Chapter Text
“That’s why you brought me.”
They’re sifting through whatever the missing dwarves have left behind at the camping site near the entrance of the Deep Roads when Neve muses out loud.
“A scout and a detective, bit on the nose, wouldn’t you think?” Neve says, holding up a charred bit of something unidentifiable. “They’re long gone; not much left to go on here.”
The biting cold cuts on Rook’s skin as she keeps an eye out for any potential ambush while her companions search for clues to indicate where the dwarves have disappeared. A bit on the nose. Sure, everyone calls Rook a wild card, but she does enjoy being a cliché sometimes.
Still, it wasn’t why Rook brought Neve.
Aside from the task, it always feels safe with Neve around. And Rook likes being around Neve. And yet, she has been mindful of keeping her distance, quite literally, from Neve recently. Ever since that time in Neve’s office, when they almost… Rook shakes the thought from her head. She can’t help but ask herself if the wisps’ influence made her hallucinate the moment because the continual bantering between Neve and Lucanis makes Rook question her sanity. Nonetheless, the faintest touch of Neve now seems to set Rook’s skin alight. And Rook cannot afford to be distracted. It’s too much of a risk when the whole world is at stake. So, a reasonable distance it is. Or at least, Rook tries to.
Rook glances at Neve again, taking in the way her brow furrows as she examines the remains of the camp. It’s practical, focused. Everything about Neve is efficient, except for the occasional sideways glance she throws Rook’s way like she’s checking to see if Rook is paying attention. Always.
Neve stands up and dusts her hands. “Anything out there?”
“Nothing yet,” Rook replies, scanning the dark beyond the campsite. “Just the usual Deep Roads hospitality.”
“Good. I’d hate to think we were alone down here.” Neve’s lips twitch in the faintest of smiles, one that Rook catches only because she’s spent too much time looking for it.
Harding mutters something about dwarves and their idea of a good time, kneeling by the remnants of the fire pit. She pokes at the ashes with the end of her dagger, frowning like they’ve personally offended her. “If they wanted us to track them, they could’ve at least left something useful. A map, maybe. Directions scrawled on a wall? Anything?”
“Too easy,” Neve replies, straightening. She tosses the charred scrap back onto the pile. “And given our luck, that’s never the case for us.”
Neve gives Rook a look, something between amused and expectant, and Rook’s stomach does the same little flip it always does when Neve’s attention lands on her. It’s stupid, really. Rook’s fought darkspawns and demons and worse things than she can name, but one look from Neve, and she feels like a nervous recruit all over again.
Neve shifts her staff to her other hand, the runes along its length catching the light of Harding’s lantern. “We should move,” she says. “If they’re gone, there’s no point wasting time here.”
Harding is already a few steps ahead, anxious to find her people.
“Don’t get us lost this time,” Neve says, brushing past Rook as she steps toward the tunnel. Her shoulder barely grazes Rook’s, but it lingers just enough to burn a hole through her armour.
Rook exhales through her nose. She’d call it banter, but that implies something light, and Neve’s words always feel heavier. Intentional. Rook wishes she could brush them off as easily as Neve brushes the dirt from her cloak.
“I don’t get lost,” Rook calls after her, louder than she needs to. She follows quickly, her boots crunching against the frost-rimmed ground. “I’m just thorough.”
“Sure,” Neve replies, glancing back with a familiar smirk that’s gone before Rook can decide what to do with it.
Rook tells herself it’s the cold, the air, the oppressing weight of the Deep Roads pressing down on her chest. It’s not Neve. It’s never Neve.
Except it always is.
The tunnel ahead stretches into darkness, the glow of Neve’s staff and Harding’s lantern barely enough to push it back. The air feels heavier here, dense with the Deep Roads’ mix of dampness and decay. Rook adjusts her grip on her staff, the worn leather strap creaking under her palm.
They march in silence, the occasional water drip or distant echoing their only companions. How is it even down here, in this gods-forsaken pit, Neve manages to look so composed? Radiant, even. Her sure-footed stride, the way the staff’s light reflects in her hair, the glint in Neve’s eyes as she catches a clue. Rook wonders if Neve knows how distracting that is - or how distracting she is. Probably not.
Rook forces her gaze back to the path before them.
“Stop,” Neve halts her steps abruptly, holding out an arm.
“What is it?” Harding readies her bow.
Neve points ahead, her staff angling toward a pile of rubble. “The ground’s disturbed. Something, or someone, came through here recently.”
The prickling at the back of Rook’s neck already gives her an idea. Heat pools at her fingertips, her magic ready. Rook doesn’t need to wait long.
The first Shriek lunges from the darkness, and Rook casts instinctively. A firebolt scorches its chest mid-leap. Darkspawns. More follow, their screeches piercing the air as they pour from the shadows. Rook’s staff glows and pulses as she channels another spell, a ring of fire spreading out from her feet to slow the oncoming wave. Neve steps in beside her, ice shards shooting from her staff, cutting down three at once.
“Harding, on your right!” Neve shouts, her staff swinging around, a blizzard erupting from its tip. Harding pivots, her dagger catching another Shriek in the side before it can close the distance.
The ground trembles as dust falls from the tunnel ceiling.
A low roar rumbles from the darkness, and a corrupted ogre steps into the light, its massive frame blocking the tunnel ahead. Hard and fast, its club swings down. Rook throws up a barrier just in time, the force of the impact sending her skidding backwards.
“Neve, the legs!” Rook calls. Her staff glows with a surge of fire as she casts and rolls to dodge another swing, flames licking the ogre’s shoulder and drawing its attention.
A whoosh of cold air rushes through the narrow tunnel as Neve focuses her incantation. Frost spreads rapidly, latching onto the ogre’s joints. Its movement falters, struggling to pull free.
“Harding, now!” Rook shouts as she braces against the next wave of Shrieks.
Knocked and drawn, a hail of arrows strikes the frozen legs. The ice shatters with a loud crack, splinters scattering like glass. The ogre stumbles and crashes to the ground, rattling the entire tunnel. Not wasting a second, a charged bolt surges from Rook’s hands, slamming into the ogre’s chest. The creature writhes, its limbs jerking violently as the energy courses through it.
The air smells of burnt flesh and ozone as the ogre falls still. Rook lowers her staff, her grip tight as she watches the creature for any movement. There’s none. Silence returns, heavy and stifling. Rook leans against the wall, her breathing uneven.
“You’re hurt,” Neve says, stepping closer and reaching for Rook’s arm.
A shallow cut. Warm blood seeps through her shirt. This is going to stain.
“It’s fine, we gotta keep moving,” Rook waves her hand and moves to leave, only for Neve to gently push Rook back against the wall by her shoulder with a soft thud. It burns. The proximity with Neve is going to kill her before any infection. Rook swallows, suddenly forgot how to breathe.
Harding rummages through her bag. “Don’t worry, I got some salves here.”
No salves needed, as Neve’s fingers brush the torn fabric of Rook’s sleeve. The magic flares, mending the wound in the blink of an eye. Her touch lingers a second too long at the bare skin. Rook feels lightheaded.
As sudden as the warmth of Neve’s magic comes, it’s gone. Rook barely has time to process it before Neve steps back, her staff already in hand, her focus elsewhere.
“We’re done here,” Neve says, turning toward the dark ahead, her tone calm, like nothing happened. “Harding, would you take point, please?”
Harding glances up from her bag. “Got it,” she says, slinging her bow over her shoulder and moving ahead as she casts a look at Rook, one brow raised. “You good?”
“Fine, yeah, fantastic,” Rook says, albeit too quickly.
Harding doesn’t push, giving a slight nod before following Neve down the tunnel. Her arm still burns where Neve’s hand had been. Pressing a palm to the wall, the cool stone grounds Rook just enough to move her legs. Rook exhales, shaking her head, and falls into step behind the others. Neve is already a few paces ahead. For Neve, the moment’s passed. It always does.
“I heard you got hurt during the expedition, how’s the wound?” Lucanis asks, glancing over his shoulder as he stirs the simmering duck stew.
Between battling demons and blood mages, Rook has found cooking with Lucanis a surprisingly soothing routine. The quiet rhythm when Rook and Lucanis move about the kitchen, exchanging ingredients and culinary tips, reminds Rook of something simpler, something closer to her normal life – well, as normal as it could be, without the gods to begin with. Rook enjoys it all – the sound of a knife slicing through fresh herbs, the hiss of fish hitting a hot pan, and the warm glow of the fire casting shadows on the stone walls.
“Just a scratch,” Rook answers. “Neve patched me up nicely afterwards.”
Her eyes scan the countertop. Where’s the lemon? She needs to marinate the fish.
Lucanis hums, his voice fond. “There is really nothing Neve can’t do, can she?”
“Yep,” Rook agrees, finally spotting the lemon hiding behind a jar of rosemary. She grabs it, rolling it under her palm to loosen the juice. “Though her bedside manner could use some work. She’s a bit... sharp.”
The sensation wades back into Rook’s chest. When Neve’s fingers lingered just a second too long at her bare skin. Goosebumps trail her arms at the thought.
Lucanis chuckles, throwing a pinch of pepper into the stew. “Sharp? Neve? That’s like saying Spite is mildly annoying. But hey, sharp works for her.”
Rook snorts, slicing the lemon into neat wedges. “It does. Anyway, what about you? Didn’t end up needing her magic, did you?”
“Me? Injured? Never,” Lucanis says with exaggerated pride. “Besides, if I did, Spite would give me a lecture on how ‘even a demon deserves a host with more sense.’”
“I can imagine,” Rook laughs and sprinkles salt over the fish fillets before squeezing lemon juice onto them. “It’s probably like having an audible critical conscience you can never escape.”
“It is,” Lucanis nods before glancing at Rook’s dish. “Fried fish with herbs? Fancy. Special occasion?”
Rook shrug. “Neve likes it. Figured it’d be a nice way of thanking her for stopping me from bleeding out.”
Lucanis freezes for a fraction of a second, then grins. “Lemon and herbs, huh? Noted.”
Rook rolls her eyes. “And Bellara likes it, too.”
Spite must have made some particular remarks, as Rook could hear Lucanis mumble. “Oh, come on, Spite. Not everything’s about that.”
The Lighthouse’s dining room buzzes with subdued energy as the group unwinds and listens to Harding’s updates on what transpired in the Deep Roads. Plates clink softly, and the scent of the duck stew Lucanis prepared mingles with the zesty tang of Rook’s fried fish.
Harding leans back in her chair, glass in hand, recounting mishaps in their recent adventures. “And that’s when Lucanis thought it was a good idea to try stabbing the rock.”
“It seemed like a logical approach at the time,” Lucanis defends, jabbing at his stew.
“Logical,” Harding snorts. “Sure, if you’ve got a death wish.”
Neve shakes her head. “You’d think someone bonded to a demon would have better instincts.”
“Harsh but fair,” Lucanis concedes, raising his mug in mock toast. “But next time, I’ll consult our resident detective,” his gaze slides to Neve.
“Oh, naturally,” Neve says, her tone laced with humour. “Though I can’t promise to save you from yourself.”
The lightness in her voice draws a faint smile from Rook, but it also tightens her chest. She focuses on her plate, trying to ignore the way Neve’s laughter weaves into the room’s warmth.
Lucanis, of course, isn’t done. “Speaking of saving people, Neve, I heard you’ve got quite the magic touch. Rook here can’t stop singing your praises.”
Rook chokes on her fish. “I do not—”
“Don’t be so modest,” Lucanis interrupts, grinning, though there lies no malice in his voice. “I mean, you did make her favourite tonight to show your appreciation.”
Neve arches a brow, turning Rook, whose face heats up under the intense gaze. “Is that so?”
“It’s... practical,” Rook mutters, stabbing her fork into a piece of fish. “You like it. And Bellara does, too.”
Neve nods slowly, amusement twinkles in her eyes. “Practical. Right.”
The table bursts into laughter, and Rook sinks lower in her chair, feeling utterly betrayed by her culinary efforts. She glimpses at Neve, who is still smiling, the light from the fire dancing in her eyes.
Harding teases. “You’re setting the bar awfully high, Rook. What’s next, a gourmet dessert?”
Rook throws her head back, groaning. “I swear to Maker.”
Taash raises their mug. “I’d vote for dessert. Rook and Lucanis’ cooking is probably the best thing to come out of this place since we moved in.”
Rook shakes her head. It’s enough to remind Rook why these moments matter. As the laughter subsides, she risks another glance at Neve, who’s now engaged in light banter with Lucanis. Rook’s stomach tightens as Lucanis says something that draws a soft laugh from Neve, the sound tugging at something deep within her. Having a crush is worse than dealing with the gods themselves.
But the camaraderie keeps the team afloat and alive. And Rook intends to keep them all in one piece until the very end. So, she presses down the log in her throat and looks away every time Lucanis’ charm lands a witty comment from Neve.
Neve catches her eye once, as though searching for something. Rook swallows hard, offering her an awkward smile before staring down at her plate, finding sudden great interest in the duck stew before her. She’s too exhausted to sort through the tangle of emotions tonight.
Instead, Rook raises her glass and toasts. “To teamwork.”
The others join in, their glasses clinking together. They’re still here. Still together. And for now, that’s enough.
“You left early last night,” Neve says, not looking up from her notes.
“Yeah, I was knackered. Also, didn’t seem like I was needed,” Rook shrugs as she scans the evidence board. A good night’s rest was what Rook needed to get her head out of her ass. Everything is fine.
Neve glances up, chuckling. “Not needed? The rest of us had to sit and watch Harding missing every single cue that Taash gave her for about half an hour after you left.”
“Ha! I called it ages ago,” Rook perches on Neve’s desk, pleased with herself. “Taash asked me what they should get Harding as a gift last week.”
“Is that so? Well, I’m sorry to inform you that it was me who Taash went to for advice first. I recommended some archery gear,” Neve sits beside Rook and crosses her arms.
Rook feigns a short gasp and clutches her chest. “Wow, no way. Are you sure you didn’t steal my idea? Because I recommended the exact same thing, detective.”
“Steal your idea?” Neve laughs, leaning back. And yet, she somehow sits closer to Rook. “Please, I don’t need to steal ideas. I have better taste.”
Rook taps her chin thoughtfully. “Better taste, huh? You mean like that time you suggested Harding try an Antivan wine that turned out to be vinegar?”
“It was vintage, not vinegar. She just didn’t appreciate the complexity,” Neve defends herself.
“Oh, complexity, sure. That’s exactly what Harding called it when she nearly spat it out,” Rook quips, her grin widening.
This is easy - the usual back-and-forth between them. Rook almost forgot how Lucanis had teased Neve once about her 'irresistible charm', making light of something Rook had shoved into the darkest corners of her mind. Almost. The sharp ache in her chest returns.
Neve shakes her head, too used to Rook's wits and, for a lack of better words, clownery. “If you’re done slandering my impeccable recommendations, how about you help me with this instead?” She gestures toward the cluttered evidence board.
This is easier. This, Rook can do.
Rook returns to the array of notes, maps, and strings crisscrossing the board. “Alright, what are we looking at?”
Neve leans forward, her elbow brushing against Rook’s knee as she picks up a stray note from the desk. Rook coughs, willing herself to focus on the board, ignoring the sensation. Her instinct craves more of that warmth. To caress Neve’s cheeks and – Maker, what is wrong with Rook’s thinking?
Focus.
“Dock Town,” Neve says, tapping the note against her palm. “Aelia’s movements don’t make sense unless she’s circling back there. It’s too obvious to be random.”
“Obvious or deliberate?” Rook asks. The warmth from Neve’s elbow lingers, etching into her skin. “Could be a trap.”
“Could be,” Neve admits, her gaze narrowing as she studies the map. “But if it is, it’s sloppier than I’d expect from her.”
Rook hums in agreement, her fingers brushing a line of string connecting two points on the board. “What about this spot here? Looks like a good staging area. If I were her, I’d set up there and wait.”
Neve tilts her head, her eyes following Rook’s finger. “It’s possible. But the Venatori haven’t been spotted there in months. Would she risk reusing an old hideout?”
“She’s a zealot, not a tactician,” Rook replies. “You’re giving her too much credit.”
Neve smiles, the tension in her posture easing just slightly. “That’s why I keep you around, Warden. To balance out my overthinking.”
“Well, I live to serve,” Rook bows dramatically. She taps another point on the map. “What about here? I’d send a decoy to throw us off if I were her. A distraction.”
Neve leans closer, her hair brushing Rook’s arm as she examines the spot. “Hmm. Aelia loves her theatrics. A decoy fits her style.”
Rook swallows hard. The closeness threatens to unravel her composure. Neve smells like the faintest hint of lavender and old parchment. How preposterous something so simple makes Rook’s heart trip over itself.
“This is good,” Neve murmurs, focusing entirely on the map. “If we can anticipate her moves, we might actually get ahead of her for once.”
Rook nods, though she’s barely heard a word.
“You’re quiet,” Neve says suddenly, furrowing her eyebrows. “What’s on your mind?”
Rook freezes, scrambling for an answer. “Just... thinking.”
“About?”
“Strategy,” Rook lies, gesturing toward the board. “How to make sure you don’t walk into an ambush.”
Neve’s lips curve into a smirk. “Ah, so you do worry about me.”
Rook huffs out a laugh. “Someone has to. If it isn’t evident already.”
“Well,” Neve says, her voice dipping into something softer, almost teasing. “I appreciate the concern, Warden.”
Rook glances away, pretending to focus on the board. Something blooms in her chest whenever Neve looks at her like that - searching, expecting. “It’s my job to care for the team, isn’t it?”
“Just a job, then?” Neve hands her a note, eyes never leaving Rook. There it is again. The words – always so heavy, intentional, soaked with something that Rook can’t quite put her fingers on.
Rook takes the parchment from Neve, their fingers brushing briefly. Too briefly. She scans the faded script, her stomach twisting at the way Neve’s hand lingers in her periphery. She has to focus. On the mission. On the job. On anything but the way Neve’s proximity threatens to reduce Rook into nothing but ashes.
“No? I mean, I... wouldn’t call it just a job,” Rook stammers, hating how the words stumble out of her. She clears her throat, clutching the parchment tighter than necessary. “Anyway, what did you give me?”
The faded script on the parchment blurs momentarily before Rook forces her eyes to focus. She reads the same line twice, the words barely sinking in.
“Coordinates. Looks like a supply cache near the outskirts,” Neve replies, nonchalant and casual, as if she didn’t just ask Rook something that almost gave her a stroke.
“Right,” Rook breathes out. “Too convenient. Think Aelia left it for us to find?”
Neve hums in agreement, leaning in to study the note over Rook’s shoulder. The proximity is suffocating and intoxicating all at once. The lavender scent drifts from Neve, subtle enough to tighten Rook’s throat. Maybe she’s allergic to lavender. Rook clenches her jaw, trying to ignore the way Neve’s voice weaves through her.
“Aelia and her bloody her games. Leaving this for us to find might be her way of drawing us out,” Neve says, straightening up.
The loss of her closeness should feel like a relief, but instead, it leaves a hollow ache in Rook’s chest.
“She’s overconfident. And that’ll be her downfall,” Rook takes a deep breath and gives Neve a reassuring nod.
Neve looks at Rook and smiles. “You sound almost hopeful.”
Rook shrugs, forcing herself to lean into the banter, not allowing herself to look Neve in the eyes. “Hope’s a dangerous thing, detective.”
“More dangerous than blood mages and the gods themselves?” Neve asks and takes the parchment from Rook’s hands, pinning the paper to the board.
“Depends on who’s holding it,” Rook mutters.
She has said too much, and now Rook needs to get out. Always the cynic, Neve has never held out hope for anything or anyone. Hope, as Neve has once said, is a fragile thing. People cling to it like it’s the only thing keeping them alive. But more often than not, it’s the thing that gets them killed. And for those who survive, in the Wardens’ case, duty and loyalty bind them together, keeping them moving forward when hope burns away like paper in a fire. But now, Rook holds on to that desperate kind of hope, the kind that will get her killed, against all her training and instinct. It’s foolish, reckless, and entirely avoidable.
“Not me,” Neve’s voice pulls Rook back. “But I do have my moments.”
Rook blinks, caught off guard. She’s so used to Neve’s despondency and pragmatism that the softness in her tone feels almost foreign. There it is – a small, almost imperceptible shift in Neve’s expression.
“Such as?” Rook asks, risking staying longer than she should.
“When I think there’s something worth fighting for,” Neve answers simply and turns to look at Rook again.
The wisps are quiet. How odd. It would be so easy. Too easy, really, to close the distance between them. To reach out, to tilt Neve’s chin upward and claim the softness of her lips, granting Rook eternal bliss. Something akin to longing lurks underneath all that suave and confidence Neve wears.
Maker smites her.
The ember within Rook stokes, unbearable and irresistible. It presses against her ribs, demanding to be acknowledged. All-consuming and scorching. And Rook has never been good at surviving the things that burn too brightly.
Neve. This woman will be the death of her. Rook knows it as surely as she knows the pull of the Blight within her veins, and woefully, Rook has no desire to fight against such fate. Not if it meant keeping this moment, this unbearable, beautiful ache.
But not today.
“Saving Minrathous day-by-day certainly seems worth it,” Rook gestures at the board, breaking the moment – the weight of her yearning buried beneath duty and deflection.
Neve doesn’t answer immediately, her eyes flicking over the tangled web of notes and strings. When she speaks, her voice is steady. “It has to be.”
Rook swallows hard, her throat tight. “Good thing you’ve got someone as reckless as me to back you up.”
Neve chuckles, low and soft, and it’s almost enough to make Rook believe everything will be fine. “That’s one word for it.”
Rook rests against the edge of the desk, her arms crossing. Any distance to keep her from giving in and ruining everything. “You’ve got others?”
“Stubborn. Loyal.” Neve pauses, looking directly at Rook’s eyes. “Unrelenting.”
The words are heavier than they have any right to be. Rook looks away, her voice coming out quieter than she intended. “You make it sound like a good thing.”
“Maybe it is. That’s what I like about you,” Neve says, and the weight of her words settles between them. Then, almost as an afterthought, Neve grabs her staff. “Come now, we have a city to save.”
The old Venatori hideout didn’t turn out to be a complete dead end. Though Aelia was nowhere to be found, Rook and the team managed to rescue a group of kidnapped Dock Town citizens - the kind of people that wouldn’t be noticed if they went missing.
To celebrate – or, more accurately, to wash off the stench of the hideout – they made their way to a nearby sauna. It was Taash’s idea, and Rook had begrudgingly agreed, swayed more by Neve’s quiet nod of approval than any genuine enthusiasm.
The air inside the sauna is thick with steam, and the scent of cedarwood and mineral water hangs around them. Rook sits stiffly on the wooden bench, a towel draped loosely over her shoulders. She is keenly aware of every bead of sweat sliding down her skin and, more importantly, anything to distract her from looking in the direction of Neve, who’s sitting across from her.
Taash, in contrast, lounges comfortably on the bench beside Neve, their horns glinting in the dim light. Adaari physiology seems immune to awkwardness, Rook has decided. Or shame.
“This,” Taash says, leaning back with a contented sigh, “is exactly what we needed. A proper cleanse. Physically, emotionally, spiritually.”
“Spiritually?” Neve asks, adjusting the towel around her chest. The heat here must be getting to Rook since snapping her eyes away too quickly made her dizzy. “Didn’t take you for the pious type.”
“Pious? Nah.” Taash waves a hand dismissively, flashing a toothy grin. “But I can’t deny the spiritual experience of not smelling like that stink hole anymore. Speaking of smells...” They tilt their head, their nostrils flaring. “Rook, you’ve got a... particular scent going on.”
“Excuse me?” Rook coughs. "I’m pretty sure we smell the same after getting out of that hideout together.”
“Not quite,” Taash says, frowning. “Yours is a bit... sharper. Brighter. Like lightning, maybe.”
“I am a mage, you know,” Rook shoots back. “What else would I smell like? Daisies and sunshine?”
Taash snorts. “Well, it suits you. Lightning’s got a spark to it. Just like you, Warden. Unpredictable and deadly.”
Rook groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Maker’s breath, Taash.”
Neve taps Taash’s shoulders. “I think you’re going to scare Rook off at this rate.”
“Am I?” Taash grins, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I just think you have much more going on beneath all that brooding.”
“I don’t brood,” Rook mutters as she fights the urge to glare at Taash. Or to glance at Neve. Either would be fatal.
How futile, as from the corner of Rook’s eyes, Neve shifts in her seat, undoing the knot of her towel and adjusting it. The gesture is entirely innocent, practical even, but Rook thinks she might be experiencing a stroke. And it has nothing to do with the steam-filled room.
Beads of sweat kiss Neve’s forehead, glistening, trailing languidly down her temple, then her neck, before sliding dangerously low along her sternum. Each shimmering bead accentuates the faint rise and fall of her breath. The sheen of perspiration clings to Neve’s skin, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone and the graceful arc of her shoulders.
“You okay there, Rook?” Neve asks, teasing. “Taash got your tongue, finally?”
Rook stiffens, forcing herself to meet Neve’s gaze. A mistake. The glint in Neve’s eyes is entirely too knowing. “I’m fine,” Rook says, her voice pitched higher than usual. She clears her throat, fumbling for a semblance of composure. “Just... the heat. It’s, uh, hotter than I expected.”
Neve nods, her towel adjusting just enough to make Rook’s heart stutter. “It’s a sauna, Rook. What were you expecting? A brisk walk through Ferelden?”
Taash lets out a bark of laughter. “She’s got you there. But you’re looking a little red. Too much steam, or...” They pause, wiggling their eyebrows. “Something else?”
Rook glares at Taash, her blush deepening. “It’s the steam,” she insists, the words tumbling too quickly. “Just the steam.”
Neve chuckles. Both infuriating and entirely too pleasant. “Careful, Trouble. Don’t let the steam get the best of you. We wouldn’t want our fearless leader passing out.”
“I’m not going to pass out,” Rook frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m plenty fearless.”
Neve tilts her head, her smirk softening into something almost fond. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. But even the fearless have their limits.”
Rook opens her mouth to retort but is saved - or doomed - by Taash. “You know, Rook, I’ve noticed something.”
Rook groans. “Here we go again.”
“No, really,” Taash continues, entirely undeterred. “You get this look sometimes. Like you’re somewhere else entirely. I mean, it’s rare, but it happens. Like just now.”
Neve raises a brow, clearly intrigued. “Is that so?”
Rook’s jaw tightens. “I do not.”
“Oh, you do,” Taash insists, pointing a finger at her. “It’s endearing, honestly. Like you’re off strategising your next big move or brooding over some deep, existential crisis.”
“Again, I don’t brood,” Rook snaps, though the defensiveness in her voice only seems to amuse both of them. “It’s just my face, Tassh.”
“So, Trouble, since you’re our beacon of joy.” Neve leans forward slightly, her gaze locking onto Rook’s. “What’s your big move this time?”
Rook’s mind blanks. The towel is hanging too damn low, and Rook hates how that moniker gets her every time. Her hands clench at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she scrambles for an answer, hopelessly slapping away her unholy imagination. “Um... traps?”
Neve’s smirk widens. “Traps?”
“Yeah. Traps,” Rook says, doubling down as her face burns. “For, you know, the Venatori. Ambushes. And stuff.”
Taash snickers and Neve’s smirk softens into something maddeningly kind. “Ever our strategist.”
Rook slumps in defeat. “Yep.”
Neve leans back again, crossing her legs slow enough to draw Rook’s eyes before she quickly looks away. The heat prickling the back of her neck has nothing to do with the sauna, as Rook forces herself to focus on anything else – the cedar panels of the walls, the steam swirling lazily in the air, the distant sound of dripping water.
“Well, don’t think too hard, Rook. You might overheat.”
The low chuckle that follows sends a shiver down Rook’s spine, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Rook wonders if she actually will pass out. But she holds it together. Barely.
By the time they leave the sauna for the mineral bath, Rook is half-convinced that she’s ascended to some new level of endurance. She should be fine now. The bath will be calming, soothing. Neutral ground. Right?
Wrong.
The steam is lighter here, the mineral-rich water shimmering like jewels under the lantern light. Taash is already neck-deep in the bath, their horns breaking the surface as they float effortlessly. “Now this,” Taash declares. “Is divine. Rook, you’re going to thank me for this.”
Rook mumbles something noncommittal, clutching her towel tightly as she edges toward the water. She focuses on the ripples in the bath, the scent of the minerals, and how the heat curls around her skin like a second layer – anything but the figure moving just within her peripheral vision.
Rook should have known better. She always should have known better.
Neve steps toward the bath, the knot of her towel loosening as she reaches for the edge. And then, with a casual grace that seems utterly unfair, she lets the towel drop. Rook doesn’t see much – just a flash of tanned skin, a curve caught in the corner of her eye – but it’s enough to unravel the last thread of sanity she’s been clinging to.
The heat surges all at once. Her pulse hammers in her ears, and before Rook can process what’s happening, her vision blurs, the world tilts, and she’s gone.
When Rook comes to, she first registers the cool press of a damp towel against her forehead. The second is the low murmur of voices – Taash’s amused tone and Neve’s concern.
“She did pass out,” Taash says with a note of incredulous delight. “You owe me five gold, Neve. I told you she couldn’t handle it.”
“I didn’t think she’d actually faint,” Neve replies, her voice quieter. “I thought she was just being dramatic.”
Rook groans, her hand moving instinctively to cover her face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Neve says firmly, and Rook peeks through her fingers. Neve is crouched beside her, her brows furrowed, her hair damp and clinging to her skin. She’s wrapped in a fresh towel, the fabric resting in a way that really isn’t helping Rook’s recovery.
“I’m fine,” Rook insists again, though her voice is anything but convincing.
Neve counters, her expression somewhere between sceptical and amused. “Passing out in a bathhouse doesn’t scream ‘fine’ to me.”
“It’s the heat,” Rook says, sitting up slowly and ignoring how her head spins. “Too much steam. That’s all.”
“Sure,” Taash chimes in. “Nothing to do with anyone or anything, right?”
Rook glares at Taash, her blush betraying her attempt at indignation. “Absolutely not.”
Neve, mercifully, lets the comment slide, though her lips twitch as if she’s fighting a smile. “Let’s get you some water,” she says, standing and offering Rook a hand.
Rook hesitates for half a second before taking it. The warmth of Neve’s palm eases her. Maker really damns Rook. “Thanks.”
And just like that, the moment passes, leaving Rook to gather the remnants of whatever dignity she has left.