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Rook couldn’t, for the life of her, understand why anyone would willingly venture into the Silent Plains. But another Shadow Dragon was last reported heading into the desert and never returning.
She also couldn't figure out why Ashur picked her of all people to accompany him on the quest to find their lost comrade.
Maybe he simply needed another blade at his side, or maybe, it meant something more. She hoped it meant something more — but even if it didn't, she couldn't deny how happy it made her — the chance to spend more time with him.
That excitement, however, dims into something closer to worry the moment they arrive.
There’s no sign of their missing Dragon. No bootprints. No broken branches. No trail to follow. Just a sheen of snow, blanketing everything like the land itself was trying to cover its tracks.
They hadn’t been expecting a blizzard.
This place was supposed to be the ruins of a battlefield — the one where the Grey Wardens ended the First Blight.
But now? It’s a cold wasteland. A manifestation of the Fade on earth — a vast field of nothingness that never seems to end, no matter how far you trek.
“I didn’t pack for snow,” Rook mumbles, her teeth already beginning to chatter.
“Neither did I,” Ashur replies, shrugging off his cloak.
Rook’s eyes widen. “Ash, what are you doing?”
“You’re cold,” he says, draping it over her shoulders.
“But now you’ll be cold,” she protests.
He doesn't respond — he simply adjusts it on her, tugging the collar a little tighter around her neck.
“Thank you,” she whispers, gripping the cloak closer to herself.
His eyes soften just for a moment as he takes her in before shifting back to the fields ahead, and Rook swears those glittering pools of turquoise do a better job warming her than the cloak itself.
They continue on in silence for a while, the only sound between them the crunch of snow beneath their shoes, until finally—
“Safe to say our Dragon isn’t here," Ashur concludes.
Rook squints through the white. “How can you be so sure?”
Ashur nods toward the endless stretch ahead. “Look.”
She follows his gaze and sees nothing. Just white. Miles and miles of white. Not a soul in sight.
Still, she pushes. “Maybe they stopped at Solas. We could catch up if they’re still resting—”
A sound cuts her off.
A growl. And not just one.
Several.
Tails low, teeth bared, they slink out from behind jagged, snow covered rocks — wolves. Eyes fixed on them like they’re the first warm-blooded thing they’ve seen in years.
And who knows? Maybe they are.
Rook's breath hitches. "Ashur!"
“Stay calm,” Ashur says quietly, hands already stretching out in front of her, pushing her behind him protectively.
She grips the hilt of her blade. “Do we fight?”
“No,” he answers, voice low. “We run. The scent of blood might attract more.”
If she weren’t so terrified, she might’ve felt a spike of admiration — for how he could think ahead, even in moments like this, with their blood pumping and hearts racing.
“Okay,” she whispers, eyes still locked on the wolves slowly encircling them on bent legs. "I trust you."
He grabs her hand.
“I know, little dragon,” he murmurs. “You always do.”
And before she can respond, he’s pulling her forward into a sprint.
The wolves are hot on their tail, jaws snapping inches from Rook's cloak, claws nearly catching onto Ashur's boots, yet the only thing on her mind is him.
The way his thumb smooths over the back of her hand while they run.
How tightly he’s gripping her.
How white his knuckles must be beneath his gloves.
They don’t stop until the sound of heavy, thudding paws fade — until they’re sweating despite the cold — and Rook stumbles, her legs giving out as she crashes into his chest.
He catches her — one hand still locked around hers, the other shifting to grip her shoulder tight.
“I see a cabin,” he rasps. “It’s not too far off. Just hold on a bit longer, little dragon.”
Rook tries to speak, but it comes out more of a yelp — because the next thing she knows, he’s lifting her into his arms.
She blinks up at him, breathless. “I didn’t think you meant literally.”
“You’re in no condition to run."
“And you’re in a condition to carry me?” she counters as he moves forward.
“Don’t worry about me," he dismisses.
She frowns — but keeps her lips clamped shut.
He always says that.
And it's always easier said than done.
Eventually, they reach the cabin — an abandoned relic from Maker knows when. Ashur immediately sets her down, and she tries not to let it get to her — how he didn’t waste a second before letting her go, while she could’ve held onto him for an eternity if he’d let her.
They stumble inside. Ashur shuts the door behind them, then turns to check her over.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, but the truth cracks beneath her skin when he looks at her like that — so intensely, searching every inch of her face.
She melts underneath his scrutiny — and a part of her doesn’t want him to stop looking at her like that, while another part of her does. Because it makes her feel seen in a way that makes her want to curl in on herself. Like he's looking for so much more than signs of frostbite or sickness.
They stare at one another for a few seconds longer before he steps back, and her heart aches at the sudden shift — at how quickly he puts that space back between them.
His gaze sweeps the room before landing on a hearth, littered with cobwebs and dust.
“I’ll get a fire going,” he says, already moving.
She watches him work for a few moments, still recovering from the tense moment, before forcing herself to move. To pry off his cloak — even though a part of her wants to stay wrapped in it forever.
It smells like him.
Of sea salt from the ocean and flowers he’s gathered throughout his missions. Of safety and danger. Familiarity and mystery.
But what’s funny is the man with the mask isn’t what scares her.
It’s the one behind it.
When the hearth finally catches, he speaks again, cutting through the silence that’s been building between them.
“We should stay the night. Rest. Head out in the morning.”
She frowns, her eyes falling on the singular, sorry excuse for a bed in the middle of the room, nearly broken down from age and years of disuse.
Ashur follows her gaze.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he says, already starting to pull off his gloves.
She gives him a look. “The floor? Really?”
He lifts a brow slightly. “It’s just one night.”
Rook is quick to argue. "You've been walking just as long as I have. You have to be tired too. And sore."
She has to spit her next words out like she just took a metaphorical shot — fast, before her courage dies.
“…We can share.”
She can clearly see his uncertainty — even behind the mask. Like what she suggested is the most conflicting thing in the world.
And it fucking hurts.
Was the prospect of sleeping beside her really that bad?
“Just for the night, Viper."
It comes out almost like a plea — and somehow, that bothers her even more.
That she has to beg him to do this, despite how softly his thumb traced her skin earlier, even while they were running for their lives.
Despite how he held her close enough for her to hear the pounding in his chest.
As if none of that meant anything at all.
His shoulders stiffen for a moment, brows knitting together — but eventually, he nods.
“Just for the night, then,” he relents, unclipping his mask.
The room is a rustle of clothing hitting the ground, accompanied by furtive glances.
His eyes follow the shape of her body as she bares it. They linger on her bare neck and her shoulders as she strips to her tank top, while hers trace the hard planes of his naked chest and the muscles of his arms.
But neither of them say a word.
Instead, they just crawl into the bed. The mattress is thin and the sheets even more so — she shivers between them. But the warmth and weight of his body that dips the mattress calls to her starving soul like a banquet — and she can't help but think she would rather be blanketed by his arms instead.
They face each other at first.
Her hands itch to carve through the invisible wall between them — at the gap separating their two bodies. His blue eyes flicker to her mouth. It coaxes her forward like a siren. She tilts her head upwards, her lips parting in anticipation—
Then, he turns around.
The warmth of his breaths vanishes like a bite of cold wind, leaving only his back.
A literal wall.
She glares daggers at it.
Feels resentment at how it slowly moves up and down. Calmly. Like he’s already asleep.
Meanwhile, she’s wide awake, hyper-aware of everything. How close they are. The bed dipping beneath them. The warmth of having him beside her — like the sun isn’t simply in her orbit, but in her backyard.
How could he be so calm? So indifferent?
And she realizes how tired she’s becoming of this push and pull. How sick she is of him letting her get close enough to touch his mask, but not close enough to remove it.
So she gets up.
Puts on her boots.
Storms outside.
And she ignores the shuffle of sheets as he sits upright, calling after her.
“Rook,” he calls out, following her outside.
But she keeps marching forward, as if the snow wasn’t hitting her skin like arrows, piercing into her flesh with a shiver.
“Rook!” he shouts this time, reaching for her shoulder and forcing her still.
She smacks his hand away, turning around with a glare. “Just leave me be!”
“I’m not leaving you to freeze to death out here!” he growls. “Come back inside!”
“I can’t!” she shouts into the winter air.
“You can take the bed—”
“Oh, for Maker’s sake!” Rook curses, throwing her hands up in disbelief. “This isn’t about the damn bed!”
His brows furrow. “Then what is this about?”
She takes a step forward, jabbing her finger into his chest. “Us.”
His muscles tense — whether it’s because of her touch or her words, she can’t tell.
“What about us?”
She almost laughs. If not for the tears threatening to spill.
“Some days, you look at me with a ferocity that consumes me like fire. Other days, you can’t even look in my direction. And I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take this. I’m tired of getting only half of you.”
He shuts his eyes, frustration bleeding through. “Now isn’t the time to discuss this.”
“Then when is?” she fires back.
“Later! When we’re not half-naked and standing in a blizzard!” he argues, grabbing her wrist and tugging her forward.
She fights against him. "Viper! Let go!"
He freezes.
“Ashur,” he corrects sharply — a name thrown like a blade between them. “My name’s Ashur. And you know it.”
She steps toward him, anger blazing in her eyes. “I may know the name Ashur. But to me, you’ve always been the Viper. Because that’s all you let me see. And you know it.”
His grip tightens. His eyes flick between hers — and this time, it’s him who’s pleading.
“It’s better this way, Rook. Safer.”
"For who?" she asks. "You or me?"
“For both of us,” Ashur snaps. “There’s always a target on my back. Even more so when I take off the mask. When I’m Ashur. And I’ll be damned if I let that target land on you too.”
"I don't care if it does," Rook says, her voice shaking with truth.
"You should," Ashur rasps.
“But I don’t,” she counters, sincerity pouring from every syllable like sap from a tree. “Not if it means facing it with you.”
He’s at a loss for words — mouth opening, then closing again. His eyes search hers for reluctance or regret. But he knows he won’t find either — not in those bright brown eyes of hers.
"Come back inside."
And this time, when he pulls her forward, she doesn’t fight.
She simply follows — tears pricking her eyes as she stares at his back.
Because she’s just confessed a truth she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying for so long. And though his eyes said he heard her… his words didn’t.
And that scares her.
Because she wants all of him to hear that truth — that she would take on every target in the world, if it meant being with him.
When they finally reach the cabin again and the door clicks shut behind them, he turns to face her.
She expects him to walk past her. To go back to bed. To pretend this conversation never happened.
But instead, he does the unthinkable.
He steps forward. Cups her cheek.
And kisses her.
She was a secret he was supposed to take to the grave.
A flower to admire from afar.
Never to pluck. Never to keep.
Only to watch from a safe distance.
But now — the flower is in his hands. Her stem wrapped around his body, petals pressing into his skin like a second layer.
He wasn’t supposed to act on these feelings.
Wasn’t supposed to do anything that might put her in harm’s way.
And he would’ve kept them locked away for eternity if he had to — even if it meant those feelings pounding against the confines of his heart like caged ivy. Growing. Crowding. Twisting until he couldn’t breathe.
He would’ve let them suffocate him if it meant keeping her safe.
But now — the lock is broken. The cage bent open. And everything he’s been holding in is spilling out in a flood he couldn't stop even if he tried.
Now, it’s not the feelings that suffocate him.
It’s her.
The slip and slide of her mouth against his.
The taste of citrus on her tongue.
The warmth of her breath fanning his cheek.
He’s no longer drowning in longing — but in the garden they’ve grown together.
“You want me,” she whispers against his mouth.
“Maker, yes,” he hisses — the truth tasting almost as good as she does. An intoxicating indulgence he can’t stop himself from succumbing to.
He kisses her again, harder this time, like he's trying to sear the shape of his mouth onto hers.
“I want you.” His lips find the corner of her mouth.
“Need you.” Her jaw next.
“More than I’ve ever needed before.” The sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“Then have me,” she breathes, throwing her head back as his mouth finds her neck — sucking at the skin there. “Make me yours.”
His heart swells from how freely she gives herself to him. Without any question or hesitation.
And he finds himself wanting to give just as much back.
He takes her hands in his and guides them to the buckle of his belt.
“Take it off.”
Her breath catches. “Ashur…”
He leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead — one as tender as a vow. “Do it.”
Her fingers shake as she works the clasp — unfastening the leather, sliding it from its loops.
His pants fall off his hips, leaving him in his undergarments. And her gaze can't help but linger on the potent bulge straining against the fabric.
“Keep going,” he instructs, fingers threading gently through her hair. "Till there's nothing left."
She reaches for his waistband, hands curling around it, and pulls, revealing everything.
Parts of him he hasn’t bared to another soul in years.
Parts he feared letting those pretty brown eyes see — no matter how deeply his soul craved it.
“There,” he murmurs. “All of me. Uncovered by your own hands.”
"You're perfect," she breathes, taking him in from head to toe, each faded scar, each patch of hair, each fresh bruise.
“I am but a man, Rook." His hands drift to the hem of her tank top. “But you…”
He tugs lightly, and she lifts her arms without hesitation — letting him pull the fabric over her head. Revealing her stomach. Her soft breasts. Smooth skin glowing in the firelight.
He exhales — as if winded by the sight alone. “A goddess.”
Maker forgive him, but it was the truth.
She wasn’t just a woman.
She was something deeper than any spirit lingering in the Fade, brighter than the halls of the Golden City.
A piece of divinity carved into flesh and then placed in his arms like a blessing he hadn’t earned.
And Ashur wanted to worship her — not with prayers stitched from words, but prayers crafted from the strokes of his tongue, emboldened by languid licks and hungry kisses. Prayers written in the ink of her essence, etched into memory with every sigh she gave him in return.
"Ashur," she breathes, shrugging off her pants with one hand and grabbing his wrist with the other, pulling him toward the bed. As soon as they reach the edge, she pushes him down, climbing into his lap.
He barely has time to catch her, his arms locking instinctively around her waist, before her lips are on his, hard and fast, kissing him like she’s starving. She loses herself in the rhythm of it, in the way she switches between his top lip and bottom like she can’t decide which she wants more.
And he returns her fervor in full — his hand squeezing her sides, trailing up her back, then bunching into her curls and tugging. She gasps as he pulls her head back, and his mouth descends to her throat, lavishing it with hungry, open-mouthed kisses across its column.
She moans, breathless, her hips beginning to roll. She grinds down against his thigh, chasing friction, desperate for more — more pressure, more skin, more of him pressed against the deep, pulsing ache between her legs.
"Rook," Ashur groans, drawing out her name as he licks a slow line up the throat he just devoured — all the way back to her lips. He claims her again, mouth hot and eager, tongue sliding against hers as he revels in the way her breaths stutter — in the way her arousal coats his thigh like his new favorite cream.
His fingers drift downward — to the place still grinding against his thigh, as if his body had been created just for this. And if that were true — if this was his purpose, his divine right, to spend his days bringing her to the edge and pulling her over it again and again — he’d die a grateful man.
He pushes two fingers in, and she gasps against his mouth — hips jerking, body tightening around him. He pumps in and out, his pace building, faster and faster, until she’s trembling. Her kisses grow lazier and sloppier, until it’s nothing but her open mouth pressed to his, crying out in pleasure.
"More," she chokes out in between shallow breaths. "Please Ashur. More."
And more he gives her — because to him, that is worship.
Not kneeling at an altar, but learning every curve of the flame and offering himself to its heat.
He withdraws his fingers, leaving a cold emptiness in their wake, and she nearly writhes at the loss — but her protest dies in her throat when she feels him prod at her entrance with the tip of his cock.
He pushes in — inch by inch, slowly — until he has no choice but to succumb to the pull of her.
Her walls clench around him, sucking him in like a moon dragging the tide, until his hips meet hers, buried to the hilt.
“Maker’s breath,” he growls — just as she lets out a sharp cry, arms wrapping around his broad frame, nails digging into his back.
"Is this what you wanted, sweet Rook?" he asks, beginning to move his hips. "To feel me buried deep inside you?"
She moans, legs crossing around his waist, beckoning him deeper — deeper than what’s even possible — and he’s determined to defy every limitation. He thrusts hard, skin slapping against hers as he drives himself further into that warm, clenching heat.
“So good,” she gasps as he moves in and out, in and out. “So, so goo—”
His lips crash into hers, swallowing the rest of her praise, the rest of her moans. His tongue strokes hers with every kiss, every new crescent her nails pierce into his back.
Soon, the room is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, with his low grunts and her staccato gasps every time he drives back in.
He pulls away just enough to look down — at where they’re joined, at the creamy white gathering at the base of his cock, spreading across her inner thighs and staining the sheets.
“Look at all that,” he rasps. “That all for me, Rook?”
"Yes," she moans.
He drives harder, pulling her hair so she’s forced to look at him. “Hmm?”
"Yes," she cries, "All for you! Every last drop!"
He hums, a prayer slipping out unbidden, almost to himself.
"You've blessed me more than I deserve."
And rather than taking her out of the moment, it spurs her on. Him whispering to the Maker whilst fucking her senseless.
It makes her walls squeeze tighter around him — because she knows these prayers are for her.
"Ashur — I'm so close, I'm—" she struggles to find the words, but he knows just what she needs.
His hand moves to her clit, circling it with careful pressure. His hips keep moving, coaxing her with each thrust, one after the other, until her eyes roll back and her mouth falls open as she comes apart.
He watches like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen — more breathtaking than any sunset, more stirring than any ocean, more mesmerizing than all the stars in the sky. And it’s that very image — Rook in pure ecstasy — that brings him to his own.
A groan tears from his throat as his forehead drops to hers. He thrusts once, twice, again — and then spills into her, painting her walls white with his spend.
They take a minute to catch their breaths, foreheads still pressed together, breaths coming out in pants, before Rook finally leans in to kiss the tip of his nose.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For not only letting me see you… but have you.”
“I'm the one who owes you thanks,” Ashur replies, rolling them so she’s lying on top of his chest, elbows braced on either side of his face, their bodies still joined. “For being so patient with me.”
“Was I?” Rook chuckles. “Storming out in a huff in the middle of a blizzard doesn’t exactly scream patient.”
“But standing by my side the past two years does — even when I kept you at arm’s length,” he counters, kissing her cheek.
“Are you still afraid?” she asks quietly, her eyes wavering.
“Always,” he admits, his grip tightening instinctively around her back. “But faith burns brighter than fear. Something I need to remember.”
She lets out a giggle, and he finds himself smiling at the sound. “It’s hard to imagine you struggling to remember anything when it comes to faith.”
“Like I said before — I am but a man,” he murmurs, smoothing her hair back gently. “But I will devote myself to keeping you safe. For the rest of my days.”
“And I’ll do the same,” she whispers.
He gives her a soft smile. “I know, little dragon.”