Chapter Text
Caia had hastily packed a mismatched assortment of belongings and preserved foodstuffs from Viago’s pantry, but had already regretted including the cheese. Its pungent, overripe odour had seeped into her bag, clinging stubbornly to everything it made contact with. Every so often she would catch a waft of the sickly scent, turning her stomach. She suppressed the nausea and carried on, her thoughts too cluttered for complaints.
The first rays of dawn stretched across the rooftops of Treviso, bathing the world in a golden warm light. The city’s busy streets and canals were slowly coming to life, and she had no time to lose. She moved with urgency, her boots barely making contact with the tiled rooftops as she flung herself across gaps and slid down zip lines, the makeshift network of the assassin’s city her only saving grace.
She hadn’t even said goodbye to Lucanis.
Her chest heaved, and her breath came in sharp bursts, the coppery tang of blood on her tongue a warning athat she was pushing herself too far. She clutched the strap of her bag tighter, letting it anchor herself.
Just a little farther.
The Cantori Diamond glinted faintly on the horizon. It wasn’t safety, but it was a waypoint. She just needed to reach The Crossroads beyond, it wouldn’t be too far from there on out. Once she was in Arlathan Forest, she could breathe. She could rest.
She could finally sleep.
But right now she was still leaping from one rooftop to another. Regret pressed against her temples like a vice, her veins throbbing. Lucanis would be worried by now, or worse, assume that she had fled out of guilt. She could imagine him now: hurt, confused, angry.
Her footing faltered for a split second, a loose tile skidding beneath her boot, and she gasped.
Focus.
She had only one more zip line before she would be at her first checkpoint. As she hopped off, her ankles ached, and she cursed herself for not getting to Illario first. If she’d only just got there first, yes, he would still be poisoned- but he’d have been safe. Viago had made sure that it would have basically been a horrible hangover. Whatever Illario had been given, it looked painful. Deadly. He’d still been alive when they had left, but now? She wasn’t sure.
She raced across the floorboards, towards the eluvian and jumped through it.
Next stop, Arlathan Forest.
(***)
Lucanis paced the length of his study, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. Illario clung to life by the thinnest of threads, the rasping sound of his laboured breaths still haunting Lucanis’ ears. Hundreds of guests had filled the villa that evening, and one of them—someone bold or foolish beyond measure—had dared to poison a Dellamorte under his roof.
How dare they.
His chest tightened with rage, the kind that simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for an outlet. He was the First Talon. He had decreed before the entire assembly that Illario would be spared, a public declaration meant to put an end to whispers and infighting. By poisoning Illario, this person hadn’t just endangered a life—they had openly defied him.
Most of the guests had dispersed by now, their laughter and chatter replaced with the eerie stillness of the new day’s beginning. Only a handful of stragglers remained, slumped drunkenly in corners or being assisted to the door by staff. It felt as though the air itself had turned against him, heavy and suffocating, coiled with the stench of betrayal.
And where were the people he needed most?
Viago and Caia had left hours ago, their presence sorely missed now. Viago’s expertise and Caia’s unyielding determination would have been invaluable at a moment like this. He clenched his jaw, his frustration mounting with every second wasted. If they wouldn’t come to him, he would go to them.
Lucanis strode down the marble hallway, the steel tips of his boots striking the floor with a measured, deliberate rhythm. Each step echoed, the sound resonating through the emptiness of the corridors, amplifying the silence left in the wake of the night's chaos.
He couldn’t face Caterina—not yet. Her detached demeanour in the chamber where Illario lay had been a stark reminder of her nature. Caterina had never been one for comfort or warmth, her presence more chilling than consoling. When Lucanis had last seen her, she’d been seated in a sitting room with Teia, the faint clink of a teacup saucer perched precariously on her lap. That was her way, he supposed—to retreat into calculated composure while the world burned around her.
But Lucanis couldn’t stomach her detachment, not now.
He reached the estate's entrance and paused, the weight of the evening settling on his shoulders. The gondolas would be the quickest route to Viago's townhouse, but Lucanis wasn’t ready to be enclosed in their swaying, confining embrace. The scenic route, he decided, would clear his head—grant him the space to think and strategise.
It wasn’t easy for him to admit when he needed help, least of all from Viago or Caia. Lucanis was accustomed to tight reports and solo work. But this situation demanded cooperation. Illario’s survival—and the restoration of order to his fractured house—depended on it.
As he walked, Lucanis tried to form the words he would say. How to approach Viago without appearing desperate? How to gain Caia’s confidence without revealing just how deeply the situation unnerved him? These were not easy questions, and their answers remained elusive.
He clenched his fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. Whoever had done this to Illario had not only defied him—they had disrupted the delicate balance of House Dellamorte. If he didn’t act decisively, that balance could crumble entirely.
The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he picked up his pace, determination replacing hesitation. The scenic route wouldn’t just clear his mind—it would prepare him for what lay ahead. A storm was brewing, and Lucanis intended to meet it head-on.
Lucanis scaled the wooden trellis with practiced ease, his hands and feet finding purchase as though the structure itself had been designed for his ascent. As he reached the top, he paused, standing atop the rooftop to take in the vista before him. Treviso's canals shimmered in the soft light of dawn, their waters gilded by the first rays of the rising sun. The city was breathtaking in its stillness. Yet, Lucanis knew its beauty concealed a darker truth.
Treviso was deadly.
It was a lesson ingrained in him from childhood, etched into his memory alongside the grief of losing both his parents to the cutthroat rivalries of the Crows. This city did not forgive weakness; it consumed the unprepared, chewed them up in the gears of its unending power plays. He had grown up in the shadow of that reality, and now, more than ever, he was determined to rise above it.
He would not lose Illario.
The thought steeled him, a fiery resolve burning in his chest. Without another moment's hesitation, Lucanis pushed off into motion, his legs carrying him with precision and power. He sprinted across the rooftop, each stride sure and controlled, his boots barely making a sound against the tiles.
Ahead, a gap loomed, but he didn’t slow. With a fluidity born of years of training, Lucanis leapt, his body soaring through the air before landing effortlessly on the next roof. The city below remained unaware of his movement, its early-morning serenity undisturbed by the First Talon weaving his way across the skyline.
He moved like a shadow, swift and graceful, his acrobatics a deadly dance. His hands caught the edge of a ledge, swinging him upward, while his momentum carried him over a chimney and back onto the flat expanse of another roof. Every leap, every turn, was executed with a precision that spoke of his years of experience, his body responding to the terrain as naturally as a bird to flight.
When he arrived at the quiet townhouse, he took a moment to observe. Here, it was if nothing had taken place in the night, there was a placid calm.
He perched on the rooftop for a moment longer, taking in the calm, before making his descent. Grasping a fabric flag that hung from the building’s façade, Lucanis lowered himself with the grace of an aerial performer. The flag swayed lightly as he slid down, his movements deliberate and smooth. His steel-capped boots clinked softly against the cobblestones when he landed, a faint metallic echo in the stillness.
Straightening his posture, Lucanis approached the door with purpose. He raised his fist and banged firmly on the dark wooden surface, the sound reverberating through the sleepy street. After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing a fatigued maidservant. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and her eyes carried the weight of interrupted rest.
“May I take a name, Ser?” she asked, her voice polite but weary.
“Lucanis Dellamorte,” he replied, his tone clipped but not unkind.
The maid’s eyes widened slightly at the name, but she nodded, wordlessly closing the door. He waited, his sharp gaze scanning the street as he considered how best to broach the delicate situation inside. Within seconds, the door reopened, the maid standing aside to admit him.
“This way, Ser,” she murmured, bowing slightly before leading him into the house.
The townhouse was modest but elegant, compared to his own estate, its interior draped in subdued luxury. A faint aroma of aged wood and freshly brewed tea hung in the air, mingling with the distant creak of the house settling. For a moment, Lucanis wondered how long this calm would last before his presence shattered it.
Stepping inside, he exhaled slowly, bracing himself for the conversation ahead. His boots clicked softly against the polished floor as he followed the maid further into the townhouse, where the weight of the night's consequences awaited.
Viago stood perfectly still in his study, the sharp morning light cutting through the shutters and painting the room with streaks of gold and shadow. His silhouette was statuesque, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the canal. The faint ripple of water and distant echo of footsteps on the cobblestones outside did little to disturb his focus.
Lucanis stepped inside, his steel-tipped boots making only the faintest sound against the hardwood floor. He cleared his throat, a subtle cough that announced his presence.
Viago turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge him, his sharp gaze like an eagle locking onto its prey. “How is he?” The question was pointed, but not cold.
Lucanis hesitated for a moment, his jaw tightening before he answered. “Better. Although they don’t know when—if—he will make a full recovery.” His voice carried the weight of his frustration, the vulnerability carefully masked but still detectable to someone like Viago, who knew him too well.
Viago’s hand moved to his beard, fingers stroking it thoughtfully. “And they still do not know the root cause?” His tone was measured, though there was a flicker of irritation in the undertone, as though he found the incompetence of others an affront.
Lucanis shook his head slowly. “No. The poison was unlike anything they’ve seen before.”
Viago turned fully now, his piercing eyes locking onto Lucanis. His stance was imposing despite his otherwise calm demeanour. “Then that is why you are here,” he stated, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it held no warmth.
Lucanis nodded, stepping further into the room. “That is why I am here.”
Viago folded his arms, his eyes focused on a bookcase. “Illario spent much of the night worse for wear, his scene with Caia…”
Caia. Lucanis swallowed a lump in his throat, he hadn’t spoken to her since this had all happened, too wrapped up in the dramatic events as they unfolded. He had stopped listening to whatever it was Viago was saying.
“How is she?” The question tumbled out before he even realized he’d spoken. His voice was quiet, almost tentative, betraying the stoic façade he was trying to maintain.
Viago let out a long, quiet sigh, the kind that carried the weight of years of dealing with others’ entanglements. If Lucanis wasn’t mistaken, the sigh was accompanied by a barely audible “mierda.”
“She is fine, Lucanis,” Viago replied, his tone clipped but not unkind. “More than fine, considering the circumstances. But,” he continued, his voice hardening as he turned back to Lucanis, “we have far more pressing matters to discuss than your... personal concerns.”
Lucanis bristled, and steadied himself before causing a scene. Viago reached into his desk and pulled out a small parchment. “This,” he began, “is something you will want to familiarise yourself with.”
He chucked the parchment towards Lucanis, who caught it mid air. He unfurled it, and started reading. The contract bore the unmistakable seal of House de Riva, elegantly scrawled but damning all the same. Illario’s name leaped out at him, etched in dark ink—a death warrant written with precision and intent. His pulse quickened. She couldn’t have.
He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he raised his eyes to meet Viago’s. “Explain,” Lucanis demanded, his voice taut with controlled fury.
Viago leaned back against his desk, his demeanor calm, almost maddeningly so, as if he were speaking about the weather rather than an assassination attempt on a Dellamorte. “Before you throw one of those several daggers I know you keep hidden on your person,” Viago said with a faint smirk, “you should know that wasn’t my poison.”
Lucanis glared, his entire body taut with barely restrained fury. He crushed the paper in his hands. “You both did this to me!?” he snarled, his voice low but venomous.
Viago’s hand moved instinctively toward the hidden dagger in his waistcoat, but he stopped himself short. His other hand swept toward the intricate glass apparatus on the desk, its delicate network of tubes and flasks glinting faintly in the lamplight. “I already told you,” Viago said, his tone clipped, “we didn’t.”
Lucanis’s lips curled into a sneer. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”
Viago’s expression hardened, his composure slipping just enough to show the exasperation beneath. “Believe what you want, but if I wanted Illario dead, I wouldn’t need a clumsy scene at a public gathering to do it.” He jabbed a finger toward the apparatus. “I concocted something that would deal with him more… ethically.”
The word sent Lucanis over the edge. “Ethically!?” he spat, his voice rising.
Viago waved off the accusation with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Yes, ethically. It would have put him in a light coma, perhaps given him a headache when he woke up. Nothing permanent, nothing fatal. Just enough to stall for time so I could figure out who sent us that contract.”
Viago’s eyes narrowed, and he straightened to his full height, his cool demeanor returning. “Spare me the righteous fury, Lucanis. Caia told me herself she didn’t go through with it, and I have now told you about the contract. Do you honestly believe I’d risk this alliance—or my life—for something as sloppy as this?” He raised his arms in the air, motioning at the air.
Lucanis’s chest heaved as he struggled to rein in his temper. The logic in Viago’s words was undeniable, but the betrayal he felt gnawed at him all the same. He slammed a hand down on the desk, the vials rattling precariously.
“You should have told me the moment you received that contract,” Lucanis growled. “Not after Illario was already choking on poison.”
“And risk tipping off whoever sent it?” Viago shot back. “I needed to tread carefully. You think I enjoy this? Do you have any idea how much effort it took to even confirm the contract was genuine?”
The room fell into a tense silence, the two men staring each other down. Finally, Viago exhaled sharply, his frustration melting into something resembling weariness. “Look,” he said, his voice softer but no less serious, “you’re angry, and you have every right to be. But the real threat isn’t me or this damned contract—it’s whoever set this in motion. We need to work together if we’re going to figure out who’s playing us against each other.”
Lucanis didn’t respond immediately, his sharp mind already turning over the possibilities. Finally, he let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Fine,” he said, his voice cold but measured. “But know this, Viago—if I find out you’ve lied to me about any of this, you will be dead, not just in a coma.”
Viago offered a faint, humourless smile. “Duly noted.”
Lucanis straightened himself, and adjusted his dagger at his hip. “Where is she?”
Viago glanced at him with a wry, almost weary expression. “I thought it best she be somewhere a little safer. Given her relationship with you, she’d be the first on the chopping block if anyone were to trace this back to House de Riva.”
Lucanis clenched his jaw, biting back the retort that rose to his lips. As much as he hated the idea of her being spirited away, Viago had a point. She would have been the prime suspect given her ties to both houses, and Illario’s poisoning only made her look guiltier.
Lucanis shifted his weight, his frustration mounting. His cousin’s life hung in the balance, and now someone he cared for was being dragged into the same web of suspicion. “So what now?”
Viago straightened, his calculating gaze settling on Lucanis. “We need the source of the poison,” he said simply. “Illario was beyond merriment last night—you saw it. Whatever he was drinking from, that’s where we’ll find our answers.”
Lucanis furrowed his brow, nodding slowly. Retrieving Illario’s goblet was an obvious but crucial step. The poison could hold clues—its origin, its maker, its purpose. Whoever wielded it had taken a calculated risk, knowing that a failed attempt could expose them.
Lucanis swore under his breath and turned toward the door, his boots clicking against the polished floor. “I’ll find it.”
Viago’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Be careful. Whoever planned this isn’t going to sit idly by while we unravel their scheme. If they see you searching too openly, it might push them to act again.”
Lucanis didn’t look back, but his reply was steady. “Let them try”