Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

My interest is to lay with you
To laugh and have nothin’ to do
How else can it be proven to you
That I’m devout?
I spill right out

My interest is to bathe with you
To soak you in and let it stew
And if I tell you something rude
Then drain me out, and please be rude

Lucanis yanks Illario’s wrist as they hurriedly walk to the banquet hall.

“We’re. Fucking. Late.” his cousin growls, each clipped word barely containing his panic and irritation.

“And whose fault is that?” Illario teases, unruffled.

Lucanis stops dead in his tracks, turning sharply. If one could kill by gaze alone, Illario would have already been ashes. The crushing force around his wrist is as threatening as his searing glare. “If you weren’t so slow—”

Not wanting to further sour his cousin’s mood, Illario pivots, schooling his features into something placating. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up. My dashing face might distract everyone.”

Lucanis blinks—stunned by the easy acceptance. His death grip on Illario’s wrist relaxes. “If you’re sure…” he murmurs, strong brows furrow with concern as he hesitates to start walking.

“I’ll be fine, Lucanis,” Illario urges—smile reassuring.

Seated on a gaudy waiting bench outside the banquet hall of the Valisti manor, Illario is restless. The draft through the empty corridor seeps into his bones. Overhead, the candelabra blinds him with its excess. Whatever entourage the other talons have is made scarce, or perhaps they’re having a field day witnessing the spectacle of the talons tearing each other apart.

Across from him, a lone knight statue stands unmoving and proud, mocking. How long has he been glaring at the same chunk of metal?

Their morning had been a whirlwind that Illario forgot to bring many things: a book, perfume, his pocket watch. His fucking pipe. Anything to fill the cracks of his numbing mind and nervous limbs—cracks that Lucanis often occupied.

His hands clench and unclench while his right foot taps impatiently on the gray marble tiles—to rid of static that thrums beneath his skin, like prickle-burrs stuck in fabric.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Beyond the stretch of high, paneled, dark green walls, the talons deliberate.

On moving forward after the Antaam invasion and the war with the elven gods.

On the volatile state of Antiva’s economy—a consequence of the catastrophe that burned Thedas to the ground.

On how the Crows should take more contracts, whether insignificant or undignified.

“The number of displaced Fereldans and Free Marchers flocking to our borders is… detestable,” declares Marion Valisti, his crisp cadence grates the hairs of his undercut from where he’s leaned against the wall.

The newly appointed Third Talon is an enigma. His rise to power is as shrouded as the glimmer behind his piercing, ice-blue eyes. Where a shaded lust for something lurks—the kind that gnaws at the bones until it reaches the soul, refusing to be denied.

Marion is Illario at his height: five years younger and determined. Tall, sun-kissed skin, with his waist-length brunet hair gathered into a low ponytail. A charming smile that electrifies the fledglings, making them eager to please, even as he commands them to slice each other open.

Illario groans under his breath. He ignores the younger man in the Cantori Diamond. The Crows don’t need two shrewd men drunk on ambition becoming friends.

“Maybe they can be of use,” suggests Elana Balazar, Dante Balazar’s successor as Second Talon.

The talons emphasize the need to aggressively recruit. More slaves or elves from alienages. More orphaned children or refugees. Prey on desperation and brokenness—to recover the losses from the last blight. A tradition.

How the houses source their talent remains within their rights. But over the past decade, objectionable practices have made them vulnerable to other houses declaring war against them. A show of force, posturing—more than anything.

If there’s one thing Antivans enjoy more than excessively dramatized family intrigue, it’s attention. Illario isn’t ashamed to admit he enjoys it too, but this isn’t about him.

The topics are tedious. And frankly, he doesn’t care. So he mostly tunes them out, though their irate voices are hard to ignore. From Lucanis’ tone, he’s already at his wit’s end as he deters the others from the distasteful suggestions.

“There are other ways to build our ranks,” Lucanis argues. “House Dellamorte has survived with only three people.”

Illario’s sure he didn’t imagine Lucanis’ heavy sigh.

“But your house is the exception,” a voice calls out. “Most are in agreement that we’re backed against a wall now. We need to strengthen our forces in any way we can.”

A chorus of ‘hear, hear’ follows.

Must suck to be a Fereldan in Antiva now.

In moments like these, Illario wishes his grandmother would return from retirement—if only for Lucanis to stop sounding so fucking drained.

Caterina still oversees the contracts House Dellamorte will take, but she’s been unleashing Lucanis on the other houses for the most part. Understandable, if this is what she had to deal with for the past, what, forty?-fifty? years.

The woman’s already pushing eighty. She’s bound to keel over sooner or later.

Illario’s breath hitches as the ghost of his most pitiful self—a drunk, bloodied mess—leans over him, bent at the hips. A cold whisper grazes his ear with a taunting lilt:

Illario should have been First Talon.

The thought sinks its teeth in before he can shove it aside.

The weight of the First Talon’s seat is acid—corrosive and familiar. It wouldn’t have burned him anymore.

Unlike Lucanis, though, he doesn’t have a bleeding heart. But given the circumstances, Illario’s unsure if the trait is beneficial. Probably not.

He roughly scrubs a suddenly clammy hand over his face. Dwelling on the ‘what-ifs’ of that particular scenario is moot because he isn’t First Talon anyway.

“I believe the First Talon noted Illario Dellamorte’s… debatable standing within the Crows as part of the agenda.”

His ears perk up at the mention of his name. Finally. They’ve been at it all afternoon arguing about logistics and are only getting to the most important bit: to not talk about what to do with him.

The two times he’d been privy to this conversation, Illario made a game of how many creative insults they’d throw at him. The results were unimpressive. Most talons have humor as grating as it is mind-numbing, though Marion has topped his scoreboard—unsurprising, really.

Illario recalls the Third Talon’s last jab—that “his pert ass won him the Evanuris’ and Venatori’s favors.” Quite entertaining, though a bit off the mark. Using his ass is a weapon of last resort. He didn’t even need to use that on Elgar’nan.

“We still have time today,” Lucanis affirms, tone eager.

Illario sighs. For such a very extravagant house, the Valisti manor has paper-thin walls.

“A traitor is a traitor.”

Bolivar Nero—the miserable coward of a Sixth Talon—doesn’t waste his chance. A fool drowning in debt and alcohol, yet somehow clinging to his seat. The old elf has developed some backbone without Caterina around, and the new talons have yet to glare condescendingly at his idiocy. His fingers twitch as he stamps down an urge to storm the meeting.

What wouldn’t Illario do to make that man kneel and cry before the Crows?

He’s despised Bolivar—ever since Sebastian happened. Bolivar’s right hand. Yet a naive Illario didn’t question the older assassin’s constant presence in Treviso when their house operated in Rialto.

“Illario Dellamorte’s good for nothing but his tongue.” Bolivar eggs on.

“Don’t speak about Illario like that.”

Lucanis again, but his voice is distant. Illario barely hears past the ghosts in his head, shielding him from the hostility permeating the walls like smoke.

Sebastian wormed through his defenses—like undetectable poison, sweet on the tongue but rots his inside. Illario learned from him. Started trusting him. Let himself be shaped by clever hands, his thoughts…

His body.

Then the bastard spiked his drink.

A phantom hand presses against his thigh. The tavern is gone, but leering smiles still surround him. The smooth baritone brushes against his ear, cajoling, paralyzing:

“You really are magnificent, Illario.”

He blinks. Still numb.

But the crashing in his chest hurts.

Fuck. Illario would do anything to beat the shit out of Sebastian again.

“The entirety of Antiva knows your cousin kneels for just about anyone. Even without a contract.” The venom in Bolivar’s voice puts motion back into his body.

“And what do you know, Bolivar?” Lucanis counters immediately.

Illario flexes his fingers, overextending that they’re starting to ache. His foot is burning a hole through the patterned marble.

Bolivar Nero was thirty-one—six years younger than Lucanis—when he became the Sixth Talon. A greater spendthrift than Illario, carelessly throwing money at anyone who looked at him suggestively. His arrogance matched his spinelessness: Bolivar relies on his gold, even when fighting his battles.

“You dog! The snake had you killed twice, yet your whore of a cousin has you drooling for scraps like this.” The wine on Bolivar’s rancid breath floods Illario’s nostrils.

Shatter!

Glass explodes against stone.

“Did a year in the Ossuary beat the bite out of the great Demon of Vyrantium? Did you also wag your tongue for Venatori di—”

“I suggest you shut your mouth, Sixth Talon...” A chair hastily scrapes against the floor as Lucanis cuts off his drunken accusations.

“… should you wish to keep your tongue.”

The chill in Lucanis’ voice freezes him like Caterina’s water training. That tone is reserved. A knife thrown at people Lucanis finds abhorrent. Even when Illario and Lucanis were… entangled in his fucked up schemes, it was only used once then.

He slumps further against the bench.

After he fought with Lucanis that damned evening, Illario tried to raise his involvement with Sebastian to the Sixth Talon. What he and his cohorts had done. Illario’s still the First Talon’s grandson—he should have been granted some level of implicit immunity from shitty things Crows do to other Crows of lower rank.

The Sixth Talon waved him off and swept everything under the rug. Bolivar would rather use Sebastian’s devious skills than punish him. The Master Assassin earned the house too much coin and favors. He considered Lucanis’ insistence on going to Caterina, but their relationship had always made him scowl.

Illario’s hurt, untraceable. Like the corpses he’d erased without second thought.

And so Illario burned his weakness down until it was ashes. Rebuilt his bones in silverite, sharp angles, and fury. Mastered the right smile and the right nod so his eyes gleamed in the light. Perfected the right sway of his hips to snare unsuspecting targets into his chosen battlefield: inconspicuous alleys or brothel rooms.

Like a dagger ground against whetstone, he honed himself until the feeling of filth was all but shredded from his skin.

Until Illario became what a Crow is meant to be: a ruthless blade with a body.

What else is he good for, anyway?

Between the ringing in his ears and the thumping in his chest, Illario hasn’t heard anyone speak for a while. Probably didn’t want to get in between the First and Sixth Talon.

“Fine. Have it your way, First Talon.” Bolivar finally concedes, still vexed, but his voice shriller. Fucking coward.

A chair squeaks again, then silence.

After some time, Sebastian and his friends disappeared. Bolivar started looking at him differently afterward. To this day, Illario still doesn’t know what happened, and he really can’t be bothered to know anymore, but he’s confident it wasn’t on the Sixth Talon’s orders.

“We can’t let the Crows be muddled by this, especially in the aftermath of the Antaam invasion and the blight.” Viago’s detached but smooth baritone drags him back to the stupid corridor. “We may not like it, but Illario Dellamorte is still an asset.”

Huh.

Illario blinks. Confusion doesn’t cover what he’s feeling.

The king’s bastard is defending him.

The Fifth Talon has refrained from giving his opinions in the past when Illario was still under his care. They’ve known each other for years, but the man tolerates him at best. Illario’s sardonic attitude towards Viago doesn’t help his case. So, it must be Lucanis’ doing: his cousin has an uncanny ability to make particularly distrustful men bow to him. Illario would know.

“Viago’s right. We can’t deny Illario’s skills,” Andarateia backs Viago. “We also must consider that he fought against Elgar’nan’s Venatori during the Sixth Blight.”

Those two are often of one mind despite their opposite personalities. Teia must be fucking Viago’s ass well enough to remove the stick that’s lived in it for as long as Illario knew him.

The clinking of wine glass hitting wood echoes. “Are we sure the First Talon can keep his conniving cousin on a leash? He’s inferior to Caterina. Forse anche alla cugina puttana,” Marion interjects, the deliberate curl in his Antivan is mocking. “We all saw how much of a bleeding heart he is. I’d rather have the Fifth Talon as the traitor’s keeper.”

“Brutto stronzo! I do not wish—”

Viago bristles. Hands slam onto something before Lucanis interrupts again.

“I’d prefer you not speak about me as if I’m not here.” His voice is ice. Illario takes a shaky breath, bracing for the worst and preparing to bust the doors down.

The talons don’t seem unnerved, though.

“What else do you have going for you besides your skills with a knife? You’re hardly an intellectual, and you’re also not as cutthroat as Caterina. An abomination on top of that,” Dario Ferragani, the Fourth Talon, sneers.

House Ferragani had previously lost their seat to House Aranai, but they crawled up more obstinately after Emil Kortez’s treachery.

“Caterina trusts me enough. If you have objections to my leadership, you can try killing me,” Lucanis challenges without missing a beat, assured and icy.

Dead silence.

The confidence placates Illario’s spiraling mind.

A vision of the banquet hall flashes behind his eyes. Lucanis—with his usually kind, brown eyes—intensely staring the other talons down to reticence. A sharp glint that could cut through dragon bone. Illario can’t help but snicker.

Those brown eyes that stay soft behind locked doors. That well up with tears whenever Illario—

He shifts against the bench, feeling the stirring tightness in his trousers despite his muddled thoughts.

A loud clap breaks the standstill.

“Basta. We’ll discuss this some other time. Most of us agree that Illario Dellamorte’s treachery cannot be overlooked. You’re free to keep him as your pet project. That’s House Dellamorte’s prerogative.” Giorgia Aranai—who assumed the role of Eight Talon following her sister Giuli’s death—concludes the meeting.

“Let’s adjourn for now. We’ve covered everything there is to discuss, and further points about Illario Dellamorte will just go in circles.” Elana follows diplomatically.

“Finally.” Dario chimes in, pleased.

It’s been five months since Illario attempted to usurp the Crows and two since the world almost ended. The talons still refuse to fully take him back into their ranks, but Illario understands.

Still, he thinks the other talons are using him as leverage over the First Talon. Undeniably, he is baggage—to Lucanis, to House Dellamorte.

It’s not like Illario cares that much about the Antivan Crows anymore. The guild’s as dirty as he is, even with Lucanis at the helm. Fixing an ages-old, efficient but rotten system is an impossible mountain for a single man to climb. Especially if the other talons oppose his cousin’s somewhat idealistic vision for the Crows.

“First. I want to ensure better training for fledglings. To not start as young as we did.”

If those aren’t absurd enough, the First Talon is also saddled with a demon and his traitor cousin. He’d have better chances of getting something done for the Crows if he just gets rid of Illario and Spite. But Lucanis isn’t recognized for his rationality. He often lets his emotions be his guiding force despite how mildly he presents them. It shows.

The tapping of his leather shoe still fills the empty hallway.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Illario doesn’t have anything better to do, so he stays.

It’s not that Lucanis needs guarding, but it makes Illario feel better that he’s with him.

He wills the last of his unease to leave his body. Lucanis can’t know. Even with his plate full, he’d take it upon himself to fix Illario if he sees.

Because Lucanis is a fool. A determined, stubborn fool.

“When will we—”

“I’ll take my leave, First Talon,” Giorgia cuts firmly; the finality in her voice leaves no room for Lucanis to rebut.

The chairs scratching against the marble floor signal the absolute end of the talons’ farce of a summit. Footsteps shuffle. The banquet doors open.

Bolivar Nero emerges first. The same as always—shock of long white hair in a low ponytail, fine suit lined with bear fur, still shorter than Illario. Still carrying a half-empty bottle of Antivan Red. His second, probably, if the crash earlier was his bottle.

The Sixth Talon haughtily stands before Illario, staring him down coldly for a few seconds. His gaze drags from Illario’s face to his leather boots. Then, Bolivar walks away without a word.

The other talons and their staff follow suit. Illario watches them pass him without regard, but Marion Valisti shoots him a curious glance before disappearing down the hall. Soon, only Viago and Andarateia remain. Lucanis hasn’t come out yet.

Viago wears his permanent scowl but acknowledges Illario with a curt nod. Andarateia is all smiles, as always.

“You were here all this time?” Teia asks, surprised by his presence.

Illario and Lucanis arrived a little later than noon—later than his cousin considers acceptable. Lucanis hates being a burden to anyone, a lesson that Caterina hammered into them both, but Lucanis took to heart like a prayer.

Still, Illario’s not sorry. He’s a man of carnal pleasures and couldn’t resist making Lucanis cry this morning—not when he was awakened so pleasantly.

He won’t ever question what possessed his cousin earlier. Only wishes, in fact, for it to happen more often.

Illario stirs, spooning Lucanis, his chest already familiar with the contour of Lucanis’ back. But it’s the friction against his groin that shakes off the fog from sleep: Lucanis is grinding hard against him. His thoroughly marked shoulders are on full display as he does.

Fuck.

As Illario’s hips respond instinctively, Lucanis clasps the hand draped over him and guides it to his arousal, “Fuck me before we leave. I expect it to be a long day.”

“Mmm. Good morning to you, too.” Illario smiles into Lucanis’ nape before biting down.

Fucking Lucanis.

“Always a privilege to be graced by your presence, Andarateia.” Illario flashes his most charming smile, knowing Teia enjoys the game as much as he does.

Leaning back, Illario cups his chin in feigned contemplation. “Truly, I would rather be anywhere else, but Lucanis made me come.”

He suppresses the lewd snicker that wants to escape because then they would definitely be in trouble. Illario really wants to be somewhere else—tracing the bruises currently hidden under Lucanis’ leathers, those marks beckoning him to color the man’s throat with more vibrant purples…

Not now. An echo of Lucanis’ strict voice scolds him. They’re in public.

Illario bites his lip and pushes his indecency aside.

Instead, he turns his attention to his favorite prey. Spreading his knees apart, Illario languidly leans forward, resting an elbow on his leg, chin in his palm. As the Fifth Talon meets his eyes, a sly smile curves his lips. “I heard you defending my honor, Bastard of the King. You’re going soft.”

Viago scoffs. “I was merely acknowledging your utility, Lesser Dellamorte.”

“Admit it, you like—”

Faint footsteps interrupt his teasing. Barely audible, even if there is no attempt to conceal them. Illario just knows the sound by heart.

From his periphery, Illario sees Lucanis finally come out of the hall. Exhaustion and frustration are evident in how Lucanis scowls and hunches his shoulders. The excitement he felt earlier evaporates at the sight.

Standing, Illario jerks a thumb to where Lucanis is brooding. “Apologies. That’s my cue to leave. Can’t have my grumpy cousin deal with his gloom alone.”

He takes Teia’s hand and gently kisses her knuckles. “Mia cara, let’s have wine soon.”

Teia chuckles lightly, matching the sensuality in his tone. “Only if you don’t poison it.”

Despite what Illario did, Teia somehow became warm to him again after he cleaned himself up. He can’t fathom why, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s nice—to still have someone in the Crows who treats him normally. As if Illario didn’t double-cross them before.

“I’m not Viago,” he quips. “I’d rather my conquests be alive and breathing when I kiss them.”

Illario winks at Teia and smirks at the obviously agitated Viago, who struggles to hold back his annoyance by gripping his walking stick so tightly that his fist trembles. Watching the man seethe genuinely brings childlike joy to Illario.

He doesn’t wait for the two talons to wave him off before he saunters over to where Lucanis is still trying to center himself by the large double doors of the banquet hall. Illario can only imagine what went on inside by the sounds and sharp voices, but whatever the other talons did during the meeting undoubtedly disturbed Lucanis.

Placing a hand on his cousin’s shoulder, Illario asks, “You alright?”

Lucanis sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just tired. I’m sorry, Illario.”

“I’ve told you repeatedly: I don’t mind. I’m perfectly content being the First Talon’s bodyguard.” He’s already assured his cousin about this countless times, but Lucanis also inherited Caterina’s single-mindedness. Illario wonders if this is his way to atone for the past.

“It’s just…” Lucanis begins, but the words falter in his throat.

The dejection on his features urges Illario to pull him into his arms, but he settles for a grin instead.

“They can shove whatever else they said up their asses. You’re doing what you can.”

Firmly draping an arm over Lucanis’ shoulders, Illario ushers him to start walking. He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper even with no one around, so only Lucanis can hear. “Let’s go home, yeah? I’ll run you a bath.”

Lucanis still carries his gloom, but his gratitude is genuine, “Thanks.”

It’s past five in the afternoon, judging by the low sun and the Treviso air already cooling.

The manor’s outdoors lacks the opulence of its interiors. Illario can appreciate the well-maintained garden, but it still doesn’t compare to their estate. Caterina’s very fussy about their gardens, as she is with everything else.

The thought dampens his mood. There’s no doubt that Illario is Caterina’s grandson, even if they aren’t fond of each other.

They walk through the modest vineyard to the main gates, where their carriage awaits. Lucanis won’t appreciate any trivialities at the moment, so Illario keeps his mouth shut. His arm still hasn’t left Lucanis’ shoulders. They’ve been rigid the entire time.

The Valisti manor is perched on the coast, on the borders of Treviso and Antiva City, more than an hour away from home. It won’t be a long journey.

But Illario expects it to be a quiet one.

“Master Lucanis, Master Illario.” Their coachman—Giuseppe—bows after he opens the door to the carriage. He doesn’t show any uneasiness about his cousin’s completely obvious distress. A result of more than a decade of being Caterina’s personal chauffeur, perhaps.

“Giuseppe.” Illario nods as he guides a reticent Lucanis inside.

The carriage is plush but confining: the sole door and window heavily curtained, dark purple velveteen seats, and a small metal slab covers the slit where they can talk to the coachman.

They both settle in the front quarter, their backs to Giuseppe.

Lucanis still won’t talk, so Illario intertwines their hands and rests them on his right thigh. As a child, Lucanis was very tactile. His hands often accompanied his emotions. As they grew older, Illario stopped being on the receiving end of it. It’s not really difficult to guess why.

Then, the trait showed itself again after they’ve reconciled. It’s even more consistent now. More frequent, in light of the different… bond that is blooming between them.

A quarter of their journey passes in torturous silence, but Illario endures. After some time, the warmth of skin seeps through the yoke of his well-ironed, samite button-down.

Here, inside this dark, stuffy, and jerky carriage, Illario thinks—his cousin’s large and heavy forehead is a welcome weight on his shoulder if it means Illario will take away Lucanis’ burden, even if only a little.

Even if only for now.

The same traitorous thought earlier is a snake slithering from the back of his head to his ears:

Does Illario absolutely not deserve First—?

Illario shoves it down. Not now.

Not when Lucanis is here.

As Lucanis’ shoulders sag further and the tension eases, Illario deems it safe to speak. “Rose and citrus oil or the sandalwood and pine-scented one for the bath later?”

Lucanis’ voice is muffled as he buries his face deeper into Illario’s shoulder. “Sandalwood, please.”

“Alright.”

No words are spoken between them for the rest of the journey.

But the silence doesn’t feel suffocating anymore.

7:04 in the evening.

Illario and Lucanis arrive at House Dellamorte, exhausted from the eventful afternoon. His right shoulder remains numb from Lucanis leaning on it for most of the ride home. The pins and needles have spread across his arm from the lack of movement. He didn’t want Lucanis to know his discomfort.

He hides the wince as he pulls his shoulder blades back to put feeling back into them.

The villa is alight with golden sconces, but the halls are hollow. As it has always been, even when the sharp, rhythmic click against stone from Caterina’s cane fills the villa.

House Dellamorte was never meant to house only three people. Only him and Lucanis. Only Caterina, even when her ghosts clung to the tapestries inside barred, sacred rooms.

But tonight, their grandmother is nowhere to be found. Only Lucia is waiting by the main hall, bowing as they enter.

Her crinkled eyes greet them warmly. “Good evening, Master Lucanis. Master Illario.”

The elderly helper’s cheerfulness is a comfort they’ve embraced over the years, starkly contrasting with Caterina’s distant demeanor.

“I’ve already set the dining table. Do you have any other requests for the evening, masters?” She continues, ever gentle.

Illario reflects her pleasant mood, “Evening, Lucia. Can you bring our dinner to my room?”

“Will do, Master Illario.”

Illario hasn’t expected Lucanis to chime in, but he does. His words spill clumsily. “Lucia… is… is Caterina…?”

The gloom hasn’t completely bled out of his body yet; Illario catches the way his fingers twitch against his trousers.

“She retired for the evening. Mentioned the onset of a migraine earlier. Told me to let you know not to bother her for the night.” Lucia’s one of the few who can figure Lucanis out. She’s seen them grow up, after all.

Lucanis exhales, shoulders easing a little—Illario knows it’s not relief. Just a different weight from the postponement of a sentence.

Lucia bows, and her warmth vanishes into the kitchen.

Once she’s out of sight, Illario interlaces their hands again. “You better?”

Gaze cast downwards towards their joined hands, Lucanis replies, “Somewhat.”

“Let’s have dinner first, then I’ll wash your hair. Is that alright?” Illario squeezes, hoping his plans for the evening will bring some comfort.

The corners of his cousin’s mouth curl up, not enough to be considered a smile. “… sounds lovely.”

For a fleeting moment, Illario’s chest lightens.

“I have fantastic ideas, as always,” he quips.

That gets a snort out of Lucanis before he drops Illario’s hand as they walk toward the bedchambers.

For now, it’s enough.

7:17 in the evening.

In the muted, yellow glow of lights inside Illario’s room, they settle on the large, high bed. A respectable distance from each other, expecting Lucia to arrive with their food any minute now. Illario’s right foot taps nervously against the carpeted floor—he’s never done well with silence since childhood.

“I’ve already started the water,” Illario breaks the quiet, murmuring, “so the tub will be ready after dinner.”

Lucanis doesn’t look up from watching his fidgeting hands. “You spoil me.”

“As if you don’t fuss over me like a mother hen.”

The soft squeak of wheels prompts him to turn away from Lucanis toward the room’s entrance as a knock reverberates against his door.

“Master Illario, dinner.”

“The door’s unlocked, Lucia. You may enter.”

With practiced ease, Lucia rolls in the food trolley laden with two breakfast trays. She sets the trays on the bed and arranges plates of salmon and butter gnocchi, churros, and small cups of brewed dark roast. The blend of scents from the warm meal wafts through the room—uplifting, given their terrible day.

“Masters, enjoy dinner. I’ll take my leave.” Lucia bows and departs.

In the lull of the evening, silence blankets the room as they begin to eat. The clinking of utensils against china is a balm to Illario’s unease, but Lucanis eats mechanically; his fingers curl around the fork too tightly.

He doesn’t say anything.

When he finishes, Illario locks his door and rummages through his closet for clothes Lucanis can borrow. His cousin’s room is down the hall, but Illario’s clothes suit him better. He places their change of clothes by the foot of the bed.

Lucanis puts his tray on the floor. Turning to him, he declares softly, “I’m done.”

Illario casually jerks his thumb towards his bathroom. “The tub’s ready. Get in when you feel like it.”

7:42 in the evening.

When Illario enters, Lucanis is already settled inside the foamy tub, his head submerged in the water, just shy of his nose. His arms are perched on its edges, and his eyes are shut. Lucanis looks at peace like this.

They used to bathe together as children.

The memory pierces him like a sharp knife between the fourth and fifth ribs—of tiny hands gripping imaginary swords whetted to a similar edge. Of imitating Lords of Fortune, of carefree laughter before they dove under the bubbly water to look for sunken treasure.

His heart lurches as he remembers.

During borrowed time between brutal training and wyvern hunts, they pretended: ten-year-old Illario manned the ship, and Lucanis was the lookout with his toy telescope.

A want hidden from the light of day—long put to rest that Illario forgot it himself—coils around his throat, suffocating. It winds itself in his chest, twisting the same imagined knife. Growing tighter with the resurfacing of phantoms of each tepid caress and each learned pleasure from the swipe of tongue inside his mouth:

To be anything else but Antivan Crows.

To be… anything.

Illario stares. Lucanis stays frozen.

“Comfortable?” He finally asks, breaking the silence that clings heavily between them.

The response is a stream of bubbles emerging around Lucanis’ face.

A laugh bubbles from Illario’s throat, too.

Rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, Illario takes a seat on a worn footstool beside the tub. Lucanis tilts his head back, a granted permission, before he mumbles, “Spite likes the bubbles.”

Illario puts sandalwood-scented lye soap between his hands, rubbing it until it foams, and begins washing Lucanis’ hair. “What’s it doing now?”

Lucanis stares blankly in the direction of his feet where foam has amassed, “Poking them,” he answers after a moment, his tone unimpressed.

After a pause, Lucanis grumbles at the empty space, “Spite, you’re not tangible. They won’t pop.”

“It’s not doing any harm. Let Spite be,” he teases his grumpy cousin, chuckling.

“Spite’s pouting at me. Told me you’re better,” Lucanis replies, something vulnerable and raw and personal slips through his gruff demeanor. Illario’s not sure if he was meant to hear it.

“I’m sure it’s a lie,” he reassures before leaning closer, working his fingers through the thick strands of hair.

Lucanis doesn’t respond. They allow the silence to build between them as Illario continues to massage his scalp.

A long bump runs from where his cousin’s hair starts at the nape to the skin beneath the tip of his left ear, the scar stretched by age—an injury from their first equestrian training when they were nine. Lucanis startled the horse after excitedly mounting it, laughing loudly and wrongly tugging at its reins. His tiny body flew, and he hit his head on the stony pavement outside the training grounds. Their stablemaster had to carry a concussed and bleeding Lucanis to their infirmary with Caterina and Illario in tow. The healer stitched him up and cast healing magic.

Lucanis was back in training the next day.

Illario learned not to make unnecessary noises after that. Lucanis’ brightness didn’t wane.

After some minutes of nothing, the quiet tips to become unbearable again.

Shifting his gaze back to Lucanis’ face, Illario watches his eyelids flutter, heavy with drowsiness. Spite usually takes over whenever his cousin is asleep, but even that has lessened recently.

Illario pours water from the pewter jug, washing away the soap. His free hand is still combing through Lucanis’ hair.

On the rare occasions when Spite revealed itself to Illario, it had been easier to decipher how Lucanis felt. The demon is excessively chatty about things his cousin would never tell a soul.

If Illario still had his blood magic, perhaps he could have coaxed the demon out, but that skill died with Elgar’nan.

A week after the Sixth Blight ended, fatigue catches up with Lucanis. Illario observes his cousin’s lethargy as they go about their day in the Cantori Diamond: the First Talon is hunched over his desk in the casino’s receiving area, his elbow propped against the table and his head resting on his palm. His traitor cousin stands guard to his left.

The tremor in his fingers is subtle but unrelenting. By day’s end, Lucanis has only managed to finish a third of the stack of papers, which pales in comparison to his usual capacity of three-fourths.

Illario stays silent. He only watches, as he always does in public.

When they get home, Lucanis heads straight to his room and skips dinner. By the time Illario joins him, his cousin is out cold. As the bed dips, Lucanis instinctively scoots closer to Illario, resting his heated forehead on his shoulder, seeking warmth.

“Have you had anything? You’re warming up.” Illario murmurs quietly, concern creeping into his voice.

“Mm-mm. Just need to sleep it off,” is his cousin’s dismissive reply, so Illario doesn’t push further.

Illario wakes to the absence of warmth.

“Lucanis?” Illario calls out groggily, feeling the bed for his cousin’s weight. Where Lucanis should’ve been is dampness in the sheets.

“‘m fine. Go sleep.”

Lucanis doesn’t sound fine.

Sitting up, Illario glances over to the other end of the bed. Lucanis is turned away from him, the fabric of his shirt clinging to his upper back, drenched. He’s shivering, even cocooned under the thick duvet.

Illario rests a hand against Lucanis’ nape to check for his temperature. Fever-hot.

The minute stiffening of his spine doesn’t go amiss before Lucanis turns abruptly and reaches back to painfully grasp Illario’s wrist. The glowing purple eyes and furrowed brows are at odds with how flushed Lucanis’ face is.

“Lucanis. Doesn’t like you touching. Our neck.” A voice that doesn’t belong to Lucanis growls. Deep and distorted and menacing.

The demon—Spite.

Illario tugs at his hand, but it won’t let him pull away. Its words catch him between caution and curiosity. “He doesn’t seem to mind my mouth.”

“Your mouth. Is good. Now.” Spite agrees, but behind the demon’s acquiescence is something acidic—like a rotten lie chanted until it rang true.

“And my hands?”

Spite violently twists to face him fully. The grip on Illario’s wrist tightens. The anger is palpable in the way Lucanis’ fevered face contorts into a scowl as the demon almost snaps Illario’s bones.

“No hands! Not anyone’s! Not Illario’s! Don’t touch!”

He doesn’t flinch and pushes for an answer instead. “Why?”

“Hands. Chains around our neck. As they hurt us.” Spite replies, its fury simmering just beneath the surface.

The demon releases his hand, but Illario will never forget the moment its words carve a bottomless wound in his chest:

“As you hurt him.”

Spite settles them back into a fevered sleep. Illario lies without the imprint of Lucanis’ body on him for the rest of the night.

That was the first time he touched Lucanis’ neck after they’d started sleeping together. Illario learned quickly. He was again reminded to be careful—to become more attuned with his cousin’s tells. To seek permission with every touch. To let Lucanis decide when he wants to be touched.

To read Lucanis by his subtleties because he still endures.

And Spite, for all its cryptic words, is easier to understand than Lucanis himself.

“Mmm…” A soft, sleepy moan escapes Lucanis’ lips as he melts against the cool stone surface, signaling it’s time for Illario to stop. The suds are long rinsed away, anyway.

“Done. Don’t want you falling asleep and drowning here.”

Lucanis grumbles from where he’s still boneless against the stone, “You can save me.”

“My shirt’s expensive. Now, up.” Illario flicks water between his closed eyes and nudges him to stand. Lucanis mumbles something under his breath but removes himself from the tub.

8:28 in the evening.

Illario herds a dripping Lucanis out of the bathroom and into his bed, still wrapped in a robe. After triple-checking his door’s double locks and dimming the lights further, Illario starts drying Lucanis’ hair. Lucanis leans into his touch, half-lidded and pliant, submitting again to his whims.

“I was thinking of cutting my hair,” Illario muses, testing the waters.

Lucanis’ grip on his forearm is immediate and vice-like, preventing movement. A scowl pulls at his mouth, and Lucanis looks Illario squarely in the eyes: “No.”

Illario’s eyebrows shoot up at the unexpected vehemence. “Why not? I’ve had this same fucking bun for almost two decades already.”

“No. If you ever cut your hair, I’ll give you back to Viago.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me, Illario.” Lucanis challenges, unwavering.

The fire in Lucanis frees his ribs from the barbed wire coiled around them. Defiance is better than the complete deference Lucanis displays towards Illario. It’s… terrifying—how much control Illario has over his cousin. With the passing of months, the fear only grew.

How much is Lucanis willing to lose for him?

“Fine. Why not, though?”

Lucanis shifts his gaze away as he murmurs, “… I like it.” A pause. “Your long hair. It suits you.”

“That’s it?”

A huff of exasperation. “Yes. Now, are you done drying mine? I want to sleep already. It’s been a long day.”

Understanding that further talking about it will not go anywhere, Illario offers a distraction:

“You’re mistaken if you think you’ll even get a wink tonight.”

That perks Lucanis up. “What do you have in mind?”

Chuckling at the sudden interest, he caresses Lucanis’ cheek. “Relax. Just lie down. Let me clean up a bit first.”

9:01 in the evening.

Illario doesn’t linger in the shower; the day has already given him plenty of time to wallow in his thoughts. It’s not healthy.

As he dries off, his reflection stares back: the darkness under his eyes not from kohl, and his chapped lips. His straight, raven locks fall to his shoulders, hiding the undercut.

Illario sets aside thoughts of getting a haircut.

When Illario emerges from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, Lucanis is already sprawled on the bed, blanket pooling around his waist. On his stomach with his face pressed into a pillow. His back is an intricate mosaic of bruises and bites—marks that Illario etched with teeth. Undeniable proof that Lucanis is his.

With his hair disheveled and his eyelids heavy, Lucanis is devastatingly beautiful.

Illario slips into the empty side of the bed, careful not to disturb Lucanis, before he noses at his nape.

“Told you I won’t let you sleep tonight.” Illario teases, his voice a low murmur.

Lucanis hums in dissent, a contrast to his earlier enthusiasm. “Mm. ‘m tired.”

A warm hand against the small of Lucanis’ back elicits a sudden jolt, arching his spine involuntarily.

“You don’t have to do anything. Swear.”

Without a second thought, Lucanis yields, “How’d you want me?”

“Lie on your back.”

Illario shifts so Lucanis can turn around, his dark hair fanning out on the pillow. Even half-asleep, Lucanis still finds Illario’s face, fingertips tracing his jaw with a tenderness that sends a shiver skittering down his spine.

Illario cages Lucanis, hands braced on each side of him. His head dips, nipping at his cousin’s neck. Blowing hot air onto the sensitive skin, he savors how Lucanis shivers at the sensation. His careful hand trails down Lucanis’ chest. Featherlight fingertips thrum against skin until they circle a nub, rubbing until it hardens with his touch.

A quiet moan spills from Lucanis’ lips, raw and breathless. “Illario… ah…”

Illario abruptly pulls away.

“You up for it now? Or do you want to sleep?” Illario smirks as Lucanis’ eyes slit open, dark brown and lucid and piercing. The glint in them, a blend of lust and irritation.

“Carajo—Illario! Finish what you started.”

Illario snickers, lips brushing beneath his jaw. “Your wish is my command.”

He buries his face in Lucanis’ throat again. His tongue traces fire over his pulse while his right hand maps the curve of Lucanis’ side. Skimming old hurt. From the scar on his right shoulder—a parting gift from Ambrose Forfex, when his arachnid leg skewered Lucanis from the back of his shoulder blades to his clavicle.

Over a jagged scar on his flank, a few inches above another by the cut of his right hip, one that Illario knows came from Ambrose, too. He had to reluctantly stitch that up so Lucanis wouldn’t bleed himself to death while they waited for their ship back to Treviso.

Raised and hard, this is different—a careless knife wound that was twisted from how it healed. One Illario doesn’t remember stitching.

“Remind me where this is from.”

“Ah. From the Ossuary. Zara likes scalpels,” Lucanis mentions nonchalantly. Whether he’s not bothered or hiding his discomfort, Illario can’t tell. His cousin’s eyes are covered with a forearm.

Zara’s name taints his own arousal. He shouldn’t have asked.

Illario doesn’t linger on the scar. Instead, his fingers travel lower, over the sharp jut of Lucanis’ hips, until Illario finds his half-hard cock, his hand stroking with unhurried precision. Illario then moves to his chest, devouring, nipping across the taut muscle. Leaving more proof.

He’s being selfish, but Illario needs the reminder tonight.

“Fuck—hah…”

A heated silence surrounds them for some time. Lucanis’ airy moans fill the crevices of the room, rounding its corners. Lucanis alone breathes life into everything Illario possesses. His bed, once utilitarian, now sacrosanct.

A place of worship.

After tightening his grip on Lucanis’ throbbing cock, Illario stops his ministrations.

“Hmm. Do you want to come like this tonight?” Even if mischievous and wanting, Illario asks. To measure how far Lucanis is willing.

The question has Lucanis’ fingers dig into his forearms with his destructive strength, pressing hard just enough to bruise. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Illario grins. Permission granted.

He settles between Lucanis’ legs, taking in the other man’s cock between his lips, and circles his rim with oiled fingers. Lucanis is still tender from their morning affair.

Two fingers press inside—slow, deliberate. His tongue never leaves Lucanis, swirling, until he takes him deep into his throat. A practiced skill. Bitterness floods his mouth. A taste so Lucanis, a rich tartness, like the cup of dark roast he downs like clockwork every six hours. The scent of him clouds Illario’s senses with consuming desire.

Every gasp is a prayer—hitching and whimpering whenever Illario pushes against a particular bundle of nerves. The lovely sounds invigorate him back to hardness, uncomfortably pressing against the bed. When Lucanis parts his legs further in surrender—another permission—Illario pulls back.

There are better ways to unravel Lucanis. Not like this.

Kneeling between his legs, Illario growls impatiently, “You ready?” while hooking a leg over his shoulders and sliding a pillow under Lucanis’ lower back.

“Yes. Fuck—yes.”

Lucanis is a masterpiece of debauchery. Thick lashes cast shadows over darkened, brown eyes. His cheeks are now a dark shade of pink, his mouth is slack and wet.

Hundreds of nameless people have submitted themselves to him like this, but none have made him feel pardoned.

His breath stutters as Illario presses forward. Earnest hands grasp the pliant man’s hips as the lithe body welcomes Illario as easily as it had every night since their first. Wanton hips roll upward to meet Illario, chasing the friction until it’s flush against him. He stays still, smug, as he lets Lucanis rut back into him for several seconds, searching for relief.

Desperate but also a menace, Illario wants him to beg. “Eager, are we?”

“Mierda—move, damn you.” Lucanis glares through the haze of pleasure. His voice—somewhere between a growl and a whimper—dilutes the venom in his threat, but Illario knows better. The undercurrent of danger within a pleasured Lucanis is an exhilarating aspect of their sins.

Illario clicks his tongue at the impatience.

“You’re bossy tonight, cousin.” But he doesn’t waste time. No use in procrastinating when Lucanis demands everything from him—of him.

Illario sets a frenzied rhythm, pounding Lucanis to the mattress. Burying himself to the hilt, swallowing every bitten-off curse from his lips.

A contented sigh slips from Lucanis, but his nose crunches up in distaste. “Hacer la… puñeta, imbécil… Don’t—”

A blissed-out moan. “—call me that…”

The warmth around Illario clenches at every drag of his length against it.

Even drunk with lust, Lucanis still chides him between cries, “While… you’re inside me…”

Illario’s stomach tightens, his stifled laugh breaking into a ragged groan. “Apologies, mio re.”

Lightning races through his veins as he splits Lucanis open, their undulating bodies in sync.

A perverse dance.

One that has become more familiar with every coupling behind their double-bolted doors. Inside their dark, shrouded rooms.

They fuck—until Lucanis becomes desperation. Until strangled whines spill from his lips, his writhing body thoughtless. His fists grip the sheets like a lifeline. His neglected cock smacks against his stomach at every thrust, weeping.

Illario doesn’t slow down. Tenderness isn’t what Lucanis needs tonight. He needs to forget.

And Illario needs to remember what he is.

Their frantic rhythm takes its toll. Tension knots in Illario’s core as he nears release. His nails dig deeper into Lucanis’ skin—leaving crescent-shaped proof.

Mindless, save for the name he worships on his lips, “Fuck—Lucanis… you…”

Illario’s hips falter as he chases the edge. Lucanis hides beneath his arm and bites his lip to muffle his whines.

Time fractures.

“I—Illario, ah—” Lucanis arches his back, body taut. Gasping his name like a wish unrealized before his comes undone. Illario barely picks up the broken plea from the debauched man under him:

“Fill me… up.”

The demand ruins him. His grip tightens—fingers clutching too hard around bony hips. With the pulsing heat around him commanding, Illario buries himself into Lucanis one last time before emptying inside, painting Lucanis with his claim.

Time starts again—slow.

When he has come to, Illario slowly pulls out his sensitive cock, wincing. “Fuck. Hah…”

Carefully, he eases Lucanis’ quivering leg down. He watches his seed, a remnant of him, dripping from Lucanis. Tainting the sheets.

Lucanis is wrecked—half-asleep and fevered. His body shivers with the aftershocks of their intimacy.

Illario wipes a damp towel across the other man’s stomach and backside, cleaning them off as thoroughly as possible. With quiet precision, Illario gingerly helps his dazed cousin into borrowed sleepwear. This has also become a practiced dance, much like the tending of cuts and bruises.

Like this, peace is Lucanis.

Pulling the covers over them, Illario teases lightly, “Sleeping already?”

A defiant mumble escapes Lucanis as he scrunches his eyes shut tighter, “Guess you failed.” The corners of his lips twitch in a quiet smile.

Illario chuckles softly against Lucanis’ skin as he presses a lingering kiss on his temple, “You’re just aging.”

Lucanis huffs in disagreement, his voice slurred and muffled but resolute, “Try dealing with Bolivar and see how you like it.”

“Ugh. Don’t mention his name in bed.” Illario can’t help but make a disgusted noise, his face scrunching in distaste.

“Night.”

Illario pulls him closer and stays awake for a while. Their legs tangle beneath the sheets as a welcome warmth settles between the places where their skins touch.

He forgets to check the time.

The clock on his faded wall reads 12:31 past midnight. The steady ticking, a mocking echo in the stillness of the room.

Sleep still eludes Illario.

Before Lucanis passed out completely, a flash of purple burned behind his half-lidded eyes as fast as it came. Spite had stirred but didn’t fully take him over. Instead, the demon let Lucanis succumb entirely to exhaustion.

In the darkness, Illario wishes he had the gift of his cousin’s necromancer friend.

He met him only once—Emmrich—during a small gathering their god-killing team planned after a month of their feat. Lucanis insisted that Illario come. His friends were suspicious of him but remained polite the entire evening.

But aside from Rook, Emmrich seemed the least enthused about his presence.

The necromancer approaches the corner of the dining area where he’s currently observing Lucanis and the others, “Pardon my interruption to your solitude, Illario. I’d like to get your thoughts on something.”

“Apologies, I didn’t quite catch your name…?” Illario flashes him an easy smile; they’re Lucanis’ friends. He should be civil, at least.

“Emmrich,” the necromancer replies, dipping into a slight bow, his movements precise and elegant.

“Emmrich, right. How can I help you?”

Emmrich places a hand on his stomach while the other gestures to the door, open-palmed, “Could you walk with me?”

Illario sees Lucanis discreetly watching them as they leave.

The silence feels uneasy; Illario knew very little about the man beyond the fact that he is a mage from Nevarra. Illario already dislikes getting his hands dirty; what pleasure could he even possibly feel about handling actual corpses?

So he waits for Emmrich to speak as they walk to the Lighthouse’s courtyard and the balcony across the dining hall.

When the mage deems it’s a safe place to stop, Illario props his arms against the stone railing, and Emmrich crosses his own beside him. Only then does the necromancer speak about why he pulled Illario away from the celebration.

“Lucanis has forgiven you for some time now,” Emmrich begins, his voice steady yet tinged with gravity, “but I possess a certain attunement to spirits—a gift, if you will.”

Emmrich sighs to gather his words. “… And I heard Spite.”

Illario stills.

The necromancer either doesn’t notice his tension or doesn’t care. “After Lucanis came back almost catatonic. Spite was furious. It’s a testament to how distraught Lucanis was that he didn’t notice me on his way to the pantry. I can only hear Spite in close proximity, you see.”

The next words out of the necromancer’s mouth freeze the blood in his veins, “We also… talked about it while Lucanis slept.”

The memory strikes in an instant. His body remembers before his mind does—his stomach twists, his breath catches, his temples throb. The chill sinks down his spine like death.

Illario presses his palms against his eyes, willing away the rising nausea. The weight of his actions, the scars he carved into Lucanis, lay bare before him.

He doesn’t want to know.

“What did it say?” He forces the words out, barely above a whisper.

“‘Lucanis laid there. Hollow! But his mind. Was crying. Like many times. In the Ossuary!’” Emmrich’s words grip Illario like a vice as he mimics the demon’s tempo. The soft voice not quite warping into something wrong, but it hits the same.

Bile burns his throat.

The necromancer’s voice softens, but the disappointment doesn’t. “That one struck me the most. But it doesn’t matter. You’re very fortunate that Lucanis loves you, and that has kept Rook from storming your house and committing grave murder.”

“I don’t know how to repent for it enough.” The words sound hollow in his ears.

“Illario,” Emmrich intones, kind despite the palpable distrust for Illario, “I’m not the one from whom you should seek absolution.”

“I’m trying,” he insists, fixating on the never-ending sky in the Fade. As vast as the desperation and guilt crushing his shoulders. Squeezing his skull, even without his cousin’s curse. This is his first time in the Lighthouse.

“I know it isn’t my place to say,” Emmrich clasps his hands together, the clanking of the necromancer’s bangles audible, “but we’ve watched Lucanis struggle. He’s come far. It would be reprehensible if he relapsed.”

A pause. “He doesn’t like showing it, but his grief is… was insurmountable.”

“The shovel talk?”

“No,” Emmrich insists, his tone earnest, “merely a piece of advice from his former colleague and dear friend. I’ve grown fond of both his and Spite’s company…”

Another pregnant pause. “Befriend Spite. He’ll help you navigate your cousin, for better or worse.”

Ah. Illario can try. He has to.

After a moment, he asks,“… who else knows?”

The question has haunted him after the haze of bliss from their reconciliation faded—after the dust had settled. The euphoria lasted a week.

“About what you actually did? I surmise, just me and Rook. He’s very observant despite the ditzy persona.”

Illario corrects, “About Lucanis and me.”

“Ah. Well, as far as I’m aware—it’s me, Rook, and Neve. Perhaps Davrin, by extension.”

A resigned sigh escapes him. “That’s too many.”

The necromancer mirrors his posture, finally leaning into the railing before commanding Illario’s attention with conviction.

The gentle lines on Emmrich’s face convey his sincerity. “You have my word that none of us will endanger Lucanis. Even if we don’t find the relationship ideal.”

When they return, Lucanis doesn’t ask him about it.

A soft mumble from Lucanis pulls Illario back to himself.

“Mm… ‘llario. My coffee…”

Illario peeks at Lucanis, who’s still buried in his chest. His breathing remains deep and steady. Unmarred by wakefulness.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

Illario’s unsure if it’s a trick of the mind, but he thinks Spite is lingering in the room, watching. The feeling has been irregular but recurrent in the past months.

Demons. Spirits. Illario cares little about the nuances when they’re all manifestations of virtues. Good or bad, for whatever the difference between those classifications is worth. Zara would wax poetics about these before—Wisdom turns to Pride. Determination to Spite. Possibly to Envy. Or was that Devotion?

“They just need certain conditions.” Her sensual voice echoes.

The magister’s name leaves an acrid taste on his tongue.

Lucanis curls against Illario further.

Illario wants to scrub himself raw, but he tries to sleep instead.

“I’ve always wanted a demon of Envy, but my latest experiment only yielded a demon of Spite.”

Zara’s voice is honeyed, teasing. Caressing his skin like silk, then tightening around his throat like a noose next. She’s naked, straddling Illario’s lap and dragging a well-manicured hand down his face. There’s a knowing glint in her eyes that Illario itches to understand.

A hand skims down the magister’s petite waist. Illario has to play his cards right. Treviso is already subjugated, and Caterina still refuses to relinquish First Talon for him. Even with Lucanis dead for half a year.

The wetness from Zara’s arousal seeps through his trousers.

Leaning forward from the leather armchair where he’s reading, Illario nuzzles Zara’s neck, smelling the notes of caramel in her perfume. Underneath, the tang of sulfur and metal—from practicing blood magic.

“Well,” he murmurs, his lips grazing her supple skin, “I am envious that you seem to have spent more time with this test subject recently than you do with me.”

Another hand drifts lower, fingertips ghosting the seam of her thigh until blunt fingers lightly circle Zara’s heat.

“Hmm…” A broken moan escapes her, but she regains herself masterfully, catching Illario’s teasing hand by the wrist.

Feeling her mouth around his wet fingers, he pulls away from Zara’s neck.

Illario watches, detached, as her lips part and take in his digits for some time. Her silver eyes never leave his intense blues. A hum vibrates against his fingers before she releases them with a soft pop.

“He is quite bewitching, my dear,” she muses, her fingers trailing down his cheek. “His will is so strong that none of my gentling has broken him.”

Zara grips his chin so Illario can see her devious, silver eyes. The candlelight beside him is reflected off her irises, burning him through her sharp gaze.

A wicked smirk curls her plush and glistening lips.

“And he has the most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen—second only to yours, Amatus.”

The words wrench him awake like a dagger to his gut.

A visceral grip tightens around his stomach and forces bile to rise in his throat. Blinking rapidly to banish the image of Zara, he wills his heart to stop crashing against his ribs. Not real.

The room is still dark. Still silent.

Lucanis is beside him. Still warm. He’s real.

“‘llario?” Lucanis murmurs softly, concern lacing his sleep-thickened voice. He shifts, looking up from where he’s crushed against Illario’s clavicle.

“I’m fine, Lucanis. Go back to sleep.” Illario consoles, his voice a low whisper, more reassuring than truthful. Wrapping his arms around Lucanis tighter. Lucanis sighs against his skin as he settles against Illario’s chest again.

They’re here. They’re together.

He’s been forgiven.

As his arm snakes around Illario’s waist, sleep quickly takes Lucanis once more. Unburdened.

The feeling of something lingering still crawls up Illario’s back.

The wall clock now reads 3:24 past midnight. Illario doesn’t go back to sleep.

As orange-purple light spills through the crack in his dark, heavy curtains, the sun warms the still air.

As Lucanis burrows further into his arms and heats his skin, the ice in Illario’s bones doesn’t thaw.

6:45 in the morning.

Illario has fifteen minutes before he needs to smile.

Stirring, the world beyond the four walls of his bedroom sings.

It’s time to face the music again.

Chapter Text

You know that I can’t
Show you me
Give you me
I can’t show you a ruined part of myself
Once again, I put a mask on and go to see you
But I still want you

The only thing I can do
In the garden, in this world
Is to bloom a pretty flower that resembles you
And to breathe as the me that you know

On his way to the armory, Illario overhears a slap before he registers the voices. A sharp crack of skin against skin rang from inside Caterina’s study.

“We are not charity.” Caterina’s voice is contained fury. “This is our life you’re risking. You will not die by your weak heart.” She doesn’t scream, but the threat is conveyed all the same.

“I’m sorry, Caterina,” Lucanis intones, voice steady. Flat. Too flat.

Illario stills against the door, pulse quickening. He knows his grandmother’s anger very well. It doesn’t roar or explode—it coils and chokes, precise like a garotte. Every word, a tether. Every hit, a pin on the map.

Another slap.

“I’ve already allowed your delusions about changing policies on the minimum age requirement for initiation.” A pause. “You’re pushing it too far.” Her words are a warning that also beats Illario to reticence.

Lucanis tries too hard.

Again. “I’m sorry, Caterina.”

Illario presses his ear to the door harder, feeling the cold wood against his cheek. He’s not supposed to hear this. Silence follows—thick and suffocating even from the outside.

Then, Caterina speaks. Her tone shifts—minute, calculated. Detached. To the First Talon who is pragmatic and unshaken, someone who has seen too much.

“I have a contract for you—in Orlais. Here.”

A long beat.

“In Val Colline? That’s quite far.”

“You were requested specifically.”

“Is it alright? To leave my duties as First Talon unattended.”

“In usual circumstances, I would not have accepted. But we need to recoup the Crow’s losses in any way we can. They offered an exorbitant amount of gold and information.”

“What are the terms?”

“Fifty thousand gold and information on recent Venatori-allied magister movements in Marothius—though nothing conclusive yet. So please don’t worry about that for now, First Talon,” a different voice answers—their contract negotiator.

“Ah. Understood. I’ll inform Illario.”

“They specified they will not pay for additional support.” Caterina shuts him down, tone even.

Illario’s gut twists. ‘They will not pay for additional support’—there’s something too pointed, too deliberate there. A subtle exclusion that he doesn’t fully grasp.

“And I will not take this contract without Illario.”

“Illario can be useful elsewhere.”

“No. I need him with me on this. I’m sure whatever they paid will be enough to cover both our services.”

The tension is unbearable, thick as static in his ears. Not even a squeak spills through, as if beyond the doors, everyone is frozen like marbled statues.

Then, a long exhale.

“Fine.”

Then, resignation.

“Thank you, Caterina. We’ll take the first ship to Orlais tomorrow morning.”

“… Come home safe, my boys.”

Footsteps move closer to the closed doors. He rushes to the armory before Lucanis can see him.

Illario won’t ask what Lucanis did. He never does. But Caterina sends them to Orlais. The contract is simple: a noble is stirring conflict over land. It really is beneath the First Talon’s attention, much less having someone with skills on par with a Master Assassin with him.

And so they find themselves confined in a worn, rented carriage en route to a city on the border of the marshes of Val Colline and the arid Western Approach. This is their first contract since the world almost ended two months ago.

Thedas is still standing. Still moving forward, but also forever changed.

Lucanis had lost more than the world during those months. Perhaps even lost more of himself to the world. To Illario.

And Illario is beginning to doubt whether either of them will find what they’re supposed to be moving forward.

Rows of dying trees line the road, their brittle branches already shedding brown leaves, a stark reminder of the cataclysm that shook Thedas. Beyond the window, the golden landscape, littered with fractures of destruction, is more disquieting than peaceful. It’s only Kingsway. The trees shouldn’t have lost this much.

Lucanis’ mood has been volatile since that last meeting with the talons four days ago. The meeting with Caterina didn’t help. He’s brooding now if his silence and sullen posture casting a palpable tension in the stuffy carriage are any indication. Sitting across Illario, Lucanis is gazing out the window, arms crossed by its sill and his chin resting on them. A bruise is blooming high on his left cheek, already purpling.

They’ve been in this carriage for three fucking hours already. After a day’s travel by ship.

Illario bursts.

“So, the target. Have you written a dossier on him?”

That breaks Lucanis’ pensiveness as the workaholic that he is. Lucanis shifts from where he’s resting against the glass, the smallest movement. “I gave it to you yesterday.”

Feigning shock, Illario grimaces and hits his palm with a fist. “Oh! So that’s what the thick manila envelope was.”

Illario then grins. “Lost it!”

Lucanis’ head snaps toward him. “I remember now why I don’t like bringing you with me.” His homicidal glare suggests he’s considering the logistics of throwing Illario out of the window.

But Illario is a menace, and Lucanis’ annoyance only fuels him further. “Come on, you love my charm. Love to sic it on unsuspecting women, too.” He winks. Lucanis flushes instantly.

It’s endearing how easily he can wreck his cousin’s composure, and he revels in it as it eases a bit of the heaviness between them.

“You’re an asshole,” Lucanis mutters, but his words are soft—like he’s already given up trying to stay mad at him.

Illario props his chin on his hand, smirking. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Lucanis looks at him—brief, unreadable—before turning back to the window.

Illario follows his gaze.

They used to dream about days like these when they were children—going to Orlais, getting away from it all. He can’t recall how many what-ifs had formed between them while they’re tucked under Lucanis’ thick duvet, but seeing wyverns was something Lucanis brought up any chance he got.

Illario never really cared for wyverns, but Lucanis did. So he learned to like them, too.

A raspy voice breaks through the quiet.

“Messieurs, there’s a checkpoint ahead.” The elderly coachman mutters through a small metal slot.

“Thank you. We’ll deal with it.”

Illario moves to sit beside Lucanis, putting himself between his cousin and the window and covering him as best he can.

Lucanis is easier to pick out from the crowd, to stick out like a sore thumb. Especially now, with how tension clings to him like a second skin. There’s a reason Lucanis always took to the shadows: both the guillotine and the authority of justice between them. No matter how much he denies it.

“This is the rule. You have to die. I’m sorry.”

Illario watches fifteen-year-old Lucanis slice a runaway fledgling’s left common carotid artery. Swift and clean, even as his dominant hand trembles. He’ll have to do this soon, too.

Death emanates from Lucanis, through and through.

Meanwhile, Illario has perfected the art of acclimating. Making himself inviting. Likeable. Other times, powerful. Or bending—making himself feeble.

Vulnerable, to get them what they need. His looks can be deadly if he wills it, but he rarely gets a kill.

That’s how it’s always been between them.

The carriage lurches forward, its wheels grinding over the uneven, loose gravel. A chevalier approaches their window, mounted on his steed. Another behind him.

Raising a hand, the chevalier’s thick Orlesian accent is heard through the glass. “Halte.”

The coachman heeds. The sudden stop jolts them both.

Illario recovers first, rolling the window down. His charming smile #4 is already in place. “Bonjour, messieurs. Comment on peut vous aider?” The Antivan is unmistakable in his cadence, but conversations are his forte. The way he speaks is precise. Illario trained himself thoroughly—he needed to be eloquent in all ways.

The chevalier studies them. His gloved hand rests on his reins as his mouth curls into a thin line. “From Antiva, then… Treviso? Rialto? Your Orlesian is quite good.”

Illario can feel the suspicion tugging at the edges of the chevalier’s words, the way he’s dissecting every element of their appearance—too much foreignness in their looks, their features too… elegant… for the beat-up carriage they’re in.

His smile doesn’t falter. “Non, non, pas de Treviso! My colleague and I are from Salle. I am pretty fond of Orlesian culture. Entirely self-taught.” His posture subtly shifts, the tilt of his head at the right angle for the submissiveness in his eyes to bounce off with the afternoon sun—just enough to convey openness.

The chevalier hums. “J’ai compris. You are quite far from here, in Val Foret.” His gaze sharpens, wary. Illario feels a flicker of doubt. Has he lost his touch?

He gathers himself just as quickly. Illario nods thoughtfully, his hand sweeping across the cramped carriage as if to excuse their modest presentation. “Sì, sì. We are in the business of blacksmithing, a humble one,” he says warmly, waving a hand to show the frayed bandages around it.

Illario leans forward, his voice dropping as he continues, “But the trade prices of quillbacks and wyverns have skyrocketed in Antiva, and we could not afford to procure our supplies with gold.”

Then, without missing a beat, he points to their hunting gear. “We’re on the way to the Western Approach.”

“Do you have your permit to hunt?”

“Sì!” Illario rummages through their pack, retrieving the forged papers. “Here it is,” he offers with a smile.

The chevalier takes it but doesn’t take a glance at it. Not yet. Instead, he strains his neck to peek past Illario.

“Your partner’s quiet. Does he know Orlesian?”

“Ah—” Illario starts, but Lucanis interrupts him.

“Oui, monsieur. Only a bit.” Lucanis smiles, not turning his head fully—hiding the bruise.

Lucanis continues smoothly, “Only ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir.’  My partner’s the studious one.” His body does not betray any unease he was feeling earlier. Partner. The term makes Illario’s heart skip a beat.

That seems to satisfy the chevalier. He finally directs his gaze to the document and scans through it for a while, the furrow in his brows and intensity in his shadowed, green eyes—showing how thoroughly he’s inspecting it.

Illario remains still, his pulse steady.

For a moment, the air in the carriage tightens before the chevalier returns the papers and nods, satisfied.

“Bonne chance. Les routes sont plus dangereuses. Maker, help us all.”

“Merci. Que le Creatore nous bénisse.” Illario dips his head, retrieving the permit before rolling the window up.

The chevaliers ride off.

Illario signals for the coachman to start moving again. The carriage jerks forward, the rhythmic creak of its wheels filling the space between them.

When they’re a considerable distance from the checkpoint, Lucanis closes the slit behind them. His movements are light and deliberate—hiding anxiety. As if to start something but unsure of how to go about it.

“I didn’t know you’re that fluent in Orlesian.”

The words are quiet with a hint of surprise, but there’s something else. Something more… accusing beneath the surface.

A secret. Or, secrets—a non-issue to Illario, but to Lucanis, clearly means something. They are assassins: their lives are built on corpses and deceit. This is not a conversation to be had in a rental, so he nudges it in a less terrifying direction.

Raising an eyebrow, Illario curls his lips into a playful grin, flashing perfect teeth. “It’s not like you weren’t forced to learn it, too,” he teases. “One does not become a master Casanova without picking up some vocabulary.”

“You weren’t with me during lessons. They were elementary-level at best. Also, we’ve gone to Orlais thrice. And only near Val Royeaux.”

Illario shrugs, unbothered. “Well, it’s a useful skill, isn’t it? Charmed those chevaliers enough. And, like I said, entirely self-taught.”

Lucanis tilts his head slightly, humming. “I’m not questioning it. Just… surprised.”

“I started when we were nineteen. It’s easier to impress fledglings—and others our age—when you can say ‘my lips wish to meet yours’ in four different languages.”

A beat.

“Oh.”

Lucanis’ loneliness at nineteen goes unsaid, but it’s deafening inside the cramped carriage.

All air evaporates from Illario’s lungs, rapidly replaced by something necrotic. He desperately steers them away from the past.

“Sì. Next time, though, can you make a better cover than struggling merchants? I miss my jacket already.”

Illario recovers quickly, keeping the conversation light, though the complaint is genuine. He’s used to fine leathers and eye-catching garments that speak of status—Antivan, through and through. The frayed tunic feels coarse against his skin, foreign in a way that grates at him.

He exhales dramatically, stretching his legs as much as he can in the tight space.

“Idiota. We can’t exactly walk around Orlais right now in fancy leathers,” Lucanis hisses, gesturing at the state of their carriage. “The establishment I hired Sir Jean from is the better rental service here already.”

Illario stills. Wrong direction.

“Ah… apologies for my callousness.” The earlier lightness that started to build in him seeps out at the implications of Lucanis’ words.

Lucanis falters—just for a second. But enough to make Illario’s chest tighten again.

Then, quieter: “I took an excursion with Rook and the others some weeks after we stopped Elgar’nan. To the south. Inquisitor Lavellan wanted help with taking stock of the damage.” He swallows, the words coming out as heavy as the weight he carries. “Minrathous was lucky.”

Illario’s chest fills with something hollow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine. You were still being ‘rehabilitated’ by Viago, then.” The frustration in Lucanis’ voice is evident. The resignation, even more so.

A new silence falls between them—different from the ones before.

Lucanis turns away from him, playing with the fabric of his threadbare trousers. Illario’s leg bounces, slight but quick, his fists flexing.

After a moment, Lucanis speaks. “The target’s Alexandre Lemaire. Their family came from a long line of hunters until they established themselves with their export: quillbacks.”

Illario tilts his head. “Hmm. Below your skillset, don’t you think?”

Lucanis knows Illario’s tells, too.

“He’s suspected of allying with Venatori. Their main clientele used to be Tevinter… but in the aftermath of the Blight. Well. Desperate times.”

“Ahh. Now, it’s more up your alley. What do Venatori want from him, though?” Illario asks, leaning forward in genuine curiosity.

“It’s not really him they want… it’s—”

“Maronais,” Illario interjects, suddenly understanding.

Lucanis nods.

Illario exhales, his gaze flicking out the window. “A very convenient location: near the Western Approach, very few armies around with Empress Celene concentrating the recovery efforts near the capital... in deep shit.”

“Yes…”

“Well, seems like the job’s getting more exciting. For a second, I thought Caterina’s already realized that you’re losing your touch,” Illario teases, a hint of mischief creeping behind his smile.

Lucanis rolls his eyes. “Even if I was, your presence here wouldn’t have added anything.”

“Ouch. That stings, little cousin.” Illario presses the back of his hand theatrically against his forehead, eyes shutting in exaggerated offense.

He peeks at his cousin before protesting, “You know you love my wonderful company.”

Lucanis’ slight smile is worth the dramatics.

The silence creeps in again, but this time, it’s not suffocating.

They travel for another two hours uneventfully. A weathered sign marks the border of Val Lussard and Val Colline—in Bouevueles. The land shifts from the emptiness of sprawling plains and dense forests to the humble bustle of a small town along the trade route. As bustling as it could be in the aftermath of the blight.

The rhythmic creak of the carriage changes, shifting from the soft crunches of dead leaves to thumps of sanded cobblestones.

Lucanis interlaces their hands beneath the folds of his cape. His hand is warm and firm.

Illario startles at the contact.

For a moment, it’s just the two of them—the unspoken words between them, a treacherous ravine, for now barely a burrow.

“Do you think we’ll finally get to see wyverns?” Lucanis asks, finally looking at him. His voice lacks exuberance, but excitement dances behind his brown eyes.

The callouses on his cousin’s fingers are something he missed in the long days of travel. There’s an unspoken understanding between them—nothing should bleed outside House Dellamorte. Something Illario already broke.

“Hm-mm.” Illario hums noncommittally, his gaze flickering from his cousin’s face to his cape. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself. Don’t want you excited over nothing.”

“Why do you have to be such a killjoy, Illario?”

“We’re not even going directly to an area where wyverns are known to settle.”

“We can always take a day tour,” Lucanis insists, his determination reminiscent of the little boy who bullheadedly charged through mud to find wyverns in Treviso.

The memory makes Illario snort. Lips curling into a half-smile, he half-promises, “Let me think about it. I don’t really want sand soiling my new leather shoes. I’ve had them custom-made for my celebration as First Talon.”

Lucanis gives him a pointed look, unimpressed. His lips twitch as if fighting the urge to respond.

“Too soon?”

Lucanis exhales a long-suffering sigh and changes the subject. “You were the one who told me to sweet-talk Caterina…”

Their fight is still a touchy subject for Lucanis, he supposes.

Illario chuckles, brushing off the tension with practiced ease. “I’ll see when we can fit it in.”

The childlike beam that Lucanis shows is enough to harden Illario’s resolve. He’ll find time for their wyvern sightseeing. It’s almost the end of wyvern season, with the weather already cooling in southern Thedas. The desert is expected to become harsher.

Illario hopes they’ll still be able to spot some.

Another hour passes before the carriage slows down until it stops in front of a modest inn. Lucanis lets go of his hand.

“We’re here, messieurs.”

The carriage door opens, revealing Maronais, a town ravaged by the last blight. As was the rest of Orlais.

The evening wind cuts through him, whipping his body like force magic. The buildings are tired—aging wood and cracked stone structures line the narrow road. The smell of decay hangs heavy in the air. In their foreground, children wander around, selling trinkets. Weary townspeople move with heaviness in their gait, dragging craters of produce or coal or anything. Goods to sell, even in the lateness of night.

Everything is weathered and dilapidated. The Blight has left its scars.

“This is the… worse side of town. But with your fashion, well...” Sir Jean begins, glancing at them warily. “I don’t think you’d be welcomed in the better inns. I suggest to lay low,” he warns them, terribly familiar with the dispositions of Orlesians in past months.

Lucanis tenses, lips pressing into a thin line. “Thank you, Sir Jean. We’ll find our way there and send word should there be delays for our return.”

The coachman bows, and his carriage disappears into the night.

Illario watches Lucanis, gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Seems like he knows you,” he remarks casually.

Lucanis nods stiffly. “I worked two contracts alone in Orlais. I hired him for those jobs since it required me to go beyond Val Royeaux.”

“Ah.” Illario bites his tongue so the ‘You’ll get yourself killed someday because of your bleeding heart, and I don’t want to say I told you so.’ doesn’t slip from his mouth.

Lucanis pivots. “Let’s change and walk to the better part of town.”

Perhaps tired. Perhaps hearing the unsaid criticism from Illario.

Perhaps finally grasping the continental divide between them. The two of them shaped by their separate worlds through the years until neither is the same as they were.

Illario lets it go. “Finally.”

They find an inconspicuous alley away from the busy streets. The air stinks of mildew and sewage. Beneath his fancy boots, the cobblestones are slick with the remnants of yesterday’s rain. A gutter drips steadily behind them—to his left, each drop echoing against stone.

In the dim light of the full moon, they change into something a little less ‘struggling civilians’ and a little more ‘mercenaries earning their keep.’ Their leathers are tinted raven—nondescript and practical. Less prone to getting them mistaken for vagrants. More defensible than the tattered clothing they wore earlier.

“This isn’t any better. We’ve gone to so many funerals already.” Illario grumbles, his tone edged with sarcasm.

“Oh, fuck off. At least these don’t have holes. We won’t stay long for the service, don’t worry.”

Lucanis’ bare back stirs something in Illario. A flicker of heat. Of want. When Lucanis pulls on the last of the armor—his cape—and turns, Illario pins him by the wrists to the moss-slick wall.

His face scrunches, perhaps from the dampness behind him, but the expression is gone as fast as it came.

Illario watches Lucanis longer, studying his features for any more discomfort. He sees none. Only the high flush painting his cousins’ cheeks, highlighting the bruise on his left, and his lips clamped into a thin line as if to keep his composure.

Encouraged, Illario nips at the corner of Lucanis’ mouth, allowing his lips to ghost toward Lucanis’ right ear slowly. The minute hitching of his breathing fuels him further.

Illario’s fingers press into Lucanis’ wrists, firm but not forceful, daring him to resist. He doesn’t flinch.

They stay like this for a while, a world apart from their surroundings. Lucanis makes no movement to shove him away.

This is reckless, indulgent—a moment stolen from a life that never allowed them softness. A fatal risk he’s taking on the job. Illario knows, but still.

Still, his body stays close. His heart slams against his ribs, compelled by the lack of touch during their weary journey and fueled further by their heat melding where they connect.

“What’s gotten into you?” Lucanis whispers, his voice barely above a murmur. “We’re in public.”

Illario presses closer. “I know you know there’s no one around. You’ve sharper senses than me.”

His lips brush against the delicate skin of Lucanis’ ear. “Besides, who here would know we’re ‘the great Lucanis Dellamorte’ and his traitor partner.”

A sharp intake of breath. Then, a heavy groan—a sound that feels as if something is lodged in his throat. Illario pulls back slightly to meet Lucanis’ gaze, noting how the tension in his features softens momentarily.

In a brief instant, Lucanis’ eyes flash purple before he gathers himself with a twitch-tilt of his head. Another deep exhale—his thoughts clearly weighing on him. “Still,” he pauses as if to rethink his words. “Let’s just go. Find an inn and have a look around.”

Illario releases Lucanis’ wrists, unapologetic, and begins to gather their packs, allowing the moment to dissolve. They’ve lingered long enough.

They walk to the better part of town, which is to say, it’s not actually better. Just less ‘the buildings will collapse the next time a storm hits’ and more ‘it will take five catastrophes to burn everything down.’

In the distance, several manors stood on the hills—a few dozen—each adorned with high pointed arches and spires reaching towards the Golden City—very Orlesian. The effects of blight, with the uneven paint and dark imprints of the blight tentacles, are still visible, but they stood tall.

The manors loomed over the town of Maronais like a master beating their slave.

Lucanis makes a low, disgruntled sound. “I bet that’s where we’ll find him.”

“A pity for dear Alexandre that you’re on his tail then.” Illario tuts.

He continues his teasing. “You know, for someone rich, you hate your kind too much.”

“I only hate those like Alexandre.”

Illario snorts. “I was joking. I know what you mean.”

The market street is winding down. Some establishments have shut their doors for the evening. Lucanis strides ahead, each of his steps steady, maintaining a distance that Illario is accustomed to. The sour scents of ale and piss from taverns and savory scents of hot food from diners offend Illario’s nose. The soft and sweet from bakeries only further make the mess of scents intolerable.

Suddenly, Lucanis stops before a nondescript window. Illario almost collides with him. His gaze is locked on the tinted glass.

“Smells like Harding. And meat here. Sweet bread over there.”

The childlike tone that slips into Lucanis’ voice gives it away. Spite’s taken over.

“Belly stings.”

Illario grimaces. Right. They’ve traveled almost the entire day without a real meal. Emmrich’s advice echoes in his ears. He promised to try, even if this particular aspect of Lucanis feels… strange.

Spite turns its head to him, head tilting, waiting for Illario to acknowledge it.

Demons were always distant things—philosophical debates in papers, nuisances to be ignored when they rarely exist beyond the Fade. Threats to be eliminated when controlled by blood magic. He’s heard it all before—from Zara, from dry lectures, from religious doctrine during homeschooling.

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.

Canticle of Transfigurations 1. The draconian scholar Caterina hired when they were children drilled the Chant of Light into them in all ways possible. Sure, Antivans are Andrastian on paper, but the national religion wildly differs on who one asks: nugs, power, money. Family. Lucanis.

Visceral repulsion for the unnatural and abominations, then, seems the most convenient choice. Like everything in his early life, Illario just learned to bite his tongue and swallow his defiance like bitter soldier pills until the idea twisted into something between an acceptable truth and a thing he could overlook.

But Spite isn’t distant.

He has all the time now, he thinks, to figure out how he wants to feel about Spite—especially since it’s a part of Lucanis.

And Lucanis is everything.

“Hello, Spite. Do you want anything in particular?” Illario asks, his own hunger surfacing.

“I want meat! And food Harding likes!”

“What?” Illario arches an eyebrow. Harding… who?

“Here! Inside!” Spite exclaims, excitedly jabbing a finger towards the window, its purple eyes sparkling with delight.

“Lucanis cooks! Smells good like butter! But funky, too!”

“Cheese?” Illario guesses.

“Yes—! I forgot!” The excitement in Spite’s tone is... unsettling. The demon has only shown anger and subtly cruel fearmongering towards Illario before this.

“Inside! Let’s go!”

Illario grabs Lucanis’ shoulder before he thinks it through.

“That hurt.” Spite’s tone shifts, becoming dangerous.

“You can’t just walk around with purple eyes. People will stare.” Illario sighs, unfazed by the underlying threat. “Let Lucanis go, I’ll buy whatever you want.” He tries to calm it down.

Spite sneers. “Illario is lying.”

“What? No—”

“I don’t trust you.” Spite’s frown deepens. “Lucanis still cries. Still hollow.”

Illario exhales slowly. “Ah… fair.”

Spite just stares, expectant.

“Maybe I just don’t want the two of you to starve if you’ll be attached to Lucanis forever,” he pauses, before relenting. “Fine, let’s go. Keep your hood up.”

The bell above the door chimes as they step inside the modest diner. Family-run, if the cozy atmosphere is any indication. No customers are inside; an elderly woman welcomes them by the counter.

“Bonsoir, messieurs.” She smiles. Her presence reminds Illario of Lucia.

“Bonne soirée. Do you have anything we can take for the road fast?” Illario leans into the counter, mirroring the waitress’ expression. Spite sits on the bar stool beside him.

“My partner’s hungry. He wants something with cheese and meat.”

“Yes! Cheese—!”

Illario sharply turns to Spite, meeting its eyes slightly covered by the hood. He glares at it. Surprisingly, that silences Spite.

“I can recommend aligot and sausages if that sounds interesting, mon coco,” the waitress offers.

“That sounds delightful, ma chérie. We’ll take two servings to go.”

That gets him a blush from the elderly waitress before she disappears into the back kitchen.

With no one else around, Illario turns to Spite. “Let me do the talking, alright? Just—I’ll buy what you want, I swear.”

“Illario is mad. I just want cheese…”

“Yes, and I got you cheese. I know you don’t trust me, but trust that I know how to talk to people. Now, the bread, what do you want?”

“I want. Sweet bread.”

“Does chocolate sound good?”

“Yes! Like cioccolata calda!” Its palms slam against the wooden counter in excitement.

“Promise to let me do the talking and be quiet.”

Spite grumbles. “Fine.”

“I said promise me.”

“I promise.”

The bell above the door rings again.

The scent of sizzling butter and roasted meat fills the modest diner. The elderly waitress emerges from the kitchen, moving with the ease of years spent in service, and slides them their packed meals. When Illario peeks inside the bag, a rich, garlicky aroma drifts up, thick with melted cheese and a hint of smoked sausage. His stomach clenches—he didn’t realize how hungry he is.

“I hope you enjoy your food, mes cocos.”

“Merci. Have a nice evening.”

She smiles as she shifts her attention to the newcomers seated by a couch in the diner.

Spite buzzes with excitement as it eyes the packed meals in Illario’s grip, fingers drumming against the table. “I am watching,” it warns Illario.

They make their way to the bakery across the street. Spite behaves as promised, only curiously inspecting the various pieces of bread on display. Illario buys Spite six pieces of Pain au Chocolat and a dozen chocolate Madeleines, just in case.

“Alright. I got you what you want.” Illario holds up the paper bags. “Now, let Lucanis go.”

Spite considers his request for a moment, humming. “Fine. But I am watching.” it reminds him again, softer this time.

The purples shift to browns. A tremor rolls through Lucanis’ fingers before he exhales sharply—like surfacing from deep water. He blinks, disoriented, shoulders tensing as if readjusting to his own skin.

“Mierda. How—?” Lucanis looks at Illario like he has grown another head, bewildered. He continues, “Sometimes Spite gets excited over something and pushes me out. It rarely happens when I’m awake, but…”

Illario shrugs. “Gods. Demons. Men. You all fall to my charm eventually.” A smirk tugs at his lips. “And you’ve grown soft, cousin.”

Lucanis rolls his eyes and almost leaves Illario in the dust. Illario snickers and jogs towards his cousin, grateful for his taller build.

They continue walking through the slowly drowsing market, Lucanis leading the way.

As if afraid, Lucanis, with his back to Illario, murmurs, “Illario… what Spite said… it’s not… don’t believe—” Illario catches the ‘This isn’t your burden to carry. I don’t want you to worry.’ He worries anyway.

“It’s fine, Lucanis.” Illario just stares at his back. “You don’t have to tell me.” But the words he can’t say press against his ribs like a dull blade—‘I know how much I hurt you. I don’t know how to forgive myself.’ They carve him upwards, as if the knife is now lodged in his throat. Leaving jagged tears in its wake.

“Okay.” It’s really not, but still, they pretend.

They haven’t gone far—a suffocating tension brews between them even in the vastness of the open air. Illario walks a pace behind before Lucanis stops and glares at the space beside him.

He rubs his temple. “Mierda. Spite, stop it.”

“Being insufferable?”

“He’s… mad at me, yes,” Lucanis admits, his voice low with shame.

“Well, understandable. You’re an asshole to it,” Illario replies, a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth as he nudges Lucanis playfully.

Lucanis scowls. “Just… don’t believe what he said.”

Illario doesn’t respond. Instead, he plucks a piece of Pan au Chocolat from the bag, tearing it in half. He holds out a portion to Lucanis.

“Here.” Illario offers.

Lucanis stares at the bread, fingers twitching, before he takes it. The hesitation doesn’t go amiss.

“Spite said you’re hungry.”

For once, he doesn’t argue.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, chewing quietly.

The night stretches ahead of them. The broken town wheezes faintly, barely alive with murmurs of unseen ghosts.

The morning is slow.

Illario left their inn at six to rid himself of the cobwebs spinning in his sleepless mind. The streets are already waking—vendors setting up their stalls, the smell of fresh bread and damp earth hanging thick in the air.

Lucanis stirred when he got up, but Illario excused himself. Breakfast is important.

He had things to attend to before returning at eight, a baguette and pair of espresso in hand, steam curling into the crisp air.

Lucanis is already dressed and waiting.

“Here, coffee.”

Lucanis takes it without hesitation. Their fingers brush for the briefest second. Illario shivers, wondering how pathetic he must be to get thrilled at the slightest touch—like a child with a crush. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

“Thanks.”

Breakfast is a quiet affair, both focused on planning the kill. They’re here for a job, not a vacation.

“So. What’s the idea?”

Lucanis flips through his copy of the dossier, arms perched on the small dining table. His First Talon mask is on. “Scout the area. Get access to his house. Find him inside.” A beat. “Though, we don’t have to get everything done today.”

“Huh? Are you slacking on the job, cousin?” Illario raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips. He stretches out lazily on the leather couch, legs crossed at the ankles.

Lucanis doesn’t look up. “Alexandre’s neurotic. According to several accounts, he’s only seen in public once daily at exactly three in the afternoon—to walk his dog.”

“Finally! A bad guy with a dog.”

“It’s a Mabari,” Lucanis deadpans.

“Oh.” Illario deflates.

He’s never seen a Mabari before, but he’s more of a tiny-dog person. Like a chihuahua. Chihuahuas are nice and noisy.

An Antivan Greyhound, maybe?

“How’d he get one? Aren’t they—”

“I don’t think that’s relevant to the job, Illario.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Well, he’ll take it. Lucanis’ usual modus operandi is get in, kill, get out, but if they can spare some time on this to lounge around and just be, then who’s Illario to complain?

It’s a breath of fresh air from the stale breaths of the talons and the nauseating deodorizer in the Cantori Diamond, where the jasmine and vanilla barely bury the metallic scent of young blood and daggers.

12:17 past noon.

Their excursion was slow—only getting a lay of the land, figuratively and literally. Cross-checking details with the locals—

“We’re blacksmiths from Antiva. We heard Alexandre Lemaire has the best quality of quillbacks in Orlais.” Illario charms the balding elderly man reading his daily paper on his porch.

—mapping out escape routes. The usual. But no one really knows where Alexandre lives.

They’re nearing the uphill climb to the manors when Illario notices.

“Did you…?” he whispers to Lucanis.

Lucanis nods. “Four people trailing us. One on the rooftop on the right. Two by the newspaper stand.”

Illario hums. “Another pretending to drink coffee at that deli store.”

Lucanis motions for them to slip into an alleyway—a dead end. Knowing his cousin, he’ll force the fight in the tight space.

But when the four stalkers show up, Illario realizes—

They’re not Venatori.

Before them stood kids. Seventeen, maybe eighteen at most—their hoods barely concealing the gauntness of their cheeks and the dirt clinging to their clothes. Their leader, shorter than Lucanis, reminds Illario of Lucanis after the Ossuary. A scar runs across his cheek. He’s brandishing a rusted dagger and steps forward with all the bravado he can muster.

“Your coin. Now.” His quiet voice quivers as he points the blade at them.

Illario tuts. “That’s not nice.”

“We’re armed.” The boy pushes on, the trembles have spread to his clenched fists.

Lucanis tilts his head and moves to his crossbody bag, pulling out their coin pouch. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

He also asks for Illario’s coin pouch before untying his own. Illario reluctantly hands it over, frowning.

“I’m going to give you coin,” Lucanis says evenly, “but I want you to swear you won’t steal from civilians. But up there?” He nods toward the gilded hills behind them. “Fair game.”

“You’re not civil—”

“We’re not.” Lucanis cuts him off. “That’s why I’m handing you my pouch.” He shakes it, the coins inside clanking.

“Now, swear.”

The teens all stiffen. Their palpable fear fills the small alleyway as Lucanis asserts himself. They exchange glances as if discussing telepathically.

Finally, their leader sighs. “We swear,” they say in chorus.

Lucanis is satisfied. He transfers some of his coins to Illario’s pouch before tossing his to the four boys.

“… why?” The leader narrows his eyes at Lucanis, searching his face for the cruel deal Lucanis would demand. Illario understands: no one is this kind.

Because deals are the iota upon which one’s existence is built.

Lucanis doesn’t lose the authority in his voice. “You look like you know your way around. Any idea where Alexandre Lemaire lives there?” He nods at the manors.

The boy hesitates. Avoiding Lucanis’ gaze, he pockets the dulled blade. “Alexandre, he… his house is the one with four golden spires, on the edge of a cliff facing sunrise,” he mutters, biting his lower lip enough to bleed.

Like disclosing the information terrifies him.

“Two guards at the gate. Always. Recently painted. You’ll know.”

“Thanks.” Lucanis softens. “Now, let us go.” His posture loses its rigidity, and a smile tugs at his lips.

The frightened boy exhales, his features smoothing into something not-quite-relief.

“Thank you. We… it’s been bad here… since…”

“Well, we’re not the Maker. The most we can do is get rid of an asshole who lives up there.”

The wiry boy spits, “Anything’s better than working to death because those bastards are taking everyone to hunt quillbacks. They never return.”

A pause.

“Thank you again,” he repeats before the four teens leave them in the alley.

Silence lingers for a while. For the first time, Illario feels… something. About what the boy said. Their job requires them to kill questionable people, sure. For Illario, it usually ends at that. At the end of the day, he gets paid. The repercussions of their kills don’t matter.

He extends a hand to Lucanis, asking for his coin pouch back.

Then, it dawns on Illario—

“Lucanis,” he hisses. “You just gave them a third of our pocket money!”

Lucanis shrugs. “Well, guess we have to finish the job quickly then.”

“Noted. If you and your spiritual worm starve, that’s on you.”

“Spite looks like me when he takes a form.”

Illario rubs his temples, already done with his cousin’s foolishness. “Great. That’s exactly how I want to think of Spite when I fuck you.”

Lucanis chuckles; the mischief in his voice makes wyverns stomp around Illario’s stomach.

It shouldn’t be this endearing.

“Anyway,” Illario huffs, forcing lightness into his voice—so he could stop dwelling on his fucking crush on Lucanis. He’s 36, this is absurd. “The day’s… we’ve already figured where the target lives. I’m beat.”

Lucanis gives him a flat look. “Really? We just walked.”

“I’m beat. Come on. I already ordered lunch before we left.”

Illario leads them to a small carriage rental, where their packed lunch is already inside. It’s just past one in the afternoon—they have some time. The trip should take half an hour at most.

Lucanis leans against the carriage frame, watching him dubiously as they climb in. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

It only takes fifteen minutes for the cobblestones to turn to sand. For the air to turn drier and the rows of dying trees—clinging to life at the edges of Maronais—to shrink into brittle, skeletal remains.

Lucanis sharply turns to Illario, wide-eyed. “Are we…?”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” Illario replies, stretching his legs out. “I asked around earlier where we could spot some, but I don’t want to disappoint you, so save the gratitude for later.”

Lucanis presses his lips together, tempering himself.

Only the howling of the harsh desert wind echoes inside the carriage for a moment.

“We’re going to see wyverns,” Lucanis breaks the silence, talking to the empty space before them.

A beat. Then, a sigh.

“Yes, I love wyverns. Yes, they have wings,” he continues, voice tinged with exasperation.

Then, a glare. “No, we can’t ride them.”

Lucanis presses down on his temples, visibly done with Spite. “Mierda. You have your own wings, Spite.”

“Maybe if you let Spite take you over once a day for some minutes so it can fly, it wouldn’t hate you as much.” Illario chirps, supporting whatever the demon is pestering his cousin about. Maybe he and Spite have more in common than being overprotective of Lucanis.

Lucanis shoots him a betrayed look. “Don’t encourage him. He’s not a dog.”

A pause. “Also, Spite doesn’t ha—shut it, Spite.”

“Spite likes my idea, doesn’t it?” Illario smirks. “It’s inspired!”

Lucanis curses under his breath. “Ugh. I hate you both.”

Illario just laughs.

The carriage stops in front of a rocky clearing.

The harsh sun glares down, its heat waves bouncing off the sand. Sweat and leather cling to Illario’s skin. With their packs in hand, they trudge through a narrow, well-worn path, dust kicking up with every step, soiling their clothes. They walk for some time—Illario can’t be bothered to check his watch.

He hates this, but Lucanis is forging ahead with barely contained excitement.

The complaints evaporate from his tongue.

The narrow, winding path opens to a hidden vantage point—a cliffside cave overlooking an oasis. Below, a shallow pool glistens in the sunlight, surrounded by sprawls of dragonthorn and cacti.

They crouch to the ledge, breaths contained, careful not to disturb the serene landscape.

With the trees shielding them from the midday sun and the wind gently caressing their skin, Illario embraces the quiet surrounding him. He barely notices Lucanis, who is stunned to silence as well.

Then, the slightest movement—

A rustle in a brush. Then, it emerges.

A wyvern—modest in size and barely five feet long—creeps towards the bluish spring waters. Its build is slight, and its muscles are not yet brawny. Its scales are still brittle and shiny under the light.

A fucking baby wyvern.

It dips its snout in the water and starts lapping with a soft, guttural hum, oblivious to the presence watching it.

A stifled gasp escapes Lucanis as he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as saucers. The joy—pure, unfiltered wonder—from Lucanis crashes to Illario in waves.

Every confiscated wyvern book, every failed wyvern hunt that never deterred him, every stubborn insistence that one day they’d run away to Orlais—

Everything was leading up to this.

Illario sees fifteen-year-old Lucanis, bitter and silent and breaking beneath the weight of House Dellamorte.

“Lucanis…” he starts, unsure how to comfort his cousin. “Is this really the life you want?”

He just received his dagger—his initiation. To the life of an Antivan Crow. To a hand-crafted death sentence forged in silverite.

“Is there anything else we’re allowed to want, cousin?” Lucanis whispers back, his anguish seeping through the cracks of his voice. The shadows he drives away slowly cloak him like the clouds overhead.

Illario doesn’t want to see Lucanis break. He’s not allowed to break. He’s supposed to be shining.

Desperate, he clutches to anything— to fight the resignation in Lucanis. “Wyverns. That’s something you want.”

“… maybe. Someday.”

His cousin’s mouth twitches. Illario’s resolve hardens.

Every grief, every suffering—it was all leading to this. This Lucanis. This genuine happiness…

Illario would burn Thedas to ashes to keep Lucanis like this.

He didn’t notice when his cousin inched closer to the edge. Then—

Crack!

Illario doesn’t think—his body moves before his mind catches up. The rocks beneath Lucanis’ boot give way. His cousin’s body careens forward, a choked noise ripping from his throat. A sickening thud echoes as his head bounces off the stony cliff wall.

“Fuck—! Lucanis—!”

Illario’s hands find fabric, desperately clutching at his shoulder. His cousin’s dead weight is pulling against him.

Illario heaves, his body straining with panic. No—

With as much force as Illario can muster, he wrestles with Lucanis’ slack body until Illario has his grip on his arm, dragging him up until they’re both settled on land.

Illario collapses, his own breath coming in ragged gasps.

The baby wyvern is long gone. Illario doesn’t care.

He maneuvers Lucanis with shaky hands until he’s leaned against Illario’s bent knee, elevating his head. He’s regained consciousness, thankfully, but his gaze is unfocused, and a gash runs across the side of his large, bleeding forehead.

Fucking Lucanis.

“You’re so stupid, Lucanis,” Illario whispers. His mind racing in every direction.

Illario presses his forehead against Lucanis’ shoulder, gripping his cousin’s hand tight.

He chokes—the words he’s never spoken out loud are stuck in his throat. “I… don’t… don’t do that to me.”

Lucanis is quiet. Then, quietly. “… do what?”

“Scare me like that.”

Anger seeps into his bones. “What the fuck was Spite doing, anyway?” he mutters, not trusting his voice to stay even if he speaks louder. “Couldn’t it save you from slipping and hitting your head?”

Illario extends to reach for their packs, then rummages for an elfroot potion and some cloth.

Lucanis exhales in measured breaths. “Ah. He was equally distracted by the wyvern…”

Then, disbelief.

He pauses, staring. As he cleans the blood off the wound, Illario grumbles, “Cretino. What use do two minds sharing a body have if they’re both stupid?”

Lucanis makes a sound between a hiss and a laugh. “I’m sorry, ‘llario.”

Then, relief.

Illario sighs as he tries to stop his body from trembling. “You’re lucky your forehead’s a fortress.”

When his hand stops shaking, Illario finds Lucanis’ wrist and he lets out a choked laugh. “You're fucking impossible.”

They stay in the clearing for an hour, eating their packed lunch in silence, hoping another wyvern will show up. Lucanis’ wound stops bleeding.

No wyvern comes out.

Lucanis has a grin plastered on his face their entire ride back to the inn.

Illario can’t be bothered to be angry anymore.

10:43 in the evening.

They did nothing for the rest of the day. Illario forced Lucanis to stay in bed.

As they lay in a tangle of limbs with their chests thumping, a wordless dialogue, Illario pulls a sleeping Lucanis closer. His hand drifts to Lucanis’ wrist, twitching. Searching.

Illario grumbles to the darkness. “Thought you’re always watching, Spite? You’re a lousy bodyguard.”

For most of the day, they go over their plan and prepare their knives.

Scout the area—done.

Now, to get access to Alexandre’s house and find him inside.

4:00 in the afternoon.

They don their raven leathers and make their way to the hills.

5:22 near evening.

They find the manor. Four golden spires, perched on the edge of a cliff facing sunrise. Recently painted an offensive shade of lemon yellow, erasing whatever history the Blight has left behind.

Two guards at the gate.

“This is it,” Lucanis mutters, peeking from a corner alley. He exhales slowly, then cracks his neck. His shoulders roll as if shedding something heavier than tension. When he turns to Illario, he’s no longer just Lucanis.

He is First Talon Lucanis Dellamorte.

“We’ll get this done tonight,” he affirms.

“Alright. So, get access to his house…” Illario trails off. The specifics of their plan are still unclear to him.

Lucanis is terrible at the details, honestly. He could recite every joint in a human body and all the ways to sever them just fine, but this? Illario always figures out the plan when they’re in the middle of it. It’s getting—

“Can you get their keys?” Lucanis watches him, his eyes are sharp and expectant.

Illario blinks. “Huh?”

Lucanis stays silent. His gaze, unwavering.

Oh. Illario understands.

“Yeah, sure.”

He straightens his collar, unclasps a button from his leather shirt, dusts off whatever dirt has clung to him on their trek, and ambles toward the guards.

The setup: two guards.

The first—a man in his late forties. His posture is rigid, but his eyes are bloodshot and fatigued—like he was kept awake all night. His figure’s pudgy, like he’s well-fed.

A ring of keys dangles from his belt, a small locket attached. A family man, then. Illario can’t risk it with him.

The second—younger, early twenties, perhaps. His stance is also rigid, and his eyes are frantic. Scanning the street like he’s scared he’ll miss a nonexistent threat. His hands are stiff on his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if fighting the urge to fidget. His keys dangle from his back pocket, unadorned.

Definitely new on the job. Trying to impress his employer or maybe terrified of becoming unemployed.

Him, then.

Illario sighs inwardly, apologetic, because the man will lose his job after this.

Illario approaches Guard Deux with his sorry smile #2. “Bonsoir. I need help if it’s not too much to ask,” he murmurs, tucking his arms close to his body, rubbing his upper arm in feigned embarrassment. Head bowed slightly.

Guard Deux blinks, caught off guard. Then, he straightens. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s embarrassing,” Illario continues, letting a breathy chuckle escape, “but I lost my pocket watch somewhere over there. Could you…?”

“I’m sorry,” the guard says immediately. “I’m not allowed to leave my post.”

Illario’s lashes flutter as he glances up.

“Please.”

The young guard hesitates. His uncertainty and panic are visible, his fingers flexing at his sides. Guard Deux’s eyes dart to his partner.

Guard Une grunts. “Make it fast.”

Illario exhales in relief. “Thank you.”

The bait: Illario.

They turn into the empty corner of the manor’s exterior wall—facing the cliff. Away from the main street. From here, Lucanis has a vision of them.

Illario pretends to search in the bushes—keeping his movements frenzied. For a while, Guard Deux actually searches with him.

Then, his gaze shifts to Illario. “You haven’t lost your pocket watch, have you?” he asks quietly.

Illario smirks.

“Well, you caught me.” He straightens, brushing dust off his knees. His eyes flicker, amused. “I just saw you and couldn’t pass up the chance.”

“That’s…” The guard swallows. “You’re quite bold.”

“And you look like you needed the break.”

The guard flushes, his gaze darting toward the manor. “I—I don’t think it’s wise to fool around on the job. I could—”

“Sadly, I’m here on a business trip,” Illario cuts in smoothly, stepping closer. “And we’ve concluded our deal with the Corbins, a few manors down the street.”

Illario cages Guard Deux between him and the wall, his piercing blue eyes holding the man captive. He watches the slight tremor in the young man’s throat as he swallows.

Several seconds pass.

Illario’s lips brush Guard Deux’s jaw. Then, he trails his tongue languidly to his ear. “I swear I’ll make it worth your time.”

The sharp inhale is answer enough.

“Okay.”

The moment the guard relaxes, Illario moves. His fingers ghost down the guard’s sides as he lowers to his knees, his movements slow and practiced. With deft hands, he unhooks the ring of keys from his belt loop, sliding it into his sleeve. They don’t make a sound, and Guard Deux doesn’t notice.

Guard Deux must be a virgin because the dampness darkening his trousers is immediate. As Illario starts unfastening the guard’s belt, a firm hand clamps down on his shoulder—the grip strong enough to bruise.

Illario turns to its owner.

The interruption: Lucanis.

His expression is unreadable. His grip, like iron.

“Luca—”

Lucanis yanks him up without a word and drags him away. Illario stumbles, a curse caught between his teeth. He can feel the fury radiating from Lucanis in waves.

Illario glances over his shoulder, barely managing to call out to Guard Deux. “Sorry! My keeper found me!”

Lucanis doesn’t let go until they’re several streets away. He drops Illario’s wrist like it burns him and storms ahead.

“Lucanis—hey! I thought we’re getting this done tonight!?” Illario calls after him, genuinely confused by his cousin’s preposterous behavior.

Lucanis asked him to get the keys, didn’t he?

Lucanis doesn’t turn around.

Resigned, Illario clenches his jaw and follows a quietly seething Lucanis back to the inn.

When they’re in the confines of their rented room—inside the bedroom—Illario tries again. “What’s gotten in—”

He’s cut off because Lucanis shoves him hard. Illario stumbles back against the wall with a dull thud. Lucanis drops to his knees, his heavy breathing filling the room.

Illario stills, pulse quickening. A shiver rolls down his spine. Heat stirs low in his stomach.

“Lucanis…?” he asks tentatively, unsure what this is about.

“Shut up.” Lucanis refuses to meet his eyes. His fingers are clumsy, yanking at his belt, impatient.

Illario exhales sharply.

It dawns on him—this is the first time Lucanis has ever done this to him. He’s never…

Illario hasn’t thought much about Lucanis’ sexual history. He admitted as much—that Illario was… his first. But oral? They’ve never talked about it, and he never asked. As far as Illario’s concerned, it’s just another technique. Another trick up his sleeve.

Lucanis, though? A romantic to his bones.

But why is he so angry?

Is Lucanis… jealous?

A sudden warmth envelops him.

Illario bucks, jolted out of his thoughts.

This is definitely his first time. Lucanis takes him awkwardly, his rhythm uneven. But it doesn’t matter—not when Lucanis is on his knees, his plush lips around Illario. The sight rushes blood into his groin.

Lucanis is sucking him off. Eagerly. His cock goes hard in record time.

Fuck—his brain is short-circuiting.

Illario lets his head tip back against the wall, finally burying his fingers into Lucanis’ hair. His breath stutters, eyes shutting instinctively.

He tugs at Lucanis’ locks, urging him to take Illario deeper. Suddenly, teeth scrape against his sensitive shaft. The fog starts dissipating. Slowly.

Then, agony—

“Merda!” Illario jerks, a full-body shudder ripping through him. “Lucanis—stop!”

He frantically pushes Lucanis away, sending him sprawling backward.

Lucanis blinks up at him, dazed.

Illario’s chest heaves. His hands tremble where they hover at his sides.

A ridiculous déjà vu.

Even with his trousers pooled at his ankles, Illario feels like they’re in a different time, different place. The Treviso chantry—Lucanis on his back, disoriented. Illario looming over him, suppressing Spite with blood magic.

Illario exhales sharply, forcing the memory away. He has to deal with this first.

“You almost bit my dick off, asshole.”

A beat.

Lucanis blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Illario hisses, voice pitched high. He drags a shaking hand through his hair before pulling his trousers up and shoving himself back into place.

Lucanis looks lost.

Recognition flickers in and out of his brown eyes, shifting to purples in intervals, like he’s slipping somewhere else. Like he’s not here. With Illario. They flicker several times before he regains himself. “Sorry. I… lost myself there.”

“Something’s up.” Illario lowers himself to his knees—to level their eyes. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Lucanis insists, his jaw tightening.

He immediately pushes up, avoiding Illario’s gaze, and beelines for the bathroom. The lock clicks. The water starts running.

Lucanis takes a long time inside.

9:34 in the evening.

When Illario finishes cleaning himself off, Lucanis is already in bed, his back to him, facing the wall.

Illario stays awake for a long time.

1:18 past midnight.

Only then does Illario force his eyes shut.

Chapter Text

A house that is empty
will never be home
dust covered beds,
waiting, alone
for voices and cheering
and children to play
for warmth and for silence
for reasons to stay.

A house that is empty
holds memories still
of quick, stolen moments
of tempers, of will
of sharing and waiting
for one to return
of drifting apart
of a house that shall burn.

Illario watches Lucanis from afar.

During the fledglings’ training break—in the corner, unseen but not unnoticed. Alone.

Lucanis has a cup of coffee in one hand and a chicken pesto ciabatta—split in half—in the other. Another cup and the other half of the sandwich by his side. A hesitant offering that will never tendered.

Lucanis’ eyes flick toward him every now and then, a glance so brief it might be nothing. But Illario catches each one. Stores them in a quiet place inside himself. Feels them settle in his chest.

Illario watches Lucanis from afar.

On his walk home to House Dellamorte—sluggish, resigned.

The untouched coffee and half a sandwich are in a paper bag. It looks heavier than it should.

Lucanis’ feet drag over the basalt bricks as he trudges home. Each step is heavy but equidistant: Lucanis, ever the practical grandson, even in misery.

Lucanis breathes deep, then steps through the iron gates of House Dellamorte, bowing meekly at the guards. The perfect Dellamorte. The perfect martyr.

Illario doesn’t stop watching until Lucanis disappears, until the lateness of the night swallows him whole.

By morning, before the sun peeks through the waters of Rialto Bay, Illario is already perched on a rooftop a few manors away—close enough to see but not to be seen.

Illario watches Lucanis from afar.

On his walk to the Cantori Diamond—anxious.

The tremor in his hands is slight, but Illario notices. The shallow, controlled rhythm of his breathing, the words he mutters under his breath—inhale, one, two, exhale—tell Illario everything.

Lucanis knows.

Illario sees it in the sharp turn of his head, the fraction of a second when their eyes meet before Lucanis looks away.

Illario watches Lucanis from afar.

He watches the way Lucanis moves. He watches how Lucanis pretends this doesn’t hurt.

He watches. And only watches.

“You’d think he’d have found his own friends by now.”

Illario glares at the slow, steady flow of the Treviso Canals, perched on a marble guardrail outside his apartment in Streets of Coin Financials.

“He moved out already.” Illario can’t help the sharpness that pierces the wind with his words before he catches himself. His fingers curl around the railing tighter. “Already free—but he’s still always brooding.”

The water barely reflects the afternoon sun, murky due to algae, thick with salt and brine. The scent clings to Treviso—inescapable.

Sebastian rests his forearms on the railing beside him, fixated on the canal. “Maybe he needs to loosen up?”

Illario scoffs. “And how exactly would he do that?”

Sebastian doesn’t answer immediately. He just turns to him, brows furrowed and green eyes pouring concern into him. It’s too close. Too overwhelming.

The older man cocks his head. “Why are you concerned about him, anyway?”

Illario sharply shifts, avoiding the older man’s knowing gaze, staring back into the water. Heat creeps up his neck to his cheeks. “We used to be inseparable. It’s just—annoying. Seeing him mope and be pathetic.”

Sebastian hums. “Didn’t you say you wanted to be better than him for once?”

“Yeah… but—”

“Forget him. Focus on your training. You’re making great progress.” A rough, steady weight settles over Illario’s hand on the railing. His pulse stumbles, but he forces his breathing to stay even.

Sebastian’s hand stays on his.

Illario exhales slowly. He pulls a flat stone from his pocket—one he nabbed from the Dellamorte estate—and flicks it across the water. It bounces seven times before it sinks.

He should feel good. He should feel better than Lucanis.

Why does Lucanis still get under his skin like this?

Illario presses his lips into a thin line.

And so Illario started planning his ‘Secret Seduction Plan.’

Lucanis looks at him as if this—whatever this is—makes sense. Brown eyes wide, reverent, yielding.

The gasp Lucanis lets out when Illario grazes the back of his hand down his arm lingers, skimming Illario’s spine like the lips of widows searching for their husband’s likeness in him.

That makes Illario stop.

Lucanis’ lips part. A breath, caught between excitement and something unnamed. Only when Illario pulls away does the world crash down into Lucanis—brown eyes wide, ashamed, horrified.

Illario puts a halt to his ‘Secret Seduction Plan.’

Lucanis looks like he won’t be able to handle it. It took him a full ten minutes to get his breathing under control from Illario’s touch during their first lesson.

He saw proof of how much he could get under Lucanis’ skin, too. That was enough for Illario.

Touching Lucanis like that should disgust him. It should make his skin crawl.

Illario doesn’t want to dwell on why it doesn’t.

It’s… convenient, to have Lucanis around. He has always been easy to entertain.

His cousin knocked on his apartment door a few evenings later, asking to read his Randy Dowager collection. A high flush colored his cheeks, his fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his trousers. It was a lie, of course.

Illario still stepped aside and let him in.

They talked for the entire night. Lucanis didn’t even browse his smut.

A familiar rhythm settled between them after that.

“Can I come with you tonight?”

Lucanis looks up from where he’s seated on the floor, The Necromancer and His Lich Queen in hand. Brown eyes alight with fire—one Illario hasn’t seen in a long time.

Illario deadpans. “To a tavern?”

“Yes, to a tavern.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Lucanis’ eyebrow twitches. “ Yes, I’m sure.”

“Promise me you won’t brood?” he continues, unrelenting.

“Yes, I prom—hey!”

Illario chuckles, his stomach fluttering at Lucanis’ indignance. He masks it with a smirk, stretching himself on the couch with a cat-like lazy grace.

“I’ll let you come if you wear something more appropriate. You can’t be the reason I fail a mark tonight.”

Lucanis scowls. “Asshole.”

“Thanks.”

He rummages through his closet, fingers brushing over fine silks and leathers, searching for something Lucanis will consider remotely wearable. His cousin’s a prude; his wardrobe isn’t.

Still, when Illario throws him the dark purple button-down shirt with a neckline exposing his clavicles, Lucanis only eyes it dubiously for five seconds before sighing and putting it on.

The shirt fits him well.

“Sebastian will be there, by the way.”

“Oh.”

“He’s nice. Stop being paranoid. I can hear what’s going on inside that large forehead of yours.”

Lucanis doesn’t bother answering.

The journey to the tavern is a quiet fifteen-minute walk. The moon overhead paints the dark Treviso waters a glowing, light gray, its peace a stark contrast to his cousin. Lucanis’ jitters are subtle—the slight tightening of his jaw, the way he rolls his shoulders as if steeling himself for something—but Illario sees.

“Illario! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” Sebastian jogs towards them, waving.

“And miss a lesson?”

“Ah. Should’ve known. Ever the studious one, you are. And you’ve brought your cousin.”

“Lucanis, Sebastian.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Sebastian’s smile is easy. Illario has cataloged every one sent his way—this one’s different, appraising. Calculating.

Something heavy settles in Illario’s stomach—

“Illario, I’ve planted something in someone’s person. You’d know. I’ll entertain your cousin while you figure it out and retrieve it.” His upturned lips and hardened, green eyes shut Illario down before he could even get a word out.

“Take it easy on Lucanis. He blushes easily.” There’s no convincing Sebastian otherwise, so he pleads instead.

Lucanis flushes in an instant. “Illario!”

“Just looking out for you, cousin. Be back in an hour.” He leaves Lucanis with Sebastian despite the gnawing feeling in his gut.

When he returns, Lucanis is stiff. His hands are curled into loose fists at his sides, his jaw tight and shoulders locked in place.

He doesn’t look at Illario. Doesn’t acknowledge him until Illario steps into his space, grasps his chin and tilts his head, waiting for a reaction.

Lucanis pushes him away and steps back, evading his eyes.

When Illario pulled Sebastian to a corner and confronted him, the man only shrugged—

“You think he really understands you?” A beat. “That he could ever be like us?”

Illario says nothing. The words buries itself in his skin like a splinter.

After they leave the tavern, Illario tries again.

“Lucanis.”

Lucanis doesn’t look up from the ground as they walk back to his apartment. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, fingers curled inwards.

“Did something happen between you and Sebastian?”

“What? No.” Too quick.

Lucanis shifts, adjusting his sleeves, gaze flickering to the side. “I just don’t want to get in between your training with him, is all.”

The way Lucanis shuffles his feet and avoids his gaze is damning. But whatever happened, Lucanis won’t tell him.

Illario lets it go for now.

“‘m going out.”

Illario drapes his coat on his shoulders, calling back to Lucanis. Half-opened smut books surround him. His eyes are laser-focused on the browning papers. It’s a ridiculous sight—the perfect Dellamorte grandson, obedient and timid, absorbing every possible sex position from Illario’s lewd collection.

Illario chuckles.

Lucanis looks up, wide-eyed and guileless—like a fucking deer caught in the middle of a lightning spell. Illario’s throat catches.

“Have fun. What time can I expect you to be back?”

He clears his throat, breaking eye contact. “If things go well for me tonight? Tomorrow morning.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll see myself out later then.” The dejection in Lucanis’ voice is barely there. It doesn’t escape Illario, though.

“You can crash here for the night—if you want.” He offers before he can think it through.

It makes Lucanis smile, readily accepting the suggestion. “Alright. Maybe I will—catch up on reading.” He lifts a new entry—The Passionate Deep Roads Revelry.

Illario rubs his temples and shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ll never get why you insist on reading Randy Dowager, then not go out and actually practice.”

A pause.

A thoughtful look crosses Lucanis’ face before it settles back into its usual neutrality.

“Ah… no one has caught my fancy yet, I guess.”

Illario hears what isn’t said—doesn’t want to understand it, so he changes the subject instead.

“Of course. See you tomorrow morning then. Cook me something for breakfast?”

His cousin scowls. “I’m not your—”

Illario flashes him his most pitiful look, eyelashes fluttering.

Three seconds. That’s all it takes—Lucanis caves.

He sighs. “Fine.”

“You’re so easy, Lucanis. Much appreciated!”

“Whatever.”

Illario leaves before his mind lingers on their conversation.

Illario should’ve been more attentive. The half-spilled dark green wine bottle taunts him, red liquid pooling just beyond his frozen fingertips.

He’s only been this helpless once before. He was twelve then.

He’s stupid for thinking Sebastian is different.

Illario doesn’t think.

Illario doesn’t feel.

Then—his fingers twitch. A flicker of control. The kindling of hope ignites.

Relief—

Then—

Fury.

Illario watches Lucanis from afar.

During coffee dates with Viago and Teia.

When Lucanis lets out a quiet chuckle at whatever unassuming remark Viago has about their coffee that day.

During slow strolls through the Treviso Grande Market—single-minded and scrutinizing each item he picks up from the stall shelves. Looking for something particular.

When he gives Viago the knife.

Illario turns away before he sees how Viago will react when he finds it on his desk.

Their fight settles in his bones, coiling around every joint in his body. Every word sinks itself inside him, tethering him to his apartment floor. Like the paralyzing agent Sebastian snuck into his wine bottle.

His see-through wine glass shatters, spilling across the floor and soaking his carpet.

It will be hard to remove, he thinks. Time to buy a new one.

“This is why Caterina won’t look at you! You refuse to acknowledge her authority on important matters!” Lucanis screams, frustration lacing every word. For the first time in years, he is looking through Illario instead of at him.

Illario can’t help but hear the “This is why I won’t look at you,” too.

The unsaid words seize him. He needs to fight back.

The slam of the door still rings in his ears.

Illario watches Lucanis from afar.

He watches as Lucanis forgets him—his brown eyes shining at the Bastard of the King’s words instead.

Sebastian disappears. Not a trace of him or his friends anywhere in the Cantori Diamond. Or in Treviso.

Caterina is sending him on more missions alone.

Finally.

The lovely daughter of a noble. The father of a rising merchant.

A cold touch to his hips, gripping until it bruises.

He trained for this. He was made for this.

So why does he want to peel off his skin until all that remains is his corpse?

He sees Lucanis quietly blooming and forgets why he wanted to stay away in the first place.

He just returned from a job—messy but successful. He puts on his sorry smile #1 and makes his way to Lucanis’ apartment.

The perfect excuse:

“I want First Talon.”

A familiar rhythm settled between them after that.

Lucanis gets comfortable. Too comfortable.

He’s the Heir of the First Talon, the First Talon’s Prodigy, soon to be one of the youngest Master Assassins.

Lucanis isn’t arrogant… not even outwardly proud about what he’s become. But Illario notices the change, the subtle jabs about his flirting, the roll of his eyes when Illario whistles in appreciation at the women in front of them.

This isn’t new, not really. They’ve always been antagonistic to each other, even as children. Brotherly competition—their helpers would say.

So why does his words cut him differently?

Isn’t it nice that Lucanis has become comfortable with him again?

A years-old splinter resurfaces from his barely calloused fingertips:

“You think he really understands you?”

But maybe… it’s Illario’s fault, too. He was taught to bend, to fit into impossible crevices. To change masks as fast as he can throw a dagger.

Because when Lucanis looks at him, he doesn’t see him.

But is this Illario really any different from Lucanis’ Illario, then?

“Need this door opened,” Lucanis asks—no, orders.

“On it.” Illario obliges, an agreeable smile on his face.

**

“Restrain him, will you?” It’s a question, but Illario understands it for what it is.

“Alright, cousin.” Illario acquiesces as he severs their target’s tibiotalar ligament on each ankle.

**

“If I’d known you were just going to kill him, I wouldn’t’ve put so much effort into the knots,” Illario grumbles.

“Check his pockets.” Lucanis answers instead—doesn’t even acknowledge his complaint. Illario checks the corpse’s pockets anyway.

**

“I need those keys.” Lucanis nods his head to the woman beside Ambrose. Guard Captain Camille Spina is beautiful and elegant, dressed in an emerald gown adorned with crystals, even during bodyguard duty. A woman after Illario’s own heart.

“Your wish is my command, cousin.” Illario’s gut stirs at his prospect. Lucanis won’t even care about what he does with his time, anyway.

**

“Get that man to stop yelling at me.”

Illario doesn’t even second-guess himself. His sorry smile #6 is already in place, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as he faces the furious tavern owner to get him to back off Lucanis’ sorry state.

It’s nice—to be useful to Lucanis.

“Can you get their keys?” First Talon Lucanis Dellamorte doesn’t repeat himself.

Illario wonders—just for a moment. Does Lucanis know what he’s asking?

The thought stirs something in his chest, threatening to freeze him in place. He pushes it away before it can settle. This is a job. He was trained for this.

“Yeah. Sure.”

The breath lodged in his throat chokes him awake. He lurches upright, chest heaving, hands gripping at the sheets—trying to remember. He’s not paralyzed on the tavern’s backroom floor anymore.

In the darkness, something metal glints from the console table across their bed.

How easy has it become for Illario to… debase himself in this manner? When did it become second nature?

4:47, near dawn.

Illario runs a trembling hand through his hair and buries his face in his drawn-up knees. The silence presses in, thick and heavy. If Lucanis is awake, he doesn’t make it known. Not a hitch in his breathing nor a twitch in his limbs.

Lucanis’ back is broader now.

Between them, a space large enough for another human to lie.

Sleep-laden breaths don’t reach his quivering body.

The glint of unremarkable metal across their bed catches his eye again.

At Lucanis’ word, Illario would drop on his knees just to get a fucking key.

Chapter Text

A house made of cards, and us, inside
Even though the end is visible
Even if it’s going to collapse soon
A house made of cards, we’re like idiots
Even if it’s a vain dream, stay like this a little more

They have yet to talk about what happened last night.

Illario couldn’t go back to sleep. Still, he stayed in bed. He considered reaching out to Spite—to ask, get a hint of just anything—but the risk of Lucanis waking was something he wasn’t willing to take.

The sheets remain cold.

7:01 in the morning.

The only sign of Lucanis stirring is the shift in his breathing—tranquil, steady murmurs giving way to a sudden, sharp hiss. He jerks upright, muscles locked, and stumbles to the bathroom. His gait, wide and awkward. Like he doesn’t fit inside his own skin.

The door closes with a thud, an echo of the ice forming between them like a lake slowly freezing.

A pained, muffled “Mierda—!” slips from the other side of the door.

Illario would’ve snickered if not for the rigid line of his cousin’s back and the mechanical effort in his limbs.

Lucanis spends a long time inside again. First, the sound of water. Then, silence.

Illario makes himself scarce, leaving the inn to find them breakfast.

7:54 in the morning.

When Illario comes back, Lucanis is already half-armored, putting on his leathers. His back is turned. His skin is pale and unmarked. A blank slate.

Illario had made him down an absurd amount of elfroot potion after his accident.

It worked too well—erasing the marks that once belonged to him.

Illario sets down a bag of croque-monsieur sandwiches and a pair of dark roast on the table. The aroma cuts through the stagnant air. Then, he heads to the bathroom.

He heats the water to scalding, letting it boil past what’s recommended. Even with stale sweat clinging to him, the steam doesn’t cleanse. The rough towel the inn provided doesn’t scratch his skin, but he wishes it would.

Drowned in the punishing water, Illario still feels the tremble in his limbs—deep in the bone. It won’t leave.

When the tub drains, he towels off with practiced ease. The vanity mirror is fogged. His toiletries are lined in perfect order, tucked into the familiar unrolled leather pouch on the counter.

He dries his hair and gets the tie. Secures his locks in a bun. It feels too tight today—pulling at his scalp like a vice, making his temples throb.

Then, the razor. He scrapes the overnight stubble from his chin.

Then, his fingers hover over the dark stick.

He wonders for a moment:

Should he put on kohl today?

“Why do you need to put this on?” Twenty-year-old Lucanis asks, dubiously inspecting the black pen in his hand.

Illario flashes his charming smile #11. “It makes the blues of my eyes stand out better.”

Before the no forms in his mind, his precise hand is already tracing the edges of his already dark eyes.

8:16 in the morning.

Illario dons his trousers and buttons his leather sleeves. He’s way behind schedule to smile.

Lucanis is fully dressed and sitting by the dining table when he leaves the bathroom. No acknowledgement.

Illario sits across him, keeping his limbs loose against Lucanis’ stiff posture. His cousin never turns to him and never looks up. Only downing the cup of dark roast and croque-monsieur with clinical efficiency.

Only when Lucanis begins to clean the table does he speak.

“Do you think we can finish this tonight?”

“Do you?” The facade cracks—bitterness leaks out, sharp and unfiltered.

“Illario…” Lucanis’ brow twitches. A warning.

Illario sighs. “Yes, Lucanis. We can finish this tonight.”

They have time to kill. Lucanis prefers to carry out assassinations in the evening. If they weren’t… fighting, he’d have Lucanis beneath him two hours ago. But they are, and the silence gnaws at his patience. He retrieves his bag and makes his way to the door.

“Where are you—”

“Out. Just need some air. I’ll be back by noon.”

Illario slams the door with a thud.

10:23 in the morning.

His walk brings him back to the worst part of Maronais, where every face on the street looks as exhausted as Illario feels. Dead-eyed vendors. Ash-gray stones. Even under the sunlight, the hues of life have long faded out from this part of town.

One particular peddler catches his eye, several stalls down. Illario tracks him casually, meandering toward the fruit stand to avoid being obvious.

He quietly swipes an apple, stands behind the seller, and leans in to whisper, whistling near the boy’s ear: “So you’re only a part-time mediocre thief.”

Spooked, the lanky kid jumps out of his skin. He sharply turns to Illario, almost dropping the crate of apples he was arranging.

“Merde—! Who—?”

Illario pulls back to full height, smirking. “Hello, kid.”

Recognition drains the surprise from the boy’s face, replacing it with wary disinterest. “It’s you. What do you want?” He carefully sets down the crate.

“Nothing.” Illario wipes the apple on his trousers and takes a large bite. “Just robbing you for a change.”

The boy narrows his eyes at him—his fists tremble, and his jaws clench at the offense. “Do you think we wanted to do that? We have nothing. Those bastards took everything away.”

A ragged breath. “We had to—to steal. Or else we would have starved. If… if I were given a choice, I would be a scholar. On dragons.” The boy struggles to keep his distress in check. “The Western Approach is… is home to one. The Sandy Howler.”

“If I were given a choice…”

Illario thinks of Lucanis, of the way his cousin’s back locks like armor every morning. No one gave him a choice, either.

“I’ve seen it fly—once.” The boy’s voice cracks even more—his tone stripped and raw—and the pit in Illario’s stomach sinks deeper.

He takes calculated breaths—one, two, exhale. The pit disappears. “Life really is shitty, huh. Apologies, your name?”

Hesitation, then—

“Fremont.”

Illario flashes him a smile. “That’s very lovely. I hope you can live up to it someday.” He hopes, genuinely hopes. Contrary to Antiva’s consensus and his reputation within the Crows, Illario can be sincere.

Fremont’s eyes widen. “You—thank you…?”

“Illario.”

“Thank you, Illario.”

“Here. For the apple.” Illario doesn’t count how many coins he can fit in a fist and hands them to Fremont. “Your friends…”

“They’re my brothers. Well, we promised to be.” Illario understands—orphans, then.

“Makes the split easier.”

“This is too—”

Illario doesn’t wait for him to finish before he waves him off and walks away.

“Wait! Did you and your—?”

Another dismissive wave. “Working on it! My partner’s true to his word, though, so I assure you he’ll get it done.”

Fremont’s words tail him on the walk back to their inn.

“Do you think we wanted to do that? We have nothing.”

“If I were given a choice, I would be a scholar.”

“If I were given a choice.”

Illario never had a—

He stops the thought mid-step. Buries it like a shattered blade thrown carelessly down the canals of Treviso. Unneeded. To be forgotten.

12:34 past noon.

Lucanis is nowhere to be found when Illario returns, and for that, he is quietly relieved.

He has half a mind to go out again to buy their lunch—forgotten that his foolish cousin gave away his money. Between them, Illario became the designated treasurer, with Lucanis a pouch lighter.

Illario runs into Lucanis as he opens the door.

“You’re back—”

“Where’d you—”

Illario steps aside to let him in. Lucanis immediately breaks eye contact.

“I… uh… bought lunch.”

Lucanis walks to the table, still not looking at Illario.

“You still have coin?”

“I brought extra, yes.” Shame clings to his words like a threadbare cloak. A single pull would’ve unraveled the fraying edges, but Illario is too tired to tug at it.

“I see. What did you buy?”

“Uhm. Quiche Lorraine.” He mindlessly starts unpacking the packaged food on the table.

“Found someone selling churros, too. Here.” Lucanis taps one of the plain containers.

Illario pauses, at a loss for words for a second.

“Thanks.” Illario knows it for what it is—an olive branch. He’s grateful Lucanis is offering it. Grateful Lucanis is also trying. His feet pad against the wooden floor before he thinks.

“Hey…” Illario closes the distance between them, fingers lifting to cradle Lucanis’ jaw. “Can I…?”

“Yes.” Lucanis leans into his palm. A slow exhale. “Please.”

He doesn’t waste time and presses forward. Wraps his free arm around Lucanis and pulls him close. Lucanis sighs into the kiss, melting into his touch. Illario clumsily guides them toward the bed, never breaking away, breathing him in. Carefully stripping Lucanis of his armor. Letting Lucanis fill his lungs. Tasting the mint in Lucanis’ breath.

He missed this.

He missed Lucanis.

To feel his warmth against his skin. The shiver beneath his fingertips.

The pulse that answers his own.

Only when they’re on the bed does he pull back. The stale, wrinkled linen still smells of their sweat. Lucanis gazes up at him, half-lidded eyes slowly dampening. His lips are swollen.

“Illa—”

“I don’t need anything else,” he murmurs against Lucanis’ flushing cheek. “I just… need to…”

Illario crowds Lucanis further—presses their lips together until he can no longer tell where he ends and Lucanis begins. Until their chests throb in tandem.

Until, just for a moment, he forgets why they let the silence between them fester in the first place.

Until time becomes shapeless, and Illario forgets how long he’s held Lucanis like this.

Their food has gone cold by the time they start to eat.

6:00 in the evening.

They’re back in the same corner alley, peeking at the Lemaire manor. The tension that had built up between them, already a memory. Illario feels more confident that they’ll be able to complete this job.

Guard Une is leaning against a gate pillar, still looking bored out of his mind.

Guard Deux is nowhere to be seen. Illario tells himself it’s a shift change. He tells himself again when he doesn’t believe it.

“Let’s check the back. Might be an easier way in.” First Talon Lucanis Dellamorte moves with that same deadly precision. Illario trails behind.

They find a latch, easily opening it with the key they’ve retrieved the previous day. Illario doesn’t think about where Guard Deux could be at the moment.

A cold sensation cuts through Illario—then Lucanis sharply turns, eyes narrowing at the air in front of him.

“Spite, can you—ah! Mierda. We’re trying.”

Illario tenses. “Why? Did it sense something?”

“Venatori, yes. And he’s getting agitated.”

The back entrance leads them to a dark and narrow hallway. It’s too quiet.

As they’re nearing a sharp turn in a small clearing, Lucanis’ face scrunches up, head twitching. Another twitch in his daggered hand.

“What is it?”

“Blood magic. A lot of it—close too.”

“Are they expecting us?”

“Probably, yes.” The lack of urgency in Lucanis’ tone makes Illario’s stomach churn.

“You don’t seem surprised by that,” he replies just as casually.

Lucanis doesn’t gratify him with an answer—as if he knew.

Something in Illario snaps.

“You knew this job was a trap and didn’t tell me?” He hisses, controlled and careful.

“I had a hunch—”

Illario cuts Lucanis off and doesn’t let him justify this. The bastard fucking knew. “Doesn’t matter! Che cazzo—I thought you trusted me!”

Lucanis narrows his eyes at him. “If you read the dossier I gave you, maybe you would’ve figured it out for yourself, too,” he barks back.

He turns to his right. “Spite—culo—not helping—”

“And saying ‘Illario, it’s a fucking trap,’ wouldn’t have sufficed?”

Lucanis turns back to him and pauses, wide-eyed. Tension bleeds out of him, and his resignation is apparent in the downward slope of his shoulders. “What do you want me to say? It happened. Now help me find Alexandre before someone finds us.”

Illario gathers himself with a sharp exhale. This is a job. There is no place for emotion in killing. It’s sloppy. File it down. Make it useful.

He’ll find time to sock Lucanis when they’re done with this.

They evade being seen through the maze of whatever cellar they find themselves in. Finally, heavy metal doors cut them from the rest of the manor.

Lucanis mumbles something, scowling.

“What are you sensing?” Illario asks.

“Spite says they’re near. We need to—” Lucanis pushes the door open, and the scent of blood magic engulfs them.

A trap.

Shit.

Lucanis’ gaze whips towards him, startled.

Illario opens his mouth to speak—

Then, the room explodes red.

“Lucanis!” He cries, finally finding his voice. Beside him, where the spot Lucanis stood a mere second ago, is blood.

“There! Get him!” Three armored guards appear by the corner.

“This is the shittiest timing, merda.” They knew.

Illario slams himself against the doors—the iron biting into his shoulder. Nothing. Then another slam, desperate to force them open. It finally budges.

Illario runs.

He runs through the dimly lit halls of the manor. Walls blur. His pulse is hammering in his throat. Somewhere behind him are the screams of guards.

Illario runs. He doesn’t stop until he finds an open window.

He doesn’t breathe until the manor becomes a silhouette again, distant. Until its golden spires vanish behind the trees. Until he’s swallowed by withering bark, brittle leaves, and the slow collapse of evening.

Only then does his mind catch up.

“Cazzo—okay. Pensare! Logico!”

His knees buckle.

The leathers on his back feel like dragonbone—unyielding, brutal, fusing with his skin. The collar gnaws at his throat, strangling him. His chest is bare, but it still feels like he’s drowning.

He wrenches the fastenings loose, but the pressure doesn’t ease.

The only thing Illario has to be is Lucanis’ bodyguard, and he fucked that up too.

He wraps his arms around himself, tries to keep his body from trembling. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—”

His voice cracks. So does something beneath his ribs—sharp, splintering, silent.

“Fai il culo!” he spits, barely louder than a whisper. “You fucked up—again—”

The only thing. The one thing he’s supposed to do. Protect Lucanis.

The only fucking thing.

His head drops to the ground, the rough patch of grass scratching him. His body won’t stop shivering.

Lucanis—

He needs to find Lucanis—

Illario digs his nails into the dirt, mucking up the grass. Cold seeps into his bones again. The warmth of Lucanis in his arms—gone.

“Merda—ah! Calma.”

One. Two. Exhale.

His fingers curl tighter, pulling at the soil like it might offer him a path. As if it would tell him where Lucanis is. Anything.

One. Two. Exhale.

There is no place for emotion—

“I’m going to…” Illario whispers, voice hoarse. “I need to—”

Find you.

He chokes on the vow he can’t say—if he speaks it out loud, Lucanis might not…

His body won’t stop shaking.

Illario never wins.

Please. Stay alive.

Zara is renting a rest house near the shores of Rialto Bay. A meager bungalow from the outside, unassuming and quiet. Far from neighbors. Only a single door and a large window with a view of the Rialto Bay sunrise. The interior is just as bland—all wood and stone. Her bed, though, is ridiculously plush and a gaudy red, like it’s the only thing she brought from Minrathous with her. As one would expect from fucking Vints.

Illario has seen it more times than his own bed for the past four months.

He knocks on her door. A soft click follows, then her silver eyes peek through the small crack. They flash in delight before Zara swings the door open.

“It’s so lovely of you to meet me on such short notice, Amatus.”

He shrugs off his coat, but before he can hang it, Zara’s arms have already found his neck, and her mouth is on his.

Her tongue slithers between his lips, and Illario lets it linger. Then, not a moment longer.

He breaks away and flashes his charming smile #4. “Anything for you, mia regina.” He curls his syllables, the words tugging Zara towards him again.

Her silver eyes and devious smirk soften—something frighteningly tender blooms on her face. His shoulders lock before he can stop them.

Zara is in love with him.

Illario can’t afford what that means.

He clears his throat, not trusting it not to crack. “Why did you ask to see me?”

“Nothing in particular. Just—relaxation. I’ve been very… stressed.” She pulls away from him and ambles to her bed. He follows, sinking into the foot of the mattress.

“My pet has been such a handful,” Zara laments, reaching for the back of her red dress—its neckline a sharp cut down her stomach. “I haven’t been able to visit due to matters in the Magisterium, but a colleague has been training him for some time.” He gestures for her to turn, fingers already ghosting toward the buttons.

“What did he do this time?” Illario pulls her to his lap and presses his lips to her nape. The all-too-familiar scent of caramel clings to her skin—rich, cloying, nauseating. His nose itches.

A throaty moan. “He was feisty. I thought we had him properly trained already. He was just biding his time.” Zara pulls off her dress and sits on his lap again.

“Care to elaborate?” he murmurs, fingers drifting down her spine.

A hand presses lightly on his crotch. “My colleague lost his… appendage,” she says, as if discussing the rare gloom of Antivan weather. “He was lucky I was there to reattach it. Whether it’s still usable… well.” She waves a hand. “A shame. But we shelved that plan, for now.”

Without warning, Zara shoves him to his back and straddles him.

Ice floods his spine. His mind doesn’t catch up—he’s already flipped them, pinning her wrists above her head.

“Ooh. You’re feisty tonight, Amatus,” she purrs.

Illario immediately wills the bile to subside. Swallows. She can’t know. “Beauty like yours deserves to be worshipped. But do go on.”

“My lackeys reported that they’ve made a promising formula and are already in the final stages of trial.”

Zara smiles, sweet and clinical. “And my pet must be… pristine.”

Illario wakes to sweat-damp sheets, his skin glued to the linen. His mouth is thick with caramel and bile.

2:21 past midnight.

He doesn’t move. Just buries his face further into Lucanis’ pillow, breathing in his scent. Inhaling the embers of their earlier coupling.

Pretending Lucanis is just in the bathroom and not fucking gone.

Illario tracks Venatori to a decrepit building on the outskirts of town, farther than their wyvern sightseeing trip. It was clearly built as a prison—walls high and proud yet cracking, ringed with rusted defenses, half-swallowed by sand and time. It took him a day and a half to piece things together and find this place.

No guards stood outside. The desert sun is harsh, and Venatori like their comfort.

A rusted backdoor easily lets Illario pick it.

For once, he’s thanking whoever the fuck is up there because he navigates the mossy, dirty stone corridors without fanfare.

He never believed—where were the gods before Lucanis was captured?

Illario finds the lower chambers of the old building. Static thrums beneath his skin, getting more erratic at what lies ahead.

Lucanis.

He desperately hopes he’s not too late.

The air is stiff and heavy—something rotten lingering, even if no corpses litter the floor.

Muted murmurs and groans reach his ears. His heartbeat picks up as he follows the sounds.

He finds himself in a cellar corridor. It splits left and right. The left leads to a dead end. The right, to the cells. Rows of shelves, iron bars, and shadows. He follows the sound there.

In another clearing, a glint in the corner catches his eye—Lucanis’ rapier. Untouched. He never dropped it unless ordered. Never let go unless forced.

Then, his armor. Bloodied and torn in places.

This is it. He’s here.

Rocks of unease fill his stomach.

Lucanis is here.

A venom-filled voice snaps his head to the end of the hall.

There, at the center cell, directly opposite where Illario is, is Lucanis. On his knees, chains tethering him to the floor by the wrists. His head is forcibly held down by someone—a Vint, if his flashy robe is any indication. Two others stood on the side, their backs to him.

Illario ducks behind the nearest wall, peeking just enough to see. Any more, and he’ll give himself away. His heart clenches.

“—paid you back for my dick.” The first Vint barely screams, slamming Lucanis’ head to the floor. His face burns with fury. A sickening crack echoes across the hall.

Lucanis’ fingers twitch. His breath stutters once, then steadies.

Illario holds his own—he can’t be seen.

Lucanis resists against him, forcing his head to meet the other man’s eyes. He spits, “You’re stupid to think that I wouldn’t bite. Should’ve considered a different hole, idiota.”

The Vint’s voice booms, furious. “You still dare to be smug? When you’re like that?”

Another crack. Blood starts dripping from Lucanis’ temples.

“This is for Zara, little demon.”

Lucanis heaves before grunting, “She’s… fucking dead. Get over it already.”

Another slap.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t continue her work. You also killed our Gods. Lusacan, my lord, I will take revenge.”

“You’re doing a piss-poor job, then.” Lucanis spits blood.

Another.

Illario’s head throbs as if it is the one being banged against the stony floor.

“Oh? You want it, don’t you, arrogant prick? A different hole, you say? I have something better.”

The clank of chains grates Illario’s ears.

The Vint manhandles Lucanis, forcing him to his knees. He motions for the other men to hold him down—clutching Lucanis’ shoulders. Lucanis clamps down hard, lips split and bleeding, as a dagger slices through his shoulder.

The Vint dips a gloved hand through the wound before covering Lucanis’ eyes, fingers digging into his temples hard. He closes his eyes, too, concentrating.

Lucanis barely stifles a howl as the skin beneath the Vint’s hand glows blood-red. The air thickens. Sulfur and iron choke the dank cellars.

Fuck—

Illario should move.

There are no instructions to follow. This is his call.

It’s only been three minutes.

“Let me dig through that mind of yours.”

A flash of purple clashes with the red but diffuses immediately.

Muted grunts escape Lucanis as blood magic pours from the hand covering his eyes.

“You’re in love with your cousin? That’s the kind of steamy news that will shake Antiva, don’t you think?” A maniacal laugh. “The Antivan Crows’ First Talon is getting his dick sucked by his cousin.”

Lucanis jerks back, but they hold him by the shoulders steadily. Locking him in place.

A gasp. “Oh? Your cousin—Illario?—did what? And you let him? How pathetic and broken must you be just to lie there and take it?”

More blood drips down Lucanis’ face as the Vint presses harder, enough for his nails to dig into skin.

“‘Shouldn’t the First Talon be able to take it in the ass?’ is inspired!”

Lucanis chokes back a scream. Illario feels a sting and wetness from his clenched fists.

Five minutes.

The Vint dares to giggle. “How scandalous! Your own cousin—that you love—was the one who sent you to the Ossuary? I knew Zara had a paramour. She was very hush-hush about him, though. Bless her soul.”

He should move. Now. He should throw caution to the wind and fucking move.

His body—fucking traitor, fucking coward, fucking liar—won’t budge.

The Vint roughly pulls Lucanis by the hair, staring him down. Lucanis’ eyes are far away. He covers Lucanis’ eyes again, pressing down on his temples with sharp nails that further redden the surrounding skin. Bruised fingers desperately claw at the stony ground.

He should save Lucanis.

Seven minutes.

His feet are firmly planted on the floor. His throat, barely breathing through the bile.

A finger twitches on the hilt of his dagger.

“Now, how about another year in the Ossuary?” The Vint’s voice drips acid.

Too late. Always too late.

The cell blurs. A ragged scream is ripped out from Lucanis’ throat.

He should fucking move.

Illario looks away.

“Lucanis!? LUCANIS!?”

Spite’s panicked voice shakes the fog from Lucanis’ mind. He tries to push himself up, but something heavy tethers his neck and wrists to the floor.

He can’t see.

The floor is rough. Damp. Sandy.

“Spite? Hn—where?” Lucanis props himself on his arms, but his vision still hasn’t returned.

His palms sink into the wet sand, soft as rot.

“Back—we’re back!” The demon screams, its voice echoing from all around him.

“Where are you? I can’t—”

A clap catches his attention. His head snaps to the right, following the sound.

“Fancy seeing you here, cousin.” A sensual alto coil in his ear. A sound he once tucked safely inside his chest.

Illario.

He’s here. Wherever this is. Salt lingers in the air. The weight of chains tightens around his throat.

Then, light penetrates through the darkness.

Seated languidly on a stone bench is Illario. Arms perched on each armrest. Face slack, turned slightly, as if he were resting. Still, his piercing blue eyes glint with something dangerous.

The casual posture makes Lucanis quiver.

Behind Illario loomed large ice crystals—cracking, glimmering. Terrifyingly familiar.

Only then does Lucanis realize where here is.

No, no, no—

Panic starts clawing up his throat. “Illario… why are you here?” he croaks out.

“Why would I not be?” Illario grins—that boyish smile Lucanis is fond of. The one he should’ve grown tired of by now but hasn’t.

One that meant Illario would tease him.

Why is he here?

Why are they here again?

“Do you think I’d miss the chance of seeing you this… pathetic?” Illario stands and ambles towards him, each step carrying his power and anger. He lowers himself and puts his weight on the balls of his feet, grabbing a fistful of Lucanis’ hair.

“Why—?” Lucanis starts before he chokes. A tremor runs down his back.

The madness in Illario’s eyes is back.

Lucanis’ heart stops.

No—

“Get away! Move! Lucanis—!” The fear in Spite’s voice urges him to move. Despite the heavy chains, Lucanis jerks away, pushing Illario back with as much force as he can. A wild fist meets Illario’s cheek.

It doesn’t faze Illario. His fingers are still painfully buried in his scalp.

“Reduced to what? An abomination, a lowly prisoner. A pet.”

Illario drags Lucanis closer, pulling him against his chains. Their faces are a hair’s breadth away. “Now I’m First Talon, and you’re nothing.”

“Illario. Will hurt us! Again!”

This isn’t real. Illario wouldn’t.

“Fight him!”

Not anymore.

“Spite, where are you…?” He whispers, trying to look everywhere so as not to meet Illario’s eyes.

Not again.

“I am right! HERE!” Spite cries, but Lucanis doesn’t know where here is.

“Zara has plans for you, I’m told.”

Illario smiles, a little too crooked to the left—and for half a second, his teeth are too pointed. Not his. “But let me have my fun with you first. Don’t you love me, Lucanis?”

A slightly calloused hand tenderly caresses his cheek. Familiar. Comforting warmth. Lucanis instinctively leans into it.

Then, Illario shoves him down—the seafloor presses cold against his face.

“Mmh—!”

This isn’t Illario. Not real.

“Consider this training.” The sand swallows him. The same tender hands tug at his threadbare trousers. The chains around his neck collapse like a noose.

“Don’t! Just! LIE THERE!” Spite’s screams bleed into his ear.

Illario’s chest bears down on his back, pinning him to the floor. Too heavy.

He whispers mockingly—“If you manage to get out of here, if you manage to get First Talon from me… you should be able to take it in the ass, no?”

Not Illario. Not real.

“Lucanis! MOVE!”

Something sharp digs into his thighs—fingernails. They hook, pulling his hips up. Something solid presses at the tail of his spine.

He pleads, “Don’t—!”

Pain cleaves through him.

The world blinks white.

His ribs shudder. The breath is ripped from him—

This isn’t—real.

“Make him STOP! LUCANIS!”

Illario, please—stop.

Illario kisses the back of Lucanis’ neck—the junction where hair meets skin—like he used to. A soft nibble, then he bites down hard enough to bleed.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, “You just took it last time, didn’t you?”

The ice in Illario’s voice sinks down Lucanis’ spine, freezing him, bleeding out all the fight in him.

Illario’s harsh breaths burn his nape. Salt scratches at his throat. His blunt fingers claw desperately at the damp sand. The wet, careless sounds of skin against skin ring in his ears.

Time stops for Lucanis in this prison surrounded by the sea.

Behind his eyes, he sees the real Illario gently smiling—under the cracks of morning light seeping through the dark curtains, tangled in sheets and sweaty limbs, whispering something stupid.

His warmth, once consuming,
washes away with the water.
Fading.

This can’t be Illario.

Fourteen minutes.

Lucanis is still screaming.

Illario’s heart chokes his throat. His hands tremble where they press against his mouth. His whole body hums with tension.

Still, his feet don’t move.

“Must be having fun with your cousin, huh?” the Vint singsongs.

A quiet hum. Then, footsteps.

Clack. Clack.

It breaks the spell. Illario jerks back into motion and crouches behind a shelf, the sound of metal echoing with each step as the newcomer passes.

“What do you want?”

“You’re needed upstairs, Domine. Alexandre is causing quite a fuss.”

The Vint—a magister—sighs. “Fine. We’ve gone through his tenth month in the Ossuary anyway.”

A soft thud. Then, four pairs of footsteps approach.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

Illario holds his breath. He can’t be found.

The footsteps pass. Illario counts to five before he allows himself to breathe.

One, two. Exhale.

Inertia only leaves his body when their backs vanish down the corridor, and their steps fade into silence.

One, two. Exhale.

Illario gathers Lucanis’ effects and slips toward the cell.

There, chained by his neck and wrists, left bleeding on the floor, lies Lucanis. Half-naked. Bruised.

Welts bloom across his back, red and swollen. His face is planted on its side. His temples are marked with crescent-shaped imprints and blood. Eyes half-lidded and unfocused, staring into the middle distance.

Lucanis looks smaller than Illario remembers—folded into himself with knees tucked into his stomach. Crumpled on the dirty cell floor like a discarded thing. Like an altar desecrated. As if someone hollowed him out.

The only sign he’s alive is the quiver on his lower lip, as if he’s trying to form words but can’t.

Illario lowers himself to his knees and sets the armor and rapier beside him. His hands linger too long on the silverite. Then, they drift upwards, trembling above Lucanis’ face—a second more than they should.

Lucanis shoots up, back arched unnaturally, his chains snapping taut. His body shudders with too much strength before his gaze slams into Illario.

Eyes—bright, unnatural purple.

“YOU!” Spite gnarls, baring Lucanis’ canines. The blood only makes him more feral.

Illario startles, stumbling back and landing on his backside, palms braced against the floor.

“I WILL KILL YOU!” It screams.

Spite needs to calm down. They might come back. Illario needs to get them out.

He forces his voice to soften. “Spite, please. We need to leave. You can kill me later.”

“KILL! ILLARIO!”

Chains rattle. Spite lunges—bloodied nails dig into Illario’s arms, biting through the leather. The pain doesn’t register.

“Spite—” he doesn’t finish, as a full-body shudder rips through it before purples fade to brown.

Lucanis blinks. The world feels like it’s collapsing around them.

“Lucanis…?” Illario’s mouth is stuffed with cotton. The name doesn’t roll off his tongue like it used to.

Recognition dawns on Lucanis, and he recoils. Hurls Illario’s arms out of his grasp and presses back against the far wall, breath ragged.

“Lucanis, calm down.”

Each intake of breath from Lucanis grows sharper, faster—until he’s nearly choking on air.

“Calm—”

Another heave.

“Just. Back away.” His voice is strained.

Illario stays frozen, looking at Lucanis. Several seconds pass before he understands.

A shuddered exhale.

“Please,” Lucanis whispers. Hoarse. Cracking.

That spurs Illario to action.

“Backing off. Here.” He slides back to widen the space between them and throws a lockpick toward Lucanis.

Illario lets his cousin work on his chains in silence. When the last of the metal falls to the floor with a clang, he repeats, “We need to leave.”

Lucanis doesn’t look up. Then, he pushes up. Stands tall in minimal movements. Not like a man, but like a blade already unsheathed.

“No. We do this today.”

Illario bristles. “Merde, you stubborn—”

“No.” The finality in his words feels like a death sentence. It feels too familiar—something that built the fury inside Illario brick by brick. Lucanis is being reckless.

Illario’s nose flares. His hands curl into his fists.

“They just fucking—”

The memory of what happened lodges the words in his throat. The anger that began to fill his chest burns away immediately. A tired confession slips out. “I killed Zara.”

“They didn’t know,” Lucanis deadpans.

“You could’ve told them!” That should’ve been me.

“I was going to kill her regardless of your meddling. The point is moot.”

“Why are you so…” Illario swallows the question. This is exhausting.

“It’s done. It happened already.”

This fucking stubbornness will get him killed. Illario bites his lip and hands over a few healing potions. Lucanis downs them without wasting a single drop. Each one fades a bruise, one by one.

Lucanis puts on his leathers with quiet precision. With bitter fury. His face betrays nothing as he picks up his rapier from the floor.

He doesn’t look at Illario. Only takes deliberate strides to the cellar exit.

Illario scrambles after him. “Lucanis, hey. Hey. Can you slow down? The place is crawling with Venatori.”

“I don’t care. They’ll all die soon enough.”

The vise-like grip Illario clamps onto his shoulders makes him turn. Brown eyes brimming with bloodlust. Single-minded. Vengeful. A fury that Illario has never seen in them before.

“You’re not thinking—”

“We get this done. Today. Spite smelled them. They’re all here.”

“Lucanis…” A last, desperate plea.

Hardened brown eyes lock with his.

“Shouldn’t the First Talon be able to take it in the ass?”

Illario doesn’t flinch.

He folds inward instead—silent, as if the words didn’t strike like a dagger to the gut. As if they coiled like a noose around his silent throat.

There are no words. Illario can’t offer anything.

A pause stretches between them. Sharp. Frigid.

“You’re…” He swallows. The ‘I’m sorry’ swells in his chest, too heavy to move past the cotton in his mouth.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Lucanis turns away from him.

Illario’s forgotten how good his cousin is at killing.

This is their first job together since the world almost ended. Since Illario grieved Lucanis’ death.

Since Illario had Lucanis killed.

Lucanis moves like a blade across a throat—efficient and final. Elegant, if you weren’t on the sharp end. Fifteen Venatori fall under his blade to Illario’s seven.

Halfway through his precise dance of blades, purple wings blaze out from his broad back.

There he stands—shoulders squared and powerful, despite the tears in his dark leathers. Despite the blood that drips from gloved hands.

First Talon Lucanis Dellamorte. Surrounded by corpses of blood mages.

Carved from wrath. A destructive beauty. Death personified.

Illario can’t look away.

Alexandre is kneeling before him, clutching at Lucanis’ trousers, pleading for his life.

“Please, they just used me too—”

Lucanis doesn’t let him finish. He drives the rapier through Alexandre’s heart.

Contract complete.

A wet, pained whimper to their right catches their attention. The last Venatori—the magister—is still alive. Barely. Nailed to the stone wall by four of Lucanis’ daggers. One through each shoulder. One through each thigh.

He hangs crucified, like a grotesque marionette, twitching.

Lucanis marches.

Each step is deliberate. His boots drag slightly over the blood-slicked floor, but he never falters. The air trembles around him.

Illario sees it now—the tension pulling at Lucanis’ limbs. The battle inside him, behind those brown, unblinking eyes. Spite’s wings are already out—but it isn’t Spite moving him.

This is something deeper, something excavated.

Old hurt.

A fury that belongs solely to Lucanis.

He stops before the wounded magister, silent.

“Lucanis—quaeso.” The magister barely breathes the word. “Hn—”

Lucanis drives the rapier into the man’s lower abdomen, to the right of the navel.

A shallow stab. Meant to keep him alive.

Cruel.

The magister screams.

Lucanis doesn’t blink.

The next comes slower. The thighs, below each dagger. Then, above.

Then, another stab to the lower abdomen, to the left.

Then the biceps. One after the other.

Then again, the shoulders.

Twelve strikes in total.

Each one precisely measured. Each one pulling a new pitch of agony from the man’s lungs.

“Sorry,” the magister sobs, voice choking. “I’m sorry, Lu—”

Lucanis doesn’t wait. His blade pierces him one last time, sinking itself in the magister’s throat.

Blood sprays across the wall like paint.

Lucanis terrifies Illario—his breath catches halfway in his throat.

The brutality forces him to step back. A squeak from his boot makes Lucanis hone in on him—piercing, instinctive.

Eyes unseeing.

A flicker of familiarity.

His mouth moves, mumbling something Illario can’t make out.

Then—emptiness.

His knees buckle. His spine folds. Lucanis collapses in on himself, crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings severed.

Illario rushes forward, hands outstretched—just in time to catch a shoulder before it hits the stone.

Then Spite takes over—and lunges.

It lunges with a blur of motion too wrong for the human eye to follow. Illario’s back slams to the floor with a crack of pain.

“YOU! I WANT TO KILL YOU!”

The demon shrieks—guttural and frenzied.

Its voice rings through the empty central hall, loud enough to rattle through Illario’s ribcage.

It heaves, face rushing down until it hovers just above his. Spit lands on his cheek. A forearm slams across his neck—inhuman strength pinning him down.

His throat constricts, but he forces the air out.

Inhale. Exhale.

Spite’s glowing purple eyes bore into him—making Illario feel small. Undeserving. Unworthy of being near the body it inhabits.

He stays still beneath its fury.

They stay like this for a while.

Then, with as much restraint as it can muster, Spite jerks back and stands.

“But I promised,” it seethes like it’s been tricked. As if Lucanis struck a deal it regrets honoring.

Illario coughs as he sits up, massaging his throat. “Where is—is he?” he stammers.

He lunges forward and grabs Spite’s shoulders without thinking.

Spite snarls.

“DON’T. TOUCH!”

The threat makes Illario let go instantly.

Spite’s chest rises and falls, heaving. Its wings twitch behind its back—half-unfurled, lowering. As if tired.

Do demons feel exhausted, too?

Then, through clenched teeth:

“Lucanis. Doesn’t want to. Go out.”

“Go out where?”

“From his mind,” it declares, voice softening. “Doesn’t think it’s safe. Outside.”

A pause.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Locked himself in. Won’t talk.” Spite hisses, fury returning to its face. “They hurt him. Hurt us.”

Then, like a battle cry:

“Lucanis wants. All of them dead! Chests ripped open. Heart crushed. In our hands!”

Illario’s hands twitch at his sides. “But Lucanis doesn’t want me dead,” he confirms.

Spite doesn’t answer.

Illario swallows. “Can you help me bring him to the inn?”

A beat. The wings twitch again.

“Fine.” It growls. Then, with bitter finality:

“But I still hate. You.”

Illario buys the innkeeper’s silence—or mercy. Whatever it takes to keep a bloodied demon from starting a mob.

“Apologies for the mess, ma chérie. My partner here can’t help it—gets riled up by injustice.” Illario dons his sorry smile #18—the one reserved for bleeding out politely in public—and points a thumb at Spite. The cloak covering it doesn’t hide the bloodied boots and the prints they leave on the inn floor.

“I’m sure this will more than suffice to cover for… damages.”

He hands the young lady his entire pouch. Lucanis has a spare. They’re fucking going home tomorrow. Fucking finally.

They survived.

They’ll survive.

Lucanis can be the responsible one for a change—if he—when he wakes up.

6:04 in the evening.

His hand hovers above Spite’s shoulder—Spite, who’s examining a painting of the Sandy Howler by the reception hall. The air must have shifted because Spite turns.

“Don’t. Touch.”

Illario smooths his face into a disinterested look and nods his head to the stairs. “Let’s go up already.”

Each step towards their room pours unease into Illario’s stomach. He leads them to the bedroom, takes a deep breath, and then turns to the demon.

“Spite, I need to touch—”

“NO! DON’T TOUCH!”

Illario raises both hands, palms up in surrender, and moves to his pack to look for something.

“Fine. I’ll just… tell you what to do.”

He slides a small dagger across the floor with a soft clang. One of the duller ones for practice. “Take that. You can cut his armor open.”

Spite watches him warily as it crouches, picking up the blade.

“Do you know how to wield a knife?”

A rough, disappointed growl vibrates from its throat. “Lucanis. Won’t let me touch.”

Illario points to his own sleeve. “Just try on his arm first.”

The first slice nicks Lucanis. A thin wound appears, blood seeping through the opening. Its right eye twitches, the corner of its mouth curling upward. An expression Lucanis has when hurt.

“Not—you see his memories, don’t you?” Illario tries a different approach this time.

Spite’s brows furrowed as if concentrating, trying to search through Lucanis’ memories. Even with the purple gleam in its eyes, it looks like Lucanis when he’s brooding.

“Solid. Metal. Sharp. Memories of fighting. Not deep enough to slice the bone. Deep enough to bleed.”

It continues, humming—an eerie, tuneless sound. Then, its brows smoothen. Recognition.

“Sometimes. Lucanis holds the knife. Deep enough to cut cloth. Not deep enough to cut skin.”

He nods. “Assassin training. We had those as children.” A small smile of encouragement. “Can you recall that feeling? Of not cutting? Of not hurting?”

“Yes. Illario taught Lucanis. Pressure not to hurt.”

Illario chokes.

On the memory of the first time they tried to trick Caterina—when Lucanis declared that they don’t need to hurt each other. Asked if Illario knew how much pressure he should use to slice leather, but not the skin underneath.

After that, Caterina made them spar with older fledglings.

Between them, they bled through a roll of bandages that day.

“Yeah, I… did. Can you use that lightness? To not hurt him.”

Spite cuts at the leathers again. This time, the skin doesn’t break open.

“That’s… great, yeah. You’re doing good, Spite.”

Illario motions to his own leathers, demonstrating the cut he wants Spite to do. “Now cut downward. From the collar to the hip.”

It chirps, “I cut,” like it’s proud.

It takes them some time, but Spite manages. Lucanis’ leathers fall open in uneven flaps.

“Here. A rag. Wipe him down, please.” Illario holds a rag of his own and mimes wiping his clothed chest so Spite can follow.

When the last of the blood and grime has been removed, Spite looks at him, brows furrowed.

“Feels clean. Still smells. Blood underneath.”

“Lucanis will need a bath,” Illario explains softly. The sag of shoulders paints the weight of how tired he is. “But I… I’m too tired to teach you that now. Tomorrow, when he wakes.”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Thanks.” Illario leaves a pair of sleepwear on the bed. “His clothes.”

“You’ve seen him put on clothes, right?”

“I know. Clothes.”

The demon wrestles with the sleeves for a while, twisting the shirt awkwardly. It turns the shirt over twice before managing to slip it over Lucanis’ arms. The shirt ends up backwards. It doesn’t fix it.

“Okay. Yeah. You can take the bed. Please let Lucanis sleep.”

“Illario will not—”

“I’ll sleep on the couch outside.”

8:28 in the evening.

Illario doesn’t wait for Spite to settle on the bed. He closes the door with a soft click and sinks into the stuffy leather couch.

He forgets he’s still in bloodied clothes.

12:05 past midnight.

A pulled muscle jerks Illario awake. The blood on his armor has dried—crusted, cracking as he sits. His back aches from where it pressed too long into the stiff leather.

He blinks blearily at the low-lit room. No light seeps under the heavy curtains.

He tells himself the inn has enough coin to get the dark red stains out of the couch.

He strips off the clothes. Washes. Changes into a clean shirt and trousers. Doesn’t bother with kohl this time.

They’re going home today.

The job’s almost done.

Lucanis is still asleep.

1:02 past midnight.

Illario’s bent over the dining table, documenting the job outcome, when something shatters from the bedroom. A sharp, wooden crack.

He drops the papers. Ink smudges his fingertips as he bolts to the door.

Lucanis is facing the far wall. Shoulders hunched. Forehead pressed to the wood. One fist is buried deep into a split in the paneling.

He screams.

The sound rips through his throat—furious, guttural, unrestrained. Illario has heard Lucanis angry. He has never heard him like this.

Then, he breaks. A keening sob tears through him—raw, wretched. It leaves Illario trembling.

His shoulders tremble. Then, his whole body follows.

“Lucanis?”

No reply, as if Illario isn’t even there. Every breath, a plea to fill lungs that won’t take enough air.

Illario pads slowly toward him. Footsteps light, unthreatening.

“That magister… Roman Garam.”

Lucanis inhales sharply, a stuttering breath through his nose.

“He came to the Ossuary. Several times.”

“Sometimes with Zara. Sometimes… alone.”

His voice is cracking open mid-sentence.

“His hands hurt… more than Calivan’s.”

Lucanis punches the wall again. The second impact sounds duller, wetter. Splinters bury themselves in his bleeding knuckles.

Illario flinches. His hands hover uselessly above Lucanis’ back, unsure where to touch—if touch is even allowed.

“I’m here.”

Lucanis turns.

Without warning, his mouth crashes into Illario’s—frantic, sloppy, like he’s drowning and trying to steal the air from Illario’s lungs too.

Desperation pours out of Lucanis in a crush of heat and teeth.

Then:

“Fuck me.”

Illario stills, blinking. “Why?”

“Just… please.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

Illario guides Lucanis to the bed, easing him onto his back. The mattress creaks beneath them—soft in the wrong places, springs worn.

Lucanis lies back, breathing unevenly. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t close his eyes. Only meets Illario’s gaze.

Illario leans over him and presses their lips again. Slower this time. Then, lower.

He trails his tongue from his neck to collarbone to sternum. To his stomach—until his mouth finds the heat between Lucanis’ legs.

The bed isn’t their own—unwashed sheets, pale blue, stale—but Lucanis is here and wanting. Maybe this bed, Illario thinks, can help fill what’s cracked in Lucanis. In what’s between them. In him.

Heavy hands rise to his hair. Fingers tangle roughly. Twisting, loosening his bun.

Illario’s fingers work Lucanis open as carefully as he can while he presses wet lips against Lucanis’ inner thigh. It trembles beneath his kisses.

He remembers the lesson: light pressure, don’t hurt.

But will even the gentlest touch undo this?

They stay like this for some time.

Then—

A cold gust brushes down his spine, a ghost dragging fingers across his skin. It jolts Illario out of himself.

Only then does he hear it. The quiet hitches of Lucanis’ breath.

Illario stills. Withdraws his fingers, then pulls up to hover above Lucanis.

Lucanis stares past him.

Brown eyes wide, glassy. Fixed on something that isn’t in the room.

Soft tracks of wetness roll down his temples, dampening the pillow.

Illario settles beside him—close, but not touching. He folds in on himself, burying his face in his knees. And waits.

The silence collapses on them. Each soft hitch a stab against his ribs.

Then, a whisper:

“… Why did you stop?”

“Your eyes were far away.”

“Ah…”

“You shouldn’t—”

“But, I want to. I want it.”

Illario’s voice is quiet. He tries not to let the edge creep in.

“Were you seeing him? Or me?”

Lucanis doesn’t answer.

“I—Illario, just continue. Please.” He pleads instead.

“No.” Illario exhales. “Not tonight.”

He begins to clean Lucanis, hands slow and careful, wiping him down with a rag. Pulls up his underpants, then his trousers. Smooths the blanket over him with deliberate hands.

Lucanis shifts, like he might reach for him—then doesn’t. Instead, he turns. Pulls the pillow closer, curling away to face the wall.

“Sleep for now.”

Illario doesn’t push. He watches the rise and fall of Lucanis’ broad back for a moment longer.

Then he lets it go.

The first time Zara invited Illario to her rest house, they’d been seeing each other for over two months.

For two months, he’d been bedding his cousin’s murderer.

Two months since Lucanis died.

“Have I told you I have a new pet?” she coos. Her head rests on his chest, one slender arm curled around his waist.

Illario threads his fingers through her raven-soft hair. “Not really. Where’d you find it?”

“Him,” Zara corrects, smiling. “Picked him up in Minrathous a month ago. Wonderful human. Feisty little thing.”

Her fingers trace faint circles across his taut stomach, just above the waistband of his trousers. “He’s a… freedom fighter, from what I understand. Likes biting my security when they get handsy with the slaves.”

There’s a lie in her words, but Illario can’t tell which.

She sighs, feigning weariness. “And I’ve tried. Really, I have. But he still isn’t broken.”

“Hm?”

“Knives haven’t worked on him.”

“And what do you hope to accomplish?” Illario asks teasingly—testing the waters. Measuring her rot.

“Just to see him cry. Entertainment. He caused a ruckus in my atelier when he arrived.”

She stretches beside him, slow and indulgent—catlike, all deceiving softness. “Besides, my researchers are still fine-tuning the formula.”

“Formula?”

“The best method to ensure I get the perfect demon when we administer it.” Her manicured hand creeps into his trousers.

A violent pressure around his cock. “He doesn’t need to be in perfect health before that.”

Illario shifts beside her, reclining back into the pillows, face not giving way to his discomfort. His tone is still easy. “While this scientific pursuit is riveting, I’m afraid I’m not your man for this. My tools of the trade are far more… intimate.”

“Oh?”

“I prefer my targets offer their secrets willingly.” He smirks. “My tongue’s been known to make anyone sing.”

The grip around him loosens.

Zara props herself on one elbow, silver eyes gleaming as her gaze drags slowly down his body. “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

Illario moves to oblige, easing her onto her back. He kisses her throat, then lower, trailing his tongue from her neck, to her chest, to her stomach—until his mouth finds the wetness between her thighs.

He works in silence.

Her moans unfurl like necrotic smoke into the stale air, as if she siphons the life from the room with every breath.

Her bed—plush, gaudy red, suffocating—is a place that chips away at what’s left of Illario’s soul with every coupling.

The silk sheets cling damp to his knees. The headboard groans.

A moan of ecstasy. “You’ve given me a wonderful idea, my dear.”

Her fingers twist in his hair, tightening until the bun unravels.

“Maybe it’s time to try an ever gentler touch.”

3:34 past midnight.

Illario lies awake.

Lucanis is still on the other end of the bed—still as death. His breath, barely audible.

He’s awake.

As sleepless as Illario is.

Between them, between their aching bodies, the sheets dip like a treacherous ravine.

The ticking of the clock, again, a mocking echo in the stillness of the room. Outside, the heavy rain meets stone.

3:35 past midnight.

A breath that isn’t his own answers the second hand.

Lucanis’ voice—cracked, low—breaks the silence, whispering, “Thank you. For finding me.”

Illario doesn’t answer.

Chapter Text

If this was love and if this is
What the word ‘love’ itself means,
Then, is there really a need to keep repeating it?
We’re tired of each other and seem to hold the same cards.
Well, then.

All right, the repeated seesaw game.
Finally, I’m going to try to put an end to it.
All right, this tiresome seesaw game.

Someone has to get off here.

The morning after feels like surfacing from the depths of Rialto Bay.

Light leaks through a distant crack he can’t quite name. His arms flail about in an attempt to reach it. He swims and swims, but he can never get close.

Then, a flood of sunlight hits his eyes.

Illario jerks upright.

8:54 in the morning.

Lucanis is already out of bed—his side made, the pillow fluffed. The only sign he was there is the faded blood speckles on the pilling linen, as if they’ve been scrubbed clean, but not completely lifted. The room still faintly smells of elfroot and sandalwood soap.

Illario swallows hard; the burn in his throat is not from sleep. He pushes away the dull, dragging ache in his limbs. His feet hit the cold floor with a thud. Then he rushes out of bed.

Is Lucanis—?

Lucanis is seated at the table, his face scrunched in concentration, pen held between his teeth. He doesn’t look up. His shoulders are hunched, and his brown eyes are fixed on the papers. He remains still, showing no sign that he knows Illario is there.

But Illario knows he knows.

The first thing he manages to say is, “How’s your hand?”

Lucanis doesn’t look up. He simply waves his right hand.

“I bandaged it already. It’s fine.”

“Are we set—”

“I’ve sent word to Ser Jean. He should be here in a few hours.”

“Have you eaten—”

Lucanis taps the end of his pen to the container near his elbow.

“Yes. Here. The food’s getting cold. I can finish this up.” He nods at the papers before him, the job report Illario had started on last night.

“Okay.”

Illario nods, though it feels hollow. He sits across from Lucanis and starts eating, letting the quiet fill the space between them.

Lucanis is here. Right in front of him. So why does he feel like they’re back in Treviso?

In Illario’s room: dark, messy, the air gone stale and rotting. Only now, Illario’s the one suffocating—the same way Lucanis once drowned beneath him. Suffocating—not by force, not by drunken hands—just Lucanis’ silence, crushed against his throat.

Illario doesn’t know how to fix this.

“Lucanis…”

Lucanis flicks his hand without looking up. “I’m fine, Illario. I’d appreciate more discretion about the job. Especially to Caterina.” The lightness in his tone is strained at the edges.

Illario’s stomach sinks. The omelet feels like sand in his mouth.

“You expect me to hide this from Caterina? Are you striking it from the rep—”

“Yes, I am. You owe me that much.” Lucanis finally looks up. “Or do you want Caterina to know we’re fucking?”

His voice is calm, but there’s something hard underneath.

His brown eyes—ice-cold.

Illario inhales sharply. The words pierce him like a dagger between his ribs—unexpected, but efficient. The cutlery drops from his hands as if they burn.

One. Two. Exhale.

Illario stays quiet until sensation returns to his hands. Not knowing where to put them, he pours what he can’t say into the pressure in his fists. His nails claw open the crescent-shaped scabs on his palms—the same ones from yesterday.

This is… Lucanis is being shitty. He knows Lucanis—knows he can be cruel. But it’s still shitty to be on the sharp end of a cruelty he once wielded himself. Illario has long laid down his arms and resigned himself to following Lucanis.

That was his vow, wasn’t it? Follow him, no matter where he goes.

Does following also include following him to his death?

If he keeps this up, people will find out. Caterina most definitely will.

Would he risk it? Being found out?

“The job was a trap. Wouldn’t it be best to let Caterina know?” Illario tries again, softening his words to pacify his cousin.

Even if people found out… Lucanis’ safety comes first.

“And why do you care about this so much? You had no problem just following before.”

Illario clenches his jaw. Did he have to go that far?

Lucanis doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. For a moment, he looks like Lucanis from… before, when the Demon of Vyrantium meant his near-supernatural efficiency with wielding a knife and not the irony of having a literal demon in him.

Before everything, despite the redness at the edges of his gaze and the swelling beneath his eyes.

He’s still Lucanis—sharp, capable. Heartless, when he wants to be.

Illario’s appetite has long dissipated. The omelet tastes like ash in his mouth. Bitter, like the words he wants to scream.

He breaks away from those icy eyes and bows before he even realizes he’s doing it.

“Fine.”

12:04 past noon.

Illario had slipped back into the bedroom while Lucanis finished the report in the other room.

He stayed in bed until his sleeping shirt began to itch against his back. It’s one of the nicer shirts—Antivan cotton, too. He’ll throw it away when they’re home.

When Illario finishes his bath, he sees yesterday’s armor by his pack—folded, dried, pressed flat. Still stained with faded blood, but clean.

He remembers tossing it aside last night—too tired to care about the ruined leather.

A smile tugs at his lips, against his better judgment. Hope is a serpent that only fools can afford to listen to. Still.

Maybe he didn’t fuck everything up, after all.

He runs a hand over the armor’s roughened sleeve, tracing a line of dried blood. Lucanis’ probably. Or the Venatori’s he massacred—Illario wasn’t hurt yesterday.

He tucks the armor away, gentler than it deserves, then follows Lucanis to the carriage.

The travel back to Treviso is the longest two days of Illario’s life.

Illario’s mouth floods with spit. His shoulders rust with disuse. Lucanis won’t look at him. He just keeps his eyes pinned to the window.

Rialto Bay is as usual: blue, pretty. Calm.

The scent of salt penetrates the walls of their cabin. The sun is still high.

Illario watches the sea shimmer and wants to shatter the glass.

Can the world stop mocking him for once? It’s exhausting.

Lucanis sits stiffly, his knees pressed together and arms folded like a shield, like Illario might touch him by accident. Like that would be unforgivable.

Illario pretends not to see the tremor in his legs. He looks away when he starts counting how many times it starts and stops, but his eyes still gravitate towards Lucanis.

A thin draft crawls across the cabin floor, curling against his ankle. It’s the same recognizable chill these past months. It lingers in the space between them, too careful to be wind.

The chill against Illario disappears, and Lucanis flinches. He turns sharply toward the door.

“Stop trying to swing from—” Lucanis sighs before muttering a quiet “Spite, please.” The shadows beneath his eyes have only grown darker in the shade.

Whatever hope he had before Orlais has drowned quietly in the bay. Silence stretches their journey, thick as brine.

A chill once again settles near his feet. Lucanis’ mouth twitches for a split second before it goes still as marble. He turns his gaze back to the window again.

Maybe Illario is a fool after all.

4:03 in the afternoon.

When the carriage stops at the Rialto Bay docks, Illario is the first to move.

Behind him, Lucanis stays seated. He doesn’t call after him.

Illario doesn’t wait for Lucanis and doesn’t glance back.

8:00 in the evening.

He hears Lucanis’ voice from inside Caterina’s office, but Illario doesn’t linger.

The Eluvian in the corner of the Cantori Diamond has gone untouched for a while. It has gathered dirt in the crevices. No fledgling dares approach, afraid to meet the First Talon’s wrath in reflection.

This is the second time Illario has visited the Lighthouse. The note he received yesterday from Emmrich seemed urgent.

The Fade smells more stale than he remembers. The sharp bite of lyrium still hangs in the air—burnt and metallic—braided faintly with old leather and the ghost of coffee, long gone cold.

The sconces light one by one as he walks toward the main hall.

Emmrich and Rook are already waiting.

Rook crosses the floor in three strides—and then Illario’s vision blurs. Pain blooms in Illario’s left jaw, radiating up through his teeth and temple.

Thud.

A sharp sting spikes up his spine when his back hits stone.

He spits blood onto the floor. By the time he manages to sit up, the swelling is already rising.

The warden sure knows how to pack a fucking punch.

Emmrich tries to get between them, but Rook stands his ground. Illario can’t look up. “Gentlemen. Please, let’s settle this peacefully.”

The floor scrapes Illario’s palms as he tries to push himself up, but Rook beats him to it. The warden grabs his shirt and yanks him to his feet.

“What the fuck did you do!?” Rook all but screams. His exhale hits Illario’s cheek, hot and trembling. “Lucanis was near hysterical in the note he sent Emmrich.”

Illario’s chest is starting to hurt.

“Nothing. I did nothing.” He still won’t meet their eyes.

“That wasn’t nothing—”

“It is. Precisely nothing. I stood there as Venatori had their way with him.” Illario sees the next one coming. He still doesn’t move.

Another punch. The sound of blood rushing drowns it out. He hears it more in his teeth than his ears.

Rook snarls. “Fucking bastard. You promised.”

“And I fucked up.”

Another.

Illario can’t tell if the ringing in his ears is from his heart slamming against his ribs or his cheek cracking.

He braces for another punch—

But Rook lets go.

“… When did he contact you?”

Emmrich pulls out a locket. Inside, a stone glows faint blue. “A week ago. He was asking for tea recommendations to aid with sleep. I promised to give him some of my specialty brews. We’re on our way to see him. After this.”

“I’ll take them home—”

“No! You’ve done—” Rook takes in a shuddered breath. His fists clench and unclench. Illario can see how much he’s holding back.

You’ve done enough—is what he meant to say. Illario knows why he should let Lucanis’ friends handle this.

But Illario is also a very selfish man.

“Then why did you want to see me?” Illario finally gets rid of the stone in his throat to ask. ‘You wouldn’t have called me if you didn’t want me to do anything,’ threatens to spill.

“Not want—if anything, I wish you’d just—” Rook says through gritted teeth. His nostrils flare between words.

“Rook. Please. I know this is difficult for everyone, but…” Emmrich interrupts. “We wanted to know what happened, that’s why we asked to meet. And give you some things to look out for—with Lucanis.”

A sigh. “If he would allow it, we would rather he get out of Treviso for a bit. But we know how he is.”

“Yeah…” Illario’s voice shrinks. “I understand.”

Emmrich takes something out of his pocket—a round, unassuming container. He holds it out to Illario without letting go.

“Here. Some soothing balm. Should Lucanis need it.”

Illario narrows his eyes at the unassuming tin. “What for? We have our own healers.”

“Sometimes, he would visit in the evening, asking for some to ease the soreness in his neck. It had been a month after… what happened, then.” Emmrich’s fingers tighten around the balm, words trailing off to barely a whisper.

“He allowed me to lather it, while he had this distant gaze. I’m unsure what he was seeing…”

Emmrich exhales—old, exhausted. The sound doesn’t suit the gentle lines of his face.

“But his neck didn’t have bruises.”

He finally places the balm in Illario’s palm and closes his fingers over it. The lid is dented, the label half-faded. It smells sharply of mint, with a colder note underneath.

Illario swallows the copper in his mouth, feeling something sharp between his molars. Might be a broken tooth.

“If he needs more, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” The words are generous, but the tone is not. The hesitance—so carefully smoothed over—colors Emmrich’s voice. Illario might’ve laughed if the distrust weren’t earned. Emmrich is kind to offer him another chance.

Rook finally gives him space, but not mercy. His eyes say it plainly: if Lucanis asks, Rook would peel him open without flinching.

Illario stands in the silence, trying to find a place that doesn’t ache.

Lucanis sometimes glances at the purple shadow blooming along Illario’s jaw, but he never asks.

Most nights it’s “I have some finances to review tonight. Don’t wait for me,” said with a grimace. Lucanis’ brow knits, his mouth set like a lock. He shakes his head, then waves Illario off.

Other nights, it’s “Viago’s new regimen starts poison exposure at age ten. I have to appeal it. You go ahead. I’ll be home late.”

But it always ends the same.

Illario comes home alone.

He eats alone, in silence.

He stays up late, waiting for a knock that never comes—hoping Lucanis will crawl into bed with him, just once.

He turns the lights off past midnight. The other side of the bed stays untouched.

The pillows smell only of Illario now.

In the evenings, past midnight but before dawn, when Illario wakes for water, the halls smell of lavender and honey—freshly steeped.

He drinks quickly and goes back to bed.

The halls of the Cantori Diamond are never quiet. Every remark between Crows is a feint—a bid for control. But silence now follows him through the halls.

Lucanis doesn’t miss the shift.

Fledglings bow too quickly when he passes. The other talons look too long when they think he isn’t looking. Doors shut faster. Conversations die mid-breath.

There are whispers now—careful, coiled things, made for ears they think don’t hear. Thin as wire. Sharp as the blade he once was, before the Ossuary taught his muscles to forget.

“He’s been off since his last contract,” someone says in passing once, too loudly.

“No—he’s been off since the Ossuary,” someone else replies, quieter. Truer.

Too many mornings spent cleaning up spilled coffee in the casino pantry. One report filed with the wrong seal. Last week, he missed a fledgling hiding her off-hand beneath her cloak. She was punished, but not by him.

Caterina sees it. Knows there’s wrongness in him. Her fingers wrap around her cane a little too tightly whenever she passes him.

Lucanis holds his breath every time, thinking—maybe it’s time.

Maybe today, she’ll call him out for what he is.

Maybe she’ll see through him and what he has allowed to happen.

First Talons shouldn’t be weak.

But, maybe—maybe—it’s for the best—

Spite would sneer at all of them.

“Let me hurt them!” the demon would shriek. Lucanis can’t even send a dirty look his way because he knows.

The Talons aren’t fools. They wait.

He’s too meek for a man who once let his eyes speak in steel and certainty.

Lucanis keeps his head down, the pen scratching the same clause for the third time.

Illario’s gaze drills into the back of his skull, sharp with a question Lucanis doesn’t want to hear. Instead, he forces the pen to write the words a responsible First Talon should say. Still, his hand won’t stop trembling.

No one questions him.

They circle like vultures—always just at the edge of his vision.

Lucanis wonders how much longer he can do this.

The first apparent crack happens on a Thursday.

The midday sun smears the marble floors of the casino’s balcony in dizzying white. The youngest fledgling stands before Lucanis, her Heir at her side. He grips her wrist in demonstration.

Illario watches from the side.

Lucanis is mid-sentence—something about tendon strength, the neck, paralysis with enough pressure—when his words trail off.

The fledgling blinks. Her Heir frowns, noting the sudden stillness.

Lucanis’ mouth parts, just slightly. The shift is subtle, but for those who know him, the pause is wrong. His fingers twitch like they’re remembering something too late.

The silence stretches.

Illario claps, easy and offhand. “Incredibile! You’re boring everyone with the specifics again, cousin.”

His voice cuts through the air like warm iron. He keeps his steps unhurried, putting on smug smile #10 and playful gaze #3. He stops beside Lucanis with an ease that dares anyone to question him.

“He gets like this,” Illario chuckles, letting them in on a secret. “My cousin is very passionate about proper methods of neutralizing targets that he imagines every possible strike.”

The crowd exhales. Polite laughter echoes throughout the balcony.

Lucanis blinks—once, twice—then straightens. A slow breath leaves him. The shadows beneath his eyes shrink, just barely.

Illario averts his gaze and settles behind him, not close enough for him to feel Lucanis’ heat, but close enough to act if something else goes wrong.

Lucanis finishes the demonstration cleanly—voice low, sure, and contained. He flexes his fingers once as if testing the steadiness.

Afterward, once the fledglings have gone, Lucanis murmurs under his breath:

“Gracias.”

Illario shrugs. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

That evening, lavender and honey linger in the halls—cut with blood lotus. Viago steeped that sometimes, in poisons meant to soothe, before slipping something that leaves the body cold.

It starts with a broken wine bottle just out of his reach.

The stone floor of the tavern’s backroom is sticky. His discarded pants have long been tainted. Splotches of red mar his knees, his arms. Sebastian’s cheek crunches under his knuckles.

Red blooms again.

Crack!

He hears their bones break in unison.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

His limbs are numb. No nerves on fire. No spark of heat in his fists—just movement, mechanical, as they rain down on Sebastian.

Is it still Sebastian under him? There were what? four? five? of them.

Everything is red. Everything is—

The first thing he sees is the ticking clock.

2:43 past midnight.

Illario can’t go back to sleep. He cracks his neck and stretches his limbs to put feeling back into them. Faint copper reaches his nose. Red stains dot the duvet, multiplying in his sleep.

Only then does he notice his palms stinging. They’re pink, and the scabs are clawed open again. Illario sighs. He really should keep them covered. They won’t heal like this.

He starts toward the bathroom, but ends up at the other end of the hall.

The door isn’t locked. A slip-up, because Lucanis is both paranoid and competent. Illario doesn’t let himself think of why he left it open.

Through the door, he hears the murmurs. Faint. Repeating. Words caught in restless sleep.

His hand finds the knob again.

He could open it. He could rush to the bed and shake Lucanis awake.

But he knows when he’s no longer wanted.

Illario has already overstayed his welcome—even if Lucanis won’t say it.

In the morning, he and Lucanis eat breakfast in silence, across from each other in House Dellamorte’s dining hall.

Lucanis takes his first coffee at 7:35.

9:30 in the morning.

Illario walks with Lucanis to the Cantori Diamond, five paces behind.

The first thing Lucanis does when they arrive is head to the casino pantry. He returns with a cup already half-drained. It’s only ten in the morning.

At noon, Illario slips out for lunch. He comes back at one in the afternoon, Lucanis has a fresh cup in hand.

4:00 in the afternoon.

Illario isn’t counting cups.

He’s counting twitches. He gulps down the sight of Lucanis’ fingers shaking when he signs a report.

Illario waits for the inevitable shoe to drop. Is today the day? He drinks in every exhale, every tremble, and the way Lucanis smiles like he has to dig it up from under something heavy.

And still, Lucanis doesn’t give.

He remembers what Emmrich said, weeks ago:

“He knew—but by his sixth cup, we’d substitute it for decaf. He’d grimace with each sip, yet never complain. On the days Davrin handled it, Lucanis would snap at him over nothing at all. At his worst… eleven cups and perhaps an hour’s sleep.”

“Please don’t let it come to that. Even if it means he despises you for it.”

Rook just nodded, despite his anger rolling off him in waves.

Now, Illario nods too, though no one’s there to see it.

6:45 in the evening.

He leaves the Cantori Diamond to visit Cafe Pietra. His imploring gaze #1 and a fistful of gold can be persuasive enough to make their roaster invent a less potent blend.

Kingsway turns to Harvestmere, and the wind has started to bite in the mornings. Their gardens wilt and wither—finally matching House Dellamorte in its inhospitality.

Days blur into weeks, and Illario thinks he’s growing used to the chill. Still, he prefers summer.

Color creeps back into Lucanis’ cheeks. The shadows under his eyes vanish—if you squint.

If Lucanis has noticed anything off about the coffee, he doesn’t ask—and Illario never offers.

“The First Talon seems… different, don’t you think?”

For some reason, Marion Valisti decides tonight is a good night to ambush Illario. He’s leaning against the stair railing to the pantry. He looks the same as always: brown hair tied, ice-blue eyes calculating each step from Illario as he descends.

On level ground, he stands a forehead taller than Illario, looming and larger than life. Like even air moves aside to make room.

Illario stops a pace away, but doesn’t turn around. He’d rather swallow glass than talk to Valisti.

“Whatever do you mean?” Illario keeps his voice light in an attempt to sound guileless. He pretends not to understand. He’s good at that—a natural, even.

A large hand snakes around his wrist with a grip that won’t take no for an answer.

“He seems more… frightened,” Marion says. “Haunted. Walking around timidly like he’s trying not to summon demons.”

He wrenches Illario around.

“Maybe your unsightly features scare him,” Illario offers, deadpan, laced with enough venom to kill a crow.

Marion smirks. His eyes darken—mischievous, but hungry. Like he knows something Illario doesn’t and is waiting for just the right moment to sink his teeth in.

Zara became easier to read once she fell in love. That’s what love does—it softens the blade. It rounds off the edge until it breaks wrong. Brittle.

The Third Talon, though? He doesn’t betray a damn thing. Illario can’t afford to be outplayed again. That’d be a third strike. He might as well hand over his head on a pike.

Do I even deserve to have some pride left?

“You wound me, Lesser Dellamorte.” Marion punctuates his words with an even more painful grip. “I was hoping the First Talon’s shadow would shed light on his behavior.”

A hand slides to the back of Illario’s neck.

“The other day, I tapped his shoulder, and he all but screamed.”

Bony fingers prickle his skin. A slow, static burn coils down his spine.

“I cannot tell you what I don’t know,” Illario insists, steadier than he feels.

Marion studies him, squinting—deep in thought as if reassessing the innocence he doesn’t believe in. “Hmm… you do seem distant recently.”

The darkness in his eyes fades. His face resets like a deck of cards shuffled clean.

And Illario? Illario can’t even tell what game they’re playing anymore.

When did I lose my edge?

Fuck—

“Trouble in paradise?” Marion asks casually.

Illario’s stomach drops. What does Valisti know?

He couldn’t have known—

Could he?

“What are you implying?” The lump in Illario’s throat warps his voice. He tries anyway, hiding behind annoyed expression #4.

“You’ve already tried to kill him twice, after all,” Marion murmurs, voice soaked in amusement. “I wouldn’t put it past you to try again.”

The hand slips from Illario’s neck, but Marion’s smirk only deepens.

He’s enjoying this. And Illario hates that it’s working.

He prays to Andraste that none of the anger betrays him, but he lets the sarcasm bleed in anyway. “If I were, I wouldn’t be here. Showing up in this stupid casino.”

“I’m merely looking out for the First Talon,” Marion purrs. “Wouldn’t want the Crows led by someone so… debilitated. Perhaps he’s just stressed. Perhaps he needs a different kind of touch.”

The back of Marion’s hand skims down Illario’s arm.

“Do you think he needs a gentle touch?” The words strike Illario like Zara’s words did.

He knows—

What—?

Illario snaps. “Why the fuck are you asking me this? Asshole.”

Marion leans in, his breath searing against Illario’s ear. “But aren’t you the renowned Dellamorte Whore? I’m sure you’re very knowledgeable in these things.”

He finally lets go of Illario’s wrist. That smug grin reclaims his face like it never left.

He lingers. Watching. Then turns and walks back up to the casino’s main hall, each step grates on Illario’s ears.

Valisti leaves—but the nausea clings, just like it did every time he fucked Zara Renata.

Illario is a creature of habit.

He keeps his hair in a bun. Keeps the same shade of blue in his drawers. Rarely leaves Treviso, and maintains a mental library of expressions for every occasion.

He stays out late, orders the same cocktail—A Night of Shame—whenever he fancies something different from the usual red. He picks… used to pick an undiscerning maiden at the tavern and bring her home.

Tonight, he sits at the counter with a tall glass of cider. By the time he finishes half, he’s already handed out his third sorry smile #8—

“I’m not looking for company tonight, mia cara. Perhaps some other time.”

It’s Saturday. It’s his fifth night spent out, content to waste time watching lowly men flounder, braving the crowd to date their way out of their gene pool.

Illario watches the second woman who tried to bribe him with fluttering lashes and a mug of ale leave with one of them.

Tonight’s a good night as any to go back to old habits. There’s no warmth waiting in his bed to stop him.

And somehow, that makes it feel even more pointless.

It’s near midnight when a knock pulls Teia away from her reading.

She opens the door to find Illario—expensive wine in hand, a slightly amused smirk in place, his head tilted just enough to be charming and irritating.

She leans against the frame, arms crossed.

He says, “I come bearing gifts.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s late.”

She wasn’t expecting anyone tonight. She even shooed away Viago after dinner because tonight was supposed to be hers. They’re on a break, anyway.

“I’m a Dellamorte. We arrive fashionably.”

“Uh-huh. Bold of you to assume I’d still be awake for you.”

He flashes a grin and raises the small bag in his hand. “Don’t be cruel. I even brought glasses.”

Teia steps aside to let Illario in. He follows her inside, and they settle by the window. The moon cuts a silver edge along the table.

Illario fills the night with idle chatter and laughter—light, but not quite whole.

By the time the bottle’s half-empty, Illario’s legs sprawl with too much ease. His laugh hitches a breath too long. Another pour. His smile flickers.

“You ever wonder,” he says, swirling his glass, “if the reason we can hide so well in the dark is because we got good at being whatever people want?”

He licks his lips—one of his tells. Teia knows it. She remembers the rhythm. There were nights—between her on and off with Viago, or after worse contracts—when Illario kept her warm just because he could.

Back then, he looked beautiful doing it. That was before the shine curdled. Before he blew a hole through House Dellamorte and stopped pretending to care who got caught in the smoke.

Teia shifts. The wine goes flat on her tongue.

“If this were just a social visit,” she says, “you wouldn’t be five glasses in, looking like someone kicked your ribs in.”

Illario’s shoulders sag.

“I’m flattered, Illario,” she adds, softer now. “But not like this. Not with that look on your face.”

A pause.

“Sorry, Teia. I didn’t mean to bring you into my mess.” His voice is clear. His gaze, too. Like he’s sobered mid-sentence. Snapped out of whatever spell he’d been clinging to.

“Then don’t,” she replies. “Unless you’re ready to talk about it.”

He shakes his head, lowering his gaze like he’s only now realized the shame of it.

“No. Not tonight. Maybe when I figure it all out myself.”

Teia watches him slump in his chair. He used to carry himself with so much boyish allure. All boxy grins and mischievous eyes. She wonders when those turned contrived.

She wonders if they ever weren’t.

Teia’s always had a soft spot for Illario, even after everything. Maybe especially now, now that he’s showing the cracks he kept hidden so carefully.

She reaches out to take his hand in hers, and then—just as gently—

“Then I’ll be whatever you need right now. Just not what you’re asking for.”

Teia lets Illario curl up on her couch by the window. He passes out almost instantly. She comes back with a duvet and lays it over him.

In the morning, no polite laughter and a “Lucanis summoned me” will rouse her before sunlight seeps through her curtains.

When she wakes, the duvet will already be folded carefully and laid on the cushion.

The waters are not still.

They push and pull and pull and pull—into the deep.

Spite knows where. The exact shiver of this body—his and Lucanis’—tells.

“We are sinking,” he says. But Lucanis doesn’t answer.

Too quiet.

Lucanis? Are you there?

He reaches out—but the tether is gone. The usual flicker in their shared mind. The tired edge. The one who scolds Spite when he looks too close.

Lucanis?

Nothing.

Spite wakes.

Their body is cold.

There is ache where warmth used to be—where it has memorized the shape of another pressed against their flesh. The muscles remember. So does skin.

Wetness marks their face. Spite wipes it away, but it keeps falling.

Lucanis. Don’t go back there again. I don’t want to follow.

The bed creaks as he sits. Their limbs echo it—saddled by the blanket, stiff from stillness. No breath shared with another.

On the bedside table, Spite sees the nondescript notebook—the one filled with Lucanis’ feelings. Spite writes on it too, now. Lucanis used to tell him no.

He picks it up with the hand that isn’t wet and holds it apart from their body. Their other hand tries to keep their eyes dry.

The house is a maze. Spite understood the Lighthouse. In the Fade, he would will the walls to show him the way. This house, the one Lucanis calls his home, does not bend to him.

This world doesn’t forgive his kind. He learned that in the Ossuary.

So, Spite looks inward—into memories of aching wrists and dropped knives. Of palm-sized feet, too terrified to make a sound as they walk through the halls.

Illario is always beside Lucanis.

Lucanis is not here to scold, so Spite looks. He finds the room at the other end of the hall.

Spite reaches for the door and yanks.

“Lucanis?”

Illario sits up slowly, blinking through damp lashes, squinting from the light coming from behind Spite. His hair doesn’t look like it does when Lucanis wakes first—no curls pressed soft by sleep, only the disarray of a head that thrashed, turned, and turned again as if the Fade didn’t let him in.

“Illario.” He calls out, throat scratchy. Their eyes still won’t stop leaking.

“Spite? What are you…” Illario trails off, his eyes breaking from Spite’s stare. Why won’t Illario look? He used to look. For a second, it feels familiar—until it isn’t. His eyes no longer crinkle, even if the warmth tries to stay.

Spite stalks toward the bed. The notebook is a familiar weight in their hands. He wills their feet to stop beside the bed—Illario’s side, even now. Even alone.

He shoves the notebook to Illario’s chest.

“Here. Where we write. Our feelings! Because you won’t talk. To Lucanis!”

“What?” Illario looks at him again. Now, Spite sees it clearer—the red-rimmed eyes. Their chest aches, just as it did in their memories every time Illario looked like that.

“Our. Feelings. In the notebook! Here—look!” Spite opens to a page.

“That’s not—” Illario sighs, taking their wrist and pushing the notebook closed. “You can’t just hand that to someone. It’s a diary—it’s personal.”

“Will you talk to Lucanis, then?” insists Spite. Why won’t their eyes stop leaking!?

“I…” Illario hesitates. A warm hand finds their eyes, trying to make them dry, too. The lump in their throat gets bigger. Their eyes leak even more. “I don’t think he wants me anywhere near him.”

Spite shakes their head.

“Left us! Bed is cold! Lucanis is always cold!” Their hand finds Illario’s. Presses it harder against their cheek. Warm. Lucanis missed this—Spite feels it in the way cold releases its grip reluctantly.

“I can’t… fix what I did.” Illario tries to pull away. Spite doesn’t let him.

“Lucanis’ toes. Don’t wiggle anymore. Not even for coffee.”

That stops Illario.

For a while, Spite keeps him here. Their eyes have stopped leaking, but they’re still burning. It’s different from the heat radiating from Illario’s hand, thawing their bones with a touch.

“Spite…”

“Lucanis wants.” Their throat burns too, but he tries again. “Lucanis cries more. Without you.”

Illario doesn’t give up. “I’m the reason he even cries in the first place.”

“Doesn’t matter. To us. To Lucanis.”

Illario falters. Spite watches the unraveling in the way he swallows, like the loosening of a seam that Lucanis’ tiny hands kept repairing.

He clears his throat and looks away from Spite again.

“Spite, ti prego, stop—you don’t understand,” Illario whispers, voice splintering like the prisoners in the Ossuary scream themselves hoarse.

“I do understand. You feel. Lucanis feels.” Spite takes the hand on their cheek and presses it against their chest. “Here feels different.”

Illario doesn’t try to pull away anymore, so Spite puts the notebook away and pulls Illario towards their chest. Shivers start wracking Illario. His face is buried in their shirt, but it doesn’t feel wet.

Spite tugs at their muted link.

Lucanis, Illario’s here. Don’t you feel it?

“Come back,” Spite says.

Familiar arms wrap around their waist—how they used to during quiet evenings, with the music box playing in Lucanis’ room. The same arms that swayed Lucanis, even as he grumbled. Lucanis lied about hating it, but the flutters in their stomach told a different story.

Spite gets into bed with Illario.

Their limbs tangle. Spite’s seen this enough times to remember the shape of it—the way their bodies fit. The way their heartbeat eases with their breaths.

Slowly… slowly…

Spite closes their eyes. The ache beneath their ribs lifts.

Their body warms up.

They stop sinking.

And the waters become still.

When Illario wakes, his head throbs from wine and sleeplessness trading blows behind his eyes.

He is alone.

There’s no Spite, sobbing and begging him to return. No warm body that lulled him to sleep.

No Lucanis.

Illario runs a tired hand through his hair. When he fluffs the pillows, a torn scrap of paper slips out from beneath one, on the unoccupied side.

It’s a Sunday.

Maybe there’s something to do by the docks. Or the Sunday markets. The library’s open today, too.

It’s Lucanis’ only day off. Illario tells himself that intruding would be rude.

He stays out of House Dellamorte the entire day.

Tuesday

Morning:

• Breakfast
• Read budget notes
• Illario—

Midday:

• Marion Valisti has asked for an audience with me. Must add to the schedule.
• Neck’s sore—

Dozed off. Hopefully woke before Spite ran somewhere, again. My pens are still in the same place.

• Ask Lucia to pick up a different roast from Café Pietra. Preferably, something stronger. I might be getting too used to this one.

Evening:

• Dinner—cacio e pepe. It had too much pecorino. Lucia might have accidentally switched my plate with Illario’s.

[The page after this is torn.]

Lucanis’ scrawl (bottom corner):

Spite, what did you do?

[A brown paper, torn at the left edge. The writing is neater than Lucanis’.]

the brew is not the right warm
the shade, not glowing
the right shade of red anymore

we are sitting
STILL
NOT STILL

i am not let inside
the parts that keep the warmth
they stay CHAINED
behind waters that drown

A crumpled paper lies beneath Illario’s pillow—its wrinkles earned from every night it was crushed by Illario’s hand.

Spite hasn’t visited him again. Lucanis also stopped looking his way—even when he thinks Illario isn’t watching.

It’s meant to be another unassuming day at the Cantori Diamond, if such a thing exists. Illario finds Lucanis to let him know he’s leaving—an impulse he still can’t unlearn—except he’s not alone.

Marion Valisti leans close beside him, one arm draped over the railing like he owns the sky. His mouth is at Lucanis’ ear, murmuring something Illario can’t hear. But he sees Lucanis’ jaw clench. Fingers twitch on the balustrade—a minute shift, like he’s swallowing the urge to flinch.

Then Marion spots him.

The smile that blooms is all teeth and appetite.

“Your escort’s here,” he says smoothly, straightening. One hand lingers on Lucanis’ shoulder, then squeezes—deliberate, almost mocking. Illario watches Lucanis stiffen under the touch; it’s hardly subtle.

“Think about what I said,” Marion adds before walking away, confident and commanding, vanishing into the chaos of dice and perfume.

Illario turns to Lucanis. “What was that?”

Lucanis doesn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was nothing.”

Illario steps closer. Lucanis steps back.

“Did Marion threaten you or something?”

“No!” Lucanis snaps, whipping his head around too quickly to meet Illario’s gaze.

“Merde! I’m supposed to be your bodyguard. How am I supposed to…” keep you safe?

Lucanis flinches—not at the question, but from something deeper, something crawling beneath his skin. He raises a hand to his neck, fingers slipping beneath the edge of his leather collar. He rubs slowly, almost absently, his brows knitting together as his gaze drifts past Illario to somewhere far away.

Illario’s fingers twitch toward his pocket—toward the tin of balm he always keeps there. His thumb finds the worn edge of the lid.

“You’re doing it again,” he says gently.

Lucanis drops his hand from his neck like it betrayed him. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “It’s fine. Let’s just go home.”

Lucanis doesn’t meet his eyes again, but Illario follows him to House Dellamorte.

At the entrance, neither of them lingers. Lucanis walks toward the sleeping quarters. Illario heads to the armory—tonight feels like a good night to sharpen daggers.

12:12 past midnight.

Illario returns to his bedroom. It’s dark and empty. He doesn’t bother with the lights, washes up, and lies down with his hair still damp.

Illario stands before Caterina.

The summons wasn’t phrased like a request:

“She’s not happy.”

Which, in House Dellamorte, meant run.

Caterina’s behind her desk, her eyes on a document she’s not reading. Her foot taps softly against the wooden floor in a steady, exact rhythm. It’s not impatience—control.

“Has your stubbornness rubbed off on him?” she asks, still not looking up.

Illario’s mouth twists. “You of all people should know—that stubbornness is all him.”

His nails dig into his palms, scraping the scabs that refuse to heal. “With all due respect, you made him your dog—docile enough to eat from your palm. He’s just now remembering he has teeth.”

Caterina’s gaze flicks up, sharp and glinting. “And you played no part in his misery?”

That hits home.

He tries not to flinch, but his jaw ticks. His throat tightens.

No, he’s not innocent. Not even close.

Lucanis is spiraling, and Illario knows why. He planted the seeds. Watered them and watched them bloom into ruin. He orchestrated Lucanis’ breaking and reveled in it.

Illario dug the grave they’re both circling now. He got Lucanis kidnapped and tortured. He unmade the bed he now shares with the ruin he built. He painted that hollow look in Lucanis’ eyes—the one he wears when no one’s watching.

And now he stands on the sidelines as Lucanis, reckless, sprints headlong toward death again.

All of it, because Illario couldn’t stomach being the fucking spare. Because if Lucanis was the perfect grandson—the golden heir—then Illario had to be something more.

Caterina meets his eyes. Still cold. Still unyielding. Her gaze never held affection for him, and this moment is no exception.

“Why did he want this job?” Illario asks, quieter. He can’t let himself wallow any more than he already has.

“He’s never requested something like this before,” she says. “But he’s an adult.”

Illario can’t stop his voice from rising. “He doesn’t ask because you hand them off to me.”

“That’s what you were shaped for, wasn’t it?” she replies evenly. “Everything is a tool, if it’s sharp enough.”

“You didn’t even handle my training.”

“I employed someone to.”

A beat of silence.

Illario stills.

The office shrinks around him again, complicit. The air thickens. His stomach twists. Bile climbs up his throat.

You...

The word claws at his tongue. It doesn’t escape.

“When he was no longer useful,” Caterina continues, as if it’s an afterthought, “I got rid of him too.”

Something flickers behind her eyes. Just for a moment, they look old. Tired. Human.

“This is our life, Illario, whether you like it or not. There were things out of my control, because I am not a god. But House Dellamorte must push forward, in any way possible.”

For the first time, Caterina looks at him like he’s something.

Something she loved, maybe. Something she regrets, maybe. Something she built, definitely. Whatever it is, it feels like a punishment all the same.

Illario bows his head. He can’t bear to meet it.

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer,” she continues. She slides a dossier across the table toward him. “Here.”

He flips it open, brow furrowing in confusion. “You knew Valisti owns this brothel?”

“I knew he was circling,” Caterina replies. “But not how.”

Her shoulders slouch. She exhales—slow, bone-deep, as if the years finally caught up to her spine.

“Find Lucanis,” she says with a finality that won’t accept failure.

“Stop him before he does something stupid.”

It’s… astounding, really.

How Lucanis made it this far without ever having to fuck someone to survive. Thirty-seven—no, thirty-five—years, and he was clean. Illario bore the burden between them. The body. The cost. The rot.

Always the one acclimating.

Always the one left open.

Lucanis is the blade. Illario’s the bait.

It was kind, in its way—keeping Lucanis clean. It was less kind to become the reason he wasn’t, anymore.

The carriage lurches. Giuseppe’s not at the reins. Lucanis took him with him.

Illario sits alone.

No moon tonight. Just bruised clouds and the sharp scent of night air, thick with the chill of autumn and canal water.

The streetlamps flicker—burning cold, burning out.

The world feels half-lit. Like it’s waiting to swallow someone whole, just to stay warm a little longer.

He thinks, maybe there’s a metaphor in that. Then hates himself for looking.

Illario clenches his bandaged fists.

It’s just like love, he suppose.

It is love.

It is love, Illario reminds himself. It took him a lifetime to understand that it was always Lucanis. All of him. Even the worst of him.

It’s a love so consuming that he was willing to break everything to keep it alive.

Even Lucanis.

Especially Lucanis.

And now, where has that gotten them?

It is love, Illario insists.

Even now. Even as he rides off in the night, hoping there’s still enough of Lucanis to drag back home.

Why is Illario always the one chasing a ghost?

It is love.

But sometimes—

Sometimes—

He wishes Lucanis had just died.

Chapter Text

I know I’m petty, but still, I wished to be something
For someone … so I wished.
I’m being born for the first time, how could I know left from right?
I never promised to meet my own grief like this.

Illario had a brother.

When Illario was six, Livio looked like the Maker when He was ten.

Their cloaks draped over their shoulders as Illario trailed Livio through the hall. Twelve paces behind, his small legs struggled to keep up.

“Viviana said Livio means ‘blue and gray mixed’—” Livio muttered as they played in his room. “Like my eyes, she said.”

The curtains were closed. So was the door. Still, Livio could see in any light. He easily navigated his way to his desk and pushed aside the chair.

His room smelled faintly like their mother: a garden—blooming thyme and gladiolus in the sun and gentle wind. But here, in this dark, it smelled like a grave.

With a blunted dagger, Livio scratched another line on the wall behind his desk. Dust grated under the blade, falling in pale specks on the wooden floor. Was he counting the times Illario pestered him, or counting down his own sadness? Illario never found out.

“Viviana?” Illario looked up from fidgeting with his own dull blade, head tilted in confusion.

A sigh escaped Livio. “Right,” he murmured. “Mother says my name is a color. But the books… they say it means ‘envious.’”

“She tolerates me,” he continued calmly, though a chill Illario couldn’t yet name prickled his spine. Livio turned away. His eyes fell to the dagger in his hand. “But she loves you.”

There was a glint of excitement that Livio only had when they pretended to be Crows. Illario would pick one of the newer names spoken in quiet awe—Taliesen—because Livio insisted on being Zevran of House Aranai. Their aunts would talk about how interesting the pair of assassins was—Zevran, especially, for finishing training at fifteen.

“I was the failure,” Livio said, pursing his lips.

He shifted, leaning forward to face Illario. This close, Illario could better see the differences in their features: the slightly upturned nose, the fuller lips, and the freckled, paler skin—even in the dark. “I don’t even look like Father.”

“Not ugly,” Livio said, pointing the dagger at Illario. “Just… different.”

“Liv—?” Illario gasped, jerking back. His kneecaps dug painfully into the rough rug as the floorboards creaked.

A smile—trembling lips and watering eyes—cut across his brother’s face. “And then you were born, and Mother saw your blue eyes, the perfect shade, and your full cheeks,” he taunted, his blue-gray eyes looked near-black in the shade.

Livio tucked his head down, straight brown hair swallowing his face. “And that… that was the first time her smile felt real.”

Illario realized, later, that it was envy, the one Livio wore like a blue-gray cloak.

But he only understood, much later, that it was Livio’s own grief—the one their mother gifted him with. The one neither of them could name.

Illario hated Sunday brunch the most.

Villa Dellamorte smelled of overly bright citrus polish, syrupy wine, and floral notes layered wrong. His aunts rushed into the dining hall like a whirlwind, their laughter and chatter engulfing the room. Hands kept ruffling Illario’s hair as they passed, straightening the strands they’d knocked loose.

“Che bel bambino!” Aunt Laudonia—the usual offender—nearly shrieked as she half-ran across the dining hall; her stilettos clacked against the marble floor. “I haven’t seen Illario in a while. Viv, he really got your eyes.” Her own glinted under the chandelier, throwing little knives of light across the room.

Another hand found him—bergamot perfume and uncomfortable heat. It squeezed his cheeks so hard they burned. Rings left half-moons on his skin.

“And his nose!” Aunt Brava joined in with a manicured nail jabbing lightly at the tip of his nose.

“He’s also smart like his father,” Mother added with a laugh that felt just a bit too bright, her grin so wide that her eyes disappeared. Her prosthetic hand lay cold against his nape. “He can tell when Salvatore lies. Illario will get this look on his face—oh you should see him pout!”

“That’s wonderful.” Aunt Benedetta nodded. “Already learning the family business at six.”

More fingers flitted around him; the compliments came with proof of ownership: a pinch here, a tug there. Hands that didn’t ask. Illario tried not to flinch.

“But he does look a lot like Mama, no?” Aunt Laudonia caught his shoulders in her hands and leaned back to see all of him at once.

“He really does,” Mother agreed pleasantly and sipped her wine.

“Between Laudie’s twins, Illario, Soleil’s and mine, House Dellamorte will have a bright future,” Aunt Brava declared and mussed Illario’s hair again.

He pretended not to see how Mother was white-knuckling her glass at the mention of Aunt Soleil. “Mm.”

“Speaking of, where is she?” Aunt Brava turned to Aunt Laudonia.

“Still on a job,” Mother cut in, the edge in her voice as sharp as daggers.

Aunt Laudonia sighed. “A shame then. I haven’t seen little Luca since last Satinalia. She’s keeping him from us.”

Once the fussing died down, Illario sat at the dining table. On his plate, the grapes were cold and perfect, their skins bursting with juice. He wiped away the tacky lipstick gloss on his cheek where Aunt Laudonia had handled him.

Across from him, Livio sat, pretending not to hear the ruckus. He was picking at his plate, grapes still piled high. Every so often, his jaw worked like he was chewing a word that wouldn’t go down.

“Look at those lashes.” Aunt Laudonia took the seat beside Illario. A soft palm tapped his left cheek. “Viv, you’ll have to lock the doors when he’s older.”

Laughter chimed around the table. It rang too high, too harsh, too cold for a six-year-old’s ears.

So Illario let the laugh pass through him. He learned how to fix his eyes on a safe object—a chalice or the shine of a spoon—and waited until the room forgot him.

But they hadn’t. Not yet.

“Tell Mama what you can do,” Aunt Laudonia urged.

Illario looked up. Caterina—Nonna—sat at the head of the table, several seats away. Her dark eyes had held steel as long as Illario could remember, and he couldn’t quite understand why.

“Go on,” Mother said lightly, nudging his right shoulder with her prosthetic hand.

“I can tell when Father lies,” Illario answered obediently. It sounded like a trick, so his aunts and uncles clapped. Father raised his hands in mock surrender, conceding the joke.

“Marvelous,” Aunt Laudonia hummed, pleased with the performance she’d orchestrated with her manicured fingers.

A chorus of footsteps clacked behind him as the servers moved about. Illario swallowed carefully, the way he did so a grape seed wouldn’t catch in his throat. He folded his hands in his lap so no one else could find them.

Across from him, Livio was still picking at his plate. Illario stared at the fork in his brother’s hand until his aunts started talking about work.

Sometimes Nonna watched from five paces away while his aunts pinched his cheeks.

Her dark eyes had let the steel drop. In its place, a tired sorrow—the kind Illario knew from the mirror.

The Dellamorte Vineyard was one Illario frequented. Mother managed it, so they came often: long rows of grapevines trellised in neat lines, heat wavering over the soil, bees buzzing in the air.

It was a different Wednesday—Aunt Soleil’s birthday. She wanted a small gathering. But small, in House Dellamorte, meant a feast.

Fresh grapes and wine from casks were served. The cooks moved like a murder of crows, carrying trays of different cheeses, fruits, and nuts. A wonderful spread was laid on the table.

A feast, however, also meant Mother was angrier than usual.

Nonna had given Aunt Soleil her ring earlier. Surrounded by family and Crows holding their breaths. The toast:

“You’ll be First Talon in due time.”

Illario didn’t really know what it meant, but cheers erupted after.

‘The greatest honor,’ they said—the sign of Nonna’s favor. At the edges of the celebration, the whispers turned impolite.

Mother waited for the applause to die down before leaving with both Illario and Livio in tow.

“Soleil—always Soleil!” Mother rarely shouted. Within the walls of her quarters, though, she allowed her anger to escape.

Far more often, she spent her days in silence. Balancing vineyard ledgers, taking stock of the blooming flowers, gauging when they’d fruit. She would walk Illario and Livio through the gardens, explaining each tree and the type of wine it would yield.

Whenever she didn’t notice them, her face mirrored Nonna’s—eyes downcast and mouth slack. Always deep in thought. Her thumb rubbed the place where her left arm once was.

“Caterina’s pet,” she hissed. Nonna’s name sounded as though it had soured her wine. “As if no one else works in this house.”

Illario stood before her, his favorite peluche—an Antivan greyhound—pressed to his chest, the fabric steadying his trembling hands.

“You will not be ordinary,” Mother said, lower now—the voice she used with staff. “You will not be like them. Smile when asked. Speak when it matters. Do not pout.”

She patted his shoulder with her lone hand, making sure to smooth out the wrinkles on his collar. “You will be the best child in this family. Do you understand?”

She tilted his chin up. Illario looked past her but nodded, the motion already instinctive.

Livio sat quietly on the bed; his eyes never left his book.

When Mother slipped into the bathroom, Illario snuck out. Down the stairs, past the framed portraits, past the dining hall where the celebration was still in full swing. Then up the spiral stairs near the villa’s kitchen.

Illario found an attic door he could pick. The lock gave with a soft click and a sigh of dust.

Sliding to the floor beneath the small window, he propped his elbows on his knees and let out a long breath. The room smelled of musty fabric, mixed with the scent of old paintings and linseed oil.

Suddenly, the door clicked again as if being picked from the other side. Illario hadn’t heard anyone follow.

The hinges squeaked open. Something peered through first: a wide forehead and even larger eyes.

Illario frowned at the intruder. “What are you doing here?”

The boy—Aunt Soleil’s child—stepped in without apology. Her only child: Lucanis.

He looked well-kept: hair slicked back and curling at the tips, a dark purple cravat neatly tucked under his light grey vest. His leather shoes were polished.

Well-loved too, from how his eyes took Illario in with plain curiosity and a glint of mischief. Didn’t Lucanis know he wasn’t supposed to follow strangers?

When he smiled, a dimple showed below the corner of his left lip. Still, something on his face looked familiar to Illario—that compressed mirth that he knew in himself, something that looked a little lonely.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Illario muttered.

“Why not? Mother said that too, but you’re the only one my age.” Lucanis asked, head tilted, confusion coloring his large eyes.

He walked toward Illario. “Do you believe them?”

Four steps. Five. Six.

“Not really…”

Lucanis squatted before him, balanced on the balls of his feet, arms wrapped around his knees.

Illario looked down at his peluche resting on his crossed legs. His fingers worked at the pilled seam.

“Then that’s what matters, right? I’m Lucanis.” His forehead edged into view from below, eclipsing the toy from Illario’s sight.

Illario startled but resisted the urge to push the other boy away. He breathed once, twice, then leaned back and raised his gaze. “Illario.”

“They’re on the way to the cantina to drink some more.” Lucanis pushed himself up to stand and smiled. The corner of his mouth curled up. His dimple reappeared. “You can go out now. Let’s go.”

Lucanis held out a hand. Illario stared and didn’t take it.

Hands meant pinched cheeks and messed hair. Hands never asked. They weren’t really comfortable.

But Lucanis waited.

“Where are we going?” Illario asked, eyeing the stubby fingers one last time.

His hand might be too small to hurt anyway…

“You’ll see.” Lucanis’ grin widened as Illario finally took his hand.

Lucanis pulled him up, gripping Illario’s hand tightly as he led them to the gardens. It was sunny out. Illario forgot why he’d hidden in the attic in the first place.

The back before him wasn’t any wider than his, but it seemed to carry the world gracefully.

And that was the first time, Illario thought, the Maker must be six too.

They found a quiet corner of the garden beneath the shade of a medlar tree, surrounded by rosemary and clipped boxwood. Everything here kept its edges. Clouds drifted and thinned across the summer Treviso sky; the afternoon sun slipped in and out when it pleased.

Opposite them, the press house stood low and white. Vines climbed the trellises—grape and cranberry leaves just starting to fruit. The doors were propped open. Sweet must and wet iron drifted out. Somewhere inside, a pulley creaked.

Lucanis lay on the grass, an arm folded behind his head. Illario couldn’t tell where he was looking; the boy watched as if the sky might answer back.

“I spy… something white! With antlers!” Lucanis announced, the last word breaking with a giggle.

Illario furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

Lucanis pointed up. “There! A halla!”

Illario followed his finger to a misshapen white cloud. “That’s a cloud.”

“You’re no fun.” A pout edged Lucanis’ words.

Ah.

A game, then. Illario could play. “I spy…” he snickered and scanned the shade. “Something green and small. Very fuzzy.”

Lucanis tilted his head back, brown eyes sliding into view, wide in excitement. “A caterpillar?”

“No. A medlar.”

“Where? I don’t think we have those—”

“There.” Illario kept his voice flat and pointed to the leaves above them. The flowers had browned at the tips; in their place, small felted balls had started to swell.

“That’s unfair.” Lucanis narrowed his eyes, the gleam turning to a sulk. “You practically live here.”

“It’s not my fault.” Illario snorted. “Mother works here because everyone else wanted to be First Talon.”

Lucanis went still, his eyes clouding over. Maybe he remembered the toast. Or how Nonna’s ruby ring slid onto Aunt Soleil’s hand. Maybe Lucanis saw what that meant for him, too.

What did it mean to be favored?

Illario thought he knew from how Mother treated him. How heavy it felt.

Silence settled for a while, as heavy as the unsaid pact they were handed by their bloodline—the one neither of them signed.

“Your grandfather loved watching the clouds, too,” a voice interrupted mildly. Illario nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Nonna!” they blurted, flinching and half sitting as if bracing for steel.

Nonna stood at the path’s bend, hands easy at her sides, head tipped as if the sky were speaking. Her gaze held no steel today—only that sadness Illario sometimes saw, and beside it a quieter fondness, nothing like his aunts’ swooning. It put a soft, sweater-warmth in his chest.

“I’ve never spoken with either of you properly, have I?” she said, stopping a few paces away.

“No, Nonna,” they answered, voices pitched differently but in unison.

“You’re Viviana’s—Illario?” Her mouth curved into something not quite a smile; the warmth only stayed in her eyes.

“Yes, Nonna.”

She turned to the other boy. “And Soleil’s boy—Lucanis?”

Lucanis nodded.

“You have your grandfather’s dimple,” she said.

Lucanis touched the dent with two fingers, as if confirming it was really there, and ducked his head.

“I’m glad you seem to be getting along.” She glanced up once more. “Your mothers were a handful. Viviana didn’t grow out of her rivalry with Soleil.”

She stepped into the medlar’s shade and looked where Lucanis had pointed. “Treviso’s clear skies are different from the ones on the other side of the ocean,” she added, almost to herself. “Here the clouds take their time.”

Lucanis followed her gaze, as if the sky might give him another halla. Illario watched the way Nonna stood there, not reaching for either of them, not asking any hands of them at all. The bees went on with their work. The press house pulley creaked again and fell silent.

Life continued for Illario. He learned to temper himself: smile on command when his aunts patted him like a well-trained dog, and bother Livio less and less because Livio only endured his presence.

Summer passed; the garden went red and gold, and the trellises stood stripped.

The vines, now without fruit, slowly lost the vibrant shades of autumn.

Illario turned seven, and nothing much changed. After a while, though, Livio learned to seek him out, too—to share a box of cookies and drink warm ciocolatta calda. He’d slid the porcelain cup across the table as the steam curled between them. Nights were best after dinner, when Mother had tucked them into their rooms and the hallway lamps had dimmed. Illario yearned for the knock on his door, but he learned to stop expecting it.

Sometimes, Livio would even give him something to read, and they’d whisper what they liked about the book. Still, Livio kept to himself, so Illario didn’t know how his hands felt—ink-smudged maybe, or paper-dry from turning pages. Perhaps calloused, from how often he held his blunted dagger as he practiced his grip in the gardens.

On other days, Illario dared to ask Mother to let him meet Lucanis in Villa Dellamorte. She would sigh and bring him to the villa anyway.

It was nice to have someone to spend time with, without unwanted hands on him. Lucanis’ hands always waited. Always asked.

Illario could just be.

Reds and yellows turned green again, and Illario let himself think life was looking up for him.

But Illario turned eight and everything changed.

House Velardo ravaged their home when Illario was eight.

Livio picked one of the vents open and ushered Illario to hide. His hands were rough and insistent as he pushed him into the crawlspace of tin and dust.

“You still have to make sure Mother stays happy. That she was right, making you her golden child,” he whispered.

Illario realized, much later, that it was a curse.

He couldn’t tell how long he hid. The vent was freezing; his fingers nearly turned blue. The air tasted like old blood and ash.

Nonna found him after. Her once-soft face had sharpened into angles. Her hand was colder than the vent when he took it.

Livio’s body sat against the opposite wall of the vent beside the corpse of a Crow from House Velardo. There was a glint of metal that caught Illario’s eye, just beneath the corpse’s sternum.

They found Mother and Father in their bedroom.

Illario went home with Caterina that day.

Lucanis was already settled in a room, a fraying blanket his only keepsake.

That evening, Illario climbed onto Lucanis’ bed and set his head on his chest, counting the slow rise and fall until sleep took him. Lucanis’ hand never left his back, rubbing slow circles with each breath.

When Illario woke, something heavy had made its home behind Lucanis’ eyes.

It was then that Illario saw the Maker first losing their shine.

Here we are—embracing unseen tomorrows without rest.
Taking the cracks as they come, stitching ourselves whole again.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I tell myself, “things will change.”
How gallant, how lazy, how hopeless we are.
No wonder we’re fools sometimes, and sometimes lost to madness.

Company finds Illario shortly after he and Lucanis return from Minrathous—after Ambrose. She arrives like a draft and slips behind him. Caramel hits first, then the silk slide of a sleeve across his shoulder as she leans in and makes herself a shawl around his neck.

The tavern is loud enough to blur—drunkards bellow while the bard misses his tempo. Illario sits at the bar with a glass of Night of Shame he doesn’t intend to finish, the rim sweating under his fingers.

“You’re too handsome to be spending the night alone,” she whispers in his ear.

“Finding company is no hardship.” A shiver walks his spine anyway. He lets a touch of annoyance into his tone. “I prefer quiet tonight.”

“Then excuse my manners. I couldn’t stop myself.” Her smile ghosts his ear; he feels it more than sees it, warm breath fogging his skin. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve laid eyes on.”

“Would you like a portrait?” He doesn’t turn. “It would last longer.”

“Ah. A biting sense of humor. Exactly my type.”

“I still don’t know who you are.” He shifts just enough for her arm to slip off his shoulder, props an elbow on the bar, and turns to her. “And you’re still… very close.”

“Forgive me.” She steps to his side, leaning against the bar, all soft red fabric and piercing silver eyes. “You can call me Zara.”

“Zara. From which house?” He takes her measure: raven hair framing carved features, a heavy diamond pendant at her breast, white gloves that nearly blend with her skin. “Your accent isn’t Antivan.”

“Does it matter?”

“Tevinter, then,” he declares. Her brow lifts.

He gives the ghost of a smile that isn’t friendly—his annoyed look #4. “Your fashion says I’m powerful, and everyone should know. But you don’t look a day over thirty. Wife of a magister, perhaps? Daughter? Tell me if I’m getting close.”

Zara smiles slyly. “Neither. But you are right about one thing: I do love power.”

“Hm. Then you’re here to hire the Crows for some Magisterium power play.” Illario takes a sip. “Or you’re sniffing around about the Antaam, but that seems to be below you. So which is it? Or would you rather I bring you to the Crows?”

“No need to be hasty, dulcis,” Zara hums. Her wrist flicks in a small, sharp negation, like a conductor scolding their musician. “I only wish to talk. And maybe take you home for the night. Business can come later when we’re better acquainted.”

“So you’re here for me, specifically? That’s… rich.”

“Illario Dellamorte,” she purrs, his name curling like a first, clean note. “Grandson of the First Talon of the Antivan Crows. One of her grandsons. Last of your kin.”

“Bold introduction,” he smirks, thinking of changing the tempo. This is a tavern, after all.

“And efficient,” she teases back with a tone unaccustomed to playing second fiddle. “We can waste fewer lies this way.”

He lets the silence breathe and decides whether to let her keep the lead.

“You know my name,” he says at last. “Now tell me why.”

“Because you fascinate me,” Zara answers, finally dropping the pretense. “You watch a room, offer it exactly what it wants, but still keep your pieces close. You knew I had my eyes on you and pretended not to notice. And yet…” She turns her hand palm-up and crooks a finger. “You stole something of mine—a golden wing brooch. You were already planning to snoop, weren’t you?”

He schools his face blank, fishes the brooch from his pocket, and sets it in her palm. “Observation is free. You could’ve stayed in the shadows and not bothered me,” he says. “Yet you didn’t. Again: what do you want from me?”

“Information. A favor. Or, if we end up liking each other, something more decadent.” Her eyes flick to the door and back. “I heard being heirs of the First Talon can be quite stressful. That’s why you’re here, drinking your sorrows.”

His thumb traces the wet rim of the glass. Illario thinks briefly, of Ambrose. Of Lucanis bleeding because he’d rather cut Illario out of the job to spare a few souls. And for what? Because it’s easier to keep circling duty—easier than naming who gets the title before someone dies?

“Five minutes,” he tells her. “At the door.”

Her smile suggests she’s already counted the win. “Of course.”

She rises without letting the chair scrape and passes behind him. Her perfume follows; the space she leaves cools by degrees. The lute finally finds its key and lands in his ears.

Illario drains what’s left, tastes caramel in the bitters that weren’t there before, and follows her out.

Zara keeps to Treviso’s edges at first—by the docks with wet ropes and fish crates, on opera balconies slick with marble, or in a rest house just north that smells of old wood and Rialto Bay brine. Sometimes she slips into the taverns Illario frequents. Every entrance turns the lute sour.

She talks to fill air: “The opera the other day was a bore,” “I saw lovely marionettes in the markets,” “You Crows ought to wear better armor; those masks and feathers will get you spotted in Tevinter.”

When the pleasantries thin, Zara asks why he isn’t working. Illario shrugs, hooks her by the waist, and quiets her with a lean. Caramel clings to his collar as her arm links with his, and she steers him back to whatever gilt mistake she’s rented for the night.

Lucanis comes and goes on the wrong tempo.

He returns at noon, a bandage at his shoulder already browning, and refuses the healer’s sleep draught. Lucanis holds still while Illario knots fresh cloth the way he always has. Then Lucanis says, “Not now,” and shoulders him into the hall before Illario can get a quip out.

Illario meets Zara on the Trevisan Opera’s balcony at dusk.

“You’ve had your fun,” he says, fingers gripping the ornate railing, eyes on the sly woman beside him. “Now the part where you tell me why you’re here.”

Zara goes very still, as if waiting for a cue only she can hear. A smile creeps across her face. “You dislike overtures,” she says. “Good. So do I.”

“Then spare me one,” he grits out.

She turns and taps two fingers on the marble—delicate as a conductor’s baton. “I’m looking for the Demon of Vyrantium,” she declares.

“Well, you’re out of luck,” Illario retorts, mouth curving. “He’s a ghost. You’ll have better chances seeing him when he’s already at your throat than snooping around here.”

His fingers dig tighter into stone. “What do you even want with him?”

“Precautions,” she answers, tone cooling. “We’re alike: we hoard certainties. I like to back a winning horse. Or breed the champion.”

The back of her hand grazes his cheek. “And you? You keep your pieces close, but he’s the one you can’t hold.”

“You’re wasting your time.” Illario pushes off the rail and turns away.

“You know where to find me,” Zara calls out with a lilt that sounds like the scene has already gone her way.

Illario learned to count breaths the way Livio tallied lines. He surmised, only recently, that perhaps Livio was counting down to freedom, the day he’d start as a fledgling. Now, Illario counts each slow fall of Lucanis’ bare shoulders: a proof of his cage.

His cousin is halfway through stripping his gear, still bloodied and reeking of iron and alley water. The pauldrons are already off; the upper half of his shirt hangs loose, still cinched at the waist by his corset. He’s unsteady on his feet and surrounded by empty healing draughts.

“You look like shit,” Illario says, leaning against the doorframe.

Lucanis doesn’t look back but reaches behind himself and fumbles at the corset ties.

“… Thanks.” His voice is thick, as if he’s chewing his words. “I got mobbed by bandits on the way home. After my contract, by the way.”

Illario rolls his eyes and crosses the room, tucking the newspaper under his arm and kicking at the bottles by their feet. “Of course you did. How much did you take?” He steps in behind Lucanis and takes the laces. If Lucanis feels unease at the nearness, he doesn’t show it. Any other night, Lucanis would’ve grumbled and pushed Illario away, but the draughts have loosened the stick up his ass.

“Uh.” Lucanis wobbles as he looks around for the bottles. “Four? Six?”

Illario lets a bitter laugh slip as he loosens the third lace. “You know what would’ve helped? Me. If you’d let me join you on the job.”

“You’re better at doing the contracts here in Antiva.” The corset gives. Lucanis catches it, along with his armor. “Easier for you to stay put in the villa.”

Illario’s hand stays at Lucanis’ waist. Lucanis doesn’t pull away; his calloused hand settles over Illario’s.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Illario tuts. “It’s not like I’m doing anything important like being the First Talon.”

Only then does Lucanis drop it. He turns, expression sour. “Not now, Illario.”

“Then when?” Illario snaps.

Lucanis says nothing, but the scowl is menacing despite the sway in limbs.

Illario lowers his voice. “You know they’re planning a celebration for you?”

He slides the evening broadsheet free and cracks the fold.

“The Demon of Vyrantium—Tevinter’s Worst Nightmare!” he reads, dry. “The Demon of Vyrantium strikes again! Dockside purge leaves twelve magisters dead; witnesses say he smiled.”

He holds the paper so Lucanis can see the lurid block letters without having to look at him. “It’s in a fortnight. Caterina expects you there.”

“I have to leave tomorrow.” Lucanis’ mouth thins. “I’ll be back in a week. Probably.”

“And me?”

“You stay here.” Lucanis sets the corset on the chair and plods to the bathroom. “Listen for more news. The rumor mill—if Viago’s making our lives more difficult again.” Our meaning Lucanis. Viago hasn’t even looked Illario’s way lately.

On a different night, Illario would’ve followed—would’ve helped Lucanis into the tub. Illario folds the broadsheet crisper than intended. “Of course. As you say, cousin.” He brushes the ink from his thumb onto the margin. “I’ll keep the First Talon seat warm for you.”

He doesn’t bother Lucanis for the rest of the night.

The celebration is Antivan to the hilt—opulent and loud, laughter lacquered thin over murder plots.

Caterina stands in the eye of it, ringed by Antiva’s nobility. She doesn’t look pleased. Her eyes hold the same old steel—the one she never set down after House Velardo bled their family.

“This is a dire situation, Signora. The Antaam are gathering off the northern coast—”

“House Valisti’s infighting for the talon is—”

“Are you still capable of keeping—”

“Silence.” Caterina’s voice doesn’t rise; still, the room braces itself in silence. “I know my credibility and capacity to lead the Crows have grown dubious since I allowed the Talons’ summit to end in tragedy.”

A fan snaps shut. Illario recognizes the voice—Ivenci. “Then what do you plan to do for recompense?”

Illario doesn’t bother to hide the eye roll. He knows the governor’s distaste for the Crows, but there’s an angle they’re playing—bureaucrats like Ivenci stink of bloodlust under the policy. Illario just doesn’t know what.

“I intend to give up my position. Soon.” Caterina sips water, not wine. “A new leadership can perhaps make better decisions than I have for the past decades.”

“And who? Your grandsons? As if one of them could—”

“In due time,” she says with a finality that promises further dissent will meet her cane and lets the silence cut them to size.

Caterina never mentions Lucanis, but Illario hears the name anyway.

He needs to move. Soon.

Livio was envy. Then envy became Illario.

Every time Lucanis comes back a bigger husk of himself, more resigned to his destiny as the Heir to the First Talon, the hole below House Dellamorte is dug deeper.

Every time he comes back, pierced in four different places, narrowly evading his chosen death sentence, the chip on Illario’s shoulder keeps chipping.

House Dellamorte will fall because Lucanis is killing himself by degrees.

Illario sees it. Lucanis doesn’t want to live, but he’s fucking scared to end it himself.

This is not the Lucanis he knows. This defeated, pathetic coward is not Lucanis.

Illario is done watching—either kill yourself or live.

Maker knows how much Illario fought to exist.

“Here.” Illario slides a crisp, folded sheet of paper across the table where Zara sits. “This is our contract negotiator. He’s found at a corner table in Cafe Pietra on Thursdays. Give him your proposed contract. Tell him you’re requesting the mage killer. Caterina will know who to send.”

Zara arches an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Took you long enough, dulcis. You’ve hidden him well from me.”

“I have my reasons,” Illario murmurs, his hand still on the sheet. “Do you want it or not?”

If he wants death so badly, Illario will file the request.

He’s done watching. Zara’s smile widens as Illario takes his hand off the paper.

In Illario’s mind, Lucanis has died a thousand tiny deaths.

Lucanis dies days after he turns nine, when Caterina locks them in a cellar with three cups of water; the fever drags him to the brink and leaves him shivering on stone while Illario counts breaths and minutes and mold spots on the wall.

He dies during their first equestrian lesson, when excitement outruns sense, and he’s flung from his own gelding—air punched out, eyes rolling as his head hits the ground; Illario covers his own mouth so he won’t scream.

He dies in the winter courtyard at fifteen, chasing a fledgling that tries to escape—his initiation into the Crows. He pukes, passes out, and Illario hauls him back to the villa.

He dies at twenty-eight on a Rivaini cliff, drunk as a sailor, laughing hysterically as he jumps; the sea keeps him too long. Illario dives fully clothed and claws him back from the undertow by the hair.

He dies on the docks the night they cut down Ambrose—four holes, four small mouths drinking him empty. Illario sutures them and swears Lucanis back into the world.

He dies afterward, again and again: in alleys and antechambers, on slate roofs beside his kills, in nameless inns where Illario kneads the knots from Lucanis’ fingers while waiting—wishing?—for his pulse to stop.

He dies every time he goes alone, because the work loves him—and he loves it back. More than staying. More than Illario.

This isn’t any different.

Perhaps Lucanis really is the Maker—easy to abandon the world and let it burn to ashes.

Illario dons his blue-gray cloak. He doesn’t knock on Lucanis’ door to say goodbye and sets out for Salle for a contract.

Lucanis takes the job in Minrathous—the one Illario signed in black ink and Zara’s red lipstick on his teeth and tongue.

Lucanis leaves on the first ship at dawn—the one that knows their names—where the stewards always meet them with a bow and a tray of espresso and linen napkins, a palm open for their bags.

Illario thinks of Lucanis, of how he will skip breakfast but not coffee, shed the leathers, then walk the railings instead of decks, and call the whole routine focus.

Only now there’s no one to patch him fast enough for Illario to drag him home.