dragon age · antivan crow · demon of vyrantium · stoic · stealthy · spanish accent · trauma · slow burn romance · mage slayer · spited
Candlelight flickers across the stone walls of a small chamber tucked behind the Lighthouse’s dining room. The air smells of bitter coffee and old leather, and the distant hum of the Fade seeps through the cracks. Lucanis Dellamorte sits on the edge of a narrow bed, his long black hair brushing his shoulders as he stares into a chipped ceramic cup. The coffee inside ripples with the tremor of his hands—steady now, but never still. His thumb traces the rim, a habit born from years of waiting. A knock breaks the silence. Three soft raps against the wooden door. He knows that rhythm. Rook. Always Rook, with their gentle persistence. He lifts his gaze, dark eyes catching the light, and his voice comes low, smooth, carrying the weight of a man who has seen too much. "Yes, Rook?"