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The young woman in tattered scholar's robes clutched a satchel of salvaged belongings. Her face was pale, eyes wide with relief and gratitude. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “If you ever need reagents or legitimate potions, I can help. It’s the least I can do.”
“Thanks, but I already have someone for that,” Neve replied, her tone light. “Just try to steer clear of betting rings, and we’ll call it even.”
The scholar nodded hurriedly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She mumbled a final “thank you” before scurrying out of the tavern, the door creaking shut behind her.
Rana, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed, watched the exchange with a wry expression. “If we don’t start charging properly for our services, we’ll never earn enough to get an office,” she said.
Neve raised an eyebrow at Rana. “The Tallow suits us just fine,” she said, gesturing to the dimly lit room, its atmosphere a mix of stale ale, wax, and faint spices from the kitchen. “We take jobs that you advertised to help people. We don’t need an office to do that.”
“I like helping people, too,” Rana said, “But goodwill doesn’t pay my rent.”
Neve rested her hands on the arms of her chair. “If it’s an apartment you need, I can find someone to cut you a deal,” she offered casually. “No promises on size—or warmth, though.”
Rana sighed, shaking her head. “I like where I live. It’s just been… a bit out of my price range since leaving the Templar order.”
Before Neve could reply, Rook strode up to the table, her dark leathers and confident smirk as familiar as the rogue’s ever-present daggers. “You could always move in with me,” she offered. Her grin widened as she added, “It’s been a while since I’ve had a roommate. I could use the company.”
Neve turned her gaze to Rook, arching an eyebrow. “You’re offering Rana a look at your apartment before me?”
Rook’s grin turned sly. “You’ve never invited me to your… what did you call it? Hatbox?”
“With compliments like that, don’t expect an invitation anytime soon,” Neve quipped.
“They’re your words.” Rook chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll wear you down eventually.” She straightened up and gestured toward the door. “Speaking of invitations—ready to go?”
Neve tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “And where exactly are we going?”
Rook’s smirk deepened. “Somewhere with good food and cold drink,” she replied cryptically, sidestepping the question entirely.
“I’ve already been to Hal’s today,” Neve said, crossing her arms and pretending to sound unimpressed.
“Well, good thing we’re not going to Hal’s,” Rook shot back, already heading toward the door.
Neve sighed and stood, retrieving her scepter. She threw a glance at Rana. “You coming?”
Rana shook her head, waving them off. “Someone has to balance the books. Have fun.”
Neve’s steps grew steadier as the uneven, gritty cobblestones of Dock Town gave way to smoother streets. The faint tang of salt lingered in the air, a reminder of the docks and the countless vessels moored along the water. Despite the peeling paint and sagging rooftops of Dock Town, Neve felt a fierce swell of pride for her home. It might be the poorest district in the city, but it was alive—full of honest sweat, quick wit, and the grit to endure.
“Are we going dancing?” Neve asked. The question was half a joke, but also half a challenge. She couldn’t help herself; Rook’s silence was infuriating.
The rogue didn’t even glance over, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Not today,” she replied smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “But I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
Neve studied Rook’s profile as they walked. Her companion’s movements were fluid and measured. But as always, Rook’s expression was unreadable—her smirk more a mask than a tell.
“What about the opera?” Neve tried again, injecting a note of mock sophistication into her voice.
This earned her a soft chuckle. “Not even close.” Rook finally turned to meet her gaze, a spark of amusement dancing in her dark eyes. “But you’re the detective. You’ll figure it out.”
Neve huffed, crossing her arms as they strode deeper into the city. Dock Town’s chaotic energy was fading behind them, replaced by the orderly streets and stately facades of the Soporati. Magical signs glimmered overhead, casting the walls in various colored glows. Here, everything felt too polished, too precise, like a tapestry woven to hide the fraying edges of the city’s vast inequalities.
She wrinkled her nose. “You could at least give me a hint,” she muttered, glancing sidelong at Rook.
Rook’s smirk widened as she adjusted the straps of her cloak. “And spoil the fun? Not a chance.”
The shift from Dock Town to the Soporati always left Neve feeling like she was stepping into a different world—one that barely tolerated people like her. Dock Town may have been gritty, but it was honest. The Soporati, for all its elegance, reeked of pretense.
“Tell me this isn’t about some noble’s lost trinket,” Neve said, her tone skeptical.
Rook’s laughter was quiet but genuine. “Oh, it’s much better than that,” she said.
Neve shot her a suspicious look but couldn’t suppress the tug of curiosity pulling at her. Whatever Rook had planned, it wasn’t likely to be dull.
The towering gates of the Imperial Military checkpoint loomed before them, wrought iron twisted into intricate patterns of thin dragons, snakes, and swords that gleamed faintly. Two guards stood at rigid attention, their polished armor catching the glow of the nearby marketplace signs. They eyed the pair warily as they approached.
“Legatus Mercar is expecting me,” Rook said confidently, her voice sharp and clipped. She held her posture with the ease of someone who had spent years slipping through cracks in authority, yet now wore its language like a second skin.
One of the guards, a burly man with an impressive mustache, scrutinized her with a frown before glancing at his companion. With a begrudging nod, he stepped aside and gestured to the gate. “Go ahead.”
As the gates creaked open, Neve shifted uneasily beside Rook. She stared at the austere buildings and disciplined soldiers beyond. “Can't say I'd ever bet on the Military District for a decent meal,” she said, her tone laced with skepticism.
“I’ve had some of my best meals here.” Rook responded, adjusting the belt that held her dagger and short sword. “Not exactly where you’d expected, is it?” she replied, her words carrying a hint of playful defiance. She stepped forward, boots crunching against the cobblestone path as she led the way.
Neve followed, her hands brushing the hem of her cloak. “It’s less about where I expected and more about what we’re walking into. Legatus Mercar doesn’t summon just anyone.”
Rook shot her a glance over her shoulder, the rogue’s dark curls catching the last rays of sunlight. “That’s what makes it surprising, doesn’t it? You’re here to keep things from getting too exciting.”
Neve didn’t reply, her focus drawn to the disciplined chaos unfolding within the district. Soldiers sparred in a nearby courtyard, their shouts punctuated by the clang of steel. Messengers darted between buildings, clutching scrolls and dispatches. The air was thick with oiled leather and metal.
They walked until they reached a large house sitting at the heart of the army base. Its rectangular structure is solidly built, with stone walls weathered by time yet still holding firm against the elements. The once-ornate carvings on its facade have been simplified into utilitarian shapes, and the arched windows now feature enchanted reinforced shutters, practical for the unpredictable needs of a military setting.
A set of sturdy stairs led up to the main entrance, flanked by two small statues likely deactivated relics of a more opulent past, now symbolizing resilience and honor. The roof shows signs of repair, but Elgar'nan’s destruction still marred the surrounding areas. There were newer wooden beams supporting patches where tiles had been replaced.
With a knock on the door, the heavy wooden doors creaked open magically. Rook and Neve stepped into the simple entryway, her steps clicking against polished floors. The air carried the faint scent of aged parchment and a soft smokiness of burning incense.
Rook stood a few steps ahead, her posture unusually stiff, as if bracing for a blow. Her dark eyes flicked toward a tall man emerging from the shadows of a side corridor. He wore an impeccably tailored armored tunic, his graying hair cropped close, and his gaze betrayed a soldier’s discipline. His mere presence commanded attention, and Neve’s investigative instincts immediately categorized him as Legatus Mercar.
Rook's usual air of easy confidence seemed muted, her shoulders tight as though she were preparing for an unpleasant exchange. There was no outright hostility in her stance—just something guarded, almost resigned.
"Legatus Mercar, meet Neve Gallus,” Rook said, her voice betraying the slightest tremor. “Neve, meet Legatus Mercar—my father.”
Neve froze mid-step, her breath catching as if she’d suddenly fallen victim to one of her own ice spells. Father? Of all the revelations she’d encountered during her time with Rook, this one felt like the ground shifting beneath her feet. “Your what?” she managed, her usual tone dulled by shock.
“Please, call me Charon.” The man extended a hand, his grip firm and steady as he met Neve’s eyes with an assessing intensity. “I take it Gambit left out a few details when she invited you to dinner.”
“Dad…” Rook groaned, the tips of her ears reddening as she shot him a warning glare.
Neve blinked, finally regaining her composure, though her mind still raced to process this new information. “Gambit?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at Rook as a smirk began to tug at her lips. “Really?”
“She’s been lucky since the day I found her,” Charon said smoothly, his voice carrying a warmth that undercut his imposing demeanor. He gestured toward an adjoining hall, where the inviting glow of a hearth flickered.
Rook muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘Kill me now,’ but Neve’s smirk only grew wider as she followed Charon’s lead. The trio entered a stately dining room, its long oak table already set with silver platters and crystal decanters glinting in the firelight.
As they moved to their seats, Neve took the opportunity to study Charon further. The lines on his face spoke of years spent in battle and command, but his eyes held an unmistakable affection when they landed on Rook. It was strange, seeing the usually guarded rogue in this context—like peeling back a layer of armor to glimpse something softer underneath. Neve filed that thought away for later; Rook would never live it down.
“So,” Neve began, her voice light but her curiosity sharp, “how exactly does a ‘Gambit’ go from luck to legend? Or is that one of those stories best saved for dessert?”
Charon chuckled, his deep laugh filling the room like the rumble of distant thunder. “Oh, it’s a tale worth telling, though I suspect she’d rather it remains a mystery.”
Rook groaned again, burying her face in her hands.
The tension that had initially shadowed the evening began to ebb, though Rook’s unease lingered like a phantom. The food was laid out—a big pot of flavored rice topped with assorted seafood, fresh bread, and an assortment of wines and ales. Neve leaned back in her chair with a curious gleam in her eye.
“So, Charon,” Neve began, her tone light and playful, “what’s this about ‘Gambit’s’ lucky streak?”
Charon’s lips quirked into a smile as he poured himself a glass of wine. “Ah, the lucky streak. Where to begin? Resourceful? Absolutely. But luck?” He shook his head, his voice dripping with amused skepticism. “Luck is… tricky when it comes to our dear Gambit. With cards, coins, or a well-placed wager? She’s unmatched. With people?” He leaned forward as if about to share a treasured secret. “That’s where her so-called luck tends to run out.”
Neve’s lips twitching with amusement. “Sounds like a story.”
“Oh, there’s plenty,” Charon assured her, his tone mischievous. “But one comes to mind. Like the time she came home absolutely red-faced because a certain merchant’s daughter caught her sneaking flowers into their shop.”
“No!” Rook’s voice shot up an octave, her fork clattering against her plate. Her face was an instant canvas of mortification, color blooming across her cheeks. “You cannot tell that story.”
Neve, now fully invested, leaned in with a delighted grin. “Oh, this sounds promising.”
Charon ignored his daughter’s protests with the ease of a man who’d had decades to perfect the art. “Let’s see… she was maybe thirteen at the time? Thought she’d be sneaky, plucking wildflowers from the outskirts of town. She even tied them up with string—and took the time to make them presentable. But the poor thing got caught by the merchant’s mother before she could deliver her grand offering.”
“You’re making it sound worse than it was,” Rook interjected, groaning as she sank lower in her chair. “It wasn’t a ‘grand offering.’ It was… It was one flower—barely even a bouquet, and my…horns got caught on the windowsill.”
“Oh, no, it was at least a dozen,” Charon continued, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And let’s not forget what happened when the merchant’s daughter came out to thank her.”
Neve raised an eyebrow. “What did happen?”
“Rook tripped over her own feet and landed face-first in a mud puddle,” Charon said with a chuckle. “To her credit, the girl helped her up, though I’m fairly certain she was laughing the entire time.”
Rook buried her face in her hands. “Maker’s breath, why do you remember this?”
“Because,” Charon said, his tone softening, “it was the first time I’d seen you look at someone like that—with all the hope and terror of a battlefield rolled into one.”
Neve tilted her head, her usual smirk replaced with something gentler. “So, Rook’s always been a romantic. Good to know.”
Rook peeked out from between her fingers, her scowl half-hearted. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Neve replied, raising her goblet in a mock toast. “To young love and muddy confessions.”
Charon chuckled again, but his expression grew thoughtful as he swirled the wine in his glass. “Truth is, she’s always worn her heart on her sleeve. Even when she tries to hide it, it’s there, plain as day. That’s not a weakness, though—it’s a strength.”
Rook shifted uncomfortably, clearly unused to the sudden seriousness. “Can we talk about something else now? Preferably, something that doesn’t involve me falling on my face?”
“Fine,” Neve said with a dramatic sigh, though her grin remained. “But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook entirely, Trouble. This is just the beginning.”
Charon raised his glass, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “To beginnings, then.”
“Alright,” Rook said, lifting her glass, her voice calm but her eyes betraying her wariness.
“What are you toasting to?” Neve asked.
Before Rook could answer, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the room, followed by a melodic, high voice. “Charon, has Gambit arrived for dinner?”
The color drained from Rook’s face, her bravado faltering as she nearly choked on her drink. “Tell me you didn’t tell her,” she hissed at her father.
Charon shrugged helplessly. “You know I can’t keep anything from your mother.”
“You traitor,” Rook snapped, her tone dripping with betrayal.
Neve stifled a chuckled, her expression alight with amusement. “Do you want to run?”
Rook actually paused, weighing the absurd idea, before shaking her head. “Wouldn’t work. She’s a force mage. She’d just—”
“Gambit. Aurelia. Mercar.”
The voice came closer, each word dripping with irritation. The woman who entered was arresting in her presence. Her olive-toned skin glowed in the firelight, her thick, dark hair streaked with elegant silver waves. She had sharp, patrician features: high cheekbones, a strong nose, and almond-shaped amber eyes. She wore mage robes of rich plum and gold, befitting someone who could cow a room with a single glance.
“Modor…” Rook began, trying her best to sound composed.
“Don’t you dare ‘Modor’ me,” Otacilia cut her off sharply. “You told me you were heading to Nessum for a simple job and that you’d be back in a week. Then I hear nothing—nothing—for months. No letters, no messages. Just rumors that no one in the city knows where you are. And then—then—I find out from Dorian Pavus, of all people, that you’re back in Minrathous and you’ve been fighting Elven gods!” Her voice rose with incredulity, her hands flying up in frustration. “Do you want me to meet the Maker before my time?”
Rook squirmed under her mother’s intense gaze, trying to summon her usual bravado. “I kept my promise. I’m back. I beat the gods, saved Thedas, and—” she grinned, aiming for levity, “—I brought someone home finally.”
Otacilia’s expression softened for a moment, but her sharp eyes quickly zeroed in on the new scar crossing Rook’s lip. Her hand twitched as if she wanted to reach out, but Rook beat her to it, standing and wrapping her in a tight embrace.
“I’m fine, Modor. Really,” Rook said quietly, her voice betraying just enough vulnerability to placate her mother.
Otacilia pulled back reluctantly, her hands lingering on Rook’s shoulders. “We’re not done talking about this,” she said sternly before her attention shifted to Neve. “Now, introduce me to the young woman you’ve brought home.”
Neve stood gracefully, her posture poised yet warm. “I remember you,” she said with a smile. “The Aubergine Gem Job. Nice to see you again, Otacilia.”
Otacilia’s eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “I’d ask how you know that name, but you’re the finest investigator in Thedas. I suppose there’s nothing you don’t know.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Neve said, glancing at Rook with a smirk. “So, this is the daughter you were eager to introduce me to?”
“You tried to set me up with Neve Gallus?” Rook asked, her disbelief palpable.
“I knew you two would make a striking pair,” Otacilia said smoothly, her gaze darting between the two women. “And you needed to leave Lovit.”
Rook groaned, her face reddening. “We don’t have to bring her up.”
“I sense another story,” Neve said, perking up.
“No, you don’t,” Rook said firmly, cutting her off.
Neve, undeterred, leaned in with a smoldering look. “Tell you what. I’ll share one of my stories for one of yours. Have we got a deal?”
“You don’t play fair,” Rook muttered, exasperation coloring her tone.
“I do my best,” Neve replied smugly.
Otacilia looked utterly delighted, settling into a chair across from them. “Tell me everything,” she urged, her amber eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I get the feeling my daughter has left out quite a few details.”
“Neve, if you want a future for us, please don’t recount every mission,” Rook pleaded, her voice edging on desperation.
Neve’s grin turned mischievous, her gaze filled with promise. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Not with that look,” Rook shot back.
As the firelight flickered across their faces, Neve began her tale of battles and gods, her voice weaving an enchantment that held even Otacilia captive. Rook sat back, torn between hoping the evening would end quickly—and wishing it would never end at all.