Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Act One: The Conscription

Cloudreach, 9:52 Dragon

The battle had been long and brutal, leaving the air heavy with the tang of blood and the acrid sting of sweat. Rook and Lucanis had moved in perfect, uncanny sync, their movements sharp and seamless– so fluid that it felt less like a fight and more like a dance Illario could never hope to learn. Exhausted, humiliated, and utterly defeated, he collapsed to his knees, catching himself on one trembling arm while the other clutched his chest. His heart thundered like it was trying to tear itself free of his ribcage, and for one agonizing moment, he wondered if it might burst entirely. Perhaps that would be his penance– swift, silent, almost merciful.

But mercy was for the weak.

He coughed, his ribs screaming in protest as he forced out words thick with venom, tilting his bruised and bloodied face toward Lucanis. “What are you waiting for, cousin?” he rasped, his voice cracked but laced with derision. “Finish what you start.”

He had lost. For all his schemes, for all the blood he’d spilled, and for all the sacrifices made in pursuit of power, Illario had failed. Not only did Lucanis still stand, a defiant figure even under the strain of his corrupted state, but he had taken everything Illario had sought to claim. The title of First Talon, so tantalizingly close to his grasp, had been stripped away before the very crowd Illario had gathered to witness his triumph. He had orchestrated his own public undoing.

Lucanis stepped closer, and Illario could feel the weight of his cousin’s fury in every measured step. But it was the weakness that Illario hated more than anything else. There was agony in Lucanis’s voice, a subtle waver beneath the steel as he hissed, “I already did. What am I ever going to do that is worse than this? On your knees? In front of every house?”

Illario’s breath hitched as he glanced around, his vision swimming. Faces stared back– hard, cold, and filled with contempt. Revulsion radiated from every corner of the room, searing his skin like flame. He wanted to snarl, to sneer, to lash out, but his body betrayed him. He was too broken. Too tired.

And then her voice cut through the growing whispers and cruel laughter.

“Get up, Illario.”

The crowd parted like waves before a storm as Caterina Dellamorte strode into view. Her steps were slow but deliberate, every inch of her exuding authority and disdain. Illario stiffened, swallowing hard as his grandmother approached, her gaze as sharp and unyielding as the daggers she’d trained him with as a child. The final remnants of his snide expression faded into shock and contrition. 

“No one from House Dellamorte kneels,” she said coldly, her words as much a command as a condemnation.

For a moment, shame burned through him hotter than any physical wound. His stomach churned as Viago’s rough hand closed around his arm, hauling him upright with all the gentleness of a butcher. His knees threatened to buckle, but he forced himself to stand, wobbling beneath the weight of Caterina’s withering stare, still gazing at her with something like awe. For the first time, he felt uncertain as he watched his grandmother, searching her face desperately for some sign of forgiveness that he knew he did not deserve.

Yet it was Lucanis’s voice that drew his attention next. “Mierda,” he cursed under his breath, his tone laced with a strange mixture of frustration and reluctant fondness. His dark eyes flicked to Rook, who stood at his side, silent but watchful. Even now, Illario could see the scorn in her narrowed green eyes, her nose wrinkled as though he were a rotting carcass.

“What am I supposed to do with this idiot?” Lucanis muttered, half to himself.

Illario almost laughed. Of course Lucanis wouldn’t know what to do. He never had the spine to make hard decisions without someone holding his hand. Any decent Talon would know there was only one thing to do with a traitor like Illario: death, swift and immediate. Their stage was set, there were dozens around to watch and see the righteousness of the decision. And here was Lucanis, asking his boss what he should do. It was pathetic. The softness in Rook’s voice grated against Illario’s nerves as she finally spoke.

“Didn’t you tell me he’s basically your brother? Your closest childhood friend?” she asked, her words gentle but pointed.

Lucanis’s gaze grew distant, his expression clouded by memories Illario didn’t want to see reflected in his cousin’s eyes. After a beat, Lucanis nodded, a faint, humorless smile ghosting across his lips before vanishing. “My only friend,” he said softly, the words carrying a weight Illario didn’t expect, even as Lucanis gazed at Rook with reverence, “before you.”

Illario’s laughter was hollow, bitter, and sharp enough to cut glass. “You think you can show me mercy?” he spat, his voice thick with mockery and amusement. His chin lifted defiantly, his gaze snapping to Caterina. “That’s not up to you now, is it? Caterina is still First Talon.”

“Enough, Illario,” Caterina said magisterially, her voice ringing out with the finality of a blade severing flesh. “Lucanis is the new First Talon. His decision stands.”

Surprise and awe shone in equal parts on Lucanis’s face at Caterina’s words, at the growing roar of cheers and applause from the gathered Talons and Crows, and something about it made Illario angrier than other humiliation he had suffered that night. As if Lucanis was surprised to have been granted the title. As if he hadn’t been groomed for the seat since childhood. As if Caterina Dellamorte would ever deny her prezioso anything. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms, Lucanis’s rise had been inevitable, no matter how hard Illario fought, no matter how much he bled.

Lucanis turned back to him, his dark eyes flickering with a mournful determination. “Viago,” he said, his voice steady, “keep him out of trouble.”

Viago yanked him forward without ceremony, his grip like iron. “I’m no miracle worker,” he muttered dryly, though his jaw was clenched and his eyes burned with barely restrained fury. “But I’ll see what I can do.” Fingers bit savagely into Illario’s already sore muscles, but Viago’s face remained as neutral as ever. It was only due to Illario’s longstanding history with him that clued him into the tightness of the jaw, the narrowed eyes, the pursed lips– the few signs of Viago’s rarely seen fury.

Illario smirked as they came level with Lucanis, his voice dripping with honeyed tones. “Lucanis…,” he oozed, but he was cut off before he could speak further.

“Don’t,” Lucanis snapped, low and dangerous. “Not now.”

Viago dragged him from the room, his patience fraying with every step. When Illario opened his mouth to speak again, the Fifth Talon turned on him with a snarl. “If it were up to me, I’d put a dagger in your neck,” he threatened icily. “Keep talking, and I might just do it anyway.”

Illario laughed weakly, slumping against the wall when Viago finally shoved him into a small, windowless room. “I wouldn’t mind,” he said, his voice laced with a bitterness he couldn’t quite hide.

The only response was a contemptuous scoff as Viago left, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle its frame. The lock clicked, leaving Illario alone in the dark, his body aching and his pride in tatters. Slowly, he slid down the wall, his head tilting back to rest against the cold stone as hollow laughter bubbled from his throat.

For all his planning, for all his sacrifices, this was what remained.

Nothing.

Fucking Lucanis.

Fucking Zara. Fucking Rook.

Illario’s thoughts seethed, tangled in a whirlwind of rage and humiliation. He had accounted for every possible outcome, meticulously crafting his machinations with the precision of a master tactician. Every contingency, every potential misstep, every opportunity that could propel him to his rightful place as First Talon had been mapped out in his mind. But Zara Renata– Zara fucking Renata– had upended everything.

She was supposed to kill Lucanis. A clean, efficient death. It wasn’t a difficult command, not for someone of her supposed cunning and power. Instead, she’d turned his cousin into a fucking abomination. And worse still, she’d lied to him about it.

How contemptible. How pitiable. Zara, who so often reveled in her wickedness, in her duplicity, who wore her deceptions like a crown, had stooped to lies, to cowardice. Illario clenched his fists at the memory of her smirk, her silken voice weaving false assurances. He had truly, foolishly, believed he held her in the palm of his hand, that his charm and calculated seductions had bound her to his will. But no. She’d played him, and he, in his arrogance, had allowed it.

He had underestimated her. He had been stupid.

And then Rook.

Rook, who had somehow managed to survive every storm thrown her way. Rook, whose mere existence had unraveled his carefully woven plans. He could never have predicted her. Could never have imagined someone so tenacious, so maddeningly adept at sidestepping every trap and bulldozing through every failsafe with a tenacity and clumsiness not unlike a rampaging druffalo. She was chaos incarnate, an unstoppable force that had obliterated every calculated step toward his ascendancy.

He might have admired her resilience– her uncanny ability to claw her way through impossible odds– if he didn’t resent her so deeply. It was her presence, her interference, that had ruined everything. Without her, Lucanis could still have been salvaged, carefully cradled within Illario’s grand design. Without her, his cousin might still have been pliable, malleable, molded into Illario’s vision of success.

But no. Rook had waltzed into his plans, into Lucanis’s life, and destroyed it all. Now, the taste of failure was bitter on his tongue, acrid and unrelenting.

And all he had left was his fury.

His next moves would need to be meticulously crafted, calculated with an even greater precision than before. It would obviously take months, even likelier years, to regain a semblance of trust among the Crows. But trust could be rebuilt, and Lucanis– dear, predictable Lucanis– would be the easiest to sway. Always so desperate for connection, so blinded by his yearning for family over logic. Even his mercy reeked of that pitiful impulse, that pathetic desire to belong rather than exert power as he should. And what delicious power came with being First Talon– if he couldn’t wield it, he might still control it.

Illario could exploit it, twist it, use it to forge the illusion of rehabilitation. He could appear repentant, hapless, even grateful for Lucanis’s magnanimity, and through that, reclaim some measure of influence. Yes, his cousin’s misplaced compassion could be molded into quite an effective weapon, a lever to pry open new opportunities.

But Caterina… Caterina was another matter entirely. He might have to wait until she was gone. A thought which struck him harder than he expected, a sudden, suffocating weight that left his chest tight and his throat thick with emotion. The idea of her absence was unbearable, a grief too raw and too near. Feigning anguish for her orchestrated demise had been torture– not because it was an act, but because it had felt so real. Too vivid, too close to the inevitable truth that he refused to face.

His feelings toward the last two living members of his family were a labyrinth of contradictions, tangled in threads he could not fully untangle. He loved them and hated them. Admired them and longed to eclipse them. Respected them and cursed them. They were his salvation and his damnation, his greatest pride and his heaviest burden. Together, they loomed over him like shadows he could never escape, a constant reminder that no matter what he achieved, he would never measure up.

He sighed, pulling off his gloves and tossing them aside before reaching up to cautiously touch his face. His fingers probed the swollen, carnaged skin with a careful delicacy, and he winced at the sharp sting. His flesh was hot beneath his touch, sticky with drying blood where the skin had split. His entire body ached, every muscle protesting the strain he had put it through. Fighting both Lucanis and Rook had been grueling enough, but the blood magic– the sheer effort of trying to control Lucanis and the demon that seethed inside him– had left him hollowed out, drained.

And now here he was, slumped in the cool, dark solitude of a forgotten room, far from the raucous laughter and cheers that surely echoed in the wake of Caterina’s pronouncement. It was almost a relief, this isolation. A reprieve from the humiliation of his failure.

Illario leaned back, closing his eyes and breathing heavily, though the sound of it was steady, controlled. He could already picture Lucanis now– intolerable in his humility. So noble, so infuriatingly modest, surely demurring at every “Congratulations!” thrown his way. The mere thought of it made Illario’s blood boil all over again, and in the privacy of the room, he allowed himself a bitter, derisive laugh.

“Enjoy it while you can, cousin,” he muttered to the emptiness, his voice low and hateful. His lips curled into a sneer as he scoffed at the disgrace of it all, the sting of his failure still fresh and raw.

But failure wasn’t the end. No, failure was a lesson– a reminder that he would need to be sharper, colder, and even more ruthless next time.

He heard footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, stopping just outside his door. Too hesitant to be Lucanis. Too light to be Caterina, and no accompanying cane confirmed it wasn’t her. Viago or Teia wouldn’t have bothered with subterfuge; they’d have already kicked the door open, shouting threats and obscenities. Another Talon? Another Crow? An assassin sent to finish what Lucanis had been too weak to end?

The door creaked open, tentative and apprehensive, the sound grating against the stillness of the room. Illario didn’t bother opening his eyes. He remained motionless, his posture dismissive, uninterested. He wanted his uninvited guest to know exactly how little he cared for their presence. But the intruder entered with an eerie silence, footsteps barely a whisper against the stone. The faint swish of fabric was the only hint they were moving closer.

When a hand rested lightly on his raised knee, Illario’s eyes snapped open, instinct pulling his hand toward his belt before he remembered– no weapons.

Rook.

Her expression was sharp, a mask of cold determination that mirrored his own distaste. Whatever had brought her here, she looked no happier about it than he was.

“You’re not going to like what I’m about to say,” she began, her voice strained and taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. “But I’m only saying this once, so do us both a favor and pay attention. I’ve already spoken with Lucanis and Caterina, and they’ve approved it.”

His eyes narrowed, dread coiling in his stomach like a snake. He wanted to interrupt, to force her words to stop before they could become real. But he couldn’t. He was ensnared by the undercurrent of finality in her tone, compelled to hear what treachery she had conspired with them.

“Most of the Talons want you imprisoned, regardless of Lucanis’s decision,” she said bluntly, her voice devoid of sympathy. “And Lucanis was close to being forced to concede.”

Her words were daggers, piercing without pause for effect. She didn’t seem to care how deeply they cut. What had Teia and Viago wanted? What had Caterina wanted?

“But instead, it was agreed,” she continued, oblivious to the way his mind reeled, “that you would be conscripted. Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Illario Dellamorte.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Illario laughed. Low and derisive at first, but it built quickly into something insufferably smug, sharp and mocking, as though her words were the most absurd jest he’d ever heard. A Grey Warden? Him? It was ludicrous. And Caterina– Caterina– was supposed to have approved this madness? The woman who had shaped him, who had held him to standards as high as the stars, would never hand him over to the Wardens like some expendable pawn.

But no matter how loudly he laughed, the truth of it pressed against his chest like an iron weight. He could see it in the steadiness of Rook’s gaze, in the infuriating calm of her composure. She wasn’t lying.

“How exactly do you plan to force me to do that?” Illario sneered, wrapping his words in scorn so sharp they could cut. His grin was a challenge, daring her to try.

But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t rise to his bait. Instead, she knelt before him with an unbearable tranquility that made him feel small beneath her gaze. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, pitched with a conspiratorial softness that twisted his stomach.

“There’s no one else here, Illario,” she murmured, as if the two of them shared some intimate secret. “You and I both know staying here would be unbearable for you. Watching Lucanis as First Talon every day. Enduring the suspicion, the disgust, in every pair of Crow eyes as they pass you. It would crush you over time. I’m offering you an escape from that. I’d rather not have to use force.”

He hated her. Hated the kindness, the pity, in her voice, the understanding in her words. Hated the way she peeled back his defenses so effortlessly, exposing every fear, every resentment, every weakness he had tried to bury. Hated how easily she seemed to have pierced to the very center of his heart and read the inside like his future was written on its walls.

But he forced himself to hold her gaze, his jaw tightening. “I don’t think I’m exactly what the Grey Wardens are looking for,” he said at last, his voice quieter than he intended, stripped of the venom he wanted to wield.

“I think you’re exactly what the Grey Wardens need. And more importantly,” Rook added firmly, her gaze steady, “I think the Grey Wardens are exactly what you need.” She gestured to the dim, oppressive room around them, as if the space itself underscored her point. “You’ll never have the trust you need to be happy here again.”

The words cut deeper and sharper than any dagger, because Illario knew she was right. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, to fight against the truth of it, the argument dissolved before it even reached his lips. A hollow, defeated sigh escaped him, and he saw the flicker of sympathy in Rook’s expression– brief, but unmistakable.

“And I’m supposed to believe every Warden will just forget what I’ve done?” he said bitterly, his voice laced with contempt and disbelief. “Forget that I tried to forge an alliance with the Venatori and simply accept me as their brother-in-arms?”

She scoffed, but the sound wasn’t laced with bitterness. If anything, it carried a faint trace of amusement, as though his protests were only delaying the inevitable. She rose gracefully to her feet in one fluid motion and extended an arm toward him, wordlessly offering to help him up. Illario hesitated, then grudgingly grasped her forearm. She pulled him to his feet with surprising strength, and he hissed as a sharp pain radiated from his ribs.

Rook’s brow furrowed, her hand darting out without hesitation– or permission– to press against his side. The sudden touch drew another hiss from him, and his instincts flared, anger and discomfort twisting in his chest. “Broken,” she said flatly, her fingers already moving on with a clinical efficiency.

When her hand moved toward his face, he swatted it aside before she could make contact, his glare sharp enough to wound. She didn’t flinch, only gave him a pointed look as if to say, really?

“No one in the Wardens will care about your past,” she answered finally, undeterred by his hostility. “For starters, there aren’t many of us left to care. We’re not exactly in a position to turn away recruits–”

“Prisoners,” Illario cut in, his voice clipped and mocking. “Let’s not dress it up as something it isn’t.”

Rook ignored him, rolling her eyes as if his interjection wasn’t worth further acknowledgement. She tried again to examine the bloody laceration on his arm, but he twisted away, avoiding her touch.

“And you aren’t the first person in our ranks with a… history,” she said sharply, her tone rising just enough to remind him she wouldn’t tolerate his deflections forever. “Plenty of us were criminals before we joined. It doesn’t matter to the Wardens.” She planted her fists on her hips, her eyes narrowing with growing impatience. “Can you stop getting in the way of me assessing your injuries?”

“No,” he replied bluntly, his voice dripping with finality. “I’ll heal just fine on my own, thank you.”

They locked eyes, both bristling with stubborn defiance. The silence stretched taut between them, a battle of wills fought without words.

At last, Rook let out an exasperated breath and raised her hands in surrender. “Fine,” she muttered. But before he could claim victory, she arched a brow and added, “But will you at least let me patch up your arm so you don’t bleed to death on the way back to Lavendel?”

Illario’s gaze dropped to the wound on his arm. It was deeper than he’d first thought, blood still seeping steadily. Not enough to kill him, but enough to be inconvenient. Her dramatics, he mused, were cute, almost endearing. Almost. Suppressing the faintest hint of a smile, he moved to a nearby chair and stripped off his leather top, leaving his chest bare and allowing her unfettered access to the wound.

Rook winced as her eyes settled on the bruises blooming across the ribs she had examined before, dark and angry against his skin. “Nice cousin I have, no?” he taunted, his voice edged with bitterness.

Her glare was unyielding, a cold steel in her eyes. “I wonder what Lucanis looks like beneath his armor,” she shot back without missing a beat. “Don’t act like you’re a victim here, Illario. You earned every mark.”

She reached into her bag, pulling out a small pouch. From it, she withdrew a needle and thread, pointed and gleaming in the dim light. He didn’t respond, just leaned back in silence, letting her work. Her hands moved swiftly, threading the needle and stitching the laceration closed with precise, practiced ease. The white cloth she wrapped around his arm was clean and soft, a jarring contrast to the grime and blood beneath her fingers.

Her touch was achingly gentle, and it unsettled him.

“How did you manage to find every single way to make things worse?” she whispered.

Illario winced, but the truth, acrid and undeniable, fell, unbidden, from his lips. “My cousin would tell you that’s my talent,” he muttered, though the words landed with more of an ache than he’d meant to share.

He felt unclean beneath her hands, unworthy of the care she offered so freely.

When she finished, Rook sat back on her heels, her sharp gaze assessing him. “You should say goodbye,” she said quietly, breaking the stillness. “Lucanis and Caterina deserve that much. If you have anything left to say– to ask forgiveness, to make peace– this is your chance.”

Her words were measured, not unkind, but he could hear the gravity behind them. He shook his head, his expression hardening. “If they’re so prepared to see me thrown to a self-righteous order and have me bound by an unbreakable oath for the rest of my life, then they can live with the silence I leave them.”

She didn’t flinch at his refusal, though the subtle crease in her brow hinted at disappointment. “Suit yourself,” she said simply, rising to her feet.

Rook led him through the empty Crow hideout above the Cantori Diamond as if she belonged there herself, each step unhurried, each movement deliberate. With the others still at the opera house, caught in the revelry of Lucanis’s promotion to First Talon, the space felt eerily bare. Illario paused, looking around at the familiar walls, the furniture, the little details that had become part of the fabric of his life.

It was strange, how heavy it all felt now. How foreign.

“You’ll see it again,” Rook said softly, her hand brushing against his arm.

He shrugged her off, ignoring the sting her words left behind. His steps became heavier, more reluctant, as he followed her through the hideaway, his throat tight with an ache he didn’t want to acknowledge. They reached the back room where the Eluvian stood– a swirling, otherworldly surface– and without hesitation, Rook stepped through.

Illario followed.

The air changed instantly, and the sight before him made him stop in his tracks. His breath hitched as he took it in– the impossible sky above, shimmering with an unearthly light, and the strange, ethereal pathways stretching out before them. His mouth opened slightly in awe, words failing him.

“The Fade,” Rook explained, her voice calm but tinged with reverence. She glanced upward, her expression shifting as she took in the same mesmerizing view. “We call this part the Crossroads. Not all the Eluvians have been found yet, but from here, we can reach most of Northern Thedas. Treviso, the Anderfels, the Arlathan Forest… And the Crossroads themselves are practically their own city.”

Illario barely registered her words, his eyes scanning the alien beauty around them. It was hard to tear his gaze away, each detail pulling him deeper into wonder. For a moment, he felt unmoored, weightless. He realized too late that Rook had stopped speaking, her amused gaze fixed on him.

Her lips curved in a small smile. “Don’t laugh at me,” he growled, his voice thick with embarrassment as he forced himself to look at her.

“I wasn’t,” she replied with a sigh, rolling her eyes as she resumed walking. “We’re going to be comrades, Illario. You can stop treating me like I’m the enemy.”

But she was the enemy. She represented everything he loathed– this new path, this forced choice, this life he had no say in. He wasn’t joining the Wardens out of some noble sense of duty or honor. He was being bound to them, shackled by the pity and compassion Rook seemed so insistent on projecting onto him. Had he been given the choice, perhaps he would’ve reached the same conclusion she had argued so fervently. But because that choice was stolen from him, all he could feel was the raw, obstinate sting of resentment.

And so, as Rook led him deeper into the Crossroads, Illario followed. But not willingly. Never willingly.

It was gods-awful in Lavendel.

The stench hit Illario like a blow the moment he stepped through the ornate Eluvian. It wasn’t just a smell– it was a suffocating miasma that clung to his skin and filled his lungs with each breath, rancid and inescapable. Death and putrescence hung thick in the air, mingled with something far worse: the acrid bite of Blight corruption. It burned his nostrils and made the back of his throat ache as if the rot itself had crawled inside him.

The world beyond the mirror was gray and heavy, the colors of life drained from the land. The Hossberg Wetlands stretched out before him, but the swampy terrain was nothing like he’d imagined from tales of Tevinter’s ancient breadbasket. The waters, once fertile and brimming with life, were stagnant now– black and thick with corruption. Every surface seemed wrong. The trees were gnarled and twisted, their bark peeling away to reveal sickly, oozing sores. What few plants remained were wilted and pale, as though even the sun had abandoned them.

Illario followed Rook through the night with his head held high, just as Caterina had taught him. Her lessons echoed in his mind, a distant tether to a life that felt increasingly unreachable: Never let them see you falter. Confidence is its own kind of armor.

But it was hard to summon confidence when the village ahead rose like a ghost from the haze. The faint outlines of broken rooftops and crumbling walls, illuminated by moonlight, greeted him first, jutting up against the swampy horizon. As they drew closer, the scene sharpened into grisly detail. Corpses lay scattered across the ground, some half-sunken into the bog, others draped over collapsed fences and abandoned carts.

The decay was overwhelming, and the sight was worse. Flesh sloughed from bones, leaving grotesque caricatures of what had once been people– farmers, laborers, even children. He forced himself not to look too closely, but his gaze betrayed him, drawn to a tangle of limbs that had once been a family. They clutched one another in their final moments, their faces frozen in agony, and Illario quickly looked away, bile rising in his throat.

The silence was the worst part. There was no birdsong, no hum of insects, no wind rustling through the trees. Even the swamp itself seemed to hold its breath. Every step he took felt deafening against the backdrop of death. The squelch of his boots in the muck was a grim reminder of how close the corruption was, the Blight-infested mud clinging to him like a stain he’d never wash off.

Rook moved ahead of him with purpose, her expression unreadable in the soft lantern light, her shoulders set with the kind of resolve that Illario could only pretend to muster. He envied her focus, the way she seemed to glide through the horror without flinching. He followed in her wake, trying to match her unshakable demeanor, but the truth gnawed at him– he wasn’t unshakable.

And then he saw them.

The Wardens.

They stood scattered around the ruins Illario walked through, small clusters of them, no more than a dozen or so in total. Illario had heard tales of the Grey Wardens since he was a child, of their valor, their strength, their heroism. He’d imagined armies of them, clad in shining silverite, their banners flying high as they charged into battle against the darkness. But the reality was... disheartening.

The Wardens he saw now were ragged and weary, their armor dented and stained with blood and Blight. Their faces were drawn, their eyes hollow. They moved with the deliberate efficiency of soldiers who had seen too much and carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

There were so few of them.

Illario hadn’t expected that.

How are there so few left? The question echoed in his mind, sharp with disbelief. The Wardens were supposed to be a beacon, the last line of defense against the Blight. But here they were, a handful of grim survivors in a dying swamp, fighting a war they seemed to be losing.

And then his gaze shifted upward, and the breath caught in his throat.

Griffons.

Two of them, perched on the broken remains of a stone wall, their massive wings tucked close to their bodies. They were magnificent, even in the midst of such despair. Their bright eyes glinted in the moon’s glow, sharp and intelligent, and their feathers shimmered faintly, a mix of oranges and blues, blacks and gleaming silvers. One of them ruffled its wings, the motion powerful and graceful, and Illario felt a strange, unfamiliar awe settle over him.

For a moment, the smell, the death, the decay– all of it faded.

The griffons were a reminder of something greater, something ancient, unyielding. They belonged to a world that had once been full of wonder, a world the Blight hadn’t yet consumed. Illario couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Rook glanced back at him, her expression softening slightly when she noticed the way he stared. “Incredible, aren’t they?” she said, her voice quieter than usual, as though she didn’t want to disturb the fragile moment.

He nodded, swallowing hard, the words catching in his throat. “I didn’t think they still existed,” he admitted, his voice breathless, almost reverent.

“They’re part of the Wardens’ legacy,” Rook replied. “Not many left, but they’re still here. Still fighting. Maybe you can pet one later.”

Her words hung in the air, an echo of resilience, even in the midst of her playful jab. But as Illario tore his gaze away from the griffons and looked back at the village, the awe was swallowed by the grim reality before him. The Blight wasn’t just some distant threat, some shadow on the horizon. It was here, up close, suffocating and relentless.

And he was being lashed to it.

The thought twisted in his chest, heavy and bitter. The Wardens had chosen this fight, this life of sacrifice and suffering. He had not. Yet here he was, stepping into their ranks, the stench of death filling his lungs, the weight of an unasked-for destiny pressing down on his shoulders.

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to move forward, to keep following Rook. Confidence was armor, Caterina had said. But Illario wondered how long that armor would hold before the Blight began to eat away at it too.

She approached two Wardens standing near a solid table adorned with heavy glass jars, bubbling beakers and piles of books and scrolls, their forms illuminated by the dim, flickering light of an oil lantern. An elf and a dwarf, silhouettes stark against the grim backdrop of the corrupted village, turned toward Rook’s approaching footsteps.

The elf, a slight and wiry figure with light, freckled skin and brown hair that hung loose in uneven strands, smiled warmly at her. His features were sharp, almost birdlike, and his dark eyes gleamed with intelligence. There was a calmness to his expression, but it wasn’t the calm of reassurance– it was the kind born from someone too curious for his own good, from someone who thrived in the chaos around him. His leathers, patched and weathered, were stained with alchemical residue, and a faint odor of herbs and Blight clung to him like a second skin.

His companion, the dwarf, had a broad, muscular frame and an air of rugged practicality. Her copper skin was streaked with dirt, and her chestnut hair, streaked with gray, was pulled into two thick braids that hung down her back. A thick tattoo was inked across her face, and a short band on her chin led to wide, full lips. Her blue-green, sharp eyes narrowed as her gaze slid past Rook to land on Illario, scrutinizing him with the intensity of someone who had seen far too much. The massive maul slung casually over her shoulder looked like it could crush stone, yet she carried it as if it weighed no more than a feather. Her battered armor and stern expression gave her a no-nonsense air, though there was an underlying steadiness about her– an unshakable lighthouse in the storm.

“Who did you bring back with you this time, Rook?” the dwarf called out, her voice surprisingly pleasant for her hardness. There was a challenge in her tone, though it wasn’t outright hostile– more a statement of dominance, a habit bred from authority.

Rook returned the elf’s smile affectionately before turning her attention to the dwarf. Up close, Illario noticed, charmingly, how similar Rook’s hair was to the male elf’s, and he wondered who had copied who. “Evka, this is Illario Dellamorte. I conscripted him,” Rook explained, her voice matter-of-fact, though her eyes flicked to Illario as if gauging his reaction to the introduction. “Illario, these are Wardens Evka and Antoine. Evka is currently our acting commander. You’ll take your orders from her directly. Antoine is… more or less an extension of Evka, so you’d do well to follow any orders he gives you as well.”

Antoine barely glanced up from the scroll in front of him to glance his way. His slender fingers danced idly along the edge of a glass jar, its contents a swirling, viscous black substance that Illario would swear was pure Blight. The sight made his stomach turn, though Antoine seemed utterly unbothered, even entranced. He waved vaguely in Illario’s direction, his focus still locked on whatever research occupied him.

“I don’t usually–” Antoine began, his voice soft, almost absent, before trailing off mid-sentence.

They all paused, waiting for him to finish, but Antoine seemed to lose interest in the conversation, his attention snapping back to the scroll as if nothing else existed.

“He doesn’t usually have much to say, except to me or to Rook,” Evka finished, stepping forward with a wry smirk. The movement was fluid, effortless, despite the massive hammer she swung down from her shoulder to rest its head against the ground with a dull thud that Illario felt vibrate beneath his feet. “But when he does, it’s usually worth listening to– if you can make sense of it.”

Her tone carried a thread of amusement, but her eyes were engaged, studying Illario with the precision of someone accustomed to evaluating strengths and weaknesses at a glance. “How much has Rook told you?” she asked, addressing Illario directly for the first time.

“Not much,” Rook interjected before he could answer. Her voice had a slight edge of defensiveness, as if she was expecting to be chastised. “With everything happening… I thought it might be better he heard from someone in charge.”

Evka rolled her eyes, the gesture exaggerated but not entirely devoid of humor. “Of course you did. Between you and Davrin running around saving the world, and what happened at Weisshaupt, there’s been too much responsibility falling on my shoulders,” she grumbled. Despite her words, there was a glint of pride in her expression, a quiet confidence that betrayed her frustration. “It’ll be nice having another pair of hands around the village, anyway.”

Her gaze swept over Illario, lingering pointedly on the visible signs of his recent battle. The bruises mottling his face, the hastily patched laceration on his arm, and the stiffness in his movements that deceived the state of his ribs– all of it was cataloged with the expertise of someone who had seen countless injuries before.

“Once he heals up a bit more,” she added, her voice softening slightly, though her scrutiny remained unrelenting.

Illario straightened under her gaze, his jaw tightening as he fought the instinct to shrink back. He had faced Caterina’s judgment for years, and this was no different– though something about Evka’s bright, unflinching eyes made him feel exposed in a way that even his First Talon’s icy disapproval hadn’t.

Antoine’s quiet murmuring filled the space as he spoke in a soft, fragmented rhythm that sounded like a conversation with the air itself. His dark eyes darted between a scroll filled with neat, angular script and the jar of Blight beside him, his nimble fingers adjusting its placement with an almost absentminded care. Whatever he was saying seemed to hover just beyond comprehension, the words peppered with terms Illario didn’t recognize– jargon, perhaps, or something entirely foreign. Rook approached casually, leaning over Antoine’s shoulder to speak in equally hushed tones. Their quiet exchange felt conspiratorial, their words slipping between elven and alchemical phrases that were utterly meaningless to Illario’s untrained ears.

The jar of Blight shifted slightly under Antoine’s hand, the sickly, pulsating substance within catching the dim light and sending a shiver down Illario’s spine. The sight of it– the living corruption that had brought nations to their knees– made his stomach turn again, but he fought the instinct to recoil. Whatever he’d imagined of the Wardens before meeting them, the reality was infinitely stranger, harsher, and far more unsettling than he could have anticipated. They seemed to exist in a realm of their own, one where death and despair were their currency, and the unnatural had long since ceased to shock them.

Evka broke the silence again, her tone brisk. “We’ll see how you fit in. It’s not an easy life, but if Rook saw something in you, that’s worth something. I trust her judgment.”

Her words weren’t quite approval, but they weren’t a dismissal either. Illario nodded stiffly, his face a careful mask of neutrality, though unease churned violently in his gut. The nauseating stench of decay still clung to the air, blending with the faint metallic tang of Blight wafting from the jar on Antoine’s table. It was a suffocating cloud that felt almost aware, curling into his lungs and settling in his chest like a sleeping predator. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and cast a quick glance at Rook, silently pleading for reassurance. But her face was impassive, unreadable, as her gaze met his from over Antoine’s shoulder.

Then, something peculiar happened.

Rook and Evka exchanged a glance of their own– a silent communication heavy with meaning that Illario couldn’t begin to decipher. Their expressions shifted subtly: Rook’s eyes flicked downward, almost hesitant, while Evka’s mouth tightened, her jaw setting with grim determination. Whatever was unspoken between them, it was enough to stoke Illario’s suspicion. His gaze darted between the two women, narrowing sharply. “What aren’t you telling me?” he demanded, his voice rising, cutting through the tense quiet with a brittle edge of authority and anger. When neither one answered right away, he spoke again, more loudly. “Do not keep things from me! Tell me. Now!”

Evka’s eyes hardened instantly, like steel catching light. Rook exhaled audibly, closing her eyes for a brief moment as if summoning patience she barely had. But it was Antoine, outraged and indignant, who answered.

He straightened where he stood, his abrupt movements so unexpected that even Rook flinched, stepping back as Antoine rose to his full height and turned toward Illario. His voice, low but firm, carried the unmistakable weight of someone who would tolerate no contempt, his Orlesian accent lending to his words a clipped elegance. “Do not ever speak to my wife with such disrespect,” he said, his tone sharper than the dagger Illario itched to draw. “She is your commander now, Dellamorte.”

Illario froze, his instincts, unruly and intractable, flaring hot, wild, screaming at him to retaliate. Every nerve in his body itched to lash out, to snarl something cutting, something cruel, or to bury a blade between Antoine’s ribs and prove that no one– no one– spoke to Illario Dellamorte that way. But logic, colder and quieter, crept in. He wouldn’t get far in his current state, battered and bruised as he was, and Evka still stood a few feet away, her mallet still slung over her shoulder but far from forgotten. Illario forced himself to bow his head, the movement awkward. “My apologies,” he murmured, injecting a deliberate veneer of contrition into his voice. It was thin, but it would suffice.

Antoine stared him down for a moment longer, then turned back to his work, but the tension lingered like smoke.

Rook broke the silence, her voice calm but edged with something Illario couldn’t place as she stepped closer to him. “It’s called the Joining,” she said simply, her tone heavier than the two words should have carried. “It’s something every Warden goes through. There’s normally a ceremony… a speech from the First Warden…” Her voice trailed off, the words left incomplete as though the explanation was already too much to give as she looked helplessly at her commander.

Evka picked up where Rook left off, her tone gruff but steady. “We’re skipping the formalities due to… everything,” she said with a weary sigh, rolling her shoulders as though bearing some invisible weight. “Like Rook said, normally, it’s a big event. But we don’t have the time, the resources, or the morale for it.” She hesitated for a heartbeat, her gaze flicking to Rook before settling back on Illario. Even Antoine, who had returned to his papers after speaking, paused again, letting his attention flicker between his work and the discussion. Evka’s next words came slowly, mindfully. “Since you’ve been conscripted, you don’t have a choice. You either take part in the Joining… or you’ll be executed.”

Illario’s stomach lurched violently. He’d asked for death earlier that night, demanded it of Viago in a moment of bitter despair. But now, hearing it laid out so plainly, so coldly, the idea repelled him. “And to take part in the Joining, I’d have to…?” he began, his voice faltering as dread tightened his chest.

The Wardens exchanged another glance, this one laced with an apprehension Illario didn’t like.

“It’s a drink,” Antoine said finally, his voice measured, each word carefully chosen.

“A magical concoction,” Rook elaborated, though the explanation felt hollow, unhelpful.

Evka groaned, her fingers flexing around the handle of her hammer. The weapon hit the ground with a resounding thud as she let it fall forward. “It’s a mixture,” she said bluntly, her tone like a blade cutting through the tension. “Made up of darkspawn blood, lyrium, some herbs…” She paused, letting the words settle before delivering the final blow. “And a drop of Archdemon blood.”

Illario froze, his breath catching in his throat as the implications of her words crashed over him like a wave. Darkspawn blood. Archdemon blood. He finally understood why the Joining was such a closely guarded secret, why its details were whispered in the dark and never spoken openly. His thoughts spiraled, racing to connect what he’d heard to the grim fate of all Wardens. This was what left them Blighted. This was why they all eventually heard the Calling and marched to their deaths.

A sick, roiling heat churned in his stomach, rising to his throat with alarming speed. “Maker,” he whispered hoarsely before the bile spilled over.

Rook was at his side in an instant, her hand firm on his shoulder as she turned him away from the others. The vomit hit the dirt, the acrid taste stinging his tongue as he heaved, each breath ragged and uneven. Her palm remained steady against his back, steadying him as his head swam.

Illario coughed, his chest heaving as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. A sharp, bitter thought cut through the haze of nausea. Caterina would be disappointed. He could practically hear her voice now, scathing and unrelenting. A Dellamorte does not falter.

And yet here he was, a Dellamorte brought low by his own weak stomach.

After a few moments, Illario turned back toward them, his face pale and clammy, the nausea still simmering beneath his uneasy calm. “I have to drink that?” he gaped, his voice thick with revulsion. “That’s– disgusting.”

Rook shrugged, unphased. “We all did it,” she said matter-of-factly. “The taste is probably the easiest part.” Her words were neutral, but there was a hardened edge to them, a reflection of the memory she carried. At the look of horror spreading across Illario’s face, she offered an apologetic smile, though it barely softened the bite of her next words. “It’s not meant to be pleasant. We need to be ready to take down Archdemons and darkspawn, Illario. If you survive the Joining–”

“If?” Illario’s voice cracked, the panic rising in his chest like a flood he couldn’t contain. His mind raced, but his words came out jagged, spiraling into a frenzy of terror. “If I survive? I could die? I could die? You drag me from my home, force me to follow you to this gods-forsaken place, and you don’t even know if I’m going to survive to become a Warden? Is this your twisted idea of punishment? Why wouldn’t you just let the Crows imprison me?”

The room fell into tense silence, Antoine and Evka exchanging a brief, uncertain glance, but Illario barely noticed. His words spilled rapidly, raw and unfiltered, as the reality of his situation hit him in waves. The fear clawed at his chest, suffocating him.

And then, in a heartbeat, something snapped.

Rook moved toward him, her gaze fierce, every step exuding a quiet rage that Illario wasn’t prepared for. He was still caught in his own spiral, drowning in the hopelessness that threatened to swallow him whole. He didn’t see it coming– didn’t expect the force of her shove when it came. His body slammed against the nearby pillar with an audible thud, the shock of it rattling his bones, the air rushing out of him in a breathless gasp. He barely had time to react before she was on him, a fire in her eyes that burned through the tension like a blade through fabric. One slender finger jabbed into his chest, and his eyes crossed as he stared at it, fixating on the threat in her gesture, convinced it was a harbinger of the tempest she was about to unleash.

Her voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving. “This is your chance for redemption,” she snarled, her words seething with anger. “You made an alliance with the Venatori. You worked for the gods who are trying to destroy the world. You arranged an assassination on your cousin for a promotion, and when your Venatori lover turned him into an abomination, you used it against him to fuel and leverage your own fucking ambitions.”

Illario’s breath caught in his throat, a surge of heat rising in his chest, but he held it in, biting down on the rising tide of defensiveness that clawed at him. Rook wasn’t finished, and there was no stopping her now. She shoved him again, harder this time, her palm pressing into his chest like a brand. He staggered, grunting, but didn’t flinch, unwilling to show any weakness, even as her words battered him like a storm.

“The other Talons wanted you imprisoned. They wanted you punished. And maybe I should have kept my mouth shut and let them change Lucanis’s mind,” she continued, her voice tight with a controlled tension. “But here you are. You’re being given a second chance. An opportunity to do something useful with the skills you’ve abused for nothing more than power and the chance to bed as many women as you could.” Her voice lowered, each word hitting with deliberate precision. “Grow up. Do better.”

Illario’s chest tightened, his heart hammering, but he remained silent. The sting of her words seared more than any blow could, and for the first time, he realized– she was right. He could feel it, the weight of the truth pressing down on him, suffocating him like the Blight itself. But he couldn’t show it. Not now. Not in front of them.

He swallowed the bitter knot in his throat, his mind racing. He had no response. No defense. Just the hollow echo of Rook’s words bouncing around inside his head.

Still panting slightly, he shifted against the pillar at his back, the sharp edge of the stone digging into the fresh bruises blooming across his shoulders. His body ached from the force of her shove, but it was nothing compared to the ache swelling in his chest. He quelled beneath Rook’s furious expression, astonished at how daunting she could look despite her small frame. She was a wildfire and tempest, her anger cutting through him as effectively as any blade. For a moment, their gazes locked– unyielding, obstinate, both refusing to back down. And then, like a candle snuffed out, the fight seemed to drain from her.

Rook’s shoulders sagged slightly, her face shadowed by something heavier than anger. Exhaustion, maybe. Illario recognized the carved lines of exasperation on her face all too well. It was the same look Lucanis had worn a hundred times, the same weary disappointment that Caterina’s gaze had burned into him over and over. That familiar, crushing mixture of disdain and reluctant care. It was a look that somehow felt both endearing and disgraceful, as though even their anger at him was more than he deserved.

And damn her, she was right again. She was offering him a chance– a chance to prove he could be more than a traitorous Crow who had tried to kill his cousin. A chance to escape the shadow of Lucanis Dellamorte, to step out of the suffocating comparisons and be something, someone, in his own right. Yet here he was, squandering it, clutching at his pride like a drowning man clutching stones.

The Joining.

With one drink of the vile concoction, everything could end. He could die. His life could be snuffed out in an instant, without honor, without redemption– without anything. His name would be remembered only for his failures, his betrayals. The traitor. The coward. The man who tried and failed to rise above his cousin and fell short in every way. The thought hollowed him out, leaving him trembling with a horror he didn’t dare let them see. For all his bluster, for all his arrogance, Illario ached for something he couldn’t even name– approval, purpose, validation. And now, Rook’s words had cut straight to the heart of him, unearthing every raw insecurity he’d buried beneath years of ambition.

But then the thought crept in– what if he lived?

Was there no honor in simply surviving the ritual? Was survival itself not enough? Could it not be the victory he so desperately needed– something real, something earned? Not through manipulation or deceit, not through clinging to the coattails of others, but through his own strength, his own will? If he survived, perhaps he could claim that as his own. Perhaps he could begin again.

The fear still gnawed at him, but now, a small ember of defiance flared to life within it. If he could survive the Joining, then maybe– just maybe– there was a part of him that wasn’t a failure. A part of him worth saving.

Sighing deeply, Illario blinked rapidly, fighting against the tears threatening to spill, before slumping forward in defeat. Rook stepped back, giving him the space to breathe. When he finally spoke, his voice was resigned, every word tinged with reluctant acceptance. “What can I expect?”

Antoine barely looked up from his scrolls, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of nearby lanterns. “It’s different for everyone,” he replied absentmindedly, his fingers already returning to trace the spidery script on his parchment. “Some people hear…”

He trailed off, distracted, and Rook picked up where he left off, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Voices,” she finished softly. “Some people hear voices. Some have visions. Some just… black out completely, and when they wake up, they feel like no time has even passed. We tend to dislike those lucky few.”

Evka’s deep, steady voice joined the conversation, cutting through the tension like a chisel against stone. “And not everyone feels comfortable sharing their experiences afterward,” she added firmly, her blue eyes locking on Illario with unwavering seriousness. “The Joining is… intense. It’s personal. We don’t fully understand all the ways it can affect someone. What I can tell you is this: you will be Blighted. Permanently. You’ll have a connection to the Blight, to… something older. It will be strange, especially considering the state of Thedas now. The connection has changed. The gods have changed it. But you’ll understand better– once you wake up.” Her words hung in the air like a cloud, heavy with unspoken truths. “It’s not something that can be easily explained.”

Illario swallowed hard, his throat dry, his mind a whirl of fragmented thoughts. He nodded slowly, more out of reflex than understanding. The implications of Evka’s words were too vast, too impossible to fully grasp. It felt like trying to hold water in his hands, the meaning slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold on. “Is…” he began, his voice barely audible as he hesitated. “Is it ready? Or…?”

“We’ve got most of the ingredients on hand,” Evka replied, her gaze flicking toward Rook. There was an unspoken question in her eyes, one that Rook answered with a single, confident nod. “And Rook is skilled enough to perform the rites and craft the mixture.”

Without hesitation, Rook unslung the staff from her back, her fingers already moving with practiced ease. “I’ll collect the blood, too,” she said, her voice calm and resolute as she gestured toward the village’s edge. Illario followed her motion, his stomach twisting when he realized what lay beyond the walls– one of the entrances to the desolate, Blighted wilderness surrounding them.

“Go,” Evka said with a brisk nod, dismissing her. Rook darted off without another word, her movements quick and purposeful. Illario’s eyes lingered on her retreating form until Evka’s voice drew his attention back.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her tone shifting to one of quiet concern as her eyes dropped to his midsection. “Physically, I mean.”

Illario cleared his throat, straightening slightly, though his body still felt stiff and his limbs weak. “I’m not going to be sick again,” he said with a faint, humorless smile. “That’s about as okay as you’re going to get from me right now.”

Evka nodded, her expression softening just enough to be reassuring. “It’ll do,” she said simply, her voice steady, like iron.

She gestured for him to follow, pausing briefly to tug on Antoine’s sleeve as she passed. Without hesitation, the elf glanced up, capturing her lips in a brief but fervent kiss before returning to his work as though nothing had interrupted him. A tender smile curved Evka’s lips as she walked away, heading toward the heart of the village. Illario trailed close behind her, his mind still a storm of resentment and resignation.

“I want you to see our medic,” Evka said briskly, holding up a hand to silence the protests forming on Illario’s lips before he could voice them. “I just want to make sure you’re not bleeding internally before we do this. Nothing will change if we wait a few days to induct you into the order. And I won’t hear arguments. Joining or no Joining, you’re a recruit now, and you’ll follow orders.”

Illario bit back his retort, exhaling a long, frustrated sigh. Every ounce of his restraint was being tested. Being under Caterina’s thumb had been familiar– predictable, even. Lucanis’s rise to power, while not his desired outcome, had at least been something he could eventually maneuver to his advantage. But this? This was beneath him. Strangers in the depths of nowhere– Rook included– passing judgment and issuing orders as if they were his superiors? Fighting in this forsaken, Blighted pit, giving his life to an order that demanded he drink Archdemon blood, and now he was expected to bow his head, offer contrition and submit to the whims of nobodies?

His charm was useless here. Evka didn’t seem the type to be swayed by honeyed words or veiled innuendo– subtle or overt. Any attempt at seduction, if it didn’t outright fail, would likely earn him a swift and violent rebuke, probably from both Evka and Antoine. Even the casual sway of her stride carried an unspoken warning: she wasn’t someone to cross. Power radiated from her, not in a boastful or combative way, but in the quiet confidence of someone who could crush him if she chose. He loathed the idea of sparring with her, either physically or verbally. And even if he could forge an alliance with someone in this barren place, there weren’t exactly battalions waiting to fall in line behind him.

No, this was Rook’s punishment– her version of redemption, as she would so self-righteously call it. He had little choice but to play along for now, bide his time, and wait for an opening. To do what, he wasn’t entirely sure, but surely he’d come up with something before he was forced to drink that repugnant concoction and taint himself forever.

Evka’s commanding voice shattered his thoughts like glass, pulling him back to the present. “Flynn, this is Illario.” She gestured vaguely between the two, her tone brusque and efficient. “Illario, Flynn is the medic for the village. They were infected during the Blight’s spread to Lavendel,” she explained, her voice softening slightly. “Antoine and I put them through the Joining to save their life, but we left the choice up to them whether or not to formally join the Wardens. For now, they’re the best– really, the only– healer we have. And just so we’re clear–” Her gaze hardened. “When Flynn asks for something, we make it happen. Swiftly. No exceptions.”

Flynn stepped forward, offering Illario a polite, friendly nod. They looked young, their long black hair framing a kind and open face that exuded an unexpected warmth.

Illario returned the nod, though his lips curled into a faint smirk as he glanced back at Evka. “Didn’t you say something similar about your husband?” he asked, the question light but faintly challenging.

Evka shrugged, the massive mallet strapped to her back bouncing slightly with the motion. Illario couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly she carried its weight. “Flynn treats wounds. Antoine studies the Blight. Do you think we should ignore requests from the only two people capable of keeping us alive out here?” Her voice was as light as his had been, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it– a warning he didn’t miss.

Illario nodded in concession, though the smirk didn’t leave his face. “So, requests from Antoine and Flynn take priority. Got it. Just as long as that means I can ignore requests from Rook.”

The words were muttered more to himself than to her, but Evka’s sharp ears didn’t miss a thing. Her expression hardened once more, and her voice lashed out like a whip.

“You won’t ignore requests from anyone,” she said, each word dangerous and uncompromising.

Flynn’s voice broke the tension, carrying a nervous, conciliatory tone that suggested they preferred to avoid conflict. “It’s nice to meet you,” they said, their voice unexpectedly soothing. “You look a bit… beat up. Did you want me to…?” They gestured toward Illario’s ribs, then his face, glancing between him and Evka for approval.

Evka nodded briskly.

Illario braced himself, already uncomfortable despite the fact that Flynn hadn’t touched him yet. They stopped before touching him, glancing into his face with the utmost sincerity. “Can I examine you more closely, Illario?” they asked. He blinked in astonishment at the tone, certain that if he said no, they would back off. Instead, he shrugged, muttering his assent, beyond grateful for being finally given a choice in something.

The same crisp efficiency that Rook had shown earlier led Flynn’s hands along his torso. He winced as Flynn’s fingers pressed along his left side, probing the bruised and tender areas. The pain flared sharply but ebbed as they moved on.

When their reach shifted up toward his face, Flynn paused again, once again allowing Illario the chance to say no before proceeding. His consent came faster this time. Their touch remained gentle, exploring each injury with careful precision. Illario hissed through his teeth when they probed the more tender spots, but Flynn’s murmured apologies– soft and genuine– somehow took the edge off his discomfort. They tilted his head in several directions, methodically ensuring there were no injuries to his neck.

Finally, Flynn stepped back, and Illario exhaled in relief, the last of his tension draining from his shoulders. They offered him a small, apologetic smile. “You’ve certainly got the resilience of a Grey Warden,” they said, their voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride. Turning to include Evka, they continued, “The wounds aren’t fatal– or even particularly serious. But–” Their eyes fell on the haphazardly stitched laceration on Illario’s arm. “Whoever did that… well, I’d like to have a word with them.” Their tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a glimmer of professional judgment in their expression.

“I could re-stitch it,” Flynn went on, “but it’ll heal fine as is. Your ribs, though– several are broken. They’ll take time to heal on their own, but I can make some potions to help speed things up. Rook actually knows a spell or two that could help, too.”

At the mention of Rook, Illario’s expression tightened, but Flynn ignored it. Their gaze grew more serious as they added, “I am a little concerned about your head.” They hesitated, glancing at Evka. “I’m not saying you should delay the Joining–”

“I’m not delaying anything,” Illario cut in sharply. His tone carried a forcefulness that surprised even him. “Unless you’re telling me it’ll kill me outright or leave me in some kind of endless sleep, I’m going through with it. I’ve been hurt worse than this before.”

Flynn pursed their lips, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to argue. Their expression– a mix of mild exasperation and reluctant acquiescence– reminded Illario painfully of Lucanis. It was no different than the look his cousin used to give him in their younger days, back when Illario could still convince Lucanis to join him on some ill-advised escapade.

He looked away, the memory stirring an unwelcome pang in his chest. Evka’s eyes were on him, her gaze heavy with consideration. After a moment, she glanced at Flynn, who gave a disinclined nod, and then shrugged. “It’s your life,” she said simply.

Just as Evka and Illario arrived back to where Antoine was still muttering over his papers, his attention buried in his meticulous notes, Rook rejoined them as well. Raising a hand to wave lightly, she caught Evka’s attention. Evka smiled tightly, her expression already one of relief as Rook casually wiped blood from a knife tucked into her belt.

“All I need now is the Archdemon blood and the chalice,” Rook said, stretching before tucking the knife away. “Do we know where we’re doing this?”

Evka jerked her chin toward the edge of the village, opposite where Rook had just come back from. “There’s a glade out there that will work.”

Illario felt an uneasy chill curl through his chest. “And… we need to be away from the village?” he asked, forcing his voice to sound steadier than the dread in his stomach allowed.

As if choreographed, the three exchanged another look– one of those silent, weighty glances that conveyed far more than words. It was Antoine’s unexpected focus that made it worse. The elf, who had thus far so rarely looked up from his papers, now fixed his attention on Illario with a gravity that sent his discomfort spiraling.

“It can be… messy when it doesn’t go well,” Rook admitted at last, her voice quiet but not unkind. “The villagers don’t need to witness that. They’ve seen enough.” She paused, her gaze flicking briefly to the knife at her belt before returning to him. “We can start whenever you’re ready, Illario.”

He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, and his voice rasped when he spoke. “Can… can I have a minute?”

The others nodded, moving to give him space. As they began to step away, Illario reached out impulsively, his hand catching Rook’s wrist. She paused, her sharp eyes softening as she waited. When Antoine and Evka disappeared around a corner, she spoke in an exceedingly gentle voice. “Illario?”

His grip tightened slightly as he wrestled with the words clawing at his throat. “If I–” He stopped, swallowing hard. No. He couldn’t finish that sentence. Not aloud. Finally, he whispered, “If this goes badly, can you just… tell Caterina that I love her?”

Something unspoken passed between them as Rook’s eyes met his. Her expression didn’t falter, but her hand squeezed over his in quiet reassurance. Words weren’t needed. Her touch said enough. “Come on,” she said softly. “Waiting around will only make it worse.”

Illario nodded and followed her, his legs feeling heavier with every step. Together, the four walked to the glade Evka had mentioned.

The clearing was unnervingly still, the air thick with anticipation. Illario watched as Rook set to work, her hands steady as she ground and mixed the ingredients for the Joining potion. His gaze lingered on the thick, viscous Archdemon blood she added– a single drop that seemed darker than anything he’d ever seen. The liquid rippled in the chalice, its surface gleaming like black oil. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid scent that rose from it.

Rook’s eyes met his, unyielding, unwavering. There was a fierce confidence in her expression, a strength that pushed against the storm of doubt threatening to crush him.

Illario closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath as he lifted the heavy chalice in trembling hands. He braced himself, the weight of centuries-old tradition pressing down on him as much as the unknown of what came next.

Then, with resolve born of desperation and defiance, he drank.

Arrogant child.

The voice boomed like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile veil of sleep that had clung to him. Illario jolted upright, gasping as a cold, suffocating darkness unfurled around him. It pressed in on all sides, a living thing that swallowed every trace of light, leaving his eyes blind and unadjusted. The sensation was uncomfortable, eerie and wrong– deeply, profoundly wrong.

He clawed at his face, his fingers trembling as they dug into his skin. With desperate, frantic motions, he rubbed his palms over his eyes, trying to force the sensation away. Instead, bursts of chaotic light flashed in the void, staining the darkness with color that felt as alien as the cold emptiness gnawing at his insides.

A groan tore from his throat as a sudden, twisting cramp gripped his gut. It wasn’t a simple ache. It was as if the pain had hands, clawing their way through his core, digging toward his heart with a purpose that felt malevolent.

“No,” he growled, the sound raw and guttural.

What honor do you still carry?

The question echoed around him, reverberating in a way that felt foreign, strange– too close and yet impossibly far. The words slithered into his ears, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.

Honor? What honor had he ever carried?

Images flooded his mind, as though summoned by the accusation.

An assassin, bred and raised as a ruthless weapon. Precision kills. A blade in the dark. Death without a face.

A master of seduction, whispers and lingering touches spun into webs of deceit. Promises meant to entice, to betray.

A usurper, craving a title he had never truly earned, staking his claim with fragile bravado.

And now, a traitor. To his cousin. To his city. To the Crows. To Caterina herself.

Faces flickered to life around him, twisted and half-formed like phantoms: Caterina, her expression hard and unyielding; Viago, with his mocking smirk; Lucanis, standing tall and unshaken, the ever-perfect cousin he could never surpass. Teia. Rook. Zara. The Talons and Crows who had jeered and laughed as he knelt in disgrace at Lucanis’s feet in the opera house, defeated and humiliated.

And then, Caterina’s voice– haughty and cutting, and loud enough to make him flinch. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help. Her words burned their way through, every syllable landing like a dagger.

Never quite as good as Lucanis, are you, Illario?

What kind of footwork is that? Look how Lucanis moves. Why can you never just do what he does.

Illario, I am fed up with hearing rumors of your dalliances in public back alleys– take a leaf from your cousin’s book. Be a good boy.

This is why I could never name you First Talon, Illario. You would squander the role. A disappointment as you’ve ever been.

He stumbled under the weight of her condemnation, his knees buckling as her voice twisted into a cacophony of derision.

The cold came next, sharp and biting, carrying with it the echo of those long, brutal winter nights. Nights when he and Lucanis had been locked outside the villa, given nothing but the directive to survive. At five, Illario had been too small, too weak, his hands too clumsy to climb the walls or pick the locks. Lucanis had vanished, scaling the walls with ease under Caterina’s approving gaze. But Illario? He was left to fend for himself, scouring the grounds for shelter. Every bush, every abandoned shed he found was discovered and destroyed by morning– Caterina’s way of ensuring there was no easy escape.

For two long years, he had endured those nights, the cold a constant, gnawing presence in his bones. It wasn’t until he was seven that he’d finally broken back into the villa, his fingers bloodied and trembling as he pried open a window.

Now, that same icy chill seeped into his marrow, dragging him back to those nights. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he choked on a sob as the memory overwhelmed him. He felt six years old again, scared and desperate, his tiny frame curled in the dirt as he realized his shelter had been torn apart.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore.

The cold didn’t mean death now. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Illario coughed, the sound harsh and jarring in the oppressive silence. Blinking against the tears burning his eyes, he forced himself upright, his legs trembling beneath him. His breath came in short bursts, his chest heaving as he tried to steel himself against the weight of the darkness pressing down on him.

He shuddered, his body wracked with the effort, but his hands balled into fists. He wasn’t that frightened boy anymore. He wouldn’t break so easily.

“I carry… what I must,” he whispered into the void, his voice low but steady. The words felt heavy, the truth of them sinking into his bones.

As if in answer, the darkness around him seemed to shift, swirling with a malevolent purpose. It coiled and twisted like a living thing, dense and suffocating. Somewhere, faintly, he thought he heard laughter– low and guttural, like the earth cracking open to reveal something cruel and ancient. The sound curled around him, sinking into his ears and burrowing under his skin. It wasn’t human.

What honor could you still wield?

And then the nothingness exploded.

The burst of light came without warning, searing through the darkness with an intensity that drove Illario back to his knees. He fell hard, his palms scraping against an unseen surface as his breath left him in a panicked gasp. The brightness was overwhelming, a radiant blaze that burned through his closed eyelids and branded itself into his mind. It was too much– too big, too powerful, too everything.

Illario wrenched his arms up to shield his head, his body curling into itself as if to make himself smaller, to disappear entirely. The light didn’t just illuminate; it exposed. It seemed to see through him, laying bare every flaw, every failure he had ever tried to bury. He felt himself shrinking beneath its glare, his presence dwindling to a fragile, flickering shadow huddled beneath him.

The darkness he cast was weak and trembling, its edges frayed and ragged. The light stretched toward it, alive and insatiable, its brilliance gnawing at the fringes of the feeble shadow. Illario’s heart thundered in his chest, the weight of his own insignificance pressing down on him like a physical force. He wanted to scream, to run, to fight back– but he could do nothing. He was nothing. He’d always been nothing.

A new voice rang out, cutting through the oppressive silence. It wasn’t like the first. This voice was clear and reigning, its sheer force magnified to an unbearable potency that dissolved the air from his lungs.

Lucanis.

Illario didn’t need to see to know it was him. The voice was unmistakable, dripping with that infuriating confidence, the patronizing condescension that Lucanis wielded as effortlessly as a blade. It echoed in every direction, filling the space with an overwhelming presence that made Illario feel even smaller.

Don’t mind him. Illario cannot appreciate anything but himself.

The words struck like swordplay, each syllable biting into Illario’s skin. He flinched, his body trembling as the light flared brighter, casting his fragile shadow into even sharper relief.

This isn’t your type of job, cousin. There’s no one you can charm into dropping their guard. Only fanatics. All you can do is get yourself killed.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as shame and anger warred within him. The light seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on him with a weight that threatened to crush him entirely.

“You think I’m not good enough?” The words came out cracked and hoarse, barely audible over the deafening hum of the light, spoken without conscious effort from Illario.

Are you?

The question hit harder than any blow, reverberating through him like the toll of a death knell. Illario’s shadow shuddered, wavering on the brink of being swallowed entirely.

And then, like a dagger through his heart, Lucanis’s voice returned– crisp, cold, and final.

What am I ever going to do to you that is worse than this? On your knees? In front of every house?

The words twisted in Illario’s chest, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. He could see it now– himself, kneeling in disgrace, a pitiful figure at Lucanis’s feet. Around them, faceless figures jeered and laughed again, their voices blending into a cruel, mocking cacophony. The image burned itself into his mind, a saturated reminder of every moment he had been overshadowed, outdone, outshone.

And above it all, Lucanis stood tall, his silhouette outlined in that blinding, all-consuming light. His every movement was effortless, his presence undeniable, his shadow vast and dominating. He wasn’t trying to cast Illario into darkness. He simply was, and in his brilliance, Illario had no space to exist.

The laughter grew louder, the sound filling every corner of the void until it was all Illario could hear. His knees buckled beneath him again, and he fell forward, his hands splayed against the unseen ground as his body heaved with silent sobs.

He had never been good enough.

He would never be good enough.

The light pulsed once more, searing and merciless, and in that moment, Illario felt himself fracture. He was splintering apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of him but the faint, trembling shadow that barely clung to existence beneath the brilliance of Lucanis’s radiance.

As the space around him faded once more into the suffocating darkness, Illario felt the oppressive weight of the void settle over him. It clung to his skin like damp fabric, smothering and cold, yet somehow familiar. The silence was deafening, a pulsing, hollow ache that seemed to echo his own thoughts. Then, without warning, the loud clap of the disembodied voice returned, reverberating like the crack of a whip through his mind. This time, it was softer– calmer, yet no less commanding.

What future would you honor for yourself, Illario Dellamorte?

The words struck him as though they were carved into his chest, leaving an ache that ran deeper than the void surrounding him. Before he could summon a reply, his vision was stolen, overtaken by images that flickered like shattered fragments of glass. They swirled around him in disjointed flashes, broken reels of possibility that danced just out of reach. His eyes, still watering from the blaze of the earlier light, blinked painfully as he stared into the scenes. They were vivid, too vivid, each one carrying a clarity that twisted the knife in his chest further.

Scarred and gaunt, Illario sat hunched before a fire in a desolate wilderness, his face a hollow shell of the man he once was. The firelight carved shadows into his sunken cheeks, the deep lines of exhaustion etched into his features. His hand moved methodically, running a blade over a whetstone, the rasping sound grating against the stillness. His eyes, narrowed and bloodshot, darted around the darkness beyond the firelight, suspicious and braced for threats that never fully emerged. He was alone, bitter, and hunted– by enemies, by his own regrets.

Illario’s breath hitched as the image dissolved into another.

Quietly standing behind Lucanis. Vitiated. Eroded. His once-sharp edges worn down into dull compliance. Illario’s head bowed in shameful submission, his shoulders hunched under the weight of unspoken resignation. His form, diminished and ghostly, faded into the shadows cast by Lucanis’s imposing frame. His eyes, once alight with ambition and fury, were hollow, devoid of fire, the last remnants of acrimony snuffed out. He watched silently as Lucanis spoke, his words cutting through the air with the authority Illario had spent his life coveting. The rage that had once driven him was gone, replaced by a quiet, unbearable nothingness.

The void trembled around him, reacting to the bitterness of the scene, but before Illario could tear his gaze away, the third image flared to life.

Pride shone on his face like a beacon, its light as alien as it was beautiful. Illario’s lips curved into a smile that was small but genuine, its warmth reaching even the lines of weariness etched into his face. His blue eyes, gleaming with contentment, were locked on a figure before him– a woman whose face was strangely obscured in shadow, yet her presence was undeniable. Rook. Her arms wrapped around him, slender and steady, as if she were the anchor he had always sought. He saw his arms tighten around her waist, his lips pressing to hers in an kiss that spoke of safety, trust, and an unspoken promise. This was no conquest, no fleeting triumph over Lucanis. It was a harbor, a peace he had never believed could be his.

Still kneeling, Illario collapsed in on himself, his chest heaving with silent sobs. The images refused to fade, swirling around him in a cruel dance, each one more visceral than the last. Alone with visions of what his future could hold, he felt the tears welling in his eyes again, hot and unbidden. They spilled freely down his face, but for once, there was no shame in them.

He watched, helpless, as the possibilities played out before him– scarred, broken, and bitter; eroded into irrelevance behind the man he hated most; and finally, the one that struck him deepest. Rook. The warmth of her touch, the softness in her unseen gaze. The sheer, inexplicable hope that shimmered in her presence. He reached out a trembling hand as if he could grasp the vision, but it dissolved into the darkness before his fingers could close around it.

Wistfulness clung to him, mingling with something he could barely recognize: yearning. Could such a life truly exist for him? Could there be a future waiting for him that wasn’t defined by his endless striving, his hatred, his bitterness? A life filled with peace, with meaning– one that depended not on what he could take from Lucanis, but on what he, Illario, could create for himself?

Could he find another path?

The question twisted in his mind, heavy and relentless. For a moment, hope sparked faintly in his chest. But just as quickly, doubt extinguished it.

Did he deserve one?

The voice returned, a force so commanding it shattered his fragile thoughts.

You’ll not be granted another chance. Choose well. Join.

The words hung in the air, their finality reverberating through him like the toll of a bell. Illario’s breath caught in his throat as he stared into the suffocating darkness, the weight of the choice pressing down on him like an anvil.

And then all was gone.

Illario woke with a desperate, rasping gasp, as though he’d been drowning in airless depths before the waking world yanked him back. His lungs heaved, his pulse thrummed, and for a fleeting, disoriented moment, he was certain he hadn’t been breathing at all. Pain pulsed dully behind his eyes, his head swimming and weighted like it had been submerged too long beneath the surface of some dark, uncharted water. Yet, as consciousness sharpened, the ache began to ebb, chased by the slow creep of alertness.

The glade around him was eerily still. Nothing stirred, but the air hummed with the restless, malignant presence of the Blight. Its tendrils pulsed angrily, slithering up the trunks of gnarled trees and dipping into the stagnant pools of swamp water that sprawled endlessly across the Wetlands. The red light emanating from its boils painted the moonlight a sickly hue, bleeding into the shadows like a persistent fever. Illario groaned softly as he tried to sit up, his movements sluggish and strained, his voice breaking the oppressive emptiness around him.

Or so he thought.

“Don’t.”

Rook’s voice came firm, steady– a grounding presence that cut through the haze of his disoriented mind. A cool hand pressed against his chest, halting his motion with gentle insistence. She seemed to materialize out of the darkness, her silhouette barely visible against the crimson glow of the Blight.

Instinctively, his own hand reached up, fingers curling over hers as if anchoring her touch might tether him to something tangible amidst the surreal remnants of his unconscious visions. His heart still pounded, his mind reeling as flashes of what he’d seen– felt– in the Joining echoed through him like aftershocks.

“Move slowly,” she instructed, her tone brooking no argument.

He obeyed, drawing deep, shuddering breaths as he lay still. After a moment, her hand slipped from beneath his, granting him silent permission to try again. This time, he pushed himself upright with deliberate care, every movement accompanied by a stiffness that felt bone-deep. His muscles ached, his joints protested, but the pain was a visceral, grounding reminder that he was alive.

Alive.

The thought hit him like a drumbeat, the reality of it settling heavy in his chest. He had survived. For all the dread, for all the consuming panic, he had made it through the Joining. But the ritual’s ghost still clung to him. Every blink brought fleeting, fractured images: the faces of his family, the echoes of their voices, haunting in their tenderness. And then there was that voice– booming, unbound, and commanding– that had steered him through his ordeal. Its presence lingered like a shadow at the edge of his awareness, vast and unyielding. He felt certain it would remain as long as he lived.

Illario tipped his head back, his gaze lifting to the sky. He exhaled sharply, his breath catching as he took in the sight above. “I’ve never seen so many stars,” he murmured, his voice touched with wonder.

“Not as many lights here as there are in Treviso,” Rook replied softly, her tone calm.

He heard her shift beside him but didn’t look away from the heavens until the cool weight of a dripping canteen was pressed into his hands. The droplets ran down the backs of his fingers, snapping him back to the present with a startling sense of clarity. His thirst surged to the forefront of his awareness, sudden and overpowering.

The first gulp of water was both relief and torment, bracing yet too fleeting to fully satisfy. The desperate noises in his throat embarrassed him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He drank until the canteen was empty, the dryness in his mouth replaced by a ravenous hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. When he finally looked up, Rook was waiting, holding another canteen and a thick chunk of bread.

Her expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet efficiency in her movements as she handed them to him. He accepted the offerings with muted gratitude, forcing himself to pace each sip and bite, though his body screamed for more. Every mouthful of bread left his throat parched, every swallow of water rekindled his hunger. The cycle was maddening, but he focused on the rhythm of it, grounding himself in the physical sensations of life.

When he choked on a hasty breath, coughing as he tried to catch up with himself, Rook’s hand landed lightly on his shoulder. “It’s a lot,” she said, her voice light, level. “You’ll probably be hungry and thirsty like this for days. It’s normal.”

She rose gracefully, her presence a quiet reassurance as she reached into her bag. Without a word, she withdrew the last of her provisions– another canteen, another chunk of bread– and passed them to him. He took them, his movements slower this time as he stood as well. For the first time in hours– or perhaps months– he felt something akin to stability returning to him, the chaos of his thoughts beginning to quiet in the face of her calm, steady care.

But standing before her, Illario suddenly felt quite small. He had treated her with little kindness in the time they’d known one another, more consumed by what her presence might mean for his machinations against Lucanis than by any attempt to see her for who she truly was. Yet here she was– unflinching in her generosity and compassion, guarding him in his vulnerability, caring for him now in his unfit state. Whether it was the lingering intensity of the Joining or his heart cracking under its weight, he felt shame for the contempt he’d shown her– especially when she had tried, in her way, to save him from a life that had already devoured him.

“Rook,” he began, his voice uneven. She shifted, turning her gaze from their surroundings to fix on his face. “I don’t think I’ve earned the goodwill you’ve shown me–”

She cut him off sharply, any trace of gentleness gone. “You haven’t.” The words hit him like a blade, clean and precise, nearly parching his throat all over again. “Let’s get this straight, Illario. I don’t like you. Lucanis is my friend, and you… what you did is unforgivable. In my opinion.” She paused, nostrils flaring as she took a deep, steadying breath. When she continued, her voice was measured but no less firm. “But Evka reminded me that my opinions here don’t matter. I’m a Warden, and now, you’re a Warden. I am to treat you as I would any other comrade, and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Her green eyes bored into his, unyielding, as she leaned on her staff. “But we are not friends. We are not going to be friends. I’m glad you survived the Joining. Now don’t speak to me unless it’s necessary.”

With that, she turned and walked away, the finality of her words leaving no room for rebuke. Illario stood in stunned silence, the weight of her statement turning over and over in his mind.

To his surprise, he found himself unable to muster even the faintest trace of anger. No indignation. No fiery rebuttal rising in his throat.

He wasn’t naive enough to believe that change could come suddenly, as if the Joining alone had burned away years of resentment and ambition. His heart still smoldered with bitter loss and the sting of humiliation. Some part of him– a selfish, petulant, childish part– still yearned to storm back to Treviso, to demand from Caterina what she had refused to grant him, to drag Lucanis into the dirt, carnage him, leaving his cousin humiliated and broken before the Talons of the Antivan Crows, the way he had been.

But what he had seen, what he had heard, what he had felt during the Joining clung to him like the weight of the Blight itself. He couldn’t escape it, couldn’t unsee the truths laid bare before him.

His unearned pride, warped into obstinate defiance, mulish hard-headedness, rather than the tenacious resolve Caterina had once praised. His supposed pragmatism, a prowess honed through years of training, dulled and twisted in his reckless climb for power. Even his charm, once a carelessly wielded tool of control, had been revealed as little more than an empty façade– a mask for a man who had no idea who he was beneath it all.

He knew who he needed to become when people expected Caterina Dellamorte’s grandson. When they expected one of the most skilled assassins in the Crows. When they expected the suave, handsome Antivan sweet-talker whose charisma and gallantry heralded a night of ecstasy.

Illario realized, gutted, that he didn’t know who he was without someone else defining him. Without Caterina’s expectations. Without the title he had coveted, the path he had stumbled down, blind to the cost.

But then, like a beast waking in his chest, anger surged. No.

He was Illario Dellamorte. A Grey Warden.

The title of First Talon had never belonged to Lucanis by right– Illario had, quite simply, done nothing to earn it. He had squandered every chance. He had broken the trust of those who had once cared for him. He had failed himself as much as anyone else.

Rook was right. He supposed he’d have to get used to that.

Illario followed her into the darkness, a spark of determination alight in his chest, small but steady. Then again, perhaps he’d have to learn to prove her wrong.