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Throughout her visits to Treviso, Rook has learned about the Fifth Talon in small, glittering fragments — gathering each new detail like gemstones, savoring every revelation as if adding to a private collection.
And when she looks at the bulk of that collection, she realizes most of it consists of the things he dislikes.
The rain, for example.
He always complains that it makes the air too humid, his leathers sticking to his skin so tightly he feels like a reptile. To which Rook often argues that it’s probably his luscious hair he’s actually worried about — an accusation he vehemently denies, despite the deep creases in his forehead giving away just how true it is.
Cats are another.
Rook can’t understand how he of all people could hate them — considering how much like one he is.
Sharp blue eyes that can pinpoint even the smallest details. Hairs on his arms that prickle like a cat’s fur when uncomfortable.
He claims it’s because they’re too unpredictable — purring one moment, biting the hand petting them the next.
Rook tried to explain that it's a part of their charm.
He kicked her out of his office after that.
The list goes on and on — and sometimes Rook wonders if she should write it all down in a book and gift it to him. But her love for the breath in her lungs often dissuades her from taking such a course of action.
Still, for all the things he hates, there are a few he loves.
Like the canals.
She’s caught him standing at the bridge more than once, eyes closed as he inhales the scent of fresh water, wearing a look of peace she didn’t even think was possible for him.
Sometimes she’d join him — and that peace would shatter, but only for a moment, before he realized it was her. Then it would return, and they’d sit shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the moonlit waters.
Then there's coffee.
No surprise there — Lucanis taught her that coffee to Antivans is like fabric to a tailor.
A necessity.
Every so often, she’d share a cup with Viago and they’d talk — she’d give him updates about the gods, tell stories from her time with the Shadow Dragons, and he’d listen, ask questions, maybe even offer an inkling of his own experience as Talon. But usually, they sat in silence. And it’s the most comfortable silence Rook has ever known.
But above all, Viago loves his art.
She’ll never forget the first time she stepped into his office at the Diamond. There was art of every kind — landscapes, portraits, even a few abstract pieces.
She asked him why he loved it so much — and his eyes softened in a way that nearly melted her on the spot as he replied.
“Crow life is ugly,” he admitted. “Filled with blood. Venom. Fear. But art is beautiful.”
It was a simple answer — but one that gave her far more understanding of him. Of the things he must have endured to rise to the position he holds now. How, despite all the darkness he’s cloaked himself in — to survive, to disappear into the night — he still appreciates the light. Still looks to the sun for warmth.
Rook sighs as she thinks back to the interaction, legs draped over the couch in the dining hall, absentmindedly munching on an apple.
Harding and Lucanis exchange a glance from across the room, both in the middle of dinner prep — though Rook’s pretty sure Lucanis is only in the kitchen to make sure Harding doesn’t butcher another batch of potatoes.
“What’s got you sighing?” Harding asks, turning from the stove.
“Viago,” Rook mutters around a bite.
“What did he do this time?” Lucanis asks, kneading a ball of dough under his palms.
Rook opens her mouth, but nothing comes out right away.
Because what could she say?
That he captured her heart with those ocean-blue eyes?
Made shivers crawl down her spine with that thick Antivan accent?
“Nothing bad,” she says honestly. “I just… feel sad when I think about him. About all you Crows.”
Lucanis stills. "How do you mean?"
Rook shifts on the couch. “Your lives are marked by so much death. Everything’s a fight. You’re always watching your back like every interaction might be your last. Like even your own people might turn on you.”
"And the Shadow Dragons are not the same?" Lucanis asks.
"I mean, yes, we dedicate ourselves wholeheartedly to Minrathous but… we're family," Rook explains. "We trust each other. Dance when the musicians play in the courtyard, sing and get drunk at victory parties — our lives aren’t always shrouded by the horrors we’ve seen.”
Lucanis hums in understanding, resuming his kneading. "Minrathous has an Archon. Some level of structure. Stability. But Treviso has only the Crows. It’s an open city, ripe for the taking. There’s no safety when everyone’s itching for power. No trust when anyone could have an ulterior motive.”
“And that’s what breaks my heart,” Rook says, swinging her legs off the couch arm until her feet hit the floor. “That’s no way to live.”
"Perhaps not," Lucanis murmurs in agreement. "But it's the reality we've grown to accept."
Rook frowns. “I just wish… I could change that. Even in a small way. Give Viago a taste of something good. Something he doesn’t have to curate for himself.”
“Curate for himself?” Harding echoes.
“Yup,” Rook sighs. “You know he spends thousands of sovereign on artwork every month?”
Lucanis chuckles. “He’s always had a taste for the finer things.”
"Wait a second." Harding's hazel eyes suddenly perk up. “Why don’t you make something for him? As a gift!”
Rook rubs the back of her neck. "I'm not much of an artist. Last time I tried painting a landscape, someone confused my tree for a pineapple."
Harding laughs, shaking her head. "You know painting isn't the only form of art, right?"
"I can't draw either—" Rook begins.
“No, silly!” Harding groans. “Baking! Remember those pretty sugar cookies you made last week?”
Rook hesitates. “You think he’d consider that... art?”
“Of course,” Harding says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The care you put into it — the measuring of each ingredient, the piping of the icing — how could it be anything but art?”
The reluctance slowly drains from Rook’s face, replaced by something fiercer: determination.
“You’re right,” she says. “I can bake him a batch of cookies. Crow-shaped cookies!”
Lucanis cuts in carefully. “I think it is a kind gesture, but I feel I should mention — the Fifth Talon is known for being very... particular about his food.”
Harding waves him off. “Ah, so he’s a little picky. So are most kids, and I haven’t met one who wouldn’t eat up a fresh cookie.”
"That is not what I meant—"
“I’ll head to the markets!” Rook claps her hands together. “Pick up some ingredients!”
“And I’m coming with! I’ll tell you all about my ma’s famous cookie recipe!” Harding chimes in, grabbing Rook by the arm and dragging her halfway out the dining hall.
“What about dinner?” Lucanis calls after them weakly.
“You seem to have it handled!” Harding grins over her shoulder.
As soon as the doors slam shut, Lucanis slumps forward over the counter with a long, exhausted sigh.
“Maker, help us.”
The remainder of the evening is spent in the kitchen, baking dozens of cookies — some for her companions to snack on at the Lighthouse, and the rest for Viago.
And Rook spared no expense — remembering what Lucanis said about Viago being picky, with a taste for the finer things in life.
She bought the most expensive eggs — despite Harding’s protests that eggs are just eggs and she’s getting ripped off.
Fresh vanilla. Maple. Cinnamon. Enough sugar to fill a moat.
And after a few failed tries, Rook finally manages to make the perfect batch. Extra soft and buttery, each cookie cut in the shape of a Crow — some mid-flight, some perched on a cookie-branch. Purple feathers piped with care. Crystallized sugar lining the wings so they glisten in the light.
Rook steps back, looking over her work with pride.
"It almost looks too pretty to eat," Bellara gapes at them in awe, the young Veil Jumper poking her head into the kitchen after hearing all the noise.
Rook laughs. "Hopefully they taste just as good as they look." Her smile falters. “I really hope he likes them.”
"He will," Bellara says with certainty before pausing. "Erm, who are these for again?"
Rook has yet to visit the Cantori Diamond while the sun’s still up — and she wonders if it’s any less busy during the day. It’s no surprise the Crows are night birds: wide awake, darting across rooftops like bees in a hive while the sky is cloaked in stars and half the city's fast asleep.
Still, as she watches a pair of fledglings practicing acrobatics in the garden, she can’t help but think: how the hell do they have the energy for it?
“Crows have grown accustomed to working in the dark — more cover,” Lucanis explains as they step into the casino.
“Makes sense,” Rook hums — though her mind is already worlds away the moment her eyes land on the very man she came to see.
Viago de Riva.
Who is neck deep in a conversation with Teia — or more like an argument, judging by the hand on her hip and narrow set of her eyes — but his focus remains entirely on Rook.
She swallows as she approaches, her grip tightening on the basket of cookies with every step.
“Maker’s breath, are you even listening to me, Vi?” Teia groans, waving a hand in front of his face.
Viago finally tears his eyes off Rook to glare at her. “Of course I am! How could I not, with your constant—”
“Do not finish that sentence if you value your life,” Teia hisses.
Rook coughs, prompting Teia to whip around — her icy expression melting instantly into warmth.
“Rook!” she grins, arms opening wide. “I wasn’t expecting a visit!”
Rook returns the hug with a laugh. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Nonsense,” Teia waves off. “Vi’s just being stubborn, as usual.”
“If anyone’s being stubborn, it’s you,” Viago huffs — then turns his gaze to Rook, her heart stuttering beneath the weight of those glacier-blue eyes.
"Viago," she greets softly.
“Rook,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the basket in her hand.
“You’ve come all this way for a picnic?” he drawls.
"More like an offering," she says, extending her hand out. "I baked cookies."
"For you," she adds, quieter.
And suddenly, the casino that's always bustling with movement and chatter stills. Heads snap their direction, conversations drop to hushed whispers until there's nothing but silence. Even Jacobus stops his brooding by the railing to glance over, wide-eyed.
“Mierda,” Lucanis mutters under his breath. “This is what I was afraid of.”
Viago stares at Rook, conflict swirling in his irises. He opens his mouth — then closes it again. And Rook feels like she might fall apart right then and there.
Did she do something wrong?
Are sweet treats just another entry on the long list of things he dislikes?
She’s seen him look uncomfortable before — but never because of her. If anything, it had started to feel like she was one of the few people who could make the tension in his shoulders ease. Whose presence could smooth the crease in his brow.
Until now.
“It’s okay if you don't like cookies,” she whispers. “I can always give them to the orphans on the street. Or donate them to Café Pietra.”
He lets out a breath, his features softening before he could stop them. "It is not that, Rook—"
"Come with me, manita," Teia interjects, wrapping gentle fingers around Rook's wrist and guiding her away from the group.
And as she walks, Rook can feel Viago’s gaze burning into her back.
As soon as they’re out of earshot, Rook starts apologizing like she were the Hand that leashed Treviso herself.
"I'm sorry! I had no clue he was that averse to sweets! I just wanted to do something nice, but I should've asked before—"
Her voice turns into a muffle when Teia clamps a hand over her mouth.
“I’m going to let go now,” Teia says calmly. “When I do, will you stop apologizing so I can explain?”
Rook nods weakly.
“Good.” Teia releases her. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Rook. So please… don’t apologize.”
Rook frowns. "Then what was that back there?"
Teia hums in thought, searching for the right words. “How much has Vi told you about… his background?”
"Not a whole lot," Rook admits quietly, eyes lowering.
Teia reaches for her hand. "That's okay — he's not one to share much of himself with anyone. Not even me."
“That must get lonely,” Rook murmurs. “Not confiding in others. Keeping so much of his life to himself.”
Teia smiles sadly. “I think it was, for a long time. But then you came around, and I’ve seen him open up in ways I didn’t even think he was capable of.”
Her words lift Rook’s head back up like a spell. “What?”
“You really think Vi sits around, sharing coffee with just anyone?” Teia snorts. “Sometimes it’s hard to get him to stand still for more than a few seconds.”
Rook lets out a small laugh. “He really is something, isn’t he?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Teia says with a roll of her eyes before her expression grows earnest again. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You mean a lot to him — even if he doesn’t know how to say it.”
Rook can feel tears begin to well.
The idea had always felt like a pipe dream: a reckless elf from the slums of Minrathous meaning something to a man like him — so capable, so strong-willed, so beautiful.
But now, that dream feels within reach. Like something she could stretch her hand toward and catch — like a petal drifting slowly from a tree, not one swept away by the wind.
But she doesn’t let herself reach for it. Not yet.
Not until she understands.
"Then why did he react that way? To the cookies?"
“He’s afraid of being poisoned,” Teia answers plainly, because dressing it up wouldn’t make it any easier to explain.
“Poisoned?” Rook repeats, incredulous. “But I’d never do that to him—”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Teia agrees. “But have you kept an eye on that basket the entire time since you stepped foot in Treviso? Did you bump into anyone? Stop to chat? Maybe in the crowded streets, someone slipped by and added a few drops of adder’s kiss to your cookies. Or maybe the shopkeeper who sold you the ingredients wasn’t a shopkeeper at all — but someone out for your blood.”
Rook gapes at her. "Teia… that all sounds…"
"Crazy?" she finishes. "I couldn't agree more. But that is how he thinks, Rook. And it's no fault of yours — it's the life he's had to live."
Rook sighs, nodding. “I’m tempted to ask more questions, but... maybe it’s better I don’t.”
“He’ll tell you more in time,” Teia says gently. “I’m sure of it. But for now, this is all I can offer.”
"It's more than enough," Rook says softly. "Thank you, Teia. For explaining."
“Of course, dear,” Teia replies, giving her hand a squeeze. “Besides, if Viago won’t eat the cookies, I can take them off your hands.”
Rook laughs. “You’re welcome to as many as you’d like.”
Viago de Riva cannot remember the last time someone gave him a genuine gift.
People have attempted to offer him coin in exchange for power.
Their bodies in hopes of learning his secrets.
Valuable artifacts laced with poison potent enough to burn skin on contact.
But never, in all his years, has someone given him cookies.
It almost felt childlike — the way her eyes lit up, like the stars themselves had taken up residence in them, as she extended the basket toward him.
The way her teeth sank into her bottom lip in anticipation — a sight that would haunt him for nights to come.
The way her shoulders slumped in disappointment when she realized he wasn’t going to take it. And he was certain that would haunt him even more — the light in her eyes extinguished in a matter of seconds.
Put out by his own hands.
“You need to eat it.”
The low voice cuts through his thoughts, dragging his gaze away from the doorway Teia had led her through.
"Excuse me?" Viago asks in disbelief.
Lucanis’s brows draw together. “She was awake the entire night making those cookies. Made nearly five batches trying to get it just right. For you. So whatever this is — whatever fear or instinct is holding you back — you need to put it aside. Just for today.”
Viago can’t stop his heart from swelling at the revelation. That even in the midst of a war against gods, she would pour so much time, so much care, into something like this.
For someone like him.
"I never asked her to do this," Viago mutters.
"You didn't have to," Lucanis says. "It was something she did of her own volition — because she wanted to make you happy."
To make him happy.
That was her end of the bargain?
His happiness?
He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand her.
How that could be an adequate reward for all the resources she dedicated to the task.
How his happiness could mean that much to her — when it doesn’t even mean that much to himself.
And that's when it hits him — how different she is from anyone he's ever met.
All he’s ever known are Crows. Creatures who take as much as they give. Harbingers of death, their presence often marked by loss. Misfortune.
But she's a dove.
She embodies life. Hope. New beginnings. Wherever she walks, the air shifts. Tides change. And the world is better for it.
He's better for it.
The sound of footsteps catches his attention, and he knows who it is before he even turns — her footsteps having become a fixture in his mind from how many times she’s approached him.
He turns around, ready to offer an apology — only to stop short when he sees her holding a knife in one hand and the basket in the other.
“I sterilized it with alcohol — from my satchel, which I’ve used a number of times,” she says quickly, before slowly cutting one of the cookies in the basket in half. She’s careful not to touch the cookie directly, lifting the piece with the flat surface of her blade.
Then, gently, she picks it up with her fingers — avoiding the knife altogether — and eats it in front of him.
He watches in silence as she chews. When she swallows, her throat bobs — and his eyes follow the movement.
“You don’t have to eat it,” she murmurs. “I won’t be offended. I promise. I just… wanted you to see that it’s safe. Just in case you did want to try one.”
His gaze lingers on hers before drifting downward — to the small crumb resting on her bottom lip.
He reaches out, brushing it away with a gloved thumb.
“Has anyone ever told you,” he whispers, “that you are too kind for your own good?”
Her breath catches.
And the longer his thumb rests against her lip, the harder it becomes for her to contain the flush that creeps into her cheeks.
Which, of course, only gives him more reason to keep going — to drag his finger a little slower across the plush of her mouth. To let the heel of his palm settle against her cheek, just so he can savor it — the sight of her like this.
Blushing. Glowing.
So heartbreakingly beautiful, not even the finest galleries in Thedas could offer a painting to rival her.
“Is it bad to be kind?” she asks softly.
He smiles — a smile not shadowed by indignance or ingenuity. A smile that’s real.
"To the wrong people, yes."
“Well, thank the Maker you’re not one of them,” she says with a lopsided grin.
He slowly releases her face — already missing the warmth through his gloves, but more determined now to prove her words right — and reaches for a cookie.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a few from his House turn to look, eyes widening in disbelief as their Talon raises the treat to his lips, inhales the buttery scent, and takes a bite.
But for the first time, he finds himself not caring that people are watching.
Not when Rook's watching — with her hands clasped together in excitement, as if him eating her gift was a gift in itself.
The cookie melts on his tongue, soft and rich, the sweetness warm but never cloying — a testament to the care she put into each measured ingredient.
He takes another bite.
And another.
And another.
Until there’s nothing left but crumbs on the tips of his glove.
For the first time in many years, the Fifth Talon has taken a bite of a meal that hasn’t been tested and primed for poison.
For the first time in many years, he savors each bite without the creeping suspicion of bile or bitterness at the back of his tongue.
And for the first time in many years, his heart warms — not because of a beautiful painting, or the glint of coin, or the favor of someone powerful, but because of the purity of a heart so unlike his own.
“How is it?” Rook asks.
“It’s perfect,” he murmurs.
But the message in his eyes conveys something far more — something spoken only between them.
You’re perfect.