Chapter Text
Davrin leaned back in his chair, arms folded, a smirk playing at his lips. There was a certain gleam in his eye. Not just amusement, but something almost purposeful, like a man nudging a chess piece into place. "I'm just saying, Emmrich, you’ve got the charm of a Nevarran tomb guardian. Functional, sure, but not exactly inviting."
Emmrich, who had been quietly sipping his tea, arched a brow. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." Davrin’s grin widened. "You might be a genius when it comes to death magic, but when it comes to flirting? You’re about as smooth as a rock slide on a mountainside."
Emmrich set his teacup down with a sharp click. "That is categorically untrue."
"Is it?" Davrin’s smirk sharpened. "Bet you can’t flirt with Rook in a way that actually works."
That got Emmrich’s full attention. "What, precisely, are the terms of this ridiculous bet?"
"Simple. You make a clear, undeniable attempt to flirt with Rook, and she has to recognize it as such. If she gets confused or completely misses the point, I win."
Emmrich exhaled slowly, considering. His pride would not allow such an accusation to stand. "And if I succeed?"
"I’ll personally restore every candle in your study and organize your research notes for a week."
"Two weeks."
"Done."
Davrin extended a hand. Emmrich shook it. The bet was on.
The first attempt was in the library. A safe place, Emmrich reasoned. Books. Familiar territory. Rook hunched over the table, one hand turning the pages of an old Nevarran text while the other absently reached for her tea. She took a sip, made a face, and set it down with a sigh.
“You let it go cold,” Emmrich observed from where he leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed.
“I got distracted.” She tapped a finger against the page. “This is more detailed than I expected. Whoever wrote this actually knew what they were talking about.”
“High praise,” he mused. “And here I thought you were simply lost in thought. Perhaps contemplating the merits of an intellectual equal in your life?”
She blinked up at him. “What?”
“A partner, Rook. Someone who can match your brilliance. A well-read, highly respected scholar, for instance.” He gestured vaguely at himself.
She tilted her head, brow furrowing. “Are you suggesting I should hire an assistant?”
Emmrich exhaled through his nose, his expression remaining composed despite the small, pained look in his eyes. “Not exactly. Though, if you were in need of an assistant, I do possess an extensive knowledge of necromantic theory and field experience.”
“I’d rather have someone who can carry books for me,” she said, rubbing her chin in consideration. “Manfred is already filling that role.”
“Of course he is,” Emmrich muttered. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. “Perhaps you prefer a more… personal touch? Someone to, ah, keep you company during late-night research sessions? Offer stimulating conversation?”
“That’s what you already do,” she said simply, turning back to her book.
He stared at her. “Yes, Rook. That is precisely my point.”
She frowned, clearly trying to work through his meaning. After a long pause, she brightened. “Oh!”
His lips curled in satisfaction.
“Are you offering to get me a tutor?”
His smile fell. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have never been so thwarted in my life.”
Rook, unaware of her crime, merely turned another page. “I suppose that could be helpful. My Tevene grammar is atrocious.”
From across the room, Davrin grinned and gave him a slow thumbs-up.
Attempt two: the dining hall. A more relaxed setting. Less academic discussion to derail his intent.
Rook was finishing up her meal when Emmrich approached, settling across from her. “Have you ever considered,” he said smoothly, “that fate itself may have conspired to bring us together?”
Rook didn’t look up. “Fate doesn’t conspire. That’s more of a demon thing.”
Davrin, who had very conveniently chosen to sit at the end of the table, choked on his drink.
Emmrich exhaled a quiet laugh. “Then let’s say it orchestrated our meeting. A grand design. You and I, drawn by invisible threads toward one another.”
She finally glanced up, chewing thoughtfully. “You mean like how Vorgoth said I should leave the Necropolis, and Varric needed a Rook, and then you were just there?”
Emmrich steepled his fingers, undeterred. “Precisely.There. At the right place, the right time. As though the universe saw two kindred souls and decided to intervene.”
She hummed in consideration, then nodded. “Like a corpse cart.”
“…I beg your pardon?”
Davrin was full-on wheezing now.
“A corpse cart,” she repeated. “You never really plan to run into one, but somehow, it always arrives exactly when you need it.”
Emmrich stared at her, mouth parting slightly. He closed it. Opened it again. Then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You are comparing our fated meeting—our grand, cosmic connection—to an unscheduled cart full of dead bodies. ”
She shrugged. “It’s a useful cart.”
His head tipped forward, and for a moment, he just rested it in his hands. “You wound me, Rook.”
She gave him a consoling pat across the table. “You’re a very distinguished corpse cart.”
Davrin fell out of his chair.
Emmrich stood in the hallway outside the dining hall, arms crossed as Davrin wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.
"I admit," Emmrich said, voice carefully neutral, "this is proving more difficult than anticipated."
Davrin wheezed. "Oh, no, don’t stop now. This is the best entertainment I’ve had in months."
"If you have suggestions—"
"Absolutely not. I want to see what else you come up with on your own."
Emmrich sighed, rubbing his temple. He would not lose this bet. He just needed a new strategy.
And perhaps a great deal of patience.
Attempt three: the courtyard. A neutral location, away from distractions. Emmrich approached Rook as she adjusted the straps on her armor.
“Rook, I must confess something.”
She glanced up. “Did you break something?”
He sighed. “No.”
“Lose something?”
“Rook—”
“Is this about the tea again? Because I said —”
“Rook.” His voice dipped lower. “I find you exceedingly attractive.”
Her hands froze on the buckle. “Oh.” A pause. “Uh. Thank you?”
He waited.
And waited.
She nodded once, then, in an almost diplomatic tone, said, “You’re quite skilled yourself.”
Davrin, watching from the shadows, bit down on his knuckle to keep from laughing.
Emmrich inhaled slowly. “That is not—” He exhaled. “Let me be more explicit. I am attracted to you. Romantically. Enthusiastically.”
Rook’s cheeks went hot. She quickly turned her attention back to her armor, despite the fact that she had already adjusted that strap twice. “Right. Okay. I—uh. That’s… nice?”
One of his brows lifted. “‘Nice’?”
She winced. “Not—not just nice! I mean, it’s—you—you’re very—” She gestured vaguely at him, clearly struggling.
He tilted his head, watching her flail. “I am what, Rook?”
Davrin was on the ground, convulsing in silent laughter.
She made a sound that might have been a laugh or a quiet plea for the ground to swallow her. “You’re—you know —you’re you.”
A long pause.
He exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Of course.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Of course what?”
“You have completely missed my point.”
“I haven’t—” She faltered, clearly flustered, then stubbornly turned her attention back to her armor.
“You are adjusting the same buckle for the third time,” he pointed out, sounding more resigned than anything now.
Rook immediately dropped her hands as if the armor had personally betrayed her. “…That proves nothing.”
Davrin was gasping for breath.
Emmrich sighed. "So Davrin wins the bet, doesn’t he?"
Rook’s brows lifted. "What bet?"
From the ground, Davrin croaked, "This is the greatest day of my life."
Emmrich exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is an unparalleled disaster."