Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air hangs heavy with the aroma of ale, sweat, and secrets. Yet, amidst the sensory chaos, Astarion’s mind remains a keen blade, his focus unwavering on a singular objective. The clinking of glasses, the hum of voices, and the muffled laughter fade into the background as he navigates the space with predatory precision. Prowling along the room’s edge, his eyes seamlessly shift from one person to the next, critically evaluating each individual and weighing the odds and risks.

Amidst the lively crowd, a devilishly bold figure captures Astarion’s attention. Confidence exudes from the flamboyant man surrounded by a table of listeners as he weaves tales of adventure, each punctuated by dramatic gestures. Rolling his eyes dismissively, Astarion turns away, recognizing that someone as conspicuous as the devil would be missed if lured away.

It’s hard for him to believe there was a time when he too would have fallen for the charms of such a charismatic devil.

If the rumors are true, the devil in question is the son of Duke Ravengard. He had left Baldur’s Gate years ago and only recently returned to face the Nether Brain. Astarion wouldn’t have even recognized him if it hadn’t been for the massive horns protruding from his forehead. Gossip spreads fast in the Lower City, but one part of the story is still missing. Though he’s heard tales, the details remain hazy, and Astarion wonders how the son of a human duke returned as a devil.

 Noble blood turned into a horned sideshow. How poetic.

Astarion continues his hunt. Each potential target he spots poses its own challenges. He’s about to give up and move on to the next tavern to try his luck there when he spots a lone tiefling out of the corner of his eye. She sits at the end of the bar, her back hunched over with a burden of sadness. Her dress’s dull color and worn fabric weigh down around her, and melancholy glistens in her eyes. Her eyes, which particularly catch Astarion’s attention, are two different colors. One is fiery orange with the black sclera typical of a tiefling, but the other is a pale washed-out blue, nearly entirely white. He wonders what could have happened for a brief moment but quickly pushes the thought out of his mind. She’s a target, that’s all. No story, no personal life, hardly a person in his mind. Just another pawn in this game. It’s easier that way.

The tiefling takes a hesitant sip from her drink. She stares into it as if she wishes she could sink into its depths. There’s a demeanor of vulnerability to her as if she’s used to blending into the background. It’s this very demeanor that makes her the perfect target in Astarion’s eyes–someone who wouldn’t be missed, whose absence wouldn’t raise alarms in a world where countless souls fade into the shadows. Easier to exploit, less hassle.

The performance begins. Astarion takes a deep breath, running through each practiced step. He loosens his collar, showing enough skin to be enticing but not expose the two scars that marred his neck. His hands run down his jacket, smoothing out any wrinkles. He smiles with perfect ease that could only be achieved with years of practice, just as Cazador had trained him. As he slides onto the stool next to her, he leans forward just enough to allow her to catch the faint scent of his cologne.

"Good evening, my lady," Astarion purrs, his voice a velvet embrace that wraps its way through the ambient noise of the tavern and tickles her ears. The tiefling woman glances up from her drink, her mismatched eyes meeting his with curiosity and wariness. Astarion takes note of the subtle flicker of interest in her gaze, a spark he intends to nurture into a roaring flame.

The tiefling straightens her posture and corrects her expression, trying to look more cheerful. It’s a pitiful attempt. "Good evening to you as well."

Astarion studies her carefully, taking in the delicate features of her face, the way her horns gracefully curve, and the subtle movements that betray her inner thoughts. Every word, every gesture can be used to weave into his seduction.

Easy prey. A few sweet words, and she’ll follow willingly.

"Your cup is nearly empty," he notices and orders a drink for both of them. The bartender slides the glasses across the counter

"Thank you," the tiefling says. She lifts the drink to her lips, watching Astarion closely as she does so.

"Such a lonely night, isn’t it?" Astarion remarks, his words dripping with sympathy as he lifts his glass. The tiefling hesitates for a moment before nodding, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in his words. Astarion takes a sip, allowing the rich taste of the drink to linger on his tongue. It’s better than the swill they usually serve. At least some things in this wretched city are tolerable.

Assuming loneliness and loss in the aftermath of the Nether Brain’s attack is a safe bet. Finding a meal for his master has never been easier. The taverns were overflowing with sad drunkards grieving the losses of homes, loved ones, and businesses. Such a tragedy is so fortunate for Astarion. "I will not ask who or what you’ve lost, but maybe we can find a moment of solace with each other."

"Solace would be-" Cheers from another table overpower the last part of the tiefling’s sentence. 

Oh, the tragedy of not hearing the rest of her mundane sentence.

"What was that, darling?" Astarion asks.

The tiefling leans forward to speak into Astarion’s ear. The smell of alcohol waves over his nostrils. She had clearly already been drinking long before Astarion arrived. "I said some solace would be nice."

Astarion takes her proximity as a chance to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch is gentle, fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. The tiefling shivers ever so slightly, a reaction he notes with satisfaction. It’s amusing how easily they fall for a gentle touch. Simple creatures. 

With a sly smile, Astarion leans back, allowing the atmosphere to settle. The tavern pulses with life, yet in this tiny bubble they’ve created, it’s as if time has slowed. Astarion studies the tiefling’s eyes, searching for vulnerabilities, understanding the nuances of her emotions. It’s a delicate dance, one where he guides her steps without her realizing the choreography.

"Solace it is, then," Astarion murmurs, his voice a soft, seductive whisper that draws her closer. The tiefling’s breath quickens, her gaze flickering between his eyes and the subtle movement of his lips. Astarion lifts his hand, fingers lightly tracing the edge of her hand. The tiefling, drawn into the intricate web of Astarion’s charm, allows a small smile to grace her lips.

"Why don’t we take this somewhere more private, go for a stroll?" Astarion suggests, taking the tiefling’s hand in his.

Her fingers intertwine with his, and for a moment, uncertainty flickers in her mismatched eyes. Astarion, however, maintains his enchanting smile, assuring her without words that this venture into the shadows is nothing to fear. With a nod, she agrees, and they slip off the stools and make their way to the door.

The devil finishes his story. "Tav," he calls out, but Astarion has no interest in turning around. He found his target; he doesn’t need to know what the devil is going on about now. 

The tavern door closes behind them, silencing the commotion to a muffled hum. Astarion holds his arm out to the tiefling. She hooks her elbow around it. The night air is cool against his skin. It’s a relief from the crowded warmth of the tavern.

Astarion weaves a tale of tragedy and loneliness as they walk, pulling at the tiefling’s heartstrings. He tells her of a fictional lost lover, one consumed by a mindflayer as he helplessly watched. The moon casts a silvery glow on the cobblestones beneath their feet. 

The Szarr palace comes into sight. It’s a scourge on the otherwise beautiful view. Typical of Cazador to flaunt his wealth so tastelessly.

The over-the-top spires and buttresses scream sinister and vampire, yet Cazador and his spawn have managed to keep that reality a secret.

Astarion gestures to the palace. "My home is just up ahead if you’d like to take this there."

"You live there?" the tiefling asks, taken aback by the ostentatious eyesore.

Astarion shrugs. "It’s a family home, not necessarily mine. Would you like to see it?"

The tiefling hesitates momentarily, her mismatched eyes reflecting curiosity and caution. Eventually, the allure of escaping the loneliness into the luxuries of the palace takes hold of her. She nods. The grandeur of the Szarr palace looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky. As they approach the imposing entrance, the tiefling stops to face Astarion. "You never told me your name," she points out as if names matter in the grand scheme of things. Pointless sentimentality.

"My apologies; I got so caught up in the moment that it slipped my mind," Astarion says. They’re so close. Only a few more steps, and he’s succeeded. All he needs is to get her through that door. "My name is Astarion."

Astarion tugs on the door handle. The massive wooden door creaks open, revealing the opulence within. Candlelight flickers in the grand foyer, casting shadows that dance on the polished marble floor. He motions for her to enter as he holds the door.

"I’m Tav," the tiefling says as she steps in.

Shit.

Tav. That’s the name the devil said at the tavern. He knows her and saw her leave with Astarion. Could he come looking for her?

"That’s a beautiful name, fitting for someone like you," Astarion says out of habit. It’s one of the many generic lines he has scripted. The name is as forgettable as any other. The tiefling takes a few steps further into the foyer. 

Is this a mistake, taking her here? What if the devil does come looking? Cazador would be furious if they had to kill the son of a duke. 

Astarion looks at Tav and notices that she’s looking at him expectantly. It’s too late to back out now. 

"This way, darling," he says, leading her to the bedroom.

The bedroom is an extravagant chamber adorned with dark velvet curtains that billow softly in the gentle night breeze. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow upon the plush canopy bed, creating an illusion of intimacy. Astarion can feel the tension in the air as he leads Tav into the room. He closes the distance between them, and places a gentle hand on her cheek. "Tav, my dear," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive, "There’s a world of solace awaiting us here, away from the troubles that haunt the city. A world where loneliness, the Nether Brain, and despair are but a distant memory."

Tav looks into Astarion’s eyes, her gaze searching for something. Astarion can almost taste the desire mingled with apprehension. The delicate dance continues as he leans in, his lips brushing against hers in a feather-light kiss. The tiefling responds, her hands hesitantly finding their place on Astarion’s shoulders. It makes his skin crawl. As she touches him, his mind starts to shut off, allowing his body to do what it knows. 

He watches the scene unfold as if from a distance, detached from the moment. The room, the bed, and Tav’s soft gasps all become fragments of a dream, distorted and surreal. The physical act meant to deceive and ensnare becomes a mere mechanical routine devoid of emotional connection. In the haze of the moment, his mind flashes back to dark rooms and cruel hands. His body continues as his mind starts to spiral.

Astarion’s usual routine is broken when he notices Tav looking up at him with a concerned expression. For a brief moment, Astarion’s dissociation wavers as he meets Tav’s gaze. The concern in her eyes pierces through the facade, reminding him of the reality he’d prefer to forget. The mechanical motions come to a halt as his mind struggles to reconcile the act with the person before him. "Tav," he utters her name, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his practiced exterior. The mask slips for an instant, revealing a vulnerability that wasn’t part of the script.

"Are you alright?" She asks, looking at him with that same concerned expression. He wishes she’d stop that.

Astarion’s mind races, searching for an explanation that won’t raise suspicions. "Just a momentary lapse," he replies, flashing a forced smile and waving a dismissive hand. "Sometimes, the weight of the past can be overwhelming. But worry not, my dear. Let us focus on the present, on us."

"Maybe we should wait a minute," Tav suggests.

Astarion, caught off guard by Tav’s suggestion, blinks in surprise. He wasn’t accustomed to interruptions, especially not during this crucial phase of the plan. However, he quickly regains his composure, feigning gratitude for her apparent concern. "That isn’t necessary, my dear," he says smoothly.

"Just a minute," Tav says. She keeps looking at him with that cursed look in her eyes. He’s barely holding the mask together as it is; he doesn’t need her prying the cracks open. "If not for you, then for me," she insists.

Astarion, now faced with an unexpected hurdle, reluctantly agrees. He takes a step back, distancing himself from Tav, and nods. "Very well, my dear. A minute it is." He can feel the tension in the air, the fragile balance of the situation hanging by a thread. As the seconds tick by, he tries to regain control over his disoriented thoughts, his mind grappling with the conflicting emotions that threaten to surface. Tav takes a seat on the edge of the plush bed, her eyes still fixed on him. Astarion paces the room, attempting to compose himself.

The minute feels like an eternity, but eventually, Astarion turns to face Tav once more. "I appreciate your concern, Tav," he says, his tone regaining its velvety smoothness. "Now, let us not dwell on such matters. The night is still young, and our solace awaits."

Tav looks at him with a mixture of skepticism and compassion. Compassion is a weakness that gets people like her killed. "Are you sure you’re okay, Astarion? We don’t have to rush this."

A flicker of frustration crosses Astarion’s features, his carefully crafted composure barely holding on. "I assure you, my dear, I am perfectly capable of handling my own emotions. Let us not allow the past to cast its shadow on our present moment." He approaches Tav, attempting to reignite the passion that had momentarily faltered.

Tav shakes her head. "You seem distressed."

"I’m fine," Astarion insists. He can do this. He has to. 

Tav places a gentle hand on Astarion’s cheek, her touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. "Astarion, we don’t have to go through with this if you’re not comfortable. 

Her words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the humanity he’s desperately trying to distance himself from. Astarion feels a surge of conflicting emotions – gratitude for her understanding, frustration at the unraveling plan, and a nagging sense of vulnerability he’s not accustomed to facing.

"Tav, I’m-"

A loud boom echoes through the palace. The paintings rattle against the wall. A few fall loose and shatter on the floor. Astarion and Tav leap to their feet. She looks to Astarion. "What was that?"

"Astarion!" 

Astarion’s stomach drops as he hears that voice and that tone. The pace of his breathing immediately triples.

Astarion fucked up.

How, he’s not sure, but he did.

Has the devil come looking for Tav?

Astarion looks around the room for a place to hide, but he knows it’ll do him no good. All it would do is further upset his master.

The door swings open as Cazador kicks his way in. Astarion flinches as it slams into the wall. His master looks at him with eyes blazing with anger and nostrils flared.

"You!" Cazador levels an accusatory finger at Astarion.

Chapter Text

Tav quickly covers herself and holds her hands up defensively. Electricity sparks between her fingers. Of course, she’s a sorcerer, on top of being able to crack through his facade successfully. Just Astarion’s luck.

"You brought the Brain Breaker, slayer of the Nether Brain, back here?" Cazador shrieks at Astarion.

Astarion, caught off guard, struggles to find words as Cazador’s enraged gaze pierces through him. Everything is going wrong. Astarion’s mind races, panic setting in. How could things have spiraled out of control so quickly?

"Cazador, I-I can explain," Astarion stammers, attempting to regain control over the situation. His disoriented mind races to concoct a plausible explanation, but the sheer fury in Cazador’s eyes leaves little room for explanation.

Another bang shakes the palace.

"You fool!" Cazador’s voice echoes through the room, the anger resonating in the grandeur of the palace. "I explicitly told you to bring someone discreet, someone insignificant. And here you are, bringing the Hero of the Gate into our haven!"

Astarion’s heart pounds in his chest as he desperately searches for a way to salvage the situation. "Cazador, I didn’t know who she was," Astarion pleads, his voice tinged with genuine regret. "I only sought a lonely soul, someone whose absence wouldn’t raise suspicion."

"Ouch!" Tav interjects

Cazador’s eyes narrow, his fangs bared in a snarl. Astarion’s stomach churns with dread, anticipating the storm of anger about to be unleashed upon him. "Do you take me for a fool, Astarion? You willfully defy my orders, and now we face the consequences!"

A splintering sound comes from the foyer, followed by shouts. "Tav!"

Cazador, seething with anger, takes a step closer to Astarion. "This will not go unpunished. You have jeopardized everything we’ve worked for. Do you understand the gravity of your incompetence?"

Tav, realizing the severity of the situation, steps forward, her eyes darting between Astarion and Cazador. The air in the room crackles with tension. Her eyes then lower to their mouths. She narrows her eyes into a glare as she realizes what they are. "Cazador Szarr, care to explain what’s going on here?"

Astarion gawks at her. She, a mortal, so unabashedly confronts Cazador like he couldn’t kill her in a second. Then again, if Cazador is correct, this tiefling is the person responsible for killing the Nether Brain and saving all of Baldur’s Gate, if not all of Faerûn.

"Nothing, Brain Breaker. This is all just a small misunderstanding. Rest assured that my charge here will be punished for such a mistake," Cazador says, glaring at Astarion. Astarion shrinks back. "You may take your allies and leave. We can pretend none of this ever happened."

Astarion, feeling the weight of Cazador’s glare, swallows hard, his throat dry and constricted. The splintering sounds and shouts from the foyer only amplify his anxiety. He knows that the consequences of his actions are severe, and the fear of Cazador’s wrath grips him like a vice.

Tav’s eyes narrow further as she glares at Cazador, her hand still crackling with magical energy. The realization of who she truly is settles in Astarion’s mind like a heavy stone. This tiefling, the "Brain Breaker," has more power and influence than he could have ever anticipated. The tables have turned, and now he is not just facing the wrath of Cazador but the scrutiny of a hero.

Astarion’s hands shake as he awaits his fate. Any moment now, the tiefling, Tav, Brain Breaker, Hero of the Gate, is going to fling those sparks at him and obliterate him for luring her into this trap.

"There’s no way I am simply walking out of here," Tav says. "You think I don’t realize what’s happening?"
"Again, this is all one big misunderstanding. Your friends were under the impression that you were kidnapped. That’s why they’re here," Cazador says, taking a step closer to Tav.

Tav raises her hands higher as a warning. "You really think I’m that stupid, like I didn’t hear you yelling at Astarion earlier? What is he, a spawn, a thrall?"

"I have no idea what you mean." Cazador reaches out to Tav.

"Move any closer, and I’ll cast daylight," Tav threatens.

Astarion hopes Cazador complies, not wanting to be fried to a crisp. Although it might be better than whatever punishment Cazador has in store for him.

Cazador takes a few steps back. "No need to do anything like that. We can all walk away from this like nothing happened."

"You disgusting bloodsucker," Tav seethes.

Cazador, his gaze still fixed on Tav, speaks in a tone that is almost soothing, a stark contrast to the rage he had unleashed earlier. "Brain Breaker, we can settle this without unnecessary bloodshed. You and your companions may leave, and I will ensure that Astarion faces the consequences of his disobedience."

A crash from outside the bedroom reminds them of the battle occurring. Cazador looks to Tav for her response.

"I have a few demands if I am to leave this palace peacefully," Tav says. Her eyes flick over to Astarion.

"What is it?" Cazador asks, relieved that they’re making progress.

"First, you shall never harm me or any of mine."

"Done," Cazador says. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

"And I want the spawn. I don’t trust your idea of discipline. I will see to it myself," Tav says.

Cazador’s eyes widen. "Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t hand over my charge-"

"Spawn," Tav corrects.

Cazador shoots a fiery look at her. "I’m not giving you my charge."

Astarion isn’t sure if he should be upset or relieved that Cazador isn’t giving him over to the tiefling.

"Those are my demands. If you can’t meet those, then I will not be leaving without a fight," Tav threatens. "I’ve killed the Avatar of Myrkul, the Chosens of Bhaal and Bane, and the demon Raphael. I’ve taken on the entire Cloister of Sombre Embrace, and I even oversaw the downfall of the Nether Brain. Do not deceive yourself into thinking you can beat me."

Astarion’s eyes widen as she lists off her impressive job history. He doesn’t know if he should be proud of himself for managing to lure such an impressive prey or furious with himself for being so stupid.

"Fine, but I have a few demands of my own," Cazador says.

"Speak."

Cazador’s nostrils flare as he’s commanded, but he quickly gets his anger back under control. "You can take Astarion with you but must not kill him. Secondly, you will tell no one what happened here. This remains a secret."

Tav nods. "I can accept that."

"Then take him, your allies, and leave my home," Cazador says. "Astarion, you will behave and obey our new friend, understand?"

Astarion is compelled to straighten his posture and nod. "Yes, sir."

The shouting grows closer. A moment later, the door is blasted off its hinges. The smoldering wood crashes into the floor. The devil from earlier and a white-haired half-elf stand in the gaping doorway. Tav turns around leisurely. "Ah, Wyll, Shadowheart, just in time. We’re leaving."

"What?" The devilish man, who Astarion assumes is Wyll, asks. He lowers his blade.

"I finished my conversation with Mister Szarr and got all I needed. We can leave now."

The one who must be Shadowheart furrows her brow. "But-"

"You heard her," Cazador sneers. "Stop destroying my home and leave."

Wyll and Shadowheart both look to Tav for confirmation. She nods and heads to the door. They part to give her space to take the lead. As she’s walking, she picks Astarion’s shirt off the floor and tosses it to him.

Cazador shoves Astarion’s shoulder. "What are you waiting for? You are to follow her and do as she says."

Astarion jumps when he touches him and scurries to catch up with Tav and her allies. His mind runs rampant with fears and unanswered questions. He drags his feet and keeps his head low to keep from attracting unwanted attention.

"Woah," Wyll says. He spins around and pulls out his blade. "Where do you think you’re going?"
Astarion stops and takes a few steps back from Wyll. He eyes the rapier. "I’m- it’s just I…" he stutters.

"He’s coming with us. I’ll explain it all to you later," Tav says over her shoulder.

Wyll lowers his blade, and they continue their walk out of the palace. Thralls sit against the wall or lie on the floor and groan. They clutch at their sides, limbs, or whatever part of their body is injured. The walls and furniture are marked by nasty black scorches. It’s an upgrade from the on-the-nose vampiric imagery that used to cover every surface.

Good, let the bastards suffer, Astarion thinks to himself. They’d never done anything for him but make him miserable.

Astarion shivers as he crosses the threshold that used to be the front door, stepping over the splintered remains. This is really happening. The target he brought here to kill is now leading him away with complete control over his fate. He pulls his shirt tighter around him, suddenly feeling colder and more exposed than he has before. He trudges behind the rest of them a few paces back. Wyll and Shadowheart keep looking back at him and then up at Tav, still confused as to why he’s there. Astarion couldn’t answer if he wanted to; he also wasn’t sure why the tiefling insisted on taking him.

The night air outside the palace is chilly, and Astarion can’t shake off the uneasy feeling that clings to him like a shadow. Tav leads the way, her allies trailing behind, and Astarion follows reluctantly. The ties that bind him to Cazador are still there, but there is something different. He feels a similar tie to the Brain Breaker as well. Cazador’s order to do what she says gives her the ability to order him around as well. Astarion grits his teeth. She’s just another person commanding him.

As they navigate through the darkened streets of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion steals glances at Tav, eyeing her with a distrustful gaze. He tries to comprehend the enigma that is the Hero of the Gate, wondering what schemes and deceptions lie beneath her heroic facade. The tiefling, seemingly unfazed by the chaos she left behind, walks with purpose, her mismatched eyes scanning their surroundings. Astarion wonders what plans she has for him, what fate awaits him beyond the palace walls. If Cazador felt fine sending him with her, it couldn’t be anything good.

"Tav, are you going to tell us what’s going on, or are we supposed to keep walking in silence?" Shadowheart asks. She gives Astarion a particularly pointed look.

Tav’s eyes continue to sweep over their surroundings. "I’ll tell you everything when we’re back inside where we can be alone. The night has eyes and ears."

Shadowheart huffs and whispers something to Wyll, but she doesn’t argue any further.

Wyll keeps glancing over at Astarion. He stares right back. Wyll finally takes a cautious step closer to Astarion, pulling off his jacket. Astarion narrows his eyes, wondering what the devil could possibly want.

"Here," Wyll says, offering Astarion his coat.

"Why?" Astarion doesn’t understand the devil’s intentions.

"To- you know, to cover yourself," Wyll explains awkwardly. Astarion thinks he might detect a blush rising on the devil’s face.
Astarion hadn’t realized that he wasn’t wearing any pants. He still doesn’t feel like he’s fully present in his body. It’s like his consciousness is floating two feet back.

"Oh," Astarion says. He puts the jacket on. It doesn’t cover a whole lot more, but it’s a small comfort.

They keep walking until they’re back at the tavern from earlier. Inside, there are a lot fewer people than earlier. Most of the crowd has gone home. Only a few sad individuals remain. If only Astarion chose one of them instead of the bloody Brain Breaker. Tav leads them up the stairs at the back and into one of the rooms upstairs. It’s large and open, with several different alcoves of beds. The center of the room is sunken down with places to sit.

Tav closes the door and twists the bolt into place. She then goes to each window to make sure they’re closed and locked. Wyll and Shadowheart join in. Astarion stays by the door and watches. Once they’re all done, they reconverge in the center of the room.

Shadowheart puts her hands on her hips. "So now tell us what happened and why we now have a pet vampire following us around?"

Astarion sneers at the choice of words – "pet vampire." It stings, a reminder of his newfound subservience to the tiefling. Astarion continues to take in his surroundings. He notices an owlbear cub curled up with a white dog at the foot of one of the beds. It’s a unique choice of pet, for sure. It seems the tiefling was building up her collection of monsters.

Wyll nods. He keeps a wary eye on Astarion.

"It’s embarrassing," Tav admits.

"Spill it," Shadowheart says.

Tav takes a deep breath as she prepares to recount the tale. Astarion listens in, curious to hear her side of the events but afraid of what it could mean for him. She doesn’t meet their gaze as she begins. "You know that after what happened with Gale, I’ve been…"

"Pathetic?" Shadowheart says.

Wyll shoves her shoulder. "Be nice."

Tav nods. "I was going to say vulnerable, but yeah, I guess pathetic works, too."

"So you slept with a vampire?" Wyll asks.

Shadowheart curls her lip at Wyll. "What happened to being nice?"

"I didn’t realize he was a vampire at the time," Tav defends herself.

"How could you not know?" Wyll asks, gesturing back at Astarion. "Look at him!"

Astarion shrinks back, wishing he could melt into the shadows. He tugs at his shirt to better hide himself.

Tav looks over at Astarion. An expression he doesn’t recognize settles on her features. "Wyll, grab him something to put on," she says, interrupting the conversation.

Wyll nods and immediately goes to dig through his belongings.

"In my defense, it was dark, and I was a lot more intoxicated," Tav says. "When you arrived, Cazador came in and tried to reason with me. We came to a deal that we would leave and keep his little vampire secret in exchange for the spawn and assurance he wouldn’t bother us again."

"You made a deal with a vampire lord instead of killing him?" Shadowheart asks.

"Are we forgetting the part where I was drunk and naked when he came in? Clearly, I was in no state to battle him!"

Wyll walks up to Astarion and hands him a collection of clothing. Astarion accepts it with a nod. When Wyll leaves to rejoin the others, Astarion pulls on the pants, grateful for something to cover himself.

Shadowheart crosses her arms, still skeptical. "You expect us to trust a deal made with a vampire? They are deceitful creatures, and you, Tav, should know better."

"Bold of you to be asking me why I’d trust someone when it doesn’t make immediate sense. Have you seen who we surround ourselves with nowadays?" Tav asks. "You were a Shar worshiper when I met you. Wyll, you were in a contract with a devil. Then there’s Lae’zel, Karlach, and Gale. If I didn’t take chances on people, I wouldn’t have trusted any of you."

Shadowheart looks away, seemingly not pleased with Tav’s comparison but unable to counter it. Wyll, on the other hand, seems to nod in understanding, perhaps recognizing the truth in Tav’s words.

Astarion’s eyes widen at the revelations. He’d never have expected to have found himself in the presence of such a surprising combination of people in one place. The hero of the city, a son of a duke who was bound to a devil, and a follower of the Lady of Loss. If these are the type of people Tav chooses to surround herself with now, Astarion wonders what the other people she mentioned are like.

"Now, unless we have any immediate objections that need to be addressed as a group, it’s late, and I’m exhausted. Can we decide to discuss this further tomorrow?" Tav looks between her two companions until they both finally nod.

Wyll and Shadowheart go to their sections of the room. Tav walks over to Shadowheart but looks over her shoulder at Astarion. "We need to talk. Give me a minute, okay?"

Astarion, still feeling a mix of fear and uncertainty, nods hesitantly. He watches her speak with Shadowheart. Tav’s back is to him, so he can’t see her expression, but Shadowheart doesn’t look happy. He wouldn’t if he had such an unfortunate name either. Eventually, Shadowheart huffs and walks out of the room.

"Let’s go over here," Tav says as she comes up to Astarion and leads him to a more private corner of the room. The tension in the air is palpable, and Astarion braces himself for whatever revelations or consequences may come.

Chapter Text

"I’m giving you a choice, so please don’t make me regret it," Tav says. "Your first option is you can leave and do as you wish in the city as long as you don’t feed on anybody or take them back to Cazador. We won’t bother you or interfere with your life. Your second option is sticking with us. You can stay in the tavern, go out at night, and we can find more appropriate options for your feeding."

Astarion, jolted by the unexpected choice offered to him, narrows his eyes in suspicion. His body tenses. The conversation isn’t what he was expecting. He thought he’d receive some sort of punishment for luring her into a death trap, for using and manipulating her, but he didn’t. A beating in the least, but she doesn’t even appear to be angry. She still has the same expression as earlier, the same frustrating concern. Astarion takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts. The gravity of the decision hangs heavy in the air.

Astarion’s mind races as he grapples with the sudden turn of events. The options laid out before him are unexpected, and for a moment, he’s paralyzed by the weight of the decision he must make. Leave and risk facing the unpredictable dangers of Baldur’s Gate, or stay and align himself with this group of misfits laden with more baggage than the refugees fleeing the city’s wreckage. There has to be some sort of trick, something he’s missing.

"You can take your time. I don’t expect you to have an answer tonight," Tav says.

"Oh, how generous of you," Astarion retorts, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "Pray tell, what kind of ‘appropriate options’ does your virtuous party have in mind for me? Are you going to go out to the streets and ask for volunteers?"

"People we’re planning on killing anyway," Tav says bluntly.

Astarion’s eyes widen at Tav’s matter-of-fact response. The notion of being offered a menu of potential victims strikes him as unsettling, strangely pragmatic, and tempting all at once. There’s only one problem. 

"I can’t drink the blood of thinking creatures," he admits as he looks down at the trousers he’s borrowing. The fit is all wrong, and the thread count is less than desirable. It scratches against his legs as he readjusts his position.

"Like, you’re allergic?" Tav asks.

"No, Brain Breaker, not allergic," Astarion replies with an irritated sigh. He fights the urge to pick at the coarse fabric. "It’s a bit more complex than that. But I suppose nuanced details are a luxury in your line of work."

Tav rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything about the jab. "Explain the details."

Astarion can’t resist obeying a direct command. The words flow out of him before he realizes it. "It’s a rule Cazador has set in place for us spawn. He’s outright forbidden the consumption of their blood."

"What do you eat?" Tav leans against the table.

"Animals," Astarion says, not sure how much he wants to reveal to her. He hopes the answer is enough to satisfy her.

"What kind?" Tav continues to pry.

"What difference does it make?" Astarion snaps, his patience wearing thin. "Do you interrogate all your enemies like this, or am I a special case?"

"Special case," Tav says. "Most of my enemies are dead."

"Rats, mostly," he answers through gritted teeth.

Tav narrows her eyes and pauses as if she’s considering her words carefully. "You don’t sound happy about it."

"Would you enjoy eating measly disease-ridden vermin?" Astarion snaps.

Tav puts her hands up defensively. "I’m only trying to understand you."

"Well, don’t." Astarion crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the chair.

The door creaks and shuts with a soft thud as Shadowheart returns. 

Tav’s eyes trail Shadowheart as she walks in. "Well, Astarion, we’ll figure out how to feed you tomorrow."

Shadowheart walks over to them and slams something down on the table. "Just as you requested," she says with an obviously fake smile plastered on her face.

Tav returns a genuine grin. "Thank you."

Shadowheart walks away without another word. Astarion looks down at the dull key on the table. Tav slides the key toward him. "It’s for the suite down the hall. I’m sure  you can understand why we’re a little hesitant to sleep in the same room as you. It was only earlier tonight you were leading me to my death."

Astarion eyes the key warily before finally snatching it. "I understand," he grumbles. 

His own suite?

"Now let me be clear that this isn’t an invitation to come in, but if you need something, you can come knocking," Tav says as she stands.

Astarion follows suit. Despite her laid-back demeanor, she still fears he might try to harm them. He isn’t sure which would better benefit him, if she continued to believe he could kill them if he wanted or if she knew that he couldn’t because of Cazador’s command. He settles on keeping his hand close. The less she sees his cards, the more control he has over the outcome.

Tav gestures toward the door, and Astarion follows her lead. The tension in the room eases slightly, but the air is still thick with unspoken thoughts. As they reach the exit, Tav turns to face Astarion. "It’s not exactly in my budget to keep paying for a suite in addition to this entire room, so please be someone worthy of trust. And you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, but if you choose to leave, please slide the key under our door."

Astarion nods in acknowledgment. Tav steps out into the hall with him, pulling the door close behind her. "I know it probably doesn’t feel like it, but you’re lucky it was me you chose to bring back to Cazador. If it had been Shadowheart or Wyll…" she pauses.

"Let me guess. They wouldn’t have been as merciful as you?" Astarion interrupts. "Wyll, at least, would have probably been more entertaining in bed. I’ve heard my fair share of rumors about the Duke’s son."

Tav shakes her head. Any humor that had previously been in her expression is gone. All that’s left is a cold seriousness. "No, I’d have run my sword straight through you before they’d have the chance. You can threaten and endanger me, but you jeopardize their lives, I will not hold back. If I find out you so much as think about hurting them, I will unravel every inch of your very existence. I’ve faced horrors beyond your comprehension; I won’t hesitate to become one for their sake."

Astarion swallows hard. For the first time that night, Astarion is getting a peek behind the curtain, a taste of why Cazador would be afraid of a mortal tiefling. Tav’s eyes bore into him, unyielding and uncompromising, as if she holds the power to dismantle him piece by piece. While he hasn’t seen any evidence to back up her threat, he instinctively knows that she is capable of following through. "I wouldn’t dare risk angering you."

Tav nods. "Good, I’m glad we have an understanding." She nods toward a door down the corridor. "The suite is there, now that I’ve successfully ruined the mood of the night."

Astarion holds the key tightly in his hands as he takes a few tentative steps toward the suite.

"Oh, one more thing," Tav says. Her grim expression starts to fade. "If threats of bodily harm aren’t enough to deter you from betraying us, and just in case you’re still considering it, please reconsider. It’d be embarrassing for me if you turned on us. Shadowheart would never let me live it down."

"Rest assured, Brain Breaker, I have no intentions to make you the subject of your friends’ mockery." Astarion bows his head in mock deference toward her before resuming his walk to the other door.

"Try to get some rest," Tav says. "I know the threats don’t help much, but it’s been a long night."

"Ah, yes. Threats and hospitality, a charming combination," Astarion replies with a sardonic smirk. "I’ll do my best to find comfort in the benevolence of the Hero of the Gate."

The door clicks open and Astarion steps in. The suite is dimly lit, the only source of illumination being the moonlight streaming through the window. Astarion glances around, taking in the surroundings of his temporary refuge. It’s modest but more than anything he’s had under Cazador. A large canopy bed dominates the center of the room, its curtains drawn. The moonlight casts an ethereal glow, revealing a writing desk strewn with blank parchment and quills. A small table in the corner holds a carafe of water and a few empty glasses.

He takes a deep breath, attempting to shake off the tension that clings to him like a shadow. The suite may lack the opulence the Szarr Palace, but its simplicity offers a reprieve from the looming threat of Cazador’s wrath. Yet, he can’t ignore the strings that now tie him to Tav and her companions, threads woven by choices and consequences outside of his control. He can’t shake the feeling that this respite is only a brief intermission.

Astarion moves toward the bed, still mulling over the events of the night. The weight of the key in his hand is a tangible reminder of the choices he must navigate. He contemplates the two options Tav presented—stay or leave—and the implications each holds.

With a heavy sigh, Astarion walks over to the window. He looks out at the dark streets below. He can almost picture himself walking out there, lurking in the shadows. He snaps the curtains closed, not wanting to wake up as a pile of ash when the sun rises, and closing himself off from letting his mind wander too much. Weariness tugs at his limbs, but the echoes of the night’s tumultuous events keep him alert.

He moves back to the bed, the creaking protests of the tired mattress accompanying his descent. He stares up at the canopy above. While the room is silent, Astarion’s mind is far from tranquil. The night’s events replay in his mind like a haunting melody, each note an echo of the steps that led him to this juncture. Eventually, Astarion succumbs to the night’s weariness and falls into his trance.

"Astarion, come here, now!" a voice shouts from out in the hall. Immediately, Astarion’s legs drag him out of bed and out the door. Cazador stands with impeccable posture and an aura of rage. 

"Y-yes, master?" Astarion asks, bowing his head, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"You failed me, Astarion," Cazador says, his nose wrinkled as if he was looking down at a vermin corpse found festering in the corner.

​​Astarion’s heart races, the familiar dread settling in his stomach. He dares not meet Cazador’s gaze directly, but the intensity of his master’s displeasure is palpable.

Godey lingers behind Cazador, fingers clicking together in anticipation. "Master Cazador is not pleased."

"Not pleased doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling," Cazador says. "You brought back the daughter of a nobleman!"

Astarion’s voice is shaky as he speaks. "I’m sorry, master. I didn’t realize-"

"Silence!" Cazador cuts him off. He paces around Astarion, his footsteps echoing through the dimly lit hallway. "I don’t want to hear excuses. I gave you a simple task – find a suitable victim, someone inconspicuous. And what do you do? You bring back a nobleman’s daughter, drawing unwanted attention to our activities."

"I didn’t mean to, master. It was a mistake," Astarion pleads.

Cazador stops in front of Astarion, tilting his head to peer directly into the vampire spawn’s eyes. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down Astarion’s spine. "Mistakes, Astarion, are a luxury I cannot afford. Your incompetence reflects poorly on me, and that is something I cannot tolerate."

Godey steps forward, the sound of his bones clicking louder. "Master Cazador, allow me the honor of delivering the punishment. This disobedient spawn needs to learn a lesson."

Cazador considers the offer for a moment before nodding. "Very well, Godey. Teach him the consequences of failure."

Godey’s skeletal hand extends toward Astarion, grasping his shoulder with an iron grip. The bony fingers dig into Astarion’s flesh, cold and unyielding.

Astarion tries to yank himself free. "You always find a way to blame me, don’t you, master?" he retorts, unable to suppress the bitterness in his voice. "It’s never your flawed orders or your grand plans gone awry. No, it’s always my incompetence that tarnishes your immaculate image."

Cazador’s gaze darkens, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. Godey, however, seems to relish the escalating tension, his skeletal fingers flexing in anticipation. "Watch your tongue, Astarion. Your insolence only deepens your transgressions."

Astarion grits his teeth, the resentment boiling within him. The skeletal fingers on his shoulder begin to exert a painful pressure, and he winces, but he refuses to show weakness in front of his master.

Godey’s grip tightens further, and the pain intensifies, spreading through Astarion’s body like tendrils of ice. Cazador watches with a cold detachment as his disobedient spawn squirms under Godey’s skeletal hold.

"Perhaps a bit of pain will remind you of your place," Cazador remarks, his voice cutting through the air like a razor.

Astarion fights to keep his composure, his jaw clenched against the agony coursing through him. Godey, seemingly reveling in the task, doesn’t let up. The skeletal fingers press harder, threatening to crush bone.

"Master, if I may," Godey interjects. "Perhaps a more lasting reminder is in order."

"Do whatever you wish. Just take him to the kennels first. We wouldn’t want to stain the carpet." Cazador waves a dismissive hand. 

Godey nods and releases his grip on Astarion, who stumbles slightly, regaining his balance. The skeletal servant gestures for Astarion to follow him, and with a glance back at Cazador’s stoic figure, Astarion complies, resentment smoldering in his eyes.

Godey pushes the door open, revealing a chamber filled with the stench of blood and refuse.

Godey motions to a splintered wooden chair. "Take a seat, my favorite songbird. Are you ready to sing for me?"

The skeleton might not have any facial muscles or lips, but Astarion knows he is smiling. Astarion does as he’s told and lowers himself onto the seat. The chamber feels oppressive, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and decay. Godey hovers over him, his skeletal fingers tracing patterns along his skin as he prepares for the task at hand.

Astarion glances around, seeking an escape that he knows doesn’t exist. His eyes meet Godey’s empty sockets, and he resigns himself to the inevitable. "Get it over with," he mutters through gritted teeth.

Godey reaches out, his bony fingers moving with a surprising dexterity. He produces a pair of rusty pliers and–

Astarion’s eyes fly open with a start, a cold sweat coating his skin. His fingers still grip tightly around the key. The metal bites into his skin. Astarion forces his stiff fingers to uncurl from the key, and he drops it on the nightstand. His heart beats rapidly in his chest. He stares at the key.

He can never go back. He won’t. Astarion makes up his mind.

Chapter Text

The corridor is dark, with all the curtains tightly drawn close. The only light comes up from the staircase. Astarion hesitantly steps out into the hall. The wooden floor groans beneath each step. He takes a deep breath before knocking on the door.

Nothing.

Astarion knocks again, but still, nobody answers. He decides to test the door knob. Surprisingly, the door swings open effortlessly, revealing a dark room on the other side. As the door creaks open, the owlbear inside lifts its head, alerted by the sound.

"Hello?" Astarion tries to make out if anyone else is in the room. He stands at the door’s threshold, unable to enter without an invitation.

The owlbear stands and stretches before shoving its muzzle into a canvas bag.

Astarion walks over to the top of the stairs and tries to get a peek down without stepping into the sunlight. It’s silent in the tavern below. He cautiously steps down, but his skin itches as the light hits it. He quickly recoils and steps away from the stairs.

Great. He’s trapped up there for now.

Astarion retreats back to the suite. Footsteps approach from behind. He spins around. It’s the owlbear cub.

The owlbear cub waddles towards Astarion, its eyes curiously fixed on him. Astarion raises an eyebrow, observing the creature with a mixture of confusion and caution. The owlbear emits a low rumble.

"I’m not on the menu if that’s what you’re thinking," Astarion tells the creature.

The owlbear cub tilts its head, seemingly undeterred by Astarion’s comment. Its large, round eyes fixate on him with an innocent curiosity. Astarion, still standing near the suite’s entrance, eyes the creature warily, unsure of its intentions.

"Go on, then. Shoo!" Astarion waves a hand dismissively, hoping to encourage the owlbear cub to wander off. However, the creature continues its slow approach, undeterred by the vampire spawn’s attempts to dissuade it.

Astarion couldn’t kill Tav’s pet, could he? That would definitely incur her wrath. But, surely, she’d be more lenient if it was out of self-defense.

The owlbear barrels toward him. Astarion hisses and bears his fangs, prepared to tear the creature’s throat out if it came down to it.

However, the owlbear doesn’t attack. It tries to stop, but its momentum sends it into a skittering slide. The creature comes to a stop when it collides with Astarion’s legs.

The owlbear cub looks up at Astarion with wide, unblinking eyes, seemingly more interested in him than threatened. Astarion, now with an unexpected, fuzzy companion at his feet, sighs in exasperation. The creature nuzzles its head against Astarion’s legs.

"Well, aren’t you a persistent little thing," Astarion mutters, bending down to get a closer look at the owlbear cub. Astarion’s initial irritation at the owlbear cub’s persistence softens as he feels the surprisingly gentle touch of its feathers. He cautiously pets the creature, still wary of its unpredictable nature. The owlbear cub emits a contented purr-like sound, seemingly appreciating the attention.

"I guess I won’t kill you this time." Astarion stands back up and walks back into the suite. Something crinkles underfoot. He picks up a small note and flattens it on the desk. Someone must have slipped it under the door while he was in his trance. The handwriting is messy but legible. It reads:

Astarion,

Gone out for the day. Will be back soon. Make yourself comfortable.

Shadowheart wants me to tell you to stay out of her stuff, so stay out of it.

Best,

Tav

Astarion crumples the note and leaves it on the desk. The owlbear cub pads into the suite after Astarion. It sniffs around, inspecting the unfamiliar surroundings. Astarion eyes the creature with a mix of bemusement and slight irritation. "Well, you can stay if you must, but keep out of my way," he remarks, knowing full well that the owlbear cub probably doesn’t understand him.

The owlbear hops up onto the bed.

"No, not on the furniture!" Astarion spins around to face it. "Off."

The cub remains perched on the bed, its large, round eyes staring at Astarion with an almost comical innocence. Astarion, frustrated by the creature’s apparent lack of comprehension, sighs and approaches the bed.

"Off, I said!" Astarion gestures emphatically, trying to convey his message through both words and body language. The owlbear cub tilts its head in the opposite direction, seemingly unfazed by Astarion’s commands.

With an exasperated huff, Astarion decides to take a more direct approach. He gently shoves the owlbear toward the edge of the bed. The creature emits a soft, questioning noise but doesn’t resist. It leaps off and sits on the ground. Astarion points a finger at the floor.

"Stay. Got it?" Astarion’s tone is firm, though he can’t help but feel a twinge of amusement at the absurdity of instructing an owlbear cub like a mischievous child.

The owlbear cub blinks up at Astarion, seemingly uninterested in his instructions. Instead, it meanders around the room, exploring every nook and cranny with unbridled curiosity. Astarion watches the creature, torn between annoyance and a begrudging fascination with its antics.

Astarion sits down on the bed and flicks off a loose feather. He looks at the note resting on the desk and then over at the owlbear. Both of them were left behind while the others are off doing who knows what.

He doesn’t know what he expected. He’s not part of the group and can’t go out in the sunlight. It makes sense for them to leave without him. It doesn’t make it sting any less.

A loud ripping sound takes Astarion out of his musings. He searches for the source of the sound. The owlbear tears at the curtain with its beak.

Astarion’s eyes widen as he stands and tries to get to the owlbear quickly. "No, leave that alone!"

The owlbear attempts to tear another piece of the curtain free but instead yanks the rod from the wall. Blinding light pours into the room.

Astarion immediately drops to the floor. The sunlight hits him with searing intensity, causing him to hiss and recoil. He shields his face with his hands, feeling the burn of sunlight on his sensitive skin. Astarion crawls away, taking shelter beside a wardrobe. He leans back against it and inspects his hands. Ash puffs up as he stretches his fingers.

The owlbear cub, seemingly unaffected by the sudden flood of light, inspects the fallen curtain rod with innocent curiosity.

"Damn it," Astarion growls as he takes in his situation. The sunlight stops him from reaching the door. He’s stuck on the floor beside the wardrobe. The owlbear cub, oblivious to the vampire’s discomfort, waddles after him. It nuzzles its beak against Astarion’s side. "No, you don’t get to demand attention after nearly killing me!"

Despite Astarion’s frustration and discomfort, the owlbear cub persists in seeking attention. Ignoring the vampire’s protests, the creature nudges Astarion with its head, seemingly oblivious to the precarious situation it has caused. Astarion, still crouched behind the bed, grits his teeth as he attempts to discourage the owlbear cub.

"Enough! You’re lucky I haven’t decided to turn you into a snack," Astarion scolds, his tone a mixture of irritation and pain. He tries to gently push the owlbear cub away, but it only seems to interpret this as an invitation to play. The creature pounces around him, its claws scratching against the floor.

The owlbear cub, seemingly satisfied with the impromptu playtime, curls up on the floor beside Astarion, its large eyes blinking lazily. The creature had worn itself out already. Astarion, resigned to the situation, allows a momentary sense of companionship to wash over him. It’s not like he has anything else to do. He reaches toward the owlbear and absently scratches its head.

Astarion grows restless. He can hear faint sounds from the streets below, the distant hum of the city’s activity, and the occasional creaking of the inn’s structure. He wonders how long Tav and the others will be away. The note had mentioned they’d return soon, but soon is a relative term.

The owlbear cub, sensing Astarion’s restlessness, nudges against him with a gentle persistence. Astarion, appreciating the distraction, continues to stroke the creature’s feathers. It lays its head on Astarion’s lap.

Soon, muffled voices and footsteps grow louder from the corridor. Astarion sits upright, considering calling out for help, but is suddenly hit with the embarrassing nature of his situation.

Someone knocks on the door. "Astarion, it’s me, Tav. Are you in there?"

"Yes," Astarion calls out.

"Could you come to the door? I have some things for you."

Astarion looks at the sea of sunlight separating him and the door. "I can’t, but please, let yourself in."

The door creaks open. Tav surveys the room, taking in the torn curtain, the fallen rod, and the general disarray. Her eyes finally settle on Astarion, huddled behind the wardrobe with the owlbear asleep in his lap.

"Well, this looks cozy," Tav remarks, "Did you have a disagreement with the curtain, or is this your way of redecorating?"

Astarion scowls. "Your delightful pet here nearly exposed me to sunlight. Does he, too, have a murderous side?"

"Not usually. You must be rubbing off on him." Tav goes over to the curtain and puts it back in place.

Astarion sighs in relief as the dark fills the room once more. He pushes the owlbear off his lap and stands.

Shadowheart peeks her head into the room. "Having a bit of trouble with interior decorating?"

Astarion doesn’t dignify her quip with a response. "So, Tav, you said you had something for me?"

Shadowheart sneers at Astarion before walking away.

"Oh, yes. A few things, actually." Tav takes off her pack and hands it to Astarion. "Everything inside is yours."

Astarion snatches the bag and rifles through it. First, he pulls out a bundle of clothes and unfurls them.

"I tried to choose something that looked like what you were wearing last night. That way, you don’t have to keep borrowing Wyll’s clothes."

"Just as they were starting to grow on me." Astarion clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Next, he pulls out a pouch of coins and a flask. He starts to unscrew the lid. "What’s in here?"

"Blood. The butcher was confused why I was asking for it," Tav explains.

Astarion is immediately reminded of his hunger as he smells the familiar metallic scent. His hands start to shake. It takes all his self-control not to down the flask’s contents immediately.

"I hoped it’d be cheaper to feed you since we tend to leave a trail of corpses behind us while we work anyways, but Cazador’s rules complicate things." Tav nods to the flask. "Let me know when you need more, assuming you’re still here when it runs out."

Astarion nods, though his eyes remain fixed on the flask. He carefully screws the lid back on and sets it aside.

"We’ll be going out later tonight if you’d like to join us," Tav offers.

"No thanks, I think I’ll stay around the tavern." Astarion keeps eyeing the flask of blood.

"That’s fine," Tav says. She pauses for a moment. "Have you put any thought into whether or not you’ll stick with us for the long run?"

Astarion nods, suppressing a shiver as he thinks about his relived memory. "As of now, I think I’ll stick around." He watches for Tav’s reaction closely as he answers.

Another tiefling strides into the room. She’s taller, more intimidating than Tav. One of her horns is snapped off at the base. "Did someone get in a fight with the curtains?" the new tiefling asked.

"Gah, did you come from a flaming sewer?" Astarion asks as the scent of sulfur and burning assaults his nose. Her chest glows with a fiery heat, explaining the source of the burning smell.

"No, the Hells," the tiefling clarifies. "Are you the new vampire spawn hanging about?"

Brilliant deduction.

"No, I am the interior decorator, here to redo the curtains," Astarion says sarcastically.

The tiefling leans over to Tav. "I see how he got you. You do tend to fall for the annoying ones."

"Karlach!" Tav’s eyes widen.

The tiefling, or Karlach, puts her hands up defensively. "Sorry for noticing you have a type!"

Tav looks at Astarion, choosing to change the subject. "Astarion, this is Karlach. Karlach, this is Astarion."

"Nice to meet you, soldier," Karlach says, holding out a hand for Astarion to shake. He takes it. Her hand is large and warm.

"The same for you," he says.

"I hope you’re prepared to meet more people. There will be a lot of people joining us tonight."

"Ah, wonderful," Astarion says with a fake smile.

"You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to," Tav assures him. "I just think it’s best I formally introduce you to everyone, get them familiar with your face. Wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea when they see a vampire spawn hanging about. I’ve spent too much money for you to end up with a stake through your heart."

"That’s comforting," Astarion says as he tucks everything back into the bag. He continues to watch Tav closely. She must have some sort of ulterior motive for buying and giving him these things. Any moment, she’ll bring up her requests, how he can pay her back for her generosity.

"You can join us whenever you’re ready," Tav says. "We’ll all be in the other room."

Astarion nods. "I will make my way there soon."

Tav and Karlach leave the suite. The owlbear cub follows them out. Karlach bends over and hoists the owlbear up into her arms. "Oh, I missed you!"

The owlbear gives out an energetic hoot.

The door creaks softly as it swings shut behind them.

Astarion glances around at the newly provided belongings, contemplating the motives behind Tav’s actions. The bag with clothes, pouch of coins, and the flask of blood are all practical gifts, yet Astarion senses an unspoken debt lingering in the air. He can’t shake the feeling that Tav expects something in return. With a resigned sigh, Astarion decides to change into the new set of clothes. The process is swift, and soon he stands, out of the borrowed attire, feeling a bit more like himself. The clothes aren’t exactly what he would have chosen, but they are definitely more to his taste than the trousers he’d been borrowing from Wyll. A brief sense of gratitude toward Tav tugs at the edges of his thoughts, even as he remains wary of any potential strings attached to these gifts.

As he finishes dressing, Astarion can’t ignore the subtle but persistent pang of hunger gnawing at him. His gaze fixates on the flask of blood resting on the desk. He hesitates for a moment, debating whether to indulge his vampiric instincts now or wait for a more opportune time.

With a sigh, he picks up the flask, unscrews the lid, and takes a cautious sip. The metallic tang of blood soothes the persistent ache, and Astarion can feel the rejuvenating effect almost immediately. He tilts the flask further back and drinks in more of its contents. It slides down his throat and settles in his stomach. The temptation to drain the entire flask is strong, but he restrains himself, pulling the flask away from his lips. He screws the cap back on and tucks the flask back in the bag.

With a steadying breath, Astarion steps into the corridor and makes his way to join the others. Whatever or whoever is on the other side of that door, Astarion can handle it. He continues to reassure himself each step of the way until he reaches the door and takes a step in.

Chapter Text

The room beyond the door is bustling with activity. Conversations hush as Astarion enters. Tav, Shadowheart, Wyll, Karlach, and several other unfamiliar faces all turn their attention toward him as he enters.

"Ah, Astarion, I’m happy you could join us." Tav stands at the center, gesturing towards Astarion. "Everyone, meet Astarion. He’s joining us for now."

Tav’s introduction is met with a mix of guarded expressions and curious glances from the assembled group. Astarion senses the wariness that lingers in the air, like an unspoken tension that threatens to coil around him.

"Here we have Lae’zel, Jaheira, and Minsc." Tav points them out in succession.

"You forget Boo," The burly man named Minsc says. He holds a hamster up in the air.

"Sorry, Minsc," Tav says. "Astarion, meet Boo."

"That is a hamster," Astarion states plainly.

"Yes," Minsc says with a large smile. "He is a miniature giant space hamster, a mighty and powerful beast."

Astarion looks over at Tav for her reaction. She must have something to say to this lunatic.

"Just go with it," she mouths silently.

Astarion raises an eyebrow but decides not to press the matter further. He nods in acknowledgment to Minsc and his miniature space hamster, Boo. He takes a cautious step forward, joining the circle next to Tav. As he moves further into the room, he catches glimpses of the others sizing him up. Lae’zel, in particular, regards him with a stern gaze. Her hand rests on the hilt of her weapon.

"Is it wise to have a vampire spawn in our midst?" Lae’zel asks. Her nose is turned up at him, metaphorically and physically. Her features are angular and sharp, and her skin is green with brown speckling. She looks different from anyone else Astarion’s seen in Baldur’s Gate. Strange creatures have been popping up recently, though, so he shouldn’t be surprised. First, it was the tentacled freaks, and now it must be the strange toad people.

"He could be useful, and he won’t hurt anybody. Right, Astarion?" Tav asks.

Astarion nods his head. "I wouldn’t harm a fly," he says with a charming smile.

"I’ve always known you to be a gullible fool, Tav, but even this is too low for you." Lae’zel looks at Astarion with narrowed eyes. "Taking a vampire at his word?"

"He hasn’t killed us yet," Wyll points out. "I think we should give him a chance."

"Funny coming from you, monster hunter." Shadowheart crosses her arms over her chest.

"If I killed anything that looked to be a monster on the surface, we wouldn’t have Karlach here with us now," Wyll says.

The fiery tiefling’s head falls back as she laughs. "There’s no way you’d have come out on top of that fight."

"Fine, then I wouldn’t be here now, but my point still stands. Things aren’t always black and white," Wyll insists.

"I don’t mind having him around. Sure as hell will keep things interesting," Karlach says. She looks Astarion up and down. He can’t help but squirm under her gaze. He smiles at her, but when her expression doesn’t change, he drops it and looks away.

"Would somebody like to explain to me why the vampire is even here?" the white-haired elf named Jaheira asks. Something about her name is familiar to Astarion, but he can’t pinpoint why.

"Oh, Tav hasn’t told you yet?" There’s a sharp bite to Shadowheart’s tone. "It’s quite the story."

"We can talk about it later, Jaheira," Tav says. Her face burns red.

"She slept with him, and he tried to kill her," Shadowheart says bluntly.

Tav shoots Shadowheart a glare, but the damage is done.

"So the vampire has tried to kill someone already?" Lae’zel hisses. "We should kill him now and avoid this problem entirely."

"Lae’zel, who in the circle have you not tried to kill?" Tav asks.

"I haven’t tried to kill the druid," Lae’zel says, "But I did consider it."

Astarion takes a step back from the circle. "There’s no need to take things that far. I assure you that I have no intentions to kill anybody. Tav has made it very clear that she will turn my insides out if I dare to even consider it."

"We are not going to kill him. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. Part of the deal is that I keep him alive, well, as alive as he is now."

"Yes, Tav did promise not to kill me," Astarion confirms. The way the toad lady is looking at him, he wouldn’t be surprised if she killed him then and there. He takes another hesitant step back.

"We kill him and then the master." Lae’zel’s eyes narrow even further, and she steps forward, her hand now gripping the hilt of her weapon with intent. "I don’t trust him. He’s a liability, a ticking time bomb waiting to turn on us. We should eliminate the threat before it becomes a problem."

"Our last ticking time bomb is the only reason any of us are still here," Tav says aggressively.

"Look," Wyll interjects, attempting to diffuse the mounting conflict. "We’ve all got our baggage. We’re not a pristine band of heroes. But Tav vouches for him, and for now, that’s enough for me. Let’s not turn on each other when the real enemy is still out there."

"I agree with the devil," Astarion says. "I have no reason to jeopardize my station here. This merry band of misfits is a pleasant change of pace from Cazador’s doom and gloom."

Jaheira, who has been observing the exchange with a contemplative expression, finally speaks up. "While I may not fully understand the circumstances, I believe in the strength of unity. If Astarion poses no immediate threat and is willing to contribute, we should proceed cautiously."

"Fine," Lae’zel finally says. "But if he betrays us, I won’t hesitate to end him."

"I wouldn’t expect anything less," Jaheira says. "Now, Tav, explain why you brought us all here."

Tav takes a shaky breath, trying to regain her composure. "There have been rumors that Bhaal worshippers from across Faerûn have been migrating here to Baldur’s Gate. We’ve been surveying the undercity to see if they are trying to reclaim the temple, but it remains empty. They’re planning something, but we don’t know what.

Jaheira shakes her head. "They never know when it’s time to give up."

"More Bhaal butt-kicking?" Minsc asks.

Tav nods. "It seems like there’s going to be a lot more."

Astarion feels his throat tighten. He hadn’t realized he was agreeing to make himself an enemy of the cult of Bhaal. Is it worth the risk of angering a cult almost as bloodthirsty as him for the sake of being away from Cazador?

As memories rush back, Astarion’s doubts are immediately crushed. Yes. It is worth it. A shiver runs down his spine. The cult of Bhaal killing him by making his innards outwards is more desirable than the cruel and creative ways Cazador comes up with to punish him.

"I have an informant who says they know something big. They insist on meeting me alone after sundown. Everything about it screams trap, but I can’t risk losing out on this opportunity. I want you all close by in case something happens," Tav explains.

"And what makes you think this informant knows anything?" Shadowheart asks.

"He claimed to have been a part of the cult before the whole Absolute debacle."

"So it’s definitely a trap," Karlach says.

Tav nods, acknowledging the skepticism in the room.

"Most likely. But it’s a risk we have to take. We need information, and this is the best lead we’ve got. Besides, I’d have you guys at my side. That’s been enough for us so far."

"Oh great, the plan is to depend on the power of friendship," Astarion drawls.

Tav shoots Astarion a pointed look. "Call it what you want, but having each other’s backs is what got us through some tough situations."

"By all means, let’s put our lives in the hands of camaraderie and hopeful alliances. I’m sure nothing bad will happen," Astarion says with feigned innocence.

Tav narrows her eyes at Astarion’s sarcasm but decides not to engage further. Instead, she continues with the briefing. "I’ve arranged for a meeting in an alley in the lower city. We’ll go after sundown, and I want everyone to be on their guard. If things go south, we’ll need to act fast. Remember, our goal is information. We find out what the cult is planning and why they’re gathering in Baldur’s Gate. We play it smart and safe. Are we all clear?"

"No," Shadowheart says. "I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with the vampire. If we’re going to do this, we need a proper plan."

"I thought the plan was obvious," Karlach says. "If it’s a trap, kill the bastards."

"I’m going to need more to go off of than that," Shadowheart says.

Tav sighs. "We can come up with a plan, but tonight is our only shot. The informant is leaving the city tomorrow."

"And you’re going to let them?" Wyll asks. "You’re letting a Bhaal worshiper freely leave the city?"

"A defected Bhaal worshiper," Tav corrects. "They don’t worship him anymore, and he’s considered an enemy of Bhaal. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that."

"They’ve still killed people," Wyll says.

"So have you," Tav points out.

"Innocent people," Wyll stresses.

"Gods, Tav, you take every pathetic person with religious trauma at their word," Shadowheart says.

"Not just religious," Jaheira says as she scans over the circle of people. She pauses on each person individually. When her eyes land on Astarion, a chill runs down his spine. The look was piercing, as if she could see through his facade, all the way to the parts that he tries to hide from even himself. Jaheira’s eyes linger on him for a moment longer before she addresses the group. ‘I agree with Shadowheart. We need a more detailed plan. It’s not just about killing the cultists; it’s about unraveling their intentions and ensuring our safety. Rushing headlong into a potential trap is reckless."

"I’m open to suggestions." Tav holds her open hands up.

Wyll raises his hand. "I say we scout the alley beforehand, have someone watch from a distance. If it seems suspicious, we can adjust accordingly."

Tav nods in agreement with Wyll’s suggestion. "Finally, some progress. We need eyes on the situation before we walk into the trap. Anyone else?"

Lae’zel grunts in approval. "I suggest having an ambush prepared. If things go south, we attack swiftly and decisively."

Astarion watches the group deliberating, each member contributing their ideas. He remains silent, observing the dynamics and weighing the potential risks. The cult of Bhaal, a defected informant, and the delicate balance within the group create a volatile mix.

Astarion’s mind continues to wander. There’s a complex web of alliances and motives at play. He’s been thrust into a situation far more intricate than he could have ever predicted. He’d choose this over Cazador any day, but it’s still overwhelming.

"What do you say, Astarion?" Tav asks, bringing him back to the conversation.

"I’m sorry, about what?" Astarion asks, trying to refocus.

"Will you be joining us?" Tav looks at him expectantly.

Astarion looks around as all eyes are on him. He gulps before responding. "How likely am I to be killed?"

"Not likely at all," Tav says.

"I beg to differ," Lae’zel says.

"Not likely at all," Tav reiterates as she glares at Lae’zel.

Astarion considers his options. If he agrees to go with them, it might help him gain their trust. He could prove to them that he’s worth keeping alive. A part of him still fears they’ll send him back to Cazador if he becomes too much of a burden.

"Then why not? I might as well," Astarion says. If things get too messy, he could always slip away into the shadows. If they all tragically die in this trap, he’d be free to do as he wished until Cazador found out.

"Good, then you’ll be with Shadowheart," Tav announces

"Wait, I do not agree to this!" Shadowheart interjects. "Put him with Wyll or Karlach since they’re so keen on giving him a chance."

Astarion looks over at Shadowheart. She’s the second worst option for him to have been paired up with, behind Lae’zel. Karlach and Wyll seem to be at least a little sympathetic toward him. Jaheira didn’t seem that awful. Hells, he’d even take the idiot with the hamster over Shadowheart.

"You have the lowest stakes position. It makes sense for him to be with you," Tav explains. "Karlach would accidentally chop him in half and you’ve seen how reckless Wyll can be when it comes to casting fireball."

"I don’t see how that’s my problem." Shadowheart crosses her arms over her chest.

"If having me there is going to be such a burden, I can stay behind," Astarion suggests. He hopes she takes the offer. If he can stay behind and make it seem like a benefit to her, that would be ideal. Partaking in this crazy scheme is not one of his priorities.

Tav shakes her head. "No, it’s fine. Shadowheart can get over herself."

Shadowheart huffs, but doesn’t argue further. Astarion nods, accepting that he’ll be spending his night with the half-elf that clearly hated him.

As the group hammers out the details of their plan, Astarion contemplates his decision. Joining them in this mission aligns with his interests: avoiding Cazador and gaining the group’s trust. However, a lingering sense of uncertainty and mistrust from the members makes him wary. What if Tav was wrong and everything goes wrong? These people hardly know him. More than that, they actively dislike him. They wouldn’t go out of their way to help him. They might even see an ambush as a convenient way to remove Astarion from the picture.

There must be a reason Tav insists on keeping him around, but Astarion couldn’t gauge her motives. Everyone else around her insists that this is a bad idea, but she chooses to ignore their warnings anyways. What could she be planning?

Astarion doesn’t pay attention to the planning. He isn’t playing much of a role anyways. He’s only tagging along. At least, it seems like Tav is making an effort to make him feel included.

"So, now that we’ve got the nitty gritty worked out, let’s head out," Tav says. "The sun should be down by now."

The group prepares to head out, each member gathering their gear. Karlach hoists a hefty ax onto her shoulder with ease. Astarion follows them down the stairs and out the door. The confused gazes of tavern-goers latches onto them as heavy armor and weaponry flashes in the firelight.

The quiet darkness reminds Astarion of his many nights pursuing prey for Cazador, but this time, when he steps out onto the dark streets, it’s for a different type of hunt, and this time, maybe he isn’t quite so alone.

Chapter Text

The night air is crisp as Astarion and Shadowheart find themselves perched on the weathered deck of a dimly lit tavern, overlooking the very alley where the meeting is set to take place. Astarion sees the faint silhouettes of Karlach and Lae’zel crouched in their hiding places. Wyll sits on a balcony opposite of them. Jaheira and Minsc wait on opposite ends of the alley. They have all angles and directions covered. If Tav is walking into a trap, she’ll be well defended. 

The distant sounds of the city create a subtle backdrop to the tension between Astarion and Shadowheart. The flickering lanterns cast intermittent shadows on their faces as they sit in silence, both seemingly absorbed in their thoughts. Astarion breaks the quiet with a sigh. "Well, isn’t this cozy?"

Shadowheart shoots him a sharp glance but doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she watches the alley below with a focused intensity. The corners of her mouth twitch, revealing a hint of irritation.

"I can't believe I'm stuck babysitting the vampire," Shadowheart mutters under her breath, her tone laced with disdain.

Astarion raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Babysitting? My dear, I assure you, I can take care of myself."

She scoffs, not bothering to divert her gaze from the alley. "I'm not worried about you. I'm worried about the mess you might create. We don't need any complications during this mission. And I’m not your dear."

Astarion looks down. "It’s a hard habit to break."

A silence settles between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the city. Astarion sighs, his gaze fixed on the dark alley where Tav is expected to appear any moment. "I get it, you know. I'm not exactly the most trustworthy companion."

"No, you're not," she replies bluntly, her eyes still avoiding his.

"I know the whole being an immortal undead with a thirst for blood can be unnerving to people," Astarion says.

"You know, the strange thing is," Shadowheart says, finally looking at Astarion, "that part isn’t what bothers me. The description could almost fit Lae’zel, and I’ve managed to put up with her for this long."

"Then what is it?" Astarion asks, surprised by her confession. "What about me so deeply disgusts you?"

"You tried to kill Tav," Shadowheart says. "I can’t let that type of thing go."

"I’m not going to lie to you and say that I regret everything and that I would take it all back. You’re too smart to fall for that type of thing," Astarion says. "But I will say trying to kill Tav isn’t a mistake I will make again. This whole arrangement is a step up from the alternatives. I’m not going to jeopardize that."

Not to mention that he can’t kill any of them, thanks to Cazador’s command.

Shadowheart studies Astarion for a moment, her expression unreadable. The tension between them hangs in the air, but there's a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. "Why? Why not just go back to the life–well, unlife–you had before?"

Astarion bites his lip as he tries to think of how to phrase it. "Let’s just say that Cazador isn’t the best father figure despite how he tries to portray himself to the public."

Shadowheart's gaze lingers on Astarion, the guarded expression on her face softening slightly. She remains silent for a moment, contemplating his words. "If you are looking to connect with more people who have awful parental figures in their life, then you’re in the right place."

"You?" Astarion raises a brow.

"I meant the group as a whole, but yes, me too," Shadowheart says. Her words are disjointed, as if she’s sharing something she isn’t comfortable with. 

"Oh, do tell," Astarion says. He rests his head on his hand and smiles at her. "I love a dramatic story, and someone as broody as you is bound to have something interesting."

"You’ll have to work your way up to that information."

"Fair enough. I suppose trust is earned, not freely given."

Shadowheart stares at Astarion in silence. He’s suddenly paranoid that he missed a spot when wiping away the blood he drank from his flask. Or maybe the trek here disturbed his hair. As she continues to stare at him, Astarion starts to crack. "What? What is it?"

"Just thinking," she says slowly. "I don’t like you, as I’m sure you know."

Astarion chuckles, breaking the tension a little. "Yes, the feeling is mutual, I assure you."

"I don't trust you," Shadowheart adds, her gaze unwavering.

"You’ve made that abundantly clear."

"Good," Shadowheart says. "Because I want you to know that I am serious when I say that I will make you regret your very existence if you hurt Tav. I’ve been taught how to cause the most pain without killing. I’ve spent my childhood prying secrets from cries of suffering. You hurt her, I will not hold back."

"Tav gave me a very similar threat. Is there a guidebook on how to properly make your guests feel unwelcome that you’ve been passing around? I would never risk killing Tav."

"Oh, I don’t mean killing her. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s possible. She should have died long ago, but here she is, still going. She’s only a tiefling, but I’m convinced she’ll manage to outlive me," Shadowheart says. "What I mean is, don’t fuck around with her feelings."

"You seem awfully protective of her," Astarion observes, attempting to steer the conversation away from the threat hanging in the air. "Is there some lingering jealousy, or is it a general concern for her well-being?"

"Me, jealous?" Shadowheart laughs. A real laugh. It isn’t dry, mocking or uncomfortable–just a genuine laugh. It catches Astarion off guard.

"Is something amusing?" Astarion asks.

Shadowheart continues to chuckle. "Just thinking about being in a relationship with Tav. I definitely don’t see her that way. Our relationship is entirely platonic. Besides, knowing Tav’s taste, her being interested in you isn’t exactly a compliment."

Astarion raises an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. Did she just admit that Tav is interested in him? "And what's wrong with her 'taste,' according to your assessment?"

"She has a penchant for the complicated, pathetic, and potentially dangerous, but Tav seems to have a particularly soft spot for the broken ones."

Astarion leans back, contemplating her words. "She's a fixer, then?"

"In a way," Shadowheart replies as she looks down at the alley below. "She sees the good in people, even when they don't see it in themselves. It's both admirable and infuriating."

"And what boxes do I check on her list?"

Shadowheart hesitates for a moment before answering, her gaze returning to meet Astarion's. "You're a puzzle, Astarion. Complicated, for sure. Pathetic yet dangerous. Broken, most definitely. But there's something more there. Whatever it is, it’s hidden far beneath the surface and buried beneath the layers of cynicism, but it’s there."

Astarion leans in slightly, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Are you trying to psychoanalyze me now, Shadowheart? What do you think you'll find lurking in the depths of my tortured soul?"

"I'm not here to play therapist," she retorts, though a flicker of curiosity remains in her eyes. "But I'll be damned if I let you become a problem for Tav and the rest of us."

"You really care about her, don’t you?" Astarion asks.

Shadowheart nods. "She’s all I have left." Her gaze flickers, and for a moment, the hard exterior she wears seems to waver.

Astarion hesitates before speaking. "I don’t expect-"

"Shut up!" Shadowheart says.

Astarion is taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"Shhhh!" Shadowheart shoves his shoulder and then points toward the alley. A hooded figure emerges from the shadows. 

The atmosphere shifts as Tav appears in the alley, accompanied by the hooded figure they are meant to meet. Astarion and Shadowheart fall silent, their attention fully on the scene unfolding below. The tension in the air becomes palpable as they watch the exchange.

Tav exchanges words with the informant, her expressions shifting between caution and curiosity. The hooded figure appears agitated, glancing nervously around the alley. Astarion's keen senses pick up on subtle details—the rapid heartbeat, the nervous twitches—an unmistakable sign of someone in over their head. One of the perks of being a vampire.

Shadowheart grips her mace with white knuckles as she watches the scene below. She doesn’t even blink. The way it faintly glows makes Astarion wary. The warm golden light reminds him too much of the sun. As he thinks about it, his arm starts to itch. He isn’t sure if he’s only imagining it or not, but he takes a step to the side just in case.

As the conversation progresses, a sense of unease settles over the group on the deck. Astarion notices Shadowheart's grip tightening on her weapon, her eyes never leaving the scene below. The informant's words seem to grow more frantic, and Tav's expressions become increasingly grave.

Astarion can’t hear the entire conversation but he picks up on a few key words. There’s a brief mention of a Bhaalspawn. He shivers at the thought. People feared the children of Bhaal more than they did him and the other monsters that lurked about the shadows of the city.

Without warning, an arrow whistles through the air and strikes the hooded figure in the face with deadly precision. Tav immediately raises her hands, preparing to cast a spell. Karlach and Lae’zel leap from their hiding spots to join Tav in the fight. An arrow barely misses Tav and lodges itself in a crate further down the alley.

Astarion’s head snaps toward the direction the arrows came from, looking for the source. his eyes narrow, scanning the darkened rooftops. His instincts kick in, and he spots the faint silhouette of a figure, bowstring drawn, preparing for another shot. Without a word or thought, he leaps onto the railing and pulls himself up onto the roof. When the archer spots Astarion, she aims at him.

Shit. He didn’t think this through.

Astarion drops down as the arrow whistles above him, where his chest had been a moment before. 

Astarion starts to push himself up when a bolt of fire flies over his head. He flops back down before his hair can be singed.

The archer dodges the flame and scrambles to get away.

Shadowheart runs past him. “Are you coming, or what?”

“You nearly hit me!” Astarion shouts.

“You nearly got in the way,” Shadowheart snaps back, her voice fading as she continues running.

Astarion huffs and pushes himself to his feet. He dusts himself off before running to catch up. His legs propel him into action as he pursues the mysterious attacker. The night air whips against him as he navigates the uneven terrain. It doesn’t take long for him to pass Shadowheart.

 The archer makes a mistake and slips on a loose tile. It sends her sliding down the sloped roof. 

Astarion catches up to the archer just as she’s about to slide off the roof and plummet three stories. He grabs her by the back of her shirt and hoists her back up. 

"Shit," Astarion says as he sees the frothing in her mouth and his nose is assaulted by the recognizable scent of poison. 

The archer laughs, choking on the poison. "Fuck you. Bhaal’s chosen will return home and he will feast on your entrails." She tries to spit the foamy mess at him, but it only slides down her chin. She coughs out a raspy and revolting glob of saliva, phlegm, and poison.

"Ew," Astarion says. He lets go of the archer, letting her fall to the ground with a thud. He wipes his hands on the tiles, trying to get off as much of the spit and poison as possible. 

Shadowheart catches up and slides to a stop behind him. "You dropped them?"

Astarion glances at Shadowheart and shrugs. "The roof is a hazardous place, you know. People have a tendency to slip."

Shadowheart puts her hands on her hips. "We could have questioned them!"

"Eh, I think the concoction of poisons they consumed would have made that difficult, and I don’t enjoy being spat on."

Shadowheart scowls at Astarion. The alley below them continues to be a battleground, the group fiercely engaged with the more cultists who have revealed themselves.

"Come on," Shadowheart says, gesturing toward the edge of the roof. "We need to get down there."

Astarion looks at the drop below them. "Are you sure?"

Shadowheart smirks. "Afraid of heights, vampire?"

"No, it looks exhausting climbing down."

Shadowheart rolls her eyes and swings herself over the edge of the roof and onto the windowsill below. She starts to scale down the wall. Astarion hesitates for a moment, then sighs and follows suit. The descent is swift but surprisingly controlled as he hits the ground next to Shadowheart.

Shadowheart rushes ahead to join the others, but Astarion lags behind. They seem to have things under control and he isn’t in the mood to risk his own neck. Blades and sparks of lightning flash through the sky.

"Astarion, take cover," Shadowheart shouts as she raises her mace.

She doesn’t have to tell him twice. Astarion immediately dives behind a stack of crates. Suddenly, the alley is lit up with a glowing warm light, like a sunrise over the city. Astarion pulls himself into a tighter ball and covers his eyes. The light burns. He isn’t used to such harsh lighting.

As quickly as the light came, it leaves. Astarion peeks out for a cautious glance. Several of the cultists stumble about, stunned and blinded by the light. It isn’t long before the party stands victorious.

As the echoes of battle subside, Astarion emerges cautiously from his cover. The alley is strewn with unconscious or defeated cultists, and the group gathers to assess the aftermath. Tav stands at the center, her expression a mix of relief and frustration.

"That light was… intense," Astarion says. 

"Blood of Lathander," Shadowheart explains as she slides the mace into its place on her belt. 

Astarion nods as if he knows what she’s talking about. Spots still dance in his vision. "Thanks for the warning."

"It’ve been a shame to accidentally kill you," Shadowheart says. "If I’m going to turn you into a pile of ashes, I want it to be on purpose."

"See, everyone, I told you we had nothing to be concerned about," Tav says as she motions to the dead and unconscious bodies around them.

Lae’zel crosses her arms over her chest. "No, this was a trap."

"Yeah, but it looks like it was for our buddy, not us," Tav says, tapping the dead informant with the toe of her boot. "They aimed for him first."

"Well, what’d he have to say before he died?" Wyll asks. He sheathes his rapier.

"Another Bhaalspawn is returning to Baldur’s Gate," Tav says gravely. She continues, her voice heavy with concern, "According to the informant, this one is worse than Orin. More powerful, more ruthless. They were the original orchestrator of the Absolute plan before Orin took over. They're gathering their forces and preparing to reclaim Baldur’s Gate."

Chapter Text

"Another Bhaalspawn?" Shadowheart asks. "How many of them do we have to kill before we can finally have a moment of peace?"

Wyll slumps into a chair in the center of the room. "It seems the legacy of Bhaal is not one to be easily extinguished."

Jaheira leans against the railing and shakes her head. "I’ve sacrificed everything to squash it out, but it refuses to die."

Astarion stands against the wall, his thoughts swirling with a tempest of fear and uncertainty. The revelation of a Bhaalspawn's imminent arrival strikes a chord deep within him, triggering a primal instinct to flee. If a Bhaalspawn is really on its way here, it might target this group first.

As Tav continues to recount the details from the informant, Astarion struggles to mask his fear. His fingers drum nervously on the table.

Shadowheart watches him with a keen gaze. She leans in slightly, her voice low and calculated. "You seem tense, vampire. Anything you'd like to share?"

Astarion forces a nonchalant smile, attempting to maintain his façade of detached composure. "Just contemplating the thrill of our next adventure. Exciting, isn't it?"

Shadowheart narrows her eyes, unconvinced. "Your attempt at nonchalance is as transparent as glass, Astarion. Spit it out. What's bothering you?"

Astarion's gaze flickers nervously across the room, avoiding the penetrating scrutiny of Shadowheart. His carefully crafted mask of indifference begins to crack under the weight of his fear. The idea of facing a Bhaalspawn, a formidable force intertwined with the divine legacy of Bhaal, terrifies him to his core.

"Bothering me?" Astarion chuckles, the sound betraying the strain in his voice. "Why, my d-" Astarion stops himself from addressing her with a pet name. "Shadowheart, nothing is bothering me. I'm a vampire—undead, immortal, and incredibly desirable. Why would I be afraid?" He punctuates his words with a self-assured smirk, but the fear in his eyes betrays the bravado.

"You look like you’re about to leap from your seat," Wyll says.

"Is the vampire planning to flee?" Lae’zel asks. "Pathetic."

Astarion straightens, maintaining a casual posture, though the unease continues to grow beneath the surface. "Flee? Please, I've faced more terrifying adversaries than some Bhaalspawn. It's just the anticipation of the impending chaos that has my nerves tingling."

Lae’zel snorts, her arms crossed. "You can pretend all you want, vampire, but the stench of fear clings to you like a shadow."

Tav migrates to Astarion’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder. "We’re talking about facing a Bhaalspawn. It's not a walk in a moonlit park. This is the blood of Bhaal, the Lord of Murder, coursing through someone's veins. It's perfectly reasonable to be afraid."

Astarion goes stiff as he feels Tav’s hand on his shoulder. He turns his head slowly, and when he meets her gaze,  the sincerity in her eyes cutting through his attempts at maintaining his detached exterior. He swallows hard, his throat dry.

"I’d be more concerned if you weren’t terrified," Jaheira says. "Only an idiot would face a Bhaalspawn with reckless abandon."

"Like Tav did," Shadowheart adds.

"Ha, Jaheira called Tav an idiot," Karlach says with a massive smirk.

Tav gives Karlach a pointed look. "Karlach, I’m pretty sure I saw you eating dirt the other day. You have no room to talk." 

"That is not what I said," Jaheira says.

"But it’s what you were implying." Shadowheart crosses her arms over her chest.

"No. I was trying to be comforting to the vampire, and you know that. Do not twist my words." Jaheira looks at Shadowheart, as if daring her to push further.

Shadowheart concedes and remains silent.

"Let’s not argue about who thinks I’m an idiot–which I’m not –and focus on the task at hand," Tav says, redirecting the course of the conversation. She lets go of Astarion’s shoulder. With her touch gone, he can finally relax.

"Tav is right. We should be discussing the Bhaalspawn. Also, she isn’t an idiot," Jaheira adds that last part quickly. 

"Thank you, Jaheira," Tav drags out. "We’ve killed a Bhaalspawn before, Bhaal’s chosen. Compared to Orin, this new one should be a breeze."

"But the informant said they were stronger and worse than Orin," Wyll interjects.

"I know what the informant said, but if they were stronger, then why was Orin the Chosen? It doesn’t make any sense. Surely Bhaal’s favorite would be the one most capable of destruction and killing," Tav explains.

"So what’s the plan?" Jaheira asks. She seems to be the most practical one in the group. 

"If I may make a suggestion, I think we should have the green one charm the Bhaalspawn into walking away from the city," Astarion says sarcastically.

"Do not flatter me, vampire. I do not charm. I would sooner die in an honorable battle than talk my way around it," Lae’zel sneers.

Tav takes a deep breath, ignoring Astarion’s comment. "We gather information first. Find out everything we can about this Bhaalspawn—their strengths, weaknesses, alliances, and intentions. We can't afford to rush into this blindly."

Astarion raises a hand.

"Yes, Astarion?" Tav asks.

"Am I expected to help fight this Bhaalspawn? Because I must warn you that I’m not a trained fighter."

Tav shakes her head. "No, but we would appreciate all the help we could get. I’m sure all of us here would be willing to teach you what we know if that’s what you’re worried about."

Astarion's eyes widen at Tav's response, a mix of surprise and uncertainty flickering across his face. The idea of receiving training from the very individuals he has been at odds with is a concept that he hadn't anticipated.

"If you don’t want to, we won’t force you," Tav continues. "It’s your choice."

There she goes again, phrasing things as if he has any actual say. If he says no, what are they going to do, let him lay about and mooch off them for eternity? Astarion doubts it. The second Tav decides he’s completely useless to her, she’ll send him straight back to Cazador. "Fine, fine. I suppose I could use a few pointers, but when it comes time to actually face the Bhaalspawn, I can’t guarantee I’ll be any help."

"You’ll either learn to hold your own, or be an easy meal for the Bhaalspawn," Lae’zel says. "I do not want any liabilities on our team. If it’s training you need, I can provide."

Astarion shoots Lae’zel a resentful glance but refrains from making any snarky remarks. The tension in the room remains palpable, each member of the party contemplating the gravity of the situation.

"I’ve seen Githyanki training methods. You do not want to take her up on that offer," Karlach warns.

"Boo says he is willing to help teach the vampire," Minsc says.

"We’ll figure out training later. It’s getting late. We’ll discuss all the specifics later. We should all get some rest," Tav says.

Wyll yawns and nods. "I agree. I could use some shut eye."

The group starts to disperse. Wyll goes immediately to his bed and flings himself onto it. Karlach dances about as she slips off her armor. Tav puts her hand on Astarion’s shoulder again as she turns to face him. "Astarion, there’s something I-"

"Hey, vampire, I need to have a word with you," Shadowheart interrupts from across the room.

Tav looks at Shadowheart and then back to Astarion. "Actually, it can wait. Come back to me after you talk to Shadowheart," Tav says. She drops her hand.

Astarion nods and pushes himself off the wall. He walks over to Shadowheart and raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I thought I should apologize," Shadowheart says. "I didn’t mean to start everyone dogpiling on you."

Astarion's surprise registers on his face, caught off guard by Shadowheart's unexpected apology. He crosses his arms, adopting a defensive posture. "You’re apologizing?"

"Yes," she says, making direct eye contact with him. 

"Well, isn't this a rare moment," Astarion remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "someone offering me an apology. What brought this on?"

"I was trying to genuinely check on you, but I see now how that isn’t how it came across. I’m still relatively new to this whole ‘being empathetic’ thing," Shadowheart explains.

"Ah, yes. An ex-Shar worshipper," Astarion recalls. 

Shadowheart raises an eyebrow at Astarion's comment. "Yes, and breaking old habits is proving to be a challenge. But I'm making an effort, so consider this a genuine apology."

Astarion leans against a nearby table, his skepticism evident. "Well, I appreciate the sentiment, Shadowheart. Apology accepted, I suppose."

Shadowheart nods, seemingly relieved. "Good. Now, you should probably speak to Tav. She’s been watching for her turn."

Astarion glances over his shoulder, catching Tav's eye. She gestures for him to join her. "Seems like I'm in demand tonight."

With a nod to Shadowheart, Astarion heads back to where Tav is waiting. She gives him a small smile as he approaches. "Everything okay?"

"As well as can be expected, considering the circumstances," Astarion replies. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I was wondering how strictly you have to follow Cazador’s orders," Tav says. "I had a few ideas that I might want to run by you."

"Cazador’s word is law. I physically cannot deny him." Astarion says.

"What if you weren’t the one doing the action, though?"

Astarion narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"For instance, let’s say that Cazador told you not to go into a room. What would happen if I picked you up and carried you in?"

Astarion raises an eyebrow at Tav's hypothetical scenario. "Are you planning on forcibly dragging me into rooms now?"

Tav smirks, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Maybe, if it became necessary, but I was asking for other reasons."

Astarion tilts his head toward her. "Do tell."

"I’ve been trying to think about a loophole for the ‘no drinking from thinking creatures’ rule. If someone else were to put the blood in your mouth, could you swallow it?"

Astarion's eyes widen in surprise at Tav's creative approach to circumventing Cazador's rules. He smirks, amused by the sheer audacity of her suggestion, but he pauses to consider it. "It could work."

"Are you willing to try with me?" Tav asks.

"You want to pour blood down my throat?" Astarion isn’t sure he’s fully understanding what she’s suggesting. There must be some sort of catch.

"If you’re okay with it," Tav says. "It’ll save me money on blood if we can expand our possible sources."

"It’s a little demeaning, having to be fed like a baby," Astarion says, but he can’t deny that tasting the blood of a thinking creature is tempting.

"Well, we could always find a more discreet method. I'm not keen on publicly feeding you."

Astarion considers the proposal, his mind calculating the potential benefits and drawbacks. "Alright, Tav. I'm willing to entertain this little experiment of yours. But let's keep it discreet, and no one else needs to know about our... arrangement."

Tav grins, satisfied with Astarion's agreement. "Agreed. We'll figure out the details later. Until then, try to rest."

Astarion nods. After everything that happened today, he couldn’t wait to finally have time alone. "Goodnight, Tav."

As Astarion walks off to his suite, he can’t help but think about Tav. What Shadowheart said about her earlier resurfaces in his mind. She seems to be impossible to kill. At this point, he’s convinced her suspected immortality has more to do with dumb luck than any actual skill, but dumb luck was enough for her to defeat the first Bhaalspawn. Why should it be any different for the second?

Chapter Text

"That was surely a move," Wyll says after Astarion moves his castle piece forward.

"It’s all part of my strategy.” Astarion glances up at Wyll and sees that he’s wincing. He can’t recount the last time he played lanceboard, but it’s been long enough that all the strategies he used to know have all left him. It seems the centuries of servitude took more than his freedom.

Wyll chuckles, shaking his head. "If your strategy involves sacrificing your castle to my pawn, then I must admit, it’s a bold one."

Astarion bites his lip as Wyll removes his castle and replaces it. The number of black pieces on the board is quickly dwindling. Astarion smirks, his fingers idly tapping next to the board. "Bold moves keep the game interesting."

Wyll raises an eyebrow, studying the board with a thoughtful expression. "Interesting, indeed. I'll give you credit for keeping things lively."

The room is dimly lit despite it being late afternoon. The curtains are tightly drawn and have paper pasted over the glass, ensuring that Astarion doesn’t have to worry about another mishap like the one that happened with the owlbear that now peacefully snores at his feet. He nudges the monster with his foot. It doesn’t react. The snores continue

The rest of the team is out doing various planning and preparing for the Bhaalspawn issue. Wyll volunteered to stay behind and keep Astarion company. While Astarion had initially refused his offer, Wyll insisted. While Astarion would have preferred to be alone, at least it wasn’t Shadowheart or the Gith that he’s forced to spend his time with. Wyll isn’t too bad in comparison. His corny phrases grow a little less unbearable as the day goes on.

Candles flicker on a nearby table, their warm glow casting dancing shadows across the lanceboard. Astarion contemplates his next move, his features illuminated by the subtle play of light. He curses his past self for not remembering all the tricks and schemes to winning the game. He used to be a master at the game. Astarion puts his finger on top of a tall pointy piece and looks up at Wyll. "And this one moves…"

"Diagonally," Wyll finishes with a nod.

“I know,” Astarion snaps. He moves the piece.

Wyll watches intently as Astarion executes his move, the piece gliding smoothly across the checkered board. "Are you sure you want to put that there?" Wyll asks before Astarion takes his hand off the piece.

Astarion glances down at the board and then back up at Wyll. "Yes," he says hesitantly as he narrows his eyes.

"Okay," Wyll says.

As Astarion takes his hand off the piece, he senses a subtle shift in Wyll's expression, a flicker of amusement dancing in the depths of his eyes. Astarion narrows his gaze, suspecting that Wyll might be onto his lack of expertise in the game.

Wyll smirks. "You know, Astarion, for someone claiming to have a bold strategy, you seem a bit uncertain about your moves."

Astarion leans back in his chair, crossing his arms nonchalantly. "Boldness often involves an air of unpredictability. Keeps the opponent on their toes, you know?"

Wyll moves his own piece with practiced ease. "True, but there's a fine line between unpredictability and sheer randomness."

The vampire raises an eyebrow, acknowledging the subtle jab. "Perhaps my approach to lanceboard has evolved beyond conventional strategies."

"Real strategies or not, I'm enjoying the game. It's been a while since someone was willing to play with me."

"The others don’t indulge you?" Astarion asks, grateful for conversation to give him more time to decide on his next move. 

"I’ve asked Lae’zel and Shadowheart, but they both outright refused. Karlach’s tried a few times, but that usually ends in swearing and a flipped board. And Tav doesn’t understand the rules," Wyll recounts. "The only person who really played with me was Gale. He loved the game."

"I’ve heard this ‘Gale’ name tossed about. Who is he?" Astarion asks. 

Wyll's expression shifts, and a subtle melancholy settles in his eyes. He takes a moment before responding, his voice carrying a touch of nostalgia. "Gale was a wizard with a heart and mind like no other. He was part of our group for a while, before…"

Wyll's voice trails off, and Astarion senses the weight of unspoken sorrow lingering in the air. There's a brief pause before Wyll continues, choosing his words carefully. "Before he sacrificed himself to save us. Gale was... different. Wise, kind-hearted, and passionate about knowledge. He had a way of making even the most mundane things seem fascinating. Lanceboard was one of his favorites. We would talk strategy for hours around the campfire."

Astarion leans forward, his curiosity piqued by the mention of this mysterious Gale. "Sacrificed himself?"

Wyll takes a deep breath. "Gale had a destructive type of magic in him. When we faced the Netherbrain, Gale insisted on facing it alone. He unleashed that magic, obliterating the brain, but also himself in the process. We wouldn’t be here today without his sacrifice, and who knows what would have been the fate of Faerûn."

“So this Gale is the real Brain Breaker…” Astarion taps his piece on the board. “Tav claimed the glory for herself?”

“We’ve tried telling people, but you understand how rumors spread. Stories of Tav slicing the brain in half had already seeped into conversation. Correcting people is draining. After a while, we gave up. Reliving one of our worst moments over and over again wasn’t doing anyone good.”

"Sounds like a rather noble way to meet one's end," Astarion remarks, his tone devoid of the usual mocking edge. Sacrifice, the concept elicits a strange feeling in Astarion, he reflects. Noble, foolish, or perhaps a mix of both. "Facing a monstrosity alone to save the rest of you. Not the way I'd choose to go, but I suppose some find comfort in such heroics."

Wyll nods solemnly, a mix of sadness and reverence in his eyes. "I’ve lost comrades before, but Gale is different. Losing him is a particularly heavy burden to carry."

Astarion observes the genuine sorrow etched across Wyll's features, and for a moment, the vampire finds himself contemplating the complexities of mortality and sacrifice. In the world they inhabit, where danger lurks in every shadow and alliances are forged in the crucible of adversity, the weight of loss is a constant companion. He slides a piece forward silently, inviting Wyll to continue their game.

Wyll takes the prompting and makes his move. The quietude of the room is broken only by the occasional clink of lanceboard pieces and the subdued conversations of the city beyond. Astarion’s pieces grow thinner as he manages to only take out a couple of Wyll’s. It’s looking bleak for him.

Their silent duel is interrupted as the door creaks open. Tav and Shadowheart walk in, both covered in grime and dried blood. 
Immediately, Astarion’s back straightens. The smell of the blood hits him hard. Astarion can’t stop his stomach from tightening as the tantalizing coppery scent wafts across the room. His vampiric instincts stir, and he can't help but feel the hunger tugging at him. He hadn’t realized how empty he felt till now.

Focus, Astarion, he chides himself.

"Am I interrupting something?" Tav asks, her eyes darting between Astarion and Wyll. A tired smile tugs at her lips.

Wyll chuckles, setting down the lanceboard piece he was about to move. "Just a friendly game. Astarion claims to have a strategy, but I suspect he's making it up as he goes."

Astarion lounges back in his chair. He digs his nails into his palm under the table to distract himself from the hunger. "Speak for yourself, Wyll. I'm simply savoring the thrill of unpredictability."

“Keep insisting that this ‘unpredictability’ plan will work if you wish. We’ll see who wins in the end,” Wyll says.

"Sounds like another way of saying you have no idea what you’re doing." Shadowheart loosens the straps of her armor.

"Mind if I watch?" Tav asks.

Wyll gestures to an empty chair. "Be my guest, but I don’t know how much longer the game will last."

Astarion wants to be offended, but he knows his loss is inevitable at this point. He only has three pieces left on the board, while Wyll still has a majority of his.

The chair emits a soft, protesting squeak against the wooden floor as Tav scoots it closer to the table.

"So, care to explain the blood?" Wyll finishes his move.

Blood. Even the word makes his hunger stronger.

"Some Bhaal worshippers were trying to move back into the Undercity. They weren’t happy to see Shadowheart and I snooping around down there," Tav explains.

With Tav and the blood closer, it grows harder for Astarion to keep focused. The scent of blood is all he can think about. It isn’t fresh by any means, but it’s nearly irresistible anyways.

"It’s your turn, Astarion," Wyll reminds him.

"Yeah, I…" Astarion’s words drift off. He tries to take shallow breaths and not think too much about his hunger. He glances at the door, considering excusing himself from the room. He can’t risk losing control in front of them. They’ve only just started to trust him to not drain them in the middle of the night. Astarion moves a piece without thinking it through.

Wyll takes the piece immediately, not giving him any time to try to regain control and focus.

"Astarion, are you alright?" Tav's voice softens, a hint of concern coloring her words as she gazes at Astarion, searching for any signs of discomfort.

"Yes," he insists, cementing his gaze to the board in front of him. "I guess the pressure is getting to me now that I have an audience."

Astarion slides his last castle forward. He takes another devastating blow to his ego when Wyll takes it, too. Astarion is down to his king. One more piece. If he can hold out for just a moment longer, once the game is over, he can slip out the room. No one would question it.

“Do I make you nervous?” She asks.

“Y-yeah, something like that.” Astarion counts the squares on the board, pops his knuckles under the table, does anything to keep his mind off the delectable smell coming from Tav. He finds himself naturally leaning toward her.

Wyll surveys the board, his eyes flicking between the remaining pieces. "You're putting up a good fight, Astarion. But I must say, the odds don't seem to be in your favor at the moment."

"I know," Astarion gulps. "Maybe next time I’ll actually put in some effort."

Wyll moves his final piece, cornering Astarion's king. "Well played, Astarion. Perhaps we’ll have a rematch and you can show me what you’re really capable of."

Astarion forces out a laugh. "Of course. Maybe you’ll learn a few things. Good game, Wyll. I’m going to step out for a moment now."

Tav stands up with Astarion. "I’ll join you."

"No, I’m fine, really," Astarion insists. She’s the one causing the problem. If she followed him, it would only make things worse. Astarion has to hold himself back from practically sniffing her.

"I need to talk with you anyways," Tav says. She guides Astarion to the hall by his elbow, her fingers lightly grazing his arm. "Let’s go."

Astarion follows Tav, his senses still tingling with the lingering scent of blood. He can't shake the hunger clawing at his insides.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" Astarion asks, eager for the conversation to be over quickly. 

"You’re hungry," Tav states plainly.

Astarion sees no point in trying to hide it now and nods.

Tav unhooks a canteen from her belt. "I got some blood from the Bhaal worshippers. I was thinking we could try feeding it to you."

Astarion’s gaze locks onto the canteen. It’s been several days since Tav first proposed the idea. He was starting to think she’d forgotten it. "Y-yes, I’d love that."

Tav and Astarion step into his dimly lit suite. He locks the door to ensure nobody walks in on them. 

"So how do you want to do this?" Tavs asks.

"I’m not exactly sure." Astarion looks around and remembers the chair off to the side. He sits in it to make himself low enough for Tav to easily reach. "Is this good?"

Tav nods and unscrews the cap of the canteen, revealing the deep crimson liquid within. Astarion's eyes fixate on it, the hunger within him growing more insistent. He can almost imagine the richness of the blood, the feeling of the satisfying warmth as it flows down his throat. He closes his eyes as he savors the smell. 

Right now, he doesn’t have time to consider whether Tav’s ideas for feeding him will even work. He needs that blood now.

"Tilt your head back and open your mouth."

Astarion complies immediately.

"Are you ready?"

Astarion nods, his anticipation palpable. Tav inches closer, the canteen poised above his slightly parted lips. The position is almost demeaning, but Astarion is too excited to care. The room feels charged with a strange tension as they embark on this uncharted territory of feeding through unconventional means. Astarion takes a steadying breath.

Tav starts to pour slowly. When the blood hits the back of Astarion’s throat, it sends him into a coughing fit. The blood splatters out onto them and their surroundings. Tav quickly pulls the canteen away and wipes the wet blood from her face, smearing more than she’s removing.

"Are you alright, Astarion?" she asks, patting him on the back.

Choking on the blood appears to have cleared some of the uncontrollable hunger from his mind.

Astarion coughs a few more times, regaining his composure. "Fine, fine. I guess I wasn’t prepared." He looks up and notices the blood he got on her face and clothing. "Oh, no. I’m sorry."

Tav shrugs it off. "I’m covered in the stuff already." She hands him a cloth, their fingers briefly brushing as the fabric exchanges hands, and Astarion wipes away the remaining blood from his face. The attempt at feeding was messier than he anticipated, but the tantalizing taste still lingers on his tongue. He glances at Tav, who seems remarkably unfazed.

"Let me help," Astarion says. He reaches up and dabs the blood off Tav’s face. His fingers trace the contours of Tav's face through the cloth as he carefully wipes away the blood. He can't help but feel a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. He hands the blood-stained cloth back to Tav, attempting to brush off the awkwardness. "Well, that was certainly an experience. Messy, but an experience nonetheless."

He rests his hand back in his lap. He touched Tav’s face. Why did he do that?

"Let’s try again," Tav says. 

Astarion nods and tilts his head back once again. This time, he’s prepared. Tav pours the blood more cautiously, ensuring a steady stream into Astarion's waiting mouth. He swallows deliberately, relishing the taste of the forbidden sustenance. The warmth of the blood courses through him, revitalizing his undead form in a way that animal blood never could. It's an odd sensation, both familiar and foreign at the same time.

When the canteen finally empties, Tav withdraws it. Astarion swallows the last mouthful, his eyes meeting Tav's with a mix of gratitude and curiosity. "Well, that was... different." He runs his tongue over his lips, savoring the lingering taste of the blood. "It's certainly a welcome change from the usual rat. I appreciate your ingenuity, Tav."

"You’re welcome," she says with a soft smile.

As they clean up the remnants of their makeshift feeding experiment, Tav glances at Astarion with a hint of curiosity. "Do you feel any different? Stronger, perhaps?"

Astarion pauses, contemplating the question. The blood's effects linger within him, a subtle infusion of vitality that goes beyond the mundane sustenance he usually consumes. "Different, yes. Stronger? It's hard to say."

Tav nods, seemingly satisfied with the outcome of their unconventional feeding attempt. The room falls into a comfortable silence as Astarion processes the lingering effects of the blood. The hunger that once clawed at him has subsided, replaced by a subtle sense of contentment.

"I’m happy it worked," Tav says. She closes the empty flask. "We’ll have to start collecting blood whenever we get the chance."

"I’d appreciate it," Astarion says. He stands from his chair, but as he goes up, his body feels strangely light. Astarion blinks, momentarily disoriented by the unexpected sensation.

"Is something wrong?" Tav inquires, her brow furrowed in concern.

Astarion shakes his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "No, quite the opposite. I think I do feel stronger." He flexes his fingers out in front of him, wondering if he really is capable of more, or if it’s all in his head.

"That’s great." Tav’s smile grows. "Do you want to put it to the test?"

Astarion cocks his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Karlach, Wyll, and I are going to swing by the Guildhall later tonight. Care to join us?" 

"The Guildhall?" Astarion asks. "What business do you have there?"

"I’ve got a meeting with Nine Fingers," Tav says. "She says she has some information about the Bhaalspawn."

"And she’s going to give it to you, no hidden costs?"

Tav shrugs. "She owes me a few favors."

Astarion raises an eyebrow. "You keep dangerous company."

"Well, I keep you around, don’t I?"

Astarion smirks at Tav's remark. "Fair point, I suppose. I'll join you at the Guildhall. Maybe I’ll indulge in a drink while I’m there."

"Oh, not a good idea," Tav says as she shakes her head. "Don’t tell Severn I told you this, but I’m pretty sure they’ve been watering down the drinks lately."

Astarion tsks. "A shame. I would have thought the Guild would care more about maintaining their reputation."

"If you really want something to drink, we have a stash in the other room you can take from," Tav offers.

"I might have to take you up on that offer, but until then, I guess I’ll go to the Guildhall and not get a drink."

Tav grins, seemingly satisfied with Astarion's willingness to join. "Excellent. We'll leave later tonight, then. In the meantime, you might want to freshen up. You've got a bit of... well, blood on you. We both do." She motions down at her own clothing.

Astarion glances down at himself, noting the splotches of blood on his clothes. He chuckles, seemingly unfazed. "Occupational hazard, darling. I'll clean up and be ready for our little excursion."

"Okay, come join us in the other room whenever you’re ready." Tav stops in the doorway on her way out. "Thank you for trusting me with the blood thing."

"I should be the one thanking you." Astarion says.

"Don’t worry about it," Tav says. She pushes herself off the doorframe and walks away.

Astarion releases a soft sigh, the sound echoing in the dimness of his suite. With a deliberate motion, he pulls the door closed, the metallic click of the lock resonating through the room.

 The wardrobe door pulls open with more ease than usual, but Astarion still can’t be sure it isn’t his mind playing tricks on him. Is this newfound strength real or just a fleeting illusion?

Astarion pulls out the lone shirt hanging in the wardrobe, leaving it empty save for some dust and a few dead flies. He knows he should brush them out, but his lip curls at the thought of touching them.

As Astarion shuts the wardrobe, he can't ignore the lingering sensations from the feeding experiment with Tav. The subtle vitality coursing through his undead veins is a welcome change, a reminder that there might be unconventional solutions to his eternal hunger. As he changes into a new set of clothes, he finds himself contemplating what this could all mean for the future.

Chapter Text

The smell hits Astarion first as they walk into the Guildhall. The lingering smells of blood and grime underlie the scent of sewage. He casts a discreet glance at his companions, expecting to see at least a flicker of discomfort or disdain on their faces, but to his surprise, they remain unfazed.

Tav strides confidently ahead, her expression betraying nothing but determination as she leads the group deeper into the dimly lit interior of the Guildhall. Karlach follows closely behind, but there’s a bounce to her step, as if she has a song stuck in her head.

Astarion picks up on the subtle glances and murmurs exchanged by the members of the Guild as they pass. Their eyes latch onto them with an unwavering gaze. It sends a shiver down his spine. Yet, amidst the scrutiny, he finds solace in Tav's unwavering presence in front of him, her confidence a beacon of reassurance.

As they turn the corner, they come upon a red tiefling child shouting orders to other children, sending them in all different directions. One of the children’s faces immediately lights up. "It’s the Blade!"

The blue-haired child runs up and flings his arms around Wyll. Wyll hugs the kid back. "Mattis, it’s good to see you, but what are you doing here? We’ve already talked about this."

Even as Wyll gently admonishes Mattis, the child's enthusiasm remains undiminished. His eyes sparkle with admiration as he looks up at Wyll, seemingly unfazed by the stern tone of his reprimand. "I know, but we’ve got a good thing going on here with the Guild."

Wyll shakes his head and extricates himself from the hug. He keeps a hand on the boy’s shoulder. "I didn’t teach you how to use a sword for you to work with the Guild."

The child who seems to be in charge turns around and glares at Wyll. "I don’t appreciate you sticking your nose in our business."

"It’s good to see you, too, Mol," Wyll says.

The child narrows her eyes. "You already screwed things up with Raphael. I don’t need you ruining things here, too."

Tav steps forward, her presence commanding attention as she addresses Mol with a measured tone. "Then it’s a good thing we’re not here to cause you trouble, Mol. We're here to speak with Nine Fingers. She’s expecting us."

Mol's gaze shifts from Wyll to Tav, her expression softening slightly at the mention of Nine Fingers. "She's in her office. Follow me."

"We know the way. We don’t need an escort," Tav says.

"I said follow me," Mol insists, not leaving any room for debate. Tav rolls her eyes and steps in line behind Mol.

"Say hello to Silfy for me," Wyll says to the blue-haired boy as he walks away.

The boy nods. "Will do!"

They follow Mol through the Guildhall, passing by the bar, where a handful of patrons laugh and enjoy their drinks. Mols stops in front of a large set of double doors. She knocks and announces, "The Brain Breaker is here."

"Come in," a voice from within calls back.

Mol opens the door for them. "Take care of whatever business you have and leave."

"Thank you, Mol," Tav says with a smile as she steps into the room. The others follow after her.

"The Brain Breaker, The Blade, and Karlach, but I don’t know you," A human woman says from where she’s sitting behind a desk. She points at Astarion with a dagger. "Introduce yourself."

"I have a cool nickname, too," Karlach grumbles, kicking the toe of her boot against the floor. Wyll pats her on the shoulder.

Astarion meets the gaze of the woman behind the desk, her piercing eyes sizing him up with a sharp intensity that sends a chill down his spine. Despite the dagger pointed in his direction, he can't help but admire the aura of authority and confidence she exudes.

With a graceful bow, he introduces himself, his voice smooth. "My name is Astarion. I must say, it's an honor to be in the presence of someone as esteemed as yourself." He flashes her a smile as he straightens.

The woman's expression remains impassive as she studies Astarion, her dagger still pointed in his direction. There's a hint of amusement in her eyes as she assesses him, as if she sees through his glamor to the underlying danger beneath.

"Charmed, I'm sure," she replies, her tone cool and measured. She turns her attention away from him. "So Tav, we’re all friends here, correct?"

"More or less." Tav nods.

Nine Fingers Keene leans back in her chair, her gaze flickering between Tav and the others with a calculating expression. "Then explain to me why you brought a vampire into my midst."

Astarion’s hand immediately flies up to his neck. He swears that he had been sure his shirt collar covered the two undeniable scars that marred his neck.

"Don’t worry, Astarion. You’re covered," Nine Fingers says.

His eyes widen. "Then how did you-"

"News travels fast in the Guild," Nine Fingers explains. "Rumors have a tendency to spread, especially about someone as notable as the Brain Breaker."

"Do you have a problem with the company I choose to keep?" Tav asks with an unyielding expression.

"Not as long as they keep their fangs to themselves."

"Don’t give him a reason, and he won’t need to use them." Tav remains firm. "If you have a problem with him, I’ll walk right out of here, and we can see how you handle this Bhaalspawn situation."

Nine Fingers leans forward, her gaze piercing as she meets Tav's unwavering stare. There's a palpable tension in the air, the weight of unspoken threats hanging between them like a shroud. Astarion can't help but feel a surge of admiration for Tav's boldness, her willingness to stand her ground.

After a tense moment of silence, Nine Fingers leans back in her chair and sets her dagger down, her expression inscrutable. "Very well, Tav. You've made your point." She gestures for them to take a seat, her demeanor shifting slightly as she addresses the group. "Let's put aside our differences for now. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

"I’m glad you could see reason." Tav sits down in one of the chairs.

There’s only three seats, so Astarion stays back. Wyll takes one, but Karlach motions for Astarion to take the other. She goes over to the side of the room to pull up another one.

Nine Fingers wastes no time in getting down to business, her demeanor shifting from confrontation to professionalism in an instant. "I’m sick of cultists poking around where they shouldn’t. Nobody gets to encroach on my territory and threaten my city."

Tav nods. "We both can agree on that."

Astarion settles into the chair Karlach has offered. As Nine Fingers continues to speak, outlining the threat posed by the Bhaalspawn cultists and the urgency of the situation, Astarion finds himself drawn into the discussion.

"We found a group of them wandering the sewers," Nine Fingers recounts. "I had a few people tail them and eavesdrop on their conversation. The Bhaalspawn is currently somewhere a short distance from the city. It’s their current center of operations. Every command originates from there and goes out to the masses."

"And where is this?" Tav asks.

Nine Fingers huffs. "I don’t know. Before they could get to that part, they spotted my men. The Guild made quick work of them, but I would have liked to know where their shadowy leader is hiding."

"We need to act quickly," Tav asserts, her voice firm and resolute. "If the cultists have established a stronghold outside the city, we can't afford to waste any time."

Nine Fingers nods in agreement, her gaze steely as she meets Tav's determined stare. "Agreed. If you need the Guild’s help in any way, let me know. I’ve still got a bone to pick with the Cult of Bhaal."

"If you can keep your eyes and ears open for more information about where this stronghold is located, that’d be great." Tav suggests.

"Consider it done." Nine Fingers nods.

"Then we best be on our way. We’ve got a stronghold to search for," Tav says as she stands.

"One more thing," Nine Fingers says.

"What?" Tav asks.
"You might want to stop by Araj Oblodra down in the lower city. She has a fascination with vampires, and if the rumors are true, she has some information you’d want."

"Araj?" Tav asks, her voice almost sounding like a whine. "How necessary is this information?"

Nine Fingers shrugs. "That’s for you to decide, but she’s collected a lot of vampire memorabilia over the years. She might have something that could come in handy for handling a vampire."

Astarion looks at Nine Fingers suspiciously. "What do you mean, ‘handle?’"

Tav crosses her arms over her chest. "He doesn’t need handling."

"Is this Araj a vampire hunter?" Astarion presses.

"Oh no, definitely not," Nine Fingers assures him. "She’s more of a fanatic. I didn’t mean for that to come across as threatening. Her collection is of artifacts that can enhance a vampire’s abilities, not ones used to exterminate them."

Astarion relaxes slightly at Nine Fingers' clarification, but he can't shake the lingering unease at the mention of Araj and her fascination with vampires. What she could find so fascinating about such a cursed existence, Astarion didn’t know. Sure, it comes with enhanced senses, immortality, and strength, but it isn't like any of those are truly Astarion’s. Everything about him is Cazador’s. A very lucky few ever ascended to full vampires. The rest were doomed to an eternity of misery as a spawn.

"Thanks, we’ll keep that in mind," Tav says. She quickly glances over at Astarion, but he can’t quite read her expression. "Now we need to get going."

Nine Fingers nods. "Of course. I wish you luck."

Astarion stands alongside his companions. As they make their way out of the Guildhall and back into the bustling streets of the city, Tav addresses the group. "Let's head back to the inn and regroup. We have a lot to discuss and plan."

Outside the Guildhall, the city streets are shrouded in darkness, the sounds of bustling activity echoing through the night air. Astarion falls into step beside Tav.

"Have you met the woman she mentioned, Araj?" Astarion asks.

Tav nods. "Unfortunately. She’s… unsettling."

"How so?" Astarion inquires, his curiosity piqued by Tav's cryptic description.

Tav glances at Astarion. "It's hard to explain. She's... intense. Obsessive, even. She's not one to take no for an answer."

"Could you be more specific?" Astarion asks.

"She’s very passionate about blood," Tav confesses. "Not that your interest in blood is unsettling. For her, it’s different."

"And she isn’t a vampire?" Astarion asks for confirmation.

"Pretty confident she isn’t," Tav says. "Just an alchemist."

"And she uses blood?"

Tav nods again. "Yep. Last time I spoke with her she was very insistent I give her some of mine."

"And did you?" The possibility that she gave her blood to somebody intrigues him.

"Hells no," Tav says. "She wouldn’t explain what she wanted it for, and there was no way I was trusting her to take it from me. The place was not clean. It was a medical emergency waiting to happen."

Astarion nods.

Someone so fixated on the essence of his cursed existence…

The idea of parting with his own blood, especially to someone as unsettling as Araj Oblodra, sends a wave of unease through him. He can't help but wonder what sinister experiments she’d use it for.

"We’ll have to be cautious if we speak with her," Astarion says.

"You want to meet her?" Tav asks, sounding appalled.

"Yes," Astarion says, surprised by her response. "Is that a problem?"

Tav gathers her senses. "I’m sorry. That caught me off guard. If you really want to, we could look into it."

"If she has something that could make me stronger, it could come in handy with the Bhaalspawn issue." Astarion holds his breath as he waits for Tav’s response. The allure of increasing his power is tempting, if not for facing the Bhaalspawn, then just to have in general.

After a moment of silence, Tav finally speaks, her voice measured yet decisive. "If you want to meet with Araj, then I trust your judgment, Astarion. We'll have to proceed with caution, but we'll explore this option. I’m nervous. As I said earlier, Araj is scarily obsessive and doesn’t take no for an answer. I’m not sure how she’d react since you’re a vampire, the very object of her obsession."

Astarion appreciates Tav's concern for his well-being, but the prospect of uncovering potentially valuable artifacts or knowledge from Araj Oblodra outweighs his reservations. He nods in agreement with Tav's assessment, acknowledging the risks involved in dealing with someone as obsessive and unpredictable as Araj.
"I understand the risks," Astarion says, his tone serious yet determined. "But if there's a chance we can gain an advantage in our fight against the Bhaalspawn, then it's a risk worth taking. Besides, I've left a long trail of heartbreaks in my past. What’s one more?"

Tav studies him for a moment, her expression a mixture of concern and uncertainty. "Just promise me you'll be careful, Astarion."

Astarion offers her a reassuring smile. "I promise, Tav. I'll exercise caution every step of the way."

Tav returns his smile, her expression softening with a hint of relief. "Alright then, let's head back to the inn and regroup. We have a lot to plan and discuss. We can look for her tomorrow."

Chapter Text

As Astarion tugs on the cuffs of his shirt, the muffled sound of laughter drifts through the walls. He pauses, fingers stilling over the fabric, and listens. The tone is warm and easy, the kind of unguarded amusement that settles in after shared battles and long nights around the fire. He smooths a wrinkle with a sharp, deliberate movement. The laugh fades into a hum of conversation, and he exhales—soft, controlled, barely audible.

They try, of course, to include him. Tav especially. Invitations here, gestures there. Small openings extended in good faith. But there’s always that divide, subtle yet unyielding. The others wake to each other, their mornings beginning with the rustle of shared lives. Meanwhile, he wakes alone, the stillness of his suite both a privilege and a reminder.

He prefers it that way.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

Astarion scoffs. Here he is, feeling self-pity that he gets his own suite, his own privacy, something he never had with Cazador.

He prefers it this way. Himself. Alone.

Straightening, he brushes a speck of invisible lint from his sleeve. The practiced smirk slides effortlessly into place as he turns toward the door, preparing to face the day with his usual poise.

A knock halts him mid-step.

It’s soft at first, tentative. Astarion freezes, his hand hovering just shy of the handle. Then it comes again, a little firmer this time, accompanied by a muffled voice.

"Astarion? It’s me, Tav. Can I come in?"

Her voice cuts clean through the silence, pulling at the edges of his carefully composed thoughts. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t think—doesn’t even breathe.

"Astarion?"

He blinks, the spell broken. "Ah, yes," he says, his tone smooth but faintly rushed. "One moment."

Fumbling briefly with the latch, he pulls the door open and leans casually against the frame. His smile is light, effortless, completely different to the way he feels. "Hello, darling," he drawls, leaning lazily against the frame. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Tav doesn’t so much as blink at the endearment. She only lifts a brow, unimpressed. "Can I come in?"

Astarion hesitates. It’s slight—half a second, barely noticeable—but he feels it.

He steps back smoothly, allowing her inside. "By all means."

Tav enters, her gaze flickering over the room before settling on him“I wanted to talk one-on-one, if you don’t mind.”

Astarion watches her carefully, his expression neutral. “Should I be worried?” he muses, though his voice lacks the usual playfulness.

“No, nothing like that. I just… I wanted to discuss something with you.”

He arches a brow but says nothing, waiting. He walks further into the room and leans back onto the side of the bed.

Tav pulls a chair closer, angling it to sit across from him. Her movements are deliberate, though there’s a hint of hesitation as she takes her seat. “I know what I’m about to suggest isn’t as… luxurious as your current accommodations,” she begins, her voice steady but careful. “We’re not exactly making money at the moment, and the suite is pretty expensive…”

Astarion watches her, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t interrupt, though his fingers twitch where they rest on the bed beside him, as if resisting the urge to fidget.

Tav exhales softly, searching for the right words. “There’s an empty bed with the rest of us,” she continues, her tone measured. “If you wanted to stay there instead.”

Her words hang in the air, patient yet expectant.

Astarion leans back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes what she’s saying. Something tightens in his chest, a familiar wariness that flares when the walls of his solitude are threatened. But there’s something else too—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even intrigue.

“And the others?” he asks, his tone carefully measured. “They’re fine with this arrangement?”

Tav nods. “They are.”

He hums, gaze flickering over her face as if searching for some hidden motive. “Even Shadowheart?”

“She didn’t even need that much convincing, actually.”

One of his brows lifts at that, surprise briefly cracking through the smooth mask of indifference. “Well, now that is unexpected.” His voice carries a faint trace of genuine surprise. “And Lae’zel? I find it hard to imagine she’d welcome my presence.”

Tav’s expression morphs to a look of hesitancy. "Lae’zel had her usual… comments. She isn’t thrilled, but she’s confident she could kill you if she had to, which is about as good as we’re going to get for a while."

Astarion can't help but chuckle at Tav's comment about Lae'zel, though there's a twinge of unease beneath his amusement. "Well, that's comforting to know. Lae’zel is charming as always.”

“She’s direct,” Tav counters, the corners of her mouth twitching with a smile. “And practical.”

“That’s a mild way to phrase it.”

Tav huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s brief, tempered by something more uncertain. “Look, I get it. Privacy is… nice.” She gestures vaguely around the suite. “And I don’t want to make you feel like you have to do this. I just thought I’d offer.”

Astarion doesn’t respond right away. Silence stretches between them, thick and lingering. His gaze flickers past her, toward the door, as if contemplating the space beyond it.

Then, smoothly, he shifts back into something easier, something practiced. His smirk returns, carefully measured, an effortless shield. “Oh, darling, are you sure you’re not simply looking for an excuse to keep me close?”

Tav exhales sharply through her nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “That’s a stretch, even for you.”

Astarion chuckles, but there’s a flicker of something almost… uncertain in the way his smirk lingers. It falters, just slightly, before he smooths it over.

Tav stands, as if sensing that whatever answer he might give won’t come now. “You don’t have to decide right away,” she says, taking a step toward the door. “Just think about it.”

And then she’s gone, leaving only silence in her wake.

Astarion stares at the closed door for a long moment. Then, slowly, he exhales, and reaches to smooth out the cuff of his sleeve—like if he just straightens the fabric, maybe the quiet weight of her offer will settle into something more manageable.

They trust him. 

Or, at the very least, they trust him enough to invite him into their space, despite the risks. It’s a gesture of acceptance he never expected to receive, and for a moment, the weight of it presses against his ribs and chest.

When Astarion knocks on their door later that evening, it’s Karlach that answers. 

“Ah, welcome,” Karlach says, gesturing for him to enter. 

Astarion nods his thanks as he steps in. His eyes sweep the room, searching for Tav. It doesn’t take long to find her—she is seated at a table, sharpening a dagger with practiced ease. The soft scrape of metal against whetstone fills the space between murmured conversations, but as if sensing his presence, she looks up.

Her expression shifts—surprise flickers first, then something gentler. She sets the dagger aside and pushes herself to her feet.

“You came to join us.” There’s no expectation in her voice, no smugness, just simple acknowledgment.

Astarion huffs, tilting his head. “Didn’t think I would?”

Tav shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Wasn’t sure.”

He steps closer, hands clasped behind his back in a careful show of ease. “Well, I do so hate to be predictable.”

“I know. You say that quite a bit.” Tav keeps sharpening her blade. “I think I agree with Shadowheart. It’s a defense mechanism to hide that you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I didn’t come here to be analyzed,” Astarion snorts.

“Then why did you?”

“I thought about your offer. It would definitely be a downgrade, but I’ll manage," Astarion says, defaulting to sarcasm.

She sets the blade down. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” Astarion nods his head. 

Tav's lips twitch with amusement at Astarion's response. "I appreciate your sacrifice," she says. Her tone is sarcastic, but there’s an underlying hint of genuinity to it as well. "We can get your things moved over later. We already cleared the space for you."

His gaze flickers around the room, the shared closeness of it all. There’s a warmth here—one he’s not sure how to place. He schools his expression into something light, something effortless. “How accommodating of you all,” he muses. “I’ll try not to clutter the place with my… overwhelming presence.”

Tav chuckles, shaking her head. “Overwhelming, sure. How will we ever  manage?”

A moment stretches between them, one neither rushes to fill. Then, after a beat, Tav claps her hands together lightly. “I need to grab something. Wait for me in the suite. I’ll join you there—I won’t be long.”

Tav hops up from the chair and walks over to her section of the room. 

Astarion freezes.

The words hit him like a hook catching deep in his ribs, yanking him back toward the room he just left. It’s not a suggestion. Not to him.

It’s a command.

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, as something inside him clicks into place—an unseen force settling into his bones, his very being. He has to obey. The knowledge of it slithers down his spine like cold iron.

His usual smirk twitches at the edges, but he keeps his voice smooth. “Oh? Sending me away already? How cruel.”

Tav huffs, waving a hand. “It’s not like that. Just wait for me in the suite—I’ll be there in a moment.”

The pull tightens. His body knows before his mind fully processes it—his feet shift, turning slightly toward the door. His hands curl into loose fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

The air seems to thin, like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. His vision sharpens, tunneling toward the door, and yet his awareness splinters—too much, too fast. Every sound becomes sharper, the scrape of Tav’s whetstone a grating rasp against his ears, the murmur of voices around them distant but hollow. His chest feels tight, not with fear, but with something colder. Something deeper.

Don’t let her see.

Astarion forces a chuckle, slow and lazy. “Fine, fine. I’ll amuse myself while you run your little errand.” He pivots with practiced ease, already moving before the weight in his chest can settle. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, darling.”

 His voice is steady, but his skin prickles, as if something unseen is wrapping around his limbs, twisting tight, coiling through his ribs like barbed wire. His muscles are no longer his own; they move without his will, his body pivoting smoothly as though guided by unseen strings. Even as he strides away, an old, sickly familiarity gnaws at the edges of his mind—the same helplessness that once left him kneeling at Cazador’s feet, unable to lift a finger without permission.

 His fingers tremble when they grasp the door handle. The cool metal grounds him, but only barely. He doesn't look back.

 The moment he’s past the threshold, his steps carry him with purpose—not of his own choosing. It was a strange and terrifying experience the first time he was commanded by Cazador, to walk not because he wishes to, but because he must. Now, he’s used to it. He hates it, but it’s no longer surprising. His breath comes shallower as he reaches the suite. He steps inside, shuts the door behind him.

 And then—

 Nothing.

 He stands there, hands still at his sides. He doesn’t move. He can’t.

 He tries, of course. Tries to lift his hand, to sit, to pace. But the compulsion binds him, invisible chains tightening around his limbs. He is frozen, locked in place by simple words spoken without thought.

 Wait there.

 So he does.

 Minutes stretch on, slow and suffocating. His mind claws at the edges of the restraint, but there is no fighting it. He knows that. He’s known that since the moment the order left her lips.

 It’s fine. It’s fine. She doesn’t know.

 She can’t know.

 So he waits. Still. Silent. Unmoving.

 When Tav walks into the room, the power holding him in place immediately releases. He immediately stretches his hands, relieved that he’s free to move once more. He takes several deep breaths to get his panic under control.

 Tav closes the door behind her. When she turns around holding a flask, Astarion immediately knows what this is about.

  “I just fed yesterday,” he points out. “I don’t need it.”

“I know,” Tav says, unscrewing the lid. “But if we’re going to talk to Araj tonight, I want you feeling your best. Confident.”

“I don’t want to deplete our supplies if it’s not necessary,” Astarion says. “Besides, I’m already confident.”

Tav tilts her head, lips quirking. “Are you turning down an offer for blood?” She peeks inside the flask, grimacing. “It’s already a day old. It’s only going to get more congealed and nasty the longer it sits.”

Astarion can’t argue with that logic. "Fine."

 Tav looks back down at the contents. “It’s… got a sludgy consistency now. Does that change anything? Like, Cazador’s rules?”

 “Sludgy?”

 “Look,” She tilts it for him to see. The blood is looking nasty inside. It almost looks like a jam.

Astarion shrugs, standing. “If I have to chew it, I doubt it counts as drinking anymore.”

Tav looks back down at the blood. "Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I can get fresh blood from the butcher instead."

She moves to screw the cap back on, but Astarion’s hand comes to rest over hers. “Don’t,” he says. “This will work. It can’t be that bad.”

Tav laughs. “It looks awful. There’s no way eating that will be enjoyable.”

“This is the blood from the cultists, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I want it.” His grip on the flask tightens. “Even if it’s disgusting, I want it. If only to use it as a big ‘fuck you’ to Cazador.”

Tav searches his face for a moment before conceding. “Alright.” She holds the flask out. “Ready?”

Astarion’s fingers curl over hers around the flask. He raises it to his lips, steeling himself for whatever vile texture awaits.

“Okay,” Tav tilts it back.

A thick, coagulated glob slides out, plopping heavily into his mouth.

Tav gags.

Astarion suppresses his gag reflex as the thick, congealed blood coats his tongue. The taste isn’t terrible, but the texture is a nightmare—like drinking mud laced with mucus. He clenches his jaw and swallows, forcing it down. The sensation of it settling in his stomach is downright revolting, but he endures it, determined to see this through.

Tav tilts the flask again. More of the sludgy blood slides out in a slow, grotesque glob. Astarion grimaces as it lands in his mouth, and Tav suddenly snorts, turning away.

Astarion coughs, wiping his mouth. "What?"

Tav is doubled over, shoulders shaking. A breathless laugh escapes her as she tries—and fails—to compose herself.

"What’s so funny?" Astarion demands, crossing his arms.

Tav waves a hand, struggling to catch her breath. "I’m sorry," she gasps between giggles. "If I don’t laugh, I’ll puke."

"That doesn’t answer my question."

She straightens, wiping tears from her eyes, her laughter still bubbling up. "It’s just—your face," she manages, dissolving into another fit of giggles. "You looked absolutely—" She gestures vaguely, as if words fail her.

Astarion huffs but can’t stop a smirk from tugging at his lips. "Well, I’m glad my suffering is such a delight to you."

Tav presses a hand to her mouth, still chuckling. "I’m sorry, Astarion. I know that was disgusting. I shouldn’t be laughing."

He waves her off with a dramatic sigh. "No harm done. You know I live to entertain."

Their laughter fades, leaving behind an easy silence. The soft glow of candlelight flickers against the walls, casting shadows over Tav’s face. Astarion finds himself watching her, noticing the warmth in her expression—the way her eyes linger on him just a beat too long. Something stirs in his chest, unfamiliar and unsettling.

For a moment, neither of them speak. The air between them shifts, heavy with something unspoken.

Tav finally breaks the silence, her voice soft. "We should probably move your things over."

Astarion blinks, momentarily disoriented before remembering what she’s referring to. "Yes, we should."

It doesn’t take long to gather his meager belongings. Together, they carry everything down the hall to his new space.

As they step into the main room where the others are gathered, Astarion feels a flicker of apprehension. He ignores the curious glances cast his way, straightening his posture and masking any discomfort behind his usual air of confidence.

"Ah, look who’s decided to grace us with his presence," Wyll quips, grinning as Astarion settles onto the empty bed.

Astarion rolls his eyes but can’t suppress the smirk tugging at his lips. "Yes, yes, try not to look too shocked," he quips, earning a chuckle from the group.

As Tav helps him arrange his space, Astarion pulls open the bedside drawer, intending to store his flask. Something inside rattles. He frowns, reaching in, and retrieves a gold ring with a teal stone. Magic hums faintly beneath his fingertips. Something about it looks familiar.

"Hey, Tav. Look at this," he says, turning the ring over in his palm.

He barely has time to process her reaction before she freezes, hands flying to cover her mouth. Tears well in her eyes.

Astarion's gaze flicks to her trembling fingers.

Tav’s ring. 

It’s identical to the one he’s holding now.

The room falls eerily silent. Wyll glances over, his face shifting from curiosity to quiet understanding.

Astarion looks around, suddenly aware that he’s missing something. His stomach knots.

Tav’s voice is barely a whisper. "Where did you find it?"

"In the drawer," he answers carefully, watching as she reaches out, her fingers ghosting over the ring’s intricate patterns. She snatches it quickly, clenching her fist around it, squeezing her eyes shut. Tears spill over, trailing down her cheeks.

Astarion hesitates. "Tav… are you alright?"

 She takes a shuddering breath. "It used to be Gale’s."

 Astarion recalls Wyll’s story—the noble wizard who had sacrificed himself to save them all. His gaze flickers between the ring in her hand and the one on her finger, and the realization crashes into him.

 Gale had been more than just a friend to her.

 "I… I had no idea," Astarion stammers. "Tav, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

 "You couldn’t have known," she murmurs, shaking her head. Her fingers tighten around the ring like a lifeline.

 She takes another deep breath, blinking away the remaining tears. When she finally meets his eyes, there’s a quiet, painful gratitude there. "Thank you for finding this. It means more to me than you know."

Astarion swallows. His throat feels tight. "Of course."

"I… I need to be alone for a while." Her voice is steady, but barely.

No one stops her as she turns toward her bed. Astarion watches her retreat, shoulders hunched under the weight of her grief. The pang of guilt gnaws at him. He hadn’t meant to unearth something so raw. He can't help but feel like an intruder in this moment of vulnerability.

He exchanges a glance with Wyll, who sighs. "She needs space," Wyll says quietly. "Let her process."

Astarion nods. "You’re right." But the urge to go to her, to say something—anything—gnaws at him. He wants to tell her it’ll be okay, but that would be a lie. Some wounds can’t be soothed with words.

A while later, he sneaks a glance at Tav. She sits hunched over on the bed, a deep purple cloak pooled in her lap. Slowly, she lifts it to her face, pressing into the fabric. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs.

Astarion averts his gaze, uneasy.

"How long do you think this is going to go on? We’re supposed to find Araj tonight," Astarion whispers to Karlach, who’s sitting next to him.

Karlach shoves his shoulder. "Could you try to feel a little compassion?"

Astarion huffs, looking away. It’s not that he doesn’t feel compassion—if anything, he feels too much. It scares him. Watching Tav grieve cleaves his heart in two and drags him to the precipice of his feelings. It's like staring into the abyss and realizing just how deep it goes, and it's terrifying. People like him aren’t supposed to feel this, the capacity for care and loss that he's spent centuries trying to forget.

If he wanted to solidify his place in the group—if he wanted to win Tav’s favor—he should offer her comfort. But the walls around his heart feel unbreakable, suffocating. To reach out would mean exposing himself to something he’s not sure he can handle.

So he does nothing.

He sits. He waits.

And he hopes Tav will come to him first.

Eventually, the bed creaks as Tav shifts. Astarion lifts his head. She inhales deeply, her whole body rising with the effort. When she finally stands and pads over to him, her eyes remain downcast. "Are you ready to find Araj?"

Astarion studies her face—red-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair, the lingering weight of grief in her posture. He hesitates. "If you need more time, we can wait."

Tav shakes her head. "No, I’m fine. We should do this tonight. I think I need some fresh air anyway."

She finally meets his gaze. The rawness in her expression makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

"Are you sure you’re up for this?" he asks, voice gentler than he intends.

"Yes." She wipes her eyes and straightens. "Maybe looking like this will make people pity us. We could use that to our advantage.”

Karlach, watching from the side, reaches for her axe. "Should I go too?"

Tav shakes her head. "Thanks, but I think Astarion and I will be fine."

Karlach nods. "Then good luck, soldier. Be careful."

As Tav and Astarion step out of the inn and into the cool night air, an uneasy feeling settles over him. He tells himself to focus on Araj Oblodra—on whatever power or advantage she might offer him—but his mind keeps drifting back to Tav.

Her grief lingers in the air between them, heavy and unspoken.

And, much to his frustration, he can't seem to look away for long.

Chapter Text

Baldur’s Gate glows with the pulse of its nightlife. Taverns spill golden light onto the cobblestones, laughter and drunken melodies mingling in the air. The streets themselves seem to be alive, inhaling more people in, and exhaling a mingling of laughter, cheers, and clinking glasses. 

Yet, Tav and Astarion do not linger. They move past the warmth of merriment, their steps carrying them east of the Blushing Mermaid, where the city’s vibrancy fades into shadow.

Before them looms a decaying storefront, its facade cracked and sagging under the weight of neglect. A place forgotten, swallowed by time.

Tav gestures toward it. “I asked around. This should be it.”

Astarion arches a brow, his gaze sweeping over the rotting beams and boarded windows. "Charming. Truly." His voice drips with skepticism. "Did the Absolute step here?"

Tav snorts. “The Absolute didn’t have feet.”

He steps up beside her. “I know. It was supposed—Never mind.” Explaining the joke won’t redeem it after it’s already fallen flat.

Tav shoots him a quizzical glance before turning back to the door. Its hinges are rusted and broken, causing it to sag. She raps her knuckles against the weathered wood, the sound echoing through the quiet street. Astarion stands beside her, his senses sharp, listening.

For a moment, silence. Only the distant hum of laughter and music drifts from the taverns behind them. But when Tav knocks again, a flicker of movement stirs in the window.

Seconds later, the door groans open, dragging against the ground with a grating screech. A drow woman peeks out, scowling.

“What?” she snaps. Recognition flickers across her face when she sees Tav. “Oh. It’s you. If you’re here to finally offer your blood, don’t bother. I’m no longer interested.”

Tav crosses her arms. “I’m not here for that, Araj. I have something else to discuss with you.”

“It’s late,” Araj says, already pushing the door shut. “Come back during business hours.”

Tav catches it before it closes. “I want to talk to you about vampires.”

Araj’s eyes narrow. "Why?"

"It’s something personal," Tav says.

The drow regards her with suspicion, weighing the situation. She then glances over at Astarion. Recognition flares into something almost gleeful.

“Tav, darling, no you didn’t.” Araj’s lips part into a delighted grin. “You brought me a vampire?”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at Araj's change in demeanor, his instincts on high alert as he assesses the situation. The drow woman's enthusiasm sends a shiver down his spine. He doesn’t trust the way she looks at him—like he’s an object of fascination, something to be studied, dissected. He sees now why Tav was hesitant to deal with her again.

Tav tightens her grip on the door. “Not exactly,” she says, voice measured but firm. “We have questions, and we believe you have answers.”

Araj’s gaze flickers between them, unreadable. Then, her lips curl into a slow, predatory smile. With an exaggerated sweep of her arm, she steps aside, gesturing toward the darkened interior.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Come in. Let’s talk.”

Astarion exchanges a wary glance with Tav before stepping forward. As he passes Araj, the stench hits him—a ghastly, rancid rot laced with something metallic. His stomach turns, his body tensing on instinct.

Her blood smells wrong.

Inside isn’t much better. The air is thick with the cloying scents of must, decay, and something unmistakably worse—the pungent, iron tang of blood. It’s everywhere. Jars filled with dark liquid line the shelves, their contents coagulated into murky sludge. Brownish stains peel off the floor in dried, crusted patches.

It’s a good thing he fed before coming.

Tav steps forward. "You've certainly made yourself at home."

Araj sighs, unbothered. “It’s a downgrade from Moonrise, for sure.” She throws Tav a pointed look.

As they settle into an uneasy silence, Araj gestures toward a nearby table cluttered with vials and alchemical equipment. The glass glints under dim candlelight, reflecting the sickly hues of strange liquids. Astarion eyes the setup warily, noting the array of scalpels, syringes, and half-filled blood vials strewn across its surface.

“I must say, I’m a little flustered,” Araj purrs, her gaze lingering on Astarion. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of being bitten by a vampire. And here you are.”

Astarion’s expression remains carefully neutral, but beneath his practiced poise, discomfort coils in his gut. There’s something particularly unsettling about the way she says it—half reverent, half possessive.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to keep dreaming,” he replies smoothly, though his tone carries an unmistakable edge. “I won’t be indulging your fantasies.”

Araj’s smile falters, but only for a heartbeat before she schools her features back into amusement. “Oh, don’t be so quick to dismiss me,” she chides. “Surely you wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to feed.”

Astarion’s jaw tightens. The way she speaks—teasing, but with a predatory undercurrent—sets him on edge. Is this how his victims felt around him?

Tav’s sharp gaze cuts across the room. “Let’s focus on why we’re here,” she says, firm but diplomatic.

Araj exhales theatrically, leaning back against the table. “Alright, Tav. Tell me—why did you come knocking on my door in the middle of the night with a vampire?”

Even as she speaks, her eyes keep flicking back to Astarion, the real reason she’s entertaining this conversation at all.

"I’ve heard you have a few artifacts that could enhance a vampire’s abilities. What are they and what’s your price?"

"You’ve heard correctly," Araj says smoothly, folding her hands over the table. "But before I share any details, I require something in return."

Tav crosses her arms. "What?"

"The vampire bites me," Araj says, her lips curling into a knowing smirk.

Tav glances over at Astarion

"No," he says,the refusal sharp and immediate. The very thought of his fangs piercing her skin, of her foul blood coating his tongue… He’s internally recoiling just thinking about it.

Araj leans forward, her voice syrupy sweet. "Oh, come now. Surely you wouldn’t deny a lady a simple pleasure? It’s such a small price for the information you seek."

Astarion’s lip curls in disgust. "I would sooner drink from a sewer rat."

Tav’s patience thins. "He said no. That’s the end of it."

Araj’s smirk widens. "But he’s only a spawn, isn’t he? Order him to do it anyway. It’s the only way you’ll get what you came for."

Astarion’s breath hitches.
He doesn’t look at Tav.

If she tried it—if she gave him a direct order—

She’d know.

That he’d have to obey her.

That it wasn’t just a game, wasn’t flirtation or banter. That it was real, ugly, unbreakable.

His stomach turns. Gods, if she said the words, even half-joking, even by accident—

He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He’d have to go as far as Cazador’s orders would let him. 

Would he get close enough to touch her?

To pierce her skin?

Then—

"Press him again, and I’ll make sure the only bite you get is from something much worse than a vampire’s fangs."

Araj's smile falters at Tav's threat, her eyes narrowing as she assesses the situation. There's a tense silence that hangs in the air. They both stare at the other, waiting to see who breaks first. A silent battle passes between them, steel against steel.

"Then we’re at an impasse. Neither of us get what we want," Araj says. "If you have no other business here, then  you can-"

A crash from the other room.

Astarion reacts instantly, his hand flying to his dagger as his senses sharpen. Tav’s eyes meet his, and in that brief, silent exchange, they are no longer just dealing with Araj.

Araj's expression shifts from annoyance to apprehension as she listens to the commotion, her grip on the table tightening reflexively. "What was that?" she demands, her voice betraying a hint of fear. Her face instantly hardens into fiery anger. "This is your doing, isn’t it? You just love destroying everything I’ve worked toward!"

Tav’s eyes narrow at Araj’s accusation, her posture going rigid as she braces for whatever might come next. "We had nothing to do with that," she says, her tone sharp as a blade. "But if you've gotten yourself tangled in something dangerous, now would be the time to tell us."

For a brief moment, Araj hesitates, her expression flickering between defiance and calculation. Then, her features harden. "I don’t owe you explanations," she snaps. "And if you think you can intimidate me into giving one, you’re sorely mistaken."

Astarion’s grip tightens around his dagger, his patience worn thin. He gestures toward the commotion with the blade. "That out there isn’t us, so you’d best tell us what is going on before it comes crashing through your door."

Another loud crash echoes through the building.

Araj exhales sharply. "Fine. Someone broke in the other day and stole from me. I tracked them, waited for them to fall asleep, and took it back."

Tav stares at her in disbelief. "And you didn’t think they’d come back here looking for it?"

Araj’s jaw clenches. "I thought I could handle it."

A low, gravelly voice calls from the other room, a singsong edge to its tone. "Drow. I know you’re in here somewhere."

Araj stiffens. "That’s him. One of the thieves."

A mocking laugh follows. "There’s no point in hiding. Come on out." Glass shatters violently against the floor. "I ain’t gonna hurt you."

A chorus of snickers echoes behind him. Another voice, cruel and amused, adds, "He’s lying. We’re going to gut you like a fish."

Tav’s pulse kicks up as she scans the room, searching for another way out. "Tell me you have an exit."

Araj shakes her head. "The only way out is through them."

"Then we fight." Tav moves toward the door without hesitation. "Astarion, you’ve got my back?"

Astarion smirks, rolling his shoulders as he readies his dagger. "Darling, have I ever let you down?"

Tav doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

Tav peeks through the crack in the door, her mismatched eyes scanning the room beyond. "There’s only four of them."

Astarion scoffs under his breath. "Is that supposed to be comforting? We’re still outnumbered." His grip tightens around his dagger, every nerve in his body thrumming with anticipation.

Tav shrugs, unbothered. "I’ve survived worse odds." She shifts her stance, rolling her shoulders like a fighter about to enter the ring. "I’ll go in first. You follow."

Astarion exhales slowly, nodding. "Try not to die, darling. I’d hate to have to fight them all myself."

Tav smirks but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she moves forward with purpose, pressing her palm against the door. Astarion positions himself just behind her, every muscle tensed, his senses razor-sharp.

With a single breath, Tav pushes the door open.

Chapter Text

The door flies open, slamming against the wall. Tav raises her hand, and with a shout and flick of her wrist, three crimson streaks of light explode from her fingertips. Magic Missiles slam into their targets with deadly precision, illuminating the room in flickering red. The sharp scent of singed fabric fills the air as the intruders cry out, clutching at their chests where the force struck.

Glass crunches underfoot as Astarion surges forward, his dagger flashing in the dim light. He closes the distance to the nearest assailant in an instant, his movements a blur of practiced lethality.

The man barely has time to react before Astarion strikes. His blade carves a swift arc toward the intruder’s throat, but the target jerks to the side at the last second. The dagger instead slices deep into his arm, opening a crimson gash. He stumbles back with a pained grunt, gripping the wound—but Astarion gives no respite. He presses forward, relentless, his next attack already incoming.

Across the room, another assailant doubles over, retching violently as Tav’s spell takes effect. The acrid stench of bile mingles with the lingering scent of scorched air. She pivots, shifting her focus to the remaining three. Sparks crackle at her fingertips as she unleashes another arcane strike, bolts of energy bursting forth and forcing the intruders to scatter.
One of them regains his footing, lunging toward her with a dagger of his own. Tav barely has time to react—instinct takes over. She flicks her wrist and says another speel, and a shimmering shield materializes just in time to deflect the incoming strike. The magical barrier ripples as steel meets sorcery, holding firm against the impact.

The other assailants close in, their weapons gleaming in the fractured light.

Tav exhales sharply. "Astarion, I hope you’re keeping up."

Astarion grins, dodging a wild swing before twisting his blade into his opponent’s ribs. "Oh, don’t worry," he says, his fangs bared. "I’m just getting started."

The battle is a blur of motion, steel, and magic, but for Astarion, it is something else entirely. Adrenaline surges through him, setting his nerves ablaze, heightening his senses to an almost intoxicating degree. Every heartbeat, every staggered breath, every drop of blood hitting the floor—weaving together into a symphony only he can hear.

He’d never admit it, especially not to Tav, but gods, did he love this.

Instinct takes over, his body moving in perfect rhythm with the chaos around him. He twists, ducks, slashes—a deadly waltz that he’s never been taught but somehow knows. His blade carves through flesh, and the scent of blood thickens in the air, rich and metallic. Each strike is precise, each movement fluid. His opponent barely has time to react before Astarion delivers a swift kick to the knee, sending the man sprawling with a sharp cry.

Astarion grins—a wicked, predatory thing—as he stalks forward, ready to finish what he started.

"Astarion!"

Tav’s voice cuts through the haze. Sharp. Urgent.

Astarion glances over his shoulder after hearing her distressed voice.
His head snaps toward her. One of the intruders lies lifeless at her feet, but the remaining two have closed in, their proximity cutting off her casting. She grips her weapon tightly, back stiff with tension, her eyes darting between them as she searches for an opening.

Astarion exhales, irritation flickering through him. He was just getting to the good part.

He disengages from his current opponent, darting across the room to intercept the assailants closing in on her.His mind races, calculating the quickest, deadliest way to neutralize the threat. Tav’s movements are controlled but constrained—two enemies closing in, cutting off her space to cast.

Unacceptable.

With a feral snarl, Astarion lunges at the nearest attacker. His dagger flashes in the dim light, a silvered streak of death as it carves through flesh. The man lets out a strangled cry as crimson splashes across the floor, his hands flying to his chest in a futile attempt to hold himself together.

Astarion does not stop. He twists his wrist, plunging the blade into the intruder’s side with ruthless efficiency before yanking it free. A satisfied huff escapes him as his opponent crumples.

A burst of energy crackles through the air. Tav thrusts her hand forward, and the second assailant is flung back by a surge of arcane force, crashing into the wall with a sickening crack. His body slumps, unmoving.

"Astarion, behind you!" Tav’s voice rings out.

He spins on instinct, but too late.

A glint of steel. A flash of movement in the shadows.

Pain.

Astarion barely registers the attacker before the cold bite of a dagger slices across his ribs. He staggers back with a sharp hiss, his fingers instinctively flying to the wound. The blade didn’t go deep, but the searing pain lingers.

His gaze snaps to his assailant. A necklace dangles from the man’s throat, the symbol of Bhaal gleaming like an omen in the dim light.

Bhaal worshipppers. Of course.

The assassin lunges again, quick and precise. Astarion barely manages to twist away, his own dagger lashing out in a vicious counterstrike aimed for the throat.

But this one is fast. Too fast.

The blade whistles past empty air as the assassin dances back with unnatural agility, a smirk tugging at his bloodstained lips.

Astarion growls, tightening his grip. The usual exhilaration of battle is dulled, overshadowed by the sting at his side, the fresh pain dragging at his focus.

This fight just got interesting.

Despite the persistent throb in his side, Astarion forces himself to stay focused. He can’t afford a moment’s distraction—not with his opponent still poised to strike.

Then, a thin green ray of light zips past his face.

Before he can even react, the beam finds its mark. The assassin lets out an agonized scream, flesh disintegrating into dust in the blink of an eye. The air fills with the acrid scent of scorched bone as what remains of him crumbles to the floor.

Astarion blinks. He spins around, chest still heaving, to find Tav standing with her arms outstretched, her breathing heavy from the exertion of the spell.

"You disintegrated him," Astarion says, still catching his breath.

Tav nods, lowering her hands to her sides. "That’s usually the point of using Disintegrate."

A slow smirk tugs at Astarion’s lips. "Nice shot. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

the adrenaline begins to ebb, leaving Astarion acutely aware of the sharp, stinging pain in his side. He presses a hand to the wound, feeling the warmth of his own blood seeping through his clothes.

 Still, a strange emotion lingers beneath the pain—gratitude.

 "Thank you," he says, his voice tight with strain. The words feel foreign, unfamiliar, but right. "I owe you one."

 Tav tilts her head at him, something unreadable in her gaze. "That’s what friends are for."

 Friends.

 If he weren’t bleeding out at the moment, Astarion might’ve had an existential crisis over that.

Instead, he forces a smirk. "The fucker got me good, but I’ll live."

Gingerly, he presses his fingers to the wound, hissing at the sharp sting. His clothes are stained dark with blood, the scent rich and cloying.

Tav’s eyes flick to his injury, her expression tightening. "We need to get that looked at." Her voice is firm but edged with concern. "Let’s see if Araj has anything we can use."

Astarion gives a dramatic sigh but follows her lead, keeping a hand pressed against his ribs.

When they step back into the room, Araj is standing right beside the door, arms crossed.

"Is that all of them?" she asks.

Tav nods. "You’ve got a mess to clean up, but at least no one’s coming to kill you anytime soon. Where do you keep your medical supplies?"

Araj gestures lazily. "Over in that cabinet."

Tav strides toward it without hesitation. "Astarion, sit down. I’ll help you in a minute."

His knees buckle before he even registers the words. It's like being yanked by invisible strings—one moment upright, the next planted on the nearest chair, spine stiff, jaw clenched.

He blinks, disoriented. His hands tighten on his thighs, steadying himself against the wave of nausea that always follows.

Half out of exhaustion, yes.

But mostly—because he had no choice.

He hates that part.

But Astarion sees it—feels it—the way her shoulders hitch, the way her hand lingers an inch too long above the cabinet drawer before pulling it open. She glances over her shoulder, brow furrowed just slightly, eyes skimming him with a kind of muted curiosity.

Not suspicion. Not alarm.

Just… a moment’s hesitation.

“You okay?” she asks casually, her voice light but not careless.

He forces a smirk, the kind that barely touches his mouth.

“Fine,” he says smoothly. “Just tired. Bleeding. You know. The usual.”

Tav’s expression softens. She nods and turns back to the cabinet, muttering under her breath.

But that pause stays with him.

"Araj, make yourself useful and collect blood from the bodies,” Tav orders without looking.

Araj’s nose wrinkles. "Who do you think you are, giving me orders?"

Tav turns, fixing her with a flat, exhausted stare. "Collect the blood and give it to Astarion. He just saved your life. It’s the least you could do."

Araj’s expression tightens at Tav’s sharp tone, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she huffs out a sigh and moves to comply, albeit begrudgingly. Snatching a handful of vials from a nearby table, she heads toward the bodies, muttering under her breath.

Meanwhile, Tav continues rummaging through the cabinet, finally pulling out a modest supply of bandages and antiseptic. She kneels beside Astarion and lifts the side of his shirt.

He barely flinches.

"Try not to enjoy yourself too much," he teases, but the quip lacks his usual bite.

"You’re bleeding all over the floor. Shut up."

His jaw snaps closed.

 Tav doesn’t notice. She’s too focused, too practical, too tired. Her tone had been flippant, but his body didn’t care. The curse didn’t care.

He hisses as she dabs the antiseptic onto the wound, the sting sharp and immediate. Still, he doesn’t pull away, letting her work in silence. Her fingers are steady, careful, more practiced than he would’ve expected. She finishes by wrapping a bandage snugly around his torso. “There, now you can talk again.”

By the time Araj returns, Astarion is still sitting obediently. Tav takes the vials of blood from her without so much as a thank-you, inspecting them before holding them up for Astarion to see.

"Do you want to do this now, or—"

"Now," Astarion cuts in, the answer rushed and firm. "Now would be great."

Tav doesn’t hesitate. She pops the lids off one by one, carefully pouring the warm liquid into Astarion’s open mouth.

The moment the blood touches his tongue, Astarion exhales, his entire body relaxing as the familiar warmth spreads through him. It’s fresher than what he’s used to—rich, potent, invigorating. His fingers flex at his sides as the ache in his ribs begins to dull, the fatigue lifting from his limbs like mist in the morning sun. He closes his eyes, savoring the feeling.

"Alright, Araj," Tav says, breaking the silence. "Care to explain exactly who those people were?"

"They’re Bhaal cultists," Astarion answers before Araj can, his voice languid, eyes still closed. "One of them was wearing a necklace with the symbol."

Tav stiffens. "How did you get tangled up with Bhaal worshippers?"

Araj rolls her eyes. "I already told you. They robbed me. I’d never seen them before that."

Tav isn’t convinced. "And what, exactly, did they steal?"

Araj exhales through her nose, clearly frustrated. "Gold. A few artifacts." She hesitates, then adds, "While I was tracking them, I overheard them say they were going to use the artifacts to negotiate with a vampire lord here in the city."

Astarion’s eyes snap open. His entire body goes rigid.

"Negotiate with a vampire lord?" His voice is sharp—too sharp, too high. “Did they mention a name?”

"Why? Are you scared, vampire spawn?" Araj taunts, a smirk playing at her lips.

"Just answer the question," Tav snaps, her tone cutting through the thick tension.

Araj tilts her head, brows furrowing in thought. "I think they said his name was… Cressida? No—Casser—"

"Cazador?" Astarion asks.

Araj snaps her fingers. "Yes, that’s it. Cazador."

The name hangs in the air like a noose tightening around Astarion’s throat.

The aftertaste of the blood suddenly tastes vile. It burns as it slides down, thick and heavy like acid, clawing its way back up.

"Is Cazador your master?" Araj muses. "He’s not going to be happy when he finds out you killed the people trying to get the artifacts for him. You should tell him to stop by—I’d love to invite him in."

Astarion’s breath turns shallow, sharp, erratic. His fingers tremble where they press against his injured side, but the pain is distant now, drowned beneath the rising tide of pure, unfiltered terror.

His ears ring.

"Astarion?" Tav’s voice reaches him, muffled and distorted, as if she’s speaking from underwater.

"It’s a shame I wasn’t able to retrieve the amulet they stole," Araj continues, oblivious—or uncaring—of his unraveling. "Imagine his appreciation if I were the one to grant him the ability to walk in the sun. With a gift like that, he’d have to reward me."

Astarion’s head snaps up. "In the sun?" he echoes.

"Oh, yes," Araj says, pleased by his reaction. "An amulet that lets a vampire walk freely in daylight without turning to ash." Her fingers trail idly up to her throat, stroking the skin there. "I can just picture it—the great vampire lord appearing to steal the amulet, only to find himself captivated by me instead. How could he resist such an exposed, vulnerable neck?"

Astarion barely hears her.

His mind reels.

If Cazador got his hands on that amulet…

Astarion swallows hard, nausea curling in his gut. There would be no stopping him. No limits. No escape. He would be omnipresent, a shadow in every hour of the day, an inescapable force.

"That's… impossible," Astarion breathes, his voice barely holding steady. "An artifact like that—it shouldn’t exist."

Araj’s smirk deepens, her eyes gleaming. "Oh, but it does," she croons. "And it's quite the prize, if I do say so myself. Too bad those cultists went and hid it."

Astarion doesn’t hear Tav approach, doesn’t notice the growing concern in her expression as she watches him.

His mind is too loud.

Not only does this mean Cazador could become even more powerful, but it means…

It means they’re on opposite sides.

And if Cazador found out—

Astarion refuses to let himself picture what would happen. The punishments he would endure.

Worse, the thought that gnaws at the edges of his panic:

Would Cazador force him to betray Tav?

A hand touches his shoulder.

Astarion recoils violently, his heart lurching into his throat.

Tav pulls back immediately, hands raised. "Astarion, look at me. Please."

He blinks rapidly, trying to shake off the suffocating haze of fear. His breath comes fast, uneven. He forces himself to focus on Tav—her furrowed brows, the quiet concern in her eyes. He drags in a shaky breath, willing his heart to slow.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, voice raw. "I just…"

Tav exhales, her expression softening. "Astarion, we should go."

Her voice is gentle, steady, an anchor against the storm raging inside him.

Astarion swallows hard, nodding.

Yes. They need to leave. Before the walls start closing in.

They walk out to the street. The cool night air helps Astarion stay grounded in reality, but there’s still a knot in his stomach.

Tav glances over at him, her expression softening with concern. "How are you feeling?" she asks, her voice gentle.

Astarion forces a tight-lipped smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll be fine," he replies, his voice strained. "Just... shaken up by everything that's happened."

"But you aren’t fine now," Tav says.

Astarion nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the ground as they walk. "No, I'm not," he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His throat tightens as if he’s about to cry. "If Cazador sides with the Cult of Bhaal–"Astarion’s voice breaks, cutting him off.

Tav slows her pace, casting a concerned glance at Astarion. She reaches out to gently squeeze his shoulder, offering him a small measure of comfort. "We'll figure this out, Astarion," she says softly, her tone filled with empathy. "We won't let Cazador or the cultists succeed."

"I shouldn’t be in the same room as you and the others. If Cazador gives me an order, I won’t be able to stop myself from obeying."

"We'll find a way to keep you safe, Astarion," she says, her voice firm but gentle.

"I want to believe that, Tav," he says softly, his voice strained with emotion. "But I've seen what Cazador is capable of. He's ruthless, and he won't hesitate to use me against you if it serves his purposes. You should keep your distance from me. Don’t tell me your plans."

"I understand, Astarion," Tav says, her voice tinged with sadness. "But you're not alone in this. I won’t be pushing you off to the side."

Astarion shakes his head. "No, you don’t understand. I’m a liability!"

Tav stops in her tracks, turning to face Astarion. "You’re not a liability, Astarion. You’re my friend, whether or not you’re forced to betray me."

Tav's words hit Astarion like a cold splash of water, momentarily jolting him out of his spiral of despair. 

There she goes, using that word again. Friends.

He meets her gaze, seeing a depth of sincerity and determination. "But what if I can't control myself?" Astarion asks, his voice tinged with desperation. "What if I hurt you?"

Tav reaches out and takes both of Astarion's hands in hers, her touch warm and reassuring. "That’s a risk I’m willing to take," she says, her voice steady and unwavering. "I won't give up on you, Astarion. I am going to fight for you every step of the way."

Astarion's chest tightens at Tav's unwavering support, a surge of gratitude welling up inside him despite the fear and uncertainty that still gnaws at his insides. He squeezes her hands tightly, drawing strength from her unwavering resolve.

"I don't deserve your loyalty, Tav," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "I've done terrible things, things that I can never take back. Even before I was turned, I wasn’t a good person."

Tav doesn’t say anything. Instead, she pulls Astarion into a tight hug. As Tav wraps her arms around him, Astarion stiffens for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden embrace. But slowly, he relaxes into it, allowing himself to be enveloped by her comforting presence. He rests his head against her shoulder, feeling the weight of his fears and doubts begin to ease, if only for a moment.

"We’re not defined by our pasts," Tav whispers. "What matters are the choices we make now, and I’m choosing to stand by you. You're more than the sum of your mistakes. And whatever darkness lies within you, I believe there's light too."

Astarion's eyes sting with unshed tears as Tav's words wash over him, soothing the raw ache in his chest with their warmth and sincerity.

"Thank you, Tav," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't know what I'd do without you."

Tav pulls back slightly, her gaze soft and understanding as she meets Astarion's eyes. "You don't have to find out," she says, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "We’ll find the cult’s center of operations and take them out before they can convince Cazador to team up with them. Cazador won’t get the amulet; you will."

He returns her smile, though it feels fragile amidst the turmoil swirling within him. He feels a twinge of hope at her words. "Yeah, they’ll never convince Cazador to join them if they don’t have the amulet."

Tav nods, her expression determined. "Exactly. And we'll make sure that doesn't happen. We'll stop them before they can even get close to Cazador."

Astarion takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. With Tav by his side, he feels a flicker of hope ignite within him, pushing back against the darkness threatening to consume him.

Yet, as they navigate the city streets, hand in hand, Astarion can't shake the feeling of dread that continues to gnaw at him.

Chapter Text

Tav gives the others a quick briefing. She tells them about the amulet—the potential for power, for danger—but leaves out the most important part.

Like how Astarion is practically a sleeper agent. A blade waiting for the command to turn on them.

She decided it would be best if they didn’t know.

Astarion wasn’t so sure it was the right decision. But he didn’t argue. Not when it meant sparing his own life a little longer.

“We’ve come across similar relics on past journeys,” Jaheira shares. “But nothing like it has surfaced in a long time.”

Karlach’s jaw tightens. “You think it’s in the sewers?”

Tav nods. “That’s where Araj tracked them last. It’s the best lead we’ve got.”

“Then we split up,” Jaheira says. “My Harpers can cover more ground if we spread out. I’ll take my team back through the eastern tunnels. We’ll move fast and quiet.”

“I’d prefer loud and on fire,” Karlach mutters, cracking her knuckles. “But sure. Quiet.”

“We’ll sweep west,” Tav says. “If they’ve doubled back or left anything behind, we’ll find it.”

Jaheira steps closer to Tav, lowering her voice. “You sure there’s nothing else we should know?”

Tav hesitates. Her fingers twitch at her side, aching to tighten into fists. But her face remains neutral.

“If there is,” she says carefully, “I’ll let you know.”

Jaheira studies her for a beat longer, then nods. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

Jaheira nods. She waves over Minsc, and they leave together.

Wyll rolls his shoulders. “Let’s not get left behind.”

Tav nods and turns to her party. “Everyone ready?”

They nod.

“You can start heading out. There’s a few more things I need to grab.” Tav turns back to her bag.

Astarion follows behind the rest of them.

“Oh, not you Astarion. Wait right there. Don’t move. I have something for you,” Tav says without looking.

Astarion freezes midstep.

It’s instant. Involuntary. Like a marionette whose strings have just been yanked taut. 

His boot hovers just above the floorboards

He doesn’t move.

Can’t move.

Not even to breathe.

The others continue ahead, their footsteps growing quieter as they descend into the street. None of them notice.

Tav’s back is still to him, crouched over her satchel, rifling through its contents. She doesn’t even glance his way. She doesn’t know what she’s just done.

He wants to scream. To move. To tear himself free from the invisible leash tightening around his throat.

But he just… stands there.

She said don’t move.

And so he doesn’t.

Seconds pass. Then a minute.

It’s unbearable.

The compulsion coils in his muscles like a vice. Every instinct screams at him to run, to move, to do anything—but his body refuses. He’s locked in place, like a statue carved in flesh and bone.

He stares at the empty hall in front of him. He can’t even blink.

She’s going to know. 

There’s no way she won’t. Not unless she issues another command before she turns around. 

And gods, he feels—the shame, the fury, the sick dread twisting in his stomach like barbed wire.

He can’t live like this.

Not again.

Not under someone else’s hand.

Not even hers.

Especially not hers.

Tav straightens, brushing the dirt off her knees. “Alright, ready,” she says brightly. “I thought I’d–”

She must have seen him, but Astarion can’t turn his head to check.

His body won’t let him.

For one heart-stopping beat, there’s silence.

 “Astarion?”

He feels it. The shift. The exact second her voice changes—lightness bleeding into confusion, confusion into something colder, sharper.

“…Are you alright?”

He wants to lie. Gods, he wants to lie. Wants to laugh it off, smirk at her over his shoulder and say something glib— Just admiring the woodwork, darling . Something to distract her. Misdirect.

But he can’t.

She didn’t give permission to speak.

The breath locks in his throat like a stone.

And then—blessedly, mercifully—

“You can move now,” Tav says, slow and cautious, like someone approaching a wounded animal.

The leash snaps.

He stumbles forward, catching himself against the edge of the doorframe.

Behind him, he hears her inhale. Sharp.

“Astarion,” she says, very quietly, “what was that?”

He doesn’t turn around.

He doesn’t want to see her face when she realizes.

Still, the words come. Low. Fractured.

“You told me not to move.”

Tav rushes past him to the door. “You guys go on ahead of us. We’ll catch up with you later,” she shouts out to the others. She comes back in and shuts the door.

She’s shaking.

The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating.

Tav’s hands tremble as she leans against the door, eyes dark with something unreadable.

The room feels too small.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know it would… I just—”

He finally dares to meet her gaze. There’s a flicker of vulnerability there, and something else—regret? Responsibility?

Astarion swallows the rage burning in his chest. The humiliation. The dread.

“I thought only a spawn’s sire could command them,” Tav says.

“That’s usually how it works,” Astarion says in a voice that sounds too high.

“But?” Tav prods gently.

“Cazador–-back when we first met—ordered me to obey you,” Astarion admits.

The secret is out.

The one he tried to keep hidden. 

Now she knew that her words alone were enough to control him.

A silence falls, heavy and raw. Tav looks away, chewing on her lip, grappling with the truth she never wanted to hear.

“I–I am so sorry,” she whispers. Her brows furrow. “All those times…At Araj’s…I’ve been commanding you this whole time, haven’t I?”

Tav’s shoulders sag as if the weight of the truth is crushing her, and for a moment, Astarion almost wants to reach out—to reassure her. She’s not his tormentor. Not really.

But the words catch in his throat.

“I tried to hide it. I didn’t want you to know.”

He lets that hang between them, the confession raw and bitter on his tongue.

“I thought if you knew, you’d—” He falters. “You’d take it further.”

Tav’s eyes snap back to his, fierce and haunted. “Astarion, I would never—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know you wouldn’t, but instincts are hard to kill.”

“Could I order you not to obey me?”

Astarion shakes his head. “I don’t think it works that way.”

Tav’s hands clench into fists at her sides, the frustration and helplessness bleeding through her usual composure.

“So, I’m stuck with this... this power over you, whether I want it or not,” she says, voice trembling. “I’ll be more careful how I phrase things. No more commands.”

Astarion exhales, a bitter, humorless sound. “That would be appreciated.”

Tav runs a hand through her hair, eyes darting across the floor as though searching for answers in the grain of the wood. “I never wanted to be someone who took your choices away. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Astarion turns away at that, jaw tight. Her compassion is a blade in its own right—gentler than Cazador’s, but sharp all the same.

“You didn’t take anything,” he mutters. “Not on purpose. That’s the cruel part of it, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what you want. The command still works.”

“We’ll work together on this. Nobody else will know. I’ll try to think before I speak and you’ll tell me when I command you.”

“You just did,” the words spill out of Astarion’s mouth.

“Shit, this is going to be hard.”

Astarion huffs out a laugh—soft, bitter, but real. “Welcome to my world.”

Tav winces. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair of me to say.”

“No,” he says. “It was fair. You’re being forced into something you never asked for. So am I. Maybe that’s the only equal thing about this.”

After a moment of silence, he looks back up at her. “You’re not Cazador.”

She nods. “I want you to stay here because you choose to, not because of some power I have over you.”

“But I did choose to stay,” Astarion says quietly. “I still choose to. You never made me stay, except for just now.”

 She nods, but says nothing to that. Just watches him, lips parted like she might speak—but no words come. Maybe there aren’t any that would make this easier. Maybe there never were.

And gods, he wishes she’d stop looking at him like that. Like he’s something fragile. Like she’s done something unforgivable.

Because she hasn’t. Not really. And he doesn’t know what to do with her guilt when it starts gnawing at him, too.

It would be easier if she had meant it. If she’d said don’t move with intent, with malice. If she had looked him in the eye and wanted him to freeze. Then he could hate her. Then he’d know how to protect himself.

But this?

This soft, accidental domination? The way her voice had caught when she realized? The horror in her eyes?

It twists something in him. Something old and cracked and barely patched together.

He sighs and looks away. His throat still feels tight.

“Come on,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “The others will start worry.”

He moves to the door and opens it without waiting for her reply. The city air is colder than he remembers, wet with sewer stench and the smoke of a dozen chimneys. Still better than staying in that suffocating little room.

Tav follows a step behind.

They catch up with the others and retrace Araj’s steps, slipping into the damp hush of the sewers beneath the city. It’s easy to fall into the rhythm of motion—boots echoing against stone, the distant drip of water, the soft murmur of conversation kept low and cautious. No one asks what kept Astarion and Tav. No one presses. They’re all too focused now.

They find where Araj had followed the cultists—a stretch of tunnel half-collapsed, the air thick with mildew and decay. The group fans out, lanterns flickering against slick stone walls, casting their shadows like ghosts.

Astarion watches as Tav kneels to examine a broken grate, fingers brushing over the rusted iron. Her expression is all concentration, her guilt buried under purpose now. He should be grateful. He is. But he still keeps his distance.

They scour the crumbling tunnels with growing urgency. Gale uses a spell to illuminate corners thick with cobwebs. Shadowheart inspects waterlines and debris for signs of recent passage. Wyll and Karlach clear collapsed rubble with quiet efficiency, lifting old timbers and shattered brick.

They wade through knee-deep stagnant water, cold and reeking, rifling through whatever detritus has settled there—scraps of cloth, a broken flask, old bones long stripped clean. Astarion peers into every crevice, every shadow. He runs a hand along the stone walls, hoping for a loose brick, a hidden seam, something.

But there’s nothing.

No tracks. No blood. No drag marks or boot prints. Not even the faintest whisper of a trail.

It’s as if the cultists simply vanished into thin air.

After the others return to the inn, Astarion ventures back alone. He slips into the sewers without a sound.

He moves like a ghost through the tunnels, every step deliberate, quiet. His eyes gleam red in the dim glow of flickering sewer lanterns, casting strange reflections in the water at his feet. The scent of mold and rot clings to everything, but he barely notices. He’s not here for comfort.

He returns to the place where the trail ended. Stares at the wall the cultists seemingly disappeared behind. Then begins his search again, more meticulous this time. He upends loose stones, one by one, stacking them with careful hands. He runs his fingers along the mortar, pressing, tapping, feeling for hollows or hidden seams.

He peeks through cracks in the brickwork, nose nearly touching damp stone, straining to see something—an edge, a latch, a shimmer of magic. But the bricks only stare back, old and unyielding.

He wades through knee-high filth, ignoring the cold that seeps into his boots, the muck that clings to his legs like a second skin. He follows every offshoot tunnel, every pipe and drainage canal, every whisper of air that might suggest an opening.

Nothing.

The shadows remain empty, indifferent to his desperation.

By the time he storms back into the inn, his composure is in tatters. His hands tremble with barely contained fury, his fangs bared in silent frustration. His usual graceful movements are gone, replaced by tense, jerking motions as he paces through the dimly lit space.

Tav looks up from her black leather journal and snaps it shut, sensing his agitation before he even speaks. "Anything?" she asks. There isn’t much hope in her tone.

Astarion shakes his head sharply and collapses onto her bed beside her, fingers threading into his damp curls.

"Nothing!" he spits, his voice hoarse with frustration. His shoulders heave with a ragged breath as he stares at the ceiling, as if willing it to crack open and for the heavens to give him the answers he seeks.

Tav reaches out, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. She squeezes gently, grounding him. “We’ll find it,” she says, her voice firm with quiet determination. “We just have to keep looking.”

He lifts his head, meeting her gaze with bloodshot eyes. “But how much longer can we keep this up?” he asks, his voice raw with exhaustion and something far more fragile—doubt. “Cazador could be making his move right now, and we’re just—just sitting here, waiting for a clue that may never come.”

“I know it’s hard,” Tav murmurs, her fingers still resting against his tense shoulder. “But we can’t afford to give up hope. We’ll keep searching. We’ll find a way to stop Cazador before it’s too late—together.”

Astarion exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I just… I can’t shake this feeling of dread,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “What if we’re already too late? What if Cazador has the amulet and we can’t stop him?”

“We can’t waste time on what-ifs,” Tav says firmly. “The fact that he hasn’t commanded you yet—that has to mean something.”

Astarion hesitates. She’s right, but the uncertainty gnaws at him like a parasite burrowing deep. His mind spins with possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last. Then, unbidden, a thought escapes his lips: “We should tell the others.”

“We should,” Tav agrees slowly, then hesitates before adding, “But let’s wait a little longer. If we can find the amulet first, they’ll never need to know.”

Astarion’s eyes widen. “Tav, if there’s a chance I’m going to lose control and kill them, they should know.” His voice rises, sharp with disbelief. “Do you plan to keep them in the dark about why we’re really searching for the amulet?”

“They know that you want to use it to go out in the sunlight.”

“They aren’t going to buy it forever. They’re going to start questioning the urgency soon if they haven’t already,” he hisses.

“Then we wait till they start asking,” Tav says. 

“I’m a ticking time bomb, Tav. We are now opposing Cazador. At any moment, he could tell me to kill you all, and the only way to stop me will be for you to kill me first.”

“I know, but we aren’t at that point yet!”

“What happened to you wanting to protect your friends?”

“I do want to protect them,” Tav says, voice growing urgent, almost desperate. “But I want to protect you, too. If they find out, they’ll want to push you out.”

“Which is the smart thing to do,” Astarion argues.

Tav sighs, shaking her head. “I know it seems like the logical choice, but I can’t just abandon you, Astarion. You’re not just some liability to me. You’re my friend.” Her voice softens, but there’s steel beneath it. “And I won’t turn my back on you, no matter what.”

“You wouldn’t be abandoning me,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “You’d be protecting yourself.” He grips her hand, his fingers cold, but trembling. “Just this once, could you stop being so selfless? Be selfish and choose to protect yourself over me.”

"Don’t you realize this is me being selfish?" Tav confesses, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to do this without you." She looks at him, her expression raw with vulnerability. "Please, just give it a few more days. If we don’t figure this out by then, we’ll tell the others."

His throat tightens. A part of him wants to believe her, but another part—one shaped by centuries of cruelty and betrayal—fights against it.

Astarion exhales sharply, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. Being the logical one for once is exhausting. He rubs his temple before muttering, "Fine. A few more days."

Tav smiles. "Thank you, Astarion. I know you aren’t the most happy with this plan, but I appreciate your trust."

He wants to tell her that he’d trust her with everything—that if she asked him to walk into the sun, he’d consider it. But he decides that might be too much. Instead, he settles for a small nod, though his mind remains clouded with worry. Keeping this from the others still feels reckless, but he trusts Tav's judgment. If nothing else, they need time—time to find the amulet, time to figure out their next move.

With a sigh, Astarion pushes himself to his feet. "I should probably let you get back to whatever you were doing."

Tav taps the leather cover of the journal in her lap. "Oh, it was nothing important."

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at her. Curiosity flickers across his face. "What do you even write in that journal, anyway? I always see you scribbling away in it."

Tav stiffens, her face turning an alarming shade of red. She hesitates, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before stammering, "Uh, it's just... notes. About spells, strategies—you know, things like that."

Astarion arches an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Just notes, huh? You look awfully secretive for someone jotting down battle strategies."

Tav shifts uncomfortably, gripping the journal a little tighter. "Well, there might be… other things in there, too. Personal thoughts, observations, stuff like that."

Astarion's smirk softens into something more amused than teasing. "Personal thoughts, huh? Like a diary?"

Tav bites her lip, clearly debating whether to shut the conversation down or humor him. "Not exactly," she hedges. "It’s just… random things. You know how it is."

But Astarion isn’t satisfied with her vague answer. He takes a step closer to her, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Come on, Tav. You can tell me. I promise I’ll keep it a secret. Unless… Are there notes to Gale in there? Secret confessions? Poems about the throes of love?”

He reaches for the journal, but Tav snatches it away. She holds it tightly against her chest. "If I show you, will you drop it?"

Astarion tilts his head, considering. "I’ll be satisfied."

Tav sighs and pats the bed next to her. "Fine. I’ll prove to you that it’s nothing exciting."

He perches beside her, leaning in as she flips through the pages. His eyes skim over hastily scrawled notes, potion ingredients, spell incantation. "Your handwriting is awful," Astarion teases.

Tav rolls her eyes. "Why does it matter? I’m not writing for other people to read it.”

 As she flips through the pages, Astarion catches glimpses of diagrams, lists of ingredients, and hastily scrawled notes.

But then something catches his attention.

A page.

Astarion sees the glimpse of a figure sketched in ink before Tav hurriedly flips past it.

“Wait a moment. What was that?”

Tav stiffens but reluctantly turns back to the page. Astarion studies it, his amusement fading into something quieter, something more thoughtful. Taking up about a fourth of the page. It’s two sketches of the same man from different angles. He leans in to get a better look. "I didn’t realize we had an artist among us."

"It’s nothing," Tav blurts out, looking anywhere but at him. "I’m out of practice, so they aren’t the best."

Astarion scoffs, snatching the journal out of her hands. "What do you mean, ‘they aren’t the best?’ These are stunning." He tilts the journal to get a better look. "And who is this mysterious, devastatingly handsome man? You’ve certainly done justice to his beauty. He might be the most attractive person I’ve ever seen… but perhaps that’s just your artistic mastery."

He smiles at her. There’s something endearing about the way she’s reacting to the flattery. He can’t help himself.

Tav groans, burying her face in her hands. "Please, don’t tease me."

"I’m not!" Astarion insists, laughing. "These are really good!"

"Not about that," Tav whines, her voice muffled by her palms.

Astarion tilts his head, intrigued. "Then what?"

She peeks out between her fingers, her cheeks burning. "Do you really not recognize him?"

Astarion furrows his brows, turning the journal slightly, as if a new angle might reveal the answer. "I mean… he looks  a little familiar. Should I know him?"

Tav groans again and abruptly turns her back to him. "Gods, this is so embarrassing."

He reaches out, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Why?"

"It’s you," she finally admits.

Astarion’s fingers tense against her shoulder. He blinks, staring at the sketches again, but now with a different lens. "Me?" he breathes, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You… drew me?"

Tav nods, still refusing to meet his gaze. "I hope you’re not mad. I just—" She fidgets with the edge of the journal. "One day, I found myself sketching you. And… I couldn’t stop."

Astarion’s chest tightens as he traces the inked lines of his own face with trembling fingers. The angles of his jaw, the arch of his brow, the curve of his lips—captured so carefully, as if she’d memorized every detail.

Had it really been so long since he’d seen his own face that he couldn’t even recognize it?

A hollow ache unfurls in his chest. The memory of himself—his own features, his own existence—was just another thing Cazador had stolen from him.

A droplet lands on the page.

Astarion blinks in surprise, only realizing then that he’s crying. He inhales sharply and snaps the journal shut to protect the ink, hurriedly passing it back to Tav before his hands start shaking. "I… I don’t know what to say."

Tav takes the journal carefully, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. She stares down at it, avoiding his gaze. "You don’t have to say anything," she murmurs, barely above a whisper. "I-I just… I wanted to capture…" She swallows. "I wanted to remember…"

She trails off, unable to find the right words. Her fingers tighten around the journal. "I know it’s silly. And probably a little creepy. I’m sorry."

Astarion shakes his head instantly, his breath unsteady. "No, Tav." His voice is barely more than a whisper. He reaches out, hesitating before gently tilting her chin up so she has no choice but to look at him. "This is a gift that means more than you could ever understand."

"Really?" Tav asks, searching his gaze, as if afraid she might find hesitation or mockery hidden there.

Astarion swallows the lump in his throat and nods, not trusting his voice to remain steady if he speaks.

Tav's expression softens as she takes in the sincerity in Astarion’s eyes. "Really," she confirms, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, with a sudden burst of resolve, she flips open the journal, carefully tears out the page, and holds it out to him. "I want you to have it."

Astarion hesitates for only a moment before taking the page from her trembling hand, handling it as if it were the most delicate, precious thing in the world. He stares down at the sketch, tracing the inked lines with his eyes, his heart swelling with emotions he can scarcely name. It's been centuries since he's truly seen himself, and now—here he is. Not as a monster, not as a tool for someone else's amusement, but as someone worth remembering. Someone worth capturing in careful, deliberate strokes.

Tav takes a shaky breath, and only then does Astarion realize he’s still touching her—his fingers still resting under her chin. He turns back to her, crimson eyes meeting hers, and suddenly, the air between them shifts.

They are caught in something fragile, something raw. Astarion’s thumb ghosts over her cheek, so light it’s almost imperceptible, but he feels the way she stills beneath his touch. Feels the way her pulse quickens, a soft stutter in an otherwise steady rhythm.

The moment stretches, taut with possibility.

Astarion is no stranger to intimacy. He’s used it as a weapon, wielded it like a blade, turned it into something sharp and transactional. But this? This is something else entirely. Tav knows his darker secrets, has seen him broken, has faced the cruel, jagged edges of his past—and yet, she still looks at him like this. With tenderness. With something dangerously close to longing.

For the first time, intimacy isn’t a means to an end. It isn’t manipulation. It isn’t survival.

It’s just… them.

Astarion's heart aches with a terrible, unfamiliar kind of want. He could lean in—just a little more. Close the distance. Lose himself in the warmth of her, in the soft press of her lips, in the quiet promise of this moment.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his hand falls away from her face, retreating like a breath of cold air. He grasps her hands instead, his fingers curling around hers—not pulling away, but not pushing forward either.

Tav’s eyes search his face, uncertain yet open, her lips parted as if she wants to say something but can’t find the words. Astarion can feel the unspoken question between them, the fragile weight of their unacknowledged desires.

And gods, does he want to give in.

But desire is dangerous. Wanting something—someone—means there’s more to lose. If he lets himself have this, lets himself believe in this warmth, in her, then it will only make things more agonizing when Cazador inevitably rips it away.

Because that’s what’s coming, isn’t it?

Betrayal. Not by choice, but by command. And if he crosses this threshold now, if he allows himself even this fleeting happiness, then the pain of turning on her when Cazador pulls his strings will be unbearable.

But then—

Is he really going to let Cazador take this from him too?

Is he going to let that wretched bastard steal this moment, this choice?

Astarion swallows, his mind warring against itself, against centuries of survival instincts screaming at him to walk away. To protect himself before he can be hurt.

But for once, he doesn’t want to be careful. He doesn’t want to let fear win.

Fuck it.

Astarion lenas forward, closing the distance in one breathless, reckless movement. His lips capture hers, and for the first time in two centuries, he takes something for himself.

Cazador has already taken everything else.

He can’t have this, too.

As their lips meet, a surge of emotions courses through Astarion—longing, desperation, and something deeper, something terrifyingly real. It's unlike anything he's ever known. Tav responds eagerly, her hands finding his face, fingers tangling in his curls as she deepens the kiss, pulling him closer.

For a blissful moment, the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The weight of their responsibilities, the looming shadow of Cazador, the uncertainty of tomorrow—it all fades into nothingness. There is only the press of her lips against his, the warmth of her hands, the intoxicating scent of her skin. Astarion drinks in the moment greedily, as if trying to etch it into his very being before it, too, is taken from him.

But then—

Reality comes crashing back in.

His heart pounds, not just with exhilaration, but with something colder. Fear. Doubt. Astarion pulls away, his breath ragged, eyes searching Tav’s face for reassurance, for something to ground himself in.

There are tears in her eyes.

His stomach twists at the sight. Not from regret, but from the crushing uncertainty of what those tears mean. Had he misread the moment? Had he made a mistake?

He jerks away from her. "Tav, I'm sorry! I shouldn’t have-"

"No," she interrupts, shaking her head. "Astarion, it's not that."

She quickly wipes at her eyes, as if frustrated with herself, but her voice remains steady. "I'm not upset. I'm just… afraid."

Astarion stiffens. "Afraid?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. "Is it… because of me?"

Tav shakes her head again, and despite the tears, a small, fleeting smile ghosts across her lips. "No, not because of you." She fidgets with the ring on her finger, her fingers tracing its edges as she gathers her thoughts. "I’m afraid that I’m…" She falters, her voice catching in her throat.

Astarion watches as she takes a shaky breath, visibly steeling herself.

"I’m afraid I’m replacing Gale."

Tav’s confession feels like a physical blow. The air seems to suddenly leave Astarion’s lungs. 

Of course. Of course she would feel this way.

Tav is Astarion’s first. The first person to see through his carefully constructed mask. The first to make his dead heart feel like it might beat again. The first to make his thoughts hazy with want, with hope.

But no matter what he does, no matter how deeply he feels, someone else already holds a place in her heart.

"I—" He swallows hard, trying to push down the lump in his throat. "I understand." His voice is quiet, distant. "I’m sorry."

Tav’s gaze flickers to him, pained. "I miss him, Astarion," she whispers, the words fragile and heavy all at once. "Every day, I miss him."

Astarion nods, but he doesn’t know what to say. What could he say?

That he knows what it’s like to live with a ghost? To ache for something lost, something unreachable?

That he hates the way his own heart clenches at the truth in her words?

That for the first time in centuries, he dared to hope for something just for himself—only to realize he might never truly have it?

"I’m sorry I’m not him," Astarion says sadly. "I’m sorry that I can’t be as good as he was."

Tav grabs his hand, grounding him in the present. He hesitates before meeting her gaze, expecting to see disappointment, hesitation—anything to confirm the nagging fear clawing at his chest.

Instead, her eyes are filled with warmth. With certainty.

"You don't have to be him, Astarion," she says, her voice steady, unwavering. "You're not him, and I don’t want you to be. You're you, and that's more than enough for me."

Astarion blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer sincerity in her words.

"I'll need time," Tav continues, her fingers tracing absentmindedly over his own. "And your patience. But if you're willing to put up with that… then I want to try."

Astarion’s throat tightens. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve her. And yet…

"I—I want to try too, Tav," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers curl around hers, holding on as though afraid she might slip away. "I want to see where this leads.”

Tav doesn’t hesitate. She shifts closer, guiding his hand into her lap before resting her head against his shoulder. Astarion freezes for half a second before allowing himself to relax into the warmth of her touch. He squeezes her hand in return, silently making a promise neither of them needs to speak aloud.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, he doesn’t feel like he’s standing at the edge of an abyss, waiting to fall.

Even in the face of impossible odds, there is still hope.

And for now, that is enough.

Chapter Text

Eight days.

Astarion has been counting. Eight days since he and Tav spoke to Araj. Eight days since the cultists could have taken the amulet straight to Cazador, offering him their loyalty in exchange for his power. Eight days of pretending everything is fine.

He told Tav he’d give it more time before telling the others about Cazador’s possible involvement, but the weight of it is suffocating him. Every game of lanceboard with Wyll, every playful punch from Karlach—it all wears him down. They trust him. And yet, at any moment, Cazador could seize control, could command him to rip out their throats, and he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

Every passing moment feels like an eternity. Every smile, every laugh shared is tainted with the bitter taste of impending betrayal.

Astarion paces, restless energy coursing through him. He’s searched the cultists’ last known location four times now, and yet the itch to go back gnaws at him. Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe tonight he’ll find the clue they need—the one that will tell him how much time they have left.

"Hey, Astarion."

Shadowheart’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. He turns to find her sitting with Karlach, watching him with knowing eyes. "You look like you could use some air. Care to walk with me?"

He hesitates for half a second before schooling his expression into something passably calm. "Sure," he says, the usual charm missing from his tone. "A walk sounds... nice."

As he falls into step beside her, he tries to push his thoughts aside, if only for a moment. The weight of Cazador’s shadow still lingers, but perhaps—just for a little while—he can pretend it isn’t there.

Shadowheart walks beside him in silence, her expression unreadable in the dim light. The quiet stretches between them, weighted but not uncomfortable. Finally, she speaks, her voice low and measured.

"You seem... troubled, Astarion." Her gaze remains fixed ahead as they stroll through the winding streets.

Astarion glances at her, noting the concern etched in her features. He hesitates, torn between the relief of confiding in someone and the risk of exposing too much. He and Tav agreed to keep their knowledge about Cazador to themselves, but Shadowheart isn’t blind. She seems to already know something is wrong.

And if she decides he’s a threat? Well, this would be the perfect opportunity to remove him from the equation.

Still, the weight of his thoughts is suffocating. He exhales slowly, deciding to risk it. "Yeah, I suppose I am," he admits reluctantly. "There’s something I need to tell you, Shadowheart. Something... important."

"That you kissed Tav?"

Astarion falters mid-step. "What?"

Shadowheart meets his wide-eyed stare with a knowing smirk.

"How—?"

"You’re not exactly subtle," she says, amusement flickering in her voice.

Astarion clears his throat, scrambling to regain his composure. "Well. Yes. That did happen," he concedes, a bit flustered. He recalls her earlier warnings about hurting Tav and braces himself. "I know you said—"

Shadowheart waves him off. "Relax. I didn’t ask you to walk with me so I could kill you for kissing her, if that’s what you’re worried about."

"Ah. Well. That’s... good to know," he says, forcing a chuckle. He had been prepared for an entirely different conversation. "Not that I was worried about that, of course."

Shadowheart arches an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "I know we didn’t start off on the best terms, but you’re not so bad."

"Not bad? I think I deserve a little more credit than that," Astarion says.

"You do," Shadowheart says with surprising sincerity. "I’m happy you’re here. The others agree, too, even if some of them wouldn’t admit it." 

Astarion tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Ah, yes. My irresistible charm does tend to grow on people." He flashes a playful grin. "So tell me, was it my roguish good looks or my dazzling wit that finally won you over?"

Shadowheart rolls her eyes, though he catches the amused twitch at the corner of her mouth. "I wouldn’t go that far," she says dryly. "But... you’ve proven yourself useful, at least."

Astarion lets out a genuine laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "High praise coming from you. And here I was, worried you were going to stake me for kissing Tav."

Shadowheart snorts, shaking her head. "Please. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t be so subtle about it." There’s a teasing lilt to her words, but beneath it, Astarion senses the unspoken truth—Shadowheart doesn’t waste her energy on threats she doesn’t intend to carry out.

"But," she continues, her voice softening, "speaking of Tav... thank you."

Astarion blinks. "For what?"

"For making her happy," Shadowheart says. "She’s been... different since Gale-" Her voice wavers. She takes a steadying breath before continuing. "It’s nice to see her smiling again."

Astarion's heart twists at the mention of Gale, his own guilt pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shake. He knows how deeply Tav felt for Gale—still feels, perhaps—and part of him wonders if he's intruding on something sacred. But at the same time, he can’t ignore the warmth that spreads through him at the thought of being the one to make her smile, even if only for a fleeting moment.

“I’m sure there are other factors at play,” Astarion says dismissively, deflecting the uncomfortable conversation.

Shadowheart scoffs. “Like what? Do you think it’s the Bhaalspawn making her smile like that?”

As they step up to the stalls, Astarion lets his eyes wander over the goods on display. A small brown bottle among a row of colognes catches his attention. His fingers close around it, and a rare flicker of nostalgia rises within him.

“I can’t believe it. This is one of my favorites.”

“Astarion.”

He holds the bottle up with a flourish. “Bergamot, rosemary, and fine, well-aged brandy.” He uncaps it, taking a deep inhale before exhaling in satisfaction. “I’ve smelled like death lately—this will be a lifesaver.”

“Astarion,” Shadowheart repeats, her voice edged with exasperation.

His playful act falters for a fraction of a second. He pays the stall owner, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “I suppose you could say it’s a combination of things,” he replies evasively.

Shadowheart stares at him, clearly unsatisfied, but she lets the matter drop. Instead, she turns her attention to the wares, her movements deliberate but distant. The tension lingers between them.

As they walk away from the stall, Shadowheart finally speaks again. “When this whole thing with the Bhaalspawn is over, do you plan to stick around?”

Astarion shrugs, forcing nonchalance. “I don’t know. It isn’t up to me.”

The words taste bitter. It’s the truth he can’t say aloud. If Cazador chooses to side with the Bhaalspawn, Astarion won’t have a choice in the matter. Either he’ll be forced to betray them, or there won’t be anyone left to stay with.

“Tav said you can leave whenever you want. Nobody is forcing you to stay.”

“Yes, but it’s complicated,” Astarion says, his voice quieter now.

Shadowheart watches him for a moment before nodding. “Well, if you do get the choice, take into consideration that I think you should stay.”

Astarion blinks, caught off guard.

“Eventually, Wyll and Karlach will have to return to the Hells. Lae’zel will go back to freeing her people from a false god. I’d like for at least one person to stick around.”

He opens his mouth but finds himself at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected that.

“I’ll… be sure to remember that,” he finally says, the weight of her sentiment pressing against his chest. The guilt gnaws at him, sharper than before.

He exhales slowly, knowing he can’t keep this secret forever. “Shadowheart, there’s something I should tell you. When Tav and I spoke to Araj, we found out that—”

A hand clamps onto his arm, cutting him off.

Astarion recoils instinctively, yanking his arm free, backing into Shadowheart in the process. He turns to face a stocky dwarven woman. Her eyes gleam with something sinister.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice sickly sweet. “Did I hear you mention the Brain Breaker’s name?”

Astarion flicks a glance toward Shadowheart, his instincts screaming that something isn’t right. “Uh…”

The dwarf grins. “If you happen to know her, could you pass along my gratitude? And a message?”

Shadowheart stiffens. “What message?” she asks, her voice wary.

The woman’s grin widens as she draws two gleaming daggers from her belt.

“Tell her to join you in the Hells.”

Astarion barely has time to react before she lunges, her blades flashing in the dim streetlight. He twists out of the way, his reflexes kicking in just in time to avoid being skewered.

Beside him, Shadowheart is already moving, drawing her mace in one fluid motion. Her expression hardens into something cold and lethal.

Bystanders scream and scatter, the narrow street erupting into chaos. Merchants abandon their stalls, goods forgotten in the mad scramble to flee. The panicked shouts and the clash of metal echo through the night, drowning out the hum of the city.

Astarion’s dagger is in his hand in an instant, the blade glinting in the dim streetlight. He steadies himself, muscles coiled, his crimson gaze locked on the dwarf woman. Beside him, Shadowheart draws her mace, her posture taut with readiness.

The woman lunges, her twin daggers a blur as she strikes at Astarion’s chest. He barely manages to parry, his arm jolting with the force of the blow. She’s fast. Too fast. He stumbles back, giving her space, but she’s relentless, already pivoting toward Shadowheart.

A dagger arcs toward Shadowheart’s throat. She ducks just in time, the blade slicing through the air where she stood a moment ago. She backpedals, her eyes narrowing as she assesses her opponent.

Seizing the opportunity, Astarion darts forward, aiming a precise slash at the woman’s flank. His blade meets fabric, cutting through her shirt, but not quite deep enough. She twists away at the last second, her movements sharp and calculated.

The battle is a brutal dance, weapons flashing under the flickering lantern light. The dwarf woman is unrelenting, alternating between Astarion and Shadowheart, her strikes wild yet precise.

Astarion finally lands a hit—his dagger slicing across her arm. Blood blossoms from the wound, dark and rich, soaking into her sleeve. The scent hits him immediately, intoxicating and maddening. He takes a shaky breath, his fangs aching. It’s been too long since his last feed.

The woman lets out a guttural cry but doesn’t falter. If anything, the pain only fuels her rage. With a furious snarl, she lunges at Astarion again, daggers flashing toward his ribs.

He barely twists out of the way. His heart pounds, his vision tunneling in on her, on the blood trickling down her arm, the sharp tang of it thick in the air. It’s distracting—too distracting.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to focus. He retaliates, his blade biting into her side. She hisses, her movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. She swings both daggers at once, aiming to end this fight in a single, deadly strike.

Before the blades can reach him—

“Stop! Stand down, all of you!”

A sharp voice cuts through the chaos as three heavily armed city guards push through the dispersing crowd. Their weapons are drawn, their expressions steely and uncompromising.

Astarion barely has a second to react before the woman’s arm falls off.

A sickening wet thud echoes as it hits the ground.

The dwarf woman stares at the severed limb in disbelief. Then, her face begins to change. The color drains from her skin. The flesh slackens, then starts to slough off in chunks, peeling from her bones as if melting from the inside out.

One of the guards stumbles back. “Gods! What in the Nine Hells—?!”

Astarion backs away. His eyes are wide and his jaw dropped open. He sees Shadowheart standing with her outstretched hand pressed against the woman’s shoulder. There’s a smug look on her face. 

The woman lets out a strangled, rasping cry. More of her body collapses in on itself—her jaw detaching with a sickening clatter against the cobblestone.

The guards recoil, their grips tightening on their weapons, but they don’t move to attack. The sheer horror of the scene unfolding before them is enough to root them in place.

Soon, there’s nothing left of the woman but a heap of bones and rotting flesh.

Shadowheart watches the scene unfold with a cold detachment, her expression unreadable as she observes the woman's gruesome demise. There's a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes, a glint of something dark and unsettling that sends a shiver down Astarion's spine.

A tense silence follows.

Astarion exhales sharply, staring down at the remains. “Sometimes I forget that I’m living with legends.”

One of the guards, a human man with a trimmed beard and a wary gaze, steps forward. He looks between Astarion and Shadowheart, then at the pile of remains. “You want to explain what in the hells just happened?”

Shadowheart shrugs. “Self-defense. She attacked first.”

The guard eyes her suspiciously. “And what did you do to her?”

“She died,” Astarion says flatly. “Horribly, might I add.”

The guard clenches his jaw, his gaze flickering between them, then down at the remnants of their attacker.

Another guard mutters, “With the way this city’s been lately, I say we call it justified and move on.”

“They’re with the Brain Breaker,” a different guard adds, this one a tiefling.

An awed hush falls on the audience around them.

Finally, Shadowheart breaks the silence, her voice low and measured. "We should get back to Elfsong. It seems like the city isn’t as safe as we thought."

Astarion nods. "Agreed."

As they make their way back, Astarion’s thoughts swirl in a dizzying storm. The fight itself doesn’t rattle him—he’s seen enough violence to last multiple lifetimes. But the way the woman died, the sheer efficiency of Shadowheart’s magic… that unsettles him.

She’s always been a threat, hasn’t she? What is most unsettling is the realization of just how little he truly knows about Shadowheart and her capabilities. Her past threats to his life are starting to feel a little too real right now.

He does feel a little comfort knowing a spell like that wouldn’t work on him. A benefit to being undead.

“I would have appreciated it if you hadn’t immediately turned her into a putrid pile of human remains,” Astarion muses, shooting Shadowheart a side glance. “I was looking forward to a celebratory drink.”

Shadowheart casts a sidelong glance at Astarion, her expression unreadable. "I didn't exactly have time to consult you before dispatching our attacker," she replies evenly, her tone tinged with a hint of amusement. 

Astarion huffs, wiping a speck of blood from his sleeve. Part of him was tempted to try licking it. "Still, I would have appreciated the blood." He shrugs, but there’s a sharpness beneath the casual air.

Shadowheart arches a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

They continue walking through the darkened streets. The Elfsong Tavern isn’t far, but the silence between them stretches long enough that Astarion feels compelled to fill it.

“That was… efficient,” he says, his voice measured, lacking its usual dramatics. He glances at her, expression unreadable. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

Shadowheart doesn’t look at him. “Why would I?”

Astarion studies her, the flickering lamplight casting sharp shadows across her face. “No reason, I suppose,” he says. “It was just… precise. Cold.”

She exhales softly, gaze fixed ahead. “I was trained to kill without hesitation. That doesn't disappear overnight.”

He considers that, the way she had reached out so calmly, the way the woman had dissolved under her touch as though it meant nothing. “But you’re not with them anymore.”

Shadowheart finally looks at him. “And you’re no longer with Cazador.”

Astarion’s jaw tightens. “No. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone. The instinct, the—” He pauses, forcing down the memories clawing at the edge of his thoughts. “It stays with you. It becomes you.”

Shadowheart nods, as if she understands, because of course she does. “When they take everything from you,” she murmurs, “all that’s left is what they made you into.”

Astarion looks away. “And if you don’t remember anything else, how do you know if there was ever anything more?”

Shadowheart doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is quiet. “You don’t.”

The way she says it, the weight to her words, she’s experienced it.

Astarion exhales slowly, his gaze flickering toward her before shifting back to the path ahead. “You don’t,” he repeats, his voice quieter this time, as if testing the weight of it on his tongue.

Shadowheart glances at him. “You want to believe there was more,” she says, “but what if there wasn’t?”

Astarion scoffs, though there’s no real humor behind it. “That’s a comforting thought.”

She doesn’t apologize for it.

“So, why don’t you remember?” Astarion asks. He waits for her to snap at him for overstepping.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t glare or deflect with some sharp remark. Instead, she is silent for a long time, her eyes fixed on the cobblestones beneath their feet. When she finally speaks, her voice is measured, quiet.

“They took my memories,” she says. “Every time I questioned, every time I faltered, they wiped it away. Again and again, until all that was left was them.”

Astarion studies her, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. “And you let them?”

Her jaw tightens. “What choice did I have? It isn’t easy saying no to a god.”

He exhales through his nose, looking away. “Yes. I know something about that.”

Shadowheart lifts her gaze, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “And you? Do you remember anything from before?”

Astarion’s fingers twitch at his sides. “I remember little things,” he admits, though the words feel foreign in his mouth. “Flashes. Pieces that don’t fit together. I don’t even know if they’re real.”

Shadowheart watches him closely, her expression unreadable. “Like what?”

Astarion exhales sharply, as if regretting that he said anything at all. But he answers anyway. “I used to be a magistrate. And a woman’s voice. Soft, warm. I think she was singing.” His brow furrows. “Or maybe laughing. I can’t tell.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear the fog of centuries. “And light—sunlight, I think, filtering through leaves.” He huffs out a bitter chuckle. “That one, obviously, isn’t real.”

“You don’t know that.”

He scoffs. “I do, actually. Sunlight and I have a rather violent relationship.”

“But before?”

Astarion opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His mind gropes for something, anything solid, but all he finds is the same empty, gaping void where his past should be. He closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Even if it was real, what does it matter? That person is gone.”

Shadowheart considers him for a long moment. “Do you want to remember?”

He hesitates. That question—so simple, yet unbearably heavy—digs into him, stirring something he isn’t prepared to name. “I used to think I did,” he says finally. “But now… I’m not sure.” He glances at her. “And you? What do you remember?”

“I remember a forest. I remember feeling afraid. A wolf.” Shadowheart admits. “I didn’t know what it meant for a long time, but I learned eventually.” 

Astarion tilts his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his crimson eyes. “And? What did it mean?”

“The wolf was my father. He was trying to protect me. The Sharran’s had isolated key parts of the memory to use it against me. Fear, isolation, glimpses of my father.”

Astarion watches her, waiting for her to say more, but she doesn’t. Her face remains impassive, her voice measured, as if she’s merely recounting a fact and not a piece of herself.

“They turned it into something to control you,” he says carefully.

Shadowheart inclines her head slightly. “Yes.” The answer is simple, without embellishment.

Astarion exhales, glancing away for a moment. “And you don’t fear it anymore?”

Shadowheart doesn’t answer immediately. When she does, her voice is quiet, composed. “Fear lingers, even when you understand it.”

Astarion huffs a humorless laugh.

Then, finally, Shadowheart speaks. “I spent a long time believing I was nothing more than what they made me. That there was nothing else.” Her gaze flickers toward him, searching, though for what, he isn’t sure. “But I was wrong.”

Astarion swallows, something uncertain tightening in his chest. “And how did you know?”

Shadowheart hesitates. Not because she doesn’t have an answer, but because it isn’t one she gives lightly. “Because I chose to be more.”

Astarion studies her, a frown tugging at his lips. “And if you don’t know how to do that?”

Shadowheart holds his gaze for a long moment before she replies. “Then you start small.”

Her words settle between them, quiet but certain.

Astarion exhales, shaking his head. “Seems like you’ve figured it all out.”

“Have I?” she asks, more like she’s asking herself the question rather than Astarion.

Astarion falters for a moment, thrown by the unexpected turn in her response. He watches her carefully, sensing the shift in her tone, the subtle weight of doubt lingering in her words.

“Well,” he starts, a little more cautiously now, “it seems to me that you’ve made peace with it—more than I’ve managed to do.”

She doesn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the path ahead, but her voice is still steady. “I don’t know if peace is the right word. I’ve… come to terms with it, perhaps. Accepted that what was is gone. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy.”

Astarion studies her, taking in the edges of weariness in her voice, the unspoken complexities she’s trying to mask. “I’m not sure I understand. How do you just… accept that? Accept being molded into something else?”

Shadowheart’s shoulders stiffen slightly, but she remains composed. “You don’t. I killed the people that made me this way. Wiped them all out. It felt good. But, here I am. Still, no family, no history, no Jen. Just Shadowheart.”

Astarion watches her, his brow furrowed, as if trying to comprehend the depth of what she’s just said. “And now? Now that they’re gone, does it feel… better? Or is it just empty?”

Her gaze flickers briefly to him, then quickly returns to the road ahead. “Some things don’t go away, no matter what you do. But the emptiness isn’t as loud anymore. I don’t expect to feel whole again. But I can choose who I am now.”

“So you’re saying I need to kill Cazador and my siblings, raze Czarr Palace, laughing as it burns?” Astarion scoffs. 

“You’re situation is… different,” Shadowheart admits.

Astarion laughs hollowly. “That’s one way to put it.”

They arrive at the Elfsong. Before stepping in, Shadowheart stops. “I’m not sure why I said all that.”

As they reach the Elfsong, Shadowheart pauses before stepping inside. Her eyes flicker toward the ground, and she exhales softly. "I didn’t mean to say all of that," she admits, her voice quiet, almost distant. "I’m not sure why I did."

Astarion watches her, his gaze softened, but he doesn’t press her. He simply nods. “You don’t have to explain.”

Shadowheart swallows, the weight of the conversation settling heavily on her shoulders. She glances at him, then looks away. “I know. I just… don’t like feeling vulnerable.”

Astarion’s lips twitch into a faint, understanding smile, but he says nothing more. They both stand in the silence, a fragile understanding between them. Then, without another word, she turns and steps inside.

Chapter Text

The stench of the sewers clings to Astarion’s nostrils as he trails behind the group, his senses sharp, scanning for any sign of the amulet or the Bhaalists. 

Despite the urgency of their mission, his thoughts keep circling back to Cazador. It has been two days since he and Shadowheart were attacked. Tomorrow, he and Tav will finally tell the others, but the secret weighs on him like a stone in his chest.

The deeper they descend into the labyrinthine tunnels, the stronger Astarion’s unease grows. He can’t shake the sensation of unseen eyes tracking their every step.

"Have I ever said how much I hate the sewers?" Shadowheart mutters, wrinkling her nose as she steps into something unspeakable.

Astarion snorts before quickly smothering his laughter.

Shadowheart glares at him.

"Yes, several times," Tav says from the front of the group.

"Indeed," Wyll chimes in, his tone dry. "But I must admit, the ambiance does have a certain… charm to it."

"If by 'charm' you mean the overwhelming stench of sewage and the constant threat of being ambushed by cultists, then sure," Astarion replies.

He remains on high alert as they move forward, stealing glances over his shoulder, searching the shadows. His instincts scream danger, but there’s nothing. Just darkness. Just silence. He considers warning the others, but what would he say? That the air feels wrong? That he felt like someone was watching from the empty shadows? Everyone is on edge enough as it is.

Something flickers in the murky water.

Astarion stops.

Tav and the others continue forward, not noticing.

He crouches, torchlight glinting off a sliver of metal just beneath the sewage’s surface. His heart pounds. If it’s the amulet, this could be the end of his greatest threat. Holding his breath, he reaches for it, his fingers sinking into the filth—

A sudden shift in the darkness.

He barely has time to react before strong hands seize his shoulders, iron grips digging into his flesh. A second later, a palm clamps over his mouth, cutting off his shout.

His heart slams against his ribs.

Two cloaked people drag him backward, away from the group, deeper into the shadows. He thrashes, kicks, but the hands don’t loosen. He jerks his head back, slamming into something solid—

A sharp grunt. A hood knocked loose.

Petras.

Astarion’s stomach drops as his fellow spawn smirks, fangs bared. "Long time no see, Astarion."

Bile burns Astarion’s throat. If Petras is here, that means—

A voice slithers through the darkness, smooth and cruel. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Astarion freezes. The familiarity of it sends ice through his veins.

As they reach a secluded alcove, the figures release their grip on Astarion, allowing him to stumble forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he turns to face his captors. His eyes widen in shock as he recognizes the figure looming before him, cloaked in shadows but unmistakably familiar.

Cloaked in shadows but unmistakable, Cazador steps forward.

Astarion’s breath catches. His chest tightens with dread.

"Cazador…" The name leaves his lips in a whisper, barely audible over the pounding in his ears.

Cazador moves closer, his face still obscured, but his presence suffocating.

Then, a smile—sharp, predatory. A gloved hand tilts Astarion’s chin, forcing his gaze upward.

Astarion flinches at the touch.

"My dear Astarion," Cazador purrs, silk and malice twined together. "I see you've been keeping busy. Playing hero with your new friends."

Astarion’s jaw tightens, his crimson eyes locking onto Cazador’s cold, calculating stare. "What do you want?" he demands, forcing his voice to stay steady, but he can’t mask the tremor beneath it.

Cazador’s grip on his chin tightens, nails digging in just enough to sting. "You’ve been gone too long. It seems you’ve forgotten your manners."

Astarion clenches his fists as a storm of emotions churns inside him—fear, fury, defiance, all tangled together in a suffocating knot. But no matter how much he fights it, the weight of Cazador’s presence settles over him like iron chains.

"I haven’t forgotten anything," he snaps, though his voice lacks the bite he wants. "You have no right to drag me away like this."

Cazador’s eyes narrow, the glint in them deadly. His nails press deeper. "No right?" he echoes, his voice low and dangerous. "I am your master, Astarion. You belong to me—body and soul."

"You gave that control over to Tav," Astarion reasons, immediately regretting his show of defiance.

Cazador sneers. "Ah yes, the little mortal who thinks she can tame a vampire." He tilts his head, amusement flickering behind his gaze. "But let’s not forget who holds the true power here, shall we?"

Astarion swallows hard. "What do you want?" he asks again, quieter this time, knowing that Cazador still holds sway over him, Astarion’s will bending to his commands whether he likes it or not.

Cazador’s lips curl into a slow, cruel smile. He leans in, his breath brushing against Astarion’s ear. "I want you to remember who you belong to," he purrs. "I want you to remember that you are mine to command. Mine to control."

Cazador lets his hand fall from Astarion’s chin and wrap around to his back. His fingers trace over the raised scars on Astarion’s back, sending a shiver down his spine.

Astarion flinches as Cazador’s hand falls from his chin, fingers ghosting over his shoulder, then lower, until they find the raised scars on his back. The touch sends a violent shiver through him.

His stomach churns.

Pain. Submission. Helplessness.

Memories claw at him—years of torment, of Cazador’s whims dictating every moment of his existence. He can feel them, every lash of the whip, every time his body wasn’t his own, every moment stolen from him. The ghosts of his past wrap around his throat, suffocating.

And yet—he can’t pull away.

Because no matter how much he recoils, no matter how much he hates this, he knows one brutal, undeniable truth.

Cazador still owns him.

"I remember," Astarion forces out through gritted teeth.

A satisfied chuckle rumbles from Cazador’s throat. He lets his palm flatten against the small of Astarion’s back, a mockery of familiarity. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I have a task for you, my dear Astarion. One that will prove your loyalty to me."

Astarion’s stomach twists, dread sinking its claws deep. "Please," he whispers before he can stop himself.

Cazador laughs, sharp and delighted. "Already begging? How delightful."

Then his expression darkens. The amusement fades, replaced by something far crueler. "I want you to kill her."

The words are a dagger to Astarion’s gut.

His throat tightens. "No," he breathes. "Please—"

Cazador doesn’t acknowledge his plea. He draws a dagger from his belt, its blade twisting unnaturally, pulsing with dark enchantment. He holds it out, presenting it like an offering. "You will take this blade. When the Brainbreaker and the others have fallen fast asleep, you will plunge it into her chest and kill her."

Astarion’s hands tremble. His fingers twitch—and then, against his will, they reach forward.

No.

The fight leaves his muscles. His fingers curl around the dagger’s hilt, his body obeying a command his mind is screaming against.

He barely recognizes his own voice as he stammers, "I-I can’t…"

Cazador’s grip tightens over Astarion’s hand, forcing his fingers to close around the weapon.

"You will," he murmurs. "You have no choice."

Astarion stares at the blade, his vision blurring. Every fiber of his being rebels against the command, but it doesn’t matter. His hands are no longer his own. The nausea rolls through him in waves, suffocating, choking.

He thinks of Tav.

Tav and the light that she has brought into his dark and tortured existence. Tav, who looked at him like he was more than just something broken, something used. How could he ever bring himself to harm her, to snuff out the precious spark of life that she embodies?

She is the sunlight he has craved for centuries.

And now he is being commanded to extinguish her.

Astarion fights, claws for any way out, any loophole, but there is none. He is ensnared in Cazador’s web, trapped in the role he has spent his entire existence trying to escape.

His grip tightens around the dagger.

And he knows—

This is a battle he cannot win.

"You will not speak of this meeting or my command," Cazador says, his voice smooth, effortless in its cruelty. "And when the time comes, you will return to the palace."

Astarion’s stomach twists. The weight of the order settles over him like a noose tightening around his throat. He cannot refuse. He cannot fight it.

"I understand," he forces out, his voice hollow. His head bows, not out of reverence, but because he no longer has the strength to hold it high.

"Good boy," Cazador purrs, stepping back, satisfied. "Do this well, and you will be rewarded."

The words feel like rusted nails driven into his skull.

Cazador turns, his cloak sweeping over the damp stone as he strides into the tunnels. "Petras, Dalyria. Walk with me."

Without hesitation, the two spawn follow, their steps silent, their presence disappearing into the dark.

And Astarion is left alone.

But not truly alone.

Not when his master’s command still coils inside him like a parasite, burrowing deeper with every breath.

He stands there, frozen, the dagger heavy in his grip. He wants to drop it. Wants to throw it into the filth and never look at it again. But his fingers won’t move. His body refuses to obey.

He wants to collapse, let himself rot here with the sewage, let the city swallow him whole. But even that is not his choice to make.

His feet move.

Step by step, they drag him forward, pulling him back toward the people he is meant to betray.

His footsteps echo in the silence, each one heavier than the last.

Then—

"Astarion!"

A voice, distant but urgent.

His body lurches toward it, his pace quickening.

"Astarion!" Another voice, sharper. Wyll.

The figures ahead come into focus—his companions, waiting, unknowing.

Tav’s face brightens when she sees him, relief softening her features. "There you are," she breathes. "You had us worried."

Run.

Stay back.

He wants to scream it. Wants to shove them away, turn and flee before it's too late.

But the words won’t come.

Instead, he hears himself say, "I thought I saw something important. Stopped to inspect it. When I looked up, you were all gone."

His fingers tighten around the dagger at his side.

Tav studies him, concern flickering in her eyes. "Are you alright?"

No.

He forces a tight-lipped smile. "I'm fine. Just got a little distracted, that’s all." His voice feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods. "Just be careful, alright? We don’t know what’s lurking down here."

Too late for that.

"Of course," he says, the words like ash on his tongue.

"I think it’s time we call it a night," Wyll says through a yawn.

Panic slams through Astarion like a blade to the chest.

"No!"

The word comes out too sharp, too fast.

"Astarion, Wyll’s right," Tav says, her tone gentle, oblivious to the storm inside him. "We’ve been searching for a while and haven’t found anything. It’s late. We’re tired."

They can’t sleep. She can’t sleep. Maybe, if he can keep them awake long enough, the command to kill won’t take affect.

His heart pounds so violently he feels dizzy, his pulse roaring in his ears. He is running out of time, out of options. If she falls asleep, he will lose the battle he is barely holding onto.

His voice is raw with desperation when he speaks. "No, we can’t stop now. We’re so close, I can feel it." The words spill out in a frantic rush, unsteady, unraveling.

A delay. He just needs to delay.

Even if only for a little while longer.

Tav’s brow furrows as she studies Astarion’s face, searching for something—anything—that might explain his erratic behavior. "Astarion, are you sure there’s nothing wrong?"

His mind races, scrambling for an excuse, any excuse. "I just… I don’t want to give up yet. We’ve come this far."

The words feel flimsy, transparent, but they’re all he can manage.

Despite his desperation to stall their return, Astarion knows he can’t keep them in the sewers forever. He has no choice but to follow as they begin their climb back to the surface, his mind tangled in frantic calculations.

He has to stop this.

If Tav never falls asleep, maybe—maybe—he can resist Cazador’s command. Maybe he can hold out until morning, until he and Tav finally tell the others about Araj’s warning. They’d have no choice but to protect themselves from him after that. They’d stay away. They’d be safe.

He just needs to keep her awake.

They emerge onto the street, the air crisp after the stifling damp of the sewers. A faint melody drifts through the night—the strumming of a lute. Laughter and footsteps swirl around them as a musician plays in the square.

An idea strikes him.

"Tav, let’s dance."

Before she can react, Astarion grabs her hand and tugs her toward the music.

Tav stumbles slightly, caught off guard. "Dancing? Now?"

"Yes, now!" His grip tightens, urgency creeping into his voice. "Come on, it’ll be fun."

Tav digs her heels in, stopping them mid-step. "Astarion, what has gotten into you?"

He meets her gaze, eyes wide with something just shy of pleading. "It’s just… I thought it would be nice to do something spontaneous for once. Come on, Tav, humor me. What harm could it do?"

She exhales, giving him a skeptical look, but the corners of her lips twitch. "Alright, fine," she relents with a small sigh. "But just for a little while."

Relief floods through him.

He leads her toward the bustling square, weaving through the revelers. Lantern light glows overhead, casting long, golden streaks across the cobblestones. The music swells, lively and full, wrapping around them like a spell.

Astarion pulls Tav into the dance.

The steps should come easily, but they don’t. They’re faded, blurred—Cazador’s parties had never been about dancing. Not like this. Not with joy.

Still, he moves, and Tav follows. She laughs as they twirl, as they step too quickly, as they stumble into each other. It isn’t graceful, but it doesn’t matter. She’s smiling.

For a moment, he lets himself pretend.

The rest of the group finds them eventually, watching from the edges. Wyll approaches Shadowheart but is immediately faced with a blunt rejection.

The moment would be sweet under any other circumstances. Despite the laughter and merriment that surrounds them, Astarion's thoughts are consumed by the dark shadow that looms over their happiness, threatening to shatter everything he’s built up.

And then the music fades.

The revelers begin to disperse, and the weight returns, pressing against his ribs like a blade.

Tav, breathless and flushed, turns to him with a grin. She looks perfect.

It’s like being stabbed in the chest.

This could be the last time he sees her like this.

"We should really get going," she says, glancing toward the others.

"But the night is still young," Astarion counters quickly. "Surely there’s something else for us to see, somewhere else to go." His voice is light, but the urgency is still there, curling beneath the surface.

Tav chuckles, shaking her head. "Not all of us are nightstalkers like you, Astarion. I’m exhausted."

His stomach plummets.

No.

He’s out of time.

"I… I understand," he murmurs, voice hollow. "Let’s head back."

When they arrive at the inn, Astarion moves before his instincts betray him. He stashes the dagger away, knotting the bag—once, twice, three times. If it’s difficult to reach, maybe he can delay himself. Maybe it’ll be enough. Maybe someone will notice before it’s too late.

Every second counts.

The others settle in, their exhaustion dragging them toward sleep.

Astarion watches, panic clawing at his ribs.

He rushes to Tav’s bed. She stands beside it, halfway through her nightly routine.

"Tav," he blurts, voice tight, "could we talk for a bit?"

She looks up, startled by his urgency. "Of course," she says, setting her things aside. "What’s on your mind?"

Astarion’s heart pounds so violently he thinks it might shake him apart. He can’t tell her the truth—not outright—but maybe he can say something. Anything. A warning disguised as something else.

"I… I just wanted to apologize," he begins, his voice barely above a whisper. His crimson eyes search Tav’s face, willing her to understand what he can’t say. "For earlier, in the sewers. I know I’ve been acting strange lately. I have my reasons, but I… I can’t tell you them."

Tav’s brow furrows, concern flickering in her gaze. "Astarion, you don’t need to apologize," she says softly, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on his arm. "We all have our moments. If something’s wrong, you can talk to me about it."

Astarion clenches his jaw. The words fight to escape, but Cazador’s command coils around his throat like a noose. He wants to grab her shoulders, shake her, tell her to run—tell her she’s in danger—but the chains hold fast.

His voice turns raw, desperate. "No, Tav. It’s not that. I can’t talk about it."

Her expression softens, though confusion lingers. "I understand," she says gently. "Sometimes, there are things we can’t share, even with the people we trust. I won’t force you to tell me anything you don’t want to. Just know that I’m here for you, Astarion. Whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone."

He huffs, frustrated—not at her, never at her—but at himself, at his own cursed helplessness.

You shouldn’t be here for me, he wants to tell her. You should be far, far away.

Instead, he swallows hard, forcing down the tremor in his voice. "I appreciate that, Tav," he murmurs, the words tinged with something fragile, something breaking. He exhales, knowing what he has to say next will take everything he has left.

"But there’s something I need to ask of you."

Tav tilts her head. "Of course, Astarion. Anything."

Astarion takes a slow, shaking breath, steeling himself for what feels like the hardest battle he’s ever fought. It’s like ripping open his own chest, forcing the words past the weight of Cazador’s command. Every syllable is agony.

"Please, Tav," he whispers, his voice raw. "Whatever happens tonight… don’t fall asleep."

It makes him sick. Physically ill. His stomach twists as though he’s just swallowed poison, as though he’s been impaled from the inside out. Like his body is punishing him for disobeying.

Tav blinks, surprised. "Don’t fall asleep?" She frowns. "Why?"

He tries to answer. He wants to answer. But the words won’t come. The command digs in, sinking hooks into his throat, holding him still like a marionette on invisible strings.

It’s the only truth he can say.

Tav watches him for a beat, something unreadable in her gaze, before she reaches out and squeezes his hand. "You won’t be alone, Astarion," she says with quiet certainty. "I’ll stay awake with you. We can talk, or I can just keep you company until you feel better. Whatever you need."

He feels himself unraveling.

"Could you just… keep talking to me?" he asks.

Tav nods. "Of course. About what?"

Astarion shrugs, lowering himself onto the bed beside her. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Alright," she says, settling in. A moment passes before she starts recounting a story—the first time they faced off against a Bhaalspawn. There’s a steadiness in her tone, though it turns wistful when she mentions Gale. Her eyes mist over, but she keeps going.

Astarion listens. He clings to the sound of her voice like a lifeline, letting the cadence of her words wrap around him, momentarily drowning out the suffocating weight of Cazador’s command.

When her story comes to an end, Astarion hesitates before asking the question that’s been gnawing at him all night. "Do you really think we can face whatever threat comes our way?”

Tav considers this, eyes flickering in the candlelight. "I believe we can," she says at last, steady and unwavering. "We’ve faced countless challenges together, and each time, we’ve come out stronger for it. And that was before we had you."

She leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder.

He stiffens for just a second before relaxing into it, welcoming the contact.

It’s her final sentence that sticks with him.

Even if he doesn’t believe in himself, Tav believes in him.

Maybe… maybe that’s enough.

It won’t be long until sunrise.

He just has to hold on. He could do this.

Astarion wraps an arm around Tav’s shoulders, pulling her close. He rests his cheek lightly against the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of her—warmth, life, everything he was never meant to have.

"Thank you, Tav," he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath. "For everything."

She looks up at him, her eyes shimmering with something unspoken, something he isn’t sure he’ll ever deserve. "Anytime, Astarion," she says softly, the words carrying a silent promise—one of unwavering support, of trust he has done nothing to earn.

He clings to that. To her.

As the night drags on, he fights to keep her awake. He speaks—recounts old adventures, embellishes them with his usual dramatics, anything to keep her talking, anything to keep the weight of exhaustion from pulling her under.

But the longer they sit, the more oppressive it becomes. Cazador’s command presses against him, a crushing force, and the dagger hidden away burns in the back of his mind. Every second feels like a battle, his own body betraying him, inching closer to the inevitable.

Then—her fingers find his hand.

She holds it, her thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns over his skin, grounding him in the smallest of ways. "Astarion," she asks quietly, "how are you really feeling?"

His throat tightens. "Terrified."

"Me too."

She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back.

They sit like that, wrapped in silence, her touch a fragile anchor against the storm raging inside him. Despite everything—despite the threat of what he might do, of what he will do if he fails—he finds solace in this.

The steady rhythm of her breathing.

The warmth of her skin.

The way she trusts him, even now.

And that’s what finally breaks him.

"Tav," he whispers, his voice almost lost to the stillness. "No matter how this night ends… you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

She shifts slightly, her fingers still brushing against his.

He exhales, staring down at their joined hands. "I don’t know if I’m still capable of love," he admits, the words thick in his throat, "not after everything that’s happened to me. But what I feel for you… I think it’s the closest I’ll ever get. So, I guess in my own way…" His voice wavers. "I do love you."

The confession feels like a blade removed from his chest—relieving in the moment, but leaving him open, raw.

He waits.

And waits.

His pulse thrums loudly in his ears as he stares at the floor, afraid to look at her, afraid of what she’ll say—what she won’t say.

But then, the silence stretches too long.

Too still.

Astarion’s breath catches.

Tav’s fingers have gone still against his.

Her grip has loosened.

Slowly, his gaze lifts—

Her breathing is slow. Even. Her body slack against his.

Her hand slips from his, falling onto the bed.

His stomach drops.

No.

No.

Astarion stares at her, horror clawing its way up his throat as realization crashes down on him, suffocating.

He failed.

She’s asleep.