Chapter Text
“What have you done, you wretched idiot?!” Cazador’s angry voice echoed off the walls of the dungeon.
Astarion flinched at the sound, unsure when the screaming would turn into another beating. Even more so, he wasn’t sure what he had done wrong this time. He had obeyed the rules, he had no choice but to obey them.
Cazador balled his fist, as if he was restraining himself from hitting his spawn, which confused Astarion to no end. He had never shown anything that could be considered as patience with Astarion. “Lord Balor requested to see you, in no uncertain terms. What could you have possible done to anger Bhaal’s chosen out of all people? You utter moron!” His words were harsh, but Astarion could see the man’s fear.
He found that he couldn’t blame his master for once. No one with any semblance of sense left wanted to be on the receiving end of a bhaalspawn’s furry. Not even a vampire lord.
Before Astarion could even attempt to convince his master that he had never met Lord Balor before, far less angered him, Cazador took a calming breath. “Be that as it may, we will follow his request. Now dress, make yourself presentable, you worthless maggot. We are leaving in five minutes.”
Astarion had no opportunity to argue, not that he would have dared anyway, before one of the servants presented him with a clean change of cloths and Cazador left with the understanding that there was no room for discussion.
No, Astarion had most certainly never met the bhaalspawn, he would certainly remember it. But he had heard about him. Lord Balor was a high-elf and a warlock of Bhaal, as cunning as he was cruel. If the man felt slighted by Astarion, though he could not think of a single reason, we would be merciless in his punishment. Worse even than Cazador. Astarion shuddered at the thought as he dressed himself.
Astarion barely had time to compose himself before Cazador’s voice rang out once more, sharp as a blade.
“Hurry up, you miserable wretch! We will not keep a Bhaalspawn waiting.”
He swallowed hard, fastening the last clasp on his shirt. The fine fabric was a far cry from what he usually wore in the dungeons, and he suspected it was meant to present him as something more palatable. An offering, rather than a servant.
The thought sent a shiver of revulsion through him.
By the time he stepped out into the grand hall, Cazador was already waiting. The vampire lord stood regal and composed, but there was something tight about the way he held himself. Even without looking directly at his master, Astarion could sense his unease.
Two other spawn, stoic and silent, flanked them as they made their way outside. Astarion didn’t dare speak as they descended the manor steps, where a black carriage awaited at the gates. The vehicle was sleek and elegant, its dark exterior polished to a perfect shine. Two steeds, unnervingly still, stood in place, their eyes unnaturally red, as if watching them.
Astarion hesitated.
The crest upon the carriage door was unmistakable—a symbol of Bhaal, the god of murder, carved in silver.
Cazador climbed into the carriage first, and Astarion followed wordlessly, seating himself across from him. The two other spawn remained outside, their roles evidently complete. The doors shut with a soft click, and almost immediately, the carriage lurched forward.
The silence between them was suffocating.
Astarion dared a glance at his master. Cazador’s expression was unreadable, his long fingers drumming against his knee in a slow, rhythmic pattern. A gesture Astarion recognized all too well. His master was thinking—calculating, strategizing.
Astarion glanced out the window, catching the first glimpse of Lord Balor’s estate as they passed through an iron-wrought gate, adorned with symbols of blood and death.
The residence itself was massive—less of a home and more of a fortress, built of dark stone and adorned with gothic spires that clawed toward the sky. Flickering lanterns lined the stone path leading to the entrance, casting ominous shadows across the well-kept courtyard.
The carriage stopped.
Cazador adjusted his gloves, then shot Astarion a sharp look. “Do not embarrass me.”
The door swung open, revealing a figure clad in deep crimson robes—a servant, most likely, their eyes lowered respectfully.
“Lord Balor is expecting you,” the servant said, their voice even but devoid of warmth.
Cazador stepped out first, and Astarion followed, his unease growing with every step toward the grand entrance. The doors loomed tall before them, carved with intricate symbols of sacrifice and slaughter, a testament to Bhaal’s dominion over death.
Astarion’s heart pounded in his chest as they were led inside, deeper into the lion’s den.
The servant led them through a grand hall, its architecture dark and elegant—all sharp edges and eerie precision. Every column, every flickering torch, every fragment of stone felt calculated, as if the entire residence were a ritual in itself.
At the far end of the chamber, a throne-like seat stood elevated upon a dais, though it was not ornate like a king’s—it was cold, made of polished obsidian, carved with ancient Bhaalite runes. A figure sat upon it, one leg draped lazily over the other.
Lord Darcy Balor.
Astarion had never seen him before, but he recognized him instantly.
He had been expecting a high elf, but the man who sat before them was more than that.
His frame was undeniably elven—tall, lean, poised—but something was off. His sharp features were a shade too perfect, as though sculpted rather than born. And then—his eyes.
The irises glowed an unnatural purple, but it was the sclera that unnerved Astarion most. Pure black. Like a void, as though no light could touch them.
Despite his stillness, there was a quiet menace to him. He exuded control, not through force, but presence. The air in the room felt heavier. Balor had been watching them for some time already.
Cazador moved first, stepping forward with a grace only the ancient and powerful could manage. His every movement was measured, diplomatic, but Astarion could sense the tension beneath it.
“My Lord Balor,” Cazador spoke smoothly, his voice even, betraying no uncertainty. “You requested the presence of my spawn. I bring him before you.”
He did not bow.
The omission was slight, but it was intentional. Astarion could sense it in the pause that followed—a subtle power play. Cazador would not submit, even if he feared the man before him.
Lord Balor regarded him for a moment, silent, before shifting his gaze to Astarion.
It was piercing—assessing.
Astarion, despite himself, felt his spine straighten under that scrutiny.
Darcy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armrests, fingers entwined before him.
“I expected you sooner,” he murmured, voice low and deliberate.
Cazador tensed but did not break composure. “I had no reason to assume urgency, my lord.”
Darcy hummed, neither amused nor annoyed. “I suppose not.”
He rose to his feet, his movements slow, methodical. He descended the dais one step at a time, never once breaking eye contact with Astarion. Astarion knew better than to react.
He stood still as stone, hands clasped behind his back, not daring to show weakness. He could feel Cazador’s eyes on him, expecting obedience.
Darcy stopped just a breath away from him. Astarion could smell the faint trace of something metallic—blood. He did not flinch, though his instincts screamed at him to.
Darcy lifted a single hand—and with a slow, deliberate touch, tilted Astarion’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze.
Astarion did not speak.
Darcy studied him in silence. His thumb ghosted over the edge of Astarion’s jaw, a motion that should have been gentle—but it wasn’t. It was clinical. Like examining a purchase. Astarion hated it.
And yet… it was not the touch of someone who intended to hurt him. Not yet.
After a long, tense moment, Darcy exhaled through his nose, as if coming to a decision. “Hm.” The man let go of him, taking a step back.
Then—
A sharp shove.
Astarion didn’t have time to brace before he hit the floor, landing on his knees before Darcy’s feet. He didn’t need to look up to know that Cazador had done it.
“Whatever he had done to slight you, my lord, I will make sure that he is thoroughly punished.”
Astarion flinched at the thought of what that punishment might entail. Starvation? Obviously. That was just Cazador’s workday cruelty. Perhaps he would lock him back in the coffin, buried for another decade. All alone in the darkness. The unbearable silence. He couldn’t do that again.
Darcy looked at him, and perhaps it was just Astarion’s imagination, but he thought he saw a glint in the man’s eyes. Not cruel, or sadistic exactly, just slightly amused.
“I wouldn’t wish for you to break your toy,” Darcy said, his words aimed at Cazador, but his eyes still Astarion. “I’ll do it.”
Cazador visibly tensed, a sight that caused a wave of dread to wash over Astarion. He had never seen this monster be anything but calculating and collected. If Cazador was showing signs of unease, then the situation must be worse than he had feared. “There is no need to break anything. I’ll handle him, remind him to be obedient.”
“Obedient?” Darcy murmured enticed.
He crouched down, resting an elbow on his knee, bringing himself eye-level with Astarion.
There was something intentionally suffocating about the way he did it—close enough to be intimidating, but not touching him.
“Tell me,” Darcy murmured, quiet but sharp. “Are you obedient, little spawn?”
Astarion didn’t hesitate. “Yes, my lord.” It was instinct. The answer was always yes.
Darcy’s lips twitched. A ghost of something unreadable. “Mm,” he mused. “I suppose we’ll see.”
He straightened again, turning his attention back to Cazador.
“I made my decision,” Darcy finally said, tone final. “I will keep him.”
Cazador gave a thin smile, clearly not pleased, but too afraid of the man before him to contradict him. “As you wish, my lord.”
Darcy’s own expression remained impassive, but Astarion saw the gleam of something in his eyes—something cold.
“No.” He raised a hand, and a servant stepped forward, holding a parchment. A contract. “This will not be a mere exchange,” Darcy said smoothly. “I want your word. Your signature.”
Cazador’s smile faltered, ever so slightly. “…I see.”
“A contract, bound in blood, ensuring that you relinquish all rights over this one. Permanently.”
Cazador’s fingers twitched. Astarion recognized the small flicker of irritation.
For a moment, the silence was thick. Then, Cazador sighed as though this were a mild inconvenience, before reaching into his coat and drawing a small blade. Without hesitation, he dragged it across his palm, letting dark crimson well to the surface. Astarion felt sick.
Cazador took the offered quill, dipped it in his own blood, and signed his name at the bottom of the contract. The parchment shimmered faintly, magic sealing the pact. Astarion couldn’t breathe.
Darcy took the paper, barely glancing at it before rolling it closed. “Done,” he said. “You may leave.”
Cazador didn’t hesitate. He turned, departing without so much as a final glance. Leaving Astarion alone. With his new master.
Darcy stood there for a moment, watching him. Then, finally, he spoke. “On your feet.”
Astarion obeyed. And the doors closed behind them.