Chapter Text
Starfire was unsurprised that Slade’s magical laboratory mirrored the rest of his manor: well-stocked, well-kept, and well… unsettling. Shelves of alchemical reagents stretched from waist to ceiling, their contents suspended in liquids of jewel-toned greens, smoky silvers, and inky blacks. The jars and vials were meticulously arranged—not alphabetically or by type, but according to a grid of characteristics that only an expert could decipher. The air carried an acrid tang, sharp with the scent of burned herbs and faintly metallic, as though magic itself had seeped into the stone walls.
Artefacts- staffs, wands, robes, and glittering gems-hung like trophies from hooks on the wall. Each was encased outlined in chalk, awaiting the chance to release the powers within. Draped in a sleeveless purple silk gambeson, Starfire leaned on the edge of a towering bookshelf, ignoring the trove of tomes behind her. They too were sorted: first by magical discipline, then alphabetically by title. Instead, she studied Slade at work. His motions at the ritual altar were measured and deliberate: each item was placed within a protective circle of runes, probed, and then placed within a second circle nearby.
The faint scrape of a quill and the soft hum of magic punctuated the silence. Slade’s leather-clad fingers flipped through his notes one last time before he straightened with a crack of his back and neck. Finally, he turned to her and pulled off his mask, his brow coated with a thin sheen of sweat.
“Well, master sorcerer?” she teased, a grin tugging at her lips. “What comprises my arsenal?”
Slade licked his lips, his expression balancing amusement against sincerity. The urge to tell her she never needed to call him master -or perhaps to command her to say it again- buzzed faintly at the back of his mind, but he brushed it aside. Business first.
“As you already know,” he began, sardonically, “you have boots of flying. You seem to have attuned to them perfectly: unsurprising. Their power is unlocked by joy.” He allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “And you are the most joyful person I have ever met.”
Starfire’s cheeks warmed, though her grin widened. Fluttering her eyelashes in mock bashfulness, she bit the tip of her finger.
“Idle flattery! Do not stop.”
Slade barked a short, dry laugh, the sound echoing harshly in the small room.
“Time enough for that later.”
He turned back to the altar, carefully lifting each item and laying them out on the smooth, rune-marked stone as he explained.
“Bracers of brute force,” he said, holding up the polished black bands. “They’ll give you a frost giant’s strength—should you have the confidence to wield them. I suspect you’ll be lifting trees by next week.”
She smirked, leaning closer as he continued, his voice steady and precise.
“The rest appear to be powerful psionic boosters: a bodice of iron durability, a gorget of adaptive body that should render you immune to poisons and radiant energies.”
“And the skirt?” she prompted, tilting her head toward the deep black dragonhide piece folded neatly at the altar’s edge.
Slade’s smile tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features.
“Apart from making a handsome ensemble?” He paused, weighing his words. “Its enchantment has proven elusive. All I found is that it’s linked to righteous fury.”
Starfire’s brow furrowed as she cocked her head, a rivulet of red hair slipping over her shoulder.
“Then I must simply control my temper?”
Slade shook his head, his tone faintly amused.
“Specifically righteous fury. That may become hard to come by as you walk the darker roads with me. But,” he added with a conciliatory grin, “it’s still dragonhide. All the usual protections apply.”
She considered his words, her lips pursed in thought, before stepping away from the bookshelf and slipping out of her gambeson in a single fluid motion. She paid no mind to Slade’s admiring gaze, unhurried as she shimmied into the skirt, tugged on the thigh-high boots. Each piece of enchanted armor shimmered in the dim light.
“Truly a once-in-a-lifetime haul,” Slade remarked, his voice tinged with approval as she adjusted the gorget at her throat.
“How much did you say you paid for it all again?”
Starfire shrugged, tugging the bracers snug over her forearms.
“Five hundred gold,” she replied, a trifle too innocently.
“Titan discount?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
A month ago, she might have been embarrassed to admit what she boasted of now.
“Intimidated the clerk joking about how many worlds I’d raided.”
Slade peeled away his gloves, letting his hands slide around her waist.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with pride.
Peal’s of Starfire’s wild laughter echoed like a bell through the room. As he drowned her in kisses.
--
Wilson’s carriage rolled through the cobbled streets, its sleek black finish gleaming in the moonlight. The two destriers pulling it snorted clouds of steam into the crisp night air, their polished tack jingling with each step. Inside, the rich velvet seats cradled their passengers in comfort. Across from Wilson, Starfire adjusted and readjusted the intricate ties of her dress, her fingers working deftly to nudge every inch of fabric and flesh into its most flattering arrangement. The silk shimmered evocatively, hugging her form in all the right places.
Her first ball had been a fairy tale come to life, a vision of glittering chandeliers and swirling gowns. She’d never dreamt of returning to another so soon, let alone on the arm of a man like Wilson Mordhau. Wilson leaned back against the velvet, observing her with an air of detached aloofness. His sharp eye for detail noted the precise tension in her shoulders, the way her lips pressed together as she worked.
“Nervous?”
She tugged one final knot at her side, ensuring it was secure, then straightened with a radiant smile.
“A ball is much like a raid,” she said, smoothing the dress’s skirt with both hands. “I merely wish to wear my armor properly.”
The Count’s lips curled into a grin. He swung across the small aisle to sit beside her, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Then let us descend upon these unworthy foes,” he murmured with a throaty purr, “and be sure that each knows your name.”
--
The majordomo waiting at the grand staircase paled visibly as they approached. His powdered wig bobbed as he dipped into a stiff bow. His face was ashen, but after an audible gulp, he managed to speak.
“Now presenting,” he coughed as his voice cracked slightly, “the Count of the Black Forest and his… guest. Lady Starfire of Creche Tamaran.”
Starfire took the count’s offered arm, and together they descended the stairs as if at the vanguard of a charging army. Silence roared across the room as the carousel of bedazzled nobility stopped turning. When she’d first met the count, she’d been struck by the ripple of apprehensive silence that followed in his wake, a tension so potent it had even soured Robin’s brooding calm. From inside the bubble of his influence, the world seemed sharper, the whispers more distinct. Tonight, many of those murmurs seemed to center on her.
Perhaps she should have felt chagrin or shame- or some third emotion starting with “sh.” Instead, the twice-outcast alien walked on air. Her dress swept the floor gracefully with every poised step. Those who dared to meet her gaze quickly averted their eyes when she offered them a polite wave, hastily hiding their pained expressions. Their consternation lacked the power to restrain her now. She leaned into Slade’s ear, unphased by the spectacle she made as her lips brushed his ear.
“Wilson,” she began. An older woman gasped at her familiarity, and Starfire’s mirth grew accordingly, “There’s something different about their looks tonight.”
Projecting an image of propriety, the practiced predator scarcely moved his lips as he spoke through a dangerous smile.
“That’s what fear looks like when they respect you.”
A jolt ran through her, unbidden but not unwelcome.
“Respect?” The word tasted strange on her tongue.
His smile turned wicked, his eyes lit by the flicker of a dark flame: an expression she was coming to find dangerously appealing.
“For me, mostly,” he admitted. “But make no mistake. Me means us now. And soon enough, you’ll command the same attention, title or no.”
--
Robin trudged up the grand staircase, his polished shoes scuffing faintly against the marble with each reluctant step. The gilded railings and flickering torchlight cast a warm glow, but it failed to lift his spirits. This ball, like the others, promised little but the tedium of hollow diplomacy. Worse, the other Titans had failed to merit an invitation. Perhaps it was a reprimand for his companion at the last affair: the Githyanki warrior whose bloodstained reputation had soaked into theirs. Since her departure, the Titans had endured a maddening dry spell: no villains to thwart, no schemes to unravel. Life in the Tower was quiet now, leaving Robin grappling with the growing weight of his responsibilities.
He followed the parade of aristocratic feet through a corridor lined with gleaming suits of armor, their polished surfaces reflecting fractured versions of himself. Straightening his midnight blue silk bow tie, he tried to stretch a smile across his lips. The black suit fit perfectly, as it had when Lord Wayne had picked it for him. Tonight, he’d need to prove the Titans’ worth yet again: grease some palms, promise favors, and remind these nobles that the “good guys” were still on their side.
As the majordomo announced his name, Robin stepped into the grand ballroom, the swelling maelstrom of idle prattle. The air was thick with the cloying scent of perfume covering sweat, mingling with the faint tang of wine and polished silver. He scanned the sea of faces, already rehearsing his lines.
--
Across the room, Starfire’s lips curled into a feline smile as she watched the lost bird enter.
“There’s your old friend,” Wilson murmured, his voice pitched low against the high string music. “Shall we say hello?”
“Oh, let us not,” she purred, her tone dripping with amusement. “He likes to think- let him think of this until his brain itches.”
Wilson chuckled, his eyes glittering with a predatory edge as he spun her back into the lively reel.
--
Robin froze mid-step and held his breath. The lively strains of a reel filled the room, but his ears focused on a different melody: bright, and achingly familiar, it floated to his ears like a homing pigeon. He turned, his jaw landing on the dancefloor. Twirling effortlessly, framed by the elegant arc of her flaring dress, was a face he’d never expected to see again.
No. It couldn’t be. There was no reason, no explanation that made sense. But as she spun past him again, the soft glow of the chandeliers catching in her hair, there was no mistaking her.
The leader of the Titans pushed deeper into the crowd, his breath quickening. She looked radiant, her laughter trailing behind her like stardust, brighter than he’d ever heard it. Her eyes, once filled with warmth for her friends, were fixed solely on the man guiding her steps: the Count. Robin clenched his fists, his mind racing. She didn’t glance his way, didn’t falter, didn’t break the spell she seemed so utterly lost in. Gone was the warrior he’d known; in her place stood a stranger wrapped in silks and shadows, orbiting the man he trusted least in the kingdom. As the reel reached its crescendo, they passed him once more. Her laughter rang out again, light and carefree, and Robin felt the distance between them grow immeasurably vast.
--
“Well, Starfire, how would you say our raid is going?”
The Count’s voice drew her from her musings. Straightening in her chair, Starfire ran her fingers through her wild hair, taming it into a sleek, fiery cascade that shimmered in the candlelight. Across the table, Wilson leaned back, perfectly at ease. Her keen eyes scanned him instinctively, searching for any casualties from their “brush with the enemy.”
Apart from a faint scuff on his left shoe, he was immaculate. Typical.
Her fingers glided across the table’s polished surface to find his hand, her nails grazing his knuckles playfully.
“They seem so scandalized I wonder if they’ll ever invite us back.”
“Oh, but you forget,” he replied, his tone rich with amusement. “They play by the rules in this game. It would be unthinkable not to. Wars have been waged over forgotten invitations.”
Her laugh bubbled out, musical and unrestrained, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. Wilson, however, remained perfectly still, watching her with that maddening, stoic expression until her laughter subsided. She tilted her head at him, her mirth giving way to skepticism.
“Surely, you are not serious.”
Leaning forward, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, his eyes glinting with the satisfaction of another opportunity to lecture. She swallowed a groan. He was so unbearably handsome when enraptured by his own words, but his fervor produced a familiar twinge around the scars left by Robin’s condescension.
“I’ll keep it brief,” he assured her, though the gleam in his eye threatened otherwise.
“Feudal law demands social order. Lord Sumter was an outlier only in the scope of his methods. Most prevent the peasants from rising merely by growing over every handhold like tangled ivy. Tonight’s host, for example, is a young lord who’s never met me—but my name is on his late father’s register of guests, and so here I am.”
Starfire tapped her foot against the marble floor, her patience thinning.
“But why would a party be so important? Is it fundamental to social order to drink and dance?”
His smile curled, equal parts fondness and mischief.
“So young, so clever. So much to learn.”
He bent to kiss her hand, his lips brushing her skin with calculated precision. She tolerated it, squashing her desire to rebel. Heaven forbid she break some precious rule of etiquette by refusing his gesture.
“Don’t make that face,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You are wise enough to answer your own question.”
She had readied with a retort when movement caught her eye. Across the ballroom, the mayor was making his way toward their table, his robes swishing dramatically with every step. Starfire seized the distraction to compose herself.
“The mayor is approaching,” she noted with a slight edge of relief. “You will wish to mingle. I shall wait here.”
The count studied her for a moment, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. Oh, how hamstrung she still was by the lessons and expectations of her old friends. Liberating her from their shadow, he thought, would take more than a gown or even a life of crime.
“You shall join me,” he declared, his tone warm, but leaving no room for debate.
“This is not my battle,” she began, but he cut her off with a rare, genuine smile.
“Not a battle. A partnership,” he corrected, offering his arm. “And I would have no other by my side.”
Starfire hesitated for only a moment, then placed her hand on his arm, her steps steady as they moved toward the mayor together.
--
The Count’s voice reached her like a stone through her window.
“Mayor Enverelle, a pleasure as always.”
The mayor gripped her husband’s arm like an expensive purse, her manicured smile cracking the more her eyes landed on Starfire.
“Count,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “what in heaven’s name are you thinking bringing that killer here?”
Starfire placed a hand to her chest, feigning shock with wide, innocent eyes.
“Me? I came only for the dancing… and perhaps a few of those delightful cheese skewers.”
The mayor’s glare bypassed Starfire entirely, her nails biting into her husband’s coat sleeve as though she might anchor herself against the scandal before her.
“I suppose you think this little stunt of yours is cheeky, but it’s ghoulish- even for you.”
Starfire’s hands tightened at her sides as she bit down her indignation, her fiery gaze flicking to Slade. He responded by patting her arm with an air of calm indulgence, a public show of solidarity that eased the tension in her shoulders by a fraction.
“My dear lady,” he began, his tone genteel but laced with steel, “do not clutch your pearls of office so tightly. Lady Starfire has already told me about the libelous accusations the late Lord Sumter- oh, a dragon cultist, by the way- heaped upon her people. The horrors he committed! Why, in her place, I too might have struck him down.”
The powder coating the mayor’s cheeks couldn’t hide the creeping flush threatening to overtake her face.
“Empathy is one thing, Count,” she snapped. “But parading her about is another matter entirely.”
“Who’s parading?” he asked dryly, arching an eyebrow. “She has taken up residence in my manor, which I believe entitles her to attend.”
The mayor stiffened, but her posture was no match for the unyielding presence of the criminal within the Count. His voice lowered, an edge carving into his measured tone.
“I believe it only proper to show her that some among our kind are capable of being better than that.”
With a scoff, the mayor shoved her husband aside and stormed away, leaving the offensive pair in her wake. The man left behind came alive the moment her grip loosened, a jovial smile lighting his face as he inclined his head toward Starfire.
“I find it admirable, what you’re doing, Count. Some of us had you pegged as heartless.”
He turned to Starfire with a shallow bow. “And you, madam—Rufus Enverelle, at your service. I imagine all of this must have you tail over teakettle.”
Starfire inclined her head, a shallow smile gracing her lips.
“Oh, most certainly, my tea is splashed every which way. Count Mordhau has generously volunteered to teach me the ways of high society.”
At the name, Rufus stiffened imperceptibly, but he recovered quickly, nodding in polite approval as Starfire carried on.
“It is my sincerest hope to show the world that Githyanki are more than just astral pirates.”
Mordhau interlaced his fingers with Starfire’s.
“Well, if anyone could…”
The brush of his lips across the back of her hand was deliberate and delicate; his smoldering gaze locked onto hers and Starfire flamed a brilliant red from collar to eartip.
“Oh, flirt,” she murmured, her voice tinged with delighted exasperation. “No half-measures from you!”
With that, she threw her arms around his shoulders, pressing her lips to his in a bold kiss that earned a symphony of gasps from the crowd. The kiss ended with a soft, satisfied hum as she pulled away, a wet pop breaking the stunned silence.
Rufus wrinkled his nose but kept his expression neutral, clearing his throat to reclaim attention.
“If you’ll excuse me, Count. Miss Coriander. I believe I’ll go inquire after the young Lord Sumter.”
“Of course,” Slade replied smoothly, his focus barely shifting from Starfire as Rufus made his escape.
Starfire cocked her head, an uncertain curiosity flickering in her gaze.
“Lord Sumter?”
“His son, my dear,” the count explained, his smile sharpening. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, but I must admit, he throws a splendid party, wouldn’t you agree?”
The room tilted beneath her feet, her vision clouding as the name echoed in her mind. Sumter. This was his house. She could see the cindered ruin of his face, smell the acrid tang of his burning guts. Felt the dagger of Robin’s stony disapproval in her back again. It was his son’s house now.
The music bent and wailed in her ear and the laughter of the crowd’s disapproving chatter swelled into a condemning roar. Her stomach churned as the realization crashed down on her. She’d been twirling across the ballroom floor, spitting in his face with every smile. Her knees buckled.
The world spun faster, the voices blurring into an indistinct roar. Only Slade’s voice cut through the haze, low and steady, steady and strong as his arm on her waist, guiding her toward their table.
“Steady now,” he murmured in her ear, his words an anchor. “Breathe, my dear. It’s all right”
Right was the last thought in her mind as her pulse thundered in her ears. Slade eased her into her chair, his gaze lingering on her as he brushed a hand over her cheek, tilting her face toward him.
“There now,” he said softly, his voice silk and steel, “we can’t have you falling to pieces. You’ve already proven yourself far too strong for that.”
Starfire didn’t respond, her wide eyes fixed on the crowd, though she no longer saw them. All she could see was Sumter’s face in the moments before his end, and the way she had burned with righteous fury. Now that fury twisted, curdling into something colder, heavier. Its weight cracked something deep inside her. Slade continued, quiet conviction without a drop of reproach. And for the first time since Korriand’r became Starfire, she could tune him out.
--
The Mayor held her ground as solidly as a hill giant as Robin approached her, his mouth a grim slash. Their words tripped over each other.
“Did you put him up to this?”
“Did you know she was coming?”
The mayor flagged down a servant, snagged two flutes of champagne, handed one to Robin, drained hers in a gulp, passed it back to the waiter, and shooed him off.
“I’m glad you had no part in this. Thanks to that little gith, one of our peerage is dead. But since her… patron vouches for her, there is little I can do tonight. I pray his social suicide is consequence enough.”
Robin’s grip tightened on his glass until it threatened to crack. She’d had fine ideas on how to pressure him, after all. What made the count any different?
“She doesn’t belong here, of all places. Isn’t there something-“
With Robin looking unlikely to touch his drink, the mayor took it.
“In times of loss we must create unity, not distance. And who knows: our enigmatic count may have more power to control his companion than some people.”
After emptying his glass, she pressed it into Robin’s hand and returned to making her rounds.
--
The one thing louder than the ringing in her ears or the thoughts storming through her mind was rattle of wheels that filled the silence. She hadn’t said a word since Slade’s revelation on the dance floor. Normally so volatile, she remained uncharacteristically still. He eyed her now and then as he read from over the pages of his stolen black book. As Wilson Mordhau or as Slade, he was not a man of many regrets. But waiting patiently for her shock to fade, he felt a knot of guilt in his stomach.
Finally her voice cut the air, whisper-soft and razor-sharp.
“I begin to see why they tremble to hear your name.”
A page turned. His expression was unchanged, like she’d said he had a splotch of mustard on his doublet.
“You’re being dramatic.”
Her hands gripped her knees so tightly her knuckles paled. When she spoke again, her hushed tone did nothing to dilute the venom dripping in each and every syllable.
“I killed a young man’s father and you bring me to dance under his roof. You did not have the decency even to warn me.”
The book snapped shut with the crack of a judge’s gavel; his eyes were on hers now, fiery even as he kept his voice ice-cold.
“If I had warned you, you would have expressed remorse in your kindness. Chained yourself to my side with links of false guilt while they ate you alive. Instead, you showed strength. Showed that you belong: willing to play by their rules but perfectly able to execute justice and waltz in the ashes. The very power they lord over others. It will be a long time before they grow the backbone to challenge you again.”
His tone softened a touch as he leaned back in his seat.
“ It seems harsh now. In time, you will grow to like it.”
Starfire crossed her arms, meeting his gaze undeterred.
“So you say. But if I am to show my strength, I am not to be your pawn. If I am part of a scheme, I must know. I am to become a villain, I will accept no lesser role than partner.”
Slade’s lip quirked. He knew he’d picked the right girl. And since he had her attention… He kicked his feet up on the seat beside her, a calculated display of ease.
“I know the meaning of your name, Starfire. Now let me tell you mine. Mordhau- death stroke. The founder of my clan was a tyrant, infamous for the brutal tortures he inflicted on the peerage’s enemies. They buried him in a fief guarding the deep heart of the forest; close enough to summon when wet work was in demand, but comfortably out of mind for lords who valued a clean image.
After he died, that brutality persisted; now and then a noble would be found slain in cold blood, butchered like swine. His descendants pointed their fingers to an avenging specter. And so after they buried him, my fellow aristocrats buried our name out of fear for invoking his spirit.”
Her temper simmered at his change of subject; inwardly she cursed the control she’d learned; fury was only satisfying when it boiled.
“Is that not what Slade is?”
A dark smile played at his lips.
“I am so much more than him.”
Starfire tapped a finger on her arm as she digested his words. He held her gaze for a while longer before the spell broke and his voice warmed.
“Becoming so, I have been alone for a long time. I forgot how to let an asset move without my hand on the strings. You have potential I wish to witness. I should trust you to realize it.”
An asset… she swallowed a shard of pride. It was as close to an apology as she could expect from the scourge of the city. She raised an eyebrow and patted the seat behind her. He raised a brow back but yielded after brief deliberation. As he switched to sit beside her, she seized the opportunity to pulled his head down, settling it onto her shoulder with measured tenderness.
“You are not alone now. Do not act like it.”
Slade rolled his eyes, a fraction of a smirk betraying his amusement. Forgiving him, embracing him while she was still simmering with irritation? It wasn’t very villainous. But, he reflected, fighting back a shiver of contentment, villainy was a spectrum. She could equal hid power without matching his darkness. A novel concept, that only made the steady warmth of her body beside him harder to ignore.