Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

His dove. His beautiful, perfect dove, flying from him.

Astarion followed her, as he knew he always would. She flitted through the woods ahead of him, white hair appearing a silvery-blue to his vision in the dark as she ran towards the city. Its wall rose ahead of them, but she’d chosen not to approach a gate. There was a flat area by the wall where the woods had long since been cleared away. He’d catch her there, stop her, end this madness. Sending his dove into the lair of a monster? What had he been thinking?

He reached the edge of the trees and put on a burst of speed, knowing she could never outrun him—but she was already gone. A low curse left him. She must have used her damned spells to go over the wall. Panic clawed at his stilled heart. At this rate she would reach the defiled chapel before him.

His fingers pressed into the stonework of the wall, finding the nicks too small to support any weight. The magic infusing his undead body allowed him to scramble up the sheer face at inhuman speeds. He swore he saw white hair at the top of the wall where she looked back at him, then it was gone again.

Baldur’s Gate was crowded tonight. Lamps lit the streets of the Lower City. The smell of cooking food and booze and the filth of humanity pervaded the air. His lip curled with annoyance as he shoved through the merry-makers, ignoring them all. Birds flitted high over the crowds, well above their petty concerns. Rats scurried through the gutters, watching, always watching, waiting to snatch what crumbs they could gather.

The Crimson Palace’s side entrance was just ahead. Tonight it was unguarded, as it always had been when he’d brought his victims here. A white feather lay at the door, a sign of her passing. He didn’t need it to know that she’d been here. Her blood’s divine scent hung in the air, clinging to his mind and wrapping more raw horror into his heart. Cazador would know her scent too. He’d recognize the power in her blood, taste it, glory in the sunny wine of her life force, become as addicted to it as Astarion had—but Cazador wouldn’t let the dove nestle sweetly in his hands like his spawn did. He would break her wings to keep her from flying away.

The vampire tore through the empty palace, feet tracing familiar steps, flying up the stairs to Cazador’s chambers, bursting through the door, forcing open the hidden entry to the elevator he’d kept so cleverly guarded to hide his ritual from his so-called children. The elevator platform was already returning from another use. She was in the chapel.

The stone hallway to the chapel was excruciatingly long, deathly silent, until his sharp ears caught the sound of swallowing ahead of him. The smell of her blood. His blood, it was his—

The chapel had changed. The ritual platform was cut off from the entry. The yawning pit around it had no way to cross over, yet he saw her there, saw him there. The twisted monster had her on her knees, stripped down to a white underdress. A bloodstain from her neck down to her heart left part of the flimsy cloth nearly sheer. Her robes were in tatters on the ritual stones. The black ribbon that held her focus gem was carelessly torn and tossed aside, the gem shattered.

The unnaturally tall figure knelt behind her, gripping her shoulders so tightly she couldn’t move. His long black hair mixed with her grey-white strands as he fed from her neck. Blood dripped, wasted, its heavenly scent wafting to Astarion across the chasm. The panic tore out of his throat in a scream. “Dreya!”

Dreya’s green eyes went to him, and she smiled. Her angelic features were exhausted, wan, but she wasn’t afraid, just… tired. Worshipful. Not towards the beast draining her, towards him. She believed he would save her, she knew he would save her, and he would, he would, but to cross the chasm—

Frustration made him want to tear at anything in his reach, but there was nothing but stone walls. His crimson eyes fixed on hers. “Why did you come back here?!”

“She never left, boy.”

The high-pitched voice split Astarion’s skull with clarity. The beast’s eyes looked up, and no—they weren’t Cazador’s. It wore Cazador’s face and body and voice, a sick joke of the shapeshifter, but the eyes glowed yellow. Its bloodstained lips smiled as Astarion spat its name.

“Corvallis.” Hatred thrummed through Astarion’s veins. He was no spawn, no lesser creature bound to the ground at his feet. He was the Vampire Ascendant, power incarnate. Dreya’s eyes weren’t green, they were the same crimson as his own, the eyes of his consort, his darling, his dove, his most precious treasure—just out of reach.

Nothing would work. Astarion tried to turn to mist, to transform to a bat, but his powers were useless here, useless against the shapeshifter patron clinging to his love. Dreya’s expression flinched with pain as its teeth dug into her again. “Astarion, please…” Its hands tightened on her so harshly that he heard the bones in her shoulders cracking. She sobbed.

Red flooded his mind. Her wings were breaking. The chasm had to be filled. Blood flowed past his feet, the blood of the seven thousand spawn, raining into the pit… but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

The voice again. “How much blood would you spill to save her, boy?”

The rats.

Astarion reached out to the rats in the streets, in the alleys, in the holes and dens and sewers, and they obeyed his will instantly. Screams burned into the sky from Baldur’s Gate as millions of filthy paws scrambled, as millions of sharp teeth chewed, as millions of putrid bodies writhed through the crowds above, tearing flesh from flesh and bone from bone, rending every man, woman, and child without mercy, draining their blood into the gutters. It washed past Astarion in great gouts, the city itself bleeding an ocean, its throat cut with his own hands more thoroughly and efficiently than any Bhaalspawn could ever dream.

The blood drained endlessly into the pit, filling, filling, the sea rising below them. Astarion could see nothing but red, hear nothing but Dreya’s screams, smell nothing but her blood. And finally… it all stilled.

A perfect pool of crimson bridged the chasm. Its surface shone as smooth as a mirror. He stepped onto the surface. The liquid rippled from his foot, sound echoing like it was marble. Triumph bloomed in his beating heart as he strode towards his prize. His darling. His Dreya.

She still knelt; Corvallis let go of her as Astarion approached. The beast slipped back as silent as a whisper, Cazador’s features left in a rictus grin. Astarion ignored him as he bent down to scoop up his love, longing to feel her arms, her gentle hands, her head against his chest—but he froze, seeing her vacant eyes looking past him, horror etched into the beautiful face, tears staining her cheeks.

Her voice came out in a soft, hoarse whisper. “Astarion… what have you done?”

The screams he’d heard… she’d been screaming for him to stop.

Hastily, Astarion crouched down, taking her head in his hands, desperately wiping away the tears. “Pet—my darling—it had to be done. You freed me, my love, and I had to free you! He’ll never touch you again!”

“How many did you kill?” she asked dully, her eyes still fixed on the pool of blood.

Anger and panic touched him, his expression twisting to a snarl. “It doesn’t matter! Our future, your future, is greater than any number of them!”

Corvallis, still using the voice of Cazador, spoke. “How many oceans of blood will he spill to keep you, pup?”

Dreya’s breath hitched in a sob. “Endless…”

Astarion couldn’t breathe. “No! No, darling, never again! I swear.” She stood, and he felt relief. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pressing her to his body, clinging to her like she might disappear. “You’re free now, pet, free to be mine, only mine. You’ll never see him again.”

Another sob, another whisper. “Endless deaths… endless oceans…”

Corvallis spread his arms. The voice was comforting. Calm. Soothing. “He’s a monster. Come to me, muse. Let me be your refuge from him.”

Dreya tried to pull away. Another surge of anger and panic, and Astarion tightened his arms. “He’ll hurt you!”

Another whisper, another sob. “You hurt me, Astarion…”

His hands were cupped together. A weak fluttering beat against them. A dove, his beautiful, perfect dove lay in his palms… her body crushed. Its wings still moved, its head still twitched. Its white feathers were stained with the red bleeding from its own body.

Corvallis—Cazador—laughed. Dreya lay in his arms in a bridal carry, her broken body curled against his chest. “Goodbye. And thank you—she would never have come to me willingly without you, boy.” Darkness enveloped them, and they were gone, leaving the vampire alone.

Astarion stood rooted on the stone platform. His powerful hands shook, holding the destruction he’d wrought. The fragile body began to melt, dripping impossible amounts of gore. It covered the platform, filled the pit above its brim, rose ever higher, covering his mouth, his nose, his eyes—

The sound of light footsteps forced Astarion’s eyes open. They shifted to the tall clock near the open double doors leading onto the high balcony, where the footsteps came from. Gossamer white curtains ruffled in the wind. Her shadow was behind them for only a moment longer before she emerged. No doubt she’d climbed the palace’s wall again to come straight back to their room, all to avoid being seen on her return. His dove, his beautiful, perfect dove… sort of. He huffed and gave his hand a slight wave. “Burn those rags quickly, pet, they don’t suit you.”

Dreya gave him a smile as she pushed back her cheaply made hood. Her red eyes looked over him as he relaxed back in a plush chair, his powerful body half-sprawled in its breadth. He wore a red and silver robe left unfastened down to his waist. Not an hour earlier he’d put this on and admired himself in the dressing room mirror, thinking about how she would look at him when she returned. But after his dream…

His half-elf unfastened the brown cloak around her shoulders as she strolled over to the fireplace that currently glowed with the only internal light in the room. The smell of blood wafted behind her from the brown-red stains on her plain dress and pants. Her boots, her belt, her spell focus, and her knives had been left on the balcony. Tomorrow she would clean them, but the rest of what she wore for her wet-work was easier to replace than to hide. She tore the bloody cloak in two and fed half of it into the fireplace.

Astarion glanced at the clock again. “You’re late,” he complained coldly. “I fell asleep waiting for you, my darling. And I smell other scents on you. Who else did you kill?”

“Two thieves,” she admitted. “They beat a shopkeeper near death a couple of weeks ago. I recognized their smell when I was coming home.”

“And they couldn’t wait?” he snapped. “What about the bodies?”

“The sewers.” She tugged off the dress and bundled it up before feeding it into the fireplace. “If the Flaming Fist find them down there when they’re still recognizable, they’ll assume it was business gone wrong. Just knives, no fangs or magic.”

The Flaming Fist would never find them; the rats would make sure of that. Far, far below them, tiny paws raced at his will, hunting for the corpses. Astarion huffed, watching her pull off her pants, her underwear, and the strips of cloth she bound her breasts with while on a hunt. They went into the fire too. Normally he would’ve already had his hands on her, but after the dream…

Dreya loosed the tight bun she’d put her hair in, allowing the long white strands to flow down her bare back. The dark red streaks mixed in with the white stabbed at him, eerily reminding him of the crushed body in his hands. Her pale skin was painted with the brown of the dried blood that had soaked through her clothes. She turned back to him and walked to his chair, her expression slightly quizzical. “Astarion, this isn’t the first time I’ve been late, but it’s the first time you’ve been upset about it. What’s wrong?”

He pressed his lips together tightly. Normally when she came back from her little bouts of vigilantism, she was more than eager to give herself to him, practically crawling into his lap to be devoured by him. He was tempted to pry into her mind, to see exactly why she was reticent tonight. The dream made it feel imperative to know. It hardly took effort to reach into her, to feel—

Concern. For him. He should’ve known she would curb herself when he seemed upset, even after these years had passed. Her eyes stayed on his face, not venturing down to his body as she willed herself not to give in to her desire. The feeling of her bloodlust’s giddy ardor brought him a brief, satisfied smile. His dove… she was still his, and she always would be. In a dream it was difficult not to crush the fragile, adoring creature in his hands, but in reality? In reality, she was easy enough to please. If an ocean of blood could be shed for her affections, he would do it, but she didn’t even want such grand destruction in her name. In his mind’s eye he could see a future, the future he’d described to her once—him on a throne, ruling with an iron fist, and her, the benevolent queen beloved by her subjects for curbing their king’s worst impulses. Perhaps someday she would come around to such a beautiful vision, but for now all he had to do to keep her love was to kill the right people and control the rest more… quietly.

But then, that hadn’t been what the dream was about. It had been about the beast that still owned her. Her freedom.

Dreya lightly touched his hand. Astarion roused himself and rose to his feet, standing taller than his lovely little consort. “I simply realized what day tomorrow is, pet.”

Her face tightened. She knew better than he did what he meant. Dreya forced a smile, affectionately pulling his hand to her lips, kissing his fingers lightly. “I’ll only be gone an hour.” In Corvallis’s domain, time moved differently. An hour for Astarion, but how long for her?

This was the price in her warlock pact, part of what had been arranged when they negotiated with Corvallis to allow Dreya to stay with Astarion. Every month, at midnight on the full moon, she went to her patron’s domain. For two moons, it would be… acceptable. The bizarre patron simply talked to her, stole one kiss, and let her leave with the end of Faerûn’s hour. But every third moon… every third moon he took her to his bed again. Tomorrow was the third moon.

Every third moon, she was returned to Astarion. He always waited for her. She could only ever remember flashes of the shapeshifter taking her. Sometimes she came back panicked and shaking in horror, her mind half-rent by eldritch whispers. Sometimes she just cried in his arms. Sometimes she practically tore her lord’s clothes off and lavished him with her attentions until her exhaustion dragged her to sleep. Every third moon, Astarion was there, doing whatever his dove desired after the monster that owned her pact broke her wings again.

Astarion forced his temper down. Impotent fury beat at his mind, rage that he couldn’t protect her, that he couldn’t stop his own treasure from being violated. And here she was trying to comfort him when she was the one being hurt. How typical of her. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper and take his hatred out on her. He couldn’t frighten her tonight.

“I’m sorry I still haven’t found our solution, my love.”

Dreya shook her head, allowing the forced smile to fade. “I know you’ll find a way, eventually, but pacts are hard to break, and it’s only been a couple of years. It’s not so bad, Astarion. One night of him, and the rest of the time I’m yours.”

Astarion studied her eyes, indulged himself in her mind again. She truly believed that he would free her from her patron, just as she’d freed him from Cazador. The worshipful belief in his dream was real, but so was the rest. If spilling an ocean of blood could break her pact, his only hesitation would be from his fear of breaking her. He didn’t know if he could bear seeing her love for him die in trade for her never having to touch her patron again. A selfish, greedy notion, he knew, but he told himself that it was for her. She couldn’t bear to have her heart broken by his cruelty.

If only ridding her of her patron was such a simple equation of power.

Dreya knew the cold, helpless disgust in his eyes. She began to kneel, her hands touching the fastening of his robe, not undoing it yet, silently asking for permission. He watched her, his adoration swelling at the sight of her giving herself to him so sweetly. Her hands were gentle, always so gentle with him. They always had been.

A fervent hunger drove through his mind. Astarion seized her wrists and pulled her back to her feet just long enough to sweep her up in a bridal carry, holding her against his body like Corvallis had in the dream. That was a nightmare, this was real. She was his. A few steps took him to their bed. He tossed her down on the deep red bedspread and jerked his own robe off, carelessly dropping it on the floor as he crawled over her. A single kiss, then he dove to her neck and bit her.

Her blissful moan filled his mind; her heavenly blood filled his mouth. She was his blood, his consort, his dove, his weakness. No nightmare about a shapeshifter would change that. Astarion pressed his middle finger into her mouth, cutting it on her fang intentionally, allowing a few drops of his own precious blood to drip onto her tongue. The sensation of her full lips closing around him, the suggestive sound of her sucking the blood from his finger, it all spoke of who she truly belonged to. Corvallis had made Dreya his before she’d ever met a vampire, but Astarion was who Dreya had chosen.

Even after ascension, her powerful blood revitalized him. He felt stronger, sharper, more level after drinking her, but it was never enough to satisfy his appetites. Her tongue licked around his finger deliciously, begging him for more as her hunger strengthened. Normally he kept her blood-thirst mostly stifled with his will, but tonight he couldn’t resist the urge to control her even more, to remind her of the depths of their bond.

Dreya gave a short, pained gasp as his grip on her hunger eased away, leaving her ravenous. She’d never had to learn how to control herself without him, and she never would. Her teeth almost closed on his finger sharply; he was impressed that she managed to hold back her urge to bite him. His mouth was still occupied with leisurely savoring her, but she heard his voice in her mind, felt his approval. “Good girl.” He cut his finger on her fang again, deeper this time. She sucked on him more fervently, low whimpers of lust breaking from her throat. His other hand went between her legs to feel the arousal he could smell on her skin. Her lips were slick and warm with desire, deliciously prepared for him.

Astarion made himself release her neck, but he left the bite open for now. He pulled his finger from her mouth, ignoring her murmur of protest. Her body was his, just like her blood. A smile touched him again, his hand tracing her throat, tempting her with his bleeding finger. She closed her eyes to focus on pushing away the instinct to bite him and feed. So sweet, not to lunge for the one thing she couldn’t help but desire. No wonder he could never allow her to become a lord. He would lose all of this. But the night had been clear—she could gorge herself on his blood, he could allow her to feed on him endlessly, drink enough of him to fill the Chionthar, but she would never become a true vampire unless he intended for it to happen.

Dreya seized his hand, her own hands trembling as she pulled it up to her mouth, kissing his reddened fingers again as she begged. “Please—I’m so hungry, Astarion. Help me.” She knew it was a game, she knew he was allowing her to feel this starvation, but still she played and didn’t lick his blood from him without his permission. How darling she was, to give him the satisfaction he craved from her.

“My lovely little dove…” Astarion considered, fantasizing about the myriad of things he could do to her, the way she would moan his name. His name… he hadn’t insisted on something more fitting in private for months now. Tomorrow she had to return to a nightmare, but tonight he would remind her of how he adored her.

He wrapped his arm under her and pulled her against him, a short command to her mind making her hook her legs around his waist briefly so he could reposition her. She felt as light as a feather to him since the Ascension. It only took a moment to pull her up the bed with him, laying her head back on the pillows. Some soft black ropes remained tied to the headboard from their previous games. Another compelled command; she didn’t even try to resist putting her wrists above her head. He tied each of them separately.

Astarion sat up on his knees between her legs, looking down at her, his desire making him throb with hunger he could only sate with her touch. He was the Vampire Ascendant, yet he was nigh controlled by the sorceress in his bed and his appetite for her worship. His arousal had to be tightly contained, just for a few more minutes. It would be worth waiting. “Tell me what I am to you, pet.”

She swallowed hard. He could feel her trying not to squirm from the hunger and lust. “My master.” A good answer, but not what he was looking for tonight.

“Try again, my darling.”

“My lord.”

“Again.”

Dreya had to search for a moment before finding another name to use. He’d never insisted on this one. “My love,” she murmured, watching his eyes. Perfection. He could feel her heart melting in her chest, a swell of affection from him mixing the emotion with the control he so badly craved.

His thumb brushed over her lips. “Good girl, dove. I shouldn’t be depriving my darling when she loves me so terribly, should I?” He used his own fang to make a cut on his wrist, then pressed it to her mouth and gave her another compelled command. Her eyes glowed red as he spoke, another beautiful sign of their bond, how she’d trusted him enough to give her mind over to his orders. “Drink me, slowly. Let euphoria drive you to your ruin.”

Dreya’s fangs touched his skin as she wrapped her lips over him, but she managed not to sink them into his flesh. His blood drew a moan of relief from her. He eased her hunger back down, letting it be more manageable. A moment later his other command caught up to her body, forcing her to cum without a single touch, without him building the sensation. Her whole body tightened in sudden ecstasy, her wrists twisting at the ropes to free herself. Her love bled through their connection. Astarion stifled his own gasp, staring, yearning for her as he watched her climax in his bed. Her lips glistened, practically begging for him.

No, she wasn’t done. Tonight she would sleep so soundly that no nightmares of Corvallis would intrude on her, only dreams of her lord. “Again,” he compelled sharply, leaning in between her breasts and sinking his fangs into her over her heart. Another helpless, immodest moan, her body shivering beneath him, her sex dripping. The thought of how wet she was could drive him mad if he allowed it, but his control of himself remained. Tonight wasn’t the time for wild, unabated passion.

Her blood was streaked down his chin from her body pulling against his teeth while he’d drunk. Astarion kissed down to her stomach, breathing her in, brushing his fingers over her vulva. He couldn’t resist tasting his fingertips, looking up her body. His wrist in her mouth blocked her from seeing him for a moment, so he pulled himself away from her, licking over his self-inflicted wound once to close it. “Enough, pet.”

His blood stained her lips. She was breathtaking like this, panting in the aftermath of her ecstasy, watching him use her. Astarion trailed his fingers down her lower abdomen. He’d never used their bond to force her to climax more than once, always preferring to stimulate her directly to coax more out of her body. Tonight, he could think of nothing more lovely than the reminder that he could provide her more pleasure than anyone else in the world. A nip to the thigh only drew a soft whimper. She knew that he would taste her now, and he would, but not quite as she expected. He fixed his eyes on her, allowing her another charming smile as he compelled her. “Again. As hard as you can.” A soothing tone as the command took hold, driving a gasp from her lungs. “Let me hear you, little dove.”

Astarion kissed into her lips deeply, working himself into her, fucking her with his tongue as she quivered and her cunt wrapped around him eagerly. She was suddenly flush with wetness, almost gushing around his tongue. He drank her sex as greedily as he drank her blood, his attention latched onto her mind. It was filled with confused bliss, her worry for the next day stuffed away in a corner as Astarion crowded it out. She practically sobbed out her ecstasy, overwhelmed by the sensation coming so quickly. “Gods—Astarion—!”

He loved it when she cried for him like that, exactly as she’d done it their first night together. She probably didn’t even realize the significance. A deep sense of satisfaction coiled in him with his lust as she calmed. Tasting her was always so gratifying.

Dreya’s body was trembling slightly as Astarion moved back over her, allowing his rock-hard shaft settle between her legs. He caressed her cheek, studying her eyes, connecting the exhaustion he saw with the love he felt. There was concern in her mind too, concern that he was giving her too much sensation to handle, that she would be too worn by it to please him. She leaned into his hand, tugging at the rope on her wrist lightly. A hope against hope that it would be loose, he knew, wanting to hold his hand against her sweating body.

“You called me ‘Astarion,’ pet,” he complained coolly, hiding his enjoyment of it behind mild annoyance. “Try something else next time.”

She almost flinched from the effort of thinking through the cloud left by the unnaturally close-together orgasms, seeming to mentally struggle for a moment. “Astario—Master. I might need a minute to recover.”

“Anything for you, my darling,” he purred, leaning in close to her and kissing her. He could taste his blood on her, just as she could taste her blood and her wetness on him. “I will have to insist on ‘my love,’ pet.” A teasing, predatory grin crossed his face as he moved over to her ear, his teeth finding the lobe for a moment. “When you say it, I may not be able to resist demanding that you cum a fourth time. Choose your moment.”

A small amount of control returned to her hands, a treat for his treasure.

Astarion finally moved his hips closer and pressed his sensitive cock’s head into her, feeling how impossibly warm she was, how wet, how willingly she parted her legs wider for him. He laid his hand on her neck lightly to frame her face, once again struck by the sight of his consort closing her eyes in bliss, her lips parting with a moan as he filled her, lacking the initial, tantalizing trace of pain she so often experienced when she tried to accommodate his girth. This time she was so wet her body needed no time to adapt to him again, instead welcoming him hungrily. The yearning he felt for her pleasure forced his own lips apart, allowed an immodest groan of his own. Perhaps the sight of his consort’s ecstasy would eventually lose its spark if he were still only an elf, but he trusted the night’s whispers, the promises that their bond tied their lusts together so strongly that he would never lose his fervor for her.

Astarion’s fangs returned to her neck. Her scent clouded him like a perfume, clear and rich from the drying trickles of her blood left from his bites. He began to thrust, slowly, sensually, savoring every drop he drank, every quiver of his dove, every note she sang in his ear. She consumed his senses, crowding out every thought of anything but her. Her own mind suffered the same sweet affliction, drowning in her lover’s touch, in his hands moving over her body tenderly, in the moans against her neck as he swallowed her, in the glow of bliss he’d demanded her body give her before taking his own pleasure. He could feel it all in their bond.

It was almost enough to keep Astarion from noticing the near-silent footstep behind them.

He whipped around and caught an arm descending with a wooden stake in hand, meeting the red eyes of a suddenly terrified human man. An enraged snarl ripped from Astarion’s throat. He flung the man away effortlessly and rose to his feet, stepping off the bed and striding towards the intruder.

It wasn’t just a normal human, though. The red eyes, the lack of heartbeat, the pale complexion? “Spawn,” he spat, disgust dripping from his tone. “How dare you.” A terrifying aura flooded the air, a presence released by the Vampire Ascendant, a small taste of his fury. He left a pocket free of the utter horror being struck in the minds of those around him, a small pocket to protect his dove. The temperature plummeted abruptly, letting his own warm breath steam the air slightly. It was only by his grace that he didn’t simply allow the room to utterly freeze, to let ice coat every surface around him. That grace was only driven by his darling, knowing she wouldn’t enjoy their room being filled with water. Besides… she hadn’t seen most of the powers the night had given him, not yet. There was no need to use anything past his presence.

The spawn was dressed in tattered workman’s clothes. He scrambled back, stammering, visibly trying not to panic from the aura’s influence. “I-I can explain!”

Astarion smiled viciously. As if any explanation could be good enough to excuse attacking him at all, much less attacking him with his consort in his arms. “I don’t care.”

A second spawn, an elf woman, darted through the curtain of the balcony, shakily aiming a hand crossbow at him. He easily darted away when she fired; the bolt didn’t even come close to him. The man was back on his feet and tried to use the stake again, but as fast as a vampire spawn was, it was nothing compared to the prowess of the Ascendant. Astarion snatched his wrist and broke it with a swift jerk, then caught the stake when it fell from his grasp and drove it into the human’s heart. He turned back to the woman, only to find her distracted. Her eyes had fallen on Dreya. There was ravenous hunger on her face, smelling the intoxicating fragrance of his darling from the open bite on her neck.

A sudden flash came to his mind, a memory of the night they’d been attacked at the Elfsong, when his siblings had come to drag him back to Cazador. Dalyria had slashed Dreya with her claws, spilling the same blood Astarion couldn’t help but crave, and the scent had nearly dazed her. He’d heard the thirst in her voice as she’d attacked to immobilize his lover, changing from her attempt to kill. “No—the master will want you.” And Dalyria had been right. Cazador had caught the scent through Dalyria’s mind as clearly as if he’d bled her himself. As Astarion had been suspended in the ritual circle, he’d heard Cazador command his minions. “Bring me the sorceress. Kill the rest.”

Blinding rage at the thought of another vampire possessing Dreya destroyed his better judgment. The woman’s face looked like Dalyria’s to him. Who knew what vampire lord had just caught Dreya’s scent, again, through the eyes of an attacking spawn? He kicked the woman through the white curtain. It tore free with her as she was thrown off the balcony, a scream ripping from her. No! He should have questioned her. Someone had sent them.

Another opportunity was granted. He heard a whispered, “Now!” Two other spawn dropped onto the wide balcony, nearly simultaneously, and charged him. He couldn’t hold down a derisive laugh, comparing the sight to some clowns he’d seen once. And clowns they were, if they thought only two of them had a chance to kill him. They’d both brought stakes, but Astarion knew he would end the night without being touched by so much as a splinter. He smiled dangerously, plucking the stake out of his first kill and tossing it up in a twirl as they advanced on him. It had been a while since he’d had the pleasure of a fight.

Two more clambered up onto the balcony and ran in, directly for the bed. The blinding rage came again. Dreya was there, he’d left her tied—

An enraged kick shattered the leg of the first to come near him. A swift strike broke the arm of the next. A single stab killed the second, but the first threw himself down and seized Astarion’s ankle. “Hurry!”

There was a struggle at the bed. The woman spawn was kicked back, an incantation in Dreya’s voice rose in the air, then a scream from the male attacker. Astarion snarled and turned to mist, feeling and ignoring the impotent grab of the broken-legged spawn as he flew to his darling’s side. He emerged to his full form again over her, seizing the throat of the man by her head.

Dreya had cut one hand loose with her own claws, it seemed; she gripped the wrist of the blue-skinned tiefling man by her head as he spasmed from her shocking grasp. The creature had some bits of her flesh in its teeth. Its lips were messily covered in her blood. His blood, Astarion thought angrily, his grip tightening. The tell-tale burns of sunlight were etched on his panicked face. Deserved, Astarion thought contemptuously.

That sunny blood of hers did more than just smell tantalizing. It allowed her to channel true, pure, radiant sunlight without burning to death like any others would if they didn’t first swear fealty to the sun god Lathander and receive his blessing. Her ‘blessing’ was artificial, but just as effective, and it made her so, so much sweeter to the very monsters such a blessing made her equipped to hunt. Every piece of magic that came from her blood now was infused with burning radiance—and it was glorious to him, another beautiful mark of their love.

After all—her heavenly blood had come from consuming a gift of never-before-seen magic from her patron, all to protect Astarion, all when he was nothing but a lowly, pathetic creature that could never be her equal. When Astarion referred to his spawn self so derisively Dreya was angry, of course—she truly loved him before he’d had any power to give her. She’d risked her life on experimental magic just to be able to burn his master and free him. And now, he would burn the world for her if she only asked. But first… he would burn the spawn that had dared to bite the consort of the Vampire Ascendant.

The other spawn by the bed, an elf woman, was raising a stake. Dreya snarled another incantation, angling her bound hand to direct her eldritch blast directly into the woman’s chest. Astarion darted off the bed again, dragging the tiefling by the throat still as it flailed. The elf woman hadn’t had time to regain her feet before Astarion appeared over her. One powerful stomp came down on her head, crushing her skull. A fitting end for someone that had attacked his beloved. The broken-legged one was next, this time with a stake to the heart. And then there was the blue tiefling…

Without a word, Astarion dragged him over to the fireplace, kicked him onto his stomach, and shoved his head into the flames, holding him in place with a foot on his back. The Ascendant’s ears were filled by his own anger and the agonized screaming that sated it. His face was rigid with cold hatred. This monstrous, filthy beast had touched his angel.

Her hands seized his shoulder, and suddenly he could hear her again. “Astarion, stop!”

Astarion looked down at Dreya. She’d finished cutting herself free, obviously. The soft black rope fragments still hung from her wrists. She was still naked, and at least to his eyes, delicate. Astarion couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Even tied to their bed without her focus at hand, she’d defended herself well without her lord. Her cantrips alone had been enough for a spawn. His eyes went to the side of her neck. The tiefling must have had his teeth buried in her when she’d shocked him. He’d torn a brutal rip through her skin and flesh. Blood ran down her shoulder and chest, over her heart, a bizarre mirror of his nightmare. He concealed it from his face, but the sight of her injury made his own blood run cold. She’d defended herself from spawn, but if a lord had appeared… no. She could never face a lord, not without him. It couldn’t be risked. “You’re hurt, pet. Go back to bed, I’ll join you in a moment.”

“No! Let him up!” It was hard to notice through the frigid rage, but her eyes were frightened. “Please.”

Astarion growled, looking down at the creature struggling under his foot. The temptation to crush his spine was overwhelming. But for her…

He reached down and hauled the tiefling back by his shirt. The man kept screaming, sobbing through blinded eyes, left in too much agony to bear. Dreya seemed sickened, but she bowed her head to Astarion gratefully, letting her hand move from his shoulder to clamp over the wound on her neck. “Thank you. We, ah. We need to question him.”

A good excuse for stopping him, but Astarion knew she simply didn’t have the stomach for burning a random attacker alive, slowly, in a fireplace. Her lightning boiled people, her radiance burned people, but she only relished their screams when they were truly vile. And this spawn? Astarion saw him as vile, but he could feel a sense of haunting from Dreya when she looked at it. She saw Astarion in the pathetic creature, or what could have been if he’d been compelled into an attack like this under Cazador.

Grudgingly, and only in his own mind, Astarion had to slightly agree. If the spawn was acting under orders to attack, it wasn’t necessarily responsible. But somehow Astarion didn’t believe that it feeding on Dreya had been on a command, it had just been hunger. Unacceptable hunger.

Astarion scooped Dreya up again and set her back on the bed. He strode out onto the balcony and looked down. The white curtain that had torn free with the first elf woman lay on the ground far below, and while it was bloodied, there was no sign of the spawn. He scowled and returned to the tiefling. Another burst of fury, another stomp, and the burned creature’s skull also lay in a pulp, silencing his sobs forever. “Don’t worry, pet, we don’t need him. The other one survived her fall. My rats will track her, and I’ll retrieve her in the morning. We’ll find out who did this.”

The Vampire Ascendant stood in front of his bride, naked, bloodied, flush with power, surrounded by the dead as his fearsome, chilled aura receded. He lightly pushed her head to the side as he looked her over, noting the claw marks gashed into her stomach—probably the tiefling’s work as well. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Dreya shook her head, keeping her hand clapped tightly over her neck. “I’m fine, Astarion. I can’t bleed to death, remember?”

Nonsense. As much as she claimed to be ‘fine,’ as well as she wore a mask of calm, he could hear the heart he allowed to beat racing with terror. She swallowed the pain, she hadn’t screamed when she was ripped by ravenous teeth, but he could feel how badly she was suffering from the wounds. Her instincts told her to cry, but she bit them back—for him, trying not to upset him. And there was something else, too—shame for how she felt. She thought he would deride her for being afraid, for being hurt, for wanting to cry, as if he would expect her to be as strong as he was.

Astarion wouldn’t insist on her healing yet. With their bond he could induce her healing as long as she’d fed somewhat recently, but that didn’t mean he would walk away from her now and leave her to deal with the shock she was experiencing. He was angry that they’d been attacked, yes, but she was frightened. Even with her years of adventuring, there was something uniquely vulnerable about being violently assaulted in her own room, in her own bed, in the throes of passion with her lord and master. And compared to him, she was so young… so fragile. A mere thirty-four years to his centuries. No wonder she was afraid.

He wiped his bloody hands on the bedspread solely to not dirty her with the filth of the spawn, then he pulled her hand away from her neck. The tear was too deep to be healed by his tongue alone; his saliva was to heal fang marks, not things like this. Still, he could stop the bleeding. Astarion wrapped his hand behind her head, running his fingers into her hair, and tilted her head away just far enough to let him easily wrap his lips over the wound. His other hand slipped down to her shoulder, her arm, holding her close to him as he carefully licked at the bleeding tear. She tensed from the sensation, stifling a yelp from him touching the exposed tissue.

“You’re afraid, my darling. You’re in pain. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Dreya huffed, trying to use her annoyance to push away the terror. “Sometimes I hate that you can just look at my mind to see what I’m feeling.”

“I wouldn’t have to look if you didn’t force me to guess. Let me comfort you, pet.”

His honeyed words didn’t convince her, only pushed her to clamp down harder to prevent showing her pain and tears. “Astarion, we’ve been through worse than this. Compared to the Absolute, to Cazador, to facing actual gods? Compared to everything you’ve gone through? This is nothing.”

“This is your home,” he snapped, pulling back from the staunched wound and grasping her chin to make her meet his eyes. “You were fed on by a stranger in your own bed, my darling. If I were the one bleeding from the neck, would you pretend to be so unaffected?” She drew in a breath to answer; he pressed on her chin harder for a long moment, keeping her mouth closed as he hissed the answer for her, struggling to contain the rage he felt at the sight of her injuries. “Don’t lie to yourself either, pet. You’d be beside yourself with worry again. Remember the Apostle?”

Dreya visibly flinched. She knew he was right. She’d nearly lost her head when she thought the Apostle of Myrkul had killed him. Astarion continued, his voice turning to a crooning lull. “And that was during a battle, my love, not somewhere we expected to be safe. Let yourself feel as deeply for your own pain as you have for mine. I want all of you, every last drop, including that soft heart you seem ashamed to use for yourself.”

He could feel her resolve cracking, her pain grow. Tears finally welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. She reached up and pushed his curls back into place, struggling to find something to do with her hands, to find something to say. “I-I—I know you’d prefer if I were different, Astarion. Being even weaker than usual— about myself, no less—won’t make you respect me more. Sometimes I wonder why you fell for me at all, I’m not quite the killer you’d prefer.”

“Who else should we show ourselves to if not each other, pet?” he purred. “And you may be more discriminate about killing than myself, but it keeps me in the good graces of the city, doesn’t it? You’re just what I need to balance what few parts of myself aren’t quite, ah—socially acceptable.”

He could feel her about to break, teetering on the edge. After the shock of tonight she needed to cry, to let it all out, to bind herself even closer to him with her tears. Perhaps it would even teach her to comfort herself a bit more instead of focusing solely on mollifying him. As gratifying as it was that she was so fixed on him, it frustrated him that she only seemed capable of feeling her own pain without deflection when her mind had been torn by Corvallis. Just a bit more…

Astarion wrapped his arms around her and laid on his side, carefully pulling her down with him, caressing her bloodied hair as he murmured to her. “You’re perfect to me, my love, however ‘weak’ you seem to think you are. You’ve given me your body, your mind, your very heartbeat. Now give me your pain.”

Dreya wavered; he could feel her worry that he would think less of her, but his coaxing had driven her too far to stop herself now. She rested her head against his muscular chest, squeezing her eyes shut, curling her fingers against his skin as she let out a sharp sob. “I’m—scared,” she forced out, almost choking on the admission. “No one else has ever bitten me. I hated it. I should’ve f-fought harder. He shouldn’t have gotten close to me at all.”

“That’s my fault, my love,” Astarion purred again, stroking her hair comfortingly. “I should’ve been faster. You didn’t even have your hands free or your focus. What else could you have done?”

It was strangely exciting, having her cry in his arms—not in some sexual way, but it was intimate, like she was actually letting him see into her soul again. It reminded him of the night she’d agreed to become his, when she’d allowed him to delve so deeply into her memories and finally, truly know her.

“No, I should’ve done better—pushed him away faster,” she insisted. He felt her tears on his skin. “And it’s b-been so long since we were attacked—I wasn’t ready! I wasn’t ready.”

Astarion stayed silent, feeling her emotion swell further just from the small admission, pushing her into deeper despair. She sobbed brokenly, pressing herself against him more tightly, huddling into him for comfort. “I’m not r-ready, I’m not—I’m so scared, Astarion, I-I don’t want to go back to him tomorrow! I can’t r-remember anything, and I want to, but that might be worse! Twelve years, twelve fucking years, every week, and it wasn’t enough for him?! And when I see him now, it’s worse than when it happened more often, like—like he’s hurting me more now!  He’s n-never gonna let me go, he’s never going to stop no matter what we do, is he?! I’m a filthy, disgusting—you deserve better than a consort that whores herself to a fucking patron. I’m already broken, aren’t I? And n-now, if it’s a vampire lord—”

She swallowed audibly, shuddering against his body, her voice beginning to turn hoarse from strain. “I remember Cazador ordering them to bring me to him. I’ve had nightmares—lots of them. Then tonight—Astarion—the elf woman? She d-didn’t bring out the stake ‘til you were on the bed. There’s rope on their belts. They came to take me away. I understand Cazador doing it, he was a sadist, he wanted to hurt you, b-but why would any other lord give a shit about me? It doesn’t make sense! It must be just to hurt you, right?”

Astarion bit his tongue while she cried, knowing better than to interrupt her, but his anger only burned hotter. It was at himself, in some sense; he did his best to only look at the surface of her mind unless it was necessary, priding himself on giving her some amount of privacy, but how deeply had she been burying these thoughts to avoid his notice? Clever, to put them beneath her concern for him—but he knew that wasn’t an intentional manipulation on her part, just a way to hide her shame that he should’ve pushed through more deeply. He’d reassured her before her turning, after the incubus, after renegotiating her pact that he didn’t see her as filthy or broken, but… those thoughts. He knew all too well that they didn’t disappear so easily. Her adoration was the most potent potion she could mix for him, and it had been a powerful cure, but even so—even as the Ascendant—those horrible thoughts crept back in.

But her cure wouldn’t be quite the same as his, would it?

Astarion let her sob, stroking her hair. The clock kept ticking away the minutes, minutes she needed, minutes he waited, until he felt her tears beginning to slow. Now, she could focus. He clicked his tongue once, pulling her head back a little to look up at him. His expression became cold, severe, on the verge of disgust, and his voice matched.

“How often have you thought of me as—what was it?—‘filthy, disgusting, and broken?’”

Dreya was visibly repulsed at the thought, but he saw a spark of new fear, fear that he believed she saw him that way. “What? I’ve never thought of you like that!”

Astarion allowed his fingers to tighten in her beautiful white hair, trying not to imagine the crushed white feathers of his nightmare. “Then tell me—pet—why not? I’ve been on my back thousands of times for thousands of people.” He felt his lip curl into a snarl; it felt unnatural to direct it at her. “If you’re disgusting for laying with Corvallis, I must be positively vile.”

More tears sprang to her eyes, another hoarse sob as she shook her head fervently, putting her hands on his face, half-reassuring, half-afraid she would never touch him again. “No, you’re not! That was—it was different. Corvallis—you’ve seen the memory where I made my pact. He laid out the conditions. I knew I had to ‘fulfill his carnal desires,’ and I took it anyway. I-I’m not even sure I can blame him for doing what he likes with me, I agreed! I agreed.”

His grip in her hair softened; he allowed his tone to become slightly less stern. “I seem to recall something else in that memory, my darling… another man trying to take you away. You were desperate, caught between two creatures that would use your body. Who could blame you for choosing the one that would give you power and let you walk freely part of the time?”

She wavered, seeming slightly relieved now that she was certain he’d only accused her of thinking such disgusting things about him to illuminate her own thoughts, but she shook her head again. “I-I—try—to tell myself that. But it’s harder to believe it. I still feel filthy.”

His own breath caught slightly. Feeling her own despair, the worthlessness… he was surprised by how badly it hurt him. The Ascendant should be beyond these things, but it was another facet of how he could never truly protect his treasure, not until he’d wrested her from Corvallis entirely and kept her wrapped in devotion for years. He brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek, wiping away the tears, and let his voice grow softer.

“My darling—how could I ever see you as filthy for being violated by a monster?”

Dreya closed her eyes, letting out another sob. He’d said something similar about the incubus Haarlep, a creature Astarion intended to locate and murder when he had the chance. There really was so much blood to be spilled in her name, and tonight a new target had presented itself. The pangs in Dreya’s mind eased a bit. One little talk with her wasn’t enough to fix her, but he hoped she could use it for comfort later when such dark thoughts returned.

Astarion allowed his darker presence to grow, filling the air with an oppressive sense of power and the frigid chill of winter. It forced her eyes open again to find him staring at her possessively. He lightly wrapped his fingers around her throat, his charming, dangerous smile returning. “Oh, and, remember, pet—when you insult yourself, you’re insulting the Vampire Ascendant’s exquisite taste. I won’t have it, not even in your mind. Use your devotion to me to convince yourself to stop being so cruel, if you can’t manage to give yourself some compassion. Now—here’s what will happen.”

He pulled her to sit up, releasing her hair but using his hold on her neck to turn her head back to the main part of the room where the dead spawn still lay. “You’re right. They all have rope. I think the elf may even have a sleeping potion for you. Whoever sent them hoped that they could take me by surprise, kill me, and make off with you, but these wretches were really nothing but a scouting party. No one who’s heard of me thought that six spawn had a chance to overpower me, much less abscond with the Hero of Baldur’s Gate cleanly. If they were ever intended to succeed they would’ve tried to snatch you out in the city when you were alone. When the sun has risen, I’ll find the one that escaped, I’ll question her, I’ll question the bodies that still have heads, and I’ll find out who’s threatening us. And when we know?”

Astarion’s smile turned vicious as he pulled her back to look at him, drinking in the mixed fear and devotion in her eyes. She was never truly afraid of him hurting her, but she basked in the terror the Ascendant inspired as much as she’d basked in him being a predator even when he was a spawn. He couldn’t save her from Corvallis, but they both knew what he could do to a physical creature in front of him.

“When we know, I’ll tear him limb from limb for daring to touch you, even if it was through a spawn. I’ll bathe you in his blood, dove, until all thoughts of his servant’s fangs have been washed away. We’ll make love on his throne and burn everything he has that we don’t take for ourselves. And, my darling—”

Astarion could feel the possessive urge clawing in his chest, and he let it rise, wrapping around his throat. His eyes glowed an intense red in the darkness, fueled by the thoughts of his vengeance. “My darling, when we’re done, no vampire lord will ever dare to try to take you from me again. You’re mine—you’re not Corvallis’s warlock, you’re mine, my consort, and you always will be.”

Dreya was shaking, but their bond was strong, clear. She was so tired, her face was still stained with tears, but his promises of being safe from any other vampire lord pulled more than devotion from her. He could claim her body again, now, and he would, because she desired it just as much as him. Not a single night of pleasure would be stolen from them by their attackers.

Roughly, Astarion pushed her down on her back and gashed his own wrist again, putting it back to her lips. “Drink for healing now, pet, those spawn won’t leave a single mark on your body, either.” Her thirst being quenched by his veins was a joy, almost matched by the sight of her body rapidly repairing her injuries at his will. He positioned himself between her legs, allowing her to bend them up and wrap them around his hips. Without another word, he thrust himself into her. She wasn’t as maddeningly aroused as she had been during their game, but her desire was more than enough to let him use her.

It didn’t take long to finish himself, not when Astarion’s mind was so fixated on his power, his possession. The Ascendant let himself lick where her wound had been as he came inside her body, taking the blood that had been spilled on her. She was healed now, so he took his wrist back, reclaiming the blood on her lips and tongue with a rough kiss. A single lick sealed his own skin again as he pulled back from her and stood, satisfied at the sight of the mess he left behind on her thighs. He reached into the table by the bed and produced the amulet he’d once given her, allowing him to cast restoration on himself. Tonight he would stay awake, on guard, at full strength. The unpleasant bone ache of the restoration was worth it—how many times had she used the spell for him?

Dreya breathed slowly, still spread on their bed for him. His angel deserved more still. Astarion smiled, leaning over her to catch her attention again. “What should you be saying to me now, my darling?”

She giggled headily, a sound he reveled in after so many of her sobs. “Fine… thank you, my love.” Her eyes glowed red; his eyes filled with satisfaction from her permission to compel her one last time for the evening. A silent command this time, but it had the same effect, drawing more helpless, breathy moans from her lips, forcing her to wish he was filling her as she orgasmed, mussing her thighs with herself along with his cum. All for him. His lovely little dove, ruining herself for him.

Astarion pulled her up just long enough to tug the bedspread aside, then slipped into bed with her. She cuddled into his arms, nearly asleep already. He’d be awake with her like this, all night, never leaving her for a moment.

His beautiful, perfect dove, nestled sweetly in his arms as he dreamed of who he would kill for her next.

Chapter Text

Some months had passed since six vampire spawn had dared to attack the Vampire Ascendant in his own bed. Summer had turned to late fall, and no more attacks had come. However, the occasional body began to turn up in Baldur’s Gate with the tell-tale fang marks of a vampire, always left somewhere easily found. The Flaming Fist kept the information quiet so the city didn’t start blaming their resident vampire lord, but the bodies were clearly a message: Astarion and his consort were being watched.

Astarion’s promise to find out who had sent the first six spawn hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped, unfortunately. The female spawn that had escaped was already dead by the next morning, her own stake driven into her heart. He’d cast Speak with the Dead on the bodies that still had mouths to talk, but they all had roughly the same answers. They had been turned recently in the outskirts of Waterdeep, but they never saw the vampire that did it or knew his name, only felt his compulsion. Their orders were to kill Astarion and kidnap Dreya, as expected from the behavior during the attack. They’d gained an invitation to enter the palace by delivering food during a soirée some days before their attempt. The only valuable information was their origin.

It frustrated and angered Astarion no end that his promise to his consort to kill whoever had attacked them had to be delayed. The one thing that could overcome his vampiric instincts to wait and plan over years and not hours was her, her comfort, her fears, her needs. How could he rest when he felt her nightmares pricking in her mind?

Some things had changed, of course. Astarion had moved their bedroom to one more internal to the palace, one without a balcony or windows. They missed the light and the flow of air, but letting Dreya sleep more soundly at night was worth it. The change that Dreya did resent was Astarion no longer allowing her to be outside after dark. Her little practice of occasionally tracking down vile criminals that the Flaming Fist didn’t bother with in the Lower City had to be done away with, and so did any of her trips into places like the sewers or undercity. If vampire could lurk and lie in wait for her without fear of the sun, she was in danger.

Dreya’s disobedience had forced Astarion to threaten to compel her back to his side a few times before she relented; the risk of someone seeing her eyes glow and discovering that she wasn’t a mortal had too much potential to upset their situation, so she didn’t dare risk it. They’d fought over it, both angry. She wasn’t pleased by his new restrictions on her, but she was mostly enraged by his threat to compel her. When Dreya had been turned, he had made an agreement with her—he would only compel her in private, essentially only during sex, never elsewhere. At the time he’d been more than happy to give her that assurance. But now, when danger reared its head and she was foolishly risking herself? No. She didn’t understand what she faced if another vampire lord took her. Their bond would let him find her eventually, but far too many horrors could be inflicted on her first. And while she had fought commendably against the vampire spawn in their bedroom, he didn’t trust that she could keep herself from being overwhelmed by a true vampire, not when she was alone. Yes, yes, she was the Hero of Baldur’s Gate and always wore her spell focus now, still attached to a nigh-unbreakable ribbon with a lock enchanted to only open for her or Astarion, but that didn’t mean she was always safe.

Dreya had been hurtful in her anger, calling him ‘controlling’ like it was a bad thing, claiming he’d lied to her about their agreement. That one particularly annoyed him, for some reason. It was a slight he could forgive, but her anger had not abated after a few nights like he’d hoped it would. She clung to the broken agreement, dwelling on it, seeing it as him breaking her trust instead of luxuriating in her lord’s infatuation with her safety. Her love for him stayed, but he’d felt her joy with him fade. She’d asked him to keep some distance from their bond instead of constantly enjoying it, she’d stopped spending most evenings with him, stopped speaking to him as much. Most of her days were spent at Sorcerous Sundries and libraries, studying magical knowledge. Most of her evenings were spent curled up in their own estate’s library or her potion laboratory. Most nights she didn’t even join him in their bed, instead taking her rest on a soft couch in her potion den.

Even on the night of the third moon, when her patron had harmed her again, she’d tried to stay in the potion den, unwilling to come to Astarion for comfort after her ordeal when she knew she was pushing him away—some silly idea that she would be ‘using’ him. It was the same silly idea that had kept her from willingly drinking his blood since their fight, only taking drops when he forced her to drink them. The night of the third moon, he’d simply carried her to their bed and held her after she returned from her patron’s domain. She’d been half-insensible, but still had the presence of mind to sluggishly protest until he tersely ordered her to rest and encouraged her to sleep. As much leeway as he gave her, as annoyed as he was by her distance, he refused to leave his dove to suffer alone after Corvallis violated her. The next morning she’d stayed with him long after waking up, keeping her body huddled up to his, her head buried in his chest like he was safe. It had been gratifying, gaining that sense from her; even in her petulant anger, she still felt that her master’s bed was the one place to be safe from her patron.

Even her passion for him had been dulled. When they did have sex it was colder, hurt by her underlying frustration with him. On many nights she’d refused him, ignoring his seduction even when he could sense her desire. Astarion hadn’t relented in his justification for breaking their agreement, not even as a lie to persuade her to go back to how she should’ve been. He wasn’t wrong to force her back to his side, not when she was being hunted. But there was a hole left in his life by her distance, one he wanted to repair. The longer she stayed away, the more silently angry he became—angry that she spurned him, not because of the sex, but because she was his. His darling should be within his reach, not backing away. Astarion wasn’t even sure it was anger at her, per se—how could he ever be that angry at his angel?—but the rift had to be mended. He’d set a plan in motion, commissioned a gift that would make everything right. He would have her back to normal, soon, even if he continued to keep her inside at night.

Tonight, though, he had relented. One of the murders that Dreya’s sources directed her to had possessed the same scent as a murder from two weeks earlier, and the gruesome nature of the kill led her to believe it might be another worshipper of Bhaal trying to reforge the god’s reign of terror in the city. After days of pleading, Astarion had finally given her permission to go on a hunt again. His rats would follow her closely just in case something happened—not for him to watch, she insisted, just so they could swarm an attacker if she reached out to him for help. Though truthfully, Astarion had other reasons to let her leave and take care of the multiple murderers on her list. He had company tonight, company he wanted to speak with privately before Dreya returned.

Astarion’s sources in Waterdeep had been insufficient for finding the vampire lord that had sent the spawn, but they had kept him abreast of the activities of a certain wizard. Following the fall of the Netherbrain, Gale Dekarios had returned to his home city and began to teach at Blackstaff Academy. A bit over a year later, though, he had become Mystra’s Chosen once again and left the city. Word of him had come sporadically since then. Evidently he’d been traveling around Faerûn doing the bidding of his goddess. When he had finally returned home, he’d found an invitation waiting from him from an old friend asking him to return to Baldur’s Gate, along with a letter asking him for help on a certain matter.

And tonight, finally, Gale sat across from Lord Astarion Ancunín, so much greater than he’d been the last time they’d met. Astarion had personally welcomed him to the rechristened estate mere minutes after Dreya had set out at sunset. The wizard seemed a bit surprised to be on such friendly terms with the vampire lord, and more surprised that Dreya wasn’t there. In front of servants, nothing substantive could be done. They’d eaten a meal in a side hall, enjoyed some wine, and chatted amiably about very little, with Astarion regaling him with some stories of gossip and patriars and Gale recounting humorous old tales he’d heard from Elminster while in his tutelage. Meanwhile, in the back of Astarion’s mind, he tracked his consort. She was in high spirits after being without an outlet for her bloodlust for the past months. He couldn’t help but anticipate the pleasures that awaited when she returned, the feeling of her ardor after so much of her cold. Hopefully his business with Gale wouldn’t delay things.

Finally, with the pleasantries done, Astarion sent the servants out of the palace for the rest of the evening. With a bottle in hand, the vampire lord escorted the wizard to Astarion and Dreya’s private room.

Gale followed Astarion through a single side of the wooden double doors of the room, his hands folded behind his back as he glanced around curiously. The room was quite spacious, but felt slightly oppressive from the complete lack of windows. A large fireplace burned low on the far wall from the door, partly blocked from view by a low table and three large plush chairs haphazardly arranged around it. The white stone of the walls suddenly brightened as Astarion summoned his bound staff from the air, absentmindedly using its control of the estate to light part of the silver and glass sconces that lined the room, though he left enough of them unlit to keep the brightness a bit dim, his mind wandering again to his consort’s return. The fire blazed high at his will to warm them, the light glinting mildly off the silver embroidery in Astarion’s expensive red doublet and reflecting off the mirror of the vanity he’d given Dreya. Gale took in the deep red rugs lining the floor, the oversized bed and its dark red spread, the large, finely crafted desks sitting further away still, currently covered in papers, books, and a few potion bottles. An open doorway stood on the far side of the room, obviously leading to a large bath. The wizard gave a slight nod of approval. “Love what you’ve done with the place, very opulent. It feels less like a lair now. Last time I was within these walls, it only seemed natural to find a torture chamber around every corner.”

Astarion dismissed the staff as he approached the fireplace and its table. “All the better to hide the torture chambers, wouldn’t you agree? Please, sit.” The vampire lord took his own place in one of the chairs and gestured for Gale to use the opposite one. “More wine?”

The wizard chuckled, closing the door behind him, and sat down as directed. He slightly unbuttoned the top of the embroidered purple doublet he’d worn for the occasion, crossing his legs and leaning back a bit. “I suspect we’re approaching the actual reason you invited me here, Astarion. Maybe I should keep a clear head. I did read your letter, but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.” His brow creased a bit with concern. He almost seemed hesitant to continue.

“Dreya’s patron, this… Corvallis. I’m sorry to hear the details. I’d hoped she was free of the more unpleasant aspects warlock pacts are known for. I’ve reached out to some of my contacts, discreetly, but I haven’t heard anything so far. I must warn you, Astarion. Such pacts are rarely as easy to break as Wyll’s was. With Mizora, we got lucky enough to have leverage over her. This ‘Keeper of Tales’ sounds like a much more careful sort. Unless we can find something to trade him that he would value more than Dreya’s soul, the pact may be impossible to break.”

The Ascendant poured two goblets of the red wine anyway, pushing one to Gale’s side of the table and picking up his own. “I already know that, Gale,” he snapped peevishly. “That’s why I contacted you as the Chosen of Mystra. I may have no pull with the gods, but surely your goddess could do something.”

The wizard shook his head, his eyes somber. “I’m sorry, Astarion. I did ask, but she, ah… she declined to intervene,” he said quietly. “Ao does not look fondly on gods interfering with mortal affairs so directly.”

Astarion scowled. He knew it had been too much to hope that a goddess would deign to simply fix things. “My darling saves the world without your goddess’s favorite having to blow himself up in the process, and Mystra still can’t find it in herself to take care of a single patron for her? And you wondered why I find the gods useless.”

Gale nodded once, gravely. “You’d think that such a great service would entitle Dreya to some consideration from the gods, but they see things differently. As much as I revere Mystra and her art, I’m well aware that her favor is capricious.”

The vampire sipped at his wine, trying not to show his frustration. Gale might still find some information, he told himself, even if his goddess was going to be as useless as always. Patience was needed. Perhaps someday, Astarion might find some other leverage to use against a god to convince them to pry his darling’s pact from the hands of the shapeshifter. For now he had to focus on keeping her alive and safe. Corvallis’s gamble with her soul had been to risk her becoming a true immortal, potentially never dying, never releasing her soul, all in exchange for her soul being guaranteed to him upon her death. He had boasted to Astarion that Dreya would try to curb his dark aspirations to rule, that she would eventually end her own life rather than stay with a vampire lord. He’d even suggested that Astarion would kill her himself one day when he tired of Dreya’s better nature.

Corvallis’s predictions were nonsense, Astarion knew it deep in his bones. The only real threat to Dreya was from outside sources like the vampires watching them. The Keeper had no real understanding of love, not in the way Astarion did. The shapeshifter’s disparate, fragmented persona couldn’t conceive of the level of obsession and craving Astarion felt for Dreya, cemented by their eternal bond. Nothing could ever quell his urge, his need for her. Her love for him was more fragile, but that was only another reason to rid themselves of her patron. Once she no longer had the devil whispering in her ear with false promises of eternal refuge if she lost her love for her lord and master, their bond would be forever safe. Even if Dreya stopped loving him, Astarion would have all the ages of the world to woo her again and mend the lovely soul he’d broken.

Lovers, forever.

The thought made him smile, almost forgetting that Gale was in the room. Astarion could feel her excitement waning to satisfaction. Her hunt was almost over. No need to woo her tonight when his dove would fly back to his hands willingly.

Astarion let his sense of her push away the disdain for the goddess he’d beseeched for help. As always—the gods never listened. He took another sip of his wine. “I trust you won’t mention any of this to Dreya. I didn’t tell her I wrote you at all, much less that I asked for your assistance. It wouldn’t do to get her hopes up.”

“Certainly. I wondered why she wasn’t here. But things are still quite good overall, wouldn’t you say? Your reputation in Baldur’s Gate is excellent, from what I’ve heard. Dreya is beloved by the common folk, and I assume she grows ever more powerful. Age and illness will never kill her, and it seems that no one will attack her either, not here. The Church of Lathander may complain of your presence, but they wouldn’t dare lay a hand on the city’s hero. Her patron’s demands are vile, but her immortal soul is still safe unless she dies, and I rather doubt you’ll let that happen. Take heart—there’s still plenty of time to remove her pact.”

Well. That did bring them to the other matter. “It’s been ages since I wrote you. Things have happened since then.” A slight smile appeared on Astarion’s face as he spoke casually, solely to shock his guest more with the news. “Dreya was nearly kidnapped from her own bed a few months ago.”

Gale sat up straighter, instantly more alert and alarmed. “What? She was attacked, here? By whom?!”

Of course the wizard was instantly concerned. It has been over two years since they’d traveled together, but Astarion knew Dekarios had always harbored some intimate feelings for the vampire’s consort. It could work to their advantage. Astarion motioned with his hand dismissively. “Six vampire spawn. I killed them all, of course. They were sent by a vampire lord in Waterdeep.”

The human’s brow furrowed. He tapped his finger against his well-groomed beard absently. “Vampires in Waterdeep… the city is a hundred thousand souls strong, with tens of thousands more in the outskirts. It’s unsurprising that a vampire lord has taken up residence somewhere, but where, exactly… I don’t suppose you got a name from them?”

“Whoever it was had the sense to remain unseen,” Astarion muttered, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “It was only a scouting party, but we’ve been watched since then. Soon enough I’ll have to go to Waterdeep myself to find the vampire lord—and remove them. It’s the only way she’ll be safe.”

Gale shook his head, trying to make himself relax back into the chair again, but he was still visibly unsettled. “You have my support, of course. My tower is already well-supplied with wards and defensive measures. I can put you both up there while you’re on the hunt. I may be there myself to lend you further aid—Mystra seems to have no need of me for the winter.”

Astarion sat back in his chair, taking another sip of his wine as he briefly pondered his plans in Waterdeep. Whether he cared to admit it openly or not, having a wizard of Gale’s acumen would be immensely helpful. And while the topic of their conversation hadn’t been the most pleasant, it was strangely nice to see his erstwhile rival again. Unlike Wyll, Gale had never been so rude about Astarion gifting immortality to Dreya, even if he’d been uneasy about it. And admittedly, Gale had been terribly helpful the day she’d been reborn. It had been his idea to conceal her tell-tale red eyes, fangs, and permanent bite scar with a disguise spell to keep Jaheira from getting any ideas about a need to remove the vampire lord in their midst, and it had been Gale that had calmed the group with encouragement to accept Dreya’s choice to bend her knee to her lover. He was probably the closest thing to a friend that Astarion would claim.

Well. There was time to pass before Dreya returned. The Ascendant eyed his ‘friend’ for a moment. “So, Gale… how is it that you became Mystra’s Chosen again? Last time I saw you, you gave her the Crown of Karsus, had your little orb removed, and were thrilled to be teaching again.” He smirked, unable to resist a slight jab. “Still pining for the goddess’s pleasure domes?”

Gale grimaced and finally took his goblet of wine. “No, I can’t say my relationship with Mystra has continued in that vein. Being ordered to kill yourself after a year of abandonment has a way of cooling one’s romantic passions, even if Mystra and the Weave are still my life. Besides—Mystra already has another promising young student under her wing, I assure you. I was not her first wizardly companion, nor am I her last. As for being her Chosen instead of teaching, I—well—”

The human let out a short, almost defeated sigh. “There’s always more trouble, isn’t there? Elminster called on me to lend my aid with yet another conflict in Neverwinter. Mystra offered to make me her Chosen once more—and while I declined to be her lover, I must follow her will even so. I miss the academy, but Faerûn needs another Chosen more than it needs another teacher, it seems. I suppose I’ll become like Elminster myself, eventually, if I am so fortunate. May I never be sent to deliver a suicide mission as he was.”

Well. At least he wasn’t still mourning his deity, the vampire thought dismissively. “Mystra may be a goddess, but from how you described things, she hardly warmed your bed or provided you comfort. Find someone on our own plane.”

Gale looked a bit mournful, pondering his wine before he spoke. “Astarion, could I, ah… and I know this sounds strange, considering, well. We were never as close as some, but I seem to be in an unenviable position that you may have some insight on. Could I ask for your advice?”

Astarion couldn’t decide whether to laugh in the wizard’s face or not; he settled on a smirk instead of giving in to the urge. “You, wanting advice from me? My dear wizard, I’m shocked you asked, but it’s probably the wisest thing you’ve done in ages. Do go on—this should be good.”

“I’m serious, Astarion,” Gale chided, but the mockery didn’t deter him. He drank another swallow of the wine. “Well. You see, being the Chosen of Mystra before—she was my only concern, my only muse as I composed the Weave. I had no desire nor time for anyone else. Now I’m her Chosen again and unattached, as it were, and I find myself being… approached, occasionally, or attempt to approach someone myself. To wizards I’m, ah… overly interesting, particularly after the fall of the Absolute. I briefly engaged with a nice young man in Neverwinter, but within a week it became clear he saw me as either a prophet of his goddess or a path to her, and I… I don’t know how I’m supposed to find anyone at all that cares for me and not Mystra.”

He stood, taking a few paces as he continued. “And non-wizards—well, that would be entirely unfair, wouldn’t it? Being a Chosen means constantly awaiting Mystra’s call, leaving for months or years at a time. A wizard might understand, but anyone else? No, I could never ask someone outside of her worship to be in a relationship with someone who’s never there. It’s hard enough on my mother and Tara. Which then leads me back to finding someone who isn’t more in love with my magical abilities or blessings than with me. If you were without Dreya now, how would you be searching for someone that isn’t with you solely for your power or—well, because of a fang penchant?”

The wizard, asking him for relationship advice. Astarion couldn’t help but feel smug. After all, he had taken what Gale coveted and made it more than the wizard could even understand. Eternal lovers was so much more than what the wizard was searching for, and Astarion had not only stumbled upon it, but secured it nearly beyond harm. He lazily swirled the wine in his own goblet, allowing himself a wicked grin. “Play to your strengths, wizard. Dreya adored my fangs from the start, I was just fortunate enough to notice what a treasure I had in my hands after she stopped moaning enough to talk.” Gale’s face turned a deep red, much to Astarion’s gratification, but the vampire continued.

“Had Dreya not fallen into my path and I still ascended somehow, no doubt I would be tasting the world’s pleasures alone, without intending to keep anyone for too long unless I’d ensured they couldn’t turn against me. Now? Normally I would sing the praises of finding the one creature you can’t live without, but for you? Play the philanderer. Use your little magic tricks once you finally have someone’s clothes off and give them nights they’ll never forget. And when Mystra’s done with you, take your favorite home. Remember that you’re only human. The advantage of your lower lifespan is having to wait less time before you’re no longer the ideal candidate to walk halfway across the continent.”

Gale sighed deeply, allowing himself a wry chuckle. “Heh. Being a charming rake is your strength, not mine, but I might allow myself that, if—well. There’s another reason I felt bound to be her Chosen again, Astarion. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Mystra chose to make me one of her ageless champions for giving her the Crown of Karsus. Like Elminster, my aging has been slowed—halted, even. My service to Mystra will extend for centuries yet. Another difficulty.” His eyes were distant for a long moment. “I’m—I’m not sure how I’ll manage watching friends age—die. And a lover, if I were to even find one willing to always come second to Mystra’s will, to wait ceaselessly for my return…? I’ll watch them lose their vitality, the years slipping away. Then eventually, I’ll return home to find them gone.”

For once, Astarion found himself speechless. Learning that Gale—Gale, of all people—had managed to become a pseudo-immortal after giving up his aspirations of godhood wasn’t something the vampire would’ve expected, not even in his wildest dreams. He took a long breath, his darker thoughts on immortality from his time as a spawn crowding in unbidden. Similar worries to Gale’s had plagued him when they approached Cazador’s palace. If he had stayed a spawn, unable to ever become a lord or give his lover the gift of eternity, his immortality would’ve been a true curse. The thought of watching Dreya wither with time and die, leaving him behind as ageless as ever…

No. He’d found the way out of the conundrum of immortals and their lovers. It took effort not to let his hand shake for a moment as he pushed some stray curls back into place, forcing away his pensive look. “Immortality without the curse of vampirism? I’d be jealous if I were still a spawn.”

Gale frowned to himself, watching Astarion. His voice remained grave. “Jealous in some ways, yes. In others? I saw your expression just now, Astarion. I’ve found the one fear you still have as the Ascendant, haven’t I? Being immortal and alone. That’s why you turned her.”

Openly pointing out Astarion’s weakness wasn’t something he was fond of. “I spent two centuries alone in a torture chamber, Gale,” he bit out harshly. “I could’ve managed two more alone in some decent lodgings. There were many reasons to turn my darling, but I’ll grant you that immortality without a similarly gifted lover would’ve been far less pleasant.”

The wizard sighed dejectedly. “Of course. I’m sorry, Astarion, I hadn’t come here intending to bring up the immortality part of the equation, merely the difficulty with power, but I suppose I hadn’t fully considered how they entwine until you suggested waiting out my service. But life is long, it seems. Who knows what any of us will find in so much time? I’m pleased to have at least two friends who will still outlive me.”

Astarion touched his bond with Dreya again, allowing himself the moment of distraction. She was on her way back, nearly home already. Her last target must have been close by.

A thought came to him… why not give his darling a treat? This would be a wonderful little peace offering to help mend their rift, wouldn’t it? And potentially, not just a temporary one. Gale was vulnerable, open to things he might normally dismiss immediately. It would require using some… old habits, but it was for himself and his dove. Carefully, he moved in their bond, blocking her from noticing the scent of their guest. The wizard’s presence would be a true surprise.

The Ascendant rose to his feet, finding a devilish grin crossing his face in anticipation of Gale’s reaction. An old line, but one that had served him terribly well. “You will come to our bed tonight, won’t you?”

Gale had been unfortunate enough to take a sip of wine as Astarion had started speaking; he choked on it at the abrupt proposition and coughed harshly a few times, his face going red again. “I—I—what?!”

Astarion coiled behind Gale with the gait of a stalking panther, trailing his free hand over the wizard’s shoulders as he dropped his voice seductively. “Why not? Dreya always thought you were handsome and appreciated your company. You’ve always had eyes for her, and even the occasional glance for me. Just imagine what tonight could grant us all.”

The human chuckled awkwardly, frozen in place. “Ah—Astarion, I won’t deny that I admire Dreya greatly, but ah—I have nothing but respect for your relationship. Far be it from me to insert myself.”

“Even when you’re being invited to ‘insert yourself?’” The mocking joke had been too easy to give up, and it only embarrassed Gale further. “I seem to recall you developing an interest in joining me for some hedonism and debauchery once upon a time.”

Gale shifted his weight slightly, still rigid with shock. “I, ah—heard that you’re both a bit more ‘open’ about such things, but—I’m not sure that’s really for me. Sharing a person is—”

“Something you might enjoy,” Astarion interrupted, circling in front of him with a lulling purr, slowing his words and lingering on them. “Why not try it? You might like it. Besides, darling—this is the solution to your conundrum.”

Even the wizard was vulnerable to the purr, Astarion noted, pleased to see the man shift himself again in what looked like an effort to keep a developing bulge from showing through his pants. “What do you mean?”

“It’s simple. How do you find lovers that aren’t solely interested in your goddess? Take lovers who have no desire to worship her. How do you not leave lovers pining for ages as you do Mystra’s bidding? Take lovers who have another to keep them company until you return. How do you avoid the pain of losing someone to age? Take lovers that are already immortal.”

Gale hesitated, a brief, bemused smile crossing his face for a moment as he tried to convince himself that this was a joke. “You’re not serious, are you?”

Astarion fixed his eyes on Gale, the seductive smile firmly in place. “As serious as the grave, darling. Let me be abundantly clear. Dreya will always, always be mine first. Our bond is eternal. But then, your first priority will always be Mystra, so it’s another reason you should consider my offer.”

He still seemed perplexed. “Astarion, what in the world would you get out of such an arrangement? You’ve never shown the slightest bit of interest in me, and now you’re telling me—this?”

Another touch, brushing his fingertips into the few open inches at the top of Gale’s doublet, right over the scarring left by the orb. “I bit Dreya that fateful night because she seemed like she would be kinder to a poor, unfortunate spawn if I were caught, but you were easily my second choice. Getting my hands on you now that your blood’s blight is gone would be a treat. And besides—” The purr changed to a more sincere tone. “I haven’t forgotten that you were the only one of our group to congratulate us after my darling’s rebirth. I remember who remained a true friend and who cast me aside.”

He could feel her approaching, sense her feet hurrying up the stairs. The wizard was almost convinced, but he gave one more weak push. “I suppose we could discuss it when she gets back. It’s been some time since I’ve even seen either of you.”

“Trust me, Gale—she won’t be in the mood to talk,” Astarion murmured, pressing his own goblet into the human’s free hand. “After a hunt she’s always aroused, and it’s been months since she’s had her last. Don’t fret… tonight is just for pleasure, for all of us. The rest can be figured out later.”

Gale was reasonably composed, but the vampiric elf could easily hear his heart racing. It was a night of his desires coming true, desires he’d thought were well out of his reach. He cleared his throat again nervously. “If she asks me to leave, I will immediately, of course.”

Astarion laughed, perhaps a bit darkly. He quickly unfastened his own doublet, partly baring his sculpted chest and abdomen. “My dear wizard, if I thought there was a chance you would ever ignore my consort telling you to leave her room, your heart would be on the floor right now instead of being lodged in your throat.”

She was almost at the door. Astarion strode over and opened it before she could, immediately snatching her arm and pulling her into a passionate kiss to close her eyes. He still partly had her senses blocked, ensuring she didn’t smell Gale. Dreya wrapped her arms around Astarion’s neck and pulled herself up, allowing herself to tighten her legs around his waist. He turned her around, kicking the door shut behind him as he gripped her ass beneath the cheap, bloodied woolen dress that hung from her hips. With her hold on his neck no longer needed for support, she eagerly slipped a hand under his top, admiring his body while she ran her fingers into his hair. Her lust for him was intoxicating, heated enough to push through the tension of their fight.

The soft, satisfied whimper from her when she nipped at Astarion’s lip seemed to strengthen the wizard’s resolve. Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion saw Gale straighten a bit and quietly set down the goblets. Good. His treasure would have her present—a mutual friend to enjoy her appetites as she saw fit.

Astarion returned the nip, allowing his fang to scrape the inside of her lip before murmuring to her. “Darling, we have company.”

Dreya’s eyes flew open. She hastily dropped her feet back to the floor, turning to the room as Astarion allowed her to notice the new scent. Her pale face flushed with sudden warmth. “Oh—Gale! Gods, I didn’t even know you were in the city.” She gave Astarion a momentary glare, realizing he’d hidden their guest from her to embarrass her. “It’s lovely to see you.”

The wizard gave her a polite nod. “Wonderful to see you as well, yes. Beautiful as always. I hear you were on a hunt, ah—what was your quarry tonight?”

She glanced down at herself; her corset belt held a concealed short dagger behind the leather panel on her back, but that was the only attractive part of her clothing. The rest was a simple brown dress, high-collared and long-sleeved, decorated just enough with white-threaded embroidery to not stand out as being too plain. A matching cloak was pushed back from her shoulders. She gave a short chuckle and pulled off the stained cloak. “Yes, I’m so damn gorgeous in this… Ah, tonight? Someone who stabbed a woman to death for refusing him, another who wouldn’t take a refusal, a woman who killed another woman… oh, and Bhaalists. I thought there might be signs of someone learning to do ritual murders, and I was right. Three of them. The leader was the actual murderer, but the others were intent on following in his footsteps.”

Dreya turned to Astarion again, a bit more excited about the last. “Don’t worry, I was careful with the others, they looked like accidents, but the Bhaalists—they’ll never find them. Those bastards dug from their basement into the temple, so I had free reign once they took me downstairs. I promise I didn’t leave any fang marks, but being able to turn the tables on them was—I suppose you would call it ‘delicious.’ You should’ve seen the looks on their faces when they realized the paralytic hadn’t really worked on the victim that ‘accidentally’ stumbled into their grasp. By the time I was done, all three were paralyzed with their own poison and had mysteriously lost all the parts they took from their victims. It’s only fitting.”

Gale seemed rather nonplussed by the answer to his question. “Oh—oh, I see, I was expecting—well, it’s more exciting than a deer, at least.”

“That sounds terribly messy, pet,” Astarion purred, pleased with the news. Replicating a Bhaalist murder on a paralyzed victim? Maybe she really was hardening. “No wonder I could smell your heat before you even reached the door.”

Dreya laughed awkwardly, surprised that Astarion had directly mentioned her arousal with their friend there. “You know, I think I’m going to go clean myself up…”

Gale perked up, taking a couple of steps closer. “Oh, allow me! I dearly wish I’d been able to remember this one on our adventures, but tadpoles—you know how it was. Purificen!” A brief rush of magic darted over her with his incantation and gesture, just a light tingle, but the scent of dried blood lifted with it. Her skin and clothes were left as fresh and unstained as if she’d just bathed. “Prestidigitation—just a practice cantrip normally, but I have my own variety of it to allow broader use.”

The sorceress glanced over herself, impressed. “I’ll have to learn that from you before you leave. The normal version only cleaning a foot at a time takes too long.” She turned towards Gale more fully, keeping the cloak over her arm. “You know, I’ve been trying to learn more wizard spells so I’m not so limited by my own blood. If you’d still been in Waterdeep I would’ve written you about it ages ago. Rolan’s been doing his best, but I think you have more insight into the relationship between the Weave’s interaction with wizards and how sorcerers touch it. Tell me, with your compositions, do you tend to picture the spell or an effect of the spell in your mind along with the incantation? With the cantrips I’ve learned before the spell itself seemed more important, but more advanced cantrips seem to vary on each cast when I try them.”

Astarion grimaced internally, seeing that they were about to start discussing magic instead of getting to the business at hand. Despite what he’d told Gale, Dreya was unfortunately easy to distract from her own pleasure if she felt that pleasantries or learning something interesting was in order. After bothering to persuade Gale that sleeping with them was a good idea, he didn’t want to waste the opportunity. Smoothly, he slipped behind her, taking her cloak and dropping it to the side before gripping her shoulders tightly. “Enough magic for tonight, pet. I invited Gale to join us in bed. Now, take off these ‘clothes’ before I rip them apart. I’d rather have my consort greet a guest in nothing than in this monstrosity of a dress.”

“What? You want me to—in front of Gale?” Dreya was visibly surprised; Astarion smiled to himself, running his hands down her arms, using one to hold her wrists together behind her back. Having her in his grasp even when his former rival finally touched her seemed appropriate.

In the bond he felt her confusion at the choice, a hesitant thought to him. “But you’ve always been so jealous of Gale.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore, pet—he can never take you from me now. Consider him a gift for all the fuss lately. I know you’re still upset I force you to stay in after sunset. You still owe me an apology, of course… your obedience isn’t always optional, but that can come later.” His voice left their bond, turning to a threatening jest as his free hand traveled up the front of her body, feeling her breast before closing around her throat lightly. “How strange. I didn’t hear you say ‘Yes, Lord Ancunín.’ Perhaps our wizard is learned enough to understand what you clearly don’t, darling. Gale, come strip these rags off my consort.”

Gale, for his part, looked quite shocked by the command he’d been given. He held up his hands in an appeasing motion. “Astarion, I’m sure she didn’t mean any disres—”

The vampire lord cut him off with an exasperated scoff. “Oh, for gods’ sake, Gale, you don’t need to defend her. I can see into her mind to know if she’s upset, but it’s part of the game. Or do you think the most powerful vampire in the world solely enjoys his consort with slow, adoring passion even on a night after she’s killed—how many was it? Five or six?”

“Six people.” A full evening; she probably wouldn’t even need much stimulation tonight.

“Six people, yes,” Astarion continued, giving Gale a wicked grin. “The point is, we’re vampires; classically obsessed with power, control, pleasure? Don’t act so shocked by a little foreplay. Come along, wizard. My darling won’t wait forever.”

For a moment she eyed Gale. In the bond, Astarion could tell that she was trying to think of how to make him more comfortable without spoiling her master’s plans. The longer she had the idea of Astarion and Gale in her mind, the more its appeal grew, her own thoughts becoming more depraved. She rarely seemed to fantasize about herself with anyone else, not even the most beautiful courtesans he’d hired, but Gale was different. Dreya needed to actually know them to desire them, it seemed.

The truth was, despite the reputation they’d gained for constantly hiring high-class workers to join them, they rarely bothered to sleep with them anymore. Astarion wasn’t blind to the fact that she just wanted their blood. Often she enjoyed him bedding them, appreciating his form and sinking into her desire for him to focus on his pleasure over just her own, but touching the others herself? She would do it for him, more easily with other women than with men, but she’d always return to Astarion at the first opportunity. Her main part of those many evenings was to wait for Astarion to charm their hirelings well enough for them to think he was drinking their blood, not her. Drinking her blood was a pleasure, but he had lost the endless accursed appetite for it. Her own vampiric hunger still had to be fed. And with her continued insistence on appearing to the public as a mortal, not his spawn, it was bluntly necessary to convince her victims that she had no fangs. Lately they’d simply taken the blood she needed and sent the hired away afterwards. A shame they hadn’t found a pair or two that were trustworthy enough to take on full time; eventually, with close, repeated visits, they might notice who was really drinking from their veins.

Reaching a point that the public no longer needed the charade of the mortal Hero of Baldur’s Gate influencing the resident ‘evil’ vampire lord into being a proper patriar would be a joy. At least Gale could see her true eyes, her true teeth, her true nature—her true bond to Astarion.

The human still seemed hesitant, but he finally allowed himself to approach them, allowed himself to be within reach of his heart’s desire. Gale touched her cheek, studying her, her crimson eyes a reminder that she wasn’t quite the woman he used to know. “You’re sure this is what you want, Dreya? Say the word, and I will never dwell on my affections for you again.”

A part of the vampire was pleased that Gale was the type to ensure that he wasn’t really hurting Dreya, even as his own ego was somewhat bruised by the wizard not trusting that Astarion’s assurance was enough. Dreya pulled against the hold on her just enough to push herself up on her toes and kiss Gale. The sensations in the bond stilled for a moment, leaving her mind quiet, uncertain, hopeful that it would be enough to persuade him to stay.

Gale kissed her gently, tenderly tracing his fingertips over her pointed ear, her high cheekbones, her wide chin, examining the face he’d never touched, tasting the lips that had never been his. Astarion knew that the wizard had to be thinking of having her for so much longer, what it would be like to come back from Mystra’s bidding and find her unchanged a hundred years, five hundred years from now—and what it would be like to return to another, a mortal, to have lost so much of their limited time to Mystra’s whims.

All it would cost him was never turning against the Vampire Ascendant. And really, wasn’t that a small price to pay to be his beautiful consort’s favorite pet?

Such choices had to be made over time, but Gale had made his for tonight the moment Dreya eagerly whimpered into his mouth. Her body squirmed against Astarion slightly, seeking some touch, some relief as her lovers left her neglected. Quickly, Gale found her belt and pulled the short dagger from its hidden place, recalling where she always kept it. A short, careful cut at the top of the dress’s high collar was enough to let him tear the cheap cloth, its weave fragmenting as the wizard ripped her top open down to her belt, exposing her soft, ample breasts, her dark pink nipples already hardened from the cold outside. Dreya blushed deeply, squirming again and forcing herself to keep her mouth shut instead of automatically protesting them tearing her clothes off.

Gale tossed away her knife and quickly unfastened the belt. It joined the dagger, allowing him to rip open her skirt. He knelt, tugging off her underwear, kissing over her hairless lower abdomen and grasping her thighs, but paused just long enough to cast another spell. “Veni et iuva me.”

An ethereal mage hand appeared from the air, moving at Gale’s silent direction. Its long nails raked through the wool of her bodice and cleanly cut her dress free from her body in moments, letting its shredded remnants drop to the floor. Dreya gasped, goosebumps rising on her skin in the sudden cold left from being forcibly disrobed so abruptly. He’d left one sleeve un-torn; he gave Astarion a single nod, seeing the vampire watching the wizard’s obedience. “Maybe you should tie her wrists with that, Astarion—give yourself another free hand.”

The confident suggestion boded well for the night, at least, even if Astarion was already a bit impatient with how long it had taken the damn wizard to simply do as he was told. It only took a few moments to rip the sleeve free and tie her wrists together—though before he truly released them, Astarion gently curled her fingers in, silently showing her exactly where the cloth was if she needed to cut it away. After the attack by the spawn, she’d become more nervous about being bound and helpless. Her focus and its ribbon had been on her arm beneath the sleeve. He let it be, touching it to make sure she knew he hadn’t disarmed her.

Gale was already between her thighs, pulling one leg over his shoulder to give himself a bit more space while his tongue explored her smooth folds. Dreya bit her lip, bracing her back against Astarion’s chest. The vampire grasped her other leg beneath her knee and pulled it up to the side, insisting on spreading her open for the tongue that was finally getting to taste her. Her head pressed back into his shoulder, pinned by the hand on her neck to keep her from looking down as she was eaten out by her new lover.

Dreya’s soft moans became more rhythmic and needy as the wizard moved his lips to her clit and sucked experimentally, letting low sounds of his own stimulate her as his skilled tongue played over the sensitive nub. Gale seemed emboldened by her response. He began to explore her body with his hands, gripping her ass with one and fondling her chest with the other, lightly rolling a nipple between his fingers. She tightened her leg over his shoulder reflexively, instinctively trying to roll her hips closer to his mouth if that were even possible. Astarion hardened his grip on her throat for a long moment, crooning in her ear. “Stay still, pet. Let the wizard take his time if he wants.”

Her next gasp sounded frustrated. “By the hells, you pull my feet off the ground and bind my hands, and you want me to be more still?!”

Astarion hid his delight at the mild defiance, the sort of behavior he encouraged in their private moments. Her frustration would pass with her ecstasy, but he enjoyed the frame of punishing her. If she were any other spawn, and he any other lord, he knew far too well that ‘punishment’ would be—well, any number of things he had no stomach to do to his beautiful dove. But as a game? There was something strangely healing in them. Her cries were some of the sweetest sounds he drank from her lips, a mirror of the phrase that had once nearly brought tears to Astarion’s eyes when he told her why he’d been the favorite. They were what she gave him willingly—another ingredient in the heady potion of herself that he tasted at every chance.

Astarion realized he’d been staring at her in naked adoration for a few seconds. Gale had certainly seen it. The vampire scoffed and pulled his consort against him more tightly. “Another man’s tongue in you for a minute and you think you can defy me? We’ll have to teach you a lesson, pet.”

Dreya laughed. She wasn’t far from her climax thanks to the wizard’s surprising skill—well, and the fact that she’d begun her evening with a brutal murder of deserving victims—and it didn’t take a mental bond to guess that the thought of her two favorite men using her was very welcome. She’d managed to mostly be still, as ordered, but he recognized the peaks of bliss in her breath and knew she wouldn’t last long. “Fine. Maybe you should leave it to him, love, I hear Gale’s a very good teacher.”

“Disrespecting me even in front of our guest? Don’t even pretend to be sorry, darling, we both know you’re not.” Astarion nipped at the smooth curve of her neck meeting her shoulder, considering letting himself have a taste. “It’s very difficult to punish a consort when she enjoys it, Gale, and the Hero of Baldur’s Gate is a filthy slut for her master behind closed doors. What do you think, little love? Should I make you suck his cock to stay quiet while I take what’s mine? Or perhaps you don’t deserve any of that… I wonder if his mage hand is skilled enough to hold you at the edge of release while Gale and I enjoy each other instead.” She was already struggling not to lose herself to her pleasure; Astarion crooning obscene things into her ear wasn’t helping her hold out, much to his amusement. “Relax, pet. Now give the wizard his treat.”

Before she could obey, Astarion sank his fangs into the bare lower neck that had been tantalizing him, just a few inches away from the permanent scars of the bite that had bound them. Dreya finally found her release with a swallowed, breathy cry, her body tightening in her master’s arms, quivering on her lover’s face as her muscles pulled against their hold on her. Gale gripped her ass with both hands and pulled her hips against him for better control as he drew out her pleasure. Astarion’s eyes met the wizard’s as he drank his darling’s blood. It was strangely intimate in a way that it never could be with a random hireling giving Dreya the same experience. They seemed to mirror the same feelings—satisfaction and lust as one of them consumed her body and the other consumed her blood. Tonight was for her, for giving Gale an evening that he would dream of in the cold wilderness until he was able to return to the Ascendant’s embrace, but there would be other nights more focused on serving the Ascendant himself. Hopefully Gale would be as delighted to submit to giving a vampire lord his pleasure then as he was to giving Dreya pleasure now.

Dreya’s moans dissolved to weaker panting. Astarion stopped drinking after the few swallows of her blood and lowered her foot back to the floor, holding her steady to regain her balance. Gale got back to his feet, brushing off his collar, though his beard seemed to have taken the brunt of her arousal—not that he minded, given his cheerful expression. “Would you mind if I got a towel? I assume there’s some in the bath.”

Astarion allowed Dreya to keep leaning on him, but he shifted forward enough to seize the wizard by the back of the head, tugging him into a kiss. Gale made a surprised sort of noise, but he leaned into the kiss enthusiastically, letting Astarion taste his consort even if he was likely a bit less thrilled to be tasting Dreya’s blood from Astarion’s mouth. The beard made the experience different… they weren’t in fashion for tall races in Baldur’s Gate at the moment, so even the human courtesans that could grow them were usually clean-shaven. It was pleasant, scratching lightly against Astarion’s own smooth skin. He felt Dreya’s eyes on them.

“What are you thinking about, pet?”

There was a deep, amused interest coming from her in the bond. “That I’m starting tomorrow on my knees to thank you for this.”

One more round for his own pleasure, at least; perhaps it hadn’t been the evening of wild abandon he’d been anticipating earlier, but giving his dove a pet and ensnaring the Chosen of Mystra was worth it. Oh… and helping a friend, he supposed. It wasn’t like he was planning to abuse his hold on Gale once it was secured, it was simply wise to have a powerful archmage on their side. Everyone would benefit.

Astarion released Gale, flashing him a charming smile. “Take her to bed and undress. I won’t be a minute.” The wizard cleared his throat, muttering something in the affirmative as he courteously took Dreya’s arm to lead her away. Before he helped her sit on the edge of the bed, the human quickly untied her wrists, using the scrap of cloth to dry his face. Just as well; for what Astarion had in mind, her hands being down by her ass might get in the way.

Despite what he said, Astarion took his time as he undressed himself. Gale moved a bit more efficiently, leaving his clothes neatly folded over the back of one of the chairs, but seemed a bit unsure what to do with himself once he was naked. It was probably wise for him to be reticent about putting his hands on someone else’s consort. He waited a bit awkwardly—as if there was any other way to wait with his prick as stiff as a staff—and tried to make small talk. “So… Dreya… you’ve been well, apart from the vampire attack?”

Dreya didn’t bother trying to make conversation. After all, unlike Gale, she knew whether or not Astarion would be angry that they started without him. She slipped further back on the bed, allowing herself to devour the wizard with her eyes. He wasn’t as impossibly perfect as Astarion, of course, but whether Gale maintained his physique through magic or movement didn’t change the fact that a man who had been attractive enough for a goddess was a pleasure to behold. Astarion gave her a slight nudge through the bond, a hint of what he wanted her to do. Dreya reached over and tossed a couple of pillows away from the head of the bed while she voiced the silent suggestion. “Sit against the headboard. Just while we wait for Astarion to finish preening.”

Astarion huffed, going to the bedside table and dropping his clothes next to it as he disrobed. “I’m not ‘preening,’ I’m pondering how to pry a well-deserved apology from your lips.”

Gale did as he was told while Astarion protested her phrasing. Dreya wasted no time in straddling him, rubbing the length of his cock between her legs as she kissed him. With her own hands free she was able to touch his beard, slip her fingers into the long straight hair that hung so differently from Astarion’s. Dekarios rested a hand on her waist, the other on her back, holding her tenderly. The wizard was still viewing things rather differently from them… no matter. He would still enjoy himself, even if he did look a touch nervous when Dreya broke from kissing him and nuzzled against his neck.

Astarion joined them, now undressed, with a coil of soft rope in his hand taken from the desk. He took her arms, roughly pinning her forearms together across her back and pressing her body against Gale’s chest. “I told you, Gale, she’s not the modest paragon of virtue she pretends to be in public. Give her your cock and hold her still for me. Not a twitch or a thrust out of either of you until I’m ready.” The arrogant smile on his face demanded obedience. The wizard obeyed more readily this time, seeming to finally understand the dynamic a bit more. He guided himself into Dreya’s body, allowing himself a gasp of pleasure when he finally felt her walls around him. She struggled not to squirm, burying her face against Gale’s neck as she let him push her hips against his.

“Astarion—Gale, could I bite you?”

Gale’s eyes widened a bit; he chuckled awkwardly and held her arms in place as Astarion instructed, watching as the vampire lord busily began wrapping the rope around her forearms. “Ah—I’m not sure I’m into pain, actually, it’s not really my cup of tea.”

Dreya growled with frustration at the order not to pleasure herself. It would be so easy to work herself against Gale if her lord would only allow it. She pulled against the ropes and hands moodily, her annoyance only turning her mind more towards her hunger. “It doesn’t hurt much, I promise, and it goes numb quickly. Gods, you smell delicious now that the orb is gone.”

Astarion swatted her ass fairly hard. The spank made her tighten around Gale, drawing another stifled noise from the poor wizard, whose control and focus seemed to be draining rapidly. The vampire began tying an elaborate knot around her wrist. “Don’t worry, she’s not going to bite without my permission. Not that she deserves it right now, either. She’s been defying me for months, complaining constantly about me keeping her safe, and now she tries to take a meal before I allow it?” He moved to do the same to her other wrist. “We’re going to use her tonight, play with her until she’s dripping and begging for mercy, just to remind her of her place. Now where’s your extra hand?”

As before, though, the ropes weren’t as restrictive as they seemed. Astarion tucked the ends of the knots into her palms; she squeezed his fingers lightly, not just out of eagerness to touch him, but to show that she felt them. The elaborate knots could be undone with a few tugs on the strands he gave her.

The mage hand had been floating uselessly since it disrobed the half-elf. It zipped back in front of them with Gale’s mental command, but the hand giving a friendly little wave drew a withering stare from Astarion. “Don’t—ugh. Yes, Gale, the mood intended for ‘punishing the defiant consort of a vampire lord’ fits well with ‘my hand is waving at you.’ Just get rid of its claws and give it here.” Astarion knew what its texture would be from their travels—smooth as silk, strangely wet in texture, and only mostly solid. Gale reshaped its fingers for a moment with his mind, still holding Dreya against his body, and allowed the hand’s control to become pliant to the vampire lord’s thoughts.

Astarion spread his consort’s ass cheeks, directing the magical hand to crawl between them. Its fingers played around her tight hole, making her squirm a bit more as her master made his intentions plain. He felt the intensity of her lust in their bond, not just for him and Gale together, but for him, for Astarion to use her as crudely as he desired. The urge from her made his cock throb, his lust deepen. One finger pushed into her ass; she tried to relax, but the sensation made her core wrap tighter around Gale. The wizard’s hands were shaking slightly with the effort of controlling himself. A second finger made her openly whimper; a third left her trembling.

“Astarion, please, please, just—help me,” she panted, resting her forehead on Gale’s shoulder.

Astarion reached into the bedside table and produced a bottle of clear oil that he quickly smeared over both his cock and her pried-open ass. There was something immensely satisfying in watching them both having to wait on their pleasure for him. “My darling little slut… don’t worry, pet, I’m not cruel enough to leave you wanting.”

He brushed away the mage hand and pressed his tip against her. Slowly, carefully, he worked himself into her ass, paying attention to every quiver, every sound. It wouldn’t do to actually hurt her. The sensation in the bond, though… that was everything. Dreya could hardly think through the sense of fullness, the sweet ownership of her body. Feeling her pleasure made him purr with his own, leaning his head back slightly and closing his eyes to bask in the sensations. His fingers dug into her hips to move her, using her body to fuck both of them, slowly at first, but quickly speeding up to what he felt she could take. Her shallow, desperate moans were music to him.

Gale didn’t last long. It wasn’t surprising, given that he wasn’t accustomed to all of this, nor did he possess the perfection of Astarion’s control and power. He worked his hips with Astarion’s movement, thrusting into her needy cunt until he couldn’t hold back his own release. The man clung to Dreya, feeling her heat and desire as he blissfully moaned into her white hair. His body relaxed a bit, but he straightened himself sternly, muttering another incantation and pressing his hand to his own sweaty skin. The action reached Dreya through her haze of bliss. She laughed breathlessly, muttering to him.

“Really? You made a cantrip that lets you keep fucking after you cum?”

“I’ve had demanding lovers. You deserve nothing less.” Gale pulled her head back from his shoulder and settled into kissing her, leaving one hand in her hair as he groped her body with the other, pinching and playing with her nipples.

Astarion tucked away the information about Gale’s apparently extensive suite of utility cantrips, either to mock him or make use of them later, and kept going. Dreya was almost ready to lose herself again… but no, Astarion had already decided what to do now. One more trick, one that would make her hate and adore him so much in the same moments that she couldn’t possibly forget who she belonged to. Just at her peak, she felt his command push through her mind.

“You don’t get to cum, darling. Put your hips into it yourself now. Show us how badly you want us, and maybe I’ll allow it.”

The bond flooded with frustration and upset, but as he expected, even more devotion to him. Her eyes glowed red as her moans became more intense, almost startling Gale until he realized what was happening. Astarion smiled charmingly, as if he were speaking in a casual setting rather than tormenting the woman on his cock with her own ecstasy. “Put your fingers to work, wizard, she needs more.”

“Please, Master…”

Astarion spanked her again lightly, his hands free now that he’d ordered her to work herself on them. The spank made her tighten and whimper again, muffling it with Gale’s mouth. There was no such muffle for Astarion’s visceral satisfaction as he felt his consort desperately trying to lose herself on him. “You don’t get to call me ‘Master’ once and have it all be forgiven, pet. You’ve been defying me, frustrating me. Why should I allow you any pleasure at all tonight?”

Gale slipped his fingers back to her clit as ordered, lightly adding more stimulation to the potent mix flooding Dreya’s mind. She moaned more loudly, almost painfully, shuddering around them both. “Gods! Gods—because—because you enjoy watching me cum, Master.”

“What a good answer, pet,” Astarion purred, seizing her hair and pulling her back against his body. Gale had enjoyed her being close to him long enough. “A shame that leaving you wanting would be punishing myself for your failure to be obedient.” The vampire squeezed her breast, enjoying her fullness while her hips kept driving down on theirs, unable to stop herself even if she’d wanted to. The bliss in their bond was mixed with the pain of overstimulation beginning to trickle through her cries. All she could think of was him allowing her release. Gale watched with some mixture of intense arousal and slight discomfort as Astarion twisted her body back far enough to kiss her, tasting her parted, panting lips before biting them lightly. “Finish us both and I’ll allow it. If you apologize.”

“I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry! I know you’re just—worried about me.”

“Good girl.” Another, more tender kiss; his own urge to let go of himself was difficult to ignore, but he refused to give in before the other man. Gale had little interest in holding himself back further, fortunately, either to give her some relief or simply because the perverse spectacle made it far too difficult to resist his own pleasure. The wizard’s tell-tale gasp allowed Astarion to finish himself with a few harsh thrusts. He groaned wantonly into Dreya’s kiss, flooding her mind with his own bliss.

Astarion released the commands in her mind and pushed her off their laps, turning her onto her back next to Gale as he crawled over her possessively. He kissed her, using his hand between her legs to craze her overstimulated mind. Just a few seconds was enough. Dreya nearly sobbed out her moans, her climax unbearably overwhelming her nerves. Astarion pressed his fingers deep into her, giving her cunt something to wrap around besides the cum her wizard left in her. The utter satisfaction and bliss that followed as she relaxed made the entire affair worth it.

It only took a few seconds to untie her arms after he wiped his hand clean of her mess. The bruises from the ropes would heal easily enough with his will. Astarion kept kissing her neck, contentedly murmuring to her. “Gods, you’re beautiful. My darling little dove… did you enjoy yourself?”

Dreya giggled unsteadily, clearly still trying to recover from the sensations. “I-I—don’t think I have words.” She put her hand on Astarion’s cheek, bringing him back to her lips to kiss him for a long moment. Moving seemed difficult, but she made herself sit up, determined not to ignore her other partner. The painful ache didn’t stop her from leaning over to Gale to kiss him as well. “Thank you. Both of you.”

The wizard relaxed a little more; apparently he’d been concerned still. “Maybe you should get some rest, Dreya. I don’t have a measure of vampiric stamina, but that, seemed, ah. Tiring.”

Astarion tossed the red bedcover back and laid down, pulling her next to him and silently pushing her towards sleep, a light touch that she wouldn’t even notice. Gale started to get out of bed, but the vampire lord interrupted him. “Just lie down, wizard.” He nodded and quickly did as he was told, a bit away from the other two. Sleepily, Dreya reached back and tugged at his hand, having him move closer before she nestled into a comfortable position between them. Astarion petted her hair, watching her as she drifted away.

Gale seemed tired as well, but his eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling when she was asleep. The Ascendant observed him, his mind once again returning to the calculus of keeping the human’s interest. “Anything to say?”

A slight shake of his head. “It’s very unlike what I’ve experienced before, even on the mortal plane, but it’s interesting to return to a more physical sense of things. Not that I can judge the unusual bits even if I cared to—the astral plane allowed me to do a great deal that would be considered unusual. No doubt there were things I can’t perceive, thoughts shared and such—your bond is quite special, Astarion. I admit, I’m envious.”

A thrill of possessiveness; his fingers curled in her hair slightly, enjoying the wizard openly acknowledging the order of things. “As I said—she will always be mine, Gale. I promised her forever, and she’ll have it, with me. But if even a part of my angel wants you, I’ll allow it. We’ll be second to Mystra, and you’ll be second to us. Consider it.”

Astarion summoned a small amount of his own magic, controlling the flames in the sconces and burning them away to leave them in darkness apart from the fireplace. With his darkvision he could still see Dreya resting peacefully. His. Only his. Whatever affection she might develop for Gale paled to nothing in the radiance of her devotion to him and the fact that at Astarion’s word, he knew she would leave the wizard behind. Nothing she ever did for Gale would compare to the Ascension. Nothing Gale ever did for her would compare to her immortality. And when Gale had long since reached the end of the pseudo-ageless life that his goddess granted and his bones had turned to dust, Dreya would still be in Astarion’s arms.

Chapter Text

 It had been a quiet morning. By the time she’d woken up, Gale had already left to deal with his own business in the city. Dreya was still sore from the night before—a reminder of her apology, Astarion claimed, though Dreya suspected he just enjoyed having her lean on him a bit more—but he’d declined her attempt to get on her knees for him as she’d promised. And strangely, he’d insisted on accompanying her to the upper city shops.

Ever since Withers’ party had brought the group together again two years earlier, Dreya had sent supplies to Wyll and Karlach in Avernus every week, using a dimensional locator the Gondians had created for the purpose. It was simple, just ten seconds of a portal to toss a bag through somewhere within a hundred feet of their old friends. Sure, an imp had come through once, but it was largely safe. Obviously Wyll still carried the infernal eye created for his end of the locator, though whether he’d decided to wear it was uncertain. The occasional glimpse of her two old friends through the portal was the only assurance Dreya had that they were still alive.

But today, she needed to go to the Upper City’s market to resupply some of the things she wanted to send this time. Karlach had tried some roasted sugar pecans at the party and thought they were delicious, so Dreya was sure to send a pouch of them through every time. Some of those, some fresh fruit, dried meats and vegetables, seed oil for their horns, some ingredients Dreya needed to make them more elixirs of fire resistance… it wasn’t a long list, and yes, she could’ve sent a servant to go get them for her, but it still felt strange to her to have servants at all. Unsurprisingly, Astarion still brought someone to carry what they bought. The human man—Waldref, if she remembered his name correctly—was fairly discreet, hanging back several feet and only really appearing to take Dreya’s purchases when she finished paying for something.

Astarion walked to the markets with her around noon, dressed in a black and red doublet with silver embroidery swirled over the rich crimson fabric. A matching black cape hung from his shoulders. Her own dress matched him, of course, because Astarion had chosen it; she might not have cared much about her presentation, but when Dreya left the estate with him, Astarion always wanted her clothed to fit her station. The black dress was simple in design, but she wore a thick red and silver cloak that wrapped around her whole body and fell to her ankles, lined with ermine fur to ward off the chill in the air. The black ribbon holding her spell focus was secured around her wrist comfortingly, a silent shield to let her use her own power should the need arise.

Even though they were quiet, hardly speaking to each other for most of the trip, Dreya could feel him in their bond. Whenever she was awake, Astarion’s touch usually played over the barest surface of her mind constantly, feeling her, knowing the lightest sense of her emotion, like he was fondly stroking the fur of a cat while it was within reach. After so many years of her patron being a constant presence in her mind, being entirely alone would have been… difficult, but the pact’s renegotiation for her turning had forced the Keeper to leave her most of the time.

Without even discussing it, their vampiric bond had taken the place of the emptiness of being alone that her mind was no longer comfortable with. Unlike Corvallis, Astarion didn’t force himself deep into her head to tear out thoughts she didn’t want him to know or see her life through her eyes. Astarion’s light bond was a comforting touch, a familiar hand on her back, the brush of a kiss on her neck, the scent of him on her pillow. Feeling him like this was as natural as breathing had been, as natural as her slipping her arm around his in the lightly trafficked marketplace despite the move opening her cloak to the cold. This closeness, this light touch of their bond that they didn’t even need to notice to feel the other—she rarely wanted it to stop whether they were in public or not. It was subtle, a mental hand-fasting that needed no words.

There was more the bond allowed, of course. His power as the Ascendant flowed to her through it unnoticeably, allowing her heart to beat, her reflection to show, her bloodthirst to stay dimmed. Consuming and tasting food was still possible because of him, and she was so accustomed to the feeling of it all that it, too, was natural.

But some parts of the bond had to stay unused in front of others, at Dreya’s insistence—namely, speaking through the bond and compelling her to do his will. To the public she was still a mortal, not a vampire. The only people that really knew what she was were those that had been in the Elfsong with them the morning she’d woken from her death. They were sworn to secrecy. Convincing the city to accept him had made it necessary to hide what she was now and let the people see their union as something it both was and wasn’t—a powerful vampire lord bound to a hero by his adoration for her, a hero for whom he could curb his monstrous nature, a hero that sated his perverse hungers. People loved a good story, and the vignette of a pure white-haired angel willingly loving a beautiful blood-soaked demon was evocative enough to let the demon himself become a far-reaching, beloved influence. And, well… the lurid undertones kept the story popular.

In many ways, the story was true. Astarion had self-imposed limits on what he would do for power solely because of his consort’s will. But now, less than three short years after the Absolute’s fall, the bond and influence that Dreya had built for them with the commoners of the city could be ripped apart if it became known that she was not an angel that could leave his arms if he ever attacked the people she championed, but a bound slave of him herself. His choice to limit himself for her was a true choice, but the half-elf feared what would happen if her nature became known before they could broaden the story to her romantically choosing to join him in eternity.

So the charade continued, and it affected their bond’s use. In public, even at home in front of servants, she insisted on not communicating with their bond, wary of speaking out of turn and giving away their connection while she still pretended to be a mortal. Every morning, before any servant could see her, she cast her disguise spell to conceal her now-red eyes with her former green and entirely obscure her fangs and bite scar. Every morning and evening she ate a small meal of real food even if she would’ve preferred blood. And so far, apart from a few worshippers of the sun god Lathander, no one had questioned that she was still a mortal half-elf.

Then there was the most serious agreement about their bond… the rules concerning Astarion compelling her.

When the newly ascended vampire lord had tried to convince Dreya to become his eternal consort, there had been a concern she couldn’t move past—the fear of him controlling her mind. The agreement they’d come to had been simple: Astarion could compel her during sex and occasionally in private, but never, never outside of those times. She had knelt to him, given him her life, her body, her mind, an ultimate act of trust. Dreya wasn’t blind to the fact that in many ways, it was a parallel of what she’d given her patron.

Maybe that was why she was so angry and hurt when he broke that trust.

The vampire spawn attacking them had changed everything. Now that Astarion knew another vampire lord might want her, he had become far more intensely focused on her safety. He’d changed where they slept to a room not so accessible to the outside, he’d used his command over the estate to lock every entrance and exit the moment the servants left the palace for the night, and he had commanded Dreya never to be out after sunset. If she wasn’t with him, she had to be close to the sunlight that could protect her. Hells, he wouldn’t even allow her to go underground anymore, saying again that it wasn’t safe.

The sorceress had disobeyed his orders, offended that he was even trying to give her something like a curfew. The spawn attack had injured her because she was tied to their bed and didn’t have her spell focus on. With her limbs free and her powers able to be freely cast, she didn’t need to fear the night. Astarion had raged through the bond, ordering her to come home, swearing that he would come bring her back himself, and—and then he’d done it. When he arrived at the bard performance Dreya was attending and she still refused to go back with him immediately, Astarion threatened to compel her, knowing she was in a crowd, knowing that everyone would see her eyes glow red if he did so. To keep her safe, he was willing to burn down all her work to pretend to be a mortal. To keep her safe, he was willing to rip down the trust she’d given him.

So she had gone home and stayed away from him. The next night when she tried not to come back at sunset, and the next, he threatened the same things. Dreya had begged, she’d reasoned, she’d raged back at him for tearing apart the sanctity of their agreement, but he hadn’t relented from his insistence that it was all worth it for her safety. Her safety, as if she were a powerless waif. Secretly, she blamed herself a little. Maybe allowing her fear and pain to show after being attacked in her bed had brought this on, even if Astarion had been the one to encourage her to let those emotions out instead of bottling them away.

In the months that had passed since then, things had been cold from Dreya. She’d pushed away the gentle bond, often demanding that he stop the touches on her mind. He’d lurked in the bond instead, a shadow keeping her from being entirely alone, keeping him from being cut off from her. Some nights she spent with him, some days she let herself relax around him, but it was difficult to move past his threats. Everything she did with him felt more brittle, underlaid by her hurt and anger.

Astarion acted more amorous and charming than usual, but she’d often ignored his summons and his seductive whispers into her mind and slept in her potions lab instead of their bed. The courtesans he hired and charmed into not realizing that Dreya was drinking their blood continued to be brought in, and Astarion tried to use them to help seduce her into passion instead of colder pleasure, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch them sexually or particularly enjoy seeing Astarion with them. Evenings that would’ve been spent together were colder and dimmer, sitting apart instead of letting herself affectionately join him. The parties that Astarion enjoyed throwing ceased entirely—again, for ‘safety,’ since the spawn had gained invitations with a soirée—but he also refused to go to anywhere else with her, preferring to shut them both away in the estate like a dragon guarding his hoard. And so often his eyes just… followed her, like he was patiently waiting for her to return to normal. Dreya badly missed their closeness, but she could never agree that his threatening to compel her had been justified.

Until he’d allowed her to leave the night before, it had started to feel like things might never go back to normal. After Astarion had allowed her to deal in her vigilantism once again, she’d intended to reconnect with him sexually and have a night of passion more intimate than what they’d been engaging in. Him allowing her to leave again might mean that he was relaxing about the threat or realized how foolish it was to treat a sorceress like she was helpless. Even with Astarion’s ego, she’d hoped that the vampire would apologize and make peace. Instead she’d returned to find him with Gale, offering their old friend as a strange sort of apology for, specifically, ‘all the fuss lately’ and forcing her to stay in after sunset. And yes—that had been nice, even with Astarion insisting on Dreya making an apology of her own.

But this, strolling through a market with him, her arm in his, breathing in the chilled air as he absently stroked her mind and exchanged pleasantries with other buyers? This was the closeness she’d missed having with him. She only hoped it lasted longer than this one trip. It hadn’t escaped her that Astarion had not mentioned the compulsion directly, but he had said something else… ‘Your obedience isn’t always optional, but that can come later.’ He still thought he was right. This battle of wills was never going to end, Dreya thought, frustrating herself with the thought resurfacing. She tried to stuff it back down and just focus on her shopping and the city around him, since she couldn’t dwell on his presence for long without the brittle anger returning.

With her own list done, Dreya was ready to return to the Ancunín estate. Astarion still hadn’t allowed whatever parts of her hips were sore to heal, leaving her using his arm for support to hide her gait. At the moment he didn’t seem ready to go home, though. She leaned against his side, affectionately sliding her hand down his strong forearm over his sleeve in a silent effort to let herself enjoy his company before their persisting fight soured things again. Quietly, she offered him the small bag of sugar pecans she’d pulled out for herself, letting him take a few as he strolled. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here helping me buy seed oil? You don’t exactly care about Karlach’s horn care.”

Astarion settled his hand on hers comfortably, turning her down a narrow side street. “Can’t I take a walk with my pet without needing a reason?”

“Not when you’re pretending to look that innocent,” Dreya said dryly, noting his overly pleasant expression. “Let me guess. You ordered something for me that’s far too expensive and you know I’ll object.” It wouldn’t be the first gift he’d given her since their fight; the ermine-lined cloak she wore at that very moment had appeared over her one of the nights she’d slept in in her potion lab. The gorgeous piece was far more extravagant than she would’ve ever gotten herself, but she did find it incredibly beautiful.

“But you’ll take it in the end.” He seemed entirely too pleased with himself at the reminder, but she had to grudgingly admit that he was right. It was difficult not to take a gift he’d already paid for and, on occasion, had already laid out for her to put on or draped over her in her sleep. “You may be fine with wearing rags, pet, but I insist that my consort be properly adorned and wrapped in silks.” Astarion bent down a bit, nipping at her ear-tip before murmuring quietly. “I would hate to make Gale tear your clothes off again. Last night may have traumatized him, poor thing.”

Dreya rolled her eyes, leaning her head against Astarion’s arm. “Yes, he looked very traumatized with his head between my legs,” she muttered sarcastically. She tucked her pecans away inside a pocket of her cloak. “I’m still surprised you had him join us. Or that you could convince him to, for that matter. What happened?”

“Another time, my darling. We’re here.” Astarion stopped in front of what appeared to be a dress shop on the nigh-barren street. It was at least three stories tall, made of stone. Two unimpressively simple dresses were in the window, and the sign for it was small.

“Tialeni’s Fashion? Whatever happened to Figaro? I thought you liked him.”

“I do, little love, but it turns out that certain clientele amongst the powerful prefer this place for more, mm… enjoyable ways to clothe their darlings. It’s very exclusive, with hardly anything on display for those without an appointment. Lord Arnir recommended I get you something before his next bacchanal.”

“Arnir?” Dreya scoffed. They had attended those ‘bacchanals’ a few times; the high elf sorcerer Arnir was spicing up his third century of life with holding private hedonistic parties for the elite, ones that usually involved other patriars and their lovers or sex workers rather than their actual partners. Astarion was one of very few who took his consort instead of another. Arnir sent frequent invitations, but it had been several months since Astarion had decided they should attend. The last time they’d gone, Arnir had tried very, very hard to persuade Astarion to let him join them. “I didn’t know you were still taking advice from him.”

Astarion gave her a wicked grin and pulled her towards the shop’s door. “We’ll be attending Arnir’s soirée tonight, if only to show off some of the lovely things I’ve gotten for you. He’ll be most interested in a particular item.”

The half-elf couldn’t stop herself from giving him a glare, though she dropped her voice to a whisper thanks to him ushering her through the door. “Months of keeping me from going anywhere after dark, and the first one you choose is—”

His voice suddenly turned cold, driven through the bond she preferred not to use in public, but there was a note of deep satisfaction that she recognized, anticipation of what was to come. “I see your apology last night didn’t take, pet. What a shame. By the time I’m done with you tonight, I’ll have to carry you back to the estate.” Dreya sighed internally and simply followed him. Whether he would manage to convince her to be genuinely sorry about being upset with him lately had yet to be seen, but she did want him to have his fun, even if she wasn’t thrilled that he’d apparently let her go take care of her killing the night before so he could pull her into a bit of semi-public fucking tonight.

A disinterested-looking middle-aged human woman sat at a desk in the nearly-bare shop; she didn’t bother to look up until Astarion strode over to the desk. As soon as she glanced up, though, she got to her feet, her eyes widening with a mixture of fear and awe. “Gods above. You’re the noon appointment? Lord Ancunín, here.” A look to Dreya, and she only seemed more thrilled. “And Dreya Kiang! I, I owe you both my life, I was about to lose my brain when you killed the Absolute.”

Astarion gave a gracious sort of chuckle, allowing the woman a smile. “I do so enjoy admirers… they’re very discreet, dove, no names on the appointments. I assume everything’s ready?”

“Entirely, milord. Tialeni sends her regards. If you’ll follow me.” The woman started towards a door in the back of the room, but Astarion waved her off.

“That won’t be necessary. Just bring me the necklace and pack the rest.”

The woman curtsied slightly and darted out of sight, leaving them alone briefly. Dreya wandered over to the bare wall near the door and leaned back against it to relieve her sore hips. Being further away from the window was nice, too; the glass let cold into the room. “Clothes are one thing, but a necklace? Astarion, you’ve already given me some beautiful jewelry, I don’t need more.”

“This one is special, dove.” The woman returned with a flat wooden case in hand. Astarion took it from her with barely a glance to spare her, waving her off again with an order. “Take your time, we’ll need a few minutes.” As soon as she’d returned to the back, he began to close the short distance between him and his consort, a hint of a cold smirk on his face. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be genuinely annoyed or playful.

“You’ve been a very bad girl lately, pet. Whatever am I to do with you?”

Dreya frowned, folding her arms under her cloak. He wanted to bring up that they were fighting, in public? She listened for the woman in the back; her movements were barely perceptible even for sharpened vampiric hearing. Clearly this establishment had some very soundproof walls. Even so, though— “You want to talk about this now?”

The tone turned a fraction more apologetic, but it was still cushioned in the delicate condescension his voice so often held. “It’s calmer this way, pet. We’ve both lost our tempers in private. But I’m sure you wouldn’t want to scream anything vile at me here, would you?”

Screaming something vile? Yes, she knew what he was referring to. She allowed herself one of her practiced, pretty smiles, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I know what I said, but I don’t have to scream it. Does it feel better to have my voice be quiet and nice when I call you a controlling bastard who lied to my face so I would stay with him?” Even with her calm exterior, she felt a lump in her throat to say it aloud again. Because… it might very well be true. Had he always intended to ignore their agreement as soon as he could get away with it?

Astarion’s nostrils flared with temper, but he didn’t allow himself to vent it physically, preferring to use something more cowing than a simple show of strength. He rested a hand against the wall a bit higher than her head to emphasize his greater height as he allowed his fearsome presence to bleed into the air. Normally those auras were suppressed around her, but he was just as angry as she was. He didn’t frighten her, but his influence was unmistakable. It chilled the air deeply, letting the cold of the grave creep around them and grip her bones. Breathing in was difficult, like pressure was being applied to her neck. The frigid air pricked at her eyes painfully. She dropped her fake smile and glared at him, hugging the cloak around herself a bit more tightly. Not that it helped, of course; ermine wasn’t the best protection against magical freezing.

“I didn’t ‘lie’ to you about our bond. I came to realize that agreements must change with the times, and ours is no exception. Sometimes obedience is not optional, pet,” he hissed quietly, leaning down towards her a bit. Dreya had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “You know I only want to keep you safe. But you’ve been a petulant terror lately, sulking in your little potion den, pouting when I touch our bond, putting me off even when you want me like I’m some common suitor instead of your lord and master. I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses about all this, but there’s only so long I can sit on my hands and hope you bend the knee of your own volition. Gale was a timely peace offering for us to share, but I need more from you. My consort, my right hand, cannot work against me, not when you’re in danger. Something must be done to reunite us, one way or another.” The anger in his crimson eyes shifted slightly, almost reluctantly. He gave a small huff, annoyed to be admitting it at all. “Besides. I miss you.”

The half-elf’s glare became harsher when he characterized her anger as petulance. If they were at home she might’ve allowed herself a bit more ‘petulance,’ but here… hmm. Maybe he’d been right to bring this up in a semi-public place. She swallowed the reflexive anger as best she could, but she allowed herself to snap at him. “You violated our agreement, you think it was justified, and you’ll probably do it again. What’s supposed to ‘reunite us’ after that?

Astarion stopped leaning against the wall to take her chin lightly. “We both know I could simply force you to give in, but neither of us want that. I’ve planned something far better. You’re going to have to convince me that you can defend yourself from a vampire lord—then, perhaps, I could trust that you’ll be safe.”

Convince him that she could defend herself so he wouldn’t compel her… cute. She gave him a frosty smirk, though with the continuing aura, she was just glad that his cold didn’t literally make things icy. It was a struggle not to let her teeth chatter. “And how in the nine hells am I supposed to convince you of that?”

The anger on his face gave way slightly to his own, more playful smile. “Why, we’ll have a little fight, you and I! Just the two of us. Keep my fangs from your neck for five minutes, and I’ll be satisfied that you’re more than a match for any monsters that come for your blood.” The purr she enjoyed drifted into his tone. “Though we both know you’ll have more fun if you lose, pet…”

Dreya refused to be distracted by his intimation, instead sniffing contemptuously at the idea. “That’s a ridiculous test. My first line of defense against a vampire lord is sunlight, and you just happen to be immune to it, on top of likely being stronger than the rest of them.”

“Two minutes, then.” His anger had begun to shift, his expression turning more playful. “You’re right, five would be unfair, you’d be begging for me to take you by then. Last two minutes, and you have my solemn word that our agreement will stand. I’ll have no choice but to kneel to my favorite sorceress all night… explore all the talents I haven’t appreciated.” His hand and eyes drifted lower as he spoke, unfastening the white gold clasp of her cloak to expose the black dress. Its collar was relatively high, only dipping a few inches to reach a point, but he let fingers follow to the point regardless.

Two minutes… still a ridiculous test, but perhaps she could hold him off that long. Dreya pointedly ignored the seduction once again, focusing on the logistics. “And if I lose?”

“Then you return to me, my chastened, beautiful dove, kneeling at my feet where you belong,” he murmured, his lulling, sensual tone painting a picture tinged with longing. “You’ll always be powerful, little love, I’ve never doubted that, but you don’t understand the horrors you face—not like I do after two hundred years of torment.” Astarion brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, staring at her like he could see his words coming to life before him. “You’ll come back to me, always my most precious treasure, and I’ll lavish you with every affection until you understand that being mine in every sense is for your own good.”

A scene he framed as beautiful, and one she could see the appeal of. But with either outcome, this was another agreement that he could modify when he saw fit… that was the danger of becoming his spawn at all. Astarion breaking her trust was a raw sensation, a reminder that she might have been foolish to let him turn her even though she didn’t regret it. Dreya was silent, struggling with the idea, still unconvinced that losing a fight to Astarion, the Vampire Ascendant, would mean that she was vulnerable to other vampire lords. But, while Astarion had been the one to actually admit it… she missed how things were, too. Even with the bleak overtone of her patron clouding their lives, she missed being with him. Maybe risking losing would be worth it. “I’ll think about it.”

Astarion seemed satisfied with her considering it at all; his aura drained from the room, sending a slight shudder through Dreya. Gods, she hadn’t realized how oppressive the air had felt until the aura was gone. He took a moment to open her cloak wider, pushing the fur-lined collar back from her neck. “I do hope so. And I got you a gift to use during our bout. Open it.” He finally stepped back a little and held out the flat case he’d been holding under his arm.

Dreya sighed to herself and laid a hand on the box, intending to tell him that he didn’t need to get her fancy gifts, but touching the wood let her feel something… magic, dimly coming from the box. Enchanted items were nothing new, but this felt different in a way that was hard to explain. Different, but familiar. Astarion watched her expression change to a sort of alert curiosity. What could he have possibly gotten her?

The sorceress unclasped the case and opened it. The box was lined with thick red velvet, artfully stitched and ruffed in such a way that it held the case’s contents in place. A narrow band of thin black leather lay within, with the inside of it lined by some sort of soft cloth. The piece was in two halves, with the back held together by a seamless metal lock and the front held together by small metal circle. A leaf-shaped pendant of white gold hung from the circle, but it seemed like it would be easy to remove. She picked the necklace up, examining it for a long moment. More magic was infused into the metal lock and leather, but what kind of magic? “The lock looks like the one on my ribbon. Not the same crafter, but close. A spell focus?” she guessed, slightly confused by the item. “There’s something strange. It’s familiar, but I’m not sure how to describe it. What’s different about this?”

“So many things, my dove,” he purred, touching the focus ribbon on her wrist. In a moment he’d opened the focus’s lock with its incantation; he dropped the ribbon into the case and closed it in a smooth motion, carelessly tossing it a few feet back to the desk. Astarion gave her a wicked smile, running his finger along the edge of the leather, but his eyes were on hers. “But first—you do recognize its form, don’t you, pet?”

Its form? Dreya frowned a little and looked over it again. A necklace of almost entirely leather was strange, and it was fairly small, more like a choker or—or a collar. Astarion must have seen her confusion harden to uncertainty at the realization; at least, she thought so, given his slight smirk. “I didn’t want it to be too obvious to others for your sake, but this is your new collar. Only I can open the lock.” He took the leather from her, tracing his finger over the lock almost sensually. “Aperire.” The lock separated into two pieces, and he laid the leather back on her hands. “See it as a sign of how precious you are to me.”

Dreya stared at it, suddenly more frozen than she had been in his aura. He was putting her on the spot, making her decide what to do. A collar, of all things. He hadn’t ever asked her to wear a collar in private, much less wear one in public, even if it was a subtle design. Their whole argument was about him breaking her trust, and now he wanted her to wear something that very clearly marked her as below him. There were so many reminders in their relationship that forced her to know her place, even down to their bond. ‘Their’ bond wasn’t theirs. It was his. This was the privilege of being a vampire lord over being his spawn—ultimate control.

Astarion’s hands found hers, warmly wrapping over them. She didn’t want to look up at him, suddenly terrified that she would find cruelty on his face when he waited to see her debase herself for him. As much as he ruled her, cruelty towards her wasn’t something she’d ever seen in him, but the fear remained. How could it not? The vampire lord owned her, and if he ever made the choice to turn velvet ropes to iron chains, there was nothing she could do to stop him. And turning a collar into a spell focus? It made her ability to unleash her power dependent on her wearing his ownership. Clever, she had to admit, if… uncomfortable.

He kissed her forehead tenderly, his touch in their bond stroking slowly, soothingly. “Submit to me again, my darling. I promise… it will be worth it.”

Dreya swore at herself internally. This was an awful idea. But even with her instinctive, fearful reaction to a collar, she wanted to trust him. She had to try, just a little, the first step of rebuilding what had been broken. A few short breaths to calm herself down, then making herself hold the air and still her mind. This was just a symbol. It didn’t mean he would treat her like a slave. Slowly, she put the collar around her neck, fastening the lock beneath her hair with a quiet click as the metal linked together. It was slightly snug, sitting just above her collarbones, just tight enough that it wouldn’t shift much, but loose enough that swallowing and breathing still came with ease. Clearly he’d given the creator something to show her precise size.

The fit was perfect, but when she finally made herself look at him, she couldn’t hide the discomfort on her face from wearing it at all. But unlike she’d feared, there was no cruelty in his expression, just naked adoration for a moment before it disappeared behind a confident veneer of power again. “I knew you’d wear it for me, my treasure. And now you’ll reap all the rewards.”

Dreya was a little surprised that he mentioned other rewards; even with Astarion claiming there were many ‘different’ things about the collar before he’d pushed her to wear it, she’d half-assumed that it really was only a spell focus that emphasized his hold on her. “Astarion, just tell me what this is.”

Astarion touched the collar in a strangely fond way, tracing its line against her pale skin. He relished his words, like he was sharing some wonderful gossip. “This shop’s delightful little front as an exclusive purveyor of scandalous fashion hides its true nature. The upper levels are the workshop of a controversial enchanter. He’s rather experimental, enough that I was able to convince him to make a special treat for my beloved consort. He created a spell focus attuned only to you, infused with my own blood. It only needs one thing to be complete. Give me your hand.”

What he’d said in just a few moments was a lot to absorb. The half-elf stared at him, half-concerned and half-impressed. “Experimental enchantments? That’s a broad category, to say the least, but—you also gave someone some of your blood? The Ascendant’s blood? What if he’s misused it in some way? We don’t even know everything it’s capable of!”

The vampire lord chuckled darkly, giving the ceiling a long glance. “Oh, pet, believe me, he’ll be thrilled to have this completed solely so that bats will stop infesting his laboratory. I’ve watched everything he’s done with every drop of what I gave him. And, he’s assured me that the collar is perfectly safe for you. I assured him that if his enchantments harmed you in any way, I would bury him alive with a swarm of rats to slowly eat him as he suffocated.”

Dreya shook her head, annoyed by the imaginative threat. As he’d asked, she gave him her hand. “I’m sure the ‘burying him alive’ part would’ve been enough…”

“For you, but it wouldn’t have been enough retribution for my taste if he hurt you.” Astarion took her forefinger and pulled it to his mouth, giving her a sharp, short cut with his fang. Quickly, he pressed the wound against the collar, making her daub a bit of her blood against the leather. Just as quickly, he licked the cut closed and stepped back, watching her carefully. “Your blood was all that it needed. He said that within—” A moment of tension in his face, then a self-satisfied smile. “Ah. There it is.”

In that same moment, Dreya felt a small fluctuation from the arcane magic infusing the piece, a fluctuation like it was stirring. And then… like watching a warped mirror’s reflection become true, she could recognize for herself what had been familiar. Astarion’s blood, sleeping in the metal and leather, its magic distilled down to its very essence and infused into the materials of the collar, now woken by her blood. The moment felt sensual as Astarion reached to her through the comforting bond again, pulling the power of the spell focus into it, into her. The sensation grew overwhelmingly, painfully intimate, like a woman struggling to take her lover’s cock. From the deep ardor in Astarion’s eyes, she knew he felt it too.

The brief moment passed, leaving behind a wake of confused desire in Dreya. Her hips were sore still, but she ached for Astarion, almost desperate for him. The vampire lord was on her again before she could blink, pinning her back against the wall by her shoulder, kissing her lips, her cheek, her ear, drinking in her desire for intimacy after the months of her cold. His fingers twisted in the collar, turning it surprisingly easily as he kissed her skin and whispered to her. “It bends to my fingers, bows to my will, but steels itself against other intrusions—much like yourself, pet. Nothing will ever take you away from me.”

Her hands found his doublet, curling in the embroidered cloth to pull herself against his neck, closing her eyes. She kissed over his bite scars, feeling the pulse of his living heart beneath her lips, smelling the vigor of his blood beneath the spiced scent of brandy and incense he wore. For months she had barely partaken in his blood, unwilling to allow herself to use him for that pleasure when she knew they were at a distance, only drinking a small amount when he had insisted. Now the intense desire for him from the enchantment’s bonding made her crave him, crave the life running through his body, crave to worship and consume the power of the one who made her own heart beat. Using her fangs would break her disguise, but gods, it was difficult to restrain herself.

She felt the collar tighten. Her lord’s will was in the bond, making the leather choke back her attempts to inhale. If she had still been mortal she might’ve panicked, but without a true need for oxygen it felt more like having his hand around her neck. Astarion pulled away from her a bit and let out a long, lustful breath, watching the frustrated hunger in her eyes. “Goodness, darling, don’t be so eager.” His teasing smile would’ve taken her breath away if he hadn’t already done that. “We’re in public, remember?”

His will eased, allowing the collar to loosen again. Dreya swallowed hard, trying to focus herself away from the lust and hunger buzzing in their bond. No doubt there was more to discover about an enchanted item created with his blood, but it was difficult to think of anything but how badly she wanted him. She glanced over his shoulder at the window on the far side of the room’s front wall. With the angle, they were concealed from the street, but… no, no, the shopkeeper would be back at any moment, they shouldn’t get too inappropriate. “Astarion, does the focus get in the way of you biting me?” Her ribbon focus did when she wore it on her neck, but this one was narrower. “Maybe, before we go home…”

He pressed his body against hers, running his hand beneath her cloak to pull her dress partway up her leg, grasping her thigh and tugging it up to his waist. She heard his breath becoming heavier when he bent to the curve of her neck. “Just a taste, pet.” Another kiss, and he bit her. Dreya whimpered, the oh-so-familiar sharp pain arousing her, then the sound of him swallowing… she didn’t think she would ever get too used to the quiet noise to appreciate it. She slipped her arms around him, stilling her urge to moan into his ear so she could listen to him. A groan of pleasure thrummed into her skin around the bite, around the blood, wrapping them in the connection she hadn’t been able to appreciate since their fight.

The door to the street opened, shattering the blissful connection with a rush of cold air and embarrassment at being caught; Astarion gave a low growl and reluctantly released his bite as Dreya ducked her head slightly and straightened up, hastily pushing her skirt back down when Astarion let go of her thigh. “Tialeni promised we were the only appointment around this time,” he complained, turning to the heavy footfalls. Dreya automatically started to put her hand over her bite mark, but before she could, Astarion was already advancing on the newcomer, a vicious snarl tearing from him. The terrifying aura poured out of him, slamming into Dreya hard enough to hurt her chest as the temperature instantly plummeted. “You! What are you doing here? Get out!”

Dreya’s eyes were on the newcomer before he finished speaking, of course. She caught her breath, dropping her hand from covering the wound as she found herself looking at familiar silver eyes framed by white hair loosely tied in a bun. The tall, powerfully muscular drow woman before them seemed surprised, but not by Astarion. Her attention was on Dreya. Her hand had gone to the handle of the greatsword on her back, likely an automatic reaction to the aura. It was a testament to the woman’s willpower that the panic and fear such a powerful magic tended to induce in most seemed steeled out of her mind, letting her focus on the half-elf.

“Sunflower?”

No… was this real?

The door creaked shut behind the drow, leaving the three alone. Dreya started towards the woman, beginning to reach for her to give her a hug, anticipating touching the cold of the plate armor she was adorned in—just for a moment before Astarion seized Dreya’s arm and yanked her back from the drow, the rage in his voice only deepening as he pinned his consort against him protectively. “Don’t touch her!” A command flung at the drow, not Dreya, as if she’d been reaching for the sorceress in the first place.

“Astarion, it’s alright!” The half-elf allowed him to hold her against his body, quickly reaching up and touching his cheek, trying to calm the fury in his expression. “It’s alright, it’s not—” Her tongue hitched before she could say the name of her patron; after all, her pact only allowed her to speak of him to Astarion, not when others were present. “It’s the real Shena—ah—Eshendra. I know her.” There were some screams from the street, and Dreya barely heard the shopkeeper in the back sobbing—poor reactions to the fearful power projected from Astarion. “Love, your aura is scaring people.”

The vampire lord’s anger cooled slightly; he might have been embarrassed by his overreaction normally, but his eyes found the symbol of Lathander emblazoned across the woman’s gold-colored plate and etched into the pommel of her greatsword. He reluctantly let go of Dreya, though, allowing her to face the drow as he gave a false, delicate laugh and drew the freezing aura back out of the air. “To think, I nearly went for your throat. Shapeshifters, you understand.” That was a lie, of course. Corvallis had taken Eshendra’s form in front of Astarion, yes, but Astarion knew all too well that he could never physically harm Dreya’s patron without Dreya’s life being forfeit. No doubt he’d wanted to attack her, but someone being seen as Corvallis was one of the best defenses they could have against Astarion.

Eshendra measured him with her eyes, looking just as suspicious of him as he was of her, but she lowered her hand from her sword. “I see.” She pulled her attention from him, letting it return to the half-elf at his side. Her harsh expression softened slightly. “By Lathander… it really is you, sunflower. Until I laid eyes on you, I thought it had to be a mistake.”

If their meeting hadn’t started with a potential exchange of violence, Dreya might have found herself more overwhelmed with the shock of seeing her again. As it was, it still seemed surreal. But no, this was reality—Eshendra once again, after nearly fifteen years. She managed an incredulous smile. “Gods. Shena, how can you be here?”

Astarion’s arm found his way around her shoulders. He sounded quite displeased, unsurprisingly; a servant of the Morninglord being so familiar with his consort would appear dangerous to him. “This might be a touching reunion if I knew who this was, pet. Who is ‘Eshendra,’ exactly?”

Right, of course. “Astarion, this is, ah—this is Eshendra, a paladin of Lathander. We met when I was just beginning as an adventurer,” she explained. “She taught me a great deal when I knew very little about surviving. Without her, I doubt I’d be alive today. Hells, we traveled together for over a year. Eshendra, this is—”

“I sought Lord Ancunín, yes,” Shena interrupted, her suddenly cold eyes now fixed on the vampire lord. Her hand rested on her belt, dangerously close to a sheathed dagger. “I see I have found him with his fangs in the flesh of a woman that once claimed my heart. Strange, for a creature to wound one that he claims to love. At least do your prey the courtesy of closing her neck.”

Dreya’s brow rose slightly at the drow announcing their previous relationship. The initial shock of seeing the paladin hadn’t exactly worn off, and clearly her old arguments with Shena remained evergreen… though her being so specific with mentioning how they knew each other felt new. Was it just because Astarion was a vampire, or because of the bite? The sorceress spoke up, almost warningly. “Shena, please.”

Astarion smiled arrogantly, seeming amused by the paladin’s accusatory introduction. “Oh, I only wound my darling if she asks nicely,” he purred, pulling her into his side a bit harder. “You see, when a vampire lord and his consort love each other very much—”

For a moment, the half-elf felt like she was back in the Absolute crisis, managing companions that were snipping at each other. “Enough! Both of you.” she snapped abruptly, pulling free of Astarion’s grip and stepping between them. It seemed they both needed some diplomacy right now. Dreya gave Eshendra a courteous smile. “The bite was consensual, no ‘prey’ involved. You don’t seem surprised to find me with a vampire, Shena.”

The drow stared at Astarion for another long moment but finally tore her eyes away from him. “The statue of the seven heroes of the Absolute crisis bears your likenesses well, and the bards sing of your union. Yet still I thought there must be some mistake, that another woman with a similar face had given her hand to a vampire lord. You go by ‘Dreya’ now?”

“My real name, yes,” she admitted, feeling embarrassment creeping through her. They hadn’t exactly ended things under the best circumstances.

“It suits you better than ‘Hallis,’” Shena said, offering a smile of her own. “I’m relieved that you’re well.” Her eyes flicked to the small rivulets of blood running down Dreya’s neck from the fresh bite mark. “Mostly well… May I meet you tonight, sunflower? The Elfsong, perhaps? I hear you frequent it. We have much to discuss, and right now I have little time. I overheard some saying that Lord Ancunín had passed this way and decided to see for myself if you were who I thought.”

Dreya opened her mouth to suggest another night—Astarion had already made his plans for Lord Arnir. Before she could speak, though, Astarion was next to her, his arm around her shoulders again and an ingratiating smile on his lips. “Of course! I’ll have the servants prepare enough food for all of us. Come to our estate at sunset—unless you’re afraid the Morninglord won’t protect you in the lair of such a monstrously evil creature as myself unless he’s busy shining.”

The drow’s eyes narrowed with the mockery, her chin rising slightly. “… tonight then, vampire lord. I assure you, the Morninglord’s glory shines regardless of the sun’s light. Try not to wound the minds of any more citizens with your magic. Good day.” Her nod to Dreya was soft, but she turned and strode out of the shop without another word.

Astarion sighed, almost visibly brushing away the command and making a remark as the woman left. “Oh, a little fright never hurt anyone. It just got their blood pumping.”

The half-elf pinched the bridge of her nose for a long moment. “Astarion?”

“Yes, pet?”

“Please don’t antagonize the paladin with a deep hatred for the undead.”

“The one that was your lover in the past?” he asked innocently. “The one that your patron shifted into to tell you that you’re his favorite and he’ll miss the succor of your mind? Perish the thought. How long did it take you to go from ‘sleeping with a paladin of a god that hates the undead’ and ‘vampire’s favorite darling,’ dove?”

Dreya frowned up at him and pulled away, going to the desk to retrieve the case for her collar. “Oh, for gods’ sake… she’s special to me, I won’t deny it, but I knew her twelve years before I met you. And for the last few months we were together, we argued incessantly about ‘evil’ creatures and whether they should always be killed, or what ‘evil’ creatures even were, or what ‘evil’ even meant. I had to leave her for other reasons—” Her patron, he would understand that by now even if she didn’t say it aloud. “—but we wouldn’t have lasted. I’m surprised you invited her tonight.”

“Arnir will have another bacchanal, but I admit, I’m curious about this ex-lover of yours.” He followed Dreya and turned her head back to him a bit, just enough to lean in and lick the bite marks closed before he re-fastened the clasp of her cloak. “No doubt she has business with the church here.”

The human worker finally returned from the back of the shop, a sturdy covered basket in hand and a frightened, tear-stained expression on her face. Astarion took the basket and exchanged a few pleasantries with the woman, doing his best to smooth over the incident, but Dreya found it difficult to pay attention. Eshendra, a devoted follower of Lathander, now finding that her former lover was not only the consort of an undead creature, but also his political shield. With any luck she would believe that Dreya was still mortal. If not… well, surely Shena understood that physically attacking her or Astarion was political suicide for the temple in Baldur’s Gate, right? The last Dawnmaster for the Church of Lathander in Baldur’s Gate had passed some months earlier, leaving two contenders for his position. One was significantly less popular than the other solely because he spoke so vehemently against the most well-known Hero of Baldur’s Gate and her charming, equally heroic lord. A paladin actually attacking them…

No. No, this was ridiculous. Dreya owed Shena her life a dozen times over, along with a real apology. Maybe the dinner would be tense, but it would be… fine.

Well. Astarion might get more possessive or act strangely. He hadn’t had to deal with an ex of hers before.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you’re having me wear this to a normal dinner.”

Astarion stood behind Dreya, sliding his hands down her slender waist as she adjusted the cloth top of her dress in the mirror. “Why not? You look beautiful in it, my treasure.”

“I know. I also know that you’d usually only insist I wear this if it were a party like Arnir’s.”

“Mm. Who knows where the night will lead us?” he teased, fully wrapping an arm around her nearly unclothed waist and putting his hand on the collar she still wore, playing with the charm on it. “I never got to do more than sample you this afternoon, after all…”

Dreya chuckled, changing her focus to the long, full skirt, tugging it to the side a touch more to place the two slits over her bare legs properly. The silky black cloth reached the floor, brushing over the tops of her toes. Around her hips the cloth was solid, but the fabric somehow became more sheer as it descended, showing the lines of her legs quite clearly. “I was available, for once, but you just had to do other things outside the estate. Shame. Going to tell me where you went?”

“Just needed to ask a few questions here and there, pet. And I needed to ensure Gale would be back in time. Having the Chosen of a respected god at our table can only help things go smoothly. Now let me see you.” Astarion pulled her back from the mirror and spun her to face him, stepping back to take in the dress he’d purchased.

Even with her apprehension about the selection, Dreya could admit that the cloth felt wonderful on her skin, but then—there was a lot of skin the cloth didn’t even touch. “Astarion, this is a ridiculous outfit to wear to see an old friend. Whatever she thinks of you will only be made worse by having me half-clothed.”

Everything above the waist of her dress was comprised of a single strip of fabric that varied from a few to several inches wide, attaching to the skirt just behind the back of her waist, crossing her torso to wrap the wider part of the cloth over her breast tightly before draping around her neck to cover the other breast and return to her waist, creating an X shape. The thin cloth practically demanded letting the outline of her nipples show. It was as solid over her breasts as it was around her hips, but like the skirt, the lower parts of the cloth strip were nearly see-through. Dreya’s first thought when Astarion had given her the dress a bit earlier had been to wonder sarcastically if she should just go topless instead to be more modest.

The vampire lord waved off her concerns with a devilish smile. “I just want something to occupy my mind while she blathers about gods, my darling—and even if we’re not going to Arnir’s boudoirs, I may as well enjoy my purchase. With any luck the paladin will be so distracted by how lovely you are that she won’t even reach a diatribe about the undead.”

Dreya winced, hazily remembering some old discussions she’d had that could be classified as those. “Right… please tell me you’re just thinking with your cock and you’re not trying to use me to provoke her. I don’t want to sit there while you dangle me and see if she’ll react.”

“Maybe I’m trying to get you to seduce Gale,” he teased, returning to the mirror himself to button his own top. “Honestly, pet, you act like I’m upset about your past flame. I have you securely by my side. If anyone at the table tonight is jealous, it will be her.”

“Then you are trying to provoke her.” It wasn’t surprising, no, but Dreya did feel a deep sense of unease at the idea. She shook her head and hurried over to him, turning him towards her so she could finish the buttoning, more to give her hands something to do than out of any need to do it herself. Her brow creased slightly with worry. If only she could make him understand. She’d thought he would want to know more about their guest before she arrived, but he’d been off making other preparations both in and out of the estate instead of asking her even a single question. Shena probably wasn’t a personal threat to him, no, but it had been so long since she’d seen Shena fight… and paladins could be very powerful.

When she spoke, she only meant to sound casual, but her voice came out urgent, quiet. “Astarion, just—be careful. You don’t know her like I do. She hates the undead, especially vampires. Hells, she once told me that she frequently prayed to Lathander to guide her to a vampire lord for the honor of killing one! And I doubt she spared the spawn, either, if she ever found a lord… not that she ever talked to me about the difference or the details, but I’m sure she knew, she just… just mostly told me how dangerous and evil vampires are, to run if I see one, only try to destroy their heart or decapitate them if I’m trapped because they would kill me. If she’s like she used to be, she would probably consider killing a spawn to be a mercy.”

The buttons were long since done; she let her hands run over the silver-threaded black silk of his extravagant top, smoothing the red winged patterns stitched by the three white gold chains strung loosely over the doublet’s closure. Astarion was letting her ramble, she knew. Dreya forced a smile and made herself step away. “Gods, why don’t you just wear the bank vaults? Maybe some peacock feathers? It would be less showy.”

“An esteemed paladin of Lathander mustn’t be disappointed by the grandeur of a vampire lord, little love.”

“Should’ve worn one of your open doublets to let her see your chest if you wanted to show grandeur.”

Astarion gave a mockingly shocked gasp. “You never compliment me, pet!”

“Because I’m terrible at it, but you set that one up for me,” she admitted, turning to go through the bath towards their closet. It wouldn’t do to go to a dinner barefoot, even if it would be more comfortable.

Dreya didn’t hear Astarion follow her, of course; since his ascension he moved in utter silence when he wanted to. She wished she were used to it, but when she began to step into the closet and found arms around her and teeth nipping at the side of her neck, she still started with surprise. “Fuck—I was just getting shoes,” she muttered, trying to make herself relax. “She’ll be here soon.”

“You’re as tense as a bowstring. No need to be afraid. A single paladin has no chance against me, my love.” A nigh-feral grin crossed his face briefly, one she could feel against her skin as his grip on her tightened. “And if she decides you’re a spawn and so much as draws her sword in your presence, she’ll be dead before she even realizes she’s being attacked.”

Dread settled into Dreya’s stomach. This was the sort of thing she feared the night becoming. If one of her ex-lovers had to make their way to Baldur’s Gate and find her again, why couldn’t it have been the gnomish herbalist? At least then Astarion would have just made jokes about her height and left it alone. “I don’t want her to die. I just want to find out her business, catch up, and let her leave. That’s all.”

“Fine…” Astarion pulled Dreya’s hand over her heart dramatically. “I promise, I’ll try to let the paladin leave alive.”

“And?”

“Alive and whole. If possible.”

“Thank you. Besides, the more bad blood we avoid with the church, the better.”

Astarion hummed in agreement, but he turned his attention back the collar on her neck, brushing his fingertip over it briefly. “I want to finish everything with her as quickly as possible,” he muttered, seeming annoyed. “She interrupted something far more important than the church’s curiosity—us. Have you tried to learn anything more about your gift, pet? Or were you distracted all afternoon? I’m eager to learn what my blood will bring out of your magic.”

He was obviously trying to distract her, but she allowed it, letting him hold her hand over her heart still. She closed her eyes, trying to just enjoy it and not think about how badly things could go at the dinner. “Ah. No, I spent the afternoon working on elixirs for Karlach and Wyll. I’ll need to find somewhere quiet to test the spells. There’s new incantations swimming in my head, but I don’t know what most of them are. Sorcerous Sundries isn’t secluded enough, I might hurt someone.”

“Still so tense…” Astarion murmured, sliding her hand from her chest down to her thigh. “Our guest could wait. Just a few minutes for me to taste you again…”

Dreya was tempted, but before she could decide one way or the other, there was a knock at the door. Astarion tensed, giving a long, low hiss. “I will kill that wizard… Get your shoes, pet.”

At least that finally made her laugh. “Blame yourself, you’re the one that seduced him.” Astarion huffed, but he finally let go of her and strode back to their bedroom. As Dreya chose a pair of strappy black sandals and began to fasten them, she heard him open the door.

“Sorry to bother you, Astarion. Your chamberlain sent me to inform you that Eshendra Duskfall has arrived. Very punctual, reached the gate right at sunset.”

“‘Duskfall’? A bit on the nose for a Lathander worshipper.”

“Well, some of them do choose their own names when they swear themselves to the church. Oh, is that infernal iron?”

Dreya heard Gale walk in and pick up an item—given that the only thing there made of infernal iron was the small, boxy Gondian device Dreya used for her portal to Avernus, it was obvious what he was looking at. “Fascinating… the runes on it are brilliant. This is what you use to send supplies to Karlach and Wyll? I seem to recall hearing you were going to do that.”

“It’s Dreya’s project, but yes.”

Dreya finished with the deceptively intricate sandals and hurried back out to the bedroom, giving Gale a quick nod. To his credit, he didn’t really react to the dress. “Come on, let’s not leave her waiting. Gale, if you want to examine that thing, I need it back by tomorrow’s noon.”

“Really? Excellent! I’ll have to make a few sketches.” The wizard pocketed the device. He hadn’t seemed to expect the opportunity to take a closer look, but the prospect of learning always delighted him.

The chamberlain, a rather serious blue tiefling named Zalreus, ushered their guest into a small side dining hall once Astarion made his appearance. The white marble of the walls and floor gleamed in the light of the fireplace, wall sconces, and chandelier, offset by the richness of the deep red rug that covered most of the floor. A few tapestries hung from the walls, depicting patriars lounging and eating and dancing, glimmering with threads of silver and gold. Even the six-foot square table spoke of wealth, hand-carved from ebony and inlaid with abstract silver patterns that brought decadence to mind.

Gale had reused the same purple doublet he’d worn to meet Astarion in this very room the night before. While it was excellent quality, it was almost quaint next to the vampire lord’s extravagant outfit. Eshendra’s was even more plain by comparison—a fine quality but modest grey doublet that fit her muscular frame paired with deep brown pants and boots. A short sword hung from her belt, the mark of the Morninglord carved into the pommel. Zalreus had quietly suggested disarming the paladin before leading them into the hall, but Astarion had waved it off.

As per Astarion’s earlier orders, the table already had the prepared food set out instead of being planned and served in courses like a proper banquet’s meal. He preferred not to have servants bothering them during personal evenings. Apart from the chamberlain and a few kitchen servants, the rest would be dismissed to return to their lodgings before the food had even gone cold. Grilled rothé ribs garnished with green onions and crushed nuts served as the centerpiece, with a few side dishes of potato scones, artfully chopped and arranged vegetables, and sweet and savory tarts. It was too much food for four people, but the scent did make Dreya quietly glad that she could still appreciate the taste of real food. She and Gale sat across from each other, with Eshendra and Astarion taking the other two places, conveniently keeping the paladin and vampire as far apart as possible.

Even so, once they were seated and had each filled their plates, Dreya found herself toying with the scone in her hand instead of eating it as silence lingered. Astarion seemed to be waiting for Eshendra to start, while Gale seemed to know he was mostly there as a third wheel, and Eshendra was delicately removing the meat from the bone of a rib while also half-watching Astarion, likely to see if he would truly eat real food. He deliberately took a bite of the meat while the paladin was looking.

Right. Beyond the business of the church, there was something Dreya actually wanted to say, and it seemed like the paladin and vampire were too busy paying attention to the other’s every move to start with the actual matters at hand anyway. The sorceress set down the scone and turned a bit more towards the drow. “Shena, I owe you an apology for how we parted. Leaving without a word wasn’t fair to you.”

Eshendra paused for a moment and gave the half-elf a measured nod, her expression carefully neutral. “If you want to apologize, I accept—but all these years, I assumed your patron directed you to leave, not that you left in such a manner by choice. Was I mistaken?”

The response caught Dreya off guard. There wasn’t much she could say specifically concerning her patron, but something simple was allowable. “You knew?”

“Of course. I assumed he became aware that I was attempting to discover him or simply became jealous.” The drow paused for a moment, a more pensive expression taking her. “I tried to follow you, sunflower. Perhaps it is I who owe you an apology for failing in my task. Your patron still lives?”

So many years of guilt for abandoning her lover, and it seemed Shena had easily realized what had happened. Dreya felt a sense of humiliation that was all too old and all too new creeping through her gut. When the drow had been with her, she had only needed a few weeks to realize that Dreya had been bedded by someone after disappearing for part of a night. The sulfur smell had put the pieces together. She had never said a word, never demanded an explanation or accused the half-elf of cheating on her, but it had been obvious that she knew Dreya was being hurt every week. Then, just like with Astarion now, Shena had sat with her after the fact sometimes, held her quietly. Just like with Astarion now, Dreya loathed the fact that anyone knew of her shame. But the fact that Shena had been trying to hunt her patron? That was new.

Astarion answered for Dreya, knowing that her tongue would be bound. His face was knit into a scowl. “Yes, he’s still around, unfortunately. But it’s fortunate for all of us that you didn’t find him. Part of her pact says that if an ally of hers causes him physical harm, her life and soul are forfeit. You could have killed Dreya.”

Eshendra’s brow rose slightly. “Truly?” She didn’t look like she really believed it, for some reason.

“If it weren’t true, I would’ve killed him myself and given his heart to my darling as a wedding gift. Oh—I hope that doesn’t make me too violent for Lathander’s taste,” he replied, only keeping a tiny edge of mockery in his voice, to his slight credit. His smile gave Dreya some warning that he was about to say something upsetting. She picked up her fork and made herself eat a bite of a berry tart, hoping that Astarion wasn’t about to light a fuse.

“You know, as much as I loathe that vile, disgusting monstrosity, he may have been right to have my dove move on. It could’ve been done in a more humane way—I certainly don’t approve of that creature torturing her into leaving and breaking her heart—but he told me that the purpose of forcing her to leave people like you was to increase her future potential. And if she hadn’t left you, then perhaps she would never have met me! What a tragedy that would’ve been.”

The drow stared at him, blank-faced, and deliberately turned to Dreya instead. “Is that true, sunflower? Your patron tortured you to make you leave?” There was a pained note in her voice. The sorceress pursed her lips, knowing she couldn’t respond.

Astarion chimed in, accustomed to speaking when details about her patron arose. “Yes, it’s true, why would I have said it otherwise?”

Eshendra spoke sharply. “I was speaking to Dreya, vampire lord. Or did you remove your consort’s voice when you removed her clothes?”

Dreya gave the paladin a brief glare at the mention of her dress. It seemed Astarion had gotten under the drow’s skin with the outfit, whether he really had just intended it for his own benefit or not. “Gods’ sake, Shena, I’m right here.” Gale sat stiffly across from her, looking a bit annoyed himself.

“Her patron bound her tongue so she can’t speak of him,” Astarion replied lightly, but he didn’t bother hiding his smile. “At least… to anyone but me. I have no pact with him, so he can’t force me to stay quiet. And since I helped renegotiate my darling’s pact, it was necessary for him to let her have my ear.”

The paladin sniffed once. “Convenient.”

“Isn’t it?”

Time to interrupt before they found some other way to annoy each other about a patron that didn’t torment either of them. Dreya stabbed her fork through the tart hard enough to loudly clatter as she forced a smile. “Well, my apology went spectacularly poorly. Wonderful. Shena, what have you been doing for the past years?”

Shena set her serious silver eyes on Dreya. “Sunflower—if what he says is true, you should never have taken torture to remain with me. But I will speak no more on that matter, for now. After you left and I failed to follow your trail, I returned to the hunt of the unholy. My prayers to Lathander were for your safety and my vengeance against the Morninglord’s enemies. In time my prayers were answered.”

Her brow creased slightly with painful memories. “In time I killed many vile creatures. I protected many in the name of Lathander. A village had lost some of its youth to the night. When I hunted for what had taken them, I found a vampire lord. And I found you in his lair, or so I thought. I and others invaded the beast’s stronghold and rained the fury of the righteous on him and his ilk. I myself took his head. But there was a pit where the bodies of his victims were thrown, a dry cistern where his rats fed on the corpses he left. Near the top, there was a half-elf roughly your size. Her face was too mangled to identify, but her hair was red, like yours used to be. The locks that were white on your head when I last saw you had been torn away, leaving uncertainty—but I thought she was you, that being taken by him was why your trail had gone cold. To arrive in Baldur’s Gate and find the statue of a dead woman hailed as hero was a shock.”

Dreya listened quietly, unsure how to feel. The story was painful. If she’d ever thought she found Shena’s corpse, she would’ve been devastated. But in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder if the paladin would have preferred her to truly be dead than to be serving a vampire. Gale interrupted her struggle to find what to say with a remark of his own, trying to keep the conversation going in the line Dreya had chosen.

“A terrible story, and a terrible burden to bear, Miss Duskfall. As a man of faith myself, I imagine you were quite thankful to Lathander for guiding you to find Dreya safe. The gods may not intervene often, but on occasion their missions for us bring great personal gratification. Where did you journey after the vampire lord?”

Eshendra seemed to note Gale taking a sip from his red wine and followed suit; maybe she’d wondered if it was poisoned. “I was led to another woman, a cleric of Selûne, one much like you, sunflower—a smile that warmed my broken heart, the bravery and ferocity of a dragon guarding its brood, and compassion that knew no bounds. We were together for seven years.” She steeled herself visibly, setting down her wine. “Then Mirwei was taken from me. She gave her compassion to the wrong creature, and by the time I found her—no magic of the gods or the hells could have saved her. I carry her moonstone with me always. May she rest in Selûne’s embrace.”

Dreya’s heart dropped into her stomach. The paladin was cold-faced, but she knew Shena, knew the passion she gave and the depth that she loved. The sorceress couldn’t truly understand her loss, she couldn’t understand the grief lingering on day after day, but just the moment of thinking Astarion was dead at the hands of Myrkul had been wrenching enough. To lose someone that close… “I’m so sorry, Shena. I can’t—”

“I don’t need your sorrow today, sunflower,” Shena interrupted, her voice cold towards Dreya for once. “Mirwei is beyond my help, but she lives in splendor, and my work in this world continues. My renown as the Morninglord’s sword grew, Mirwei’s loss and yours driving me to remove both piteously base and beautifully deceptive evils from the world, lest they ensnare the compassionate. I have felled fiends and vicious foes and foul undead in the hundreds, all in the name of the dawn. Which brings me to why I’m here.”

She fixed her eyes on Astarion. “I assume you already know this, vampire lord. Perhaps your consort is aware as well. But for Mystra’s Chosen, allow me to enlighten you all. There is a potential heresy spreading through the Church of Lathander. I have been sent to examine this new doctrine—and if I find it has no merit, to set to work snuffing it out.”

The dread in Dreya’s gut deepened. She dug her fingers into her bare knee beneath the table, hoping that snuffing out this doctrine didn’t mean snuffing out Astarion. Truthfully, she hadn’t paid close attention to doctrinal squabbles in the church. She sat stiffly, interrupting the paladin. “Shena, if you’re here to kill my lord, say so now.”

Eshendra’s lips pursed for a long moment. It was impossible to tell if she was angry, disappointed, or both, but the tension in the air became palpable briefly. Astarion enjoyed another bite of the rothé ribs, amused by the possible threat. The drow forced a tight, brief smile. “No, sunflower. I’m not here to kill Lord Ancunín, but to assess if he is a danger. My orders were to leave him untouched unless he became violent.”

The half-elf felt like she could breathe again. She gave the other woman a slight nod. “Good. Then please—continue. What is this new doctrine?”

“That despite being an undead creature, the Ascendant that walks in the sunlight freely is not an abomination, but a new breed that bears the favor of Lathander. Some say that he has been granted these abilities to rein in the vile vampire lords that torment the planes. Others believe that he, as the living undead, will destroy all other undead.”

Astarion laughed lightly. “Yes, pet, they seem to think I’m a savior for the sun god’s followers, as if I care about the will of the gods at all. It’s all quite ridiculous.” The very notion seemed so bizarre… no wonder he hadn’t mentioned it to Dreya. The sorceress couldn’t hide a half-smile at the thought of the vampire lord following a god’s orders. And considering where his power had truly come from, well…

Eshendra smiled as well, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We have something we can agree on, then. I came here with an open mind, praying to have your nature revealed to me. Then I found you sating your bloodlust in the neck of someone you claim to love. Your heart truly does beat, you eat food and have a reflection, you imitate life well—but you are as unfeeling as all others of your kind.”

Gale interjected, openly annoyed by the paladin’s assertion. “With all due respect for your beliefs, miss—I travelled with Astarion and Dreya for months, I saw them grow close. Denying that Astarion has true feelings is ridiculous, even if you don’t care for their relationship.”

Dreya let out a long, low breath, resting her head on her hand for a few moments as Gale voiced his objection. Unsurprisingly, Shena had taken the first sign that something might be wrong and used it to reach the conclusion she preferred. Quickly, she picked up her knife and fork, busying herself with cutting up her tart just to have something to do with her hands. “Shena, I told you in the shop that the bite was consensual. If you must know, I asked him to bite me. It’s simply a way of being intimate, like a kiss. Don’t use me showing him affection as a way to judge Astarion. Judge me for it if you must judge someone.”

Eshendra frowned, obviously unconvinced. “Dreya… do you recall why I consider vampires to be the most loathsome undead in Lathander’s sight?”

The half-elf bristled a bit, knowing what was about to come out of the paladin’s mouth. She set her utensils down and smiled tightly, folding her hands in front of her. “Yes. Yes, I do. Why don’t you go ahead and tell Astarion and Gale yourself? I’d hate to not imbue it with the appropriate venom.”

The paladin looked terribly sad, just for a moment, then her expression was steel once more. “So you do recall, and you still fell into his clutches. I… forgive me, sunflower. I failed you in many ways, it seems.” She took a deep breath, folding her own hands in front of her. “All undead are parasites to the living. They use the flesh and blood and bone of natural species to make or sustain themselves. With or without the consent of the consumed, this alone is enough to make the undead abominations in the sight of the Bringer of Renewal. But the reason that vampires are the most dangerous undead, the most unholy and repellant to life, is because they can feign love. Their affections seem real. Yet due to their evil natures, it is a twisted, warped thing that only ends in misery. You, Chosen of Mystra—surely you can tell the difference. This creature you travelled with—by the tales, he was a lesser vampire, was he not? A trickier subject than a vampire lord, closer to mortality and closer to true feeling. Perhaps he did once love, but with his change, how can you be sure he didn’t lose the ability to love at all?”

Dreya listened to the paladin’s speech, the dread she’d been nauseated by turning to quiet fury in her chest. She’d wondered the same thing sometimes—how much had Astarion changed when he ascended? She had nearly broken herself that night, sobbing into her arms and wondering if she’d killed the man she loved along with all the spawn she had betrayed. And yes, he had changed. His nature had darkened when he ascended, like putting a cloak around his shoulders that whispered to his worst impulses and deepened so many things he felt beyond her comprehension, for both good and ill. Yes, Dreya did not fully trust him. Their current fight was more than enough proof of that. But truthfully? The fact that all of this was based solely on Astarion being a vampire disgusted her. And whatever problems they had, Dreya had never doubted that Astarion loved her.

The half-elf stood up abruptly, cutting Gale off before he could respond. “Eshendra… how fucking dare you come into my home, sit at my table, and call my lover an unholy abomination because you feel that you can judge whether or not he loves me simply because of what he is? You don’t know me, not anymore, and you don’t know him.”

Shena took a breath, but Dreya raised her voice a touch more. “I’m not through! You know what beings have hurt me the most in life? Humans. Spare me your lectures on feigning love and evil natures when my own human mother sold me like a broodmare. Not just her, either—the rest of my family knew. My father. My sister. But for Lathander and his obsession with life, you’d kill a dozen of Astarion without question to let one human like my mother flourish—not because of something understandable like fearing their bloodlust, but solely because they’re undead. ‘Unholy.’ And you! You’re still a hypocrite, daring to pronounce every member of a species to be evil when you’re a drow! Not two hundred years ago, your kind could barely tolerate the sun, and even now most drow serve Lolth! Yet if someone had told me never to be with you because you’re a drow and all drow are evil, you would’ve been angry, you would’ve been hurt, and I know that because it fucking happened! Remember the barkeep that threw you out and tried to convince me to stay behind? And now you’re doing the same thing to Astarion!”

The paladin was briefly silent. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve become more assertive, sunflower. But this is different. Drow are born, not made.”

“Then it seems that I’m still not through, am I?” Dreya snapped, her voice rising further as she strode closer to Shena, stopping at the corner of the table by her. Gale was sitting stock-still, his eyes a bit wide at the unusual sight of the half-elf going on a tirade. Astarion wasn’t in her view, though, and she didn’t bother to look at him.

“You know, in some ways you’re right. Vampiric nature is made. It’s a curse that gives its bearers some tendencies, and Astarion is plagued by many of them. Again, if you feared vampires because of the bloodlust, I could understand—but you’re not evaluating Astarion by that measure. You’re not even criticizing him for his actions, you’re solely basing your opinion on his fangs and what you assume he feels. Should he be condemned immediately for an evil nature, or commended for restraining himself from what he’s capable of? You supposedly came here to—to what, assess whether or not he’s still an abomination because some of your church members make up stories about him? But you’ve done nothing but talk about me and allow your personal feelings to cloud your judgment. Have you even looked at anything Astarion has done besides bite me? What in the nine hells are you even here for if you’ve already made up your mind?”

Eshendra took another few moments—a familiar habit of hers, an attempt to consider what was said before speaking herself, though whether it worked as intended was another matter. The paladin got to her feet and gave Dreya a small, contrite nod. “You have a point. Perhaps my sight would be more clear if Lord Ancunín were not involved with someone dear to me. I know no other way to assess a vampiric creature’s worth in the eyes of the holy but to look at its relationships, at least when it restrains itself from wanton murder. Forgive me, sunflower.” She put her hand on Dreya’s bare shoulder, gripping her lightly. “I… I have no desire to bury you for a second time. In my haste to protect you, I have allowed knowledge of other vampire lords to persuade me that my mission was complete before it began, and I persuaded myself that Lathander allowing me to see Lord Ancunín feeding on you was enough.”

Well. At least it was an apology. The most ironic part was that both Astarion and Eshendra were apparently fixated on protecting her, as if she, a sorceress that led the defeat of the Absolute, was incapable of making her own decisions. At least the threat Astarion was wary of was real, though. Shena’s threat was a man she had no real knowledge of.

Shena held Dreya’s eyes with her own, the silver to green, reading her as deeply as she could. “Sunflower, let me ask you, then, the only one that could know. Is Lord Ancunín actually capable of love? Or is it twisted into obsession?”

It was a hell of a question to ask in front of Astarion, but perhaps the paladin thought it would be her only chance. Dreya didn’t hesitate with her answer. “He is. And if you would count it as obsession instead, I don’t care. He’s the best thing I’ve ever had, whether as a spawn or a lord. Astarion may not be my everything, but he’s the most important thing in the world to me. I’ve chosen to be his, because he needs me to be his. And he’s not what you’re likely picturing—he’s a hedonist, not a sadist. He’s capable of cruelty, of course, everyone is, but he’s never intentionally hurt me.”

The fact was, though, Dreya didn’t think the paladin believed her. Every doctrine about the undead that the drow held dear screamed that Dreya had been charmed or fooled by a clever monster. Of all the worshippers of Lathander to try to persuade, why did it have to be the one so thoroughly sure that undead were all vicious, lying beasts to their very core? There was a difference between the reality of Astarion being manipulative, but having the best intentions for his consort, and Eshendra’s view of a vampire lord crushing her underfoot.

Still, the drow gave her a nod and squeezed her shoulder once more before releasing her grasp. “Very well. My conclusions must wait, but I apologize again for my haste. And to you, Lord Ancunín. My thanks for your hospitality. May Lathander guide your steps.”

Dreya was unconvinced of the paladin’s good will, but she would take the apology and remain hopeful. It would all be fine. She cocked her head slightly. “Shena, I have to ask… what was your plan to assess Astarion’s nature before you arrived and found out who I was? Surely you didn’t expect a vampire to welcome you into his estate.”

“To find and question the others involved in the Absolute Crisis,” she answered promptly, giving Gale a slight nod. “They seemed like the best way to begin understanding the new breed of vampire, since it has yet to slaughter the innocent. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate Mr. Dekarios before he left Waterdeep, though it is a pleasure to meet him here. The rest prove more elusive. Would you—”

The smell of sulfur.

A red portal blazed open next to Gale, spanning five feet wide. Hot wind flooded out, carrying the stench of Avernus, the roars of devilish combatants. This was the portal from the Gondian device, it had to be. Ten seconds and it would close.

Ten seconds.

Wyll ran out of the portal and slammed into Gale, letting out a hoarse gasp of pain as an arrow pierced his tattered leather armor in the joint between his waist and hips. The wizard moved automatically, grabbing the other human and shoving both himself and Wyll over by tipping the chair. Three imps flew out, only narrowly missing Wyll with their swiping claws because of Gale’s maneuver.

Nine seconds.

Before the chair could even fall, Dreya was holding the incantation of Flight in her mind. Before she could cast it, the intent bled through her. Volo non fugia. The incantation never left her lips, but she was levitating over the table, her long sheer skirt fluttering around her legs in the wind. The imps were diving towards Astarion, perhaps thinking he was unarmed.

A spell cast without uttering an incantation… impossible.

Eight seconds.

No time to think. Wyll twisted himself over and flung an orb of infernal metal back through the portal, the motion costing him another tortured cry. Two more arrows flew out, striking the chair. There was movement, a long spike-skinned green arm reaching out. Astarion snatched an imp out of the air and tore its head from its body.

Seven seconds.

Dreya’s feet lit on the edge of the table about three feet back from the portal. Another incantation in her mind, another rush of intent, focus on avoiding any tieflings that might be out of her sight—Karlach had to be there. Adolebitque omnia ut cinis. Lightning sparked from her fingertips without words, arcing into the devil’s arm. Howls and screams rose from the roar of the hells as the white blaze chained into others. Another imp died from Astarion flinging its dead companion’s head into it, crushing its chest and throat.

Six seconds.

The spiked arm lashed out, longer than she’d thought it was, its bony hand snatching her left forearm. Dreya didn’t have time to understand, dissociating from her own scream as acidic pain ate through her skin, its touch burning her. Its claws sliced long, jagged gashes from the crook of her elbow as it yanked her down, dragging her before the massive devil’s eyes. The seven-foot-tall fiend was lanky, reptilian, spiked over much of its form. Its arm and body were burned by her lightning; behind it, other fiends lay dead, smoking holes haphazardly left in their chests and heads. The last imp—Dreya heard it squall, but the portal was between her and Astarion now. And now that she could see through the portal, where was Karlach? Shouldn’t she be with Wyll?

Five seconds.

Dreya felt none of the pain, just focusing on fighting back against the pull trying to take her through the portal. More lightning gathered in her hand, then broke as a stab of the agony made it to her mind. She heard Gale completing an incantation for a globe of invulnerability, felt his arm seize around her waist and try to drag her inside.

Four seconds.

Astarion. He materialized in front of her, his right arm curled back around her, her gripped arm pulled between his and his body. Words she didn’t understand spilled from his mouth, his left hand rising to slice down across the fiend’s chest and arm. A razor-sharp shard of ice far longer than his own arm materialized from nothing. The horrifying, fearful cold of his rage boiled out of him, making the devil shriek and Gale shrink away.

Three seconds.

A slice, but not only from Astarion. The paladin appeared next to them. In the same moment that his ice blade slashed across the devil’s head and body and bicep, Shena’s short sword slashed through the wrist of the hand grasping Dreya, a perfectly precise cut to free her. Astarion’s ice didn’t stop with the mere blade, though; it sprouted further in, freezing the flame-baked rocks of the hells in a broad line.

Two seconds.

Without the devil’s arm attached, Gale yanked Dreya into the globe, half-stumbling as he caught her to keep her from falling on Wyll. The devil didn’t have time to appreciate the power of the lord in front of him before its head split. Astarion kicked it back violently. A single archer peeked up from behind a rock, apparently hiding from the lightning that had poured through.

One second.

An arrow struck Astarion in the chest.

Dreya felt frozen, and not from the chill. She heard herself scream and lunged away from Gale, out of the globe, starting to grab Astarion. If it was a wooden arrow, no no no—

The portal closed.

Astarion snatched up a napkin to yank the grasping severed hand away from Dreya’s forearm, his face cold and serious. The devil’s skin had burned hers badly; her skin bubbled slightly, and Dreya suddenly realized she was whimpering. Her blood leaked from the gashes, spattering on the floor and bleeding over the acidic wound. She didn’t dare look at her own injury yet. Her eyes were fixed on his chest. No—no, the arrow was metal, not wood. It had hit him distressingly close to the heart, but it seemed like he’d barely noticed it compared to the attention he was giving her forearm. Devil’s blood was spread liberally over his clothes and face from the imps, making him leave a few smears of it on her skin when he gingerly grasped her arm. “Darling—”

“Wyll? Wyll! Miss Duskfall, we need a healer!” Gale removed the globe, already kneeling beside the devilish Blade of Avernus.

Wyll grasped Gale’s arm weakly. “Karlach… please…”

Dreya swallowed the pain and dragged herself away from Astarion, ignoring the angry glare he gave her when she did. “Wyll? Where’s Karlach?”

From the sight of the Blade, it couldn’t be good. The arrow he’d taken had been the last wound of many. He lay on his side, laboring to breathe. He clutched a broken sword in his hand, and while he had a quiver, there was no sign of his bow. The leather armor she recognized as a set she’d tossed through her portal a few months ago. It was badly torn across the chest by large claws that had rent through the armor straight to his skin. By some miracle he was alive, but he was bleeding heavily. An acid burn was fresh on the side of his neck, dangerously close to an artery. Short, smaller claw marks raked over his legs in the joints, shallowly cutting him, but who knew what was on those claws?

Eshendra knelt next to him, setting aside her sword and prying Wyll’s broken blade away from him as she whispered a prayer, summoning healing energy to her hands. Wyll hacked up some blood. “Karlach… House of Hope. Please protect…”

Gale grimly looked to the drow, speaking to her quietly. “I’m going to pull out the arrow to lay him on his back, then put pressure on the chest wound until you can stop the bleeding. Ready?”

Wyll’s eyes opened wider, one still with blackened sclera from his patron’s transformative magic, the other still his sending stone. He tried to pull Gale closer, seeming delirious. “No! No, help Karlach! Her heart—she can’t—”

Dreya swore under her breath and quickly crouched by Gale, hiding her arm behind him so Wyll couldn’t see that she was hurt. “Astarion and I will go to the House of Hope right now, Wyll. Rest, let them heal you.”

The transformed devil might have had more to say, but he choked on a scream as Gale ripped the arrow out of the wound. Shena laid her hands on Wyll’s side, channeling the power of her god into staunching the bleeding. “There’s poison in his wounds, I cannot say which. Lay him back, wizard.”

The sorceress got to her feet, pressing her lips together tightly to stifle a whimper down to a low hum. The acid hurt so badly… she had to hurry. Who knew what was happening in the House of Hope? Astarion scooped her up into his arms, careful not to touch her wounded arm, and walked out with her, murmuring for her to lean against him. Behind them, Dreya heard Wyll give a pained sob. “Gods, I killed her, I’ve killed Karlach, I killed her…”

“I can walk,” she protested, trying not to think too hard about what Wyll had just claimed. “We’ve got to get to Helsik’s! She’ll still have her sigils.”

“He’s hallucinating, my love. We’ll go to the House of Hope, but I’m sure Karlach’s fine. That self-righteous ranger would rather cut off his own hand than hurt her.”

Dreya tried to stifle another hiss from her wound throbbing more deeply. Shakily, she held her left arm’s wrist, forcing herself to take a better look at the injury. The devil’s palm and three long fingers left greenish acid on her forearm in their shape, the palm over her inner wrist and the fingers up towards her elbow, its thumbprint behind her wrist. The three fingers had each been tipped with an inches-long claw; they had dug into her, cutting deep gashes. The acid had nearly stopped bubbling, but the burning sensation continued, mostly. The patch from its palm didn’t hurt much except around the edges, but she was fairly certain that meant her skin there had been decimated to the point that she felt nothing. Her blood dripped freely onto her bare abdomen, running down the curve of her stomach onto his expensive top.

No. It didn’t matter. She dropped her voice, just to be sure that no one could hear her but him. “With a sip of your blood and your will, this will heal. We could be on our way in less than a minute. Please.”

Astarion tightened his arms around her knees and back, holding her more firmly as he started up the stairs. “Hold still, pet. You’re not going anywhere until you’re healed, and I don’t want to make your flesh regrow until the acid’s gone. Karlach can wait a few more minutes,” he said sternly. She accidentally nudged the arrow still in his chest, drawing a small grunt from him. His expression was tense, but he managed a tease. “Careful, darling, hurt me too badly and I might give in to my evil nature. Or am I too obsessive to hurt you? I’m not sure, maybe our religious friend can give me some pointers.”

Dreya relented in her attempt to get down, just focusing on holding her trembling arm high enough to not touch the burned parts against herself. If there was anything active left in the acid, it wouldn’t be ideal to have it against more of her bare skin. “Fine. Fine, I’ll have to scrub this off… haven’t fully memorized prestidigitation yet. Not in the bath, though, I don’t want to wash this shit into where we wash ourselves.” They rounded into a hallway, his strides as long and fast as if he were carrying nothing instead of a grown woman. Show-off, she thought grumpily. “And we’ll have to get the arrow out of you. I assume you didn’t want to bleed around her.”

“Who knows what the church of Lathander might do with a sample of my blood? Apparently some of them are overly invested in me.” He half-laughed, picking up his pace. “You were right about the dress, though. It seems you do need to wear armor to greet an old friend. Stop bleeding so much, it’s distracting.”

“I’ll get right on that when you stop smearing imp blood on me.” She measured her breaths still. The burn crawled, feeling like it was still searing. “Your ice—that was new to me. I haven’t seen you fight in a while.”

“Another gift of the night. And you found a new gift too, didn’t you? I seem to recall you having to use incantations for, oh, every spell you’ve ever cast in my presence.” A tiny, self-satisfied smirk had appeared on his face. “You’re welcome. We’ll have to give you a gag, see if it still works.”

It was hard to focus on something but the pain or Karlach, but she knew he was trying to distract her. Fine. “I’ve never heard of anyone being able to cast without an incantation. This magic, your bond between my mind and the spell focus—it can hear me and feel my intent, so I can still cast. That’s my first guess for ‘how.’”

“Don’t thank me, pet, your gratitude might make me become even more obsessed with you.”

That finally got a chuckle from her, even if it was cut off by another short whimper. Fuck, this had to be the worst acid burn she’d gotten. “Fine, thank you. Even if you didn’t know what you were getting me. What about your casting, though? I heard your incantation, but what about a focus?”

“I don’t need one. The Ascendant’s body is strong enough to channel all the powers I’ve gained without a trinket.”

Then Astarion couldn’t be disarmed. He would never be without his strongest weapons unless he could be silenced. It was a comforting thought. Dreya nuzzled against his chest slightly, closing her eyes and trying to focus on relief. He wasn’t in any danger, and she’d known he wasn’t, but she still worried. “We should experiment with our powers, both of us. And, umm—I’m sorry about tonight. Maybe I care about it more than you, but you shouldn’t have had all those things said to your face.”

He scoffed, only narrowly avoiding rolling his eyes. “I don’t care what some zealot has to say about me. For most vampire lords I might even agree with her. Listening to you get so angry about it was quite a delightful show to go with the rothé, though.”

Astarion waved open the door of their room in front of them and hurried her to the bath, finally setting her on her feet. Dreya went to retrieve some soap and a soft rag while Astarion snatched up a basin to fill from the magicked faucets of the large bath inset deeply into the floor. The sight made her laugh inside a little, recalling their early days after the remodel of their first bedroom had given them a very similar bath. He had pretended to seriously consider having servants bathe them instead of doing it themselves, going for a few minutes until Dreya was rendered speechless, unable to figure out another way to explain to him that it seemed awkward to pay someone else to scrub her body. Him finally breaking to laugh at her utter confusion was a sweet memory, one that was like who he used to be, before, well… everything.

His genuine laughter then was a sharp contrast to the pinched tension on his face now. He returned to her and set down a basin of hot water as she finally sat on the tiled floor, looking at the trail of blood drops she’d left behind. “Fuck. He got me worse than the spawn did. What kind of devil was that?”

Astarion snatched the fine, soft cloth from her hand when she moved to wet it, taking it himself. With a quick, impatient motion, he tore the arrow from his chest and tossed it aside carelessly, like it was a clothing ornament that got in his way. “It doesn’t matter what it was.” Ill temper finally took hold in his voice as he tried to gently brush the wet cloth over her shaking forearm, drawing another hiss of pain when he touched the burn. Quickly, he seized the back of her hand, holding her arm still. “Why were you so close to the portal, anyway?”

A fair question; as a sorceress, she really should have been further away, ideally. “I was thinking about getting just close enough to see some creature that I could cast chain lightning on, trying to—fuck, that hurts—stay far enough to the side that I wouldn’t get shot with an arrow, hoping to see if Karlach was coming. And I suppose I—gods, fucking, damn it—was getting a little between Gale and Wyll and whatever was coming out of there. I didn’t think its reach was as far as it was, though.”

“You should’ve stayed much further back! If you weren’t my spawn, this could be a serious injury.”

“But I am a spawn. That’s half the reason I needed to get between the portal and them. I’m not sturdier than them, but I heal better.”

Astarion glared at her, clearly disliking her logic. He rinsed the rag a little in the basin, then went back to gently wiping away the spent acid. “Five minutes, pet. Not two. You’re far too reckless. I have to be sure you’re able to last.”

It took her a few moments to realized he was talking about the fight. Dreya gave a long, slow breath, controlling her urge to yelp while he wiped another patch of the injury clean. “Five’s too long. You’re stronger than other vampire lords, don’t forget that. We’ve got to fix me and go, can we talk about this later?”

“No, it can’t wait!” he snapped, his hold on her hand tightening a bit more. He was visibly frustrated, focusing on the last few broad strokes he needed to clean. In the frustration, though, she thought she saw fear. “Darling, give me this. Seeing you have your arm torn open hasn’t made me more confident that you can withstand whoever tried to take you. But now you’re stronger, too, aren’t you? With your new present you should be able to manage for five minutes. I won’t even know when you’re casting until it’s too late.”

Well… he did have a point there. If she could cast silently, she was far stronger against something trying to stalk her. And with the incantation floating around in the collar’s enchantments that she’d recognized… But was it worth agreeing to a harder fight just for his peace of mind when her loss meant agreeing to lose what freedom she had? Her chest tightened at the thought. There was one awful, pervasive worry she couldn’t shake.

Astarion finished wiping the acid from her wound and tossed away the rag. He started to bite his own wrist, presumably to let her feed without breaking her disguise. She caught his hand with her good one before he could break his skin, struggling to voice what she wanted to say. Her eyes stayed down.

She pulled his hand over her heart, bracing her injured arm against her knee to keep it from trembling. There was still the rasp of a whimper in her voice, mostly from the painful itching sensation of the deep burn. If he wanted to talk now, then they would talk now. “Astarion… listen to me. You broke my trust. If I’m going to entertain this fight at all, potentially give you permission to compel me whenever you want, I need you to promise me something. Promise me, and I’ll believe you.”

Trying to actually say the promise was harder. He wrapped his free hand over hers, his voice eager, urgent. “Anything, my love. Name it, and it’s yours.”

Gods, it hurt to say aloud.

“Promise me that you won’t enslave my mind, Astarion. Even if you compel me, you won’t—you won’t undo me. Making me become someone I’m not, having you lock me away in my own body, unable to disobey, it would—you know it would break me. I don’t think you would do it, I just need to hear you say it.”

There was a conspicuous pause. His hand moved to her chin, turning her eyes up to him. She held her breath, unable to hide her fear that she might’ve gone too far in mentioning what she feared he could do, gone too far to use the word ‘enslave.’ But strangely, he didn’t even look displeased, more like he was on the verge of smiling.

“Is that all, my treasure?” he purred, snatching her uninjured hand to pull it to his lips, kissing her fingers gently. “Easy. I only want to compel you to keep you safe. You, every sweet, angelic, adorably rebellious bit of you, every part that another vampire lord would ruin. I promise—you will always belong to me, but I’ll never treat you like a slave. You’re my beloved consort, not a mere spawn snatched out of the gutter.”

Dreya said she would believe him… and she did. She gave a long breath, managing to relax a little. “Thank you. Then, I’ll give you your five minutes.”

Astarion seemed to relax, just barely, and finally gave his wrist a small bite. He pressed it to her lips, letting her drink as he willed for her wounds to heal. The burn eased almost immediately, the pain drifting away as the skin rapidly rebuilt itself. As he watched her drink him, he nipped at her fingers, teasing her. “Trust me, pet, once we aren’t rushing away to save your friend, I’ll need far longer than five minutes to finish with you. Now put on a decent robe. Wyll’s cryptic little request awaits.”

Drinking Astarion’s blood again after not having it for weeks was heaven, like tasting cold spring water after months of drinking from tepid mud puddles. Maybe the absence had made her grow fonder of it. But once her arm was nearly healed, she reluctantly pulled herself back from his wrist, swiping a drip of blood from her lip. She got to her feet, quickly stripping off the revealing, heavily bloodied dress as she headed for their closet. “I’m surprised you’re not pushing back, Astarion. As I recall, you ignored Wyll completely at Withers’ party. Aren’t you still upset with him?”

The vampire lord followed her, taking off his also-bloodied top as he mused airily, his mood greatly improved by her agreeing to his new terms. “He called me a degenerate on a day that should’ve been nothing but celebration, but that hardly makes him unique. Gale was the only one who managed to congratulate us. At least your paladin will be thrilled to have someone else around that agrees with her.” He huffed, folding the cloth over the edge of a laundry hamper; the servants would have a hellish time trying to clean and mend the intensely rich fabric without ruining it. “… I do still like Karlach, though. I suppose she might be upset if Wyll died. On the way out I’ll tell Zalreus to send for a cleric.”

“Good. Then get ready to charm or threaten a diabolist into opening a portal for us.”

“Do you think Shena would approve of me using my oh-so-horrific powers against someone if they worship fiends?”

“Who gives a fuck.”

Chapter Text

It was still early enough in the evening that the streets of the lower city in Baldur’s Gate were still busy, bustling with activity and life. Dreya kept the hood of her plain, dark cloak pulled low over her face, hiding herself as she hurried through the crowds. Astarion did the same, at her insistence. Normally she was alright with people stopping her in the street—a common enough occurrence in the lower city and outskirts, given the extensive work she’d put into rebuilding them since the Absolute’s fall—but right now, they had to hurry.

Astarion allowed Dreya to take the lead, but he stayed very close to her, rarely straying further than an arm’s length from her side. He clung to her in their bond tightly, like he was afraid to lose track of her for even a moment. They had everything necessary to deal with danger if it presented itself, though. Astarion brought two daggers and a pair of hand crossbows much better than the ones he’d used in their past. She had her own hand crossbow, the stiletto dagger tucked under the back of her robe, and the collar. What more could they need?

The urgency of reaching the House of Hope was foremost in Dreya’s mind, of course, but there was something nostalgic about setting out with Astarion to complete a mission. She even wore the same robe she’d used when they first came to Baldur’s Gate, now slightly changed thanks to Astarion insisting on having it modified to add more armor over her heart and enchanted further to infuse it with more power. The wine-red robe had hung in their dressing room unused since their journey to Dreya’s homeland. Putting it on again felt like finding an old friend. Fitting, considering that Alfira the bard had given it to Dreya in the first place.

Astarion had replaced his old armor with something a little more extravagant—a knee-length top made of gold-studded maroon and black leather, intricately stitched with a few long, eye-catching rows of triangular patterns. It came equipped with flared leather pauldrons and fitted forearm guards. The simpler leather armor they’d found in the toll house of the Cloakwood still hung in their dressing room as well, still crudely patched to fix the damage left by the Apostle of Myrkul. Wearing it again was out of the question, not like it was, but there was a bit of fond sentimentality in him keeping the damaged armor at all.

They reached the Devil’s Fee, finally, well up a hill from the crowded plaza in front of Sorcerous Sundries. The street in front of the diabolist’s shop was noticeably quieter, unsurprisingly—it was already closed. Astarion paused at the front door, giving it a distasteful look. “If only we still kept lock picks in our pockets, dove…” Well… she normally had lock picks for her vigilantism, but she hadn’t realized he needed some too. He tested the knob, then drew his hand back to strike it. Dreya caught his wrist.

“I sense magic in the door. It’s probably trapped to go off if we break it down.”

He gave an annoyed growl, considering. His eyes narrowed as he glanced around, quickly taking her arm and moving her into the light of one of the streetlamps by the shop’s entry fence. “Stay here. I’ll open it from the inside.”

From what Dreya recalled, Helsik had numerous balconies on the second floor. For a moment, she almost suggested that she simply come with him and climb the wall—but no. Using her vampiric power in public was unwise, even after dark. Astarion’s grip on her tightened. “If anything happens—”

She made an impatient noise and lightly shoved him in the chest, not that it moved him. “I’ll be fine for two minutes, Astarion! Go on, we’ve got to find Karlach.”

Astarion scowled even more deeply, but he turned away from her. A short incantation as he walked, and a reddish-black cloud enveloped him for a moment before dissipating and leaving him as a large white bat. He flew away, flitting around the building silently to find his way inside.

Dreya waited, tapping her foot slightly. She paused, something strange catching her eye. There was a man walking down the street, seemingly ignoring her. She couldn’t see his face well under his hood, but his look was slightly familiar. Yes, she’d seen him in the crowd earlier tonight, a momentary notice of someone that looked almost too nondescript.

She couldn’t accost some random person just in case they were an enemy, but she could hear his heartbeat when she focused—at least he wasn’t a vampire. The man kept walking, passing several feet away from her.

It still felt like there were eyes on her, but there was no one else in sight. She searched the shadows, but the only one dark enough to hide someone from her vision was… beneath the eave of the Devil’s Fee? She stared into the deep shadow, unable to make out more than the forms of a few bats hanging upside down. One dropped loose and flew away, leaving on his nightly hunt for food. Could one of them be—

No, she was just being paranoid. Vampire spawn couldn’t become bats, and no vampire lord would come to Baldur’s Gate. They had to stay where they were, mostly, just like Cazador had—unable to stray too far from their coffins to rest during the day. Right?

The door opened. Astarion waved her in curtly, and as soon as she stepped inside, he slammed the door once more. He turned the key, locking it again, and tucked the key into his own belt.

“Where’s Helsik?” she asked quietly, glancing around the silent, dark shop. “Any sign of her?”

Astarion dropped his hand to her lower back, ushering her towards the stairs leading up to the diabolist’s private quarters. “Already charmed and setting up the portal for us, pet. You were unsettled outside, what happened?”

“Just someone following us. They had a heartbeat. Maybe a pickpocket that decided we weren’t easy marks after all,” she said dismissively, hurrying ahead of him up the stairs. They were so close to reaching Karlach she could practically taste the sulfur.

As Astarion said, Helsik was putting out the items needed, arranging them on the red seven-pointed star painted on the diabolist’s floor. She was dressed like she’d been woken up from bed. “Nearly done, Lord Ancunín.” When she looked up, Dreya saw the magic in her eyes. The charming effect of Astarion was all too easy to recognize now. He trusted the spell to last even when he was on a different plane, she assumed, if he was willing to leave this side of the portal in the diabolist’s control.

Astarion didn’t bother acknowledging her. “Ready, dove?”

The portal flared to life. Dreya nodded once, decisively, and stepped into the swirling hole in the floor without a word.

A searing sensation ran over her skin when she passed through the red-edged energy. Heat bloomed behind the searing more softly, then sulfur reached her nostrils. Smoke seemed to fill her eyes as her body was pulled through the veil between the planes. Then, within the space of a single blink, she stood back in the House of Hope.

The entry hall had been cleaned up since their fight with Raphael, of course. Some months after the Absolute Crisis, they’d gotten a letter from Hope saying that the house had been repurposed. That still didn’t prepare Dreya for how different it felt. Before, an oppressive sense of foreboding and doom hung in the air as thick as the heat. Now, even with the pervasive stench of Avernus, it all felt lighter, somehow. A skeletal man in a robe was sweeping the bare stone floor. He looked at Dreya for a long moment, tilting his head a touch when Astarion appeared next to her.

“Oh. Hope’ll want to see you. When she’s not busy.”

Well, at least danger hadn’t presented itself immediately, but first things first. Dreya kept an incantation in her mind, prepared to cast a spell if something went wrong. “We heard Karlach Cliffgate is here, is that true? Is the House in danger?”

“Danger?” The skeleton cackled, his bare-boned jaw parting with the laugh in the closest thing to a facial expression he could muster. “No, no. Karlach’s here, though. For most I wouldn’t tell, Zariel and all, but you killed Raphael with her. I remember.”

“Will you take us to see her?” Hope sprouted in Dreya’s heart, her body relaxing just slightly. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been since Wyll begged them to save Karlach. Maybe it really was all just a misunderstanding. Wyll somehow ended up in a bad fight alone, but Karlach was probably fine.

The skeleton flipped his broom over in his hand, leaning on its wooden shaft like a staff while the brittle, monstrous bristles that made up its head poked into his ragged red hood and empty eye sockets in a strangely comical sight. “Follow then, follow. Keep your weapons stowed. The House has changed, but not all its souls respond well to threats.”

The skeleton walked ahead of them, its boney feet clacking on the hard floors as it led them into the room that had once held a rotten feast. The old table was gone now, and the room had been converted to some sort of music parlor with couches and instruments strewn around. A vacant-looking soul was absently plucking the strings of an off-tune lute, a dreamy smile on his face as the activity pulled him to better memories than the hells he lived in.

It only took a couple of minutes to reach the entrance of the dungeons. Dreya recalled a letter from Hope saying that they’d been converted into an infirmary. Dread pricked at her again. If Karlach was getting medical care…

Their guide led them further into the dungeons than they’d ventured before. Last time they’d only gone to Hope’s cell, but more lay beyond it, smaller than the vast chamber where Raphael had imprisoned his obsession. Several furtive-looking souls with armor and weapons were stationed in the dungeons, watching like they expected trouble. Finally, the skeleton stopped in front of a closed door and rapped on its thick metal. “Miss Cliffgate?”

“That you, Morfred? Door’s open.”

The skeletal soul pushed open the door and stepped aside, graciously motioning for Dreya to pass him. She slipped into the dim room hesitantly, half-holding her breath in anticipation of seeing Karlach again—and seeing what state she was in.

The room was another former dungeon, this one a cell that had been fitted with nothing but bars for its wall facing out into Avernus. Now a thick curtain hung over the bars, but its edges wafted in the heavy, hot wind, letting licks of orange light into the stone cell. The room was no more than ten feet square. Its stone walls and floor were now covered with mismatched, plain tapestries and rugs to turn what had once been a place of torment into a comfortable shelter. An old desk and chair stood in one corner. The other main piece of furniture was a wide couch that served as a bed that Karlach currently lounged on, toying with a book in her hands. A small, low table sat next to the couch, holding a pitcher of water and a cup. Astarion closed the cell door behind them, though he took a moment to inspect its lock. The mechanism had been ripped out and replaced with a normal knob.

Dreya took in the red tiefling in an instant. She looked just like she had when she’d gone to Avernus—maybe with a few more scars, but the same. Her armor pieces and greataxe were laying on the desk, leaving Karlach wearing the same old assemblage of brown leather and buckles she’d brought with her from the Blood War in her first escape, now even more ragged and patched together. She didn’t have any visible wounds, but Dreya noted that the round metal vents studding Karlach’s shoulders were smoking a bit. Her magical flames licked at the air, illuminating the room well enough that she hadn’t bothered to light the lantern hanging in the ceiling’s center.

Karlach grinned broadly and pushed herself to sit up, swinging her legs off the side of the couch. “Drey! Astarion! What took you so long?”

Wait, what? “You were expecting us?”

The woman’s grin faded slightly, concern suddenly tinging her expression. “Well—yeah. Where’s Wyll? Is he with you? He did go fetch you, didn’t he?”

Dreya hesitated, glancing at Astarion for a moment. He looked mildly perplexed as well. The vampire laughed unconvincingly. “He did fetch us, in a way.”

Karlach dropped the book on the floor. She got to her feet, but for a moment she seemed to struggle. Dreya darted over and grabbed the tiefling’s arm to support her, but she had to jerk her hands away after a second. “Shit. Karlach, you’re burning again? Your heart—”

The formidable warrior clutched at her chest, breathing heavily with the effort of standing. Genuine fear filled her eyes. “Soldier, tell me right now. Where’s Wyll?”

Dreya felt the heat radiating from Karlach intensify, hot enough that she had to take a step back. “He’s fine!” she blurted out hastily. “He’s alive. Just a bit ago, we were back at the estate. A portal opened and Wyll fell out of it. He was wounded, and there were some devils on his tail. We killed the devils. Wyll was hallucinating from—from something, I don’t know what, but he said you were here and begged us to save you. We left him in good hands. He’s being healed now.”

Karlach gave a long sigh of relief. The heat abated. Slowly, she sat down again, trying to make herself breathe more evenly. “That gods-damned idiot… I told him not to go alone. He wanted to try to sneak into one of Zariel’s strongholds, snatch the designs for my heart, snap up that engineer. Thought he might slip by everyone if he went by himself. I told him, I fuckin’ begged him to get you first, Drey.”

Right… there were a few things missing here. Dreya pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down facing Karlach, folding her hands and resting her forearms on her knees. “Wait. Now that we’re all certain no one is minutes from death, back up. You said at Withers’ party that you two had a line on an engineer that could fix you. Is this the same one?”

“Same one,” Karlach said, her voice turning a bit more tired. “Fucker got wind before we could nab him. We’ve been trying to track him down since. Found where he is, just a couple weeks ago, but now I’m afraid we’ve got a… a bit of a time limit.”

Astarion spoke up, sounding genuinely dejected in a way Dreya hadn’t heard in some time. “Your engine is breaking down again, isn’t it?”

“Sort of. See, ah…” The tiefling gave a short, wry laugh. “Turns out, some things put extra strain on a heart… like, being pregnant.”

Dreya and Astarion were startled into silence for a few moments. The vampire found his tongue first. “You’re pregnant? How?!”

Karlach grinned at him. “Oh, please, I don’t have to explain the birds and the bees to—”

Astarion couldn’t hold back his exasperation. “You’re on fire, Karlach! I know your heart upgrade let you touch people again, but—”

The tiefling waved him off, interrupting him. “I know, I know. I thought the same thing, Fangs. Can’t get knocked up, not with my blood being so hot, right? Maybe that’d be correct for most folk, but, well… seems Wyll is more fire resistant than we thought.”

Dreya let out a long, low breath, staring at her hands as she tried to collect her thoughts. This was… this was bad. Karlach’s pregnancy straining her heart was a problem, but there was another matter. When a male devil reproduced with a female mortal… the mortal always died in childbirth.

That was what Wyll had been deliriously sobbing about. He’d killed Karlach.

Astarion pressed his hand to his face, openly groaning. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or not... It doesn’t matter. If this pregnancy is killing you, then just end it! I’m sure I can find a cleric with the appropriate knowledge.”

Karlach let him talk, but Dreya could tell from the look on her face that she wasn’t considering his offer. The tiefling shook her head once, resolutely. “Not doing it, Fangs. I never thought I’d get to be a mum. I’m not gonna let this damned engine take away a kid I want. Hope’s put me on bedrest, and that’s keeping me stable. Apart from being so bored I could gnaw my good horn off, I’m fine. I asked Wyll to go back to Baldur’s Gate and get the two of you to help him snag the engineer to fix me.”

Dreya frowned to herself, pondering the glimpse she’d gotten through the portal Wyll had fallen through. “I wonder why he tried it alone instead.”

The other woman snorted. “I know exactly why. Wyll doesn’t trust Astarion as far as he could throw him, not since he turned you. And since Wyll looks like a devil, he figured he could walk right by most of the patrols. He’s killed plenty of the fuckers since we got here, but I’m the one they pay attention to. I didn’t want him to risk it. The stakes were too high if he was recognized, and I was right, sounds like. I told him that if you were still the woman we knew, you’d convince Fangs to let you take a turn through Avernus to help fix me now that the city has its shit back together. And here you are!”

That was all fair, really. Something else didn’t make sense, though. “You’ll have to walk me through this, Karlach. I know Wyll can plane shift, but it’s tricky to decide exactly where he’ll come out. Gale said so, anyway—he had some observations about the portal Wyll took you back to Avernus with in the first place. So how did you expect him to come find us? He might’ve ended up in Thay or Neverwinter instead of dropping a portal in our dining hall.”

Karlach laid back on the couch, folding her arms under her head. “The Gondian eye. Wyll figured out how to focus his plane shift through it, said he should pop out wherever your end of the locator was. Your dining hall, though?” She grinned at them cheekily. “You keep your favorite infernal metal bits on the mantle for all to see? Seems bold.”

Dreya chuckled, straightening up in her chair. So that was why. “It was in Gale’s pocket. He wanted to take a better look at the runes. So, Wyll left the House, but he was trying to sneak into some stronghold or other. How did he get there? I assume Hope isn’t sitting a half-day’s walk from a well-fortified base if the House has been left alone this long.”

“Oh, yeah, you didn’t see the portal room last time you were here, did you?” Karlach mused. “I took Lae to that wing. Well, there are these portals Raphael used to track his prey, right? Hope still isn’t good at focusing them, but she managed to tune one to within a few days’ walk of our engineer. That’s when I told Wyll to go get you instead of hopping through himself. Suppose he thought the opportunity was too good to pass up. I wonder if Hope can tune the portal again…”

Astarion clapped his hands together once. Dreya recognized the lines of annoyance around his eyes, but he forced a thin smile. “So, we’re supposed to go take Wyll on a little trip through the hells to find the means to save your life. Simple enough. It’s a bit like old times, isn’t it, pet?”

Karlach clicked her tongue once. “Might not be as easy as you’re picturing, Astarion. Avernus is—”

“—just another pit full of enemies to slay,” he interrupted her smoothly, allowing his grin to turn feral for a moment. “What do you say, darling? We haven’t had the opportunity for wholesale slaughter in ages. Culling the Blood War a little could be fun!”

Dreya looked decidedly unimpressed by his bravado, but some part of her was interested in his description. His powers had developed far beyond what she knew. Maybe this would let her see the Ascendant in all his glory. The thought made her salivate slightly, like the scent of his blood was gracing her and not the stench that permeated Avernus. “Of course we’ll help, Karlach. Anything to bring you back to Faerûn.”

The sorceress stood and fished around in the back of her robe and cloak for a moment to pull out another little item she’d brought—the roasted sugar pecans she’d bought for Karlach that day. She walked a couple steps closer to the couch and held out the bag. “We’ll go back to Wyll and make plans, but in the meantime— brought these for you. Hope you haven’t gotten too tired of them.”

Karlach’s face lit up. She took the bag and sniffed it deeply. “Oh, gods, food that doesn’t smell like sulfur yet! I’ve been craving how these things crunch.”

Dreya picked up the book Karlach had dropped, proffering it. It looked like a tome of short stories, based on the title. The tiefling grimaced and took the offered book back. “I dunno how Gale does it. Just sitting and reading, not moving around? Fucking maddening. Now—now go on, then, before a chatty spirit comes to bend your ear. Take a few days, pack up carefully for the trip. I’m not even showing yet, and Hope said I should have ‘least a few weeks before my engine really starts to chug. Wyll can tell you absolutely everything else you need to know. I’ll just wait here like a bump on a log.”

The half-elf smiled faintly at the joke, but they couldn’t leave yet. She couldn’t leave without talking to her about the fate of mortals that reproduced with a devil. Surely Karlach already knew, right? Wyll seemed to know from his delirious babbling, so even if the tiefling had somehow never picked up on that fact in all her time in Avernus, he would have told her. But after Karlach had fought so hard to stay alive, it seemed… it felt wrong.

“You’re looking at me like I’m a dead woman.”

Dreya pressed her lips together, a bit annoyed at herself. “That obvious?” she said quietly. “I’m sure you know how this might end, Karlach. It’s your choice, but I can’t deny being upset by it. You deserve to live.”

Karlach suppressed a sigh of her own. “You sound like Wyll, so I’ll tell you what I told him. None of us know what will happen. If having this kid would kill me for sure, I’d take up Astarion’s offer and have someone abort it, but there’s too many differences between me and Wyll and some cambion and a random woman to know. Is Wyll a devil or a human? Is he both? Neither? And even if he is a devil, what about me? Does having fiery blood protect me from whatever usually kills the mum? We can’t know. None of us can. This is a calculated risk, not suicide.”

The tiefling pushed herself up on her elbow, her expression steely and determined. “I deserve to live, but I deserve the life I want, too, and the life I want is to be back in Faerûn with my friends, with my Wyll, raising a family of our own in my city. I want to bring a little one to that fancy dining hall of yours and be embarrassed when it spits up on your rugs. I want to laugh at the look on Wyll’s face when Gale tries to teach our tyke to summon a tressym. So make some bets on whether it’ll be a tiefling or a cambion, and with a bit of luck, I’ll make it through the birth and toast with you after.”

But first, they had to fix her heart once and for all.

Dreya nodded once. She couldn’t make herself smile, but Karlach was right. There was no reason to grieve prematurely. “You’re right. We don’t know what’ll happen. I’ll worry until it’s over, but we’ve got to get you back to Faerûn first.”

“Then get going, soldier.”

She heard Astarion open the door behind her. Leaving Karlach here felt like leaving her alone, even with all the other souls in the House, but they had work to do. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“You’d better be, or I’ll die of boredom.”

The trip out of the House of Hope was silent. Astarion trailed behind Dreya, his expression grim. As soon as they exited the portal back into the Devil’s Fee, he tugged Helsik’s key from his belt, giving terse orders to the charmed dwarf. “Lock the door behind us, close the portal, go to bed, and remember none of this.”

The diabolist followed him as instructed, closing the door and locking it after Astarion left the key in the knob. Dreya pulled her cloak’s hood back over her head; after a moment she reached up and pulled Astarion’s hood over his hair as well.

“So Wyll put Karlach in danger, and now he expects me to put my darling’s life in peril to save someone that will die in a few months.”

Dreya frowned to herself at the characterization, but she understood why Astarion saw it that way. Quickly, she seized Astarion’s hand and pulled him back to the empty street with her. The entrance to the estate from the lower city was perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes from here. “You’re not putting my life on the line, I am. Wyll tried to avoid involving us at all, so don’t blame him. And Karlach’s right. We don’t know if Wyll even counts as a ‘devil’ for this.”

Astarion walked with her. She didn’t have to look at him to sense his sulking. “I didn’t say we wouldn’t help, pet. Maybe I’m just angry that Wyll might have killed one of the few people I truly like. And he’s delaying our own plans! Hardly anything happens for years, then suddenly we’re stalked by vampires, watched by Lathander fanatics, and we have to go to the hells. Shame they couldn’t have spaced themselves out.”

“Then we’ll have to finish with all this nonsense and get back to normal quickly, won’t we?”

Chapter Text

The front hall was empty when Astarion and Dreya returned, but they could faintly hear voices coming from the small dining hall. Zalreus stood just inside its entrance, watching silently, his hand resting on one of his sheathed daggers. The blue tiefling gave Astarion a slight, respectful bow when he entered, but stayed quiet. He’d called for a cleric, as ordered, but the healer was already gone. Wyll sat where Dreya had, visibly exhausted and shaken as he stared at an untouched, fresh plate of food. The moment he saw Astarion, he bolted up, though he had to seize the edge of the table to keep from losing his footing.

“You’re back! Did you see Karlach?”

Gale stood by the fireplace, staring at the flames pensively, his crooked finger pressed against his bottom lip as he sank deep in his thoughts. Wyll’s movement snapped him out of it. From on the grim look on the wizard’s face, Dreya assumed Wyll had told him about Karlach’s condition. Eshendra had taken her own seat again. Based on her empty plate, the healing had left her famished. “Take care, ranger. Your wounds may be healed, but Avernus’s poison has left you weak.”

Astarion glowered at Wyll and pulled off his cloak, tossing it to Zalreus. “We saw her. She called you an idiot for attempting your little mission alone.”

“And she was right to do so,” Wyll said wearily, sinking back into his chair. “It seemed so simple. Sneaking into Bel’s Forge alone shouldn’t have been difficult, not in the form of a devil. I made it around a few patrols, but one found me as I slept. It seems I’m more well-known in the hells than I realized. Even without Karlach at my side, they knew who I was. The hamatulas and imps overwhelmed me.”

“So you led them into our home?” Astarion gestured theatrically at the imp blood spilled across the rugs and the head of the table. “Thank you, Wyll, I haven’t had enough hellspawn to dinner lately. Dreya nearly lost her arm thanks to you.”

Zalreus removed Dreya’s cloak, draping it over his arm with Astarion’s. The half-elf murmured her thanks to him, throwing a glare at her lord. “Love, Wyll didn’t have much of a choice. My wound was my fault.”

“Yet I did bring devils into your house, Dreya,” Wyll agreed heavily, slumping a bit. There were dark bags beneath his eyes. More than the wounds he’d sustained and the lingering effects of poison—he looked like he hadn’t slept much in days. “I didn’t want to ask you to risk your lives for us, but my failure only caused you more trouble still.”

Dreya unhooked her small crossbow from the back of her robe and set it on the corner of the table as she strode around it to Wyll’s side. No point in having it annoying her with its movement when they were home. “Nonsense. Drink some wine. Eat some food. Karlach will be fine. We’ll go to this forge together in a few days once you’ve regained your strength and we’ve supplied ourselves for such a trip.”

Wyll looked desperate for a moment. “Then you’ll help us?”

Astarion huffed, seeming quite annoyed by Wyll’s surprise. “Being a vampire that will outlive you both doesn’t mean I want Karlach to die sooner than she has to. Besides. Bel’s Forge? You want to walk up to a former archdevil’s fortress and, what—knock? You’ll need the power of the Ascendant. I’d encourage my darling to stay home, but I know she won’t.”

Gale spoke up from the fireplace. “Don’t think you’re all going to Avernus without me.” Dreya gave him a small smile as she poured some of the wine for Wyll. All the better to have a powerful wizard with them. That reminded her, she wanted to try to learn his prestidigitation cantrip. Wyll wasn’t covered in blood and didn’t smell like sulfur, so she had to assume Gale used the cantrip on him after the healing.

Eshendra dabbed at her lips with her cloth napkin, politely folding it and setting it by her empty plate before she stood. “I’ll join you as well.”

Dreya, Gale, and Astarion all froze for a moment. Wyll gave his head an emphatic shake. “Unless you’re a very experienced adventurer, miss, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Avernus can be dangerous beyond description.”

Shena laughed to herself, allowing herself a small, amused smile at the notion of her being inexperienced. “I appreciate your concern for my safety, ranger. We weren’t introduced when you arrived. You I know—Wyll Ravengard, a hero of the Absolute Crisis, transformed to wear the skin of a devil for your good deeds. My name is Eshendra Duskfall, sword of Lathander. Felling fiends and undead is second nature to my blade.”

Wyll’s expression became a bit more alarmed. “Undead? What—”

“She’s here to ‘evaluate’ whether or not I’m an abomination, Wyll,” Astarion snapped, glaring at the drow woman. “No need for her to follow us to Avernus. If I want to watch my back for her dagger, I can do that just as well here as in the hells.”

Eshendra pressed her right fist over her heart in a firm sort of salute, turning to Astarion. “Then consider this a truce, vampire lord. Right now I have no designs on your life in Faerûn or the hells, and aiding Ravengard in saving his lover’s life is a noble cause. The Morninglord will approve. But if you need assurance, I swear on my faith in the Bringer of the Dawn that I will make no move against you until this endeavor is fully finished.”

Gale interjected quietly, eyeing Astarion. “Another set of experienced hands could be useful. It will be difficult to find others as skilled at such short notice. Besides—she’s a healer.”

Dreya didn’t know what to make of the offer herself. Shena swearing on her faith was a very serious matter, but she knew Astarion probably didn’t want to deal with the paladin at all. Even so, it could be the best chance they had to convince Eshendra that Astarion wasn’t a threat to the church or to life. Quickly, she reached out through their bond, whispering a thought to him as she broke her own rule. “It’s an opportunity more than a threat.”

Astarion’s eyes flicked to hers for a moment. He wavered, choosing between his consort’s advice and his own distaste for having a dangerous servant of the Morninglord fighting alongside him. But, with an exasperated growl, he made his decision.

“Fine. Raise a hand to me or my darling, and you’ll return to your temple in pieces. Come back in a couple of days. Zalreus, find a guest room for Wyll after you show Miss Duskfall out.”

The tiefling stepped forward wordlessly, motioning for Eshendra to follow him. The paladin bowed her head to Astarion for a moment. “As you say. Goodnight once again.”

Astarion waited until they were truly gone before he flicked his hand, pulling the doors of the dining hall closed. He glared at Wyll, folding his arms across his armored chest. “Before you ask, not even the servants know Dreya’s a vampire. The paladin doesn’t know either, and I intend for it to stay that way. Your oath of secrecy still stands.”

Wyll hadn’t touched his food or his wine; Dreya picked up the goblet she’d filled for him and set it in right in front of him pointedly. The exhausted man finally took it, raising it slightly. “To secrets, then.” He took a sip, pausing and savoring it for a few seconds before swallowing. “Tasting again is… magnificent. Everything tastes like ash in the hells, even if it’s from Faerûn. There’s no point in trying to truly enjoy a meal there. Perhaps it gave me a better understanding of your plight as a spawn, Astarion.”

Dreya’s brow quirked slightly at the knowledge. She’d been sending them some impractical foods along with the rations, yet it seemed fruit and sugar pecans were no better than anything else in Avernus. Wyll managed to give her a quick smile, like he realized what she was thinking. “The difference of texture was still wonderful, Dreya. Karlach looks forward to finding the pack from you every week.”

“Then that’s why she said she’d been craving their crunch when I gave her some pecans,” she remarked with a sigh. “You look exhausted, Wyll. Eat, drink, then go clean yourself up and sleep. You’ll need to be at your best to help Karlach. We’ll go over plans tomorrow.”

“Only in the morning,” Astarion interjected, strolling over to the table to pick up Dreya’s crossbow. He pulled its metal bolt out, examining it. For obvious reasons, he’d long since replaced wooden weapons that could threaten them. “I’ll need you the rest of the day, pet. And Gale—be a dear and use your cantrips to clean us up, would you? I’d rather not have the servants scrub sulfur out of our armor tonight.”

“Hm? Oh, of course.” Gale strode over, muttering his incantation, but he seemed distracted as he cast it on Astarion.

Wyll set aside his wine, finally picking up a fork to find his appetite. “I’ll go see my father, let him know what’s going on. He may have some armor to replace this,” he said, gesturing at the large gashes the hamatulas had ripped through his leather chestpiece. “Astarion, I know there’s little trust between us now, but you have my sincere gratitude. Karlach is everything to me. If she has any chance of survival, it will be in Faerûn. All three of you risking your lives to help her is not something we’ll forget.”

Gale made his way over to Dreya to cast his cantrip a second time. He gave Wyll a forced smile. “What are friends for? I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Zalreus reappeared, his expression as stolid as ever, and folded his hands behind his back, fixing his eyes on the far wall as he waited for Wyll to finish eating. Astarion managed a thin, ingratiating smile of his own. “I’m a magnanimous lord, Wyll, whether you trust me or not. Just ask my darling. Come along, pet.”

Dreya was quietly glad to be free of the smell, partly because it meant she didn’t have to go strip down and wash herself yet. “Later, Astarion, I need to get some things together.” She stepped back, intending to walk around Gale, but paused with a second thought, laying her hand on his arm for a long moment. “Come to the potion lab, Gale. I could use an extra pair of hands.”

The wizard laughed quietly, motioning for her to go ahead as he followed. “Putting me to work again, I see. Goodnight, Wyll. Chin up.”

Astarion strode ahead of them up the stairs, still carrying Dreya’s crossbow with him. Dreya’s blood trail had dried on the floor between the dining hall and her room. The servants that cleaned it would have a time gossiping about it. The half-elf stayed silent until the vampire disappeared into their suite, closing the door behind him. Dreya kept walking, passing a few more doors, including the room she knew Gale was technically staying in. “It’s just down here. Used to be another guest room. When Astarion relocated our bedroom, he decided to relocate my lab here too.”

“Seems like a decent choice,” the wizard mused, but he was clearly distracted. “Let me guess. Elixirs of fire resistance? Healing potions? Maybe potions of flying? What else do we need?”

“Elixirs of vigilance for Wyll. Seems he’s plenty fire resistant already,” Dreya muttered, trying not to feel a sense of bitterness when she said it. No… he couldn’t have known that he could impregnate Karlach. Best not to think about it. She pushed open the door in front of them, leading him in.

The room was roughly the same size as their suite, though instead of a bath, the second room was filled with shelves storing a wide variety of ingredients and already-made potions. The opposite wall was lined with long, wide tables stocked with a variety of alchemy equipment, allowing several different potions to be crafted at once. The plush grey couch Dreya used as a bed so often lately was pushed up against the wall across from the tables. The stone floors here hadn’t been replaced with marble or hardwood, but she’d covered the area around the couch with some grey rugs. The couch still had a couple of pillows and some disheveled blankets on it from a couple of nights ago. Quickly, Dreya mumbled an incantation, dropping the resulting cantrip’s fire bolt into a narrow trench carved into the wall, connecting the wall sconces above her worktables. The ones here were bright, utilitarian, and all lit with the same cantrip briefly blazing through the channel. Rolan, the purveyor of Sorcerous Sundries, had made that for her. The rest of the palace was tightly controlled by Astarion, but the ease of using her own light here made the lab feel more like her domain.

“I’m no alchemist, but I’ll follow your lead.” Gale shut the door behind them and fiddled with his sleeves, unbuttoning the closed wrists to turn them up.

Dreya simply motioned to the couch. “No need. You looked like you were trying to hide that you’re upset, so I thought I’d give you the option to not be alone. Sit if you want.”

Gale smiled faintly; she felt his eyes on her back when she turned away and walked to the storage closet. “Very thoughtful of you.”

The sorceress picked up an empty pack in the storage room and shook it out a bit. There were a few more as well, packs she used to carry her potions down to Bonecloak’s on occasion. Its proprietor, Derryth, had been sick now and again, leaving Dreya to help fill the gaps in its inventory. That illness worked out now, though; Dreya had several dozen assorted potions already completed and lining her own shelves. The preparation for Derryth being sick again and Dreya’s many evenings spent alone in this room in the past months had left her with far more potions than she needed. Gale followed her instead of sitting on the couch, giving a low sound of astonishment. “Goodness. You’re—prepared.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time here lately.” Dreya set the pack on a low shelf and began to fill it, starting with larger healing potions. Gale silently followed suit, adding what he could. After a couple of minutes, Dreya carried the pack out into the lab, setting it near the door.

Gale finally sat on the couch and spoke, his voice quiet. “It’s not fair, is it? To face death once again, just when her cure is in sight.”

 Dreya hadn’t been sure he wanted to talk about it, not with how quiet he’d been. She paused, trying to push away the grief that wanted to claw at her own throat, and took a seat by him. “No. It doesn’t feel right. Karlach said it’s not suicide, it’s a calculated risk. And she’s right. Wyll probably isn’t a devil in the magical sense because he’s not fully immune to fire, but—I can’t help but worry.”

“Wyll explained the odds, yes, but he’s devastated by the mere possibility. Perhaps that devastation is what’s affecting me so badly. Logically, I know she’ll probably be fine.” He hesitated, then lightly put his hand on the back of hers, where she had her own hand on her thigh. “She’ll be fine.”

“Yes. She’ll be fine.”

They were both silent for a few moments. Gale tightened his hold on her hand and swallowed hard. “Well. Going to Avernus at all is enough to worry about. If there’s anything you need help with, you have only to ask. You already have tasks for tomorrow, Astarion said?”

Right, tomorrow. Dreya counted days in her head for a moment and gave a resigned sigh. Everything that had happened distracted her, but she could feel the pinch of hunger growing in her stomach. “It’s been four days since I fed. Five or six days is as long as I can go without beginning to weaken and starve, even with Astarion’s influence quieting the hunger pangs. Eating real food helps stave it off that long, just so I don’t have to feed every day, but without Astarion’s will I’d be painfully hungry now. I’m sure he’s already arranged to have courtesans come tomorrow so I can drink my fill.”

Gale looked a touch confused, but his tone immediately changed to genuine interest. Sparking the wizard’s inquisitive streak was an easy way to distract from the empty, uncertain grief, at least. “You still drink from other creatures? I would’ve thought Astarion’s blood could suffice. Unless he doesn’t care for being bitten, I suppose.”

Dreya turned towards him a bit more, taking care not to seem like she was pulling her hand away. The contact was nice. “Oh no, I drink from Astarion. His blood is…” Her voice trailed off for a moment, a brief, dreamy smile darting across her face at the thought of her taste earlier that night. “It’s indescribable. Like drinking sweet mead flavored with cinnamon and pepper, but refreshing. It warms me inside, but it’s like tasting spring water in a desert. When he’s feeling lustful or aroused, his blood is an aphrodisiac. Not having it is…” She drew in a deep beath, wincing internally at the past few months. Her decision not to drink Astarion’s blood unless he insisted was one she stood by, just like she stood by her decision to deprive herself of his body when he seemed like he wanted her pleasure more than his own. It felt wrong to take such intimate gifts from him when she was angry at him, like she would have just been using him.

The wizard still watched her curiously, expectantly. She shrugged lamely, realizing she was waxing too poetic about blood when he wanted to know the logistics. “Anyway. Astarion’s blood strengthens me in some ways, and it’s wonderful. But vampires need life force for sustenance, and I can’t gain it from my own sire, it seems. Maybe that’s the price of him no longer needing blood himself, or because he’s the only truly living vampire. So, I have to drink blood from others.”

Her face warmed a bit, and she did allow herself to be visibly regretful. “When he turned me, I, ah. I planned to drink animal blood. Astarion says that’s not good enough, so he hires courtesans willing to let him drink their blood. I’m not proud of it, but he charms them to think he’s the one with his fangs in them when it’s really… it’s just me.”

Gale looked a bit amused, like he’d just discovered a secret. “So that’s why Astarion Ancunín has a reputation for being insatiable, at least in Waterdeep. I thought you were both simply enjoying his newfound freedom.”

Dreya smiled slightly, blushing a bit redder with the news that they had such a wide-spread reputation for debauchery. That did bring her to something else she knew she should say. What Astarion intended to do with Gale, she didn’t know, but she didn’t care to treat him as nothing more than a fling. Gingerly, she put her other hand on his, sliding her fingers over the length of his thumb and the pad of his hand. “Well, we don’t just drink their blood. We’ve had our fun, but honestly, Gale… I preferred last night over the rest of the times we’ve done things with other people. I’d rather be close to someone I care about. Tonight might not be intimate, but if you want the company, you can sleep with us again.”

His tanned face reddened a bit too, complete with a sheepish smile. “I think I’d like that.”

A shame Gale had already turned down letting her feed on him. Dreya let herself study him, examine him more. She’d had other things on her mind than how he’d changed, and he had changed a little. “You grew your hair longer. It looks good.” More than that, he’d altered its style a bit with the few extra inches, now tying part of his hair back from his face with a loose knot at the back of his head. A touch of grey was showing in his deep brown strands, just around his temples. It made him look more distinguished, she thought.

“And you’ve hardly changed at all.”

Dreya had to laugh, grinning as she got to her feet. She tugged at his hand, pulling him up with her. “Yes, I’ve hardly changed at all if you don’t count the red eyes and fangs. Being disguised doesn’t mean they’re gone.”

“Please, you had them for weeks before we parted ways. My observation stands.”

She gave him a dirty look. “… fine, I concede the point. Now teach me your prestidigitation cantrip. You like to teach, and I’d like to learn.”

Gale was visibly cheerful at the prospect of a lesson, but he didn’t let that stop him from a bit of light mockery. “Elminster hardly believed me when I told him the heroine of the Absolute Crisis was a sorceress that put time into actually learning magic. In all his years, he claims to have seen vanishingly few sorcerers that wanted to put effort and study into their craft.”

Another dirty look as she stepped back into the open center of the room. “Remind me to be annoyed at the generalization when I don’t want something from you. What was the invocation you used, again? ‘Purificen?’”

“Yes, that’s it. Which reminds me—I know things were a bit frenetic, but I could have sworn I didn’t hear your invocations at the portal.”

Dreya grimaced to herself. Trying to explain it all seemed lengthy. “You’re right. And believe me, I was surprised too. The quick version is, Astarion gave me a new spell focus, and it’s got some quirks.”

She knew Gale was itching to press her for more details. With his vast knowledge of and fascination with magic, he had to be immensely curious about her managing to skip such a vital part of spellcasting. To his credit, he stifled the curiosity to focus on the lesson. “I see… well. Now, the mental and somatic components.” He pulled his hand free of her and held it up. “I know you prefer to cast with your right hand. Stand next to me and repeat this gesture.” As the half-elf took her place next to him, Gale slowly demonstrated. With his palm up, he lowered his hand, putting the tips of his fingers together into a point like he was grasping something and pulling it down. Delicately, he twisted his wrist to draw his hand back, now palm out from his body, and abruptly snapped his fingers out from his hand, like a gesticulation imitating something bursting.

Dreya slowly repeated the motion. It felt surprisingly finicky compared to some of the other small cantrips she knew. Gale corrected her a few times as she did the move over and over, having her tense her wrist at a point, hold her fingers at a fractionally different angle. Most spells could employ more personalized versions of hand movements, but she supposed learning a strong, personal creation of an archmage had to start in a more rigid place. Maybe once she knew the spell as second nature, it would be more forgiving.

The wizard finally seemed satisfied with her hand motion. “Good! Good. Now, the mental component. Hold purity in your mind—not the object you want to clean, but the concept of purity. Picture it as true as you can. Then, cast the spell. On me, I suppose, shouldn’t do me any harm.” Gale took a couple of steps and turned so he stood a bit in front of her, watching her closely. “Don’t be discouraged if you have to try multiple times. With these more intricate cantrips, or with high level spells, it can take time to discover the form of the concept in your mind. When you were learning those cantrips on your own before we met, that’s probably why it took months to channel them properly. Once you’ve found the right path, it becomes easier and easier.”

Dreya suppressed the urge to laugh. Rolan had explained something similar to her, so the concept was hardly new. Where sorcery was all fire and instinct, wizardry was both art and science, just as personal in some ways as sorcery. But even if Gale wasn’t showing it right now, she knew why he was a better teacher than Rolan. He was channeling the Weave to her quietly, trying to help encourage her to locate the mental component she needed. The tiefling tried to do the same thing, but his experience simply didn’t reach the level of a professor and archmage.

Purity… the obvious first thing to try was clear water. She closed her eyes, trying to picture it. The gesture, the incantation. “Purificen.”

Nothing.

Something else, then. Dreya pondered, considering. Before she could choose and try again, she felt a horribly familiar shiver.

Haarlep.

It had been months since she’d felt the incubus, months since he’d used her form. The letter he’d once left for her said he resided in Cania, that he serviced devils as her, that her body was popular. She’d felt him often over the years, sometimes multiple times a day. But eventually, the violating shivers had slowed and finally stopped.

Then, now, just hours after she’d gone back to the hells, Haarlep was using her. Maybe he’d felt some whiff of her presence and started offering her body once more. And now, after months of reprieve, it felt stronger—not just an echo of pleasure and arousal she’d taught herself to hide, but an intense plunge of ecstasy, a mockery of what she felt with Astarion’s hands on her. Her underwear felt damp. She tried to stifle herself, but a moan dragged its way out of her throat, unmistakably showing Gale what was happening to her.

Her stomach dropped with a plunge of humiliation, far stronger than the ecstasy. Why couldn’t she have been alone? It was bad enough to let Astarion see her lose control from the incubus, but he’d always known what happened, always comforted her. But losing herself in front of Gale, completely without his consent, felt—shameful. The feelings Astarion tried to dissuade her of months ago, that she wasn’t dirty and broken, rushed back.

No, she was. She whored herself to an incubus, she whored herself to her patron. Trying to understand the concept of purity? What a joke. She was filthy.

A burst of anger followed the shame. Dreya flung out her hand, letting an eldritch blast loose into the stone floor without uttering a word. Her eyes finally went to Gale for a moment, seeing his concern and confusion. He didn’t even know about Haarlep, not really, just mentions of an incubus in the House of Hope. Lae’zel, Karlach, and Astarion had seen her in the devil’s bed, but the others, including Gale, had been left on the other side of the portal.

Dreya couldn’t manage to smile. She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet Gale’s eye. “Sorry. The incubus. It took my form, and when it looks like me, I—feel it. It’s been a while since it happened, so I wasn’t prepared to hide it well.” With a quick, distracted motion, she brushed her hair behind her ear tip, letting her other fist fall to her side. “Thank you for the lesson. We’ll have to finish it another time.”

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready, I’m at your disposal.”

“Is there a way to summon a particular devil?”

The question left her mouth before she realized she was saying it. She’d searched books for the answer to that question, but she’d never asked Gale. Surprisingly, the question brought a troubled frown to Gale’s face.

“Astarion asked me that question at Wither’s party. I couldn’t imagine who he would call for, and he wouldn’t tell me. Unfortunately, the only spells I know of for summoning a particular fiend require knowing its true name. I assume you both want to summon this incubus…?”

The party? Astarion never told her he’d tried to find this very spell there. Dreya gave Gale a small, reluctant nod and stepped over to the couch, letting herself sit down again. Finding the devil would be more costly than she’d hoped. No doubt his true name was not ‘Haarlep,’ that was simply the moniker he used under Raphael. Her eyes went back to the wizard briefly. From his tone, he didn’t entirely understand why she wanted to find the same incubus again, like he wasn’t sure if it was a sexual interest or something else. Going back to the House of Hope, then feeling this pleasurable echo again…

“I want to kill it,” she said suddenly. “The incubus? I want to kill him. I let him hurt me, and it was for nothing. The outcome would’ve been the same. I was stupid.”

Gale quietly sat next to her when she spoke, folding his hands in his lap rather than touch her. His grim expression was back, like he’d just realized what happened with the incubus he’d heard about hadn’t exactly been… desired. “No one wanted to talk when you all returned from the House of Hope.”

It had been the day of Astarion’s Ascension, the day that she’d damned seven thousand and seven souls. The vampire lord had managed to talk Dreya into tentatively agreeing to become his consort that very night when Lae’zel had interrupted them all, now wielding the Orphic Hammer. The gith was disgusted by the lengths they’d gone to for Astarion’s personal power, a disgust and horror that Dreya held towards herself, but Lae’zel had used that disgust to justify taking Raphael’s contract. With the Orphic Hammer, Lae’zel intended to free her people’s supposed savior, and if the group would not give Raphael the Crown of Karsus, Lae’zel’s soul would’ve been the next to be damned.

So, one day after Astarion became a lord, he descended into Avernus at Dreya’s side, along with Lae’zel and Karlach, to retrieve the contract Lae’zel had foolishly signed. The gith arrogantly claimed that her soul was a small price to give for the freedom of her people, but Dreya hadn’t been able to leave it like that. She couldn’t let another soul fall to the devils by her hand. Not another.

The search had led them to an impenetrable magic barrier surrounding the contract, one that needed a masterword set by Raphael himself to open. They’d made their way to his private boudoir, hoping against hope that they could find a clue—and they had found one.

Dreya took a deep breath. If she said it aloud, maybe she wouldn’t be so ashamed. Maybe it sounded less insane to other ears.

“We needed a masterword. I found Raphael’s personal incubus, Haarlep. He knew what I wanted, and he taunted me with what would happen to Lae’zel if Raphael returned and found us there while he still held the contract.”

She paused, trying to decide the most circumspect way to phrase what had happened. Gale interjected quietly, his expression grave. “You wanted the masterword, and the incubus wanted you.”

The sorceress nodded once, giving a low sigh. “I’m so stupid…”

He scoffed at her lightly. “You saved Lae’zel and kept the Crown of Karsus from the hands of a power-hungry devil. You’ll pardon me if I disagree with you being ‘stupid.’”

No, she was stupid. The incubus had toyed with her, reveled in puppeting her body in front of her companions, in front of her lover. He’d reduced her to nothing, a whimpering, powerless mortal only able to cry his name and not Astarion’s no matter how hard she’d tried to just think of the vampire. And since then, he could always remind her of what had happened simply by taking her shape and bringing himself to climax.

Did Haarlep even know that what he did hurt her? Was it sadism, or had he just been trying to claim her soul? She’d had the presence of mind to deny him that much, to only grant him her body. But in the haze afterwards and the letter Haarlep had sent her, she couldn’t even tell if he knew she didn’t want to feel the echoes of pleasure from his shapeshifted whoring. Did he really think she wanted it, or was he just taunting her? She wanted him dead, but was it because she didn’t want to feel these damned echoes again, or was that just her own disgust for herself with being tricked—Astarion would say ‘coerced’—into such an intimate exchange?

“Gale… it was all for nothing. I thought, ‘Surely Raphael wouldn’t be fool enough to write down his masterword.’ I thought I’d have to get it from someone who heard it, and I didn’t want to risk Lae’zel’s soul on Speak to the Dead not working right on a devil’s corpse or something. But after, Haarlep gave me a key to a safe, because Raphael really was stupid enough to write down the masterword. Astarion could’ve picked its lock, or we could’ve gotten the key another way. I didn’t do shit in the House of Hope but humiliate myself.”

The wizard pursed his lips, seeming to try to measure his words. “I can’t tell you how to feel, Dreya. But… ‘stupid’ is not a word I would use for this, or ‘humiliated.’ ‘Heroic,’ perhaps. You were always ready to throw yourself in harm’s way for any one of us, and it sounds like you had good reason to think a battle might doom Lae’zel. Give yourself a bit more credit.”

Yes, she very heroically took her clothes off, she thought with a pained sort of sarcasm. She forced a smile. Logically, she knew she would agree with Gale if he were analyzing the story of someone else’s actions, but she couldn’t shake the sense of wrong-ness that she got with the echoes of pleasure.

“Well. You’re very kind to say so, Gale. Maybe I’ll find some other way to locate Haarlep.”

“A task I’ll endeavor to help with as well. Just because I haven’t heard of a way to find him doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” Gale returned her smile, managing one a little more relaxed than hers as he swiftly changed the subject. “You know, I have some herbal tea from Neverwinter I wanted to share with you while I was here. Shall I go find the kitchen?”

Maybe tea would help. “If you don’t mind the trouble.”

Gale waved off the remark, already getting to his feet and heading to the door. “No, no trouble at all.” In moments, he was gone.

She pressed her hand to her face, swallowing down the urge to rage or cry. Neither would do any good. Talking hadn’t made her feel better. As far as she could tell, the only thing that would help would be stopping these echoes, one way or another. Her patron was bad enough on his own without a second creature pushing sexual sensations onto her against her will.

Astarion brushed over the bond moments after Gale left, like he sensed that she was alone. It was soothing, but her chest still ached with shame. She didn’t know if she wanted to be alone or not.

“Come to me, pet. I’m in the library.” After a moment, his tone felt sterner in her head. “That wasn’t a request.”

Normally his order might have excited her or annoyed her, depending on whether she thought it was one of his games or not, but she didn’t have the emotional energy to care either way now. Talking to Gale hadn’t helped, so she momentarily considered just huddling under the blankets and stewing in her anger to drive away the humiliation. No, Astarion would probably just come for her. Better to obey him and walk to the library.

The library was more of a sitting room now. Before the attack, the room they called the ‘library’ had been a spacious room lined with shelves and large windows, scattered with couches and chairs and tables to lounge on, more than they would ever need. Now, the room they called the ‘library’ was another converted guest room down the hall from their suite and the potion lab. Same size, same grey stone floor, same marble overlay on the walls, like the horrors that had happened in those same walls would be suffocated and disappear once they were covered. The walls were crammed with shelves and books, along with a few large chairs and a couch. A fireplace crackled, its smoke and soot somehow being drawn into the intricate vents that were hidden in the palace walls. The scent of burning wood was homey, comforting. Astarion was sprawled on the couch when she walked in, his eyes fixed on the text in his hand. His armor was gone, replaced with a white shirt and pants reminiscent of what he’d worn in their camp long ago. A couple of wall sconces were lit on the wall above him, making it the only suitable place to read without lighting more. “Sit with me, dove. It’s been too long.”

True, it had. Time together was another victim of their rift. Dreya went to the shelves and selected a volume on magic theory, a confusing tome about the intricate nature of the Weave and the fabric of reality. She’d put it down months ago, but maybe something dense could help distract her. When she sat a couple of feet away from him, Astarion glanced up at her, visibly severe. “You know what I meant. Get comfortable.”

He got like this sometimes after the incubus or her patron—more demanding, ordering her to do things. Dreya knew he did it to give himself a sense of control over his consort’s forcible suitors, but she found it bizarrely comforting. She tugged off her boots and pulled her feet up onto the couch with them, turning and letting herself huddle into Astarion’s side, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her body, laying his hand on the curve of her robed waist as he rested his head on hers. The messy silver curls she loved brushed over her ear tip. She opened her book, half-resting it on his thigh.

“Gale’s bringing me some tea.”

Astarion flicked his hand, opening the door of the library so Gale could find them. He minced no more words. “So Haarlep’s back.”

She nodded against him once. He lazily ran his fingers down her side, idly enjoying her presence, but when he spoke there was a dangerous edge to his tone. “I can feel your disgust with yourself, you know. Remember what I said, pet. Insult yourself, and you insult me.”

Dreya’s eyes were on her book, but she wasn’t really reading the words. She flinched, thinking of what he’d asked months ago, if she’d ever thought of him as filthy or broken. Gods, she wanted to believe he was right, that she wasn’t filthy either. “I know. I’m trying not to. I wish I believed it.”

He tightened his arm around her possessively, crushing her closer to him. “You’ll feel much better tomorrow, my love.”

“I suppose I do feel better after I feed.”

“That won’t be until after nightfall, but you won’t have to wait that long. You’ll feel better after our bout.”

Dreya frowned to herself. That was… abrupt. She’d only just agreed to his silly fight today. “You want to do that tomorrow? How in the hells will that make me feel better?” Their ‘bout’ might end with her victory and Astarion reinstating their agreement, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew he would probably win, and having less control didn’t sound like it would improve her mood.

“Yes, tomorrow. Once we’re both where we belong, everything will be better, dove. Trust me.” Astarion kissed the top of her head affectionately and turned back to his text, crossing his leg to rest the book on his knee.

He acted like everything was ready for his proposed fight, but she knew that wasn’t the case. “We never went over the rules.”

“You keep my fangs from your neck for five minutes. What else could we need?”

“Don’t read my mind. Don’t touch my thoughts at all during the fight. Don’t give me any commands or put anything in my mind. Don’t use our bond to track me. And for me, I’ll be careful not to do something that might kill you. I won’t target your heart.”

“That’s all obvious, my darling.”

Dreya sighed, leaning her head on him a bit closer. Of course she was treating this more seriously than he was. Her loss would be more to her than his loss would to him. “It should be obvious, but it makes me feel better to say it.”

Astarion would follow the rules, wouldn’t he? Surely he would, if he wanted her to submit to the results of the bout…

Chapter Text

Dreya woke the next morning to find herself alone. A teapot full of cool water, a portioned amount of tea leaves, and a cup sat on the desk, along with a small, covered plate and a note. The top was a hand she didn’t know well.

Thought we should let you sleep. I took the liberty of cleaning up a bit. Enjoy the tea.

Below it were a few words written with more flourish, a practiced hand meant to impress.

You’ll be safe forever after today, dove.

Dreya sighed and turned the note face-down, unsure whether she should be frustrated or not. Astarion seemed convinced that being able to compel her would make her safe. A convenient belief for him, of course. He was more than eager to have her full obedience no matter what the reason was.

Enough. There were more important things to attend to. Dreya heated the tea water with her shocking grasp and poured herself a cup, setting it aside to let the leaves steep for a few minutes while she went to their small dressing room. It wasn’t really a proper dressing room, she knew, but since she’d refused to become the kind of patriar that paid someone to put on her clothes, it sufficed. She’d heard a mention of remodeling being done to some upper rooms in the palace, though, including their former bedroom. Astarion might have decided to expand to an actual dressing room there. Once the vampire threatening them was dispatched, she knew he wanted to go back to their room. The balcony, the windows—they allowed him to bask in the sunlight he adored. Living in their current room was closer to living in a kennel or crypt again, at least to him.

The bloody clothes Dreya and Astarion had left yesterday were neatly stored in the closet again, entirely clean and mended. The servants hadn’t done that, certainly. Gale must have taken care of these, part of the ‘cleaning up a bit’ he’d mentioned in his note. The blood trail was gone, too. How convenient. She really had to learn that spell from him.

Her red robe, the same one she’d worn the night before, was an appropriate choice for today too. Astarion wanted a fight, and she preferred to use armor she was accustomed to for it. It was light-weight, protective, and didn’t block any of her spellwork. What more could she ask for? She still didn’t know where Alfira had gotten such a fine piece of enchanted armor when fleeing Elturel.

Dreya referred to the robe in the singular, but it was a few separate pieces. The first was a set of slightly loose pants made of a thin leather lined with soft silk, both materials enchanted to be sturdier than their appearance would suggest. Deep wine-red leather covered the outer thighs and everything below the knees. The long-sleeved tunic was next, mostly comprised of the same wine-red leather and silk lining, wrapping tightly around her upper torso and splaying open at her mid-stomach to let its ankle-length skirt split open from the waist down and not impede her legs. Impressions of flowers and petals were imprinted on the leather in a darker red. The third piece was the most protective, made of a much thicker leather in dark maroon, decorated with small red jewels and leafy black embroidery. It fell from her neck to her ankles as well, only covering her torso completely. The part below her waist was a sort of wide loincloth, both in front and back, giving her legs as much room to move as possible while still hopefully protecting them from glancing blows. It laced together on either side beneath her arms, flatteringly hugging her slender waist.

It wasn’t quite the same armor she’d worn during the Absolute crisis; Astarion had insisted on having it modified a bit. The thick leather now concealed an extra layer of enchanted armor to protect her heart. She could feel the extra stiffness, but it wasn’t unpleasant or uncomfortable.

A matching set of leather forearm guards could technically be considered part of the robe as well, but those were easy enough to leave behind. Today, though… well, they couldn’t hurt, could they? Dreya took another minute for them, lacing the soft leather over her forearms tightly so they wouldn’t shift. Sturdy boots completed everything. No matter how much she wanted to push Astarion back into keeping his promise to her, she refused to use a knife on him, so her stiletto remained behind when she left their closet. A bit of makeup and casting her disguise spell left her ready enough for the day.

The tea was the same kind that Gale had brought her the night before. It was a refreshing mint mimicking the chill of Neverwinter even in the heat of the cup, soothing enough that it had helped her relax her self-loathing a bit while they all read quietly. Even with Haarlep’s reappearance and her worry for Karlach, it had turned into a pleasant enough evening. The plate held a couple of oatmeal cookies starred with dried fruit. She didn’t need a label to know that they were from Bex, one of the former tiefling refugees. She and her husband Danis were now the proud owners of both an orange cat and a small bakery that Astarion technically held the deed of, solely for tax purposes. They sent some baked goods up to the estate regularly.

Wyll still hadn’t emerged from his guest room when Dreya left her own. It wasn’t quite mid-morning yet, and no doubt he needed sleep. She took a quick trip to the library to get a stack of clean paper, an ink well, a few quills, and some pounce, then headed downstairs. The small dining hall would serve well for Wyll’s planning, better than trying to use a desk in a more private room.

Waldrev, the same human that had followed them for their shopping the day before, was scrubbing at the dried blood on the stairs with a maid while they quietly argued with each other. She heard them before she came into sight.

“I’m tellin’ you, the muck in the dining hall was from devils! And Maisl said she saw a devil bein’ led around by Zalreus last night! This blood’s got to be connected to it!”

The woman scoffed. “You got your head too full of tales, Wald. Like as not, the master got carried away with the mistress or that drow woman that showed up. He’s a bloody vampire, after all. If my mother could see me now, working for a vampire…”

Waldrev sounded annoyed. “Yeh, and you’re a bloody Lathanderite. Stop complaining about it or find a new job.”

“Where? ‘Least the vampire isn’t handsy with his staff, unlike most patriars,” the woman grumbled. “If the mistress ever leaves him, though, I’m gone. Living undead or not, I don’t trust him to keep his appetite to himself without her around. High Dawnlord Melisande might claim he’s got the blessing of the Morninglord, but High Dawnlord Noviam says he’s just a monster on a leash. It’ll break one of these days, mark my words.”

Dreya frowned, still out of their sight. She didn’t care to police the beliefs of the staff, but she also didn’t care to hear them talking about Astarion like that. But, best to pretend she didn’t hear them at all. Her ears weren’t supposed to be that sharp.

The half-elf strode out of the hallway, giving the two servants a small nod. They were about halfway down the steps, both scrubbing up the dried blood. “Morning, Waldrev. Shue.” The human woman’s voice hadn’t been immediately familiar, but now that she saw the brown-haired woman she recognized her. They both gave her small nods as well, though Shue looked noticeably startled, like she was worried she’d been overheard.

“Morning, Mistress.”

Dreya paused a couple of steps above them, giving them a quick smile. “Sorry for the mess. Wyll Ravengard came back last night, you see, and he needed some help with a few devils. I’m afraid I was careless. Lord Ancunín had to rush me upstairs to get some healing potions.”

Waldrev looked a bit smug, no doubt pleased that he’d been partly right. “No trouble at all, Mistress.”

Shue was hesitant, but her eyes trailed over the robes Dreya wore. “Are you expecting more trouble? Just so’s we can be prepared…”

“None here, no,” Dreya assured her, stepping well around them and the mess. “I have some spellwork to do.”

The dining hall was empty and clean now. Dreya lit a few sconces and sat down, taking a piece of paper and jotting down the beginnings of a supply list. Four tents, rations for at least a month, waterskins… thankfully Gale could keep those skins filled with a spell instead of them having to carry enough potable water themselves. When Wyll had first gone to Avernus with Karlach, he’d taken a staff with him that allowed him to use a spell to create water as well, but who knew where that was now? Then what else… scrolls, a lot of them. The spell of dimension door, along with her potions of flight, would help them traverse the treacherous landscape of Avernus as quickly as possible, and it was better not to have to spend all of Gale’s power on casting the door repeatedly if they had to cross chasms or fires.

Another servant she recognized, a blonde human woman barely three years into her adulthood, scurried into the room, a tray in hand. “Morning, Mistress, got your breakfast here. Not in your room today?”

Normally Astarion used a sending stone to speak to the kitchen in the morning, calling for the real food Dreya only truly needed to keep up appearances, but obviously he hadn’t this time. “Mm. Morning, Maisl. Wyll Ravengard is here, I’m just waiting for him to wake up. He’ll need breakfast too.”

“Mr. Dekarios already let us know when he came for his own food, Mistress,” Maisl said quickly, setting the tray down next to Dreya’s papers. “Anything else?”

Dreya took a quick glance at the tray and shook her head slightly. “No, no. It looks wonderful, thank you.” The servant curtsied quickly and hurried out. The breakfast did look good. The cook had prepared some fruit juice, a couple of berry tarts, and some eggs. Dreya took a few bites, but she knew the food would be unsatisfying today. It always was when she was getting dangerously close to needing to feed on mortals. Even with Maisl gone, Dreya could still smell a hint of her blood. They kept their servants well-fed, healthy. Such a tender neck on such a sweet servant girl… A dark thought wandered in. Maisl wouldn’t even complain, would she?

No! No. Dreya forced the thought away violently, making herself eat another bite of the tart, trying to savor the pinkish juice as if it were blood. Even if she were open about being a vampire, she could never let herself drink from their servants. It would be forcing them, wouldn’t it? If they feared losing their jobs, they might agree out of fear. It might even be near-sacrilege to some of them, like it probably was to Shue. The noticeable pinch in her stomach could be ignored for now, but she knew it would grow by tonight. That was when Astarion always had the courtesans scheduled. Convenient that he wanted to fight her before she fed, but it wasn’t bad enough yet for her to be weakened by it.

But what about Avernus? If they took too long there, she would have to feed on a mortal. Eshendra certainly wasn’t an option, and Wyll wouldn’t be willing. That only left Gale.

Gods, Gale… the thought of drinking from him was delicious. She could still smell the faint scent of rosewater and books from him being in the dining hall last night. Having him under her, drinking from his neck while Astarion watched? That might be enjoyable even in Avernus. Another thought to chase away, though. Gale hadn’t wanted her to bite him. He might relent in Avernus when there was little other choice, but pressuring him to give her sustenance ruined the fantasy. She’d have to ask him about it before they left. Best not to blindside him with the request.

It was some time before Wyll arrived, now wearing a clean tunic and pants instead of the half-destroyed armor he’d tumbled out of Avernus in. Maisl hurried into the room nigh-instantly, alerted by someone else that he’d woken up, and deposited a tray like Dreya’s emptied one on the table opposite her. Just as quickly, she disappeared again, leaving them alone.

Wyll shut the door behind him and sat down with the new tray, glancing regretfully at the servant’s corridor entry that Maisl had left through. “I hope I didn’t frighten her. My appearance may be normal in Avernus, but it is no less unsettling in Faerûn than it was before.”

Dreya hummed quietly, focusing on the detailed list of rations she’d been making. “Maisl’s a sweet girl, just afraid of most guests no matter what they look like. Refugee of the crisis, you understand. She’s seen the bad side of people.”

“I’m surprised she chose to serve in the home of a vampire lord, then…” Wyll said, frowning to himself. “She’s not afraid of Astarion?”

The ranger had made his opinion on vampire lords clear before, but it was still a fair question. No matter what Dreya thought of Astarion, the bloodlust was a good reason for most people to fear him on some level. “She trusts me, and she trusts him. I overheard her telling another servant once that the Ancunín Estate was the safest place in the city, because who would attack a vampire lord’s home? And no matter what you think of Astarion, Wyll, he doesn’t let any of our guests abuse our staff.”

“Sound logic, I suppose.”

Mostly sound, at least. The only ones that had dared to attack them were the vampire spawn. Then the devils in the dining hall… well, at least Maisle didn’t have to fear the guests while she worked here.

The door of the dining hall opened again. Gale bustled in carrying a stuffed pack, Astarion on his heels. Dreya gave Astarion a slightly amused grin. Unlike her, he hadn’t bothered to put on armor. Fair enough, really—he’d gone out in public first, so he’d probably armor himself later. Still, he was wearing a doublet she hadn’t seen him use before, one crafted out of rich blue cloth accented with black. “No red today, love? I wasn’t sure you could wear anything besides black and red anymore.”

Astarion allowed himself an exaggerated eye roll and strode over to her, bending down to give her a light kiss. “You wound me, pet.”

“Where have you two been?”

“Sorcerous Sundries.” Gale set the pack down on the table and opened it to pull out a sealed scroll, then a piece of paper. He handed the paper to Dreya and stuffed the scroll away again. “Astarion purchased supplies from Roland for me to scribe a number of scrolls for us. There’s the list of the ones I’ve made so far, but I’ve quite exhausted myself for the day. I’ll have to make more tomorrow.”

It was true, Gale did look drained despite the early hour. Dreya glanced over the list, giving a small nod and marking the information down on her own list. The wizard had the same idea she had about scrolls of dimension door, thankfully. “Looks like a good start… impressive, honestly. Don’t scrolls take days to scribe?”

“As the Chosen of Mystra, I do have a few unique talents up my sleeve,” he replied off-handedly. “I admit, it’s rather tiring to complete several in a row.”

Dreya turned her eyes back to the lists. “You should go rest when we’re done here.”

He nodded wearily and sat down. “Yes, I should. Wyll, were you able to sleep?”

Wyll was finishing his plate quickly. “Having a bed instead of brimstone is a welcome change. I appreciate the hospitality.”

Astarion leaned against the table between Gale and Dreya, smiling thinly. “Anything for an old friend. Now, are you going to tell us your brilliant plan?”

Dreya stood to push some paper, a quill, and the inkwell towards Wyll. “Starting with how we’re getting back there. Karlach said that Hope had some portals, but she’s not confident in tuning them correctly.”

Wyll wiped his mouth clean and took the paper to quickly begin sketching the outline of a mountain. “The infernal eye you gave me will guide us back to where I was when I opened the portal last night. After I came through, I retained enough of my senses long enough to throw the eye back into Avernus. Your Gondian contraption will return us there.”

Not a bad start, at least. She watched him draw smoke above the flat top of the mountain—a volcano, maybe? “And since you were on your way to Bel’s Forge, we’ll still be close.”

“Theoretically? Yes. In reality? Avernus is a grim mistress for travelers, one that defies maps and navigation. It was only sheer luck that Karlach and I found the House of Hope once more when she was weakening.” Wyll sketched more features into the volcano, including a few doors that he marked with X.

“In Avernus, distances shift and change. Walking between two places in one direction could take a day, but returning along what seems to be the same path could take weeks. Before I was discovered, I hoped to reach Bel’s Forge within a day. Its smoke was visible on the fel horizon. Now? We should assume it will take days more.”

“Shit.” Dreya nodded towards the paper. “And that’s Bel’s Forge?”

“As best I recall. Once we sighted it from a distance, but we withdrew. It’s surrounded by an army of devils, too much even for Karlach’s fury and my blade. My plan was to blend in and walk through them peacefully, but I doubt any of you will pass as devils, even in disguise. We’ll—”

Astarion cut him off flippantly, checking his nails like he was terribly bored. “I’ll simply tear through them until Bel gets tired of his forces being slaughtered. It shouldn’t take long.”

Wyll’s expression darkened a bit. “You think it’s so easy to kill devils?”

“When you’re the Vampire Ascendant?” He flashed a dangerous smile, one wide enough to show his fangs. “Yes.”

Dreya was a little surprised by Astarion’s confidence. Him against an army, head-on, and he thought he would win? Just how powerful had he become?

Wyll sighed, clearly not in the mood to argue. “We’ll try negotiating for entry first. Stealth is a moot tactic now, anyway. It is said that Bel can divine the presence of intruders in his stronghold. I had a charm that should have shielded me from his mind, but an imp took it while I battled the hamatula. Without anything like the charm, we have no choice but to deal with the archdevil himself.”

“So we’ll need something to trade to Bel for the engineer,” Dreya said flatly, staring at the drawing of the volcano pensively. “All I know about him is that Zariel replaced him. Hopefully he’ll be willing to deprive Zariel of her old favorite for a low price, but devils don’t do anything for free. Wyll, any thoughts on what he would want?”

“Karlach told me that it’s an open secret in the hells that Bel works for Zariel’s downfall. It’s rumored that he aided the adventurers that freed Elturel from hells. He cannot openly oppose her, however. Whatever Bel wants from us will likely be an action, not a bauble.” He held up his hand slightly. “A word of caution—we cannot strengthen the armies of hell too greatly with our aid. Karlach wouldn’t want that.”

Astarion sighed dramatically. “So we can’t do anything interesting? What a shame. Never fear, Wyll, I already know exactly how I’ll approach Bel.”

Wyll straightened a bit. “You? This is something I should do. I’ve already put you all in danger, and you’ll be in more still just helping me reach the archdevil, I won’t have any of you making deals with devils for me!”

The vampire pressed his hands flat against the table, leaning a touch closer to Wyll, his cold smile returning. “You think Bel will have any interest in speaking to you when the creation of Mephistopheles stands at his doorstep? Rest your pretty little horned head—I have no intention of making a deal with Bel that could harm me. Darling, write to the Gondians and ask them for a steel watcher heart, would you? I’m sure they have one or two left somewhere.”

Dreya’s brow quirked; she wondered what sort of plan Astarion had in mind, but she took back the inkwell and sat down to pen the letter as he’d said. Barcus Wroot still owed them some favors. As she began to write, she took over the conversation again briefly, trying to ensure that Astarion and Wyll didn’t start bickering over something or other. “So, we go to Avernus, we walk to Bel’s Forge, Astarion gains us entry and we try to get the engineer. Wyll, tell us about them. Species, name?”

“The engineer is a spinagon named Zamazzyr. As far as we could tell, he was sent to Bel’s Forge some time ago and hasn’t left since. He has likely been put to work on the infernal weapons and war machines crafted there.”

At least he was fairly weak on his own, then. Spinagons were lesser fiends, highly mobile, but not powerful. “Right. Once we have the engineer secured, you can plane shift us back here with the eye, and we’ll take him to the Gondian forge to have him make what Karlach needs.” She added something to the letter asking for permission to bring a guest by the forge soon, but she knew Barcus would agree. “Astarion, tell me what you’re planning for Bel.”

“That won’t be necessary, pet,” he said confidently, in a tone she knew meant that he was brooking no discussion on the matter. “Wyll, do remember not to mention my devilish origins in front of that paladin.”

Dreya didn’t like that they were telling Wyll and Gale to continue a lie, but it was another necessity. No one else could ever know the true origins of the Vampire Ascendant. The official claim was that becoming a vampire lord while having a Netherese mindflayer tadpole in his skull had made Astarion the powerful creature he was today. If the reality of the devilish Rite of Profane Ascension became public knowledge, it would destroy any chance for him to make a life in Baldur’s Gate, not to mention how dangerous it would be to let any other vampire know about the Rite’s existence. Cazador was certainly not the only lord willing to go through centuries of trouble to walk in the sun once again.

Wyll nodded slightly, looking disturbed for a split-second, likely recalling that fateful day. It made Dreya rather quiet, too. She didn’t want to think about that. Quickly, she forced her attention back to the letter and the plans.

“Fine, then we know what we’re doing. Wyll, anything else we should know before sending for supplies?”

“There are biting insects swarming throughout Avernus. I suggest bringing tents with tight fastenings to the ground unless you enjoy having your blood sucked.” He gave a self-deprecating smile, realizing what he’d said. “… you know what I mean.”

The unintentional joke made her chuckle. “Fine. Thick, sturdy tents with decent fastenings. Eshendra will come back to the estate tomorrow. By then we should have what we need from the Gondians and the servants. We’ll sleep another night, then plan to leave fresh the morning after. Agreed?”

Wyll stood, straightening his tunic slightly. “Agreed. I’ll go see my father, then. Was word of my arrival sent to him?”

Dreya winced internally. “No. I didn’t think of it, Wyll, I’m sorry.”

“Just as well. I’d rather talk to him about our situation face to face,” he said quietly, his expression turning solemn again. No doubt he would want to tell the Grand Duke about his possible grandchild, along with the rest of the implications. “I’ll return tomorrow. Thank you again for your hospitality, Dreya. Astarion.”

When he opened the door to leave, Astarion raised his voice. “Zalreus! In here.” He picked up Dreya’s list of supplies and made a couple of brief changes, scratching out and replacing a couple of numbers. Dreya sprinkled a bit of pounce over her letter to dry the ink; Astarion did the same to the list as the tiefling chamberlain wordlessly entered. A strange man, that one… Dreya wasn’t sure why he was so quiet, but he kept the house running well.

Astarion handed the lists to Zalreus. “We’ll need everything here by tomorrow. Have it packed tightly. Oh, and my darling’s letter will need to be hand delivered to the Gondians.”

Zalreus’s grim grey eyes shifted from the list to Astarion. “Lord Ancunín, if you’re returning to combat, my blades are yours.”

Right, he was a retired adventurer, wasn’t he? He’d been slightly more open to Astarion than to Dreya, for whatever reason. She found herself more familiar with the rest of the staff.

“That won’t be necessary. Guard the estate until we return. I don’t want to come back and find another vampire trying to occupy the place,” Astarion said sourly, no doubt thinking of the spawn attack. Zalreus had personally cleaned the bloodstains in their bedroom rather than alert the rest of the servants.

The chamberlain nodded once, his face not betraying his thoughts, for good or ill. “How long until you return?”

“Two weeks at most, I should hope. We’ll leave in a couple of days. Oh—if that drow paladin shows up again, let me know before you allow her into the house.”

Zalreus nodded solemnly and left as Dreya folded the letter and addressed it. Shame she hadn’t brought wax or a seal with her. She’d have to go back to the library for them.

By the time Dreya returned from the library with the newly sealed letter in hand, Gale was gone. Astarion was waiting impatiently. The moment she appeared, he relaxed a little, practically swooping in to pluck the letter from her hand and toss it on the table. “Come along, pet, we have business to attend to.”

Already? “It’s only midday, love, we have time.”

Astarion seized her hand and pulled her along behind him, striding towards the stairs. “And I don’t want to wait.”

Dreya frowned at his back and twisted her hand free, but she followed him without further complaint. She’d agreed to their fight; might as well get it over with. His utter confidence about facing down an army of devils did not bode well for her success. A sense of dread settled in her gut, a sense she tried to quash. No use going into their bout with the assumption that she would lose.

No one was nearby, but she spoke through their bond anyway, ensuring that no one could listen in. “Where are we going to fight? You never said.” She assumed he was going upstairs to put on a set of armor.

Instead of going towards their current room, Astarion led her to another stairwell, this one a long set that led up multiple floors of the palace. Most of the building was unused, particularly now that Astarion had given up his tendency to throw a party every week or two. The top floor held nothing but a few lavish, sprawling suites, including the bedroom they’d used before the spawn attack. Astarion gave her no answer until they’d reached the top floor and walked past the entrance of their old room.

“We’re going to the defiled chapel, pet.”

No… back down to those accursed depths? The elevator entrance was hidden in Cazador’s old room, a place they had gutted and ignored. Astarion told her years ago that he’d sealed the entry to the depths. “You reopened it? Why?”

Astarion pushed through the door of Cazador’s former chamber; she was pleased to see that he could do it now without pause. The memories of that room were so vicious that he had avoided it for a long time, though not for as long as she thought. She followed him in reluctantly, expecting to see nothing but a bare room, redecorated with white marble to match the rest of the floor but without furniture. Instead she found it fully furnished, outfitted with chairs and couches and desks and empty bookshelves. Part of the outer walls had been ripped out and filled with windows. She could feel magic from the glass, either to make it unbreakable or to keep the sunlight filtering through from fading books over time. It was like nothing terrible had ever happened here.

“You turned it into a new sitting room?”

He gestured towards the open doorway leading to another room of the suite, one similarly decorated. A lute, a lyre, and a flute each hung on the wall. “I thought we should have it closer to our room when we move back upstairs. Don’t get distracted from more important business, my love.”

Astarion summoned his staff to his hand from thin air. A wall in the next room further into the suite groaned open, and the staff vanished again. Dreya gritted her teeth slightly, hesitant to go back to that damned elevator. “Are you sure we should go down there again?”

His hand pressed into the small of her back, ushering her with him onto the circular disc. “I’ve cleaned the place up, dove. And don’t worry about the other entrance. I left it entirely sealed away. There’s no chance that a servant will stumble upon it.”

The elevator shaft held two entrances; the first was here, in Cazador’s master suite, and the second was the one they had found when they came to kill the vampire lord. Cazador’s former study lay near a ballroom, the study’s remodeled wall concealing and sealing the defiled chapel. Now the study was just a rarely needed storage room. No one would find the elevator there… hopefully.

Dreya was tense while the elevator descended into the depths, a journey that took minutes. The last time she’d been there—she didn’t want to think about the last time she’d been there. She had to fight, and the horror of it all was paralyzing.

Astarion wrapped his arms around her from behind, comfortably pulling her against him. He must have felt what she was trying to push away, what she was bracing herself to see. “You remember the Gur? I drained some of them when they attacked us. They came back as ghouls under my command. Their past years have been spent with the rats, cleaning up the carrion and ripping out the bars of all those cells. I charmed a few workmen into doing some construction for me in the past couple of months, walling off the ritual platform and those dangerous lower levels and such. Now it’s just a private maze, perfect for our bout.”

There had been so many hallways last time, endless stretches of paths going past crowded cells. They hadn’t gone near them, instead forging their own path straight ahead to find Cazador and his ritual, but she had seen the darkness past her eyesight, smelled the neglect, known how much space had to be beyond her knowledge to hold so many prisoners. And now, the cells were all empty.

She was silent when the elevator settled at the bottom of its shaft, silent when Astarion waved his hand to open the door in front of them. Even with what he’d said she expected to be greeted by the stench of rot and horror, but… no. There was a faint whiff of past-burned incense, but that was all. Just clean stone.

“I had the ghouls put some incense in the wall sconces some weeks ago, my love,” he murmured, letting her go reluctantly. The halls she expected to be dark were already lit by torches along the walls. “Don’t worry, they won’t be bothering us.”

Dreya walked into the stone hall tentatively, half-expecting to see something horrific when she looked down the unexplored path to the side. There was another layer below this one, she knew, one more broken apart. They’d found a pile of dirt and a coffin there where Cazador had turned so many of his victims. At least that was sealed off too.

“See? Perfect,” Astarion purred, stepping in front of her to take her hand and press a round, marble-like stone into her palm. “I got two of these at Sorcerous Sundries, pet. They’ll keep the time when I give the word. When their light is entirely gone, the time’s run out and they’ll evaporate into smoke. Simple enough.”

She nodded once and tucked it into her leather forearm guard. Astarion’s eyes were fixed on her, eager, happy, but there was a hard edge in them too. Maybe he’d chosen the chapel’s cell block because it was one of the few places she’d ever truly feared a vampire lord—not feared in an esoteric, theoretical sense, but where she’d felt the terror deep in her bones.

Dreya hesitated, wondering if there was a way to renege on this arrangement. If he won, she was consigning herself to him even more deeply. But… no. She’d agreed, and Astarion was getting exactly what he wanted. Why would he let her change things now?

Astarion took her hand and pulled it to his lips, pressing a kiss against the back of her hand, then her wrist. “Go ahead, dove. I’ll let you run before I follow.”

Dreya managed a short laugh. “I don’t suppose that counts as part of the five minutes.”

“Of course not.” He leaned down, wrapping her hand over his heart while he kissed her lips softly, resting his head against hers for a long moment like he was breathing in her scent. “My little love… Hurry along, I can’t wait to taste you again.”

She pressed herself closer to him, letting herself close her eyes and feel him. Fighting him felt wrong, but she would do it. His touch on their bond lifted, leaving her alone as she’d asked for their fight. Abruptly, she freed her hand and forced herself to turn away from him, breaking into a swift run as she entered the maze of halls.

The walls were jagged, clearly hewn by unskilled hands, eroded lightly over passing decades. Empty rooms that used to be cells littered the area, bearing holes in the floor and ceiling where bars used to be. Wall sconces were fastened into the solid rock, all lit by Astarion’s will. They both saw well in the dark, as any vampires would, so there was no need to blind themselves.

Dreya tried to keep track of where she was, but she found herself turned around quickly. Under normal circumstances she would’ve been more careful, but all that mattered now was putting as much distance between herself and Astarion as possible. He would scent her out soon enough. She considered using drops of her blood to misdirect him, but she knew it wouldn’t fool him. He was too familiar with her full fragrance to be distracted so easily.

The round stone in her forearm guard lit up. He’d started the time.

That meant it was time for a spell of her own, one he didn’t know about. Her blood had granted her the crown of stars, and her focus would let her cast it silently. Sidera lux me.

Seven motes of light appeared around her head, swirling in an angelic halo. Lightning just barely crackled between them, licking at her hair lovingly and sweetly caressing her with sunlight. It wouldn’t hurt him too badly.

Dreya heard a distant incantation. Moments later, she heard something else—crackling? Hissing? It was her only warning before she saw ice racing across the stone floor at blinding speed.

She leaped to the wall without hesitation, using her abilities as a spawn to cling to the rock with her hands as a thick sheet of bluish-white ice covered the floor. The temperature of the air dropped instantly, making her breath visible. It was so cold. She’d seen him wield ice against the devil portal, but she hadn’t thought he could summon a massive quantity of ice to simply envelop the entire floor of the maze. Given how it swept past her, she had to assume he was filling the whole thing.

If she had to use the walls and ceiling to move, she had to have her feet. Once her crown was expended she could use flight, but her concentration couldn’t be divided for multiple complex spells concurrently. Quickly, she kicked off her boots, cursing the cold air internally. The moment the boots touched the ice, the ice crackled up around them, seizing the lower couple of inches to hold them. If she’d been in them, no doubt she would be held prisoner by the ice as well.

He had to know where she was now.

Dreya rapidly climbed to the ceiling, grateful that even as a spawn she could cling to sheer surfaces with ease. She scrambled away, unwilling to risk the floor. A flash of movement touched her vision. Only her instinctive thought, Dolor, and her instantly outstretched hand saved her.

Her eldritch blast knocked a horrific, strange beast away from her just as its grasping paws nearly touched her. It slammed into the ice with a snarl of pain. Another thought sent one of the motes of light into the creature as it regained its feet, stumbling it again. Its eyes met hers, and she suddenly realized what it was.

The creature mostly had the form of a large panther, all rippling muscle and mottled silvery fur. Its tail lashed side to side just above the ice, agitated. Its head was a bizarre amalgamation of not just a cat, but the head of a bat, with unnaturally large eyes and a more elongated snout than a cat possessed. Two large, viciously curved teeth protruded from either side of the snout’s front. Its front paws were more like a bat’s feet than a panther’s, with long phalanges and visible curved claws at their tips, able to grasp more efficiently than a cat’s shorter toes. And those unnervingly large eyes—they were a deep crimson. Astarion’s eyes.

When he had told her that his powers would allow him to shapeshift, she thought he’d just meant turning into a bat. She hadn’t dreamed that he would be able to shift into such a monstrosity.

Its muscles coiled; he clearly intended to spring up and snatch her during the second of confusion. Another swift gesture sent another mote into the beast, drawing another snarling hiss of pain. It turned and fled, its paws silent on the ice as the creature disappeared around a corner.

Fuck.

A deep, rumbling growl echoed through the halls as she scrambled across the ceiling, driving a primal fear through her. He was lurking just out of her sight, watching…

She saw the movement again. Another charge with blurring speed, another mote, but this time it narrowly missed him. He leaped, and those grasping paws seized her waist, ripping her down. Her concentration on her spell broke, dissipating the rest of the crown.

The creature—Astarion, she reminded herself—twisted onto its back to catch her when it pulled her down, cushioning her fall with its body instead of allowing her to slam into the ice. It was a moment of care that no other vampire lord would give her, and one she knew she had to take advantage of. She aimed her hand at its long front leg and uttered her eldritch blast incantation this time. “Dolor!”

He roared in pain, the sickening crack of bone reaching their ears. Dreya yanked herself free in the moment of weakness and shoved herself off him, seizing the wall to pull herself away when the ice started to grasp at her bare feet. They both took a moment to breathe. She had to remind herself not to drop down and rush over to him to tend to his wound.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break a bone. Are you alright?”

Astarion shifted back into his usual form, laying on his back on the ice. It didn’t try to freeze him down, proving her assumption that he was magically directing it to grasp at her. His right arm bent against his body, his ulna cracked. A painful injury, but one he could heal. “Sometimes I forget how vicious you can be, dove.”

He wasn’t done, though, she knew it. She thought another incantation. Volo non fugia. The winds of flight wrapped around her, and she whipped around the corner, fleeing from him as he healed. It only gave her a brief reprieve. Within thirty seconds his bone would be completely whole again.

Dreya checked the round stone. It was a little shocking to see how much time was gone—probably two minutes out of the five had already passed. Just two more minutes, and she could protect herself completely for the last one. A shame she had to concentrate on flight to move quickly, though. That alone restricted her spell usage considerably. She’d hoped to be able to use telekinesis to keep him away without hurting him, but as it was she’d have to use eldritch blast to throw him.

Another twenty or thirty feet down and to the right, he found her again. As she rounded the corner, he silently darted behind her, now in his normal form when he tried to seize her. Another thought of an incantation, Ictu, and his hands darted through nothing as she blinked into the ethereal plane. Everything around her was suddenly cast in grey tones.

Dreya swept back from Astarion, turning towards him. She had a few seconds before she reappeared some ten feet away, then she could try to blink into the ethereal plane again. The vampire lord smiled, barely suppressing a scowl as he crooned. “Come out, my darling. You’re only prolonging the inevitable.” He saw her reappear, then disappear once more, and he huffed with annoyance. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just give yourself to me?”

Her voice slipped through to him, only audible from the ethereal plane because of their bond. “This fight is a sham, Astarion. Normal vampire lords couldn’t even make this ice. I told you you’re more powerful than others are.”

Another appearance in another place, another blink away. Astarion prowled towards where he’d seen her last, trying to keep sight of where she reappeared. “Not a sham, just a more difficult sort of test. You agreed.”

Dreya slipped back into reality well behind him, silently flying away from him. It took him several moments to realize that her scent was moving away. Maybe a minute and a half left. This time she saw him approach, trying to sneak up behind her, and sent a bolt of lightning into the stone to force him back. Breaking more of his bones wasn’t what she wanted.

Clearly, he knew the maze like the back of his own hand. He appeared by her at the next intersection. A blast to his leg tripped him, but he was up and darting for her again. Her flight was running out. She shoved herself into the wall and clung to it, releasing the winds around her and uttering another spell. This was one fed to her from her collar, given to her by his blood. She could only assume that the enchantment on the collar gave her this because of Astarion’s desire to protect her, and now the spell his blood gave her would protect her from him.

“Nihil pervenire!”

Astarion’s hands were stopped short by the golden globe of invulnerability that blossomed around her, letting her cling to the wall right in front of him without him being able to touch her. His nostrils flared as he pushed against the impenetrable energy, realizing that while she could leave the globe, he couldn’t enter it. He snapped an infernal incantation, causing the ice to climb the walls and try to push in, only to find that the globe’s edges extended beneath the wall’s surface. Slowly, he relaxed, smiling with an odd sort of satisfaction as he held up the round stone. Its light had nearly faded. Another forty seconds, and it would be done.

“Smart pet. That little spell of yours lasts a full minute, doesn’t it?”

Dreya nodded slightly, watching him, wondering if there was anything she’d missed. He didn’t look like someone that was about to lose, and he had so many powers she’d never seen… what if he could get around this somehow? “One minute.”

“If it weren’t me, I hope you would’ve tried more than just keeping me away, my love. If a vampire lord hunts you, sear a hole through his chest immediately.”’

“Or burn him with sunlight,” she said, feeling herself relaxing just a touch. She didn’t see any way he could get to her now. “I felt bad enough about breaking your arm.”

He cocked his head, languidly gesturing to her. “Such a sweet darling,” he purred, his voice honeyed and soft. “Come out of there.”

“Not until the timer’s done.”

Astarion’s smile grew even more charming. “I want to hold you, pet. Test that newly healed arm of mine.”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed a little. The light in the stone was nearly gone now. Twenty seconds. He breathed slowly, like he was considering something. Fifteen seconds.

Suddenly, he flicked his wrist up, closing his hand into a fist and jerking it back. Dreya felt his invisible grasp close on her leather collar. The yank tore her forward, away from the wall and out of the globe.

Astarion was on her in an instant, pinning her to the ice. Dreya let herself snarl, startled by the sudden motion, angry that he’d used such a trick, one that no other vampire lord would ever be able to replicate. She tried to shove him off, but he forced himself past her arms in a split-second and sank his fangs into her neck.

The time stones evaporated, the five minutes fully elapsed. She had lost.

Dreya angrily beat at his back, squirming under him so hard that she felt her blood spill from around his fangs and lips. “Get off me! What the fuck was that?”

He released his bite and stood, pulling her up with him. Dreya shook him off, glaring at him. She shivered, even colder now that her bare feet were on the ice, though it no longer tried to grasp at her. “You used the bond!”

Astarion smiled again. His chin and lips were covered in her blood, making the triumph in his eyes look sinister. “It wasn’t against the rules, pet. You only said I couldn’t use our bond to track you.”

“This was supposed to be to prove that I can defend myself against another vampire lord, but no lord could do that to me! Only you! That was bullshit, and you know it!”

“So what if it was?” he snapped harshly. “I won, dove. Our agreement is dissolved. Know your place.” He took a step closer, glaring down at her. “Now. Kneel.”

He’d won. Bullshit or not, he’d won.

And slowly, she knelt.

Chapter Text

Astarion stared down at her, his eyes red in the dark as he slowly wiped her spilled blood from his chin. Just as slowly, he licked his hand clean, savoring what her struggles had nearly made him waste. Her heart raced, her mind clouded with fear and rebellion from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She was angry, angry that he’d used such a cheap trick to win, angry at herself for not seeing it coming. His collar made her so much stronger—except against him. But she’d agreed to the fight, and she’d lost. She’d lost, and whether she liked it or not, Astarion’s ownership of her grew ever tighter.

His beautiful lips twisted into a clever, wicked smile. Slowly, he walked around her, musing to himself as she knelt on the freezing ice, her body shaking with cold, the blood still oozing from her neck. “What should I do with you now, dove? There are so many delicious ways I could claim my prize… you’re mine now more than ever. And you need to be punished for your disobedience, don’t you?” His hand trailed over her hair behind her, his fingers dragging through the grey-white strands to scrape his nails over her scalp.

Dreya was silent, repeating a sort of mantra in her mind to try to force away the frustration and uncertainty. He wasn’t going to hurt her, he had never hurt her—him completely doing away with their agreement didn’t change that. This was a game while he reveled in his victory. He’d promised not to enslave her. She gave herself to him because he needed it, played with him in bed to let him ‘punish’ her. This was the same. Astarion wouldn’t hurt her.

His fingers suddenly gripped her hair, jerking her head back slightly. “I can still feel your rebellion, pet. You’re not chastened or ashamed of how you’ve treated your master, you’re just angry that you lost. You haven’t surrendered, not really. I don’t think we’re done with our bout.” Slowly, deliberately, he let his other hand trace around her neck, feeling the pulse throbbing on the opposite side from his bite.

“No wonder you’re not contrite. It’s my fault, isn’t it? Your master has let your leash slack so loose you don’t feel secure in his grasp. But I see your mind, I feel your thoughts when I touch you. You can’t hide anything from me.” Astarion’s commanding tone took on a lustful, lulling tint. “You need me to use you, don’t you, my love? To force you to bend to my desires?”

She felt a twinge of embarrassment. He wasn’t wrong… her fantasies and dreams usually twisted that way, turning to torrid images of Astarion or someone he chose enjoying or abusing her body. She didn’t even know why. Hells, maybe it was just an instinct from being his spawn, or her mind unconsciously contorting her desires to match his. Her heart beat faster, her breath strangling to shallow from his dark, heated tone. Even as upset as she was, he could still make her ache for him. But the embarrassment turned to humiliation when her mind pulled in another thread.

Maybe after Corvallis, she just didn’t know another way to be. Maybe those desires were from trying to give her chosen master what her patron could always take.

The grip in her hair tightened harshly, his voice turning to a sharper snarl. He’d felt her embarrassment through their bond. “Don’t you dare be ashamed of it. You’re doing what all Toril should do. You’re bending the knee to the Vampire Ascendant and offering your neck to sate me. The world should worship you for keeping me from their veins.”

The implicit horror of the threat made her shiver. It was part of the game, overstating how badly things could go if she wasn’t his. But, even so, some part of her worried what Astarion would be like as the Ascendant without her. She let herself focus on the other threat, the threat to her, not to the world. To force her to bend to his desires… the thought was appalling and arousing in equal measure. They’d played before, yes, pretended that she didn’t want him, but it was a pantomime, a nudge and a wink when he could feel that she adored him. Right now, she was scared, stifling the urge to struggle in his grasp more than stifling the urge to suck his cock. The threat felt more real when his self-imposed limits on compulsion were suddenly gone.

No. He wouldn’t hurt her. This was a game. She chose him, she loved him, and he loved her. Dreya swallowed hard. Her voice came out sharply, a voice to bury her fear under the anger of losing. “What do you want from me?”

“Fight back, pet. Try to stop me from taking you.”

She’d never fought him, not like that. For a long moment, she wondered if it would bring back horrid memories. But… no. The only creatures that had taken her body were the ones that trapped her, coerced her, that left her no choice but to submit unwillingly. This might feel too different to compare. But Astarion? He’d never told her the details, but in two hundred years, it was easy to assume he’d been attacked violently a few times. It might be too similar to the past.

“Astarion, are you sure?”

The vampire lord let go of her hair and pulled her to her feet with his will on the collar, the hand on her neck gliding beneath her jaw to guide her. That same hand dragged her against him, letting his other arm coil around her, pinning her arms to her sides and her back to his body. His hips pressed into the curve where the small of her back flared out to her ass. She could feel the stifled bulge of his cock in his trousers. He jerked her head to the side, exposing her bleeding neck, and licked across the bloodied lines that ran from the wounds to her robe. She heard his breath deepen with excitement, heard him murmur an infernal incantation. The slick ice beneath her bare feet melted abruptly, leaving a thick sheen of chilly water puddled in the maze of hallways.

“You’ve been such a bad consort, even for such an understanding master. You’re mine, dove, and I’m going to make sure you know it while I punish you for your snit.” Astarion crushed her against him more tightly, abruptly sinking his sharp fangs into her neck again, a frozen stab made with far less care than he normally used with her. She yelped, struggling against his grip from the pain without thinking. His orders, given to be obeyed, not compelled, slipped into her mind. “Fight back.”

He swallowed slowly, purring softly while he took her blood. His pleasure only lasted a moment before she twisted her forearm to the side, grasping his arm and letting another incantation flow through her. Sparks of lightning and sunlight snapped directly into his body, forcing him to go tense. His teeth retracted, and he laughed, letting go of her and allowing her to dart a few feet away from him.

“Hardly a tickle, pet, but I’ll release you. Another vampire lord would have to nurse their wounds. Sunlight inside the veins is a terrible affliction for the undead.”

Dreya watched him uncertainly, letting herself take careful steps back from him. She’d turned to face him the moment she could, trying to make herself think of him as an enemy, mentally mapping out her escape. An escape was the only way to ‘win’ this fight. The maze of hallways was a confused mess, a congealed mass made only more confusing when Astarion’s presence crowded into her mind, like he was keeping her from seeing the way out. The dim lanterns lining the hallways sputtered, then began flickering out entirely. The low light plunged into a haze, a haze kept from being pitch black only thanks to the occasional lamp that preserved its flame.

The vampire lord strolled toward her, her blood still dripping down his chin. This time he didn’t bother licking up the precious droplets. His crimson eyes were fixed on another prize. Did they really glow in the darkness, or was that only how she saw him? Her dark vision or their bond might change how reality appeared. He felt powerful, far more intense than usual, more terrifying. Hells… maybe he was just forcing her to see him more like others saw him. Normally she looked at him and saw her lover. Right now, she looked at him and saw a predator playing with her. Cat and mouse.

Dreya tried to gather her magic to her hand, intending to use a blast to throw him off balance, but… but nothing came. Astarion’s chuckle echoed in the stone halls, his white teeth visible to her in the darkness. “Now, now, pet. No more spells. No more cantrips. The collar doesn’t just listen to you. I am its true master.” He held up his hand, theatrically turning it and letting her feel the small tug of her collar. “What truer leash is there for a sorceress but to control her power?”

Cold horror gripped at her chest, as cold as the hell-ice her lord summoned. He could block the collar—not just that, but use it to block her from cantrips? He could make her powerless without even needing to compel her. The adrenaline fueled a sense of panic scratching at her mind. Being powerless again, even with him—

Every instinct from her years of combat told her to run from this fight, so she did. Dreya spun and fled, water from his melted ice spattering over her robes from her bare feet striking the ground, freezing from the chill. It was Astarion—it was a monster—she didn’t know what chased her. Her mind wrestled with it, even knowing that he could be feeding confusion into her himself to fuel their game. He wouldn’t hurt her, he wouldn’t hurt her.

She turned a corner and ran straight. There was no sound behind her, not the flutter of a wing or the echo of a footstep or the rhythm of a heartbeat, but she knew he was on her heels. During their bout he’d had to prowl, to stalk around her spells and her senses, but when she was defenseless? Now whatever he did was to toy with her, not to protect himself. The exit was ahead, somewhere. Was it? If she found an outer wall of this place, then she’d follow it back to the—

A hand brushed over her hair. Dreya whipped around, striking where Astarion had to be to touch her. But—no. There was nothing, no one there. The hallway was empty. There wasn’t even anywhere for him to disappear so quickly. Had he been there at all, or had he just made her think he was? Could he be in front of her now, invisible to her eyes? He’d hidden Gale’s scent from her before. What if he could hide even more from her?

Run. Dreya turned back to her original path. If she went far enough, she would find the outer wall. It couldn’t be far now.

A whisper of the wind of movement flowed over her face. Still, no one was there, but the forearm guards she wore suddenly felt loose. The supple leather slid away from her and fell into the puddle at her feet with a muted splash. The laces that had been holding them on were cut, sliced through by scalpel-sharp claws before she’d even known he was there. And still, he wasn’t here. Or was he? She glanced over the water, looking for ripples. There was a small one, one she might have chalked up to herself if it weren’t for something else. There was a reflection in the water as she looked at herself… and in that reflection she saw Astarion, standing just behind her.

Dreya knew he felt it the moment she saw him, and she bolted.

An arm snatched around her waist, yanking her back hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Astarion pinned her back against him, leaving her hands free. She wheezed for a moment, instinctively clutching at her gut before she overcame it. No need for breath. Dreya slammed her elbow back into his ribs as hard as she could, using her other hand to try to pry his arm loose. His free hand played over her hair lazily, either in a taunt or a tease as she writhed in his grip, inadvertently grinding herself back against his groin with the struggle. Her strike would’ve broken the ribs of a normal elf, her strength enhanced by her vampiric nature, but it didn’t even seem to bother him. The fear seeped into her deeper, like water finding its way through tiny cracks in a floor. Her mind knew he was Astarion, her lover, but her body told her it was another vampire lord.

Dreya let herself scream, the primal terror of the night and its monsters ripping out of her throat. She slammed her heel down on his foot, kicked back against his legs, reached behind her head and clawed at the face and neck she found. He wasn’t letting her shapeshift, leaving her with her normal dull, short nails, but scratching at his face was what finally drew a chuckle from him.

Astarion ran his hand down her side impatiently, finding the laces that held the uppermost layer of her robes on, the thick, long sort of tunic that formed the top. He sliced through the laces with his own claws swiftly, ignoring her struggles and cries. Another slice through the laces on her other side, and he let go of her waist to seize her arm. He pulled the deep maroon leather up, yanking it over her head. The thick armored piece dropping to the floor made her shudder, suddenly even more terrified and cold without the layer to protect her from the chill. The simple lower layer of the robe and its flared, open-fronted skirt didn’t help much, even with the pants. The blood red cloth and leather was silky and cool, unsuited for fighting the ice of Cania. Her heart hammered in her chest. To her shock, she found tears coming to her eyes. She struck at his hand, trying to make him release her. “Astarion, please—!”

Astarion’s smile still stood out to her in the dark, a sinister gash of teeth enjoying her fruitless fight. She hit his hand and wrist a couple more times, then without thinking, she changed her target—and she slapped him in the face as hard as she could.

Before she could take another breath, Astarion slammed her back against the stone wall, pinning both of her forearms by her head. He gave her neck a long, slow lick, tasting the salt of the tears that had run that low. His voice whispered in her mind, teasing, playful as ever. “I’ll stop if it gets to be too much, but you’re alright, my darling.”

Was she? Her breath felt shallow, her mind compromised with the primal urge to flee from him. Even when he nuzzled into the crook of her neck, she heard her breath become frightened whimpers. His beautiful white curls brushed against her cheek, tantalizing her with the scent and sensation of the lover she couldn’t see in him right now. She drove her knee up into his groin, twisting her arms to try to free herself. Astarion grunted when her knee struck him, but he pushed past whatever pain he felt and kicked her legs apart to throw her off balance. He finally struck, sinking his fangs into her neck deeply, the movement uncaring and feral instead of tender. She heard herself scream again, instinctively trying to wrench her neck away from the stabbing cold. His teeth tightened on her flesh, his body trapping hers against the wall.

Warmth rushed over the cold bite painfully from her blood draining more rapidly than usual. The quiet, blissful swallows she was accustomed to were replaced with a vulgar, sloppy sucking sound, his tongue greedily running over the bite to taste her. His cock was still in his trousers, but she felt its stiff outline throbbing against her stomach. Warm drops fell from his chin, soaking into her tunic. He wasn’t starving, but he drank ravenously, his moans peaking in his breath and his swallows.

Dreya was still terrified, still in pain, but his lust was infectious. She wanted to swear at him, to tear herself free, to run until she escaped him, but she wanted him too, wanted to prostrate herself and beg him to use her body as he saw fit. Her body shuddered, starting to shiver with the blood he’d so rapidly taken from her. Losing blood didn’t weaken her as quickly as it had when she was only a half-elf, but she felt a knot of hunger forming in her stomach, hunger from her body trying to compensate for the loss. She needed to feed, and not on Astarion, not on normal food, on mortals.

He wouldn’t slake her thirst, but he would suffice for now. He wanted her to fight back, didn’t he?

Normally she was loathe to break her disguise, but today she did so without hesitation. Her fangs extended; she felt the magic of her disguise fall away, revealing her red eyes and her bite-scarred neck. With her arms pinned and her neck in his teeth and his body against hers she could hardly move to attack him, but his neck was exposed, just inches from her lips. His heart was racing, pounding with excitement, making his blood sing to her temptingly.

Dreya felt her flesh tear a bit more around Astarion’s fangs when she lashed out, ruining the numbing that was finally setting in, but she didn’t care. Her teeth drove into his neck, her lips wrapping over his pale skin before the red of his blood washed over it. Gods, he was heavenly, even when her body screamed to run from him. His blood burned her throat lightly, warming her, exciting her, the most potent aphrodisiac combining with the dizzying confusion of her lover pretending to force himself on her. Suddenly the cold of his ice seemed far more bearable, even after a single swallow of him.

Astarion snarled harshly, surprised by her bite. The force of his will smashed into her so severely that her ears rang, thrumming like he’d struck her. “Bad. Girl.”

He’d already released his bite when her jaw pried itself apart, her body moving no matter how much she struggled to keep her teeth affixed in his neck. Dreya couldn’t suppress a moan of protest. Astarion’s hands tightened on her forearms so hard she thought her bones might crack. He smiled dangerously, blood still covering his chin. Her fang marks left on him healed over in moments, leaving only the stain of his blood on his skin and his clothes to show that someone had hurt the Vampire Ascendant. She desperately wanted to lunge closer, to tear into his alabaster neck, to grip his hair and control his head while she drank from him like he so often did to her, but she couldn’t even attempt it. Astarion’s will compelled her not to move her parted lips or bite down. He kissed her roughly, forcing his tongue deep into her, tasting the blood she’d stolen from him. Dreya squirmed, futilely trying to turn her head away from his harsh, possessive, hungry mouth. Her only reward was his fangs biting her lower lip, just hard enough to draw blood. He indulged in another long, slow lick, tasting the mixture of her blood and saliva as she gave another frustrated growl, twisting against his control. The small bite marks in her mouth healed when he pressed his lips against hers in a kiss that seemed too tender to not be mocking right now.

Astarion moved swiftly the moment he broke the kiss, releasing her arms and stooping to snatch her legs and ass, hauling her over his shoulder. She struggled, her body moving of her own will again. His fingers dug into her ass through the dress of her tunic while his other hand gripped her thigh under her skirt, appreciatively running his hand down her shapely leg before she started to kick and forced him to grip her harder.

Dreya flailed in his grasp, her stomach aching from his shoulder digging into it and the hunger that refused to quiet itself for a single swallow of her master’s blood. She knew it was futile. His hands were iron, unmoving no matter how she writhed and twisted and beat at his back. His blood invigorated her, but the invigoration came with a more intense need to escape from him, a wretched fear of what he would do to punish her and put her back in her place as his spawn. Fear, excitement—she couldn’t tell them apart now. Her fingers dug into the fine fabric of his doublet, trying to hold onto him to pull her hips loose from his hand. The rich blue cloth tore instead.

Astarion shifted his hands, but only to swat her ass quite hard. She yelped, kicking again now that he’d released her thigh, but it did no good. Even with the layers of thin leather and cloth over her skin, she was sure he’d left a handprint on her. “Where are you taking me?”

“I made a room just for us, pet. A little hideaway, somewhere to indulge in whatever I desire.” He seized her thigh again, pushing her skirt out of the way and giving her leg a kiss. She could only feel the pressure of his lips through her pants, but she could sense a strange sort of fervor in it, a fervor driven by need. But a need for what? It didn’t feel like it was only from his lust.

She couldn’t see where he was taking her, not in this position, but she felt his steps slow, heard greased bricks sliding over each other. Astarion started walking down stairs. A flick of his hand made the door they passed through close behind them—a concealed door made of the same bricks as the wall. That, the stairs. She knew where they were now. This was the central ritual chamber, the very place Astarion had ascended, the place he said he’d walled off.

The place she’d killed all those people for him.

Dreya could remember it clearly. The Black Mass scroll open in her hands, staring at it as Astarion begged her to help him. The questions she’d asked in her mind to Corvallis, her chest hollowing with grief and horror at what she knew she would do.

“Is there any way to cure these people?”

The Keeper laughed mirthlessly in her ear. “Seven thousand spawn? Perhaps you could cure a few recent ones, but thousands? No.”

Either she killed them, or she freed them. And that many spawn? No. She couldn’t free them. They weren’t evil for being spawn, she believed that fully, but Astarion had almost killed her the first night he drank from her, and that was after two hundred years of learning to control his thirst. These neglected, wretched, blood-starved prisoners? It was impossible to watch them all, to give them each the chance they deserved. If she unleashed them on the Underdark, every drow and duergar and gnome they killed in their feeding frenzy would be on her head.

No. The spawn had to die. But should it be by the ritual?

“Darling. Dreya. Please! It’s the only way we’ll ever be safe!”

Dreya looked up at Astarion. The desperation in his voice wrenched at her heart. He was terrified, not of the monstrous black-haired lord kneeling in defeat, but of what he would be without the power at his fingertips, what he would fear without it. For now, Dreya could protect him, but later…?

“Will you let me stay with him when the Absolute is gone?”

Her patron’s fingers invisibly crept down the backs of her arms. “I haven’t decided.”

No. He wouldn’t. He would make her leave Astarion. And worse than breaking his heart, she would leave him defenseless. When she was gone, the only power that could be relied on to keep him safe was his own. Astarion needed to be a true vampire, a vampire lord. He needed to Ascend.

And the ritual… its details were in Infernal. She couldn’t understand it. Even tieflings like Karlach that knew Infernal from birth couldn’t fully understand the height of legal jargon used by devils. Shakily, she opened the scroll wider, knowing Corvallis could see it through her eyes. “If we kill them without the ritual, are their souls still bound to Mephistopheles?”

The Keeper seemed to scan over the scrawled text. “I don’t know myself, pup. But think. Do you believe that an arch-devil would risk being denied so many souls if the contract wasn’t completed? The spawn have probably belonged to him since the infernal runes were carved into their flesh.”

A new thing to fear broke open inside her, a new horror reaching her eyes. Astarion—he had those same runes. If they all belonged to the arch-devil because of the runes, that meant, if he died outside of this ritual—

“When the contract is completed, Mephistopheles can’t take any more souls from it, muse.”

Dreya felt something break, deep down. She knew what she had to do. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be able to cast thousands into hell just to save one… but she couldn’t bear Astarion’s soul falling into Cania.

The conversation with her patron had moved at the speed of thought, taking mere moments. Astarion brandished the elaborate, twisted, serrated dagger he’d taken from Cazador, its wooden core dull between the reflections on its metal blades. Dreya closed her eyes for a long moment, repelled by what she was doing. And when she opened her eyes and reached out with her tadpole, showing Astarion the infernal runes scarred into his own back, she knew she was murdering every single spawn in every single cell of Cazador’s dungeons, just as surely as if she’d driven a stake into each of their hearts with her own hands.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. She—what she’d done—

She deserved to be enslaved by Astarion. It didn’t matter that she’d seen no other choice in the madness Cazador had made. She deserved it all.

“This again? The spawn? I can feel your regret. My power came from this place, dove. You should be overjoyed to worship me here instead of focusing on strangers.” He’d never been happy that she was so deeply disgusted with what she’d done, like it was a slight to him. But… she couldn’t always ignore it.

Her voice was heavy. “I’m sorry.”

“Aperire.”

A lock clicked in front of him, followed by the near-silent sound of well-oiled hinges. As soon as he strode through the frame, the metal door slammed shut again. Astarion summoned his staff to his hand from thin air, the twisted black rod towering over him, topped by the silver and red effigy of a monstrous bat with spread wings. He’d told her once that it was called Woe—that it had always terrified Cazador’s servants, slaves, and puppets. Now, it was his, and with it came complete control of Cazador’s estate and wealth. Whenever the palace obeyed his will, it was through the dreadful staff.

Astarion dropped her on the floor carelessly, unwilling to soften the blow apart from ensuring that she fell on her side, not her head. Dreya curled up for a moment, half-terrified at what she would find when she looked around the ritual platform.

Dreya forced herself to her feet. The flickering glow of fire filled the room, lit by Astarion. She heard the staff tapping against the stone floor as he strode across the platform. Being here felt wrong. She hardly even thought before walking down the three shallow stairs to the door and trying to open it. Locked, from the outside. The door wouldn’t budge.

“And where do you think you’re going, dove? It won’t open for you.”

The tapping of the staff was gone. Dreya rested her forehead against the door for a long moment. The fear of this place was irrational, she knew it was. She made herself turn around and look out at the ritual platform.

It was different now. The patterned tile of grey, black, and gold remained, apart from the divots that had once been filled with the power of the ritual now being filled in with matching grey stone to create an even floor. Two overlapping squares were raised by a few inches in the center of the octagon of the platform, but the ornamental coffin that had once stood there was gone, replaced by an angular stone throne inlaid with a black cushion. The front and sides of the wide throne each had a thick metal ring attached at the bottom, each held by small metal loops buried in the stone to allow the larger ring some movement. Walls were erected at the edges of the octagon where short stairs had once led to the platforms intended for Cazador’s seven spawn—where the other six and Cazador had all perished. Now the platforms couldn’t be seen, cut off by tile-covered walls that mirrored the floor’s coloring.

Several torches lit the walls, magical flames licking at metal, only to ever consume magic and never to burn out until the will of the Vampire Ascendant allowed it. A grim-looking chandelier hung from the center of the high ceiling, illuminating the room with its light. Somehow, it still felt like shadows pressed in on her. Two pillars stood a few feet away from the throne’s front, positioned out diagonally from the seat, stretching to support the ceiling. Each side that she could see bore a few more thick metal rings at various heights, attached the same way that the rings on the throne were. She saw a large bed positioned against the wall behind the throne, its black bedding neatly spread flat. Above it, hung on two hooks, was the very wooden-cored dagger that Astarion had used to carve a replica of his scars into Cazador’s back.

To Astarion, the dagger was a symbol of his victory. To her, it was a reminder of the blood on her hands. He’d insisted that Cazador was responsible for all the deaths, not her, but she couldn’t convince herself that he was right.

Astarion was examining something in a set of drawers near the bed. A coil of rope sat on top of the drawers next to a wine bottle and a couple of delicate chalices. He wasn’t looking at her at all, but she heard his voice whispering into her ear. “Don’t you like it, pet?”

Dreya suppressed a shudder, wrapping her arms around herself. His ice hadn’t reached this far, but she still felt horribly cold. “I don’t know if I can be here…”

“A shame you’re not the one deciding where you’ll be, then.”

Astarion strode back towards her, tossing the rope onto the floor by one of the pillars as he passed it. There was no trace of a smile, just hunger and lust filling his expression and body language. Dreya’s throat tightened. She reached behind her, pulling at the door again. It was still locked, as she knew it would be, but it was hard not to run from his approach. He looked ravenous, like he was in a mood to tear her apart at a whim. The guilt was real, the fear was real, but this was just a game. He wouldn’t hurt her… even though she deserved it.

He seized her collar, his fingers digging under the leather band to yank her after him. Dreya grabbed his wrist and pried at his fingers, trying to free herself and digging her heels against the cold stone floor, but it didn’t even slow him. Astarion pulled her to one of the two pillars and shoved her back against it. Without a word, he started unbuttoning her tunic, his eyes fixed on the flesh he revealed while he undressed her. Her breath came unevenly, the fear heightening from the utter helplessness. Her magic was all that protected her, and it was gone, suppressed by him and his collar. He could do anything to her down here, and no one would ever know. A simple command from him, and she couldn’t utter a word of what transpired. The isolation of the dungeons made the reality of her situation feel more intense, more desperate. She tried to re-button her top, but he swatted her hand away hard enough to make her wrist ache and half-tore the button loose while he ripped it open again.

Astarion hesitated, his appearance softening as he looked over her exposed body, like he was having second thoughts about his demands. He toyed with the front of her bra, opening it. His fingers trailed down her bare sternum. “You understand why I have to punish you, don’t you, pet?”

Dreya closed her eyes. She wasn’t really afraid of him, she reminded herself. She was afraid of his distorted shadow, of the monster he was pretending to be for his victory.

“It’s just a game.”

He leaned in, kissing above her ear gently, his free hand arranging her mussed hair before he pressed his wrist against her lips. She felt the urge to drink from him, silent permission to partake. Ripping into his wrist like she tried to rip into his neck would’ve been instinctual and heavenly to her burdened mind, a welcome reprieve from the darkness and confusion weighing on her, but she made herself sink her fangs into him gently. His rich, sweet blood trickled over her soft tongue, pulling a small, adoring moan from her lips. Safe. She was safe here, with him.

She shouldn’t be. He should have broken her long ago for what she’d done. She was a dirty, murderous, filthy thing clinging to the glorious, powerful, terrible lord that deigned to entwine himself with her. A dark, horrible thought came to her, one that couldn’t be chased away by the pleasures of his blood.

If she was truly sorry for killing the spawn, she would give herself to her patron, wouldn’t she? Astarion usually treated her with kindness and favor. Corvallis could do worse than destroy her. Dreya tried to push away the foolish thought, cursing her mind for even considering it. She deserved what Corvallis did to her. Only that torment could even approach what she was owed.

“Stop it!” he snapped, his will forcing her mouth open. He licked the bite marks on his wrist closed, but he was glaring at her, suddenly furious again. “You’re an idiot about your own guilt, pet, and it’s exhausting. You want to pay penance for seven thousand souls? You can’t! Cazador is paying for it, and he will forever! Does it make you feel better to pretend you deserve your patron’s attacks?”

Dreya froze, unable to move as he snarled, and not just because of the hand still wound beneath her collar. She gritted her teeth, trying to make herself think clearly. He was right that she couldn’t pay penance for the spawn, he was right that it was Cazador’s fault, and he was right that Corvallis had nothing to do with any of this. Her patron had tormented her for over a decade before she’d even heard the name ‘Cazador,’ much less ventured into these damned dungeons. “You’re right. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Astarion seized her jaw, ensuring she had to look him in the eye. “Do you regret the ritual? Would you undo what you’ve done? Would you cast me into darkness again, pet?”

That was… harder. It was a question she’d pondered many times, lying awake in his arms and staring at the ceiling after nightmares tormented her. Gods. It hurt to admit the truth. Her throat felt sore just forcing out the words.

“I regret it—and I would do it again. I’m too weak to not save you. Whatever I feel, I just—have to live with. It’s a small price compared to what the spawn I cast into Cania endure.”

Astarion seemed mollified by the answer, giving her a beneficent smile as he released her collar to caress her cheek. “Then it’s time I fixed that beautiful little head, isn’t it?”

Dreya tried to pull back from him a little, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Why should I let you pay for Cazador’s sins at all, my darling? Now that our agreement is dust, I can do anything.”

Her eyes widened a little. He was going to alter her mind. She deserved to be his slave, but she still felt a stab of betrayal. “Astarion—”

“You won’t even remember it.” Astarion kissed her forehead, clutching her tightly as he murmured. “It’s not changing who you are, it’s just easing a burden to let you focus on what’s important. Your penance should be for mistreating your master, not some ridiculous guilt over strangers. Isn’t that right, dove?”

Dreya finally managed to move her arms again, pushing her hands between them to shove against his torso, struggling to free herself from him. “Astarion, please—!”

Astarion pressed her head against his chest and kissed above her ear again fervently, dropping his hand from her cheek to wrap his arm around her waist. “You’ll feel better soon, my love. Your patron won’t ever be able to use your guilt to convince you to hurt yourself—to take you from me. We’ll both be happier for it.”

Dreya felt a surge of true, genuine terror, more real than she’d felt in their bout or their game. She didn’t have time to beg him to stop before his voice sank into her mind, the power of the Ascendant, the power she’d given him, carving his will into her bones and marrow.

“Never think you deserve punishment for killing the spawn. It was all Cazador’s doing. Don’t remember thinking of them today. Don’t even remember that I gave this command.”

Her mind went blank. She stared vacantly, her eyes glowing red, her form trembling in his grasp as her memories twisted to accommodate him. There was another touch of fear, then—

She blinked, half-surprised that she felt so groggy. Her mind pieced things together. She’d said this was a game, then he’d let her drink, and she’d felt safe, thought that she was dirty and broken, and—and he’d been angry that she had those thoughts again. Her hunger must have blurred her mind for a moment, but it made sense that he was crushing her against his body like this, frustrated by the reminder of her patron’s hold. Her heart was racing, a byproduct of his anger. Her fingers curled against him, digging into the cloth of his top to feel him beneath it as she nuzzled into his chest, inhaling his scent, relaxing from the sense of his aroused blood inflaming her. “Master…”

Astarion breathed into her hair, his hand trailing to her open tunic. She could’ve sworn he was feeling relief. He was still hard, but something had distracted him. A few more moments to gather himself, and he finally spoke again, letting his affections melt away into the cold anger he seemed to hold towards her.

“It’s not just a game today, pet. I won’t mar you, but you’ll pay for your insolence, and you will learn your place.”

He yanked her away from the pillar and seized the shoulders of her tunic, roughly pulling it and her bra free from her arms. Dreya inhaled sharply, instinctively trying to stop him, but she barely had time to react before he flung her clothes to the ground, leaving her topless.

Astarion grabbed her arm and forced her down to the floor in a semi-sitting position, pushing her back against the pillar. He unceremoniously unlaced her pants and dragged them down, pulling her underwear with them. Her bare feet found no real grip on the smooth, cold stone floor as she squirmed. He stripped them away from her ankles and straddled her legs to hold her in place, tossing her clothes away.

Dreya grabbed at the edge of the pillar behind her, trying to find some purchase to twist out from under him, but he snatched her wrists together and bundled them in one hand, her palms together. He picked up the coil of rope he’d left on the floor, showing it was actually two coils; a smaller one was in his hand, but the one left on the floor looked fairly long. He wrapped the rope around her wrists loosely several times, then pushed his fingers between her wrists to force open some space between them. A few loops wrapped over the rope between her hands bound them together tightly. He bent her arms, pulling her hands behind her head and threading the rope’s trail through the back of her leather collar, tugging it tight.

Without a word of instruction, he stood and pulled on her arm, dragging her up while he looped the rope through one of the higher rings on the pillar. Dreya had to scramble a bit, pulling her legs under her body into a kneeling position. Astarion tied the rope in place, tight enough to hold her back straight and just let her knees touch the floor firmly. She shifted her weight, trying to get her feet under her. He clicked his tongue and nudged her knee back in place with his foot. “Don’t make me tie your ankles too. And I almost forgot… Certamen stricta.”

Dreya didn’t understand what spell he’d cast until she moved. She pulled against the ropes binding her wrists, trying to find a weakness in them. Instead, they tightened themselves, snugging around her and pulling her wrists and collar back against the pillar. She had to relax a little to not choke, let her back press against the stone to take what tiny amount of slack the ropes still had. Her feet spread more, parting around the pillar.

Astarion knelt in front of her, grabbing her ass with both hands and fondling her lush, soft cheeks. She gave a short hiss, aching from the forming bruises under his fingers. He tugged her against him, letting her feel his hard length straining at his trousers eagerly. The rope pulled her collar tighter, choking her a little more. Astarion ran one hand around her hip, reaching between her legs and lazily stroking her. She bit back a moan, the blood she’d drunk from him rushing to react, forcing her body to tremble and tighten with lust. He stared at her, toying with her until her eyes were on him, her lips parted with quiet pants.

“If you’d won our bout, I was planning to take you to bed and have you ride my face until you’d thoroughly reminded me that I still don’t need to breathe,” he murmured, bringing his fingers back up to his lips and slowly licking at them, tasting her. “If you’d been a good pet and gave in when you lost, maybe I would’ve done the same thing. But, no. You had to cling to your rebellion.”

He pulled the collar down and bit into the unmarked side of her neck viciously, letting himself suck against her skin sloppily as she cried out, instinctively trying to pull away from the painful sharpness. His fingers dug into her ass hard enough to bruise. If she were still mortal, she knew she would be nearly unconscious from the amount of blood he’d already taken from her tonight. Dreya winced, trying not to struggle against him this time.

Astarion broke away from the bite with a satisfied groan. Without even bothering to close her old or new wounds, he stood up again, unbuttoning his doublet and pulling his cock free of his clothes. She squirmed uncomfortably; the ropes tightened again by another small fraction from her movement. As much as she wished he would touch her, he’d made it clear this was for him, and she would oblige him. He seized her hair and pulled her head up, stroking his cock with his other hand and guiding it against her lips. She obediently licked at his tip, tasting drops of excitement that he hadn’t quite managed to contain. Astarion sighed deeply, closing his eyes while her soft lips wrapped over his head, her tongue stroking him, lavishing him with attention.

“Mind your fangs, pet.”

He’d only allowed her an inch or two of his length, just enough to begin pleasuring him. His hold tightened on her hair, and he thrust himself into her mouth harshly. Dreya choked, unprepared for the sensation of his cock pushing into her tight throat. She tugged at her hands inadvertently while she tried to adapt, tightening her bonds further. Her gag reflex had been mostly taken away by her patron long ago, but it was still difficult to hold him in her throat. Astarion groaned, his hips quivering for a moment from the relief of hilting himself in her mouth. She struggled not to gag slightly. Her mind told her to breathe, but she pushed away that instinct. It had been a while since they’d done this, but unlike now, he’d always been gentle, careful when he took her throat.

Was this all he’d meant by punishment, though? Chasing her down a few halls, scaring her, bruising her ass a bit, and draping her against a pillar in his new playroom to fuck her face? It was rougher than he’d ever treated her, but not that bad.

Dreya’s face blanched from the unexpected strain on her throat, but she meekly licked over his shaft, tasting the salt of his sweat and tracing the veins on his skin. Despite herself, she gave a short whine, her stomach tightening reflexively with the effort of keeping him. Astarion finally drew back, only to thrust into her again, and again, fucking her protesting throat carelessly.

“Look at me when I give you my cock.”

She did as he commanded, blinking back involuntary tears from the strain on her neck and throat. He looked angry, almost contemptuous as he ruthlessly pleasured himself with her mouth, still grasping her hair to keep her head still for him. She tried to keep licking him, tried to suck on him when he drove into her, giving wet, strangled whimpers from his thick head in her throat. Her saliva coated her lips and chin messily.

Astarion’s breaths were short and harsh, carrying his pleasure to her ears. “I am lenient, forgiving, but it hasn’t been enough for you, has it? You parrot the word ‘master,’ but you don’t submit to me like a consort should. You will give me the penance I’m owed for your rebellion, and you will thank me for every touch. My attention is a gift, a gift you dared to spurn! I never expected my precious dove to be such an ungrateful wretch!”

Dreya’s chest ached as she tried again to blink away her tears, but they kept rolling down her cheeks. The look on his face, the genuine snarl in his voice… it was surprising, painful. Astarion was angry, angry enough that she knew she’d hurt him. The only times he’d seemed enraged at her in the past few months were when she’d directly refused his orders to come back home, when he’d been sure she was in danger, and when they’d been yelling at each other afterward. Well—and the dress shop. Other than that he’d seemed a tad annoyed at worst, like her rebellion was little more than an inconvenience. Now she could see that it had bruised his ego more deeply than she’d realized.

No, this wasn’t a game. He really was intending to punish her. Before they were done, he would have her kneel at his feet, acknowledge her place, and try to accept it.

Accept being his slave, with little complaint, now that he’d severed his old promise. Accept the velvet ropes he bound her with and remember how suffocatingly tight his hold could be, if he chose.

Accept that she would always be beneath him.

She had no choice, not now, but she didn’t know how to twist herself into the place he wanted her to be. Her body could be forced to accommodate him, but her mind was far more difficult to tame, even for her.

Astarion grunted, his cock twitching in her mouth. He pulled half-way out before he let go, gasping with relief and ecstasy while coating her tongue with the bitter-salt of his cum. She swallowed, but enough of him clung to his cock and her tongue to drag sticky, stretched drops onto her lips and chin when he pulled out. A smile crossed his face as he looked down at her, tilting her head back as far as he could to see her. “Lick your lips, then me. Just as I taught you.”

Dreya shivered, reminded of the painful difference between now and the night she’d first knelt to him, back in that pretty clearing in the Cloakwood. She hadn’t disappointed him then. The half-elf dropped her eyes, unsure if she felt ashamed because she’d hurt him or ashamed because he was putting her back into her place as his consort more firmly. She licked her lips, stretching her tongue down as well as she could to take what he’d left on her chin. Astarion let go of her hair, allowing her to obediently lick his softening cock clean. He wouldn’t be flaccid for long, not with how much of her he’d already consumed.

The shame made it difficult to enjoy pleasuring him, difficult to enjoy the pleasures of his taste and the sound of his ecstasy. His cum didn’t arouse her like his blood did, but normally she found it intoxicating to serve him so intimately and swallow him. This time, when she’d hurt him, when he was angry? It felt different.

“Good girl,” he purred, stroking her tear-stained cheek with something like the affection she was used to from him. “Not good enough, but it’s a start. Te absolve.”

Astarion’s restoration spell sent a jolt of pain through her bones as her body was forced to abruptly restore her lost blood. Her stomach twisted with deeper hunger than before, hunger that she tried to ignore. It couldn’t be helped until he was done. She turned her head against his hand, kissing his fingers and palm. Her throat felt sore and bruised. Maybe that should’ve been enough to make her feel sufficiently punished, but she didn’t. She really hadn’t meant to hurt him with her distance.

“Get up.”

Her lord seized her arms and hauled her to her feet, gripping one arm tightly while he worked. He yanked the rope further through the ring and tied it again, forcing her to stand straight. His expression had gone strangely rigid, his eyes a bit distant. It disturbed her, reminded her too much of times he’d found himself no longer enjoying sex, usually when they’d been with other people. Maybe whatever he was planning felt too close to his own punishments. While he still worked with the rope, she rested her forehead against him, kissing his chest lightly with what little range of movement he’d left her. “It’s alright. I’m here. Tell me what you need.”

He rested his chin on top of her head, embracing her tightly. The vampire lord was quiet for several long moments, just holding her against him, centering himself with her. She nestled herself against him as best she could, measuring her breathing with his. Punishment or no punishment, she couldn’t watch his mind being trapped in the horrors of the past without trying to help, even if it was just by being with him. He did the same for her after her patron.

Astarion’s voice was deadly solemn. “Always so gentle with me, even when I command you to attack me. You’re too precious for this… vile world, dove. That’s why I have to keep you.”

The pain in her throat eased, a tell-tale sign of him allowing her body to heal. She flinched from her stomach’s ache deepening slightly more. Astarion turned her around quickly, the tense rope bending her head down a bit from stretching between the back of her collar and the pillar’s ring. He brushed her hair over her shoulders and let himself caress the taut, smooth skin of her back. Maybe he would cut her, she thought. He’d said he wouldn’t ‘mar’ her; that assurance would make sense if he threatened to do something permanent. They’d only indulged in him intentionally cutting her once, when she’d still been trying to figure out how to let him enjoy their evenings together and had suggested he loosely mimic a follower of Loviatar. It was a precedent, though. She could endure it, even if she disliked the thought of it being a punishment. It was… it was too close to what had been done to him, wasn’t it? Was that why his mind had left for a minute?

Astarion didn’t move to fetch a dagger or any other implement. His hand dropped to the small of her back. His tongue twisted around Infernal words, uttering an incantation that shouldn’t be pronounceable to most mortal tongues. Oh gods, his ice—

Dreya only had a split-second of realization before she felt the hell-ice under his fingers. It was only surface-level, moving in lines about an eighth to a half-inch wide, creeping slowly, clinging to her as it spread and branched.

It took her a few seconds to realize she was screaming.

The supernatural cold was unbearable, burning her skin just as surely as if it were fire. It didn’t melt her flesh, no, but she felt her nerves searing and stinging, withering in the touch of Cania’s potent fury. Lines of ice grew up her back on either side of her spine while more began to cross her bruised ass to move towards her legs.

Dreya managed to drag in her breath and clamped her mouth shut, trying desperately to stop her agonized wail. It would hurt him, it would hurt him, it would hurt him, drag him back to that nightmare again. She didn’t let herself beg, but she knew he could feel her mind screaming for it to stop.

She couldn’t let herself break down and cry for him to stop until he was done, it had to wait until he was done. For one reason or another, he needed this.

How long had it been? Seconds? Maybe half a minute? It felt like so much longer already, and still the ice grew. Her lungs felt like they would burst if she didn’t scream again. Her will failed. She heard a keening sob rip out of her. Her face was wet again from crying. She wrenched against the rope, but the violent attempt to tear herself away only made it constrict more than before, dragging her up onto her toes and pulling more weight against her throat.

Astarion kept focusing, occasionally murmuring some addition to the infernal incantation. The ice that traveled up her back was still spreading like slender fingers. They split again and again, only intensifying the agony of the slow-burning ice. The ones on her legs felt more jagged, sharp, short when they forked away. Her whole body trembled, feeling frozen into her bones from touching the horrific cold.

She tried again to stop the screams. This time, she failed. Her lips wouldn’t stay clamped together, parting to wail her overwhelming pain instead. He had to be done right? He had to almost be done. He had to. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t mutilate her.

And finally—finally—the ice stopped growing.

One minute? Ten? She… she had no idea. It felt like longer.

Astarion listened to her sob breathlessly, watched her body twist slightly as she tried to keep what little purchase she had left on the ground with only her toes touching the floor. He kissed just beneath her collar and tied hands tenderly, moving his hand away from the small of her back. Slowly, he took one of the lines of ice between his thumb and forefinger. It broke away in a few-inch-long piece. A small tug, and he peeled it off her skin, leaving behind the line of a red, almost welt-like burn.

She realized she was breathing a little better, that it was getting easier not to scream. The nerves beneath the ice were dead now. She could only feel a throbbing, painful ache from them and from around the lines, not the direct torture of them dying.

He tossed the ice on the floor carelessly, letting it shatter, and started breaking off small piece after small piece, gently prying away and discarding them. She couldn’t see what marks were left, just keep her head down and try to stop crying. It was alright, he was done. She was fine. She was fine. Throat raw from screaming and screaming and bloody hands and bloody face and no, she wasn’t thinking of that, she wasn’t.

“You didn’t try to stop me.”

“No.” Her shoulders and ankles ached, hurting more deeply than the rest of her from the strain of the bonds holding her up.

“I would have stopped if you asked.” His voice took on a lull. He stopped removing the ice, instead letting his hands rest on her tense shoulders and lightly massage them. It felt bizarrely gentle when her skin still burned mere inches away from his touch. “You didn’t even apologize.”

“Apologies mean nothing if they’re just to stop the pain.” She wished she could wipe her face dry, but even if she could move her hands, she knew more tears were still running after the last ones. “I couldn’t ask you to stop. You needed this, after— I-I—didn’t mean to hurt you. You broke my trust, but I still didn’t want to hurt you.”

Astarion kissed her upper back again, murmuring against her skin. “Of course, my angel. That’s why I had to punish you, so you would understand. It wasn’t just sadism, I could never be so cruel to my darling. Minutes of pain, for years of your safety. You won’t pull away from me again, will you?” His breath shuddered against her, his hands tightening on her shoulders. “Your screams are so sweet during our games. I’m grateful for them, you know.”

Dreya swallowed hard and gave a small nod. He always enjoyed her being vocal, whether from pleasure or pain, but he’d never told her so directly. “And now?”

There was a pause, hesitation to admit what he was thinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with amorous heat. “More beautiful because you didn’t beg for it to end. Another lovely gift.” Adoration seeped through. He sounded practically blissful. “But you give me everything, don’t you? My beautiful dove… once you learn to be content at my feet, we’ll be so wonderfully happy you’ll forget why you ever wanted to be anywhere else.”

Then her cries hadn’t hurt him. Good. After the look on his face, she’d been afraid that screaming might push him somewhere dark. She tried again, and failed again, to blink away her tears. He sighed, dropping his hands to her back.

“Removing the ice by hand will take time. If I melt the ice, it’s going to sting.”

It already hurt, and him removing the hell-ice piece by piece didn’t help. “Please melt it,” she said quietly, trying not to let her aching ankles tremble. “Please let me down.”

Another infernal incantation, and the ice turned to freezing water. Dreya choked on another sob from the sensation of it running down her uninjured skin, amplifying the throbbing ache from around the red, deadened lines. Astarion untied the rope from the pillar’s ring, gently letting her put her feet on the ground fully again. She felt a wave of dizziness. Her hunger was starting to clamor at the back of her mind more insistently, trying to find sustenance to begin healing her wounds.

Astarion turned her around and licked her neck in a few places tenderly, closing the multiple bite marks he’d left on her. The trickles of blood left behind had long since dried or smeared away. He looked just as hungry as he had before, like he hadn’t already cum just a few minutes earlier. His open trousers and top did nothing to conceal his arousal. He seized her arm and started to pull her towards the bed, but a whimper from her made him pause. The sensation of moving her legs again after the ice was painful, like her skin didn’t want to come with her.

Dreya took a slow step, measuring herself. The soft rope hanging from her collar brushed over her back painfully. Astarion picked up the remaining coil of rope from the floor by the pillar and pulled her along again, at least showing enough pity to let her take a slower pace while she accustomed herself to her fresh injuries. Whatever he had in mind, she hoped it would be less difficult. Her own arousal had partly withered from the agonizing torture of Cania’s touch, but giving him her body again would be easier than what had already happened.

She sat down on the end of the bed, clenching her teeth to keep from making another sound of pain. Her weight resting on her bruised ass hurt, but the silky-smooth texture of the bedspread touching her fresh ice burns was far worse. Astarion dropped his hand to her chest and pushed her lightly, staring down at her, his eyes lit with a strange mixture of adoration and resolve. “Lie back, pet.”

Astarion had to see her hesitation, she knew, but he didn’t say a word about the delay before she obeyed. The pain of sitting spread over her back too, forcing a short, almost raspy sob before she got control of herself. She tried to situate her folded hands under her head, but there didn’t seem to be a very comfortable way to place them. “Maybe I could get on all fours for you instead?” she suggested quietly, but she knew he wouldn’t let her move. Clearly, he already had plans.

“You’ll feel better soon.” He grasped her ankle and bent her leg up towards her shoulder. Carefully, he leaned down and kissed the back of her thigh before delicately tracing his tongue over the marks left by his ice.

Dreya could tell that they weren’t healed, of course, but the effect was immediately soothing. She closed her eyes, sighing with even the small amount of relief on such a small area. He kept moving up her leg, taking care to lick every branching path of her damaged skin. It still ached behind him, but it was so much more bearable. A shame he would never let her collect his saliva to experiment with in her potions. Its healing and salving properties were wonderful.

He finished with one leg and moved on to the other, still taking his time, enjoying her small sounds of relief. She had to wonder if he needed to lavish her wounds with attention as much as he’d needed to cause them, a soothing balm for himself as much as it was for her.

Astarion kissed back down her leg lovingly when he was done, but she could feel his grip tightening on her in anticipation. Sure enough, after a few more moments of affection, he bent her leg double and snatched up his rope again, swiftly tying its end around her ankle and thigh to keep them together. Dreya gave a low hiss, the partly soothed wounds aching painfully from pressing together so tightly. What was the point of this? She had already given up on the fighting back he’d requested earlier.

He wrapped the rope up her leg several times, knotting it in a few places to keep the tight horizontal lines from pulling loose with the next, higher loop. When he reached a bit below her knee, he shoved the remaining half of the coil under her back and pulled it out the other side, dragging it across the untouched ice burns. Dreya screamed this time, unable to keep tears from springing to her eyes from the horrible sensation. Astarion roughly forced her other leg into a bent position as well and started tying it like the last one, unmoved by the small, agonized writhe of her body before she tried to make herself be still. The movement of the rope rubbing over her back was dizzying, snatching away her breath unpleasantly. He needed this, he needed it—

“Certamen stricta,” he said, and the rope on her legs tightened a little, its enchantment breathed to life with his incantation. Her legs ached from being wrapped so tightly near her body, from being forced to spread for him. Her body trembled from the stress of—of everything, she wasn’t even sure how to start measuring whether the ice burns or the tightening ropes or the position was affecting her the most. Astarion stood over her, and again she saw a flash of him like before—not as her lover, but as a powerful beast stalking her, plotting to consume her. Fear darted through her heart, and despite herself, she shrank from him when he reached for her.

Astarion merely smiled lovingly, slowly running his hand over her stomach and feeling her shivering. “My precious little dove… I can’t always be the benevolent lord. It’s only natural to be afraid of me on occasion, but I won’t have you cower. Just obey me. Trust me.”

Something about him terrified her. She struggled to see him, struggled to see the one she’d trusted enough to let him turn her into his spawn. He grasped her ankles, pushing her further back on the bed, dragging a long, pained gasp out of her. She inadvertently tried to twist herself free, causing the rope to tighten again and dragging her bound legs a little wider still. Astarion crawled onto the bed over her body, ignoring the needs of his stiff cock as he cradled her face, kissing her fervently.

“It’s alright, pet. You’re alright,” he murmured, kissing her again between his words. His thumbs brushed over her cheeks lightly, wiping away her tears. “Relax…”

Dreya shuddered, struggling to breathe. It was him, it was Astarion, but he was pushing his presence into her mind, still twisting himself into what she feared of him—the commanding lord that raged at her and threatened her into obedience.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it, my love?” He let his lips trail down her neck, still indulgent and gentle, a sharp contrast to how he’d bound her under him helplessly. “You’re afraid of me. All this time, you thought I could only be trusted because I made a little promise before making you mine. Do you think I’m going to change now?”

She swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling as she tried to push through the irrational fright. Or was it irrational? Yes, she felt bad for hurting him, but—but he really had broken his vow to her. One step closer to being his slave, as she had feared since he said he wanted to turn her.

“I don’t—I don’t know if you will,” she admitted. “Any promise you make, you can break again. Are you going to compel me more now? Make me do things I don’t want to? Not in bed, I know you’ll stop there, but elsewhere? If you think something will make me safer, what’s to stop you?”

Astarion caressed her cheek, radiating fondness. “What else would stop me? I want you to be happy, little love. You couldn’t be if I locked you in a cage or exerted myself on you constantly like he did.”

Dreya realized that she wasn’t sure who ‘he’ was referring to—was it Cazador and how he treated his spawn, or was it Corvallis lurking in her mind, constantly threatening to force her hand one way or another if she disobeyed him? Either way, he was right. She wouldn’t be happy if he was like them.

She drew in a shuddering breath and swallowed hard beneath his lips as they searched her neck again. He was still making himself frightening, but she didn’t want to be afraid of him. She wanted things to be like they were before their fight.

“You won’t compel me unless you really have to?”

“Of course not,” he purred, his liar’s tongue just as capable of telling a truth as a falsehood—and which it was, she couldn’t know. “Trust me.”

 “I don’t know how.”

“You’ll give yourself to me again, darling, like the night I turned you.” Astarion’s hand found her leg, running over the tight ropes digging into her skin as he chuckled. She couldn’t tell if she was imagining the dark tone in his mirth or not. “Think of it as a re-dedication of yourself to your master. You’re already mine, but it will be so sweet, feeling you weaken under me…”

Dreya wished she could move, wished she could touch him and hold him, cradle his head and bury her face in his hair. She wanted to comfort him, to comfort herself. But her hands were still bound, and she knew it was what he wanted for all of this—her, helpless, while they relived the night she died. That night alone had been hard enough, frightening even with an Astarion she knew and loved, much less the version he was still pressing into her mind. The commanding, tyrannical lord that demanded her obedience was—was he even real, or just an over-emphasized nightmare vision of the rage she’d seen over her disobedience?

Astarion pushed himself up, looming over her as he knelt, resting his cock on the crease of her thigh as he caressed her leg. The hungry smile returned, coaxing, arrogant, demanding. “You could still say no. I won’t force you to stop being a petulant little wretch, but you’ll stay within my reach regardless. Or… give me your neck.” Despite himself, the composed expression cracked, just slightly, just enough for her to see a gleam of desperation in the hunger. “Give me everything.”

Stay like things were, with the frustration and hurt, or just… let it go. Let herself be swept away by him again. It wasn’t as foolish this time as it had been the first time. Now, she was already bound to him. What was the use of not even trying to let herself be happy in the place she’d chosen? And she still didn’t regret the first time, either. The worst version of Astarion was better than her patron.

Dreya leaned her head away to expose her bite scars to him.

Astarion’s fingers tightened on her for a moment, and she realized that the pain of her back was easing. His will slipped through their bond, allowing her to partly heal now that she’d given in. That must have been why he let her drink his blood earlier, so she would be physically capable of healing what he knew he would inflict on her.

He leaned over her again, reaching past her to retrieve a pillow, and tenderly tucked it under her head. Even with her bound hands still trapped in her way, the pillow did make it more comfortable. He kissed over her bite scars like they were the most precious thing in the world. The lights burning around them dimmed. She couldn’t tell if the lower light made him more terrifying or more seductive, but it felt like the frightening version of him was the one preparing to bite her. Her pulse beat faster, her breath came unevenly. She just wanted to see him again.

The vampire lord pressed his fangs into her skin near the bite scars that had bound her to him for eternity, then he gently bit down.

Dreya felt the usual waft of bliss from his bite, a welcome sensation she hadn’t gotten from his sharper, more painful bites earlier. Despite herself, her body relaxed slightly into the ropes, into his teeth. He reached between her legs, rubbing around her clit gently, timing it with his slow, sensual swallows to prepare her before he grasped his cock and guided it to her lips. His other hand fondled her chest, pressing her hard nipple between his fingers and enjoying the softness of her pliant breast.

Astarion thrust into her, groaning his ecstasy into her neck. He ran his fingers into her hair, delighting in the soft moans he wrung from her. Her frightened heartbeat began to slow with her body’s relaxation, her mind attuning itself to his sounds even as her body heated with their mutual pleasure. It wasn’t some monster gnawing at her neck, it was Astarion, just a version she rarely saw. Closing her eyes and obeying him, relaxing like he wanted her to, feeling his touch and breathing his scent, was like piecing together an image from a warped mirror’s version of reality. The stifling presence in her mind couldn’t quite overcome the deep, fervent pleasure of his hips rolling into hers, the bliss of him feeding from her, and the bizarre, sensual joy of melting under him in the painfully tight ropes. He’d bound her more harshly than he ever had before, and unlike what he usually did lately, he hadn’t given her a way to escape the bonds if she felt unsafe. It wasn’t necessary here. They couldn’t be attacked in this isolated, locked chamber. It was the first time since the attack that she’d been able to fully enjoy being tied.

She felt her body slowly weakening, draining under him. How he could hold so much blood, she didn’t know, but he seemed able to drink her endlessly. He clung to her tighter, holding onto her like she might disappear as he felt her mind drift into the obedience he craved. Her lord, her lover… ‘master’ still felt like a reach too far, a word she used with an edge of falsehood behind it. Gods, he wanted it. He wanted her to mean it so badly, and not just in their bed. If she acted the part, maybe she could accept it, eventually.

He knew her body too well, knew just how to move to make her sing his name. Dreya grasped at the pillow beneath her hands, digging her fingers into the plush fabric while she tried to hold back her climax. Her body could hardly move to respond to him at all, but the flush of her warmth gathered deeply in her hips, building, building, and—

The awful, familiar touch of the hells crept down her spine, centering a rush of warmth and arousal between her legs that had nothing to do with Astarion. Dreya gasped, startled, and for a split-second she could’ve sworn that her lord wasn’t the one on top of her, that it was a beast with black-grey skin and horns and wings and a lolling, cruel smile with his hands touching her—

The echo of the incubus pushed her over the edge, forcing her gasp into an immodest cry of pleasure as she came on her lord’s cock. He held her tighter, driving himself into her body harder until he felt her shiver and wilt, panting into his ear. Astarion released his bite and licked her neck closed, but he didn’t stop his thrusts. He glared at her sternly.

Fuck. He knew. He’d felt the shame and confusion again. Dreya swallowed hard and averted her eyes slightly. “I’m sorry, master, that was supposed to be—just yours.” Anger and hurt slipped through her mind, making her lips part in a slight snarl. Giving herself to him again, letting him drain her completely like he once had—it felt like it had almost spiritual significance, and now it was profaned. “I’m sorry I ruined this. Sullied it.”

“’Master?’” He sounded almost mocking when he repeated her, but he was surprisingly gentle when he cupped her cheek. “How dare you call me ‘master’ when you act like anyone else has a say over your body. Look at me. Explain how something that belongs to me was ‘sullied.’”

Dreya forced herself to look back at him, but his question confused her. She wasn’t even sure what he was asking. “You felt what happened, and I—my eyes tricked me for a moment. I thought I saw my patron.”

Astarion sneered, laughing almost hysterically. Dreya stared at him, her brow furrowed, trying to understand what was going through his head. He calmed himself and smiled down at her, shifting his hand to hold her jaw tightly.

“I know everything that happened, dove, but none of it matters. How dare you elevate anyone else’s touch high enough to consider it ‘dirty.’ When anyone touches you, anyone that I haven’t allowed, they’re not ‘sullying’ you, they’re clawing at you like beasts in the muck, wanting what they can’t have. They may as well fling dirt at the sun.” He leaned closer, strangely intense, his breath coming harder with his insistent thrusts. His free hand curled under the leather of her collar. “I am the only one who could ever do such a thing to my perfect angel. I am your master. I own you, body and mind. Nothing else matters. Do you understand, pet?”

And finally, it all made sense.

No wonder he was leaning so heavily into his power over her, into owning her. It wasn’t just because she’d been neglecting him, it was because he truly believed that this was the best way for them both to cope with her being bound to enemies they might never be able to reach. Haarlep could be killed, but Corvallis might be able to abuse her forever, and this was how Astarion thought he could ease her pain. This was how he’d twisted his reasoning to find a way that she could feel unaffected as long as he owned her.

She knew it drove him mad, when he thought of it—that she had freed him from his captor, that she had helped him quietly kill monsters he’d been forced to lay with, yet Astarion might never be able to free her.

And finally, she could try to let herself belong to him.

Dreya’s lips trembled slightly. She didn’t believe he had purely altruistic reasons for wanting to own her completely, but this was why he was so desperate for it. It wasn’t just that he thought some vampire might attack her and hurt her. He already couldn’t stop her from being attacked and hurt.

“Yes, Master. I understand.”

The desperation she’d seen when he asked for her neck darted back through his eyes before disappearing again behind an arrogant smile. He drove into her harder, forcing a low, breathy moan out of her. “Maybe you do, but I’ll make sure you don’t forget this time. New rules, dove. I’m going to use your body whenever the mood strikes me. In your lab, as you sleep—whenever we’re alone enough to not entirely humiliate you. My attention is a gift, one you’re going to adore endlessly until I’ve made sure you always know, you are mine.”

It made sense, in another twisted sort of logic. Astarion would never really force himself on her, she knew he wouldn’t, but the words set a new game, a new way he intended to avail himself of her loyalty and convince her that she truly was only his.

“Yes, Master.” She hesitated, searching his eyes to find what to say, but only one thing rose to her lips. “I love you.”

Astarion flinched and buried his face in her neck. His thrusts seemed less composed. He bit her again with a shudder, groaning into her blood while he buried himself in her one more time, unable to hold himself back any longer. His arms found their way around her again. “My precious, precious dove…”

Dreya rested her cheek against his hair, closing her eyes and allowing herself to melt into his fangs once more. Her master. She would learn to make him feel safe.

The blood loss felt cold again, and gradually she felt sleepy, tired. She wouldn’t fall unconscious or die, but she was so exhausted, so… so hungry, in an idle, aching sort of way.

She remembered that it hurt the first time he’d drained her completely. This time, it was peaceful. Calm. His spent cock stayed inside her, warm and intimate.

Astarion was still embracing her when he took the last drop of her blood. He didn’t remove his teeth, letting them stay in her flesh like he needed the extra hold on her. Without only a single thought to her, he cut his finger on one of her fangs and let a single drop of his blood fall over her tongue, symbolically binding her to himself once more.

“Mine.”