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The breeze rolling in from the open window of Rook's flat in Dock Town smelled of brine and smoke, the calls of merchants and gulls rising into the air as Neve hauled the last crate onto the worn wooden table in the kitchen area. The place was modest by Minrathian standards. The walls were bare and the floorboards creaked, but there was a window that looked out on the bustling canal. Rook didn't mind. It felt like a foothold for her.
“You know,” Neve said, brushing dust from her hands as she moved around the table, “most people don’t celebrate surviving the literal end of the world by moving into a half-rotted flat in Dock Town.”
Bellara sat on the other side of the table, digging through the crates they'd brought in earlier to unpack things, and looked up as Neve spoke, a brow. “Rook's never been most people,” she added with a light laugh.
Rook smirked faintly, tucking a lock of bright red hair behind her ear as she crossed the room and raised a shoulder. “Eh, it's not the Lighthouse, but it'll do.”
Before Neve could retort, a knock echoed from the door. She gave Rook a questioning glance as she moved to open it, but Rook simply shrugged and took the books that Bellara handed her, setting them on the bookshelf by the window. Aside from the bed and table, it was one of the few pieces of furniture that had been there when she moved in.
Swinging the door open, Neve gave the person on the other side a studious once-over, smirking as her eyes met his. "Well, hello there, City Watch. How can we help you?" she asked, a flirty lilt to her tone. Rook rolled her eyes, imagining the uncomfortable shuffle the guard made as he squirmed under her gaze.
“The Archon requests your presence,” he said with an awkward bow. It was then that he noticed the two other women in the flat and stammered over his words. "Ms. Rook, that is. He requests Ms. Rook's presence."
Stepping towards the door, Rook raised her hand and gave him a soft smile. "That'd be me. Forgive my friend here, she doesn't know how to act around figures of authority," she teased, bumping Neve with her shoulder.
Neve's smirk deepened in response as she snickered at the implication. "Oh, I know how to act; they're the ones who have a hard time around me," she said, shooting a wink at the guard before turning from the door.
"We'll unpack your things for you, Rook! Tell Dorian we said hello!" Bellara called from the table before going back to digging through the crate in front of her.
"Thanks, guys," Rook said, stepping through the threshold and closing the door behind her. Turning back to the guard, she swept her hand in front of them. "Lead the way."
With a curt nod, the guard led her away from her apartment and through the streets towards High Town. She followed him through winding alleys until the looming marble of the Archon’s Palace rose before them. The last time she'd been here, it had been covered in Blight and drowned in a bright red light. There were still parts of it that were under construction, but it looked a thousand times better than it had that day.
Inside, the air carried the mingled scents of polished stone, parchment, and smoke, faintly wafting from the braziers burning in the corners of every room. The chatter of magisters hushed as Rook was escorted through the halls and into a chamber where Dorian Pavus stood at the head of a long table. Maevaris Tilani sat at his side, elegance and warmth in equal measure, while a small knot of magisters whispered in low voices.
The moment Dorian saw them, his face softened and his shoulders eased. “Rook! Just in time.” He turned to the gathered magisters, his voice smooth but sharp as glass. “Out.” A flick of his wrist was all it took; they scattered like startled birds, leaving only him, Maevaris, Rook, and the guard by the door.
He leaned casually against the table, lips curling in a smirk. “I’d have thought you’d be roosting in Treviso with your Crow,” he drawled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Unless, of course, I’ve been gravely misinformed about your... extracurricular activities.”
Heat rose to Rook’s cheeks, though she kept her chin high. "Nice to see you too, Dorian. Bellara says hello," she said as she approached the table where he stood. "Treviso will manage without me. My talents are better served here, helping the Shadow Dragons with their Siccari problem.”
At that, Dorian and Maevaris exchanged a look. Mae’s smile was warm at first glance, the kind that had soothed friends and disarmed rivals alike, but the faint tightness at the corners of her mouth betrayed a quieter unease. Her eyes lingered on Rook with a kind of motherly concern that softened her voice, though the words carried the weight of danger. Dorian, by contrast, let his smirk sharpen knowingly, as if the very mention of Corix confirmed some private suspicion.
“Lucanis told us of your run-in with Corix,” Mae said softly, her tone at odds with the gentle mask she wore. “When Dorian claimed the Archon’s seat, the Siccari fled the palace and went to ground.”
“I know,” Rook replied. “Neve believes they’ve started allying with the Venatori.” The words dropped heavier than she intended, weighted by the simple truth that Neve’s instincts were rarely wrong.
Dorian’s smirk thinned, and when he spoke, his voice had sharpened to a blade’s edge. “Lovely. The Venatori with the second-best assassins in Thedas at their side. What a reassuring thought.” His bitter sarcasm clung to the air, though - as always - it managed to tug the corner of Rook’s lips in reluctant amusement.
“Which is why you need me hunting them more than ever.” She kept her tone even and steady, though her pulse betrayed her calm as she leaned her palms on the table in front of her. Convincing Lucanis had been the real crucible; this, persuading Dorian and Mae, felt almost mercifully simple by comparison.
Dorian tilted his head, gaze narrowing with a curious mixture of skepticism and reluctant sympathy. “And why, pray tell, do you believe you’ll succeed where others have failed? Lucanis made it sound as though you barely escaped your last encounter alive.”
Her jaw tightened, the flicker of irritation quick but reined in. Lucanis had spoken too freely, though she knew his reasons. “While that may be true, I didn’t know what to expect then. But I trained as one of them once - I faked my death at thirteen, slipped their grasp, and later joined the best assassins in Thedas.” The reminder of her life as a Crow carried a steady edge of pride, even if her role there had shifted. “When I hold the upper hand, they won’t stand a chance.”
The chamber fell still at the confession. Even the brazier’s flames seemed to recoil, crackling into a quieter hiss. Maevaris leaned forward, her composure slipping as her eyes widened, sorrow and alarm warring across her face. Her voice, softer now, carried a plea as much as protest. “Rook, we cannot ask this of you.”
“You’re not asking.” Her voice was firm, though inside she felt the sharp burn of memory - the cold hands that had held her down, the masked faces that had looked through her as if she were nothing, the silence of her own voice swallowed in terror. Never again, she thought. Not while she still had breath to fight. “I’m telling you.”
Maevaris looked ready to argue, but Dorian lifted a hand, a smirk returning in tempered form. “Darling, I was convinced the moment you said ‘helping with the Siccari problem’. You can consider me an easy mark.”
Mae sighed, the sound soft but weighted, and shook her head before finally relenting. She eased back into her seat, posture loosening, though her eyes lingered on Rook with reluctant acceptance. “If this is your wish, then you have our support.”
Relief uncoiled the knot in Rook’s chest, leaving her breath a fraction easier. She dipped her head in gratitude, voice low. “Thank you. Both of you.”
“Good,” Dorian declared, straightening with a theatrical sweep of his shoulders as though shedding the heaviness of the moment. He flicked his hand toward the guard at the door with a flourish that was almost cavalier. “Because not all of them went into hiding when I claimed the Archon’s seat.”
The door opened again and the guard returned with an elven woman with ropes binding her wrists. Rook’s breath stilled. The brazier’s firelight flickered across a face she knew from the dark halls of her childhood. Thinner now with harsher facial features, but familiar all the same. When the woman's eyes found hers, something like disbelief flashed there, and the faintest shadow of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Lyvia,” Rook whispered, the name like a ghost pulled into the present. They had been inducted into the Siccari together, trained under the same lash. Rook remembered her quiet intensity and the envy she could never quite hide when Rook outpaced her. To see her here, chains and all, was a wound and a wonder.
“Lyvia chose to face the consequences of her past,” Dorian explained smoothly. “I thought you might want a word.” Another wave of his hand had the guard removing the bindings around the woman's hands, and with that, he and Maevaris withdrew, the guard shutting the chamber doors behind them with a heavy thud. The sound echoed through Rook’s chest, leaving her alone with a ghost she had never expected to face. The silence that followed was thick with history.
Lyvia didn’t sit, instead leaning her back against the chamber wall, arms folded, her posture taut but her eyes betraying something softer. The red marks on her wrists were raw, reminders of rope too recently removed.
“Well,” Lyvia said at last, voice low, almost disbelieving. “Never thought I’d see you again. Last I heard...” She hesitated, as if the memory itself stung. “Last I heard, you died trying to run.”
Rook’s breath caught, the words tugging at a scar she rarely touched: nights of blood, breathless flight, the endless terror of wondering if she was being hunted. “Rumors travel faster than truth,” she said evenly, though the taste of iron lingered at the back of her throat.
Lyvia’s gaze clung to her face, as if willing it to shift, to reveal the illusion. Then, with a soft exhale, disbelief gave way to something else. “Maker. You really did it. You got out.”
Rook felt the weight of those words more than she let on. You got out. As if it were that simple. As if leaving hadn’t cost her a hundred small deaths along the way. But she said nothing.
Lyvia’s expression twisted - envy tempered by wonder. “The rest of us stayed. We bent when the Siccari pulled, obeyed when the Archon demanded. But you-” She shook her head faintly. “You made a life. A Crow. And then the Veilguard of all things. What was that like?”
The question carried an edge of admiration, too plain to disguise. Rook heard it but let it slide past her. She had grown accustomed to that tone - the fascination people carried when they realized just who she was.
“Hard,” Rook said, though the word barely skimmed the truth. Images of her companions filled her mind unbidden. Family, she thought, and the ache of it hollowed her chest. “But worth it. I fought alongside people who chose their battles. Who believed in more than survival.”
For a moment, the silence between them hummed. Lyvia studied her, and Rook found herself remembering the girl she’d once been: sharp-tongued, relentless in training, hungry for approval that never came. They had bled together, slept in the same barracks, watched as one by one the Order hollowed their cohorts into weapons. And now here she was, sharper, older, but alive.
Lyvia’s voice broke the quiet, softer now. “Sounds better than living at someone else’s whim.”
Rook didn’t disagree. She knew that life too well: the endless orders, the leashes disguised as loyalty. The fact that Lyvia could still stand here was its own kind of defiance.
At last, Lyvia asked, “So what’s your plan? You wouldn’t have come here without one.”
Rook forced herself back into the present, shaking her reverie with a curt nod. “First, I meet with my Shadow Dragon contacts. See what they’ve gathered. But until then, the best place to start is dossiers - names, allegiances, weaknesses. Everyone who is still holding power.”
Lyvia straightened at once, moving from the wall, that old hunger sharpening her features. “I can do that. At least for the ones I know are still in play. Habits, alliances, patterns - I’ll write it all down. You can add to it once your Shadows give you more.”
Rook blinked at her, surprised at the spark still burning beneath the wear. For all the years lost, some things hadn’t changed. Lyvia had always been meticulous, relentless in gathering the details others often overlooked.
“That’s a good place to start,” Rook said finally. Warmth crept into her tone before she could stop it. “Thank you, Lyvia. I mean it. I’m glad you made it out - even if it meant having to prove yourself before gaining your freedom.”
Lyvia’s mouth curved, not quite a smile but something close. “Chains or not, it was mine. The first choice I’d ever made for myself." She paused for a beat before continuing. "It was worth it.”
Rook extended a hand toward her, palm open. Lyvia looked at it for only a breath before taking it firmly, the strength in her grip undimmed. For a fleeting moment, it felt like stepping back into a memory - but altered, rewritten, with the possibility of something better.
“Then let’s see this through,” Rook murmured, a smirk pulling at the corner of her lips.
The brazier crackled, casting shadows that flickered across their faces like ghosts bearing witness to their reunion. Rook felt the weight of the Veilguard behind her, their absence pressing against her ribs, but she also felt something she hadn’t in a long while: the sense she wasn’t walking forward alone.
She released Lyvia’s hand and rapped twice on the chamber door. The guard entered, eyes flicking with indifference between them.
“We're finished here,” Rook said, stepping to the side as the guard passed to bind Lyvia's hands again.
The guard's armor clinked softly down the hall as he led Lyvia back to her cell. Rook lingered in the door for a breath, the marble cool beneath her boots, then stepped out into the dim. The palace corridors smelled faintly of smoke and ink, but that scent faded behind her as the city of Minrathous opened up in the darkness. The canals shimmered under lamplight, the water slapping gently against stone walls, and the muted hum of merchants packing for the night carried through the air.
Her apartment waited, quiet and familiar, filled now with the careful order Neve and Bellara had left behind: crates unpacked, blankets folded neatly, shelves lined with the few possessions she’d brought from the Lighthouse. Still, the place felt hollow without another presence.
On the bed, she noticed a small package left atop the pillow, neat and deliberate, with a note on top in Dorian’s flowing script: For when you just need to talk to him – Dorian.
Rook’s fingers worked deftly as she tore open the wrapping. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a deep red crystal, smooth and dark as dried wine. She picked it up, and immediately, a slow pulse ran through it, vibrating gently in her hand. The glow intensified, spreading across her palm until it became solid and warm, and then - impossibly - his voice whispered into the room.
“Rook.”
Her knees went weak, and she pressed the crystal to her chest, tears threatening to spill as her voice broke. “Lucanis... is it really you?”
“Sí, mi corazón,” he replied softly. “It’s me.”
The sound of his voice caused something inside her to unravel. She sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching the crystal like a lifeline as the tears that had threatened the rim of her eyes ran freely now. “I... I can’t believe this,” she admitted, her voice shaking. “H - how is this possible?”
“Dorian called it a ‘sending crystal,’” Lucanis explained, his voice low and steady. “He said it’s ancient elven magic. It allows us to speak as if we were in the same room.”
A wet laugh broke through her tears, and she wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “Maker... I can’t believe it.”
There was a pause, then his tone gentled even more. “Rook, are you alright? I hear it in your voice.”
Rook swallowed, brushing at her wet cheeks. “I am. I’m fine. Just... hearing your voice... it caught me off guard. Reminded me how much I’ve missed you.”
“And I you,” he murmured. “Always. Tell me - how are you settling in?”
“I... Neve and Bellara unpacked my things while I met with Dorian and Maevaris. They gave me their blessing to continue the search.” Her fingers tightened around the crystal. “And Dorian introduced me to someone... well, reintroduced me. Lyvia. We were inducted into the Siccari together. She surrendered when Dorian took the Archon’s seat. She’s agreed to help me.”
Lucanis’ voice caught slightly. “A Siccari... at your side.”
“She could’ve run, and she didn’t. That choice matters,” Rook said softly.
“It matters until the blade is at your back,” he said, half-joking but half-serious.
“I know you don’t like it,” she admitted, pressing her lips together. “But I need someone who understands how they think, and she does.”
There was a silence then, heavy, as if both of them were letting the weight of the moment settle. The crystal glowed softly between her hands, casting a faint crimson light across her face.
“Rook...” His voice was low, deliberate. “I hope for your sake she’s everything you believe her to be.”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” she whispered, her own voice trembling.
“That,” he said after a long pause, “has never been the hard part.”
Rook fell back onto the bed, still clutching the stone to her chest, the crystal warm against her palms. The hum of the canal and the faint glow of the lamps outside made her feel anchored in the moment, even as her chest ached with longing.
“I love you,” she breathed finally, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them.
There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to make her heart stutter. Then his voice, soft and steady, wrapped around her like a blanket. “I love you too, Rook.”
She let the words wash over her, melting into the bed, eyes closed. The warmth of his voice lingered, filling the empty apartment, mingling with the faint scent of the candles Bellara had lit to chase the evening chill.
“I’ll see you soon,” she whispered, clutching the crystal as though it were a piece of him she could hold onto until then.
“Not soon enough,” he replied. "Get some rest, it sounds like you've had a big day."
“Good night, mi alma,” she murmured, voice cracking again. The crystal dimmed back to its dark red wine color, leaving only the quiet city sounds outside: the slap of water against the canals, the distant shuffle of closing shops, the faint clink of a lantern swinging in the wind.
Rook lay there for a long while after the conversation ended, the crystal still warm in her palm. The room was quiet, but her mind was anything but. She could feel the echo of his voice vibrating through her chest, a tangible weight that left her simultaneously light and achingly heavy. Her tears had dried, leaving streaks of salt on her skin, and she traced the crystal’s contours with trembling fingers, as if mapping him back into her reality.
Every corner of the apartment, every shadowed shelf and soft blanket, felt suddenly alive with the memory of him. She remembered how his presence steadied her, even from afar, how his quiet certainty had always been the thing she could rely on. And though the room was empty, she felt the fragile tether of connection - warm, pulsing, and infinitely delicate - stretching from her hand to wherever he sat, waiting, listening, caring.
Rook closed her eyes and let herself breathe fully, the crystal pressed to her heart. For the first time in a long time, she felt that even in the silence, she was not alone.