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Chapter Text

Astarion watched as she drifted into his sitting room, moving with the effortless grace of nobility, no matter how insistently she rejected the title. Her tattered velvet cloak trailed behind her, its once-rich fabric now dulled with wear, dusting over marble as she sank into the chair opposite him.

Such a shame how she disgraced herself, even here in his palace. Even still, she looked impossibly beautiful. Her eyes burned into him with the unbridled radiance of the sun, her auburn hair fell in loose curls around her shoulders, drawing his eyes to her bare neck. Worn fabric tugged at her curves, draping effortlessly at the dip in her waist. 

It had been months since their last meeting, when she had so foolishly insisted they destroy the Netherbrain rather than wield its power. They had parted bitterly—or so he told himself, as if bitterness could cauterize the wound she left behind. She had looked at him with a mixture of loathing and pity. She had called him by his name.

When one of his servants had delivered the news that she was to leave Baldur’s Gate, it felt as if she might slip through his fingers for good. At least, while she was here, he could keep tabs on her. He had clung to the fantasy that she would come crawling back, just as he had clung to the memory of her touch, her warmth, the way she once whispered his name like a prayer.

“So, you accepted my invitation.” He held his chest high and greeted her with a rakish smirk. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“I thought we deserved a proper goodbye,” Nyari said meekly, standing at the precipice to the space as if she may still turn around. Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the lavish decor, the indulgent excess of it all. Her own family home had been dazzling itself, but Astarion’s obsession over the decor took extravagance to new heights, candlelight catching on crystal and gold, walls stretching imposingly above. She didn’t meet his eyes as she continued, “I assume you heard my news.”

He waved his hand. “Of course, I did. I hear everything, my sweet.”

She nodded, cautiously stepping forward to take a seat by the fire. “Gale has invited me to help with some arcane research. Perhaps it will be a good change of pace.” 

Astarion’s jaw clenched, vexed by her refusal to meet his gaze. To walk away from him only to come back to gloat and deny him further. He took a step towards her, looking down at her with a flicker of hatred behind his crimson eyes. “Have you not insulted me enough already?” Tsk . “Running off with Gale after I offer you eternal life and luxury beyond your puny imagination.”

He watched as she shuddered, eyes dragging up his form as he stood, now towering over her. She sank into her seat, her hand fiddling with the chair’s fabric. Desire he was used to, but to inspire fear in such a hero was delicious.

He could hear her pulse quicken, and he longed more than anything to taste her again, even as she pulled her gaze away from him once again.

Astarion grinned, sharp and wicked. “Oh, it is fun to make you squirm.” He leaned in, teasing delicate fingers through her hair, breathing in her heavenly scent, “You say you’ve come here to say goodbye, but your body gives you away, darling.”

“This was a mistake.” Her voice was firm, unyielding.

Like a reflex, her rejection ignited something wicked inside him. It should have been simple—she was his. She always had been. Yet, every time she looked at him like that, with defiance and something almost mournful, he felt like a boy scorned rather than a king.

“ Leaving me was a mistake.” He lowered his voice, knowing exactly how to summon the breathy tone that would make her knees buckle. “I was willing to share all this with you. An eternity together. I would have torn the heavens apart just to please you.”

She rose abruptly, the tension in her body palpable, “You wanted to turn me into your spawn.”

His lips curled in distaste. “Spawn.” The word tasted foul. “Such a vulgar word. You would be my consort, my right hand, my beloved .”

“ Beloved? ” she looked away, “If you loved me, you would not need to control me.”

He laughed, admittedly enjoying her little struggle. She was always so difficult, acting as if she didn’t yearn to be his.

“If you hated me, you wouldn’t have come.” His hand drifted to her throat, his grip light—possessive, but not constraining, to turn her face back towards him. He savoured the fluttering of her pulse beneath his touch. A reminder that she was still his, whether she was ready to admit it. His voice softened, coaxing, as if unravelling her defenses thread by thread. “So, why are you really here? Surely, you didn’t just come to argue.”

Nyari swallowed, her breath uneven. “I told you already.” With that, she stood, infuriatingly close yet with her eyes toward the door.

“No, my sweet, I don’t think you have.” He brushed a finger over her lips, eyes flickering as they parted for him. “You wanted me to give you a reason to stay, didn’t you? Maybe a little heart-to-heart to mend old wounds?”

He watched as a storm of emotions flickered across her face—fear, longing, rage—before something in her expression softened, eyes widening in the way they used to when she was his. “I have missed you, Astarion.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

He brought his lips to hers with feral need, a growl rumbling low in his throat as his hands roamed, desperate to reclaim what had once been his. It had been too long. His hips rolled against her instinctively, letting her feel how hard and wanting he was through layers of clothing. He brushed his fang against her lower lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

When he pulled away, he let himself linger, drinking in the sight of her love bitten lips, flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Stay here tonight.” His voice was low, rough with something between command and desperation.

Her lips remained parted, caught between words she hadn't yet found. Her breath hitched, uneven. Strands of mussed hair framed her face, her cheeks tinted with warmth—whether from his touch or something else, he couldn't tell.

"Astarion—"

The thoughts came unbidden: of draining her blood, taking everything from her regardless of her protests, asserting his power. It would be so easy, especially when she so willingly bared her neck to him. Perhaps it would be preferable to this wretched, undignified yearning, grovelling at her feet like a dog in hopes she would choose him, as if her choice mattered more than his will.

No. In time, he could convince her. He was convincing. She had always succumbed to his charms.

Nyari listed off a few necessities to the trader, healing potions, arrows, a couple of vials of acid, exchanging gold with a polite smile before tucking the goods into her pack.

As they stepped away, Astarion brushed against her shoulder. “Look what I got us.” He pulled a dusty bottle of Arabellan Dry from his sack, holding it up like a prize.

Her eyes widened, “Astarion! You could have just asked me to buy some. We have the gold.”

He sighed dramatically, “Yes, but where’s the fun in that? Don’t look so scandalized, darling. I took the ugliest bottle. No one will even miss it.”

She folded her arms, fixing him with a disapproving look, though the corners of her lips twitched with barely restrained amusement. “It is the principle.”

Astarion chuckled, leaning in just enough to lower his voice. “Oh, you’re adorable.” He tapped the bottle against her hip. “Don’t fret, the gods turn a blind eye to far worse crimes than this. Consider it a gift, for my favourite paladin.”

A flutter of excitement stirred in her chest as she took the bottle. "Just this once."

He flashed her a grin full of roguish charm. "Of course, darling. I wouldn’t dream of corrupting that bleeding heart of yours."

She should have despised his chaos, the way he danced through transgressions that would have disgraced her entire lineage. He made a mockery of the rules she had built her life around, wore defiance like a second skin.

Yet she loved him.

Loved him for showing her the world was not so rigid, for his perseverance, for his sheer audacity. Loved him for the flourish of his hand gestures, the relentless flirtation. Even when she reluctantly helped him complete that profane ritual—watched him revel in the sacrifice of 7,000 souls—she felt nothing but tenderness.

The man before her now was a shadow of the one she had once known, his features hardened by ascension. And still, she wanted for him what she always had—to be free, to feel safe, to walk in the sun.

She snapped back to reality. The way he looked at her now made her feel unbearably exposed, as if he could see straight through her, watching memories pass behind her eyes.

“Do not look at me like that.” Her voice was quiet, almost pleading.

His eyebrow lifted. “Don’t tell me it’s too much for you, my love. I used to do far more salacious things than merely look at you.”

As long as she stayed in Baldur’s Gate, she would be at his mercy, his eyes and ears throughout the city watching, listening, whispering her every move back to him. And she would return here, again and again, searching for some flicker of the man she had once known, clinging to the hope that he still lingered beneath the mask.

But there was no future in that. Only a slow unravelling.

He had connections in Waterdeep, she was sure of it, but the distance promised at least the illusion of peace. A chance to start over, to let memories be washed over by time, to let this longing fade into something that wouldn’t consume her whole.

“I cannot stay.” She said finally, more to herself than to him, “But Astarion, thank you for everything. Really.” She placed gentle fingers over his arm and offered him a tender smile, heartbreak glistening in her eyes.“I hope you get everything you ever wanted.”

His mouth hung open, muscles slackening for a brief, unguarded moment at her words.

He already had everything he had ever wanted. Almost.

Before he could find his bearings, she was gone, slipping from the room with the same quiet ease with which she had entered.

He thought about chasing after her, about compelling her to stop in her tracks, to stay, to never dare walk away from him again. The power thrummed within him, the command poised on the tip of his tongue. It would be so easy.

But his body froze, petrified.

This was his chance to claim her again and he had failed, foolishly hesitating to use the powers he had fought so hard for.

She had walked away again, seemingly eager to be rid of him. What more could he offer her that he hadn’t already laid at her feet? An eternity of pleasure. His every power poised to keep her safe. A kingdom of her own at her fingertips.

How much could she despise him that even that was not enough?

Nyari dropped her bags and knocked on the door. Ten days by carriage of quiet roads and the steady rhythm of hooves against dirt — yet she hadn’t been able to outrun her thoughts. Her mind drifted, again and again, to her last encounter with Astarion. She couldn’t even feel the warmth of the sun on her skin without wondering what it was like for him now, whether that fleeting sensation had been worth the sacrifice.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Gale, who greeted her with a broad smile. “ Welcome! ”  

Before she could react, he had already gathered her bags, bustling inside with enthusiasm. “ You must be positively starved from your journey. Can I get you anything?”

She stepped inside, taking in the space. The house radiated warmth and well-worn charm—shelves overflowing with tomes and scrolls, a half-full cup of coffee precariously balanced atop a stack of parchment, embroidered tapestries covering nearly every inch of wall that wasn’t occupied by bookshelves.

She exhaled, tension melting from her shoulders. This was what she needed.

“Oh, please do not fuss over me.” She grinned, already more at ease than she had been in weeks. “ I am grateful enough for your invitation.”

“Nonsense!” Gale called over his shoulder as he rushed into the kitchen. “It brings me nothing but joy to host a dear friend such as yourself. Now—how do you take your coffee? ”

“Cream and sugar, please.”

“Ah, I should have remembered.” A moment later, he returned with a steaming cup, placing it gently in her hands. “Now, do not spare me any details. How have you been faring?”

Nyari took a slow sip. The coffee was smooth and rich, better than anything they used to scrape together at camp. A ridiculous thing to fixate on, but it struck her all the same. These were the kinds of luxuries she would allow herself.

“I have been… well.” She paused, rolling the words over in her mind before continuing. “ I am glad to be here, at least. Baldur’s Gate was getting a little overwhelming .”

Gale’s brow lifted. “ Yes, I do recall from your letters. ” He leaned forward, voice softening. “ He… didn’t try to harm you, did he? ”

Her fingers tightened around the cup. “ No, he would never. ” The words left her lips without thought. Why was she so sure anymore?

“I just need space,” she added, firmly.

He studied her for a moment, then inclined his head in understanding. “Then space you shall have.” His hands clasped together, the shift in subject almost seamless. “ You are going to love Waterdeep, I’m sure of it. And the things I’m working on, what we will be working on—” He stopped himself with a sheepish chuckle. “Ah, but I should let you rest first.”

“No.” She leaned forward, desperate for any reprieve from the thoughts that had haunted her throughout the journey. She couldn’t bear another night with nothing but Astarion to occupy her mind. “Please. I would love to catch up.”

His eyes lit up. “ In that case, I’ve prepared some light reading for you. ” 

He turned, swooping toward his desk with renewed excitement, gathering a precarious stack of books in his arms. “Just some introductory things, really,” he added, entirely unconvincing.

Nyari let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I will see what I can do.” It was a ridiculous amount of reading, but she welcomed the distraction.

“Now, I know I was vague over our letters, but it's only because what we are doing must remain, well-” he paused, eyes narrowing in thought, “let’s just say, it’s better if these things are kept solely amongst trusted allies.”

She glanced at the stack of books: histories of necromancy, profane rituals, and— “Sharran magic?”

He exhaled sharply, before explaining with slow, cautious words. “I’ve been researching an alleged method of apotheosis. Something that’s never been done before. Well, not successfully, anyways.” Noticing the apprehension in her eyes, he lifted a hand. “I have no intention of attempting it. My ambitions of godhood are long behind me, I assure you.”

“So this is… purely theoretical?”

“For you and I, yes.” Gale nodded, “And I know what you’re thinking, but I wish only to protect others from the fate to which I nearly succumbed.” He leaned forward, as if to emphasize the severity of his words. “It is far better for us to understand this before anyone else does. One cannot prevent what one does not grasp.”

Nyari nodded, uneasy. Where might she be now if any of them had grasped the gravity of Astarion’s ascension? How it would change him? Her stomach twisted at the thought that, perhaps, nothing would have changed at all. Perhaps he still would have gone through with it, even if it meant forsaking who he was. Who he was to her.

Gale’s voice pulled her from the spiral. “Now, I understand if any of this gives you pause. I won’t take offense if you’d rather not be involved, and you’re welcome to stay here regardless but…” He hesitated, eyes searching hers, “I would greatly appreciate your assistance.”

“Yes.” The word left her lips before she could second-guess it. “I will do it.”

His face lit up. “Fantastic.” He clapped his hands together, the sharp sound breaking the quiet tension. “Now, come. Let me show you to your room.”

She followed him into a small chamber, uncluttered, but not barren. A simple desk sat beside a window, its surface cleared save for an inkwell and a single quill. A neatly folded quilt lay at the foot of the bed, its embroidery slightly worn but lovingly crafted.

“I’ve, uh, cleared out some space for you.” Gale gestured vaguely to the shelves, where a few gaps in his collection suggested a recent reshuffling. “ I figured you might want to make it your own. I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay, but please, make yourself at home. ”

She already felt at home. A life of simplicity, of prudent luxuries, of praise earned from doing something meaningful in the world.

“It is beyond perfect.” She smiled, setting the stack of books on the desk.

“Fantastic.” Gale grinned. “ I’ll leave you to those books then, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Do you know how to find the university from here?”

She nodded. She had picked up a map on the way.

That night, she began sifting through the pages, letting the words pull her in, pushing thoughts of Astarion to the back of her mind each time they threatened to surface.

Waterdeep was dizzying.

The city pulsed with life, a constant churn of bodies and voices that set Nyari’s nerves on edge. There were too many people to track, too much movement to accurately gauge her surroundings. Overlapping chatter buzzed in her ears, and each passing glance felt like a threat. She could’ve sworn that, in the corner of her eye, she spotted a set of red eyes fixed in her direction.

She blinked. The street shifted. The eyes were gone.

The university felt like a sanctuary, a quiet refuge from the city’s chaotic rhythm. As she crossed its threshold, tension eased from her shoulders, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Then she saw him. Gale stood at the far end of the corridor, dressed finely in an amaranth sweater, his hair sweeping gracefully around his ears.

“Professor Dekarios,” she called, a smile tugging at her lips. “You look positively in your element.”

He turned, his expression warming at the sight of her. “It’s still Gale to you. Although…” He smoothed a hand over his sleeve with mock vanity. “I admit, it does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“It suits you.”

“As I hope academic life will suit you as well.” He gestured for her to follow, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Come—there’s much to show you.”

Nyari had to practically jog to keep up with Gale as he guided her through the campus, occasionally gesturing toward a lecture hall or down a quiet corridor to launch into a tale of some famous wizard who once walked these very paths.

It felt safer here, yet she refused to let her guard down entirely. Gale’s stories faded into the background as her eyes scanned around for any sign of Astarion’s thrall.

When they finally parted ways, the night air felt colder than before. She pulled her cloak tighter around her, the echo of her footsteps filling the empty streets. Waterdeep's vastness stretched out before her, quieter now, but no less imposing.

The streets were sparse enough now that she could take note of the characters around her. Most paid her no attention. In a place as vast as Waterdeep, one could usually disappear into the crowd, slipping through the cracks of its ceaseless rhythm.

But not tonight.

The footsteps behind her were unmistakable. Steady. Unyielding. They matched her pace, even when she took unexpected turns and her strides quickened.

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment to reach for her divine senses. The presence brushed against her mind: Undead. She didn’t need to turn to know.

Her fingers closed around her dagger, the familiar weight grounding her. Radiant energy flickered beneath her skin, seeping into the hilt and along the blade as she spun, weapon raised to meet her stalker.

Chapter Text

In one swift motion, Nyari pinned her stalker against a cold stone wall, dagger pressed firmly to his throat. She recognized him immediately, one of the vampire spawn who had silently guarded Astarion’s estate when she had visited.

He stilled beneath her grip, pale and thin, red eyes heavily lidded with hunger. The same hunger she used to see in Astarion’s eyes before she allowed him to feed from her. Of course, Astarion kept his spawn wanting. She recalled his words: the greatest threat to a vampire was another vampire . Even now, with all the power ascension had granted him, he was ensuring no one could rise to challenge him. Coward .

“You are one of Astarion’s, are you not?” Her voice was quiet, sharp. It wasn’t a question.

The spawn’s throat bobbed against her blade. “L-Lord Ancunin,” he corrected weakly.

Nyari rolled her eyes. “Did he send you to capture me?”

“N-no,” he sputtered pathetically, “just watch.”

She sighed, easing back her knife. This one was no threat, just a thorn pricking at her side.

The spawn gasped for air, raising his hands in a placating gesture. If not for the crimson of his eyes, there was little about him that seemed dangerous. A mop of dark hair fell around his face, his frame slight, his expression almost naive.

“How many of you did he send?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Her gaze narrowed, searching his face for signs of deception. She found none. All she sensed was fear. With a tired sigh, she slid her dagger back into its sheath and raised her hands, showing that she meant no harm.

“Well then,” she said, stepping back, “could you deliver a message to Lord Ancunin on my behalf?”

The spawn hesitated, eyes flickering to the side, looking for an opportunity to flee.

“I am not going to hurt you.” Nyari reassured, far too aware that he was not here by choice. She tried to summon a kinder expression, anything to put the poor boy at ease.

“I’m not supposed to—” His eyes were pleading now, voice turned to barely a whisper. “I’m not supposed to speak with you. Only watch.”

She sighed. Who knows what life this man may have lived before Astarion drained him of it. He looked young, bookish, not too different from the students Gale tended to at the university.

“Does Astarion-” she paused, questioning if she even wanted the answer to the question at her lips, “Does he hurt you?”

The spawn shook his head quickly. “Lord Ancunin has been very gracious toward me, miss.”

“Of course he has.” Her jaw tightened, wondering whether he had been compelled to say that. Hoping he hadn’t. “What is your name?”

His chapped lips pulled into a thin line, voice coming out raspy as if unused to speaking so much. “I should really be going, miss. I’ll leave you alone now.”

She could let him go. Let him slip away into the night and…. Then what?

His thrall would continue to watch her. Worse, if Astarion found out that one of them spoke to her, Corin would be the one to pay the price. Her stomach tightened. 

Murmuring an incantation, she felt necrotic energy hum through her veins. Even now, it felt like something that didn’t belong inside her, twisting her stomach into knots as the power coiled into her fingertips, waiting. Her eyes glowed faintly with gold as she locked gazes with the spawn. 

The magic settled over him like a weight. She watched as the spark of self faded from his eyes, leaving only obedience behind. A hollowed-out thing. 

“Tell me your name.” She ordered, tucking her trembling hands into her pockets to still them.

“Corin,” he answered, voice distant, eyes unfocused.

“Good.” She exhaled slowly. “And you will deliver my message, will you not?”

“Yes.”

“And when Astarion asks why you spoke to me,” she said, voice low and steady, “you will tell him I took control of you. That I forced you to obey.” She hesitated, the weight of her own words settling in her chest. “I will take the consequences. Not you.”

Even now, she felt confident that Astarion wouldn’t harm her. She knew he wanted her pretty and unscathed, a treasured pet for him to dote on. But Corin? She had seen him dispose of far too many spawn, 7000 to be exact, to feel assured of his safety.

She forced herself to hold his empty gaze.

Corin blinked once, slowly. “Yes.”

Her tone turned venomous, each word laced with quiet fury. “Tell him that, despite his best efforts, I still see him exactly as he is — terrified. Clawing at power to convince himself otherwise. Tell him I have never seen him so weak, so pathetic , as has been since that wretched ritual.” The words were cruel, but felt true, cathartic, all the same. It was a relief to get her frustrations off her chest without his cool, disarming gaze to stop the words at her tongue. “Could you tell him that, darling ?”

Nyari stepped back, releasing him from her magic, and with it allowing some of her anger to subside. 

​​The spawn flinched as his awareness returned. Surely, he was no stranger to compulsion, yet it sickened her all the same. He twisted his fingers, testing the fragile return of his agency, before casting one last wary glance her way and vanishing into the night.

She watched him disappear, heart sinking. Alone beneath the moonlight, the city's shadows stretched long around her. The streets felt colder now, the weight of her words settling in her chest. Would this be enough to sever the ties between them? Or had she only provoked him further? Would he send more spawn next time with instructions to do more than just watch her?

Or worse. Would he even care?

A bitter part of her hoped her words would strike deep, that they’d fester in his mind and drive him to distraction. She wanted him to feel even a fraction of the torment he’d left her with. She’d run from Baldur’s Gate because of him, because of the sleepless nights spent remembering the softness he had torn from himself.

Nyari drew her cloak tighter and walked on, each step heavy with memory and resolve.

Nyari and Astarion lounged against a fallen log, the flicker of the campfire casting soft shadows across their faces. Everyone else had long since gone to sleep, but they only needed a few hours to trance. It made for the perfect excuse to stay up a little longer, her head resting on his shoulder, a cheap looted bottle of wine nestled between them.

“What do you plan to do when we find him?” Nyari asked softly, watching his face for any flicker of tension. It was a sensitive subject. She knew that. She also knew when it was already on his mind.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, smirking, tone still as casual as ever. “Kill him, of course.”

She nudged him with her elbow. “I know that much. Obviously, we are going to kill him. I meant after. The ritual.” Her voice faltered, barely louder than the crackling fire.

His smirk faded. Eyes darkening, he stared into the flames. “My chance at freedom? At power? I’d be a fool not to seize it.”

Nyari studied him quietly, curling a delicate finger through his hair. “Power and freedom are not always the same.”

He flinched as if struck, turning to glare at her. “You don’t get to say that to me.” His voice was cold, sharp. “You chose your oath. You’ve always had a choice. You still do.”

She glanced down at the gold signet ring on her finger, an heirloom passed down from her father. She could picture him so clearly even still, the flaming fist emblem bold against the front of his robes, a worn leather belt cinched tightly at his waist. It had always seemed strange for a noble to take up service, but she had admired him all the more for it. S he remembered how fervently she had wanted to be a hero herself. Just like him. He had beamed with pride when she bought her first sword.

She shrank inward, pulling her knees to her chest. “You are right.” The words were almost a whisper. There was no comparing their pasts. She had been sheltered. He had been enslaved. “I am sorry.”

His gaze flicked toward her, the tension in his jaw easing. He looked back at the fire, watching the flames dance and crackle. For a long moment, there was only silence.

“Is it so wrong that after all this, everything I’ve been through, that I want - that I think I deserve , more for myself?” His voice was fragile, as if the only thing holding tears from his eyes was the tension that lingered in his clenched fist. He paused, turning his attention back to her. “I want to protect you too, you know, to give you everything you deserve.”

“Of course it is not, my love.” Nyari chose her next words carefully. “I guess I am just starting to question things. More and more, it seems like those with power are more beholden to it than to the people they’re supposed to serve, like the protection they claim to offer others is only a facade to keep themselves on a pedestal.”

Astarion looked over to Karlach’s tent, eyes closing for a moment. “I’m not Gortash. I’m not Cazador.” He hesitated, swallowing thickly. He shifted closer, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her back into his embrace. “I just want to feel… safe. I don’t want to go back to hiding in the shadows.”

“I want you to be safe too.” She melted into his arms, nuzzling her face into his neck and taking in the faint scent of bergamot, warm and familiar. “I am only scared of losing you.”

“Don’t be.” He whispered, planting a soft kiss on her bare shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Nyari.”

Gale's voice pulled her back to the present. She blinked, disoriented, the grand library slowly coming into focus. Curved walls soared upward, adorned with impossibly tall shelves, the scent of aged parchment thick in the air. Across the table, a young man leaned forward, eyes wide with expectation.

“You were just telling Elias about our encounter with the hag,” Gale prompted gently, a flicker of concern in his expression.

“Right.” Nyari forced a smile. “Where was I?”

“The hag's bane!” Elias burst out, practically vibrating with excitement. “How did you get it down her throat?”

Nyari chuckled, searching her memory for a remotely helpful answer. “Let’s call it a lucky throw.”

“Ah,” Gale cut in smoothly, sensing her mind was still elsewhere. “My companion is being far too modest. It was a harrowing battle, but Nyari had a rather particular trick up her sleeve, a gift from a dear friend by the name of Volo.” He tapped his temple with a knowing smile.

Nyari grinned, leaning closer to give Elias a better view of her prosthetic eye. “Now that is a story.”

Elias gasped. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean Volothamp Geddarm, do you?”

“The very one,” Gale confirmed, rising to browse the shelves. “His masterpiece should be around here somewhere… The Hero and I. Thank the gods I had the mind to correct the original grammatical error in its title. He wrote it about Nyari herself. Though I must warn you, his inclination towards embellishment has thoroughly warped our adventures.”

Nyari sighed, leaning back. “I have been asked to sign a few copies. And to retell far too many stories I suspect he fabricated.”

“I can’t believe it.” Elias shook his head in disbelief. “I’m sitting here with the Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Friends of the Volothamp Geddarm.” He tapped his fingers nervously against the table. “I can’t imagine you’d have much use of me, but if you ever needed assistance with your research, well, I’d be beyond honoured.”

Nyari opened her mouth, only to realize she had already forgotten the boy's name.

“That is very kind of you,” she began, glancing toward Gale.

He stepped in smoothly. “However, you must understand that what Nyari and I are working on is far beyond the scope of your studies, Elias.”

His face fell, disappointment flickering before he caught himself. He straightened, nodding politely. “Of course, Professor Dekarios. Miss Caladhiel.”

Nyari offered a soft smile as Elias turned back to his books, though she could feel his eyes turn toward her every so often, hopeful and eager.

Gale ushered her from the library, quietly assuring her that “you’ll get used to it after a bit.”

She mustered a weak smile. “I am not so sure of that. Are all your students such fans?”

"Only a few. Though perhaps I wouldn’t mind if more were as eager as Elias. Surely it would mean I’d receive more punctual assignments," he mused, running a hand through his hair. "He does have a keen mind, after all, though his attunement to the Weave has yet to be proven."

“Well, with a mentor such as yourself, Professor, I’m sure he will flourish in no time.”

“One can hope.” He paused his steps, softly reaching for her arm, “Ari, I know this is all a little overwhelming, but if there is something else on your mind…” he trailed off, searching her face for answers.

Nyari chewed at her cheek before letting out a heavy sigh. “Astarion sent some spawn after me. I do not know how many. I-”

“That bastard.” Gale shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ari, I know you still feel tenderness towards him, but this .”

“They were only sent to watch me.” She conveniently left out the part where she spoke to one of them, took him under her control, left him with a message to make Astarion seethe.

"Don’t downplay it." His voice sharpened, the softness giving way to quiet anger. "I know, perhaps better than most, what it feels like to fight with every fiber of your being to be free of someone. And to never be given that chance."

Nyari lowered her gaze, arms wrapping around herself as if to hold her fraying nerves together. "But what am I to actually do? I cannot run any further.”

She paused, speaking quieter now, as if she was hoping Gale wouldn’t hear. “I am not even sure that I want to. I still question if I gave up on him too quickly." The truth stung when spoken out loud. Astarion had been brash in demanding that she become his consort, but perhaps he may have yielded if given more time, if she had been a little gentler, if she hadn’t compared him to his captor. Perhaps there had still been some chance for them, a chance she had squashed carelessly with her words.

"Ari, listen to yourself. The man is stalking you, and you are searching for a reason that you might be in the wrong." Gale gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "Look, I’m not sure we can stop him. But perhaps we can have someone keep a closer eye on him. Duke Ravengard—"

"Has bigger concerns than this. You know he does."

“Then we will handle it.” Gale’s eyes pleaded. “The weave sings within you, we took down a netherbrain for gods sake. Astarion may be no mortal but he is no god either.”

He was right. She knew he was right. But talking about Astarion like any other villain they could defeat made her nauseous. It had only been a couple months since she’d lain curled up in his tent, his head nestled in the crook of her neck, his laugh soft against her skin.

She could still feel the way his arms tightened around her after a nightmare, how his fingers would lace through hers until his trembling stilled, until trance claimed him once more.

Gale was right. Astarion was no god. He was still a man, with the same fears as before, the same smile. The same man she longed to comfort. The same man she abandoned. The same man she loved.

How dare she. Astarion’s mind spun with rage as he turned her words over and over in his head. Weak. Pathetic.

She was just trying to hurt him, to sever the ties between them. A mere mortal. She should fear him, revere him, and instead she spat in his face. You should’ve turned her into a spawn when you had the chance.

He loosely remembered when he would have given anything to stay by her side, risking his own life for hers in battle. What a waste it would’ve been, and all for a silly, stupid girl who would turn on him the moment he found his freedom.

Astarion gazed out his window, silently admiring the city, his city. Every passerby a potential spawn, a potential meal, a plethora of thrall at his fingertips, ready to serve. What was he doing, brooding over some unkind words? He wasn’t beholden to anyone else now, ascension assured that he never would be again.

He just needed some blood to clear his head.

He stalked into the streets, the instinct of stealth guiding his footsteps even if he no longer needed it, before spotting his victim.

She was alone, the hems of her dress frayed, copper hair in a simple pleat down her back. She will do nicely.

“Hello beautiful,” he called out, a practiced smirk at his lips.

But when she turned to face him, he nearly staggered backwards. In this light, only a few feet away from him, her face was eerily familiar. Stern golden eyes. Plush lips. Bronze skin that gleamed under the light, rich and sun-kissed. A soft flush warming her cheeks, the colour blooming like the first hint of dawn. A moment ago, he could’ve sworn she was paler, her eyes green. But here he was, face to face with Nyari.

He blinked rapidly, refocusing, and her eyes were green once again, staring wide and innocent back at him.

Astarion shook his head. It must have been a trick of the light, a phantom conjured by his hunger. He straightened, smoothing the tremor from his hands and slipping back into his usual elegance, a sharp smirk curling his lips as he stepped forward.

"Well, my sweet," his voice silk, masking the unease curling in his stomach, "aren't you a vision."

Time dragged as he savoured the last drops of blood from a crystal chalice. The kill had been clean, almost elegant. His spawn had disposed of the body without fuss, leaving him alone with his prize.

Her blood tasted… fine. 

After months of drinking from Nyari, he’d been spoiled. At first, he’d assumed her’s was the taste of all thinking creatures, but now, starved of her, he realized the truth that there was no comparison. Her blood was ambrosia, warm, delicately sweet, and rich as the finest wine.

He frowned, swirling the dregs of crimson in his glass, irritated that even now she haunted him, poisoning his enjoyment of a perfectly acceptable meal.

But it wasn’t just her blood he longed for. He craved the sweet balm on her lips, the delicate shiver of her breath against his skin, the tangy elixir between her thighs. He wanted to devour her, to consume every part of her.

More than that, he wanted her know the undiluted strength of seven thousand souls that burned through him, making his eyes glow brighter, his mind hum with control. He longed to press her beneath him, to let her feel what he had become. A god among mortals.

His hand clenched around the chalice, shattering the crystal. Crimson spilled across his fingers, but he hardly noticed. All he could think of was her.

Chapter Text

“Hello darling.”

The voice came from behind, with no warning of footsteps or creaking doors. Nyari’s breath caught in her throat. Her quill slipped from her fingers, splattering ink across the page in an unceremonious blot. Slowly, she turned.

Astarion leaned lazily against the doorframe as if he’d been invited in.

“How did you get in here?” She jumped to her feet, moving a step further from the door. Not that it mattered in the modest confines of her room. 

Astarion sighed, tilting his head. “You really underestimate me, my love. How many locks have you seen me pick, hm? Let’s not be stupid now.”

He stepped inside, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning the room with thinly veiled disdain. “So this is where you live now?” His nose crinkled. “How disappointing, for a woman of your stature .”

Dim light caught in his hair, a reminder of all the nights she spent delicately twining his soft curls around her fingers. His face had been sharpened by ascension, the softness worn away, but he was still undeniably beautiful. She folded her arms tightly, a shield against the slow, creeping heat curling in her stomach.

“Astarion,” her voice was firm, though the unbidden flutter in her chest betrayed her, “why are you here?”

“You really think there is a single place in Faerun you could run to that I wouldn’t find you? I got your little message, you know. Your defiance is adorable .” 

Adorable. A word that had once flustered her, now spoken with a condescension that made her teeth clench.

“You came all the way here, just because of that?” Sure, she had wanted to get under his skin. But for just a moment, when she saw him, she had quietly wished that maybe he was here to confess his love, to apologize, to make things right. That he had come because he couldn’t stand to be apart any longer. A fantasy. A stupid, fragile fantasy.

Her breath caught. "Was it not enough that you had to break my heart? And now you send your spawn after me. You follow me when I try to start over. Please , Astarion, just let me move on."

He laughed softly, but there was no humour in it.

“Break your heart?” His voice turned to ice. His eyes narrowed, glinting scarlet in the dim light. “You denied me. You helped me ascend only to turn your back on me, now that I’m not some pitiful spawn dependent on your protection.”

The accusation made her wince, nails digging into her palm. She had bent and folded for him, time and time again, her will crumbling beneath the weight of his pleading eyes.

And now, she had abandoned him with the ruin she had helped create. Because she didn’t know how to save him anymore.

Astarion stepped closer, voice dropping to something more dangerous, more intimate. “I’m correct, aren’t I? You only loved me when I was afraid. When I was powerless. Like I was some wounded animal you wanted to heal.”

The words sliced through her, cold and cruel, even if, for a single beat, she could’ve sworn there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. Some part of him begging to be proven wrong before he shuttered it away again.

“No, that is not-” She stuttered.

His smile was sharp, a wolf baring its teeth. “Oh, that’s not it? Then, do enlighten me, darling .” The last word dripped with disdain, a ghost of what used to be between them.

She swallowed against the ache in her throat, resisting the pangs of guilt.

She remembered Corin’s face—the raw hunger in his sunken eyes, the tremor in his fingers, his lips, cracked and bloodless. She remembered the silent army of spawn stationed throughout Astarion’s estate. Watching. Waiting. Captive.

“You know what it feels like to be a slave, to be a spawn.” Her voice was quiet, but steady. “And now you are creating them in hordes.”

His words, burned into her mind: I would have ruined your love. Used your trust until you were nothing. He had been willing—was willing—to destroy her, just as he had been destroyed. He had become exactly what she had warned against. Exactly what she despised.

She forced herself to hold his gaze, unblinking so as not to tempt a tear to fall. “You wanted me to be one of them.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. He tilted his head, the mockery faltering, before his lips curled into a bitter smile. “Moral superiority? Again?” He rolled his eyes. The false boredom in his tone didn’t quite mask the tension in his shoulders. “You really do bore me sometimes, my sweet. You think the world was so much better when I was on my knees, begging to survive?”

“You twist my words.” But the conversation had already slipped from her grasp, like water spilling between her fingers.

"No, let’s talk about this, shall we?" He stepped closer, so that there were only inches between them. "After two hundred years of pure shit , I finally have the power to bend the world to my will, and you want me to act nicely about it?”

“No,” he snarled, “I will not whimper and grovel for your protection. I am ascended .” 

“On your knees, darling.” He smiled devilishly, punctuating each word.

She rubbed her palms against her skirt, trying to dry away the cold sweat as she glanced down to his lips. “I am not your thrall, Astarion. You will not intimidate me.”

Then his eyes caught hers—deep, hypnotic, endless red. Her limbs turned to water, the tension draining from her muscles like a string cut loose.

“On your knees.” He repeated. Her body obeyed before her mind could catch up, knees hitting the floor with a soft, shameful thud.

A pleased hum vibrated in his throat. “Good girl.” 

His fingers weaved through her hair, curling tight at her scalp as he tilted her head back, exposing her throat to him. “What was it you called me, again? Weak and pathetic? Say it.”

The thoughts that had been lashing through her mind stilled, fading far into the distance. Everything surrounding him vignetted, his eyes, beautiful and piercing, pulling her in deeper. Her mouth moved without thought, “weak and pathetic”. She echoed obediently.

His laugh was slow, indulgent, full of dark amusement. “How bold of you,” he purred, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of her throat, “to think you are above me even now.”

He held her neck in a soft grip, savouring her quickened pulse beneath his fingers. With a firm pull, he lifted her to her feet, pressing her flush against the wall, his body cool against her fevered skin.

His fangs sank into her neck, sharp and unrelenting, a vicious claim that sent a bolt of pain spiralling through her. For a fleeting second, she thought her neck might shatter like fragile glass. He had her pinned, every inch of her body caged against his, a prisoner to exquisite agony. She gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, clinging to the only thing keeping her upright as pain and pleasure mingled into something intoxicatingly unbearable.

His mouth was hot and wicked against her skin, his grip possessive. She was used to him drinking from her, but it was usually so tender. He used to hold her gently against him, softly caressing her hair, biting down only hard enough to draw the blood he needed. But now, he devoured her, each pull of her blood making her head swim.

Her breath came in shallow pants, her fingers tightening in his shirt. She whispered his name, a plea, a prayer.

But he only moaned against her throat, drinking deeper until she was lightheaded and aching and utterly his. A bright light punctuated her vision, her body growing heavy in his hold, lost in the exquisite ruin of it all. In the haze, for just a breath, his hold on her softened, as if some part of him still longed to cherish what he was about to destroy.

Until suddenly, everything went black.

Her eyes fluttered open in a dreamy haze, pain throbbing dully at her neck. Morning light spilled through the window, painting the room in gold. It was quiet now. If not for the small bottle of swirling crimson liquid resting at her bedside, she might have convinced herself it had all been a dream.

A potion of greater healing. She reached a shaky hand towards the bottle, weakly removing its cork, before drawing it to her lips. It was sickly sweet, tasting of raspberries and honey and falling down her throat with an alcoholic heat.

Relief. If only for a moment, before the memories of Astarion’s compulsion flooded her mind again. If being followed by his spawn left her uneasy, the force of his ascendant charm as it clawed its way into her mind, into her body, threatened to send the potion back up her throat.

She reached for her neck, finding the wound had healed into faintly raised skin. To drain her to the brink of death, only to tend the wounds he had inflicted. Emotions twisted in her chest. Was this the corrupt idea of love his new form has left him with?

He had healed her before. She remembered waking up like this before, in a ragged bedroll at camp, only that time he had been seated attentively at her side.

“Thank gods you’re awake”, Astarion brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, slick with sweat and stained with blood, before reaching beside him for a small bottle of potion. “Drink this, now.”

She obliged, letting the healing potion wash through her, easing the aches that coiled through her body.

In her reprieve, she felt a new magic loosed inside of her. Something utterly undivine. She had made up her mind weeks ago, but nothing could prepare her for how unfamiliar this power would feel.

“Did we do it?” Nyari asked weakly, already knowing the answer.

Astarion’s fingers brushed lightly over her cheek, his voice soft as he answered, “yes, my sweet. The steel watch is no more.” He gazed down at her, studying her expression in search of regret. A soft, relaxed expression, his eyes widened and brow slightly furrowed.

It was worth it. She knew it was the right thing to do, and yet, the breaking of her oath meant she would need to forge a new identity. No longer was she pledged to the needs of the crown and its laws. Gortash’s tyranny had shown her the limits to authority, the corruptibility of power.

“Good.” Nyari nodded, smiling up at him.

“What will you do now?” Astarion asked cautiously, his delicate fingers lingering in her hair. He always found small ways to touch her, as if afraid she might vanish otherwise.

She pushed herself into a seated position, levelling her eyes with his. “I cannot know, honestly, but-” she paused, deep in thought. Astarion had been beholden to power, a cruel and merciless authority that had tortured him for centuries, preyed on him until he cracked beneath its tyranny. “This path was chosen for me. It was you who showed me that I can be more than who I was made to be, that I can choose freely who to become. That is a gift, you know.” She squeezed his hand.

His eyes widened, lips parted as if to speak - but no words came. Still, after a brief hesitation, he squeezed back.

As if to prove her words, she tugged her family’s signet ring from her finger.

“I did not realize at the time that the law’s protection didn’t extend to everyone the same way it did us.” She turned the ring in her fingers. “You must have known better than anyone, as a magistrate, how it can be twisted.”

Nyari shook her head. “My view of the world was so narrow.”

She remembered the profound sadness in Astarion’s eyes when he said that he had called out for every god only for none to answer. She knew that the gods did not answer to the undead, and yet it had felt different in knowing him. He was hardly the monstrosity from the stories she was told as a child. His skin was cold, his heart did not beat, but as far as she could tell he was living, feeling, just as she did.

What other lies had she been told? What other truths did her devotion obscure?

Magic flared from her palm, erupting in a bright flame that warped the ring’s metal. She winced, the ring’s dying magic searing her skin, before snuffing it out with a clenched fist. When the heat faded, it left a ring of raw, pink skin around the twisted gold.

She placed the warped metal at their bedside, before turning her attention back to Astarion.

“I will never belong to anyone. Not to a god, not to a king. Never again.” She promised, both to herself and her lover, who sat astonished by her side.

Astarion said nothing. Instead, he lifted her hand and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to her scorched palm.

She stared down at the scar, a small reminder of that vow. Once, Astarion had admired her for it. After all, he had never yielded to any higher power. If anyone could understand her persistence in this freedom, it should be him.

The man who now took sick delight in forcing her to her knees.

Even without his compulsion, it felt as if she had broken another vow. Even before he came, he consumed her thoughts, the very core of her being, until she felt as if there was nothing left of herself but yearning for the man she believed him to be.

Was he still in there? Had he ever been? Or was the Astarion who loved her so tenderly only a figment of her desperation?

Chapter Text

Astarion could slink through the shadows with ease, but it would be easier to watch closely if he could assume another form. And he needed to watch closely. 

He gazed into the mirror, admiring the fineness of his own visage for a lingering moment before turning to the scroll in his hands.

Omnia mutantur . He pronounced the words lazily, and when he lifted his gaze once more, the spell had taken hold. Gone were his red eyes, pearl-white hair, alabaster skin. In their place stood the most unassuming human form — dull brown eyes, plain features, utterly forgettable.

It didn’t take long to find Nyari. His spawn had reported that she would probably be at the library with Gale around this time. He spotted them at a table near the window, a stack of books sprawled between them. 

She looked different. Gone were her tattered noble robes, the Elven chains she used to wear into battle. She wore a long cotton skirt, a knit burgundy jumper tied at her waist with a worn leather belt. Relaxed. Domestic. Her eyes crinkled with laughter at something Gale said, head tilting toward him, her expression soft. She looked… happy.

And Gale. Sitting across from her, eyes fixed on her face, leaning in closer than necessary. An ugly thought tugged at the back of Astarion's mind: Were they… No. Surely not. Gale may have proclaimed his love for her once, but she had chosen him instead. Even if now she was staying with him. Had left Baldur’s Gate to work with him.

Then another man appeared. A scrawny little thing, hurrying to Nyari’s side with a familiarity that made Astarion’s teeth clench. She shifted, tucking the open book into her lap.

"Sorry to interrupt," the newcomer said, as if he hadn’t just watched her tuck her book away. His eyes scanned the titles on the table, brow lifting. "Rituals of necromancy?"

“Ah, yes.” Gale stepped in smoothly. "A fundamental school of magical thought, but not one for a novice such as yourself to dabble in, of course."

"I’ve read about it," the student offered, puffing up his chest. "Not for class, of course, but… I am quite a voracious reader. There’s nothing I haven’t picked up once or twice." He took the chair beside Nyari, utterly uninvited, and plopped his elbows down on the table.

Nyari’s brow knitted, body stiffening, and Astarion felt his nails bite into his palms. Even from here, he could hear the subtle change in her heartbeat. Sensing her discomfort made him want to soar across the room and strike his knife into the strange man’s throat.

"Again, forgive my intrusion," the student continued, flashing a grin. "I guess I was just naturally curious about what legends such as yourselves might be working on."

Astarion fought the urge to sneer at the obvious flattery, lest someone notices. What did he want from her? He urged himself to stay put, stay subtle, pretending to read the random book he had snatched from the shelf on his way in. 

"It’s… complex," Nyari said slowly, her gaze flitting to Gale. The man’s smile didn’t waver.

"Yes, very," Gale added, pulling the books closer to him.

The student, apparently unsatisfied, rifled through his satchel. "Well, I can’t believe I’m saying this but…" He pulled out a worn tome, eyes glimmering with self-importance. "You may be interested in this.” He paused, reverting to his flattery to add, “I mean, I’m sure you’ve already read it, of course.”

Astarion shifted forward, straining to see the title. He only caught the confusion sprawled across Gale’s face.

"Where did you find this?" Gale asked, flipping through the pages.

"Here, of course." The student gestured vaguely toward the shelves, as if he owned the place.

Gale frowned. "I can’t believe we missed this." He turned a page reverently. "Could we borrow it from you?"

"Of course," the student beamed. "I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, Professor Dekarios." His gaze shifted to Nyari, lingering just a second too long, as if there were some secret between them.. "And yours, of course, Miss Caladhiel."

Astarion noticed her eyes flicker over to him, narrowing ever so briefly with curiosity, the gold of her eyes catching in the light. Shit.  

But the moment ended, and she turned back towards the student. “Thank you, Elias,” she replied politely.

Astarion’s fists curled in his lap. It was subtle, but he noticed the way the little wretch angled his body toward her, hanging on to the few words she offered. His nails dug into his palm. This boy was making a fool of himself. And as uncomfortable as she clearly was, she entertained him, politely smiling like she owed him anything at all.

Elias slipped away from the table, his self-satisfied smirk blistering in Astarion’s mind. The nerve. As if Nyari's attention were some prize to be won, one that he could be clever enough to earn. If some little upstart dared to chase after what was his , then he at least needed to know who the bastard was. Astarion rose from his seat, leaving his book squarely on the table, before following on Elias’ path.

The streets grew quieter as Astarion trailed behind, soft-footed and silent. Cobblestones glistened faintly under the moonlight, the city's warmth fading into a cold hush. Elias moved with purpose, winding through narrow alleys until he slipped through a weathered wooden door, half-hidden beneath the sag of an ancient stone archway.

Astarion pressed himself into the shadows. A window, its glass clouded with grime, sat low against the wall. He edged closer, peering through the filth to catch a glimpse of where Elias had retreated. The interior was little more than a cramped room, dimly lit by candlelight. Elias stood in the middle, unmoving.

Then, before Astarion’s eyes, the student's form began to shift. His bones crackled softly, reshaping themselves beneath his skin. His nose jutted forward, stretching into a long, sharp beak. Limbs shrank, his body withering into a gaunt, hunched frame as dark feathers burst from his flesh. 

Astarion recoiled, fangs aching with the urge to tear the fiend apart. His grip tightened on the stone wall, nails scraping against it. Why does nothing normal ever happen to them?

Nyari hummed as she sifted through the contents on her desk, searching for her notebook amongst the new stacks of books Gale had left for her. Has she really been so distracted that she misplaced the damned thing?

Things had been a little easier, or so she thought. She hadn’t been able to tell Gale about Astarion’s appearance in her bedchamber. She couldn’t take another look of disappointment in his eyes, nor the growing hatred he espoused for a man she still loved. But it had been days since she saw Astarion or any of his lurking spawn. So she had decided, instead, to cast those thoughts from her mind. Focus on work. Focus on Gale. Smile politely at fanatic students. 

And now she had betrayed all that progress, with a missing notebook.

Gale’s voice cut through her whirlwind of thoughts as he rushed into her room, slightly out of breath.

“Oh—ah, pardon the intrusion!.” He straightened, smoothing out his robe as if to regain composure, but the excitement in his eyes betrayed him. “Do you have a moment?”

Nyari frowned slightly. “Is everything alright?”

“Far more than alright,” he declared, already pivoting toward the sitting room. “I’ve found something rather extraordinary.”

She followed, and before she could so much as take a seat, Gale snatched a book from his desk and pressed it into her hands. “Someone tried it .”

Nyari glanced down at the book—the same one Elias had lent them earlier that day. The pages were scrawled with smeared ink, the handwriting uneven, frantic. At the top of the page, a date entry.

“A diary?” she asked, running her fingers over the stained parchment. “Strange thing to find in a library.”

Gale nodded, eyes gleaming. “And not just any diary. Read it.”

She skimmed the page.

The final offering is prepared. Only memory remains, fragile as dying embers. With each one surrendered, I drift closer to the infinite. Sweet lady of loss, allow me this. The complete and utter dissolution of the self, so that I can join you in the divine. In unmaking, I shall be remade. In oblivion, I shall find divinity.

Flipping through the pages, she searched for more—but everything following that entry was blank.

“Whose was this?” she asked.

“A Sharran necromancer, by all accounts,” Gale said, folding his arms. “The entries reference rituals and invocations I can only assume were meant to bring them closer to Shar. And well, it seems, godhood. But beyond that? As for what became of them? Well, that remains a mystery.

Nyari turned the book in her hands, studying the worn spine. “Perhaps Shadowheart could help us,” she suggested.  She had spent enough time amongst Sharrans. Perhaps she had seen this book in passing, or may recognize the handwriting.

“Possibly,” Gale mused, “Though the tone here diverges somewhat from the usual Sharran scripture. Still, she may provide valuable insight.”

Nyari exhaled, crinkling her nose as she examined the pages again. “How did Elias even find this?” she muttered. “This doesn’t look like something you’d pluck from a library shelf.”

Gale hesitated. “Yes… I admit that is strange. A first-year student unearthing a relic of this nature.”

“We should keep an eye on him,” she said firmly, snapping the book shut.

“Agreed.” Gale’s lips quirked in a small, knowing smile. “But regardless of how it came into his possession, I daresay we have stumbled upon something invaluable. And I, for one, intend to see where it leads.”

A thoughtful silence stretched between them.

Then Gale continued, “But I’ll speak with Elias. Perhaps, he knows something more that could help us.”

Nyari only nodded, gaze still lingering on the diary’s cracked spine.

The complete and utter dissolution of the self. It wasn’t too far from the Sharran doctrine with which she was already familiar, but it was eerie all the same - the thought of a god with no shred of personhood, no memory of anything less than divinity. Her head throbbed with pain. 

After offering Gale one more polite smile, she retreated to her bedchamber, hoping that a night of rest may provide some clarity of mind. Before collapsing onto the mattress, she took one last look at her desk, and there sitting upon it was her notebook. Perfectly centred. 

How could she have missed that? She thought perhaps that her mind had been so flooded, so confused by exhaustion, that she must have simply glanced past it before.

Chapter Text

He gazed down at her, marvelling at her impossible beauty as he moved in a smooth, steady rhythm. Her breath hitched, a soft gasp slipping from her lips as she nestled closer, pressing a gentle kiss beneath his ear.

Astarion flinched, the lips against his neck stirring a flutter of dread beneath his ribs.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but she noticed. Of course she noticed. She pulled back, wide eyes searching his face, apology already written across her features.

He willed himself to believe it was okay. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on her warmth, her softness, the way she looked at him like he was something precious. It can feel good with her. He knew that now.

Her hand, soft and warm, pressed against his chest. “Can we pause?”

His stomach sank. His chest tightened. Of course. He ruined it.

He nodded stiffly, sliding out of her and bracing himself on trembling arms. “Did I… do something wrong?” The words slipped from him, quiet and fragile.

She quickly shook her head. “You just disappeared for a moment.”

Astarion blinked at her, trying to find the words. Trying to find anything but the raw, scraping emptiness in his chest. He shifted to sit across from her, knees to his chest, feeling like an utter fool.

“Are you okay?” Her hand found his bare shoulder, a gentle weight that made his heart stutter.

Astarion didn’t know how to respond to that. So he sat there feeling silly, lips parted with words he didn’t have until the silence was too much to bear.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. 

How many times had he gone through these same motions, feigning as much interest as he could bare while his mind drifted away? It was easy to dissociate, letting his body do what it knew how to do while his mind slipped into darkness. He could satisfy others, keep them happy, and let himself go numb. It was simple, efficient. Nevermind the sickly feeling it left in the pit of his stomach.

Nyari looked at him with such sweetness, with care he was certain he didn’t deserve. Why did it still feel so tainted, even with her?

And just when he was sure she would fix him with a look of disappointment and walk away, she wrapped her arms around him. “Then we’ll stop until you know.”

He froze, the warmth of her body against his unfamiliar. Foreign in a way that had nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with the quiet safety he found there. Her heart beating softly against his chest soothed him.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, tentatively pulling her in closer.

She eased away just enough to meet his eyes, and he mourned the loss of her touch, his skin already cooling where her warmth had lingered. “Of course, I’m sure. I mean, obviously I like you. I like—” she paused, taking his hand gently in hers, “whatever this is. But I like you all the time, not just when we lay together.”

His memory faltered. The words felt distant, blurring into obscurity. He strained, reaching for more — for the feeling of her arms around him, the softness in her gaze. He had to hold on. Had to keep it.

She smiled then, playfully tucking a white lock of hair behind his ear. “As long as I still get to admire you.”

But her smile was wrong. Beautiful, yes, but not her.

“I-”

Her words broke in his mind. The memory flickered like a dying ember, warmth fading as darkness crept in. He dug his nails into his palm, desperate to cling to what was left.

Another voice seeped in. You don’t need this. His voice, but the tone was unrecognizable.

Why was he indulging in this anyway? The past is dead.

She could love you again. The voice was sickly sweet like rotten fruit, a promise whispered against his throat. You don’t need the memories.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel her again. The soft, steady beat of her heart against his chest.

She can be yours again. The voice purred. Remind her how good it can feel to be yours. It’s what you’re best at. What you’re good for.

His breath caught. His heart hammered. It wasn’t just sex. She said it wasn’t. She said that she cared.

And how did you make her care?

Maybe he could seduce her again, maybe once was all it would take. She would remember what they had, even if he couldn’t. He could go through whatever motions she wanted of him, if only to see that sweetness, that care, in her eyes again.

Astarion stood outside her office door, smoothing his coat with a sharp breath. He internally rehearsed the words he’d practiced, the ones he knew would make her heart race. He’d won her over once before. He could do it again. What use were memories of her warmth when she was right here, waiting to be his once more?

He pushed open the door and the words died in his throat.

Nyari lay crumpled on the cold stone floor, limbs twisted unnaturally, her neck bent against the tiles at a painful angle. His heart lurched. He was at her side in an instant, trembling hands brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. He could hear the slow, subtle thud of her heart, a dull flutter of life remaining in the impossible stillness of her body.

He knelt down to caress her cheek, whispering her name softly. Voice cracking, he begged, “darling, wake up.”

She didn’t stir.

His fangs bared as rage and fear twisted in his chest. He spun toward the hall, shoving the door open so hard it slammed against the wall, rattling on its hinges.

Then he saw Gale, walking toward him at a leisurely pace, brows knitting together the moment their eyes met. 

"Astarion?" Gale’s voice dripped with disbelief, and beneath it, unsurmountable irritation. "What in the hells—"

"Not now," Astarion snarled, holding up a trembling hand.

"Oh, I think now is precisely the time." Gale folded his arms. “Nyari came here for space , to be away from you. So I would very much like an explan-”

"Something happened to her." The words tumbled out, sharp and breathless.

Gale frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"She’s asleep." Astarion’s hands curled into fists. "In her office." 

Gale blinked. "Perhaps she was tired,” he replied slowly, as if explaining the concept of tiredness to a total fool.

"Gods, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” Astarion rolled his eyes, impatience palpable. “ Asleep , Gale. She’s an elf ."

Astarion turned to storm back into the office. He shoved the door open, ready to drag Gale to her side, but the breath caught, tightening, in his chest.

Nyari sat at her desk, the soft glow of candlelight flickering across her face as she quietly turned the page of a book. She looked up with a furrowed brow. "What’s all the noise about?"

Astarion’s knees nearly buckled. "Thank the gods you’re okay." He rushed to her side, kneeling to take her hands in his. "Ari, my love, what happened?"

She stared at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You were—" Astarion stammered, eyes darting around the room as if searching for some clue he’d overlooked.

"Absolutely fine, it appears," Gale cut in, his tone dry. "Astarion, a word?"

"She’s not fine ." Astarion hissed, the words slipping out like venom. But then he caught Nyari's expression. Her disappointment, like a door gently closing between them.

He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes to calm himself and raising his hands in surrender. "Fine." With one last glance at Nyari, he followed Gale into the hall.

"Well?" Gale asked, arms folded, gaze expectant.

"Well what?" Astarion snapped.

"Care to explain yourself?"

"Not particularly, darling." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a dramatic sigh.

Gale said nothing, simply staring, his silence heavy and unforgiving.

Astarion huffed, pushing off the wall. "I know what I saw." His voice was quieter now, almost uncertain. "She was on the floor. Unconscious. Something isn’t right.”

"Hm." Gale studied his face. "I think I believe you. But that doesn’t quite explain what you were doing in her office to begin with."

"Jealous, are we? I thought you’d moved past all that tiresome pining, yet here we are again." Astarion leaned in, voice low. "Do you think playing the devoted friend will win her heart?"

"I could ask you the same.” Gale exhaled slowly, shoulders tightening. “And for the record, I am her friend. A sorely needed one at that, after everything you’ve put her through."

He scoffed, the sound curling through the dim hallway like a blade scraping its sheath. Before he could retort, the door to Nyari’s office swung back open. She stood in the frame, eyes cold, cloak pulled tightly around her. Without a word, she shoved past them, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

"Ari, wait." Astarion called after her, his voice catching.

She spun to face him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "What do you want from me?"

"I was just—" He faltered, the weight of her gaze having knocked the air from his lungs. He cleared his throat. "I was worried, darling."

He searched her face, hoping for some flicker of warmth, some sign that she still cared. When her expression remained stone-cold, he added, "I love you." The words dripped with all the sweetness he could find. Nevermind that he suspected they were true.

For a moment, she seemed startled by his abrupt confession, eyes widening for half a moment before they narrowed again in dismay. "You think I can’t tell when you’re delivering a line?"

"I came here to protect you,” he stammered hopelessly. To make you remember. To help me remember. To make you love me again. His thoughts raced with things he wouldn’t dare say out loud.

Her jaw tightened. "The only person I seem to need protection from is you." She turned away from him once more, her voice soft but cutting. "Go home, Astarion."

He watched her disappear down the corridor, losing her all over again to the silence.

The night air bit at her cheeks, sharp and unforgiving. Her eyes stung, watering against the wind, but she pressed forward, each step heavy with the weight of his words.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

The sound of his voice echoed in her mind, relentless. He couldn’t have meant it . Any love he might have held for her had died with the rite, drowned in blood and ambition. It had to have. She couldn’t face the alternative.

The waterfront stretched out before her, dark and quiet, the water lapping against the stone. She lingered there, not quite ready to return to Gale’s. To the warmth. To the questions. To find the words to describe the heaviness inside her was inconceivable.

The wind curled around her like a lover’s touch, cold and familiar. She laughed dryly. Even now, she couldn’t escape him. Whether it was the sun on her skin or the night’s chill biting through her cloak, he haunted her.

Nyari glanced down at the scar on her palm, a pale mark upon her skin. A promise of freedom. Love could not be the thing to make her renounce it again.

Time slipped past unnoticed, the cold numbing her fingers before she finally turned toward home. Each step felt heavier than the last, her body aching and weary. The front door creaked softly as she pushed it open, the house quiet and dark. No sign of Gale. No sign of anyone. 

She exhaled, long and slow, thanking the gods that the peace may last a little longer. Perhaps they were still looking out for her, despite everything.

Her chamber was cold, the shadows deeper than she remembered. She shut the door behind her, leaning against the wood for a moment, eyes closed. But when she took another breath, a pungent stench filled her nose, sharp and metallic. In that moment she realized: The gods had forsaken her, as she had forsaken them.

She took careful steps toward her balcony, where a stream of blood had trickled in from behind the wooden door. She braced herself, opening it slowly.

A body lay mangled, pooling in sticky blood. The cloying scent of iron was thick in the air. Nyari knelt beside it, fingers trembling as she reached out, soaking the hem of her skirt in blood. There were deep gashes at the throat and the arm was nearly torn from its joint, left to dangle at an unnatural angle.

But it was the face that made her stomach lurch. The face that stared up at her, eyes glossy with death: Elias.

Her mind raced. A thousand thoughts swarmed, each more frantic than the last. But one thought drowned out all the others.

Astarion did this.

There was no rational reason for it, but the idea wormed into her mind and refused to leave. Another punishment, another cruel attempt to remind her who held the strings. A body tossed on her balcony like some grisly offering from a pet cat.

And again, his voice echoed.

I love you.

Nyari squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands curled into fists, nails piercing into her palms. If there was any truth in those words, he had an odd way of showing it.

Her gaze dropped to Elias once more. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, eyes frozen wide with terror.

Chapter Text

“He was Gale’s-” she stopped to correct herself, taking another steadying breath, “Professor Dekarios’ student. A first year.”

Nyari kept her back straight, determined to match the cold bureaucracy of the man before her—an older elf in meticulously tailored indigo robes, muted gold embroidery lining the collar. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes flitting to the clock. A practiced gesture, designed to remind her she was wasting his time.

“Yes, Elias,” he mused, flipping through his notes as if the matter was trivial. “He was in class this morning, Miss Caladhiel.”

Nyari stiffened, shaking her head. “Impossible. I saw his body.” She did, didn’t she?

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yes, yes, on your balcony, you said.” He finally looked at her, though his expression was one of mild curiosity rather than concern. “If that were true, surely the city watch would be the appropriate authority.” He tapped his quill against the desk. “Unless, of course, you have a reason to keep them out of this.”

“You think I—?” Her voice pitched in disbelief, but she caught herself, forcing the professional demeanour she knew would be taken seriously. “I came here because I believed Blackstaff Academy might show more concern for its pupils.”

“Mmm.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. “And we do. But only when there’s something to be concerned about.”

She shook her head again, insisting, “It was him. I’m sure of it.”

The dean straightened his shoulders, expression cooling further. “Enough, Miss Caladhiel. I have things to attend to.” He flicked a hand, shooing her away.

She stood, lips pursed, but he had already turned his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk.

As she left his office, the walls of the academy narrowed, suffocating her. Surely, she couldn’t have mistaken Elias for someone else. And if she had… why would a stranger’s corpse be on her balcony? Confused and disheartened, Nyari trudged toward her office, eager to drown herself in work, if only to quiet the relentless questions clawing at her mind.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, only to realize she wouldn’t be finding peace anytime soon.

The office was dim, the faint scent of ink and old parchment lingering in the air, but there were lit candles that she didn’t remember leaving. And then there was Astarion, lounging at her desk with his boots propped up carelessly, one ankle crossed over the other. A notebook lay open in his hands, the dim glow catching on his silver hair as he flipped a page with idle amusement.

“Ah, there you are, darling.” He snapped the book shut with a smirk. “I was hoping you’d drop by.”

Nyari rubbed her temple. Of course. Every time she thought she had found some semblance of distance, he appeared like a ghost to unravel her again.

“Please tell me this is a dream,” she muttered.

“Dream of me often?” He purred.

She rolled her eyes. “Astarion, what are you doing here?” She knew better than to expect an honest answer, but she was too tired for a more sophisticated interrogation.

“Oh, just indulging in a bit of light reading.” He waved the book lazily in the air. “I must say, my love, I never took you for the sordid secrets type. I mean no offence of course, I quite like it, but when you said you would be working with Gale, I just assumed it would be mind-numbingly boring.”

“Put that down,” she huffed. “Explain yourself.”

“Explain myself ?” He laughed softly, standing with a slow, deliberate grace, fingers tightening around the notebook. “Darling, I think the better question is what exactly you are doing, dabbling in magic like this? I must say, I’m rather impressed. But,” he tsked, “you really ought to be more careful. Dark little things have a habit of slipping into the wrong hands.”

Nyari edged closer, her voice low. “Astarion, trust me. You do not want to meddle with this.”

“Do not tell me what I want,” he snapped, eyes glowing with a brighter shade of scarlet.

“Fine,” she hissed. “Then allow me to remind you,” she said coolly, tilting her chin up, “you are not the only one in this room with power.”

Amusement flashed across his face. Then his lips curled, gaze raking over her. “Oh,” he murmured, “there it is. I do miss that fire in you, my sweet.”

She extended her hand, palm open, waiting.

For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then, with a pout, he slapped the notebook into her grasp.

“Forgive me for taking an interest in your studies love,” he drawled. “I was merely curious what could be so urgent that you’d flee all the way to Waterdeep. And with Gale, no less.” His voice turned teasing. “Tell me, has our dear little wizard found himself craving divinity again?”

Nyari shoved the notebook into her satchel. “Of course not. He knows better now.”

Astarion scoffed, crossing his arms. “Oh, I’m sure he does. And if he didn’t? Well, I imagine he’d tell you all about it, wouldn’t he?”

She raised a brow. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing I’m sure you don’t already know.” Astarion’s voice was light, almost bored. “He shares everything with you, doesn’t he? If he were planning a little ritual of his own, I’m positive you’d be the first to know.”

Nyari didn’t flinch. “Yes,” she nodded, ignoring the implications. “He would tell me.”

Something flickered across his expression. Surprise? Amusement? It was gone before she could place it. He recovered quickly, a smile returning to his lips.

“And you, ever the devoted little thing, would help him, wouldn’t you?” His voice was silk, but no less biting. “Just as you helped me?”

Nyari’s stomach twisted. The weight of it, of everything she had done, made every muscle tighten. For a fleeting moment, she wished she could disappear. Let the Weave unravel her, let the stones beneath her feet crumble and swallow her whole.

“I made a mistake.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I will never stop being sorry.”

“Sorry? ” His laugh was full-bodied and genuine. He clutched his chest as if she had said something truly ridiculous. “Darling, you gave me my freedom. You helped me become resplendently powerful.” He leaned in, voice dropping, almost conspiratorial. “And with this?” His fingers tapped against her satchel. “I could become so much more.”

She stepped back, yanking her bag outside his reach, flinching away like a frightened animal. “No. I won’t let you near this.”

Astarion sighed, rolling his eyes in the most theatrical display of exasperation. “Would it be so terrible? Besides, my love, it seems you do need my protection after all.”

Nyari’s breath hitched. The room felt colder as her suspicions seemed suddenly all but confirmed.

“You killed him,” she whispered. The words barely made it past her lips, fragile and uncertain.

He stilled, expression unchanging, but there was something new in his eyes, sharp and watchful. “Darling,” he murmured, tilting his head, “must we do this every time someone dies around you?” But the look he gave her said it all. He knew exactly what she was talking about.

Her hands curled into fists. “Why did you do it?” She forced herself to hold his gaze, to not let him disarm her again. No matter how unfairly handsome he looked.

Astarion sighed. “No love of mystery, hm?” He stepped closer, voice softening. “He wasn’t who he claimed to be. I don’t know what he was after, but whatever it was, I wasn’t about to let him hurt you.”

“So you dropped him on my balcony?” The image of Elias’ mangled body flashed before her, memories of the stench turning her stomach.

He offered a playful smile. “Only to let you know you were safe , darling.”

Nyari let out a slow breath, steadying herself. “If this is your idea of a romantic gesture, might I recommend flowers next time?” She stepped away, for even a moment of reprieve from that piercing gaze, bracing herself against the edges of her desk.

But he followed, as he always does, moving even closer than before. Too close.

“How mundane.” His voice was a purr, full of mock disappointment. He traced a slender finger along her jaw. His eyes were nearly black now, pupils overtaking the crimson with desire.

She barely had time to scoff before his fingers slid into her curls, tilting her head back with the barest pressure. Warmth pooled in her stomach at his touch.

“I could give you more than you’ve ever dreamt of,” he whispered, breath cool against her throat. “You were always so devoted.” His lips brushed just beneath her ear. “Would you not kneel again before the gods if I were among them?”

“Astarion,” she warned, voice unsteady as she felt her cheeks go hot. She planted her hands firm against the wooden grain of her desk to ground herself— as if that would help . “Don’t.”

“Don’t what , darling?” He teased, nipping at her ear. “Don’t remind you of how eager you were for me once?” His other hand skimmed up her back, gently lifting the hem of her blouse. “Tell me you feel nothing for me,” he murmured, his voice rougher now. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll leave.”

Nyari opened her mouth—to push him away, to say something —but all that came was a shuddered breath.

Astarion hummed in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”

Against all better judgment, her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer. And when her thighs parted, granting him access, he did not waste a second.

“That’s my girl.” He slipped his hand beneath her skirt, fingers tugging a thin layer of lace to the side to reward her with a slow drag of his fingers across her cunt.

Nyari clenched around nothing, instinctively seeking more. Only now, with his touch upon her, did she realize just how starved she had been.

“Already wet for me, my sweet.” His fingers teased, moving in soft circles around her clit without quite touching it. “So perfect for me every time.”

Astarion watched her with hooded eyes, drinking in every reaction as he eased a finger inside, curling it just enough to make her bite back a moan. She let out a breathy gasp, fingers twisting into his shirt, wordlessly pleading. 

He hushed her. “Not yet, darling.”

He lowered himself, his lips skimming the soft skin of her thigh, fangs grazing with the gentle threat of a bite. A slow inhale preceded an indulgent moan as he savoured her scent. Then, with aching patience, he pressed a second finger inside, feeling the way she stretched and clenched around him.

“Did you think about this?” He murmured, “when we were apart? Did you touch yourself for me?”

Nyari let her head fall back, biting her lip to stifle the needy sounds rising in her throat. He worked her open with practiced ease, thrusting slow and deep, all while trailing kisses along the sensitive skin of her thighs.

So close, yet refusing to give her what she truly craved.

“Answer me.” His voice deepened.

“Yes,” she admitted between ragged breaths, thighs trembling in his grip. “ I thought about you. Every day.”

Just when she thought she might come undone, he withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty.

A soft cry of protest slipped past her lips, but Astarion only smiled. Catching her chin between his fingers, he tilted her head until their eyes met. With agonizing leisure, he brought his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean, eyes never leaving hers.

"You taste exquisite," he breathed.

Her hand drifted downward, fingers tracing the rigid outline of him through his trousers. He was already thick and straining beneath the fabric. A shiver ran through her at the thought of how he would feel inside her. Stretching her. Filling her.

Astarion groaned softly at her touch, pressing into her palm as she wrapped her fingers around him. His breath was warm against her throat, lips brushing skin as he whispered, “Do you want me to fuck you, darling?”

She nodded, barely able to find her voice. “Yes.”

His fingers curled around her undergarments and tugged them down to her feet, before sliding off his own trousers and positioning himself between her parted thighs. The head of his cock teased against her entrance. She let out a shaky breath, her body already arching for him.

“You’ll have to beg for it, my love.” His voice was a low growl, his teeth nipping at her earlobe.

Rational thought had long abandoned her. The diary, the body, the consequences. None of it mattered. Only this. Only him . She rolled her hips against him, coating him with her arousal. 

“Please,” she whimpered. She tried to move against him, but he tutted softly and held her still, savouring the way her need betrayed her.

He tilted his head, watching her with amusement, then tilted his hips just enough to drive her mad. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

All she could think of was the ache where his fingers were only moments ago. She moaned his name in agony, interspersed with the word please.

Astarion let out a satisfied purr, a feral look in his eyes. “Keep going love.”

The need coiled tight inside her, warm and unbearable. His name spilled from her lips in anguished prayer. She clung to him like an anchor, fingers dug into his back, nails grazing the lines of his spine as she begged, hungry and breathless beneath him.

“You want this?” he asked against her throat, voice hoarse, almost reverent. As if, even through all her begging, she may still change her mind. 

She grasped his jaw, tilting his head to face her. “I want you,” she assured once more. “I want to forget everything else.”

And then, finally, he gave her what she craved. She melted around him, her back arching in a wave of euphoria as he buried himself inside her with slow, languid strokes, dragging each movement as if to eternalize the memory upon his skin. She hooked one leg around his waist, pulling him deeper, drawing a low, ragged groan from his throat.

His hand slipped beneath her blouse to cup her breast, thumb circling the hardened peak before giving it a teasing pinch. She gasped again, hips jolting in time with the sharp twist of pleasure it sent through her.

“You feel so good,” he growled, pressing his forehead to hers as his hands seized her hips, holding her in place as he drove deeper, each thrust of his hips bringing her closer to surrender. "You’re going to ruin me.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him into a kiss, lips parting with a moan as she rolled her hips against him with feverish lust. He groaned against her lips, pace faltering for a moment as he twitched inside her. 

I still love you. The words sat on the edge of her tongue, unsaid but trembling in the air between them.

As if he could hear her, his hips crashed against hers as he threw his head back in pleasure, releasing so deep inside her that her own world began to splinter. Time slowed as she reached her own climax, the world cutting into white noise.

The world stilled as they parted just enough to see each other clearly. Flushed skin and lingering need in their eyes, the ache neither of them could put into words.

Until he whispered, “Stay. Stay with me, Ari.” His hands still grasped at her curves, as if holding her could stop time itself.  “What do you want to hear me say? That I love you?” His voice was earnest. “Because I do.”

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe the softness she now found again in his wide, pleading eyes. 

Her eyes glimmered with the threat of tears as she shook her head. “This isn’t love.”

“Yes, it is,” he said firmly. “I wish it wasn’t. I wish I could forget you. I wish there was anything else that made me feel like this. But I love you.”

Nyari traced a gentle line over his cheek with one finger. She searched for a hint of deception, but before her was the Astarion she fell in love with. The sweet spawn who trusted her with his heart. She kissed him, slow and soft, as if the moment might shatter around them if she moved too quickly.

He collapsed into her, resting his head on her chest like he used to when things were easier between them. She wondered if he still found comfort in the way it rose and fell. 

Her fingers threaded into his hair, and she nuzzled against him, breathing in the familiar scent of rosemary.

“We can try again,” she whispered, “if that’s what you want.”

Chapter Text

“It’s strange,” Gale said softly, his voice uneasy. “I did see Elias in class yesterday. I even asked him about the book.”

Nyari twisted her fingers around her coffee cup, staring down into the dark liquid as though it might hold answers. After a long moment, she looked back up at Gale, a frown creasing her brow. “And what did he say?”

Gale’s gaze shifted, as though turning the memory over in his mind. “He claimed that he didn’t want to admit it earlier, but that he found the book in his family home. He thinks it may have belonged to a distant relative. I... didn’t want to pry further.”

Nyari’s confusion deepened. She chewed the inner skin of her cheek. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “I saw his body. And Astarion—” She faltered, throat tightening.

Gale’s eyebrows perked. “Astarion?”

She braced herself. “Astarion admitted to killing him. He said…” She swallowed hard, rubbing her temple. “He said Elias was not who he claimed to be.”

A beat of silence passed between them before Gale’s arms folded, his eyes narrowing. “So, he killed him?”

Nyari sighed, her fingers now digging into the sides of her cup so tightly she thought it might break. “Unless I am losing my mind, yes. But you said it yourself. Elias was in class. You spoke to him.” She felt the questions gnaw at her insides. Had she imagined it all? The body, Astarion’s confession, his hands—

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need to find out more about the diary. That’s the only course of action. Shadowheart might be our best bet, though she wasn’t exactly eager when I first reached out to her about our studies.”

Nyari stood up suddenly, the weight of the conversation closing in on her. “Then I will go speak to her,” she said quickly. “Maybe some time away from the city will clear my head.”

Gale nodded, already distracted by something on his desk. He rummaged through his papers before producing a small polished stone with intricate patterns carved along its surface. He handed it to her with a sigh. “A sending stone. In case you need to contact me while you’re gone.”

Nyari closed her fingers around the stone, tucking it into her pocket. “Thank you,” she murmured before retreating to her bedchamber.

She was halfway through packing—her trusty greatsword, plate armour, a worn tent—when a knock at the front door startled her. 

When she returned to the sitting room, she found Gale looking both perplexed and irritated, and behind the now open door stood Astarion, spectacularly dressed in an embroidered jacket, a bright smile on full display.

Nyari raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not used to you… knocking.”

Astarion huffed, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation and making himself comfortable on a nearby loveseat. “I thought it would be polite.”

Gale, still watching him with apprehension, slowly closed the door behind him. “Why does your attempt at politeness make me even more suspicious of you?”

Astarion threw his hands up in exaggerated exasperation. “You tell me, darling. I’m simply being what you might call a gentleman .”

“This is…” Gale paused, brow furrowed as he processed the situation. “Weird. I’m going to make tea.” He walked off, his voice trailing as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Nyari’s pulse quickened, a small, ridiculous smile tugging at her lips. The sight of Astarion, smiling rogueishly at her in Gale’s sitting room, stirred something in her. A blush crept onto her cheeks as she scrambled for words.

“Astarion.” She cleared her throat, fingers twitching at her sides. “You said Elias was not who he claimed to be. Any information you can share with us?” She looked away too fast, then cursed herself for it.

He leaned back further in his seat, eyeing her like a particularly amusing riddle. “I’ve barely sat down, and you’re already interrogating me. That’s hardly fair.”

Gale returned with a teapot and three cups, setting them down on the table before sitting across from Astarion. He studied him with a sharp, curious look.

She risked another glance at Astarion. He looked perfectly at ease, legs crossed, reclining like the centrepiece of a decadent portrait. Nyari tilted her head, trying to anchor herself in the conversation, a faint frown crossing her features. “Forgive me, there is—” She chewed at her lip. “There is a lot on my mind.”

“Oh, you really are adorable,” Astarion cooed. “Don’t worry, my sweet. I’ll tell you anything you wish to know.”

Gale looked between them, sensing the change in their dynamic. “Great. You can start with why you killed my student.”

“Oh, don’t act so scandalized. You and I have killed more than a few people together.” He laughed, leaning forward. “Like I said to Ari, he was up to something. I followed him home one night and he turned into this wretched little bird.”

“A bird,” Gale echoed in disbelief. “He turned into a bird?”

“Oh I don’t know. ” Astarion rolled his eyes. “Not in the cute druidic type of way. He had a beak. Feathers. A bird person. ”

“Is that all?” Gale asked.

“No, I mean. Sort of.” Astarion scowled, palpably jealous. “There was also the matter of him floating around you two all the time, peering into your books and trying to make himself useful. Anyone with even one eye could tell that he wanted something.”

“Floating around? Eavesdropping?” Gale attempted to keep a cool tone, but his anger betrayed him. “If that is a crime then we ought to kill you too.”

“Kill me?” Astarion smiled, opening his arms in invitation. “Be my guest. I do love a little entertainment.”

“Stop this.” Nyari interjected. “Nobody is killing anyone.”

Astarion’s eyes flickered with mischief. “ Well …”

Nyari shot him a glare. He raised his hands in surrender.

Gale took a deep gulp of his tea before leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps he was suspicious. One can only hope that future inquiry will tell.”

“Yes, yes.” Astarion rolled his eyes. “Do what you need to, my dear wizard. I was just trying to be of service, darling.”

Nyari fought a smile, frustrated with how charming she found his antics. “As good as it is to see you, I need to go pack.”

Astarion sprang to his feet, his cool demeanour faltering. “Pack? Where are you going?”

“Away,” she answered vaguely, glancing towards Gale as if to assure him she was still acting rationally. “Not more than a tenday, I should think.”

“Let me accompany you.” He closed the gap between them, and her heartbeat stuttered.

Gale straightened slightly, his brow creasing. “Must you insert yourself into everything?”

Astarion’s hands found Nyari’s, threading his fingers lightly through hers. “Not everything, just anything as sweet as our dear Ari.”

Nyari shifted, looking down at Astarion’s soft, slender hands, hesitating, but not pulling away. “Company would not be unwelcome, I suppose.”

Gale blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

 “Of course I am.” Her tone was practical, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “Travelling alone could be dangerous. I could use someone to keep watch while I trance.”

“I’m sorry,” Gale said, voice brittle with sarcasm, “I guess we’re just going to forget about the stalking, the showing up uninvited, the murder.”

Astarion grinned. “Oh, please do go on.” His eyes stayed fixed on Nyari, as if Gale’s interjections were just distant scenery.

Gale ignored him. “He killed Elias, Ari. And now you want him on the road with you? I mean no offense when I say this, but have you gone mad?” His eyes narrowed, studying her. “Did I miss something?”

“Oh, we’ve been over this.” Astarion turned to him with feigned exasperation, finally letting her hands dangle back to her sides. “Can’t you just be happy I killed someone who might’ve been out to cause you trouble?”

“It was not your place,” Gale snapped back.

Nyari closed her eyes, as if trying to tune out the noise. “Enough,” she said. She crossed her arms, studying Astarion. “If you come, you do not interfere. You do not pry, you do not push, and you certainly do not try to help the way you did with Elias.”

“ Darling ,” he purred, “you wound me.”

“Do you agree?”

Astarion looked at her for a long moment before he finally gave a slow, lazy smile. “Fine. I promise to be the perfect little travel companion. Won’t even lift a finger unless you ask.”

“Then it’s settled,” Nyari said before Gale could interject. “Pack your things. We leave before nightfall.” 

Astarion gave a little bow. “As you wish, my love.”

Astarion was waiting outside with two horses: one black with dappled grey patches, the other the warm, rich colour of honey in sunlight.

“Your chariot awaits, darling,” he said with a flourish, smiling as he took her pack and secured it neatly to the honey-gold mare.

Nyari ran a hand over the horse’s neck, whispering something soft before swinging herself into the saddle. Astarion mounted his own with a fluid grace that made her pause. She couldn’t help but wonder when he’d learned to ride. Was it before he turned, as a boy, as a magistrate? Or perhaps after his ascension, in moments of leisure? He looked the part of a storybook prince, perfectly composed atop his steed.

The first leg of their journey passed in companionable quiet. They left the edges of the city behind, the forest swallowing them in emerald. A dirt trail snaked ahead, winding beneath the thick canopy as dusk filtered through in soft golds. Astarion made the occasional quip, light and teasing, and each time Nyari smiled despite herself, turning her face away or nudging her horse forward so he wouldn’t see.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” he said at last, reins loose in one hand.

“I see you’ve become more trusting, then,” she replied. “You could be riding into a trap for all you know.

“Please,” he scoffed, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “I assume if you wanted to stake me, you’d have done it by now.”

“We’re going to Shadowheart’s cottage,” she sighed, relenting.

He cocked a brow. “On a reunion tour, are we?”

Nyari laughed. “Yes, where to next, do you think? The Astral Plane? I hear it’s lovely this time of year.” She was grateful for these little lapses in the tension between them.

Astarion snorted. “So, you're not going to tell me anything more, then.”

She hesitated, eyes fixed ahead as she gathered the reins tighter. Not yet. “I need to speak with Shadowheart. That is all.”

He tilted his head toward her, pale strands of hair catching the fading light as he watched her with amused suspicion. “Very mysterious, darling. You’re lucky I enjoy your company so much.”

As the shadows lengthened and the air cooled, they began searching for a place to camp, eventually finding a secluded clearing just off the path, tucked beneath a canopy of overgrown branches. It was close enough to the river to hear its rush, but far enough from the road to feel hidden.

“This should do,” Nyari said, sweeping her gaze across the underbrush for signs of danger.

They dismounted in silence, the quiet between them stretched taut and thin. She felt his eyes catch on her in brief, careful glances, like he was waiting to see if she'd speak first. 

She didn’t. Neither did he.

Instead, they set to work, movements practiced but distracted. Hands too careful, too quiet, as they unrolled their tents. Neither dared to mention the night before. Not the searing hunger in his kiss nor the way she grasped at him as if he were the only thing tethering her to this world. Certainly not the yearning they had shared in the afterglow of their ecstasy.

“Shall I start the fire?” Astarion asked abruptly, tossing down what could only be described as the most decadent bedroll she had ever seen—burgundy silk, embroidered with tiny gold-thread flowers along the edges. It looked less like something meant for camping and more like it had once belonged to a spoiled noble's boudoir.

She arched a brow. “You know how?”

He scoffed, picking up a stick and squinting at it like it had personally offended him. “Of course I do. You just, ah…” He turned it over in his hand, stalling.

Nyari shook her head with a half-laugh, snatching the piece of kindling from his hand. “The perfect travel companion indeed. We will need quite a few more of those.”

She knelt, gathering dry sticks and leaves and arranging them into a neat little pile. With a soft breath, she extended her palm and whispered, “Ignis.” The fire sprang to life in a flicker of orange and gold, crackling warmly between them.

“See, love. What would you ever do without me?” Astarion flashed her a smug smile as he set down a pair of absurdly plush cushions beside the fire, lowering himself gracefully. He patted the one beside him in invitation.

She settled down beside him, a little slower, still getting used to the warmth between them. “At least I can always count on you to bring the silks.”

He wrapped a fleece blanket around her shoulders, the gesture almost too soft. “Nothing but the best for my treasure.”

Nyari inhaled deeply, letting the scent of woodsmoke and the faint perfume of whatever laundry soap he’d used wash over her. “I think I missed this,” she murmured, nestling into the fabric. “Traveling. Camping.”

“We could do it more often,” he said, glancing toward her with a small smile. “Believe it or not, the world doesn’t have to be ending for us to enjoy a night under the stars.”

She turned to him with a playful grin. “Don’t you miss your palace?”

“Of course I do,” he said smoothly. “But this? This is nice too.”

“This is nice,” she echoed, letting the simplicity of the moment settle around her, the quiet she hadn’t realized she’d been aching for. She reached into her pack, pulling out a hunk of bread and a small bunch of grapes and setting them beside her.

“To think,” she murmured, “we had illithid worms in our heads, blood at every turn, gods watching our every move and…” She trailed off, eyes finding Astarion’s. “Sometimes I wish we could go back.”

She braced for a scoff, for his mood to shift like it so often did. But instead, he only laughed, soft and surprised.

“You miss that wretched thing squirming around in your skull?”

“Not that,” she smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I miss you. ”

“I’m right here, darling.” He leaned in a little, voice velvet-soft. “I’ll always be here.”

She exhaled slowly. “You know what I mean.”

“Ah, yes. You miss that pathetic thing I used to be. Weak, afraid, playing the hero for scraps of affection?” He rolled his eyes, as if it were all truly inconsequential. The disdain in his voice was almost convincing.

She reached up before she could second-guess herself, fingertips grazing his cheek. “You were never weak, Astarion.” Her smile was faint and melancholy as she cupped his face with the gentleness of simpler times. 

“You have always been so cruel to yourself, but you were always—” she hesitated, her voice catching. Were? Are? The line blurred too easily now. “—you.” There was no other word to quite describe him as he deserved to be described. “I am sorry that I never convinced you of that.”

He flinched, as if stung by the sweetness of her words, shifting away from her to break contact with her hand.

The stars stretched wide above them, quiet and indifferent, glimmering as they would for lovers but offering nothing more. She let herself imagine pressing her lips to his jaw, the corner of his almost-smile, his collarbone, his shoulder. If only she could rewrite it all into something romantic.

“If you need to hunt,” she offered, her voice quieter now, trying to patch the moment before it unravelled completely, “just let me know. I can manage on my own for an hour or so.”

“Darling,” he laughed, a low, amused sound, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “It would never take me that long.” He moved closer again, not with open vulnerability, but with the worn, familiar closeness he never quite let go of. “Besides, I don't need to anymore.”

“Oh.” The word caught in her throat. Her fingers twitched against her thigh. “Right. No more hunger.”

He trailed a single finger along the seam of her pants. “It’s a different kind of hunger,” he murmured, his gaze heavy-lidded as he looked up at her. 

Her breath caught, the world narrowing to the single point where he touched her.

The fire crackled beside them, casting golden shadows across his face. His breath ghosted over her lips, cool and sharp, and her heart kicked hard. For one disorienting second, she leaned into it.

And she swallowed. For the first time since the ascension, things felt almost normal again. It felt like a dream. One she didn’t want to wake from, but knew that she had to. He had insisted on turning her into a spawn, compelled her, taken her blood without consent. And even now, when he wasn’t speaking directly to her, she sensed the hardness of his vampiric form flickering back to the surface.

She pulled back, electricity still humming through her hand as she gently set his aside.

“We should take things slow,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, shifting her attention towards the food at her side and wondering if she could still stomach it.

For a moment, his eyes turned to a deeper shade of red, before burying it all beneath a smile. “Of course, my sweet. Whatever you wish.”

She nodded quickly, stuffing the untouched food back into her pack with fumbling hands. “I think I’m going to turn in.”

“So soon?”

“We have a long day ahead of us.” She made her way to her tent, still feeling the echo of his touch, the hunger that hadn't quite been extinguished between them.

Astarion sprawled across his bedroll, glaring up at the canopy of trees above him, resenting the lack of a real mattress beneath his spine. It was hard to believe how many years he had spent curled up on Cazador’s stone floor with nothing but a threadbare blanket, reeking of mildew, for comfort.

Nyari was warming to him again. As much as he had hoped to be sharing a bedroll with her, he couldn’t deny that there was progress. So close . He thought. So close to the last thing he needed to really, finally be happy.

She had always seemed too good for him. Unshakeable and devout, if not to gods or law than to her own unwavering sense of reason. There was no one more stubborn, more unsuited to yielding to someone like him, and yet, once, she had chosen him. It had felt like sheer, impossible luck that someone so radiant, so inherently divine, could feel his cold skin, trace the scars he bore, and still say, yes, this is the one I want.

Maybe she would choose him again.

But how many times could he gamble with fate and win? Sooner or later, the dice would turn. His luck would break. Surely, he would falter. And when he did, she would walk away.

But he let his mind focus on the care he had seen in her amber eyes as she held his face in her hands. The way she almost let him kiss her. The way she looked as if it were the thing she wanted more than anything else. It was in those tender thoughts that he found his trance.

Light spilled in, pale and clinical, as the coffin lid scraped open above him. Cazador loomed, his face bathed in silver, like a nightmare closing in on all sides.

“On your knees, boy.” The voice rang out just slightly wrong, warped like a reflection on water.

Astarion obeyed without thought, his limbs moving sluggishly, the old reflexes too deeply ingrained. Joints cracked. His knees pressed into the dirt.

The face above him began to blur, features twisting, melting, reforming.

“You must think so little of her,” his own voice, the twisted version he had heard before, purred from Cazador’s cracked lips.“To think she would degrade herself before you.”

“Fuck you,” Astarion shouted, but no sound came from his lips.

Cazador laughed. A rasping, venomous sound that seemed to peel Astarion’s skin back from the bone. His laughter rang in his ears, stung like thorns in his skin, and hammered into the soles of his feet like nails. 

“You thought you could replace me.” The smirk widened, unnatural. Teeth stretched, eyes too wide. “But you’re still the same obedient, pitiful little spawn.”

Astarion flinched.

“She doesn’t love you, boy,” the monster bellowed. “Now get up.”

His limbs froze, muscles too tight to move. But as he watched, Cazador’s skin sloughed away into ash, leaving behind the unrecognizable fragments of his old master.

Astarion jolted awake in a cold sweat. Cazador is dead. He reminded himself. You killed him. He’s dead. His mind traced over the memory of the dream, and his breathing halted. Cazador’s face was wrong. His voice was wrong. You’re forgetting him. He’s gone.

He reached into his pack for his blanket. It smelled of the stale blood of rats, of dirt, of the stench of undeath, and yet he held it to his chest. Soon too, he thought, these smells would hold nothing for him.

Daylight poured in. Nyari woke to sunlight painting her skin in soft gold, stretching languidly across her bedroll as the warmth slowly pulled her from sleep.

To her surprise, Astarion was already awake, standing near the river with his arms folded behind his back, the morning light glinting in his hair. He looked impatient, or maybe simply restless.

“Feeling rested?” she called out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

He turned with a radiant, too-perfect smile. “Better than ever.”

He stepped forward, then, and with a theatrical flourish, revealed a messy, vivid bouquet, thrusting it toward her like a grand prize. “For you, darling .”

Nyari blinked, taken aback. It was a wild little thing with sprigs of lavender, weavemoss, and scattered petals of something pearlescent and unfamiliar.

“Where did you find these?” she asked, taking them into her hands with delirious joy and burying her nose in them.

“A vampire lord as powerful as myself has his ways,” he said airily, waving his hand, then glanced aside. “I, ah... picked them. This morning. Do you like them?”

“They’re beautiful,” she beamed, lifting them to her face, letting the sweet scent wash over her.

Astarion tilted his head, fingers grazing the bare skin of her arm. “And yet, they pale in comparison to you, my sweet.”

Her heart tripped a little. Too much, part of her warned.

But she didn’t want to question it. Not this moment, not his softness. She didn’t want to dig for motives. Whether he was trying to charm her into something, or merely reminding himself that he could. She let herself imagine pressing the flowers into the pages of her notebook, flattening them carefully between spells and sketches. Hanging them by threads from the rafters of some imagined home.

“You can be sweet,” she said.

His grin widened, slightly crooked. “I am, aren’t I?”

“ Can be,” she corrected, but her grin didn’t falter. She tucked the bouquet carefully into her pack, adjusting the petals so they wouldn’t be crushed. “Come on. Shadowheart’s cottage isn’t far from here.”

Chapter Text

Shadowheart’s cottage was idyllic, shrouded in ivy that tangled across its sloping roof, stone walls softened with age and moss. Windows peeked out from behind leafy shutters, their panes warped with age but clean, reflecting dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees above. A narrow path of flat, smooth stones led to the door, weathered in places, but well cared for. 

Before they reached the door, a fully grown owlbear bounded toward them with surprising grace, letting out a delighted trill before nuzzling into Nyari’s shoulder.

“I’ve missed you, my little cub,” she whispered into his feathers, fingers finding the familiar spot behind his ear for a gentle scratch.

The owlbear gave a joyful little hop, swiping playfully at the hem of her cloak.

The cottage door creaked open. Shadowheart stepped into the sunlight, a bright smile spreading across her face as she took in the scene. “I was hoping to be the first to welcome you, but it seems someone beat me to it.”

Nyari rushed forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. “It is so good to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” Shadowheart’s voice softened as she looked at her with open fondness. Then her eyes shifted to Astarion, her warmth cooling into something more measured. “And you, Astarion. I wasn’t expecting to see you. Though I suppose it’s not an entirely unwelcome surprise.”

Astarion gave a light, amused laugh. “I’d nearly forgotten how delightfully warm you can be.”

Shadowheart arched a brow, lips pressing into something between a smirk and a frown. “Don’t get used to it.” She stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come in, both of you.”

The interior of her cottage was as whimsical as the exterior. Weathered shelves lined the walls, sagging slightly under the weight of trinkets and crystals. Bundles of mismatched cushions and handwoven throws were strewn about a thick rug near the hearth, forming a nest around the fireplace. Scratch lay curled in one corner, gently snoring, his tail twitching now and then in a dream. A wolf pup nestled beside him, curled so tightly she was nearly swallowed by a velvet pillow. The scent of freshly baked pie filled the room, mingling with notes of dried herbs that hung in bunches from low wooden rafters.

Nyari felt instantly at peace, as if the home itself was laced with soothing magic. For a brief moment, she wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this, away from the constant hum of the city and the weight of watchful eyes.

Astarion, leaning back into the plush cushions of the sofa with a languid grace, broke through her thoughts. “There’s a certain quaint charm to this place.”

“It’s beautiful,” Nyari agreed dreamily.

Shadowheart beamed. “You’re welcome here whenever you’d like. Although, I must admit, it’s not always this tranquil.” Her gaze turned to Scratch and the wolf pup. “We’ve got quite the little family—well, not so little,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll introduce you to the rest later. But before I get carried away, I’m curious about whatever it is Gale thought I could help you with. He was rather vague in his letters.”

Nyari shifted, her expression turning a touch more serious. She swallowed before turning to Astarion. “Could you give us some privacy?”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, clearly reluctant. “But darling, I just sat down. You won’t even know I’m here!”

“Astarion,” Nyari warned. “You promised.”

He sighed dramatically, standing and brushing himself off as if rising from a throne. “Fine. But let’s make this quick, shall we?”

Once he was gone, Shadowheart leaned forward, brow raised. “What’s that about?”

“Some things are not for his ears.” Nyari’s voice was quiet but firm, as though the subject was too sensitive to be shared.

“Is this about…?” Shadowheart trailed off, the question hanging in the air, neither of them wanting to say it aloud.

“No.” Nyari’s tone was sharper than before, a flash of unease across her features. “You’ll understand once you read it.” She carefully retrieved the diary from her pack, handing it over to Shadowheart.

Shadowheart eyed the book with a mix of curiosity and caution. “What’s this?”

“Gale believes it belonged to a Sharran who was involved in some… questionable magic.” Nyari’s eyes darkened as she studied her reaction.

She let out a small, knowing laugh. “I think that’s most of them.”

Yet, her expression sobered as she flipped through the pages. A few moments passed before she looked up, her expression thoughtful. “A Sharran seeking divinity?” She nodded to herself. “I’ve heard rumours, but those Sharrans would have been cast out of my cloister. Lady Shar didn’t take kindly to others trying to claim that kind of power.”

“Nobody you knew?” Nyari pressed, though the question was more for confirmation than expectation.

Shadowheart chuckled softly. “Just because I worshipped Shar, doesn’t mean I knew everyone else who did. Besides, Sharrans do tend to keep their secrets. It wasn’t exactly a place where people shared much.”

Nyari frowned, her mind working, but Shadowheart’s next words caught her attention.

“But,” Shadowheart continued, “I can tell you this much: whoever this was, they weren’t alone. From the rumours I’ve heard, this particular group of Sharrans was being led by a lich.”

A chill ran down Nyari’s spine at the word. It hit like cold water. The undead, always seeking more power, ambitions that death itself couldn’t thwart. The familiarity of it made her wince.

“Is there anywhere I can find out more?” Nyari asked.

Shadowheart hesitated for a moment, her lips pursing as though weighing the risks. “The House of Grief might have some answers. But I must warn you, pursuing this is dangerous. This is the kind of magic that even Sharrans cast people out for.” She considered her next words. “Especially with someone like Astarion around.”

Nyari grimaced at the mention of Astarion, her mind already reeling. “Trust me, I do not want him involved.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, her gaze turning to Astarion, lounging outside. “Yet you brought him here. I can’t help but wonder if you two are familiar again?”

Familiar. Nyari wasn’t sure what that meant anymore, not when he looked like the man she loved, but didn’t always feel like him.

Nyari’s gaze shifted toward the window, where Astarion sat in a patch of sunlight, absorbed in embroidering something with delicate care. The sight reminded her of the quiet days at camp, when he would repair the clothes they had torn in battle.

For a moment, she let herself fantasize about a quiet life in a cottage just like this, with pets dozing by a fireplace and the man she loved stitching under the sun he so adored. She almost resented her magic at times, and the debts that came with it. Shadowheart had earned this peace, but Nyari? She wasn’t done yet. She felt the weight of the diary on the table between them, staring at her, not allowing her the quiet she so yearned for.

“In some ways, maybe,” Nyari murmured, her voice quieter now, her eyes tracing his figure through the window.

“Well, I won’t tell you what to do. Your heart is yours to give as you please, I suppose.” Shadowheart turned back to the diary, closing it with a thud. ”If you do… pursue this. I have a contact in Baldur’s Gate, the former quartermaster of my cloister. Tell her I sent you.” 

“Thank you, Shadowheart.” Thank you for not prying. Her mind added.

“Don’t mention it. If nothing else, it’s a great excuse to have tea with an old friend.” She handed the diary back, careful as if it may bite. “And I have to say, I’m impressed you found something like this. Sharrans don’t tend to leave these types of things lying around.”

Nyari’s brow knitted. “A student gave it to us.”

Concern spilled across Shadowheart’s features. “A student?”

“Should I be worried?” A ridiculous question, surely.

“Whoever had this, it’s very likely they were connected to the cult itself. And to just give it to you?” She shook her head. “For whatever reason, they wanted you to have it.”

Nyari took a sip of her tea, though the warmth did little to soothe the chill creeping up her spine. “If it helps at all, Astarion killed him.”

“I’ve missed quite a lot, haven’t I?” Shadowheart smiled cautiously. “Dead or not, this isn’t about one person. I’d watch my back if I were you.”

“Noted. Watch my back.” She offered a thin smile. “What else is new?”

Astarion nearly pricked his finger on the embroidery needle when the door creaked open again, revealing Nyari framed in the light. He caught the tight set of her jaw, the severity in her gaze.

He had considered eavesdropping, but her guard had been up. For all the warmth she’d started to show him again, it was clear she still didn’t trust him completely. At times, he couldn’t blame her. Nyari had a maddening talent for seeing right through him. Maddening, but admirable.

“Finished with your little business chat?” he drawled, carefully folding the cloth in his lap and slipping it into his pocket.

She nodded, gesturing behind her. “Want to join us for pie?”

He gave a light, almost mocking laugh. “I suppose it’s always amusing watching you stuff your face.”

“Good,” she replied, unbothered. “Come inside.”

He smirked as if the invitation were a joke, but followed her in without a word.

Shadowheart stood at the table, carving neat slices of pie. The scent of warm blueberries filled the cottage, syrup pooling dark and glossy against the crust on each plate. Astarion watched her hands with idle interest, though his attention quickly slid back to Nyari. 

“So what now?” he asked. “Back to Waterdeep? Or do we finally get to kill someone?”

“I need to go to Baldur’s Gate,” Nyari said, her voice low with hesitation. “Will you come with me?”

“Darling,” he said, eyes softening, “I would follow you to the ends of every plane.”

He studied her reaction closely. For all the honey in his voice, he was being truthful, but she looked at him with a tinge of caution still.

“How romantic,” Shadowheart cut in dryly.

Astarion glanced toward her. Had they been speaking about him? Probably. He wondered what Nyari had said about him in his absence and what she may have confessed to someone she trusted more than him.

“Do stay the night, though,” Shadowheart added after a pause, her gaze flicking to Nyari. “There's not much room, but it’s better than sleeping outside. My parents are away, so you could use their room, if you’d like.”

To his relief, Nyari nodded. “That sounds wonderful.” He was unable to tolerate another night lying on the ground.

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. “And you’ll… both sleep in there?” she asked, tone casual, but just enough to suggest she was testing something.

Astarion opened his mouth to deliver something glib, but the words caught on his tongue. He glanced to Nyari instead, waiting to follow her lead.

Nyari met his gaze, then turned back at Shadowheart. “We have shared tighter spaces before,” she said carefully. “It’s fine.”

“How scandalous,” he murmured, amused. “But yes, I think we can manage to be civil, even horizontal.”

“Mm. Civil.” Shadowheart snorted. “That’ll be a first.” She turned pointedly to him. “Don’t steal anything.”

“Please,” he said, hand to heart. “I’m reformed. Mostly.”

Shadowheart poured three generous glasses of wine, pushing one toward Nyari and another, somewhat reluctantly, toward him.

He raised the glass in a lazy toast. “To domestic bliss.”

Nyari tasted the pie and beamed. “Shadowheart, this pie is so good, I might be in love with you.”

Shadowheart laughed. “You do have a weakness for the dark and mysterious type.”

Astarion leaned his elbow on the table, swirling the liquid in his glass. “You know, if I’d known pie was the key to your heart, I might’ve taken up baking. 

Shadowheart quirked a brow. “You can’t even cook.”

“I can seduce someone who can,” he countered, then looked at Nyari with mock-seriousness. “Do you bake? Gods, tell me you bake. We could open a tavern together. ‘Blood & Butter.’ I’ll handle the patrons, you make the tarts.”

Her laugh rang out like a bell, unguarded with an ungraceful snort. He was used to her raising a hand to shield her smile when she laughed, a residual habit of noble etiquette, but here she was: open and utterly at ease. He hated how it made his chest ache.

Joke more, he thought . Make her laugh. Make her look at you like that again.

The night carried on with surprising ease, the three of them drinking homemade wine. Shadowheart’s cats came and went, leaping into laps like small, judgmental gods.

“That’s Muffin.” Shadowheart smiled. “He seems to like you, Astarion.”

Astarion held still as the creature rubbed against him, careful fingers stroking behind his ears. He blinked, brows knitting as the cat headbutted his hand with sleepy determination. “He’s…” He paused, as if rifling through a language not quite his own. “Cute.”

The small calico nestled into his lap, curling into the crook of his arm like they’d known each other for years.

“He’s adorable.” Nyari practically squealed, giggling as she finished her wine.

He watched her then. Really watched her. The way her face lit with comfort, her shoulders relaxed as she curled into the sofa. He could see the girl she must have been once, before the world clawed its marks into her. And despite it all, she was still capable of delight. Over a cat. Over him , holding a cat.

“Adorable,” he echoed, voice quiet. This time, he wasn’t sure if he meant the cat.

Cottages. Cats. Blueberry pie.

Is this what she wanted? This soft, uneventful life? He hated to admit how much she looked like she belonged here, and how out of place he must look, even by her side.

That night, Nyari turned from him as she stripped, but he couldn’t pull his gaze from her as she lifted her blouse over her shoulders, dim light catching on the smooth planes of her back.

“Darling,” he swallowed, desperate to touch her, to sink his teeth into her soft flesh. His usually dextrous fingers caught on his own shirt button. “Do you really think modesty is necessary?”

She tugged her nightgown over her head, the hem falling around her thighs, before turning to face him. The fabric was sheer enough to reveal the gentle curve of her breasts. Facing him now, he could see the blush creep over her cheeks.

“Perhaps not, but I thought we were taking things slow,” she said.

He forced a smile. “Ignoring, of course, that when we first met, it took mere days for you to be gasping for breath beneath me.” He let his shirt fall in a puddle at his feet. “But,” he added, raising a hand as if in surrender, “of course, I respect your wishes.”

He turned away from her, playful and theatrical, before removing the rest of his clothes. He slipped on a softer pair of trousers and turned back to face her.

“There,” he said. “Do try to control yourself in the night, my sweet.”

She rolled her eyes, but he noticed the way her pupils widened as they glanced towards his lips.

He slid beneath the covers, adjusting the pillow behind his head. The sheets were plain cotton, but they were plush and clean. Decadent, even, compared to a bedroll.

“So.” He fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “Are you going to tell me what’s in Baldur’s Gate, or am I just tagging along as your charming, under-informed sidekick?” He turned to her, giving his most dashing smile. “Not that I mind, of course. I do look good in leather armour.”

Nyari sat down gingerly on the far side of the mattress, the distance between them carefully measured. “Shadowheart knows a Sharran there who may have information about Elias. And what Elias gave us.”

Elias. The name sounded familiar. Astarion’s brow crinkled. “Elias?”

She shot him a flat look. “The boy you left on my balcony.”

“Oh. Him. ” His tone brightened with recognition, but his mind scrambled to keep up. “So he was a Shar worshipper? I guess I really did do you a favour then. Look at me, doing good deeds.” 

“Something like that.” He sensed that she was saying as little as possible, but it was more than she gave him before.

She exhaled sharply and slipped under the covers, the bare skin of her arm brushing against his briefly, just enough to make his thoughts stutter.

“So it is a Sharran ritual,” he murmured, watching the play of shadows on the ceiling. “How delightfully ominous. I guess all this leaves you one step closer to divine ascension, and the inevitable self-righteous refusal of it. How noble."

Her expression stiffened. “How much did you read of my notebook?”

He rolled his eyes. “Just skimmed it, darling. Apotheosis, necromancy, something about blood sacrifice, et cetera et cetera.” He smiled, slow and easy, almost convincing. “Nothing I can use, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She hesitated, then looked at him, open and unguarded. "It is."

He turned his head, suddenly unsure where to put his gaze. He was already powerful. Unfathomably so. He could take what he wanted now. Anything, anyone. But the thought nagged at him: Did he still want—need—more, if he could have her instead?

He pushed the thought away, reaching across the narrow divide to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. Too intimate. Too honest. Still, it was better than answering.

She couldn’t understand. How could she? She’d never known his hunger, the absolute helplessness.

“Do you fear me, my love?” he asked, voice softer than he intended.

“No,” she said, immediately. Eyes still locked on his. “I only fear for you.”

He nearly laughed, but thought better of it. “You’re such a sweetheart. But I assure you, I am safer than I have ever been. And now, so are you.”

She didn’t respond, only offering him a pained expression before pressing her lips to his forehead. 

The tenderness took him by surprise, bringing memories of being a spawn again, of waking from nightmares next to her and feeling her gentle fingers curling through his hair to calm him.

Before long, she had found her trance, and he edged closer to her. She lay so peacefully, her skin inviting him in. It would be so easy to bite her, to take her and turn her right now.

She can be yours. Forever. A voice, somewhere at the back of his mind, goaded him.

But she trusted him. Not entirely, but enough to lie beside him, enough to allow him to walk by her side, even with every reason to hate him.

He could take her, but he didn’t want to. He wanted her to choose him.

His arm hovered over her for just a moment, fearing that she would stir or pull away if he dared to touch her. Still, he lowered it, carefully draping it over her with a featherlight touch. His muscles stayed taut, braced for rejection.

But her hand found his in the dark, fingers curling around his and pulling it tighter against her chest. She nestled into him with a soft, contented sigh. ​​Astarion exhaled, slow and quiet, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. He closed his eyes, his body finally easing against her's.

Chapter Text

“Darling,” Astarion drawled, “have you forgotten your way around already?”

The last ten days of travel had been increasingly comfortable, giving way to light teasing and familiar glances. There were moments when Nyari almost forgot the ascension, moments that brought her back to when they’d fought side by side against the Absolute, back when their connection had felt far less complicated. She took small pleasures in Astarion’s quips and his featherlight touches to the small of her back.

Now, the gates had closed behind them, swallowing them between the thick stone walls of the lower city. Lanterns cast pools of amber light onto slick cobblestone, their glow diffused by a low-hanging fog that clung to the hems of Nyari’s cloak. Vendors peddled their wares in half-hushed tones, voices weaving through the clatter of carts and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby tavern.

Nyari kept her eyes ahead, her steps purposeful. Astarion followed a pace behind.

“It is late,”  she said, evenly. “I will get a room at the Elfsong. We can go in the morning.”

“Nonsense.”  His voice reached her with that familiar charm. She could almost hear his smile. “You’ll stay with me.”

She opened her mouth to object, but nothing reasonable came to mind. He was already smiling, charming and impossibly certain. And in truth, she didn’t want to part from him either.

“There are plenty of rooms, if modesty is your concern,” he added. “Though, I’ll admit, I rather hoped you’d sleep in mine.”

His hand slid gently around her waist, and she exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. When she looked up at him—at those ruby eyes so unguardedly soft—her heart slowed, steadying.

She hesitated, then gave a cautious nod. As much as she despised his estate and its haunted memories, it was close by and she was already beginning to yawn from their day of travel.

“Alright,” she agreed. “I suppose it will be comfortable.” Things were starting to feel safe with him again, maybe the estate would be no different.

“Darling,” he purred, “ comfortable doesn’t even begin to describe it. You’ll have every luxury your sweet heart desires.”

The Crimson Palace loomed ahead, just as she remembered it: decadent, gaudy, and suffocating.

Inside was the kind of luxury that made her skin crawl. Her footsteps echoed across cold marble floors. Gilded lanterns cast weak, flickering light against dark stone. Spawn stood like statues at the edges of every hallway, expressionless and unblinking.

Perhaps sensing her unease, Astarion reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. His soft touch grounded her, even as the house tried to smother her.

Even amidst all this, his touch still made her heart flutter. She thought about how stupid it was that he could walk her through what felt like hell—a hell of his own making—and she would still warm at such a small touch. She squeezed his hand.

“We could always redecorate, if it offends your delicate sensibilities,” he said lightly, catching her wrinkled nose as she eyed a particularly hideous golden cherub sconce.

She didn’t answer. The thought of living here made her insides feel as if they were locked in a vice.

She had told him they could try again, a small shred of hope that made him blossom before her. But here, surrounded by everything she hated, she felt the rift between them looming once again, no matter how close they stood. The things that divided them before lingered like an unbroken curse. But she could ignore it, at least for a little while longer.

They reached his bedchamber, just as fantastical and devastating as the rest of the estate: rich crimson velvet, carved obsidian columns, a bed that looked like it could swallow a person whole. He turned to her, still holding her hand.

“Make yourself at home, dear.” His voice was perfectly gentle, yet her stomach twisted into knots.

She nodded slowly, laying her pack against the dresser. It looked almost comically out of place, as she was sure she did too. Yet he looked at her with unguarded admiration. 

“Do you have any idea what it did to me? When you left?” He asked softly. “But here you are,” he continued, stopping just a breath away. His hand lifted, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek with aching gentleness. “Finally.”

Nyari swallowed hard. He was bare and aching before her, yet she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to embrace him or disappear.

“I should let Gale know what we’ve learned,” she said, her voice steady but tight. She forced a smile. “I will tell him that we are here.”

Astarion smiled, but his gaze lingered too long. Measuring. Thinking. “Of course, my treasure. Whatever you need to do.” 

He moved closer with effortless grace. “Shall I have one of my servants bring us something to drink?”

Her fingers slipped into her pocket, curling around the sending stone like a lifeline. “I will be alright,” she said quietly.

“As you wish.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple. She didn’t breathe until he pulled away.

It was maddening that the soft press of his lips brought a flush to her cheeks, that part of her wished he had kissed her lips instead. That maybe, if he wrapped her in his arms and carried her to the bed, she would forget where she was.

As soon as she was alone, she pulled out the sending stone, running her fingers over the carved sigil. It glowed faintly at her touch.

She chose her words carefully, ignoring the urge to let every anxiety tumble out in a tangle of speech: “In Baldur’s Gate. Staying at Astarion’s estate. Shadowheart has a Sharran contact here, may know more about Elias. I’m safe. I’ll update soon.”

A moment later, Gale’s reply shimmered through the stone, his voice a balm for the strain in her chest: “Baldur’s Gate. I wonder how it feels to be home. I admit I worry, but I trust your strength. Be careful. I’m here for you.”

Home . What a strange word. She’d grown up in Baldur's Gate, but that life felt impossibly distant now. She wondered if her family even knew that she was among the heroes of the city.

Nyari held the stone a little longer than she needed to, letting the warmth of his words settle. She thought of Gale’s tower in Waterdeep. The books stacked in cozy disarray, black tea always steeping, the quiet hum of magical wards cradling the walls. Then she looked around at the cold splendour of this manor, brimming with polished stone and shadows.

She lingered in the bedroom a moment longer, fingers still pressed to the stone. A low hum of conversation echoed from further down the hall. Astarion’s voice, low and sharp, followed by another, quieter one she didn’t recognize.

Curiosity, or dread, pulled her towards the sound.

The hall opened into a dim side chamber, one she didn’t remember from her last time here. It looked like it might once have been a study. Now, the bookshelves were bare, the long desk cleared of all but a crystal decanter and a blood-stained cloth.

Astarion stood with his back to her, a fist tangled in the shirt collar of a kneeling spawn. His other hand tilted the boy’s chin upward,  deceptively gentle.

He tsked, almost fondly. “Do you remember what I promised the last time you disappointed me?”

The spawn didn’t respond. He was trembling, lips parted like he might beg, but Astarion didn’t wait. He backhanded him with casual, terrifying ease. The sound cracked through the air, sharp as breaking bone, and the spawn hit the floor hard, curling in on himself.

Astarion stood over him, utterly still. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Astarion,” Nyari cried. 

He froze.

It was only a second before he turned, mask already sliding into place. “Darling,” he said smoothly. “I thought you were relaxing in our chamber.”

Her eyes turned to the spawn, voice unsteady. “What in the hells are you doing?”

He shrugged, painfully nonchalant. “Discipline,” he said lightly. “He disobeyed me.”

The Astarion of the past ten days vanished before her eyes. His yearning eyes, soft smile, the way he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders beneath the stars. In his place stood a stranger.

Nyari moved closer, tears welling despite herself. “He is terrified.” She knelt beside the spawn, helping him sit up slowly. Astarion didn’t stop her.

“As he should be.” He smiled, too softly. “They need to learn, love. It’s not cruelty. It’s survival.”

“It is cruelty,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“No, darling.” His voice rose, sharp and biting. “You don’t know cruelty, but believe me when I say I do.”

“I want my own room,” Nyari said. Quiet. Steady. Not the ultimatum she wanted to give, but the only line she had the strength to draw. Leaving the estate would be easier, cleaner, but some traitorous part of her wasn’t ready to walk away.

He blinked, surprised by the calm finality in her tone. “But, darling—”

“Or I’ll stay elsewhere.” She lifted her chin, resolute, though she wasn’t sure she’d make it past the gates without falling apart. She wasn’t sure what terrified her more—the act she just witnessed, or the fact that part of her wanted to stay despite it.

Astarion’s expression soured. The coldness in his eyes too familiar. The same look he’d worn when she left him the first time.

“Fine,” he snapped.

He seized her wrist and led her down the hall in silence. When they reached a door, he stopped, let go.

“I’ll have someone bring your things,” he said without looking at her. Then he turned and walked away, fist clenched at his side.

Nyari stood there, skin still chilled from his touch. She thought about calling after him, but what was the point? There was nothing either of them could say to diffuse this sudden distance.

She stepped inside the room. It was simpler than his—less lavish, less lived-in—but not without comfort. Maybe, here, she could find the will to think clearly again.

She sat on the edge of the bed, trying fruitlessly to steady her breathing as tears pricked at her eyes. She’d find her bearings. And then she’d leave. It wasn’t too late. But her body felt leaden. Her legs wouldn’t move. A few minutes passed before she finally braced herself to stand, to step back through the door and fetch her backpack from his bedchamber—

—when a soft knock interrupted her.

“Come in,” she answered, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve.

To her relief, it wasn’t Astarion but a young woman. She had neatly plaited flaxen hair and a cautious but warm smile. She set Nyari’s backpack just inside the doorway, then held out a glass bottle wrapped in woven wood: Callidyrran whiskey. Nyari’s favourite.

She hadn’t mentioned it since the grove. The fact that he remembered soothed the ache that lingered in her chest, but only slightly.

“My lord asked me to bring this,” the girl said, placing the bottle on the side table and turning to leave.

“Wait,” Nyari said, her voice more urgent than intended. She wasn’t ready to be alone with her thoughts. Not yet. “Will you stay? Share it with me?”

Her expression flickered with surprise, then hesitation. “Is that a command, my lady?”

“No.” Nyari softened her tone. “Just an invitation.” She patted the empty chair beside her. “I could use a friend.”

The woman peered outside before entering and closing the door behind her as quietly as possible. She crossed the room, sitting opposite her. Nyari poured two glasses and offered one over.

“What’s your name?” she asked before she remembered. The spawn weren’t supposed to speak with her. She recalled Corin’s eyes, frightened and hungry, the tremble in his voice when her command forced him to answer.

But this girl accepted the glass with a smile. “Amber.”

“Amber,” Nyari echoed fondly. “Do you know Corin? Is he alright?”

Amber nodded. “Yes. He’s fine. He told me about you, actually. Said you were kind.”

Kind. The word landed like a stone in her stomach. She had compelled him. Forced him to speak. What had he been through to call that kindness?

Nyari exhaled slowly, then took a longer drink than she meant to. The whiskey burned going down, but the warmth settled deep in her chest. “So Astarion has not forbidden you from speaking to me?”

Amber frowned. “My lord didn’t say anything like that. He told me to do whatever you asked.”

“Is it always like that with guests?” Nyari asked.

Amber laughed, a light trill that caught her off guard. There was youth in it, perhaps. Or inexperience. She hadn’t been here long. “We don’t really have guests. You must be important to him, I guess.”

Nyari stared down at her glass, swirling it gently. “I suppose I am. Still alive, at least.”

“Well, that’s more than most of us can say.” Amber smiled weakly.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Nyari asked, slow and cautious, “how did you end up here?”

Amber took a breath, then a deep gulp of her drink. “Lord Ancunin... he saved my life, technically.”

The way she said it made Nyari’s stomach turn. There was regret in it, a bitterness she hadn’t expected. “Oh,” is all that she could get out in response.

“How did you end up here?” Amber asked.

Nyari laughed, not sure where to even start answering a question like that. “Gods,” she sighed. “I guess, we were friends. I needed to travel to Baldur’s Gate, he insisted that I stay here, and I—”  her voice trailed off.

“I didn’t know he had friends.” Amber chuckled. “Strange.”

“It is… quite a long story.” Nyari paused to sip from her drink.

Amber tilted her head. “I won’t pry. But he looked tense when he told me to bring your things.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I upset him by requesting my own room,” Nyari explained.

Amber laughed again, quieter this time. “Ah, so you’re friends. ”

“We were… something.”The words tasted pitiful. Inadequate. How could she explain that this spawn’s master was the only man she’d ever truly loved?

Nyari’s heart twisted. “I am so sorry.” She leaned back against the wall, cradling her glass, eyes unfocused. “If I had known…” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed another mouthful, hoping it would steady her. “If I had known how cruel he would become…”

Amber tilted her head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“It’s my fault,” Nyari said quietly. She drained her glass and poured another. “I helped him become what he is. He was not always like this.”

“Like… this.” Amber considered the words, seemingly unsure of what they meant.

“He was a spawn. Like you,” Nyari murmured. “A slave to the vampire who used to live in this estate.”

Amber’s eyes lifted. “What was he like?” she asked, barely audible.

Nyari shut her eyes. For a moment, the past returned as vividly as the drink in her hand: golden and intoxicating.

“He was afraid a lot of the time,” she said, “but he was clever. Brave. Mischievous. He loved stirring up trouble. Loved attention. And if you could get past the walls he built—” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “He was sweet. Protective. Loving.”

She opened her eyes and met Amber’s gaze. “I miss him,” she whispered.

Amber studied her, eyes full of pity and curiosity, maybe even longing. “He was charming, when I met him,” she said at last, her tone dry. “I thought he was my saviour.”

Nyari gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “I used to think he saved me, too. Now I think he might ruin me.” 

She hesitated. The drink had loosened something in her. “You say he charmed you. Did you ever—” Nyari stopped herself. “Gods, I am sorry. That is none of my business. I fear this drink may be making me lose my manners.”

Amber smirked, finishing her glass with a soft sigh. “Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing to talk to someone who actually says what they’re thinking.” She rolled the glass between her hands before answering. “And to your question: No. I never slept with him. Don’t get me wrong, I would have. Despite everything, he’s handsome. But I suppose, if he wanted that from me...” She looked up, voice flat. “He wouldn’t have to ask, would he?”

Nyari’s gaze sharpened. “He is not like that. He would never force someone.” She hadn’t meant for her words to come out so fiercely.

Amber looked at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Maybe you're right. You seem to know him.” She poured herself another drink. “I want to believe that.”

Nyari’s chest tightened. Her voice, when it came, was low and uncertain. “I thought I knew him, but now?” Her hand drifted to the base of her own glass, but she didn’t lift it this time. “There was a time when I thought he would do anything to protect me. We used to protect each other. Now, I think he just sees me as another shiny object to keep in this horrid place.”

Amber said nothing, but her hand drifted slightly across the table, resting near Nyari’s in a quiet offering. “You’re still alive,” she said gently. “You can leave. Love someone new, even.”

Nyari tried to imagine it: some other face, some other future. But the image dissolved before it could form, blurred at the edges, always pulling her back to Astarion.

A selfish indulgence. The somber look on Amber’s face brought her back from her whirlwind of ideations. She wasn’t trapped, no matter how much it may feel that way.

“You deserve to be free,” Nyari said, reaching out to take her hand. “All of you do.”

A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things.

Amber gave a small shrug. “It’s not pleasant here,” she admitted, “but I don’t know that I was any less trapped before.”

Her sudden honesty caught Nyari off guard, but she knew better than to pry. Amber seemed young and sweet-tempered, but there was a coldness behind her eyes if one bothered to look hard enough. Something locked away.

“Maybe…” Nyari began, voice tentative, “Maybe there’s something I can do. I don’t know what yet. But I will find a way.” She took another slow sip of whiskey, the warmth of it grounding her. “First, I have to get out of here.”

Amber’s fingers tightened slightly around hers. “Stay,” she whispered. “Just for a day or two. He told me to do whatever you wanted, and I’d much rather answer to you.”

Nyari stared into her glass, watching the liquid catch the candlelight like fire. She hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

“Alright,” she said softly. “For you, I will stay.”

Chapter Text

Astarion didn’t recognize his surroundings, but they were familiar nonetheless — faint echoes of Nyari’s stories about her childhood home. Polished marble floors shimmered like still water beneath his feet. Crystal chandeliers refracted sunlight into scattered rainbows. Powder blue damask patterns lined the walls.

It was the sort of house that smelled of old books and jasmine, where voices were always kept low and footsteps softer still. Paintings of Elven heroes and celestial beings watched from gilded frames, their luminous eyes following him as he passed. The air was hushed, suspended, like a memory preserved in amber.

He stepped through an arched doorway and found himself among clusters of slender figures, stiff and silent. No one turned to look. No one spoke.

At the far end of the hall, near a set of stained-glass windows, stood two elves in ceremonial robes—navy and violet, with white sashes and a single black glove on their right hands. 

Between them rested a casket, ornately carved from mahogany and painted with opalescent lilies—Nyari’s favourite, he remembered. A sheer white veil was draped across the lid, ever so slightly kissing the floor.

He didn’t want to look. But his feet moved anyway, slow and steady, as the air turned sharp and cold around him. 

The lid was half-open and he saw her. Serene. Still. Deep creases traced the edges of her eyes. Her hair, streaked with silver, fanned around her, laced with flowers. Dark, delicate lashes rested on her cheeks. Her lips were parted just enough to suggest breath. 

But there was none.

He reached for her. Touched her hand.

Her skin was as cold as his.

He awoke with a dull ache. 

And then the vile voice wormed into his head. She will die and you will live. You will remember. You will always remember, even when she withers into nothing.

He coiled into the sheets, chest clenching. The image refused to leave his head, refusing to slip away as dreams so often do. He tightened fists around silk, clinging to anything as he reminded himself: She is safe. She is just down the hall. She is still alive.

But he had been so close to her sleeping here, with him. He could have curled into her, instead of this empty space. Could have felt her skin, burning hot against his own. Of course, he had to go and ruin it.  

Nothing new.

A knock startled Nyari from her trance.

“Come in,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

To her disappointment, it wasn’t Amber. A new spawn entered, head bowed respectfully. Unease twisted in her gut. Had Amber been punished for drinking with her?

“My lady,” the young man said, bowing slightly, “breakfast is served in the dining room.”

“Breakfast?” She blinked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She’d meant to slip out early and head to the address Shadowheart had given her. But Amber’s words lingered: her presence might make things easier for the others. With a sigh, she nodded, stretched, and followed the spawn to the hall.

She was still in her nightgown, hair tousled, the faint aroma of whiskey clinging to her. She didn’t care. A part of her hoped Astarion would be offended by the sight.

The dining room was cool and quiet. Astarion lounged at the head of a long table, swirling a crimson liquid in a chalice.

“Good morning, darling,” he said. His voice was honeyed, but the disgust in his expression betrayed his manners. Though she couldn’t tell if it was directed to her. His eyes were elsewhere.

Nyari sat without a word, her eyes drifting across the room until they met Amber’s. She stood stiffly by the wall, hands clasped, eyes lowered. Waiting.

“You,” Astarion called, looking directly at Amber, a knowing smirk playing at his lips, “bring in some food.”

Amber moved quickly, but he raised a hand. “Ah ah, my pet.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said quickly, bowing low. “It’ll just be a moment.”

“That’s better.” He quirked his head, making sure to catch Nyari’s reaction. His tone was mocking, but Nyari caught the twitch in his jaw, the tension in his hands.

“Are you just doing this to vex me?” she asked, voice sharp.

“Now, why would I do that, my sweet?” he replied smoothly, still refusing to look at her.

“To punish me. To torment me.” She stood, hands braced against the table as she leaned toward him, hoping it would be enough for him to finally turn to face her. “You invite me here, play the gracious host, then put on this little show.” Her voice dropped. “Just when I thought—”

“Thought what?” he interrupted, his voice suddenly cool. “That I was still the same little spawn you fell for?”

She flinched.

He scoffed. “Come now, darling. I thought you were smarter than that.”

Before she could reply, Amber returned, bearing a silver tray in trembling hands. The scent hit Nyari instantly. Buttered bread, soft cheeses, sliced fruit, eggs laced with herbs. Her stomach clenched with unexpected hunger. It was decadent, as he had promised her stay here would be. A feast for one, surrounded by vampires who, she assumed, with the exception of Astarion, were starving.

“Thank you,” Nyari said, pointedly meeting Amber’s eyes. Then, turning back to Astarion: “You said you’d give me anything I wanted.”

“And I meant it,” he replied smoothly.

“Then I’ll be needing a servant. Just for the day. One of your spawn to accompany me.”

Finally, he looked at her, but his gaze was cold. “A spawn?” Astarion repeated, voice tight. “I offer you my time, my assistance, and you choose one of them ?” He laughed, light and sharp like broken glass. “Well. I suppose I’ve been replaced with something more manageable.”

“Is that a yes?” Nyari held her stare.

His brow lifted, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “You know they can’t go out in sunlight.”

“You had them watching me in Waterdeep,” she said coolly. “They have hoods. Masks. I’ll keep one fully covered and return them in one piece.”

Astarion regarded her for a long moment, lips curling in a half-smile. “Clever.” He raised his chalice as if in a toast. “Very well. Do as you wish.”

“Good.” She picked up a piece of bread, tore it, and began to eat. “Amber, you will come with me.”

The room went silent but for the quiet scrape of silverware. Nyari ate quickly, occasionally glancing at Astarion across the table. For the most part, he still avoided her gaze, fidgeting ever so slightly each time her eyes bore into him. His fingers drummed softly on the table, just once. He adjusted his chalice, then his sleeve. Tiny tells.

She wondered if he was waiting for her to speak again.

At last, she pushed the plate back and stood. 

“Ari,” his voice stopped her just as she reached the door.

She turned.

“Do be careful out there, darling,” he said, tone softer now, mimicking that of genuine concern. “I fear you may be too used to my protection.” 

Nyari waited as Amber dressed, listening to the rustle of heavy fabrics behind the screen. The garments were fashioned from thick, tightly woven cloth dyed a deep charcoal, meant to shield every inch of her from the sun’s touch. She layered gloves that buttoned snugly at the wrist, a high-collared tunic with long sleeves, and trousers tucked into soft leather boots. A dark scarf wound around her head and neck, leaving only her eyes exposed.

“Are you sure about this?” She asked.

“Nothing will happen to you,” Nyari gently assured. “We’re just going to see a friend, and then, well, we can do anything you’d like.”

Amber emerged at last, her pale red eyes the only visible part of her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented in the filtered light. “Anything I’d like?”

Nyari nodded. She owed it to her.

The two women walked out of the front door, and Amber stopped for a minute at the precipice, as if she might burst into flames if she strayed too far.

“It’s okay,” Nyari beckoned. “You’ll be safe.”

They wound through the cobbled streets to the address Nyari had scribbled down in her notebook, Nyari holding Amber’s gloved hand the whole way. It wasn’t far. They arrived at a small stone house, tucked into an alleyway, and knocked at the door.

The door opened after a minute or so, a lavender-skinned tiefling woman eyeing them with caution.

“I’m a friend of Shadowheart,” Nyari said. “She gave me this address.”

The tiefling tensed, her tail flicking once behind her.  “And she is?” She looked to Amber, who remained a step behind Nyari, as if she was still unsure that she was supposed to be there.

“A friend,” Nyari replied firmly. “She is not a threat, neither of us are.”

“Come in then,” the woman tilted her head to invite them.

The house was dimly lit, cramped, but tidy. Books, maps, and potions cluttered every available surface. Nocturne locked the door behind them, and Amber flinched at the sound.

“So, you’re one of Shadowheart’s friends.” She arched a brow, her voice friendly but cautious. “Care to tell me anything else about yourself?”

“My name is Nyari Caladhiel,” she said, straightening a little. “I fought alongside Shadowheart against Viconia.”

“That was very brave of you.” Her expression eased, a soft smile curling at her lips. “I’m Nocturne. I suppose you need to know something about the Sharrans.”

Nyari hesitated. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess?” She laughed. “I report to Shadowheart from time to time, if she needs anything.” With a rustle of her dark skirts, Nocturne disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. The soft clink of ceramic, the creak of a cupboard door, and the hiss of a kettle being lifted followed in her wake.

Nyari lowered herself into a wooden chair at the weathered kitchen table. The mismatched cushions on each seat were lopsided and faded, some stitched with careful repairs. She beckoned Amber to join her with a slight motion of her hand.

Amber sat stiffly beside her, posture guarded. Her eyes flitted to the bolted door, lingered there a moment too long, then drifted to the spines of old books stacked haphazardly on a nearby shelf. Her fingers twitched in her lap. The tension in her shoulders hadn’t eased since they left the estate.

Nocturne returned moments later, balancing a tray with mismatched ceramic mugs. “Tea?” she offered, handing one to each of them.

She curled her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into her fingers. For the first time since waking, she let herself breathe.

Amber took her cup with a small, muttered “thank you.” Then, slowly, she unwrapped the headscarf that had concealed most of her face and set it neatly on the table.

Nyari caught the faint bruising along her neck, peaking out from the top of her tunic, but said nothing. Had it been there before? She had been so caught up in her own despair the night before, that the details of Amber’s skin evaded her. Or perhaps her thick braids had been enough to cover it.

“So,” Nocturne said, settling across from them and gently blowing across her tea, “what do you want to know?”

“She mentioned a group of Sharrans who were exiled from your cloister,” Nyari said, “led by a lich. She said it was only rumours, but that you might know more.”

Nocturne stilled, the change subtle but unmistakable. Her mouth pressed into a flat line, and she set her own mug down without sipping from it. “The Cloister of Divinity,” she answered, voice surprisingly light. “Blasphemers. Not content to serve the Mistress. They want to be her.”

“So they’re real?”

She nodded. “I knew one of them. She was ambitious, always pushing the limits. She tried to drag the rest of us into it too. Said a lich had promised them secrets, godhood, control over memory itself.” She mused, “I might have admired her brazenness under other circumstances.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” Nyari pressed.

Nocturne shook her head. “Viconia cast her out onto the street, but even before that, I kept my distance.” She hesitated. “But I know she’d already begun making sacrifices. Memories, even before she was expelled.”

“Isn’t that common for Sharrans? To willingly forget?”

“It is,” she admitted, “but this wasn’t just amnesia, and it wasn’t for Shar. She was giving up parts of herself. After some time, she was almost unrecognizable.” She took a long sip of her tea, lost for a moment in thought. “It was odd.”

Nyari rifled through her bag before setting the diary on the table and giving a slight nod, a silent permission. Nocturne reached for it, setting down the cup. Her fingers hesitated at the worn cover before she skimmed a few pages, silent for so long that Nyari began to wonder if she was even reading.

When she finally spoke, she seemed oddly unconcerned. “Whoever wrote this didn’t succeed.” She pushed the book back towards Nyari. “If they had, the world would already be teeming with gods in Shar’s likeness. They must be missing something.”

Nyari’s voice dropped. “Then I just need to find whatever it is.”

Nocturne looked up sharply, curiosity in her expression. “You’re not… one of them, are you?”

Nyari gave a short, amused laugh. “No. My friend and I are trying to learn about them, so we can put an end to it.”

Amber stirred for the first time, her voice small. “Astarion?”

Nyari’s breath caught. It was the first time she’d heard Amber use his first name. She hadn’t known the girl even a day, and yet pride stirred in her chest. There was a quiet strength in Amber, the kind that reminded her of who Astarion had once been.

“Gods, no.” Nyari tucked the diary away quickly, as if it were leaking shadows into the room. “A wizard in Waterdeep.”

Nocturne studied her a moment longer. Then she nodded. “In that case, I’ll keep my ears open. If anything stirs within my cloister, I’ll let you know.”

Nyari nodded, tearing a page from her notebook. “Do you have a quill?”

Nocturne disappeared for a moment, returning with a feather and a pot of ink. Nyari took it and scribbled Gale’s address onto the page. “Write to this address, if you can.”

Amber glanced between the two women. “You have interesting friends.”

“You seem rather interesting yourself,” Nocturne replied, studying her more closely. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Amber’s posture stiffened for just a breath. “Amber,” she said. “I live at the Ancunin estate. I… work there.”

“I’ve heard things about him,” Nocturne said, curiosity sparking behind her eyes. “Pale, reclusive, terrifyingly charming.” She leaned in, voice dropping as if sharing a ghost story. “Is he really a vampire?”

Amber met her gaze without flinching. “Yes.” She said it simply, like commenting on the weather.

Nocturne leaned back, downing the rest of her tea. “That explains your eyes.” She smiled, slow and warm. “Don’t worry, honey. I won’t say a word. And I’m not afraid of vampire spawn.”

At that, Amber finally seemed to relax, easing back into her chair.

“I’ve heard plenty about Astarion,” Nocturne went on, her smile tilting sly. “Shadowheart was very thorough in her storytelling. Still, it’s fun watching the rumours swirl through the city, each one more dramatic than the last.”

“She knew him too, then?”

Nyari watched Amber’s curious expression, how carefully she tried to piece it all together.

“They were friends,” Nyari offered. “Quite close, actually. But they are no longer on the best of terms.”

Nocturne raised a brow. “Well, if she didn’t sock him in the jaw, they can’t be on the worst terms either.” She looked to Amber, her tone softening. “She used to defend me, you know. Back when the others teased me for changing my name and growing out my hair.”

Amber tilted her head. “She sounds kind. And a little scary.”

“That’s her,” Nocturne said fondly.

They talked long into the afternoon, indulging in light gossip and sharing tales of the past, the rhythm of their voices stitching the first threads of friendship as the light outside began to fade.

Astarion waited.

And waited.

The door stood still for so long, he began to wonder if they—if she —would ever return. Each minute stretched thin with hope and dread. When the door finally creaked open, he stood straighter, a little too quickly, betraying his eagerness. He hadn’t meant to. But there she was. Smiling brightly. The two women whispered things to one another until they saw him.

“Well,” he said, voice deceptively light, “you did return her unscathed. How noble.” His gaze turned to Amber, eyes flaring red. “Tell me, Amber. How did it feel?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The sun?”

Amber flinched, her smile falling from her lips.

“Because I do wonder,” he continued, now looking at Nyari, eyes narrowing, “what exactly you promised her out there.”

“I promised I would free her. And all the others, if given the chance.” Her voice was maddeningly calm. As if it wasn’t a betrayal.

He scoffed. “Of course you did, my little hero. Filling the world with your pretty, empty promises.” He forced his most charming smile. “So, will my favour be enough to bring you to my bed tonight, or are you still angry with me?”

Please, he thought. He could salvage this. But a tired sadness hollowed Nyari’s features. She gave a nod to Amber, who hesitated, then gently squeezed her hand before slipping down the corridor.

Nyari wouldn’t even look at him.

"It can't be like it was, can it?" she murmured, gaze still fixed down the corridor where Amber had disappeared.

He stepped closer, heart pounding, desperate to close the distance between them. “It could be better,” he insisted. He reached for her hands, but she tucked them behind her back. He could hear her heartbeat, so calm it tormented him. She was only a step away, but they may as well have been realms apart.

"If you would just stay with me, darling," he pleaded before he could stop himself, shuddering at his own desperation. That wasn’t what he’d meant to sound like. But he continued, the words slipping from his mouth without thought. "Be mine. Let me love you for an eternity."

"As your consort," she said. Her grimace gutted him as she finally met his eyes. "Whatever you did to Amber, and all of the other spawn, Astarion, I cannot take it.”

“And what exactly did I do to Amber, hm?” He asked, patience stretching thin. “Because I’m very curious, darling, what you think I did.”

She met his gaze, steady. “Those bruises around her neck, the way she flinches when your voice raises, the way she clenches at a locked door.” Every word was an accusation.

“You know nothing,” he snarled. “I’ve never laid a hand on her. Perhaps I’m not kind, as someone like you would put it, but I saved her from a wretched existence.” His nose crinkled, remembering the encounter with open disdain. “Her slimy, little husband pulled her into a room in this very palace. And he beat her to a pulp, during one of my soirees, no less. But I saved her. I tore his throat out, and I saved her life the only way I knew how.”

 ”I… did not realize.” Her voice was calm, but he finally caught it: the quickening of her heartbeat, evidence that anything he said made her feel something.

“Of course you didn’t.” His voice was low and furious. “You never do. You just look at me like I’m the villain. Like you’ve never spilled blood of your own.”

"I will never pretend to be innocent in all of this, Astarion,” she said with a sigh, “but that does not mean I am willing to let you change me.”

"Change you ?" He laughed, short and bitter. "You say that as if you don't yearn for a man who no longer exists. I cannot be who you want me to be. Not anymore."

She only nodded. “I know.” Her heart had returned to a slow, steady beat. He wondered what it would take to hasten it again, to awaken the storm in her that she summoned in him.

The hurt flashed across his face before he could stop it. He turned away, clenching his jaw. "You never loved me," he said bitterly, a sense of finite despondency in his tone. "You loved the idea of rescuing me, of having a little project to mend . And now? You don't know what to do with me."

She didn't deny it. She only said, softly, "Then let me move on."

As if it were that simple.

The memory of his nightmare surged back and nearly shattered him. That sickening promise: she would wither, fade, and he would remain. Alone. Remembering.

"Darling," he said, voice dark. He stepped closer, tilting her chin up with the tip of his finger, and smiled as he felt her heartbeat flutter at his touch. "You may tell yourself whatever you like, but you keep coming back to me, too. You think I don't hear the stutter in your breath when I'm near? You think I don't notice that delightful little flush in your cheeks? If you truly wanted to move on, you wouldn't be here, now would you?"

He leaned in, his breath brushing her skin. Seduction as a last resort. 

“For all your righteous fury,” he said, voice dipping into a low purr, “you like what I’ve become. It thrills you. Doesn’t it?”

She flinched as if he'd struck her, voice cracked with disbelief. “Thrills me? Is that how you think I look at you?” Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back as she always does. "I love you Astarion, foolishly and irrevocably."

“Then love me.” The plea ripped out of him, desperate and raw. “Stay with me.”

She looked at him like she wanted to. For one fragile moment, she swayed closer. He could feel the heat of her breath against his lips.

But then she stepped back, the loss like cold steel through his ribs.

“I never want to leave you, Astarion. Not until the day I die.”

The vision returned with a vengeance. Her auburn hair veined with silver, laugh lines softening her eyes, lips tinged an unnatural blue as they parted in stillness. Eyes glassy, skin cooling beneath his hands.

“So you'll stay… for now.” His voice barely carried. “Until you tire of me. Until you die. Do you have any idea what that will do to me?”

She closed her eyes, fingers curling tightly into her palm. “People die, Astarion. We could have centuries together. Is that not enough?”

"It'll never be enough," he rasped. "Especially when you don't have to die."

“But I do .” Her voice was quiet, aching but firm. "I love you, but I won't love you if you cage me. I will find a way to resent you. I can only love you as I do now, the same woman who loved you before, who doesn’t know how to stop.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't bear to look at her. She was still breathing, still warm, but all he could see was the beautiful corpse she would one day become.

"Then go," he said, voice splintered.

She reached for him now, her hand grazing his shoulder ever so gently. "Astarion, please—"

"Get out," he whispered. "Now."

He didn't look as she walked away, but he listened for every fading step until the silence wrapped around him like a noose. It didn’t matter that she was leaving now. It was going to come eventually. When she woke up and realized he wasn’t worth it, when she decided his cruel deeds were more than she could bear. He would be lucky if death was the thing to part them, if they lasted long enough for it to be so clean. But even then, she would still leave him. She would choose the silence of the grave over the eternity he offered. She would choose oblivion over him.

“Amber,” he called out, teeth clenched. Even as she rushed down the hall to his side, his eyes remained fixed on the floor. “You’re going to show me where Nyari took you yesterday.”

Chapter Text

Nyari awoke at the Elfsong Tavern, mouth dry, head pounding, and a half-drained bottle of Baldur’s Grape cradled by the bedsheets. The morning light slanted through glass windows, casting pale ribbons across the floorboards, too bright and unforgiving. 

The room was as she’d left it. No hand had disturbed her things. No scent of him in the air.

In a matter of days, she had found a spark of hope with him again, only for it to be snuffed out.

She could return to Waterdeep. Or not. She could forget the research entirely. She could find a quiet place to live, start a garden, gather strays like Shadowheart. She could grow old with dirt beneath her fingernails instead of blood.

But almost as quickly as the fantasies struck her, so did her memory of Amber, trapped in those walls for an eternity. 

Every step towards the door was dizzying. She slung her pack over her shoulder, not quite registering its weight. So many promises. To Amber. To Gale. To Astarion. To herself. It felt as if her life was defined by promises and the burdens of breaking them. 

She stepped out into the street, the chill biting through her sleeves. The city bustled on, indifferent to her return. No eyes tracked her movement. No spawn haunted her from the alleys. 

There was still something selfish buried in her chest, but each time she acquiesced to that quiet, coiled thing, it ended in devastation.

She thought of the 7000 souls she had helped damn. A debt she could never repay. A slow, creeping nausea that rose like bile in her throat, impossible to swallow.

Her mouth was parched, her tongue thick with the sour tang of wine. He was truly gone now. Not watching. Not waiting. For the first time in weeks, she was alone. The absence felt heavier than his presence ever had. There was nothing but a hollow ache in her limbs for company.

She should do the right thing. She should see this emptiness as a freedom, a quiet that may allow her to finally focus.

But first, she had to say goodbye. She deserved that much, at least, did she not?

Not the kind of goodbye she gave him when she left for Waterdeep. There would be no stolen glances or desperate kisses, no hope clinging like thorns to her ribs. Only mourning. One last selfish act before she tried to do something that mattered.

So she went to his grave.

He’d told her once, offhandedly, where it was. It was some careless quip said with a half-smile as they strolled through the city, like he didn’t care if she remembered. Like he never expected she would. The plot was quiet, tucked away and indistinguishable from the others. Weatherworn. Ordinary.

She wondered if he ever thought of it now, if the stone bearing his name would stir anything in him. She tried to imagine him standing here, heart again beating. Would he sneer at her softness? Would something buried in him still ache?

Had anyone else come? Had anyone wept? Laid lilies, or a note, or a prayer? Had his family lamented the lack of a corpse to say goodbye to?

Nyari knelt beside the headstone, fingers trembling as she drew a small bundle from her cloak: dried flowers, petals the colour of spilled wine, curled and brittle. The same bouquet he’d given her only days earlier with that rare, uncertain look in his eyes.

She laid them on the grave. Dead flowers for a man who still lived. An inversion of a sweeter tribute.

The cruel afternoon sun bore into her, threatening to burn her if she wallowed for too long in this self-indulgent anguish, but she let herself cry anyway. It made the stone seem hotter, harsher, as though even the inanimate features of the cemetery disapproved of her tears. She curled beside it, pressing her cheek to the earth, dirtying her clothes as the memories poured over her. 

The good memories came first, then all the pain. Regret and tenderness folded together.

She closed her eyes and whispered, "I failed you, my love. My rose among thorns."

She lay in the silence for a long time, the city’s hum faded beneath her own, heavy quiet. She lay until her hands stopped shaking. Until the tears dried on her cheeks and reality rushed back.

“No more of this,” She muttered under her breath. Useless, pathetic yearning. She would plan her next steps, clean herself up, and keep her promises.

She rifled through her bag for the sending stone, and her heart sank. Her notebook, the diary—both were missing. Her breath quickened as she tried to remember: Had she removed it somewhere at the estate? Left it behind at Nocturne’s?

The realization hit her like a wave of thunder. Astarion took it.

She glared at his headstone, as if the grave itself were responsible for this storm of feelings, for the time she had wasted while he, surely, plotted.

Her fingers fumbled toward the sending stone, half-buried at the bottom of her bag. She brushed the sigil, trying to steady her thoughts.

“Gale,” she let out a shaky breath. “Astarion sent me away. He has my notebook. I should have known. He knows about the ritual.” Even as the magic faded, her voice pressed on, spilling into the ether. “I have to do something. I’ve made a mess of things. I am sorry, Gale. I am sorry.”

Like sunlight cutting through a canopy, Gale’s voice found her. “Ari, don’t do anything rash. I beg you. I’m coming to Baldur’s Gate. We’ll sort this out together.”

He was a tenday away. Too long to wait. She couldn’t wait that long, not aching like this. 

She looked back at the grave one last time, vowing to herself and the spawn she still loved: I will stop you, Astarion. I will kill you, if I must.

The entrance to the House of Grief was just as she remembered, with crimson curtains hanging heavy from the ceiling and the air dense with the scent of myrrh. But the Sharran at the front desk was unfamiliar, her aura surprisingly warm.

Nyari straightened her spine, voice clear and deliberate. “I was told I might find answers here.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but something in her gaze sharpened. “What do you seek?” Her voice was sweet and airy.

Nyari hesitated for half a breath before answering. “Shar,” she said, the name dry and unfamiliar on her tongue. “I come as an ally. I know of the Cloister of Divinity. I want to see them extinguished.”

A flicker of interest crossed the woman’s face before she gave a slight nod. “Very well, dear. Come with me.”

No questions. No hesitation. The ease of entry made Nyari’s stomach tighten.

“I’ll take you to Mother Superior Vespera,” the woman continued as they stepped through a veil of heavy black silk. “She will decide whether you are worthy to speak with the Dark Lady.”

They walked down a long, hushed corridor. The air grew colder the deeper they went, light thinning to a soft, violet glow from the enchanted sconces lining the path. Incense thickened in the air, curling around them like a cloying fog.

Seated at the head of the chamber was a tiefling robed in deep amethyst, her storm-grey skin catching faint traces of candlelight. Her hair fell in a sleek cascade over one shoulder, so smooth it mirrored the flames. A partial veil obscured half of her face, but her eyes were sharp and unflinching. Canary yellow, nearly the same shade as Nyari’s, save for the ebony sclera. 

She looked young to wield such authority, but her posture left no room for doubt. She did not rise as Nyari approached.

Nyari stepped forward, spine straight, chin high. “I bring knowledge and a warning. The Cloister of Divinity twists your goddess’s will. I want to stop them.”

The Mother Superior’s laugh was mirthless. “You think we do not know of them?” Her voice was a low rasp. “They have festered beneath our gaze for decades, a blight upon Shar’s name.”

“Then why haven’t you stopped them?”

Vespera’s smile vanished, her expression curdled into irritation. “You think we haven’t tried? They’re like rot beneath the skin. Cut one part out, and it blooms somewhere else. They prey on the wavering. The weak. Whispering false doctrine to those too frail in their devotion to resist.” She leaned forward, eyes glinting. “But why do you care? You’re no disciple of the Dark Lady.”

“They may have a vampire lord among them now,” Nyari said, voice steady. “If he completes their ritual, he could challenge Shar’s power.”

She waved her hand as if brushing away smoke. “Liches, vampire lords, all children pretending at power. They’ve never succeeded. They chase shadows they do not understand.”

Nyari hesitated. “What if I could stop them?” She forced conviction into her voice, even as doubt twisted in her stomach.

Vespera tilted her head, studying her like a specimen under glass. “And you expect me to entrust you with that task? A faithless stray?”

In answer, Nyari unsheathed her blade and let it fall at her feet. “I will not raise steel against your followers. That much, I swear.”

She gave a soft, almost pitying laugh. “That’s not enough.” Her smile turned sharp. “Shar may offer you guidance, but She does not give it freely. Not to wayward souls. If you wish for Her favour, you must make an offering, as all of us have.”

Nyari’s jaw tightened. “You cannot simply tell me where they are?”

“No,” Vespera said simply. “That choice is not mine to make. It belongs to the Mistress of Loss.”

Nyari drew a breath. “Then take me to her.”

Vespera inclined her head. “Very well.” Her robes whispered against the stone as she turned and walked deeper into the dark. Nyari followed, leaving her sword behind.

They entered the Threshold of Loss, where Nyari had once stood by as Shadowheart faced her goddess for the final time. The air was colder than she remembered.

The mother superior closed the door behind Nyari, leaving her alone in the vast emptiness until Shar rose above her, dripping with glossy obsidian. Her features glinted like oil under candlelight.

“Come to steal from me again, little oathbreaker? Or have you finally come to repent?” She said, voice smooth as glass.

“I came for information about the Cloister of Divinity,” Nyari said, steady despite the weight pressing down on her. “I aim to stop them.”

“Ah yes,” she said, “those blasphemers who dare use my name.”

“You do not want them rising to your rank. Neither do I.”

Shar laughed, low and cold. “Silly girl. You reek of heartbreak.”

“This is not about him,” Nyari snapped, too fast. Her voice rang hollow in the vast, dark space. Only then did she become aware of how she must look: stained with dirt, sweat, and tears. But she lifted her chin anyway, planting her heels on the stone floor as she met the goddess’s gaze.

“Yes, it is.” The goddess looked down on her like prey. “More than you know.”

Nyari pinched a fold of her cloak between trembling fingers, as if the goddess might overlook so small a gesture. But even with her eyes veiled, she felt Shar’s unseen gaze carving through her.

“You loved him,” Shar continued. “Perhaps you still do. But he’s gone, ruled now not by love but by hunger. He craves power more than he ever craved you.”

The words felt like a blade between her ribs. “You do not know him,” Nyari protested, but the words came out like a hopeless plea. 

“No,” Shar cooed as if soothing an infant, “ you do not know him. But I am willing to help you. I can offer what no other can.”

Nyari narrowed her eyes. “You want something.” She knew that nothing the gods offered was ever free. 

“Always.” Shar moved closer, her form now too vast to comprehend. “I want you, little oathbreaker, but not as you are now. This broken, spiralling mess will fail, just as you failed to save him from himself the last time he sought power beyond his own comprehension. I want the useful pieces of you, the parts that haven’t rotted.”

She extended a hand, palm open. “Let me take your memories of him. Let me lock them away where the cult cannot reach. You’ll be untouchable.”

“No.” Nyari took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. She felt like a child again, powerless beneath something ancient and immense. “I will not give up my memories for the divinity they offer. You need not worry about that.”

“You know nothing, child, to think divinity is in your reach,” Shar’s voice echoed in every direction, vibrating against Nyari’s bones. “I am offering you survival, a fraction of my power in the face of things you are too small to understand. You’ve taken from me before. Now you will give.”

Every muscle in her body begged her to turn and run. She had sworn never to kneel again, never to owe anything to gods who tore devotion like flesh from bone.

As if hearing her thoughts, Shar’s voice came again, threatening to swallow her whole. “You have never been anything without your devotion. Look at what has become of you, oathbreaker.  So pathetic in your love, flailing without the gods to carry you.”

“You are asking me to give up my memories of him? How can I stop him if I do not know him?” Panic began to emerge in Nyari’s voice, but she shoved it down, fists clenching at her sides. Despite her defiance, she felt powerless now, wondering if her strength had been hollowed out by loss and longing.

“I am telling you that you will need clarity of mind if you are to end this,” Shar replied. “If that means forgetting the man who chose godhood over you, is that not mercy?”

Nyari’s voice dropped. “And if I am wrong about what he intends to do?”

“Then you will have made a tragic and unnecessary sacrifice,” Shar said gently, “but we both know what he is after, and I know that he will lose whatever remains of himself in chasing it. Are you really so attached to your own weakness that you will risk his existence to cling to it?”

Shar lifted her hand again. “I will return what I take when the cult is extinguished. Until then, I will free you from doubt and longing. You will be unburdened in my embrace.”

Nyari hesitated. “And if I fail?”

“Then you will be mine,” Shar said softly. “And you will never remember why you came here.”

Dread fogged her thoughts. After all this time swearing her independence from the gods, she was about to crawl into the arms of another.

Beads of sweat glistened on Nyari’s cheeks as she processed the curse before her. If she agreed, every thought of Astarion would slip from her mind, only to return upon the grace of a goddess she didn’t trust. If she turned away now, Astarion could lose himself in the pursuit of godhood. She remembered the diary’s words. A complete and utter dissolution of the self. The man she loved would disintegrate into cold, vacant divinity.

Her heartbeat echoed in her skull, louder than her doubts. 

“Then guide me, Lady of Sorrows. I will forget him, if it means I can end this blight,” she whispered.

Shar did not smile, but her expression softened.

“Kneel,” she commanded.

Nyari obeyed. One last resignation to the divine, only to keep it from devouring her beloved. Not a surrender of reverence, but defiance.

Darkness enveloped her like frostbite, seeping like ink in water into every nerve, numbing thought and feeling alike. Her vision fractured, her mind cracking open under the pressure. The pain was searing, unbearable.

And then—silence. A strange, comforting quiet.

She lifted her gaze. The goddess stood before her, familiar and distant all at once.

Nyari did not know how she had come here. Did not know why the dark called to her so sweetly. But one thought surfaced, clear and true:

Stop the Cloister of Divinity. Destroy the one who would raise them. Kill Astarion.

Chapter Text

“You’re going to show me where Nyari took you yesterday.”

Amber hurried to his side, arms tucked stiffly behind her back. 

“Yes, my lord,” she said, meek and breathless.

Astarion curled his fingers into her hair. She was one of his favourites. Always obedient. He rarely had to compel her. “We’ll leave in the morning, my sweet. Be ready for me after breakfast.”

He didn’t return to his bedchamber.

Instead, he made his way to the room where Nyari had slept. The half-empty bottle of whiskey still sat on the table, two glasses beside it, the dregs of dried amber liquid catching the light. He stared at them, thinking of the quiet, petty rebellion of her sharing a drink with a spawn. Spiteful to the end.

He turned the crystal glass in his hand, eyes fixed on the delicate imprint of her plush lips, and then, almost absently, crushed it between his fingers. Shards sliced into his skin, blood welling around the slivers. He didn’t register the pain.

He could hunt. He could charm some frightened civilian into bare-necked devotion. He could laugh. Dance. Kill. And he wouldn’t feel a thing.

He lay down, nestling his face into the pillow and searching for whatever was left of her scent, masked by the whiskey that had tainted her breath when she slept there. Even these traces of alcohol would fade soon enough. He would run out of pieces of her to cling to.

He opened Nyari’s journal, tracing his fingers across the cracked leather spine. Her penmanship was immaculate—every letter perfected and precise. He imagined her fingers hovering above the page, so as not to smudge the ink.

Everything she did, she did with so much care. 

Loving him had never been careful. 

Of course, she couldn’t stay.

Her notes described, rather vaguely, Sharran pursuits of divinity through ego death. Those who unmade themselves to become something more. It sounded idyllic, at least in that moment, not only for power, but for relief. To forget. To be free of it all. To be everything and nothing, not bound by mortal yearning that should have left him long ago.

Just quiet. Just peace.

When trance finally took him, it came heavy and strange. He had been dreaming more lately—memories returning in fragments, only to shift and blur before vanishing.

But this time, it wasn’t a memory.

He stood barefoot in a ruined cathedral, the marble slick beneath his feet. Blood pooled in the cracks of the floor like water after a storm. The walls rose endlessly, broken open to a void, black sky.

Figures began to appear in the pews.

At first, he thought them to be statues: grey, bowed, unmoving. But then the dizzying image came into focus: Every spawn he slaughtered, all 7000, eyes wide with betrayal. Throats still torn. Some half-ash. A child sat in the front pew, small hands folded neatly in her lap, fangs just barely formed.

Then came the sound. A hum that vibrated in his bones.

All breath and syllables, shapeless and inhuman. The song was older than death, older than gods. It sang of secrets not yet uncovered, of names unspoken. It scraped against his skull like claws on stone.

And when he turned toward the altar, he saw her.

Silently watching him like judgement incarnate. Her golden eyes pierced through the sound.

“Nyari,” he tried to speak her name, but he had no voice. He tried again. Nothing. The third time his mouth moved, he realized he no longer knew what he was saying. Her name felt foreign on his tongue, as incoherent as the song that filled the surrounding air.

Panic struck in sharp, fleeting spikes—the panic, he realized, of each of his victims at the moment of his sacrifice. And in between each jolt of fear, the chorus grew quieter. The shrill noise of the temple began to dim.

He clenched his eyes shut, bracing for that final jolt of death—the one that would tear through him and disappear. And when it was over, he opened his eyes to an empty cathedral.

The altar was gone. She was gone. All of it had vanished, as if there had been nothing there to begin with.

It was finally quiet.

He awoke feeling lighter. The room smelled faintly of whiskey, but its sharpness had faded. He felt clean and resolved.

He returned to his chamber to dress, donning layers with quiet, deliberate precision, arming himself for a battle of self. He spent longer than he had intended with his morning rituals, but a vampire lord does as he pleases, or so he told himself. The morning hours wore on around him, but he remained caught in something sticky and unsaid.

Then he heard it.

A scream, raw and shattering, tore through the silence beyond the window. The voice was familiar, but twisted by terror. It sounded like her .

In a single motion, he unlatched the window. His eyes squeezed shut as his body shifted. Wings unfurled, plunging through the open window towards the garden. Towards the voice.

He landed back in his Elven form with a sharp thud against the stone.

“Ari?” he called out, his voice cutting through the humid air.

Then came the scream again. Closer and frantic, followed by a rasped plea: “Please, help me.”

His heart lurched. He spun, scanning the garden with predator's eyes, senses honed and focused, but there was nothing. No scent. No movement. 

He darted forward, following the sound, his body moving before his mind could catch up, only to find emptiness. More of nothing.

“Nyari?” he whispered. 

He could almost imagine the warm scent of clove and sandalwood that clung to her skin, but it was only that: imagination. If she had bled , if she had loosed even a drop of sweat, her scent would have pulled him to her. It always had. He pressed a hand to the garden wall, grounding himself.

“You left me.” The voice came again in the same desperate cadence. Exactly the same.

He turned, fangs bared, but there was no one there. The sun was hot and cruel against his skin, offering no answers. He inhaled deeply, sensing a faint odour of musk and honey. Not her. There was something else lurking just beyond the contours of his vision. Mocking her. Mocking him.

“You’re not her,” he snarled, voice thick with something dangerously close to grief. She’s gone, his mind added. 

His fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger, every nerve pulled taut. He strained to listen, but heard only the murmur of the city, a faint rustle of feathers, and the echo of her voice ringing in his head.

He found Amber waiting near the gate, exactly where he’d told her to be, hooded, masked, and obedient. It gave him a small rush of satisfaction to think she had been waiting here all morning, as he lingered a little too long before moving from where Nyari had slept. At least he still had this: a palace full of people who waited on him, only because he asked them to. It didn’t do much to quell his nerves, but it was what he had.

“My lord,” she murmured as he brushed past. “I heard screaming. Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he huffed, running a stiff hand through his hair. “It was nothing.” 

Surely, she sensed the lie as he paced and fussed with the hems of his jacket. But she only nodded slowly, sinking smaller against the stone wall.

He paused mid-step, slowly turning back towards her. “You didn’t see anything, did you?”

“No, my lord.”

“She wasn’t here?”

Amber shook her head, a crease of concern across her face. “I don’t believe so, my lord.”

“Well, nothing like a delightful touch of delusion to start the day,” he said with brittle cheer, forcing a tight smile and tucking his hands behind his back to hide their tremble. He tried to return his attention to the events of the day, his raison d’etre . “You’ll take me to where she brought you, then? I trust you remember the way.”

Amber nodded quickly. He studied her for a long, unreadable moment. Nyari had offered this girl drinks, companionship, even an outing. And here she was, ready to betray her.

He caught her wrist before she could turn, his nerves still stricken. “Understand me, dear. Whatever scraps of affection she tossed your way are gone.” His voice went cold. “She’s gone.”

Amber swallowed hard. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” He released her wrist, and clear his throat. “Loyalty is fragile, I do hope yours holds.”

Another nod.

He followed her through the winding streets, sunlight sharp and unkind as their shadows shortened in the afternoon heat. Amber kept her gaze down, face hidden from its touch beneath a heavy hood. He almost pitied her, how she shrank beneath it. The memories stirred familiar and vile. He shoved them aside. 

Soon, they would be gone.

They stopped before a modest stone house, nestled between crooked alleys.

“This is the place,” Amber said, voice small. “Please, my lord, don’t hurt the woman who lives here. She was kind.”

Astarion laughed at that, low and humourless, but said nothing. His fist struck the door with practiced force.

It swung open before the second knock, too quickly, as if someone had been standing just behind it, waiting. The hinges groaned like they, too, were caught off guard.

Astarion froze.

Not at the sight of some kindly old woman or a frightened cultist, but at the figure grinning up at him: a boy, scrawny, pale, with the same mess of dark curls and crooked teeth he remembered caving in with his fist in Waterdeep.

“Astarion!” He said, too brightly. “Gods, you look well. Come in, come in. Make yourself at home, my friend.”

It only took half a second for the predator to take over. Astarion’s hand clamped around the boy’s throat, nails sinking into skin. “I killed you.” His voice was low, deadly. “I tore you apart . What in the wretched hells is this?”

Even as he choked under Astarion’s grasp, his smile didn’t waver.

Mockery. That was what it was. Astarion dropped him in disgust, eyes narrowed. The door shut with a thud behind him, sealing in the growing sense of disquiet.

“You can call me Elias, if you’d like.” He smoothed down his shirt, voice still casual, as if they were meeting for tea. He gestured to a rickety kitchen chair. “Please, sit.”

Astarion didn’t move. “I killed you,” he repeated.

“You killed someone who looked like me,” Elias corrected with a fond smile. “Poor thing. He really was just a student, but I’m sure you don’t mind too much either way.”

Astarion turned to Amber and growled, “This is where Nyari brought you?” His eyes glinted, half-ready to tear her apart next. “To him?”

Her eyes widened as she stuttered out her words. “I don’t who that is. We met a tiefling woman here. She knew someone named Shadowheart.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Elias said smoothly, already seated at the table, legs crossed. “I haven’t seen Nyari since Waterdeep. How is she?”

“She is none of your concern,” Astarion snapped. “Or mine.”

“Ah.” Elias’s smile sharpened. “Then I suppose you don’t need to know where she is now, do you?”

Astarion gripped the corners of the table, leaning in so close Elias could see the gleam in his eyes. “What did you do to her?”

Elias tilted his head, thoughtful. “So she is still your concern? How touching. That makes two of you, then.” His grin widened, as if the matter was hilarious. “ I did nothing to her. She’s at the House of Grief. Seeking Shar’s favour.”

“You lying little wretch.” Astarion’s voice cracked like a whip as he upended the table, slamming it forward into Elias with enough force to topple him from his chair. “You’ve done something . Tell me.”

From beneath the overturned table, Elias coughed out a laugh. “And what would you do if I had? You still think you can protect your reckless little paladin?”

Astarion’s eyes focused on the boy like prey, unblinking, his muscles tensing with barely constrained rage as he readied to strike. In a low growl, he responded, “Tell me where she is.”

“I told you already.” Elias’s lips curled into an infuriating little smirk. “She’s at the House of Grief. Perfectly unharmed, but well, perhaps not entirely in one piece.” He pouted. “You really broke her heart.”

“You’re mistaken.” His posture relaxed slightly, turning aloof, but his eyes searched Elias’s face, as if waiting for the joke to end. “You claimed she sought Shar’s favour, but she’d sooner rot than grovel before a god. Least of all that sullen wretch.”

“She hated what she did to Shadowheart,” he added, almost to himself. “She used to—” His muscles seized. There was no mark of deception in Elias’s expression.

“It’s very sweet how well you think you know each other.” He sat up slowly, brushing splinters from his shirt. “But tell me, Astarion, were you ever truly sure she wasn’t gathering all that information for herself? That she wasn’t preparing to attempt the ritual?”

He froze, feeling suddenly dizzy.

“Are you so certain,” Elias went on, voice softer now, almost pitying, “of her commitment to powerlessness?”

Astarion’s hands slackened at his sides. His expression cracked as the pieces began to fall into place. She wasn’t keeping him from this to protect him. She was keeping him out of her way.

“ Maybe. ” Elias brushed his hair back into place, as though he hadn’t just been thrown across the room. “She knew how close you already were. Your memories are slipping, aren’t they? Does it feel good to forget?”

Astarion’s voice came low, almost breathless. “How do you know all this?”

Elias smiled. “We’re watching.” He spoke with a casual ease, as if revealing a minor inconvenience. “Nyari thinks she’s uncovering secrets, but she’s just a pawn on the board. Clever, yes, but still just a pawn. She’s catching up to you, though, it seems.” He examined his nails. “ You were made for this. Your past pours out of you like sand through a sieve. But her? She needed Shar to forget. To forget you. ”

“Let’s dispense with the coyness, shall we?” Astarion moved closer, fingers grazing the hilt of his dagger. “You’re going to tell me exactly what you know, and quickly.”

“The Lady of Loss,” Elias said, almost reverently. “Shar offered her guidance. And in return, Nyari chose to forget you.”

Astarion let out a short, cold laugh. “ Of course she did.”

“She remembered one thing, though.” Elias’s smile sharpened. “She kept your name.”

Astarion turned away, the flicker of pain visible for just a moment, before he managed to mask it beneath a veil of annoyance. “Let me guess: A warning?”

“A vow.” Elias’s voice lowered, his grin fading. “That if you pursued what we’re going to offer you, she’d kill you herself.”

Amber stepped forward, voice steadier than he’d ever heard it. “Why should we believe you, you miserable creep? Nyari loves Astarion.”

Astarion turned his head toward her, slow and unreadable. She flinched, but there was no anger in his face, just a tired stillness.

“She told you that?” he asked.

“She spoke of you warmly,” Amber said, meeting his gaze. “ Too warmly.”

Elias gave a delighted little laugh. “Gods, you two are tragically adorable.”

Amber’s voice sharpened. “What’d you do to Nocturne?”

He waved a hand, bored. “She’s fine. For now.”

“We’re leaving.” Astarion’s voice came sharp and sudden as he reached for the door.

“Wait.” Amber planted her feet, Astarion watching her in utter confusion. “Tell us where she is.”

Elias approached her with renewed curiosity, as if he had not noticed her until now. “You’re rather brave for a spawn, aren’t you? Tell me, does your master always let you speak so freely?” He turned back to Astarion, a playful smile on his lips. “I suppose Nyari was wrong about you. You are better than your master was.”

Astarion lunged, slamming Elias against a wall with his dagger pointed at his throat. “I am nothing like him,” he snarled. 

Elias raised his hands slowly in surrender. “You don’t want to kill me. You may have her little notebook, but I can tell you everything that’s in there and more.”

“Then you’ll tell us where Nocturne is,” Amber interjected.

To her surprise, Astarion nodded. “You’d do well to listen to her. I prefer to keep my pets happy.” 

Elias nodded, seemingly unconcerned with the knife tip against his throat. “Nocturne is asleep in her bedchamber. The magic will wear off in a few hours.” Upon noticing the doubt in Astarion’s crinkled brow, he added, “You can check, if you’d like.”

Astarion’s grip on Elias eased, his dagger lowering yet still tightly wound within his fingers.

“I do see why she likes you,” Elias said with a sigh. “Now, if you want to reach the Cloister of Divinity, you’ll need to trust me enough to grab a quill. I’ll give you directions.”

As Astarion stepped away, Elias perked up. “Oh, and I have a gift for you!” With a flourish, he pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, thick crimson liquid swirling inside. He offered it with a grin.

Astarion arched a brow. “A blood offering? How cute.”

“Come on,” Elias said, nudging it into his hand. “Open it.”

He turned the vial in his fingers, letting the light slip through the blood like sun through stained glass. He unstoppered it and froze. The scent was dizzying. Blackberries and cassis, clove and sandalwood, the whiff of a wildflower. Velvet on the tongue.

His pupils dilated. A breathy moan escaped his lips. For a heartbeat, nothing else existed. He knew that blood as he knew her voice.

Something feral flickered across his face. “How did you get this?” he asked, sharp and low. “What did you do to her?”

There was no reverence in the vial. Just violation. Theft. As if she were a resource to be tapped and stored away, used as a bargaining chip. And still, he couldn’t stop inhaling. He despised himself for that.

“Do you like it?” Elias cooed. “I thought you would. Just a little something to tide you over until we clear out those pesky memories.”

Astarion screwed the cap on again, although it did little to stop the scent that still lingered in the air. His eyes flashed as he repeated his question. “How did you get this?”

“While she was asleep. Don’t fret, she didn’t even notice.” Elias gave a light shrug. “I suppose she’s accustomed to blood loss by now, is she not?”

“You shouldn’t have touched her.” Astarion’s voice turned venomous. “If you go anywhere near her again, I’ll tear your throat out.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Elias winked before turning to scribble a note down on a piece of parchment. “Do drop in again soon, my lord.

They walked in silence at first, the crowded streets buzzing around them, too loud, too bright. He hated the way Baldur’s Gate carried on while his thoughts skittered in circles.

Amber was the one to break it. “So, my lord, are you going to tell me what in the hells is going on?”

Astarion stopped mid-step, startled by the defiance in her voice. This was new. He turned to look at her, a brow lifted in mockery. “Who gave you a spine all of a sudden?”

Her gaze didn’t falter. She didn’t shrink. “A lover’s spat between you and Ari is one thing, but I’m starting to get the sense that it’s quite a bit more than that, seeing as that weird little man had a vial of her blood . I think that earns me more than vague deflections and brooding silences.” 

He forced a smile, though it felt wrong on his face. “How bold of you,” he said, voice dripping with disdain, “demanding things from me. You’re starting to sound like her.”

“Then compel me to stop.” Amber lifted her chin, a faint crinkle at the corner of her eyes. “But I think, with her gone, you like having someone who talks to you like a real person.”

Gone. The word dug into him, sharp and cold. A hollow ache opened in his chest.

“What did she say to you,” he asked quietly, “about me?”

“She told me about when you were a spawn. How you watched each other’s backs. That you were brave. Witty. She said…” Amber hesitated. “She said she missed you.”

He nodded once and turned away, not caring whether she followed.

A glint of gold caught his eye.

He shouldn’t have looked, but there it was, hanging from a crooked little wire stand at some forgettable market stall: a pendant. Sunburst-shaped, gold edges worn but bright, and at its center, a pale gem that shimmered faintly like the break of dawn. He could almost see it resting against her throat, nestled where armour met skin.

His chest tightened, sharp and sudden. He turned away.

Amber said something that he didn’t catch. His voice, when it came, was clipped. “We’re wasting time.”

He continued walking, her footsteps behind him fading into the city noise.

Thoughts of Nyari tugged at him: The way that pendant would’ve caught the light against her skin, gold meeting gold. In another life, he might’ve bought it for her. No motive, no agenda. Just a gift, the kind lovers give when the world feels gentle. Instead, all he had was a stolen vial of her blood pressing against his coat pocket, her presence haunting him through glass.

But tender thoughts were punctuated with Elias’s voice telling him that Nyari had chosen to forget him, that he was in her way. All this time, he thought he could offer her more than her wildest dreams, but maybe what she was after was bigger than he ever understood. What if, even now, he just wasn’t enough?

Astarion slipped out the next morning. He hadn’t been able to trance, his mind too frantic and unfocused. He should have been happy; he was safe, untouchable, but it wasn’t enough.

So, he followed the directions Elias had given him, winding through the Lower City until he found it, an unassuming building with boarded windows nestled away in an alley. He knocked, and of course, there was no answer. Another cruel trick, perhaps.

He turned to leave, until a voice slithered from the wall, ancient and grating in a language he didn’t understand.

He stopped in his tracks, turning around with renewed curiosity. He rattled the doorknob, sighing and reaching for his thieves’ tools to begin working the lock.

The voice came again, beckoning.

“Gods, don’t you speak common?” he asked, absentmindedly undoing the lock, but he paused before opening the door.

The voice came again, in common now, but no less macabre. “You need not await invitation, ascendent one.” The door creaked open without his touch, the scent of mildew tangled with incense creeping through the crack.

“What in the hells is this place?” Astarion muttered to himself.

He entered slowly into a corridor that defied physical space, stretching longer than he thought possible from the outside. It was impossibly silent, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the stone underneath. Astarion treaded quietly, on instinct, even though his presence was already known. The corridor opened into a wide sanctum of polished stone and dim light, encircled by clay vases of various sizes, painted crudely in cobalt blue. 

At the end of the room, a skeletal figure towered above, robed in layers of obsidian gauze draped loosely across bone.

Astarion placed a hand at the hilt of his blade, ready to draw, but the lich raised a withered hand like a peace offering.

“There is no need for that, little fleshling. You are a guest here.” Its voice was dry, like the crackle of dead leaves.

“So, this is a Sharran rite?” he asked cautiously, eyes darting over the walls, the urns, the altar. The chamber swallowed him, emaciating him before the grotesque figure.

“Sharran doctrine is useful,” the lich said mildly. “They speak fluently in the language of loss.” It tilted its skull forward, examining him. “But you have no need for Shar, do you? You have lost so much already. You are a siren to it.”

The words were cruel, but spoken with reverence. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to strike, flee, or submit. All he could manage was a laugh. “No, no, no. This is far too creepy.”

“And yet you came,” the lich said, emotionless. No malice. No glee. Just quiet certainty. “You are searching. You are haunted. You thought that your former master’s ritual would be enough to banish your weakness, but your memories are like rot.”

Astarion may have turned away then, but his feet felt stuck in place, the stone beneath him like quicksand. He tried to tune out the words that rang truer than they should have, but they echoed, impossibly loud, in his ears.

“Imagine what you could be without all that pain.”

“You think I haven’t tried to cut it out?” His voice cracked, barely a whisper beneath the weight of the air.

“You have done nothing but bury it. You may be immortal, but your fear will outlive even you.” It stepped forward, growing taller, impossibly so, its form swallowing the space between them.“I can excise everything your flesh remembers. No one will command you again. Not the gods, nor your hunger. Not even love.”

​​Its words were followed by the kind of silence that tugs skin towards bone and pulls breath from lungs. And in that reverberating silence hung the offer, cold and waiting.

Chapter Text

Nyari awoke with a sharp gasp, phantom fangs at her throat, panic surging before her eyes adjusted to the stillness of the room. No intruder. Just shadows, still and quiet.

Her mind felt thick with fog. She couldn’t quite remember how she’d gotten to Baldur’s Gate. Every morning, she reviewed the few facts she still trusted, like prayer beads slipping through her fingers: She was searching for the Cloister of Divinity. It was to help Gale, her friend. A good man. She had rescued him from a malfunctioning portal. 

And then… something else. 

They had stayed together in Waterdeep. She was helping him with research. In the evenings, he cooked her dinner and taught her about the Weave. 

And now, Shar’s voice curled in her ears. She felt beholden to the goddess, although she worshipped Tyr. Despite her oath. Or perhaps because of it. She wasn’t sure why the ring she always wore on her right hand was missing.

Nothing made sense anymore.

In all her confusion, she longed for the soft embrace of her mother’s collection of silken blankets and the pale jade tea she brewed every afternoon as the sun spilled in through stained glass. There was no reason for her to be staying at the Elfsong, not when her parents lived so close by, tucked safely into the Upper City.

So she went home.

The pale stone house was as she remembered it, its familiar face wrapped in ivy that flowered around the windows like a filigreed necklace. She released a slow exhale as her hand found the ornate brass clapper at the door, knocking twice.

The door opened to reveal a young servant, expression frozen in disbelief.

“Lady Caladhiel?” He blinked before giving a small, awkward bow. “Uh, your mother is just upstairs. Would you like to speak with her?”

“That would be lovely.” Nyari stepped inside, breathing in the familiar scent of jasmine, the scent of home. It enwrapped her like her favourite cloak.

The soft click of footsteps on polished wood echoed from the stairs, her mother appearing in a rush of cerulean silk. She descended with a grace that belied her alarm, dark hair smoothed into a half-crown of delicate braids. Nyari wore hers the same way, once. It was only then, noticing the style, that she became aware of the rough crop now grazing her shoulders.

“Nyari?” Ilyana’s voice broke on her name as she pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. “Is it really you?” She stepped back, tears shining in her eyes. “Please, come in.”

“Hello, amme.” Nyari smiled, trying to match the warmth, though a strange unease twisted in her gut. “I am back from Waterdeep.”

“My sunbeam, my baby.” Ilyana pulled her to the sitting room, voice trembling. “Is everything all right?”

Nyari hesitated. “Is there a reason it would not be?”

Ilyana’s brow crinkled as she set her hands against a satin sofa to steady herself. “Would you perhaps like some tea, dear? Something to eat?”

“That would be lovely.”

Her mother gave a tight nod before calling for a servant and murmuring some instructions. “Come and sit.”

Nyari made her way to an armchair, running her fingers over the pale fabric, before sitting with one ankle crossed gracefully over the other.

“You disappeared,” Ilyana said softly, taking her seat across from her. She was paler than usual, umber skin tinged with the colour of sand. “And then there was that horrid attack on the city.”

Nyari curled into the cushions, frowning. “There was an attack?”

“We were unsure of what happened to you.” Her mother’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Some people thought you had died. Others said—well, that you may have been among the heroes of the city. But your name was never in the proclamations.”

“I have been working at Blackstaff Academy,” Nyari said slowly, as if convincing herself. “With a professor named Gale. I assumed—I must have written.”

“You did not.” Ilyana’s voice was gentle but firm. “We feared the worst. And I admit, we wondered if you had run off with a man.” She gave a soft, rueful laugh. “If that is all it is, I would count myself lucky. But you look tired. Thinner.”

“I did not write to you?” Nyari muttered, mostly to herself.

Ilyana’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching her daughter’s face. “We were proud when you swore your oath. Worried, of course, but proud. You were so sure of yourself, so radiant that day. But the next morning, you left to serve at the temple, and—” her voice broke.

“I remember that,” Nyari said, her voice distant as hazy memories drifted to the surface. “I was captured by a Nautiloid ship. They put an illithid tadpole in me, but I escaped.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to hold onto the memory. “That is when I met Gale.”

She paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her sleeve. “But after that, it is cloudy.” Her voice cracked, just barely. “I do not know what happened to me, amme.”

“Oh, my sunbeam.” Ilyana reached for her hand. “Whatever happened, you are home now. By his hand, we have you back.”

“I am so sorry,” Nyari murmured, her voice barely audible. “Is atya here?”

“Darling,” she said so gently it caught Nyari off guard, the word pressing against something tender and forgotten inside her. “Your father passed during the attack on the city.”

Nyari’s breath hitched. The tears came fast, blurring her vision before she could stop them.

Ilyana moved closer, wrapping her arms around her daughter, grounding her. “He fought fiercely,” she whispered into Nyari’s hair, squeezing her hand. “Just as you always did.”

“I should have been here,” she said softly. 

“He left something for you,” her mother assured. “A letter.”

She led her to her old bedchamber. It was mismatched to the rest of the home, with antique swords on the walls and stacks of books messily arranged on every surface. An envelope, sealed in wax with the family crest, sat at the foot of her bed.

As her shaky hands reached for it, something stopped her. She had lost too much of herself, too quickly, to process something more. How could she anchor something new in the blur?

“I want to wait,” she said suddenly.

Ilyana nodded. “Take whatever time you need.” She brushed a hand over Nyari’s hair, like she used to when she was small. “Is there anything else you remember, selye?”

“Just pieces,” Nyari murmured. “Little moments with Gale. And others.” Her brow furrowed as she chased the flickers. “An incredible warrior named Wyll. You would love him. He is charming, noble, a little too fond of dramatic speech.”

Ilyana smiled. “Sounds familiar.”

“And Shadowheart. We used to drink wine at night when others had gone to bed. I think she understood me better than anyone. Lae’zel. She scared me a little, but she always had our backs. And Karlach,” she exhaled softly, “probably the kindest soul I have ever met.”

Thinking back to her companions, shapes began to form in her mind of their earliest days on the road together. It was progress. It was more than she had before. But as she pushed forward, questioning what happened next, and next, and next, the shapes fractured and shattered at her feet.

Ilyana’s fingers tightened gently around hers. “And Gale? You work together now in Waterdeep?”

“Yes.” Nyari nodded. “He is an incredibly accomplished wizard. ” She spoke her next words out loud, mostly to remind herself. “We uncovered something terrible, amme . I have to stop it.”

A shadow crossed Ilyana’s expression, gone as quickly as it came. “Of course you do,” she said, smoothing Nyari’s hair again. “I always knew you would do something important, but I foolishly hoped it would not be dangerous. You have so much of your father in you.”

Nyari looked down at the envelope, guilt tugging at her composure like a loosened thread.

Ilyana lifted her chin with a touch. “But you are not alone. Gale sounds like a wonderful man,” she said quietly, her tone a touch too knowing.

Nyari stopped her. “Gale and I are not—.” 

Her mother interrupted with a hum that said everything and nothing at once. “Where is he now?”

Nyari’s face crinkled in thought. “He must be in Waterdeep. He was not at the tavern with me.” Her fingers ran over the strange, carved stone in her pocket, wondering if it was his.

“Well, whoever he is to you, surely you will be in touch with him again soon, no?” 

“Surely.” Nyari offered her most convincing smile.

“You must be in need of rest. I will have someone bring you something to eat,” she said, her hands clasping together tightly, as if resisting the urge to say more.

“Thank you, amme.” Nyari creaked open a wardrobe to find something comfortable to slip into, before turning, hesitantly, back towards her mother. After a moment, she added, “please do not tell anyone I am here.”

“But Nyari-“

“I just need time.”

Her mother gave a small, tight nod. “Of course.” She closed the door with so much care that the click was nearly imperceptible.

Nyari settled on a knee-length silk nightgown before crawling into the familiar bedding. But the moment her head sank into the down, her body locked. Shar’s call echoed through her seizing muscles, tightening around her like a vice. 

She drew in a slow, trembling breath. “Lord of Judgment, I pray thee for forgiveness.” With every whispered word, Shar’s voice split through her like a rusted blade. She forced the rest of the words out through gritted teeth. “Let me live by thy hand, for you are my refuge, and in your teachings I shall enact justice.”

Tyr did not answer. Where her prayers had once cocooned her in quiet grace, there was only a frigid silence.

Astarion sat in the sanctum against a cold marble wall. The painted vase before him, inscribed in words he couldn’t read, seemed to watch him. Waiting and wanting, cradled between his legs.

He discarded his shirt, looking once more to Elias for assurance before picking up the blade. It was simpler than it should have been, with plain steel that reflected his scarlet eyes back at him.

He drew the knife across his palm in one smooth motion, holding his hand steady above the vase. The first drop fell with a soft patter, followed by another, then another, until his blood pooled.

Astarion closed his eyes and let the pain anchor him. He summoned the memory of his coffin: That suffocating dark, his fingernails splintering against wood. The soundless scream as soil slipped through unseen cracks, choking his throat, pressing into his mouth. Dying, but never allowed death.

“Say it,” Elias prompted gently.

“Memoriae, sanguine relinquo,” his voice came out hoarse, his eyes clenched shut. “Sub nocte, sub cruore, oblivio nascitur.”

“Good,” Elias said, watching from a few feet away with hollow eyes. “Now another.”

He cut deeper this time, blade kissing bone. The blood surged, hot and immediate, and he turned his thoughts to Sebastian. The tremble beneath his fingers. His lips pressed to his collarbone in a moment of fragile peace. And then, the resignation and betrayal in his eyes.

His breath caught, but he forced the words out. “Memoriae, sanguine relinquo,” he said through gritted teeth, “Sub nocte, sub cruore, oblivio nascitur. ” The tears that welled in his eyes did not fall.

One more. Astarion didn’t hesitate, driving the blade into the side of his arm. He dragged it down in a jagged line, welcoming the pain. This, he could still feel. 

He conjured her tender eyes, crinkling at the corners, her gaze locked against his. He remembered the way she’d said his name as he flinched against the steel. He thought of her kind words, the same ones he often replayed for comfort during restless nights. 

Blood welled up along the cut, glistening against his pale skin. But it clung stubbornly to the wound, thickening too fast and refusing to fall.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice catching in his throat. He tilted his arm, desperate. “ Memoriae, sanguine relinquo .” His breath trembled. “Please.”

“It won’t work.” Elias’s voice came sharp and low, reprimanding but merciful. “You have to give the blood. You have to let it go or the words mean nothing.”

“Sub nocte, sub cruore, oblivio nascitur, ” he said anyways, voice tinged with desperation. “Fuck.” He sliced into himself again, his own blood mocking him as it stilled in the wound.

Astarion swallowed hard. He pressed the blade to his chest this time, right over the heart, and dragged a short, precise cut. The sting of it barely registered over the ache building in his throat.

He imagined a stranger’s hands at his waist. The way he smiled, soft and coaxing, even as his mind floated somewhere else. He remembered pretending at pleasure, feigning laughter that wasn’t his. A whisper into the man’s ear, inviting him closer. He recalled the brush of lips at his throat—a place he couldn’t bear to be kissed, but offered anyway—his fist clenched behind his back until it was over.

His stomach turned. “Memoriae, sanguine relinquo,” he said again, voice breaking mid-syllable. “Sub nocte, sub cruore, oblivio nascitur.”

This time, the blood flowed thick and dark. It traced the line of his sternum and dripped steadily into the vase. The memory dragged itself from him like a weed from soil.

“That’s enough for now.” The urgency in Elias’s voice cut through the fog. “You did well.”

Astarion slumped against the wall, breath shallow, blood drying in slow, tacky ribbons. The slices had begun to clot, but there was no relief. No lightness. He had offered memory to the dark, hoping it would take the weight with it. But even as his mind loosened its grip, his body refused to follow.

An unnameable fear remained, no matter what he cut out. Those dark spots that, he assumed, could only be filled by terror. He was left alone in the vast silence as absence mutilated him, pulsing with something vast and cruel, just beyond his reach.

And still, he remembered her. Her honey eyes. The way her hair slipped through his fingers like silk. The light trill of her laughter when he said something particularly witty. The way her gentle hands ignored his scars when she held him. Like he was still whole. Like he was already divine.

He closed his eyes, retreating into the memories that still belonged to him. Even if she had given him up. Even if he would never gaze upon her again. With his eyes shut, he could still feel her skin sear against his, her strong arms wrapped around him to shield him from the cold.

Chapter Text

Reverie evaded her. She tried lying on each side, her back, her stomach. Her jaw clenched, head still tight from Shar’s intermittent punishments. There was no use.

Rising from the bed was almost a relief. At least, somewhere in the kitchen was a bottle of Callidyrran whiskey. She kept her footsteps soft as she made her way downstairs, praying nobody would be awake to question her. A sigh escaped when she found her prize.

And gods, it tasted like relief, hot enough in her throat to burn away the anxious rot. Yet, as with everything she tasted, the hope it would reawaken some lost memory died on her tongue. 

Her mother had begged her to wait for Gale, to find some support in hunting down this Astarion, but how could she wait any longer? Her muscles had been priming themselves for the killing strike, coiling tighter with every breath like a spring on the verge of unspooling. This was the agony of waiting, of resisting and denying the goddess who held her by marionette strings.

She inhaled all the bread, fruit, meat, and eggs she could stomach, swallowing them down with another glass of whiskey. Strength would mean everything today. It always had.

Upon returning to her bedchamber, she did one last check for a journal—she must have been carrying one, she always had—but found nothing. Instead, she swallowed an elixir of bloodlust and began dressing in her armour. Every click of steel soothed her. She was finally beginning to breathe normally again.

The sun had not yet risen, so at the very least, she figured they wouldn’t be expecting her. Shar’s whispers guided her to the Cloister’s entrance, pounding against her skull like a pitiless metronome. She didn’t bother with the lock, slicing through the wood in one fell swoop.

Stepping through the precipice was like stepping into another plane, the chill of its silence biting through her armour. The air was still and stale. But more unnerving was the lack of guards. For a moment, she wondered if Shar had led her somewhere long forgotten. A cruel joke, perhaps.

But just as she considered turning back, she caught a glint of silver armour from the shadows before darkness engulfed her. Her vision went black, but she readied her sword anyway.

“Sol invictus,” she shouted, imbuing her weapon with radiant light, illuminating her surroundings once more. Armed cultists flew from corners to meet her blade, but she moved like judgment incarnate. Her boots echoed off slick stones as she sliced through their defences.

They came in waves, chanting half-formed prayers and hurling curses. None of it mattered. The Nightsinger was on her side. Her sword cut through them with effortless grace, unpausing and unthinking.

“ Mortalis ,” she muttered, watching a body burst and splinter into the slew of enemies. And when another managed to score her armour, she turned with lips between a snarl and a prayer: “ Arde .” Flaming light burst from the tips of her fingers, wrapping him in hellfire, before she cleaved through him as if he were made of parchment.

They kept coming. An obstacle course separating her from her divine goal.

Her spells weren’t careful now. She released a divine smite, followed by a hellish rebuke, magic crackling at her calloused skin. She was bleeding energy. She felt it in small staggers and unintended breaths.

Still, she pushed on.

Astarion waited ahead. She could feel him like gravity and would carve her way through anyone who stood between them.

When she stepped into the cloister’s inner sanctum, the air turned cold and heavy. A white-haired man, robed in tailored finery, stood uncannily still in the corner. He turned to face her, slowly. His skin was pale as moonlight, his eyes a deep, inconceivable red. He was beautiful in a way that unsettled her. And when he looked at her, recognition coiled in her gut, unplaceable and terrifying.

“Darling,” he said, voice smooth as silk, head tilting with theatrical grace. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He was beautiful, yes, charming, but also tired. Distracted. There was a hollowness in his expression. His eyes fixed on a scrape across her cheek that she wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for his stare.

She stepped forward, blade ready, her breath caught between resolve and instinct. “Why were you here, cowering while your people fought?”

He let out a light laugh, as if he didn’t quite understand her words. “My people?” he asked softly.

Shar’s voice unfurled in her mind like smoke: He is the one. Kill him.

Her grip tightened. “You are Astarion, are you not?” She already knew the answer.

His laugh was bitter. “So, they weren’t lying, hm? You really don’t remember me?”

She frowned, scanning his face for anything that might stir familiarity, but there was only a void where something important might’ve been.

“I do not know who you are,” she said coldly, “but you work for these blasphemers.”

“Darling, I don’t work for anyone.” Astarion sighed and stepped towards her, movements unhurried. “So you’ve turned back to faith. I should’ve known. You always had a weakness for the divine, my love.”

She flinched slightly at the word spoken so casually. Perhaps it was some mockery between her and an old enemy, yet it stirred warmth in her, unsettling yet decidedly soft.

“But I have to admit, I never would’ve guessed Shar. That’s new.” His lips quirked into a small smile. “Look, I’m all for a little violence. You made quick work of them, as I knew you would.”

If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was proud of her.

“But I’d really rather not fight you. ”

Nyari grinned, almost triumphantly, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. “Surrender now, and I will kill you quickly. Choose to die with honour.”

“Kill me?” His brows raised, a streak of amusement crossing his face. “Darling, I know we quarrelled, but that does seem a tad dramatic, does it not?”

Her nose scrunched. Perhaps he was simply trying to buy time or plot a quick escape. In truth, he was far from what she expected. She imagined he would have tried to strike first, to catch her in a moment of ragged breath before she could catch it. She definitely didn’t imagine he would want to chat. 

“Are you usually able to charm your way out of a fight?” she asked.

“So, you still find me charming.” He sighed. It may have seemed flirtatious if it wasn’t for the tension in his voice. “I suppose I should be relieved.” 

He sighed, heavy and resigned. “Ari, don’t do this.”

“Ari?” She paused, wondering how he knew the name used only by those closest to her. He looked at her with familiarity and perhaps something more. Something almost tender. There was no animosity, no ferocity, just a pained regret.

“What did you do to me?” she asked, voice low.

He smiled, but she caught the sadness in his eyes. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Nyari didn’t wait for an answer. She drew her blade in one smooth motion, steel ringing like a cry of grief.

Astarion sighed once more as she lunged.

Their clash echoed through the cloister, fury against finesse. She fought like a woman possessed, driven by faith, by the aching emptiness where memories should have been. But he soared, dodging each attack with impossible grace. Each of her strikes was parried, turned aside with maddening ease. His dagger spun between his fingers as if he were performing for a crowd.

“You’ve gotten better,” he murmured, dodging a wide arc that should have opened his ribs. “Or maybe it’s just that you’ve stopped holding back.”

“Shut up,” she hissed. Every word that escaped him stirred something softer within her—something she couldn’t afford. “Fight me.” She lashed her sword towards him.

“I am fighting you,” he said, catching her blade with his and twisting it away effortlessly. She stumbled back, barely avoiding his next blow. “But I don’t want to hurt you, Nyari. That hasn’t changed.”

She screamed and pressed forward, desperate and relentless. Damn him for his quips, for trying to stave off her righteous blade with words rather than blood. As if she could be swayed by his silken voice or that sad glint in his eyes.

Before her divine smite could hit, he vanished, voice now echoing a few feet behind her.

“You don’t even know why you’re fighting me,” he said, ducking beneath her next strike. “Would it help if I told you I deserved it?

His dagger shallowly slashed her cheek, rot slithering through her skin at the gash. She staggered backwards, the world tilting as black veins spidered underneath her skin.

He was too quick. Too precise.

“ Macte virtute ,” she gasped, forcing out the incantation through gritted teeth. Shadows curled around her like armour, but she could feel his hunger pressing in like gravity, the way his nostrils flared at the sight of blood dripping from her armour. His pupils blew wide as he breathed in.

Nyari’s boots struck the stone floor with force as she rushed him, a howl of fury caught in her throat. Shadows bloomed in her wake, Shar’s Aegis weaving around her like a cloak.

Astarion met her with a grin, baring his fangs. His silver hair was tousled, but his eyes were exultant. Despite all his resistance to battle, something primal had taken hold. He moved like a predator, violence torn raw from nature’s oldest instincts.

She reached out with her empty hand, clutching his arm. The words spilled from her lips like poison: “ Dolor tenebris .”

Necrotic energy exploded from her fingertips, writhing through him with violent hunger. She poured herself into it, the spell meant to drain the very life from him.

A sound escaped him, soft and obscene. Not a cry, but a moan. His head tipped back as wicked energy flowed into him, soaking through his skin like rain on dry earth. His eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy.

Nyari yanked her hand back as if burned. “What did I just do?”

Astarion opened his eyes. Glowing. Sated. “You healed me,” he murmured. “How thoughtful.”

Claws raked across her throat. Pain flared white-hot as the magic dug into her flesh and gnawed at her bones. She staggered back, breath ragged, black blood dripping down the steel of her armour.

She was tiring and he could see it, her steps slowing, her breathing ragged. And he hadn’t even broken a sweat. 

Astarion disarmed her with a sharp twist of the wrist, sending her sword skittering across the floor. She reached for a dagger at her belt, but before she could move, he pulled her to the stone floor with inhuman speed. He caged her beneath him, fingers curled tight around her wrists.

He could have ended her.

Instead, he just held her there, pinned to the floor like he couldn’t bear to let go. His face was a breath away, close enough that she could see the faint wrinkles framing his eyes as his expression twisted with grief.

“I could kill you,” he said softly. Not a threat, but a realization.

Her chest rose and fell beneath him, brushing against the press of his body with every breath. She should have fought. Should have screamed or begged. But he was the one trembling.

All she could do was hold his gaze, realizing that this, too, was a kind of cruelty: to be pitifully spared without knowing why.

“Then do it,” she heaved through clenched teeth. 

She prayed that he would make it fast, end her suffering with a quick slash at the neck. She glanced at his fangs, his lips parted just enough for her to catch their glint in the low light of the chamber, and wondered what they would feel like as they pierced her skin, drained her of life, leaving her on this cold floor.

Her eyes clenched shut, but all she heard next was the clatter of his blade at her side.

“Damn you,” he shuddered. “Damn me.”

Her eyes opened, glassy with pain, confusion cutting through the fog of her wounds. He was still there, staring at her like she was a ghost.

His grip tightened around her wrists as he pinned them behind her, lifting her effortlessly against his chest. Her head fell back as her body sagged in his grasp. 

“I’m getting you out of here,” were the last words she heard as her consciousness slipped like sand through limp fingers.

Chapter Text

Nyari awoke to a cacophony of voices, sharp and tangled, beyond her door. As her senses returned, she realized it was only two people speaking, though the pounding in her skull turned it into the din of a particularly rowdy tavern.

She couldn’t make out what was being said, but she heard Gale, and with him… Astarion? The man she was meant to kill. The man who had spared her. Even his dry quips in battle had etched his voice into her memory.

She staggered from the bed, clutching the frame for balance as she stumbled to the door, limbs bruised and aching.

“You nearly killed her,” Gale’s voice rang out, sharp and irritated. 

“And yet I didn’t,” Astarion responded, clipped. “She was trying to kill me , in case you forgot that part.”

“And for good reason, I presume.”

Nyari shoved the door open with the little strength she could muster, blinking at the two men in a sleepless stupor.

“You know each other?” she mumbled.

Gale rushed to her side, steadying her wobbling stance and stooping slightly to meet her gaze. “Ari, what did you do?” He asked, tone almost paternal.

She rubbed at her temples, struggling to clear the haze. “I had to stop them.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask why, that he would hold the answers that escaped her. She gripped his shoulder, straightening slightly. “What is he doing here?”

“Come,” Gale huffed, guiding her back to the bed. “Sit down.” 

She collapsed onto the mattress, pulling the covers over her knees as if they would provide an adequate shield against whatever was to come.

“Astarion brought you here. He apparently had the good sense for once to contact me.” Gale handed her a glass of water from the side table. “Do you remember fighting him?”

She blinked through the blur. Astarion stood by the wall, arms crossed. Not threatening, but tense. Concerned. Seeing him now, there was something mildly familiar about him, yet still impossible to place.

The rest of the room came into focus as if she were surfacing from a deep, tangled dream. Mahogany panelling, laurel-green rugs, and carmine drapery. She was back at the Elfsong, fingertips tracing the velvet of a wine-dark cushion—a soft, desperate tether.

“Yes.” Her body seized as she answered, searing with pain as Shar’s voice slipped back into her mind. “Fuck,” she cursed, curling tightly into herself. “I—”

Astarion crossed the room in two strides, fear burning stark in his eyes. His hands clasped around the bedframe so tightly she imagined stray splinters of wood piercing his skin.

“I failed,” she breathed, the words barely forming through the searing pain still pulsing in her body. Failed so spectacularly that the enemy now stood at her bedside.

He reached for her hand, breath hitching. She slapped it away.

His shoulders tensed, and he let out a harsh breath, more wounded than angry.

“Darling,” he said at last, voice soft but fraying, “You fought valiantly, but it seems Shar also made you forget my talents.”

Nyari flinched back like a cornered animal, pressing herself against the headboard. With him so close now, so absurdly nonchalant, stings of confusion punched through her exhaustion. “Who are you? Why didn’t you kill me? How do you know Gale?” Her panic soared, voice quickening with each question.

“Ari, I told you to wait for me. That we’d figure this out together,” Gale said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Just tell me why he is here.”

“Would you have preferred I leave you at the cult’s mercy in that wretched place, bleeding out?” Astarion’s words came through gritted teeth. “How about a ‘thank you for not killing me’?”

Gale shot him a sharp look, followed by a deep sigh. “Ari, what do you remember? And please be rather exact about it.”

She drew in a slow, anchoring breath and looked anywhere but Astarion. She couldn’t look at him. Not when he looked at her like that , whatever that was: longing, regret, concern, resentment, unreadable, and unbearable. Every time she felt her thoughts settle, like dust after battle, the sight of him scattered them anew.

“I remember our work. I remember... pieces. I do not know how I came to Baldur’s Gate, but I found who we were looking for. With Shar on my side, I reached the cloister.” She lifted her gaze to Gale. “Was I not supposed to stop them?”

“You don’t remember leaving Waterdeep?” He asked. “Staying at Shadowheart’s cottage?”

She shook her head. Waterdeep was familiar. She had been staying in Gale’s guest chamber, but even then, it was only fragments. Scattered conversations and stacks of books. A fanatical student handing her a diary.

Astarion interjected, “because I was there.”

“I do not understand,” she whispered.

“You didn’t erase everything,” he said softly, bitterly, utterly resigned. “You just erased me, and everything I touched, it seems.”

The words struck something in her. Not memory, but sensation. She didn’t know him, but the pain in his voice crashed into her like a wave and dragged her under. A grief that wasn’t hers but may as well have been.

“We were friends?” She asked quietly. 

“Friends,” Astarion repeated under his breath, mockingly. He turned away, retreating to the shadows of the room. “You know, you could have just told me what you were after. I may have even helped you.”

“You were… with them,” she said slowly, wincing as a sharp pulse shot through her skull. “ You were what I was after.”

“Gods, Ari,” he bit out, voice rising with disbelief. “Do you really not remember any of it? Your ambitions? Your betrayal?”

“Her ambitions?” Gale cut in, incredulous. “That’s rather bold, coming from you.”

“Yes, her ambitions. and yours , no doubt.” Astarion’s voice sharpened. “Spare me the oh-so-righteous act, darling.

“What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me. Elias told me everything.”

Gale blinked twice. “Elias? My student? The one you murdered?”

Their raised voices pierced her already ragged concentration. Her thoughts splintered, pain crackling behind her eyes.

“Please,” she whispered, pressing her palms to her temples. The word barely escaped her lips, but it stopped them like a spell. She searched for something useful to say, settling, after a moment, on: “Shar promised me my memories back if I completed the task. Maybe I can still stop them.”

“You may have already,” Astarion interrupted. “You hardly left any standing.”

Another jolt of pain sent her curling in on herself. Yet he is still here. She bit down hard on a scream.

“Gods, there must be something,” Astarion muttered, desperation cracking through. “Gale, you’re the scholar. Any brilliant ideas?”

Nyari pushed herself upright, trembling with the effort, clinging to threads of Shar’s order like they might hold her together. Her eyes locked onto Astarion. “Give me one good reason not to kill you,” she snarled, voice ragged and low.

Astarion opened his arms in invitation, voice as rasped and tired as her own. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Feel free to try again, my love, but you hardly look fit for the occasion.”

The brief spark of defiance guttered out as she crumpled back into the bed, leaving her only with his lingering words, both bitter and tender. My love.

Gale exhaled, the sound weary and worn. “If we can find Noblestalk,” he said, “there is still a chance her memories can be restored. Gradually. It may be rare, but it's notably more dependable than Shar’s mercy.”

“I can afford it,” Astarion said at once, the words immediate, as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment. “Whatever it costs.”

She stared at him, heart pounding. “Why would you do that?”

There was something utterly hopeless about the look in his eyes. “Because you—” His voice caught, as if he had to force the words out with every last scrap of will. “You loved me once.”

She picked at the blanket, nerves fraying. “I loved you ?”

“Yes.” His voice broke slightly. “At least, you said you did.”

She looked to Gale, hoping he could confirm or deny those words, but he stayed quiet. She watched Astarion closely, looking for a hint of deception, of something other than raw hurt. “And did you—” she cleared her throat. “Did you love me?”

He hesitated, jaw clenched, but finally answered. “Yes, Nyari. I loved you.”

The room went still.

For some reason, she believed him. She didn’t dare ask the more obvious question, however: Do you still love me? She wasn’t sure she would know what to do with the answer, no matter what it was.

She turned to Gale, no longer able to hold Astarion’s gaze after his blunt confession. “Can I speak with you?” she asked, her voice strained. “Privately?”

Gale gave a quiet nod. Astarion lingered, visibly reluctant, but with a look of hollow defeat, left the room. She waited until the door clicked shut, and then a second longer, until the faint sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor.

“Do you trust him?” Her voice came out small.

“That’s a…” Gale hesitated, “complicated question. I suppose the short answer is no.”

She sank back against the headboard, covering her eyes with the palm of her hand to shield the too-bright light in the room. Of course, it had to be complicated. Of course, it couldn’t be simple.

“Then what should I do?”

“The Nyari I know would never ask me that,” Gale said gently. “She would, perhaps on occasion, ask for my advice, and then promptly ignore it.”

“But I feel…” she stammered, finally settling on the word, “lost.”

“As I can only begin to imagine. Our memories make us, Ari. You can’t just tear out one part and expect to remain whole.” He looked at her as if she were a stranger, as she was sure she looked at Astarion. “I cannot tell you what to do. My friend, my dear friend, Nyari, would never allow it.”

She stared at him, pleading for any scrap of guidance. “Tell me about her, then. Tell me what happened.”

Gale hesitated. “Astarion hurt you. I do not feel inclined to say much more than that. Whatever has happened between the two of you is your history and his. Whatever I have seen from the outside is only a mere shadow of what you have surely experienced.”

“And is it true what he said?" She swallowed. "Did I love him?

Gale gave a small, reluctant nod. “That much is beyond doubt. I have rarely seen anyone as utterly smitten, as much as it once pained me.” He offered a faint, wry smile. “We will recover your memories, Ari, and whatever you choose to do after, I will respect. Even if I sometimes wish you would choose differently.”

She lay back, letting his words settle into the hollow places inside her. It seemed unfathomable that she could forget someone she’d once loved so evidently. But even more strange was the way her body reacted now, like some part of her was reaching for a spectre.

“I should go home,” she said at last. “My mother will be worried.”

Gale blinked. “Your… mother?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Is that strange?”

“Yes,” he answered, not bothering to elaborate any further.

Another question to poke and prod at her consciousness, she supposed. There were too many of them, stacking precariously, threatening to tumble down and trap her like rubble after a fire.

They stepped out of the room together, finding Astarion pacing awkwardly. He looked up at the sound of the door, trying to read her face.

Gale cleared his throat before announcing, “Nyari would like to visit with her mother.”

Astarion stopped in his tracks, eyebrows lifting. “Well, that is certainly unexpected.” He hesitated, then added, “I will accompany you.”

“Astarion—” Gale started, a warning in his tone.

But Nyari raised a hand. “It is fine,” she said sternly. “She will have questions for you.”

“And I’ll answer them,” Astarion responded far too cheerily.

“I’ll come as well, then,” Gale sighed, resigned.

She was too tired to argue with either of them, the residue of Shar’s punishments still lingering in her cramping muscles. “Let us go then.”

Astarion followed her to the Upper City. It felt strange, but he didn’t want to let her out of his sight ever again. He thought he was ready to let go, but when she faced him, sword in hand, it was a new kind of hurt. Not because she wanted to kill him, not that she doubted him. He could understand that. Respect it, even.

No. It was how easily, how instinctively, he fought back. That the mere scent of her blood overloaded his senses and sent him spiralling into violence. It was the fact that, even holding back, he still hurt her. Most of all, perhaps, it was that after everything, hurting her still felt worse than any wound.

Letting go was a distant fantasy now, materialized in the beads of blood that clung to his skin when he tried to forget her, cemented in the fear he felt when his claws struck against the veins in her neck.

A servant opened the door, revealing a home nearly identical to the one in his dream. She had spoken of it to him so many times, a mess of childish memories and regret. Yet now, she looked at it with an unexpected ease. He could almost feel her bliss as the sight settled over her.

They were led to the sitting room, waiting only a moment before Ilyana arrived. She had Nyari’s eyes, stern and gilded, but a thinner, harsher smile.

Astarion stood quickly, giving a slight bow. “Lady Caladhiel, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She looked him over with cool precision before Nyari spoke, her voice smoothing over the tension.

“ Amme, this is…”

“Lord Ancunin.” Astarion finished her sentence with a quick smile.

Nyari turned to Gale, who had followed Astarion’s posture with slightly more awkwardness. “And Professor Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep.”

“A pleasure to meet you both.” She smiled warmly, and the resemblance struck Astarion again: The elegant posture of nobility that Nyari tried, and often failed, to suppress. “Nyari told me about you, Professor Dekarios.”

Gale cleared his throat, adjusting his robes. “Gale is fine. Just Gale.”

She turned to Astarion next, her smile stiffening. “But she did not mention you . Yet, I have heard of you. Your balls are said to be quite resplendent.”

Astarion straightened even more, chin tipping upwards in dry, stifled amusement. “I do aim to please. Truly, such a shame Nyari has never had the chance to attend. We’ll have to correct that.”

Ilyana said nothing, a dismissive silence. She didn’t sneer or scowl. She didn’t need to. Her refinement made his usual tactics feel crass. He couldn’t read her as easily as he could the bored aristocrats of the Lower City. There was no weakness to charm, no appetite for flattery or indulgence.

“My sunbeam,” she said, her tone shifting as she looked to her daughter. “You look injured. What has happened to you?”

Astarion stiffened with a flicker of unease. How much had Nyari told her? Did she know about the cloister? About Shar? For fear of fucking things up further, he kept his mouth shut.

“It’s complicated,” Nyari said, her voice careful. She looked to Gale, as if passing a thread to steadier hands.

“Something has happened to her memories,” he explained, “but with the help of a certain rare subterranean mushroom, and, hopefully, enough time to rest, she should begin to recover them. I know of an apothecary in the lower city that should have what we need.”

Ilyana’s expression softened by degrees. “Thank you for looking after my dear daughter. I had been hoping to meet you.”

Gale shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Ari has looked after me, both of us really, more times than I can count. I’ll forever be in her debt.” All kind words and easy deference, sharing quiet smiles with her mother as though they were family. Astarion loathed him for it.

“I see.” She turned back to Astarion, eyes sharp again. “And how do you know my daughter?”

He gave a small, dry laugh. “Oh, you know. The usual. Illithid tadpoles. A lifetime and a half’s worth of bloodshed. Fighting a Netherbrain.”

Her gaze lingered, expression inscrutable. “Charming,” she muttered before looking away.

He hated the way she looked at Gale. Like he was the hero. Like he was the one who had loved her with every inch of his ruined soul.

It should have been easy to impress her. He'd spent centuries mastering the art of charm, dancing through salons and parlours, weaving himself into the tangled lives of Baldur’s Gate's elite.

But the Caladhiel estate was dignified, lacking the ostentation he was used to. There was no gilded opulence, no faint scent of rot beneath the perfume. These were elves who valued restraint, tradition, and a quiet sort of moral superiority. He could feel it in the way Nyari’s mother looked at him. Polite, reserved, and watchful, as though she were still deciding whether he was a threat. Or worse, a mistake somewhere in Nyari’s past.

So he stood there, in this immaculate home that smelled faintly of jasmine and clean linens, wearing clothes a little too fine for someone who would never quite belong here, trying not to fidget.

When Gale announced he was leaving for Bonecloak’s Apothecary, Astarion seized the offer. Anything to escape that house, even if it meant leaving Nyari for an hour or two longer than he would’ve liked.

They returned just before dusk, the tincture in hand and the weight of unspoken hope hanging heavy between them. Gale gave her the tea—a calming blend of chamomile and the Noblestalk tincture— explaining the dosage in far greater detail than necessary before slipping out to leave the two of them alone.

Now, Astarion sat in a chair in Nyari’s childhood room, elbows braced on his knees, trying to ground himself. He studied her expression as she downed the cup, watching every twitch of her face: a furrow of confusion, a flicker of memory, the briefest spark of something like attraction.

Until she broke out into a laugh.

“Well?” he asked, unable to hide the tension in his voice. “Is it working?”

She leaned back against the headboard, nodding slowly. “Do you always greet people with threats of bodily harm?”

Despite himself, he smiled. “Well, it certainly makes a lasting impression, does it not?”

“You held a knife to my throat,” she said, raising an eyebrow, but the softness around her eyes was unmistakable.

“And you charged at me with your sword,” he replied with a slight lilt in his voice. “I think that makes us rather perfect for each other.”

“Perhaps,” she mused, gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “So… what happened after that?”

Relieved, he moved from the chair to the edge of the bed, still careful not to inch closer than she would allow. “We camped together,” he explained, “with Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and Gale. We weren’t exactly close at first, but you trusted me enough to share a camp with me even after I almost decorated the ground with your innards.”

She tilted her head, lips quirking. “Then it seems history does repeat itself.”

He almost reached for her hand, but stopped himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. “Is that all it showed you?”

“For now, but at least I know you were honest about us knowing each other.”

“We’ll get more,” he said, a little too eagerly. “Now that we know it works.”

Her eyes fixed on him. “You really want me to remember everything.”

He gave a half-laugh. “If it keeps you from trying to kill me again, then yes.”

“You didn’t seem to have much trouble overpowering me before.”

“And I’d really rather not, darling.” His voice dipped, lower now. He took a slow breath. “I’m sorry. Truly. For hurting you. I—”

She shook her head, interrupting him gently. “I forgive you, Astarion. If anything, I ought to be the sorry one. I may not know all the details yet, but I was under Shar’s influence. I did not know we had fought side by side. That we were…” Her voice faltered. “On the same side. You did what you had to.”

Guilt pierced him. The same side. The words should have soothed him, but all he could think of was what she didn’t remember. What she would, given enough doses of tea. He swallowed hard.

But she looked at him with newfound trust and ease, an expression he hadn’t seen on her in what felt like lifetimes. Almost without thinking, he leaned forward, pulled by the familiar gravity of her. His eyes lingered on the plush lips he had kissed hundreds of times before: in fire-lit moments of relief when their battles were behind them and she was safe in his arms and in white-hot flashes of hunger, when every other need fell away and all he could see was her.

Just then, the door creaked open, hesitant as Astarion felt.

He pulled back instantly, straightening just as Gale stepped into view.

“Sorry to, ah, interrupt,” Gale said, looking very much like he wished he could disappear. He turned beet red. “How are you… faring?”

Nyari beamed at the sight of Gale, stepping off the bed to wrap him in a tight embrace.

Astarion looked away, swallowing the sharp flare of jealousy like a pill.

“It worked,” Nyari said, her voice muffled against Gale’s shoulder. “I remembered something.”

Gale looked momentarily stunned by the hug but didn’t pull away. “Ah. That’s… excellent news.” He cleared his throat. “I’d offer you more, but I’m afraid too much Noblestalk too quickly can have rather unfortunate side effects.”

Nyari pulled back, frustration knitting her brow. “But we need to act. The cloister, they—” Her voice caught, stammering as the memory slipped through her fingers.

“They’ve already been suppressed by your efforts, dear,” Astarion cut in smoothly, stepping forward. “As much as I’d love your memories to flood back all at once, Gale’s right. You need rest.”

He said it gently, but his gaze lingered on the way she looked at Gale, like she could collapse in his arms if he let her.

“ One more,” she pleaded, her gaze flicking between them.

Astarion stayed silent, tension threading through his chest. Part of him wanted to protest—to protect her, to pull her back from the edge. But another part, louder, selfish and aching, prayed Gale would say yes. One more memory. One more sliver of what they had.

Gale hesitated. Then he sighed, slow and resigned. “Fine. I’ll brew another cup. But the moment you feel even a flicker of dizziness, headache, nausea… You stop. Understood?”

“Yes,” Nyari replied at once, eager, desperate. “Of course.”

Gale lingered a beat longer, then turned to leave. At the door, he gave Astarion a look—half warning, half weary trust.

The moment the door clicked shut, Astarion turned to her.

“How do you feel?” His voice was low, almost too careful.

Nyari’s smile spread across her face, soft and luminous. “Wonderful.”

He wanted to believe her. Gods, he needed to believe her. But all he could see was how fragile she looked, radiant and trembling like a candle flame.

Gale returned with another cup of tea, handing it somewhat reluctantly to Nyari. She sat down on the edge of the bed again, took a deep breath, and then a sip. And another. She gulped it down so quickly that she nearly burned her tongue.

She closed her eyes, and moments later, her scenery shifted to a camp in a moonlit forest. Astarion was standing before her in a plain, ruffled shirt, looking far more timid than he had last time.

“I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me,” he said softly, a rare vulnerability in his voice. “What you see.”

It was hard to describe the man before her in common language, but she tried. She leaned in to study his face, her gaze drawn first to his eyes. “Strong, piercing eyes.” Whatever colour they once were didn’t matter. The crimson suited him, like the sun’s first glow cresting the horizon.

“Oh, go on,” he murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Gods, he was beautiful. Even bruised and blood-spattered, as he was now, there was an elegance she struggled to put into words. She fought the urge to trace his features with her fingers as she spoke. “The creases in your smile when you laugh.”

“Excuse me?” he said, placing a hand on his hip. “I’m an eternally young vampire, not your doting grandmother. You can do better.”

His mock outrage made her laugh. “All right,” she said, lowering her voice, letting it turn sultry. “That dangerous smile.”

“ Very good. Now just tell me I’m beautiful and call it a day.”

Her tone softened. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, Astarion.” It was true. Beyond the obvious, Elven features and his soft white curls, every detail of his face drew her in. The faint wrinkles, his expressive eyes, his soft lips.

“Ah. Observant.” He paused. “Mirrors aren’t much use to me. But to be reflected in someone else’s eyes? I could do worse.”

She hesitated, then offered gently, “Do you want to know more?”

He frowned, uncertain. “More? You’ve already done a wonderful job flattering me.”

“You are beautiful,” she said, stepping closer, “but you are more than that, too. Clever, brave, a valiant ally and an even better friend." Her breath caught, sensing that perhaps she had revealed too much, but she steadied her hands against the hem of her shirt. "That is what I see.”

His expression crumpled, startled and undone. For a breathless moment, he looked even more beautiful than before. Unguarded. Delicate. Something to be held with reverence. She wanted to kiss him, not with the carnal desire she had felt before, but with tenderness. A kiss that said I see you. 

She wondered, briefly, if he wanted the same. But before the moment could bloom, her surroundings melted away. The memory slipped through her fingers, and she was back in her childhood room before an Astarion whose expression was far more guarded, and Gale, watching her with a crease of concern across his brow.

“Astarion,” she breathed, drinking in his face as if seeing it again for the first time.

He smiled softly, tilting his head. “Yes, my sweet?”

But she had no words. None that felt worthy. Only the same impulse to kiss him, to close the space between them as she hadn't been able to before. But instead, she returned his smile, leaned back into the headboard, and said, "you were a good friend."

Chapter Text

Nyari Caladhiel seemed to have stepped out of a storybook, the knight in shining armour he used to imagine coming to his rescue during all those years in the kennels. He remembered watching her across camp, sharpening her sword with meticulous care.

He had been almost certain that when he tried to bite her, she would cast him out. Tyrrans weren’t known for their kindness towards the undead, after all. Only two hundred years of starvation could have made him so bold. But she had looked at him with her wide amber eyes and permitted him to feed. She had touched his hair gently and said, “You should not have to be hungry, Astarion.”

And gods, his name sounded like poetry from her lips. From the soft murmur of it during quiet moments at camp, to the urgent cry when he fell in battle, and the way she pleaded it each time he touched between her legs. She made it sound beautiful, a name reserved for someone far better. Her voice made him forget every cruel word ever said against him.

She had been the obvious choice to manipulate: always wanting to help others, fierce in battle, and for some reason, absolutely smitten with him from the moment he held that dagger to her neck. But she gave more and more of herself: not solely her body, but laughter that came too easily and stories of her childhood that he sensed few others had heard. It was rare for him to have spent so much time with one of his victims—usually, one night of feigned passion was all it took—but to see this woman so intimately, so foolishly trusting of him, felt worse than he ever expected. Worse, of course, was the truth it would take him far longer to admit—that he had been hopelessly beholden to her from their first night together.

So, he had waited until the others had turned in to their bedrolls, when she came to him with that soft smile and offered her neck like the sweet, generous thing she was. He approached her on unsteady feet and told her everything: how he had manipulated her, how his instincts to seek protection in others led him to seduce her, how truly sorry he was. She could have walked away from him then, and he wouldn’t have blamed her. Instead, she listened, even as heartbreak glistened in her eyes, before pulling him into her arms and resting her head against his chest.

“Regardless of what we are, or what we are not, I will keep you safe, Astarion,” Nyari had whispered into his ear with all the affection he had been sure she would withdraw at that point. “You do not have to promise me anything in return for that.”

He had tried so desperately to be everything she deserved, the kind, gentle man she miraculously saw in him. He wanted to keep her safe too, even if she had never needed his protection the way he craved hers. Any foolishness he once saw in her was replaced by a quiet, merciful strength, the kind that only the best of hearts could possess.

Looking at her now was like gazing into a portal where the woman he had first fallen for stood, unmarred by their battles against the Absolute. Unmarred by him. Naive, perhaps, but in that bold, radiant way that could pull men like him back from ruin. A faithful noble, smiling lovingly at her mother as she called her “sunbeam,” as if the past ten months had been wiped clean.

Still, Shar tortured her. The spikes of pain came at random, contorting her supple body like a storm might bend the thinnest branches of a tree. Perhaps he should have been angry with her, knowing that all of this was because she chose to cast him from her memory, to hunt him down like a common villain. Yet, when he saw the way her face clenched in pain, he only wanted to hold her, to wipe the sweat from her forehead and whisper reassurance. If only she would let him.

Selfishly, he knew that the Noblestalk would do nothing to quell Shar’s fury. But if she could remember him, at least, maybe they could face it together.

He arranged the finishing touches: a ragged backpack, a swiped bottle of Arabellan Dry, and a few measly rations she may have once considered a feast. He had done well, he thought, looking around the camp he had set only a short walk from her family estate.

He sucked in a sharp inhale before knocking at the front door—a silly instinct, perhaps, but it grounded him as if he were still mortal.

To his surprise, it was Lady Ilyana who answered. Her expression was polite but cool, the faintest scowl pulling at her features when her gaze landed on him.

“Lord Ancunin,” she said with a sigh, as if the title itself were mildly distasteful. “What a charming surprise. I assume you are here for my daughter?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous like a giddy schoolboy about to ask his crush to the dance. “Yes,” he said, voice catching a little more than he liked. “Yes, I am.”

“Come in, then.” She turned, not bothering to look back, already calling for a servant to fetch Nyari. “You may sit, if you wish,” she added, though the tone made it sound more akin to a dare than an earnest invitation.

To his relief, it wasn’t long before Nyari flitted down the staircase. For all the apprehension that still divided them, he much preferred the bright smiles of curiosity she offered him now to the eye contact she had previously avoided.

“Astarion,” she said with a smile, and unless he imagined it, a faint flush. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He very nearly reached for her hands, but stopped himself just in time. Instead, he offered a smile that only faltered slightly. “Darling, I have something to show you.”

Nyari raised a curious brow but didn’t protest as he led her from the house. The path curved away from the garden, drawing them toward the wooded fringe of the estate grounds. Guiding her in silence, he stayed a few paces ahead, unwilling to look back in case her expression undid him completely. The crunch of her footsteps was the only confirmation she still followed. He couldn’t quite believe it, but if it was all in his head, it wasn’t an illusion he was keen on breaking.

They made it a fair distance into the forest before she finally spoke. “This feels rather remote, does it not?” she asked, though there was a playful lilt to her voice. “Should I be worried? Following a vampire into the forest, all alone?”

“Perhaps,” he said smoothly. “But if I meant to devour you, as much as I may like to, I’d hardly have knocked on your mother’s front door.”

Her steps slowed, just enough to make his heart stutter. “What are you up to, Astarion?”

“Just let me show you,” he insisted. They weren’t far now. “I promise I won’t bite, at least not unless you ask nicely.”

The sounds of the city fell away as the path narrowed beneath their feet. Every so often, her arm brushed against his—an accident, he was sure, but it sparked a hope he didn’t dare to dwell upon. He could feel her easing beside him, the hesitant silence turning warmer with each step, reminding him of the comfortable quiet that used to rest between them at camp when they were too tired to speak but unwilling to separate.

The trees parted to reveal a small clearing. Nestled at its heart was a near-perfect replica of the camp they had once shared with their companions.

“It may not look exactly familiar yet, love,” He explained, “but I thought it may… assist those fantastical little mushrooms Gale acquired.”

What he didn’t say was that this was something—anything—he could do to help. A way to be useful again, to near that imagined version of himself she so adored. He was tired of watching Gale patch up the pieces while he stood by feeling utterly helpless.

Nyari glanced around the site, a faint shimmer of recognition crossing her face. “Did we camp here together?”

“Well—” He shifted his weight, half-smiling. “Not here , precisely, but it is a forest. Most of them look the same after a while.”

She covered her mouth with a stifled laugh. “Sorry,” she mumbled, before wandering toward a rich burgundy tent striped with burnt copper. Her eyes traced the pale rugs inside, the neatly stacked cushions, and then turned back to him. “This one is yours, I take it?”

Hope bloomed in his chest, so startling it left a flush in its wake. “Why, yes. However could you have guessed?”

She paused, thoughtful. “I think… it was in my vision.”

“Oh.” His voice softened. “Of course.”

“So,” she asked gently, “what did you have in mind?”

A bright grin broke across his face as he retrieved the small bottle of tincture from his coat, holding it aloft like a prize. “Well,” he began, moving to the already-set kettle, “you’ll have to start the campfire, since that’s not exactly my area of expertise, but after that, I thought we could spend the evening here. I’ll make you tea. You drink the tea. Then… well, I haven’t thought beyond that.”

It wasn’t wholly a lie, though he had imagined a hundred versions of the night, starting with her refusing to follow him here at all. That was one of the more hopeless ones. In another, he had swept her into his arms, starting over as strangers and pleasing her in all the ways he knew how. But as for an actual plan ? 

He had none.

Her voice, dry but amused, broke through his thoughts. “Let me guess. You hope to seduce me under the moonlight?”

He tilted his head, letting his voice fall into a low purr. “Is that what you want?”

Warmth crept into her cheeks, but after a moment, she shook her head. “I hardly know you.”

The words struck like a spell. It wasn’t that they were unfair, but the truth of them dragged his heart into his stomach. Only months earlier, they had stood together at the edge of the world, only to become strangers.

“We can change that.” He cleared his throat, recovering with a boyish smile. “So, I won’t seduce you tonight.” He waved his hand, as if waving away the thought. “But don’t be too surprised if, by morning, I consume your every thought.”

Nyari rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth lifted. “Do those lines ever work?”

“They worked on you once.” He let his gaze linger, unflinching, letting her squirm beneath the weight of it.

She turned toward the campfire before he could decipher her expression, but he observed the way her fingers found the edge of her sleeve, tugging at the threads.

The kettle now hissed gently over the flame, steam curling into the night air with the faint scent of herbs. Nyari crouched by the fire, lifting one of the cups he’d laid out earlier. Astarion was at her side in an instant, offering a small sack of sugar with a flourish.

“For the bitterness,” he said, warmth slipping into his voice as if to remind her: I know you.

“Thank you,” she replied sheepishly. “Did Gale explain the dosage?”

“Four drops.”

“Perhaps an extra one, for good measure?” Nyari reached for the small vial peeking from his coat pocket.

“Eager, are we?”

“Yes,” she said plainly, her fingers steady even as her pulse quickened.

She took the tincture carefully, tipping five drops into her cup. The dark swirl was barely visible in the moonlight.

And then she paused. “Should I be worried?” she asked. “That you have lured me into the woods, plied me with tea, and are now watching me drink it?”

Astarion smirked, reclining on his elbows beside her. “You’re the one who insisted on five drops, darling. Do you trust me?”

Nyari tilted her head, studying him. What was it, if not trust, that had her following him into the dark with so little suspicion? “I suppose I ought to.”

“But do you?”

“Yes,” she answered, lifting the cup to her lips. “Perhaps I am a fool.”

“I have met more beautiful fools than I can count,” he said. “You, dear, are not one of them.”

“An ugly fool, then?”

He made a theatrical show of rolling his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, darling, not after I just complimented your intellect.” He inched his hand towards hers. “ Clearly , you are beautiful, and while your heroic instincts sometimes cloud your decision-making, I’d hardly call you foolish.”

She didn’t answer, just raised the cup again. He watched with amusement as she took another swig. “You might want to pace yourself, darling.”

Nyari did not want to pace herself. Not now, with this beautiful man at her side, patiently watching with such quiet expectation, as if whatever she might remember was something sacred between them. She wanted the memories to return in a great, crashing wave, even if it dragged her under.

That was the last thought she had before her vision began to blur, a sudden vertigo overtaking her. She reached out without thinking, fingers catching on his shoulder.

His voice came low and concerned, but she couldn’t make out the words. Gently, he guided her down to the bedroll at her side, his hands steadying her as she let her eyes fall shut. The scent of campfire smoke and the distant hum of crickets sank into the distance.

She was no longer lying down. She was upright, and she was kissing someone feverishly, stifling a soft, involuntary moan as he nipped at her bottom lip. His hands found her hips, lifting her gently as her legs wrapped around his waist. 

His lips left soft, fluttering kisses across the hollow of her throat, deft fingers tracing the hem of her shirt. Every point of contact between them lit fireworks across her skin.

Then, against her ear, came Astarion’s voice. “Is this okay?”

She nodded, heart thudding, as his mouth caressed the side of her neck, brushing slowly across the pulse point.

“Your heart is racing, darling,” he murmured, “I promise I won’t bite.”

Nyari hesitated, biting her lip. “It’s not that.” Gods, she had barely known this man for a handful of nights.

He lowered her to her feet, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said too quickly. “I mean—”

He watched her, almost nervously, any precursor of seduction gone from his eyes. 

She cleared her throat. “You have to promise not to laugh.”

He raised a brow, but then pressed a hand to his still heart. “On my unlife,” he said with a disarming, dorky smile. It lacked all the polish of the smooth lines he’d used to woo her earlier that evening—but gods, that only made it worse. Or better. Her heart fluttered.

She exhaled, sure that her words would cause the night to crumble around them. “It is just that I have not, exactly, done this before.”

“Bedded a vampire?” He let out a breath of amused disbelief. “Few have, my dear.”

“No.” Her words tumbled out carelessly, any sultry tone she had attempted before gone in an instant. “Bedded anyone.”

His expression shifted, lips parting, surprise softening into something more tender. “Oh,” was all he said at first. In that moment, she was certain the night would end there. Yet, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. He only looked at her, more earnestly now than she was accustomed to. “We don’t have to do anything, truly.”

“I want to,” she said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. “If you still do, that is.”

“With me?” he asked, uncharacteristically delicate. “I mean, sure, I’m a professional, but you’re not, um, saving yourself for someone more… special?”

His words lingered for a moment, suspended in the hush of the forest clearing. This, whatever it was, was far from the girlish fantasies evoked by the romance novels she devoured. He was a vampire, after all, a creature she had been raised to fear and smite, not some sweet Elven boy who would whisper loving affirmations and buy her flowers. Yet, none of that dissonance quelled the ache in her chest when she looked at him, nor the warmth blossoming in her belly when he touched her. They barely knew one another, but something about him made her wonder about past lives. 

She smiled, repressing her nerves just enough to tell the truth. “You are,” she said. “Special, I mean.”

That did it. His confident mask slipped, and Astarion looked truly flustered. “But, darling, we’re not—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know this is just a… casual affair. I am okay with that.” 

She peeled her shirt upward and over her head, baring herself to him, skin suddenly prickling under the weight of his gaze. The air between them thickened. She hadn’t meant to be presumptuous. His prior air of lust seemed stifled now, stuttering as he took her in in this new light.

A light laugh escaped her, and she crossed an arm over her breasts to cover herself once again. “If you do not want to anymore,” she said, “I understand.”

She glanced down at her fist full of fabric, ready to dress and retreat—but his hand found hers and her shirt slipped from her grasp, fluttering to the forest floor.

“I do want to,” he said, seeming near surprised at his own words as his other hand came to gently uncross her arm. “You have no idea how much.”

If she had felt bare before him a moment earlier, it was nothing compared to the feeling of his crimson eyes raking over her body, drinking her in.

“Thank the gods,” she sighed, letting out a breath she hadn’t noticed herself holding. “I was worried you would run off.”

He chuckled. “You were worried about what I would think?”

“Yes,” she answered plainly, before leaning in tentatively to kiss him again. His hands released hers to wrap around the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.

“Can I touch you?” He asked softly against her cheek.

She nodded, pulse quickening in his embrace.

“Show me where, darling,” he whispered. “Guide my hand.”

She took his hand and pressed it against her breasts, surprising herself as the press of his fingertips against her nipple drew a moan from her throat, before guiding it downwards, gasping as his fingers drew nearer to her growing wetness.

“Let me remove these,” he said, as he began fiddling with her trousers, searching her face again for permission.

“Yes,” she gasped into his shoulder.

He removed them with ease, pulling back to gaze upon her again. Her nerves rose as he studied her body, praying silently that he wouldn’t be disappointed, but he looked at her with the awe of a mortal before the divine.

A performance, she thought. It must have been. Surely, in all those years, he had seen more impressive bodies than hers. But he just kept looking at her, as if the soft curves of her body offered something entirely foreign.

“You’re a vision,” he said softly, before guiding her to the bedroll he had set down in the clearing.

She lay down, unable to tear her gaze from his form as he trailed kisses along her collarbone, down her chest, to her stomach, and across her thighs. He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and for a moment, all she could do was stare at the sharp cut of his torso, the way moonlight sculpted every line of him like marble.

He lowered himself, settling his head between her legs, pausing for a beat to search her face for any signs of hesitation. There was none.

He took her hand once again and guided it lower, toward the soft, dark nest between her thighs.

“Show me how you like to be touched,” he said, almost a plea, as if the knowledge of her pleasure was a sacred thing.

Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers across her now slick folds before bringing them in a gentle circle around her clit. The sound that came from him, a deep inhale melting into a soft whine, made her clench around nothing.

He left a lingering trail of kisses along the inside of her thighs, slow and searching, gauging every shift in her breath. When his lips finally brushed against her clit, her legs trembled, as if drawn taut by some unseen thread. She felt the curve of his smile against her heat, the barest scrape of his fangs against her skin. His hands held her thighs steady as he began to trace his tongue along the path demonstrated by her fingertips, small moans rising from his throat as he lost himself in her.

“You’re still tense, darling, but you taste…” he exhaled, voice rough, “delicious.”

The praise relaxed her a little, the sound of his voice sending a rush of heat to where his mouth worshipped.

He rose over her and kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself—tangy and honeyed—on his tongue. His cock nudged against her thigh, hard and aching through his trousers. When he pulled back from the kiss, his lips were flushed, his eyes dark with something tender and hungry. He pressed a final kiss to her jaw before trailing back down her body, mouth igniting against her skin, until he was back between her thighs.

He dipped his head, tongue flicking gently against her clit before pressing in deeper. His mouth was slow and steady, savouring her, building her up with every movement. She felt herself unravelling, piece by piece, as her hips bucked against his mouth. He held her firmly, grounding her with his hands as he worked, murmuring praises between each flick of his tongue.

“Just like that,” he purred, “you sweet thing.”

Her thighs trembled again with pleasure mounting too fast to contain. It crested before she could prepare for it, stealing the breath from her lungs as her body spasmed beneath his mouth.

“That’s it, darling. Let go.” His words were half-swallowed by the heat of her cunt against his lips.

She cried out, one hand flying to his curls as she rode the waves he coaxed from her, the world narrowing to where his tongue met her skin and the sound of his low groan as she came apart for him. He didn’t stop until she nudged at his shoulder, overstimulated and breathless. Only then did he look up, lips shining, his expression somewhere between reverence and pride.

“That was—” she gasped, breathless. “That felt incredible.”

“Do you want to try more?” He asked softly. And gods, she wanted more. As much as he would give her.

She nodded eagerly, letting out a soft whine as he slipped off his own trousers, revealing his cock, already twitching with need. He shifted forward, slipping one knee between her thighs. The slow, insistent press of his leg parted her, and she whimpered—whether at the movement itself or the sudden exposure, she couldn’t say. All she knew was how keenly she felt the press of his body, the way his cock now hovered at her entrance.

“If you’ll let me, I’ll ruin you for anyone else,” he breathed against her neck, “but only if you’re sure.”

“I am.” Her hands curled against his back, his skin smooth in places, ridged in others. Her fingers grazed the raised texture of old scars, though she didn’t ask dare about them. “Are you?” She asked him, hoping he would find the same pleasure in this that she already had.

“You’re so… sweet,” he said, almost to himself. “And I don’t just mean the way you taste, little love.”

She shivered at his words, at the memory of his mouth, of how utterly undone she’d already been beneath his tongue. And still, she ached for more.

He drew his hips forward and dragged his cock along her folds—slick, swollen, exquisitely tender. She rolled her hips against him as the friction teased her clit, sending a pulse of pleasure through her.

His eyes never left hers. 

“Tell me,” he rasped, voice low and raw, “how would you like to be taken?”

Thoughts raced for a moment as she considered his question. She had read more than enough erotic novels, filled with words someone might say in a moment like this, but she couldn’t think straight, not with his eyes on her like that.

“Take me like I am yours,” she said finally, leaving out the quiet truth: that she suspected she already was.

Her words had the desired effect, his pupils blown wide, the tip of his cock leaking against her thigh. “As you wish.”

He ground against her, the dripping mess between her thighs coating his cock as he teased against her clit. The all-consuming hollow ache inside her rose with every teasing pass, each subtle movement sending a shiver racing through her spine.

Just as she opened her mouth to beg, he dipped his head and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking mercilessly until the sounds spilling from her lips dissolved into something raw and ravenous.

“Please, Astarion,” were the only words she could form.

Nyari felt the press of him, the warm, deliberate glide as he pushed inside—inch by inch, until her breath caught. Too much and not enough, all at once. A stretch that stole her thoughts and left only sensation behind. She let out a sound she didn’t recognize as hers, head tipping back, fingers tightening around his.

Astarion stilled above her, as if waiting for her to shatter, but she met him with a desperate roll of her hips, drawing him deeper. His mouth found hers in answer, hungrier this time, and when he began to move inside her, she felt every muscle go liquid beneath him.

He kept his eyes locked on hers, and she studied every crease of his expression, the soft twists of pleasure that she was sure he was seeing in her, too.

“You take me so well, darling,” he muttered, the words nearly lost to the broken sounds spilling from his throat.

She buried her face in his shoulder, stifling a moan—but his fingers curled into her hair, tightening just enough to coax her head back, his other hand brushing lightly over her lips. “Don’t be quiet. I want to hear you, darling.”

Nyari let her lips fall open, surrendering to the desperate sounds rising from her throat. The sound seemed to unmake him—he moved harder, rougher, drawn by every noise she gave him..

Catching the glint of his fangs, she found herself craving their sting. She wanted him to sink them into her neck, her shoulder, anywhere. She wanted to feel marked, claimed, taken in every way imaginable.

She tilted her head, inviting him to bite.

Astarion looked at her, brow slightly raised, as if he couldn’t quite believe her offer.

So, she made herself clearer. “Would you taste me?”

The words alone were enough to coax a rough moan from his throat, and she felt him twitch inside her.

“Darling,” his breath caught. “You are full of surprises, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself if I do.”

The thought nearly made her unravel, and he seemed to sense it, breathing in deeply as if he could smell the arousal his words beckoned.

“Don’t,” she pleaded, the rest of her thoughts interrupted by the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Don’t what, love?” He teased. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Don’t control yourself.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He sank his fangs into her neck, and the first pull of her blood set off something primal in both of them. She whimpered his name, barely audible. Her head fell back, offering more of her throat, because, gods help her, she wanted him to take everything.

Nyari cried out, fingers twisting in his hair, holding him tight to her throat. His hips jerked against hers, rhythm faltering as instinct took over. Each thrust sent fire through her nerves, her body already careening at the edge. Her nipples were aching, every inch of her raw and trembling, and when he growled against her skin, she shattered.

She came with a sob, arching into him, her body seizing around his cock. Wet heat spilled between them—a gush that soaked his skin and spilled onto the fabric below. Her thighs trembled where they locked around his waist, holding him close as the aftershocks rippled through her.

He followed with a strangled moan, biting harder as he came—hips snapping deep, then stuttering as he spilled inside her. His breath broke against her skin in a string of curses, his body pressed so tightly to hers she could feel every tremor.

When he finally tore his mouth from her neck, blood slick on his lips, his eyes were unfocused, almost feral. “Gods, I—” he tried, voice hoarse. “You do something to me.”

He thrust into her one last time, slow and shuddering, before collapsing against her chest, nuzzling into the crook of her collarbone. She held him there, not ready for the weight of his body to leave hers.

“Gods, is it always that good?” she asked after she found her breath again.

“No,” he answered, before pressing a kiss to her dampened skin. “At least, not for me.”

“Please feel no need to deceive me if I was not… as enjoyable as your other lovers,” she said carefully.

But he pulled back to hold her gaze, resting a hand against her cheek, and said, “You were perfect.”

Of course, she should have assumed it was another line. He could charm anyone, and she was far from immune, but the way he looked at her, with a faint air of shock, made it feel achingly real.

“You know, I never had a choice before. I—,” he hesitated, words barely audible. “I am glad I chose you.”

The memory blurred into nothing, leaving Nyari with her cheeks scorching hot on the bedroll. She opened her eyes tentatively, not sure what to say.

“Well?” Astarion asked. He was seated a few feet away from her, fingers nervously tapping against his thigh.

“It was, uh, enlightening.” She cleared her throat, not daring to meet his eyes. “A fuller memory than the others.”

“Darling.” He let out a soft chuckle. “You have turned a very bright shade of red. What exactly did you remember?”

“You and I,” she paused, hesitating. “You, um—” She couldn’t help but wonder what she must have looked like, reliving it all—if the flush in her cheeks was the only clue to that storm of pleasure.

“Oh.” His expression darkened. “So it was that kind of memory, hm? I did have my hopes.”

She swallowed. “You were my first?”

The tension bled from his posture. “Yes, my love.”

“And after that, we..?”

“I was yours. Completely yours.” And there it was: the earnest tone he had met her with in the memory, as if no time had passed at all. “And I still am, if you’ll have me.”

Yours. The word rang in her head like an old song. Feelings cobbled together from too few memories surged up inside her: fragments of warmth, of tenderness, of the man who would go to such lengths to rekindle the love he claimed she’d once given freely. 

She wondered what had changed between then and now, how something so precious between them had twisted into loss. Why he had said she loved him “once,” and not that she still did. Her instincts begged her to meet his confession with one in kind — she had chosen him before, after all—but even the sincerity in his eyes was not enough to silence the spectre of doubt.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, Nyari drank the tea dutifully each morning. Always at breakfast, always with Astarion nearby. He kept a careful distance, letting her lead. But she knew he waited for each fragment with bated breath, searching her eyes for recognition.

She remembered him braiding her hair by the campfire, his fingers deft and gentle, brushing against her skin. She had asked where he learned such a skill, and he had smirked—“Practiced hands,” he’d said, before pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck, just above the place he had bitten her.

She remembered their feeding rituals, how his composure always faltered when she tucked her hair behind her ear to offer her neck. The way his fangs sank in with a sharp, cold prick. The way he moaned, quiet and breathless against her skin, each sound sending heat spiralling through her. The way his body pressed close, hard and trembling with want, always pulling away too soon.

She remembered him in battle—an arrow through the throat of any who came too close to her. She remembered how he knelt by her side when she fell, forcing healing potions into her hand, voice tight with worry even as he teased, “Your blood is far too distracting, darling.”

She remembered how fiercely he had loved her, even when he hadn’t said it.

Her mother had become slightly more acquainted with Gale and Astarion both, and seemed to be warming to Astarion despite how occasionally bristling he was. It helped that, as Nyari recovered more of her memories, she could finally share the pieces she had once kept hidden: how she had fought the Absolute with a parasite in her head, how she had wielded everything her father taught her in the service of something good, how Astarion had been by her side through it all.

And then, one morning, the memory came to her, sharp and unmistakable. The day she broke her oath. The pieces fell into place: The loss of her golden signet ring. Her estrangement from her family home.

She would omit that part. Probably.

Descending to the parlour for morning tea, she found Ilyana with a tightly-laced corset hugging her waist and a copy of the Baldur’s Mouth draped lazily in one gloved hand.

“Good morning, my sunbeam,” her mother said with a warm smile, waving the paper as though caught mid-revelation. “You will have to forgive me. My appetite for petty gossip is one of my more tasteless habits, but we all have our indulgences.”

Nyari grinned as she crossed the room. “You have nothing to apologize for. Everyone needs a little entertainment.”

“I thought so.” Ilyana gestured to the chair across from her. “Gale was here earlier, actually. He said much the same. If a man of his intellect can enjoy the scandal columns, I am certainly not above it.”

“Gale was here?” Nyari echoed.

Ilyana nodded, folding the paper. “You just missed him. He seemed quite concerned about how you have been faring, but asked me not to wake you.”

“Did Astarion come by?” She asked, careful to keep her voice even. “He usually stops in during the mornings.”

Her mother gave her a small, knowing look. “Not yet, dear, although the two of you seem rather close as of late.”

A warm flush crept up Nyari’s neck. Never had she expected to be discussing her feelings for a vampire with her proper, noble mother, much less hoping for her approval.

“Our pasts are more intertwined than I realized,” she explained. “I know he can come across as... overly charming, but the things he has lived through—” She faltered. Astarion may never have fit into the life she had before, but he had shaped the one she lived now.

Ilyana’s gaze was sharp. For a moment, it seemed a lashing of words was already rising to her tongue, but instead, she simply said, “Be careful with that one, selye. He has a reputation.”

“Reputation is not my concern. I know him.”

“Áva quete.” The Elvish scolding made Nyari feel like a young girl again, in trouble for dirtying her clothes. “No one will judge you for what happened out there, if you have been caught in some enchantment. You are still young, but do not make a scandal of yourself.”

Nyari’s heart hammered. But her voice, when it came, was steadier than she felt. “Amme, I broke my oath.”

The words hung there. A moment stretched into a silence so thick it felt like judgment.

Ilyana was very still. Then, slowly, she set the newspaper down beside her teacup and folded her hands. She studied Nyari then, no longer as a paladin or daughter, but simply as a woman who had made a choice.

“I did wonder,” she said at last.

Nyari’s hands curled in her lap. “It was the right thing,” she said quickly. “I thought I could hold to it, but there was so much cruelty, so much blood. I changed in ways I could have never anticipated. Ways that I cannot regret. And I—gods, I did not want to disappoint him. Or you. But I could not protect a crown that failed its people.”

“Oh, Ari.” Ilyana reached for Nyari’s hand, grip gentle but certain. “Do you really think the sum of your worth is bound to an oath you swore as a near child?”

Nyari felt the heat rising in her chest, the pressure building in her throat. “You raised me to live by honour—”

Ilyana’s gaze was steady. “And it seems to me that you have, rakish lovers or not.” She stood, crossing the room to a reach into the narrow drawer of an old sideboard. From it, she retrieved the letter she had shown her once before, sealed with their family’s crest in deep red wax.

“I think it is time that you read this,” She said, placing the envelope gently into Nyari’s hands.

She took it with trembling fingers, fumbling as she broke the seal.

Inside, in her father’s refined cursive, it read:

To my dearest daughter,

Wherever you are now, all we wish for is your safety. That you are alive and well, despite everything.

The murders in the city have become more frequent, and the watch has fallen. I will admit, I never felt right about those steel beasts. Perhaps it is not my place to question, but the air has changed since Lord Gortash took the throne. Fear of the Absolute has twisted people into such hateful things, turning their ire against one another rather than the failures of this once-great city’s leaders.

You were always so sure, so bright-eyed and steadfast. Watching you take your oath was one of the proudest moments of my life—not for the family name, but because I believed your compassion would shine across Faerûn. A beacon of hope.

But at times I fear that we taught you to obey too well. In these final days, I have seen things I cannot explain away. I have stood beside men who wear honour like a mask and leave only ruin in their wake. I have followed orders for which I know longer know how to forgive myself. I pray for your safety first, above all, but I also hope you are braver than I have been. I believe that you are.

I do not know if I will survive when the Absolute takes hold, or if you will ever come home. But I am writing anyway, in hope that my words can find their way to you one last time.

With love,

Atya

Nyari looked up, her eyes glassy with tears. Her voice, when it came, was small. “He felt the same way.”

“You are so alike,” Ilyana said softly, smiling through the emotion in her own voice. “I am glad to have you back so that I can see him again in you.”

Nyari swallowed hard, holding the letter delicately between her trembling fingers. Even in such a state, she couldn’t dare let the parchment crumple. “I think I need some air,” she managed to say.

Her mother nodded, taking the cue to leave Nyari with tears that could only fall when she was alone. They came the moment her footsteps faded down the hall — quiet at first, and then wrenching. She let herself cry for as long as she could, until her tear ducts were spent and her breaths had gone shallow.

She barely registered the sound of soft footsteps behind her until a voice spoke, low and tentative.

“Ari? My treasure?”

She startled, quickly wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. But there was no hiding the redness in her eyes.

Astarion was at her side in an instant, taking her hands gently before she could retreat. “Tell me what’s wrong. Did someone hurt you? I will—”

“No,” she cut in quickly, though her voice wavered. “Nothing like that. I am perfectly well, I just—” She choked. “I need a moment.”

“Darling,” he said, brushing a thumb over he knuckles, “you’ve never been a convincing liar.” His tone was light, but there was an unspoken plea in his eyes: if you must fall apart, let it be in my arms.

She opened her mouth, searching for words, for any explanation that might make sense of the tangle inside her. But nothing came. Instead, she collapsed against his chest with a sob.

“I am sorry,” she muttered, voice muffled in the soft weave of his jacket.

He gave a quiet, amused hum and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her as though she might shatter if held too tightly. “Whatever are you sorry for, darling?”

“For… this,” Nyari sighed. “All of this.”

His fingers threaded through her hair, slow and steadying. “You never have to hide from me,”Ari,” he murmured. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

It was disorienting, to find solace in him now. Only days ago, she had endeavoured to drive a blade through his heart. And now, that same heart beat steadily beneath her cheek, miraculously hers despite everything. She clung to him a little tighter, breathing in the same herbal, citrusy scent that filled her fevered recollections of the past.

He pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. “Now, darling, shall I make you some tea?”

She answered with a groan against his chest, grieving for his touch before she had even lost it.

Minutes later, she sat curled into the sofa, a woven throw wrapped tight around her shoulders and her hands wrapped around a warm mug. Steam curled upward, fragrant with lavender and lemon balm meant to soothe.

She took a sip. Bitterness bloomed on her tongue, chased by something sweeter.

And with it, the world began to tilt.

The first hints of morning brushed over camp, pale gold light catching on tents and damp earth. Astarion sat near his, a book open in his lap, but his hands were stiff around the pages. His jaw was tight. He didn’t look up as she approached.

“Good morning, my beloved,” Nyari greeted softly, coffee in hand, her smile tender with sleep.

He turned a page with pointed precision, then finally looked up at her. “Hello, darling.” The smile he offered was charming, as it always seemed to be, but his voice was terse.

She took her place beside him, offering the coffee. “Is everything alright?”

He took it, but didn’t answer right away, staring blankly into the steam rising from the cup. He had only confessed to her four days earlier, having admitted to his simple, little plan and its stunning failure. Things had been oddly easy since then, the two of them sleeping side by side now as something real began to settle between them. But now, he had withdrawn into himself yet again.

“Oh, everything’s fine,” he said breezily.

She tilted her head. “Clearly, it is not.” She reached up and touched his cheek, gently coaxing him to meet her eyes. “You said you wanted something real. You can talk to me.”

Astarion sighed, the tension in his shoulders faltering just slightly. “Look, I know we haven’t exactly put a label on this—whatever this is—but I thought it was—” he paused to clear his throat. “Different.” His voice dropped lower. “I thought we wouldn’t be with anyone else.”

She blinked, struck by confusion. “Astarion, I thought I made myself clear. I only want you.”

His jaw worked, gaze turning away again. “Not unless they can conjure a dazzling illusion, apparently,” he muttered.

Nyari furrowed her brow. “Gale?”

“Yes, Gale,” he snapped, then added bitterly, “I saw you last night, wandering off after his little illusion. Look, I know we’ve agreed to… pause certain activities, but if I’d known you’d seek it elsewhere—”

She reached for his hand. “Nothing happened between Gale and I,” she said gently, “but with what Mystra has asked of him, he needed someone to speak with. Someone to pull him back from the edge.”

Astarion scoffed quietly, not pulling his hand away but not squeezing back either. “Well, thank the gods you were there. Where would any of us be without your boundless compassion?”

Her expression softened, tinged with sorrow. “You do not have to be the only one I care about to be the one who matters most.”

He looked at her now, mouth slightly agape, aching with vulnerability. It would have been easy to see a jealous lover, spurned by anything less than her undivided attention. But what she saw instead cleaved her in two—a man so certain he was unworthy, he could barely fathom being wanted at all.

“Whatever flirtations may have been between Gale and I are in the past,” she said gently. “I want you, Astarion. With or without intimacy. Just you.” She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. She felt him exhale slowly, the tension in his frame melting beneath her weight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

A soft chuckle rose in her throat. “What in the hells are you sorry for?” she asked, nuzzling against him.

“All of this is so new to me. These feelings.” The word landed on his tongue like something unfamiliar, almost distasteful, but he softened. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

“You won’t,” she murmured. “And even if you do, I am not going anywhere.”

He hesitated. “You really mean that?”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, cupping his face as she pressed a slow, tender kiss to his lips. Her fingers slid into his curls, pulling him just a little closer, anchoring him to the moment. When she drew back, there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I am entirely and irrevocably yours,” she whispered.

The memory faded gently this time, dissolving like mist—and when it was gone, she was back in the parlour, alone with Astarion. And she knew, with sudden, aching clarity that she loved him. She had loved him before, and she loved him still.

Guilt surged in her chest like a tide. She thought of all the pain he must have swallowed, the way he had feared that she might forget him, might choose someone else. And she had. However it may have happened, however Shar may have fooled her into this affliction, she had let him go.

Nyari surged forward, urgent and breathless, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him into a kiss. There was nothing soft about it at first, only the fierce need to feel him, to become as lost in the present as she had been in her memories.

He yielded with a soft, startled sound, his lips cool and achingly familiar. His tongue met hers slowly, a tender contrast to her desperate embrace, as if he wasn’t quite sure any of it was real. But as she kissed him, she felt it: the tension easing from his body, the hesitant touch of his hands growing bolder, pulling her closer, as if the press of their bodies could erase every inch of distance that had ever existed between them.

“I am so sorry, Astarion,” she whispered after they parted, her hands still tangled in his hair. “I am sorry to have forgotten you.”

He hugged her, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “It’s okay, darling. You’re here now. You’re here.”

“I am here,” she echoed into soft curls. “I am here and I love you.”

Chapter Text

Nyari awoke tucked beneath Astarion’s arm. When she stirred, he mumbled something half-coherent and pulled her closer. It felt right. Effortless. Within a tenday, she had lived through months of dizzying, whirlwind romance, fading threats of wayward Sharrans into a hazy backdrop. He was the only thing in focus.

Her memories were still fractured, scattered like fallen leaves, but the Noblestalk had shifted from a desperate tether to a quiet morning ritual. The present, with him at her side, was enough.

Maybe she was being selfish. There was still so much to do, so much left unresolved. Her duty beckoned her, but she let herself linger in this fragile peace. When Shar’s punishments came, he held her through them, pressing kisses to her cheeks while she seized in his arms, murmuring words she couldn’t always hear.

“I have a surprise for you,” he mumbled into her ear.

Nyari hummed, shifting to face him, and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Morning light spilled across the sheets, painting his silver hair in auric light and catching on his carmine eyes. It was absurd that a vampire could bathe in the radiance of the sun and look like he belonged there, as if he was crafted from the same material as she. It must have been some miracle that let him continue beneath the sunlight without a tadpole in his head, as if the sun decided to make an exception just for him.

“What is it?” She asked dreamily, still lost in the contours of his face.

He grinned. “Must you be so impatient, darling? It would hardly be a surprise if I told you now.”

“Of course,” she murmured, with all the amusement she could muster in her sleep-drunk state. “Must we surrender this moment of peace already?”

“Eventually,” he muttered against her lips, pulling her into a lazy kiss, “but I suppose it can wait a little longer.”

When they finally rose, she dressed in an old gown from her wardrobe, the colour of soft moss, scented faintly with cedar. Her fingers brushed the embroidered collar. The sleeves were long and narrow, the bodice just tight enough to remind her to hold her posture. It wasn't the most comfortable, not after her body had become accustomed to leathers and cloaks, but it was familiar.

“Gods,” Astarion purred, watching as she tightened its corset strings. “You are beautiful.”

She let out a light laugh, shielding her mouth with her hand. “I suppose you have mostly seen me in armour.”

“You look beautiful in armour too, my sweet.” He took her by the hand and led her beyond the estate, down winding paths into the Lower City. He didn’t let go once, as if she might vanish otherwise.

Eventually, they reached a cemetery.

“Quite a romantic setting you have chosen,” she quipped, eyeing him curiously.

He let out a soft laugh. “At least give me some credit for originality.” He guided her toward a tombstone, inscribed: Astarion Ancunin.

“This is where you were buried,” she murmured.

He gave a small nod, but his gaze caught on a small bouquet of flowers, dried and bleached in the sunlight, resting at his grave. It was a wild collection of lavender and weavemoss, picked by careful hands and tied together with a silken bow. He stared for a long moment, as if the sight alone stole the words from his throat. The melancholy that crossed his face was one he rarely let slip, at least not with anyone but her.

Nyari followed his gaze. She could not guess who may have left them, but took a quiet solace in knowing someone had once paused here to honour him. Even if he still lived. Even if he always world.

His fingers curled around hers, beckoning her eyes back to him. From his coat pocket, he drew a small velvet box—citrine yellow, the edges worn smooth with time.

“You wore this once,” he said.

Her heart stopped. “We were married?”

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Not quite. Just open it.”

Inside lay a gold ring crowned with a seafoam verdalite that shone like a spring. Delicate milgrain caught the morning light.

“We used to wear these to… balance our injuries. To ensure both of us stayed standing in battle. It was a tactical decision, really, but now—” He smiled, eyes alight with promise. “Whenever Shar tries to hurt you, we’ll share the pain.”

“Astarion, I cannot ask that of you,” she said quickly, unwilling to allow him even an ounce of what Shar put her through.

“You aren’t asking.” His voice softened as he took the ring from its case. “May I?”

Nyari considered this for a moment. After all that he had endured, the centuries of torture, such a gesture seemed immense. But he was looking at her with expectant eyes, offering himself willingly, so she extended her hand. He slid the ring onto her finger, then lifted her knuckles to his lips. From his other pocket, he drew the twin, until her fingers closed gently around his wrist.

“Wait.”

For a breath, she caught the flicker of panic in his eyes before taking the ring from his hand and sliding it onto his finger herself.

“Unum in dolore,” he whispered with a gentle smile.

Diamonds of golden light flared and shimmered, encasing them both in a warding bond. She could feel the tightness in his chest as if it were her own, the faint bloom of warmth flooding to his cheeks.

For a moment, neither of them said anything more. The bond shimmered faintly between them, a quiet promise.

She didn’t remember their past. Not fully. But in that moment, she didn’t need to. All that he felt for her materialized in her own flesh.

Nyari had always adored grand gestures of romance. There was something delightfully naive in the way she swooned at things plucked from corny novellas. The bundle of dried flowers left at his grave was proof. It had been a simple, unoriginal gesture on his part, but she had smiled at him as if he’d plucked a star from the sky and set it in her hands. She had cherished that wild, wilted bouquet until the day she had forsaken him. Even then, she had chosen its final resting place with care.

She loved him when he was sweet.

Though he hated to admit it, he could be sweet. For her, at least, he’d learned how to try.

And gods, he was not going to dwell on how sick it made him to see her in pain. She had brought this upon herself, associating with Shar, exiling him from her mind at any cost. He should have relished her punishment. He should have let her suffer.

It was so very unlike him—the vampire ascendant—to feel pity. Yet her pain seeped into him all the same, each shuddering spasm in his arms sparking a pulse of regret he could not shake. The way she, the sweet noble thing that she was, couldn’t swallow the sounds of her anguish. The way she wailed.

No one but him should ever have had such a tight hold on her.

So, he would take her pain—half of it, at least. He had endured worse for no reason at all. This, he would endure for her, if only to soften the ache in his chest.

She looked at him then with wide, wet eyes and whispered in Elvish — so soft it seemed only meant for him, not even the air around them. “ Varyauvan-idë var umbar.” I will guard you from fate.

He caught her wrist and pulled her closer, just to hear her heartbeat swell for him. His lips brushed her ear as he murmured her words back to her, binding them with the weight of his voice.

All the power he wielded, all the power that she had helped him to rightfully claim, would be turned against anything that dared touch her. Now that she was finally back in his arms, he would raze the world before letting it take her from him again.

They entered the Caladhiel estate beaming, Astarion’s arm snug around the silk at her waist. The gold stitching on Nyari’s gown caught the light as she stepped into the parlour, each thread shimmering like it remembered old ballroom dances.

Her mother looked up from her tea and paused.

For a moment, she simply stared. Then, slowly, a smile softened her face. “You look beautiful, selya,” she said, rising to her feet. “It is lovely to see you dressed to your station again.”

Nyari smoothed a hand down her embroidered sleeves. “It still fits,” she said, though it felt tighter around the arms than she remembered.

Ilyana stepped closer, her eyes just beginning to mist. “You always carried yourself like a queen in that gown.” She reached out, touched Nyari’s arm. “You look like yourself again.”

Nyari offered a small smile, trying not to shrink beneath the weight of it. She didn’t feel like that woman anymore, but for her mother’s sake, she could pretend.

Then Ilyana’s gaze dropped. To the glint of gold on Nyari’s finger. And the matching one on his.

Her brow knit, only slightly. “So,” she said carefully, “where did the two of you disappear to?”

Nyari hesitated. My lover’s grave didn’t feel like the most appropriate answer.

Astarion stepped in with a shallow, courtly bow. “I hope I haven’t overstepped. I merely wanted to take Nyari somewhere dear to my heart.”

Her mother’s smile was gracious but brittle. “Nyari is a grown woman. Her heart is hers to give.” But something flickered in her eyes. Concern. Calculation. She folded her hands behind her back. “So then, are we to announce a betrothal?”

“Amme, it is not that.” Nyari said quickly, before turning to Astarion. It was a promise, surely, a mark of their love and the things they had shared. It was so far beyond the way she had dreamed of feeling with her future husband. It was so much better, so much bigger than that.

“We wore the rings during our travels,” he said gently. “They helped protect us, and I want to—” he hesitated, eyes meeting Nyari’s. “I will continue to protect Nyari.”

“Ari, my dear… may we speak plainly?” Ilyana asked.

“Of course.”

Her mother offered Astarion a courteous smile. “Will you leave us for a moment?”

Astarion dipped his head with grace, pressing a soft kiss to Nyari’s cheek. “I’ll be in the garden, darling.”

Once the door clicked shut behind him, Ilyana turned, her voice quiet but firm. “My sunbeam. As glad as I am to see you so radiant, so taken with Lord Ancunin, it is my duty to tell you of some… rumours.”

“Rumours?” Nyari echoed, trying to keep her tone light.

Ilyana hesitated. “You know I avoid gossip. But this…” She folded her hands, eyes dropping. Her voice shrank, as if even repeating the words might stain her tongue. “Some say he is, well, cotto aurëina.”

Bane of the sun. The word landed like a slap. Nyari had grown up hearing it hissed from Tyrran lips, always in revulsion. A word for those shunned by the sun itself, too vile for even the most wicked gods to claim.

She remembered the early days at the camp when Astarion feigned disinterest in meals while the rest of them stuffed their faces, secluding himself to the edges of camp to starve in secret. She remembered his clipped replies to questions until he finally realized they would not cast him out, and then, suddenly, how he wouldn’t stop talking. As if there centuries of words locked behind his unease.

He believed himself unloveable because of what had been done to him. But by the time she learned his truth, he was already something more than a stranger. More than even an ally. He had become dear to her; so dear that no fear of the undead could quell her endearment towards him. To hear of him spoken about now with such cruelty made her chest burn with rage.

“Do not speak of him that way,” she snapped, before drawing a steadying breath. “Yes, Astarion is a vampire. I understand your fear. I once shared it.”

Ilyana’s expression hardened. “Selya, you may think him charming, but charm is a hunter’s tool. You cannot place your trust in something so unnatural.”

“And yet I have,” Nyari said, voice like iron. “Astarion and I protected each other through battle after battle. He saw me bleed. He tended my wounds. He has earned both my trust and my love.”

Ilyana drew back as if slapped. “It is blasphemy to be with the undead.”

“Then I am a blasphemer,” Nyari bit back, fire rising in her throat, “and I will wear the label with pride.”

“You are a lust-sick fool, bewitched by a corpse.” She muttered curses under her breath. “I had prayed the rumours were untrue, or that you were at the very least ignorant to his nature, but to knowingly bring that leech into my house?”

“No wonder I never wrote to you,” Nyari hissed. “That leech is better than the lot of you, sitting in these ridiculous houses all day reading the gossip papers while pretending at virtue. How silly I was to have hoped you may be pleased at my happiness.”

Her mother’s face tightened, the fine lines around her mouth deepening. “Happiness?” she said sharply. “Tell me, has this thing defiled you as well? Or have you managed to keep at least one shred of your dignity intact?”

“He has known me,” She responded firmly, “wholly and completely, and I would gladly see the gods themselves fall before I let that be taken from me.”

Ilyana didn’t speak. Her lips parted, as if to argue, but no sound came. Only silence, pointed and impenetrable, settled between them like dust on old glass.

Nyari held her gaze for one long moment. Then, with slow precision, she turned and left the room, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound as she walked away.

The air outside was cool, the afternoon light just beginning to warm the stone. The garden was fragrant with sun-warmed roses and honeysuckle. Nyari could hear the fountain murmuring nearby, the wind stirring the tall hedges in gentle rustles. Somewhere further off, a servant’s voice called faintly.

She found Astarion near a stone gazebo spilling over with wisteria. He paced idly, fingers twisting his ring.

At the sight of her, he straightened. “Darling? Is everything—?”

She didn’t speak right away, only rushed to rest her forehead against his collarbone.

His arms found her instantly, and in them she found a haven unlike any other.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

When they pulled apart, she recounted the conversation with Ilyana in pained detail.

“You… said that? To her?” A soft laugh escaped him, more stunned than amused. “Gods, you brave little fool.”

“I will not stand by as someone speaks ill of you,” she said firmly. “I love you, Astarion, for everything that you are.”

He wrapped a hand around the small of her back, anchoring her with gentle pressure. “You shouldn’t have to burn bridges for someone like me, my love. But you do. You always do.” He released a breath of pure relief. “You’re mine, aren’t you? Gods help anyone who tries to take you from me.”

“They stand no chance,” she said, words warm and certain, “my rose among thorns. I am yours.”

​​“Mine,” he breathed the word like a prayer, then kissed her like a man starving.

Nyari met his kiss with equal hunger, catching his lower lip between her teeth before brushing her tongue gently across his. Her hands fumbled at his shirt, fingertips yearning for the skin underneath.

He broke the kiss only to guide her behind the nearest hedge, half-shielded from the rest of the garden. The heat of the day shimmered around them, cicadas droning lazily in the distance, the smell of crushed grass and roses curling in the air. She couldn’t help but marvel at the way the sunlight kissed his skin like warm gold poured over marble. It caught in his eyes like fire trapped in a gemstone—too bright to look at, too beautiful to turn from.

Their lips met again, slower now, his mouth moving against hers like he was memorizing it all over again, while his hands slid down, lithe fingers curling around the backs of her thighs.

Nyari pulled back just slightly, breath trembling as she glanced around the garden. They were hardly hidden, the soft hum of the city barely in earshot.

His fingers caught her chin, turning her gaze back to him.

“Eyes on me,” he murmured. “Let them hear you. Let them know you’re mine.”

Her breath caught, knees nearly giving beneath the weight of his words, the thrill of her own defiance like an aphrodisiac.

“I can smell how much you want it,” he whispered, dragging his tongue along the edge of her ear. “Do you want to know how I used to fuck you, my treasure?”

The memory of her Noblestalk dream flickered in her mind. But here, now, with his hands on her, there was no distance of hallucination to buffer the dizzying intoxication of his nearness. “I do remember,” she choked out.

“I was gentler with you then,” he said softly, “in that charming little memory. But gods—” his lips brushed against her jaw, “you have no idea how many times I have—what was it she called it?—defiled you since.”

“Show me,” she pleaded. She craved no purity, no sanctity, only the ruin of his hands upon her. Let him unmake her, spill her like wine, stake his claim in flesh and blood. If it left her tarnished, let it be beyond the grace of repair.

He gathered her up as if she was weightless, her legs locking instinctively around his waist. Their mouths never parted as he carried her to the gazebo, crossing the distance in a few long, urgent strides. He pressed her back against one of the marble columns, the cold shocking her spine as heat gathered everywhere else. Fingers threaded through her hair, tipping her head to bare the hollow of her neck to his lips.

He sank his fangs in with a low groan, holding her as her body jolted from the sharp sting, then melted into the dizzying euphoria. Her blood spilled hot into his mouth and she felt herself pulsing around nothing, aching with need as he drank. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, hips rolling against his. Everything else melted away, her thoughts consumed by the flow of blood against his lips and his hands holding her body flush against his.

And gods, she could taste herself. Not the copper she remembered tasting on his lips, but something rich and syrupy, like the blackcurrants she used to pick in summer.  His hunger rippled through her as her blood ebbed away, leaving her body in a dizzying mess of vitality and enfeeblement.

One of his hands slipped beneath her skirt, fingers skating along the slick heat between her thighs. The other tugged at the laces of her bodice, undoing them with practiced ease until the fabric gave way and her breasts spilled into the warm air. He made a sound of pure, unguarded hunger.

Astarion dipped his head, mouth closing around a nipple, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to draw a breathless cry from her. She arched into him, grinding against his thigh. The answering moan he gave was half hers, half his, tangled beyond comprehension.

“Greedy,” he said, voice strained, “desperate little thing. Is this what you need?”

“Gods,” Nyari moaned, “please, Astarion. Let me have all of you.”

He set her down, spun her in a fluid motion, and bent her over the balustrade, her palms braced against the warm stone. The sun soaked into her skin, but it was his voice, low and filthy in her ear, that sent warmth coursing through her.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he rasped, “legs parted, waiting for me.”

He entered her in one brutal thrust. She gasped, the shock of it stealing her breath. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, setting a rhythm that left her clinging to the railing, every stroke hitting harder because she could feel how it consumed him. The phantom sensation of filling and being filled at once was almost too much to bear.

He pushed her hair aside to bite her shoulder. There was no blood this time, just a mark to match the others. Her cries came high, broken, and helpless; in him, they turned to growls and shuddering breaths.

When she bit back a moan, his thumb found her bottom lip, coaxing it open to claim the sounds he’d earned.

“Don’t you dare,” he murmured, dragging her upright against his chest. “Don’t you dare be quiet.”

A woman less rapt in such bliss might have noticed the faint sounds of footsteps beyond the garden, or wondered if they were visible from an estate window. But the world narrowed to the shimmering current between them, all else drowned out by the symphony of pleasure and pain.

Nyari’s body trembled, but she pushed back into him, feverishly chasing the ecstasy that tore through them both. “Harder, Astarion.” The words took every shred of strength she had to get out. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”

Her demand made him shudder, his tremor fluttering straight through her core. The rhythm between them turned feral, her thoughts blurring as their breaths turned ragged. The warding bond carried every spasm, every pulse, every broken cry until her body could no longer contain the pleasure, so sharp it bordered on agony.

He came with a low, desperate growl, teeth gritted against the ecstasy that wracked his body. His hips jerked, hot pulses spilling into her, and she felt it twice over: the rush of heat flooding her and the unyielding clutch of her own body around him from the inside out, as if she were holding herself. Her own climax crashed against his, the two sensations weaving until there was no telling where one ended and the other began.

“Gods,” he breathed against her shoulder. “You drive me insane.”

Nyari moaned softly as his weight slumped over her, his chest pressed to her back, lips brushing her nape. His arms encircled her from behind, holding her there like he never wanted to let go.

After a few heartbeats, he shifted, slowly pulling out of her. He turned her in his arms, her hair mussed and eyes hazy.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

Nyari leaned into the touch, still breathless but smiling, pressing her forehead against his. Her eyes scanned the garden, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Do you think anyone heard us?”

“Hm,”Astarion mused, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “If they didn’t... we could always try again.”

“I’m not opposed.” She laughed, the sound muffled against his chest.

He grinned, wicked and fond all at once. “You bad girl.” His lips grazed her ear in a mock-scolding whisper.

He sank to his knees before her, scattering kisses along the curve of her thighs. His hands coaxed her back against the balustrade, parting her with a firm touch.

Nyari looked down at him, framed by the noon light, the sun gilding his pale skin in defiance of every law she had ever known. Astarion was a miracle made flesh, now knelt in devotion as though she were his altar. When his mouth met her, the contrast made her gasp—cool lips and tongue against skin flushed with heat. He lingered there, savouring her, kisses scattering a path up the soft inside of her thigh until they hovered achingly close to her clit.

When his spend dripped down her thigh, he chased it with his mouth, tasting their mingled arousal with a pleased hum. He lapped greedily along her folds, as if he meant to drink every last trace of their union from her body.

Every brush of his lips, every languid suck at her clit, sent jolts through her overstimulated body. She was far too raw to last, but he took his time, whimpering and trembling in tandem with her as he teased. Her fingers tangled in his hair, eager for anything to ground her as the next orgasm threatened to tear her apart.

She broke with a strangled cry, currents surging through her veins until her vision dissolved into blinding heat and her mind fell blank. Even through the haze, she felt the sharp press of his nails into her plush thighs, clutching to her as he shuddered in his own release.

“Gods, I never want to stop.” She laughed as her breath began to steady, baring her face to the sky. “Someone will catch us though, eventually.”

He pressed his face to her leg, eyes fluttering closed against her skin as he considered her words. “Perhaps, we could get a room at the Elfsong tonight. Spend some more time together.”

She tilted her head curiously. “Would we not have more privacy in your home?”

It was a simple request, but he paused, withdrawing ever so slightly from her touch, before rising to sit beside her.

“Ah. Well…” Astarion looked off to the side, hand rubbing the back of his neck in an almost bashful gesture. “I’m not in a position to have guests at the moment.” He must have caught the way her eyes narrowed, because a flirtatious smile returned so quickly she wondered if it had been there the whole time. “Besides, darling, I didn’t realized you cared so much about privacy.”

“Astarion,” she said, her head beginning to clear. “Do you not wish for me to see where you live?”

“No, of course not,” he said, a little too quickly. “It’s just, ah, a bit of a mess.”

She smiled softly, taking his hand in hers, letting their rings click softly together. “I do not mind. I want to see it. I want to see all of you.”

He stilled, something hardening in his expression, as if she had offended him. “Perhaps another night, my love,” he said, his voice suddenly cold.

“Did I say something wrong?” She asked cautiously.

“Of course not,” he said, but it was hardly convincing. And then he took her hand again, kissed her knuckles as if nothing had passed between them. “I’ll see you in the morning, my sweet.”