranger. She tries to smother it, but it won’t shut up. And you didn’t even sleep with him. That, at least, would’ve counted as physical comfort. Which might’ve been nice. Considering it’s been—

“It was probably just me with my ass up in front of the shop window,” Ellana mutters into her glass. “He probably read that and figured out everything else.”

A pause.

“What?” Dorian and Bull say in perfect unison, both now entirely invested.

“Nothing.”

“I definitely heard the word ass!" Sera returns just in time, like a summoned demon, dropping the tray of drinks on the table a little too hard. "What’d I miss?”

“Ellana flashed her ass at a bookseller,” Bull says, tone flat and matter-of-fact, as if reporting the weather.

“No!” Ellana nearly bolts upright, flustered, as Sera’s face morphs into a delighted and dangerous grimace.

“That’s not what I said—I just—” She exhales sharply. Gives up. “Sera. Let’s dance.”

Sera considers it for a moment. Then the pull of the dance floor wins out over the interrogation she clearly plans to resume later. “You’re blushing!” she yells, triumphant, grabbing Ellana’s wrist and laughing like she’s waited years for this moment.

Ellana snatches her drink in the nick of time, cradling it in her free hand as she’s dragged through the glass door, then the pulsing glow of the room. She glances once over her shoulder, sees Dorian smirking behind his straw, Bull chuckling into his beer. Then she faces forward, into the tide of music, the wall of people dancing and drinking the night.

Her eyes lock on Sera’s wild blonde hair, bright even in the strobing dark, and lets herself be led—less frantically now, with a gentler pull—into that heaving, fluid mass of arms and hips and sweat and sound.

When they’re deep enough, buried in the heart of the crowd, when Sera finally stops and turns to face her with a grin so wide it could split her face in two, Ellana feels herself become part of the shapeless, breathing thing around her. The scent of alcohol, heat, and smoke clings to her, it sinks into her skin, her clothes, her still-damp hair. She breathes it in without protest.

Maybe it’s the gin and tonic, warm in her veins, maybe it’s the jet lag, maybe it’s the lights, stuttering like slow lightning, casting Sera in blinks and echoes, but when her friend spins her around in a playful twirl, slides her hands down to her hips, pulling her into a dance that’s sensual and playful—Ellana moves.

She moves with grace, with a rhythm that doesn’t quite match the beat, but somehow fits anyway. A ripple from her waist to her shoulders, from her fingertips to the arch of her neck. Her mind goes quiet. Sera presses in, teasing, beaming, shouting something she doesn’t catch, and Ellana laughs, turns, leans in close.

And dances. She dances like she hasn’t in years, with abandon, like she did when she was still a girl.

She laughs when her friend leans back into her, spine pressed to chest, hips rolling as she sinks—lower, lower—knees bent, hands lost in her own hair. She laughs, but the sound feels swallowed, lost in the crush of bodies and the roar of the music.

Sera rises again, and Ellana’s hands find her hips, guiding her gently as she turns her to face her. Their eyes meet, familiar and silent light sparking between them, then legs slip between legs, hips aligned, hands resting on each other’s asses as they begin to move together, fluid, as if they were one. Forehead to forehead, thoughts emptied, spirits light—just like back then, all those years ago.

They keep dancing, lost in the rhythm, until Sera loops her arms around Ellana’s neck and, between a breathless laugh and a kiss to her ear, shouts something like, “I’ve missed you.”

Ellana lifts the straw to her lips, and once again the sharp bite of gin floods her mouth. The drink is already half gone when Bull and Dorian appear, and Sera and Ellana welcome them like stars gliding down a red carpet, or perhaps gold, or silver, or something more, a carpet of diamonds, and just like that, the circle she’d missed so deeply begins to form again: bright, pulsing, alive under the strobe lights.

They dance together. Dorian moves with that effortless flair of his, the kind that used to turn heads across the entire dance floor—elegant, magnetic, with an infuriating sense of rhythm—while Bull, stiffer and less sure of himself, can’t take his eyes off him. But move. They all move. And for a moment, it’s as if nothing else exists—only them, that perfect orbit of bodies, heads, arms and legs swaying in time with the relentless thrum of the music.

Someone passes her a cigarette. She’s not sure who. Someone passes her another drink—again, she doesn’t know from where. But Ellana drinks. Ellana smokes. She brandishes the cigarette like a prize, one arm raised and swaying in time, hips rolling, lips still wrapped around the straw. She drinks, she smokes, she dances—even as Dorian shakes his head at her, disapproving. Because he knows. She shouldn’t smoke. Not her. Ellana just smiles, slipping her arms around his neck, one hand buried in his hair, fingers still pinching the stub, hips pressed on his. She teases him, and he plays along, caught in a dance that sways between the sultry and the ridiculous—and they know it, both of them. But they couldn’t care less.

Until all that’s left is ice in her glass. Maybe her second. Maybe her third. She pulls away, gaze flicking towards the shimmer of light spilling from the bar.

“I’m getting another drink!” she shouts in Dorian’s face. He blinks, just once, then glances down at the empty glass still clutched in her hand. He hesitates.

“Haven’t you had enough for now?” he asks, and there’s genuine concern in his voice, enough that she bursts out laughing, waving her free hand dramatically in front of her.

“I’m fine,” she declares, wobbling slightly on her heels. “You’ve seen me in much worse shape.”

True. And he clearly remembers it, but the faint crease between his brows doesn’t smooth. Before he can press the issue, Sera flings herself between them, her own empty glass in hand.

“If you’re going to the bar, get me another one!”

Ellana nods, far too enthusiastically, and the room tilts, just a little. Maybe Dorian’s right, she thinks in a rare flash of clarity.

But she feels light. Her mind is free. Her heart—featherweight. She’s far from anything resembling home. Far from pressure, from silence, from that gnawing, unnameable ache. Wrapped in the warmth of her friends and the anonymous crush of the crowd. No missed calls. No deadlines tightening around her throat. No book. No film. No fucking TV series. No strangers wanting to truly understand her.

Just music.
Just laughter.
Just sweat and rhythm and a night that doesn’t belong to anyone.

So when Bull offers to go with her, she turns him down—politely, firmly. When Dorian reaches for her arm—gentle, worried, still—she shakes him off with a smile.

And then she’s off, striding confidently toward her destination, weaving through strangers and gliding between warm, dancing bodies.

By the time she finally breaks through the sea of people and reaches the bar, her face is flushed, her legs unsteady, and her heels make her ankles tremble slightly. But, strangely, there’s no long queue. She seizes the moment, lunges toward the counter, both hands landing firmly on the cool glass. She flashes her wristband—her golden ticket to a free drink—without a word, gaze still locked on the dancefloor behind her, scanning for her friends. When she spots them, a warm smile spreads across her face. Bull has hoisted Sera onto his shoulders—she’s waving her arms in the air, laughing loudly—and Dorian shakes his head, mock-disapproving, but his body moves with effortless grace, hips swaying, fingers snapping, too damn elegant for the crowd he’s dancing through.

“What can I get you?”

It takes a second to register. That voice filters into her ears through the haze, dreamlike. She turns toward the bartender.

And she freezes.

A pair of eyes as pale as a cloudy sky. Freckles scattered across fair skin. Sharp pointed ears.

The man falters for a split second when she turns to him, and Ellana can do nothing but stare as the strobe lights flicker once, twice, thrice—white, blue, violet—across the curve of that smooth, bald, shiny head in front of her.

Chapter Text

Solas wasn't surprised not to find Felassan home, when he arrived. He was probably already working.

He barely had time to shower and prepare a sad, grey dinner before his phone rang insistently. The club’s music exploded through the speaker the moment he picked up. He didn’t even wait for Felassan to speak, just hung up with a muttered curse, because it was Saturday night, and of course he had to go.

He was exhausted, bone-deep and week-long tired. That odd, dreadful feeling from when the strange woman left the bookshop still gripped his throat, refusing to shake off. And no, he didn’t want to go 'lend a hand' at the bar.

But he pulled on the black V-neck shirt anyway—far too tight for his taste—embroidered with the club’s dramatic logo: a spiralling design in neon green, almost glowing, with the name “The Fade” printed in a blocky, futuristic font at its center. He’d paired it with a pair of comfortable dark blue jeans. He called Bellara, Cole's babysitter, and waited—checking the time every thirty seconds, tapping his foot with slow-building impatience when she was five minutes late.

Then, finally, he’d headed out and driven to the club in his trusted car, a petrol green thing from a couple of decades ago that, yes, might be a little out of style, but was spotlessly clean and well maintained.

He’d parked in the staff space, entered through the back, and slipped behind the bar, where Felassan greeted him with a slap on the back and a genuine I missed you that, somehow, managed to wash away the worst of the week—if only for a moment.

“You’re late,” Felassan says almost immediately after, grinning around a toothpick he’d probably been chewing for an hour.

Solas gives him a flat look. “You are always early.”

“A terrible habit. You should try it sometime. There’s even coffee involved.” Felassan gestures broadly to the room, without waiting for his reply. “Quiet night,” he says. “Boring, even. If we’re lucky, someone will throw a chair in the next hour.”

He fills Solas in quickly after that, leaning against the prep counter with his usual easy confidence. A quiet evening, insofar as such a chaotic place could offer. Nothing out of the ordinary. The usual music, the usual faces, the usual threat of a minor scuffle outside the club—deftly handled (his words), by Felassan himself. With all the charm of a seasoned PR man, he’d welcomed the two groups of thuggish types like old friends and seated them at the same table in the lounge, announcing that, just for tonight, drinks were on the house.

Solas casts a glance in that direction, to where a cluster of men are already clearly drunk, trading crude jokes with no shame. A job well done, he has to admit; strategic, at the very least. He immediately recognises one of the patrons: an Antivan Crow, hawk-nosed, with slicked-back dark hair and a meticulously groomed appearance. An important client.

A quiet night, then—and yet Felassan doesn't move on.

That is the first odd thing.

He should’ve slipped away by now, vanishing into the crowd, shaking hands and blending in with that rabble of shady characters like he’d been born among them. That’s how it always goes when they work here. But tonight, he lingers.

Solas works the lounge bar with his usual efficiency, letting the rhythm of the task dull the edges of his thoughts. Bottles clink, citrus peels, sugar rims set. Guests order. He smiles, nods, trades easy banter.

His old, familiar, threadbare coat had slipped over his shoulders the moment he walked in. He hadn’t meant to put it on, not really, but it was there all the same. Reflex, more than decision. And he can feel it now: heavy in the way he scans a room, automatic in the way his mind dissects conversations even as his hands work the bar. He is tired of it. Tired of the role, tired of the listening. But he wears it anyway, because it clings like a second skin.

In the corner of his vision, Felassan does the job he’s supposed to—more or less. He makes a circuit of the lounge, stopping at tables for just long enough to ask how everything is going, whether the drinks are to their liking, whether they’re having fun. He makes a show of it, at least: hand gestures a little too wide, his smile bright but flickering, like neon losing voltage. He checks in with the VIPs briefly (especially with the Antivan Crow), ducks away from one woman clearly expecting more attention, gives a thumbs-up to a server passing by with a tray. Then that’s it. That’s all.

By the time Solas passes through the staff door into the main space—into the heat and the noise and the feral throb of the dancefloor—Felassan is already trailing behind him again.

He doesn’t say anything, just leans on the edge of the main bar like he belongs there.

Solas doesn’t ask. Just slips into place behind the counter, falls into rhythm: Mix. Pour. Smile. Watch. He keeps moving through the press of orders, hands sure and silent, eyes sweeping between glances at liquor levels and garnish trays. This side of the club pulses and surges with energy. Sweat. Want. Everything a little louder than it needs to be.

And now, just as the crowd thins for the first time in nearly an hour, Felassan reaches over the bar and pours himself a drink, filling the glass nearly to the rim—an amaro, judging by its syrup-dark hue. Solas raises an eyebrow but says nothing, continuing to wipe down the bar with a cloth soaked in alcohol. The bitter tang of ethanol threads through the humid air, mixing with the sweetness of spilled liqueurs and the acrid smell of sweat. His gaze slips past the glass he’s drying and out beyond the lip of the counter, across the open space where rhythm and oblivion meet.

People of all races, all faiths, all pasts and sins, melting together into a single mass of heat and breath and sweat. He finds it beautiful in its way. Mesmerising.

“See anyone interesting?”

Felassan’s voice cuts through the din, smooth as velvet. To a stranger, it might pass for idle talk—the lazy curiosity of a man sipping a drink at the start of a long night. But Solas knows better. There’s nothing casual about that question.

He sighs, already exhausted from playing this game. He really doesn’t have the energy for it. Not tonight. But he can feel Felassan’s green eyes on him, hears the sharp silence packed behind the words. So, with his shoulders tight and hands still moving mechanically over the counter, he indulges him.

First, his eyes sweep the corners, the dark edges of the room: a couple pressed into one another with the hunger of strangers; two men drinking, watching everything and everyone except each other; a group of young bucks pretending not to stare too hard at the women swaying in front of them.

Nothing yet. Nothing out of tune.

Then his gaze shifts to the centre—the heart of it all, where the rhythm becomes a tide and the bodies a sea. That’s where things slip through—if they do. Hands drift like spirits in the blur of movement. Maybe it’s money, maybe something else. A flicker of foil, a pass too casual, too clean. It's always there, buried in the beat, hidden in plain sight—if you know where to look.

And that’s when he sees it.

A flash of light, something that glows, phosphorescent, electric. A woman—her face still too far to make out—walking with purpose, wrapped in a green dress so vivid it borders on absurd.

It clashes wildly with the dark, lyrium-drenched palette that greeted them since their first night on the job. Felassan had taken one long look around and muttered, half to himself, “Feels like dancing inside a nightmare.” He’d said it with that particular tone he reserved for compliments disguised as curses. Solas hadn’t disagreed. Felassan was right. The place was ghostly, disorienting, surreal just enough.

And now she is here, disrupting the mood like a shot of sunlight through a blackout curtain, simply by stepping into the room.

His eyes, despite himself, drift down the length of those long, slender legs, and Solas wrinkles his nose. Cold and calculating now (his gaze absolutely does not continue upward, certainly not lingering on the delicate slope of her bare shoulders, nor the subtle, infuriating poise in her posture), he weighs two possibilities: either she’s an incredibly confident, unmistakably eccentric woman… or she has no idea where she is.

He watches her hips sway through the crowd and decides, judgmentally, that it’s the first. Definitely the first.

“So,” Felassan intrudes, still in that maddeningly casual tone, “do you think she’s suspicious… or just fuckable?”

Solas tightens his grip around the damp cloth in his hand, fingers clenching until alcohol beads and spatters across the counter in a sharp burst. He turns his head slowly, just enough to cast a glare over his shoulder, but Felassan only smiles, that same infuriating smirk playing at his lips, as if he were enjoying the discomfort like a fine wine.

“I see nothing suspicious yet," Solas replies, curt and clinical, clearly speaking in general. But he knows the mistake the instant the words leave his mouth.

Felassan’s grin widens, inevitable as the tide. “Just fuckable, then.”

There it is, right on time: that smirking little laugh. Solas rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, exhaling through his nose. He pivots fast. Best to cut it off before he gains too much ground. His gaze drops to the glass, nearly drained, cradled between Felassan’s long fingers.

“You shouldn’t be drinking on the job,” he says. His voice is flat, but there’s a curl of satisfaction behind it when Felassan’s grin wavers for half a breath. Not much, but enough. The barb lands. He glances back—just briefly—toward where the woman in green had stood moments ago. She’s gone. His smirk disappears with her.

“And you shouldn’t be undressing the clientele with your eyes,” Felassan murmurs from behind the rim of his glass. He meets Solas’ gaze, smile returning, smug and slow. “But here we are. Two thirsty elves.”

“One of us is thirsty,” Solas snaps, scrubbing at a stubborn smear of strawberry syrup with a little too much conviction. “The other is cleaning up after him.”

Of course, it doesn’t shut him up. Of course, Felassan just leans back, relaxed and insufferable.

“You know I love watching you get your hands dirty,” he says after a beat, his smirk widening until it flashes the faintest glint of canines.

Solas freezes. Just for a moment. A blink, a hitch in his breath—the kind of pause most would miss entirely. But Felassan isn’t most.

“Oh,” he coos, positively delighted. “Did I make you blush?”

“It takes more than that,” Solas replies, voice smooth, calm, unaffected.

“Mmh. It takes a green little dress, apparently,” the idiot laughs low in his throat, tilting his head with that lazy, predatory slant he wears like a second skin. “I wonder,” he muses, lifting his glass, “if I’ve got anything like that in my closet.”

And that’s when the image strikes, vivid and uninvited. Felassan in a dress, hips wrapped in mint green satin, fabric pulled taut across his chest, laughing, twirling, shameless. Beautiful. And before Solas can stop it, a breath of laughter escapes him. A single snort, but one that ends in his nose, soft, unexpected. Traitorous.

He straightens up at once, tossing the abused cloth onto the bar with a shake of his head.

“Aha,” Felassan purrs, practically glowing with triumph. “Now that’s a blush. And a laugh.”

“Not even slightly,” Solas lies, though the flush creeping up his ears betrays him utterly.

Felassan studies him in silence for a beat, a hum vibrating low in his throat. Maybe it’s approval, maybe something else. Then, with a final sip, he drains his glass and sets it down with the faintest clink.

“She was cute, though,” he says, his voice easy as ever. “A lovely little mint sweet.”

“You know what would be sweet?” Solas mutters, exasperation curling tight around his words. “You shutting that mouth for five minutes and doing your job.”

He sees it coming, the crude retort Felassan wants to make. It’s written all over him, obvious as a billboard. The way he tilts his chin, gaze slanting up from beneath his lashes, lips twitching up. It’s the face of a man about to say something involving mouths and body parts, some juvenile innuendo of a twelve-year-old with too much free time.

But then... he doesn't. He stays quiet and just reaches for the shelf behind the bar, not even looking as he grabs the first bottle his fingers find and pours.

And that’s when Solas starts to worry.

"Something is wrong, Felassan. What is it?" he asks quietly, taking an order from a customer who stepped up to the bar. "We have work to do, you've been acting strange all night."

Felassan doesn’t answer.

When Solas glances up, his expression has changed. He finds him sulking, wearing the unmistakable pout of a child whose sweets have just been confiscated. His eyes are locked on the dance floor, like he’s trying to set it on fire with sheer will. He follows his gaze.

Ah. Of course.

Isabela. She's dancing enthusiastically (very enthusiastically) between a guy and a girl grinding against her. She’s radiant: arms draped around the woman’s shoulders, hips moving with intention, gaze smoldering at the man. She’s smiling like she’s exactly where she wants to be.

Isabela. The woman Felassan sometimes brings home. The one who’s just a bit of fun, no strings attached—and yet there he is, watching her like a soaked mabari at the door.

“Nothing serious,” he always says. "Just a fling."

And maybe it is. For her, it probably is. She always leaves quietly, almost secretly, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume that lingers in the hallways of the apartment they share. Solas hears her every time—always gone before the sun rises, slipping into the dark with quick, unfaltering footsteps.

Felassan wakes late when she’s been over. No morning run, just a wreck of hair and a muttered “morning” that sounds like a curse. As if he’s still dreaming of her body wrapped around his. Or worse—hoping to find her barefoot in the kitchen, drinking his coffee, smiling like she belongs there.

Solas always stays silent and pretends not to notice.

Like now. It is not my concern, he reminds himself with a small shake of his head.

As long as Felassan’s sober.

He glances again at the glass in his friend's hand. Not his first, probably not his last. Solas doesn’t have to ask. He knows the pattern by heart. Drink four is when the performance starts—the clever jokes slip into wistfulness. And then comes the part where Felassan declares, slurring and barefoot in the hallway, “Let me tell you what love really means.”

That’s when the poetry begins. The bad poetry.

Once, there was a metaphor involving a wolf, a halla, and some kind of existential crossroad that still visits Solas in his nightmares. It was delivered at 3 a.m., addressed to the kitchen ceiling, over a spoonful of peanut butter eaten straight from the jar, and a scone that had done nothing to deserve such indignity.

And who ends up listening to all of it?

Right. Solas. Usually with a mug of herbal tea in one hand and a skull-crushing headache behind his eyes.

He’s tempted to snatch the glass away, just to avoid another night of tragic declarations and self-pity. But no—Felassan is an adult. It's not his place.

Still... maybe just one question.

“Did you two have an argument before I arrived?” he asks, voice low, like he’s testing the ground before stepping on it.

That gets a reaction. Felassan makes a face—half pout, half grimace—and downs what’s left in his glass with dramatic flair.

“She was already tense when I picked her up,” he mutters. “Something about the lighting being weird. Or the music being too aggressive. Or the drinks too strong. Or maybe the planet’s axis offended her mood, who knows.”

He sets the glass down hard.

“We were having drinks. Then I said something—stupid, probably, I don’t even know—and she just stands up, says ‘I’m going to dance,’ and walks off like I wasn’t even there.”

Solas raises a single unimpressed eyebrow and returns to mixing a gin tonic for a waiting customer. “And you didn’t follow her?”

Felassan shrugs, then scowls. “Should I have? I don’t chase people.”

“Mm.” Solas slides the glass across the bar.

“I would’ve danced with her,” Felassan adds, quieter now. “She didn’t even ask. Just left.”

Solas says nothing. He came here to work, not to play therapist for a man too emotionally constipated to define his situationship.

“I was supposed to go to hers tonight,” Felassan rambles, eyes still locked on his girlfriend, or whatever she is. “But I guess that’s not happening.”

Solas glances again at the glass in his hand. Oh, no. Round four already?

“I mean, what the fuck,” Felassan adds, louder again, gesturing toward the dance floor. “She’s out there basically fucking with two strangers and I’m over here making lime wedges.”

“If you want a bed to sleep in tonight,” Solas cuts in, loud and dry, not even looking at him, “start doing your damn job. Otherwise, you’ll be sleeping in the car.” A pause. “My car.”

Felassan finally turns to face him. He blinks once, slowly, then grins wide, baring his canines, and slings an arm around Solas’s shoulders.

“You’d never do that,” he says, laughing, before leaning in a little too close. “We have a child together, Solas.”

His tone lands somewhere between flirt and farce, his breath laced with cedar and some unholy mix of spirits that defy classification. Solas shrugs him off with the bored efficiency of someone who’s done this many, many times. He doesn't even flinch; he just turns his head and gives Felassan a glare.

“You are an ass.”

“Thanks,” Felassan replies, all cheerful, as if Solas had just handed him a medal instead of finally giving in.

He sighs, trying to smother the warmth rising to his cheeks. He tells himself it’s exasperation. Irritation, maybe. But deep down, he’s just relieved that the moaning is over, the tension momentarily eased, and his friend is smiling again.

He glances at him sideways.

Felassan, dressed in his usual sharp black PR suit—jacket cleanly tailored, shirt crisp and expensive—is, as always, the picture of effortless elegance. And like every night, he could have anyone he wanted. One step onto the dancefloor, a few precise movements—graceful, magnetic, fluid in a way that made gravity feel optional—and the entire club would orbit around him. Solas has seen it. Too many times, when they were younger.

And sometimes, once the night is done, when the music winds down and the VIPs have all been flattered into submission, he still does. Isabela or no Isabela.

Solas has watched him slip away with an arm slung casually around someone’s waist, mouth close to their ear, whispering something dazzling and private. Or sometimes he hasn’t seen him leave at all—just noticed the absence, the empty hallway light the next morning, Felassan returning with his hands in his pockets and his eyes half-lidded, smelling faintly of perfume and salt and something unknowable.

It happens, now and then.

It could happen again tonight.

But right now, Felassan is simply there. Standing at the bar, palms flat against the counter, face calm. A single lock of hair has slipped loose from the immaculate bun at the nape of his neck. Solas can’t tell if it’s intentional.

The silver prosthetic ear catches the purple wash of the neon lights. The glow slides over its polished curve, clean and beautiful in its craftsmanship. That ear—now so much a part of him—Solas knows he only takes it off when he’s alone. When sleep is near. When there’s no one left to impress or seduce or deceive.

But when Felassan ends up in someone else’s bed—giving them, without question, the most exquisite, carnal, unforgettable night of their life—Solas knows he keeps the ear on. A trophy, a story waiting to be asked.

And when, inevitably, someone leans across the pillow, their voice sweet with post-coital awe, and murmurs, What happened to your ear? Solas knows the answer is never the same.

Each time a different tale, a charming lie, mysterious, poetic, tragic, seductive. And in that moment—hair damp, skin flushed, the sheets a tangle around them—he's certain Felassan always smiles. That small, wistful curve of his lips Solas knows too well. And he is achingly sure that in that instant, even for just a breath, Felassan is thinking of that night. And inevitably, of him.

He wonders if it ever happens with Isabela. If she ever asks. If she ever gets the lie, or the truth, or something in between. And looking at him now—the precise lines of his profile, the soft fullness of his mouth, the quiet intensity behind the stillness—Solas thinks:

No.
Maybe not with her.

At last, Felassan spots something in the crowd. Recognition crosses his face: interest, calculation, purpose. The spark is back. When he turns to Solas, his gaze is sharp again, clear. The mask slides into place, the one he wears when the game begins.

He claps a hand on Solas’s shoulder and leans in close, voice low against the pulse of the music. “Ears pricked, eyes sharp," he says, his breath ghosting across Solas’s skin warm and fleeting, gone in an instant.

And then Felassan is gone, too, disappearing into the crowd. Solas doesn’t need to ask. He knows. Important client, someone who matters, a name, a face, a favour owed or collected. That’s Felassan’s domain.

He’s back at work. And so is Solas. He turns toward the bar, to the growing line of impatient patrons waving credit cards and shouting half-formed drink orders over the bass. Solas sets his shoulders, picks up a glass, and slips easily back into rhythm. The night is young. The game goes on.

After several rounds between the space behind the Veil and the dancefloor—ears pricked, eyes sharp, just like Felassan had told him—Solas came to a simple conclusion: he might as well have stayed home. Ears dulled. Eyes shut. He was tired, even more tired than when he’d arrived.

He kept working, purely on autopilot—mixing drinks out of habit, every recipe memorised by heart. Every now and then someone asked for something off-menu, and he’d get creative, throwing together glowing, colourful concoctions. And now, as yet another customer orders a mojito for the fifth time that hour, he finds himself thinking that that had been the most exciting moment of the night.

Felassan is deep in the thick of it—the evening in full swing, and all the night’s most anticipated guests had arrived. And Solas is still stuck behind the bar, swamped with people to please, none of whom were remotely interesting. Frowning, he draws a long breath. A brief pause. Just a few seconds. He lifts his gaze, looking for a distraction, perhaps. Or maybe a spark of adrenaline. Or maybe just his friend.

And that’s when his eyes find her again. In the middle of the dance floor. She’s facing away, but unmistakable—that green little dress a single sharp leaf in a sea of black and grey bodies, all moving in chaotic sync to the rhythm of the music.

Solas sets his glass down on the bar and, for a moment, forgets what he was supposed to fill it with. Gin? Vodka? Rum? He tries to retrace the steps of that simple drink, but only one word comes to mind:

Mint.

Mint, he thinks, as her hips sway with slow rhythm, her narrow waist bending, bare shoulders shifting with the fluid, languid grace of a body wrapped in—Mint, again, as light pulses across her shoulder blade, and one arm lifts, a drink in hand, a half-smoked cigarette glowing orange between her fingers.

She dances with a shake of her head, hair brushing over skin—tousled, damp, maybe still wet from a shower taken too late, but wild and alive, coal-black strands bouncing in time with the fresh, sharp, intoxicating mint.

She dances as if no one is watching, or as if every eye is on her, and she loves it. She dances as if she were looking for…

“…trouble.”

Solas blinks. “What?" he asks, confused, his eyes still fixed on the dance floor while his hand gropes blindly for the bottle of alcohol, in vain.

“You,” says the voice again, closer now. “You’re in real trouble.”

He turns sharply—and meets a pair of vivid eyes watching him with amused intent. Lips curled into a smirk so smug it should be criminal, eyebrows arched just enough to be irritating. An expression he knows far too well. Solas frowns, then finally closes his fingers around the bottle of rum that’s been sitting directly in front of him the whole time.

“Felassan,” he mutters, already annoyed, as he notices his friend’s eyes darting precisely in the direction of that green dress that stands out like fire in a snowstorm. Of course.

“Weren’t you supposed to be with some important client?” Solas asks, perhaps crushing the mint and sugar a little too aggressively in the bottom of the glass.

“Ah, just the usual boring lot,” Felassan says with a shrug, leaning back against the rear of the bar. “You? How’s it going?”

Solas finishes mixing the drink in his hands—rum, he now remembers, after a second too long. “All quiet,” he replies curtly.

“Behind the Veil?” Felassan presses, his tone casual but his eyes narrowing.

“All quiet,” Solas repeats, more firmly this time. He doesn’t glance up, determined not to let his gaze wander back to the dancefloor.

Felassan huffs. “What a drag,” then he falls silent, inspecting his nails as though nothing in the world could be more pressing, while Solas drowns under a cascade of drink orders and shouted requests. He doesn’t answer. He throws himself into the work instead, just to keep from saying something he’d regret.

Eventually—mercifully—the crowd thins again. A brief lull.

He glances at his old wristwatch, the one with the cracked leather strap and the dial big enough to read in low light. Still early. Unfortunately. With nothing else to do, he picks up the bar rag and resumes his eternal war against the stickiest patch of strawberry syrup in the world. It’s been there for what feels like weeks, immune to soap, salt, and swearing. He’s mid-scrub—determined this time, this time—when a movement catches his eye.

An arm raised. A wristband. Free drink, it says.

He looks up, and there she is. The girl in the green dress. One hand rests lightly on the counter, the other still lifted—her face is turned away from him, angled toward the dancefloor, scanning the crowd. Not looking at him, not yet, but it doesn’t matter, because he sees her, and every part of him is suddenly, sharply awake.

He throws a quick glance at Felassan—thankfully, he's busy adjusting his hair in the reflection of a cocktail shaker, utterly absorbed in the angle of a loose strand. Good. Solas steps toward her. Hands on the bar. Shoulders squared. He takes a breath and tells himself that the flicker in his chest is nothing. Just curiosity. Professional alertness. A bartender doing his job.

“What can I get you?” he asks, voice low and even, as polished as the glass beneath his palms.

She turns.

And it’s as if the music softens, the lights dim, the noise slips underwater and his heart halts in his chest. Just for a second.

Because the woman in the green dress is none other than Ellana Lavellan.

He knows it instantly. No question, no hesitation, the face is too familiar, burned into his memory from a thousand goddamn posters and screens and press kits. All dressed up now, made up and polished, she looks exactly like the woman stamped across bookstore windows and frozen in press stills, glowing behind oversized text announcing Season 2 of the gripping true-crime sensation.

And worse—far worse—the woman in the green dress and the woman from the bookshop are the same person.

He realizes it like a stab to the chest.

Now, yes—now he sees it clearly. Same full mouth, same striking cheekbones. Her hair’s done differently tonight, but the eyes are the same, with that sharp gold that catches the light. How hadn’t he seen it?

No, that’s not true. He had noticed something.

When she’d reached into her purse to pay for the book, something had tugged at the back of his mind. She’d looked up at him—just briefly—and for a second, he’d almost said it: Have we met? But then she was gone, brushing past with a muttered thanks, the book clutched to her chest like a shield. She’d stormed off in a hurry, earbuds already back in, and he’d let it go.

And now he wants to bite through his own tongue for it.

Because that woman? The one who asked for a book that could make her feel something?

It's the same woman who had spent months digging through his past. The same woman who had turned his life into a bestselling novel. The one who fictionalised his trauma, romanticised his shame, and turned everything he’d tried to forget into mass-market entertainment.

Of course he’d read the book. Of course he had.

And once he’d finished it, he’d thrown it straight into the bin, because that was exactly where it belonged.

It wasn’t even badly written, that was the thing. The prose was solid, clean, engaging, even, perfect for a mass-market thriller. Lavellan had reported the headlines with unnerving accuracy, too. Everything that had made it into the papers was there, more or less as it had happened. But the rest?

A grotesque portrait, a fever dream dressed up as fact, and he’d been forced to skip over sex scenes involving people he’d watched die in his arms. He’d seen betrayals rewritten as melodrama, gory horrors reduced to spectacle. She had taken his grief and carved it into something glossy, digestible, palatable for strangers to consume.

And that nickname. Fen’Harel.

Yes, his family—those violent, deluded criminals—had adopted the names of gods, styling themselves after the Evanuris like they could rule the world. But he had never dared. Not once. Not even in jest.

Then she came along and called him The Dread Wolf.

Fitting, he supposed. In a poetic, tragic, profitable way. It sold copies, it sold interviews, it made her look clever, no doubt. But to him, it felt like betrayal. Like she’d taken the blade from his back and twisted it just a little more for effect.

By the time he finished the book, he made a decision: to forget. To lock it all away in some deep drawer of his mind and bury it beneath what he knew to be the truth. He refused to so much as glance at those posters plastered on every wall in Wycome.

And maybe that’s why, when she’d walked into his bookshop earlier that day, he hadn’t recognised her. Or maybe he just didn’t let himself. She hadn’t looked like her at all. No makeup, no polished smile, no perfect styling. She looked smaller than the screen made her seem, paler. Real. Just a stranger.

And for a brief, stupid moment—that’s all she’d been.

She had walked into the bookshop wearing sunglasses and earbuds, barely acknowledging the room. She only removed them when he—mildly irritated by such aloof behaviour—put down his book and approached to ask if she was lost. When she finally looked up, as the sunglasses came off, he saw the deep shadows under her eyes. Eyes that were tired—a little sad, a little hollow, looking at him like he might have answers to some unspoken question in her mind. All framed by a polite, well-practised smile.

And it stung.

Because he’d seen those eyes in the mirror too many times. He knew that smile: the soft white lie you put on for strangers when you don’t have the energy for anything real. So he withheld judgment. And maybe, in a moment of weakness—or because of some long-buried memory—when she asked him for a book that could make her feel something, he gave her his favourite.

The one that had pulled him back from the edge, years ago. The one he’d never recommended lightly.

The one that, perhaps, had nudged him into opening a tiny bookshop just outside the city centre, filled with obscure titles and quiet voices instead of bestsellers. To at least try and move on with his life.

And now—now—she is here. In this club. In that dress. In his life again. And Solas is furious.

Furious with her, for what she wrote. For every twist she got wrong. For every sin she turned into spectacle. For making both a myth and a monster out of him. But he’s more furious with himself. For the book he gave her. For the stupid ache he’d felt when she stood before him, asking for a story that would crack her open. For the hope—however foolish, however fleeting—that she'd return and say it meant something.

And now she’s standing here, close enough to touch, her dress glowing soft green under the lights, the gold in her eyes catching the strobe—and he can’t believe he’s thinking about how beautiful she is.

He wants to say something. “Did you enjoy the book I gave you?” maybe, dripping with venom. “Or were the real events too dull for your taste?” Or better yet: “You missed everything that mattered.”

But he doesn't get the chance.

She's already talking. And she definitely looks furious, though Solas can’t understand a single word she’s saying. The music is too loud—a relentless, thudding wall of bass that batters at his ears and swallows her voice entirely—and for one long, tempting moment, he considers apologising and handing her off to Felassan, who would no doubt be delighted to take over. An angry woman in a party dress? That’s practically foreplay for him.

But she keeps talking, gesturing wildly, her words vanishing into the crush of sound and bodies. And the wistful memory of their brief encounter earlier that very day still clings to him. So, finally, Solas lets out a sigh, sets both palms flat on the cold glass of the bar, and leans in. He tilts his head toward her and taps the shell of his ear.

“I can’t hear you,” he shouts, fixing his eyes on her mouth, trying to read the shape of her lips in the pulsing dark.

She goes still, and for one long beat, she just stares at him.

Then, without warning, she plants both elbows on the bar and practically climbs across it, dragging herself close until her mouth is right beside his ear. He feels her breath before he hears the words.

“I asked you: are you following me?”

The question is so absurd it punches the air out of him.

Following her?

He stares at her, incredulous—fighting the wave of disbelief rising fast in his throat. The woman who spent six months chasing him. The woman who sent him dozens of messages, letters, requests. The woman who wrote an entire book about his life—and he’s the stalker?

His mouth twitches. He almost laughs. Typical Ellana Lavellan, distorting reality once again.

He stays there, hunched awkwardly over her while she leans across the counter, chest pressed tight between her arms, cleavage far too visible in that ridiculous mint green dress. Solas blinks. Then he straightens, just enough to be sure he’s looking at her face and not her neckline. He raises an eyebrow, slow and unimpressed, already annoyed by the accusation in her eyes.

“I work here,” he says flatly, loud enough to be heard over the beat still rattling the floor.

"And the bookshop?" she presses on, undeterred—her cheeks flushed, hair mussed.

She’s drunk. Solas decides it instantly.

He tries to ignore that faint note of lime on her breath, tries not to dwell on the floral note he can almost taste on her—maybe orange blossom, or rose essence… no. Lavender. Lavender and rosemary, he smells it again when her hair brushes his cheek and the scent of her shampoo lingers in the air.

“I work there too,” he sighs, with the weariness of someone who knows this is about to spiral. His eyes flick briefly past her, to the growing line of people waiting for drinks—some impatient, some amused, at least one openly staring at the way her dress clings to her shape when she leans forward like that.

“Tell me what I can make you to drink,” he says, professional now, tone calm but clipped.

Even as he speaks, he can’t help imagining her order: a fine gin, one of the pricier bottles, aromatic but dry, dry and full of character. Distilled in Treviso, maybe. The kind meant to be sipped slowly on a shaded terrace where the breeze tastes of salt and myrtle and sirocco and the sky leans gold toward a darkening sea. A drink for dusk, not for clubs.

But she isn’t done.

She grabs the collar of his shirt between her fingers and yanks him forward, forcing him to look her straight in the eyes.

"What's next—maybe you work as a housekeeper at my place too? Am I going to wake up tomorrow and find you making coffee in my kitchen?"

They’re so close now he can feel the heat radiating off her skin, the tension in her grip, the press of her body against his. And in that breathless space between them, he weighs his options.

Call security and have her escorted out. Grab her wrist and shrug her off. Politely ask her to let go. Shove his tongue down her throat.

That last one hits him like a sudden, violent slap, and for a moment, his brain just… halts. Before he can hold it back, a hot, bitter surge of instinct erupts from somewhere deep in his gut, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Bet you would like that.”

It’s a dick move. He knows it the second the words leave his lips.

She’s drunk. He’s sober. He should have held back. Should have shown restraint. Should have waved Felassan over, asked for backup, anything but this.

Her eyes widen in shock, then fury. Her face flushes crimson, maybe now it's more than the alcohol, maybe now it's not even rage. Maybe it's shame.

She lets go of him like he’s scorched her. Drops down from the bar and just stares at him—right in the face, dead in the eyes—like she wants to drive those pupils of hers straight through his skull and out the other side.

Solas frowns.

Because maybe she doesn't have the right to look at him like that. He could have held back, sure, but this woman—this woman cracked open his ribs, rifled through his grief, rewrote it all with pretty metaphors and cheap narrative arcs, and sold it to the world wrapped in fucking gold foil. She made his worst nights into plot twists.

So yeah. Maybe she’s ashamed now. Maybe she’s humiliated.

But maybe she deserves worse. The thought hits him hot and mean. It curdles the guilt in his stomach just enough to keep him standing there, jaw tight, fists clenched behind the bar. Watching her face burn red beneath the club lights, that ridiculous mint green dress glowing like a beacon.

The rest happens fast.

Her hands move like lightning.

She reaches just far enough to snatch a freshly made cocktail from the hand of the poor girl next to her in line. Ignoring her startled "Hey!", and without a single second of hesitation, she hurls the drink directly into Solas’s face.

Vodka, probably. Orange juice, maybe. And ice. Definitely ice.

All of it. Right in the face.

Solas freezes. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move as the liquid runs down the collar of his shirt, soaking the fabric. A cube of ice slides slowly down his chest, tracing a cold line over his stomach and into the waistband of his jeans.

He stares at her in disbelief, blinking through alcohol-streaked lashes. She’s still holding the glass, fingers clenched so tight around it her knuckles have gone white, and for a moment, he’s sure she’s going to throw that too.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she raises her middle finger and says something through gritted teeth that he can’t quite catch, but sounds an awful lot like “fuck you.”

She turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd like she was never there, leaving behind only the fading ripple of her wake—startled stares, muffled laughter, maybe even a hint of admiration—and the faint, lingering scent of lavender and rosemary, still curling in the air between them.

"So…" Felassan's smug voice comes like a summoned spirit. "When's the wedding?"

What an asshole, Ellana thinks as everything around her spins and she bumps into whoever happens to be in her way. Someone shouts something at her, but she doesn’t catch it—she keeps walking quickly, furiously, not really knowing where she’s going. She can’t find her friends anymore. Lost in the middle of the dance floor, the strobe lights blind her, everything moves in slow motion, the crowd around her turns into an indistinguishable mass, a single blob moving as one, a river closing in around her, full of fish, full of waves, full of rocks. She can’t breathe, and her hand instinctively flies to the opening of her handbag. But it’s different this time.

She fumbles for her phone, pulls it out, and presses the button. Nothing. The screen stays black. She holds it up, tries again. Dead. No battery. Useless. She's such a fucking idiot.

She feels the nausea rising—she’s going to be sick. She curses herself for having eaten nothing but a slice of stale bread and a glass of tap water for dinner, curses herself for not having ordered takeaway when she’d remembered her fridge was pitifully empty. And now there’s no air in here, she shouldn’t have smoked, not after two gin and tonics and gods know what else, not with her condition, and she can’t tell anymore whether it’s the bass or the beating of her own heart trying to claw its way out, and that stupid man, with that stupid mouth, and those damned eyes and that wretched book and—

She needs to get out. Now. Where the fuck is the exit?

“Hey, are you alright?” A hand on her shoulder—Ellana turns so quickly that the nausea rises with such force it makes her dizzy. She meets a pair of dark eyes shining in the gloom, set in a beautiful—no, stunning—face, with full lips split by a piercing, a gold ring that suits her perfectly, thick wavy ebony hair falling in messy strands over bare shoulders, nearly as dark as the hair itself. Ellana blinks and can’t find any words.

The tall woman in front of her wraps an arm around her shoulders and says something else Ellana doesn’t quite catch. She moves. The crowd seems to part before her. She holds Ellana close and leads her through, like a ship cutting through a sea of bodies, carrying her to safety.

And then they’re outside.

Cool night air brushes her face, her arms, her legs like a gentle hand working the knots out of her skin after an endless day. She breathes, and this time her lungs open fully, greedily. Her body remembers how to function. Her thoughts follow, slower, still sticky with static.

The stranger lets go. Ellana stumbles a few steps on her own, unsteady but upright. She stops. Closes her eyes.

Big mistake.

The nausea strikes fast—a hot, sudden surge up her throat, vicious and coiled like a snake snapping hits fangs. The world lurches. Or maybe she does. She can’t tell anymore. She can’t see the pavement, the club, the flickering neon, nothing, just the spinning, endless spinning behind her eyelids—

She slaps a hand to the wall for balance. Doubles over. Somewhere far off, she feels warm fingers brush her forehead, gently tugging her hair back—just before she retches, hard, the sound wet and awful against the concrete.

“Good girl,” the woman murmurs, calm as water. “Let it all out.”

Ellana spits, chest heaving. Sweat beads at her brows, but she’s cold now, shivering.

The stranger strokes her hair in such a slow, soothing way that for one disorienting moment, Ellana feels her mother’s hands again. Fever dreams. Childhood comfort. The ache is so sudden and brutal it takes her by surprise. The burning in her throat is nothing next to it.

“Better?” the woman asks, quiet now.

She nods, brows drawn tight. Only then does the stranger release her. Ellana stays like that, slumped against the wall, gathering what little dignity she has left, until the vertigo fades. When she finally straightens up, the woman gestures to a bench a few metres away.

“Come on, this way.” She keeps a hand just behind Ellana’s back but doesn’t touch her. A ghostly guide, gentle, ready to catch her if her legs gave out. She lets Ellana sit first, then takes a seat beside her, close enough to be felt, far enough not to invade her personal space.

“What happened to you, sweetheart?”

The question breaks something inside her. So deep she doesn’t even hear the crack. Ellana clenches her fingers around the cold metal of the bench, because everything slips away from her, always, but at least this fucking bench is still here, solid and real. For now.

“I got lost.” The alcohol folds her words in two. It’s the gin—it must be—making her eyes sting and her nose prickle, her throat tighten until that knot chokes her voice and a small sob escapes. It’s the gin, making her wipe her eyes and sniffle like that. She hates herself for being so weak. Pathetic. Pathetic and drunk. A walking cliché.

The stranger looks away, offering nothing but quiet company, waiting until the little sobs subside and Ellana’s body relaxes again. She feels like a slug, something damp and shapeless slowly melting onto the sticky surface of the bench.

“Happens to me a lot too, you know?” The woman says at last, still staring straight ahead. “Getting lost.”

Ellana watches her face shift, soft with melancholy, her gaze fixed on something far away. She wears the eyes of someone who stares into the beauty of a dying sun and envies the way it raises again from it's grave, whole and shining, every single day.

“I’m probably the last person who should be giving advice,” the woman adds, with a dry smile. And when she turns back to Ellana, the melancholy is gone—tucked away like a cigarette in a silver case. “But for what it’s worth… drinking till the pain goes numb doesn’t work. Not for long. It always comes back, doesn’t it?”

Ellana looks away, fixing her gaze on the tips of her shoes. She studies in silence her bare, unpolished toenails peeking out from the open front of her heels, and says nothing. Because she’s tired. Exhausted. And really, what else is there to say?

“What’s your name?”

“…Ellana.”

A pause. Too long.

When she lifts her eyes to the woman beside her, she already knows. She sees it coming in the sudden widening of those eyes, the parting of those lips, the silent oh forming like a curse.

“Ellana… Lavellan?” the woman says, blinking like she’s trying to reconcile this ravaged version of her with something she’s read, or seen, or both.

“Yeah.” Ellana shrugs, bracing herself.

Oh my god, can we take a selfie?
I saw the movie! (Never I read your book.)
Or worse: Please, tell me what happens next!

“The Fall of the Evanuris? That stupid book? You wrote that?” The woman is clearly trying not to laugh, her voice bubbling with disbelief. “Maker's balls. And that awful movie?” She shakes her head—and then the laughter bursts out, uncontainable. Bright and alive and real, like mountain water tumbling over stone.

It goes on until it runs itself dry, because no, Ellana has no intention of stopping her. She just watches, nothing but relief in her expression.

When the woman finally pulls herself together, hand over her mouth, eyes still sparkling, she manages: “Oh, I’m so sorry—”

“No. No, don’t be.” Ellana shakes her head, a smile cracking through her weariness. “Thank you for being honest. I hate them. I hate them so fucking much.”

The stranger watches her with one eyebrow raised. Surprised, maybe. Then she leans back against the bench and says simply, “Your face just looked familiar.”

Ellana doesn’t reply.

They sit in silence, listening to the muffled thump of music still pulsing from the club, breathing in the cool night air, softer than the day’s heat. Damp, yes, but touched by salt and the kind of breeze that only comes from being near water.

After a while, the woman speaks again, like the thought had just drifted into place.

“I don’t have a car. But I can ask a friend to drive you home.” The hesitation must be plain on Ellana’s face, because she quickly adds, “He’s a good person. Nothing will happen to you. I promise.”

Maybe she winks—Ellana isn’t sure. She lets her gaze drift away, sliding down the road bathed in the cold light of the streetlamps.

And gods, she just wants to be home, safe, in bed with nothing but a pair of knickers, the window cracked open to let in the moonlight and its pale breath. She wants to close her eyes and drop into that dizzying blackness—the kind only alcohol brings.

“No, thanks, my bike…” she mumbles, uncertain. Her voice wavers, her eyes still locked on the end of the road, where her battered salmon-pink frame waits like a loyal dog to carry her home.

“Bike? Now?” The woman’s voice is incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

Ellana turns to look at her, and finds her shaking her head with theatrical indignation, like someone had just suggested pouring ketchup on spaghetti.

“But—”

"What, do you want to get yourself killed? You could fall from the bridge, you know that?"

The question hits her like a slap. Ellana blinks, stunned, confused. No, of course she doesn’t want to die. What kind of question is that? But she's right. The bridge is dangerous at night. An accident on her bike: it could happen.

Maybe she’d fall into the sea then, sink quietly, gracelessly. Maybe the fish would strip her down to bone. Maybe she’d become plankton and live in the belly of a whale, carried across oceans in a cathedral made of flesh and ribs and saltwater. And eventually, no one would remember. The posters would bleach in the sun and peel off fences like old skin. Her name would fade, her face replaced—a new movie, a trending tag, a toothpaste ad, a viral slogan, a life coach peddling garbage on a billboard. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish.

And she’d be plankton, drifting through the sea, in the belly of a whale.

It wouldn’t be such a terrible way to go, she thinks, as the cool night air brushes against her face, tinged with salt, rotten fish, and petrol. She’s always loved the sea. Always loved diving into the waves alone, disappearing beneath the surface, vanishing until the water turned dark and cold, until her lips went purple and her fingertips puckered like old paper.

Her mother would be waiting on the shore—patient, resigned—arms outstretched with that pale blue towel, faintly scented of sunblock and detergent. Her father farther back, quietly packing, watching without seeming to.

Then they’d be in the car.

Driving through the dark, her hair dampening the seat, the world outside dipped in navy and gold. Her father silent, as always. Her mother humming a low, wistful Nina Simone tune. She, in the backseat, salt on her skin, window down, reaching an arm into the night air, brushing past streetlights like fireflies caught in a forest of asphalt and concrete.

It wouldn’t be such a terrible way to go, she thinks—and she’s not afraid of anything, except that hollow indifference whistling through her chest.

Ellana only realises how long her silence has stretched when the stranger places a hand gently over hers. Only then does she blink, only then does she notice the ache in her eyes, the way her gaze has been fixed on the black, glassy water of the harbour.

She finally looks up, meets her eyes, finds them bright, finds them concerned, finds them steady, and suddenly, all she feels is shame.

“I need to find my friends…” she hunches her shoulders, shrinking into herself as her eyes drift back toward the club, hoping to see Iron Bull’s horns materialise out of the dark, cutting through the crowd and running toward her.

The woman gets to her feet with a sigh. “Right. I’ll go ask my friend if he can give you a lift home,” she says, glancing towards the warehouse. “But I don’t know you, and I’m not about to force my help on you.” She shrugs, offering a small smile. “Just think about it. I'll be back soon. And… try not to do anything reckless, okay?”

She gives her a quick wink, then turns and starts walking towards the club.

“Wait,” Ellana calls out, still seated on the bench. “What’s your name?”

“Isabela,” she replies, not looking back. “Pleasure to meet you, Lavellan.”

She disappears through the doors of the club. Ellana glances down at her phone—dead and useless in her hand—then leans back against the cold surface behind her and looks up. No stars tonight. Or maybe the harbour lights have swallowed them. She closes her eyes. And waits. For what, or for whom, she doesn’t know. But she waits.

Solas is in the bathroom—the one reserved for staff, tucked in the cramped space between the dancehall bar and the lounge area. The music pulses through the wall, muffled and distant. He’s staring at his reflection in the filthy, scratched mirror. In the upper right corner, someone’s scrawled fuck the Seekers in permanent marker.

Fuck me, he thinks—though he doesn’t really see the reflection. Not the grime. Not the marker. What he sees in the mirror is her face—eyes burning with hatred, a “fuck you” on her lips.

And Solas is livid.

He scrunches his nose and shakes his head with a frustrated sigh, turns on the tap and bends over the sink. He splashes water on his face, as best he can in the narrow space. It tastes like metal, rusted iron, disgusting. Foul, like the taste in his mouth. Like the thoughts crowding his mind.

Vengeance. Rage. Disgust. Shame.

It’s the last one that claws deepest; it makes him press both palms against his face, water trickling down his wrists, dripping into the basin.

He knew she was insufferable. Of course he did.
Attention-seeking? Obviously. He’d seen it, resented it.
Attractive? Well. He’d spent years pretending not to notice. He didn't need to look at the perfect shape of her bottom behind the glass of the bookshop to know it.

But that she was real—a person of flesh and blood, skin and veins and, perhaps, buried deep somewhere, a beating heart—no. That, he’d never considered.

The door bangs open without warning. No knock, just noise, music pours in like a tide. Solas doesn’t flinch, just lifts his eyes slowly (slowly, and with absolutely no patience left for anyone’s bullshit) to the mirror.

He already knows who it is.

Felassan stands in the doorway, scratching the back of his head like a schoolboy caught out after curfew. “Everything all right?”

Solas doesn’t answer. It’s painfully clear that his friend doesn’t give a shit how he’s doing. His mind is clearly elsewhere.

“Listen, I need to… ask you a favour.”

“No,” Solas replies, flat and cold, straightening up and dragging his hands down his face. He stops looking at Felassan’s reflection and turns away, reaching for a paper towel to dry his hands.

“One of Isabela’s friends—”

“No,” he repeats, cursing quietly through clenched teeth when he realises the paper’s run out. Has probably been for a week.

“Solas, I know you’re angry, but—”

“N. O.” he turns to face him with a murderous glare.

Felassan frowns, one eyebrow arching.

“Oh, come on. It was just a drink to the face. Nothing that serious.”

Nothing that serious.

The words drift through Solas’s mind in slow motion. Absurd. Impossible. Unbelievable, in the truest sense.

Nothing that serious, his brain echoes, flatly stunned, as he stares at him. And in that split second—that furious, blazing nanosecond—he realises something with absolute certainty: Felassan has no idea who that woman really was.

In that same breathless instant of rage, Solas wonders what fool ever thought it was a good idea to hire someone so hopeless at remembering faces—especially in a job where that's half the point.

A short, bitter breath of disbelief escapes him, half a laugh, half a scoff. He lowers his gaze. Wipes his wet hands on his jeans, shaking his head. He’s not going to explain it. He simply hasn’t got the strength for it. Not now.

In the silence Solas grants him, Felassan strikes again.

“Look. It’s something simple. A good deed," he sounds almost rehearsed now. “One of Isabela’s friends had too much to drink. A girl. Got sick. Isabela doesn’t have a car. She asked me to take her home, but I can’t leave the club right now—and I’ve had a few too many myself, so…”

He places a hand on Solas’s arm, now pathetically hopeful.

“Could you handle it? For me? Please?”

If it’s possible, Solas’s eyes grow colder still. “I said no.”

Felassan’s smile falters. Desperation creeps in. “Isabela says she’s not okay! Really upset, crying—I don’t know…” he gestures vaguely in the air, flailing for sympathy.

“She can call a taxi.” Solas turns and begins walking toward the exit, set on brushing past his friend and heading back behind the bar. But just as he’s beside him, Felassan puts a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly they’re pressed too close together in that tiny, grimy space.

“Oh, come on,” his voice is a mix of disbelief and rebuke. “If she were your friend… would you let her take a taxi—drunk, fragile, and alone—in this fucked-up city, in the middle of the night?”

Solas clenches his jaw and brushes Felassan’s hand off his shoulder before stepping past him.

“A very touching story. Heart-wrenching, even. But I don’t give a damn if Isabela promised you a blowjob in exchange for your heroic act of decency.”

He spits the words like poison, meant to wound.

“I have work to do. You do, too. She can ask someone else—she’s got plenty of friends, if I recall correctly,” he hits the word friends with surgical precision, merciless.

He’s about to leave when Felassan’s voice, suddenly serious and laced with concern, stops him in his tracks.

“Solas, wait. What's wrong?”

Solas freezes, his back still turned. But something in his posture shifts, because now Felassan sounds genuine. And he, Solas, has been an ass. He deserves a sharp retort, not concern. Felassan steps closer, his footsteps hesitant. He puts a hand on his shoulder again. This time, a gentler touch. Solas finally turns his head, meeting eyes that tell him this isn’t about pleasing Isabela anymore.

“Come on,” Felassan says softly. “Not caring about someone who needs help? That’s not you.”

Solas holds his gaze, tempted—so tempted—to tell the truth of what is really bothering him. But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes. So he just sighs. And gives in.

“All right.”

Felassan’s face lights up. “Legend. Thank you. You’re doing the right thing,” he gives Solas’s shoulder a firmer squeeze, jostling him just enough to show his approval. “Bet getting some fresh air and taking a break will do you good.”

A quick smile, an overly cheerful, “I’ll go tell Isabela!”, and Felassan vanishes.

Solas exhales, drained.

Getting some air, taking a break, he thinks, staring at his own reflection—damp collar, tired eyes, jaw tight. Maybe it will do me good.

Chapter Text

Forever grateful and endlessly in awe of this magnificent work of art by Lucy
Bookshop Solas, from Chapter 1

Solas looks around as he follows Isabela, and he notices it immediately. Something’s not right. The lounge area is strangely empty. Half-finished drinks lie abandoned on tables—some untouched, others with ice slowly melting, the coloured liquid inside growing paler by the minute.

At one table sits a man, alone. Solas can’t see his face, but his attire is unmistakably overdressed: a black jacket adorned with intricate velvet patterns that twist chaotically across the fabric, cigarette-cut trousers, and loafers polished to such a gleam they distort the neon lights above, warping them into restless ripples.

But it’s the way the man drums his fingers on the table that draws Solas’s attention most. The movement is agitated, almost frantic, but the rhythm precise, like a deranged metronome. Solas narrows his eyes and counts silently. One, two, three. Three taps every second. Not one more, not one less. Over and over. Too exact to be random.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the man even as Isabela says something to him, listening to her only with one ear. His pace slows. He watches. He counts. Then, suddenly, the tapping stops—abruptly, all at once.

And at that exact moment, a pair of distinguished-looking elves at a nearby table rise and head toward the bathroom.

Solas tenses. He tries to get a better look—but just as he leans forward, the door to the lounge swings open. A group spills in from the dancefloor: loud, laughing, perfumed and rowdy, crashing into the stillness like a stone into water. One of them knocks into a chair, another spins theatrically, and they drift directly into his line of sight, filling the empty space between him and the elves.

He steps sideways, searching for an angle—but it’s too late.

Fenhedis.

He didn’t catch their faces. Didn’t see which direction they turned.

“Are you even listening to me?” Isabela’s voice cuts through, louder now. When Solas turns, she’s right in front of him, eyes locked onto his.

“Of course. You were telling me about this girl. Deeply sad. Beautiful—by your standards,” he says, without so much as blinking. "And that she threw up against the wall."

A flicker of irritation flashes across her face, but he’s already gesturing for her to keep moving, the smallest nod inviting her to lead the way.

“My standards are pretty high, by the way,” she mutters with a shrug, casting him a sidelong glance before turning and striding ahead.

As soon as her back is turned, Solas pulls out his phone—an old, battered model with large buttons—and quickly types a message.

Bathrooms need cleaning. And someone ordered a Black Velvet in the lounge. Let me know if you need backup.

The reply comes almost instantly.

I’ve got it. Have fun.

He’s about to tuck the phone away when it buzzes again.

Is Isabela still mad at me?

Solas exhales through his nose and jams the phone back into his pocket a little harder than necessary.

They pass beyond the lounge area and reach the emergency exit. Solas gives a small nod to the bouncers—two burly humans dressed in black, each with a radio clipped to their belt. They return the nod and step aside, pulling open the fire doors.

The salty air clings to him like a second skin the moment they step outside. It mingles with his sweat, salt upon salt, and Solas wishes for nothing more than a cold shower. The breeze is cool, but the mix of liquids and odours clinging to him keeps him from enjoying it fully. Now that the stale air of the club is behind him, he can clearly smell the sharp stench of alcohol still soaking through his shirt.

He looks around, weary-eyed, watching the slow dance of the harbour lights reflected in the dark, murky mirror of the sea at night. They shimmer in small, irregular ripples, while the boats tied to the dock with thick braided ropes bob gently on the surface. They look so light, drifting without effort between the lapping of the waves.

When Isabela comes to a halt in front of him, Solas stops as well. He exhales softly.

“So, where is the…”

The words catch in his throat.

Following Isabela’s gaze, he sees her.

She’s sitting on a bench at the edge of the promenade. Legs crossed, long, bare up to the thighs, wrapped in a short green skirt. One heel rests firm against the pavement, the other hovers, suspended mid-air, tracing lazy, absent-minded circles into nothing.

Her shoulders catch the glow of a lone yellow streetlamp—one of the last holdouts after the city replaced its kin with the harsh, clinical LEDs that now line the seafront like a row of interrogators. This one still flickers, stubborn and soft, painting her in a forgiving light as she sits with her back straight, thin arms propping up her shoulders, palms pressed to the iron bench. Her gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the dark water, on a point only she can see. Black rivulets of makeup trace her cheeks, bleeding into the delicate, curling lines of her Vallaslin.

And he almost feels something. Almost. Until he remembers.

A snort rises before he can stop it. There she is—sitting on that bench, waiting for them—dishevelled and broken. Right. Because it must be so unbearable being rich, and famous, and adored by strangers who think your voice speaks the truth. Draped in fine silk, sipping white wine at rooftop parties, making a fortune off someone else’s pain and calling it art.

Now she’s crying.

Touching, really.

“No.” Solas shakes his head, cold.

Isabela turns to look at him, her wide, puzzled eyes searching for a reason behind such a final, immovable refusal. "What do you mean, no?"

“No, Isabela. Find someone else,” he waves a hand through the air, dismissive, like swatting away a fly that won’t stop buzzing near his ear. He starts to step back, to turn away, but her voice stops him cold.

"Do you two know each other?"

Solas doesn’t answer right away, eyes locked on the woman who threw a cocktail in his face only minutes ago.

"We had a... disagreement," he forces out. "At the bar. Just now."

Isabela's eyes narrow slowly, suspicion taking shape—no, not just suspicion. Certainty. It sharpens into accusation in an instant.

"What did you say to her?" she asks at last, clearly already convinced this is his fault. Solas opens his mouth, ready to say that the woman is a nightmare, that she humiliated him in front of the customers and Felassan (in front of the whole damn world, too).

But that’s not what Isabela asked. She didn’t ask what she did, she asked what he said. The shame creeps in, hot and sharp as he remembers how he snapped back at her. In that moment, he’d wanted to hurt her. To knock her down, to punish her, just a little. He’d wanted her flustered, humiliated, and, apparently… it worked.

Solas opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

And that’s all the confirmation Isabela needs. She huffs, throws her hands up, and shakes her head in frustration.

“Oh, I don’t care,” she mutters. “Solas, she’s wasted—if I leave her alone for one more second…”

“It’s not my problem,” he says, brittle. He looks away, jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed on some meaningless stain on the concrete, as if it’s suddenly become fascinating.

“Not your—?” Isabela cuts herself off, glancing toward the bench. Her voice softens, dropping low. “She looks like someone who might throw herself into the sea.”

When he doesn’t answer, she exhales sharply, folding her arms across her chest. Frustration bleeds into the shake of her head. “You do know who she is, right? I mean—everyone does. What’s she even doing here? Alone? Drunk?” She scoffs, but the sound rings hollow. “She’s a mess. She said she’s lost, and then… her eyes, Solas.”

She pauses, searching his face. “She reminds me…”

His chest tightens, though he can’t name why. Perhaps it’s the way Isabela—always so effortlessly unshakable—gives him a look that feels like a prayer, quiet and desperate. And beneath it lingers the end of that sentence, the part she doesn’t say, the part he refuses to hear.

Solas forces himself to glance back toward Ellana. For one bitter, shameful heartbeat, he almost hopes the sea swallows her whole. That she vanishes. That he never has to see that face again.

But she’s still there. Still with those sad eyes, the ones he saw in the library—when he still didn't realise who she was, when he had been kind to her. She's still there. Still crying. Still too thin. Still sitting like someone who’s run out of places to go.

And he hates her for making him care.

He hates that he’s not cruel enough to walk away. He hates himself when all he manages to say is “Fine,” and it’s surrender more than a decision. Isabela's smile is barely there, but it's grateful. Without another word, they make their way to the unfortunate girl slumped on the bench.

“Hey,” Isabela says, voice low and soothing, like she’s approaching a startled animal rather than a drunk woman in heels. Ellana turns slowly. The moment she spots him, her face drops as if she’s just seen a ghost—one she’d rather not be haunted by. Solas doesn’t move, and frankly, she’s not wrong to assume he’s following her. It sure feels that way.

“You again?” she snaps once the shock wears off. He offers no reply, only meets her furious glare with the kind of resigned patience one might reserve for a particularly loud toddler. It takes effort—not to rise to it, not to match her anger beat for beat. She throws her hands in the air, then turns to Isabela with a look of deep betrayal.

“No, thanks. I’ll walk home,” she declares, pushing to her feet, fingers clamped so tightly around her handbag strap it’s a wonder it doesn’t snap.

“Excellent,” Solas drawls, already turning away. His voice drips with false relief as he glances at Isabela, who is now scratching her forehead, puzzled and just a little exasperated. “Problem solved.”

Ellana tries to storm off with all the dignity of a queen in exile. Unfortunately, she’s still drunk, which rather ruins the effect. Walking in a straight line proves far too ambitious—she makes it as far as Isabela’s side before veering clumsily off course.

Isabela catches her without comment, steadying her with an easy, practiced grip. For a moment, the only sounds are the creak of the dock beneath them and the distant lap of water against the pylons. Then Isabela drapes an arm around Ellana, leaning in close to murmur something just for her.

Solas, despite himself, listens.

“Look,” Isabela says softly, “whatever he did, you’re right. He’s a prick. Arrogant. Completely useless. Smug. Condescending. The sort of man who talks like he’s doing you a favour by existing. A walking migraine. A colossal son of a—”

“Isabela,” Solas interjects, weary, as if he’s been through this litany a hundred times before.

“Oh, fine,” she huffs, rolling her eyes at him before returning her focus to Ellana. Louder, for his benefit, she adds, “But seriously. I get it. He’s awful. I wouldn’t blame you for punching him in the mouth. But he wouldn’t take advantage of you. Not in a thousand years. Honestly, I’m not even convinced there’s anything functional going on down there. And hey—bonus—he’s got a car.”

Ellana hesitates. Looks at him. He looks at her. They look at each other. Possibly, he exhales—half a sigh, half a growl. Her expression darkens. Isabela, meanwhile, looks one breath away from throttling him.

“My bicycle,” Ellana mutters at last, her gaze drifting past Isabela’s shoulder like she’s just remembered some unpaid bill. “I can’t leave it here—it’s all I’ve got. If someone steals it…”

Solas can’t tell if it’s genuine concern or just a convenient excuse. What he can see—plain as day—is the spark of an idea catching in Isabela’s mind. No doubt she’s recalling all the nights Felassan’s motorbike ended up in the bar’s storeroom when he was too drunk to ride it home.

“Don’t even think abou—”

“I’ll get the bicycle,” Isabela cuts in, smooth as silk. “Just give me the key. Promise I won’t nick it. Which one is it? We’ll stash it in the bar’s storeroom to keep it safe. You can pick it up in the morning.”

Isabela throws him a conspiratorial little smile—but conspiratorial about what, exactly? She’s the one making all the plans. She’s the criminal here.

So Solas makes it plain with nothing more than a look: You’re a criminal.

Her answering smirk says it just as clearly: Gotcha.

Ellana says nothing. She opens her mouth, then shuts it again. Her gaze drops to her feet, then flicks to Isabela, then out across the harbour—to the black water—and finally back to him.

She simply nods. Once. Defeated. No “fine.” No “thank you.” That would be far too reasonable, far too civilised. And Ellana Lavellan, of course, is neither.

“It’s a men’s mountain bike,” she mutters at last. “Salmon pink. Fairly old. A bit shabby. You’ll recognise it when you see it.”

She presses the keys into Isabela’s waiting hand, who clasps them lightly between her fingers, then tucks them into the frayed pocket of her ripped jeans. Without another word, the two women turn toward the car park, Isabela’s palm resting lightly between Ellana’s shoulder blades.

Solas lingers a moment too long, watching them go. He still can’t believe he’s managed to get himself caught up in something so absurd. After a second where the urge to leave is overwhelming… he exhales, shoves the discomfort as far down as it will go, and follows in silence.

They pass a few kids loitering behind the club—probably smoking something they shouldn’t—before slipping through the gate.

His car is already in sight. And to his dismay, so is the sheen of sweat beading along his neck. For two reasons.

First: he’s about to be alone with her. Soon.
Second: that question. The one hammering in his head. The one he doesn’t want to ask, but knows he has to.

His gaze drifts to Ellana’s shoulders. He swallows hard. Then—traitorously—his eyes slip lower. He curses himself. Forces his attention up. Fixates on the way her hair brushes the nape of her neck. Decides it’s safer just to stare at the ground.

He takes a breath, scouring his mind for the most casual, neutral, non‑creepy way to say it.

“I’ll need to know where you reside. Or at least where you… prefer to be taken. That is—to be dropped off. Deposited. At home.”

Isabela turns her head toward him, one eyebrow raised. She’s seconds away from saying something sharp and teasing, he can see it coming, but Ellana cuts her off.

“The Warrens,” she says quickly, still refusing to look at him. “I live in the Warrens.”

Solas blinks. The Warrens.

The poorest, most rundown, least secure part of Wycome. Not exactly where you’d expect to find a woman like her. He wants to ask why. He doesn’t. There’s no time to craft a question that wouldn’t sound like an accusation.

They reach the car.

Isabela and Ellana stop in front of his battered petrol‑green vehicle. When he unlocks it and moves toward the passenger side, he pretends not to notice the faint curl of disgust on Ellana’s lips. He just opens the door and gestures for her to get in.

She obeys with all the enthusiasm of someone heading for the gallows.

Solas shuts it behind her, forcing himself not to look at the bare, perfect legs now directly in his eyeline for the entire drive.

When he turns back, Isabela is there—arms folded, leaning her weight to one side, watching him with that insufferable, catlike amusement. One brow arches, a knowing smile on her lips. He shrugs, a small, dismissive gesture meant to deflect. But his shoulders are too tense, and the heat creeping up the back of his neck betrays him more thoroughly than any words could.

Solas finds himself more certain with every passing moment: Felassan has, somehow, managed to find his perfect match in her.

Her grin lingers, savoring his discomfort, then softens. Slowly, she uncrosses her arms and closes the space between them.

“Thank you, Solas,” she says.

The warmth in her voice startles him. It’s genuine, unguarded, disarmingly so. It throws him completely off balance. For once, his sharp tongue fails him. No retort, no clever deflection, no well‑placed barb comes quickly enough to meet the moment.

Not that it matters. Before he can react, she leans in and plants a loud, unapologetic kiss on his cheek. By the time he blinks, she’s already striding away, heading down the alley—no doubt to fetch Ellana’s bike—her laughter soft and low, her hair catching the night air like sails filling with wind.

Solas just stands there, stunned. He gives his head a small shake, as if that might scatter the heat creeping up the tips of his ears. He watches her until she disappears into the shadows, then exhales slowly, still not entirely sure what just happened.

Only then does he turn back toward the car. His shoulders drop.

He isn’t ready.

Not ready to sit beside her in that cramped little car. Not ready for a silent drive thick with tension and things neither of them will say aloud.

And yet, there’s more.

The man in the lounge. The two overdressed elves. The strange, choreographed hush in the club. It lingers. Leaves something coiled in his gut. A wrongness, subtle but undeniable, like a note out of tune that still reverberates in the ear.

He pulls the phone from his pocket and checks it quickly.

No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.

He casts one last glance at the club as he slips the device back into place, then finally moves toward the car. The boot pops open with a soft click. As he leans in, he catches a glimpse of tousled hair resting against the headrest of the passenger seat.

He pauses.

Her eyes are already on him, watching through the rear-view mirror, guarded and sharp.

“I’ll be right there,” he says. Then, after a moment: “I need to... change my shirt now. It reeks of alcohol, and I doubt that’s helping your stomach. If you do not mind, that is.”

The explanation feels overly specific, more than necessary, but she doesn’t say a word. Her gaze slides away, vanishing from the glass. He waits, just in case—for a protest, a sigh, some unkind remark. But nothing. Only silence. Evidently, she doesn’t mind avoiding his company for another minute.

He reaches for the spare change of clothes he always keeps stashed in the boot—a habit from long nights in smoke-choked rooms and clubs whose stench lingers long after the music dies. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms they’re alone enough.

He peels the damp shirt from his back—filthy, saturated with sweat, syrup, and who knows what else—and rolls it into a rag. He drags it across his chest, down his spine, scouring himself clean of the hours before.

He still dreams of a shower—that much is certain—but this will do, for now.

He pulls on a clean shirt: soft, dark blue, loose-fitting, sleeves brushing the middle of his forearms. It smells faintly of white musk detergent and something like home. The ruined shirt goes into a plastic bag, tied shut with three firm knots, then shoved deep into the corner of the boot. Out of sight, out of mind.

He pauses, draws a slow breath. Promises himself he’ll be pleasant—make small talk, even—so long as he avoids mentioning that awful book. He can’t risk letting her suspect who he really is.

He glances toward the passenger seat to check she’s still there, and for a fleeting second, their eyes meet again. Dark, smudged with makeup and fatigue, her gaze darts away the instant she realises he’s caught it.

Solas swallows the sigh rising in his throat.

Yes.
It’s going to be a long drive.

With a soft thud, he shuts the boot behind him.

Ellana fumbles with the seatbelt, fingers slipping uselessly over the buckle like she’s wearing oven mitts. She misses it once. Twice. Four times.

Stupid old car, reeking of rotten pine freshener. Stupid useless seatbelt that refuses to click in. Stupid uncomfortable seat that scratches at her legs. And stupid fucking idiot in the back, casually peeling off his shirt like they’re suddenly sunbathing in Antiva. She catches a glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror. Great. He’s wringing out his filthy shirt, muscles flexing with every twist like he’s auditioning for Ferelden’s Got Abs. And… the mirror goes blank for a second. Oh no. No no no. Where do you think you're going?

Ellana instinctively cranes her neck, subtle as a Nug chasing a slice of delicious Orlesian cheese. There. The bare chest returns, framed in the black plastic edges of the mirror like some avant-garde art exhibit. And apparently, she’s a very serious modern art enthusiast, because she’s now studying the piece in detail: clean lines, intentional strokes, an absolutely unnecessary level of definition. It’s obscene. It’s gratuitous. It’s... really well-lit?

She watches as he runs the shirt over his chest, down his stomach, and his whole body flexes as he reaches behind to wipe sweat, salt, alcohol from his back.

Her cheeks are burning by the time that bare skin disappears beneath an oversized, dark blue shirt that falls over him like sleepwear. And for some unfathomable reason, her eyes lock onto the way his forearms slip out from under the sleeves, and she finds herself thinking that the shirt suits him, it makes him look… soft.

Which is the exact moment she realises she’s mentally complimenting the aesthetic of a man who just stripped in a car park.

She’s still very busy wondering what the hell is wrong with her when their eyes meet through the mirror.
Those light, insufferable eyes.
Locked.
On.
Hers.

She snaps her gaze away so fast she nearly headbutts the glass, silently summoning every elvhen god she knows—including a few she’s pretty sure she made up—and prays.

Prays he didn’t notice, prays her ears aren’t glowing like lanterns, prays to Mythal even as the filthy images bloom unbidden in her mind—and hates herself for it, certain her father would call it blasphemy to trouble the All Mother with such thoughts.

Fortunately, he says nothing, and she clearly hears the boot lid closing. She barely has time to breathe a sigh of relief before the driver’s door opens—and there he is.

Ellana stubbornly keeps her gaze fixed out of the window, focusing so hard on the car parked beside them that, for a moment, she convinces herself she’s sitting in it instead—anywhere but here, anywhere but trapped with the obscene thoughts of him that keep pressing, uninvited, against the edges of her mind.

He seems to hesitate before getting in. She can feel his eyes on her, and there’s the faintest sound of a shoe scuffing against gravel. Then, tentatively: “I’m coming in now.”

What is she supposed to do with that? Is he narrating his life now? Is this how he communicates?

I’m turning on the radio now.
I’m breathing in your direction now.
I’m over-blinking like that’s normal now.

She gives him nothing. Absolute stone-faced silence, as if she’s ceased to exist. He exhales, and finally, the car gives a small lurch as he settles into the seat beside her. His seatbelt slides into place on the first try—steady and obedient—with a neat little click.

She hates him so much.

As he turns the key, the engine starts with a lazy hum—a jumble of rusted metal and tired wires that sound like they’ve been running for centuries and could really use a proper rest. She hears him settle into the seat, hesitates for a moment longer—and Ellana braces, fully expecting him to say, “I’m putting my foot on the accelerator now.”

But maybe the gods have finally remembered she exists, because he stays silent, and the car pulls away, slowly.

Ellana keeps her gaze fixed out the window as the world begins to slide past. The streetlights leave glowing trails behind them, like ghostly tails dragging through the mist hanging over the harbour. The club fades into the dark, all sharp edges and blurred lines, and at last, they’re on the road.

The engine coughs and groans as they begin the slow climb up the bridge toward the mainland. Below, the harbour shifts in silver and shadow. Ellana drops her gaze to the wake of a cargo ship slipping beneath them, drawn forward by the low, resonant blast of its foghorn—like it’s bidding them farewell. A small smile ghosts across her lips as she wonders what it might be carrying.

Drugs, probably, says her cynical side.
Gifts from another world, says her romantic one.

“…Dalish,” says the man beside her, slicing clean through her thoughts of sea-travel and smuggled wonder.

The smile vanishes instantly.

"Excuse me?"

"You are Dalish."

Ellana rolls her eyes. Does he even know what that means? Yes, the Dalish still wore Vallaslin—but so did plenty who fancied themselves heirs to the modern Evanuris, strutting around in marks they didn’t understand. A trend her own book had only made worse. It wasn’t exactly a reliable clue. But of course, he hadn’t asked; he’d announced. So fuck him.

“I wonder what gave it away?” she asks, sugar‑sweet.

She watches him in the reflection of the window—his face a blur, murky and stretched by the curved glass—yet still she sees it: that look of calculation. The subtle shifting of gears as he tries to land on a response quick and clever enough to survive her tone.

“Your sharp tongue, I suppose,” he says at last. “Or perhaps the temper.”

Ellana doesn’t even glance at him. She raises an eyebrow and emits a low, frosty hum.

“Charming. Quite the feat, insulting both me and my people in one go.”

She watches his blurred reflection shift in the window, just enough to see him glance over. His eyes, hazy and warped by the glass, blur into the lights of the bridge before they crest its highest point. A small, satisfied smile tugs at her lips. Maybe—just maybe—he’s finally been rendered speechless.

“Oh, do forgive me,” nope. Of course not. Clearly incapable of silence for more than a minute. “I suppose I should have complimented the intricate lines of your Vallaslin.”

Yeah. He's clueless.

“Well,” she abruptly lowers the window. The night air slices in, sharp and cold and blessedly free of his smug face. “I suppose you could’ve just found another way to make pointless conversation.”

“Fair point,” he concedes, raising his voice slightly to compete with the wind, but somehow still managing that maddening, know-it-all tone. “Perhaps I should’ve asked whether throwing drinks in people’s faces is a regular habit of yours.”

“Oh, no,” she snaps, her hair whipping wildly in the wind, eyes locked on the blurred railings sliding by outside. “I usually stick to casting curses.”

She finally turns, eyes narrowed, scowl sharp enough to puncture tires.

“Dalish, remember?”

He holds her gaze without blinking, then turns back to the road with a derisive snort. “Would explain my string of bad luck today.”

“I wish it explained mine,” she mutters, arms folding across her chest like she’s trying to hold in the urge to murder.

A pause. Too short to be called a truce. Then:

“Mind if I offer a theory?”

Ellana lets out a bitter laugh, ignoring the pit in her stomach as the car begins its steep descent off the bridge. “Oh, please. Let’s hear this gem of wisdom. I've been dying to hear what the shirtless-bartender-guy thinks about my life choices.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Just tosses it out, casual as anything:

“You are running from something.”

Her blood chills. “Excuse me?”

“It is evident. Practically a cry for help,” he continues, eyes still on the road, one hand leaving the wheel to gesture in the air like he’s presenting a thesis with academic precision. “The dress, for instance.”

Ellana blinks, her eyes dropping to her outfit. “What’s wrong with it?” she asks, knowing exactly what's wrong with it.

“It is… striking. Graceful, even. One might wear it to a rooftop soirée. A curated night of delicate wines and hollow conversation. Perhaps along the company of a preening Orlesian human who manages other people’s money and believes that makes him interesting.”

“…Graceful.”

“Undeniably so.”

“But inappropriate.”

He nods, just once. “Entirely. For the context.”

The silence doesn’t last long. He’s clearly too in love with the sound of his own voice.

“And let me guess. Two drinks. Maybe three. On an empty stomach, of course—the fastest path to inebriation on a budget. Efficient, yes. Also reckless.”

“You can stop now, thanks.”

But he’s not listening anymore. He’s on autopilot, maybe he thinks he’s delivering a TEDhas Talk on armchair psychology.

“Then comes the pattern: pick a fight with someone—anyone—a catalyst, just enough chaos to redirect the blame outward rather than inward.”

Ellana says nothing. Her gaze falls to her shoes. Her pulse climbs, head light as the car dips off a ramp and finds level ground again.

“And the grand finale,” he presses on, and she can feel his eyes on her now, his voice tilted upward with that smug, knowing tone. “Trying to self-soothe by getting into a stranger’s car and pretending it is not the saddest cry for intimacy this age has ever seen.”

Incredulous, Ellana snaps her head toward him, mouth opening—probably to tell him to fuck off—but no, he barrels ahead like a flood, unstoppable now.

“So, what is it?” he muses, glancing over, smirk sharpening. “Heartbreak? Loss? Some irreversible mistake that is eating you alive? Or just that slow, creeping existential dread that’s got you doing things you’ll pretend were edgy until the shame kicks in?”

The car keeps rolling, streetlights pass by in rhythm, framing that self-satisfied smile, and she can’t believe it. She can’t fucking believe it, her stomach twisting hard as the gin rises back with a vengeance.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, finally.

He glances at her, visibly short-circuited. Like someone just smacked the reboot button on his entire operating system.

She shrinks her eyes. “Pull over.”

A blink. A flash of surprise, maybe even confusion.

“I was just—”

“Pull over!”

He goes quiet. Finally.

The car slows, and after a quick glance in the mirrors, he pulls over to the side of the road. The engine idles with a sputter and a rattle, like some steam-powered relic trying to keep up. Ellana doesn’t wait. Before they’re even fully stopped, she finds the door latch and throws herself out, furious, unsteady, her body swaying from the sudden change in blood pressure and the whirl of gin in her system.

She moves far enough away to stop herself from kicking those stupid half-flat tyres, but not far enough to miss the slow dying hum as he kills the engine.

Breath ragged, Ellana plants her feet and stares out at the empty road. Just cracked tarmac and dry grass beyond the guardrail. No headlights. No noise. No one. She bites her tongue to keep from screaming into nothing.

The headlights still glow behind her as the car door opens and closes behind her, followed by slow, hesitant footsteps. For both their sakes, she stays with her back to him—rigid, silent, unmoving.

"I…" A pause. The faint sound of a shoe nudging a pebble. "I guess I got carried away."

Don’t say anything, she warns herself. Don’t hand him another match.

"Will you come back to the car?"

She can’t stop the sound that escapes her—a strange little puff of air that’s halfway between a laugh and go fuck yourself.

"I’m hitchhiking," she says, and starts walking along the edge of the road, heading into the patchy light where the headlamps stretch forward—faint beams stirring with moths and mosquitoes.

"It is not a wise idea," he calls after her, keeping just the right distance. Close enough to follow. Far enough that she’d have to take a few steps to reach him if she wanted to grab him by the throat. "Not safe."

"Ah!" she exclaims, throwing her shoulders back and lifting her chin in defiance. She walks faster, wobbling slightly. She blames the heels. She blames the potholes. She does not blame the fact that she is still half-drunk.

"I’m sure that fits perfectly into the little image you’ve already built in your head about me."

He stays quiet, yet he doesn’t leave. His footsteps stay steady behind hers, persistent, patient. The tension coils tighter and tighter inside her until frustration boils over into fury.

She stops, and she can hear the sound of his footsteps fading into stillness. Ellana turns her head slightly. She wants to tell him to leave her alone, that she’ll manage, that she doesn’t need him, but the angry reply catches in her throat, because just then, across the road, she sees it. Perched on the roof of a lonely bus shelter—one probably visited by two buses a day, if that—is her face. Again. That same synthetic smile.

Lit by a single, shivering bulb, the billboard seems to hover in the dark. Her face looms enormous and ghostly, the plastic smile stretched tight and unnatural. The bulb’s glow, stark and cold, casts her features half in shadow and half in glaring light, distorting what the camera once captured. In the corner, printed in bold, perfectly centred letters: “The Old Gods Are Coming Back.”

The longer she looks, the more wrong it feels, like the image might blink, or speak, or peel itself off the board and step toward her.

“Shit,” she breathes, shaking her head slowly. “It’s absurd.”

Behind her, she hears him inhale—a sharp, startled breath—and she knows without turning that he sees it too. She digs her thumb into the meat of her palm, punishing herself for feeling so small. The memory of the camera flashes burns in her head like migraine auras, and her lower lip trembles once, barely, before she clamps her teeth down to stop it. She snorts.

“They made me do that shoot a dozen times,” she says, her voice dry with acid. “I always looked too sad. Not pretty enough. Not sellable. So they curled my hair, brightened my eyes, airbrushed my skin, told me to look ‘haunted but gorgeous,’” she laughs, brittle and low. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

She pauses, eyes fixed on the beauty mark they’d digitally added to her cleavage in post-production. “How do you get out of something like this?” she murmurs into the silence. “How do you disappear when…” her words fade into a trembling breath.

A pause. Silence.

“I just wanted to tell a story,” she continues at last, voice breaking in the middle. “That’s all I ever wanted. It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Her throat tightens, and the next words barely make it out: “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

She drops her eyes to the road, gravel and dust blurring beneath her. The man behind her says nothing, and for a long moment, she isn’t even sure he’s still there. Maybe he left. Maybe, finally, he’s had enough. Maybe he’s abandoned her here in the middle of nowhere—and honestly, that would be fair.

“Will you get back in the car?” his voice reaches her faintly. He’s still there. But there’s no arrogance now, no teasing, just a soft whisper, barely audible beneath the insistent chorus of crickets around them. Ellana finally turns to face him.

He’s backlit now, outlined in haze and hovering dust, moths and midges dancing around him like static. The shadows sharpen him: ears too pointed, cheekbones like stone, and those eyes—those goddsamn eyes—catch the moonlight, glowing faintly, inhumanly, as if lit from inside. He doesn't speak, but the smirk is gone. Something different in his expression, and maybe… maybe there’s guilt there. No—regret? No, not quite. Hope? Kindness? She can’t tell, so she does what she always does—she pushes it away.

With a sigh, she walks past him as if he isn’t even there. She heads for the car, her whole body aching—her stomach churning, legs heavy, head spinning. All she wants is to close her eyes, all she wants is for this ridiculous night to end.

She reaches the car and shuts her eyes. The inside of her lids is worse—Dorian. Sera. Bull. Having fun. Without her.

Are they still at the club? Still dancing? Did they notice she left? A cruel, familiar voice whispers that they’re better off—that they’re laughing harder now, without her dragging the mood, without her bitterness staining everything. Maybe they didn’t even see her go.

She left them. Seven years ago. And since then? Little things to prove she hadn’t vanished entirely—stilted texts, halting phone calls that always felt like apologies in disguise. Birthday messages that sounded hollow even as she wrote them. But no coming back, not really. No fixing it.

Fuck it, she thinks, as she opens the door and sinks into the seat of that old, uncomfortable car that smells like pine and something else, something that might be the man’s cologne. The man who, just that morning, had seemed to see something in her when he handed her that book. Like he’d reached inside her chest, split her sternum, and examined what lived there—cold and raw and screaming to be named. And maybe he’d found it. Maybe he’d looked too long, too deep… and found only rot.

Maybe that’s why it had hurt so much, when he threw it in her face.

She glances out the window at him, still standing at the edge of the road, his gaze fixed on that cursed billboard. She wonders if he recognised her right away, if he’d read the book, seen the film, watched the series. Who knows.

A car passes, fast and indifferent, the wind from it whipping his shirt into the air—soft cotton twisting and snapping in a hundred frantic folds. Only when the fabric settles back against his spine does he move.

He walks to the car, gets in beside her, and starts the engine. In silence, they pull back onto the road. Ellana turns to the window, staring out into the kind of darkness so deep, she can see the stars. And she thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, somewhere out there, there’s still a place for her.

A place she can call home.

Because Wycome isn’t it anymore.

Chapter Text

Ellana is asleep.

After that strange, heavy pause in the middle of nowhere, Solas had driven in silence. Not a single word. Not even one of those passive, I’m-still-here grunts that passed for conversation on long car rides. He hadn’t looked at her either. Properly, that is. Maybe once or twice, just to make sure she was still real—and still there. But mostly, he’d kept his eyes glued to the road ahead, as though the lines painted on it might deliver him from this strange, aching night.

Out of nowhere, she’d asked him to put on some music. He’d turned on the stereo, and Nina Simone began to play. After just a few lines of Little Girl Blue, she’d gently asked him to turn it off. The silence that followed was heavier than before.

She’d fallen asleep not long after that.

He hadn’t reacted when her head came to rest against his shoulder. Kept his face neutral, his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road. He'd told himself to focus. Focus on the white lines and the occasional fennec darting across the road. Focus on not reading too much into the way her breath warmed his sleeve, the way her lips parted just so in sleep.

Eventually, the city had begun to reassemble itself around them—streetlights blinking into view, lonely crosswalks, shuttered shops and discarded takeaway wrappers drifting across the pavement. The Saturday night crowd had thinned to its dregs: the insomniacs, the lovers, the too-late and the too-drunk.

Ellana is asleep, and they’ve arrived outside her home. Solas turned the engine off some time ago.

He hasn’t moved since.

Hands rest uselessly in his lap, as if he doesn't quite know what to do with them. Or himself. He stares straight ahead, at nothing in particular—at a crooked rubbish bin, at a streetlamp that glows twice before holding steady, at a moth battering its wings against the glass. And when his eyes betray him—again—and steal another glance at her face softened by dreams, he wonders how long it’s been since she last allowed herself a sleep that deep.

It’s 3:05 in the morning. But he finds himself thinking he doesn’t want to wake her.

She looks... so tired. Exhausted. And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he’d seen that strange, unbearable fragility in her. A softness that cracked right through the mask. And he hated it. He hated seeing it.

At the bookshop, when she’d been just a stranger, it had been easier. On the roadside, when he knew who she was, it had been impossible. Unbearable.

Because the image of her had been so easy to resent. So easy to reduce.

She’d been the perfect scapegoat. The polished, pretty face he could pin his anger on. The anger that had been gnawing at him for years, ever since his life—his story—had been rewritten, repackaged, and sold with a glossy cover and a tagline. His pain, his mistakes, his truth, turned into pop culture and coffee shop discussions.

And she had done it.

So of course he had built her up in his mind—brick by brick, flaw by flaw. Entitled. Arrogant. Shallow. A woman who mistook her own voice for insight, who scribbled out tragedies for a living and thought that made her brave.

But then—then.

That version of her, so carefully constructed, so satisfyingly loathed—it hadn’t held. It slipped. Fractured. And he couldn’t tell if it was because she’d changed, or if he’d been wrong from the start.

Because Ellana Lavellan, the literary darling, the genius, the walking headline, was also… this.

This woman beside him now. Small and quiet, huddled in her sleep, breath fogging the window, a furrow still etched between her brows like she couldn’t stop worrying even in dreams. She had cursed her own reflection in front of him. Torn into it like she’d been waiting to snap. And it had stunned him—because he knew that rage. He’d lived in that rage.

And in that instant—horribly, unavoidably—he’d thought he recognised her. Or maybe he only wanted to. Maybe he wasn’t seeing her at all. Maybe all he was seeing was himself. But she was there, undeniably: not the woman from the magazines, or the book signings, or the late-night interviews, or the stage-lit panels. She was the one who couldn’t bear to look at herself. The one who had been fighting the same thing he had, quietly, bitterly, for who knows how many years.

He didn't know whether to hate her more for it… or less.

In the car, when he’d hurled accusations—damn, he had truly tried to make conversation, but she, oh, she had this uncanny way of driving him mad—and he had let loose all his anger, all his tension, throwing barbs at her as though he truly knew her. He just wanted to have a bit of fun. Just a bit, he told himself. He’d wanted to win. He always wanted to win. And this was the only game he knew how to play. Dissect people. Expose their nerves. Turn the screws until they cracked. That was how he survived. That was how he kept the cause alive.

So he'd played, humiliated her and asked what she was running from.

Spirits, what a fucking fool.

When she got out of the car and showed him the very reason she was running, he had stood there, silent, like an idiot. Mouth shut. Nothing clever to say. Only shame.

Congratulations, Solas. You won your stupid little game. And it hurt like a punch in the guts.

Ellana stirs beside him, curling even smaller into the seat like she’s trying to vanish into the upholstery. Solas watches her for a moment, silent. He needs to wake her. He should wake her.

The club’s still waiting. The shady types he’d seen moving in the lounge earlier haven’t left his mind. And Void only knows what nonsense Felassan’s stirring up in his absence. Yes. He needs to go. He needs to get back.

He reaches out toward her, hesitates. Should he say her name? She knows he knows. He’s pretty sure she knows that he knows she knows—ugh. What a mess.

Oh, fenedhis.

“Ellana,” he whispers. When she shows no sign of stirring from whatever dream is still cradling her, he repeats, a little louder, “Ellana,” and gently brushes his fingers along her shoulder. Her skin is so warm. She shifts, blinking slowly, batting her lashes a few times. And then she stretches—long and languid, like she’s sprawled across silk sheets and not the stiff leather seat of his beat-up car. She makes a sound—small, content, and entirely unconscious of how it curls around his spine like papier-mâché.

Solas swallows hard. Her eyes flutter open properly now, unfocused, scanning the window, the dashboard, and finally settling on him. And she looks… disappointed. Not startled, not embarrassed. Just quietly, vaguely disappointed—like she’d been expecting someone else. Something else. And—well—he's disappointed that she's disappointed. Which is an entire new level of pathetic he hadn’t prepared himself for.

“I passed out,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

He huffs a soft laugh before he can help it. “You fell asleep.”

“Oh.” She blinks again. Everything she does is slowed down, softened by sleep. "Sorry.”

“Sorry?” He raises an eyebrow, amused in spite of himself.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to pass out in your car.”

“Asleep,” he corrects gently. “You were tired. It’s fine.”

She lifts a hand, runs it through her tangled hair—it catches the faint glow of the streetlamps, all messy and radiant—and for a second it looks like she’s going to sit up, to fumble for the door handle and mumble her goodbyes. But then a little huff, a quiet sigh, and her head tips back against the seat. Her legs apparently are not up to the task of functioning just yet. Solas watches her, and realises this isn’t where she belongs. Not in his car, not in his life, not tangled up with him in any way.

He really needs to go. Any minute now.

Solas remains silent, dazed. He drags the edge of his nail along the steering wheel stitching, one careful loop after another.

“So… I should probably—” she begins.

“—go. Yes,” he agrees, voice hoarse.

They stare at each other. Just for a moment. He clears his throat. She scratches her head. It’s the universal script for awkward endings. Finally, she turns toward the door and places her hand on the handle. Solas braces himself—expects her to vanish without another word, maybe throw one last well-deserved “go fuck yourself” over her shoulder and disappear from his life, as she absolutely should.

But she pauses. Her body goes still. Tense, suddenly, like she’s remembered something dreadful.

“My…” she starts, then sighs heavily, reluctant. She turns to him, mortified. “My bike. You have it, don’t you?”

Solas blinks. And in that moment of cold realisation—tinged, spirits help him, with the faintest flicker of glee he smothers immediately—he knows: yes. He has her bike.

“Ah,” he says grimly. “Right.”

"I'll swing by the club and pick it up tomorrow."

"We're closed tomorrow."

"Oh. How about Monday?"

"Also closed."

"...Right."

She seems to be running through all the fastest, least awkward and most painless options in her head. When that fails, she glances at him, defeated. “So... how?”

He does the grown-up thing. The responsible, agonising thing.

“I’ll give you my number,” he says. It sounds like a death knell.

She stares at him like he’s offered her a root canal. “Okay,” she mutters, “but my phone’s dead. I’ll give you mine.”

He nods, pulling out his phone—his personal one, not the work one. A basic thing Felassan bullied him into buying. No frills. Just texts, calls, horrible group chats. She recites her number like it’s classified information being wrested out under duress. He types it in, checks it, hesitates—then, with her grim, royal nod of permission, hits call. Voicemail, of course. But it’s done. Sterile. Cordial. Utterly regrettable.

“Goodbye, then,” she says flatly.

When she turns again and opens the door, he thinks—relieved—that the evening is over.

“I’m Solas, by the way,” he says inexplicably. She pauses mid-step and slowly, slowly turns back to look at him like he’s just announced he’s Idiocy made flesh, and perhaps he did. There’s a beat of silence so pregnant it’s overdue.

He clears his throat. “For the contact,” he says, feebly. “Solas. My name.”

She studies him. Blinks once. Then shuts the door with deliberate slowness and gives him a smile, a devastatingly annoying one, full of mischief.

“Oh. I was going to save you as Asshole.” She shrugs. “But Solas works. Pride. Suits you.”

He exhales through a snort. She’s not wrong. Not after tonight.

“I was an asshole.”

“Yep.”

“A completely unforgivable one.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“I don’t know you,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have judged.”

She shrugs, casual, but the edge of it cuts clean. “I suppose you’ve read my book. Maybe you thought that meant you did.”

It catches him off guard. Leaves him reeling, the sting of that defeat lingering. He swallows. Looks away. After a second, with the desperation of a man grasping for a handhold, he blurts, “Did you read the book I recommended you?”

She hesitates.

“I started it.”

He smiles. Small. Surprised by his own pleasure.

“Then you know something about me, too,” he says. “It is my favourite book.”

“Oh.” It’s surprised—eyebrows raised and everything. A small, unguarded sound. Then comes the second “Oh”—lower, drawn from somewhere deeper in her chest. Like she’s working something out in real time, connecting dots he can’t see. Her eyes flick away, her brow pulls ever so slightly inward, and—damn it—there it is again. That flash of disappointment. Maybe she hates the book he gave her.

Or maybe—more likely—he’s just shot himself squarely in the foot by admitting that he gave her his favourite book in the first place, like some lovesick university student trying to impress a woman who's already won awards. Which is ridiculous. He doesn’t need to impress her. He doesn’t care what she thinks. It’s not like he wants her to find him likeable or charming or—even worse—interesting.

“…Are you enjoying it?” he asks anyway, because apparently he does want to know. Stupidly.

There’s a pause, a long one, and he could swear he hears her hold her breath. Their eyes meet. And for the first time, he thinks he sees her. The Ellana beneath the fame. Bathed in the soft, bleeding light of Wycome's night—moonlight filtering through the window, turning her hair into molten silver, softening the sharp lines of her face. And she’s beautiful. Real… or close enough that he can’t tell the difference.

She parts her lips—and so does he.

He wants to tell her not to answer. That it doesn’t matter. That she can just go, that it’s late, and she doesn’t owe him anything. That if she says yes, it’ll be worse somehow.

But neither of them gets the chance to say anything.

A knock against the glass. Then another—louder, sharper. Two blinding lights flood the windows.

They both jump, startled. Solas shifts to look towards the sudden noise coming from outside the car. He squints into the harsh glare, trying to make sense of the figure behind the torch now aimed directly at his face. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes, peering through splayed fingers as the light stabs into his retinas, leaving phantom stars dancing across his vision.

For a moment, all he can see is white. Then the beam dips, reluctantly.

Beyond the bloom of light, Solas makes out a face—stone-serious, pale, and cold. The man’s eyes, hard as ice, lock directly onto his.

He turns. Ellana sits beside him, confused. Instinctively, she reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder, like she needs something to hold on to. Another figure stands outside her window, wearing the same unyielding expression. It’s only when the man gestures for her to lower it that Solas notices the cap: black and crimson.

Police.

Ellana frowns, clearly puzzled. She glances at Solas, her hand still on his shoulder, and, perhaps without meaning to, her grip tightens slightly. She’s afraid. Solas looks at her in silence, serious. He glances again at the officer now staring directly at her, then meets her eyes once more. Without speaking—but with an expression that quietly says don’t worry—he gives her a small nod. She hesitates, then rolls the window down with visible reluctance.

“Are you all right, miss?”

Before either of them can respond, the officer beside Solas strikes his window with the base of his torch again—hard. The sudden jolt rattles through the car. Ellana’s hand slips from his shoulder, and Solas flinches. He lowers the glass, keeping his voice calm despite the rising tension.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“Step out of the vehicle, sir.”

The man’s tone is clipped, his face tight, jaw clenched, no room for misunderstanding. Solas begins to speak, to ask why, but then Ellana’s voice cuts in beside him.

“What do you want?” she snaps to the policeman beside her, irritated now. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

The officer’s reply is immediate, rehearsed. “Miss, please step out of the car.”

She leans forward, incredulous. “Why? This is public property—”

“You need to come with me.”

“No,” she says, louder now, voice hardening. “You have no right to—”

The door bursts open mid-sentence. Light floods in. An arm shoots through the gap and clamps around her arm tight. She recoils instinctively, twisting hard, trying to wrench free, but the grip doesn’t loosen. Fingers dig into her skin.

“Hey! Let her go!” Solas barks, reaching toward her without thinking. But before his fingers can even brush her skin, he feels it—cold air on the back of his neck. His own door is open. He doesn’t have time to turn.

“Hands where I can see them!” the officer behind him roars.

Solas freezes. Ellana’s wide, terrified eyes are locked on something behind his shoulder—and that’s all it takes. The jolt in his spine. The flicker of fear he hasn’t felt in years.

“Stay still! Hands in the air where I can see them!”

He turns slowly, hands raised as high as the cramped cabin allows, and finds himself staring straight down the barrel of a gun. It’s steady, no tremor, no hesitation. Not a rookie. This one’s fired before.

Shit.

“There must be a mistake,” he tries, carefully, his voice low and calm, palms lifted beside his ears. “We are not—”

“Out. Now.”

Behind him, he hears Ellana being dragged from the car. Her voice sharpens, rising in panic. “You can’t do this!” she shouts—and she’s fighting, he can hear it in the frantic shuffle of her heels against the asphalt, the slap of skin on metal as she braces against the door, the scrape of her nails catching something—someone—before being yanked back again.

Solas winces. He can feel it in his chest. The one manhandling her: he’s the rookie.

He knows it by sound alone. The breathless tension under each yelled order, the jittery rhythm of his movements, the unpractised struggle of someone out of their depth. The scraped stammer of his boots, the fumbling grip, the way he keeps repeating “Stay still!”—too high-pitched, too panicked. Too afraid.

Shit, no.
Let it be me instead.

There’s nothing more dangerous than a frightened novice with a loaded weapon.

But it’s the fear in Ellana’s voice—raw and unraveling, as she twists and cries, “No, no, no!”—that makes the decision for him. He looks at the officer aiming at him, sees no room to reason, so he gives the smallest of nods. A signal. A surrender. A plea. He’ll cooperate. Then he moves. Slow, careful, every gesture an exercise in de-escalation. Hands still raised, body slow, controlled. He begins to step out of the car.

“It’s okay,” he says, loud enough for Ellana to hear. “Just do what they say.”

His feet hit the pavement. The night is colder than he expected.

“It will be all right,” he continues, and he hears Ellana’s breathing shift; still shaky, but less ragged. Her resistance fading, just slightly. Enough to make him think she’s listening.

And then—

A fist grabs his collar.
He’s wrenched around.
Slammed hard against the side of the car.

Pain bursts across his chest and jaw. Metal against bone. The breath leaves his lungs in a single, stunned grunt.

Solas grits his teeth and swallows the groan threatening to rise as the officer wrenches one arm behind his back. The cold metal of the gun brushes the nape of his neck, so icy it stings, the touch horribly familiar. He squeezes his eyes shut until it hurts.

Shit.

“Don’t move,” the man hisses.

But all he can think about is he can’t see Ellana anymore. Where—

His eyes fly open, and though he can’t move, cheek and body crushed against the car, he catches sight of her. That bastard is dragging her away. She’s still fighting, kicking, screaming, “Leave him alone! He hasn’t done anything!”, her voice cracks with fury and she twists, claws, stumbles—trying to get back to him.

Terror explodes in Solas’s chest.
Don’t hurt her.
Please, don’t hurt her.

He tries to move, to wrench free, but the officer slams his legs into the back of Solas’s knees, pinning him hard against the metal. He watches her, strains to speak, yet no sound comes, his lungs full of gravel and fear.

So he uses his eyes instead: Stay calm. Please. Stay calm. It’s going to be all right.

But Ellana doesn't yield.

The rookie’s grip slips—her elbow lands somewhere, hard—and for a second she almost breaks free. But then he grabs her by the hair, yanks her back. She cries out—sharp, guttural—before he clamps a hand over her mouth, silencing her.

Solas sees her eyes go wide in pain. Sees the flash of her legs scrambling as the officer drags her backwards. Her shoulder knocks the wall. She twists again, reaching—always reaching for him.

Solas wants to scream.

He wants to lunge, to tear himself free, to rip the rookie’s hands off her with such force they’d never touch another soul again, to slam him against the concrete until his skull cracks and his eyes beg for mercy, to shield her with his own body, he wants to roar Leave her alone! until the whole street shakes with it, because no one deserves such a treatment—but what comes out is only a strangled, animal sound through clenched teeth, as the weight behind him presses harder, crushing him against the steel. He can't do anything.

No. No. No.

She’s dragged farther, maybe she’s crying now—he can’t tell—and he’s useless, helpless, useless, useless—just like that night, all those years ago—he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t—

Their eyes lock. Her gaze—terrified, frantic. His—burning, furious. They don’t look away, not even when the rookie yanks her around the corner… and she vanishes. Gone with a muffled scream.

Solas’s heart thunders, wild, distraught, pounding inside the cage of his ribs like it’s trying to break out and follow her. Behind him, the officer starts rifling through his pockets. Front and back. Mechanical. Cold. He only stops when he finds Solas’s wallet and yanks it free.

Then comes the second arm.

The cuffs.

The metal clamps down tight—too tight. It bites into his skin with the familiar click of finality.

“Stay still,” the officer repeats, his breath hot and sour against his cheek. Solas stares at the alley where Ellana vanished. It's empty now. Silent. Panic claws at his throat, scraping up his spine with filthy nails. Because he knows. He knows exactly what can happen. If she speaks too loud. If her eyes don’t drop fast enough. If she looks too proud.

He knows.

What they do when no one's watching. What they say to each other, laughing in the locker room afterward. What they think someone like her deserves.

A Dalish. A woman. Alone. Pretty. Loud. Dressed like she’s asking for something they think they have the right to take. Bare skin and bright mouth and no papers in her pocket. Too confident. Too much.

They could say she seduced them.
They could say she was hysterical.
They could say they feared for their safety.

They could say nothing at all.

He’s heard this story a thousand times, hasn’t he?

A "resisting suspect." A scraped knee turning into a shattered ribcage. A bruised wrist turning into an unmarked grave.

And then silence.

An officer acquitted because in the end she was just a whore, a Dalish, a fucking nomad with no roots, no matter how many of her fans flooded the precinct lobby with candles and pictures and questions no one wants to answer.

Solas swallows bile, thick and bitter, his stomach twisting like it’s trying to expel something rotten. His vision blurs, fingers twitch, clawing at nothing, as if some part of him is still trying to fight.

He can picture it—too vividly. The way she would fight, hard and furious, teeth bared, until they outnumber her. Until she’s just another one.

He blinks hard. The burning won’t stop. The air smells like asphalt and fear and violence. It clings to his skin. He wants to tear it off.

“We’ve got the girl,” the officer mutters into his radio.

A beep.
Sharp. Piercing.

Solas’s whole body goes still.

“The missing girl,” the man continues. “Elf. Vallaslin. Green dress. She's upset. Maybe she's been drugged.”

The missing girl?

“She was in a car with a man. Elf too. Not Dalish. Bald.”

Solas blinks.

A crackle of static, from the radio, then: “Identify him.”

“I’ve got his ID,” the officer replies. And that’s when—still bent over the hood, wrists crushed in metal—Solas starts putting the pieces together.

“Officer,” he says, ignoring the sharp ache in his jaw, still throbbing from the earlier blow, “there’s been a misunderstanding—”

“Quiet,” the officer snaps, flipping open Solas’s wallet, torch beam slicing across the contents.

What a fucking night, Solas thinks, glancing again toward the alley where Ellana vanished. He still can’t see her, but his mind races ahead, precise, deadly clear.

A dry laugh builds in his chest.

“You’re making a serious mistake,” he says, calm, even. Too calm. “Go on. Check the ID.”

No response.

“Check the ID,” he repeats, this time with a slight tilt of his voice, almost mocking. "The last one. All the way in the back slot. Dig it out.” The torch swings back, blinding him again, but Solas just keeps smiling. Another laugh breaks from his throat—low, harsh, full of contempt.

“Check the ID and call your superior, you idiot.”

There’s a sharp kick to his ribs. Pain flares white-hot, but he swallows it down, breathing through clenched teeth. The smirk doesn’t fade. In fact, it grows.

“Call your boss,” he says again, voice low, deliberate, each word honed to a blade’s edge. “And tell him exactly who the fuck you’ve just detained. Thinking he was a kidnapper. Or a rapist. Or whatever other lazy, ugly cliché helped you justify putting your hands on her.”

The officer hesitates. He steps away, just far enough that Solas can no longer make out the radio's reply, just the low crackle of static curling around clipped words.

His breathing is fast now, shallow, a metallic tang on his tongue. Saliva mixed with a thin line of blood drips from the corner of his mouth. That bastard must’ve split his gum when he slammed him against the car.

And Solas is memorising everything. The cadence of the officer’s voice; the tightness of the cuffs; the exact time they arrived; the glint of the torchlight; the angle of that smug little jaw.

Every detail.

He savors it—because he knows what comes next. He’ll get that name, he’ll take it down, mark it, ruin it, finished, done, over, fucking dead. He’ll peel every scrap of authority off that man like flesh from bone and leave nothing but a stain where his power used to be.

And the other one? The rookie? The one who put his hands on her? Who grabbed her hair? Who silenced her with a hand clamped over her mouth like she was a threat and not a victim?

That one will burn.

Solas doesn’t even need to check for bruises on her skin. He knows they’re there. He knows how fragile wrists can be, how scalp pain lingers long after the hand is gone. He knows what terror looks like in someone’s eyes, and Ellana’s eyes—spirits, her eyes—

Fuck.

She was supposed to be the missing girl. The victim.

Solas closes his eyes for half a second, just long enough to swallow the rage clawing its way up his throat. Then opens them again, and tilts his head as much as the position allows. Yes, there it is. That sharp taste again. Blood. Anticipation.

He can already see it: that rookie, a career gutted and left rotting, every ambition choked out before it draws breath. He’ll make sure of it. No promotions, no future, no respect—just a hollow shell in a uniform, spending decades filing reports nobody reads, hated by everyone above and beneath him. He’ll visit him to remind him why, to watch the light die in that man’s eyes slowly, year by year, as the walls of his meaningless little world close in.

And that will be mercy compared to what Solas really wants to do.

“He’s cuffed, sir,” comes the voice of the officer behind him, distant now, and far less confident than before. “No, I didn’t—”

Silence. Then the radio crackles, voices indistinct—agitated, and clearly not pleased.

“Yes, sir.”

Good, Solas thinks, catching the tremor bleeding into the man’s voice.
That’s it. Start apologising.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

There it is.
Go on.

“No, sir. I had no idea—”

And now take these fucking handcuffs off me, you asshole.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

The radio clicks off.

A beat of stillness, the slow shuffle of hesitant footsteps on asphalt. A sigh. The officer approaches at last—meek, reluctant—and reaches for Solas’s wrists with such a gentleness it only sharpens the fury blooming in Solas’s chest. Too fucking late, you ugly bastard.

And not long after—freedom. The metal clicks open.

Solas rises from the car, slowly, calm. He rubs his right wrist with his left. Then the left with the right. Rolls his shoulders. Adjusts his shirt. Wipes the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. Only when the silence thickens—so tense he can hear the officer’s breathing hitch—only then does he lift his gaze, and pins it on him. He says nothing. He waits.

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” the man stammers, eyes glued to the tips of his boots. “I had no idea…”

“Your name, officer?” Solas asks, curt and cold, holding out an open palm.

The man hands him the wallet, still refusing to meet his gaze. “Jory.”

“Jory…?”

“…Serwood.”

Solas nods, sliding the wallet back into his pocket.

“Very well, Officer Serwood,” he says, his voice composed and cutting. “I trust you understand the severity of this unfortunate situation—and the consequences that will, inevitably, follow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now kindly call your colleague,” Solas adds, not blinking, “and explain that there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Yes, sir.” Serwood fumbles for his radio again, fingers shaking.

“Oh—and Officer Serwood. Jory.”

The man freezes. Their eyes meet, finally. Solas smiles.

“I sincerely hope, for the sake of your career—and your safety—that not a single trace of harm can be found on the woman who was with me.”

Serwood nearly stumbles backward, pale and wide-eyed. “I’ll call right away, sir.”

“For the last time,” Ellana says, her voice just a bit too loud, clearly exasperated. “I wasn’t kidnapped. I felt unwell, and the man you're arresting was taking me home.”

She’s sitting on a concrete step, legs drawn tightly together, goosebumps blooming along her skin as the night air turns sharper, colder. The damned officer looms above her with a notebook he hasn’t written a single thing in. He just stares, as if he's waiting for her to slip up. Waiting to pounce.

“You’re clearly distressed,” he says eventually. She buries her face in her hands, grabbing a few strands of hair from her forehead and pulling so hard she nearly rips them out. She inhales, sharp and ragged, then lifts her head. Whatever he sees in her face makes him hesitate, just half a step, but it’s enough. Her anger flares.

“Maybe that’s because you’re clearly incompetent. Don’t you think?” she snaps, voice cutting clean through the night air. “You dragged me off like you thought I was armed! And your colleague, with a gun aimed at my friend’s head—”

She shoots to her feet, fists clenched, her rage buoying her just long enough to get the words out.

“I’m filing a complaint. Against all of you.”

The officer stares at her for a long moment. Then he snorts, derisive and mocking. The sound makes her stomach twist, but it’s the look that follows that turns her blood to ice.

His gaze drags over her—slow. Head to toe, eyes crawling across every inch of her, covered or not, as if her clothes are no more protection than a sheet of fog. His gaze settles on her legs, then lingers. A shiver lances up her spine. She feels peeled back. Exposed. Stupid. Idiot, she thinks bitterly, glancing around.

Where—?

She stretches her neck, heart hammering, and peers around the corner where Solas is probably still cuffed to the car, still pinned, still has a gun pointed at his head. But she can't see him, she can't hear him. She's alone.

Her breath catches.

She feels small. Helpless. Exactly the way she’d felt when this bastard grabbed her wrist and squeezed until her eyes stung with tears.

“And who exactly,” the officer drawls, stepping forward, voice oozing with contempt, “are you planning to file this complaint with?”

He smiles, slow, no humour in it. Just teeth and threat. Her spine hits the wall. Hard. He doesn’t touch her, he doesn’t have to.

“Officer Blythe.”

She whirls around, heart in her throat, because she knows that voice. Even before the figure steps out of the shadows.

Tall, wearing a loose, soft shirt that hangs gently over his chest, long pointed ears catching the light, hands tucked casually into his pockets, shoulders relaxed as if he’d just come back from a stroll in the park.

When he gets close enough for the lamplight to brush his face, Ellana sees those pale, clear eyes looking straight at her. Just like before, they tell her one simple thing: it’s going to be all right.

He smiles, just for her, gentle and kind, yet fleeting. As his gaze shifts to the officer, his expression turns to ice. Lethal.

“Isn’t it against protocol to leave your radio in the patrol car?” he asks, voice calm but sharp.

He steps close enough to tower over the man by at least a head. The human stares up at him as if he’s just seen a ghost. Then, like a jolt of lightning, he suddenly snaps to, patting his belt for the radio that—oops—isn’t there.

“It would be rather unfortunate if this made it into the operation report,” Solas continues, is hands now calmly clasped behind his back, posture deceptively casual.

Officer Blythe looks on the verge of protesting—or worse, reaching for his weapon—because it’s obvious he doesn’t understand. And truth be told, neither does Ellana. How can Solas be free? So composed, so utterly at ease, as if none of this had ever happened?

Before Blythe can make a fatal mistake, the officer who cuffed Solas appears behind him, stepping in fast. He grabs him firmly by the arm and fixes him with a look, so sharp and loaded that it only adds to Ellana’s confusion.

“We apologise,” he says through clenched teeth. “It was a mistake.”

“But the suspect—the girl—”

“We apologise, Daveth,” the senior officer repeats, and Ellana notices the way his grip on the younger man’s arm tightens slightly. “It was a terrible misunderstanding. You’re both free to go.”

Ellana watches as Solas exhales, visibly relieved. And then—unexpectedly—he extends a hand toward the officers.

The older one takes it without hesitation, though Solas must have quite the grip, Ellana thinks, because she hears a faint, strangled grunt and notices the man’s fingers tremble slightly as he pulls away.

Then it’s the younger officer’s turn. Still muddled, still slow to catch on, his gaze flickers a few too many times between Solas and his colleague before he finally, and reluctantly, reaches out to shake his hand.

“So—oh!—rry.”

“No trouble at all,” Solas says smoothly, not missing a beat. His grip tightens. “I’m sure it’s been a long, tiring night for you both, officers.” He doesn’t release the handshake until the younger man’s face turns a deep shade of crimson.

“Wycome’s a dangerous city. Unsavoury types. Violence. Corruption.”
He lingers on the last word, as if it leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

“Thank you for your service. I assure you—I won’t soon forget your faces. Or your names. Thank you for all that you do.”

He smiles, at last. Perfectly polite, perfectly poised. And Ellana, still pressed against the wall, can only watch in silence.

When the two officers mutter something like “just doing our duty, sir” and begin to take their leave, Solas tracks them with his eyes until they’re nearly out of sight around the corner.

“Ah.” He halts them with a single, soft syllable. “Officer Blythe. I believe you owe the lady an apology.”

He gestures toward Ellana with a graceful sweep of the arm. But his gaze stays fixed on the younger man.

Blythe turns slowly. He looks as though the very idea is physically painful, like it scalds his skin. But after a long pause, he removes his cap and turns to face her.
Ellana tries not to notice how young his face looks now, with that close-cropped hair and those uneasy eyes.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he says, voice low and thin. “Please forgive me.”

Ellana stares at him for a moment. She wants to scream. To tell him he’s filth. That he hurt her. That she can still feel his hands in her hair, still taste the foulness of his fingers against her lips. But when she glances at Solas—calm, serene, smiling at her—she bites her tongue.

She says nothing. Just nods.

A second later, the two officers disappear around the corner.

Her legs start to tremble so badly she can barely stand. She lets her weight fall back, spine folding into itself as she slumps against the cold wall behind her. Solas is in front of her in an instant. She looks at him, confused, lost—lips parted, brows drawn together.

“Solas, how...?”

But he doesn’t let her finish. He steps close, and "Are you alright?” he asks, voice low and serious now. His eyes, so calm moments ago, suddenly full of worry. “Did he hurt you?”

When she doesn’t answer—at least not right away—he lowers his gaze to her hands. Slowly, gently, he takes one in his, lifting it as if it might shatter from the touch.

His eyes search her fingers, her knuckles, her palm looking for something she doesn’t understand. Until he finds it. A mark. A red line, angry and sharp, curling like a brand around her wrist, like fire pressed into skin. She blinks. Oh. She didn’t even notice it was there.

His thumb brushes the bruise with such careful kindness that it isn’t the injury that stings anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the raw sincerity in his voice tightens her throat. He means it. Completely.

“I shouldn’t have let you sleep in the car.” He shakes his head, expression hardening, jaw tight now as his words grind between his teeth. “I should’ve woken you, and maybe…”

“No—what are you talking about?” she cuts in, puzzled. Instinctively, her free hand comes to rest over his, the one still gently caressing her wrist. “It wasn’t your fault. You were helping me.”

Something that feels dangerously close to tenderness blooms violently in her chest. Because oh, he’s still so tense, still looking at that mark like it’s a wound he put there himself. She wants to take his face in her hands, smooth the lines from his forehead, press her lips to that frown and just breathe.

Don’t be weird, she scolds herself, fighting the urge down hard.

When his eyes finally meet hers again, everything comes flooding back. The way they’d slammed him against the car. The threats. The fear.

“You—how are you?” she stammers, her voice cracking. “The gun, the—fuck, I thought—”

He shakes his head. “It's fine,” he says softly.

But Ellana is once again a bundle of nerves, anxiety slithering back over her skin—cold and creeping. She takes a step back, hand slipping from his delicate fingers.

“I think my friends must’ve called the police when I didn’t come back,” she rambles, gaze fixed on the cracked concrete beneath her feet. “My phone’s dead, they probably tried to call me, and—oh gods, I’m sorry, I…”

“Ellana. Look at me.”

Her eyes flicker to him, unwilling at first, then drawn. They dart across his face, and in return, he offers her a small smile. Her gaze catches on the faint dimple that appears in his cheek when he does that. So close to that angry red mark along his jaw.

Her throat tightens. “How… how did you…? That man, he nearly—he was about to…”

Solas tilts his head, considering his words before he speaks. “He checked the car. The documents. Asked me a few questions.” Tone even, he doesn't stop. “I explained the situation. He saw I was clean. And that the suspect description didn’t match.”

A beat. Then his mouth quirks a little higher. “Flowing blonde hair. Yes—definitely not me.”

Ellana blinks, eyes on that smooth, shaved head catching the harsh yellow light of the streetlamp. She shakes her head.

“But they looked… almost afraid.”

The smile fades. His brows draw together. He exhales through his nose. “That’s because they realised their mistake.” A pause. His gaze flickers briefly to the ground. “I… leaned into it. A little.”

That makes her tilt her head. But his next words are already coming.

“You deserved at least an apology. It was the least they could do, after…”

He trails off. His jaw works like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. The silence stretches, and then, softer:

“I’m sorry you had to go through this. They treated you like a criminal.” He meets her eyes again. “If you want to file a complaint, I’ll testify for you.”

Ellana feels her thoughts moving in slow motion. Maybe it’s the adrenaline draining from her body all at once. Maybe it’s the last of the alcohol finally burning away. Maybe it’s clarity, creeping back in inch by inch. Or maybe it’s just the jet lag, finally catching up with her.

She thinks about the way he looks at her. How strange it is.
She thinks about those freckles across his nose. Scattered.
She thinks about his mouth. His lips are so full.
She thinks about his hand. It was warm against hers.

Ellana exhales sharply and punishes herself with a soft knock of her head against the wall behind her.

“I just want to go to sleep now.” Her voice comes out small. She doesn’t add anything else, and he seems to have nothing more to say either.

They simply start walking towards her building.

It’s a short walk, but it feels like trudging through water. Each step is heavy, her legs leaden with exhaustion, her body sluggish and uncooperative. They move side by side, in the pale wash of a sky that might be the first hint of dawn, or maybe only the cold light of a high, distant moon. Ellana can’t tell. She doesn’t know what time it is. She doesn’t know how long she was asleep in that car, or how long her struggle lasted, or how long he stood there, pinned against cold metal with a gun pressed to his head.

She can still feel those hands on her. Still feel her scalp burning, those filthy eyes crawling up her legs. And the only thing she can think is that maybe she deserved it. For being stupid enough to dress like some desperate slut out for a fuck, to get drunk, to fall asleep in a stranger’s car.

She can still feel those hands on her.

She closes her eyes for a moment, lets herself drift somewhere else—home, in her bed, beneath soft sheets, her head sinking into a pillow that smells faintly of her shampoo.

Then they’re there. There’s a beat of awkwardness as she points out the front door to her building and he stops beside her.

“This is… I live here.”

He nods. She doesn’t move. They stand there, staring at their shoes like the answers might be written in the dirt. His feet scuffs against the concrete, a quiet, nervous scrape, and she wonders if he realizes he’s doing it.

“So… thanks for the ride,” she says finally. Her voice sounds too small for the space between them.

“Thank you for… the company,” he says after a moment. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hands buried in his pockets.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Their shoes become deeply fascinating.

“Well, then,” he says, clearing his throat. The sound is too loud, too sharp in the night.

Ellana forces a crooked little smile, the kind that feels rehearsed. Her fingers fumble through her bag, clinking the keys together, as if making noise can keep her from shaking. She climbs the two steps to the door. He doesn’t follow, of course.

She tries not to notice the tremor in her hand as she slides the key into the lock, the harsh twist of metal, the old door creaking open like it doesn’t want to. Her brain shouts: Go. Upstairs. Don’t look back. Just go.

But she thinks of that question. That book. His favourite. Her mind begs her: end this night, let me rest. And still she turns, slow, reluctant.

He’s still there. Hands still in his pockets. Shoulders tense like he’s bracing for something. His head tilts almost imperceptibly when she looks back—like part of him hoped she wouldn’t.

Her lips part. She wants to tell him: That book breaks me. It’s brutal and honest and it feels like staring into a mirror I didn’t want to look into. But it’s beautiful. I love it.

Instead, what comes out is a thin, shaky, “See you.”

He hesitates. She watches the deliberate swallow, the way his throat bobs before his voice comes, soft and careful: “Goodnight, Ellana.”

A distant siren cuts through the silence, making everything feel a little sadder, as she steps inside and closes the door behind her.

When Solas steps back into the club, his shoulders are slumped, weariness drags at his legs. He shuffles through the doorway and finds the place deserted—every light burning, everything frozen in place, the music long gone. He pauses, taking in the scene. Someone is wiping down the bar, others are gathering glasses abandoned in every corner, wearing spotless yellow gloves. Under the harsh lights, the once-vibrant dance floor looks more like a stockroom in a department store: grey lines, hard edges, stained with spilled spirits and sticky fruit juice. The air hangs thick with the acrid tang of ethanol and sweat.

Felassan is nowhere to be seen.

Solas scans each table, the DJ booth, behind the bar—nothing. Then his eyes settle on the glass door that separates the dance floor from the lounge. He exhales, a sigh that seems to crumple him even more. The adrenaline has worn off, leaving behind only bone-deep fatigue and a whirl of bitter memories pressing at the edges of his mind. His brow creases, gaze locked on the door. He saw the bike parked outside. He knows Felassan is in there. And whenever he shuts himself away like that, it never bodes well.

Dragging his leaden limbs, Solas heads toward the lounge, uncertain whether he has the strength to face him tonight.

But he goes, because he’s a good friend—damn it, he’s the best fucking friend in the world—they ought to give him a medal for all the times he’s scraped him off the floor with a spoon. For all the times he’s kept his ears open and his mouth shut, swallowing every venom-laced word spat through gritted teeth, every veiled insult, every growl of fury not meant for him but flung at him all the same.

He goes, because he knows—because he’s certain—that Felassan would do the same for him. And he knows, deep down, that Felassan has endured far worse. From him.

When his fingers press against the cold glass and he opens the door, the shadow of his best friend is already seated on a low couch near the bar—empty, unattended. The room is silent. The music has stopped. The lights are still dim and gentle, the shadows still thick, the candles still flickering. Empty glasses litter the tables, smudges and grime gather in the corners, and Solas knows—he knows Felassan must have driven away whoever had come in to clean up the chaos of yet another Saturday night. He clearly wants to be alone.

But as the door closes behind him and Solas starts walking across the room, Felassan says nothing. He doesn’t glare, doesn’t even glance his way. He ignores him entirely, and Solas needs nothing more than that. That silence is the only permission he requires.

He approaches slowly, watching the way Felassan’s back sinks into the cushions, legs stretched across the coffee table—one straight, the other bent, its knee rocking idly in the air. He’s holding something in his hands, though Solas can’t quite make it out. Still, whatever it is, he studies it with almost surgical precision. His jaw is set, brow furrowed, gaze dark and distant. Icy eyes. Felassan is handsome and composed, wrapped in his sleek black suit—shirt, jacket, trousers, all tailored to perfection. Felassan is handsome and composed—he always is—but with that expression on his face, he looks twice his age.

"I hope, at the very least, she was pretty."

His voice greets him with disdain, the words delivered just as Solas comes to stand beside him.

"Did she ask for cuddles afterward?" he adds, after a moment of silence. "Or did you slip out of her bed while she was still asleep?" Another pause. A cruel smile, still not meeting his eyes. "Because you really are an expert at that."

He says it bitterly, turning over in his fingers what Solas can now see is the prosthetic ear—silver, polished, exquisitely wrought. Delicate engravings curl along its surface like creeping vines, catching the light in a soft, subdued shimmer. Felassan traces the intricate patterns as if trying to commit every line to memory, his unblinking gaze fixed on the elegant shape.

Solas doesn’t respond to the provocation—he doesn’t have the energy, not even to shoot him a glare. He slumps onto the couch beside him, letting his head fall back against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling, saying nothing.

He stays silent even when, after a few long minutes of wordless stillness, he feels Felassan’s gaze settle on him. The back of a finger brushes lightly over the red mark pulsing on his jaw, and Solas has to grit his teeth and swallow a grunt, his face tightening in pain. It still burns. It’ll still burn tomorrow. He’ll probably have a bruise.

The touch lasts only a second, then it's gone.

“Rough night?” Felassan asks at last, breaking the quiet.

Solas exhales heavily. “Rough night.”

“…Yeah.”

Solas closes his eyes. He focuses on the sound of Felassan’s fingernails tapping gently against the metal, the soft rustle of his trousers brushing against the fabric of the couch. The steady, unhurried rhythm of his friend’s breathing. The faint echo of his scent—the same cologne he’s worn for years—tobacco and wood, warm and deep. It clings to his skin, always the same, a quiet signature that speaks of him even when Solas catches it on strangers passing in the street.

He closes his eyes, and slowly—one breath at a time—his body begins to unwind, drawn into stillness by the familiar presence beside him.

The silence, too, softens.

“You know what we should do?”

Felassan’s voice—alert and clear—cuts through just as Solas feels a dream beginning to take shape behind his eyelids.

“Mmh.”

The man doesn’t answer, as though waiting for something more than that weary, reluctant sound. Solas reopens his eyes, begrudgingly. “What?” he mutters, staring at a stain on the ceiling.

“Put some music on.” he’s barely finished the sentence when Solas feels the cushion beside him shift, the warmth of his friend’s body lifting away.

He finally turns his head to look at him, watching as Felassan strides across the room with purpose, his hair loose across his shoulders, bouncing with every step. He notices the faint glint of silver at his temple—the prosthetic ear is back in place. Solas says nothing, just follows him with his eyes as he reaches the small console next to the bar and begins fiddling with it, renewed energy in his movements.

He groans, dragging a hand across his exhausted face. He wants to protest—but then the first notes of a song begin to drift softly into the room, gentle and low.
Not satisfied, Felassan turns the volume up—louder, then louder still—until the music begins to grate against Solas’s frayed nerves.

But that idiot just looks up at him with a brilliant smile.

“No, Felassan, I’m not in the mood for…”

He wants to finish the sentence. He wants Felassan to listen. But he’s not even sure he can hear him from across the room—and either way, the words die in his throat the moment that idiot, shameless and utterly ridiculous, pulls the most flirtatious, playful expression Solas has ever seen.

Shameless.
Ridiculous.
Beautiful.

He snaps his fingers to the beat, hips swaying in slow rhythm as he starts to approach, hands raised near his shoulders, a grin breaking only to trap his lower lip between two bright white teeth.

Hail (hail) what's the matter with your head, yeah
Hail (hail) what's the matter with your mind and your sign and oh
Hail (hail) nothin' the matter with your head

Solas shakes his head and tries—really tries—not to smile. But Felassan is just so absurd, such a complete idiot, writhing like some washed-up pop star from forty years ago. He spins on his heel, begins to hum along with the music flooding the room, moving ever closer with exaggerated flair.

Baby, find it, come on and find it
Bear with it, baby, 'cause you're fine
And you're mine, and you look so divine

And despite himself—despite every ounce of fatigue and resistance—Solas can’t stop the smile that finally blossoms on his face. He turns his head, trying to hide it, shaking it slowly and looking at him with the most exasperated expression he can muster.

“You’re pathetic,” he says, choking back the laugh bubbling in his chest as Felassan finally reaches him, tossing his hair from his face with one dramatically flamboyant flick of the head.

“Dance with me,” Felassan replies, flashing that smile—the one that no doubt works like a charm on all his prey. He ignores the insult entirely, offering his hand with a flourish. "Come and get your love," he sings along with the lyrics.

Solas recoils, as if the very idea sends shivers up the scalp of long hair he no longer has.

“Shame there’s no mirror in here,” he mutters, while Felassan wiggles his fingers at him, palm raised, a clear and insistent invitation. “You really ought to see yourself.”

“Oh, come on, you grumpy old bastard,” Felassan presses on, undeterred. “Come dance with me.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, but you do,” he grins, slowing his ridiculous moves just enough to make his point linger. “I remember it perfectly.”

And so does Solas. He remembers it all. He remembers too much, in fact—especially now, with Felassan looking down at him, snapping his fingers to the rhythm again, that stupid glint in his eye. He’s put on an old track—one of those songs, all swagger and flirt, the kind that struts through the speakers like it owns the room. It suits the atmosphere, it suits the way he moves, it suits the way he’s looking at him.

But they were young then. Young, and somehow still full of hope, even while everything around them was rotting in filth and drugs and violence. Now they’re old, tired, and disillusioned.

Solas remembers—he remembers it perfectly—but he shakes his head, wanting to deny it, even as that crooked smile pulls at his lips again. He tries to say "You're drunk," and "I have never danced in my life," but he can’t. Because Felassan must see the flicker of wistfulness darkening his eyes, and—bastard that he is—he takes full advantage. He grabs both of Solas’s hands, and Solas plants himself deeper into the seat, stiffens every muscle he can to avoid being dragged up, but of course Felassan doesn’t let go.

In the end, he wins—he always does. He pulls him to his feet, triumphantly.

He leads him into the middle of the room, weaving between the tables, and spins him in a clumsy pirouette—laughing as Solas comes out of it with a murderous glare that says loud and clear: You’ll pay for that.

Felassan keeps dancing in front of him, far too pleased with himself—those brown locks framing his sharp features, the Vallaslin etched across his skin. That ridiculous tattoo, worn only for work, because his faith is as fake as a tin coin. He holds Solas’s hand, trying to coax movement from him, urging him into the rhythm. But Solas plants his feet firmly on the ground, refusing to budge.

“Oh, come on,” Felassan urges, almost serious now. “I know you can do better than that.”

“This is my best,” Solas mutters, swaying stiffly and clumsily on the spot. It’s barely a movement—an awkward shift of weight from one foot to the other, his arms hovering with visible discomfort, one still caught in Felassan’s grip. His shoulders stay rigid, back too straight, the corners of his mouth set in a line that almost dares him to comment. It’s the kind of dancing that suggests he’s calculating the surface area of the floor rather than enjoying any part of it. Just enough to make Felassan burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained.

“Then I’ll teach you,” he announces, still chuckling, and pulls him close—cheek to cheek despite the height difference, one hand clasped in Solas’s, the other pressed lightly to his back.

It’s a ridiculous waltz, silly and aimless, and though Solas doesn’t resist, he certainly isn’t helping. They sway slowly, ignoring the rhythm of the music, caught in a dance entirely their own. Silence falls over them, and Solas allows himself to be led—calm, compliant—in the steady arms of his friend.

Felassan’s hair brushes against the tip of his nose, but his presence is grounding, like it’s always been—a safe harbour. So Solas doesn’t pull away. Felassan hums the tune under his breath, soft and low, the melody vibrating in his throat so close it resonates through Solas’s chest like a lullaby, and it's like being wrapped in the arms of an older brother—though they’re the same age, really. But Felassan has always been the more stable one, the one who knew how to hold everything together, even when the world fell apart.

Little by little, Solas’s muscles begin to loosen. The tension in his shoulders unwinds. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the slow, silly dance, as they turn in small, quiet circles, never straying from the same worn tile beneath their feet.

“So,” Felassan murmurs eventually, “was she pretty?”

Solas huffs. Felassan’s hair flutter against his face with the breath, then settle again, stubbornly sticking to his skin. But he doesn’t open his eyes.

“She was pretty.”

Felassan lets out a low, approving sound. Then: “She the one who gave you that mark on your jaw?”

“No,” Solas replies, voice slow and lazy, entirely honest. “But she could’ve. I would have deserved it.”

Felassan doesn’t ask anything. He just keeps swaying, slowly, patiently—waiting. A quiet moment passes, and then Solas finally speaks.

“Do you remember the girl in the green dress?”

“The one who threw a drink in your face? Ice and all?”

“That one.”

A soft laugh rumbles in Felassan’s chest, and Solas feels him shake his head as much as one can with their bodies pressed together. “I knew you two were going to fuck.”

“We did no such thing,” Solas says, almost offended now.

“Then what in the Void were you doing all that time?”

“Arguing.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Then I took her home. She fell asleep. She looked… exhausted. I couldn't wake her up.”

Felassan snorts. “How tender of you.”

Solas deliberately steps on his foot, and hears his friend stifle a curse, though he’s sure he’s still chuckling.

“Then the police showed up,” Solas continues, his cheek brushing lightly against his friend's as they sway.

“The police?”

“Right. They thought I’d kidnapped her or something. Things got… complicated.”

Felassan says nothing, but Solas feels the slight tension that stiffens his body, even as they keep dancing.

“I had to… you know. Scare them off a bit.”

“Had to, or wanted to?”

“…Both.”

Felassan sighs, his body relaxing once more in Solas’s arms. He seems to search for a reply—some sharp, cutting remark to match the situation, but all that comes out is a quiet, resigned: “Shit.”

The music keeps playing, drifting unnoticed in the background. No one knocks at the door. A single ice cube collapses in a glass as its twin melts just enough to give way.

“Cassandra won’t be pleased,” Felassan says at last, giving voice to the thought hammering in both their minds. “Low profile, remember?”

“I know,” Solas murmurs, pulling him just a little closer without even realising it. That scent of tobacco and wood gives him just enough calm to go on: “I will deal with it tomorrow.”

“We will deal with it tomorrow,” Felassan echoes confidently, putting just enough weight on that we to make Solas smile into the embrace. “I mean,” he adds, “I’ll hold your hand while she tears you apart.”

At last, Solas lets out a quiet laugh. Felassan seems pleased with himself, so much so that he pulls away just enough to spin him again, another reluctant, awkward twirl, before catching him gently back in his arms. He makes sure to meet his eyes for just a second, just long enough for Solas to see the smug grin on his face.

He answers with a grunt, but says nothing, resting his cheek on Felassan’s once more, slipping back into silence. They keep swaying, close, until the quiet returns to something calmer, steadier. Still. Still enough that maybe—maybe—Felassan might be ready to tell his story. His rough night.

“So…” Solas begins, carefully, keeping the tone light, easy, giving him space. “Why are we slow dancing like two awkward teenagers?”

Felassan gives a breath of laughter. Solas takes the chance: “What happened?”

A breath. Then: “Isabela broke up with me.”

The confession comes with a small sigh, after Felassan has shifted enough to rest his jaw against Solas’s shoulder, now moving as though he’s the one being led. And Solas can hardly believe it—neither the fact that he’s somehow guiding this ridiculous dance, nor the fact that he’s hearing those words again. Again. Again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Fel,” he breathes, a little too harsh, maybe. “And I was actually worried.”

“I feel like shit,” Felassan mumbles, suddenly soft and fragile in his arms, like a heartbroken young boy.

“Isabela breaks up with you twice a month,” Solas replies, trying to keep his voice level, composed.

“This time it’s different,” he whines.

Solas holds in a frustrated noise. “You say that every time.”

“This time it’s true.”

A pause. He really does seem worn down—more than usual—so Solas gathers what patience he has left.

“Different how?”

Felassan doesn’t answer right away. He curls in a little closer, and Solas lowers his gaze, his chin now brushing softly on his friend's hair. He watches as Felassan blinks slowly, mouth opening and closing without sound, hesitation etched into every movement. Still they sway, slowly, endlessly, on that same damned tile that must be wearing thin beneath their feet. And Solas feels his heartbeat pick up, just a little—because this time, it does feel real.

“I told her I wouldn’t mind if we tried to take things seriously.”

Silence falls again. Solas keeps looking at him, and bites back the sigh, the question forming on the tip of his tongue: You asked Isabela for something serious? Isabela? Because in the short time he’s known her, he’s seen it—seen that blind panic flash in her eyes the moment any conversation veered too close to something real. Any time Felassan, in that easy, gentle way of his, asked if she wanted to grab dinner before heading to the club. And she’d slip away with a joke. Or silence him with a kiss that stole the breath right from him. Solas recognised that terror. Because he knew it, too.

“She practically laughed in my face,” Felassan says finally, voice flat, “but then she got angry and… whatever. She called me an idiot, said I was suffocating her, and left with those guys she was dancing with.”

Solas lets his friend get it out of his system, watching now as Felassan slips into something like a pout. He holds back a smile. He’s seen that look a thousand times, but doubts many others ever have. Maybe they’ve caught a glimpse of it: a smile just a touch dimmer than usual, a joke with too much bite, or flashes of temper—because Felassan’s always had a fire in him. But this pout, this childish sulk, he doesn’t show that to many people. And lately, Solas has only seen it when she’s involved. So, just for a moment, he lets the mask drop, and he offers something real.

“I believe she is... afraid," he says gently.

Felassan lifts his head, and now their eyes meet as they continue that slow, ridiculous dance.

“I think she feels something for you,” Solas continues, quiet and calm. “But feelings such as these cannot be forced. If your heart is sincere—and hers responds in time—it will unfold as it must. In its own way.”

Felassan blinks, and for once, seems to really listen. Usually, when other people talk, he’s halfway to crafting a clever reply, sharp-edged and self-defensive, designed to keep things light and just out of reach. But not now. Now, he’s quiet, and Solas sees it: he’s actually thinking it over. Then he smiles—a real smile, the kind that simply says thank you. He shakes his head, lowers his gaze, and when he looks back up, one eyebrow arches.

“I’m afraid I’ve got a type.”

Solas tilts his head, confused. “A type?”

“Yeah,” Felassan says, that familiar smirk returning to his lips. “A certain kind of person who makes me lose my head.”

He’s close now—too close—and Solas can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over his chin. He stops moving, their dance falters into stillness as he just stares at him, unsure whether to feel insulted or flattered—unsure if Felassan is comparing him to Isabela (which would be absurd and completely senseless), unsure if he’s talking about him, about them, about us, as they might have said once, a long time ago. But something in the air shifts, and he catches the way Felassan’s eyes drop, just for a moment, to his mouth.

So Solas stays where he is, he doesn’t move. But he doesn’t pull away, either.

“How much have you had to drink?” he asks, serious now, concerned.

Felassan looks away for a moment, then shrugs and gives him a lazy little smile.

“…Not sure,” he replies vaguely, before he takes a step back, slipping out of the embrace. Solas watches him silently, unmoving.

“You’re leaving the bike here tonight,” he says, flat and firm.

Felassan runs a hand through his hair, distracted. “No, I can—”

“No arguments,” Solas cuts him off, already turning toward the console to shut the music off, because the moment is gone, or because he's somehow afraid it isn't. He notices the shattered glass just in front of the entrance. He’s certain the man threw it in a burst of rage to keep the poor cleaners out. To stop the night from ending, to avoid going home to an empty bed and thoughts of what could have been.

Right… what could have been.

Solas shakes his head as he pushes the fader down, letting the music melt into silence, thinking about what they’ve become. Two old fools talking about heartbreak, and worse, nearly making a mistake neither of them could take back.

“So, you’re giving me a lift, then?” Felassan asks, back to his usual self as he pulls his hair into a messy bun. Solas nods and gestures for him to follow, one hand already on the door.

Felassan joins him, eyes locked on his with a spark that seemed completely extinguished just minutes ago.

“They’ll think you’ve kidnapped me too,” he murmurs, voice slow and syrupy. He bats his lashes and puts on a pitiful little look, his bottom lip adorably pulled downward. “Will you protect me from Wycome’s corrupt, big bad police?”

Solas shoots him a deadly glare and opens the door.

Outside, a line of cleaning staff stand with brooms and yellow gloves, studiously avoiding eye contact, though their faint, little smiles carry an unspoken assumption about what the two of them had been doing inside.

“Idiot,” Solas mutters through clenched teeth.

Felassan chuckles behind him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Chapter Text

Soft, smooth fabric presses against her skin, curled warm between her thighs. Her fingers move without direction, tracing lazy spirals and shapeless runes across the linen. Eyes closed, breath low and heavy, she floats somewhere just beneath the surface of consciousness. Behind her lids, clouds drift in hues of pink and rose—unless, of course, it's just sunlight bleeding through those white and pristine curtains.

Ellana sinks deeper into the warmth of that haze, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, belly soft against the mattress. Stray strands of hair cling to her neck, damp with sleep. She breathes—long, indulgent breaths—and a faint smile tugs at her lips as she chases clouds across her inner sky.

In her mind, she soars through them. She dives, arms outstretched, letting the mist wrap around her fingers like spun sugar. Candyfloss, she thinks—soft, sticky, dissolving into sweetness on her skin. She imagines plucking a piece and slipping it between her lips.

But it tastes bitter.

Rotten.

She groans, her tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth—it’s thick, like glue, like she’s been drinking sour milk. The nausea rises almost instantly. When she cracks her eyes open, pain detonates behind them, a sharp, blinding burst that draws a hoarse, wounded sound from her lips. She rolls onto her back, flinging an arm across her face to block the now-searing light pouring in. The migraine pounds, heavy and unrelenting, each throb echoing through her skull like a hammer striking bone.

What the fuck did I eat? Or is it something viral? Feverish? Toxic?

She’s sweating. With a few sharp kicks, she pushes away the tangled sheets caught between her legs.

She tries to find the shape of it, a reason for the sickness pressing in, but nothing comes. Just flashes. Dorian’s laughter. Bull’s booming voice. Sera pulling faces, mouthing the words to some ridiculous song. They were dancing. Somewhere crowded. Loud. A party, perhaps?

She remembers the sweat on her back. A gin and tonic—maybe two? Possibly three. She’d stepped away for another, and then… then…

Oh.

Oh no.

Every muscle in her body pulls tight. For a moment, she forgets to breathe. Her heart sinks into some deep pit—maybe it crashes straight into her stomach, or maybe it vanishes into a black hole—while an unbearable heat floods her face, sets her ears burning. She presses her forearm hard against her eyes, as if she could crush them closed and shut out the torrent of images now pouring through her mind.

She’d made her way to the club’s bar, stumbling through the crowd, barely managing to stay upright as she was jostled by dozens of bodies dancing around her. And behind the counter, there he was. The man from the bookshop.

Dressed like a bartender, wearing that stupid tight T-shirt that showed off a rather decent chest and an infuriatingly narrow waist. He’d looked surprised to see her. And she—she’d been just as shocked. And then…

Another groan, louder this time, breathy and strained, rises from her throat.

Gods. She’d asked him if he was following her.

Ellana rolls over again, the shame so unbearable she buries her face in the pillow and sinks into it, smothering another sound that’s almost a growl.

But that hadn’t been the end of it.

Oh no. That hadn’t been the end of it at all.

He’d replied like a complete asshole. That much she remembers—clear and sharp as a diamond, glittering in her chest, and for a brief, glorious moment, it cuts straight through the fog of guilt trying to pull her down, drag her into the depths of the mattress.

But she knows what she did next.

Mythal forgive me.

She threw a cocktail in his face. Ice and all. Watched it splash across his cheeks, his jaw, down that smug neck of his, and felt a surge of unholy satisfaction as one perfect cube slipped down his collar. She’d tracked its path with far too much interest, imagining that little piece of ice melting slowly over hot skin, trickling down, down until it turned to water and she—

She’d licked her lips.

She’d actually stood there and licked her fucking lips, picturing those indecent little droplets sliding beneath the waistband of his jeans.

With a sound that’s somewhere between a yelp and a strangled shriek muffled by feathers, Ellana scrambles blindly for the twisted mess of sheets, groping around until her fingers find it, and without lifting her head, yanks it over herself, right up to the tips of her ears.

Pathetic. Absolutely ridiculous. She’d stormed off with that sudden, furious dramatic glare and, like a complete idiot, she’d lost herself in the middle of the dance floor. She’d felt abandoned, completely adrift, until that stranger found her. That beautiful, stunning stranger. A goddes, really. She saved her from herself and pulled her outside where she’d thrown up her soul and then—she started crying.

Ellana clutches the pillow tight, hugging it like it’s an anchor, like it could whisper to her, no, it’s all right, your dignity is intact, it was just a dream.

And the car park, not long after that. Hot air, heavy with salt. The low thud of bass from the club. The stink of diesel. Fry grease gone cold. Ships swaying in the dark, their lights winking slow.

Him—gods, he’d caught the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one unhurried motion, shoulders flexing, muscle shifting beneath pale skin. She remembers every lewd thought that had flared through her mind, unwelcome and unwanted.

And they’re coming back now, one after the other, as if the dream had left a door open. Her heart knocks harder. A curl of heat winds low in her belly, spreading upward until her breath is shallow, until her thighs shift in restless protest. She presses down into the mattress, seeking something, anything, to quiet the ache. The sound of the bedsheets is loud in the hush.

No. No, no, no, she pleads silently. Stop it. Please, stop.

But the gods aren't listening.

When he slid back into the car, she had refused to look at him—absolutely refused—because in her head, layered over every insult she could conjure, an image had already begun to form. That body she’d glimpsed in the side mirror—looming over her. She had imagined him pressing her down against the seat, imagined his forearms straining as his hands gripped her hips, fingers sinking into flesh, one hand slipping beneath her skirt.

She had imagined him quick, brutal, unrelenting, forcing her to meet his gaze, hand tight around her jaw as her mouth fell open in a soundless moan. He would make her look at him, that wicked, bastard grin tugging at his lips, as his coarse, calloused fingers parted her and pushed inside without asking, without hesitation.

And then she would discover how rough his thumb felt against the most sensitive part of her—how cruelly, how expertly he could move it, over and over, relentless. He’d silence her with his tongue, deep in her mouth, swallowing every curse. She would come with his teeth tugging at her lip—Graceful, he’d breathe against her, just before she lost all of it.

Then—no preamble, no pretence—he’d unbuckle his belt and take her. Right there. Fast and urgent, his thrusts would be hard and hungry. She’d watch his taut, glistening forearms flex as he fucked her like he couldn’t help himself. It wouldn’t take long. She’d be too tight, too overwhelming, too good for him. She’d wrap her legs around his waist, her mouth at his throat, sucking hard enough to bruise. And it would break something in him—draw a sound from deep inside his chest, something helpless. She’d leave a mark, and he’d lose himself.

He’d come fast, like some reckless, desperate boy, the moment her nails raked down his back and her tongue flicked the edge of his ear.

And after—he’d collapse on top of her, breath shallow, heart hammering wild against her ribs. She’d feel it. That beat, that pulse—for her. And when he looked at her, dazed, hopeful, aching to ask her name, she’d just push him off, silent.

He’d never see her again, not even if he begged the gods, not even if he burned for it. She’d leave him with a question he’d never answer: had he just fucked a celebrity in a filthy, forgotten car park?

And he'd spend the rest of his life hoping for a second look. A second chance. A second anything.

Ellana throws off the sheet in a rush, breath hitching as she rolls onto her back again. One hand dives beneath the waistband of her underwear, frantic, finding herself already slick, already aching. The moment her fingers brush her clit, she jolts and bites back a gasp.

She replays the image in her mind again and again—dozens of times—while her fingers trace desperate, wet, filthy circles over herself. With each repetition she adds another layer: his moan, more broken, more undone; then rougher, merciless, vicious, still in that car, the seatbelt buckle digging into her spine, the squeal of leather under her back as he drives her down into it, over and over, and her thighs are slick, skin sticking to the seat, her sweat and his sweat mixing, sliding, pooling in the hollows of her collarbones, the crook of her knees, the small of her back—hot, sharp, filthy heat.

She feels his hand slip between them, moving with unhurried precision, tormenting her with the same cruel patience she’s turning on herself now. His tongue captures hers, the kiss slowing until each push of his hips becomes a deep, deliberate press, his fingers tracing lazy, merciless circles that steal her breath in shallow bursts.

His tongue grows heavy and soft against hers, robbing her of voice, of air, until he breaks away only to drag his mouth along her jaw, the faint graze of teeth sending shivers down her spine before he reaches her ear. He is still buried inside her, still holding that punishing, measured rhythm—as if he’s testing a theory, as if every motion is meant to prove something—and between uneven breaths he murmurs, “Sharp tongue… soon you’ll be using it properly.”

She spits coward into his mouth, dares him to hit back, to ask what she’s running from, to fuck her harder, to lose control—and he does. His palm lands on her thigh, the sting blooming hot in the dark, the shape of his hand ghosting there as she seizes his face, fingers rough on his jaw, nails biting into the soft skin beneath his ear, shaking, shaking from effort, from need, from the edge of it all—and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, just pants, desperate, wild, his lips against her shoulder, biting down to muffle a groan—

Now she’s riding him, watching his smug mouth slacken with pleasure, leaning down to lick the sweat from his jaw, gripping the back of his neck, forcing his forehead to hers so there is nowhere to look but into her eyes. He stares, mouth parted, pupils blown wide, he looks wrecked, and she only fucks him harder.

Her heartbeat kicks up. The pleasure builds in sharp, crashing waves, rising fast, dragging a moan from her lips. She's there—right there—seconds from coming, from breaking open around him, from letting everything shatter—

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

Everything slows. Morning light seeps through half‑closed curtains, pale and thin, catching the hollow of his collarbone, the fine sheen on his skin. His chest rises until it presses against hers. Hips meeting. Slow. A kiss, unhurried. His thumb grazes her jaw; she does the same, and he flinches. She remembers the mark, him, slammed to the car she mutters an apology. He smiles, faint and tired. His mouth tastes different when turned upwards.

He threads his fingers through her hair their hands, the yank that tore her head back, easing the dull ache at her scalp. Stray strands stick to her damp temple. He gathers her to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, grief clawing through the words. “I shouldn’t have let you sleep in the car.” Quieter still, breaking: “It’s my fault.”

Her wrist throbs twisted, caught in the struggle, skin scraped raw. She clings to him anyway, arms wound tight across his back, legs drawn around his hips, holding him as if letting go would mean death.

Lips press to the curve of her shoulder, lingering. His rough fingertips trace slow, imperfect circles along her back, catching on the faint rise of her spine until they make her exhale a small, surprised laugh. Loving. He holds her closer. His breath, warm and steady, pools against her neck. She feels the rhythm of his heart. Grounding.

She turns her head, slow, until their eyes meet, and it guts her. Wreckage—grief and panic and helplessness colliding—No. Please, no. Not like this. I swear I’ll get to you. Just—his gaze screams what his voice can’t, please… wait for me.

Solas, she thinks.

"Solas," she sighs.

Her fingers keep working, wet, desperate, but those eyes turn warm, unguarded, unbearably gentle, they fill her mind, and just like that, when she's so close, so close from coming—the pleasure vanishes. Snatched away as if pulled into the Void itself.

She lies there, slick, breathing hard, fingers motionless. All at once, she’s left with nothing. Wet. Unsatisfied. Empty.

Fucking hormones, she thinks. Fucking ovulation, she blames. I should really go to therapy, she snorts.

Ellana listens to the roar of a bus screaming past just beneath the window, close enough to make the glass rattle. She’s left with that familiar cocktail of frustration and existential disappointment.

Perfect.

Her hand slips away from between her thighs like a retreating army: defeated. She wipes her fingers across her stomach—sweat, shame, and a vague sense of betrayal all mixing together—and lets out a loud, theatrical sigh.

It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself, like a mantra. That little knife-in-the-heart feeling when she thinks of those gentle, soft eyes. You’re doing it again, she groans inwardly. Looking for comfort in the arms of a complete stranger. She pauses. Again.

And the worst part is she's proving him right. That smug, soft and gentle bastard who barely even said it, but said it enough. Implying she’d climbed into his car just to fill some emotional pothole.

She hadn't. Obviously. But still, she hates herself a little, because even if she had—and she hadn't, she insists—her idea of comfort is… she grimaces. Yeah. Fucking deranged.

Ellana twists and tosses again on the sweat-damp sheets—too hot, too sticky, too much—and her gaze lands on the bedside table, where The Well of Sorrow still lies, the receipt tucked between the pages to mark her place. She blinks slowly, eyes half-closed and heavy with the hangover.

His favourite book—that’s what he told her. He recommended his favourite book to a complete stranger.

She wonders if he does that with everyone.

If she’s just another customer, another forgettable face.

She’d assumed the book was chosen just to spite her, because of course, the whole world was out to get her, wasn’t it? She was sure he’d recommended it only to prove a point, as if to say: Here. Try reading this without feeling anything.

And instead—perhaps, just perhaps—what he really meant was: Here. Take this. It’s a small piece of my heart. Treat it kindly.

Treat it kindly. Right. Like she treats everything else: a cocktail to the face, a handful of precision insults, and a highlight reel of bruises, bite-marks, and emotional sabotage. Five stars on Yelp—would destroy again.

Not even a fucking sorry. He’d been nice, in the end. And she hadn’t. Not even close.

Well, that’s what you do, the little voice chimes in—helpful as ever. You use people. You wear them down like old socks. You don’t say thank you, you don’t say sorry. You just... leave. One day, you buy a one-way ticket. No warning, no note. You ghost the group chat, switch off your phone like a coward, and vanish into nothing.

And when you come back—if you come back—they’re still there. Somehow. Still answering your calls, still inviting you out, still acting like you didn’t disappear mid-conversation seven years ago and reemerge like nothing happened. Because they’re good people.

People you absolutely, unequivocally do not deserve.

Like Solas.
Like Dorian.
Like—

Fuck.
Dorian.

She stretches forward on the bed, sharp and sudden, like a fish startled from the shallows by some unseen hand.

Her phone.

She gropes for it with shaking fingers. The charging cable tears loose with a dull snap and snakes to the floor as she fumbles for the power button, cursing herself in a whisper for not doing this hours ago.

The screen blooms into light. For a moment there’s only the lock screen—her and Varric, captured mid-laugh on his desk, all messy hair and stupid grins—and then the world comes roaring back.

The phone vibrates violently in her hands, an unbroken rattle, a thing possessed. Notifications flood the screen faster than she can process.

Twelve missed calls from Dorian. Seven from Bull. And Sera—her sweet, furious, relentless Sera—fifty-two.

A knife-twist of guilt pierces the cotton-wool fog of her hangover. Her eyes prickle—whether from emotion or dehydration, she can’t tell. She opens WispApp. The messages break over her like cold surf.

Sera: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???
Dorian: Ellana, where are you?
Dorian: I’m worried. Please call me as soon as you see this.
Bull: Send me your coordinates. I’ll come get you.
Sera: ELLANA
Sera: ELLANA
Sera: ELLANA
Sera: ELLANA YOU BLOODY NUG-ARSE COW
Sera: I swear if you’re dead I’ll kill you myself, you hear?
Sera: No, wait, no, don’t be dead, just tell me you’re not dead
Sera: Shit. Sorry. Just say something, yeah? Where are you?
Sera: Bollocks, Dorian’s flapping and called the sodding guard
Sera: I hope you’re at least off shagging someone and not, y’know, splatted in a ditch
Sera: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Just. Please??

There are more. So many more. She scrolls blindly, barely seeing them, too busy drowning in the heat of shame pressing heavy on her ribs. She swallows hard, throat dry, and opens her contacts. Dorian.

The call hasn’t even rung once before his voice reaches her.

“If you are, by some catastrophic lapse in judgement, the brute who’s kidnapped my friend, do be advised that I’ve installed an app on her phone which allows me to track her every move—because, bless her pitifully naive little heart, she’s far too dim to be left unsupervised."

A pause.

"And if you’ve so much as breathed on her in a way I don’t approve of, I will find you—and I promise, by the time I’m finished, even the Qunari will look like models of restraint.”

Ellana lets out a small, amused huff, and somehow, that’s enough for her friend to recognise her. She can almost feel his relieved sigh through the speaker, so vivid it’s as if he’s there on the bed with her.

“Morning,” she says, because apparently she’s feeling cheeky.

“Morning my ass,” he mutters back, and only then does she catch the rasp in his voice, the way his words drift toward her like they’re wading through syrup. She pulls the phone from her ear and glances at the time: 6:50 a.m. She’s probably dragged him out of sleep.

“You alright?” His worried tone makes her smile without even realising it.

“I’m fine.”

Silence stretches a bit too long.

“Listen, Dorian, I’m sorry, I—”

“Ellana. Light of my weary existence. Morning dew upon the barren wasteland of my soul.”

Oh, gods, that’s never good, she thinks, closing her eyes and holding her breath.

“My most exquisite poppy blooming bravely in a field of cow dung. Will you kindly enlighten me as to where in the Void you’ve been?”

Ellana opens her mouth, but he barrels on, his voice quickening.

“We’ve been looking for you all night. From midnight until two, we scoured that wretched club. Then we went to yours. Nothing. From two until four, we drove through every street we could think of, checking every cursed corner.”

His voice starts to fray, sharp edges creeping in.

“Do you know what that’s like, Ellana? Imagining every conceivable way you could be lying dead in a gutter somewhere? I even called the police. The police, Ellana! And of course—as ever—they were about as useful as a chocolate teapot!”

He stops, breath sharp in her ear, his tone hardening.

“Now. Will you please tell me what in the name of the Maker actually happened to you?”

Ellana rolls over onto her stomach again, face sinking into the pillow. She sets the phone down beside her head and switches to speaker.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, her voice muffled by the fabric. “My phone died. I couldn’t find you, and I felt awful, I was drunk…”

“Oh, you don’t say.”

“I… threw up. And some strangers helped me, they took me home, and—”

“You let strangers take you home?”

“I was drunk.”

“Well, you could have at least tried to find us.”

“I did!” she blurts out, then realises—perhaps she could have tried a bit harder.

“Mhm. Go on.”

Ellana lifts her head from the pillow, cheeks burning, ears aflame. She stares at the phone screen, at the silent seconds of the call ticking by above Dorian’s smiling picture. She wants to tell him, about the police, about what happened, the fear, the violence, the gun—

But a lump suddenly lodges in her throat, choking the words before they can escape. She shuts her eyes.

“Ellana? You still there?”

She exhales slowly, trying to think of anything else—and, inexplicably, the image of Solas smiling gently at her pushes its way into her mind. Oh, c'mon.

“Nothing. That’s it. I made it home safe.”

In the long silence that follows, Ellana can practically see Dorian sprawled on his bed, hair a dishevelled mess, one hand dragging wearily down his face as the cogs in his mind turn, debating whether to press her for details, hang up on her entirely, or perhaps, just perhaps, give her the benefit of the doubt.

Then comes a low growl on the other end of the line, an oath muttered under his breath, the rustle of sheets—a bit of a scuffle—and finally a voice booms so loud it could wake half the neighbourhood.

“Boss!” bellows Bull, far too cheerful for this hour. “A stranger took you home, uh? You could’ve just told us you were… busy. Here I am thinking we’re on a rescue mission, and you’re off fucking some guy—or a girl?”

In the background, Dorian’s voice cuts in, horrified: “Amatus, for the love of the Maker, no.”

“Hey, I’m just saying!” Bull laughs. “If you’re gonna disappear all night, at least let us know it’s not a corpse we’re looking for!”

Ellana’s body sinks deeper into the mattress, and she suddenly feels like a worm, or a beached jellyfish, or some strange, slimy, spineless combination of the two. But she smiles.

“No shagging, Bull. Sorry to disappoint you,” she says, voice thick and sluggish, sleep threatening to drag her back under in one fell swoop.

“Well, if you say so. But it’s clear as day you’re not telling us the whole story.”

More rustling, the sounds of a brief fight—she’s pretty sure she hears the Qunari grunt an “ouch!” followed by a laugh far louder than necessary, and Dorian’s muffled, exasperated “Oh, not now, stop it!”. Ellana briefly considers hanging up; she really doesn’t want to hear where that’s going.

Thankfully, Dorian seems to wrestle back control of the situation. Though when he finally speaks again, he’s slightly out of breath.

“Oh, just ignore him, El. I’ve no idea how he manages to have this much energy on two hours of sleep and—I said later!—anyway, what matters is that you’re safe.”

“I’m fine,” she chuckles, pushing that gnawing guilt back down, still unable—even now—to open up to her best friend.

“Right—I’ve got to go, Ellana, we’ll talk later, yes? Text me, please, and if you’re feeling up to it, we can meet this afternoon once I’ve vaguely recovered, but for the love of Andraste, call Sera first, she was in bits—Bull, get off me!—honestly, I really must dash but do ring her, she thinks it's her—”

“Ask her if she’s still naked!”

“BULL! I swear—!”

There’s a sharp scuffle, a muffled yelp from Dorian that sounds suspiciously like a moan, and then the line goes dead.

Ellana sighs, her chest finally feeling a little lighter. She smiles—giddy, almost girlish—while doing her absolute best not to picture her friends tangled up under the covers (nope, nope, absolutely not, don’t go there), and reminds herself how stupidly lucky she is to have them. She stays like that for a few seconds, sprawled on her stomach, basking in this fragile, borrowed sense of peace, before fishing for her phone again.

She flops onto her back. The bedsheets beneath her are now just a tangled, unidentifiable knot. Opening Sera’s WispApp chat, she feels that prickle in her eyes at the thought of how worried she must have made her. Her teeth pinch her lower lip. She thinks about what to write, thinks about calling, thinks about just vanishing altogether.

Oh, come on, her brain barks. Yesterday you hit rock bottom. You faced an actual life-or-death situation, and you made it out alive—shaken, hungover, possibly traumatised, but alive. You’re a writer, aren’t you? This is literally Character Development. Do it. Fucking develop. Call Sera. Tell her you’re an idiot. Apologise.

Her teeth dig a little deeper into her lip.

In a minute, says the other voice—the one she, annoyingly, knows far better.

So she closes the app and lets herself dissolve into the void of the online world. She skims the news, but there’s nothing really new under the sun; just Tevinter sinking further into the swamp, more nationalist groups sprouting like mould, screaming about the superiority of an empire that rotted centuries ago. She wrinkles her nose and flees into the comforting emptiness of CircleFeed.

She scrolls. Endlessly. Videos with no meaning, no substance, washing her brain clean of thought. Faces she maybe once knew, maybe once liked, flicker past—but now they’re just ghosts, kept alive only by this app. And no, she doesn’t give a single shit about what they ate for lunch, or how perfect their lives look: the endless holidays, the grand declarations of love, the kisses and hugs and curated smiles. They all look so damnably happy. So perfect. So glossy. Even a photo of some stranger’s cat on a kitchen table feels like a dream, a still life of domesticity she’ll never have.

And oh, those cursed little stories. Taunting her. Glowing with their smug green rings around the faces of people who seem to live in some brighter, better world.

The first one that catches her attention is Cullen’s.

She frowns. Once upon a time, he’d been so quiet. So reserved. Barely touched social media. Thought it was stupid—she remembers him saying that, back when they were together, rolling his eyes at the “circus of it all.” And yet here he is now: his profile picture ringed with that glowing circle every damned day.

Ellana narrows her eyes. What on earth does he suddenly have to say that’s so fascinating? So vital? What could possibly be so interesting that it needs to be broadcast every few hours to the faceless masses? Gods, his followers must be sick of him by now.

She scrolls on, a little more viciously now, skipping through everyone else’s stories—anyone’s but his. No. Absolutely not. She won’t give him the satisfaction. She tells herself this even as her fingers twitch, traitorous with curiosity.

And then the feed dries up. No more distractions. Just his face, framed by that smug little green ring, waiting. She stares at it for a moment.

They’d tried. She and Cullen. Really tried. Theirs had been a tug-of-war since their third year of secondary school—the kind of chaos you can only get away with when you’re young enough to believe love is supposed to be an endless cycle of storming off and crawling back. He’d been sweet. She’d liked him. And in the beginning, he’d been utterly smitten.

But then they’d started driving each other mad. Maybe because they were growing—as people, as personalities, as two stubborn idiots who refused to grow in the same direction. So they drifted apart, only to snap back together months later, again and again, like clockwork.

There were flings in between. Other faces, other names. But somehow, they always found their way back into each other’s arms.

Josephine used to joke they’d either get married by twenty or break up spectacularly before they turned eighteen.

Neither happened.

Their story stretched on for years—sometimes burning so brightly she was sure it would last forever. They’d loved each other. There were beautiful years, when it worked.

And then, one day, it didn’t.

When she’d gone off to university and he’d stayed behind to run his family’s farm outside Wycome, they’d become strangers by degrees—one day at a time. They still saw each other out of habit, but when they did, he seemed perpetually irritated, and she felt raw-nerved, braced for friction. Even sex had soured, turning unpleasant, sometimes verging on revolting.

And still, they stayed together. Maybe out of fear of being alone. Maybe out of loyalty to a version of themselves that no longer existed. Maybe because neither of them wanted to surrender the last scraps of their adolescence.

But the university was full of distractions. Bright ideas. New faces. Handsome boys. Gorgeous girls.

And then there was Sera.

Sera had been the best thing—the freest thing—Ellana had ever had. Pure fun. And the sex, oh, the sex was so good they’d sometimes skip entire lectures just to stay tangled in bed all day. No one had ever made her feel so beautiful, so wanted, so alive. Even if Sera wasn’t an easy person to love, even if their fights were volcanic, everything with her felt lighter. Life felt lighter.

And yet, she’d never really ended things with Cullen. Not properly. He’d had his flings too, but they’d always circled back—breaking up, making up, breaking up again.

Then came the book. The success. Her thing with Sera ended with laughter and stolen kisses, soft and bittersweet. But Cullen remained—an anchor she couldn’t cut loose, heavy and unresolved, pressing against her heart.

She had left. First for the endless book promotions, then the film, and everything that followed. She’d left—and she hadn’t come back. They’d never broken up. No we’re over, no I loved you, but, no it’s not you, it’s me—you deserve better.

Nothing.

Just silence. A silence that grew a little louder, a little heavier with each passing day. Days into weeks, weeks into months. Then years. And in the end, they simply stopped speaking—except for the birthday messages he still sent every single year. She never sent any in return.

She stares at the smug green ring around his face and, for a moment, she’s tempted to tap it. Maybe even reply to his story. See what happens.

Instead, she exhales and reopens WispApp. After all those rosy memories—after losing herself, as usual, in useless, meandering inner monologues—Ellana decides it’s time to begin her Character Development. So she finds Sera’s chat again, ready to type a message.

Her fingers only manage the “S” before she freezes.

Because she’s thinking of him.

Solas.

Even the thought of his name makes her throat tighten. She hesitates, suspended in that fragile space between impulse and dread. Then, moving like she’s not entirely in control, she swipes to her notifications.

There it is: a missed call, buried in the quiet hours of the night, from an unsaved number.

For a moment, she just stares. Her stomach tilts. The room seems smaller. Her heart kicks hard against her ribs, wild and brazen, her fingertips thrumming as she taps the number, ready to save the contact.

Asshole.

The word appears before she realises she’s typed it, and she smiles—small, smug, satisfied in a petty sort of way.

She flicks back to WispApp. The blank chat confirms they’ve never messaged before. His profile picture looks stolen from the depths of a generic image search. A JPEG that’s been compressed so many times it’s practically a mosaic: a stack of books on a desk, candles, and what appears to be half a watermark awkwardly cropped. Ellana lets out a small, amused huff.

Then she pauses. Her teeth catch her lower lip, instinctive, thoughtful. Her fingers itch. She could text him. She could. After all, he still has her bike. One way or another, she’s going to have to get in touch with him.

So she starts typing:
“Hey, It's Ellana, the girl from last night. The one who threw a cocktail on you, and is now, unfortunately, touching herself thinking about you."

A flush creeps up the tips of her ears as she quickly deletes the unsent message. He probably wants nothing to do with her. Probably never wants to see her again. She had been a complete nightmare, ruined his night shift, and for all she knows, he could even lose his job because of her. And yet—why did it matter so much what he thought? Why did the idea of him walking out of her life feel like losing something she didn’t even know she wanted?

She slams the chat shut and drops the phone face-down on the mattress. Closes her eyes. And there it is again, the pounding headache, that awful weight in her stomach.

I’m too old for this, she thinks with a sigh, trying to steal a few more hours of sleep from a Sunday morning she’s not ready to face. No. She doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to turn on her laptop. Doesn’t want to stare down the blank page, waiting for answers she doesn’t have.

She glances over at the bedside table. The Well of Sorrow still sits there, spine slightly cracked. She reaches for it, desperate to disappear into someone else’s sadness, to drown in words that aren't hers, just for a while. But then the phone vibrates.

Just once. One notification.

Ellana groans and picks it up.

Asshole sent you a message.

Her heart starts pounding so hard she can’t hear the traffic blaring outside.
With trembling fingers and breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, Ellana unlocks the screen before she can talk herself out of it.

Solas lies there, in his bed, and he is exhausted.

"Thank you for the company."

The ceiling is white now. When did it turn white? He can’t remember. The hours bled into each other while he lay there, staring. Watching darkness unspool itself: black thinning to grey, grey to a muted pink, then the faintest wash of peach, a reluctant yellow, until at last the night surrendered, grudgingly, to day.

"Thank you for the company."
His mouth twists. That was all he managed to say.

"Thank you for the company."
Like a perfect idiot.

When she climbed the steps to her door, he prayed she wouldn’t turn back. That the door would take her in and close the moment behind her, like a bad dream shutting itself away. But she did turn—something hovering on her tongue, question or answer, he couldn’t tell. Then she swallowed it, like spit. He’d watched those unsaid words slide down her throat and vanish, retreating into the warm cradle of her belly.

Curiosity had almost driven him to close the distance—to seize her jaw, wrench her mouth open, taste the heat of her breath, and hunt for the tail of that swallowed thing. To suck it out of her, drag it into himself, smear it over his tongue until he could taste exactly what she’d wanted to say. And if he couldn’t suck it out that way, then he would’ve dragged it from her belly, or lower still, licking and drinking, drinking until he drowned in that answer. Until it coated his mouth, until he could taste her truth on his tongue.

Stop it, he tells himself, as he imagines the taste that answer might have—citrus, burning bright on his lips, the musk of her skin beneath it, salt and heat, the bitter edge of sweat and something uniquely hers. Or chestnut honey, thick and slow and velveted across his tongue, clinging to his teeth. Or maybe white wine—sharp, mineral, disarming—cool as it slid down his throat, chased by the warmth of her.

No, he thinks, even as his hand slides further, and through the thin fabric he feels the dull ache, the tautness, the pressure building and begging to be undone. His fingers graze his own shape—hard, swollen, aching—alive at the thought of her in that short, strangling dress that clung to her like a cage. He would have ripped it open, freed her, made her gasp and writhe beneath his palms as he mapped every inch of her, learned what shape she truly took—Ellana Lavellan. The same woman who had already bled him dry, hollowed him out, stolen everything he had left without ever touching him. Without sucking the breath from his lips, or the words from his throat, or the last shreds of him from between his legs.

His hand falls still. He flings it away with a muffled grunt, rolling over, restless, like his skin doesn’t fit him anymore, grinding into the mattress for anything, any relief at all. Nothing. Useless.

Face-first into the pillow, he holds his breath until oxygen feels like an overindulgence. Smothering himself is not, strictly speaking, a bad idea. Possibly the most ambitious plan he’s had all morning.

He lies there like a discarded marionette: arms limp at his sides, legs stretched out like dead weight, feet dangling pathetically off the end of a bed clearly designed for someone smaller, or maybe just someone with fewer regrets. He squeezes his eyes shut, hard enough that it almost feels like penance.

The hiss of running water slices through the room’s stillness. Felassan, back from his sanctimonious morning run—because of course he does this every single morning—now plunges into that cold shower he treats like a religious sacrament. Even today, after drinking enough last night to pickle a lesser man, he’s somehow on schedule, annoyingly chipper in his masochism. Solas exhales, trying to steady himself. He turns his head to one side, ear pressed against the pillow. His eyes drift, and he spots his phone on the bedside table—lurking there like an accusation, daring him to touch it and ruin his day properly.

He turns his head, only to be met by yet another white wall—blank, mute, and offering nothing.

He rolls across the mattress until he’s flat on his back, casting a glance downward. Things look marginally better there—at least nothing is throbbing anymore. No damage, either, or none that shows. Small mercies. He lets his head sink into the pillow and curses himself, because somehow he’s still pacing the same worn mental track—still stuck on that one maddening loop: Ellana Lavellan—who are you, and what are you doing in my head?

And there it is again—that cursed, insatiable hunger to know. To know who she is. Why she lingers like a song he never liked but can’t stop humming. And last night… oh, last night. He’d almost torn his cover apart for her. Made an utter mess. He tries not to recall the twist in his gut when they took her away. Tries not to dwell on what might have happened. On the risk. On the feral, unshakable urge to save her—that fixed, maddening thought that almost broke him.

Old memories shove in. Heavy. Suffocating.

"No," he mutters to himself, closing his eyes. "Not now."

Two nights without sleep. Months since it came easy. For years, nightmares have ripped him out of whatever scraps of rest he can find—gasping, sweat-soaked, half-choked on a cry, hand clamped over his eyes like he could block out the things crawling through his head. Not sights exactly. Shapes. Slick, venomous shapes that twist and squeeze until he wakes. They’ve never left. Maybe they never will. But tonight—what scares him most—is that in the few minutes he managed to drift off, it wasn’t their faces he saw. It was hers.

He realises he’s breathing too fast only when his gaze falls back to the phone. He hates that phone. Always has. But today, he hates it more—because she’s in it. And the pull is unbearable.

He drags a hand down his face, fingertips pressing hard into his eyes until colours bloom in the dark. A long, slow exhale. It doesn’t help.

He gives up.

His hand moves almost on its own accord as he picks up his phone from the bedside table. He unlocks the screen, and the same generic background that’s greeted him since the day he bought the device lights up once again. He stares at it blankly, trying hard not to look at the green WispApp icon. Instead, he focuses on the time, on the clean, geometric lines of the wallpaper—but that cursed emerald circle seems to pulse like a 1000-watt bulb in a pitch-black room.

All because of those insistent primary school teachers who had made him download that wretched app, claiming it was now the sole channel for all important communication. What they hadn’t mentioned was that he was walking straight into a trap. The moment they added him to Cole’s class group—mercifully, one where parents weren’t allowed to post—his number appeared in a neat little bubble, followed by those five fatal words: “Solas has entered the chat.”

And that had been the beginning of the end. Because within minutes—minutes—one of the mothers had added him to the most feared group of all: the mums’ chat.

He’d barely stepped away to go to the bathroom, and came back to 94 new messages. Most were just “lol,” or five heart-eyes emojis in a row. Endless photos of children covered in confetti or spaghetti or inexplicably in pumpkin costumes, posted without context and often with worrying captions like “look at this menace 💕💖💞😂.”

Notifications every five seconds. A thousand a day. Probably more.

He didn’t know these kids. He didn’t want to know these kids. It felt like a privacy violation on their behalf, and he often found himself wondering what those children would think ten years from now, knowing their mothers had flooded a chat of semi-strangers with timestamped photo evidence of their most undignified years—met with unsolicited commentary and the occasional, deeply unearned, “awww, such a good boy 😍😍😍.”

There were plans for picnics. Plans for birthday parties. Plans for who was bringing what to the class end-of-term breakfast (can anyone do gluten-free cupcakes??!!!).

And the birthdays. Good grief, the birthdays. They’d all chime in almost at the same time, like a cleverly planned attack, saying “happppy birthday!!!”, “sweetheart, have the best day! 🥳💖🎉🎂”, “ENJOY YOUR CAKE!!!”, and of course, he had to chime in too, if only to avoid Cole any kind of retaliation in class.

So he’d type: "Happy birthday." Grammatically correct. No emojis. No exclamation marks. Last time, he had received three private messages asking if everything was okay.

Terrible. Draining.

Eventually, he had to beg Felassan to teach him how to mute the chat.

At first, Felassan insisted it wasn’t possible. He let Solas suffer for weeks—possibly months—watching from a safe distance, amused. Only when Solas read aloud the full draft of a message he intended to send to the group—a scathing, exquisitely phrased diatribe expressing his deepest resentment and most artfully composed insults—did Felassan finally take pity and show him how to silence it. Permanently.

Solas had wanted to kiss him.

Until someone—he couldn’t remember who, exactly; perhaps at the bookshop, perhaps at the club—had offhandedly mentioned that it was actually possible to leave the group. But Felassan had not yet parted with that particular secret. He’d refused to tell him how. And so Solas remained, trapped—because “you never know,” Felassan had said with a shrug.

Still, at least the phone had stopped buzzing like an angry wasp.

In short, he was only on WispApp to receive school updates and important communications. And now that stupid icon called to him like a dream too sweet to resist

Solas stares at the screen until the shapes and edges blur into nothing. His mind drifts. He thinks of the bicycle—that absurd, salmon-pink thing—still held hostage at the club. He thinks of the car ride. The sound of her breathing as she drifted off beside him. That soft, delightful little noise she made when she woke, stretching like a cat basking in a patch of sun.

He thinks of the gin and tonic flung in his face. The way her legs had slipped from beneath the hem of that green dress.

And, at last, he thinks of her eyes, fixed on him as the cop dragged her away.

Solas growls under his breath and presses his thumb aggressively on the damned WispApp icon. Without giving himself time to reconsider, he searches for the name he had saved her under: E.L. Shaking his head, he taps on her name.

The chat opens, and of course, it’s empty. Using only the tip of his index finger, careful not to brush the voice call icon—or worse, the video call button (Felassan had once, with exaggerated patience, explained how that worked)—he taps on the thumbnail of her photo.

Ellana is smiling. Her hair is longer. She looks younger. Behind her, a tree with golden autumn leaves. A soft, gentle light, perhaps the glow of sunset. She’s sitting on the grass, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them, her cheek resting peacefully on her forearm. Dark hair slips messily over the shoulders of an oversized red wool jumper, worn and beloved, the sleeves too long, hiding her hands. She's in dark jeans, frayed at the hem, and no-name trainers dusted with earth and leaf.

Ellana is smiling. She’s smiling with her eyes too, looking directly into the camera with an air of carefree ease, the Vallaslin dedicated to Sylaise curving beautifully across her cheeks.

Solas only realizes how close he’s brought the screen to his face when the edges blur, and when a small, unbidden smile tugs at his own lips.

“Fenedhis,” he mutters, letting his arms fall limp as the phone slips into his lap. He closes his eyes, head sinking into the cushion, and draws a long, steady breath through his nose. Counts to ten. Then, in one abrupt motion, he snatches up the phone and closes the photo. The chat window reappears. Blank, untouched.

And for the briefest flicker of a second—a heartbeat, less than that—he sees it. The three dots. Bouncing at the bottom of the screen.

Panic.

Had he started a call?
Sent something by accident?
Had he somehow whispered into her dreams, “Hi, I’m staring at your photo like I’ve never seen a woman smile under a tree before”?

He locks the screen and tosses the phone onto the bed as if it’s scorched him. Then turns away, curling onto his side, heart hammering far too fast in his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, and immediately sees it again: that oversized red jumper, sleeves long enough to hide her hands like they’re secrets meant only for her.

His eyes snap open. He breathes. Glances behind him at the phone, still and silent where it landed.

No buzz.
No ping.
Nothing.

He must have imagined it. Just a trick of the eye. A tired mind conjuring ghosts from the glow of a screen. He hadn’t slept. He’d been working nonstop. It was still early.

Calm down, he tells himself.

Slowly, he rolls back over and picks up the phone once more.

The chat is still empty.

It’s fine, he thinks. Nothing’s happened. He swears it to his own heart, trying to bring it back to stillness. It kind of works. A little.

The keyboard pops up.

And there it is—the vast, echoing blank of his mind.

“Hi,” he types.
No. Too bland. Delete.
“Hey.”
Hey. What is he, twelve? Delete.
“How are you?”
Hmm, could work. But maybe introductions first?
“I’m Solas.”
Yeah, no kidding. It's literally your name in my phone, she might say.
“Sleep well?”
NO NO NO, by the Void, DELETE.
“Are you online?”
No. Stalker alert. Abort.

Then it comes to him.

“Good morning.”

Good morning. Polite. Concise. Appropriate—it is morning.

But… something’s missing. Too formal? Too flat? He thinks of the emojis the mums use in their unbearably peppy group chats. So he begins the sacred quest: the perfect emoji.

😊 No. He'd look like a lost toddler.

🥰 What even is that?

🤪 Perfect. If you’re actively on drugs.

😹 Why is that cat crying??

He spirals.

His fingers wander. GIFs, he reads. He learns they’re moving pictures. Brief, silent videos. Some are even funny. Most are weird. He scrolls. And scrolls. And scrolls…

Then—he stops. A goose. Sprinting. Beak-first fury. And a boy, absolutely legging it, arms flailing, full fight-or-flight panic. A sharp, involuntary snort escapes him. Without thinking, he taps it, assuming it’ll open larger, maybe play in full screen.

That’s when it happens.

Message sent.

In seconds, a violent surge of heat rises from the base of his spine to his ears, his back instantly damp against the sheets. Solas can only stare, mouth parted, as the GIF loops endlessly in the hollow of the chat: the goose chasing the boy, the goose chasing the boy, the goose chas—

Online.

His spirit leaves his body. He sits bolt upright, gasping like someone who's forgotten what lungs are for.

"Felassan!"

The name erupts out of him, a strangled, pathetic cry for help. He’s already moving—forgetting the shirt, the slippers, his pride—charging down the hall in just grey pyjama bottoms like a man possessed.

He crashes into the kitchen and finds him.

Felassan is serenity made flesh. A hot mug of coffee. The morning paper. Hair slicked back into a tidy bun, still damp from his post-run shower. He looks freshly laundered. He smells like eucalyptus, hydration, and self-love.

But as he looks up and sees Solas—sweat-slicked, wild-eyed, halfway to cardiac arrest—panic flares across his face.

“What’s going on?” he asks, alarmed, gripping the back of his chair to stand, but Solas doesn’t give him time.

“The goose…” he babbles, shoving the phone in his friend's face with trembling hands. Felassan blinks. He looks at the screen, and spots the ridiculous little video, or jif, gif—whatever it's called, still silently looping. His brow furrows.

He glances at Solas. Back at the screen. At Solas again. Back to the phone. Finally, he stares, eyes narrowing, clearly studying Ellana's profile picture.

And then he understands. Oh, yes, he understands, far too well. He bursts out laughing like the utter bastard he is. And Solas will kill him. He will. But not yet. He needs him first.

“Tell me how to delete it,” he pleads, pressing the phone practically into his friend’s nose, and only then does Felassan, wiping tears from his eyes, begin to compose himself.

“Oh, by the gods, Solas—”

“Felassan.”

“It’s not that bad, it’s—”

“Please.”

The pathetic desperation in his voice does the trick. Like a merciful god, Felassan softens.

“Alright,” he says gently. “Give me the phone.”

Solas squints at him.

“I swear I won’t touch anything. I’ll delete the gif and hand it right back,” Felassan says solemnly, placing a hand over his heart like a devout priest and batting his lashes like some doe-eyed saint.

Solas weighs his options in a flash:

1. Give Felassan the phone and pray he'll keep his word.

2. Try to figure out by himself how to delete the message, getting lost in endless online forums contradicting one another until his device inevitably contracts some kind of digital plague.

3. Change his number.

4. Burn that damn thing.

5. Flee to another continent and become a shepherd.

Option one is the fastest. So, looking at his friend as if he’s placing his still-beating heart in his hands, Solas passes over the phone. Felassan accepts it with a solemn nod. He looks at the screen, and maybe he’s trying not to laugh, because his lower lip wobbles slightly. Solas feels grateful for a second. It doesn't last.

“Oh.”

Solas stiffens. “Oh?”

“She saw it.”

“…How do you know?”

“Double blue ticks.”

A pause.

“Delete it anyway,” Solas croaks, frozen like a codfish, eyes vacant, as if none of it computes. And honestly, it doesn’t.

“But she’s already seen it,” Felassan says, as if delivering some tragic universal law, immutable and cruel.

Solas blinks. His throat tightens. He swallows.

“Is she online?”

Felassan checks. “No.”

“Delete it,” Solas blurts. “I’ll say—I’ll say I sent it to the wrong chat,” he mumbles, desperate, he’d drop to his knees if he weren’t clinging to the last ragged scrap of his dignity.

“Fine,” Felassan nods again, turning his gaze back to the screen. Solas feels his muscles begin to relax, a wave of cautious relief washing over him. Maybe not all is lost. Maybe this can still be fixed.

“Thank you,” he breathes, like a man exhaling his last hope.

“…Oh.”

“What?” His voice shoots an octave higher.

Felassan doesn’t respond.

“What is it?” Solas lunges forward, clutching the back of Felassan’s chair and peering over his shoulder, eyes wide, breath held.

“She’s online.”

There’s no time. They need to act fast.

“Doesn’t matter,” Solas pants. “Just—just delete—”

Horror.

His breath drags back into his lungs with a sharp gasp and lodges there, stuck, frozen, because Felassan’s hands are furiously starting to type something.

I thought about you all night and touched myself until—

“NO!” It’s a primal scream—he doesn’t even know where it comes from as he lunges for the phone, arms outstretched toward that treacherous bastard. Felassan stays put, leaning back in the chair, smug, still typing, the asshole, laughing, laughing in that awful, snorting, breathless way like he’s just discovered a new plane of joy. Solas flails like a man drowning, grabbing uselessly at the phone he never should’ve bought, never should’ve touched, never—

They wrestle, Solas practically clambering onto Felassan’s shoulders from behind, launching himself in desperation, while Felassan stretches his arms out, keeping the phone just out of reach, and the dickhead still laughs, he laughs like he has never heard him before, not stopping even as Solas grunts and hisses his name like a threat between desperate gasps.

And then comes Cole.

Radiant as the bloody sunrise, bare feet padding softly on the floor, sleep still clinging to his face, and he grins, that wide, blissful grin when he sees the two of them tangled in what must look like a hug.

“Good morning!” he chirps, all innocence, toddling over and throwing himself into the mess, wrapping his arms around Solas’s leg.

Solas looks down, horrified.

“Cole, please!” he snaps—just a little too loud, a little too sharp—but the child only hugs him tighter, anchoring him in place as Felassan keeps typing, and now Solas can’t even see the text anymore.

Panic ignites.

Finally, he manages to grab Felassan’s wrist with one hand, gripping hard enough to make him jolt, cutting off that infuriating laugh at last. With the other hand, he grabs at both the phone and Felassan’s hand, frantically jabbing at the delete button.

Delete, delete, delete.
Other buttons get pressed in the chaos, thumbs slipping, muscles tensed.

Felassan twists, yanking his arm free in a wild lurch that nearly topples the chair, and in the tangle of limbs and desperation, someone (he doesn’t even know who anymore), someone hits send.

I thought akjdncjnelnlwmdl

They freeze.
Both of them.
Staring at the screen, breath held, eyes wide, motionless.

The message makes no sense.
No fucking sense.

Then—Double blue ticks.

She’s read it.
It’s done.
It’s over.

She’s seen it.

And that fucking goose is still chasing that stupid, terrified boy.

“Felassan, I swear—”

“Not in front of the child,” he replies, wearing that infuriatingly smug smile, the kind Solas would love to wipe off his face with a well-placed insult. But then he glances down at Cole, who’s beaming up at him, all three of them still caught in that absurd group hug. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, just to hold back the murderous urge toward that bastard who’s shamelessly using a little boy as a human shield.

His eyes snap back to the phone.

“Give it back.”

Felassan actually hesitates, the idiot. But he doesn’t resist—wise move—when Solas finally grabs the device with a steady hand and yanks it away.

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Felassan chirps, brushing off Solas’s arms and rising cheerfully from the chair, utterly unbothered by the catastrophe he’s just unleashed. He beams at Cole with a grin that could light a city. “Come on, little man. Let’s get you some breakfast.”

The boy, still blissfully innocent and unaware, returns the smile and climbs into his seat, tummy rumbling in anticipation of a new day. The sun is rising, not a cloud in the sky, birds are chirping merrily—and in that cursed chat thread, silence reigns.

Solas is still staring in mute despair at the looping goose video when Felassan’s voice floats through the clatter of cutlery and the sizzle of butter melting in the pan.

“Tell her it was a butt-dial,” he calls, casual as anything, not even bothering to turn around. He’s whisking eggs with milk and sugar like he hasn’t just razed someone’s social existence to the ground.

Solas lifts his gaze slowly, arching an eyebrow.

“A what?”

“Tell her the phone was in your pocket, and the message sent itself.”

Cole giggles softly and repeats the word “butt” under his breath, playing with his fork—perhaps imagining it as a whale flying through a lilac or magenta sky.

“You want me to tell her I texted her… with my ass?”

“Ass!”

“Cole,” they both say in unison, voices sharp with parental instinct as their eyes snap to the boy. Cole blinks innocently, then slowly sets his cutlery back on the table with great ceremony, like a criminal surrendering a weapon. Once they're reasonably confident he won’t repeat the obscenity in class on Monday—or worse, in front of someone’s grandmother—their gazes shift. They meet in the middle. Both look away at once.

Felassan busies himself again with what appear to be rather delicious-looking pancakes, and Solas returns to glowering at his screen.

Then he sees them—those three little dots dancing at the bottom of the screen.

“She’s typing,” he blurts, louder than intended. Felassan pauses—just for a beat—before the spatula resumes its slow, even rhythm.

Silence settles in. The warm scent of batter cooking low and slow begins to fill the kitchen, curling comfortingly through the air. Those dots keep dancing, until…

“L—M—A—O,” Solas enunciates each letter with surgical precision, brow furrowed as he studies the message like it’s written in some long-dead dialect. What does it mean? Is it a code? A veiled insult? Some kind of—youthful directive to exile himself?

Felassan lets out a long-suffering sigh as Solas continues to stare at the screen like it’s a cursed artifact.

“It’s an acronym,” he says, as explaining gravity. When Solas only looks more offended by this clarification, Felassan continues, slower: “Lmao. Laughing my ass off. It means… you made her laugh.”

Solas blinks, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“As certain as I am that you shouldn’t be allowed near a phone unsupervised.”

“Felassan’s right,” Cole chimes in, all innocence. “Those things suck out your soul.” Then he flashes a grin, thirty-two gleaming teeth, a little too wide, a little too eager. “I can help you, if you want, Solas.”

The so-called chef (he is an incredible cook, that asshole) lets out such an effortless snort of laughter that Solas can’t even summon the energy to be annoyed. Not quite—until Felassan adds, from over the hiss and sizzle of the pan:

“Yeah, best let the nine-year-old help you out.”

Solas chooses grace, for the good of the household. He turns to Cole with the gentlest possible smile. “Thank you, it is very kind of you, but this is something for—”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence.

In a flash, the phone is gone, snatched cleanly from his hands with the speed and skill of an incredible thief. If Solas weren’t currently being hollowed out by existential dread, he might actually be proud. Felassan, meanwhile, looks perfectly content to let the pancake burn, arms folded, grinning like a someone watching the final act of a very entertaining play.

Solas opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

Cole is already tapping away. Fast, efficient, completely untraceable. A blur of tiny fingers and pure purpose. Solas remains frozen in place, rigid as stone, sweat trickling down his back in a slow, traitorous line. His eyes stay locked on the boy’s face. That smile. Widening. By the second.

Maybe a minute passes. Maybe two. But when the kid finally looks up and hands the phone back—with the calm, confident poise of a seasoned businessman closing a high-stakes deal—Solas can do nothing but stare at him in stunned silence.

“She likes you,” Cole announces simply. Then, without waiting for thanks or clarification, he hops down from his chair and strolls off toward the hallway. “Nine o’clock. Pick her up at her place. Then the bike—at the club. She’s excited. Nervous, too.”

Both men remain frozen, mouths slightly open, eyes wide, tracking Cole until he vanishes behind the bathroom door. Solas is the first to move. Slowly, he finally finds the courage to read through the chat—to scroll through every message, every emoji she’s sent—and he can’t help the small, warm smile that spreads slowly across his face.

From the kitchen comes Felassan’s voice—louder now, a little higher, notably less smug.

“Cole,” he calls, stacking pancakes on a plate with a newfound reverence, “any chance you could help me out with Isabela, while you’re at it?”

Chapter Text

Solas is absolutely fine. Perfectly calm. Completely normal, considering he has a date with Ellana Lavellan.

Absolutely fine—as he checks himself in the mirror for the tenth time, and for the tenth time, the reflection staring back informs him, in vivid detail, that he looks like an elf who didn’t sleep last night. Or the night before. Or the night before that.

Absolutely fine—as he rummages through the bathroom drawer and discovers, to no one’s surprise but his own, that his cologne has run out. Dry. Not a drop left. So he rummages deeper. Further. Desperately. After a quick, guilty glance around, he nicks Felassan’s.

It’s too expensive, far too sharp, and definitely not his. But at this point, pride is a distant memory. He sprays it on—neck, left side, right side. Rubs it into his wrists, presses them together, checks the mirror again. Another spritz, he decides. Then another. He mists it over his shirt, his shoulders, even across his head like it’s Andrste's blessing and he’s trying to baptise the nerves out of his skin.

Solas is absolutely fine. Just a man preparing to meet the woman who, once upon a time, ruined what was left of his life. And then, just for fun, showed up at his door uninvited and—over the course of a single night—put cracks in every carefully assembled wall he’d spent years constructing. All those neat little insults he’d sharpened like knives, catalogued in his brain like prized heirlooms—gems to hiss through gritted teeth every time Felassan, half-drunk on the sofa, begged him to watch that damn show again. The one they’d turned into a drinking game. Take a shot every time someone says “The world is ours.” Or—if you want to die—every time someone on screen breathes, “Fen'harel.”

And now, to his absolute irritation, those insults don’t feel as sharp as they used to. Now he keeps catching himself wondering—just wondering—if she’s really who he thought she was at all. And the wondering is worse than any truth could ever be. He needs to know.

But Solas is fine.

Fine.

He swallows hard, staring into the mirror. Frozen. He tugs at the burgundy Free Marches T-shirt he’s wearing. Considers it. Casual enough to say “I don’t care.” Which, of course, is the truth. He doesn’t care. Not one bit. Just like he hadn’t cared—at all—whether or not she liked The Well of Sorrow.

With a grunt, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the bathroom. Theatrics over.

Keys. Phone. Wallet. Good. He checks twice. Still good.

He gives his shirt one last perfunctory tug, breathes deep, and marches toward the door with all the purpose of someone heading into a totally normal, definitely-not-existentially-charged meeting.

“Hey,” Felassan appears in front of him like a conjured spirit, a little flustered, patting the pockets of his jeans like he’s either looking for a lighter or forgot he’s wearing pants.

Solas halts mid-step. Just short of a collision.

“Hey,” he says, in a tone that is absolutely normal and calm—so normal and calm that Felassan throws him a vaguely suspicious glance before going back to rifling through his pockets.

Apparently, he finds what he was after. He pulls out his motorbike keys with an expression of deep relief.

“Oh. Thought I’d left them at the club last night,” he sighs, clutching them like a trophy. “Great. Let’s go.”

Solas feels the floor crack beneath him. Or maybe it’s just his heart, slipping clean out from under his ribs and landing somewhere around his feet.

“Let’s… go?”

“Yeah,” Felassan breathes, without even the decency to stay in the same room. He disappears down the hallway, and Solas has the sudden, vivid urge to bolt out the front door and lock him in. But too late—the elf reappears almost immediately, holding Cole’s hand, both of them dressed and ready, like this was always the plan and Solas had simply failed to receive the memo.

What the—?

“You need to stop by the club to grab the bike, right?” Felassan goes on, not even bothering to look him in the eye, busy plucking Cole’s cap off the hook by the door. “I’ll come with you—gives me a chance to pick up the motorbike.”

Solas thinks fast. He’s good at that. Trained in it, even. Survival mode. Misdirection. Swift exits. Excuses begin forming in his mind, falling into place like panicked little dominoes.

I’m running late.
You misunderstood—I’m not going to the club.
I’ve got a fever.
I left a pot of fennec stew on low heat three days ago and I just remembered.

Anything. Anything to escape what is rapidly turning into the worst-case scenario.

And for one insane, unfiltered second, he even considers the truth:

I don’t think it’s wise to show up in front of her holding hands with a man and a child like some picture-perfect family. Oh! And did I mention her name?

But Felassan steps closer. His expression shifts, brows drawn, head tilted, studying. He leans in. And sniffs. Loudly. Right next to Solas’s neck, who, startled, jerks back instinctively.

“Did you use my cologne?”

Solas wants to die. If the floor beneath him weren’t tile but soft, welcoming earth, he’d already be six feet under—no coffin, no ceremony. Just a quick descent into blessed obscurity.

Felassan’s eyes search his face with deadly seriousness, scanning him like he’s trying to read his soul, so close he could count every eyelash.

Solas opens his mouth, ready to let loose the most convincing, totally fictional “no” of his life—

—and his friend's phone starts to vibrate.

Felassan doesn’t look away. Not yet, he stares for a beat longer, eyes narrowed. Only when he swallows, throat dry, does the man reluctantly break eye contact. He fishes the phone from his pocket, and as soon as his eyes meet the screen, his expression changes. Fast.

Solas doesn’t move, frozen, watching the colour drain from his face.

“Who is it?” he asks, worried now.

When Felassan lifts his gaze to meet his, Solas sees it, clear as day: a cocktail of despair and resignation. He knows the answer before the name is even spoken.

Cassandra.

He instinctively holds his breath. He already knows why she’s calling. For a split second, he wonders why she didn’t just call him directly. And judging by the look Felassan shoots him, he’s wondering the same thing.

"I will go to my room," Cole sighs. He ghosts out without another word, silent as smoke, the sound of his soft footsteps swallowed by the hallway carpet. A door clicks shut in the distance.

Before Solas can realise what is happening, Felassan’s hand clamps around his elbow, dragging him down the narrow hall toward the studio.

“What—”

“Nope,” Felassan cuts him off, propelling him forward. “You’re coming with me.”

Solas digs his heels in, but tile isn’t much for traction, and Felassan has the wiry, unyielding grip of someone who’s wrestled wild animals. (He did. Once. Twice. Best not to ask.)

The studio door bangs open, the faint scent of turpentine and old wood greeting them like an old friend. Felassan shoves Solas inside with the care and tenderness of a man unloading a sack of potatoes. He straightens, ready to protest, but Felassan thrusts the vibrating phone at him like it’s some enormous, wriggling worm.

“It’s for you,” he mutters, voice taut with rising panic.

Solas shakes his head and tries to push the phone away.

“She’s calling you,” he insists.

“You’re the one who started flashing your badge at the police!”

“I did not!” Solas snaps, indignation flaring. “I wasn’t that stupid.”

Felassan throws up his hands. “Be the adult!”

“You stop acting like a child.”

Felassan inflates like a balloon about to burst, cheeks puffed, eyes wild. He bares his teeth like a feral dog cornered with nowhere to run. For one brief second, Solas genuinely fears he might bite him (not an irrational fear. It’s happened before.)

Fortunately, with a sharp curse under his breath and a snort through his nose, Felassan relents. He lifts the phone to his ear, throws Solas a glare that could blister paint, and mouths: I'm going to kill you for this.

As soon as he answers, his entire expression shifts in an instant. A smile blooms across his face, wide and radiant, completely fabricated. His voice becomes a velvet thing, warm and smooth, like he hasn’t just threatened physical violence seconds ago.

“Cassandra!” he says, syrupy and delighted. “What a pleasure! How are you?”

Solas tries to retreat. One step. Felassan’s hand shoots out like a trap and clamps around his wrist, eyes still smiling, voice still sugar-sweet into the receiver, but his grip says don’t you even think about it.

There’s a pause, and Solas can just about hear Cassandra’s cold voice on the other end, but not her actual words.

Felassan nods. “Of course, he’s right here with me.”

He tightens his grip on Solas’s wrist, clearly sensing an attempted escape.

“I’ll put him on now,” he adds, smiling like a shark—the bastard—and already moving to hand over the phone when his mouth suddenly forms a surprised O. He blinks.

Cassandra is still talking, words intelligible, as Felassan lowers the phone and stares at Solas for a long moment.

“She wants to speak to both of us,” he says at last, like announcing a death sentence.

Solas can’t help the tiny smirk that flickers across his face. It vanishes the moment Felassan presses the speaker button. And just like that, the blood freezes in his veins.

“Months of work,” the woman begins, her voice cold and metallic through the speaker. “Months of operations. Intelligence gathering. Surveillance. From the people who are supposed to be our best SEEK agents. All for what should’ve been simple. A quiet sweep. The final operation in a case that’s bled us for years.”

A beat of silence.

“Months of work. Flushed. Straight down the drain.”

The two men share a look—pupil to pupil—and for one desperate second, they might actually wish they could cling to each other like shipwrecked sailors about to go under. Even though they don’t yet know why, and that is what sends them spiralling.

Solas’s mind kicks into gear first. The lounge zone, the man in the black velvet suit, the two shady elves. He left Felassan alone, half-drunk, attention drifting like a balloon in the wind.

Felassan still hasn’t caught up. His brow furrows, lips part slightly, confusion blooming, but Solas sees it. The scope. The shape of the disaster.

He grips Felassan’s arm and gives him a wordless signal: Don’t talk.

Then, drawing in a breath, he speaks.

“Cassandra,” he says, voice steady. “Whatever happened—it’s on me.”

He can feel Felassan bristle beside him. Can see the look, wide-eyed, indignant, wounded, as if Solas just kicked a puppy on his way to martyrdom. But he keeps going.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Solas,” her voice cuts clean across his, glacial and inevitable. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Like a bucket of cold water to the face, Solas freezes. She always had this effect on him—Cassandra. Able to twist his tongue into knots, no matter how sharp or clever it usually was.

“Felassan.”

His friend jolts beside him, posture snapping to attention.

“If you’d be so kind as to power up the computer.”

“Right away,” Felassan replies, voice suddenly serious, the smirk and irreverence gone. Now he’s watching Solas carefully, scanning his face for clues, for context. But it’s clear he finds none. So he moves quickly.

He crosses to the entrance and retrieves the sleek black laptop from the wall-mounted safe. Carries it back with brisk efficiency, flipping it open as he drops into the chair. His fingers fly across the keys. Clearly, this is a routine. A protocol.

He gestures for Solas to come closer. He does, stepping in behind him, eyes fixed on the screen, trying not to feel like a teenager summoned to the headmistress’s office.

“Ready,” Felassan says once the system finishes booting. He glances toward the phone. “Now what?”

But no sooner does the question leave his mouth than the cursor begins to move.
Not under Felassan’s control, definitely not his either, and of course Cassandra has taken over. The mouse drags fluidly across the screen. Commands are entered in quick succession, silent and efficient.

Footage pops up. Grainy, black-and-white, timestamped, the glow of infrared lighting. The unmistakable sheen of night vision. It’s a city surveillance feed.

Solas recognises it immediately: the back entrance of the club. Rows of abandoned glass carts line the narrow path, a flickering overhead light sputters in the top corner of the frame. The silence is broken only by the distorted audio from the video feed—a low, indistinct hum, completely useless for gathering any real information.

The two men remain silent, eyes locked on the screen, holding their breath.

Nothing happens for at least twenty seconds. Felassan lifts a hand, as if about to speak—but Solas immediately slaps it down, cutting him off. He ignores the dark look Felassan throws him and gestures sharply to keep watching the video.

An elven young man—slim, dressed like any other club guest, with a haircut so plain it borders on forgettable—slips out of the building at a brisk pace. He’s facing away from the camera. Nothing strange at first glance—except that it’s the back exit, reserved for staff only. And Solas is certain he doesn’t recognise anyone that nondescript from their team. That’s the first thing.

Cassandra freezes the video. The silence that follows is absolute.

Solas narrows his eyes, placing a hand on the back of Felassan’s chair. He leans in slightly toward the monitor. There. There.

“Do you see it?” comes Cassandra’s voice through the speaker, as punctual as tax day.

Felassan doesn’t answer. So Solas does.

“Yes,” he says, simply. He points just above the elf’s elbow.

“Vallaslin,” Felassan comments flatly. “Means nothing. Ever since that damned book came out, half the elves have it tattooed all over themselves. Dalish or not.”

He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “I’d know. I’ve seen them inked in… more interesting places.”

A beat of silence before Cassandra’s voice cuts through. “And you, Solas? What do you think?”

He exhales slowly. His limbs ache with the weight of too little sleep and too much responsibility.

“Felassan’s right,” he declares. “The Vallaslin tattooed on the arm doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.”

He can almost see her face through the phone: expression tight, eyes sharp, sifting his tone like fine sand.

Beside him, Felassan scoffs. He can’t help himself. Of course he can’t. “That’s it? What, we’re supposed to be shocked by a kid with Vallaslin? This is exactly why we’re here in—”

The video resumes.

Faster now. The elf’s figure glides across the feed in an unnatural blur. Time jumps forward until the timestamp hits 3:15 in the morning. And Solas knows where he was at that time. He remembers, with a dull ache in his chest. But his thoughts empty completely when the next figure steps out: the man in the velvet jacket. 

He's on his back, his face not into view, and behind him, two others push a rattling handcart piled with crates—the kind you’d expect to see behind a bar, dusty with old liquor labels and the faint clink of empty bottles. Nothing remarkable at first glance.

Until one of them hits a pothole.

The cart jolts violently, and a crate teeters, then tumbles to the ground.

The lid bounces open. Cassandra pauses the footage with surgical precision. And in that frozen second, lit by the grainy black-and-white feed, the contents are unmistakable.

Lyrium. Pure lyrium crystals.

“…Shit,” is all Felassan manages.

“Funny,” Cassandra replies, cold and sharp. “That’s exactly what I said.”

But Solas doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, he just keeps staring at the screen, brow furrowed, shoulders tense—because something’s off.

“What the fuck!” Felassan bursts out, unaware of the chill running straight down Solas' spine. “How is that even possible? The deal wasn’t supposed to happen for another month!”

He slams his fist down on the desk. It does nothing, of course—but frustration needs an exit, and that’s the one it finds. Solas doesn’t flinch. He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, even as Cassandra’s voice cuts in, calm and clipped.

“Apparently, they moved it up.”

“Why didn’t I know?” Felassan continues, flailing. “I spent months bending over backwards for that bastard. Months earning his trust just to get into that fucking club! He promised—”

Solas shakes his head sharply, then gestures for Felassan to shut it.

“It’s not lyrium.”

The room stills. Even Cassandra—across continents and encryption—goes silent.

Felassan blinks at him, baffled. “What do you mean, it’s not lyrium?”

Solas’s jaw tightens. His fingers dig into the back of the chair, hard enough to sting. “It’s not normal lyrium.”

“Clarify,” Cassandra comes in, voice level but firm.

He exhales slowly through his nose. There’s a bitter, metallic taste rising in his mouth. His stomach is already turning. His skin feels too tight.

“The colour’s off.”

A pause.

“…It’s black and white,” Felassan points out, incredulous.

“It’s too dark!” Solas snaps, turning to him now, frustration cracking through. “How are you not seeing it? Lyrium refracts infrared—it always throws a white shimmer under night feed. Always. But this—this is dull. Heavy. Flat. Like it’s absorbing the light.”

Felassan stays quiet. The surprise drains from his face, replaced by a dark, serious frown. His eyes return to the screen, slower now, and a deep line carves itself across his brow. His usual flippancy is gone. Just stillness.

Solas stands beside him, breathing too fast. His chest rises and falls like a bellows, but he clamps his jaw shut, forcing each breath in through his nose, slow and deliberate. He doesn't want to speak yet. He doesn't trust what might come out.

The silence stretches.

Until, finally, Cassandra’s voice breaks it. This time, it's not cold.

“What do you think it means?”

There’s a careful hint in her tone, measured. Gentle. Not a word she’s known for. As if she’s processing this just as slowly, as if—for one flickering second—something like empathy had slipped past her defences and into her bloodstream. Which unsettles Solas more than any threat she’s ever made. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the screen, at the crate, at the crystal. At whatever this is.

“I have no idea.” he confesses, softly. A pause. His eyes narrow. “But I don’t like it.”

Felassan sighs loudly.

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters, dead serious now.

“Neither can I, truth be told,” Cassandra's voice snaps back to its usual icy calm—dry, cutting, and just ironic enough to make it worse. “I can’t believe all of this happened right under your noses.”

The two men exchange a guilty look. No excuses, just the shared, bracing knowledge of the scolding they both deserve.

“Felassan,” she says. “Where were you last night at 3:15?”

Solas watches his friend shake his head and rake a hand through his hair. “I… I don’t remember. At the club,” he mumbles, fingers dragging anxiously through his curls.

“Allow me to refresh your memory.”

Even before the feed shifts, Solas sees the panic blooming in Felassan’s eyes like a detonation. “No, wait—”

His voice dies as the screen flickers to life. Black-and-white city surveillance footage. A narrow harbor alley, the distant glow of ship lights just out of frame.

Camera: overhead.
Two figures.
One kneeling.
One standing.

The face is too grainy to see clearly, but the tied-back, long hair of the one standing… yes, it's Felassan’s. And the messy curls of the woman kneeling? Alarming in their resemblance to Isabela’s. Solas groans and turns away, pure horror twisting his face. The tips of his ears burn.

“I thought you said she broke up with you last night,” he mutters, shaking his head, very pointedly not looking.

“She did. After. Or before. Or... during? I don’t really—remember—"

Felassan glances at him, then at the screen, scrambling.

“Anyway, it’s not what it looks like—she dropped her keys and was just—”

The feed shifts, a pair of very naked, very toned buttocks fills the screen, Isabela’s hair barely visible between his legs.

“Oh. Oh,” Felassan stammers, frowning. “Yes. Guilty. Definitely guilty. Cassandra, could you just—?”

Solas turns towards the video, head tilted slightly, face blank. “You’ve actually built some muscle,” he says, casual.

Felassan shrugs helplessly, eyes still locked on the screen. “Well, yeah, I’ve been working out a bit and—”

“Enough.”

The video, mercifully, disappears. Yet both men continue staring at the now-blank screen for a long beat.

“I’m surprised you’re in the mood to joke, Solas.”

Cassandra’s voice slices through the silence like a slap across the face. Solas flinches.

Now it’s Felassan’s turn to enjoy himself, he thinks grimly, sighing through his nose. He says nothing. There’s no point. Cassandra has stones in her shoe, and she’s been waiting long enough to throw them. And honestly, he can’t blame her. Waking up to a blown operation, to a new drug on the streets (maybe), and the dawning realisation that her two most trusted agents are apparently the world’s most attractive liabilities. Right. Probably didn’t make for the most peaceful of mornings.

“I don’t think I need to explain your situation to you,” she begins. Then proceeds, very precisely, to do exactly that.

“A former criminal,” she says, voice cutting. “Once buried deep in the heart of the most powerful crime syndicate of our time. And then—you chose to cooperate with SEEK.”

Her voice sharpens.

“So we granted you protection. We gave you a fabricated identity. A carefully constructed cover story. A fake family—for optics. A live-in agent—for insurance. And several more stationed outside your building. Every. Single. Day.”

A pause, brief and scalding.

“You’re not just undercover. You’re a walking liability in a suit we tailored for you. And not only that.” Her tone turns bitter. “No. Leliana and I didn’t just bend protocol. We broke it. We twisted rules, burned favours, sold off pieces of our reputations… maybe even our souls—all to make this insane deal work. All so you could become one of us. Because you were useful. Because you were valuable. You led us here—to the last scraps of a syndicate that’s been rotting for years."

Her voice lowers, almost daring him to contradict her. “The Evanuris are dead—you know that better than anyone. What’s left is just smugglers pushing lyrium through half-forgotten channels, scavengers gnawing on the bones of power. We are so close to finally putting an end to it. And now?” A sharp exhale. “Now you’re the one threatening to unravel it all.”

She lets the silence stretch just long enough to sting. Solas closes his eyes. Shame rises—slow and steady.

And still, she isn't finished.

“Do you have any idea,” Cassandra continues, voice tighter now, “how many people are depending on your behaviour? How much this is costing us—in credits, in trust, in time? Do you understand how fragile this operation actually is? How important it is to finish this? To finally close this story—your story—once and for all?”

Each sentence lands like a blow. Clean. Undeniable. No room for rebuttal. And Solas knows—deep in his gut—that she hasn’t even reached the worst part yet.

“Answer me, Agent.”

“Yes, ma'am. I am aware.”

“Good. Then maybe you can explain the circus you pulled last night.” Her voice hardens, words accelerating like hailstones. “Using your identity to shake off a pair of incompetent officers? Do you know how many phone calls I had to take? How much time I wasted—including this call—just to patch up the disaster your idiocy left behind?”

“I’m sorry.”

“And do you have any idea, Solas, who the woman was that you were driving home?”

His throat tightens. He can feel Felassan’s eyes on him now—burning. Feels the pounding of his own heartbeat echoing in his skull. His face flushes hot with shame, exposure, adrenaline. Still, he stares ahead. Jaw clenched, unmoving.

“Agent,” Cassandra’s voice slices clean through the fog.

“Yes,” he says, finally. Quiet. “Yes, I knew who she was.”

“Unbelievable,” Cassandra spits. He can hear her exhale, sharp, furious, he can picture her pacing, one hand pressed to her temple, like she’s resisting the urge to put a fist through a wall. “Unbelievable that you would knowingly choose to get close to Ellana Lavellan.”

The name hits him like a gunshot to the gut. No, worse. Much worse. He’s been shot before. Stomach wound, close range. He remembers the searing heat, the way the world had shrunk to the size of a pinprick. But this burning, this twisting, this implosion—it's sharper. Deeper. Worse.

He parts his lips, yet no words come. And even if he could speak, it wouldn’t matter. Because like a grenade with the pin just pulled, Felassan explodes beside him.

“What?”

Solas turns to his friend, bracing for the usual. A sharp remark, a crude joke, a smirk, maybe. Some biting tease he can deflect or ignore. But none of that comes.

His best friend, the only person he truly trusts in the whole world, the man who saved his life all these years ago, the one who never once turned away, stares at him only with disbelief, disappointment, and—yes—betrayal. He knows that look. He's seen it before. And he deserves it.

He wants to confess he’s been a fool—that he is a fool—because despite everything, despite the danger and the chaos, he still wants to see her again. He wants to understand, to demand, to tear the truth out of her with his bare hands if he has to—because what if she’s not who they thought? What if she never was?

But he says nothing. Just stands there, silent, guilty. He hadn’t told him. Not even last night. Not even when they were dancing—arms wrapped around each other, heart to heart.

“I don’t care who you sleep with, Solas," Cassandra’s voice cuts in again, cruel and composed, but he still can’t tear his eyes from the wide, wounded stare fixed on him.

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” she goes on. “And be careful. She already knows too much. I don’t need to remind you how hard it was to get her to back off when she was chasing you for that book.”

Solas tries—uselessly—to defend himself. “I didn’t sleep with—”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about,” Cassandra snaps. “This was supposed to be your last job before retirement—the one you begged to take. The one you swore you could handle. Are you still with us, Agent? Or are you too tired? Too distracted to finish what you started?”

A long silence. Felassan’s gaze shifts, softening, ache slithering where only betrayal had been. Solas lowers his eyes, unable to bear it. When he speaks, his voice is stripped bare. "I’m with you. I will finish this."

“I'm glad,” Cassandra says, flat and cold. “Because you have one week. Both of you. One week to find out what happened, who’s involved, what was in those crates, and where in the Void they were going. Otherwise,” she adds coldly, “you’re out.”

Neither of them speaks. Cassandra sighs.

“One last thing, before I get on with what’s shaping up to be a spectacularly shit morning.” She exhales. For the first time, her voice wavers. She sounds exhausted.

“Did either of you notice anything strange last night? Before you… vanished?”

Solas turns to Felassan once more. A moment passes between them. And then, eyes fixed on his friend, without blinking—he lies: “No. Nothing unusual.”

Felassan’s gaze flinches, hardens, darkens, as if he didn’t know betrayal could keep growing sharper.

"Good." A breath. Maybe a sigh. Maybe just giving up. She doesn’t ask again.

Silence. Brutal. Long enough for Felassan to finally look away, his gaze shifting to the wall, jaw clenched, expression set to stone.

"I will leave you to it," Cassandra speaks once more. “And for the love of the Maker… try to keep your dicks in your pants while you work.”

The call ends.

Solas draws a breath. “Felassan, I…”

“You need to stop,” the other cuts in with a low hiss.

Solas blinks. “Stop what?”

Felassan’s gaze sharpens, impossibly colder. “Covering for me," he spits. “You don’t need to protect me anymore, Solas. If anything, it should be the other way around.”

Solas doesn’t manage to hide the surprise that crosses his face. He’d expected something else. Not that.

He regains composure quickly. “It was my fault,” he says—and means it.

Felassan just shakes his head, jaw tight. “We both fucked up last night," he pauses, then adds with steel in his voice, “Let’s not add any more mistakes. Lying to Cassandra has never ended well.”

Solas knows he’s right. But Felassan could’ve asked him even in Ancient Tevene—stop covering his ass? That’s not a request he’ll ever be able to honour.

“We’re late,” he mutters, already typing out the message to Ellana, adding a quick apology for the delay. “I’m going to get Cole.”

He turns, disappearing into the hallway.

And yet, he hears it, the low, bitter whisper: “Whatever you say, Fen’Harel.”

Chapter Text

She needed the bike. There was no doing without it. It was the one thing that gave her a measure of freedom, the only way she could move through the city on her own terms. She had never learnt to drive. Her parents had sold their old van, the aravel, almost as soon as they unpacked their stuff, just to keep up with the rent on that poky little flat in the quarter meant for the forgotten: a jumble of looming, soot-stained towers, grey and crammed so close she could hardly see the sky between them. They had consoled themselves with the hope that one day they would live somewhere better. Somewhere without rats scrabbling on the stairwell, without cockroaches nesting in the beds, without those cursed damp blotches on the ceiling that sometimes closed her lungs so tight she could barely breathe. Perhaps that was when the sickness began. She never really knew.

Years later, when her father had secured steady work at the docks and her mother scrubbed the rooms of a grand hotel on the seafront—one of those places with marble ceilings that seemed to float above velvet sofas and bathrooms larger than her own bedroom—they bought a car. Her mother was furious. It meant putting off, once again, the search for a new home. They delayed it so long that, in the end, they never left at all.

When her parents died—caught in the great inferno that would scar the city forever—the first thing Ellana did after laying them to rest was sell the car. After school, she worked double shifts in a dingy little café on the outskirts, but the pay barely made a dent in the mountain of bills she was suddenly saddled with. Her final year of school had been a living nightmare. Sometimes she marvelled that she hadn’t ended up on the streets, or dealing drugs like so many of the kids who haunted her neighbourhood corners, day and night.

Then came the scholarship. University. Things eased, just a little. She studied late in a cramped library near the café, worked herself to the bone, but made friends who genuinely cared for her. And then—before she had even begun to think about scraping together enough for a battered old second-hand car—success came. And with it, a life where she no longer needed one. Soon she would be driven everywhere, ensconced in the back of a long black car, with a driver waiting at the door.

So no car. Just her father’s old bike.

She needs it, Ellana tells herself. Yes, she can’t do without it, she repeats, she can’t wait until the weekend, when the club will surely be alive and throbbing again. She needs it, she insists—and that’s the only possible explanation for the situation she finds herself in.

Shut up inside this car that reeks of cologne—not the one the man wore last night, but splashed on so thick it clogs the air, sour and suffocating, as if someone had drowned themselves in it—which only worsens the queasy twist in her stomach. Shut up inside this car and, as last night, embarrassed, surrounded by strangers.

Only, she hadn’t expected this. No.

The embarrassment, yes, of course. That was inevitable. After all, Solas was involved. The same man she’d been having decidedly… unwholesome thoughts about, only a few hours before seeing him again outside her building. He had that strange air about him, as though he’d rather be anywhere but there with her. And it had to be mutual—or so she told herself when her heart jolted with dread at the sight of him, just a few steps from the entrance, head bowed, hands shoved deep into his pockets, nudging a pebble idly beneath his shoe.

In that moment, Ellana had wanted to go to him, to call out his name—but then she remembered how she’d sighed it moments before, fingers damp between her thighs, and thought better of it. So she stayed where she was, watching him in silence, until the door slammed shut behind her with a metallic clank. Only then did he finally deign to look at her.

And said nothing. Silent.

His eyes were tired, unbearably so, but she couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Those eyes, just last night, at the very end of everything, had been kind. Too kind. So she lowered hers.

Perhaps he moved towards her; she couldn’t be sure. She thought she heard the scrape of his shoe against the concrete, and maybe, just maybe, he was about to speak at last—when the car horn behind him blared, sharp and insistent, as if to say we’re late. And that was when she realised, with a strange, hollow pang in her chest, that they weren’t alone.

And no—truly—she hadn’t expected this.

To find herself in the back seat—that seat, the one she’d once imagined sodden with sex and sweat—with a child beside her. A child, of all things, wearing a cap far too big for his small head, with wide, wild eyes; grey so bright they looked like quicksilver, fixed on her as though passing judgement.

A child, she’d thought, when she opened the door and her jaw had dropped, while the boy stared back at her, expressionless.

Absurd.

As absurd as the man sitting next to Solas in the passenger seat. A man beautiful as the sun and silent as a stone. Dalish, apparently—judging by the Vallaslin of Mythal painted across his face. Apparently. She couldn’t be certain.

In any case, that man—Dalish or not—kept his eyes hidden behind a pair of thick mirrored sunglasses, dark lenses set in an elegant tortoiseshell frame that suited his deep olive-toned skin. He hadn’t removed them when she climbed into the car, nor had he really looked at her.

He simply sat there in silence, one arm resting on the edge of the open window, his brown hair pulled back into a neat bun, a strange piece of metal hugging one ear, and that faintly irritated air about him that had grated on her nerves from the very first moment.

And the drive to the docks had been exactly that: silent, tense, absurd, and unbearably awkward. The boy hadn’t taken his eyes off her. At one point, she was almost certain she heard him whisper something like, “You’re sad because they can’t see you.” A cold shiver crawled down her spine, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. It happened to her often, with children—that irrational fear that they could see straight through her, read her soul like an open book.

And this one, she had to admit, seemed particularly skilled at it.

Ellana thanks the gods when they finally cross the bridge and the dark, joyless outline of the club rises ahead of them. The car jerks into the park with little grace—fitting, really, for a journey that has been graceless from start to finish. When the engine dies with a gurgling, agonised sigh, the man in the sunglasses is the first to move. He opens his door quickly, his movements fluid, stealthy, almost fox-like.

She watches as he stretches briefly, then circles the car to tend to the boy. He opens the door with a care at odds with his aloofness, unfastens the seatbelt with deft fingers, and takes the child’s small hand gently in his own to help him down. All of it, of course, as though she didn't exist.

When she finally lifts her gaze with a weary sigh, she meets Solas’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He doesn’t look away.

It looks like a painting, that gaze. His arched brows, the small, delicate bump on his nose, scattered with reddish freckles like droplets of peach juice on skin pale as moonlight. Those sky-coloured eyes linger on her, distant and wistful, and she wonders why.

Her hands rest in her lap, still and useless, while he remains unmoving in the front seat. They hover there, held in that brittle moment where time slows its pulse.

At last, his gaze drops, and she notices the faint line of a scar on his forehead—something she’s never seen before. Then the door opens, and without a word, he steps out.

Ellana does the same.

The sun isn’t kind on the docks. It beats down, relentless, over the open space where shadows have evaporated along with the puddles, leaving only pale salt stains on the concrete. The great ships that are usually in constant motion, the people endlessly loading and unloading the huge metal bellies bound to carry goods across Thedas—today they’re gone.

Sunday morning moves at its own lazy, unhurried pace. Even the sea feels lighter, cheerful, gurgling softly against the pier, scattering the sunlight in blinding shards.

Ellana breathes in deeply, filling her lungs with the briny air, before turning her gaze back to the club which, in daylight, somehow manages to look even more neglected and menacing.

Solas has reached the man and the boy at the entrance. She watches them exchange a few quick words before Solas smiles, soft and warm, as he adjusts the boy’s cap on his head.

Ellana scowls, inexplicably.

Because they look like a family.

And it stings—that he’s brought along the whole little troupe, as if making a statement: I’m a taken man. I have a partner and a child. Stay away.

And maybe even: Don’t touch yourself thinking about me, thank you.

She flushes, more than she should, or maybe not enough, or maybe it’s just the sun, harsh and merciless, heating the tips of her ears until they burn.

The nerve, she thinks, to presume she was ever interested! To dismiss her without even the courtesy of a clear refusal! If he’d looked her in the eye and said, I don’t like you, she could have laughed, tilted her head with effortless disdain, and replied, Nor do I.

Oh yes. Very sharp. He would have withered. Absolutely.

Never mind that she would have gone home and deleted his number three times and restored it four. Never mind that she would have reread their stupid chat—the one where he’d been almost playful, almost flirtatious—at least ten times while convincing herself it had all been a hallucination brought on by poor Wi-Fi.

I might have read too much into it, she tells herself now, striding towards the club, determined to grab her bike and leave without a word.

She wonders if his partner (or husband, or the boy’s father, whatever the man with the Vallaslin is) greeted her so coldly because Solas came home late last night. With that bruise on his jaw that at first glance could have passed for a love bite, red and slightly swollen. And maybe that’s why the man treats her so icily.

Maybe he insisted on coming along: to stake his claim.

Ellana clicks her tongue to herself as she trails after the happy little family into the club.

You can keep him, she wants to tell him.

You seem just as charming as he is, she’d add.

You’re made for each other, she’d insist.

The club’s storage room is a maze of stacked crates of liquor, towers of glasses, and rows of metal cabinets. The dark walls make it feel cramped, so different from the wide, pulsing space where she’d danced the night before.

Dust and stale air hang heavy—cut through by expensive cologne.

Solas, she thinks when the warm, intense scent clings to the air around him. But then the other man passes close, and she catches it again. The same cologne. He heads for the motorcycle by the door: sleek, black and yellow, the kind of beast you polish more than you ride.

She wrinkles her nose. Either they use the same perfume… or they’d been late this morning because, before heading out, they’d been busy exchanging scents, fluids, and things she has no interest in imagining beneath the sheets.

Solas clears his throat. A reminder that she’s been staring far too long at someone else’s shiny toy. She drags her eyes back, follows the line of his hand.

Her bike. Finally. Wedged between chairs and a cabinet, loyal and unpolished. Too big for her frame, too heavy when it leans—but it’s hers. She grips the handlebars. A shaky breath escapes, relief sharp in her chest. Independence again.

She can leave behind the strangers from last night, and the heat still prickling at her ears.

Behind her, sunglasses-man slaps the seat of his bike, relief in the gesture. For an instant, she feels the kinship—two riders back with what matters. Then his head turns. A glance at her. A glance at Solas, rigid at her side. The relief drains. His expression hardens, hidden behind the dark glass.

Without a word, he turns toward the exit, his pace unhurried but purposeful.

“Going for a walk,” he says flatly, offering nothing more.

Ellana’s grip on the handlebars tightens.

The boy lights up instantly, scampering after him with quick, eager steps—steps so small and fast that, despite herself, Ellana finds them almost… adorable.

“Can I come with you?” he asks, tugging at the man’s trouser pocket.

The man doesn’t look down. Doesn’t even slow.

“As long as you don’t go chatting with rats again.”

Something shifts at the edge of her sight—Solas. He moves fast, one step forward, his body drawn taut.

“Felassan, don’t—”

“Relax.” The interruption comes without a backwards glance, as though his partner’s tension is little more than an old annoyance.

The boy beams at Solas, his grin wide and impossibly bright. “We’re going to find the bad men with the boxes at the docks!”

The laugh slips out of her before she can stop it. Light, helpless. Children, she thinks, their games always sound like truth.

“Cole, how many times have I told you…” Felassan’s exasperated voice trails off as they leave together, disappearing beyond the door, swallowed by the sunlight.

The sound of their steps fades. Their voices, too. Even their shadows. And terror blooms in her chest. Slowly, her gaze drifts toward Solas. He’s studying the wheels of her bike as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the room, determined not to meet her eyes.

And now? she thinks. And now you're alone with him. Now you have what you wanted, a cruel little voice whispers in her head. Ellana coughs, as if the sound could drown it out, replacing it with something rational, steady: It’s time to go home.

“Well,” she says, fingers tightening around the rubber handles of her bike. She doesn't know what to say, so she chooses the safer path. Politeness. “Thank you.”

There’s a moment of silence. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

Assuming that’s the end of their brief… whatever this was, Ellana starts walking toward the exit.

“Have you had breakfast?”

His voice is cracked by something Ellana can’t quite place, or maybe she can, but she tells herself it’s impossible. Hope?

She turns towards him slowly, a little surprised.

“Because I haven’t,” he continues, his voice steadier now. “And if you’re about to climb the bridge on an empty stomach… in this heat, that cannot be good for you.”

“Okay,” she blurts, too quickly—and immediately realises how senseless it sounds, because he hasn’t actually asked her anything yet. “I mean… if you want to have breakfast. Okay.”

They walk for a while along the seafront, the bike a quiet companion between them, until they reach the more touristy stretch of the port, the part where cafés and patisseries cluster shoulder to shoulder.

Coloured awnings flutter in the breeze, parasols cast round pools of shade, and the tables each speak their own language: some dressed in white-and-red chequered cloths, the kind tourists imagine must exist in Antiva; others framed by sleek glass verandas, all dark tones and sharp lines, so unmistakably Tevinter; still others, long wooden tables with the easy warmth of Ferelden taverns. And then the dainty Orlesian tables—wrought iron, their three legs curling into elegant scrolls, set with spotless white linens and tiny blown-glass vases holding flowers so bright and fragrant they seem alive.

The Free Marches have always been the in-between place. Independent, yet forever fighting to define themselves—and often failing, dismissed instead as Thedas’s refuse. No man’s land, they call it. Perhaps that’s why the few tourists who visit Wycome in the summer come here: to feel like they’re nowhere and everywhere at once. To travel the continent in a single street, tasting and smelling its patchwork of cuisines and cultures, everything, from everywhere. Everywhere except the Free Marches.

As they pass a patisserie dressed in soft pastels, its windows crammed with trays of cream puffs, mignons, macarons, éclairs, and cakes crowned with what look like heavenly swirls of cream and fresh fruit, Solas’s gaze lingers longer than usual. His pace slows, perhaps without him even realising it.

Ellana glances at the treats on display, then at the man beside her, and can’t help but notice the slow rise and fall of his throat, as though he’s swallowing down the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth.

She forces herself not to laugh. Instead, she stops casually, feigning deep interest in the pretty little cakes behind the glass.

“Would it be all right if we stopped here?” she asks in a deliberately calm tone.

He halts a little too abruptly. Blinks. After another brief glance at the window, says simply:

“All right.”

After parking the bike against a post a little way off, they settle into the small outdoor seating area. The tables are round, painted metal in a delicate shade of pink, while the chairs—each a different colour, all in soft pastel tones—look like something from the dream of a shy child.

They choose the spot closest to the sea, where the shade is deepest and the breeze gentlest, and sit in silence, facing one another. On the table, there’s nothing but a faint bloom of rust the owner must have missed.

The sound of the sea fills the pause between them—a silence that feels equal parts fragile and awkward. They don’t meet each other’s eyes. Ellana studies the fleck of rust; he… she can’t tell what he’s looking at.

“What will you have?” she asks at last. Lifting her gaze, she realises he’d been watching the striped parasol above them, its blue-and-white fabric fluttering in the breeze.

“Orange juice,” he says simply, like a child, and Ellana does her best to swallow the smile threatening her lips.

“Orange juice? That’s it?” she asks, her tone light with amusement despite herself. “No coffee? No tea?”

He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Orange juice will be fine.”

The smile finally breaks across her face, impossible to hold back. She stands, about to head inside, but he looks puzzled.

“Wait, I’ll—”

“No.” Her tone is firm. “You walked me all the way here. At least let me buy you breakfast.”

He tries to object—out of politeness, maybe gallantry—but she meets his eyes with quiet determination, and in the end, he yields.

Ellana steps into the patisserie, and at once the air fills with the rich scent of butter and caramelised sugar. Her stomach twists, a sharp reminder that she hasn’t eaten since the sad, lifeless sandwich they handed her on the plane.

The waiter at the counter greets her with a warm smile and a perfectly lilting Orlesian accent. Ellana orders the orange juice for Solas, a double shot espresso for herself, and then points to a pastry in the glass case. She has no idea what it is, but it looks stuffed with lemon cream and large enough to quiet the ache of hunger clawing at her.

She lingers, eyes drifting over the display: neat rows of glossy, jewel-like confections, every one of them a tiny work of art. She hesitates. Remembers the way Solas had stared at the window earlier, the unguarded flicker of interest he’d betrayed.

By the time the coffee is ready and the juice glows bright orange in its glass, she adds to the order a slice of sponge cake topped with cream and strawberries—the kind of frilly cake that looks like it belongs in the pages of a glossy magazine.

The bill is steep. She’d expected as much. So she pays without fuss, offers a polite smile, and carries the tray back to the little table where Solas waits.

She tries not to notice how he looks in that too-small chair, his long legs awkwardly stretched beneath the table. His posture is rigid, shoulders held unnaturally straight, his head turned toward the sea as if it might offer him an escape. His fingers toy absently with the table’s edge, nails picking at a stray bead of dried paint left there by whatever craftsman last tended to it. From what she can see of his profile, with his face slightly angled toward the water, his brows are faintly furrowed, his lips drawn a little thinner than usual.

Ellana clears her throat softly to announce herself. He turns immediately. His hands fall to his sides, and he shifts in the chair, drawing his knees in as best he can so she won’t bump into his feet as she sets the tray down and takes her seat opposite him.

When she sits and places the glass of juice and the ridiculous slice of cake in front of him, he looks genuinely surprised. His eyes lift to hers, wordlessly asking, “This is for me?”

Ellana gives a small nod, hiding a faintly amused smile behind the rim of her coffee cup. She sips carefully, trying to ignore the almost reverent way he looks at his juice and cake, as if they’re a gift far more precious than they are.

The silence stretches for a few more seconds, like the soft breeze that stirs the loose fabric of his shirt against his chest.

Ellana takes a bite of her pastry. She chews too quickly, the sweetness sharp on her tongue, her stomach answering with a grateful little gurgle. Heat rises to her cheeks as she lifts a hand to cover her mouth. It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow, amused.

“Is it a habit of yours, forgetting to eat?” he asks, just before slipping the bite between his lips.

“It’s been a… strange few days,” she admits. Not a lie. He nods and says nothing more, returning to his cake. She sets her tiny fork down on the plate and pauses, letting her gaze drift out toward the sea.

It’s beautiful, she realises—more beautiful than she remembers. The town still slumbers; too early yet for Wycome to stir on a Sunday morning. The stillness is pleasant. Ellana lets herself rest in it, her gaze wandering back to him.

That’s when she notices. His eyes are not on her face, but fixed lower—on her wrist. Without thinking, she curls her fingers around it, covering the red mark as if her own hand could pass for a bracelet.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is quiet, almost too quiet, like a sound meant to stay between them.

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly.

He leans back in his chair but doesn’t look away. “If it were nothing, you wouldn’t hide it.”

Her fingers fidget with the edge of the plate, then with the little fork, spinning it absently until the metal slips and taps against the ceramic—sharp, out of place. She startles at the sound. The fork falls from her grip. She tucks both hands into her lap, out of sight.

“I’m fine.” Her gaze stays on her coffee. The words are colder this time. “I told you, it’s nothing. Serves me right for getting drunk and passing out in a stranger’s car.”

He watches her for a moment, jaw tight, his knuckles whitening against the edge of the table. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Her eyes lift before she can stop them. She meets his, and the plea is there before she can hide it. He goes still. She hears the small pause in his breathing, sees how his focus sharpens on her, and the space between them seems to draw in.

He nods once, almost to himself, the furrow in his brows loosening but never quite leaving. “Anyway—” he starts, a faint smile pulling at his mouth, more effort than ease. “—you didn’t pass out in the car,” he says, voice lighter now. “You fell asleep.”

Her shoulders lower with her next breath. The grip on her cup loosens; heat seeps into her palms.

He lowers his eyes, drawing the fork through the cake, the tines whispering against the plate, then sets it down. He rubs his thumb slowly over the edge of his knuckle, a quiet, restless motion.

Ellana curls her fingers more securely around the cup, the warmth rising to her cheeks. “So…” She keeps her tone light. “Why work in a bookshop by day and a club by night?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes his time cutting into his food, as though her question hasn’t quite landed or he’s deliberately giving himself a moment to think. When he does glance up, it’s brief, his gaze sliding away again almost immediately.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks finally, voice calm but with an edge, like he’s testing her.

Ellana falters. “I don’t know. Just curious, I guess.”

He hums at that—low, skeptical—and glances out at the sea before answering. “Because it works. The hours don’t clash. I can do both.”

When she doesn’t reply, he adds, “And I like keeping busy.”

It’s an answer, but not the real one—she can hear it in the way his tone doesn’t quite match his words.

“That can’t be the only reason,” she says gently.

He pauses, fork still in his hand. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to dismiss it entirely. But then he sets the utensil down with a soft metallic clink, leans back in his chair, and studies her like he’s deciding whether she’s earned a better answer.

“It isn’t,” he admits. “Perhaps I like to see the same people in different lights," he says, deadpan.

Caught off guard, Ellana lets out a small, awkward laugh. “And which light do you prefer?”

“Usually, the bookshop,” he replies after a beat. “But sometimes… at the club, late at night, people drop the act. And that’s when you really see them.”

He says it with a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Ellana quickly takes another bite of her pastry, probably to excuse herself from having to answer. He returns to his orange juice, sipping it slowly as though it were hot tea, his expression already settling back into its familiar seriousness.

“The bookshop, unfortunately, isn’t very profitable,” he sighs at last, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug.

Ellana swallows her bite, tilting her head. “Do you like it?”

That smile again, faint, but warmer this time, one that makes her forget what she was about to say next. Her gaze lingers on his lips a moment too long.

“I do,” he says. “Reading’s always been… a kind of stillness for me. A way to make sense of things, to put them back in order.” He pauses, letting the thought settle between them, and in that silence she notices how different he seems—lighter somehow, as if talking about it takes some of the weight off his shoulders.

“I like to think it does the same for others,” he adds, softer now. “That I can help someone find what they didn’t even realise they were searching for. If I could…” His gaze drifts away, unfocused, like he’s already imagining it. “I would stay with the bookshop. That would be enough.”

Ellana blinks. “So why don’t you?”

He laughs softly, a sound that starts real but quickly becomes smaller. “Because it’s not that simple, is it?” His eyes lower, his smile tightening. “Surviving on nothing but what you love… that’s a luxury people like me don’t often get.”

Ellana feels it again—that sadness in his eyes, the weariness in his voice. It lodges in her throat like a knot, almost painful, but her curiosity outweighs it.

“People like you?” she asks, resting her hands on the table, one over the other.

The question seems to pull him out of the haze he’d let himself drift into, that fleeting softness he’d had when speaking of his bookshop. He shifts in his seat, straightening slightly, and a shadow crosses his face—too brief for her to know whether it was anything more than the passing cloud of a stray thought.

“Yes,” he begins, cautious. “I mean, ordinary people. People who have to make it to the end of the month.”

Ellana nods, all too aware of what that means. For a moment she thinks of leaving it there, but the thought pounds in her head, insistent, until she can’t keep it in. “So you do it for your family.”

He tilts his head, as if he doesn’t quite follow. He looks almost suspicious, so she gathers her courage and clarifies. “The child. And your… partner.”

There’s a pause that feels endless to her, long enough for embarrassment to sink its claws in. Gods, what an idiot she must sound like. It’s none of her business, and damn, she prays it doesn’t sound like she’s really asking if that is his family, if that is really his partner, if he’s… available, for all intents and purposes.

Her gaze drops to her hands, to her nails, to anywhere but his eyes.

“Oh, Cole. And Felassan,” he says, almost as if the names surprise him too.

Ellana notices a split nail on her fingers and stares at it as though it were the centre of the universe.

“In a way,” he continues, “they’re my family.”

For some reason, she has the inexplicable urge to rip that nail right off.

“But Felassan and I don’t…” The words trail into nothing, dissolving between them, and when she lifts her gaze back to him, she finds him rubbing the back of his neck, searching for the right explanation to give her. “Not anymore,” he says at last, with a small shrug, as though that’s all there is to say.

Ellana bites the inside of her cheek, hard, to keep the smile threatening to bloom across her face from escaping.

“And Cole, the boy… it's a long story,” he adds, sounding almost defeated with himself, irritated by his own admission.

“It sounds complicated,” she says, offering him a way out, but he doesn’t take it.

“Complicated how?” he echoes, and for a moment she wonders if he’s stalling or if he really expects her to ask.

Ellana hesitates, then gestures vaguely with her hand. “I mean… you and Felassan. And the boy. How does that even work?”

He exhales through his nose, eyes slipping away, then says, “We live together,” like it’s the simplest, most obvious answer in the world—though to her, it explains nothing at all.

“It sounds very complicated,” she says, stifling a nervous laugh.

“It’s… temporary.”

She sees the furrow settle between his brows, the way his jaw works as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say. Ellana contorts her face into something she hopes communicates I don't care.

“You don’t have to justify yourself,” she offers, and immediately bites her tongue.

“I’m not justifying myself,” he replies, defensive, sharper than before.

“No—I mean—I just…” She fumbles, scrambling to patch her misstep. “Living with your ex and a child can’t be easy, that’s all. It’s… admirable?”

The word hangs limp in the air, unconvincing even to her own ears. He clearly thinks so too, because he only raises an eyebrow before slumping back in his chair with a frustrated sigh.

“Felassan is a dear friend,” he declares at last, clearly stuck in a loop. “And today… he’s not always like that. Usually, he’s quite the opposite. But he had a rough night too.” He shrugs, as though baffled by his own explanation. “And Cole… he needs me.”

His voice softens on that last confession, stripped of the earlier irritation, so sincere that it pulls an unexpected smile from her.

“You seem to care about them,” she says quietly, and he looks back at her. He smiles too—a small, almost imperceptible thing, but genuine.

“Cole… he isn’t like other children.” He toys with the fork on his plate. “There’s something special about him. Something others don’t see.”

Ellana stays silent, uncertain whether to push for more or change the subject, but he seems at ease, his shoulders relaxed, his expression softer. His gaze drifts past her, out toward the harbour, and when she follows it, she sees Felassan and the boy walking together along the distant waterfront.

“His mother was a friend of mine,” Solas says, his voice lower now, eyes still on them. “When she passed, I took Cole in.”

Ellana wonders who this man really is—the one sitting across from her now. So different from the night before, so gently complicated that the tenderness in his voice and his sudden willingness to share knot her stomach.

“He was lucky to have you."

The look he gives her in return carries a hint of pain. His lips part as though he might answer, but instead he lowers his gaze to his plate. When he speaks again, it’s only a quiet, “Maybe.”

She knows then that he won’t say more. That perhaps he’s already said too much. And though curiosity scratches at her mind, she doesn’t press.

“And you? What brings you here? Working on a new book?” he asks after a few seconds of silence, taking another sip of juice.

Ellana feels the knot in her throat again. For a moment, she considers lying—something easy, something deflective. But then she looks at him. He seems genuinely interested. He’s been honest with her, open even. And besides, he’s a stranger. Maybe she’ll never see him again. So why not tell the truth?

“...No.” She exhales. “I haven’t managed to write much lately.” A bitter smile tugs at her lips. “At all, actually. For months.”

He sets his glass down, leaning back. “No interesting stories?”

Ellana shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I need to change genres. Go back to what I used to do.”

That seems to catch him off guard; she sees it in the way his brows lift suddenly. “You’ve written other books?”

“Yes.” Her smile softens, small and wistful. “Published with an independent house. In the beginning, it was just me and my editor.”

She remembers it like it was yesterday—how Varric had believed in her before anyone else did. Before his brother, Bartrand, got involved. When it was just the two of them, her staying up late reading his wildly successful noirs, and him marking up her drafts in those same nights, in that same room. Her smile widens at the memory of the way the silence would sometimes be broken by his unrepeatable vulgar mix of curses and praises—better than any five-star review or award she’d ever received.

“So you came back here for inspiration,” Solas says casually, tilting his head. “Or for memories.”

“Maybe.” Ellana’s expression darkens again as she wonders what, exactly, she came here for. Once more, a lie coils on her tongue. And once more, looking this half-stranger in the eye, she chooses the truth instead.

“I don’t… I don’t really know. Sometimes I think I’d like to write just for myself, but I can’t. When I was a child, I kept diaries. I used to write just for…” She stops. Too much. Too honest. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” he says with an easy shrug, then adds, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “Maybe you should start there. Diaries.”

She lets out an amused huff. “Diaries are for heartbroken teenagers.”

He smiles, gaze dropping to his plate as he absently turns the fork in his hand. “Then maybe they’ve figured out something the rest of us haven’t.”

“Right,” she says dryly. “Next thing you’ll tell me is to start writing poetry in pink gel pens.”

That earns her a quiet laugh, low and genuine. “Only if it helps,” he replies, unbothered.

He doesn’t add anything else, simply enjoying another forkful of that cream-and-strawberry cake. Ellana glances at him sideways. He looks… serene. Almost content, lips glossed with sugar and ripe fruit. Younger, somehow, as a low hum of approval rumbles in his throat when he swallows, chasing the sweetness with an even sweeter sip. Just as he lowers the glass, Ellana spots a small smear of cream on the tip of his nose.

She hesitates, lips parting, then pressing shut again. She raises a hand to the tip of her own nose and taps twice, giving him a look that all but begs him to understand.

Of course, he doesn’t.

He only lifts an eyebrow at her, staring as if she’s some peculiar creature, maybe a toad with rabbit’s teeth.

With a sigh of pity, she leans forward.

“You’ve got a… bit of cream,” she says, halfway to brushing his skin before she stops, startled by the way he suddenly stiffens.

“Oh.” He wipes at it with the heel of his hand—too quick, too rough—only managing to smear it a little higher across the bridge.

He glances at her, hopeful. “Better?”

“You’re good,” Ellana lies, schooling her face into polite neutrality. He seems satisfied with that, folding his hands on the table again. The silence that follows—punctuated by the faintly courteous smile he gives her—only makes it harder to swallow the laugh bubbling up in her chest.

But it dies out quickly, even without effort. Because out of nowhere, he leans back in his chair and says:

“Why did you write it?”

Ellana sighs. Tired, but not surprised. “Write what?” She’s stalling.

“Your book.”

“You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve written three.”

He doesn’t blink. “And only one turned mass murder into box office gold.”

"Ah. That one.” A bitter little smile spreads across her lips. “I’ve been asked that question at least a hundred times. Haven’t you seen the NugFlix special?”

He exhales, unimpressed. “No. And there aren’t any cameras here. You can tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know…” she says, feigning suspicion. “How do I know you’re not wearing a wire?”

She says it like a joke, maybe a little too dry, but still clearly a joke. Which is why she doesn’t quite understand the startled flash across his face. But it lasts only a beat.

“Sundays are my wire-free days.”

Ellana chuckles softly, returning her gaze to the rust stains on the table. The silence that follows stretches long. For a moment, she considers changing the subject—but then doesn’t. She toys with the crumbs on her plate.

“I was obsessed with it,” she says at last.

“That’s not the answer you gave in interviews."

Ellana shoots him a sideways look, amused. “So you did see it.”

He smiles back. “Maybe.”

There’s a pause—a strangely companionable one—before she shrugs.

“Well, you don’t get invited back if you say, ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about the violence.’”

“Ah. So instead, you said it was about truth.”

“Well,” she grimaces, voice a little cooler now, “I did try to show things as they were. I thought I could show the damage for what it was. No heroics. No gloss. Just the truth. Or as close as I could get.”

He wrinkles his nose. “And if it happens to sell, well. What a fortunate coincidence."

There’s something almost challenging in his voice now, a spark of anger beneath the surface. Ellana wipes her hands on her trousers—it’s absurd, really, this man talking about truth with whipped cream still smeared across his nose.

“You seem awfully upset for someone who wasn’t involved.”

He tilts his head. “Am I upset?”

“You’re certainly invested.” She taps a finger lightly against the edge of the table.

“I’m invested in the idea that stories shape belief. And belief shapes behaviour. Every war begins with a story. Every regime. Every religion. Before someone picks up a weapon, they believe something first.”

“That doesn’t make the storyteller the general,” she snaps.

“No,” he replies, calm, almost too calm. “But it makes them the architect. Have you read the news lately?”

Ellana arches an eyebrow, wary now.

"Teenagers quoting lines from your book,” he says, voice quiet but precise. “Dressing up like them. Re-enacting scenes. There was a school in Denerim where two boys assaulted a girl and called it a tribute.”

Her stomach turns, slow and cold.

He doesn’t look triumphant. Doesn’t look pleased. Just tired. Steady. Like someone who’s seen the same thing one too many times.

“Would you rather I’d written it in all caps?” she bites. “THIS IS BAD. DON’T DO IT.”

“I’m suggesting,” he says evenly, “that you knew exactly what you were doing—and did it anyway.”

She draws a slow breath, steadying herself. “Would you feel better if I said I didn’t?”

He watches her in silence for a moment, gaze sharp, as if trying to crawl inside her head. “I suppose not.”

“You want the truth?” she says, leaning forward. “I wanted people to see them for what they really were.”

He lets out a small laugh—condescending, infuriating—and it grates instantly.

“And what were they?”

“Dangerous. Violent criminals.” Her voice is flat, unflinching. “But still people. That’s what makes them worse.”

He stares at her now, the smirk gone.

“Care to elaborate?”

“They weren’t just monsters,” she says, the words spilling fast, unfiltered. “That’s what no one wants to admit. Evil doesn’t slink around with fangs and glowing red eyes—it shakes your hand. It holds your gaze. It makes you laugh and quotes philosophy and brushes your chin when it speaks. Evil sleeps in your bed.”

She leans back and continues. “If you make them monstrous, people feel safe. But if you show them as ordinary, if you say—look, this is what cruelty looks like in daylight, in good lighting, in expensive clothes—then people start to get uncomfortable. Because they recognise it.”

She looks away for a moment. When she turns back: “The truth is, I believed in language. That if I got the tone exactly right—clean, spare, no moralising—it would speak for itself. That people would feel the violence underneath.”

Serious now, he runs his palm over the tabletop, once, twice, then looks back at her. “And they didn’t.”

“Some did,” a hand flutters in the air. “But most of them just memorised the lines.”

His eyes narrow for a moment, as if he’s nearsighted and trying to bring her into focus. A circle around the edge of the saucer with the tip of his finger. Thoughtful. “And still, you believe it’s worth telling.”

“Only because silence is worse. Silence pretends nothing happened. A story at least says—this did. It leaves a mark.”

She shakes her head in frustration. “Anyway,” she mutters. “I’m not looking for excuses. If the public reacted that way, then I made mistakes. Every act of violence justified by my book is on me. I’m not asking for forgiveness, let alone redemption.”

"Why not?"

She scoffs. "I'm not that naive."

Solas furrows his brow, a thought he can’t quite express reflected in those fine lines suddenly claiming his forehead. His expression grows cautious, and his voice wary when he speaks again. “You don't believe people could be redeemed, then?”

“Not all of them, no. You disagree?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drift toward the sea again. “I think people want redemption to be real because it gives them hope they’ll survive themselves.”

She studies him now, her expression softening, if only a little. She watches as he looks away, and in that slightly tense jawline, in those distant eyes tracing the play of light on the water, framed by the gentle hum of voices around them, she sees a man with shadows under his eyes that seem to anchor his gaze, a man who stares at the sea and maybe, like her, wonders what it would be like to slip beneath it—searching for starfish, only to find jellyfish instead.

“Redemption is a beautiful story," she murmurs. "That’s why it sells.”

He turns to her, swallows once, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s not supposed to sell. It’s supposed to save.”

She thinks of the girl who was assaulted at school. She thinks of the tattoos that once meant faith and history. She thinks of herself, when she answers in a voice that has gone cold: “Maybe not everyone deserves saving. That’s all.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bite back, just breathes in slowly through his nose, as if he’s heard those words before. Maybe too many times, so many that they’ve worn grooves into him, so many that he no longer reacts to them, except in the stillness of his eyes. Her own fingers curl against her palm, restless with the need to do something, to reach out and touch him, to shake him, to say something reckless and human and comforting, though she’s not sure whether it would be for his sake or hers.

He looks so sad, so wistful all at once—so unexpectedly fragile and unguarded in his silence—that she tries to look away, to give him the dignity of turning her eyes elsewhere. But she can’t. Because her gaze snags on it again, that ridiculous little smear of whipped cream still clinging to the curve of his nose, absurd and out of place on a face so solemn.

“I think I should be going,” he says suddenly, glancing at the plate where a lonely forkful of cake still waits. Ellana’s eyes drop to her own pastry, abandoned halfway through.

Silence settles between them. Neither makes a move. She lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “All right.”

Their eyes meet once, briefly, before darting away. They rise without speaking. Ellana’s legs feel heavier than they should, her feet slow to obey, her thoughts drifting off in different directions. Yet in the end, they leave the little café table behind and walk towards the lamppost where her bicycle is chained.

She tries not to notice the couples passing arm in arm, the serene faces, the easy laughter, the glances that speak of long familiarity. Her gaze stays fixed on the grey pavement. She refuses to look at him—refuses to see whether that shadow of sadness is still there, or if something else has replaced it: calm, perhaps. Anger. Anything. She keeps her eyes down and keeps walking.

They stop only when they reach her faithful salmon-pink mountain bike. Keys already in hand, she unloops the chain and tucks it neatly beneath the saddle. Her fingers wrap around the rubber grips. But when it comes time to swing her leg over and ride away—when there’s nothing left but to say goodbye and push off into the street—her feet feel rooted to the spot, unwilling to cooperate with the inevitable end of their short acquaintance.

She’s stood here before.

“That’s the third time I’ve said goodbye to you,” she says with a soft, amused breath. She can tell she’s caught him off guard; it’s there in the quick widening of his eyes before they slip away into the water.

“Perhaps this time it will stick,” he says, light and harmless.

She smirks. “I bet you’d like that.”

He snorts. “We should have done this back at the café. I have nothing left to throw in your face now.”

“Yes, about that.” She shifts her weight forward, the bike tipping with her, her balance tilted toward him without meaning to. The chain rattles as it slides against the dock post. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You were drunk.”

Ellana frowns. “Yes, well. It still wasn’t very nice. I’m sorry.”

He blinks, holding her gaze a moment too long, his eyes scanning hers as if checking for a trick. “Was that… an apology?”

“I’m a very polite person, I’ll have you know.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. He looks irritatingly good in the heat, skin flushed, shirt clinging. “Polite isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Oh? And what would you use?”

A gull screams overhead. She watches his mouth hesitate, curious in spite of herself.

“Unusual.”

“…Is that an insult?”

“It’s an observation.”

She tilts her head, the sunlight spilling across her collarbone. Waiting.

“It means you’re unexpected," he adds, "You change things.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

A faint smile from her. “Big things or small things?”

“Both.”

"That's vague."

“Vague is safer until I know you can handle the truth.”

“Oh, so I can’t handle it?”

“Prove me wrong.”

She arches a brow. “That’s meant to be charming?”

“Was it?”

“Not even close.”

“Then I’ll have to try harder.”

She leans in just slightly, enough for him to notice. “Are you always this insufferable?”

“When I’m on the defensive, yes.”

“Do you feel attacked?”

“By you? Constantly.”

“Ah. A woman who can hold her own in a conversation. Must be a threat.”

“Are you calling me a misogynist now?”

She tips her head, casual on the surface. “A touch.”

His eyes narrow, his shoulders squaring. “On what evidence?”

“I sometimes think that if I’d put a man’s name on my book, there’d have been a lot less fuss.”
“And somehow I’m responsible for that?”
“You have the look.”
“The look?”
“The one that says you’re humouring me.”
“I don’t humour people.”
“You’re humouring me right now.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s just your excuse.”
“And what’s yours?”
“For what?”
“For picking a fight every other sentence.”

Her chin lifts, lips curving. “Maybe I like seeing if you can keep up.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “And maybe I can.”

“Maybe you can’t.”

The pause that follows is longer. His jaw works once. She notices the way his hand flexes at his side. Without realising it, they’ve drifted into the same breath, so close that the heat of him brushes her skin. His eyes slip to her lips. Her gaze stumbles over the smudges of cream still clinging to his face.

Heat pricks at her throat, and a small, breathy laugh escapes before she can swallow it down.

“What?” he asks, brows drawing together.

“You…” she starts, then lets a small smile tug at her lips. “You’ve still got cream on your nose.”

He reaches up, touches the wrong side.

“No—there.” She lifts her hand almost lazily, as though she’s not sure why she’s bothering, but it’s a lie—she knows exactly why. Her fingers hover in the small space between them, teasing the air. She could stop here—should stop here.

That little smudge catches the light, an absurd, tiny star against his skin, and she finds herself staring far too long for something so harmless. She wonders, in a flash of recklessness, what it might taste like if she leaned in and kissed it away. The idea is ridiculous, wildly inappropriate. Which is precisely why she’s tempted.

Her hand closes around his chin, firm but unhurried, tilting his face toward her. Her pulse pounds loud enough to make her almost certain he can hear it—possibly even read every errant thought marching across her skin—yet she doesn’t let herself pull away, doesn’t let herself retreat into the safety of distance, because there is something magnetic about the way he looks at her now, something in those deep, wide eyes that holds her fast, that is both a question and an invitation and a warning all at once.

He freezes. Every muscle goes taut, like he’s holding himself together, waiting for her next move. She can see the pale rings around his pupils, the slight parting of his lips, the hitch in his breath, and she feels reckless enough to ignore it all as she swipes her fingers over his nose—slow, deliberate—and then, without breaking his gaze, she slips them between her lips, tasting the sweet, silken vanilla as it melts over her tongue, knowing exactly what she’s doing and too far gone to care.

His blush is instant and merciless, spilling up his neck and into his ears. She feels the answering heat under her own skin, but hers is matched with the low hum of satisfaction curling through her. She leans back just enough to let a small, sly smile bloom hot and radiant on her lips.

He doesn't speak. He doesn’t even blink, just hovers there in the space between them, gaze flicking over her once, twice, three times—over her mouth, back to her eyes, then lower again—like he’s searching for an answer she doesn’t know how to give, and in that endless, suspended moment she finds herself wondering the most absurd things—what his tongue might taste like, whether there’s still vanilla clinging faintly to his lips, whether he tastes of sugar or strawberries or something brighter, sharper, like citrus, orange juice—and she realises, in a rush that steals the breath from her lungs, that she wants to find out.

“Call me when you’ve caught up,” she says instead, stepping back and swinging her leg over the bike. She doesn’t wait for his reply. One push and she’s moving, the air cool against her flushed skin, the sweetness of the cream still lingering on her tongue.

By the time she’s halfway down the street, her pulse is still hammering. She thinks she might have completely lost her mind. And somehow, that’s the most fun she’s had in years.

“Let me get this straight,” Felassan mutters. “You’ve brought me to a broken snack machine in thirty-eight-degree heat because—what, exactly?”

Cole is crouched beside him, holding a stick like a wand. “The pigeon said there’s something inside.”

Felassan straightens slowly, gives the boy a look.

“A pigeon.”

Cole nods. “With a limp.”

“A limping pigeon gave you snack-machine intel.”

Cole nods again. “He said the bad man dropped it while he was hiding the feather.”

The man gazes at the vending machine like it could talk and offer him an explanation. “The… feather.”

“The shiny one. With blood on the tip.”

He slowly takes off his sunglasses, rubs his face, and sighs.

“I knew I should’ve taken you to the bakery. But no, I said, ‘Sure, I’ll follow the child who talks to pigeons into a death trap of expired crisps and venereal diseases.’ That sounds like a perfectly normal Sunday morning.”

Cole stares blankly ahead and crawls halfway inside the machine, apparently immune to sarcasm and heatstroke.

Felassan props open the rusted, suspiciously sticky metal flap, and mutters, “If I get tetanus because of this, I’m haunting you.”

“You don’t have to. You already follow me around.”

"That’s because last time you wandered off, I found you giving life advice to a dead rat.”

“She was very sad.”

“She was very decomposed.”

Cole hums like that’s irrelevant, poking a putrefied snack with his stick. Felassan is about to make a sarcastic comment about child labour laws when he hears it: a soft clink—the unmistakable sound of something metallic being dislodged.

“I found it,” comes Cole’s muffled voice.

Felassan raises both eyebrows. “Please tell me it’s not a severed finger.”

Cole wiggles back out, holding something small and round in his palm, covered in dust and old gum. “It’s a coin.”

He crouches, squints at it. “That’s not a coin. That’s a… button.”

Cole nods, very solemn. “It’s from a jacket. I think it belonged to him.”

Felassan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Who is him now? The limping pigeon? The vending machine ghost? The ghost’s tailor?”

But Cole isn’t listening. He's staring at the button like it’s whispering secrets from another dimension. His voice drops.

“It was his lucky button. He lost it. That’s why he stopped showing up.”

“Right. Of course,” Felassan sighs. “And now you’re going to put it in your pocket and we’ll carry this sacred vending-machine heirloom around forever, yes?”

“No.” Cole shakes his head. “I’m going to give it to the sea.”

“…Okay.”

“I’ll come back and visit.”

Felassan stares at him, then glances back at the vending machine.

“You know,” he utters to it under his breath, “I used to be the weird one." He frowns, suddenly competitive. "I ate bark once.”

Something catches in the sunlight, pulling his attention. When he glances up, he finds Solas’s bald head shining with a thin sheen of sweat as he walks towards them. He’s looking out at the sea, distracted, the tips of his ears faintly red—and if Felassan didn’t know him better, he might think it was only the heat to blame. But what really snags his focus is the way Solas brushes his lips with his fingers, absent-minded, as if tasting something only he can feel.

For a moment, he almost forgets he’s angry. Because it’s rare to see Solas like this: lost in thought without a thousand lines etched into his forehead, without those eyes constantly measuring the next move, without his shoulders stiff and on guard. For a heartbeat, Felassan wants to toss out some ridiculous joke, just to watch that flush spread to Solas’s cheeks and neck, to see those eyes flick towards him—frustrated, heated—before darting away again. He loves seeing him like this. And it’s been too long.

He doesn’t care who she is. He trusts Solas enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. But no, he tells himself. He fed you bullshit. He lied, and didn’t even bother to apologise. He didn’t…

Idiot.

Solas stops in front of him just as Cole comes running up, proudly holding out his “treasure.” Solas looks as though he’s been shaken awake. His eyes refocus, pupils widening slowly as he takes in the boy standing there, beaming.

“Did you find anything?” he asks softly, leaning down.

“I found a coin,” Cole announces with grave importance, demanding Solas treat it as discovery of the year. Solas tells him gently—far more gently than Felassan ever would—that it’s a button, not a coin. He praises him for being brave and clever, and says that yes, he should definitely give it back to the sea. But his mind is already somewhere else.

Felassan waits for the moment to pass, secretly hoping Solas will turn and ask him the same question. Did you find anything? And he’d say no, nothing, not a damn thing—and instead of helping me, you’ve wasted your time. But the question never comes. And the answer dies in his throat.

“Your little date went well, I take it,” he says at last, irritated, eyes fixed on his friend, waiting for a reaction. Any reaction at all. But Solas is still staring at the button Cole is clutching between his fingers.

“Solas,” Felassan presses, a little louder this time.

“Hm?” Solas looks up, confused.

“Forget it.” He straightens and waves a hand dismissively in front of his face. “Take Cole home. I’ll have another look around,” he adds, already starting down the pier.

“No, wait,” comes Solas’s half-hearted protest.

“Stay with the boy. Sundays are for him.”

That shuts him up. Felassan doesn’t need to turn around to know the tips of his ears are still burning, or to see the way Solas’s eyes soften in quiet agreement.

“Work from home if you’ve got the itch,” he adds over his shoulder. “Review the footage, sift through data. Whatever. Just don’t drag the kid into it.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow, catches sight of Ellana hauling her bike up onto the pier, and hopes it won’t drag on. That they’ll just fuck, at the very least—so Solas can finally get her out of his system. And he prays the call from Cassandra never comes. The one he dreads more than any scolding, more than any punishment—the one that would put him across from Solas.

If it came to that, he’d refuse. Disobey. Better insubordination than turning spy on the only damn friend he hasn’t managed to lose yet.

Chapter Text

Ellana has never believed in that nonsense about cleaning your house to find inner peace. But she has to admit—there’s a kick in not tripping over a suitcase that’s been lying there like a rotting corpse. In finally seeing her parents’ faces clear in the photos, not hidden behind two inches of dust. In opening the fridge and finding actual food inside, in standing in a kitchen that looks vaguely inhabited instead of abandoned by someone just passing through.

Which is laughable, because she doesn’t live here. This place is just another hotel room—one crammed with memories she never asked for and stripped of the luxuries she’s supposedly “accustomed” to these days (and still hasn’t learned to live without, despite all her big talk).

She could have sold the house. She could have rented it out the way the old landlord had—gouging desperate people because he knew they’d never find anything cheaper. But no. The second she had the money, she called that heartless bastard and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. And now it’s hers. For reasons unknown. Maybe sentiment, maybe spite. Probably both.

Now she walks around the kitchen, and she feels almost content. Until her eyes flick back to her phone. Again. Like they do every ten minutes.

“Call me when you’ve caught up,” she’d told him, smug as if she already had the prize in her pocket—confident, playful, downright sultry. And, of course, he hadn’t called. Almost a week, and nothing. Not a message. Not even a pathetic emoji.

Ellana sighs and grabs the phone again, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. You're such an idiot, she thinks, as her thumb betrays her and opens WispApp anyway. She scrolls through the chat she’s already memorised, and there it is—the stupid gif looping endlessly.

She almost types out a message. Something teasing, maybe serious, maybe just a simple hi, how are you? But she stops herself. Instead, she switches chats. Dorian.

Hey

When he doesn’t reply right away—because of course he has an actual life beyond babysitting her and playing confidant—she bites her lip and adds:

So… let’s say there’s this guy

Ellana doesn’t even have time to type another message—doesn’t even have time to blink—before the three dots appear at the bottom of the screen and his status flips to online. Which both irritates and flatters her in equal measure, because apparently, whatever else he has going on in his life is less important than fresh gossip.

Send me a photo. Immediately.

Ellana wrinkles her nose.

E: I don’t have one
D: What is he, some kind of cryptid? He doesn’t have social media?

Well. That’s helpful. She swears under her breath as it hits her that she doesn’t even know his surname.

E: No
D: You’re seeing an eighty-year-old, aren’t you? Please tell me he at least still has his own teeth

She doesn’t even know his age. Oh, brilliant.

E: I’m not seeing anyone. That’s the point
D: Fine. Give me details then
E: We’ve only just met. I mean, we’re still getting to know each other
D: Have you kissed him at least?
E: No
D: Right, so this is barely even a thing
E: Yeah. Only… maybe I scared him last time we met
D: What did you do—told him the vineyard story?
E: Of course not.
E: He had some whipped cream on his face
D: …you put it there?
E: No! Let me finish
D: Alright, go on then
E: So I wiped it off. And then I, uh, licked my fingers
D: Did you look him in the eye while doing it?
E: Yes

There’s a pause. Too long. Ellana glares at the screen, drumming her nails, trying not to picture Dorian doubled over laughing, elbowing Bull and already drafting new ways to humiliate her. Her face twists in despair.

Is it that bad? she fires off, nerves crackling.

Dorian pops back online. A full minute ticks past before the little dots appear. He types. And types. Then stops. Then finally—

I don’t think so

Ellana groans and throws the phone onto the table. She almost storms off to make coffee, slamming cupboards for emphasis, when another notification pings. With a sigh, she snatches the phone back.

Bull says you’d have made him fall in love on the spot

She rolls her eyes.

E: So it is bad
D: Oh, don’t be dramatic, El. I assume you laughed about it afterwards
E: I left
D: Without saying anything?
E: I told him to call me when he’d recovered, or something like that
D: And he hasn’t, I take it
E: What do you think?
D: Darling, if something that minor sent him reeling, then he’s either a virgin, a puritan, or he simply isn't into women

Isn't into women. Huh. She hadn’t thought of that. Not that she’d thought he might be a virgin, either. A puritan? Sure. But—oh gods. What if he is a virgin?

E: You think so?
D: Of course. Whipped cream, all white and sweet, licked off your delicate little fingers? Darling, that’s sophistication. He should be at your feet by now
E: You’re not helping
D: Apologies, but you have to admit it’s funny
E: Not even slightly
D: Relax
E: Do you think I should text him?
D: Absolutely not
E: Why not?
D: Because, El, mystery is everything. You’ve already shown your interest. Let him do the chasing. Let him call you
E: And if he doesn’t?
D: Then at least your dignity remains intact

Ellana bites her lip.

E: Fine.
D: Excellent. Now, I must go, class is about to start
E: Good luck. And thanks for listening
D: You’ll tell me everything later, okay?
E: Okay. Later
D: I love you

She sighs, dropping the phone, staring at nothing.

Then at least your dignity remains intact.

He's probably right. He always is. And yet…

Ellana shakes her head. She switches on the television without much care, in search of a distraction. Flicks through the channels. Nothing but tedious programmes, the tail end of a film, a documentary she doesn’t want to follow. The news.

She lets it play in the background while she moves to the sink and starts on the dishes, sleeves pushed back. Warm water steams against her skin, plates clink as she stacks them, the soft rhythm of scrubbing just enough to occupy her hands if not her mind. But then the voice of the newsreader, flat and practised, makes her pause.

“—another act of violence has unsettled public opinion in Tevinter, and extremist political groups have raised the issue in parliament.”

Ellana glances towards the screen.

“The citizens of Minrathous are demanding security,” declares a suited man, looking straight into the camera. “The government has proven incapable of putting an end to the unrest and violence spreading through our streets.”

She reaches over to turn off the tap so she can hear more clearly.

“We will not sit by while illegal immigrants and the non-humans swarm our land, bringing their violence and corruption with them. If those in power refuse to defend us, then we will take to the streets ourselves. We will protect our people, the true sons and daughters of Tevinter. This is our homeland, not theirs—and we—”

“Fucking Shems,” she mutters, heat rising in her chest. She dries her hand before jabbing at the remote, cutting the screen to black.

Ellana decides she needs that coffee. She sets up the moka pot—a gift from Dorian—and places it on the stove, lid open, splatter guard in place, waiting for the water to boil and carry the ground beans upward with that unmistakable aroma of coffee warming the metal.

While it builds, she scrolls quickly through her unread emails. She clicks on the ones from Varric. They’re short, blunt, exactly his style: mostly checking if she’s alive, demanding to know why she won’t answer her phone, threatening to catch the first train out of Kirkwall just to see her with his own eyes.

Just as the water starts to hiss in the moka pot, Ellana decides to call him.

“Paperback!” Varric’s gravelly voice bursts into her ear, warm and scolding at once. “I was starting to think you were having so much fun you’d forgotten the rest of us poor bastards still stuck in reality.”

Ellana chuckles, flipping the lid shut on the pot and turning off the flame. The smell of strong coffee fills the kitchen, sharp and rich, curling around her in warm waves. She moves the moka off the heat and lets it rest while she leans against the counter. “And I hear you’ve got a new book coming out. Care to explain why I had to read about it in the papers instead of hearing it from you?”

“I tried to tell you,” he shoots back, “but you’re always too busy playing the victim, dodging phone calls, pretending you don’t know how to write anymore—take your pick.”

“I pick all three." She snorts. "Still, I can't wait to read your book.”

“I’ll send you an advance copy before the ink’s dry.”

“Thanks.”

A pause. She taps the side of the pot with a fingernail, listening to the faint settling hiss of metal cooling. Varric’s voice dips, uncharacteristically gentle. “How are you, Ellana?”

She shrugs. “I’m… not bad.”

“Uh-huh. That’s your ‘don’t push it’ voice. I know it.”

She smiles despite herself, crossing to grab a mug from the shelf. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” He lets it hang, then changes tack. “Listen, hate to bring this up, but—Bartrand’s on my ass again. He’s asking if you’re writing anything. I told him you were in mourning for some dead uncle.”

“That was kind of you.” Ellana scoffs, pouring coffee slowly.

“Yeah, well, it bought us time. You don’t actually have a dying uncle, do you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Because my alibi-writing days are behind me.”

She shakes her head. “Anyway… no. Nothing yet.”

“Ugh. All right, anything I can do? Want me to send you a crate of whiskey? Lock you in a room with a typewriter until you beg for mercy?”

Ellana laughs softly, cradling the hot mug between her palms, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “Someone suggested I start with something simple. Like keeping a diary.”

“Huh.”

“You think that’s stupid?”

“Honestly? No. Writing’s a muscle, Paperback. You’ve got to stretch it. Doesn’t matter if it’s stories, journaling, or a whole essay on why spiders creep you out. Shit, you could write down how much you hate doing laundry, and it’d still count. Point is, words on the page.”

“Words on the page,” she repeats, absently blowing across the surface of her coffee.

“Exactly. Beats sitting there letting the block eat you alive. You could try. See what shakes loose.”

“I… will think about it.”

“Good. Anyway, now that I know you’re not dead in a ditch, I can stop picturing Bartrand showing up at my door waving obituaries.”

“Mhm.” She sinks into a chair at the kitchen table, sunlight striping the surface through the blinds.

“What’s with the broody hums? Something wrong?”

“I was… thinking about a story.”

Varric’s tone brightens instantly, sly. “Well, now we’re talking. That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. What’ve you got—title, characters, opening line?”

“For now, just a scene.”

“Figures. You always start with a scene. Go on.”

Steam fogs her eyes for a breath as she sips carefully. The bitterness steadies her.

“So… there’s this guy and this girl, they’re getting to know each other.”

“Oh, romance.” She can almost hear his grin through the line. “Didn’t think that was your playground, but hey, stranger things. Keep going.”

“I don’t know if it’s romance yet." She wrinkles her nose. "Anyway, they’re at this little café by the sea, having breakfast. Cute place, good cakes. He gets whipped cream on his nose.”

“Not his mouth?”

“No, his nose.”

“Important detail. Readers love that specificity.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling. “Will you just listen? She wipes it off and then… puts her fingers in her mouth.”

“She holding eye contact while she does it?” His tone shifts—no longer mocking, but probing.

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

A blink. “Alright? That’s it?”

He sighs. “Look, I know there’s a question hiding in here somewhere, but you’re making me work for it.”

Ellana sets the mug down on the table, tracing a circle in the ring of condensation it leaves. “No, I mean—if it happened to you. What would you do?”

“Me? Oh, I’d laugh. Probably ask her out to dinner. Solid meet-cute material. Could be chapter three.”

“You wouldn’t freak out?”

“Not unless she’d already lost me. Otherwise? I’d probably be wondering how far she was willing to take the whipped cream bit.”

Her breath hitches, and she stares into the dark pool of coffee. “Oh.”

“Okay, Paperback.” He softens, gentler now, though the humour’s still there at the edges. “What’s really going on? You don’t call me with pastry metaphors for fun.”

“Oh, you know. Research. Male psychology.”

“Right. And I’m about to publish a cookbook.”

“…Still. You think it could work?”

“I think if the guy’s worth the girl’s time, he’ll laugh, same as me.”

She breathes into the rim of her mug, words slipping out almost under her breath: “And if he doesn’t call her back?”

“Paperback, listen.” Varric’s tone hardens, matter-of-fact. “If you want the story to work, he has to call her back. That’s the plot, isn't it?”

“Fine. But if he doesn’t?”

“Then she makes the next move. Simple. Maybe he’s a virgin, maybe he’s an idiot—hey, maybe he skipped the chapter where you explain what you meant.”

She groans softly. “For the gods’ sake—”

“What? Sometimes the male lead needs a rewrite. Maybe he’s just not reading the cues. In that case? Give him another push.”

“Hm.”

She gets up, coffee in hand, pacing to the counter. The moka ticks faintly as it cools, metal contracting. She runs her thumb over the sugar jar, not opening it, just feeling the smooth lid. Anything to keep her hands busy, to keep the thoughts from spilling out too easily.

“If she wants him, she should go for it. No point dragging out the scene with endless inner monologues. Readers get bored these days, Paperback. Better to take the shot—if it bombs, you cut the subplot and move on. Plenty of fish, plenty of drafts. You’re the one holding the pen, remember.”

She closes her eyes. Exhales. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. That’s what I’m here for.” His voice is warm again, steadying.

“How are you?” She asks it too quickly, because she needs the focus back on him, away from her own mess.

“Me? I’m good—now that I know you’re actually working on something. Diaries, rom-com, whatever. Now get to it, Paperback. Send me a draft when you’ve got one.”

“I will. I miss you, Varric.” She almost doesn’t say it, the words catching on her tongue, but once they’re out she feels lighter for it.

“Miss you too, kid. We’ll talk soon. Oh—before I forget. This… ‘character’ of yours. He dark and brooding? Light eyes? Tall, good shoulders, maybe a great ass? Glasses wouldn’t hurt either.”

Ellana groans again, laughing into her mug. “Varric, come on—”

“Hey, what? I’m just trying to picture him on the page. Strictly professional curiosity.”

“Sure you are.”

“Take care, Paperback.”

Ellana ends the call slowly, lowering the phone to the counter. She sinks back into her chair, and for a while, she just sits there, staring into nothing, fingers curled around her mug. Take the shot. His words echo. She wonders if maybe—maybe she should. Give it a go.

No. That’s not how it works. It’s not like someone says, hey, why don’t you try writing? and she just replies, oh, brilliant, hadn’t thought of that—monster gone, inspiration back, thanks. As if.

Instead, she thinks of what she’d told herself the moment she walked in the bookshop: if you can’t write, read. So she had.

The Well of Sorrow had swallowed her whole. The tingling in her fingers, the ache in her chest with every turn of the page. The urgency. The need to spill that knot in her throat out into ink and paper. Ink and paper. Just like when she was a child.

She exhales, restless, and moves.

She tries her laptop first, powers it up. Stares at the blank screen, cursor blinking like it’s mocking her. Nothing comes. Minutes pass, her shoulders tightening, jaw locked. Finally, she mutters, “Fuck it,” and shuts it down.

Paper. Pen. That’s what she needs.

She lowers the blinds, shutting out the sharp morning light until the kitchen falls into a muted half-dark, the kind that feels private, safe. She clears the table, sets the paper down, sits with the pen poised.

The page is blindingly white. Empty. Waiting.

She breathes in.

Words on the page. Anything.

Her hand trembles once, then steadies.

The pen moves.

That Sunday morning, Cassandra had said, “You have one week.”

But Solas had felt the clock begin its relentless ticking the moment he saw those crystals catching the night’s light on the screen. Frustration hit first, sharp and cold, then bled out slow, slick as oil on rain-soaked tarmac. But before it was gone, the spark came, mean and uninvited, a flash of anger hot enough to light the fuse. And the fuse ran straight into him, into veins already primed with fuel, until the burn left nothing but the fear. That fear. The one he thought he’d buried for good.

Something was off. Too far off. And this was not why they had come. No—Wycome was never meant to be for something this big.

It was supposed to be simple—the last job. The one that would cleanse Thedas of the final stronghold of lyrium trafficking. The one that, once done, might scour his conscience clean: of every mistake, every drop of blood spilt, of that one betrayal that had stripped him of everything and haunted his nights. And yet, for all the wreckage it left behind, it had been the only choice left to him. Because he had tried.

Tried with everything he had.

Ellana reminded him. Like her, he’d put his faith in words.

When the killing turned from control into chaos, when power slipped its leash and became madness, he’d stood there with reason, with wisdom, with every damn word he could find. And they’d laughed in his face. The Evanuris.

For years, he’d played the long game. Tried to haul them back from the edge. They were family. They were all he had. But what was he—one man—against greed like that? Against the kind of hunger that chews through anything in its way? They kept feeding it—more, always more—until the only thing they wanted was power. Didn’t matter how many bodies they walked over to get it.

He’d tried. And he’d failed. In more ways than he could count. In ways that never stopped cutting.

He wanted out. He wanted it all to end. So he made the only possible choice as soon as he saw a way out.

He still remembers the first time he wore a mic. A camera.

The vest had felt too heavy for its size, the wire at his collar too tight, as though it was choking him before anyone else could. He’d sat in the passenger seat of a borrowed car outside one of the Evanuris’ safehouses, city lights bleeding gold and red through the windshield, Felassan in the driver’s seat, silent.

Solas couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t tell if it was from the cold night air or the weight of what he was about to do. His fingers wouldn’t stay still in his lap, so Felassan reached over without a word and stilled them, pressing his hand down, grounding him.

Breathe, he’d said quietly, eyes on the road.

Solas did. It didn’t help.

He walked back into their halls with a camera on his chest and a wire in his jacket, smiling like the loyal dog they still thought he was, recording every room, every face, every secret. Every single thing he would use to burn them down.

When he walked out hours later, the mic switched off, Felassan waiting in the car, he didn’t feel relief. Only the suffocating certainty that there was no going back.

And eventually, after months of working undercover, his family found out.

And they made him pay.

The scattered screams of that night had carved themselves into his skull like the grooves of a vinyl record. And every time he closed his eyes, the track spun again, warped and scratching, dragging those screams up from the dark until they drowned everything else.

That was the point of no return. The moment when nothing else mattered. The moment he knew no one could be saved—not them, not himself. So when Cassandra put a weapon in his hands, he didn’t hesitate. He hunted them. Every last one. He wanted them dead.

And so it was. They killed them.

It was over.

And that was the part that gutted him.

Victory, revenge, freedom—it all felt like standing at the edge of a pit with no bottom. What now? What did freedom even mean when there was nothing left inside you? And the voices wouldn’t stop. Whispering, scratching at his skull. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t breathe without feeling them in his chest.

So when Cassandra called again, asking him to help erase the last scraps of that rotting empire, he said yes. No hesitation. Felassan followed. He always did.

There was still blood to mop up. Still carrion fighting over the lyrium trade. Pretenders clawing for a crown made of ashes.

And Solas—trail after trail, arrest after arrest, year after year—felt himself hollowing out. The work didn’t fill him anymore. It gnawed at him. It left him raw. Tired didn’t even touch it. He was spent.

Then came Wycome.

One last job, Cassandra had promised, her voice like she was offering him absolution.
We’ll finish what we started, Felassan had said, his veins humming with the same poison—the same obsession.

They got inside the club, The Fade.

They had intel on a shipment—one crate of lyrium, due to pass through it before it reached the harbour. That made the club a choke point. A place where the street crews passed their product up the chain, where middlemen counted the take, weighed the goods, and cleared it for transport.

If the harbour was the artery, where lyrium moved like blood through an open vein, The Fade was the pulse—every beat of the trade could be felt here. And if the owner was letting that crate through his doors, he wasn’t just turning a blind eye. He was in the game.

And it wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Not for them. They’d done this a hundred times—slip inside, get comfortable, learn the rhythms, follow the chain. It would take time, yes, maybe months undercover, but the steps remained the same.

Inside, deals were struck and loyalties bought in back rooms that stank of liquor and old smoke. The man running it, Samson, was no fool—a violent bastard with a long memory and the instincts to keep three steps ahead of anyone who might challenge him.

The ones circling him were another matter: young, reckless, desperate to prove they were the next Evanuris. They flashed money they hadn’t earned, name-dropped people they’d never met, and mistook hunger for power. But the game was already rigged, and they were just pieces on the board.

Solas and the SEEK weren’t here for the small fish. They were here to watch, to map the web, to see who sat at the real table—who handled the shipments, who signed off on the weight and purity before the crates left port.

Catch them in the middle of a deal. Then, cut the infected artery that connected the Evanuris' corpses to the world. Let the whole rotten body bleed out, rip out the final roots of his family’s empire, salt the ground so nothing could grow back.

So he said yes. Begged to be in the first line.

Tired. Disillusioned. But bent on finishing it.

Yes, it was supposed to be just that. The last waltz.

But now… now something reeked. Something was wrong in the marrow of it. Because if it wasn’t simple lyrium in those crates, then what were they walking into? A new cartel—stronger, hungrier than the Evanuris? More corpses in alleys? New kings of rot, clawing for a throne built out of bones?

Was it all starting over again?
Would it ever end?

Fear curdled in him. Terror. And under that—buried deep—something worse.

It was rancid. The reek of meat bloating under the sun, skin splitting, fat liquefying; mould blooming in the lungs—thick, black, and velvety—spores spreading with every breath.

Something inside him had been rotting for years, quiet and patient, feeding on him from the inside. And now, at the sight of those crystals—at the endless, glittering futures detonating in his mind—it burst. Split, spilling a flood of warm, stinking filth through his veins.

And in that seeping corruption, in the choke of it, a voice slithered up—slick as pus, cold as the steel table in a morgue:

Good.
Good. You don’t have to stop.

That Sunday morning, Cassandra said, “You have one week.”

Yes, the clock spun into a frenzy. Memories surfaced like wreckage from the deep; the darkness inside him began to seethe again, and then—

Ellana.

She had changed everything.

Curiosity slipped past resentment’s guard. On a foolish whim, he asked her to have breakfast with him. When she said yes, the clock hesitated—one startled heartbeat—before ticking on, relentless, each second hammering in his head as they sat at that pastel-pink table on the edge of the sea.

A table that, without warning, became a courtroom. No judge. No jury. No witnesses. Yet still, a verdict fell, righteous and merciless: there is no salvation.

The clock wound back, dragging into the light all he’d tried to bury. Yes, they were monsters—but they were still human. And yes, he was a monster—but he had forgotten he was still a man. She reminded him with exquisite, almost surgical precision, only to tighten the rope with a final cruelty so delicate it could almost be mistaken for kindness: Perhaps not everyone deserves saving.

It had been a sentence both sweet and bitter, to meet her gaze in that moment—narrowed, gleaming—as she let the words fall between them.

And then the clock went mad. After that backward lurch, its hands spun wildly before grinding to a halt. In his head, the ticking vanished in an instant—the instant she took his chin in her hand and he thought, for a heartbeat, that she was going to kiss him.

He would have let her. He would have let her, and he would even have closed his eyes, parted his lips, and slipped his tongue between her teeth. He would have tasted her, and for once, he would have savoured the flavour of coffee he so deeply despised.

Because his mind, in that moment, was so still, so utterly at peace, he wanted it to last forever. He wanted to let her—that delicious, tempting demon—draw out his thoughts, his pain, his memories, until there was nothing left, even if only for a second, even if only for the span of a blink. To let her kill him slowly.

And when her fingers brushed against his skin, when she traced the curve of his nose with a care he did not deserve, that she owed him nothing of—oh. Cassandra’s words faded into nothing. The next Sunday felt distant, unreachable. Even Felassan’s betrayed look, lodged in his memory, had softened.

Then, her fingers slipped between her lips, and he saw the gleam of her saliva carry away that tiny drop of whipped cream—carry away something of his—stealing his breath, his reason, narrowing his every thought to what that tongue could do, until he felt himself becoming someone else. Not a criminal. Not a secret agent. Not a monster.

A man.

Like a prophecy, she whispered her truth into his ear—and then made it real. A curse, perhaps. Perhaps she had truly cursed him.

And when her touch was gone, when her finger slipped from her lips, he came back to himself. Clear-headed again, standing before her.

But something had shifted.

He searched for the ticking of the clock in his head. Desperately. And desperately, he could no longer find it. And it was a terrible thing to realise—in an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity—that perhaps he no longer hated her. Perhaps she wasn’t the demon after all.

So he buried it in the dark with all the other dangerous truths. He didn't call her, even when on long nights, he almost did. Better to pretend she was nothing but a passing shadow, not the one who had shown him there could be silence—and that silence could feel, for once, like relief. He pushed her away from his thoughts to try to wake the demon in his head.

Because if it stayed silent, he no longer had purpose; he had to stop, he had to feel. He had to live with himself without the distraction.

And that was worse than any enemy.

Back home, he no longer knew what to do with himself. Felassan—still sulking—had gone to investigate in person. He had stayed behind, officially to review the previous night’s footage.

In truth, it meant replaying the same half of the video again and again. Because just as the crate came into view—heavy, lightless, wrong—something in him recoiled, and his mind slipped sideways into the memory of her lips.

Each time he caught himself, he wrenched his focus back to the evidence—only to drift again. Impressive, really, how unfailingly he could betray himself without the slightest outside interference.

He shut down the computer with a frustrated huff and, hating himself every step of the way, he headed for Cole’s room.

While Felassan trawled the city’s underbelly—slipping into dim back rooms and smoke-fogged corners to meet a string of old contacts, small-time crooks and bottom-feeders who owed him favours (one for an unforgettable eighteenth birthday at the club for his son, another for pulling him clear of a police raid, perhaps one or two for nights best left half-remembered)—Solas was at home, bent over Cole’s exercise book, guiding his pen with patient care.

It was, in theory, a welcome reprieve. The measured scratch of the nib against paper, the weight of Cole’s quiet focus—these were safe things. Orderly things. Not sharp, not dangerous, not unfamiliar.

When the homework was finished, Cole declared, with grave ceremony, that it was time for something important.

Solas braced himself. “Important” in Cole’s lexicon could mean anything from a conversation about the ethics of feeding pigeons to a hauntingly accurate recitation of other people’s grief.

Cole leaned forward, eyes bright. “You’re thinking about her again.”

Ah. So it was going to be that kind of important.

Solas allowed himself a slow breath. “I am thinking about the case.”

“It’s not the case,” Cole said simply, as if correcting a math problem. “It’s the other thing, dark and heavy in your chest. But when you think of her fingers, it fades, like she’s taking it away a little at a time.”

Solas closed the exercise book, and Cole’s gaze drifted upward, his voice soft and matter-of-fact. “She licked it slow, like she wanted to keep it.”

He stilled, but Cole was already elsewhere. The shift was seamless, as if the comment had been no more remarkable than observing the color of the sky.

Now he was explaining the particulars of his next demand: Solas must become an Orlesian bard—golden curls, masked face, voice like honey—lifted whole from the fairy tale Cole had been rereading for days.

And so, grateful for the sudden detour, Solas desperately threw himself into the role.

He pulled a yellow T-shirt over his head like a wig, borrowed Felassan’s oversized sunglasses for the mask, and revived his best Orlesian accent. Together, they drank pretend tea from absurdly tiny cups and held a dignified conversation about rabbits, horses, and the political intrigues of courtyard animals.

Cole had been delighted, and his world, for a while, became Solas' too.

Later, they went walking in the park, and Cole insisted on feeding the ducks at that absurd little pond—more a glorified puddle, really. The birds come rushing over, thrilled to see him.

Solas didn’t particularly enjoy the company of such creatures (he was, in truth, terrified of them—not that he’d ever admit it), but he endured it. Because after the birds had been showered with seeds and bits of popcorn, Cole sat down at the edge of the pond and began a long, serious conversation with a particularly plump mallard, which settled beside him and listened in perfect silence.

At least, Solas hadn’t heard it say anything.

Cole clearly had, because the conversation lasted nearly an hour, until the duck gave a soft, aristocratic quack, and plopped back into the water like a guest excusing himself from tea.

Solas had carefully avoided the playground: he knew it was always overrun with the mothers of Cole’s classmates, and that Sunday, he had no interest in enduring another round of tedious conversation about how their husbands were, by all accounts, grunting, dim-witted cavemen whose sole purpose in life was to stink, snore, and be utterly useless.

Instead, he found an alternative. A better one.

Just a short walk from the swings and slides, a row of white market tents had been set up along the tree-lined path—filled, according to Cole, with rare and marvellous treasures. The boy had dragged him from stall to stall, finally begging him to buy what he described (with absolute seriousness) as a magical portal.

It was, in reality, a kaleidoscope.

Cheap, plastic, and probably stolen from the clearance bin of a sad little toy store somewhere. The vendor—a man who looked like he’d sell you your own watch if you weren’t paying attention—charged twenty-five sovereigns for it.

Solas nearly choked at the price.

But then Cole turned to him and smiled. That grin, all thirty-two teeth, guileless with wonder. As if the shifting shards of coloured glass really did hide some great, hidden mystery—some world only the worthy could see.

Solas paid.

Later, he found himself lingering near a Dalish stall, and, for once, didn’t turn his nose up at the unmistakable artistry of woven fabrics, golden leaves, and dried elfroot in clay bowls.

But it was a smaller, quieter stall that caught his eye.

Small notebooks bound in soft leather, thick linen, or polished wood inlaid with fine metal lines. No branding or logos, just objects shaped by the hands of the person sitting behind the counter, whittling something new from a block of pine.

Solas drifted closer, running his fingers across the covers. One was bound in a deep, midnight-emerald green, so dark it looked black until the light caught it right. Across the front was a pattern of fine silver filigree spiralled outward in elegant, unbroken lines; a design of circles within circles, branching arcs that almost moved if you stared too long. Like a dream caught mid-formation.

He thought of Ellana, of what she’d admitted just few hours before: that she couldn’t write anymore. That she used to keep diaries as a child.

He hadn’t meant to buy one. But his hand closed over the green and silver cover before he’d even decided why.

Without thinking, he paid for it and tucked it under his arm, carrying it with him as Cole walked ahead—occasionally asking questions, occasionally offering soft commentary on the people around them.

There was the man in the scuffed leather jacket, walking too quickly for someone with nowhere to be. Cole decided he was rushing home to a half-burned dinner and an apology letter he’d written three times before getting the words right. The woman in the bright red shirt was, in Cole’s mind, on her way to tell her sister she’d finally left “the bad one.” A little boy dragging his schoolbag behind him was plotting to build a fort in the living room and invite the neighbour’s cat to move in.

Each life came with a solution—gentle, practical, always impossible to implement in the real world. The man in the jacket should slow down and let someone else burn the dinner for once. The woman in red needed someone to hold her hand in the doorway. The boy should be given the fort and the cat and anything else that made him happy. Cole said all this in the same thoughtful tone he used for weather observations, and Solas listened without correcting him.

They went back home—just in time for Felassan to arrive, the smell of the city’s underbelly clinging faintly to his clothes. His greeting to Solas was a distracted hum, but the moment he spotted Cole, his whole expression softened into a grin.

“Well, look at you,” he said, dropping his bag on the counter. “You’ve grown at least three inches since breakfast. By next week, you’ll be looking down on me.”

Cole, deadpan: “I already do.”

Felassan laughed, low and warm. “Ouch. Right in the heart," he said, "here I come, braving the lawless streets to bring you—” He reached into his pocket and produced a slightly squashed packet of sweets. “—treasure. And you wound me in my own kitchen.”

He pulled out a chair beside Cole and spent most of dinner tossing quips and questions his way—asking if the ducks at the park had paid him in breadcrumbs for his services, pretending to be scandalised when Cole admitted they hadn’t. The two of them bristled at each other now and then, but it was the easy kind of sparring, all mock injury and quick recoveries.

With Cole, Felassan was only warmth and play; with Solas, he didn’t so much as glance in his direction unless absolutely necessary. Whatever his day had been, it had sharpened his mood into something taut and brittle, and Solas knew better than to try and soften it. The look Felassan gave him—brief, cool, and dismissive—suggested that whatever he’d been chasing all day had slipped through his fingers, and he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

Once Cole’s plate was clean, Felassan excused himself with a quick tousle of his hair, disappearing into his room. The door closed with a soft but final click, leaving the air warm with Cole’s laughter and cold in every other way. A moment later came a faint clink—glass against glass—or maybe just the settling of furniture in the heat.

Solas crossed the hall and knocked once. There was a pause, then Felassan’s voice—easy, almost fond, but with that unmistakable curl of mockery under it: “Not tonight. We both know how that ends.” Another clink followed, and the quiet scrape of a chair turning away from the door.

Solas lingered. It had been so long that the memory should have gone thin, worn out from years of neglect, but some things refused to fade. After it was over, they had slipped, once or twice, when the night was wrong enough and the silence between them felt almost like permission.

It always began the same: dim light pooling across the floorboards, the glint of a glass nearly emptied, Felassan’s cologne of tobacco and wood settling over him. There had been warmth in it—one that sank deep, that made the mornings hurt more than the nights ever could. He stood there now, letting it reach him, knowing it would hollow him out a little if he let it stay.

With Felassan, the demon inside his head had never gone quiet. It fed without pause, born of a harm Solas could never take back—a wound he had cut into the other man first, before it carved its home into his own chest. It lived in them both now, a slow, shared rot, breathing between them like a third, unwanted heart.

And perhaps—though he would never admit it aloud—he hadn’t gone to that door to check that Felassan was well, or to ask how the day had been, or whether he had found anything about the lyrium.

Perhaps he had gone to suffer. To see the proof of what he had broken and press his hands to it until it cut him open again. To let the monster claw its way back into his chest, and make the clock tick with that awful, merciless rhythm.

He felt ashamed. And so he didn't knock again.

After that, he shepherded Cole through the familiar motions—brushing teeth, pulling on pyjamas, crawling under the covers—before settling beside the bed to tell a story he made up as he went: about a chameleon who could change shape and colour, just like the kaleidoscope now resting on Cole’s bedside table. By the time the chameleon had outwitted a fox and found a home in a forest of shifting colours, Cole’s eyes had drifted shut. Solas kissed his forehead, left the little green nightlight glowing beside the bed, and closed the door on the quiet.

After all, Sundays were for Cole.

The day had been quiet. Safe. Familiar.

And though he’d run to it, clung to it, breathed it in until the light began to fade, the clock in his head stayed silent.

He is a strange man. Tall. Unmistakably bald. I cannot tell whether he shaves his head by choice or whether the years have simply been unkind to his scalp.

There is something about him that refuses to come into focus, as though he stands half in shadow even when the sun is at its height. He is a man of passion—that much is obvious at once. You see it in the way his face twists and reforms, flaring with a thousand expressions that vanish as quickly as they come, like sparks from a struck match. It is as if his mind runs ahead of his body, racing beyond the reach of his own muscles, leaving only the scattered traces of his thoughts for others to glimpse, but never to grasp in full.

His passion is in his stance as well as his speech. When he speaks, it is as if his certainty rises from the very soles of his feet, pinning him to the earth. And yet, at the same time, there is a storm within him—a fierce, relentless wind that tosses him about like one of those flailing figures outside shopfronts. Even when his body is still, you can see it: that wind, that ungovernable tempest within.

And his voice—his voice comes from deep within his chest, as though every word were a shard of his heart being cast out into the air. Perhaps he has already lost too many such pieces, too many small fragments of himself. Perhaps that is why he seems smaller at times, diminished, as though speaking less might save what little remains—lest those splinters turn to ash, and leave nothing at all inside his chest.

He is passionate, but he is also unbearably sad. It’s there in his sky‑coloured eyes, which at times seem weary and extinguished, more like a sunset than a dawn. There’s no spark of hope in them, only that quiet, mournful dusk.

The sadness lingers even when he smiles. It was stark and terrible when he looked at me after we almost got killed—his gaze stripped bare, lucid, as though brimming with tears he refused to shed. It felt as if he had chosen to keep that sorrow sealed beneath his eyelids. What must the world look like to him through such an unbroken veil? What must I look like?

Since the first moment I met his eyes, since watching those fleeting expressions flicker across his face like sparks on water, I have wondered what stirs in his mind. He seems suspended between shelves of books and shelves of bottles, living two irreconcilable lives. Why does he not choose one? Are those shelves his refuge, or his way of confronting the world—his way of being seen?

There is so much more within him than he allows to surface, caught somewhere between that raw passion and that unbearable sorrow. I imagine the words clenched between his teeth, pressed beneath his tongue—everything unsaid, unthought, unshared. What are they? Why does he keep them there? And why do I ache to know?

I do not know him.

And he does not know me.

Yet meeting him felt at once inevitable and wounding. The book he recommended spoke as much of him as it did of me, and I cannot decide whether that was coincidence or cruelty. And still, for all of it, I want to see him again, I

The pen stops moving.

It isn’t the pain in her hand that makes her halt. The small desk lamp throws a pool of amber light across the page, turning the ink almost sepia. She had forgotten how exhausting it was to write by hand, how tightly she gripped the pen, too tightly, until the plastic bit into the knuckle of her ring finger, until once, long ago, it had left her hands calloused. It isn’t the ache in her wrist, nor the numbness creeping into her thumb, that makes her pull her face away from the page, straighten her back, and stare at the words without seeing them.

It is that sentence, the one that slipped out before she could think twice. I want to see him again.

The words coil around her chest until they lose their shape, until they become a chain tightening around her heart with no lock to open it. She sets the pen down and lifts the sheet of paper between her fingers, feeling its cheap, grainy texture as though it could make her stop thinking.

Possessed: that’s how she’d felt. Possessed, her mind emptied, the page suddenly full, as though it were a mirror she had vomited herself upon in one single, violent outpouring. How long had it been since she’d felt that way? Months? Years? She rereads distractedly, and in that distraction, realises she does not hate what she has written. How long had it been since she felt that? Years—she is sure of it.

And still those words tighten around her heart, leaving her breathless.

The paper slips from her hands, landing softly on the wooden table. Perhaps she needs a notebook. The thought surprises her—because for once, she doesn’t assume this will be the last thing she writes before sinking back into that dark, hollow void that swallows her whole every time she faces a blank page.

The thought makes her happy. The thought terrifies her. The thought fills her with hope.

And still, the chain pulls tighter.

Her mind drags up their voices, uninvited. Dorian, with his smug certainty: absolutely not, let him chase you—mystery is everything. And Varric, rough but kind: if she wants him, she should go for it. No point dragging out the scene. Two truths, contradictory, circling each other like dogs in her chest. Both right, both wrong.

Ellana rises from the chair and decides to make some light. She lifts the blinds, which protest with a groan of metal, rust, and dust, letting in a muted wash of daylight. Then she paces the room. Just to move. Just to feel something shift. Her eyes keep returning to the page, but she forces herself to walk past it.

Her feet carry her into the bedroom. Her hands, before her mind has caught up, pull a light linen shirt from its hanger, soft beige shorts from the drawer. Sandals buckle neatly around her ankles. The woven bag slides over her shoulder.

In the mirror, she catches herself—flushed cheeks, hair slightly out of order. She straightens it with quick, distracted fingers, eyes fixed on her own reflection as if trying to decide whether she recognises the person looking back.

At the door, she pauses. The air outside lies still and sunlit, holding a faint, sleepy heat. She thinks of vanilla as she steps out quickly, before her conscience can sink its claws into her, spit its accusations in her ear, and drag her back inside where she’ll sit staring at the walls until she convinces herself she never meant to do any of this at all.

Solas is in the bookshop.

He no longer knows what day it is. Time has blurred into a stretch of failed hours, days that collapse into each other until the shape of the week is lost.

But today, he tries.

Perhaps he should be out there—with Felassan, at the docks, or in the city’s dirtier quarters, chasing anyone who might know what this new drug is, and where it was bound. He had offered to go that morning, but maybe he hadn’t sounded convincing. Or maybe Felassan was still angry. Or perhaps—and this felt most likely—he simply didn’t want him there: Felassan was quicker, smoother with contacts, and didn’t need dead weight slowing him down.

Solas hadn’t argued. In truth, he’d been quietly relieved to stay behind, to lose himself in the bookshop’s dust and dim light, where at least the bell over the door rang now and then—proof that life still reached him.

But the quiet doesn’t hold the peace it used to. The words on the reports keep slipping sideways, his pen lingering over loops and lines until letters warp into shapes that have nothing to do with the case.

His pulse jerks whenever the bell sounds, even if it is only some bored student or a woman hunting for a romance with a tragic ending. Each time, the rush leaves him hollow, like being called to action only to find no target in sight.

He tries. In a lull, he settles into the reading corner, a book open on the table. He forces his mind to replay the docks, the club, the man in black velvet. But memory is treacherous. The grain of the dockside timbers becomes the curve of her shoulder; the gleam of a glass in the club’s backroom catches in the same way as her eyes.

His focus frays, knots, unravels memories dissolving into nothing but the heat of her hand against his cheek, the sight of her fingers pressed between her lips, until the air in his lungs feels stolen and the table before him is only a blur.

The little bell above the door sings. He doesn’t look up. Keeps trying to think, pretending it’s focus when it’s desperation.

“Good morning.”

He lifts his head too quickly, the motion sends his glasses slipping to the edge of his nose. From beneath the frames, he sees her—Ellana—hair untamed in the way that seems deliberate, dark glasses giving nothing away. The white of her blouse is fine enough to show the faint silhouette beneath, the fabric tucked, without much thought, into beige linen shorts that rest easy on her hips. From mid-thigh to ankle, her skin catches the light. The sandals—woven leather, low and worn—speak of long summers and too many pavements.

In one hand, a paper bag, the print on it rounded and elegant, like handwriting meant to charm. When she catches the turn of his attention—unaware it’s only to spare himself from looking at her too long—she extends her arm with a sudden, almost defiant flick. The bag swings twice, close enough for him to smell the faint sweetness inside.

“Cake.”

He looks up at her again. At her face.

A line of text flashes in his mind: Dellamorte family crest sighted at the docks. The next: ship’s manifest incomplete. Both go, erased mid-thought, replaced by the faint sway of her hair as she moves.

The smile she gives him is bright, edged with mischief, but the faint pink rising at the tips of her ears gives her away. A touch of shyness. The sort that, he’s certain, slips past most people, hidden beneath that strange, unguarded light she seems to carry.

For a heartbeat, he simply watches. How she stands so clear and alive among the dim rows of shelves. How the gold from the shopfront window spills through her hair. How dust turns slow circles in the air around her, as if she’s drawn the moment into orbit.

The cake is a distant thought, an aftertaste of an earlier exchange. It returns only when he realises how long he’s been silent. Too long. Long enough that he must seem, by now, either unthinkably rude or just a complete fool.

“Good morning.” The words come almost as a question, and only after he’s swallowed nothing at all.

Ellana glances at him, then tilts her chin toward the empty chair beside him, the query clear without a word. His mouth starts to press into a no, but he catches himself, hesitates, and finally nods, pulling the chair out just far enough to make room for her.

She sits like she belongs there, sets the paper bag on the table and lets it be. “No cream today,” she says, satisfaction curling in her voice.

Heat creeps up his ears at the memory of her fingers, the slow disappearance of them, but he shakes his head as if brushing off a stray thought. “A shame.”

Her laugh is low, almost private. She lays her hands flat on the table, fingertips close enough to brush against his if either of them moved. Her eyes drop to the book in front of him. “Quiet day?”

No. Just thinking of you.

“Not many customers,” he says instead.

“Well, now you’ve got a customer.” Her smile is quick, bright, and stubbornly warm—a sunbeam pretending not to see the shadow in his tone. It lingers just long enough to make him wonder what’s behind it. He considers asking, then doesn’t.

“A demanding one,” he says, tipping his head slightly.

She slips off her sunglasses, folds them in one hand. His gaze catches, uninvited, on the softer shadows beneath her eyes and the way her irises still hold that impossible pull.

“Demanding?” she prompts, light as air, tugging him back.

“Well, there’s a certain pressure.” His smile is thin, the kind that shows teeth but no warmth. “It’s not every day a bestselling author walks into a quiet little bookshop on the edge of nowhere.”

Ellana tips her eyes toward the ceiling, the corner of her mouth curving as though she’s missed nothing at all. “Normally, in situations like this, we’d take a selfie and you’d stick it up on the wall.”

He hums, the sound low. “With a plaque, perhaps.”

“Exactly. ‘Ellana Lavellan was here.’” She sketches the words into the air, like she’s seeing them already. “I could even give you an autograph, if you like.”

His mouth tilts, reluctant but real. “Could I sell it?”

“Of course. You’d be rich.” She leans in, elbows on the table, unflappably bright.

“I knew my bad luck would end sooner or later.” The dryness in his voice loosens, the faintest trace of a smile surfacing. He mirrors her lean without realising, the space between them narrowing.

“In that case, I should cast another Dalish curse on you.”

A curse.

He recoils.

One heartbeat they’re close enough to share the same air; the next, he’s pulling back, his warmth gone, his expression shuttered. The change lands like a draught through a door left ajar.

And he sees it all. Sees how the hurt pools in her silence. A prickle of shame works its way up his spine. He drops his gaze to the crumpled paper bag between them. Says nothing. Because he’s an idiot. Because part of him had wanted her to turn up, but now she’s here, and he tells himself he needs to focus. He’s working. She’s a distraction.

The words rise, almost spilling out—Go. Leave me. Don’t come back. But then he looks at her again. She’s searching for something, maybe the right shape for what she wants to say. There’s confusion in her eyes now, because he’s behaving like a bastard and giving her nothing. Nothing. Not even after the other night. Not even after admitting to himself she’s not the enemy.

“It was only a joke,” she says at last, one hand working at the tension in her neck. Then, almost reluctantly, her gaze slips away and she makes to rise. “I shouldn’t have come.”

His hand finds hers before he can think better of it. “No. Stay.”

Her eyes drop to the place where their skin touches, and he withdraws, the contact gone—but his gaze remains, steady, intent. “Please.”

She searches his face for something—perhaps she discovers it, perhaps not—but before words can form, the bird’s trill cuts through the air, and together they turn towards the doorway.

A young man stands there. At the sight of them, he turns away, pretending an interest in the shelves. Solas lingers, the pause stretched like a held breath, before looking back at her. “Stay,” he murmurs, softer than before, then adds, “Excuse me.” Rising, he goes to meet the customer.

He tells himself not to glance back. Not to notice the way light is spilling across her hair, catching every stray thread like gold wire. The shelves are safer—orderly rows, familiar titles. But his gaze strays anyway.

While he works—the quiet cadence of wrapping paper and conversation—Solas keeps one ear on the young man in front of him and one eye, against his better judgment, on the small table by the window. Ellana sits there, absently turning the folded edge of a paper bag between her fingers. It’s nothing. Means nothing. He tells himself to let it go.

“I need a book,” the boy says, “for my girlfriend.”

“What does she like?” Solas asks.

The boy shrugs, non-committal. “She likes books.”

“That’s not quite what I meant.” Solas’s tone is light, patient. “Tell me about her. What makes her laugh? What stops her in her tracks? If she’s had a bad day, what turns it around?”

“She… I don’t know. She’s easy to talk to.” The boy glances down, fiddling with a button on his shirt. “She’s funny, I guess.”

As the boy fumbles for answers, Solas watches Ellana rake her fingers through her hair, that familiar unconscious tic that he notices and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

What makes her laugh?

Don’t answer that.

The sudden collapse of seriousness. A good line delivered at exactly the wrong moment.

What stops her in her tracks?

Not yours to know.

An overheard phrase that feels like the start of a story. The way late sunlight catches in the dust. A book in a shop window she’s never seen before. And the opening notes of that one song—the one she’ll never admit always makes her cry.

If she’s had a bad day, what turns it around?

Stop—

A strong coffee in a chipped mug. A conversation that meanders without purpose. The kind of music that makes her tap her fingers without realising. And, sometimes, the quiet of simply being left to write until the knot in her chest loosens.

“Funny how?” he prompts the boy, voice a little sharper than before. “The kind that takes over a room? Or the kind you only notice if you’re paying attention?”

The boy’s lips curve into a smile. “The second one. She notices things other people miss. Makes little jokes about them. You wouldn’t think they’re funny until she says them.”

Solas nods, as if committing this to some quiet ledger. He refuses to think about the way Ellana’s jokes land—sly, deliberate, meant for one listener.

“And when she’s happiest,” he continues, “what is she doing? Is she chasing the horizon, or tending a garden? Dancing until morning, or watching the stars? Does she look for the truth in a thing, or the beauty in it?”

The boy hesitates. “She likes the sea. Says it smells like freedom.” He laughs, almost to himself. “And she loves cooking, even though she’s awful at it. But she keeps trying. Gets better every time.”

Solas lets that hang a moment and slams the door on the thought before it can form.
Do not picture her. Do not make her yours, even in your head.

But the image forces itself through the cracks: she would chase the horizon, but pause to collect wildflowers; stars or dancing? He suspects both, if the moment is right; she would look for truth and beauty, and refuse to choose between them.

“I think I know what she’d enjoy,” he says at last, and from the shelves he draws a light romantic comedy—warm, clever, and made for bright, careless afternoons on the beach.

“Do you two go to the seaside often?”

The boy smiles, nodding. No longer trying to stop himself, Solas imagines Ellana there: sandals dangling from her hand, hair whipped wild by the wind, eyes narrowed against the light—not looking at the waves, but at something further off, something only she can see.

The customer thanks him and pays. Solas wraps the book in thick, plain paper, the folds neat and sure, tying it with a simple strip of string. As he slides it across the counter, he smiles—a professional expression. “Give her my best—and a happy birthday.”

When he returns to Ellana, there’s no trace of the brisk, purposeful stride he left with. His steps are slower now, as if each one is weighed down, his shoulders set low, the fight drained from them.

Defeated.

He stops beside her rather than sitting, not trusting himself with the closeness that had bloomed so quickly, out of nowhere, without being able to rein it in. Without wanting to rein it in.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For before.”

Her gaze lifts. “It’s okay.”

The guilt still claws at him, refuses to ease. He hesitates, then adds, softer, “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She smiles, but there’s a trace of thought behind it. “You’re good at your job. I can see why you love it here.”

He lets his eyes drift along the shelves, remembering how at the cafe he’d let far too much slip about himself.

“You asked me fewer questions, though,” she continues after a moment, resting her elbow on the back of the chair and turning towards him. He smiles faintly at the memory.

“The book was for you. You were right here. It’s easier when I’ve got the customer in front of me.”

"Well, that book…"

Solas waits, heart hammering so loud it drowns out the room. He is so intent on the way that small smile blooms across Ellana’s lips that he almost doesn’t hear the phone vibrating in his pocket.

“I liked it. A lot.” The shape of the words on her mouth is so beautiful, so hypnotic, that he almost mirrors the movement himself. He stops just short, but his heart flips with giddy triumph.

“It made me want to write,” she adds, and suddenly his chest isn’t flipping—it’s dancing. A wild, clumsy tango that leaves his legs weak beneath him. It meant something to her. More than that: it lit a spark. Unsteady, he lowers himself back into the chair beside her.

“I'm glad,” he breathes. “I…” His gaze drifts to the counter, to the drawer where the notebook lies hidden—the one he bought for her, the one he hasn’t found the courage to give.

The phone buzzes again.

With a muttered “forgive me,” he pulls it free. Cassandra’s name flashes across the screen, followed by a single word: "Status."

His mood darkens in an instant. He types back quickly: "No progress." He means to slip the device away, but another message lands before he can.

C: The week is ending.
S: I’m aware.
C: Felassan is moving. Meeting the club owner in an hour.

The words punch the air from his lungs. He… didn't know.

C: He said you were working on the surveillance footage. If you find nothing useful, go with him.

He forces his hands steady enough to type a clipped "Understood", then pockets the phone like it’s burned him. When he looks up, Ellana is no longer beside him. For a moment, panic spears through his throat—sharp, irrational. He twists in his chair, half-expecting to find her behind him, reading the messages over his shoulder. The thought makes him feel green, like a rookie caught red-handed.

But she isn’t. She’s only a few metres away, speaking to a customer. He realises with a start that he hadn’t even registered the bell above the door.

He tunes in, ears straining, and when he understands what’s happening, his eyes widen. He can do nothing but watch as Ellana plays at being the bookseller in his place, guiding the man at the counter—a middle-aged fellow with the unmistakable look of I’m only here because my wife made me.

He ought to get up, step in, rescue the poor man and reclaim his place behind the counter. But Ellana’s voice holds him in place, rooting him to the chair.

Because it’s awful. Painfully, gloriously awful.

“So,” she begins cheerfully, leaning in like she’s conducting a police interview, “tell me about the person you’re buying it for. What’s their deal? What do they like, what do they hate, what do they complain about constantly?"

Solas winces, shoulders drawing tight. It’s all wrong. And yet, beneath the flush of second-hand embarrassment, there’s a tug of warmth. Only Ellana could turn his quiet little shop into a stage, and only she could make him want to watch the disaster play out rather than stop it.

The man blinks. “Er… I’m not sure. She reads, sometimes.”

“Good start,” Ellana says, nodding as though this is a breakthrough. “And when she does read, is it the sort that makes her laugh out loud, or the sort that makes her stare out the window for ten minutes afterwards?”

Spirits, Ellana… this is bad. Yet the gleam in her eyes is so unshakably confident that he finds himself unable to move, caught between horror and an inexplicable fondness.

The poor customer shifts uncomfortably, searching for an answer. “I… think she likes cookbooks?”

Ellana’s mouth curves into something sly. “All right… are we talking recipes that bring people together, or recipes that end in… something else? If you know what I mean.”

She winks. Oh, she winks. Solas covers his mouth with his hand. If he doesn’t, he’ll laugh out loud.

By the time she’s suggested three wildly unsuitable titles and, for reasons only she understands, a poetry anthology “just in case he’s feeling adventurous,” Solas decides that’s enough. He moves in, smooth as silk, taking the conversation from her with no resistance and guiding the man towards the exact book he didn’t know he was looking for. Within minutes, the sale is done, the book wrapped with his usual neat precision.

As the customer leaves, Ellana leans on the counter, folding her arms. “I was handling it.”

“Oh, I know,” Solas says, letting the smile into his voice. “That was the problem.”

She holds his gaze a beat too long, her brows twitching like she’s deciding whether to be annoyed or amused. In the end, she just laughs. And maybe it’s the first time he’s ever heard her laugh like that. Real, unrestrained, bright and unguarded—the sound of Ellana when she isn’t armoured, when she lets her eyes spark with the light that almost makes him forget every time he’s seen them clouded with sorrow. Almost.

And in that moment, he lets it go. All of it. The voices clawing at the edges of his mind, the fear that stalks him through every hour, the weight he carries until it grinds him down. Because now—now he knows he wants to hear that sound again. Wants to hold on to it, selfishly. Because her laughter doesn’t just fill the space around him. It makes him feel light. It makes him feel alive.

And maybe, he thinks, this is the inspired Ellana—the Ellana who carries fire inside her. The Ellana who, at last, has found her words again.

He almost does it. Almost moves. Almost steps behind the counter and pulls open that drawer. He can already picture it—Ellana holding the green notebook in her hands. In that moment, while her laughter is still hanging in the air, he imagines the look in her eyes, full of wonder. He imagines her reaching for his chin again and, this time, kissing him. He sees her pulling back, her eyes still bright, and himself asking, certain at last, if he’s managed to keep up with her. Yes, idiot, she says, and kisses him again.

He almost does it. Almost moves.

But Ellana blinks, slow and deliberate, and with each blink his thoughts thin out, light as drifting clouds, until his mind is clear and empty.

She smiles at him, then turns aside and breathes, almost to herself, "I’d like to take a look around, if you don’t mind."

And he—he can do nothing but stand there, fixed to the floor as though the grain of the boards has risen to hold him fast, and nod. His gaze follows her, helpless, as she wanders into the space that has always been his refuge, his secret dream.

He should open it. The drawer. That drawer. Its presence thrums at the edge of his thoughts.

He drags his eyes away, wrenches his attention from her. Salvation comes in the bright trill of the shop bell. New customers. Solas slips back into the current of habit, steady and practised, though his eyes keep straying to Ellana, just to be certain she is still there, that she has not vanished like a half-remembered vision.

The minutes stretch. While he is ringing up one of them, she falls quietly into the queue, a book resting in her hand. He tries to glimpse the title, but it stays hidden from him, and so he fixes his attention on the other costumes, on the calm gestures of routine, on offering a courteous smile to the man before him. Then—her turn.

"I'll take this one," she says, setting it down upon the wood of the counter.

He lowers his gaze. The cover is familiar: stark black and white, a young girl seated on stone steps, her face turned towards some distant, unreachable point, her expression shadowed with thought. Above her, the title looms heavy as a sentence, inexorable as guilt: Atonement.

A breath of laughter escapes him, soft and involuntary. Ellana notices, and her satisfaction is quiet, feline: she tilts her head, the smallest smile playing at her lips, and leans a fraction closer. "I’ve decided to give redemption a chance."

He shakes his head as he presses the keys of the till, a wry smile of his own. "Then perhaps it isn’t quite the book you’re looking for."

"Points of view," she remarks with a shrug. He resists, with every fibre of himself, the urge to launch into another of their philosophical duels (he is tempted—oh, how he is tempted), and settles instead for a smile.

"You’ve read it before?" he asks, bending to rummage for a paper bag.

"Of course," she replies, as if the question were an insult. "But a long time ago." Her tone softens. "I don’t have a copy at home anymore, so… yes, I came here."

As she speaks, Solas all but forgets to breathe. His hand lingers on the drawer, where that ridiculous gift for her still lies in wait.

"Everything all right?"

"Yes," he coughs, seizing a paper bag and straightening with too much force. "I thought you’d only come for the cake," he adds quickly, trying for smugness.

"There was a patisserie on the way." Another shrug.

"Fair enough," he concedes, then blurts out the price before she can go on. His heart lurches as she looks away, searching through her bag for her purse. His eyes dart, against his will, to that damned drawer again.

"Here." Ellana holds out the notes. Solas swallows hard.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure."

He takes the money, counts the change, slips the book into the bag. He’s about to hand it over when his heart flips and, from somewhere distant, his own voice reaches him: "I was wondering where I should hang the plaque: Ellana Lavellan was here?"

He asks it lightly, praying she won’t notice the sweat gathering at his temples. She blinks in surprise, almost wrong-footed, and then a smile spreads across her face. At the exact moment she turns, Solas moves with the quick hands of a practised thief, sliding the notebook into the bag alongside the book.

"It would look good at the entrance," she says, before her gaze returns to him.

"I was thinking of the storeroom," he answers too quickly, blood thundering in his ears.

"Very funny," she says, clipped.

She hasn't noticed. Good.

"Yes, well…" He shrugs, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. "Here you are." He holds out the bag, looking as though he’s desperate to be rid of it.

She takes it, one brow arched, perhaps unsettled by his restless silence, the way his gaze skitters everywhere but her.

At last, perhaps deciding it isn’t worth the effort—or perhaps simply deciding he’s insane (and he is, of course)—she shakes her head. "Don’t forget to eat the cake."

She slips on her sunglasses, unhurried. For a heartbeat she lingers, offering him one last glance—brief, unreadable—and then she turns.

Solas watches her go. The soft sway of her hips, the effortless rhythm of her stride, as though the shop itself bends around her passing. She carries with her the same air she brought in: a riddle wrapped in grace, part brilliance, part shadow.

And then the door closes behind her, leaving only the echo of her presence.

Solas exhales the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, his shoulders loosening all at once. A hand to his chest, as though to steady the frantic beating of his heart. Another to his brow, to wipe the sweat away.

Spirits. What a complete idiot.

He's wasting his time. He should be working. He should work.

Work.

Cassandra’s words still pulse at the back of his skull, but the weight has shifted. The club owner is dangerous, unpredictable, a bastard—but Felassan is clever, slippery, always one step ahead. He’d won the Fade for them. Samson trusts him. Surely that counts for something.

Solas finally checks the time. Too late to catch up with his friend. His gut twists. He checks his phone. No calls. No messages. Nothing. Felassan hadn’t even told him he was going. Maybe worrying is foolish.

He types a message anyway, something to keep the panic at bay: Cassandra told me your plan. Keep me updated. He sends it, stares at the screen.

No reply.

He sighs. Curses himself for a few long minutes, rooted behind the counter, until his gaze drifts—pulled like iron to a magnet—towards the table where she had been sitting only moments ago. And he keeps cursing himself every step of the way as his feet carry him there.

The patisserie bag waits, as hostile as an accusation. He stares at it as he had stared at her that night in the club almost a week ago. Then he drops into the chair, defeated, and rummages inside with distracted hands, mind spinning. How ridiculous he must have seemed. What will she think when she finds a street artist’s notebook slipped into her purchase? She’ll assume it was a mistake. A giveaway. Proof that he’s a fool. A hopeless fool. Oh, he should have written something. A note. A word. Anything—

Solas blinks, startled. The little box where the cake should be is empty. His fingers brush against something else instead: the crisp edge of folded paper. He freezes. Stares. His breath catches again, louder this time.

His fingers tremble as they close around it. For a long moment, he only stares at it, its edges sharp against his skin. Four clean creases, nothing more—and yet his pulse thunders as if the thing were alive.

He turns it over once, twice, as though the outside might somehow yield its secret. His thumb lingers on the fold. He swallows.

At last, he slips a nail beneath the edge and eases it open.

The paper resists, then gives way with a faint whisper.

And he reads.

His chest twists, bends, threatens to break apart. At first, the letters swim before his eyes, blurred by the frantic beat of his pulse. He blinks, once, twice, steadying himself, forcing his gaze to settle.

The paper is thin, soft at the folds where it has been opened and closed. The ink is dark, pressed hard into the fibres, as though she had leaned close to write, unwilling to let her words slip away. He traces a line with his eyes, then another. Each letter carries her hand, her rhythm—the slant of her strokes, the sharpness where she presses too firmly, the looseness where she lets herself breathe.

And then her voice comes through. Hers. In every sentence he hears her, quick and bright, then slowed by thought, the pauses between phrases like breaths taken in his ear. Her way of turning the world into language. Her way of seeing him.

It strikes straight to the heart. The blow is clean and merciless. His ribs ache with it; his throat burns raw. His eyes sting, vision wavering. He doesn’t notice the tear until it falls, until the page blurs and a dark spot blooms, spreading into the fibres.

Still, a smile tugs at his mouth—fragile, unsteady, but there all the same. A smile cracked with grief and wonder, as if joy and pain had become inseparable. He presses his thumb lightly against the paper to steady her words, to hold them in place.

Solas lets out a laugh—small, broken.

Caught up? Not a chance.

He bends back over the page, rereads Ellana’s words. Again. And again. And again. The phone sits forgotten on the table, and all the while, her voice clings to him like light, even as Felassan’s silence spreads, heavy and dark, in the back of his skull.

Chapter Text

Solas locks up later than usual. 

On the drive back, Wycome seems different. Almost… better.

The day is sliding into evening, the light thinning to that fleeting hour when everything looks half-real. Streetlamps bloom one by one, their amber halos catching on the slick tarmac, turning the road into a vast, rippling mirror. Above it all hangs the sun, low and swollen, a tomato left to ripen until the skin is about to split—full, red, bursting with sweetness.

Beautiful. The word arrives unbidden, curling into his mind with the hint of a smile. Hardly surprising. Not like the sudden urge to take out his phone, snap a picture, and send it to her. That thought is—unexpected.

To share. With her. The idea glows. It tempts. It terrifies.

He smothers it, eyes on the road, though the phone lies within reach on the passenger seat. He scowls at it. He’s rung Felassan a dozen times already. Still nothing. That silence is the sharpest fear of all.

Halfway home, he switches on the radio. Music usually steadies him—untangles his thoughts, smooths them into something he can almost follow. And it works, a little. His muscles ease as a quiet melody fills the car. He turns the volume up. A piano. Lovely.

Then the voice begins to sing.

Goin’ out tonight, changes into something red
Her mother doesn’t like that kind of dress

He grimaces in recognition. He’s heard this track a thousand times—endless loops in supermarkets, clothing shops, nameless places he never meant to remember. But Ellana's eyes fill his mind at once.

He tries to scoff. He wants to scoff. The lyrics are juvenile, repetitive, and sung by what he assumes are five human boys with identical haircuts. Nothing that should remind him of her. And yet. When the singer croons, “Does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes?” Solas has to lower the volume because his throat is suddenly tight. He mutters, “Absurd. Utterly absurd,” and then immediately turns it back up because what if he misses the next line?

The lyrics roll on, simple, syrupy, and far too young for him. Yet suddenly he’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline, whisper-singing the lines under his breath. Then louder. Then with… gestures. By the second chorus, he already knows the lyrics by heart.

The traffic light ahead flashes red. He slows, but the song does not. He’s still singing, voice cracking with the earnest conviction of someone who once dismantled the most dangerous criminal syndicate in Thedas and now, inexplicably, is harmonising with Hardin Scott.

It’s only when he turns his head mid-chorus—“Even when the night chaaaanges”—that he notices the driver in the next lane. A middle-aged man in a delivery van, slack-jawed, staring at him.

Solas freezes. For one horrible second, they maintain direct eye contact while Solas’s mouth is still open on the word changes. His hand shoots to the radio, twisting the knob down so fast it nearly comes off.

The delivery driver shakes his head slowly and pulls away when the light turns green, leaving Solas to marinate in the world’s most concentrated dose of secondhand shame.

The rest of the drive unspools in uneasy silence. A curse when someone cuts him off, a sigh when his gaze strays back to the phone, the ghost of that song looping in his head, daring him to hum along. He doesn’t.

At home, Bellara is waiting. The sight of her tightens something low in his gut; it can only mean Felassan still hasn’t returned. She leans against the banister as if the wood alone keeps her upright. Her face is pale and worn thin, shadows like bruises beneath her eyes, her voice a rasping whisper raw from a cold. She apologises—she can’t manage the evening shift, not tonight.

By rights, he should be irritated. No babysitter, no club, no work. Yet the thought lands differently than expected: it lifts a weight inside him, eases a knot he hadn’t realised he carried.

He sends her off with a smile too wide.

Cole is waiting at the kitchen door, eyes bright, words already spilling. “She was hurting. Heavy in her head, throat raw, tired-tired-tired. Tried to hide it, didn’t want me to worry.” His hands flutter, miming the shape of a cup. “So I made tea. Honey smooths, warm and golden, easier to swallow. She smiled, even when her chest rattled.”

He tilts his head, gaze far-off, listening to something Solas cannot hear. “She wanted to keep me safe, but she needed rest. So I told her a story, soft and low, until her eyes fell shut. The blanket kept her breathing quiet. She dreamed of rain—gentle, not cold.”

Solas watches him, unsure whether to be proud or unsettled. It occurs to him, with a trace of dry irony, that perhaps he has been paying Bellara to be taken care of, rather than to watch over Cole. The boy radiates satisfaction, his strange smile proof enough that he considers the evening a success. And so it is enough.

He reheats the meatloaf Felassan left behind, sets a pot of vegetable soup to simmer for Cole, steam carrying the scent of thyme and carrots through the kitchen. The clock insists it is late, yet he lays out a third place at the table, ritual and hope mingling in the small act.

They are midway through their meal when the sound comes: keys scraping at the lock, tumblers catching in a stutter. Cole’s head snaps up like a bird’s, a grin spreading so wide it looks ready to unmoor him from the chair entirely.

Felassan is back.

Solas lets out a breath, long and quiet, and only then realises how tightly he’d been holding himself together. The coil unwinds. His shoulders ease.

“Stay put, Cole, please. Dinner’s better warm,” he says, voice gentled into indulgence. He rises, collects Felassan’s plate, and slides it into the microwave.

The front door closes. Then again. A muffled curse. Halting footsteps. A dull thud, shoulder against wall. Solas tips his head back, eyes on the ceiling, lips curving in reluctant amusement. Always an entrance. He taps the timer with one finger, turns back to the counter, still wearing the ghost of a smile.

“Oh.” Felassan lingers in the doorway, caught halfway in surprise. His posture bent, shoulders sloping, but the moment he spots them, he straightens at once. “I thought you’d be finished already.”

“Welcome back!” Cole crows, drumming both hands on the table, patting the empty chair beside him as though sheer enthusiasm might haul Felassan into it.

Solas glances over his shoulder, mouth quirking. “Welcome back,” he echoes, and for once the words carry no edge. “You’re late.”

“Busy day.” Felassan drops into the chair, the scrape of wood on tile grating louder than it should. He ruffles Cole’s hair, face smooth, easy. “Shouldn’t you be at the club?”

“Bellara is sick. Fever, I believe. You will have to manage without me tonight.”

The microwave timer shrills. Solas retrieves the plate, the scent richer now, mouth-watering. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I called twenty times.”

“Were you worried?” Felassan fires back, too quick, too glib, trying for humour but landing squarely in sulk.

Solas arches a brow but doesn’t take the bait. He knows that tone. Knows it well. But Cole is here, bright-eyed and buzzing; Ellana's word still lingers in his mind; Felassan is home, safe. He won’t spoil this all with another skirmish. He lets the jab pass, sets the plate down with the lightest possible thud.

“Any wine?” Felassan asks, already tearing into bread, scattering crumbs like confetti.

“No.”

“What happened to the bottle in the fridge?”

“I poured it out.”

Felassan freezes, fork in mid-air. His eyes narrow. “You poured it out.”

“It was half gone and sour.” Solas’s tone stays even, patient. He folds his hands loosely on the table. “Unless you prefer vinegar.”

A muscle jumps in Felassan’s jaw. He exhales hard through his nose—almost a laugh, almost a sneer—and bites back the sharper word flashing behind his eyes. “Wasteful.”

“If that’s the worst you can call me, I will count it a quiet night,” Solas says, smooth, faintly amused.

Felassan only shakes his head, and Solas realises this is the most they’ve spoken in nearly a week. Perhaps, just perhaps, the ice is starting to thaw. He leans back, letting Cole’s voice fill the space. The boy’s hands flutter as he talks, sketching shapes into the air, his laughter spilling bright and easy—so bright it almost makes the kitchen feel, for a moment, like it deserves the word home.

It’s only when that laughter falters, when the boy draws a breath and doesn’t spill it into more words, that Solas notices.

Felassan’s eyes: too bright, unnaturally so. Skin pale, the lines of his mouth cut deeper than they should be. A sheen of sweat glimmers at his hairline, catching yellow in the kitchen light. His fork trembles faintly, tines clicking against the plate with each attempt at control.

The smile drains out of Solas. Concern comes cold, swift, under the ribs.

“How did the meeting with Samson go?” His voice stays steady, but softens, coaxing.

“Oh, not over dinner.” Felassan’s casual shape doesn’t survive the fork’s rattle against porcelain.

“Felassan.” Solas leans in, elbows on the table, tone dipping low. “Are you all right?”

The nod is too fast, too brittle. “Perfect. Absolutely fine.” He spears food with precision, drags it to his mouth like proof.

The silence that follows is wrong. Too heavy. Cole hasn’t spoken in a long while.

When Solas turns his head, he finds the boy very still. His small brows are knitted, his eyes clouded with worry, fixed unblinking on Felassan. The sight stills Solas’s breath. Even the hum of the fridge feels too loud, the tick of the kitchen clock intrusive.

And when Cole finally breaks the silence, his voice is so low, so grim, that Solas feels his whole body lock in place.

“You’re hurt.”

Felassan freezes with his mouth open and a forkful of food suspended halfway to his lips.

Solas looks between them, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the plate. Felassan’s eyes flick to his for the briefest second before snapping back to the table. He bites down hard and, with his mouth full, waves a hand in front of his face in a careless, dismissive flutter.

“I said I’m fine,” he mutters through the mouthful, already spearing the next bite as if keeping his teeth busy is the simplest way to avoid speaking.

Solas sets his fork down, gaze fixed on him. “Felassan.”

The elf exhales loudly, eyes rolling upward, and pushes his chair back. “I’m just tired, I—”

He doesn’t finish. His voice breaks, his hand jerks to his side. Solas is on his feet before the chair hits the pavement, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Felassan’s other hand grips the table, knuckles white, his eyes wide and breath coming fast through clenched teeth.

Two strides and Solas is beside him. Cole’s gaze flicks between them, the crease in his brow deepening.

“What is it?” Solas asks, quick and low.

Felassan shakes his head and straightens, stubborn, only to take a single step before the pain cuts through again. His jaw locks, and his knees threaten to give. Solas catches him by the elbow, steadying him with a palm at his back—just enough to keep him from folding to the floor.

“Nothing,” the other insists, a forced smile baring his teeth. But his forehead is beaded with sweat, and when he lifts his gaze, there’s a trace of shame in it—something Solas catches at once, and that at once grips his chest in a painful vice.

Felassan sets a hand on his arm and glances sideways, toward the child behind him, as if to urge him to play along. As if to say, please—not in front of him.

Solas swallows, his gaze locked on his friend’s as if trying to read, in an instant, what in the Void has happened—the instinct to ask clawing at him, to demand who did it, why, where it hurts. To pull up his shirt and pray it isn’t a deep cut spilling warm over his ribs, or a bullet lodged where he can’t reach it, or a bone snapped clean through, or—worse—something broken inside, bleeding slow and unseen.

The thought alone steals his breath. He almost moves without thinking. Almost.

But the grip on his arm tightens, and now those eyes are pleading—begging—in a way that makes his guts twist. He wants to ignore it, to push past it, to refuse. Instead, he grits his teeth and gives a single, sharp nod, swallowing down the questions burning his tongue. Then he leans past Felassan’s shoulder and offers Cole a reassuring smile. The boy is watching them, wide-eyed, afraid.

“I think Felassan’s running a bit of a fever,” he says, voice soft, eyes gentle. Felassan lets out a faint, shaky breath—relief and gratitude flashing across his face before he turns toward Cole with a smile.

“Nothing serious, kiddo,” he says, his voice catching just enough to betray the tightness in his throat. “I’m just going to lie down for a while.”

Cole studies him, serious and still, and to Solas it’s clear the boy senses more than he should. But Felassan keeps that same bright, easy smile—the one he always saves for Cole—and adds, “Finish your soup. There’s fruit in the fridge. I made you fruit salad—lots and lots of blueberries.”

The boy nods, his mouth twitching toward a smile.

“And don’t get too comfortable,” Felassan goes on. Solas feels him sway, just enough to shift his weight into the hand braced at his elbow. “I’m going to destroy you on the GameStation later.”

That, at least, earns a spark in Cole’s eyes. “Can I be the rabbit?”

“Fine,” Felassan says, chuckling under his breath. “I’ll take the duck today. And Solas can be the piglet.”

Cole giggles, and if Solas weren’t wound so tight with worry, he might let himself smile. But the cheer in Felassan’s voice is too smooth, too deliberate—the same way he’s too steady on his feet when Cole’s looking, and too careful the second he isn’t.

“Come on,” Solas says quietly. “I’m taking Felassan to bed. I’ll be back in a minute, Cole.”

Felassan lets Solas guide him out of the kitchen, his hand still braced loosely on Solas’s arm. The moment Cole is out of sight, the smile slips—not vanished, not entirely, but stripped down, a shadow of the brightness it had carried only a heartbeat before.

“You know,” he murmurs, “piglet suits you.” His tone is teasing, almost lazy, but there’s no weight behind it.

Solas doesn’t answer. He can feel the uneven pull in Felassan’s gait, the way he favours his left side no matter how casually he tries to disguise it.

“You don’t have to—” Solas starts.

“I do,” Felassan cuts in, still looking ahead.

The rest of the short walk is quiet, broken only by the faint drag of his steps on the tiles. By the time they reach the bedroom door, Solas can feel the heat radiating through his sleeve where Felassan’s grip has tightened.

Felassan leans into the doorframe as Solas pushes it open, his weight heavier now, less disguised. The moment they’re inside, with the door shut behind them, the brightness he’d kept for Cole vanishes.

He exhales hard, bending slightly at the waist, one hand clamped to his side at last. “Fenhedis,” he mutters, the word rough.

Solas is already there, steadying him toward the bed. “Sit,” he says, more command than request.

Felassan obeys, but not before catching his breath in a sharp hiss as he lowers himself. Up close, the sheen of sweat on his brow is unmistakable; his shirt clings slightly to his back.

Solas’s eyes drop to the place where Felassan’s hand still grips his side. “How bad?”

“Manageable.” The smirk he tries for is weak.

Solas holds his gaze for a long moment, but Felassan keeps quiet, his chest rising and falling too quickly, the fight to keep his composure written in every line of his face.

“Let me see.”

Felassan shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Solas counters, already reaching.

The other man catches his wrist, his grip surprisingly firm for how unsteady he is. “Careful, or I’ll start to think you miss me,” Felassan says, the curl of a cold smile on his lips.

Solas doesn’t rise to it. “Shirt. Off.”

Felassan’s smirk falters. For a heartbeat, they hold each other’s gaze—stubbornness against stubbornness—until he exhales sharply, a sound closer to defeat than agreement. Slowly, he lets go of Solas’s wrist and leans forward, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt.

He peels it upward with slow, deliberate movements, his breath catching as the fabric tugs at his side. Beneath it, Solas finds a clumsy patchwork of gauze and tape, slapped on in uneven strips, already curling at the edges. The cloth is stained through—dark and stiff where the blood has dried, still tacky in places where it hasn’t.

He goes still. The placement is low on the ribs, just above the flank—and the shape of the stains tells him enough: an entry wound on one side, an exit on the other. He holds his breath, eyes fixing on the mess.

Felassan shifts under his stare. “It’s okay,” he says, too quickly. “Through and through. Missed anything important.”

“You’re lucky it didn't get your lung,” Solas says, his voice flat.

Felassan huffs something between a laugh and a cough, his hand drifting back to cover the wound. “Told you. Nothing important.”

“Nothing important?” The words come out harder than he intends. “You’re bleeding into a filthy bandage you probably threw on in an alley.”

Felassan’s mouth twitches toward a smirk. “Better than bleeding on the carpet.”

The lightness in his voice is paper-thin. Beneath it, his jaw is tight, and the effort it takes just to stay upright is plain as day.

Solas shakes his head. Crouched low on the floor, his eyes are level with the wound. He can't help him if it festers; an infection could finish what the bullet started.

His gaze flicks to the shirt bunched in Felassan’s right hand. Not the one he was wearing when he got shot, clearly. He wonders what in the Void happened, what Felassan was thinking, patching himself up like this—and whose shirt it is.

But the questions are already losing ground to a hotter thought: who did this. Who had the gall to take the shot. His mind runs through the answers too fast to stop—a hand crushed against a wall until the bones splinter, fingers broken one by one, tendons cut so they’ll never curl around a trigger again.

For a moment, everything else disappears. Even the most important question: did you get caught?

His thoughts must be written plainly across his face, because Felassan’s voice cuts in, quick and sharp.

“Oh, I know that look. The one you wear before you go hunting,” he says through his teeth. “You think I can’t tell when you’re halfway gone already?”

Solas’s gaze dips, just for a heartbeat, and he smooths his thumb along the line of his palm—a restless, quiet motion that betrays the guilt pressing down on him. He forces his eyes back to Felassan.

“This isn’t the time.”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly the time.” Felassan shifts on the bed; the motion makes his jaw tighten, and Solas catches the brief clench of his fingers in the bedding. “Cassandra gave us a week. And you…” He pauses, as if weighing the right words. “You’ve been somewhere else for most of it. Not tired—gone. And I’ve seen you like this before. I know where it ends.”

“I’m fine.” The answer comes too quickly, and Solas hears it for what it is—a reflex, not the measured truth he prefers to offer. His gaze flicks to the wound again, but the shadow of another face still lingers behind his eyes—one he’s been trying, and failing, to push aside since that night.

Felassan studies him, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “I’m not saying you’ve stopped caring. I don't give a shit about what Cassandra says. I know you haven’t. I’m saying, if your head’s not in the fight right now, let me take the front line for a bit. You get your focus back, we pick it up together.”

“No. No, I’m—” He cuts himself off before the truth can slip, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his knees, rubbing once at the bridge of his nose. “I should have been with you. I shouldn’t have left you on your own, I’m sorry, I—”

“I’m not asking for an apology,” Felassan cuts in, leaning forward just enough to draw a flicker of pain across his face. The sight makes Solas’s hands flex against his thighs—an impulse to catch him, steady him—but he stays still. “I didn’t want you to see me like this because…" his voice falters. He swallows. "Look. I'm not here to make you feel like it's your fault. I’m here to make sure you’ve got what you need to do this—and if that means I run interference for a couple of days, so be it. But you have to tell me, Solas—so I can keep you safe.”

Solas’s eyes dart to the mess of gauze again. The dark stain has spread since they started talking. “You need that properly cleaned and stitched,” he says, voice low but firm. “Before you end up—”

“Don’t.” Felassan shakes his head. “This isn’t about me right now.” Then, softer: “It’s about whether you can do what needs doing without half your mind wandering off to gods-know-where. If you can’t, I can carry it until you can.” A faint, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve done it before. You didn’t even notice the last time.”

The air between them goes still, except for the slow, shallow rise and fall of Felassan’s chest. Solas almost says I can’t—almost admits that his focus has been fractured for days—but swallows it back. Felassan’s already hurt. He won’t add to the weight he’s carrying.

“I’m here,” Solas says at last, the words stripped down to their bones.

Felassan watches him for a beat, then leans back, letting out a slow breath that maybe is relief, maybe is just pain.

Solas doesn’t look away from him. In his head, the decision’s already made—he’ll get that wound properly seen to, one way or another. If Felassan won’t agree, he’ll find a way around him.

The elf shifts, just slightly, to ease his weight—and his hand slides to his side without thought, curling there as though it belongs.

“Why did you lie to me?” He asks at last.

Solas clenches his fists until the ache blooms in his palms. “I did not lie.” His voice is low, measured, because he just did.

“Oh, right.” Felassan’s mouth twists, humourless. “I forgot—for you, leaving things out doesn’t count as lying.”

Solas’s expression hardens, but Felassan’s gaze softens a fraction. “For what it’s worth,” he says, voice genuine despite the pain holding him taut, “I don’t give a damn who she is. That’s not the point. I care that you lied to me.”

Solas shakes his head, frustration cutting the sound short. “It's… complicated.”

Felassan’s eyes find his. “Don’t be an idiot with me. You don’t need to be. Please.”

“I know.”

“I'm not so sure anymore. Shit—” He breaks off, looking away as if the words might turn on him. “If you don’t trust me… after everything—”

“No. Stop.” Solas’s reply comes faster than thought. “Don’t ever think that.”

Felassan still doesn’t look at him, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor, brows drawn, eyes watering. The line between them feels thinner than it has in years, and Solas leans forward, urgent. “I trust you. More than anyone. Please, never doubt that.”

For a moment, Felassan’s shoulders ease. His mouth twitches toward a smile that doesn’t quite form. “Then that’s what matters. That’s enough.” He swallows, as if there’s more he wants to say, but the words catch. Finally, he huffs out something closer to a sigh. “Just… don’t turn her into an excuse. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Solas parts his lips, shame burning at the edges. But Felassan is spent; whatever else there was to say, the moment is gone. He watches as his friend eases back, head resting against the wall behind the bed. His breathing slows, evens out, eyelids lowering. For a heartbeat, Solas studies the unhealthy cast to his skin—and it strikes him that Felassan’s been holding himself together for this conversation alone.

If not for the blood seeping into the gauze, he might almost think it was a performance meant to corner him into a confession. But the thought dies quickly. No—this is real. Too real.

His stomach knots at the shallow hitch of Felassan’s breath. He recognises it instantly: the warning before a body gives out. He’s on his feet before thinking. “Don’t move,” he says, already turning for the door.

A faint huff follows him. “Not moving,” Felassan murmurs.

Solas is halfway to the bathroom, pace clipped and sure. His hands know what to reach for before his eyes do. The emergency kit is in his grip a moment later, and he’s striding back to the room with the easy precision of someone who’s done this far too many times before.

He drops to a crouch beside the bed, flipping the kit open without looking, fingers already sorting through gauze, antiseptic, needle and thread.

“Felassan.” His voice is low but steady. “Stay with me.”

“M’not— going anywhere,” comes the reply, soft and slurred enough to make Solas’s gut twist.

The shears make quick work of the makeshift bandage. The fabric peels away in damp, stubborn layers, sticking before giving with a tacky pull. Felassan hisses between his teeth—a sharp breath, quickly swallowed—and Solas doesn’t miss the way his free hand knots tighter in the bedding.

The bullet’s path is shallow, but the edges gape, raw and red. Whoever patched him earlier did the bare minimum to keep him moving.

“You let this sit all day?” Solas asks, more to fill the air than to scold.

Felassan’s eyes half-open, finding his for a moment. “Didn’t… want to miss dinner.”

Solas exhales. “Idiot.” But his hands stay gentle.

He cleans the wound first, slow and thorough, swabbing away the dried blood and grit. Each touch draws a faint flinch, and each time, Solas murmurs something quiet, almost under his breath, something meant to keep Felassan tethered through pain.

When the skin around the wound is flushed clean, he threads the needle. The metal glints once in the lamplight, and for an instant, he sees another room—the green-tiled bathroom of a hotel outside Val Royeaux, Felassan swearing at him in three different languages while he stitched a knife wound closed. Another flash—the back seat of a car on a rain-slick night, the smell of wet leather and blood as he looped thread through skin by the light of the dashboard. The last memory is sharp enough that, for a second, his fingers almost falter. He clenches them imperceptibly against the needle, forcing them steady.

Felassan’s gaze dips to those fingers; maybe he catches the near-tremble before it’s gone. His lips part—but instead of speaking, he leans his head back against the wall and lets the silence stand. Whatever he saw, he keeps it.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” he says at last, voice rasping. “Should I be worried?”

Solas doesn’t look up. “Only if you plan on moving.”

Felassan exhales a faint, crooked laugh, then winces for it. “Always hated this part.”

“You’ve never been fond of patience,” Solas says, and sets the first stitch.

Felassan’s jaw tightens, a pulse beating fast in his temple. Solas keeps his pace steady—neat, even loops, pulling each knot just tight enough. By the third pass, the muscle under his hands starts to ease. By the fifth, Felassan’s breathing has found a rhythm again.

It’s work Solas could do blind. He’s done it before—on him, on others, on himself—but never without that low current of fear running underneath.

When the last knot is tied, he cuts the thread and lays a fresh dressing over the wound, fixing it in place with sure, precise wraps. The bleeding has slowed to nothing, the skin around it clean and dry.

“You’ll live,” he says finally, sitting back on his heels. It comes out rougher than he means.

Felassan’s mouth tips into a faint smile. “Told you. Not going anywhere.”

He watches him—the quick, uneven rise of his chest, the eyes shut tight, the stray wisps of hair escaped from that precise knot brushing his forehead, the stubborn curl still clinging to his lips. He keeps his focus there—on his friend, alive and breathing—and hides the tremor in his bloody hands by locking them between his knees, as if sheer pressure might still them.

He stays like that for minutes, breathing in time, willing the fierce thud in his chest to quiet. Slowly, the tension in Felassan’s face loosens. Quietly, Solas decides he’ll sleep here tonight, just to be sure the hours pass without trouble. But first there’s Cole to put to bed, and a story to tell. He rises carefully, trying not to make a sound.

The moment he’s upright, Felassan cracks one eye open and fixes it on him.

“I’m coming with you,” he murmurs, pushing away from the wall. His hand lifts slightly, reaching for him, before dropping back into his lap.

“Not a chance.” Solas shakes his head. “You need to rest.”

“The GameStation… I promised Cole—”

“Tomorrow.”

Felassan pulls a weak, muddled pout. “But you were supposed to be the pig…”

A short, unwilling laugh catches in his nose—shaken loose by the sheer absurdity of it, by the ache in his chest that refuses to ease. “Tomorrow I’ll be the pig.”

Felassan seems to consider it for a moment, weighing his chances, before letting his head tip back against the wall. A small smile blooms across his face. “Then tomorrow will be a good day.”

He’s clearly half-asleep now—weak, and yes, he’s lost too much blood—but in that moment he looks almost boyish, worse than Cole on his most stubborn days. Solas can’t help the faint curve that touches his own mouth as he takes him gently by the shoulders and, careful not to jar his side, guides him down onto the bed.

Getting his trousers off takes some effort—Felassan isn’t cooperating in the least—but once they’re free, Solas folds them with neat precision and sets them on the desk beside the bed. He adjusts his head on the pillow, brushes a stray lock of hair from his forehead, then draws the sheet over him, tucking it in with care. Felassan yields to every movement without protest, eyes already shuttered, breathing pulling him toward whatever dream is waiting.

As Felassan drifts, Solas stands over him, the words still echoing in his skull. Why did you lie to me? He didn't give him an answer. And if tonight had gone differently—if he’d lost Felassan before he could—

He shoves the thought away, too sharp to carry. Then he turns toward the door, moving quietly.

At the threshold, he pauses. His hand rests on the frame; his eyes stay on Felassan a beat too long, as though sheer will alone could hold him like this—safe, still, whole. But the thought is foolish, and he knows it. Nothing ever stays.

He exhales, draws back. The door closes with a soft, deliberate click, sealing the silence behind him.

In the bathroom, the harsh light falls over his hands. Blood darkens the creases of his skin, stubborn in the lines of his palms. He scrubs and scrubs again, until the water clouds red, then fades to clear. Still, he doesn't stop. He wishes scrubbing could be enough.

Solas had forgotten just how intolerable Felassan became whenever he was confined to bed. The last time—over nothing more than a passing fever—he had nearly driven him to madness. Tea was demanded at all hours, his back presented for scratching because, as he gravely explained, “the chills won’t leave me,” and bedtime stories insisted upon as if he were some overgrown child. And, of course, the pitiful sighs and moans whenever Solas dared to leave the room for Cole, the house, or his work. Worst of all was that look—half corpse, half sulky child—which never failed to crumble his resistance and win every last indulgence with a single, tragic pout.

This time, Solas tells himself, he must be patient. After all, Felassan is not malingering over a sniffle but enduring a wound—a hole clean through his side, courtesy of Solas himself. Anyone, he reasons, would be miserable in his place… though perhaps not quite this theatrical about it.

But he does not complain when he hears his name called in that pitiful, wavering tone. He does not complain when he peers into the room to find Felassan sprawled there with mournful eyes, as though he were already rehearsing for his deathbed scene. He does not even roll his eyes when Felassan, too weak (apparently) to form words, merely gestures for a glass of water.

But when Solas brings it, Felassan wrinkles his nose and whispers, “Hot milk.”

Solas’s fingers tighten around the glass, but he obeys. He returns with the milk, presents it, and Felassan sips—barely enough to wet his lips—before pulling another face. “Honey,” he murmurs. At that, Solas comes perilously close to pouring the milk over his head, but instead he inclines his own with saintly composure, says nothing, and—once again—indulges him.

Felassan looks positively smug now, sipping his hot milk with honey and licking the foam from his lips as though it were ambrosia served in some grand hall. Solas is just about to slip away and grant him peace when Felassan, with all the gravity of a man dictating his last will, murmurs, “Pass me my phone?”

Solas raises one eyebrow. “You need to sleep.”

At once, Felassan throws himself back against the pillows, stretching his legs as though upon the rack, his face contorting in tragic agony. He heaves a sigh worthy of a stage actor. “I’m bored. Please.”

Solas exhales, defeated, and hands it over. “Ten minutes, then you put it away.”

Felassan accepts the phone with a small, satisfied smile, the sort of look Cole gives when he’s managed to sneak a spoonful of hazelnut spread straight from the jar. Solas leaves him to his mischief, shaking his head, and with a heaviness in his chest, retreats to the study, determined to return to the case.

That morning, Solas had been relentless in his demand for an account of the previous day. Felassan loathed the very idea.

The first time Solas asked, Felassan made a feeble attempt to roll over, as though simply turning away might end the conversation. The wound disagreed. The second time, he tried the ceiling—its cracked plaster, apparently, far more deserving of his attention. By the third request, he abandoned dignity entirely and launched into a whimper so loud it made him cringe. Yet Solas kept watching him in silence and pretended answers.

Defeated, Felassan finally turned his gaze on him, eyes narrowed in calculation. For a good ten seconds, he studied Solas, silent, weighing the odds. Then his expression shifted; his eyes lit with a mischievous glint, and a smile curled at his lips. Solas needed no prophecy to know what came next: bullshit, and plenty of it.

“Yesterday?” Felassan said at last, his voice suddenly brighter, as though the subject were a tonic. “Hardly worth mentioning.” He waved a languid hand. “I met Samson. A model of civility, as always. Have you met his dog? Sugar? Exquisite creature.”

He went on to explain, with apparent sincerity, that Samson was becoming more paranoid by the day—skittish, jumpy, suspicious of everyone. Everyone, that is, except Sugar. “Honestly,” Felassan added, shaking his head as though deeply troubled, “I don’t think I’ve stressed enough how sweet that dog is. Quite possibly the only soul left in Thedas that Samson seems to trust.”

Solas had asked why he was so obsessed with that dog. At once, Felassan’s face clouded, and he swept the question aside as though it had never been spoken, hurrying on with his tale.

He had, he claimed, tried to wring something useful out of that bastard Samson, to make him speak about the lyrium. But no—he had given him nothing. Nothing, save for the faintest hint that perhaps the Crows had begun to poke their beaks into his affairs.

So he had walked away with empty hands and gnawing frustration. And then—by sheer chance, of course—on his way back, he heard a girl scream. A cry for help, piercing the city’s filth. Without hesitation (naturally, for hesitation was foreign to him), he had dashed to her aid.

According to his very serious testimony, the alley was "thick with fog". And in that fog loomed ten Antivan Crows. Ten! Or perhaps twelve. Possibly eight. His memory, alas, was too distracted by the girl’s legs to give Solas an exact count.

“Your purse or your life,” one of them barked.

And then Felassan himself appeared: hands shoved casually in his pockets, a toothpick clenched between his teeth. "Hey," he had said, as if correcting a child. "The lady doesn’t care for your company."

Their response had been a stream of threats in that absurd, guttural dialect which, according to Felassan, sounded like someone gargling pasta water. But instead of dignifying them with a response, he locked eyes with the damsel and murmured, in flawless Antivan: “Mi piace il modo in cui mi accarezzi i capelli.”

“What in the Void does that mean?” Solas demanded.

Felassan shrugged, oozing insufferable charm. “Buy a dictionary.”

Clearly irritated, Solas pressed him, insisted he stop circling around the point and tell him whether he had learnt anything about the lyrium. Felassan, of course, ignored the plea and instead launched into a meticulous account of his so-called heroics.

He had faced them all at once—every last one of the ten. Or twelve. Or eight. In any case, he described vaulting over barrels, flipping off walls, and kicking one Crow so hard the man briefly achieved flight clearance over the city. He claimed he dispatched them all—every single one—with a mixture of martial artistry, devastating good looks, and techniques shamelessly stolen from films Solas had never seen.

And then—ah, the moment of triumph—he had turned to the girl. He had offered his hand, and when she rose shakily from the ground, she had kissed him, hard. "She tasted of mint sweets," Felassan declared, his smile just a shade sharper than usual.

Solas clenched his fists, visibly battling the urge to strangle him on the spot. “The lyrium, Felassan. The. Lyrium.”

But the elf, a master storyteller (or tormentor, depending on your perspective), lingered for another five full minutes describing that kiss—its texture, its humidity, the way her nose bumped his toothpick—before casually admitting that one of the Crows had not, in fact, died.

“Oh, that one?” Felassan said breezily. “He pulled a gun. Shot me in the side. I was, of course, shielding the girl with my own body. It hurt, but I kicked him in the face anyway. Very heroically. You would have been impressed, Solas. Possibly aroused.”

Then the real fight began. Brutal. Unforgiving. Until at last the man was on the ground, and Felassan wrung from him a confession: the Crows were furious with Samson for cutting them out of the trade in that new drug, and furious too with the havoc it was wreaking in the north.

Solas had stopped listening. The rest of Felassan’s tale dissolved into noise as his own thoughts raced ahead. That cursed voice inside him stirred with excitement, whispering: Good. This is the thing that will keep you alive. Take it.

Terror surged hot through his veins, because he knew—no, he felt—that this news promised nothing but ruin.

Before Felassan could finish recounting how he had supposedly ripped out the Crows’ teeth one by one with his bare hands, Solas grew still. His expression hardened, worry carving deep lines into his face. His gaze fixed, unblinking, on the bandage at his friend’s side.

“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You tended the wound yourself?”
“Where have you been all this time, walking around with a hole in your stomach?”
“Why didn’t you come to safety? To me?”

Felassan, at that, seemed to fold in on himself. The bravado fell away, and for the first time that morning, he looked what he truly was: exhausted. Bone-deep weary. But Solas didn't relent. He asked again, each question sharper than he intended. Felassan only sagged back against the pillows, suddenly drained, asking to be left in peace.

Solas’s patience frayed. He wanted to insist again, to demand the truth, to tear down the evasions Felassan wrapped around himself like another bandage. But the other man had already shut his eyes, feigning sleep with the stubbornness of a child.

So Solas swallowed it. Let it drop. And with no answer but silence, he left the room, his anger and his fear trailing after him like his own shadow.

He lets the anger and the fear rise now, lets them fill his chest until he can almost taste the bitterness on his tongue. He clings to them, knuckles white on the desk in the darkened study, the blinds drawn, the computer’s cold light reflected in his eyes. He needs to make sense of what Felassan gave him. He needs to know what was in those crates, and where the hell they were going.

North, the Crows had said.

He digs through reports, through lists of names, through headlines that make his stomach twist. Every line points the same way: if the blood spilling in the north ties back to the shipment they lost, then they’re standing on the edge of something vast, something monstrous. The thought should paralyse him, but instead it feeds him. The adrenaline spikes, hot and sharp, and the voice inside stirs—low, coaxing, hungry.

His jaw locks. He forces the whisper back, shakes his head hard, fixes his gaze on the screen. He can’t give in to shadows. He needs facts. A trail. Something solid to put in Cassandra’s hands. Supposition isn’t enough—not the words of twitchy gunmen, not the fevered guesses of criminals who’d kill a man for fun.

He needs proof.

He buries his face in his hands, pressing his palms hard against his eyes as if pressure alone could force his thoughts into order. Think, he tells himself. Think.

The crate they missed that night had to be bound for the docks. An important exchange, no doubt. It must have been loaded onto one of the countless ships crammed along the harbour, yet by Sunday morning, it was all gone. The ships. The cargo. Everything.

Sunday morning.

Ellana.

Solas’s hand drifts, unbidden, to the pocket of his trousers. The letter is still there, folded and worn soft by his touch. His fingertips brush its creases as if they could smooth away the damage, but the words are already burned into him—painted on the walls of his mind in strokes that no amount of scrubbing will erase.

He shakes his head. Not now. Not the time.

Felassan is wounded. Because he was distracted. Because he wasn’t there. Because he was with her.

He forces the thought down, buries it deep, but it still smoulders at the edges of his mind—yesterday, the bookshop. The way she appeared as if conjured. Radiant. Blinding. That sleeveless blouse, sheer enough to hint at skin, at warmth, at everything he should not have noticed.

He curses under his breath. Not now. Not ever. Void, not now.

He listens to the faint buzz of the laptop. Its screen glows cold in the room, filled with the faces of countless criminals who haunt Wycome’s underbelly. Names without answers. A puzzle with none of the pieces in place.

Then the phone vibrates. His eyes flick to the screen. Just enough to catch the preview.

E.L.: Solas

His name. Only his name. He reaches for the phone, fingers hovering, when another notification slides across the lock screen:

E.L. sent you a photo.

His hand falters, curling into a fist above the glass. Images flare in his mind, sharp, blinding, impossible to stop. Her in her flat, snapping a photo in the mirror. In her room, sheets spilling low on her hips. Outside in the park, hair loose, sunlight catching her smile. At the bookshop door, chin tilted, asking why it’s closed today. Maybe smiling. Maybe not. What shape do her eyes take today? How does her hair fall? What clings to her body in the frame—

—or is there nothing at all, just her skin, bare and unabashed, staring straight through the lens at him—

The chair screeches across the tiles as he bolts upright, snapping the laptop shut. Breathing is hard—too hard, lately. Each breath feels like a labour. Felassan… Felassan might not be breathing at all. He might—

He storms out of the room. Just a glance, he tells himself. Only a glance into that bedroom.

His pace quickens down the corridor. He’s almost at Felassan’s door when a sound stops him—his voice, low and syrupy.

Relief floods him. Felassan is breathing, speaking, alive. Solas closes his eyes, lets the sound steady him, the rush in his chest slowing as he hovers there, caught between worry and reprieve, listening.

No other voices—Cole’s at school, the flat is empty—so it must be the phone. The thought coaxes out a shaky laugh. Foolish to worry, really. He almost turns away, content to let the moment rest.

And then a word seeps through the door, snagging him mid-step. “Bambolina.” Drawled, rich, honeyed enough to rot teeth. The relief curdles into incredulity. Solas raises a brow. He should walk on—respect privacy, keep his dignity—but curiosity slips in like a picklock and pops the door on his self-restraint. He edges closer, ears pricked.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” Felassan is murmuring, the voice of a tragic hero on his deathbed, “You were incredible. Magic hands. I’ve always said it, haven’t I? The way you—”

Solas nearly chokes. He dressed that wound. And did he get magic hands? No. He got a groan and a request for honeyed milk.

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine. Thanks to you. You saved my life.”

That lands like a slap. Solas almost laughs, dry and bitter. He saved him. He did. And not a single thank-you. Not even a half-hearted nice stitches.

“It’s just a scratch, really. I promise. Cross my heart.”

Then, softer, dripping with promise: “Me too. Can’t wait to see you, bambolina. Counting the minutes. And don’t think this little scratch will stop me—no. When I get my hands on you, I’ll—”

Solas pushes the door open without knocking.

Felassan nearly fumbles the phone into the ceiling. “And don’t call again,” he declares, suddenly solemn, eyes snapping to the doorway where Solas leans, arms folded. “I don’t care about your… your extended warranty, all right?”

He ends the call with a flourish and collapses back onto the bed as though mortally wounded, one hand pressed to his side, a theatrical groan spilling from his lips. Solas almost laughs out loud.

“Bambolina?” he drawls from the doorframe. “That’s a new one.”

Felassan doesn’t move, one hand still planted on his side. He only cracks one eye open, squinting at Solas as though to measure just how badly he’s been caught—how wide the smirk is on that face in the doorway. For a moment he looks doomed, then he exhales, lets the other eye open, and slides his hand away from his ribs.

“It’s Antivan,” he mutters, all exasperation. “I learned it yesterday.”

“And already putting it to good use, I see.”

Felassan shoots him a glare sharp enough to wound, an insult trembling on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. “She doesn’t like me calling her that,” he goes on, as if Solas could possibly care. “It means little doll.”

“Mhm. I can see why she wouldn’t.”

“Well, she taught it to me. She’s giving me lessons.”

“Isabela, I presume.”

Felassan snorts. “What a detective.”

“Does Isabela speak Antivan?”

Felassan’s eyes dart at him. “Do you actually care, Solas?”

He shrugs, feigning ease. “I suppose not,” he says, all nonchalance—until his brow creases despite him. His teeth worry at the inside of his cheek, chewing until it stings. “So she’s the one responsible for that appalling bandage.”

“It wasn’t that appalling,” Felassan mutters in her defence.

“Magic hands, was it?”

“Solas.”

The warning in Felassan’s voice does nothing to quiet the itch crawling beneath his skin. If anything, it sharpens it. So he pushes harder, lets the cruelty spill. “Still—reckless of you. Half-dead, dragging yourself to her door, just to make her pity you. Just to win her back—”

“We got back together a few days ago.”

“Oh." Solas blinks. "You hadn’t mentioned.”

“You had other things on your mind.” The rebuke lands softly, but Solas feels the guilt carve itself across his face all the same. Felassan sees it, and his expression gentles. “Her place was close to where I was shot. I needed help quickly. It was the fastest option. She knows enough not to panic, and I know she won’t talk. She didn’t ask questions. She just… looked after me.”

“I see.”

For a moment, the room hangs silent. Solas isn’t sure whether to drown in guilt or simply walk away. Felassan only sets the phone down on the nightstand and pushes himself upright against the pillows with a muffled groan.

Solas should be relieved. Relieved that Felassan hadn’t wrapped himself in some filthy rag in a rotting alley, bleeding out alone. He should be thankful he wasn’t abandoned to his own recklessness. Yet something snags at him. He can’t name it, but it swells in his chest—something foul he fights to force back down. It tangles with guilt, curdles into a rancid brew that rises, rises, until it burns his throat. The horrible taste fills his mouth, bitter and acrid, begging to be spat out. He forces it down. It burns all the way.

“I should fetch Cole from school,” he says at last, voice clipped.

Felassan lets out a breath, shoulders slackening as though conceding some unspoken battle. He sinks deeper into the pillows, lids lowering. “All right.” A pause. Then softer, almost gentle: “When the time’s right… you’ll hear it all. About yesterday. I promise.”

Silence stretches, thick and heavy. Solas lingers, watching longer than he should. At last Felassan’s eyes drift shut, but it feels forced, a performance meant to end the moment. Solas doubts sleep will follow. No—more likely he’ll lie awake in the half-light, turning over whatever truth he’s still clutching tight, refusing to let slip.

Chapter Text

The Day Before

Don't need no advice
I got a plan
I know the direction
The lay of the land

Felassan leans into the mirror, close enough that his breath fogs the glass for a moment before it clears. The hair tie hangs from his teeth, his lips curved around it. The speaker thrums across the bathroom, the singer's voice sliding smooth and cocky over a bassline that makes the glass in the window hum.

Nothing can break
Nothing can break me down

His hands move with confidence, twisting his hair back, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, tightening, securing. When the knot holds, he frees the tie from his mouth, tongue running absentmindedly across his upper lip.

I got gas in the tank
I got money in the bank

Black shirt, top buttons open to bare a teasing strip of collarbone; rolled sleeves frame his forearms, veins and sinew shifting every time he flexes his fingers. The fabric tucked into high-waisted dark trousers that hug his waist, snug over his stomach, tight on his ass, easing down his legs with just the right drape.

I got skin in the game
I got a household name

A cloth belt cinched twice around him, silver plates flashing when the light hits them. On his feet, heavy leather boots with steel toes—thick, menacing, tried and tested more than once. A sharp kick to the shins, enough to make bones rattle. A well-aimed strike to the balls, enough to pulp them. Guarantees, really.

Not to mention—they look awfully good under him.

Who's the man?
Who's the man with the plan?

When the hair is set, he tugs a single strand loose to fall across his brow—calculated disorder, the kind of carelessness that leaves you wondering. He straightens the collar, sharp against his neck, then tilts his chin, daring the mirror to disagree.

I'm the man
I'm the man with the plan

A slow, indulgent smirk curves across his mouth. Yes. I’d fuck you.

The phone vibrates against the counter, its buzz swallowed by the relentless thump of music blasting from the stereo precariously balanced on the sink. He sprays cologne along his neck, eyes locked on the mirror. The phone rattles again. Felassan coils the loose strand of hair round his finger, studying how perfectly it carves the line of his jaw. The buzzing refuses to stop.

With an exaggerated sigh, he kills the music and reaches for the phone.

He doesn’t need to see the name flashing on the screen. He already knows.

“Ma’am,” he says evenly, pressing the speaker. Solas is at the bookshop. Cole is at school. He can talk freely.

“Any news?” Cassandra’s voice breaks through the phone, metallic, clipped. Felassan lets a smile curl as he adjusts his reflection in the mirror.

“Good morning to you, too. We're all doing fine, thanks for asking. Cole scored top marks in art yesterday—turns out the boy can draw. And you? Everything under control?”

“That is not how you address a superior, Felassan.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, tugging his collar into place. “Oh, come on, Cass. There’s no protocol against good manners.”

“No,” she concedes, and the sound she makes is almost a laugh. Almost. He can picture her shoulders easing, a half-forgotten smile ghosting across her lips. “But lately it feels like no one listens to me anymore.”

Felassan glances at the phone, watching the seconds crawl across the screen. “Sorry about the other night.”

“What matters is closing this case. Once and for all.” She says it with a sigh, and he only shakes his head. He shouldn’t be surprised, not anymore. Yet it strikes him, how exhausted they all seem to be.

“Well then," he trills. "You’ll be glad to hear we might have answers today.”

“You’ve got something?”

“Maybe.” In the mirror, his face is too serious. He erases it quickly, replacing it with half a grin. “Meeting with Samson in an hour.”

The line stays dead for a few seconds. He plants his palms on the sink.

“And Solas?”

He doesn’t look at the glass anymore. Doesn’t care to watch his face darken. “He’s working on the surveillance tapes.”

“Still?”

“He says he’s close. Real close this time.” The words spill out fast, and he bites his tongue before swearing. Great. Don’t lie to Cassandra, right? He’d chewed Solas out for that only days ago. He shrugs. Consistency—never his strong suit.

“…is he all right?”

Gods. I fucking hope so.

“He’s fine. You know him. Solas always pulls through.”

Silence. The kind he doesn’t like.

“I’ll get in touch with him. I want him ready to back you up, in case it comes to that.”

“There won’t be a need, Cass.”

“I don’t care. I won’t risk it. I'll tell him to stay close. If something goes wrong, he’s there.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, finally lifting his gaze to the glass again. The face staring back is a fool’s—someone carrying his friend on his back without the faintest idea what’s running through that friend’s head. He exhales.

“All right.”

“Good,” she says, and he knows the call is already closing. “I want a full report the moment you’re done. Clear?”

“Clear.” He nods, hands still gripping the sink, eyes locked on his own.

“Good luck.” A beat of hesitation, then her voice softens, the edge slipping. “And watch yourself.”

Felassan sees his reflection smile. It isn’t a pleasant smile. Too thin, too heavy, tinged with something terribly close to regret, and that doesn’t belong on his face today. Not on the job. “Give Anthony a kiss from me.”

Her voice turns into that of an old friend when she answers, “I will.”

And then the line goes dead.

He stares at the blank screen, Cassandra’s name dissolving. The urge is there, sharp and insistent—call that fool. Tell him the plan. Ask if he slept. Tell him he looks wrecked, that he should take a break. Stop pretending he doesn't have a heart still beating in his chest.

Admit he lied to Cassandra too, just to keep her from ordering him to keep an eye on him, to write him up, to bury him behind a desk.

But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the mirror instead. Straightens. Runs a hand through his hair, smooths the rolled sleeves, fixes the set of his shoulders. Tells himself it’s fine. It always is. Just another day in the life they chose. Protecting that fool without questions, without answers—that’s part of the job.

He pulls the mask into place and studies it one last time in the glass.

“I’m the man with the plan,” he mutters, the breath almost a laugh. “Here’s hoping.”

Getting an appointment with Samson had been a job in itself. The bastard never seemed to have a spare moment. Not for him, anyway—and that was already a bad sign. This morning, the club is crawling with muscle. Another bad sign. Still, Felassan takes the stairs to the upper floor, heading for the owner’s office, determined to dig out the answers he needs. Cut short Cassandra’s ultimatum. Clean up the mess they’d made the other night.

At the door, the bodyguards meet him with eyes like ice. No words, just a hard once-over. Then they shift aside, leaving the way open, a silent invitation.

Felassan swallows hard on nothing—or maybe it’s just the fear, bolting his feet to the floor. That sharp current of dread crawls over his skin whenever his gut whispers that something’s off. But he chokes it down in a blink.

He steps into Samson’s office with easy confidence, ignoring the guards’ eyes tracking every twitch, every breath. The air is thick, heavy with the musk of tobacco and old leather, soured by something metallic that clings to the back of the throat. A wide desk squats at the centre, its glass top gleaming under the dim light. The floorboards beneath Felassan’s boots are worn where men have stood too long, waiting, sweating before being dismissed—or dragged, perhaps.

Samson sits behind the desk, working through a neat stack of notes, each one counted, each one lined up like rows of soldiers. At his feet, a black Mabari sprawls heavy, ears cut to stumps. Felassan knows the beast, knows better than to linger on it. He heard too many stories of Samson loosing it on anyone who got under his skin. Maybe they’re legends. Maybe not. He’s not fool enough to find out.

The footsteps draw Samson’s eyes up, quick and sharp. Felassan clocks the details: too pale, hair slick with grease, lips cracked, a twitch tugging his shoulder in little spasms. One finger drums a steady, sharp beat on the glass top of the desk. Nervous. Badly. Or just high.

“Morning, Sam,” he sings, dropping a hand on the empty chair. “Looks like business is booming.” His eyes flick to the notes, sly, amused. Samson doesn’t bite.

“Sit.” The word drops flat. The human lays the money down on the glass, fingers still.

Felassan lowers himself into the chair with lazy grace, one arm draped over the backrest as though he’s settling in for drinks instead of business. His smile stays easy, but his eyes flick around the room, alert: the guards shifting their weight, the muffled hum of the ceiling fan, the faint stink of smoke baked into the walls. Everything feels too quiet.

“How’s the wife?” he asks, voice warm, almost friendly.

Samson lets out a snort, head shaking. “She’s a bloody nightmare. Won’t shut her mouth for five minutes.”

Felassan’s grin widens, silk-smooth. “Shall I take her out, then? Like last time. Maybe all she needs is a little… diversion.”

Samson leans back hard, the chair creaking under his weight. “Diversion, eh? Could be. She’s always been fond of you.”

“I have that effect." He shrugs, modest in the way only a liar can be. "And your lady’s got impeccable taste, Sam. Taking her out would be my pleasure—opera, fine dining, maybe some dancing. Keep her smiling for a change.”

Samson’s sneer curdles, turns into something jagged. “What’s next? You offering to fuck her, too?”

Felassan doesn’t flinch. He chuckles low, as if Samson’s humour were crude but expected. “Oh, come now. You know me. I don’t lift a finger unless there’s a cheque attached. And you don’t pay me near enough for that particular service.”

The tapping on the desk stops. Samson’s hand curls into a fist against the desk, knuckles whitening. His smirk twists, ugly, and he shakes his head. “Don’t flatter yourself. She’s a pain in the ass. If you can shut her up for a few hours, take her off my hands, good fucking riddance. Just bring her back in one piece. I don’t care how you manage it.”

“Then it’s settled." Felassan spreads his hands in mock triumph, eyes bright. "Lobster, champagne, candlelight. She won’t even remember what she was angry about.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Samson flicks his chin at one of his men. The thug crosses to the cabinet, pulls down a bottle of whisky, and tips it into a glass. The amber liquid sings as it pours, curling and breaking like sugared waves. For a moment too long, Felassan’s eyes follow the play of light the whisky paints across the desk.

“Care for a drink?” Samson asks, a mean smile tugging his mouth. He holds the tumbler out, fingers gripping the stem too hard. Felassan feels the blood quicken in his veins, a hot pulse hammering at his temple. He should refuse. He knows he should. But the scent hits him—strong, sharp, cheap—and his throat aches with a strangling need.

“Why not?” he says, voice smooth, casual. He takes the glass as though the steadiness of his hand could fool them both.

Samson’s brow arches. “Didn’t think you’d be so eager.”

Felassan swirls the whisky, watching the amber cling to the sides. Then he knocks it back in a single swallow, the burn searing down his throat, warmth flooding him too quickly. For a heartbeat his tongue flicks against his teeth, chasing the taste, before he reins it in. “Eager? No. Thoughtful,” he murmurs, setting the glass down gently. “A drink offered is a test, and I’d rather pass.”

Samson chortles, filling his own drink. When he brings it to his lips, his jaw bulges through the bottom of the crystal, grotesque, his whole face distorted by the curve. When the liquor is gone, he speaks almost casually.

“Then tell me—what else are you trying to pass off?”

Felassan answers flat, ready. “An elaborate cover story. Haven’t you guessed?”

Samson’s laugh tears out of him, loud and jagged, rattling the air. “You’re fucking hilarious.”

“That’s why you keep me here, isn’t it?" Felassan shrugs, unhurried, then leans forward with the lazy elegance of a cat, eyes languid. "To entertain. To put people at ease.”

“Something like that."

“Funny thing, though." He lets himself fall back into the chair, musing. "Lately, it’s been harder. People don’t relax around me the way they used to. Clients. Partners. They’re getting wary. Strange whispers going round, Sam.”

Samson's finger starts up again, drumming the desk in a steady rhythm. “Strange whispers,” he repeats, though his voice is flat. “About what?”

“Depends who you ask. Some say business is slowing, others that something bigger’s on the horizon. The kind of talk that makes men restless.” He lets his smile curve, amused, indulgent. “And restless men can be… unpredictable.”

Samson’s eyes narrow, the tic in his shoulder twitching again. “They don’t know shit.”

Felassan crosses one leg over the other, wearing the same friendly face that has calmed drunken clients and soothed egos bigger than his own.

“Of course they don’t,” he says, "But they think they do. And what they think is what I trade in. If the story out there is that The Fade doesn’t know its own game… that’s poison, Sam. The kind that doesn’t wear off. The wrong kind of noise.”

Samson slides a note from one stack to another with neat precision. “You handle the noise. That’s your job.”

Felassan nods, gracious, as though conceding a point in a friendly debate. “And I do it well. But it helps when I know what song we’re dancing to. Last week, for instance… a few of our clients hinted they’d heard about something new moving through the city. Stronger than usual. They wanted to know if it had our name on it.” He pauses just long enough to let the words settle, then adds: “Naturally, I told them business was steady and under control. But if it is ours, I’d rather polish the story than let rumours run wild.”

For the first time, Samson looks at him properly. He drums his fingers once, twice, then stills them.

“Clients should mind their own,” he says evenly. “If they want what we’ve got, they’ll get it when I say they do. Not before.”

Felassan hums, a soft sound that could be agreement, could be doubt. “Fair enough. Just… loyalty’s fickle. If they think the next bright thing comes from someone else? They’ll start sniffing elsewhere. And loyalty’s the only real currency we’ve got, Sam. Let me give them a reason to stay with us. Sell it before someone else does.”

Samson exhales, almost a laugh, but it catches sharp at the end. “Loyalty’s earned,” he mutters. “And half those rats wouldn’t know it if it bit ‘em.”

Felassan watches him closely, still smiling. He lets a beat of silence stretch before he says, soft and sly: “Then maybe I should remind them who’s running the game. With the right words, the right… shine. Unless there’s something you’d prefer I keep under wraps.”

The room holds its breath. Samson’s eyes flicker to his, just for a heartbeat. Then the mask slides back in place.

“Stick to your job, elf,” he says. Calm. Careful. The Mabari lifts its head, ears pricking. Felassan catches the glint of a single eye—open, unblinking, fixed squarely on him.

He chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Always do, boss. Always do.”

Shit, he thinks, ransacking his mind for some way—any way—to coax a crumb more from the bastard. But before his smile can fade, the door behind him creaks open.

Samson’s head snaps up. A boy slips in, nervous, eyes darting to the guards who stroke the outlines of weapons hidden beneath their jackets. He crosses the floor with quick, uncertain steps, clutching a paper cup stamped with the logo of a dockside café.

“Took your bloody time,” Samson mutters coldly before rising from his chair and snatching the drink from trembling hands.

For the briefest moment, Felassan catches the boy’s gaze—dark, skittish eyes full of fear. The kid looks away at once, fixing instead on the Mabari that stretches lazily by Samson’s desk, muscles shifting under its hide.

Samson watches the kid with a smile too sweet to be real. “Want to pet her?” he coos, slipping one hand into his pocket while the other grips the cup. “Do it. Give her a stroke.”

The runner shakes his head fast, retreating a step, eyes locked on the dog now staring back with sudden, hungry interest.

“Go on,” Samson insists, flicking a hand toward the Mabari. “Sugar’s a sweetheart. Loves a good scratch behind the ears.”

At the sound of her name, the dog cocks her head, eyes watchful. Felassan feels the impulse to rise, to step between them, though he knows the game too well. The bastard is savouring this. Any protest, any flicker of unease, and the fun will curdle—escalating fast.

“N-no, thank you, I—I don’t think—” the boy stammers, voice cracking.

Samson bursts out laughing, loud and cruel, then slams his boot against the floorboards. Sugar jolts upright, towering on all fours. Samson’s smile is all teeth. “Don't be shy.” The words are soft, almost kind, but his eyes stay locked on the runner, cold and unblinking.

The boy wavers, stiff as a sapling in a storm, then shuffles closer. His hand trembles, creeping toward the dog’s muzzle. Sugar does not stir. She only watches. Steady, patient.

Felassan holds his breath.

At last, those quivering fingers brush coarse fur. Felassan's grip bites into the chair arm; he almost looks away. Then Sugar’s tongue slips free, tail giving the faintest thump as she tilts into the touch. The boy scratches again, halting, uncertain, and a flash of relief ghosts across his face, eyes darting from dog to master in search of approval.

“That’s it,” Samson chuckles, low and satisfied. “Good lad.”

Felassan exhales at last, only realising he’d been holding the air when the boy snatches his hand back—still intact, still whole.

That's when Samson takes a sip from the cup. And freezes. His expression curdles into a mask of fury.

“What the fuck have you brought me?” he roars, pinning the boy who was already edging toward the door.

“A-a-a c-cappuccino,” the runner stammers, eyes wide, terrified.

Felassan opens his mouth for a quip to cut the tension, but Samson detonates before he can speak.

“Trying to poison me, is that it?” His voice slices through the air, jagged, vicious. He lunges a step closer, and the boy nearly trips over himself retreating. “Does this look like a fucking cappuccino to you?”

He thrusts the cup out, dark liquid sloshing inside. The kid blanches, words collapsing in his throat. “Th-they must’ve… must’ve got it wrong, I—I asked—”

“It’s a fucking macchiato!” Samson snarls. “This shit makes me sick!” He slams the cup down on the desk, liquid splattering across the glass.

From the floor, Sugar stirs. A low growl vibrates from her chest, thick and resonant, strands of saliva spilling from her jaws to the floor.

Felassan swallows, forces a smile, and rises carefully from his chair. “Easy, Sam. I’ll drink it. Let me run back, get you a cappuccino, no harm—”

“You stay where you are!” Samson snaps, voice too loud. Felassan freezes, every nerve on edge. Up close, he sees it: the redness burning in Samson’s eyes, the swollen lids, the sweat beading across his forehead. His face twitches, muscles jerking as though a current ran beneath his skin. Instinct drags Felassan back a pace.

Behind him, the boy bolts. Feet slap hard against the floorboards, a staccato drumming that rattles through the narrow hall.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Samson bellows. His men draw in unison, pistols gleaming in the dim light.

“Wait," Felassan begins. "Calm down, there's no need—”

A snap of fingers.

No.

The Mabari’s ears shoot up. Her claws scrape the floor as she launches forward, teeth bared.

Sugar hits the boy like a hammer. They go down hard, bones cracking against the floor. The kid screams, shrill and panicked, arms flailing—until the Mabari latches onto one of them with a sickening crunch.

The sound turns Felassan’s stomach. He grips the chair back so tight his nails bite into the worn leather.

The boy kicks, thrashing, but the dog doesn't relent, teeth buried deep in flesh. The stink of iron floods the room.

Felassan fights the bile rising in his throat. His every instinct screams at him to move—to break cover, to wrench the beast away, shield the boy, do something. Instead, he forces himself still, forces a crooked grin onto his lips like it’s all some show he’s half-enjoying. The effort tastes bitter, coppery, in his mouth. He glances at the human beside him, hoping for mercy.

He finds none. Samson is out of his fucking mind.

"Good girl,” the man is crooning, low and steady, while the boy shrieks, voice cracking into sobs. One trembling hand claws at the floor, nails snapping as he scrapes for escape. Sugar only tightens her grip, growl vibrating low in her throat.

Felassan swallows hard, trying to conceal his disgust with a laugh. “Boss, you’ll want him alive, won’t you? Dead boys don’t run errands.”

Samson’s gaze snaps to him. For a long, blistering moment, Felassan thinks he’s gone too far. That he's next. Then Samson exhales, slow, measured, and clicks his tongue twice.

The Mabari freezes. Her jaws part with a wet tear of flesh. The boy wails, clutching what’s left of his arm, red pumping between his fingers.

“Drag him out,” Samson says flatly. “Let him bleed somewhere I don’t have to hear it.”

Two guards move, hauling the kid up like a sack of grain. He cries out, a broken sound, then disappears into the corridor.

Felassan tells himself to look away, to keep his eyes fixed on the desk, the guards, anything. But his gaze drags back, again and again, to the floor: the gleam of pooled blood, the shredded fabric, the scratches left by nails on the wood. His gut twists, convulses, bile clawing up. He swallows it down hard, the taste of his breakfast sour and heavy, threatening to come back up. Keeping it down feels like the only act of will left in him.

“Fuck’s sake,” Samson mutters beside him. “He’s ruined my shoes. Bled all over 'em.”

Felassan blinks. For a heartbeat, the image blooms bright in his mind—say it. “I’m a spy. I’m here to throw you in a cell and watch you rot,” he could spit, watch the room tear open and all the ugly things crawl out. Say it and everything detonates; watch faces change, knives come out, loyalty curdle into treason.

He’s done it before, many years ago, when the lying and the listening dragged on too long—when nights tangled in sheets stopped being tactics and turned into something he could no longer pretend away. Solas had become the only thing in this wretched game that felt real. He was meant to be a mark, a door to the Evanuris, a means to an end, nothing more. But Felassan found himself studying the way his eyes lit when he argued, the way his hands trembled with gentleness when they touched, the fierce, impossible hope that lived in him. And somewhere in that mess, the mask slipped.

He had fucked Solas to break him, and instead broke himself.

He had said the words then, "I'm the mole, I used you"—with his mouth pressed to Solas’ shoulder, voice breaking on the truth. He had confessed it the only way he could, quiet and shaking, as if soft words might hurt less. He broke protocol. Risked everything. But he told him. Because he couldn’t carry the lie another heartbeat, because Solas deserved more than shadows and half-truths. A confession meant to end them, whispered into the body he never wanted to let go.

It should have killed everything between them.

Yet it didn’t. No—that came after.

And now, staring at the crimson pool at his feet, staying quiet feels like dying by inches all over again. Void—how can anyone stand and watch this shit and call it living?

“Since you care so much about what people are whispering…” Samson’s voice cuts across his thoughts, brittle and jagged. Felassan forces his eyes back up. The human's stare twitches, restless, paranoid, like he’s listening to ghosts behind the wallpaper.

“I’ve got work for you.”

He shapes a smile from the bile in his throat. “Music to my ears.”

“Right.” The word comes too fast, his breath hitching. “The Crows are here. Sticking their beaks where they don’t belong. They think they can snatch what’s mine.” His words spill quick, feverish, hand slicing through the air as if he’s carving shapes no one else can see. Felassan notices the right one never leaves his pocket, fingers worrying at something over and over like a gambler’s dice.

“I want you to meet them,” Samson spits, eyes wide, too bright. “Find out where they stand. If they’re looking to be a problem.”

Samson’s hand clenches in his pocket, his eyes skitter toward the corners of the room. Then he jerks back to Felassan, voice dropping low and sharp.

“There’s a man. Illario Dellamorte. Crows’ fixer. He’s here in Wycome, playing it quiet. But I know what quiet means.” His jaw works, grinding. “It means they’re planning. It means they’re circling.”

Felassan keeps his smile in place, though his gut twists tighter. Illario Dellamorte. Even the name tastes like trouble.

“I was supposed to meet him today,” Samson mutters, pacing a short step before snapping his eyes back on the elf. “But I’m not walking into that. Not now. You… You’ll go instead.” His voice hardens, urgent, almost frantic. “Third-floor bar above the docks—the kind of place no one bothers to sweep. That’s where he’ll be.”

Samson goes on, words tumbling too fast, like he can’t keep them inside. “Learn if we can trust him. If he’s clean, if he’s worth the breath—then you bring him here, to the club. When the music’s loud enough that no one’s listening.” He leans forward, sweat beading at his temple, a mad gleam in his eyes. “Tell him I’ve got something for them. Something worth his time.”

Felassan tilts his head, casual. “And what should I say it is, Sam? A gift? A warning?”

Samson bares his teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Say it’s mine. That’s all he needs to hear.”

The spy nods, arms folding across his chest in a show of ease. "I’ll meet this Illario Dellamorte. Handshakes, a couple of drinks, see which way the wind’s blowing. If I don’t smell smoke, I’ll bring him to the club. Sounds simple enough.”

“Simple,” the man echoes, though the word grates like a curse. He starts toward his chair, then veers, pacing closer. Sugar pads with him, claws clicking on the floor. They stop right in front of Felassan. Both master and hound stare at him without blinking.

He forces himself still. No swallow. No twitch. Just that same lazy smile.

“You’re good with people,” Samson rasps. A finger jabs hard into Felassan’s chest. “But don’t fuck this up. And rein in that silver tongue of yours.”

Felassan shifts the finger aside with two of his own, lips curling into something light. “Crystal clear. I’d quite like both arms intact when I raise a glass with your wife.”

Samson holds his gaze, fever-bright, long enough for the air to curdle. Every nerve in Felassan screams that one snap of those fingers and Sugar will be at his throat.

Then the man barks out a laugh, harsh and humourless. “Good. She’s demanding. Doesn’t waste her time on cripples.”

He drops back into his chair, dismissive as he turns back to his neat stacks of cash. Sugar yawns, sprawling at his feet as if nothing happened.

Felassan doesn't add anything else. He turns and slips out with a smile fixed on his face, yet inside, he’s nothing but bile, disgust, and—guiltily—relief. The stink of blood clings to him as he leaves, the smear on the floor still pulsing inside his skull.

Outside the club, he slows just enough to catch one of Samson’s guards leaning against the wall. “Got a cigarette?”

The man slides one from his pack without a word, eyes dropping to the blood drying on his trousers. Felassan slots the smoke between his lips. The guard flicks his lighter, and the flame catches. The elf exhales a long stream of smoke, then nods. “Appreciate it. I’ll square it back to you.”

The guard gives a grunt that might be agreement. Felassan steps away, lungs filling with smoke he holds until it sears. He only lets it out when his chest aches, breath clouding the street behind him. Yes, this is what he needs. Exactly what he needs. Maybe.

His fingers tremble when he lifts the cigarette again, and all he can think about is how badly he wants another whisky. A full bottle, no glass, no pause. Just burn it all down and forget.

He drags deeper, trying to choke the craving, but the smoke isn’t enough. The hunger crawls, looking for something else to latch onto—and, as ever, it finds the same face. The same bruise.

He digs out his phone.

Solas: Cassandra told me your plan. Keep me updated.

For a second, he hovers over the screen, thumbs typing almost on their own. I need help. I need you.

Then he curses under his breath, smoke hissing through his teeth, and deletes the words. No matter. Too risky. Solas is stretched thin already. Tired, careless. Felassan won’t drag him further into this shitstorm. Not until he knows he can take it.

The phone disappears back into his pocket. He takes another pull on the cigarette, bitter taste coating his tongue, and keeps walking, the city swallowing him in smoke and salt air.

Just a break, he tells himself. Before diving back in. Before his nerves peel raw. Just a small break, he thinks as his feet take him down toward the docks.

The freighters squat at berth like iron-bellied whales, their hulks groaning as stevedores swarm over them. Crates and containers—stuffed with gods-knows-what—shift in an endless tide from shore to hold. If only he could crack them open. If only he could see what’s moving right under his nose.

The air reeks of fish guts and oil, heavy with shouted orders and the clatter of machinery. Felassan lets his eyes drift over the bustle, feigning disinterest. None of this matters. What he’s looking for—what he needs—is always at Pier Thirty-Two.

And there she is.

Bent over a crate, that perfect ass framed by blue work trousers. Muscles tense under amber skin as she grips the steel and lifts with a grunt, sweat flashing across her shoulders. A curl slips across her cheek; she shakes her head, and her hair whips wild, dark arcs cutting the light.

The blue bandana knotted over her crown. Ears heavy with so many gold hoops her lobes look like a sieve. Felassan’s grin crooks, wolfish. He’s always loved tracing his tongue through every single one of those holes.

He tries to smother his smile as his gaze drifts to the café terrace down the street. He checks right, then left—no waiter, no owner. Perfect. He saunters over, posture lazy, pretending to study the limp paper menu curling on the table.

A quick scan: a man buried in his newspaper, two dockworkers laughing too loud at some filthy joke the breeze carries across. No one watching closely.

His hand slips out, casual as a yawn, and he lifts the little bouquet from its glass jar. The flowers are half-dead, stems slimy with water, but he tucks them behind his back like contraband. Shoulders easy, stride unhurried, he moves on with the faintest curl of his lips. He can already see her face when he shows up with them—irritation first, then that reluctant warmth he lives for.

He waits a little way from Pier Thirty-Two, leaning against the steel column of the massive bridge that looms over the docks. From his vantage point he watches her work—laughing with her mates, cursing when a crate proves heavier than it should, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist.

He lingers until he catches that moment he knows too well—her gaze drifting off, fixed on the water, lost somewhere only she can go. That’s when he pushes off the column, flowers hidden, a sly smile curling his lips.

He creeps forward on tiptoe, clutching that pathetic little bundle of half-dead flowers like it’s treasure. Isabela’s coworkers spot him and roll their eyes—Felassan’s antics are old news to them. He doesn’t care.

He stops just behind her, silent as a thief, then slides his arm past her shoulder and puts the wilted bouquet under her nose.

“Morning,” he murmurs. She turns slowly, one brow arched, her face set in the weary amusement of a woman who’s seen this act a hundred times.

“You’re looking especially beautiful today,” he adds with a smile.

Isabela glances at the flowers, one hand cocked on her hip. “Where did you steal these from, this time?”

He pulls a wounded face, lips puckered in mock offence. “I bought them.”

“Of course you did. Where?”

“There’s a florist right next to that ridiculous Orlesian pastry shop. Daisy’s place.”

“Mmh.”

“I asked for the most radiant, most dazzling flowers they had. Only for you.”

“Then they robbed you blind.” She shrugs, plucks the bouquet from his hand, and tosses it over her shoulder without looking. The flowers arc through the air and vanish into the harbour with a pitiful plop.

Felassan clutches his chest as if she’s stabbed him. “You wound me, 'bella. Truly.”

“You know, I can buy myself flowers,” she says, voice light as sea-breeze. Then she steps in, close enough to steal his breath, and winds her arms around his neck. Felassan’s stomach flips. His fingers graze the smooth skin of her arm, and he’s certain his face must look as dazed as the fish nibbling at the drowned bouquet drifting out to sea.

“But there’s something I'd rather do with you.”

“Oh?” he whispers, grinning like an idiot, his nose brushing hers. “And what’s that?”

Isabela presses her body against him, firm and deliberate. Felassan can think of nothing but the sinuous lines of her curves rubbing into his clothes. She doesn’t hesitate—her mouth finds his, tongue seizing his in a kiss that is slow, devastating, drawn out until every nerve in his body feels molten. She tastes him like honey and sugar and maple syrup all at once, savouring him until the world narrows to the heat of her lips and the rhythm of her breath.

His hands roam her back, tracing muscle and sweat, until they settle on her ass. He grips hard, dragging her against his hips, anchoring himself in her warmth.

When she finally breaks the kiss enough to look into his eyes, Felassan feels himself unravel. He’s nothing but ice cream melting under Wycome’s brutal sun—dripping away, helpless in her hands.

“I’m almost off shift,” she whispers, teeth closing on his lower lip.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her mouth lingers, sucking where she’s just bitten, slow enough to make him shiver.

“That's… interesting,” he mutters, eyes gone glassy, his lips chasing hers again like he can’t stand the space between them.

“If you wait,” Isabela purrs, grinding her hips against him just enough to make him gasp, “you could come to my place.”

All he can manage is a strangled “Mmh,” their forehead pressed together, his tongue tangled with hers. “Say it again.”

“Come home with me,” she repeats, brushing her fingers along the tips of his ears. “We’ll have some fun.”

For a heartbeat, Felassan almost gives in. Every nerve in him aches for it—to feel her skin burning against his, to taste the salt of her sweat, to bury his face between her thighs and drown until she drips down his chin. He wants nothing more than to shut his eyes, let her lead him by the hand like a dog to her door, and lose himself inside her until sunset and beyond.

But he can’t. Not now. Not with what waits for him.

“Oh, Is…” His voice breaks into a groan. “I want to. I want it so badly.”

He feels her body go rigid. The air between them ices over in an instant. Before he can swallow the words, she slips away, pulling free of his arms with a step that feels like a bullet in his gut.

“I’ve got work. People to see,” he says, already aching for the heat of her body against his. “I’ll try to come by later. If you still want me.”

She only shrugs, calm as the tide, and bends to another crate. Her muscles flex, the weight shifting easily into the ship’s iron belly. As if his kisses, his hands, had been nothing but smoke on the wind.

“Maybe I’ll have found someone better by then,” she sings, unbothered.

Felassan edges closer, wounded smile in place. “Don’t be cruel. I brought you flowers.”

“You stole them.”

“It was romantic.”

“It was ridiculous.”

His smile falters, pride scuffed raw, but before he can answer, she cuts him a glance. Her eyes drop to the hem of his trousers, the dark bloodstains still there. The sight punches him low in the chest, but she doesn’t mention it. Just lifts her gaze back to his face, holds it for a heartbeat, then turns away.

“You’ve been smoking,” she says flatly.

“One cigarette,” he admits, shrugging.

“You’re nervous.”

He shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging his lips. “Nah. Just the usual piss-measuring contests. Idiots full of testosterone. Nothing new, nothing worth remembering.”

She doesn’t bother to meet his eyes when she answers. “And you? Can you keep those idiots on a leash?”

The question blindsides him. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, and he feels the pause stretch too long. He forces out the answer, firm, steady. “It’s my job.”

“What about your friend? The bald one—always brooding. Not watching your back today?”

His face shadows over. He looks away, brows locked tight, arms folding hard across his chest. He draws a deep breath to flatten the edge in his voice. “He’s got other business.”

She lets out a sound—half doubt, half dismissal. Then she drops the crate with a solid thud, straightens, and pins him with those dark, piercing eyes that never fail to make his balance slip.

“Do what you have to,” she says, cold. But her eyes soften a heartbeat later. “And call me when it’s done.” She brushes a curl off her face. “I’ll let you know if there’s still a place in my bed.”

His lips twitch upward, a thin flame of hope sparking in his chest. He wants to seize her, drown in her mouth until nothing else exists. But she turns her back, hips rolling, that perfect ass framed by her navy work trousers, hair tumbling loose down her shoulders. She has her work, same as he does.

All he can manage is a quiet, “Sure. Later.”

And then he slips off along the pier, shoulders tight, steps carrying him toward the bar. Every drop of blood in his body screams not to go, not alone.

He clenches his fists and keeps walking, never looking back.

Chapter Text

The bar is a pit. Low ceiling, paint peeling in strips, walls stained with twenty years of smoke and spilt liquor that seeped so deep it’s become part of the plaster. The stink of sour beer and mould sticks to the air like grease, heavy enough to taste.

The bathroom door hangs crooked on its hinges, half open. One glance and Felassan catches the sprawl of crude graffiti across tiles yellowed with piss, a mirror spider-webbed with cracks. He doesn’t let himself picture the toilet. Whatever’s in there is probably the worst in Wycome. Maybe the whole of the Free Marches. Void, maybe The Worst Toilet in Thedas.

His stomach lurches at the thought, but worse than the filth is the emptiness. No hum of voices, no clink of glasses. The place feels deserted, hollowed out. Waiting.

Behind the bar, nothing but dusty bottles and a smear of flies buzzing over a puddle of something that might once have been ale. The floor sticks under his boots, tacky with layers of dried drink and gods-knows-what else.

The door thuds shut behind him. Felassan doesn’t need to look, but he does anyway: a slab of a man blocking the way, moustache waxed into ridiculous curls, hair slicked flat with enough pomade to start a fire. His little pig eyes gleam in the half-light, and the look he gives Felassan is sharp enough to carve. Keep walking.

Felassan exhales slowly, the stink of rot and spirits crawling down his throat, and steps deeper into the bar.

A man sits waiting, out of place in a room like this. His suit is cut from cloth too fine for these walls, a blue so dark it passes for black until the dim light catches on a fold and betrays it. He moves with measured patience, one leg crossed over the other, an arm draped across the worm-eaten table beside him. His foot swings in the air, steady as a metronome. In the half-light, Felassan can’t tell if it’s nerves or judgment over being kept waiting.

The man’s face emerges only when he leans forward, a skewed beam of light from the window slicing across sharp features: a hawk’s nose, lips thin but carved with precision, a narrow chin, cheekbones proud and high. His dark eyes burn with their own light, fixed squarely on him, unblinking.

When he comes close enough, the man bares a smile—teeth white and flawless, polished like knives. Not a flicker of warmth in it. Just calculation. Felassan sees it straight off: this one won’t be easy. Samson was blunt force, ugly, but predictable. This bastard? He’s the kind of man who doesn’t just deal with snakes—he breeds them. Might even be one himself.

Felassan smooths the thought off his face and comes to a stop.

“You must be Illario. Dellamorte, am I right?”

The man rises, syrup smile still plastered in place. Around the room, shadows breathe—four Crows posted neat as stitches. Windows sealed. Corridors cut. Doors choked. Even the reeking latrine has a watcher. A net strung tight, and he's the fish.

“Felassan, is it?” the human chirps in a thick Antivan accent, then leans in with that oily grace, brushes cheeks left and right as if they’re kin. Felassan doesn’t blink.

“That’s me,” he says when the man finally releases him. He smiles, courteous, and dips his head just so. “Samson sends his regrets. He couldn’t be here in person.”

“I imagine he’s very busy,” the man says, as though Samson’s absence had been pencilled into the script.

“Quite. Business calls. You know how it is.”

“Of course.” He gestures to the chair opposite, across a table that reeks of stale liquor and rot. “I’ve heard only good things about you, Felassan. Samson trusts you. And if he trusts you, you have our respect.”

He casts a glance toward his men, fishing for approval. They nod once, silent, eyes narrowed, tracking Felassan’s every flicker of movement.

“The honour’s mine.” He steps into the dance without a second thought, dropping into the chair with casual ease. Outwardly relaxed; inwardly, every detail is filed away. Angles, exits, shadows. The knot in his gut won’t let him ignore them.

Illario notices, of course. He presses a hand to his chest as if in apology, settling back into his seat. “Forgive me for choosing such a place,” he says. His tone is smooth, but the wrinkle of his nose and the faint lift of his brow betray distaste. “We wanted to be sure we weren’t disturbed.” A pause. His palm rests lightly on the table as he offers a closed-lipped smile. “A room without unwanted ears.”

Felassan dips his head, lips parting for the polite reply, “Oh, it’s—”

A shift in the room catches him—the scrape of a boot, the hush of breath too close behind. His gut spikes cold. He twists, half-rising, hand already moving for balance—

—but fingers knot in his hair, wrenching his head back so hard his vision bursts white. The chair skids under him. Another Crow is there instantly, metal slamming against his cheekbone, the barrel pressed so close he can smell the oil and old powder.

Pinned, breath caught, Felassan stares down the black mouth of the gun, his pulse hammering in his throat. Shit. Too fast. Too clean. He never had a chance.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Illario chuckles, the sound warm and delighted, as though Felassan’s fear were the punchline to a joke. “My men do get a little… overeager, no?”

He lets it hang there, silence stretching, his gaze crawling over Felassan’s face like fingers, studying every jump of muscle, every tremor he can wring out of him. He savours it.

Well. Unpredictable? That doesn’t even touch it. One second silk, the next steel. Fuck. He had thought he could play this with a few barbed jokes, a drink, the bait of a club meeting with Samson. Easy enough. Right.

Still, the grin creeps back. His voice rasps, dry. “What, no drink first? Little rude, don’t you think?”

Illario chuckles, low and warm, like the joke’s genuinely charmed him. “Ah, but why waste good liquor on a corpse?”

Felassan tilts his head against the grip in his hair. “Then at least light a candle. Bit of romance before you shove that thing in my mouth.”

The man shakes his head, the crooked smile still on his lips. “You’ve got teeth, I’ll give you that. Samson keeps interesting company.” A flick of his hand and another Crow clamps Felassan’s jaw in a crushing grip, wrenching his head still. The gun grinds closer, cold metal pressing against his teeth, one breath from becoming part of his smile.

Shit.

Without another word, Illario leans forward across the table, close enough for him to see the shine in his hair and the dead calm in his eyes. The smirk dies.

“Listen,” he says at last, the word spat like a curse. “I don’t care how you rats play your games in this piss-stinking city. Where I come from, we don’t like to waste time. We get to the point.”

Felassan snorts. "And what is the point, Illario?"

“Business with Samson has always run smoothly,” the man begins, voice calm, deliberate. “Everything leaving Wycome, everything brought onto our shores, always agreed with us.”

The words slide like velvet, but Felassan feels the hooks beneath. His jaw throbs under the Crow’s grip, the gun cold against his cheekbone. Too close. Too steady. If the bastard sneezes, his brains paint the wall.

“Every shipment. Every drug. Every deal. We had our share.”

He bites back a scoff. All this theatre just to remind me whose stage I’m on. Seems I’ve got a talent for attracting men drunk on the echo of their own voices.

“And now,” Illario goes on, eyes gleaming, “you forget to mention that a ship—laden with something new, something dangerous—never passed through Treviso. Yet it makes noise. Too much noise. And far too close to us.”

Sweat stings Felassan’s temple. He swallows against the pressure in his throat. New and dangerous—he knows exactly what that means. Lyrium. Always the fucking lyrium. And I don't know shit about it.

“You don’t have the right to move contraband through our waters without cutting us in.” Illario leans forward, voice sharpening. “That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked. So tell me—what’s changed?”

Felassan exhales slow, lips curling into a grin he doesn’t feel. “Maybe Samson finally got tired of the sound of your voice.”

The Crow chuckles and leans in, vicious, so close Felassan can taste the sour-sweet of wine on his breath. For a heartbeat he thinks the bastard might kiss him. Then fingers rise, casual as a lover’s touch, and close on his prosthetic ear. Cold pressure against carved metal.

Felassan goes still. Every muscle locks. His smile vanishes in an instant.

The click is unmistakable. The silver breaks from his skin, lifted, stolen. Fingers toy with it like it’s nothing.

And the world drops away. Gone. All he sees is red. All he smells, all he wants, is blood.

“Give it back,” he breathes, voice low, eyes locked on the shard of metal glinting in the Crow’s hand.

Illario turns it lazily between elegant fingers. “Pretty little thing. I wonder what it fetches on the market.” He glances sideways, lips curling. “What do you say?”

The Crows laugh, cruel and easy. A number here, a jeer there. One suggests shoving it down his throat, another says melt it down for scrap.

Felassan doesn’t hear them. His whole body is strung tight, nerves blazing, vision narrowing to the piece of silver in Illario’s hand.

“Give it back,” he hisses. “Now, you son of a bitch. Or I’ll tear your fucking guts out and paint these walls with—”

One of the Crows moves before the words finish leaving his mouth—a fist slamming into Felassan’s gut, sharp and deep, driving the air out of him in a single, brutal gasp. He folds, coughing, but his eyes—his eyes never leave the metal gleaming in Illario’s fingers.

The man doesn't blink. He eases into the back of his chair and switches tongues without missing a beat.

“Ah, così mi piaci," he says in perfect Antivan, smooth as honey. "Adesso sarà ancora più divertente tagliarti l'altro orecchio e darlo in pasto ai pesci. Non vedo l’ora.” ¹

Felassan doesn’t need to understand every word. Cut. Fishes. Ear. It's enough to send a cold shiver down his spine.

“Io gli taglierei la lingua, Illario.”  The voice comes from his left, flat, like someone suggesting a cut of meat.

“Con calma, ragazzi. Prima dobbiamo farlo cantare.” Illario’s tone is light, almost amused, that smile still on his lips.

“Può cantare anche senza un orecchio. O senza palle.” Another voice, from behind him, lazy and cruel.

Illario chuckles, soft and syrupy. “Canterebbe in un bel falsetto, eh?” ²

The bastards laugh again. It ripples through the room—low, poisonous, rolling up and breaking like a rotten tide.

Felassan clenches his teeth, trying to smother the panic climbing his chest. It’s absurd, unreal—from what he can understand, they’re debating which part of him to carve off first as if it were business.

The prosthetic ear glints, catching the light.

That's… shit.

That brings back memories, doesn't it?

And for a moment, he's there again.

Another room, thick with heat and grease and the sting of burned skin. The stink had never left him.

Hours. Endless hours. Questions that weren’t questions. Answers carved out of him, not spoken.

And he—pathetic, ruined—whispering prayers he never believed in. Begging. The same names those butchers wore like crowns. Begging them to stop, to spare him, to kill him. But the only one listening was Solas.

And that was the worst.
No. The knives, the fire, the choking, the drowning, Ghilan'nain's voice in his skull—those would pass. Those could be endured. Those might even be forgotten.

But not Solas.

Never Solas. Shackled and helpless, his face clamped between rough hands whenever he tried to look away. They wrenched his head back, forced his eyes open. They would not let him blink. He saw everything. Every shuddering spasm of Felassan’s body, every curl of skin blackening in fire. And he heard everything too—every prayer gurgled through blood, every scream stripped down to animal sound.

Solas begged them to stop. The great Solas, all wisdom and pride, offering himself like a dog. “Take me, not him.” “Hurt me, not him.” As though they gave a shit. He offered body, mind, dignity—but he had none left by then. Drowned himself in spit and snot and blood, choking on please.

And still they held his eyes open. Still they made him watch.

Until finally Solas broke. He confessed. Not just what they wanted—everything. Every ally, every hidden ghost, every name that had ever meant safety. Cole’s mother, too. Every secret they had bled to keep.

And when the last name left his lips, the tears stopped. Felassan never saw him cry again. Something emptied out of him that night, drained away, and nothing grew back.

Felassan tried. Oh, he fucking tried. Tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That the betrayal wasn’t his, but theirs. That they could crawl through the wreckage together, stitch themselves back into something resembling people. He spoke until his throat was raw. He reached for Solas in the dark, pressed their foreheads together as if he could close the rift with nothing but touch. He laid out plans for after, fragile little futures that could never hold, whispered promises into his skin like prayers neither of them believed.

For a while, they both reached for what still bound them, as if sheer wanting might be enough to hold it together. But Solas never listened. He had already buried himself in silence, sealed in stone. And with him, he buried them both.

And maybe that was mercy. Or maybe it was just Solas, being Solas.

Absurd, he thinks. Absurd. It’s all so fucking miserable it makes him want to laugh. And so he does.

It starts as sludge bubbling in his chest, little bursts rising up, choking, breaking into wet gasps. Then bigger. Louder. Until they rupture sharp in his throat and spread that bitter, foul taste across his tongue—the taste familiar as his mother’s milk.

It spills out of him, crooked, wrong, a jagged laugh that claws at his ribs. His throat strains, his head yanked back tight by the bastard’s grip, and still the sound tears loose, refusing to stop.

Illario’s smile lingers only a moment longer, then vanishes. In a flash he’s on his feet, hand knotted in Felassan’s collar. The chair tips, wood shrieking, and Felassan’s body slams the floor. Pain bursts white in the back of his skull.

Before he can suck in a breath, Illario’s boot grinds down on his throat, pinning him like an insect.

“Feccia,” ³ the Crow spits, venomous.

Air seizes in his chest. He claws at the man’s ankle, nails scraping leather. Every breath feels like glass splintering down his windpipe.

Well, here we go. Again.

“This fucking city,” Illario goes on, voice cold, “rotting on cheap powder and gutter smoke. I want out, the sooner the better.”

Felassan’s vision flickers at the edges. No. He twists, trying to shift his weight, to buy a sliver of space between sole and skin. The bastard’s perfume—cloying, sharp—cuts through the stench of shit in the room. Of course. Of course he’d smell like jasmine while he kills a man.

“But first,” Illario snarls, leaning heavier, “you’re going to tell me. What are you and your friend plotting?”

Felassan gags, digs his fingers in harder, fighting for any give in the grip at his throat.

“We control the north,” Illario presses, teeth flashing in a smile above him. “We decide what comes through, what doesn’t. The sea is ours.”

Stars burst behind Felassan’s eyes. Not like this. Not under his fucking shoe.

“And then you show up,” Illario hisses, “thinking you can brush us aside? Thinking we won’t try to stop you? We don’t want trouble with the—”

Felassan’s body jerks, pure reflex. He bucks sideways hard, twisting under the pressure on his throat. Pain flares white, but the sudden shift throws Illario just off balance, his weight tipping for half a breath.

That breath is all Felassan needs. He wrenches one shoulder up, drives his elbow backward, blindly, savagely. It connects with shin, not clean but hard enough to make Illario curse and shift his stance. Air scrapes into Felassan’s lungs—burning, ragged, too thin—and he gulps it down, spots still swimming in his vision. But he hears it.

The silver clatters. His ear.

His hand shoots out before thought can catch up. Fingers scrape the floorboards, closing tight around the cool metal. He rips it back to his chest, clutching it like a lifeline.

Illario swears, moving to grab him again, but Felassan is already rolling, fast, shoulder slamming the boards, coming up on one knee. His fist snaps toward Illario’s back with a speed born of long practice—clean, merciless.

But the Crows were waiting. Of course they were.

A boot slams into his ribs, knocking him sideways before his punch can land. Another hand grabs his arm, wrenching it behind his back until his shoulder screams. A knee grinds into his spine, pinning him hard against the boards.

Felassan snarls through his teeth, twisting, fighting, every muscle straining to break free. For a moment, he even manages it—one arm slipping loose, fingers curling for a strike—before another Crow stamps it flat against the ground.

Fuck. Too many. Too tight. His breath comes ragged, fury burning under the weight of their hands.

Illario straightens his jacket, smooths back his gleaming hair as if nothing happened, then crouches low to meet Felassan’s eyes. The smile is back, slick and cruel.

“See? This is why we bring friends.”

Felassan wheezes against the weight grinding into his spine, the word friends catching like a hook. His mind slips straight to the one who isn’t here. The one he didn’t tell. Didn’t ask.

A sour laugh tries to claw its way up his throat again, choked off by a suffocating grip holding him down. Shit, he’s furious—furious at the bastard for not being here, furious at himself for never giving him the chance. Because now, with blood in his mouth and his lungs aching, he can’t shake the thought that he’s never going to see him again.

And that’s on him. That’s the bitterest part. Not Solas. Not even the Crows. Him.

Illario lingers, crouched, dark eyes locked on his. “Now,” he says softly, almost kindly, “you’re going to tell me what you and Samson are moving. What is this new lyrium? Are the whispers true? Are you working with them?”

"Them who?"

A boot digs into Felassan’s ribs, sharp pain cracking through his side. He sucks in a hiss, fighting the urge to curl up. Blood floods his mouth, metallic, hot.

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” he croaks. “I swear. Samson keeps his cards close.”

Illario tilts his head. “You expect me to believe that?”

He spits red to the floor and lets his smirk spread, twisted and bloody. “You think I know everything Samson’s moving? Please. I’m the distraction, not the bookkeeper."

For a beat there’s silence. Then Illario’s hand slips inside his jacket. When it comes back, there’s steel in it. A narrow blade, polished so fine it catches the weak light like a mirror. He twirls it once, lazy, then presses the edge under Felassan’s chin.

The cold bite of it stills him. One wrong swallow and the blade will open him ear to ear.

“You talk too much,” Illario murmurs, voice low, steady. “Distractions bore me. Bookkeepers, I can use. Liars, I cut.” He leans closer, dark eyes gleaming with a wicked hunger. “Do you want me to cut you, Felassan?”

The pressure at his throat sharpens, a bead of blood sliding hot down his neck. Felassan holds still, eyes darting to the blade, mind racing. He improvises.

“You spoke of them,” Felassan rasps. “Someone important. Someone you fear. So—what then? You want to start a war with those people?”

For the first time Illario’s eyes flick away, a brief slip. Felassan catches it. Yes. That’s it. I’m on the right trail.

He forces a breath past the weight crushing his chest. “If you kill me, Samson will know exactly who did it—when, where, how. You think he’ll just let that slide? You said it yourself—he trusts me. He needs me. If I don’t walk back, it won’t take him long to find you. And when he does, you and all your pretty friends back in Antiva will pay.”

Illario doesn’t stop him. He just leans back an inch, eyes narrowing, thumb brushing along the edge of his knife as if considering it.

“Don’t play with fire, Illario. You’re smarter than that. You’re angry we cut you out of the deal? Fine. Let me talk to Samson. Let me make him see sense. You’re useful. Crucial, even, for the northern routes. With you, it all runs smoother. For all of us.”

He coughs, taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

“I can’t tell you more,” he presses on. “Not yet. But once I convince Samson—you’ll hear it all from him. I can promise you that.”

Felassan swallows hard, praying the confident facade doesn’t crack. Stall them. Make them believe it. Because if they don’t, I’m dead on this floor.

Illario exhales slow, almost a sigh, as though he’s tasted the thought and found it bitter. His grip on the knife hardens. But in the end, he gets up, the glint of the blade disappearing behind his jacket.

“Let him up. Lasciatelo andare.”

No one moves. Felassan can almost feel the doubt in the other Crows's eyes.

One of them dares to speak, voice gruff and raspy. "Illario, non—"

"I said let him up," he cuts him out, a warning carved in his stare.

It works. Finally, the weight lifts—boots, knees, fists, all pulling back. Felassan rolls onto his side, coughing, dragging air into lungs that feel like they’ve been set alight.

“Go on. Crawl back to your master. Tell him Wycome isn’t his playground. Tell him we want in.” A deadly glare. "And you better keep your promise."

Felassan drags himself up onto his knees, one hand clutching his chest, the other pressed flat to the floor to keep from collapsing again. His lungs scrape raw with every breath, but at least they’re still working. And most importantly, he can still feel the sharp silver edges biting into his palm. He's still whole.

He coughs hard, spits copper, then pushes to his feet. Straightens his shirt, smooths his hair back, forces his spine straight as if nothing hurts, ear back in place.

“Escort him out,” Illario says, flicking his hand like he’s shooing a fly, already lowering himself back into that battered wooden chair.

One Crow closes in on him, all swagger and cheap menace, every gesture so overblown it’s laughable. Mafiosi from some gutter play, he thinks—like they rehearse their lines in the mirror each morning, snapping selfies with knives and pistols before breakfast.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” the boss adds, tone careless, almost bored. “Just show him the door. No knives.”

Felassan throws one last glance at Illario—who doesn’t even bother to look back. As if he never existed. As if their meeting had been nothing more than a buzzing gnat in his ear, something to be swatted and forgotten, not even worth washing his hands after. And that’s fine. Better. Let them believe he’s just another gutter rat.

The Crow flanks him and pushes him toward the door. On the landing the smell slams into him: old sweat and spilled spirits braided with Illario’s sickly cologne, sticky and arrogant. It crawls into his sinuses and sets up camp. The man beside him never looks away. Not once. No blink, no word. Just that flat, hateful stare, nailed straight through him.

Felassan tries to slip past at the stairs. “Well, thank you,” he says. “It was a real pleasure.”

The hand comes fast, clamping his arm. Hard. The Crow leans close, breath hot and rank, Antivan spilling out of his mouth in a rasping snarl: “Illario è troppo ingenuo. Io non mi fido di te. E non ci credo, alle leggende che si dicono in giro. Non mi interessa chi ti copre le spalle, se non mantieni la parola, siete morti." ⁴

Felassan doesn’t need the words. The tone is enough. And the voice—he knows it at once. The same rasp that urged Illario not to spare him. The one who wanted him dead on the floor.

His pulse spikes. Oh, what a great fucking day. “You’re important to us,” he says quickly. “We’ll keep you in the business.”

Nothing. The stare stays nailed to him.

Then the shove—savage, sudden. His spine cracks the wall, boards rattling. Air bursts out of his chest in a ragged grunt.

The Crow leans in close, Antivan spilling fast and sharp, too jagged to follow. Felassan feels the blade of the decision press in: fight, or bluff. His mouth runs before his brain can stop it.

“Siete… molto impotenti. Per noi.” ⁵

The word slides wrong, sour in his mouth. He sees it land. Sees the change in the man’s face—eyes flaring, jaw tightening, rage snapping.

“Che cazzo hai detto?” the Crow spits. “Ripeti se hai il coraggio, stronzo.”  ⁶

Steel flashes, cold and quick. A knife kisses his ribs.

And that’s it. Line crossed. Enough bullshit for one day.

Felassan doesn’t think. His skull rockets forward, connects with cartilage. Crack. Wet, satisfying. Blood sprays warm on his cheek. The Crow howls, reels, the knife skittering to the floor like it’s had enough too.

Felassan’s knee slams up—a piston of pure spite—folding the bastard in half. Grip loosens.

For one savage second the world narrows to one bright, dangerous urge: finish him, snap the neck, shove the body down the stairs. Be done. Tempting, fast, stupid—Dellamorte’s house will come down on him if he does.

So he turns the thought away the only way he knows how. He runs.

He throws himself down the stairs, boots hammering in time with his heart, every beat a gunshot in his chest. The first flight blurs past, his palm skimming the rail for balance. He doesn’t look back. He just runs, legs burning, lungs on fire, and damn, he might be too old for this shit, but far too young to die.

At the landing he ricochets off the wall, shoulder thudding, teeth clenched, twisting hard right. If he can just take the corner, just stay ahead—

A gunshot tears the air above. Instinct yanks his arms over his head as he barrels down the second flight, skipping steps, half-running, half-falling, momentum dragging him faster than thought.

And then he sees it.

The door.

Salvation waiting below in splintered wood and rusted hinges. It’s close now, so close he can almost feel the handle under his palm, almost taste the salty air rushing in to wash the stink of blood from his lungs.

He leaps the last steps two at a time, hope flooding him, savage and bright. Yes. Yes, I’ve got it. I’m there. One more second—

Boots slam behind him. The sound is too close.

But he's there. He's right there. He smashes through the door, wood splintering under his shoulder. Briny air slaps his face, sharp and sweet, and for one impossible heartbeat, he’s free. He’s out. He’s—

The second shot cracks.

Pain detonates in his side, white-hot and merciless, shredding the breath from his lungs. The world snaps sideways. The street blurs, floor tilting under him.

No.

He grits his teeth and pushes on, body bent, gait crooked. Every stride threatens to fold him. His boots stumble against the cobbles, nearly tangling under him. The pain in his side is molten, tearing with every breath, yet adrenaline drives his feet faster than thought, faster than fear.

The alleys open before him like a maze he knows by instinct. Left, then right, stone walls flashing past. He clings to memory, the old routes through the port where every twist of brick and shadow is etched into his bones. Behind him, boots pound—close enough that each echo spikes panic up his spine.

He slams into a narrow passage slick with piss and rot. The reek is gagging, sharp as a slap, but he charges through it. His shoulder scrapes rough stone, smearing blood across the wall. Somewhere, a drunk curses as Felassan barrels past. He doesn’t look back.

Another corner. Another desperate turn. His lungs shred with the effort, breath rasping, wet, broken.

A door gapes ahead, warped wood hanging on rusted hinges. He throws himself at it, shoving through into sudden lamplight. A kitchen. He staggers into the stink of garlic and chilli, the heat of a stove spilling into his face. Pots rattle, a knife clatters to the floor, voices shout in alarm. A man yells something sharp and angry, but Felassan is already gone, weaving between counters, blood dripping onto the tiles.

An open window glimmers ahead. He lunges for it, palms striking the sill, shoulder smashing through. The world tilts as he tumbles out into the sunlight, landing hard on one knee. Pain rockets through him, but he’s moving again, dragging himself upright, forcing his legs to keep running.

The alleys stretch on, dark and endless. His vision smears at the edges. He doesn’t stop. One more turn. One more desperate sprint. Each heartbeat slams in his head like a drum.

And then—quiet.

The footsteps behind him falter, fade, vanish into the noise of the port. He stumbles to a halt, chest heaving. The air is thick with salt, tar, and rope. The creak of rigging. The slap of water against the docks.

Above, gulls wheel through the sky. One gives a ragged cry that almost sounds like laughter.

He sinks against a wall, careful not to let his wounded side touch stone. His breath rattles, harsh and shallow, and he tilts his face to the sky. “Yeah, laugh,” he whispers between gasps. “Laugh all you want, you bastard.” The words crumble into a strangled chuckle, bitter as bile.

His gaze drags downward. Fingers trembling, he peels them back from the wound. A dark ribbon of blood slides down his shirt, sluggish but steady. A clean pass-through. Lucky—if you can call it that. Judging by the sprint he just survived, the bullet missed his lungs. But luck doesn’t change the fact he’s leaking fast. He presses down hard, teeth clenched. Organs or no organs, both holes are dripping blood, and he doesn’t know how long before they empty him.

His head tips against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting for air. Fuck. A rookie mistake. One slip, one misstep, and it nearly cost him everything.

Grey irises blaze behind his eyelids, sudden, sharp, kind. A voice follows, raw with desperation, crying out his name.

Fuck.

His teeth clench. His eyes snap open. He drives the vision back down, shoves it where it can’t reach him. Not now. Not here. He will see those eyes again, hear that voice once more, but not like this. Not as a corpse cooling in some piss-stained alley. He has to see them again.

The thought pounds in time with his pulse, steadying him. And with it comes another memory, warmer: eyes dark as tree bark, deep as a forest night, yet shining—shining like the sun flashing on Wycome’s waters.

And he moves. One foot, then the other. Stumbling, dragging, but forward all the same. Instinct, blood, love—he can’t tell which carries him, only that something does.

The blue door waits. He clings to that image as his lifeline, as if hope itself has painted it onto the walls of his mind. And with every step, though his body weakens, the thought grows brighter.

He knows it isn’t far.

The wall scrapes his palm. Salt and oil seep into the concrete like everything else in this stinking port. Even the air feels spoiled, thick with diesel and rust. Every breath tastes like metal.

Walking is a losing game. Eyes fight to stay open. Blood fights harder to get out.

The hole in his side—he can bully that one. Hand clamped to the shirt, sweat and iron stinging his nose. Hurts like grief, but pain’s a fair trade if it keeps the warmth from spilling down his belly.

The one in his back is the bastard. Pissing blood into his trousers, soaking his ass, dripping slow. Each drop a breadcrumb trail for anyone who fancies finishing the job.

He stops, chest heaving, cheek pressed to the wall slick with condensation. Listens, eyes cutting left, right. Wycome answers with the groan of ships at anchor, chains clinking like distant cutlery. No footsteps. No voices. For now, no hunters. Empty.

He drags on. Boots slap heavy, each step a stumble. They feel like anchors chained to his feet, dragging him under with every lift.

Next time, he thinks, flip-flops.

He turns the corner, and there it is. Close. At the end of the alley, the blue door with the brass handle. Hope.

A curse dies between his teeth. That damned door. He’s seen it slam in his face more times than he cares to count. He forces himself to remember the last time it didn’t.

That night, it opened. She was there, eyes bright, hair a wild mess, body wrapped in nothing but a towel she let fall on the threshold without a thought for who might be watching. He stepped inside and she was in his arms, her only cover the press of his body. He remembers shutting that door with his shoulder, keeping the world out.

He forces the memory to hold. The amber fragrance tangled in her hair when he buried his face in it. The sharp citrus tang on her thighs, her pleasure still warm on his tongue.

Now the door wavers before him, blurring, twisting, becoming a smear of colour instead of an exit. But he reaches it still standing. Reaches it with a crooked smile breaking his lips. Reaches it and raises his fist. Two knocks, hard, before his arm refuses to lift again. No need for more.

The door is real now. Not a trick. Not a smear of blue paint on stone. A door. Her door. And behind it—yes—she is there.

Isabela. Sweet, delicious Isabela. At first she doesn’t get it. She stands there, one brow arched, and says, “You look like you've just shat yourself.”

He laughs. Of course he does. Because she’s right, and because he loves her—Void, he loves her, to the point of stupidity. The sound tears through him, jagged, burning the hole in his stomach raw. Her eyes slide lower and catch the blood-slick hand clamped to his side. Her colour drains away, and he hates that. He loves her skin—rich, warm, alive. It shouldn’t fade, not because of him.

“Felassan, what the fuck—”

He shakes his head and stumbles forward, pushing past her into the flat. Two steps, three, and his legs betray him. He reaches the kitchen counter and braces himself with both hands. Blood smears across the pale wood, spreading out like ink on paper.

Void. He’s bleeding out all over her kitchen, painting her clean surfaces with the mess of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

She’s on him in a heartbeat, eyes sweeping his wrecked body. A sharp line creases her brow. Concern flashes there, too raw, too honest. He wants to kiss it away, but he’s barely standing.

“What happened? You’re hurt, where—”

“Gunshot,” he manages, "Through and through." His knees buckle, strength slipping out of him. He collapses against the counter, and she slides under his weight, catching him with a grunt.

Red smears across her clothes, drips to the floor, marking everything it touches. “I’m… making a mess of your place…”

She snorts, sharp and fast. “Please. You think this is the worst stain my kitchen’s seen? You should’ve been here last week."

“I… didn't know where else to go, I…”

“Shut up, stupid,” she snaps, voice quick and sharp, but her grip tightens, steady, refusing to let him fall.

He doesn’t know how she holds him up, but she does. She’s always been stronger than she lets on. Those arms, tight with muscle, steadying him like iron bars. And those thighs—hard and soft at once—he remembers tracing them, slow, his palms closing over that ass sculpted like marble.

“Careful.” Her voice cuts through his haze.

They halt mid-step. His vision swims, the doorframe, the floor, her face—all of it blurring into a smear of nothing. His knees sag, treacherous, ready to drop them both. For a second, he imagines them falling together—her skin, her strength, his blood soaking her floorboards—and he can’t tell if the thought is tragedy or bliss.

Somehow, they make it to the bedroom. She lowers him with a care he doesn’t deserve, whispering a soft “shh, I’ve got you”—sweet as honeyed grappa in his ear. Her hands are steady, careful to avoid the wound, guiding him down onto his good side.

The mattress is hard, lumpy, unforgiving. Pain sears through him, but then she sits beside him, close, and her hand finds his forehead, brushing damp hair back.

“Maker, you’re heavy,” she mutters, lips quirking. “Next time, try getting shot with less meat on you, hmm?”

Her tone is light, mocking, but her fingers never stop their slow, soothing stroke. It’s her. Barbs on the tongue, comfort in the hands.

She grabs his wrist, gently; moves his hand away from the wound. The shock is in her widened eyes, in the slightest parting of her lips, in the faint catch of her breath. He detests all of it.

“Felassan."

"I know."

"I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No.”

“Don’t start. You’ll bleed out in here.”

“No.” His voice is sharper this time, his hand catching hers with what strength he has left. “You call an ambulance, and every bastard still after me will know I came to you.”

Her eyes flash on his. “So you’d rather I sit here and watch you die on my sheets?”

He shakes his head, grimacing through the pain. “I made sure no one followed me. I was careful. But bringing medics here? Not happening. You don’t deserve that kind of risk, Is. I’ve already put you in enough danger just walking through your door.”

She stares him down, mouth opening as if to argue. “Fel—”

“Listen to me.” His grip tightens, weak but still there. “I can take the hit. What I won’t do is paint a target on you. Just… put something on it to slow the bleeding. That’s all I need. I’ll handle the rest when it’s safe.”

Silence stretches between them, broken only by his ragged breath. At last, she exhales hard through her nose, mutters a curse, and shakes her head.

“Fine. You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?”

His lips curve faintly, despite the pain. “So they tell me.”

She crosses the room, yanking drawers open, muttering curses under her breath—half in Rivaini, half in words that make his stomach tingle. “Stupid men. Always bleeding, always whining. Maker forbid they learn to take a scratch without turning my house into a charnel.”

He lets her voice wash over him. The sound of her rummaging is distant, muffled, like he’s underwater. Pain throbs in waves, but behind his eyelids he sees flashes—her hair tangled with salt, the heat of her skin, the blue door closing behind them. He clings to those scraps as if they’re stitches holding him together.

A drawer slams. She’s back, kneeling beside him, a roll of gauze and tape clutched in one hand, a bottle of Rum dangling from the other, a battered blister pack between her fingers. “Here. Painkillers. So you don’t scream the whole block awake.”

He smirks, weak and crooked, and plucks the pills from her grasp. “Thought you liked it loud.”

“Not when it’s you whining like a stuck pig,” she fires back, brow arched.

A chuckle scrapes out of him, rough and bitter. It hurts to laugh, but he tips the tablets into his mouth all the same. Then he snatches the bottle of rum dangling from her hand before she can hide it.

“Felassan—” Her voice sharpens. “Don’t. You can’t mix them like that.” She reaches, quick, fingers grazing the glass neck.

He leans back out of reach, grinning through the wince, stubborn as ever. “Hey. Look at me. Painkillers take their sweet time. This—” he tips the bottle toward his lips—“this works fast.”

“Fel—”

“Too late.”

For a moment, she looks like she might rip it out of his grip anyway. Then her hand falls, her jaw tightening, and she lets him win.

The rum hits like flames all at once, clawing down his throat until his eyes water. He coughs, sputters, almost loses it—then forces it down. When he finally slumps back, warmth spilling through his veins, he lets out a ragged sigh.

“Thanks,” he mutters, licking his teeth. “I needed that.”

"Yeah. You're sick."

He shrugs. The burn of alcohol still coils in his gut when he feels her shift closer, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her knee brushes his hip; her hand hovers just above his ribs, warm even without touching. The haze of drink isn’t enough to blunt the dread that creeps up his spine.

“I need to lift your shirt now,” she says. “All right?”

His mouth twists, another pathetic attempt at bravado. “Since when do you ask for permission?”

Her eyes cut to his, sharp enough to slice the joke in half. He swallows hard, the smile dying on his lips, jaw clenching until it aches. She knows. Of course she does. She knows it isn’t just the pain he’s bracing for, but the moment her eyes land on what’s underneath.

He hates that she has to see it. Hates being laid open like this. And worse, he knows what comes after. He’s seen it before—that look, he… he's seen it, and he hates it, he hates himself for being so weak, for being here, broken, like that night, when he couldn't stop it, couldn't move, couldn't even—

—no, no, don’t—iron in his throat—choking—too much, too fast—please, stop—a voice screaming his name—then gone. Gone. Only silence, crushing, endless. And those eyes when it was over. Shit, those eyes. Hollow. Shattered. The shift. The shift he can’t scrub out of his head, no matter how hard he tries.

Never again. He swore. Never again. Never put that look on someone he—

His chest locks, ribs sawing against air that won’t come. Breath tearing quick, shallow, useless. Panic claws up his lungs, his throat. Can’t breathe—can’t— Not again. Not from her. Shouldn’t be here. Should’ve let it end in some alley. Should’ve bled out, quiet, alone—

Her fingers hook the hem of his shirt, brisk and certain, snapping him back before the memory swallows him whole. The touch shoves air back into his lungs. He exhales in a ragged rush, head tipping into the pillow, eyes squeezed tight, every muscle locked as he waits.

At first, it’s nothing. Almost ticklish—the fabric sliding up his stomach. Then her hands stall. The cloth has snagged—deep. A ragged strip has been dragged into the hole with the bullet, dried into the wound, fused with clotted blood and torn flesh.

“Shit,” she mutters.

And she pulls.

Fuck.

His body arches off the mattress, teeth gritted so hard his jaw creaks. He buries his face in the sheets, muffling the cry that claws up his throat.

“It’s stuck inside,” she says, steady even now. “I have to tear it free.”

“No," he gasps. "Wait—”

She doesn't. She yanks, hard. The cotton rips wetly, peeling out in a sticky, crimson smear. The sound is obscene, like velcro tearing under his skin.

The scream rips up his throat but comes out strangled, a guttural snarl grinding his teeth.

“Son of a—!”

“Oh, stop it. It’s just a little sting.” Her tone is cool, almost bored, but her eyes stay sharp, locked on him, one hand pinning his shoulder to keep him still. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you? Means I’m not tearing hard enough.”

Another pull. Another surge of pain tears a groan out of him. His fingers claw into the mattress, desperate not to make a sound. Every nerve in his side is howling, but if he’s going to die, at least it’ll be with her voice in his ear.

“I’m starting to think I’d prefer the hospital,” he rasps.

She looks down at him, dark eyes glittering. “Too late, stupid. You’re already in my hands.”

And she keeps working, fast and merciless, while he roars into the mattress, a broken thing, a snarl, a sob, he can't say. For an instant, he feels himself split open again, fire licking through every vein, muscles locked until he’s sure he’ll pass out right there.

“I know,” she murmurs, hands never faltering. “I've got you.”

When the last shred comes free, his gasp rips from him like he’s been gutted twice over.

Isabela’s fingers linger against his skin, firm, unflinching. He can’t tell if they’re cold or if his flesh is just boiling around the wound. Either way, her touch sears into him, cruel and tender at once, and he cannot believe how much he needs it to stay conscious.

Slowly, the pain shifts—still savage, still gnawing—but less of a blade, more of a dull, relentless throb. A mercy, if you can call it that.

“It’s out,” she says flatly.

“Yeah,” he rasps, chest shuddering. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing. When he dares to look up, eyes glassy with unshed tears, she’s frozen—staring at the wound with dull eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters, hoarse, reaching for her hand. His fingers clamp down without meaning to, almost crushing, desperate to keep her from slipping away. “I’m sorry—”

She doesn’t pull back. Instead, she squeezes his hand, hard, and she scoffs.

“Maker, listen to you. Sorry? You really think you’re that fragile little thing on my bed, about to scare me off? Hate to disappoint, sweety, but I’ve seen men lose half their guts and still try to have sex with me before they passed out. You bleeding a bit doesn’t even crack the top ten.”

Tears unshed. Ah. Of course he sheds them. Silent, biting down on his lower lip until he can’t tell if the pain is from his teeth or his heart, eyes locked on some empty patch of sheets beneath him. Isabela doesn’t let go of his hand. Not once. Not until he shakes his head and tries to force it out—that thank you. He tries, but all that escapes is a trembling breath, half a laugh, brittle and stupid.

Her lips ghost his temple. Then she pulls back and tends to him again.

She splashes rum over the wound first, and fire races through him, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed. It sears, but he doesn’t move. Won’t give her reason to stop. The sharp burn fades to a dull throb under her touch.

As she works, Felassan’s breathing follows it, ragged to steady. The tears dry on his cheeks almost without him noticing. He lies still, eyes fixed on her hands as they move with that unreal quick, unshaken ease.

And she is so beautiful. So kind. Clever, thoughtful, brave. Her.

The bandage she makes is no work of art. Gauze pressed flat against the graze, tape torn unevenly with her teeth and slapped down in crooked strips. It bunches at the edges, puckers where the skin pulls, and leaves gaps no surgeon would forgive. Crude work. But it holds. The bleeding eases to a slow seep, then less, until the red no longer runs.

Felassan hisses, jaw clenched. “Ugliest bandage I’ve ever seen.”

“Ugly, maybe. But it’ll stop you painting my floor red.” She lifts her brow, giving him a once-over. “Red’s not your colour anyway. Naked and smug—that’s when you’re worth looking at.”

He wheezes a laugh, weak but real.

She settles beside him again, brushing curls from his damp forehead, her fingers pausing there longer than they should.

“Come on,” she says. “I’ll take you home.”

Felassan’s whole body tenses. His eyes snap on hers, wild, breath catching sharp in his throat. “What?” The word is too quick, too desperate. He forces a laugh to cover it, but it comes out ragged. “I mean, how? You don’t have a car.”

“I’ll ask a friend for a favour. He’ll give us a ride.”

He shifts on the mattress, restless, his chest heaving shallow. The plea crawls up his throat before he can choke it down. “Can I… can I stay here a little longer?”

“Felassan.” Isabela sighs, voice a balance of exasperation and concern. “Stop acting like a child. You can't stay here. You need—”

“Just… just until it’s dark," he insists, very much acting like a child.

But she's had enough. Her stare lingers on him, studying his face with insistence, as she says: “Tell me why.”

He hesitates, throat tight. “I don’t… I don’t want him to... I’ll go home once he’s at the club.”

Silence stretches. Only her sigh. Only his guilt. She doesn't ask who he's talking about. She already knows. At last, her mouth tightens; then she nods. “…Fine. You can stay.”

Relief floods him, breaking across his face raw and unguarded. “Thank you. Truly.”

Isabela watches him, arms folded now, silent. His relief looks too much like fear. And she’s no fool.

“What’s going on between you two?”

Felassan exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “That’s a story far too long for now, Isabela. I don’t think I have the strength.”

“I don’t mean the past.” Her voice is quiet. “I mean these last few days.”

His brow creases. “Ah.”

“You don’t smile when you talk about him anymore,” she goes on, almost careful now. “And you always smile when you think of that idiot.”

No, she's no fool. And it almost scares him, how deeply she knows him.

“He’s… told me things. Nonsense. Lies. And I thought he—” he breaks off with a shrug, eyes drifting away. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Isabela tilts her head, eyes steady, not accusing, just… seeing him. “That’s between you and him,” she says at last, voice gentler than he expects. Her hand rises, slow, brushing his cheek. “But remember this—if that bullet had been an inch higher, you’d be gone. No more chances. No more time with him. Nothing.”

Once the surprise at her tenderness disappears, a wry chuckle escapes him. “Void, you’re wise today.”

“I’m always wise.” She taps his temple lightly, though her gaze softens as it lingers on him.

Felassan draws a ragged breath. “He… he looks so tired, Is. Like he’s already halfway gone. And he won’t say it. He won’t let me near. Fuck, I’d bleed myself dry just to keep him safe, and he… he doesn't even trust me." His hand claws weakly at the sheets, desperate for something solid to hold. "I just wish he’d tell me the truth. Whatever it is. I could take it. I could take all of it. I only need him to see—” The words barely make it out, voice cracking. “—that he doesn’t have to carry everything alone.”

Isabela’s breath catches at the naked plea in his voice. She presses her palm to his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbones. “Then keep telling him. Say it as many times as it takes. Even the cleverest fools need reminding.”

His throat works, raw. “If I could give him one thing, Is… just one… it would be the chance to hold onto something good. To believe he deserves it. To stop shutting it out before it can save him.”

She looks away, just for a moment. And he bites his tongue, because (as always) he’s said something stupid, something that might cut her too, drag her into it, and this time he didn’t even mean to. She doesn’t deserve that.

But Isabela only smiles at him: a soft smile, one he’s never seen on her before. Then, slow and unhurried, she climbs onto the bed and settles behind him, her back resting easy against the wall.

She says nothing, and as her fingers drift through his hair, Felassan lets his eyes fall shut, conjuring another life. One with her. A life where every day ended like this: her hands cradling his head, settling it with care against her lap, her digits tracing the Vallaslin across his brow—light as feathers, tender as doves.

If only he weren’t such a fool. If only she were less afraid. If only they were other people. Ordinary. He, perhaps, with a workshop of his own, tuning his bike and mending those of others. She, without that gold ring hidden in the drawer—the one she still cannot throw away, the one she once confessed, through tears, had ruined her life. The two of them, together in a house by the sea, because Isabela loves the sea. She looks upon the waves as only the children of Rivain ever do.

He cares nothing for the how, nor the why, not even the when. Only the two of them. And perhaps—he dares to hope—perhaps… perhaps that day will come. When this cursed work lies behind him. When the fool he loves with all his heart, that bald-headed wretch waiting at home, the idiot he would die for without a blink, finally sees that life is more than war and blood and vengeance. When he learns to let him go, to stand tall upon his own two feet. When they cease wounding each other, day after day, with nothing more than a meeting of eyes.

And it cuts deep that she must see him like this as well. Isabela. Yet with her, it is different. He knows it is. Their story is not the same. She does not lay all the blame upon her own shoulders. Not her. To see him broken will not bind them both in a slow decay. Because she is weightless; because she speaks to the sea as though it were her kin, and she never looks back. Ever forward, never behind.

Felassan sinks into the mattress, heavy with weariness, while Isabela’s hands unbind his hair, fingers gliding through the strands as she hums a tune he cannot name.

“What are you singing?” he asks, as her touch gathers his hair, slow and deliberate, into a braid.

“A foolish song,” she answers, voice soft as her lips. He smiles, raising his eyes to her face.

“It sounds like a love song.”

For an instant, her brown eyes meet his. Then they flee.

“Stop it.”

A low chuckle slips from his lips when he catches the faint blush rising to her cheeks, but he lets the moment pass without another word. His eyes fall shut once more, breath drawn deep through his nose, and the tightness in his body begins to melt away. The balm of painkillers and spirits steadies his mind. The cradle of her voice rocks his thoughts to rest. The tender weave of her fingers through his hair anchors him. 

“Will you be okay?” Isabela’s voice is thin now, a fragile thread—so different from when her hands were buried in his flesh, frantic to stem the blood before it left him lifeless on her bed.

“It’s just a scratch,” he murmurs, gaze wandering to the shifting light as the sun drifts down beyond the window. A hush settles between them, broken only by the slow, resonant groan of ships departing the harbour.

“I wonder if one day your luck will run out.” Her hands still in his hair. “If you won’t make it back here in time.”

Felassan tilts his head just enough to see her face again. Her lashes are wet, her cheeks dry. It pierces his heart. Slowly, he raises a hand to her face, stroking her cheek, and she does not pull away. She takes his hand instead, nestling her face into his palm. A soft kiss brushes his thumb. Then her eyes close, and Felassan lifts his other arm, threading it into her hair.

“Come here,” he whispers, drawing her gently towards him.

Isabela looks at him with eyes that hold a prayer. To stop. To stay. He cannot know it, yet the sight blurs his vision. Slowly, she bends to him, and their lips meet, upside down, his hands buried in her hair. And it is perfect. Perfect—her body curled against him, tender in her worry, that unspoken prayer now breaking upon his lips.

When her breath trembles close to him, Felassan smiles, his thumb brushing the damp from her lashes.

“Want to hear something funny?”

She nods, silent, still leaning over him, eyes glistening.

“I took a bullet because my Antivan is shit,” he begins, voice warm, pausing only to kiss the tip of her nose. “I wanted to call some men 'important'. Instead, I called them 'impotent'.”

Isabela blinks. Once. Twice. Then she seizes his wrists, easing his hands from her face, and laughter spills from her, bright and helpless at his stupidity. Felassan’s chest swells—pride, relief, joy—as her tears retreat, scattered by her delight.

“You’re serious?” she manages between peals of mirth.

“I am,” he insists, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “I realised it the moment it left my mouth. A disaster.”

“You are,” she teases, before finding his mouth again. Felassan lets his fingers slide over hers—hard, and callused from long hours at the docks. Rough, and yet so tender. Her lips taste faintly of beer, and he pictures her there at the pier after a shift, laughing, joking with her crew. He imagines himself walking up without flowers, without some rehearsed line. Just a smile.

He imagines her greeting him with a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth before passing him her drink. He’d slip an arm around her shoulders and shake his head, refuse the bottle. Maybe light a cigarette instead. He imagines himself there, folded into her world, trading stupid jokes with people he doesn’t know. And he smiles into the kiss, because it would be enough. More than enough, just to be with her.

When Isabela finally pulls back, she tilts her head and looks down at him. Upside down, her eyes look even more beautiful.

“I might have to give you a few lessons in Antivan," she declares with a sly smile. "Just to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He lets the air out in a small, pleased sound. “Mmh.” The corner of his mouth quirks. "Intriguing.”

She straightens a little, chest rising, and clears her throat as if about to take the stage. Then, smooth and wicked, she slips into Antivan: “Sei un cretino senza speranza.”

He squints up at her, amused. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hopeless fool.”

He chuckles under his breath, not quite able to stop smiling. She's not wrong.

“How did you even learn Antivan?”

A mysterious hum, the kind she uses when she wants to keep him guessing. “I travelled a lot. Met many charming men.”

He winces, pressing a hand over his heart. “Ouch.”

“Don’t worry.” Her thumb flicks against his chin, playful. “They used to call me bambolina. It was never going to last.”

“Bambolina?”

“Yes. Little doll. Or dolly, whatever.”

Felassan frowns, tilting his head. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s what I told them.”

As her lips curl toward her eyes, he tucks the detail into the catalogue in his mind—the running list of things that rile her—slotting it at the very top. He savours the word bambolina, the way it slips across his tongue, but most of all he relishes the flush that blooms on her cheeks.

With that strange warmth bubbling in his chest, he lets out a sigh and sinks back into the mattress. He lets his gaze travel over her face, drinking in the way the light softens her jaw, the piercing on her mouth, the one mild crease at the corner of her eye when she smiles.

And it hits him—how close it was, how much he risked today. A muscle in his face tightens, a line carving deep into his forehead. Yet his tone stays casual, when he asks, “What does se non mantieni la parola, siete morti mean?”

She blinks, her eyes searching his for a moment too long. “If you don't keep your word, you're dead,” she translates, then frowns. “Who told you that?”

“No one important." He pauses, thoughtful. "And leggende—that’s legends, right?”

“Yes.”

“Mhm.”

He is almost there again, back in that seedy bar, his chin resting in his hand as he watches the interrogation play out like a scene on a screen. He sees himself sprawled on the floor, clinging to survival with every sleight and stratagem he has ever learned, while those bastards pin him down. And he listens—listens and rewinds, plays the reel again and again, searching for the fragments that might fit together.

Then her fingers tighten around his. “Felassan,” she breathes. “Stay with me.”

And he does. He always will.

“Yes. Sorry.” He smiles faintly, fingers brushing her cheek. “How do you say thank you for saving my life?”

Isabela smiles, shaking her head. “Grazie per avermi salvato la vita.”

He repeats it, mangling the syllables, and she bursts into laughter. His chest swells with pride.

“How do you say I like the way you stroke my hair?”

“Mi piace il modo in cui mi accarezzi i capelli.”

“And you’re beautiful?”

A groan.

“Come on—how do you say it?”

She sighs, but relents. “Sei bellissima.”

“Sei bellissima, bambolina. Ti amo.” ⁷

She freezes. Felassan doesn’t retreat an inch, his eyes locked on hers, a warm smile playing at his lips, fingers still lost in the strands of her hair. He doesn’t hide behind a joke, doesn’t shrug it off, doesn’t offer her a shield to slip behind. Isabela only stares back for a few heartbeats, her pupils darting across his as though searching for a trick—or perhaps a way out. But no. This time, he doesn’t give her one.

“Felassan,” she says at last, voice low.

“Mmh?” he hums, tilting his head slightly.

She leans in close enough that he can see the flecks of gold in her irises, the small scar at the corner of her lip.

“...who taught you that?”

“Oh?” His smile widens, eyes glinting. “Are you… jealous?”

She taps him lightly on the shoulder, eyes sliding away, a small smile tugging at her mouth as she bites her lip to hide it. Void, she’s beautiful.

“You’re delirious. I told you not to mix whisky with painkillers.”

He lifts his shoulders weakly. “I’m perfectly clear-headed.”

“Of course you are, bambolotto.” She clicks her tongue, resuming her slow weaving of his hair without meeting his gaze. “Now try to get some rest.”

The chuckle he lets slip is warm and light, eyes closing as it escapes. And while she hums that slow song and works his long hair into the braid that carries her name, he tells himself tomorrow is another day. And perhaps—just perhaps—tomorrow things might be better.

Chapter Text

Take care of it.

She promised herself she would. For now, she’s holding true.

Take care of it.

She knows it won’t last. In a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, the novelty will wear off and Ellana will let the notebook fall to pieces. The cover smudged with butter from a pastry, the page edges curling like petals left too long in the sun, one of the metal rings snapped loose. When words stall, the blank margins will collect her boredom—hearts, stars, nonsense shapes—later blacked out with the angry weight of a blue pen.

But for now, she guards it like a treasure. Slipped into a little plastic pouch to protect it from the jumble of the bag on her shoulder, its pages are still pristine, the design on its cover still bright and entrancing. She loves that cover. Carved wood inlaid with threads of silver that catch the light and remind her of branches stretching upward, slender and bare. Or maybe of waves. Thin lines weaving and curling, almost slithering across the rough surface. Serpents, perhaps. They seem to shift if you stare too long. And yes, she has stared at those tangles, those spirals, longer than she would ever confess, wondering why Solas bought her such a gift.

She walks with her headphones in, sunglasses hiding her eyes, a light dress shifting against her skin in the breeze. The fabric brushes so gently she almost thinks she isn’t alone, that someone’s there, fingers trailing down her back. The thought startles her—and comforts her, too.

Mom, she thinks, quick and foolish. But for once, she lets the memory of her mother’s touch linger soft against her spine, and doesn't scratch it away.

She doesn’t really know where she’s going. Her feet draw her into the belly of the city. Past cafés with chalkboard menus she can’t quite read on the move, shops with dusty windows, restaurants spilling the smell of butter and garlic onto the street. Through a park where ducks churn circles in a pond the size of a coin, children’s voices lifting and falling like echoes from another world.

She drifts a little too close to a hedge. Something fine and weightless, like a strand of hair, brushes her shoulder. Her hand leaps up instinctively to rub at her skin, and her eyes catch a long thread of spider’s web slipping from her body. A shiver runs the length of her spine. She quickens her pace, fingers skimming frantically over her dress, eyes closing as the phantom of a spider crawls across her imagination.

Only when she passes beyond the hedge, into a wide meadow punctuated here and there by solitary trees whose crowns cast gentle islands of shade on the thirsty grass, does the feeling ease. The grimace dissolves, replaced by a smile.

Without thinking, she draws the notebook and a blue pen from her bag. As she walks slowly towards one of those shaded havens, she scribbles a note: spider’s web (revulsion. Fear. Unease). A seed for a metaphor, waiting for the character whose face and name she does not yet know.

Wycome’s old town is small, but it holds itself with a quiet grandeur. Ancient towers twist upward, their spires cutting into the pale sky. Churches stand hollowed and abandoned, doors barred, stones still whispering the prayers they once contained. The cobblestones press through the thin leather of her sandals, and she thinks about all the feet that have passed here before her. Traders, pilgrims, soldiers, lovers. She sees carriages creaking over the stone, horses stamping, knights in armor sparking fire from the road.

She imagines a time before all that—a time that feels so distant it may as well be prehistory—when her people moved across these same lands with tents and animals, leaving no trace but the press of bare feet in the grass and the crackle of dry leaves under their steps.

She follows a quiet road, calm and unhurried, until a flash of petrol green halts her mid-step. Her heart falters with her. That car—familiar, absurdly small—glides forward with the worn rasp of its ageing engine, a sound she has only rarely heard but would recognise among a thousand.

Her eyes search the windscreen, its glass veiled by the glare of sky and sun. She holds her breath, fists curling tight, until the driver’s face resolves. A woman. Ordinary, unmistakably human—long hair, a pert nose. No. Not him.

Before her pulse can recover, the notebook is already in her hands. Her fingers tremble as she scrawls: spotting a familiar car (warm. Beautiful. A little painful).

Going home today feels a little mysterious, a little melancholy. Every so often, Ellana stops, opens her bag, and pulls out the notebook with its blue pen. She jots down a thought, a phrase that’s been bouncing around her head, an image flickering across her mind like a scene from a film. Quick notes, small and unburdened. Then she tucks the notebook away again and keeps walking.

Each time it disappears back into her bag, her smile grows a little wider. Because it feels good, to have a head that spins. It feels good to have a thought you want to hold onto so tightly that you carve it into paper.

And because she’s in a good mood, because it feels as if she’s walking through the pages of a book, because courage hums in her chest, she decides to do what she should have done a week ago. To act like an adult.

She pulls out her phone and calls her agent.

Solas had left Felassan at home in order to fetch Cole from school. On the drive back, the boy recounted—in that disarmingly matter-of-fact way children do—how Maryden, the girl who sat beside him, had given him a flower that morning. Cole had not been pleased. The flower, he explained gravely, had been happy once, before it was torn from the earth and from the company of its friends. So he had asked her if they might hold a funeral. Maryden paused, considered the notion carefully, and then agreed.

At break time they fashioned a small memorial out of papier-mâché, drawing a cheerful face upon the flower’s yellow centre. For a while they stood in silence, admiring what they had made, until Maryden slipped her hand into his and led him into the garden. Together they chose the foot of a tall, benevolent oak—gazing out over the very patch of grass from which the flower had been taken—as the place of burial.

They dug a shallow hollow, laid the poor thing to rest, and Cole was about to cover it over when Maryden straightened suddenly, one finger raised, and declared, “Wait. We should say something in its honour.” Cole agreed at once, stood beside her, and said, with all the solemnity he could muster: “You were very thirsty, but you held your head high, because the sun was smiling.” Maryden gave a slow, sorrowful nod and added, lifting her shoulders, “I’m sorry I killed you.”

And so the rites were spoken. They filled in the little grave, and at its centre planted the papier-mâché flower as a monument to the fallen. Solas, listening to the tale unfold in the car, found his fingers tightening compulsively around the steering wheel when Cole, voice utterly flat, confessed that at that moment Maryden had leaned across and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“How did that make you feel?” Solas asked, trying to summon from the mothers’ chat some image of this Maryden—what she looked like, who her parents might be. He reminded himself to make a call later; their children were only nine, and nine still felt a little early for kisses and tender gestures.

Cole only shrugged. “Brilliant. Warm. Soft. But it tickled my tummy.”

Solas smiled at that, and told him it was perfectly normal to feel butterflies in one’s stomach when a person you liked showed you affection. He had to fight the urge to pull the car over, take out his phone, and ring straightaway. Cole placed a hand on his small belly and asked, in all seriousness, where the butterflies had come in. For a moment, Solas faltered. He explained that it was a figure of speech, which of course opened the floodgates: so many questions, so many whys. And yet he felt an odd swell of pride in answering them, even when Cole’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Felassan often teased him for speaking to the boy as though he were grown, reminding him that sometimes a gentle white lie was kinder than the truth. But in the end, Cole seemed satisfied. When they reached the top of the stairs, he turned to Solas and said, quite simply, I like talking to you. And with that, the last stubborn guarded fragment of Solas’s heart melted quietly away.

Once inside, Cole dashes straight to the kitchen. Solas wrinkles his nose when he finds Felassan leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee in hand. Were it not for the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, he might almost look the very picture of health.

Felassan beams like a fool as Cole recounts his day in breathless detail—the flower’s funeral, the eulogies, the papier-mâché monument, and even the fleeting kiss from Maryden. He listens as though it were the finest story ever told. Perhaps it is the medicine—the antibiotics, the painkillers—that leaves him tender enough to be moved so easily, but his gaze is luminous with pride, brimming with awe at the boy’s small adventures of the heart.

“You’ve clearly taken after me,” he murmurs, eyes wet. Solas tips his own skyward in exasperation as Felassan turns that triumphant look on him and says, voice thick with delight:

“Solas, our boy is already a heart-breaker.”

“I don’t break hearts,” Cole declares, almost offended.

Felassan tugs off his cap with a chuckle and answers warmly, “Oh, give it a few years and you’ll tell me otherwise.”

Solas steps closer. “Cole, would you go to your room, please?” he asks gently. “And put your schoolbooks away while I make you a snack?”

The boy nods, wrapping his arms first around Felassan’s leg—tears still clinging to his eyes—and then around Solas’s, whose heart still feels melted soft. Then, murmuring, “Stubborn. Both so stubborn,” he retreats to his room.

When Solas hears the door to Cole’s room click shut, he turns on Felassan with a murderous look. “What are you doing on your feet?”

Felassan only shrugs, lifting his mug for another sip. “I felt fine.”

“If you collapse this time, you’ll stay down,” Solas sighs, moving towards the fridge to prepare Cole’s fruit.

A pause follows. Too long, too strange. Solas notices it at once, though he tells himself not to. A mistake. Because the moment Felassan finally answers, the blood in Solas’s veins runs cold.

“All right then, strange, unmistakably bald man.”

Solas freezes, his hand suspended halfway to the fridge handle. Slowly, painfully, he turns his head. Felassan is staring at him with his mouth crooked and his cheeks flushed, clearly fighting a laugh—the sort of laugh that would be deafening, mercilessly gleeful.

“What?” Is all his mind can manage.

“You should tell her you shave, Solas.”

Silence.

“How did you—?”

“You left it on the table. Open. As if you’d read it over again before heading out,” Felassan replies at once, brandishing Ellana’s letter like a trophy. Solas goes utterly still, his eyes locked on the sheet fluttering in that bastard’s hand.

Felassan, taking full advantage of the silence, twists the knife. “I wondered why it was sticky. Then I read it, and I understood.”

“It isn’t stick—”

“Oh, it is, cue-ball.” Felassan waves the page with theatrical flourish. “In fact, I think it might stand up on its own if I prop it against the fruit bowl. Strong… structural integrity. Much like her feelings for you. Or your skull.”

“…Felassan—”

But he only smirks wider, clears his throat like a stage actor, and begins to "read" in a horrifically accurate falsetto:

“My dearest, most mysterious dreamboat,
I don’t care what anyone says—I know you polish your head every morning. No man’s scalp gleams like the Dawn’s first light without effort. Do you oil it? Wax it? Whisper to it in the old tongue? I think about it constantly…”

“Felassan.”

“And when you tilt your head just so, I want to lick it like a peach. A big, hairless peach of destiny—”

“Felassan, stop—”

“You are my love-fruit, Solas. My radiant melon. My—”

Solas lunges for the paper. If Felassan hadn’t taken a bullet in the side, Solas knows exactly how this would play out: Felassan would dodge, forcing him into a ridiculous chase around the kitchen table, ten laps minimum, all while gleefully reciting that idiotic “letter” in his worst impression of Ellana’s voice. In the end, he’d collapse into a chair, surrendering the page only to savour Solas’s incandescent fury—and the torrent of inventive, anatomically improbable insults Solas would spit at him.

But Felassan is wounded. He tries to shift, to slip away, and a groan roots him to the spot. Solas tears the sheet from his hand without effort. For a moment, he almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

“Had your fun?” he asks, voice cold, folding the letter into quarters with jealous precision, and, after a discreet check to make sure it isn’t actually sticky (one never knows), tucks it safely into his pocket.

“What a touchy one,” Felassan says, lifting his mug for another sip. He crosses one leg over the other and leans lazily against the counter, one palm splayed on the wood for balance.

Solas only shakes his head, biting back the retort on his tongue. He opens the fridge, retrieves a couple of apples, and sets them down. The kitchen fills with the steady, rhythmic thock of the knife against the chopping board, broken now and again by Felassan’s deliberately noisy slurps of coffee.

After a while, the elf clears his throat. “Anyway…”

Solas pretends not to hear, jaw tight, still nursing the sting to his pride.

“My version was far better.”

“Of course it was.”

“More poetic.”

“Poetic.”

“From the heart.”

“Mhm.”

The silence returns, stretched taut by the scrape of the blade on wood and the faint hiss of the coffee machine cooling behind them.

Then Felassan speaks again, quieter this time. “Still… I must admit, hers is sweet.”

The knife halts mid-cut.

“Very beautiful, in fact,” Felassan adds, his voice softened now. “She describes you perfectly. It feels as though she… sees you.”

Solas inhales slowly, then resumes cutting the apple into small cubes, each slice deliberate and precise. He says nothing.

“I mean…” Felassan tilts his head, studying him. “She seems to care. About you. For whatever reason.”

Solas’s heart stumbles in his chest. The knife slips in his grip, and for a breath, he almost takes the edge to his finger. He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, the sound harsh in the quiet kitchen.

Felassan presses on. His voice low, uncertain for once. “So… how are things between you two?”

“There is no between you two,” Solas says at last, harshly. His gaze doesn’t leave the apple, already hacked down to uneven fragments beneath his hand. “No us.”

Felassan blinks. “Why? I thought you felt good with her.”

“We’ve met three times.”

“So what?” A short, incredulous laugh. “Once was enough for me with Isabela. We clicked straight away.”

Solas’s knife hits the board with a sharp crack. “Clicking is not the same as fucking.”

Felassan’s brows knit, but his grin doesn’t falter. “You think that’s all it is? Solas, please. Isabela and I—we’re more than that. I care about her. You know I do.”

“And she cares about you, does she?”

A pause. Felassan swallows, his bravado slipping. “…If not for her, I wouldn’t even be standing here. She could have sent me away. Told me to bleed out somewhere else, far from her clean sheets. But she didn’t. She kept me. She—”

“Ah.” Solas’s laugh is sharp, empty of humour. “So basic human decency qualifies as love, does it?”

The silence that follows is thick. Felassan sets his cup down; the porcelain clicks against the counter, loud as a gunshot. The air hums with the faint tick of the clock, the only other sound that of the knife scraping raggedly as Solas butchers what remains of the apple into pulp.

Finally, Felassan exhales, long and weary. “Fine. I’ll go back to bed.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Felassan turns. His footsteps are muffled against the tile, one, then another. At the threshold, he stops, shoulders taut, then pivots back.

“Why do you do this?”

Solas doesn’t look up. “Do what?”

“Drive away everything good that might come your way.”

The knife stills. For a long moment, the only sound is Solas’s breath, harsh in his throat. Then a laugh escapes him—brittle, joyless, scraping the edges of the room.

“Do I really need to explain it to you?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Felassan spits, stepping closer. “How long do you plan on hiding behind the past?”

Solas’s heart hammers, far too fast. His hands shake. At last he sets down the knife, wipes his palms on the rag hanging from the cupboard door, and turns to face his friend. Felassan stands there sweating, breath uneven, but on his feet all the same—eyes hard, fixed on him.

“Are we talking about Ellana and me right now,” Solas asks coldly, “or about you and me?”

Felassan staggers, the motion jarring his side. One arm clamps to the wound, and a sharp breath rattles out of him—half hiss, half groan. He braces against the counter with his free hand, knuckles whitening, and for a heartbeat Solas thinks he’ll crumple to the floor.

“Felassan—”

But the other forces himself upright, chest heaving, sweat standing out along his temple. His eyes burn with defiance even as his body trembles under the weight of its own betrayal.

“I’ll ignore that shit you just said because I care about you, Solas.” he grinds out, the words ragged, torn from him as though they cost him blood.

Solas lowers his gaze, shame prickling at his skin.

“I’ve seen your face when you think of her. I’ve seen it. I know that look. She makes you feel alive.” Felassan’s voice softens, less furious now but no less insistent. “I want to know why you won’t let yourself try with her. Is it because of what Cassandra said? Is it because we might have been wrong about her? Or—"

“We have more important things to worry about,” Solas cuts in, shaking his head. “In case you’ve failed to notice, there’s a new drug spreading through Thedas, and —”

“Oh, I noticed.” He jabs a finger into Solas’s chest, his face flushed, pain and anger surging back. “I worked day and night to find out what I could. I took a bullet, I—”

“Exactly!”

Solas’s voice cracks like thunder as he steps forward, closing the distance between them. His composure snaps, heat rising in his chest, his hands shaking at his sides.

“Exactly. I said I was here—and I lied.” The next words come raw, trembling. “I lied to you. Again. Because of her.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight. “The truth is, I wasn’t with you this week. Not really. I was too busy wasting time—” his voice falters, breaks, and he drops his gaze, unable to meet Felassan’s eyes, “—thinking about her.”

Silence presses in. His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white.

“I don’t need her,” he insists, though the words sound hollow even to him. “She’s nothing but a distraction. And just look—” his breath shudders, lips trembling, “—just look at what’s happened because of—”

“Solas.” Felassan’s voice cuts in, cold and hard enough to still the air between them. “Are you blaming her?”

The question hits like a punch. Solas’s chest seizes, breath caught. “No,” he stammers. “I’m—”

“Incredible.” Felassan snaps the word, shakes his head with something close to disgust, his brows knotted tight. “You really don’t get it, do you? Ellana isn’t the problem. She never was. She’s your excuse. This is you. You’re the one who’s burned out. You’re the one who’s choking on all of it.” His voice cracks, sharp edges giving way to fatigue. He exhales hard, and suddenly he looks older, worn down.

“And I get it.”

Solas swallows against the dryness in his throat, but Felassan doesn’t let him slip away.

“I know this job makes it feel impossible. I know it’s dangerous. I know you’ve convinced yourself you only get bad things in this life—pain, vengeance, work. But that isn’t true. It isn’t.” He steps closer, sets a hand on Solas’s shoulder, his grip heavy, grounding. “Soon, all of this will be behind us. Soon you’ll be able to move forward. And if you’ve found someone who can make you feel good again—who can burn out the rot for even a moment—don’t throw that away. Not for me. Not for them. Please.”

Felassan’s eyes dart quickly over his, as if trying to read him like an open book. His grip on Solas’s shoulder tightens. Solas drops his gaze, eyes burning. “It isn’t that simple. You should know that—better than anyone.”

“I do.” Felassan smiles, stepping closer. “I do.”

There’s a pause where Solas can only clench his fists and try not to let the pain twist across his face. Felassan lets out a soft laugh and, without warning, slips an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

“I told you not to be an idiot with me,” he murmurs at his ear, voice tender. Then, firmer: “Now listen. This life is yours. Do with it what you want. But I promise you, Solas—I promise you—one day, things will be better. And when that day comes, I want you to have someone to share it with. Someone who isn’t me.”

Solas keeps his arms stiff at his sides, but his face buries itself in his friend’s shoulder. The tears sting his lashes, impossible to hold back, the knot in his throat so sharp it almost chokes him.

"Don’t wreck it before it even begins. You can do this, Solas. You can finish this fucking job and still build something real, something good, with someone. You just have to stop dragging her into the mire in your own head.” Felassan squeezes him tighter. “Promise me you’ll try.”

Solas’s throat works, raw and dry. He opens his mouth, but the sound won’t come—only a broken rasp that dies before it shapes into words. His chest heaves, his hands curl helplessly at his sides. He tries again, but the knot in his throat holds, strangling him.

In the end, he shuts his eyes, swallows hard, and forces himself to nod against Felassan’s shoulder. It’s all he can give.

Felassan strokes the back of his neck, an almost absent gesture that still manages to say stay, and murmurs a soft “Thank you,” his voice bent as if he’s smiling through it.

And Solas lets go, slowly, sinking into him, the thought clawing up through his chest: he’d risked too much. He’d been a fool. If Felassan hadn’t found Isabela, if he’d waited too long, if the bullet had landed just a little higher… Solas might have found him sprawled in some alley, swallowed by filth and rot—and their last words would have been a fight. A lie. Wounds left raw between them. And then what? How would he have borne it?

It all comes rushing back. The stench of that night. That room. Flashes, jagged and merciless. Unbearable.

A sob claws up his throat. Solas wraps his arms tight around Felassan’s back, crushing, desperate. Too tight, probably, but he can’t let go. Felassan doesn’t stop him, doesn’t complain, even if the embrace must pull at his wound. He only holds him, firm and silent, steady as stone.

“I almost lost you. Again. Over something so stupid—because of me, you almost—”

“Oh, cut it out.” His words are sharp, but Solas hears the crack in his voice, feels his arms tighten around him just a little more. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m fine. I’m here.”

A tear slips free, runs the line of his nose, and vanishes into the soft weave of Felassan’s shirt. For a moment, he’s almost sure he hears the other man sniff, and the thought nearly makes him laugh—because that’s what they are, isn’t it? Two idiots, worn thin and running on fumes, who can’t seem to do anything but make a mess and hold each other up in the ruins.

They stay like that for a while, long enough for the knot in Solas’s body to slowly uncoil, long enough that the only thing he notices is the faint scent of Felassan’s hair and the steady rhythm of his breathing. When at last his friend draws back, the world feels quieter.

Felassan is smiling, though his eyes are still rimmed red. He doesn’t bother to hide it. A thumb brushes the dampness from his lashes, and he lets out a soft, almost incredulous huff—as if laughing at both of them. His gaze finds Solas’s, and for a moment, it’s like looking into a mirror, the same unshed tears caught there. A weak smile breaks between them, fragile but real. They hold it for a beat, then both shake their heads, and Felassan finally takes a step back.

“Now go to your room,” he laughs, “and call her. Or I swear I’ll do it for you.”

Solas nods, yet he lingers.

“Will you tell me what happened?” he asks, eyes drifting to the wound at Felassan’s side. “The truth?”

“I will.” Felassan sounds sure of it. Then his tone lowers, almost breaking. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Sorry I didn’t call. I should have. But I didn’t want to…” His breath slips out in a long sigh. Whatever he meant to say dies there, unspeakable. Solas sees it—there is something Felassan will never admit, not even when he recounts yesterday. And though it hurts, he lets it be.

“It's all right.”

Felassan’s lips curve. “Thank you for stitching me up. Fine work, by the way.”

“Magic hands.”

A laugh shakes free of Felassan, light and real. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He tilts his head toward the corridor. “Go. And try not to be an ass with her.”

Solas sits on the bed, phone clenched in his palm, the door shut tight against the world outside. He stares at the screen, hollow-eyed, searching for the courage to press Call.

He clears his throat.

“Hi.” His voice cracks.

Again.

“Good afternoon.”

The words taste wrong. His face contorts in a grimace.

He draws in a long breath, his fingers tracing the smooth edge of the phone. Maybe he shouldn't call her. Yes, no, well—spirits, he probably shouldn't.

He shakes his head, already sinking back towards surrender, about to collapse against the mattress—when it comes to him. The memory.

The vibration that morning. Her name glowing across the screen. E.L. sent you a photo.

He doesn’t think, doesn’t let himself hesitate. WispApp opens with a flick of his thumb, Ellana’s chat tapped before his mind can intervene.

The photo blooms on the screen. The notebook he had given her takes centre stage, its dark cover laced with silver threads. That should be what draws him in. But it isn’t.

It’s the unruly spill of black hair around it. The hand in the corner—short nails, uneven, skin warm and bronze under the light. And, above all, the eyes. Hazel, lit with golden flecks. Wide, yet tapering, almond-shaped, tilted slightly upward at the corners. Lashes dark and impossibly long.

They’re smiling, her eyes.

He can almost summon the rest of her face from memory: the nose that crinkles when she grins; the full lips that form that tiny, impossible dimple above the upper lip, just below the tip of her nose—something rare, something he has never seen on anyone else. And those front teeth, slightly too large, making her smile unbearably sweet.

The notebook hides her face, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all he sees. Minutes slip away as he drowns in that photo.

Ellana looks happy. Happy with the gift he thought was a mistake. Yet, it’s the truest thing he has done in twenty years.

He presses the phone to his ear and calls her. He does it. Because he promised. Because it feels right. Because, more than anything, he wants to.

“Hello?”

Solas grips the phone so tightly the plastic whimpers in his hand. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

He feels like a fool, all of a sudden. What words could survive the weight of this silence? What could he possibly offer her—after Ellana’s letter, after the sound of his own heart breaking against it?

“Solas…?”

Yes.

It’s me.

I wanted to tell you that I wept.

Your letter made me weep.

After how many years—seven, ten? I’ve lost count.

I wanted to tell you that in a single night, you changed my life. That you kept changing it, even when I begged you, silently, not to. I wanted to tell you there is something wrong in me, something terrible—that I am not the man you believe me to be.

I want to tell you everything.

That when I was a boy, I tripped running downhill, and the scar on my knee always makes me smile at the memory. That I hated math but devoured novels, any I could steal from the library. That I once dreamed of university—history, philosophy—but by the time I could afford it, life had already drawn me elsewhere. That my favorite colour is still green, though I tell people it is grey. That I secretly enjoy children’s cartoons because they are kinder than the world. That I get irrationally competitive at Scrabble. That I find it difficult to throw away jars, so I have a shelf of empty ones I swear I will use. That I fear anything with wings—birds, moths, pigeons, bees. That I eat my sandwiches crust-first. That I am absurdly fond of old crime dramas, the kind no one remembers, grainy and slow, all cigarette smoke and shadows.

That my hands are not clean. That I have done things I cannot tell you. That Solas is not my true name, yet it is the only one I can answer to. That I should not be calling you. That I will hurt you.

I will.

“Hello,” he says instead.

“Hey.”

“Are you home?” he blurts, and instantly squeezes his eyes shut, biting the inside of his cheek. Brilliant. What kind of question is that? Next, he’ll be asking if she’s lying on her bed or what she’s wearing.

“Um… yeah. You?”

“I am as well.”

A silence stretches between them. Solas shifts on the edge of his bed, the blinds drawn low so the room sits in a dim, stagnant half-light. The phone feels heavy against his ear.

“So you closed the bookshop early today.”

“Yes—well, no. I didn’t even open it.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“It has been… a complicated day.”

“I know the feeling. Mine’s been the same.”

“Something happened?”

She laughs, but it’s a brittle sound. “Nothing dramatic. I don't know what I was thinking, actually. I was in a good mood, and made the mistake of calling my agent. Imagine that.”

“Bad news?”

“Not exactly. Just the usual speech. Apparently, I’ve delayed my work too long, the sponsors are losing patience, Nugflix is going off the rails… thrilling stuff like that.”

Solas leans back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling where faint bars of light slip through the blinds. Her voice, bright with sarcasm, keeps slipping into weariness. He presses the phone closer, as if that could anchor her here with him.

“Sounds dreadful,” he says.

“Tell me about it. He’s booked me for a signing here in town. Some Nugflix people will be around, maybe even a few actors from the series. I don’t know yet.”

He’s about to suggest the terrible idea of hosting the whole thing at his bookshop—offering her the space, offering her himself—but his thoughts, as ever, can’t keep pace with her. Before he can speak, she cuts across him.

“And you? What happened to you?”

Solas falters, a lie catching in his throat. “Felassan… he’s not doing very well,” he replies at last, his hand tightening around the cloth beneath him.

“Oh.” Her voice drops a note. “I’m sorry. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

A bitter smile cracks the edges of his voice. “He’ll recover.”

He lowers his gaze to the folds of the sheets, running his fingers along the fabric, finding comfort in the way it gives so easily under his touch, soft and compliant. Ellana falls silent. He does too. And in that silence, he aches with all the things he longs to tell her. So many things. Perhaps he should start with a thank you. Or ask her about the notebook he slipped into her paper bag. Or what had moved her to write that letter at all.

“I wanted to—”

“Listen, I—”

Her chuckle collides with his, awkward and overlapping, until it turns into something almost genuine.

“You first,” he offers, attempting gallantry, though his pulse is hammering and he knows she’d hear it if she were in the room.

“No, you.”

“I insist.”

“So do I.”

“I am polite enough to let a lady speak first.”

She groans. “Oh, that was terrible.”

“Misogynistic?”

“A bit.”

“I was going for charming.”

“You missed by a mile.”

“Should I try again?”

“Please don’t.”

Solas lets out a quiet chuckle, and silence settles between them again—only this time it’s softer, almost comforting. He pinches the sheet between his fingers, as though the fabric could help him gather his thoughts, keep them from scattering.

“The cake you left me.”

She doesn’t answer at once, and he could swear he hears the faint catch of her breath. “You… ate it?”

He smiles to himself. “Devoured it.”

Her breath escapes in something close to a laugh, light and a little uncertain.

“It was… remarkable,” he says, his voice dropping softer. “Delicate, yet rich. Balanced in a way that lingered. I even brushed away the crumbs—could not leave evidence of my indulgence.”

“So you liked it?”

His lips twitch, as if he’s fighting a smile. “Liked it enough that I returned for another slice.”

“Another?”

A beat of quiet. Then, with a faintly sheepish shrug, he confesses: “The whole cake, if you must know. One slice was… insufficient.”

“You’ve got such a sweet tooth,” she teases, delight dancing in her voice.

“Well, yes.” He inclines his head, the tension in his chest loosening at last. “I can appreciate a well-balanced, perfectly executed recipe.”

There’s a pause, in which the weight of the entire day seems to melt slowly from his shoulders.

“I called to say thank you,” he whispers. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

He hears the sound of footsteps, a breath, then the scrape of a chair across the floor, and he closes his eyes. In the quiet, he lets himself imagine her flat: the chipped tiles in the kitchen, the old kettle always humming on the counter, stacks of books leaning precariously on every surface because the shelves ran out long ago. A window cracked open to let in the city’s restless air, curtains stirring faintly, and a single lamp casting a warm pool of light where she sits. It’s not much, tucked away in that rough neighbourhood that doesn’t suit her at all, but in his mind it feels unmistakably hers—shaped by her presence, softened by her hands.

“Well, maybe you already have,” she murmurs, pulling him gently back into the moment. “Repaid me, I mean. Unless, of course, it’s your habit to gift fine notebooks to all your customers?”

He lets himself sink into the mattress. Rolling onto his side, he leaves the phone pressed against his ear, his hands resting loosely in front of him.

“It isn’t,” he says softly.

Perhaps she’s tapping her fingers on the table, and he smiles at the thought of her sitting cross-legged, a small frown of concentration creasing her brow, lit by that pool of warm light.

“Where did you get it?”

Solas scratches at his neck, lying flat on the bed, the phone heavy against his ear. His voice drifts, softened at the edges by drowsiness. “From a stall in the park. I wasn’t sure if I should give it to you, but you said you felt like writing, and…” His words taper into a small shrug she can’t see.

“It’s really beautiful. Thank you.” There’s a smile in her voice, and it lingers in his chest like heat.

“It’s by a street artist.”

“I can tell.”

“The cover’s carved wood, with silver inlay. If you tilt it, you can see the grain… and the clasp—it is ironwork, not just decoration. Old-fashioned. No one bothers with that anymore.”

His voice grows slower, softer, as though he’s already slipping into the rhythm of sleep. He pictures her again, lamplight on her hair, her thumb running across the wooden cover. The image soothes him more than the darkness around him ever could.

“The pages are recycled parchment too,” he murmurs. “Textured so ink doesn’t bleed. It even smells better. They told me the fibres came from—”

“Solas.”

His eyes flutter open, caught mid-thought, though he’s smiling faintly, already drifting. "Mh?"

"I was wondering…" Her voice comes sly now, teasing: “If I open it, does it also make coffee? Or maybe summon a spirit to write for me?”

He breathes out a low, sleepy chuckle. “Hilarious.”

“I’m serious!” she presses, laughing softly. “The design almost feels… enchanted, doesn’t it? That spiral on the cover—it’s strange. Like it’s moving if you stare too long. At first I thought it was branches, but then… I don’t know. More like something twisting. Winding around itself. Like snakes.”

Something twisting. Snakes.

Snakes.

Snakes?

Solas lurches to his feet before she’s even finished. In a breath he’s at the desk, the laptop snapping open under his hands. The glow washes his face pale as his fingers stumble, then fly across the keys.

“…what do you think?” she asks, still playing.

He doesn’t answer. He clicks through the agency’s files until he finds the security footage. Fast-forwards. Stops. Rewinds. Plays again. His eyes rake over the warped lines on the display, searching for something.

“I mean, it’s kind of eerie, isn’t it?” she goes on. “Like something alive.”

There—the man in fine clothes. Velvet. Patterns woven into his jacket.

Pause.

His fingers tremble on the mouse. He zooms in as far as the grainy footage will allow. Squints—his glasses are on his nightstand.

Snakes.

No—one snake, jaws open wide, next to what might be a dragon with no legs, its back bristling with three downward-pointing spikes. The wings are wrong. Or perhaps severed. But the specifics don’t matter.

He knows that symbol.

“Shit.”

“Did you just—?”

“I’d kiss you on the mouth right now,” he breathes, adrenaline spilling into the words.

“…What?”

“Come by the bookshop whenever you like. Please.”

A beat of silence, then: “…Okay. I—okay. See you… soon, then."

She says something more before she hangs up, but he isn’t listening anymore. His gaze is locked on the screen, on that sigil burning through the blur of pixels.

Venatori.

Conservative extremists. Nationalists. A cult of blood and power, growing bolder by the day, celebrated in whispers and shadows while their hands stain the earth red. A dark, looming threat pressing down on an entire people, on a nation rotting from within—one that once laid claim to the very ground beneath his feet.

Tevinter.

The lyrium was headed for Tevinter. As he suspected.

He grips the mouse so tightly the plastic creaks under his fingers. His heart skips, a strangled sound escapes his throat—half a laugh, half a gasp—incredulous, terrified, and, in some buried way, satisfied all at once.

A lead, he thinks, stunned. A lead.

Solas finds Felassan stretched across the bed, one arm propped lazily behind his head. The room is thick with the scent of sleep and antiseptic, the heavy heat of the day still clinging to the sheets. His eyes follow Solas as he steps in, the laptop tucked under one arm.

“Couldn’t stay away?” Felassan drawls, softer than usual but still needling.

Solas places the machine on the desk, flips the lid. The glow bleaches his features pale. He doesn’t look up. “I need another pair of eyes. And you’re irritatingly good at this.”

Felassan lets a smile curl. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He chuckles, though the sound breaks on a grimace as his side pulls. Solas angles the screen so they can both see. The still image flickers: the man in velvet, blurred and grainy, caught mid-stride.

Felassan squints. “That jacket is doing him no favours.”

“Focus.” Solas zooms, sharpening the fabric pattern until the distortion forms twisted lines. “There. Do you see it?”

Felassan tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Snake. And what’s meant to be a dragon, I suppose. Too pompous to be decorative.” His voice dips. “Could it be… Venatori?”

Solas nods, sharp and certain. “Old symbol, out of use, but still seen at rallies in Minrathous."

"Shit."

"Shit indeed. But the symbol is not enough. We need a name.”

“Start local,” Felassan says. “Hotels. Nobody wears velvet like that without a safe bed to collapse into after.”

Solas pulls the guest lists from Wycome’s hotels that night. Dozens of names roll past. Felassan leans closer, reading the data upside down. “Filter it—one-night stays, foreign passports, cash at the desk.”

The clutter vanishes until only one entry remains.

“There,” Felassan murmurs. “Anonymous. Not invisible.”

The cardholder name is masked out, nothing but asterisks. Felassan exhales through his nose. “Try the human layer.”

Solas switches to the hotel’s internal notes. A single line buried under the night audit: GUEST REQUESTED PRIVACY. STAFF: NO NAMES. PAID CASH FOR BAR TAB. ASKED FOR ‘SILENT FLOOR’.

“Silent floor?”

“Concierge slang,” Felassan says. “For people who don’t want neighbors or questions.” He taps the screen. “If he’s that careful, he’ll run at dawn.”

Solas nods, closes the front-end guest registry. “Payment left a trace. They always do.” His fingers move, calling up the imprint record buried in the hotel’s system. “A corporate card reserved the room. Trastwell Holdings.”

Felassan snorts. “That’s a name invented by someone who’s never held a shovel. Who’s behind it?”

He types the code into the search bar, opens corporate filings. “Brass plate in Minrathous, proxy directors. Nothing useful.”

Felassan lifts an eyebrow. “So we’re stuck.”

“Not yet.” Solas scrolls back through the imprint record, slower this time. Line after line is blacked out, stripped bare—until his eyes catch a single field the system forgot to mask. COST CENTRE: 74–PST. REF: PARL–TRAVEL–NORTH.

Felassan holds his breath. “That’s a government cost code.”

“Parliamentary staff travel,” Solas confirms, a faint grimness in his voice. “Someone booked this on the public purse.”

Felassan curses low between his teeth, but Solas' hands are already pulling up passenger lists from the following morning. He cross-checks with the hotel’s check-out time. “One match,” he mutters. “Six a.m. flight, Minrathous. Alias: Marcus Tarren.”

Felassan whistles low. “Original.”

“The alias doesn’t matter. Flight records keep scraps of loyalty numbers and booking agents. Let me see…" His eyes narrow, face closer to the screen, until he finds what he's looking for. A faint smile curves his lips. "Here—a fragment of a frequent-flyer number and the corporate travel portal in the agent field. That loyalty fragment ties to a private secretary."

"Who is he working for?"

A beat.

"Councillor Sethius Amladaris.”

Felassan’s eyebrows rise. “Our velvet friend keeps interesting company.”

Solas rewinds the airport footage. Gate cam 04. The image ticks backwards and then freezes: a figure in velvet striding past the gate, no luggage, the spiral catching the light.

“There,” Felassan says. “Same jacket.”

“Everything aligns,” Solas says quietly. “The insignia, the hotel imprint, the shell company, the flight. All pointing to Amladaris.” He lets the words sit a moment. “Not court-ready, but it’s a proper lead.”

Felassan studies him for a moment. “And you came in here to share it with me.”

Solas exhales, long and thin, the cursor blinking on the aide’s name. “I needed you,” he admits.

Felassan smiles faintly, closing his eyes against the ache in his side. “Good. Because you’ve got me.”

Solas leans back, letting the weight of the discovery settle. On the screen, the name glows steady. A lead. At last.

Felassan sinks deeper into the cushion, eyes closed. “If you don’t call her right now, I swear—”

Solas exhales, a sharp breath through his nose. “I already called her.”

A slow smile creeps across the other's face. “And there it is. Hearing her did the trick. We’ve covered more ground in five minutes than we have all week.”

Solas stares at the glow of his screen, saying nothing. Because Felassan is right. Something shifted when he heard her voice. Connections clicked into place—the scattered fragments of the northern trail aligning in ways he hadn’t seen before. And beyond the logic, beyond the puzzle, there was something else. Something he doesn’t want to name.

The past two days have been a storm, sudden and merciless, and he’s been swept into the eye of it with no warning. Maybe he needed the jolt. Maybe he needed the storm.

Maybe he needed her.

The thought terrifies him. But for once he doesn’t bury it. He lets it burn in his chest—raw and dangerous, wondrous and alive—until Felassan clears his throat beside him.

Solas snaps back to the present. He secures the export, encrypts the file, and seeds a read-only copy for Cassandra. His hands linger on the keys, as though reluctant to let the trail go. Felassan watches from the bed, eyes half-closed but alert.

“You’ll call Cassandra now,” he says. It isn’t a question.

Solas nods. The line clicks open, soft static spilling into the room.

“Solas.” the woman’s voice, edged with concern, fills the line.

Felassan smiles, gesturing for him to put it on speaker. When Solas does, he leans toward the phone, stifling a groan. “Hey, Cass. I’m fine.”

“Solas told me you were injured.”

“Yeah. Injured, not dead.”

A pause. Then her exhale crackles softly down the line. “Good. Then… make sure you finish that report. Quickly.”

Felassan chuckles, sinking back against the cushions. “I will. But first, why don’t you let our Solas tell you what he’s uncovered?”

“You have something for me?”

Solas glances at Felassan, seeking permission. A brief nod is all he receives. “Yes. A lead. But it wasn’t mine alone," he adds quickly. "Felassan caught the first thread.”

The elf only snorts, but doesn’t contradict him.

“The lyrium shipments,” Solas continues. “We believe they tie directly to the unrest in Tevinter.”

He lays out the trail: the insignia on the velvet jacket, the false hotel booking, the shell company, the parliamentary expenses, the secretary tied to Councillor Amladaris.

Felassan watches him, head tilted, eyes narrowing as though tasting the pattern. When Solas falls silent, he supplies the conclusion. “We believe someone’s feeding lyrium to the Venatori to stir chaos, then pointing fingers at the state. And up north? The mood’s sour enough. Spill blood, sweep it clean, claim to be saviours. The people will cheer them into power.”

“Maker help us,” Cassandra murmurs. Then, harder: “And we have no jurisdiction in Tevinter. We cannot move there.”

“Officially,” Solas says.

Static hums, then her long sigh. She hates the word unofficial, though she lives in it more often than she admits. “Leliana still has contacts in the north. I’ll call them in.”

Felassan pushes himself higher on the pillows, pain flickering in his face. "And what do we do?"

“You keep a low profile.”

He blinks, disbelieving. “What? That’s it?”

“You’re in the Free Marches,” she replies. “Our territory. But if you make noise—if it looks like you’re reaching across the border, meddling in Tevinter’s politics—the entire operation collapses. They’ll call it interference, and they will not be wrong.”

Felassan lets out a humourless laugh. “So we sit here, watching, while the Venatori poison the streets?”

“You listen. You observe. That is what I need from you.” Her voice softens, just enough to break through his anger. “Do you remember Starkhaven? When we wanted to storm the warehouse, guns drawn? You thought me mad when I held you back. And it was the waiting that saved us—patience gave us the names, the routes, the proof. Not rush.”

Felassan’s eyes flicker, the memory dragging an unwilling smile from him. “I remember you shouting until you were hoarse.”

“And I remember you alive because of it,” she answers, ready.

Solas leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice is quiet, persuasive. “She’s right. We’re useful only if we stay unseen.”

Felassan shakes his head, frustrated but swayed. “I hate when the both of you gang up on me.”

Solas allows himself the smallest smile. “Because you know we’re right.”

Cassandra breathes out, the edge gone from her voice now. “…Good work. Both of you. Better than you think. But until I give the word, you wait. No noise, no risks. Understood?”

“Understood,” Solas says.

Felassan sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “Understood,” he echoes, grudging but loyal.

A pause follows, until Cassandra’s voice fills the room again.

“Solas told me you had trouble with the Crows,” she says, and Solas sees Felassan stiffen for an instant. “I didn’t catch the whole story—it was… muddled. But I need to know. Will they be a problem?”

Felassan shakes his head. “No. I crossed paths with the charming Illario Dellamorte, but—”

“What?” Solas blurts.

“I’ll tell you everything later. Promise. What matters is that Illario spoke of them as if he were afraid. I assume he meant the Venatori. If Samson’s working with Vints, Illario won’t stir trouble.”

“They shot you in the side. How can you say—”

Solas’s protest falters under the steady honesty in Felassan’s gaze. “It was a lackey. I made a mistake, and I paid for it. Trust me.”

Solas does. He gives in.

Silence settles until Cassandra speaks once more. “Alright. But be careful.” A beat. “Just take care of yourselves. Please,” she adds softly.

The line goes dead. The room exhales with it.

Solas and Felassan trade a look. For half a second, a smile flickers between them. Then Felassan lounges back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head.

“If just hearing your girlfriend’s voice gets you like this,” he drawls, mischief sparking in his eyes, “then when you two finally fuck, you’ll probably solve world hung—”

Solas is on his feet before he realises it, muttering something low and sharp, heading for the door. Felassan doesn’t even bother to finish the sentence—he just bursts out laughing, the sound chasing Solas into the corridor, bouncing off the walls.

His ears are burning. He can feel it.

“Idiot,” he growls under his breath. And yet the phone is already in his hand. His thumb drags across the screen, back to the photo he can’t stop looking at.

Ellana. Notebook half-covering her face, but her eyes lit with that unmistakable joy.

And somehow, even through a screen, it feels like she’s smiling at him. Only him.

Chapter Text

Ellana likes Solas best when he is in the bookshop. He is different there. Softer. Even in his elegant attire—immaculately chosen, far removed from the loose T-shirts she has seen him wear elsewhere—he seems more at ease. His shoulders rest more gently, his face is unlined, untroubled, and behind those gold-rimmed glasses—worn only in that place—he looks somehow younger.

He moves with a certain lightness, as though the weight of the world falls away inside those walls. His steps are soft, almost velvety, as he wanders through the narrow rooms lined with books. The colourful spines frame a version of him that can be described with only one expression: a peaceful smile. Not joyful, not amused, not exuberant. Placid.

Sometimes, Ellana catches herself stealing glances at his quiet conversations with the occasional customer: those who drift in to browse, to search for the perfect gift, or simply to claim a few moments of refuge at the reading table in the corner, thumbing through a book they won’t buy but might carry with them in thought for the rest of the day—because he recommended it.

And Ellana knows, without question, how gifted he is at finding just the right book for someone.

There are days when she pauses her music, the earbuds still in her ears muffling the world, and yet she can still make out the gentle murmur of the conversations in which Solas sometimes seems to lose himself.

He allows himself long, meandering talks with people who look like extras from a film—or perhaps weary travellers in need of a safe harbour, a quiet inn offering warmth and a hot meal. And somehow, Solas provides all of that, with nothing more than genuine hospitality and a sincere interest in their stories, in the tales of their journeys.

Every now and then, when the shop grows still and he grows tired of reading, he rises and straightens a book just slightly out of place, or dusts a shelf already gleaming like porcelain under soft light.

It isn’t unusual to hear him hum a tune. Sometimes the melodies are cheerful, sometimes melancholy. But the ones Ellana loves most, still secretly, still with her earbuds firmly in place but silent, are the ones from old cartoon theme songs.

They speak to her of afternoons on the couch, of early Sunday mornings when her parents were still asleep and she’d slip out of bed, settle close to the big, clunky square television, and with the volume turned down low, watch those cartoons her father disliked—because they weren’t Dalish enough, didn’t represent them, told stories only of humans, shemlens, and nothing else.

She wonders, during those moments when he thinks she can't hear him softly mouthing those little songs, if he, too, had spent precious moments on the sofa. Rebellious Sunday mornings lost in colours and shapes—cartoons painting his silence with other people’s voices, other people’s dreams. And she wonders what his face might have looked like, as a child, lit by those flickering images, lost in someone else's story, someone else’s idea of wonder.

Today, he is reading seated quietly beside her, the light through the shop window falling in soft, angled lines across his face, catching the curve of his cheek and tracing the shadow of his nose onto his skin. He wears a white shirt with no jacket, the sleeves rolled three times to bare his forearms: on the left, the heavy steel of his watch; on the right, the delicate, slightly angular wrist that holds his book. His fingers—long, knotted, the kind that could belong to a pianist—hold the hardback open with a tension that is somehow gentle. He always treats his precious books with care.

Her chest tightens. She wants to write about it—how that shirt softens him, how the sight of those forearms escaping the crisp fabric stirs something warm and unwelcome in her, how sweet his face looks like this, intent and wholly given over to a book whose title she doesn’t know. How his eyes don’t move. Perhaps caught on a single word. Perhaps because he knows she is watching.

But she doesn’t write it. She doesn’t trust herself with the truth of it.

She slips off her headphones. He notices—she can tell by the way his pupils shift, slow and deliberate, beneath the narrow frame of his lids, settling on her through those clean, polished lenses. Ellana sets her pen down. He mirrors her, closing his hand around the open book and resting it on the little table.

When he smiles, his face is untroubled, serene.

“How is it going?” he asks, his voice low.

She glances at her page—the messy, hurried letters in a handwriting she has always hated, yet likes more now, since she first learned to shape his name with it.

“Not bad,” she says, returning his smile, soft and small.

He hums a sound of approval, tilts his head slightly, and doesn’t look away. Her smile grows, just a little. She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, speaking only with their eyes—nor how many days it has been since this strange ritual began. A few, says the cynical voice in her head. Many, answers the gentler one. And though the cynical voice is probably right, to Ellana it feels like many—countless, even.

She remembers: arriving at his door in the late morning. Him, opening it with that easy, untroubled expression. The little bird above them singing into the silence they share. Then she takes her place in that small corner, while he moves easily between tending to a customer and inhabiting a moment of stillness.

By now, the reading corner has changed since their little ritual began. Behind the table, a small blue sofa has appeared—nothing extravagant, just soft and welcoming, with a green blanket trimmed in gold fringe draped across the armrest. She likes to think he placed it there for her, though she never asks.

And so she settles into that spot each morning, nestled among the cushions, her notebook balanced on her knees—or sometimes on a pillow she pulls into her lap. There, she writes: words, thoughts, half-formed things that don’t always make sense. And all the while, in the quiet between the turning of pages and the murmured voices of clients, she can feel his presence nearby.

Now they sit on the sofa in silence, sharing nothing but comfort in a day that has just begun.

The little bell above the door chirps brightly as a new customer steps inside, and Solas rises slowly, excusing himself in that unfailingly polite way of his. Ellana nods and picks up her pen again, distracted by the way the conversation before her unfolds—melting, unhurried, like an ice pop left too long under Wycome’s scorching sun.

On the page, she paints letters that no longer mean anything, pretending to keep writing even though the thread of it is gone, the music silent in her headphones, her eyes unable to stop seeking him, caught in the soft glow of late morning light.

In a moment of quiet, he glances back. He catches her. Offers a small smile, nothing more, but it finds her anyway. She looks down at once, bites her lip, and presses play. The music returns, soft and distant.

Her cheeks are warm. Her heart stirs, quick and uneven, but the faint ache of it brings her back to the page. The words come again, slow and steady.

When she glances up, Solas is moving methodically through the shop. He straightens the shelves, hands brushing across cardboard boxes and the smooth spines of books as he checks them off against the list. The till closes with a muted click, and he makes one last circuit of the storeroom where the faint smell of old wood and paper lingers. When everything is finally in order, he breathes out, the tension leaving his shoulders, and the tired satisfaction of a job done well settles on his face.

Ellana lets her eyes drift toward the window. Outside, Wycome is easing itself into evening. The light has taken on the soft tones of rose and burnt orange, sliding across the pavement, stretching the shadows of lampposts and passers-by. The whole town seems to shift with the hour. Shopfronts dim, neon signs flicker to life, and the air carries the faint scent of dinners cooking behind closed windows. A bell chimes from the church down the street, marking the time.

From between the aisles, Solas checks his watch, then glances at her. He doesn’t say a word, but the look is clear enough: it’s time. He removes his glasses, folding them with care before slipping them into their case. Ellana closes her notebook with a soft snap and sets her pen down. She gathers her things absent-mildly, sliding them into her worn rucksack one by one.

Today the writing had pulled her under. She hadn’t meant to lose track of time, to break their little ritual, but the words had arrived so freely she hadn’t wanted to stop them. It had felt like stepping into a daydream—her journals reshaping themselves into something else entirely. A story she knew, a story she was living even now, but on the page she could hold it, control it, decide how it might end.

A homecoming, after too long away.

She had begun sketching characters almost without noticing, surprised at how naturally she gave the heroine traces of herself, and the co-protagonist something unmistakably of him. The realisation both thrilled and unsettled her. But for now, those words belonged to her alone, tucked safely away in the notebook. That thought was enough. She had let her hand move unguarded, her thoughts spill without restraint, and perhaps—just perhaps—she had written the first chapter.

She wonders if Varric would like it.

Still, she had let herself be distracted today. Most evenings she slipped out of the bookshop an hour or two before closing, careful not to overstay, though Solas always insisted she was never in the way. She knew better. At times he would excuse himself—always politely—and disappear into the storeroom for far longer than seemed necessary. Once or twice she caught the low murmur of his voice on the phone, the sound carrying through the thin partition. She couldn’t make out the words, only the cadence, and something about it told her the calls were not meant to be overheard. If she weren’t there, he would have been free to carry on working more freely.

And then there were the customers who recognised her. What was supposed to be a quiet reading nook could easily turn into a small stage, and she, reluctantly, into a performer. Selfies, overlong conversations about her books, the intrusive curiosity of strangers. She always felt a little like a circus animal under glass.

Solas had a way of rescuing her from it. He never raised his voice; he never needed to. With the same calm authority he used for balancing the till, he would explain that Ellana was not to be disturbed, that her presence here was not public knowledge. She was working, he would add, on her new project. He never revealed details—only threw her a quick, conspiratorial glance and hinted that it would be something bound to make waves. Nothing could be shared yet, not even that she was here. He would lower his voice and mention an agreement with the production company, or with Nugflix, and that was usually enough. Faces lit up at the promise of another blockbuster, another series to sink into after a long day. They would leave her in peace—no endless questions, no endless photographs. Sometimes just an autograph, a short dedication, and then they left smiling, grateful, as though they had been let in on something rare.

She was grateful too—always grateful. Without him, she would have drowned in it. And yet, beneath the relief, guilt prickled. She could not shake the thought that she was an inconvenience, even if he never once let it show. He carried her interruptions lightly, as though they cost him nothing, but she knew they did.

Now he looks at her without saying a word. So she slips the rucksack onto her shoulders and rises, smoothing down the long red skirt scattered with tiny white flowers. The fabric falls softly to her ankles, brushing against the battered sandals that hug the delicate bone there.

Before she lifts her eyes to meet his, she pulls in her stomach, tightening her muscles, because today she chose a cropped top that shows just a hint of skin. A choice she regretted the moment she walked in and noticed how carefully he avoided letting his gaze wander to that strip of bare waist. And well—ever since, she has been uncomfortably aware of that part of her body, and now—

“Are you hungry?”

His voice carries a tone of studied casualness, but when she looks up she catches him staring out through the window, his posture a shade too still. The street beyond reflects in the glass: the last glow of the evening crowd moving past, a bus pulling in with a sigh of brakes. Yet his focus isn’t on any of it. She sees it in the way his mouth curves tightly, and in the fine line that cuts into his forehead just beside the small scar.

That scar; she has noticed it often, the way the light finds it, pale against his skin. She has never asked how he got it. She likes to picture him as a boy, running headlong down narrow alleys, his laughter echoing between the walls. Perhaps he tripped over the uneven pavement, or crashed against the sharp edge of a doorway in the reckless rush of play. She imagines the scrape of stone, the sting, the sharp burst of tears quickly swallowed, and then a small boy’s resilience: a scar as the only proof of how much fun he was having.

“A little,” she says at last, steadying her tone, careful not to reveal how intently she has been watching him. “You?”

“A little,” he echoes, then risks a sidelong glance at her. “There’s a small place at the end of the street,” he says, cautious. “Unassuming, but the food is excellent—and the owner... eccentric, though harmless enough. It’s late, and I thought perhaps—”

“Do they have vegetarian options?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes. Of course. I’m hungry. Let’s go.”

She tries to steady the flutter in her chest at the small smile he allows himself, and together they step out of the bookshop into the cooling air—almost in a hurry, as if leaving before either of them can reconsider.

Ellana lingers while he locks up. This isn’t a date, she reminds herself, watching the way his hand moves over the key, the quiet click of the lock, the white linen of his shirt shifting in the evening breeze. She drifts a few steps, turns on her heel without thinking, and watches her skirt lift and billow before settling again. She waits until he is done, and—this isn’t a date—she reminds herself once more when he tips his head towards the street and they fall into step, side by side.

The night air in Wycome carries its usual edge of salt, sharp against the back of her throat. She breathes it in deeply. The humidity teases her hair into unruly curls; she drags her fingers through it, only making the chaos worse. The bracelets on her good wrist catch the last low light, winking faintly as the lamps overhead blink awake one by one.

They walk a few paces in easy silence before he stops mid-step, as if some small thought has caught him by the sleeve. She pauses too, turning to face him.

“Everything all right?”

He blinks, then gives a small shake of his head. His hand goes to the back of his neck. "I just thought of something… the alarm," he murmurs. "Sometimes it’s temperamental when I close late."

She looks at him, amusement at the edge of her voice. “Who even calls an alarm temperamental?”

He huffs a soft breath that might be a laugh. “You haven’t met mine.”

Her smile lingers. “So it throws fits when you forget about it?”

“Something like that.” His tone is mild, but there’s a glint of sincerity beneath it—enough that she can’t tell if he’s joking.

She watches him for a moment. “Do you want to go back and check?”

He hesitates, glances down the street towards the shop, then back at her. The hand slips slowly from his neck. “No,” he says after a beat. “It’s fine. I will check later. Come on.”

They start walking again. The moment folds away as quietly as it came, leaving only the rhythm of their steps and the faint hum of the town around them. Soon they are trading small remarks, little jokes that dissolve into laughter, and everything between them seems to move so easily, so unforced, that by the time they reach the restaurant door, the awkwardness has almost melted away. Almost.

The sign reads The Beehive. Its logo is a small, cartoonish bee with Xs for eyes and a tongue lolling out of its open mouth, flying toward a flower drawn in a far more delicate, realistic style. Ellana arches a brow; the design reminds her of something, though she can’t quite place what. Before she can linger on it, Solas pulls open the door for her.

Inside, The Beehive feels like stepping into organised chaos. One wall bursts with vinyl records layered so densely they almost form a mosaic—colours and labels jostling against framed photographs and scraps of old posters. Across from it, graffiti sprawls in layers of paint and neon, a cacophony of tags and doodles that seem to vibrate under the dim, coloured lights. It’s messy, but not careless. Every angle feels chosen, the disorder curated—like a stage set pretending not to be one.

Ellana lets her eyes travel over it all, smiling despite herself. The place is loud even without anyone speaking, a jumble of voices frozen on the walls. It makes her think of him—of Solas. He doesn’t belong in a space like this, not with his neat white linen shirt and the way he carries himself as if precision were second nature. Yet she finds the contrast oddly fitting. The studied chaos around them throws his quiet composure into relief, and she wonders—just briefly—if beneath that calm exterior, he isn’t layered the same way. Graffiti hidden under clean paint. Vinyl stacked neatly to disguise the noise.

The hum of conversation rises around them, glasses clinking, a burst of laughter from a table near the bar. A waitress approaches, a dwarven lady dressed in the same studied chaos as the rest of the place: a black tank top spattered with streaks of coloured paint, ripped jeans covered in pins. Yet she carries with her a breeze of freshness, a radiant smile and a neat ponytail of red hair so precisely tied it feels almost at odds with everything else.

“Table for two?” she asks simply, a notepad in hand, her tone warm.

For a moment, Solas and Ellana glance at each other, caught in a hesitation that feels absurd. He recovers first. “Yes, for two.”

Recognition flashes across the waitress’s face. “Ah, Solas!” she says, her smile widening. The name lands too easily on her tongue. Ellana catches it, the way the familiarity slips between them, quick and natural. The look she throws in Ellana’s direction afterwards is brief, yet weighted—slightly too full of expectation for Ellana’s taste. She lets it slide, focusing instead on the way he slips his hands into his pockets and, all at once, seems entirely at ease.

“Dagna,” he says in greeting. “Work kept me longer than expected tonight.”

“Of course, I guessed as much.” Dagna’s voice is courteous, and her attention remains fixed on him. “Your usual table? Or would you rather sit inside tonight?”

Solas looks at Ellana, as if leaving the choice in her hands. She pretends to consider it, though the mention of a usual table sparks too much curiosity to ignore. So she smiles at the waitress and says, “Outside will be perfect.”

The girl returns the smile, then nods towards the back of the room, signaling them to follow. She leads them through the jumble of tables and noise, Solas and Ellana walking side by side until a glass door swings open ahead, spilling them out into the evening air again.

Metal chairs in every imaginable colour—some flaking paint, some polished new—are scattered around mismatched tables. A long bench has been painted fire-engine red, another scrawled over with marker pen. Overhead, nets strung with bicycles and old toys hang like some eccentric art installation, swaying gently in the warm night air. Green vines creep up the brick walls, softening the industrial edges, and somewhere a faint note of jazz drifts from a hidden speaker.

It feels like someone emptied out a flea market and decided to make it a restaurant, and yet—like everything else here—it works.

Ellana’s curiosity prickles sharper. His usual table. In this mad, curated mess, where exactly did Solas belong? Did he sit beneath the nets tangled with old bicycles? At one of the paint-chipped tables? Had he ever come here with someone else, let them see him ease into this place with the same comfort he carried now?

She tries not to picture it—him here with another woman, or maybe a man, laughing in the neon glow—but the thought forms anyway, uninvited. And yet, despite herself, she feels a flicker of excitement too.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Dagna says before moving toward other customers who are clearly ready to order.

Solas leads her to a small table where a string of fairy lights glows overhead, golden and faint like festive bulbs. Beside them, pots of herbs release their fragrance into the air, softening it, sweetening it. On the table sits a glass jar with a single sunflower, bright and steady as if holding its own small sun.

Ellana slides into her seat, and Solas settles into the wooden chair opposite her. For a moment he gazes around absently, almost lost in thought, before finally saying, a touch hesitant, “It’s... an unconventional place, I don’t know if the style is to your taste—but the food is usually good and…”

The caution in his voice makes her want to laugh. As if she might find fault in the mismatched chairs or the sunflower in its jar. As if he doesn’t see how the place already charms her. She bites back a smile but it escapes anyway, light and warm. “I like it very much.”

Her answer seems to ease him, a small shift in his shoulders, a touch more at rest. She picks up the paper menu lying on the table and begins to scan the list of dishes.

“You come here often, then?” she asks.

He shrugs lightly. “Not that often,” he says. “But sometimes, if I’m working late, I’ll stop in for something to eat. And they’re open at lunch too. Now and then I come here during my break.”

Ellana peeks at him over the top of the menu. “I wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of place.”

He glances back at her, faintly puzzled, and she feels the need to clarify. “It’s very chaotic.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle. “I do work in a club.”

“Yes, I know. But…” She hesitates, aware of how intently he’s watching her. “You seem more at home in places like the bookshop.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Do I?”

“Yes,” she says, a little too quickly.

What she doesn’t say: that the bookshop feels like him—the careful order, the way silence seems to settle around him like a second skin, the steadiness she has come to rely on. Here, surrounded by graffiti, vinyl, and mismatched chairs, he seems oddly at ease too, and the contrast unsettles her. It reminds her that there are parts of him she hasn’t seen, corners she hasn’t touched.

The thought pulls her back, unexpectedly, to the other night—when he had helped her, and she’d caught a glimpse of something else beneath his calm surface. Not just patience or composure, but an intensity she hadn’t expected, something that made her pulse quicken at the memory. She realises now she’s chasing that glimpse, trying to fit it together with the man across from her, the one who slips so easily between order and chaos, silence and noise.

The same man who, days earlier on the phone, had come out with a casual “I could kiss you on the mouth right now”—and then seemed to have forgotten all about it. Ellana had tried to make a joke about it once, but he hadn’t picked up on it. Or perhaps he’d only pretended not to; who could say. Still, the questioning look on his face had seemed sincere enough. Ellana had decided she must have misunderstood. It had been a strange phone call, in any case. She should forget about it. She definitely should.

The silence that follows is taut, both of them half-shielded behind their menus, neither quite meeting the other’s eye. Ellana shifts in her chair, then finally blurts, “Do you want wine?”

Solas glances up, almost startled. “Wine?”

“Yes. Wine. To, you know, drink.” Her voice comes out drier than intended, and she fidgets with the corner of the card.

He hesitates, long enough that she thinks he’s going to say no. His lips even part, the start of a refusal—then he exhales, softer. “Perhaps.”

Her mouth quirks despite herself. “White?”

He tilts his head, reluctant but conceding.

“Sparkling,” she adds quickly, not giving him the chance to back out.

That earns her the faintest smile. “Fine.”

After a beat of trying to look at anything but his lips, Ellana decides it’s wiser to start thinking about what to eat—she doesn’t want a repeat of the other night, tipsy on an empty stomach. This doesn’t feel like the moment for that. She lets her eyes move over the menu, leaving Solas to deal with Dagna as she arrives at the table.

He asks for five more minutes to decide, then adds a bottle of white—something fresh, a Prosecco DOC Treviso Frizzante. Dagna notes it down, then mentions, almost casually, that the chef would be pleased to come out and greet them. The remark makes Ellana curious, and all the more determined to bury her head in the menu.

The choice is carefully curated—modern dishes built around vegetables and fresh produce. Roasted aubergine with tahini and pomegranate; bright fennel, orange, and olive salads; handmade ricotta ravioli; grilled courgettes with lemon and mint. Even the heartier plates feel considered: spelt risotto with wild mushrooms, polenta with slow-cooked tomatoes, flatbreads stacked with roasted peppers and pecorino. Everything sounds indulgent yet balanced—the kind of food meant to linger over with a glass of wine.

And then there’s the chef’s special.

Ellana freezes, fingers locking tight around the edge of the menu, breath snagging in her throat.

Next to the word chef is a name she knows far too well.

In a rush, the details fall into place—the ridiculous logo, the deliberate mess of the décor, the art, the menu. Her stomach twists, but it’s already too late.

“Well, look at this!” a voice cuts through the chatter, sharp and bright, just a little hoarse. Ellana jerks her head up. Standing over them is a blonde elf with hair that refuses to be tamed, a spotless apron tied over her clothes, and a towering chef’s hat that looks like it’s barely surviving the tilt of her head. In her hands, the bottle of wine they ordered, dangling as if it weighs nothing.

“Ellana stinkin' Lavellan, in my restaurant,” Sera crows, grinning like she’s just set fire to something expensive. “Didn’t think you posh sorts lowered yourselves to places with actual flavour.”

Ellana groans. “For fuck’s sake, Sera.”

Solas looks genuinely perplexed. “You know Sera?”

Ellana stares back at him, equally thrown. “Wait—hold on. You know her?” She points at Sera, then at him, stabbing the air.

Sera lets out a bark of laughter and throws both arms up, wine bottle wagging dangerously in one hand. “YOU know each other? Oh, this is fracking priceless!” She spins on her heel, calling toward the nearest table. “Oi, listen to this—fancy-pants elf number one and broody bookshelf over there are mates! Ha!”

A couple of diners glance over, amused; one claps politely before turning back to their plate.

Ellana buries her face in her hands. “Creators, kill me now.”

Sera glows like the cat that’s eaten not only the cream but the entire larder. “What is this then, eh? Date night? Oh, it is, don’t bother denying it. Look at you—” she jabs the bottle toward Solas, “—linen shirt, not wearing your stupid glasses, ordering bubbly like you’re trying to impress. And you—” she points at Ellana, “—sat there pretending you’re not thrilled. I can smell the awkward from here, and trust me, I work with onions.”

Solas clears his throat, clearly aiming for dignity, which only makes Sera cackle harder.

“Oh-ho-ho, he does that little cough! You’re done for, girl.” She slaps the table with her free hand. “Bloody shit, the broody bastard actually brought a date. Bet he’s got a whole speech planned—‘oooh, the dialectics of your salad, let’s talk about meaning over mushrooms’—”

Ellana hisses, “Sera!” but it’s useless.

“And you didn’t even warn me!” Sera continues, tugging at the tall chef’s hat tilting wildly on her head. “I’d have worn me nice hat. You know, the one that doesn’t look like a bread bin fell on me. Rude.”

Before either of them can do as much as breathe, Sera slaps the wine bottle onto the table with a clink, grinning at first—but then her eyes narrow. “So. Wanna know what the chef’s special is tonight?”

Ellana blinks, already wary. “Um… sure?”

Sera plunks the wine down and plants her hands on her hips. “Right! First up—macaroni alla Lavellan. Made with one part ‘vanish for seven years,’ a dash of ‘barely send a scribble,’ and a whole lotta me sat around chewing air.”

Ellana swallows hard, caught. She opens her mouth but the words knot on her tongue. “Sera, I—”

“Then we’ve got the main: Ellana surprise pie. Looks great at first—she’s back, she’s shiny, she’s smiling—and then poof! All steam, no filling. Gone again. Leaves me worried sick, like an idiot.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Ellana starts, but Sera barrels on.

She taps the table with her finger, each knock like a drumbeat. “And dessert? Oh, that’s the best bit. It’s called ‘Bloody Nerve.’ A big slice of you showing up here, all sweet-faced, like none of that ever happened.”

Ellana stares at her, heat in her chest, guilt prickling. She wants to argue, to explain, “Sera, please, I—”

“Nope! Not tonight, don’t care." Sera cuts her off, picking up the bottle again. "Special’s off the menu. You don’t get to order excuses. You just get me, grumpy, with wine.”

She sighs, tilting her head and looking Ellana over with narrowed eyes. For a beat the fire softens, as though she’s deciding whether to push harder or let it go.

Ellana, cheeks hot, stares down at the table, tracing the edge of the menu with her fingertip. When she dares a glance up, she catches Solas watching her. Not with judgement, not even curiosity, but there's an ache at the corner of his eyes, the faint crease of sympathy. Maybe even sadness, like he recognises the wound beneath Sera’s theatrics.

The realisation makes her chest tighten, but before she can hold his gaze, Sera huffs, spins the bottle in her hands, and swivels her glare to him instead.

“And don’t think you’re safe, shiny-head.” Her grin blooms again, wicked and bright. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten. I asked you—me, personally—if you’d put some of your art on the wall. Would’ve looked fucking brilliant next to the graffiti and the vinyl. But nooo. Too good for us, aren’t you? Mister ‘oh, I don’t want the attention.’ Bollocks.”

Ellana grips the edge of the table. “Wait. Your art?”

Sera slaps her hand down on the table, delighted. “Ha! See? Didn’t even tell her. Don’t let him fool you, Lavellan. He’s not all books. He paints. Like, actual paintings. Big moody ones, all swirly and clever. Proper arty-farty.”

Solas closes his eyes briefly, as if asking the ground to swallow him.

Ellana blinks. “You… paint?”

“Got you there, didn’t I?” Sera smirks. “Maker, you should see him—brush in hand, shirt all smudged—”

“That’s enough, Sera,” Solas cuts in, voice tight.

Sera smirks, adjusting her crooked chef’s hat. “There. Chef’s special. Served hot. Conversation starter included. You’re welcome.”

She hooks her thumb under the foil of the bottle and makes quick work of it. Ellana tenses, half-expecting the cork to rocket into the sky after all the shaking and twirling Sera’s put it through. But with a practiced twist and a sly grin, Sera eases it free with nothing more than a soft pop.

“See? Professional,” she crows, already tipping the bottle. Pale bubbles spill into their glasses, fizzing bright in the low light. She tops them both off generously, then gives the bottle an approving pat before thunking it down onto the table.

“Drink up, lovebirds. Or don’t. Still funny either way.” With a flourish, she pivots on her heel and whirls away toward another table, already heckling the next set of customers about their appetiser choices.

Silence lingers in her wake, their glasses fizzing merrily between them, louder somehow than the whole chatter of the restaurant. Solas presses his mouth into a thin line, then lets it ease. Ellana shifts in her chair, guilt and curiosity tangling as her gaze slides anywhere but him—the fairy lights above, the half-empty glasses on another table, her own fingers worrying at the napkin in her lap.

They both reach for their drinks at once. The clink of glass against wood is too loud, too pointed. Ellana takes a quick gulp to fill the silence—and the fizz catches in her throat. She coughs once, eyes watering. Solas moves to speak, but the same fate betrays him, and he coughs too.

It’s ridiculous—both of them stifling coughs over bubbling wine—until Ellana lets out a helpless laugh. He huffs, shaking his head, but there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth now too.

When the moment settles, she risks a glance at him. He meets it, and the look they share is still embarrassed—but softer now, almost conspiratorial.

“So… you paint.”

“When I have the time,” he says, evasive. “Which is rarer and rarer these days.”

Ellana can only stare. Instantly, her mind fills in what he won’t say. She imagines him in a room lit only by a single lamp, sleeves rolled back, a brush moving across canvas with an intensity he rarely shows aloud. Paint streaking his fingers, maybe his shirt, maybe even a smear along his cheek. She imagines him lost in it, the way she loses herself in words, unaware of time or hunger until the work pulls him to the surface again.

“Hold on,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “How many jobs do you actually have?”

“Two.” He shrugs. “Painting is just a hobby.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Not remotely. It's just something I enjoy.”

She notices the way he avoids her eyes now, the small movement of his mouth as though the word artist sits uneasily on his tongue. That resistance only draws her in further.

“Incredible,” she murmurs.

He tilts his head. “What is?”

“You.”

A faint blush touches the tips of his ears, and Ellana feels a ripple of satisfaction—rare, to catch him off guard.

"So, this is how you met Sera? Art exhibits?"

He draws a long breath. “This… isn’t just a restaurant,” he explains. “More of a circle—a collective, of sorts. Sometimes they host local bands, other times charity nights, or readings—always a certain kind. Unconventional. Revolutionary, Sera likes to say.” He shakes his head at the word, as if it irritates him, or perhaps amuses him.

“Sounds like her,” she says, leaning forward before she can stop herself.

His mouth quirks, almost fond, and for a moment he doesn’t elaborate. Something she tilts her head, studying him. “And what about you? Do you actually… go to these things?”

He exhales. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?" Her grin turns wicked. "What, once a year? Or do you sneak in with a hoodie and pretend you’re not enjoying yourself?”

That earns her a dry stare. “More often than you’d think. Some of the readings are brilliant, and the benefit nights… they matter. The money goes to shelters, food programmes, legal aid. Things that keep people afloat when the city looks the other way.”

Ellana lets her grin linger, sharp but warm. “So you’re a regular, then. Solas the revolutionary. I never would’ve guessed.”

He gives her a look—both exasperation and reluctant amusement. “It isn’t about banners or slogans. It’s… community. People trying to build something better in stubborn, everyday ways. This is what keeps me coming back.”

Ellana blinks at the sudden heat in his voice, surprised by it, then hides her reaction behind her glass. “You’re right,” she says, surprising herself. “That does sound worth coming back for.”

The line of his mouth eases into a smile—small, unguarded, almost shy—before he hides it again behind his usual composure. Then, as if steering them away from dangerous ground, he says, “They also hold art exhibitions. Street artists, contemporary work. And… Sera once asked me if I wanted to show some of my own work.”

“And you refused,” she says.

“I did.” The answer comes without hesitation.

Ellana leans in a little, curious. “Why? Was it like Sera said—you didn’t want the attention?”

“In part.” His voice is quiet, almost like he’s thinking aloud. Then he breathes out, and for a moment he looks more weary than evasive. “I paint to remember. To speak of people, of moments, the way you shape meaning with words. But lately…” He lifts his gaze, meeting hers over the rim of the glass. “The stories I find in them are painful. So for now, I’d rather keep them to myself.”

Ellana takes a sip of wine, letting the tart bite of the grapes settle on her tongue alongside the weight of his words. “I understand,” she says softly, nodding once. “I understand all too well.”

She pauses, then adds, “Even if, selfishly, I’d like to see them."

He chuckles. “Perhaps one day.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds, like they sometime do in the bookshop when the world slows. Then Dagna appears, asking if they’re ready to order, and both of them grab their menus in a small, almost guilty rush. They order: something fresh and bright for her, something spicy and warm for him.

Dagna notes it down with brisk ease, offers a quick smile, and even a light apology for the chef’s antics. But Ellana notices the faint colour that rises in her cheeks at Sera’s name, the way her eyes slide too quickly away when they land on her. And in that moment, something shifts in Ellana’s chest—a small tug, bittersweet. Perhaps there’s more between them than she’d realised.

Sera’s words still echo, and beneath them lies the truth Ellana knows far too well: she’s missed so much. She didn’t know Sera had built this place, didn’t know when or how or with whom. She doesn’t know if she’s happy, or in love, or what her life has become without her. And the gap between them feels wider than she can bear.

“And you?” Solas asks. “How do you know Sera?”

Ellana draws in a breath, her gaze dropping to the rim of her glass. The words don’t come easily. “We met at university,” she says at last—and even as she says it, she knows it’s far too small, far too pale to hold what Sera once meant to her.

Solas says nothing, only studies her with quiet curiosity. The faint lift of his brows tells her he’s waiting.

“We… were together,” she adds, her voice catching on the words. “For a while.” Her lips part as if to elaborate, but the rest dies in her throat. How could she ever put into words the wildness of those years—the laughter, the chaos, the heat of being young and utterly fearless with her? How could she say that Sera had been freedom, raw and brilliant, and that losing her had felt like stepping back into a smaller world?

“I see,” Solas murmurs, setting his glass down. His tone is quiet, almost apologetic. “If I’d known you weren’t on good terms, I wouldn’t—”

“Oh, no.” The sound of her laugh surprises her—a soft, uncertain thing. She clears her throat, searching for balance. “It’s fine. Really. We fought all the time.” A breath, softer. “But it was… beautiful. Always."

He nods. There’s recognition in his eyes—enough to make her think he has been there himself. She realises she doesn’t need to explain anything more.

The food arrives, fragrant and beautiful in that carefully messy way that feels almost too pretty to touch. Steam rises, curling into the glow of the fairy lights above. Their glasses are already empty, and without being asked, Solas tips the bottle again, the pale fizz catching light as it blooms up the glass. She watches the bubbles rise, watches his hand steady as he pours, and feels the last of the awkwardness slip away, dissolved as easily as sugar in wine.

They eat. They talk.

He tells her about the shop: odd customers, strange requests, one man who tried to buy a book using a sack of marbles as currency. She laughs, more than she means to. Some of the stories are sweet too—an old woman who comes in every week just to reread the same romance novel, a child who sits in the corner pretending to study but always falls asleep. She listens, captivated, because it’s him, because the way he notices things is so precise and quiet, like he’s letting her glimpse the world through his eyes.

And she finds herself greedy for more. For the corners of his life, the anecdotes he might otherwise discard. She asks, lightly, about the titles that sell, about the customers he remembers, about what he reads when the shop is empty. Every answer feels like a secret offered, however small.

She tells him about university, about exhaustion, about scraping time from places it didn’t exist. The café with its greasy counters. The lectures she loved even when her eyes burned. The book, the success, and how quickly it soured into something hollow. Plastic, she says. Soulless. She tries to say it lightly, with a shrug, but her voice catches, and she hates that he hears.

He doesn’t rescue her from it. Doesn’t smooth it over. He listens, in a way that makes her want to keep speaking even as it frightens her. When he does answer, it is with something wry and quiet, not to dismiss what she’s said but to ease its sharpness. It makes her chest ache, this care, this precision. She hasn’t believed in being understood for a long time, and yet—here.

And he asks her questions, too. Not the perfunctory kind, but the ones that make her double back and remember—what book had she read first and loved, what kind of coffee she had lived on through those sleepless nights, what she wrote when no one was watching. He wants the little things, the scraps, and she gives them to him as if they matter. Maybe, with him, they do.

She admits—more boldly than she means—that she has words again. That in his bookshop, somehow, the words are alive, her own. He looks at her then with a stillness that feels too much, eyes steady, as though her writing is not just hers, but theirs. She thinks—though she cannot be certain—that there is pride in his gaze.

The conversation drifts close to the edge of the other night but never names it.

“Have you been sleeping any better?” he asks after a pause, eyes on his glass.

“Some nights,” she says. “Not great. nightmares still show up.”

“Same ones?”

She nods. “Yeah. Pretty much.” A small, tired laugh. “I keep waking up before the bad part, though. So… progress, I guess.”

His eyes lift to hers, softer now. “That’s something.”

“Mm.” She reaches for her drink, more to do with her hands than out of thirst. Their fingers nearly brush, but he pulls his back, curling them loosely against the table.

“It won’t happen again,” he says, quiet, almost to himself.

She doesn’t ask how he knows.

The wine loosens her, makes her reckless enough to listen when he adds, quietly, that it wasn’t her fault. She has heard it before, but tonight it lands differently, as if he means it in a way no one else ever has. She almost believes him. Almost. She lets the silence stand until it grows too heavy, then breaks it with a joke. He laughs softly, and the weight dissolves.

It’s beautiful, hearing him when he forgets himself—when he cares enough to let his composure slip. His voice never rises, never strains, but there is heat in it, and sometimes sorrow, the kind that pulls at her chest. She senses loss in him—someone, something he will not speak of. She doesn’t ask. She wouldn’t dare. But once, briefly, he admits there was a time when he felt hollow too, as if he no longer existed inside himself. His gaze drifts far away when he says it, eyes shadowed, voice distant. Then the moment folds in on itself, closed and tucked away, and they move on.

Every subject flows into the next, as though they’ve been talking for years. They are speaking of the book now—The Well Of Sorrow, the one he had given her that first day, pressed into her hands like it were more than a story. She had read it with care, and under the dark fantasy and the metaphors, found in it a man who ruined everything he touched, who lost himself piece by piece until there was nothing left. A man whose violence bled through every page. And still—despite herself—she had wanted him to be saved. She had rooted for him. But in the end, she tells Solas, there had been too many mistakes. Too much blood. No one could survive it.

At first, he seems to agree. He is still, grave, his silence carrying the same conclusion she has come to. Too much was broken. Some things cannot be mended.

But then, as though the thought is unbearable to contain, he moves. He takes the chair beside her, sudden, close, and his composure loosens. His voice sharpens with urgency as he speaks—no, it is not so simple. The man tried. Again and again, he tried to change, tried to undo, tried to make something better from the wreckage of what he had been. And in that trying, Solas says, he saved people. Even if his own past rose up in the end and swallowed him whole, even if he was destroyed by it—others lived. Others were spared because he kept fighting against himself. Isn’t that redemption?

Ellana listens, shaken more by his fervour than by the argument itself. He speaks with a fire she has never seen in him, his words quickened, hungry to be let out. She feels the force of it pressing at her, and for a breath she wants—achingly, recklessly—to believe him. To believe that effort, that persistence, might outweigh failure. That saving others could matter more than being lost yourself.

But her doubt clings to her like a second skin. She shakes her head, softly, regretfully. The man’s mistakes cannot be erased. No matter what he did after, they remain. His ruin remains.

The shadow crosses Solas’s eyes at once, dark and unguarded. For a moment, he sounds almost mournful—no, the past cannot be erased. But then his tone hardens, conviction taking shape in his voice. Mistakes, he says, are not the measure of a man. What defines him is the refusal to yield to them. The trying itself. The saving of others, even if he himself is damned. That, Solas insists, is the redemption.

She cannot answer. Or rather—she will not. Because she feels how much this is not about a book, not about a character. It is about him. About her. About something vast and raw neither of them will name. And though doubt still knots inside her, though she cannot surrender the belief that mistakes are final, part of her longs to believe him. Longs for his conviction to be true, for both of them.

So she studies him in silence, her pulse quickened, caught between disbelief and the dangerous hope that he might be right.

And as though nothing has broken, the conversation shifts, flowing elsewhere, lighter now, borne forward on the current of wine and the softening of night. He asks some small, almost careless question—about her favourite lecture, or which of the shop’s regulars she secretly likes best—and she laughs, the sound easier this time, not weighted with argument. She answers, he counters, and suddenly they are trading details again, small stories, fragments of themselves. The tension thins into playfulness, into curiosity. He does not move away. He does not return to the other side of the table. He stays beside her, knees almost touching.

The wine loosens him too. His shoulders soften, his smile easier than she’s ever seen it. He even risks teasing her, sharp little darts of humour, and she’s startled to find she likes being the target. Once, the joke brushes the edge of something else, something more. Flirtation, maybe. Her breath snags, but she laughs anyway, pretending not to notice.

The night draws out. Plates empty. Glasses catch the last of the bottle. She thinks she doesn’t want it to end. Not yet. Maybe not at all.

But then, inevitably, the evening begins to slip away. Around them, the other tables empty one by one, chairs scraping against the floor, voices thinning into the night. The glow of the fairy lights feels softer now, as if even they are beginning to tire.

Dagna appears with her familiar brightness, asking if they’d like dessert. They both decline, reluctant, and for a moment Ellana feels the refusal like a small loss. Then Dagna offers coffee, or perhaps something stronger. Ellana chooses coffee, if only to hold the moment a little longer.

She nearly laughs at the way he wrinkles his nose—an almost boyish expression of distaste—but she doesn’t let him off the hook. He has to drive, she reminds him gently, and he’s had wine. He pushes back with a quiet shake of the head, but she insists, soft and smiling, until at last he yields. Perhaps it’s her persistence. Perhaps the way concern sounds in her voice. Whatever it is, he lets himself be persuaded, and agrees to the hated coffee.

Dagna’s face lights up as though she’s been waiting for this small surrender. She looks at him differently—fond, almost conspiratorial—but says nothing. She only takes the order and vanishes toward the kitchen, leaving them again in the hush of the late hour.

The wait for the coffee becomes its own small treasure, something held between them, fragile and precious, a way of delaying the inevitable. Neither of them seems eager to leave, so they stretch the minutes thin, filling them with small talk and light jokes. They laugh over Sera, over how small the world can be, and then their attention drifts to a nearby table: a young couple, she radiant in a dress that glitters under the lights, he clumsy and shy, his every gesture an apology.

Ellana nods toward them. “They’ve been sitting like that for a while,” she murmurs. “He’s built up the courage at least twice.”

Solas follows her gaze, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “And abandoned it both times, apparently.”

“He’s overthinking it,” she says. “You can almost see the gears turning.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head slightly. “She’s waiting for him to stop.”

Ellana huffs a quiet laugh. “Good luck to her.”

“He might surprise you,” Solas says. “Some people take a little longer to leap.”

“And some people never do.”

“True.” A pause, soft but pointed. “Though he looks like he’d regret it if he didn’t.”

“Then he’d better hurry.” She smiles. “She’s already halfway in love with the idea of it.”

“The idea?”

“That he’ll be brave,” Ellana says. “That he’ll finally do something.”

Solas’s eyes linger on her for a beat too long before he looks away. “Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment.”

“Maybe he doesn’t realise he’s already in it.”

For the first time since the food arrived, their eyes fall away, uncertain, as if silence itself had become suddenly fragile.

Then the coffee comes, breaking the spell. Ellana savours hers in small sips, while Solas throws his back all at once, grimacing like a man forced to swallow medicine. She laughs, teasing him gently, telling him he could sweeten it with sugar, soften it with milk, if the bitterness is too much. He refuses, still wearing that faintly disgusted expression, and this time she can’t hold back her laughter. It spills out of her, full and unguarded, and when she catches her breath she finds him watching her.

They bicker over the bill. Solas insists—it’s only fair, since last time she paid for breakfast. Ellana refuses just as firmly, pointing out that tonight’s dinner has been far more expensive, and besides, she wants to leave a generous tip. He continues to argue that he should be the one to pay, until at last she throws up her hands and makes some wry remark about female empowerment. He looks faintly offended—enough to make her chuckle—and in the end they settle on splitting it. The tip is good, and Dagna seems pleased.

Ellana lingers a moment before asking, “Is Sera still in the kitchen? I just wanted a word.”

Dagna shakes her head, a small, knowing smile already forming. “She slipped out a few minutes ago. Long day.”

“Ah.” Ellana tries not to sound as deflated as she feels. “Right.”

“Don’t worry,” Dagna says gently. “She’s fine. Call her tomorrow, hmm? I’m sure she’d be glad to hear from you.”

Ellana hesitates, the question she doesn’t ask pressing at the back of her throat.

“Really,” Dagna adds, her tone soft. “Don’t take it to heart. You know her—she’ll cool off. Nothing’s beyond repair.”

Ellana swallows down the disappointment and nods. “Thanks, Dagna.”

“Anytime,” the other woman says, and gives her a reassuring pat on the arm before heading back inside.

Ellana glances at Solas; he meets her eyes steadily. For a moment neither speaks, and at last, with aching synchronicity, they rise together and make their way toward the door.

As they step into the night, Ellana wonders—just for an instant—if he feels it too: that fragile sense of something beginning, or ending, or perhaps both at once.

Chapter Text

Ellana doesn’t know what time it is. Wycome itself suggests that dinnertime has long since passed. In this corner of the outskirts she expects quiet, but the silence still surprises her. So different from the chatter inside the restaurant, from the lazy hum of jazz in the background. Out here it feels as though they’ve slipped through a portal, a mirror, and stepped into another world. The air is heavy, humid, salted with the sea, and it hits her like a reminder—cruel, almost—that this is the real world. And perhaps he feels it too, for out here he is quieter as well.

Their farewell stumbles at first: neither of them certain whether it should be a handshake, a pat on the shoulder, an embrace, a kiss on the cheek. In the end, they abandon the question and turn instead toward her bicycle. He offers to walk her there, and she doesn’t resist.

They move side by side down the avenue toward the bookshop, where her bike is chained to a post.

Ellana thinks of the way her skirt lifts in the breeze, fluttering at her legs, while next to her, Solas walks with his hands buried in his pockets, silent, watchful. And suddenly she notices how much she misses the sound of his voice.

But here they are. At the bookshop, in front of her bike.

They stop. They look at each other. They smile. She's about to whisper her goodbyes when Solas falters, glancing at the door behind him.

“I should… check the alarm,” he says, almost apologetic. “Sometimes the motion sensor doesn’t reset properly when I close late. It would be—unpleasant—for the neighbours if it protested at three in the morning.”

She arches a brow, the corner of her mouth curving. “Ah. The temperamental one again?”

“The very same.” He huffs.

“Mm.” She glances toward the bus stop, its empty shelter hollow with fluorescent light, then back to the dark window with its faint ghost of their reflections standing too close together. “I could come,” she hears herself say. “Supervise. In case the alarm decides to turn on you.”

His mouth tilts. “Alarms don’t turn on me.” A small pause. “They obey me.”

She hums under her breath, half a laugh. “Alright then.” She gestures down the street. “Lead on, criminal.”

He gives her a look—dry, amused, a little helpless—and they turn right.

The bookshop sits tucked between a locksmith and a florist now sleeping under papered glass. Solas unlocks the door with the care of someone opening a cage for a creature that might bolt. The bell above the frame gives the softest, guilty chime.

Inside, the darkness is a presence of its own. The smell of paper greets them first—ink and and glue, the mild spice of old bindings. Ellana breathes it in. The city quiet folds itself at the threshold.

“I’ll just—” Solas nods toward the alarm panel that hides behind the counter. “It is quicker if I do not turn the main lights on. Motion sensors.”

“Of course,” she whispers, because the hush asks for it. “I’ll… stand here and make unhelpful comments.”

“It would be out of character if you did not.”

She smiles into the dark. He moves away, a pale suggestion of a man in a room that knows him, the faint scrape of a shoe whispering across the floorboards. She listens to him navigate by memory: the soft bump of a hip against a table, a quiet, rueful murmur that might be a curse softened for polite company. Somewhere deep in the shop, a shelf ticks like a sleepy clock.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to—”

“I am sure,” he says, and the calm in his voice steadies something in her that had been vibrating ever since Sera’s grin split the evening open. She lets her eyes adjust, and shapes emerge—the reading chair, the low ladder, the stand of postcards like a spinning constellation.

“Do you really hate coffee that much?” she asks, because words fill dark spaces, because she likes his answers, even the evasive ones.

“It keeps me awake,” he replies mildly.

“Usually, that’s the point.”

“Usually,” he counters, “it is just habit.”

“You should know, I drink at least four cups a day.”

His voice dips, sly. “That explains why you’re always so… restless.”

Ellana narrows her eyes. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

A beat. Then, smoothly: “Lively. I meant lively.”

“Mm," she chuckles. That’s better.”

She hears him laugh under his breath. Emboldened, she pushes. “So coffee makes you restless.”

There’s the briefest pause—long enough for her to feel it. “A little,” he admits at last.

She bites a smile into her knuckle, absurdly pleased with the smallness of the exchange. Somewhere ahead, a button beeps, tentative. He mutters, “No, that’s not—one moment,” followed by the delicate click of a cover being lifted.

Ellana drifts a few steps deeper, fingertips trailing the air rather than the shelves, as if touching might wake the books. She thinks of the restaurant’s fairy lights, the soft fizz of Prosecco, the way his voice had sharpened when he talked about redemption, and her chest tightens—hope, or fear dressed as it.

“Do you check the alarm every night?” she asks.

“When I close,” he says. “Or when I have left in a hurry. Tonight, I left in a—”

“Hurry,” she supplies, amused.

He doesn’t answer, but she hears the smile anyway.

A beat. Then another beep—brisk, insistent. She opens her mouth to make a joke, something about criminal enterprises and poor hiring practices, when the panel chirps sharply in protest.

“Is that bad?” she asks, stage-whisper.

“It is… communicative.” He sounds distracted now, all attention narrowing to wires and codes. “One moment.”

She leans against a waist-high table stacked with paperbacks and watches the outline of him tilt toward the panel. The silence between them grows purposeful.

“That couple,” he says suddenly, as if the thought had only now threaded its way to his mouth. “The one with the girl in the glittering dress.”

“What about them?”

“Do you think he kissed her?”

She imagines the girl laughing bravely, the boy’s eyes full of wonder. “I hope so.”

“So do I,” he says softly.

There’s a sound then—quick, flustered, almost a fumble made audible—and Ellana, primed for quiet, bites down on another smile. “You know,” she murmurs, “I didn’t take you for a romantic.”

“Romantic? Hardly. Pragmatic.” The panel gives a sharp little beep, and he exhales in the hush. “I just appreciate a good ending.”

Her laugh is light, unguarded. “That’s not an ending. That’s the prologue.”

From behind the counter comes the faint click of buttons, then his low reply: “I suppose you’d know. You are the writer, after all.”

“Oh, I tend to write women who are a little more daring than that.”

He mutters a curse under his breath, another failed sequence of keys. “Daring how?”

Her mouth curves. “Well, if it were my story, she’d have found the courage first.”

His hand stills; even the panel seems to pause with him. “Courage?” he asks, voice thin.

“To kiss him.” She bites her lip, as if the steadiness of her voice might shatter if she breathed too hard.

His head turns slightly in the dark—just enough for her to feel his gaze settle across the space between them. “Oh.” 

Another beep. Sharp. His eyes sparkle in the dark, wide, snapping back to the alarm. “Well.”

“Triumph?”

“Partial.”

“Do you want applause?”

“No,” he says, perfectly solemn. “I want the alarm not to—”

A shriek tears the air—sudden, vicious, all teeth. Ellana yelps, clapping her hands over her ears. The bell above the door adds its frantic chiming like a bird losing its mind. Somewhere in the rush of sound, she hears Solas mutter something that is absolutely not for polite company.

“Is this the part,” she shouts over the howl, “where you defeat the alarm?”

“This is the part,” he shouts back, grim, “where it turns on me.”

He disappears behind the counter. In the chaos, she edges closer, heart pitching, half ready to laugh, half to bolt. The siren ricochets off paper and glass, scaling up her spine. She thinks, wildly, of Sera’s grin, of Dagna’s fond look, of sparkles in a stranger’s dress, and then of Solas—his steadiness, his hands, the way his eyes had softened when he said perhaps one day.

Buttons chatter—beep-beep-beep, frantic Morse. A clatter follows—the sound of boxes toppling one after the other—then another sharper oath, louder this time. A heavier crash, a pause, and at last a loud click echoes through the room. The siren cuts off, blessedly, silence falling thick around them. She swears she hears him let out a quiet, breathless sound of triumph—only for it to be swallowed by another loud thud, something collapsing hard to the floor.

She gasps, stepping closer, and in the dim light she finds him sitting on the floor with his back against a shelf, surrounded by toppled boxes and books scattered like fallen leaves. A cardboard box sits neatly on his head like a ridiculous crown. Ellana startles, then hurries over, a hand pressed to her mouth to smother the worried sound that tries to escape.

She crouches in front of him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even try. Carefully, she lifts the edge of the box, peering beneath it as though afraid of what she might find. But when his face appears, it’s only serious—eyes open, fixed on her with an expression that says he can’t quite believe this has happened to him. He looks bewildered, maybe even a little angry, but he’s clearly fine. She can see it in the way his gaze locks on hers, in the defeated air he seems almost embarrassed to show.

He looks ridiculous: sprawled on the floor, wounded pride painted across his face, surrounded by the very books he’d spent hours arranging so carefully. She tries to hold it in, tries not to be unkind, but when he lifts an eyebrow and gives her that betrayed look, her laugh spills freer.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, hiding her mouth behind her fingers. “Are you hurt?”

He just stares, silent, as though she’d stabbed him outright. Ellana struggles for composure, but fails; the sound still lingers in her throat. At last, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches—a shadow of a smile, reluctant but there. His eyes turn warmer, his head tipping back with a weary sigh.

“I am hurt,” he mutters, low, dry. “But I see you find that amusing.”

“Oh no,” she answers in a mock-serious tone, as if speaking to a child. “Where does it hurt?”

He exhales, then lifts a finger to his forehead—right beside the scar that has held her gaze so many times before. Still with a trace of laughter in her chest, she raises her hand and brushes the spot he pointed to with delicate care. “Here?” she asks.

He nods once, eyes locked on hers, head still resting back against the shelf, legs stretched carelessly across the floor. Yet Ellana notices the faint movement in his throat, as if he’d just swallowed nothing at all. And maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the warmth of the evening they’ve shared. Or maybe—wake up, Ellana—it’s because she likes him. She likes him. She likes him.

So, without thinking too much, her head light, she whispers, “Let me make it better,” and cups his face between her hands, guiding him gently toward her before pressing her lips to his scar. Her eyes fall shut. Solas doesn’t resist; beneath her, he is still, and her heartbeat kicks so fast she has to press her lips a little firmer, as if that might calm the riot inside her chest. She feels the slightest tremor run through him—just an instant—but it’s in the shift of his breathing, suddenly uneven, in the subtle tightening of his body while she continues to kiss his forehead, soft and slow.

And then his hands rise, fingers brushing through strands of her hair near her neck, feather-light, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed.

She leans back just enough to bring her face level with his again, but Solas’s hands stay where they are, resting on her shoulders, fingers playing absently with the ends of her hair.

“You know,” she whispers, smiling, leaning a fraction closer. "You’d make a terrible criminal." 

A low sound escapes him—half snort, half laugh. “I did defeat the alarm.” His voice is soft, conspiratorial, as if the two of them share some illicit secret. He shifts toward her, only the smallest movement, but enough.

“You nearly killed yourself in the process.”

Their forehead almost touch. “But I managed it.”

Fingers close around her locks. “The racket you made must’ve woken half the street.”

“Well," His voice drops, breath warm on her lips. "What if I told you I was a criminal? In another life?”

The tip of his nose brushes soft against hers. “I’d say, in this life, it’s not your line of work”

His eyes hold an impossible shade of blue, under that wide grey ocean.

“Perhaps I should tell you about—”

Ellana's hands tighten on his face, heart a wild drum, and she closes what little space remains, catching his lips with hers. Quick, certain, helpless, before the moment can scatter into words again.

His breath tastes faintly of wine—crisp, bright, carrying that soft bite that clings to the edges of her own tongue. His lips are warm, full against hers, and Ellana presses closer, sinking into the heat, the shelter, the impossible lightness of it. All around them is paper and ink, the musk of books old and new, volumes stacked above them and scattered like petals across the floor.

Home, she thinks, startled by the word, and lets her eyes fall shut.

His calloused fingertips brush the bare skin at the nape of her neck, holding her as though he can’t quite bear to let her go. She lets her hands wander without thought, fingertips tracing the hard line of his jaw, greedy for the texture of him, the steadiness beneath the softness.

She doesn’t know how long they remain like this—her bent toward him, him slouched back against the shelf, both caught in that fragile kiss. Time loses meaning, it blurs until the only thing she can feel is the brush of his mouth on hers and the certainty of his hand in her hair.

When Ellana draws back, his eyes are still closed, lips slightly parted, fingers tangled in her curls. The sight makes her ache to kiss him again—yet she holds herself, smiling through the rush of tenderness that swells inside her.

She gathers his hands in hers. Only then does he stir, as if waking from a dream. She rises, pulling him gently upward—but he doesn’t move. He stays where he is, still on the ground, her hands caught in his, gaze searching up at her. And in that fragile pause, she understands: he is uncertain. Afraid.

“Come on, criminal,” she whispers, her voice a playful tether to steady him.

He blinks, hesitates just long enough to make her feel almost like an idiot—until at last he rises, his eyes never leaving hers.

"See?" Ellana tips her head, lips curving. “She found the courage first.”

He shakes his head, dazed. “Daring, she is.”

Then he pulls her in, fast, firm. Hands find her hips, sure and claiming, lips seizing hers. His tongue slips into her mouth, and the taste that meets her isn’t just wine anymore—it’s something warmer, harder to name, something she wants to let melt slowly on her tongue and savor for hours, hours, all night. It’s overwhelming, just like the way he steals the breath from her lungs, just like the pressure of his face against hers, and Ellana has to fight not to be driven back. For a while, she manages. For a while, it feels like she can hold on to some shred of control over a kiss that makes her head dizzy—until his hands drift lower.

One slides over the curve of her, fingers firm at the back of her thigh, and in a single motion he lifts, guiding her leg around his hip. She gasps, the sound swallowed quickly into the kiss, and suddenly they are impossibly closer, hips pressed flush, nothing but a thin barrier of fabric keeping him from her.

His grip tightens, urgency crackling through his touch. In one swift motion he turns them, pinning her against the bookshelf. Books shudder overhead, the sound barely reaching them. His body closes around hers, his mouth devouring hers, his free hand sliding under her dress, tugging the fabric upward with each rough, hungry sweep.

When Ellana presses her hips against him, for a second she feels him tremble, and for a second his hands freeze. Spellbound by the way he reacts to her touch, she does it again—and this time she feels, unmistakably, the hard length of him pressing against her.

Solas stops. His hands go still; his mouth hovers uncertainly at her neck. Ellana’s pulse quickens, her palms splaying across his shoulders as she wonders what’s holding him back. She can’t find an answer fast enough—he exhales a shaky breath and knocks his head, deliberately, against the bookshelf behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asks, startled, laughter bubbling in her throat.

He doesn’t answer at once. He takes a deep breath, then presses a kiss to her temple. “The coffee is to blame,” he murmurs.

She smiles, looping her arms around him. “Are you nervous?”

He keeps quiet, and his silence is enough. Ellana runs her palms up and down his back, trying to sooth him with her touch.

And she shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. But the quip is on her tongue, too sharp and too funny to hold back.

“Are you a virgin?”

She feels his groan rumble against her, and then—thud—his head meets the spines of the books again.

“Solas!” she gasps, reaching up to cup his face and pull him back to her. “You’ll hurt yourself like that.”

Her thumb grazes his cheek, but still he doesn’t answer. Her laugh falters into an awkward silence.

“I—sorry, I didn’t mean—” The words tumble over each other. “Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. There’s nothing wrong with that, I just…”

She stops herself, biting her lip, mortified.

He watches her through half-lidded eyes. Hurt flickers, then fades beneath the faintest hint of a smile—one he reveals only when he sees the worry shadowing her features.

“I'm not a virgin," he chuckles. A soft kiss on her lips, fleeting. "But it has been a while,” he admits quietly.

Ellana brushes her fingers over his brow, gentle. “We don’t have to do anything. Truly.”

He doesn’t speak. He only looks at her with those deep, fathomless eyes of his, until her heartbeat stumbles in her chest.

“I’m… nervous too,” she admits, her voice quieter still. “It’s been a while for me as well. So really, you don’t have to—”

He shakes his head, leans in. “I promised I’d try to…” The rest dies as his mouth captures hers. She means to ask—what promise, to whom?—but his tongue silences her. When his hands find her again, steady now, intent and certain, she can only think that whoever earned that promise—she owes them thanks.

His kiss drifts lower, along the line of her jaw, down the slope of her neck. His fingers brush across her breasts through the thin cotton of her shirt, but when she moans against him, his hands slip downwards, faltering.

“Your voice,” he blurts. “It grounds me. Talk to me.”

She searches for something—anything—that might sound like words, but his hands are already sliding over her thighs, drawing heat to the surface, and the only answer she manages is a breathless sigh. He pulls her closer, closer still.

“Tell me about yourself,” he pleads.

“Solas…” His tongue traces the vein along her neck, right where her heartbeat is pulsing stronger.

“Ellana,” he breathes, his hand tracing over her skirt, down the curve of her thigh, and gods, she aches for it, for the warmth of his skin on hers. “Tell me something about you.”

Her lips part, but what slips out is only a broken gasp. His fingers thread into her hair and tug gently, tilting her head back to expose her throat to his kisses.

“Please,” he urges, and at last it’s skin she feels against her thigh, her skirt rumpled and bunched at her hips. His hand strokes slowly, carefully, then higher, higher, until he finds her ass and squeezes, slipping beneath her underwear to pull her harder into his palm. “Anything.”

“I…” His mouth climbs again, from her neck to her chin. “I can’t cook.”

His laughter breaks against her lips, dissolving into a kiss there. “Terrible,” he whispers, warm. “We would starve.”

She grips his shoulders, biting back a smile. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he teases, dragging his lips to the hollow beneath her ear. “Go on. Another.”

His fingers move, following the line of her hips under the elastic of her underwear, one finger pulling it aside and wandering, slow and lazy, in the direction where she needs him most.

“I… I don’t know how to drive.”

He traces the outline of her sex, not touching her where she aches.

“Mmh.” He hums, licking at the curve of her ear. “That, I could remedy.”

“I’d lo—” Her back arches as he brushes her clit for the briefest second. “I’d love you to teach me—oh, Solas, please…”

“No need to beg,” he says, smug now, his mouth twitching. “I will teach you.”

The touch comes again, and it isn’t nearly enough. She needs more, more, more.

“Tell me something you’re good at,” Solas insists, kissing the tip of her nose while, slowly—agonisingly slowly—his finger shifts her underwear aside. She feels exposed all at once, the cool air brushing against skin already wet.

“I don’t…” He traces the line of her entrance, but doesn’t part her, not yet, doesn’t slip between her folds. “Oh—I don’t… I don’t know.”

He pauses, his finger still pressed against her but unmoving, and now he’s looking straight into her eyes.

“Come on. Think.” A small smile, and her breath quickens, because his finger starts to move again, more firmly this time, sliding upward in a slow, deliberate stroke.

“Writing, I supp—oh—se?” The confession breaks on a gasp, her hips jolting forward when his thumb settles lightly over her bundle of nerves.

“Mmh. What else?”

“Can we… ah… can we do this later?”

“Please, Ellana. Indulge me.”

He gives her a taste—just a damned taste—tracing two circles over her and pressing only the very tip of his finger inside. Ellana clutches at his shirt, one hand sliding up to the nape of his neck, trying to pull him down, to kiss him, but he resists just enough, holding her gaze instead. His eyes pin her in place, a shadow of a smile playing at his lips, even as he slips his finger free and lifts his thumb away from her.

“You’re— you’re…” she gasps, chasing his touch with her hips. But he doesn’t give it back.

With a frustrated groan, Ellana lets her head fall back against the shelf, her face twisted in annoyance. He only bends to press his lips to her closed eyes.

“I thought you were nervous,” she mutters, breathless, half accusing.

He smiles, that fool. “I am,” he admits softly, voice warm and low, “but I can still enjoy making you wait.”

Her gasp shivers into a laugh, exasperated, and then his hand drags lower, tugging her panties as far as they’ll go before—finally, mercifully—he slides a finger inside. Ellana clutches at his shoulders, keeps her eyes shut, drowning in the press of him, in the scent that is all him and nothing else.

The finger curls inside her—gentle, but there’s nothing calm in the way his breath hitches when she clenches around him. She shudders, gasping into his neck. The sound is enough to make him groan. He pushes deeper, knuckles pressing flush against her.

“…you should know.” The words rasp out, uneven. “You are more than you believe.”

Another finger joins, and then another, and the careful reverence shreds into something less controlled. Need. His touch still searches for gentleness, but every stroke carries a tremor, every curl betrays how badly he wants. His breath breaks against her ear, soft and frantic all at once.

“You—you have a talent for this. At making me forget myself.”

Ellana buries her face into his shoulder. He clutches her tighter, desperate.

“And I…” His voice falters, cracks—but his hand doesn’t stop.

His fingers move harder inside her, faster now, his thumb finding her and working with maddening circles, too soft, then too sharp, like he can’t decide whether to worship or consume. She doesn’t know whose chest is heaving harder, his or hers, only that his gasps are breaking ragged against her hair, as though he’s drowning in her.

His palm sweeps the nape of her neck, tender, almost shaking, grounding her even as he unravels. She hears him whisper something else, but the words crumble before they reach her, lost.

Three fingers now, all of them driving into her, curling, pressing against that place that makes stars burst in her vision while his thumb rubs merciless circles above.

Ellana bites down a sound against his throat, teeth grazing his skin, and the strangled moan that rips from him nearly undoes her. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t relent—if anything, the tension in him sharpens, his restraint snapping strand by strand as he drives her higher, until her whole body draws taut.

He kisses her temple. Holds her close—too close, and he spills her name into her hair as if it’s the only thing he has left.

She breaks. Release crashes through her in a wave that tears her open, fierce and unrelenting. Every pulse of her around his hand pulls a gasp from his chest, low and broken, and he presses his forehead into her shoulder, trembling, whispering "Ellana," over and over again.

She clings to him, half-lost in her own storm, and feels it—the way his sounds break into soft, helpless whimpers, sharp little notes she knows, in that instant, she’ll never be able to live without again. He doesn’t try to take more, doesn’t push further, but the desperation in him is palpable—a live wire beneath her skin, thrumming through every shudder.

When the last tremor fades and her body loosens, his hand goes still inside her. He doesn’t pull away. He just stays there, holding her, breath unsteady. When he looks up, his eyes are wet, lashes shining faintly in the dark.

“I... sorry,” he murmurs.

Ellana only smiles, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Her hand slides down, takes his wrist gently, and moves it. She brings his hand to her lips. Just as she had with that drop of whipped cream, she slips his fingers between her lips and sucks, tasting herself there. On his skin, it’s different: saltier, a little sharper, but vivid and bright, like she remembers. Like she wants him to see her.

He watches her, watches the slow curl of her tongue around him. Solas looks lost, mesmerised, lips slightly parted, eyes still shining in the dim light. Ellana draws his fingers out from her mouth with a soft pop, then kisses each of his knuckles in turn.

She cups his face in her hands and kisses him again, long and deep, letting him taste herself on her tongue, until he yields to her. The desperation leaves him by degrees; his mouth grows gentle. When she feels the shift, her hands slip lower, down to the waistband of his trousers.

He tenses. She goes slow. One button at a time, unfastened with lazy care, until his breath stutters faster again. Then her hand slips inside, finding him hard, pulsing, damp already through the thin fabric of his underwear.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers between kisses.

“I should,” she sings softly, wrapping her hand around him through the cloth.

“I…” he tries, lips still on hers, helpless.

Her hand slides deeper, past the last barrier of fabric, until she has him in her palm—hot, heavy, straining. He groans into her mouth as she strokes him slowly at first, teasing, learning the shape of him, the way he shudders against her touch.

“Ellana…” Her name falls from him like a plea, like a warning, but when her thumb sweeps over the slick head of him, his hips jerk helplessly, betraying the way he craves her touch. His hand grips her wrist for a heartbeat, as though to still her—but he doesn’t.

She kisses the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat, moving in time with the strokes of her hand, coaxing every ragged sound from him. He breaks in stutters—groans swallowed down, whispers half-formed, her name caught on his tongue. Every time he seems about to push her away, he pulls her closer instead, clutching her like she’s the only thing tethering him.

She shifts, hips pressing into his until the hard length of him drags against her slick skin. The contact is enough to break what little remains of his composure—he falters, one hand releasing her to brace hard against the bookshelf, knuckles white.

“No more questions?” she teases, stroking him slowly, deliberately, the head of his cock poised at her entrance. “Not going to keep me waiting with riddles first? Not going to ask me to think now?”

He tries to capture her lips again, but Ellana catches his face in her fingers, holding him there.

His breath stutters, voice hoarse. “Perhaps… I’ve run out of questions.”

She laughs quietly, tightening her leg around his hips to pull him closer, pressing him against her in a way that makes him groan. “That doesn’t sound like you. You always have another question.”

“I do,” he admits, leaning in but still caught by her hand on his jaw. “But right now, the only one in my head is whether you’ll let me in.”

Her lips curve into a smile, sly and merciless. “Mmh. Not a very clever question.” She rocks her hips just enough to make him swear under his breath. “Maybe you should try harder.”

He manages a crooked smile, eyes burning into hers. “All right, then—why are you doing this to me?” He presses harder against her entrance, enough to make them both shudder. “Why take such pleasure in torturing me, when you know I’m already breaking?”

Ellana chuckles. “Better. But still not clever enough.”

She squeezes him gently. He moans low in his throat, trying again, voice ragged but insistent. “Then tell me this—” his lips brush her cheek, her jaw, desperate for the kiss she still denies, “—how much longer do you plan on teasing me—before you let me fuck you until that clever tongue of yours can shape nothing but my name?”

Her smile sharpens, triumphant. “Now that is a good question.”

He seizes her face and crushes his mouth to hers, tongue plunging deep, and at last her hand releases him, frees him. Solas exhales into her—a moan, a sigh of relief, need, salvation—as his hips drive forward and he finally, finally pushes into her.

Ellana gasps, her head falling back against the books, eyes closed, lips parted in a soundless, yielding gasp. She doesn’t know if it’s the sight of her like this, or the way her soaked heat clenches around him, but Solas grips her hip hard, fingers biting into her skin. A hiss slips through his teeth, something that might be “fuck,” low and broken, and then he stills inside her.

She loops her arms around his neck. Her mouth is soft, gentle, as her tongue flicks along the curve of his ear, drawing a shiver through him. Then, with that same cruel sweetness, she breathes:

“Keep your promises."

And there it is again. That whimper. His grip on her hip tightens until it borders on painful, and then he moves—slow at first, a deep, deliberate thrust, followed by another. Harder. And again.

His whole body trembles against her, and Ellana thinks, dizzy, of the last time it happened—how she’d let herself be used, pressed against the door of a filthy, forgotten bathroom in a city she can no longer name. Heels braced on cold porcelain. A stranger’s face already fading before morning. She could have taken him back to her hotel, but that space was hers alone—her nest, her refuge—and she would never let any of them cross that threshold.

She thinks, dizzy, of all the times before. Strangers. Men she barely knew. Men she thought she did. And she cannot remember anyone—anyone—who felt this good inside her. Who made her feel wanted like this.

His trousers are still on, her skirt bunched up around her waist, and Ellana fumbles at his shirt, unbuttoning one by one while still he drives into her. She wants more—wants to feel skin against skin, the beat of his heart under her palms. When she finds it, his chest is hot, slick with sweat, muscles taut and straining, blood pounding frantically beneath her touch in time with the desperate rhythm of his body pressing her into the shelf.

She lays her hand flat over his heart, and he covers it with his own, holding it there. His eyes meet hers—pupils blown wide, gaze lost, his brow furrowed with strain, a single line etched beside the scar that so often steals her attention. She wants to kiss both, wants to soothe them away, but the storm inside her builds too quickly, swelling with every thrust, every breathless sound.

She can feel how close he is, see it in the way he searches blindly for her mouth, in the crush of his fingers lacing tight through hers. He draws her hand from his chest and presses it back against the bookshelf. The spines tremble under her knuckles as he pins her there.

Her breath stutters, the heat in her belly climbs higher, higher, every nerve sparking like lightning. It builds, unbearable—“Ellana,” he breathes, almost broken. “Ellana. Please.”—their mouths crash together, fingers knotted, hips moving in unison.

She comes around him, hard, clutching him deep inside her. The pleasure is blinding, and all she can think—all she can feel—is him, only him, how beautiful it is to have him inside her, how she wants his chest to fuse with hers and let their hearts spill into each other, to crawl inside him, to understand why, why it feels so good, why it’s him, why it’s always him—

“Void—Ellana—” His whole body quakes, fighting and failing, and she feels it—the relentless swell inside him, the pulse, the surrender.

And then he’s gone, undone, breaking. He slips out of her just in time, making her gasp, his release dripping warm between them. He clutches her hand tighter against the spines of the books, and she can feel every shudder, every frantic pulse of him spilling against her body. She buries her face in his neck, holding him through the storm as he gives in—completely, utterly—until he collapses against her, trembling, breath ragged against her ear.

She gathers him close, lips brushing his cheek, fingers slipping into the soft hollow at his nape. Gradually, the tension leaves him—the fierce rhythm against her chest slowing, deepening, settling. She presses a final kiss just above his ear, light as a sigh.

“...Until that clever tongue of yours can shape nothing but my name, hm?”

The sound he gives in reply is half a laugh, warm against her hair. “You’ve won. I yield.”

Her palm lingers at his face as she leans back. Solas raises his head, and at last Ellana meets his gaze again. So beautiful. So weary. So utterly undone. He looks at her as a man defeated—and as one who never wished for victory, not even for a heartbeat.

“You’re beautiful,” she breathes. He shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Beautiful,” she insists, silencing his protest with a slow, unhurried kiss. She tastes the salt of his skin, heated, faintly flushed—the mouth that had shaped her name before he surrendered, before he let himself be carried away. It feels impossible. Impossible that it happened. A gift, she thinks. A dream.

Ellana can’t stop kissing him—his nose, his cheekbones, his brow, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth. Each kiss lands light and quick, her lips tripping over the smile that keeps threatening to bloom.

“You planned this,” she teases.

“I assure you,” he murmurs, “I am not nearly that clever.”

“Mm. Debatable.”

He answers her kisses with quiet tenderness, a small laugh on his lips.

“We’ve made a mess,” she says.

“I’ll be all night putting it back in order,” he replies, and yet there is not a trace of regret in him. Only amusement. Only warmth.

“I could help,” she offers with a chuckle, her voice playful—then falters with a sharp breath when his lips slip lower, trailing along her jaw, grazing the line of her throat.

“All night?”

“All night,” she sighs. “You still have… a promise to keep.”

His chest shakes with another quick chuckle, breathless and low, before his arms tighten around her, hands sliding to her thighs. In one effortless motion he lifts her, and Ellana gasps, startled, her legs locking tighter around his hips, her arms clinging to his chest for balance.

“Then let me keep it,” he whispers. “Let me keep them all.”

He carries her away from the shelf. She clings instinctively, her laughter breaking free when his foot catches for half a heartbeat and they nearly go tumbling into the sea of books scattered across the floor.

“Careful!” she gasps. “Solas, you’re—”

“Don’t worry.” His voice is low, unhurried. “At worst, I’ll only topple a few more books.”

The air around them smells of parchment and candlewax, of ink and the faint trace of coffee still clinging to his skin. Their breaths tangle in the hush of the room, punctuated only by the soft scrape of his shoes over the floorboards as he steadies them both.

He lowers her onto the small couch, the one she returns to each day with pen and page.

“Not very dignified for a great bookseller,” she teases, breathless, as he presses close again, sliding between her thighs.

“Mm,” he murmurs, lips grazing her jaw, “I think I prefer this use for it.”

His hands move over her, searching, exploring, and she can scarcely believe it. Cannot believe this is real.

“We're going to stain it,” she manages.

“Mhm. A shame.” 

Her eyes flutter shut, her back yielding beneath his hand as he eases her gently against the cushions. By the gods, it must be a dream.

“I used to write on this couch,” she whispers, her smile curving even as her breath stutters. “Now it will only remind me of this.”

“Then let it remind you properly.” 

As he undresses her slowly—like she is glass and fire all at once—her laughter softens into a shiver, and all she can think, all she can feel, is yes. All night, all day, she wants to spend here, with him.