You enter Astarion's study to find Duke Ravengard pacing before a dying fireplace. The servants bow your head to you before closing the double doors.

Instinctively, you summon a flame upon the dry wood beneath the mantle. Ravengard halts momentarily at the sudden burst of heat, but soon resumes his fervent cadence.

"Gods—this is madness, Astarion," he says, a finger pointed at the closed doors. "Sylas Vore has worked tirelessly to earn his title and get to where he is. He has been nothing but a respectable gentleman in our court. You cannot pluck a man from his life and turn him into—" His gaze snags on you, his unspoken words hanging in the air.

"A spawn?" You finish for him.

Ravengard's stare is probing, and you wonder what he's thinking. You want to know the questions he's asking himself at the sight of you. He had been so jovial at the Council's feast, watching you prance around with Astarion throughout the ballroom at the High Hall. But now, his eyes linger on your neck, and your unkempt robes. The pallor of your skin is surely more prominent now that he can observe you better, and he hadn't said a word about the shift in your eyes.

"The Council will not approve of this," he continues. His gaze scapes off of you to land on Astarion. "What were you thinking?"

Astarion merely smiles. "You are one-third of the Council. Surely, you can be persuasive."

"What would you have me tell them?" The Duke demands. "That Sylas Vore has to resign, because he has been turned into a blood-sucking creature of the night?"

"A gift, Ravengard." Astarion smooths a hand over a paper on his desk. "Immortality is a gift. One that I have bestowed upon him without so much as an asking price. You should be glad. The Fists will have a trusted presence for centuries to come."

"The man cannot walk about in daylight. How do you expect him to go about his duties?"

"He is just as capable, if not more, to uphold his responsibilities. Consider it merely a shift in his schedule."

"A shift in his schedule," the Duke sputters. "And what will he do during Council feasts, and Fist dinners? Parade about with a goblet of blood?"

Astarion's eyes momentarily find yours, and you have a distinct feeling that you want to burn the smile off of his face. "He will drink wine, of course. It's more of an opportunity to converse and network when you don't have food stuffing your mouth, don't you think?"

"And what of the blood?" The Duke asks. "You keep him in a godsdamn cage. How dangerous is he?"

"Dangerous," you say. "He hasn't fed. He is a threat to anyone with a beating heart."

That is when Ravenguard looks at you. "And you aren't?" There isn't malice in his tone, but a sudden tinge of sorrow. "Were you also blinded by this gift, child? You have traded your life, and the sun for immortality?"

Astarion snipes, "Lilith is no child. She recognizes opportunity and power just as you and I do."

But the Duke waits for your answer, and you don't look at him when you say, "I merely fell in love with a man, sir."

There is silence, and then finally, you hear the Duke sigh. He gestures to one of the chairs before Astarion's desk. "Sit, Lilith. Sit, and wallow in this mess with us."

A mess, indeed. You take a seat, not giving Astarion a single glance, though you know he watches you. Instead, you flex your fingers, and give the fireplace another encouragement of flames.

"The Council will know of this," the Duke says, his pace faltering by the fire. "Cazador had been too reckless with his creations. We will keep a close record of any vampire or spawn that inhabits this city."

"Well." Astarion straightens. "It is a good thing, then, that we destroyed almost all of his recklessness. You would be dealing with over seven-thousand spawn unleashed into Baldur's Gate if we hadn't done anything about it."

The Duke scowls. "A fool, your old master."

"A dead fool." Astarion stands. "Let the Council know of Sylas's developments. I'm sure they will come to agree that his change is something that will bring stability and order to the Fists for the foreseeable future."

Ravengard doesn't seem convinced at all, but he turns to you. "Have you heard from Wyll?"

You find a sense of melancholy growing in your chest at the mention of a friend. "No." You finally look at Astarion. "Have you sent out the invitations?"

"This morning, my dear."

"Let's say two weeks, then," the Duke says. "A celebration worthy of our heroes." He bends over slightly to look you in the face, and you lift your head at his attention.

You don't know what he sees, but he hides his pity well.

You linger in the entrance hall, where you had just bid Ravengard farewell.

Astarion has an arm snaked firmly around your waist as he pulls you against him. The smile on his lips is filled with disdain.

"I wonder when they'll realize how beneath us they are," he murmurs. "The Council should be intimately familiar with the threat of a vampire."

Through the windows, you watch the Duke's retreating form as he navigates the gardens. "They're aware of the threat. Why else would they want to keep a record of our numbers? Do you have plans to expand this so-called clan?"

"We're already three, aren't we?" There's satisfaction in his tone. "Still, they have the audacity to show up and demand answers."

You scoff. "I'm half surprised you didn't compel the Duke into complacency."

"It isn't always the solution."

In other words, there are limitations to his powers. You have a sense that the duration of his compulsions could be a factor in his hesitation.

You're still staring into the night when Astarion says, "Leave us, Eliza."

You hadn't noticed her presence in the corner. You only have enough of a reaction to turn your face to watch her leave when Astarion steps in front of you.

Your instincts push your right hand behind you, ready to protect against his tricks.

"I quite enjoyed you on your knees for me during dinner," he purrs, his steps pushing you back, back, and back, until the wall stops you with a firm thud. "What have you gleaned from your learnings today, my love?"

Learnings. You plaster your smile back on your face. "I've learned that my robes are a poor cushion for my knees. I would request a pillow next time."

"Your feedback is always greatly appreciated. What else?"

"I've learned that I don't quite enjoy when my joints lock into place."

His fingers ghost over the side of your face. "It doesn't suit you at all. You look just as bit as a Construct frozen like that."

"But one thing I still haven't learned is how long your tricks last."

"My fiery sorceress," he admires. "I'm sure you will figure it out." His hand curves over your hip, pressing you further into the wall "You will figure it all out, but what I'm curious about is what you'll do with that information."

Slowly, your smile fades. "What?"

"Say you avoid my little tricks entirely." He leans in and presses his lips to your throat. "Whatever will you do next, my love?"

"What do you mean?" you whisper.

The sleeve of your robe descends down your arm as he kisses your bare shoulder. "It is a sort of… freedom, is it not?" He smiles against your skin. "Once you've cut off your own strings, you're free to do as you please. I quite admire that."

You don't know what any of this means. Your body is tight, your fingers still poised—now beside you—to cast your illusion for protection. But you don't. There's a vague emptiness that begins to spread, and you don't understand it.

You are free. Right now, Astarion couldn't compel you as long as you blinded yourself. But—

"Would you run from me, my darling?" He nuzzles your neck. "Shall I chase you through the streets of Baldur's Gate? Will I hunt you all throughout Faerun?" There is heaviness that descends on you with each question. You push against his chest, but he closes one hand over both of yours. You are bound. "Tell me what game you would like to play, and we'll play it."

"A game." There's a gnawing pit in your stomach. "This is just a game to you, isn't it?"

"All in good fun."

Your eyes stare at nothing over his shoulder. Your soul feels so dreadfully empty, and even your voice is barely there when you say, "Let me go."

His kisses press against your collarbone. "But wherever will you go?"

"Astarion," you plead, but you don't know what exactly you're pleading for. Silence, perhaps, just so your mind would stop reeling. You can cast a blanket over your eyes to avoid his compulsions, but how far does that really get you?

What does that change?

"My love," he coos. "Will you get on your knees for me?"

It isn't a command, but your knees buckle just the same. The hopelessness in your chest is vast, and rapidly expanding. Your bones feel weak, and your head spins with the bleak understanding that this is the life you have caged yourself in. You have made the man you love the predator, and have succumbed to be his prey.

There is carpet in the entrance hall, so your knees don't ache as they had in the dining chambers. Even through the numbness in your skin, you feel his hand on your cheek. You find that you despise how gentle he is. You almost long for him to hurt you, so you have physical justification to hate him.

His fingers tangle in your hair as he slowly pulls out the pins. One by one, they drop to the floor. He's always loved your hair down, you know. It gives him a firmer grip.

"Astarion." Now, you know what you're pleading for. "Compel me."

His hand strokes your face. "What for, my dear?"

"For whatever you intend on doing to me tonight."

"Come now," he reprimands. "What happened to that fire I love so much?'

Your voice is small, but venomous. "You don't love anything, Astarion."

His caress is tender on your face, and you flinch away from it. "How can I not love my precious little Lilith?"

Your tears are hot as they run down your cheeks, stopping only at his hand. He wipes them away. "Now what have I done to make you so upset?"

There is nothing sincere about his question. He grabs your chin, and you don't even bother to shield yourself from whatever may be coming.

But he doesn't compel you.

"I have no doubt in the world that you will find a way around me, my love. Perhaps you already have." He leans in closer, his thumb running over your lips. "But does it really matter if you do?"

How soul crushing the word is when spoken out loud. "No."

His hand fists in your hair. "Good. So we have an understanding."

A/N: Because it won't bring him back! But do you know who maybe could…?

This chapter was brought to you in part by can you hear the thunder? By Animal Sun. The lyrics kinda destroyed me ngl.

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