Chapter Text
One command.
That was all it had taken.
One barked order and Astarion had forgotten every day of freedom. He had forgotten his friends, his blade, his pride.
Two centuries of obedience had snapped him to attention like a beaten dog responding to its master's whistle. He'd straightened his spine and lowered his eyes as if the past two months had been nothing more than a pleasant dream.
And now, here he was. Suspended above the ritual circle like meat on a hook, spectral chains burning into his wrists with each pulse of the runes below. His strength bled away in steady streams, channelling through arcane pathways into Cazador while chaos erupted around him.
He couldn't even turn his head. Only his eyes could move, catching glimpses of carnage as the battle raged across his limited field of vision.
Onyx - magnificent in his fury - locked in savage combat with three massive werewolves. They rolled and thrashed in a tangle of fangs and claws, blood spattering ancient stone. One werewolf's throat hung open, courtesy of Onyx's jaws, but two more pressed the attack. Even as Astarion watched, claws raked deep furrows across the direwolf's silver flank.
Gale's voice rose in desperate incantation, radiant light blazing from his hands as he tried to stem the tide of ghouls and bats flooding toward him. Karlach stood at his back, her greataxe carving burning arcs through the swarm, but for every creature that fell, two more seemed to take its place.
Lightning crackled past his vision. Rolan, his blade gleaming as he fought to reach Astarion. But a skeletal necromancer blocked his path, summoning barrier after barrier of bone and shadow. The tiefling's face twisted with frustration as each attempt to break through met magical resistance.
And then there was Ashara.
Her wolf form dominated the central platform, massive jaws snapping at empty air as Cazador hovered just beyond reach. Lightning crackled from his fingertips, each bolt searing into her flesh with surgical precision.
She didn't even flinch. Blood matted her fur where teeth and claws had found purchase, scorch marks blackened her sides, but still she pursued with single-minded determination.
"Such a magnificent beast," Cazador crooned, drifting higher as her teeth clicked shut inches from his boots. "But so predictable. So... simple."
Frost exploded from Ashara's maw in a torrent of killing cold. Cazador's form dissolved into mist, reforming behind her with casual ease. His hand swung in a lazy arc, sending another fork of lightning into her exposed flank.
She whirled with a snarl, but he was already gone, floating above like smoke drifting in the wind.
Astarion recognized the pattern with sickening clarity. Ashara had let rage consume her, just as he had. She wasn't thinking, only reacting - and Cazador was playing her like a master musician. Every lunge met air. Every attack left her more exposed. Her entire world had narrowed to reaching the vampire lord, and he was using that tunnel vision to bleed her dry.
The runes beneath Astarion pulsed brighter. He could feel himself growing lighter, less substantial, as if the ritual was already beginning to unmake him. Time was running out with each heartbeat.
A deeper fear gripped him then, more terrible than his own dissolution.
If Cazador was this effective against Ashara now - keeping her occupied, wearing her down, exploiting her blind fury - what would he become with the power of seven thousand souls? What chance would any of them have against a Vampire Ascendant?
And Ashara - brave, foolish, wonderful Ashara - what would grief do to her if Astarion fell here? Would she throw herself at Cazador in blind fury, just as she was doing now? Would she die on his claws, another victim of the monster Astarion's recklessness had helped create?
The image seared through him: Ashara's blood on Cazador's hands, her eyes going dark, all because he had been too consumed with anger to think straight.
No.
The fear of that future - of his soulmate dying because of his failure - burned through everything else. Through shame, through pain, through two centuries of trained obedience.
The chains flared brighter as he strained against them, muscles screaming in protest. They didn't budge. Of course they didn't. This was Cazador's domain, Cazador's power, Cazador's will made manifest.
But perhaps...
Astarion closed his eyes and did the one thing he swore he would never do again.
He prayed.
"Fenrir - Lord of The Wild Hunt. Your servant summons thee."
The words tasted bitter with the sting of desperation. How many times had he begged the gods while Cazador's knives found new ways to make him scream? How many unanswered pleas had he whispered into the darkness of that wretched tomb?
Silence stretched, each heartbeat marking another failure. Of course there was no answer. Why was he foolish enough to think any god would ever—
"Speak thy request."
The voice resonated through his mind like distant thunder rolling across mountains. Astarion's eyes flew open, a sob of relief almost catching in his throat.
"Fenrir! Please, Ashara is in danger. I need your strength to break free of Cazador's chains."
"Thou already possesseth the strength, my champion. The blood I gifted thee carries my power. Thou need only command, and it shall obey."
"I can't! I don't know how."
"Yes, thou dost." The voice held infinite patience, like a father teaching a child to walk. "Trust thyself, Astarion. Trust what flows within thy veins."
Another explosion shook the chamber. Lightning struck Ashara dead centre, her roar of pain echoing off stone. The sound tore through Astarion like Cazador's knives never could.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to block out the chaos - Cazador's mocking laughter floating above the carnage, the wet crunch of Onyx's jaws finding werewolf flesh, Karlach's increasingly desperate battle cries, the whistle of Rolan's blade through air. All of it had to fade. Had to become distant as a half-remembered dream.
The blood. Fenrir's blood.
He dove deep into his own mind, past the fear that had lived there so long it felt like home, past the centuries of compelled loyalty that made him flinch at shadows. Down to the core of who he had become. Not the broken thing Cazador had carved him into, but the man who had chosen to be more.
He had faced both the Lord of Bones chosen and avatar - and lived. Had stood against goblin hordes and undead armies. Had looked an outcast god in the eyes and found respect reflected in them. He had survived two hundred years of hell and emerged reforged.
And now - now divine blood flowed in his veins. Not a gift to be begged for. Not a blessing to be grateful for. A power to be claimed.
He could feel it, threads of primal magic woven through his very essence. Wild as winter storms. Ancient as the first hunt. Patient as a wolf stalking prey. It pulsed with each beat of his heart, waiting for him to stop asking and start commanding.
His lips shaped the word with absolute certainty:
"Gleipnisgríp!"
Frost exploded from the platform beneath him. Chains of ice materialized from nothing, wrapping around his wrists with deliberate purpose. They met Cazador's crimson bindings with the sound of glaciers cracking. For one suspended moment, the two magics warred across his skin - the old master's will against the new power that sang in his bones.
The wild blood won.
Crimson shattered like spun sugar beneath a hammer. The spectral chains dissolved into motes of fading light. Astarion hung suspended now by his own magic alone, master of his own fate. A thought dismissed the ice, and he dropped to stone, knees hitting hard but legs holding. His chest heaved, but elation sang through every fibre.
It had worked. By all the dead gods, it had actually worked.
"What?! Impossible!"
Cazador's voice cracked like a whip, but beneath the anger lay something far more satisfying. Genuine shock. In two centuries, Astarion could count on one hand the times he'd heard that particular note in his master's voice.
He lifted his head slowly, deliberately, baring fangs in a grin that held nothing of humour and everything of predator's promise. "These days, I'm making the impossible look easy."
He rose to his feet with theatrical precision, each movement calculated to display not just freedom, but dominance. No more cowering. No more flinching. His hand extended to one side with the casual arrogance of one who knew - knew - that power would answer his call.
The snap of his fingers rang through the chamber like a war drum.
"Úlfar Draugr."
Reality tore like fabric. Five massive shapes erupted from the space between heartbeats - spectral wolves twice the size of any natural beast, their forms wavering between solid and smoke. They circled him in constant motion, a living barrier of phantom fangs and eyes that burned with winter's hunger. Their snarls harmonized into a sound that bypassed the ears entirely, speaking directly to the primitive brain that still remembered when wolves ruled the night.
Cazador's expression—
Oh, that expression was worth every moment of pain, every century of torment. Shock melted into uncertainty, his perfect marble features cracking as arrogance crumbled at the edges. For perhaps the third time in two centuries, Astarion saw his former master genuinely taken aback, forced to recalculate in the face of something beyond his comprehension.
The triumph that surged through Astarion tasted sweeter than the finest blood, headier than any wine. Fenrir's power sang in his veins, wild and free and utterly his.
—♤—
Red consumed everything.
Ashara's world had narrowed to a single point - that sneering face floating just beyond her reach. Her massive paws struck stone hard enough to crack it as she launched herself upward again. And again. Each leap fell short by inches, Cazador's mocking laughter driving her fury higher.
Lightning struck her shoulder. The smell of burning fur filled her nostrils, but the pain barely registered through the haze of rage. She needed to reach him. Needed to close her jaws around that pale face and crunch.
She'd tried to free Astarion first - had snapped futily at those crimson chains, had breathed frost over the ritual circle until ice coated everything. Nothing had worked. The bond connecting him to Cazador was beyond her ability to break.
So she'd settled for the source. Kill Cazador, end the ritual. Simple.
Fangs found her flank - one of the bats, latching on like a leech. She barely noticed. Claws raked across her haunches as a werewolf tried to hamstring her. The pain existed somewhere distant, drowned beneath the roaring need to destroy the creature that dared harm her soulmate.
Another leap. Cazador drifted higher, staff crackling with power. "Such single-minded fury. Like a rabid dog that needs putting down."
Her jaws snapped shut on empty air. Again.
Then something shifted. Cazador's expression - that insufferable smirk - faltered. His crimson eyes widened, focused on something behind her with a look that bordered on fear.
Ashara's massive head swung around.
Astarion stood free.
Relief crashed through her like ice water, momentarily clearing the red haze. He stood surrounded by spectral wolves, frost still glittering on his wrists where the chains had been. His eyes blazed with something wild and triumphant as he stared up at his former master.
The very air in the chamber changed, charged with new possibility. Ashara's muscles bunched as she backed away slightly, instinct telling her to give space for whatever came next. The hunter in her recognized the shift - prey had become predator.
Astarion's hand rose with deliberate slowness, fingers spread toward the ceiling.
"Hrímræsir!"
The word cracked through the chamber like breaking winter. Darkness gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling, churning and roiling like storm clouds. The temperature plummeted so fast that breath misted from every mouth.
Cazador's head snapped upward, genuine alarm replacing arrogance. He began to dissolve—
The clouds erupted.
Hail the size of fists hammered down. Between the spheres of ice came worse - icicles long as swords, falling like crystal rain. They struck where Cazador had been floating with enough force to shatter stone, each impact ringing like a thunderclap.
His mist form writhed between the projectiles, reforming and dissolving in rapid succession as he tried to find clear air. For the first time in the battle, he was purely on the defensive, that mocking confidence shattered as thoroughly as the ice breaking against the chamber floor.
Ashara's featureless skull still managed to savagely grin somehow. The rage burned, but tempered now with vicious satisfaction.
While Cazador twisted and writhed through the air, dodging ice that somehow found purchase even on his mist form, Ashara's mind cleared enough to take in the wider battle. Her gaze swept the chamber and locked onto a familiar gleam - Astarion's sword, abandoned where he'd been captured.
Movement caught her eye. The skeletal necromancer had Rolan pinned against a pillar, waves of necrotic energy forcing the tiefling back step by step.
Ashara's powerful haunches bunched and released. She crossed the distance in two bounds, jaws gaping wide. The necromancer had just enough time to turn before her teeth closed around its spine. Brittle bones crunched like dry kindling as she lifted the creature bodily from the ground. It flailed uselessly, bony fingers scraping against her muzzle as arcane words died in its rattling throat.
She whipped her massive head to the side and released. The skeleton sailed through the air, arms windmilling frantically, before disappearing over the platform's edge with a pathetic shriek that faded away into the darkness below.
Rolan straightened, chest heaving as he wiped blood from a cut on his forehead. A grin split his face despite his exhaustion. "That never gets old."
Ashara's head swung toward Astarion's fallen blade, a low rumble directing Rolan's attention.
Understanding flashed across his features. He sprinted for the weapon, boots skidding on ice-slick stone as he snatched it up. Ashara moved with him, her bulk scattering ghouls like leaves before a storm. They cleared a path back to where Astarion stood surrounded by his spectral guardians.
Rolan pulled up short, careful not to breach the circle of phantom wolves. "Catch!"
The blade spun through the air in a perfect arc. Astarion's hand snapped out, fingers closing around the hilt with casual precision. In one fluid motion, he brought the sword around, and frostfire erupted along its edge with renewed hunger.
Above them, the hail ceased. Cazador materialized on the far side of the platform, no longer untouchable. Blood seeped from several gashes across his perfect features, the wounds already beginning to close but not fast enough to hide that he could bleed.
The sight seemed to ignite something in Astarion. His lips pulled back in a smile sharp as broken glass.
"I never thought I'd see the day you'd be too afraid to face me on equal footing..." Astarion's voice carried across the chamber, each word carefully weighted. "...master."
The title dripped with centuries of accumulated scorn.
Cazador's hand rose to touch the blood on his cheek, examining it with detached interest. "Fight on if you must, but I am only growing stronger."
"You're going to suffer for everything you did to me." No heat in Astarion's words. Just cold, absolute certainty.
"I have known you for two centuries." Cazador spread his hands in mock affront. "Have I not suffered enough?"
Rage boiled through Ashara's veins. Her muscles coiled for the killing leap—
Astarion's hand rose, and something in his bearing made her pause. Across the platform, Cazador mirrored the gesture, lightning already crackling between his fingers.
"Úlfshljóð!"
The word erupted from Astarion's throat with primal force. Reality itself seemed to pause, drawing in a breath—
Then the howl came.
Not one wolf. Not five. The voices of a hundred spectral hunters rose in unified song. It rolled through the chamber like a physical force, carrying within it the promise of the hunt, the certainty of death, the rage of the wild against those who would cage it.
Cazador's spell died unborn. He clutched his head, a scream tearing from his throat as he crashed to his knees. When he staggered upright, all pretence of superiority had fled. His perfect features twisted with pure rage as he drew a long dagger from his robes - silver twisted into cruel curves, its edge gleaming with old poison.
Ashara's haunches bunched, ready to end this—
"No." Astarion's voice cut through her intent like a blade. His hand extended, palm out, holding her back. His eyes never left Cazador as he adjusted his grip on his sword.
"He's mine."
With a flick of his wrist, Astarion sent his spectral wolves streaming away to aid the others. They flowed like smoke across the battlefield, phantom jaws finding ghoul throats and werewolf flanks.
Now, it was just the two of them.
Ashara held herself coiled and ready, muscles trembling with the effort of restraint. Her eyes tracked every movement as Astarion stood before his tormentor - bare-chested, yet utterly unafraid. The frostfire blade cast him in ethereal light, turning pale skin to marble, making him look like something birthed from winter itself.
He was glorious.
Cazador lunged first, that twisted dagger singing through air. Astarion's blade rose to meet it, steel ringing against silver. The vampire lord moved with centuries of experience, ducking low beneath Astarion's reach. The dagger found flesh, opening a line of crimson across ribs.
Astarion didn't even flinch. He pivoted, bringing his sword around in an arc that forced Cazador back.
Blood painted patterns on stone as they fought. Cazador's blade was a serpent, striking fast and retreating faster, finding gaps in Astarion's defence. Each cut drew blood but no reaction - Astarion moved through the pain as if it didn't exist, pressing forward with relentless purpose. They moved like dancers locked in a performance where one misstep meant death.
Ashara's claws scraped stone as she shifted her weight, every instinct screaming to intervene. A ghoul stumbled too close and she crushed it absently, attention never leaving the duel. Around her, the others had finished their own battles and gathered to watch. Karlach's flames had dimmed to embers, Gale leaned heavily on his staff, Rolan bled from a dozen cuts - but all stood transfixed.
They were evenly matched - master and spawn, predator and prey, their roles finally unclear. Then Astarion saw his opening.
His blade carved a perfect arc through Cazador's defence, biting deep across the vampire lord's chest. Cazador staggered back, one hand flying to the wound. Blood- so much blood - poured between his fingers. His eyes went wide, genuine shock replacing arrogance as he stared at the crimson flooding across his robes.
"What are you?" The words came out strangled, disbelieving.
Astarion advanced slowly, his spectral wolves flowing back to circle him like a living shield. The blade hung loose at his side, casual confidence in every line of his body.
"I am Astarion Ancunín - the first vampire to ever be chosen as a divine champion." His voice carried the weight of truth carved in stone. "I have walked in the sun and battled gods, crossed universes, and witnessed things you can't even begin to imagine."
His gaze found Ashara's, and something in his expression made her heart skip. The hardness softened, just for a moment. "I am the chosen soulmate of a goddess... and the leader of the most loyal and courageous group of people I have ever known."
Ashara's heart swelled, love and pride threatening to burst from her chest. This man - this magnificent, impossible man - was hers.
He turned back to Cazador, taking another measured step forward. The vampire lord actually retreated, voice rising in desperate protest. "No! I have worked too long on this ritual to have it spoiled by an ungrateful brat like you. To abandon me. To abandon his family - wretched creature!"
Astarion's eyes blazed. His free hand snapped out, pointing at the group without looking away from his prey. When he spoke, it was with the force of absolute conviction.
"They are my family."
His voice dropped to something colder than his blade's fire. "You are nothing to me. Other than a dagger in my back I can finally remove - permanently."
He raised the sword high, frost crackling along its length as power gathered. The word that emerged shook dust from the ceiling.
"Ragnaroktönn!"
The blade became a star, light too bright to look at directly. It descended like judgment itself. Cazador's dagger rose in desperate defense—
The moment the blades met, the world exploded.
Ice and raw power erupted outward in a spherical wave. Ashara threw herself in front of the others, her massive form taking the brunt of the blast. It drove her back, claws leaving furrows in stone as she fought for purchase. The chamber filled with freezing mist so thick it swallowed everything.
For a heartbeat, there was only white and cold and the ringing aftermath of power unleashed.
Then, the mist began to clear.
Cazador knelt before Astarion, the frostfire blade buried deep through his torso. The strike had carved him nearly in half, from shoulder to sternum, and ice spread from the wound like creeping death. Each half of him glittered with frost, flash-frozen at the moment of severance.
His eyes - those cruel, commanding eyes - stared up at his former spawn in naked shock and terror. Blood bubbled from his lips, steaming in the frigid air.
Then his form dissolved, flesh becoming mist that streamed desperately toward a metal sarcophagus near the ritual's centre. The coffin-like structure waited like an open maw, Cazador's last refuge.
The mist dove inside, and the lid began to close.
Astarion's knees buckled without warning. He hit stone hard, doubling over as violent coughs wracked his frame.
Ashara's wolf form dissolved mid-stride. She reached him as elf, dropping to her knees beside him just as the others converged. Horror shot through her - blood streamed from his nose and crimson tears tracked down his cheeks.
Her hand found his shoulder, gripping tight. "Astarion! Are you alright?! What's happening?"
He dragged the back of his hand across his nose, painting a red smear across pale skin. The smile he offered was paper-thin, trembling at the edges. "That... that last spell was a little more powerful than I expected."
His attempt at nonchalance might have worked if his voice hadn't cracked. "I'll be fine, just a slight headache."
Rolan dropped into a crouch beside them, hand hovering over Astarion's head. Magic flickered between his fingers as he assessed the damage. "Slight headache, my arse. You've burst nearly every non-major blood vessel in your head."
Astarion's response came through gritted teeth as he pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut against obvious pain. "Probably should have read the instructions on that particular 'divine smite' more carefully."
Rolan muttered something uncomplimentary in infernal before green healing light poured from his hands. The magic sank into Astarion's skin like water into parched earth.
Gale and Ashara turned to tend the other's wounds and soon the chamber filled with the soft glow of restoration, injuries closing and exhaustion lifting by degrees.
The moment Rolan's spell faded, Astarion pushed to his feet. He swayed dangerously, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the tielfling before he found his balance. "We need to finish this now - before he regenerates."
Rolan's eyebrows climbed toward his horns. "You practically sliced him in half. Somehow, I doubt he's walking away from that."
"Trust me." Astarion's voice carried grim certainty. "He's come back from worse. I need to get him out of that thing before it's too late."
They approached the sarcophagus as one. The metal lid sat askew where Cazador's mist had slipped inside. Astarion gripped the edge and heaved it fully open.
Inside, Cazador lay still as carved marble, eyes closed in false peace. But the wound - that terrible, bisecting wound - was already knitting closed. Flesh crawled together like living clay, ice melting as vampiric regeneration worked its ancient magic.
Astarion's hand shot down, closing around the vampire lord's throat. He hauled Cazador up and out in one violent motion. "No, no. No healing sleep for you. Wake up!"
Cazador hit the ground hard, immediately scrambling backwards on hands and knees. His fingers clutched at his shoulder where the wound had reopened, blood seeping between his fingers. Even now, defiance colored his voice. "Get your hands off me, worm!"
"I'm not the one in the dirt." Astarion's sneer could have frozen flame.
The frostfire blade extended slowly, deliberately, until its tip rested just beneath Cazador's chin. "Now. Beg for your life."
"Ha!" The laugh came out strangled. "I would embrace oblivion before I give you that satisfaction."
"Oblivion can be arranged." No emotion touched Astarion's voice. It had gone somewhere beyond cold.
The defiance cracked. "You... you would never. I have given you so much."
Desperation crept in, words tumbling faster. "I snatched you from the jaws of death and gave you eternity, for hells' sake. I saved you!"
"Do it." Astarion might have been carved from ice. "Beg."
"I—" Cazador's gaze darted to the others. Weapons drawn. Faces hard as stone. No mercy to be found in any direction. His shoulders sagged, and the word emerged as barely a whisper. "Please."
He raised his eyes, and for the first time in centuries, they held true fear. "My child, please... have mercy."
Astarion studied him with the detached interest of a scholar examining a specimen. Then he bent, fingers closing around the twisted silver dagger Cazador had dropped. He turned it over in his hands, letting light play along its cruel edge.
"I'm not the weak, scared, and obedient puppet I was before that nautiloid snatched me up." His tone had gone conversational, almost philosophical. "I've changed, grown, learned how to care, and to show mercy."
Hope kindled in Cazador's eyes. Ashara's muscles tensed, uncertain where this led.
Astarion took a measured step closer. "I am a paladin, after all. Some fools might even say a hero - someone who chooses to do the right thing. And you're correct. You did save my life that day under the bridge."
Relief transformed Cazador's features. His lips stretched in a grotesque parody of paternal pride. "My boy, I knew you would make the right decision. I raised you well."
Astarion tapped the dagger tip against his chin thoughtfully. "There is the small matter of all the times you raped and tortured me, of course."
The smile faltered.
"Oh, and one teeny tiny detail I forgot to mention." Astarion lowered himself until they were eye to eye. Something dark and terrible curved his lips. "I took an oath of vengeance..."
His hand blurred forward. The dagger punched through ribs with a wet sound that echoed through the chamber.
Ashara flinched at the sudden violence, but that was only the beginning.
Something shattered behind Astarion's eyes. The careful control, the cold calculation - gone. His face twisted into something primal as he ripped the blade free only to drive it home again. And again. And again.
Each strike came with a scream - not Cazador's, but Astarion's. Two centuries of rage given voice, pouring out in a frenzy of violence that had the others stepping back. Blood sprayed in arterial arcs, painting stone, painting skin, painting everything red.
Ashara lost count of the strikes. Ten. Twenty. More. Long after Cazador stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped being anything but meat - still Astarion stabbed. His movements had gone mechanical, automatic, as if he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.
The wet sounds echoed in the sudden silence. No one moved. No one spoke. They could only bear witness to grief given physical form. To healing that came on the wings of destruction.
—◆—
Onyx watched the light fade from Cazador's eyes like a candle drowning in its own wax.
For a heartbeat, Astarion remained frozen above the corpse, dagger still clutched in blood-slick fingers. Then, his hands began to shake. The tremor spread up his arms through his shoulders, until his entire body quaked like a leaf in a storm. The dagger slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering against stone.
Then the first sob broke free.
It started small, a hitching breath barely audible. Another followed. Then another. His shoulders began to heave as two centuries of suppressed agony clawed their way to the surface. The sobs built like a tide until he could no longer contain them.
His head fell back, and he wailed.
The raw voice of suffering finally given release. It echoed off the chamber walls, filling the space with the weight of years upon years of torture, humiliation, and stolen choice. Tears streamed down his face, cutting tracks through Cazador's blood, as he mourned not just what had been done to him, but the life he'd never had the chance to live.
Beneath him, Cazador's form began to crumble. Flesh became dust, dust became ash, and ash became nothing. The wind that shouldn't exist this far underground caught the remains and scattered them like bad memories until nothing remained but stains on stone.
Ashara took a half-step forward, but Onyx reached out his muzzle to her shoulder and cautioned quietly, "Not yet, little one. Not yet."
"Why not? He needs comforting."
"When he wants it, he will ask. For now, this moment is his and his alone. This grief, this release - he needs to feel it fully, without comfort diluting its power."
Onyx could tell Ashara didn't fully understand, but she held back all the same, hands clenched at her sides, as the man she loved purged two hundred years of poison from his soul.
Astarion's sobs gradually quieted, transforming from that terrible wailing to something softer. Still, he knelt, head bowed, shoulders rising and falling with each careful inhale. His breathing slowly evened out, though tears still tracked down his cheeks. Without looking up, without speaking, he extended one hand to the side, palm up.
A request. A need.
Ashara moved instantly. She sank to her knees beside him, arms wrapping around his blood-slicked form without hesitation. He turned into her embrace, his own arms coming up to clutch her like she was the only solid thing in a world as brittle as the ice melting around them. They held each other in the silence, her cheek pressed to his hair, his face buried against her shoulder.
Finally, he drew in one long, steadying breath. When he pulled back, something had changed in his eyes. The wild edge had softened, replaced by something calmer. Cleaner. He shifted his weight, preparing to stand, and she rose with him in perfect synchronization.
His arm found its way around her waist as they turned to face the others. She leaned into him, offering silent support.
Movement drew Onyx's attention. The six newly-freed spawn approached with tentative steps, looking like children who'd just watched their father die - which, in a way, they had.
An elven woman with platinum hair spoke first, voice barely above a whisper. "Is... is it over? Is he...?"
"Yes, Dalyria." Astarion's voice came out rough but steady. "He's gone."
A blonde human stepped forward from the group, hands twisting nervously. "What does that mean for us?"
Karlach hefted her axe onto her shoulder, grin bright as sunrise. "It means you're free - you can do whatever you want."
Astarion's lips quirked in a brief smile at her enthusiasm before he turned back to his siblings. "I know 'you can do whatever you want' sounds terrifying - and it is - but there's opportunity in it, too." His gaze swept over each of them. "You can hide here, living in the shadows like parasites, or you can be more than what he made us to be."
Uncertainty rippled through the group like wind through wheat. They looked at each other, then back at him, clearly at a loss.
Astarion bent to retrieve his sword, movements deliberately casual. "You can choose differently, of course."
The blade sang as it cleared the ground. Frostfire danced along its edge as he gave it an experimental twirl, blue flames casting dancing shadows. Another twirl and the flames died.
"But the consequences are on your head..."
The message landed.
Onyx saw it in the way they straightened, the new respect - perhaps fear - that entered their eyes. This was not the weak spawn they remembered. This was something else entirely.
"And what does it mean for them?" Dalyria gestured toward the cells visible up the stairs, the cages hanging around the ritual chamber like grotesque decorations. Faces pressed against bars, hollow-eyed and desperate.
"Now that's a better question." Astarion's expression darkened. "Seven thousand spawn, from ancient conquests to stolen children. The poor wretches are innocent. They shouldn't have to suffer just because I..." He swallowed hard. "Lured them here."
Onyx padded forward, his deep voice carrying warning. "They could cause unimaginable carnage if freed en masse."
Astarion rounded on him, something desperate flickering in his eyes. "So, what? Do we kill them all, is that it?" His voice cracked slightly. "We certainly can't leave them to rot here."
The question hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop. Seven thousand hungry mouths. Seven thousand potential monsters. Seven thousand souls who'd done nothing wrong except trust a beautiful stranger in the night.
Whatever choice Astarion made here would haunt him forever. There was no clean answer, no heroic solution that would save everyone. Only the lesser of evils.
Unless…
Onyx moved toward the ritual circle with sudden purpose. Something about its construction nagged at him - a familiar pattern in the infernal script that reminded him of older magics. His nose dropped low, tracking the carved channels where power had flowed moments before.
The design revealed itself layer by layer. Not merely a funnel for consumption, but a vast network. Each spawn connected to the other through their scars, each scar connected to this central point. Power had been meant to flow inward, but the channels themselves were neutral. They could carry magic in any direction.
His investigation took him to each satellite circle. The same meticulous craftsmanship, the same perfect symmetry. Cazador's obsession with control had created something unintended - a system so precisely balanced it could be inverted.
Onyx swiftly trotted back to Astarion. "Ask the spawn to turn round and show me their scars - yours too."
Astarion's eyes narrowed with interest. "What are you hunting for?"
"Trust me. I need to see the binding marks themselves."
Scepticism and curiosity warred on Astarion's face before curiosity won. He turned to his 'siblings' and raised his voice slightly. "The wolf needs to see our scars. Also, it helps with communication if you let go of your fear of him."
He then turned, baring the elaborate scar to Onyx's examination. The others followed with varying degrees of reluctance.
Onyx studied each with scholar's intensity. The contracts were identical in structure but unique in execution - each one attuned to its specific bearer. Seven keys to seven thousand locks. His tail betrayed his excitement with small, rapid movements.
"What is it?" Ashara had learned to read his moods too well. "You've found something."
"More than something. A solution that helps everyone."
Astarion spun around, raw hope transforming his features. "You mean we can actually free them? All of them?"
"With Fenrir's assistance, yes."
Onyx approached the spawn with careful deliberation. He lowered himself to his haunches, reducing his imposing height. "Can you understand my words?"
Several nodded, including the elven woman Astarion had called Dalyria.
"I know you want nothing more than to flee this place forever. I'm asking for one more day. Stay, and help us save the innocent souls trapped here."
Resistance rippled through them like hackles rising. Before it could become refusal, one stepped forward - broad shoulders, long brown hair, a bearing that suggested authority even in undeath.
"Explain yourself." His tone brooked no nonsense. "Why do we need to stay? Can't you simply use Cazador's staff to release them?"
"Your name?"
Something in the man's bearing straightened. "Leon. I was - I remain - a sorcerer."
"Then your expertise will be beneficial." Onyx let his gaze encompass the entire chamber. "Releasing seven thousand starving spawn into Baldur's Gate or even the Underdark would be catastrophic. We need to free them gradually, in manageable groups, with support systems in place. But that means leaving thousands imprisoned while they await their turn - a cruelty I won't abide."
Gale's fingers found his beard, that telltale sign of deep contemplation. "If only we could place them under some form of stasis - or a sleeping curse that would spare them the waiting..."
"That is precisely what I have in mind, Gale of Waterdeep."
The wizard's hand stilled. Surprise rippled through the assembled group like a stone dropped in still water.
"The logistics alone would be staggering." Gale's mind was already cataloguing obstacles. "To curse so many individuals would require weeks of work, assuming it's even possible—"
"Unless we use the existing infrastructure." Onyx's tail wagged faster now, certainty building. "One curse, channelled through the bonds all spawn share with their creator. We corrupt Cazador's ritual, reverse its flow. Instead of draining life through the scars, we push peaceful sleep."
He watched understanding dawn on their faces. The same bonds that would have destroyed them could preserve them. Cazador's masterwork of cruelty transformed into an instrument of mercy.
Poetry, really. The kind Fenrir would appreciate.
Onyx met their gaze steadily. "However, I'll need all seven of you as anchor points. Your scars are the primary connections - through you, we can reach every soul Cazador claimed."
The spawn exchanged uncertain glances, weighing freedom against obligation. Onyx could smell their indecision - and beneath it, the gnawing hunger that never left them.
Time to tip the scales.
"In exchange..." He let the pause draw their attention. "You can all feed on me right now - your first thinking creature."
Six heads snapped toward him in perfect synchronization, a display so uniform it would have been comical if not for the raw need blazing in their eyes. Hunger sharpened every feature, turned them predatory in an instant.
"Steady on, old boy." Astarion's voice carried genuine concern. "Are you certain you can handle that? Six starving spawn is no small matter."
"So long as they exercise restraint, yes."
Astarion's expression suggested deep scepticism. Ashara mirrored it, stepping closer with that familiar protective instinct. "You don't always have to be the one making sacrifices, Onyx. I could transform - share my blood too. I bet my wolf form could feed at least a hundred spawn."
The offer warmed him even as he declined it. "No, little one. I'm afraid drinking blood from your divine form would destroy them."
Her face fell. "Oh..."
Astarion's frown deepened, lips pressed thin as he studied Onyx with those too-knowing eyes. Finally, he turned to address his siblings. "I know it's a great deal to ask after everything you've endured, but I give you my word - if Onyx says he can help all these poor wretches, then we can trust him. He's never led me astray."
The spawn drew together in a tight knot, voices low and urgent. Arguments flew back and forth - fear warring with hope, suspicion with desperation. Finally, Leon separated from the group, spokesman by silent election.
"We owe you our lives - our freedom." His jaw worked as if the words physically pained him. "If this is how we repay that debt, then... we'll try."
Relief flooded through Onyx like cool water. "Then Astarion and I will return tomorrow evening with someone who can make the necessary alterations to the ritual. For now though..." He moved to an open area and settled himself comfortably. "Come and finally drink your fill."
They approached like beaten dogs expecting a kick - nervous, hesitant, desperately hungry. Each found a different spot along his massive frame. Six sets of fangs pierced hide simultaneously, and Onyx locked his muscles against the instinct to shake them off. The pull of blood leaving his body was dizzying, but manageable.
Astarion's voice drifted over, pitched low for Ashara alone. "After all these years - these centuries - it's really over."
"How does it feel?"
A long pause. "I'm not sure. I feel a little numb. What I've lost, what I've gained - it's all so much." His voice cracked slightly. "I need some time, I think. Just to let it all sink in."
Onyx caught the telltale signs - eyes darting toward exits, hands clenching and unclenching, the slight tremor that said adrenaline was abandoning him to reality. The vampire was moments from either collapse or flight.
"Let's just go now." The words came too fast, too sharp. "Onyx can handle things here. This place reeks of death, and I want to feel alive again."
Onyx lifted his head carefully, mindful of the feeding spawn. "Go. I'll meet you all back at the camp."
Ashara's grateful nod carried volumes. She guided Astarion toward the stairs, the others falling in behind them like an honour guard. Only Gale lingered, fingers already glowing with preparatory magic.
"I really think I should stay behind." The wizard's tone was firm. "Have a healing spell ready, just in case. Six spawn is rather ambitious, even for you."
Onyx managed a canine grin despite the growing light-headedness. "If you insist."
The wizard settled himself on a piece of rubble, close enough to intervene but far enough to give the feeding vampires space. His fingers traced idle patterns in the air, healing magic hovering at the ready.
As the others' footsteps faded, Onyx settled in to endure the strange sensation of being a meal. Tomorrow would bring new challenges - convincing Fenrir, corrupting the ritual, managing seven thousand sleeping vampires.
But tonight, for the first time in centuries, six vampire spawn would sleep with full bellies and hope in their hearts.
It was worth a little pain.