#chapter six

Halftail nodded with a grunt.

One-eye added, “If it were up to me, I would simply deliver the message by the border. The Clans need to be extra diplomatic with each other now, and stomping around on our rival’s territory will upset at least the leader.”

“And probably only the leader,” Dustpelt said, giving Firestar an amused look. “He makes friends with everyone he’s ever spoken to, except her.”

Firestar curled his tail. “You watch. I’ll befriend her in time.”

But, as it happened, he didn’t need to worry. The morning passed, and in evening passing to night, just as Firestar finished his breakfast and was about to head to the border, Teaselfoot trotted into camp, looking baffled.

“Where’s the rest of your patrol?” Dustpelt asked immediately, hurrying up with alarm.

“They’re still hunting.” Teaselfoot looked behind him. “We, uh, got interrupted.”

The buzz in camp immediately hushed as another cat came in after him—a familiar-looking light blue-grey tom with sleek fur and a serene face. Classic to RiverClan, his broad and soft appearance was a stark contrast to the hard faces and massive heights of the suspicious warriors around him. He didn’t look remotely bothered by the folded ears or twitching tails; he simply looked around with mild interest until his eyes landed on Firestar.

“There you are!” the tom said brightly. “Old Kittypetstar, good to see you.”

“Oh, good evening.” Firestar got to his feet and trotted over, tail deliberately high to soothe his Clanmates. “I think we’ve met, but I don’t remember your name. How can I help you?”

“It’s been a bit.” The tom’s tired eyes were crinkled merrily, but his voice was respectful. “I’m Stonefur—RiverClan’s deputy. I asked if I could drop by and bring you with me to a meeting.”

“And you couldn’t have waited by the border for that?” Willowpelt asked testily.

Firestar swept his tail in a gesture for her to stay calm and said to Stonefur, “It’s nice to meet you- well, meet you again. We were actually supposed to visit you tonight.”

“You’ll be visiting with more than us,” Stonefur said. “We’ve got quite a party going on. I hope you aren’t too busy to come? You’re invited as a special guest.”

Firestar let his confusion show on his face, but he simply said, “I’m available. Lead the way.”

“Firestar, are you sure?” Dustpelt came to stand by him, ears back. “Something could happen…”

“It was a pretty pleasant walk through your bush-crowded territory,” Stonefur said—not quite teasingly as much as reassuringly, like he understood Dustpelt’s anxiety. “I smelled not a single thing. Not through the stink of long fur and clawed trees, of course.”

“I’ll be alright,” Firestar said, tapping Dustpelt with his tail. “Stay here and keep an eye on everything. I’ll get home as soon as possible.”

Dustpelt had the sense not to protest in front of a guest, but his expression very clearly tattled on him. He straightened up and dipped his head obediently.

Firestar blinked at him and turned to Stonefur. “Let’s go.”

“You sure you want to leave your deputy here?” Stonefur tilted his head.

“It’s a precaution,” Firestar explained. “One of us should be around if we can help it.”

Stonefur didn’t argue this. He simply turned, beckoned with his half-tail, and trotted out of camp, Firestar following. The buzz in camp returned, though more hushed and uneasy than before.

“Your Clan sure is nervous about you,” Stonefur remarked once they were a good distance away. “And, if I may say, you seem nervous about them. Not even letting them be unsupervised, really?”

Firestar sighed. “We lost so many cats to the dogs: all of our senior warriors and deputies, and some younger cats besides. There’s a reason a kittypet is the leader now.” His heart sagged as the many, many bodies he’d borne witness to forced themselves into his vision. “The terror that brought didn’t go away once the last dog died.”

“Ah.” Stonefur’s voice became subdued. “Sorry. Didn’t think about that.”

Firestar offered him a blink too. “It’s fine. I’m sure that the end of this year will have us calmed down again. I hope so, at least.”

Stonefur nodded, unusually seriously for a RiverClan cat. “Stars know ThunderClan bore the brunt of those beasts’ reign, from what we heard. I noticed your camp was a little empty, but I just assumed there were multiple patrols out.”

“No, just one. The one that found you.”

“Stars above and spirits below,” Stonefur said softly, seemingly to himself.

Firestar weakly twitched his whiskers. “At least spring was kind to us. With so few cats to feed, we overloaded the prey-pile once or twice. We don’t even have to change out where we hunt very regularly—it’s all enough to take care of us.”

“We can be grateful for that, at least,” Stonefur agreed, but he didn’t resume his swimmer’s merriment. “Well, whatever Leopardstar thinks, RiverClan’s grateful the rest of you survived, Firestar.”

Firestar tilted his head, jokingly shocked. “RiverClan being glad for ThunderClan’s survival, huh? I’ve never heard that from your side or ours.”

“There are four Clans for a reason,” Stonefur replied. “We wouldn’t let even our worst rivalries get in the way of preserving our cultures and communities.”

Firestar’s tail curled over his back. “That’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Stonefur’s expression turned cheery again, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a yawn, and he instead went with, “Now, hopefully I can catch a nap when we get to where we’re going. Leopardstar heard from a hunting ShadowClanner that you and Blackstar had wanted to get ahold of everyone and she sent out a few cats to the different Clans for a meeting immediately.” He winked at Firestar. “We’ve all been awake since late afternoon.”

She must be testing her Clan’s patience to the extreme, Firestar thought. Is she trying to run RiverClan like ThunderClan or something?

Conversation continued, light and friendly, until they reached the edge of the forest. Stonefur guided Firestar up the border until the bridge was in view. Firestar flinched, imagining hot breath and teeth around his neck, but shook it off as hard as he could and followed Stonefur without a word.

He quickly saw why Stonefur had questioned him leaving Dustpelt behind; the other leaders were seated on the bridge, with WindClan and ShadowClan’s deputies sitting with them. He winced, self-conscious, and raised his voice to call out, “Sorry if we’re late!”

The three leaders looked up as Firestar’s paws landed on the bridge’s stiff wooden planks. Leopardstar, as usual, didn’t look happy, but Rookstar tilted his head in greeting and Blackstar lowered his chin. Deadfoot, somehow pretty stout for a WindClan cat, narrowed his eyes in study of the youngest leader, while a dark ginger molly that Firestar remembered meeting with the name Russetfur replied, “Greetings. Where is your deputy?”

“I didn’t know I should have brought him.” Firestar lowered his ears apologetically. “He’s watching over things while I’m gone.”

“My fault,” Stonefur said. “I should’ve told you. Ah, well. He can hear from you, too.” To Leopardstar, he said, “We’re all here now. Shall we begin?”

“We shall.” Leopardstar looked up at Rookstar. “You wanted to speak first.”

Rookstar slanted his head at her before speaking. “Blackstar mentioned talking to you, Firestar. Something about your Clan’s border being attacked.”

“It is.” Firestar sighed, coming to sit down across from Rookstar. “It’s bizarre. They wait until a border patrol comes by, attack us and then run away without finishing the fight. It’s always a new group of cats, too. I tried to talk to one of them, and all they said was that they ‘fight for their place in heaven’. They didn’t elaborate.”

Rookstar grunted. “Then we all have the same story.”

Firestar blinked, head rearing back a bit in surprise. “Really?”

“Save us, who have been driven away entirely…” Blackstar jerked his head to Leopardstar. “RiverClan’s border has had rogues patrolling it, and WindClan deals with trouble on the road-side.”

“Same as you,” Leopardstar said, straightening up even further and speaking with an almost admirable businesslike sincerity, her irritation forgotten. “We see them a lot easier, because our border is so open and there’s nothing but grassland and barely any trees. They watch us from a distance almost every night.”

“Barley said they’ve been prowling around his Barn, too,” Rookstar added to Firestar. “They’re certainly keen to attack if we come near the road.”

“The trouble is that they know how to navigate places with cars, so chasing them away would result in more potential losses for WindClan,” Russetfur said, to which Rookstar concurred with a hum.

“Do they all abruptly run from you, too?” Firestar asked.

“They do,” Leopardstar said. “I don’t know what they want or why they keep doing it.”

Deadfoot spoke up now. “Figure they’re testing our strength. And our willingness to fight.”

Leopardstar’s claws glinted in the moonlight. “We have plenty of both.”

“Well, hold on—” Firestar lifted a paw like he was going to take a step forward. “I know we usually just fight strangers off, but… I think it would be prudent to at least try to negotiate. If for nothing else, to make some sense of what they want.”

Leopardstar glared at him. “You really think we should talk to rogues?”

“I do, too,” Deadfoot said flatly.

“We don’t have to roll over and let them slice our bellies,” Stonefur agreed, looking amused at Leopardstar’s glare turning on him. “But the more we know about them, the better. Who knows? We could get lucky and scare them into backing off as soon as they get a sight of our teamwork.”

Rookstar looked over at Blackstar. “You got any information about them?”

“I fear not.” Blackstar’s thin tail tapped the ground. It was hard to say whether it was in irritation or nervousness. “They were swift to force us out before we could get a good idea of who they are and what they want.”

“Then what hope do we have of negotiating with them?” Leopardstar wasn’t looking at Firestar, but she was definitely directing the question to him.

“It’s at least worth a try,” Firestar said simply. “Wouldn’t you rather avoid any injuries or death if you could help it?”

There was a slight pause as all the leaders looked at each other. Even the deputies had faces like they didn’t want to concede, but knew he was right.

Rookstar was the one to break the silence. “I agree with Firestar. We’ll attempt to talk with their leader. Or leaders.”

Leopardstar harrumphed, but she didn’t argue.

“Take your entire Clans to the borders where they’ve been attacked the most,” Rookstar went on. “Inform them when they arrive to meet us two days after you talk to them at the neutral grounds, in Fourtrees. Run to tell the rest of us when you do.”

“Fourtrees is a sacred place,” Blackstar warned. “If we are forced to fight, our ancestors and the Three will surely take issue with that.”

Rookstar gave him a flat look. “Ideally, it’ll be on a regular sleeping night. But if you want to frighten them into peace, bring your deputies and four warriors with you. Your biggest and strongest. Make sure they know to come alone and with no intention to fight.”

“We can do that.” Firestar fought the urge to sag a little with relief. “Thank you, sir. I just want this to end without a fight. I know the Clans don’t like talking to outsiders, but…”

“This is a special situation,” Rookstar finished. “We should be willing to act in our best interests.”

Firestar nodded. “And in theirs.”

“I know you’re a kittypet,” Leopardstar said sharply, “but you shouldn’t be concerned about how outsiders are faring, much less rogues.”

A flash of anger in Firestar’s chest caught him by surprise. He controlled it and gave her a pointed blink, speaking calmly. “If they’re a cat and they’re breathing, I will be concerned about them.”

The calico didn’t know what to do with that, clearly. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line as she tried to meet Firestar’s soft gaze and was forced to look away, muzzle fighting to not be wrinkled. Stonefur’s eyes were nearly gone from the crinkling beam of delight on his face.

Deadfoot’s whiskers twitched, but his voice was as deadpan as ever. “We’ll see what happens. Good luck to you all.”

Firestar bowed his head respectfully. “It was nice to see everyone. I hope we’ll meet again before the next Gathering, and sort this all out.”

“May the Three watch us all,” Blackstar said. “And may our wishes of peace be granted.” He stood up. “Have you more to say, Rookstar?”

“Only that you all walk in groups and watch carefully.” Rookstar slowly and stiffly got to his feet too. With a single nod to everyone, and a swish of his overly-long tail, he started walking off the bridge and in the direction of his territory, Deadfoot limping after him.

Blackstar and Russetfur were next to leave, silent and thoughtful. The only ones left were Leopardstar, Stonefur, and Firestar.

Firestar was quickly aware that Leopardstar was not going to leave until he was gone, too, so he got up and dipped his head to them both, saying, “It was very nice to see you again, Stonefur. I hope RiverClan won’t be bothered by the rogues after this.”

Leopardstar grunted, ears back and eyes narrowed doubtfully.

Does she not believe I mean that? Firestar thought. He held in a sigh and turned, trotting off the bridge and heading back into the woods.

It was a funny thing—as soon as his feet were off the planks, his chest settled and a sense of safety rushed through his body, both things he hadn’t realized in his tension until now. He hadn’t been in any danger, though, and he’d known that the whole time. Was he really that shaken by his nightmares?

Oh, well. The important thing was that his idea had gone over well.

He padded into the woods, his mind wandering over potential outcomes of the meeting with the rogues. Best-case scenario, maybe they’d have allies in the future, if he could keep things friendly! Sure, that was far-fetched—even he knew that—but he could dream. Worst-case scenario…

She passed a fallen banner of Katayn, the silver lion half-submerged in a gutter of black sludge. It looked pathetic—a strip of silk that had promised protection and delivered only a shroud.

The citizens she had once shared bread with—the ones who had laughed at her stories and sold her ribbons—now recoiled as she passed. The air around them curdled with the scent of unwashed fear. Mothers yanked their children into the shadows of blackened doorways, their eyes wide with a primal terror that made the hollow void in her chest expand until it threatened to swallow her whole. They didn't see the girl who had catalogued tax records anymore. They saw the girl who had made the earth scream. They saw the catalyst for their ruins.

She didn't go to the church. She couldn't face the crushing weight of Jin’s disappointed kindness or the suffocating, sterile smell of medicinal herbs. Instead, her feet led her to the only place that didn't demand she be a hero or a healer: the heavy, scarred timber doors of The Cat’s Nap.

Inside, the pub was a tomb. A single shutter hung at a broken angle, allowing a solitary sliver of dusty sunlight to spear through the gloom, illuminating the motes of ash dancing in the air. The familiar scent of stale ale and old, spilled tobacco was the only thing that felt real—a tether to the girl she had pretended to be. She sank into her usual stool, her hands resting flat on the cold, gouged wood of the bar. She waited for the world to stop spinning, but the silence only made the ringing in her ears louder.

The door creaked open shortly after, the uneven, heavy thud of boots announcing a visitor. Yoongi didn't say a word. He didn't offer a platitude or ask for a tab. He hobbled toward the bar, his tunic shredded at the shoulder and a dark, plum-colored bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a storm cloud. He reached behind the counter, his fingers steady despite the grime, and snagged a bottle of the strong stuff. He took his usual corner seat right next to her, the smell of blood and cheap gin radiating off him.

The silence between them was a physical weight—a bridge that had been washed away by a flood, leaving them on opposite banks. She didn't move for hours. Her mind was a kaleidoscope of a brotherly smile and the skeletal, spiked armor of a warlord. She kept seeing Jungkook’s eyes—the way they hadn't changed even while he stood amidst the dead. Jungkook was alive, but he was a monster. He had destroyed her peace while wearing the face of her greatest friend.

The silence detonated.

The doors burst open, the metallic clash of greaves against stone echoing like a cannon through the empty room. Taehyung stormed in, his silver armor caked in soot and dried ichor. His eyes—usually so bright, so full of the mischief that had kept her grounded—were now shards of ice, sharp with a pain that made her flinch. She was almost surprised it had taken him this long to find her.

He stopped a foot away from her, the heat of his anger radiating off his plate mail in waves. "Who are you?" he demanded. His voice was a quiet, vibrating firmament that demanded an answer or a blood-sacrifice.

She blinked, but she couldn't bring herself to look up. She traced a knot in the wood of the bar, imagining it was a tiny, solitary island in a vast, dark sea.

"Y/N!" He slammed his gauntleted fist onto the counter. The sound was a hammer meeting an anvil, a violent crack that made the glassware rattle on the shelves. Yoongi’s hand twitched instinctively toward a hidden knife beneath the bar, his eyes narrowing, but Y/N remained as still as a statue. "Who. Are you."

She took a slow, rough breath. The air tasted of smoke and old lies. Finally, she lifted her head and met his gaze. The flood of emotions in his eyes was staggering—anger, agony, and a betrayal so deep it felt like a physical wound. It was the kind of look that fueled the very wrath she was trying to keep from drowning them both.

"I am a twelve-hundred-year-old demigod with the power to level this city," she said, her voice unnervingly steady, devoid of the warmth he knew. "I was sent here from a world that died before your ancestors learned to build with stone, tasked by the Ancient Gods to stop a Darkness from escaping the dimension they bled to trap him in. Does that answer enough of your questions, Tae? Or do you want the names of the stars that burned out while I waited to wake up?"

She watched his reality buckle. His mouth opened and closed, his mind trying to reconcile the girl who liked salt air with the creature of myth standing before him.

It was Yoongi who broke the tension, the sound of a bottle cap unscrewing clicking in the quiet. "Answers all of mine," he muttered, tilting the bottle back and taking a pull that would have leveled a lesser man. "You want different drink, or are we staying with the hard stuff?"

"How long have you known General Kathan?" Taehyung demanded, ignoring the older man entirely. He leaned into her space, his voice trembling with accusation. "Did you know about the attack? Is that why you took me to the beach? To pull one of the best blades in the guard away from the palace gates while he slaughtered the King?"

The accusation stung worse than the rubble that had bruised her ribs. Y/N looked away, her jaw tightening until it ached. "Jungkook is my brother. I spent a year mourning him, thinking him dead. I didn't know he had traded his soul to Ravanis, and I certainly didn't know he was coming for this city." She glanced at the knight from the corner of her eye, a spark of her old fire returning. "And you came to me at the beach, Tae. I didn't ask for your company. I went there to find a peace you people don't know how to give me." The words were harsh and untrue; this past year had been the most peaceful one she’d ever had.

"The King is dead!" Taehyung’s voice finally broke, rising to a ragged shout that bounced off the rafters. "The city is a ruin! The army is—"

"Give her a break, Taehyung," Yoongi interrupted, his voice raspier than usual, carrying the authority of a man who had seen too many wars and buried too many friends. He didn't look up from his drink. "She's trying to process the fact that her dead brother just burnt her house down. Let her grieve. The dead aren't going anywhere, they’ll still be dead tomorrow."

Taehyung glared at them both, his chest heaving under his cuirass. He looked like he wanted to scream, to arrest her, or to collapse into the dust—perhaps all three at once. Unable to find words that wouldn't shatter him, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the heavy oak doors swinging violently in his wake.

The silence returned, thinner and colder than before. She felt the weight of the millennium pressing down on her shoulders, making her feel every one of those twelve hundred years. She looked at her hands—the same hands that had cracked the palace floor—and wondered if they would ever feel clean again.

"So, uh," Yoongi said after a long minute, his voice losing its bite. "You really twelve hundred years old?"

Y/N glanced at him briefly, a shadow of a smile ghosting her lips. "Twelve hundred twenty-six, if you want to be specific."

Yoongi nodded slowly, taking a long pull from the bottle. He studied the dim, cobwebbed rafters of the pub, then looked back at her. "You look good for your age. Must be the salt air. Or the lack of taxes."

A small, involuntary laugh escaped her—the first human sound she’d made since the world ended all over again. How many times could one person’s world get destroyed before there was nothing left to break?

"The stories," Yoongi said, his tone turning serious as he leaned back. "The city above the clouds. The blue dragon in the well. All of it? You weren't just spinning yarns for the locals to get free drinks?"

"All of it," she whispered. "Every word I told you was true, Yoongi. I just... I wanted to be the person everyone thought I was. Just a girl with a big imagination and nowhere to go."

Yoongi grunted, his eyes softening. "I figured the dragon was real the second I felt the cobblestones turn into a wave under my feet. No normal girl does that, not even the ones from spirited families." He looked at her sideways, his expression turning grim. "What are you going to do? He’s your blood. But he’s the one who put our leaders in the dirt."

Her small smile vanished. She thought of Jungkook’s joyful, terrifying face and the way he held Inara—her own soul—like a trophy won in a raid.

"He’s not the brother I knew," she said, her voice hardening into steel. "He said he had to take me to him. He’s serving someone, Yoongi. Someone who wants the world to look like Katayn does right now. I have to get my sword back. I have to find out what they did to him—and then I have to stop it."

"Well," Yoongi sighed, sliding the bottle toward her. "Better finish that drink first. I have a feeling terra-whales and blue dragons aren't the biggest things you’re going to run into out there."

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The church felt like a hollowed-out ribcage in the dark. Usually, the air here was a thick, comforting soup of beeswax, sun-warmed incense, and the dusty vanilla scent of old parchment. Tonight, that sanctity had been violated. The atmosphere was sharp with the remains of Jungkook’s forced entry and the metallic, cloying stench of blood that drifted in from the makeshift infirmary in the nave, the need for more room for the injured increasing each hour. It was the lingering ghost of Ravanis—a cold, artificial static that made the hair on Y/N’s neck stand up.

She moved through the stone-walled pantry with the practiced, predatory silence of a girl who had once hunted in celestial forests. She took only the essentials, her movements jerky and utilitarian: a small linen sack of dried grain, two leathery strips of salted beef, and a sturdy, brass-capped waterskin.

Every item felt like lead in her hands. These were the winter stores of a kingdom that was currently bleeding out, and the weight of the theft burned. She felt like a scavenger picking over a fresh carcass.

"The sourdough on the middle shelf is fresher," a calm, weary voice drifted from the shadows. "The rye will be moldy by the time you reach the foothills."

Y/N spun around, her body coiling instinctively. Her hand flashed to her hip, searching for a blade that wasn't there—a reflex that made her fingers twitch against empty air.

Father Orin stood in the arched doorway, a dim, stuttering lantern clutched in a hand that shook with palsy. He looked impossibly small beneath the soaring Gothic vaults. His white robes were no longer pristine; they were smeared with soot and the dark, brownish stains of dried blood. His eyes were rimmed with a raw, red exhaustion—the look of a man who had spent the last six hours absorbing the final breaths of the dying.

"I... I was only taking what I needed to survive the night," Y/N whispered, her voice cracking like dry glass.

"Take more," Orin insisted, stepping into the pool of amber light. There was no judgment in his tone, only a profound, quiet pity that cut deeper than Jimin’s sharpest accusations. "The road ahead is a hungry one, and the winters in the high passes have no mercy for your pride. Take the heavy wool cloak from the infirmary hook. Jin won't miss it. He is currently neck-deep in the screams of the living. He has forgotten the meaning of the cold."

Her heart stung at the mention of Jin. She hadn’t seen him since he warned her away from the city, hoping that her absence would be enough to save everyone. It was a bitter irony that whether she was present in Katayn or not, the damage would have been the same. The target had been on her back since she washed ashore.

Orin sank onto a small wooden bench with a groan of stiff joints, setting the lantern on the floor. It cast long, flickering shadows that danced like giants against the stone walls. "I owe you an apology, child. And I suspect King Haedrich would have offered one as well, had he a throat left to speak with."

Y/N froze, her hand hovering inches above a jar of preserved honey. "For what? You gave me a home when I was nothing but sea-salt and silence."

"We gave you a home built on a foundation of secrets," Orin sighed, rubbing his face with a trembling hand. "The artifact—the silver sword the General reclaimed today. It washed up on the shingle the very same morning the scouts found you unconscious in the surf. Haedrich was a man of logic, but even logic fails when confronted with an omen. He believed the blade and the girl were two halves of a single catastrophe. He thought he could protect Katayn by keeping the weapon in the dark and the girl in the light."

A cold, crystalline surge of realization flooded Y/N’s chest, making her breath hitch. "It was here? I spent a year staring at the horizon, mourning a piece of my soul that was sitting in the king’s basement?"

"It never truly went dark," Orin murmured, his eyes unfocused as if seeing the blade's glow through the floorboards. "Since the hour you crossed the threshold, it pulsed. We thought we were guarding a holy relic. We didn't realize we were holding a heart captive."

"It belonged to me," Y/N said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "It was a gift from the Nine. A blessing to ensure I could execute their will. I thought the sea had swallowed it. I thought I was alone."

Orin looked at her then—truly looked at her—not as a demigod or a threat to his city, but as a girl who had been forged into a weapon before she was even a woman. "You speak of the Nine with a great deal of salt in your voice, child. Do you still walk in the warmth of their light?"

"I hate them," Y/N spat, the raw honesty of the words vibrating through the small room like a strike on a tuning fork. "I hate what they’ve done to my family. I hate that they left Jungkook and I in that stinking vault for a thousand years while the world moved on and forgot our names. I hate that they made me a relic in a world I don't recognize."

She braced herself for him to recoil, to scream heresy and call for the guard. Instead, Orin simply nodded—a slow, sorrowful movement.

"The gods deal in empires and eras," he said softly, his voice echoing in the pantry. "They move the mountains but often forget the cost of the flowers growing on the slopes. If you hate them for the silence they gave you, I cannot find it in my heart to tell you that you are wrong."

Y/N finished packing in silence, the sack now heavy with the salted meats and grain Orin had pushed toward her. She stood by the side door that led to the graveyard path, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

"I won't wish a blessing from the Nine upon you," Orin said, standing up with a wince. "I don't think you’d thank an old man for the insult. But... I will give you a traveler’s blessing. May your feet find the solid ground when the world turns to water, and may your heart find the rest the heavens were too busy to give you."

Y/N looked at him for a long moment. The bitterness in her chest, the volcanic wrath she’d been nursing, softened just enough to let her bow her head in a silent, genuine salute. "Thank you, Father. For the bread. And for the truth."

"You should sleep before you go," he suggested, though his eyes told her he knew she wouldn't. "And Y/N? Don't let the shadow of that general's armor hide the boy you remember. He is lost in a very deep woods, but the world is wider than Ravanis’ reach. Perhaps he can still be found."

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The predawn air was a razor, slicing through the thin linen of Y/N’s tunic as she slipped through the church’s side gate. She had managed perhaps two hours of fitful sleep, her mind a fever dream of crumbling stone, the smell of blood, and the terrifying radiance of Jungkook’s smile.

She reached the main gate of Katayn, where the towering oak doors—once symbols of safety—were now broken, charred skeletons. The city behind her was unnervingly quiet. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic clink-clink-clink of a blacksmith’s hammer, already at work mending the armor of the men who had survived. It was a lonely, industrial heartbeat for a dying city.

She adjusted the weight of her pack, bracing herself for the long silence of the road. But the road wasn't empty.

Sitting on a mounting block by the stables, tossing a small pebble into the air and catching it with bored, calloused precision, was Yoongi. He didn't look like a barfly anymore. He looked like the shadow he had always hinted at being—sharp, weathered, and ready.

"You're late," he said, his voice a low rasp. He didn't look up. "I figured a demigod would be more of a morning person. Or maybe you just like the dramatic entrance?"

"Yoongi, go back to the pub," Y/N said, her voice heavy with weariness. "I’m not going for a hike. I’m chasing a Ravanis general. It’s dangerous, it’s thousands of miles, and I don’t need a guide."

"You don't need a guide?" Yoongi repeated almost mockingly, finally meeting her gaze. His face was a map of bruises, but his eyes were sharp as flints. "Kid, you've been here a year and you still get lost looking for the damn bakery. If you want to go east to Ravanis, you have to go through the Northern Pass. Between here and the first port, there are three marshes, two dead-zones, and enough goblins to make you wish for a terra-whale to swallow you whole. You aren’t doing this alone."

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of frantic, uneven shuffling interrupted her.

"Wait! Wait for me!" Jin stumbled around the corner, his pack lopsided and a heavy leather medical satchel bouncing violently against his hip. He was breathless, his face flushed scarlet in the biting morning air, looking entirely like a man who had never spent a night outside a city walls.

"Jin? What on earth are you doing?" Y/N asked, her brow furrowing in genuine concern.

"Father Orin," Jin gasped, doubled over and clutching the gatepost for support. "He said... he said you’d need a healer. And someone to make sure you actually eat something other than salted leather for the next six months. He sent me. And I’m not—huff—I’m not staying behind to watch the infirmary turn into a morgue."

"I am not leading a rescue expedition!" Y/N snapped, her patience finally fraying. "This isn't a church outing, Jin—"

"We know exactly what it is."

The voice was like a whip-crack. Jimin stepped into the first pale light of the rising sun, followed closely by Hoseok and a silent, brooding Taehyung, each carrying their own packs of supplies in addition to the weapons on their hips and backs.

Jimin looked livid. His silver armor had been scrubbed clean of blood, but his expression was still stained with the betrayal of the courtyard. He looked at her not with friendship, but with the cold calculation of a jailer. "You think you can just crack the earth, kill our King, and then walk away on some private revenge plot while we’re left to bury the dead? No. You brought this to our door. You’re our responsibility now."

"We’re coming to make sure you actually finish the job," Hoseok added. His tone was lighter, but the usual sunshine in his eyes was replaced by a grim, forced optimism. He gave her a small, hopeful wave that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Plus, Katayn is a bit... gloomy right now. A road trip sounds better than sitting in the rain, doesn't it?"

"Even I know that's bullshit, Captain," Jin muttered, and Y/N felt a jolt of shock to hear the word fall so naturally from the healer's mouth. "What are you actually doing here?"

Jimin’s rage simmered down into a profound, hollow sadness. "Someone needs to alert Princess Soyeon of her father's passing and escort her back from Aethelis. The crown belongs to her now."

Y/N closed her eyes. She had heard the stories of the King's daughter, studying magic in the desert city. Her heart ached for the girl; she knew the exact weight of the crown being thrust upon a fatherless child.

"Father Orin mentioned a small group would be traveling north this morning," Hoseok finished, his voice steadying. "Traveling in numbers is safer. For everyone."

Y/N looked at Taehyung. He didn't say a word. He wouldn't even meet her eyes. He just stood there, his hand white-knuckled on the strap of his shield, his gaze fixed on the dirt. He was a shadow of the boy who had sat with her on the beach less than twenty-four hours ago. The power in her blood felt like lead, heavy and hot.

"Listen to me," Y/N sighed, her voice dropping into that low, ancient resonance that made the very air hum with power. "I am going to find my brother. I am going to beat the soul back into him, and I am going to take back the sword he stole. It is a family matter. It is an Ancient matter. You will only get hurt. Or worse."

"We're already hurt," Jimin countered, stepping directly into her space, his eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and grief. "Varian is dead. The King is dead. If you want to fix this, you do it with the people you broke."

Yoongi adjusted the strap of his pack and started walking toward the north road without waiting for her permission. "Ravanis is on the southern tip of the Eastern Continent, Y/N. We're on the southern tip of the Western. That's a lot of ocean between here and your brother."

"You’ll get a boat at Port Maris," Hoseok said helpfully, falling into step behind Yoongi. "It's only a few weeks' walk north. Plenty of time to get used to the blisters and the bad jokes."

Y/N looked at the five of them—the healer, the guide, the soldier, the scout, and the boy whose heart she had shattered. She was a demigod of the Second Age, a relic of a world that had mastered the stars, yet she felt completely outmatched by five mortals with a sense of duty.

"Fine," she whispered, turning her face toward the cold northern horizon where the clouds were gathered like an army. "But don't say I didn't warn you.”

As they took their first steps away from the ruins of Katayn, the sun finally crested the horizon, painting the road in a bloody, brilliant gold.

Astarion clung to your arm the entire walk back to your house. You leaned into him, at first surprised by the lack of body heat but seeming to enjoy his grip on you nonetheless. Instinctively, you put your arm through his and rested your head against his shoulder. He hesitantly placed a soft kiss on the top of your head and you hummed happily. 

“I’ve missed you,” you whispered to him. 

Astarion hesitated, wanting to return the sentiment but unsure if he should; he had spent the past two hundred years—or most of them, at least—not remembering you. But when you looked up at him with a soft smile, the words tumbled out, an absolute necessity to say, “I missed you, too. Even if I didn’t know it, I…I did.”

You smiled at him, soft and gentle, like you knew exactly what he was referring to, like you knew he had felt a hollow absence for all these years he hadn’t realized was there until you filled it again. 

There was a glint in your eye that Astarion was pleased to recognize. He bent just enough to let you kiss his cheek. The two of you both smiled the minute your lips touched his skin. 

You gave directions as the two of you walked, telling him when to turn and which way, until you came to a stop at a door. It was illuminated by a golden lamp, spilling over its lovely emerald green paint. The color was like a burst of life against Astarion’s eyes, vibrant against the blacks and greys of his Darkvision. 

The door did not hold the same familiarity as you did. He glanced at you as you unlooped your arms and slid a key into the lock. “Is this…where we lived?”

“No,” you said, glancing back at him. “Your parents still live in that house. Our bedroom’s untouched, though. The bed still unmade, curtains still closed… It’s as it was when you left for work that morning.”

Pain split through his heart. “My parents are still alive?” You stopped, almost shocked, and turned to him with your mouth slightly open. Before you could speak, he barreled on, “They still live in the same house?”

You glanced up at the sky, likely trying to gauge how much time you had left. You pushed the door open and gently guided him inside as you answered, “Yes. They found it too painful to leave. Your… Your mother said leaving it would feel like selling all that was left of you to a stranger.” You were quiet for a moment. You began lighting the wicks of candles, revealing a kitchen. “I still go back sometimes. To sit in our room. Every so often I sit on the roof like we used to. And, uh…your parents don’t know this, but I’ve been slowly sneaking away pieces of your clothes. It’s…comforting to have them near me, even if I’m terrified that by wearing them too long I’ll lose your scent.”

Astarion felt like he’d been struck by lightning. His family was alive. His family was alive, had been these past two hundred years, and they still loved him. “My mother…” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes.

You paused in your lighting. “Asty? Are you alright?”

His lower lip trembled. “I… I don’t know. I didn’t know they were still… Do they miss me?”

You came over to him and wrapped your arms around him. “They miss you very much, darling. There hasn’t been a day when your mother has not spoken of you, or a day that your father has not stared at your painting.” You looked up at him. “There has not been a day where any of us do not wish to change what happened that day. To prevent you from going to work. To get you home faster. To convince you to take a different route home. Anything to keep you alive and with us.”

I’m still loved. They love me.

He bit his lower lip. “I wish I could see them again.”

“Perhaps one day you will,” you said. “Perhaps we’ll find a way out.”

Astarion smiled bitterly. “Cazador will take that optimism from you.”

You studied him for a moment, clearly wanting to argue. But instead you just gave him your hand and whispered to him, “Come with me, love.”

A nervousness filled his chest. “I don’t want to do this to you… I don’t want to lose you.”

You cupped his cheeks and pressed your forehead together. Your thumbs smoothing over his cheeks comforted him in a way he never remembered feeling before—but surely you must have done this a thousand times, with the practiced way you touched him. “You aren’t losing me. And you aren’t the one hurting me, darling. It’s your master who has done this to us both.”

Astarion shuddered. “Don’t speak of him. Not here. Not when we’re about to…” He bit his lip. “Not when I can have you again.”

You nodded and kissed his forehead. He leaned into it, some of the tension in his shoulders draining away. “I won’t.” You began walking him out of the kitchen, leading him up a set of stairs. “This way, love.”

Nervous in a way he didn’t ever remember being, Astarion followed you up the stairs. He glanced around the humble dwelling you had made your home—covered in paintings and tapestries and knickknacks that made it homey and welcoming—safe. It felt lived in, contrary to many of the homes of nobility he had found himself in time and time again. It wasn’t something he would have ever designed himself, at least not as he was now, but he liked it anyway. 

The door to your bedroom was open. It was a cozy, open room that felt familiar enough for him to pause at the threshold.

You noticed. “I may have designed it to be similar to our old bedroom. It was comforting.”

Astarion’s eyes scanned the room: a large bed in the middle, covered in soft blankets and piled with pillows, a circular rug underneath it, a mirror on the wall next to your wardrobe. Your desk was covered with paints and powders and pieces of jewelry similar to what you wore now. 

“I like it,” he said quietly. “I… We lived in a place like this?”

You nodded, sitting in the chair at your desk. He watched you take off your jewelry and take your hair down. “Our bedroom had a different color scheme and it was a little bit bigger. We had a washroom connected to it and two wardrobes—yours was bigger than mine. And we had a balcony we used to sit on late at night. But we shared a desk and I wore your clothes more often than I wore mine.” You smiled at him. “You used to tease me that if you couldn’t find one of your shirts, it was either in my wardrobe or on my body.”

You stood and closed the curtains of the two windows that let moonlight stream into the room. Darkness fell for a moment and Astarion watched your dim figure move to one side of the bed. You struck a match and an oil lamp flared to life. 

“Simpler than magic,” you explained. Then the two of you stared at each other. 

Astarion didn’t know where to start. He knew how to manipulate his victims into bed with him nearly every night. He knew what to say, how to move, when to smile, when to make the approach. But with you in front of him, suddenly all his best tricks seemed useless. 

You cocked your head to the side, noticing his hesitation. “Astarion?”

“I don’t know where to start,” he whispered. 

“Then let me?” you suggested. He nodded. 

You removed your apron and draped it over the back of the chair. You reached around behind you and loosened the strings of your corset, slipping it off after a moment. It wasn’t exactly graceful, but the movement still made Astarion’s throat tighten. Somehow, your movements—unpracticed for two hundred years—were more alluring than the nobles Cazador made him bed or the unfortunate virgins tripping over themselves to have him. 

It’s because it’s you, he knew. You weren’t just alluring—you were comforting. His body was strangely present, strangely here, as you undressed for him. 

You pulled off your skirt and left yourself in a poet shirt similar to the one Astarion himself had worn until it fell apart and then sewn back together time and time again. You glanced up at him for a moment, your breath catching in your throat. Astarion nodded eagerly, taking a step closer to you. So you pulled the shirt up over your head and stood before him.

Your undergarments were made of delicate lace. Automatically, Astarion reached out to touch them—touch you—then hesitated, looking into your eyes, suddenly afraid his instinct had been wrong.

But you only stepped forward and guided his hand to the fabric covering your chest. His touch seemed to arrest you for a moment before you stuttered out, “You gave them to me. The set was an anniversary gift. Somehow I knew when I dressed this morning I wanted this piece of you close to me.”

Warmth bloomed in the pit of his stomach—arousal, actual arousal, not the response he had forced himself to have when his victims got naked. He felt himself stir in his leathers.

Astarion let his fingers trail over the edge of the lace. Your eyes fluttered closed, your breaths coming in heaves. “Well, I…had good taste.”

You touched his chest, fingers trailing over the gold embroidery of his doublet. “You still do, darling.” You let out a heavy, pleased sigh. “Oh, gods, Astarion, please. Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” he breathed desperately, leaning into you. “Yes.”

You stood on your tiptoes; he bent down. As your lips touched, his arms looped around your waist and settled there, holding you against him. Your lips were soft, gentle, welcoming. You let him take the next step instead of forcing it. It was a kindness he wasn’t sure you knew was a kindness. 

He sucked your lower lip between his. You whined softly and then tried to pull away, clearly embarrassed by your need for him, but it brought a smile to his face. He chased your lips and brought one hand to rest between your shoulder blades, guiding you back to him. He kissed you again, softly at first, then licked your lip, asking for more. You obliged him with a slight smile of your own. 

Your tongues slid together, both of you careful of his fangs. After all these years, Astarion had gotten good at hiding them, even during a kiss—but he didn’t feel the need to hide them from you, only keep your tongue away from them.

One of your hands slid into his hair. He tensed momentarily, bracing for an unrelenting tug, but you only scratched his scalp with your nails. He relaxed against you, falling deeper into the kiss. 

When you parted, it was slow, both of you reluctant to part from each other. Your chest was heaving, your breasts straining pleasantly against the delicate lace. Astarion’s eyes dropped to the sight, mesmerized for several moments. Then he looked back up at you with a smile on your face. 

“I missed you,” you breathed. “I’ve missed that.” You toyed with his collar absentmindedly. But your eyes were fixed on his, clear and resolute, some concern clouding your blown pupils. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. “More than alright. You… You’re so gentle with me.”

“Is that what you want?” 

Quickly, he nodded again, almost desperate this time. He didn’t really want to explain the sudden tears that rushed to his eyes, but judging from the heartbreak he saw in yours, you had guessed his reasoning. 

“Then gentle we will be,” you promised. “Soft. Sweet. Slow. Like our old mornings.” Your fingers found the clasps of his doublet. “May I…?”

“You may,” he said, unbearably happy that you had asked. The feeling grew stronger as you carefully undid each clasp, rather than ripping them apart so fast and so hard that he had to fix them when the night was over. He reached up to help you undress him. 

You took the time to ask him before you removed any clothes. You took the time to admire him as skin was revealed. You took the time to kiss him when he hesitantly asked for it. You took the time to wait when you saw his uncertainty, holding him and stroking his hair. 

Is this what it feels like to be loved? 

When Astarion was left standing in only his boxers, you gently led him to the bed. You hooked your fingers into his waistband and met his eyes. Before you could even ask, he whispered, “Pull them off.”

You smiled at him and did so, your touch still light. You spared his half-hard cock only a glance as you stood back up and met his gaze. Astarion could still see the want in your eyes. But instead of doing what you wanted with him, you turned and said over your shoulder, “Would you like to take mine off?”

“Yes,” he whispered, lifting his hands to undo the clasps of your bra. He slipped the straps off your shoulders after you turned back around to him. He let himself admire your breasts as they were exposed before he dropped his hands to your hips and removed your panties in one graceful move that seemed to surprise you. 

“You were always good, but you’re better at this than I remembered,” you said by way of explanation, your cheeks turning pink. “You were always so shy when you undressed me, no matter how many times you had been inside me.”

For some reason, he felt guilty. “I’m sorry I changed.”

You shook your head, cupping his cheek. “Don’t apologize. Not for that. We’ve all changed. We would have changed whether you had died or not.” Your gaze drifted back down his body appreciatively, then to his cock. 

Skin crawling with self-consciousness, familiar from times having to improvise to explain away the struggle to get hard (especially without being able to explain how little blood he actually had in his body), but stronger now that it was you looking at the weakness that took away from the one thing he was good for, Astarion explained, truthfully for the first time, “I can’t get hard right away, not without blood and…and he starves us. Once we actually start, I can do more, but—”

You put your finger to his lips and lay on the bed. “Will it hurt?”

Astarion blinked at you. “What?”

“Your bite. Will it hurt?”

For a moment, it didn’t process what you meant. Then— “You want me to feed from you?”

You nodded. “I’m more than willing to work you up myself if you’d prefer, but…I’ll admit I’m curious. Besides…you finally have someone who knows what you are and loves you anyway. Bite me. Feed the only time you can.”

Astarion stepped closer to the bed, his hunger rearing its head. “Are you sure you want me to?”

You nodded and gestured him closer to you and, after a single moment’s deliberation that ended with the sole thought of, Fuck it!, Astarion crawled over you. You smiled up at him with a fond amazement. He grinned. “You’ve seen this view before, haven’t you?”

“Often,” you said. “I dreamt of this nearly every night. It’s almost hard to believe you’re right here… I half-suspect I’ll wake up in the morning and none of this will have happened.”

Astarion bent and began peppering your neck with soft kisses. Your blood smelled sweet, pumping through your veins with strength. “Believe me, darling, this is very, very real…”

You craned your neck, exposing the column of your throat to him. Astarion pressed his nose to your pulse point and breathed in deeply. He moaned, his whole body shuddering. You put your hand back in his hair, scratching softly. “Please…” you whispered, and all of Astarion’s restraint snapped.

He drew back enough to bare his fangs and sink them into your throat. You gasped sharply. He would have asked if you were alright if your blood did not suddenly fill his mouth, sweet and tangy and heavy all at once. He swallowed and instantly felt the difference. Bugs and rats were enough to keep him functional, surviving—this was enough to let him live. 

The next few pulls of blood had you whimpering pleasantly and warmth filling his body. Strength returned to his muscles with every mouthful and his chest began to move with the illusion of breathing. He became aware of the throbbing need in his cock and began grinding on your thigh. Your responding gasp quickly became a moan and your arms tightened around him.

Somehow, Astarion knew the exact moment that you had become equals again; he had taken half your blood and any more would kill you. In fact, any more and he would be too drunk on it to stop himself from killing you. 

Drain her. Drink her dry and go back to Cazador with enough strength to escape him.

The thought terrified him. He pulled away from you quickly, your blood dripping down his chin and onto your chest. He licked the open wounds of your neck clean of blood before he sat back and stared down at you.

You were paler than you had been when he started, but your eyes fluttered open and you reached up weakly to wipe the thin trail of blood away from the corner of his mouth. You offered him your thumb and he sucked it into his mouth without thinking, licking the blood from your skin. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, brushing a hand through your hair.

You nodded. “A little woozy, but I’ll live.”

Astarion decided not to tell you how close you had come to not living. “What did it feel like?”

You paused, thinking. Eventually, you said, “Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It was…intimate. Magical. It was ecstasy in a form I’ve never felt before. Pain that turned into pleasure. I felt…connected with you more wholly than ever before. We always said we were one when we had sex, but that…that was being one.” You met his gaze again and breathed out one word: “Wonderful.”

Astarion couldn’t help it; he kissed you needily, pressing his entire body to yours. You responded willingly, even when the kiss turned into a tight hug that allowed him to hide his face in your shoulder so you wouldn’t see his tears. 

Eventually, you tapped his shoulder. “Sit on the edge of the bed, darling.”

A tingle of anticipation raced up Astarion’s spine—clearly his body remembered what you were going to do, even if he did not. You slid to your knees and spread his legs apart far enough to get between them. He tried to hide his shock; you wanted to pleasure him? Time and time he had been forced onto his knees and made to take a cock in his mouth, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone had done it for him… In fact, you were probably the last person to have done it, years and years ago.

“Darling, you don’t have to—”

You looked up at him. “Do you want me to?”

His chest tightened. “Yes,” he whispered.

You smiled slightly. “Then let me pleasure you, Asty.”

“Okay,” he breathed, his chest heaving with phantom breaths as he watched you lean in. You kissed the base of his cock and a quiet whine escaped him. You dragged your tongue up his length and kissed his tip before you took him into your mouth. He threw his head back, groaning. His eyes fluttered as you sucked gently, licking the underside of his cock every so often. Occasionally you popped off of him to kiss up and down his length and the sensitive area around it.

“Look at me,” you breathed. He did as you asked and you went back down on him, holding eye contact with him. He whimpered and bit his lower lip, muffling the sound. You made a face. “Let me hear you, Astarion.”

His answer was a whine as you licked a stripe along the underside of him. He brought his hand to your head and held you as you licked and kissed him. It didn’t take long for him to give into the pleasure; he began to mumble in Elvish to you until the words couldn’t roll off his tongue anymore and began coming out as moans, both low- and high-pitched. Some part of Astarion was deeply embarrassed by his sounds—but he knew now if he tried to hide them, you’d stop, and, gods above, that was the last thing he wanted. But you didn’t let up again and before he could stop himself or even warn you, he was cumming down your throat. 

And you let him. You pulled off of him only when you were sure he was spent. He flopped onto his back, panting heavily. A thrill went up his spine as he watched you swallow his spend, crawling up on his body to join him on the bed.

“That was… Hells, that was good,” he groaned as you laid next to him, getting perfectly cozy against his blood-warmed body. “How did you…?”

“You taught me,” you reminded him with a laugh. “How else did you think I knew exactly what you liked?”

“You could just have really good instincts,” he said, rolling onto his side to kiss you. He cradled you in his arms, holding you as tightly against his body as he could. You melted into his hug readily.

You pulled away for a moment and just stared at him, your eyes peering into his like you could see his soul. A little nervous, Astarion just watched you, taking in the way your eyes roamed over his face and how your lips easily came up into a happy, satisfied smile.

“What?” he whispered when the love on your face was almost too much to bear.

“Nothing,” you said. Then you shook your head. “Well, it’s not nothing. I…never thought I’d see your face again. Not really, not outside of my dreams. So I’m just… I’m glad to have you back.” You reached up and trailed your fingers across his cheekbone. He leaned into your touch. 

Slowly, Astarion began to return the favor, running his fingers across your body. He watched the way you shuddered beneath his touch, paid attention to when you giggled, noticed when your eyes fluttered shut and your body relaxed. He felt like he was learning how you ticked, but there was something about every movement you made that was almost painfully familiar. He had done this to you before, likely thousands of times, and had enjoyed squeezing your hips in his hands and groping your breasts and kissing every available inch of your skin.

“How many times?” he breathed against your sternum, pausing as he kissed down your body. You hummed and he clarified: “How many times did we do this?”

Your eyes were closed, your face the picture of contentment. “You mean the sex or the touching?”

“Touching.”

“Every night,” you answered. “Every night before we went to bed, whether we were naked or not, whether we had sex or not, we would do this. We’d cuddle and kiss and caress each other until one of us fell into trance or sleep, whatever we decided to do that night.”

“Gods,” he whispered. “I… I didn’t realize it, but I missed it. I think.”

You hesitated for a moment. Then you whispered, “I thought you did this every night.”

“Almost every night,” he corrected. “And…never like this. Never soft. Never gentle. Never…loving. It’s always rough and demanding, brutal.” He glanced at you, expecting criticism, but your face was open. There wasn’t a hint of jealousy that he slept with other people, nor anger that he was complaining about getting laid nightly when you had spent the years alone. So he continued. “I wake up sore and sometimes bleeding in places I didn’t know I could bleed from.”

You curled your arms around him protectively. “Oh, Asty… Love, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said quickly.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t feel bad for you,” you insisted. 

Disagreement coiled in Astarion’s belly, but he didn’t voice it, instead laying his head against your chest. He sighed happily when you began to scratch your fingers through his scalp. He remained like that for a few minutes before the words began to tumble out of him, slowly at first, then gaining momentum and—to his surprise—anger.

“It’s not always…random people from taverns. Sometimes he’ll…assign me victims. I’ll be sent to them. Nobles, mostly, who he wants for his thralls. Sometimes he sends them back out into the world to do his bidding, not keeping them the way he keeps me or my siblings, or draining them into dry, mummified corpses like most of the people I bring back for him. But if I don’t bring them back in the single night he gives me— Well. I’d be scarred horribly if vampires didn’t heal quickly, and even then, I don’t heal as quickly as I should so sometimes I go out the next night still wrapped in dirty cloth for bandages, bleeding through them, expected to bring home yet another meal.” 

Astarion paused long enough for you to have a quick interjection. “You have siblings?” 

“Of a sort. There are six others. Six spawn he made to do his bidding.”

“And are you all expected to…fetch your victims the same way?”

Astarion shook his head. “No. Yousen’s a gnome, for gods’ sake, who’s going to sleep with a gnome and not a handsome creature such as myself?”

You rolled your eyes. “There are plenty of people who find gnomes attractive, even if you don’t,” you chastised. 

He sighed. “But you get my point. He made his spawn from people with…different talents, so to speak, to bring in his meals. But if we fail, we all get treated the same way. Beaten. Bitten. Used. He…he does it to me more than the others. I’m his favorite to torture.”

“You mentioned that,” you murmured, touching his ear gently. His cock twitched with pleasure and he gasped. You froze. “Do you want me to stop?”

Hesitantly, he nodded. “Just— Just for a moment…please.”

Immediately, before he had even finished speaking, you removed your hand from his ear. “Alright.”

Surprise flooded his body. No one had ever listened to him before. No one had ever taken his ‘no’ to be a no. They always kept doing what hurt him, what he hated, what made his skin crawl with disgust and hate and fear. 

But you…listened. You more than listened, you stopped.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “It’s just— I…I’m not quite ready to do anything else yet. There’s so much I want to say because I’ve never been able to before and I don’t… I don’t want to ruin the moment, but…”

“But trying to push through will ruin it anyway for you,” you said, understanding him immediately. “That’s alright. Just keep talking, my love, and I will listen to everything.”

Oh, gods above, you understood him. Astarion felt the strong urge to cry until he had no tears left, all out of relief. Instead, he kept talking.

“He hosts grand, lavish parties from time to time. On those nights, we spawn are forced to pose as his…servants. It’s almost a relief to have a break, but then…then there’s the afterparties. And I’m his entertainment at the afterparties. They’re more…orgies than parties by then and I’m at the center of it all, dressed however he wants me for the night, which is sometimes nothing. He lets the partygoers use me however they wish. He orders them to, in fact. It hurts and hurts and hurts until it suddenly doesn’t because I can’t feel anything anymore.” His tears dripped onto your skin. You cooed softly, trying to comfort him, but you said nothing to stop him, so he kept going. “It’s not just the parties, either. It’s… Well, it’s like this. I’m his favorite to torture, and I’m his favorite to…to use.” 

You made a sound of both sympathy and rage. “Asty…”

Your whisper was lost in his continued tirade. “Whenever he wants, I’m there and I’m meant to do whatever he wants me to do and let him do everything he can to me. The others all know. They know I’m Cazador’s plaything and they think I get…special treatment for it. They don’t see how much it hurts, they don’t see that I suffer every night, because I don’t suffer like they do. No, no, I get to have sex! I get one of life’s simple pleasures while he beats them! So how is it fair that I complain?” Astarion looked up at you, his eyes shining with tears. “How is it fair that I complain?”

“It’s not your fault,” you said firmly. “It’s not. Darling, none of this is on you. Your master is…a leech. Yes, he’s a leech, taking what does not belong to him, forcing misery upon you. Astarion, please listen to me, honey. I mean it. This is not your fault. He is sowing dissent amongst all of you on purpose because it is the only way he can control you. If you all were to band together—”

“We’re his thralls, he can control us anyway,” Astarion snapped. “Anything he wants us to do, we do. It’s why I haven’t been able to stop him from—” He fell silent and buried his face in your chest, an unreasonable shame burrowing in his chest. He knew it was unreasonable; he knew you were at least somewhat right. He had no control over his life, and yet… The shame was there anyway. “Poetry. That’s what he said he carved into me. That’s the scar on my back.”

Automatically, your hand drifted from his hair to his shoulder. Before touching the scar you asked, “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. It hurt then, when he had to correct his mistakes because I couldn’t keep still enough.”

“Can I touch it?”

He nodded slowly and braced himself. But your touch was gentle and soothing. Your fingers ghosted across the raised marks and you peeked over his shoulder at it.

“It’s written in Infernal,” you murmured. “Last I checked, that’s not exactly the language of poets.”

Astarion raised his head. “Really? I…I didn’t know. What does it say?”

You shrugged. “I can recognize it, but I can’t read it.”

Astarion sighed and fell back against your chest. 

“What do you want to do?” you whispered to him.

“Hold me,” he breathed.

So you wrapped your arms around him and held him tightly to your body, his head against your chest, his own arms coming around your waist. You held each other in silence for quite a while. Your hand began to scratch his scalp and a gentle sound that was close to a purr escaped him. After a few moments, your hand went back to his ear. When he didn’t protest, you began rubbing his ear lightly.

A soft moan escaped Astarion’s lips. He looked up at you, his hips already beginning to grind into the mattress. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you reminded him. “You are more than just sex.”

“I want to,” he whispered, the statement true for the first time in nearly two centuries. “It’s… It’s you, of course I want to.”

You whimpered quietly at the words and pressed a tiny kiss to his forehead. “Only if you’re sure, honey.”

“I’m sure,” he promised. 

It didn’t take long for the heat in his body to rebuild. You caressed every sensitive spot on his body with care and intimate knowledge of who he was: his ears, the nape of his neck, his Adonis belt, his nipples. You touched him with a reverence that felt almost like worship and made his entire body tremble with need. You suckled on his nipples until he moaned loudly and ripped himself away from you to do the same to you. 

Very quickly you learned to give him control. He hovered above you, sucking hickies into your neck and chest, happily leaving little bites on your tits as he went.

“You can draw blood,” you whispered to him in the middle of a bite and he moaned delightedly, letting his fangs scratch your skin until you bled and licking up the crimson droplets. He met your gaze as he let his tongue linger on a deeper cut and found you looking down at him fondly, toying with one of his curls between your fingers. 

Astarion adjusted to slip a hand between your bodies. He cupped your exposed cunt and grinned at the sight of your head going back, exposing the column of your throat to him.

“I’ve barely touched you, darling,” he teased. 

“And I’ve waited two hundred years for this,” you reminded him. “Any touch is enough, but, hells, please put your fingers inside of me.”

“Needy,” he joked, but did as you asked, spreading your pussy to drag his fingers up your slit. He placed his slick fingers on your clit and began to rub gentle circles. You gasped, your body arching up into his. He chuckled and moved up to kiss you sweetly. His tongue against yours was a balm to the both of you; you calmed down enough to wrap your arms around his shoulders and he felt any lingering doubts slip away. 

You were his. You had always been his. You were not just another victim, you were the woman he loved, the woman he had been so devoted to that he was going to marry you. You were not using him like the others.

You seemed to read his thoughts and filled in the last possibility, murmuring against his soft lips, “I love you, Astarion.”

He moaned into your mouth. A single tear slipped past his closed eyelid and fell on your cheek. 

“I love you,” you whispered again. “You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know.”

Astarion slipped two fingers into you, curling them deep inside you. You arched into him again, moaning obscenely. He giggled again; if just two fingers could make you this happy, what would you do when you felt his cock inside you again?

He pumped his fingers slowly until your hips bucked into his hand, wordlessly asking for more. He picked up the pace until you began panting. He watched you grow closer and closer to the edge, your body writhing, your eyebrows pinching together, your mouth falling open to let out delicious moans. He was almost tempted to just let you finish on his fingers, but… 

Gods, he wanted to taste you.

He pulled his fingers out of you. You whined his name, pitifully, already begging, already asking, “Why did you stop?”

Astarion’s answer was not verbal. Grinning, he dropped to his knees quickly and shuffled closer to the edge of the bed. He yanked you to the edge, letting your legs dangle over his shoulders, and leaned in. You held eye contact as he pressed a kiss to your clit. Then a second. Then a third. By the time he got to the fourth kiss and latched his lips around your sensitive nub, your eyes were rolling into the back of your head.

“Astarion,” you moaned, your hand twisting into his hair but not pulling.

He began to suck gently, letting the pressure drive you wild. He licked your clit slowly, lavishing attention on it with his tongue, feeling you grow very, very wet against his chin. He dropped a little lower to tongue at your entrance, the taste of your arousal pulling a moan from deep in his chest. You gasped at the vibration, your hips rutting against his face. He chuckled into you and slid his tongue inside you, lapping at your cunt. You were delicious in ways he hadn’t thought possible. He knew that his heightened senses meant that he could smell every bit of your arousal, every emotion inside of you, every liquid in your body—but he had not expected your lust to be infused with your love for him. 

It was a new feeling, a new taste. He liked it. 

Astarion reached up and coated his hand in your dripping arousal. Then he wrapped his hand around his cock and began stroking slowly, allowing himself to enjoy it, feeling the heady rush of blood to completely harden his cock. His hips rocked gently, the pace increasing when he glanced up at you and found you smiling as you panted, your breasts heaving. 

He released himself to bring his hand back up to your cunt. He sunk his fingers into your wet entrance and returned to sucking on your clit. You cried out, your hips bucking, and he grinned against your slick skin. 

“Cum for me,” he whispered against you, loud enough for you to hear his command. “Let me taste you. Cum on my face, darling.”

You clenched around his fingers, moaning the loudest you had all night. There was a fresh rush of wetness and the lewd sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you grew louder. Astarion slipped his fingers out of you and his tongue back into your cunt to taste you as your orgasm ripped through you. He put his thumb on your clit and started rubbing.

Astarion’s eyes fluttered shut as he tasted your cum. You were sweet, absolutely divine, your ecstasy meant entirely for him. He groaned into your pussy and your legs wrapped around his head, helping to bury him in your slick entrance. He giggled, more than happy to stay there longer and keep licking your cum out of you.

He tapped your thigh when he was done and you put your shaking legs back to the floor. He got to his feet and crawled over you, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss. You moaned into his mouth, then made a sound of surprise.

“Do you taste yourself on my tongue?” he whispered, looking at you with hooded eyes.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Good.” He kissed you again, grinding on your thigh to ease the throbbing in his cock. You groaned at the feeling, your arms tightening around his neck. You broke away from his mouth to pepper his face in tiny, loving kisses.

An overwhelming fondness filled him and he pulled away from you enough to meet your gaze. You trailed your fingertips over his cheekbone and then to his ear, rubbing gently again. He hummed happily and opened his eyes to see your face as he whispered, “I love you, too.”

You stopped, your eyes widening, your lips parting. Gods, you were beautiful. “Do you really mean—?”

“Yes,” he breathed quickly and bent down to kiss you again. You hummed into his mouth, pulling his body down onto yours. He paused in his grinding, wanting to be against you more than he wanted the friction.

“I love you,” both of you said at the same time, then burst into little giggles. You nuzzled into each other, Astarion’s cheeks hurting from the smile he couldn’t seem to drop. Then you kissed him and pulled his lower lip between your teeth. You tugged slightly.

Astarion pulled back and then glanced down your body to where his cock rested on your stomach. “Are you ready for me, darling?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He grinned. “Spread your legs a little wider for me, sweet girl.”

You did as he asked without a second thought and he settled between your legs. He guided himself against your entrance, notching the head of his cock there. He looked up at you again and you nodded. He smiled softly, kissed you once, and then looked back down to watch himself sink into you.

Astarion moved slowly, careful not to hurt you, well aware that you hadn’t been fucked in two hundred years. You sucked in a deep breath, keeping your eyes on him as he pushed into you. Astarion let out a low groan as you squeezed around him, already a tight fit, your warmth and wetness enveloping him. When he bottomed out, you released your breath, your head falling back against the pillows. 

“Are you alright?” he whispered. 

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, I’m alright. Gods… You feel…right. It’s…it’s almost as if it were yesterday you made love to me for the last time.”

He bent down enough to kiss your forehead. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to make love to you?”

“Please,” you whispered. 

Astarion began to move. He started with shallow thrusts, trying to allow you time to adjust and get used to the feeling, watching the pleasure on your face as he did. He held himself up with one hand and let the other slide up and down your side comfortingly.

Eventually, you turned your head to kiss his wrist. “More,” you said quietly. When he raised his eyebrow, prompting you, your already flushed cheeks turned scarlet and you amended, “Deeper.”

“Good girl,” he said and let his next thrust bring his pelvis to yours. Both of you moaned into each other. Your breaths came faster as he began to hit that spot deep inside of you over and over again, sure to never go too hard. Then you whispered, “Harder, Asty,” and all restraint left his limbs. 

Astarion lifted your leg to get a better angle and began pounding into you relentlessly, grunting with every thrust. Your moans became punctuated and he slowed down briefly to let you get some air.

Your response was to throw both legs around his hips, tug him down to you, and breathe into his ear, “Don’t stop. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing, darling.”

Astarion moaned happily and hurried back into his fast pace. You pulled him into a bruising kiss and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

“Can I touch your back?” you whispered and he nodded quickly. 

“Scratch at me all you want, sweetness,” he replied and your blush darkened.

You settled your hands on his upper back, your nails digging in just slightly as you held onto him. You crossed your ankles at the small of his back and let him drill into you.

Lips, teeth, and tongues clashed into each other as you made out messily, the sound of your spit-slicked kisses drowned out by the rhythmic smacking of your hips into each other. You felt a soreness begin to build, pleasant and familiar and distinctly Astarion.

For his part, Astarion was pleasantly surprised at how present he was. He found himself electing to keep his eyes open to see the ecstasy wash over your face when he wasn’t kissing you and he smiled at every moan, every “Oh gods” you let out, every cry of his name that left your lips. His whole body buzzed with pleasure and his cock throbbed inside of you. He nuzzled into your neck, kissing softly and nipping gently, not taking blood from you this time. He tongued over the bite he left earlier, licking the dried residue of your blood, but the wound had since closed. 

“I love you,” he murmured against your skin. “And I am so sorry that I have been gone.”

You kissed his cheek briefly. “I love you, too.”

Astarion groaned into your neck, then pushed himself back up, fucking into your pussy wildly. “You feel so godsdamn good,” he panted, grinning down at you. “I haven’t felt this way in…a very long time.”

You gently squeezed his hips with your legs and reached up to cup his face. “I’ve missed how perfect you feel,” you said. “How you always hit the right spots.” You moaned as he did exactly that, your entire body tensing, preparing for your orgasm.

“Are you close?” he asked.

“Very,” you breathed. 

He brushed your hair from your face. “Cum whenever you’re ready, darling. I want to feel you spasm around me.”

You whimpered. “Oh, Asty,” you moaned. You relaxed into the mattress. “Go a little harder and I’ll be there.”

He did as you asked, pounding into you fast and hard and just a little bit rough. He reached down to put his fingers on your clit and you let out a shriek, clenching tightly around him. He gasped, his cock twitching at the stimulation. You threw your head back, nearly screaming as you came around him, his name lost somewhere in your shrieks of pleasure. The fresh slickness of your cum surrounded him and he glanced down to find a ring of white on his cock, getting thicker and brighter by the second.

The grunts that fell from Astarion’s mouth were rougher, louder. He squeezed his eyes shut and then forced them open again.

“Darling—” he gasped, his entire body trembling with exertion as he tried to stave off his impending orgasm. “I’m— I’m gonna cum, oh gods, where do you— Where do you want it?”

There was a soft look on your face as you whispered, “Inside. Inside like the last time you ever fucked me.”

Astarion groaned, the reveal bringing tears to his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tear drop from his lashes. Your thumb came up to his face and wiped gently at his eye. He whimpered, leaning into your touch.

“Cum for me, honey,” you whispered, softly cupping his cheek.

Astarion whined and kissed your palm, burying himself to the hilt. He moaned loudly, tilting his head back, and it quickly became a series of high-pitched whimpers as ecstasy washed through his body. He trembled, holding himself up until he was spent. Then he collapsed on top of you, panting harshly.

You held him close, soothing him with quiet hushes and soft whispers of how wonderful he had done for you. You kissed the top of his head, running your hand through his curls, murmuring your love to him with a smile on your face. 

Eventually, Astarion pulled out of you. You whimpered and he whispered a soft apology. He sat back to watch his seed drip out of you. Fascinated, he gently swiped his fingers through your mixed releases. You shuddered. He held his fingers up to your mouth. You quirked an eyebrow at him at first, then opened your mouth and let him slide his fingers between your lips. Dutifully, you licked them clean.

“I guess we’ve never done that before, huh?” he joked, laying back down on you. He kissed you sweetly, enjoying the taste of you and him together on his tongue. 

You shook your head. “Nope. You only came inside me for one night.” He raised an eyebrow and you explained carefully, “I’d been tracking my cycle so I knew you could cum inside me without us getting pregnant too early. We wanted to wait until after our wedding to start trying for a baby.”

Astarion’s heart nearly broke. “We…we wanted a family.”

You nodded, smiling in a way that made Astarion feel like you knew the pain twisting in his chest at the moment. “We’d told your parents we wanted one the night before you died. They were…ecstatic. You know, I’m almost surprised they didn’t push us to move the wedding up so we could start faster.”

He laughed, more a huff than anything with how exhausted he was. “I take it they didn’t know about us taking the risk of finishing inside you?”

You grinned. “Well… We didn’t tell them, exactly, but I’m guessing they figured it out with how loud you made me scream that night.”

Astarion smirked. “Was it louder than you just were?”

“Oh, much louder,” you said, somehow teasing and serious at the same time. “I thought the entire neighborhood could hear you making me scream.”

“So I’ve always been good at sex, then?”

You shrugged. “Not…exactly. The first few times were a little…subpar in comparison to what our sex life became, the sex we just had. But because it was you, because it was so new…we still enjoyed it.”

The two of you shuffled to lay on your sides, facing each other. You snuggled against his chest and Astarion held you tightly, pressing soft, lingering kisses to every inch of your face. 

“I love you,” he murmured. “And I see why I loved you then. You are…perfect. Considerate. Gentle. You don’t…push for things I don’t want to do. You just know what I like, even after all this time… I had thought I had changed, but…”

“You did change,” you said. “But not so much that I don’t recognize the man underneath all your disguises, all your layers. You are, deep down, still my Astarion.”

He curled more tightly around you. “I like being yours.”

You kissed his nose. “I like it, too.”

The pair of you lapsed into comfortable silence. Astarion listened to your breathing and your steady heartbeat, watching your chest rise and fall against his, moving as if he was also breathing. 

You were so comfortable with him… So vulnerable. You trusted him with your exposed neck, with your bare body, with your love. Hells, how he wished he could remember what he had done to earn that trust. How he wished he could keep your trust.

Some time later, you mumbled into his skin, “It’s two hours until dawn, my love.”

Fear crept back into Astarion’s mind. “I know.”

“We should get going soon.”

He held you just a little tighter. “Not— Not quite yet, darling. Let me hold you for a few minutes more.”

You smiled knowingly against his chest and Astarion wondered how many mornings he had refused to get up, electing instead for a few more minutes in bed with you, your limbs tangled and the sheets just barely covering your lower halves. “Alright.”

Astarion pressed a grateful kiss to the top of your head. His mind began to spin with the beginnings of half-baked plans. The two of you could run, leave now and get as far away as possible. He could simply not go back, he could hide here with you until night fell again and then the two of you could leave. He could bring you back to Cazador with a plan, with a way to kill him or escape him or both in mind.

Every plan fell short. Nothing would work. Cazador had too many eyes in the city to disappear this quickly. 

We’d never escape alive. And while Astarion was certain that death—true death—would be a relief in comparison to the past two hundred years, he wasn’t willing to force that on you.

He glanced at you, still tucked into his arm, a peaceful look on your face. He tried to capture the image in his mind for a few moments, then stirred and gently slipped out from underneath you. He stood and slowly put his clothes back on.

You watched him do so, sitting up on your arms to grin at him. “Now that’s a sight that never gets old.”

Astarion frowned. “Me putting clothes back on?”

You nodded, reaching for your dress. Astarion helped you get it over your head. “It reminds me of our early mornings when you’d get ready for work and I’d watch you primp and preen until you were perfect.” You adjusted your dress, then looked up at him. “Here—let me fix your hair, I messed it up when I put my hands in it.”

Astarion watched your face, your expression twisted into concentration, your tongue poking out just slightly, as you carded your fingers through his curls and arranged them. When you were satisfied, you stepped back.

“There, good as new,” you said and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You wrapped your arms around him and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Are you ready?”

Astarion clenched his jaw. “Are you? Are you sure you want to do this? I…I really shouldn’t do this, darling, I should just take the punishment—”

“No,” you said firmly. “I will never forgive myself if I know you’re out there, getting hurt, because I wouldn’t go with you.”

“Darling—”

“Take me to him,” you insisted. “Don’t get yourself hurt for me.”

Still, Astarion bit his lip so hard he tasted his blood. “But isn’t that what we should do? I’d be protecting you—”

“I would be putting you in danger, Asty,” you insisted, cupping his cheek. “Please. Please do this and we will find a way out of this, alright? Even if it’s a last-ditch, desperate attempt to run—we’ll do something. I promise you, love.”

It won’t be enough. It will never be enough. But Astarion didn’t want to dash your hopes; naive as it was, it was relieving to see hope after two hundred years without it. It almost convinced him that you would be the lucky soul to escape Cazador’s bite, his eternal punishment. 

Astarion offered you his hand. “Are you ready, darling?”

You nodded, slipping your hand into his. “Ready.”

Before you left, you extinguished the lamps like normal and locked your door behind you like it was any other outing. You slipped the key into a hidden pocket in your dress Astarion hadn’t realized was even there. He admired the stitchwork as you walked hand-in-hand down the street. Despite the anxiety wriggling away in his stomach, Astarion let himself enjoy the feeling of walking with you, touching you, enjoying the last few moments of the night air with you. 

The Szarr residence loomed ahead far too quickly, the palace towers casting a horrible shadow across the road leading up to it. Astarion glanced at you as the pair of you passed into the shadows.

“Last chance to back out, darling,” he said quietly. “I can always circle back to an alleyway and drag some poor soul out—”

“No, Asty,” you said gently. “If that was a real option, you would have already done it.”

He sighed and nodded. “Alright. But—darling?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry for what might happen in there, what he’ll do to you.”

You smiled at him. “You don’t have to be sorry, honey, it’s not your fault. Nothing he does to me is your fault.”

“I brought you here,” he insisted. “I brought you here knowing what you’ll have to go through. I could just take the beating, but… I don’t want to, so I’m letting you suffer like I should.”

For the first time, Astarion saw a glimmer of doubt in your eyes. Your steps faltered and he felt the shudder that passed through your body. You licked your dry lips.

“What’s he going to do?”

A painful first bite. Drink you dry. Bury you. Make you dig your way out of your coffin. Trap you in chains the minute you’re free of the dirt. Whip you until you bleed and then lick your wounds. Astarion’s experience flashed through his head. But the fear on your face… He couldn’t tell you any of that, could he?

“Terrible things,” Astarion said gravely. It came out far darker than he intended and he knew what a terrifying sight he was: weak light in his hair, his red eyes glowing in the shadows, his fangs flashing in the dark with every word. You shrank away from him, stopping in your tracks, and inched out of the shadows. 

“Astarion, I—”

Fear gripped his undead heart, tainted his vision, thrummed in his veins. Astarion hissed and lunged, grabbing your arm with a vice-like grip. “Come on,” he insisted, just slightly aware of the growl in his voice. You resisted for just a moment, but Astarion was stronger than you were; it only took a tug to pull you back into the shadow of the tower. 

Servants of Cazador’s opened the doors for Astarion when they recognized him. They couldn’t hide their shock that he was dragging a victim in, his facade of the perfect lover dropped, and something clicked inside him.

It’s not Cazador who scares her; it’s me.

Astarion nearly let go of you. Then he felt the eyes of his siblings boring into him, all six waiting in a clustered group, and he knew Cazador was near. There was no escape for you now.

Astarion tightened his grip on you and dragged you into the palace’s shadows. He watched your feet cross the threshold, damning you eternally. The door slammed shut.

☞ ❊ ☜

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Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Ancunin