DoIDare

You wouldn’t go so far as to say the mission was going smoothly.

But after enough time alone—enough time to swallow down your irritation, your confusion, the unwanted twist that seeing Astarion with his spawn had stirred—you finally pieced together a shape of a plan.

Step one: Spot the targets.

Easy enough once a servant discreetly described their masks.

You’d found eight so far, weaving through the glittering chaos of the ballroom.

Step two: Circle them.           

Don’t approach. Not yet.

Instead you eased yourself into their conversational orbit, speaking to the people they spoke to, slipping into nearby groups once they exited, absorbing every whispered rumor and shred of useful gossip, even picking up small hints—what made them laugh, who they trusted, who they hated, what they wanted out of the evening, what they wanted out of life. Anything that could give you an advantage when you eventually decided to strike.

This was how you preferred to work —draw the circle tight around the target. Move slowly, quietly, deliberately.

Only when the noose was woven sturdy and sure do you pull.

Slower, yes— but effective, thorough, precise. And far less likely to get you killed halfway through.

It was an approach Astarion had always despised. He liked to dive headfirst into danger, improvising as he went, relying on charm and luck to keep him alive. Planning anything together used to be—well, “difficult” was putting it mildly.

But tonight, you were a lone wolf.

Confident. Focused. Prepared.

When you went in for each target it would be with a weapon far sharper than the dagger strapped to your thigh: Information.

Or at least, you intended to.

Except you couldn’t. Because something— or rather someone— was constantly ruining it.

And he wasn’t even being subtle about it.

The first sabatoage came when you were speaking with a noble whose tongue loosened deliciously when plied with ego and wine. You had him smiling, leaning in far closer than you’d prefer, but still ready to spill far more than he should—

When a waiter—one of Astarion’s waiters, trained within an inch of perfection— tripped.

He didn’t stumble. He performed a stumble.

The glass flew just right, and the entire contents of dark wine splattered over the noble’s coat.

“What in the— THIS IS VELVET!” he shrieked, storming off before you could salvage the moment.

The waiter didn’t apologize. He didn’t even slow down.

He simply straightened, expression blank, and walked towards the far side of the ballroom— right towards where Astarion stood among a cluster of noblewomen, eyes already on you.

His lips lifted at the corners, amusement glittering in his gaze.

You felt your jaw clench.

Fine. One incident. Annoying. But not fatal.

You adjusted. You pivoted.

You changed floors—switching to the balcony overseeing the dance floor below, the targets fewer but so were the ‘accidental’ tripping waiters.

You spotted a man in jade and gold mask, posture relaxed, gaze lingering on the dancers with mild interest. Perfect. His guard was low. His drink half-full. His attention ripe for plucking.

You approached, easing into conversation by addressing the woman beside him, gently nudging the topic towards something useful. You were just about to redirect—

When the music stopped.

Mid-song.

A ripple of confusion ran across the dancers. The musicians scrambled, muttering apologies, frantically checking strings and valves as though something had snapped or jammed in the exact second you opened your mouth.

The target turned away, annoyed, calling someone over to complain about the “disgraceful interruption.”

Your eyes followed the commotion—and there he was again.

Astarion. Standing beside the conductor with a charming smile, as if asking an innocent question. The conductor nodded nervously. The music restarted a moment later— with a much livelier tempo that swallowed conversation whole.

You couldn’t hear your own thoughts, let alone coax secrets out of a noble.

You gritted your teeth.

Your patience was thinning. Rapidly.

But you adjusted yet again.

This time, you approached a target as far from the chaos as one could be, a man standing near the doors leading to the gardens. The music here was nothing more than a muffled hum—blissfully ignorable.

He was sober, thankfully. And more thankfully, he was intelligent.

He welcomed your approach with a relieved sigh, clearly as tired of courtly theatrics as you were.

For a moment, you found yourself… almost enjoying the conversation. He challenged your ideas. You challenged his. It wasn’t useful—yet—but it was promising.

Then a servant materialized at his elbow, bowing deeply.

“Pardon me, sir, but Lord Ancunín requests a private word.”

The man straightened so fast he nearly dislocated something. “Lord Ancunín?” he repeated, tugging at his sleeves, smoothing his coat. “Of course. Lead the way.”

He barely remembered to excuse himself before following the servant—nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness.

You watched him disappear into the churning crowd, swallowed whole without a single backward glance.

So much for shared interests. So much for progress.

Your pulse pounded hot beneath your ribs.

Three sabotages. Three.

It wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t misfortune. This was Astarion.

Interfering. Manipulating. Toying with you.

And he was the only one finding this funny.

The final strike came when you finally decided you were done. If he sabotaged one more conversation, one more opportunity, you were going to march across the ballroom and confront him—mission be damned.

Except you didn’t need to.

He came to you.

You had approached a target who practically rolled out a red carpet the moment you smiled at him. Compliments, eager answers, open posture. He seemed promising enough that when he asked you to dance you readily agreed.

Surely no one could interrupt you mid-dance.

Except of course there was.

Your target’s hands began to wander not long after—subtle at first, then less so. You corrected his hold once. Then twice. When he started inching closer again, you contemplated cutting your losses and walking away.

Then, out of nowhere, Astarion appeared like a phantom between you.

One hand clamped around your waist. The other gently but firmly pried you from the noble’s arms.

You spun—against your will—right into Astarion’s hold, mid-twirl.

He didn’t even apologize to the man. Simply replaced you with another partner, the noble hardly noticing the switch.

Heat flared in your chest.

“What are you doing!?” you nearly shouted, scrambling not to stumble as he swept you into the rhythm without warning.

“Helping you,” he replied coolly—infuriatingly—without missing a single beat.

“You’re not helping,” you hissed, struggling to keep your voice low as a few dancers cast curious glances your way. “You’re sabotaging my plans!”

“Darling,” he drawled, guiding you effortlessly through a turn, “your plans were never much to begin with.”

Your jaw dropped. “And yours are?! You’re making them suspicious!”

He leaned closer—far too close—your noses nearly brushing as he murmured, “That’s precisely the point.”

You blinked.  Ignoring the proximity. “What—making them think we’re involved?!”

His answering chuckle vibrated against your skin, low and pleased. “I’m hardly involved with every woman I dance with,” he said, spinning you lazily.  “Though I’m sure you have a very different opinion, given how intensely you’ve been glaring at me all evening.”

“That’s not why I was glaring—” you snapped. “I don’t care!”

Yes, you had noticed the raven-haired woman who practically lived at his side, noticed the way nobles of both genders orbited him like moths to flame —but that wasn’t your concern. Your concern was him ruining your mission.

“Don’t you?” he purred.

You glared. “No.”

He smiled.

“Regardless,” he continued lightly, “it’s good to make them think I’m interested.”

Your nose wrinkled. “Why on earth would that be good?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said casually as he twirled you outward, then drew you back in. “Why else would they spill their little secrets, if not for something in return? If they think you’re close to me—privy to things—then they’ll want to impress you. Share things they shouldn’t. Leverage works best when it’s exchanged, darling.”

Your stomach twisted.  “Didn’t you insinuate I’d have to seduce the information out of them”

“Change of plans,” he said cheerfully. “You’re abysmal at seducing.”

“Because you keep interrupting me!”

“You mean saving you the embarrassment.”

You made a strangled noise and resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Remember the ring, you reminded yourself. You were here for a reason.

The music softened, the steps drawing tighter, slower.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “What kind of information would I even give them about you?”

“Hmm… let’s see” He leaned in, his lips brushing so close to your ear your breath hitched. “Perhaps how good I am in bed?”

You tripped. Almost.  He compensated instantly, tightening his hold, making it look like part of the dance.

What. On. Earth.

“So… I should just make stuff up?” you deadpanned, cheeks flaming.

He paused only a second, his expression twisting into something wicked. “My dear… if that’s really your impression of me, then I’d be all too happy to help jog your memory.”

You questioned—for a brief, delirious moment—the wisdom of not stabbing your host at his own party.

Instead, you stepped on his foot. Deliberately.

He didn’t even flinch. Just chuckled.

The bastard.

“You are insufferable,” you said flatly.

“And yet,” Astarion purred, “here you  are—dancing with me.”

“You literally kidnapped me out of another man’s arms.”

You shot a glance over your shoulder. Your couldn’t even spot your target in the dance floor anymore.

Another failure. Because of him.

When you turned back, Astarion was smiling—a slow, pleased curl of lips that said he was enjoying this far more than you were.

But you weren’t here to entertain his games.

“If our deal depends on the success of this ridiculous mission,” you said tightly, “then tell me now. Because one more sabotage, and I’ll save myself the effort and go home.”

“My dear,” he sighed, mock-wounded, “must you always keep things awfully professional?”

“I’m serious Astarion.” You hissed “I’m not here to play your stupid games, I made myself clear. You’ve already cost me four targets.”

“Mm, well,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t count the last one as lost just yet.”

He gave the faintest nod towards the crowd.

You followed his gaze. Your former dance partner had stopped dancing. He stood at the edge of the floor, eyes fixed on you like a hawk. And when you met his gaze—he winked.

You blinked, baffled. “Why would he want to talk to me after what you just did?”

“Oh, don’t be so surprised.” Astarion said, sounding delighted by your confusion. “You said it yourself—we look… involved. I stole you right out of his arms. That leaves an impression.”

“Exactly,” you muttered. “That should make him back off. But he looks even more interested.”

Astarion laughed—soft, condescending, wicked. “You truly are that naïve, aren’t you? Do you really not know how noblemen like him function?”

He twirled you once, gently, the motion deliberate, his body pressing close as he subtly blocked your view of the man.

“Everyone here is doing things they shouldn’t. They may look refined, luxurious, dripping in etiquette… but this very ballroom is filled with masked criminals.” His voice dropped, becoming a low, conspiratorial murmur “The only difference between them and the ones rotting in the Lower City is that these ones have learned how to twist the law instead of break it openly.”

His hand rested lightly on your lower back as he steered you through the ballroom. “They seek danger the same way any gutter rat does. Except, unlike the lowborn, their hunger isn’t born of need.”

His gaze swept the crowd with something like cool disgust. Or perhaps understanding.

“No… These men have everything they could ever want,” he murmured, his focus returning to you, “and yet, they crave what isn’t theirs. Power that isn’t theirs.” His eyes flashed, something cold and utterly personal there. “Influence, status, money—whatever they envy in others. Forbidden fruit isn’t undesirable, darling” his tone darkened, hardening into a statement of undeniable truth. "It's irresistible."

Your pulse stumbled at the dangerous implication that followed.

“And above all?” His voice dropped further, becoming almost intimate, a secret shared against your ear. “Men like him are always more interested in women claimed by someone else.”

Your chest tightened.

Your eyes darted around the ballroom. Suddenly you could see it— the hunger beneath the jewels, the envy behind every smile, The desire to climb, to conquer, to ruin.

To be the most influential person in the room.

The dancers looked elegant, intimate—even tender—but the moment opportunity so much as winked, any one of them would gladly plunge a knife into the back of the one holding them close.

It felt like being surrounded by a pack of wolves.

Your throat constricted.

For a second you forgot to breathe.

You could almost feel them circling.

Astarion—of course—missed your sudden shift in reality entirely. Or more likely ignored it.

He only chuckled and reeled you back into his world as easily as he’d pulled you into the dance.

“That being said,” he murmured, bringing your dance to a gentle stop, “All of this only makes your mission easier”

He bowed lightly, still holding your hand.

“You’re very welcome, my dear.”

He brought your fingers towards his lips— you yanked them back.

You willed your beating heart to slow. To stop reacting. To stop feeling anything he might enjoy.

“I’d deeply appreciate it if you stopped trying to ‘help’” you managed, voice tight.

Then you turned sharply and walked away—before he could sense how shaken you really were.

You pushed your way off the dance floor, pulse still thrumming.

You needed air. Space. A new plan.

Preferably one that didn’t involve falling into his traps like an idiot.

But gods, you were tangled too deep in his game, and Astarion never played to lose.

The foyer glimmered ahead like salvation. If you could just make it outside—just breathe for two seconds—maybe your instincts would stop screaming leave, leave, leave.

You were halfway there when a hand shot out of the crowd and closed around your wrist.

Right over the fresh scar that still hadn’t fully healed.

A sharp sting bolted up your arm, you hissed and spun around, teeth bared, ready to flay whatever brazen socialite thought you were open for touching.

You were done with grabby nobles. Done with masked “mystery guests.” Done with—

—but the masked face looking back at you was familiar. Too familiar.

Your breath snagged.

“…Gale?!”

The man laughed—a warm, startled burst of it—and reached up to yank the mask off.

“Iris! By the gods, I knew that was you!”

Before you could process anything, Gale swept you into a hug.

A real one. Warm. Anchoring.

He smelled like cinnamon, old books and a hint of magic—like comfort, like home, like the world before everything got so… complicated.

You stayed frozen in it, stunned silent. Partly because of the shock of seeing him here. Partly because—gods help you—you’d forgotten what it felt like to be held by someone who didn’t need anything from you.

And partly because, for the first time all night… you didn’t feel hunted.

Your body loosened just a fraction, sinking—if only for a breath—into the warmth he offered.

Then, inevitably, you stepped back, your eyes searching his face as if you needed proof he was actually there.

“Gale…” you breathed, still hardly believing it.

He looked different. Still handsome. Still unmistakably him—your friend. But his hair was a little longer now, threaded with a few more strands of white than you remembered. Lines of time, not hardship.

And yet—he looked better. Healthier. The faint drain that had once clung to him was gone. The orb that had fed on his life no longer hung over him like a blade. He was no longer living in constant peril.

You marveled at it. Seven years was a long time for humans. Hells—sometimes it felt long even for you.

You were sure you, too, must look different now. You remembered Gale once telling you that magic slowed his aging. Slowed—but did not stop it.

The only one who hadn’t changed at all was Astarion. Save for his ridiculous hair tonight, he looked exactly the same—untouched by time, as though it simply slid off him.

“What are you doing here?” you asked at last.

“I could ask you the same thing!” he said, still grinning as he held you at arm’s length. “It’s been years since you’ve shown your face, and now you choose to appear at Astarion’s party of all places?”

You blinked, throat tight. “It’s… a long story.”

“Then mine is decidedly shorter,” he said lightly. “Astarion invited me.”

You stared. “Astarion invited you to one of his social spectacles? I didn’t know you two were… still close.”

“Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are.” He lowered his voice. “He mentioned there would be wizards visiting from Silverymoon—said I’d find the introductions… worthwhile.”

“Oh.” You hesitated. “When did you receive the invitation?”

“Quite recently, actually. A few days ago.” He smiled ruefully. “I had to scramble to find someone to cover my lectures.”

A few days ago. After your arrival was secured.

A game piece placed on the board—after he made sure you’d be here.

Is he trying to gauge if you’d been in contact? Trying to see who you’d run to in your years of absence?

You forced a smile. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Iris…” Gale’s expression softened. “There is no one here happier than I am to see you. But where have you been all this time? I won’t lie—I’m a little hurt you never came to visit.”

“I’ll tell you everything,” you promised quietly. “Once I settle… things.”

Something shifted in his expression—not suspicion, but understanding. “You don’t want to be here.” It wasn’t a question.

“Well spotted,” you tried for humor, but it was too dry, “but I’m much happier now that you’re here.”

He returned your smile and gestured subtly towards a shadowed corner of the hall. You followed, the noise of the party dulling around you.

“Do you need help?” he asked under his breath, careful, deliberate. “If you don’t want to be here, Iris, then you shouldn’t be.”

For a moment, you wondered if he thought Astarion might actually hurt you.

You couldn’t fault him for it. You’d thought the same—right up until you met him again and he’d started weaving these infuriating, intimate games around you.

You still weren’t sure what his endgame even was.

“It’s fine,” you said, trying to sound steady. “I’m not being forced or anything. Merely… inconvenienced.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed—not at you, but at the situation—but he didn’t push. He never had. He was one of the few who didn’t openly criticize Astarion after the ascension. He simply said he’d help if you ever needed it, offered advice, listened without judgment.

You’d been weak in front of him before. Vulnerable. He knew you.

For a while, you thought there was only one person who understood you more deeply than Gale..

And he was the very reason you were here now, lost, dancing around in a gilded palace.

“How have you been?” you asked, redirecting.

“Much the same,” he replied. “The life of a professor lacks adventurous excitement. Though I can’t say I miss sleeping on the road—or nearly dying every other day—but I do miss the company.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I’ve missed you too.”

“Then why haven’t you—” He stopped, shaking his head gently. “Never mind. I hope you’re doing what you believe is best, my friend.”

“I’m doing my best,” you amended.

You held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

He could probably tell you were being vague on purpose. Your voice stayed hushed, your words carefully chosen. You couldn’t be certain who was listening.

Astarion had already proven his reach—every waiter, every spawn, even the guests themselves. All of them reported back to him.

“You’re welcome at my tower,” Gale said gently. “Anytime.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

That was all you could give him for now.

You couldn’t offer other promises you weren’t sure you could keep.

You had already disappointed most of your friends once.

And yet, despite not knowing what else to say, you didn’t want to leave Gale’s side so soon. You felt safe here—grounded in a way you hadn’t expected. More so, even, than you imagined you’d feel outside in the cool night air.

So you stayed. You lingered.

And when the silence stretched too long, you opened your mouth to say something—anything—

—but in true Gale fashion, he beat you to it.

Bless his heart, he truly loved the sound of his own voice, and you couldn’t have been more grateful for it just then.

He told you about a spirited discussion he’d had with the wizards in attendance, then veered seamlessly into a complaint about how his mother and Tara had both insisted he change outfits after he’d claimed his teaching robes were perfectly appropriate for a formal affair.

You smiled at the fond irritation in his voice.

Then he paused, brows lifting as if something had just occurred to him.

“Oh—how could I forget?” he said, sounding genuinely baffled by his own lapse. “I didn’t come here alone.”

You raised your eyebrow “didn’t you?”

He smiled—real and unguarded—as he shifted slightly, angling the two of you so you could see into the crowd. His eyes swept the room before settling on someone, and he raised a finger to point.

You followed his gesture.

A tiefling stood near the edge of the room. From her profile alone, you could tell she was young.

His plus one?

The thought startled you, followed quickly by the reflexive conclusion that she was far too young for Gale—though, truth be told, you weren’t entirely certain how human age gaps were measured.

And, you supposed, you weren’t exactly in a position to judge. You had loved someone centuries older than you, after all.

But then again… you were elves

Well, you were an elf and he was an immortal vamprie.

But none of that mattered now—because it was all firmly behind you.

And besides, the thought proved utterly irrelevant the moment the tiefling turned.

Her eyes met yours.

Recognition struck like a blow to the chest.

Your breath hitched.

Your vision blurred.

“Arabella?!”

She blinked, confusion flickering for half a second—then her eyes widened, and she rushed towards you without hesitation.

“Iris!”

You hugged her the instant she reached you, arms wrapping tight—and your mind stalled on the startling realization that you didn’t need to kneel.

“By the gods,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You’ve grown.”

Arabella stepped back fully, fixing you with a smug grin. “I’m almost seventeen! This is the first time the beard man lets me attend a party for adults.”

You glanced at Gale, confused.

“Elminster,” he corrected mildly.

“He said since I was personally invited—and since it’s a friend of Gale’s—I was allowed to come,” Arabella added proudly, nudging Gale.

Something tightened in your stomach.

Personally invited.

Your eyes widened slightly as the implication settled in. Astarion had chosen to invite Arabella. The child he knew—knew—you cared for deeply.

This was beginning to feel far more deliberate than you’d initially thought.

“That’s… wonderful,” you said carefully. “I’m glad to see you.”

“And so am I!” Arabella replied. “Where the hell have you been anyway? Gale always refused to tell me.”

“Now, now,” Gale began, lifting a hand. “I hardly knew—”

You shook your head gently, cutting him off. “That’s not his fault.”

And from there, the conversation flowed easily.

Gale had mentioned in one of his early messages that Arabella was now under the tutelage of his former mentor, Elminster, and that their paths had crossed often. He made a point of checking on her when he could, reminding her that his door was always open. She’d taken him up on the offer more than once.

He’d known how much she meant to you. And he’d made sure to mention her well-being in every letter whenever she’d been nearby.

Still—you hadn’t expected to see either of them. Let alone both, here. Tonight. At Astarion’s party.

For a while, you almost forgot where you were. The music, the mission, the watching eyes—all of it faded as you stood laughing softly with friends you hadn’t seen in years.

Until Gale’s expression shifted.

He glanced aside, murmured an apology, and sighed. “Elminster says the hour has grown far too late for a young lady to still be attending vampire-hosted festivities.”

Arabella groaned but relented.

Gale apologized again, genuinely regretful, and you hugged them both goodbye, promising you’d see both of them again.

You vowed—quietly, sincerely—that this time, you’d do better at keeping your promises.

And maybe—once you secured the ring, once Stolas was safe and Astarion was no longer a looming threat—

—you would.

Here’s hoping.

Feeling refreshed after the unexpected—but deeply welcome—reunion, and grateful for a conversation that hadn’t felt like a battlefield for once, you finally remembered why you were here.

You still had a task to complete.

You had more targets. And, mercifully, Astarion had stopped interfering.

In fact, somewhere in the moments you’d lost yourself to laughter and familiar voices, you’d stopped tracking him entirely—and when you thought to look again, he was gone.

That, more than anything, unsettled you.

It was strange. Uncharacteristically so.

But you knew better than to assume peace would last. If this was a window, you needed to use it.

This time, you changed tactics.

Whether it was true strategy or sheer spite in response to Astarion’s earlier words, you weren’t sure—but you turned your attention to the women.

Some were primary targets. Others were simply paths to information about targets. It hardly mattered which.

And, to your mild surprise, it worked.

Astarion had claimed men would be more intrigued now—drawn by the notion that you’d caught the dangerous host’s eye. But women warmed to you more readily, for reasons far more layered.

You weren’t the only woman here rumored to be bedding a powerful man.

Some were jealous. Some recognized a fellow player in the game of politcs and enchanting men and respected you.

And some—gods help them—pitied you.

They mistook you for a naive girl ensnared by a selfish man who would never give her what she truly wanted. A heart stolen. A future bartered away for one-sided love. A pawn caught in games she never asked to play.

Like them.

The conclusions varied.

They were all wrong.

And every one of those assumptions was a mask you wore with ease—each version of yourself coaxing loose another useful fragment. Gossip stitched to confession, envy to sympathy, until the pieces began to align.

You were quietly sorting through the latest tidbit you’d extracted from a small circle of ladies when a guest approached you.

A man.

You were so tired of them that you nearly excused yourself outright—until you recognized the mask.

A name from your list.

You hesitated only a moment before deciding you couldn’t afford to let the opportunity pass.

So you stayed.

You slipped seamlessly into the role, words came smoothly, feigned interest glinting just behind your eyes. And just as Astarion had predicted, the man leaned closer, his voice lowering, flirting growing bolder with each sip of wine.

You matched him—carefully. Enough to keep him talking.

Until his tongue grew loose. Careless.

“You’re dangerous,” he chuckled, eyes gleaming. “My wife would say I’m terrible, speaking that way to a woman as beautiful as you.”

The words struck like a slap.

Your fake smile faltered.

It was one thing to know men sought you out because they believed you were Astarion’s. Another entirely to realize you were now complicit in the slow unraveling of a marriage.

“I’m sure your wife wouldn’t appreciate you speaking to me at all,” you snapped, colder than you’d meant to be.

For a heartbeat, you thought you’d sobered him. That you’d reminded him how much he’d already said.

Instead, his grin widened.

“Oh?” he purred—and his gaze slid past you. His smile sharpened as he gestured behind your shoulder. “Then why don’t we ask her?”

Your stomach turned to stone.

You followed his gaze.

Stepping out from a side door that led to one of the private rooms was the woman who had clung to Astarion all evening.

Raven hair. Raven mask.

She smoothed her dress with restless hands, tugging fabric back into place. The kind of unconscious adjustment one made when ensuring oneself presentable after… disorder.

She caught her husband’s eye and started towards you.

But your attention snagged on movement behind her.

The door she’d just exited opened again.

And as if your heart hadn’t taken enough blows already, Astarion emerged from the same room—perfectly composed, utterly unbothered. Hands lifting to smooth his hair as though nothing at all had transpired.

He didn’t so much as glance at either of them.

He didn’t care what his exit implied.

Something twisted deep in your chest.

His earlier words rose unbidden, sharp and merciless.

Men are always more interested in women claimed by someone else.

Claimed. Or married.

He’d spoken of it like someone intimately familiar with the hunger.

And of course he was. Because he was one of them.

Your chest constricted. Fire clawed up your throat.

Before the man beside you could finish his smug remark—before his wife could finally make the introduction she’d been circling all night, watching you when you were with Astarion—

You slipped away.

And fled.

Of all the things you thought you would be doing almost seven years after saving the world, this had been the farthest from your mind.

It never occurred to you that you’d ever return to the one place you’d spent so long avoiding. And yet here you were—preparing to walk straight back into the city you’d marked with a red cross on every map you ever used.

And it felt every bit like you’re walking into a trap.

But what choice did you have?

It had taken time for your body to feel remotely healed. The dizziness had finally subdued, and you could finally meditate with relative peace. The limp had lessened to the point where it was hardly noticeable. But your left hand—your archer’s hand—remained stubbornly weak. You could carry things, hold a cup, even tie a knot. But the moment you tried to string your bow, it would shake violently, pain splintering up your arm until you couldn’t see straight.

Reluctantly, you’d had to rely yet again on Ava’s hunting skills, and on whatever fruit and herbs you and Stolas could gather on your little explorations.

You hated it.

You already leaned too much on Ava when it came to Stolas, though she never seemed to mind. Each time you expressed gratitude, she waved you off, reminding you that you were practically family.

And she was right.

Loathe as you were to admit it, Ava was the last living tie you had to your childhood.

You remembered her from your father’s tribe, a trader always welcomed when others weren’t. Your father used to say she had once saved a child of the clan, and from that day had earned the elders’ trust. He respected her deeply. When you were born, he had proudly presented you to her, and Ava had traced a rune across your forehead with soot and steel dust, invoking Moradin’s Forge to bless you. To your young ears, it had only complicated your ever-growing identity crisis—an elf child carrying the mark of the dwarves’ god.

But your father had trusted her. So you always did too.

Years later, when you stumbled upon her setting up shop in a random city—seven months pregnant, broken and starved, with no idea what to do—you nearly collapsed into her arms. She’d insisted you stay, helped you through, and never once let you go since. She had lost her husband, her children were long married and drifted away to their lives, and she confessed that you and later Stolas’s presence had been an answer to a prayer.

You doubted that. You’d always felt more curse than blessing. But you couldn’t bring yourself to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You’d needed her.

After all,You hadn’t dared seek help from your old companions. They were too close to him.

Instead you settled for the barest thread of contact—letters. Mostly with Gale, who always answered with a Sending spell so you never had to give him a location. You deflected their questions about your health with the same empty reassurance: I’m doing fine. About your whereabouts: Traveling. Never staying too long in one place.

You promised visits you never kept.

You missed every reunion, every party, every moment of celebration. You knew it hurt them, but they pretended to believe your excuses.

Except Karlach. Karlach never pretended.

She’d always insisted you were hiding something, had demanded you come clean. She’d promised that once her infernal engine was fixed, you’d have no reason to hide. That she didn’t want your pity. That you could face her without shame. That you’d never again have to drag yourself into the Hells for her sake.

But how could you ever face her after what you’d done?

How could you even stand before her with Stolas at your side and not give everything away?

You’d never been apart from him when he was young. Even after Ava came into your life, you hadn’t allowed it. Only when he turned three did you finally begin taking missions again, and even then, you never stayed away more than a few days.

That’s why the last one going so badly still stung.

And here you were, now, leaving him once again.

Stolas, of course, made his displeasure known. He clung to you while you tried to dress.

"You're leaving again?" He asked miserably, disapproval evident in his voice.

"Only for the night," you placated,fastening the hidden dagger against your thigh.  "I’ll be back by morning."

Then you remembered what he did the last time those very words were spoken to him and you immediately ammended. "I’ll be back before the sun rises, I promise."

Stolas scuffed the ground with his boot, unconvinced. “But… what if you get hurt again?”

“I won’t” you said emphatically as you buttoned your shirt, it was a moot effort really when you were surely to undress it soon. “I’m not going anywhere dangerous.” Arguable. Really “It’s just the city nearby. I’ll grab what I need and come right back.”

“Then take me with you!“ His head shot up, eyes brightening with sudden hope ”You’ve taken me to cities before. And it’s at night, so it’s okay, right?”

Your brain rattled violently at the thought.

This wasn’t just some city, you wanted to argue.

This was the city of Baldur’s Gate.

His city.

Taking a sheep into the lion’s den was one thing—taking a miniature copy of the lion himself with you was practically begging to be devoured.

The only thing sparing you from immediate disaster was Stolas inheriting your hair colour instead of the unmistakable silver. But still, one glance at the boy with blood-red eyes and small fangs, and even the dumbest drunkard in the Gate would put two and two together.

And Astarion, for all his faults, was not an idiot.

Not to mention, you could already feel the weight of a hundred eyes waiting for you the moment you stepped foot past the gate.

So the short answer was no. Absolutely not.

The long answer—the one Stolas might actually accept—was still trying to materialize in your brain.

“Not this time,” you said carefully.

“Why not?” he challenged, his mouth pulling into a stubborn line.

“Because I have business to attend to,” you replied, trying to sound firm. “And I can’t be worrying about you too.”

Stolas crossed his arms, scowling. “I can handle myself. I’m not five anymore.”

The sheer absurdity of his indignation—and the way he puffed his chest like a little rooster—made you snort before you could stop yourself. Then you burst out laughing.

“No, of course not. Forgive me, what was I thinking? You’re six now.”

Stolas blinked, unsure why that was funny, but clearly unwilling to admit he didn’t get the joke.

“Which,” you went on seriously, “is precisely the age where I can finally trust you to stay right here, at camp, and wait for me to come back.”

He opened his mouth to argue again, but you rushed ahead. “Once I’m back, we’ll move on together. To another city, a better one this time. I’ll even take you to the night market.”

That made him pause. His eyes lit up like a festival lantern.

"Maybe," you mused, dragging it out, "we can even rent a room there. Sleep in a big bed."

His jaw dropped. “With feather pillows?”

"All the feather pillows." You nodded solemnly, as if it were a sacred oath.

Finally, Stolas looked like he might let you off the hook. Still, he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Only for tonight?"

"Not a moment longer than necessary." You tucked a curl behind his ear. "But no wandering near the sunlight again, understood? I’ll be back when I’m finished. You absolutely don’t sneak off to go look for me. Ava knows exactly where I’m headed—she’ll know where to find me. You don’t."

He sighed, a sound far too old for his age, and nodded reluctantly. “Fine”

He finally let you leave the tent, though not without shadowing you to the edge.

He lingered at the threshold, squinting at the horizon, making sure the last rays of the sun had dipped low enough. Only when he deemed it safe did he step out after you, his small figure stubbornly at your heel.

Ava was waiting just beyond the campfire’s glow. She pressed a bundle into your hands—simple, unassuming trinkets that would pass for jewelry at a party but carried quiet enchantments.

A pair of earrings, their runes etched so fine they vanished into the metal: Resistance against charms. A a bracelet,innocent in appearance, but capable of teleportation at a simple command. And finally a necklace, its pendant warm to the touch, holding a Sending stone in its heart.

When you kneeled down to allow her to fasten it around your neck, her fingers lingered, and her eyes lifted to yours. “So. You’re really going,” she said at last, her voice caught somewhere between concern and disapproval.

“I have to,” you replied quietly, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders.

Ava sighed, shaking her head. “Then at least this time be careful. Whatever this Ancunín fella wants, don’t linger long enough to find out”

Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice so Stolas wouldn’t catch it “And you’d best come back when you said you will. He won’t forgive another broken promise.”

You met her gaze, the weight of her words pressing heavy on your chest. “I know,” you whispered.

Ava studied you for a long moment before she nodded, stepping back to stand behind Stolas “ Go on lad, hug your mother before I drag you off to another hunting lesson”

Stolas grimaced at the thought of lessons but darted into your arms, clutching at you with all the strength his little body had. You held him fiercely, burying your face in his hair, breathing in the warm, familiar scent you already missed.

It took every ounce of will to pry yourself free, to let go. And then you turned, stepping out of the camp.

Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the earth itself tried to hold you back. ______

The streets of the city were already buzzing with evening life when you finally reached the Facemaker’s boutique.

Sure enough, a gleaming carriage stood waiting out front, lacquered in black with polished gold trim. Two of Astarion’s guards loitered beside it, their eyes sweeping the street like hounds on a leash.

You didn’t so much as glance at them. Instead, you slipped straight through the boutique’s ornate door, the bell above chiming softly.

The shop was quiet—empty, except for the man waiting for you inside. Fiagro, the owner, had aged little since you’d last seen him. His hair was as black as ever, his fine robes pristine. The moment he spotted you, his face lit with recognition.

“Gods above,” he breathed, pressing a hand to his chest. “Lady Iris! I thought I’d never see you again after the Mind Flayer crisis. I almost didn't believe the messenger.”

A faint smile touched your lips. “You still remember me?”

“Remember you?” he chuckled  “How could I ever forget? You saved my life if you recall. When that vile cultist came for my neck—why, I owe you my very existence! When Lord Ancunín himself told me you’d arrive, I was… well, shocked, to say the least. Delighted, of course, but shocked. ”

“It’s nice to see you alive and well, Fiagro.”

He smiled, “I had the honor of serving nearly all your companions after the victory. Discount included, of course, as promised!” Fiagro went on, puffing his chest with pride.  “But you, my lady, I haven’t seen since. A shame, truly. You’re the one I owe most of all. The whole city does, I imagine. Though I hear you haven’t been around.”

“Traveling,” you said simply, sidestepping the truth.

“Of course, of course,” he nodded knowingly. “A hero like you never really stops traveling, do you?”

“Not all of us get to sit around and be lords of the city,” you replied with a dry smile.

He snorted, amused. “Ah, Lord Ancunín certainly enjoys that title. I’m almost wounded whenever he hosts a ball and doesn’t commission at my shop. But he must appease the other tailors, I suppose. The man has many friends.”

“He does that alot, then? hosting parties.”

“Why of course, almost once a month, sometimes more. Lord Astarion is very social around the city, I imagine everyone is honored to receive an invitation to any of his events”

“Who does he usually invite?” you asked , curiosity getting the best of you.

Fiagro shrugged lightly. “Patriarchs, lords, sometimes people from other cities, who knows, I wouldn’t be privy to such details —he rarely invites me. But he often comes here for his suits, especially for grand occasions, like the victory anniversary.”

You nodded your head, that sounded like Astarion, living a life of parties, luxury and decadance. He always liked the attention, especially when he was the one directing it.

And hosting was the perfect way to control the focus of everyone who attended.

Fiagro continued, a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. “He never once asked me to tailor a dress for a lady, though. Which is exciting in itself — even more so when I learned that lady was you.”

You raised your eyebrow.

Not even a dress for any of his many lovers?

Or consorts?

You imagined he’d have plenty after you refused to be his first.

Figaro clapped his hands, summoning a pair of maids who swept forward carrying trays laden with powders, brushes and gleaming pins. “Come on then, no time to waste. We have your gown ready.”

One of the ladies stepped forward, no doubt intending to help you with the dress but you shook your head.

“I’ll put it on myself,” you cut in quickly, stepping towards the dressing room before any of them could fuss over you. “Alone,” you emphasized.

They looked back at Fiagro and he hesitated, but one look at your eyes was enough. He bowed, gesturing for you to proceed.

You slipped into the private dressing room. A polished mannequin waited in the center, draped in a gown of deep bloodwine red.

Your eyes narrowed.

He’s really dressing you in his colour now.

You tugged off your travel-stained clothes, re-strapped the daggers securely to your thigh—but lower this time—and, reluctantly, slid into the dress.

When you stepped out again, silence fell over the room.

The maids gasped softly, hands to their mouths. Even Fiagro looked momentarily struck dumb, though pride flickered across his features.

The mirror confirmed their awe.

The gown was breathtaking, unmistakably designed to command attention. The blood-red silk clung to your body, your hair catching the colour as though it had been mixed into the dye itself. Subtle embroidery shimmered along the hem, drawing the eye upward.

It had been years since you’d worn anything resembling refinement. And this… this was another world entirely.

And yet, your jaw tightened.

“I’m not wearing this,” you declared flatly.

The slit along the leg was practical, it left you enough access to reach your daggers without having to strip down. But it soared nearly to your hipbone, leaving your hidden weapon scandalously close to discovery. Worse still, the neckline plunged between your breasts, stopping only at your navel.

One wrong movement and the entire city would have more than just gossip to talk about.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks—not from modesty, but from irritation. Of course he’d ask Fiagro to design something like this. It wasn’t a dress. It was a trap. A way of him to control not only what you wear but also the way you move.

Fiagro bristled, scandalized. “What? Do you not like it? But it’s stunning! Why, it was personally requested by Lord Ancunín himself. He even supplied the design!” He bustled to his desk, shuffling papers before thrusting a piece of refined parchment into your hand.

You glanced down. Sure enough, it was a detailed sketch of the very gown draped over your frame, notes scribbled into the margins. You didn’t need to see the flourish of the letters to know whose hand it was.

Narrow the waist. Deepen the cut here. Accentuate the chest.

Your lips curled. You handed the parchment back to Fiagro with a wicked smile. “Well, I hope you’re ready to make some adjustments.”

Figaro blinked, startled, but quickly recovered with a nervous laugh. “Of course, but… certain alterations might require more time…and, well, additional payment. I’ve already given Lord Ancunín a most generous discount.”

Your smile sharpened. “Feel free to add it to the tab.” ______

Sure enough, It took quite a few hours before Fiagro and his assistants finally deemed you ‘ready’ for the party— dress adjusted to both of your satisfactions, your hair set in gleaming waves, your face refined with powders and creams whose names you couldn’t even begin to remember. You’d half expected one of Astarion’s guards to storm in and tell you to hurry the hell up ,but they didn’t. They stood silently outside, patient as statues.

When you finally stepped out — the cloak you insisted Fiagro provide wrapped tightly around you — the guards only straightened and opened the carriage door for you with a courteous nod. Not a single word.

You almost admired their restraint. By your own estimation, you were extremely late. Surely no party started at this hour.

Not that you cared if it annoyed Astarion, in fact, you’d prefer it. Still, you found yourself hoping he wouldn’t punish them for your lateness.

So, instead of making a scene about being escorted like a hostage, as you were originally inclined to do, you simply gave them a curt nod and climbed into the carriage.

To your surprise, it wasn’t empty.

A well-dressed man sat inside, posture elegant, a faint, practiced smile on his lips. He looked up as you entered, gesturing gracefully to the seat across from him.

“Charmed to finally meet you, Lady Iris,” he said smoothly. “I trust you’re finished with your preparations?”

You arched a brow but took the seat. “I wasn’t aware I needed company.”

The man’s smile widened, amused. “You certainly don’t need it, my lady—if the stories are to be believed. But Lord Ancunín insisted you might appreciate being informed about what’s expected of you this evening. He said you like to plan ahead.”

“How thoughtful of him,” you said dryly.

“Quite so. The lord always takes care of his… special guests.” He rapped twice on the wooden panel behind him, signaling to the driver, and the carriage began to move.

“And who would you be?” you asked, studying him.

He looked young at first glance, but with half-elves, you could never be sure. There was an ease about him—too refined for a guard, too calculating for a mere servant.

“Oh, please forgive my manners,” he said with a graceful tilt of his head. “I’m Evren. Lord Ancunín’s chamberlain.”

You blinked, your eyebrows nearly hitting your hairline. “Chamberlain? Astarion sent his own chamberlain to fetch me while he’s throwing one of his grand parties?”

Evren chuckled softly. “Not to worry, my lady. I’m not his only one.”

“Of course,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

“But,” Evren continued, unbothered, “I was entrusted with the task of escorting you and bringing you up to speed. You are an honored guest, after all. The lord wouldn’t trust just anyone with this responsibility.”

“Naturally,” you said with a hint of mockery.

Evren tilted his head, studying you. “You doubt my words, my lady?”

“I don’t doubt that that is what he told you,” you said evasively, folding your hands in your lap.

Evren’s smirk lingered, though something in his eyes sharpened. “Well, I should hope you understand how important it is to Lord Ancunín that you arrive both safely and… properly prepared for this event.”

You tilted your head. “And I suppose I’ve already ruined that for you by how late we are?”

For the first time, Evren’s composure slipped. His smile faltered, just slightly, before he quickly recovered. “He did mention you might be… a touch difficult.”

“Difficult?" you repeated with a faint laugh. “Is that how he described me?”

“Well, in his words, you possess a rebellious spirit. Quite like his own.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure he phrased it so poetically.”

Evren only smiled, choosing not to engage further. “But yes, I imagine he’ll be… less than thrilled about our tardiness. Which is why it’s best we begin discussing your task before we arrive.”

You sighed, leaning back against the seat.

You supposed you could afford to be less ‘difficult’ for now, after all, your irritation wasn’t aimed at this man, but the one who sent him. And Evren was pleasant enough, far more talkative than the silent guards who wouldn’t even meet your gaze.

“Go on then,” you said. “What does he want me to do?”

Evren nodded and reached into a hidden pocket, withdrawing a neatly folded parchment.

“First and foremost,” he began, “it is imperative that you enjoy yourself this evening. That is, after all, the point of a celebration. However—” he gave you a small, knowing smile and unfolded the parchment, “—there are certain individuals we would like you to… pay particular attention to. Gather what you can—Information, impressions, alliances, anything useful. Perhaps… encourage them to speak more freely.” 

In other words, seduce them, you thought grimly.

Still, you found it rather amusing that neither lord nor servant would speak plainly when it comes to that.

He handed you the parchment, and you skimmed through it. A dozen names, each accompanied by a neat description: looks, titles, allegiances, subtle warnings. The list went on far longer than you liked.

“Surely I’m not expected to investigate all of these people in one night,” you said, brow furrowing.

“Of course not,” Evren replied. “I’ve merely prepared a list of those in attendance whose interests do not currently align with Lord Ancunín’s. Even learning something from a few would provide valuable leverage.”

You eyed him. “You prepared the list? Does Astarion even know who these people are?”

Evren’s composure returned in full. “Lord Ancunín is far too occupied to concern himself with with every petty adversary. These are minor trivialities — the kind I’m particularly well equipped to manage.”

You huffed, eyes drifting back to the parchment. So many names, so many smiling faces likely plotting against him, attending his parties—and he couldn’t even be bothered to learn who they are.

He truly didn’t take threats seriously anymore, did he? You felt a familiar twist of anger — and something uncomfortably close to worry — bloom in your chest.

Then you pushed it down.

Why should you care what happens to him?

If his carlessness led to his own undoing, then it would be well deserved.

Try as you might, though, you couldn’t will the iritation to seep away as you continued to study the list. ______

Long moments passed before the carriage eventually slowed, wheels crunching softly over the gravel as it drew up to the palace gates.

Through the window, you caught sight of the marble archway, bathed in warm light and framed by climbing roses. The gates were open, revealing a courtyard glittering with lanterns strung between ornate pillars. Everything was breathtakingly elegant.

Every petal, every ribbon, every inch of marble screaming excess and perfection.

From within, faint music drifted out, violins and harps, lilting through the night air. Even from here, you could feel the pulse of the celebration.

A few guests milled about inside the gates, flanked by guards. They weren’t arriving, they were escaping, stealing a few breaths of cool air before diving back into the glittering chaos.

Your heart thudded once. Then again.

You weren’t used to this kind of crowd anymore.

You weren’t a celebrity by any stretch, but the heroes of Baldur’s Gate wasn’t an unfamiliar title. People had whispered stories for years, and from your old companions you knew that a few of those tales had faces attached to them. Faces like yours—distinct enough to linger in memory.

Reddish hair, violet eyes, skin kissed by the sun... a combination uncommon enough to make you stand out in any room. You were a walking question mark, never fitting neatly into any lineage. Even your features defied easy categorization—too sharp for a high elf, too refined for a wood elf, too vivid for either.

And these were nobles — lords and ladies with long memories and longer tongues, who prided themselves on knowing things they shouldn’t. If Fiagro recognized you so quickly, what was stopping someone else?

You frowned.

How, exactly, did Astarion expect you to blend in? To appear unremarkable, unconnected to him?

Maybe he was counting on the passage of time. Seven years was long enough for memories to fade... for stories to turn into myths. Maybe that was his plan.

Still, it didn’t help that he dressed you in a gown that practically shouted for attention

Evren cleared his throat softly, pulling you from your thoughts.

“My lady, one last thing.”

You turned from the window. In his gloved hand, he held something out towards you.

A mask.

It was an intricate piece ,crimson velvet trimmed in gold, shaped like delicate wings that curved upward from the eyes. Tiny red gemstones traced the edges, catching the light like drops of blood. It was elegant, striking, and—unfortunately—matched the bloodwine red of your gown perfectly.

You raised a brow, your question clear in your eyes.

“To complete your outfit,” Evren said smoothly, and as he spoke, he slipped on a mask of his own — black and silver, sharp and foxlike, the perfect companion to his smirk.

You accepted the mask, turning it over in your hands. “I didn’t realize this was a masquerade.”

“Oh?” He feigned surprise, his tone light. “Must have slipped the lord’s mind to mention it.”

Of course it did, you thought. He probably wanted you to worry.

“It’ll make spotting your targets easier,” Evren went on. “I’ll have one of the servants inform you which masks belong to whom.”

Then, with that same impeccable grace, he pushed the carriage door open and stepped out. The sound of laughter and music grew louder. He turned back, extending a gloved hand towards you.

“Whenever you’re ready, Lady Iris.”

You inhaled deeply — a steadying breath — and lifted the mask to your face. The silk ribbons tied snugly at the back of your head, and for a moment, you didn’t recognize your own reflection in the carriage window.

Then you placed your hand in Evren’s and stepped out into the night.

Evren managed to guide you all the way to the grand doors of the ballroom before excusing himself. But not before asking, with perfect politeness, if he might take your cloak.

You hesitated, fingers tightening on the fabric as if it were armor.

He must’ve seen the hesitation in your eyes because his smile softened, “You do look stunning, my lady. You’ll blend right in.”

You almost laughed. “Blend in,” you repeated under your breath, “while dressed like this.”

“You underestimate the lord’s taste for theatrics,” he said, lowering his voice as he stepped closer. “Everyone here is trying to be seen.”

And you? You were here trying to disappear.

But he was right. Looking around at the glittering sea of exposed shoulders, jeweled bodices and scandalously fine fabrics… you’d stand out more with the cloak than without it.

So you slipped the cloak off your shoulders and handed it to him.

Evren folded the garment over his arm, gave you a small bow of acknowledgment, and then—just like that—left you standing alone.

The room felt heavier without him at your side.

You had already earned a few curious glances while walking beside Evren, his presence granting you the illusion of belonging. But now, standing under the carved archway at the entrance, the full weight of the ballroom’s attention seemed to turn towards you.

Your dress and mask practically made you look like a flame caught in the lanternlight.

And flames attract attention.

Your stomach twisted with the unwanted spotlight, that familiar prickle of fight-or-flight pushing up your spine.

But then you thought back to Evren’s words and something you learned long ago echoed in your mind.

'Attention wasn’t something to avoid or be ashamed of. It was something to use, to weaponize.'

So you lifted your chin, let your shoulders fall back, and stepped forward with purposeful grace.

It was astonishing, really—how easily people parted for confidence. As if they sensed a woman who knew where she was going. As if they couldn’t decide whether to admire or fear you.

Every step carried you deeper into a world you thought you’d burned your bridges to.

You kept your breathing steady as you approached the dance floor, the heart of the festivity. Here, swirling motion and bright conversations commanded attention far more effectively than you did. Couples glided across the polished marble, skirts and coats fluttering in time with the orchestra’s bright, layered music.

No one even spared you a second glance now. The relief was dizzying.

A passing waiter emerged from the blur, silver tray balanced with sparkling glasses of wine. You snatched one before he’d fully stopped.

The first sip warmed your throat. Courage in liquid form.

Your eyes drifted upward—unbidden, traitorous—already scanning the ballroom for a figure you desperately hoped not to find.

But your body betrayed you.

Your gaze hunted him anyway.

The flock of white hair was easy enough to spot.

Even across a sea of glittering masks, jeweled gowns and swirling skirts, he was unmistakable—moonlight made flesh, arrogance sculpted into a man. And tonight, even the mask he wore couldn’t hide him.

A bat-shaped mask. Of course.

Subtle as ever.

The mask framed his sharp cheekbones and swept dramatically over his temples, a theatrical, unmistakable symbol of exactly what he was.

His hair was slicked back in a way you recognized immediately—not because it was familiar, but because it wasn’t. His curls always had a mind of their own, when they fell forward, he pushed them back with that habitual motion of his, running slender fingers through white silk. It always ruined whatever careful style he had attempted. Made him look even more beautiful.

But this? This slicked-back, impossibly neat perfection?

It looked like someone had accounted for the habit in advance. Prepared his hair to withstand the restless sweep of his hand. Organized. Controlled. Contained.

It was awful.

You hated how foreign he looked to you in that single detail.

He stood at the center of a cluster of admirers like a star to its orbiting planets. Laughter and conversation sparked around him, people vying—desperate—to earn even a fraction of his attention.

The woman closest to him was draped in midnight-blue silk, a raven mask hugging her face. Her black hair fell in glossy waves almost down to her waist, and her body leaned against him as if she had every right. Her hand rested lightly on his chest, a claim disguised as flirtation.

Astarion leaned towards her, lips close to her ear, and murmured something low.

The woman laughed.

It wasn’t even a natural laugh. It was airy, breathy, overperformed—a laugh meant to be seductive, admiring, pleasing.

It still felt like a blade slipping beneath your ribs.

There was no universe where whatever he said was that funny. You knew his humor too well. His true humor was dry, cutting, wicked—rarely meant to delight. This? This was her putting on a show for him.

But whatever she was trying to do… it wasn’t working.

Because even as she simpered at him, his eyes moved elsewhere—lazy, bored, detached. A predator surveying the room simply because there wasn’t enough stimulation before him.

Then his gaze drifted. Unhurried. Aimless. Sweeping—

Until it collided with yours.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed down to the space between you. The music dulled. Your breath froze.

A flicker of something crossed his face— Recognition.

And then something—electric, sharp—snapped taut in your chest.

You jerked your eyes away as if burned.

The wine you’d been holding vanished down your throat in a single gulp. You shoved the empty glass onto the nearest tray with far more force than intended and lifted your hand to summon another.

Anything—anything—to occupy your hands, your thoughts, your face.

But before the waiter could even turn towards you, a voice—smooth, silken and far too close—curled through the air.

“Running already, my dear?”

Astarion.

Your blood turned to ice.

And heat.

All at once.

You turned around to find him looking down at you with an amused smile, like he finally found his main entertainmanent for the night.

“At last,” he drawled, stepping close enough that only inches separated you. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show up.”

You almost rolled your eyes. You were certain he’d been informed the moment you entered the boutique—probably even the moment you stepped foot in the city.

“We had a deal,” you answered coolly, refusing to give him anything more. “I assume it’s still on the table?”

“My, my.” His smile sharpened. “So it wasn’t just to see me? I’m hurt.”

You forced your expression not to twitch.

“But yes,” he continued lightly, “it is. I’m a man of my word.”

His gaze swept down your body—slow, deliberate, heated in a way that felt like being stripped bare on the spot.

“Besides, how could I say no to you,” Astarion mused, “when you look marvelous in that dress?” He smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly knowing way. “Though I’m certain it could have looked even better.”

His hand gestured tauntingly towards the added fabric and adjustments you insisted on. “I’m certain Fiagro didn’t decide on making these changes himself.”

“I’m here to do a mission, not to be paraded,” you shot back, jaw tightening. “I simply corrected the mistake.”

Astarion chuckled under his breath.

“What some people call mistakes,” he murmured, stepping closer, “others call enhancements.”

“Come off it,” you snapped. “You knew I wouldn’t agree to wear whatever that was.”

He gave a deep, dramatic sigh, as though you were the one testing his patience.

“One can have hopes,” he lamented, dramatically pressing a hand to his heart. “But it still looks stunning. Hard not to, when the original design was just perfect.”

Of course he’d say that about his own design.

Before you could retort, he extended a hand towards you, palm up, posture perfect, effortlessly elegant.

“Why don’t you give it a twirl, darling?” he purred, “dance with me.”

Your breath caught. Not visibly—gods forbid he see that—but in that deep, private place you hated acknowledging.

You stared at his hand.

And from the corner of your vision, you saw her. The midnight-blue woman. Raven mask. Raven hair. Still watching. Still too close to where he had left her.

Something twisted—hot, sharp, humiliating—deep under your ribs.

It snapped you back into your body.

“I’m afraid that wasn’t part of our deal, Astarion.”

A quiet broke between you for a heartbeat.

His smile didn’t fall.

It just… sharpened.

“Not part of our deal,” he repeated, voice soft with mock-hurt. “How dreadfully rigid of you, darling.”

He leaned in closer, just enough for only you to hear, his breath cool against your ear.

“Come now,” he murmured, playful irritation crackling under the silk of his tone. “I go through all the trouble of hosting a magnificent party, make sure you’re dressed beautifully…” His eyes glinted. “Personally greet you the moment you arrive— and you can’t even spare me a single dance?”

There it was. The push. The teasing lilt sharpened by something possessive, coaxing, hungry for your reaction.

You held your ground. “No.”

Astarion blinked once. Then the corners of his lips curled, but the smile was edged now.

He inhaled, ready to speak—surely to insist, to call you ungrateful, to chastise, to mock, to pretend he was unaffected—

But a voice cut through behind him. “Lord Ancunín, may I—”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Astarion snapped, eyes glued to yours, irritation flashing like a blade.

You flinched, not because the tone was directed at you, but because— Did he speak like this to all his guests now? As if courtesy was beneath him.

But the man didn’t back away. Didn't even twitch. Instead he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Master, please. This is urgent.”

Master.

The word hit you like a strike to the ribs.

You turned to look at him properly for the first time. Dark hair. Pale skin. Eyes—red. Not vibrant like Astarion’s. Duller. Unsettling. Wrong.

A spawn.

Astarion’s spawn.

You’d suspected they existed—of course you had—but seeing one in the flesh was something else entirely. A hollow sensation opened inside your chest, a feeling you refused to name.

Astarion’s expression tightened, his jaw clenching slightly. He leaned in as the spawn whispered something in his ear, his eyes darkening as he listened. Whatever was said, it made his gaze snap back to you with renewed intensity.

“If you’ll excuse me, my dear,” he said, his voice once again smooth and charming. “It seems something requires my attention.”

Before you could step back, he caught your hand—gentle yet claiming—and lifted it to his lips. The kiss he pressed against your fingers was soft, cold and deliberately lingering.

“Do enjoy the party, darling.”

why don't we just play pretend Like we're not scared of what is coming next Or scared of having nothing left

Look, don't get me wrong I know there is no tomorrow All I ask is

If this is my last night with you Hold me like I'm more than just a friend Give me a memory I can use Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do It matters how this ends Cause what if I never love again?

You lay on your bed in the Elfsong Tavern, staring at the ceiling, reverie an impossible feat.

Your mind was reeling, tangled in the web of uncertainty that tomorrow would bring.

There was no concrete plan, only vague contingencies. No certainty, only desperate hope. You knew you had to stop Cazador’s ascension, had to kill him, no matter the cost. But Astarion... Astarion still wouldn’t let go of the ritual. You had argued until your voices went raw, thrown every rationale, every alternative, every desperate plea at him, and he’d countered each time.

It wasn’t just stubbornness... it was something deeper, something carved into his very being by centuries of torment.

You just couldn’t understand how he was so willing to sacrifice all six of his siblings—the only ones who could truly understand his plight.

But his response had silenced you.

Death was far better than what they were enduring.

He had said those words so simply, so devoid of doubt. And the worst part was that you knew he meant it.

Astarion had told you many times that death would have been a mercy for him back then. That he had prayed for it, begged for it, only for it to be denied again and again.

Yet you thought—hoped—things had changed. That after tasting freedom, after seeing what life could be, he would want that for them, too. But when you tried to tell him that, he had only looked at you with something like sorrow, asking:

“Why do you care more about what’s better for them rather than what’s better for me? For us?”

And you had no answer. Because it wasn’t true, was it?

Everything you did, every argument, every desperate appeal—it was all for him. You wanted him to be free, truly free … of guilt, of torment, of resentment. You wanted him to have the sun, to stand beneath it and glow like he was always meant to. You had seen the way he looked at it each morning, rising before dawn just to watch, as if trying to sear it into his memory before it was taken from him. And that thought—him losing it—shattered you.

You wanted to give him everything he was denied. More than anything. You wanted to.

But was sacrificing his siblings, and the impact that would have on his soul, on both of yours, a price you were willing to pay?

You had met some of them. They were shadows of themselves, puppets with severed strings, their identities consumed by Cazador’s will. To an outsider, their lives or deaths would mean nothing. But you knew better. Astarion had been one of them. And if fate had shifted just slightly, if another of his siblings had been taken by the Nautiloid instead of him—he, too, would still be there, another mindless spawn, unknowingly willing to be sacrificed.

The weight of it all pressed down on you until you thought you might suffocate under the sheer impossibility of the decision.

And so, in the end, you decided not to make one.

You would give Astarion something he had never had before.

His own choice.

You would try to steer him towards what you believed was right. You would reason with him, push, fight for a different path. But ultimately… whatever he chose, you would stand beside him.

Because when it came down to it, you could never bring yourself to refuse him something you innately believed he deserved.

That hadn’t stopped you from trying. From arguing, again and again, until everyone at camp was sick of the sound of your voices. Until even Shadowheart snapped, exasperated, that there were more immediate concerns than your moral tug-of-war.

So, for the sake of peace, you had stopped bringing it up. You had tried to stop thinking about it, focusing on everything else that needed to be done. Which... was a lot.

But now, with the palace looming on the horizon and his siblings making themselves known, the thoughts refused to leave you.

You had fought again today, another clash of words and wills, until both of you withdrew to your separate corners, exhausted.

And yet, even now, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to find him.

Because tomorrow everything could go wrong.

Tomorrow, one or both of you might not walk away from this.

This could be your last night together.

No.

You couldn’t think like that.

It had to work out. It will work out.

Before your thoughts could spiral into another storm, you stood abruptly, careful not to stir the quiet symphony of sleep around you.

The gentle sounds of your companions grounded you in the present for just a moment.

It was way past midnight.

You tiptoed across the creaky floorboards of the tavern’s second floor, glancing towards the far end of the open space. Astarion’s bedroll, usually rumpled from his constant tossing and shifting, was conspicuously empty.

Your eyes drifted to the door of the private room—the one you and Astarion had quietly claimed whenever you needed to be alone. The room was tucked just far enough from the others to feel hidden, yet close enough that it never felt truly separate. He had chosen it, of course, claiming the mattress was the most comfortable in the entire tavern and that you “deserved a touch of decadence” after letting him feed.

Now the door was shut tight. No flickering candlelight glowed from underneath.

Either he wasn’t there… or he didn’t want company.

With nowhere else to go and your thoughts too loud to bear, you headed for the balcony.

The night air greeted you, cold and crisp, brushing over your skin. Above, the sky stretched endlessly, glittering with stars—too many to count, each one blinking like a possible future waiting to be chosen. Or perhaps warning you of how precariously fate balanced tonight. You stared back at them, searching their cold brilliance for a sign, a pattern, a path forward.

But the heavens gave no answers. Only the weight of their eternal silence.

There was one star that gleamed brighter than the rest, demanding your attention, and you let yourself get lost in it for a while… until the tide of your thoughts swept you back under.

You began to pace, arms folded tight across your chest, trying in vain to calm the turmoil in your head. You wanted to sleep, you needed to, but your mind would not be still. It circled back again and again—to him. To where the hell was he?

You really wished he’d at least have the decency to let you know whenever he decided to disappear.

He knows how much you worry, how much it bothers you to be in the dark.

Especially now when everything’s at stake.

Suddenly, a sound came from the railing, a soft scuff of leather on metal.

Your heart stopped, then sputtered back to life, a frantic drum in your chest.

Then, as if summoned by your worry, a pale hand curled around the railing from below. You leaned forward, startled, just in time to see a shock of white curls peek over the edge.

Then his eyes met yours—and he smiled, slow and sly, like he hadn’t just given you a small heart attack.

"Holy shit, you scared me!" you gasped, stepping back.

Astarion chuckled as he hauled himself up in one smooth motion, swinging a leg over the railing and perching there like some wild, elegant creature that had no regard for gravity, or your nerves.

You stared at him, trying to will your heart back to a normal rhythm. He tilted his head, studying you just as closely.

He swayed slightly, and your instincts surged. You reached for him without thinking, steadying him and pulling him away from the ledge with a sharp tug.

Gods, is he drunk?

There was blood on his collar. The rich, deep red of a recent feed. But he didn’t look like he had the last time he stumbled into camp—giddy, lightheaded, laughing at nothing.

No. This time, he looked… still. At ease. Like the blood had grounded him rather than elated him.

“Where on earth were you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

“Out for a little snack,” he said with a shrug, as if that answered everything.

You arched a brow. “Another bear?”

“A sheep, actually. Domestic one. I’ve never tried one before.” He gave a devilish chuckle. “The poor owner ought to have a fit come morning.”

You waited, perhaps foolishly, for a sign of shame following that statement. But,of course, there wasn’t any.

“Any witnesses?” you asked carefully.

“Darling” he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest, feigning deep offense, “what do you take me for?”

Right now? a drunk.

You pursed your lips. “And? how was it?” you asked, both out of curiosity and to keep him talking, testing how lucid he truly was.

He grinned, teeth flashing, voice velvet-soft.  “Doesn’t compare to you, my sweet.”

Your heart hiccuped.

It was an easy, flippant comment—his favourite kind—but it landed harder than it should have. He hadn’t asked you tonight. Hadn’t come to feed. And you would have let him, even now, even with the tension between you. You always took his feeding seriously.

He knows that.

But he hadn’t asked.

And you weren’t sure why.

Maybe he didn’t want to weaken you before the fight. Maybe it was his way of protecting you. Or maybe… he didn’t want to ask anything more of you when he already knew what the day ahead might take.

A chill swept through the air, biting at your skin. You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He noticed, of course, he always did.

You gestured towards the door with a tilt of your head. “Let’s go inside.”

He nodded, following you without argument. You led him into your private room.

Once inside, he dropped onto the bed with a graceless flop, sprawling out like a cat in the sun, limbs all over the place.

You turned, shutting the door gently behind you, your hand lingering on the wood a moment longer than necessary as you braced yourself.

Annoyance prickled at you—he had sneaked out, risked discovery, risked drawing the wrong kind of attention, while you were here worrying yourself sick about tomorrow.

One misstep, one witness, and he could’ve jeopardized everything.

He knew how high the stakes were. You needed him prepared, sharp, clear-headed. Focused.

Alive.

You spun around, ready to tell him all that, to drill it in him, to make him see reason , but you were stopped short when you found him watching you.

Really watching you.

The haze from earlier was gone. His eyes, red and impossibly ancient, were clear. Present. Focused on you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Iris…” he begins. Just that. Your name, and nothing more. But there’s so much in it... a truce, maybe. A plea. Something else you don't know what to name.

The sharp edge in you immediately started to melt, slow and reluctant. Your arms dropped from your chest, the tension loosening in your shoulders.

“You should be resting.” you said quietly, your words coming out thin and brittle, the last scrap of reproach you could muster against the way his gaze hollowed you out.

He gave a dry ,humorless laugh, as he sat up on the bed, leaning back with his hands splayed behind him. “Yes, well. I thought I might indulge in something else. You know, just in case I turn into a pile of ash tomorrow.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s not funny.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” he replied, the humor in his voice dimming. He looked past you, to the window, to the night still full of stars. “And neither is stargazing on a balcony, trying to make sense of a world that refuses to have any,” he said pointedly.

You scoffed and turned away, unwilling to rise to the bait.

He always needled you about your belief in the stars. He never understood why you found solace in fairytales and fickle things like fate and destiny.

But he always stayed up with you, staring right back at them, on nights when your thoughts wouldn't settle, listening quietly as you traced constellations and told him the stories you saw woven into their light.

You heard him sigh a moment later, the sheets rustling softly behind you. You looked back to see him holding out his hand to you.

"I don't want to argue anymore," he said, his voice low and tired, his eyes glinting. "Not tonight. Not with you."

His fingers brushed your arm, light as a whisper. And as always, you folded. “Me neither.”

He pulled you gently to the bed, easing you down beside him.

You leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder “I don’t have to ask what’s keeping you up, I suppose” he mused. “Still obsessively over-planning everything for tomorrow?”

You offered a quiet huff in response, eyes following his fingers as they gently stroked the hand he still held. The soft rhythm was a quiet comfort. "Are you sure you told me everything about the palace?"

"Everything, darling. Cross my heart and hope to—well, you get it." He absentmindedly removed his hand from yours to make the gesture, and you secretly mourned the loss of his touch. He gave a crooked smile, glancing your way. "You've asked me a hundred times."

"I know, I'm just... worried," you admitted, then lifted your head to look at him. "Aren’t you?" you asked finally.

Because he should. Because he must be. Because he’s the one marching towards a nightmare with his maker’s name, and you—you're just the fool who insists on coming with him.

He hesitated, and for a second you thought he’d lie, distract you with a joke or a flirty comment, a fake courage he was so good at feigning. But then he looked away, towards the window where moonlight filtered in soft and silvery, dusting his pale skin like it belonged to another world.

“I’m terrified,” he finally said.

You turned towards him, startled by the honesty. But he still wasn’t looking at you, his red eyes glimmering.

“I can’t stop thinking about what comes after. Or if there is an after. I keep wondering if we’ll finally kill him and I’ll feel… free. Or if it’ll just be another illusion, another gilded cage I walk into.”

He doesn’t laugh when he says this. He always laughs when things get too close to the bone. But now, he just sits with it.

This pure, unfiltered honesty...  was something you'd always secretly hoped for, with him.

But it unsettled you.

“Truthfully,” he continued, “I don’t know what scares me more. Dying tomorrow... or surviving and not knowing who I am without him.”

Your heart melted, and gods, you wanted to reach out. To take his hand, to press your forehead to his and tell him that he is more, he is real, he is good, despite everything. But you didn’t. You never did, unless he wanted you to.

“You’re more than what he made you,” you said instead, your voice low, steady.

He gave a bitter smile,  as he finally met your eyes, one that barely reached the corner of his mouth. “Am I? Or am I just what’s left? The pretty pieces he didn’t break?”

You held his gaze, voice determined, "You're the one who chooses to fight back. To be more. That choice makes you real. Not him. Not what he did to you.”

He turned his head away sharply, jaw tightening, perhaps to hide what your words stirred in him. Vulnerability didn’t come easy to either of you. You’d made progress, yes—but there were wounds that didn’t scab over in weeks, or months. Maybe not even in lifetimes.

But what he said next made your breath catch.

“In all honesty, I’m also worried about you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

"You don’t have to do this, Iris. You could go on living your life. Destroy the Elder Brain, walk into the sunset, and live happily ever after. You’d never have to worry about a cunt named Cazador again.” He finally turned to look at you fully. “But you’re here. You’re doing it. For me. You all are. And it could very well get you killed.”

You searched his face. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about yourself?”

“I don’t have a choice in the matter.” His voice dropped, quiet. “Ultimately, this little tadpole of ours will either consume us, or we’ll destroy it. Either way, its protection is temporary. Which means I eventually have to return to him… and then die. Or I face him now and maybe die. The choice is clear.”

A breath escaped him, calculated, quiet, heavy. “This is the first and last fighting chance I’d ever have. And I will be damned if I don’t take it.”

You didn’t respond right away. You couldn’t. His honesty had peeled something back in you, and you weren’t sure how to protect it.

His gaze lingered on you, and then he said the thing that had been pressing on both your minds all night.

“This could be our last night together.”

“It’s not,” you whispered Immediately. “It won’t be. We’re going to kill him. I promise.”

He smiled at that, but it was soft, almost mournful. “You can be foolishly brave at times. Did you know that?”

You returned the smile, tired but sure. “You’ve said that before.”

Too many times, in fact. Often with exasperation. Sometimes as a tease, but tonight… it sounded different.

“I have,” he murmured, and he reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingering, voice dipping lower “I admire you for it.”

Your breath hitched.

The way he said it, made you almost stumble. He had praised you before, flirted endlessly, even adored you in his own charming way. But this… this wasn’t flattery. This was reverent. Bare. Him.

He held out his hand again, eyes searching yours. “Stay with me tonight.”

He said it like an offer, a suggestion, but you recognized the plea. 

And because exhaustion was clouding your senses, you didn’t immediately understand. “Are you still hungry?”

Something flickered in his eyes and he nearly laughed, but stopped himself, as if to save you the embarrassment.

“No,” he drawled. “I mean yes—I’m always hungry for your blood—but… that’s not exactly what I meant.”

And then it dawned on you. And you froze.

“Oh,” you breathed. “Astarion…”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Please. Whatever tomorrow might bring… I want to remember this. I want to remember you.”

You stared at his hand. Your heart ached so deeply it felt like it pressed into your lungs. It had been so long that the possibility of him asking for this had completely slipped your mind.

You’d stopped being intimate after his confession—after he told you how much of it had been a performance, how little choice he’d had in his past, how often touch had been a weapon. It broke something in you too, the idea of him ever drifting away while in your arms. You vowed to never take from him what he didn’t offer freely. You didn’t want to be another scene he had to survive.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, so quiet you weren’t sure he heard.

“You won’t.” His voice was steady now, grounded.

Part of you was screaming at you for even hesitating. It’d been months since you’d done anything past kissing, months since you let yourself touch him without being terrified of it being unwanted. You’d lived with the habit of looking in his eyes for permission for every small thing—every touch, every comfort. Astarion never refused you, he’d always reciprocated, even initiated. Still, every time you worried this would be the moment it pushed him into a place you couldn’t bring him back from.

You’d never moved beyond innocent touches. You couldn’t. You would never ask that of him, even though you now trusted him to say no.

You meant it when you said you were fine going without it for however long it took, if it meant he was comfortable. You wanted it to be his choice. His initiation. His ask.

And here he was now, asking, and you were hesitating.

Still, the saner, sober part of you kept thinking there might be more to this. Maybe the blood had him excited, buzzing. Maybe he wasn’t completely himself. You would die before taking advantage of his state.

“Are you sure?” you asked softly. “I don’t want to do this if… if part of you has to leave the room to get through it.”

“Darling… I don't think I've ever been more sure of anything in my life.” He looked sure. He sounded sure. Gods— you wanted to believe him, but you needed to be sure too.

But a small, dark corner of your mind wondered if this was him slipping back into old manipulation—if he was using the only currency he knew to thank you in advance for what you might do tomorrow, to bind you in a way, to make sure you’d still be willing to help him.

You told yourself you were past that. You had to trust that whatever you had now was real: that Astarion no longer acted because he thought he should, but because he wanted to.

“I’ll stand by your side tomorrow, Star. No matter what.”

You hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. You didn’t want him to take it as permission to do whatever he chose without weighing the cost, to understand it as if you were finally conceding after all your arguments.

But it was true, and you needed him to know that. He didn’t have to force anything for your sake. No matter what he thought it might gain him, he didn’t have to pay for your protection ever again.

But he didn’t look like he misunderstood your words, if anything, he looked like he expected them.

“I know.” He said softly ,then he pushed the thing you’d both been circling into the open. “This isn’t an act, Iris. I want this. With you. Not because I have to. Not because I’m pretending. Because it’s us. And if it’s the last thing I do with my agency still intact… then I want it to be real. Something that’s completely mine, ours. Not his”

Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping into that soft lull you never could resist. “In all honesty, darling, I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off you.”

His comment knocked the breath out of you.

That was all it took.

You reached for his hand slowly, lacing your fingers through his. They were cool, always colder than yours, but they held no tremble now. No hesitation. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, in his restraint, but he was here. Present.

You squeezed his hand. “Okay,” you said. Barely a whisper. “Okay.”

He exhaled, something in his shoulders relaxing as if your words gave permission for the world to soften.

And for the first time in so long, you leaned forward first, brushing your lips against his in a way that held no urgency. Just presence. And he melted into it, exhaling through his nose, as if this alone could undo centuries of damage. His hands came to your face like he was afraid you might vanish. You let him guide the kiss deeper, warmer, until your hands settled against his chest, feeling the steadiness of him beneath your palms.

You shifted, moving him back gently until he lay back on the mattress. For a moment you hovered above him, straddling, meeting his eyes, searching, asking. He smirked, amused by your eagerness, then with a practiced motion flipped you, so you were beneath him.

From that moment, everything else slipped away, the plans, the fears, the arguments. It was as if the world had stopped for both of you.

You’d shared many nights before, but this was unlike any other. It felt like a small stolen eternity.

The glow of it lingered even as you lay exhausted and tangled in each other’s arms, your brain finally quieting to let you rest.

You both whispered promises you weren’t sure you could keep. But in that held, quiet space, you meant them.

It was almost like a love confession, though neither of you dared to speak the words out loud.

You both felt it.

The memory slipped away. And you woke to the softest touch on your face.

For a moment, you thought it was Astarion’s fingers still tracing your skin, but the touch wast too steady, too insistent to be just memory.

Slowly, carefully, you opened your eyes.

Red eyes met yours, wide and unblinking ,glowing faintly in the dim light.

But not his. Smaller, brighter. Familiar in a way that ached deep in your chest.

“Stolas…” you whispered, realization settling in.

He lay beside you, curled close, watching you with a solemn intensity that seemed too old for his years. His little hand was still pressed against your cheek, and when he saw you awake, his face softened into a relieved smile.

“You were making a sad face,” he mumbled, his voice still thick from lack of use.

You exhaled, grounding yourself in the present. “Just a memory ,love,” you murmured, lifting a hand to brush his messy curls away from his face. “I’m alright.”

He’d refused to leave your side since you returned. When you’d finally collapsed into your tent, he’d climbed in after you without hesitation, stubborn as only a child could be. You hadn’t had the heart to turn him away — truthfully, you needed him close just as much as he needed you. Perhaps more.

His small brows furrowed. "Was it a bad memory?"

You hesitated, glancing at him. "No," you said softly. "Not bad. Just... old."

He seemed to think about that for a moment before he wriggled closer, pressing his forehead against your arm. You could feel the way he tensed slightly, like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if he should.

Then, barely above a whisper, "I'm hungry."

Your brow furrowed. “Hungry? Didn’t Ava make sure you ate?”

He huffed, his little shoulders slumping. “Not for food.”

You stilled, your chest tightening, a quiet pang of guilt settling in.

He meant blood.

Stolas didn’t need blood to survive, not truly — his nature was different, mercifully gentler than his father’s. But he still craved it—especially when he was afraid. It soothed him, like a child reaching for a comfort toy. But it also made him… difficult. Drinking blood gave him a surge of energy, turning him into an unstoppable little whirlwind of speed and boundless strength.

He must have been scared, terrified to have you gone for so long, he wanted to reassure himself that you’re back, that you’re here.

Guilt gnawed at you , your hand twitched towards him instinctively, ready to offer, before you caught yourself.

You were being drugged for days, you could still feel the aftereffects lingering in your body, you weren’t sure how the taste of potions in your blood would affect him.

Astarion always said he could taste whatever you ate through your blood. And he refused to drink from you for days whenever you were poisoned.

If there was truth in that, then offering Stolas your blood now could endanger him. And you would not—could never—risk his health.

Still, that didn’t make refusing him easier.

You sighed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Stolas, I can’t feed you right now. I’m still healing.”

His red eyes dimmed, disappointment flickering behind them. “Oh…”

“Once I get better, I will,” you  promised.

He nodded, though he looked away, fiddling with the edge of the blanket.

“Have you tried animals?” you asked after a beat.

Ava had been teaching him how to hunt, insisting it was never too early for him to learn.

His instincts were sharp, he was fast, clever. But he still struggled—because animals had to be caught alive, and live prey was harder than the stillness of your offered wrist. You had hoped, in your absence, he might have made progress.

Instead, his small mouth turned down into a pout. “They keep running away!”

A chuckle escaped you before you could stop it. “Of course they do, sweet thing. They don’t exactly want you drinking their blood.”

Stolas’s head popped up, eyes wide. “Why not?”

You blinked. “Because it hurts, love.”

He gasped, sitting up fully. “but you let me— does it hurt you?”

Ah.

It was a slip of the tongue, perhaps your reverie addled brain still haven’t registered you were taking to a boy that you had sheltered from everything.

Even the sight of your pain.

His little face scrunched in horror, and his hands shot up to his own mouth as if afraid of his own teeth. “I—I don’t want to hurt you!” His voice wobbled. “I won’t!”

“Oh, Stolas…” Your heart twisted, and you pulled him into your arms. His small body trembled against yours, clinging to you like you might disappear. “You’re not hurting me,” you murmured against his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “You never have.”

He sniffled against your shoulder. “But—but you said—”

“It’s not the same,” you interrupted softly, pressing your forehead to his. “With me, it’s different. I give it because I want to. Because I love you. And when I’m better, I’ll let you again. I promise.”

The tears came harder then, a dam breaking. You knew it wasn’t just the slip that had cracked him. He was crying because he had missed you. Because he had been angry when you first came back, pouting and defiant, refusing to show how much it hurt. Now, in the quiet safety of your tent, it all came rushing in.

So you rocked him, murmuring quiet nothings, until his trembling eased and the sobs softened into hiccups. Until he could speak again.

“I don’t want to try hunting animals anymore,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“You don’t have to,” you soothed. “But you can’t stop eating them, Stolas. They’re the only food we can manage right now.”

He looked up at you, remembering the lessons you’d drilled into him since birth—sometimes you had to do what was necessary, no matter how you feel about it.

Eating when you didn’t want to. Not showing your fangs to strangers. Hiding from the sun even when it called to you. He’d learned those truths, even if he hated them.

So you weren’t surprised when, after a long pause, he nodded, whispering, “Maybe I can try again later…”

You smiled, pride softening the ache in your chest, and smoothed his hair away from his damp cheek.

He rubbed at his eyes, brushing away the remnants of tears and exhaustion. That’s when you saw it—an angry red mark slashed across his palm, the skin raw and tender, as if scorched.

You blood ran cold.

“Stolas?” You gently caught his hand, turning it over. “What happened?” You pointed at the mark.

He tried to pull it back, but your grip was firm, your gaze sharper than he could evade. His lips pressed into a stubborn line.

“Ava said you’d be back by morning,” he muttered at last. “But you didn’t come. So I… I went looking for you.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. “Stolas…” You cupped his cheek with your free hand, forcing him to meet your eyes. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t—”

His little shoulders hunched, defiant but ashamed. “You said you’d be back.”

Your fingers twitched through his hair, a nervous gesture, but also one of comfort. He leaned into it, eyes closing briefly. His words struck harder than he knew—it was his quiet way of saying you didn’t keep your words, so why should I keep mine?

“I know,” you whispered. “You’re right.”

They had camped far into the forest, as always, beneath the dense canopy where the light of dawn struggled to break through. You always chose the side of the valley that caught less direct sun, the safest ground for him. Yet still… he had wandered. He must have strayed far enough that Ava, with all her careful watchfulness, had only just managed to find him before the light burned him further.

“I don’t know why it hates me,” he said suddenly, small voice quivering.

Your brows knit. “The sun?”

Stolas nodded, his eyes downcast.

Your heart ached. You gathered him into your arms again, tucking his head beneath your chin. His little body sagged against you, his wounded hand clutching at your tunic.

“My sweet boy,” you murmured into his hair. “The sun doesn’t hate you. It doesn’t hate at all. It just… is. Like the sea, or the wind. It can be gentle, or it can be cruel, but it doesn’t choose. It isn’t fair, I know. But it isn’t you it hates.”

He sniffled, voice muffled against your chest. “Then why does it hurt me and not you?”

Your  fingers stroked through his curls, steady, soothing. “Because you’re different. Because you are part of something powerful and old. It makes the world harder for you sometimes. But it also makes you extraordinary.” You kissed his crown, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine in his hair. “And you will never have to face it alone. Not while I breathe.”

He shifted in your lap, tilting his face up to search yours. His red eyes were wet but blazing, fierce in their smallness. “You promise?”

“I promise,” you said without hesitation. Your hand cupped his cheek again, thumb brushing away a tear. “And I’ll do better at keeping my promises, Stolas. I swear it.”

He blinked at you, long and searching, before finally nodding. Then, exhausted by the storm of emotions, he curled against you again, small fingers winding into you braid as if to anchor you there.

You could feel his breath even out slowly, though he refused to let go of you, his little hand still clutching tight. You pressed your lips to his temple, whispering so softly it was almost only for yourself.

“I won’t leave you again. Not like that. Not ever.”

Ava finally broke the silence, her eyes scanning over your bruised form with a mix of horror and disbelief.

“What on earth happened to you?” she asked, crouching down to inspect the closed gash on your leg.

You flinched under her scrutiny, pulling your pants higher to reveal the wound fully, though your gaze stubbornly avoided hers. You had stumbled out of the tent not long ago, carefully ensuring Stolas was deep in reverie before daring to face the firelight. Ava had been waiting, perched like a hawk, and the second she saw your limp she pounced. Fighting her was useless—she always won these little battles—and now here you were, leg exposed, shame prickling under your skin.

“That must’ve been a nasty cut,” she murmured, her voice tight with concern, as though she were holding herself back from scolding you.

“It was,” you admitted. “I don’t even remember how I got it.”

Her brow furrowed. “You fainted?”

You shook your head. “No. I just… stopped registering pain after this one.” You raised your arm, showing her the jagged scar carved into your forearm. It caught the firelight, ugly and raw.

Ava’s gaze followed, her lips thinning. She shook her head with a muttered, “You’re lucky you’re alive, child.”

A bitter laugh scraped your throat. “I wouldn’t necessarily call what happened luck.” You raked a hand through your tangled hair, wishing she would stop looking at you like that.

Ava sighed and turned back to the rabbit she’d been roasting, rotating it carefully over the fire. The rich smell of its fat sizzling in the flames filled the air, making your stomach churn with hunger you couldn’t quite feel. After a long moment, she motioned for you to sit beside her. You obeyed, lowering yourself onto the log with a hiss as your body protested.

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it?” she pressed gently. “What really happened to you?”

You let the silence hang, the weight of the last week pressing down like a mountain. Finally, you exhaled, defeated. “It was going perfectly fine. I found the map. The clue was right—the Gurs really had it. But they were mid-traveling, so I had to act fast.”

Ava nodded, her sharp eyes narrowing as though she could already see where this was going.

“I had a solid plan, too. I slipped in, quiet as a shadow. But just as I was about to get away…” You trailed off, lips twitching despite yourself. “A cat appeared.”

Ava’s brow furrowed. “A… cat?”

“Yes,” you said, laughing at the absurdity even as you remembered the panic. “A stray cat sneaked into the camp and… exposed me.”

“You can’t be serious. Are you sure it wasn’t a druid or something?”

You thought back, frowning. The cat had been harmless—if obnoxiously loud. No intelligence in its eyes, just chaos in fur form. “Admittedly strange… but no, I don’t think it was a humanoid.”

Ava looked skeptical but let you continue.

“Anyways, I got caught. Maybe I should’ve run immediately, but I thought I could get away with the map…”

“Iris,” Ava warned, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice.

“I know! In hindsight it was crazy. But it made sense at the time. I killed a few of them, but eventually… they got me.” You winced.

Ava’s eyes narrowed. “How did you get out?”

You looked away, unwilling to dwell on the memory. “The camp got attacked by… someone else. That’s how I escaped.”

“Someone else?” Ava’s eyes went wide. “A single individual wiped out the whole Gur camp?”

“Well… I’m not sure how many there were. It certainly felt like a lot,but I only saw the one.”

“And they just… let you go?”

You shrugged. Unwilling to give much else. “Apparently.”

Ava’s brow furrowed. “Then where have you been for a week?”

“Healing,” you said simply, avoiding her gaze.

She pressed, sensing there was more. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I told you the important stuff,” you said defensively.

“And the… not-so-important?” she asked, leaning closer, her voice gentle but insistent.

You looked away, sighing. “…Fine. I fainted right after the camp got swamped. I don’t remember much after that. When I woke up…I was healed. Somewhat.”

Ava blinked. “So… whoever swamped the camp… saved you?”

You nodded.

Ava let out a low whistle. “Very interesting. They recognized you weren’t one of the Gurs… and had the decency to save your life.”

“Yeah…” you breathed.

“So now you owe your life to a stranger?”

“No. It’s settled. The debt’s repaid,” you said sharply, before realizing how defensive you sounded.

Ava frowned, unconvinced. “Do I want to know how you repaid it?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s paid,” you snapped.

Ava still looked unconvinced but didn’t push. “So… what now? Do we know where the map ended up?”

“He has it. I just need to get it from him.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “The man who saved you?”

You nodded.

“Then why didn’t you just ask him for it?”

“I did. He wants me to do something for him in return.”

Ava’s fists clenched. “Iris, if he’s asking you to—”

“It’s not what you think! Really, It’s fine. I just… have to attend a party,” you interrupted quickly.

She blinked, incredulous. “A… party? That’s your… payment?”

You huffed. “It’s a normal party. At least, as normal as his parties get. I just have to look presentable and pretend I know what I’m doing.”

Ava studied you for a moment, then smirked. “You do both rather well.”

“He said the same thing,” you muttered, cheeks heating.

“Can we trust this man, Iris?” Ava asked, voice softening. “You seem… bitter at him, for someone who saved your life.”

You scowled.  “I’m not going to grovel at his feet just because he did the right thing for once in his life,” you said.

“Once in his life?” Ava repeated. “Iris… did you know him before he saved you?”

Your eyes widened, shifting towards the tent where Stolas slept.  “…No,” you said slowly. The truth was, you had no idea who Astarion really was now… There was no point in telling Ava about that history.

She looked unconvinced, but you pressed on. “I just know of him. He’s… rather famous in Baldur’s Gate.”

“Who is this man?”

“Lord Ancunín , apparently,” you said, unable to stop the eye roll. Saying his surname aloud sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine.

“He’s just really rich and really powerful, so naturally everyone in Baldur’s Gate knows him.” you added quickly.

“And you owe him your life…”

You stood abruptly, irritation flaring. “I just told you—I don’t owe him shit.” You stormed towards the tent, your patience at an end.

You taught me the courage of stars before you left How light carries on endlessly, even after death With shortness of breath You explained the infinite How rare and beautiful it is to even exist

You adjusted the strap of your bag and turned sharply on your heel, leaving the statue—and the memories it carried—behind.

You let your feet carry you through the winding streets of Baldur’s Gate.

It had been nearly seven years since you last walked these roads, since you last breathed in the air of the city where you were born. And who knew when—if—you’d ever return again?

So, you wandered aimlessly.

It felt like walking through the pages of your own past, a quiet unraveling of memories as the city unfolded before you.

In the Upper City, memories clung to every corner like ghosts. You saw glimpses of your mother in the places she once took you—her laughter echoing through fine shops and bustling markets, the warmth of her hand in yours. You remembered what it felt like to be safe, cherished, loved. To be someone’s daughter.

Those memories should have been happy, and they were, at the time. But now, they carried an unbearable weight. Guilt. Loss. A wound that never fully closed.

Then the streets changed, and with them, so did the memories.

The Lower City greeted you with a different kind of recollection—hunger, fear, the sharp sting of loneliness. You had once been a child here too, but not the same one who walked the polished streets of the Upper City. That girl had been stripped away, her softness hardened into something leaner, sharper. This city had taught you to survive, but it had also shown you just how easily a person could be forgotten.

It felt like you had lived two lifetimes in your short span.

And now? Now, it felt like you were living a third.

You were a wanderer. A shadow passing through towns, never lingering long enough for your presence to matter, never allowing yourself to grow attached. You hunted to eat, took odd jobs when coin was needed, bought what clothes you could afford.

It was freeing in some ways.

But in many others, it was exhausting, unstable… not the life you wanted to live for the rest of your days.

So… you were a nomad, but not really.

For what kind of nomad gets invited to a grand party thrown by the great hero of Baldur’s Gate?

Okay…

That plaque really struck a nerve ,hadn’t it?

Your mind wasn’t going to let go of it easily, no matter how much you willed it to. 

You needed something to help you swallow it down.

As if answering your unspoken request, the warm, flickering lights of the Elfsong Tavern greeted you from down the street. Without hesitation, before second thoughts could creep in, you slipped inside.

The scent of ale, wood smoke, and something fried wrapped around you like an old embrace. The place had changed little—if at all. You made your way to the bar, nodding to the unfamiliar face behind it.

"Does Lakrissa still work here?" you asked as she slid a drink towards you.

The woman’s brows lifted slightly. "Lakrissa? Oh, yes. She’s on her honeymoon."

You nearly choked on your first sip. "Honeymoon? With Alfira?"

The woman grinned. "Oh yes, do you know them?"

"I'm… an old friend," you said, your voice catching in your throat. "Tell them I said hello."

"And your name would be…?"

"Iris."

"Just Iris?"

"Yes. Just Iris."

The barkeep gave you a long, appraising look before smirking. "Well, Just Iris, book a room, and you might get the chance to greet her yourself. Her next shift is tomorrow night."

You couldn’t help but wonder what she saw when she looked at you.

The clothes Astarion had lent you didn’t hold back from screaming money—far too extravagant for a place like this. They fit decently, at least, and covered you far better than that ridiculous sleeping gown had. But still, here, in the Lower City, they made you stand out like a sore thumb.

You had tried to hastily tame your hair into a bun before leaving the palace, but it had grown too long for your liking, falling in unruly waves that refused to be tamed. And then there were your scars, etched across your skin like ghostly reminders of battles won and lost.

You probably looked less like a wayward noble girl and more like someone who had stolen these clothes off one. Which, in all fairness, wasn’t far from the truth—except they’d been forced on you, rather than taken.

The barkeep’s next words only confirmed your thoughts.

"We’ll give you a discount," she said lightly, "on account of being an old friend."

You exhaled softly. "Oh well…"

After a moment of consideration, you nodded.

You finished your drink and slid over the coin for both the room and the drink. "Can I add in a bath?"

She nodded, and without another word, you headed towards the back.

You stepped into the bathhouse, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. The warmth in the air was comforting, the scent of soap and herbs clinging to the steam that curled lazily around the room.

Slowly, you undressed, letting your clothes slip from your body until they pooled at your feet.

A long mirror stood against the wall, positioned as if for some indulgent purpose—either for the vain to admire themselves or for more... nefarious intentions.

You remembered Astarion commenting on it  once, perhaps in this very room, or one much like it, when he had helped you bathe after you’d been grievously wounded. You’d drifted in and out of consciousness while he talked, filling the silence with stories as his hands worked carefully, methodically.

He’d told you how, once upon a time, he avoided mirrors at all costs. How even a fleeting glance risked tipping his victims off to what he truly was.

You’d joked then, hazily amused, staring at your reflection beside the glaring absence of his. That it made it terribly convenient if he ever wanted to stab you in the back while bathing—you’d never see him coming.

He’d laughed. “Even if my reflection worked, darling, you still wouldn’t see me coming.”

“What a reassuring thing to say,” you’d murmured, half-dazed, “ while I lie here entirely at your mercy.”

“Oh, but you know I’d never do that,” he’d replied smoothly. “My backstabbing days are long gone… especially where you’re concerned.”

Then, after a pause, he’d tipped your chin gently, guiding your gaze away from the mirror and towards him instead. His eyes had gleamed with that wicked lilt in his voice.

“I’d only ever do it from the front,” he’d added. “I’d hate to miss staring at that lovely face that I so adore.”

You’d splashed him half-heartedly with water—too exhausted to muster anything more—while he continued scrubbing your back as if nothing in the world mattered more.

And then he’d kissed the back of your head. Gentle. Almost reverent.

“I’m only teasing, darling,” he’d murmured. “Why would I get rid of you when I can do the sensible thing and keep you all to myself instead?”

The memory lingered as you stared at your reflection now.

You rarely afforded yourself the luxury of really looking at your body. But now, with nothing else to distract you, you did.

Your eyes traced the bruises that littered your skin, dark and blooming in various shades of blue, purple and sickly yellow. You let your fingers brush over them, pausing at the worst of them—a large, angry mark across your lower abdomen.

You remembered the impact. The sheer force of the Gur’s boot as it drove into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, rattling your ribs. He hadn’t held back. Not that you could blame him. From his perspective, you deserved it. You had killed his brethren without hesitation. And if someone had hurt the people you cared about, you would have done far worse in return.

Still, you had gotten off lightly. A few bruises were a mercy, considering what could have happened.

Your fingers drifted to another wound, a deep gash that that was stitchly closed but still burned beneath your touch. You winced. It would scar, no doubt. Just another mark to add to the collection.

It could have been worse. Would have been worse had you not received proper care at the hands of Astarion’s healers. The thought made something in your chest tighten, but you pushed it aside.

Instinctively, your gaze fell to your leg.

The burn scar.

The first mark to ever mar your body. The only one whose story belonged solely to you.

Astarion had asked about it once, early on. Careless, thoughtless—he’d made some offhand remark about what terrible thing you must have done to earn such a mark.

“What kind of bastard would scar such a beautiful body?” his tone was flirty, as it always seemed to be.

Then he’d seen your face. The way your expression shuttered. And his smile had faltered.

“It was me,” you’d answered anyway.

He hadn’t pressed further. Just simply let the matter drop, as though he understood—instinctively—that some wounds were better left untouched.

Conveniently—or perhaps not—the very next day had offered him a glimpse of just how deep that wound ran as you found yourselves standing before a burning building.

The Flaming Fist shouted orders as chaos erupted around you.

Wyll and the others hadn’t hesitated, diving in without a second thought, desperate to save whoever might still be inside.

You hadn’t moved.

Your legs simply refused. Rooted in place, useless. As though your body had forgotten how to obey you.

Then a familiar voice sounded behind you.

“Is this yet another day of us saving people we don’t even know?” Astarion complained lazily.

Your body jolted at the sound of him, though you had the distinct feeling he hadn’t been trying to startle you. He’d been there the entire time.

“You should be helping,” you managed, voice strained.

“Must I?”  He stretched, strolling up beside you.“Well then… why aren’t you?”

“I—”

The words died in your throat.

There was no answer you could give.

You wanted to move. You needed to. But your body was betraying you, frozen in place. Your chest felt too tight, your breaths coming too fast, too shallow. The air wouldn’t go where it was supposed to.

Your hands trembled. Your vision blurred at the edges. The crackling of flames grew unbearably loud, drowning out everything else.

Something in his gaze sharpened.

His eyes flicked down to your calf—just briefly—before returning to your face. His posture changed instantly. The languid ease fell away.

Without a word, he’d stepped closer, one hand settling lightly against your back, guiding you away from the chaos.

“Perhaps we should leave the hard work to the experts,” he’d murmured softly. “I’m sure our heroic companions have it well in hand.”

He practically dragged you to a nearby tree, positioning himself between you and the fire. Then he simply… stayed.

Silent. Steady.

His hand remained cold against your back, grounding you. He angled his body just enough to shield you from the worst of the noise, subtly matching his breathing to yours—slow, deliberate, patient.

In. Out.

You didn’t fully come back to yourself until your companions returned, assuring you that everyone who could be saved had been. Wyll looked shaken—deeply so—but you wouldn’t learn why until later.

Astarion didn’t give any of them the chance to question you. He spoke for both of you, distracting and dismissive, steering the conversation away before anyone could ask why you hadn’t gone inside with them.

What surprised you most then, was that he never spoke of it again. He never brought it up, never prodded, never demanded to know why the supposed leader of your little fellowship had frozen before a bit of fire. He didn’t tease you for it, didn’t expect an explanation, and—most telling of all—didn’t ask for anything in return.

It was then that you began to believe there was more to  the charming vampire in your ragtag group than what he allowed the world to see. More to him than the surface he so carefully maintained. More than the pretty face, the irresistible body, the practiced flirtation he had once foolishly assumed you’d fallen for.

From that moment on, Astarion was simply… more.

More than he himself believed he could ever be.

You finally turned away from the mirror in an effort to distract yourself from taking yet another trip down memory lane, and stepped into the bath.

The warm water was a welcome relief. You sighed as you sank into the tub, letting the heat work into your sore muscles. It had been too long since you last had the simple pleasure of a proper bath— probably since before you even set out on this fool’s errand. Normally, you'd make do with river water or whatever lake you could find, but this? This was heaven.

But it was temporary.

Like everything else in your life.

You leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the tavern below— sounds that had once been familiar, almost comforting.

Your mind wandered back to Lakrissa and Alfira. You hadn’t seen them in years, hadn’t even realized they had stayed in the city. You’d fought beside them, saved them and now they had found happiness together.

Good for them.

You weren’t sure why it surprised you. People moved on. They built lives, found love, found homes.

And you… you just kept moving.

You let out a slow breath and dunked your head underwater, holding it there for a long moment before resurfacing. The thoughts never truly left, but at least the water dulled them.

You stayed until the water went cold.

Dressing into the fine clothes again, you stepped out of the bathroom.

As you walked towards your room, you noted that the tavern had grown livelier, filled with workers slipping in after their shifts. The hum of conversations, the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air.

You reached your door and pushed it open. The room was small and simple—nothing like the lavish space you'd shared with your friends before. But the bed looked comfortable enough, and it called to you.

For someone who had spent a week ‘resting’, you still felt utterly drained. Perhaps because unconsciousness forced upon you by injury and then medicine was not the same as true rest. You hadn't meditated properly in days, and it left you feeling like you were wading through fog.

But you ignored it.

Instead, you dug into your bag, pulling out a small vial filled with swirling liquid—the invisibility potion. Setting it aside, you retrieved a strip of cloth and your dagger.

The blade gleamed in the dim light as you sliced the cloth into four pieces. Then, with a steadying breath, you pressed the edge to your fingertip and cut. A sharp sting, then warmth as blood welled up. You let it drip onto the fabric before bringing your finger to your lips, sucking on the wound to stop the bleeding.

Next, you moved to the window. Pushing it open and peering outside. The sun hung lower now, inching towards the western horizon. By the time you reached your destination, it would be dark.

Good.

Without hesitation, you tipped the potion to your lips and downed it in one swift gulp. A strange tangling sensation spread through your body as you watched yourself fade from view.

Wasting no time, you climbed out the window and onto the streets below.

You weren’t a fool. Astarion had let you go, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t having you watched for whatever reason. 

You weren’t taking any chances.

You slipped into the crowded streets of Baldur’s Gate, brushing past strangers and subtly tucking the bloodied cloths into their belongings, their pockets—spreading your scent in different directions, leaving false trails behind.

Only once you were satisfied did you move towards the hidden routes beneath the city.

The good thing about being an urchin of the Lower City was that you knew the streets intimately. You knew the shortcuts, the forgotten pathways, the passages others had long abandoned.

It didn’t take long to reach the edge of the city and slip into the forest beyond.

You had a vague idea of where to go. The meeting point had been planned in advance. But unease twisted in your gut. You had been gone too long. They had expected you days ago.

Had something happened? Had they been forced to move? What if—

You swallowed the rising panic and pressed forward.

Once you were certain you were far enough from civilization, you broke into a run, light on your feet despite your lingering injuries. But the effects of the potion were wearing off. You could feel it—your body solidifying, the world settling around you as you became visible again.

Then—finally—you saw it.

A marked tree.

You traced the symbol carved into its bark, relief washing over you. It was recent. That was good. That meant they were still here. Near.

The markings were unique, a secret code you recognized.

West. River.

Your heart pounded as you turned east.

Every step felt heavier. What if they had left? What if you were too late? What if they forgot to update the signs?

Then—

First, you smelled it. The faint scent of a campfire, smoke curling through the cool evening air.

Then, you heard it. The tattletale sound of water flow. 

And finally—you saw them.

The dwarf caught sight of you first, her stance wary, eyes sharp—until recognition dawned, and her expression softened into something between exasperation and relief.

“Where in the Hells have you been?” she asked.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, you quickened your steps, your breath hitching, tears pricking at the edges of your vision.

You reached her and dropped to your knees, wrapping your arms around her in a tight embrace. She squeezed back, strong and steady, and you bit back a wince as pain flared through your bruised ribs.

Then—another sound.

Footsteps.

You pulled away, breath catching as your eyes darted towards the entrance of the dark tent.

And there it was.

A small form, lingering in the shadows. Worried red eyes locked onto yours, wide with something raw, something heavy—like they were seeing the most important person that ever walked earth and barely believing it.

Like they were furious at you for disappearing.

Like they had missed you more than words could possibly say.

I couldn't help but ask for you to say it all again I tried to write it down, but I could never find a pen I'd give anything to hear you say it one more time That the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes

How do I begin? How do I cope? Some people sin Some people don't What we had was thin So we couldn't survive Bad times can win While good things can die.

A party. Of course.

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple. “You’re throwing a party.”

“A grand one," he confirmed, eyes twinkling with delight at your misery.

"And you want me to play spy while you lounge around sipping wine and basking in the glow of your own ego?"

He smiled, utterly unbothered. "I do look particularly radiant in candlelight."

You ignored that.

"But why, exactly, do you need me for this?" you pressed. "You have an entire household of devoted servants, all eager to do your bidding. Hell, you could snap your fingers and make half the city dance to your tune. So why not just… I don’t know, compel someone to give the information to you?"

“Ah, but see, compulsion has its limits, my dear.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “Sure, I can make a man jump off a balcony, but can I make him spill his most well-guarded secrets over wine and whispered promises?”

"...Yes?" you said bluntly.

"Well, yes," he admitted with a shrug. "But people compelled to talk are very aware they’re talking. They fight it. They resist. And when the spell breaks, they remember."

That… actually made sense, which was annoying.

But it also meant this powers have some limits... if one could call it that.

You were almost surprised he was admitting it to you... but perhaps that in itself is him proving that he doesn't care in the slightest if you knew or not.

You were no threat to him.

Or at least that's what he thought.

"I need rumors, whispers, drunken slips of the tongue—the sort of delicious tidbits that come when people think they’re speaking freely, not under a spell.”

You considered that, begrudgingly conceding the point. "And your devoted little followers?"

"As for my dear, devoted staff," he continued smoothly, "let’s just say they lack your... particular skill set."

"Which is...?"

He grinned. "Being you."

You glared. “Try again.”

Astarion exhaled dramatically, drumming his fingers against the table. “My servants, while loyal are either too conspicuous or too… well, boring,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “People watch them. They expect them to listen, and no one with real power gets drunk enough to be careless in front of a butler."

"So what, you think I am somehow less conspicuous?”

He gave you a slow, deliberate once-over, lips curling into an infuriating smirk. “I think you are… intriguing.”

Your raised a single eyebrow.

"You stand out, but in just the right way," he continued, lounging back in his seat like he had all the time in the world. "Not a noble, not a servant—something other. You’ll catch attention without raising suspicion. And besides—” his grin sharpened, “—I know firsthand the power of your ... persuasion, darling. How could I ever forget the delightful little incident where you so sweetly convinced that orthon to kill himself and his followers, all for me?”

Your stomach turned at the memory.

Some of your companions had been horrified by what you did —What you were capable of doing— that day. Whispering among themselves in hushed voices afterward.

Perhaps they thought what happened was more monstrous than simply fighting and killing Yurgir yourselves.

You remembered the strange looks that followed you that night.

But you didn’t care. Not then.

You had one goal in mind—helping Astarion.

Making sure he was safe. That he remained safe.

And back then, it hadn’t seemed like he thought much of it. You’d practically had to pull a thank you from his lips, forcing him to acknowledge what you’d done for him.

You’d thought he had forgotten all about it.

All that you did for him.

Especially after his ascension, after he tossed you aside as if none of it mattered.

But he did remember.

Only… not in the way you thought.

He only remembered how useful you were. How he could still use you to his own benefit.

“That was different,” you found yourself saying.

“Was it?” he purred.  

“Yes. That was life-or-death.”

He grinned “And so is this. For some people”

Your expression flattened.

“Persuading some drunken noble to spill their dirty laundry should be a walk in the park for you,” he continued, far too smug for your liking. “It’ll be perfectly harmless. You’ll drink fine wine, listen to tedious gossip, and coax out the occasional scandalous secret. Really, I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You wouldn’t see the fuss. You already are one of those people.”

His smirk only widened. “And yet, somehow, that still makes me the better company.”

You refrained from rolling your eyes just enough to ask your question, "What if I refuse?"

Astarion sighed dramatically. “Well, in that case, I suppose the map stays right where it is—in my possession. You’ll have to find some other means to track down your precious ring… unless someone else beats you to it, of course”

A dog.

You were a dog after a treat.

You know it, he knows it.

Perhaps it’s time you start acknowledging it.

“If you do decide to come, however,” he continued, completely unbothered by your inner turmoil, “I’ll have my tailors prepare something breathtaking for you. Perhaps something in crimson... it is your colour.”

“I don’t need you to get me—” you caught yourself, but too late. “Any more clothes.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves, darling. I saw the rags you arrived in,” he said, swirling his wine lazily.

“I’m not letting you come to my lovely party looking like a stray someone dragged in from the docks"

You bristled. “I can get new ones myself.”

“Oh? So you do plan on coming, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you are thinking about it.” He chuckled, and it made your teeth clench. “Don’t fret, darling. I simply don’t want you wasting time on simple things like what to wear. It’ll be easier for both of us that way.”

Easier for him.

Because gods forbid you embarrass him.

You looked down at the table, turning the situation over in your mind.

A party.

Certainly not something you want to attend.

Certainly not something you’re comfortable with.

Especially if he’s hosting it.

But… it’s hardly the worst thing you’ve ever done. Or will do.

Still, the thought of wading back into a world of glittering gowns and gilded lies, of people who smile with teeth meant to tear… it unsettles you.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been in that kind of environment. You were merely a child the last time you saw that world up close, a ghost lingering at the edges of it. You knew of the rules, the games, but playing them? You’d be completely out of your element.

It would certainly be easier if he just handled everything—if he handed you a dress, a role, a script to follow.

You let out a long, deep sigh.

When you agreed to this godsdamned breakfast, you had naively—stupidly—hoped it would be the last time you’d have to deal with Astarion.

That you’d get what you needed and leave.

That you’d figure out how to process whatever it is you’re feeling, push it down deep enough until it stops haunting you.

That you’d erase the whole incident from your mind, forget you even saw him.

But... it was starting to sound like this breakfast was merely the beginning—the first silken thread of the web he was weaving around you.

And you will not have it.

From the moment he suggested it, you knew—of course you were going to end up at that party.

You had to.

You were simply not going to make it easy for him.

You won’t agree. Not right away.

Let him think you’re hesitant, reluctant. Let him work for it.

And then let him think he won this little game.

Because the moment—the very moment—your fingers touch that map?

You’ll be gone.

Vanish. Out of sight and out of mind.

And you’d never—ever—set foot in Baldur’s Gate ever again.

With that in mind you looked up at him, new determination in your eyes “I suppose that means your latest debt was sufficiently repaid?”

“Oh yes, very much so,” Astarion replied, voice as smooth as silk, utterly self-satisfied.

You pushed yourself up from the chair. "Then I should get going—"

He arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, cutting you off with a single pointed look.

You frowned. Then you followed his gaze downward.

…Right.

You were still in the damn sleeping gown.

A sleeping gown that, now that you were standing, it was painfully clear just how little it covered. It clung in all the wrong places, sheer in ways that made you want to sink into the floor and disintegrate.

Heat rose to your face. You crossed your arms over your chest, shifting uncomfortably. "Do you… have my things?"

“You mean the tangled mess I found you in?” He made a face. “Your clothes were all torn up and bloody"

 “So? That never stopped you from patching them up before,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

You weren't thinking clearly; your thoughts blurring the line between what was and what is.

But it was true.

Astarion had been the best at mending clothes in camp, his embroidery skills second to none. He had always personally taken care of your gear, stitching up torn seams with elegant precision. You’d wake up to find them neatly folded in your tent—whenever you tried to thank him, he’d scoff and mutter about how ‘a ranger should really know how to take care of her own damn armor,’ but still, he always did it.

And when the two of you fought—because, of course, you had—he would sometimes slip a freshly embroidered handkerchief into your things as a silent peace offering. Your initials, perfectly stitched, as if that made up for whatever nonsense he had pulled.

Astarion’s expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his features. His posture shifted, the lazy amusement draining from him.

And then, just like that, the walls slammed up.

“Your clothes were beyond saving,” he said, voice clipped. “I’ll give you new ones.” He snapped his fingers for a servant before you cut in.

“I don’t want new clothes from you. I want my clothes.”

“I threw them away.”

The words hit like a slap.

“You what?”

Astarion’s tone remained maddeningly even. “You either leave with what you’re currently wearing—which, by the way, also belongs to me—or you accept something more suitable.”

Your scowl deepened, but before you could snap back, he added, “Of course, if you’re so opposed to being any further in my debt, you could always choose to leave naked.”

You gritted your teeth. “I’ll take the damn clothes.”

“Splendid,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual flair.

Something had shifted.

His whole demeanor had turned cold, his presence withdrawing like a tide pulling away from the shore. It was the closest he had been to the Ascendant you remembered parting ways with.

The one who stood over you and sneered at your pathetic mortal attachments.

What just happened?

You should be glad. This was the Astarion you had expected to see the moment you woke up in his palace. Detached. Distant. Guarded. The one you had steeled yourself against.

And yet…

It just felt... wrong.

You watched him carefully as a maid entered, silently handing you a neatly folded bundle of clothes.

She bowed her head slightly, speaking only to you. “Please, this way to change.”

You hesitated.

Astarion said nothing. He didn’t even look at you.

“What about my weapons?” you finally asked, addressing him.

He let out a slow breath and stood. Then, after a pause, he regarded you coolly.

“Your bow was broken.”

You swallowed hard. That bow had been with you for years. Through everything.

“The guards at the gate have your bag and the rest of your weapons,” he continued. “You’ll get them once you’re outside the palace.”

You almost made a remark about his sudden enforcement of a dress code for guests. About how powerful is he really if he’s afraid of you being armed in his presence.

But something told you he was already done talking.

You weren’t sure why that irritated you so much.

"In a week's time," he said at last, "arrive at Facemaker's Boutique at sunset. All will be settled from there."

You lifted your chin. "I never said I was coming."

"No," he agreed, his voice as smooth as ever. "You didn't."

You blinked at him.

Then, ever so slowly, his lips curled into the coldest smirk you’d seen from him since you arrived.

"I'll see you soon, darling."

And with that, he turned and slipped through a door you hadn’t even noticed until now.

The maid gently ushered you towards the exit.

And for some reason, despite desperatley wanting to leave, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, you were the one being dismissed.

As expected, the guards at the palace’s gate hadn't said a word to you—they just handed over your things and ignored you, as if you were nothing more than an inconvenience. You had frowned, not taking a single step before you rifled through the contents, making sure nothing was missing.

Your weapons and tools were all accounted for, but your notes—your carefully kept records— had been read. Judging by the disturbed order, the way some of the pages were bent at odd angles, some hastily stuffed back into place, it was clear they had been thoroughly searched.

That explained how he knew.

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening on the bag. Luckily, you had only bought this notebook recently. The research inside dated back only a few weeks. It didn’t reveal how long you had been searching, didn’t hint at how deep this obsession had run. 

Huffing, you slung your bag over your shoulders and began walking through the streets, feeling the city settle around you, the buzz of people talking, the clip of boots against stone. 

With every step, the reality of your situation started sinking in.

You had almost died.        

Stupidly, and completely avoidable. 

Your mind reeled back, sifting through every choice you had made, analyzing each misstep that had led to this outcome.

You had barely resisted the urge to slap yourself in front of the guards when your fingers brushed against the small glass vial tucked in one of your pouches—your invisibility potion. Of course.

Like always, you had been wonderfully prepared, but abysmally terrible at thinking on your feet.

In your defense, the potion was one of your prized possessions, something you had been saving to use when it was absolutely necessary—which, naturally, meant you forgot about it when it was absolutely necessary.

Not that it would have solved everything. It wasn't one of the fancy ones, after all— you weren't as 'privileged' as you were seven years ago.

The effects would have worn off the moment you attacked one of the guards or tried fidgeting with the chest to take the map. It might have helped you escape, but escape wasn’t what you had been focusing on. You had needed that map.

The Gur were moving camp to gods know where. You could lose their trail and this could very well be your one and only shot. You couldn’t miss it.

So, naturally, you decided to put your life on the line.

In hindsight, that was incredibly, unbelievably stupid.

Being set back weeks—hells, even months—would have been far better than losing your chance entirely because you did something as foolish as dying.

What would have happened then? It could only go downhill from there.

Your survival actually mattered now.

Your lips pressed into a tight line as that thought lingered, curling inside your chest like something unwelcome.

Before you could spiral further down that road of self-beratement, you reminded yourself of one simple truth.

You didn’t die.

No, what happened was much, much worse.

You had been found—and saved—by the last person you wanted to be found by.

The same man who, up until a week ago, you would have bet all your money held nothing but hatred and contempt for you.

And yet, he had—what? Housed you? Fed you? Clothed you? Invited you to a party?

What the hell were you supposed to make of that?

He had ulterior motives. He had to.

There was no way he actually needed you for whatever elaborate scheme he was working on. No way he had just happened to stumble upon you, fix you up, and genuinely wanted your help.

But then what did he want?

Perhaps he just enjoyed humiliating you. Perhaps your leaving had wounded his pride too much, and now, he took pleasure in dragging you back, forcing you into his orbit just to remind you who held the power.

That sounded like him. That sounded like the Ascendant.

And yet… something gnawed at you.

Something you couldn’t place.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you weren’t paying attention to where you were going.

Which is why you almost walked straight into him.

No—

Not him.

You froze.

Your mind screeched to a halt as you stared at Astarion.

Except, not Astarion.

A statue of him, right in the middle of the street.

Your breath hitched as you took a step closer, the weight of recognition crashing over you.

You knew this statue. 

More than that in fact, you were the one who paid for this statue.

Memories suddenly surged forward, dragging you back.

To the moment you presented that very statue to him.

~~~~~~

You were in camp.

You had been exhausted. Stretched thin. The past few days had been hell, and you were at your wit’s end. You had almost died—again— just a few days ago only for Astarion and Shadowheart to drag you back from the brink.

Baldur’s Gate had only been in your reach for a few days, and already, you had found yourselves entangled in trouble.

Not a moment of rest.

And then there was him.

Astarion had recently learned about Cazador’s plans, about the Ascension… and his part in it.

Raphael's words as he explained the ritual were itched in your brain, you could never close your eyes without thinking of them.

Astarion had almost shut down then, only to later privately share his doubts and concerns with you, barely hiding his fear behind a mask of confidence as he told you of his new resolve. 

He was desperate for your help.

And you were terrified for him.

It was unfathomable—baffling—that someone could be so cruel, so evil, that they could strip a person of their will, their freedom, their very existence, and then sacrifice them as if their life had never mattered.

But Cazador had made the mistake of picking someone you deeply cared about.

You were not just going to free Astarion from his master you were going to fucking kill the bastard. Even if it’s the last thing you’d do.

He had to die. And the rest of your friends had collectively agreed with you.

They didn’t even hesitate.

As far as you all were concerned, Astarion’s fate was now intertwined with each one of yours.

Perhaps that was why, when you reached the circus and came across Boney and his sculptor wife, your mind had immediately drifted back to him.

Back to something he had said to you, long ago, in the early days of your journey together.

How his reflection had been stolen the moment he was turned.

How his own image was nothing more than a fragment of memory.

Another thing he lost.

Another thing that was taken from him.

So… you commissioned a statue for him.

Although plagued with danger and misfortune, your long journey had offered you something you never had before; great opportunities to find rare treasures and forgotten artifacts. You and your companions had managed to sum up a small fortune for yourselves throughout your adventure.

One you could spend at leisure once you reached the city.

You had already equipped yourself with the best gear money could buy. And truly, what better use was there for the rest of your money than to make the person who had become the most important one in your life… a little happy?

Still… It had hurt to part with that much coin over what was, at its core, pure vanity.

But the look on his face had made it worth every single gold piece.

He hadn’t even recognized himself at first, which had been almost comical—until it nearly made you tear up.

When you clued him in, you had watched as awe overtook his expression. He had been lost for words, something so rare for him that it left you breathless.

He had managed a soft, stunned ‘thank you.’

Then he had spent the entire day sneaking glances at it when he thought no one was looking. As if trying to memorize every detail.

As if afraid it would disappear if he looked away for too long.

~~~~~~

Your fingers curled into a fist as the memory faded.

Your throat felt tight.

You stepped back from the statue, heart pounding against your ribs.

And for the second time since waking up in Astarion’s palace, you felt something far, far worse than anger or irritation.

You felt unsteady.

Because the man you had met back there—the one who had smirked and played his games, the one who had flipped between warmth and coldness so seamlessly—was not the same man who had stood in awe of this statue.

And it left you with one pressing, suffocating question.

Who the hell is he now?

Your eyes drifted down to the stone plaque beside the statue, and you felt your stomach twist as you read the words etched into the polished surface:

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐔𝐑’𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐄 – 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐔𝐍Í𝐍

You blinked. Then read it again.

The absurdity of it nearly made you laugh.

Below the title was a detailed inscription of his contributions to the city—how he had fought to protect Baldur’s Gate from complete destruction, how he had saved it alongside his companions.

His companions, who apparently weren’t worth naming.

You scoffed.

Astarion was, perhaps, the least willing participant in your little gang of heroes. If left to his own devices, he would have happily watched the city burn—so long as he wasn’t caught in the blaze. 

He had even admitted, more than once, that the only reason he cared at all was because you did. And he had called you a fool for it.

You had been so disheartened back then—hurt, even—by his sheer indifference to the suffering of others. You had struggled to understand how someone could have the power to change things and simply choose not to.

But Astarion had always shut you down with a cold, cutting logic you could never fully refute.

"Why should I care when I know no one would care if I were in that situation?"

"I would," you had always answered softly. And every time he’d laugh it off, calling you naive. But you could see past the mockery—see the flicker of something in his eyes. Something raw, something he didn’t know what to do with.

You knew the truth.

You still remembered the night he admitted it—the night you confronted him for lying to his siblings, for not having sympathy for others who shared his plight. His voice had been raw then, unguarded.

“No one ever looked out for me. No one ever said a kind thing to me. You’re the only one. Other people don’t have a heart like yours. You’re... you. No one is like that.”

Confirming your feelings; that you caring meant the world to him, that he was touched by it, moved.

You had believed, truly believed, that despite all of his cynicism, he did care. About everything.

You had been so sure of it.

Even if he fought it.

Even if he denied it.

He had spent centuries learning that caring meant pain, that attachment was a weakness, that love was a weapon wielded against him. He had tried to harden himself to it. After all, how could he afford to care for the countless souls he had lured to their deaths?

He had told you about the darling boy—the one he had tried to spare, the one he had been severly punished for. That must have been the moment something inside him had broken, the moment he learned to turn his emotions numb, to bury any weakness, to live only for himself—and no one else.

But you had been so sure that wasn’t who he truly was at his core.

Because once he was away from his master’s control, once he no longer had to survive under the boot of another, something began to change.

The more secure he felt among your group, the more comfortable he grew around you, the more his concern for others began to show.

You had seen it. 

In the way he looked after Yenna— buying from her soup he couldn't eat, only to later give it to you.

In how he fussed over Scratch and Feathers, even as he pretended not to care. 

You heard it in the way he scoffed at Gale’s reckless self-sacrificing tendencies, in the way he had been genuinely angry about Karlach’s fate, the way he had been protective of Lae’zel, of Shadowheart, of Wyll.

Even the Tieflings.

He cared.

And most of all— He had cared about you.

It had been slow, hesitant, but real. You had made progress, together. He had even told you— had laid his emotions bare and confessed—that he wanted something real… with you.

That’s why it hurt so much when he so readily chose to do the Ascension.

Despite your pleas.

Despite your warnings, your concerns.

Despite the person he had become by your side.

Despite the cost.

"I can't be what you want to see in me," he had told you.

He had tried to convince you that it was for the best. That this was the only way to ensure your safety.

"I’m doing this for you too, you know. To make sure we’re both safe. Forever. For good."

It was only after the ascension that you could see these words for what they truly were.

Empty.

Utter lies.

Carefully crafted manipulation – An act he excelled at. An act he had confessed to using on you before, one you had forgiven him for, foolishly, blindly. 

All designed to keep you exactly where he wanted you—on his side.

Helping him.

Supporting him.

You had let yourself believe that you mattered. That his choices mattered. That everything you had built together mattered.

And then, in an instant, all the progress you had made, all the quiet kindness, all the trust—

It was gone.

Like it had never been there at all.

Like it had all been a lie.

The moment he took the power, it was as if all of it had never happened. As if the man who had once held you in the dark, whispering that you were the only light he had ever known, had never existed.

And now, standing here, staring at this statue of a man you barely recognized anymore, you were left wondering once again if any of it had ever been real.

You forced yourself to look away before you could spiral further. Dwelling on the past never did you any good—it only left you raw, hollow, filled with questions that had no answers.

The statue stood tall, facing the palace as if greeting it. As if welcoming the life Astarion had built for himself within those gilded walls. Meanwhile, your back was turned to it.

How fitting.

Your hands clenched at your sides. You weren’t sure how to feel about the fact that he had not only kept your gift but had placed it in full view of the city, on display for all to see.

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted it in his home—hadn’t wanted you in his home—so he had taken the first opportunity to rid himself of it. And the city, desperate for a hero, had been all too eager to accept.

Astarion Ancunín, the savior of Baldur’s Gate.

It made you sick.

I was the hero, but you get the glory Now I'm the villain inside of your story I was the saint, you used to adore me Now I'm the villain inside of your story

You forced yourself to stay impassive, though every instinct screamed that he’d somehow seen through you.

The Sunlight Ring—a rumour, nothing more. A phantom of hope that had sent you straight into the jaws of a Gur camp, and almost got you killed.

“Interesting silence,” he murmured, that knowing smile returning. “And here I thought I’d been the one to chase legends. Seems we’re not so different after all.”

You stilled. What are you supposed to do now?

Outright denial would only dig you into a deeper hole; your long silence had already betrayed too much— he knows you were there for the map.

But he still doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know why.

You forced yourself to smirk, tilting your head just slightly.  “I’m just trying to figure out how you know it was there. Did you loot the camp after you so graciously ‘saved’ me? I thought you want for nothing nowadays.”

He chuckled “I burnt the camp after I saved you” he declared casually, “I just didn’t want anything to go to waste, so I had my servants search it beforehand.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “So you have it”

“And you want it” he countered.

Damn right, I do.

Still, You have to tread carefully and play along just enough to keep him from sniffing out the truth.

If Astarion had the map, you needed to convince him to hand it over— or figure out how to take it. Even if that requires you giving him the satisfaction of answering his intrusive questions.

“It’s a valuable item,” you conceded. “The map alone is worth a fortune—”

“It’s a myth.” Astarion drawled impatiently.

“You don’t know that,” you shot back instantly, but your conviction wavered slightly as you felt his eyes bore into you.

“If such a ring existed, don’t you think I would know about it?”

“And why would you?” you countered. “You can walk in the sun now.”

“Yes, now,” he said, voice sharp as glass. “But before that delightful change, I was a lowly spawn for two centuries.”

“You had a lot on your plate then, Cazador kept—”

“And yet,” he cut you off with a pointed glare, “that ‘spawn’ was around vampire lords for the majority of his miserable existence. They are the most conniving, power-hungry creatures to ever crawl out of the shadows ”

He said it like he was talking about someone else entirely, his tone tinged with something like disgust or even shame.

You felt a pang you couldn’t quite identify, but you weren’t about to poke at that particular wound—yet.

“Trust me, darling,” he continued “If a ring that grants sunlight immunity existed, they would have stopped at nothing—they’d tear the planes apart to get it, the absence of chaos on that scale is proof enough that it’s a myth.”

“Don’t you think its obscurity is part of its protection?” you suggested.

He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” You raised an eyebrow, refusing to let him brush it aside. “More ridiculous than the fact that you can walk in the sun now, do things other vampires can only dream of, and yet no one has heard of your ascension except your old master and a select few devils?”

You really didn’t know why you cared so much about his opinion on the matter or why you’d bother trying to convince him it was real.

But perhaps it was less about convincing him and more about convincing yourself.

Your words gave him a pause, though only for a moment. He leaned back, his smirk unwavering. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure they haven’t heard of it. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to pay the price.”

“What? Sacrifice over seven thousand people?” you shot back, your tone dripping with sarcasm, though your heart clenched at the reminder of what you helped him do. “Because vampires are famously peaceful creatures who would never dare commit mass murder.”

Astarion’s laugh was sharp, biting. “Vampire lords are sadistic, selfish bastards,” he admitted, his tone as casual as if he were describing the weather. “But not all of them have the patience or the cunning to orchestrate something so elaborate. My old cunt of a master was an anomaly in that regard, more’s the pity. ”

You blinked at him, mouth open, but he wasn’t done. “And let’s not forget—vampires, for all their arrogance, are inherently paranoid. Particularly of devils. Do you know how many have probably been lured into some tragic little deal, only to end up enslaved or worse?”

You wanted to argue more—you always wanted to argue more when it came to Astarion— but… what was even the point?

Him believing the ring was a myth wouldn’t deter you. And pushing the issue would only make him more suspicious of why you cared so much.

He’d just use your persistence as ammunition to dig into your true motives.

And that? ... that would be worse than letting him have the last word.

So, instead, you settled on glaring at him, hoping it’s enough to deflect his attention.

But of course, it wasn’t… because his next question was exactly about that.

“Regardless,” he mused, swirling his wine—blood, or, both?—“I fail to see why you would be after such a ring.”

“I’m not after it,” you lied immediately, the words practically throwing themselves out of your mouth. “I just had leads that pointed to this map, and I happened to be in the area. Maybe I’d sell it, maybe I’d go after the ring. It’d be a good adventure.” You shrugged, adding in a nonchalant scoff for good measure. “I honestly hadn’t counted on it being this difficult.”

You were painfully aware of how careless you sounded, like an idiot who stumbles into trouble because they’ve got nothing better to do. But that worked in your favour, didn’t it? It fits right with the image he probably has of you in his head.

Reckless, unkempt, tragically unsophisticated.

Entirely unbefitting of him.

Astarion hummed, making a point to glance towards the sunlight filtering through the willow tree. His eyes flickered back to you, calculating, before dropping to the sunlit patch of table between you.

Ah.

You met his stare and, just to be extra annoying, moved your left hand straight into the sunlight, resting it there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch, didn’t call your bluff. He just watched. Mesmerized.

You followed his gaze down to your hand, only then realizing what had caught his attention.

The closed gash.

A long, reddish line where a deeper, nastier wound had been.

This is going to scar.

“It couldn’t be helped,” Astarion said as if reading your mind. “The wound was deep and enchanted, not to mention the poison. The weapon is designed to leave lasting damage on vampires—let alone mere mortals.”

Oh well... You had honestly expected to walk away with much worse—an amputated limb, for starters. 

“What’s one more scar?” you said dismissively.

His eye twitched. Actually twitched. As if your comment had personally offended him on some deep, spiritual level.     

You frowned. Why the hell does he care? It’s your body. If it’s riddled with scars, you’re the only one who has to live with it.

His expression smoothed out just as quickly as it had faltered, but you caught it. Before you could say anything, though, he cut in smoothly, steering the conversation right back to where he wanted it.

“So… is that what you do now? Adventuring?” He sneered the word like it was something distasteful.

“That’s what I’ve always done,” you said, shrugging again.

He snorted. “It’s utterly stupid to risk your life merely for the thrill of it.”

Of all the ridiculous things Astarion could have said, this was by far the most hypocritical.

“You are aware of who you are, right?” you deadpanned.

Astarion’s smirk widened ever so slightly, but he didn’t respond.

“At least I can say I died doing what I love,” you continued, crossing your arms. “What about you? You’d die living this lavish, lazy life—hosting and attending parties until the dawn of time?”

“Oh, darling,” he purred, voice dripping with amusement. “That’s the catch.”

He leaned in, teeth flashing.

“I don't intend to die.”

Oh, the smugness.

"Right," you deadpanned, rolling your eyes. "Because... you're a vampire."

“A vampire lord,” he corrected, his smug look never faltering. “The one and only vampire ascendant, soon to be the sole ruler of Baldur’s Gate and rightful master of all my domain.”

"You’re actually planning to make it your domain?" You arched a brow, unimpressed.

"It has long been established," he said with that infuriating smirk, "I’ve already rid the area of some lesser vampires skulking about, some minor lordlings. And now, Baldur’s Gate—along with every delectable thing she has to offer—" his voice dipped into something almost sensual as he exhaled the words, "is mine."

You snorted. "Keep that attitude up, and more vicious enemies will soon come knocking at your door."

“Darling,” he drawled, lounging back as if you’d just complimented him, “I’d like to see them try.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered, irritation creeping into your voice. “You sit here mocking my way of life, but you’re practically begging to be killed.”

That earned you nothing but an amused look. Astarion’s expression was the very picture of indulgence, like your words—your entire existence, really—were little more than idle entertainment.

It irritated you.

That he was over here pretending to graciously host you, acting like he was the one being magnanimous, while judging your every move, questioning your life choices, mocking you— And yet, he was the one willing to test the limits of his luck like some reckless fool, confident beyond reason, as if his ascension had magically erased every problem he’d ever had.

“Just because you’ve got some new parlour tricks up your sleeve doesn’t mean you should keep testing the limits, you know,” you said, your irritation slipping further into exasperation.

Astarion’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

“…Tricks?”

Oh. You hit a nerve.

You expected him to show more offence. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, then called out, “Come here.”

For a moment, you thought he was addressing you—until a middle-aged man in a crisp uniform stepped forward, his spine straight as a blade.

"Yes, my lord?" the servant answered dutifully.

Astarion gestured towards you with a lazy flick of his wrist. “The lady here would like to know you. Be a dear and introduce yourself.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. What the hell was he playing at?

The servant turned to you, his brown eyes—entirely normal—warm and unassuming. “My name is Thomas, my lady. Thomas Daryl. I was in service to Lord Havemere until his passing. Lord Ancunín,” he inclined his head respectfully towards Astarion, “graciously employed me six years ago.”

Employed? That sounded… terribly ordinary.

Not something you’d expect in a vampire lord’s manor.

Astarion hummed approvingly, his eyes never leaving you. “Why don’t you tell her a bit about your family? Go on, don’t be shy.”

Thomas beamed, his pride evident. “I’ve been married for twenty-four years, my lady. My wife and I have four children—two boys and two girls. The youngest just turned ten last month.”

That confirmed it. This man wasn’t a spawn. He was completely human. Just a normal, living, breathing human.

But then what the hell was the point of this? What was Astarion trying to prove?

He turned to you then, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Do you have any questions for dear Thomas, darling?”

Oh, now he was giving you control? Throwing the ball into your court?

Fine. You had no idea what game he was playing, but you’d take the opportunity to dig.

You leaned forward slightly, fixing the man with a measured stare. “How does Astarion treat you?”

Thomas chuckled softly, casting a glance at his master, his expression warm. “Lord Ancunín is a good employer. He is fair and treats us with respect. My family is grateful to him.”

His response was… normal. Too normal.

And you had no doubt that he was telling the truth. There was no eerie vacancy in his gaze, no unnatural compulsion.

What did throw you off, however, was when Thomas leaned in slightly and—of all things—winked.

“He does have his moments, though,” he whispered, a conspiratorial grin on his face.

You barely had time to register his words before Astarion let out an amused chuckle, shifting lazily in his seat.

“Isn’t that lovely?” he murmured, his voice silk-smooth. Then, with a casual flick of his fingers, “Now then, Thomas, would you kindly look at me?”

Thomas turned, his kind brown eyes locking onto Astarion’s crimson gaze.

The response wasn’t robotic. It wasn’t automatic.

It was completely reasonable.

Until—

“Jump off the balcony.”

For a moment, you thought you’d misheard.

But then Thomas turned. Walked.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Stop.” The word barely escaped your lips, but Thomas didn’t falter.

He was walking towards the edge with the same steady, unhurried steps he might take on an evening stroll.

Astarion leaned back, his fingers steepled, watching you with infuriating calm.

Your chair scraped harshly against the floor as you shot up, toppling it behind you. Your legs felt like lead, your head spinning— reminding you of your still-weakened state, but you forced yourself forward.

“Thomas, stop!” Your voice rose in panic.

He didn’t.

His foot met the edge. He swung one leg over the railing.

Your heart pounded.

You weren’t going to make it in time.

The fall from this height would kill him. Or, at best, leave him broken beyond repair.

You saw his weight shift.

He was falling —

“Please don’t!” you cried out.

And then—

Astarion vanished.

One moment, he was lounging idly, and the next, a blur of motion, impossibly fast. In the blink of an eye, he was at Thomas’s side, gripping his collar with supernatural ease, stopping his fall at the last possible moment.

“Now, now, Thomas,” Astarion purred, his voice silken, soothing. He pulled the man back to solid ground as if he weighed nothing. “Your family would miss you terribly. I wouldn’t have that.”

Thomas blinked, dazed, as if waking from a dream. A sheepish smile crossed his face. “Forgive me, my lord. I’m not sure what came over me.”

“Shh,” Astarion murmured with a smile, patting his shoulder. “You’ve done splendidly, Thomas. That will be all.”

With another bow, Thomas shuffled away, completely unaware of the sheer horror still etched onto your face.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you turned to Astarion, barely able to steady your breathing.

“What in the Nine Hells was that?!”

“That, my dear,” he said smoothly, strolling back towards his seat, “was not a trick. Do you see now?” He lowered himself back into his chair, languid, composed, supreme. Then, his gaze locked onto yours, a slow, predatory smile curling his lips. “I am no fumbling spawn, grasping at borrowed power. I am the master of my will—and theirs.”

Fury licked up your spine, your fists clenching. “You could’ve killed him.”

“But I didn’t,” he murmured. “That, my sweet Iris, is the point.”

He let the words sink in, savouring the moment before continuing, his voice laced with something darkly triumphant.

“I can compel anyone to do anything I wish. Not just spawns. Anyone. Mortals, nobles, thieves, guards—” His smile curled, voice dropping to a silken whisper —“even you, if I so desired.”

Your blood ran cold.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you hissed.

His smile softened, just slightly—just enough to be unnerving. “No, my treasure. I wouldn’t want to.” His head tilted, as though considering. “But you’d do well to remember who I am—and what I’m capable of.”

Then, with a casual flick of his hand, your fallen chair righted itself. You stared at it, horror twisting in your gut.

You were utterly lost for words.

“Now then,” Astarion said lightly, as if the entire nightmarish display had never happened, “shall we enjoy the food?”

You were sooner to jump off the balcony as Thomas was about to do than sit back down at the table and play pretend.

Your appetite had vanished, whatever hunger the delicious spread had sparked was now replaced with a roiling unease in your gut.

He must have caught the refusal on your face because his voice slid smoothly into the silence.

“You want the map, no?”

Your head snapped towards him before you could stop yourself. The reaction was instant, almost involuntary, and the moment he caught it, his smirk deepened. You winced inwardly. Fool.

You forced your expression into something neutral, composed. Detached. “I’d love not to have been nearly killed for nothing, yes.” The words left your lips carefully measured, but you hated how thin they felt—how he could probably hear the stretch of them, the way they reached.

Astarion hummed, a sound of amusement more than consideration. He tilted his head, studying you like one might a puzzle they already knew the answer to. “Hmm, you’re a dear old friend. I may be persuaded to indulge your ridiculous ideas of an adventure… if you prove to me you’re willing to repay your debts.”

Debts. Of course.

Your jaw tightened, but you schooled your face into something resembling indifference.

“Eat your food,” he said, motioning towards the untouched plate. “And I might just let you have it. For a price, of course.”

You continued to stare at him. You wanted to argue, to throw the damn plate across the table, to wipe that insufferable smirk off his face—but you weren’t going into this blind. Not again. If you were to be indebted to him once more, you needed to know what you were signing up for.

You had no intention of suffering through yet another absurd breakfast and another stupid display just for him to string you along.

“What’s the price?” you asked.

“Patience, my dear,” he chided, eyes glinting with amusement. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Prove yourself worthy of the offer first.”

Worthy.

You clenched your fists.

I don’t have to prove shit to you.

He was toying with you, dangling what you needed just out of reach like you were some hound waiting for scraps.

You hated it.

But what you hated more was that you couldn’t afford to let your temper win. If playing along for one meal was the price to pay, then so be it.

So you swallowed your pride, straightened your back, and sat down.

He nodded approvingly as though you were a pet learning a new trick, and began filling his plate with deliberate elegance. You followed suit, picking up the nearest bread and chewing it with hidden contempt.

It tasted perfect.

Of course it did. Everything in this ridiculous place looked bloody perfect. Even him.

As infuriating as he was, Astarion looked effortlessly captivating in that white shirt — shimmering under the soft light, its delicate embroidery twisting like gilded veins across the fabric. The ruffled collar and cuffs should have made him look absurd, but instead, they suited him, like they were made to drave over his frame, to highlight every careless movement he made.

He belonged here, in luxury, in excess.

      𝓘𝓷 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷.

The only thing that sullied this perfect picture was … well, you.

You were the only thing that didn’t fit.

Sitting there all patched up, your hair probably a tangled mess, bruises blooming along your body like war paint. And your clothes—

You looked down at yourself, frowning.

Hold on.

What were you wearing?

The fabric that draped over you was soft, unfamiliar—an elegant white nightdress, the kind of thing spun from coin and luxury, far too expensive for you to ever own. The delicate lace trim, the fine embroidery, the weight of it all against your skin—this wasn’t yours.

Your throat tightened.

"Whose clothes are these?"

Astarion smirked over the rim of his goblet, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "I have some spare clothes, just in case I have guests over and they find themselves… lacking."

There was an unmistakable lilt to his voice, a deliberate choice of words.

Guests.

You knew exactly what he meant.

The implication sat between you like an unspoken jest, like he wanted you to picture them. The others. The countless lovers he’d entertained in this very palace, in these very clothes, discarded just as easily as they were adorned.

You kept your expression neutral, even as something unpleasant curled in your stomach.

"Who changed me?" you demanded instead, your voice low.

That made him pause, fork hovering mid-air before he chuckled. "Why do you care?" His eyes flickered towards you, sharp and knowing. "It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Though, you’ve certainly lost some weight since then."

Your glare could’ve burned through stone.

Is he seriously judging your body?

“Relax, dear," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I have maids for a reason.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips into a thin line. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, not to that. But something about the way he said it, the way his gaze lingered for a second too long, made your skin prickle.

You weren’t sure which was worse—the idea of strangers dressing you like a lifeless doll or the thought that he might have done it himself, all while you lay unconscious, vulnerable, indebted.

Another fucking debt.

You picked at your food, barely aware of the taste anymore. The silk of the nightdress felt suffocating now, a reminder of just how little control you had here. Of just how much he still had over you, despite everything.

Astarion, meanwhile, ate leisurely, perfectly at ease. His fork scraped lightly against the plate, the only real sound between you beyond the distant birdsong filtering through the balcony. He looked unbothered, content. As if the last time you saw him, he hadn't been something monstrous. As if he hadn't become something you couldn't bear to look at.

He was enjoying this.

The power play. The push and pull.

And you hated that it was working.

You swallowed down your pride along with another bite, focusing on the plate in front of you. You’d endure this. You had to.

For the map.

For the ring.

You stabbed at a piece of fruit with your fork, the action sharper than necessary. The juice bled out onto the plate, staining the pristine porcelain. Astarion watched the motion with raised brows, his smirk never wavering.

“Still so dramatic,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Some things never change.”

“And some things change too much,” you replied flatly.

A soft laugh, infuriating in its amusement. “Oh, don’t be so sullen. I much prefer you when you have a bit of bite, darling.”

You forced yourself to take another bite of food instead of responding, each second stretching unbearably long.

Finally, he sighed, setting his fork down with a quiet clink. “Very well, you’ve entertained me enough. I suppose we can discuss your little… request now.”

You stilled, swallowing down the last bit of food like it was ash.

Here it was.

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “The price?”

Astarion leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced together as he regarded you with a slow, sharp smile.

“Simple,” he murmured. “I need a favor, dearest.”

“What kind of favor?” you asked warily, already regretting every life choice that led you here.

Astarion's smirk deepened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, as I told you before, my plans to take over the city are well underway. There are just a few... minor inconveniences. Some people standing in the way who need to be nudged aside.”

You blinked at him “You want me to kill someone for you?”

“Heavens, no! Darling, what do you take me for? So brutish, so… unimaginative.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I simply need information. Leverage. And as you know, the best kind of dirt has a delightful habit of spilling when one is heavily inebriated and in… shall we say, pleasant company.” He made a vague, almost dismissive gesture in your direction.

Your expression deadpanned. “Are you suggesting I seduce information out of people?”

“Oh, such a vulgar way to put it,” he sighed theatrically. “But essentially, yes.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Astarion, not that I’m agreeing to any of this ridiculous scheme, but where exactly do you think I’d even meet these people? I don’t exactly run in high society circles.”

Not anymore. Not since long ago.

Astarion chuckled, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Well, that’s the easy part." He lifted his glass to his lips, taking a slow, indulgent sip before setting it down with deliberate care. Then, with an almost lazy flick of his wrist, he announced,

“I'm hosting a party next week.”

You stared at him, horrified.

Oh, you certainly did not like this.

"Breakfast?” you echoed in disbelief.

“One of the most important meals of the day, yes,” Astarion confirmed with a smug smile. “My servants are preparing it as we speak.”

Your gaze narrowed, practically trying to slap some sense into him with sheer eye contact. “Are you out of your gods-damned mind?”

“On the contrary,” he replied smoothly, entirely unfazed by your glare. “I’d say I’m asking very little of you”

“Have you not heard me just say: I need to leave now?” you growled, every syllable dripping with impatience.

“And you will,” he said, unbothered, “but you can’t even make it to the front door on an empty stomach. If you want to regain your strength—”

“—I wouldn’t need that strength had you not shoved bloody potions down my throat!” you interrupted.

Astarion sighed dramatically as if you were the unreasonable one here. “So you’d rather I let you writhe in pain? I will not see you suffer needlessly.”

“You’ve seen me suffer plenty of times before,” you shot back, folding your arms.

You’ve even caused it sometimes, your brain supplied slyly, but you willed yourself not to say it.

“Suddenly you’ve become the model of compassion?” you scoffed.

Your comment bounced off him like oil on water, it was like he was entirely unaffected. "Ah, but now I’m a changed man, my dear. Elevated. Ascended, if you will."

Right.

As if you needed reminders.

You opened your mouth, intending to tell him exactly where he can shove his stupid ascension when your stomach decided to betray you.

It grumbled in hunger at the worst possible moment, and Astarion’s ears—damn his vampire senses—picked up on it immediately.

“See? Even your body knows I’m right,” he teased, his smirk growing even wider . “Just a simple meal, darling, and then you can be on your way. Or... you could, you know, collapse halfway out the door. Your choice.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, the temptation to strangle him stronger than ever. But the dizziness still clung to you, and truthfully, you weren’t entirely confident you wouldn’t just faceplant into the floor the second you tried to storm out.

“Is this it then? Is this your big ask?” you asked, glaring at him. “Is this how you want me to repay you? By having … breakfast”

“Do you see now how easy it is? and how utterly ridiculous of you to refuse” he chuckled, voice rich with mock innocence. “Though, I’m sure I can think of other creative ways  for you to repay me if you’re so set on proving you could manage the journey home without sustenance.”

Your eyes narrowed.

His words annoyed you.

His tone annoyed you.

His entire air of indifference to your objections, his dismissive, nonchalant attitude…all of him annoyed you.

And all of it was so purely, unmistakably Astarion.

And not the Astarion who’d ascended and moulded himself into a polished shell, sliced through your heart and left it bleeding seven years ago.

No, this was your Astarion’s flavour of annoying: that maddening mix of haughty charm and cutting humour that had you constantly debating whether to smack him over the head or kiss him, often within the same breath.

He was infuriating, in that frustratingly familiar way that left you waiting for the next barb or playful insult, to which you’d shoot back a scathing remark of your own. Back and forth, until one of you cracked, laughing at just how annoying you both were.

But this wasn’t your Astarion.

And you should not be feeling this way...

This was the Vampire Ascendant.

Wearing your old lover’s face, putting on a performance with all the right gestures and words.

But you could see the cracks, that slick, calculated veneer just barely concealing the stranger who had torn you to shreds before.

And it annoyed you that he’d dare to even resemble the old Astarion.

Annoyed you, in a way that wasn’t endearing, in a way that made your heart twist with every smirk he threw your way.

Because you could tell that this was an act.

It was all fake.

It was all so… hollow.

But you will find a way to stop it.

You’ll make sure you’ll see his mask break before he had the chance to break you.

“Fine,” you intoned, voice clipped. “One meal. Nothing else.”

Astarion's face lit up with triumph, and the smugness there made you wonder if you should have said no just for the satisfaction of wiping that look off him.

“And then I’ll be on my way,” you added. “Your so-called debt repaid, and you won’t stop me.”

Astarion chuckled, as if you’d said something utterly adorable. “I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

Just then, a knock sounded, and a servant entered. “The breakfast is ready, my lord.”

Astarion’s eyes stayed fixed on you, his lips twitching with pride as he relished the title. It was as if he expected you to be impressed, but all you could muster was a huff of impatience.

“Ah, just in time,” he said with a self-satisfied smile. “We’ll be taking it on the terrace.”

“Yes, my lord,” the servant replied and vanished.

“Terrace?” you echoed, raising a brow.

“Overlooking the garden,” he explained smoothly. “I wanted to make sure we have a good view.”

You swallowed back a retort as he led you out of the room to a grand double-doored entrance opening to a balcony you absolutely did not recall existing. As you stepped outside, the light breeze carrying the scent of flowers, you paused, taken aback.

The terrace was as over-the-top as you’d expected—lavishly adorned with flora that all but spilled into the palace grounds below. A large table had already been set up, though the food hadn’t arrived yet.

Astarion took his seat at the head of the table and indicated the chair next to him.

Out of sheer defiance, you strolled to the far end and sat down, expecting him to take offense. Instead, he just smiled, as if your stubbornness amused him.

Moments passed as you sat in silence, locked in a quiet battle of wills, his eyes fixed on you with an unnerving intensity.

He seemed perfectly content just gazing at you, like you were a rare artifact he couldn’t quite figure out. His eyes were deep yet guarded, hiding what you were sure were his true intentions, but you couldn’t quite unravel that mystery.

His quietness was unsettling; as though the old charm he wielded so freely minutes ago was somehow unnecessary now that you’d agreed to this meal.

You let your eyes wander elsewhere when your staring contest began to feel a tad futile.

The view beyond the terrace was truly... breathtaking.

It overlooked a sprawling garden that looked like it had been plucked from a fairy tale, well-tended and vibrant.

The paths wound gracefully between flower beds bursting with colour, flowers blooming in impossible shades that seemed to shimmer slightly as if infused with magic. Small statues dotted the greenery, carved into various elegant poses, and soft lanterns hung from branches like stars suspended in daylight.

And at the heart of it all stood a magnificent willow tree, its massive, drooping branches creating a canopy that seemed almost alive, swaying gently even in the absence of a breeze.

You could swear that tree had been assisted by magic because there was no way it had grown to that size naturally,its massive, graceful form was a testament to the magic that must have nurtured it.

In fact, everything about the garden seemed enchanting, radiating a whimsical charm that tugged at your heartstrings.

It stirred old memories, catching on a thread that led straight to your father. The ache in your chest that always followed his memory squeezed a little tighter, as if your heart had been pressed like one of your mother’s neat parchment stacks.

Your parents had loved each other deeply —you knew that. But love , unfortunately,  had never been quite enough to keep them together. They were different in ways that couldn’t quite be bridged, one rooted in nature, the other in refinement, each with one foot in a world the other couldn’t fully accept.

You lived mostly with your mother in the city, she was a high elf of a respectable family you’d never met, though she’d always spoken of “upholding their values—only the sensible ones,” as she’d say, and thus, she held your education to the highest importance.

She had always looked at you with a mix of pride and high expectations, making sure you received the best education Baldur’s Gate had to offer, encouraging you to read, to think, to rise above what others deemed wild in you. You’d read every book she set in front of you, learned to appreciate art, language, politics—all things considered essential for a proper young elf of your standing.

You were her crowning jewel, polished and prepped to fit into the city’s high society.

But there was always that other part of you, the part that belonged to the woods, where your father—a wood elf—lived a life far removed from the city's expectations.

You remember his visits, sporadic but always thrilling. He would sweep into the city like the wind, with laughter and stories of life among the trees. Sometimes he would take you with him, and for days, you’d vanish into the forest with him, live without walls, breathing in the freedom of the wilds.

His tribe agile and instinctive, moved as though their veins carried the heartbeat of the forest itself.  The children there were fearless, darting up trees and leaping across streams with ease, their instincts sharper than any blade. Meanwhile, you —educated, well-read, and slightly awkward— would scramble after them, relying on your cleverness and the wisdom your mother had instilled in you to try and mimic their tricks.

You always felt like a stranger in their world, not fully part of it. But you loved those days—the laughter, the freedom, the connection you had with him.

But there was always the return to Baldur's Gate, where your life was far different. The other elves in the city were refined, disciplined, and you—despite your education—were seen as something else. A bit wild, untamed. It was your mother’s family name that saved you from being completely ostracized. Though you'd never seen your grandparents, you knew they were influential. There were whispers that they lived in Evereska, far away, having disapproved of your mother’s ‘questionable’ choices, cutting most ties with her. Still, the weight of their name kept you afloat in the city's social circles

You belonged there, and yet... you didn’t. Just as you belonged in the forest, but never really fit in. Even your name seemed to shift between these two worlds.

Your mother took pride in naming you “Elandriel,” a name with history and dignity. It was a tribute to her late great-grandmother, the only one she seemed fond of in her family.        

But in the woods, your father and his people had taken to simply calling you…

“Iris”

Astarion’s voice, pulled you abruptly from your memories. Your eyes snapped to him in question.

His eyes,however, were not on you, but rather fixed on a vase in the center of the table, It held an array of beautiful flowers, all vibrant colours dancing together, but the most prominent one was a regal purple, sitting in the center like a queen among its court. Upon closer inspection, you realized they were irises—flowers that mirrored your own eyes.

You hadn’t even noticed them being placed there, but now they seemed to command your attention, their presence unmissable.

“Freshly cut from the garden,” he noted, his gaze finally slipping over to meet yours. The faintest smile played at his lips, there was something knowing in his expression, but he said nothing more, merely watching you with that infuriating mix of curiosity and amusement.

You noted that the table had also been filled with delicate settings, empty plates and silver utensils catching the sunlight, looking far too polished for whatever meal Astarion considered “breakfast.”

As a servant arrived, they placed a glass of orange juice in front of you and set down a glistening goblet in front of Astarion.

You eyed his drink with suspicion. It looked rich, dark, and far too thick to be wine.

It was blood,obviously.

You briefly wondered if human food would taste weird when it’s being washed down with blood.

Weird, is also an accurate word for the situation you currently found yourself in.

The whole scene felt surreal, teetering on the edge of bizarre.

You’d never had this with him before.

You’ve never shared a meal, at least not in the normal sense.

Dining with Astarion had always been you eating while he sat beside you, or lounged nearby, occasionally leaning in to feast upon your neck afterwards, his idea of dessert.

But here you were, on the verge of having what looked suspiciously like a… normal breakfast?

Watching him sit across from you with an actual plate felt weirdly intimate.

Even after his ascension, when you two were in the delicate “still-talking” phase, he always managed to avoid eating with the group, preferring to keep his first reactions to food private, even from you. He would sidestep every meal, insisting he preferred blood when offered normal food, or making snide remarks about Gale's cooking—mostly that it was "abysmal by smell alone."

But you were fairly certain he’d snuck stew into his tent when no one was looking, though you'd never dared to confront him about it.

Once, you’d caught him munching on an apple, and when you’d asked how it was, he’d given you a blank look, shrugged, muttered, “It’s… normal,” and tossed it to you as if that would somehow cover his tracks.

The apple was delicious, but he’d played it off as bland, as though enjoyment wasn’t something he indulged in anymore.

He’d be damned before he’d show any sense of true feelings, to the point where you started doubting if he had any.

Each interaction after the ascension had felt like this. Like you were dealing with a mannequin; he was all talk and no emotion, masking whatever vulnerabilities he had.

So this?... This whole breakfast scene now felt absurd. And he just sat there , wearing that infuriatingly blank expression, his gaze almost expectant, waiting for you to comment on the flowers.

Was the gesture supposed to be …romantic? A peace offering?

You really didn’t know what to make of it.

You figured you should say something, but your gaze slipped back to the garden instead, searching for the aforementioned irises.

They were impossible to miss—there was a whole patch of them, their vibrant colours practically shouting for attention.

“Like it?” Astarion asked, his tone light but with an unmistakable undercurrent of pride.

You shrugged, fighting back the urge to give him the satisfaction of a glowing review. "It’s... fine. A little overdone, maybe."

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Yes, well, one must make do with what they have. And when one has a great deal, why not make it... extravagant?”

You met his gaze with a deadpan expression. “The Astarion I knew would’ve thought this much upkeep was a waste.”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. “Perhaps. But as I’ve said—ascension has brought me a taste for the finer things. Though,” he added with a sly grin, “if you find it so abhorrent, I could always redecorate just for you.”

He was being sarcastic.

You knew he was.

But the thought of him changing anything for you felt as foreign as the garden before you. .

It was obvious this garden and its gaudy grandeur fit this new, “elevated” version of Astarion to a tee

And maybe, in some small corner of your mind, that rankled most of all—how this strange and unfamiliar place felt more like Astarion now than the man you used to know.

“There’s no need,” you replied coolly, lifting your glass of juice. “I’m not staying long enough for my opinion to matter.”

He looked at you with a glint of challenge, and then that smirk returned as he leaned back in his chair. “Don’t speak too soon, my dear,” he drawled. “This breakfast might be so riveting, you might just decide to stay for dessert.”

“I highly doubt that,” you replied, not bothering to mask your irritation.

Luckily, before he could counter with another line that would make you want to hurl yourself over the terrace, three servants arrived, balancing trays piled high with food.

You watched, slack-jawed, as the table transformed into a buffet that would put a royal banquet to shame. Plates began filling every inch—an assortment of dishes that looked suspiciously like they’d emptied half of Baldur's Gate’s pantry: steaming mashed potatoes , piles of sausage, flaky pastries, a ridiculous array of cheeses, eggs cooked a dozen different ways and even a tureen of bubbling mushroom stew.

What in all of Faerûn was this?

“This much food could feed a dozen people!” you exclaimed, barely managing to pull your gaze away from what looked like—“gods... is that garlic bread?!

Astarion chuckled, looking far too satisfied. "What can I say? The servants were simply too eager to show off their skills for such a… special guest. It’s not every day I host an old friend,” he added with a mischievous look. “And yes, that’s indeed garlic bread. Imagine my chagrin when I learned I spent two hundred years avoiding such a lovely flavor. Truly a tragedy,” he said dramatically.

The sad irony was that, you’d have given anything to witness his reaction to tasting garlic bread for the first time back in the day.

But he chose to hide his reactions to food from you, just like he chose to hide all of him.

Emotions, vulnerabilities, little moments that might have made him seem... normal. He’d locked them all away, leaving you to chip at the surface until you felt more like a sculptor than a lover.

And all the while, he chose to keep you at arm’s length.

Nullifying all of your efforts, all of the progress you’ve worked so hard to make together in one fell swoop.

Sure, you’d been the one to call things off, but he’d been the one who’d started pulling away long before, turning into something you no longer recognized.

Not to mention, his words after the break up had  scorched any bridge between you, severing any chance of reconciliation.

But you’d be damned if you’d say anything about that right now.

You were seven years too late to say anything.

“So,” you said, forcing your voice to stay casual, “is that what you told them? That we’re ‘old friends’?”

“Oh, I haven’t told them anything.” He shrugged, unbothered. “But I suppose they assumed I wouldn’t spend a week housing and nursing just anyone. And let’s just say that my newer friends… well, I wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep if they keeled over in my presence.”

You gave him a flat look. “Charming.”

“Always,” he replied, entirely unrepentant as he raised his glass and gave you a smile that was almost… sincere? "To old friends then, sharing a meal."

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Don’t make this a toast. Not when you don’t believe it.”

His expression didn’t waver. “Why wouldn’t I? We are old friends, are we not?”

Oh he’s going there, isn’t he?

Fine.

“Given that I usually rely on things like facts when I label relationships, I wouldn’t say ‘friends’ accurately describes us based on the last time we spoke, no.”

He tilted his head, still smiling, but there was a sharper edge to it now. “Yes, well, perhaps I was a bit… unreasonable with my comments back then, wasn’t I?”

Your mind nearly short-circuited.

Unreasonable? Unreasonable? That was his grand summation?

You nearly choked on the sheer absurdity of it.

“But that’s expected after a heartbreak, of course, wouldn’t you agree?” he continued oh-so-casually. “I’ve softened since then, mellowed out, as it were.” He waved his hand as if it was a trivial matter  “Why, you would’ve seen it yourself if you’d attended the reunion party. Imagine my disappointment when I graced that lackluster gathering with my presence, only to find you were missing.”

Of course he’d mention the damn party.

You opened your mouth to reply, but he was already pushing forward, as if you were merely a minor interruption to his monologue.

“Where were you, by the way?” He didn’t wait for an answer, predictably. “Till then, I’d thought you were busy with one of those little adventures in the Hells, gallivanting about to save Karlach’s heart with Wyll in tow. But, no—those two showed up without you. Apparently, you abandoned them. Right when you were so close to fixing her little problem, too. Just left them to fend for themselves with no clue where you’d gone.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping to a patronizing murmur. “Do I recognize a pattern here, darling?”

Your jaw clenched, fingers gripping the edge of the table. “I beg your pardon?”

“Twice, now," he said slowly, like he was explaining a very simple point to a particularly dim-witted child. "You promised your little friends you’d stick around, help them. And then suddenly—poof!—you disappear without a trace. Just like you left me.”

What …the…actual… fuck?!

Your jaw actually dropped, and he watched your reaction with an almost cruel satisfaction.

You couldn’t believe he dared speak those words.

This was the last thing you expected—that he’d come out and accuse you.

You’d always thought Astarion too haughty for that, too proud to so much as hint at being disturbed by anyone’s absence. And yet, here he was, piercing through you with those infuriatingly direct words.

“I did not leave you!” you spluttered, genuinely floored.

He scoffed, a bitter laugh slipping through his polished exterior. “No? So you didn’t go off to the Hells the moment our little adventure was over. Not a word of parting, not a whisper of goodbye, no hint of where you were off to, not even a single letter afterwards.”

“We broke up, Astarion! You made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing to do with me. Have you conveniently forgotten your lovely words?! You practically engraved them into my skull!”  You were shaking with rage now “Defeating the brain was evidently the last thing keeping us together”

You could still remember every bitter word he’d thrown at you.

He’d literally told you he never cared about you, that it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter.

Now he had the gall to play wounded?!

“Yes, yes,” he waved a dismissive hand, as if casually brushing off an old gossip. “As I mentioned, we both may have said some things we didn’t mean. However, surely you could have spared one last chat, just for closure’s sake. But no, you were all too eager to disappear. Not just on me, it seems, but on everyone. To do... what is it you do these days?” He cast a dramatic glance at you, his tone was mocking, dripping with disdain, and somehow it only fueled the fire inside you, “Steal? Sneak into camps? Sleep in the dirt?”

At his words, your face blazed with every hue of outrage, practically glowing like the irises he’d so mockingly set before you.

Truly living up to your name.

It was laughable. Except, of course, it wasn’t funny at all.

He knew exactly what he was doing, pushing each button just so, until you could feel your carefully maintained control slipping. He’d pissed you off—fully, and thoroughly—and though it rankled that he still had that effect on you, you weren’t about to let him get away with it.

"Such a miserable existence," he murmured, eyes half-lidded, oozing false pity.

And that was it.

That was the final straw.

That was all it took to set you off.

“You know what, Astarion? I’m so over this bullshit right now, let’s just fucking go there, shall we?” You leaned in, fire blazing in your eyes.

Astarion leaned back slightly, his smirk never faltering, as if preparing himself for a spectacle.

You’d give him one alright.

“Because, clearly, fuck dancing around the subject, right?” you continued, voice rising with every word. “I left you for a reason—a damn good reason— I’m not about to backtrack now just because you’re suddenly acting all nice and dandy.” You leaned in closer, feeling the heat of anger radiating off you like a living aura “You won’t fool me into thinking this is anything but an act because it clearly is!”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, and that flicker only fueled you.

“I know you think I’ve been struggling without you—”

You were

“But truth be told, I’ve been living life to its fullest!” you declared dramatically, throwing your arms out as if you were announcing some grand, glamorous adventure.

You hadn’t.

“I’ve been traveling from place to place, savoring my freedom and solitude!”

You felt so damn lonely.

“Not once have I looked back and regretted any of my decisions!” you lied, each word leaving a bitter aftertaste.

Because you did... many many times.

He looked at you with a mix of amusement and skepticism, as if he could see right through every single word. “Is that so?” he said softly, and then his voice hardened. “Then how do you explain my finding you nearly dead in a Gur camp, outnumbered and on what looked suspiciously like a suicide mission? I’d say that paints a rather different picture. If you’d been left alone any longer, you’d be a memory by now.”

“First of all—"

“Say whatever you want, my dear” he interrupted, “the point still stands, you clearly aren’t fit to be left alone , you needed to be saved. To be protected”

Excuse me?!

Your blood boiled. “I am a fucking adult! not some child who needs to be watched! and most certainly not by you!” you shouted, your fists clenched on the table’s edge.

“Clearly, your current temper tantrum says otherwise,” he shot back smoothly, eyes flashing with a challenge.

Your jaw dropped. Did he just call this a temper tantrum?!

You wanted to reach across the table and throttle him, to scream in his face, to throw something—anything to crack that maddeningly calm expression.

But all you could do was sit there, fingers curling tightly around the table’s edge as you glared across at him.

He held your gaze, unblinking, clearly waiting to see if you’d lose control, to see if he could push you just that much further.

He was fucking toying with you, and it made your blood boil further.

How could he be so infuriatingly calm in the face of your rage?

Every inch of him was an exasperating puzzle, taunting you with the arrogance you once found so compelling. And maybe that was what annoyed you most of all—that he could still make you feel so much, even now, even when you’d told yourself that you were done with him.

But no, he wasn’t done with you. Not yet.

He just continued to stare at you as you raged in silence.

He hasn’t exactly left you speechless, but you had a million comebacks that you couldn’t quite figure out which one to pick, it’s like your brain was overflowing.

And you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of witnessing you have a humiliating violent reaction.

Even if he was the victim of that said violence.

It’d be just like him to blind you with that infuriating smirk for having his point proven just after you punch him in the face.

Sporting a broken nose that would heal within seconds.

Fucking vampire healing abilities.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed suddenly, piercing. “What were you doing in that camp? A camp full of armed Gurs? This is stupid, even for you.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as though he were merely commenting on a poorly planned outing.

You continued to glare, refusing to give him anything. “Is this an interrogation?”

“It’s a simple question.” He replied calmly, too calmly.

“And the simple answer is: it’s none of your business.”

“Is it not?”

“No” you replied shortly.

He cocked an eyebrow, looking entirely unimpressed. “So you weren’t there to steal a certain map?”

Your heart skipped. Just for a fraction of a second, but enough for him to notice with his damn vampire senses.

“A map that allegedly leads to the mythical Sunlight Ring?”

The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable making it painfully clear he hit the nail with that one.

The next time you opened your eyes, you immediately squeezed them shut again.

It felt like you’d just invited the sun itself to punch you in the face.

You had grown accustomed to waking in the safety of darkness, so the flood of light that greeted you —especially after the fitful nightmares you’d been lost in—was a harsh, unwelcome surprise.

The same couldn’t be said, however, about the unbelievably comfortable mattress beneath you, or the luxurious sheets cocooning your body.

That... felt heavenly.

Your muscles ached mildly as you stretched, a soft groan escaping your lips.

The motion was cut short, though, when the sound of a door opening reached your ears, followed by footsteps retreating from the room.

Someone had been in here?

You frowned in confusion, since when did you have a room with doors?

Or any room at all?

Where the hell are you?!

Panic bubbled up, fighting its way through the sleep fog, and you opened your eyes again. This time, not just to flee your nightmares, but to figure out what fresh hell you'd woken up in.

Sitting up, you took stock of your surroundings. Massive windows stood directly in front of the lavish bed you were lying on, the curtains were flung wide open, natural light pouring in like it was on a mission to blind you.

Thanks for that.

The rest of the room was shrouded in shadow, decorated with sparse but opulent dark furniture—simple, but undeniably elegant, like something from a nobleman’s estate.

Your eyes traced the rich tapestries on the walls until your gaze hit the ceiling, and then your brain short-circuited.

A mirror.

A giant, ornate, perfectly polished, mirror, was right above the bed.

You blinked up at your own confused reflection, and after a long, painful silence, muttered, “What the actual fuck ?”

Cue the unmistakable sound of a smug chuckle. "Yes, it does have that effect on people."

Oh no.

You tore your eyes away from the mirror and gaped at Astarion as he strolled into the room, that satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Instantly, your mind did this weird thing where it clicked everything together in a split second. The mission. The Gurs. Getting your ass handed to you, and then—Astarion. Out of nowhere, there to save you.

You glanced around the room again, the realisation settling over you like a cold wave.

You were in his house. Or mansion?… probably a mansion, because of course, it was.

Astarion saved your life and dragged you back to this very expensive,very dramatic, very Astarion house.

You were in his home!

Your ex, the one you’d left. The one who had told you he was better off without you. The one who had promised you’d regret leaving him. Who called you an ingrate and dismissed your relationship as if it meant nothing.

Him.

“Well,” Astarion drawled with a grin, “I was going to say ‘good morning,’ but now I'm wondering if you're just sleeping with your eyes open.”

His words snapped you out of your stupor. “Astarion,” you said, as if saying his name would somehow stabilize this surreal situation. His smile widened at the sound of his name on your lips, clearly enjoying himself.

You stared at him for what felt like forever, trying to assess if you were in any immediate danger.

He didn’t seem threatening.

In fact, he looked absurdly relaxed— standing there, arms crossed,casually leaning against the wall as if he had no care in the world, watching you.

Still, you didn’t exactly feel safe in his presence.

But, he had saved you, hadn’t he? You had been on the brink of death, and he had stepped in and helped you.

If he’d wanted you dead, he could have easily let the Gurs finish you off. Or done it himself. You had been unconscious, completely vulnerable in his presence for—what? A full night, at least?

Suddenly, a chilling thought struck you. Your hand immediately shot up to the side of your neck, fingers searching frantically for the telltale marks.

In hindsight, you could’ve just looked at the ridiculous mirror above your head, but hey—panic brain isn’t exactly known for logical thinking.

“Relax, darling,” he drawled lazily. “I didn’t turn you. Although, wouldn’t it be funny if the Gurs were responsible for both my turning and yours?” He chuckled as if he just made the best joke of the century.

Finding no bite marks, you let out a breath and dropped your hand. “If you turned me, you’d be the only one responsible,” you deadpanned, not amused in the slightest.

His eyes narrowed, and he looked almost... offended? “Would you rather I let you die?”

Your gaze met his for a moment, and for once, you didn’t have any comeback.

Was the idea of being his spawn truly worse than being dead?

You honestly weren’t sure.

Being dead was final, finite, done. Being a spawn was decidedly not.

What made the distinction for you was that you had no idea what death would feel like, though you brushed so near to it many times to count.

But you had a distinctively good idea of what spawnhood entailed, mostly directly from the man who posed the question himself. Hence your absolute aversion to the whole idea.

"No matter,” he shrugged after a moment, dismissing the question entirely when you didn’t give him an answer “ It didn’t come down to that. I managed to save you without killing you, so to speak," he said, his tone sliding back into that smooth, unbothered cadence.

So, he had saved you—without turning you.

That was certainly… something.

You supposed you should be surprised, the man had wanted to turn you the very moment he gained the ability to do so.

And for a while, you were almost certain he only restrained himself because of the reaction the rest of the party would have if he forced you.

He said it himself, after all… that he should have turned you into a spawn just to teach you that he can have everything he wants.

Including you. 

Perhaps the conclusion from all of this was that … he simply no longer wanted it.

He no longer wanted you.

Perhaps you should feel something at this sudden epiphany but you honestly… felt empty.

You made sure to pick your next question carefully, one that would ensure you both keep actively ignoring the obvious elephant in the room.

“Where am I?” you asked, though you already had an idea, you needed him to confirm it.

“Baldur’s Gate, darling,” he replied with a smirk, when you narrowed your eyes at his general answer, he chuckled. “At my palace, of course.”

“The Szar Palace?” you asked, vaguely recalling him saying something about taking over the place before you parted ways. You know, amidst all his casual world domination and full control over Baldur’s gate plans, of course.

From the brief contact you kept with your other companions, you’d learned he was somehow actually pulling it off.

Surprising, certainly, but you had a faint feeling that Astarion still had no idea what he was doing.

His smile flickered ever so slightly at your question, like a candle about to go out, before it snapped back into place. “The Crimson Palace, yes,” he corrected.

“You renamed it?” you asked, eyebrow raised.

“Naturally,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “That man is gone, and so is his name. I made sure he didn’t leave a single mark.”

Ah, yes... of course.

You weren’t surprised, not at all, this was all rather expected.

In fact… good for him, you thought.

If there was one thing you were certain would never change about Astarion no matter how many ascensions he goes through, it was his absolute hatred of his former master.

The last time you’d dared to mention Cazador in front of him, he’d nearly bitten your head off. Of course, you’d been accusing Astarion of acting like him at the time, so that probably hadn’t helped.

But still… ‘Crimson Palace’? That sounds a little too much on the nose... did vampires just really love to drop not-so-subtle hints about their blood-sucking tendencies? Because no one else found it funny.

What’s next? A "Make yourself at home. You won’t be leaving." warning sign at the front door?

Astarion was still looking at you as if waiting for your next question, or silently gauging your reaction to his declaration.

He really does a lot of staring now, he doesn’t even try to hide it.

Just then, a thought occurred to you. This was a great opportunity to learn something that had nagged at you for a long time.

“Still,” you said, trying to sound casual, “I’d rather thought you’d choose to replace it with your own surname.”

You hoped you didn’t sound like you were fishing for information.

In truth, it had dawned on you about seven years ago, that you had no idea what Astarion’s last name even was.

The thought had hit you randomly, a couple of months after the defeat of the Elder Brain—after you and he had gone your separate ways. And yet that tiny insignificant detail had gnawed at you like a nagging itch ever since.

The realisation was like a harsh slap in the face, and had only deepened your sense of inner turmoil—how much had you truly known about the man you fell for?

Had you ever really known him? Was this charming, dramatic, murderous man you’d loved actually someone completely different from the picture you’d painted in your head? Maybe when you accused him of changing, he hadn’t changed at all—perhaps he was just finally comfortable enough to show you that the picture didn’t fit…

And wasn’t it ironic? That the man you convinced yourself into thinking was your whole life hadn’t really been a part of it for that long.

And you had been an even lesser part of his.

Sure, you’d spent intense, life-threatening months in each other’s company. You had fought beside him, risked your life for him as he had for you, and been utterly, embarrassingly in love with him. But in the grand scheme of things... how much had you managed to learn about each other?

Not to say you hadn’t shared long restless nights talking at camp, but there had always been more pressing matters than digging into each other’s pasts.

Especially his past. The years before he became a spawn—the years where he’d had agency, ambition, and choices. The years where his true character really shined.

What little you did learn was that he had been a magistrate, a fact you’d never quite managed to wrap your head around.

For how could Astarion—the walking embodiment of rebellious charm and mischief, a man who scoffed at rules as if they were meresuggestions—not only have been a law-abiding citizen but one who enforced it?

That, and that the colour of his piercing eyes before being turned was… decidedly not red.

Ah, he couldn’t remember…

Suddenly, you felt a wave of shame wash over you.

What if he doesn’t remember his family name either?

He had spent over two hundred years as Cazador’s thrall, where he’d been nothing but “Astarion the spawn”.

It was entirely possible, that even he didn’t know what his last name was, and hadn’t managed to relearn it in his few years of freedom.

Your casual comment now felt utterly insensitive.

Before you could spiral any further into your self-inflicted guilt trip, Astarion spoke, his voice unbothered, pulling you back to reality. “You know how I prefer poetic names, darling, but that’s only its official title,” He gave you a pointed look. “Had you been around Baldur’s Gate in the past seven years, you might’ve heard the common folk call it by a different name..."

He paused, flicking his hand dramatically as you held your breath, clearly proud of the next words.

“The Ancunín Palace.”

Ancunín.

That’s his surname...

Astarion Ancunín.

The name had a ring to it. It sounded… weirdly fitting.

You were still processing the fact that you finally, finally, learned something you’d pondered for years, when an alarming detail in his statement clicked into place.‘ Had you been around Baldur’s gate,’ he’d said.

So he knew you hadn’t been. He checked .

You swallowed hard. Okay, sure, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that you’d been gone, but the fact that he’d cared enough to notice? That was a whole other level of unnerving.

He must’ve asked around about your whereabouts… and that thought sent a chill down your spine.

You had made sure to be untraceable, of course. Keeping your interactions with your former companions to a bare minimum, who weren’t exactly thrilled about it, but you did what you had to.

You had to remain hidden, you didn’t want to be found. Especially not by him.

Except, well... lately you’d relaxed that paranoia a little. It had been nearly seven years, and you convinced yourself it was unnecessary to be that cautious anymore.

Surely, even if Astarion had ever thought about you, he’d have moved on by now… right?

And then, like a fool, you got too close to Baldur’s Gate again. Not because you were delusional enough to think it was totally safe, but because you were desperate—your long-standing mission had led you right back to the one place you’d sworn to avoid. Because you’d be damned if your unjustified paranoia stopped you from reaching your goal.

Except, of course, it wasn’t unjustified.

For here he was, standing in front of you, all smug and charming as ever, having found you, as soon as you stepped even remotely close to the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate, fully knowing you’d been absent for the past seven years.

But why?

The question gnawed at you, so much that you couldn’t stop yourself from saying it.

“Why am I here, Astarion?” you asked, your tone carrying a mix of frustration and genuine confusion.

He turned to you, the look on his face one of exaggerated surprise, as if he'd expected you to break into applause at his previous announcement, not ask him another mundane question. “Well, where else would you be, Darling? You needed somewhere to rest and heal. And where better to bring you than the safety of my own home?” He smiled like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But how did you manage to find me?” you pressed on.

“Right place, right time, you know the drill,” He waved his hand dismissively.

“That sounds too convenient,” you countered, not buying it.

“Doesn’t it?” he chuckled, clearly enjoying this far too much. “But it’s only the truth, my dear. I just happened to be close by right when you needed me most. Fate is a funny thing, wouldn’t you say?”

“If I believed you, maybe I would.”

He snorted as if he found your cynicism adorable. “Don’t believe me, or do, it matters not to me. The result is the same —I saved your life. And honestly, you ought to be a little more grateful, don’t you think?”

You hoped that the glare you gave him could burn, but alas.

His smirk only widened, and then, in that insufferable way only he could manage, he reminded you of something you once said to him—or at least a version of him— a lifetime ago. “Repeat after me, my dear: Thank you for helping me, it was very kind .”

You narrowed your eyes at him, thoroughly unamused.

How dare he?

How dare he act like this was part of your old banter? Like the last seven years hadn’t happened? Like he hadn’t ascended and changed on you, turning into something you could barely recognize? Like you could just pick up where you left off?

Like it was all still just the same? None of this was the same!

“Come now,” he added, voice dripping with mockery. “Surely you haven’t lost all your manners.”

Oh, now he was really pushing it.

There was something about his tone—more degrading than teasing— that lit a fire inside you.

You gritted your teeth. “I appreciate your help,” you said, the words practically hissing through your clenched jaw, “but I didn’t ask for it.”

He tilted his head, looking positively delighted with himself. “But you needed it.”

“I did not ! I would have been fine last night even if—”

“—Oh, you poor thing, that was not last night,” Astarion cut in smoothly.

You froze. “What?”

He gave an almost exaggerated sigh, like he was about to impart some great wisdom upon a clueless child. “ Oh yes, I've been graciously hosting you for some time now. Endlessly tending to your delirious ramblings, your sleep-talking, your little feverish whimpers… But of course, that's to be expected, with all that poison sloshing around in your veins—”

"How long have I been here?!" you interrupted, panic rising in your voice.

Astarion finally dropped the theatrics and gave you a serious look. “Almost a week.”

“A week ?!” you nearly shouted. “How?! I don’t understand—”

“It was somewhat... aided,” he admitted, waving a hand vaguely. “The healers suggested some potions to spare you the agony as the fever broke. You were already unconscious, and dragging you out of it would have been a disaster—you’d never manage to meditate with the pain, so I thought it was best.”

“You thought it was best?!” you repeated incredulously. "You drugged me!"

“Well, yes, I— where do you think you're going?" He moved swiftly as you threw off the covers and attempted to stand, his eyes sharp with something that resembled…concern? He was next to you in an instant, hovering too close.

“I have to leave right now!” you gasped, rising to your feet. But as soon as you did, a familiar scent washed over you—bergamot, rosemary, and just a hint of aged brandy.

It was a scent you thought you’d never smell again.

His signature smell…

It hit you like a tidal wave, dragging you back to a time when things were… different. When you felt loved, cherished, safe.

And now it suffocated you.

The world spun around you, your knees buckled and before you could react, you felt yourself falling—only to be caught by strong arms.

“What in the hells…” you muttered, as the world slowly steadied itself.

You opened your eyes and found yourself face-to-chest with Astarion, his arms steady around you.

He was close. He was so close and he was holding you.

And he felt… warm. Far too warm.

It was wrong.

It was all so bloody wrong!

“Careful, pet,” he murmured softly, his voice so gentle, comforting, as if iit had any right to be. It made your skin crawl.

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, stepping away as soon as you could stand again. You pressed a hand to your head, still dizzy. “I must’ve stood up too fast.”

Astarion surprisingly let go of you without protest, but stayed annoyingly close. “It’s the potions, Darling. They have lingering effects. You’ll need to avoid sudden movements for a bit longer.”

You groaned in frustration. “Don’t you have something to fix this? I have to leave as soon as possible!”

His smirk returned full force. “Oh, there’s only one way to fix your dizziness, and luckily for you, it just so happens to coincide with the perfect way to repay your little debt to me.”

The sheer audacity.

“What?” you asked, regretting it almost immediately.

Astarion smiled, standing to his full height, hands clasped behind his back as though he was about to issue some grand decree.

A true Magistrate.

You braced yourself for whatever absurd demand he was about to make. But nothing could have prepared you for his next words.