Dinner is quiet.

You stare at the two goblets before you—one of wine, and one of blood. You alternate between them as Astarion digs into a meal you don't care to acknowledge. Whatever it is, it is far from you, and it smells deceptively delicious.

A servant appears and reaches over your empty plate to refill your glass of wine. You watch her silently, wondering what she thinks of you: bloodstained lips, wrinkled robes, and a likely ghastly sight of raw horror on your throat. At least your hair is somewhat decently pinned up from what you could manage. Has Astarion compelled the servants to be complacent to whatever abuse they may suspect regarding the wound on your neck? What might they think when they clean the bloodied sheets, and empty reddened bath water?

You glance at Astarion, and you wonder if he enjoys the way you parade around the manor, disheveled, dazed, and marked by him, and him only.

The servant pays no mind to you as she retreats, bracing the wine bottle with a cloth. The bite on your neck stings when you turn your head to watch her leave.

The servants know what you are. Hells, they serve you blood, and ensure you're kept away from daylight. Your reflection in the mirror is absent whenever they need to fuss over you.

You wonder why they stay to serve a monster. You wonder if they have a choice.

"Are you still furious with me, my love?" Astarion's scrapes of cutlery grind against your senses, and so does his question.

"No," you lie, your gaze lingering over where the servant disappeared beneath the threshold of the dining chambers.

"Are you lying to me?"

That's when you turn your head to him, and smile. "Of course."

He looks down to this plate, but it seems that it takes a moment for your answer to register. His eyes flash back up to yours. There's intrigue in there, you can tell. "How… refreshing."

"What is?"

"Your honesty."

You take a large sip from your goblet of blood, and lick your lips. "When have I ever lied to you, Astarion?"

"Just now, my dear."

Your smile grows, and tightens. Your relationship has been reduced to games of mockery and contempt, but the difference now is—you're an active participant. It's amazing how the self-awareness of the strings around you brings you a sense of presence, and control. Being aware of your leash is half the battle, if not more.

You reach forward and take a sip of wine, and note your observation. "The servants are compelled."

Astarion finishes whatever is in his mouth before responding, "When they have to be."

Just as you are, when you have to be. "How does it work?"

His cutlery pauses over his plate. "Our esteemed Sylas wasn't enough of a demonstration?"

You slip out of your seat, your eyes wide and expectant as you approach him. You pause to his right. "Show me."

Astarion studies you. "What would you have me do?"

"Command me to my knees." Because you've done it before. I know you have.

There's a clang of metal as he drops his knife and fork onto the table, and immediately stands. Part of you thinks he detests you towering over him, and he has to remedy it as soon as possible.

He takes your face in one of his hands and those red rubies stare into your very soul. "On your knees, Lilith."

The feeling is instant, the tug demanding. You wince slightly when you fall forward, your robes cushioning your knees to the poor extent they can. Your vision blurs with tears, because the loss of control is terrifying, and yet you still feel a spark of fury at Astarion's audacity.

But perhaps he has always wanted to see you like this.

You've been too quiet, so you ask, "How long can you keep me here for?"

"I haven't compelled you to stay."

"Then compel me to stay."

He crouches down to your level, curious eyes searching yours. "Why, Lilith?"

You are entirely truthful. "I want to know what this feels like." You smile at him prettily. "Just so I can tell when you're being a bastard, and when you're not."

And he laughs, because you're clearly just a small, inconsequential thing on her knees for him. "You're just like me, my darling. You admire power when you see it."

You ignore that, and insist, "Compel me to stay, Astarion."

He humors you, his eyes locking onto yours. "Stay, my love."

You feel your body lock into place—rigid, and unyielding. You will yourself to stand, but your body disobeys. It only listens to its master, who is crouched right before you.

It's a horrifying feeling, again, this loss of control. You wonder how you've mindlessly surrendered to it all this time. You ask again, "How long can you keep me here for?"

"Does it matter?"

Oh, it matters. And his evasiveness speaks volumes. "Hours, days, weeks?"

"How about seconds?"

You let yourself pout. "Our servants stand like statues for hours upon hours before our windows. Your tricks must last more than mere seconds." Your head cocks to the side. "Or do you not know?"

He takes your hand. "Up." Your body unwinds at that single command, and your legs are a little wobbly as he pulls you to stand with him.

His thumb rubs slow circles on your upturned palm. "I am flattered, darling, by your sudden interest in my… tricks." Eyes locked onto yours, he brings your palm to his lips, planting a single kiss. "Dare I say you are looking for ways to… counter them?" His stare is challenging, yet his mouth is twisted into a smile. "Please do try. I love it when you do."

Your lips curl downwards. He manages to yank his head away before the fire erupts from your hand. If he had been a second slower, he would have burned. But his reflexes are sharper now. Agile, and quicker.

"There it is." Unfazed, he lifts your hand admiringly, watching the ball of fire that's hovering over your palm. "My sweet Lilith, with the blood of a fiery red dragon." He scrutinizes the demonstration of power. "They say the flames are straight from the Hells. Is it true?"

"Perhaps."

"No wonder Raphael had such interest in you."

Raphael—devil, and son of the archdevil Mephistopheles who had indirectly given Astarion everything he had ever wanted. If you ever saw Raphael again, you just might try and see if hellfire could harm a devil. He had been the one to give Astarion the answers he had needed regarding the scars on his back—which he still wore to this day. The scars were crucial for the Ascension ritual, and Raphael had been the one to highlight their meaning, and importance.

That was the tipping point, you remember. That was the first time you had ever seen such hope and determination in Astarion's eyes.

Don't you see, Lilith? This would change everything.

And it had. It had changed everything.

Hellfire. Raphael. The flame in your hand feels hotter, and more directed. But your anger at the devil and his father is unwarranted, because the Ascension really hadn't been meant for the man before you.

But you had supported it every step of the way. Perhaps you should direct the flame at yourself.

You glance momentarily to the windows behind Astarion. "You've always hated the color of the curtains in here." Your eyes cut to his, your tone biting. "Make me burn them."

You look at him, and even just for a second, you see uncertainty in his eyes. You find yourself savoring his uncharacteristic caution. Time ticks, and he stands there, hand beneath yours, as if he was the one conjuring and channeling your draconic ancestry.

"Because you could do it, couldn't you?" Your voice is low with a rasp, as you delight in the heat from your own flame. "You could make me burn this whole godsdamn city to the ground."

You wonder if he still fears your fire. Is that why he's so silent, attention fixed solely on the ball of flames kissing your skin? He surely knows that he can compel you to cast whatever destruction he desires.

Perhaps he considers you a liability, and losing control of you would be disastrous. Perhaps he despises any hint that you would always have an advantage, and that's why he commands, "Extinguish it."

You're instantly cold, the flame no more.

But you catalog it all: the way your magic recedes deep into their stores, and the way your hand drops limply to your side. When you had fallen to your knees, you had noticed the specific mechanics of the compulsion as it took over your body. When you were commanded to stay, you felt your muscles tighten and your spine lock up—unnatural, and uncanny. You tuck these sensations away, because you're building your point of reference.

You need to be able to tell when Astarion's tricks work on you, so you know exactly when they don't.

One by one, your feet climb down the steps to the dungeons, a hand on Astarion's forearm, as he guides you to the depths of the manor. The stone down here is ancient, crumbling in parts. As you descend into the central hall, you're greeted with a familiar picture.

You remember your back against the wall. You remember the joy you had felt that night—the happiness, the ridiculous laughter from your lips as you and your lover found yourselves down in this dreary place.

He had laid you down in front of those steps beyond, and the doors to the ritual chamber had been wide open. You remember the sex, and the color of your gown. But you don't remember the compulsion. You hadn't known to look for it; you hadn't even known it was possible.

You had said yes—but had you really? When Astarion bit you, how keenly aware had he been of his abilities? Hadn't he knowingly forced your lips, and dragged the word of consent from your mouth?

You had sealed your own fate. Is that what he tells himself now?

As you approach the second hallway closer to the heart of the dungeons, you sense a presence. In just a couple more steps, you smell blood, and decay.

And there, standing in a cell off to your right, is Sylas Vore. Pale, and red-eyed. Dead, yet animated.

Scared.

His hands curl over the bars at the sight of Astarion. "What have you—" He groans, scratching at his throat. "What have you done to me?"

"Welcome to the domain of the night, Sylas Vore," Astarion says, and there is pride in his tone. "The Ancunin clan is delighted for your interest to join."

"Interest—?" He chokes, and coughs, and your eyes dart to the many goblets that have been lined up on the floor of his cell. You smell the blood in them, filled to the brim.

"You haven't been drinking your medicine," Astarion tuts.

"It's blood, sir," Sylas spits.

"Sweet, and delicious. And you shouldn't let it go to waste."Astarion gestures to the goblets. "You won't get to leave your little cell until you control your thirst. I suggest you stop denying yourself what you really need, Sir Vore."

Sylas tears his eyes away from Astarion, and his lips curl in disgust at what he sees in the goblets. His voice is hoarse, throat no doubt burning without a proper feeding. "No. I refuse."

"You must drink," you tell him, your hand dropping from Astaron's forearm. "It will help."

His fingers twitch on the bars. "My lady." He swallows, and winces. "You are also this—"

"Vampire."

He closes his eyes, as if the word bites him. "Impossible. A myth."

So the Council of Four have been keeping their promise of discretion. You know that Sylas ranks high in the Fists, and even he hadn't been aware of your true nature.

Before anything else can be said, a servant dashes into the hall. You notice how deliciously fast her heartbeat is, and you wonder if Sylas notices too from the way he stills. If you opened the door to his cage, would he pounce on the poor servant girl and drain her dry?

"Master," she pants, a hand on her chest. "The duke is here."

Astarion stares at her for a moment. "Which one?"

"Ravengard."

Sylas straightens at the name, and you feel an internal sort of satisfaction for the mess Astarion has gotten himself into. He has to deal with the fallout of his actions, though you question the impulsivity of it all. Had it always been his intention to secure a spawn in the Fists? Or had his baseless jealousy simply gotten the best of him?

Astarion takes a step towards the servant, his tone distasteful. "Of course he is." But then he pauses, turning to you. He looks you directly in your eyes, and this time, you see it coming. So you stick a hand behind your back, and the last thing you see is the red hue of his eyes that you have carved into your memory. You listen intently when he commands, "You will not talk to him, and you will not touch him. Do I make myself clear?"

You nod, willing your eyes to fall, even though you see nothing but darkness. Have you fooled him? Are your eyes the correct shade of red? Do your eyes glisten appropriately in the dim lighting?

You hear the sound of his boots as they echo away, along with the quick scurrying of the servant's feet. Once you're confident Astarion is well and far away, your fingers dance behind you, and you are able to see.

There's a beat of silence where you only hear Sylas's raggard, unnecessary breathing. A habit he will also carry with him for a while.

You blink momentarily at your surroundings, your vision distorted briefly from your own tricks. You take a note of your current state. Your limbs aren't stiff, and your mind feels clear. But the only true test would be—

"Sylas Vore." You turn to him with a smile. You approach the cell, and tenderly place a hand over his on the bars.

He looks at your hand on top of his, uncertain. "My lady."

Your smile widens. "Welcome to what one might call… Hell."

A/N: I am aware that prestidigitation (what an awful word I can barely pronounce) comes with a verbal cue. For the sake of this story… we'll ignore that.

I wanted to call out an amazing piece of artwork by yere-art on Tumblr for Hellish Rebuke! Check it out and give her some love because she is incredibly talented.

You can also find it on my page: bludazey.