Chapter Text
Lucanis watched her.
He always watched her, though he told himself it was for practical reasons. Rook was unpredictable in a fight—a blur of motion and magic, all stormlight and fury. If he didn’t track her, he couldn’t protect her. That was the excuse he clung to, the one that sounded the most like truth.
But he had seen it tonight. The hesitation.
She’d lifted her arm to cast, and something in her movement faltered. It was subtle, just a beat too slow. Anyone else would have missed it. Lucanis didn’t miss things. The fight had raged on, lightning cracking overhead, the air thick with blood and ozone, but that moment stuck in his mind like a splinter. A small stutter in her fluidity. A flash of pain behind her eyes.
Now, with the battle done and the group settling into uneasy rest, Lucanis sat at the edge of the firelight and watched her.
Rook lounged near the hearth, her back against a stone wall, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out in front. Her eyes were half-lidded, a bottle dangling loosely from her fingers. She laughed at something Bellara said, the sound raw and real, her head tipping back, red curls spilling over her shoulder like flame.
He watched the way she moved, the way her hand crept up to rub her shoulder when she thought no one was looking. The armour there was old, the leather strap across the top worn thin from years of use. It dug in when she lifted her arm, restricting her movement. She hadn’t complained. She never did.
Lucanis waited until the others drifted off. Until the fire burned low and the wine made Rook’s head bow forward, her breaths slow and even.
Then he moved.
He approached like he would a target—silent, controlled, every step calculated. But there was no weapon in his hand. Only a quiet determination.
He crouched beside her, close enough to see the faint lines around her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly in sleep. The armour buckle was worse than he thought—stitched and restitched until the original strap was nearly unrecognisable. She had fixed it herself, probably with whatever scrap she could find. Probably refused help. Probably thought she didn’t deserve better.
His jaw tightened.
He reached for his satchel, pulling out a length of reinforced leather—a spare he’d kept for years. His hands worked quickly, removing the worn strap and replacing it with the new one. He kept her stitches, weaving them into the repair as best he could. He didn’t want her to think he was erasing anything.
Because this wasn’t about pity. It never had been.
It was about the way she laughed even when she was hurting. About the way she gave everything in a fight, even when her body betrayed her. About the way she carried her history in silence, never asking to be seen, never expecting to be saved.
He fastened the new buckle carefully. His fingers brushed against the curve of her shoulder, and she stirred, murmuring something too soft to catch. He froze.
But she didn’t wake.
Lucanis lingered for a moment longer, crouched beside her, his hand still hovering in the space where her warmth lingered. He studied her face—the faint freckles across her nose, the old scar near her temple, the peace that had settled over her features in sleep.
Then, quietly, he rose. He slipped away from the firelight, each step deliberate, soundless. Too close, too much. This was a contract—nothing more. That was the truth he tried to hold onto as he found a place away from the others, somewhere shadowed and empty. He forced himself to lie down, to shut his eyes, to breathe.
He did not let himself dwell on why he’d done it. Why he’d parted with a valuable piece of his own supply. Why it had mattered that her movement had faltered. Why he’d touched her like she was something delicate, something worth protecting.
He didn’t want the answers.
So he told himself it was nothing.
And tried not to think of her.
Morning crept in with silver light, casting long shadows across the clearing. The fire had long since gone cold, and the air held a bite that promised rain. Rook stirred, groaning as she shifted from where she’d slumped in sleep. Her spine protested with every movement, muscles aching from too many battles and too little rest.
She sat up slowly, stretching her arms overhead until her shoulders popped. The motion came easier than she expected, the usual drag of tightness absent. Curious, she flexed her arm again and frowned, her hand moving to the familiar weight of her gauntlet.
The strap, once frayed and stubborn, gave easily beneath her fingers. She slipped the gauntlet off and turned it in her hands, her brows drawing together. The leather was new—thicker, darker, and far sturdier than what she remembered. It was reinforced, expertly stitched, the kind of work done by someone who knew what they were doing.
Her fingers skimmed over the seams, brushing lightly across the new material. It was the same shade as Lucanis’ armour.
Her breath caught.
Slowly, her gaze rose and swept the camp until it found him. Lucanis stood at the edge of the clearing, arms folded, eyes already on her. He didn’t look away. Didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching.
Their eyes locked, and something passed between them—quiet, heavy, unspoken. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak. Just held his gaze, the repaired gauntlet resting in her lap like an unwrapped secret.
She slid it back on. Flexed her fingers. Rolled her shoulder. The motion was smooth. Natural. Easy.
She exhaled slowly and looked down, the corners of her mouth tilting just barely upward.
When the next fight found them, it came fast and brutal—no time for plans or strategy, only instinct and steel. Magic tore through the air, and Rook moved like a force of nature, her lightning answering the call before her voice did. But Lucanis saw it.
She moved differently now.
Gone was the hesitation. Gone was the stiff, guarded motion. She spun through the battlefield like she was built for it, arm lifting cleanly, precisely, to deflect a killing blow with the flat of her blade. Her stance was sure. Her strike, unburdened.
Lucanis cut through an enemy and looked to her across the chaos, breath harsh in his throat. She turned toward him, eyes finding his even in the storm of battle. And though the world burned around them, though the enemy still surged, she looked only at him.
Thank you, she mouthed. For the gauntlet. For noticing. For caring.
He said nothing.
He only nodded.
And Rook smiled—a real smile, bright and fierce.
And then she turned back into the fray, lightning dancing at her fingertips, the storm within her once again free to move.