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Lucanis meticulously inspected and replaced the small vials he carried, each one as vital as a blade to an assassin like him. The glass was opaque, cork stoppers sealed with dark red wax to keep their deadly contents secure. His movements were methodical as he separated recently used vials from those that had expired. Only one or two were good enough to return, unaltered. The rest would need to be disposed of—safely.
Across the table, Davrin cleaned his gear with the steady hands of a seasoned soldier, though his eyes kept darting toward Lucanis.
“Careful with those,” Davrin warned, his tone light but edged with caution. “I wouldn’t want Assan getting into them. And you’d better wash your hands before you start on dinner tonight. Got it?”
Lucanis opened his mouth, a sharp retort ready to fire, but stopped short when he caught Rook’s gaze from the fireplace. Her single raised eyebrow said, Don’t you dare.
“Bellara’s cooking,” Lucanis muttered instead.
The elf snorted. “Thank the gods for small mercies.”
“How do you even keep them straight?” Davrin asked after a few minutes of working in silence, nodding at the vials.
Lucanis held one up, angling it toward the light. The faint, otherworldly glow of the Fade caught on tiny raised bumps on the glass surface. He ran his fingers over them, his touch precise and sure.
“By feel,” he replied. “Each vial is marked differently. Even in the dark, I know exactly which one to take.”
“Oh, oh!” Bellara leaned across the table, her curiosity lighting up her face. “Are the marks unique for each assassin, so no one else can use your poisons? I read a story about that once! Two assassins sent to kill each other fell in love, but the woman got wounded protecting her lover. When he tried to give her the antidote, he accidentally gave her another poison because their labels were different. She died in his arms.”
Davrin chuckled and shook his head.
“The poisoners and glassmakers would riot if that were true,” Lucanis said, laughing. “No, the vials are standardized. It’s the poison makers who set the marks.”
“In this case, Viago,” Rook said, stepping closer. She reached for one of the expired vials, her movements unhurried but deliberate. “Oh, he’s given you the good stuff.” She turned the vial over, examining it like an appraiser judging a rare gem. “This one’s a doozy.”
Lucanis plucked the vial from her hand, his eyes narrowing. “Careful with that.”
Bellara cocked her head. “I didn’t know you used poison. Doesn’t it burn off with spells?”
Rook’s smirk was slow and sly. “Oh, Viago never told you?”
Lucanis frowned. “Told me what?”
“That he used me as a test subject when developing new poisons.” Rook reached for another vial, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.
Bellara and Davrin froze, staring at her in wide-eyed disbelief.
Lucanis, however, remained still, his grip tightening on the vial he’d reclaimed. “I’d remember if he had.”
Rook glanced up, the corners of her mouth quirking in amusement. “Would you, though?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Oh, it’s a story,” she said, leaning one hip against the table. She pointed at the vial in his hand, her expression almost mischievous. “Want to hear what that one did to me?”
Viago slid the key into the lock, the faint click echoing in the stillness. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing silently for Gwynn to enter.
She hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. This room was familiar —but not for happy reasons. The shelves lined with bottles and vials, their contents shimmering in the dim light, bore the telltale marks of her Talon’s trade. The faint, acrid tang of herbs and chemicals hung in the air, sharp enough to catch in her throat.
The lab was sparsely lit. Two sconces on either side of the door cast a flickering glow, their flames shivering in the draft. Across the room, the fireplace smoldered weakly, its embers barely holding on. The light was insufficient, more for warmth than visibility, and the shadows cast by the low fire made the room feel smaller than it was.
Shelves crammed with potions, poisons, and the raw ingredients of both loomed around her. The bottles were meticulously labeled in Viago’s neat, angular handwriting, and though she knew there was an order to it all, the system remained a mystery. Like many fledglings before her, Gwynn had spent long nights pondering the riddle. Her best guess was a cipher, but she had no intention of asking Viago about his favorite book or an old love letter to confirm it. Some things were better left unsaid.
Behind her, Viago stepped into the room, the door shutting with a soft click. The sound seemed louder than it should have been.
He moved purposefully, turning the chair by the desk, the only table in the room, its surface cluttered with vials, burners, alembics, and a neat stack of labeled notebooks. With a faint scrape, he set a small stool in front of the chair, the one he used to reach the higher shelves.
"Sit," he said, his voice left no room for negotiation. He gestured to the chair. "And roll up your sleeve. Left arm. To the elbow."
Gwynn hesitated. She stood motionless in the center of the room, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The silence pressed in on her as she drew a deep breath, steeling herself. There were no pleasant memories here, there never would be. But the sooner they started, the sooner it would be over.
Finally, she moved, sliding into the chair and rolling up her sleeve. The cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps. Viago, unfazed by her reluctance, was already moving about the room.
He crossed to the shelves with precise, practiced motions, selecting a small scalpel from the knife rack. A collection of hourglasses of varying sizes waited on the edge of the table, their glassy surfaces gleaming faintly in the firelight. He placed them carefully within reach before pulling down two vials from a shelf: one filled with a milky white liquid, the other slightly hazy.
The soft clink of glass against the table broke the silence as he set them down. Gwynn’s heart thudded in her chest, but she kept her face still, her breathing even. She knew better than to let her nerves show here.
One of the smaller hourglasses had already been turned, its sand cascading in a lazy spiral. The faint hiss of the grains marked the passage of time. Viago sat down on the stool in front of her, reaching for one of his well-worn notebooks. With a piece of charcoal in hand, he jotted down a few quick notes as the last grains fell, the sound of the charcoal scratching softly in the stillness.
When the sand ran out, he flipped the hourglass without hesitation, watching intently as the process repeated. Another series of marks filled the notebook. His movements were practiced, mechanical. Gwynn’s eyes flitted between the hourglass and his hand, her curiosity quietly bubbling to the surface. The steady rhythm of his work, combined with the solemn quiet of the room, felt both hypnotic and oppressive. Viago really was in his element here and whatever his intents, Gwynn knew a master of his trade when she saw one.
Perhaps it was her lingering gaze or the familiarity forged through countless hours in this room, but Viago noticed. When he finally looked up from his notes, his eyes met hers, and he offered an explanation unprompted.
“I need a baseline of your vitals,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Breathing, heart rate...”
As he spoke, his gloved fingers encircled her wrist with clinical precision, pressing firmly against the pulse point. His touch was cool, the leather a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin. The hourglass was turned again, the sand flowing smoothly into the lower chamber. He kept his eyes fixed on the glass, his movements deliberate and measured.
For a moment, Gwynn’s heart seemed louder than the hourglass itself, each beat thudding in her chest as if trying to escape his scrutiny. But Viago remained detached, focused, as though nothing in the world existed beyond the falling sand and the faint rhythm beneath his fingers.
“What’s this one supposed to do?” Gwynn finally asked, her voice breaking the silence just as the last grain of sand slipped through the hourglass.
“Incapacitate. But not kill.” Viago’s tone was calm, almost clinical, as he uncorked the vial of milky liquid. The sharp tang of its contents joined the cocktail of smells in the room. With his left hand, he pressed her arm flat against the table, reaching for the scalpel with his right.
“It’s designed to induce panic,” he continued. “Overwhelm the target. Make them feel like death is creeping closer. That kind of fear loosens lips. Makes them spill secrets.”
The scalpel gleamed as he held it to the soft skin near the crook of her elbow. The blade was steady in his hands, far steadier than her racing heart. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Ready?”
“You have the antidote, right?” Her voice wavered despite her efforts to sound composed.
“Have I ever let you down, Gwynn?”
“Everything has a first time...”
He didn’t reply. The blade pressed down, slicing a clean line through her skin. A sharp sting bloomed as a bead of blood welled up. Viago worked swiftly, turning to the vial. He let a single drop of the milky liquid fall onto the wound.
Gwynn hissed sharply as the poison seeped in. The pain was immediate, sharp, and fiery. “Is it supposed to burn like this?”
Viago didn’t answer. Instead, he turned two hourglasses at once, their sands beginning a synchronized countdown. His left hand returned to her wrist, his fingers firm against her pulse, and his eyes stayed locked on her—not with concern, but with unshakable focus.
The burning in her arm spread quickly, radiating out like wildfire. It seeped into her chest, her limbs, until her entire body ached as if it had been lit from within. Her breathing quickened, ragged and shallow. Instinct took over, and she started to pull her arm away, but his grip was unyielding.
“Fuck, Vi—” she gasped, her words hitching as the pain surged. “My heart... Are you sure this won’t kill me?”
“Your heart’s fast, but steady,” he said, his voice calm despite her panic. “It’s still beating, Gwynn. Take a deep breath.”
Viago’s charcoal scratched across the page in precise strokes, his notes growing longer as he worked. His focus never wavered, moving between her pulse, the hourglasses, and the faint sheen of sweat forming on her brow. Each detail seemed to matter to him, though he said nothing for a long while.
The silence stretched, broken only by the steady hiss of falling sand and Gwynn’s ragged breathing. He adjusted his grip on her wrist, his gloved fingers shifting slightly as though recalibrating. “Pulse is still strong,” he murmured, almost to himself, his tone clinical. “Faster than before, but steady. Good. That’s good.”
The burning in Gwynn’s arm had spread to her chest, and she clenched her jaw to suppress a groan. Her vision blurred at the edges, dark shadows creeping in with each uneven breath. “Viago,” she gasped, “I... I can’t— my heart..”
“You can,” he interrupted. He tilted his head toward the hourglass. “You’re still well within safe limits. Your heart’s working harder, but it’s not failing.”
Her free hand gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “It doesn’t feel safe,” she ground out.
“I know,” he replied, his voice maddeningly even. He reached for her wrist again, pressing his thumb against the pulse point while his eyes flicked back to the hourglass. The sand was running low. “You’re breathing shallow. Deep breaths, Gwynn.”
She tried, forcing herself to inhale deeply, but it felt like dragging air through fire. “It’s—too much,” she wheezed, her chest rising and falling in uneven jerks.
Viago’s gaze narrowed, his hand moving from her wrist to the base of her throat. His fingers rested there lightly, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse beneath her skin. “Still consistent,” he muttered, turning the hourglass again. He leaned back, his sharp eyes darting over her face, her trembling limbs, the tension in her jaw. “Adrenaline’s spiking. No arrhythmias. You’re not crashing, Gwynn. Keep breathing.”
His detached tone should have been infuriating, but it was oddly grounding. She focused on the methodical way he turned the hourglasses, the practiced ease with which he made his notes. His presence, though cold and analytical, was unshakable.
“Burning subsiding?” he asked, his gaze flicking back to her.
“No,” she hissed. “It’s—getting worse. Vi, my chest—”
“I’m monitoring it,” he said, his tone sharper now. His hand returned to her wrist, holding her steady as she tried to pull away. “Your heart rate’s up, but it’s still strong. You’re not going to die.”
“How can you be so sure?” she snapped, tears stinging her eyes.
“I’m holding your pulse,” he said simply, his eyes meeting hers. “I’d know.”
The burning began to creep into her throat, and her breathing quickened again. “Viago, I swear—”
“Listen to me.” His tone was suddenly commanding, cutting through the fog of her panic. “You’re feeling the poison’s effects exactly as intended. It’s meant to mimic the symptoms of dying—tight chest, rapid pulse, burning in the veins. But it’s not killing you. Your vitals are telling me that your body is handling it. Focus on my voice. Breathe with me.”
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and she tried to mimic him, though her breath hitched midway. His fingers remained firm on her wrist, anchoring her. “That’s better,” he said quietly.
The minutes dragged on, and she lost track of how many times the hourglass had been turned. Each time it emptied, he recorded something new, his notes growing denser with every pass. He shifted her wrist slightly, checking the veins along her forearm, and pressed his free hand to her clammy forehead.
“You’re peaking now,” he said after a moment. “The burning will start to ease soon. Keep breathing, Gwynn. You’re doing fine.”
Her limbs trembled, but the fire in her veins finally began to flicker and fade, leaving behind a heavy ache. She sagged in the chair, her head tilting back as she gulped in air. Viago’s hand lingered on her wrist, his thumb brushing over her pulse as if confirming its consistency one last time.
“It’s passing,” he said, his voice softer now. “Your vitals are stabilizing.”
She blinked up at him, exhausted. “You were watching me like a damn lab rat,” she muttered, though her voice lacked venom.
“I was keeping you alive,” he countered, his expression unreadable. “If I didn’t track every detail, I wouldn’t know how far I could push the dose. Or you.”
“Push me? I felt like I was dying, Viago.”
“And you didn’t,” he replied, his eyes locking on hers. “That’s what matters.”
Her breath hitched, and she shook her head faintly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re resilient,” he said, turning to his notebook to scrawl one last note, before closing it. “We’re done for today.”
That was her cue to leave. This time, she practically fled the room, slamming the door closed on her way out.
Davrin’s gaze shifted between Lucanis and Rook as the story concluded. Rook stared into the fire, her face illuminated by its flickering glow. Whatever memories the tale had stirred, she seemed lost in them now.
“I can’t believe you’d call the Crows normal,” Davrin finally said, his voice sharp with incredulity. “You two do realize none of this is normal, right?”
Lucanis set the vials back down, his fingers lingering on the wax seals. He’d need a word with Viago when he returned. The older man had always preached reforming the Crows, making them something more than tools. But now? Learning this—knowing Viago had counted Rook -Gwynn-among his closest confidants, it painted a darker picture. Lucanis had spoken of a cruel childhood to the others, but Rook’s? Rook’s had been worse.
“That’s rich coming from a Grey Warden,” She muttered.
Davrin’s response came swift and sharp. “We drink from the poisoned chalice once, Rook. After that, my sergeant didn’t keep poisoning me to prove I deserved my place.” He tossed his cleaning rag aside and pushed back from the table, rising abruptly. “I need a minute to process this.”
Bellara, who had been unusually quiet, jumped up as if startled. “I’ll… I’ll get started on dinner.” Her voice was bright but forced, and she darted from the room before anyone could reply.
That left only Rook and Lucanis at the table. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.
“I— I didn’t know,” Lucanis began, his voice low. “If—”
Rook cut him off, her tone sharp. “If what, Lucanis? If you’d known, then what?” She leaned forward, her dark eyes boring into his. “What would you have done? Grandson of the First Talon or not, you’d have had no right to challenge another Talon. No say in how he governed his House, or how he used his Crows.”
Lucanis opened his mouth to argue but found no words.
Rook leaned back, exhaling a long sigh as she raked a hand through her hair. Her voice softened, though the weight of her words remained. “But it’s done now. And… in his way, Viago did it out of care.”
Her gaze drifted back to the fire, her features shadowed by the glow. The faintest trace of a bitter smile crossed her lips. “His way. Always his way.”