I truly wonder what power he has over you.

You're in the library today, as you are most days during the daylight hours. But today, you're barely able to focus on the book in your lap, because from the corner of your eye, you're watching the servants.

One of them, a gnome woman, wipes a cloth over a shelf of artifacts. But the other three—two humans, and a gnome—stand idly by, stationed in front of each window. They had entered the room after you, and hadn't moved an inch.

And when you get up to your feet, one of the humans tense. Slowly, as if not to disturb them, you make your way out of the library, your book forgotten.

Your skin, you find, is itchy, with something internal crawling to get out. You walk the halls, and you see another servant by another window. You move forward, and you spot another. And another. And another.

Until finally, you stop before one servant in the entrance hall. He's standing by the main door, his back to the drawn curtains. A human, you note, who looks blankly at you.

"Mistress," he greets. "How may I help you?"

There's something odd about his eyes. They're dazed. Distant. "What is your name?"

"My name is Oskar, Mistress."

"Oskar," you say, your eyes narrowed. Your gaze slips to the curtains behind him. "Could you fetch me a glass of wine?"

"No, mistress."

You don't know why, but there's a pinch of unease in your gut. "Why?"

"No, mistress."

"Oksar—"

"No, mistress."

There's something disturbing about the blankness in his eyes. Slowly, you back away and move forward into the ballroom. There's an elf woman seated on a chair in front of the grand windows. You know her name.

"Eliza," you say, your steps echoing in the vast room. There's a sense of anxiety that you can't shake as you think of something you can ask for. Anything. "I need a book from Sorcerous Sundries. Could you fetch it for me?"

"Mistress," she says, and a slow smile graces her lips, but it fails to reach her eyes. "I'm afraid I cannot."

"I need it now."

Her eyes slip from yours, and stare at nothing. "No, mistress."

Your magic erupts—out of disturbance, out of fear, you can't tell. A ball of flame hovers on your palm. But before you can say a single word, Eliza's eyes snap to you. "Don't."

The sudden change in her demeanor causes you to stagger back, your flame dimming.

Eliza's face is twisted in a plea. "Please, do not hurt me."

The flame evaporates, and you look at her, bewildered. Your throat is tight as you stutter out, "I wouldn't—I wouldn't hurt you, Eliza."

And instantly, at your words, her face smooths, and she is back to her blank stare.

Gods. There is something horribly wrong with these people.

Before you turn to leave, Eliza happily and brightly informs you, "We have guests tonight, Mistress. Please dress accordingly."

Astarion returns to the manor that evening, and he enters your chambers promptly. "Oh, good." He stops behind you at the vanity. "Let me look at you."

You turn your head away from the useless mirror, your hand attempting to stick a pin to the back of your hair. You have tried your best to line your eyes, and redden your lips.

"Have I done well?" you ask him, a little emptily.

He looks down at you, and then swipes a thumb at the corner of your mouth, fixing a likely smudge.

When he disappears into the dressing room, you feel the emptiness sink deeper. You call out, your voice unstable, "There's something wrong with the servants."

"Oh?" He replies, his tone light. "What are they doing wrong?"

You don't know where you're going with this, but your body has been restless all morning. "They don't… do what I ask of them."

He returns to the main area with a fresh shirt, and a wicked grin. "But they do what I tell them."

You shake your head at what would be your reflection at the vanity. "You've posted them at the windows. You really think that can stop me?" You gesture at the boarded windows. "Do you think this slab can stop me?"

His eyes blaze in… satisfaction? "Of course not. Have you perhaps tried…" He looks up in mock thought. "…burning them? That fireball of yours has always been my favorite."

Incredulously, you look back at him. "I'm not burning our servants. I wouldn't harm them."

He places his hands on your shoulders, his reflection greeting you in the mirror. "I know you wouldn't."

You turn to look at him again. "They won't leave their posts, no matter what I say."

"They know to protect you."

"No, there's something wrong, Astarion." Your voice shakes, just a little. "What have you done to them?"

"What have I done to them, darling?" He considers, his fingers kneading into your skin. "Well, I've given them food, and shelter. They live in this manor, and earn their keep by doing my bidding." He leans down and presses a kiss on the bite mark on your neck. And you know, with utmost certainty, that the discussion is closed. "Now, let's greet our guests, shall we?"

Duke Ravengard and two other Flaming Fist officials show up to your entrance hall that evening. One of the officials, you uneasily realize, is Sylas Vore.

At his entrance, the Duke proclaims, "A grand manor, Astarion." He then bows his head to you. "My lady, you are as beautiful as ever."

Sylas is close behind the Duke, with a female official beside him, both donned in the usual Fist capes.

The female steps forward and places a fist to her chest, bending at the waist. "My lord, and lady. A pleasure for us to join you in your home this evening. I am Azula."

Sylas repeats the gesture towards Astarion, but upon standing before you, smiles with fond recognition. He takes your hand as he had done at the feast many nights ago.

"My lady," he says, and his lips linger on the back of your hand. "Thank you for having us."

"Sir Vore." You snatch your hand back as soon as his fingers loosen. "Welcome to our home."

The group slowly makes their way to the dining chamber, where platters, and platters of food are set out, accompanied by pitchers of wine.

You and Astarion take your usual places at either end of the table. The two officials sit on one side, and Duke Ravengard sits opposing them. Conversation quickly dives into the general status of the Flaming Fist. Ravengard leads the discussion, and Azula and Sylas pipe in occasionally to fill in more of the finer details.

Sylas is seated closest to you on your left, and he passes a plate of venison over to you. You know Astarion's eyes are on you as you take the plate, and carefully serve yourself a portion that you know you will not be eaten. The wine, however, is fair game, and you cling to it for the remainder of the night.

As the dishes empty, the servants gradually work to clear the table.

Ravengard folds his napkin before him. "Well, this has been a delight, Astarion. It's nice that some of you have stayed behind after all of this mess. Have you sent out the letters to the rest of your companions?"

"Their invitations will be released tomorrow," Astarion informs him, and he smiles at you from across the table. "And I'm sure we'd be willing to house our dearest friends."

Azula chuckles. "That will be a wise choice, my lord. The inns will be hard to book with all the travelers for this occasion." She adjusts her cape properly over her shoulder as she stands. "I must be going before it gets too late. Your hospitality, my lord, and lady, is greatly appreciated."

The Duke also stands, albeit slower. You've noticed the slight limp in his leg that hasn't gotten better. "I will walk with you, Azula. I'll need to stop by the offices."

Sylas places his wine glass down onto the table, and flashes a smile at you. "Is this also my sign that I'm being kicked out, my lady?"

"No," Astarion says before you can. "Won't you stay for dessert?" His eyes slip to two servants behind you, and you hear them run off. "Our chef makes a ferocious apple pie."

"I suppose I can't refuse our hosts," he says, bowing his head to his Duke, and companion. "Safe travels home."

Azula and Ravengard make their way out of the dining chambers, and soon enough, a servant enters with a large plate of pie. He places it in the middle of the table, closest to Sylas. The smell is divine, and you lean forward, taking in the sweet smell of apples and sugar.

The uncut pie beckons for you to dig in, but you know that it's merely a cruel fantasy.

A servant places fresh cutlery and clean dessert plates before everyone, and when she leaves, Astarion gestures to the pie. "Help yourself, Sir Vore."

Astarion watches closely as Sylas cuts a slice of the pie for himself, and sets it upon his plate.

"Your right hand," Astarion says suddenly, his eyes fixed on Sylas's hands. "Is it your dominant one? A swordsman like you must have a grip you prefer."

Sylas smiles, flexing those fingers on his right hand. "Yes, actually. I've always had more coordination on my right."

"Fascinating." Astarion rubs his jaw. "You know, I've heard devils were ambidextrous."

The conversation is odd, and you don't quite follow the point of it. You stare at your wine, wondering when you can retire to your chambers. You long to slip into a trance, and forget about the servants, and the day. The uneasiness in your gut hasn't gone away, and it seems to be getting worse with every passing hour.

"Ah, well, I'm no devil," Sylas says good naturedly, sticking a fork into the slice of his pie. "Right is right, is what my mother has always told me."

"Yes," Astarion murmurs, dabbing his mouth with his napkin after a sip of wine. "You do always seem to touch my darling Lilith with your right hand."

"I'm sorry?"

Astarion regards him calmly. "Are you?"

Your chest tightens, and your palms warm. "Astarion."

He ignores you, and instead shifts comfortably in his seat. "Sylas, please do grab your steak knife."

Your eyes wide, you're frozen as Sylas looks down at his cutlery, his hand easily reaching for the knife.

Astarion leans back in his chair, and you watch the amusement dance over his face. He turns his attention to you. "Which hand again was it, love?"

"Astarion," you breathe, suddenly very, very scared.

"Perhaps I wasn't clear. Apologies." He raises a finger. "But I do believe I remember." He turns to Sylas. "Begin slicing at those delicious tendons on your right wrist, Sir Vore. We do have all night."

It's a joke, surely. No man in his right mind would obey such a command. But nothing could prepare you for that brief glint of the knife as it comes down directly onto Sylas's wrist. The initial strike takes you by shock. By the second time the knife comes around, you're on your feet.

But Astarion's eyes connect with yours. "Sit, Lilith."

And you do, your knees buckling instantly.

The fresh scent of blood wafts through the air, and you stare at the Fist official, whose face betrays nothing of the pain he's experiencing as he begins to methodically dig away at his wrist. Your feet can't move, but your magic surges through you, pushing against you to be let out.

Mage Hand.

You strike out with an invisible force that knocks the knife from Sylas's grip. It clatters down to the floor.

Astarion merely frowns, swirling his wine. He tutts at you, "It's just a hand, my dear. No need to be so dramatic."

"Stop this." You are wild with fear. You knew compulsion was a vampiric trait from Astarion's stories about Cazador, but you didn't know to what extent it worked. Even now, as you sit, you cannot move to get up, and you know it's because of Astarion's command.

Your mind reels at the counterspells you could work, but you don't know if the compulsion is a spell that could be countered.

Sylas then stands, expressionless, and bends over to retrieve the knife from the floor. Procedurally, he sits back down, and lays his right arm on the table once again.

"Sylas Vore," you cry, thrashing against whatever invisible hold is on your body. Your nails scrape against the table. "Stop this."

He is deaf to your pleas. He begins striking with the knife once again. How many more times until he hits bone? How many more after that until he completely severes his right hand?

Each hit of the knife, the dishes on the table clatter. His blood splatters into the drinks, and the pie. Sylas's place at the table soon becomes a sight of skin and gore.

You look at Astarion, tears flowing down your face. "Please."

He regards you, taking a sip of his wine. The glass, you see, is dotted with splashes of blood. "You would cry for him, wouldn't you?"

"He didn't do anything, Astarion." Your voice is rough with emotion. "He did nothing."

The scent of blood thickens with every passing second, and unwillingly, your teeth begin to grind in anticipation.

Astarion stands, and he approaches you, because he knows. He places two palms at either side of your face, turning it towards Sylas. "You're starving, aren't you, my love?"

You whimper. "No."

"You haven't fed all day."

You swallow thickly. "I will not."

He smiles. "I haven't told you to do anything, my sweet."

You try to move your head, but his grip is too strong. "Don't ask me to do this."

"Ask?" His palms disappear, but your chin is yanked up to him. "No, I don't ask. I tell. I command." He leans down, and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He lingers by your face. "But you—you should decide, if you'd like to feast on Sir Vore, who is happily learning a very important lesson tonight. He is certainly useful in the Fists, but I can't imagine Ravengard would be too upset if an accident befell him."

Sylas makes a sound. Gods, he's hit bone.

"Perhaps that's enough, don't you think?" Astarion waves a hand at him. "Put the knife down, sir."

The moment Sylas releases the knife, he screams.

A/N: Things were bad before. But I think Lilith may be opening her eyes a little wider now.

I kinda love him, honestly. He's so terrible. And I'm going to keep him until Lilith figures out what to do with him.

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