Chapter Text
The war against the Netherbrain had been a catastrophe. Half of Baldur’s Gate lay in ruins, its houses smashed to rubble and splintered beams, only broken walls left standing. Yet the Szarr palace still stands above the Upper City walls, like some ancient shadow forever looming over this disaster-stricken city.
When Astarion returned here for the first time after the battle, he stood outside the gate for a long time. His gaze traced the vulgar carvings on the doors, the dusty window frames. He hated them. Every dull grey brick looked like a tombstone, and together they formed the grave that had buried two centuries of his life.
He had once imagined that after they shattered the Netherbrain, he might sell this wretched place and find a home with Tav somewhere in the Lower City. The thought made him curl his lip now, mocking that former self. Tav loved the sunlight, loved adventure, and was surrounded by friends who cherished him. How could he possibly settle down for Astarion’s sake? Astarion’s eyes dimmed at the thought, though not from sorrow, certainly not. Anger and hatred flickered in his crimson gaze as he remembered how he had been taken in by Tav’s foolish smile and empty promises, how he had let himself be persuaded to abandon ascension.
Dawn crept quietly over the surface of the sea. The moment the first light touched him, Astarion felt the prickling sting on his skin. He pushed open the doors of the Szarr palace with force and stepped into its darkness, alone.
The house was still the same house. Everything appeared as familiar as ever, yet Astarion revelled in his newfound freedom. He could walk the corridors as he pleased, even run and shout if he wished. He could walk into any room without fretting over stumbling into a forbidden place and earning himself yet another punishment. He smashed Cazador’s underground bedchamber to pieces, tore down every glass chandelier in the ballroom, then stuffed the “kennel” with rags and dry straw and set it alight. He went to the library as well and worked his way through every book he had once been forbidden to read. That only left him more irritated, for he discovered that many of the volumes which had brought him such trouble were nothing more than ordinary biographies, collections of oddities, even children’s tales. He could not count how many times he had lost fingers or eyes for reading what he was not allowed to touch. The pain had etched itself so deeply into his mind that he no longer remembered what those books had actually said. It seemed now that Cazador had simply seized on whatever pretext he could find in order to torture him.
But a day comes when even the last book has been read, and the house has been smashed as thoroughly as it can be. Sometimes Astarion sat in the master’s chair in the ballroom from sunset until sunrise, staring blankly at the floor where broken glass, dust and the rotting remains of werewolves lay scattered. Sometimes he curled up on his old bunk in the spawn dormitory and lay there for days on end, he could not have said how many. Time had become sticky, running together in his mind. He no longer knew how long it had been since the crisis of the Absolute ended. A month? Three? A year? No, surely not a year. Since it was all over, he had not gone out to hunt even once. He was hungry, but nothing that a few rats could not silence. It was simply that the house was so damned quiet. After the master of the palace died, even the bats had flown away. Now the silence felt so dense it was as if the very air had congealed, pressing in on him, trying to drown him.
He did not know what woke him that night, whether it was hunger or the vague sense that something was about to happen. Slowly, he dragged himself up from his bed. He sat for a long time, staring at the dark, empty dormitory, then finally decided he might as well go and look for something to eat.
He did not light a candle. He had no need for one. He drifted along the ruined corridors, listening carefully for the faint scurry of rats.
Knock.
He suddenly caught a strange, clean sound.
Knock, knock.
That was not a rat. It sounded more like someone making noise at the gatehouse outside.
Astarion frowned and drew the dagger at his belt. He went up to the entryway and cautiously leaned out past the doorframe to see what was happening outside.
Someone was using the door knocker.
A visitor? The first in all this time.
Astarion cleared his throat and called out, carefully, “Is someone there?”
“Yes. And I have come bearing gifts.”
The reply came in a low voice, smooth and luxurious as silk.
Astarion’s heart sank. That voice was too familiar. Impossible. They had killed him. Had he come back for revenge? Then why not simply break the door down and finish him?
He instinctively took a few steps back, gripping on to his dagger tighter.
The figure outside seemed to sense his fear.
“Oh, do not be afraid, dear Astarion. I come in peace. Shall we talk?”
“What… what do you want?”Astarion forced the words through gritted teeth.
That damned devil. Would he never be rid of him?
“Can I not simply pay an old friend a visit?” the man chuckled softly. “I am quite certain you are hungry. I brought you food. A young human virgin, how does that sound?”
Astarion’s mind had not yet caught up with the words before his throat worked in a dry swallow of its own accord. He had never tasted virgin’s blood… When was the last time he had drunk from a living, humanoid vein? Ah. Tav.
When he still did not open the door, the devil outside let out a long, theatrical sigh.
“In the name of Baator, I swear I will cause you no harm. In fact, I am here to discuss business. Have I ever hurt you while we were discussing a deal?”
A minute later, moved by some reckless impulse, Astarion pulled at the door to open a narrow crack.
It was him, of course. The same opulent coat shot through with gold thread, the same carefully styled dark-brown hair like a glossy wave. Those brown eyes were smiling at him through the gap.
“I suppose I should not expect an apology,” Raphael said, “but you could at least try to be a little hospitable, mm?”
“An apology? I do not owe you an apology for anything.” Astarion hissed, brow knotted.
“That point is… debatable,” Raphael replied smoothly. Seeing Astarion start to close the door, he added at once, “But I am not here for that.”
As he stepped over the dust and the splintered remains of furniture, an unmistakable look of distaste crossed Raphael’s face, with a hint of amusement underneath.
Astarion offered no explanation. He only remarked, “You are looking more alive than I expected.”
“I was quite thoroughly killed by you and your little friends, if that is what you are asking.” Raphael’s back teeth clicked together on the words, a trace of caged fury undercutting his tone.
Astarion gave a dry laugh. “That was all Tav’s idea. I objected, you know. I always rather liked you.”
“But of course, little vampling.” Raphael’s smile was pure mockery; he did not believe a single word of his. Understandable, really. Astarion also remembered how he had laughed, wild and exultant, as he drew those treasured Arrows of Fiend Slaying one by one and buried them in Raphael’s body.
“I am afraid I have no proper chairs left,” Astarion went on. “You will have to lower yourself to make do with that…” He gestured somewhat sheepishly at a broken crate on the floor of the ballroom.
Raphael said nothing. He only snapped his fingers.
Hellfire sparked in the air, the stench of sulphur and scorched smoke rolling out. The sudden flare of light made Astarion throw an arm over his eyes. When he lowered it again, the crystal chandeliers above had been restored to their former glory, every candle burning. A cascade of warm light poured down onto two handsome, comfortable armchairs that had most certainly not been there before.
This time, it was Raphael who inclined his head and made the inviting gesture.
Very well…
Once they were seated, Astarion’s attention was drawn to the human girl standing at Raphael’s side. Her clothes were plain but clean. She kept her head bowed, her eyes empty, fixed on the floor. Through the curtain of hair and shadow, he could just make out the leather collar around her throat, etched with faintly glowing Infernal runes. Even at arm’s length, he could smell the sweetness of her, the rich metallic perfume of youth and life rising from beneath her skin. So delicate, so dense… there was no mistaking it. A virgin’s blood, thick with vitality.
When Astarion finally wrenched his gaze away from her, he found Raphael watching him with keen interest. In those brown eyes, so carefully crafted to pass as human, something calculating flickered and shifted.
It made Astarion uneasy. He felt as if he were being sized by a predator choosing its next meal. He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders as if for a duel. “All right then. What is it you want this time?”
“Straight to business?” Raphael arched a brow. “No polite chatter, no little tour of your… charming residence?”
The forced geniality, the way Raphael tried to steer the mood, grated on him. Astarion bared his fangs in irritation. “Oh, spare me, devil. We both know you are here because you want something from me. You brought food to tempt me into some contract. I should remind you I am perfectly capable of hunting for myself now. I do not need your charity.”
“Do not make it sound so ugly, Astarion.” Raphael’s laugh was low. “Besides, I am not here to bind you to a contract this time. I am here to conduct business. A simple one-time transaction, no strings attached.”
Astarion regarded him with open suspicion.
“Ten virgins,” Raphael said. “That is my offer. If you pen them properly, they will feed you for years.”
“And the price?” Astarion asked.
“Four hundred soul coins.”
“Soul coins? I don’t have any.” Astarion frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Did you come here without doing your homework?”
“No. You do,” Raphael replied, assertively. “More precisely, Cazador does. But you killed him. His property passes to you.”
Astarion thought for a moment. He had indeed found a vault key in Cazador’s bedchamber, though he had no idea where the vault itself was. Probably underground. He had not explored the lower levels too thoroughly; Cazador’s corpse was still there, and he hated lingering anywhere near it. Perhaps he ought to look. There might be something useful.
He propped his chin on one hand, studying Raphael. In the lamplight, he noticed the shadows under the devil’s eyes, the small twitches at the corners of his mouth. Raphael looked tired. More than that, there was a tautness in him, a strain in every muscle.
Interesting.
Astarion’s lips curled slightly. The man opposite him clearly sensed he was up to something; displeasure tightened his mouth into a thin line.
“So?” Raphael prompted.
“Oh, forgive me, darling. I was only wondering whether you have really fallen so low. Making your living peddling slaves?” Astarion laughed.
Anger flared in Raphael’s gaze. For a heartbeat, orange fire burned at the centre of his pupils, the colour of his true eyes showing through. He ground his back teeth together, forcing his voice to remain level. “My finances are merely… temporarily constrained. Do you need me to remind you that you and your accursed lover broke into my home and stripped it bare?”
Astarion had to admit, that anger sent a prickle racing down the back of his neck. He remembered, very clearly, that this devil could pull his head from his shoulders any time he pleased. This time there was no Tav, no Lae’zel, no Shadowheart at his back. He was afraid.
His mouth, however, had never learned when to stay shut. “If you know I am sitting on soul coins, why not simply kill me and take them?” he asked.
Raphael paused, surprised, perhaps, that Astarion would say it out loud.
“I am a devil, not a common brigand,” he scoffed. “Seizing what is not rightfully owned by force is a mark of your mortal chaos and lawlessness. Any devil with a shred of dignity would not sink to that.”
“All for the sake of order. How noble,” Astarion said lightly. “Even if everything you just claimed is true, I am not giving you four hundred soul coins. I might not be an expert on Hell, but even I know ten slaves are nowhere near worth that much. Paying forty for them would already be generous. If you want to make money off me, you will have to try harder.”
“You really are a sly, suspicious little creature, are you not?” Raphael bared his teeth in a smile. “Fortunately, I am nothing if not magnanimous. Let us talk about the price.”
One drink later.
“Two hundred? Really, Raphael? You can do better.” Astarion clicked his tongue, fussing over a fingernail with theatrical disdain.
By now, the devil across from him was clearly growing irritable. “Two hundred soul coins for twenty virgins. You will not find a better bargain in all of Faerûn. Do you even understand what they are worth?”
Astarion watched him from the corner of his eye. In truth, he found the offer very tempting: a pile of currency he had no use for, in exchange for several decades of exquisite meals. But something about Raphael tonight was off. He seemed… oddly desperate. In Astarion’s memory, Raphael was always unshakable, overflowing with smug confidence. For him to push this hard meant he truly needed the money, and soon.
What could press a devil like him this way? Had he fallen into debt? And what kind of creditor could make Raphael afraid?
He was still happily needling him over the numbers when Raphael suddenly glanced to the side and spat a word in Infernal through clenched teeth. Astarion was certain it was a curse.
“Oh, I am enjoying this little… exchange very much, my little vampling, but I am afraid I have other matters to attend to.” Raphael rose, smoothing his coat, his smile now purely courteous and entirely false.
“Wait. Where are you going? What happened?” Astarion pushed up from his chair.
“Think over my proposal, will you?” Raphael did not answer the question. “I will be back. As for the sample, I shall be taking her with me for now.”
He snapped his fingers. The human girl vanished in a burst of hellfire.
“By the way, Astarion,” Raphael added, turning at the edge of the fire’s glow, “if anyone comes asking whether you have seen me, say ‘no’. It is for your own good.”
“Wh– what?” Astarion shot to his feet, anxiety sharpening his voice. “Someone is looking for you? Am I in danger? What is going on?”
“Do as I say and you will be fine. Probably.” Raphael gave him one last smile and dissolved into a swirl of drifting sparks.
And just like that, his guest evaporated from the sitting room as inexplicably as he had appeared.
Astarion sank back into the armchair, fingertips brushing his own lips as he replayed Raphael’s strange behaviour before he left. He had noticed something, Astarion was sure of it—that was why he had broken off their bargaining so abruptly. The theory that Raphael owed someone a debt grew steadily more convincing.
Astarion’s mouth curled in a slow smile. That self-styled master strategist of a devil had just handed him leverage. Now he only had to decide how best to use it. He had no intention of trading such an opportunity away for mere food, however delicious that food might be to him. Perhaps he could ask whether Raphael knew of any way to free him from his fear of the sun, to let him walk beneath it again…
Damn it. He had almost managed to forget what that felt like, and now the thought would no longer leave him.
He dug out the key he had found in Cazador’s bedchamber and began a treasure hunt through the mansion. He wanted to see just how many soul coins he actually had to bargain with.
It took him perhaps three days. He ran his hands over every wall and panel, searched every room and corridor. At last, in Cazador’s office, he found a hidden door.
The instant he opened it, the light nearly blinded him.
“All this time… you’ve just been lying here,” he muttered.
The chamber was small, but packed to the rafters with wealth: piles of coin, glittering jewels, scrolls and magical trinkets. In one corner stood a heavy metal chest. Astarion crouched and opened it.
A wave of cold, hateful resentment rolled over him. Every hair on his body stood on end. Inside, packed in a lightless mass, lay the most precious currency of the Hells: soul coins.
He slammed the lid shut at once. That chill had stolen his breath for a heartbeat—but beneath the shuddering disgust, his heart (if it still beat) would have been full of joy.
Once Raphael showed himself again, they would have a proper negotiation.
A tenday passed. Then a month. Then three. The handsome chairs and chandelier in the ballroom had long since crumbled back into dust and debris. Szarr Palace fell silent once more. The visitor from the Hells did not return.
Astarion, who had once been almost excited by the prospect of their future dealings, began to grow impatient.
Wonderful. Yet another person who had forced his way into Astarion’s existence, dangled a sliver of hope, and then vanished without a trace.
Winter had come to Baldur’s Gate. For the first time in months, Astarion stepped out of the Szarr estate, intending to find something with a little more wit than a rat to improve his diet. The rat population inside the house had dropped too quickly; it was getting hard to find any at all.
The sky was low and heavy, a fine cold rain drifting down. Astarion tugged his hood further over his face, trying to keep the chill drops from his skin. Perhaps because of the miserable weather, even the drunkards who usually sprawled about the Lower City streets were nowhere to be seen.
He stood alone in an empty alley, scowling, and lashed out with a boot at the base of the wall. Perfect. Everyone had abandoned him—people, rats, and now, apparently, the city itself.
He glanced toward a nearby tavern, its windows glowing with warm light, laughter and rough music spilling through the shutters. He could go in, see if there was anyone worth luring home.
But he lingered at the corner of the alley for a long time and never crossed the threshold. The thought of arranging his face into yet another false smile, of using his body to seduce some witless drunk back to his lair, filled him with a sudden, sour impatience.
Forget it. He was not going to starve. Not yet.
For the rest of the night he wandered the streets in the rain, aimless and dripping. He was in no hurry to return to that vast, empty tomb of a house.
Without quite realising how he had got there, he found himself standing before a familiar building.
The Devil’s Fee.
He tilted his head back, studying the house and the ominous aura that clung to it. If Raphael would not come to him, perhaps he could go to Raphael instead?
No. That would look desperate.
But—curse it all—he wanted to talk to him again, even if no deal came of it. In the last three months, he had replayed Raphael’s visit over and over in his mind. He despised that scheming devil, who tried to keep everyone dancing on his strings. Yet Raphael was still the only living creature who had spoken more than two words to him in half a year. Raphael knew he was a pitiful spawn, and had not recoiled. Of course, that was only because Raphael was a devil, a thing even more shunned than a vampire spawn.
Still, Astarion thought, perhaps a devil was the best “friend” he could reasonably expect.
“We’re closed! Do you have any idea what time it is?” An irritable voice approached behind the door. It opened. “Oh. You. You’ve used my services before, haven’t you?”
Astarion blinked. He had not even noticed himself knocking.
“Yes, my dear. I am terribly sorry to bother you at such an hour, but I am… somewhat occupied during the day.” He smoothed his expression at once, summoning up a dazzling smile. “I must say, even freshly woken, you are radiant as ever.”
“All right, enough flattery. Get in here,” Helsik snapped, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. She stepped aside to let him in.
“What do you want this time? And before you ask, the portal to the House of Hope is gone. There’s no getting back there.”
“Oh, I have no intention of returning to the Hells,” Astarion said lightly. “I merely want to contact a devil.”
“That I can do. Do you know this devil’s true name?” she asked.
“No. Only that he calls himself Raphael.”
Helsik’s brows rose. “And what do you want with him? After last time, I’d say the next time you see him will be the day you die.”
“I am as surprised as you are, darling.” Astarion gave a little shrug. “But the truth is, he came to me a while ago. Then he vanished again after only a few words. We have unfinished business.”
The dwarf studied him for a thoughtful moment, then said, “For a fee, I can set up a fiend-summoning ritual for you. But whether he chooses to answer—and more importantly, what he does to you if he does… that risk is entirely yours.”
Astarion smiled. “That sounds perfectly reasonable. How much?”
“Cheaper than a portal. Ten thousand gold.”
“Done.”
The following night, Astarion arrived at the Devil’s Fee with a sack of gold from Cazador’s hoard and a pouch of soul coins for the trade. Helsik opened the door and, as before, sent him up alone to conduct the ritual.
Following her instructions, he placed each component carefully around the summoning circle. Then he picked up the sheet of paper with the invocation.
“By the seal of Mammon, let this message be delivered to the Nine Hells.
I call upon the cambion recorded in the infernal rolls, master of the House of Hope—Raphael.
May he hear his name and appear within this circle.”
If he still had a heartbeat, it would have been hammering. Astarion steadied himself and read the prayer through to the end, watching as the sigils at his feet began to glow. The light shifted from orange to blue, and with a sudden surge of crackling azure sparks, a figure appeared in the middle of the circle.
“Well now. Let me see who has summoned me.”
The figure that coalesced was tall. Very tall. A robe of rich black and violet draped over a body the colour of frozen ice. The horns curling upward from his head nearly scraped the ceiling, and when he unfurled his wings, they blotted out every source of light in the room, plunging Astarion into shadow.
That was not Raphael.
Astarion stumbled back a few steps, throat tight.
“Helsik?” he called toward the door, though his eyes never left the newcomer.
The strange devil chuckled softly.
“I am not the one you meant to call, am I? Sadly, Raphael is… not available. So I have come in his place, to answer the summons made in his name.”
“Who… who are you?” Astarion swallowed, hearing no movement outside.
“You truly have no idea?” The devil gestured lazily at himself. At the blank confusion on Astarion’s face, he let out a cold laugh. “Ignorant mortal.”
“I am the Lord of Cania, Eighth Archduke of Baator—Mephistopheles! To be granted an audience with me is an honour you scarcely deserve.
Now tell me, what business does a vampire spawn have with my son?”