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“Maribel, are you ready?” Lucanis called as he exited the Eluvian, tugging his hair from beneath the collars of the many layers he’d donned in haste mere moments ago.
It was with great purpose—and, perhaps, a touch of the speed of a possessed assassin—with which he strode up the stairs from the basement in the grand old Minrathouse townhouse. Dorian had given it to Rook upon the acceptance of her new title, but the benefits were twofold for the new Archon: it needed a new owner now that the Venatori magister that had previously owned it was dead, but Dorian also hoped to lure her back to spending more time in Minrathous.
That, however, proved to be a bit of wishful thinking on the Archon’s part. The first thing she did to the place was stick the Eluvian Lucanis had just used in the basement, then put its twin in the Villa.
But she had spent the night here in preparation for her big day, while he had been stuck in Treviso dealing with Talon matters. Matters that for some reason extended to a neurotic, unnecessary lecture from Viago he’d been forced to grind his teeth through about the dangers of Altus celebrations and their bountiful food courses ripe for poisoning.
As if Lucanis himself hadn’t poisoned too many of them to count.
No, he had no plans to stay for these proceedings longer than absolutely necessary. They would stay for the ceremonial bits, of course, and likely the cocktail reception after. But the moment they could escape, they would return to the Villa, where he’d cook a late dinner for them to share as a way to unwind from a very stressful few days.
“Sorry I’m late, Viago is—” he started as he stalked into the foyer in which she said she’d meet him. But whatever Lucanis was about to call the Fifth Talon died on his lips when he found it empty. Had she left without him? “Maribel?”
“Upstairs,” she answered, voice faint as it floated down from the upper depths of the house.
Though his brow creased as his eyes followed the sound, he made for the stairs at once, continuing his efforts to be presentable by pinning chains and adjusting buckles of his finest First Talon trappings as he wound his way through still unfamiliar, slightly labyrinthine hallways.
When he pushed open the door of the bedroom Dorian had proclaimed would be perfect for the new couple—yet Lucanis had been in exactly once—another empty room met him.
“Querida?” He asked, hand still on the door, high enough for him to notice with a curl of his lip that his cuff and the amethyst holding it in place was a mess borne of rushing his way through changing.
“In the dressing room,” Maribel answered from an adjoining door that stood only slightly ajar. He noticed her voice was tight.
Fussing with his shirt sleeve, he strode over and pushed the second door open, but stopped short at the threshold when his eyes went wide as they fell upon her standing before an ornate mirror. Even his fingers froze at the sight of her in such regalia, so much so that his cufflink clattered to the floor.
Maribel turned her head at the sound, her eyes falling to the dropped accessory. Then they flicked back up to his, and she turned fully. He would have dropped the cufflink all over again had he bothered to pick it up.
“Maker,” he breathed out, too much air escaping his lungs, like she’d walked over and taken a knee to his gut instead of only standing before him, draped in the trappings of her own new office.
His hand came to rest over his diaphragm all the same as he drank in the details.
A deep charcoal, floor-length gown drew his eye at once, as it was the foundational centerpiece of the ensemble. Crafted from the thick Imperial raw silk often used in the impressively exorbitant wedding gowns of the Altus—a fabric he knew was produced near Vyrantium thanks to a contract in their mills—it hugged her form closely, but not in the way the thin silks of Antiva clung like a second skin. No, this was a fabric hand woven with intention, designed to limn her with impeccable, statuesque tailoring that highlighted its clean lines and the coarse luster of its grain in a way that spoke of command and status rather than sex appeal. Indeed, the only skin visible was that of her hands and face, and just a hint of decolletage beneath the high, split collar.
But for all the dress’s understated grandeur, the true showstopper was the ample swath of the same charcoal Imperial silk wrapped around her body. Half cape, half robes, entirely Tevene mage at its finest, it was held to her body at her right shoulder and the opposing hip. Where the dress was minimalist, the cape was bold, with a fine silk underlining of blood red, and a wide band of Vyrantium’s famous samite composing the outer shell’s edging, the richly embroidered turquoise and gold pattern reminding him of the sharp lines of the buildings in Minrathous. The way it flowed around her both served as a statement, yet framed the simplicity of the dress beneath.
Even the accessories told the story of her home. The cape was held in place by a pair of impressively sharp, tiered shoulder pauldrons of patinated brass, and a verdigrised belt of aurum in the form of a snake that reminded him forcibly of the one Neve often wore—the one she had let Rook borrow for their first night together in Treviso. But this one was larger, and the head was worn off to the side. The tail coiled downwards, instead of up, catching and pinning the cape in place on the hip.
Aside from the garnets glittering on rings and ears, two solid cuffs that matched the pauldrons sat on her wrists. A very imposing, starburst-shaped pendant she had worn frequently in their battles against the gods sat between her breasts, the stain of battle etched deeply into its weathered aurum, but the gold still shone brightly against the charcoal silk beneath. Though he made an effort to remember if it was the one that improved her mana regeneration, the attempt was futile; he was too distracted by the way she was so unapologetically Tevene in this moment.
Still, the Antivan in him couldn’t help but think it was missing a steel blade or seven.
With or without knives, however, it was undeniable that this outfit made her look commanding. Like someone to think twice about crossing. Like she could kill you with a flick of the finger—either from her magic, or as a signal for the Demon of Vyrantium to melt from the shadows and do her bidding.
He would have been honored to do it.
Knowing he had been staring too long, he made an effort to drag his eyes back to hers. It was more difficult than he’d expected.
“Mi amor, you look…” he started, but he couldn’t find the right words, as she so often did to him.
Shaking her head mutely, she stepped forward, the sizable heels she must have been wearing beneath it all making him realize she had a few inches on him like this. He found that to be more of a turn on than strictly necessary.
When she crouched in a soft rustle of fabric that sounded more like a whisper of power, the close cut of the dress restricted her movement, and he at least had the presence of mind to offer her his hand for stability. She took it and picked up his forgotten cufflink, then straightened upright with the aid of his grip.
“I look like a child playing dress up,” she told him as she placed the cufflink in his empty palm. Her voice was worryingly flat.
“Maribel, you look incredible,” he replied at once, conviction threading his words so strongly it surprised even him. “More gorgeous than I’ve ever seen you. Every bit a Minrathous magister. So much so I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you.”
Though she huffed a tiny laugh, it was fleeting.
“High praise from the mage-killer, though I don’t know it’s warranted,” she muttered, and tried turning for the mirror again, but he closed his fingers around hers before she could withdraw. “If nothing else, I look like I’m wrapped in a throw rug.”
Lucanis took a turn at his own small laugh, but the comment saddened him more than amused him. He didn’t understand how she’d been looking in that mirror without seeing what he saw. He took a better look at her, at the woman he loved beneath the abundant silk and metal that demanded his immediate attention. She wasn’t meeting his eyes, but he could see they were red all the same.
So too did he see the way she was trying and failing to suppress the quiver in her lips, stained the color of wine. He shook his head.
“Cariña, what’s wrong?” he prompted, keeping his voice gentle in a way that reminded him of trying not to spook a horse.
It was a moment before she answered. He squeezed her fingers, keeping his gaze steady and encouraging despite the fact that she’d tilted her head back to look at something above his head.
“I don’t know if I can go through with this,” she admitted to the ceiling.
“Why?”
Maribel shook her head, and he watched carefully as the exposed column of her throat worked. “It’s all wrong. It feels like I’m about to walk into a snake pit wearing nothing but stifling silk that’s entirely too heavy.”
Lucanis couldn’t help the quirk of his mouth.
“This is not the magisterium you grew up with,” he reminded her. “Dorian has been working hard to remake it, with people like you.”
“I know,” she groused, and took a shallow breath. Lucanis wondered if there was a corset beneath the ensemble restricting her breathing. “I just—I feel so out of my element. They didn’t even give me a weapon with this whole getup.”
His Antivan tongue couldn’t help but click against his teeth a little, and he brought her hands to his mouth, brushing soft lips to both sets of her knuckles in turn. Then he dropped them and reached for the sheath at his waist holding his smallest, but deadliest blade, undoing the fastening that held it to one of his many belts.
“Then take one of mine,” he offered, holding it aloft. “I know you prefer your staff, but you can use your magic through a blade with terrifying effect.”
Though her eyes finally released their chokehold on the ceiling, she didn’t take the dagger. She simply looked at the silverite handle with the amethyst in the pommel that clashed so spectacularly with the colors of her homeland.
But there was something to be said about the fact that they were two people that should have clashed too, yet they stood here about to leap off into another unknown. He was more determined than ever to remind her that they would do so together.
Stepping into her space, he reached out and fastened the weapon to the metal scales of the snake coiled around her waist. He placed it far enough to the side that it wouldn’t be immediately visible to others, but her hand would find it beneath the cape easily enough.
“There. Problem solved,” he murmured, his fingers lingering over the swell of the hip his blade now rested on. “Anything else?”
Lucanis looked up at her, and she looked down at him—Andraste, exactly how high were those heels?—then shook her head. He understood something so simple was not the root of her anxiety, but he would do anything to help her, no matter how small the gesture. He decided to go a little grander.
“You know that is unnecessary though, yes? You are the weapon. Spite wishes to inform you that your magic alone puts you head and shoulders above the rest. I will remind you that it is you that saved the world. Your hand that slayed Elgar’nan. Your wisdom and cunning that stopped the Dread Wolf from bringing down the Veil.” His fingers bit into the soft flesh beneath them as he dragged her closer, until their bodies were flush. “These other magisters should be prostrating themselves before you.”
A single tear spilled from her eye, trailing down her cheek. Lucanis reached up with his other hand, brushing it away before it could ruin her makeup, leaving the warmth of his palm in its place.
“And if they don’t? Well… sleeping with the First Talon of the Antivan Crows has its benefits, mi amor.”
The corner of her mouth lifted a fraction. “I think we’re well past just sleeping together, Lucanis.”
“Aye. It seems we’ve progressed into the portion of our relationship where we form shadow governments in our spare time.”
The inelegant sputter that escaped her could have been comical, if not for the enormity of everything pressing down on her. She collapsed against him, winding her arms around him. Lucanis grunted a little at the unexpected task of bearing her weight as he returned the gesture, his arms sliding beneath the ample cape, but she was by no means a burden. He’d bear her all the way to either the Archon’s Palace or Treviso, if he had to.
“Do you want to go home?” He asked. “No one is forcing you to do this.”
She didn’t answer, so he stroked her back, and he could feel through the thick weave that she was not wearing a corset. The struggle for air was all her own.
“Breathe, Maribel,” he instructed gently. “Like I showed you.”
Because their chests were pressed together, it was easy to demonstrate. He filled and emptied his lungs with the slow, measured breaths he’d been taught all those years ago—the ones that had saved him more times than he could count—and though there were a few false starts, she followed along, her exhales fluttering his hair as they left her each time. They stood there like that for longer than they probably should have, long enough that Lucanis heard the arrival of their carriage clatter to a halt outside.
But it was also long enough for most of the tension to have left her body, and she wrapped her arms around him a little more tightly in silent thanks. “No,” she answered at long last. “I’ll go to the palace and get sworn in as a fucking magister. Even if it’s a bizarre thing to say.”
“Do you think it’s any less strange to be called the First Talon?” He murmured in her ear. “And I have a few months’ head start on you.”
She sighed. “Part of me wishes we’d just retired from public life entirely.”
“Yet here we are. It seems we can’t stop playing the hero.”
“I suspect that may be problematic in the long run,” she said, coiling absentminded fingers through his hair in a way that scraped the nails she’d been growing out along his neck and scalp.
As he suppressed a shiver, he couldn’t quite tell if it belonged to him or Spite. His demon had grown quite fond of her nails on their head, after all, though Lucanis had his own reasons for enjoying it.
“Careful, cariña,” he warned her. “Much more of that and we’ll be late to your own party.”
Because she loved nothing more than badgering him—even while he was propping her up, both emotionally and literally—she did it again. He ignored the blood that began rushing to places it had no business being presently.
“Maybe I want to be the talk of the town.”
“No, you don’t.”
Maribel chuckled in a gentle way that was more pleasing than music to his ears.
“No, I really don’t,” she agreed, releasing his hair.
But Lucanis knew how pester her in kind. Squeezing her all the closer, he lifted her just enough for her feet to leave the floor for a brief moment—just enough for her to squeak in equal parts surprise and protest. He grinned at her insistence to be put back down like the besotted fool for her that he was, dragging his enjoyment out for a few more seconds before acquiescing to her demands with tender care.
Though the glare she gave him when her feet touched the floor and she unwound herself from him would serve her well in the magisterium, she couldn’t hide the underlying affection in it from him. He was quite certain that if it hadn’t been for the dress restricting her movement, she would have coiled her legs around his, and they really would have been late.
Still unable to stop gazing at her like she was his reason for being, he noticed that though she hadn’t been crying outright on him, the mascara of her upper lashes had darkened her lower lids. He reached up and swiped the smudges away with his thumbs. Then he pulled her lips to his and kissed her, pouring as much reassurance into it as he possibly could.
Maker, he hadn’t known it was possible to love someone this much.
“You’ve got this, mi corazon,” he promised her when they pulled apart. “You figured out how to wear the mask of Rook to save the world. You can figure out how to wear this beautiful, very elaborate mask of Magister to save Tevinter from itself.”
Letting go of another breath that was a lot steadier this time, she nodded, if a bit tired. “I can’t say I enjoy them, though.”
“They’re not all bad. If nothing else, I cannot wait to take you back to the Villa and take this off of you piece by piece,” he purred, with a slow emphasis of the last three words in demonstration of one of his own that still felt strange to use with her. He could feel too many of his own teeth showing as he said it.
Maribel narrowed her eyes. “Who are you kidding? You just want to cook dinner for me.”
He laughed earnestly for the first time in two days.
“Si, that is true. But I would rather do so while we’re both wearing something less exhausting.” He paused, his smile turning into something soft and fond. “See? Even beneath all this, you’re still in there.”
Lucanis held out his hand to her, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she took the cufflink from his other hand and fixed his sleeve.
“What did Viago torment you with that made you run late enough to be this disheveled?” She asked, before slipping her hand in his.
“I’ll tell you in the carriage. We should go. Your new public awaits.” Lucanis brought the back of her hand to his lips, then noticed her posture. “Don’t slouch, or that cape will wear you.”
Though she rolled her eyes, she heeded his well-earned advice and straightened her spine. Then hand-in-hand, they walked down to face this daunting new chapter together.
I have a drawing of the outfit too!
