A spark of a flame dances between your fingers as you walk through the halls. There is a burst of energy in the manor that has drawn you out of the library—servants rushing from one room to the other, carrying sheets, towels, and pillows. It's clear that preparation is underway for the upcoming guests.

The realization is bittersweet, because while part of you is ecstatic at seeing the familiar faces that have braved your toughest challenges, there's a stronger part of you that wants to demand the invitations to be rescinded.

The shame this manor now brings you is overwhelming. What would they think of you now, roaming these halls like a ghost in the daylight?

You can't imagine their pity. You want none of it.

Today, you note your follower a few paces behind you. There's a half-elf male servant, Bryon, who has been trailing you ever since you left the library. Eventually, your annoyance seeps in, as it always does.

"Bryon," you say, your eyes trained on the ceiling as you pad down the hall. "Fetch me some wine?"

"No, mistress."

You don't expect any other response, but you're disappointed nonetheless. You can practically sense the compulsion oozing off of him.

Passing by drawn curtains, you notice how the side Bryon chooses to walk on aligns with the windows. It's as if Astarion couldn't spare the staff to station them as he had before.

It's all ridiculous—nothing more than a demonstration of his reach.

Occasionally, you'll ask Bryon to grab you a piece of clothing, or fetch you a quick helping of blood. You're experimenting, of course. But his answer is always practiced, and perfected.

No, mistress. No, mistress. No, mistress.

By the time you reach the end of the western hall, you stop abruptly, and turn to him. "You know, your master is home—right in there, in fact." You point sharply to a closed door a few paces away—Astarion's study. "There is no reason for you to follow me around. You must have something better to do."

His eyes focus on you, and he gives you his signature phrase, "No, mistress."

You catch the flame before it dares to bounce onto him, and turn away. You sigh. "Let's see, then. Back to the basics. Would you please fetch me a glass of wine?"

No, mistress.

But it doesn't come. There is silence for a moment, before you hear, "It would be my pleasure, mistress."

You turn to him quickly. "What?"

He seems slightly befuddled by your question, as if he hadn't dared deny you endlessly before. "Of course. The wine—where shall I bring it?"

The door to the study opens, and Astarion answers for you, "She will take it in here, Bryon."

Your eyebrows drawn, you watch the servant scurry away down the hall. The compulsion, it seems, has expired. You wonder when exactly he had been compelled.

Astarion leans against the door. "I do hope you're taking notes. Shall I procure for you a notebook to jot down your observations and hypotheses?"

He's mocking your efforts to understand his tricks. "Your compulsions are uncanny, Astarion. Disturbing."

You brush past him to enter his study and immediately throw your flame into the fireplace, bringing it to life.

Astarion closes the door, sealing you both in. "Most people are pawns, my dear. With me, you simply see them acting like it. Committing to the role, one might say."

You sit stiffly at one of the plush chairs in front of his desk. "You're wasting his time."

"Your safety is hardly a waste."

The fist in your lap tightens, and there's a burst of flames from the fireplace. "Do you think I need sunlight to hurt myself?"

He watches you, considering. "Can you burn in your own flames, my love?"

You reach for said flame from the fireplace, letting it warm your palm. It's imperceptibly close to your skin. "Shall we find out?"

He comes closer and places a hand at either side of the arms of your chair, leaning down to you. "Now why would you ever want to harm yourself?"

You look down at your fire. "I'm certain you've felt a similar desire under Cazador's thumb."

His usual mockery is gone, hardening into an unyielding stare. "And I'm certain that comparatively, your circumstances are highly favorable."

You lean back in the chair, seeking distance. "It's a different kind of hell, let's say."

"Is it?"

"Perhaps you should stick me in the dungeons with Sylas."

"You don't belong down there."

Your flame pops into a million little sparks, and Astarion recoils immediately. You stand, shoving at his arm. "Only because you couldn't touch me so easily."

His smile is cold. "Is it a crime that I enjoy you so?"

"You could hardly have my skin against yours, Astarion. You could hardly bear it."

"Well, a lot has changed, hasn't it?" His hand wraps tightly around your wrist and he tugs you close, dragging you step by step to his desk. "Do you think our friends will notice just how much you have changed?"

"I'm the same as I was. But you—"

You're interrupted by a knock on the door.

Astarion calls, "Enter."

Bryon enters silently, eyes low to the ground, with a singular goblet of your wine. He places it on one of the small tables by the entry, and retreats without so much as a glance.

Not a second after the door closes, you're swiftly bent down over the desk. Astarion's force is unavoidable as he holds you down easily with one hand between your shoulder blades, and another clutching your wrists behind you.

"You know, I've been doing some research myself," he says, grip tightening on your fingers. "You can't summon your hellfire if you can't wiggle these little hands." He bends over you, his breath in your ear. "And it's not just your flames... You can't cast anything can you?"

Gods, even through your robes you can feel how hard he is.

You squirm, trying to find any loosening of pressure, but he only squeezes tighter.

"I do love seeing you like this," he purrs.

"You're disgusting," you grit out, your cheek digging into the wood.

He hums. "Keep moving, love, and I'll show you just how disgusting I can be."

There's another knock on the door, and you can tell it frustrates him from the way he quickly releases you. Your hands find purchase on the desk and by the time you push yourself up, Astarion is already seated in his chair, a piercing gaze fixed on you.

Then, his attention falls to your robes. "You might want to tie your belt a little tighter, darling."

Your neckline is parted wide, your breasts almost on display. Your skin burns as you hastily pull your robe around you, the fabric loosened at the shoulders.

Yes. He loves seeing you like this. Handled roughly, flustered, and agitated.

At Astarion's permission, the door opens, and a female in heavyset armor with a greatsword strapped to her back clambers into the study. You recognize her immediately, the symbol of the Flaming Fists printed on her cloak.

"My lord, and lady," she greets. "I bid you good afternoon."

It's Azula—the other Fist official that had joined Sylas and the Duke for dinner on that fateful night.

She continues, "I'm in search of Sir Sylas Vore. Duke Ravengard informed me that I would find him here."

"Oh, he did, didn't he?" Astarion smiles, intertwining his hands before him. "Unfortunately, Sylas Vore has taken ill. Some mishap regarding food."

"Food? Was he poisoned?"

"Yes—that very night of our dinner, in fact. I've had to restaff my entire kitchen." He leans forward, his expression serious. "You and the Duke were lucky to have not partaken in dessert."

"I'm sad to hear that, my lord—about your kitchen." There is concern on her brow. "Is Sylas alright?"

"We have opened up our home to Sir Vore, and he is receiving the most excellent care. He should be back to the Fists within the week."

She nods. "I would still like to see him, my lord."

"And I would like nothing more than to permit you." His insincere kindness revolts you. "But he himself has denied visitors until he can recover."

You scoff, and move to leave, but Astarion stops you. "Actually, Lilith, my love, would you kindly go check on our guest?"

You don't respond, watching him warily.

His smiles, his eyes sliding back to Azula. "And do ensure that he's taking his medicine."

Already his hair is paler, the color slowly seeking to mimic his skin. His eyes are dreary, as if he hadn't slept in days; their hue is a muddy mahogany at best.

The moment Sylas Vore sees you, his back straightens against the wall he's leaning against, seated at the very corner of the cell. The dungeons are cold, and uninviting. How long has he been down here for? Days? A week?

"Good afternoon," you offer, approaching slowly.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, which is rough with disuse. "Afternoon?" He coughs. "Time doesn't mean much down here, my lady."

You eye the goblets of blood, arranged neatly in a line against the wall opposite of him. He has refused to feed, if the color of his eyes is any indication. You wonder when the last time Astarion had been down here. Surely, he could easily compel him to drink.

You arrange your robes so you can sit on the ground by the bars. "I am sorry for this, Sylas."

He swallows, and doesn't hide the pain he feels from the ache in his throat. "What might you be sorry for, my lady?"

"Lilith," you say. "Please call me Lilith." You let your forehead lean against the cool metal. "I am sorry for most things these days." When he doesn't respond, you reach between the bars, and take a hold of one of the goblets closest to you. "Drink with me?"

"It's blood," he croaks.

"It's sustenance." You glance down at the goblet. "This is what we are now."

"A vampire."

"Vampire spawn," you correct, and you wonder if he knows what that means.

But he doesn't ask questions. Instead, he closes his eyes, as if seeking any sort of reprieve from this place. The name he speaks is barely a whisper, "Oh, Anneliese."

"What?"

"Oh, Gods," he groans, his head thumping painfully on the wall. "What am I to do?"

Anneliese. You rest a careful hand on the bars. "Is she a friend, a sibling, a lover?"

"She's—" His head shakes, as if he can't comprehend this situation. "I need to see her."

A lover, then. Your eyes lower, and the tragedy slices through your chest. You want to apologize, perhaps even beg for forgiveness for a crime you did not commit. But you need to be stronger than your own self-pity. You need him to be stronger than this.

"If you want to see her," you say, raising your glass, "you must drink."

His lip curls. "It's blood."

"If you want to see her," you repeat slowly, "you will drink."

Perhaps he takes it as a threat, perhaps he doesn't—but nonetheless, he eyes the goblets across from him. Slowly, inch by inch, he crawls towards them.

It is mesmerizing how motivating love can be. It is equally as cursed with the way it can persuade you to commit any act you once deemed repulsive.

You see the change in him the moment he lifts the goblet, and the blood graces his tongue.

He doesn't stop. The goblet falls to the ground the moment he downs it, and he's already picking up another. He is a man who has starved himself of his nature, and now his body will not permit any restraint.

By the time he has drained all of them, he eyes the one in your hand. You stand, and extend it out to him in offering.

But he lunges towards you, and knocks the goblet to the ground, the blood splashing your robes through the bars. Instead, he grabs your hand, and his teeth sink into your wrist.

You cry out, trying to yank back your arm, but Sylas has two hands wrapped painfully around your forearm. You feel as he draws from you steadily, and hungrily. With no other choice, you summon a sudden burst of flames in your palm, and Sylas's teeth retract quickly. He hisses away.

He isn't himself, you know, as he staggers back.

But the moment passes, and his hunger cues begin to align with his awareness. The haze from his eyes lifts, and he stares at you. "My lady, I'm—"

You clutch your wrist. "Not a word, Sylas." You press a hand against your veins that are already closing up.

"Gods—"

You speak quickly, and lowly. "I want you to imagine that I'm not your lady, but your Anneliese. Because had it been her, she would have been dead." You narrow your eyes at him. "You will keep yourself under control, and you will feed at appropriate intervals. Do you understand?"

He nods quickly, his expression a twist of fear and regret, as if he cannot reconcile who he is with what he was just a moment ago.

You take a step closer, ignoring the blood soaking your robes. "And if you want your lover alive, you will not breathe a word of her existence. Not around the servants, and especially not around Astarion."

There's uncertainty in his eyes. "But—"

You need him to understand. "He has damned you, Sylas. But he will destroy her."

A/N: This chapter was brought to you by The Killing Kind by Marianas Trench.

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