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It was unsettling.

Isra stood by the lavish buffet, swirling a deep crimson wine in a delicate glass. As he took a sip, he winced—too rich, too exotic for his palate. This wasn't wine, it was an "acquired taste". Not a beverage anyone truly enjoyed, but a ridiculous symbol of prosperity. He could force it down, if he had to—to blend in—but he didn't want to. He was tired of pretending.

With a disappointed groan, he set the glass aside, his emerald eyes sweeping over noble after noble, their laughter ringing hollow in his ears. These were people of privilege—people who, more often than not, regarded the poor and destitute not with the empathy they deserved, but with judgment, disdain, or, at best, oblivious indifference. It made his stomach turn.

Until he found Emmrich.

On the other side of the room, he addressed a small circle of scholars and aristocrats, his hands clasped behind his back in a pose of sophistication. Isra swallowed, reminding himself to behave, if only for his sake. This world wasn't his, but it was Emmrich's, in a way. He wasn't a noble by any means, but he had built himself up from nothing, never forgetting the struggles that shaped him. That was commendable, and if anyone had earned a night of luxury, it was him.

Yet, as Isra watched him mingle with the swells, his throat tightened. This isn't Tevinter, he told himself. Things are different here. There's no slavery. No chains.

These people aren't the same.

A sudden crash jolted him from his thoughts, his eyes instinctively snapping to the source.

Not far from where he stood, a discernable noblewoman, on in years, shrieked as a single droplet of wine seeped into the sleeve of her otherwise flawless gown. It was barely noticeable, a mere blemish easily erased with the proper spell or solvent—but the rest of the wine, along with the shattered tray, lay in a pool at her feet. The commotion turned a few heads, and at the heart of the chaos, a young servant stood paralysed, her expression contorting in fear.

"You clumsy little wretch!" the noblewoman yelled, her lips twisting in outrage.

Gasps rippled through the nearby guests as she took a step back, staring down at the spreading stain as though she'd been skewered by a Crow.

"F-forgive me, my lady!" the servant stammered, fumbling to retrieve the hankerchief in her apron. "Allow me," she begged, reaching out in a desperate attempt to fix her trivial mistake.

"Don't touch me! You've done enough!" the woman snapped, wrenching her arm away before the servant could dab at the spill. "Do you have any idea how much this dress cost? More than you make in a year, I'd wager! It was designed and hand stitched by the great Orasini Bruindae! Do you know who that is? I had to wait two years for his services!"

Tears welled in the servant's eyes, her breath coming in quick, shallow sobs. "I'm so, so sorry, my lady. So sorry. I didn't mean—"

"How hard is it to carry a tray?" the woman continued, bereft of any compassion. "I swear, they'll let anyone serve at these events nowadays. Who hired you? I must speak with them at once!"

"Please, my lady..." The servant's hands trembled, the clear threat of termination overwhelming her. "If I could only—"

"What's this?" Isra purred, stepping between them with a dashing smile. "I can hear you from the buffet." He addressed the woman with an eloquence he hadn't merely practiced, but perfected. "Whatever has a vision like you in such distress?"

The older woman flinched, startled by his appearance, by his attire—utterly unfit for the occasion, yet undeniably captivating in ways she wasn't prepared for. He dressed like a ruffian, his skin marked with tattoos; piercings every way she looked. And yet, his dark curls shimmered with an almost hypnotic lustre, carrying the faint scent of cedar and salt, while the bare expanse of his chest all but demanded her attention.

"...Vision?" She flushed, feeling the tug of an urge long-forgotten. "You—she—!" She shook her head, staving off the fantasy. "That useless servant behind you ruined my dress!"

"Ruined? By this tiny speck?" he asked, gingerly taking the woman's hand in his.

Her breath hitched as his tender fingers trailed up her own, over her rings, to her sullied sleeve. "Y-young man, that's—"

"Wonderful," he praised. "Like paint on a canvas. A white dress, pure as its wearer, made all the more radiant by the touch of life's hue. The red matches your spirit, my lady." Wicked. "Passionate." Ugly. "Beautiful." Cruel. "Indomitable. Believe me, an artist has an eye for these things."

"An artist?" the woman sputtered, her rage waning. "Goodness. That explains... a lot."

Isra laughed, his voice warm and booming as he soothed the woman's wounded pride with honeyed words and provocative glances. It didn't take long for her anger to weave into interest as he lifted her hand, brushing his lips over her wrinkled skin in an elegant display that won onlookers' approval.

Isra watched her go from the corner of his eye, his chest twisting at the sight of the tears clinging to her lashes. But he kept his focus on the noblewoman, enthralling her just as long as he could bear.

Then, seamlessly, he turned the woman's back to the servant, ensuring she couldn't see him flick his fingers in a silent command. The girl hesitated, as though duty bound to stay and endure further abuse, but she quickly seized the chance to slip away, disappearing into the crowd.

"Pardon me," he finally said, "but I do believe I've overstayed my welcome. I can see several gentlemen vying for your company, and they deserve it far more than I do."

His tone was courteous and respectful, expertly shrouding the subtle sting in his words.

-----

The crisp night air greeted Isra as he stepped out onto the balcony, the golden lights of the ballroom a stark contrast to the cool silver of the evening. With a sigh of relief, he hunched against the handrail, opening his palm to inspect a ring. A family heirloom, no doubt, its large jewel glinting in the moonlight.

"Serves you right, you old bat," he huffed, almost pouting at the piece of irreplaceable wealth.

"Darling?" a voice called.

Isra turned sharply, seeing Emmrich behind him, concern etched across his features.

Before he could ask what was wrong, as Isra knew he would, he forced a smile, shifting against the marble. "Just needed some air," he said, not entirely lying.

Emmrich moved to his side, his presence calming. "I thought you were getting a drink, but you never came back."

"Yeah, sorry," he murmured. "Didn't want to interrupt."

Emmrich grimaced in disbelief. "I saw you talking to that woman, but I couldn't make out what was said. What happened?"

"Nothing of note," Isra replied, lying entirely.

"Isra..." Emmrich implored, pressing his hand to the small of his back.

At the caring whisper of his name, the weary elf hung his head in defeat, unable to mask his emotions a moment longer. "She made a servant cry," he admitted. "For no reason. All she did was spill a drop of wine on her damned dress. A drop!"

He clutched his fists, averting his gaze as dreadful memories haunted his mind.

An elven boy, on his knees before his masters, begging not to be whipped bloody over the smallest transgression: sleeping too late, tripping in front of guests, spilling a glass of water.

He gritted his teeth.

"What gave them the right?" he growled.

Emmrich's brow furrowed as he began rubbing Isra's back in a soft, soothing motion. "You mean what gave her the right, yes?"

Isra's eyes widened, his body tensing—an instinct carved into him by years of hardship—but the gentle pressure, the steady pace, coaxed him to relax. He leaned into Emmrich's touch, shamelessly chasing the comfort. It took a while, his pulse racing and erratic, but slowly, breath by breath, his composure returned.

"Yes, of course..." he mumbled. "That's what I meant."

Emmrich's heart ached, overcome by guilt as he realised the depth of Isra's pain.

He shouldn't have brought him here.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked, suddenly.

The elf flinched, lifting his head to meet Emmrich's gaze. There was no blame, no hint of indecisiveness—he meant it. He would leave, right now, without reproach, if Isra desired.

"But..."

He straightened, glancing towards the party still in full swing. He had agreed to this—to be here, to support Emmrich while he discussed his work with prominent figures. People who could elevate his research for the betterment of Thedas.

"No," he said selflessly. "Let's head back inside. You have important people to talk to."

Emmrich frowned. "You're important."

Isra's breath stilled. Before he could respond, Emmrich turned and walked away, his fingers riding the railing of the balcony as he descended the steps into the garden. The way he moved—unabashedly suggestive, took the younger man by surprise, his ears straining at the tips.

"Vhenan?"

Emmrich said nothing, pausing just beneath Isra's perch. Then, with a grin and a chivalrous bow, he extended his hand.

"What are you doing?" Isra chuckled.

Again, Emmrich said nothing, only gesturing with his fingers in silent invitation.

At that, Isra couldn't help the besotted smile that stretched across his face. Somehow, this suave necromancer always knew how to cheer him up. No more questions—tucking his thick locks behind his ear, he bent over the railing, reaching for Emmrich's hand. The moment their fingers touched, Emmrich leaned in, brushing a feather-light kiss over his knuckles. Isra blushed, heat creeping up his neck.

"Fuck them," he said, the expletive more seductive than it had any right to be. "Dance with me."

Isra's smile widened. With a nimble hop, he vaulted over the railing, landing smoothly at Emmrich's side.

The euphoric hum of music streamed from the open doors, and without wasting another second, Emmrich pulled Isra into his arms, nearly lifting him off his feet. Together, they moved in a licentious rhythm—Emmrich leading with steady confidence, Isra following with effortless grace. Wrapped in each other's embrace, the world beyond them faded, the distant laughter and clinking glasses forgotten as their steps carried them deeper into the moonlit garden.

"Fly, darling."

Isra's breath caught as Emmrich squeezed his waist, sending shivers down his spine. The heat of his body, the sheen of his sweat—he basked in it all as the older man spun him in a dizzying twirl, the sensual sway intoxicating. With both hands raised; one in Emmrich's grasp and the other gripping his shoulder, the tattoos on his arms flexed like wings cutting through the night.

He was safe. He was free.

Ages passed before the final notes of the song drifted into its coda, but neither man wanted it to end. As soon as the silence enveloped them, Emmrich paused, his hand moving to cup Isra's face, his thumb tracing the handsome curve of his cheek.

"Magnificent," he rasped.

Barely giving the younger man a chance to breathe, he leaned in, capturing his lips in a fervent, almost penitent kiss. It was unexpected, but Isra melted into it, his fingers clutching at Emmrich's vest as his heart pounded against his ribs.

"Emmrich..." he moaned, sensing his grief. "It's all right. Nothing that happened tonight was your fault. You didn't know this would—"

Emmrich deepened the kiss, tasting him, drawing him closer. He didn't want Isra to speak, he wanted him to feel—feel the way his hands traced firm, eager paths down his sides as he shifted lower, his lips trailing to the sensitive nerves of his neck. There, he lingered, flicking his tongue against the throbbing pulse point, savouring the way Isra shivered beneath him.

Then, with unhurried purpose, he dropped to his knees, his fingers skimming Isra's waist as his lips found the bare skin of his chest.

"Ah... yes..."

Isra arched back, his eyes rolling shut, and Emmrich trailed lower still, pressing fervid kisses over each sculpted line of muscle. Only at his stomach did he rest, teasing the bar in his navel with a gentle nibble before reversing course. Then, with slow, aching intent, he rose, mapping the journey back with his lips, until his mouth met Isra's once more, preserving the moment forever.

When they finally parted, Isra's head reeled, viciously unraveled by the quiet intensity of Emmrich's ministrations. If he were to let him go, he would surely collapse, his legs buckling from the pleasure.

"Let's go home," Emmrich said, leaving no room for argument.

Isra sighed, his eyes damp with tears. "Thank you, ma vhenan."