[Tap, tap, tap, every echoing touch of stone and wood a steady counterpart to the growing rhythm of footsteps. Did Astarion learn to distinguish his master's mood that way? Knowing that if it was too quick it meant that Cazador was in a filthy temper and looking for someone to take it out upon; that every third tap missed meant that he was too preoccupied to hunt for entertainment— oh, Fenris is almost certain Astarion did. How could he not?

He won't ask. There's no room for details, not here and now— or, no, that isn't right. In this intimate warmth when they're together and yet a little apart, Fenris can feel his tongue loosening, his defenses lowering, and he does not doubt that Astarion feels the same. And yet to dive into those details now would make it a very different conversation, and one that neither of them wants just yet.]

Yes.

[Astarion's fingers are pleasantly cool as they brush against the back of his neck: little touches, idle and absent, and he focuses on them for a few moments.]

Danarius was a mage. And in the Tevinter Imperium, magic is everything. Magic dictates success or failure, whether you are high-born or a slave. Magic is infused in everything, from the ways people travel to the enchanted Candlehops that deliver messages all over Minrathous. The only people allowed in government are mages, and unlike in the rest of Thedas, mage children are desired and prayed for, for a mage in the family can elevate you to new heights—

Or lower you, if a mage family produces an heir who cannot even conjure a wisp.

[Just beside (not beneath) Astarion's fingers, lyrium pulses: flaring into deliberate brightness as a ghostly song thrums just out of earshot.]

And magic is what Danarius imbued in me.

Within that . . . the tapping of his staff. The scent of the herbs he used to combine to enhance this spell or that.