"Delivery for the lady of the house," Kieran said as he entered, a wry grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Evie took it, her stomach tight. She knew what it was before she even unlatched the brass catch.
The gown shimmered in the lamplight when she unfolded it across the table. Deep sapphire silk, the color of a twilight sky before the stars broke through, embroidered with fine silver thread in a pattern of climbing vines and tiny white blossoms. It was exquisite. Far too fine for a bard scraping by in Treviso. It looked… like something from home.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Hirik gave a low whistle. "Maker's balls, Evie. You're going to outshine the whole damn party."
She forced a laugh, though it caught in her throat. "I haven't worn anything like this since…" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Since court. Since the castle. Since banquets under crystal chandeliers and eyes that followed her every move.
Tai leaned forward, frowning. "You sure about this, Eves? It's later than you usually work. And alone? You know how those parties get after dark."
"She won't be alone," Kieran said. "I'll walk her there. Linger outside. Just in case."
Evie ran a hand down the silk, the cool fabric strange against her calloused fingertips. "The man who hired me… he said he used to listen to me at the markets. The girl too. Said she loved my music. Offered double my usual rate. It's good coin."
Tai reached out, covering her hand with his. "We know, Evie. It's a damn good opportunity. But you have to admit, it's a little odd. You don't get offered jobs like this for nothing."
Kieran crossed his arms, his jaw tight. "I still say we pack up and leave this place behind."
Evie looked up at them. "I'm not running," she said quietly. "Not yet. If this is what it looks like - just a job, good coin, maybe a way to lay low for a while - we take it. We're careful. I go in, I sing, I get paid, I leave. Kieran stays nearby. If it smells wrong, we bolt."
Tai grinned then, a sharp flash of teeth. "That's my girl."
"You're reckless," Kieran muttered. "Just like our father."
She grinned at that. Their father may have been a bit reckless in his younger days, but he certainly wasn't anymore. He always said having children changed that in him; he didn't want to risk not being there.
"Besides, it's been a little while since I last saw Lucanis. Perhaps he's taken the hint or grown bored."
No one looked convinced, but the tension eased. They made their plans. Where she'd enter. Which alley Kieran would watch from. How many songs. How long before he came looking if she didn't come out.
And later, long after the others had drifted off to their mattresses, Evie sat at the table alone, the gown still spread before her.
She traced the delicate vines stitched into the silk, and for a moment, she let herself remember what it felt like to be home.
She could almost hear the click of her shoes on the polished stone floors of the palace, the hush of courtier voices when she passed, the way servants lowered their gazes not out of deference, but pity. Or was it contempt? Sometimes it was hard to tell.
And always the whispers. Not to her face, never. They wouldn't dare with Alistair's eyes so watchful, with Zevran's blade so quick, but the stones held memories, and so did she.
"The Bedborn Blight."
The words rose up in her mind like old bruises. A bastard, born of a dalliance with an elven woman, a blot on the golden Theirin line. A shameful mistake dressed in silks and trained to smile at banquets. They'd said it when she was barely old enough to understand it, and worse when she was old enough to.
A blight. Like the darkspawn sickness that had nearly ended Ferelden, she'd heard one lady say once, after too much wine. A disease born of her father's poor decisions, festering in the palace, poisoning the air. It had clung to her like a scent she could never wash away.
Evie ran her fingers over the silk of the gown, something tight and stifling rising in her chest. The silk slipped through her hands as she stood, the firelight catching on the fabric like water, and for just a second, she imagined her reflection in her mirror back home, crowned in jewels she'd never wear. A princess that wasn't.
A blight, maybe. But one no one had managed to kill yet.
-
Lucanis stood before the mirror in his chambers, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with a precision born of habit more than necessity. The silk was dark and understated, meant to blend in amid the higher echelons of Treviso's merchant elite rather than draw attention - though Caterina had insisted on the silver cufflinks. "A Dellamorte should never look forgettable, nipote."
He smirked faintly at the memory but let it fade. This wasn't about appearances. Not tonight.
He'd spent the better part of the last few days ensuring every detail of the evening was in place. The job offer, the extravagant gown, the carefully worded compliments delivered through a trusted intermediary - a well-connected merchant who'd taken a liking to Evie's performances in the market. It hadn't been difficult to convince him. People in Treviso were eager to please the Dellamortes.
Lucanis checked the pair of daggers strapped beneath his coat, a ritual as old as his service to the family. Not because he expected to need them; tonight wasn't for blood. But old habits kept him alive, and he had no intention of dying before this knot in his chest unravelled.
She would be there. She had to be. She'd taken the job.
And he still didn't know what he intended to say when he had her alone. If he could get her alone.
A part of him - the cold, Crow-raised part - had considered simply snatching her, removing the uncertainty by force. But even as the thought rose, it soured in his throat. No. That wasn't how you approached a soulbond, not a sacred thing like this. Not her.
And besides… he'd seen it in her eyes, that spark of rebellion, the fire she wore like a second skin. If he pressed too hard, too soon, he might drive her away for good.
But why did she run? Why the lies?
The questions gnawed at him worse than the ache of distance. The age gap? The danger? Did she already belong to someone else? That last one twisted something sharp in his gut.
Caterina had tried to soothe those worries, her tone uncharacteristically gentle as she reminded him that Evangeline Mahariel, whatever reasons she had, was forged in fires he didn't know of. If he wanted her trust, he'd have to earn it.
He finished adjusting his collar and reached for the final touch - a silver ring engraved with the Dellamorte crest. A token, should things go well. He slipped it into a pocket, just in case.
Tonight wasn't a confrontation. It was a conversation. A chance to shift the ground beneath her feet, to remind her, carefully, that whatever game she thought she was playing, he was in it now too.
Lucanis took a steadying breath, grabbed his coat, and stepped out into the Treviso night.
-
When she stepped into the room, it was like a thread pulling taut in his chest. The gown they'd arranged suited her better than he'd even imagined. She moved with that same defiant grace she carried in the markets, though he could see it now, the tension in her spine, the careful assessment in her eyes. She was already looking for him.
Good.
She took her place before the small audience, murmured a greeting, and began to sing.
And Maker's breath, but it hurt to hear her.
Her voice wasn't polished like the court-trained sopranos he'd endured in Antiva City. It was something else - rich and raw and alive. A thing born of streets and stories, laced with heartache and fury and old, half-forgotten lullabies. The room quieted as she sang, even the gossips halting mid-sentence, heads turning.
Lucanis let himself lean against a pillar, half-shrouded in shadow, and watched the flicker of candlelight against her hair. He marked the way her gaze slid past the crowd, flickering once, just once, in his direction. The way she swallowed, a small, practised thing anyone else would have missed. But he'd made a life of reading what others overlooked.
Music spun through the air, delicate strings and bright notes weaving between conversation and candlelight.
After she finished her set, he didn't approach right away. Watching her had become a strange sort of penance, a habit he couldn't quite name. Every tilt of her head, every soft laugh she forced at some noble's remark, was another thread weaving into the knot inside his chest. She was, undeniably, his. And yet, she wore distance like armour. As he watched her move through the crowd, something struck him as odd.
She wasn't just graceful. She was trained.
Lucanis watched the way she inclined her head when addressed, the careful turn of her wrist when she lifted her glass, the slight dip of her shoulders when someone passed too close. A dozen little gestures no street rat or wandering bard should have known. He'd seen them before - in Antiva City, in Val Royeaux, in noble courts.
She carried herself like a courtier. The realisation settled in his gut like a stone. It wasn't just the way she moved. It was the way she stood, back straight, shoulders relaxed but never truly at ease. Always aware of where everyone else in the room was. Always angled, just so, to be ready for either kindness or cruelty.
Lucanis watched her smile at a passing guest. It was the kind of smile that knew how to be read ten different ways depending on the company. Too polite to be real, too practised to be careless.
When the moment finally came - her alone for the briefest breath - he moved.
"Your songs tonight," he said quietly, coming to stand beside her, careful to keep a respectful distance. "They were… well chosen."
Evie didn't look at him, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass window. "Thank you."
Silence stretched. He could feel the eyes of the room move past them like a current, indifferent. Here, in this corner, they might as well have been alone.
"You look like you belong in here," Lucanis said, jerking his chin toward the people. "Not many can carry off a place like this."
That got a reaction. Not much, but her shoulder stiffened, her throat working as she swallowed. She turned then, meeting his gaze. Maker, those eyes. There was steel in them, yes, but something else too. A storm held at bay.
"I didn't realise you played private events now," he said casually.
She looked like she didn't believe him for a second.
"You truly do have a beautiful voice, Evangeline."
"It's Evie," she told him, irritation flaring in her tone, soft as it was. "Just Evie."
At least she didn't try to lie again.
"Just Evie," he assured her then. "Thank you for not running this time."
"I suppose... because I need to tell you, since you're being stubborn. This is for the best," she said softly. "For both of us. I promise."
It wasn't what he expected. Lucanis frowned, brow knitting. "Best?" The word felt strange in his mouth. "And you've decided what that is for me?"
"I had to. You're not in a position to make the right call. This is better in the long run. You need to trust me on this."
A hundred questions rose, clawing for purchase. How could this be what was best? How can she make that decision for him? The bond between them was meant to be an unshakeable thing, yet here she stood, telling him that fate was wrong.
"Trust you? The first word you ever said to me was a lie." His eyes slipped closed for a moment. "I don't understand," he admitted quietly. Not accusation. Not anger. Just raw, unvarnished truth.
Evie's mouth twisted, a shadow of guilt flickering there. "I'm sorry."
Lucanis studied her face. The way she couldn't quite hold his gaze. The thousand unspoken things buried in the quiet between them. She was fighting something, but whether it was him or the weight of her own ghosts, he couldn't say.
He could feel the bond humming beneath his skin, a tether pulled taut. The ache of it, the wrongness of this distance between them, settled in his chest like a stone. Did she not feel it?
"I wish you'd tell me what it is you're so afraid of," he said, softer than before. "Because I swear to you, it isn't me."
Evie smiled then, small, sad, a thing too old for her years. "I'm not afraid of anything."
Another lie. And before he could find words to answer, she was moving, gliding away into the crowd with the grace of someone well-practiced in retreat. He didn't follow.
Lucanis remained where he was, staring after her, the echo of her words lodged like a splinter beneath his skin.
Better in the long run.
He didn't believe in absolutes, but he believed in her. And that meant he'd find out what shadow she was running from.
-
She didn't need to ask. Caterina looked up as Lucanis entered, eyes sharp above the rim of her glass. The study was dimmer than usual, the fire burning low. She said nothing at first. Just waited.
Lucanis said nothing either, until he crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of something that burned, and leaned both hands on the edge of the cabinet like the weight in his chest could be pressed out of him.
"She said she was doing what's best," he said eventually. "For both of us."
Caterina's brows arched slightly, but she stayed quiet, letting the words fill the space between them.
He turned, his voice lower now, less certain. "She promised."
"Ah," Caterina murmured, sipping. "So it's promises now."
Lucanis frowned. "You didn't hear her."
"No," she agreed mildly, "but I see you."
He paced once, then stopped short. "She meant it. I could hear it. She believes whatever this is, whatever she's doing, is for my benefit too."
"And yet," Caterina said, "you don't know what it is."
He didn't answer. Just downed the rest of the glass in a single swallow as he recounted his conversation with her to Caterina.
Caterina set hers aside. "She is not denying the bond exists anymore, then? Didn't try to lie her way out of it?"
"No," he said, and that seemed to trouble him more than if she had. "Not this time. But she didn't tell the truth either. She looked like she wanted to. Or like she might. But then she didn't."
"Guilt?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. And conflict. She looked...cornered. Trapped."
Caterina tapped her fingers once against the stem of her glass. "Not the expression of someone who wants to stay."
"No," Lucanis said quietly. "But not someone who wants to leave, either. That's what I don't understand. If she hated me - if she wanted nothing to do with me - why not say so? Why this?"
"Because she doesn't hate you," Caterina said simply. "That much is obvious."
"Then why lie?" His voice was raw now, tight in a way it rarely was. "Why keep running? Why treat me like I'm the problem?"
He turned away again, staring out the narrow window toward the distant hills, dark beneath the weight of the sky.
"She carries herself like a courtier," he said after a moment. "Not just practised - ingrained. Her manners, her posture, the way she watches a room. That's not learned on the street. That's something she was born to. Raised with. It's in her bones."
Caterina tilted her head. "So she hides more than just her intentions."
"She hides everything," Lucanis said after a long pause, brow furrowed in thought.
Caterina paused. Studied him for a long, quiet moment.
"What do you think she meant," she asked, "when she said you weren't in a position to make the right call?"
Lucanis exhaled, a slow breath like steam from a cracked pipe. "I don't know. But it felt like... like she's protecting me. From something."
"Do you think you need protecting?"
He looked her in the eye. "No. But apparently she believes I do. I suppose that is... endearing."
Then he said, almost to himself, "She smiled when she said she wasn't afraid of anything. But it was a lie again. A quiet one. She's not afraid of me, or even of this - us. She's afraid of what happens because of us, I think. That's the difference."
Caterina nodded once, slowly. "Then we need to know what she thinks is coming for you."