Dark Compulsions

Panic clawed at Aisling's throat. The biting wind, a stark contrast to the heated urgency of the moment moments ago, seeped through the supposedly thick fabric of her dress, sending shivers down her spine. Left alone in the inky blackness, fear gnawed at the edges of her bravado. Where had the scream come from? Where were those girls, and more importantly, where was Kylian?

The silence stretched, broken only by the howling wind, until a new sound pierced the night. It was a whimper, soft and pleading, laced with a raw desperation that sent a jolt of ice through Aisling. Curiosity, a potent mix of fear and morbid fascination, propelled her forward. Against Kylian's command, she crept towards the source of the sound, her senses on high alert.

As she neared, the whimpers morphed into words, a young girl's voice thick with tears. "Please," she begged, her voice barely a whisper. "Don't take me back to him. He… he hurts me."

Aisling pressed her back against a rough stone wall, her heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs. Peeking around the corner, she caught a glimpse of a horrifying scene bathed in the pale moonlight. A young girl, no older than sixteen and clad only in a thin, tattered shift, stood trembling in front of a burly man. Her skin, marred by faded bruises like grotesque artwork, gleamed under the moon's cool gaze.

The man, his face contorted in a cruel sneer, grabbed the girl's arm roughly. "Don't be ridiculous, child," he snarled. "Your father's already been paid for the night. You have no say in this."

The girl whimpered, her body shaking uncontrollably. "But… but he violates me! He hurts me!"

The man's face contorted in fury. He raised a hand, and Aisling flinched, bracing herself for the blow. "You will address him as Master," the man growled, his voice dripping with venom, "and you will show him respect!"

A sickening feeling of dread washed over Aisling. This wasn't entertainment – it was exploitation, the violation of an innocent girl. The man's words, his twisted justifications, made her stomach churn.

He reached for the girl again, his grip tightening on her arm. But the girl, fueled by a desperate defiance, did the unexpected. She sank her teeth into the man's hand, drawing a sharp cry of pain.

Seizing the opportunity, the girl tried to bolt. The man, enraged, lashed out with his boot, kicking her sprawling in the snow. A guttural scream tore from her lips as he grabbed her hair, a cruel smile twisting his features.

Aisling couldn't watch any longer. Fury, righteous and hot, coursed through her veins. Disobeying Kylian's orders flew out of her mind. She stormed around the corner, her voice ringing out in the night.

"Leave her alone!" she cried, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her legs.

The man spun around, his face a mask of rage. "Who the hell are you?" he bellowed, his voice thick with a rough accent.

Aisling straightened her spine, her chin held high. "The Baroness of Westmarch," she declared, her voice ringing with authority. "And I won't stand by and watch you abuse this girl!"

*****

The acrid scent of stale ale and overflowing chamber pots assaulted Kylian's senses the moment he stepped into the ramshackle tavern. He scanned the room, his sharp blue eyes narrowed as they sought their target. There, slumped over a dented tankard, sat Seamus O'Connell – the very same man who had bartered his daughter's innocence for a reprieve from the crushing taxes. A cold smile played on Kylian's lips as he slid into the booth opposite Seamus, the worn leather groaning under his weight.

Seamus, oblivious, continued nursing his drink, his face etched with a misery that mirrored the grimy tavern walls. Kylian rapped a single, sharp fingernail on the table, the sound echoing through the din of the tavern. Seamus' head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes widening in disbelief.

"M-My Lord Baron!" he stammered, a tremor running through his voice. "I… I didn't expect to see you here."

Kylian raised a dark eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Likewise, Seamus," he drawled, his voice a smooth caress. "But then, delightful discoveries often lurk in the most unexpected places. Tell me," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "are you enjoying your reprieve from those taxes?"

Seamus shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering to the bottom of his empty tankard. "Well, My Lord…" he began, his voice thick with forced joviality, "it's a bit… tighter than I expected."

Kylian's lips curved into a predatory smile. "Ah, the age-old problem of dwindling coin purses. Perhaps a game of truth or consequence is in order?" He beckoned to the tavern wench, who eyed him with a mix of fear and morbid curiosity.

"Whiskey," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. Moments later, a steaming glass materialized before him. Kylian swirled the amber liquid, his eyes never leaving Seamus' face. "Truth," he murmured, taking a long sip.

Seamus gulped, fear pooling in his gut. "Truth, My Lord," he echoed, his voice barely a squeak.

"Then tell me, Seamus," Kylian continued, his tone deceptively mild, "why did you… offer your daughter as entertainment at the auction?"

Shame colored Seamus' face, a stark contrast to the harsh tavern lighting. "It was the taxes, My Lord," he mumbled, weaving a tale of dwindling crops and exorbitant fees. "There was nothing left, not a single copper coin."

Kylian set his glass down with a decisive clink, the sound echoing through the tavern like a knell. "A compelling lie, Seamus," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, "but a lie nonetheless." His gaze, sharp and predatory, pierced through Seamus' flimsy facade. "You see, the bruises on your daughter tell a different story."

The color drained from Seamus' face, leaving behind a sickly pallor. Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace. Finally, with a defeated sigh, Seamus slumped further into his seat.

"They… they approached us first," he muttered, his voice laced with despair. "Promised us a good life, a way out of this misery. Said the girls would just dance for the elites, nothing more."

His voice grew thick with emotion, a tremor running through his body. "But then they started coming back in the morning… broken, barely walking. We tried to stop, refused to give them any more girls. But they just… kept doubling the money. And the children…" he choked back a sob, "they wouldn't remember. Couldn't remember what happened to them."

Aisling's defiant intervention echoed in Kylian's mind. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was more than mere deception. These girls, vulnerable and forgotten, were being violated by something far more monstrous than human lust.

A cold fury settled in his gut, the whiskey burning a cool counterpoint. His voice, when he spoke again, was a low growl. "Compulsion, Seamus," he said, his words dripping with ice. "They used compulsion on those girls, wiped their memories clean." His gaze pinned Seamus to his seat. "And who were the ones using compulsion? Surely, you must know that much."

Seamus, his face a mask of despair, met Kylian's unwavering gaze. "Vampires, My Lord," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "They… they run the rings. They're the ones who come and... take the girls at night." Shame and a flicker of defiance warred in his bloodshot eyes. "But offering her to you, My Lord," he rasped, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice, "I thought… with the Baroness…"

Kylian cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Enough of your justifications, Seamus," he spat, his voice laced with disgust. "You sold your daughter for coin, plain and simple. But fear not," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr, "your transgression can be… rectified."

He leaned closer, his gaze burning into Seamus' soul. "Tell me everything you know about these vampires, these traffickers, their patrons. Every name, every detail. And in exchange," he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips, "I'll make you forget you ever had a daughter at all."

Seamus, trapped in Kylian's icy grip, could only nod mutely, a single tear tracing a path down his weathered cheek. Just then, the tavern door creaked open, and a tall figure cloaked in shadow slipped inside. It was Valaric, his face grim. He moved with a predatory grace, his eyes finding Kylian immediately.

"Kylian," he said, his voice a low murmur, "the girls are gone. No trace."

A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by steely resolve, crossed Kylian's face. He glanced at Seamus, who cowered under his gaze, then back at Valaric. A single word hung heavy in the air.

"Find them."