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When Dorian Pavus first opened his eyes to the world, the midwife gasped. Upon his tiny hand bloomed a faint, crimson sigil shaped like an ancient rose — elegant and ominous, as though inked by fire and shadow. It pulsed once, as if alive, then settled into stillness. None in that candlelit room understood what it meant. None, save for the figure who materialized moments later from the darkness, his red eyes gleaming like polished rubies.
Sebastian Michaelis regarded the newborn with something between amusement and nostalgia. “Ah,” he murmured, lips curling into that timeless, predatory smile. “You have his eyes. How nostalgic.”
It had been generations since Sebastian last answered a call. Yet the contract persisted, etched into the blood of Ciel Phantomhive’s descendants. And now, the demon found himself once again bound — to an infant whose cries stilled at his touch.
From that night onward, Sebastian Michaelis became the shadow behind Dorian Pavus’s rise. To the world, he was Dorian’s mysterious tutor, a retainer of impossible skill and unearthly composure. To Dorian, he was guardian, teacher, and the closest thing he had ever known to a parent. The demon taught him languages and swordplay, the art of rhetoric and the subtleties of manipulation. He taught Dorian how to command a room with a glance, how to conceal a dagger in a word, and how to bow with elegance even when his heart seethed with defiance.
Despite their bond, Dorian never forgot that Sebastian’s loyalty was not born of love, but of a contract that could not be broken.
When Dorian fled Tevinter, he did so without farewell. His father’s reckless foray into blood magic had shaken the foundation of everything Dorian knew. The mark — their mark — had changed, the sigil flickering, twisting, disappearing entirely from his skin. Terrified that the contract had been broken, and that Sebastian might turn on him or worse, Dorian ran. He left behind his family’s estate, his position, his tutor — and the demon who had raised him.
No note, no trace. Only silence.
And for three years, that silence devoured Sebastian’s patience.
The demon’s wrath become legendary when he discovered Dorian’s absence. For nearly three years, Sebastian searched , through corpses, whispers, and ruins. No spell could bind him, no ward could bar his passage. And yet, his Dorian remained hidden.
Until the day the Fade itself split open above the Inquisition’s battlefield.
The Inquisition had been fighting for hours. The air stank of blood and magic; the ground was scorched and trembling. Herah, the Inquisitor, knelt bleeding beside a shattered barrier, her staff little more than splinters. Iron Bull’s axe had cracked, his breath ragged. Sera cursed as her arrows burned to cinders before reaching their mark. Even Solas, his face pale with strain, faltered as the demon loomed before them — vast, amorphous, its voice like a choir of screams.
And then — silence.
The air turned cold and heavy, the very shadows rippling. A voice slipped through the din, smooth as silk, carrying the faintest lilt of mockery.
A voice, smooth as silk and cold as death, echoed through the battlefield.
“Really now,” Sebastian said, brushing a speck of ash from his sleeve.
“You vanish for 3 years, and this is what I find you doing? Surrounded by grasshoppers and trying to get eaten by a lesser demon?”
The demon turned — and for the first time, it hesitated. Recognition dawned in its many eyes. “You— you vanished! The Devourer of Souls—”
"I know I Raised you better than that" says Sebastian Michaelis, stepping from the darkness, immaculate as ever — not a hair out of place, not a speck of blood on his black attire. His gloved hand glowed faintly crimson as he lifted it lazily toward the demon. The next instant, reality itself seemed to shatter; the demon let out a shriek that curdled the air before disintegrating into nothing but ash.
Silence fell.
Iron Bull, still gripping his broken axe, blinked. “What in the bloody Void is that thing?”
“Not a thing,” Dorian breathed, barely managing to stand. His voice trembled, half disbelief, half relief. “A who.”
Sebastian turned, eyes glinting faintly with amusement — and irritation.
“You have a great deal of explaining to do, young master.”
In the aftermath, tension ran thick. The Inquisition’s camp was steeped in unease. Cassandra kept her sword within reach; Solas watched Sebastian with a wary fascination; Iron Bull refused to let Dorian out of his sight. The air seemed to hum with restrained power.
When Dorian finally spoke, his tone was weary but sincere. “I didn’t tell you, because my father’s blood ritual changed the mark. I feared it had voided the contract. I thought… I thought it safer to run from you.”
Sebastian’s smirk was soft, almost fond, though his eyes gleamed like knives. “My dear Dorian, how charmingly naïve.” He reached out, and with a single motion, brushed aside the collar of Dorian’s robe. The faint red sigil shimmered at the base of his neck, glowing like a heartbeat. “Your sire’s ritual only nourished our bond. It strengthened it. The mark moved — closer to your spine, to the seat of the soul. Even death cannot undo what is written there. Not Even death cannot unbind us now. You may flee, you may die, but not even the Fade itself could steal you from me.”
Dorian let out a weak laugh — a mix of surrender and relief. “So I am yours, then.”
Sebastian smiled, that terrible, beautiful smile that had haunted generations. “You always were.”
The camp’s silence deepened. Iron Bull finally broke it, muttering, “So, let me get this straight. You’ve got a demon — at Least a great demon — bound to you. And you’re just… fine with that?”
Dorian raised a perfectly sculpted brow, reclaiming his poise like a cloak. “Sebastian is not just any demon. He has served my family for over a century — bound, yes, but constant. To call him merely a demon would be… gauche.”
Sebastian chuckled softly, the sound velvety and cruel. “Ever the diplomat. Though you omitted the part where the contract binds me end of his bloodline.”
Sera frowned. “Until his— wait, what?”
Dorian interjected quickly, “Until my death. I will have no descendants. There will be no more bloodline. The contract dies with me.”
For the first time, Sebastian’s smile faltered, just slightly — a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. His voice was low when he answered, “We shall discuss that… in private, my dear.”
Then, turning with perfect composure to the others, he straightened his cuffs and smiled — that smile that could charm angels or curdle blood. “Now, before anyone faints, allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Sebastian Michaelis. You may call me Sebastian.”
His gaze slid to Dorian, crimson eyes gleaming with dark pride.
“After all,” he said softly, with a bow so graceful it felt like mockery, “I am simply one hell of a butler.”