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“I’m not coming!” Naimy declared the moment Zea met her at The Tesseract.
She was wearing her usual unremarkable outfit — the kind that, judging by its appearance, had been passed down from one recruit to the next for a hundred years already. The shirt was washed out beyond recognition, having lost its original colour entirely; the trousers were baggy, and the boots looked sturdy enough to trudge through a swamp.
Of course, it wasn’t really that important what you wore to have fun… or to charm the man you loved. What mattered was having a beautiful soul.
But Zea de Riva still couldn’t help rolling her eyes. In her opinion, falling in love should benefit not only the object of affection, but also, so to speak, the subject experiencing it. In plain human terms, this meant that girls in love liked to dress up.
Well, perhaps not all girls — only those who’d heard that men love with their eyes… especially when it comes to undressing.
“Why not?” Zea asked, genuinely puzzled. The invitation was open to everyone, and she’d been looking forward to attending the ball with Naimeryn.
“I can’t dance,” Naimy admitted, her cheeks flushing—a sight that always made Zea smile.
“We won’t,” Zea promised. “We’ll just lean against the wall and turn down anyone who tries to invite us to dance.”
“Really?” Naimeryn raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Judging by your dress, you’re not planning to spend a single second leaning against walls. It’ll just be me. Alone.”
“Naimy, you can fight,” Zea shrugged. “It’s basically the same thing, only without the bloodshed.”
“There will be bloodshed if I try to dance!” Naimeryn protested. “You’re the terpsichorean—I’m just a clumsy disaster.”
“Fine, then I’ll lean against any wall you like, with you,” the Crow said with a light smile. “I’m not leaving you alone at the ball.”
“Then why go there at all?” Naimy muttered.
“To meet people? To chat? I remember you mentioning Tess—your friend, right? And I hope Alma will be there too; she’s nice. Plus Xiqaa, Vel, Cara, and…”
“So you know everybody,” Naimy sighed heavily.
“Not everybody, no,” Zea countered. “Naimy, do you want to see me beg? I really want you to come along. Please.”
She made puppy eyes—sly and cat‑like, according to Lucanis (her Lucanis, at least)—and fluttered her eyelashes.
“Okay, fine! So… what kind of ball is it exactly?” the Warden conceded.
“It’s a ball for Rooks—like a gathering from every reality or something. No love interests invited!”
“Why not?”
“Imagine ten Lucanis’s in one place… That would be too much,” Zea giggled. “A chorus of ‘Mierda!’ ringing through the hall.”
“And all the Lucanis’s draping the walls, waiting for their chance to just leave already,” Naimy agreed with an amused snort.
“Or fighting over the single cezve to make coffee.”
“At least there’d be an endless supply of good coffee.”
They laughed heartily, vividly imagining the scene and embellishing it with ever‑new details—until Naimy’s jaw ached from laughing. She rubbed her cheeks, marveling at how easily Zea could switch back to seriousness: in the blink of an eye, she became someone who never smiled at all.
“So, make your choice!”
Zea nodded toward a group of five mannequins dressed in the most stunning gowns Naimy had ever seen—clearly expensive. Lucky for her, she was the same height as Zea, so size wasn’t an issue. Naimy stepped closer, discovering matching jewelry, shoes, and even makeup palettes. Her cheerful friend had thought of everything.
“So… makeup?” she sighed.
“And a hairstyle,” Zea added.
“Nothing’s wrong with my hairstyle!” Naimy objected, clutching her braids.
“Personally, I see you with your hair down, a tiny pin with a white flower holding one side up to frame your neck,” Zea mused. “But I know you won’t let me see my dream come true, so… how about a different style of braids? Please?”
Zea knew Naimeryn Thorne wasn’t accustomed to posh gowns, jewelry, or balls. But she really wanted her friend to experience a taste of the “beautiful life”—the life Naimy would have to face as the betrothed of the First Talon of the Crows. Zea herself hated official gatherings and Crow parties, but the Rooks ball was different. Why not participate? No one would judge them for not knowing etiquette, not being dressed luxuriously enough, or for simply having fun. That thought only made Zea want to kill Caterina Dellamorte—for good this time.
Naimeryn chose the most understated and modest dress she could find: grey with a light‑blue hem. Luckily, she couldn’t resist the armor-like mantle styled as a pair of wings. It left her shoulders and upper back and arms open, but instilled a sense of security. Naimy got dressed and turned to face Zea, slouching as if she were a child waiting for a scolding.
Zea puffed at a loose strand of hair and gave Naimy a playful pinch between her shoulder blades, making her friend straighten up with a giggle.
“Imagine Lucanis looking at you,” she purred. “And show… more skin!”
“You look stunning, Zea, but leave me alone!” Naimy laughed.
“You need to dress more daringly!” she insisted. “Make everyone faint!”
“Oh, come on—you know I won’t survive it. I’d spend the whole evening fussing over those who fainted…”
“Oh fine, have it your way!” Zea smiled. “I’m sure they’ll faint anyway.”
“You know I’m terrible at healing spells.”
“You don’t need to heal them! Walk over them! Be the queen!”
“Zea, what if they hurt their heads?! What if they’re bleeding?!”
“Then they’ll need to learn how to fall properly. How come you’re so shy about people fainting with admiration?!”
“Because no one is actually admiring me—they’re admiring you, and they should. But I’d rather not have everyone I’m trying to talk to concuss themselves the moment they catch sight of you!”
“Por la sangre del Hacedor,” Zea drawled hopelessly, covering her face with her palm. Then, with passion, she added: “I admire you! And you give yourself too little credit! You’re the sweetest person in all the worlds!”
“Being sweet isn’t going to make anyone swoon on sight, Zea—you’re proving my point,” Naimy said, straightening up, feeling victorious.
“Lucanis admires you,” Zea pointed out. “And he has taste.”
Naimy turned scarlet and giggled like a little girl. Surely, the First Talon had that effect on everyone.
“So, let’s draw you a happy face,” the Crow said, pulling up a chair and gesturing for the Warden to sit.
Naimy fidgeted under her focused attention. Nervousness made her giggle and chirp incessantly, but Zea didn’t seem bothered at all. She spent at least an hour “drawing” with various brushes, until Naimeryn started feeling like a living canvas.
“Aqui tienes,” Zea finally announced, handing Naimy a mirror.
Naimy studied her reflection critically, taking in the changes. The new look softened her features, lending her face a more innocent, gentle quality that complemented her eyes—proving that black lipstick had been too bold a choice.
“Hmmm… You were right. Blue’s better,” she admitted.
“You like it?” Zea asked, tension edging her voice.
“I think so,” Naimy nodded. “It’s almost like I’m looking at someone else. Is that really me? I never knew I could look like this…”
“Well, it is you—at least the way I see you. Maybe try asking Lucanis to do your makeup next time,” Zea added with a grin.
“Oh, shut up!” Naimy laughed, nudging Zea’s shoulder with her fist.
Zea stepped forward to reach the pins, the hem of her gown revealing a slender thigh—and a dagger sheath that matched her dress. Beautiful and deadly.
“Why do you need daggers? Tell me you’re not planning to kill someone!”
“The Crows never go out in public without a weapon. It’s like walking around naked, you know.” Zea unsheathed a blade, spun it expertly between her fingers, then slid it back into its sheath. “Don’t worry—I promise not to start any bloodshed.”
“That’s… reassuring,” Naimy chuckled. “Shall we go, then?”
Just beyond the eluvian, the Caretaker greeted the friends.
“Greetings, dwellers!” he said, drawing identical giggles from both of them—the spirit was unchanged across all reflections. “Welcome to the Rooks Ball. As a token of our esteem and gratitude, we offer you these small gifts for your pleasure.”
With a bow, he gestured toward a vast table laden with several pouches. Judging by the size of the table and the number of presents, the girls had arrived quite late. Zea approached the table and noticed that each pouch was personalised—and, moreover, matched its recipient’s attire.
Naimeryn, with childlike delight, snatched up her own—a grey‑blue pouch embroidered with the Grey Wardens’ sigil and the words “Warden Naimeryn Thorne”—and tipped its contents out right onto the table. After a moment’s hesitation, Zea claimed her own: a purple pouch adorned with a winged mask and the inscription “Enastezea de Riva of the Antivan Crows”.
Inside were: a small group portrait of the Veilguard; pins bearing faction symbols; a figurine of a mourning wolf (Zea hoped it wasn’t soap but something edible—she’d been planning to bite its head off, though a candle would also do).
A badge depicting a stylised face—one’s “love interest”—within a vivid red heart was presumably meant to be worn on the chest. Zea huffed in annoyance and pinned the badge to her pouch. Naimeryn, by contrast, asked her friend to help fasten the badge to her dress, then proudly thrust out her chest, pointing with her finger: “Right here!”
Zea carefully fastened the badge, mindful not to prick Naimeryn, then stepped back half a pace to assess how much the “decoration” clashed with the ensemble.
“Do you think everyone got one of these?” Naimeryn inquired.
“No doubt about it,” Zea replied with a wry smile. “Seems it’s the only real way to tell us apart: faction—and love interest. Names don’t matter so much anymore. In history, we’ll be the Rooks.”
“Hey, why so glum?” Naimeryn hooked her pouch onto her wrist and tugged her friend toward the ballroom entrance, from which voices, laughter, and music drifted. “Come on!”
—
The hall was crowded when they arrived. Humans, elves, dwarves, qunari—a vibrant mix of races filled the space. It felt strange yet fascinating to realize they were all Rooks, just like them, each navigating the same challenges in their own unique way.
The crowd was a kaleidoscope of colour and noise—people in all manner of outfits, laughing, swaying to the music, and buzzing with energy.
Zea grabbed two glasses of champagne from the long, narrow table. Naimy reached out to take one, but Zea dodged her hand and took a sip first.
“Poison check,” she explained with a wink.
Naimeryn shook her head, muttering under her breath, “Crows!”
“Not poisoned—and actually quite decent,” Zea confirmed, handing a glass to Naimy and raising hers in a toast. “To new friends!”
“And to no bloodshed!” Naimy added, half‑joking.
“I’m not the only de Riva here, querida. You’ll have to drink with each and every one of them to make sure they’re not up to something,” Zea snorted, turning to scan the room for familiar faces. “Alma!” she called out. “Hey! So good to see you! You look stunning as usual.”
Of course, in Alma Amell’s case, that was the understatement of the century. The Tevinter was blindingly beautiful. A blood‑red dress adorned with flowers, perfectly matched jewellery, snow‑white hair arranged in a deceptively casual updo… Blood on snow, Zea thought, appraising the look. How does she manage to be a blood mage and still appear so harmless?
Staring into those bottomless blue eyes, it was hard to imagine a more innocent and gentle creature. Yet her overall presence was bold—one might even say aggressive.
Every time life confronted her with her own reflection in other worlds—those involved with Lucanis—Zea tried to understand what exactly had drawn him to this particular version. Alma undoubtedly attracted him with her gentleness and her tendency to care for others at her own expense. But as a professional in his field, he couldn’t possibly fail to sense the thorns on this rose.
“And you flatter me as usual,” Alma replied, gliding toward them like a swan crossing a lake—graceful and ethereal. Like death, Zea mused. “So you’re a mariposa tonight?” she teased.
“Kinda. You’ve met Naimeryn, right?”
“Of course we’ve met!” Naimy gave her the widest smile ever. “Hi, Alma! You look amazing!”
“Well, thank you,” Alma said with a flattered smile. “You look very elegant.” She leaned in, smiling conspiratorially. “Have you seen the fair yet?”
“The fair?” Naimeryn’s eyes widened in surprise. “There’s a fair here?”
“Yes, and a good one at that!” Alma chuckled, linking arms with both women. “Come on—I’ll show you!”
The fair was truly grand. It spilled into another hall, celebrating Rooks and their love interests in the most imaginative ways possible. Everywhere you looked, there were creations inspired by them: portraits and hand‑carved figurines, pastries (Zea couldn’t help but snort as she bought a cookie shaped like Lucanis, muttering, “I love biting Lucanis—now I can literally bite his head off”), delicate jewelry, fragrant soaps and candles (“Smell your Spite!” Alma smirked), finely crafted weapons, elaborate outfits, and mysterious masks. There were also all sorts of faction‑themed crafts—tiny crows and scarabs, stuffed griffons, snakes, and octopuses with surprisingly sad eyes (“I didn’t even know they had eyes!” Naimy laughed), Veil Jumper‑styled hand mirrors, and countless other treasures you’d never even dreamt of.
Naimy was utterly charmed by the plushies. She handed her glass to Zea to avoid spilling her drink on the soft little figures—Emmrich, Neve, Harding, Varric, Manfred, Assan, Lucanis, Davrin…
“They’re so cute!” she cooed, her eyes shining like stars. “I want them all! But… that’s just too much, isn’t it? I have to pick just one. But how in the Void can I choo—” She started to turn to Zea for some rational support, but then her gaze landed on the plushie of Spite.
Suddenly, the choice was obvious.
“Do you think it’d be a good idea to buy a plushie of Manfred for Emmrich?” Zea drawled.
“He has become a lich?” Alma inquired matter-of-factly.
“Yep. That’s the whole point. I figure it might either make him happy or break his cold dead heart. Not sure which.”
“Awwwwwww…” Naimy raised her eyebrows, hugging her winged plushie tightly to her chest. “You think it could still hurt him?”
“Fifty‑fifty,” Zea shrugged. “I’ll need to think it through. Maybe I’ll just stick with Zara.”
“Why?” Alma stiffened, her tone sharp.
“For Lucanis,” Zea said, a wicked smile curling her lips. “Tear her head off. Pin her to the wall with a dagger. Rip her plush guts out. Drown her in coffee. Whatever he might fancy.”
Naimy let out a snort, clearly amused by the mental image.
Alma chuckled, covering her face with her palm in slight embarrassment.
“You Crows. I should have guessed.” She shook her head, either exasperated by the guild’s murderousness or berating herself for not coming up with the idea first. It was also possible that Zea’s vivid description sounded a bit macabre to her, no matter her attitude towards her late mother.
Zea was not the most tactful person in Thedas, but she doubted Alma would appreciate the condolences either.
“How about a Lucanis plushie for you, Alma?” she asked, shifting the subject to the nicer side of this confrontation.
“I think I prefer the real thing,” Alma replied without missing a beat, but Zea didn’t miss the reddening tips of her ears, however small they were. It was entertaining to take note of the little details that indicated the Tevinter’s composure wavering… if you knew where to look. She had no doubt that Alma’s perceptive paramour used all of them to his advantage. “But there’s another Crow I wouldn’t mind taking home with me.”
Zea and Naimy shared an incredulous glance. Alma worded it like she was talking about cheating, even in such a small way, but, first, that couldn’t be, and second, given their previous discussion…
“Illario?!” they exclaimed in unison.
“Who?” Alma squinted at them in confusion then burst out giggling. “Nooo, no way, not even his plushie deserves the privilege of entering my room!”
“Lilya and Naera would take such offence at that!” Zea snickered.
Alma bowed her head slightly as if to say, “To each their own”, respecting other Rooks’ taste in men.
“Viago, then?” Zea smiled proudly. There was no other Crow more worthy of the honour, in her opinion.
Alma stared at her owlishly, like the idea had never occurred to her.
“N… no,” she admitted, looking away, her fingers interlacing nervously. “I’m not even sure I could find him here…”
Zea shrugged, dismissing Alma’s concern about offending her, and wracked her brain to think of any other distinguished Crow her friend could be thinking of.
“Is it Zevran?” Naimeryn chimed in suddenly.
“Yes!” Alma smiled warmly at her with unspoken gratitude.
“How do you know the Eighth Talon?” Zea was taken aback.
“He is my uncle through marriage,” Alma replied, her eyes twinkling with genuine affection. “And he helped save my life… and also imparted some valuable life lessons to me.”
Zea’s brow twitched, then she rummaged the counter and pulled out a plushie of Zevran Arainai, the most infamous Talon the Crows have ever had. Family means everything.
“Zevran is the Eighth Talon?” Naimy’s purple eyes grew wide with surprise.
“He certainly is,” Zea nodded with the impenetrable expression.
“I'm not quite sure what deal he struck with Caterina as the Black Shadow, but I suppose patriotism overcame all and any distaste,” Alma mused, holding the plushie brandishing twin daggers and adorned with a mask shaped as a crow skull gently and tightly.
To say that Naimy was shocked was an understatement. She stared at her Crow friend with huge, star‑bright eyes wide with astonishment, her jaw dropped to her navel. It took a moment, but the muscles in her face finally rearranged themselves into a broad, ear‑to‑ear smile.
“That’s amazing!” she breathed with genuine delight. “So he was able to return to Antiva! He missed it so much… I wonder—” a thoughtful, determined expression crossed her face, then she bit her lower lip and grabbed a cookie from the stall, beheading Davrin.
While they were perusing the selection of candles, someone moved in close and wrapped an arm around Zea’s waist with easy familiarity. Naimy’s squeal rang out instead of her friend’s, followed by a flustered giggle—yet Zea didn’t so much as twitch.
“I’m glad to feel you too, Vel!” she drawled without even turning her head. “Alma, Naimeryn, meet Velasco de Riva. My brother. Well, sort of.”
“Hey, hermanita,” the tall, dark‑haired Crow grinned, tilting his head towards Alma and Naimy. “You’re a bore, you know that? Didn’t even flinch! Thank you for squealing, my lady,” he added, turning to Naimy.
She blushed involuntarily—right to the tips of her ears. The “sort‑of brother” bore an uncanny resemblance to Lucanis—or perhaps it was the other way around—and left a similarly striking impression. He was undoubtedly her type, though the notion of betraying her doe‑eyed assassin was utterly out of the question.
“I’m Naimeryn. Thorne,” she murmured, then fussily added, “And this is Alma Amell.”
“A pleasure,” Velasco bowed, making Zea move along with him.
“Don’t fall for those puppy eyes,” she warned. “He’s a disaster of a human.”
“Flattering as always, hermanita,” Velasco muttered, feigning offence—though his arms remained firmly around Zea’s waist. “I’m delighted to meet you, ladies. So, one later?”
“I’ll give you two if you stop breathing at me,” Zea nudged him in the abs with her elbow, forcing him to release her.
“I’m not that drunk yet, just enjoying myself,” he grumbled.
“It’s good to hear, hermano,” she smiled at him. “I will definitely keep you company. If you’re accompanying me,” she said. Once Velasco had stepped away, she shrugged. “Family issues. But he’s a good guy.”
“I like him,” Naimy observed, still flushing like a rose.
“Everyone does. Except Viago,” Zea agreed.
“He looks like trouble,” Alma chimed in.
“Oh, he definitely is. So—are we done gawking at the… what was it again? Fun art? Care to dance?”
The champagne had already begun to cloud Naimy’s judgment, so the prospect of embarrassing herself by dancing in front of a crowd no longer seemed quite so daunting. She was eager to give it a try—but Alma remained unswayed.
“So, what exactly did he want of you?” Alma asked Zea, her curiosity unabated.
“He’s an excellent guitarist,” Zea replied with a genuine smile. “And I dance.”
“I want to see it—now!” Naimy exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Right this instant!”
Zea chuckled. “All right, then. Let’s go find him.”
Along the way, they encountered several acquaintances. There were warm greetings—glasses raised in salute, hands clasped in friendly shakes, laughter shared, and impromptu hugs exchanged.
At one point, a huge warrior in a Tevinter outfit blocked their path.
“Aha,” he said with a grim smirk, “gotcha!!”
Naimy was nearly startled, unsure how to react. Alma arched an elegant eyebrow, while Zea broke into a cheerful smile.
“Come here, then!” The warrior opened his arms, and Zea joyfully rushed in for a hug.
“Hello, Gladius! So nice to see you!”
Gladius lifted her effortlessly into the air, spun her around, and set her back down.
“All right, I’ll be off—we’ll see each other later,” he promised.
“Sure. Come dance with us.”
Gladius blushed slightly, cleared his throat, bowed to Naimi and Alma, and disappeared into the crowd. Well, disappeared… He remained visible for quite a while, towering over everyone else.
“Okay, I won’t ask,” Naimeryn chuckled, “but I’m really, really, really curious—just so you know.”
“I’ll tell you over a cup of hot chocolate sometime,” Zea giggled.
“Hey, look over there,” Alma called out, pointing to an elf with red hair.
At first glance, there was nothing particularly unusual about her. Yes, she had gone barefoot and wore a green linen dress that revealed her slender legs; yes, she wasn’t adorned with a single piece of jewelry…
Zea raised an eyebrow as she turned to her friend.
“Don’t you see it? She’s your double!” Alma exclaimed, throwing up her hands.
The elf, meanwhile, approached the girls and smiled radiantly.
“Hello,” she said in Zea’s voice. “I’m Sulahni Lavellan.”
“Do we know each other?” Enastezea de Riva was far less friendly; she sensed the aura of a blood mage and something else—so powerful it was hard to breathe.
“I don’t think so. But I’d love to get to know you better.”
“Gladly!” Naimy extended her hand to Sulahni. “I’m Naimeryn Thorne. This is Zea de Riva and Alma Amell.”
“Very pleased to meet you.”
Zea stared at this marvel, realizing she could look just like that. It was hard not to recognize her own face—even with lightning‑like scars on the right side. A broad nose-bridge, full lips… Both her cat-like eyes were green, and her hair flowed down to her waist—but otherwise…
As Sulahni moved on—smiling and greeting the Rooks with waves of her hand—Zea downed her champagne in one gulp and grabbed another glass.
“Naimy, remember how we had fun about different Lucanises in the same place?” she asked tensely. “Well, forget it. This is awful.”
“Why?” Naimeryn widened her eyes. “I think she’s cute.”
“She’s a maleficar,” Alma said evenly. “And she’s possessed.”
“By a demon? Like Lucanis?” Naimy perked up.
“No.” Alma shook her head knowingly, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Something old. Powerful. Not… quite a demon.”
“Oh… But if she’s a possessed maleficar—” Naimy frowned, trailing off.
“Should she be trying to kill us?” Zea interjected, raising an eyebrow. “It could be any of the Crows present—and without any possession, mind you. By the way, she’s from the Shadow Dragons, but she introduced herself as Lavellan. I don’t know about you, but for us Dirth Lavellan is the Inquisitor…” She hesitated. “…and they’re from the same clan… Look… Could it be that I… Could it be that I was right?! Could it be that my parents are actually Dalish?!” Zea turned her head, scanning the crowd for her other self, but Sulahni had already vanished into the throng. The Crow shook her head. “Alright, never mind. But I’ve figured out why she needs blood magic and possession.”
“Why?” Alma and Naimy asked in unison.
“Without Viago’s upbringing, she’s too mild‑mannered. She’s compensating.”
“Wouldn’t you like to make friends with her, though? After all, she’s your alter ego…” Naimeryn, a kind soul, would have reconciled Solas with Elgar’nan if it meant everyone could be happy.
“I’m not sure about that, but I’d absolutely love to spend time in the company of as many versions of you as possible, Naimy,” Zea said with a genuine smile. The Warden blushed with pleasure and lowered her gaze.
“Speaking of different versions,” Alma spoke up, looking strangely thoughtful. “I met my sister. Well, not my sister as in she sneaked in here, but the version of her that went with Varric instead of me.”
A small smile was playing on her lips that she desperately tried not to bite in worry for Aurelia Mercar whose wellbeing had always been more important to Alma than her own. Yet pride was more prominent, for she never doubted her sister's tenacity that no enemy could shake.
“Was she happy to see you?” “Did she take you for her version of you?” Naimeryn and Zea asked simultaneously.
Alma laughed with quiet joy; the others couldn't help smiling in return.
“Yes, she was. No, she knew immediately — as did I,” she said, nodding respectively to the Rook she was replying to. “Her first words were ‘I'm not even surprised’.”
She glanced away wistfully.
“We were in Nessus together. Both of us had to leave so that the Shadow Dragons could stay afloat and out of sight. I volunteered to go with Varric because… to me, it was a choice without a choice. But it's good to know that Aurelia would have been… is alright despite everything we're going through.”
Naimy's eyes brimmed with tears for the sisterly bond.
“Just curious: do you two share more than just good looks?” Zea asked insinuatingly.
“Do you mean?..” Alma raised an eyebrow, uncertain of the implication.
Zea nodded at the badge on Alma's chest that complemented the colour scheme of her gown. Alma blinked, getting the hint, and seemed to glow pink through her glamour.
“You may not believe it,” she began, giggling like a blushing debutante, “but in her reality I'm also working together with the Veilguard. And…”
Zea couldn't help rolling her eyes, although the coincidence was indeed hilarious.
“Alright, we get it. Not sure how it happened, but good for you. Her. This other version of you. But you as well since you seem to be winning twice?..”
The trio erupted in spirited laughter.
Finally, they spotted Velasco seated against the wall, idly plucking the strings of his guitar. He lifted his head as they approached, swept a hand through his hair, and offered a ready smile.
“So, hermanita, are you ready?” he asked.
“Try me,” Zea replied, giving her castanets a sharp, confident click.
The Rooks standing closest immediately caught on that something interesting was unfolding and cleared a small space for Zea. She stepped into the center of the circle—vibrant and delicate, like a butterfly—and Velasco struck the strings, instantly setting a swift tempo.
This was the exact moment Naimeryn realized two truths. First, why Zea had chosen a dress with such a daring cut—one that climbed nearly to her hips. Zea lifted the hem, swirling it around like butterfly wings, revealing her legs moving with swift grace, her heels tapping out a wild rhythm on the floor. Second, Naimy knew she herself would never possess the boldness or agility to dance like that.
It was an improvisation on both sides—a delightful pastime for two professionals. To the spectators, it seemed as though the dance and the melody had been rehearsed a hundred times and polished to perfection. Some of the mages could sense the connection between the guitarist and the dancer. The Crows, followed by the rest of the audience, began clapping in rhythm.
The second melody, following a brief pause filled with applause, reflected Velasco’s mood. Zea called it “angry melancholy.” In response to the soul‑rending music, Zea’s movements grew sharp and unsettling.
Naimeryn nearly teared up, drowning her overwhelming emotions in champagne. She didn’t even have time to protest when strong hands pulled her into the circle with dancing Zea. Her partner confidently led her through a dance she didn’t know, helping her avoid tripping, keep the rhythm, and prevent any accidents. It was terrifying. Scary yet exhilarating.
Naimy was absolutely, completely, utterly convinced she couldn’t dance—at all. But the Crow who had chosen her as his partner didn’t seem to care. When the dance ended, her unexpected partner kissed her hand and, with a “Grazie per la danza, bella signorina,” vanished into the crowd.
“You said you can’t dance,” Zea remarked cheerfully, slightly out of breath. She left Vel with the Crows eager to dance, and ran to support a friend in shock.
“I really can’t,” Naimy stammered, clutch packed against her heart as if to keep it from leaping out of her chest. “Who was that?”
“A Crow‑Rook?” Zea shrugged. “I don’t know everyone. But you’ve just launched the ‘convince the Crows not to start a bloodbath at the ball’ campaign—well done! There’s already a line forming of those wanting to dance with you.”
“I can’t dance!” Naimy nearly started crying but remembered her makeup just in time. She gave Zea a pleading look and whispered, “I want to go home.”
“Right, let’s have another drink,” Zea said decisively, steering her away from the queue of potential dance partners and deeper into the crowd, skillfully maneuvering between the Rooks. They made their way straight to the table with drinks and snacks. Zea handed Naimeryn a glass and got one for herself.
“What do they all want from me?” Naimy finally sobbed—the alcohol was making her more emotional than usual.
“Yeah, I didn’t think of that,” Zea drawled. “You need to get used to admiration gradually.”
“Ah, there you are!” Alma approached them, and Naimy lost the brilliant comeback she’d been about to make. “I didn’t know you could dance so well!” she said, looking at the Warden in a way that made it clear who she was addressing.
“I don’t dance,” Naimeryn denied once again.
“She doesn’t dance,” Zea confirmed with a chuckle. “We’ve got plenty of witnesses to prove it!”
Naimy tried to elbow Zea, but her friend easily dodged without even noticing—pure reflex.
“How did this even happen?” Naimy demanded, staring at her.
“Dancing is like fighting, just without the bloodshed,” Zea reminded her. “You’re a good fighter, and when you switch off your brain, your body moves the way it should. Especially with a strong partner who knows what they want.”
Naimeryn felt her ears growing hot—not so much from the praise she didn’t feel she deserved, but from the double meaning behind the words. Zea smirked and shook her head. She still hadn’t given up hope of convincing her friend that she was a miracle.
“Now let’s go dance,” she said, taking Naimy’s hand and pulling her back toward the music.
Velasco was just starting to feel the pulse of the crowd, riding the rhythm of his own beats. Some Rooks had turned out to be musicians too, so the scene was a lively mix of happy people lost in the moment. Zea found a relatively quiet spot at the edge of the dance floor, waved away Naimy’s new suitors in indigo, then lifted the hem of her dress to the sides so Naimy could see her feet.
“Hear the rhythm?” she asked. “Just tap along.”
They started with simple taps, then added swaying, and gradually tried to bring their arms into the movement.
Zea shot Naimy a sly smile, her light‑pink lips curving. Leaning close to Naimy’s good ear, she whispered, “Imagine Lucanis watching you.”
Maybe she was pushing too hard?
That exact phrase, when spoken by Viago de Riva, had always made her leap to new heights. It might not have the same effect on Naimy—worse, it could make her tense up and revert to her clumsy self.
Luckily, Naimy was just drunk enough to let go. She could almost feel Lucanis’s gaze brushing against her skin. She straightened up, lifted her chin, and mimicked the hand movement Zea had shown her, letting the rhythm take over. To her surprise, the floor didn’t buckle beneath her. Instead, her body felt supple and light, moving in sync with the melody.
“Look!” She laughed. “I’m dancing!”
When Zea returned to the Lighthouse, Lucanis was waiting for her in the library hall. He heard the door to the eluvian chamber open and close, then listened closely. Usually she moved as silently as a cat, but now he could hear her light footsteps. It meant she was tired.
He walked over to the staircase she was climbing. She stopped on the second‑to‑last step—gentle, radiant, happy—and rested her forehead against his chest.
“Did you have a good time?” Lucanis asked in an official tone.
“Perfect,” she replied without changing her position.
“Would you like to go upstairs?”
He knew full well that in her heels she’d be taller than him, but he was ready to endure that humiliation just to get some privacy with her.
“I’d love to. My feet are killing me,” she complained.
Lucanis smiled at the corner of his mouth: Gatita, as always, was giving him a chance to save face. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the room. He set her down on the sofa, knelt before her, and removed first one butterfly‑decorated shoe, then the other.
“How did it go?” he asked casually. “Did Naimeryn pick anything out?”
“Yes,” she replied, not going into detail.
Lucanis chuckled; he had no doubt Zea could talk her friend into anything. She had a knack for it. He carefully set the wicked shoes aside, gently massaged her weary feet, and kissed the back of her instep. Then he looked up.
She was watching him with her magical, mismatched eyes, clouded with desire. Her soft lips parted slightly, her chest rising unevenly.
“Gatita…” He traced her leg upward, taking advantage of the daring slit in her dress, then rose to touch her lips. She tasted wine, and lipstick, and something sweet, her hand trembling against his shoulder.
“Get me out of this dress, please,” she asked, when he pulled away.
It wasn’t as romantic as he would have liked, so he sacrificed romance for speed. Once freed, Zea climbed onto Lucanis’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Would you like a bath?” he asked, stroking her tense back.
“Not yet,” she murmured against his neck.
Lucanis knew she would make love with him if he pressed—but he sensed she needed warmth more than passion right now. Besides, he loved sitting like this, holding his most precious treasure, as if nothing else existed. They didn’t have many moments like this.
“I brought you a gift,” Zea suddenly remembered, fumbling for her purse—of course, perfectly matched to her dress. “Here.”
She placed a small plushie in his palm: black hair, colourless eyes, a crimson dress… Zea had brought him Zara.
“That’s… um… really thoughtful. What am I supposed to do with her?” he chuckled, guessing what thoughts had guided Gatita in choosing this particular gift.
“Well, for now you can throw her as far as possible. Just try not to hit the candles—I’d rather avoid a fire.”