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Chapter Text

In the hush of the night, the bloodline weeps

Act I: Far From Home

Chapter 1

Two Wicked Children

Some have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I’d hazard death to-morrow.
Could the battle-struggle earn
One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
The heady fight to try!

(Passion, Charlotte Brontë)

Dalyria felt the begrudging glances of the others when the servant arrived with the dress in the spawn dormitory shortly after dark. They had all been awake for some time now, getting ready for another night of their shared eternity: stubborn hair was fixed in place until it looked flawless, a little charcoal smudged around the eyes to give mysterious allure, a generous dusting of rouge put on the cheeks to create the illusion of warmth.

Most of them were ready to go by now, Dalyria excluded, who stood a little apart in her undergarments and waited. And Astarion of course, who had been locked away in the kennels since a tenday, his cries growing fainter and more piteous with each passing night.

Serves him right, Dalyria thought uncharitably. If he hadn’t learned to keep his mouth shut after all these decades, it was down to his own stupidity. Or perhaps he just liked getting punished with how often he forced the Master’s hand.

“Mistress Dalyria – I have your gown for the masquerade,” the servant said timidly, eyes downcast, voice soft. “I am to help you dress. The Master will be waiting for you in the reception hall.”

Forcing a smile, Dalyria pointed to the bed she shared with Petras. She slept on the bottom bunk, her duvet already neatly folded, pillow fluffed and her nightclothes tucked away under the sheets. The Master hated disorder in his halls.  

She felt Violet’s angry glare as she made her way towards the bed, and even Aurelia, usually mild-tempered, turned away from her with a sullen expression.

“Master’s most cherished daughter,” she heard Violet murmur mockingly.

For a moment, Dalyria was tempted to grab her by the collar and shake her, shout that she was most welcome to swap places with her. But the impulse fizzled out faster than it came, any fighting spirit beaten out of her centuries ago, and any explanation as to why the Master took her with him year after year irrelevant, inadequate. To her siblings, it looked as if he favoured her, and that was more than enough to earn their scorn.

All of them should have known by now that enjoying Cazador’s singular attentions was nothing to look forward too. If they knew what these evenings were like, they wouldn’t envy her ‘privilege’. Not one bit.

The servant bowed hastily as she offered Dalyria the gown with outstretched arms. Cazador had had Fine Tailor Pennygood come to the palace a month ago to take her measurements. As Dalyria examined the dress now, she once again felt a quiet admiration for Pennygood’s craft. It was a floor-length gown and of a simple elegance, the wide skirt covered entirely in white swan feathers. She stroked them reverently before motioning for the servant to help her into it. Once a year, she got to wear something so exquisite.

Of course it didn’t really belong to her but it was nice to pretend anyway. As the corset was laced, her eyes met those of Petras, who looked at her with a mixture of anger and longing. She cast her gaze down, not wanting to shoulder his emotions on top of her own, and sought to fight the rising terror that had been spreading through her like a poison for several nights on end.

As another servant entered and began dressing Dalyria’s hair, her siblings began leaving their quarters one by one, prepared for tonight’s hunt. None of them wished her a good night.

She felt a fresh surge of panic coming as she was left alone, and concentrated on cultivating a regular breath. The air filled her undead lungs, and she told herself she was getting a little calmer with each new breath. All was well. There was nothing to be concerned about.

The Master detested his social obligations, and upcoming social duties put him in a vile mood for weeks on end, that much was true, but during the evening itself his anger was rarely directed at her. Instead some unfortunate servant usually had to bear the brunt of it –when they were back at the privacy of their own home and the Master could unmask the monster that lurked within. But as long as they were under the public’s watchful eye, the charitable persona he had crafted for himself was near impenetrable. And as long as she played her part well, and brought to him some odd pieces of information she gathered over the course of the night, there was no need to worry. She reminded herself of that as the two servants continued their work on her.

Be good and there is nothing to fear.

Be good and I will do you no harm.

All too quickly the servants had pulled her hair into an elegant bun, splendidly adorned with pearls and feathers, had draped a long white cloak around her shoulders to match her dress and now tied a golden mask behind her head.

“Beautiful, Miss Dalyria. The Master will hardly be able to take his eyes off you.”

The two servants giggled, and Dalyria’s stomach turned. Idiot girls. She hoped that the Master would soon tire of them, and they would end up as his dinner. It was how all mortal servants of Szarr Palace ended up, sooner or later – once they had outlived their usefulness.  

She took another deep steadying breath and made for the hall. She turned once more in the doorway to look over her siblings’ beds – all made according to Cazador’s exacting standards, except for Violet’s whose blanket hung slightly over the edge. She would earn time in the kennels for that. Dalyria hesitated only for a moment before she hurried back to adjust her younger sister’s covers.

There were no excuses left now, so she stepped into the ever chilly corridor, softly closing the dormitory door behind her. She gathered her dress with great care as to not tear any of the feathers off, and made towards the reception hall with quick strides. She knew better than to keep the Master waiting.

Despite her haste, Cazador was already there when she arrived. He was dressed entirely in black, his long cloak adorned with raven feathers, a match to the white ones on Dalyria’s gown. Though less striking than her own attire, he looked no less magnificent. The wide hem of his doublet was gold-trimmed, embroidered with delicate patterns, lovely little details that spoke of expensive craftsmanship. His fingers were perfectly manicured, bejewelled with different rings, some of them plainer, some of them holding precious gems. His mask – like Dalyria’s – was all gold, perfectly shaped to fit the sharp contours of his face. It was tied in an orderly fashion, the ribbons carefully hidden beneath his dark, glossy hair. No strand was out of place. He looked neat. Immaculate.

Dalyria dared not imagine how much their combined ensembles must have cost. The Master was generous to let a wretch like her wear something so precious.

He turned his head in her direction, red eyes glowing brightly in the dim candlelight. A promise of violence shone in their depths but it seemed quieter, almost subdued tonight. His gaze flitted over her ensemble, sharp and assessing, scanning for flaws.

Dalyria’s heart took an unnecessary, fearful leap as she beheld the Master; the instinct to slow her steps and flee into some far corner of the palace became almost impossible to withstand. Yet she forced her feet forward. Well-trained and well-behaved.

The sombre presence of her Master grew more oppressive with each step she took. He always seemed to swallow up the warmth in each room he entered, drawing it into the black hole that was his being. She came to a halt in front of him, head politely bowed, throat tightening with fear.

“Master,” she breathed barely audibly, “forgive me for keeping you waiting!”

He placed a hand under her chin and forced her gaze upwards, directly meeting his grim, ever calculating eyes.

“Now, dear, that is no way to greet your husband, is it?” he chided, long fingers gripping her jaw, and squeezing hard.

Dalyria’s carefully curated breath hitched as she realized her mistake. Naturally, his expectation was for her to already be in character for tonight’s event. Gods, why was she so slow to understand? So many centuries of training, and she was still a burden to her Sire.

She swallowed hard before she raised her voice again, choking down the bitter shame that curled around her insides.

“Forgive me, husband,” she replied, her voice now carrying a soft, familiar tone. “I am too excited for tonight. I forget myself!”

Cazador released her jaw, his gaze cold.

“Do behave yourself from now on, and I shall not have to hold it against you,” he said brusquely.

He offered her his arm, and she placed her hand on it, featherlight, careful as if it was a steel trap, poised to snap shut at any moment.

“Shall we then, Lady Szarr?”

He raised his voice to a warmer, more pleasant timbre, his outside voice, and the servants gathered in the entrance hall to see off their lord and his ‘wife’ exchanged knowing smiles.  

“Of course, husband,” she replied dutifully. “I shall follow you wherever you go.”

Astarion came to with a soft groan. He kept his eyes closed, listening into the suspicious silence. For the clatter of Godey’s old, sadistic bones or the impatient tap, tap, tap of Cazador’s staff on the stone floor. But the kennels remained quiet.

Ominous.

His head was pounding with a headache and his face lay in some cold liquid. His own blood, he realised, as he took a careful inhale through his nose. He opened his eyes a fraction and to his relief and astonishment found the kennels empty. His suspicion grew.

This was highly unusual. In his nearly two centuries in the Palace, he had never seen Godey outside the kennels, especially not when there was still an occupant from whom he had not yet extracted the last bit of suffering.

With another groan, Astarion heaved himself into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the stone wall where the rusty iron chains that bound him were secured. His vision blurred with a sudden dizziness and he closed his eyes again.

Gods, they must have gotten him good this time.

He wondered where Godey had gone. Or was it Cazador who had been with him last?

A dim memory returned to Astarion, the Master standing over him, his heavy boot painfully pressing down onto Astarion’s throat.

“All these years in my service and you still dare to give me cheek, boy?”

He had profusely apologized for some misdeed he couldn’t even remember committing. Had he spoken out of line? Did he go where he wasn’t allowed?

He knew he must have sounded a bit too flippant for Cazador had suddenly come very close. No trace of anger on his face, only that quiet malevolence that promised so much worse than what he had endured so far.

The Master had started slow, his gloved hands gripping around his wrists, turning them over and detailing them, contemplating how to inflict the worst possible pain.

He had chosen the pliers in the end, grabbing one of his fingernails to pull it out of the nailbed. Slowly, agonizingly. Astarion had bit his lip at first to muffle the sounds that wanted to escape him. But Cazador had proceeded to pull out another. Then another. One by one, until Astarion had been writhing on the kennel floor, no longer trying to hold back his screams.

He had never been good at enduring pain, always caving in too quickly, begging only after a handful of lashes. It was unfortunate that it was precisely that fact that made it so much more enjoyable for the Master to hurt him than any of his siblings.

Yet, even after Astarion lay screaming on the kennel floor, the Master still seemed unsatisfied. He had resorted to pure brutality then, crushing his hands until they felt mushy and boneless, snapping his wrists and fingers like they were twigs.

Astarion remembered Cazador crouching over him afterwards, Astarion’s bloody fingernails in his palm, a wicked grin spread over his face. There had been some kicks to his stomach, and some other blows probably, until he had finally fallen into blissful oblivion.

A wave of nausea washed over him as the memories returned to him, and he carefully opened one eye to peer at his hands. They were purple with bruises, thick and misshapen things, barely even resembling hands, but the bones seemed to have already started to mend themselves back together. Astarion tried carefully clenching them to check the status – he hissed in pain, but there was a slight response from his muscles, a hint that his flesh was healing. Overall, it wasn’t looking too bad. He had worse.

He noticed, however, that some of the fingers on his left hand stuck out at an odd angle from the rest of his hand. He would have to break them again to get them to grow together properly. Or more likely it would Cazador doing him the honour, crushing them once more – until he’d finally had his fill of Astarion’s screams.

Sick fucking bastard.

Astarion felt a couple of childish tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and blinked them away furiously. No fucking way that he would cry about this minor inconvenience.

He wouldn’t allow himself to cry – because Cazador loved his tears even more than he loved his screams. Once he had realized that, Astarion had resolutely refused to ever shed a single tear again. His bastard of a Master could make him scream his lungs out, make him contort in pain, make him beg for mercy but he would never see a single fucking tear from him again. Astarion wasn’t that precious anymore.

For the past few decades, Astarion had even tried to keep a low profile, doing as he was told, giving up the last shred of his resistance. Not to earn Cazador’s favour, hells no; he knew by now that that was quite impossible for one deemed as inadequate as him.

But he had hoped it would earn him a little less time in the kennel, a bit more grace when it came to discipline. Maybe he had even hoped to get a bite more to eat for dinner. He knew by now that all of it was just as unattainable as earning Cazador’s affections.

With a feeling of detachment, Astarion stared down at his destroyed hands. It felt as if he was suspended in amber, reality far, far away from him.

What was the point of it all if it ended in pain either way? What even was the point of him?

He stared off into space for a while before he resumed to bend and flex his nail-less fingers. The throbbing physical pain was a welcome distraction from the other pain, the one that sat somewhere deep in his ribcage and ate away at him. The one he refused to look at, no matter what.

He wondered absentmindedly whether he should just break his fingers now… it would likely be a wasted effort if Cazador came back later to beat them to mush again. On the other hand, they did look rather ugly this way.

Maybe he could ask Dal to fix them once he was out of here. But no, he was mad at her, he reminded himself. He didn’t remember what for, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. There was always a reason to be mad at each other. He had given in the last time they fought, so this time it would be her turn to grovel and apologize to him. For whatever. He didn’t really care as long as she grovelled.

The pain in his hands flared after he bent them yet another time, and his empty stomach rumbled – the healing process took its toll on his body, and he wasn’t nearly nourished enough to withstand the exhaustion that soon washed over him. He sank back onto the cold kennel floor, drifting into uneasy slumber. He’d only have little time until Cazador or Godey returned, so he had better make use of it. He would rest, just for a while…

When they stepped out of Szarr Palace and into the cool night air of Baldur’s Gate's Upper City, Chamberlain Antwun Dufay was already there, waiting for them. He stood by an open carriage door, a broad forced smile plastered on his face.

“Master – and our lovely Miss Dalyria,” he called, falling into a deep, affected bow.

Dalyria stifled a scoff.

She had been cautiously optimistic when Dufay had taken his place as Cazador’s chamberlain – only to learn shortly after that the man was a pest. He rejoiced in reporting their every little transgression to the Master, with nearly as much gusto as the mortal servants did.

Lovely Miss Dalyria, sure. She wondered suddenly if it had been him who had told on her for slipping Yousen a healing potion after an especially rough punishment. She beheld him with renewed distaste.

The Master and her came to a halt in front of his bent form. Cazador looked down his nose at him, his face turning sour. Then, without warning, he grabbed him by the back of the neck and hurled him to the ground. Dufay’s bones cracked from the force with which he collided with the ground. The chamberlain let out a small whimper of surprise before he hastily threw himself into a cower, his head placed in front of Cazador’s boots in a gesture of submission. Dalyria managed to keep her reaction to a tiny wince and hoped the Master hadn’t noticed.

“Not another word from you, Dufay,” Cazador spat. “I have bestowed you with a task a month prior, and you have still not reported success to me!” Each word was enunciated sharply, a telltale sign that he was very riled. “I expect you to deliver tonight. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Master, of course, Master,” Dufay wailed, all his stupidly cheerful demeanour fallen away. “I am beyond grateful for the trust bestowed upon me by Master. I will not disappoint you, I promise!”

“In that case, I will hold you to that promise, Dufay!” Cazador said quietly. “Rise and knock the dirt off your clothes. Do you plan to represent my household in such a state of disrepair?”

Dufay rose hurriedly, muttering pitiful excuses, but Cazador paid no more heed to him, his eyes now transfixed on Dalyria who tried to make herself very small. Had he noticed her wincing? Had it angered him further? But he only guided her towards the carriage, helped her in, like the noble and caring husband he would pose as for the rest of the night.

Dalyria’s dress billowed around her like a swan’s coat, and a moment later Cazador sat down opposite her. She lowered her gaze to her lap, concentrating on finding the breath she had forgotten about a while ago.

The door behind them was slammed shut, Dufay leapt onto the coachman’s seat, and a moment later they were jolting into motion towards the hills of Baldur’s Gate, where Madame Thalamra Vanthampur was holding this year’s masquerade to mark the end of the year 1470 DR, celebrated in grand style as the Feast of the Moon. Almost two hundred years at Cazador’s side. An eternity still before her.

It had been after fifty years in his service that he had taken her to a grand ball for the first time. At that time, the marriage-minded mamas had been hounding him relentlessly with their eligible daughters. They had quickly become too much for Cazador’s admittedly very limited patience. So he had introduced her as his ailing wife, who, due to her delicate condition, had to spent most of her days in the fresh country air. The lies had spilled easily from his lips, and since then she had been known as the Lady Szarr in the higher circles of society.

Over the centuries, Cazador had chosen the occasions to which she accompanied him with great care; her face always hidden under some veil or mask so that no noble who might have strayed into the underbelly of the city would recognise her for the lowly whore she truly was.

Dalyria had been slightly amused to find that they had started whispering behind her back after a while, speculating that the reason for always hiding her face had to be some horrible disfigurement. Some nobles began treating her with a particular sensitivity and kindness afterwards and she bathed in their gentle attentions. She was never deserving of them but once a year she allowed herself to receive them despite her inadequacy.

“You’re pale around the cheeks, child.” Her Master’s even voice interrupted her thoughts.

This time, Dalyria couldn’t hide her involuntary wince, and she heard the smile in Cazador’s voice as he continued, “Does your Master not feed you well?”

Dalyria swallowed hard in anticipation. He had always fed her more than well before taking her to events in the Upper City; a slight pallor could be explained away by her supposed sickliness, but her usual deathly complexion would not escape the sharp eyes of the Upper City dwellers for long. She swallowed hard once more before lifting her eyes and meeting Cazador’s mildly amused gaze.

“Master is most generous,” she whispered. “I never go hungry.”

His smile widened, revealing his sharp canines. In one fluid motion, he rose from his seat and dropped down beside her, so close that their arms almost touched. Instinctive fear gripped Dalyria, but she knew this game well enough to understand that fresh, warm blood awaited her at its end. And for the promise of a real live meal, she would do anything. Anything he asked of her.

“You are not hungry?” asked Cazador in mock disbelief, a glint of malice in his eyes.

“Master is most generous,” Dalyria repeated softly.

Cazador chuckled.

“Oh, my eldest… perpetually humble, eternally kind – you truly put all your siblings to shame,” he said softly, his toned now laced with affection.

His long, ringed fingers stroked her cheek, and she leaned into the touch, seeking his gaze as she knew he liked it.

“And so very fearful – whatever did we do to you to make you look so timid, girl, hmm?”

Dalyria stayed silent, simply held her Master’s gaze. Cazador gave her a pleasant smile.

“Are you deserving of a meal, daughter?” he inquired intently.

“I deserve nothing, Master. I owe everything to your kindness.”

The words fell easily from her lips, like reading from a script she knew by heart.

She was lowly cattle and the Master was kind for providing regardless of that fact. No one else would ever cherish her like that.

His hand travelled from her cheek to her throat, and he choked her, forcing her face closer to his.

“And am I not a kind Sire, child?”

Dalyria nodded eagerly.

“Yes, Master, most kind, most generous,” she panted, stifling a pained noise at his brutal grip around her windpipe.

She was being very good right now, was she not? Why was he still pressing down so forcefully?

Cazador let go a moment later, seeming bored as he pushed her away and knocked against the carriage roof. They came to an abrupt halt and she heard Dufay jump off. Then the door opened, a small, covered cage offered into the darkness of the carriage. Dalyria looked at Cazador for permission which he gave with a brief nod. She reached for the cage and heard two small, rapid heartbeats.

Two.  

Hunger clenched her stomach as she handed the cage over to Cazador. The carriage door closed and they started moving again. She was so close to her reward now. Dalyria was coiled like a spring now, every one of her starved senses focussing on the two strong heartbeats, wanting to tear and shred and rip into the unknown little creatures, draining them of every drop of blood they had to offer.

Cazador moved without hurry. He opened the cage door languidly, pulling out a creature by the scruff of its neck. A hare. Dalyria felt her gums begin to ache.

The animal seemed to be under his thrall, pliant and calm in his arms. He set the cage down. Only a little more patience.

Cazador kept his eyes on her as he brought the rabbit to his mouth. He waited a few moments, his eyes boring into Dalyria’s, before sinking his fangs into the animal. A low agonised whimper escaped her. The smell of blood was overwhelming her senses in the small space. Gods, she was so hungry.

Cazador drank the hare dry with a few deep gulps. Unceremoniously, he dropped it to the carriage floor, its body already cooling, and pulled Dalyria closer.

“Come, child, let your father feed you!” he whispered and pressed their mouths together.

Dalyria opened obediently, a rush of ecstasy coursing through her, as she tasted sweet, warm, live blood on her lips. She made a wounded sound and shifted closer to Cazador.

“More. Please.”

He grabbed the next rabbit by the neck. He bit down and pressed his lips to Dalyria’s again. She opened her mouth and this time it was a whole gush of fresh, warm blood running down her throat. Cazador bit again and pressed their lips together. Dalyria clung to his doublet as if it were her lifeline. She was finally allowed to be close now, the Master the only one who could give her what she so desperately needed. Most kind. Most generous.

A comforting warmth spread through Dalyria as her stomach filled. Her clasping grip turned into an embrace and as Cazador dropped the second rabbit to the floor, she leaned against his chest and sighed. The tips of his hair tickled her cheek softly and she was surrounded by his familiar scent. All was well. His arm slipped around her waist, fingertips caressing up and down her spine.

“And what do you say to your father for such a gift, Dalyria?” he asked in a low, private voice.

“Thank you, Father,” Dalyria breathed against his chest. “I love you, Father.”

Astarion awoke to the sound of a single scream. For a wild moment, he thought it had been him, rattled by some new torture, until he heard one of the servants pass the kennel, calling softly over her shoulder.

“I will check it out – no, you stay and keep on cleaning, Vilhelm! The Master will hate that mess on the carpet so much…!”

A certain hysteria crept into her voice at that last part and Astarion’s ears perked up in an instant. If it was that ugly ancient rug in the drawing room, those servants were royally fucked. Cazador loved that old monstrosity. They would be dead before sunrise if they were discovered, he mused to himself, a small smile creeping on his face.

What if someone accidently let it slip to the Master that his ancient carpet had been sullied…?

It was an easy way out of the kennels. Cazador enjoyed intrigue among his household, enjoyed it even more when it gave him a reason for harsh and brutal discipline.

Astarion had gotten a bit of a reputation among the palace staff for being good at sniffing out their business, so they tried to avoid whispering with each other when he was around. And despite that, he managed to bring the Master word of their various misdeeds quite often. It was one of the rare ways to earn a smile from him. And if he was in a particularly good mood, he would even let Astarion watch how he ended their sorry lives.

Astarion got so little entertainment besides his own screams that it was always a delight to see someone else suffer instead. Especially those snitches kissing Cazadors boots any chance they got. They deserved everything that came their way. They had chosen him as their master, contrary to Astarion and his siblings who had just been unfortunate enough to cross his path at the wrong time.

He listened to the quickly retreating footsteps of the servant and focussed his hearing, following them to the entrance hall. He heard her gasp in horror.

“Oh my… w-what in the world? Vilhelm! VILHELM, COME QUICK!”

Astarion furrowed his brow and listened more intently. He notice her heartrate pick up in fear, and the next moment a coppery smell hit his nose. His pupils dilated in response, his fangs beginning to ache. The rich, heady scent of human blood hung in the air, freshly spilled by the smell of it, probably still warm… Astarion’s stomach cramped painfully around nothing. It must’ve been weeks since he had last been fed and that delicious, forbidden blood felt like a most thorough personal punishment. Gods, he was so hungry.

He heard someone run by the kennels – presumably Vilhelm – and  tried to focus his attention on that instead. His stomach rumbled but the ache in his fangs grew a little number.

“By the gods!” he heard Vilhelm cry a moment later. “What happened here? I-i-is the Master back? Did – did she misbehave?”

Astarion focussed on the cursed bond in his chest that tied him and his hateful creator together for all eternity.

No, he answered Vilhelms question quietly for himself, no, the bastard was nowhere near his estate right now.

Then he hastily withdrew, not wanting to alert Cazador to his presence through their connection. He wasn’t sure why he had leaned into the bond just now. He never did that.

An uneasy feeling overcame him out of nowhere, as if there was some unseen danger in the air, one he would need the Master’s protection from.

He pushed the feeling down. What nonsense! There wasn’t any danger. And Cazador would certainly never protect him from anything, the absurdity of the thought almost drawing a laugh from him.

“Call upon the Chamberlain. He must know of this!” he heard Vilhelm’s muffled voice in the distance and refocussed his hearing on the servants’ conversation.

“The Chamberlain is with the Master and Mistress Dalyria! At the masquerade!”

The masquerade in the Upper City… that was today? He had been in the kennels for a tenday already. Had it really been that long?

“K-Keeper Godey then?”

Both heartbeats picked up at the mention of that name.

“I’ll go and find him – you check with the guards if they let anyone pass just now!”

Two pairs of footsteps quickly moved in different directions, those of the female servant approaching Astarion. They stopped in front of the illusory wall and she called softly, “Most esteemed Keeper Godey? May I interrupt your duties, just for a brief moment?”

Astarion stifled his laugh. Most esteemed Keeper Godey? Ha! What a title for a rotten old pile of bones!

“Darling, I fear it’s just me in here,” he singsonged. “Care to come in and say hello?”

He felt the heartbeat on the other side of the door pick up in an entirely different way than before and smirked, rather pleased with himself.

“Young master Astarion? Y-you shouldn’t tease me so! Do you know where Keeper Godey is?”

He sighed dramatically.

“I haven’t a clue, dear. I will gladly help you look for him, if you loosen my chains for me.”

“Really, Saer, w-what are you saying,” the voice on the other side of the door said, her heart still beating quickly. Flustered.

Astarion tried to figure out which one of them she was. Mortal servants in the Szarr Palace never lasted long but he thought this one was still very new. Maybe came in a month ago. Venera…? Verna? Vanessa?

“I would never tease you,” he declared, full of wounded honour. He decided to go with his gut instinct on the name. “Vanessa, dear, I am telling you I’ll help you find Godey if you help me out of my chains!”

He could tell by the little jump her pulse made that he had been right about the name it.

Ha, not too bad for someone this starved and fucked over, he silently congratulated himself. Charming little whore that I am.

“I can’t do that – Master didn’t allow it!” Vanessa said, and sounded a bit apologetic about it too.

She would soon gloat like the rest of them at every punishment he took. But for now, she was still a stupid little dear whom he could get to do what he wanted.

“Master doesn’t mind. He told me to ask one of you for help if Godey was indisposed!” he replied shamelessly.

“I’m not stupid, you know?” the girl huffed angrily. “Master would never say something like that!”

She already knew the bastard well enough then.

“Do you want help finding Godey or not?” Astarion asked with feigned annoyance.

In a lower, conspirational tone he added, “No one would need to know that you helped me, love. And I could get in a good word for you with Master. Tell him how well you’d fit in with our… family. He listens to me on those matters, you know?”

He could tell by the way she hesitated that he almost had her. He just had to push her a little more. He prepared to lay it on thick, to flirt his way out of the kennels while the Master was away – when the air all around started to crackle with magic.

It felt like the castle had suddenly come alive, thick fumes of necrotic energy building in the air, oozing out from every stone, every carpet, every painting. Astarion barely had time to wonder what was going on before he heard Godey’s magically enhanced screech thundering through the halls, into every last corner of the palace.

“WE’RE UNDER ATTACK! INTRUDERS AT THE GATE! RALLY ON ME! PROTECT HOUSE SZARR!”

The words didn’t quite register at first. He heard Vanessa’s panicked squeal before she ran off towards the front doors. Then, many footsteps and many heartbeats all started running in the same direction.

“Protect House Szarr! Protect House Szarr!” they echoed Godey’s words.

Astarion’s mind reeled. Every unwelcome guest that had ever made it to Cazadors doorstep over the centuries had been handily dispatched, always swift and quiet, never to be seen again. But this had never happened before.

Which had to mean this was not just one monster hunter that got lucky – this had to be many.  A proper attack. With enough souls they actually posed a threat to the Palace? All of the sudden, Astarion felt light-headed, exhilarated. Was this the day someone finally burned this rotten place to the ground?

He scrambled to his feet, suddenly wide awake, all his aches and pains overpowered by the desire to finally be found. To finally be free. He had no time to waste, needed to make his way out of here immediately – before the Master returned and stomped the attack into the ground, that was.

There were distant noises growing louder, swords clanking, words being shouted, the crackling of magic in the air. He heard Chatterteeth, one of Cazador’s skeleton mages, bellow an incantation. Screams of terror followed, and screams of rage but Astarion didn’t listen closer. This was his chance of escape.

A new wave of nausea washed over him as he stood. He blinked the discomfort away and tested the weight of his chains. They were sturdy and unyielding, and he knew that in his permanently weakened state he didn’t stand a chance to pull them out of the wall. What Astarion lacked in brute strength, he made up for with plenty of cunning though. His eyes scanned the room for something small, something pointy,  something… yes!

His eyes settled on a sturdy nail that lay next to a plethora of Godey’s various torture instruments. The tip seemed sharp and wide enough to pick the lock on his chains. He just had to get to it.

He pulled his chains as far as they would go, his still tender wrists protesting his every move. The table that held all of their resident torturer’s favourite toys was still too far for Astarion to grab anything with his mouth – but maybe if he stretched his legs…

He grit his teeth as he forced against his chains, new aches and pains blooming in his abused body with each pull. He managed to hook his foot around one of the table’s legs and with a sharp pull, he forced the thing to topple over.

There was a whole lot of clanking and crashing as the table’s contents fell all over the floor. Astarion dropped to his knees with a silent groan and searched the floor for the nail. He had to reach out with one of his legs again to pull it closer before manoeuvring it into his mouth, then into his right hand that luckily wasn’t as fucked up as his left. It still hurt plenty to wrap his swollen fragile fingers around it and bring it to the heavy lock that held his chains in place. It took him a few tries, each one making him writhe in pain, but he kept at it. All his thoughts were occupied by one word. Escape.

After all these years of desperate prayers murmured to every god that might be inclined to listen, one finally heeded his call! Astarion swore to pay their temple a visit and drop a shitload of coin on their altar. Whoever they were.

He twisted his wrist in a way that made his vision go blurry but was rewarded with the soft click of a lock opening a moment later. He pulled his hands out of the chain and collapsed on the floor, dizzy from new pain that washed over him, his right wrist burning and pulsing angrily from the effort of holding the nail in place. He was dimly aware that he fell in and out of consciousness a few times, his mind weakly protesting that he needed to get out here now.

But no matter how strong the impulse, the pain and exhaustion were too much to bear. He blinked a few times to fight it off before the world around him turned black again.